In the concert hall he sat, in the third row to the left. His hair was white and his soft face displayed a pair of thick glasses. His coat hung loosely about his figure before being thrown over the back of the seat next to him. As the opera started, he gazed upon the stage with intent eyes full of nostalgia. He listened to the voices and musical notes with ready ears and was immersed in its untouchable beauty. His wrinkled hands floated in the air to the melody with his fingers playing an invisible piano. You could almost see his veins pulsate to the beat. In his mind there was nothing that compared to that moment, when all that existed was intangible.
Two seats down, another man sat with a leg crossed over the other. His glasses were not so thick, and his hair was more or less grey. He seemed taller and leaner, with a sharp facial structure. On his lap lay a sketch book that quickly filled its pages with the faces on stage. The blunt pencil traced features admirably in aged hands. Some were beautiful, others were angry and dark. But in the end his sketches were always somehow incomplete. And when the opera ended, he shrugged on his coat and made his way straight to the exit.
As people streamed out of the hall, music softly played in the background. A man brought his daughter down to the foot of the stage, where she stepped on his toes as he danced her round. His glasses neatly rested upon a strong nose, above a smile so wide that it could endure wars. The little girl's long brown curls bounced playfully as her father waddled about. As she looked up at her father's face, sharing a dance that would not be her last, her eyes held a precious twinkle that also sparkled in the eyes of a girl whose face appeared in many sketch books and in the eyes of a girl whose instrument was going to take her places.
(photo via Vogue.com)
