Obras Sentimentales is one of the most personal projects I have ever undertaken. It reflects not only my love for the classical guitar but also a desire to bring attention to music that has, for one reason or another, remained in the shadows. In this collection, I’ve brought together a mix of lesser-known works—at least to me when I first discovered them—alongside a few more familiar pieces from the traditional repertoire. My goal was to shape a program that feels cohesive, expressive, and above all, meaningful.

 

I have always felt a deep connection to the core repertoire. It’s the foundation of my musical identity. But I also believe that countless beautiful and important works have been overlooked. As both a performer and a teacher, I see it as part of my job—my responsibility, really—to bring those hidden gems into the light.

The title Obras Sentimentales was inspired by the spirit and sensitivity of some of the composers featured here, especially Antón García Abril and Mario Barbieri. Their music is steeped in poetry and literary resonance, and I wanted that same sense of sentimentality to shape the feel of the album.

 

The journey begins with two pieces by the Spanish composer Antón García Abril (1933–2021): Canción and Evocación No. 2. Discovering his music was a revelation. Despite his prolific output across nearly every classical form—and a distinguished tenure as Head of Composition at the Madrid Royal Conservatory—I had somehow missed his guitar works entirely. What captivated me most was Evocación No. 2, part of his Evocaciones suite wasn’t just the music itself, but also its subtitle—“La Guitarra, Hace Llorar a los sueños” (“The Guitar, Maker of Mournful Dreams”)—that sets the emotional tone for the album. I paired it with Canción from his Vademécum collection to open the recording with a quiet sense of wonder.

 

Next, I turn to two iconic Spanish voices: Joaquín Rodrigo (1902-1999) and Enrique Granados (1867-1916). I’ll be honest—I questioned whether the world needed another recording of these pieces. But every time I return to them, they still speak to me in new ways. I hope my interpretations offer something a little different, even if the music is already well-loved.

 

The final Spanish composer on the album is Jaume Pahissa (1880-1969), a Catalan who spent much of his life in Argentina due to the Spanish Civil War. Perhaps because of that exile, his music carries less of the Spanish Nationalist style and more of a hint of European Impressionism. I’ve included three of his four guitar works, all drawn from the Segovia Archive. Interestingly, Segovia never performed these pieces during his lifetime. It is thanks to the tireless work of Angelo Gilardino and his team—especially Luigi Biscaldi—that the Tres Temas de Recuerdos have been brought to light.

 

The first of Pahissa’s pieces I recorded is Cançó en el Mar, which was once believed to be his only work for guitar. I can understand why Segovia may have overlooked it: the piece was originally notated as a piano score, and Pahissa himself noted that it was intended for both guitar and piano. However after listening to the only existing piano recording, I honestly believe the guitar brings out its character even more fully.

 

The other two pieces, from a set titled Tres Temes de Recuerdos (“Three Themes of Memories”), were entirely unknown to Segovia. The manuscripts required some adaptation to make them more suited to the guitar, and I can’t imagine the patience Biscaldi must have needed making sense of them. Even so, I took a small departure from the published version in a couple of passages. I chose to include only two of the themes. The third, Danza Lejana, simply did not sit right with the rest of the set, not in my hands, at least. Sometimes, letting go of a piece is the best way to serve the whole.

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Mario Barbieri (1888–1968) was a complete unknown to me until I stumbled upon La Serra (“The Greenhouse”) buried in a pile of old scores. I found almost no information about him, and my Italian wasn’t up to the task of conducting in-depth research. So, I relied almost entirely on Google Translate to learn what I could. La Serra is a suite of seven preludes, each named after a flower:

• Alpine Forget-Me-Not

• Giant Pansy

• Giant of Persia

• Orchid

• Jasmine

• Tumbleweed

• Sensitive Plant

 

These pieces were composed with immense care and attention. Though Barbieri wasn’t a guitarist himself, they translate beautifully to the instrument, likely thanks to the guidance and editing of Federico Orsolina. To me, this suite feels like an elegant rebuttal to the avant-garde wave—a quiet, lyrical voice in a repertoire that often leans toward the abstract.

 

What moved me most was Barbieri’s written commentary on each prelude. His notes go beyond structure and technique—they speak of feeling and dynamics, often reading like letters to someone dear. Backstage before a recital, I happened upon an Italian forum that mentioned Barbieri may have written La Serra late in life, inspired by a young female guitarist from his harmony class. The story goes that the suite was originally dedicated to her, but the published version changed the dedication to F. Orsolina. I can’t confirm the truth of it, nor do I want to speculate on why the dedication was changed—but the idea certainly adds context to the music’s emotional depth and to the tenderness that runs through every page. If true, I’m grateful to his muse—possibly Elisabetta Tagore—for these beautiful tone poems.

 

Finally, the album closes with a three movements work from Mexico: Aires de Son by Gerardo Tamez (1948-present). I must admit that I knew so little about him before this project—especially as someone from the U.S., considering how close we are geographically and culturally. Tamez, who was born in Chicago and trained partly in California, holds Mexican nationality. He founded the Mexico City Guitar Trio and now teaches in Hidalgo. His music pulses with pride in Mexican folk and popular traditions, and Aires de Son is a vibrant example of that. 

 

I’m so glad to have found this piece—it feels like a joyful, soulful way to bring the album to a close.