It happens again and again: I go to a concert and struggle over whether to take a picture or two (or maybe a video). I usually take a few quickly, so as not to distract others or myself. If the venue prohibits it, this comes as a relief, because then I don’t worry about it at all. But when others have their fancier phones out and are taking extended videos, I think, what harm could a shot or two do? I am mixed about it.
On the one hand, trying to capture a concert goes against what it is for. It’s there to be lived, not preserved. Part of the whole meaning lies in the loss, the knowledge that you will never hear it again in that same way. That leads to a more intense presence. For the sake of that concentration (my own and everyone else’s), I would put the phone away. There’s honor in letting the concert be something you can’t keep.
On the other hand, I look back on some pictures and videos I have taken in the past and am glad to be able to return to them. They bring back even more than I thought they would. For that reason, I am not sorry to have taken a couple of pictures, and a video, of the Platon Karataev duo concert on Friday night. I had hurried there after a full day of graduation ceremonies. It stood out among all the Platon duo concerts I have attended; I think it will be one of my favorites.
In the moment I felt guilty about taking pictures, but this short video (one minute and twenty seconds long) shows so much: the audience gathered all around (the video shows about one-tenth of the crowd), the night, the lights, the buildings and trees, all of this surrounding the beautiful performance—the regrets melt away, leaving the concert itself.
The best, I think, would be to do both. Take no pictures at certain concerts; take a few at others, if it doesn’t distract others or yourself. Never block others’ vision with the phone; never use a bright screen.
How would I feel if I were performing and others were taking pictures and videos? I think I’d be honored unless it got out of hand. I wouldn’t like it if people were doing it perfunctorily or paying more attention to their phones than to the performance. I also wouldn’t like it if it got distracting. Other than that, I don’t think it would bother me. Taking a photo can be a gesture of attention, not inattention. Often I have been glad to have the pictures.
As for the larger phenomenon of picture-taking at events, part of it is exciting: we have troves of informal footage. When there’s a concert I want to attend but can’t, I often watch the short videos afterward. They’re usually Instagram-length, too short for comfort, but they give me a hint. I enjoy their sheer variety: some close up, others far away, some with effects, others without, some steady, others erratic, and each one choosing different intervals. Each one says something about the filmer as well as the performance.
But another part still seems futile. What if the clip comes out bad, as it often does? To shoot a good clip, you have to pay attention to it or just be lucky. If you pay attention to it, you risk missing something of the concert; but to be lucky, you usually have to increase your chances by taking more pictures. So much of this is waste. Sometimes I have taken pictures at concerts only to realize afterward that I didn’t have to do it at all. Vapor of vapors, says Koheleth; vapor of vapors, all is vapor.
So yes, the ideal would be a capacity for both, or all three or four: refraining from picture-taking, taking the picture, responding to internal and external cues, and dropping the worries.
Here’s the first verse (included in the video) of “Csak befelé,” followed by my rough translation, which takes some liberties to approximate the rhythm and rhyme.
szemem égboltot fürkésző kút
csak befelé vezet kiút
minden középpont és semmi sem az
a gondolat tövis, a szó nem vigaszmy eyes are a well probing the vault
only the inward road leads you out
all is the center and nothing is that
thought is a thorn, and words don’t protect
Take Away the Takeaway 