Prologue

It is hard being a violin – you are made with great anticipation of the brilliant music that you will bring forth, and then you are abandoned by each subsequent owner, put in a corner, in a closet, in an attic, without so much as being given the chance of showing what you can do. My life was no different. It started in 1873 when a talented young violin builder laid his hands on a Stradivarius violin and took it apart, measured it, analyzed it and attempted to recreate the masterpiece for himself, shaping and building each part of me by hand. I was supposed to be a masterpiece, but I ended up being a study violin, second class, not up-to-par.

This is the story of my life – being not perfect but practical – used by children and adults to learn to play and then being abandoned as they move on to something else. If practice makes perfect, I should be a real Stradivarius now! In what follows I will tell some of my life’s stories as I have seen much and heard more that is worth re-telling, even if it is not about the great violinists of this earth but about the small triumphs and despairs of the ordinary folks who played me.

Episode 1: 1875

“I don’t want to practice anymore!” the girl yelled and threw the violin down on the sofa.  “I hate it!  I hate it!  I hate this stupid violin!”  She gave the violin another shove with her hand and the strings rung out in protest.  Her tutor looked at her with a faint smile on his face.  He was not going to give in to this little brat, nor would her father allow him to.   Herr Steinlich had been very adamant that he wanted his daughter to learn to play the violin, and he was the kind of man that you do not contradict. And what’s more, Herr Steinlich was paying handsome money. Of course, Bertha didn’t show a lot of talent for playing the violin, but Ludwig rather liked a challenge.

He picked up the violin and started playing a soothing melody, the strings responded to the bow’s smooth movement and soon both Ludwig and Bertha were entranced, as if the violin wanted to show that it was not its fault. The wood vibrated with each note and the strings that were not being played resonated with a deep, full undertone.

“Listen,” the violin said, “It is so simple, move your bow over the strings with just the right amount of pressure and put the fingers of your other hand in the right places to make the notes and out comes the most beautiful music. You can do it too, trust me!”

When Ludwig stopped playing Bertha said, “That was beautiful! I will never be able to play like that.”

Ludwig looked at her and said, “You know that is not true. Of course you can, but you need to learn to listen to your instrument. It will tell you how it wants you to play it, if you only open up your ears. Here, take the violin and the bow and let’s try again. This time, close your eyes. Take the bow and put it on a string. It doesn’t matter which one. With your other hand, just hold the neck, don’t touch any strings, and now draw the bow slowly but firmly over the string.” As he was talking, Bertha did what he instructed her, and out came the most wonderful sound, that took her breath away.

The violin was relieved. Finally, it was able to breathe. Too often it had been stuffed away in a closet after Bertha had tried to wring its neck in frustration. It heard Ludwig say, “Now put your index finger on the string, press firmly but not too hard, and move your bow again. Listen to what the violin tries to tell you. If it sounds choked, you’re not putting your finger in the right spot, if it sounds liberated – the violin is telling you that you have hit the spot!”

Yes, thought the violin, that’s exactly it. I am either choked or liberated, there is no in between.

Bertha tried what Ludwig was suggesting and after sliding her finger around a bit, she found the sweet spot. “Yes,” she cried out “it is true! The violin is talking to me!”

“Good,” Ludwig said, “we’ll close the lesson with this. Just keep practicing to listen to the violin. It has a lot to say.” Ludwig pulled on his cape and headed for the door.

In the hallway, Bertha’s father stood listening. “She is making some progress, isn’t she, Ludwig?” “

Yes,” Ludwig said “but it’s still a long road ahead.”

“I’m sure you can handle it, my dear young fellow. ” Herr Steinlich said, expecting no answer.

That evening Bertha was in her room with the violin. She had been intrigued all day by what Ludwig had said. It seemed so stupid, a violin that talks to you? But she couldn’t deny what she had felt when she was playing it. She picked up the violin again and looked at it intently. What if the violin could really talk? What could it tell her?

She knew that it was made especially for her in the shop in town just a couple of years ago. As the daughter of the town’s mayor, she was expected to train in the fine arts and playing music was one skill she was supposed to have before she married. She sighed and placed the violin under her chin. She closed her eyes just like Ludwig had told her and drew the bow over the open a-string. A beautiful resonating tone came out.

The violin decided it was time to give Bertha a lesson. It used the vibration of the string to communicate to humans and if they were really tuned into the instrument they could perceive the meaning of what the violin wanted to say.

