The third section, which reproduces verbatim the Lectio Magistralis of Dr. Maestro Giobatta Morassi, focuses primarily on the legacy of the great violin-making tradition of Cremona, concluding with a critical reflection: violin making must be a field of study, research, and rigorous experimentation.

In Morassi, violin making meets scientific inquiry. The theme of the constructive method, as has already been observed, is not relegated to mere imitation. The art of violin making cannot be reduced to repetitive craftsmanship; it is guided by an aesthetic intentionality that must seek techniques suited to the design needs of each individual luthier.

Thus, Dr. Morassi resumes the discussion:

Form as an Expression of Art

I have spoken of method. A clarification is in order. Purely aesthetic research is not, for me, the sole guide in shaping form. Three interrelated aspects must together constitute the “working plan” for constructing instruments:

1. The first condition is the study of instruments created by the great luthiers, not only of the classical tradition but also of contemporary violin making. This does not imply mere repetition, but rather offers inspiration for developing one’s own style: instruments are recognizable, and each possesses its own distinctive identity. From this derives the aesthetic dimension—the harmony of parts that compose the whole. Even if beauty is not objective, it is still possible to perceive the uniqueness of its harmony, which is an essential condition of the liutario’s art.

2. The second condition concerns the choice of materials (woods, varnishes) and the technical-executive methods that allow the instrument not only to “endure over time” but also to achieve a timbre that is truly unique.

3. The third condition lies in the relationship with the musician, who “lives” the instrument as an extension of their own arm. The musician’s choice results from the empathy that arises between the artistic personality of the performer and that of the luthier.

For this reason, I also deemed it necessary to study less common models, such as lutes, in order to recover ancient sonorities (Baroque music). My research turned to the construction techniques of the past to understand how such instruments were realized. Researching what is obsolete is not mere curiosity; it constitutes an “active memory” that suggests alternative paths in the present.

Violin Making and Contemporary Thought

The progression of themes addressed by Morassi emphasizes how the art of violin making must remain in step with contemporary thought. This is not a matter of choice, but a condition that arises from artistic intuition itself—what the Germans call Kunstwollen.
This intentionality of contemporary art, a theme already addressed in the second part and here revisited, allows each luthier’s personality to express its own talent.

What sustains violin making is a complex knowledge, placed at the service of the luthier’s aesthetic imagination. Art is achieved when a luthier attains a unique “timbre,” to which the “form” of the instrument gives voice. It is a symbiosis.

This theme was especially dear to Maestro Dr. Morassi, who recognized its central importance in defining the art of violin making—and indeed, he returned to it repeatedly in his writings and teachings.

Restoration and Conservation: The Cremona Charter of 1987

A particular consideration deserves attention. Over time, an instrument’s sound changes for various reasons; yet, when its “form” deteriorates, restorative intervention becomes necessary. Morassi was well aware of the need to avoid the false journalistic slogan: “restored to its former splendor.”

In this context, it becomes essential to establish a comparative scientific study as a conscious approach to violin making. Research must begin with an appropriate understanding of the object in order to set coherent methodological criteria.

Chief among these is the understanding of the instrument’s complexity—consider that a violin, for instance, is composed of seventy-five parts. The results of such study benefit both those who approach violin making as a craft and those who intervene on historical instruments.

It is therefore indispensable to confront the Cremona Charter of Restoration (1987), which, while establishing a professional code of ethics for restoration, expressly calls to be updated in light of new scientific advances.

The instrument’s complexity requires a comparative approach. Morassi turned to the sciences, recognizing them as essential to understanding musical instruments—particularly in cases requiring conservative restoration.

On the one hand, as already stated in this remarkable lectio, violin making is an art form when it achieves aesthetic expressiveness; on the other, it is deeply connected not only to construction techniques and materials, but also to processes of aging.

Artificial Intelligence and the Future of the Craft

In 2015—the year of this address (June 8)—artificial intelligence had not yet developed as it has today. It is up to me to mention it; it will be up to the master luthiers to reflect upon it.
AI must not be confused with the convenient answers our smartphones provide; artificial intelligence is a potential that must be explored—not to become its servant, but to harness it in service of the art of violin making.

Individuality, as history teaches, is always influenced by its time. The important thing is to make use of innovation without being dominated by it. The memory of craftsmanship is an active memory—it does not escape knowledge. Adopting a purely conservative or passive attitude is not only counterproductive—it is fatal.

Morassi was always convinced of this, which is why I feel compelled to introduce the topic. As I said, it is not my place to propose answers.

Yet I must note how the Maestro’s curiosity—source of a subtle intelligence—enabled him to reach the highest achievements of contemporary violin making. He revitalized the Cremonese tradition. The School of Violin Making, where he taught for many years, and his workshop, were true centers of violin-making culture. His art was immense, but no less so his teaching.

This union allowed him to confront the subject of conservative restoration, intervening q.b. (quanto basta—just enough) to preserve the identity of instruments weakened by time and in need of “care.”
But this q.b. was itself a constant object of experimentation and research.

At the same time, he left his heirs a precious legacy: curiosity as a method, a mindful curiosity that never shies away from new challenges.

