In the subdued yet incessant murmur that forms the backdrop to the affairs of Cremonese violin making, past and present alike, monotony is punctuated by recurring themes to which we have all become thoroughly accustomed. White violins: “ooohhh”; the regional preservation law: “aaaah”; trademark protection: “eeeeeh”; the problem of counterfeiting: “uuuuh.”

Then, amid this dull yet reassuring routine, something new occasionally materializes—a spark that opens the way to original, unconventional, and genuinely interesting conversations about everything that revolves around these objects that are not really objects at all, but living organisms immersed in time and inseparably bound—if they are to live and have a voice—to two professional communities: luthiers and musicians.

We are talking about bowed string instruments, the core business of the city of Cremona. The production and sale of these products of human ingenuity mobilize artists, fortunes, trade associations, experts, tourists, and vultures alike, as always happens whenever something acquires the aura of myth.

But let us return to our “black swan” (a term coined by essayist Nassim Nicholas Taleb to describe an unexpected event capable of profoundly altering the course of things): the book Of Sounds, Wood and Storms: The Secrets of a Mountain Luthier, written by the Trentino cellist, luthier, composer, writer, and cultural organizer Nicola Segatta.

It is a highly enjoyable volume in which the author composes his own distinctive literary score, suspended somewhere between philosophical essay, violin-making manual, and autobiography.

Segatta is a figure from another age—anyone who has frequented Cremona’s musical circles over the past twenty years has probably crossed paths with him—dressed in his slender jackets and perpetually illuminated by an intelligent and gentle gaze.

The fact that he has written a book almost feels like a departure from character, a concession to self-celebration seemingly at odds with a personality that appears devoid of affectation, never inclined toward egotism, and dedicated instead to seeking essentials across the many fields of knowledge explored in his relentless personal quest. We learn, in fact, that the idea of writing about himself was suggested by someone seemingly worlds apart from him: broadcaster, science communicator, life coach—and many other things that would require several spin-offs to describe—Valentina Lo Surdo.

As Segatta himself reveals, it was thanks to Lo Surdo’s maieutic influence that this book came into being.

The narrative unfolds on at least three different levels. First, it is an accessible primer explaining the main stages involved in building a bowed string instrument. Second, it is the author's personal Bildungsroman, through which we discover how Segatta became the man he is today. Finally, it is a kind of Zen and the Art of Violin Making—a reflection on method in its broadest sense.

Segatta’s declared literary influences are substantial and first-rate: Primo Levi and his masterpiece The Periodic Table, and Dino Buzzati, united with Segatta by a love of mountains, literature, and the musicality of the written word.

From Levi comes the inspired structural idea behind the book. In Levi’s work, the elements of the periodic table provide the connective tissue; in Segatta’s, it is the successive stages of violin making that unfold from chapter to chapter, intertwining with episodes from his personal life. It must be said that he spares neither himself nor anyone else.

In the chapters Suite Bohémienne and Suite Cremonese—vivid accounts of his formative years spent attending the International School of Violin Making in Cremona—we learn about his romantic misadventures, his uneasy balancing act between cello studies at the Conservatory, university studies in foreign languages, and life as a student, which he likens to that of “a boy subjected to some dystopian form of academic failure.” There are monumental drinking sessions and endless debates with a gallery of characters whom only those who have lived in Cremona know are not products of an overactive imagination. This seemingly shapeless limbo becomes the fertile broth from which the adult Nicola eventually emerges.

From his stories emerges a Cremona that is vibrant, welcoming, and multicultural, but also an educational system that appears inadequate and in urgent need of rethinking, precisely because of its unique standing in the world. Segatta does not spare himself, and his honesty extends equally to everyone who crosses his path. The hypocrisies of political correctness do not belong to him. In a world of carefully sanitized terminology, he still writes of school janitors in the old-fashioned sense, without affectation—indeed, with obvious affection. We also encounter a sharp sociological analysis, with echoes of Adorno, examining the behavioral conditioning that occurs when a group—in this case violin-making students—finds itself trapped in paradoxical situations.

The result is often amusing, yet these reflections also reveal once again the deep-rooted problems of Cremonese violin making, a world often unable to rethink itself beyond the mere observance of tradition.

The adventurous exploits of an apprentice luthier proceed through romantic naïveté, improbable shared apartments, sudden stomach ailments, and learned discussions. Everything is told so well—and at times so absurdly—that one never doubts the truthfulness of the events for a moment.

Part of the charm lies in Segatta’s rich gallery of encounters. Anonymous figures alternate with others identified by full name, creating an intriguing interplay between revelation and concealment that makes for particularly compelling reading—especially for a Cremonese audience.

The impression is that Segatta permits himself such freedom because he views everything he recounts from a position of serene detachment. This is not arrogance, but rather the ease of someone who has never needed to bow in order to pursue his dreams. His grandparents and great-grandparents seem to have stepped straight out of War and Peace, moving gracefully across the stage of history through trenches, salons, castles, and operating rooms while ordinary mortals struggle merely to make ends meet.

In anyone else, such digressions and such a background might prove irritating. Yet Segatta writes with such spontaneity, elegance, and charm that one forgives him everything—even his occasional failure to recognize the extent of his privilege.

And perhaps this is the true merit of this unusual book: it reflects the author’s lack of any need to impose a definitive shape upon himself—a quality that also manifests itself in his celebrated and fascinating compositions, those of a wandering musical storyteller enchanted by foreign lands and distant people. This freedom allows him to chart a path that answers many of the most common questions about violin making and everything surrounding it in a manner that is both original and profound.

There are no rigid schemes in Segatta’s learned digressions, yet every anecdote, every explanation, every reflection somehow finds its rightful place.

As Carlo Ginzburg once remarked in an interview, “I think that when writing one should avoid two dishes: hot air and reheated soup.” Nicola Segatta has succeeded perfectly in doing just that.

Nicola Segatta, Of Sounds, Wood and Storms: The Secrets of a Mountain Luthier – Terre di Mezzo, 240 pages, 2026, €16.

Photo by Simone Cargnoni.