L'Italo-Americano

www.italoamericano.com 12 THURSDAY, DECEMBER 11, 2014 The music of time: A violin maker and son in Venice L'Italo-Americano STEVEN VARNI It's easy to be completely overwhelmed by the spectacle of Venice. For nearly a thousand years people have been describ- ing it as nothing less than a feast for the eyes, and in our present ever-more visual culture it's common to believe that all the city's artistry (and life) lies dis- played on its glittering exotic s u r f a c e , t o b e t a k e n i n a t a glance. In such an optically-oriented city, to step into the small work- shop of Francesco Trevisan on the ground floor of his 16 th -cen- tury house located just behind Peggy Guggenheim's famous collection of modern paintings and sculpture is to step into time. T h e k i n d s o f t i m e b y w h i c h music is organized and over which it unfolds. And the slow t i m e o f t r a d i t i o n a n d f a m i l y legacy. For Francesco is a maker and restorer of violins and other stringed instruments, and his work calls to mind the city's glorious musical history, ranging from Monteverdi and Vivaldi to Stravinsky and the Venetian 20 th -century avant-garde com- poser Luigi Nono. His workshop is filled with the tools of his trade and instruments in various states of repair and, seated on the floor in the middle of it all o n t h e f i r s t d a y I v i s i t e d Francesco there, his two-year- old son, Arturo. Arturo was pounding on a block of wood with a large mal- l e t , a n d I w h e n I a s k e d Francesco when he first started working with wood he pointed to his toddler son. "I was his size. I started out just playing in my grandfather's workshop. His tools were my toys, as mine are for Arturo. My grandfather worked on Navy boats in the Arsenale. And his brother, my great-uncle, had a business renting boats near the c h u r c h o f t h e C a r m i n i . M y grandfather repaired those, too. This was in the 1970s, when motorboats, and fiberglass boats, h a d n ' t y e t t a k e n o v e r . I f a Venetian needed to transport something then, like a piece of furniture, they did so in a wood boat rowed in the Venetian style [ie, like a gondolier]. Those were my great-uncle's customers." Outside the high bright open windows of the workshop the long courtyard of Rio Terà San V io w as s o s ilen t th at af ter - noon—no hint of vaporetto or water taxi—that I could imagine I s t i l l l i v e d a t a t i m e w h e n Venetians got around by oar. In an era when it was still the norm, rather than a rare old-fashioned anomaly, that the son of a violin restorer would naturally and inevitably take up the trade him- self. But during Francesco's child- hood in the 1970s the last of s u c h t r a d i t i o n a l t r a d e s w e r e already vanishing from Venice, done in by changing economics a n d t h e b e g i n n i n g s o f m a s s tourism. In spite of his grandfa- ther's influence, Francesco's path to becoming a violin maker w a s n o t d i r e c t . H e s t u d i e d physics at Ca' Foscari, then, after a mandatory year of mili- tary service, worked in the car- pentry department of Teatro La Fenice until he was 30, when he g a i n e d a d m i t t a n c e t o t h e International School of Violin Making in Cremona. Francesco himself plays the flute. But he told me that, aside from the facts that he'd worked with wood his entire life and the school was excellent and nearby, he applied to the Violin Making School because the violin had always held a special allure for him. B e c a u s e o f h i s p r e v i o u s w o o d w o r k i n g e x p e r i e n c e Francesco completed his school- ing at Cremona in three years, then began a series of moves in order to perfect his craft. He spent his mandatory one-year training period in Oldenburg, Germany, where he could focus on restoration. Then came peri- ods in England and Holland, C r e m o n a f o r t w o y e a r s , a n d L u g a n o , S w i t z e r l a n d f o r 1 8 m o n t h s , b e f o r e r e t u r n i n g t o Venice to open his own shop. In a city so given over to tourism it wasn't easy to make a go of it. N o r w a s h e h a p p y w i t h h o w much time he had to devote to matters of business instead of craft. So when a friend told him of an opening at an important shop in New York City near Lincoln Center, David Segal Violins, he applied for it. "I ended up liking New York City