Recently, the issue regarding the condition of cultural monuments within the territory of Abkhazia has been repeatedly raised, including at a high international level. However, the fact that data concerning their preservation remains largely sporadic, combined with the reality that Georgian specialists – who had dedicated decades to their study and restoration – have been denied the opportunity to examine the local state of affairs for twenty years, provides ample ground for profound concern.
Scholars of cultural heritage and the general public alike have been particularly alarmed by reports regarding the works conducted at the Ilori Church of St George. This monument is of paramount artistic, historical, and ecclesiastical significance, as Ilori served for centuries as one of the pre-eminent spiritual centres for Christians throughout Western Georgia. The outcomes of this recent ‘renovation’ are so self-evidently deplorable that they scarcely warrant discussion; the plastering of the facades and the superimposition of a modern ‘dome’ – all executed in the spirit of the nineteenth-century ‘Russian’ style – fall beneath any scholarly criticism.
To an outside observer, it may appear unclear why this single instance elicits such acute anxiety and rigorous protest. The reason is elementary: Georgian scholars, public figures, and policymakers are acutely aware of what such past ‘measures’ entailed, and they possess every reason to presume that other monuments of antiquity may share the fate of Ilori.
Perhaps the most salient examples illustrating what may be anticipated are the Cathedrals of the Dormition of the Mother of God in Bichvinta (which for centuries served as the see of the Head of the Western Georgian Church) and Dranda. The former was stripped of its conical dome roof – a defining characteristic of South Caucasian, specifically Georgian, architecture! – as well as its porticos (which linked the churches of Abkhazia with the north-eastern Georgian historical province of Kakheti); furthermore, the entire structure was heavily plastered. At Dranda, new apertures are being breached, and the building is once again being coated in a thick layer of plaster. Meanwhile, the dome – the ‘restorers’ seemingly being unaware that the architecture of Dranda is fundamentally Early Byzantine, with minor South Caucasian-Georgian components! – has been altered to a thoroughly fantastical shape, incorporating a semblance of the kokoshnik gables typical of Russian churches at the base of the roof.
We may be told that these practices were conditioned by the level of scholarly knowledge of that era, as well as the underdeveloped methods and methodologies of restoration. While these factors undoubtedly played a role, the core of the issue is demonstrated by a comparison with the Mokvi Cathedral, the renovation of which was executed by the decree and at the expense of His Serene Highness Prince Mikhail Shervashidze-Chachba. Although his repairers likewise failed to preserve the ancient portals and superimposed a small baldachin over the dome, they attempted to compensate for the lost structures by erecting a new western portico, maintained the conical form of the dome roof, and sought – albeit at a significantly lower artistic level – replicate the ancient architectural divisions on the new facade cladding. Consequently, despite clear losses, no fundamental alteration to the architectural character occurred at Mokvi.
One might also recall the reconstruction of the Church of St Simon the Canaanite in Anakopia (present-day New Athos). Here, the builders similarly preserved the ancient ashlar masonry of the facades and endeavoured not to violate its character; they replicated the decoration of the arched windows to the best of their abilities. However, the roof of the dome was rendered spherical, which again substantially altered the silhouette and, consequently, the overall architectural identity of the church.
No one questions the sincerity of the religious sentiments of the Russian monks who commissioned the repairs in Bichvinta, Dranda, and Anakopia; indeed, we are all indebted to the fathers of New Athos for salvaging a vast quantity of carved stone fragments, which they collected within the citadel church of Anakopia. Yet, it can hardly be deemed coincidental that the outcome of their activities invariably resulted in the ‘Russification’ of the architecture. It is equally difficult to doubt that, in this regard, they acted in complete alignment with imperial policy, which was quite overtly directed against the ‘natives’, including the Abkhazians. It remains a historical fact that profound piety among many – though not all – clerics of the Russian Church was entirely compatible with great-power, and specifically Georgiophobic, convictions.
Another example of the tragic consequences of sincere zeal is the fate of the Bediya Cathedral. Its dome was dismantled, and the greater part of its facade cladding was stripped away – again by Russian monks – with the intention of renovating the damaged structure. However, the events of the early twentieth century disrupted the completion of their undertaking. The monks departed, the ancient stones vanished, and in place of a vulnerable yet standing structure, we were left with ruins. (It is worth recalling that the church of the Kabeni Monastery near the village of Kojori in the vicinity of Tbilisi perished in an identical manner).
Given this harrowing historical experience, and taking into account the enviable consistency of Russia’s Caucasian policy aimed at the assimilation of the peoples of the Caucasus, the actions of Russian clergymen – which run counter to the official declarations of the hierarchs of the Moscow Patriarchate – cannot but render us deeply vigilant regarding any activity concerning the antiquities of Abkhazia.
Even in instances where protective measures appear superficially professional – as seems to be the case with the works at the Lykhny Church – we cannot disregard the potential for a semi-conscious tendentiousness on the part of the restoration executants, or the often perilous nature of political engagement. After all, twentieth-century restorers never fully succeeded in reversing the consequences wrought by the nineteenth-century renovators at Bichvinta.
It is precisely for this reason that actions such as the ‘repair’ of Ilori have deeply alarmed many of us. Consequently – while accusing no one of anything! – rumours concerning damage to the Bediya murals, specifically the portrait of King Bagrat, appear highly suspicious. It is on these grounds that we endorse the view regarding the necessity of international monitoring over the condition of cultural heritage within the ‘frozen conflict’ zones of the South Caucasus.
