THE BULLS OF MINOS

So ………….. the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown has come and gone. Same old - same old …….. but it seems that our Bathurstian artists all did some quite nice turnover. While wandering through potter Richard Pullen’s display I noticed a few pieces that I had not seen in his Bathurst studio - some beautifully crafted Bulls that immediately took me back to my childhood when our African gardener, Johannes, would craft small clay bulls in a matter of minutes for me to play with ……………. and more recently, in 1973, when I had the good fortune to visit Knossos on Crete and become entranced by the legends of King Minos, the Labyrinth, the Centaur and the famed Bulls of Minos. 

One of Richard Pullen's Ceramic Bulls

4000 Year old fresco at Knossos

My then business partner, Howard, and I had been commissioned to design a hotel on Mirabello Bay close to Agios Nikolaos, and so we visited the island in November 1973. I initially spent about 10 days in Athens gleaning information re planning permissions construction methods, while at the same time enjoying the marvelous hospitality of one of Athens most respected citizens, Ersi Hatzimahali.  It was during the military junta of 1967–1974, commonly known as the Regime of the Colonels - or simply The Junta,  and Ersi had been banished to the basement of her beautiful home in Yperidou Street, Plaka …………… the Junta giving her the option of nominating what the house should be used for. She specified ‘Art Gallery’, but this never came to be and the house simply stood empty.

I had met Ersi very briefly some eighteen months before at the Andsell Gallery in Monmouth Street in London which belonged to a friend of mine, Stan Booth. I had been walking home to our flat in Grays Inn Road and popped in to say hi to Stan. The exhibit on display was a collection of paintings by Ersi, and I was immediately struck by light that emanated from each and every canvas - they reminded me immediately of both Miller and Durrell’s writings about Greece, but most specifically Miller’s Colossus of Maroussi. I mentioned this to Stan who was on the floor, and he asked if I would like to meet the artist who happened to be in his office. I went through with him and there was this very beautiful woman of about 50 with a mountain of red hair. He introduced us and I mentioned to her that her work was redolent of Durrell and Miller’s writings. She smiled and said simply that if I was ever in Greece I should visit her. That was the sum total of our meeting, and I had absolutely no idea that she was in fact a very central figure in the group of artists and poets around which the Colossus and a number of Durrell’s books were constructed. Katsimbalis (the Colossus of Maroussi), the poet, was a close friend of hers, and her son Socrates whom I later met and became friendly with, was the son of George Seferis (Seferiades), the famous Greek Poet and Diplomat.

Before going to Greece I mentioned to Stan during another visit to his gallery that I was going, and he asked if I remembered  Ersi - yes I did - she had left a few canvasses at the gallery, and would I mind very much dropping them off with her when I was there - of course - not a problem. 

And so I happened upon her house some time in November 1973. Knocking on the door the house sounded empty - a hollow echoing sort of sound. Behind me I heard a high pitched gabbling, and looking around I saw a little old lady all dressed in black in an upstairs window across the road. She was trying to tell me something in Greek, all the time pointing and directing me to what appeared to be a basement door. I signalled my thanks and went down and knocked. The door opened, and after a very brief hiatus - and after an equally brief introduction in London eighteen months before - this amazing woman smiles and says, “Aaah Neville - I knew you would come to visit me”. Then taking me by the hand she pulled me into a huge room totally filled with the clutter of a long and eventful life, and leading me through a veritable labyrinth walled by all manner of furniture and paintings and pots and pans, she stops first at a chess board with a game in progress and says, “Move”. It took me a minute to register before I did as instructed and made a move on the board ……….. then on to another game on a another board, “Move” - and then another, and another. As I recall she had about thirteen or so games on the go and each time someone visited they had to play a piece which she would then combat in her own time.

She explained to me what the Junta had done to her - how her entire Trust had been grabbed and how she had suddenly been left virtually penniless from around 1968. She began painting and working as a tour guide in order to survive - but the people of Athens also came to her aid, and she was able to eat free in any restaurant in the city - and with a guest if necessary. And so my free time was taken up with my own personal guide to Socrates Seat - to the Parthenon - to the Antiquities Museum and a number of other sites. And each time we were out she would lead me into a restaurant where she would be royally greeted and taken - with me in tow - into the kitchen where a long discussion about what was cooking - what the special of the day was etc., etc., before being shown to a table where we would be wined and dined as if she were truly royalty……… Pansela!…… For nothing!……..Amazing. And walking through the streets and alleyways of the Plaka with her - this really regal woman with her long, long red hair - I absolutely felt that I was in the company of royalty. Shopkeepers and stallholders would bow and greet her - others would wave and call greetings from across the road. It really was a very special experience.

