They don’t make ’em like they used to.
We often come across consumer products that disappoint us. You buy it, get it home, and find that it’s not what you were expecting. Maybe it’s a pair of shoes whose soles come off too soon. Maybe it’s a toaster that won’t stay down. My parents lived in the house in which I grew up for more than 20 years, and the same two telephones were in the same two places with the same single phone number the whole time. I hate to admit how many phone numbers I’m paying for now (personal, business, and fax lines in two locations plus a mobile phone), but I seem to be buying new phones every few months. Those sturdy phones in my parents’ house had two functions—you could pick up the handset to make a call, or you pick up the handset to answer a call. And they had real analog bells in them that rang for incoming calls! The phones I buy now have speed-dial memories, hold buttons, caller ID, conferencing, multiple lines with distinguishable rings, volume controls, redial, busy redial, call forwarding, etc., etc. I appreciate and use all those features, but the phones don’t seem to last as long.
Is newer better?
Likewise, my car has hundreds of features that were unheard of twenty years ago. When I opened the hood of my first car, I could see an engine. My present car has a maze of sensors, hoses, filters, and electronic gadgets under the hood. All that technology means that the engine runs smoothly and reliably and requires very little maintenance. But a breakdown is likely to be caused by a seemingly mysterious failed sensor or a vacuum leak rather than a good old mechanical problem. And there must be hundreds of gadgets for comfort and convenience—electric this, heated that. I’ve had the car about eight months and I still find myself saying, “I didn’t know it did that.” I have to admit that I’d prefer not to give up all the snazzy features in favor of yesterday’s simplicity. I hope my next car will have a heater for the washer fluid!
A modern organbuilder faces this issue daily. We hope and intend that our work will last for generations, but we have to rely on materials that can be substandard. Look at the biggest pipes of the 16' Open Wood Diapason in an organ built by Ernest Skinner, each made of four knot-free boards 18" wide. The trees that yielded that lumber have all been turned into organ pipes. I maintain a Skinner organ in Reading, Massachusetts that was built in 1915 and still has its original reservoir and pouch leather. Ninety-one years! We have to work within a modern economic system that sometimes seems not to value quality. And we have to develop and create a specialized workforce. America’s educational system has no provision for training organbuilders. Each new worker has to be recruited, educated, trained, and sustained in a craft that typically builds very expensive products from rare and expensive materials using donated money.
But all that effort is worth it—pipe organ building is one facet of modern life where they do make ’em like they used to. It’s a privilege to be involved in a field in which excellence is the norm, in which personal craftsmanship is truly valued, in which the client or patron expects excellence. I especially value those conversations with my organbuilding colleagues in which we reflect on the high standards of our predecessors and how to emulate them in today’s world. That’s not an easy thing to achieve, and it does not happen without continual concentrated effort. A good organ is not an accident.
My work with the Organ Clearing House keeps me in regular contact with the best of older pipe organs, and I always marvel at the signs of yesterday’s craftsmanship. For example, there was something special about the way workers in E. & G. G. Hook’s factory sharpened their pencils. You can see this throughout their organs wherever a mortise was marked—those pencils were really sharp, and you know there were no fool-proof electric pencil sharpeners in sight, and you also know there were no plastic pencils with the lead out-of-center. Focusing on pencils may seem obsessive, but in order for a 19th-century pencil to be sharp, someone had to sharpen a knife by hand. Many modern craftspeople rely on factory-produced, laser-sharpened disposable blades for manual tasks such as cutting and skiving leather. And for less than ten dollars you can buy a pair of scissors that will cut just about anything. Achieving the “old days” levels of accuracy with hand-made, hand-sharpened tools is a reflection of a true craftsman.
They pretend to make them like they used to.
We rely on high-tech power equipment for processes that were once done by hand. With my family I once visited one of those reconstructed, restored historical villages that had been transformed into a modern museum. Staff people were walking about in historic dress demonstrating traditional crafts such as spinning, weaving, and candle-making. There was a reproduction of an old woodworking shop, and the docent proudly told us how the shop was producing the millwork being used for the restoration of buildings throughout the village. Next to a treadle-powered lathe there was an impressive pile of precisely turned poplar balustrades intended for a large curving staircase and balcony. I was suspicious. I stood up on a bench and peered over a low wall to see a state-of-the-art modern workshop with all the best power equipment. I imagined that the fellow in the leather apron at the foot-powered lathe had been spinning the same piece of wood for weeks.
