TIGERS IN EPHESUS: Tribute to a Departed Friend

THE MARSH KING’S DAUGHTER

Plein Air drawings all, done on-site and at the time.

The Great Virgin & St John ©2007 by Trici Venola

A few years back I went to Ephesus with my friend Cynthia from Maui. We are exactly the same age, both born in the Year of the Tiger. We both love cats. She even has cat eyes! Cynthia’s former husband had run off awhile before, leaving her in the unfinished mortgaged dream house in the middle of the jungle, all alone. After a year she still felt lousy and came to Turkey with a friend on the Sufi Dervish spiritual trail.

Konya Dervishes ©2005 by Trici Venola

Sufism’s genesis was in Konya, and it was in Konya that Cynthia found true spiritual healing in the form God chose to best get her attention: Hakan, a handsome young carpet salesman. Sound familiar? That old story leading to heartbreak? Surprise, they made it work.

Lewis Smoking Nargile ©2005 by Trici Venola

It took some doing. Hakan went to his friend Lewis at the Consulate in Ankara. “I’m in love and there’s a problem,” he said. “How could love be a problem?” asked Lewis. “No permission,” said Hakan, “Nobody believes us.” He explained the huge and visible age difference. “How old are you?” said Lewis. “Oh, about five,” said Hakan. “It was then,” Lewis told me later, “that I knew how much I liked him.” Lewis met Cynthia and told Hakan, “If you don’t marry her, I will.” He stood up for them at their wedding and got Hakan a visa. Hakan and Cynthia moved to Maui and started an import business. She and I went on holiday together on a break during their umpteenth buying trip. Cynthia needed girl time while Hakan stayed with the relatives in Konya, lovely people who adored Cynthia and lived with the TV always on and the halogen light always overhead.

Dervishes Near Konya © 2006 by Trici Venola

Cynthia traveled with a coffee maker and Hawaiian coffee that dissolved spoons.  She had the kind of high-cheekboned, big-lipped blond beauty so beloved by trophy collectors. Wide hips, a lot of good makeup, tons of jewelry, lots of fringe and swishing skirts and cleavage, trailing rose perfume, and these Turkish men just put up their paws and howled. She was ten pounds overweight then and only looked more alluring. We had a great time in Ephesus. “They make a big fuss of us here,” she said with satisfaction.

Cynthia Odalisque © 2005 by Trici Venola

The ruins of Ephesus are near Selchuk, so we went there. Selchuk is in the province of Izmir, Anatolia, and full of old Roman chunks, Byzantine and pre-Alexandrian wreckage, and the purported last home of the Virgin Mary, which Cynthia was crazy to see. We approached between mountains, turreted ruins on their peaks. Fairy-tale storks nest all along the tops of Selchuk’s ruined Roman aqueduct, each tower topped with its bristling nest and the tall jointed black-and-white stork families, little storklet beaks sticking up. Drawing them, I mused on Hans Christian Anderson’s tale, The Marsh King’s Daughter, imagining… Egyptian princesses flying with the storks, long black hair trailing behind them, the one princess dropping down, down into the marsh, the lotus flower bubbling up later with the savage beautiful daughter of the Princess and the Marsh King.

Storks in Selçuk © 2005 by Trici Venola

ST JOHN’S BASILICA Cynthia, jet-lagged, holed up in her room and I wandered Selchuk, drawing. The castle looks down on the town from its hilltop above the vast rambling ruin of St. John’s Basilica, built over his tomb by Justinian and Theodora and later wrecked by earthquake, scavengers and Tamerlane.

Weedy St John’s ©2007 by Trici Venola

Over the tomb is a flat marble platform, erected by the Turks, with four marble pillars framing the original dark, pitted old headstone scored

St John’s Headstone © 2005 by Trici Venola

with Coptic crosses. The ruin meanders all over the hill, stairs going up to nothing, massive chunks of masonry tilting up out of the ground, and some gypsies trying to sell fake old coins. One showed me a hipbone and kneecap sticking out of a wall of dirt, as well as some buried mosaics.  Sadly they have now replaced and corrected the old sign that described how Mary came to be in Ephesus. In embossed painted metal, it said:

…AND JESUS LOOKING DOWN FROM THE CROSS SAID TO JOHN TO TAKE HIS MOTHER INTO HIS HOSE.

