In the landscape of contemporary Cremonese violin making, Daniele Scolari is a figure deeply connected to the city’s tradition. He graduated in 1979 from the International School of Violin Making in Cremona, where he studied under master Giobatta Morassi. For more than forty years he has been building violins, violas, and cellos inspired by the classical models of Stradivari and Guarneri.

Since 1982 he has worked in the same workshop as his brother Giorgio, in a continuous exchange that accompanies their professional activity. Over the course of his career he has received several awards in violin-making competitions, and his instruments are now appreciated by musicians in Italy and abroad. Since 1996 he has also been a teacher of Instrument Construction and Varnishing at the International School of Violin Making in Cremona.

In this interview he retraces his training, reflects on his relationship with music and with musicians, and offers some thoughts on the present and future of violin making.

You studied at the International School of Violin Making in Cremona under the guidance of Giobatta Morassi. What memories do you have of that period?

At the beginning, when I started school, I was very young: I had just turned fourteen. I wasn’t really aware yet of what awaited me. But I had always liked music very much, and my brother Giorgio was already a violin maker—he’s ten years older than I am—so in some way I wanted to follow in his footsteps.

I started out with master Giobatta Morassi, and at school I also had the opportunity to study for a year with master Bissolotti. My brother had been a student of Morassi as well, so in our family we all more or less followed that path.

Since 1982 you have been working together with your brother Giorgio. What kind of collaboration have you built over time?

It’s a particular kind of collaboration, because in reality we have two completely separate workshops: his and mine. At the beginning, of course, I learned from him because I was very young and wanted to follow his example. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about the idea at first, also because the school in those years was not yet organized the way it is today.

After graduating I immediately began working in the workshop where we are still together today. At first it was more of an apprenticeship relationship; now, after more than forty years in the profession, it has become a real relationship between colleagues. We compare ideas, exchange opinions, and discuss working choices.

And the dialogue is not only about violin making: we both share a great passion for music.

In fact, you are both very active musically as well. In what way does this activity influence your work as a violin maker?

In my opinion a violin maker must know music. It’s fundamental. They may play the violin or another instrument, but the important thing is to understand music and to listen to it.

I have colleagues who are also professional violinists—I’m thinking, for example, of Marcello Villa, who is a dear friend—and in that sense they are even more fortunate. But in general a violin maker must know what they are building and for what purpose. Violins, violas, and cellos are handmade instruments, but above all they are instruments meant to be played.

The aesthetic aspect is important, of course, but the ultimate goal is sound. That is why listening to music is extremely important for me. For many years I have conducted a choir, and sometimes we also collaborate with small instrumental groups, always at an amateur level. All of this helps to better understand the instrument: its range, its role, whether we are talking about a modern violin or a baroque one, and so on.

So the dialogue with musicians also becomes fundamental.

Absolutely. When musicians come into the workshop, I always tell my students: we need to speak the same language.

If the violinist is holding an instrument that I built, they must be able to play it and explain to me what they hear—what works and what doesn’t. And I must be able to understand and intervene. It’s a continuous collaboration, because in this work nothing can be taken for granted.

When it comes to models, do you have any particular preferences?

In the 1980s and 1990s, when trade with the East—especially Japan—developed strongly, the models were rather standardized. We worked a lot with Stradivari models, which represent the excellence of the Cremonese tradition, and sometimes with Guarneri.

Over time, however, things have changed. After thirty years of work you also feel the need to do what you like most. I have been working for forty-two years now, and I can allow myself to choose different models: Amati, Bergonzi, and other models from the Cremonese tradition.

I propose what convinces me the most, but of course if a musician asks me for a Stradivari I make it without any problem. The important thing is also to know well the tonal differences between one model and another. It is a continuous process of growth.

For example, if I build a Montagnana-model cello, it may not be as elegant as a Stradivari from an aesthetic point of view, but it can have an extraordinary sound. And in the end, what truly matters is the sound.

Your instruments are highly appreciated abroad, especially in Japan, England, and the United States. Have you noticed differences between the various markets?

In the past there were some differences, especially from an aesthetic point of view. In America, for example, people preferred instruments with a very clean, very “polished” finish, so to speak.

There were also differences in the final setup: the bridge, for example, sometimes followed slightly different criteria compared to traditional European standards. Over time, however, I found my own standard and I continue to work in that way, both for instruments destined for America and for those destined for Japan. In the end it’s a balance that works.

Today many former students of the Violin Making School work all over the world. Sometimes it’s actually them who call me when they find themselves with one of my instruments in their hands for maintenance: changing the soundpost, bridge, pegs, or fingerboard. It’s also a way to see again instruments that I built thirty years ago, and that is always a pleasure.

Since 1996 you have been teaching Construction and Varnishing at the International School of Violin Making in Cremona. What do you try to pass on to your students?

First of all the classical Cremonese method. That is what we teach at the school, and rightly so. I try to pass on everything that can be transmitted from a technical point of view: how to build the instrument, how to work the wood, how to prepare and apply the varnish.

However, there is a part that cannot really be taught: personal style. That comes with the years, with experience, with each person’s sensitivity. For example, I have never had any problem sharing even my own varnish recipes with students. But even using the same jar of varnish, two different people will obtain different results. It’s inevitable.

Looking to the future of Italian violin making, what prospects do you see?

I hope that young people will carry this tradition forward with the same passion. In Cremona there are very talented and highly motivated young makers. The important thing is not to get too caught up in market logic or in almost serial production. This is a job that requires passion, time, and dedication.

Italian violin making, and Cremonese violin making in particular, still has a special value today and holds its own very well internationally. I hope that in the future it will continue to be so.

One last question: modern instruments or historical ones?

Personally, I prefer the new instrument. Many violinists are still very attached to historical instruments, but there are also great musicians who play modern ones. I’m thinking, for example, of Christian Tetzlaff, Antje Weithaas, Leonidas Kavakos, and even Anne-Sophie Mutter, who often use contemporary instruments.