Violin maker Carl Becker tries out one of his creations in his Chicago shop.
Builder of masterpiece ‘fiddles’
By JOE LAMB
Modesty and discretion begin at the doorstep crowdingthe sidewalk of the grimy South Chicago street.
The house is old, two-story, brick-sided, in perfect harmony with the faceless anonymity of the neighborhood. If the street people – those of the blank but all-seeing Chicago eyes – are aware that the name under the doorbell is spoken by many in tones of reverence, there is no clamor.
Carl F. Becker prefers it that way. “You noticed there is no advertisement on the door,” he says, politely requesting that the anonymity be preserved.
It is partly for the sake of discretion – persons of renown sometimes press that doorbell button above Becker’s name, sometimes casually cradling fortunes in antiquity in their arms.
It also is for the sake of avoiding interruption: The work of Carl Becker is extremely delicate, sensitive, committed unerringly to absolute perfection.
But there is another element, one of modesty in the air of privacy.
In the realm of music, there are many who equate the name of Carl Becker with the likes of Stradivari, Guarneri, Magginni. There are more than a few who consider Becker “on of the world’s greatest violin makers,” a credit that brings a flattered but embarrassed smile to the pleasantly hawkish face.
“Time is the only element that can decide,” he says, unwilling to take upon himself the mantle of equality with the original masters.
“We like to think that our violins are as good,’ he admits.” but we hesitate to put it that way. Time will have to say if we are to be remembered.”
His face is a blush of embarrassment at being pressed to compare – and it is unfair to ask of him. Becker is known to the music world for his unassuming modesty. He prefers that his work speak for itself. And so it does.
Explore the string sections of virtually any major symphony orchestra today – from Chicago to Boston to Omaha to Cleveland, Milwaukee, Cincinnati, St. Louis and Rockford – and you will discover a strong representation of Becker violins, viola and cellos.
There are eight “ Beckers” in the Milwaukee Symphony.
There are nine “Beckers” in the Rockford Symphony, including the violin of concertmaster Frank Beezhold, who concluded his recent concerto performance with the symphony by asking the audience to direct its applause to an honored guest in their midst – Becker, the creator, 10 years ago, of Beezhold’s personal violin.
Also playing Beckers in the Rockford Symphony are violinists Dorothy Shultz, Carmen Pursley. Bardell Bowman, Floyd Olson and William Siebers; violists Drusilla Tech and Harold A. Johnson; and cellist Martha Dunton.
Often as not, Becker violin is a personal creation, by the man, for the artist, a hand-made work of are possessing that exquisite but inexpressible quality that can only be heard.
A new Becker creation commands a price that, for publication, he prefers only to specify as “in the thousands.” As with that creations of the old masters, a Becker can grow in value simply by acquiring the character aging lends to a fine violin.
Becker, 56, has been creating violins since his early teens, introduced to the art by his father, Carl G., whose talent first made the Becker label a mark of quality in the world of music. For many years, Becker and his father were associated with the violin firm of William LEWIS AND Son of Chicago. They formed their won firm, Carl Becker and Son, when Lewis closed its Chicago Loop store in the 1960s. The senior Mr. Becker died in 1975 at the age of 87, only shortly retired.
Today, Becker is teaching the art to his daughter Jennifer and son Paul, who work with him both in their Chicago home and in the workshop of a secluded lake cottage in north eastern Wisconsin.
Jennifer, a concert cellist, has finished creation of her eighth violin. Paul, who confesses no music ability, is in the finishing stages of his first.
Music is a family trait. however. “Our grandparents both played cello,” said Jennifer. And Becker notes with some pride that his wife Geraldine gave up a promising career as a soprano to become the mother of his children.
But, interestingly enough, he said, being an accomplished musician isn’t an absolute necessity in the art of violin making.
“I studied violin when I was young in school, but I didn’t do very well with,” he said, nothing that he never felt competent as a player until taking more lessons later in life.
“it helps to know how to play, but the necessity is that you are capable workman and have an understanding of what the instrument should be.”
The early maters, he added, are revered for their work because that had that infinitie “ understanding” and because they developed that are to a perfection that has yet to be surpassed.