St John’s Mood © 2005 by Trici Venola

From St John’s you can see the square double-domed mosque built from stones hauled from the ruined basilica, and beyond it on the marsh the remains of the Great Temple of Artemis, a wonder of the ancient world.

The Great Temple of Artemis was burned in 356 BCE, the night Alexander the Great was born, by a fame-seeking madman whose name escapes me. Alexander declared that Artemis allowed her temple’s destruction because she was preoccupied with his birth, and had it restored. But as the powerful religion of Artemis lost ground to the Romans and then the Christians, the temple fell into disuse. Finished by an earthquake, it was scavenged to build St John’s, Selchuk Mosque, and Hagia Sophia. Only one pillar remains pointing to the sky. Of course there is a stork’s nest on it.

Great Artemis 72A CONVERGENCE OF GODDESSES This great granite statue of Artemis now lives in the museum at Selchuk, eerie and powerful. In its niche around the corner from the massive marble images of Caesar Augustus and his Empress Livia, crosses hacked and burned into their foreheads, and other effluvia from Ephesus. This Artemis is not Apollo’s kid sister Diana. This Artemis  wears a paneled dress and a high crown covered with triple images of creatures: three sphinxes, three bulls, three bees.. Where her chest would be are masses of breasts or bull’s testicles or penises entering vaginas, depending on what you read. I lean toward this last: life creating itself. All of the ideas, though, represent powerful fertility. Some sources claim that the stone polyps really represent the sacrifice made by her priests, who castrated themselves to serve the Goddess, echoed later by Catholic priests dedicating their manhood to the Church. Whatever the Great Mother Artemis has on her chest, she is not human. Alien, squarejawed, a tilted blank gaze and the cryptic closed smile of a Kore, a concentrate of power, purity and fecundity distilled by time into Virgin; Goddess of all things, beginning and end. Standing there I thought about the other local Great Virgin, Mary. Hm…Virgin Mother, moon as attribute, unconditional love for all living things, goddess of women, desexed priests…my spine turned to ice as I realized whose face I was seeing. It was time to wake up Cynthia and go up the mountain.

In Mary’s House © 2007 by Trici Venola

Meryemana is the house generally agreed by Muslims, Jews and the Catholic Church to have been the home of the Virgin Mary, lost for centuries and rediscovered after a nineteenth-century vision by a stigmatized German nun. Archeologists dug where Sister Mary Emmerlich dreamed, and found a stone foundation on a steep slope in a grove of trees. The Virgin’s attributes abound: roses and orange blossoms. Even her new moon is evident in all the Turkish flags on the trinket stands. The place is packed, and whether or not you believe that Mary was here, millions of people who do believe it have been here, and the collective faith knocks you to your knees. Cynthia sobbed over her holywater flask, down by the wall covered with prayers.

Sweet Virgin Mary © 2005 by Trici Venola

Apostles John and Paul were thrown out of Ephesus because their conversions were putting a hole in the silversmith trade. Nobody was buying the little silver Artemis charms anymore. Perhaps it was then that the New Virgin became the local goddess. More stories: an ecumenical council in 430-something, in a 4th-century church built of her tomb. Now it’s a dark little restored church packed with pilgrims, an Order dressed in turquoise and blue, and many candles. Despite the mob there is deep and pervasive peace. The altar is where the old kitchen was. On the wall in Mary’s bedroom is a naive painting, an Assumption, with a treatment I had never seen. The adult Jesus holds an infant Mary. There’s no graffiti save the little painting above, of her face, far down on the wall, with a little wooden frame hung around it.

