Cremonese violin making is often told through its great masters, its legendary instruments, and the international prestige it has earned over the centuries. Less common, however, is a perspective capable of understanding it as a complex cultural phenomenon, situated at the crossroads of art, philosophy, history, pedagogy, science, and memory.

In this interview, Professor Anna Lucia Maramotti Politi—scholar of pedagogy, aesthetics, restoration, and philosophy, and for many years a teacher at the International School of Violin Making “Antonio Stradivari” in Cremona—reflects on her relationship with the world of violin making, developed through teaching, research, and dialogue with some of the field’s most authoritative figures.

From the historical roots of the Cremonese tradition to the significance of UNESCO recognition, from the relationship between authenticity and conservation to the value of craftsmanship in the age of digital technology, her reflections move beyond the boundaries of artisanal excellence to address broader themes: the role of memory, the bond between music and culture, the transmission of knowledge, and the very meaning of art in the contemporary world.

The result is a rich and engaging conversation that invites us to consider violin making not merely as a form of outstanding craftsmanship, but as a living heritage of knowledge, experience, and values that continues to speak to our time.

Professor Maramotti Politi, your intellectual path spans pedagogy, philosophy, architecture, aesthetics, and restoration. How have these disciplines shaped your perspective on Cremonese violin making?

I believe it is appropriate to limit your question to my teaching experience at the International School of Violin Making “A. Stradivari.” It is no coincidence that pedagogy is the first field of study to which you refer at the beginning of our conversation.

There is a statement by Professor Aldo Agazzi that effectively summarizes what pedagogy is.

To the question, “What must one know in order to teach Latin to little Johnny?” the answer is: “One must know Latin and one must know little Johnny.”

The School of Violin Making, precisely because of its uniqueness, required—and I presume still requires—an awareness that, in the specific case of the humanities, these disciplines must primarily relate to violin making itself.

The “Johnnies” of my time often came from different cultures and countries, and classes were sometimes composed of both adolescents and adults.

Let me try to illustrate what I mean through my own experience. The primary focus of history was the history of Cremona. What historical, cultural, social, and political conditions had enabled the development of violin making? Which factors had caused its decline, and which had made its revival possible?

Within this framework, art history assumed particular importance. Musical iconography offers an immediate approach: every word corresponds to an image. For this reason, at the beginning of each school year I considered it important to take students around the city and visit churches where artworks depicting musical instruments were preserved. Artistic images are not technical surveys of instruments, yet they provide plausible representations and place them within a precise historical context.

At the same time, students had the opportunity to discover the city through its architecture. Buildings constitute history carved in stone. Walking through the streets means learning to recognize the uniqueness of a city. For this reason, just as with instruments, it is necessary to care for them and not falsify their memory.

Even the Italian language was not meant merely as a tool of communication—an immediate and essential educational objective—but as a mediator of cultural values. The aim was to allow students to understand the role of violin making. Violin making can be identified as “an art in the service of another art: music.” Music cannot be enjoyed without an instrument, and the instrument itself has no reason to exist unless it is directed toward the sound that constitutes an essential component of music-making. There is a reciprocal relationship between the two: music and instrument.

And what about the “Johnnies”? Each of them was—and remains—a unique and unrepeatable personality. The teacher’s task is to be a discreet presence. The teacher must stimulate intellectual curiosity by fostering dialogue that is useful to learning. Not by chance, the Latin root of “to educate” (educere) means “to draw out,” to bring forth the potential of each individual.

There also remains the purely human dimension, which must be considered in relation to every person.

I realize that I have not yet addressed the fundamental issue concerning “my view of Cremonese violin making,” the answer you are encouraging me to provide. I have focused on pedagogy and teaching because it was precisely my teaching experience at the A. Stradivari School that allowed me to approach violin making in a concrete way.