“Go on,” it said “you’re doing fine. Now play a little melody.”

Bertha startled and turned around. It was as if someone had stood behind her and encouraged her to go on, but there was no-one there. What on earth? She put the bow on the strings again and played a simple melody that Ludwig had taught her.

“No. “the violin said, “That’s not it. You’re choking me again. Try again and this time put your fingers down carefully, don’t rush it, slowly find the proper places.”

Bertha looked at the violin again. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re really talking to me.”

But since she wasn’t playing the violin it couldn’t respond to her. She put it on her shoulder again and started playing the same melody slowly, paying close attention to where her fingers were going. This time the notes came out vibrant and alive, and Bertha felt goose bumps rise on her arms. She tried it again a little faster but still paying close attention to how the violin was sounding. The violin vibrated in harmony and hummed its approval. “Yes, yes, go on, this is it, you’re setting me free, I can sing again! I can breathe again.”

Prologue

It is hard being a violin – you are made with great anticipation of the brilliant music that you will bring forth, and then you are abandoned by each subsequent owner, put in a corner, in a closet, in an attic, without so much as being given the chance of showing what you can do. My life was no different. It started in 1873 when a talented young violin builder laid his hands on a Stradivarius violin and took it apart, measured it, analyzed it and attempted to recreate the masterpiece for himself, shaping and building each part of me by hand. I was supposed to be a masterpiece, but I ended up being a study violin, second class, not up-to-par.

This is the story of my life – being not perfect but practical – used by children and adults to learn to play and then being abandoned as they move on to something else. If practice makes perfect, I should be a real Stradivarius now! In what follows I will tell some of my life’s stories as I have seen much and heard more that is worth re-telling, even if it is not about the great violinists of this earth but about the small triumphs and despairs of the ordinary folks who played me.

Episode 1: 1875

“I don’t want to practice anymore!” the girl yelled and threw the violin down on the sofa next to which she was standing.  “I hate it!  I hate it!  I hate this stupid violin!”  With these words she gave the violin another shove with her hand and the strings rung out in protest.  Her tutor looked at her with a faint smile on his face.  He was not going to give in to this little brat, nor would her father allow him to.   Herr Steinlich had been very adamant that he wanted his daughter to learn to play the violin, and he was the kind of man that you do not contradict. And what’s more, Herr Steinlich was paying handsome money. Of course, Bertha didn’t show any talent for playing the violin, but Ludwig rather liked a challenge.

To be continued…

__________________________

Ideas for continuing this

There will be 4 short pieces documenting episodes from the violin’s life, each about 1000-1500 words.

1. 19^th century Germany / upper class family, untalented daughter
2. Groundskeeper / first world war / emigration to the Netherlands / too busy to play
3. Horticulturist / early-mid 20^th century Holland/ multitalented, creative, seeking beauty in everything – art, music, photography, gardening / lost interest as other creative outlets took over.
4. Becoming a fiddle / late 20^th century Holland, then USA / Delving into Irish music.

White liquid paper has almost become obsolete with computers and word processors. The backspace and delete keys are so much more convenient for making typing errors disappear, not to mention that most modern word processors now have autocorrect – you don’t even have to backspace anymore if you make one of the many common mistakes. It is funny, though, because if your word processor thinks you’re writing in one language, but you’re writing in another you will get odd results. One time my email program accused me of using offensive language when I wrote an email in Dutch to my sister. I’m still wondering which words in English I don’t know that triggered the program to think it was offensive. I didn’t see any, but I might not be totally aware of all offensive words in English. So what use is white liquid paper and why do I still have a bottle on my desk? Well I still use it occasionally when I am filling in forms, because I always was a klutz with forms, and frequently fill out one thing in one part of the form that needs to go in another. But that’s about it, I think. The little bottle is slowly drying up and there will be a moment in time, not so long from now that it will not readily disburse its milky whiteness anymore. As with many other images of the past, such as carbon paper, typewriters, washboards and rotary phones, white liquid paper will be a thing to be fondly reminisce about to get in that comfortable space that is nostalgia.

The Bus Stop

John and Martha had been a nice couple, it was sad to see they had broken up several months ago.  But now John had written to Martha to wait for him at the bus stop because he was coming home.  It was the worst night of the year, snow coming down hard and fast, there had already been several accidents on the highway.  Martha was standing at the bus stop,  she was glad he had finally come to his senses and was prepared to give him one more chance.  The bus was late, which was to be expected in this weather, and it was cold.  She contemplated going back to her car and wait for the bus there, but then she heard it round the corner in the distance and she could hear the engine strain against the slippery hill.  John hoped that Martha would be there, because it would be very hard for him to get home without her being there with a car.  Martha had always been so easy to manipulate, he was sure he could do it again.

