Instalment 6 of 7
The big bluff: Nausea, St. Luke and the Panagia Portaitissa
From Last Week
Being one day ‘paying’ guests
(though long stays were expected to roll up their sleeves) meant there were no
plates to wash, so we sauntered out into the sunshine to await our guided tour
of the Monastery’s treasures. The world was sweet and I distinctly remember,
despite the trials recently endured, how lucky I was to be there in that
special moment in time, enjoying the impressive instant: kind hospitality,
homemade bread, tomatoes and cheese, sunshine on one’s back and not a care in
the world for a few hours at least. How little did I know.
The Arhondaris, presently joins us at the door to the Katholicon (the conventual church in the
centre of a monastery), beckoning us in.
We enter the dark interior, and
it is some time before my eyes adjust from the brilliance outside, and I am able
to discern shapes and outlines. My iris is a film of iridescent star bursts
which slowly melt away into the dark golden hues of Byzantine Icons, glimmering
under the flicker of pyramids of beeswax candles, dotted around the inner
sanctotum, highlighting hidden alcoves and throwing recessed niches into
relief.
I am taking all this in, and
enjoying the cool and sudden solemnity, a hushing of the outside world. Monk
Gandalf, makes an announcement, but my attention is half given, lost as I am an
in the sudden change of ambiance.
“Normally I would give this tour
myself, but today there is a Medieval Art Historian from the island of Malta
in our midst” he announces.
As soon as he mentions the word
‘Malta’, I abruptly check out from my reverie. Could it be possible?, wow! what
an unlikely coincidence, another Malteser here, right here, right now? I
quickly scan the eclectic group encircled around Gandalf, for the most olive
skinned contender of synchronicity personified, but nobody immediately fits the
bill.
“I would be honoured, if he gave
this tour, in my stead. I will be very interested to see what he has to say
about our famous Icons.” The Arhondaris
continues.
My curiosity is piqued. Earlier
in the courtyard outside, I had not picked up on the nuances of the Maltese accent.
There is, I later recall, a mischievous glint in Gandalf’s eyes. At this particular point in time, however, it
is lost on me. I crane my neck
backwards, there is one tall, stooped, bespectacled and genteel looking,
elderly gentleman, grey hair, side-parted. He seems to best tick off the
stereotypical, intellectual-in-appearance check list. Only the bow-tie is
missing. However his skin tone is more pasty Teutonic than Mediterranean, which
signifies nothing really. But, the History/Art department at Malta University,
like the Island itself, is a minuscule gold fish bowl and this man has not
lectured me, of this I’m sure. So who..?
“There is always something new to
learn, and I enjoy rediscovering, our religious and cultural heritage through
the eyes of an outsider, especially from a fellow Islander, so please Mr. Bugeja, I now kindly invite you
to take the floor.”
What?!? The odds of another
Maltese person on Mount Athos, in the same monastery, on the same day ,
responding to the same surname as myself, are so unlikely, I am beyond
incredulous.
Simultaneously, well before, I
become acutely conscious of it, I feel a slight nauseous spreading in the pit
of my stomach. I yank my head back to Gandalf. His right hand is outstretched
towards me. This can’t be right. Bewildered, I look behind me. As expected
there is no-one lurking there. I would have sensed their presence. I suddenly
feel sick. My mind acknowledges my stomach. I turn quickly, first left than
right. Everybody is staring enquiringly at me. Beads of perspiration sprout
from my brow. This can’t be. NO! NO! My head begins to swim. The ground feels
shaky. The beeswax candles make everything blurred again. Whilst my mind is
reeling with the implications of the trap laid, the realisation dawns too late.
The smirking, the chuckling. Gandalf had become a sadistic accomplice in my
duplicity. This is a test. I must, no! I HAVE to rise to the occasion, I need
to gain control fast. The situation requires instant subjugation of dizziness
and nerves.
In retrospect, it was only the glib and boldness of youth
that enabled me to take control of the situation so fast and with such sleight
of hand. Youth lives for the day, is full of impetuous self-confidence, is
rash, spontaneous and daring in its decision making. Self doubt, a need for
stability and knowing where one stands comes with the arthritic fixity of age.
