For anyone who loves the history of the classical guitar and getting up close and personal with significant instruments from the past, meeting Jim Forderer would have been a peak experience. I had that pleasure many times over the years. My first encounter was when he and Dr. James Westbrook visited my home en route north to Tacoma for a GAL Convention. His 30´ motorhome was an impromptu guitar museum on wheels. We sat on a couch that converts to a bed as he opened up one piled case after another, pulling out rare guitars by Panormo, Fabricatore, Lacôte, Mozzani, and other legendary builders.

Wait. Aren’t these supposed to be untouchably encased in humidity-controlled glass enclosures, safe in some far-away instrument museum? What was hard for me to get my mind around was that all of these precious historical artifacts were precariously traveling through time and space in an aging Winnebago parked in my gravel driveway!

Jim was not known for writing highly annotated guitar research books or articles, but as each instrument was lovingly pulled from its tattered wooden case, he freely and passionately discussed the intimate details of its construction and materials. He knew about each of the makers and their nuanced place in history. His knowledge was not solely reliant on books. Rather, it was the sort that comes from holding each instrument in his arms, from hours of carefully inspecting their surfaces, from inhaling at the soundhole the scent of a distant workshop, and from plucking a string that would send him dreaming of where it had been and of who played it. All this was augmented by his close interaction with Dr. Westbrook and other players and scholars.

Jim freely shared his collection with whomever showed interest. Once at the GAL Convention, he had placed all the instruments on a few tables not just for display but for anyone to grab and inspect, no white cotton gloves required. I arrived early to the exhibit hall and found his collection unattended. There was one burly guitarist taking a flat pick to an extremely rare harpolyre built by Jean François Salomon in Paris, 1829. I couldn’t contain myself when this guy let loose with a G run and had to appeal to him to perform his licks pickless. When Jim arrived he didn’t seem to mind. To me it was a chaotic free-for-all of blues riffs and spontaneous renditions of “Stairway to Heaven,” but Jim just smiled at the joy others were getting from the priceless opportunity to play these rare guitars.

He was a humble man. He didn’t quibble over exact dates or chronology or insist on others agreeing with his narrative of the guitar’s history he had come to know. He was open to learning from others, yet was confident in what he knew from the years he had spent with the instruments. His knowledge was personal and intimate.

Jim was not a wealthy man as the world might measure him. When I last saw him he was living in a trailer park in Northern California. He had a modest income from caring for numerous foster children, several of whom had disabilities, and he provided a nurturing home to many who had been misunderstood and neglected. Where most people will put away funds in a savings account, Jim acquired rare and aging instruments, many in need of repair. In many ways, like the children he cared for, he offered these forgotten instruments a safe harbor from the ravages of time.

With dogs barking and teenagers shouting across the loosely knit group of mobile homes, I came to visit and ultimately buy his harpolyre. He initially had trouble locating it, searching under beds and behind furniture. Then out of a closet, deep behind a wall of hanging clothes, came a huge freight case made to withstand the punishment of the most callous luggage handler. We cleared a patch of shag carpet, tossing old newspapers and a plastic area heater to the side. As the light from a lamp atop of a chipboard side table filled the velvet-lined case, we stood around it in awe. He and Dr. Westbrook had purchased it from a collector in Berlin who in turn acquired it from a failed instrument museum in Switzerland. It was peripheral to his guitar collection, so he was willing to pass it on to me. He pulled it out of its enclosure with fondness and pointed out the cartouche in the middle of the headstock that read “Salomon Brevete” (“Patented by Salomon”), noting that most of these instruments did not have labels and that this was proof of its provenance. I had recently recorded Fernando Sor’s music for harpolyre and was impressed by how much Jim knew about the instrument’s tuning and other features.

This was the last contact I had with Jim. I will remember him for his kindness, generous spirit, and deep passion for collecting fine old guitars. Unlike some collectors of means who might store away their treasures in vaults and private galleries, Jim openly shared his only possessions of value. Ultimately, Jim cared more about people and the joy they derived from his collection than the instruments themselves. He touched the past, and enjoyed how others could join in the aura of discovery, reverence, and mystery with him.

— John Doan