Closing the Box

The Luthier's Apprentice

Chapter 17: Closing the Box

The body is a box. The word is not elegant and Giovanni would not have used it, Giovanni who spoke of the cassa armonica, the harmonic case, the Italian term carrying the resonance of five centuries of making, but the English word is honest and the honesty is appropriate because the violin's body is, in its essentials, a box, a container, an enclosure designed to amplify and shape the vibrations of four strings, and the enclosure is the instrument, and the instrument is the box, and the box is what Giovanni was about to close.

March. The workshop had thawed. The radiators no longer labored against the Lombard cold, the stone walls releasing the winter's stored chill gradually, reluctantly, the way a player releases a note at the end of a long diminuendo, the releasing slow, the warmth arriving not as a change but as an accumulation, each day slightly warmer than the last, the difference imperceptible on any single day but visible over weeks, the workshop's temperature rising from the December lows to the March comfort that allowed Giovanni to work without the fingerless gloves he wore in January and February, the gloves that kept his hands warm enough to grip the tools while leaving his fingertips exposed, the fingertips needing the direct contact with the wood that gloves would have prevented, the direct contact being the sense, the sense being the knowledge, the knowledge being the craft.

The components were ready. The top plate with its f-holes cut and its bass bar glued. The back plate with its arching carved and its graduation complete. The garland of ribs glued to the blocks and the linings, the linings being thin strips of spruce glued to the inside edges of the ribs to provide a wider surface for the gluing of the plates, the linings another invisible component, another essential hidden element, and the linings had been glued and shaped and the garland was ready and the plates were ready and the readiness was the convergence, the moment when the separate components would become a single object, the moment of closing.

Giovanni laid the components on the bench. The back plate, arching down. The garland of ribs, placed on the back plate, the ribs sitting on the ledge of the back plate's outline, the outline cut slightly larger than the ribs to provide the overhang that is a hallmark of the Cremonese school, the overhang of approximately two and a half millimeters all around, the overhang that serves no acoustic purpose but that protects the edges of the plates from damage and that gives the violin its characteristic outline, the plates extending beyond the ribs like the brim of a hat extends beyond the crown.

He checked the fit. The garland on the back plate, the ribs meeting the plate at all points, the contact continuous, the fit tight, the surfaces meeting without gaps. He had spent two days adjusting the fit, shaving the linings, trimming the blocks, the adjustments measured in fractions of millimeters, the fractions the difference between a good fit and a perfect fit, and the perfect fit was the requirement, because the gluing of the plates to the ribs was permanent, was irreversible, was the closing that could not be opened without damaging the instrument, and the permanent required the perfect, and the perfect required the time, and the time had been taken.

Nadia watched. She watched from her position at the bench, standing where she had stood for six months, the standing that had become her posture, her way of being in the workshop, the standing that was not the standing of an observer but the standing of a participant, a participant whose participation was measured in the tasks she had performed and the skills she had acquired and the knowledge she had absorbed, and the participation was real, was substantial, was the apprenticeship made physical, the apprenticeship visible in her hands, in the calluses on her fingertips, in the stain of spruce sap on her apron, in the small cuts on her right thumb where the knife had slipped in the early months, the cuts healed now, the scars fading, the fading the body's way of integrating the work, of absorbing the evidence of the learning.

Giovanni heated the glue. The hide glue in the pot, the amber liquid, the smell of collagen and heat, the smell that was the workshop's most distinctive olfactory signature, the smell that Nadia associated with every gluing she had witnessed, every joint she had watched Giovanni close, the smell that was the smell of commitment, of irreversibility, of the moment when the separate becomes the joined and the joining is permanent.

The closing of the back. He applied the glue to the linings and the blocks, the brush moving quickly, the glue spread in a thin, even coat, the coat covering every surface that would meet the back plate, every point of contact, the glue applied with the speed that hide glue requires because hide glue sets fast, the window of workability measured in minutes, the minutes the urgency, the only urgency in a craft that otherwise operates at the pace of years.

He lifted the garland. He turned it over, the glued surfaces facing down. He lowered it onto the back plate, the ribs meeting the plate, the glue making contact, the contact the beginning of the bond, the bond beginning to form as the glue cooled, the proteins cross-linking, the adhesion developing, the separate pieces beginning their transformation into a single piece.

He pressed. He pressed the garland down onto the plate with his hands, his palms on the blocks, his fingers on the ribs, the pressing distributing the force evenly, the force pushing the glue into the pores of the wood, the pores accepting the glue, the glue and the wood becoming intertwined at the cellular level, the bond not merely adhesive but integrative, the glue entering the wood and the wood entering the glue and the boundary between them becoming ambiguous, becoming porous, becoming the kind of boundary that is more connection than separation.

Clamps. He placed the clamps around the perimeter of the assembly, small wooden clamps with cork pads, the cork protecting the wood from the clamp's pressure, the clamps spaced every three centimeters, the spacing close because the pressure must be even, must be distributed across the full perimeter, any gap in pressure a potential gap in the glue joint, any gap in the glue joint a potential source of buzzing or rattling or air leakage when the instrument is played.

