S5, E3: A Poet’s Journey to Italy’s Violin Crafting Heart

In the third episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season five, we visit a charming Italian town famous for its violin craftsmanship.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and you’re listening to Travel Tales by Dinogo. Each week, we share transformative travel stories from poets, scientists, writers, entrepreneurs, and others. This week, we’ll hear about a family’s musical journey to a renowned Italian town with a rich heritage.

Tess Taylor will guide us on this adventure. She’s a poet and a gardener, and her latest work is an anthology of poetry she compiled titled Leaning Toward Light, Poems for Gardens & the Hands That Tend Them. Additionally, she’s a musician and a parent, and as you’ll discover, her 12-year-old son Bennett has been captivated by the violin since he was just 3. Last summer, Tess took Bennett, her daughter Emeline, and her husband Taylor to Cremona, Italy—one of the most celebrated locations in the country for violin making, also known as lutherie. They enjoyed outdoor concerts, met luthiers, and explored ancient bell towers, returning home with cherished musical experiences—and likely a treasure that will last a lifetime.

Tess Taylor, poet: It’s around 5 p.m. on a pleasant June afternoon just after the solstice. Like clockwork, the streets surrounding Cremona’s main piazza are bustling with couples and friends, as well as wanderers on the hunt for afternoon gelato or an Aperol spritz. This scene could unfold in any quaint Italian town, but today, the cobblestone alley we’ve entered is filled with something more: music.

As my family and I stroll up the narrow diagonal Via Ceresole towards Cremona’s central cathedral, we find our path nearly obstructed by a grand black baby grand piano. On a small bench, two pianists are energetically performing, starting with a Beethoven sonata, followed by lively Spanish folk tunes, and culminating in a spirited Brahms duet.

Notes bounce off the terra-cotta walls. A crowd gathers in the alley, and we stop to take it all in. High above, at the end of the street, the sun sparkles on the rust-colored Torrazzo of Cremona, the towering bell tower of the cathedral. It’s a breathtaking moment in this city that is revealing itself to be rich with song.

We certainly knew we were coming to Cremona for music, specifically violin music. Our journey had taken us up the Adriatic coast: we explored mosaics, visited Dante’s tomb in Ravenna, and savored delicious ravioli in Emilia-Romagna. Now we’ve arrived in Cremona, a lively town in southern Lombardy, nestled between Venice and Milan. Aside from the remarkable pop-up piano concert, Cremona is best known as a hub for violin making.

Cremona is where Andrea Amati crafted violins in the 16th century. He is largely credited with shaping the instruments in the violin family—the cello, viola, and violin—into their modern forms. A century later, Antoni Stradivari was born here, creating instruments of legendary beauty that still resonate with audiences today. For many violin enthusiasts, Amati and Stradivari violins represent the ultimate standards of violin sound. Cremona houses several Stradivarius violins in its violin museum, and even better, it hosts daily concerts where you can hear a Stradivarius played live.

I’ve longed to visit Cremona ever since I first read about it about five years ago. At that time, my son Bennett was around seven years old. He had already taken up the violin at the age of three, having fallen in love with it during another trip. We were in Nova Scotia, listening to traditional fiddle music, and after seeing those musicians, he asked for a violin every single day until I finally gave in. It turned out Bennett knew exactly what he wanted: he has a keen ear and a knack for melodies—he's the type of kid who hears a folk song or movie theme and can almost instantly play it. Now almost 12, I can’t recall a day when he hasn’t been experimenting with something—be it a movie theme, a folk song, a hymn, bluegrass tunes, or increasingly, complex classical pieces. My 8-year-old daughter Emeline also started young, almost as if she believed that playing the violin was simply a part of growing up.

It’s been captivating to watch the kids dive deeper into the world of the violin. I have also pursued music seriously in my past; I sang in a prestigious choir during my youth and once aspired to be an opera singer. Yet, I never played an instrument myself. Now, the violin—something my husband Taylor and I knew little about when Bennett first expressed his interest—has become a constant presence in our lives. We’ve become intrigued by the intricacies of fingering and bowing, even geeking out over bow hair and strings. We also love the diverse ways in which violins produce sound.

