By Ezequiel Menendez
If someone were to discover a painting by Van Gogh, a manuscript by Mozart, or a violin by Stradivarius in their home, they would surely take every possible precaution to preserve such a treasure. That is precisely the feeling we organists experience when we have the privilege of studying, researching, and dedicating our lives to this noble art—especially when we sit at the console of a historic instrument such as the magnificent pipe organ built by the house of Cavaillé-Coll in the Basilica of Luján, Argentina.
For me, the emotion is even stronger. Though I no longer live in Argentina—a country that remains, in every sense, my home—I feel a profound responsibility to help, in whatever way I can, to ensure that this instrument is restored with the utmost care and reverence. We must treat it as we would that painting, manuscript, or violin mentioned above: as a priceless work of art.
Speaking about pipe organs is not a common topic; few outside the musical world truly understand their complexity or significance. The purpose of this article, therefore, is to raise awareness of the extraordinary historical and artistic importance of the organ housed within the Basilica.
The history of the organ stretches back to the second century B.C., developing over the centuries and reaching moments of true splendor during the Renaissance and Baroque periods. Naturally, when one speaks of the instrument’s golden age, the name Johann Sebastian Bach immediately comes to mind. Yet, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, the organ fell into decline. The fortepiano—later known simply as the piano—became the favored instrument of composers and performers, prized for its expressive range and dynamic control, which could be achieved without changing stops or registrations.
The “King of Instruments” seemed destined to disappear, until a young and gifted Frenchman, Aristide Cavaillé-Coll, breathed new life into it. Cavaillé-Coll founded an entirely new school of organ building. He transformed the organ into an expressive, even symphonic instrument—something completely revolutionary for his time. Through his inventive spirit, his experiments, and his collaboration with composers and fellow builders, Cavaillé-Coll became the very symbol of renewal. His passion for his craft, his humility, and his willingness to listen made him—and his creations—a cornerstone in the history of organ building.
Cavaillé-Coll also belonged to that rare lineage of master craftsmen who valued the perfection of their work far above financial gain—an attitude increasingly difficult to find today. During the second half of the nineteenth century, his firm produced its most celebrated instruments. Those of Notre-Dame and Saint-Sulpice in Paris are perhaps the best known, though many others exist throughout France and beyond.
Much has been debated about who actually built the organ of Luján: Aristide Cavaillé-Coll himself or his successor Charles Mutin. The beautiful bronze plaque on the console bears the name of the former. Yet, the instrument was inaugurated twelve years after the master’s death, leaving questions still to be explored.
What seems likely is that the organ was either designed by Cavaillé-Coll and completed by Mutin, or built entirely under Mutin’s direction. We know that Father Salvaire, one of the Basilica’s great visionaries, studied in Paris between 1861 and 1871 and returned in 1886 to commission the crown for the Virgin. It is entirely possible that he met with Cavaillé-Coll on that occasion and began discussions about the organ—though the Basilica itself was not yet ready to receive it for several years.
The Cavaillé-Coll organ of the Basilica of Luján has been silent for many decades. Yet, by the grace of Providence—or perhaps through a miracle of the Virgin—most of its parts remain in their original state. Other instruments, even in wealthier countries, have not been so fortunate.
Fashion and misguided notions of “modernization” have destroyed countless historic organs—changes that cannot be undone. The organ of the Basilica narrowly escaped this fate on several occasions, each time protected, it seems, by a divine hand.
An anecdote from World War II illustrates this vividly. The parish priest at the time, a man of French descent, was climbing the stairs to the choir one morning when he encountered workers carrying a new console—the keyboard section of the organ. When he asked what they were doing, they replied that they were modernizing the instrument. Upon noticing that the “modern” console was of German manufacture, he promptly declared: “As long as I am here… nothing German.”
He could not have known the immense service he rendered to the principle of artistic preservation by refusing that alteration, which would have compromised the organ’s integrity and style. This was not a rejection of German organ building, but rather a stand against an aesthetic absurdity born of ignorance.
Such stories abound—some tinged with corruption, as funds intended for the organ vanished or were misused. Ironically, these very mishaps allowed the instrument to survive into the twenty-first century in its original condition. It stands today as one of the few of its kind in the world—a true rara avis.
If restored according to the highest international conservation standards, and thereafter maintained with the same devotion one would give to a Van Gogh, this organ could become one of the most significant in the entire American continent—an ideal instrument for both liturgy and concert performance.
The great works of César Franck, Louis Vierne, Charles-Marie Widor, Olivier Messiaen, and others could find no more perfect medium. Argentina would possess a splendid venue for international organ festivals, within the equally majestic setting of the Basilica of Luján.
Today, only a few of the organ’s stops still function, yet even the limited sound it produces is celestial and magical. Not every builder achieves greatness in every instrument, but this organ possesses something inexplicable—an inner angel, so to speak.
Some years ago, I happened to visit on a day when humidity and temperature aligned perfectly, allowing many of the stops to speak. As I began to play, people entering the Basilica turned toward the choir loft and stood motionless. Priests emerged from their confessionals, astonished, and the sacristan who had accompanied me up the stairs wept with emotion. None of us could believe the beauty we were hearing. We were all transported by that old instrument.
Hearing a renowned organ in Holland, Germany, Italy, or France is always a profound experience—but it is even more moving when such a moment occurs in one’s own homeland. We have our own Van Gogh, and we must be proud of it—and protect it.
In conclusion: whenever we replace even a single screw on this magnificent instrument, we must ensure that it matches the material, shape, and color of the original. Just as we would never allow a street portraitist to apply any random varnish to a Van Gogh painting, were it ever damaged, however slightly.
But for this to happen, we must first be aware of what we possess. Knowledge leads to preservation, and preservation to love. And how much beauty, in return, such love can bring!
The Basilica of Luján is currently under reconstruction and has rightly been declared a National Monument. In the final stages of this great work, efforts will be made to restore to the Argentine faithful the voice of its Great Organ. Will those entrusted with this task rise to the noble ideals of Aristide Cavaillé-Coll? Will love for the work of art prevail above all else?
Amen.
With heartfelt thanks to Rafael Ferreyra, Mercedes Featherstone, Fernando García Enríquez, and Nelly Cedola for their collaboration in the preparation of this article.nt