The Academic Council of the George Chubinashvili National Research Centre for Georgian Art History and Heritage Preservation
On the “Restoration” of Historical and Cultural Monuments in Abkhazia
Recently, the issue regarding the condition of cultural monuments within the territory of Abkhazia has been repeatedly raised, including at a high international level. However, the fact that data concerning their preservation remains largely sporadic, combined with the reality that Georgian specialists – who had dedicated decades to their study and restoration – have been denied the opportunity to examine the local state of affairs for twenty years, provides ample ground for profound concern.
Scholars of cultural heritage and the general public alike have been particularly alarmed by reports regarding the works conducted at the Ilori Church of St George. This monument is of paramount artistic, historical, and ecclesiastical significance, as Ilori served for centuries as one of the pre-eminent spiritual centres for Christians throughout Western Georgia. The outcomes of this recent ‘renovation’ are so self-evidently deplorable that they scarcely warrant discussion; the plastering of the facades and the superimposition of a modern ‘dome’ – all executed in the spirit of the nineteenth-century ‘Russian’ style – fall beneath any scholarly criticism.
To an outside observer, it may appear unclear why this single instance elicits such acute anxiety and rigorous protest. The reason is elementary: Georgian scholars, public figures, and policymakers are acutely aware of what such past ‘measures’ entailed, and they possess every reason to presume that other monuments of antiquity may share the fate of Ilori.
Perhaps the most salient examples illustrating what may be anticipated are the Cathedrals of the Dormition of the Mother of God in Bichvinta (which for centuries served as the see of the Head of the Western Georgian Church) and Dranda. The former was stripped of its conical dome roof – a defining characteristic of South Caucasian, specifically Georgian, architecture! – as well as its porticos (which linked the churches of Abkhazia with the north-eastern Georgian historical province of Kakheti); furthermore, the entire structure was heavily plastered. At Dranda, new apertures are being breached, and the building is once again being coated in a thick layer of plaster. Meanwhile, the dome – the ‘restorers’ seemingly being unaware that the architecture of Dranda is fundamentally Early Byzantine, with minor South Caucasian-Georgian components! – has been altered to a thoroughly fantastical shape, incorporating a semblance of the kokoshnik gables typical of Russian churches at the base of the roof.
We may be told that these practices were conditioned by the level of scholarly knowledge of that era, as well as the underdeveloped methods and methodologies of restoration. While these factors undoubtedly played a role, the core of the issue is demonstrated by a comparison with the Mokvi Cathedral, the renovation of which was executed by the decree and at the expense of His Serene Highness Prince Mikhail Shervashidze-Chachba. Although his repairers likewise failed to preserve the ancient portals and superimposed a small baldachin over the dome, they attempted to compensate for the lost structures by erecting a new western portico, maintained the conical form of the dome roof, and sought – albeit at a significantly lower artistic level – replicate the ancient architectural divisions on the new facade cladding. Consequently, despite clear losses, no fundamental alteration to the architectural character occurred at Mokvi.
One might also recall the reconstruction of the Church of St Simon the Canaanite in Anakopia (present-day New Athos). Here, the builders similarly preserved the ancient ashlar masonry of the facades and endeavoured not to violate its character; they replicated the decoration of the arched windows to the best of their abilities. However, the roof of the dome was rendered spherical, which again substantially altered the silhouette and, consequently, the overall architectural identity of the church.
No one questions the sincerity of the religious sentiments of the Russian monks who commissioned the repairs in Bichvinta, Dranda, and Anakopia; indeed, we are all indebted to the fathers of New Athos for salvaging a vast quantity of carved stone fragments, which they collected within the citadel church of Anakopia. Yet, it can hardly be deemed coincidental that the outcome of their activities invariably resulted in the ‘Russification’ of the architecture. It is equally difficult to doubt that, in this regard, they acted in complete alignment with imperial policy, which was quite overtly directed against the ‘natives’, including the Abkhazians. It remains a historical fact that profound piety among many – though not all – clerics of the Russian Church was entirely compatible with great-power, and specifically Georgiophobic, convictions.
Another example of the tragic consequences of sincere zeal is the fate of the Bediya Cathedral. Its dome was dismantled, and the greater part of its facade cladding was stripped away – again by Russian monks – with the intention of renovating the damaged structure. However, the events of the early twentieth century disrupted the completion of their undertaking. The monks departed, the ancient stones vanished, and in place of a vulnerable yet standing structure, we were left with ruins. (It is worth recalling that the church of the Kabeni Monastery near the village of Kojori in the vicinity of Tbilisi perished in an identical manner).
Given this harrowing historical experience, and taking into account the enviable consistency of Russia’s Caucasian policy aimed at the assimilation of the peoples of the Caucasus, the actions of Russian clergymen – which run counter to the official declarations of the hierarchs of the Moscow Patriarchate – cannot but render us deeply vigilant regarding any activity concerning the antiquities of Abkhazia.
Even in instances where protective measures appear superficially professional – as seems to be the case with the works at the Lykhny Church – we cannot disregard the potential for a semi-conscious tendentiousness on the part of the restoration executants, or the often perilous nature of political engagement. After all, twentieth-century restorers never fully succeeded in reversing the consequences wrought by the nineteenth-century renovators at Bichvinta.
It is precisely for this reason that actions such as the ‘repair’ of Ilori have deeply alarmed many of us. Consequently – while accusing no one of anything! – rumours concerning damage to the Bediya murals, specifically the portrait of King Bagrat, appear highly suspicious. It is on these grounds that we endorse the view regarding the necessity of international monitoring over the condition of cultural heritage within the ‘frozen conflict’ zones of the South Caucasus.
The Academic Council of the George Chubinashvili National Research Centre for Georgian Art History and Heritage Preservation