The Lira da Braccio as Fantasy Object 

Hyperreality is seen as a condition in which, because of the compression of perceptions of reality in culture and media, what is generally regarded as real and what is understood as fiction are seamlessly blended together in experiences so that there is no longer any clear distinction between where one ends and the other begins – Tiffin, John; Terashima, Nobuyoshi (2005). “Paradigm for the third millennium”. Hyperreality.

Iconography can provide rich resources into musical instrument contruction when viewed from the proper mind-lens. The majority of these examples however fail to exhibit the level of detail needed to reasonably ascertain their exact contruction, with many images often representing musical instruments which stem from either seemingly near fantasy ideas, phantasmal corpus shapes, right down to facets and traits which are obviously within the realm of the impossible. 

Some works, however, display a breathtaking clarity of detail that leaves little room for doubt, suggesting with high probability that the instruments depicted not only existed, but were likely present as studio props for the artist. In the example above by Nicolas Régnier (1590–1667), Blind Homer Playing the Lyra da Braccio (c. 1622–1623), one can observe extremely fine details that would be implausible as purely imaginary embellishments. The lira da braccio depicted here appears almost exaggeratedly antique. One can clearly discern seven string holes in the tailpiece, now repurposed for use as a tenor viola—a more common configuration at the time.

Specific details such as wear on the fingerboard and abrasion in the varnish where the instrument would have been supported under the chin are clearly visible. One may also note the bulbous arching, finely rendered through the painter’s use of shadow and highlight, as well as a crack extending from the lower waist to the bottom soundhole—a location still commonly prone to cracking today. These details could scarcely be imaginary; and if they were, one must ask what purpose they would serve. While the allegorical context of Homer’s misery may be considered, such varied and technical details appear far more clinical, as though Régnier were simply painting from life.

Another compelling example of this phenomenon of exactitude is found in Willem van Mieris (1662–1747), Serving Maid and Hurdy-Gurdy Player. When one zooms in and focuses on the instrument, the degree of refinement is so extreme that it nearly recalls modern photography.

Note the brilliantly executed wormholes in the lower sections and the chipped tailpiece at the lower corner. Visual portrayals of instruments rendered with this level of detail are priceless to the organologist.

In contrast, other examples blur the boundary between reality and fantasy—either through implausible construction or impossible playing positions. Two important questions to ask when attempting to divine truth from iconography are: Does this image represent an actual historical moment? and Was an actual instrument present at the time of painting? One may argue either in the affirmative or the negative. Often, however, the painter’s original context and intent remain elusive, and the modern eye—inclined toward categorization and compartmentalization—can fall short.

In cases where the intent is undoubtedly allegorical, such as the early pilaster carving representing Thalia holding a viola da braccio, the limitations of the medium and the utilitarian economy of its purpose become evident. Such carvings may have adorned beds, cupboards, chimney-pieces, or overmantels, where symbolic clarity outweighed structural accuracy.

Iconographic examples are so numerous that it would be both impossible and superfluous to include them all here. Levels of accuracy oscillate wildly—from the absurdly implausible to depictions of such extreme fidelity that they leave little doubt as to the instrument’s real existence.

Many examples omit the depiction of drone strings altogether. In the example above, however, we see the technical detail of strings being fed into a hidden chamber and attached to internal pegs. This feature lends further credibility to the idea that the instrument was physically present during the painting process, rather than existing solely as a figment of imagination.

Whimsical Renaissance and the Fantastical in Lutherie

Leonardo da Vinci’s Mythical Horse-Skull Lira da Braccio

My first exposure to Giorgio Vasari’s engaging Lives of the Artists (Le vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori, 1568) occurred when I was a young teenager. Reading these volumes alongside my pocket-sized Loeb translations—bound in faded red cloth—I felt transported into history, able to explore the lives of my heroes with little detail spared. The work is both illuminating and entertaining, though, as with Herodotus, one must rely on modern interpretation and historical criticism: Vasari was notably prone to reproducing tantalizing fragments of gossip and legend.

