las olas: waves
Dec. 13th, 2025 12:00 am| Part of speech: | noun |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | Las olas durante las tormentas están muy altas. |
| Sentence meaning: | The waves during the storms are very high. |
| Part of speech: | noun |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | Las olas durante las tormentas están muy altas. |
| Sentence meaning: | The waves during the storms are very high. |

| Part of speech: | verb |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | Los chicos se pierden a menudo. |
| Sentence meaning: | The boys often get lost. |
| Part of speech: | noun |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | Mis amigos y yo damos muchos paseos por el pueblo. |
| Sentence meaning: | My friends and I go for many walks around town. |

So many pleasures in an old book.
A while ago, I started browsing through a handsome 1926 edition of The Autobiography and Memoirs of Benjamin Robert Haydon published by Peter Davies (the Peter of J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan) on the Internet Archive. I found the text so interesting that I decided to see if a copy was available for a reasonable price. I was able to find a set (it was published in two volumes) in very good condition for under $30 and have been thumbing through it with my morning coffee for the last month.
Haydon was a Regency-era painter often better known for his irascible temperament than his painting. He never achieved, or rather, never maintained the fame he aspired to and many pages of this book recount his begging for loans and avoiding his creditors. Whether you read his autobiography or a biography, you should not plan on reading about Benjamin Haydon unless you’re prepared to spend time with a man whose flaws often outstretched his talents.
Aldous Huxley puts it bluntly in his introduction, “The one gift which Nature had quite obviously denied him was the gift of expressing himself in form and colour” — a crippling deficiency for a painter, and one that explains much of Haydon’s difficulty in earning a living as one. “One has only to glance at one of Haydon’s drawings to perceive that the man had absolutely no artistic talent,” Huxley adds, before proceeding into a catalogue of this singularly untalented artist’s most notable failures.
Haydon did little to help himself by preferring grandiose scenes intended to dominate whole walls in galleries over the far more popular and profitable portraits of family members that wealthy patrons were willing to commission. Haydon aspired to be another Rembrandt, producing large canvas along the lines of “The Night Watch.” Instead, the grander the scale, the more his limitations were exposed: “One notices great swishing brush strokes daubed in for the sole reason that every inch of the canvas has got to be covered with paint.”
Haydon may have been a mediocre painter, but he was a lively, if self-obsessed writer. Huxley argues that Haydon’s father made a terrible mistake in sending his son to study painting. “As a romantic novelist, what might he not have achieved?” Haydon was able to keep his self-esteem aloft through humiliation after humiliation and seems to have been considered something of a magnetic personality by his friends, particularly for his lively and entertaining conversation, and a sense of his ability to engage an audience can be found throughout these pages.

Here, for example, having sold his painting “The Judgment of Solomon” (one of his grandiose canvases) for £600 and paid off numerous creditors (“My baker spread my honesty and fame in Mark Lane”), he heads to Paris, arriving just after the overthrow of Napoleon.
These elevations to the heights of glory from the lowest depths of misery are dreadful cuts into the constitution. I slept with horrid dreams and startling restlessness. My landlord’s honest joy was exquisite to me. I paid him £200, and he drew on me for the balance. John O’Groat held out his big hand and almost cried. I paid him £42, 10s. My baker spread my honesty and fame in Mark Lane, which I heard of. I paid him every shilling. My tailor, my coal merchant, my private friends, were all paid. In short, £500 went easily the first week, leaving me £130. It did not pay half my debts, but it established my credit. Many private friends forbore to press, the Hunts the foremost.
Now crowded in people of every description; some knew my father; some had nursed me when a baby; servants came out of the city who had lived with my mother; fathers brought me their sons that I might look at their drawings; authors sent me their works; my sister came to town to share my fame, and I pressed her to my heart, overwhelmed by the dreadful and painful burst of reputation after such long, struggling obscurity. I seized Wilkie’s offer to let my sister stay at his house whilst we went to Paris. I felt positive relief.
Paris was now the most interesting place on earth. Napoleon was overthrown and going to Elba. All the nations on earth were there. The Louvre was in its glory. Such wonders can be only conceived. No human being hereafter can ever enter into the feelings of Europe when we heard Napoleon was in retreat; it cannot be comprehended.
The editor, Tom Taylor, adds a comment about Haydon’s claim to having settled all his debts: “This is inconsistent with what follows, but the discrepancy is characteristic.” In other words, Haydon never quite managed to settle ALL his debts when he came into cash — otherwise, how did he manage that excursion to Paris?

