A snug little city in northeastern Italy, Ravenna is not far from the Adriatic coast. In the age of Christ, Ravenna was, like Venice, a town built on pilings within a marsh. Julius Caesar massed his army there before setting out to cross the Rubicon.

CAPITAL OF THE WESTERN ROMAN EMPIRE

In 402 Roman Emperor Honorius proclaimed Ravenna, with its easy access to the sea, the capital of the Western Empire. In order to grow and better defend itself, the dominant branch of the Empire had moved east to Constantinople, now Istanbul. Honorius constructed civil and religious buildings in Ravenna, adorning the latter with mosaics. Honorius’ sister, Galla Placida, later took power there, defending Christianity from invading barbarians, and commissioning her own mosaic-laden mausoleum.

Mosaics are small pieces of stone and colored glass used to create artistic designs and representations. Byzantine mosaics were often gold in color, created by placing gold leaf under glass. Glass mosaics are the most brilliantly reflective of mosaics.

BYZANTINE MOSAICS IN THE GOTHIC AGE

In 476, Roman Emperor Romulus Augustulus was deposed by a non-Roman, Odoacer, who was then succeeded in 493 by Theodoric the Great. Odoacer and Theodoric belonged to the Sovereign of Ostrogoths. “The Goths,” from which the word, gothic derives,  referring to things German or Teutonic, and architecture not classically Greek or Roman.

The Goths ruled Italy from Ravenna. Theodoric promoted the Arian version of Christianity, in which Christ is believed to be separate and subordinate to God, but he cohabited peacefully with Catholics. He also maintained the mosaic tradition; I imagine Roman mosaic artisans, timidly approaching the new ruler, hoping to stay employed. Theodoric restored Emperor Trajan’s imperial Roman aqueduct, and built the following:

BYZANTINE MOSAICS IN THE AGE OF JUSTINIAN

In 539, the Byzantine (basically, Rome in the East) Emperor Justinian overthrew the Goths. Based in Constantinople, he designated Ravenna as capital of the Prefecture of Italy. Justinian decorated Ravenna as lavishly he did Constantinople, with temples of marble adorned with fabulous Byzantine mosaic panels. These panels bring to detail scenes of Christ’s life as well as Byzantine court life. Two splendid basilicas: St. Vitale and St. Apollonare in nearby Classe, were built during this period.

THE END OF BYZANTIUM

Byzantium could not hold. Impoverished by battles with Persians and the followers of newborn Islam, the empire overextended itself. Its farthest flung parts spun off first: in the 8^th century an Italian tribe, the Lombards, took over Ravenna. In 1453 Byzantine rule in Constantinople ended.

In its heyday Ravenna was subordinate to grand and glorious Constantinople. But Istanbul’s Byzantine mosaics were later plastered over, and not all have been restored. The mosaics of Ravenna remained gloriously intact. You can see them there today in basilicas, mausoleums, baptisteries, and chapels. The little subsidiary that stayed — it now outshines the main office.

For more on Byzantine mosaics, go to:

• https://www.ricksteves.com/watch-read-listen/read/articles/ravenna-italys-byzantium
• http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/788/gallery/

The post Byzantine Mosaics: The Gold That Stayed appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

Sankar’s job was winding down. He had already started working on projects in other parts of the world. It was time to head home. “We’ll be home for Christmas,” I told Angela on the phone. I loved those sentimental words.

“No,” she replied. “I want one more Christmas in Istanbul.” Greg agreed.

Sankar and I were surprised, but pleased.

Even though our kids had visited the past summer, we had new things to show them. The Panorama Museum, with its 360-degree floor-to-ceiling murals that put visitors in the middle of the battle for Constantinople. Akdeniz Hatay Sofrası, where you could call ahead and order delectable chicken or lamb roasted in a salt casing. Sensus, a new wine bar next to the Galata Tower. The Anglican church we’d belatedly joined, Crimean Memorial.

On Christmas Eve, the temperature in the fifties, the four of us drove to the nearby suburb of Gayretepe (gayret = endeavor; tepe=hill) and left the car in a parking ramp. Then we jumped on the metro to Taksim Square. We walked the length of Istiklal Avenue, passing roasted chestnut vendors, window-shopping, and admiring the holiday lights that arched over the iconic street. We ran into Pastor Ian, sitting outside a coffee shop smoking a cigar with a friend, and stopped at Sensus for a glass of wine and some hors d’oeuvres. Fortified, we headed to church.

