Castalia Prose

Castalia.

Visual Though from afar it resembles a temple, the Stoa reveals no crepidoma – it is on ground level with your feet.

The first steps lead you into a forest of pillars which seem to vibrate and move as if swaying in the wind. You feel as though you’re entering the Pholóē oak forest itself, the genius loci is ancient and wise and as you meander through the pillars into Artemis’ realm you expect fauna, dryads or maybe even Phólos himself.

During your saunter in the enchanted forest, you are unsure where to lay your eyes, for after you pass the initial columns, more expose themselves and some hide. Adjusting your sight, you are among seemingly endless verticals and lines. You walk from one to another, where you are presented a new world of visual art. Posters, screens, sculptures and paints all reveal themselves to your eyes, one at a time, on your own chosen path.

Your intuition and naked eye make the narrative and understanding of the presented arts, yet you have to find way out the optic forest to continue journey uphill.

Untitled, Rome, Cy Twombly 1960

Aural Continuing across, the first element you notice about the pavilion is not it’s tavern-like exterior, nor colours, nor any aesthetic quality for that matter – but the sound coming from the entrance. The muffled murmurs and silent whispers, songs and sounds and occasional laughter.

Entering the room, you see it has been divided in two, not by any partition but through sound. On your left steps perpetually rise to eventually build an elevated stage. Instantly in your mind, you picture Euterpe playing her aulos, Erato her lyre or maybe even Terpsichore inviting you to dance.

In contrast, the steps on your right descend into multiple smaller hearths, where around the flame, invited by the spirit of Hestia you gather to listen to tales, stories, poems and myths. Here you picture the cornucopia passed around, maybe ambrosia for you feel a sense of drunkenness as Dionysus gently whispers into your ear: in vino veritas. So, filled with the spirits, the sacred harmony of the music, the geometry of the temple, the lavish tales and tenderly spoken word, you close your eyes to rest – here lies the auditory perception.

Dance, Henri Matisse 1910

Physical Approaching the next structure, you are met with the smell of the flame, and the gentle tickling of coal can be heard coming from within. The building itself is clad in black metal, as if smoke from Hephaestus’ own furnace charred it this colour.

As you step up the stylobate and gaze through the doors, rows of workbenches direct your attention to a grand blazing furnace. Your face feels the heat emitting, as you become wooed and allured by this contained conflagration in front.

Expecting blacksmiths and anvils, you’re shocked to hear, you’re here, for a physical creation of your own. Like Prometheus when he made us, you draw then you mould, using clay - the primordial element, and your hand, which too was once molded from clay. You teach yourself and you learn, and upon finishing your creation, you realize it is your Aegis, your symbol of success, and you leave it in the furnace to flourish and rest.

Convergence, Jackson Pollock, 1950

Solitary Having thoughts to absorb and digest, you come upon the chambers of reflection: templelike, grand and embellished. The first steps lead you upward, however as you pass the pillars and partitions an abyss stares into you – stretching all the way to the dormant Ouranos himself.

Though against all connotations, the fissure, it’s darkness and enfolding silence are warm and inviting, just like the shadow is celebrated by the men in the land of the rising sun.

As you descend the stairs into the depth, so too you descend through your innermost workings, through your psychic apparatus, past emotions and rations – into the unconscious mind.

When finding your solitary spot, hidden from all, the pure, bright, candidus light above you and the black, stygian darkness below, invite you to weigh all the spectrum. The rise and fall of your breath in a meditative state, makes you consider the fast and slow, old to new, new to old. Now is the time for your personal reflection.

Untitled, Mark Rothko, 1969

Social Although square, tapered and monumental, entering the obelisk structure - to your surprise - you find a circular interior. A long winding staircase that wraps round and round, guiding your eye to the circular hollow at peak.

It makes you feel minuscule and mortal, with the paradox of its secular sanctity, like the Tower of Babel it spirals ad infinitum.

And from the hollow comes one streak of light – thick and opaque. You’re overcome with the feeling that this is the light of Apollo, The Phoebus, the very same light that burned the wings of Icarus.

It woos you and entices you to make way up the circular stair to the top, where like the summit of The Holy Mountain, people seek what they call Truth.

Making way through the seemingly impossible journey up the serpentine staircase, you have time to gather your thoughts. And as you emerge through the circular hollow you find yourself in a circular forum. The pinnacle, the peak, the congregation. It overlooks the city as if from all angles, and you yourself are now ready to understand that the angles of approach are indeed infinite – so you sit, amongst others, to partake in the Glass Bead Game.

Fixed Points, Wassily Kandinsky, 1942