關於 early years teacher meaning ，我們在網路上蒐集到這些相關的討論、資訊與評價

《我的幸福5/2 週末》

*週日下午兩點誠品信義書店「廿世紀典範人物」新書分享會，我下午二時開始演講，離上次在台灣大學公開演説。快半年了！分享會報名一小時預告已額滿，但TVBS電視台慷慨的支持。派出SNG車，屆時TVBS文茜的世界周報YouTube 及世界周報Facebook 都將同步直播。

*新書分享會後我將直奔高雄衛武營，參加劉孟捷（李斯特巡禮之年）鋼琴獨奏會。這是劉孟捷回台，最重要的一場音樂會，我目睹他用盡了一切心力。過去即使21歲時在費城代打缺席大師的音樂會，劉孟捷都未曾如此緊張。他此次回台，手術前為了沒有遺憾，共舉行三場音樂會：其中4/17與5/30皆是與國家交響樂團NSO合作：530那一場指揮是呂紹嘉。但他告訴我，某些曲目對他而言，是Piece of Cake ：惟獨衞武營這一場，曲目由他自己決定，現場錄影，並且找了金曲獎錄音師同步錄音。

5/2衛武營-劉孟捷鋼琴獨奏會《李斯特巡禮之年》購票連結
https://www.opentix.life/event/1384752689074294784

劉夢捷明白他即將面對一個大手術，手術風險之外，他的免疫系統疾病，將使他的康復之路更長。

沒有人可以預知未來，為了圓他的夢，醫院每天都要求他早上、晚上量血壓，報告直接傳給院長。振興醫院院長魏崢雖然是亞洲第一把心臟外科醫師，但也不敢大意。

畢竟這個人的生命那麼脆弱，他的心臟主動脈剝離，那是實質的「心碎」了：但他仍有詩，仍有音樂夢。在生命的交接處，在白日與黑夜的交义口，劉孟捷想為他的音樂生涯，留下最美好的紀錄。

他選擇了李斯特。

在這場音樂會前，他甚至以英文寫下了自己與音樂、疾病的半生回顧：如李斯特的巡禮，有仰望，有沉思，有失落，有幽微的疼痛。他以詩篇般的演奏模式，傾訴，詠嘆。他曾得到天賦，也走過死蔭的幽谷。命運是一層又一層的黑影逼近，老天爺隨時想帶走他。

而他已不再流淚，不再沉浸於悲愴告別：因為對他而言活著並不容易，他要讓自己更深刻的抓住每一分時光之美。

如果時間和空間，正如哲人們所形容的
都是不實際存在的東西：那從不感到衰敗的太陽，也不會比我們了不起多少！

他如艾略特的詩句中所形容的：我們為什麼要如此貪心總在祈禱，想活上整整一個世紀？

蝴蝶雖僅活了一天，已經歷了永恆。

當他的身軀如露水還在藤蔓顫抖時，他送給我們一場「完全浪漫又超技的李斯特」。

等音樂會結束了，至少有一張CD，一段YouTube 影像：不論孟捷代表生命的那朵鮮花是否枯萎，他彈奏如天使的音聲不會飛離，它會停留在那夜，繼續釋放芬芳。

這是盡生命之力、之情獨奏的音樂會。劉孟捷説：這樣當他走進手術室時，會少一點悲傷。

或許快樂的日子本來就不多，但讓這場「完全李斯特．完全劉孟捷」的獨奏會放出神聖的光彩吧！

我必將赴會，不會錯過！我知道此刻的獨奏會，很難複製，因為它綜合了太多的情感、愛念，釋放與生命的抒情。

*劉孟捷為此次獨奏會寫下的文字：This past year has seen some unprecedented changes in the world. Many lives have been lost and many have changed. The world has changed while many of us confront the uncertainty of the future.

For most musicians, life has changed. For months, we have been conducting our lessons online, and concerts have mostly stopped or become an online experience as well. More time has been spent learning how to improve the online teaching experience than one could have imagined. While I have felt the duty to continue teaching, the format the pandemic requires for teaching leaves me unwilling to spend more time than I have to.

