My friend and mentor David Caron has died. It’s difficult to put into words the depth of this loss and while my heart is heavy with grief, there’s some solace in knowing that his pain and suffering are finally over.
I first met David on my birthday in 2013, a visit that would ultimately define my life when, two years later, I asked to study with him. I was very surprised when he said yes and since then have visited him and Rebecca in Taos once or twice a month – for the past nine and a half years. I remember my first visits, sitting with him and Rebecca at the dinner table after a day of work, being regaled with stories of his childhood, musicians, instruments, anything and everything else. I couldn’t fathom how I came to be so lucky, to be welcomed with such generosity by such a great violin maker into his shop and his home. What began as a mentorship grew into something much deeper. David became more than just a teacher; he and Rebecca became family.
I didn’t realize until after I met David that my first cello teacher, Ann, played a cello of his. It was an interesting and fortuitous coincidence – perhaps the universe had been weaving our fates together long before we crossed paths. By the time I started working with him, David had already been retired for nearly a decade. The death of his daughter Sandy in 2000 had affected him deeply and, as he once told me, caused him to “lose his mojo’. She had made several excellent violins and was due to inherit his vast knowledge—acquired through decades of methodical experimentation and study. He had worked with his nephew, now-famed cello maker Larry Wilke for a time, but the loss of Sandy was especially devastating, as he not only mourned the loss of a child but also an heir to his craft. Eventually I came along—an eager and devoted student. During our time together, David made several more instruments, which brought him great joy and renewed purpose, and gifted the world a few more exceptional tools for creating music.
In the last few years, as his health declined, David was no longer able to work, so I would visit just to keep him company and help around the house. After over 60 years of working with his hands, the neuropathy caused by chemotherapy was especially hard for him to bear. He often expressed how he felt useless, that storytelling was all he could still offer. I hope he knew how much those stories meant to me, that I wouldn’t trade the hundreds of hours spent listening to them for anything. I know it brought him comfort to have someone to listen.
It meant a great deal to him that I was learning everything he had to teach, and he took real pride in my work. He was more and more proud with each instrument I made. He cried a bit on hearing my last cello. His belief in me was both humbling and deeply affirming, even if I sometimes feel unworthy of it. His mentorship didn’t just shape me as a violin maker; it transformed me as a teacher. I strive to carry forward his kindness, patience, and generosity with my own students. I wish I could have asked more questions and learned even more. An innate shyness meant that I rarely said much in his presence, and over time, our relationship settled into a rhythm where he would talk and I would listen. But my companionship helped him feel connected and relevant, and our time together was a gift—both for him and for me.
I saw David for the last time at my wedding a week prior to his death. It meant everything to Alex and me – and to everyone who knew our story – that he was there. I had always imagined I would be there with him at the end, but it was not to be. I’m glad then, that our last meeting was part of such a joyful occasion.
I’ve been highly privileged throughout my life to have incredibly generous and caring mentors and friends, and I am honored to have had David as both. There are few greater things in this life than to know the love of a beautiful soul and kindred spirit. I’ll hold in my mind and heart his knowledge, his stories, and the feeling at our last meeting of his hand in mine as long as I live.
