Violin theft that broke the heart of a virtuoso
GONE by Min Kym (Viking £14.99)
EUSTON Station on a forlorn winter’s night. Min Kym and her cellist boyfriend, en route to Manchester, find a table at a cafe, buy tea and sit waiting on the cold forecourt.
Min is a brilliant solo violinist. She has travelled all over the world with her violin, a rare 1696 Stradivarius. Experts value it at £ 1.2 million, but to Min, it is priceless.
This violin is her soulmate, the instrument whose perfect tone and form speaks to her like no other. She’s had it for 11 years and cherishes it as if it were her beloved child. Right now, it is strapped to her ankle. Safe.
But Min is not feeling well. Her boyfriend suggests he looks after the violin for her. ‘No,’ she insists. They argue, back and forth, and eventually she gives way.
Circling are three thieves known to the police. CCTV footage shows they have their eye on a handbag belonging to a woman at a neighbouring table, but it is out of reach.
Their eyes light on the violin case. You wouldn’t think it held anything of value, but there’s not much else available. Two of the men cause a diversion. The third snakes out his arm. And the violin is gone.
But more than a Stradivarius is lost. What has also gone with it is Min’s whole sense of self.
At the time, November 2010, she was due to go on a tour with her recording of the Brahms concerto. She didn’t go and was so distressed she could barely get out of bed.
To suggest to her that there are other violins was as meaningless as telling the grieving widow there are more men out there. Without that violin she could not function, and in this deeply moving memoir Min (pictured above) questions her dependency on her music and the way she has lived her entire life.
Min was born in South Korea, but came to Britain when she was a toddler. Her CV soon reads like the prototype child prodigy: grade 4 within 12 weeks of picking up a violin; youngest ever pupil — seven — at the Purcell School of Music; playing a concerto with the Berlin Symphony Orchestra at just 13; youngest ever foundation scholar — aged 16 — at the Royal College of Music.
She is not invited to parties because it’s assumed she’s practising. She gets a cold and the question is not how is she feeling, but how will it affect the piece she’s learning.
The Stradivarius is tracked down by the police. But by then — on the advice yet again of her boyfriend — she’d spent the insurance payout on another (to her, lesser) violin.
The Stradivarius now belonged to the insurance company. She couldn’t afford to buy it back and her elation at its recovery turned to despair again.
Her own recovery is painfully slow. It isn’t until the final pages that she writes: ‘A few nights ago I performed in public for the first time’. It was just a small piece at a private party.’ And you hope, for her sake and the world’s that her next memoir won’t be about what is ‘Gone’, but what is ‘Found’.