The Sound of the Instrument

“Let us return,” he wrote, “to the contaminations already mentioned. The most problematic aspect concerns the changing of sound over time, and the impossibility, until recently, of documenting it.

Every instrument possesses its own unique timbre, but like the human voice, it changes with time. While the instrument’s body bears the marks of its transformations and restorations—the wood retaining its traces—the sound escapes memory, preserved today only through recordings.

It is the musician who, over time, shapes the instrument’s voice. Each performer’s use determines its ultimate quality.”

When Maestro Morassi first spoke to me on this subject, I confess I was deeply impressed. His attention was directed toward the “life” of the instrument—the idea of the “memory of timbre.”
He emphasized the musician’s contribution: the instrument he created, over time, adapts to the imprint of the one who plays it. As one recognizes the luthier, so too one recognizes the musician.

This shared relationship is fascinating: the luthier expresses his ars faciendi in crafting the instrument, while the musician educates it to his or her own musical sensibility.

The existential time of the instrument does not correspond to quantitative time—Chronos (Χρόνος), the time that marks all that is subject to becoming and decay. The time of the instrument and of music is qualitative time—Kairos(καιρός).

An instrument, made of living material—wood—is functional to music. If the visual arts primarily endure the wear of Chronos, musical instruments have a deeper relationship with Kairos: within it, music grants itself identity. The art of sound unfolds in time—it does not suffer time, but masters it. Musical composition subjugates time to itself.

The Mechanics of the Instrument

“It therefore becomes essential,” wrote Morassi, “to study, whenever possible, the instrument in its physical reality: made from wood that has aged and transformed over time. Only hypotheses grounded in the mechanics of the instrument can lead to knowledge as close as possible to its ‘time of existence.’

To speak of acoustic physics is to situate the instrument in a time—here and now (hic et nunc)—that we wish could be beyond the becoming that binds all things. For this reason, the luthier’s creation must be examined as a ‘machine’ that produces sound. Yet this also requires attention to its transformations, which reveal its complexity.

The reference to Einstein is most fitting: there are too many variables to account for. Any science—or combination of sciences—that seeks to study the violin inevitably faces this challenge.”

Morassi did not fear scientific research. As already noted, study was his constant reference point for addressing any problem consciously. Every investigation concerning the instrument, for him, was a way of better understanding its nature.

Starting from this premise, he considered it essential to grasp its mechanical behavior. The musical instrument, correctly understood, is a machine.

Let us not forget that in Greek, the term mēchanḗ (μηχανή) means an invention suited to its purpose—derived from a verb denoting a purposeful act of creation. The instrument identifies its goal (to sound), and conscious craftsmanship is the condition by which that goal is fulfilled.

With great insight, Maestro Morassi identified three stages in this mechanical understanding:

1. recognizing the instrument as a machine;

2. inventing or discovering the technologies and techniques necessary to construct it;

3. subjecting each instrument to examination in order to determine its objectively qualifying characteristics.

To this end, geometric surveys become essential. Their comparison—between the original data and subsequent alterations over time—forms the first level of analysis, followed by others, such as the aging of wood and varnishes.

Nor should we forget that the graphic design of an instrument, as is well known, represents the luthier’s first approach before ever taking chisel in hand.

When Morassi wrote these reflections, he could invoke Einstein’s observations; today, research has advanced further, enabling the study of “hypercomplex” structures. This field will increasingly demand the attention of master luthiers, who—if they wish to remain contemporaries of acoustic mechanics—must be willing to engage with science, which offers the potential for profound research beyond mere empirical knowledge.

Personally, I am reminded of a seventeenth-century figure: Athanasius Kircher, who in his Musurgia Universalisalluded to the creation of a musical machine.
How I would love to see a modern master luthier attempt to build the Arca Musarithmica! The past, when subjected to inquiries once unimaginable, can become alive again and open to new horizons.

Giobatta would certainly not have shied away from such a challenge.

Tradition Between Material and Immaterial Culture

To speak of tradition merely by referring to this or that “school” would be misleading. In truth, violin making is a cultural heritage that demonstrates how the arts interact with one another.
The arts live within contexts of artistic intentionality (Kunstwollen) that evolve over time yet preserve their identity beyond transformation.

Violin making has a history intertwined with other arts—foremost among them music; with diverse bodies of knowledge—especially the understanding of wood; and ultimately with itself, as a testimony to human inventiveness in creating instruments.

Perhaps it is more accurate to speak of violin-making heritage as a legacy to be inherited, an active memory that bridges material and immaterial culture. Violin making asserts itself as a form of “knowing how to make,” drawing sound from wood.

The theme of tradition connects past and present. The Maestro, in addressing it, succeeded in harmonizing all aspects intrinsic to the art of violin making.

One final observation is necessary: his masterful synthesis was prophetic. Today, in every field, we witness a homogenized culture. Superficial knowledge leads to self-celebration whose only goal is immediate profit.

Yet violin making can resist such decline by appealing to its living tradition—a heritage that rightfully belongs to it. This is the essence of the “immaterial culture” that defines and ennobles it.

Beyond a word of gratitude to the Maestro, nothing more can be added—except a farewell: Mandi.