September 2006
September 24, 2006 20:33
by Rhiannon Schmitt of http://www.fiddleheads.ca
It's Autumn and the air is crisp and clear, but there's no pleasant scent to the rancid air in the red light district. A matted up cat scurries away from a dumpster as I pass, making my way across the littered sidewalk to a dirty little shop with a twitching neon sign, "Pawn Here."
As I approach the cracked glass counter I sense other customers' eyes on me. I don't look like I belong here in my designer boots with my sweet little 5-year-old son at my side. My son points timidly at a large rusty knife with a skull engraved in the side and I'm suddenly guilty that I've dragged him into such a seedy place.
"I hear you have a violin," I say to the rugged, hunched man behind the counter. I say it in a sweet, treble tone that make me further stand out in a "I'm just a girlie girl with too much money who knows nothing about violins" sort of way.
Truth be known, I am a violinist and a violin shop owner. I'm not an expert in advanced violin authenticity, but I know a good violin when I see one and I also know when to run away screaming when it's junk. I'm here with hopes that the violin in question is worth repairing and restringing so it may be sold cheap to a student on a budget, making me a little bit of cash as well.
My hopes are not high that this will happen, but every so often there is something worth picking up. I don't volunteer this information as past experiences have proven this always unreasonably jacks up the price about 400%. I'm not here to gouge the guy, but I don't want to be gouged myself. Act like I know nothing and I can usually get it at an appropriate price.
I will have to dance the dance to keep this transaction fair.The man behind the corner clears his throat loudly and eyes me suspiciously. I blink twice and smile, pink lipgloss shimmering in his clouded eyes. He glares again, slowly turns then limps to a back room, shouting over his shoulder something about how he has to go to the "special room" where rare instruments are kept.
This is pawn shop Tactic #1: Talk up the merchandise and add unrealistic mystique.
He returns with what looks like a miniature coffin covered in dust. It's an old black wooden violin case. Predating plastic and styrofoam, these were the sorry excuses for cases that caused more harm to instruments than not since they had no padding and the weak metal latches that held them together would spontaneously unhinge, causing many a fiddle to fall to death during transport.
"This is a fine antique case, made in 1883," says the shopkeeper. A man to my left approaches and says breathily, "those things are worth $500! They are very rare!" I keep my neutral gaze and say, "Oh yeah."
First off, I have about 4 such cases stored under my bed since I can't get rid of the things. Secondly, I had seen this "customer" helping move stock as I passed the shop a few days earlier. He was another employee who poses as customer to add "unbiased" credibility to the lies the shopekeeper spins. My son coughs and looks around, bored out of his mind.I maintain my blank expression. I'm starting to think the violin inside this casket is a dead end.
The shopkeeper opens the case and my suspicions are confirmed.
It is absolutely horrible. A cheap, Chinese made Corelli or Bestler fiddle from the early 1980's. I've seen so many to know what they are upon first glance. It has the usual ugly starburst orange and yellow plastic finish, which has cracked due to heat exposure. The pegs are made from cheap, splintered rosewood. The chinrest and tailpiece are the cheapest shiny black plastic, with a sticky mystery stain covering the cup of the chinrest.
As if this kind violin wasn't wretched enough in playable shape, the junk before me had been crushed and nastily glued back together. Sort of. The neck was askew and the top was coming undone at one side. I can safely say this was the most deplorable violin I have ever seen, and I've seen a lot of rotten junk in my time.
I forcefully hold in judgement like a bulimic keeps from getting sick with company present. The shopkeeper inhales, about to launch into his spiel, using pawn shop Tactic #2: Let the lies begin.
"This here violin is a master instrument," he says in a hushed tone. At this I am compelled to say something or I'll burst. "It's a Chinese Strad-copy violin from the 1980's, most-likely a Corelli," I interrupt quickly. Uh oh, the jig is up. He knows I'm no dupe.
But wait, he tries pawn shop Tactic #3: Lie some more. "No, M'am," he simpers. "This is a real Stradivarius. It's been in an attic for a long time, an undiscovered treasure." His face has obviously rehearsed the honest, pleading expression. His knack for lying is, in a sick way, admirable.
This is beginning to annoy me, but I want to see how big of a hole he'll dig for himself. I look at him as if wanting to be enlightened. He takes the bait and goes for tactic #4: Lie, but make it a real whopper."This violin was made by one of Stradivarius' students," he lies.
I almost laugh out loud at this, considering "Stradivari," not "Stradivarius" was the maker of Stradivarius violins and all of his instruments have been accounted for. And really, what kind of idiot thinks the most recently discovered Strad is for sale at a lousy pawn shop?
My son is shuffling his feet, but not complaining out loud. I wish he'd throw a tantrum so I'd have an excuse to leave quickly. Instead I maintain my composure and casually thank the man for his time before I turn and leave. He keeps his cool as my son and I walk out without another glance back, though to him I'm the one that got away.
