Me and fifty-nine others hanging around, strung out as a slow carousel, going with the flow. Some brassy artist formed the band, marched us in here to play the kind of crushed instrumentals you hear with your eyes. After all, jazz is all flat notes in perpetual motion. I’m the only one who can face the music though.
You can spot me surely. OK with a kind of ostentatious matador hat pulled down, I’m sort of obscured. It’s all about mood, a cloud of intrigue – one time it would be a pall of smoke too but those noir days when we all lit up are long gone. Whatever you do, don’t call me ‘tuba’ – that’s for fatties and I’m straight out of a Jack Vettriano bar. A jazz tubist see? Full to the brim. Now check those slit eyes – here’s looking at you. Pugnacious? Sure there’ve been brawls – a man’s not a man without something to show for it – a broken nose, a crooked smile. But I can still blow. Winded but not wounded, winding down and around with the crowd. Sometimes I even get to take a solo break.
gallery of light
north borne by easterly seas
vivid vibes of brass
Art installation at Turner Contemporary of compressed trumpets, cornets, tubas and other instruments In the artist Cornelia Parker’s words: ‘the band may be winded, but they’re not down and out: they’re still marching.’ – Perpetual Canon
A touch of pareidolia in poesy – seeking out the one en-masse for qbit’s guest hosting of dVerse haibun Monday
PoetryPix 
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