We are inside Palazzo Stauffer, home of the Fondazione Stauffer, in the heart of that Cremona which for centuries has breathed the art of violin making and great concert performance. We had the privilege of attending the lessons of Maestro Massimo Quarta as part of his short course within the violin program.

Described by critics as “the personification of elegance,” Quarta needs little introduction: winner of the 24th edition of the prestigious Premio Paganini in 1991, he is today an absolute reference figure, capable of combining an international solo career with intense activity as a conductor.

During these days of masterclasses, we saw the Maestro guide young talents with a method that blends technical rigor and a profound pursuit of Italian cantabilità. From his remarks emerged not only a concern for technical perfection, but a true pedagogical mission: to transmit the energy and interpretative vision necessary to face the great stages. At the center of the splendid frescoed hall, the student, accompanied on the piano by the excellent Stefania Redaelli, performs and listens intently to the Maestro’s interventions: “You don’t play with your fingers!” Massimo Quarta exclaims vehemently. The apparent paradox of this sentence defines the very essence of the “lesson”; on the music stand lies a score by Sergei Prokofiev. The Maestro conducts the lesson with the violin almost always in his hands, in a very close union between what he says and what he plays. His observations are precise and follow one another insistently in an uninterrupted flow, ranging from indications on dynamics and agogics to advice on phrasing and suitable bowings to achieve the desired effect. Every passage is scrutinized in the smallest detail. The student is brilliant, reacting swiftly to every suggestion; her hand flutters on the fingerboard like in the famous painting by Giacomo Balla: action–reaction, this is how perfection is built.

Another student takes her place—on the stand now is the concerto by Felix Mendelssohn: the lesson immediately comes alive. The Maestro’s attitude is maieutic: he suggests but does not impose; he analyzes the musical text and defines the problems, and by guiding the student step by step leads them to the realization of the result. “Bowings are a tool at your disposal to play better what is written”: every mistake becomes a pretext for extrapolating general rules, intelligent solutions to best realize the composer’s intention—everything is regulated and informed by logos. There is talk of technique, but also of the relationship between soloist and conductor, of the genesis of the work, of autograph manuscripts. Quarta teaches, guides, urges, corrects, and at the same time sparks curiosity in the young musicians. And everything he explains in words comes to life in his hands when he demonstrates how it should be—yet never asking for mere imitation: the Maestro demands that what he explains be assimilated. “Listen, but don’t copy!” The student responds by promptly modifying her articulation of the passage. “There are things that don’t succeed because we don’t know how to do them, and others that fail simply because we haven’t thought about them.” Teaching a method of study is the hardest thing, and Quarta is extremely skilled at it. The fearsome octaves of the first page of the Mendelssohn concerto are dismantled and rebuilt, starting from hand position and each individual finger. Quarta speaks of the concept of limits, of the importance of overcoming one’s limits in order to gain complete mastery of the score in every situation. In his explanations converge the experience of the concert performer and the generosity of the devoted teacher. “To do and undo, it is all a matter of work,” wrote the poet Dino Campana: Quarta emphasizes how wrong it is to keep repeating something without thinking and solving the problem—but with him as mentor, one can be sure this will not happen.

It was a great honor to speak with him to delve deeper into the themes that emerged during the lessons and to reflect on the meaning of being musicians and teachers.

We welcome the Maestro to our column.

If you had to describe yourself as a musician in one sentence or adjective, what would it be?
Curious.

What is your first memory connected to music?
I must have been six or seven; it was probably a gift I had received, a small plastic trumpet with buttons, and it was wonderful to see how in a short time I managed to play it. It was a toy, of course, but I had a certain predisposition for rhythm, articulation, and keeping time, and this made me understand that music was not something foreign or difficult.

What element of your musical identity has remained unchanged from your debut until today, beyond experience?
One trait is probably maintaining a certain rigor from an ethical-musical standpoint regarding what I play and what I do, combined with a very strong tendency—a good demon as well—toward perfectionism, which coincides with the idea of professionalism.

I know one cannot be perfect, but the continuous pursuit of perfection, both in terms of attention—therefore ethics, attention to the text—and in terms of my technique, being absolutely uncompromising with myself, always demanding a lot, this idea of saying, “I know perfection is unattainable, but I want to come close so that there is instrumental clarity and musical rigor—which does not mean being right, of course, but pursuing an idea with ethics and musical seriousness”—all this I have carried into my teaching over the years. At times it has been mistaken for severity, but it is not severity, it is simply seriousness: if one wants to build, to do well, not everything can always be approached lightly and simply; sometimes a price must be paid.

