I. The Beginning
I could say I’ve known him all my life. But, in fact, I remember very clearly when I first met Costion. It was around 1995, I think in early September. At the time, I was in the midst of a career change; it was a period of trial and error, quite a confusing time for me. I’d been working for a few months as a television editor, had begun to be fascinated by the spectacle of the image, and had just enrolled at UNATC. To thank God for this success, I had set off on a short pilgrimage to Balamuci Monastery, from where I returned with my first literary report. I wasn’t working in the press at the time and was looking for a suitable publication to have it printed. Someone recommended the ‘Alfa și Omega’ supplement of the newspaper ‘Cotidianul’ and Costion Nicolescu, its editor-in-chief.
A first telephone conversation, brief and straightforward. A first meeting, equally open, straightforward and unexpectedly friendly. He welcomed me with a trust that one rarely receives straight away, especially as a newcomer.
The spacious, stately and light-filled halls of the Museum of the Romanian Peasant, that welcoming neo-Brâncovenesc building designed by Nicolae Ghika-Budești, that visionary father of Neo-Romanian architecture, whose genius still speaks to us today through the carvings of the stone arches. I believe in the inspiring connection between a person and their surroundings, and I believe that many of the lovers and occupants of this museum have been influenced by the Christian-aristocratic spirit of this marvellous princely estate… and I do not think Costion is an exception. This was his professional residence at the time (and his only one since 1991), a residence for which I envied him… But was that the only reason? But… was I the only one?! It was, of course, a matter of expressions of admiration…
A residence where footsteps echo, just like voices. Where thoughts take on breadth and elevation, shaped by the slender vaults and softened by the roundness of the domes. A space with an Eastern Christian architecture that is anthropic, even theandric, I would say, which gently shapes one’s being and inscribes it into the great spheres… A space that tolerates neither ugliness nor vulgarity. Had this space also shaped Costion, or had he already been ‘shaped in the Brâncoveanu style’ and was it the building that had chosen him? I do not know… Lights beget lights… ‘Call me Costion!’, he insisted that I address him informally, even though there was a certain age gap between us. I was later to discover that this was how he behaved with everyone.
II. The Prince
At the Museum of the Romanian Peasant, Costion was ‘the Prince’. That is how I perceived his gait, his inner elegance, the harmony of his gestures, the radiance of his words and thoughts—filtered through diaphanous intuitions—which embraced generous ideas and through which he fitted organically into that courtly edifice. It is true that, once inside beneath the vast domes and walking along the harmonious corridors, everyone felt like a prince or princess here; even some of the museum curators, devoted to the museum, had slightly princely air about them, but Costion was in a class of his own.
He was always serene and seemed carefree. His face always bore the joy of the inner transformation he had received in the company of Father Dumitru Stăniloae, and it seemed as though he wished to share this grace with everyone. The Pauline maxim ‘Love and do what you will!’ was ever evident in his very being. It seemed as though life had come easily to him and that God had held him in His arms, whilst he had simply known how to make wise, yet ever-ascending, use of the rich store of talents with which Heaven had endowed him. And I believe he was deeply grateful to God for all of this. He did not seem in the least worn down by life’s great disappointments and bitter blows. He loved people and enjoyed making them feel that love. And that is why he was loved.
He knew how to listen, treating you with a natural openness and friendliness that you rarely find these days. He was not in love with his own ego and did not try to impose it on others; he did not seek flattery, nor was he bothered if you did not share his convictions – something rare amongst cultural figures, as I was to discover later. Hence the weightless, elevated atmosphere one sensed in his presence. In fact, I was to realise that he behaved with the same nobility everywhere: he carried his inner palaces with him. And they illuminated those around him too. You had a sense of sunny, open windows in his presence. Windows through which the light of those inner palaces flows towards you, into you. And the joy of being yourself, at ease, in his presence, of encountering your true self beneath the domes of light sketched by the movements of his hands. He, too, rejoiced in this discreet joy, which he shared with everyone and which God returned to him. Psychologists dryly call this ‘spending quality time’, but they miss the point. Costion did not.
Everyone who knew him called him a friend. And there are many. That is how he made you feel in his presence, even if you did not speak much, did not exchange confidences, or interacted only occasionally. He welcomed you with complete trust. Not a trace of prying in his mind. A theology of presence and communion, lived out directly; and, of course, of Philocalic beauty.
About three months later, we met again so he could give me copies of the supplement featuring my published feature: ‘Valea Mușii’; I could have bought them from a newsagent’s, but I didn’t want to miss the chance to meet him again. Especially as such occasions were rare. I had begun writing essays on Christian spirituality at that time, but I rarely had the chance to finalise them for publication, and the film school, which I had just joined, imposed its own demands, usually far removed from the realm of the sacred.
We did, however, occasionally discuss topics relating to Eastern Christian culture. Sometimes, whilst tackling my first theological translations, I would ask him for advice. Especially in the case of the difficult translations of Father Pavel Florensky. Our rare conversations were always a delight – both intellectually and on a human level. He always avoided the realm of gossip and triviality; quite simply, such things did not stick to his very being—they were incompatible with him—and I sense that he possessed a keen sense of mental hygiene. How much we always need such people around us!