very much," Francesco told m e , " b u t I w o u l d h a v e g o n e wherever that shop was. " He spent his hours in the shop restoring and repairing some t r u l y g r e a t i n s t r u m e n t s . Ironically it was only in New York that he first had the chance to actually work on—and not just study—instruments made by t h e l e g e n d a r y l u t h i e r s o f C r e m o n a , s u c h a s G i u s e p p e Guarneri del Gesù and Antonio Stradivari. In his spare time, after shop hours, he made violins of his own. "If you want to make violins," he said, "it's vital to have the experience of actually handling and working with a Stradivarius or a Testore. To understand first-hand how they were put together." Francesco's skill as both a maker and restorer resulted in other job offers from prominent shops, but it was a relationship, and subsequent marriage, that brought him back to Venice. To ease the financial burden on his one-man workshop, he (like many Venetians) runs a B&B out of his house. Named Dorsoduro 461, after its address, it offers three double rooms in the apartment two floors above his ground-floor workshop, and a b r i g h t b o o k - f i l l e d lounge/breakfast room over- looking picturesque Rio Terà San Vio (http://www.dorsoduro 461.com/. "They are not extravagant lodgings," Francesco said, "but they are very fairly priced, I think, and comfortable, and the location can't be beat. They're close to everything, and very Venetian. But also very peace- ful." His ideal now is to integrate his work on instruments with the B&B. "I'm lucky to have had interesting guests from all over," he said. "But when musi- cians come to stay, that's even more special. If a musician has an instrument to repair, or is interested in having a violin made, then the shop and B&B merge perfectly." I asked him about the front of a double bass lying on his main worktable. "It's from the mid-19 th -century," he told me, with the strong but measured enthusiasm that animated him whenever the subject was a par- ticular instrument in his shop. " A l o c a l b a r o q u e m u s i c i a n found it in a flea market. The sides are so damaged I must fill them in with small pieces of wood, as if I'm making a mosa- ic. But it's a Viennese instru- m e n t , i t s t o p i s i n e x c e l l e n t shape, and it's not easy to find a n i n s t r u m e n t l i k e t h i s w i t h wood that's been seasoned for one or two centuries. Or, rather, you can, but it will be extreme- ly expensive. This job will take six months. But when I'm done he'll have an instrument whose sound is perfect for baroque music, instead of the tones you get from new instruments." He picked up Arturo from where he was playing on the floor and said, "And now it's time for his lunch." A r t u r o h e l d a h a m m e r , w h i c h h e s e e m e d i n t e n t o n bringing with him upstairs to the dining table. Seeing it, I thought of the line of wood- w o r k i n g t h a t r a n f r o m F r a n c e s c o ' s g r a n d f a t h e r t o F r a n c e s c o , a n d p o s s i b l y t o Arturo, and asked, "But what a b o u t y o u r o w n f a t h e r , Francesco, he didn't work with wood?" "No," Francesco said, "he sold fabrics." Which, of course, is another craft and trade at w h i c h V e n e t i a n s h a v e l o n g excelled. Then I asked the question I'd had in mind since seeing Arturo in the workshop: "Do you hope that Arturo will follow in your footsteps? Become an instru- ment maker, too?" "I'd like him to be able to do w h a t r e a l l y i n t e r e s t s h i m , " Francesco replied. "If that is working with wood, then, yes, I would be happy. I became used to the smell of wood and the tools very very early in my life. I think that can be very beauti- ful, to start very young with very good memories of being with your grandfather, or father, in a good safe place, having fun. Playing, not working. The memories stay with you always, when you are older, they inform your work, they remain. But if that is how he will feel about t h i n g s — t h a t i s u p t o h i m . I don't worry about such things. The important thing now is to have fun." F o r m o r e a b o u t l i v i n g i n V e n i c e , v i s i t S t e v e n V a r n i ' s blog: veneziablog.blogspot.com Francesco Trevisan in his workshop with his son (photo credit: Steven Varni)

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