Obsessed owners of pedigreed violins and cellos respect, coddle and pay dearly to insure instruments they may rarely touch.

When Michael Ferril was a student, his teacher owned a rare Gagliano violin but always told him, "There's one that's even finer: the Rotondo."

Ferril pursued the "Rotondo", made by Alessandro Gagliano in 1710, and when he finally tracked it down, the dealer came into the room with the Hellier of 1679 — an inlaid Stradivarius — and the "Rotondo". Even next to the spectacular Strad, the "Rotondo" won Ferril's heart.

Ferril still holds it dearer than any other in his collection, favoring it over even his 1709 Stradivarius.

The first time Martin Chalifour, principal concertmaster of the Phil, held a fine Italian violin, he says, he felt like a sculptor who until that point had worked with only dry clay. Ideally, he says, the violin should be forgotten in your hands.

For string players, the most sought-after instruments are those made by Antonio Stradivari, Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesù and Francesco Ruggieri, all of whom worked in Cremona, Italy, in the 17th and 18th centuries, during the golden age of violin-making.
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CLASSICAL MUSIC
THE PRICE OF PASSION

Obsessed owners of pedigreed violins and cellos respect, coddle and pay dearly to insure instruments they may rarely touch. Who has the upper hand in these affairs?

Los Angeles Times
By Louise Roug
Times Staff Writer
August 24 2003

Off dusty La Tuna Canyon Road in Sun Valley, where industrial grit gives way to cactus plants, orange trees and ranch houses, lives a violinist with an exceptional violin.

Deep red and striking, with finely figured ribs and distinct flames on its curved back, the nearly 300-year-old instrument is in such pristine condition, it's almost a curse.

This fiddler won't play his fiddle for fear he might hurt it: A trickle of perspiration might upset its perfect varnish, and he doesn't want to go down in history as the guy who destroyed the Rotondo, made by Alessandro Gagliano in 1710. He is simply the caretaker, he says, waiting for someone worthy of the violin. Meanwhile, wrapped in a purple Italian silk sheath, it lies in a custom-built and climate-controlled case, inside a large black Cannon safe that is fireproof, earthquake-resistant and bolted to a concrete floor.

Michael Ferril pursued the instrument for decades and holds it dearer than any other in his collection, favoring it over even his 1709 Stradivarius.

Ferril's intense, conflicted relationship with the Rotondo is far from unusual in the world of classical music. Their instruments are many players' closest companions. They must be respected, cared for, coddled. Some even require their own airplane seats. Insuring them can cost a small fortune. Being separated from them can create extreme anxiety. And they can be objects of profound desire.

"Players are always on the hunt for the instrument — one that will reflect who they are," says Miguel Harth-Bedoya, one of the three conductors of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. String players especially, he says, are hunters.

Harth-Bedoya, whose instrument is other people, will conduct a performance by Joshua Bell in the Walt Disney Concert Hall next year, and, he says, "Part of the expectation for me is to hear him play his new violin" — known as the Gibson ex Huberman.

Bell has owned two Strads — the 1732 Tom Taylor and the 1713 Gibson. On the soundtrack of the 1999 film "The Red Violin," he played the Tom Taylor. He later sold it to buy the $3.5-million Gibson, which has a story similar to that in the movie: Stolen twice from Carnegie Hall, it was recovered the second time only decades later, after the thief — a café musician — made a deathbed confession.

For both thieves and musicians, the appeal of violins is obvious. A well-made violin can take a year to complete and is created to withstand both wear and repair. Some violins have survived wars, fires and floods and come with yellowing documents that tell of turbulent pasts and illustrious owners.

"A rare instrument has the cachet of a great Renaissance painting, yet it's a tool," says violin maker Trudy Egan.

For those who play it, the violin is a voice. For some, it's their primary means of communicating.

"It's a medium to achieve the sound you have in your soul, in your imagination," says Martin Chalifour, principal concertmaster of the Phil. "It's a little bit like telepathy: You think a sound, and it comes out."

The first time Chalifour held a fine Italian violin, he says, he felt like a sculptor who until that point had worked with only dry clay. Ideally, he says, the violin should be forgotten in your hands.

"An instrument for a musician is an extension of their physical self," cellist Yo-Yo Ma says by phone from New York. "It's like your vocal cords."

A collector of fine instruments, Ma owns a $3-million Stradivarius cello — one he once famously forgot in the trunk of a cab after a night of playing at Carnegie Hall. It was returned, unharmed. His everyday cello has a nickname bestowed by a friend: Petunia.

Masters of Cremona

For string players, the most sought-after instruments are those made by Antonio Stradivari, Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesù and Francesco Ruggieri, all of whom worked in Cremona, Italy, in the 17th and 18th centuries, during the golden age of violin-making.

Whereas a modern American-made violin begins at about $10,000, the 1727 Kreutzer Stradivarius went for close to $1.6 million at auction. In private sales, prices can go much higher. A Stradivarius has been known to fetch $6 million.

On this level, few individual musicians can afford the instruments. In addition, insurance is costly — from a few hundred dollars a month to what Ferril describes as "a small mortgage."