Nevertheless, his coining of the term rinascita (“rebirth”) comes surprisingly late, considering the sweeping creative changes already underway. It is, of course, well known that Leonardo da Vinci devised numerous fantastical instruments, many of which have been reconstructed by modern scholars with varying degrees of success. One particular story recounted by Vasari is too fascinating—and too relevant—to pass over.

According to Vasari, Leonardo brought with him to Milan an unusual lira da braccio of his own making—“in great part of silver, in the form of a horse’s skull”—designed specifically to produce a resonance louder and more sonorous than that of ordinary instruments. This bizarre and novel creation captivated the ducal court and allowed Leonardo’s performance to surpass that of the other assembled musicians.

Whether this tale is one of Vasari’s colorful embellishments remains debatable. What is clear, however, is that the broader cultural impetus of the period was moving toward a neo-humanism inspired by classical Greek literature. This movement influenced all branches of creative endeavor. Although these intellectual currents were often sober and grounded in devout reflection, the whimsical spirit of the human mind could never be fully suppressed.

In iconography alone, hundreds of fanciful representations—from the whimsical to the unabashedly vulgar—may be found with even the briefest perusal.

In literature, the grotesque realism of François Rabelais uniquely merged the vulgar and the elegant in the expression of humanist ideals. He opens the prologue of Gargantua and Pantagruel with a striking dedication:

“Most illustrious drinkers, and you the most precious pox-ridden—for to you and you alone are my writings dedicated …”

Rabelais’ work reflects the spirit of carnival—an antithesis to devout perfection—at a time when French writers were beginning to question the soundness of papal authority.

The Lira da Braccio as Anthropomorphic Fantasy

The lira da braccio by Giovanni d’Andrea (1511) provides a surviving example of this playful spirit, both in its composition and its ornamentation. Wherever one’s gaze falls, the wonders of a curiosity cabinet seem to lure the eye and imagination ever deeper, as though the instrument itself were a living creature. The many phantasmal and anthropomorphic features, along with the carved back, reinforce the idea that this is an instrument intended for musicians and poets alike.

Although later research may cast doubt on the authenticity of all its components, the instrument’s existence reaffirms a playful spirit in lutherie that is largely absent from modern lutherie.

Distortions of size and perspective, instruments held by demons, angels, or animals, and improbable playing postures appear repeatedly throughout history. Even in the pursuit of truth—when one seeks the most clinically accurate depiction—one may still find oneself within a realm of fantasy. Bonanni, Kircher, and the conception of the organologist as  mathematician connected to the cosmos all reflect this tension.

Bonanni, Kirchner, The Organologist as Mathematician connected to the Cosmos.

Leonardo’s horse-head lyra was but one invention among a well-documented multitude. The fantastical conception of sound-producing machines continued forward through time, pressing the limits of human imagination. In 1650, the polymath Jesuit scholar Athanasius Kircher published his vast and esoteric Musurgia Universalis, sive Ars Magna Consoni et Dissoni (“The Universal Musical Art, or the Great Art of Consonance and Dissonance”). Printed in Rome in two lavishly illustrated volumes, the work preserves invaluable visual and technical evidence of early Baroque instruments that might otherwise have been lost.

Musical Instruments in Musurgia Universalis

Kircher’s discussions of instruments appear throughout the text—most vividly in the engraved plates that depict stringed, wind, and keyboard instruments. These illustrations, alongside his descriptions, serve as early attempts at a systematic organology, predating later standard works in the field. The plates include representations of harpsichords, organs, and a variety of stringed and wind instruments, all rendered with attention to structural detail and tunings (which often err!). though Kircher has borrowed or copied exactly from Mersenne, his approach and mindset is completly unique.

The ten sections are divided into an astonishing array of subjects, in book one a diverse treatise on the sounds made by animals, birds and insects, the philogical orgin of sound, anceint Greek and Hebrew music,  and the magic of consonance and dissonance and their effects on the mind and body. 

The roughly two dozen engraved plates in Musurgia Universalis show not only instruments but often constructional details and proportions, linking them to Kircher’s wider theories of harmony and acoustics.