And truly, I have had other things to deal with. When the pandemic started to worry the American public in March, I was in the middle of a tour with the String Quartet-in-Residence at Curtis, the Vera Quartet. However, our concerts were canceled, and everything came to a sudden halt.

I felt the universe had sent me an unexpected gift, as I had also just received some terrible news concerning my worsening aortic arches and a diagnosis of kidney cancer. The sudden halt in my professional schedule seemed perfect in its timing. I was able to settle into a monastic existence, to simply practice and attempt to heal.

I see many musicians itching to be concertizing again, and many stepped into new territory, performing on the internet. Many took time to develop new podcasts, and to write new materials for their art. Sadly, many have struggled as they have fallen into desperation without any concert incomes. Altogether the music industry seems to be in peril, and many worry about how music and musicians will survive.

However, I had my own survival to think about. Having been through many difficult experiences in my life, I knew this might be the most difficult I would encounter. My Doctors describe me as a walking time bomb. My condition could be lethal at any moment if my blood pressure gets out of control. So while others wrestle with the fate of the music industry, I’ve needed to face my own fate and mortality.

Playing concerts can mean many things to people. At different times throughout my life, I’ve felt the need to express different aspects of myself. When I was young, I wanted to embody the spirit of romanticism, playing lots of Chopin and Schumann. Then there was a period of time when I wanted to challenge myself by showing off pyrotechnics. I had a brooding period where I turned to the pathos of Rachmaninoff, and then felt the need to return to the purity of Schubert and nobility of Brahms. Throughout this pandemic, I wanted to play Bach. Through Bach’s music I found a kind of spiritual sanctuary.

In considering the program for this concert, I felt again the urge to play music that reflects my current feelings and state of mind. The title of today’s recital, “Years of Pilgrimage” seems to fit exactly what I am experiencing.

Liszt wrote several volumes of “Années de pèlerinage” throughout his life to reflect on thoughts he had during his travels. He links his philosophical thoughts to the scenery which inspired them. “Au Bord d’un Source” describes feelings of rejuvenation while standing next to a clear stream of water, a symbol and source of life and energy. It seems to say, when the stream is so pure, life can be so full of joy.

In the Les jeux d'eaux à la Villa d'Este (The Fountains of the Villa d'Este), the water has a magical and supernatural quality, as Liszt himself wrote in the inscription: "But the water that I shall give him shall become in him a well of water springing up into eternal life,"( from the Gospel of John.)

For me, I have never felt more connected to Liszt than when he looked upon the valley of Obermann and questioned the meaning of existence. At this moment in my life, I often find myself reflecting my experiences of what I see and read into philosophical musings. Perhaps many people come to a time when this is so.

In all this I have felt gratitude for the love stories and sonnets that one can romantically indulge in, and for storms so violent that they threaten to destroy one’s spirit, even the hell-bound journey which brings up questions about the purpose of life…

On this journey, I felt full and alive as a human being. Looking back on this journey, I am grateful for everything, whether happy or sad, to have made an impact, found and imparted meaning to this life.

The unusual time of this pandemic has marked a milestone for me. I have journeyed back home, and as it happened, this is the first time I have spent so much time in my hometown Kaohsiung in over 35 years. It’s particularly nostalgic to play these pieces as some of them were significant in my early musical career. Vallée d’Obermann was the piece I played in my first competition at the junior high school level, in which I won first prize on the national level, which allowed me to be qualified to apply for a special permission to study abroad. This meant my dream to be educated as a musician could be continued in an environment where I could develop fully. In the following year when I was 13, I won the first Asia-Pacific Youth PIano Competition with the Dante Sonata. The competition catapulted me into national attention as I was headlined in several newspapers, and especially since it was held in Kaohsiung, I became a local hero as well. During the same event, I had a fateful meeting with one of the important influences in my life, Mr. Gary Graffman, who then mentored me throughout not only the years when I was studying at Curtis, but throughout my illness and recovery as a pianist. Right before I departed to study in Philadelphia, I played my first solo recital throughout Taiwan, and along with the Dante Sonata, I also performed the three sonnets.

It’s perfect that now, back in Kaohsiung, all these memories have flooded back into my head. I feel so lucky to have been born here, and to have met my first teacher, Chin-Li Lee, who inspired me on the path to become a musician. Prof. Alexander Sung filled me with dreams of becoming an artist. I am grateful for his belief in my talent, when he chose to give a 12 year old such philosophical pieces to play.

