One More Day In Greece

On Monday, my last full day in Greece, my toe was still hurting.  And if I were to rent a bike, whether from Athens by Bike or anyone else, I'd have to worry about returning it before closing time. (Athens doesn't have a bike-sharing program, and dockless services like Lime and Ofo don't seem to be available in Athens.  So I decided, reluctantly, to skip cycling.

All was not lost, though.  I figured that in a few days, I'll feel better and start riding again, on my own bikes.  Also, exploring Athens for one more day would be fun, however I did it.

So, from my apartment (Funny, how I started to think of it that way), I crossed the street to the path to Filopappou Hill and the Hills of the Nymphs, just to look at the views and imagine.  Then I descended to the Odeon of Herodes Attiicus

and sauntered along a stone path to the cafe-lined streets of Thissio, near the Agora, where I stopped for some coffee and yogurt.  Then I took the Metro to the Cycladic Art Museum to--look at more of the statues and pottery I saw on Milos!

Actually, I am glad to have come to the museum when I did, just as I was glad to visit the Acropolis Museum after spending time in the Acropolis itself.  For one thing, those museums contain artifacts that can't be left on the sites where they were found.  Also, the museums, in the ways they exhibit their collections, help to contextualize what you see in the Acropolis or archaeological sites on the islands.

Yesterday, I mentioned that some images in the Byzantine and Christian Art Museum made me think of early photography. Well, in looking at some of the very early female figures from the Cycladic islands (which include Milos and Santorini), I found myself thinking of Pablo Picasso and artists who were influenced by him (OK, who wasn't between 1910 and 1950?) like Joan Miro.  

Even some of the pottery made me think of those early 20th Century sculptors and painters.  Seeing those almost-geometric representations of female bodies made me re-think something I'd always been told (or had read) about Picasso:  He is seen as a "visionary," or a "trailblazer."  Now I can't help but to wonder whether he was trying to "get back to basics."  After all, some of what you see in those female representations could also be seen, more or less, in the African masks Picasso collected.

Now, as a woman, and especially as a trans woman, I have problems with objectifying or abstracting a female body.  Then again, such work was being done by male artists and artisans.  Would female artists see male bodies in terms of their elemental forms?  (For all I or anybody knows, some of those sculptures may have been done by women.)  

And, really, how different is any of that from the way I experienced my body in the sea at Milos?  I felt myself as waves; my arms and legs were no longer the taut, straight lines I had always assumed they were.  And, if that's all we were--sinews and flesh in straight lines--we would be nothing more than machines pumping other machines (e.g., our bicycles).  We pedal (or swim or walk) our best when our bodies are flowing, when we are in a state of grace, which is to say in balance with our essential selves. 

Now, I have a confession:  After spending time in the museum and learning all of those wonderful lessons, however inelegantly I have expressed them, I headed to the flea market.  Please don't hold that against me!

A Thousand Words For "Red"

Even with the mishap I described in a previous post, Milos was great.  The swim alone would have been worth it, not only for its own beauty but for the way in which I was able to experience my own body.  Also, Irini is an absolute gem.

I went back to Athens on Saturday night.  Irini took me to Adamas, the port of Milos.  "Those ferries never leave on time," she advised me.  She was right:  Mine left more than an hour behind schedule.  I wasn't worried, though:  I wasn't making any connections in Piraeus or Athens.

If you've read anything having to do with ancient Greece, you might have seen Piraeus mentioned.  When people fly into Athens to take cruises, their ships leave from this port, which is in essence, if not in fact, part of the city of Athens.  It's at the western end of the #3 (green) Athens Metro line, which includes the stop (Petralona) nearest to the apartment where I stayed.  The train ride took about fifteen minutes, then it was about a five-minute walk (uphill!) to the apartment.  So, in spite of the ferry's tardiness, I got back at a decent hour.

The next morning, on the advice of the doctor at Milos, I called a doctor in Athens, who came to the apartment, took a look at my wounded toe and told me that the nail would need to come out.  Did I want to do it right then and there--she had the local anaesthetic--or wait until I got home?  I decided to do it then and there, even though I had to pay (I'll most likely be reimbursed by my health insurer) because I didn't want to think about it for the rest of my trip.

By the time she finished, the morning was all but gone and Athens by Bike closes early on Sunday.  I probably could have rented a bike elsewhere, but I figured that being off the bike for a day might not be such a bad idea, even if the doctor said riding would be OK, as long as I wore open-toed sandals.  

So, the afternoon seemed like the perfect time for something that was highly recommended to me:  the Byzantine and Christian Art Museum. "Don't think about the "Christian" part; it's a great museum," advised Kostas, the young man who drove me to Delphi.  He was right; I think I've found one of my new favorite museums.

"Byzantine" is often used as a synonym for "intricate" or "complicated."  If your tastes don't extend beyond minimalism or even late moderinism, you probably mean the latter.  For me, though, the Byzantine artists were just as meticulous and studied as the great Renaissance figures, even if their priorities are completely different. 

Oddly enough, I found myself thinking about photography.  The artists who made all of those amazing icons of the Orthodox church weren't, of course, striving for anything like photographic realism:  How could they?  For one thing, I'm not sure whether anyone had any concept of "photographic."  And, if they did, how could they apply it to representations of Biblical scenes?

What made the connection, for me, was that, like medieval artists of western Europe, they were creating two-dimensional objects and images, and realized that not everything could be "classically" proportioned.  Also, I felt as if some artists were exploring different ways of looking at (actually, imagining) faces, particularly expressions, in ways the early photographers did.

I can't help but to think those artists understood that whatever they were making could be seen in a variety of different ways--whether by the leaders of the church or the lay people, many of whom were illiterate.   Those artists even understood that what, if anything, you saw depended on where you stood in the church.  So they even created double-sided icons, like this one:




The museum also contained architectural adornments and other objects from Orthodox churches:

In looking at the painted icons, I came to this conclusion:  If Byzantine were a language, it would have at least a thousand words for "red."

I Really DIdn't Want To Leave, But...

I am on my way back to New York.  I wish I weren't.  In my next post, I'll talk about the last two days of my trip, which I spent in Athens.  And I will share more about what I've experienced on and off my bike during the past two weeks in Greece!