In contrast to contemporary paintings, where a musical instrument was merely a prop, or serevd an allegorical significance,  Kircher’s use of visual imagery was not merely decorative; diagrams illustrate his belief in the deep connection between mathematics, physical acoustics, and musical practice. Instruments were visualized not only as objects but as embodiments of cosmic harmony—appearing alongside symbolic woodcuts and diagrams that link music to cosmology. Like Mersenne, Kircher’s impetus sought to tie the physical world and a-priori perception as proof of divinity, with the diisonante facets of sound connected to the universal presense of evil in the world. 

n one section, Kircher quite literally binds instrument construction to divine creation, using a six-register organ as a metaphor for the six days of creation—uniting musical harmony and theology into a single concept.

Kircher’s text on the creation of viols and lutherie is particularly interesting as it gives a very clear portrait of the wide diversity and chronic invension, innovation, and creativity amoung his contemporaies, depicting  a kind of wild west of lutherie which was rampant across the globe. 

By viol is understood that instrument that consists
of belly and neck or fingerboard, and which is sounded with a
plectrum or bow made of horsehair, the left hand grasping the
neck, and its fingers pressing the strings directly. But
there is such a variety of these instruments, that whoever
lists the customs of the various nations, will also list a
corresponding variety of viols. For in this so learned age,
almost every craftsman invents viols of new designs. Some
add strings to strings; some design them in the fashion of
lyres, and there is no lack of those, such as the English,
who construct them partly with metal strings and partly gut
for greater variety. Whoever desires to know exactly the
uses of all of them, should read here Pere Mersenne, who
treats of them with variety and erudition in a whole work.

Kircher goes on to reference Giovanni Battista Doni—a contemporary of Galileo and scholar of ancient music—who devised a curious double lyre inspired by the ancient Greek barbiton. He also mentions the Lyra Barberina, Doni’s Panharmonic Viol, Cerone’s Lyra Argolica, and the extraordinary diversity of tunings and constructions found across Europe.

Bonanni’s Organology in the Context of Kircher’s Vision

Kircher’s influence on Bonanni extends beyond direct mentorship to a broader cultural aesthetic. In works like Musurgia Universalis, Kircher treated music as a universal art, connecting the mathematical properties of sound with cosmic harmony and spiritual meaning.

Bonanni’s organological project inherits this integrated worldview: instruments are not merely cataloged as curiosities but are situated within realms of ritual, ceremony, war, religion, and daily life. The very title Gabinetto Armonico evokes the “cabinet” — a curated space where objects both educate and astonish, where the sensory encounter is itself a form of knowledge.

While later commentators have noted inaccuracies in some of Bonanni’s representations and attributions, Gabinetto Armonico remains indispensable for the history of musical instruments. It stands as one of the earliest comprehensive illustrated guides to the organological world, influencing later surveys and histories.

While the lira da braccio itself had long since disappeared as a common instrument by the 17th century, its structural and conceptual legacy lived on. The visual lineage from Renaissance bowed instruments to the modern violin family is reflected in shape, playing posture, and tuning approaches. Over the 17th–19th centuries, the violin family matured into the iconic instruments we know today — shaped by musical tastes, performance demands, and the evolving art of lutherie. I add these word simply wishing to move forward. 

The story is not one of a simple, singular transformation of existing instruments into violins but of a continuum of bowed instrument design in Europe. From Byzantine and medieval bowed instruments through Renaissance lira da braccio and viola da braccio types, to the refined violin family of the Baroque and onward, we see a cultural and technological evolution grounded in both artistic and acoustical innovation.

New inventions in lutherie today are even less common not for the nature of the human mind becoming stagant, but for a cultural dogmatism grounded in a limited and myopic aestheic for tone which seems to be arrested in the 19th Century. If my call for more poetry, more invension, more daring and rebellous spirit goes unheeded in future lutherie, I can, at the very least,  take solace in the fact that I spoke at all. 

One could almost think of musical instrument organology as a Lernaean Hydra, its many necks extending through centuries, its slow movement able to peer around corners in time or see behind multiple walls simultaneously. Mostly, changes in instruments occur outside of human time; however, occasionally, rapid sea changes wash over our multifarious cultures, creating an illusory permanence. The metaphor is perhaps a bit clumsy, but once one begins the fateful journey into organology, the threads and connections which seem to link them dissolve into appendages—faintly connected to a single body. Such is the case with the guitar.

