Any discussion of the violin family must begin at its source: Cremona in the sixteenth century, and the patriarch of the family that perfected it, Andrea Amati (ca. 1511-80).  Besides the brief excursion into the early Brescian violin-making aesthetics of Gasparo Bertolotti “da Salò” (1540-1609), his successor Giovanni Paolo Maggini (ca. 1581-1632), and a few followers, the Amati of Cremona were the fountainheads of the perfected violin; the greatest of the Amati was Nicola (1596-1684), the teacher of Stradivari and the Guarneri family.  The influence of Cremona on the violin can never be overestimated, and resonates anywhere violin family instruments were made, even given differing regional stylistic traits.

It is true that much modern scientific research on Cremonese violins is quite interesting; there are some very compelling suppositions regarding the possible geometric derivation of Cremonese designs.  The scientific analyses of sound production is a fascinating  attempt to quantify and expand our understanding of violin physics.  Moreover, a number of historians and other experts have advanced our understanding of the Cremonese makers’ working methods.  And it is here, perhaps, that we can find some very immediate and practical guidance for making modern instruments that are, at the very least, more informed by the methods used by the makers of the Amati school than was possible, or even considered important, since these construction methods were supplanted after the mid 18th century.

First, it is necessary to recognize that what all makers of our day have been taught to make is an adapted version of the violin.  Nothing new here: the Hills wrote quite clearly about the differences between the original violin and the modern violin over a century ago and most makers today know the basic facts.  The original violin of the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had a shorter neck nailed directly to the ribs and was  fitted with a wedge-shaped fingerboard.  It had a shorter, thinner bass bar, as well as a bridge, tailpiece, and lower, narrower saddle all different in form from today’s standards.  Just a small handful of things really, but all of these seemingly little things lead to very notable differences, especially regarding the order of construction and its subtle but important influence on the final result.  From the beginning of the 19th century, players and makers have looked back to the Cremonese school as the most successful expression of the violin form and began to copy its output externally, using their own “modern” methods.  The aim often became to make an instrument that looked exactly like a specific great violin of the eighteenth century, but in modern form--an adapted replica.  Even if we may not yet know the precise geometric design principles behind those original instruments, we do have the designs themselves: surviving molds and patterns which formed the basis of day to day work in the great masters’ shops, following certain simple, logical procedures that could be--and were--taught to apprentices in their teens.  The Cremonese makers were not interested in making replicas: their methods were poorly suited to that aim.  But they were clearly interested in making consistently beautiful, fine-sounding violins.  So the obvious question becomes: why not try to apply their methods to our modern form, rather than use our methods to make replicas?

I have been making violins in original form for about thirty years.  But for most of that time, I made them with the techniques and methods used in making modern instruments.  The neck, although cosmetically an early neck, was actually set into the top-block in the modern style.  The top and back plates were completed before assembly of the instrument, adjusted and “tuned” separately from each other.  So in essence, modern work methods were informing period building practices.  In the early 2000s, I began to nail the necks on, as the Cremonese makers did.  Everything began to change.  Artifacts of methods seen on actual Cremonese instruments, and which are often artificially imposed on our modern copies, emerged organically.  One cannot really retain methods taught in the twentieth century and make violins as they were made in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.  For example, one cannot complete and “tune” the plates separately,  because the outline and arching must be completed after the instrument is assembled.  Instead the entire assembled violin is “tuned.”  After making dozens of period instruments over the last decade, it has become clear that the Cremonese working methods, as we understand them, were highly evolved and perfectly suited to their desired end.  Because of the differences in our modern, adapted violin, we have developed a very different order of construction, and in consequence, have lost contact not only with their method, but more importantly, with some of their aims. It can be very instructive to make period instruments in their manner.  As much value as there is in historical evidence, the experience of applying it is a powerful teacher.  It becomes clear that much of the Cremonese makers’ method can be applied to the making of our modern violin and in so doing can alter our conception of what the modern violin should be.

There is evidence of techniques and tools used by the Cremonese that we do not understand yet.  But what we do understand, when put into the practice of violin making, is an invaluable guide, leading us closer to creating instruments which, rather than merely reproducing the outward appearance of specific Cremonese violins, embody their spirit.