One of the joys of this journey is celebrating how a single craft or art form can profoundly influence a location, town by town. The remarkable mosaics we recently admired in Ravenna date back to the 6th century, yet mosaic-making and its schools continue to thrive there. The same holds true for Cremona: though violin maker Andrea Amati passed away 500 years ago and Stradivari 300 years ago, Cremona remains a vital hub for the construction, trade, study, and discussion of violins. The tradition of crafting violins in small workshops continues here.

For centuries, the craftsmen of Cremona created instruments that reached musicians at nearly every royal court. Today, violin makers and factories exist around the globe, including a notable one just down the street from our home in California. Still, the meticulous art of handcrafting violins persists unchanged in Cremona. There are at least 500 masters and apprentices here dedicated to building violins, violas, and cellos from the ground up. You can find their shops in nearly every alleyway, making the town as filled with violin studios as Sonoma, California, is with wineries.

This afternoon, we’re on our way to meet one such craftsman. Robert Gasser, a master violin maker, will show us his workshop and the violins he is currently crafting. We walk from the central piazza along a quiet sunlit street, arriving at Robert’s narrow, bright studio on the first floor. Violin molds adorn the yellow walls, while fine tools and brushes are scattered across the worktables. Partially carved wooden bodies of unfinished instruments hang alongside ribs and molds awaiting assembly. The kids are captivated—so am I. We admire the jars of resins displayed in one corner, and wood shavings are strewn everywhere. "The dust smells nice," remarks Bennett. We can feel the weight of centuries of craftsmanship in the air.

Each violin takes about a month to create. Robert, a Swiss-born man with a distinctive presence, has been crafting violins month after month for over 40 years. He first reminds us that he is not merely a “violin maker,” but more accurately a “luthier.” This term highlights that, not long ago, violins were almost nonexistent, and most string instruments were referred to as “lutes.”

This term, along with the lute itself, traces back to the Arabic string instrument known as the l’oud. The oud has a gourd shape and features frets, with its earliest forms originating from Mesopotamia. From there, it journeyed with both Arab and Jewish tribes. Some ouds were bowed, while others were not. The histories and potential of this stringed instrument span cultures and epochs. However, Robert notes that amidst this migration, the precise moment in the late Renaissance when the recognizable violin shape emerged remains uncertain.

Robert mentions that some historians speculate the violin’s origins lie with Jewish musicians expelled from the Spanish court of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492. During the 15th and 16th centuries, Cremona would have been a pivotal crossroads, influenced by the powers of Venice and Spain. Perhaps these displaced court musicians sought refuge in Cremona, concealing their identities to blend in as Catholics. It’s possible one of them imparted knowledge to Amati.

Regardless of the tale, Robert’s shop continually reminds me that the violin is a product of extensive travel, both geographically and temporally. Although we’ve only been in Cremona for a few hours, I already feel an eerie connection to a historical trade route. I ponder how instruments accompany our lives and songs, journeying with us so we can share their melodies through generations.

“Do you know what this is?” Robert interrupts my thoughts by lifting a section of tree trunk and presenting it to the kids. “This is where the violin begins.” These pieces are carefully selected sections of spruce trees, some of which he harvested himself. We lean in to examine a triangular cut of spruce he sourced from a German forest in the 1970s, shortly after he embarked on his career as a full-time violin maker. He explains that such blocks often need to cure and age for decades before he selects one to sculpt using the various tools that adorn his workspace. We admire the array of tools laid out and hanging around him—finger planes, clamps, gouges, and chisels. He grabs a plane and, much like a master chef skillfully slicing an onion, effortlessly shaves off a few curls from the rough body of a violin in progress.

“I no longer cut down my own trees,” Robert shares with us, emphasizing how crucial it was for him to learn the language of trees—to listen to their whispers and observe their grain. He describes how he learned to knock on the wood, similar to how a chef taps a watermelon to check for ripeness. He envisions echoes and reverberations, understanding how each tree segment might resonate. He explains that the classic Cremonese violin he creates combines maple and spruce: the sturdy maple forms the neck and back’s resonant wall, while the softer spruce brings the melody to life. Historically, the oldest violins were joined with rabbit bone glue, and their strings crafted from animal intestines. A well-maintained violin, like fine wine, matures with age, opening up in response to its own vibrations. One detail strikes us particularly: the unglued post that supports the violin's body and enhances its resonance is called the soundpost in English, but in French and Italian, this vital piece is referred to as the “soul.” Each violin possesses a soul that enables its voice to ring. “That feels profoundly true,” Bennett remarks. “Violins do have souls.” He is captivated.

