VI. The Man of Light
There were times, whilst passing through the dark tunnels of my life, when our brief conversations would brighten my moments. Our discussions on Russian culture, particularly poetry, were fascinating; I was surprised to discover that he had read an unexpectedly large amount of it – far more than I had… I could sense how much the books nourished him; I sometimes felt that this was his actual, real sustenance, alongside the Eucharistic Word of God, shared with his friends and those of Christ… How much is there not to learn from this? How many times might one not say to the present moment: ‘Stay!’?
Sometimes, in those rare moments when we saw each other face to face, he would rest his hands on my shoulders. Weightless hands—you didn’t feel their weight, but only the vertical pull, coming from above. Wing-like hands. There was a protective gesture in this, but it also felt like an invitation to that same celestial verticality.
And yet those moments, after bestowing their radiance, would fade away, and we went our separate ways, each of us absorbed in our professional and vocational loves and commitments, which built other enduring citadels or empires of moments, perhaps just as, or almost as, radiant, or even more so, each on their own path… We would still ring each other up occasionally, but it seemed to be happening less and less often. And, at times, silence would settle between us for quite a while.
VII. Working Together
In 2012, we collaborated more closely for a few months. We were organising a major project, ‘Tarkovsky in 2012. In Bucharest’, featuring international guests, exhibitions, round-table discussions, film premieres and extensive media coverage, and Costion was a key pillar, particularly for the symposium I’d initiated for the occasion. I was able to rely on him in every respect. Circumstances had placed me in the role of director, a position I took very seriously (otherwise, the whole project would have fallen apart), whilst Costion had found within himself all the humility, seriousness and promptness to collaborate just as constructively and serenely from this position. I have been able to collaborate in this way with very few intellectuals of his calibre.
I was quite surprised when, just two years later, I learnt from second-hand sources that he was preparing for publication an extensive monograph on Andrei Tarkovsky, on which he had been labouring for a long time. Although we had spoken at length, on so many occasions and indeed quite recently, about the films and life of the great filmmaker, Costion had kept completely quiet about the fact that he was preparing a book! It is true that we had different approaches: I favoured hermeneutic analyses, seeking out archetypes and aesthetic nuclei of meaning, whilst steering clear as far as I could of biographical references; Costion, on the other hand, took an indirect approach; he was passionate about the biographical stories of Tarkovsky’s family and circle of friends, and how these were reflected in his work. We complemented each other. Whenever I asked his opinion on my ramblings, he would reply: ‘Who am I to judge?!’. He had no interest in revelations of this sort, semiotic analyses or forays into the depths of psychoanalysis, where archetypes and symbols of the sacred unite the spirit with aesthetics in all the splendour of being and the divine Word. He preferred to discern the divine Word in the manifestations of Christian morality found in the narratives of films and in the stories of life. Is there more or less ‘judgement’ here? More mysticism or more rationalism in the approach to unseen realities? Costion seemed to perceive divine grace more through agapic relationships with one’s neighbour than through the direct mystical experience of a relationship with God in a work of art, perceived as a revelation of the Truth, the Way and the Life. I never debated this issue with him.
He told me, at the very last minute, that his book was going to press and invited me to the launch. I wrote a review for Ziarul Lumina and promoted the book, which is unique in its own way, even within the global landscape of studies on Tarkovsky. I was glad that, in a way, we had been together again, at least on this subject so dear to us.
VIII. The Suffering
Then, some time later, I learnt – again by chance – that he was ill. Seriously ill. I rang him. He spoke to me openly, almost radiantly, but it was clear he did not wish to discuss matters relating to his illness. His heart, perhaps, slightly more subdued, remained in the Philokalia.
He very rarely spoke of his family, close friends or his personal life.
IX. Transitional Orations
However, quite soon, the lectures resumed and his books continued to be published. Thank God, he had recovered from his illness. Unfortunately, my specific professional commitments no longer allowed me to initiate activities that would have given us the opportunity to work together and meet face to face. And, regrettably, we had somewhat lost the habit of telephone conversations. We communicated rarely, even though our shared interests remained the same… Including a love of sacred art associated with the Prolog group or with visual artists inspired by ‘visual hesychasm’. It was just that we met all too rarely at exhibition openings. Often, I would only find out about them after the event and visit them at the very last minute, missing the guests’ exhibitions, at which Costion was almost always present. The only constant between us was our friendly thoughts and the exchange of birthday letters.
