Antiquing or Distressing New Violins, or, “Who’s Your Hero, Stradivari or Vuillaume?” The practice of making new violins look old is not recent. But clearly, the great seventeenth and eighteenth century makers never practiced it because as originators of the violin, “antiquing” had nothing to do with their mindset nor that of their clientele, who were simply interested in the best modern work of the day. But in our time, “antiquing” new violins has become practically ubiquitous. So it’s helpful to understand the reasons behind this peculiar trend and how it began. The three great Cremonese violin-making families all lost their last active members within four years of each other: Girolomo Amati died in 1740, Francesco Stradivari in 1743, and Giuseppe Guarneri “del Gesù” in 1744. Carlo Bergonzi, heir to the Stradivari shop, followed in 1747, his son Michaelangelo, a few years later. Except for “del Gesù’s” brother Pietro, whose career was spent in Venice, two uninterrupted centuries of violin-making in Cremona, where the form had been perfected, were over. The years from 1750 until the early nineteenth century were transitional. The end of the Cremonese school coincided with the beginning of the classical era, when new musical necessities and venues made different demands on violins in terms of range and projection. Longer, stronger, heavier bows were developed. Violin makers began to fit their new instruments with stronger bass bars and longer, more angled necks for greater resistance. It was also at this time that the “romance” of the old violin began as a result of collectors and dealers capitalizing on the industrial age nostalgia for the eighteenth century and the Victorian era interest in antiquities. Two important nineteenth century makers based their work on the great Cremonese violins: Giuseppe Rocca (1807-1865) and Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume (1798-1875). Both were in business relationships with violin dealer and collector Luigi Tarisio (1790-1854) who made a practice of finding great old Italian violins and bringing them north, especially to Paris, where workshops adapted them for the new musical requirements. Given his access to Tarisio, Rocca made copies of the best preserved Cremonese violins without artificial wear. Vuillaume saw the interest in these old beautiful objects and made a business of fitting them up in the modern style, while promoting the “mystery” of their superiority. He also saw, however, the appeal of the antique patina of these violins and how by giving this look to his new instruments, via reproduced wear and tear, he could use the antique appearance as a marketing strategy. Importantly, Vuillaume showed no interest in the actual working methods accounting for the true success of Cremonese violins: there is no evidence he knew or sought to learn what those methods were. He was so successful at selling violins which looked like them, using the very different French methods learned from his father in Mirecourt he had no motive to do otherwise. The romance of worn and damaged violins is still with us, though it would probably perplex the original Cremonese makers. Interestingly, beginning with the Hills in the early twentieth century, and continuing through the work of Sacconi and contemporary scholars, much is now known about Cremonese working methods. That information provides practical working knowledge comprehensive enough that for the first time since the middle of the 18th century, makers can create instruments much like the great Cremonese violins in substance rather than mere cosmetics. Still, commercial interest, all descended from Tarisio, perpetuate the romance--and continually escalating prices--of violins that have been rebuilt, retouched, and radically altered in countless ways since they left the shops of the great makers. Indeed, in more than 150 years since Vuillaume, the worn look of old instruments has become even more extreme and antithetical to the original intent. Paradoxically, it is the few extant instruments that escaped damage and look new--e.g., Stradivari’s “Messiah” and “Lady Blunt” violins, that are the most valuable, and best demonstrate what the old makers really intended. This is also apparent in the iconography of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: vibrant orange and amber violins, never the dark brown, oxidized, worn look often associated with the great old violins. Yet the mythology used in Vuillaume’s marketing goes on, promulgated by dealers and players alike; abused, worn instruments are still erroneously thought to represent the aesthetic of the great makers. The idea is so entrenched that many players conclude that physical resemblance to a great old violin means a similar sound, when in fact there is no connection at all. With modern eyes, we may see the beauty of great baroque-era violins in various stages of decay produced by centuries of use and wear; but imitating that damage for the sake of marketing, and at the cost authenticity, is hardly the best way to follow and honor the great artists whose work we so admire.

