I remember when I first held the guitar. My teacher was from Bulgaria. His name was Basil Gural. He was a simple, kind man. Very patient. He gave me the guitar to hold and it felt strong, felt great. Holding the guitar... Strange, exciting - New World sitting on my lap. I was eight then. My teacher wasn't a great guitaris, but he was a great teacher. He taught me how to pull the strings, how to use my fingers in the classical manner and how to read music.
My mother, always a lover of the arts, enrolled me in the lessons after I told her I wanted to play the guitar. It was my uncle however that was the artistic type in the family. He played the piano and sang often in our home. So, here on the photo you can see him holding me, when I was a toddler.
I didn't practice as much as I should. I was a kid. Loved the music, but loved my bike and playing army outside with my friends. My mom was there sewing, when I would practice sometimes, so I tried to be very diligent. It just seemed to take such a long time to get as good as I wanted to be.
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