Walking on Water: Cosmic Floors in Antiquity and the Middle Ages

Fabio Barry

When Hagia Sophia, the vast cathedral of Byzantium, was completed and dedicated with great
fanfare shortly after Christmas 537, the emperor Justinian could rightly say (as a later source claims)
that he had outdone Solomon. Such was its splendor that God Almighty might be tempted to
descend among men and dwell within it (Fig. I).1

Justinian's expenditure on the church was fabled: it was said that forty thousand pounds of silver
went into the sanctuary screen alone, and he did not stint on its construction or decoration with gilt
tesserae, liturgical furniture, silver lamps, silk hangings, precious chalices and pattens, and acres of
polychrome revetment.

The glaring exception to all this artistry seemed to be the point where the whole construction of faith
met the earth's surface: the floor. Here, there were no vermiculated mosaics, no rainbow
imbrications, no intricate tessellations. Instead, the floor presented an expanse of Pro connesian
marble flagstones, traversed only by four green stripes, with any eye catching and multicolored
paving screened off behind the sanctuary barrier.

Yet visitors to Hagia Sophia were no less impressed by the nave floor and the image it seemed to
conjure. The slabs were book matched, meaning that the marble blocks had been sawn parallel to
their surface and the "unfolded" panels set edge to edge like the facing leaves of an opened book
(Fig. 2). Receptive spectators could read latent images into the symmetrical veining that resulted,
but, while such confections often evoked human or animal figures in the manner of Rorschach's
inkblots," in this instance they seemed to figure a substance: water. In fact, over more than a
millennium, observer after observer would report that the combined undulations of the closely fitted
slabs suggested that the entire floor was a "frozen sea."

The perdurability of this topos betrays neither flagging fantasy nor want of invention. Rather, it
reveals the enduring propriety of the extraterrestrial image that the faithful could read into the
shifting matter below their feet. As we shall see, by "walking on water," they were reminded of the
world's watery genesis and its apocalyptic destiny in a glacial purity, and also that, from beginning to
end, God's throne sat "above the waters," gliding over a celestial sea. Instrumental in disclosing this
concept was the perceived substance of marble, especially the type called Proconnesian. Although
the imageless paving defined no specific narrative, its re ceived materiality (meaning both the
material and the substance that the material represented or embodied) and its fundamental
situation virtually dictated a specific range of reference. In formalist analyses that do not evaluate
the material image or embodiment of a building, or that consider "ornament" a subtractive
addendum to "structure," the un figured floor remains a blank slate on which the "plan" is simply
inscribed. A different approach, taken here, is to pursue the archaeology of philological, geologic, and
cosmogonic associations intrinsic to the material, avoiding the common assumption that costly
materials like marble seived only to parade the prestige and "magnificence" of patrons determined
to display their wealth and power. Even if we do not rule out "conspicuous consumption" as a motive
for marble flooring, we should concede that such display could represent munificence in the service
of society rather than an agent of sovereign insecurity.


The Options
The simplicity of the floor at Hagia Sophia is all the more striking in that Justinian could have chosen
from an array of paving options, for floors had been venues of artifice and fantasy for centuries, and
the materials were often as rich as the illusions. Domestic floors had long showcased mosaic
"paintings" {emblemata); entirely illusionistic floors had been known since the famous Unswept Floor
of Sosos of Pergamon (early second century BGE) with its simulated refuse King above the floor
surface. Conversely, floors with scenes of swimming fish had implied that the surface was only a film
of particularly clear water."5

Even the checkered, geometric, and carpet weave patterns of aniconic floors might subvert surface
to imply a plunging abyss below one's feet.1Early imperial church foundations in the West, like St.
John in Lateran or St. Peter's, seem to have borrowed their paving schemes, like their building type
as a whole, from civic or palace basilicas. In Rome, in fact, geometric patterns were the almost
inviolable rule, though even then employing a palette of the choicest marbles/' In the eastern empire
it was another story. Extremely rich floor mosaics are found in the fourth century churches of
Palestine, Jordan, and Syria, abounding in personified seasons and the creatures of earth and sea.
Despite a gradual drift toward puritanical aniconism in church floors from the mid fourth century to
the early fifth century, the divergent tradition of nature imagery enjoyed a measured revival in the
fifth and sixth centuries.b

Under Justinian there even seems to have been a full blown renaissance of the medium and the
whole decorative repertoire that had been inherited from antiquity, whether the floors were laid in
churches or his own palace.' In this context the unadorned floor of Hagia Sophia purposefully
renounces both figuration and material variety. The large slabs of marble offered a greater shimmer
than would any mosaic pattern, a shimmer that when combined with undulating veining immediately
evoked a frozen sea.

Floors as "Seas," East and West
When the imperial marshal Paul the Silentiary recited his famous ekphrasis on the spot in Hagia
Sophia in 563, he compared the solea and airibo, the walled in processional way and pulpit that
pushed out into the nave (Fig. 3), to a wave lashed isthmus in a stormy sea and ventured that those
traversing the church found a safe harbor only in the liturgical destination of the sanctuary (see App.
1). This nautical motif recurs in the Diegesis or Narratio, a ninth century folk loric account of the
Hagia Sophia's construction, which commends the pavement as "like the sea or the flowing waters of
a river," and the ekphrasis of Michael the Deacon (ca. 1140 50) more extravagantly returns to the
theme of a sea dotted with islands, one of which is the ambo (see App. 2). The Xanritio also describes
the paving as traversed by the rivers of paradise, meaning the bands of Thessalian marble (verde
anlico) that compartmentalize the nave.9

This parallel tradition was disseminated as far as England and Russia (although it proved
comparatively shorter lived).10