When I was first working in organ shops we turned a lot of screws by hand (Popeye arms!), and we had Yankee® Screwdrivers—long-handled tools with a built in ratchet that you pumped up and down to drive a screw. Boy, did it make a mess of your wood when the bit jumped out of the slot in the screw-head! Then we cut off the end of a screwdriver and put it in the chuck of an electric drill. Then we had factory-made screwdriver bits that came in big sets. Then we had electric screwdrivers—a rig that looked like a drill but included an adjustable clutch to prevent you from stripping the thread in the wood. Now we have powerful rechargeable batteries that allow a wide variety of cordless power hand tools. (See Photo 1.) I’ve joked many times to younger workers that “when I was a kid we had wires hanging out of our screwdrivers.” When rechargeable batteries were first introduced the technology was inadequate. There was hardly enough power to turn a tough screw, and the charge didn’t last long enough to be practical. But now, with a quick-charger and a couple spare batteries you can work all day without interruption. I recently added to my bag of tricks a battery charger that plugs into my car’s twelve-volt outlets. (And by the way, this car has outlets all over the place.) When I leave a service call with a dead battery, it’s recharged before I get to the next stop.
You think that’s old?
My wife and I just got home from a vacation in Greece. We were fascinated by the culture, awed by the landscape, and charmed by the sunny atmosphere of the islands. But visiting the historic archeological sites was simply humbling. I routinely work with organs that are 150 years old. I live in New England where we are surrounded by buildings and artifacts from the establishment of the original colonies and the Revolutionary War. There are a few buildings around that are close to 400 years old. The history of the ancient city of Delphi is traced to the beginning of the 12th century B.C. when the Dorians arrived in Greece, and the surviving buildings date from around 500 B.C. There is a 5,000-seat theater built in the fourth century B.C.—simply stunning. (See Photo 2.) As a tourist, one can stand on the “stage” at the focus of that vast amphitheater and imagine an enthusiastic crowd cheering you as a favorite actor or musician. Or walk on the field enclosed by the 7,000-seat stadium and imagine an ancient athletic contest. (Several fellow tourists ran a high-energy race.) But what the guide books cannot prepare you for is the topography. These massive buildings are made of stone—huge pieces of stone—and the sites are almost all dramatic, steep, even scary mountainsides. The floor of one building is above the roof of the one next door. One walks from place to place exhausted by the combination of the brilliant Mediterranean sun and the weight of the camera bag, water bottles, and the wildly steep uneven steps. Add to that exertion the thought of carrying the rocks to build the buildings. No payloaders, no Bobcats®, no conveyor belts, no dynamite—just wheels, levers, and muscle.1
The ancient town at Mycenae was first settled around 1950 B.C., with major development or organization in about 1200 B.C. It includes Agamemnon’s citadel and royal palace, and features a sophisticated system of cisterns and aqueducts to supply drinking water through the site. The skill of the stone masons who built the many structures is especially notable. How they were able to achieve perfect joints between stones the size of small automobiles and then hoist them into place is hard to imagine. I couldn’t help thinking of the Organ Clearing House crew with towers of rented scaffolding and electric hoists to lower windchests out of an organ chamber. The adjoining museum displays a collection of bronze tools—hammers, adzes, drills, chisels—that the craftsmen made and used in their work. To use a hand-held adze to create a perfectly flat surface on a ten-ton stone—they certainly don’t make them like they used to! (See Photo 3.)
I was particularly interested in the methods and philosophies regarding preservation and restoration. Two years ago I attended an excellent symposium in Winston-Salem, North Carolina on the occasion of the completion of the restoration by Taylor & Boody of an organ built in 1799–1800 by David Tannenberg. The instrument had been rediscovered in storage in a building that is part of Old Salem (another wonderful museum-village, not the site of the earlier mentioned balustrade caper!) and was returned to spectacular playing condition. The restoration was impeccably documented by Taylor & Boody, and they made fascinating presentations of the various tasks and challenges they faced. Some new parts had to be fabricated, but they went to extraordinary lengths to “re-round” literally flattened tin façade pipes, to reconstruct the geometry of the keyboards, and to establish the pitch of the organ. Moravian archives at Old Salem even contain a handwritten letter from Tannenberg to the church describing how to set the temperament and tune the organ.
