In November 1914, two of the greatest Greek writers, young friends at that
time, Nikos Kazantzakis and Aggelos Sikelianos, visited Mount Athos with a letter of recommendation from the
Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos.
Nikos Kazantzakis decided to take this trip when he saw a photo
album of Mount Athos at the house of Sikelianos.
In his "Report to Greco" Nikos Kazantzakis writes: "I closed my eyes, looking around for a book. The friend grabbed it from my hands and opened it. It was a great photo album: Monasteries, monks, bell towers, cypresses... cells above the cliff and down a wild sea. The "Aghion Oros", I cried... "Are you ready"? he said. "To take our iron-made bicycles... aren't we dragons? To take our iron-made bicycles, and climb Mount Athos"?... With our backpacks, leaning against our thick sticks, we were climbing between dense, half-naked chestnuts and skins and broad-leaved laurels on the cobbled path. The air, so it seemed to us, smelled of molasses. It's like getting into a huge church by the sea, with chestnut forests and mountains, and a ravenous sky above as a dome... ". After 40 days, the two writers made their way back.
It was already late and I was speeding up to the monastery before sunset. Because the big door is closing at this time, and all those who are left out - monks or laymen - can only enter a small door after the abbot has given permission. So I had no time to delay with the idyllic beauties of the road, nor with the rosy and violet shades of sea that I saw between the tufts of laurels and the agile and luscious chestnut trees in their autumnal bare.
-Bless me respectable father, I said, in accordance with the habits of formal greetings.
-God bless you! The monk replied, and without wasting his time, he set to satisfy his curiosity. He asked about my name, my profession, my past, my assets, the purpose of my visit, if my parents were still living, and what another curious person could learn in two minutes. I bump into a simplistic style that captivates my interlocutor. I present the letter of recommendation, which I had been provided with by the Protato, for free access to all monasteries. The doorman examines it by spelling out every word in a loud voice, and in a very polite way he finally decides to let me in.
A little further back, in a newly restored building, I see a sign where the word "Library" is engraved with Byzantine letters, to the right on another sign I read the word "Kitchen". In the center of the courtyard there are tall buildings and huge cypress trees. In the distance in front of me stands a ruined and imposing old tower, where in the Middle Ages those monks who were threatened by pirates took refuge.
-It was at this moment that the monks returned, stopped for a moment, to see me and greet me, and then disappeared into large corridors. The elderly walked with a heavy and tired step, bent over their sticks. The younger ones, cheerful, waved loudly. The mules also returned to their stable with a shepherd dog barking for the newcomer.
Lost in the clamor I felt anxious at night falling into this mysterious courtyard where everything, humans and animals, disappeared into small arched doors. Finally, I breathe. A young, smiling monk comes to take me to Archontariki, the grand hall of the monastery that welcomes visitors.
We go up a large staircase, then another. Finally I enter a spacious and luxurious room with armchairs and comfy sofas and walls covered with patriotic wallpapers and paintings.
The two abbots of the monastery are there and the discussion begins. My interlocutors absorb my information about the world they have left behind, with the pleasure offered by the forbidden fruits. The probing monk returns and with one hand moves, all of a sudden, he lights the light bulbs. My surprise was a pleasure to the fathers.
-You see, I was told laughing, we don't live in holes like wild animals.
Yes, I could see it clearly. "The goods of culture" had invaded Mount Athos. Electric light expands and kills the mystery of the lamp.
Many times, standing in front of some of the masterpieces of Byzantine painting which fortunately are still on Mount Athos, I recalled the fine words of the greatest sculptor of our time, Augustine Rodin: "That masterpieces are masterpieces I know and I have the pleasure to know. Man and the artist, while keeping the essentials of expressing their relationships and feelings, are complementing each other. A masterpiece is necessarily the simplest, containing only the essential. "
Yes, I sensed strongly in front of these exquisite images of Our Lady and Christ, that Great Art is very simple and aims only at the exposition of what is necessary. Our painters, who always dream of a pilgrimage to Italy, should visit Mount Athos to learn from the exquisite paintings, creations of our ancestors' faith, the fruitful lessons that our tribal traditions have always taught us.
Nothing in the world can be compared to the deep and painful expression of the eyes of the "Portaistissa" in the Ibiron Monastery or the tenderness and divine purity of "Glycophilousa" in the Philotheou Monastery.
At the Vatopedi Monastery you can see a piece of icon hanging on the wall of the library, where, fortunately, the faces of St. Peter and St. Paul are left intact. The two opposing apostles rest, happy, on each other's cheeks, full of sweetness and a mood of reconciliation. Peter with short curly gray hair, with a hard and narrow forehead, a square and a charming chin retains his traditional character close to the big apostle with the wide forehead, the greedy wild eyes, the yearling bird of prey.
Never before the opposition of the apostles, the character of the two warring sides that ripped the inwards of the first Church, had presented me with such an extraordinary attitude. And yet, the unknown artist of Athos was able to give these two heads an atmosphere of unexplained excitement, which, as I was perceiving it, was completed in a superior composition in the name of Jesus Christ.
On the Athos peninsula there is a painting workshop well-known in Russia and throughout the Orthodox East. Ten monk brothers, they told me, have joined in an artistic fraternity. They all work together, paint sacred images, and live in true brotherly fellowship.
I suspect it was above all this latter that caused the admiration of the "human, very human" inhabitants of Mount Athos. Their home, they still told me, is tall and rich in subtle and welcoming traditions. Two brothers cook in turn and their table is always full.
A! How nice is it to see the followers of the Full Moon, the faithful followers of the Byzantine tradition. Who knows, one day, one of these painters will be enlightened by the Divine Grace, overcoming himself with the belief that he can accomplish everything, to create an immortal work, an exquisite Virgin Mary, or a martyr with severe or sad beauty.
Great art is always religious art. The miracle is the beloved child of faith and can be done daily. Immersed in these thoughts, I knocked on a rainy morning at the door of the great Joasaphaean house.
The first brother who greeted me at the entrance did not dispel my expectation at all. Elderly, weak, thin-skinned, with fiery blue eyes, Father Ioannis of Caesarea stretched out my hand and kissed her excitedly.
I cross the garden paved with yellow leaves, climb the large staircase, pass a long corridor, and enter the Brotherhood's hall. The fathers of Joasaphites came one by one to greet the newcomer. Their faces shone with tranquil happiness, and their love for their work had given them a hint of kindness.
But I was longing to see the workshop of those who hosted me. My heart was beating when I crossed the threshold and entered the well-lit spacious hall full of sacred icons.
A sweet melodious tune was heard on the monastery's courtyard, before dawn.
I jumped to the window and saw a monk with a long black overcoat holding a long wooden stick, slamming it down with a hammer. He was going slowly, going from cell to cell in the courtyard and calling the brothers to the Orthros. My friend also woke up, leaned next to me in the window and we were both happy listening.
Quietly, sweetly, like a tree's thunder, like the sigh of the sea, began the psalms of the Orthron; the abbot, holding a lit candle, examined the stables one by one to see if all the brothers were there and then he dipped in the sanctuary splashing loudly on the front of each monk.