Even Mehmet the Conqueror, on the day of Constantinople's fall (May 29, 1453), so admired this
"sea in a storm" that he took a sword to a disobedient solider trying to prise a slab from the floor."
Cafer Celebi's slightly later encomium of the same building (1493 94) also extolled its marble waves,
as would several Ottoman poets after him.1" while the Florentine Bernardo Bonsignori (1498) was
the last Westerner to repeat the observation, when he compared the surface to watered silk, before
the pavement was submerged under Muslim prayer mats.18 Perhaps the erroneous tradition that
Hagia Sophia satover vast cisterns arose from the same cherished perception,14
or the tradition, reported in the Narratio, that the church was flooded during the reconstruction of
the dome in 563.13


Within Constantinople, the Apostoleion (ca. 536 50), the church that contained relics of the Apostles
and the tombs of the emperors, had an almost identical floor,
16 and the rippling influence of these Justinianic floors can still be observed in the "pools" that
nostalgically fill later Byzantine churches like the Chora (Kariye Camii, ca. 1316 21; Fig. 4) and the
Parekklesion of the Theotokos Pammakaristos (Fethiye Camii, ca. 1310 14).' ' The same may have
held for the eleventh century Pantanasse church, also in Constantinople but now destroyed.
18
There were probably others, but today the only surviving Byzantine church that shares with Hagia
Sophia the distinction of a floor entirely fashioned from Proconnesian marble slabs is the
Acheiropoietos in Thessaloniki (Fig. 5), a mid fifth century structure, but one whose paving might
date from the mid seventh.


However, the "seafloor" had already traveled west to fill the naves and crossings of Italian churches,
in a variety of techniques. Highly descriptive sea scenes had featured in the floors of the early fourth
century double basilica of nearby Aquileia (Fig. 6) 20

and in S. Pudenzia, Rome (ca. 384 99).21

Abstracted versions persisted, as in the ciypt floor of S. Savino (ca. 1120 30) at Piacenza, where
zodiacal roundels bob about in a zigzag sea populated by leaping fish, mermaids, and sirens (Fig.
7).22 Mosaic waves also pool in the floors of eleventh and twelfth century Venetian churches like S.
Zaceara, and SS. Maria e Donato on Murano (1141; Fig. 8), albeit in the guise of interlinked crescent
shaped shields (or pelt). This particular convention had first arrived in Grado (the seat of the
Venetian patriarchate until as late as 1451) in the late sixth century: in the nave of S. Euphemia (579),
ranks of peltae stream toward the altar, wingtip to wingtip but facing in alternate directions (Fig. 9).
Overall, these "painted marbles concealing the squalid earth"2"1 merge into a ripple effect so
immediate in its evocation of waves that one historian, Sergio Tavani, even compared the pattern
with the furrowed surface of a tide swept beach.25


As it happens, and unbeknownst to Tavani, in 1211 a German visitor to a Cru
Acheiropoietos Church, Thessaloniki, mid 5th century or ca. 620 (photograph by the author) sader
palace in Beirut had voiced the same thought when he admired "a fine marble pavement that so well
feigns water stirred by a light wind that, whoever steps over it, seems to be wading, since they leave
no footprints above the sand depicted there."


26
Along with these floors, which differed in materials and techniques, the Proconnesian "seafloor"
itself had also mi grated to occupy the floors of two of the most ambitious churches built in Italy
during the High Middle Ages, the abbey church of Montecassino and the palatine chapel of Venice, S.
Marco. At Montecassino (1066 71) the "sea" was covered over in 1725 29 and eradicated by Allied
bombing in 1944, but even its presence in an eighteenth century engrav ing (Fig. 10) has gone
unnoticed because two large intarsi ated panels run across it like a carpet runner (presumably in
deference to the longitudinal axis of the Western basilical liturgy).27
The floor of S. Marco, however, survives. Laid sometime between 1110 and 1150, it pullulates with
tessellated whorls and quincunxes that figure astral geometries, though even these shifting patterns
could be considered seas, as a near contemporary description of a similar pavement observes: "what
is spread on the floor, and what clothes the whole space like a dress worked in colors might at first
be called a sea, which, moving on all sides in the gentlest waves, is suddenly petrified."28

Yet the jeweled waves of S. Marco only accentuate the hiatus of massive Proconnesian slabs under
the crossing.29

These slabs, which were quarried specially for the occasion, have been collectively known as "il
mare" (the sea) since at least the seventeenth century, though the tradi tion must be much older
(Fig. II).30

The island quarries of Proconnesian marble were within easy seafaring reach of both Constantinople
and Thessaloniki, on untroubled sea lanes relatively immune to marauders, and had provisioned
these cities and much of the Mediterranean with architectural marbles for centuries.31

It might be argued, therefore, that the relatively unadorned floors of Hagia Sophia and the
Acheiropoietos were surfaced with this plentiful stone with little thought other than elegant utility.
But this marble, and marbles in general, held far older, far deeper associations that went straight to
the heart of the matter. First was the still lively perception that marbles might be liquid, and second
the more particLilar kinship between marble and the sea.