This book came from the collection of one Elsie Raspin, whose bookplate (“her book”) graces the inside cover. Elsie Harriet Raspin, from what I can determine, was a Yorkshire woman and occasional poet. From the inscription, we know it was given to Elsie as a fresh new set.

Born in Fulham in 1892, Elsie graduated from Trinity College of Music in 1909 at the age of 17. Her parents must have moved to Yorkshire after that, for they were listed as residents of Eccleshill in Bradford when she married John Frederick Raspin, the son of a wool dealer in February 1913.
Elsie Raspin dabbled in poetry in the 1920s and 1930s. I can find records of around ten poems published between 1925 and 1933, several in Country Life and one in The Poetry Review. She must have been a friend and follower of the Bradford poet Alberta Vickridge, for a collection of Elsie’s work with the title Poems published in 1931 is credited to Beamsley House, which was Vickridge’s home. Vickridge published a quarterly poetry magazine, The Jongleur between 1927 and the early 1950s, and the University of Leeds holds over 100 manuscripts of contributions in its special collections. Although Vickridge was by far the most prolific contributor to The Jongleur, the collection includes poems by J. B. Priestley, Laurence Binyon, and the Jazz Age poet, publisher, and human train-wreck, Harry Crosby.
Here’s Elsie’s poem “The Folds of Night.” First published in Country Life in September 1925, it made its way across the Atlantic, appearing in the Brantford, Ontario Expositor (and perhaps elsewhere) in early 1926.
The Fold of Night
The mist of evening gathers in
The hill-tops to the fold,
It wreathes them round and keeps their thin
Sharp shoulders from the cold;
It makes the hills and mountains kin,
The tufted hillocks, bold.It weaves the houses little shifts
Of soft, illusive grey,
It gives the tree-tops little gifts
To hide their leaves away;
It lies upon the fields in drifts,
It veils the fading day.And when within the fold of night
They all are gathered close,
It disappears and leaves the bright
Clear stars, with twinkling glows,
To keep them safe from harm or fright,
To guard their sweet repose.
Elsie was also an advocate of what has become known as re-wilding. Well, to an extent. In a 1929 article in Country Life, she argued that gardeners should include flowers and other local plants in their gardens. She did not advocate “any rooting up of native plants from our already depleted lanes and woods,” she stipulated at the start. Instead, she suggested that seeds be collected and placed alongside domesticated plants. “First of all, because most of them are good-tempered and easy to please, being indigenous to the soil and climate, and secondly, because they are so much more beautiful than many of the pampered, half-hardy plants so widely used.”
After offering numerous examples of hearty, attractive plants she’d introduced into her Yorkshire garden, she closed with a plea for the value of the practice in fostering bio-diversity: “So many of them are disappearing or being driven into remote fastnesses by the rapid growth of building in the countryside that we should count it a labour of love to attempt their preservation in our gardens, whence, perhaps, their seed will be borne afield to find new stations where it can get a foothold.”
Elsie’s husband eventually took over his father’s business and remained in charge until the late 1950s. His ads calling for wool combers in shearing season appeared in the Bradford newspaper for decades. He died in 1966. The Raspins had two sons within a little more than two years after their wedding; both lived into their nineties. There is no online record of Elsie’s death.
| Part of speech: | adjective |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | La papaya es una fruta jugosa. |
| Sentence meaning: | The papaya is a juicy fruit. |
| Part of speech: | verb |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | Muchos marineros se ahogan cada año. |
| Sentence meaning: | Many sailors drown each year. |


“A small thing is a big thing seen from afar, a big thing is a small thing seen up close.”
I’ve taken this quote from Samantha Harvey’s 2018 novel The Western Wind, but it feels more apt to her recent 2024 Booker Prize-winning novel Orbital, about a single day in the life of six astronauts orbiting in a space station 250 miles above Earth. I was immediately drawn in by the hints of poetry, mythology, and science that are blended in Orbital‘s first paragraph.
Rotating about the earth in their spacecraft they are so together, and so alone, that even their thoughts, their internal mythologies, at times convene. Sometimes they dream the same dreams—of fractals and blue spheres and familiar faces engulfed in dark, and of the bright energetic black of space that slams their senses. Raw space is a panther, feral and primal; they dream it stalking through their quarters.
