Maria Luisa Anido & her 1864 Antonio de Torres guitar

Anido3Maestra Isabel María Luisa Anido

Original letter from Tomás Prat to the father of Maria Luisa Anido, in which the shipment of the [Antonio de Torres] guitar once owned by Francisco Tárrega is confirmed.


Barcelona, ​​August 2, 1917

Mr. Juan Carlos Anido, BA

I greet the distinguished friend Mr. Anido and his family.
With the steam “Balmes” will arrive to that of
Buenos Aires the guitar of the immortal Tárrega. He could not get on the mail “Infanta Isabel” because, when I received his letter, it was already full but will leave the 6th of Barcelona and will arrive at the end of August.
The guitar was made with what I said, but I did not receive any letter from Domingo in which I was given instructions on the shipment of the guitar, although I gave them more than enough.

A few days ago Master Llobet compared V.’s guitar with his own, seems to be very much in love with his guitar, so much that after much testing one and the other said: “the two are superior and look alike” but, for Me, is much better the V.  The guitar of Tárrega is of the year 1864 and the one of Llobet of 1857, therefore, if we were to the logical, Torres had more practice when it made the guitar of Tárrega than when it made the one of Llobet, Although this does not matter at all.
Yours is insurmountable.
Regarding the packaging of the guitar was done everything indicated V., the insurance of maritime accidents and war, the cost of packaging is 32 pesetas and insurance of more than 350 pesetas.

Surely my son will have already heard of our change of address but in case he forgot, I offer our new room: Gerona 113 ppal 2nd and here you have some friends willing to receive it on the planned tour in Spain, hopefully soon .

Greetings from my
family for yours and V. receive the affections of your friend

Tomás Prat

Maria Luisa Anido colorMaria Anido in 1922 with her Torres.

Every human being sometimes needs a kind of spiritual dialogue with the infinite, he needs to dream of that ever-moving immaterial beauty of poetry or music, recreating with colors or sonorities the mysterious impressions that awaken in his soul. {M.L.A.}


In  1977 Maria Luisa Anido had come to live in Barcelona bringing with her the Antonio de Torres that once belonged to Tarrega…. [which] Pujol recognized as the sweetest guitar that he had never heard. The guitar was in need of a restoration, since Maria Luisa had not wanted to take it to any Luthier, and it had remained unused for many years. In that state I had the opportunity to play it and I actually felt that sweetness that Pujol spoke of. Of course, we can think that my sensations were a product of the suggestion of the moment, but I think not, the Torres guitars, whatever you try, have a unique and special voice, although it had deteriorated, …it retained its characteristics. With that guitar I remember playing “Marieta” and … [seems to find no words]

It must have been very exciting to play a guitar that belonged to Tárrega…
that guitar is part of the voice of modern Spanish music. Torres is part of the nationalist-nationalistic voice in the aesthetic sense of Albéniz, Granados, Falla. One would not understand Spanish music without the unique voice of Torres’ guitars.
Carles Trepat

The instrument now fully restored.



The Dream


All these strange black crystals lost in the night

the fallen fragments of worlds far, of worlds massive, of worlds far, far away.

There are monstrous ones like corpses of the drowned.

Some go under the moon, along the tides.

There are soft and fine ones like diseases.

There are some velvety and poisonous.

The still dreams. Deserted, immense, lunar.

To the nostalgic grasslands that cradle

and the supple lilac dreams that cling, the ecstasy.

The warm virgins go to the terraces

and the people of the great spheres, tall towards the golden domes,

(always that great dark weight in the sky)

love the ultramarine vegetation love the ultramarine vegetation.

Râaaaaaaaaaaaaga blancâ

The dusty velvet orchestras

watch the strange parade of pierrot’s of camellia below the closed balcony.

Silent fireworks shoot and big diaphanous fish

love the strange black crystals lost in the night,

the complex and decadent flowers loaded with the East,

and the black bouquets in the passionate souls.

Nostalgia of white of white – Algiers at midday – of white of white.

The fresh wood of lilac sins and the spirals the spirals.

There are monstrous and mushy ones, corpses of the drowned.

The hot vines and the warm herbs to the arid nomad.

Others to groups – masses of ivory sheep on the purple hills.

Nostalgia of white of white             nostalgia of white

The golden cities far from the minarets                                  the golden sky

travels towards the great still machines on the day of celebration.

(always that great dark weight in the sky)