Bright Morning Face © 2006 by Trici Venola

ROME Next day we wandered down the main streets of Ephesus, the Biblical town that died when an earthquake robbed it of its harbor, and admired the library, the remaining statues, the massive stadium. In its

Gladiator Headstone © 2005 by Trici Venola

heyday Ephesus was a major city with indoor plumbing and heating, covered walkways, a population of 200,000 and a cemetery just for its gladiators, who were dug up in the 20th century by German investigators and subjected to forensic studies to see how they died. The result is a swell exhibit: a museum case with the tombstone and the actual punctured skullcase or fractured femur, along with an illustrated description of what made the wound and how the man died. I drew this one in the Selchuk Museum, just around the corner from the Great Artemis.

Crossed Caesars © 2005 by Trici Venola

Lili by Candlelight © 2007 by Trici Venola

THE MINISTRY OF FUN

Two years later, Cynthia and I went back to Selchuk with Lili,  also from Maui. The sumptuous villas of the Ephesus rich had just opened. They marched up the hill over the posh section of town just like they do in every city to this day. We’d all seen the HBO series Rome, and the hill villas, like the Roman statues, brought out the scheming passionate Atia in us.

The Marsh King’s Daughter flew with the storks to a Viking’s home in Denmark. By night she was the toadlike image of her hideous father, with her mother’s generous sweet spirit. By day she had her mother’s beauty and her father’s vicious temper, which her Viking protector adored. Only his wife knew the secret…

A glint at times in Cynthia’s cat-eyes, of fury barely checked. This was the sword-edge of an implacable life force. When administered with smoky voice and exquisite tact, it was capable, in one week, of getting a depressed mutual friend out of fusty hair and bedroom slippers and into spike heels, toreador pants, slicked-back hair and a holiday. Me, I just started growing my hair down to my hips.

Aphrodisias Composite ©2007 by Trici Venola

Lili in Aphrodisias 2007. Photo by Cynthia Ucarer

On that trip I became ordained in Lili’s Ministry of Fun, of which Cynthia was already a priestess. Here is our creed: DO IT ONLY IF IT IS FUN. IF YOU MUST DO IT, FIND A WAY TO MAKE IT FUN.

Sirinci 72

In the Greek mountain town of Sirinci we bought white khaftans and drove inland to Aphrodisias.  We held a priestess ceremony out in the ruins, each becoming free of something, with flowers and singing and incense. Only with these Aloha Blondes could I carry on so, to the sun’s dazzle on a whole tour group’s worth of snapping cameras. Afterwards I put my wreath on a stone lion. A guard approached. Uh-oh, I thought. “Madam,” he said with respect tinged with awe, “we are all wondering, where are you ladies from?”

Stork Pillar in Selchuk ©2005 Trici Venola

Stork Pillar in Selçuk ©2005 Trici Venola

Back on that first trip, Cynthia and I returned from Ephesus to discover that a big soccer game had taken over the town. We dressed in our earrings and trailing scarves and  went out to dinner. All the way out at the edge of town was the marsh with the one Artemis pillar and a lumpy old weedy hamam. Beyond the fence was a dark poor area, just little cement houses, all deserted with the game on. At the very end of town was a triangular lot at the end of two streets edging the marsh. There was a cafe, lit and open and no TV, with one woman who made us dinner. We sat there under the grapevines as darkness came slowly down on the town. Two men sat down nearby. One joined us, speaking with Cynthia at length in French about their respective youths in Paris. Something creaked in the quiet, and out of the dark trundled a popcorn vendor. “It’s a Fellini movie,” someone said. We stayed for hours, drinking coffee and red wine, the dark silence punctuated by an occasional car full of screaming soccer fans roaring out of the dark and away. A rose man materialized. The man who spoke French had a friend with a huge mustache, who jocularly gave us each a longstemmed, strong-scented red rose.