How much of your identity is the result of your teachers, and how much was born from the need to ‘betray’ those teachings to find your own voice?
I don’t think I have betrayed my teachers’ teachings. All the teachers I had contributed in some way to my personal growth, both instrumentally and musically. But I will never forget a sentence Maestro Salvatore Accardo once said to me when I was studying with him. At that time I felt the need to have more lessons—at the Cremona course there were not many, I was already graduated and felt this necessity—and I told him I wanted to be followed by someone else as well. He said: “You should choose one or two reference figures, but remember that our best teachers are always ourselves.” Almost all my teachers left me something—with their experience, their talent, according to their personal characteristics—but in the end I gathered all that information and found my own way of teaching myself, of organizing all that I had received in a personal manner.

How is your ideal practice day organized?
In recent years it has changed somewhat. When I was young, I practiced a lot—too much and perhaps badly. I believed the quantity of hours was an indispensable recipe for playing well. Later I realized that of the eight, nine, sometimes even twelve hours I spent practicing, many were used the wrong way. I kept playing through, trying to get passages right, and above all I did not always respect my body. Today I would say I generally practice no more than three, at most five hours, and only if I have many concerts with different repertoire. I truly would not practice more; three hours can really be the maximum. My typical day does not exist, because I teach in various places, travel a lot for concerts and for family reasons, and there are days when I allow myself the luxury of not practicing. Of course, that happens only when I know I can afford it, also knowing that if I do not practice for two, three, four days, the fifth cannot be the prelude to a concert. Sometimes I really need to disconnect. I have hobbies that require effort and commitment: I love sailing, scuba diving, and wildlife photography—all demanding, even physically. My day is quite unusual; for instance, after a day like this with the students, I would never go back to the hotel to practice! As the years go by, something very strange happens: on the one hand, you learn to practice well and therefore achieve results much faster; on the other, any human being must reckon with the fact that at sixty physical conditions change. Knowing how to clearly distinguish between studying and simply playing at home is absolutely important: this truly makes three hours of study feel like nine, because one learns to respect the body and its limits.

What is the first thing you do when you open a new score?
The first thing I do is read through it with my eyes—much more so if it is an orchestral score or a symphony I have to conduct. Even for solo violin, I try to understand the structure: how the piece is built, how it repeats, whether it has a development, a recapitulation, whether it is a theme with variations. What one must definitely not do—and what I did first when I was young—is listen to other performers’ recordings. Young people tend to think, “Let’s see what this piece is like,” not realizing that subliminally the performance they are listening to—whoever it may be—is already giving them information they will tend to replicate. We know nothing yet about the piece, but we have already heard how it could be done. I always advise my students never to listen immediately (and I can tell right away when they have created a “mixed fry” of various performances). Listening should come later. Not listening at all would mean denying music history and all those who came before us; rather, one should first study the new piece from the full score, not from the piano reduction in the case of concertos. Today we have the great resource of the web, where many scores can be found for free.

Is there an exercise or habit you consider fundamental and always recommend?
Certainly the study of scales and arpeggios, which must be the daily bread of the violinist. The great Mariella Devia said: “Technique is what distinguishes a true professional from a mere amateur.” With scales and arpeggios one creates a map for the fingers on the instrument: without technique, nothing can be built.

Do you have a ritual before going on stage?
I smoke a cigarette! Strictly alone, like the lone wolf I am. I do not mentally review the pieces I will play, because it would feel like instilling doubts about my preparation. For some years now I have noticed that the closer the concert day approaches, the less I practice: when I find myself doing the opposite, it means I have not practiced enough.

What is the most frequent mistake you find in advanced students, both technically and psychologically?
The most frequent mistake is not knowing how to practice—for example, confusing practice with performance. If a passage does not go well, students tend to repeat it: repeating means “doing again”; if you make a mistake and repeat it, you repeat it badly. You must stop, study, understand whether the mistake comes from a bad habit, erase the habit and create a new one. To rewrite a habit—violinistic or bodily—takes time. And students often mismanage the time they have.

What fundamental value do you try to transmit beyond technique?
The idea of music. Understanding what you must do and where you must go. Technique is not running with your hands: it is having hands that function well, but if all this does not have an ideal to pursue, even technique itself does not improve, because technical improvement serves to solve a musical problem.

The hardest thing to teach in words?
Getting students to have greater awareness of what they are doing in the hic et nunc—being aware at the very moment they are doing something. I realize that when I reason with them about this I obtain certain results, but I do not go further until I take the violin and give practical examples—then they are more attentive. Truly, I do not know what the hardest thing to teach in words is: with words one can do a great deal, but with an instrument in hand one can do much more.