Antiquing or Distressing New Violins, or,

“Who’s Your Hero, Stradivari or Vuillaume?”

The practice of making new violins look old is not recent. But clearly, the great seventeenth and eighteenth century makers never practiced it because as originators of the violin, “antiquing” had nothing to do with their mindset nor that of their clientele, who were simply interested in the best modern work of the day. But in our time, “antiquing” new violins has become practically ubiquitous. So it’s helpful to understand the reasons behind this peculiar trend and how it began.

The three great Cremonese violin-making families all lost their last active members within four years of each other: Girolomo Amati died in 1740, Francesco Stradivari in 1743, and Giuseppe Guarneri “del Gesù” in 1744. Carlo Bergonzi, heir to the Stradivari shop, followed in 1747, his son Michaelangelo, a few years later. Except for “del Gesù’s” brother Pietro, whose career was spent in Venice, two uninterrupted centuries of violin-making in Cremona, where the form had been perfected, were over.

The years from 1750 until the early nineteenth century were transitional. The end of the Cremonese school coincided with the beginning of the classical era, when new musical necessities and venues made different demands on violins in terms of range and projection. Longer, stronger, heavier bows were developed. Violin makers began to fit their new instruments with stronger bass bars and longer, more angled necks for greater resistance.

It was also at this time that the “romance” of the old violin began as a result of collectors and dealers capitalizing on the industrial age nostalgia for the eighteenth century and the Victorian era interest in antiquities. Two important nineteenth century makers based their work on the great Cremonese violins: Giuseppe Rocca (1807-1865) and Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume (1798-1875). Both were in business relationships with violin dealer and collector Luigi Tarisio (1790-1854) who made a practice of finding great old Italian violins and bringing them north, especially to Paris, where workshops adapted them for the new musical requirements.

Given his access to Tarisio, Rocca made copies of the best preserved Cremonese violins without artificial wear. Vuillaume saw the interest in these old beautiful objects and made a business of fitting them up in the modern style, while promoting the “mystery” of their superiority. He also saw, however, the appeal of the antique patina of these violins and how by giving this look to his new instruments, via reproduced wear and tear, he could use the antique appearance as a marketing strategy. Importantly, Vuillaume showed no interest in the actual working methods accounting for the true success of Cremonese violins: there is no evidence he knew or sought to learn what those methods were. He was so successful at selling violins which looked like them, using the very different French methods learned from his father in Mirecourt he had no motive to do otherwise.

The romance of worn and damaged violins is still with us, though it would probably perplex the original Cremonese makers. Interestingly, beginning with the Hills in the early twentieth century, and continuing through the work of Sacconi and contemporary scholars, much is now known about Cremonese working methods. That information provides practical working knowledge comprehensive enough that for the first time since the middle of the 18th century, makers can create instruments much like the great Cremonese violins in substance rather than mere cosmetics.

Still, commercial interest, all descended from Tarisio, perpetuate the romance--and continually escalating prices--of violins that have been rebuilt, retouched, and radically altered in countless ways since they left the shops of the great makers. Indeed, in more than 150 years since Vuillaume, the worn look of old instruments has become even more extreme and antithetical to the original intent. Paradoxically, it is the few extant instruments that escaped damage and look new--e.g., Stradivari’s “Messiah” and “Lady Blunt” violins, that are the most valuable, and best demonstrate what the old makers really intended. This is also apparent in the iconography of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: vibrant orange and amber violins, never the dark brown, oxidized, worn look often associated with the great old violins. Yet the mythology used in Vuillaume’s marketing goes on, promulgated by dealers and players alike; abused, worn instruments are still erroneously thought to represent the aesthetic of the great makers. The idea is so entrenched that many players conclude that physical resemblance to a great old violin means a similar sound, when in fact there is no connection at all.

With modern eyes, we may see the beauty of great baroque-era violins in various stages of decay produced by centuries of use and wear; but imitating that damage for the sake of marketing, and at the cost authenticity, is hardly the best way to follow and honor the great artists whose work we so admire.