III. The regal orations
We were not friends in the strict sense of the word, although we had many mutual acquaintances with the same elective affinities. Perhaps there was also an age gap separating us; I do not know. But we would exchange greetings on major Christian festivals and, in particular, on name days, which often coincided. Initially by telephone. Then mobile phones came along and people began sending short text messages. The pleasure and richness of the almost direct contact of conversation were lost, but they were practical. Costion was very faithful in sending them, always on time; they were Christian mini-messages, heart-warming and slightly unusual.
Never absent from them, even in the exact wording, was the gesture of an embrace—but not just any embrace, always a ‘royal’ one. It was, first and foremost, a direct homage to the Holy Emperors Equal to the Apostles, whose names we had the honour of bearing and whose lives we sought to draw inspiration from, each in our own way; but there was always present in them, too, an allusion to the heavenly empyrean, as a salvific blessing, intended to give greater meaning to our friendship in spirit. It was as though they resonated within the annual leitmotif of these succinct yet constant ‘imperial embraces’ and the reverberations of the museum’s princely residence where Costion carried out his work, as well as the echoes of the ‘inner palaces’ I mentioned earlier, through which we sometimes communicated, as if via a discreet system of partially communicating vessels.
IV. The Luminous Presence
Some time had passed, and a few small cultural gatherings brought us back together. In 2001, we launched the first edition of my book Tarkovsky: Film as Prayer, and Costion was one of the friends who sincerely supported me. He had faith in me, and that mattered a great deal, especially in the rather corrosive world into which I had plunged. Costion’s ‘palaces’ were sorely needed there. I was in great need of allies, and God was sending them to me.
A series of other books and cultural gatherings followed relatively soon afterwards, bringing us together. Mystical Christian poetry, the sacred in cinema and secular culture, as well as the insights of the Eastern spirit, were the core areas of our affinity and common ground.
Meanwhile, Costion’s books were appearing at a rapid pace, and his lectures even more so, and I could scarcely keep up with them. Of course, he forgave me. In return, he always found the time and was always willing to support me whenever I asked. It didn’t happen often. Sometimes, I would consult him on various matters relating to writing or even organisational issues connected with the events we were organising. Files and emails scattered across my computer remind me of such brief, to-the-point conversations – now partly forgotten – and of the elegance, intuition and seriousness with which he would reply, ready to help me not only with advice, but sometimes with practical assistance too.
V. Iconic Figures
He introduced me to books – both on cinema and poetry – always with the generosity to highlight the luminous spectrum of things and with an intuition for the inner workings of their creative core; some of which were unknown to me, others known only to me. It was a love, elevated by people and by God, that fuelled his inspiration. It was fascinating to listen to him and even to watch his fluid presence as he spoke. He was creative and, for that reason, somewhat surprising in what he said, possessing the talent to bestow some of the grace of ‘his palaces’ upon the people or things he spoke of. And then, they would become more radiant, and all the beauty within them would become more clearly visible. You felt as though something from Above was embracing you when he spoke about you. In fact, the Angel would take his place amongst us, brought by his words.
And he approached every subject as if from an embrace from Above. That’s what love is! You felt uplifted; he actually put you on a pedestal, but in the most natural way, as if drawing on your own inner resources, without a hint of artificiality, with a knowing tenderness that was uniquely his and which you simply couldn’t refuse. That is precisely why you had to have your feet firmly planted on the ground and be endowed with a sense of self-irony, so as not to fall into the temptation of euphoria and self-importance. Costion transformed the loving trust he placed in you into a lucid confidence, yet one which, out of elegance, refused to see the shadows and obstacles in the realisation of the vectors of the ideal that he sensed within you and which he brought to light. And those ideals were real; they were not figments of his imagination. There was nothing naïve or over-the-top about it, but rather the cultivation of ‘luminous’, agapic thinking. A way of being poetic in the world.
There was, after all, something profound in all of this. A lesson in hesychasm in the city, hesychasm in culture and in cultural journalism. And Costion was unique, amongst the intellectuals I knew, in cultivating this kind of prayerful state of the heart in the city. He had a talent for transforming Christian scholarly discussions into open and captivating Eucharistic feasts—one of those rare moments when you want to say to the moment: ‘Stop!’, and to the speaker: ‘Stay!’
At times, you felt as though he were turning you into an icon; yet there was neither flattery nor naivety in this. And he did not do this only with me. He had the gift of seeing each person’s ‘personal eschaton’, the image beyond time of what we were to become. That is to say, the icon. Our icon, that of each and every one of us. But, really, isn’t that how we ought to see one another – as icons? As Chekhov once said, that we must look at the world through the eyes of someone in love, and then we shall see paradise. Costion was very fond of that saying. And so was I.
What a profound lesson Costion taught us in how to look upon our neighbour! And how ill-prepared we generally are to receive this gift!
Our brief encounters and fleeting glimpses were woven from such things. In their wake remained faint halos of light, and each of us then went our separate ways. And yet, those golden moments passed. All these moments lent the time spent in Costion’s company—and indeed our very existence, as his friends—a luminous quality, a pneumatic mystery, descending from on high yet at the same time very accessible. There was, undoubtedly, also a kind of apostolate on Costion’s part in all these utterances, which he practised both in personal encounters and in his many public addresses: his lectures. The apostolate as a way of being.