As above so below, said the ancient Hermetic master. He was claimed to have come from Egypt, the cradle of civilization and the source of inspiration of subsequent philosophy. Hermes Trismegistus was his name–although this was a Roman rendition of what would have originally been something to do with the Egyptian god “Thoth.”

As above so below and as within so without, claimed Thoth, god of Egyptian scribes. Whatever you see around you reflects your inner self and vice versa: whatever you see within you can be found without. Heaven is mirrored on earth, and the one complements the other. This means that life is a perpetual lesson, an ongoing play of infinite mirrors, revealing what is otherwise hidden.

Whether or not it was Thoth who first coined this ancient truth, we find it repeated in all other traditions. Temple construction in particular followed the principle of as above so below. Temples were mirrors of heaven on earth. The Kaaba in Mecca was founded on a meteor fallen from the skies; the Pyramids of Giza allegedly mirroring some starry constellation; Angkor Wat reflecting the form and structure of the Hindu universe.

This latter temple is, perhaps, the strongest living example of such architecture. Based on the Hindu vision of the universe, it is formed of a colossal moat that represents the primordial ocean, a vast enclosure that represents the earth, and a mountainous temple cluster that represents the four holy mountains of Hinduism with Mount Mandara at their center. Being the highest mountain, it is the closest earth reaches to heaven.

Oceans, earth and heavens, the three elements that come to play in each creation myth. According to Thoth’s words, these three are to be found within the micro-cosmos man, and their relations are to be examined through observing them without. As above so below and as within so without; if truly abided by, nothing is lost, for all and everything can teach man about himself.

Travel to enough museums and temples and you begins seeing repetitive themes. Some are more obvious, such as the theme of man’s relation to God. Others are more subtle, such as man’s relation to himself. Curiously, man’s relation to himself seems to be less important to most traditions than his relation to his neighbor or to God. Yet this did not seem to be the case in the origin of these teachings.

Let us take, as an example, the Greek tradition. “The essence of knowledge,” said the philosopher Plato, “is self knowledge.” This means that any wisdom conveyed by a book, painting, sculpture or temple, must strive to teach ma about himself. Socrates deemed himself ignorant since he didn’t know himself. “Know Thyself,” instructed the Delphic oracle. The entire foundation of Greek philosophy, so it seems, lay on self knowledge.

According to these early Greeks, the best service that could be done to a man was to place a mirror before him. So deep was his self-ignorance, that shedding light on his true nature was to be his primary focus. The mirror, of course, would have to be a psychological one, a mirror that would reveal to man truths about himself that he would fail to otherwise see.

But this subtle theme is by no means exclusively Greek. We find the mirror in in eastern and western art. The Indian beauty who examines herself in the mirror until her lover will return; the Jain believer who ritually looks at his deity through a mirror; the Meso-american bust of a female with mirror on her heart.

I believe the old philosopher coined a truth relevant to all. The essence of knowledge should be self-knowledge, and all teaching should strive to enlighten man about his true nature–but who listens to the Delphic oracle anyway?

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:

Santorini is man-made beauty painted on a canvas of geological devastation. As your boat nears the port, you see broken cliffs dropping into the Mediterranean to form a crescent island that embraces a few sporadic specs of rock bulging over sea level.

You see what the guidebooks have already informed you: Santorini is a volcano that self-destructed.

Blue domes and white stucco reflected in the eyes of the beholder

At the height of the Minoan culture, in around 1650BC, the island was a round mound of earth. Shortly thereafter, it blew its head off in a deadly eruption to form the crescent into which your boat has sailed. Most of it went underwater, leaving the rim of the volcanic crater popping above sea level.

Its boiling lava froze the Minoan monuments in place, preserving pottery and fresco as fresh as on the day they were painted.

The Minoan culture was subsequently replaced by the Greek, which was eventually replaced by the Christian. Irene was nominated patron saint of this geological curiosity: hence the name “Santo-rini”.

The patronage of Saint Irene, however, is arguable, because the island never stopped rocking in seismic activity. Eruptions and quakes persisted, the latest being only sixty years ago. After all, what more could you expect from living on the rim of a volcano’s crater?

Now, you’d think that humans governed by the instinct of survival would have cursed this landmark long ago and banned its habitation. You’d think they’d have assigned some angry god to be its governor. You’d expect to hear rumors of the quick demise of whoever set his foot on this accursed plot of land.

The contrast of white and curvy architecture with the black cliffs

Yet man insistently repopulated Santorini to this day.

The island stands as a volatile monument of man’s triumph over nature. Not his ability to control nature—which he obviously cannot—but his ability to beautify and improve it. Man has used Santorini’s harsh geology as a rough canvas for the most delicate white stucco towns. He topped his buildings with sea-blue domes and embellished them with flowering bougainvillea.

