Oct 10
There are few places in the world that live up to one’s expectations: the Taj Mahal was one, and now Santorini has proven to be another. I had heard stories and even seen photos of the enchanting village of Oia, perched on the edge of a volcanic ridge, but nothing came close to the sensation of seeing it for oneself.
Santorini: a photographer’s playground of forms and colors. Here are a few of my favorite shots:
The first rule in theatrical improvisation is to say “yes”. The idea is to keep the action moving forward and create rather than destroy. I try to apply this attitude to my life, and here in Crete I was given the perfect opportunity to put my theory to practice.
We rounded the corner of the restaurant where we planned to lunch and were greeted by a small mountain of crates. Behind the crates, a group of young Greeks stood ankle deep in grapes, splashing and singing as the crushing continued underfoot.
I watched with a grin from across my lunch plate as they crushed their way through the crates, taking small breaks to pour glasses of raki and slap each other across the shoulder. When our lunch finished my eyes turned towards them once more. Obviously aware of my curiosity, they smiled and waved me over to join them. There are some things in the human spirit that need no translation.
At first I shrugged my shoulders: “No, no, I’ll just watch.” But then I caught myself: “Why not jump in? What do I have to loose?” I slipped my sandals from my feet and gingerly stepped across the threshold into the sweet, sticky goodness.
I could have stayed all day with that youthful bunch, stomping grapes, drinking raki and becoming drunk with the joy of life.
Say yes; you’ve everything to gain.
Don’t Touch. The general rule for ancient sites, temples or museums. Your touch may erode the marble, chip the wood, wash the paint, harm the coating, topple the vase, spoil the gilding—so don’t touch.
‘Don’t touch’ turns out to be a modern invention. On our first visit to India—where religion is still widely practiced and temples are still active—we quickly learned that touching was the norm. I was alarmed to find my guide handling each sculpture he displayed, running his fingers through its creases, patting its head, anointing it with oil and embellishing it with flowers.
‘Don’t touch’ screamed a voice within me. I repressed it, though, figuring that the guide knew the acceptable code of his locality better than I.
Once I overcame the shock, touching made perfect sense. The original aim of sculpture, after all, was to vivify the deity. The believer could now feel his god and sense his presence. Unlike a painting, he could interact with Shiva or Vishnu or Nandi more naturally: anoint them with oil, beautify them with garlands and please them with hymns.
And what if the marble erodes? Then we’ll carve a new sculpture. And what if the gilding is spoiled? Then we’ll add a fresh coat. And what if the paint washes off? Then we’ll paint a new layer.
Artisans never hesitated to do away with an eroded sculpture or a deteriorated painting and replace them with new reproductions. These painters and sculptors, of course, never suspected that in a few centuries’ time, their eroded ‘originals’ would sell for millions in Sotheby’s.
Had they known, perhaps they themselves would have carved on the base of their works, ‘don’t touch!’
Rocks are what I remember from Peru. Giant boulders stacked so sturdily that they stood as erect as on the day they were piled. I remember the curved seams between each block, as if they weren’t carved, but poured into place and permitted to mold into each other by sheer gravity. These curved seams made the stones seem deceitfully light, until you touched their eroded surface and sensed their immovable mass.
Why would the ancients have built like this? Why use massive stones and why carve curved seams?
This question persisted like a fly, resurfacing each visit even after we thought we’d already brushed it aside. Each non-linear wall pushed us farther from an answer, and although the sites differed in craftsmanship, all stacked their massive blocks irregularly, non-linearly, without any evident regard to functionality and labor.
The epiphany came while I was looking at the six colossal granite pillars of Ollantaytambo. My phone rang. Cellular pressed against my ear, I spanned the size of these megaliths, when the trace of an answer crossed my mind. It wasn’t an answer to why the ancients built like this, but why I would never understand.
These massive stones seemed to me what my iphone would have seemed to them: foreign, nonfunctional and unnecessarily complex. We were too far from each other chronologically, technologically and psychologically. They’d never suspect why I carried an iphone in my pocket, and I’d never suspect why they spared no expense in stacking the heaviest stones seamlessly and irregularly.
I was, alas, too technologically advanced to understand.
For more Preuvian masonry, visit our Peruvian photo gallery
During our second visit to India, Ansley and I sought to stray off the beaten path and dig deeper into the roots of Hindu architecture. We flew eastwards to the state of Orissa, home to the crown and pride of all Hindu temples, the largest and most sophisticatedly carved shrine in the Hindu world: the Temple of Surya in Konark
Hindus chose this eastern extreme of their land to erect a shrine for Surya, the sun god, because he daily arose in the east. Surya performed his solar sojourn riding a chariot, much like the Egyptian Ra or the Greek Helios. The temple itself was therefore fashioned in the form of a chariot, hauled on twelve colossal wheels by seven mighty horses.
Overwhelmed by this grand edifice, you lost the personal charm so characteristic of Hindu shrines. After all, Hinduism, unlike Christianity or Islam, encourages personal worship. Temples were therefore designed to accommodate few pilgrims at a time, leading the visitor to meet his Lord in private intimacy.
But not the grand temple of Surya. Swarming with tourists that day, you sensed it must have been likewise crowded in its heyday, with pilgrims, workers and priests all bustling about at the expense of that sacred intimacy. Reflection and meditation disappeared, overcrowded by a mob of visitors and annihilated by the grandness of carved stone.
We found our intimacy elsewhere and by chance, when we set out to visit the Udayagiri and Khandagiri caves nearby. These were no match to the grandiose sun temple and were proportionately less popular to tourism. A humble cluster of caves hewn into a ‘U’ shaped mountain-cliff greeted us. Inhabitants settled here fifteen centuries before the construction of Konark, carving their dwellings and shrines on a humble scale to suit their ancient needs.
“Udaygiri” means sunrise hill. Without the pomp of Surya’s chariot, these ancient cave dwellers likewise aligned themselves with the rising sun. They paid homage to their god more silently and simply, carving a few reliefs here and there on his behalf, with neither colossal wheels nor horses, neither giant staircases nor pagodas. The contrast was profound. It proved how worship, that stems from similar roots, may grow to bear very different fruit.
Which site was more genuinely spiritual? It’s challenging to assess spirituality even in the present, let alone in the past. Both sites were indeed spectacular, Konark for its grandeur, Udayagiri for its discreetness. Naturally, I have my own suspicions, which I openly hint to in this post. Bigger is not always better; sophisticated is not always smarter; more ornate is not always more beautiful. The ugly duckling may well turn out to be the most beautiful swan.
Take a look at our galleries of Konark and of the Udayagiri and Khandagiri caves, and decide for yourself.
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