When I returned from Crete the day before flying back to London we were sitting over a cup of Greek coffee ……………. she looked at me thoughtfully - deep into my eyes and said quietly, “Neville - don’t go back - leave your wife and come live with me on Santorini”. Shock! Horror! A shy smile - a shake of the head - thank you, but no I couldn’t do that. “Well then - at least delay your flight and come to dinner tomorrow night - Katsimbalis will be there.”

One of the abiding regrets in my life is that I couldn’t, and didn’t, delay that flight. 

HEREWITH A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THE LEGEND OF KING MINOS AND THE PALACE AT KNOSSOS

The Palace at Knossos

North Entrance to the Palace

Minos was the legendary ruler of Crete, the son of Zeus, who was the king of the gods, and of Europa, a Phoenician princess and the personification of the continent of Europe. The legends that surround his rule are the stuff of modern day super hero movies, and one really has to wonder whence they came.

According to the myths surrounding the early city of Knossos, King Minos hired the Athenian architect Daedelus to design his palace, and so cleverly was it constructed that no one who entered could find their way back out without a guide. Other versions however have it that it was not the palace that was designed this way but the Labyrinth within the palace which was built to house the half-man/half-bull ……… the Minotaur - offspring of Minos’ wife Pasiphae and a snow white bull that Poseidon had sent Minos for sacrifice.

Here the myths and legends become a little confused. Poseidon, who had been called upon by Minos to send him a bull from the sea for sacrifice in order to prove his divine right to rule Crete, became so angered by Minos’ failure to sacrifice the bull he had sent that he decided to punish him in two ways: he made the bull so mad and wild that no one could approach it, and he also asked Aphrodite, the goddess of love, to cause Minos’ wife Pasiphae to fall in love with the bull. Pasiphae then asked Daedalus to design and construct for her the body of a cow into which she could climb and then have sex with the bull……………….hence the Minotaur.

Ancient art - Bulls Horns - Echoes of Modern Art

Excavated rooms of the original Palace before reconstruction

In order to keep Daedelus from telling the secrets of the palace, Minos locked him and his son Icarus in a high tower at Knossos and kept them prisoner. Daedelus fashioned wings made of wax and bird's feathers for himself and his son, however, and escaped their prison ……. but Icarus, flying too close to the sun, melted his wings and fell to his death. The Minotaur, the monster-child of Minos' wife, thrived on human sacrifice and Minos demanded the tribute of the noblest youth of Athens to keep the beast fed. Theseus of Athens, with the help of Minos' daughter Ariadne, killed the Minotaur, freed the young people, and returned triumphant to Athens.

Having pursued Daedalus to Sicily Minos was killed by the daughters of king Cocalus who poured boiling water over him as he was taking a bath.

Under Minos’ rule, Knossos flourished through maritime trade as well as overland commerce with the other great cities of Crete, Kato Sakro (Phaestos) and Mallia. Knossos was destroyed and re-built at least twice. The first palace identified in modern times was built c. 1900 BCE on the ruins of a much older settlement. Based upon excavations done at the site, the first palace seems to have been massive in size with very thick walls. Ancient pottery found throughout Crete, at various sites, indicate that the island was not unified under a central culture at this time and so the walls of the palace were most likely constructed to their size and thickness for defensive purposes. As the writing of this period, so-called `Cretan Heiroglyphs', has not been deciphered, nothing is known about this time save what can be discerned through archaeological evidence.

This first palace was destroyed c. 1700 BCE and re-built on a grander, though less massive, scale. Great attention was paid to intricacy of architecture and design with less effort spent on defensive walls. As the pottery of this period shows a unity of culture throughout Crete, it has been determined that the culture of Knossos prevailed at this time and the island was a unified nation under a central government. This palace had four entrances, one from each direction, all leading to the central court. As the corridors within were dark and circuitous, it is thought that this gave rise to the story of the labyrinth of Minos. The throne room was particularly impressive. 

