Woody Pretty

A quick detour to the music shop resulted in this conversation:

"I'm buying one of your violins. I was told you have something in green," I told the attendant.

"Ay, wala po kaming ganun." We don't have those. The seller then showed the selection: the normal wooden crimson, darker shades of red, electric violins... My eyes narrowed down on a lone violin with a faded wooden hue, the reflection creates an illusion of a mossy wood, ones nourished in marshes.

That, I realized, is my Luntian.

"How much for that one?" The attendant gave the price, and the discount that comes with it. "I'll get. it," I said.

He was surprised, saying in a rush that we can wait until a new batch comes along. The shop only has one or two pieces of a certain instrument. Mine only had one, which was on display. I insisted I'll take what's available. It's not a problem, I said. A violin is a violin. As an instinctive buyer, I know what I want. And normally, I don't regret purchasing something on impulse.

An hour after, I took out Luntian from the case and had it cleaned, as delicately as possible. The curves, the lines, the smooth belly, the swirls at the scroll... It was truly the prettiest thing. Every touch was orgasmic. I took the bow and played, in the littlest knowledge I have of playing one. And the sound? It was better than I imagined. Heavenly, sublime even.

Luntian is a beautiful Filipino (Tagalog) word for the color green. As a description, it can mean lush, verdant, and rich foliage. It is synonymous with the Gaelic verde, which when spelled as berde becomes another Filipino word for green.

I like the word luntian. Like most Filipino words, it conjures an image in a person's head--and its what the name implies. Spoken correctly, it creates a beautiful, almost poetic swirl in the tongue.

Relearning, remembering

Sidney, my friend who plays the viola, said each classical instrument appeals to a person's character. When I asked what instrument she sees me playing, she immediately said: "The violin--the pitch, the light fleety sound perfectly matches your personality!"

Right then and there, I made a mental promise to learn this instrument.

My first memory of a violin was a battered one, on my abuelo's shoulders. He was a musical prodigy; give him an instrument and he'll learn how to play it within the day. His love for string instruments was thick, like the layered callouses on his fingertips. But then, this wonderful man also makes a living out of carpentry, making furniture and doors and other masterpieces with wood. He made a guitar once, a beautifully heavy dreadful thing but with sounds that make an amateur player feel like a professional.

"Lolo," I said when I was still very young and Sunday dresses were the rave. "Can you make me a violin?" He said he will but he will have to look for fine wood. The sound of the violin depends on the wood, he explained. Violins are special. Like love.

As a man who mastered his craft, I believed him. I wonder what he'll say of Luntian, my grandfather. I'll give him a visit one of these days, toting the heavy black case to Batangas. Maybe he'll even play me a song. And bring me back to those old Sundays under the mango trees, where only the fleeting shrill sound of music filled my senses. And it was the only thing that mattered.

After decades, I am to explore the instrument that piqued me as kid. And hopefully, learn of love again. I can't wait to take up classes! - 1/26/2012