Breaking Free from Beautiful Sameness
July 1989, Badajoz, Spain. Me (in the center), Rostropovich with a glass of wine, and members of the orchestra.
Save your eyes, listen to this story instead
Brussels, 1994. The sound of splintering wood as my violin meets the fireplace wasn't defeat—it was my first moment of authentic creation. Breaking free from the shackles of perfect imitation.
"Are you trying to outdo Stradivari?" they had laughed.
"Just make copies like everyone else."
How did I—a prize-winning luthier—end up here?
My mind flashed back.
A hot July night in Spain, 1989. An ancient Roman amphitheatre. Orchestra. Moon. Warm breeze. The scent of jasmine in the air. Romeo and Juliet by Prokofiev. Rostropovich conducting.
"Maestro, what is this sound? So alive, so full. It doesn't sound like an open-air theatre. It sounds better than many modern halls built by today's PhDs," I asked.
"What if these ancients knew something about sound that we've forgotten?" he replied.
I didn't answer. But I felt a burning desire to find out.
1992, My first violin wins a competition diploma. A perfect copy—indistinguishable from dozens of others. Yet something about the victory felt hollow.
I was just another Master Copycat in a world already drowning in imitation, just as musicians everywhere were awakening to the empty promise of technical perfection without heart.”
Flash forward: back to that night in Brussels, it all came crashing down. Years of ridicule, frustration, and self-doubt boiled over - I was an award-winning luthier, violinist graduate of a prestigious conservatoire. On the outside. On the inside, with just the scroll of my violin left in my hand, I realised I was just a faceless, replaceable cog in the machine of music industry.
But then, an unexpected turn...
I began touring as a Baroque violinist with La Petite Bande—a career many would dream of.
But inside, a battle raged.
Have you ever had those internal dialogues?
One voice whispering, "Remember what moved you? You wanted to rediscover the ancient masters' lost sound knowledge."
And the other, louder: "Come on! You're living the dream. Do you really want to throw that away and face ridicule all over again?"
Then, 1997. A sunlit bookstore. The smell of old paper. A glass ceiling filtering golden afternoon light. A random book calls to me. I open it. The line that stops me cold: "These are the laws used by the skilled workmen who fashion musical instruments in bringing them to the perfection of their proper concords." Goosebumps. Wait—what is this? A book about building Roman theatres.
Whatever you call it, coincidence, or divine guidance, have you ever heard the Japanese poet Matsuo Bashō say: "Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought."
I made a radical decision: To pause my performing career and dedicate myself to seeking what they sought. The one that gives not just a template to copy, but the knowledge to create it.
The point of no return
You'd think this would be met with excitement?
Far from that. No applause. No commissions. Just even more ridicule—louder than before.
But the dozens of ancient treatises and surviving masterpieces changed everything:
The old masters didn't think in millimeters. They thought in musical harmonies. They believed the universe is a harmonious, balanced whole—and they translated that harmony into the finest violins ever created.
They were Sound Alchemists—translating the universe's harmony into wood.
Six years passed trying and trying in solitude. Ancients taught me the spiritual wisdom of centuries we so arrogantly ignored and called it a progress.
Fast forward to 2003—my first major breakthrough: Ryo Terakado, concertmaster of La Petite Bande, commissioned a violin of my design. While others were chasing copies of famous Italians, he wanted depth, not just the surface. "It sounds great," he later told me. "I talk about you loudly." What set this instrument apart wasn't just sound—it was voice.
Other musicians started noticing it wasn't just theory. It worked.
In time, I'd build six instruments for Kuijken. Three for Terakado. Two for Malov. I published a book with the foreword by NYT bestselling author, performed around the world, led ensembles, and even played solo on the violoncello da spalla.
Look. It all started with one question:
"What if mastery isn't the destination, but the obstacle?"
We live in a culture where culture became a commodity. Musicians are expected to copy, conform, consume.
But sound—true sound—isn't what you hear. It's what you create. And ultimately, what you become.
My method, the Old Masters T.O.N.E.S. Technique™, emerged from more than three decades of search. You don't need to explain your ideal sound. Just play. I will translate your sonic vision into an instrument that does not just perform. It proclaims.
Culture isn't just something to consume. It's the people who create it. Mastery isn't found in perfect imitation—it's found in the freedom to create.
And when a violin becomes your voice, audiences don’t just hear it—they listen to it.
Is that the kind of musician you want to be? Then perhaps it’s time we talk.