Although I have been making musical instruments of the Baroque and Renaissance periods for over three decades, whenever anyone inquires which historical period I feel most connected to—and would willingly travel backward to experience and live within—the answer is always, undoubtedly, the 19th century.

Great and meaningful cultural upheavals were occurring—not only musically, but throughout all branches of the creative arts. The sentiments of Byron, William Blake, and, in Germany, Jean Paul Richter, rebelled against the previous century and a poetical style generally based on odes, epistles, and elegies. Jean Paul (who has always been something of a personal hero) changed German literature so profoundly that one can hardly imagine it without his influence. Although outshined in popularity by the sugary sentiments of Goethe, Jean Paul was the Jimi Hendrix of 19th-century literature. These were portents of a changing century. Great upheavals, inventions, and dreams were soon to spring forth. It is important to see through the looking glass at this tumultuous vision of cultural change, as it generally foretells the transformations soon to come in lutherie.

The Post Baroque Guitar and great innovation.

At the turn of the century the guitar in some form had already been in existence for three centuries. The Vihuela, an early ancestor and a “Chistianized” version of the lute, appears in Spain in the 15th Century. Probably due to the influence of bowed medieval viols and fiddles, the bulbous back of the lute is dispensed with.

Guitars made with 5 courses were a French specialty, but were later out of fashion due to the incompatibility to combine with chamber or orchestra.

Violin makers were often tasked with producing multiple types of instruments of different family. In Naples, makers would cater to the musical needs of the public, producing mandolins, and in 1780, Fernando Gagliano working in Naples produced one of the first single string guitars. Unfortunately these instruments were made with very thin, straight backs, and the absence of taped ribs generally led to distortion of the body.

Geigen und Lautenmaker

Stauffer tuning machine design

Violin makers and guitar makers today are commonly separated by genus, with one typically not dabbling in the other. This however was  not always the case. It was common on violins labels to claim polymathic abilities, even if no lutes were actually produced in the workshop. When one thinks of innovations in lutherie and in Viennese guitars in general, the name Stauffer is usually the first to come to mind. The amount of innovation and bold expiramentation in tone was so great and extensive, as to nearly cause bankruptcy. Stauffer seemed more obsessed with making the perfect instrument than running his business. Many of these changes, such as mechanical tuning pegs,   were to precursor the modern guitar as we know it today. Stauffer did not think of himself as soley a guitar maker, though many of his changes were destined to transform the instrument into modernity.  Many of his right of privilege claims were for for other instruments, including the pianoforte.

The dual claim printed on the labels, Violin and Lute Maker was occasionally also quite factual.. the list of violin makers who dabbled outside of violin lutherie,  who also made guitars, harps. and mandolins, is extensive. Names such as Antonio Stradivari, Joachim Tielke, Guadagnini, Panormo, Lupot, are familiar ones to our ears.

Stauffer was however not alone in his quest. Other Viennese luthiers applied for protection of their innovations, each seeking the elusive dream of the perfect instrument, as well as a technical advantage over the competition.n  Peter Teufelsdorfer sought to improve neck stability with the insertion of a steel support rod, a feature still used in modern guitars. One notes in the sound holes a curious relation to earlier bowed instruments,  with the form of the body ‘nach Art der Viola d’Amour’ as written in the description.

The “guitarromanie” that swept Europe in the 19th C. was so engaging and overwhelming that many composers of the time could not help but be specks of dust in the broom. in Paris Hector Berlioz used the guitar to compose orchestral music. Other more tender souls such as Franz Schubert  used the guitar  as compositional tool when writing the monodramatic song cycles,  Die schöne Müllerin and the Winterreise. An illuminating quote from the great scholar Phillip Bone sheds some light on these pieces…

“Diabelli published the first compositions of Franz Schubert, when he was unknown as a musical composer, and these first publications were his songs with guitar accompaniment. Schubert was a guitarist, and wrote all his vocal works with guitar in the first instance. Some few years later, when the pianoforte became more in vogue, Schubert, at the request of his publisher, Diabelli, set pianoforte accompaniments to these same songs.”  –Phillip Bone

Naturally then there would be some renegades who in the spirit of invention, sought to combine violin family instruments with their plucked cousins. Guitars with violin-like qualitties in the 19th C. seemed to spring forth, (as if another head growing from the Hydra!)

