His Last Act of Joy: A Story of Handpans and Humanity
For the last two and a half decades, attaining stewardship of one of these instruments has been marked by some sort of journey, quest, crusade, or at the very least, a long and arduous waiting game. War stories are traded in person at gatherings–I was waitlisted for two years, I had to fly to San Francisco just to get a Russian visa, customs agents in Charles De Gaulle almost confiscated mine.
In becoming a member of the community through traditional acquisition, a veritable ‘merit badge’ of sorts was earned and often, proudly displayed. Those three examples are but a few from my decade and a half of hard-earned stories that I proudly adorn to my community sash.
As the community slipped into its second decade, and supply was still outpaced by demand, suddenly, money talked. There was a fast track to ownership through flash sales, auctions, and the like. In attempts to curb the demand and level the playing field of fairness, makers would offer alternative paths to those who had the funds.
While this bypassed the forced delayed satisfaction the average Joe experienced, it also stripped the ability to earn the community merit badge. ‘I won the flash sale’ or ‘I was the high bidder’ weren’t qualifiers like traversing hemispheres and crossing international borders.
It would be hard to resist, though; there are some problems that you can just throw money at, and this became one of them. Even with the funds, the idea that they’re hard to get makes them that much more desirable. The fact that, for the most part, click-buy-ship isn’t an option for a high-quality handpan means that even for those with money, there is still a sense that they’re hard to obtain.
Meaning, that even with money in play, there was still a drive to obtain the almost unattainable, often resulting in a quickly acquired and sizable collection.
With no merit badge earned, this new type of owner would sometimes restrict their community involvement under the assumption that acceptance is limited to those who did the hard yards. In reality, the only thing they might feel from the community was envy–who wouldn’t want to jump the line if they could?
Often happening in parallel was the common desire to keep the knowledge of their wealth private. With these two factors combined, the collector type tends towards self-isolation both because of how their collection is acquired, and in an effort to keep their wealth a secret. Divulging publicly the expensive nature of their collection would out them as wealthy, causing a doubling-down of the withdrawal from the community.
Over the years, there’d been rumors of collectors. Some fat-cat business type in Hawaii, a stockpile in the Swiss Alps, a hoard of 1st gens in South Africa. Attempts had been made to verify through deep dives into YouTube channels, conversations and posts on online forums, whispers at festivals, and more.
For reference, a collection of three or more is noteworthy. Five plus, as a non-professional musician, is an obsession. Double digits is madness—heck, it's a logistical storage issue, just for the cases themselves. It wasn’t until I transitioned to being a tuner that I started to actually meet these types.
Some context—handpans need to be retuned, by a specialist, every 2 years or so. That timeline is dependent on a multitude of factors: who’s using it, how are they using it, the maker/year/material, when and by whom it was last serviced, and ultimately, is the user happy with how it sounds.
Servicing your own collection simply isn't an option. Tuning and retuning work requires years of dedication, desire, and an innate ability that very few have. Distilling that group of individuals even further is whether or not they are willing to retune instruments that they didn’t make.
Akin to car mechanics, if I’m a Mercedes mechanic, I probably don’t work on BMWs. Finding one tuner who is willing to work on instruments other than their own is even more unique, as many don’t want to take on the risk and challenge that is servicing creations that they didn’t make. This can be a serious issue for the collector type as they are prone to having a diverse collection of instruments, new and old, from a multitude of makers.
I pride myself on being a tuner who can, and has, tuned anything and everything under the sun. I don’t just retune; I also refurbish and perform complete restoration work. I’ve drilled a hole in a Hang, split an SPb, and jailbroke an FIH.
That last sentence would result in any enthusiast gasping in shock, awe, and utter horror. Due to my scope of work and practice, I am a good fit for the extreme collector type—a one-stop shop for all their tuning and service needs.