We arrived at the service early to get seats. The church was filled with people we knew. Robbie, a Californian who had married a Turk and worked in public relations for the AKP Party. Robbie had always been particularly friendly to me. Professor William Hale and his wife, Kathleen, Brits with whom we’d gone on ARIT trips. I had been surprised at William’s fluency in Turkish. Beate, a long-time Istanbulu from Germany, who had invited me to dinner at her historic Terabya home one weekend when Sankar was away.

We gave up our seats to Warren Winkler, an eighty-something American physician who had worked in Turkey since World War II, and his stylish Dutch wife, Ineke. We had attended a party at their lovely,  unusual home, a former Turkish bath.

I love evening church services and this was our first in our new church’s late nineteenth century building, with its choir screen separating the altar from the nave, adorned with frescoes including one of the Christ child grasping a simit (Turkish bagel).

After the service, we spoke with a British couple we had recently met. They were new in Istanbul. Now I hugged her goodbye, feeling wistful: all the confusion and exhilaration of the city was ahead for her. For us, well, movers would arrive as soon as the kids left.

Ümit was taking our guest beds and the desk Sankar had so thoughtfully purchased for me before I arrived. We were shipping most everything else back home. But what to do with our liquor? We owned a surprising amount, given that we rarely drank it. A large bottle of rum, which I’d bought for a cake recipe—a smaller size wasn’t available and, with fifty percent tax, the bottle had cost close to $75. Two bottles of rakı, Christmas gifts from 3M Turkey (along, one year, with a carton of Marlboros). A bottle of gin, and some scotch left over from when Sankar’s brother visited.

We decided to give all of these spirits to our 3M friends, Gökhan and Burcu, who had invited the four of us for a final meal at their apartment. That evening, we loaded all our bottles into the trunk of our car for the drive over the bridge and into Asia. When we reached their place, we discovered that the rum had spilled all over the inside of the trunk. We carried the rest of the bottles into their apartment and forgot about the rum.

We stayed late at Gökhan and Burcu’s apartment that night, and didn’t get back home until after midnight. The kids were flying out early the next morning; we’d be back in the car again by 5:30.

It was still dark as we set out for the airport. Sankar took the freeway entrance toward Atatürk International and accelerated confidently; there was little traffic at this time of day. But then he noticed several police cars, and an officer standing on the left side of the road, motioning us over. We stopped—had we been speeding?—and Sankar rolled down his window. The officer leaned in and without a word, stuck a plastic device in Sankar’s face. Then, issuing a sharp command, he shoved the breathalyzer right into his mouth.

The car still reeked with the fumes from the spilled rum, and I turned toward the kids, my eyes wide. Sankar passed the test and the officer waved us on. But we were shaken. “Can I get sick from having something like that in my mouth?” he asked.

It was the flip side of that Turkish order and kontrol we’d so often admired.

I had started leaving Istanbul months before our departure. I began by saying goodbye to seasonal treats I knew I’d miss. In April: grand gardens of tulips in every shade of pink, red, and yellow, and hundreds of ordinary roadside plantings. Goodbye, lale!

In June: mulberries, little white sweetnesses dangling from tree branches, fortifying my ascent from sea to apartment. Goodbye dut!

In summer: the juiciest, most luscious melons I have ever tasted, some with orange or yellow fruit, others bright green. They lasted for a while after harvest, but finally in mid-fall I ate my last one. Goodbye, wonderful kavun!

Then it was time for pomegranates, ruby red and bursting with flavor. They were still in season as I left Asia Minor, but goodbye nar!

And the sea, a visual reward. I would so miss those unexpected glimpses of pale blue water shimmering at the turn of a street, or a spray of mist as the car rounded a bend. I didn’t say goodbye, but I tried to fix each dreamlike view in my mind.

I also began saying goodbye to the language I’d tried so hard to learn. Ever since my summer visit home, my Turkish skills had been weakening. I could no longer understand conversations as well as I had in May and June, and my speech became more hesitant. “From now on, I’m going to listen to at least an hour of Turkish television each day,” I declared in my final months, but then avoided doing so.

As I intensified my wanderings around the golden city, checking off items to see one last time, I was pulling back. While I tried to stay in the moment, I could also see myself as I’d soon be: far away.

Maybe 55 had been the perfect age to meet Istanbul. I had been ready for its melancholy, what Orhan Pamuk calls the city’s huzun. The visitor is constantly reminded that Istanbul is old, and it is a reminder that you, too, will be old.