Marbles as Liquids
The theories of geology promulgated by Aristotle and Theophrastus had taught that marbles were
deposits of purified earthy matter suspended in water that percolated down through the earth's
crust to deep reservoirs, where the whole brew was frozen or fired solid bv earthlv humors.32


Indeed, they held that all stones must retain some measure of water for their particles to cohere at
all. and this conception explains the curious observation of a rabbi visiting Rome in the first century
CE that "marble columns were covered with tapestries so that thev might not crack during the heat
and not congeal during the cold."33


In late antiquity marbles were still perceived as congelations of clammy vapors, and so the ifth
century poet Flavius Merobaudes eulogized a marble font in a now vanished baptistery with the
words "the jewel, once liquid itself, carries the liquid."34



During the medieval period these geologic perceptions received continued support from Arab
science in the East, while the same texts masqueraded as the works of Aristotle in the West. Thus, in
his On the Congelation and Conglutination of Stones (1021 23), the Arab physician Avicenna (980
1037) deduced from observation of alluvial formations (conglutination) and the growth of stalactites
{congelation) that there irvst exist a lapidifying, "mineral force" that freezes water. Such a conclusion
would have been considered especially authoritative, because a Latin epitome of Avicenna's treatise
was often appended to Aristotle's Meteorology 4 as an extra chapter ("De mineralibus"), and
therefore attributed to "the Philosopher" himself.30 Aristotle's word was itself sacrosanct because
his Latin translators had infiltrated proto Christian nuances into their translations, but the
observations in De mineralibus continued to be disseminated by sainted writers like Albertus Magnus
as well (1220s).37

Significantly, Avicenna/Aristotle regarded the transformation in question not as a deposition of solids
in water but rather as the actual metamorphosis of water itself into stone. Moreover, the widely held
and persistent belief that mountains were reservoirs of this marble brew and could renew
themselves by sweating it out into their quarry scars seemed to receive firm confirmation at
Hierapolis (Pammukale), in Turkey.38 The whole city sat on, and had been built out of, a huge
calcareous mass, and lime charged water still streams through its ruined streets today in search of
long vanished bathhouses, depositing lime as it goes (Fig. 12). Although Hierapolis was abandoned
after the tenth century, its memory was sustained in the West by its brief description in Vitruvius.39

Hierapolis's actual fabric was travertine, but there is dramatic evidence diat such genuinely natural
formations fed wilder rumors. As late as 1491, an anonymous Ottoman writer found it necessary to
refute the common belief that porphyry was a frozen, water based dye,40 and Filarete had even
cooked a piece of marble from a column in the Roman church of the Aracoeli to disprove the
common belief that it was a water based conglomerate.41


Mar/Marmor/Marmora
The presence of marine fossils surely encouraged the perception that certain stones were petrified
water, but literary tradition also invited the association that was enshrined in the word marmor
itself. This Latin noun from which derive all modern European equivalents (marmo, marbre, marble,
Marmor, and so on), itself descended from the Greek verb mar mairein, meaning "to glisten."
Marmairein in turn was the iterative form of a verb whose Sanskrit root, mar, implied motion. Mar
had originally indicated the movement of the waves, and mar mar the more agitated stirring (or
murmuring) of the sea.'12
In poetry, this assonance proved pregnant with possibility. When Homer had spoken of hala
marmara {Iliad 14.273), he had simply meant the "shimmering sea," but when the Latin poet Ennius
wrote, about 184 BCE, of a ship "skimming the calm sea's golden marble," a whole new realm of
metaphor entered the poetic consciousness. There is no equivalent in English, but the nearest
analogue is perhaps "the glassy sea."43

Catullus, Valerius Flaccus, Lucan, Lucretius, particularly Virgil, and many others all used marmor as a
synonym for mar time and again to imagine the sea's hard surface and hidden weight. Virgil
fathomed marmor s depths by describing a calm in which "tides of marble smoothness meet the
laboring oar,"44 but the metaphor reaches fruition, and water again becomes stone, in the verses of
Ovid. In wintry exile on the shores of the Black Sea, he wrote that the chill was so fierce that "the
ships, shut in by the cold, will stand fast in the marble surface and no oar will be able to cleave the
stiffened waters."40 Eventually this icy association became so much a mental habit that the emperor
Julian, wintering in Paris (358 59 CE), would write home to describe a frozen Seine in Impressionist
hues as huge sliding plates of Phrygian marble (or Pavonazzelto) .4b

With all this in mind, even very familiar objects begin to accommodate quite unexpected
interpretations. Anyone who has visited Rome will know the so called Bocca della Verit (Fig. 13), or
"Mouth of Truth," into whose maw expectant tourists insert their hands and swear to tell the truth
on pain of amputation.
This disk is actually a second century drain cover carved from a single block of Phrygian marble as a
portrait of Oceanus.4' Geographically, the stream Oceanus encircled the world and marked its limits,
but he was also a great cosmic power, the aboriginal watery mass from which the Greek world was
born. Thus, his disembodied mask with its staring, apotropaic eyes serves as the fulcrum of
innumerable floors (Fig. 14), and on some of these, and many sarcophagi as well, Ocean's hair and
beard materialize out of piled waves. Thus, on the Bocca della Verit, the deity's head is contained
within the "birthmark" of the marble, so that when he reared his head in public it seemed a body of
water itself, the face of the deep. Conversely, this mask must have made whatever court it once
adorned a microcosm across which the waters streamed back into Ocean just like those daily
draining off the earth at large.
Likewise, the fourth or fifth century sculptor who picked out an intensely red onyx block with
particularly gushing veining for a Christian sarcophagus in Brescia (Fig. 15) understood the material
paradox well enough to enlist this marble as the vehicle par excellence for depicting the Crossing of
the Red Sea. When the Israelites had made their crossing, the sea had solidified into "a structure,
created by a hanging wall of water, [which] held back the sea and kept it suspended in the air."48 To
complete the allusion, we must remember that the Red Sea figures recurrently in poetry in
association with Persian gems, alongside references to blood and purple dye.49

Carystian and Proconnesian Marble
Ennius had written of the calm sea's "golden marble," Homer of the "wine dark sea"; rarely did
ancient eyes regard the waves as "blue." More often than not, they were green, and one marble that
regularly impersonated water was Carystian (or Cipollino), from Euboea in Greece. Its marine veining,
the poets enthused, "competed with the gray green sea" and "joyed to behold the waves."00 Even
the quarry was "wavy."01 As a result, Carystian was recurrently employed in bath complexes
throughout the empire, private or public, and the desired effects are nowhere more obvious than in
the frigi darium of the Villa of the Quintili on the Via Appia (late second early third century CE; Fig.
16).2 Here, Carystian ripples under the geometric floor, the columns are of the same marble, and if
the wall revetment originally were, too, one would have felt submerged even before entering the
plunge pool. Analogously, the mosaic paving in the peristyle impluvium in the Maison du Char de
Venus (after 317 CE) at Thuburbo Maius, Tunisia, imitates a book matched floor of Garystian marble
just like that in the frigidaria of the nearby public baths.53 The floor drains into a cistern below, so
one can only imagine the effects when the drain was plugged (Fig. 17).