At last we took our roses and our leave and wandered home through the dark streets, up the hill past the rampart-like gate leading to the ruin of St. John’s church, and started down. At the base of the hill was the road, and across it the town entrance, a huge modern stone fountain with a big arch and a giant reproduction of the Great Artemis. We heard it first, a pounding scream coming from the crowd next to the fountain. As we came down the hill the noise became deafening. Close up it was a Bacchanal.

Leaning Old Minaret © 2005 by Trici Venola

In ancient times people would fling themselves into a sexual frenzy in the names of their deities: Dionysius, Demeter. When Christianity took over, the people continued to dance in worship. Nothing could break them of it. After six days of backbreaking labor the serfs would dance on the seventh, and they would always do it in the churchyard. Passion and worship, forever married. Now we looked down on a chaotic festival of screaming young men dancing to pounding music simulcast from the stores in the street. Flung water glittered in a strobe light. The dancing became wilder as people fell and leaped into the fountain. They took the winning soccer colors—yellow and blue– and wrapped them around the hips of the Great Goddess and shimmied them. One pubescent kid saw us watching him, strutted shirtless with his chicken chest stuck out and his wet pants plastered to him, stood at the huge stone back of the goddess facing us applauding across the water and danced like a stripling priest. Cynthia and I stood at the lip of the fountain, encouraging the young girls, but in the end, as so often, we were the only women dancing.

Cynthia Odalisque.Face Detail © 2005 by Trici Venola

In the fairy tale, The Marsh King’s Daughter found faith, which unified her lovely form and spirit. She ascended in joy to the Kingdom of Heaven, leaving only a withered lotus flower behind. Cynthia is slipping away now I am told, across the world in Hawaii, and I write this in the winter’s dark of Istanbul years later. The Aloha Blonde is taking her roses and her leave, those cat eyes and the husky voice murmuring French to some eternal young man. She is flying with the storks, her glory trailing behind her, and I’m posting this for all of us left at the party.

Tiger Sisters: Trici Venola & Cynthia Ucarer, 2005.

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All drawings Plein Air. All art ©Trici Venola. We love your comments.

SAINTS AND ANGELS 5: Divine Energy In Hagia Sophia

A MONK, AN ANGEL AND EMPRESS ZOE 

Today a South Korean monk showed me an angel on an iPhone. Such times we live in. Her name is Jaywon, and if she had said she was fourteen instead of forty, I’d not have been surprised save for her eyes, which have seen a great deal. She and her friend Joohee were touring Hagia Sophia and ran into me drawing from those giant blow-ups of the mosaics. We exchanged pictures and I told her about Empress Zoe, in front of the photo of the Angel Gabriel. Jaywon said that I was taking in blessings from working among all the angels and art and energy. A nice exchange to have in this very old temple in an ancient sacred place. This is a small, self-contained, joyous woman with a shaved head, wearing loose light clothes and carrying that iPhone. On it was a video of something coming out of the dawn. A circle of pure white light, and a spear of it separated and came toward the bottom of the frame. Divine energy, she said. She was incandescent in the dark cold basilica, and I asked to draw her.

Yesterday was a dream drawing day. Michael Constantinou will be here any minute to pick up his art, and still two pieces to go. I stood in line and forked over 20 lira as usual, and charged upstairs to the end of the Imperial Gallery. Huge crowds eddied around me all day, bags bumping into my head. It’s a popular spot, sporting mosaics of four Imperial Majesties, one  prince and two deities. Not only that, the  adjacent alcove is the prime spot to get a shot of the Madonna over the altar. Everyone’s bundled in bulky coats, they’re bigger than they usually are, they stomp by like they’re smaller. At times I just clutched my drawing safe to my chest. But what a day!

Empress Zoe WIP 1 ©2012 by Trici Venola

Zoe here really drew herself. A Byzantine princess, porphyrygenita: born to a reigning emperor and empress –in 978–  in the porphyry birth chamber, likely in the Boukoleon Palace. I refer to porphyry a lot, so here’s a chunk of it lying in the rain outside Hagia Sophia, built with pillars from ancient structures. It doesn’t show in the drawing yet, but Zoe’s face is set into a former mosaic, much earlier in style, texture and size of mosaic tiles.  What I’m doing in this Plein Air sitting is getting the light right: drawing the surface slightly rippled with age, squinting to see in the gloom. I’m getting the Grand Gesture, and the details will come later.