According to The British School at Athens, “Two double doors led into the Throne Room with gypsum benches on three sides and the magnificent throne in the centre of the north wall flanked by the reconstructed Griffin fresco.“ The scholars of the British School have also speculated that the throne room was not intended for the ruler but, rather, as the seat for the goddess who would receive supplicants and sacrifices there. This theory is based upon wall paintings and other evidence found at the site which suggest the king's  throne was most likely in the central court and the throne room was more ceremonial and religious in nature. The Snake Goddess of the Minoans was the supreme deity who may have been an early version of the Greek goddess Eurynome who danced with the serpent Ophion across the chaos of the primordial sea in the act of creation. Images and figures of the Snake Goddess (now at the Iraklion Museum) have been found at Knossos and elsewhere in Crete dating from this period. Further evidence of the goddess is the repetition of the motif of the double axe, most notably in the Hall of the Double Axes in the palace. There is no doubt that the double axe symbolized an important goddess of the Minoans but it is not clear whether it was the Snake Goddess or another.

The city of Knossos, and almost every other community centre on Crete, was destroyed by a combination of earthquake and the invading Mycenaeans c. 1450 BCE with only the palace spared. The eruption of the volcano on the nearby island of Thera (Santorini) in c.1600 or 1500 BCE has long been held a major factor in the destruction of the city and second palace. Recent scholarship, however, argues against this theory citing Mycenaean activity at the palace after 1450 BCE. The Mycenaean writing system, known as `Linear B', continues in Crete after the eruption of the Thera volcano and there is further evidence that  the Mycenaeans re-built the damaged palace. In fact, it appears that Knossos became an important base of operations and capital of the Mycenaeans until it was destroyed by fire and finally abandoned c. 1375 BCE. The date which traditionally marks the final end of the Minoan Civilization is 1200 BCE after which there is no evidence for the culture. Some scholars cite the final date as 1450 BCE with the Mycenaean invasion and others claim c.1375 or c.1300 BCE on account of the fire which destroyed both palace and city. However long the Minoans may have continued on the island, following the fire the ruins of the great metropolis were abandoned and left to decay.

Music!!!!

Virtually every step of my life can be measured in music - and I really am extremely fortunate to have lived through ….. and in many respects, been a part of, the 20th century musical revolution that began in the early nineteen fifties and which has extended unabated right up until now. I really do have a great many people to thank - musicians who have no knowledge whatsoever of who I am, but whose contributions helped shape my life, and I am quite certain, the lives of a great many millions of other people down through the years. I will call many of them to book as I go forward, and I feel sure that those of you who may read this will join me in both recognition and thanks for how their lyrics and compositions have signposted so many moments in our lives.

One of my most important milestones was hearing Elvis Presley sing for the first time. I could not have been more than about ten or eleven at the time, and it would have been something I heard on the radio ………..  but even as I began processing what I was hearing I think that I  subconsciously recognized the dawn of an era that would change the world as I knew it forever.

The early fifties were a drab and dull hangover of the post-war years for youth everywhere - there was little or no color in their dress, and certainly nothing at all that could be considered an ‘identity”. Then suddenly we had ‘That’s all-right Mama’, and the world would never be the same again. Quite suddenly youth everywhere had an identity - a sound, a look and an image that they could identify with - pink socks and blue suede shoes - stovepipe trousers - sideburns - ducktails ………….. and “Rock ’n Roll”. 

Initially it was all quite innocent, but with the objections of the older generation  came the belligerence and new found identity of the youth. Suddenly we had the Teddy Boys, the Ducktails ………… movie representation in the form of James Dean in ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ - and then (again quite suddenly), there was “Jailhouse Rock”, and our generation was in charge. The worlds’ youth would never look back - Elvis had given them an identity that would grow and expand under the tutelage of the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Elton John, Neil Diamond, Neil Young, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Simon and Garfunkel ………. and probably the most influential talent of them all, Bob Dylan. 

All of these people were our idols …… and many of them are still today. Bob Dylan has never written better music than  he has been doing for the last eight or so years. Neil Young has elevated himself to the position of “Protest Master” through the simple channels of honesty and commitment to the causes he has chosen to represent ….. Farm Aid - the Monsanto debacle - Impeach the President and so on and so forth ……….. all the time playing with his trains and working to convince Apple and the rest of the world of the worthlessness of MP4’s which only give us about 5% of the input that the musicians endeavor to impart in their music  ……… would that his system becomes the standard, we would simply be aware of so much more, as we were in the days of vinyl and great analogue sound systems.

I remember well the first time I really became aware of Van Morrison’s music. Pat and I were travelling through France in our little white VW Beetle on a pilgrimage of sorts. I was intent on visiting as many of the architect Le Corbusier’s buildings as I possibly could. He was my idol in so many respects - a complete man of sorts whose achievements in architecture, town planning and art had captured me since I first became aware of him during my initial  year studying architecture at the University of Pretoria.