Stauffer developed the Arpeggione in an attempt to combine the dynamic qualities of bowed instruments with guitar construction.

The instrument seemed destined for a bright future, with Shubert composing a  Sonate für Arpeggione und Klavier to feature the instrument. Its fate, as was similar to the many heads of the Hydra, was to dwindle into obscurity. Schubert’s sonata in nowadays often performed with a violoncello or viola replacing the curious instrument.

Francesco Molino: The Virtuoso Who Bridged Guitar and Violin

Francesco Molino (1768–1847) was an Italian composer, guitarist, and violinist whose work significantly enriched early 19th-century classical guitar music. Born in Ivrea, near Turin, Molino initially trained and performed as a violinist in orchestras across Italy and France.

Molino had begun oboe and viola studies at age 15, and much of his early life seemed to be devoted to bowed instruments, with employment as a violist in the Royal Theater in Turin 1786-1789. Francesco was something of a polymath, publishing his first violin concerto in Paris, 1803

Molino’s compositions reflect his dual mastery of the violin and the guitar, often blending lyrical expressiveness with technical brilliance. He published numerous guitar works, including solo pieces, duets, and instructional methods. His “Méthode Complète pour la Guitare” remains a valuable pedagogical resource, offering insight into 19th-century performance practice.

What truly set Molino apart was his inventive spirit. In the early 19th C, he introduced a unique hybrid instrument that fused the qualities of the guitar and the violin. This invention featured a six-string guitar body equipped with elements borrowed from the violin family—most notably, Molino seemed to be speaking to the future when his published his Method. He includes detailed instructions on the parts which compose the instrument, on the fronstpiece in a lovely illustration….

Although Molino’s guitar-violin hybrid never gained widespread popularity, it represented a bold step in instrument innovation. His creation prefigured later efforts by luthiers to expand the expressive range of plucked string instruments. Today, Molino is remembered not only for his elegant compositions but also for his adventurous approach to musical expression.

The arched top and a floating bridge did indeed speak to the future, as these attributes would later appear in modern guitars for the strength, and power of tone. Also unique to the interior construction was the use to two parallel bars, similar to violin bass bars, allowing the maker seemingly absolute control over the projection and tone of the finished instrument.

The Molino model developed by the Mirecourt maker, Mauchant Frères, or  Mauchant brothers (1762-1844 and 1788-1871), was just this leap ahead that would seemingly form a bridge between the vastly different worlds.

My own fantasy model made in the Spanish workshop takes several flights of fancy, however any deviations were in consideration of tone. The soundhole has been enlarged slightly, and thinner C bout holes employed for a silvery reponse. The pairing of Black Limba and cedar, are by no means kosher, if following our Mirecourt example, but provide a more pensive, softer treble response while still having bell-like qualities.

One of the most exciting aspects of this project is the raw expiramentation in using alternative materials on several different guitars. Molino´s innovations were not limited by any exclusivity or right of privilge, so the model was embraced by several luthiers in Mirecourt, each with their own subtle interpretations.

The reward in sound difference is palpable. The finished instrument is a dream to play, and most certainly in the spirit of 19th C invention.

Here one may peruse images and see more info on this unique model guitar

In the early winter of 1992 I attended an auction of Sothebys at the Palazzo Broggi in Milan with the aim of finding  “sleeper” violins; hence those whose true value have been somehow overlooked by the managers and consultants appraising  the instruments. Having  long been a part of the violin hunter culture in Wien, my method of paying my bread, butter and beer by sleuthing out old fiddles was a very viable one during apprenticeship with Anton Sobezack in Poland and Gasparo Karoly in Austria.

In Vienna, combing through the antique markets at 5am with a flashlight ,  I had found occasionally and always by pure chance,  somewhat valuable fiddles, and as I had little time for new making, their sales helped me get through the early years of learning my craft. These were the wild years of dealing instruments!