The longevity of Carystian's marine identity was such that in the 1490s, Andrea Mantegna capitalized
on this same marble's veining in his design for a fountain (Fig. 18), and in the 1890s the marble
literate painter Lawrence Alma Tadema would knowingly foreground it in his reconstruction of the
Baths of Caracalla (Fig. 19).51


By the sixth century, however, it was Proconnesian marble, the flooring of Hagia Sophia, that had
largely supplanted Carystian in its power to epitomize the sea. Glistening white blocks of this marble
had already been quarried from the isle of Proconnesus for centuries, but the Byzantines sought out
the faces streaked with dove gray seams and enhanced their "ripple" veining by slicing the slabs
across the bed and cuttingcolumns on the bias (Fig. 20).55

Finally, by the time of the Latin conquest of Constantinople (1204), the equation of Proconnesian
with water was consummated in the knowledge that the island from which these slabs hailed ("sea
girt Pro connesus," as Paul the Silentiary says) had given the encompassing sea its popular name:
Marmara.56


The Cosmic Floor
Why should a marine image have been desirable for a church floor to begin with? A partial answer
comes from considering Byzantine floors with marine iconography; a more complete one from
considering the implications of the materials themselves, in Hagia Sophia, Proconnesian marble.
Numerous late antique and medieval floor mosaics in both the eastern and western Mediterranean
borrowed their template from the ancient ideogram of the mythical Ocean encircling the inhabitable
world (oikoumene).7 In the eastern examples the nave floor (representing the oikoumene) is often
bounded by a decorative border representing Ocean, but on one occasion Ocean may even have
been simulated in the real canals that surrounded the great cathedral at Edessa, Syria (ca. 543 54
CE).58

In each case, because the devotee found the world at his feet, the church became a model of the
universe and assumed a cosmic footing. Moreover, if one pursued the cartographic suggestions of
the floor to their logical conclusion, then the sanctuary occupied the position of paradise itself (Fig.
21).59

For, according to Maximus Confessor (ca. 580 662), the church "has the holy sanctuary as heaven,
but it possesses the fitting appearance of the nave as earth. So likewise the universe is the church.
For it has the heaven like a sanctuary and the ordering of the earth like a nave."60


As for the materials, to most contemporary eyes, the glittering Cosmati meadows that were strewn
across S. Marco and the church of Montecassino rendered the sanctuary an Eden of gems that
flashed underfoot like the garden of God described by Ezekiel (28:13, 14). But a watery floor in the
image of an entire sea, as presented by Proconnesian marble, promised to be the alpha and omega
of such premonitoiy materiality. For when its shimmering surface lay beneath an overarching dome
of luminous gold, the whole construct became a simulacrum of God's separation of the waters in
Genesis 1:2 8: "And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. . . . and God made the
firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were
above the firmament. . . . And God called the firmament 'heaven.'" These verses were fundamental
for the Judaic view of the universe and, thereafter, the Christian and Muslim versions.61 Christian
depictions of the division of the upper from lower waters range from the ideograms in an eleventh
century manuscript of the sixth century Topography of Cosmas Indicopleustes (Fig. 22)62

to the more evident evaporations and precipitations of a thirteenth century French illuminator (Fig.
23).63

Moreover, not only had God divided the waters but he would also sit "above the waters" until the
end of time. For on Judgment Day, Revelation tells us, his apocalyptic throne would finally become
visible to all resting on "a sea of glass like to Crystal," "a sea of glass mingled with fire" (Rev. 4:6,
15:2).64


Indeed, this is exactly how we see him, above a shifting sea laced with flame and flanked by horn
blowing apocalyptic angels, on the proscenium of S. Michele in Africisco (545), Ravenna, mosaics that
were installed within a decade of the inauguration of Hagia Sophia (Fig. 24). Another such sea, this
one carved, also subtends God's supernal throne in the tympanum of the nortal of St Pierre in
Moissac (ca. 1125), this time contemporary with the paring of S. Marco.66

And in S. Marco, observers could find both seas, the Deep and the Celestial. A "sea" of nested
chevrons (rather than wickerwork, as it is normally explained) was inscribed between the legs of the
so called throne of Saint Mark, the prized relic carved with cherubim, palms, the Lamb of God, and
the four rivers of paradise that stood behind the basilica's high altar (Fig. 25).67 In S. Marco,
Venetians could also compare the veined "sea" under the crossing nearby with the linguine like
waves over which the Spirit of God hovers in the mosaics of the Genesis cupola in the atrium (Fig.
26). Added to all these musings was, of course, the inescapable frisson that Venice was itself a city
founded on water, a fact that became painfully obvious with every seasonal flood, the acqua alia.



