The Ribs

The Luthier's Apprentice

Chapter 12: The Ribs

The ribs are the sides. The thin strips of maple that connect the top plate to the back plate, that form the walls of the acoustic chamber, that give the violin its depth, its volume, its three-dimensionality, the ribs transforming the violin from two flat plates into a box, a resonating box, a body, and the word body is the right word because the violin's body is like a human body in this respect: the body is the enclosure, the container, the space within which the essential activity occurs, the activity being resonance in the case of the violin and life in the case of the human, and the enclosure is not incidental to the activity but constitutive of it, the body shaping the resonance the way the walls of a concert hall shape the sound, and the shaping begins with the ribs.

December was ending. The light in the workshop shortened, the northern windows admitting fewer hours of the even illumination that the work required, and Giovanni responded by beginning earlier and ending earlier, the workday conforming to the light the way a farmer's workday conforms to the seasons, the natural rhythm governing the artificial schedule, and the governing was not a limitation but an alignment, the work aligning with the world, the world providing the conditions that the work required, the conditions being light and temperature and humidity and time, and the time was December, and December was the ribs.

Giovanni had prepared the maple. The figured maple from Bosnia, the same billet that would provide the back plate, the ribs cut from the same piece of wood so that the figure would match, the flame of the ribs continuous with the flame of the back, the visual unity of the instrument maintained by the material unity of the wood, the eye seeing what the ear would later confirm: this instrument is one thing, one piece, one voice, the unity visible in the matching flame and audible in the matching resonance.

The strips were thin. Two millimeters. Giovanni had sawn them on the band saw and then planed them to thickness, the planing reducing the rough-sawn surface to the smooth, even thinness that the bending required. Two millimeters of maple. Nadia held a strip in her hands and the strip was flexible, not as flexible as paper but more flexible than she had expected, the thinness making the rigid maple pliable, the rigidity that was the maple's defining property giving way at this thickness to a suppleness that invited bending, and the invitation was what the bending iron would accept.

The bending iron stood in its corner of the workshop, a vertical metal tube mounted on a stand, the tube connected to an electric element that heated it from within. Giovanni turned on the element and waited. The waiting was ten minutes, the iron heating slowly, the temperature rising at a rate that Giovanni monitored with his finger — not touching the iron, but hovering near it, feeling the radiant heat, the heat that increased as the iron approached the working temperature, and the approaching was gradual, and the gradual was necessary, because an iron that is heated too quickly develops hot spots, areas of uneven temperature that produce uneven bending, and uneven bending produces ribs that are twisted or kinked or stressed in ways that will manifest later as cracks or warps, and the later manifestation of the earlier mistake is the lesson: care at every stage, patience at every stage, the care and the patience not virtues but requirements.

He tested the temperature with water. A drop from a sponge, placed on the iron's surface, and the drop hissed and evaporated, not instantly but in approximately two seconds, and the two seconds was the correct rate, the rate that told Giovanni the iron was at approximately 150 degrees Celsius, not so hot that the wood would scorch and not so cool that the wood would not bend, the temperature range that was the window, the narrow window within which the transformation could occur, the straight becoming curved, the flat becoming shaped.

He took a strip of maple. He wetted it with the sponge, the water darkening the surface, the maple absorbing the moisture that would turn to steam against the iron and that would soften the wood fibers from within, the steam penetrating the cellular structure, breaking the hydrogen bonds between the cellulose chains, allowing the chains to slide past each other, allowing the wood to deform without breaking, the deformation that was the bending, and the bending was the transformation, and the transformation required the water and the heat and the pressure of the hands and the time, the time measured in seconds, each second a degree of bending, each degree of bending a degree of transformation.

He placed the strip against the iron. The contact was not a pressing but a laying, the strip placed against the curved surface of the iron tube with a gentleness that belied the force of the transformation, the gentleness being the skill, the understanding that the wood must be persuaded rather than forced, bent rather than broken, the distinction between persuasion and force being the distinction between a rib and a piece of firewood.

The strip began to curve. The heat entered the wood through the wetted surface, the water became steam, the steam softened the fibers, and Giovanni's hands pressed the strip against the iron, maintaining the contact, maintaining the pressure, the pressure even across the width of the strip, the evenness critical because uneven pressure produces uneven bending and uneven bending produces a rib that does not conform to the template and a rib that does not conform to the template produces a body that is not the shape it needs to be and a body that is not the right shape does not produce the right sound.

