PELGRIMAGE. A Greek in Russia.

 

 

It began today by asking the travel agency:

“Is it possible for us to visit a church in Moscow on the first evening of our trip on the Easter Vigil? This is important to me personally.

Kind regards,

Jan Verdonk, Russia trip from April 26, 2008”

The importance was a bit weak on reflection. I could possibly reiterate the urgent importance in a subsequent email. Easter is fasting, anticipation and excitement, the feast of Orthodoxy. So you can only dream of going to Russia on Easter.

In Russia, Orthodoxy has flourished. With great-Orthodox flourishing. Fullness. Christian empire. Distinguished theocracy.

Today is Orthodox Lazarus Day. Somewhere today in a Byzantine domed church and everywhere else in the world where sparse candlelight makes the gold of the icons gleam, a few men now at the lectern of the choir sing “Tin Koinín Anástasin” supported by an austere bass note.

From the dead raised thou Lazarus, Christ our God,

to confirm before thy suffering the resurrection of all.

Therefore we too, like the people at the Entry, wear

the symbols of victory.

Monday of Holy Week. Pandelís, the cantor of the Greek church in Amsterdam sits in a wheelchair in the transfer ward of the Free University Medical Center. Since the second surgery to remove a brain tumor, he has been wearing a hood made of fabric when he sits because a piece of bone has not been put back. He will not make it to the end of the year. Greet Voulgarakis refreshes the water of yellow tulips at the reception desk. “He's next door,” sitting in a tall wheelchair in the doorway of his room.

“I'm about to be massaged ”, he says, and he's in pain on his paralyzed left side. He asks for a paracetamol, he asks for a lollipop. For the past week, he has been able to swallow a little. “A bowl of applesauce takes half an hour, and that's why I got to do it. Staff shortage” says Greet.

“My sister fed my mother that way, too,” I say. Oh, I think, I fed her myself, I think. The strange upside-down world in which children feed their parents.

In the silence, Gaïtanós, a singer of folk songs by the way, sings Símeron tis Evdokias, the hymn of Mary's Presentation in the Temple.

Pandelís murmurs along: “Símeron. Do you know that the archbishop of Drama has still asked me to serve?”

“Well in Kavala too you know, and everywhere actually, including the funeral company. But that would have to be without Greetje,” Greet said.

The nurse comes in.

- I am going to Russia. On Silent Saturday. Then I can still go to the Easter Vigil in some church.

- Kaló Pascha, says Pandelís, - Kalá na peraseis.

- Kaló Pascha, kalí anástasi.

- Kalí anástasi.

The telephone rings:

“Mr. Verdonk, with your travel agency. If you want to go to church on Saturday night, you should ask the tour guide who is waiting for you in Moscow. It won't be easy because your hotel is in a suburb. But it can be done by mutual agreement perhaps by subway or cab.”

Sparrow Hill.

On Sparrow Hill overlooking Moscow stood a church where the vestibule sold semi-sweet Easter bread and dyed eggs. On the side a door was open and so I stood before the bier, a long line waited to venerate the bier with candles and kiss its icon. I pulled my camera and dared not focus. I saw someone behind the bier in complete red light lovingly straightening the many candles in the stand, saying something to the front while doing so. So beautiful, that light, that loving face, that red spot in the church. That was the picture, the one I've been seeing in front of me ever since. I walked down the row. All the way to the entrance a long line of believers. Different scenes. Someone stands in front of an icon as if waiting. Someone stands off to the side and looks forward, hands folded. One prays with open eyes. At the exit, a gallery of Russian presidents. What are they doing here?

Moscow

In the evening at dinner, I do not feel well. The repercussions of waiting at customs and all the nerves about missing papers add to a mercilessly rising sluggishness. If I didn't go to the Easter Vigil, it would suit me. But then I would see many faces with question marks in Holland, no escape. A memory of another Easter Vigil came to mind. The cantor, then still healthy and in full glory, had to sing in the Rotterdam Orthodox basilica and took our Amsterdam choir with him, in which I sang the low bass. We sang the first litanies and the curious thing was: there was such a grim light in that church that it became a real mass of the dead, which of course it was, the bier of Christ in the center. People threw flowers on it, crucified and lit candles. At 11:30 the choir drifted from the choir stand to the bier (o etitáfios)) and it was not easy because you had to say “we are choir” each time so to speak to get past someone.

