Part 2: Rethinking Antiquing in Contemporary Violin Making
Bench Copy by Gregg T. Alf
In Part 1, I wrote about my early passion for antiquing — how replicating wear, patina, and age once felt like a powerful way to connect with the past. But over time, I found myself asking: what if a violin’s story didn’t need to be simulated?
Part 2: Lessons from the Messiah Stradivari
That question crystallized in 2016, when I helped curate the 300th-anniversary exhibition of the Messiah Stradivari violin in Cremona. It was the first time the violin had left England and returned home since 1716. Seeing it arrive — flawless, luminous, almost untouched — felt like greeting a ghost from Antonio Stradivari’s own workshop bench.
We examined it under blacklight, focusing on the signs of wear. It was pure, as though frozen in time. I estimate it’s been played for only about a year in total. Just enough to prove it had lived, not enough to disturb its beauty.
Standing before it, I realized something profound: the Messiah didn’t need wear to have authority. It carried its majesty in its clarity. Its varnish, still bright with life, was not missing history — it was history, uncorrupted.
Gregg Alf and Antonio Stradivari 1716 “Messiah” violin. Picture from Museo del Violin - Cremona and taken by Roberto Domenichini.
Earlier in my career as a violin maker, I had spent countless hours softening corners, dimming brightness, and creating the illusion of age. But after seeing the Messiah, I began to feel differently. Why erase the clarity I had worked so hard to create? Why blur what was already beautiful?
The Messiah showed me that a violin could begin pure and earn its story honestly. It gave me permission to trust the present moment — to believe that an instrument could step into the world unburdened, and let time and music give it depth.
This was not a renunciation of antiquing. I still love it — the poetry, the textures, the visual complexity that draws the eye. But I began to see that such richness could come in other forms. A surface can be alive without being worn. A varnish can be rich and alive without imitating age.
In our field, the violin has long been both a tool and a totem — something to be played, but also something to be admired, even worshipped. Over time, I came to feel that my role as a violin maker wasn’t to replicate the past, but to carry it forward in a way that felt true to my craft. The violin I hand to a musician today is not finished; it is just beginning. Its story will be shaped by their hands, over time.
The Messiah reminded me that a violin’s power doesn’t come from its scars, but from its soul — and that purity can be a kind of beauty.
Picture: Ashmolean Museum, Benjamin Baker.
On Becoming Oneself
When I look back now, I see antiquing in violin making as a bridge — one I had to cross to find my own voice. I once said that making replicas felt like being a chef with a signature dish. Each new commission was another serving of the same exquisite recipe — prepared with care, yes, but predictable. And like every chef, I eventually felt the pull to create new flavors, to experiment, to surprise even myself.
I still revere the old instruments. I own a Guarneri and love its worn edges and faded corners. But I’ve learned that beauty doesn’t have to hide behind imitation. The complexity that once came from simulating cracks and patina can instead come from color, from transparency, from the dialogue between varnish and light.
(Top) Stradivari, 1716 “Messiah”, (Bottom) Stradivari, 1718 “San Lorenzo”.
Today, my work seeks that kind of authenticity — complexity born from craft rather than camouflage. I want my violins to have presence, not illusion; luminosity, not nostalgia. When I antique now, it’s no longer to fool the eye into believing in age, but to enrich the surface with life.
In the broader world of modern violin making, antiquing has become almost universal. Factories now mass-produce “old” violins, and many workshops chase that look because players expect it. But expectation is not destiny.
At the same time, I hold deep respect for the makers who continue to antique with extraordinary care and artistry. Their work is a craft of love, discipline, and imagination. I know this, because I once felt that same joy. And many today have taken the art of antiquing further than I ever did, reaching new heights with a sensitivity and skill that I sincerely admire.
I don’t see this as a question of right or wrong — only of direction. Each maker must find their own voice.
Because no one can be better than Stradivari at being Stradivari. And no one can be better than me at being myself.
That understanding isn’t a conclusion. It’s a quiet milestone: one point on a path that’s still unfolding. I return to the bench each day, working with varnish, still captivated by its mystery. But now, when I hold the brush, I’m not trying to recreate someone else’s masterpiece. I’m simply trying to craft something that reflects where I am in the journey.
End of Series: Rethinking Antiquing in Contemporary Violin Making.
Missed Part 1? Find it here.
