Latest news with #woodworking
Forbes
21-07-2025
- Forbes
Lake Orta's Hidden Gem Hotel: La Darbia Blends Nature, Craft And Calm
The bar in La Darbia's kitchen garden Tobias Kaser Photography In the moneyed enclaves north of Milan, it's easy to go glam. But even in Lake Orta, it's harder to go genuine. Finding a classically trained woodworker who crafts and restores Louis XIV furniture is relatively simple. It's hard, however, to find one who makes more humble household objects. It's rare to find one who find the potential in weathered old wood, rusted door locks and armchairs whose seats have cratered under the weight of a thousand heavy conversations. But Gian Carlo and Matteo Primatesta, the architect brothers behind Piedmont's utterly peaceful La Darbia hotel, have found one. They've been working Flavio Bettio—a 60-something woodworker who learned the craft decades ago from his father—for years and years now. He's one of the last holdouts from the days when everyday people went to the village carpenter instead of the suburban Ikea. It's all delightfully analog. And it's made Bettio the go-to for Studio Primatesta's architectural commissions—luxury villas and small tourism projects around the brothers' native Lake Orta, and especially for La Darbia, the hotel they opened in 2012. Flavio Bettio's table in La Darbia's cantina Tobias Kaser Photography The hotel is a full-scale embodiment of the carpenter's artistry—and the architects' firm commitment to simple things done well. It's beautiful in its functionality. In its honesty. In its humility. (It also has its share of invisible upgrades, like magnets on the wardrobe latches to silently keep them closed without interrupting the fantasy of time travel to simpler days.) The unembellished style is well suited for Lake Orta, the quietly beautiful but shy little sister of northern Italy's more glamorous resort towns. Lake Orta doesn't attract the jet-set bourgeoisie who check into the palace hotels of Lake Maggiore, nor the moneyed German speakers who surround Lake Garda, nor the Americans who still joke about searching for George Clooney in Lake Como. What it has instead is a deeply peaceful atmosphere, the charming medieval village of Orta San Giulio, Belle Époque promenades and those magical Alpine lake twilights when the village lights begin to twinkle on the water's surface. In the center of the lake, a short boat ride from the village harbor, Isola San Guilio is home to a few dozen Benedictine nuns, who live in a seminary that dates from 1840, and a smattering of posh holiday homes. (It's about an hour from Milan and even closer to the Swiss border.) Even in June, it's all alive but not overrun. Dinner at La Darbia, overlooking Lake Orta Tobias Kaser Photography La Darbia sits on a hill just above Orta San Giulio. Apart from a historic stone tower, the estate was abandoned farmland that was being reclaimed by nature when the Primatesta brothers heard about it from a client. 'We had the idea to buy it and do something with it,' recalls Gian Carlo. 'But we had no idea what.' The plan came about for two reasons. They had been impressed by the simple, village-style hotels they had seen—something lacking around Lake Orta—on their vacations to places like Tuscany and Provence. And they discovered they genuinely liked hospitality: They had already built and opened 20 serviced apartments on their land when their father gave one of the brothers a pizza oven for his birthday. The family gathered for celebrations at long tables in the gardens, sharing hot pizza and good wine, and it wasn't long before guests asked to join the party. So they built a restaurant and a separate garden bar, hired servers and a terrific chef, and realized they had a full-on hotel on their hands. But La Darbia is still the sort of informal hideaway that prizes slowness and simplicity, that avoids opulence and that emanates the understated elegance that Italians call sobrio. The construction is elemental. The materials are sturdy. The simplicity intrigues. A suite Tobias Kaser Photography 'We're doing what we like,' says Matteo, noting that they try to at least walk around the property every day. 'For 20 years, we were only architects. This is something different.' All 20 of the apartments have nuanced color palettes inspired by nature. Each one faces the gardens, saltwater pool and small plot of grapevines. The lake shimmers below, and on clear mornings, the snowcapped head of Monte Rosa peeks out above. Their terraces or patios are set up with tables for enjoying the picnic breakfast that's delivered each morning—because who wants to get dressed at 8am?—and with lounge chairs for self-evident use. Once a week, they still go back to the super-simple hospitality of inviting guests to their rustic cantina—complete with a long table made by Bettio—to share Piedmontese cheeses, charcuterie and wines from their cellar, including the nebbiolo that's produced from the estate's little vineyards. The rest of the time, meals are still relaxed but elevated to be destination dining. Most of their clientele comes from Milan, or at least from outside the hotel. The garden bar and restaurant building Tobias Kaser Photography In the outdoor bar, café tables and larger, shaded couches are set up around the vegetable plots of the organic kitchen garden. It's a dreamily rustic spot for the top-notch aperitivo that goes along with a selection of local craft beers, regional wines and artful cocktails, many of them infused with herbs and fruits grown on site. There's also a menu of tasty small meals, ranging from caprese salads to vitello tonnato. (They're clearly not sticklers for regionalism, though they do some tasty things with local soft cheese and heritage-breed beef.) At the main restaurant, which operates fully outdoors whenever possible, charismatic chef Matteo Monfrinotti—who was born in Pavia, just south of Milan—is more of a Piedmont purist. His dishes reflect his deep attachment to the region, including tagliolini bossolasco with sausage from nearby Bra, and a twist on ratatouille that layers sweet and sour vegetables with black truffle