My father used to make flutes by hand.
Every day, I would watch him choose the material; some days it would be wood, others clay or bamboo.
He spent hours carving and shaping just a single one, never happy unless it was perfectly in tune, with a voice that would ring out through his studio and into the streets beyond. Often, he would find imperfections in his work and cast them out into a great skip he had solely for that purpose, before starting on a new flute with even more enthusiasm, striving to make it perfect.
As he worked, he used to tell me that music could soothe the soul and heal the mind from any illness or depression, allowing both the musician and audience to free themselves of the worries of modern living. He said it was for this reason that only the most exceptional flute
