Progress and reflection ...

This blog is rapidly becoming a "how to" document, which is not what I intend, nor is a "how I do it". But, I suppose, that's part of it, so I'll go with that and try to sneak more of what I really want in here as well.

Here's the sapele guitar in the dished sandpaper workboard with the ribs being shaped to receive the top. Once they're shaped, I install the linings. I use kerfed linings rather than solid linings. I've tried the solid kind, but have switched back to the kerfed style. You must bend solid linings, which is truly no hardship, but the solid linings are stiff and therefore difficult to fit perfectly inside the bent side. Moreover, they are not as wide as the kerfed variety, and so supply less of a gluing surface for the top and back than the other.

The drawback for the kerfed variety is that they break easily. Soaking the mahogany kerfed linings in water helps quite a bit; I've used boxwood as well, but it seems to stay more brittle when wet. Here you can see linings installed on the back of the sycamore guitar, and the bass side lining for the top clamped in place.

My original intention with this cutaway design was less to provide access to the upper frets than to introduce a bit of asymmetry in the appearance of the guitar. I'm really happy with the way it's playing out with this instrument.

It is probably stupid of me to announce how pleased I am with the sycamore box in a public forum. All manner of disaster could strike. Until it's done done done -- strings on, singing away -- the box will live in a crowded and cluttered shop filled with heavy equipment and sharp tools. Accidents, as Prof. Costello so brilliantly enunciated, do happen.

And, far be it from me to fail to credit myself where credit is most certainly due. I am easily the most dangerous force in the universe in regards to this embryonic instrument. As it speaks to me from the future I envision for it, I hear a voice with authority, not deep, but not without a low end; clear and penetrating like a trumpet; sparkly as a simmering brushed cymbal. But I will assault the wood with sharp tools, many powered with electricity, seeking to cut away that which is not guitar. I am capable of weakening that voice, preventing its clarity, even threatening its ultimate existence. Control over my tools, even my own hands, is educated and practised -- but far from perfect.

Every instrument is an invitation to learning and disaster.

"And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start."

And so I have learned the hard way that much of lutherie is not design and execution, but making the best of mistakes that are as certain as the sun is to rise tomorrow. Vision of the final instrument often must be altered to correct errors. I do not say "hide mistakes," because there is no intent to put flawed instruments in the hands of players. There is an ongoing recalculation of optimal strategy at every point in the building process.

That is, there's a composition, but there's improvisation as well. I'm just reacting to that fickle organic stuff -- wood -- which seems to have a mind of its own.

And, of course, my own abilities and limitations.