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In Memoriam: Jim Forderer

In Memoriam: Jim Forderer

March 24, 1943 – June 12, 2016

by James Westbrook, and John Doan

Originally published in American Lutherie #128, 2016

I first spoke to Jim Forderer in 1997, when I had heard about a 1930s Hauser with a carved-relief headstock and I was curious to learn more about this seemingly rare feature. Beverly Maher, at the Guitar Salon in New York, told me that Jim had seen the guitar and that I should talk to him. So I called long distance from England and we immediately hit it off. Our mutual interest in guitars meant that we could have chatted all night long, so I thought it would be cheaper to talk to him in person. So just a few months later I flew out to Los Altos Hills, California.

His guitar collection at that time was quite modest, mainly consisting of 20th-century classical guitars. But he did have the odd Panormo and such, which, by coincidence, he had obtained via a dealer from auctions I ran in London. Like his family, his guitar collection grew and grew. It also began to reach much further back in time; that was probably my influence. I had well over fifty trips to the Bay Area to visit my best American friend and also to see his children who I also got to know very well — all twenty-seven of them. Jim founded the Bridge School with Neil Young in 1986, and every October I would help him with his children at the Bridge School benefit concert. Plus, I would come out whenever he was asked to exhibit his collection, sometimes going south to La Guitarra in San Luis Obispo, other times very north to the GAL Convention.

Jim was one of the most generous, kind, and sincere people I knew. His only fault was that he was very stubborn about limiting the time he should be behind the wheel. This resulted in witnessing many near-fatal accidents in his RVs. Driving from San Jose to Tacoma was no stroll in the park, but he would insist on driving until after he had fallen asleep. So my job on the trips to the conventions was to make sure we both got there alive, but more importantly, that the forty-odd guitars he was exhibiting got there without damage. One time he drove onto a freeway the wrong way. Another time he drove all through the night, forgetting to put any lights on the trailer we were pulling. And another time he parked on a mountain top and forgot to put the brakes on. The vehicle went off the edge, but luckily was stopped by a tree. There was, however, one trip in 2008 that I couldn’t make, and during that trip he crashed. Any sane person would have turned back, but he still made it to the GAL Convention, hiring a van and transferring all of his instruments over.

Jim’s uniqueness as a collector, for he was certainly no scholar, was his readiness to share his collection. Besides lending the odd guitar to professional musicians, he would take his collection to The People. I think if he was offered to preserve them in a museum, within glass cases, he would have declined, for his collection was very much hands-on. The only down side to this was their preservation: like the time he reversed his RV over his original and very rare Mozzani case; luckily he had forgotten to put the guitar inside! He was a truly remarkable man, who touched so many guitars, and so many lives.

— James Westbrook

Photo by Anne Newsom

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

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In Memoriam: Robert S. Cooper

In Memoriam: Robert S. Cooper

February 20, 1928 – November 24, 2016

by R.E. Bruné and Robert Cooper, Jr.

Originally published in American Lutherie #130, 2017

Robert Cooper, author of the book Lute Construction passed away this past November. Although I never met Robert in person, my first contact with him was in 1968 when I discovered his book and used it to make my first Renaissance lute. I still have the mold which I made from his instructions. In many ways, it was this foray into the lute from the guitar that started my interest in “early music,” later leading to many more lutes and even harpsichords. Many years later we spoke on the phone and Robert ordered a guitar from me, which I was extremely honored to make for him.

Robert was a consummate craftsman and a perfectionist in everything he did. His lute construction book was based on the lutes made by the Hauser family and he had Hermann Hauser II personally check his technical drawings to make sure they were accurate before publishing. Robert had been friends with the Hausers, and had even purchased one of their guitars, which I later sold for him. He was very active in the radio-control model airplane hobby, and his scale replicas of WWI vintage biplanes were paragons of patient detail. He even made his own scale operational engines, and only recently had finally given up flying his creations. Remembering my own experiences with model airplanes (straight up, stall, straight down, build another) I was shocked that he would allow them to be flown at all. I have never seen finer model aircraft. I will miss our friendly phone conversations which ranged over a wide variety of topics. My condolences to his family.

— R.E. Bruné

Robert Cooper lectures on “The Devolution of the Modern Lute” at the GAL Convention in Greensboro, North Carolina, in 1984. Photo by Tim Olsen.

Robert Scotland Cooper Sr. was the son of Cdr. Henry George Cooper, USN. In the years leading up to WWII, Commander Cooper served with distinction at posts near and distant, and Robert often proudly claimed that he had attended thirteen grammar schools during his formative years. He lived for periods in Atlanta, Georgia; Charleston, South Carolina; Newport, Rhode Island; New Orleans, Louisiana; and attended Pearl River Military Academy. But he loved most the time he spent with his parents, his brother Samuel, and sister Caroline in the Orient. An avid and gifted storyteller, he often shared vivid memories of his mother Janet, a Sorbonne-trained artist, painting scenes along the seawall at the Olongapo Naval Base on Subic Bay in the Philippines. His tales were full of the taste of sweet mangoes, gentle air, and the fascinating people he knew there though he was only six at the time.