“Where were you?” hummed Pandelís, when I finally arrived at the bier after minutes. In a moment, the bier was placed on trestles in the exit of the church. The real trick came next: to get to the front of the procession under the bier and out behind the clergy. Unfortunately, I had to let about 50 people go first. Panting, I came running back to the choir, only to sing the bass note at the 5th Kýrië Eléïson, which was quite noticeable then. Then it was twelve o'clock.

On the steps of the church, the bishop announced the “Christ is Risen,” Christós Anesti, and the people answered, He is truly risen, Alithós Anesti, after which the hymn followed, repeated again and again,

Christ is risen from the dead

By his death trampling down death

and he bestows upon them,

who are in the graves

life.

People stood on the lawn with a candle and stayed there. The Greeks of the Rotterdam church came from far and wide for the Easter Vigil and for each other. The choir went back inside almost alone and sang the Easter liturgy in an almost empty church, while the church people were socializing outside. Strange Easter night that was.

If only the church wouldn't be too far. The Church of the Nativity on the Bauman Estate where Peter the Great grew up was nearby. I walked past a deserted fairground, crossed a white bridge and came to Ismaïlovo Island with the church in the middle. In the dusk on the smooth water, a boat with three men paddled. Plats, plats. Two men were fishing. Me on a bench. Three mountain bikers with tough voices. A ragged poor boy passed by three times.

I got to the church and the priest gets out of his car. A bonnet of fur on his head. He spoke to the policemen who had brought fences. He kissed colleagues on the steps and then a crowd closed in around him.

The church was huge, with giant icons and murals on the thick pillars. There was the man-sized Saint Mandylion icon and several Mother of God icons. On the lectern at the front was the Resurrection icon, which was constantly kissed by entrants. The church service began with readings. The people crossed themselves and bowed at each Góspodi Pomiluj, Kýrië Eléïson of the choir. Candles were carelessly cherished. Two bodyguards made the church unsafe for a moment.

Around me all the women with decked heads. All with scarves on their heads. A group of white scarves made an angelic impression. There was also a crocheted white one. White predominated, by the way. No one looks sideways or at anyone else, but forward. Because of the headscarf you can't look at the women, the hair is covered, only looking back can you see a woman's face.

At 11:30 the people streamed out of the church, following the clergy and the choir. The candle in their hand was anxiously kept burning. The hymn of Silent Saturday was sung. Half a word first those ahead. Soldiers in army uniform carefully guarded the orderly progress every ten meters lined up. As the last ones rounded the last corner, the priest on the steps was ready. He called out, and everyone held their breath: Christós Voskrese - and like a mighty chorus the people cried, Vaístinoe voskrese: He is truly risen. It was repeated in all keys by the choir, the priest sang it expressly in his own tune, and always the hymn of the Risen Lord followed. Then they went inside and the army could finally take action: through a narrow opening in the crowd barriers, people could now flow orderly into the church. It was packed, that very large church. A cold wind blew against my legs from behind.

I saw a shadow of a camouflage suit. Several striking apparitions around me. A very small woman, who didn't let anyone stand in front of her. A grandson joined her, as tall as she was. Little boys bravely beating crosses and bowing for a few hours at each Góspodi Pomiluj, one such I later saw leaning against a pillar. Not seeing any faces. My neighbor bows extra at those bows. When he is gone a woman stands there, bending even further and touching the ground. A man who keeps pushing forward and then back. There is no regard for fellow human beings. The iconostasis is bathed in gold. The enthroned Christ, the enthroned Mother of God, the Baptist, the archangels painted in 19th century sugar pie style, the feast row above is visible from Mary's Annuniation to the Resurrection.

I currently think the Netherlands is ripe for orthodoxy. For thoughtfulness and aesthetics. For standing in church for hours and bowing to the word of the Lord. While a choir is singing above your head you enter a silence in which you are not allowed, but also not required, to talk. You stand here as ten or fifteen centuries ago your peers did. Your ego you have surrendered. Humanity and humility are new virtues for you.

