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Cincinnati
finally gets a Stradivarius? Yes, but with strings attached.
For Paul Bartel it started out innocently enough. Casual lunch
conversation last March with a visiting musician. The kind of thing he
has done countless times. Sandwiches and coffee and chat. And gradually
the talk drifted to fine violins in general and Stradivarius violins in
particular, a subject Bartel (owner of the Baroque Violin Shop in
Finneytown and another shop in Dayton) has immersed himself in.
And then a casual remark from the musician: "I know of a
couple of Strads for sale in Texas," he mused aloud between bites.
Normally, Bartel dismisses such remarks. After all, he fields
calls every day from people claiming to possess million-dollar Strads. "Found
it in an attic in Cheviot," they'll say. Or "It's been in the
family for generations. It's gotta be worth all kinds of money." By
now, Bartel has a rehearsed response. "If you want to bring it in,
I'11 look at it," he says, "but keep in mind almost every
mass-produced violin has a label in it that says, 'Made by Antonio
Stradivari' and a date like 1715. Doesn't mean a thing: some of these
fake labels are even typed." Still, folks do bring them in for
inspection, these cellar Strads--their owners nursing dreams too
trusting to be dismissed, too innocent to be derided.
Now the fellow munching the sandwich across the table from Bartel
wasn't that sort of naif; not at all. But Bartel's instincts told him to
be incredulous. A reputable Strad suddenly appearing on the market was a
long shot; two would be a miracle. Still, given Bartel's passion for
Strads, he couldn't just dismiss the possibility.
It wasn't the
prospect of brokering the sale that so intrigued Bartel-even though
that could easily be worth $100,000. Rather, it was the prospect of
owning a Strad, of playing it, of admiring its power, delicacy,
fullness of tone. Of marveling over its lustrous varnish, its
intensely feminine form. Deep down he knew--even feared--that when
the right Strad came, he would be driven to extravagance--damn
if he wouldn't hock everything to get it.
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Of marveling over its
lustrous varnish, its intensely feminine form. Deep down he knew--even
feared--that when the right Strad came, he would be driven to
extravagance--damn if he wouldn't hock everything to get it.
And two weeks later, when Bartel saw a color photograph of the
Lady Harms-worth Strad--burnished with a soft ruby-red varnish--he knew
on the spot that moment had come. He hadn't even heard it yet. No
matter. When a man is primed for romance, even a look can send him
reeling.
At first glance, Paul Bartel doesn't resemble someone prone to
romantic excess. At age 38, he is a man of medium size who bears a
squinty resemblance to Johnny Bench. The same muscular torso and
powerful forearms; the same look of coiled energy; the same
working-class background. But there the resemblance ends. Bartel's
metier is classical music, his club of choice is the sixteen-ounce
violin, and so far as is known, he never plays from a squatting
position. "Bartel is nuts about violins," says a friend, Bora
Angelich, a twenty-five-year veteran of the CSO's violin section. "With
him they're more than just a way to make a living."
And now Bartel was confronted with the Lady Harmsworth, a charmer
that would turn any musician's head. Here was an instrument with an
aristocratic pedigree--one that could be traced back, owner by owner,
century by century to--who knows? -to the primal violin, to the ultimate
fiddle.
No question. Bartel just had to have it.
Bartel wouldn't be the first to succumb to the spell of the
incomparable Stradivari--the ne plus ultra of violin makers. Today's
leading virtuoso Itzhak Perlman recently bought a second Strad. And the
legendary Paganini owned a brace of them.
Tradition has it that for fifty-six years, Stradivari worked in
the shadow of his brilliant teacher Nicoio Amati, the man who defined
the violin's ultimate form. But it was the apprentice, Antonio
Stradivari, who ultimately fashioned the proportions of the modern
violin, created a mysterious varnish and elevated the fragile one-pound
box of wood to legendary status.
Stradivari truly hit his stride in 1700, embarking on a golden
period which extended until his death at age 93. During that time, he
left behind 1,116 of the finest instruments ever made--violins, violas,
cellos, guitars. Amazingly, 600 instruments survive. They survive in the
hands of the marquee performers--players such as Perlman, Pinchas
Zuckerman and Yehudi Menuhin. And they survive in the hands of
collectors richer than God.
