The Lady of Chartres

France
November 2019

The luthier rests beside the cathedral of Chartres, undressing her stonework for a better ear to the gospel choir. At a nearby restaurant, he mistakenly ordered too much to drink, lacking the vocabulary to correct his broken French. He stammered toward the entrance, listening to the haunting organs as if the echoes resonated from his own creation. The labyrinth on the floor was shaped much like the round space found in his guitars - an exposed, rhythmic heart. From there, the cathedral stole his remaining breath to exhale acoustics beyond the confines of its ribbed arches. He once told his wife that if he were to ever love another, Lady Chartres would be his mistress. Before he left, the man memorized the cathedral’s blueprint and dedicated his life to replicate her song.

It had been some time ago. As our friendship grew, I became fascinated by the stories of his time in France. Reproduced remnants of the church are hung from the walls of his home, depicted in paintings, models, and photographs. One day, the man invited me over for coffee to see his latest guitar. I once heard him play the chords inside his curtained workshop. The luthier was a humble man, and even before he started playing, he made sure to point out the inconsistencies and blemishes that scarred his instrument. But when he strummed the strings, I could hear the Lady of Chartres in all her perfection. He joked that his guitars differ from his competitors, because they never fell out of tune. I believed him. After all, it was not his creation, but the luthier himself that has always kept me attuned.