Sunday, May 18, 2008
We live in a neighbourhood were weeds and flowers are given equal opportunity to run rampant with explosions of colour. No two homes are alike in size or colour or style and the human denizens are equally variable. Like the weeds and the flowers, some are more desirable than others. I would put Guitar Man in the latter category. On any warm or mild evening, you may hear him, sitting on his porch, plucking the strings of his spanish guitar. While I have only seen him from afar, my ears have often known the pleasure of his melodies. It drifts on the wind, weaves through the breeze and sometimes manages to cut through the surf of passing cars. When I hear it, I am bespelled, charmed by an earthly Orpheus, this unseen neighbour that lives across a river of pavement separated by a torrent of traffic.
Leaving gardening tools abandoned, we stand transfixed, my husband and I. Leaning on the hood of our car, we pretend to watch the sun go down, but in truth, we strain to listen to the siren song of his spanish guitar. Magic is wherever you find it.
Pencil sketch, digitally coloured.