The book’s focus rotates quickly from astronaut to astronaut, just as the space station rotates quickly around the earth. They see sixteen Earth sunrises and sixteen Earth sunsets for every one of their days. Orbital really feels like an ode to the Earth—or, perhaps, to the universe. Collectively, the six astronauts (four men and two women) spend much of the book looking out of the station’s windows, giving us pages of exceptional prose descriptions of what they see. The extent of these compelling visual reports of the Earth’s geography and its weather patterns (including an immense typhoon) and of the Moon and the stars makes sections of Orbital feel like a work of non-fiction nature writing. Similarly, the detailed accounts of the aging space station, the training and equipment of astronauts, the physiology of living for months in space, and the scientific experiments being conducted give portions of Orbital the flavor of color-filled, animated non-fiction science writing.
In the new morning of today’s fourth earth orbit the Saharan dust sweeps to the sea in hundred-mile ribbons. Hazy pale green shimmering sea, hazy tangerine land. This is Africa chiming with light. You can almost hear it, this light, from inside the craft. Gran Canaria’s steep radial gorges pile the island up like a sandcastle hastily built, and when the Atlas Mountains announce the end of the desert, clouds appear in the shape of a shark whose tail flips at the southern coast of Spain. . .
Harvey’s description of the Northern lights is one of the more bravura bits of writing in the book. Here is only a quarter of her paragraph: “The light gains edges and limbs; folds and opens. Strains against the inside of the atmosphere, writhes and flexes. Sends up plumes. Fluoresces and brightens. Detonates then in towers of light. Erupts clean through the atmosphere and puts up towers two hundred miles high. . . Remember this, each of them thinks. Remember this.”
After six months in space they will, in technical terms, have aged 0.007 seconds less than someone on earth. . . They know that the vision can weaken and the bones deteriorate. Even with so much exercise still the muscles will atrophy. The blood will clot and the brain will shift its fluid. The spine lengthens, the T cells struggle to reproduce, kidney stones form.
The only part of Orbital that really reads like fiction has to do with the characters. We learn a little about the lives of the six astronauts (two are technically Russian cosmonauts), who are each given an inch of depth. Anton, Roman, Shaun, Nell, Chie, and Pietro—two Russian, and one each American, English, Japanese, and Italian. Chie’s mother has died and she will not make it to the funeral. Roman is always thinking about his son in Moscow. Pietro has warned a friend who lives on an island in the Philippines that his family is in grave danger from the onrushing typhoon. Anton is secretly worried about a lump that recently appeared in his neck and his loveless marriage. Nell keeps want to challenge Shaun, not understanding how someone who believes in a creationist God can also be an astronaut.
The intellectual heft of Orbital comes largely in the form of brief forays, usually by the omniscient narrator, into topics that ease the reader into philosophical or political territory for a page or two. Occasionally the astronauts will discuss something that feels heavy momentarily—like the Challenger space shuttle disaster in 1986—but these episodes tend to be very brief.
As we saw in the opening paragraph quoted earlier, the six astronauts are introduced as a kind of collective unit and, at times, they seem to be providing a collective vision of Earth from on high. Harvey’s narrator frequently uses “they” and other plural pronouns and speaks in collective statements on behalf of all six. The most important of these moments comes halfway through the book. During the first part of any astronaut’s tour of duty on the space station, we are told, Earth will look to them like a planet without borders and a place where “a sense of friendliness and peace prevails.” But “before long, for all of them, a desire takes hold. It’s the desire—no, the need (fueled by fervour)—to protect this huge yet tiny earth.” As they each find themselves frustrated by the daily news from home and their own powerlessness, “one day something shifts. One day they look at the earth and they see the truth.” And what they see is “the politics of want.” The Earth, which they previously thought was so beautiful and benign before, they now see has been completely “sculpted and shaped” by politics.
Every retreating or retreated or disintegrated glacier, every granite shoulder of every mountain laid newly bare by snow that has never before melted, every scorched and blazing forest or bush, every shrinking ice sheet, every burning oil spill . . . the expanding green-blue geometries of evaporation ponds where lithium is mined from the brine, or Tunisian salt flats in cloisonné pink . . . The hand of politics is so visible from their vantage point that they don’t know how they could have missed it at first.
Harvey tucks one small puzzle into Orbital. Shaun, the American astronaut, keeps a postcard on board of the famous painting Las Meninas (1656) by Diego Velázquez that his wife mailed to him many years ago. On the back, she had written a short message that included several questions which he perpetually puzzles over. What is the subject of the painting? Who is looking at whom? In a casual conversation with Pietro, the Italian astronaut, Shaun suddenly sees the painting in a way that he had never seen it before and he finally has answers to those questions.
Orbital is full of lyrical writing on every one of its 207 pages, with hints of deeper things spread across the pages like breadcrumbs.