The architectural theme seems deliberate: as if the inhabitants of Santorini sought to temper the black and blunt volcanic angles with smooth white curves, azure domes and green vegetation. Boldly, man has used the proofs of past devastation and hints of impending ones to augment Santorini’s beauty.

No doubt, Santorini will explode again, expelling the deadly lava boiling deep in its loins, destroying itself and its inhabitants once more. And yet again, man will return and impose his art to refine earthly nature into heavenly beauty.

Sunset over Oia in Santorini

For man, in the very core of his being, cannot suffice with nature. He cannot help but seek to improve, refine, transcend. If he were only of the earth, he would have long ago fled this hazardous place. But since he is also of the heavens, he constantly returns to coat its raw geology with transcendent beauty.

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.

Toasting with Raki

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.

Three youths encircle a raging bull. Two stand on either of its sides as it charges forward blindly, while the third somersaults above it.

Ansley and I pause in front of this fresco in the Archeological Museum of Heraklion. Inspired by Ron’s comment to the previous post, encouraging us to override the ‘don’t touch’ attitude we have towards ancient sites and objects, we insist on gleaning a practical message from this caricature.

While Ansley photographs the fresco, I learn from its caption that the three figures are Minoan, that the fresco comes from the walls of the palace of Knossos in Crete and the scene portrayed is the sport of bull leaping.

What meant the sport of bull leaping to the Minoans?

I notice the exaggerated proportions of the bull, especially its neck. It is this trait that gave birth to the adjective ‘stiff-necked’, which describes a stubborn and inflexible person. That is why the bull charges forward blindly; he cannot lift his head up and look.

The somersaulting athlete, on the other hand, exhibits remarkable elasticity, bending his neck in precisely the way the bull cannot. His head flexes back and looks forward, as he nimbly dodges this clumsy beast.

Flexibility is triumphing over stiffness. Whether or not the Minoans saw this in the sport of bull leaping, the painter of this fresco certainly hinted to it.

And if so, then the sport of bull leaping is still practiced to this day, for each time we bend to meet a present challenge on its own terms, rather than force it to fit our own plans, flexibility triumphs over stiffness.

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.

Re-guilt Nandi Bull in an active Temple, Mount Abu

‘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.

Nandi in the Asian Arts Museum of San Francisco – “Don’t Touch” sign

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?

Curved seams between blocks. Ollantaytambo, Peru

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

Visitors beside the colossal granite slabs in Ollantaytambo, Peru

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

Horses in 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.

Chariot Wheel in the Temple of Surya in Konark

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.

Udayagiri and Khandagiri caves, Orissa

“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.

A skeleton only faintly resembles a living body. It barely hints to the form upheld by flesh and tissue. If you were shown the skeleton of a peacock, without ever having seen a peacock, you’d have a hard time guessing the semblance of a live peacock. Indeed, paleontologists disagree whether the T-rex was truly the ferocious beast of Jurassic Park or, in reality, a clumsy, giant herbivore. It’s difficult to breathe life into a skeleton without ever having seen its living counterpart.

The traveling explorer repeatedly faces this challenge of reconstruction, because he finds his destinations in different conditions of preservation. Generally speaking, sacred sites fall into these four categories:

Temple of Poseidon in Sounion

1. Scattered Bones- a temple that has fallen into ruin and has not been restored. This may range from a pile of disheveled rubble to a collection of a few upright columns. An example is the temple of Poseidon in Sounion, Greece. It originally upheld a giant roof, inlaid with sculpture painted in bright reds, greens and blues, and housed a variety of cult objects.

Temple of Hatchepsut in Luxor

2. Stripped Skeleton–a temple that has remained intact but has lost its contents and organic fibers (such as wood and paint). Unlike the scattered bones, here the form persists, but the original colors and nuances have decayed. An example is the Temple of Hatchepsut in Luxor. Note the faint traces of paint on the faces of its sculpture.

Dark Church in Cappadocia

3. Inanimate Body–an intact temple that has retained its contents and colors, but has fallen into disuse. These tend to be more recent temples that survived a cultural revolution, the new regime preserving its old heritage. A rare, older example of this is the Dark Church in Cappadocia, Turkey, where difficult accessibility spared the 12th century frescoes from defacement.

Golden Temple in Amritsar

4. Living Temple– a temple that is still active in present times. These tend to be the youngest temples, or if they are old, they have usually undergone renovation and repainting so that they seem new. A remarkable example is the Golden Temple in Amrtitsar, India, where pilgrims still crowd and Sikh prayers are still chanted to this day.

All four categories are worthwhile exploring. Scattered bones, for example, are hard to read but are often atmospheric and evocative. A living temple opens a window into contemporary worship, but having run a stretch of centuries, has likely deviated from the original intention of its founders.

The inquisitive explorer learns a grand lesson: all creations are subject to decay, whether humans, temples, ideas, religions or nations. Each is born to life, then loses its soul but retains its body, and then gradually degenerates to dust.

The challenge of reconstruction is universal.