Robert completed his bachelor’s degree at The Citadel Military Academy in Charleston in 1951. His passion for all things aeronautical led him to take a job at the Cleveland Model and Supply Company in Ohio, and many people he met there remained lifelong friends. His natural musical talents flourished and he started performing with his clear tenor voice and a classical guitar.

Fortune brought him to Savannah in 1953 where he met and married his soulmate Emmeline and began his twenty-seven-year career with the Corps of Engineers. Pioneers at heart, they purchased a ramshackle boarding house in 1959 with terrifyingly high mortgage payments of $69 per month. That house was filled with laughter and music and jovial evenings gathered around the kitchen table. Robert had a woodworking shop there and became renowned for his fine and imaginative woodworking skills. He began building lutes, and his enthusiasm to renew interest in then-obscure early instruments prompted him to publish his book Lute Construction in 1963. His scale models of primarily WWI-era airplanes are recognized as some of the finest in the country.

Music, airplanes, and woodworking were the things Robert Cooper did, but they are not who he was. He was always busy in his shop but he was never too busy for his sons Ruskin, Robert Jr., and Graham whether it was a science project or just a tricky part of an airplane model. He was a patient and encouraging teacher. He had a way of seeing the final product and knew how to get a job done the right way. He said that when he was working on a lute or an airplane, time had no meaning.

— Robert Cooper Jr.

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In Memoriam: Darlene Eddinger

In Memoriam: Darlene Eddinger

1958 – 2012

by Chris Herrod

Originally published in American Lutherie #113, 2013

Darlene Eddinger passed away after a long battle with cancer on December 27, 2012, at the age of fifty-four. For twenty-five years she worked as the purchasing manager at Luthiers Mercantile International (LMI). As part of the management team at LMI, she can be thanked for much of what the company has offered the world of guitar making. Her warmth, humor, and her professionalism made a lasting impression on all those who were fortunate enough to meet her and work with her. LMI’s many vendors, customers, and her fellow employees grew accustomed to her smile and her friendship over the years, and her absence is deeply felt. Even as her illness progressed, Darlene continued to work and greet people with her characteristic sweetness and equanimity.

A loving wife, mother, and grandmother, Darlene valued her family most of all. She will be missed and remembered fondly.

Darlene Eddinger (right) and Natalie Swango after their auction victory at the 2008 GAL Convention. Photo by Hap Newsom.
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In Memoriam: Don Bradley

In Memoriam: Don Bradley

1949 – 2016

by Deb Olsen, Chris Herrod, Alan Carruth, and Fred Carlson

Originally published in American Lutherie #127, 2016

We are fond of all our GAL members, for sure. But there are some members who have been with us for so many years, who have grown up with us and the Guild, and who we have enjoyed spending time with at so many conventions over decades, that they have a special place in our hearts. Don Bradley is one of those. Happy, amiable, kind, funny, smart, and humble, Don has always been a great supporter of the Guild and its ideals. He has been with us from way, way back — a member continuously since 1977, he attended his first convention in Tacoma that year after completing one of the early courses at the Roberto-Venn School, and he attended at least a dozen in all, including the last five held in Tacoma from 2004–2014. (See his “Meet the Maker” article in AL#111.) I’d have to do a little research, but it’s possible that he attended more conventions than any other member (other than the GAL staff). So we were always delighted when we’d get his convention registration and knew we’d be seeing him again. Conventions can be daunting, but one of the things that encourages us to keep doing them is knowing that we’ll be seeing some of our old pals like Don. We’ll really miss him at the next one.

—Deb Olsen

Intelligent, soft-spoken, and kind, Don Bradley was for many years a welcome fixture at NCAL (Northern California Association of Luthiers) and GAL events. We grew accustomed to his friendly, easy-going presence and that makes his sudden passing all the more difficult.

Aside from building a variety of instruments, Don applied his keen, inquisitive mind to a wide range of pursuits: banjo playing, electric cars, folk dancing, raising llamas, and gardening. Perhaps he will be best remembered for building the signal generator device for Chladni testing (“free plate testing”) that was sold for many years by LMI and others.

Thank you, Don. You will be missed.

—Chris Herrod

Photo by Teri Korsmo

I first met Don at the GAL Convention in Vermillion, South Dakota, in 1992. He approached me, introduced himself as an electronics engineer, and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I was looking for somebody to take over the business of making signal generators that I had suspended on the death of my father a few years before, and his offer was very welcome. I sent the parts and information to Don with gratitude.

Those machines were only slight updates of the ones detailed in the old GAL Data Sheet #112 by Matt Fichtenbaum, and were very far out of date by then; so Don came up with a wholly new, and far better, design in consultation with me. Although from habit I use my old unit for day-to-day work, when I need real precision or portability I turn to Don’s device.