About the two covers: Aino-Maija Metsola, who designed the original 2024 British edition on the left for Vintage Books, also designed the covers for the Virginia Woolf series for Vintage Books about ten years ago. Kelly Winton designed the US edition on the right for Atlantic Monthly Press.
Forthcoming: a post on Harvey’s 2018 novel The Western Wind.
| Part of speech: | noun |
|---|---|
| Example sentence: | Mi esposa y yo hacemos un crucero en mayo. |
| Sentence meaning: | My wife and I are taking a cruise in May. |
Pronto nos despediremos de Blogger
y pasaremos a una nueva plataforma, donde
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Nuestra nueva página:
https://riowang.studiolum.com/es/
o en versión corta: https://riowang.com
Hasta que finalice el desarrollo completo de la nueva página
—aproximadamente a finales de año—
publicaremos nuestras entradas en ambas plataformas en paralelo,
pero a partir de Año Nuevo solo en la nueva.
Hasta entonces, vale la pena ir acostumbrándose, suscribirse al RSS,
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y enviarnos sugerencias sobre qué y cómo deberíamos mejorar.
¡Gracias!
La iglesia principal de Nicea no es la misma que la enorme basílica que se hundió en el lago İznik, donde se celebró el Primer Concilio de Nicea en 325.
Aquella fue construida por Constantino el Grande a comienzos del siglo IV, fuera de las murallas de la ciudad, junto al lago y al llamado «Palacio del Senado», el centro local de la administración imperial, y dedicada al mártir local San Neófitos, que fue enterrado en el santuario de la iglesia. Probablemente se eligió para el concilio porque era lo suficientemente grande para acoger a 200 o 300 participantes.
La iglesia principal, sin embargo, se encontraba en el centro de la ciudad helenística, en la encrucijada de las dos calles principales. En tiempos del Primer Concilio ya debía haber una iglesia en este lugar, de la que no tenemos noticias. La primera versión del edificio actual fue encargada por el emperador Justiniano (527–565) y dedicada a Hagia Sophia, al igual que la iglesia principal de Constantinopla, también reconstruida por él.
Hagia Sophia – Ἁγία Σοφία τοῦ Θεοῦ, Sabiduría Santa de Dios –, personificada en Proverbios 8–9 y Sabiduría 7–9 como חָכְמָה Chokmah, “Sabiduría” – se entiende en la tradición patrística y ortodoxa como el propio Cristo, como declara San Pablo: “Cristo es el poder de Dios y la sabiduría de Dios” (1 Cor 1:24). San Atanasio de Alejandría usó esta misma identificación en el Concilio de Nicea para argumentar contra los arrianos, señalando que Proverbios 8:22-32 presenta la Sabiduría – es decir, Cristo, según Pablo – como eterna. En esta tradición, Cristo, la Palabra hecha carne, también encarna la sabiduría del plan salvador de Dios, y por eso las iglesias de Hagia Sophia fueron consagradas a Cristo en reconocimiento de su papel divino como Salvador.
La liturgia y la iconografía ortodoxas representan la Sabiduría Divina, en muchas formas, como Cristo en el plan salvador de Dios. La iconografía católica es menos explícita; su fórmula más común es la estatua medieval de la Madonna, con el niño Jesús en su regazo, a menudo con la inscripción: “In gremio Matris sedet Sapientia Patris,” es decir, “La Sabiduría del Padre se sienta en el regazo de la Madre.” El santuario de Hagia Sophia en Constantinopla estaba decorado con un mosaico que reflejaba esta unión de tradiciones de Sabiduría oriental y occidental.
Curiosamente, en la iconografía popular rusa, Hagia Sophia se representaba sin tanta complejidad teológica como “Santa Sofía la Gran Mártir,” acompañada de sus tres hijas, Vera, Nadezhda y Lyubov – Fe, Esperanza y Amor –, quienes también cayeron víctimas de la opresión, como ha ocurrido con frecuencia en tierras rusas.
Intercambio de experiencias entre santos apócrifos. Santa Sofía y sus hijas en compañía del San Cristóbal de cabeza de perro, sobre quien ya escribimos. Siglo XIX, Moscú, Museo Estatal de Historia
Esta iglesia también albergó un concilio ecuménico: el Segundo Concilio de Nicea, el séptimo y último concilio de la Iglesia Oriental y Occidental unidas en 787.
El concilio fue convocado por la emperatriz Irene, viuda de León IV y regente de su hijo, el emperador menor de edad Constantino VI, para resolver la controversia iconoclasta bizantina. Originalmente se reunió en Constantinopla en 786, pero los militares pro-iconoclastas bloquearon los procedimientos, así que se trasladó a Nicea.