The Bus Stop (2)

John sat in the front of the bus, close to the bus driver.  He was anxiously waiting for the bus to approach the stop where he used to get off all these years that he lived with Martha.  He realized more than ever how much he still loved her, and that he needed to convince her to try to get back together if he was to keep his sanity. He craned his head and now he could see the familiar figure of Martha through the snow that came down hard, her hands were deep in her pockets and her head was bent down low to keep the snow out of her face.  She didn’t see the bus coming and started as it came to a stop and the doors opened.  “John,” she said, “you shouldn’t have come.”

The Bus Stop (3)

What on earth was I thinking to agree to this? This is madness, the snow is coming down so hard, I can’t even see the corner where the bus turns.  My feet are absolutely frozen.  John can be so manipulative, and it is so hard to resist him. I need to tell him really what I think.  I should not let him come home with me and should leave him here in the snow.  Oh, there is the bus, and there he is coming down the steps.  “You shouldn’t have come”, I manage to get across my frozen lips.  “You can get right back on the next bus, I’m sick and tired of you manipulating me.”  I turn and walk to my car, trying hard not to run and to give the impression I am calm. I feel vindicated that he probably will have to wait for an hour for the next bus, if there even will be another one today.

Bus Stop (4)

As Martha walked away, she heard John utter a surprised and angry cry.  He ran towards her, and, catching up, grabbed her wrist.  Martha was prepared, she knew her ex so very well, and as he grabbed her wrist she spun around and instinctively applied what she had learned at her self-defense classes.  As she was smaller, lighter and faster than the 6 feet 5 tall John, she swung around his body, twisting her wrist loose.  John felt himself loose his footing on the slippery pavement.  “Man,” he thought, “she’s something!  I’m going to fall!”.  As he crashed into the ice-covered asphalt, he heard the bone of his right leg snap, and he saw Martha get into her car.

Bus Stop (5)

The bus stop was at the end of the bus line.  There were a handful of people assembled, braving the elements. The bus was running about 45 minutes late.  The weather was predicted to worsen considerably over the course of the day and the bus service was irregular, as the buses were hampered by snowdrifts, heavy wind and slick roads.  Several accidents had already occurred.  One of the passengers on the bus was traveling to meet his ex-wife, who was waiting for him at the last bus stop.  As the bus came to a stop there was a large gathering of rescue personnel trying to revive a person who had collapsed due to the cold.  The man looked out of the window of the warm bus. It was his ex-wife.

Fiddle: I’m ok, feel a little neglected though. It’s not as if you’ve not been in here all this time, you could at least have picked me up once in a while.

Me: Yea, sorry, you’re right and I will do that. I’ve at least made sure you had enough moisture so that you wouldn’t crack with the air conditioner going.

Fiddle: Yes, I appreciate that. I’m old and drying me out will most certainly crack me along the veins of my wood.

Me: So how old are you actually?

Fiddle: I was made by a German craftsman in or around 1870. I don’t know for sure, which year it was but there were no computers, no cars or telephone.

Me: Tell me more about the man who made you

Fiddle: My maker was a middle aged man who delighted in making violins. He had a very astute musical sense, as well as very fine motor skills needed to make raw wood into a musical instrument. He was an apprentice to a well-known violin builder in the 1850s and learned how to make violins by making copies of good instruments, like those made by Stradivarius in earlier centuries.

Me: How did he copy the Strad exactly? Don’t tell me he took it apart!

Fiddle: Well, yes, he did. At that time there were quite a few Stradivariuses around and they were not as valuable as they would be now, so the shop where my builder apprenticed had taken apart a Strad and exactly measured the thickness of the wood, the curves of the upper and lower body parts, the length of the finger board, the placement of the sound posts and all those things. They even tried to analyze the finish that was applied to the wood because it was believed that this was a contributing factor to the fact that Strads had such superior sound.

Me: So are you a copy of a Strad?

Fiddle: As a matter of fact, yes I am, just look inside me through the f-holes and you’ll see on the label that I am a copy of one of the Strad models. Of course you will never hear my full potential with your pitiable attempts at playing me.

