I remember walking into my violin teacher's house at night with my parents. We were looking for a new violin because my old one was a little too old. I seriously loved that old violin though, it had the warmest sound, and the gentlest nature and was as as forgiving as the nice girl in class who used to lend you her only eraser. But somehow, it just didn't let you express what you wanted to. It was that, gentle, forgiving and soft. I needed a new violin, those grade fives ain't easy.
I battered my persuasive eyelashes at my parents, willing them somehow into providing me a new violin. However, their breaking point came when I finally passed my grade five and my teacher commented, the kid needs a new violin.
Mr Boey, I (masculine version of hearts) you much.
I sat down in my teacher's home. There were five newly crafted violins, never played for more than an hour by anyone. Each with their own distinct sound, appearance and smell. Yes, smell. Every violin has a sort of oaksy scent, though its made from maple. It smells wooden, organic, living, inviting you to pull a bow across its strings. So I did.
Across each of them I pulled my teacher's bow, a five thousand dollar stick with horsehair. Each unique in its own way, having been handcrafted in China. Thing about China is that, they normally export their violins over to luthiers Europe to have them fine tuned, normally to have a little engraving on the scroll of the violin, and to stick their english brands and an extra thousand dollar price on what was a cheaper violin.
Mine was straight from China, raw with minute chips in its outlines and slight mistakes in its varnish.
I tried every violin, not sure what I was looking for because I played my older, darker violin. I opened the last violin case and the first thing I noticed was how brightly orange the violin was. it has a diamond shaped splatch of darker orange on its back and brownish tiger stripes all over. As I drew a note, the first sounds were brash, loud and piercing. Like a lady dressed in a red dress screaming obscenities. Regardless, I played through, running through a scale. It was difficult to play because the strings were positioned further from the the fretboard.
But it was so vivacious! Resonant and vibrant! It could run from this end to that end, screaming rogue pitches whenever you didn't pay attention. The sound was pure, beautiful in no ways subtle, unless you tried very hard for it to be.
I didn't like it.
But my parents did and so did my teacher, thing was, it was so different from my old violin. Like a demure next door girl traded for a loud, brash, vivacious 19 year old. I was terrified.
Joseph, I think you better just go get this violin. And I got it after some uhhhs and ahhhss...
Having written this, my orangy violin is still with me. Mellowed down and warmer but and still brash as fury. Still difficult to play. It's lying there in my closet leaning on my suitcases. After three years, and alot of learning, I still take it out to play whenever I'm stressed or in need of a pick me up. Thing is, I gradually realised that it's sound was indeed beautiful. But I didn't know because i was so used to my old violin.
One day, switching back to my old violin, the sound was warm, as usual. But so boring and dry. So lacking in expression. Then I realised, that I liked my new violin.
Discalimer: The writer only has a passing grade for grade five and is in no ways pro at the violin.
