Dmitry Gindin: Expert and consultant in fine stringed instruments

The market for fine stringed instruments was pioneered in Italy by Count Cozio di Salabue (1755-1840) and Luigi Tarisio (1790-1854). For decades, Cozio's Carteggio - virtually unknown until the 1950s and only translated into English in 2007 - together with sporadic and often unreliable notes from affluent nineteenth-century violin makers, constituted most of what passed for historical knowledge. Cozio is remembered as an enlightened gentleman and connoisseur, while Tarisio is cast as a worldly and sharp-witted operator. Their younger colleague and eventual distributor in Paris, Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume (1798-1875), was probably the world's first great maker-dealer, combining exceptional craftsmanship with genuine expertise. Otherwise, in the nineteenth century the feeble and poorly organised violin market was controlled by a handful of makers who, while devoting most of their time to producing and selling their own instruments in a competitive environment, only occasionally dealt in fine old examples.

For generations, an aura of mystique has surrounded this esoteric niche market. Until the late twentieth century, books on violins and bows were notoriously scarce, and those that did exist were often riddled with outdated or inaccurate information. Much of the knowledge in circulation derived from romanticised tales recounted by dealers, such as Benedetto Gioffredo-Rinaldi (1821-1886), who produced a fanciful biographical pamphlet on Giovanni Pressenda, and David Laurie (1833-1897), whose Reminiscences of a Fiddle Dealer (1900) blended anecdote with embellishment. Musicians and enthusiasts, relying mainly on their own sensibilities regarding tone and aesthetics, were largely at the mercy of the few who possessed deeper knowledge. This suited most dealers, since general ignorance made it easy to manipulate instruments and their labels.

The late nineteenth century brought the first signs of change. George Hart (1839-1891) produced his enlightening The Violin: Its Famous Makers and Their Imitators, completed by 1885 but not published until 1909. The first issues of The Strad appeared in 1890, followed by the Hill brothers' landmark monographs: their meticulously researched book on Stradivari (1902) and their study of the Guarneris (1931). In the mid-twentieth century, Ernst Doring contributed How Many Strads and his study of the Guadagnini family, offering unprecedented levels of factual and visual documentation. The 1960s and 1970s saw further important advances with Walter Hamma and Simone Sacconi. Such strides, impressive as they were, still paled in comparison with the progress made in most academic disciplines.

Since then, information has become far more accessible, and expertise in this highly complex field has broadened considerably. The last thirty years have brought substantial additions to previously sparse libraries and archives, particularly on old Italian violin makers and French bow makers, the result of tireless efforts by a small number of passionate individuals. Collaboration among experts and historians through conferences, round-tables, and exhibitions has yielded a rich body of articles in specialist journals and online platforms.

The past two decades have witnessed dramatic progress in instrument identification, greatly aided by new technologies. Scientific tools - dendrochronology for wood dating, ultraviolet light, and chemical analysis of varnishes - have added rigour to traditional connoisseurship. The evolution of digital photography and the internet has accelerated the dissemination of knowledge, creating greater demands for diligence and accountability. Violin expertise is now at its highest level to date, though mysteries still abound, as elusive as the makers themselves.

Yet how might a dealer, investor, or musician in search of the "right" instrument apply these tools and technologies? Simply absorbing the now abundant literature and online data is insufficient to achieve real knowledge, let alone to make sound investment decisions. Mastery requires much more: experience in making or restoring instruments, scholarship in violin-making history, the ability to play and understand the demands of string instruments, and above all, hands-on dealing with fine examples. Earlier generations of experts learned through first-hand exposure, often under the guidance of senior figures, rather than through classrooms or textbooks. Regular handling of a wide variety of instruments - fine and ordinary alike - remains essential to sustaining the long-term pursuit of expertise. Still, even a sharp eye, a near-photographic memory, and extensive knowledge offer no guarantee of success in dealing, a profession that typically demands substantial starting capital as well as sound business acumen.

With years of persistence in assimilating, compartmentalising, and applying such knowledge, one may begin to judge instruments with greater objectivity. Yet for many, this self-education proves costly: tuition is paid through misjudged acquisitions - examples with hidden flaws, or outright copies and fakes. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," the dealer consoles himself, pressing on with renewed resilience. Risk can be mitigated by avoiding purchases beyond one's level of experience, though mistakes often accelerate learning. In time, through continual exposure and critical reflection, one may evolve into a connoisseur or expert - able not only to recognise the obvious masterpieces, but also to resolve subtler puzzles and to share this knowledge with others.

The advancement of knowledge in fine stringed instruments is not a "hard" science driven purely by empirical, objective methods. Rather, it arises from a blend of fact and conjecture, evaluation, analysis, and debate. The erudition of a violin or bow expert rests on well-informed opinion, based on the best available evidence, but rarely on indisputable fact. A true expert accepts that his or her judgments will, sooner or later, be challenged - by others or by the expansion of personal experience. An antiquarian in this field is therefore wise to cultivate an open and questioning mind, even towards previously held convictions.

The walls of experts in other professions may be lined with academic diplomas; those of violin or bow experts are more likely adorned with signed photographs of great musicians they have served. The standing of an expert or dealer often rests on perceived stature within the trade, the number of important instruments that have passed through their hands or remain in their possession, and sometimes the prestige of their premises. Ultimately, however, the truest measure of expertise lies in the respect granted by colleagues and clients, with whom knowledge is shared and validated. Building and preserving a reputation in this niche, intrigue-laden market is no small achievement.

The knowledge of past and present experts has often been confined to narrowly defined domains. Those specialising in classical Italian instruments may know less about later Italian, French, or German schools, and vice versa. Understandably, most have concentrated on the great Italian masters, while giving less attention to makers of lower stature or from other regions. This is unfortunate, since many instruments from north of the Alps have had their makers' names deliberately effaced in order to pass them off as Venetian or Cremonese. Some of these forgotten names will eventually be reclaimed through dedicated research, though widespread recognition is unlikely until Italian instruments become so costly that musicians are compelled to seek alternative sources of beauty and quality.

Once an instrument's original label is removed, altered, or manipulated, our already inexact discipline becomes still more obscure, and expert opinions begin to diverge. Most labels in old instruments, even into the twentieth century, are inauthentic, displaced, or otherwise tampered with. Determining even an approximate year of production therefore depends largely on an expert's ability to interpret stylistic development over time. Fortunately, there exist indisputable examples - exceptionally pure instruments still bearing their original, dated, and unmoved labels or brands. Access to these benchmarks is essential, for they, together with the scientific tools now available, hold the keys to positive identification and dating. Yet no expert can be intimately familiar with every phase of every maker's career, many of which spanned decades of evolving work. Further complicating matters are the near-original labels inserted by direct followers, using paper, printing, and inks closely imitating those of their predecessors.

Copies that remain openly acknowledged as copies are abundant, and some collectors even prefer them to the originals. But once attributed to the hand of the master, they become treacherous, exposing buyers to significant losses. As in the wider world of art, one of the most intriguing subjects in violin and bow scholarship is collaboration - whether between family members, pupils, or followers - whose participation can often be discerned in a master's work. These overlapping or collaborative pieces, difficult to identify with certainty, are among the most fascinating riddles in a profession governed as much by market hunger for names as by connoisseurship.

The road to expertise in stringed instruments is long and often perilous, but the pursuit of resolving old mysteries and correcting past misattributions remains one of the field's greatest challenges - and rewards.