I had just turned 22 and this was no time to hesitate.
Smoothing my damp palms on my loose trousers, hoping they wouldn’t leave any
tell tale marks, I took centre stage, straightening my shoulder sand throwing
my head back. I certainly didn’t look the part, dishevelled as I was, but at
least I had to give my very best shot at acting it. This was do or die. Lose
face so terribly and I would have to give up my hard won bed for the night.
That wasn’t going to happen as long as I had bluff on my side and bluff it I
was going to. In any case the worst I could do, was make out I was an absent
minded professor and well I already looked the part, didn’t I?
“You are too kind” I managed to find it in me to say, as I
stared Gandalf in the eye, meanwhile taking his place. “ It would only be presumptuous
of me to attempt a similar tour to the one you might give, I have only recently
been acquainted with the wealth of art contained in such close quarters on
Mount Athos”
Good one Warren!, Presumptuous, nice touch, where did that
come from?, so what next? OK keep thinking, work it, work it! Where’s the trap
door? OK some Byzantine appropriate jargon, retrieve, retrieve,..ahh yes Triptych,
Diptych, wasn’t that a painting with hinges in two parts..OK I espy one..take
them there..
This was my mind on speed ..and then the thought ‘nice
touch’ led me to think of the phrasal verb ‘touch on’… so…springboard provided…isn’t
that how thoughts unravel from each other?
“I ..ehhemm..mmmhh (clear throat, gulp, almost stutter, then
rein it in Warren!)ww will therefore just touch upon the highlights of your
collection that can be ge--eeneralized to art conventions of the period
influencing Western technique. Over there for example we can view an…an
exemplary triptych…if you could please follow me…”
What on earth was I babbling on about, and where was this
torrent of mumbo jumbo coming from..well at least it sounded good and I was
buying time wasn’t I? Thank God for triptychs and my recent and only credit in Medieval
Art..how was I going to wing this..OK..no time to go down that road…so they are
walking toward you, ready to meet you half way at least, so think, think..a few
more steps and you will have to be ready to spout something else.
As I summoned them toward me, I was attempting as
nonchalantly as possible to rapidly scan my surroundings, as in x-ray vision,
trying to glean anything I could use or that could serve me. All my senses
where heightened, sharp and focused. The extraneous was immediately discarded, intensely
alert as I was to every object, slant of light, shuffle of footsteps.
 |
| Giotto |
“So, I began as soon
as my audience had assembled around me, “What we can see in front of us, is a
fine example of a Triptych, consisting of a larger central panel with two side
wings, commonly used as an altar piece and connected together by hinges. A Byzantine
and later Medieval convention that continued to be employed in the art of the
early Renaissance ,by artists such as Giotto.”
Remember to breathe. I surreptitiously flash a cursory
glance at my audience, from beneath my eyelashes, as I come up for air. This is all very basic
and text book lifted word for word from the one and only sample essay, I had
prepared for my exam . So far I had not revealed anything enlightening, but on
the other hand, no one was fidgeting.
“The central panel as
you can see is larger than the side panels”, I continued, stating the obvious.
“ This introduces the central theme of the birth of the infant Jesus."
Descriptions you see, always buy more time and anyway people
like to have their perception of reality confirmed, even if again, I was
stating the painfully apparent. At this point ,I turned sideways, slightly
giving part of my back to the audience, peering as it were at the painting, as
if I could fathom edifying signs and signifiers within the brushstrokes, which
being all the better immersed and absorbed in it, I could communicate to the
assembled. In actual fact, I was just as hopeful as my audience and certainly
no better informed. Stooping as if to get a better look at the painting and
clasping my hands behind my back was just a prop, an assumed scholarly stance, willing
the painting to divulge its secrets by being proxemically closer acquainted and;
my mind, to be prompted and inspired into speech. I would continue with the obvious I decided.
Clearing my throat I resumed the bluff parade.