The fact that their collection needs to be serviced by a specialist puts them in a bind—in order to maintain and enable the ongoing enjoyment of their collection, they must divulge the full details of said collection, and in doing so, go against their own desires for privacy. As a result, the tuner becomes both a trusted confidant and sometimes, as in this case, a conduit to the greater community.
With their hand forced, they now have someone who knows everything about their collection and has intimate knowledge of each individual instrument. An unavoidable bond is created between the collector and tuner.
The heads of strong old age are beautiful
Beyond all grace of youth. They have strange quiet,
Integrity, health, soundness, to the full
They've dealt with life and been tempered by it.
“He said to enact the plan.”
An unfamiliar voice said from an unrecognized number.
What plan??
THERE IS NO PLAN!?
Years earlier, an in-person conversation ended with the phrase, “We should make a plan.” But we never did. A plan was never made.
As an octogenarian, he was understandably concerned about what would happen to his collection. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that he had an ample estate, one such that this collection would be a drop in the bucket. So much so that it would probably end up in an estate sale, a forgotten something, long after his death.
I was in agreement—we should make a plan. With my level of specialty, I have been contacted by insurance agents, auction houses, and widows to help value or appraise specific instruments. It wasn’t unreasonable for him to think that I could help him with his problem—to make a plan for his impressive collection as part of his will and estate. But we left it there: we should make a plan.
The voice on the phone was from someone I didn’t know existed—his wife. The fact that I didn’t know of her wasn’t too surprising. When I take visitors to my workshop, it isn’t a social visit. They are visiting a specialist and have full permission to get their geek on.
Pleasantries are left at the door as I encourage them to wade into the deep and murky waters of handpan music theory, scale design, deep-cut tuner talk, and production methods. I couldn’t tell you if they have kids, what they do for a living, or even where they live. What I could tell you is which of their hands is dominant, what scales they prefer, and how versed they were in handpan history.
When I told her that we never made a plan, she said that he had. That he was getting his affairs in order, and that he said it was time to call me. In our very brief conversation, she plainly stated that he wanted me to have his instruments and that I should set up a time to come to San Francisco to get the first half of the collection.
With that, the conversation was over, and I was left with the upheaval of emotions that a person in my world was dying—and that I was to inherit his collection.
As the sting of the initial grief started to fade, I found myself conflicted. I, like so many, had the collector bug, bad. For years, I kept my thumb on the pulse of the handpan community and strove to be on the bleeding edge. I knew before most, I acquired the firsts, I was on the inside track. My personal collection of instruments featured the best-of-the-best, top-shelf items from top-shelf years.
Highly curated, mostly first-hand, direct from makers, made specifically for me at a time when that just didn’t happen. While it's invigorating and exciting to ride that line, it's also exhausting and draining. As I moved from player to maker, my desire to stay ahead of the collector curve faded, as did my magnetic pull to collect.
I slowly parted ways with my collection, rehoming them into the laps of those who deeply desired them. It was an emotional process and one that took years. I did, however, eventually find myself handpan-less.
In one quick phone call, all that work was undone. I suddenly was laden with a collection that was far greater and more vast than anything I EVER had. Not only was this going against everything I worked for, but it also meant that I was experiencing the loss of a person in my life.
It made sense, though, why he chose me. Simply put, there was no one else. No next of kin, no children in his will, and no other person in his life who knew the difference between Yishama and Ayasa. No direct connection to the community meant that I was his sole connection to the art form—and beyond. I was already behind the curtain, which I learned was no small thing for him.
Eventually, I was able to get out of my own way and shine a light on this honor that had been bestowed upon me. I had undervalued the amount of trust that he had extended in our professional relationship. The bequeathment helped me see the nature of the relationship that we had grown and established over the years.
In one of his final decisions in life, he entrusted me to caretake one of the most tender and meaningful parts of his life. It took a few days to feel the full weight of his request and to start to process that my chapter, in the story of these instruments, had already begun.
As for me: laugh at me. I agree with you. It is a foolish business to see the future and screech at it.