In Hagia Sophia the two waters essentially compose the basso profondo underlying the dancing
reflections of the materials. From remotest antiquity until the seventeenth century, few doubted
that rock crystal was a form of ice that had been frozen by primordial cold.69

This suggested that light (the active principle of the Logos) was frozen into its very fabric. Thus, when
marble, which was a more opaque cousin of crystal, was polished it recovered this original light in a
surface slick. The common resemblance of shimmer to wet ness, the "wet look" that mosaics and
marbles alike could achieve, therefore, pointed beyond the surface to a substratum of physical
affinities. Taken as a whole, the dome of Hagia Sophia became a "shower of light," tumbling down in
a luminous cascade, washing the walls and soaking the floor.'0 The tenth century soldier poet John
Geometres virtually says as much when he describes the columns of the Stoudios church (454 63),
Constantinople, melting back into their watery cradle in the earth and discharging over the floor in
the process:
The polished splendor of these stones Seems another sea without waves

As though just now it has fallen calm.
The light and luster of the columns, Their lovely sparkle, resembles
A river glistening with dissolved Snow, which, almost another sea, flows
Toward the glossy stones of the floor,
Silently.71


All in all, the glossy materials of the domed church could be regarded as globally crystalline, tinged by
the local color of earthly generation in the nave walls below or heavenly ether in the dome above.
Divine light bleached the church's upper shell, paradisiacal landscapes (although rainbows or peacock
wings, or other images of iridescence and multiplicity would do just as well) inhabited its walls, and
cosmic waters pressed up against its floor.'2 The symmetry of the whole construct is prefigured by
the earlier poet Claudian, who describes a crystal ball, or lens, as a miniature replica of the cosmos in
his epigram "On a Crystal Enclosing Water" (ca. 390 95):


The snow white crystal, fashioned by the hand of man, Showed the variegated image of the perfect
universe, The heaven, clasping within it the deep voiced sea 3.
Such liquid and crystalline light was also translated into the domical water displays of those Islamic
fountains that posed as heavenly models. An eleventh century version in an Arab house in Cordoba is
described thus: "From its head water fell in the form of a dome upon a floor of alabaster and marble;
lights were set inside this 'dome' and were thus covered by it." A celebratory poem makes more
obvious the microcosm when it surreptitiously questions:

Tell me what is the torch upon the lamp That sprouts crystals onto a crystal base?
A stream that will not kill fire in its midst, Its waters standing like a wall and missiles, A sky encrusted
with an onyx skin Stretched over a ground of bedellium'4 The upper waters had been frozen at
creation into crystal, a fact that one knew because at night one could see the stars through the
heavenly spheres, and this archetypal construct was again borne out by the letter of Scripture. As the
Book of Job lays out, when God had "divided the waters," his breath had crystallized the sky, and he
had "shut in the sea with doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb" (Job 38:8
The simulacrum of the church therefore fixed the image of creation in a material metaphor that
literally enacted Job's words that "the waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is
frozen" (Job 38:30). '6
Therefore, a church floor of frozen water could evoke at one and the same time the Creation and the
Apocalypse, by recalling the ambience of God's throne room beyond human time and out of this
world. In the beginning, God froze the waters, and when he renews the universe at the end of time,
he will restore the earth's original luminosity; its surface will no longer be dark and dull but will
become a diaphanous mass as sleek as glass.77 In this light, the brilliant, polished floor becomes a
mirror of the divine plan, and by stepping on it one enters heaven. Indeed, the glacially white floors
eventually recorded in various Constantinopolitan churches probably harbored this ambition.78



Judaic Precursors and Islamic Successors
The patrons, architects, and theologians who thought "sea" when they surveyed the floor of Hagia
Sophia would recall the "brazen sea" in the prototypical Temple of Solomon79 or the waters that
flowed from the temple in Ezekiel's vision, and the various pools and fountains of Hagia Sophia's long
lost atrium consciously prefigured the simulations of the interior.80 Rabbinical commentaries on the
Herodian Temple make it clear that the visual association between marble and water was very well
established in Judaic lore long before its explicit Byzantine appropriation.81 A Babylonian Talmud of
the fourth century recounts that Herod "intended to overlay [the wall] with gold, but the Rabbis told
him, 'Leave it alone for it is more beautiful as it is, since it has the appearance of the waves of the
sea.'"82 Furthermore, the identity of the marbles envisioned by the Amoraim (Talmudic scholars)
was
confirmed by their use of the Greco Latin word marmar, and other texts refer to the stones of Perak
Onsin, in which can be detected a corruption of the name Proconnesus. Finally, Tziona Grossmark has
shown that a cryptic warning, "When ye arrive at the stones of pure marble, say not, Water, water!"
derived from a mystical account of ascent to the upper spheres in which one of the travelers "stood
at the entrance to the sixth palace and saw the splendor of the air of pure marble stones and he
opened his mouth two times and said Water, water. . . ."83 In other words, the material portended a
heavenly vision, and yet another medieval version of the same story places emphasis on this
otherworldly dematerialization by describing the mirage of the "hundreds of thousands and millions
of waves of water [that] stormed against [the traveler], and yet there was not a drop of water, only
the ethereal glitter of the marble plates with which the (Sixth) Palace was tessellated."84
Nor were Islamic poets blind to the rainy allure of Procon nesian marble. Marcus Milwright has
adduced a eulogy by the ninth century poet Buhturi on a Samarran palace:

As if the glass walls of its interior
Were waves beating upon the seashore;







As if its striped marble, where its pattern
Meets the opposite prospect, [that is, book matching]
Were streaky rain clouds arrayed between clouds, dark and light,
And striped, coming together and mingling 85
But these pan Mediterranean water metaphors had no impact on mosque floors, both because they
had to be covered with matting to accommodate the five daily prostrations toward Mecca and
because the mosque is essentially an oriented prayer hall with no pretensions to housing the divine
presence nor portraying the end of days. In the Great Mosque at Damascus it is the revetment
surrounding the mihrab (Fig. 20) that came to be known as "foam of the sea," not the floor.80 In
Islamic and Judaic lore, in Midrashim, and even in the Quran, the image of the watery floor is in fact
more common in descriptions of palace interiors. Because God's throne stood over a glassy floor,
so did Solomon's, and when the queen of Sheba entered his palace she, too, was fooled into thinking
that its marble floor was a pool of water. The crystal walls and watery floor of Solomon's palace
would in turn exercise their rule over those sovereigns who aspired to this paragon of god given
kingship.88




