This essay accompanies an audio episode from iServalan and forms part of a wider approach to learning music through listening, movement, and attention.
🎙️ The Cello: Naming the Body, Claiming the Space
Before we play a single note,
before we worry about whether we’re doing anything “right”,
we need to meet the instrument properly.
Not romantically.
Practically.
Because knowing the names of things matters —
not so that you memorise them,
but so that when I say them, you know where we are.
Think of this as learning the map,
not the route.
The Body of the Cello
Let’s start at the top.
At the very top of the cello is the scroll.
It’s decorative, yes, but it also tells you which way the instrument is facing.
Below the scroll are the pegs, one for each string.
They’re used for tuning — slowly, carefully — and they sit in the pegbox.
From there, the instrument narrows into the neck, which leads into the fingerboard.
The fingerboard is smooth and unfretted.
There are no markings to tell you where notes “should” be —
this is an instrument that trains listening, not guessing.
At the end of the fingerboard is the nut,
a small but crucial point where the strings begin their vibrating length.
Now the cello opens out into its main body.
The front is called the top plate or soundboard.
Cut into it are the two f-holes — these are not decoration.
They are how the instrument breathes.
Running down the centre is the bridge.
The bridge is not glued down — it stands under tension, held in place by balance alone.
It transfers the vibration of the strings into the body of the cello.
At the bottom, the strings pass over the tailpiece,
anchored by the tailgut,
and finally disappear into the endpin,
which extends down to the floor and connects the cello to gravity.
Inside the cello — unseen, but essential —
are the bass bar and the soundpost,
which support, distribute, and shape the sound.
You don’t need to remember all of this today.
You just need to know what I mean when I say the words.
That’s enough.
The Bow
Now the bow.
The long wooden part is the stick.
The white hair is — quite literally — horsehair.
At the bottom is the frog,
where your hand rests,
and at the very end is the screw,
which adjusts the tension.
The bow is not a separate tool.
It is part of your body while you’re playing.
Sitting With the Cello
Now we sit.
You sit towards the front of the chair, not the back.
Feet flat on the floor.
The cello leans gently against your chest — it does not cling, and you do not grip.
The endpin should be long enough that the cello feels tall, not cramped.
If you feel compressed, something needs adjusting.
Your knees support the cello lightly.
Your spine rises naturally.
Your shoulders soften.
This is not a small instrument.
It does not ask you to shrink.
Taking Up Space: The Orb
This is where something important happens.
String playing — especially cello — requires space.
Not just physical space, but permission.
Imagine an orb around you.
Like a planet with its own gravity.
Your feet are part of this orb.
So is your pelvis.
Your spine.
Your shoulders.
Your head.
Your elbows move within this space.
Your hands.
Your bow arm.
The arc of the bow itself.
Nothing should feel trapped.
Nothing should feel apologetic.
The cello needs room to vibrate.
You need room to move.
If you make yourself small,
the sound becomes small too.
So you demand your orbit.
Quietly.
Calmly.
Without aggression.
You are allowed to be here.
What Comes Next
Now — and only now —
do we have what we need.
Not music yet.
Not repertoire.
But the tools.
A named body.
A balanced seat.
Space to move.
Breath.
Now we can make a noise.
Our noise.
Our sound.
And once that sound exists,
the world will listen.
©2025 Sarnia de la Maré | Continuum Method