Having once again spent some months in Kaohsiung, I can freshly appreciate the source of inspiration it once was for me. I have returned to the source to heal. Having already glimpsed hell’s gate several times, battered and weathered by the storms of life, I know there is a reason life is this way, and it all will be alright.

Meng-Chieh Liu
April, 2021

*劉孟捷衛武營《李斯特巡禮之年》演奏會中，包括李斯特以佩脫拉克三首情詩譜寫的鋼琴琴詩：這三首情詩是從大詩人佩脫拉克一百多首情詩挑出來的，詩本身就很優美，依此激發李斯特的浪漫主義創作靈感，成為琴藝上最困難演奏，但也特別細膩溫柔的琴詩。

這三首分別是：
〈佩脫拉克第47號十四行詩〉〈佩脫拉克第104號十四行詩〉及〈佩脫拉克第123號十四行詩〉。
Franz Liszt（1811-1886）: Sonetto 47 del Petrarca, Sonetto 104 del Petrarca, Sonetto 123 del Petrarca, from Années de pèlerinage, Deuxième année: Italie

李斯特於1846年先出版藝術歌曲《三首佩脫拉克十四行詩》（Tre sonetti del Petrarca），再改成鋼琴獨奏版。

三首佩脫拉克十四行詩
中譯：焦元溥（元溥也是友情贊助，特別準備音樂資料，周日南下，聆賞劉孟捷的樂曲，並且陪同他盯著錄音共三天）

〈第47〉
祝福每天、每月、每年，
所有片刻與鐘點、時間與季節，
在那美麗的原野，

我為一雙眼眸魂縈夢牽。

祝福初遇時的甜，
與愛同在、受苦不停歇，
如弓箭刺穿令我淌血，
傷口永留感動在我心間。

祝福一切我發出的聲音，
當呼喚著我深愛的女郎，
渴望、嘆息、淚濕滿襟。
祝福我寫下的文字遠揚，
歌頌她的芳名，萬古長新。
我心永屬於她，無人能闖。

〈第104〉
我找不到和平，也無意打仗，
我恐懼、我期望，燃燒又冰透。
我向天飛升，卻躺在地上，
我一無所有，卻又擁抱整個宇宙。

我身陷囹圄，監牢又開敞；
我不受囚禁，卻銬著鎖頭。
愛情不讓我死，也不讓我飛翔；
不要我活，也不准我逃離悲愁。

欲看卻無眼，啞口還在發言，
我甘心殞滅，卻仍高聲呼救，
我痛恨自己，但仍愛著他人。

憂傷滋潤我，淚水伴隨笑臉，
生命不足惜，死亡也不煩憂；
我淪落至此，都是妳啊，我的愛人！
〈第123〉

我在塵世見到仙子的美，

她天堂般優雅無與倫比。
想起她讓我悲傷又歡喜，
所見如幻夢迷霧與幽黑。

妳的可愛眼睛使我落淚，
多少次讓太陽也要妒忌。
我還聽到四周發出嘆息，
移動了山嶽停止了河水。

愛情智慧憐憫憂傷財富，
在淚水中形成甜美聲響，
奇妙和諧世上未曾目睹。
天堂追隨著音樂的流淌，
雖然枝上樹葉並未飛舞，
空氣與風息卻充滿芬芳。

5/2衛武營-劉孟捷鋼琴獨奏會《李斯特巡禮之年》購票連結
https://www.opentix.life/event/1384752689074294784

Nobody’s Fool　　( January 2011 )

Yoshitomo Nara

Do people look to my childhood for sources of my imagery? Back then, the snow-covered fields of the north were about as far away as you could get from the rapid economic growth happening elsewhere. Both my parents worked and my brothers were much older, so the only one home to greet me when I got back from elementary school was a stray cat we’d taken in. Even so, this was the center of my world. In my lonely room, I would twist the radio dial to the American military base station and out blasted rock and roll music. One of history’s first man-made satellites revolved around me up in the night sky. There I was, in touch with the stars and radio waves.

