ROBBERY WITH VIOLINS
Its narrow, cobbled streets ambling amiably across a largely nondescript corner of Lombardy’s flat, fertile plains about an hour’s pelt down the autostrada south east of Milan, the city of Cremona can be all too easily overlooked by the inattentive traveller.
But this, if there’s any music in your soul whatsoever, would be a mistake. For Cremona’s vertiginous, 113 metre high cathedral bell tower, the torrazzo –the highest brick-built structure in Italy, stands sentinel over a community entrusted with safeguarding the knowledge, skill and craftsmanship of the world’s finest violin makers –luthiers- for more than 450 years.
To the cognoscenti, Cremona’s role in the development of the violin is every bit as significant as Modena’s relationship with the motor car. Since the middle of the 16th century, when Andrea Amati first created an instrument in the form which we still recognise today, the city’s great violin making families have handed down their skills from father to son, and on to grandchildren and great grandchildren. After Amati and his descendants came the Bergonzi, Guarneri, Ruggeri and Stradivari families; dynasties divided by varying degrees of fame, but bonded by a burgeoning tradition of the very finest classical construction techniques.
The Cremona luthiers’ fame spread throughout Europe. And, much like the acquisition of a Ferrari, owning a violin made in their workshops became, for European royal courts and the great musicians, not merely a mark of distinction, but also a guarantee of the excellence of the quality of the instrument.
Ironic indeed, then, that the world should actually owe such a lavish bequest to one the darkest periods in the history of European artistic endeavour –the Spanish Inquisition…
This, at least, is the theory of one of Cremona’s current generation of luthiers, Gaspar Borchardt. He believes the origins of the violin to be Spanish, via the introduction of a lute-like instrument played by the Moors. ‘Spain was once a fabulous melting pot of art and culture’ considers Gaspar. ‘But by the turn of the 16th century the Inquisition had turned its back on the enjoyment of pretty much anything, so anyone who knew how to make nice things had to escape. They fled to France, Germany and, via Venice, Italy. Venice, of course, embraced those able to make the lute with open arms, on the basis that good music enhanced the glory of what was then an independent Republic.’
Gaspar is also convinced that the development of the violin owes a great deal to the ship building abilities of the Venetians, who were renowned for their skills in all aspects of wood working; most specifically in lightweight, ribbed construction, gluing and steaming techniques, and the treatment and preservation of wood against moisture. Allied to this, the honing of steel making techniques imported from Toledo was also significant, allowing for the fabrication of tools sharp enough to carve wood with the precision required of a violin’s unique constructional complexities.
Thus armed, a new generation of luthiers moved inland from Venice to Brescia and Cremona, the latter city attracting one Giovanni di Martinengo, of whom the legendary Andrea Amati is presumed to have been a pupil. Little is known of Amati’s early life, although he is believed to have been born in 1505. By the middle of the century, however, he had become wealthy and successful, his greatest commercial success a commission to produce the instruments of a complete orchestra for Charles IX of France.
Many will cite Antonio Stradivari as the greatest luthier of all time, but Gaspar Borchardt considers Amati to be the greater genius. ‘He was the one who made something from nothing’ he enthuses. ‘Or, at least, something that was a huge leap forward from its predecessor. And he is the one who made the first instrument we today recognise as a violin.’
‘I don’t know if he knew Leonardo da Vinci or some great mathematician’ Gaspar continues. ‘But the geometric construction of his violin form is extremely complex, with many classical proportions such as the Golden Section inherent in the shape of the body… He created something that could withstand the stresses and strains of everyday life and survive for 500 years. That’s incredible. A Stradivari is no better than an Amati; it’s just that Stradivari was lucky enough to live for over 90 years, which effectively gave him two whole generations of life in which to perfect the work begun by Amati.’
And perfect it Antonio Stradivarius did… Though little is known of his early life, it is thought that he was apprenticed to Amati’s grandson Nicolo for some time. Nicolo took over his father’s business in 1630; an important year for violin making since a plague epidemic put paid to the last surviving relative of the stringed instrument-making tradition in neighbouring Brescia, leaving Cremona as the sole bastion of northern Italian luthiers.