Behind the doors of the iconostasis, there is excitement. The deacons with candles come out of the doors soldatesk. Remain stationary on either side. Two more come out. Stand as well. Go left with adrift equal stride. Move to the right. Big eyes. Christ is risen, cries one. He is truly risen, cries the whole church. They make their way in a line through the densely packed crowd, the one in front with a laurel wreath around a candle, the priest with the gospel book, two altar boys with greenery and candles, they walk right through the church, eyes wide open but rapt, Christós voskrese. The pantomime of the guards' unbelief. He is truly risen! A woman's voice in the front skips in rapture. The woman selling candles talks to the customers. Halfway through the liturgy and a little too late, the lights behind the letters X and V on the iconostasis get on.

Better and better I begin to hear the choir. The soprano shines, the alto weeps, the tenor is brave and the bass blares like a trumpet. During the intercessions it is still just the Kyrie: Gospódi pomiluj.

When they have to sing more it turns out to be a tight professional choir. Six voices with soloist quality. Three young men in their twenties. Three women in their forties. Neat in skirt and tailcoat, except for the casual tenor in a brown jacket. They stand on a high balcony and show more and more of their ability. The harder the more beautiful. The later the more virtuosic. I have to listen breathlessly. They have picked their favorite version for all the pieces, Devte, ágios, Cherouvikó, Patera Yión and so on. I do not know the composers, Rachmaninov, Prokofief and Bordniansky are not among them. Everything is sung flawlessly. The bass is dominant and seems to lead the choir. They are arranged invisibly on a balcony, but when the bass asserts itself so loudly, I know it. Glad no instruments are allowed in the Orthodox Church. When they have sung a three-part male and then a female piece, I am completely convinced an unreal happiness has poured over me. All the words are intelligible. You can't say you weren't told clearly. Bravo!

I know professional singers who belt out everything with their voices with the slightest effort. They are blessed with great talent. The soprano lets go in a vibrato. The people recite the Lord's Prayer and the profession of faith while a deacon indicates the rhythm with his hand. Bread and wine are passed around. Soon then it is over. “Slava” is sung, which will be Eis ágios. When I go home it is three in the morning. Happy Easter celebrated. Happy Easter, pilgrim!

Rublev

In the exposition of the fifteenth-century Church of the Assumption of Mary, I stand in front of the iconostasis. Peter and Paul face each other in transparent colors. The Holy Mandylion icon I see four times. The Byzantine icons attract my attention, oh so far from the city on the Hellespont. Some small ones are surprising samples of Greek painting. The great Russian Mother of God is related, but has less technique, yet grandeur. It is crazy, that a Byzantine that is not painted very well technically, gets the stamp of not being a good painting. While a Russian with imperfect technique can show impressive depth. Perhaps we Greek painters are more imitators of supernatural beauty than of unfathomable spiritual depth. It is with these eyes that I will look at the icons today. At Modern Russian Art before revolution, the Tretyakov Gallery, it was full with young couples, small families, large families and day-trippers. Entering the icons section, I am startled by the emptiness. At the icons no one. And I note I am walking toward Immanuel. Alone. And immediately the slightly smaller than expected Christ with the stern eye. There are no equivalent icons of it. A Byzantine Mother of God is so beautiful that I want to paint her. There is the great Orante. Great. About four more rooms. The famous Mother of God icons. The first big name: the Dormition of Dionisii? All the great icons from the books. My feet hurt from wandering. Here they walk around empty halls with me. “Attributed to Feofan Grek,” ”Circle around Dionisii.”

Rublev's Trinity is man-sized. There are no hard colors in it. Everything is painted in a scale of light. The pictures depicting light colors are good. The Synod ordered that the Trinity be depicted as on the icon of Master Rublev, who was later canonized. The guidebook explains at the Deësis of Zvenigorod that after the introverted mysticism of the fourteenth century, Rublev and contemporaries ushered in an era in which the ideal heavenly world was depicted as a promise. Michael, Paul, Christ bathed motionless in beauty of transparencies.