It doesn’t take much imagination to envision how a lonely childhood in such surroundings might give rise to the sensibility in my work. In fact, I also used to believe in this connection. I would close my eyes and conjure childhood scenes, letting my imagination amplify them like the music coming from my speakers.

But now, past the age of fifty and more cool-headed, I’ve begun to wonder how big a role childhood plays in making us who we are as adults. Looking through reproductions of the countless works I’ve made between my late twenties and now, I get the feeling that childhood experiences were merely a catalyst. My art derives less from the self-centered instincts of childhood than from the day-to-day sensory experiences of an adult who has left this realm behind. And, ultimately, taking the big steps pales in importance to the daily need to keep on walking.

While I was in high school, before I had anything to do with art, I worked part-time in a rock café. There I became friends with a graduate student of mathematics who one day started telling me, in layman’s terms, about his major in topology. His explanation made the subject seem less like a branch of mathematics than some fascinating organic philosophy. My understanding is that topology offers you a way to discover the underlying sameness of countless, seemingly disparate, forms. Conversely, it explains why many people, when confronted with apparently identical things, will accept a fake as the genuine article. I later went on to study art, live in Germany, and travel around the world, and the broader perspective I’ve gained has shown me that topology has long been a subtext of my thinking. The more we add complexity, the more we obscure what is truly valuable. Perhaps the reason I began, in the mid-90s, trying to make paintings as simple as possible stems from that introduction to topology gained in my youth.

As a kid listening to U.S. armed-forces radio, I had no idea what the lyrics meant, but I loved the melody and rhythm of the music. In junior high school, my friends and I were already discussing rock and roll like credible music critics, and by the time I started high school, I was hanging out in rock coffee shops and going to live shows. We may have been a small group of social outcasts, but the older kids, who smoked cigarettes and drank, talked to us all night long about movies they’d seen or books they’d read. If the nighttime student quarter had been the school, I’m sure I would have been a straight-A student.

In the 80s, I left my hometown to attend art school, where I was anything but an honors student. There, a model student was one who brought a researcher’s focus to the work at hand. Your bookshelves were stacked with catalogues and reference materials. When you weren’t working away in your studio, you were meeting with like-minded classmates to discuss art past and present, including your own. You were hoping to set new trends in motion. Wholly lacking any grand ambition, I fell well short of this model, with most of my paintings done to satisfy class assignments. I was, however, filling every one of my notebooks, sketchbooks, and scraps of wrapping paper with crazy, graffiti-like drawings.

Looking back on my younger days—Where did where all that sparkling energy go? I used the money from part-time jobs to buy record albums instead of art supplies and catalogues. I went to movies and concerts, hung out with my girlfriend, did funky drawings on paper, and made midnight raids on friends whose boarding-room lights still happened to be on. I spent the passions of my student days outside the school studio. This is not to say I wasn’t envious of the kids who earned the teachers’ praise or who debuted their talents in early exhibitions. Maybe envy is the wrong word. I guess I had the feeling that we were living in separate worlds. Like puffs of cigarette smoke or the rock songs from my speaker, my adolescent energies all vanished in the sky.

Being outside the city and surrounded by rice fields, my art school had no art scene to speak of—I imagined the art world existing in some unknown dimension, like that of TV or the movies. At the time, art could only be discussed in a Western context, and, therefore, seemed unreal. But just as every country kid dreams of life in the big city, this shaky art-school student had visions of the dazzling, far-off realm of contemporary art. Along with this yearning was an equally strong belief that I didn’t deserve admittance to such a world. A typical provincial underachiever!

I did, however, love to draw every day and the scrawled sketches, never shown to anybody, started piling up. Like journal entries reflecting the events of each day, they sometimes intersected memories from the past. My little everyday world became a trigger for the imagination, and I learned to develop and capture the imagery that arose. I was, however, still a long way off from being able to translate those countless images from paper to canvas.

