Art of Craft is a series for artisans whose work rises to the level of art.
When Ayoung An was 8 years old, her parents bought her a violin. Every night she slept with the instrument on the pillow next to her.
Two years later, a shop selling musical instruments opened in Pyeongtaek, South Korea, her hometown, and An became attached there, raising questions for the owner. “I think I disturbed him a lot,” Ann, now 32, said.
As a teenager he decided he would become a violin maker. Eventually, a journey of twists and turns led her to Cremona in northern Italy—a famous center for violin makers, including masters like Antonio Stradivari, since the 16th century. There, Ann, a rising star in the world of violin making with international awards to her credit, maintains her own workshop.
On a quiet cobblestone street, An’s studio is bathed in natural light and filled with books and piles of wood scraps that must air-dry for five to 10 years before they become instruments or risk warping. She shares the two-room studio with her husband, Wangsu Han, who is also a violin maker.
On a recent Monday, An was hunched over a thick 20-inch piece of wood held in place by two metal clamps. Pressing her body down for leverage, she scraped at the wood with a gash, removing layers, her hands firm and steady. It formed a curved neck called a “cylinder”, one of the later steps in making a violin or cello. On this day, the violin maker was immersed in an order for a cello, which shares a similar crafting process.
Violins like An’s, made in the tradition of Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri, require about two months of work and sell for about 16,000 to 17,000 euros, or $17,500 to $18,500. “I can make a violin in three weeks, but I don’t want to,” said An. “This thing is very valuable to him who buys it.”
Anne was 17 when she hatched her plan to learn the craft: She would move with an American family to a Chicago suburb so she could attend a local high school, learn English, and eventually study at the Chicago School of Violin Making. There were no such schools in Korea at that time. Her parents, upset that she had moved so far away to pursue an uncertain career path, tried to stop her.
“I haven’t eaten for days,” Ann said. Finally, they gave way. “When I said goodbye to my parents at the airport, they were crying,” she said. “I was not. I was very excited.”
Two years after moving to Illinois, she discovered that one of the most well-known violin making schools, the International School of Violin Making, was actually located in Cremona. So in 2011, at the age of 20, he moved again to a new country.
Cremona was home to some of history’s most famous luthiers, string instrument makers: Stradivari; Andrea Amati, considered “the father of the violin”. and the Guarneri family. For the 160 to 200 violin makers in Cremona today, the quality of the teachers’ sound remains the ultimate goal. “The traditional method is not experimentation,” An said.
Around the studio, small pots of pigment, for varnishing, sat on shelves and tables next to jars of powders—ground glass and minerals—for polishing. On one wall were dozens of knives, chisels and saws. Also available: dental tools to scrape the instrument for a more antique look.
An is the newest member of a consortium in Cremona dedicated to upholding the traditions of violin making. She is so immersed in the Cremonese method of violin making that, at the suggestion of a mentor, she created an artist name, Anna Arietti, to better fit Italian culture.
An important moment is when luthiers place their label inside the instrument, called “baptism”. To make her label, Anne stamps her signature in ink on a small piece of paper — a browned page from a second-hand book, giving the impression of age. Then, using a traditional homemade mixture of melted cattle hide and rabbit skin as a long-lasting adhesive, he sticks the label inside the instrument half. She also burns her signature into the instrument with a tiny heated brand.
The two halves are then sealed together, completing the main body of the instrument. The name of her Italian artist remains inside, intact as long as the violin.
“That’s why I wanted to be a violin maker,” said An. “At least one person who plays my violin will remember me 100 or 200 years from now.”
