The Luthier's Tap

Pick up a violin. You probably notice its color first — that warm amber varnish, deepening toward red at the edges, almost alive in the light. You notice its shape, the elegant waist, the scroll curling at the top of the neck. If you have never held one, you might be surprised by how light it is, how thin the wood. Set it down under your chin and draw a bow across the open strings and something extraordinary comes out: a sound that fills a room, rich and projecting and complex, from a box that weighs less than a good sandwich. Most people who pick up a violin are thinking about the music. The luthier who made it was thinking about the wood. Before a single piece of that violin was assembled, before the ribs were bent or the neck fitted or the varnish mixed, the maker spent time alone with the top plate. This is the front face of the instrument, the piece of spruce that the strings will vibrate through.