A glass pavement was even built, in Syria, in the late eighth or early ninth century, and the Quranic
verses describing Solomon's floor frequent the walls of medieval palaces with complex illusionistic or
vitreous ornament, the Alhambra being a special case in point.89 "Glassy seas" and "ocean floors"
also existed in Western palaces or, at least, poets imagined that they did, as in an early twelfth
century description of the audience hall of the comtesse de Blois.90 Likewise, the ten trior eleventh
century Digenis Akritis, a Byzantine ballad strongly infused with Islamic influences, imagines a palace
floor paved "with onyx that had been so highly polished that onlookers thought it was water frozen
into ice."91 The conceit must have been widespread much earlier, as a sixth century poet had also
explained the floor in a Carthaginian throne room to a Vandal king as an "unclouded pavement [that]
seems to be thickly spread snow. When your feet stand upon it, you would think they could sink into
it."92


A Classical Sea: The Temple of Zeus, Olympia
There were arguably classical precedents for the marine floor of Hagia Sophia, but the most powerful
was the cella of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia (Figs. 27, 28), housing the most famous
chryselephantine statue in Greece, Phidias's enthroned Zeus (ca. 430 420 BCE). On its completion
Phidias had the floor in front of the massive effigy dug out and "paved, not with white, but with black
stone, [and] in a circle round the black stone [ran] a raised rim of Parian marble, to keep in the olive
oil that flows out there."93 Pausanias, the Greek travel writer who wrote these words six hundred
years after the whole ensemble was built, went on to explain that the film of oil overlaying the slabs
served as a dehumidifier, preventing the effigy's wooden armature from warping and thereby
sloughing its ivory skin. But this preventative function of olive oil has no basis in physics, and it is
doubtful that the Greeks, whose staple crop was olive oil, would ever have believed that it did. A
trickle of dissenting voices has instead recognized that the viscous oil was actually meant to trans
form the black surface into a huge, seamless mirror. 4


It was said that the Zeus seemed so alive that he almost moved, that if he stood up he would knock
off the temple roof, and his shimmering materials purveyed a hyperreality of heavenly
appearances.95 The black pool rendered him visible but untouchable, and encircling parapets barred
access to the poolside to beat the bounds of the supreme god's precinct. The floor, like the later
"black stone" that gave its name to the ancient monument in the Roman forum, the Lapis Niger,96
became hallowed ground because one literally could not step on it. Thus, Zeus occupied his own
kingdom, and by reflection resided in a personal abyss of incomparability, the materials bracketing
the range of creation from Olympus to Tartarus.97

Even the curb of the pool seemed to undercut the internal columns of the cella, pulling the rug from
under the whole edifice.98

So Zeus loomed over a great divide, not of dead blackness (ater, or ixekas) but the brilliant black of
raven blue reflections (niger, or Kvaveos) that suggested hidden depths and even the unformed,
bottomless darkness that all Mediterranean myth associated with primeval chaos. The overall effect
is characterized in the text of yet another age, the Hypnerotomachia (1499), where Polifilo enters the
amphitheater and finds that
the whole pavement of the arena . . . seemed to consist of a single, solid Obsidian stone of extreme
blackness and invincible hardness, so smooth and polished that at the first step I withdrew my right
foot, fearing that I was about to fall into the abyss and perish. ... In this clear stone one could see the
limpid profundity of the sky perfectly reflected as in a calm and placid sea, and otherwise everything
around or above it, much better reflected than in the shiniest mirror.99




The tradition was far more ancient still than Olympia. In some Egyptian temples that predate Phidias
by two millennia, black basalt pavements were "associated with structuring the space as a
microcosm: a point where contact is possible between earth (the sphere of die living), represented
by the black material, and the celestial zone represented by the light color of the upper walls and die
ceiling which was painted with yellow stars on a blue ground."100

At least one of these floors was actually open to die sky.
Phidias no doubt intended to achieve the same effect as would the British sculptor Richard Wilson in
1987 when he filled a whitewashed art gallery with recycled sump oil to create a space "where the
internal volume is greater than its physical boundaries" (Fig. 29).101


Wilson's illusion was faultless, the entire space bisected by a horizon of a hair's breadth, and when
the spectator ascended the Cor Ten steel ramp excavated in its midst, the experience was like
mounting a diving board.
Wilson's installation was lit only by the soft light from a sawtooth roof above. Phidias's statue of Zeus
must originally have been lit by candelabra and hanging lamps, of whose arrangement we now know
nothing except that the oily mirror would have reflected them. Neither Zeus nor his father presided
over Chaos (which preceded them), and the splendid isolation so skillfully
engineered was more likely to mirror the supreme ruler's throne in the heavens. William Richard
Lethaby, the only observer yet to offer a truly imaginative alternative to Pausanias's explanation,
ventured that "it must have resembled the deep still sea, the sea of heaven which bore the throne of
Zeus, and in which the stars floated."102







However much they differ in materials, execution, and polish, these Egyptian, Greek, and Byzantine
floors, as well as Richard Wilson's equivalent at the Saatchi Gallery, share a common premise. Their
liquid surfaces dissolve the floor and make the rock bottom drop out of the world of the spectator,
who is then induced to tread a precarious line through extraterrestrial space. More particularly, in
the case of Hagia Sophia, the conjunction of marble and sea explicitly collapses the antitypes of
creation, sea and mountain, into one horizon on which liLiman finitude is set between lucid firmness
and umbrous chaos.
At Hagia Sophia, the exploitation of book matching gave rise to a stony sea that emerged from an
inherent ordering. This miracle of art erased the indices of facture and helped sacralize the interior
by assimilating the new creation to the product of artful Nature rather than man made artwork. No
figural imagery had appeared in Hagia Sophia's mosaics before the ninth century; in short, this was
an aniconic floor for an aniconic church.103