But none survives in Cincinnati. Not now, at any rate. Not even in
the hands of CSO concertmaster Phillip Ruder. (He does his blissful
double-stopping on a J.B. Vuillaume.) A scant four years ago there were
two Strads in town, but since then the market prices have soared:
doubled, tripled, then quadrupled. Almost overnight, the Strads
vanished.
It was the combination of a weak dollar and the wealth of the
Japanese that drove the violins the way of other collectibles: eastward.
Fine art, statuary, rare books, sportscars. Today we are like most other
mid-size cities: fast losing our share of the world's loot.
Covet a Strad from the golden age? Currently, they're fetching
from $650,000 to several million dollars. Pricey indeed. Today's buyers
fall into one of three groups: either professional soloists for the
concert stage; wealthy collectors (most of them Japanese or Germans);
and cash-rich institutions-some that even lend their names to these
instruments. So today there exists a violin that Sotheby's recently
auctioned as the (shudder) "Pepsi Cola Strad"-an instrument
presumably displayed, if not played, in the corporate boardroom.
Bartel's instrument bears the name of Lady Harmsworth, an English
noble- woman who owned it during the 1920s. "It's definitely a fine
Strad," remarks Dan Draley, a historian and dealer in prime
violins, primarily seventeenth-century. Draley knows this particular
instrument from books and by reputation. "I place it in the upper
half of Strads available today," he says. Now Draley, who lives in
DeWitt, Iowa, is the sort who will journey like some latter-day pilgrim
just for the opportunity to see a Strad, an Amati, a Guameri. (By his
own count, he has seen 156 Strads.) And the Lady Harmsworth is one he'll
visit.
In today's market, it's surprising that the Queen City is
acquiring a quality Strad. Even more surprising is the way it's being
acquired. Not the way collectors normally do--by waving at its owner a
check stitched with zeros--a la Donald Trump or the Japanese oligarchs.
No, Bartel is buying a Strad the way a working-class stiff buys a
stereo. So much down, so much each payment. Granted, his payments are in
the hundreds of thousands of dollars. More than yours or mine. Still...
"That's what makes Bartel so unusual," observes Draley. "Most
collectors have a fortune behind them. Bartel, on the other hand,
has his whole estate invested in this one instrument." The
purchase price for the Lady Harmsworth is a dizzying figure that
Bartel won't divulge, but he does admit that in his eagerness to get
this 1703 fiddle, he waived any right to a refund. Meaning that
should he default on the last payment, the money already paid
(amounting to two thirds of the asking price) would be forfeit. Meaning
too that until he makes the final payment in July 1992, the violin
reposes in a vault in Galveston, Texas. Unplayed. Untouched. Unseen. |
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And Bartel? Deep in debt, he consoles himself with photographs
of his Lady.
These are hurdles that should stall any dream, but not Bartel's.
He wants that violin so much his teeth ache. "It is an obsession
with him," says Angelich. "Since he heard about this
instrument, he speaks about nothing else."
Bartel admits to a feeling that lovers experience--desiring
something so much you taste your mortality. "I sometimes think of
that," he says, "dying in a car wreck before I can take
possession." But he has a more immediate concern: for the next
year, he will be driven by the need to raise fabulous sums of money.
Once Bartel owns the instrument, he must figure out ways to
protect it. That won't be easy. Given today's market, standard equipment
on a Strad should include bodyguards. In 1969, when the fiddle was sold
to its present owner (a physician in Galveston, Texas), the dealer
advised that it be stored safely, since "such an instrument would
become a magnet for thieves.
Bartel wants to keep this Strad accessible to the public. It may
become the only one that is. "Most people," he says, "will
never get to see a Strad up close. This is an opportunity that comes
once in a lifetime."
As owner of the Baroque Violin Shop, Bartel has refused to
specialize. That distinguishes him from others who cater to stringed
instrument players. Instead he does everything. He rents instruments. ("I
ship to twenty-five of the fifty states," he says proudly.) He also
makes instruments from scratch. (Of his eleven employees, one is a
full-time maker of violins, violas and cellos.) He does repair and
restoration work. And, finally, he sells stringed instruments, many of
them made by craftsmen with liquid names such as Amati, Guameri and
Rogeri. If all goes according to plan, in a year, Bartel's shop--a
Federal-style brick building on North Bend Road-will house the Lady
Harmsworth. It seems unlikely that curators will ever take to calling it
"the Finneytown Strad." Nevertheless, says Bora Angelich, "I'm
sure that collectors, dealers and violin lovers will fly to Cincinnati
to see it." |
