Why custom?

Published by Pat Foster at July 1st, 2010

Why custom? Why handmade? Why factory?

An often-discussed topic among guitar players and builders concerns the benefits and shortcomings of buying custom or handmade guitars rather than factory-made. As a builder and former factory employee (though not in a guitar factory), I am understandably inclined towards custom or handmade guitars.

While working in the manufacturing facility of a well-known computer company in Silicon Valley, I learned a lot about how high-volume factories operate. While there is little in common between computers and acoustic guitars, many manufacturing practices apply to both types of products, most notably control of the manufacturing process and predictability. Control of the manufacturing process ensures that at each step, every item is built in exactly the same way, ensuring consistent final products. Predictability depends on the consistency of parts and materials when they are delivered to the factory to be incorporated into the final product. In most cases, customers want to know that what they buy off a shelf full of TVs, computers, or often guitars is of consistent quality, regardless of how many people may have participated in its manufacture, i.e. day or swing shift, stand-in for an absent worker, etc. Another benefit of process control for factories is cost savings, particularly in labor. With a well-developed process, the level of skill required for performing a particular step in the process can be kept at a minimum, with commensurately lower wages paid to that worker. On the face of it, this is a good thing. Those in charge of the process can rest assured that their workers are producing goods according to the dictates of the product designers, whose designs cannot be compromised by the factory that builds the product, although sometimes the design of a product might be changed to enhance its manufacturability, but that is another story. If a different worker has to perform a specific step in the process, due to turnover or sickness, adherence to the process ensures consistent work, no matter who performs it, so long as they are sufficiently trained. Control and decision-making regarding just how to build the product reside with designers and engineers at levels well above the assembly line worker. The worker makes few decisions and has few options, which minimizes the influence of the human element with the aim of minimizing errors while maximizing consistency and efficiency.

A guitar builder is more directly involved, making many decisions as the construction of the guitar progresses. Such decisions often have to do with compensating for the variability found in all wood, leaving a little more material to add stiffness where needed, or removing a little more because that particular piece of wood may be a bit stiffer. The experienced guitar builder makes decisions of this nature in the quest to build an optimal guitar, rather than meeting the requirements of a set of designer’s drawings created for an assembly line. The experienced builder must be able to compensate for differences in the materials used because no two pieces of wood are the same. Therein lies the dilemma for the high-production guitar factory. In order to compensate for differences in woods, the factory must overbuild their guitars. Here’s why.

Since wood is used, there will be variations in its strength and stiffness. It is simply the nature of wood. For example, a drawing calls for a dimension in top bracing which results in optimum stiffness and mass for the batch of wood presently onhand. That dimension is the smallest possible that will provide sufficient strength or stiffness to counteract the pull of the strings, while at the same time minimizing mass and providing sufficient flexibility for enough vibration to provide good tone. Later, that batch is gone, and the next batch to be used is weaker or less stiff than the previous batch. If the dimensions used for the first, stiff batch are then used for this weaker or less stiff batch, the bracing may no longer be stiff enough to resist the pull of the strings, resulting in excessive deformation of the top of the guitar, and/or poor tone. To avoid this situation, the designer must specify a dimension that guarantees sufficient strength or stiffness whether the wood used is optimally stiff or floppy. To do otherwise invites the burden of excessive warranty work for the factory repairing the guitars whose tops deform due to insufficient stiffness. It follows then that guitars built to identical dimensions with floppy wood may have optimal stiffness, but excessive mass; those built with stiff wood have excessive mass AND excessive stiffness. Both results can hamper tone. But the individual builder uses his or her expertise to ascertain the whether a particular piece is sufficiently stiff or strong, and makes changes in the dimensions accordingly, as the work progresses, ensuring that the bracing is as low in mass as is practical and allowing sufficient flexibility to be responsive, while still being stiff enough to maintain structural integrity. The builder’s method could never work profitably in a factory due to the high skill level and high wages required for such decisions to occur on-the-fly in a factory; the time needed to determine the need for special work would upset the flow of work down the assembly line. The resulting inconsistency in the rate of flow of products out the back of the assembly line precludes production forecasting, compromising another staple of control in a factory.

