The subway station is my favorite place to take pictures. As I walk through the dank corridors, side-stepping what looks suspiciously like vomit and trying my best to avoid being elbowed by the denizens of New York, I see him.
He’s sitting next to an overflowing trashcan, curled in upon himself so that I almost miss seeing him. His hair and face are both covered in grime. I can’t tell if he’s twenty or seventy. As I inch closer, I notice he’s protectively clutching what looks to be a violin case.
As I remove the cap covering my lens, the man suddenly stands up and opens the case, flourishing a violin.
“Where did he get that?” I hear a man in a pin-striped suit ask aloud.
“Probably stole it,” a woman pushing a stroller replies, smirking.
I stand to the side, my camera raised and ready. There is a tingling at the base of my spine that tells me something is about to happen. Something good.
Then the man straightens his shoulders and begins playing. In an instant, the station is rendered silent save for the piercing notes of the violin. As if by magic, the citizens of New York stop dead in their tracks.
“How beautiful,” the woman with the stroller murmurs.
"Wow," the man in the pin-striped suit mouths.
I aim my camera and shoot.