We had hooked up with a friend, Lisa Woodsworth, who was living in a small apartment in Aix en Provence where she was studying French. Lisa was Canadian and the daughter of a past Canadian Ambassador to South Africa,  which was where we first happened upon her. As “free” a spirit as one was likely to meet in Europe in the early seventies, Lisa collected stray hippies like many people collect cats, and staying in her apartment for the seven or so days we were in Aix was an experience indeed. She was living with a lovely guy, Jean, at the time - an artist who apparently made a living of sorts painting murals in restaurants and cafes. At the time there were, if memory serves me correctly, three other guys living there, one of whom, a cherub faced little blonde youngster who couldn’t have been more than about seventeen, was absolutely besotted with Lisa, and who - with Jean’s apparent permission - slept each night on the floor at the foot of their bed. We unfortunately had to share the floor in the lounge with two other strays - one of which was a total sleazeball who after lights out each evening subjected us to the stroked nylon beat of his meat inside his sleeping bag which would increase exponentially in speed over a period of about 15 minutes and climax in a veritable drum roll of “Nylobeats” - then dead silence accompanied by a whimpering sigh of completion. 

This guy pretended to be everything he wasn’t, he simply latched onto everything discussed and built it into his persona. One evening we were talking about braais  (barbeques), back home in South Africa, and he started up about how he loved the outdoors and nature and exploring unknown places …….. I’d basically had enough of his bullshit so there and then I suggested to everyone that the following evening we all trek up the side of Mont St. Vittoire until we found a nice spot and there we would light a fire and have a braai. Everyone agreed it was a great idea and the next day Jean and I went out and bought a few chops and sausages for the braai before going down to the vegetable market where we collected the most amazing discarded salad leaves and vegetables (only the best was sold - the rest thrown away), which we took home, washed and used to prepare a salad for that evening and an amazing soup for the next day which we would enhance with the bones left over from the braai. 

That evening we left a little while before dark and tramped up the side of Cezanne’s famous mountain, finding an ideal little spot for our venture just before dark. As the light faded - and despite the fire, ‘Tjuk a Tjuk’ (the name Pat and I had given him - resembling the noise inside the nylon sleeping bag), began becoming quite fearful of the dark and  suggestive of a whole host of terrible things that might befall us if we did not get off the mountain immediately. We all laughed him down, which only made matters worse, and eventually I escorted him down to where the street lights permitted him a degree of solace and told him to go on home and keep his bullshit to himself in future.

But I digress ……… Van Morrison!  On our last evening in Aix Lisa announced that her, Jean, Pat and I had been invited to dinner at a friend of her’s apartment. This friend turned out to be one of the most beautiful women I had ever had the pleasure to meet. Dressed in the flowing fabrics of sixties and seventies hippiedom, not even the material excess could hide the sensuality she exuded, and her masses of deep red Henna-ed hair piled casually atop her head formed the perfect frame for - and only served to - accentuate the paleness and perfection of her parchmentlike skin and incredible bone structure. I was smitten. Not even the pointed stump of a severed forearm  could detract from this picture of  virtually perfect pulchritude. And all the time Morrison’s voice pervaded the space around us, wrapping her every movement and gesture in a cloak of inferred suggestion. We sat in a circle on the floor and she served us a simple curry and rice with all of the trimmings and copious amounts of wine, her disability never once seeming to present a hindrance of any kind, and often, waved almost as a baton, serving to accent whatever it was she was saying in a deep, husky, and very sexy french voice that we understood almost nothing of, yet which both Pat and I felt entirely included in. Funny how that sometimes happens …….?  Again, Morrison was all pervading throughout the evening …………… ‘Astral Weeks’ I think was the name of the album, which I bought immediately upon our return to London a few weeks later, and which I still enjoy as much today as at that first hearing in Aix.

When eventually we got up to leave and we hugged in gratitude, Lisa mentioned to her that we were moving on the following day, she hugged me aggressively, and what I thought was quite intimately, and said quite clearly in broken english for all to hear, “You cannot leave,  you have not made love to me yet.”

Ahhhhhhhh! Aix?

Pat wandering the streets of St.Paul de Vence - 1973

St.Paul de Vence security on an old wooden gate

Old wooden door detail - all pics taken with my old Pentax Spotmatic and (I think) Ilford stock