Here’s Zoe’s Emperor, her third.

Zoe’s Constantine WIP ©2012 by Trici Venola

The guides all laugh at how old and fat she was when she had this mosaic made, followed by a two-minute hash of her life. He was a lot younger than she was, etc. I got to wondering about this sacrificial lamb, so last night I went online and learned a few things. One was that Zoe was beautiful, and she stayed so, not  easy in the 11th Century. Who cares if she improved slightly in the official pix? Who doesn’t? The other is that this husband was a former lover.

Today started with a bang. I set up in front of the giant blowups in the North Gallery, to get the mosaic details right. Schmoozing with the guard, I opened up my bitsy folding stool. A sharp snap, and it collapsed. A broken wire. Disaster. I cannot sit on the floor. Asked for a chair, but no go. We cobbled the thing together. I cautiously lowered myself onto it. Completely immersed in work, a loud pop and I was slap on my back, pocket contents skittering on the icy marble. People rushed over and hauled me to my feet, and Mohammed the hero guard brought me…a chair. With arms and everything. Oh bliss. And this is what we got today.

Empress Zoe ©2012 by Trici Venola

Empress  Zoe was quite a girl. Young and lovely, she was shunted into a convent to get her out of the way by competative relatives. At fifty, she was yanked out, crowned Empress, and married to a man who wouldn’t sleep with her. She drove him crazy trying to get pregnant. He ignored her. She took a lover and flaunted him all over the Court. They found her husband boiled to death in his bath. Zoe married the lover the same day, which made him Emperor Michael IV. Clearly he was from a family of hustlers. He demanded that she turn all her power over to his brother, John the Eunuch, and then shut her out of his life before becoming terminally ill. John the Eunuch commanded her to adopt his nephew MIchael. When Michael IV died, Michael-the-nephew was crowned Emperor Michael V. He dumped Zoe into a convent on the Princes’ Islands. This enraged the populace, because Zoe was a princess, porphyrygenita, born to the purple by God, so Michael V brought her back. It was too late: he was deposed. The ministers decided that Zoe must rule, but jointly with her sister Theodora, whom she loathed. Zoe wanted to forgive Michael V, but Theodora had him blinded and sent to a monastery. The Byzantines were big on blinding, they considered it PC compared to beheading, which they did to quell rebellions.

This coin shows the two Empresses, looking goose-like from much handling. In order to increase her power, Zoe wanted to marry. She was now in her sixties and, thanks to alchemy, unguents and potions, still beautiful. In former lover Constantine Manomachos, she found a husband, the third to be scraped out of the Husband Mosaic and re-grouted in another hopeful image. If longevity was hoped for, he wins the prize, for his image has survived out of thousands, for a thousand years.

Constantine Manomachos agreed to the marriage on the condition that the sisters accept his longtime mistress, Maria Skleraina. This was not a problem. Zoe and Theodora liked Maria Skleraina enough to include her in the family throne, even making up a title, Despoina, which means Mistress but also means Empress. So the chariot of power, now pulled by four horses, galloped on, with frequent public showings of affection among the crowned quartet on the balconies of the palace, reassuring a scandalized and worried populace that all was well.

Zoe’s Constantine ©2012 by Trici Venola

Oh, worry.  Mortality is all around these days. Friends are dealing with horrifying diseases. People tightly woven into the fabric of my existence are gone, missing in the action of my life. Facebook photos of jazzy friends of yore show older versions I barely recognize. And sometimes they’re of me. It seems to come with the territory of having survived this long. In these days I find enormous comfort in the gleam of light on old marble, the carved artifacts of vanished lives. Divine energy, said Jaywon, and I think of that spear of light detaching itself from the dawn, coming toward me on the miracle of video. Standing next to a massive malachite pillar old long before Christ, feeling the power surging under me in this holy spot, looking up at the towering surface gnarled with age and scarred with witnessing, I feel so simple, so innocent in my small breadth of years, so young.