Thereafter we would see each other in Tacoma when I was able to get out for conventions. When I had a table we would set up a signal generator, and Don would spell me in demonstrations. He would also help out if I had a talk to give.

Don hosted me at his home when I went out for what turned out to be the last Healdsburg Festival, providing a pleasant and undemanding oasis amid the cacophony. My flight home was late on the Monday after the close of the festival, and Don took me on a sightseeing tour. We took in the Armstrong redwoods and Bodega Bay in a pleasant and relaxing day’s drive.

I always hoped that some chance would enable me to return the favor, and show him some of the scenic attractions near my home in New Hampshire. Sadly, that will never happen now. I’m left wondering how his instrument making went, and whether he ever got that Tesla that he wanted.
Adios, Don: I owe you.

—Alan Carruth

Don Bradley was such a nice guy! I met him at the first GAL Convention I ever attended, the one in Winfield, Kansas, in 1978. I was oh-so-young (early 20-something), on my first real trip away from home on my own, at my first luthier convention, showing off some of my instruments to other luthiers for the first time. Don was so warm and easy going; I immediately felt comfortable with him. We got caught together in some building when a brief and wild summer tornado cruised through, filling the streets with water in minutes. Watching this amazing phenomenon of nature, we got to talking, and it turned out he had just locked his keys inside his truck. I spent quite a while taking apart my backpack to get at a metal rod that was a part of the frame, and we used it to pick his truck-door lock. The sort of experience that one remembers, and that can lead to lasting friendship, which it did. We mostly only met, over the years, at lutherie-related events, and saw each other less frequently as the years went by, but each meeting was a happy event, and the friendship was always there, waiting to be enjoyed.

Wherever luthiers go when they pass on, I know everyone there will be happy to see him, but we’ll sure miss him here!

Happy journey into the mystery, my friend!

—Fred Carlson

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In Memoriam: Joseph R. Johnson

In Memoriam: Joseph R. Johnson

Oct 24, 1954 - May 21, 2012

by Deb Olsen

Originally published in American Lutherie #111, 2012

We were very sad to hear of the passing of our friend Joe Johnson after an extended illness. It’s been some years since we’ve seen Joe, but we haven’t forgotten the great work he did for the Guild in the 1980s and 1990s. Members who have been around awhile will remember that Joe was the genial and energetic host of our 1988 and 1992 GAL Conventions in Vermillion, South Dakota.

Photo by Robert Desmond

When we first met Joe, he was living in Vermillion and working as the first Curator of Education at the Shrine to Music Museum (now the National Music Museum) at the University of South Dakota. Joe joined the Guild in 1986 and made the suggestion that we might want to have our 1988 convention in Vermillion in conjunction with the museum. That was a pretty wild idea, but Tim went out to visit and saw what an incredible gem was hidden in the farmlands of South Dakota! It soon became apparent that not only was the museum a great treasure-trove for our members, but that we had found a great helper and GAL supporter in Joe Johnson. Joe made all the on-site arrangements and was there to do whatever needed to be done and whatever would make a better experience for the members. This included forgoing dinner to give after-hours museum tours, shuttling folks to and from the airport, and many other details in the extreme South Dakota temperatures, always wearing a tie and a smile. Whenever a problem needed to be solved, he enthusiastically arose to the challenge. (He had served in the Navy, and this showed in his ability to get things done and get along with folks.)

After experiencing the crazy fun of helping to organize a GAL Convention, Joe came to Tacoma to help out in 1990 and did many of the interviews with exhibitors that year. (You can experience Joe’s enthusiasm on our Luthier’s Show and Tell DVD). Things had gone so well at our 1988 convention in South Dakota (with Joe’s help), that we decided to go out to Vermillion again in 1992. That year we added a joint meeting with the Catgut Acoustical Society. Thanks to Joe, both these conventions were great successes. For our 1995 convention, Joe came out to Tacoma again especially to curate the special exhibit of D’Aquisto and D’Angelico archtop guitars from the collection of Paul Gudelsky. His expertise as a curator greatly enhanced this project. The photo above was taken at that convention.

After eleven years at the Shrine to Music Museum, Joe got a new position as the founding Curator of Music and Popular Culture at the Georgia Music Hall of Fame in Macon, Georgia. This was in his words, a “fun job” where he went around collecting artifacts from some of the great musicians who hailed from Georgia. Every once in a while we’d get an e-mail from Joe telling us about some amazing experience he had hanging out with musical icons like Little Richard, Chet Atkins, or the B-52s. We really enjoyed hearing about his trips, and it sounded like the right job for positive guy like Joe.

Joe was a family man and he is survived by his wife of thirty-five years, Lois, their three children, and four grandchildren. He was also a very religious man. He wasn’t afraid to express his deep Christian faith, and he lived it in the best possible way: always positive, service oriented, free of prejudice, and loving toward his fellow human beings. Joe was a musician who loved people, music, history, and musical instruments, and he will be missed.