Lament for an underprivileged violin

On Valentine's Day, two other young women and I braved the cold and the, um, whatever you call that particular form of precipitation, to enjoy the Kansas City Symphony. As a special treat, violinist virtuoso Karen Gomyo graced us with a heart-stopping rendition of the Sibelius violin concerto.

The Canadian, though only 27, commanded the hall from her first note. I admit, I harbored unfair doubts when I first beheld this young, sweet-looking woman, but she played with passion and technical precision beyond her years.

As I sat there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, a curious thought danced in my head. "My poor, poor violin," the irrational portion of my brain lamented, "it will never know what it is like to be played like that. Its body will never participate in those sweet notes, those impeccable runs, those soaring melodies. The closest it has ever come to keeping company with a real violinist is sitting within bow's reach of Chris Takeda in high school orchestra and youth symphony. I think he may even have picked it up to play a lick once, but that may just be one of those fantasized memories.

Anyway, the point is, my violin is underprivileged. What more can it expect? Gomyo plays a stradivarius on loan to her permanently. Its name is ex-Foulis. My violin doesn't have a name. It's worth millions of dollars. Mine is worth, well, significantly less. Gomyo never lets her instrument leave her sight. I abandoned mine in my car's trunk overnight once (ok, maybe twice). The strad is a Porsche. My violin (its maker's name escapes me) is more of a Honda: reliable, long-lasting, higher-quality than a Ford (don't argue with me), but it's not going to woo any hot chicks.

At this point the rational part of my brain pipes in and asks, "how much of a difference does the instrument make to the quality of the music?" Now, I know that it does make a difference. When I was 14, after I had proven to my parents that I really was going to stick with the violin, they invested the money to upgrade me from my cheap student violin from Sears and Ro. to a real instrument. Robertson and Sons Violin Shop sent me home with countless violins and bows to audition, and the sound quality between them varied wildly. I discovered that even a different bow can altar the sound- it wasn't only for the shiny pearl and glittering oyster shells that I selected a bow as valuable as my violin. My only question is: how much? If Gomyo had taken the stage with my Honda, would she still have received a standing ovation?

I'm not suggesting for a moment that she and other masters should not be playing their priceless treasures. Violins, though sometimes works of art, are meant to be played. It's just a question to ponder, as well as an analogy that alert readers have clued into by now. What do you think?

pssssttt! This is Dagney's violin. As much as she claims to love me, I think it's a disgrace that she has never given me a name. Loyal readers of Dagney's blog, please suggest a name for me. If I choose your suggestion, I promise, with my owner's cooperation, to serenade you.