Then, an unexpected moment occurs—Robert sets aside the violin he’s been working on and invites Bennett to try out some completed instruments. Among them is a fine violin crafted for the professional market, alongside a special one made in collaboration with a student he’s been mentoring in lutherie. As the late afternoon sun bathes the studio, we listen to Bennett play a few scales and a fragment of “The Swan” by Camille St. Saëns. He repeats each on both violins, lost in concentration. “This one has a rich sound,” he observes, pointing to the student’s violin, his eyes reflecting the discerning gaze of an aficionado. We linger in the sunlit studio, where both the boy and the violin are youthful, yet the city, its songs, and the art of crafting violins are steeped in age.

“Creating a violin is an act of optimism for the future,” Robert explains. “You’re crafting something that you hope will endure long after the current players are gone.” With his encouragement, we leave with the student-crafted violin—not to purchase, but to practice with during our stay. Bennett feels a mix of anxiety, fear, excitement, and pride all at once.

Outside, the light casts a warm golden hue. After picking up apricots, eggs, prosciutto, and melons for breakfast tomorrow, we return home to freshen up before heading out again. We’ve arrived right in the midst of the city’s annual Monteverdi festival, and we have tickets for several delightful 10-euro concerts scattered across the courtyards of local palaces.

That evening, we attend a concert that transforms Renaissance music into a jazz experience. The following morning features a baroque soloist performing at the city’s violin museum. By afternoon, after indulging in some well-earned pizza, we find ourselves back in a palace courtyard listening to three tenors harmonizing madrigals accompanied by a lute. Each concert lasts about an hour and is set in such beautiful surroundings that it’s easy to bring the kids and let our minds wander. Bennett is fascinated watching one of the tenors play an instrument akin to a zither, while Emeline sketches whimsical instruments in her notebook.

[midroll]

The following day, we visit the local art museum, which, like everything in Cremona, is charming, accessible, and free from tourist crowds. It features a captivating Caravaggio painting, perfect for savoring, along with several rooms upstairs dedicated to fascinating historical instruments. Among them are plump lutes once played by troubadours to serenade with ancient madrigals. We spot porchettes, or pocket violins, which dance instructors used to accompany their students long before the advent of recorded music. There are elegant violas, hurdy-gurdies, and miniature antique guitars. I lose track of all the variations. “It’s incredible to see how the design evolves from a carved-out gourd with a neck to this wavy instrument that requires a bow,” remarks Bennett. Emeline is captivated by the intricate patterns and beautiful contours of a blonde guitar adorned with ebony and ivory inlays. Her sketches have become increasingly detailed even in these few days.

I understand why. Even while they rest silently in their glass displays, the instruments seem to call out, inviting us into a lively, musical dialogue. I envision delicate runs of notes, lengthy somber tones, and imagine their players traversing time, carrying a piece of melody within them, ready to share it with the world so we can all laugh, dance, mourn, or love. Next to me, Bennett mimics a rock star beside an ancient lyre, its strings stretched between grand horn-shaped spires.

After exploring the museum, we relax in the shade of the Torrazzo. I’ve read that it ranks as the third tallest brick bell tower globally, although I’m not particularly concerned with such rankings. Instead, we admire the antique clock, a deep blue adorned with grand zodiac symbols. Everything feels quintessentially Italian, yet devoid of haste. I feel a sense of joy not being in Florence, Venice, or Rome, but rather in Cremona, where the pace allows us to focus on this meaningful journey. My husband and I have also discovered that at 5 p.m. in Cremona, ordering an Aperol spritz comes with a side of pizza slices and a bowl of potato chips. This delightful combination keeps us relaxed as pigeons glide through the square. We ponder why there aren't more piazzas back home where one can savor Aperol spritz and potato chips in the shade of a magnificent cathedral.