and an aromatic sauce. As good as the food is, the hospitality is even better. The young team in the dining room, especially head waiter Dimitri Romanyuk and section leader Mauro Mulas, are the kind of pros who make good service look effortless, even enjoyable. They make jokes in two or three languages as they're filleting a salt-baked sea bass or flambéing the sauce for the crepes Suzette. And they'll offer conspiratorial encouragement if a guest decides to order the ethereal panna cotta three nights in a row, just for the sake of sampling all three of the house-made sauces that can go with it. (Well, that and the fact that the panna cotta is outstanding even on its own.) Some of that team, along with the architect-owners and their hardworking carpenter, will be decamping from Lake Orta to an old castle in Chianti soon, where a more Tuscan outpost of La Darbia is slated to open next year. It's a region where there's more competition, to be sure, but it's also where the Primatesta brothers' homespun aesthetic makes perfectly imperfect sense. MORE FROM FORBES Forbes 10 Reasons To Love Bolzano, The Gateway To Italy's Dolomite Mountains By Ann Abel Forbes This New 'Grand Boutique' Hotel In Rome Is A Haven For Design Lovers By Ann Abel Forbes This New Italian Castle Hotel Invites You To Sleep Amid 1,000 Years Of History By Ann Abel
South China Morning Post
21-07-2025
- Entertainment
- South China Morning Post
First professional violin maker in Malaysia on why he and his team have to be ‘crazy'
Hunched over his workbench, Tan Chin Seng shaves the wooden top plate of a violin, removing thin layers with slow, deliberate strokes. The work is meditative, out of the public eye. For Tan, transforming raw wood into a violin is a labour of artistry and love. The 45-year-old is Malaysia's first professional violin luthier – a maker of string instruments like violins, cellos and guitars. Over the past decade, he has earned international accolades. Now he is mentoring a new generation of makers in a field still little known in Southeast Asia. One of Tan's handcrafted violins. Photo: AP Traditionally, violin luthiers were associated with Europe, where masters like Antonio Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri shaped the modern violin.
The Independent
18-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Independent
Malaysia's first professional violin maker carves out a rare craft
Hunched over his workbench, Tan Chin Seng shaves the wooden top plate of a violin, removing thin layers with slow, deliberate strokes. The work is meditative, out of the public eye. For Tan, transforming raw wood into a violin is a labor of artistry and love. The 45-year-old is Malaysia's first professional violin luthier, or maker of string instruments like violins, cellos and guitars. Over the past decade, he has earned international accolades. Now he mentors a new generation of makers in a field still little-known in Southeast Asia. Traditionally, violin luthiers are associated with Europe, where masters like Antonio Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri shaped the modern violin. The craft has spread globally, with thriving communities now in China, Japan, South Korea and Taiwan. Tan's path to violin-making was unconventional. A computer science graduate who doesn't play the violin, he was helping in his family's food business and co-owned a music school. In 2010, a trip to China to restore an aging violin sparked a deeper fascination with the instrument's construction. Curiosity led him to apprentice with Chinese luthier Han Zhao Sheng, and he built his first violin. 'After completing the first violin, I knew this craft was for me,' Tan said. 'There's woodworking, carpentry, artistic design. There's chemistry, acoustics, physics — everything about violin-making, I like it. Turning wood into music is just amazing.' What followed was, in Tan's words, a 'crazy' devotion. He flew back and forth to Beijing for more training, then traveled to Italy to study under other luthiers. In the early days, he would spend up to 16 hours a day hunched over wood, perfecting every curve and contour. In 2015, he committed to violin-making full time. The process is painstaking, often taking hundreds of hours to create a single violin and requiring intense focus. His studio, Deciso, located in a suburb near Kuala Lumpur, is cluttered with chunks of aged wood, chisels and jars of hand-mixed varnishes. Tan crafts up to 10 instruments a year, using spruce for the top plate — the wood is prized for its resonance — and maple for the back, sides and neck. Sourced from Europe and at an annual wood fair in Shanghai, they are aged for years to ensure tonal quality and prevent warping and cracking. Each violin begins with carving and smoothing the wooden boards to precise dimensions. Tan said the top and back plates are shaped to exact thicknesses that affect resonance. The ribs are bent and assembled, and the scroll is hand-carved at the neck. Varnish — often a luthier's secret blend — is applied in thin layers for protection and tonal influence. The last steps include cutting the bridge and stringing the instrument. Tan's early years were challenging. Some Malaysian clients compared his handmade work to mass-produced instruments. But business grew after he won international awards in Italy and beyond. Today, he builds violins — and occasionally violas and cellos — mainly on commission. Half of his clients come from abroad including France, Germany and Hong Kong. Each violin sells for 12,000 euros ($14,000). Tan's journey has inspired others. While most of his students are musicians and young people, few pursue it as a trade due to the demands of the craft. Still, some have followed in his footsteps including Chan Song Jie, Malaysia's first female violin luthier. Today, there are two other full-time violin luthiers in the country, both trained by him. Tan notes that the domestic market is still too small to support many more. 'I would say passion is not enough,' Tan said. 'We're all crazy. Everyone in this workshop — you see — they're all crazy. We just love the work too much.'