The second phone call came just as unexpectedly as the first. Although I knew this one was coming, I just didn’t know when; it came a few weeks after the first. The nature of the call was to tell me it was time to come get the first half of the collection. Five instruments were waiting for me deep in the heart of San Francisco.
This already presented as a logistical issue. Moving through physical space with two instruments is do-able. Three, you’re a pack mule. Beyond that, you need a rolly cart, a wheely deely, or some poor soul to be your muscle. Add to that the value of these and their fragility, and a retrieval from a building in the city center is a recipe for a nightmare situation.
He was a collector’s collector, this I knew. He had the bag, the stand, the extras, and the accessories. He kept the shipping boxes and had microfiber cloths for each individual instrument. There would be hard cases, gear, and all the fiddly bits to deal with. While I felt the pull to send out a call for help, I knew this trip was just meant to be me. As I loaded up for the dive, there were big parts of the unfolding story that I didn't know.
Was he still alive or had he passed?
Would I get to see him or would this be a cursory visit
Which pans were there?
Where would I park?
How many flights of stairs would I have to traverse?
Many of the questions were answered very quickly.
There was a private parking garage, an elevator, and public-use luggage carts.
He wasn’t dead—and in fact, he was waiting for me.
The boom of his voice was jarring in reference to his frail state. From the hospital bed in a downtown high-rise, he invited me to sit. Pen, paper, and a glass of water had been set out—he’d been preparing. With little preamble, he commenced. Note for note, year for year, maker for maker, he gave me an oral history of his collection.
Quick but copious notes were taken—scribbled, sketched, chicken-scratched. I was unprepared for this level of detail.
An impressive collection at that. For the unbaptized, Ferraris and Lamborghinis. For those of the faith: Yishama Eb La Sirena 16, Ayasa Ember Steel A2 La Sirena 15, Veritas Stainless B2 Dark Aegean 14. Each was reported with its current status, potential problem areas, and his general impression.
After the lengthy download, the conversation pivoted to the current state of the handpan world—where it’s at, where it's going, and his thoughts on both. We discussed the nitty gritty of the HCU vs. PANArt court case and debated the merits of both sides of the argument. The conversation then wandered to my career: its scope, timeline, and legacy.
He made a point to speak specifically about me as a maker, tuner, and the man that he knew me to be. The details of which will be kept to myself—but I was reminded that no man is more honest than a man on his deathbed.
With that, he said: “Pack them up.”
I shook his hand, wished him well, and wiped my tears. I found his wife waiting in the next room. She asked how it went, and I responded by showing my extensive notes and a brief detail of what was discussed.
She then said something that completely caught me off guard—he hadn’t been able to have a coherent conversation for some time.
I was stunned. Save a few moments of grasping for the right word, he was as intellectual, poignant, and outspoken as always. Had she not made mention, I would have been none the wiser. At the time of the experience, I was at a loss. In retrospect, it all makes sense.
His collection was a loose end—and an important one—for him to see get tied up. As his tuner, community connection, and confidant, this conversation needed to happen before he could transition.
My presence, in combination with his desire for closure, tethered him back to reality for our hour together. I was a conduit—enabling him to access this part of his reality that had made a massive and lasting impression on him across his eighth decade.
With that, I drove back across the Golden Gate, with a truckload of handpans and a heart full of grief.
For what we love, we grow to it, we share its nature.
“When can you come to Carmel?”
The third phone call came two months after my mission to San Francisco. By this point, I had moved through some of the grief, retuned and serviced the retrieved instruments, and had started telling this story as a way to process.
Similar to the previous two calls, they were all business. We picked a day and time, I got the address, and said see you then. There wasn’t an opening that felt comfortable to ask my burning question: is he still alive?
Years earlier, I had been to Carmel with friend and fellow Finnish handpan enthusiast, Lauri Wuolio. For the better part of a decade, we had played with the idea of a California coastal road trip—a dream of his to enjoy the splendors of California, and one he’d wanted to pursue since his younger years.
