On (Not) Taking Pictures at Concerts

Last night, for the first time in a long time, I attended a concert without taking any pictures. (It was Cz.K. Sebő with his band—a good though short show.) While I still expect to take pictures at concerts now and then, it was a relief this time not to do so. I didn’t have to worry about anything; I could just listen.

Pictures taken at concerts don’t always come out well. That’s why bands and venues have their own photographers, who go up close, shoot from different angles, etc. In contrast, if you’re in the audience, you want the photo-taking to be as brief and unobtrusive as possible, so you take out the camera (phone), shoot a few, and then put it away again. It’s a bit of a gamble.

Beyond that, when taking a picture, you’re trying to freeze or capture something that isn’t supposed to be captured. One reason for going to concerts is to hear a performance that will never be repeated in that exact same way. The moments are going by, you know they will never come back, and you want to meet them as they pass. A photograph can bring back a memory of a concert, but it can’t bring back the concert itself, and if it could, the concert would lose its meaning.

That touches on another problem: the distraction. Even if you take just one picture during a show, you’re distracting yourself slightly, and maybe others too. Never mind videos. When people hold their phones up in the air to get a video of their favorite song in the set, or just to get a video, period, they block others’ view and insert tiny screens into the picture.

And what about privacy? Yes, a concert counts as a public event, but even public events have a private aspect. Musicians don’t necessarily want their every move to be captured on phones, even on stage. It’s unnerving. And offstage they shouldn’t be subject to unsolicited photo shoots at all. But once people are in photo-clicking mode, they often clickity-clack into the night without restraint.

Last night a woman (in her forties or fifties) was taking repeated pictures of the Platon Karataev members as they talked with each other after the show. (Everyone from Platon Karataev was there.) She might have been a family member, in which case it’s understandable. But I thought she was a stranger, and my blood started to pound. Why couldn’t she leave them alone in their downtime?

Oh, but in this era of ubiquitous photo-clicking, there is no downtime, not even for audience members. Someone included me in a video last night. At many events, people have pointed their cameras my way, and I have seen the not-so-flattering results online a day or two later. You can’t attend an event anonymously any more. Your presence and reactions get recorded. And when people bring their phones and take pictures too, they make this more acceptable, when it shouldn’t be. Granted, sometimes the photos come out well, and sometimes it’s nice to have them. But I am uneasy with the trend.

The picture above (taken on Thursday evening) has nothing to do with this post except for the anonymity of the figures in it. It’s one of the best pictures I have ever taken; I had arrived at the Keleti station in Budapest and saw the shadows and light. So I quickly shot a photo. It has more people than most of my photos do, but no one would be able to identify them except perhaps the woman on the right. I find the silhouettes and shadows soothing.

What would it be like to have no picture- or video-shooting at concerts at all, except by designated photographers? It’s not going to happen, probably—but it would change the atmosphere for the better. In the absence of such a rule or agreement, it’s on each person to consider whether this incessant shooting really brings anything to the occasion. I will probably continue to take pictures here and there, but will keep the phone stowed away for the most part. I have some beautiful photos and don’t need that many more. And how great it is to attend a concert with full spirit and walk away with just the sounds and images in my mind, no token, no souvenir.

On Missing Concerts

There are times in life when a person is unable to attend a particular concert, despite wanting badly to do so. This is well known to most people, and not a surprise. Going to any concert that you love is a special occasion, not an everyday matter. The musicians, in contrast, might be playing every day, or close, because that’s what they do (at the risk of exhaustion and more). Audience members have to choose; sometimes the choice is made for them. Some will go to more concerts than others, but everyone has a day when they can’t.

“Can’t” is relative; there are ways to break through the impossible into possibility. But that isn’t always a good idea. Also, not being able to go, once in a while, makes the next occasion all the more meaningful. Moreover, life deserves attention, not neglect. It is our daily lives that open us up to music in the first place; we don’t live in total abstraction. I also need unstructured time when I am not rushing off anywhere but can think, write, listen to music, sing, play cello.

And the very existence of the concert is much more important than one person’s attendance or non-attendance. Those who are there will get to hear it; that is the great thing. Since the Covid era begyn, this stopped being something to take for granted.

