THE STORY BEHIND THE SHOT

Sala de los Ajimeces, Alhambra. 2019

Some shots, like this one, ask to be taken, as though the scene itself were speaking to you.

My visit to the Moorish palace is almost at an end. I have passed through courtyards, hallways and patios, my mind alive to the unique, delicate and harmonious sensations that these buildings never fail to conjure within me. 

And I have taken my time, lingering in each spot as though I might slow down the tempo of a favourite song in order to make it last longer.

But now it is time to move on. There is a natural flow, like the movement of a river, to the experience of visiting this place, and it cannot be avoided.

Stepping away from the Patio de los Leones, I recognise the drop in intensity, a slight melancholy as I turn my eyes away from the beauty of what has come before. 

As I continue, I pass through into what appears to be little more than a corridor, a place I haven’t paid much attention to in the past. Beyond are the rooms where Washington Irving lived during his celebrated stay, but these are relatively poor fare: the splendour effectively ends here.

I pause for a moment, observing the detailed stucco patterning on the walls – the last I will see on this visit – as though taking leave of a friend, gazing through the mullioned archway, the Ajimez, that gives this small and largely unnoticed room its name.

Then I notice a detail near the top of the column, a shape almost like a faceless head with a flaming halo. It reminds me of Persian miniatures that depict the Prophet Muhammad in a similar way.

Is that really what I’m seeing here? Or is my mind creating a man-like image from nothing more than a decorative pattern?

As I ponder, the scene itself seems to call to me: there is a delicate light on the column, highlighting the details. In the background, another column with the same motif gives a sense of balance and rhythm.

‘Yes,’ it seems to say. ‘You’ve seen something. Now, catch me!’ 

Almost before I know what I am doing, I am raising the camera to my eye and taking the shot.

And as I walk away, I am unclear as to who made the decision to press the shutter. Was it me? Or the scene itself?

Who was the hunter, and who the prey?

To this day I am still unsure.