When I came to New York twenty years ago and began going to jazz Clubs. I realized that although the music itself had changed dramatically over forty years, there were still sentient moments when a musician glances out at the audience after a heart-wrenching solo or he tenderly pulls his bass close to him like a child.

Moments like those that Roy DeCarava captured with a piercing immediacy, stealing a glimpse of John Coltrane boyishly burying his head in the enormous shoulder of Ben Webster.

I waited anxiously through each show for those moments when the thrill of the music transported the musicians and their glory could be read on their faces or in the way they touched their instruments.

I began photographing these moments when the musicians slipped out of time and into that resplendent realm that runs eternal through jazz.

I became intrigued whit the perilous craft of capturing that moment so that, later, when someone sees the photograph without the music they have a thick description of all that was contained in that sublime second.

Because most jazz clubs are almost impenetrably dark, most photographers will instinctively use a flash on the camara. One night's observation made me realize quickly, though, that the sharp flash of light penetrating the stillness of that moment jolted the musicians right out of it.

To ensure that I would not disturb the rarity of the musician's feeling or upset the band's fragile balance, I left my flash at home. I learned to photograph them at those moments when they slipped into delight without disrupting their euphoria.

I learned to wait, compose the frame, inhale deeply and shot.