Musicians have to take care of themselves too; this can pose challenges. It’s good to perform often, but at some point, it gets to be too much. It’s hard to judge that point or adjust to it, because until then, more seems better, not only for the thrill of playing for different audiences, not only for the exposure, but for the art itself. But the art also needs withdrawal and quiet; it can’t survive on constant activity. Different musicians need different proportions, but the proportions must exist.

The musicians’ responsibilities are different from the audience’s. If they cancel a show, many people, including those running the venue, will be disappointed, whereas if an audience member can’t make it, others still can—and it is good for the audiences to vary. That said, it’s hard, even knowing this, to turn a long-awaited concert down.

Yesterday I went to Buda for the Óbudai Nyár, to hear Marcell Bajnai and the Pandóra Projekt. It was fantastic: probably my favorite of Marcell’s solo concerts so far, and the first time I heard the Pandóra Project live. Marcell played solo songs (that is, songs he does not play with his band, Idea), including some favorites and at least one I hadn’t heard before; some songs that he plays with the band but that originated in his room, and some fantastic covers, including “Zöld-sárga” (which I plan to learn), “Lámpát ha gyújtok” (a Quimby cover), and Gábor Presser’s classic “Te majd kézenfogsz.”

As for the Pandóra Projekt, it is astounding what the two women (Janka Zsuzsanna Végh and Dorci Major) do with their voices and a ukulele. The harmonies and rhythms, the textures, the humor and pathos, the Hungarian folk feel mixed with blues, all of those are just words; you have to hear them to know what their music is like. Here’s one of their songs, “csirkefogó.” In this recording, they have other musicians playing with them, but it’s even more exciting to hear them as a duo, because of the way the sound fills the air, and the twists and turns it takes.

I had a ticket to go hear Esti Kornél (for the first time) right nearby, in the evening, but I was exhausted and had to come back home. I had also wanted to hear Platon Karataev play in the town of Zsámbék (it had to be one of those concerts or the other), but there was no way to get out there without having to spend the night there too. So I came home happy and a little bit woozy, too tired to do anything. I went to sleep. The cats seemed perturbed that I was going to bed so early, but they accepted it eventually.

I have to miss the next two Platon Karataev concerts too, or the next two that I know about right now. One of them is today, but it isn’t a good idea for me to go back to Budapest, after Orfű and yesterday; I have to catch up with translating and prepare for the new teaching year. The next one—and this chips at my heart a little—is their concert on September 16 at Müpa Budapest. I would have gone if there was any way; I bought a ticket as soon as it was announced. But it starts at the very tail end of Yom Kippur, at the time of breaking the fast, and as the cantor, I can’t just skip out at that moment (or earlier, to get to the concert on time). It wouldn’t be right; it would mean breaking my responsibility during the most solemn Jewish holiday of the year, and it would be wrong at other levels too. (Update: A friend found someone, her mother in fact, to take my ticket; I am so happy that the seat won’t be empty and that someone will get to enjoy the show instead of me. The concert is completely sold out now.)

There is even something beautiful about attending a concert when you truly and fully can, instead of trying to twist heaven and earth to make it possible. It becomes less of a theft and more of a gift. Yes, sometimes it’s great to find a way through all sorts of obstacles. But not all the time.

I made some additions to (and subtractions from) this blog piece after posting it.

From Rain to Shine: Dávid Szesztay’s Concert

When you’ve waited months and months for a concert like this to happen, and then it gets scheduled and cancelled because of the rain, and then gets rescheduled and takes place, on a sunny evening in Buda, and when you find yourself enjoying it with an audience that is fully involved in the music, swaying to it, thrilling in the songs, well, then, you (I) go home a bit richer.

This was only the second time that I had heard Dávid Szesztay play in concert, and the first time I had heard him play solo. The other concert was in Szeged, in February 2020, just before the coronavirus restrictions set in. His subsequent concert, which I had hoped to attend, was cancelled, and there were many months of no concerts for anyone. This must have been his first Budapest concert since early 2020 (solo or with his own band, that is; he also plays in Santa Diver and Kiscsillag).

For those unfamiliar with Budapest, there’s a big difference between Buda and Pest. Buda is older, hilly in parts, more elegant, more residential; Pest is flat, buzzing, touristy. You can love both parts of the city, but you don’t know Budapest until you have spent time in Buda: on its terraces (like this concert), in its side streets, up in its hills. And for all its beauty, it’s remarkably untouristy on this side of the Danube; wherever you go, people are leading their everyday lives.