The clamps went on quickly. Giovanni's hands moving with the practiced speed of a man who has clamped hundreds of assemblies, each clamp placed and tightened with a motion that was three gestures compressed into one, the placing and the aligning and the tightening a single fluid action, the fluidity the product of practice, the practice the product of years.

Nadia helped. She placed clamps on the lower bout while Giovanni placed clamps on the upper bout, the two of them working together, the first time they had worked simultaneously on the same operation, the collaboration a mark of her advancement, her promotion from observer to assistant, the promotion unannounced, uncelebrated, communicated only by the handing of the clamps, Giovanni handing her six clamps and pointing to the lower bout and the pointing the commissioning, the trust made visible in the gesture.

She placed the clamps. She placed them carefully, the care her primary tool, the care that compensated for her lack of experience, the care that substituted for the fifty years she did not have, the care that was the beginner's version of skill, the care that would, with time, evolve into the ease that Giovanni displayed, the ease that is the far side of care, the ease that comes after the care has been practiced so many times that it becomes automatic, and the automatic is not carelessness but its opposite, the automatic is care that no longer requires effort, care that has become instinct.

The clamps were on. The assembly sat on the bench, the clamps bristling from the edges like the teeth of a gear, the assembly awkward and industrial-looking, the beauty of the plates and the elegance of the ribs hidden by the utilitarian clamps, the beauty temporarily subordinated to the function, the function being the bond, the bond being the permanent joining of the back plate to the ribs.

They waited. The glue set. Giovanni made espresso. He brought two cups to the bench and they drank standing, looking at the clamped assembly, the assembly that was half a violin, the back and the ribs joined, the front still open, the interior still visible through the opening where the top plate would go, the opening that was the last view of the inside, the last chance to see the bass bar and the linings and the blocks and the interior surfaces that would soon be sealed, enclosed, hidden, the interior becoming the invisible, the invisible becoming the permanent, the permanent becoming the sound.

The top plate. Giovanni picked it up. The plate with the f-holes, the plate with the bass bar glued to its underside, the plate that was the soundboard, the plate that would produce the voice. He held it above the assembly, the back plate and ribs below, the top plate above, the two plates facing each other like two hands about to clasp, the two hands that would clasp and not release, the clasping permanent, the permanent the closure.

He lowered the plate. He did not glue it yet. He placed it on the ribs, dry, unglued, checking the fit, checking the alignment, the alignment of the f-holes with the center line of the body, the alignment of the overhang, the alignment of the plates with each other, the two archings facing each other across the narrow space of the acoustic chamber, the space that was approximately thirty millimeters deep, the depth of the ribs, the space that would contain the sound.

The fit was right. The alignment was right. The overhang was even. Giovanni lifted the plate, set it aside, and began the gluing. The same process as the back: glue on the linings and blocks, the garland inverted, the plate placed, the pressing, the clamping, the speed, the care, the urgency of the hide glue's setting time.

The top plate went on. The clamps went on. The body was closed.

The body was closed and the closing was an event that Nadia felt in her chest, felt as a constriction, a tightening, the physical sensation of witnessing something irreversible, something final, something that could not be undone without destruction. The body was closed and the inside was sealed and the bass bar was in the dark and the interior surfaces were in the dark and the acoustic chamber was complete, was enclosed, was the space that the sound would fill, the space that was designed for the sound, shaped for the sound, and the sound was not yet there, the sound was weeks away, the sound waiting for the neck and the bridge and the strings, but the space was ready, the space was complete, the space was the box.

She looked at the closed body. She looked at it from above, the top plate with its f-holes, the f-holes the only openings, the only access to the interior, the only portals through which the sound would escape and the light would enter, the f-holes the violin's only windows, the windows through which the sealed interior communicated with the external world. She could see through the f-holes into the dark interior, could see a glimpse of the bass bar, a shadow of the blocks, the interior of the instrument visible only in fragments, in the narrow views afforded by the sinuous openings, the views partial and evocative, the way a view through a keyhole is partial and evocative, the partial view suggesting the whole, the suggestion more powerful than the full view because the suggestion engages the imagination, and the imagination completes.

The body sat on the bench. The clamps held the plates to the ribs. The glue set. The body became one thing, ceased to be components, ceased to be plates and ribs and blocks and linings and became the body, the single object, the unified form, the form that was the shape of the violin, the shape that had not changed in three hundred years, the shape that was the template made three-dimensional, the shape that was the arching made resonant, the shape that was the craft made physical.

Marco came to look. He came from his bench, where he was working on the back plate of his viola, the viola that was his first full-sized instrument, the viola that was his own project within the workshop, his own expression of the craft that he was learning, and he came to look at Giovanni's closed body the way a younger colleague comes to see a senior colleague's work, with respect and interest and the quiet assessment of a craftsman evaluating another craftsman's achievement.