The strip curved. The curve was the curve of the upper bout, the narrower curve above the waist, and the strip conformed to the curve with a yielding that Nadia watched with fascination, the yielding visible, the transformation happening before her eyes, the flat becoming curved, the straight becoming shaped, and the shaping was irreversible, the curved strip would not straighten itself when it cooled, the curve was permanent, the transformation one-way, and the one-way-ness was the commitment, the commitment that every irreversible act represents, the commitment that the maker makes with every cut, every bend, every gluing, the commitment to this violin, this shape, this sound.

Giovanni removed the strip from the iron. He held it against the template, checking the curve, comparing the bent strip to the wooden form that defined the shape of the violin's body, and the comparison was close, the curve matching the template's curve within a millimeter, the matching achieved by the hands and the heat and the knowledge of fifty years.

He looked at Nadia. He pointed to the bending iron. He handed her a strip.

She wetted the strip. She placed it against the iron. The heat was immediate, the steam rising, the smell of hot maple filling the air, a smell that was different from the smell of spruce, darker, sweeter, the maple's own aromatics released by the heat, the smell of the wood's interior, the smell of the tree.

She pressed. She pressed too hard. She knew she was pressing too hard even as she pressed, the knowledge arriving simultaneously with the action, the knowledge that her hands were tense, were gripping rather than guiding, were forcing rather than persuading, and the forcing was the mistake, the mistake of the beginner, the mistake of a person who has not yet learned that the wood responds to invitation rather than command.

The strip cracked. The sound was sharp, a snap, the fibers separating along a diagonal line, the crack propagating through the thin maple with a speed that was the speed of failure, instantaneous, irreversible, complete. She pulled the strip from the iron and held the two pieces in her hands, the broken rib, the evidence of her excess.

Giovanni took the broken pieces. He placed them in the collection on the edge of the bench, the archive of failures that grew with each apprentice's learning, the archive that was not a shame but a record, the record of the hands' education.

She took another strip. She wetted it. She placed it against the iron. She pressed. Less hard. Still too hard. The strip cracked at a different point, a different angle, the crack finding the weakness in the grain, the weakness that the pressure had exceeded, and the exceeding was the lesson repeated, the lesson that repetition teaches: less, less, less, the hands must learn to apply less force, must learn that the transformation requires not strength but patience, not pressure but presence, the presence of the hands on the wood, the hands guiding the wood against the iron, the hands feeling the wood's resistance and responding to the resistance with steadiness rather than force.

She took a third strip. She wetted it. She placed it against the iron. She pressed. Gently. The gentleness was conscious, was deliberate, was the product of the two failures that had taught her hands what the correct pressure was not, the failures narrowing the range, the range of acceptable force becoming smaller with each failure, the correct force revealed by the elimination of the incorrect.

The strip curved. The curve was slow, the strip bending by degrees, each degree the product of the heat and the steam and the softening of the fibers, and Nadia's hands maintained the contact and maintained the pressure and the pressure was right, was not too much and not too little, was the pressure that the wood accepted, and the accepting was the yielding, and the yielding was the transformation, and the transformation was happening, the flat becoming curved under her hands.

The strip did not crack. The strip curved. The curve was imperfect — uneven, the radius too tight in one section, too broad in another, the shape not matching the template exactly — but the strip was intact, was curved, was a rib, or the beginning of a rib, the rough shape from which the final shape would be refined.

Giovanni nodded. The nod. The same nod, the same economy, the same communication that said: yes, that is something, that is what the third strip does, the third strip is the one that works because the first two taught the third.

He said: the first two teach the third. He said it in Italian, and Nadia understood every word, the Italian clear, the meaning clear, the words arriving in her comprehension without the delay that had characterized her first weeks in the workshop, the delay that was the translation, the mental translation from Italian to English that had slowed every exchange, and the delay was shorter now, three months in, the Italian entering her mind more directly, the Italian becoming not a foreign language but a working language, the language of the workshop, the language in which the craft was conducted.

The first two teach the third. The principle was universal. The first two scales teach the third. The first two performances teach the third. The first two attempts at anything teach the third, the failures being the education, the education being the failures, the cycle of failure and learning that is the only cycle, the only process, the only way that skill is built.

She bent more ribs. Over the following days she bent ribs from the offcut maple that Giovanni provided for her practice, the strips cracking and curving and cracking and curving, the ratio of cracks to curves shifting gradually, the cracks becoming fewer as the days passed, the curves becoming more consistent, more even, more like Giovanni's curves, the improvement measurable in the shape of the bent strips that accumulated on the bench, the early strips kinked and uneven, the later strips smoother, more confident, the confidence visible in the curve itself, the curve that a confident hand produces being different from the curve that a hesitant hand produces, the confidence not arrogance but knowledge, the knowledge that the hands acquire through repetition, the repetition that is the workshop's primary pedagogy.