A guide rushes by with an American in his wake. Straight to the Trinity. As I stand in front of it, a Japanese next to me rings the phone. Dutch companions Peter, Hans and Tineke later cross my hall diagonally. Beautiful!” they point ahead to a Nicholas icon. That hall is beautiful, too. I can't really get rid of Rublev. There's a lot exhibited in the treasure room, too. I immediately forget. The Vladimirskaya is absent.

On the way to Suzdal, we enter a Jugendstil church. Angels with golden locks gracefully hold up the dome with twisted hips. Flower vines wind up along the pillars. Saints look at us on icons of oil paint. There is Athanasius of Alexandria, from the fourth century, founder of the Creed. And the monastic reformer Sergei of Radonetz. I spontaneously take a picture. Not allowed by the priest. That iconostasis has atmosphere.

In the fortress of Suzdal is a church of the Nativity of the Virgin. Her cloak floats above her. Murals from a later time, like a Deësis.

A large horde of nuns leave the church of the Bogoljúbovo monastery near Vladímir. They don't want their picture taken, like nowhere else. It's not monkey-watching here! You are in your own convent, you have lived there for thirty years, for example, and you have the prestige of the nearby big city. Rightly so: you have dedicated your life to the Lord in contemplation, prayer and work. But in recent years, foreigners in crazy hats jump in front of you and they take your picture. Get rid of them! The monastery of Vladimir has two more separate stories. The village of Lipitsk consisted purely of sectarians. They had to buy their freedom in the following way: they were allowed to enter this monastery in exchange for their possessions. In this one monastery 90% are Lipitskans. And the Romanov Tsar family has always had a strong connection with this monastery, and recently on the monastery's 8th centenary they were present and donated the clockwork of the bell tower.

In the remains of the Romanovs' small winter church hung a large Mother of God icon from the 11th century. So then Christianity in Russia was only a century old! Crossing the railroad, you see a huge meadow, and in the middle of it is a little Pokrof church named after the river behind it, the Nerle: the little church of the Protection and Intercession of the Mother of God of the Nerle. The path winds through the greenery beyond. Like a true pilgrim, you walk there through the emptiness to the church. The icons were recently looted. It stands on a mound that Vladimir Bogoljúbovo had raised. The last time the meadow was completely flooded was in 2002. The church was dry. That must have been a breathtaking sight.

In Vladimir you look out over a plain. At the tower of Vladimir's Mother of God Church, a painter hung high on ropes and chalked the wall. You were already looking into a chilling height to see him. When I also saw two workers sitting on shaky scaffolding on the south side, Andrei Tarkovsky's film about Rublev came to my mind in a flash. In it they step off the tower ramps into a medieval hot air balloon. They are now painting the south side. The earthen ramparts here were used as defenses, combined with a ditch in front of it and a palisade on top.

A larger church was built over the original small church after a fire, like a large matron's head over a small one. Oh, says the guide, part of the movie Rublev was shot here. And inside the church are Rublev's frescoes. What?

Inside, candlelight flickers. First you come under a vault whose arches were painted by Rublev: the Last Judgment. The transparencies are gossamer, the colors light and ethereal. But what I find most striking is the form, the drawing. The curves of the contours are soft, the head is almost gently put on. The form makes a gentle curve.

The guide may call me a Greek to be rectified, but the head-body ratio in the human figures here is really 8 to 1. Greek ratio. The guide also mentions the possibility that Black Daniíl, Rublev's teacher, a Greek, painted here. That then seems logical all of a sudden. Christ sits somewhat uncomfortably in his halo. Paradise is also there. At the gate with Peter it is a scramble. A crowded composition say! You are almost underfoot!

You can light a candle and imagine Rublev somewhere around you. It can get to the point where he follows you. I introduce myself and think he is there. At once the church darkens and through the open door only light falls. Russian soft voices buy candles. A hood shuffles past in the darkness. Crockery for incense rings. Time shifts anyway. The saints are in the church, joining us orthodox in the eternal church.

Outside the church are wide lawns with paths and benches. So here I sit for the rest of the day watching the church, writing, listening to Orthodox music and following the movements of groups of youth. Sure enough, Rublev was here.

In Sergeyev Posad is a monastery founded by the great monastic reformer and first Russian saint Sergei of Radonetz. His bones rest here. The complex has three main churches and it is Russia's most important place of pilgrimage. Giant golden towers rise above the monastery walls. The gate is decorated with scenes and saints in soft pastels. The street rises and between birches and beeches the domes rise higher again.

