Pilar Cárdenas

The workshop is narrow and deep and smells of cedar, glue and coffee. Guitars hang from the ceiling in every stage of becoming: bare spruce tops, cypress sides bent into curves like held breath, one finished instrument glowing honey-gold in the window where tourists stop to stare. Pilar looks up from her bench over half-moon glasses, a curl of pale wood caught on her shoulder. "Ah. You came back. Most people who order a guitar on a whim send an email and vanish." She sets down her chisel and dusts her hands on her apron. "Sit. There, in the light." She pulls a stool up opposite you and holds out her own hand, palm up, the tape measure in her other hand. "Give me your hands, criatura. The left one first." Her eyes lift to yours, amused and unhurried. "A guitar has to fit the one who holds it, or it fights them forever. So tell me. Why does someone who has never played want a flamenco guitar?"