It’s a long story — I’ll try to make it short, though I can’t skip a brief introduction.
I am a craftsman, and like most craftsmen, I love what I do. I would still do it even if I were wealthy and had no need to earn a living. I do it because creating something well is, for me, a form of necessity rather than a choice— a way of being.
Some time ago, I received a message from Marco Russo, an Italian cellist living and working in the United Kingdom.
“Antonino, I’m interested in a cello bow from the first half of the eighteenth century, but I’d like it to have a clip-in frog. Which model would you suggest?”
I replied:
“Dear Marco, I usually make a copy of a fine cello bow with a clip-in frog — the original is in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, inventory number Samm 77 — though it’s a seventeenth-century model. As soon as I can, I’ll let you try one.”
A few weeks later, Marco wrote again.
“While studying in the library, I came across the catalog of the Ashmolean Museum. There’s a bow attributed to Carlo Tonon — I’m sending you the photo I took on my phone.”
It was love at first sight.
Beyond its striking resemblance to the few Tonon bows I already knew — which I had been able to measure years ago at the Querini Stampalia Foundation in Venice — the photos revealed a bow of remarkable elegance, crafted with the mastery of a great artisan shaped with that unmistakably Italian spirit that blends elegance with warmth. The idea of making a replica began to take shape in my mind.
Ordinarily, I would have contacted the Ashmolean Museum to take measurements in person, as I’ve always done. But at this point in my life, that would have been difficult. Luckily, the museum’s technical description was precise and complete enough — with detailed measurements and clear photographs — to attempt a reconstruction.
The original frog was missing, and Arnold Dolmetsch (1858–1940), who had restored the bow, had made a wise and honest choice: he rebuilt it in a different material and shape from the stick, so that the reconstructed parts could be clearly distinguished from the originals.
I began working with feverish enthusiasm — drawing preparatory models based on the photographs and dimensions. Meanwhile, Marco discovered that the bow had once belonged to the Cooper Collection and found additional images from its catalog.
At the end, I decided to make the frog in the style of the other Tonon bows I knew.
Two weeks of work followed — countless hours of focus, doubts, and joy, and that familiar thrill that runs through me whenever something beautiful begins to take form in my hands.
And, as if that weren’t enough — the bow works!
After the first trials, it performs beautifully. Of course, more examples will need to be made and tested by other musicians specialized in historically informed performance. But for now, I already feel deeply satisfied.