The floor therefore avoided any of the pagan connotations of the personified "Sea" that was, for
example, the focus of the church of the Apostles at Madaba (578 79; Fig. 30).104


But, as I remarked at the outset, although the imageless paving of Hagia Sophia preordained no
specific narratives, its received materiality and fundamental situation virtually predestined a proper
range of reference.
For a start, the worshiper who headed across the waters to the sanctuary in Hagia Sophia, or Grado,
for that matter, retraced the steps of Peter in his march of faith across the stormy Sea of Galilee to
meet Christ "the rock" (Matthew 14.29); Christ had quelled the chaotic waves of this sea just as his
Father had stayed those at Creadon.105

To slip beneath the surface would be to fall from God's favor, to await, like Jonah, reclamation from
the depths; in fact, several odes in the later Byzantine canon call on salvation in paraphrases of
Jonah's prayer in the belly of the whale.106

Moreover, it was with this very biblical event in mind that a ninth century chronicler would have us
believe that Galla Placidia, after a shipwreck in 424, built a new church to Saint John the Evangelist in
Ravenna. Below mosaics depicting her perils on the open sea she had a pavement laid that was
"everywhere a wavy sea [undosum undique mare]" as though it were "stirred by the winds, to
produce the image of a tempestuous storm."107



In S. Marco, pausing at the crossing is like waiting before the glassy sea of God's throne room. The
same was once true for the abbey church of Montecassino, which hoped to surpass Hagia Sophia and
whose floor was probably laid by Constantinopolitan craftsmen (Fig. 10). As Alfanus of Salerno's
contemporary poem on its splendors sings: "Here the green and porphyretic stones make the
alabasters shine; and at the same time the Proconnesian paring matches these marbles to each other
in such a way that this work may become a glassy sea."108


For others, Hagia Sophia's floor recalled the words of Job. The lector who chanted the Kontakion
(homiletic anthem) on its second inauguration on Christmas Day 562, from the ambo in the middle of
the "sea," told the masses that "in the beginning the firmament solidified in the midst of the waters .
. . with a flowing substance, as it is believed to be, above it.. . . But here things are better and utterly
wonderful: no flux, for the favor of God is the foundation on which rests the temple of God's
Wisdom."109


The lector sang in lucid, contemporary Greek, but when Paul the Silentiary lectured to the more
select crowd of emperor and patriarch a few weeks later, from some gallery vantage overlooking the
"sea," he declaimed Homeric hexameters.110

The linguistic shift reflected a revived republic of letters and the court culture that sponsored them,
but it was also a timeless, epic voice rising to the heroic ambitions of the edifice, and one that
simultaneously sought to harmonize Greek and biblical antiquity. Homer himself, like Virgil, had
already been subject to intense exegesis by theologians exhuming the proto Chris tian allegory
supposedly buried in his texts.111

Describing the tides of the populace that virtually assault the priest in their fervor to reach the Word
(meaning Scripture, but at the place of the spoken word, the pulpit), Paul the Silentiary draws not
only on Homer's figure of waves of Achaians besieging Troy but also on the common sermonizing
metaphor of the fertile island of the church as a "rock of faith" in a raging sea of sin. Likewise, when
Paul speaks of the voyage of the faithful across the sea to the safe haven of the sanctuary, he calls on
a tradition as old as classical literature itself, referring not only to life's travails btit even the struggles
of literary composition.112

It is all the more appropriate that Paul declaims in the voice of the Odyssey, for this was an epic that
even classical commentators suspected lay beyond the domain of factuality (exokeanismos), since
Odysseus's wander ings took place on that immense Ocean, which lay beyond earth's limits and
touched the heavens. And when the lector of the Kontakion describes the windows of Hagia Sophia
as "spiritual luminaries fixed to the divine firmament," he adds that they enlighten "in the night of
life those drifting about on the ocean of sin." Paul the Silentiary even claims that the church
surpasses the Pharos of Alexandria.113

We have every right to suspect that both atithors juxtapose the still waters of the church interior
with the peripheral territory of sin as ocean in which even the best sailor may lose his course,114


words that reverberated with Hagia Sophia's actual siting, a man made mountain that dominated
the straits of the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara.
Coda: English Architecture and Neo Byzantinism
Bernardo Bonsignori is the last Western traveler to have recorded the patterns of Hagia Sophia's
marine paving, but even before it returned to actual view in 1934 it resurfaced in the Western
consciousness through Joseph von Hammer Purgstall's quotation of Pseudo Codinus in his 1822 guide
to Istanbul and its environs. Thus, when the British architect George Edmund Street (1824 1881)
visited Venice a few years later, he remembered the book's passing description of the floor of Hagia
Sophia as a stormy sea, and took the metaphor as evidence that the rising and falling surface of S.
Marco's much settled floor was intentional. 115

In Venice this idea was nothing new. Since at least the mid eighteenth century ciceroni had been
telling Grand Tourists that sea legs were needed to cross S. Marco's shifting floor.116

But Street became so infatuated with the notion that Venetian masons had crafted the undulations
of this paving that he lectured publicly on the subject in 1859, and by 1879 his unwavering faith in its
authenticity led him to lobby the Italian government against proposals to re lay the floor. He was too
late to save the left aisle, which is noticeably smoother, and the controversy raged beyond his death
into the late 1880s.117