These continued like annual bursts of light and solar warmth, little bubbles of oxygen to lift, at least a little, the veil of silence and weariness that had settled between us in recent years. As if a touch more distant (or perhaps my own perception had changed), they continued to reach me, descending from his palaces of light, on major feast days and name days: the little festive greetings, cordial and lofty, like bouquets of white flowers. In one of the most recent ones, she reminded me, in a solemn tone, of the Beauty and the Cross evoked by the Holy Empress Equal to the Apostles and her name. How could one not be moved by such lofty words, of which one most often does not even feel worthy? How could one not be struck by the insights behind them? Especially since, for some time now, I had known nothing of the other’s personal life or of the crosses that marked our existence. I replied, almost as devoutly, but without hiding the tremor of deep doubt that pierced my heart. There was nothing pathetic about it, nor sentimental; it was rather the solemn air of a deep, ground-reaching bow, which people of old would naturally make to one another when greeting each other, wishing each other well and salvation – simple Christians, but also monks. You can still see them today, in places where people have preserved the original beauty of nature. Costion saw them. And I saw them too.
In recent years, the brief festive greetings – which once carried a holy and cheerful tranquillity – had taken on an almost imperious tone – a tone I had never heard before in Costion. In the very last of them, he was almost commanding me not to forget him. I was struck by the diamond-like weight of that word, ‘love’, but also by the delicate hint of reproach hidden within it, pouring like a torrent of fire over our long periods of silence. It was no more than three weeks before his passing. I replied in the same tone of solemn rhetoric, to which I discreetly added my concern at his unexpected attitude. There was nothing left in these exchanges of words of the pious grace of days gone by! But they did not continue, neither in writing nor by telephone. How sorry I was that I had not phoned him then! But I did not have the strength to pick up the telephone…
X. The Bells
About two weeks later, I learnt, again indirectly, that he had been admitted to hospital. I’d gathered that his illness had relapsed; I didn’t know how serious it was, but I felt immediately that I had to visit him. The angel of friendship had warned me in time. The next day, I was at the hospital. A quiet private room in an equally peaceful ward, nestled within the grand grounds of Colentina Hospital. Only his family were present; his friends had visited him the day before. My heart was heavy; you never know what to say at such moments, especially after not having seen him for such a long, bitterly long time. He was lying in bed, talking about the lecture ‘The Beauty of Saint Dumitru the Theologian’ – referring to it simply as ‘the lecture on beauty’ – which he had given in Iași just two weeks earlier. The title sounded like a swan song! But hadn’t this – Philokalian beauty – been his lifelong creed? And wasn’t that the tone of most of his work, if we are to accept that an open declaration of love sounds, in our world, like a ‘swan song’?
He was perfectly lucid, but listless and rather distant. You could no longer meet his gaze, even though he conversed naturally. I think he harboured a kind of anxiety, which he did not wish to reveal to others, so as not to hurt them. And, probably, a state of deep introspection. We held hands. I didn’t have the strength to embrace him, so as not to shatter the secret he no longer wished to share with others.
From the family, there was a great deal of acceptance and love. I have never seen a family come together with such calm, harmony and caring warmth around the one who is leaving. I think we all sensed that he was leaving, even though we didn’t dare to talk about it. It was easier for me to talk to the family, especially to Mrs Maria and Antuza. We’d discuss some things in the corridor, but with the same discretion. These are not the sort of moments when you can have a meaningful conversation – at least not in words – with the person you’ve come to say goodbye to, for we sensed that we were saying our final goodbyes. Most words escape us at such times; what remains, however, is the presence.
I was very sorry that I could not attend the funeral – I simply had to be in Alba Iulia, where I have been working for three years. We met again at the fortieth-day memorial service, where we were deeply touched by Costion’s luminous spirit, full of friendship, harmony and sincerity. We could feel him amongst us. I can say that with my hand on my heart. I’d met most of the people there only occasionally, and I’d spoken to members of the family quite rarely over the years, but the openness, warmth and effortless friendship with which we interacted with one another – acquaintances and strangers alike – gave you the feeling of a large and true family, gathered for a great and true agape feast. Everything you need to say to the moment, ‘Stay!’ was there. Costion was there. He was with us, with each of us and with all of us together. Just as He is with me, as I write these lines, and with you, those who are reading them. God had generously welcomed him into His bosom; we felt this beyond any doubt. For He loved him dearly.
He was a happy man, for he felt the fullness of God’s love. And he tried to teach us that too.
And yes, I’ve known him all my life. But… this life is only just beginning!