Final Instalment: In Mr. Bean's Footsteps – Part Two (Mount Athos) London to Thessaloniki (or Vice Versa)

Instalment 7 of 7

Released from the ordeal,  should I stay? and a gloriously golden piss.

From last week:

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.

Now read on....

Released from my ordeal, with a modest applause to boot, I spent the afternoon wandering around the monastery, down abandoned wings and forgotten  corridors, musing under low apses, and  lingering in dusty niches, reconstructing  a bustling,  quietly industrious  monastery of yesteryear in my imagination. A sort of  soft, gentle settling descended upon me. It may have just been  a lowering of the level of adrelanin in my blood stream, but I felt incredibly peaceful. I had been on Mount Athos for less than 24 hours, yet I could envisage living here, in this ordered tranquility.

Later that afternoon the Arhondaris, who refrained from referring  to my lecture (which suited me fine),  joined David and me for a stroll, down by the harbour. We walked in silence by the water’s edge. Along with sections of the Croatian coast,  Mount Athos possesses one of the last virgin stretches of  Mediterranean shoreline, unpolluted by beach resorts, unsustainable tourism, noise and development. The sea is a limpid green, alternatively tourquise and jade. It sparkles and the water is clear and inviting. There are no jet skis, or speedboats whizzing past, disturbing the serenity that hangs in the air and wraps itself around you like a warm security blanket, encouraging contemplation.  The pebbles are bleached white by the sun and the sand is devoid of flotsam and plastic debris, towels, ice cream wrappers, and especially ghetto blasters  blaring jarring techno music. The only sound is the soft swish and splash of waves rippling onto the rock pools that garland the pristine shore. I imagine that the Ancient Greeks would be familiar with this timeless setting. There would be no need for a movie to 'dress' this location. What a shame, I think to myself that bathing is not allowed. I wonder if the monks ever swim or would the sudden exposition of flesh educe lewd thoughts?

Earlier, the Arhondaris had mentioned that when a novice monk dons the robe of black cloth during his investiture, he symbolically dies to the world. Anyone with a vocation to become a member of the Orthodox clergy, has the opportunity to select one of two paths to pursue. He can either take vows of chastity and become a celibate monk in a monastery, secluded away from sexual enticement, or marry and become the the protestant equivalent of a vicar. Both the orthodox monk and the ‘priest’, present a similar outward appearance, in addition to possessing  similar officiating duties. This choice of role, accommodating different dispositions as well as natural inclinations, made more sense to me. I have never been able to understand how Catholic priests, for example, are able to give practical marriage advice to couples having for the most, never experienced what it entails

Having deliberately settled on a life of seclusion, I ask the Arhondaris, whilst we are seated on a rock overlooking the idyllic vista below, if the monks minded having to entertain a constant stream of visitors each day. “But how can you decide who is to stay and who will go”, was his quick response. “ A monk, as an angel on earth and as a man of heaven, has chosen silence over idle talk. But one has to experience the silence, before one can begin to understand its rewards”, he continued, cryptically. We did not have to ask for clarification, because the following sentence answered our puzzled frowns. “For every hundred thousand visitors that pass through, one might stay on to become a monk and he must have this opportunity. “

For the rest of my stay on the peninsula this last sentence, penetrates my every waking moment, fast becoming my main preoocupation. I observe the novices, the monks, the mainland workers. There is an other wordliness that permeates their every gesture which is measured, contained and serene. They truly appear to be ‘in the world but not of it’. A productive kind of stillness is distilled from the air here. I am sure passions run deep, for after all the monks are human and innately flawed, but the atmosphere of quiet brotherly affection and tranquil renunciation comes as close to a reflection of earthbound perfection as anything I have experienced .

I begin to nurse a yearning to join this community of calm.

The day passes quickly. There is no running hot water at Iviron and I content myself with a cat wash . Yet even then I gasp at the icy cold temperature of the liquid against my sun warmed flesh. Following vespers I retire to sleep, and though exhausted, I am kept awake by an inner restlessness I can’t put my finger on.

Sleep shuts my eyelids too late and as a result, I miss matins. There is no breakfast and it is time to leave.

Gandalf has grown on me and inspite of my baptism of fire yesterday, I already have slotted him into father figure role. I am sad to go, I wish to hug him but I don’t. He blesses me and chuckles. “We will be waiting for your return “he says as he shakes my hand, the creases at the corner of his eyes deepening, “Perhaps next time you will give another tour, it was most entertaining” I am left wondering what he meant by ‘entertaining’, but think it best to not pursue the matter.

After a surprisingly emotional leave taking, I’m off on the road again. David and I take different directions. I am grateful to be on my own again, but we part fondly, partners in crime, in a way. I have drawn a triangle upon the map and fixed upon visiting the monasteries of Stavronikita and Pantakratos, which lie approximately  in equidistant proximity to Iviron. This will enable me to make the most of my remaining days on Athos, rather than spend half the time travelling to and fro. It is with some trepidation that I enter the forest again. I wonder what tasks lie in store, for me to secure my subsequent bed for the night.