On May 19th I had come out here, to Széntlélek tér in Buda, for the concert, but as I mentioned, it was rained out. Last night it took place right here, at the same venue where the other one was to be, at the Esernyős terrace of the Óbuda cultural center. Here’s how Szentlélek tér looked on the two days:

This somehow related to the music too. Dávid Szesztay’s music is dreamy, subtle, turbulent: the songs take you through many different colors and moods. It was great to hear him play solo, to hear the bare versions of the songs. He played songs from the new album, Iderejtem a ház kulcsát (I am Hiding the House Key Here) and several others (from Dalok Bentre and Határtalan). One of my favorites was “Gyertyaláng” (“Candle Flame”), from the new album; it was amazing to hear it right there in the moment.

Another favorite, one of my favorites of all his songs, was “Késő,” which I have mentioned here before. There were others too, too many to mention here.

There was a dog in the audience who got excited and started barking along during two of the songs.

At the end of the concert, we gave him a hearty ovation, and he played an encore. (I think it was “Szabadon”; I’m not sure now.) Then I lingered on the square for a little bit, and then headed home with songs in my head.

“Le calme enchantement de ton mystère”

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This evening, at the Református Templom (Reformed Church) in Szolnok, students and teachers (including me) will be giving a little concert. I was assigned the solo for Joseph Noyon’s Hymne à la nuit, based on a theme from Jean-Philippe Rameau’s opera Hippolyte et Aricie. I will see whether someone can make a video during rehearsal today; if that works out, I’ll post the video. We have rehearsed daily during breaks between classes. Music dissolves language barriers; during rehearsal, we all understood what we were supposed to do and shared the thrill when we improved. It has been wonderful to prepare these pieces with my colleagues, under the direction of the music teacher, who leads us so generously and well.

Here are the lyrics (by Édouard Sciortino):

Ô Nuit ! Viens apporter à la terre
Le calme enchantement de ton mystère.
L’ombre qui t’escorte est si douce,
Si doux est le concert de tes voix
Chantant l’espérance,
Si grand est ton pouvoir transformant tout en rêve heureux.

Ô Nuit ! Ô laisse encore à la terre
Le calme enchantement de ton mystère.
L’ombre qui t’escorte est si douce,
Est-il une beauté aussi belle que le rêve?
Est-il de vérité plus douce que l’espérance?

There are additional lyrics, but these are the ones we sing. The second stanza is the solo.

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I love the willow trees here, especially at night when they pick up the glow from the lights around. This one (not the same as the one in the first picture) has a swing.

Today’s the last day of Hanukkah, so yesterday evening I lit all the candles. Last weekend, in Budapest, I taught Hanukkah songs, led Kabbalat Shabbat service for the first time ever, in a big hall with many people, and then, the next morning, led a cozy Shacharit service, read Torah, and commented on the relation between trope and meaning. All this together was slightly too much but a good plunge; now I have time to learn my way into the role.  The details and subtleties take time. But that’s what draws me; the davening opens up slowly, adding candle to candle, color to color, word to velvet, secret to sound.

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  • “To know that you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

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  • ABOUT THE AUTHOR

     

    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In February 2022, Deep Vellum will publish her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

    Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, she and her students founded the philosophy journal CONTRARIWISE, which now has international participation and readership. In 2020, at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium, she and her students released the first issue of the online literary journal Folyosó.

  • INTERVIEWS AND TALKS

    On April 26, 2016, Diana Senechal delivered her talk "Take Away the Takeaway (Including This One)" at TEDx Upper West Side.
     

    Here is a video from the Dallas Institute's 2015 Education Forum.  Also see the video "Hiett Prize Winners Discuss the Future of the Humanities." 

    On April 19–21, 2014, Diana Senechal took part in a discussion of solitude on BBC World Service's programme The Forum.  

    On February 22, 2013, Diana Senechal was interviewed by Leah Wescott, editor-in-chief of The Cronk of Higher Education. Here is the podcast.

  • ABOUT THIS BLOG

    All blog contents are copyright © Diana Senechal. Anything on this blog may be quoted with proper attribution. Comments are welcome.

    On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.

    When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.

    Speaking of imperfection, my other blog, Megfogalmazások, abounds with imperfect Hungarian.

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