Have you ever taught your children not to talk to strangers?  Have you ever reminded them to never allow a stranger to touch them? I have.

A few summers ago while visiting my daughter and her husband, we took a day trip to New Orleans. As we started on our self-guided walking tour throughout the French Quarter, I reminded my son, John, a 13-year old, to stick close. And I held the hand of my 10-year-old son, Nate.

After wandering around for a couple of hours, I relaxed my grip and let go of Nate’s hand. He stayed near me. Since it was getting late, we decided to head back towards our car. As we headed up Royal Street, the street musicians were spilling out onto the sidewalks and streets.

In front of us, we saw a strange sight. A woman wheeled her piano out into the middle of the street. We stopped, hoping to listen to some music. But she started talking with other musicians. So we kept walking.

In front of us on the next block beyond the St Louis Cathedral, an old musician bent down in the middle of the sidewalk, opening his trombone case. As we tried to slip past him, he stood up and with a raspy voice asked, “Does anyone have a camera?”

None of us answered him although I did have a camera. So he asked again, “Does anyone have a camera?” Again, no one spoke up.

Nonchalantly, the old musician sat down on a small stack of milk crates. Then he directed his next question to Nate. “Would you like to play the trombone?” Like his mother, Nate didn’t answer. But the old musician smiled and motioned for Nate to come over to him.

Nate glanced at me, and I half nodded. So he took a few steps forward. But before I could react, the old musician clasped his big brawny hand around Nate’s little hand, drawing it up to the trombone. Nate’s body stiffened.

Looking around at us, the old musician asked, “What kind of music do you like?” Once again, no one responded. Unruffled by our lack of cooperation, the musician continued his one-way conversation. “Blues? Gospel music?”

My son-in-law finally broke the silence, “Gospel music.”

With that response, the old musician smiled again. Then he turned to Nate, saying, “Ready?”

Nate moved his head slightly up and down. But the rest of his body remained stiff. As the slide moved back and forth, the old musician began to play “When the Saints Come Marching In,” pulling Nate into the music.

At first, I stood there shocked that the homeless stranger was touching my son. But as I listened, the gospel music began to melt my apprehensions. Suddenly, I caught a hint of a future painting—the old musician and the young boy—emerging onto the canvas right there in front of me. So I pulled out my camera and snapped a picture.

At the conclusion of the song, we all clapped. Thanking the musician, I tossed some money into the trombone case. Then I took Nate’s hand, and we left.

The following week after returning home, I downloaded the picture onto my computer. Feeling a bit anxious, I wondered if I had caught the Kodak moment. As the picture popped up onto the screen, I smiled. There was the old musician with his large brown-eyes and my son. Success.

A few days later after I started the painting, I asked an artist friend, to critique my artwork. Instantly, she pointed out that the camera’s eye had peered down on the old musician and the child. Thus the angle distorted the subject matter, making their heads appear larger and their feet, very tiny.

Usually, when photographing children, I kneel to get on their level. But since I had been so distracted by the homeless person, I remained standing. So my vantage point distorted the figures.

After considering my friend’s advice, I started a second painting. This time I focused on the old musician and the boy from the waist up. The new perspective created a stronger composition and emphasized the focal point: the old musician’s hand skillfully guiding the young boy’s.

Amazingly, in the end, my perspective towards the stranger had changed. And I even found myself grateful that he had touched my son. The old musician on Royal Street had taught me a lesson: don’t allow limited perceptions to distort our view of others.