Maestro Stefano Conia Senior, dean of the Cremonese luthiers, has turned eighty, a central figure in late twentieth-century violin making and a direct witness to an unrepeatable era of the Cremona school.

Conia is a man from another time: charismatic, straightforward, uncompromising. A strong temperament forged by daily work, a near-military discipline, and absolute dedication to his craft. Nothing in his story came easily or was ever given.

He often defines himself, not without pride, as Austro-Hungarian—not just because of his family origins, but for a way of being that evokes rigor, character, a sense of duty, and a vision of work as a total vocation. His name, now known and respected worldwide, is the result of decades of labor, study, constant engagement with musicians, and unwavering consistency.

The following is a long conversation in which Stefano Conia retraces his life as a luthier: Cremona in the 1970s, the masters, the school, difficulties, bureaucracy, the market, competition, sound, the identity of the instrument, and the weight of the moral and professional legacy he received.

Q: Maestro Conia, looking at your experience, how has the craft of the luthier changed from the 1970s to today?
A: In the 1970s, there were very few of us, just a handful. The difficulties existed even then, but they were very different. When there were only three or four of us, there might have been a little jealousy, but the context was simple. Today there are hundreds, maybe even more, and not everyone even knows each other. The world of violin making has grown tremendously, but along with that, the complexities have increased as well.

I don’t envy those starting out today. When I began in 1972, VAT was introduced, and even that seemed like a major change. But today bureaucracy has become enormous: regulations, taxes, IT procedures, home banking, managing digital documents and images. These are all things unrelated to the craft of violin making, but they cannot be ignored and they make the work heavier.

Actually, making violins can be learned: you go to a school of violin making, do an apprenticeship, gain experience, and build instruments. Opening a workshop doesn’t even require a huge space. I work in 75 square meters, with two offices, one for IT and one for reception. The real problem today is the costs: tools, materials, bills, rent. When I started, I paid less than twenty thousand lire per month; today we’re talking about thousands, tens of thousands of euros per year.

I tell young people it takes a lot of courage and perseverance. If you truly love this work, you must dedicate yourself entirely; otherwise, it won’t work. Patience and commitment are needed—tools you won’t find on your phone or online. Times have changed, and that must be taken into account from the beginning.

It’s also natural that not everyone continues on this path. I had students who changed direction, who pursued other professions. A bit of selection is natural; it’s part of professional life and the craft itself.

Q: Today there is much talk about competition in violin making, especially in Cremona. What is your perspective?
A: Competition exists, both locally and internationally, especially for young luthiers. But the violin market is very large because the world of musicians is enormous. This isn’t a recent trend—it has always been like this. If a luthier sells to an important musician, it’s natural that others will seek similar instruments. That happened to me too, and I don’t find it worrying at all.

I don’t have problems in that regard because I work with musicians worldwide. Nor do I mind the presence of many foreign luthiers in Cremona—it’s their right. If someone wants a violin from me, they come to me; if they want one from someone else, they go to someone else. There’s no reason to be jealous: there is space in the world for everyone.

The real problem, however, is unfair competition. It’s unacceptable to find counterfeit instruments bearing my name in international auctions, complete with copied certificates and stamps. There’s a lack of control there, which harms everyone. Fakes are easily recognized, but in the meantime, they circulate.

Then there’s the issue of “preformed” or “incomplete” violins: almost-finished instruments quickly refinished in Cremona to declare them as local products. This does no good to the city or the Cremonese school. Some initial steps have been taken at regional and regulatory levels, but much more is needed.

In the end, though, the difference is always visible. The hand of the luthier is recognizable: the way of working, the varnish, the character of the instrument. These things cannot be copied.

Q: How would you describe a Conia violin?
A: Every luthier has their own identity, and it can be felt in the instrument. Between my violin and that of other colleagues, there is actually little in common. Today, many make antiqued instruments—very faithful copies of historical originals—but I prefer new instruments, with a clear personality.

I am often told that “Conia violins have the sound of Conia.” It’s true: every luthier has a unique timbre, born from choices in thickness, patterns, arching, varnish, sound post, bridge, and neck. Everything reflects the personality and the sonic concept of the maker.

Dialogue with musicians is fundamental. I myself played the violin for several years, which helps a lot. Musicians, quartets, soloists pass through the workshop: continuous interaction is indispensable for growth.

I have a preference for a more robust arching, of “Germanic” inspiration. Historically, the French worked differently, and even Amati and Stradivari had different solutions. That’s right: I don’t want to copy anyone in a purely philological way. I want a recognizable personal line.

The differences are visible in every detail: the corners, the f-holes, the varnish. I taught varnishing for over twenty years and I don’t believe in secrets. I taught the fundamentals; then each luthier develops their own personality. That’s what keeps violin making alive.

Character is very important. I come from an Austro-Hungarian tradition, a culture of rigor and strength. This character is reflected in my instruments: they must have personality, be recognizable, have a precise identity.

Q: How did everyday life in the workshop, practical experiences, and the hardships of those years help shape your character and your craft?
A: Immensely. Training didn’t come only from the violin school, but also from daily life. In the early years as a student in Cremona, we were eighteen—few compared to today—but there was already a lot of energy, curiosity, and effort to face. I often helped in the workshop: hollowing cellos, lifting heavy pieces. I was young and strong, and you learned to understand wood with your body too.

Friends, colleagues, and the small routines of those times mattered greatly: coffee, chats, moments of leisure with little money as a student. All of this taught discipline, attention, endurance, and the ability to organize oneself.

Morassi, my master, was always present. He didn’t just teach technique but showed how to handle daily fatigue and respect the craft. He also gave me a small stipend—30,000 lire per month—and sometimes paid for the coffee himself. Those experiences forged my resilience and character: today, my instruments reflect not only technique but also the patience, strength, and attention to detail I learned living the craft day by day.

Q: How much did your personal experiences and your masters influence the formation of your character as a luthier?
A: Immensely. My relationship with my father was very difficult: he had a very strict mindset and didn’t believe in my path. We didn’t speak for twenty years. By contrast, Giobatta Morassi always believed in me. He welcomed me as a student, taught me everything he knew, and wanted me to carry on the teaching continuity after him.

With Morassi, I truly learned to work. He was a hard worker and, above all, knew how to teach. He had a unique gesture, incredible precision, especially in the scrolls. He was ambidextrous, and the symmetry he achieved was impressive. I inherited many things from him: the corners, the f-holes, the workflow.

My training is also made of life experiences: student years in Cremona, little money, friends’ help, the human environment around the violin school. I never felt like a stranger. All of this built my character, which is now reflected in my instruments.

I feel the duty to carry forward a precise line of work that combines what I received from the great masters of the twentieth century with my own personality. Violin making is not just technique: it’s personal history, character, culture, and a way of being in the world.