“we are not innovators,” said Becker, lending perspective to his own highly-valued creations.
“The best that can be done in the making of a violin has been known since that 16th Century. We study that old, make use of what we learn, applying it to making our instruments.”
There is a popular misconception about violins, he confesses, that “old” means “mellow” or good.
“Aging can give a violin what I prefer to call a ‘settled’ tone, but it has to be a fine instrument from the start,” Becker said.
“A fine new fiddle will sound better than a mediocre old one.”
The sound of a fine instrument, he continued, derives from “a combination of many things working together”—the quality and resonance of the wood, the “graduation” or thickness of the face, the arching of the top and back, precision placement of the bridge and the positioning of a seldom-seen object called the sound post.
The sound post is a small piece of wood (about the diameter of a pencil) positioned upright between the top and bottom of the violin. It controls the vibration of the wood.
“ We spend hours sometimes locating that sound post, moving it abound and testing the sound,” Becker said.
Except for the rough outlines of the violin, no power tools are used in the creation of a Becker violin. His tools, many of them hand-mand, include razor-edged carving knives and planers smaller than half the size of a fingernail.
The work is painstaking, deliberately unhurried, and great pains are taken by Becker and his daughter and son to bring out the best in the beautifully-grained wood, “curly” maple for the backs and soft spruce for the tops. The wood is imported form Germany, from suppliers who cater to the makers of musical instruments, and comes in pie-shaped (“quarter-cut) wedges from which the inner “ribbing” as well as the surfaces of a violin are cut.
The entire process, from start to finish, often spans several months’ time.
“ You could finish a violin in perhaps three weeks of steady work, but only with no other work and no interruptions,” said Becker, nothing that after more than 40 years devotion to his art, he only recently completed “Becker No.760.”
While he would love to do so, it is impossible for Becker to concentrate all his attention toward the creation of new violins—his skill is much in demand among violinists distraught over those inexpressible “tight” or “soggy” tones.
Along with repairing the instruments of professional musicians, Becker also is sought out by the owners of those rare and valuable creations of the likes of Stradivari, Guarneri and Magginni. In addition to being a recognized appraiser and authenticator of such instruments, he is one of an extremely few trusted to repair or restore them to playing condition.
“There are maybe tow or three others—maybe we should say five or six – who would be trusted to do such work and do it right,” Becker, ever the proud craftsman yet uncomfortable hero, admitted after some urging.
On Becker’s workbench as he talked were a 16th Century Magginni, valued at $40,000, and the aged face panel of a dismantled $80,000 Stradivarius. The Magginni’s owner, a friend—as most violinists who know Becker seem to be – had asked him to make a bridge adjustment for the sake of tone.
The Stradivarius had suffered from “ a very unusual accident,” he said somewhat reluctantly – he is sensitive to the confidences of clients. Its owner, he explained in pardoning wonder, “dropped a mirror on it.”
The blow had crunched a small portion of one edge of the violin, and it had been Becker’s task to restore it to perfection. The repairs he had made were incredibly indiscernible, the hair-fine grain of the piece of wood he had merged into the work of Stradivarius in perfect alignment, the “perfling” (the inlaid scrollwork around the outer edge) true to the original.
Becker could make no guess at the hours he had spent merely searching for the tiny piece of wood that would perfectly match the finish of the Stradivarius.
“It did take a lot of looking,”
It also clearly was a work of love, no doubt one of the reasons musicians of high renown seek the counsel and the skills of the tall, soft-spoken man with the rounded shoulders and large, certain hands of the workbench craftsman.
If he is unchallenged as today’s master of the art, Becker also goes unchallenged when he calls any violin, a Stradivarius included, “fiddle,” a word that sometimes makes supersensitive artists cringe.
“I look upon ‘fiddle’ as just another name for violin,” he said to daughter Jennifer’s teasing laughter.
“Dad calls everything a ‘fiddle,’ whether it’s a violin, a viola or cello,” she said. “No one has ever dared to correct him, but I doubt that I or anyone else could get away with saying ‘fiddle’.”
