My sister and I learned to play the piano at home, when we were kids. My mother taught us. She had been a pianist when she was young but no longer played. We had an upright in the living-room.
We both learned the Chopin waltzes from a 1911 C. F. Peters edition that was already yellowing and crumbled each time we placed it on the piano music stand. I remember my sister playing the “Minute Waltz” quite proficiently. I only play the so called Valse de l’adieu, the saddest piece in the set, although it’s in major mode. I brought the score with me when
I emigrated to the United States
The other day, rearranging our bookshelves, the fragile score slipped out and its pages scattered all over the floor. Our Calico cat Cabiria immediately laid on top of the cracked and badly taped pieces. I photographed the resulting accident. “A Chopin archipelago!” I thought. On the floor, the waltzes looked like a bunch of islands populated by thousand of black notes, a huge feline volcano (Cabiria is known to hiss up loud) and water surrounding everything. Didn’t somebody equate music with water? I love happy accidents!
—Raúl Rodriguez Gibson, NYC, 10.16.2018