One of his “must-sees” on the trip was the Tor House on Carmel Point—the home of California poet Robinson Jeffers. He teased that a man from Finland was a fan of Jeffers, and that a man from California had never heard of him. A quick stop on the trip, we took pictures, read a few plaques, and went on our way.
The reason this visit is pertinent is that when I googled the address I was given over the phone, it came up as the direct neighbor to the Tor House.
Not just the same neighborhood.
Not just the same street.
Direct neighbors—the next door.
I had known that he had a house in Carmel, but he had several homes. I had thought about reaching out to him knowing I would pass through Carmel, but the nature of our relationship was such that I didn’t want to breach his privacy.
But next door—what does it mean?
Had he been popping out to get his mail, going for a walk, or even just looking out his window—maybe we could have connected. To know, in retrospect, that we were in such close proximity to someone who had such a phenomenal collection of instruments and an even more amazing passion for them has left me conflicted.
Should I have forced the issue?
Would it have been good for him—or would it have been an overstep?
As the date for Carmel marched closer, so did an intimidating weather forecast: high winds, heavy rains, the storm of the year. I drove the four hours as the storm was moving in, and by the time I arrived, trees were down, roads were closed, and Carmel had been sent back to the dark ages.
I arrived later than expected as a result of the weather but still felt like I had the necessary time to pack things up, spend some time visiting, and get back on the road before nightfall.
A heavy knock on the door—as the doorbell wasn’t functional—was answered by his wife. She welcomed me in and directed me to the front room where the second half of his collection was displayed and stored.
Pleasantries quickly turned to updates: he was dead.
He had passed not long after I had sat with him, and it was said that our conversation was one of his last coherent and grounded moments. While I had imagined that this would be the case, the sting of the news—as delivered by his now widow—was challenging to feel while trying to stay focused on the task at hand: the collection.
There they were, perfectly displayed on their stands, gently covered with cloths, wonderfully cared for. Also in the room were their shipping boxes and all their accessories—hard cases, t-shirts, stickers, oils, waxes, keychains.
The result of which may have forced a noise out of me; call it a squeal of delight or a sigh of completeness… what a collection.
I may be on the other side of the art form now, and no longer a collector, but what I was witnessing was not lost on me.
He was a collector’s collector.
As I packed them up in their cases, sorted them into their original shipping boxes, and started to load them into my truck, the storm was hitting with full force. A gust blew so hard that I did an instinctual duck and cover.
The plan to drive home with a truck full of precious cargo was becoming untenable. I knew it—and so did she.
We were quickly losing daylight and the storm was showing no signs of abating. My phone had blipped at some point showing that a 50-foot redwood tree had fallen and just missed my workshop. I’d heard that my neighborhood was without power, which meant no heat or running water to return home to.
A decision was made. There was no good reason to leave. I would stay the night and ride out the storm.
So we sat together as the last light of the day was lost over the edge of the sea. While the view of the ocean was second to none, it was the view of the Tor House that had my attention. This house we viewed from the street years before now sat just below me—a bird’s eye view of the grounds.
I had snapped a selfie for Lauri when I arrived that afternoon, but now I was treated to the postcard view. The cyclicality of the Tor House and its involvement in this storyline is still lost on me, but it clearly has some significance.
That significance has yet to reveal itself—but as this story has taught me, it may take a lifetime to fully understand.
In hindsight, this is where the actual story—the human story—begins.
Two months a widow, she too is in her eighth decade. Her first storm without him. Her first power outage without him. Her first night, in the home they shared, with no light.
But she wasn’t alone. I was there.
Together, we lit candles, started a fire, and got our phones charging. I made dinner and we sat and ate—we broke bread—with me sitting in his chair.
And we talked.
About life and love.
Grief and loss.
About him.
And her.
