My friend Julia Partington sent me this photograph by Larry Towell taken at the Afghan National Institute of Music in Kabul in 2011. Thank you, Julia! You can view it at Magnum Photos.
In Kabul a boy sits on a wooden chair, dwarfed by the French horn he holds on his lap. Behind him, taped onto the wood-paneled wall are photographs of trumpet greats: Rafael Mendez, Louis Armstrong, Timofei Dokshitzer, Chris Botti, Wynton Marsalis, Maurice Andre. His jeans are patched, his cheeks look either dirty or scratched – like he just took a spill on his bike while rushing to get to the lesson he’s now waiting for. Earbuds are in his ears and he’s looking down at his horn, his vision inward, seeing but not seeing.
I think of the girl in Baghdad that I attempted to teach via Skype several years ago. It was ill-fated. Between the time difference and the bad internet connection, we were doomed as a teacher-student pair. I had agreed to try because I wanted to give her the possibility of feeling that thing that I feel – the bubbling over of ideas and energy – when I’m absorbing something new, when I see an entire world opening up before me that I could spend a lifetime exploring. I wanted her to know the sensation of feeling connected to past and future generations, of being a part of a larger conversation. I wanted her to gain the ability to wield a voice that can so often speak more clearly than words. I wanted her to feel empowered.
I don’t know what this young Afghan boy was hearing and feeling as he waited for whatever it was he was waiting for. Maybe he was listening to a pirated recording of Dennis Brain or Hermann Baumann, but, who knows, maybe it was Brittany Spears. In any case, there he is, earbuds in ears, horn in hand, his attention absorbed. I imagine new pathways forming as his brain takes the shape of music, while God-knows-what is happening outside the conservatory doors, after God-knows-what he has seen in his short lifetime. I hope he’s feeling the way I did nearly every night as a young student, earbuds in my ears, listening to Brahms and Mahler and Bach and Mozart before I fell asleep, the music becoming indistinguishable from my dreams.