El decreto del concilio permitió la veneración de íconos, pero no su adoración, que se reserva solo a Dios. También declaró que el respeto mostrado a un icono se transmite a su sujeto, por lo que no puede considerarse idolatría – postura que más tarde repitió el Concilio de Trento (1545–63) frente a las acusaciones protestantes de idolatría. La justificación no se basó en argumentos cristológicos, como en el Concilio de Hieria de 754, sino en la antigüedad de la veneración de imágenes y la encarnación de Cristo, que hace posible su representación.
El Segundo Concilio de Nicea en el menologio de Basilio II (976–1025), Vat. Gr. 1613 fol. 108. Centro: Patriarca Tarasio y el emperador Constantino VI, en el suelo un iconoclasta humillado
Lamentablemente, aquella iglesia del Concilio no ha sobrevivido. El edificio fue destruido en un terremoto en 1065, tras lo cual se construyó la estructura actual.
Los otomanos en expansión capturaron Nicea en 1331, y como era habitual, la iglesia principal se convirtió en mezquita, llamada Orhan Djami en honor al sultán conquistador. También construyeron una madraza y un baño, que no han sobrevivido.
La invasión de Tamerlán en 1402 dañó gravemente la mezquita, que sufrió un incendio a mediados del siglo XV y luego otro terremoto. Permaneció en ruinas durante un siglo, probablemente devastando los frescos bizantinos interiores.
Fotos de Guillaume Berggren, c. 1870–80, mostrando el ábside noreste y el interior
A principios del siglo XVI, los otomanos libraron una lucha de dos siglos contra la creciente dinastía persa safávida, principalmente a lo largo de la frontera otomano-persa habitada por armenios y kurdos. Ambos bandos a menudo deportaban comunidades enteras de afamados artesanos armenios para enriquecer sus propios territorios. En 1515, alfareros armenios de Tabriz fueron trasladados a İznik (como evolucionó el nombre de la ciudad del griego eis Nikaia, «a Nicea», de manera similar a Estambul de eis tan Polin, «a la Ciudad»).
Aquí crearon los famosos azulejos de İznik usados en todo el imperio, incluida la Mezquita Azul de Estambul, cuyos motivos florales llegaron hasta las iglesias de Transilvania. La ciudad vivió una nueva edad de oro y los edificios arruinados fueron reconstruidos. La mezquita fue supuestamente restaurada por Sinan bajo el encargo del sultán Suleimán.
Durante la guerra greco-turca de 1920–22, la línea del frente se movió alrededor de Nicea. Las fuerzas griegas destruyeron pueblos turcos cercanos, y las tropas turcas entrantes expulsaron a la mayor parte de la población griega. Al final, el 60–70% del casco antiguo estaba en ruinas, todas las iglesias y monasterios colapsaron, y el arte cerámico de İznik quedó destruido. La población griega desplazada fue reemplazada por refugiados musulmanes balcánicos (muhacirs).
La dañada Hagia Sophia fue convertida en museo por Atatürk en 1935. Al igual que la Hagia Sophia de Estambul o la Iglesia de Chora, este gesto simbolizó el giro secular del país y una relectura de su pasado preislámico y de su múltiples capas.
Se realizaron investigaciones arqueológicas en 1935 y 1953, descubriendo pisos de mosaico bizantino y restos de frescos, y el nivel del suelo exterior se bajó dos metros y medio hasta los cimientos. También se reveló el piso de mosaico de la parekklesion sur (capilla exterior), que aún se muestra, expuesto a los elementos, bajo una reja de hierro protectora.
La restauración comenzó en 2007, incluyendo la reconstrucción del techo y la cúpula, así como del minarete. El trabajo se completó en 2011 y el edificio reabrió… como mezquita para el Kurban Bayramı, la Fiesta del Sacrificio de Abraham.
Este paso fue parte del proceso de re-islamización del país, anticipando la reconversión posterior de los museos-mezquitas de Estambul en mezquitas. La decisión provocó protestas a nivel nacional e internacional, e incluso algunos musulmanes locales se opusieron, argumentando que ya había suficientes mezquitas en la ciudad. Pero, contra todo ello, se llevó a cabo. Hoy, el edificio sigue funcionando como mezquita, aunque durante nuestra visita de una hora solo vimos a un único devoto, mientras que unos 20–30 turistas, en su mayoría locales, venían a visitar el monumento histórico.
El único devoto llega – el propio imán – quien, rezando durante toda nuestra visita, se convierte en un personaje de fondo inevitable –pero con indudable estilo– en nuestras fotos, con su turbante blanco y su barba, su camisa amarilla y la túnica clerical marrón.