It was in the eye of this political storm, according to Richard Ormond's new dating, that John Singer
Sargent painted an internal view of S. Marco and devoted over half the canvas to a moist and rolling
floor (Fig. 31).118



"Instead of being laid level and even," Street says, the floor "swells up and down as though its
surface were the petrified waves of the sea, on which those who embark in the ship of the church
may kneel in prayer with safety, the undulating surface serving only to remind them of the stormy
sea of life."119


It was for the same stated symbolism that John Francis Bentley (1839 1902), architect of London's
neo Byzantine Westminster Cathedral (begun 1895), came to design its floor as a Proconnesian pool
darting with every variety of fish that was, he said, "promised to St. Peter's net" (Fig. 32).120


Besides the heritage of marmora, Street and Bentley were reckoning with another etymology, the
nave as "navis" (ship) d its cargo of souls on life's sea of troubles. Whether they knew it or not, the
meaning they imputed to the floor went back many centuries, appearing in the writings of many
church fathers, including Chromatius, who was bishop of Aquileia around the turn of the fifth century
and therefore delivered his elaborate sermons on the theme overlooking the cavorting fish and
fishermen in that nave.121



Bentley himself drew his ideas directly from Lethaby (1857 1931), who had quoted Street's opinion,
though critically, on the floor of S. Marco. Strangely, the watery floor figures only in passing in
Lethaby's Sancta Sophia in Constantinople (1894), but it had been a prime example in the chapter
"On Pavements as Seas" in his Architecture, Mysticism and Myth of 1891.122


Because Lethaby's book was intended to proselytize architects and general public alike, it was devoid
of footnotes, but it assembled what biblical, Classical, Byzantine, and Arabic sources he knew or were
translated for him by friends to argue that floors had often been conceived as "seas." Lethaby's
academic colleagues paid no attention to his observations, and they have languished in the doldrums
ever since. But they succeeded in catalyzing a band of younger architects at the close of the century
to seek some exit from the sterility of Victorian historicism by plumbing the mystic potential latent in
architectural representation.123

Some of these younger men were inspired to seek out the arts and crafts of the Byzantine mason in
situ. William Sykes George (1881 1962), for example, produced under the patronage of the fourth
Marquess of Bute a meticulous survey of Hagios Demetrios in Thessaloniki before it was consumed
by fire in 1917.124 Robert Weir Schultz (1860 1951) published several texts on Byzantine art at the
turn of the century (Fig. 33) and engaged in an extensive photographic survey of Byzantine
monuments of Greece, whose plates have only recently come to light (Fig. 34).123

Schultz in particular became an aficionado of Lethaby and later wrote that the latter's book "opened
up to us younger men a hitherto undreamed of world of romance in architecture. ... I was about to
do a small private chapel, into it went a pavement like the sea and a ceiling like the sky, as an
accepted tradition."I2(> Schultz, in fact, designed and executed at least two marine pavements (both
for the Butes), one of which survives in Westminster Cathedral (Fig. 35).127


Most of this chapel's floor is taken up by book matched paneling with runny veining, but this
paneling is skirted by an inlaid meander signifying the ocean as the stream that encircles the earth
and marks its limits through which marble fish and crabs zodiacally swim to clinch the particular
aquatic nuance of the chapel, its dedication to Saint Andrew as "fisher of souls." The design may now
seem an overly literal reclamation of tradition, somewhat cartoonish, even a bit of a "cold shower,"
as the critic of the London Times put it on its unveiling in 1915. But inlaid marble fish had once
ornamented the pavement of the Pantokrator in Istanbul, and the year in which the Westminster
floor was inaugurated witnessed the unearthing of an unforeseen prototype at Niko polis (Actium) in
western Greece (Fig. 36).128


The transept floor of the basilica of Doumetios (ca. 525 50) is also encircled by highly realistic,
mosaic streams with fish, waterbirds, and even fishermen, and the inscription conveniently spells
out, "Here you see the immense and splendid ocean that holds in its grasp the earth."129


Transmissions
Although it is only coincidence, there is a certain poetic justice in the fact that after the closing of the
temples, Phidi as's statue of Zeus came to be transferred to the palace of Lausus in Constantinople
only a few streets away from Hagia Sophia.130

The effigy was destroyed by fire in 475 CE, half a century before the memory of its original location
could have had any influence on the articulation of the Hagia Sophia, but the effigy had already
infiltrated Byzantine consciousness by becoming the most popular model for the Pantokrator, the
colossal face or half length figure that once looked down from the domes of all Byzantine
churches.131


The phantom of Phidias's statue also haunts Washington, D.C., since at the end of the National Mall;
Abraham Lincoln sits enthroned in a Greek temple at the head of a reflecting pool built to the scale of
the city. The Lincoln Memorial was an intellectual recollection of a great historical model, but to one
side stretches a monument that provides an unconscious example of the transmissions explored
here, of materiality, the ideas that materials carry with them, the substances they represent, and the
sensations they provoke. The Vietnam Memorial by Maya Lin (Fig. 37) is dedicated to all Vietnam
veterans, living and dead, and in its sepulchral aspect makes the most direct claims on the earth,
becoming a coal face as it were. But its high polish also dissolves material boundaries to create a
virtual wall and literally provide a place for reflection.132 It is an experience accessible to all visitors
to the memorial, who feel that somehow they gaze through its surface back into the past, or laterally
into a parallel world.


Fabio Barry (PhD, Columbia University) is lecturer in art history at the University of St. Andrews. He
has published studies ranging from the Baroque dome and the metaphysics of light to the urbanistic
alienation of the Roman ghettos, from architecture and liturgy to the architecture and painting of
devotional solitude .

School of Art History, University of St. Andrews, Fife, Scotland KYI 6 9AR, fmbl St andrews.ac.uk