Thus the factory must standardize on the dimensions of its top bracing, resulting in some tops being stiffer than is needed and more massive than is needed, with the goal that none is less stiff than is needed. But to optimize the top bracing so that it is just stiff enough with minimum mass, those dimensions must vary according to the particular piece of wood being used, and the high-production factory cannot introduce that sort of decision making to the factory floor. So the very thing that should be variable, bracing dimensions in this example, has to be held constant. And that constant is often results in excessive mass and sometimes excessive stiffness, in order to maintain a margin of safety that will minimize deformation with resulting high rates of warranty repairs.

The buyer’s individual needs must also be considered. I don’t know of any guitar factory that can match the flexibility that a custom builder has to offer. For example, it’s unlikely that a factory can accommodate someone who needs an asymmetrical neck profile, or a special scale length. While many factories offer a wide array of options in terms of trim, wood selection and other visual options, the design and dimensions will likely adhere to that factory’s standard specifications. Car factories make a good analogy. They might offer several trim packages that may transform a particular model, with different trim, interior appointments, wheels, or color schemes, but it’s still the same car underneath. They can’t alter the specifications of their standard models because their tooling and processes are designed to handle only variations across different models. Same with guitar factories. The custom builder though, is much more flexible and can offer many more changes, such as wedge-shaped bodies, 13-fret necks, fanned frets, and so on. The custom-built guitar is designed from the ground up to meet the needs of the customer, whereas with the factory-built guitar, the customer must choose a guitar that’s already built, and hope it conforms to his or her needs.

Factory-built guitars do have their place, however. For a beginning player, it makes no sense to invest in a custom guitar. It takes awhile for a player to understand his or her requirements, sometimes years, so the investment in a custom guitar in the early stages of learning to play may not make sense. There are indeed many well-built factory guitars on the market for surprisingly low prices and some of them are quite decent instruments, so for the beginner, a factory guitar is probably the best bet, provided that is, that it has been set up properly to be played easily. The exception may be where factory guitars physically do not fit the body of the player, for example, where a player’s shoulders may not permit the extension needed for a conventional guitar. In such a case, a custom might be the only way to meet that player’s needs.

So, for something as personal a possession as a guitar can be to some players, a factory cannot provide the flexibility and range of choices that a good individual builder can. By commissioning a custom guitar, the player and the builder may discuss all aspects of the player’s needs and together design a guitar.

Goodbye to an old Mentor

Published by admin at February 16th, 2010

Tom died Sunday. He was 70. I knew him about 30 years ago, brother of a dear friend, a housemate of sorts on an old farm in California shared by a dozen or so fellow misfits. A commune I guess. I didn’t know him well. He was a mentor, though it would be many years before either of us knew it.

He did art and he put The Work first. He would grunt disapprovingly if anyone called him an artist. It wasn’t unusual for him to work through the night, fueled by coffee and cigarettes, pulled into the momentum the of the piece as it took form. His work, whether sculpture, pottery, or drawings, had a tangible substance that you could reach out and grab onto, and a strength that made it look as if it would endure for centuries. These qualities seemed to have come from somewhere deep, as if he had reached into himself and pulled them from mud in a bucket somewhere inside, and shaped it into whatever it was to become.

He was the consummate carpenter, bowing to tradition, not taking the easy way out. He told a story of a building inspector who came to see if his work met the code. Upon seeing the Japanese joinery, free of nails, the inspector’s jaw dropped as he tried to  figure just what it was he was seeing, then silently signed the permit. He built a castle for a winery, and an elegant dory. He once made a coiled pot in a room he had built, and it grew of its own free will to be so large that it couldn’t support its own weight before it was fired. It kept folding in on itself, so for days on end he’d wake up every few minutes to coax it back into shape. When it was completed, it wouldn’t fit through a door, so he knocked a hole in a wall to get it out then built a kiln around it to fire it. It is the most beautiful pot, with fleshy curves; it reminds me of a Rubens.