Al entrar en la mezquita, tres escalones bajan hasta el nivel del piso, donde se descubrió un hermoso mosaico bizantino justo frente a la entrada. Basándome en ejemplos cosmatescos italianos, lo dataría entre los siglos XII y XIII. Sin embargo, en la iglesia principal del Monasterio de Iviron en el Monte Athos, un mosaico de piso muy similar se retrotrae al siglo X.
Una cosa es segura: los lirios que enmarcan de manera prominente la sección central del mosaico eran los símbolos de la familia Láscaris, que gobernó el Imperio de Nicea entre la ocupación de Constantinopla por Venecia en 1204 y la restauración de los Paleólogos en 1261.
La iglesia es una basílica de tres naves, con una nave central muy espaciosa y naves laterales estrechas, un ábside central semicircular y ábsides laterales de extremos rectos, básicamente pequeñas habitaciones laterales cuadradas rematadas con diminutos domos del periodo tardío bizantino.
Durante la conversión en mezquita, se instalaron el mihrab, orientado hacia La Meca, y el minbar en la nave lateral sur.
El ábside del santuario principal está rodeado de estrados o tribunas escalonadas que servían de asiento al clero durante la liturgia, similar a la Hagia Irene de Constantinopla. El suelo está pavimentado con mosaicos de piedra, y al frente, en la ubicación del antiguo altar, hay una losa de mármol incrustada en el suelo.
El santuario de Hagia Irene en Constantinopla con sus tribunas escalonadas. En la siguiente imagen, se puede ver que el altar allí también estaba sobre una losa de mármol empotrada.
En la pared de la nave norte, probablemente en el tímpano de una antigua puerta, se descubrió en 1935 un fresco de Deesis que representa a la Virgen María y a Juan Bautista suplicando ante el Pantócrator de medio cuerpo. Es probable que esta puerta se tapiara temprano, lo que permitió que el fresco se conservara en buen estado.
Más cerca del santuario, permanece incrustada en los vanos de las ventanas la voluta de un antiguo capitel jónico de mármol.
Al final del pasillo norte se encuentra una habitación cuadrada, la prótesis, utilizada para preparar el pan y el vino litúrgico. Los elementos decorativos se han mantenido en los vanos de las ventanas, junto con los contornos de tres santos en el tambor. Varias pequeñas cruces incisas de la época de la iconoclasia, cuando estas eran las únicas decoraciones permitidas, aún son visibles en las paredes y bóvedas.
Al final del pasillo sur se encuentra otra habitación cuadrada, el diakonikon, utilizada como vestuario de los diáconos y para almacenar los ropajes litúrgicos. En el suelo, junto a la pared sur, hay un sarcófago de mármol. Sobre él, bajo la ventana, se ve un ángel de medio cuerpo a la izquierda. Arriba y a la izquierda y derecha de la ventana hay otros dos ángeles de medio cuerpo, el de la derecha apenas visible. El tambor presenta los contornos de dos santos. Estos debieron ser claramente visibles incluso cuando el edificio se convirtió en mezquita, ya que sus cabezas fueron evidentemente destruidas a martillazos.
De la fase anterior como mezquita del edificio, aún permanecen inscripciones árabes y grafitis en los arcos que conectan la nave con los pasillos y a la izquierda de la entrada.
En resumen, la iglesia una vez exhibió una decoración rica: frescos en las paredes y mosaicos de piedra en el suelo. La mayor parte de esto probablemente no se perdió durante la conversión a mezquita, sino a lo largo de los siglos en que permaneció sin techo y en ruinas. Es notable que tanto haya sobrevivido bajo la escasa protección de los arcos.
Igualmente notable es que sea esta iglesia bizantina la que haya sobrevivido más o menos en su forma original de entre las veinte que una vez existieron en Nicea, y de entre las muchos miles de todo el país. Exactamente esta, incluso convertida en mezquita, que acogió el Segundo Concilio de Nicea, y la otra, incluso bajo el agua, que acogió el Primero.
We are soon saying goodbye to Blogger,
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Our new site:
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or, in short: https://wangriver.com
Until the full development of the new site is completed
—roughly by the end of the year—
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but from New Year onwards only on the new one.
Until then, feel free to get used to it, subscribe to the RSS feed,
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The main church of Nicaea is not the same as the massive basilica that sank into Lake İznik, where the First Council of Nicaea was held in 325.