Jaywon with Gabriel ©2012 by Trici Venola

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All drawings Plein Air by Trici Venola. All art © 2012 by Trici Venola. Thanks for reading. We love your comments.

SAINTS AND ANGELS 2: Drawing Jesus In Hagia Sophia

JESUS ROCKS

I finished drawing the mosaic of Jesus on the Winter Solstice, four days from Christmas, when Christians celebrate his birth. Solstice rites go back to pagan times, the celebration of the returning of the Sun, a religion-transcending human impulse to mark the happy turn of the year from darkness to light. Here’s a different Son being celebrated, and am I glad my homage is ready in time. Merry Christmas!

Jesus Rocks ©2011 by Trici Venola

  Why is it so beautiful?  The larger-than-life-size original is in glorious color, yet there’s something compelling about this little black and white study, only 12 X 20 inches. Maybe it’s because the absence of color forces one to pay attention to depth, arrangement, structure.  A strong composition works with or without color.

Starting to Draw Jesus ©2011 by Trici Venola

Everybody says “How do you start?” As seen above: slow, light, careful! I took it as far as I could in front of the original, then moved to the giant blowup photo across the way. As to the finish, I confess I did it here at home in about eight hours, looking at various closeup hi-def photos I took. I wanted to get the details right, I can’t get close enough to the original, and that blowup is only okay. As usual, I planned to only draw 10 X 17 inches and leave a nice white border, as I promised patron Michael Constantinou, but ran it to the edge of the page. I just couldn’t stop myself, Michael. You cover that with frame if you must!

Jesus Rocks.Eye Detail ©2011 by Trici Venola.

 In the two days I sat in front of Jesus drawing him, dozens of people came up to the mosaic, gasped, stared, and took a picture, the guards’ chorus of “NO FIL LASH! NO FIL LASH!” echoing in counterpoint to the grinding click of the cameras. The thing is, everyone takes pictures. And most of them are sensational. It’s a glut on the eye, all that color and detail. So, a little black and white drawing, a human doing it, and slowly at that. Slow Life, you heard it here, and if I’d been blogging a few years ago, you’d’ve heard it here first. A portrait of a mosaic at this point in time, taking into account flaws, missing tiles, patterns. All the things that are specific to this image at this moment in its history, and may that history be much longer.

Jesus Rocks.Mouth Detail ©2011 by Trici Venola.

Originally I proposed to the Constantinou Family that I do a big drawing of the Dome Angel, but they’re out of wall space. So we hit on the idea of  small studies from the basilica. At first  I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of a straight shot at Jesus, someone else’s art with no interpretation or odd angles, but I was wrong. Sometimes it works and you just don’t know why. While I’m drawing, I keep asking, “How can I make this drawing more interesting?” Here’s a section of the robe that had me stumped. Shades of blue and many little pale blotches on the surface. But just look at how many ways there are to render little square mosaic tiles! No formula: this is about giving permission, on a very deep level, to draw it as interestingly as you see it. If you’re bored, chances are it’ll look boring.

Jesus Rocks.Robe Detail ©2011 by Trici Venola.

Caroling with Canon Ian Sherwood at St. Helen’s Chapel, I met Tara, a Byzantine scholar doing postgraduate work here. She’s a mine of information. For starters, what I suspected is true: the geometric patterns on Hagia Sophia’s walls and ceilings, worked in gold and silver mosaic, are original Sixth Century. Along with Jesus, I’m drawing various architectural details. This one is from just next to the balustrade directly across the gallery from The Last Judgement.

Shadow Arch WIP 1 ©2011 by Trici Venola.