“The Madonna’s expression is bathed in pathos as she looks
down at the future messiah cradling in her arms. However the composition is
heavily styli zed and there is a certain rigidity in the pose (here I jab at the
icon, following the contours of a particularly stiff and unnaturally
looking baby Jesus, who looks like a
shrunken man child, stopping millimetres
short of actually puncturing the painting) which appears two dimensional. As we
can see, the Byzantine aesthetic is abstract and anti-naturalistic in
character, concerned predominantly with
the translation of theological concepts into artistic expression, whilst hmmm, distancing itself from the body focused
and more naturalised representation of classical antiquity”.
Didn’t that sound professional? Hadn’t I just saved my
bacon? The last sentence I had thankfully remembered and lifted intact from the guide book, for I
didn’t recall covering Byzantine art in much detail, if at all in my credit on
Medieval art at University, so apart from something about the importance of
Icons ( which I had to hold onto for later), I was doomed.
It was back to triptychs or bust for me.
“The word triptych has its origins in the Greeek 'triptykhos'
meaning three-layered. Each panel is connected to the other and often ..errr…represents
a three-act dramatic structure with a beginning, a middle and an end. Hmmm..yess…The
three fold nature reflects the religious symbolism of the number three and frequently
references the holy trinity. Also the artist may establish visual coherency by
employing a unified background…. such as a landscape or sky in each panel and
amalgamating similar hues and ehhh…pigments.( Long pause….time to lower my
shoulders, and appear less stressed).In this particular Triptych we have in
front of us, each panel depicts episodes in the New Testament, appertaining to
the early life of Jesus Christ. Errr…In the first panel Mary the mother of God
visits her sister Elizabeth who can be observed looking towards the Messiah in
the central panel.”
At this point I almost crash into the painting in my
enthusiasm. I am on a roll thanks be to God and all the saints above.
“In the final panel, on the right, the infant Jesus, is
being presented to the elders in the temple, and Simeon is positioned on the
far right so his profile turns both to the holy family in the temple but also
to the central figures in the middle panel.”
I just hope the guy
was actually called Simeon, I can’t be sure. My Catholic School education has
meant that I am quite familiar with every bit-part character in the entire
bible, such was the drumming in of religion at every available opportunity. I’m
sure we counted in white doves too, during maths. But I haven’t rehearsed and
my ‘tour’ is being conducted under duress, besides, I am and was never good
with names. Simon or what’s his name, however, is the least of my problems
right now. I have no idea whatsoever, who had painted the triptych I was describing,
or when or where it was painted. Furthermore I was done with the topic, the
painting and the period. Yet I was damned if I was going to invite any
questions from the floor to prolong the torture, even though that would have
enabled me to purchase more precious time. But that would have been inviting suicide. In
all likelihood I wouldn’t be able to answer any of the questions posed. No, I needed
to get away from the painting, even though I was finding it hard to move,
rooted to the spot, by a sense of comfort and salvation which the painting now
signified for me. I felt as reluctant to move as possibly an early Christian
would have, once the Romans had got a whiff of which catacombs they were hiding
in. Nevertheless my reserves of bluff were nearing exhaustion. Once more, I
needed to think fast. A miracle would also do quite nicely.
At this critical juncture, I finally dared to finally look
in the Arhondaris’s direction. The joke was over, he had but me on the spot, fair enough, I
could forgive him this, but now would he not be satisfied with how I had been
faring?, would he give me more reel with which to hang myself or would he come
forward in my hour of need, offering to take over?, hadn’t I suffered enough?` But,
Gandalf was simply nodding impassively at what I had said, his head cocked slightly
to the side. Could he really be oblivious to my fate? Presumably he was either,
really in fact incredibly sadistic, or I had misread his body language and he
had been taken in by my interview spiel, hook, line and slinker, very much to
my detriment.
In any case there was no assistance forthcoming from that
quarter. Disgruntled, I had to change tactics. I decided to play the Icon
card..but how to stretch it into a paragraph? I knew that Religious Iconography
lay at the heart of Byzantine and Orthodox art. In fact I had alluded to as
much, and the fact was self evident all around us. There must have been over a
hundred Icons displayed in that Church alone. I was aware that there were
canons and schools of representation ensuring that the same likeness of a
saint, was passed on from artist to artist. This I had picked up upon during the
aforementioned visit to the hanging monasteries of Meteora, but I didn’t
know enough about the subject and I
didn’t want to stutter and splutter, running out of con fuel whilst barely
having introduced the digression. No that wouldn’t do.