Visions come to us through daydreams and fantasies. Our emotional reaction towards these images makes them real. Listening to my record collection gave me a similar experience. Before the Internet, the precious little information that did exist was to be found in the two or three music magazines available. Most of my records were imported—no liner notes or lyric sheets in Japanese. No matter how much I liked the music, living in a non-English speaking world sadly meant limited access to the meaning of the lyrics. The music came from a land of societal, religious, and subcultural sensibilities apart from my own, where people moved their bodies to it in a different rhythm. But that didn’t stop me from loving it. I never got tired of poring over every inch of the record jackets on my 12-inch vinyl LPs. I took the sounds and verses into my body. Amidst today’s superabundance of information, choosing music is about how best to single out the right album. For me, it was about making the most use of scant information to sharpen my sensibilities, imagination, and conviction. It might be one verse, melody, guitar riff, rhythmic drum beat or bass line, or record jacket that would inspire me and conjure up fresh imagery. Then, with pencil in hand, I would draw these images on paper, one after the other. Beyond good or bad, the pictures had a will of their own, inhabiting the torn pages with freedom and friendliness.

By the time I graduated from university, my painting began to approach the independence of my drawing. As a means for me to represent a world that was mine and mine alone, the paintings may not have been as nimble as the drawings, but I did them without any preliminary sketching. Prizing feelings that arose as I worked, I just kept painting and over-painting until I gained a certain freedom and the sense, though vague at the time, that I had established a singular way of putting images onto canvas. Yet, I hadn’t reached the point where I could declare that I would paint for the rest of my life.

After receiving my undergraduate degree, I entered the graduate school of my university and got a part-time job teaching at an art yobiko—a prep school for students seeking entrance to an art college. As an instructor, training students how to look at and compose things artistically, meant that I also had to learn how to verbalize my thoughts and feelings. This significant growth experience not only allowed me to take stock of my life at the time, but also provided a refreshing opportunity to connect with teenage hearts and minds.

And idealism! Talking to groups of art students, I naturally found myself describing the ideals of an artist. A painful experience for me—I still had no sense of myself as an artist. The more the students showed their affection for me, the more I felt like a failed artist masquerading as a sensei (teacher). After completing my graduate studies, I kept working as a yobiko instructor. And in telling students about the path to becoming an artist, I began to realize that I was still a student myself, with many things yet to learn. I felt that I needed to become a true art student. I decided to study in Germany. The day I left the city where I had long lived, many of my students appeared on the platform to see me off.

Life as a student in Germany was a happy time. I originally intended to go to London, but for economic reasons chose a tuition-free, and, fortunately, academism-free German school. Personal approaches coexisted with conceptual ones, and students tried out a wide range of modes of expression. Technically speaking, we were all students, but each of us brought a creator’s spirit to the fore. The strong wills and opinions of the local students, though, were well in place before they became artists thanks to the German system of early education. As a reticent foreign student from a far-off land, I must have seemed like a mute child. I decided that I would try to make myself understood not through words, but through having people look at my pictures. When winter came and leaden clouds filled the skies, I found myself slipping back to the winters of my childhood. Forgoing attempts to speak in an unknown language, I redoubled my efforts to express myself through visions of my private world. Thinking rather than talking, then illustrating this thought process in drawings and, finally, realizing it in a painting. Instead of defeating you in an argument, I wanted to invite you inside me. Here I was, in a most unexpected place, rediscovering a value that I thought I had lost—I felt that I had finally gained the ability to learn and think, that I had become a student in the truest sense of the word.

But I still wasn’t your typical honors student. My paintings clearly didn’t look like contemporary art, and nobody would say my images fit in the context of European painting. They did, however, catch the gaze of dealers who, with their antennae out for young artists, saw my paintings as new objects that belonged less to the singular world of art and more to the realm of everyday life. Several were impressed by the freshness of my art, and before I knew it, I was invited to hold exhibitions in established galleries—a big step into a wider world.

The six years that I spent in Germany after completing my studies and before returning to Japan were golden days, both for me and my work. Every day and every night, I worked tirelessly to fix onto canvas all the visions that welled up in my head. My living space/studio was in a dreary, concrete former factory building on the outskirts of Cologne. It was the center of my world. Late at night, my surroundings were enveloped in darkness, but my studio was brightly lit. The songs of folk poets flowed out of my speakers. In that place, standing in front of the canvas sometimes felt like traveling on a solitary voyage in outer space—a lonely little spacecraft floating in the darkness of the void. My spaceship could go anywhere in this fantasy while I was painting, even to the edge of the universe.

