A few months ago my son announced, rather casually, that he planned to trade one of his oldest guitars for a piece of coveted recording equipment. I was crushed by his announcement, as this particular guitar had sentimental value to me. I was dismayed that he would want to part with an instrument that had brought such meaningful music into our home. I quickly realized that my emotional attachment to this instrument was MY issue, not his, and tried to accept that the guitar was moving on, much as he had done when he flew the coop. Sensing my attachment, he gave me some time to get used to the idea, although he was clear that the guitar was going. We bantered back and forth about “first right of refusal” and other such nonsense I conjured up to appease my sense of loss. We agreed that a good way for me to deal with my “separation anxiety” would be for me to photograph the guitar.
A few days later he left for a music festival with his band mates, taking with him a different guitar, and leaving behind the guitar in question. Two hundred images later, I had immortalized this very special Gibson in my digital library. When he returned, I proudly showed him the images and asked which was his favorite. Without hesitation, he chose the extreme close up shot shown here.
It wasn’t the image I expected him to choose, nor was it my favorite. Perhaps I thought he would favor a classic upright pose, or a shot of the neck with its worn knobs, or at the very least a shot of the instrument’s distinctive curves, something that would elicit an enthusiastic “hey Mom, please print this for me so I can hang it up as a reminder of this awesome guitar!” But he said none of that. And then I remembered, “Oh right, he wants to trade this thing away”. It’s ME who doesn’t want to part with it.
I looked again at the photo he chose. A single string. And then it hit me. The photograph that got his attention wasn’t about the guitar. It was about the MUSIC. And in that detail, in that single string, the memories of the music he played for so many years on that special guitar came flooding back. The guitar moved on. The music stayed. I think I’ll frame this one.