That one was built by Constantine the Great in the early 4th century, outside the city walls, by the lake, next to the so-called “Senate Palace,” the local hub of imperial administration, and dedicated to the local martyr Saint Neophytos, who was buried in the church’s sanctuary. It was probably chosen for the council because it was large enough to hold 200–300 participants.
The main church, however, stood in the center of the Hellenistic city, at the crossroads of the two main streets. An earlier church probably already stood there at the time of the First Council of Nicaea, but we know nothing about it. The current building’s first version was commissioned by Emperor Justinian (527–565), and dedicated to Hagia Sophia, just like the main church in Constantinople, also rebuilt by him.
Hagia Sophia – Ἁγία Σοφία τοῦ Θεοῦ, Holy Wisdom of God –, personified in Proverbs 8–9 and Wisdom 7–9 as חָכְמָה Chokmah, “Wisdom” – is understood in patristic and Orthodox tradition as Christ himself, as Saint Paul declares: “Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God” (1 Cor 1:24). Saint Athanasius of Alexandria used this very identification at the Council of Nicaea to argue against the Arians, pointing out that Proverbs 8:22-32 presents Wisdom – that is, Christ, in Paul’s terms – as eternal. In this tradition, Christ, the Word made flesh, also embodies the wisdom of God’s salvific plan, and thus the Hagia Sophia churches were consecrated to Christ in recognition of his divine role as Savior.
Orthodox liturgy and iconography depict Divine Wisdom in many forms as Christ in God’s saving plan. Catholic iconography is less explicit; its most common formula is the medieval Madonna statue, with the blessing Jesus in her lap, often inscribed: “In gremio Matris sedet Sapientia Patris,” that is, “The Wisdom of the Father sits in the lap of the Mother.” The sanctuary of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople was decorated with a mosaic reflecting this union of Eastern and Western Wisdom traditions.
Interestingly, in Russian folk iconography, Hagia Sophia was depicted without theological complexity as “Saint Sophia the Great Martyr,” accompanied by her three daughters, Vera, Nadezhda, and Lyubov – Faith, Hope, and Love – who also fell victims to oppression, as it has often happened in Russian lands.
Exchange of experiences among apocryphal saints. Saint Sophia and her daughters in the company of the dog-headed Saint Christopher, whom we’ve already written about. 19th c., Moscow, State Historical Museum
This church also hosted an ecumenical council: the Second Council of Nicaea, the seventh and final council of the undivided Eastern and Western Church in 787.
The council was convened by Empress Eirene, widow of Leo IV, and regent for her son, the underage Emperor Constantine VI, to settle the Byzantine iconoclastic controversy. The council originally met in Constantinople in 786, but the pro-iconoclast military blocked proceedings, so it was moved to Nicaea.
The council’s decree allowed veneration of icons, but not worship, which was reserved for God alone. It also declared that respect shown to an icon passes to its subject, so it cannot be considered idolatry – a stance later echoed by the Catholic Council of Trent (1545–63) against Protestant accusations of idol worship. The justification was not supported with Christological arguments, as in the 754 Council of Hieria, but based on the antiquity of image veneration and the incarnation of Christ, which makes His depiction possible.
The Second Council of Nicaea in the menologion of Basil II (976–1025), Vat. Gr. 1613 fol. 108. Center: Patriarch Tarasios and Emperor Constantine VI, on the ground a humiliated iconoclast
Unfortunately, the council’s church hasn’t survived. The building was destroyed in an earthquake in 1065, after which the current structure was built.
The expanding Ottomans captured Nicaea in 1331, and as usual, the main church was converted into a mosque, named Orhan Djami after the conquering sultan. They also built a madrasa and a bathhouse, which have not survived.
Timur’s invasion in 1402 severely damaged the mosque, which suffered fire in the mid-15th century and later another earthquake. It stood in ruins for a century, likely washing away the interior Byzantine frescoes.
Photos by Guillaume Berggren, c. 1870–80, showing the northeastern apse and the interior
In the early 1500s, the Ottomans fought a two-century-long struggle against the rising Safavid Persian dynasty, mainly along the Ottoman-Persian frontier inhabited by Armenians and Kurds. Both sides often deported entire Armenian artisan communities to enrich their own territories. In 1515, Armenian potters from Tabriz were relocated to İznik (as the city name evolved from Greek eis Nikaia, “to Nicaea,” much like Istanbul from eis tan Polin, “to the City”).
Here they created the famous İznik tiles used throughout the empire, including the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, whose floral motifs even reached Transylvanian churches. The city entered a new golden age, and ruined buildings were rebuilt. The mosque was allegedly restored by Sinan under Sultan Suleiman’s commission.