Giovanni bent the ribs for the violin. He bent six ribs: two for the upper bouts, two for the lower bouts, and two for the C-bouts, the narrow inward curves at the waist of the violin that give the instrument its distinctive silhouette and that provide the clearance for the bow. The C-bout ribs were the most difficult to bend because the curve was the tightest, the radius the smallest, the wood required to deform the most, and the most-deforming was the most-dangerous, the wood most likely to crack at the tightest curve, the fibers most stressed, the margin for error smallest.

He bent the C-bout ribs with a focus that Nadia recognized as the concentration of high performance, the concentration she had seen on the faces of soloists at the moment before the cadenza, the moment of maximum technical demand, the moment when the performer's entire being is gathered into the point of the present, the point of the action, the point of the doing. Giovanni's face had this concentration, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set, his hands moving with the deliberate slowness that is the opposite of hesitation, the slowness that is the maximum of control, every movement intentional, every pressure calibrated, every second of contact between the wood and the iron gauged by the feel of the wood in his hands.

The C-bout ribs curved. They did not crack. They curved to the tight radius that the C-bouts required, the curves smooth and even, the ribs conforming to the template's inward sweep, and the conforming was the achievement, the daily achievement that the workshop offered to the hands that earned it.

The ribs were glued to the blocks. The blocks were small pieces of willow, soft wood, carved to shape and glued to the template at the six points where the ribs would be joined: the upper block (at the top, where the neck would later be attached), the lower block (at the bottom, where the endpin would sit), and the four corner blocks (at the four points where the bouts meet the C-bouts). The blocks provided the structure, the internal framework to which the ribs were glued, the framework that gave the body its rigidity, its permanence, the transformation from flexible strips to rigid structure accomplished by the gluing of the ribs to the blocks.

Giovanni heated the hide glue. He applied it to the end of a rib and to the surface of a block. He pressed the rib against the block and he held it, held it with his hand while the glue cooled and set, the setting taking two minutes, three minutes, the minutes of holding that were the minutes of commitment, the rib becoming attached to the block, the attachment becoming the structure, the structure becoming the body.

Nadia held the ribs while Giovanni glued. Her hands served as clamps, her fingers pressing the thin maple against the blocks while the glue set, and the pressing was the participation, the apprentice's hands serving the master's vision, the holding that was the helping, the helping that was the learning. She felt the glue warm against her fingertips, felt it cool and thicken, felt the rib stiffen against the block as the glue set, the stiffening the evidence of the bond forming, the bond that would hold the rib to the block for the life of the instrument.

The garland. When all six ribs were glued to the blocks and the ribs were joined to each other at the corners, the assembly was called the garland, the Italian word ghirlanda, the wreath of ribs that formed the outline of the violin's body, the shape of the instrument visible for the first time as a three-dimensional object rather than a flat drawing, the shape standing up from the workbench, casting a shadow, occupying space, the space that would become the acoustic chamber, the space that would contain the sound.

Nadia looked at the garland. She looked at it from above, looking down into the open frame, the ribs forming the walls, the blocks providing the structure, the interior empty, the emptiness waiting for the top plate and the back plate that would close it, that would seal the sound inside, that would create the chamber. She looked into the emptiness and the emptiness was potential, was the space that the sound would fill, the space that was designed for the sound, shaped for the sound, the walls and the blocks and the proportions all calculated and crafted and assembled for the purpose of containing and shaping and projecting the sound that did not yet exist but that was being prepared for, built for, the way a house is built for the family that will live in it, the space preceding the occupant, the architecture preceding the life.

The garland sat on the workbench. The garland was the shape of the violin seen from the side, the thin profile, the shallow depth, the curves of the bouts visible in their full three-dimensionality, and the seeing was the thing, the thing that Nadia felt in her chest when she looked at the garland, the feeling of recognition, the recognition that the shape on the bench was becoming the thing she knew, the thing she had held under her chin for twenty-two years, the thing she had pressed against her body ten thousand times, and the becoming was the making, and the making was the work, and the work was hers now, partly, the ribs she had helped hold, the glue she had helped set, the participation that was the apprenticeship.

She looked at the garland and she saw the violin.

She saw the violin and the violin was not yet a violin, was not yet an instrument, was not yet a voice, but the shape was there, the shape was real, the shape was standing on the bench in the late December light, and the shape was the beginning of the becoming, and the becoming was the craft.

And the craft was the transformation.

And the transformation was the thing that the wood underwent when it met the iron.

And the thing was this: the wood resists. The wood yields. The yielding is not submission but transformation. The straight becoming curved, the flat becoming shaped, the raw becoming formed. The first two break. The third one bends.

And the bending is the lesson.

And the lesson is the work.