Sometimes I'm Just a Vehicle

The more instruments I build, the less in charge I seem to be. I mean, I’m the one deciding what to do and when to do it, which wood to use, which tools to use and so on, but often times at some point the build takes on a life all its own. This happens despite hundreds of decisions that I must make along the way, but those decisions often feel guided by some exterior force, or perhaps it’s really an inner force, and I—with my eyes, hands, fingertips, and tools—am just along for the ride. As I work, the state of the project tells me what’s next. The beginning of a build feels like the start of a journey, a feeling not unlike starting out on a roadtrip in the car. They often take on lives of their own too.

The beginning might start long before any wood is cut, perhaps years before anything happens in the shop, taking shape slowly in my head in fits and starts. Sometimes, while working on the current project, ideas for a certain future project appear, and if I’m lucky, I’ll have something handy to jot it down. Usually it has to do with the shape of the body. I’ll start by sketching out the shape in pencil, and many versions later, using a CAD program on the computer, with more versions to follow. With classical guitars, shapes and sizes are rooted in the Spanish tradition, which makes finding a case to fit much easier. There’s also the practical matter of being able to sell what comes out at the end!

Small changes call out to be made on the established shape I start with. An ungraceful transition crops up next to the altered area, like a bump or flat spot, so one change can morph into many, like trying to get four legs of a table the same length, but with a guitar shape, it seems like I have about 20 legs to chase after. When I think the latest changes are final, I’ll sit with them for a few days—months in one case—and there’s a good chance more changes will be needed. Then somewhere along the way, the calling to make more changes comes to an end, and I can start cutting wood.

Once a build reaches that point, it behooves me to take a step back every now and then, to watch and listen. If I don’t pay attention to those signals, and take back control, the results are often poor, and the best thing to do is stop and clean up the shop, or go in the house. The best results come from paying attention, listening and watching, for what’s to be done. When it’s done, the guitar goes out into the world on its own journey to make music.

A New Headstock!

I decided some months ago that it was time for me to design my own headstock. Having defaulted to the Torres/Hauser design, it was difficult to come up with something that didn't look wrong. I spent months looking at perhaps hundreds of headstocks for ideas and was surprised to find a few ideas in tombstones. I wanted something distinctive that wouldn't be seen as weird, and it couldn't be too difficult to produce. I discovered that there are distinct differences in headstock designs from different parts of the world. Those from Spain and France had the most influence on the end result.

While looking at other headstocks for ideas, I rejected most of them, not because they weren't attractive, but I couldn't see any of their elements incorporated into my own. Some I thought were garish, or too angular, too plain, too busy, too modern, on and on. The design I settled on is easily associated with Torres' headstock, though with a few additions. Seems those additions were influenced by Daniel Friedrich and Robert Bouchet. I must say I am rather pleased with it.

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The Joy of Fewer Tools

There is a mind-numbing array of tools available for woodworking, which in my eyes points to a distressing trend in guitar building, woodworking, and handwork in general: tools are becoming big business. The tool business has become profitable enough that tool companies are developing tools at an astounding rate, with products increasing in cost and sophistication. While that’s good for the tool business, I think it’s bad for the concept of craft. Marketers know very well the allure that tools hold for most shop workers, touting their products as the best for the job. “You can do this without having to learn the skill! Our tool is foolproof and will do it all for you!” Many of these products reduce or eliminate the learning curve in acquiring the skills to achieve the desired end result, and for me, therein lies the rub. These tools are especially appealing to newer workers, helping them complete a task that they may not have yet learned to perform themselves.
Patiently learning a task then takes a back seat to buying the tool that guarantees results. So while these tools enable new workers to get results, the standards—craftsmanship, if you will— that a worker may seek to eventually attain will fall by the wayside, to be replaced by whatever standard the tool designer or manufacturer may have deemed “good enough.” The newer worker then also accepts the result as pretty good. Once the tool has been found sufficient to get the job done, the worker uses it repeatedly, getting the same result, with no incentive or opportunity to do it better next time in the pursuit of mastery.

In getting good enough results without learning the needed skill, the means for completing the task has been bought, not earned. I’d like to see more craft workers learn the skills. Once we learn those skills, we own them for life, which gives us the chance to build continuity when we pass them on to other workers. Or better yet, to our children.

What Does Handmade Mean?

This a post I made on a guitar builder’s forum that I frequent. This subject has seen a lot of discussion in the seven years that I’ve been on that forum, and on others as well.

I’m also of the opinion that the concept of handmade is subjective. But it seems like builders and our customers do not share a common perception of what it might mean. As builders, I think we tend to split hairs and ask questions such as: CNC or no? Hand tools or power tools? Outsourced inlays, finish, necks, or builder-made? You know, builder kinds of questions.

Our customers on the other hand—mine at least—seem to be asking different questions. Is this your own design? Did you really use a brush for the finish? How did you ever learn to do this? Can I see your shop? Can you really design a guitar just for me? Wow, the top is tuned by hand?

Seems to me that people in the market for handmade goods of quality are putting a high value on objects that are the work of someone they can talk to, ask about their work, provide input on what is built for them. The value seems to lie in the fact that the builder(s) has a certain level of skill, and it is the use of those skills in creating the customer’s piece that people some people will pay for, as if to say, “a guitar builder who labored for years to master his skills made this guitar for me” rather than, “a team of factory workers, none of whom could alone build an instrument, built this guitar in a big factory overseas.” It’s as if the builders personal involvement is the attraction, even if there is a slew of builders in a factory who are all masterful as was often the case in the old days (CF Martin for example). It is that personal, emotional involvement that can result in a piece of work that is a masterpiece or has mojo, or however you want to describe it. A human being(s) drew on their experience and hard won skills and put their own sweat and blood into the thing, whether they were pushing a mouse or a plane. And through the builder, the customers gets to put those skills to work vicariously.
That is where I think the romantic notion of handmade lies out there in the marketplace. Or not.

I think we need a new term. Handmade just doesn’t convey what I think it is that we do, what with the advent of all the devices, machines and computers that are found in modern shops. But what would be an apt descriptor that would still convey the romance of “handmade”?

Why Handmade?

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

Reaching Flow at the Workbench

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.