Somehow, somewhere up, in the inner recesses of memory, my
Roman analogy rang a bell, setting off a
sequence of synaptic neuron
transmissions that proved to be my salvation. The catacombs reminded me of my
father’s home town, Rabat in Malta, where early Christians took refuge in a warren
of underground tunnels, hiding from Roman persecution. Rabat was where St. Paul, who was shipwrecked
off the coast of Malta in 60 AD, and who was responsible for the subsequent
evangelization of the Islands, was imprisoned. Compulsory catheticism lessons
in preparation for my first holy communion had ensured that I could locate the
exact biblical reference. St Luke had alluded to St. Paul’s visit in passing in
his take on the Acts of the Apostles (XXVIII).
St Paul is a demi god on Malta. His feast day rules the roost, and Maltesers
are eternally grateful to St. Luke for putting this tiny geographical dot on
the world map and for the briefest of citations (but what a palpable citation!)
in the bestseller of all time.
Now all these connections and free associations, one thought
leading and spilling onto the next, were being made at break neck speed,
culminating in my Eureka moment. In similar vein to Paul of Tarsus (way before
he became a saint) on his way to Damascus, a flash of blinding white insight,
illuminated a dormant, priceless link of information, lazily lying idle in the
junk yard of discarded facts in brain. I had been in peril of drowning and had
now just been thrown a life jacket.
Unlike PauI, I didn’t fall off my horse literally, but I would have, had
I had one. Yess!! YesSS!! YESSSSS!!!
I will explain: just
before my visit to Greece I had attended a wedding which was celebrated in a grotto,
hitherto undiscovered (by myself that is), situated beneath the fortified parish
church of Mellieha, a coastal town on a high promontory above stretches of
white sand below. The grotto was unusual in a predominantly Baroque Malta, in
that the altar was surrounded by a semi circular, burnished, and golden,
Byzantinesque mosaic . The décor had
been carefully selected to highlight and offset
a rare Icon of the Black Madonna and Child, with a reputation for being
miraculous and said to have been painted by St. Luke. The Icon had stuck in my
memory by virtue of, for one, being in the byzantine style and secondly because
of the colour of the Madonna’s skin, an atypical and uncommon representation of
the usually fair skinned , Rubenesque and flowing auburn locked, Rococo
portraits and statues of the saint to be found on Malta.
Now, Oh fortuna benedetta! ( blessed fortune), oh! Saving
Grace how sweet the sound, blow me over, if Iviron wasn’t renowned on Athos,
for its very own miraculous Black Madonna, also said to be painted by St. Luke,
according to the Sacred Tradition of the Eastern Orthodox Church. This
constituted that desperately, delicious tidbit of information - sugarcane juice
in the desert, manna from the sky..absolute deliverance if you get my drift,
clichés excused - a coincidence sent from heaven to save my ass (OK let me tone
it down to my behind) big time!
It is true that the Iberian monastery of Iviron, founded
in the year 980AD, was famed for its
library, containing approximately 2,000 manuscripts, 15 liturgical scrolls and 15,000 printed works, in Georgian, Greek,
Hebrew and Latin. The monastery also exhibited the relics of more canonised
saints than any other on Mount Athos and stashed away amongst its accumulated
treasures; was a 7-branched candelabra in the shape of a lemon tree, made of
gold and silver, a gift from the Greeks of Moscow in 1807. My guide book had
perfunctorily listed these facts, but had I remembered any of them? Not!
What had interested me though, was the mention of an Icon
entitled ‘Panagia Portaitissa’, the name itself sounded dramatic as in the
‘portrait most portrait’ or ‘a portable panegyric’, which wasn’t too far off
the mark actually. It had intimations of la Serenissima, and after all, did not
latter day Byzantium begin in Venice and Ravenna? The Icon was Iviron’s most
coveted possession, and featured a curious scar on the Virgin Mary’s right
cheek. Apparently the icon had been stabbed by an overzealous soldier in Nicaea
during a purge of religious Iconography (Iconoclasm) under the fundamentalist
Emperor Theophilus (829–842). Much affronted,
and determined to give that soldier a good shock, blood, miraculously, is said
to have flowed from the gash in the Icon’s cheek.