During the 1920–22 Greco-Turkish war, the front line moved around Nicaea. Greek forces destroyed nearby Turkish villages, and incoming Turkish troops expelled most of the Greek population. By the end, 60–70% of the old town was in ruins, every church and monastery collapsed, and İznik ceramic art was destroyed. The displaced Greek population was replaced with Balkan Muslim refugees (muhacirs).
The damaged Hagia Sophia was turned into a museum by Atatürk in 1935. Like Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia or the Chora Church, this gesture symbolized the country’s secular turn and a reevaluation of its pre-Islamic, multi-layered past.
Archaeological research took place in 1935 and 1953, uncovering Byzantine mosaic floors and fresco remnants, and the exterior ground level was lowered two and a half meters to the foundations. The southern parekklesion (external chapel) mosaic floor was also revealed and is still shown, exposed to the elements, behind a protective iron grid.
Restoration began in 2007, including roof and dome reconstruction and rebuilding the minaret. Work was completed in 2011, and the building reopened… as a mosque for Kurban Bayramı, the Feast of Abraham’s Sacrifice.
This move was part of the country’s re-Islamization process, foreshadowing the later reconversion of Istanbul’s museum-mosques back into mosques. The decision sparked protests nationwide and internationally, and even some local Muslims opposed it, claiming there were already enough mosques in the city. But it went ahead. Today, the building still functions as a mosque, though during our one-hour visit we only saw a single worshipper, while about 20–30 mostly domestic tourists came to visit as a historic monument.
The lone worshipper arrives – the imam himself – who, praying throughout our visit, becomes an unavoidable but stylish background character in our photos with his white turban and beard, yellow shirt, and brown clerical robe.
Entering the mosque, three steps lead down to the floor level, where a beautiful Byzantine floor mosaic was uncovered right in front of the entrance. Based on Italian cosmatesque examples, I’d date this to the 12th–13th centuries. However, in the main church of the Iviron Monastery on Mount Athos, a very similar floor mosaic was claimed to be from the 10th century.
One thing’s for sure: the lilies prominently framing the mosaic’s central section were the symbols of the Laskaris family, who ruled the Nicaean Empire between Venice’s occupation of Constantinople in 1204 and the Palaiologos restoration in 1261.
The church is a three-aisled basilica, with a very spacious central nave and narrow side aisles, a semicircular central apse, and straight-ended side apses – basically small square side rooms topped with tiny late-Byzantine domes.
During the mosque conversion, the mihrab, facing Mecca, and the minbar were installed in the southern side aisle.
The apse of the main sanctuary is filled with stepped tribunes, serving as seating for the clergy during the liturgy, similar to the Hagia Eirene in Constantinople. The floor is paved with stone mosaics, and in front, at the former altar location, a marble slab is set into the floor.
The sanctuary of Hagia Eirene in Constantinople with its stepped tribunes. In the next image, one can see that the altar there also stood on a recessed marble slab.
In the wall of the northern aisle, probably on the tympanum of a former gate, a Deesis fresco was uncovered in 1935, depicting the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist pleading before the half-length Pantokrator. This gate was likely bricked up early, which allowed the fresco to remain in good condition.
Further toward the sanctuary, the volute of an ancient marble Ionic capital remain embedded in the window reveals.
At the end of the northern aisle is a square room, the prothesis, used for preparing the liturgical bread and wine. Decorative elements have remained in the window reveals, along with outlines of three saints on the drum. Several small incised crosses from the period of iconoclasm, when these were the only permitted decorations, are still visible on the walls and vaults.
At the end of the southern aisle is a similarly square room, the diakonikon, used as the deacons’ vestry and for storing liturgical garments. On the floor along the southern wall is a marble sarcophagus. Above it, under the window, is a half-length angel on the left. Above and to the left and right of the window are two more half-length angels, the one on the right barely visible. The drum bears the outlines of two saints. These must have been clearly visible even when the building was converted into a mosque, as their heads were obviously smashed off with a hammer.
From the building’s earlier mosque phase, Arabic inscriptions and graffiti remain on the arches connecting the nave with the aisles and to the left of the entrance.
In summary, the church once boasted rich decoration: frescoes on the walls and stone mosaics on the floor. Most of this was likely lost not during the conversion to a mosque, but over the centuries when it stood roofless and in ruins. It is remarkable that so much survived under the protection of the arches.
It is equally remarkable that at least this one Byzantine church has survived more or less in its original form out of the twenty that once stood in Nicaea, and out of the many thousands across the country. Exactly this one, even converted into a mosque, which hosted the Second Council of Nicaea, and the other, even underwater, which hosted the First.