Filled with huzun, I had, more than once, longed for an entire life lived in Istanbul. To know all of its wisdom and secrets. I had learned to make difficult personal changes here. I had learned to create optimism and to cope with things I didn’t agree with. I had learned to accept lavish hospitality that I, myself, could not reciprocate. I had been humbled in Istanbul, but I had also stood up for what I believe in. But surely there was a lot more the city could teach me.

In the apartment when all was quiet, I took stock. Had our marriage improved? Had we made a better go of things here than in Costa Rica? Yes to both. Our marriage had been strengthened through discovery of shared interests, particularly in ancient and medieval history. This discovery had occurred in great part because I had opened myself up to it. I had set out for Turkey with a positive attitude, and had (mostly) refrained from complaining.

Had Turkey solved all of our problems? Surely not. I still lamented my lack of professional success, and sometimes, took out negative feelings on Sankar. And Sankar still had a tendency to brush off my concerns. But I smiled as I recalled his frequent efforts to make me happy here, cobbling together bits of Turkish, Spanish, and English to help us find the way to our next historic treasure.

Turkey had showed me that I could overwrite the patterns we’d developed in Costa Rica. That I could break the cycle of resentment and blame, and instead speak up and ask for resources to help me succeed. When a space was cleared that had once been full of negativity, there was room in our marriage to let common interests bloom. We had grown closer through our magical explorations with ARIT and by hosting numerous visitors. We had made wonderful new friends, and we had a list of Turkish places, such as the lost Armenian city of Ani, that we still wanted to visit together. Forever now, at least when we talked about Turkey (and we would talk about it a great deal), we’d talk as a team.

The most challenging experiences often produce the most rewards. The year spent teaching—the hardest job I’d ever had—had actually been a balm. It had provided a crucial sense of accomplishment, enhancing my sense of self and easing our fraught expatriate relationship. It had given me insights into the Turkish culture that I wouldn’t have gained sitting in our apartment or hanging out with other expatriates. And it had allowed me to be the kind of American I wanted to be: hardworking and dedicated. For a long time after I left Turkey, I would think of ÖzU as my employer, and its teachers as my colleagues.

My job had also pointed the way to a new career: teaching English as a Second Language.

I was proud of how I’d handled the challenge of Turkey, and I was already looking back on the experience with satisfaction. I would not only miss Turkey, but I’d miss myself in Turkey. I had, for the most part, been wise here.

Finally, our last morning—a Saturday in January. We’d already bid farewell to our Turkish and expatriate friends, our apartment, and our neighborhood, moving for our two final days to the Radisson Blu in Ortaköy. Ümit was busy with a family matter, so we’d already said our goodbyes to him. We expected to take a cab to the airport, but Taner, Waverley’s driver, did something I would surely not have thought to do: he volunteered to get up early on his day off so that our last ride wouldn’t be an impersonal one. He arrived at 5:15 am to take us to the airport.

In Istanbul, traffic is never far from mind, but as Taner turned left out of the Radison Blu, I smiled. The Sea Road was ours this morning! We were in for a quick ride on the most consistently clogged road in the city. Over the years, I had sat for what seemed like hours on its surface, studying the shiny, black and white photographs of Atatürk’s life on the Yildiz Parki walls to pass the time. Now, we whizzed along, and I busied myself trying to think of something pithy to say to Taner to mark our last car ride in Istanbul.

We were approaching the Galata Bridge when I emerged from my reverie. Just ahead was Eminönü, the centuries-old, maze-like commercial area I’d been most drawn to during my time in the city. I hadn’t planned to see Eminönü again; Ümit would have taken us on a newer route west of the city. But here it was, in all its ancient splendor. And like me, it was just waking up.

The rising sun was hitting the dome of the Suleimaniye Mosque, Sinan’s sixteenth century masterpiece, at the very top of Istanbul’s Third Hill. The largest mosque in Istanbul: how many times had I climbed crowded streets past Istanbul University to visit this house of worship? How many times had I gained a sense of peace from its soaring, taupe and terra cotta interior and enjoyed a timeless view from the green expanse on its north side?

From Suleimaniye, Eminönü’s buildings cascaded down the hill toward me, so crowded together that they looked as though they stood on risers. It was as if the heart of Istanbul had convened a special chorus to bid me farewell. I felt emotions rising; how was I going to go on living without weekly trips to Eminönü?

Still dark, but its outlines visible, on the right side of the “choir” stood the small Rustem Pasha Mosque, another Sinan jewel, adorned with precious Iznik tiles. The mosque had been built on top of a block of businesses. I had been inside it a half dozen times and just the week before, had ascended to its courtyard on the way to a nearly-hidden spice vendor with Greg.