I am intrigued to observe that it is true that all the mammals are male, only the birds and reptiles are allowed to mate freely on Mount Athos. I tread the same paths trodden by pilgrims throughout the centuries. I am one of them. I feel so so happy and freespirited to be able to walk back safely in time. This solitude is sweet and the trees and  foliage part  to let me become one with the environment. It is as though I take my place in the order of things, where humans live in harmony with nature, relinquishing the need to subjugate, that springs from the deep, deep unacknowledged fear of mortality. These monks are alive in their death to the world, they are already immortal. They are not afraid to let the light shine on their souls. Suddenly, female voices from afar, drift on the wind interrupting my reverie. The chanting is Byzantine and melodic, the same refrain is repeated over and over as if in a school drill. I feel enchanted as if under a magic spell, there is a saccharine lightness and freshness to the chant that I have never heard before. Gone is the heavy timbre, yet there is something not quite right, an uneasy feeling of incongruity accompanies the sound, but the reason is elusive, It is only as the walls of Stravronikita , come into view that I understand why and the obvious dawns on me once again. The voices were female voices. I had taken the pitch for granted, having been brought up amongst women. The sight of the monastery reminded me that Mount Athos was a man’s world. Females were prohibited from trespassing on its hallowed ground. Yet this was extremely bizarre, was I following a siren call from the sea?. Had my ears deceived me ? At Stavronikita it was explained to me that summer camps were often organized at Sketae for Greek Orthodox school boys, and it was these pre-pubescent voices lifting sonorously and harmoniously up to the heavens that I had heard, not those of women, "for fear of God."

The remainder of my stay on Mount Athos proved uneventful enough and passed by  pilgrim fashion; in scribbling thoughts, long walks, respectful observance and not much in the way of conversation.. I had been travelling through Greece for over 5 weeks now and autumn was fast approaching. My thoughts turned increasingly towards where I would winter and I knew a decision had to be made. I could choose adventure, excitement and risk;  cross the border, continue onto Turkey and an uncertain future of immediate destitution, sleeping on park benches for a few nights and possibly getting by finding employment as a teacher of English as a foreign language. Alternatively I had just enough money to travel back to Athens and fly back home to stability and convention. My plane ticket however, could not be extended indefinitely. Back home the door was still open to continue and complete my University degree. And then, finally,  here between East and West, lay the middle road, the road less travelled. Could I not just stay put on Mount Athos? I had never experienced such a feeling of profound peace in my life and had I not always flirted with the idea of living a monastic life?, away from the constant ‘slings of outrageous fortune’, far from the heaving, madding crowd, from decisions and striving, comparing and becoming?

On my last night whilst a guest at the monastery of Pantakratos, I was a wakened by an urgent need to take a leak.  Although still early October, I shivered under my thin blanket, reluctant and postponing getting out of bed. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was able to make my way to the bathroom in this monastery at night. There were fewer resident monks here than at Iviron, and the monastery was mainly Idiorrhtmic, so we  had been left to our own devices for most of the day. On this visit, I had spent most of the day down by the harbour looking out to sea, hoping to find answers on the horizon to my dilemma  and my next move. Thus Pantakratos had remained largely explored. I squeezed my buttocks, kicked the sheets until my bladder was about to bust. This wouldn’t do, I had to locate the bathroom. It was eerie to traipse the empty, silent cavernous corridors at night. My imaginations played tricks with the long shadows cast by the moonlight and I traced gargygoles on the patterned floor tiles. I inched my way, palms on the wall, my bladder egging my trembling knees on.

The bathroom itself was the size of a  basketball court. And cold in an intimidating and institutional way. The last attempt at modernity had probably been in the 1930’s. However unlikely the setting  (probably the result of a presenting plumbing problem), it was incredibly dramatic. The guest bathroom was strangely situated in an enormous covered balcony that jutted out over a low cliff from one of the top floors of the monastery. The breathtaking view was unfortunately obscured by a row of toilet cubicles. Once inside one of them and simultaneously relieving my straining bladder, I looked up from the business at hand, and inhaled a sharp hiss of air. I was literally gobsmacked by  the scene unfolding beneath me. Dawn was breaking on the horizon. Shafts of sunlight fanned down in streams of violet, gold and pink, from the multi hued sky, throwing a series of three rocks that cut through the indigo sea, into chiaroscuro. The rocky islands were strategically placed in the centre of the bay like stepping stones to the edge of the world. As darkness seeped away from the borders of this panorama, framed by the balcony window, and the radiance of the morning sun burst through the glass pane, casuing me to squint, I had a moment of epiphany, of all places in a toilet cubicle. Such a glorious, golden piss, but what a waste of a view.

Anyway, as I was saying, lost somewhat in wonder, a thought slowly simmering in formulation, had  been making its way to witness the light of day. The curtains opened in my conscousness, and the idea announced itself, with the insistence that whilst it would be the easiest thing in the world in the long run, to remain on Mount Athos, somehow I was running away. I had to give something back to society and deep down I was not cut out for the monastic  life, at least not yet. What I really was to contribute back to the world, would become clearer in time, my inner voice suggested.

Has it? Well…., but that is the subject of another story, a long, long, long one which I shall write in my rocking chair. In retrospect as I jot this down on my keyboard, maybe I should have stayed. Spiritually it might have been the better choice, but who knows; the story hasn’t been written yet. I like to finish what I start, and there was a degree to complete. I reasoned with myself that Mount Athos would always be here waiting and I could return after graduating, because  if I didn’t go back to my studies, then that would have been another what if? And I might have always regretted it, looking westwards from my monk cell. On the other hand, sometimes,  there are doors you just have to close, and quite possibly not finishing everything you start might be the best option for your highest good. Whom am I to say? The thing is to decide. Our lives are the sum of every decision taken at any moment in time. There are those decisions when the riskiest decision is to take a risk and other situations when the riskiest decision is not to take a risk. The worst decision to make is not to decide, and be a victim of circumstance. This tale as I have said has not been done yet. There are still stories to tell and weigh in the balance. And Mount Athos still awaits, albeit with wifi and taxis.

For an up to date Mount Athos in 2013, do read this excellent article by National Geographic Correspondent Roger Draper

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2009/12/athos/draper-text

Instalment 6: In Mr. Bean's Footsteps – Part Two (Mount Athos) London to Thessaloniki (or Vice Versa)

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