Marco and I had been circling that pitch for weeks. He was on the moves, I was on the light: the wall takes a clean edge of sun for only half an hour, when it clears the ridge opposite and the midtones of the rock light up without burning the highlights. Before that it is flat, after that it is an oven. In between there is the window.
The real work, that day, was waiting. I jugged up the static line while he was still warming his fingers in the sun, set myself at the height of the crux and checked that the rope stayed out of the frame. From up there you hear everything: the breathing that changes when he pulls on, the chalk bag slapping, the friends below going quiet on their own at the key move.
Beside them, not below
Certain images do not exist from the ground. The foot loading a lolotte, the fingers opening on the last crimp, the face of someone deciding whether to throw for the jug: you only see these if you are hanging two metres away, at their height, and if you know when they are coming because you have read that sequence yourself. I set up a moment before it happens, not a moment after.
Marco fell twice at the crux. The second time he swore quietly, lowered off, rested twenty minutes looking down the valley without a word. On the third go he sent. I heard the shout before I saw him reach the chains, and I kept shooting even then, because the redpoint is not only the key move: it is also the face of someone letting go of the holds at the last quickdraw.
“I hadn’t noticed you were there. Then I saw the photos and everything was in them, even what I didn’t remember.”
What remains
In post-production I removed very little: a light lift on the shadows of the cave, the black point where I wanted it, and that was all. When the light is the right one, the heavy lifting has already been done by the day. The photos went to Marco that same evening, in his gallery; he keeps one as his phone background, and to me that is worth more than any like.