Most makers dabble in dealing old violins on some level or another. Many end up in a kind of trap or endless cycle of bow repairs, and selling antiques to get by. It is just a fact of life. Pursuing the catalog on the train while watching the bleak snowy landscape of Lower Austria in darkness,  I was suddenly struck by this image of a beautiful  maple back in the feeble overhead light of the train. . The violin was cataloged as School of Ventepane, with a ridiculously low starting price of 20,000Iira.  The flames chaotic in the lower bouts,  with curious root markings spattered all around the edges. The curious wood choice of root-marked maple was certainly not incongruent with woods often used by Neapolitan makers.  The root markings to me were just stunning, creating a kind of wild texture and blotted areas of speckled darkness, as if a lonely moon struck by debris, asteroids, eternally scarred!

With eyes closed in the sleeper compartment of the train, I dreamt the very old, but common fantasy of every violin dealer throughout history; to purchase a fine, expensive instrument for little money. 

Wishful thinking! Measured over the arching the corpus was quite large at 36.5cm, with inlaid, not painted purfling. The instrument appears to have been made without a mould, as the corners and center bouts are rather asymmetrical.  


Fortunately now I no longer have to comb the antique markets in Vienna to find substanance. I am purely focused on new making. But the seed of that beautiful Neapolitan fiddle remained buried in my mind, dormant, until finally in 2012, over ten years later when I came across a stunning piece of maple in the stock of the greatest European wood seller, Reinhard Zach. Here were the root markings, and the chaotic moonscape I had seen in 1992!

It would be an additional 10  years before I finally got to that particular piece of maple. 
Looking through the old dusty catalog while working on this current violin, I remembered many the train journey so many years ago, and coupled with the nostalgia for the “wild years” of dealing and learning my craft, I finally decided to make the Ventepane.


One rarely encounters a newly made violin with corpus dimensions this large, and if one does, its probably the “Long Pattern Stradivari “
I began to revisit the hundreds of Sothebys and other auction catalogs moulding and gathering dust in the workshop. On this particular day in Milan, out of 32 violins for sale, 12 were over 36cm corpus!

And yet, when you walk into a violin shop right now, in 2023, and ask for a violin larger than 36cm, they will probably scratch their heads, or, perhaps have a single antique or so laying around. New makers tend to shy from making larger violins, due to the stop length issue, which after is is logically grounded in modern violin performance, and tattooed on the inner eyelids of every maker who passes through lutherie school. 19.5 is the Mensur!

Here however, below, a short list of makers whom dabbled with the mighty giant fiddle! You may have heard of some of them!

Late 15th-16thc: Brescia, Gasparo Da Salo, Paolo Maggini

ca.1670-80: Brescia, Rogeri

1690’s: Cremona, Stradivari

1710-20: London, Daniel Parker

1710-20: Goffriller

1700 onwards: Paris: Pierray, Boquay.

1750’s onwards, Livorno, Gragnani

1780’s Cremona, Nicolo and Carlo II Bergonzi

And let us not forget Ventapane! So is there something we are missing, old friend? 

The curse of the Mummy. Asphaltum, Bitumen or Mummia. Pigments from the Dead.

Obtaining a true and transparent brown hue when varnishing string instruments can be extremely difficult to the novice luthier. Often, commercial powered pigments can mask the inherent visual optics of the wood, simultaneously destroying the brilliance of any golden ground varnish applied. Commercially made brown pigments are simply difficult to work with. This has been the case for centuries.  A clear, transparent brown can however, be obtained by various methods, but the color itself must be itself inherent in the material used; mixing together other pigments to create brown usually results in lackluster final results.   Cooking Colophony for a period of 48 hours at low temperature can turn the rosin a rich,  golden amber, but In order to obtain the lovely golden browns achieved by the early Füssen makers, some pigment must be later added.  The pigment, “Mummy Brown”(Caput Mortuum) was a common, commercially available color pigment favored by Pre-Raphaelite artists and 19th Century painters.  This was obtained by, you guessed it, pulverized Egyptian mummies. Your shock may hence be multiplied if you happen to be a cat lover; some of the materials used were from both feline, and human mummies. While some artists in the Romantic period began to raise moral objections to this practice, the use of pulverized mummies in pigments continued far past  the 19th Century, spawning a greed-influenced trade in forged mummies; a gruesome practice of digging  up dead cadavers, mummifying them, and selling them as ancient materials.

