Los Niños y El Tocaor

The guitarist was Pedro Navarro, and he played with the kind of intimate conviction that can silence a room without demanding it. I took the shot during a flamenco recital in a modest Spanish cultural venue, one of those places where chairs creak and plaster flakes off the walls, but the soul is palpable.

What caught me wasn’t just the precision of his fingers on the strings, or the deliberate slowness of the opening compás—it was the quiet appearance of the two boys at the back. Dressed like miniature adults, suspended in a corridor of sound and formality, unsure whether to stay or move on. One places a hand on the other’s shoulder—comfort or control? Hard to say.

I framed the composition to emphasise the division of space and attention. The guitar player occupies the left, all concentration and craft. The children appear on the right, almost spectral, peeking from a side of the frame that feels like it belongs to a different photograph. That was intentional. I wanted the eye to travel, to toggle between presence and observation.

The light was flat and warm—typical halogen spill from overhead track lamps—but usable. I shot wide open with a fast lens to balance the low-light environment without pushing the ISO too far. That explains the slight softness on the children, but I didn’t mind. Their movement feels honest, like they’ve wandered into the picture.

Technically, I might have liked a cleaner background and a touch more separation from the wall, but the authenticity of the moment was worth the compromise. Photography isn’t always about clean lines and sterile framing. Sometimes, it’s about recognising the overlap of stories in shared air.

This image is about contrast, not conflict. Age and experience, discipline and curiosity. And the silent, mutual act of listening.