Me: Watch your language there, or I might not pick you up ever again, and throw you in the fire place. I’m sure you would burn nice and bright! How did Opa obtain you?

Fiddle: I had been purchased in 1871 by a rich German for his daughter. He had hired a tutor for her and she was to learn to play the violin. In that era many upper-class women were taught the fine-arts and were trained to entertain their husbands and guests. The woman in question did not have a particular talent for the violin and soon after landing in that household I was left, abandoned in a closet, while she explored the piano. Years later she married and gave me to her gardener, as a token of her gratitude because he had given her a beautiful garden. This is where your grandfather comes into the picture. The gardener on the German estate fled Germany during the first World War in 1914. He settled in the Netherlands, growing flowers for resale and became quite wealthy himself. He continued playing me but died in 1920. His son continued the business and during the depression, as a young man, your grandfather did some work for him in the nursery. Because inflation was so rampant then, payment was often in kind, and since the son didn’t know how to play me, he gave me to your grandfather in exchange for his labor.

1. My spinning wheel – the spinning wheel for me signifies creation at its root. Making yarn from raw materials that may or may not be organized before the spinning starts, it is actually pretty close to the writing process if you look at it that way. It is no wonder that the phrase “spinning a yarn” has a second, less literal meaning. Unorganized fibers lead to lumpy yarns as free writing leads to unexpected bumps and detours.

2. A picture of my father, who passed away 20 years ago. In the picture he looks like a British nobleman, although he was a middleclass Dutch bookkeeper – almost the opposite of nobility, yet his features have something noble about them. He looks into the distance, not at the camera, green trees behind him, and a hint of a smile around his mouth. He never showed much of his emotions, being a very reserved and introverted man, so this is a very typical expression and exactly as I remember him. I remember when this photograph was taken very well, a couple of months before his death. We were all gathered at my grandparents’ home during a family gathering. It brings back both happy memories and sadness about his untimely passing due to a road accident.

3. My loom on which I weave fabrics. The metaphor of weaving stories of our lives into the fabric is obvious, and I’m not going to go there. The loom is significant to me because my visual creativity loves the process of interlacing yarns and threads to make patterns that change according to which combination of warp threads are lowered or raised at each pass of the weft shuttle. The boundless possibilities of combining different threads gives limitless design options, as combining words in sentences makes for never ending variations in meaning.

4. My violin, or fiddle, as I commonly refer to it. It belonged to my grandfather, who gave it to me before his passing, as I was the only grandchild that seemed to have an interest in it. For a long time I didn’t really look at it, but when I turned forty, years after granddad passed away, I started learning to play it in earnest. The object of the fiddle itself carries many emotional connections to my grandfather, and often, when I play I can sense his presence and encouragement to continue to play it, to explore my creativity and expand my abilities. Qualities that he himself exhibited throughout his long life. He lived to be 94.

I found an old candle in a drawer. It is made out of pale yellow beeswax, about an inch thick and about half-way burned up. No real beauty, but natural and functional, like most things in my life. I remember the last time we used it, when the power went out and we needed some light, while a snowstorm was raging outside. It sits in a silver candle holder that a friend in college gave me as a present. I have not used it in many years, it looks really neglected. The silver needs polishing; it has black stains on it. The green felt at the bottom protects the furniture from scratches.

The warmth of the flame radiates to my hand when I light the candle with a match. It illuminates the papers on my desk and I can see its reflection in the computer screen as I am writing these words. The air flow from the air conditioner makes the flame flicker. It wiggles from side to side, as if it wants to get away from the candle to start a life of its own. The flicker creates moving shadows on the walls that make me fidgety. I never understood how people could meditate by staring at the flame of a candle. It is not restful and distracts me.

The candle has no smell other than that of burning beeswax. It reminds me of the beeswax in my aromatherapy diffuser warming up to receive the essence of some flower to calm me down or rev me up. I can smell the eucalyptus scent in my mind, and almost feel it clearing my nose and lungs, even though I am not really inhaling it.

To start off, a small poem that popped up in my head this morning:

my writing on a stick,
compressed into nothingness;
a bit here and a byte there,
fragments of the imagination.

does it exist if I can’t see it?
it lives in obscurity,
until I open my computer
for all to see.

not even words on paper,
but energy patterns
on a magnetic disk.
my energy!

keep away the magnets!
my words barely hold on,
clinging to the RAM
that was assigned to them.

fleeting thoughts,
bits erased.
now it’s here,
now it’s not.