So Panagia to the rescue, but where was it? Renamed ‘Keeper
of the Gates’ (the literal translation of Panagia Portaitissa), the Icon had a
reputation for disappearing from the chapel it had been placed in, only to be found
hanging on the gates of the monastery each time. This is where the Icon
intended to stay put, not being content
to be guarded by the monks , but desiring a more active role as protectress of
the enclave. Ostensibly, the Theotokos (Mother of God) confirmed this notion in
a dream to St. Gabriel , who in turn saw
it fit to advise a few of the monks. Orders from above.
Not your average Icon and thank God for that, because it had
wedged itself in my memory. This was just the ticket I needed to get me out of
the predicament I was in. Again, if I had begun talking about the Panagia with
no conduit to escape, my presentation would have fizzled out ignominiously, in
no time at all. I would have just been able to recount the tale of the gash and
that was it. Hardly ‘A’ level Art let alone academia. But now I had a plan, act
two to my repertoire. And now back to my audience:
“The Byzantine aesthetic found its widespread.. expression
via the medium of the Icon, often small in size and portable. Canons of
representation and artisan schools laid
down specific guidelines as to layout, style
and the features of the Saint being depicted. Hmmm…Artistic endeavour was less
important than the depth of spiritual sentiment the painting expressed and
uhmmm… generated. This was not without peril,
because in the eyes of religious purists
no inanimate combination of pigment and wood could represent the world of
spirit. Jesus was only present in the Eucharist and in the wine consumed during
religious service. The material itself was dead without soul.”
“One such victim of the second wave of Iconoclasm, is this
Monastery’s very own Panagia Portaitissa……”
And here I recounted the Icon’s history, its role as protector
of the monastery, interceder of miracles via the Theotokos and all of the above, which brought me back to
its exact location. Turning to the Gandalf, with more than an element of self-satisfaction
I asked condescendingly:
“Dear Arhondaris, if you may kindly guide us right now to
the exact site of this illustrious Icon, I have an interesting anecdote to
share”
By curtly nodding and deferring to him I managed to obscure the
fact that I had no idea of the whereabouts of the Icon. I had not especially
noticed any Icon on the main gate but then I hadn’t paid any specific attention
and for all I knew there might be a dozen dangling from each wrought iron post.
It could be anywhere in this church or be housed in one of the monastery’s many
chapels consecrated for the specific purpose of the Icon’s veneration and
safeguarding (not that the Madonna would approve, if the latter proved to be
the case). Locating this Icon would also happily waste time and allow me to
compose myself further and hone my escape plan.
I did not need to persuade the Arhondaris. The Icon was the expected
highlight and climax of each tour, and all the ‘pilgrims’ were I presumed, curious
to check the scar on the Theotokos’s cheek,
out for themselves. It was unusual, I would have guessed, though to
refer to the Panagia Portaitissa in media res; so soon in the presentation with
minimal foreplay, but I wanted out of this farce and this was my decoy.
Gandalf obliged and we were soon trailing him outside. The
harsh and bright exterior sunlight provided intimations of St. Paul again. It
may not have blinded us, but the dazzling brilliance had the momentary effect
of stunning one’s thoughts.
The Panagia Portaitissa was in fact, apparently deemed too
precious an Icon to be left outside, stuck on the gates and was currently being
kept in a chapel in the courtyard across from the main church. Once outside I
tried to maintain my distance from the other pilgrims discouraging familiarity
and to avoid having to divulge any personal information appertaining to my academic background
primarily. I decided it best to engage the Arhondaris in conversation as we
walked abreast, also preventing other pilgrims from asking a question which he
might direct at me. Gazing wistfully at the archway I had originally entered
the Monastery in, I entertained brief
but wild fantasies of escape. Sleeping in a tree at night in the forest would
be infinitesimally preferable to this fine
torture that had been inflicted upon me. Why do humans do this to another? It
is although the body requires a continual influx of fight or flight hormones
and now that there are no beasts to run away from, we require subtle mind games
and traffic jams to release adrenalin into our bloodstreams. They say love
makes the world go round. More like fear I say.