Before leaving the subject of teaching, however, I feel it is my duty to recall a person to whom I owe much. If teaching was easy—and even enjoyable—for me, it is because of Principal and Architect Sergio Renzi, who shared my educational approach. From him I learned that architecture and restoration were essential to refining the study of aesthetics.

Architecture shares with violin making an attention to the mathematical relationships that make both construction and function possible. Restoration, understood as conservation, is equally common to both disciplines. Aesthetics, on the one hand, cannot indulge in vague adjectives that may sound enchanting but say little or nothing about the artwork itself; on the other hand, it cannot rely entirely on human sciences such as psychoanalysis or sociology, which are useful only insofar as they contextualize the aesthetic object.

Aesthetics is a philosophical discipline and must address its subject within the boundaries of thought capable of identifying those aspects of art that impose themselves phenomenologically. Yet this topic would deserve a discussion of its own.

At the same time, I cannot fail to mention another equally important encounter. From Master Dr. GioBatta Morassi I learned the complexity of violin making, its cultural richness, and the uniqueness of every instrument. He often repeated that “every student must be valued for the qualities that distinguish him or her.”

For this reason, Professor Ravina and I felt it appropriate to collect, in his memory, the contributions of several scholars in a single volume. A comprehensive study of his work will only be possible in years to come, but it was already possible to honor him through a book rich in carefully researched essays devoted to themes that were particularly dear to him.

Ultimately, my studies enabled me to be flexible in fulfilling the responsibilities entrusted to me. Yet whenever one teaches, one also learns.

I learned that violin making is not merely a form of highly skilled craftsmanship. When it reaches the highest levels of excellence, it must be considered an art.

When does it become true art? When the timbre of the instrument gives voice, through the performer’s hands, to the musical piece being played. Music does not employ a semantic language; therefore its expressive richness calls upon the interpreter. The performer does not simply execute a composition but establishes a personal relationship with it and communicates through it with the listener.

I learned that craftsmanship—the “know-how” of making—must constantly bring the intelligence of the hand into dialogue with different forms of knowledge and competence, both humanistic and scientific.

I came to understand that speaking of Cremona without referring to violin making would be like forgetting that the Torrazzo towers over our city. One would be neglecting a fundamental element that defines its identity.

Finally, I must acknowledge that Architect Renzi’s wife was prophetic when she told me, quite categorically, that “violin making is an illness from which one never recovers” and that I would eventually become seriously afflicted by it.

In your studies, you have often insisted on the need to consider violin making not merely as a form of excellent craftsmanship, but as a complex cultural phenomenon. What does it mean, today, to speak of a “philosophy of violin making”?

I began referring to violin making as a “complex phenomenon” when discussing the history of Cremona and concluded by mentioning technical and scientific studies as well. The raw materials used to build string instruments are certainly not native to our territory. It is well known how important wood is in instrument making and how fundamental its specific acoustic qualities are. Likewise, varnishes are rarely composed of resins, solvents, and pigments originally found locally. Furthermore, historical honesty requires us to acknowledge that many other cities, both Italian and foreign, have played significant roles in the history of music.

The development of violin making in Cremona was therefore the result of a combination of historical causes. Perhaps two of these are particularly significant. The first is Cremona’s economic role as the second city of the Duchy after Milan, owing both to its geographical position between Venice and Genoa and to its manufacturing capabilities.

Nor should the tradition of cabinetmaking be underestimated. This was not simply a matter of carving wood, but of producing works that required engineering knowledge—skills that had already been developing before the sixteenth century within architectural building sites, both civil and religious. Cabinetmakers were accustomed to calculations, statics, and proportions, all matters connected to mathematics.

Nothing prevents us from imagining—this is merely a hypothesis—that violin making, supported by this cultural and technical underground, developed through the specific interest in stringed instruments of the individual who would later be recognized as the first Cremonese violin maker: Andrea Amati. Were there perhaps other violin makers working in Cremona whose memory history failed to preserve? History combines remembrance with oblivion. Historically speaking, we remain within the realm of suggestive but nonetheless hypothetical interpretations.

