I go to a lot of guitar shows.
Some of the guitars I see have
that certain something (some
don’t) and are visually appealing
enough for me to approach and
take a closer look. You’ve probably
had the same experience, but
what is it all about?
Well, it involves a package
of visual impressions that my
eyes seem to take in all at once.
Though I believe most people are
capable of taking in the same particular
package of visual impressions
all at once, they may not be
consciously aware if they have not
yet learned to pay attention. The
package includes the proportions,
lines, smoothness or lumpiness of
the curves, harmony of color and
texture, and the overall pleasingness.
It’s no different from the
capacity for instant assessment
of yummy-ness (or lack of it)
that a man might make when he
looks at a woman (or vice versa),
or even a car or motorcycle.
However, the sexual/sensual part
of an assessment is usually less
prominent when one looks at a
guitar or the average painting.
That desexualized version of one’s
personal assessment—fully valid
in its own right—is what we call
aesthetic appreciation, sense of
appeal, or “the right look.” And
as far as we know, we are the only
species capable of having such
an experience.
Take a good look at these six
images. From the standpoint of
design (in the simplest and most
basic sense of the word), which
image does not belong with the
others? In other words, as design
projects, which of these images
looks right and which one does
not? When making your selection,
be sure to disregard size,
cost, age, whether it’s exotic or
common, familiar or unfamiliar,
alive or dead, color, material (e.g.,
animal, vegetable, mineral, or
synthetic), location, practical utility,
caloric content, or social/cultural
relevance. These things are
all irrelevant to design essentials.
We’re merely looking for a basic
feature or element of design that
all but one of these images share.
Take your time, look carefully,
and try not to read my answer
until you have one of your own.
I’ll give you my answer at the end
of this column, and it’s entirely
possible you may come up with a
different one.
When considering things, sizing
them up, and making judgments,
nature has basically given
us two distinct ways of arriving at
a truth. One way is to measure,
calculate, or compare against a
standard, or figure something
out and arrive at the “correct”
answer. One can also intuit a
truth or have an insight about it,
by knowing something without
being able to explain how one
knows it. Intuition has nothing
to do with measuring, calculating,
or comparing—there’s something
more direct, personal, and
immediate about it. And while
both methods are fully valid,
neither one can be used to comprehend
or explain the other. It’s
like engineering versus art. How
can either one be wrong?
In the world of visual art and
design (we’ll get back to guitars
in just a second), the main visual
point is to arrive at the internal
cues that signal “that’s it, it’s
right, it’s done, you can stop
now.” The striving can of course
be modified by training and
experience, but the artist stops
only when he knows it’s time to
stop. Short of that, he keeps on
working, expressing, and seeking.
Likewise, the viewer knows when
something grabs his attention
fully, or doesn’t. There is otherwise
no calculation, clock, statistic,
rule book, syllabus, recipe
amount, blueprint, or deadline
to otherwise tell either the artist
or viewer that he or she has
reached an optimal point. The
technician, on the other hand,
uses precisely these tools by
following a different brain-map
and a linear set of “performance
instructions.” He stops only
when he has met the explicit
requirements of his task.
This brings me back to the
many guitars I see both at guitar
shows and in stores. Some of
them look right to me, and some
of them really don’t. The package
of visual impressions includes the
proportions of the body-width
to the length, the smoothness or
lumpiness of the curves as they
morph into one another, the
harmony and contrast of color
in the woods, metal, or plastic,
and the size of the peghead and
bridge as part of the overall look.
It all makes for an overall allure
that enriches one’s experience of a
guitar that’s made well. And that’s
what you react to differentially
when you see it, because different
guitars literally carry different
amounts of it. Their makers put
those things in there … or didn’t.
Let’s get back to the images
mentioned at the beginning of
this article. My aesthetic take
on this is that the guitar does
not belong. Why? Because none
of its lines or line values are
found in nature. It seems to be
created with a compass and a
straightedge by someone who
decided that this is a proper or
desirable look. It has all the necessary
parts, yet it somehow looks
stiff, artificial, and lacking in
organic naturalness, flow, or harmony.
The Mona Lisa, the guitar,
and the baseball players are all
man-made images, but the Mona
Lisa and the baseball players don’t
strike the eye as artificial. Do you
agree? I’m not saying artificial is
bad—I’m just saying it’s different.
There’s successful artificial
and clumsy artificial. As we can
see from this small sampling of
images, some man-made quality
works artistically and some of it
doesn’t. As a matter of fact, the
entire design industry—from
clothing and cars to toasters and
architecture—is about producing
man-made shapes that appeal.
But that’s a topic for a separate
and longer article. The allure of
a guitar, or lack of it, isn’t accidental.
Someone either put it in
there, or forgot to.
Ervin Somogyi
A professional luthier
since the early 1970s,
Ervin Somogyi is one
of the world’s most
respected acoustic-guitar
builders and
rosette designers. To learn more about
Somogyi, his instruments, or his rosette
and inlay artwork, visit
esomogyi.com.