No Guitars Were Injured in the Making of This Book

Guitars are shiny and curvy and difficult to photograph well. Even the old ones have enough gloss to create unexpected glare and hotspots. But then again, that’s what a good photographer is paid to do—manipulate light and shadow to make a beautiful image that pops on the page. Our job during photo shoots—and by “our” I’m referring to the book’s terrific photo editor, Leora Kahn, and myself—was a lot more physical, and for me, particularly, nerve-wracking.

On the one hand, you’re a kid in a candy store. This shoot (see image below) took place in the large, cluttered 19th century office of a stringed instrument dealer and guitar collector in Philadelphia. Against one long wall were antique mahogany and glass cases, and in the cases, two rows high, were dozens and dozens of classic Martins and Gibsons. Especially notable were his rare pre-war sunburst Martins; so rare and pristine, in fact, that the folks from Martin used his instruments to insure that the color of their sunburst reissues were historically accurate. So there you are, handling one priceless guitar after another. And sometimes, when the photographer needed a quick break to adjust a light or reload film (not everyone’s gone digital), you find a moment to sit and play. What a privilege.

On the other hand, you are suddenly responsible for millions of dollars worth of rosewood and spruce, picking out the instruments, wiping them down, waiting, one in each hand, for the next shot, angling around the furniture, the lighting stands, the white seamless backdrop, hustling to keep the schedule moving. As big as the office was, it was cramped before we arrived, and the crew plus equipment made it almost impossible to maneuver.

But the most trying moment of all was when the guitar was placed on its stand. Yes, the guitar stand would be silhouetted out in the production process. But because nothing could obscure the body, the stand we used for shooting was little more than a perch. And every guitar had to be perched just right. The second you felt it was stable, you held your breath and let go.

None of them fell. Or, I should say, none of them landed. The few guitars that tipped were caught. In every shot, there’s a hand not far off to the side, hovering like guardian angel—in this case, ready to catch a 1935 Martin 00-42.