The use of Bitumen or mineral pitch goes back to Ancient times. During the Twelfth Dynasty (1991-1802 BCE) ancient Egyptians used bitumen  for embalming the dead. Medieval Arab Physicians used it for medicinal purposes. The importation of Egyptian mummies into Europe for medicinal and other uses was quite common in the 16th Century. Tombs were plundered and their contents sold whole, or as parts ground up. Despite the 19th C. moral objections, the use of mummy brown as a pigment continued into the 1930s, until concerns over preservation and rarity of specimens killed the trade. I have had wonderful results using a synthetic version of Bitumen, as well as artificial Asphaltum, however these cannot be used alone, and great care must be taken to retain transparency in the varnish. The search for a wonderful brown has been something which has preoccupied my thoughts and time for the past two decades. You may notice when browsing finished instruments in the gallery section of this website many attempts with various shades of brown. One need not, in any case, worry when ordering an instrument from me about the Curse of the Mummy; no Egyptians, cats or humans, were harmed in the making of my instruments.

Horsetail, or Equisetum arvense, or, “let the wood be rubbed with reeds, and it shall be good.”

The use of common Horsetail in wood finishing was common as far back as ancient Egypt. The reed plant stalks of Equisetum were cut, and occasionally fashioned into tools by binding, cutting, or splicing. This means of burnishing a wood surface must have been effective, as there are traces of its use well into Greek and Roman times, and continuing into the Renaissance.  Advanced use of Horsetail continues into modern times  as an abrasive for finishing the surfaces of violins (usually maple and hardwoods only) before applying the ground varnish.

This is a truly miraculous substance. A common weed, it has additional medicinal properties and is prepared as a tea. It is mineral rich, with silicon, potassium, calcium, manganese, magnesium and phosphorus are all present in the brew which can help dampen bloating and the pains of menstrual cramps.

Violin makers have used it as an burnishing tool, with a wide variety of application methods. Commercial powders are available on the market and work similar to Italian Pumice or Rottenstone; all are common in the final stages of rubbing out violin varnishes. I use the powdered product as a final burnishing technique both before and after applying the interior varnish; something which is more uncommon but does great wonders for improving final resonance as it can work both as pore filler, as well as leaving a mirror-like surface.  Interior varnishes are another topic altogether and not the subject at hand, however I will briefly say that dramatic differentiation in final sound results from specific composition of interior varnish. These involve the use of fatty, or less fatty, hence softer or harder compositions to influence both resonance and sound.

Barlow/Woodhouse (JCAS/1989) in their chemical analysis of four instruments made by Antonio Stradivari found that  Silica (SI) composed 12-39%  of the ground layer beneath the varnish. Other instruments by less worshiped makers such as Milanese school most likely contain similar levels of Silica, as this was no well-kept secret in Northern Italian violin making. There is a particular pleasure in using this very simple plant to burnish and finalize work which has taken months to complete, slowly and with love. It is a rather beautiful irony, that a common weed, be the final stage in such a complex series of labors.

Burning the Kettle Dark. Or how the Death of Ludwig Van Beethoven turned Violins Black.

Perhaps you have visited once upon a time the Naschmarkt outdoor antique market in Vienna on a sunny Saturday and seen the rich multitudes of Austrian artifacts and lost pieces of time on display and for sale. I have seen taxidermic monkeys, engraved whale tusks from the 19th Century, and as well endless trade fiddles from the former Czechloslovakian republic piled together in cardboard boxes, rife with cracks, and for sale at 20Euro a piece. Occasionally though, one sees a master violin on sale. This would be only encountered in the early morning, before the light of dawn, when violin hunters roam with flashlights and dreams of finding a Meistergeige. If you do happen to be so lucky (the chances are slim to nil) perhaps you might encounter an old Sebastian Dallinger, or Johann Georg Thir violin, or at least one with a very dark, almost black varnish, and with a very old, authentic looking label inside it. Don’t get too excited.

You might also begin to notice how many Germanic fiddles have a dark, discolored, or even black varnish, one which cannot be explained by the usual endless buildup of rosin from the bow absorbing dirt over eons of time.

