One of the
founding myths in the culture that revolves around the
violin is that of the secret of Stradivari. For the
modern violinmaker, the figure of Stradivari stands not
so much as the patriarch (the Amatis and others were the
real founding fathers) but as the Great Hero who brought
fulfilment, established the laws, and set the standards
for the generations of violinmakers that followed. The
Cremona of Stradivari's time is seen as an Eden-like
period which we refer to as the classical "Golden Age" of
violinmaking. Violins of that epoch, Stradivari's being
the foremost, trade for sums that can be in the millions
of dollars. Stradivari's superb workmanship, elegant
beauty, and supreme tone are considered unmatched, before
or since. And if price is any indication, certainly no
modern instrument can come close. Generations of
violinmakers have studied, measured, and copied his work
in the attempt to capture the elusive qualities of these
great violins, but still they stand as mythic ideals, of
which we moderns can only hope to capture the shadows.
Somehow, in the course of its history, the violinmakers'
art has lost touch with its Edenic origins. There is
something missing -- a lost key that if only we could
find it, our modern tradition would be restored to the
wholeness of its former beauty. Or so goes the myth...
.
That these classical
Cremonese instruments are unique works of art and serve
as the standard which still inspires modern violinmakers
is undisputed. But as in all mythic traditions, there are
believers and sceptics, fundamentalists and
revolutionaries.
Among the more
conservative of modern makers are the strict copyists --
going to great lengths to obtain wood from the same
forests that supposedly supplied Stradivari, carefully
measuring and reproducing every nuance and irregularity
of design of a treasured example, poring over ancient
manuscripts for forgotten varnishing techniques -- all in
the fear of overlooking some detail by which the work
will fall short of the ideal. And yet, that sound is
elusive. Theories are promoted to account for these
subtle differences: the natural qualities of the wood
from now extinct forests, lost methods of the early
foresters (holding logs in ponds of salt or fresh water,
bacterial or fungal action on wood, exposure to ammonia
fumes from the stables below the woodshed... ); or maybe
there is a forgotten treatment at the varnish bench,
alchemical ground coats that change the stiffness or
other qualities of the wood, turning ordinary wood into a
golden-voiced sound board -- or perhaps there are
overlooked subtleties of design, a hidden pattern in the
mathematical curves that describe the shapes of the
arching, numerological correspondences of the various
proportions of the instrument's outlines; or possibly
there are hidden harmonies in the tap tones of the
unfinished plates.
More sceptical makers
might account for these differences between classical and
modern instruments as the work of time, which no modern
maker can imitate. The elusive tone of the great
classical instruments, they would say, is the result of a
slow transformation through 300 years of continual use,
care, and on-going restoration. What has survived from
the past represents a long process of culling, refining,
maturing and re-working of the best of the past. It
follows then that the work of today's finest makers may
someday rival or surpass that of the classical golden
age. But how do we know which qualities now will mature
into those that our great-grandchildren will desire?
Musical tastes and expectations of tone have changed over
the centuries. Certainly the baroque violin of
Stradivari's day was not expected to perform like the
modern soloist instruments that they have become. Perhaps
our musical expectation and valuation has been moulded
around these few existing examples as much as the great
makers have succeeded in realizing an ideal of musical
aesthetics. An even more cynical faction in the society
of violinmakers may even claim that the mystique of the
golden age is more a matter of shrewd marketing by
dealers, prestige and career building by musicians,
investment and speculation by collectors. After all, in
many "objective" listening tests, modern instruments do
just as well, and sometimes surpass those of the
classical age.
At the more radical
edge of the violinmaker's world there are physicists who
employ some of our most advanced technological tools and
techniques in the attempt to identify and reproduce the
hidden secrets of these old fiddles. Some among this
faction would even remake the violin, based on a pure,
rational, scientific and modern aesthetic. Electron
microscopy, CAT scans, laser interferometry, and
sophisticated computer programs to analyze frequency
response spectra, create mathematical models, and map
resonance modes are a few of the modern tools called upon
in hopes of discovering some overlooked characteristics
to explain qualities in quantitative terms, and give us
an equation that may let us approach and grasp their
beauty.
But as fruitful as any
of these approaches may be (and there is no doubt that
they can all provide valuable, if fragmentary, insights
for the modern violinmaker), it is doubtful whether
artistic genius can be captured from without. It is
perhaps the individual artistry and intuitive genius of
these great makers that is the more important thing. The
necessary skills and techniques that are taught, studied,
and learned can really only prepare one for true
artistry. Beauty comes from within, and yet is always
just beyond our grasp. The secret of Stradivari is
probably the same as the secret of life. If we discovered
it, we would only realize that it wasn't really what we
were looking for anyway.
by
Otis
Tomas