Are we suffering from urban amnesia?

In these hard times, it seems like we’ve lost our sense of place – as if public space has become a forgotten concept, a buffer zone that we cross rarely and only out of necessity. Locked in our homes, in front of screens, living in a parallel virtual reality. The non-virtual reality is still here though, right out of our doors; perhaps less vibrant, less loud, but still smouldering. With some kind of foresight, two months ago I climbed on a hill of Athens, without any specific purpose, but luckily with my camera in hand. The photographs I took on that day have since become a medium of remembering the image of the city; and imagining its life unfolding behind closed doors. People might be socially and physically distanced, but they carry on with their lives in this tight and dense container that is Athens.

Cities need to have high viewpoints, so that humans can empty their minds and let their eyesight wander on a broad visual field. Observing the urban tissue from above gives a sense of dimension and orientation; the challenge is to imagine the path from the heart of the city up to the top of the viewpoint, and to understand what changes in our perception. Looking from above contains such an intensity: one might feel small compared to the size of built space – yet able to grasp the size as a whole and thus, powerful.

What Angelos Terzakis describes in his novel The Purple City (1937) is, in my opinion, the most intense and timeless representation of the stimulating feeling one has when looking at Athens from above. One of my favourite novels, perhaps exactly due to the excerpts portraying the emotional power of the urban image. His words describe this feeling in such a rich and accurate way, unconsciously producing visual thoughts in the reader’s mind. Perhaps these visual thoughts were lying in my unconscious for the past nine years since I last read the novel, feeding and growing until the day would come that I would grasp their depth. Two months ago, eye-wandering above Athens, I felt that everything made sense. Feeling fortunate of having visual perception in the right place, at the right time, is something that cannot be described through words, let alone photographs; some moments purely carry the intensity enclosed in the feeling of being alive.

Note: The Purple City has not been translated into English. The excerpts below are my own attempt of a rough translation.

“But sometimes he stands looking at the horizon, like tonight. It’s a starry night, but to find the stars you have to look above yourself, vertically. Across the way, on the wreath of the horizon, they get dissolved by the city lights. It is a haze, yellowish, golden, shining fiery here and there, girding tightly the firmament, spreading upwards its vulturous glow. In the center, it jumps higher as if it were about to disperse the mystery of the skies. A restrained roar, like a whirlpool in a sea of people, animates the flooding lights. And it’s the humming of a promiscuous idolatrous feast from afar, a bacchic triumph dedicated to an insatiable deity.”

“Μα στέκεται κι᾽ άλλοτε και κοιτάζει τον ορίζοντα, σαν κι᾽ απόψε. Είναι μια ξάστερη νύχτα, όμως για να βρεις τ᾽ άστρα, πρέπει να κοιτάξεις πάνωθέ σου, κατακόρυφα. Αντίκρυ, στο στεφάνι του ορίζοντα, τα σβήνει με τα φώτα της η πολιτεία. Είναι μια αχνή κιτρινωπή, χρυσαφιά, με πύρινες φεγγοβολές εδώ κ᾽ εκεί, και ζώνει το στερέωμα σφιχτά, απλώνοντας τη λάμψη της αρπαχτική προς τ᾽ απάνω. Στο κέντρο, σα να πηδάει ψηλότερα και πάει να διαλύσει το μυστήριο τ᾽ ουρανού. Βουή συγκρατητή, όπως η ρούφνα της ανθρωποθάλασσας, ψυχώνει την πλημμυριστή τούτη φωταψία. Κ᾽ είναι ο σάλαγος μιας μακρυνής κι᾽ ακόλαστης ειδωλολατρικής γιορτής, βακχικός θρίαμβος αφιερωμένος σ᾽ ακόρεστη θεότητα.” 

“Opposite, on a large arc, a blurry glow is feeding the horizon. Below, a long row of yellow stars lying on the ground is stretching and sparkling; a thick, golden chain. Like an enormous snake that has fallen asleep between three mountains, with its neck spilling towards the sea and its scales glistening. Lost, he gazes. When did this unexplainable thing happen? For years now, living in this very city, he circulates in its violet and youthful blood that animates its veins. He comes, he goes, he works, he rejoices, he aches, yet you’d say he feels nothing of his surroundings. For how is it possible that this small and tidy swarm of houses, hardly a handful, that he first saw so amiably vivid one winterly morning, to fester into this many-headed ghost? He gazes, wondering, fearful, listening for the endless roar. As if, it is growling addled, in a foreign language, symbolic invocations; and he does not know if they are spells of happiness or death.” 

“Σε τόξο μεγάλο, αγνάντια, γαλαχτώνει τον ορίζοντα φεγγοβολή θαμπή. Κάτω, μακρυά σειρά από αστράκια κίτρινα πεσμένα στο χώμα, τεντώνεται και λαμπυρίζει, αλυσίδα παχιά, χρυσή. Σα φίδι τεράστιο μοιάζει, που  αποκοιμήθηκε ανάμεσα σε τρία βουνά, με το λαιμό χυμένο προς τη θάλασσα, και τα λέπια του παιζογυαλίζουν. Χαμένος, κοιτάζει. Πότε έγινε αυτό το ανεξήγητο; Χρόνια τώρα, ζώντας στην ίδια τούτη  πολιτεία, κυκλοφορεί κι᾽ αυτός στο αίμα της, το μενεξελί και νεανικό, που εμψυχώνει τις αρτηρίες της. Πηγαίνει, έρχεται, δουλεύει, χαίρεται και πονάει, κι᾽ όμως θάλεγες πως δε νιώθει τίποτα από τον περίγυρό του. Γιατί πως γίνεται το μικρό και νοικοκυρεμένο εκείνο σμάρι από σπιτάκια, ίσα-ίσα μια χούφτα, που το γνώρισε συμπαθητικά ζωηρεμένο, ένα κάποιο χειμωνιάτικο πρωινό, να θεριέψει ξαφνικά στο στοιχειό τούτο το μυριοκέφαλο; Κοιτάζει απορώντας, φοβισμένος, κι᾽ αφουγκράζεται την απέραντη βουή. Σα να γρυλλίζει σε γλώσσα ξένη επικλήσεις αξεδιάλυτες, συμβολικές, κι᾽ αυτός δεν ξέρει αν είναι ξόρκια ευτυχίας ή θανάτου.“

Source: Τερζάκης Άγγελος, Η Μενεξεδένια Πολιτεία, Αθήνα: Εστία, κδ´ έκδοση, 2009, σελ. 28, 54

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