It was 64 years ago that they met; they had lived a lifetime before I was even born.
During that darkened dinner, she shared. I learned about him, his life, his other passions, and his death.
It was in those moments I realized that this was the real reason I was there—to be there with her, for him. To see her through the storm and to be with her as she felt the brunt of his absence.
I got your girl, I remember thinking.
I’ve got her.
She’s safe.
She’s not alone.
By morning, the storm had lessened and the roads had cleared. We named and honored the experience we shared and expressed mutual thanks and gratitude that it was together that we traversed the storm.
I finished packing up, wished her well, and commenced the long drive home.
It was on that drive that I reflected on the first time I had met him—more accurately, the first time his name came across my desk.
There is the great humaneness at the heart of things,
The extravagant kindness, the fountain
Humanity can understand, and would flow likewise
If power and desire were perch-mates.
His name first came to me from another tuner.
It was the very early days of the HCU vs. PANArt saga, and we—the greater HCU team—were scrambling to get things going. We had very little time to bootstrap our way into the first legal sit-down with the opposition and were facing an insurmountable set of tasks.
We needed legal representation.
We needed funding for legal representation.
We needed a name, a website, and some formal way to operate and move the funds around.
Out of left field came a name—someone who wanted to help. It was a name that no one knew, which then, was a cause for concern. The core HCU team was established simply by the fact that everyone could vouch for each other. An unknown name meant that there was no established trust during a time when established trust was our only currency.
The name came to me due to proximity. I was the westernmost HCU representative, and the name was on the West Coast, about four hours south of me. At this point, an off-the-record, in-person conversation felt the safest. If details of our status and legal strategy were to be discussed, we wanted it way off the record.
I had a name, a phone number, and encouragement from the team to make contact.
Contact was made, and it was immediately evident that I was dealing with a highly educated and very experienced individual who was beyond retirement age. While he had visions and plans for HCU’s greater path, unbeknownst to him, we already had multiple balls rolling in Europe.
Without the established trust—and with his timing being just a bit too late—there wasn’t much for HCU to do with his advice and wisdom. With his permission, I placed him on a back burner and relegated him to being an advisor of sorts. He was content with this, other than voicing that he felt his path was better suited for the outcome HCU was looking to achieve.
As funding became our central issue, HCU organized a fundraiser on a popular platform. Behind the scenes, we fretted over the verbiage, the video, and the imagery used. We prepped emailers, drafted social media marketing hooks, and had a loose but significant fundraising goal in mind. We desperately needed this to snowball into a successful campaign—otherwise, it would be over before it even started.
Much to our surprise, we had an immediate five-figure, anonymous donation.
We suddenly had the momentum and the excitement—both internally as HCU, and externally as a greater worldwide community who wanted to see this thing have a chance. We not only hit but far exceeded our initial fundraiser goals, which launched HCU and its legal team into the fight.
I believe this early donation made a significant impact on the overall success of the fundraiser, both in its size and its anonymity. It was a show of support and trust in an organization that had only bought its internet domain weeks earlier. We were a ragtag band of creatives from around the world who felt that, as a collective, we had a responsibility to come to the defense of the art form.
That single donation not only made the world take notice, but it internally gave HCU a sense of cohesive focus—we’re doing this, and they believe in us.
It wasn’t until years later that I learned that it was him. That he was the anonymous donor.
When I spoke to him about it and expressed to him the significance of his donation—not just the amount, but the timing and meaning of it—he just nodded. He knew what he had done, and it landed with the exact impact that he intended.
While we were not in the position to heed his legal advice, this didn’t dissuade his desire to be in support. He merely took a step back, reanalyzed the situation, and found another place where his contributions could have the biggest impact.
With this level of intentionality in mind, it comes as no surprise that the plan for his collection would be no different: intentional.
He chose me to receive his collection for a reason. Specifically, he used the phrase, “Do as you see fit.”
