It’s Right or It’s Not

“Your training is where you start,” said English bow maker Tim Baker. “I prefer to find a way that works, that gives the result you want every time.” He handed me a square needle file that he’d modified to perform the task at hand—creating the inside angle of the ivory tip of a violin bow—and offered to let me try it.

It was midafternoon at this summer’s annual Bow Makers’ Workshop at Oberlin College in Ohio. I’d come to Tim with a style question about the angle of the tip of a particular genre of French bows. The tip is one of those style points that demonstrate a bow maker’s awareness of style and history. The proportions, angles, curves, and fit of the head, the two ebony liners, and ivory tip are an indicator of the maker’s eye, tool skills, and attention to detail. All four pieces are made by hand, judged by eye, and must fit perfectly with no waver in the crisp, confident lines and angles. Like virtually everything about a fine handmade bow, it’s right or it’s not.

Rather than approach the familiar task in the same old way, I asked Tim how he did it. His method was completely different from the way my French-trained teacher taught me. I’d been trained not to ask questions, but since I started coming to Oberlin, I’ve learned that it’s far more productive to ask. Everybody in the room, even me, has something to offer, and there’s an easier way to do almost everything.

Still, the easy way is not easy the first time, and it’s harder still when you’re out of practice. (If you’re reading this, you should know that I am a bow maker who spends most of my working hours in the Strings office as the magazine’s lutherie editor).

One of the things I love best about bow work is that either it’s right or it’s not. Wishful thinking or dashing something off gets you nowhere. At first, the curve of the head was too round. It looked like a German bow: not unattractive, but not French. After too much time spent trying to reshape it without getting it right, Morgan Andersen reminded me about using chalk on the face to see what you’re doing.

Duh. Like I said, out of practice.

Tim’s method called for end-grain ebony veneer behind the bec (the upright end of the tip) rather than sheets of ebony cut with the grain. This way, when you carve the bec, the ebony grain is in line with the grain of the pernambuco and it’s easier to cut. I’d never made any before, but it wasn’t too difficult to figure out. My bench neighbor, Robert Dow, said he’d always meant to try end-grain, but was too lazy to make it. So I made some for him, too, especially since I’d begged a few inches of regular ebony in the right thickness for the facing part. That’s another aspect of working at Oberlin: finding out who has what you forgot to pack and being willing to share.

Tim’s modified file created the desired angle, but it also filed a shallow line in the facing surface that would be visible from the side. Filing that out left the crisp corner a bit rounded—not allowed. Cleaning up that corner with the chisel made it droop a little—also not allowed. More filing and cleaning with the chisel ensued until the ivory and the angle of the head matched perfectly. At least it looked that way from the outside. The end-grain ebony was a dream to fit and the liners went on without a hitch—much easier than my old method. But I didn’t want to use superglue for the ivory, so that meant a visit to bow maker Matt Wehling, my glue supplier. (“You have it at home? Don’t buy another one, just use mine.”) Since I was there, Matt showed me a nifty way to tie things up for gluing. After a few practice tries, that worked like a dream.

Or so it seemed.

After dinner I untied the head and started filing away the excess material until the joint was visible: the moment of truth. Hmm. A friend from the violin shop across the hall was visiting at my bench so I decided to ask her opinion of the results. It looked just fine—from a violin maker’s perspective.

Late that night, I looked again, decided it just wasn’t good enough, and whacked the pieces apart with a knife so I wouldn’t be tempted to accept it the next day. In the morning, it was back to the beginning—borrow the special file, make more end-grain veneer, sharpen the chisel this time, fit it all again more carefully, back to Matt for the glue and string. The second time around, the results were much better. Not perfect, but I decided to move on.

There’s still time in the process to change it. When I get home tonight I might just. . . .