Why are these violins black?  Its almost impossible to imagine any violin maker lovingly crafting an instrument, burnishing and taking great care to finalize the surface, then adding a black varnish atop it! One quite humorous explanation given to me by an avid violin collector was that, when Beethoven died, all the makers stained their violins black in order to mourn his passing. The collector even seemed to believe this myth, although it was said with a smile. The truth is actually much less dramatic, however just as tragic.

Cooking violin varnish in iron kettles was quite common far before the lifetime of Beethoven. Some have suggested that the use of iron was considered advantageous  to the final hue of color to the varnish, however I tend to believe that the use of iron was simply that it was a common material, stable, and easily obtained. In any case, what these makers did not realize is that the Ferrous Cations or Ferrous ion; Iron(2+) from the kettle would over time oxidize and turn the varnish black. This could take a century or longer, or less. All depends on the amount of light exposure to the instrument.

What is intensely ironic is that a later trend of violin fraud and forgery developed from this purely accidental chemical reaction, and even became mainstream, as later in some early 20th Century factories  fiddles were mass produced and “black” varnish was applied  to mimic the poor original black fiddles. R.I.P Lieber Beethoven!

Dragons Blood. Or the Knight slayeth the Dragon to Color his Violin Red.

This is a very rare material obtained from the internal organs and blood of real dragons.  Indeed as dragons are quite rare as and lately fall under protection of international law this can be a very expensive material for violin making.

I am joking! Dragons Blood is a resin obtained from several species plant species. Medieval scholars did once claim its source to be the actual blood of dragons killed in battle, and the early Greeks, Romans, and Arabs thought it to have medicinal qualities, particularly for respiratory and gastrointestinal ailments.

(Dracaena draco) and (Dracaena cinnabari) were the most common species used in 18th Century violin varnishes, though this was not the only means to achieve a deep red hue. Quality of this material is famously variable and unstable depending upon location of species, and preparation methods. In modern times imitations of true dragons blood can be found on the market as a powder, however the results tend to be very poor, and in the worse case, not light sensitive. The best quality comes in buttons or large solid balls of pure material. These are soluble in alcohol but require further treatment by tincturing in alcohol and removing the resins.

I have experimented with several methods of achieving beautiful red varnishes over the years, including alternatives to dragons blood using substances such as Madder Root (Rubia tinctorum) and extracting the pure color using an old Gaggia coffee machine. These days however I prefer to focus on more subdued colors, the rich antique browns and ambers which seem to be more spiritually related to the inherent color of wood itself. In many alternative wood  materials such as willow, Cedar, Sycamore or lacewood  there can be already present a rich, natural coloring which the violin maker must balance into his other palettes of color when varnishing, which can be a sometimes difficult task.

The Venetian makers sometimes used Dragons Blood to great effect, taking advantage of being located directly on ancient trade routes for rare pigments and other materials. Every violin maker must go through a phase of dragons blood, for better or worse. For now, I will spare the dragon his dear life.

Gamboge.

The first sources of Gamboge are in Oriental culture around the 8th century for decorative arts, which is not surprising as the resin used for its bright, illuminating yellows stems from the Garcinia evergreen tree, in Southeast Asia. The etymological source is from the Latin Gambogium, or Cambodia.

Gamboge was used medicinally to treat high blood pressure, and as a powerful laxative.We first encounter Gamboge in European culture around the start of the 17th Century, as it became common with Flemish painters to achieve  warm golden yellow hues. Today when purchasing Gamboge one must have a poison handling permit, as when ingested in too large amounts it can be lethal.

If you are unclear about the specific hue of yellow that Gamboge produces, think of a Buddhist monk’s robe; Gamboge is often used to dye fabrics as its yellow it very pure and lovely.

It is fascinating how many materials used for varnish and lutherie go back so far into time. This however should not be surprising. The traditions of ancient crafts seem to merge into one another. I usually hibernate in Vienna every winter, and have found myself walking into tool supply shops for Goldsmithing, and something clicked in my head. Many of the tools used could easily transubstantiate into ones needed for violin making.  One is quite surprised  how these two very different crafts might merge together. I am always searching for these beautiful mergings, where the past reaches its warm arms into the present, and the future.