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In spring, 2022, when I first embarked on truly learning woodworking alongside George Gordon, I crafted a remarkably smooth and beautiful wooden plate. This initial success planted the seed of an idea: perhaps I could create a guitar—an instrument uniquely my own. Unlike my other projects designed to serve others, this guitar was to be deeply personal, its design infused with countless thoughts over time, naturally taking shape as I applied a segment of my life onto the materials.
While I am accustomed to playing the Spanish guitar, my experience has revealed that traditionally made guitars tend to be too thin and light for modern settings where amplifiers are essential. When acoustic guitars are fitted with pickups, they often induce severe feedback, hindering any attempt to increase the volume. To counter this, I drew inspiration from archtop jazz guitars, incorporating a slightly stiffer soundboard and a bracing design that reduces the frequencies which cause feedback.
My initial plan was to design every detail perfectly on paper before manufacturing the flawless design. However, over the past year, I've come to realize that such perfection is unattainable on the first try. This process has illuminated various design flaws and areas needing improvement. Additionally, a variety of unexpected events and defects occurred, and my methods of addressing these added a lot of character to the piece. One particularly memorable moment was when George and I spent an hour or two discussing how to achieve a perfect binding channel and seamlessly adhere the binding. Ultimately, we concluded that I had to accept the imperfections of the world. A slightly uneven binding doesn't signify a poor instrument, especially not for my first guitar. This experience has also influenced my furniture design, leading me to enjoy the process of starting with the raw materials and gradually building upon them through various surprises and opportunities.
Many of the principles involved in instrument making often contradict those used in general woodworking. I deeply realized this during the process of crafting the soundboards and back panels. In furniture making, it's common to add extra material for structural strength and safety, but this can significantly affect the playability and sound of a musical instrument. Another difference lies in the design of joints. Furniture designs often feature joints that are not completely tight to allow for wood expansion and contraction. However, musical instruments require joints to be securely fitted without any looseness, relying on the subtle elasticity of the materials to accommodate the wood's movement. I was not initially familiar with this, which led to my first back being scrapped and the guitar is heavy.
When it comes to the weight of the guitar, I must mention that throughout this entire project, I kept thinking about how this instrument needs to withstand various environments. It needs to be robust enough to endure bumps and wear, even if I were busking on the streets. This isn't typically a concern for high-end instruments, but the idea has constantly lingered in my mind. Considering that I, unlike many professional guitarists, do not have multiple guitars, I would be left without an instrument if mine needed repairs. I'm sure there are many others like me, so the durability of an instrument is definitely something worth paying attention to.
I am particularly grateful to John Buscanino for a significant reminder: the paramount importance of a musical instrument is its playability, then its sound. This insight redirected my efforts towards the guitar's primary function. Throughout this journey, I have been fortunate to receive the support of many kind individuals. I am immensely thankful for the encouragement from JX Qiu, the design and technical support from George Gordon, Peter Lutz, John Buscanino, Karl Dennis, and the material support from my parents.
Lacquer
I chose to finish my guitar with the rarest lacquer used on guitars: urushi. This natural material is harvested from tree sap, a renewable resource extracted by making incisions in the trunk. the main reason is that this technique is truly beautiful, as evidenced by the exquisite craftsmanship of maki-e works. Unlike modern lacquers, urushi could be light and thin like French polish, yet more resilient, waterproof, and solvent-resistant. This is a tradition that has been used in East Asia for thousands of years to finish instruments such as the guzheng, guqin, and pipa. Amazingly, there are still urushi-finished guqins from 1,300 years ago that are in use today. I have not seen this technique applied to Western instruments, and there is no functional reason preventing me from using it on a guitar.
Urushi is not just a finish; in ancient times, it was also a powerful adhesive. When mixed with fillers like ash or wood dust, it can create three-dimensional sculptures, and when built up, it can even be carved. It can become a structural material when filled with fibers and formed with a mold, akin to ancient “carbon fiber” (kanshitsu). Using urushi opens up numerous possibilities for decorative techniques, such as Maki-e, Xipi (textures created by layering metal or pigment powder), inlaying gold and silver leaf, and carving designs into the lacquer.
As a bioactive material, urushi requires specific temperature and moisture conditions to start hardening. It needs high humidity (70-80%) to cure over several days and can wrinkle if it cures too quickly. Applying it to a delicate instrument is challenging because the instrument must endure extreme environments. For example, the back can warp slightly under high humidity, losing its even curvature from when it was newly glued. However, I accept this eventual distortion. The repeated sanding and natural staining process ages the guitar beautifully, making it look like a century-old instrument.
“Urushi” is the Japanese name for this natural lacquer, and it is widely used to differentiate it from modern synthetic lacquers and shellac-based lacquers. Urushi-based lacquer has a recorded history of existence in various Asian cultures, each with its own name for it. In China, it is called “da-qi,” and in Vietnam, it is known as “sơn mài”,“ottchil” in Korean, I use the Japanese term “urushi” here solely to avoid confusion and distinguish it from other types of lacquer. The Met Museum offers a more detailed and comprehensive introduction, which can be viewed here: Lacquerware of East Asia.
