By Rose
Killalea
 |
| St Peters Church in Rome |
I find
myself in Pakistan, the muezzin just outside my window calling
Muslims to prayer on a cool and dark evening. I'm here to work with Medicine Sans Frontieres (MSF) in a hospital in Taliban territory. My personal mission in my
down-time, suggested by a friend, is to write about art in the
churches and mosques of Pakistan. I grab this idea of hers with both
hands, inspired immediately by the art/church connection, and the
challenge of writing. Little do I know I will be confined to quarters
in Pakistan for security reasons, and will never get to explore
beyond the walls of the compound.
But
Pakistan comes to me instead, through the many locals I work with,
and I see their love of beauty and art in the gorgeous fabrics of the
shalwar kameese the women wear, in their handmade jewellery, in the
superbly decorated trucks and tuktuks they drive, painted and gilded
on every part visible to the naked eye.
I will
miss visiting their mosques and the Christian churches that still
exist here, for I am keen to do my assignment. Instead, now
confined, I relax in the pretty garden of my Pakistani house, and
start to analyse my growing interest in art, in churches, in beauty –
all of which were ignited in a church - St Peters in Rome - where I
saw the Pieta for the first time. I could have wept it was so
beautiful, and it was in that moment I realised the value of beauty
in my life, and the cost of its absence.
I've
sought art out ever since and appreciate its beauty. And I’ve found
myself with an ongoing attraction to churches and mosques too, not
from any religiosity on my part so much as a centre, often literally,
of the town, and a centre of community, history, architecture, as
well as art.
I've had
some great experiences in churches - of love, history, religion,
music... from being in solitude in a tiny, intimately shadowed
Christian Orthodox church in Romania redolent with lit candles and
silver crucifixes and other iconography, only to have the heavy door
push open and witness beautifully attired wedding guests move quietly
into the church. The choir master indicated I could stay, and ushered
me up narrow steep stairs to the choir loft, and from there I watched
a fairytale Romanian wedding... the artistry of the setting, the
solemnity, the promise of love and commitment, the soaring voice of
the choir, a beauty all its own.
In
another part of Romania in the centre of town stood an imposing
Gothic church, blackened by the environment, the weather, insidious
pollution, giving it a sinister foreboding look. It was juxtaposed in
a deep and narrow valley, its spires dwarfed by the imposing
mountainous spires on either side. The church itself intimidated the
surrounding township, dwarfed in turn by the monolithic black
building. Perhaps it was the proximity to Dracula’s castle, nestled
as it was in the Transylvanian mountains, that lent the black church
its mystery but my imagination knew no bounds as I entered its
doorway.
I was
having a love affair with all things Turkish at the time, living
there, lapping up it history and language, reading voraciously, and
learning about and buying old turkish carpets, themselves a work of
art. And there, inside that church, two or three countries removed
from Turkey, and a smorgasbord of political and ideological
differences between them, the walls were adorned with over 100
Turkish carpets. My passion and curiosity immediately aroused, I
explored and examined those carpets, looking for the symbolic tree of
life and the motifs of fertility, the animals of Noah's ark, all
painstakingly handwoven. And in a dull and uninspiring room at the
back of the church - such a counterpoint to the majesty of the church
whose only, and only necessary - adornment was the Turkish rugs - was
a history of the area and how the rugs came to be in Romania...
The
Greek Orthodox church on Buyukada (Big Island) in the Sea of Marmara
off the coast of Istanbul in Turkey, on a high hilltop with my mother
and an older friend who used to be a catholic nun...iconography and
paintings she could tell me all about, interpret for me...
The
cathedral in Budapest on a Saturday night, on the banks of the
Danube, in the rain, a classical music performance there, musicians
on the altar… beautiful music, reminiscent of my father who loved
such music. I pictured him in his heaven watching me, pleased I was
there…
St
Paul's in London, with my teenage children, our first trip to
Europe, me wanting to introduce them to the wider world before they
flew the nest, they exploring, climbing upstairs into the dome,
enjoying all with a sense of courage, discovery and adventure.
 |
| AyaSofia Istanbul |
Visiting
the AyaSofia in Istanbul many times, first a Christian church from
c.400AD, then a Muslim mosque from the mid 15th century, and now
deconsecrated, and a museum open to all. Some of the original
Christian art work still remains on the inner walls, side by side
with original Islamic art work, to me a marvel of respect and an
acceptance of religious diversity.
And then
there is Saint Schapelle in Paris, so close to Notre Dame, yet
somewhat overlooked by visitors. A tiny chapel with three of its four
walls made entirely of the most stunning, awe-inspiring stained-glass
windows, soaring overhead in their gothic frames…another moment
when I could have wept for such beauty, and I stayed till I had drank
its beauty into my soul.
And in
between times, my mind explores the nature of religion and wrestles
with questions on the existence of God. And inquisitiveness has me
reading philosophy for the first time. I start to learn that humans
were born with a sense of morality; that philosophers were exploring
the meaning of life and articulating our ways of being, long before
Christianity, Judaism and Islam. I start to learn where Christianity
sprang from, and that religion isn’t necessary to the teaching and
development of morality.
I read
Alain de Botton's Religion
for Atheists. He writes of
the sanctuary offered by beautiful churches, their quiet and peace
and beautiful artistry and architecture. This I can identify with. He
writes, too, of the role of art in our lives, it's capacity to show
and inspire love, tragedy, passion, compassion. How these emotions
are embedded on the faces of Mary and other religious icons, and
bring us succor. And he writes of museums and art galleries, notably
the Louvre with its collection of art showcased by its country of
origin, or by its historic period of origin, and challenges us to
consider that art be laid out by the emotion it encapsulates,
evocates.
Now,
this concept stirs my soul. de Botton suggests that with the Louvre
collection regrouped and relaid according to its emotion, we could go
to the "love" room when our souls where in need of love,
the "passion" room, or the "compassion" room when
we needed to fill our cup, so to speak. He recognizes that churches
can do this for people, but we don't need churches, per se, to fulfil
us.
And I
read Richard Dawkins The God
Delusion. He doesn't talk
of art, but I read in his words the beauty of science and evolution,
and his argument that God doesn't exist.
It's an
exciting and never ending quest for me now, to be provoked, to think,
to ask questions, to seek out answers, to expand my mind, and it’s
taken me to parts of the world that are new to me, and transformed my
world view. I’ve since embraced this abundant life, recaptured my
health, vitality, sexuality, happiness, and self-expression, and it
started in a church in Rome, inspired by a beautiful work of art.