Some collectors, such as Seattle software magnate David Fulton, occasionally make rare instruments available to players. And tropical fish king Herbert Axelrod recently sold his collection of 30 such string instruments to the New Jersey Symphony Orchestra for the almost symbolic price of $18 million. The acquisition may profoundly change the way that orchestra sounds, says Harth-Bedoya, whose own orchestra — the Phil — has three Strads, including one, known as the "Jack Benny Strad," previously owned by the comedian. The leaders of the violin section have the privilege of playing them.

At the Vienna Philharmonic, tradition is so valued — and one particular sound so favored — that the players may change over the years but the instruments remain the same, Harth-Bedoya says.

That raises the question of who is more important in the relationship — the instrument or its master.

"There's an emotional, psychological codependency going on," says Tom Egan, who with wife Trudy runs Vita Dolce Violins, one of the half-dozen violin shops in Los Angeles.

Inside the small shop on the second floor of an old Los Feliz Village office building, splinters of maple and spruce are strewn on the floor and the air is scented with varnish. On a rack, violas and violins hang by their necks, like ducks in the window of a Chinese restaurant. The Egans make and repair instruments and, at times, double as counselors to agitated owners.

"Sometimes musicians are so distraught they're unintelligible, and it can be difficult even getting the instrument out of their hands," says Trudy, whose round face and steady blue eyes are framed by soft red-and-brown curls. Violin tools have left tiny cuts on her fingertips.

Tom peeks through the door of his studio next door. While she makes and repairs violins, he is one of the few local bow-makers. Many of the most noted musicians in the area take their instruments to the Egans, who met at a violin-making school in Salt Lake City.

The last customer of this particular day, a dark-haired young woman wearing a tank top and shorts, is looking to buy a bow. Placing a cello between her legs, she toys with the new bow a little before starting to play, seemingly oblivious of her surroundings.

"We see them at their most personal with their instruments," Trudy says. Asking a musician to leave his or her instrument, she says, is like asking a parent to leave a child in kindergarten for the first time or — when there are repairs to be done — like bringing a child to a hospital.

"They'll forgive you for forgetting their name, but not the instrument's," she says.

A major restoration can take up to a year, and Trudy discourages musicians from visiting.

"It's like asking the doctor in the middle of surgery to have a look," she says. "Players are traumatized. To see their instrument inside, it's like looking at blood and guts. You don't get to see it until the scars have healed, when the varnish is done."

An instrument should be treated as if it were alive, she says. "If you're uncomfortable, chances are, so is the instrument. You don't leave it in your car — you might kill it."

According to Trudy, every string instrument — if the fit is right — also has a personality to match its owner's.

It is understandable that there's a deep attachment between musicians and their instruments, her husband adds.

"This is how they communicate with the world, how they express themselves," he says.

It's hard to get up on a stage and perform, and a good instrument confers confidence. It may even make a person's career, Trudy says.

Her favorite violin?

The Rotondo in La Tuna Canyon.

Pursuing the Rotondo

When Ferril was a student, his teacher owned a rare Gagliano violin but always told him, "There's one that's even finer: the Rotondo."

Few people knew of it or its whereabouts.

After graduating from the Juilliard School of Music in New York, Ferril began working as a professional musician. He plays with the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra, teaches violin at Cal State Northridge and has played on the recordings of several hundred movie scores.

Back in L.A. after his stint at Juilliard, he started buying and trading other famous violins and bows and hunting the Rotondo. He finally tracked it down in 1993.

Too excited to wait any longer, Ferril caught a red eye to the East Coast to see it, dashing out mid-concert at the Universal Amphitheatre to do so. When he arrived at a mansion in Washington, D.C., he was bearing some of his own violins, including the Gagliano that had belonged to his teacher.

At first, Alfredo Halegua brought out other, rather ordinary, violins. Ferril's heart sank. Had he come all that way for these? He showed Halegua his violins. Might he have something similar? A moment later, Halegua came back with the Hellier of 1679 — an inlaid Stradivarius — and the Rotondo. Even next to the spectacular Strad, the Rotondo won Ferril's heart.

He didn't have the money, and the owner was set on a price — what Ferril calls "a Strad price." But a few years later, as the Rotondo was about to be sold to someone else, Ferril raised the money almost overnight with the help of a wealthy friend.

Owning it, however, is a mixed blessing. On a few occasions, he has lent other instruments to young musicians, such as Tamaki Kawakubo and Sheryl Staples, who needed "something great for a moment of opportunity." But he doesn't lend the Rotondo and rarely touches it himself.

"Though I love playing the violin dearly, I have to take care of it for someone else," he says. He would like to lend it to the Getty, but the museum doesn't collect instruments. So he's waiting for a player of Jascha Heifetz caliber to come along.

Until then, the Rotondo lies in the safe, next to the cookies he keeps out of reach of his children.

Ferril agrees he's a little nuts about his violin. But it's the same for any violinist.

"When you think about the violin, it goes between your head and your heart, and you need both to play it," he says. "It's an amazing little box of wood."

calendarlive.com: The price of passion
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