In 1680, Stradivari, now just over 30 years old, opened what was to become the most famous workshop in the history of the violin. Using the work of Amati as a firm foundation, he set about evolving the design of the violin, lengthening the sound box and modifying the settings of the curving for the belly and back of the body. Years later, when he was more than seventy and most mere mortals of the age were long deceased, his violins went through a further, significant evolution, as did his finishing techniques –previously pale varnishes being supplanted by those of a deep, ruddy hue. Indeed, amongst many facets of his considerable skills, it is the astonishing quality of Stradivari’s varnish that intrigues contemporary luthiers to this day.
By 1690, working with two of his sons, Francesco and Omobono, Stradivari was properly into his stride, turning out instruments of peerless quality at a positively prodigious rate. By the time of his death in 1737, his workshop had been attributed with the construction of as many as 1000 instruments. This, given that a Cremona luthier today produces instruments at the rate of roughly one a month, seems a somewhat healthy estimate. Then again, several sources suggest that there are still nearly 700 Stradivari violins in existence today, so we must assume he honed not only the design of his instruments, but their production techniques as well.
Nearly half a millennium later, the luthiers of over 140 workshops in and around Cremona remain utterly dedicated to creating instruments according to the very same principles, measurements and techniques as those perfected by Stradivari.
In his workshop, luthier Francesco Toto gives us a little insight into the daunting complexities of those techniques. Though aspects of his work remain a mystery to modern craftsmen and scientists, it is known for certain that the wood Stradivari used included spruce for the top, or ‘belly’ of the violin body, willow for the internal parts and maple for the ribs, neck and –often in two sections with symmetrically opposing grain- the back.
And these components are not merely formed from sheets of a uniform thickness simply shaped, steamed and bent into shape; the French tried that years ago and it was an abject failure. To hold their shape over generations in the finished instrument, the complex, three-dimensional curves of the back and belly must be painstakingly chiselled from a solid thickness of wood, the depth of which increases by several millimetres at the centre of both.
This is because, long before you even tension the strings over the bridge for the first time, sound is everything in the construction of a violin: Francesco constantly listens to the sound of the wood during construction: Holds a partially formed belly aloft between two fingers and taps it, first in the centre and then at the bottom edge, humming along to the two distinct notes, a clear octave apart, created. ‘This is still too high’ he adjudicates instantly. ‘I will lower it by taking more wood away….’
Though many dimensions of the Cremonese violin are considered sacrosanct, sound always takes precedence over form, and many a luthier would argue that absolute perfection of construction might actually diminish the character of that sound. Indeed, the amount to which it can be modified both during and after construction is quite dramatic, and may, at least in part, be attributed to the fact that, internally, a violin’s body is far from symmetrical. And this is where we delve gently into the realms of what seems something of a black art that only years of experience can master…
The bridge stands on the belly between the F holes, the length of these holes allowing the part of the belly between them to move more easily than most of the body construction. Beneath the treble foot of the bridge, a sound post connects the relatively flexible belly to the much stiffer back plate, not only preventing the belly from collapsing under the tension of the strings, but also coupling the vibrations of the plates. Under the bass foot, a bass bar runs parallel with the strings for almost the entire length of the body, transmitting the movement of the bridge over a large area of the belly.
Because the sound post restricts the movement of the treble foot, the bridge tends to pivot about this foot when the violin is played, the bass foot, by contrast, moving up and down more freely with its movement transmitted to a large area of the belly by the bass bar- the sound generated by the asymmetrical movement of the body thus reflecting the asymmetrical nature of its construction…
All of which explains why a Cremonese luthier is never happier than when visited by the musician for whom he is crafting an instrument. Critical to the sound of the instrument, the sound post is not glued in position and, using a bespoke tool introduced via the F holes, may be relocated at will. Even a fractional movement has a marked effect on the quality and tone of the sound, allowing the instrument to be carefully tuned to the specific preferences of its owner.
‘We talk of a violin’s sound being light, dark, brilliant, rich….’ explains Robert Gasser, Board Director of the Antonio Stradivari Consortium of Violin Makers. ‘It’s much the same as assessing a good French red wine; there is a vocabulary of words that has grown as the complexity and variety of wine has grown.’
Founded in 1996 to promote contemporary Cremonese violin making, the Consortium comprises some 60 luthiers who adhere to the traditional standards of craftsmanship of the great masters of the past. To those us steeped from an early age in the tutorials of relentless technological progress, this standpoint might seem entirely retrogressive; akin to deciding that a 250 GTO cannot be improved upon in any way whatsoever, and that every Ferrari produced thereafter must be as close to a perfect reproduction of that model as possible, even unto the techniques used for its construction.
