Thrice a week, during five years; be it rainy or sunny, holiday or schoolday, busy or jobless, depressing or cheerful, grandfather would drive me, on his rustic and old-fashioned bicycle, to violin’s class.
The violin was small enough to fit on my little back. The color of its case slightly wore off. I remember when I first opened the case to touch the rough and not-so-shiny surface of the aged instrument; a strong, strange smell of rosin pleasantly rose up, grasping my attention at once. Turned out, rosin was this solidified palm resin used to rub the hair of the violin bow, making the violin strings’ vibration more elegant and the sound brighter.
Anyhow, at that time I had not a single idea of any technical issue regarding the fiddle. All that excited me was that special smell from the little rosin. Consequently, I agreed with my grandfather to start learning the violin.
Every week, I would sneak out of my classroom, after asking the teacher to save me a lunch portion to eat afterwards and saying goodbye to the school watchman, to quickly run to grandfather, who would always be already waiting outside, with the little violin case and a water bottle. Smilingly, grandfather would ask: “Are you ready? Lesson will be great today!”
Every class, while struggling with half hour repeatedly striking again and again the 4 strings “G-D-A-E” and another half interpreting new compositions in the teacher’s close examination, I could always see, in the corner of my eyes, grandfather’s worried and happy look through the half-open door. He stood there to make sure that I wouldn’t feel alone or pressurized by the teacher. And he stood there, so that after I finished, he could stroke my head and tell me with the proudest voice: “You did such a great job today!”
I know, he actually lied, most of the times. Practicing the violin was one of the toughest jobs I’ve ever done in my entire life. I can still now vividly remember the image of that 7-year-old, body-sweated, muscle-strained, and chin-hurt little girl trying to produce what, my father hoped, as true music. “Every note must sound like it has emotion inside. Play with your heart, not your hands” – he told me. At the same time, every note must also sound correctly in-tone, and harmoniously blended together, into a not too bright or too dark sound. This is extremely difficult, for violin demands a very high level of musical precision from the fiddler: Of all instruments, violin is the only one that doesn’t show the correct position for each note, which fiddler can only count on their musical instinct, and probably experience, to be able to perform.
I wasn’t very bad, to be honest. Despite my several attempts to drop the practice, grandfather was pleased to see me well-dressed and musician-like every school final and semi-final, praised by the teachers with good, clean performance. I was even chosen to record for the school CD, and play in the annual “Young Talent Show”.
It wasn’t enough to please my father, however. He told me that, how much ever clean music is tempting for easygoing listeners; the musician’s performance cannot be fulfilled with semi-enthusiasm and emotionlessness. “You’ve got to flare the instrument with passion and feelings”.
That was when grandfather and father started getting into a big fight. Grandfather argued that I was just a kid and time would definitely nourish my love for the fiddle. My father disagreed, saying how he was trained since 5 and since then passionately and whole-heartedly cherished his violin for years. He couldn’t see that enthusiasm in me. Grandfather got angry- being my father’s first teacher, he believed in his right vision for his grandchild – just as he did with his own children.
The fight continued, somehow, for few more years until I was 13. My father eventually won, with the great help from the “academic excuse” that at that time start to overtake my life. With less and less time to practice, I could not improve my violin skill as fast as I hoped. And the next thing I knew was, my supposed-to-be 5th year of violin was replaced by a successful entrance into a Math-regional round contest. Grandfather, heartbroken, impotently brought the little violin – my companion during 5 years- home. He didn’t talk to my father for long after that.
I wasn’t, for even a single moment, regretting the decision at all. It was such a relief for me to finally get rid of endless and torturing practice every single day and nervous exams every few months.
I guess grandfather was actually right. Growing up does nourish my love for music. Ironically and slowly, I start to realize how music never really die in me, how much I still love singing, dancing, trying new instruments. I record songs. I learn to play the piano on my own. I sing whenever possible.
And, I realize, though too late, how I miss my violin tremendously, especially the rosin’s smell. Yet unlike other instrument, for violin, dropping one day is losing one day. 8 years without practicing almost means I would have to start everything all over again if I ever wanted to again play the violin.
The other day, seeing my father playing the violin after his 10 years of not touching it, I understand what he meant back then by “flaring the instrument with passion and feelings”. I used to think that I would never be half as good as my father, because I was simply not as talented. But passion, yes, passion was what I lacked.
And I asked my grandfather, first time after 8 years, for my violin – no, grandfather’s violin- back.
The rosin’s smell, the wore-off-case, the slender bow are still there. The patina of age has even made the violin prettier than before.
Sadly, it has become too small for me now…