In The Beginning
Entry by: girlwithathorn
12th May 2015
In the beginning, a boy played and played until his fingers bled. And then he played some more.
Now he is a grown man. He still bleeds, but rarely from his fingers. But he never stopped playing.
His is a music to seduce the ears! Heightened to such a passion that each little note has a breath - like it is alive - it is alive! It is my sorrow, my love, it is the blood cursing my veins. . . and dripping through his guitar, staining silver strings pink.
Ole!
I am a dancer, and he a musician. But when he plays, and I dance, we become lovers, impassioned, entwined as only lovers can be. It is here that I listen, truly listen, not with my ears but with my heart. And I hear in his songs how his passion first came alive.
Like all tales of such burning creativity, his was a fire that was sparked in the turbulent embers of suffering.
When he was a boy, not long after he could walk, but before he could talk, a guitar was placed in his hands for the first time. Now, this was not unusual, for he grew up in the south, a land as vibrantly abundant in lemons and oranges as singers, dancers, and guitarists.
You could say it was in his blood.
The moment the greedy eyes of his father feasted upon his son's natural talent, a genius was born.
From then on, the guitar did not leave his hands. He did not go to school like other boys. According to his father, the best teacher he could ever ask for was his the very thing resting in his hands, whose strings were cruel, and wood relentless. But the guitar made for a solitary teacher, and the boy, as he grew, spoke less and less, until the notes of his guitar were more comfortable than the sound of his own voice.
Every day his father listened, and God forbid he ever slip on a note or step out of pace. To this day he could taste the harsh leather across his cheek. It was on the edge of every passion enthused note, a sting still waiting for him, long after his father's death.
Back then food was scarce and money scarcer. People died from starvation. His father knew this was for the best. If his son became the greatest flamenco guitarist that ever lived, he would never want for food, or money. So every night that his son sobbed to him that he wanted to give up, he would harden his resolve and not let him go until his fingers were raw. He would not let his son sleep until a drop of blood had been drawn, and then, only then would he be satisfied that he had practised enough.
This was for the best, he never told his son. This is because I love you, he never told his son.
The boy became a man, and yes, he became the guitarist that his father always yearned for. He never wanted for money, or food. He played for royalty, in front of crowds of thousands and thousands. Musicians from all over the world were green and red with envy and awe. Most listened to him. Some were drawn to tears. Many revered him as a god, a genius, a Maestro. But few ever truly heard.
As I dance with his music, joined as lovers, I feel the ache of every string tugging at my heart. The tears escape me and I can't help but ask: How can so much beauty come from so much pain?
And it all comes down to this.
In the beginning, a boy played and played until his fingers bled. And then he played some more.
Now he is a grown man. He still bleeds, but rarely from his fingers. But he never stopped playing.
His is a music to seduce the ears! Heightened to such a passion that each little note has a breath - like it is alive - it is alive! It is my sorrow, my love, it is the blood cursing my veins. . . and dripping through his guitar, staining silver strings pink.
Ole!
I am a dancer, and he a musician. But when he plays, and I dance, we become lovers, impassioned, entwined as only lovers can be. It is here that I listen, truly listen, not with my ears but with my heart. And I hear in his songs how his passion first came alive.
Like all tales of such burning creativity, his was a fire that was sparked in the turbulent embers of suffering.
When he was a boy, not long after he could walk, but before he could talk, a guitar was placed in his hands for the first time. Now, this was not unusual, for he grew up in the south, a land as vibrantly abundant in lemons and oranges as singers, dancers, and guitarists.
You could say it was in his blood.
The moment the greedy eyes of his father feasted upon his son's natural talent, a genius was born.
From then on, the guitar did not leave his hands. He did not go to school like other boys. According to his father, the best teacher he could ever ask for was his the very thing resting in his hands, whose strings were cruel, and wood relentless. But the guitar made for a solitary teacher, and the boy, as he grew, spoke less and less, until the notes of his guitar were more comfortable than the sound of his own voice.
Every day his father listened, and God forbid he ever slip on a note or step out of pace. To this day he could taste the harsh leather across his cheek. It was on the edge of every passion enthused note, a sting still waiting for him, long after his father's death.
Back then food was scarce and money scarcer. People died from starvation. His father knew this was for the best. If his son became the greatest flamenco guitarist that ever lived, he would never want for food, or money. So every night that his son sobbed to him that he wanted to give up, he would harden his resolve and not let him go until his fingers were raw. He would not let his son sleep until a drop of blood had been drawn, and then, only then would he be satisfied that he had practised enough.
This was for the best, he never told his son. This is because I love you, he never told his son.
The boy became a man, and yes, he became the guitarist that his father always yearned for. He never wanted for money, or food. He played for royalty, in front of crowds of thousands and thousands. Musicians from all over the world were green and red with envy and awe. Most listened to him. Some were drawn to tears. Many revered him as a god, a genius, a Maestro. But few ever truly heard.
As I dance with his music, joined as lovers, I feel the ache of every string tugging at my heart. The tears escape me and I can't help but ask: How can so much beauty come from so much pain?
And it all comes down to this.
In the beginning, a boy played and played until his fingers bled. And then he played some more.
Feedback: Average score: 340 (68%)
Marker comments:
Marker 1
- What I liked about this piece: The father/son relationship
- Favourite sentence: This is because I love you, he never told his son.
- Feedback: I think in a piece so short there's a lack of focus. The father/son relationship is interesting and fairly well explored - so the romantic relationship between boy and dancer seems tacked on and adds little. You then hang the piece at beginning and end on the boy himself I think... But his nature is actually never touched on, aside from his skill. The lead character is unexplored.
Marker 2
- What I liked about this piece: This piece flows beautifully and is wonderfully evocative of the guitar playing it describes. Lovely.
- Favourite sentence: As I dance with his music, joined as lovers, I feel the ache of every string tugging at my heart. The tears escape me and I can't help but ask: How can so much beauty come from so much pain?
And it all comes down to this.
In the beginning, a boy played and played until his fingers bled. And then he played some more. - Feedback: I really enjoyed reading this piece, thank you. Beautiful imagery in phrases such as 'staining silver strings pink'. I'm a fan of short sentences and you use the, effectively. There's a raw authenticity in phrases such as 'to this day he could taste the leather across his cheek' which drew me in and made me feel for this man and his suffering. Very well done.
Marker 3
- What I liked about this piece: It closes its own circle very well, leading back to its beginning very smoothly.
- Favourite sentence: He would not let his son sleep until a drop of blood had been drawn - just one drop, no more no less, nice image.
- Feedback: There is a great flow to this story, it builds to its plot it just the right amount of time. It gives you all the detail you need very succinctly. While 'art from pain' is not especially original, this is a very well done take on it. I especially like the other artists being jealous and not understanding what the guitarist has suffered to get there. There are a lot of very good allusions here - the father's love/pressure the guitarists art/pain and especially what we see/what is true. They all mix together seamlessly. Skilled work.
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