I still got a rash despite taking precautions :-(
Using urushi is a journey against modern manufacture. Each piece takes two to three months, involving repeated sanding, painting, and curing, enduring the rashes it causes, as urushi is essentially poison ivy sap. This process is a practice, shaping both the instrument and myself. To me, urushi is more sacred than shellac, wood oil, or any other finish.
David Fiuczynski playing the guitar with a Fender amp
By November 2024, two months had passed since I completed this guitar. During this time, as I played it, new insights emerged. I also sought feedback from two local luthiers, Karl Dennis and Steve Conner. It felt like the right moment to write a reflection.
The first impression of this guitar is unmistakable—its weight. It might be one of the heaviest acoustic guitars ever made, almost resembling an electric guitar in feel. The extra weight comes from its thick, solid sides, the neck’s extended bracing structure, and a neck and headstock that are two millimeters thicker than usual—a deliberate choice reflecting my preference for substantial necks. This guitar feels unyieldingly sturdy, clearly designed for someone with strong hands.
The first impression of this guitar is unmistakable—its weight. It might be one of the heaviest acoustic guitars ever made, almost resembling an electric guitar in feel. The extra weight comes from its thick, solid sides, the neck’s extended bracing structure, and a neck and headstock that are two millimeters thicker than usual—a deliberate choice reflecting my preference for substantial necks. This guitar feels unyieldingly sturdy, clearly designed for someone with strong hands.
Its action is high, comparable to a Ramírez 1a. For classical guitarists familiar with traditional repertoire, this isn’t an issue, but for players accustomed to low action, it poses a challenge. The guitar offers immense dynamic range, but as Karl Dennis observed, while the tone is balanced and its dynamics impressive, it lacks a certain impact. Its overall volume falls short compared to more lightly built guitars, as the weight seems to suppress its voice. In many ways, it’s overbuilt—too much wood, too much reinforcement. I believe its shortcomings could be mitigated when plugged in.
The True Temperament fretboard, however, is a revelation. It produces harmonious intervals across most tunings and resolves the common intonation issues in standard guitars, especially with seventh chords.
The lacquering process was, without question, a grueling ordeal—painful but rewarding. Applying layer after thin layer of East Asian lacquer required endless sanding and polishing. The result is exquisite: a mirror-like finish that is delicate yet resilient. It’s a level of craftsmanship I aspire to, one that demands patience and reverence.
These past two months have also brought me to a broader question: What defines the essence of a musical instrument?
I’ve found myself captivated by pre-Industrial Revolution instruments. They evoke a sense of belonging, a connection to something enduring. I’m drawn to Renaissance-era lutes, harps, and ancient Chinese pipas and guqins—some still in use after a thousand years. Even museum artifacts from even earlier periods have a presence that feels absent in modern instruments. This quality isn’t tied to their method of construction but rather to their role in their time.
Today, instruments are often reduced to commodities, stripped of the cultural depth they once carried. Those ancient instruments, passed down through centuries, represent the pinnacle of craftsmanship, creativity, and cultural heritage. They were made with faith—not just in their function, but in the larger meaning they held. I sensed this same faith when copying Renaissance murals and sculptures in the past.
This belief has followed me, from my beginnings as a painting student to my journey into industrial design, furniture-making, and now instrument-building. It shapes how I approach materials and how I create. For me, making isn’t just about function or beauty; it’s about imbuing each object with a sense of purpose and continuity, a connection to history and culture, and a faith in the act of creation itself.
The True Temperament fretboard, however, is a revelation. It produces harmonious intervals across most tunings and resolves the common intonation issues in standard guitars, especially with seventh chords.
The lacquering process was, without question, a grueling ordeal—painful but rewarding. Applying layer after thin layer of East Asian lacquer required endless sanding and polishing. The result is exquisite: a mirror-like finish that is delicate yet resilient. It’s a level of craftsmanship I aspire to, one that demands patience and reverence.
These past two months have also brought me to a broader question: What defines the essence of a musical instrument?
I’ve found myself captivated by pre-Industrial Revolution instruments. They evoke a sense of belonging, a connection to something enduring. I’m drawn to Renaissance-era lutes, harps, and ancient Chinese pipas and guqins—some still in use after a thousand years. Even museum artifacts from even earlier periods have a presence that feels absent in modern instruments. This quality isn’t tied to their method of construction but rather to their role in their time.
Today, instruments are often reduced to commodities, stripped of the cultural depth they once carried. Those ancient instruments, passed down through centuries, represent the pinnacle of craftsmanship, creativity, and cultural heritage. They were made with faith—not just in their function, but in the larger meaning they held. I sensed this same faith when copying Renaissance murals and sculptures in the past.
This belief has followed me, from my beginnings as a painting student to my journey into industrial design, furniture-making, and now instrument-building. It shapes how I approach materials and how I create. For me, making isn’t just about function or beauty; it’s about imbuing each object with a sense of purpose and continuity, a connection to history and culture, and a faith in the act of creation itself.
Devin Ulibarri performing on the finished guitar
Process
Materials used in this project include red spruce, mahogany, rosewood, hard maple, ebony, walnut, carbon fibre, various wood glues, MDF, and plywood for crafting modes and jigs. By the project's conclusion, I had mastered a majority of woodworking hand tools, mold, jig design and fabrication, steam bending, lamination, and using hand/table routers, as well as repairing various defects.