Violin
I remember a desire to build my own violin when I was a small child. It was while I was drawing the scroll on a block of wood and feeling a tickle of recognition that my imagination might not be enough to compensate for lack of actual ability that I suddenly and deeply understood the futility of creating a violin with scrap blocks of wood and a jigsaw. I threw the wood back in the bin.
Fast-forward to the present day and I'm standing at a workbench where a new acquaintance has been building his own violins through a course at IU. The process is much more complex and sophisticated than 9-year-old-me was prepared to take on, but it feels familiar and satisfying.
Violin deconstructed. Mid-repair. Vulnerable, exposed, and serene with graceful curving edges. I love seeing the normally shiny ensemble reduced to simple parts.
I run my hands along this raw form and catch my fingers on the rough surface. I like the crudeness, the visceral reminder of its primitive beginnings as the simple blocks of wood that bested me many years ago.
Naked, pale as bone.
It's the marks on the finished instruments that I really value, the violin maker's process marks which recall the labor and the movement of the hands. The sound the instrument produces is lovely but I'm also captivated by the physical violin, reflecting the human body's own complex and wonderful imperfection.