Associated Press
18-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Associated Press
Malaysia's first professional violin maker carves out a rare craft
SELANGOR, Malaysia (AP) — Hunched over his workbench, Tan Chin Seng shaves the wooden top plate of a violin, removing thin layers with slow, deliberate strokes. The work is meditative, out of the public eye. For Tan, transforming raw wood into a violin is a labor of artistry and love. The 45-year-old is Malaysia's first professional violin luthier, or maker of string instruments like violins, cellos and guitars. Over the past decade, he has earned international accolades. Now he mentors a new generation of makers in a field still little-known in Southeast Asia. Traditionally, violin luthiers are associated with Europe, where masters like Antonio Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri shaped the modern violin. The craft has spread globally, with thriving communities now in China, Japan, South Korea and Taiwan. Tan's path to violin-making was unconventional. A computer science graduate who doesn't play the violin, he was helping in his family's food business and co-owned a music school. In 2010, a trip to China to restore an aging violin sparked a deeper fascination with the instrument's construction. Curiosity led him to apprentice with Chinese luthier Han Zhao Sheng, and he built his first violin. 'After completing the first violin, I knew this craft was for me,' Tan said. 'There's woodworking, carpentry, artistic design. There's chemistry, acoustics, physics — everything about violin-making, I like it. Turning wood into music is just amazing.' What followed was, in Tan's words, a 'crazy' devotion. He flew back and forth to Beijing for more training, then traveled to Italy to study under other luthiers. In the early days, he would spend up to 16 hours a day hunched over wood, perfecting every curve and contour. In 2015, he committed to violin-making full time. The process is painstaking, often taking hundreds of hours to create a single violin and requiring intense focus. His studio, Deciso, located in a suburb near Kuala Lumpur, is cluttered with chunks of aged wood, chisels and jars of hand-mixed varnishes. Tan crafts up to 10 instruments a year, using spruce for the top plate — the wood is prized for its resonance — and maple for the back, sides and neck. Sourced from Europe and at an annual wood fair in Shanghai, they are aged for years to ensure tonal quality and prevent warping and cracking. Each violin begins with carving and smoothing the wooden boards to precise dimensions. Tan said the top and back plates are shaped to exact thicknesses that affect resonance. The ribs are bent and assembled, and the scroll is hand-carved at the neck. Varnish — often a luthier's secret blend — is applied in thin layers for protection and tonal influence. The last steps include cutting the bridge and stringing the instrument. Tan's early years were challenging. Some Malaysian clients compared his handmade work to mass-produced instruments. But business grew after he won international awards in Italy and beyond. Today, he builds violins — and occasionally violas and cellos — mainly on commission. Half of his clients come from abroad including France, Germany and Hong Kong. Each violin sells for 12,000 euros ($14,000). Tan's journey has inspired others. While most of his students are musicians and young people, few pursue it as a trade due to the demands of the craft. Still, some have followed in his footsteps including Chan Song Jie, Malaysia's first female violin luthier. Today, there are two other full-time violin luthiers in the country, both trained by him. Tan notes that the domestic market is still too small to support many more. 'I would say passion is not enough,' Tan said. 'We're all crazy. Everyone in this workshop — you see — they're all crazy. We just love the work too much.'