But a side debate (exercised at length between friends and colleagues over dinner) included the suggestion that true preservation would not undertake to reconstruct the organ but to catalogue, measure, and display the array of parts. To presume to make new parts and to make assumptions about details like key travel would be to intrude on history.
In our work with historic organs we continually face similar questions. When we relocate an historic organ the intention is typically that the instrument should retain its historicity as much as possible, but also should be useful and reliable as a musical instrument, available for regular use by any organist. So can we justify adapting an instrument for modern use? Many modern organists are devoted to the use of combination actions—are we preserving an antique instrument if we adapt it to include an electric stop-action, or are we desecrating it?
Many of the monuments we visited in Greece are simply ruins today—mazes of stone foundations that allow us to surmise what life might have been like in an ancient village. Houses are supposed to have been occupied by merchants or by royalty. Local hierarchies are assumed based on the relative altitude of residences—the royalty lived at the top of the hill, laborers and merchants at the bottom—literally upper and lower classes.
But other sites are in the process of reconstruction. Perhaps the most dramatic of these is the Parthenon, situated on the Acropolis high above Athens. (See Photo 4.) Originally settled around 5000 B.C., the Acropolis is one of Greece’s earliest settlements. Throughout the ensuing centuries the site was fought over, developed and re-developed. Geologically it’s a large flat area, very high up, with very steep walls—a comfortable area to settle that’s difficult to reach and easy to defend. And the best part is there’s plenty of water—a feature common to all those barricaded hilltop cities. The Parthenon was built by Pericles around 450 B.C., made possible by the economic strength of the Delian Treasury that resulted from the formation of the Delian League of city-states. A thousand years later it was converted for Christian worship by the Emperor Justinian, and in the 17th century the Venetian army laid siege to the occupying Turks. In 1684, the Turks destroyed the Temple of Athena Nike (another of the grand structures on the Acropolis) to aid their defensive tactics, and in 1687 a Venetian bombardment exploded a Turkish magazine located within the Parthenon, blowing off its roof and reducing to rubble a 2,000-year-old monument. Today a massive restoration effort is underway, funded by the Greek government, the European Union, and “other contributions.”2
I was fascinated by the restoration site. (See Photo 5.) A huge construction crane is painted the same color as the Parthenon’s marble and housed at night crouching against the side of the building so as not to interfere with the skyline. The stone-workers’ workshops are housed in several low buildings, again designed with discreet profiles. Railroad tracks crisscross the site providing sturdy platforms for material handling. It’s a big effort when each piece of your project is weighed in tons rather than pounds. The rubble has been sorted into piles, individual pieces numbered and catalogued as to where in the building they originated. And fragments of stones have been returned to their original dimensions with new material (both marble and composite material) added. I was especially interested in the restoration with regard to what we learned about the Tannenberg organ in Winston-Salem. New material was added when necessary so the restoration would allow us to appreciate the monument in its original form. (See Photo 6.)
We visited the medieval Byzantine city of Mystra situated on another steep hill, this time on the outskirts of Sparta. There’s a castle at the very top (another steamer of a climb), several stunning churches and monasteries with breathtaking frescos, a royal palace, and the foundations of the houses and businesses that sheltered and supported a community of more than 20,000 inhabitants. The church of Ayia Sofia, built in 1350, features an elaborate floor made of polychrome marble. We were astonished that the public is allowed to walk on it! Like the Acropolis, this ancient city is illuminated at night, visible for many miles in every direction. There are halogen light fixtures mounted all around the hillside with conduit and wiring snaking through the ancient buildings. Nestled in a little neighborhood of the ruins of a dozen or so ancient houses I saw a large transformer shed, humming quietly in the wind.
How do we decide what modern concessions will enhance our ancient monuments?
There must be a better way.
Reflect on all the fancy sophisticated tools used by modern organbuilders. Power everything, laser levels, sophisticated hydraulics, digital measuring. There are no cars allowed on the Greek island of Idra in the Aegean Sea. On a Monday morning we sat at a waterfront café waiting for the ferry that would take us back to the mainland watching a construction crew loading bricks and bags of sand and cement onto donkeys. (See Photo 7.) How do you like this guy leading his brick-laden donkeys while making a call on his cell phone!