“Take off your shoes and go in,” I urged him impulsively, and he did so without protest, emerging some minutes later to remark, “It felt really good in there.”

The Spice Bazaar itself, Byzantine-striped and surprisingly diminutive given all that it contained, stood in the front row. To its left, the multi-domed 17^th century New Mosque, my absolute favorite; I always felt like I was inside a cloud when I stood in its sanctuary. The plaza between the two, usually bustling with visitors and pigeons, was dark and quiet. Behind them receded a tangle of little streets winding up to the Büyük Valide Han, where we loved climbing to the roof and hearing surround sound prayer call.

And finally, in front like a featured soloist, the magnificent Hamdi Restaurant, overlooking the Golden Horn, where we always took guests for their first lunch. They never failed to marvel at the view of water, medieval towers, and minarets that seemed only to lack a flying carpet or two.

How often had I walked in and out of Eminönü’s shops, buying boxes, cooking chocolate, coffee cups, Turkish Delight? Enjoying smoky whiffs of grilled beef, lamb, and chicken. Stopping for a morning su boreği, or an afternoon kunefe at the outdoor lokanta where a hatchet-faced man stood day after day grilling the melted cheese and syrup dessert. How many tiny tulip cups of tea did I sip in shops throughout Eminönü? How many times did I climb up through the maze to the Grand Bazaar or walk down from the Bazaar in the late afternoon when bescarfed Turkish shoppers were out in force?

We expatriates joked that everything in the world could be found behind the Spice Bazaar, and it was true. Buttons, fabric for a Christmas tree skirt, Turkish coffee, barbecue grills, outlet strips, Jordan almonds, the idiosyncratic red and white tea sets everyone used, googly eyes for a children’s craft project, umbrellas of every design. . . there was even an entire store dedicated to baby showers.

I wanted one more moment with the Eminönü choir, but we were already across the bridge. As Taner turned left, I gulped and blinked away tears. Sankar was intent on a text message to China, working as usual, which somehow seemed appropriate. He had worked much of the experience away, and that had given him other insights.

A moment later the fanciful pink Sirkeci train station, the last stop on the Orient Express, came into view. How I had enjoyed pointing out this belle époque edifice to visitors on our way to Sultanahmet. Now we were heading west on John F. Kennedy Caddesi, an eight-mile stretch that hugged the Sea of Marmara. The ruins of Emperor Theodosius’ double-thick sea walls lined both sides of the road. Built of stone and double-baked brick in the 400s and never breached, they were worn to an oatmeal-like texture, crumbling to nothing in some places and rising impressively in others. Several bus stops and two lighted billboards—one for KFC and one for something called Kofte-mania—stood in front of them, a metaphor for the mix of profound history and bright novelty that is Istanbul.

On we went, one mile, two, and then finally a big corner chunk of wall arose on our left, the Marmara Sea glistening behind it. This is where the sea walls turn at a right angle away to march across land, becoming the land walls. I looked to my right for a last glimpse of Constantinople’s land walls, climbing north with the slope of the land and then finally curving east to meet the water at the Golden Horn. They were considered state-of-the-art for a thousand years but, thanks in part to the invention of cannons, a section was finally breached in 1453, allowing the Turks their turn in this marvelous city.

The corner chunk was a farewell sentry. Now we were outside the walls, the Old City behind us, passing handsome modern apartment complexes, hotels, and a convention center. We turned and drove under the grand, Soviet-like arch that announced Atatürk Havalımanı, parked, and got out of the car, pulling suitcases loaded with Turkish clothing, jewelry and gifts. Taner could have simply dropped us off, but he came in and waited until all our ticketing and baggage was taken care of. Even at the very end, unexpected generosity. “We can never out-nice these people,” I thought for the umpteenth time.

We had come down from our magic carpet ride. Back in America I would feel an odd exhilaration: I had seen so much beauty, majesty, and wonder; I had challenged myself and grown more than I thought possible; surely I had something to new to offer to my country. But I also felt, with great conviction, that nothing else I experienced would ever be as profound.

Turkey. Asia Minor. Quite simply: where we come from.

Inside the airport, checked in and through passport control, I glanced at Sankar. He would never think of weeping in public, but as we headed to our gate, he stopped and looked back toward where we’d just bid Taner goodbye. He paused for a moment and then he looked at me beside him, and nodded. Together, we walked toward the waiting airplane with the same thought in mind. We had been happy here.

