How many people walk the streets and go by inadvertently, when in reality they are so extraordinary that as time goes by and they pass away, history itself will recognize them, holding their memory forever.
Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia
“When I grow up, I am going to play just like that man in the centre, the one with the white hair. What do you call what the man was playing?”
Smiling his father contemplated her for a long while and then answered,
“That… is called music.”
“Oh please, Father, I’m very serious. I know it’s called music. But that thing made of wood, a sort of a little box that he rubbed with the stick and sounded so beautiful… what is it called?”
“That little box is a musical instrument, the same as the others. It’s called a violin my dear.”
“Well, when I’m older, I shall play the violin. And I will play it to sound just as lovely.”
Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia
“The piano is better for you and more appropriate, my child.”
“Does it sound like the violin?”
“Well, no… it’s quite different, you see, but better for you darling.”
“Better? No, I’m so sorry, father, but it will be better… when I’m playing the violin!”
Sucre, Chuquisaca, Bolivia
Her father was at a loss of words, without knowing how to answer that fierce determination he had observed in his daughter. Perhaps, only a few years old, but on many occasions, she had already proved herself.
Sucre, chuquisaca, Bolivia
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