I was almost angry at the time he said those words. In one sentence, he knew—that I knew—that he had me.
Checkmate.
I knew what his collection meant to him because he had allowed me to be a witness to that side of him. I watched as a hardened businessman transformed into a childlike state every time he interacted with handpans at my workshop. He had engaged with me in my favorite space—one that is dedicated to my life’s work.
His wife had used the word kindred in describing our relationship, which felt like an apt description. In one master stroke, he had asked everything of me and asked nothing.
Four words shifted the responsibility and future of his collection fully to me.
As the dust has started to settle and the grief is mostly processed, deeper reflections are starting to reveal themselves.
From his intentional HCU donation to his bequeathing of this collection, he, in his way, was a great supporter of the community. It was I who needed to change my perspective—broaden my definition—and stretch to understand what it means to be in a place of support for a greater community.
He was a member of the community this whole time, and it was I who had it wrong. Even in his last days, he was finding ways that he could be in support.
“As you see fit”… an incredibly broad and loose instruction.
Temptation set in quickly. What an opportunity for personal gain. A double-digit collection of top instruments dropped into my lap with no restrictions on what I do with them. It’s only human to examine all the angles. I knew the price tags on each instrument—and they weren’t small numbers. And no one else knew that I had them.
Would that honor his wish, though?
The wave of temptation faded quickly, and I was left with a single word that I felt encapsulated his wish:
Joy.
Joy is what I saw him experience when he played, discussed, and collected. Joy is what was left when you distilled all the reasons he was drawn to this wonderful art form—the simple pleasure of having one of these creations in your lap and how that brought him joy.
With joy as the goal, there was some low-hanging fruit. When the first five of the collection made it to my shop and were serviced and tuned, I made some calls. The local freaks and geeks heeded that call and came by to pick up an instrument. With the impending arrival of the rest of the collection, I needed to clear both physical and emotional space.
And joy was found.
They’ve been played. Loved. Recorded. Performed. The stewards swapped and traded and made sure each piece received the TLC that it needed. General care for five instruments is no small undertaking—and was beyond my thinly spread availability. I needed help, and my local community was there to give it.
“Oh no, I have to take care of a top-shelf handpan, what a drag,” was the general snarky response I received when I asked for help.
Although this arrangement was temporary, it without a doubt brought joy to those who were caretaking—as well as to those who were downstream as listeners.
At least love your eyes that can see, your mind that can hear the music, the thunder of the wings.
I now find myself in possession of the rest of the collection. The distillation of “as you see fit” has continued—and beyond joy, something else has come into focus.
These instruments—this specific collection—changed his life. Those of us who participate in this art form know and understand the implications of the phrase “life-changing.”
While it’s been beautiful to lend them out to my local community, it hasn’t changed their lives.
Enhanced? Sure.
Elevated? Absolutely.
But changed? Not yet.
These instruments have the ability—and deserve the opportunity—to change a life.
I once thought merit came from crossing borders or waiting years. But maybe true merit is found in what we do when a door opens unexpectedly—when someone says, “as you see fit,” and hands you a life’s worth of joy, asking nothing but trusting everything.
I realize that now.
That’s what he gave me.
He didn’t give me his collection.
I didn’t inherit anything.
Instead, he gave me something far greater.
He gifted me the opportunity to make a difference—to change lives in the way his life had been changed.
And he even showed me how to do it.
From his deathbed, he changed a life.
And that life was mine.
Some instruments have found new homes, new laps.
Some have found their way into my heart.
And others will continue to be stewarded by members of the greater community—so they can bask in the joy.
What matters most is that they are being played, loved, and allowed to do what they do best:
change people.
So here’s to you,
customer, fellow geek, and my friend.
Thank you for entrusting me with your final gift.
It was an honor to be in community with you.
C.Foulke*
*Included excerpts are from the poems of Robinson Jeffers.
Monterey, morning of the storm. Photo: CFoulke