Marco looked at the body. He looked at the f-holes, at the arching, at the overhang, at the line where the plates met the ribs, the line that was the joint, the visible seam where the different components met, the seam that in a well-made instrument is so tight that it is nearly invisible, and in Giovanni's instrument the seam was nearly invisible, the plates meeting the ribs with a precision that left no gap, no ridge, no discontinuity, the joint smooth, the transition from rib to plate seamless.

Marco said: bello. Beautiful. The word was evaluation and tribute, the single Italian word containing the assessment that the work deserved, the assessment of beauty, which in the context of the workshop was the assessment of quality, beauty and quality being the same thing in the Cremonese tradition, the beautiful instrument being the well-made instrument, the well-made instrument being the beautiful instrument, the equation fundamental, the fundamental unquestioned.

Giovanni nodded. The nod accepted the compliment without vanity, the nod of a man who had heard the compliment many times and who understood that the compliment was not for him but for the work, and the work was the thing, the work was the body on the bench, and the body was the violin, and the violin was the tradition, and the tradition was the thing that deserved the compliment, not the man, because the man was the tradition's servant, the tradition's instrument, the hands through which the tradition expressed itself.

The body rested. The clamps would stay on overnight. The glue would cure. In the morning Giovanni would remove the clamps and he would trim the overhang and he would cut the purfling channel and inlay the purfling, the thin decorative strip of wood — black-white-black, three strips laminated together — that runs around the perimeter of the plates, just inside the edge, the purfling serving both aesthetic and structural purposes, the aesthetic purpose being the visual framing of the plates and the structural purpose being the prevention of cracks from propagating inward from the edges, the purfling acting as a crack-stopper, an interruption in the grain that redirects the energy of a crack and prevents it from traveling into the body of the plate.

But the purfling was tomorrow. Today was the closing. Today was the moment when the box was sealed, when the interior became the permanent interior, when the sound was enclosed in the space that would shape it and project it and give it the character that was this violin's character and no other's.

Nadia stood at the bench and she looked at the closed body and she felt the thing she had felt all day, the constriction, the tightening, but now the constriction was different, was not the constriction of witnessing finality but the constriction of recognition, the recognition that the closing of the box was a metaphor she had not invited but could not refuse, the metaphor of enclosure, of sealing, of the interior sealed away from the exterior, the interior containing the essential things, the bass bar and the sound post and the graduated surfaces and the air, the air that would vibrate, the air that would become the sound, and the interior was sealed and the essential things were hidden and the hidden things were the things that mattered.

She had sealed her own interior. She had enclosed her own essential things. The grief and the loss and the music and the memory of the left hand working and the memory of the Tchaikovsky at nineteen and the memory of the orchestra and the memory of the applause and the memory of the standing ovation at Severance Hall, all of it sealed inside her, enclosed, the exterior showing the calm surface of the apprentice at the bench, the apprentice who worked and learned and improved and who did not cry and who did not complain and who held her left hand in her right hand only in the privacy of the room above the workshop, and the privacy was the sealing, and the sealing was the closure, and the closure was the box.

But the box was not a prison. The box was an instrument. The box was the thing that made the sound possible. The sealing of the interior was not the silencing of the interior but the preparation for the sounding of the interior, the acoustic chamber needing to be sealed in order to resonate, the resonance requiring the enclosure, the enclosure providing the conditions for the sound, and the sound would come, the sound was coming, the sound was weeks away, the sound of the violin that Giovanni was making and that Nadia was helping to make, the sound that would emerge from the box that was now closed, that was now sealed, that was now resting on the bench in the March light with the clamps bristling from its edges and the glue setting in the dark interior.

She placed her hand on the top plate. She placed her palm flat on the spruce, between the f-holes, in the area where the bridge would later sit, the area that was the heart of the soundboard, the point of maximum vibration, the point where the sound was born. She felt the wood beneath her hand. She felt the arching, the curve, the smoothness of the planed surface. She felt the warmth of the wood, the warmth that the spruce had absorbed from the workshop's air, the warmth that made the wood feel alive, the aliveness the product of temperature and texture and the particular density of the spruce that made it feel organic, animal, closer to skin than to stone.

She pressed. She pressed gently, the pressure of a hand testing, assessing, greeting. The plate responded. The plate flexed, slightly, the flex the product of the arching and the graduation, the plate thin enough to flex, to vibrate, the flex the promise of the sound, the sound that the flex would become when the bridge transmitted the string's vibration to the plate and the plate vibrated and the vibration became sound and the sound filled the box and the box projected the sound through the f-holes into the room.

She lifted her hand. She stepped back. She looked at the closed body.

The body was a box. The box was an instrument. The instrument was a violin.

The violin was not yet complete. The violin needed the neck and the scroll and the fingerboard and the pegs and the tailpiece and the bridge and the sound post and the strings and the varnish. The violin needed months of work. But the body was done. The body was closed. The body was the thing that the wood had become, the thing that the spruce from the Val di Fiemme and the maple from Bosnia and the hide glue from the pot on the shelf and the hands of the maker and the hands of the apprentice had combined to produce.

The body was the box.

And the box was waiting for the sound.