‘Well, we recognise the shape of a Stradivari violin to be perfect, and have no desire to develop that any further’ explains Michele Dobner, Vice President of the Consortium Board. ‘In fact, the only part of the violin that has not evolved since the days of Stradivari is the body. The neck has become longer, most other components such as the fingerboard have been modified, and we don’t even use the same type of strings anymore… In those days they would have been gut.’
‘There are new technologies appearing which can help us to develop the sound of the instrument’ Michele adds. ‘For instance, in monitoring the vibration of the belly and back of the instrument as an aid to tuning during construction.’ Conversely, glue – which must be strong enough to bond yet malleable enough to allow the instrument to flex- is still made, in the traditional manner, from fish or, perhaps, an unlucky runner at last year’s Palio in Sienna.
Moreover, to this day, the Cremonese luthiers even make their own varnish, of which 30 coats applied over the course of an entire month are required to develop the instrument’s uniquely clear, limpid depth of finish. And in the workshop of Stefano Conia, the only true evidence of the 21st century other than electric lighting is the gentle tinkling of a mechanical varnish mixer in the corner of the room.
For Stefano, silence is indeed golden, and this is his one concession to the mechanised hum of an outside world which, he considers, has gradually diminished our ability to hear properly. ‘In the time of Stradivari there were no machines and general noise levels were far, far lower’ he frowns. ‘I believe that background noise, wherever you are, is now so loud that we’ve lost the ability to detect the very finest nuances in sound. So maybe they were able to tune a violin to a greater state of perfection than we can today… For me the beauty of this work is the silence, the peace, the tranquillity’ he muses over the scroll he is carving as we speak. ‘I could drill a hole in this for a peg in 5 seconds. But I’d rather take 5 minutes and do it by hand whilst listening to Mozart.’
Perhaps, then, the most significant effect any changes wrought by this unique combination of evolution and tradition have had on the violin is that today’s instrument is much more powerful than one of the baroque era; a necessity for it to be heard as its status grew into that of a solo instrument leading a full orchestra.
To the expert eye, evidence of these subtle, century-by-century changes may be witnessed at the Cremona’s Municipal Palace where, almost invisibly suspended in the manner of Damien Hirst’s formaldehyde-bound tiger shark, a dozen glass cases house the cream of the Municipal collection ‘Gli Archi di Palazzo Comunale’. Amongst the collection are two Stradivari violins, the Clisbee of 1669 and Il Cremonese of 1715, as well as one of the violins Andrea Amati constructed for Charles IX for France in 1566.
The expert ear may also discern the barely perceptible changes in the sound of the instruments over the centuries because, happily, unlike other museum-bound Stradivari instruments such as the 1716 Messiah, which remains forever mute in the gilded cage of the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, every instrument in this exquisite, 40 million Euro collection is played every day of the year. Cremonese luthiers liken a violin to a classic Ferrari; it was designed to be used regularly, and will only suffer if it is not.
And what, lest we forget, of the bow? ‘A violin is Italian’ says Robert Gasser. ‘And a Ferrari is Italian… But a good bow is French. Like the work of a watchmaker, it’s highly specialised and only a few of us make bows as well as violins. We prefer to concentrate on that which we do best. Ferrari’ he adds, ‘doesn’t make yachts…’
And who knows? Perhaps Cremona will continue to do that which it does best for the next 500 years… In the time of Stradivari, there were thought to be a mere 20 or so luthier’s workshops in and around Cremona. Today there are over 140.
Cremona’s 60 year old International Violinmaking School attracts students from all over the world and has recently opened a music school on the same site, furthering the Cremonese luthiers’ belief that the closest possible relationship between a musician and the maker of his instrument is fundamental to the quest for perfection.
Perhaps, though, that which is most unique about the school, the Antonio Stradivari Consortium of Violin Makers and the other 21st century luthiers of Cremona is that they all seem entirely happy to share information, techniques and new thinking with rival manufacturers everywhere.
They don’t see this as the giving away of trade secrets. Rather, evidently secure in the knowledge that Cremona will remain globally renowned as the heartland of violin making excellence, they come across as almost evangelistic in their philanthropic zeal to promote their own (or should that be Stradivari’s?) peerless standards of quality throughout the world.