What is not hypothetical, however, is the research of Roberto Fiorentini, who highlighted the relationship between the families of violin makers and the historic center of Cremona.

My own task, however, lies along a different path, one that leads into philosophy.

Strictly speaking, I do not refer to a “philosophy of violin making,” because violin making remains, first and foremost, a form of art. My reference is instead to the knowledge conveyed by the monochord, a theme that permeates Western thought through the reflections of Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans.

I hope I do not bore you, but I believe such an approach is essential if we are to move beyond the stereotypes that surround violin making and fail to recognize its importance for the identity of our culture.

Please forgive me, therefore, if I make reference to philosophy—to the Presocratic thought that shaped the course of Western intellectual history.

I promise to limit myself to a few essential points.

For the Pythagoreans, the monochord stands between the concept of arché—the principle, foundation, or original source that constitutes the first theoretical approach to the question of being—and mathematics as the structure of the cosmos.

Mathematics not only gives order and harmony to the world but also makes knowledge of it possible.

Around the musical string, Western culture developed its reflections on Unity (ontology), on relationships and their calculation (the epistemology of mathematics), on science itself (mathematics as language), and on harmony (the aesthetics of music and the arts).

Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans consistently referred to the monochord. Through experiments conducted by setting the string into vibration, they derived hypotheses and laws, while also engaging critically with the thought of Parmenides.

As you can see, I have confined myself to the essentials.

I must, however, acknowledge my own teachers: Professor Gustavo Bontadini and Professor Emanuele Severino with regard to the theme of foundation, and Francesco Piselli regarding the interpretation of Pythagoras.

But let us come to the present day.

If the musical string contributed to shaping the identity of our culture, contemporary science now reveals, through dynamic vibro-acoustic analysis, the identity and uniqueness of every stringed instrument.

The subjects studied by Professor Enrico Ravina from a scientific perspective and by myself from a theoretical perspective seek to demonstrate how these themes intertwine, making the instrument created by the master violin maker not merely an object of extraordinary craftsmanship—something that is not in question—but a treasure chest of ancient forms of knowledge that engage in dialogue with contemporary ones.

A spontaneous yet necessary question follows.

Is Cremona not the heir to a glorious past?

Could it not become the promoter of a cultural renaissance?

Let us not call it a “little Athens,” yet such a destiny remains possible if there are people capable of understanding the potential of the relationship between tradition and contemporaneity, between violin making and music, and between all these elements and the city itself.

This, I believe, is the challenge that still lies before us.

In your studies, you have often stressed the need to consider violin making not merely as a form of outstanding craftsmanship, but as a complex cultural phenomenon. What does it mean, today, to speak of a “philosophy of violin making”?

I began referring to violin making as a “complex phenomenon” when discussing the history of Cremona, and I concluded by making reference to technical and scientific studies as well. The raw materials used in the construction of stringed instruments are certainly not found within our local territory. It is well known how important wood is in instrument making and how fundamental its specific acoustic qualities are. Likewise, varnishes are rarely composed of components—resins, solvents, and pigments—that originate locally. Furthermore, historical honesty requires us to acknowledge that other cities, both in Italy and abroad, have played significant roles in the history of music.

The development of violin making in Cremona was therefore the result of a combination of historical factors. Perhaps two of these are particularly significant. The first is Cremona’s economic importance as the second city of the Duchy after Milan, owing both to its geographical position between Venice and Genoa and to its manufacturing capacity.

Nor should the tradition of cabinetmaking be underestimated. This involved not only the production of wooden sculptures, but also works that required engineering knowledge—skills that had already begun to develop before the sixteenth century within architectural building sites, both civil and ecclesiastical. Cabinetmakers were accustomed to calculations, statics, and proportions, all aspects closely connected with mathematics.

