My first teacher was the rain. I listened to the drops. They were the first short, round notes in my childhood imagination. Then came the sun. The notes became longer and more transparent, beginning in the clouds and disappearing into infinity. Wind taught me momentum, the night taught me silence and the suddenness of the morning. I learnt about atmosphere from the smell of the candles in our small Moldovan Orthodox church; the movement and shadows of their flames showed me how to improvise. From language came phrasing, and with that my dreams opened up into the limitlessness of fantasy.
P.K. in The STRAD