He would love the reeds hissing now in this late Summer breeze
and the sky blue and the fields wide awake.
The butterflies dancing with the light.
But that's not my job. I must
wait. Wait until the light slows and the
land cools in the ginger fall.
I've made a bed of the warmest brown leaves my homestead these
days of paid grace. Lying in the fields
studying a canvas of quiet variation. It
may be the greatest job I have ever had. The farmhouse etched into the furthest edges
of my shot has been the only sign of civilisation for the while. It sits in silent opposition to my world, a
thumbnail on nature. My society is the
cricket, thicket, crow, and crop now.
'Mr. Malick wants magic hour. Your job is to capture it. Each day for three weeks. Wait for it.
Catch it. Then you can go
home. He'll pay you 5000 bucks for your
images. Got it? Good, now go get it!'
When magic hour comes, I'm electrified by the spell it casts
over our landscapes and the interaction it has with the living. All the world's passivity collapses in this
seemingly somnambulant moment. Birds
sing louder. My camera shoots
faster. Wind blows wilder and freer . My heart beats harder.
A grey sparrow appears at my side each day in the seconds
before the red indigo shower. I've heard
the renowned director has his spies. I
become more industrious in the sparrow's company. Something is watching over me. The sparrow stands and waits.
'Mr. Malick always shoots at magic hour. Every day, all around the world, there are a
select group of cameramen in place, ready to seize the moment, to secure a place in Heaven. These people are his keepers of magic
time. You are now one of them. You are now a keeper of magic time.'
Here it comes. The
silver beams of daylight's abstraction slice through the frame and the world
above glows in a dark orange mask.
Clouds are pink then yellow then green.
The structure of our universe is for a moment dissolved in a manic
miasma of change. Creatures of nature
long hidden become visible in the sparkling vision, revelations of shape and
colour. A festival is brought to the
soil from above and the earth sings unintelligible songs of joy in a flickering
instant.
And then it's gone.
And the sparrow too.
I gather my equipment together and make my way back to the
hotel, happy that I've done well for Mr. Malick.
I've kept his magic time.
I really hope he uses this stuff in his film about sparrows.