What I learned from Tom was the value of handwork, that it’s important, and that it must be done right. Not that it must be perfect, but that it must be right. Working to that standard, at times it brings me great frustration, and at other times relief when finally I know a piece is right. Done by hand, it isn’t perfect—we have machines for that—but it is right. He didn’t teach it, but in The Work he lived by it. I never conveyed to him what I had learned, but now I am pleased to know that a few months ago, he learned that his principles loom large in what I do, and as my daughter and I build her guitar, we will not strive to make it perfect, but it will be right.

Rest well, Tom. I hope you are at peace. And thanks.

Pat

Reaching flow at the workbench

Published by Pat Foster at February 14th, 2010

Sometimes when working on a guitar, the passage of time becomes imperceptible. I lose track of it. My wife calls on my cell and says, “Patrick, it’s time to come in.”

I’ve heard this frame of mind called flow. In education, it’s used to describe a situation where the student is totally immersed in a learning activity. I’ve seen it in my children’s Montessori classrooms. Kids in those classrooms can often choose their own activities, as long as the choice is within the individualized sequence of their learning. A child in that state is fully engaged and focused on the activity, oblivious to the rest of the class, and often reluctant to stop for lunch or recess.

In building guitars, flow doesn’t come early on. While building the first instruments, the new builder is worried about just how to hold the chisel, or whether the task is being done properly. The tool may not be sharpened well enough to work properly. The work is difficult; the brow is beaded with sweat; the threat of failure looms in a dark cloud overhead. It is a struggle. But after a few instruments—or perhaps many, depending on aptitude or past experiences in woodworking—the builder might reach what my friend Tom called “a state of grace” with the work. The builder has learned how to sharpen a chisel, how the workpiece will be changed as the chisel moves through the cut, what the end result needs to be, when to stop. The work goes smoothly and perhaps even quickly. Flow.

Yesterday I reached flow. It happens only after an hour or more when things go well, the shop is in order, and there are no distractions. It was raining. I could hear large drops falling from the trees over the shop, hitting the roof. It was warm inside. I was preparing the body of the guitar for binding, which is the trim that adorns and protects the edges of the guitar body. It is exacting work in an area that can showcase the tastes and skills of the builder, one of the many parts of a guitar that can be seen as the builder’s signature to a discerning eye. I had bent the wood for the binding, cut the miters for the finer pieces for a perfect fit, and cut the rabbets (channels) that would receive the bindings. Then my son came in and pulled me out of my reverie. It was 4:00. Three hours had passed and I had barely noticed. I realized I was tired and it was time to take a break. My ten year-old son wanted me to help him make a laser, which actually amounted to a small flashlight. He had two batteries, some aluminum foil, a small plastic tube filched from a marker, but needed a bulb. We went into the house in search of a spare flashlight bulb. I told showed him how it needed to be connected, using the aluminum foil, but suggested some wire which we found in the shop. Off he went to his room. About an hour later, he emerged and calmly handed me a perfectly serviceable flashlight held together with tape and a switch of sorts to turn it on. Flow.

Pat

Begin the Beguine

Published by Pat Foster at February 5th, 2010

This is the official launch of this little blog, where I hope to write about some things about building guitars, and other handwork, that go beyond the process—whys and wherefores, things like that.

I’ve always been a hands-on type. I think it came from my mother. For as long as I can remember, she sewed: her own clothes, our clothes, clothes for others. I made things from an early age. I think I’m wired for building things. I get great satisfaction from working with my hands. There’s some kind of peace I find in it, and when I don’t do it for awhile, I get a little edgy.

A year or so ago, it came to me why it has this appeal. I work at a university, where I run a computer lab for the foreign languages department. I had some of my guitars on display at a folk festival, and a sociologist I know from work stopped by. She said, “This isn’t like computers at all!” My reply was, “That’s why I do it!” The answer had popped into my head without any forethought. But on thinking about it later, I realized that’s exactly why I do it. Because it’s not like computers. A lot of what I do at work is enjoyable, especially interactions with students, but it doesn’t fill the need I have to work with my hands. Building guitars fills that need. When I’m done with one, it makes music. So, I get the satisfaction of the building process, the things I build make music, and my customers have new tools for making their own music. It doesn’t get any better than that.

Pat