Suddenly one day, I was flung outside—my spaceship was to be scrapped. My little vehicle turned back into an old concrete building, one that was slated for destruction because it was falling apart. Having lost the spaceship that had accompanied me on my lonely travels, and lacking the energy to look for a new studio, I immediately decided that I might as well go back to my homeland. It was painful and sad to leave the country where I had lived for twelve years and the handful of people I could call friends. But I had lost my ship. The only place I thought to land was my mother country, where long ago those teenagers had waved me goodbye and, in retrospect, whose letters to me while I was in Germany were a valuable source of fuel.

After my long space flight, I returned to Japan with the strange sense of having made a full orbit around the planet. The new studio was a little warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo, in an area dotted with rice fields and small factories. When the wind blew, swirls of dust slipped in through the cracks, and water leaked down the walls in heavy rains. In my dilapidated warehouse, only one sheet of corrugated metal separated me from the summer heat and winter cold. Despite the funky environment, I was somehow able to keep in midnight contact with the cosmos—the beings I had drawn and painted in Germany began to mature. The emotional quality of the earlier work gave way to a new sense of composure. I worked at refining the former impulsiveness of the drawings and the monochromatic, almost reverent, backgrounds of the paintings. In my pursuit of fresh imagery, I switched from idle experimentation to a more workmanlike approach towards capturing what I saw beyond the canvas.

Children and animals—what simple motifs! Appearing on neat canvases or in ephemeral drawings, these figures are easy on the viewers’ eyes. Occasionally, they shake off my intentions and leap to the feet of their audience, never to return. Because my motifs are accessible, they are often only understood on a superficial level. Sometimes art that results from a long process of development receives only shallow general acceptance, and those who should be interpreting it fail to do so, either through a lack of knowledge or insufficient powers of expression. Take, for example, the music of a specific era. People who lived during this era will naturally appreciate the music that was then popular. Few of these listeners, however, will know, let alone value, the music produced by minor labels, by introspective musicians working under the radar, because it’s music that’s made in answer to an individual’s desire, not the desires of the times. In this way, people who say that “Nara loves rock,” or “Nara loves punk” should see my album collection. Of four thousand records there are probably fewer than fifty punk albums. I do have a lot of 60s and 70s rock and roll, but most of my music is from little labels that never saw commercial success—traditional roots music by black musicians and white musicians, and contemplative folk. The spirit of any era gives birth to trends and fashions as well as their opposite: countless introspective individual worlds. A simultaneous embrace of both has cultivated my sensibility and way of thinking. My artwork is merely the tip of the iceberg that is my self. But if you analyzed the DNA from this tip, you would probably discover a new way of looking at my art. My viewers become a true audience when they take what I’ve made and make it their own. That’s the moment the works gain their freedom, even from their maker.

After contemplative folk singers taught me about deep empathy, the punk rockers schooled me in explosive expression.

I was born on this star, and I’m still breathing. Since childhood, I’ve been a jumble of things learned and experienced and memories that can’t be forgotten. Their involuntary locomotion is my inspiration. I don’t express in words the contents of my work. I’ll only tell you my history. The countless stories living inside my work would become mere fabrications the moment I put them into words. Instead, I use my pencil to turn them into pictures. Standing before the dark abyss, here’s hoping my spaceship launches safely tonight….

Rentak Selangor 2019 aims to educating, promoting & sharing the "Dendang Hati ?, Lagu Jiwa?, Irama Kita ?" to the public

Beats of Selangor ? ~ Chinese
A great ?? efforts of Catholic High School (CHS) to preserve the Chinese heritage, art & cultures to ? generation ?????????? of all Malaysians ????? Sharing some of the details which all credited to her media friend, Ms Lily ??‍♀️;

Chinese Orchestra
It's based on the structure & principles of a Western symphony orchestra using Chinese instruments. The orchestra is divided into 4️⃣ sections ~ wind, plucked strings, bow strings & percussion. It's usually performs modernized traditional music. Some of the instruments used are;

