What a liutaio showed me about the joys of work
My brother, son, and I visit with a violinmaker.
In my job, we back startups who make work more productive or more humane, and I try to understand how people think about work. I spend the vast majority of my time with people who have a particular take on work — technology company founders.
So, when my brother told me he’d befriended a violinmaker, I wanted to learn how a craftsman who makes musical instruments experiences work.
Dario Ghislotti, my brother’s friend the luthier (or, in Italy, where he and my brother live, a liutaio), was generous to tour us in his workshop. My brother, and my son who was with us on our trip, stopped by and listened one evening as Dario was finishing his day.
As a professional, I found so much of what Dario said familiar, and some was wildly different from what I see in my work.
Dario makes roughly one new product a year. A violin takes 3–400 hundred hours of active work to make from scratch, and some of the steps just take time (like painting the finish, which takes a month itself). When I asked him which step was the most difficult, he said “all of them” — because he strains to put focused care into each moment.
To become a luthier, he needed to master an unusually wide range of skills. He learned from his uncle, and they share the same workshop. From understanding the math and physics of sound (including the Fibonacci sequence that informs the spiral shape in the head of the violin) to the properties of different kinds of wood, to the dexterity to create the subtle and precise shapes of the body of the violin, Dario performs every step himself. (Other than the tuning pegs, which he buys, he makes every other element of a finished violin.)
Dario fuses ancient traditions in violinmaking with new innovations. The one item he asked us to avoid photographing was his own invention in one aspect of the creation (or repair) of a violin.
Each violin has its own story. I asked about one of the violins on his rack, waiting for repairs, and why it was such a different color. It was from the 18th century — older than the United States.
The story of each violin evolves after the violinist takes it home. Dario can recognize the sound of an instrument he’s made. If it’s brought back for repairs, he can hear how the sound has matured with use, in the hands of the violinist.
As a business, their Liuteria Urso operates so differently from others I know.
His business isn’t about growth, or optimizing any metrics. Dario himself believes in owning fewer things, and commented on the excesses of capitalism (where we buy many things, poorly made). He buys items that last, and then repairs, washes, and makes the most of them. Even his shirt was sturdy. That philosophy echoed in how he makes violins.
While Luteria Urso has a website, they operate without any social media. Their customers will usually call in advance to organize a visit, wandering among the other violinmaking workshops in their city (Bologna). The buying process sounded more like matchmaking between violinist and instrument than like a commercial transaction. It’s about more than how the violinist likes the feel and the sound, it’s about understanding how it’s made, and what the ongoing relationship might be between the luthier and the violinist.
They worry little about “excess inventory.” Their new violins will wait until someone is ready to take them home. While Dario and his uncle build some new instruments on commission (often unusual or historical curiosities), they make most new violins “on spec” and trust the right customer will eventually come along.
The relationship this lutaio has with his craft rhymes with so much of what I’ve seen, and feels apart. He is an artisan, and the homo economicus view of what people want from work (a package of income and other amenities, in exchange for labor) fails to capture so much of the soul of how he practices his craft.
