We went, with just a minor deviation via Severn Beach, Gloucestershire's lost (or last) resort, to Clifton. Here, amongst the trendy delis, antique shops and intermittent signs of the Belle Monde, we fell into a guitar shop.
I am not a frequenter of such places; they belong to people of Peter's digital dexterity, whose fingers need to do more than just press a shutter release. But they are wondrous places, full of shiny toys and all-enveloping sound.
Guitars are an image-makers dream, emblazoned with reflective surfaces, often crafted from natural wood, full of arboreal depth and grain.
And they work well in black & white. Yet more hearkening for a lost age.
3 comments:
Excellent.
Now, of course, I will simply have to buy that jazz uitar which I fell in love with yesterday, then photograph it myself.
Uitar? Sounds a bit Eastern European to me.
When can I bring the camera round?
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