1️⃣ Erhu 二胡
✅ It's 1 of the most important Chinese instruments, with a
history of over 4K years
✅ It's a 2️⃣-stringed bowed Chinese musical instrument,
AKA the Chinese violin / Chinese 2️⃣-stringed fiddle
✅ It can be used in both traditional & contemporary music
arrangements; pop, rock & jazz
✅ It's played vertically, resting on the musician's lap. It has ❌
fingerboard, hence the player's fingers must hold & vibrate the
strings by pressing only against the strings themselves

2️⃣ Pipa 琵琶
✅ It's a 4️⃣-stringed Chinese musical instrument, AKA Chinese lute
✅ It has been played for almost 2K years in China & existed
as early as the Han dynasty
✅ It was once reigned as the “king” of Chinese folk instruments
✅ The instrument has a pear-shaped wooden body & the string
was once made of silk, however today, it is made of nylon-wrapped
steel. Silk strings were played either with a plectrum / with bare
fingers, but steel strings are played with finger picks

3️⃣ Dulcimer 扬琴
✅ AKA yangqin (扬琴) is believed to have originated in Central
Asia & was brought to China by sea-faring European traders at the end of the Ming Dynasty (around AD 1600).
✅ Classified as a plucked string instrument, the Chinese yangqin is also a
hammered dulcimer that is played with rubber-tipped sticks.
✅ The modern dulcimer has been rationalized & has become an essential
instrument in the Chinese orchestra
✅ It's used both as a solo instrument & in ensembles

4️⃣ Bamboo flute 笛子
✅ It's a Chinese transverse flute / Chinese bamboo flute
✅ Traditionally & most of the dizi is made by using (a single piece of) bamboo
✅ It's played using circular breathing "advanced" techniques
✅ It's a key Chinese musical instrument & is used in Chinese folk
music, opera & modern Chinese orchestra

Wushu (武术)
It was developed in 1949 in an effort to standardize the practice of traditional Chinese martial arts. The modern concepts of wushu were fully developed by the Ming & Qing dynasties

Type of performances are Wushu Weapons, Doubles Weapons, Flag, Doubles Taiji Sword, Trio Taiji Broadsword & Trio Taijiquan

The basic wushu movements are;
✅ Ma bu : 马步 - Horse stance
✅ Gong Bu : 弓步 - Bow stance
✅ Pu bu : 仆步 - Flat Stance or Crouch stance
✅ Chong Quan : 冲拳- Fist Punching
✅ Teng Kong Fei Jiao : 腾空飞脚 - Jumping front kick
✅ Bai Lian : 摆莲 - Lotus kick
✅ Xuan Zi : 旋子 - Butterfly kick

Basic wushu sword & boardsword movements are;
✅ Chan tou : 缠头 - Twining around the head with broadsword
✅ Guo nao : 裹脑 - Wrapping around the head with broadsword
✅ Wan Hua : 腕花 - Rotate the wrist, move the sword in forward-downward vertical circles on both sides close to your body, force reaching tip of the sword
✅ Guajian : 挂剑 - Hold the sword straight & move it in upward-backward / downward-backward vertical circles close to your body, with force reaching the front part of the blade
✅ Liao jian : 撩剑 - Move the sword in a forward-upward vertical circle, force reaching the foible

Diabolo 扯铃/ 抖空竹
It's a juggling / circus prop consists of an axle & 2 cups AKA Chinese yo-yo. It's spun using a string attached to 2️⃣ hand sticks. Multiple cups can be spun on a same string too. A large variety of tricks are possible with the diabolo, including tosses & various types of interaction with the sticks, string & various parts of the user's body

24 Season Drum (Ershisi Jieling Gu : 节令鼓)
It's a Malaysian art that was invented in 1988 by a music teacher, Tan Hooi Song & a poet Tan Chai Puan, at Foon Yew High School in Johor. It consists of 24 large drum is called Shigu (獅鼓) that represents the agricultural seasons in the Chinese calendar. The original performance styles depict movements of farmers & activities on a farm. The name of each season is usually written in
Chinese calligraphy on the drum.
The drum is played using 2️⃣ wooden sticks, striking its surface, sides or hitting the 2️⃣ sticks together

Each colour on the drum has a special meaning;
❤️ red symbolizes auspiciousness & passion
? black represents perseverance
? yellow signifies the Chinese culture & tradition

More details soon via ? siennylovesdrawing.wordpress.com

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