The post Leaving Istanbul appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

Why do pictures made up of hundreds of separate pieces appear to us humans as whole and cohesive? It turns out that our brains are wired to perceive objects in their entirety before identifying individual parts. This is a phenomenon known as Gestalt.

Perhaps the first artists to make use of Gestalt were those who worked with mosaics, colored bits of stone fixed into mortar. The concept is improbable because stones are among the most mundane of materials. Yet artists have used them successfully as far back as 400 BCE.

Affluent Greeks, and later Romans, laid mosaics on the floors of their dwellings just as we place decorative rugs. Some were simply decorative designs, but others served a storytelling function, depicting scenes from the lives of important gods and goddesses.

Byzantines had a different goal for mosaics. They used them to adorn the walls and ceilings of churches–and to remind congregants of their faithful forbears. In addition to stones, Byzantine mosaic artists incorporated pieces of glass with reflective silver and gold leaf backing.

As Turkey was the home to both Byzantine and Roman cultures, this country is a treasure trove of mosaic art.In 1999, Turkey was preparing to construct a large dam across the Euphrates River in southeastern Turkey. As engineers began their work, however, they uncovered ruins of a 2nd century CE Roman city.

The city was called Zeugma. Located at the eastern edge of the Roman Empire, it had an estimated 70,000 residents and served as the base for a Roman legion.

Its position on the banks of the Euphrates River and along the Silk Road made it immensely wealthy, and this wealth was displayed in home furnishings. Frescoes uncovered from the villas appear almost as fresh as when they were painted nearly 2,000 years ago. Beautiful mosaics depict a vanished culture’s mythology. Many graceful stone columns stand in place, and around them are remains of walls and plumbing, iron window frames and lamps that illuminated nights long ago.

To save Zeugma’s mosaics from submersion, many were removed to a museum in the nearby city of Gaziantep.Several weeks ago, Sankar and I drove from Gaziantep east to the Euphrates River where we found Zeugma and the remains of a large terraced dwelling above the dam’s waters. A museum is being built around this dwelling, but it is not yet complete, so we were allowed to wander around freely and at no cost.

Preserved Zeugma dwelling, soon to open as a museum

Ancient splendor: mosaic floor uncovered by archeologists

Three-paneled mosaic “carpet” and other, separate sections

The next morning, we visited Gaziantep’s brand new Zeugma Museum, said to be the largest collection of mosaics in the world. Many tell the stories of Roman gods and goddesses.

Oceanos and Tethys among underwater friends

Oceanos, a laid-back beach bum

This fish swims upside down in the Oceanos mosaic

The relaxed god of the Euphrates, with river water flowing out of his jug

Eros (Cupid) and Psyche in love

Border detail, Eros and Psyche mosaic

Parthenope and Metiochus, legendary lovers who could never be united. Ironically, parts of this mosaic were separated for years and finally brought back together.

This famous mosaic is known as the Gypsy Girl. It could be the goddess Gaia. Or it could even be a young Alexander the Great.  What is (s)he thinking?

Here is an interesting video that explains the Zeugma mosaics:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8323657299167199011#

Now let’s look at Byzantine mosaics. Since Istanbul was for over a thousand years the center of Byzantine Christianity, many of its churches feature exquisite religious mosaics, created to inspire religious fervor and devotion.The Pammachristos church, built in the 11th and 12th centuries, has some of the finest mosaics in Istanbul.

Pammachristos

St. Anthony, brightening an otherwise dark ceiling arch

St. Gregory the Illuminator, looking down from a richly-decorated ceiling dome

St. Savior in Chora is considered the finest surviving example of a Byzantine church.The current building dates from about 1077, but the mosaics that cover the interior walls were placed between 1315 and 1320. The walls and ceiling mosaics detail the geneaology of both Mary and Jesus, and portray important scenes from their lives.

St. Savior of Chora

The Journey of the Magi

Blessing the loaves

The blessing of the baby Mary

Jesus holding the Bible, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Changing water into wine. Wine pot mosaics are actual ceramic fragments

Herod’s massacre of the innocents

Finally, we have Istanbul’s famous Hagia Sofia, dedicated in 537 CE.  The largest church in Christendom for over a thousand years, its walls feature stunning mosaics.

A formal depiction of Mary, Jesus and Emperors Justinian and Constantine

Detail of Emperor Constantine’s robe in another panel

Visitors turn a corner in the upper gallery and see this stunning Jesus mosaic.

