World on a String

D Magazine, May 01, 2001 by Bowden, Jeff

TRAVELING WITH THREE-QUARTERS OF A MILLION DOLLARS IN violins is a lot less trouble than I thought it would be. The case isn't heavy; a careful child could pick one up. Traveling with cellos, however, is evidently a matter of sore arms, seat belt extenders, and unappreciative seatmates. You also have to buy a ticket for a cello.

"I used to put the name of the maker on the ticket," Michael Selman told me shortly after our plane took off from DFW, the seatbacks in the row ahead suddenly lurching toward us. "Once I put the name John Betts on the ticket. I had to put something." Selman paused to rearrange his knees. "When I got to the gate to check in, the agent said to me, 'You can't check Mr. Betts' ticket. He has to come here."' Selman pointed the woman's attention to a large black case at his side. "But Mr. Betts is a cello," Selman explained. The agent squinted. "It was one of those times," Selman concluded, "when you expect an ordeal and they say, 'Oh, okay."'

Michael Selman manages the U.S. operations for J & A Beare Ltd. (pronounced "Beer"), the world's leading dealer, appraiser, and restorer of stringed instruments, from a suite of offices overlooking Lee Park and Turtle Creek. Beare's European offices are in London and are managed by Selman's partners, including Charles Beare (who is, quite simply, the emperor of the stringed world). Once or twice a month, Selman delivers violins, violas, and cellos to customers and prospects. I recently with him to Seattle to show three violins to John Weller, ass concertmaster of the Seattle Symphony. Weller was in the market for a fine violin. He was, you might say, looking for a sound.

Although I didn't know it when I boarded the plane, Selman is a model travel companion: he dresses casually, laughs easily, and will eat pizza twice a day. He was already in his seat when we met for the flight, a specially designed black, instrument case resting on blankets in the overhead compartment. Inside were three Italianviolins, worth roughly $250,000 each, including one made by the grandfather of Giuseppe Guarneri-known as del Gesu because he signed his violins with a cross. Guarneris are renowned for their ability to soar over orchestras. The New York Times recently reported the sale of an exceptional del Gesu, of which there are only 100 in existence, for $6 million.

"My favorite instruments are the Cremonese, tonally and visually," Selman said. (Cremona is a small city in northern Italy, home to generations of violinmakers, including Antonio Stradivari.) "I look for violins that in six months to a year I can still discover something new from. It should be a journey. In your quest for musical expression or perfection, the question is: will the instrument let you achieve it?"

"Is that really possible?" I asked.

"Yes," Selman said. "That's the quality of better instruments. Think of a painter. Even a child with an eight-color watercolor set gets tired of the limitations. A great artist can get to the 'tweeners.' He needs a great instrument to get them. The goal is to bring the concert hall to the place where everyone is experiencing the same emotion."

GREAT STRINGED INSTRUMENTS HAVE GROWN SO EXPENSIVE that the artists who play them can rarely afford to own them. They are increasingly purchased by institutions, patrons, or even investor groups and then loaned to performers. Even renowned contemporary cellist Yo Yo Ma needed the benevolence of friends to purchase his Stradivarius-for a rumored $2.5 million-in 1987.

Selman's company is the dealer of one of the world's most famous violins: the "Gibson" Stradivarius. Not only was the violin produced during the golden period of Italian violin making (1710-20), but it was stolen twice during the 20th century alone-both times from the same violinist, Polish virtuoso Bronislaw Huberman. The first time the violin was stolen, it was recovered within hours. Not so the second time.

In one of the most daring thefts in musical instrument history, the Gibson Strad was stolen again in 1936, during a performance by Huberman at Carnegie Hall. Huberman took two violins to his concert that night: a del Gesu and the Gibson Strad. He left the Strad in his dressing room while he performed with the other.

The thief, a cabaret violinist named Julian Altman, convinced by his stage mother that his unrecognized greatness required a suitable instrument, eased his way past a security guard using a box of cigars, entered Huberman's dressing room, and put the great Strad under his coat. He waited for a break in the recital and simply walked out of the hall.

Perhaps a better player or worse crook would have been caught. Altman, however, played the violin in the obscurity of restaurants and bars for the remainder of his career. Only after his death in 1986-50 years later-was his theft revealed and the violin returned to Huberman's insurer. The violin was ultimately authenticated by Michael Selman's partner, Charles Beare. Even without the incredible history, the Gibson Strad is worth millions.