A white man, light blue eyes, grey hair, his body crooked and thin as a broom stick. He looks 70-ish, but perhaps the heartbreaks, the ongoing depression, living in poverty, alcohol and probably drugs consumption, have taken away a decade of his life. He plays guitar in the 77 Street subway station, whispering his version of “Here Comes the Sun”- one of my favorite songs.
I can’t help noticing the contradiction between the cheerful tone of the original tunes and the appearance of the person performing them. His worn, weak voice seems to recognize the irony of the picture. Maybe the man seeks for hope through the song: “it’s alright”. Or more pragmatically, it is just a song he knows and sings to get a few change.
The image moves me, but what my eyes see, my ears comfort it. The whole station is in silence. All you can hear is the lonely, insufficient, but placid melody.
No one tosses money into his open bag. No one looks directly at the man. Nonetheless, there’s no indifference to the scene. Everyone is quiet, absorbed in their own thoughts. Couples and groups of friends don’t talk to each other. They are looking at nothing, as if they had pressed an imaginary “PAUSE” button in their organisms.
Strange magic, NYC.