Before the Nightingale Sings

The True Story

It was the French Quarter, years ago. Midnight had already passed, but the city still pulsed like it always does. A saxophone was playing—soft, smoky, something you could almost lean against. The player was down by the old Woolworth’s building, and there, under the streetlight, two people began to dance.

They weren’t dressed for it. They weren’t ballroom-perfect. One wore old raggedy tennis shoes, the other an old coat. Maybe they’d had too much to drink, maybe not enough to eat—but when the music carried them, none of that mattered. For a few minutes, they looked like the only two people in the city.

That moment stayed with me. Long after the saxophone faded, long after the dancers wandered back into the shadows.

The Painting

When I put paint to canvas, it wasn’t about recreating their faces or the street they stood on. It was about that pause. That hush before the next thing.

In the painting, the man in his suit leans into the woman in red—steady, tender, holding her as if the whole night hangs on that embrace. Her hair spills golden under the moonlight, her dress flares like fire. Behind them, the city windows glow, but they could care less who’s watching.

This isn’t just about dance.It’s about the hush before the song.The heartbeat before the memory.The last slow spin before the birds begin

to sing.

A Bit of Fiction

Sometimes I imagine them still out there—that the saxophone never stopped, that the night is still holding its breath.

Maybe he whispered something to her as they danced. Maybe she laughed. Maybe they kissed before slipping away, leaving only the music behind.

Sometimes I wonder if they appear in and out of the fog—but maybe they’re always there.

Either way, the night remembers.

Before the Nightingale Sings 16x16x2 $450.00 usd