I decided to stick to generalities with the Arhondaris,
asking him how long the tours normally took and if he gave one each day and if
he talked about the same Icons each time or pointed out different objects and
their history/spiritual significance, depending on the guests present. I didn’t
want to sound too eager but had my ears wide open for any morsel of information
I could use in my presentation. In any case we didn’t have far to walk, and our
conversation didn’t last long. I had to take centre stage once again in front
of the Panagia Portaitissa. The scar was barely discernible as the Icon’s skin
colour was made darker still by a patina of age and possibly varnish. I invited
the pilgrims to take a closer look at the painting as I had just done. After
dispensing with the few facts I had retained about the Icon, I then introduced
the anecdote which I hoped was going to
save my bacon.
“The Panagia Portraitissa is of unusual significance to me”,
I began. “On the Island of Malta, where I come from, we have our very own
Sister Panagia, said to have also been painted by St. Luke and featuring the black
Madonna.”
At this point, the Arhondaris himself leaned further in, I don’t
think he had been expecting this or if he had was feigning his curiosity. I
knew I had my audience in the palm of my hand just then and I had to milk it to
my absolute advantage. There was only one available route of safety to take. I
had to change the subject, lead them gently, unawares, away from the world of two dimensional and rigid Orthodox Iconography
and to my own Mediterranean baroque background of fleshy, sensual and corpulent
Catholic saints and sinners. So bit by bit I reeled them in. First by
describing where the Maltese black Madonna was located, then by comparing the
two paintings. This I did in situ, I had never seen the Panagia before, and had
only a vague hazy recollection of the Maltese version, so I just did a Mr. Bean
on the spot, stated the obvious, simply describing what I was seeing and then
counting on the odds that nobody had seen the Maltese version, and this being
in the days before Google on tap, I would be well out of their orbit if they
looked it up (come to think of it, how much less easier it is too bluff these
days with smart phones). So bar the ‘insignificant’ scar, the Icon in Mellieha,
Malta was a near replica according to my comparison. Having established this
fact, I then went on to make another Beanesque facsimile vapidity, something
about a mother’s protective love for her son and the foreshadowing of future
sorrow in the expression on the Madonna’s face, a predicament common to most
mothers. Love , sorrow and pain being an unhappy ménage-a-trois, inherent in the human condition from birth until
death.
If I recall correctly, I went as far to venture a guess as
to the origin of choice for the Madonna’s skin colour, briefly citing the connection with the forgotten
early Christian and ancient Jewish
Ethiopian communities, who settled further inland, following waves of
successive pogroms. The Black Theokotos represented a universal mother they
could relate to . Another raison –d-etre, presented itself in the flight to Egypt where
the Essene Tribes (of which Mary, the Mother of Jesus was a member) had also
settled. The Black Madonna now became a Christian candidate for Isis. These
theories all came from the top of my head, unsubstantiated by hard evidence,
merely a hotchpotch of hypothesis harvested from several books I had read on
the early life of Jesus. I went to anchor my theories on the selection of
ethnicity with a gauche general statement about the unlikelihood of a Middle
Eastern woman having snow white skin anyway. No sooner uttered, I decided that
I was diving deep into dangerous waters and needed to make a quick turnabout back to land and more
grounded observation.
Steering the conversation back to Malta together with St.
Luke and St. Paul, seemed a safer course to sail, and I resolved to shipwreck
my presentation on these shores with a lengthy digression on how Malta became
Christian. Here I was on secure territory and could invite and encourage questions
from the floor. Malta was an unknown entity for many of the pilgrims present,
so the remainder of my presentation comprised a synopsis of the Island’s long
and variegated history, from the Neolithic temples to British Colonial Rule,
via village festas, statues of patron saints being carried aloft by penitent
parishioners, pyrotechnics and partisan politics. For the main, the treasures
of Iviron and their secrets remained unexposed to the scrutiny of scholars during
my presentation that day. However my presumed
reputation as Medieval scholar had escaped unscathed and I could calmly
suppose that I had rightfully earned my
supper and overnight stay that evening. Nonetheless I would be giving my fellow
pilgrims a wide berth for the rest of the day.
Final Instalment out next week
