Synchronistic Russian Sunday and My Own Strange Icon Story

Last Sunday, by some synchronistic event, I found myself  immersed again in Russian culture, except this time, it was in Paris!     I had been lamenting that I couldn’t stay in Saint Petersburg longer than 72 hours, because I entered Russia visa free on the Russian ferry line, which however is a good thing, is still limiting considering all the things to see there.

Strangely enough, it happened under a totally different pursuit of searching out gardens that were opened only once a year for Fête des Jardins, which occurs yearly.  There are multiple activities throughout the Parisian gardens, that are always opened to the public year round, but I prefer to see those opened specifically only once a year for the event.

After several years, I have seen quite a few of these special and secret gardens, but there was one that I had wanted to go to last year, but didn’t.   It was simply listed as a small intimate little garden of the church of Saint Seraphim de Sarov.

Since it was in the 15 th arrondissement, though quite a distance from me, I felt like walking because it is always fun to discover or rediscover quartiers I don’t frequent often.  It the end it turned out to be quite a hike, since I chose to walk back as well.

Expecting the church to be visible from the street, I ended up passing by the nondescript green door, that had the name of the it on a small golden plaque, like the ones announcing a physician or lawyer.  Once opened, only a typical Parisian entrance to a courtyard could be seen.

Where was the church, I thought?  Penetrating though a second courtyard revealed the  tiny wooden church that seemed engulfed by trees.  Once inside, I was rather pleasantly surprised to discover that I had stumbled upon another Russian orthodox church.

The interior was dimly lit, with the walls covered in icons of the various Russian saints and of course Mother Mary.  Incense infused churches and icons always bring me to a silent reverence that penetrates my psyche, offering a comforting warmth and solace from the world outside.

After praying in front of some the candle lit icons, I took a seat by one of the two trees that the church had been built around.  It made me think of my father, who not wanting to cut down a tree, built part of our house around one too.

Nicolai, a rather robust and jolly looking man and the black robbed priest quietly waited for the other chairs to fill up before speaking.  Nicolai explained that it was  in 1933 when this church was built around the two  trees  to pay homage to their patron Saint Seraphim de Sarov, who had been a hermit in the forest.

The one in the photo is now the only living one of the two.  Nicholai felt the reason it is healthy and alive is because after each baptism, the baptismal water is poured on this specific tree.

Nicolai went on to tell about the massive wave of Russian immigrants that arrived in Paris in the years of 1920 to 1930, after the Bolshevik revolution.  Some of the wealthier ones settled in the 16  arrondissement.

Those whose monies were confiscated or less endowed settled in the 15th, which was more affordable at that time, though this is no longer the case.  Many Russian immigrants drove taxis,  and worked in the Citroen and Renault assembly plants nearby.

One particular Russian immigrant was a woman named Marie Skobtsov ,who came from a wealthy Saint Petersburg family and ended up becoming a saint through her charitable and heroic work.

Mere Marie Skobtsov, as  seen in the photo ,was divorced from her second husband after the death of a daughter.   Deciding that she wanted to be a nun, but not  wanting to enter any convent, because she preferred to do her missionary work in the streets.

She set up a pension house for those in need on rue Lourmel in the 15th. She would feed her residents  with over ripe fruits and vegetables from the  merchants at Les Halles, which she would beg or pay for every day, hauling them on her black wagon.

From drunkards to prostitutes, homeless to the mentally ill, she welcomed them all.  She along with her priest, also helped save many Jews, during Nazi occupied Paris, by sending them into hiding and supplying others with falsified baptismal certificates.  For this, she, the priest and her son were all arrested by the Nazi and sent to  concentration camps, were they all died.  She was  very deservingly canonized a saint in 2004.

As I walked around the small and very sweet garden, I felt sobered by Mère Marie Skobtsov and the ultimate sacrifice she suffered in helping the lives of her fellow-men.  Rare indeed, are those who risk their own lives to save others.

One of the most lovely trees in the garden was a European olive, full of fruit, and I thought of the immense symbolism it offered for the peace and restoration of Russia, when it was planted.

This weekend made me think about another synchronistic event involving icons, which to this day I find still very strange.   In 2002, I signed up for an icon painting class organised by an art league of Paris, called Adac, which offers various art  and cultural classes throughout the city.

The instructor was a tall blond man named Georges Drobot, who was said to be one of the most renown iconographer in the world.  He teaches the ancient techniques of iconography that has not deviated from the original technique, of mixing natural dried colors with egg yolk, that is utilised as the painting medium.

The preparation of the wooden canvas took a lot of time using a base of gauze that had to be covered in  several layers of plaster of paris that required drying in between, then gently sanded to prepare  for the image.

Classical iconography is a strictly disciplined art form that requires a very steady hand and a lot of patience.  Patience I have, but I am not gifted as an artist.

I called upon Georges often for help and advice and he kindly  corrected my many mistakes.  He was a quiet man of little words and he encouraged a respectful silence in his classes.

His face though intrigued me.  He had more hair then, than seen in a more recent photo.  I had the distinct feeling that I had seen his face before but just could not fathom where.

When I found out that he was the son of a Russian orthodox priest, who emigrated to Paris and was also a renown iconographer; something started to click.

I remembering going up to him, saying I know this might be a very strange question to ask, but had he ever been in a photo when he was a child that was published in an American cookbook?  I was absolutely floored when he replied yes!

Indeed professor Georges was that little boy, as seen in the photo, with the captivating face intently painting an easter egg in the Russian Cooking edition put out by Time Life books in 1969.  I had later acquired the whole series  in the 70’s, and often would look at the photos of him and his family as they were portrayed in the Russian immigrant community in Paris celebrating Easter.

He was only 13 at the time.  Only some 30 plus years had passed since I had seen him and his family in those photos, and now that grown up little boy is teaching me how to paint icons!

I never in my life would have thought that my life path would cross with his in a million years, as I was living in Louisiana.  Though I may have had dreams of returning to Paris someday to live, it certainly was not feasible at that time, nor in the near future.

In the end, Georges felt my efforts, however done with much love and faithful devotion,was a little “hollywoodian” and that the Virgin Mary needed to be more “subtile”.  He graciously helped me polished out my icon to a sweet and respectful gaze, as seen in the photo.

Georges Drobot is still teaching ancient techniques of icon painting in Paris and I believe still occasionally goes to the states for workshops there.   I am very grateful that I was lucky enough to been under his instruction back then and to have finally met the little boy whose face intrigued many years ago.

On the way home, I was seduced by some rustic looking rye bread in a window and bought  a loaf of hazelnut rye to  go with some fresh chevre.  To celebrate the day, I made a delicious roasted fig and lemon confit tart, that I absolutely adore when fresh violet figs are flooding the market.

Sipping my sparkling, and watching the tiny bubbles slowly ease up the flute, I again felt so grateful for another beautiful sunday in this incredible diverse city of light!