The year was 1968. A year carved deep into memory. Our story did not begin in the warmth of applause, but in silence—under the invisible pressure of a harsh era that pressed upon every breath of life.

Here, the average annual income was only 63 RMB—about 25.61 US Dollars. Hunger was real, winter was cold, and the future, to many, simply did not exist. In times like those, beauty felt like a luxury the world had forgotten—a dream too fragile to survive.

Then, suddenly, violin making arrived here—not as opportunity, but as command. Master craftsmen from the Shanghai Instrument Factory were relocated to this unfamiliar village. They became our teachers—yet in their eyes, the former pride of artistry flickered like a candle struggling against the wind.

There were no proper tools. No precision machines. Only scarce lumber, old knives, and hands forced to keep moving. Each carving stroke became a conversation with their fading past—an attempt to prove that their craft was more than a burden assigned by fate.

That $25.61 stood like a quiet barrier between Art and Life. Every violin carried a hidden ache—a longing from craftsmen who refused to let time erase what they once were. Their music, suppressed, still sought a place to breathe.