I am a guitarist.

A guitar is an instrument for me with which I can express myself better than anything.

 

When I was 12 years old, I got a guitar from my brother. Out of sheer curiosity, I started to play the guitar. At that time, of course, I never thought that the rest of my childhood would be accompanied by it. One day in July 1994, I stood on the edge of the platform with a beautiful Spanish masterpiece "Antonio Marin Montero" on my back, the last present from my father, at Berlin Zoologischer garten. At the latest at that time, I knew what I wanted to be all my life. "A guitarist"

 

Fortunately, I met a great teacher in Berlin. Prof. Wilczok was truly of great support for all but I'd like to say a very special thank you to her for showing me the direction of my study. From the freshman year, she gave me various pieces of J. S. Bach that are composed originally for lute and triggered my interest in the ancestor of our instrument;Lute. Not knowing what I did, I was stepping into the world of early music.

 

This was the moment when my vinyl record collection was expanded exponentially. Because it was the best and the most affordable way for me to listen to early music - thank goodness - even back then, there were plenty of second-hand record shops in Berlin. It was also a small box on the ground of an antiquarian bookshop where I found this record; "Das Schaffen Johann Sebastian Bachs serie H of Walter Gerwig" from Archiv.

 

Looking back, as a young student, fresh from Asia, filled with curiosity towards European culture, it might be pretty natural to have a strong desire to find something as soon as possible. Walter Gerwig had rapidly become my favorite lutenist and soon after my favorite instrumentalist. It had been my daily routine for a long time to imitate his articulations, to analyse his interpretations, to hear him playing for hours a day until my humble audio system made terrible noises.

 

The cartridge was broken. So I bought a little bit more expensive one. But when the second one exhausted in the same way, I decided to send it for repair. That was, however, a dangerous decision for which I paid dearly. After having paid more than for a new cartridge, I could finally mount it on my headshell again. Nevertheless, the tragedy was far from over. I simply couldn't be satisfied with the sound it made. It was clearly a new, but a bizarre sound which made me feel more uncomfortable day after day. The more my dissatisfaction grew, the greater became my desire to open up the cartridge and look inside.