In the church with Sergei's bones, people fill out intercessory prayer forms for loved ones and line up with a candle in front of the tomb. A priest and a choir sing incessantly. This church is in use. On the Deësis row on the iconostasis, the saints painted by Rublev can be distinguished with difficulty in the dim light. I like the green cloak of the Baptist best. Again, the faint curve in the contours of the saints. The technique here is egg tempera, so the figures stand out more strongly against the gold. I stand for a long time without thinking about anything. Outside is the realm of pilgrims from all corners of the world, of all ages; they rest, look at the church, rest, linger, fetch water from the fountain, buy souvenirs and booklets. Again I stand before the icons. They are from the year 1400, 600 years before our time. A thousand years is like one day in the eyes of the Lord. Rublev has been canonized. He is here.

The road leads past the Church of the Savior in Novgorod, one of 24 churches painted by Feofan Grek (Theophanis the Greek). In Greece, I once traveled past Agios Nikolaos in the Western Peloponnese, where he also painted a church. To my regret, I did not stop then. His trademark is the big brush stroke. He puts the hair down in one stroke. Big black eyes or is it umber? As if he wants to say: I am interested in the big shape. And because of his great knowledge, he cannot make mistakes. His lights are small but intense. An elegant drawing but coarse lines. A technique that would be unheard of in Greece. So in Russia he is rectified to Russian.

Novgorod is an ancient fortress on the Volkhov, Russia's second river. A trading city, therefore, where for a very long time people paid in Arabic currency until they switched to pieces (rubl) of silver. The main church is dedicated to the Holy Wisdom, the Agia Sofia. A Mother of God hangs at the front of the church, so damaged by flaking off that it looks like a mosaic. She is particularly revered.

A small feast row from the Sofia Church now hangs in the museum opposite. It has Greek inscriptions on it in red letters, and it was 1374 then. So that's how long the inscription language remained Greek. The icons here in Novgorod have bright colors and a naturalness and easy pose of the saints. The central icon workshop was that of the archbishop. A realistic Nicholas dominates the room.

Tabletki are pieces of linen prepared for painting about 25 x 20 cm. that are painted on two sides. On one side are the feast days, so that one could place them on the lectern to indicate the feast of the church calendar. On their reverse side are always three saints to be placed on the lectern on their feast days as well. They are even more professional than the feast row painted in 1495. The swan song of the Novgorod icon, Lazarev said, because in 1485 Novgorod lost its independence to Moscow.

Dionisii

In the palace city of Petersburg, founded by Peter the Great 300 years ago, stands the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, and Peter retrieved Nevskis remains from Vladimir to honor him who had defeated the Swedes in the 13th century. Peter would do the same in 1709. The worship service has just begun when I enter. Góspodi pomiluj. The Resurrection icon stands on the lectern in greeting. The choir stands on the balcony above the entrance.

In the Hermitage the almost lurid wealth of the Romanov rulers. The Russian icons are not on display. Then to the Byzantine section on the third floor. It took half an hour of searching and asking ten Russian-speaking attendants, but the way there, in retrospect, turned out to be child's play: in the corridor with the goblins on the second floor, turn halfway left into an open door and then up a flight of stairs. A new addition was a Mother of God, and newly restored too. A Christ Pantokrator had been found and taken on an expedition by Pyotr Sablinsky in 1859-60 to Athos in two pieces in a storeroom in the Russian Pantokrator Monastery. This Christ is a special one. Like a fairly well-known variant from Veria, Greece, it has bright white lights on its face, it seems restored, so white, too white, but I can't prove it. And this one has a blur in the middle of his face, so that he looks at you without seeing it clearly. Beautiful wavy hair. Beautiful colorful flesh on the neck with gossamer color transitions.

There hung more trophies from Pyotr's trip, including a full-length Christ, which like many others from that trip had been donated through collections in 1930. There was the green Anastasia the Farmakolytria ( the healing one) from the books. So I saw a collection of icons painted on Athos or Constantinople. Also some holiday icons, the oldest from the 11th century, when Russia had not yet been baptized a century.

