Who do you see when you look in the mirror?

Most days you may find him standing in front of the windows,

looking, but not really seeing....

But, be not fooled, in his heart and mind he is actually dancing.

When I was studying music at a Music school in Stockholm, 

one of my fellow students was a man called Allan. 

He was 63 years old, had short cropped gray hair, 

a formidable almost ZZ-Top like beard, and always

wore corduroy jackets and pants.

He was a man of few words, but when he spoke,

he did so gently, cautiously, and always thoughtfully.

Much like the way he played his baritone sax; mellowly,

deeply, and soulfully.

I was a shy, scrawny, ''just-out-of-high-school'' kind of

a kid who somehow, had managed to bluff my way into

 to the Music school. 

(I say bluff, because except for Allan, all the others

had formal training and could both read and write

music.)

For some reason, Allan took me under his wing although

he was almost 50 years older than me. He helped me to

trust my musical instincts, ''wing it'' as it was called, and

for the first two years neither my piano teacher or the

other tutors seemed to notice that I could not read a dot

of music. 

Allan was a seasoned jazz musician and had ''gigged''

for years all over Sweden, sometimes even with

some of the touring greats from America.

During our breaks I would pepper Allan with questions

about his experiences; what were the ''greats'' like, were they

awesome, did they share any ''secrets'', any inside tips

on improvisation, who was the most famous musician

he had played with, etc.etc.

I was a young and very eager pup with a dream to become

a great jazz pianist and absolutely clueless as to the many

dangers and pitfalls that lurked behind the ''curtain''.

One morning arriving late at school, I found Allan 

asleep on one of the couches in the foyer stinking of booze.

On the floor in front of the couch, stood a half empty litre bottle of Vodka.

I was horrified. I had never even seen Allan drink a beer, little less

a bottle of Vodka.

I tried to wake him. 

''Go away! Piss off!'' 

''Allan, it's me, ''Little One", I said tentatively. (''Little One'' was Allan's

nickname for me.)

Allan let out a heavy sigh, then sat up holding his head.

''Man, my head hurts!''

''Little One, come here, sit next to me and I'll tell you

what it's really like to be a working musician.''

I quickly hid the Vodka bottle in my backpack then sat

down next to him.

''One day you look in the mirror and the person staring back at

you, is a stranger, an old twat that looks familiar but you

tell yourself is not you, because you are a strapping young lad.

But if you keep looking, a movie of your life starts to play.

You see yourself eagerly practicing on your instrument,

full of hope and visions of fulfilling your dream of being ''great''.

Next you see yourself joining bands, doing gigs, traveling 

all over the place, basking in notoriety, partying and 

living it up. One year merges in to the next, and the next,

until you suddenly realize that your ''chops'' are gone.

The partying has taken the place of practicing, 

your wife has left you and your kids don't want to know you.

Music, that once used to mean everything to you has

become a chore, something you just do to keep afloat.

And then slowly as you keep staring into the mirror

you finally realize, that

the old wrinkled twat with glazed over eyes looking right at

you, is you. 

Little One, listen to me, always put the music first.

Keep practicing, keep learning, keep striving, stay clean,

stay focused, stay in love with the music that you

have in your heart.''

Allan took my hand in his and then said: ''Promise me you will

do that Little One, promise me.''

I barely dared to breathe, but I promised him that I would,

and to this day, I have never broken that promise.

Allan left music school in the middle of the third year

when he suddenly had a stroke which left him paralyzed

in his left arm and so ended his playing.

Although he often used to call himself an ''old fart",

in my eyes, he was never an old anything.

For me,

 he, and his huge heart, were evergreen.

''You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old.''

(George Burns)

''Age is an issue of mind over matter.

If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.''

(Mark Twain)

(If you are interested in what Allan's playing sounded like,

google Pepper Adams and/or Gerry Mulligan.)

about the painting: acrylic on large canvas