Here’s a photo of the same place:

I’ve always loved the silver mosaic there, and wanted to capture the mystery of the place and the aspect of old brickwork under old mosaic.

Shadow Arch WIP 1.Detail ©2011 by Trici Venola.

I started drawing the geometry almost by rote and was dumbstruck to see this pattern emerge. As you can see up in the photo, it looks like tapestry. You really have to look hard to detect the filigree wheels worked into the diamond. The general impression is simply one of lush, exquisite brocade. One of the assets of documentation in black and white is the necessary simplification, which reveals hidden treasures like these.

And at the top of the capital, check out the pattern! Flowers, yes, but notice how the negative spaces between the petals form small Catherine Wheels, going in opposite directions. St. Catherine was a particular favorite of Justinian’s; he founded St Catherine’s Monastery on Mt. Sinai in Egypt. The Catherine Wheel represents the instrument of her torture said to have vanished by magic, leaving the Saint to be beheaded instead. This is considered romantic twaddle by some hagiographers. ls it romantic coincidence that Catherine Wheels often appear in the church motifs? Whether you believe in St Catherine or not, you can believe this: nobody carving this stuff in stone could coincidentally carve flowers that form Catherine Wheels.

Angel Panorama ©2011 Trici Venola

To draw this little side alcove, I’ve moved camp across the great sag in the marble floor to the balustrade. Every glance is a potential drawing taking many hours. I could spend the rest of my life inside Hagia Sophia and never begin to mine the wealth of drawing in there. What I love the most is the patina of age over the layers of visible history.

In one glance to the left, up top we have the third dome, built after the first two collapsed. Repainted by the Ottomans after 1453, it’s been restored by the Japanese over the past several years.

There’s the Angel under the dome, discovered in 1841 by the Fosatti Brothers under Sultan Abdulmedjid’s restoration and carefully covered up again until 2009, when it was unveiled to great fanfare. According to Tara, it was created around 1261, after the expulsion of the Western Romans.

The clerestory windows high up catch the light and make the massive dome appear to float, as early chroniclers tell us.

We’re looking north here; the altar is to our right. At the base of the group of windows are some icons that were painted over and have been restored.

Below those is the opposite gallery, with malachite columns scavenged from the ancient Gymnasium at Ephesus. To the right is one of Sultan Abdulmedjid’s four enormous calligraphy medallions, which proclaim his name, the names of his grandchildren, and the name of the Prophet.

Below this is the side gallery to the nave, with more malachite columns and Ottoman additions. The wooden railing is of a pattern I last saw on storm drain lids in the LA River. We called them Cat’s Faces. What a surprise to see them here!

Then there’s antique graffiti carved into the marble balustrade, and below that a very common thing in Hagia Sophia, an excised marble cross. And finally the cracked marble floor, bowed with the stress of centuries.

The Real Deal: Deesis Mosaic: The Last Judgement

The Jesus I’ve been drawing turns out to be not as old as we thought. Tara tells me that, despite the sign in front stating that the Deesis Mosaic The Last Judgement is 12-century, it was actually created in 1261. The great master artist is unknown, but his work is as close to immortal as art can be. Having it created was the first thing that the Christians of Constantinople did once they succeeded in expelling the Western Romans, when Dandolo who let them in had been exhumed and tossed out to the dogs, when the horror of the Fourth Crusaders had dimmed to a grim memory, when Hagia Sophia became again an Eastern Roman Christian temple. Islam’s proscription against imagery in art caused the pictures to disappear with the Fall of Constantinople to Mehmet the Conqueror in 1453.

The Last Judgement and other mosaics were discovered under plaster in the 1940s, in their present devastated condition. All this time I thought it was Crusaders had scraped the gold off, since they trashed so much else, but these desecrators were Ottoman. At least they spared the faces, which is more than the Iconoclasts did. With all these art-destroying factions hacking away it’s a wonder that the Jesus survived at all. It’s enough to make you believe in miracles.

Jesus Rocks.Hand Detail ©2011 by Trici Venola.