Nothing prevents us from thinking—this is merely a hypothesis—that violin making, supported by this cultural and technical substratum, developed through the specific interest in stringed instruments of the man later identified as the first Cremonese violin maker: Andrea Amati. Were there perhaps other violin makers working in Cremona whose memory history has not preserved? History combines memory with oblivion. Historically speaking, we remain within the realm of hypotheses—certainly suggestive ones, but hypotheses nonetheless.

What is not hypothetical, however, is the work of Roberto Fiorentini. The scholar has highlighted the relationship between the families of violin makers and the historic center of Cremona. I must therefore refer readers to his essay From the Ancient “Violin Makers’ Quarter” to a New Form of Renaissance in Musical Urbanism, published on Il Suono e l’Arte (25 May 2026, Italian and English editions) and Cremonasera.it (25 May 2026).

My task, however, lies along a different path, one that leads into philosophy. Strictly speaking, it is not a matter of a philosophy of violin making: violin making is, and remains, a form of art. My reference is instead to the knowledge conveyed by the monochord, a theme that permeates Western thought through the reflections of Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans.

I hope I do not bore you, but I believe that such an approach to violin making is essential if we are to move beyond the stereotypes that surround it and fail to recognize its importance for the identity of our culture. Forgive me, then, if I turn to philosophy—to the Presocratic thought that shaped the course of Western intellectual history.

I promise to confine myself to a few essential references.

For the Pythagoreans, the monochord stood between the concept of arché (the principle, foundation, or originating source that constituted the earliest theoretical approach to the question from which ontology would later develop) and mathematics as the structure of the cosmos. Mathematics not only gives order and harmony to the world, but also makes knowledge of it possible.

Around the musical string, Western culture developed its reflections on Unity (ontology), on relationships and their calculation (the epistemology of mathematics), on science itself (mathematics as language), and on harmony (the aesthetics of music and the arts). Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans constantly referred to the monochord. Through experiments carried out by setting the string into vibration, they derived hypotheses and laws, while also critically engaging with the thought of Parmenides.

As you can see, I have confined myself to the essentials.

I must, however, acknowledge my own teachers: Professor Gustavo Bontadini and Professor Emanuele Severino with regard to the theme of foundation, and Francesco Piselli with regard to the interpretation of Pythagoras.

But let us turn to the present day.

If the musical string helped shape the identity of our culture, contemporary science now reveals, through dynamic vibro-acoustic analysis, the identity and uniqueness of every stringed instrument. The subjects studied by Professor Enrico Ravina from a scientific perspective and by myself from a theoretical perspective seek to demonstrate how these themes intertwine, making the instrument created by the master violin maker not merely an object of extraordinary craftsmanship—a point that is not in question—but a repository of ancient forms of knowledge engaging in dialogue with contemporary ones.

A spontaneous, yet necessary, question follows.

Is Cremona not the heir to a glorious past? Could it not become the promoter of a cultural renaissance? Let us not call it a “little Athens,” but such a destiny remains possible if there are people of goodwill capable of recognizing the potential inherent in the relationship between tradition and contemporaneity, between violin making and music, and between all these elements and the city itself.

(E. Ravina, A.L. Maramotti Politi, La corda musicale, Gorizia, Edizioni della Laguna, 2024)

You taught for many years at the International School of Violin Making “Antonio Stradivari” in Cremona. How has the way young people approach violin making changed over time?

To be honest, I do not believe I can provide a fully adequate answer.

I can, however, testify that the interest I encountered among the students of the School was essentially the same as that which I later found among students enrolled in the Conservation and Restoration of Cultural Heritage programme (PFP6 – Musical Instruments) at the University of Musicology in Pavia–Cremona.

The latter certainly possessed more developed intellectual tools, broader competencies, and a greater degree of professional maturity. Naturally, their familiarity with violin making was also much more extensive.

Furthermore, the number of students in each class was relatively small. This created the possibility for continuous dialogue, making it possible to dispense with the traditional distance symbolized by the teacher’s desk and instead share knowledge and experience in a truly collaborative way.