Although our eyes integrate mosaic pieces into something whole, the artist must go further.  His/her greatest challenge is to express and convey emotion. How does the mosaic artist do this? To capture and convey nuanced expression, the artist selects the finest, smallest stones, and uses the most subtle gradations of color. 

Small stones, the gravel under our feet. They are the details, the emotions of the mosaic world.  

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]]> https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-zeugma-mosaics/feed/ 5 https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-worlds-first-mega-church/ https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-worlds-first-mega-church/#comments Fri, 24 Aug 2012 11:05:00 +0000 https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-worlds-first-mega-church/ Empires put up buildings, and when those empires are religious, they put up buildings of worship. The Roman Empire was weakening when, in 324 CE, Emperor Constantine opened a second branch 840 miles to the east. He built a new church in the city he named after himself. Completed in 360 CE, it was known as the Hagia Sofia, Sofia being the phonetic spelling of the Greek word wisdom. In 410 CE…

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]]> Empires put up buildings, and when those empires are religious, they put up buildings of worship.

The Roman Empire was weakening when, in 324 CE, Emperor Constantine opened a second branch 840 miles to the east. He built a new church in the city he named after himself. Completed in 360 CE, it was known as the Hagia Sofia, Sofia being the phonetic spelling of the Greek word wisdom.

In 410 CE Visigoths destroyed Rome, and the western half of the empire sharply declined. Constantinople became the center of the Christian world, and the Hagia Sofia became the symbol of Byzantium.

Fires and revolts destroyed several versions of the Hagia Sofia. The current building was put up by Emperor Justinian I between 532 and 537. Built on a scale unprecedented in human history, it was the largest church in the world, and it maintained this status from 360 to 1453 CE, over a thousand years. It remains the finest example of Byzantine architecture.

Of his work, Justinian was said to have proclaimed, “Solomon, I have outdone thee!”

Ten thousand workers built the Hagia Sofia to a height of 180 feet, the same height as the Statue of Liberty’s torch. They completed its massive dome in only five years. The building measures 230 by 246 feet and its dome spans 102 feet. Its interior is full of handcrafted mosaics dating back as far as the eighth century. Other inside surfaces are made of green, white and purple marble.

In 1204 Latin Crusaders offended by Eastern Orthodox beliefs sacked the Hagia Sofia, stealing many of its precious relics. After the Muslim conquest in 1453, the Hagia Sofia was turned into a mosque. Kemal Ataturk, founder of the modern Turkish Republic, proclaimed it a museum in 1934.

Nowadays the largest structures in the world are factories, office buildings and shopping malls. But even now, the Hagia Sofia is the fourth largest church in the world. It receives about three million visitors each year.

I cannot fully imagine the how a person of the sixth century, accustomed to squat, dimly-lit structures, would have felt standing in such an enormous, enclosed building.  The fact that it stood at all must have seemed like a miracle, proof of the immense power of God.

Today’s mega-churches are built to serve large congregations, and most are not architecturally distinctive. I tend to view these buildings as expressions of overweening pride, ignorance of Jesus’ message of simplicity. But I find it difficult to think that way about a building that has stood for 1500 years. Any venality or baser motives on the part of the Hagia Sofia’s creators has been lost to the ages. Endurance trumps vanity. Brilliant architecture trumps mediocrity. I realize that my sentiments lack consistency.

Let me show you some photos of the church, visible from almost every part of Istanbul’s Old City. The lovely structure is different each time I see it, so I find myself continually photographing it.

Viewed from a ferryboat on the Golden Horn. Minarets were added during its mosque years.

Closer view — note orange stucco facade

Angled view — note buttresses, added in the ninth or tenth centuries

The interior of the church is vast, impossible to capture in one photograph. Here are some attempts.

View toward front. Medallions in Arabic commemorate Muslim prophets. Note how small visitors appear.

The building’s interior glows with tones of gold, burgundy and gray-green.

Fresco of Mary and Jesus on side of dome

People come from all over the world to see the Hagia Sofia.

The other amazing aspect of the Hagia Sofia is its mosaic panels. To see some of them, you have to trudge up a long, dank, medieval ramp. I love how the otherwise obsessively clean Turks have kept this ramp as is, with the dirt of ages ground into the floor. At the top, around a corner is a dazzling surprise.

The expression on this mosaic panel moves many visitors to tears.

Mary and Jesus with Emperor Johannes Comnenus II and Empress Eirene

Gold mosaic detail

I love the Hagia Sofia.

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