After our delightful afternoon snack, we catch one more a cappella performance. It’s a quartet singing madrigals by Orlando di Lasso, and the kids are captivated. Each song unfolds like a little scene: dramatic, occasionally quarrelsome, expressed through delightful trills and playful exchanges. “I never knew music could be so funny,” Emeline exclaims. “I know,” replies Bennett. Even though it’s sung in Italian, we grasp the humor. I realize that we all feel enriched by this city and the continuous thread of song that weaves through our experience.

That evening, while enjoying dinner at the charming, traditional restaurant Il Violino, our conversation shifts to the peculiar task awaiting us. We need to return the borrowed violin to Robert, but I find myself reluctant to let go. I realize I hope we might buy this student-crafted violin that Bennett has been playing. On one hand, I hadn’t planned on shopping for a violin. It wasn’t something we had considered or prepared for, and it feels like an extravagant decision. On the other hand, the violin produces a beautiful, clear sound, each note resonating with precision and joy. Even without the sheet music and despite his imperfect memory, it’s delightful to hear Bennett exploring “The Swan,” discovering the resonance of the rising notes. I sense that I want him to carry this experience into the future.

On our final morning, we stand in our rather bare Airbnb apartment, contemplating our next steps. Bennett has been playing some last scales and a bit of Bach in G minor. “The sound has so much space,” he remarks. “I feel like I can really hear each note.” He isn’t asking for the violin, and he seems to understand that this is a significant responsibility for someone who isn’t yet a teenager.

Taylor and I pause to think. I feel that if we don’t act now, I’ll regret it later. We come to a decision: We’ll keep the violin here, and Taylor will return for it in the fall when he has another trip and we’ll have less luggage. We make arrangements to purchase the violin. It’s actually quite reasonably priced compared to many of the extremely valuable instruments in Cremona—more than a factory-made violin in the U.S., but definitely within a sensible range for a serious young player.

I realize I don’t know enough about violins to be certain this is the right choice. A pang of doubt hits me: What if it’s too significant a commitment for a young person still deciding about music? Is this the right path to take?

As it turned out, shortly after returning home from Italy, Bennett fell and broke his wrist in two places. His recovery was challenging. Simple activities like walking and running were painful for a month, and he couldn’t write for two months. Playing the violin was out of the question for nearly four months. For a while, we worried whether his wrist would heal properly, which weighed heavily on all of us. Yet this time away from the violin gave him space to reflect on what he truly wanted and hoped for. When Taylor picked up the Cremona violin that November, Bennett was finally out of rehab and eager to dive into new music. The violin arrived just as he was ready to celebrate his newfound recovery.

Throughout the winter, far away from Cremona, I can hear the new violin come alive under Bennett’s fingers. He plays Bach and Corelli, discovering fresh finger positions and innovative ways to leap and land. We all notice how this violin produces high notes that are lighter and clearer, more spirited than the fiddle he started with. “This violin is like a new voice,” he remarks. “I can sing new songs with it.”

I ask Bennett what memories linger from our time in Italy. He reflects on the variations and possibilities of instruments, the transition from strumming to bowing, and the diverse musical shapes that people seem to need to carry with them. He’s also intrigued by the rich beauty of the sounds we experienced that summer. “I want to learn Italian,” Bennett says one day. “I want to know how to use a baroque bow.”

I’m uncertain about my child’s path or that of his instrument, but I feel profoundly honored to witness the unfolding of his musical journey. I believe I’ve given Bennett something he can carry into whatever future he chooses, a means to accompany his life. “A violin is a way to practice listening,” he shares. “It’s a way to create music everywhere.”

Aislyn: That was Tess Taylor, who continues to hear the sound of Bennett’s Cremona violin each day. You can learn more about this evolution and her reflections on Cremona in my YouTube conversation with her. We’ll include that link in the show notes, along with links to her books, website, and more inspiration from Cremona.

Next week, we’ll return with a story about a journey across the United States on a bike—without food or money.

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This concludes Travel Tales, a production of Dinogo Media. The podcast is brought to life by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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