How do you immediately recognize a good teacher? And a good student?
A good teacher is recognized by method, competence, truly caring for the student, and sometimes having the courage to say unpleasant things. No one likes to be told that their intonation is poor, their shifts are wrong, their sound is not beautiful. A good teacher also knows how to explain the basics: how to approach a stylistic path, how to ensure that Johann Sebastian Bach does not sound like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Mozart does not sound like Johannes Brahms. This ability must have infinite nuances, because students are not all the same. The good teacher unites the pedagogical aspect, in the true sense of the word, with the purely instrumental one: the student must perceive above all that if the teacher is asking them to do certain things, it is because they can do them—never take away hope. Saying “you can do this better” is far better than saying “you can’t do this.” I almost never say, “You can’t do this.” I regard my students as children; I want their good, and that also means being able, when necessary, to say something unpleasant. Being a good teacher is like being a good parent: you are not born one, you learn over time.

A good student accepts criticism, but also thinks independently and has a critical sense. And not all teachers are right for all students: one must also understand when it is time to change.

What philosophy underlies your concept of sound production?
Having a philosophy of sound, translated into prose, means that we must listen. I realize that many students place the bow on the strings and are surprised if they produce a beautiful sound. The moment we place the bow or fingers on the strings, we must already hear the sound in our head. The sound travels milliseconds before: it must already spring from within us. The idea of sound is not necessarily about emotions; it is connected, yes, to passions and musicality, but not necessarily. The basic idea is a specific concept of what kind of sound I am going to produce. This must go hand in hand with good bow control: I may have the most beautiful sound in my head, but if my bow technique is poor, I cannot reproduce it. It is right to speak of a philosophy of sound because if I have excellent bow control and technique but no philosophy of the sound I want, I will produce only a mechanical performance. Moreover, the philosophy of sound is linked to changes of sound: we cannot have the same sound for Joseph Haydn, for Mendelssohn, or for Robert Schumann. Ludwig van Beethoven cannot be approached with the same sound as Franz Schubert, nor Schubert with the same sound as Schumann. Without sound, everything we do is mute. We speak through sound: we must hear in advance the sound we want to produce.

What are you still searching for as a musician, beyond your career?
Teaching has taken on a very important place. Frankly, I am sometimes a bit tired of always being asked for the same repertoire, and I am also not very inclined to explore musical territories that do not interest me—often artistic choices that feel foreign to me. I would like to return to repertoire I have already performed but interpret it differently from the past.

One thing I have felt strongly is that there comes a moment when there is a small decline of ego in favor of greater seriousness as a human being and musician. Unfortunately, market laws and the pressure to be constantly present on social media impose a very pronounced ego, and sometimes that comes at a cost—setting oneself aside, for example, in favor of the composer, paying greater attention to the composer and feeling like a marvelous instrument—yes—but still an instrument. Without a marvelous instrument, the score is mute; yet that same concerto, depending on who performs it, can become dreadful or marvelous, can become that composer or something else. Beyond career, I am now very interested in chamber music. A large part of my activity today is with two musicians who are also dear friends, whom I esteem greatly and with whom I have played for more than twenty years: Enrico Dindo and Pietro De Maria. We began playing together almost for fun in the 2000s and then continued, each maintaining our own career. For the past two years we have felt the need to make our trio—a sharing of music and experiences—more serious and stable. Today there exists the Quarta, Dindo, De Maria Trio. After forty years of solitary travel and concerts, I have discovered the pleasure of dialogue.

If you could give only one piece of advice to someone who wants to pursue this profession, what would it be?
Have strong determination. Everything revolves around that. Being a musician requires many sacrifices. Whether soloist, chamber musician, or orchestral player, one must understand that choices must be made and that there is always a price to pay—even when one decides not to choose. That too is a choice. In short, in one word: awareness.

A book (even non-musical) that influenced you?
Many books have struck me; among them I would choose Moby-Dick, Memorie di Adriano, and De Bello Gallico. The latter in particular because even to organize a war—which is a terrible thing—one needs awareness. The same is necessary to follow any path, and sometimes it is lacking. Without strategies, one goes nowhere. In general, I love Latin classics and Greek mythology.

The score you would save from the universal flood?
The Rite of Spring by Igor Stravinsky, because I think it represents the birth of humanity, its evolution, and perhaps also its downfall.

A musician from the past with whom you would have liked to study?
Niccolò Paganini. Because despite what many believe, besides being a great instrumentalist he was also a great poet of music. And since I am Italian, happy to be Italian, and love Italian bel canto, I would have liked to know him not only instrumentally but also musically: I would have been curious to hear his incredible sound and extraordinary way of singing.

Photo by Giuseppe Milanese © Fondazione Stauffer