The eyes have it. See sound. Hear seeing. See the sound of jazz throught the eyes of the people who play it. There is no body-language here, and even heads and shoulders only play supporting roles. Body-language is essential. Looking at a musician playing is the complete experience, recordings will always miss that. But hearing by sight alone is unheard of. "Hey, man, I got eyes to hear Bird," we used to say. Is that metaphor mixed?

I just got new eyes, literally, a cataract operation and a lens implant for each one. The doctor said I could listen to music through earphones under the laser. I chose - it seemed evident - Bill Evans. Somehow Bill is an obvious last soundtrack if there is a chance that you will not see any more movies. With parallet absurdity, you might choose to look at these photos during an ear operation.

Afterwards, people told me my eyes looked different, "younger" they said. They had been squinting, strained, perhaps somewhat phobic from fear of crippling. They hurt. Now that they are renewed, so is my world. The almost forgotten sight of bright colors and clear shapes has rejuvenated me. Am I seeing too much?

Or thinking too much? You are what you see. Sound can have pigmetation. Transposing objectivity, almost like a self-portrait of Vincent by you or me, these photographs lead us into a dimension where time turns into space describing the sound of the people occupying it.

Above all, a musician should be consistant in tension and texture. Even undisciplined outbursts ought to be within whatever form is prescribed. Paul Hindemith said that where anything goes nothing counts. And Richard Nixon admitted he never lost his temper except on purpose. These photographs count, and they have a consistency of purpose. Nothing is lost. They have "The Cry."

Good jazz always has "The Cry." But what I'm trying to say in my fish-eye way is that these portraits will readjust your equalizer. You've never s e e n "The Cry" in such detail and variety before. Even Branford Marsalis' eyes reveal The Cry, and they're closed. So do Tete Montoliu's, and he's blind.

Musicians listining through eyes. A voicing of pupils. Smiling or stern, old or young, black or white, male or female. The look of their Sound. Piercing eyes, veiled eyes, the evil eye, cocky or shy, happy or sad, eyes after a stroke (a valiant Stan Getz). Each pair has its Cry. Looking through these eyes you can learn something about that undeniable purity musicians have in common. You can almost smell it.

I have a problem. Transposing Jan Putfarcken's pictures to words, using words to point out that we can hear the soul of music by looking through the windows of the mind is thrice removed.