I went on intuition to try my luck once more at the old Russian icons. It was an hour later and it had now opened, and the English Baroque was closed. We are on break, it said. The eye-catcher was the Nicholas with the red background. It was a small collection.

On to the Russian Museum, which flaunts the number of hundreds of icons. Suddenly I start to like Dionisii (around 1500). His frescoes are a bit too awkward for me, as they appear in the books. But his icons they are also a kind of Rublev. His colors are bright, but they are weathered. Contours get frayed edges, faces lack essential lines. Yet it is enough, to say that he was, is, a formidable painter. Feofan Grek also has such work, from 1400. From Rublev's workshop seem to come life-size icons, but I miss precisely his influence, his control in these icons. Much looks awkward. The feeling I had remains absent.

A popular little icon, the George with the White Dragon is there. The Disbelief of Thomas of Dionisii is for me the most beautiful of the day. The icon is a bit weathered, what remains is like abstract art stacked areas of color, blocks of color.

The Russian lesson

Whether I know the Russian icons after this trip, well, no. I did get to know them better. Nor have I been rectified into a Russian painter, as the guide wanted.

What technically separates the Greeks from the Russians is the transparency. The large color area of a red or green coat, for example, is set up transparently, by superimposing more than ten transparent layers of paint. This gives an unpredictable cloudy pattern, which you also seem to be looking through. You think: what am I actually looking at? Eventually you also look at the white priming of the board. That is a particularly beautiful effect and Greek icons do not have that. Those all have opaque areas of color. With the Russians, though, the first, second and certainly third lights if there are any, are more opaque than the ground plane. The lights are different from the Greek ones, and worthy of a separate study. The lights can be quite bright, then they shine, but they are narrower.

Then Russian icons further have the indication of the volume of the cloth by means of all the little lines. It is about lineation. Shading is not meant here. If at the edge of a rug the lines are forked close together, like spirals, then the eye understands that the rug is rounded here. Greek icons, on the other hand, indicate roundness by exposure from the first to the third light, and the ground color takes on the role of shadow. And so the icons of the Cretan school have quite a lot of shadow: about 50% of the surface.

Furthermore, the Russian icons have an other color range or palette. Many icons have indeterminate colors like umber, amber, brown, and pastel shades or hard green, red backgrounds. Greek icons, on the other hand, have ground planes that also correspond more closely to the lights, in that a red light entails a red ground plane (and vice-versa), green a green, blue a blue, brown a brown. At least the Cretan school requires this. Russian painting, according to me and the Russian authors, arose from the specific periods of North Greek painting (namely, the paleological and hesuchastic styles), and in these there was so little uniformity that it is not surprising that Russian painting a) is also so divergent and b) thus so different from Crete.

The 4th difference between Russian and Greek is a bit of a timeline. From the fourth century there were icons, I think first in Palestine. Byzantium also used the imagery (term is iconography) of Hellenism (300 BC to 300 AD) and of Classical Antiquity (800 to 300 BC). During the Byzantine iconoclasm (725-853), Russia was still pagan, even until 988, when Kiev became Christian as the first and most important principality, during the Macedonian dynasty in Byzantium. So Russia did not have the roots of Byzantine painting in it, only a snapshot adopted and further developed. The decline sets in Russia in in the 16th century, and in the Byzantine regions at the latest in the 17th century.

The fifth difference concerns the expressionism of Russian design versus the realism of Greek. The head-body ratio is 1 : 12 in Russia, 1 : 8 in Greece. To the eye, this unnatural Russian design depicts or is capable of depicting very well the spiritualization of man. On the iconostasis, these tall figures bow in body language that says humility, submission, humility, victim, surrender: Góspodi pomiluj. And perhaps there is a bit of Russian melancholy in them, too. Greek icons depict supernatural portraits in utter realism. The saints are depicted as blissful people with, of course, an inward gaze.

We Greeeks will have to look to the Russians to learn. To give our own painting that touch of holiness and psychological depth that the Russians are known for. There is also a role in understanding the artistic means the Russian employs. And I think we have to draw from our own arsenal that the Greek tradition has handed down to us in order to set something beautiful against the Russians.