We danced the delicate dance of buyer and seller, expert and swindler, and thankfully no one's toes were stepped on. He will go on to swindle another and may do well in the end. I am happy I still believe that people are good and I don't take it personally when they go bad.
As we drive away, my son asks why I didn't buy the nice violin. The poor dear would buy an ice cube in Alaska. Thus I begin to teach him another lesson in life's tricky dance moves, keeping your balance while still enjoying the music. **
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September 23, 2006 00:27
By Rhiannon Schmitt of http://www.fiddleheads.ca
It was a dark and stormy night. A feeble old man's hands shivered with excited anticipation as he carved away the last curled shaving from the ancient piece of maple.
"Magnifique!" he exclaimed at his masterpiece as he caressed it like a mother with a newborn child. He kissed the smooth wood then gently hung it from a wire attached to a gold-gilded chandelier. The shapely object swayed gently above the master's head. Flickering candlelight danced with the ox-hair brush as the violin received its first of more than twenty fine coats of hot oil varnish.
The violin was completed and labeled at the poignant stroke of midnight on the start of the year 1912 in Lyon, France. The year would later be known for other historic events such as the establishment of the Republic of China, the discovery of the South Pole, and more notably, the addition of prizes to Cracker Jack boxes. All these events are shadowed by the creation of a violin that would someday find its way to me.
My violin's rust-brown varnish had just finished curing when it was wrapped in fine silk and sent away in a wooden case. Due to highway congestion and no available carrier pigeons, French aviator Henri Seimet was asked to deliver the violin and made the first non-stop airplane flight from Paris to London in three hours.
The violin's first owner was the great-grandson of legendary violinist Nicolò Paganini who suffered from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The violin's astonishing tone helped auditioners overlook the player's affliction and earned the him a gig with an 8-man band on a cruise ship. The Atlantic voyage was uneventful, unless you consider that last bit when the "Titanic" stuck an ice shelf and sank.
The violin's last tune with the band that night was a jolly rendition of"Roll Out the Barrel" before it was laid to rest in the coffin case, its owner saying a final goodbye. The ship went down in a fury of bubbles and miraculously the case came up out of the vessel with an infant sleeping peacefully on top. When the rescue ships arrived several hours later, infant Eva Braun and violin were in the care of another survivor on a nearby lifeboat: Margaret "Molly" Brown.
Eva was reunited with her family and would grow up to make poor decisions in politics and boyfriends. The violin, however, belonged to no one and was donated to a music society as a tax write-off. Joe Dawson, an eccentric race car driver, purchased the violin (also for tax reasons, though historians dispute this fact) and won the first Indianapolis 500 race with the violin in the trunk for good luck.
Soon afterwards Dawson lost his bet with Woodrow Wilson that the latter would not win the Presidential election; the winner took the violin. Wilson gave the violin to former ice hockey teammate Igor Stravinsky, who composed many of his best works using the violin. A year later, in 1913, the premiere of "The Rite of Spring" was poorly received and fights broke out in the audience. Stravinsky himself was so upset due to its reception that he fled the theater in mid-scene, leaving the violin behind in his haste.
Historians believe this is when my violin received extensive damage to the lower bout at the end-pin. The facts that follow are fuzzy due to poor documentation, but it is believed the violin was discovered in the theatre rubble and taken to a medicine man in Cuba who repaired the violin with guar gum and papyrus extracts. The dear violin spent the next forty-nine years passed from village virtuoso to virtuoso, who played for dignitaries, millionaires and other ridiculous people.
This happy holiday in the violin's life ended in 1962 when one village violinist, fearing the worst of the Cuban Missile Crisis, hid the violin in a fall-out shelter behind 200-cans of extra-juicy pork and beans. In 2005 the canned food's expiration date came and as the cans were being disposed of the violin was discovered again.
A compulsive gambler who worked with the fallout shelter's janitorial service stole the violin and put the violin up for auction on Ebay. It was won by my cousin's dog groomer's babysitter's nephew for 50 pesos. I heard there was a violin in the family and traded the guy an old lawnmower (he needed the wheels for a go-cart) for the violin, which is now safely in my possession and care.
Over this past year I have pondered over the mysterious label inside the violin, "Lyone 1912," and the spider-like cracks on the bottom that seem to be so expertly repaired using methods unknown to local luthiers. Hence I took it upon myself to extensively research the history of my violin and learned what little I could about the violin's history, which I have presented here truthfully to you.
Strangely, the people I've shared my flawless findings with have been disappointed as they're only marginally glamourous or mysterious. Sometimes the truth is pretty boring. I wish it could be more than that.
So now when people ask for stories about my violin's past, I lie and say my violin was found in Elvis' grasp in a Vegas hotel bathroom. That'll keep them interested.
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