My childhood smells of Canson chalk, oil and turpentine. My father painted portraits and paintings while the Alan Parsons Project, The Beatles, Dire Straits or Pink Floyd vinyls and casetes sounded. I did not understand a word, neither did he, but we sang anyway.
My mother also sang. Between “coplas” and rhymes, life became lighter. I wanted to sing like her. I could never.
One day my father brought home a Fesma organ through whose pedal, my hamster Canelo would enter to store his sunflower seeds. That’s how it all started.
The happiest moments of my childhood happened thanks and for the music. Music united us, comforted us.
In my eighth year of piano I began to suffer terrible tendonitis that I could not overcome. The tensions and academic demands seemed to win the battle and I decide to redirect my training towards music education.
That was how I stopped dreaming that I could be a pianist and I came into contact with a new and exciting world, teaching.
It was in 2010 when I signed up for a vibrant festival called “Costa Contemporánea”, where I first heard the sound of a hang. It was a real crush.
I could not believe what I was hearing…
and even less, I could never imagine that I had before my eyes the instrument that would give me back the illusion of playing and composing again.[/vc_column_text][vc_raw_html]JTVCaW5zdGFncmFtLWZlZWQlMjB1c2VyJTNEJTIybGV3YWhhbmRwYW4lMjIlMjBudW0lM0Q2JTIwY29scyUzRDYlNUQ=[/vc_raw_html][/vc_column][/vc_row]