My violoncello is an instrument, of music... possibly... I play about it, I vibrate about it (naked feet), I work the stamp of it. It is that of which I play in the pit, with the théatre, in the street, suspended in a harness (another way of being sent in the air), on a track of circus, a wine tank which turns, in top of a tower of 6 meters, in a bubble gonfflable, at the school, the church or on the dry land perched on one... "échelle with casters ".
It is an instrument, that to which I hold, that which sounds me, that with which I reason... resound... I thus do not have a Violoncello Any Ground which would not be useful that has to digress... feverishly... as between bracket... I play and work with my beautiful cello, with the risk of sometimes froisser my violin maker, with present at the spirit the conscience having in dépos an instrument which crosses the times... him briskly.
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