I think of Harry as a hippie — not the long haired, tie-dyed flower child, but as one of the new generation that broke away from American consumerism to grasp the world hands-on; we grew gardens and learned to cook, we made wine and brewed beer, made our own cheese and sausage, baked bread and made ice cream, fixed our cars... and made our own instruments. Now all of these things have become “artisanal” crafts. Before the Internet, we had the Whole Earth Catalog and discovered Stewart-MacDonald, Sloan’s book on classic guitar construction, H.L. Wild for wood, and many other resources. Within a few years, we had guys like Harry Fleishman and Tim Olsen building guitars and reaching out to others to talk about the process.

I got to know Harry over the course of several GAL Conventions, drawn into his presentations. I was fortunate to attend a class with him in 2005 (that he donated and I won at a GAL auction.) The class started with Harry letting us know that he was learning alongside us, and would frequently interrupt the routine bustle of work at our benches to focus all of us on a particular question or technique. He took us to Allied Lutherie where they graciously let us go back into the warehouse and sort through piles of sets, which Harry called “getting naked with the wood.” He provided a running commentary and answered questions. It was a lesson in wood assessment, presented as a “field trip” for the class.

Harry was a down-to-earth guy and would talk to anybody — tolerance and respect for people was just who he was. Early on, Harry told us that sooner or later we would come across an instrument that we would regard as, well, ugly. He said that while your feelings are valid, you need to suspend your judgement, the scoff and scorn. What you should do is examine that instrument carefully, because it can teach you, and you can find something that you can complement, something you can take away to inform your own aesthetic. This tolerance is one of the reasons Harry had so many friends — people whose work he may have criticized, but who he kept in conversation to inform his own aesthetic. He had a way of asking penetrating questions to get you out of ruts and open to a new way of perceiving things. He was a great teacher; he did not try to push things toward you, but got you to probe and question from your own viewpoint.

Harry was generous, both in a personal, objective way, and with ideas and values. When he was staying with us, we took him to a mom-and-pop Lao place because he had traveled in southeast Asia quite a bit. He not only insisted on buying us dinner, but he became the maître d’, quizzed us briefly about our tastes and preferences, and then proceeded to order the entire meal. It challenged us a bit, and introduced us to some things a little outside our comfort zone. It was a great, memorable evening, and as always with Harry, there was a lot of storytelling and laughter.

His generosity in sharing ideas and techniques aligns with the very foundation of the GAL. His classes were not prescriptive, pushing a student down a narrow path towards completing that one guitar, but an exploration. Almost every building task was demonstrated in more than one way, and students were encouraged to help each other in collaboration, so the class was less about me and my guitar, but more about the art and craft of lutherie. At some lutherie schools, a student might come to a workstation all set up with all the supplies and jigs, but with Harry, we started with a blank worktop and started making a workboard jig on the first day. We learned from the start that with very minimal and humble supplies, you can improvise real, functional tools.

One of Harry’s strengths was his fearless approach to fixing mistakes. A classmate epoxied his fingerboard onto a neck misaligned, and another drilled a tuning machine hole in a peghead way off location. In every case Harry jumped in, stopped the class, and led the student through the fix. The takeaway was more than just techniques, but the attitude, the confidence that the maker can deal with anything. I mentioned to Harry how much I appreciated this in an e-mail conversation we had a few months ago, and he responded: “You got the most important single piece of information I ever offered: Everything can be fixed. Don’t sweat and cry; fix and move on.”

Harry Fleishman both embodied and exemplified the core values of the GAL, and we fondly remember him. He really made a difference. Harry was great, Harry was good, Harry was great and good.

— January Williams