When looking back at the duration of my childhood, I always find myself thinking about one particular memory that gave rise to many frustrating, beautiful years filled with purple finger tips and old worn out music books. It all started at the age of four, when I had laid my eyes on a small mahogany violin resting elegantly on my brother’s desk. The gleam shining from my light brown eyes didn’t need an explanation; for I had distinguished something that felt like apart of me from the minute I plucked that very first string. I cautiously picked it up and placed it under my neck, wrapping my small hand around the rigid stroll and gliding my fingers over each soft string. The feeling of holding such a beautiful, rich instrument in my arms was indescribable, and the inability to experience that sensation again was something I could not and did not want to imagine. Regardless of the fact that I was only four, my aspiration to play the violin and become as advanced as my older brother, who was only 10 at the time, was so immense that after a substantial amount of promises to my mom, stating that I would commit to the violin no matter how hard or long I would have to practice, I received my very own instrument the next day. With an older sister who advanced and thrived through her cello, and an older brother whose dedication to the violin left a significant impact on my musical life, I was surrounded by euphonic sounds both in and out of my house. The classical music my mother played on the radio every morning whilst driving to school, and my Russian violin teacher who emphasized hours of listening to a piece in order to pizzicato, (pluck) an entire piece of music from shear memory before placing the bow on the string slowly carved its way into my brain, coercing me to hum Suzuki pieces throughout the day. Although there were times when I wanted to abstain from playing, I persevered because I knew that nothing could compare to both the feeling of preciseness within each and every note, and the mellifluous sound and beauty of the violin. The connection I was able to acquire with my music was not solely shaped by my ability to read and play the notes, but by the ability to feel it as well which steadily advanced through my pneumatic self.

Ludwig Van Beethoven once said, “To play a wrong note is insignificant; to play without passion is inexcusable.” Although I do obtain many fond memories of that quote as a result of the numerous times I read it on my violin teachers door before starting my lesson, I was not able to truly understand what it meant until I met an older man named Alex who made me love the feeling of playing, hearing and knowing music. Alex was one of the many senior citizens I spent time with last summer whilst working at an organization in New York City called DOROT. He was 83 years old, blind, immobile, and suffered from severe Alzheimer’s, but what I adored most about him was not his dry sense of humor or wheezy laugh, it was the constant endeavor he put into separating his indisposed life from his musical life in order to maintain the blissful feeling he perceives when hearing and playing dulcet sounding music.
Before meeting Alex, I was told that his deep affection for classical and jazz music was derived from his past as a professional saxophone player and with that in mind I set off on the cross-town bus with my violin and stand in hand. I played three different works for Alex, but found that he enjoyed the song Meditation by J. Massenet the most; as a result of the warm grin that consumed his face while listening to my bow soar over the strings. When I finished playing I looked up at him only to find cordial tears streaming down his soft, pink cheeks. “That’s the thing about music,” he said, “when it hits you, you feel no pain.” I wasn’t sure if the tears that started to fall from my eyes were commenced as a result of the pity I attained for Alex, or if they had fallen as a result of the sentiment I started to distinguish in his face each and every time he heard music. Nevertheless, the sudden realization of the feelings I was undergoing, from sorrow to jubilation, not only intensified my love for the violin, but also brought genuine emotion into my music, culminating me to irrevocably understand the many sensations and powers music has on ones spirit.
Thinking about Alex always brings a smile to my face, as his profound love for music was more then just a feeling; it was an inspiration that has lead my body to tremble with shivers every time instrumental music hits my ears. The emotion Alex felt when hearing my music made me realize why I stuck with the violin throughout those many frustrating years. It wasn’t my eagerness to advance to seventh position or play like my brother, but it was the feeling I knew I would be able to attain that would encompass my emotions into my music. The laminated poster that hung on my violin teachers’ door and the words of Alex had finally merged together, resulting in a direct, continuous warmth that blankets my heart each and every time I hear and play harmonious music. I am greatly appreciative for the influence Alex has had in my life, as his true attachment to music, and solicitous words have affected the way I feel about my violin. Regardless of the many infuriating years that follow along, I know I will always emit great passion through the smiling F-holes on my violin.