The Guardian
17-07-2025
- General
- The Guardian
You be the judge: should my flatmate start using the spice rack I made?
I haven't labelled the jars, but you can just sniff each spice and work out which is which When my flatmate, Murad, and I moved into our new flat last year, I made us a spice rack. We've been friends for a few years and lived in another house before this, which wasn't as nice. The spice rack was supposed to symbolise a new beginning. After the pandemic, I got into making things with wood, and thought the spice rack would be good for the kitchen, but Murad seems to hate it. I do care more than I probably should about it, but it's because we live in a shared flat with limited space and I genuinely thought the spice rack would be a helpful, practical upgrade. I even bought matching jars and arranged everything thoughtfully. I haven't got around to labelling each jar, but I don't think it's a big deal. You can just sniff a spice to work out what it is. My sense of smell is great – maybe Murad is triggered because he can't smell things as well as me. Instead of using the rack, Murad has taken over our cupboard with shop-bought jars and packets he's picked up in every shape and size, and it's chaos. Once, when I opened the cupboard, I had cumin spill all over me because he hadn't put the lid on properly, and that was really annoying. Murad says we both need to take ownership of the way things are arranged in the shared cupboard, but it wouldn't have been me who left a jar of cumin hanging off the edge. I think his side of the cupboard is way more chaotic than my spice rack. Murad has created his own junk-shed of random spices, but his just have branded packaging. I get that Murad wants me to label things, but life got busy. Plus, as I made the spice rack, maybe he could help with decanting and labelling? Meanwhile, we could make better use of the shared cupboard space. Our kitchen is small and I don't think two sets of spices is economical. A flat isn't just a collection of solo zones, it's a compromise and requires teamwork. The rack isn't perfect, but with a little collaboration we could make it better. I want ease and functionality. I don't want to try to solve a puzzle every time I make a curry I cook almost every night and love to use spices, but Alex's rack is a mess – it has no labels and no logic, and I don't have a clue what's in each jar. I don't want to try to solve a puzzle every time I make a curry, so I buy my own spices and put them in my section of the shared cupboard. Alex says I'm taking up too much cupboard space and don't empty my old jars. He also says the spices have fallen on him and spilled everywhere when he's opened our cupboard, but that's not my fault as it's shared, so he can't blame me for all the organisation. I actually think he's hurt that I'm not using his DIY spice rack, but it's not personal. It just doesn't have everything I need and it's not clear what's what. I prefer shop-bought packaging as it actually has labels. It's not like I'm buying gold-plated saffron. It's just basic things that I use regularly. I want to know that when I reach for cumin, I'm getting cumin, not a mystery dust. I don't want to have to sniff-test every jar. Alex may think it's fun to live as if we were in a Victorian apothecary, but I think it slows everything down and makes cooking, which I actually enjoy, feel frustrating. I've brought this up before and said I'll clear out my shelf if he tidies up the spice rack. He always says, 'Oh, I'll label them soon.' But the labelling never happens. It's been months. How long am I meant to wait for the organisation to materialise? I'm happy to share store cupboard staples, but not when it means playing Russian roulette with flavour. Alex needs to get his spice rack in order before I give up my shelf space. At this point, I want ease and functionality, but his spice rack creates chaos and confusion. I cook mainly for myself, but sometimes for Alex too. If he wants delicious, flavourful food he shouldn't police where I source my spices. Should Murad use Alex's spice rack? Labelling the jars would improve their appearance and spare Murad the tedious sniff test routine. In a spirit of collaboration, Murad could source some nice labels and Alex could write on them. If Alex's sense of smell is as keen as he says, it shouldn't take 68 It takes two to tango in a shared household, and Alex has warmed the new flat with a thoughtful, handmade spice rack. Since labelling is the main issue, would it be too much for Murad to curry some favour by filling the jars and labelling them himself?Patrick, 31 As someone who likes cooking and does it a lot, unlabelled jars would annoy me too. It is a nice effort from Alex to have made a spice rack, but surely labelling is not a massive job. Until the jars are labelled, the rack is not strictly finished, as it can't be used 32 Both need to dial it down. Alex, make some nice labels – it'll be fun! Murad, if Alex doesn't label the jars, do it yourself. Masking tape and a Sharpie will do it – it may even spur Alex to upgrade it.L, 46 It's sweet that Alex made the rack but he needs to be less possessive over it. It's good to live and let 67 In our online poll, tell us if you think Murad should get on track with the rack? The poll closes on Wednesday 23 July at 10am BST We asked whether Lynsey should maintain a separate towels laundry policy 89% said yes – Lynsey is guilty11% said no – Lynsey is innocent
