The Padded Crown
Another night at the fights, peering through the ropes with a tube of glass attached to a heavy hunk of black electronics. Left-handed elbow resting occasionally on the fabric floor of the ring, indifferent to the decade of sweat and blood within it. The absorbed liquids of human misery and pleasure, of excreted masculinity.
I’ve found myself shooting the action at these events and little else, really nothing outside the ring, despite the abundance of potential stories. It turns into two hours of intensive practice, eye glued to the viewfinder in desperate search of fleeting beauty.
Which in a strange way limits my actual experience of the bouts. I miss seeing most of the best moves because those are the precise moments when my sight disappears, moments handed over to the camera’s needs. If ever I see something profound there’s a pang of regret, a missed photograph.
Off to polo for more.