Where The Mighty Despair: The Twin Parthenons
The Parthenon is one of the most famous structures in the world.
A beacon of the ancient lands, physically higher than Athens proper, the Acropolis stands proudly over the skyline. The centerpiece of its capital city, and arguably of Greece itself, there are few other landmarks which represent the nation more than the iconic weathered pillars waiting above.
Constructed in the 5th century B.C., the Parthenon was first built as a temple to the goddess Athena. Over the centuries, the monument would change hands, as well as religions; a number of invaders would repurpose the building into a variety of churches ranging from Catholic to Byzantine, and the Ottoman Turks would transform it into a mosque. In an age where architecture was time-consuming and peace was hard to come by, it’s no wonder how many god-fearing opportunists decided to take the easy way out.
The Acropolis is situated within a large greenspace, a rarity in Athens. From the park below, one may gaze up in wonder at the Parthenon and its surrounding constructions from a variety of angles. Approaching it is a bit of a hazard; the ancient stones beneath your feet have weathered from not just years, but centuries worth of travelers before you, creating an intense level of polish. The stones are mercifully scored in an attempt to create more traction, but it doesn’t help; the top of the rock itself is far too weathered for it to matter. The glasslike surface can now easily cause your feet to give way with a misplaced step, and it’s not uncommon to see other travelers slip and slide across the cobbled pathway as if they were traversing stones in a riverbed.
When the winding pathways and fenced-off courtyards finally guide you far enough, you’ll know you’re in the right spot. Hundreds of people gather outside one final terrace containing a ticketing office, a museum store, and a juice bar. Workers block anyone from entering the barricades until the correct time slot is called, at which point you may flood the Acropolis with reckless abandon.
But for now, you wait. The hot summer sun reflects off the bright stones, and the city’s merciless heat seems to tear away at your resolve. Here in the midst of so many others, with the sun sapping the water from your body, the creation you seek seems so very far away.
The Parthenon is also a structure in Nashville, Tennessee.
Even on its busiest days, you won’t find yourself overheating or overcrowding this rendition. Here, there are parking spaces just a few yards from the building.
The story behind the Nashville Parthenon is an unconventional one. It was first constructed as part of the Tennessee Centennial Exhibition in 1897, a celebration of one hundred years of statehood. Among a series of other buildings, the Parthenon stood as the centerpiece of the exhibition, and functioned as a fine arts building. Perhaps more surprisingly, it was all meant to be temporary. After a public outcry, it was decided that the beloved building would stay, and after several reconstructions the legendary Parthenon now stands permanently in Nashville’s Centennial Park.
It’s clear just from a look around how central the building is; while many people lounge in the grass, throw frisbees, or stroll around the sidewalks, the Parthenon always has its fair share of photographers lining up their shots and tourists posing for a photo op at any given angle. A popular spot for graduation photos or even prom pictures, it’s not uncommon to see bright-eyed teenagers dressed to the nines on the tiered foundation or leaning against the iconic pillars.
Over a hundred years ago, this building stood for something, a new beginning in a rapidly changing world. And one visit to the site today drives home that the hope of a better tomorrow still stands.
A small staircase on the backside splits in two to reveal a doorway inside. This is the passage you seek, the tiny door the only barrier to entry.
And now, the floodgates are open.
As the next time slot opens up, the crowd moves more like a liquid than a solid mass, condensing and expanding and creating a ragtag sort of formation with the intent of storming the Acropolis above. It’s reminiscent of a Spartan phalanx, its participants hungry for culture rather than blood. If nothing else, it’s decidedly less violent.
Some split off from the main group to a lower landing, their attention pulled away by an imposing stone theater below. Classical archways and layered seating serve as the foreground of an impressive view of Athens. It’s enough to cause a sizable crowd to stop and capture the moment, a momentary distraction from the main event.
A short way up the path is the entrance to the Acropolis proper. The crowd thickens even more here, as those who stop the flow of traffic for a photo now block the carefully condensed switchbacks and guardrails designed to funnel in visitors one by one. There’s a sense of urgency and placidity all at once, a subliminal messaging to take in all that you can of this sacred space while also keeping it moving down the human conveyor belt leading up towards the temples.
There’s a brief moment to pause on the uppermost landing, where the path widens just a bit. Standing near the railing, you can get just inches away from the pillars, but signs warn you not to touch them in order to preserve their integrity. Remembering the pathways down below, slick and polished from the tides of people day in and day out, it’s easy to imagine the results of unfettered contact.
With much of the crowd dispersed now, either below you on the landings or in front of you in the Acropolis itself, nothing stops you from entering the final doorway. All you have to do is walk through.
You enter the Parthenon.
The initial room is a simple one, yet central to the rest of the building. To your left are a set of bathrooms, to the right a bookstore and gift shop, and straight ahead is a ticketing desk and the doorway to the rest of the exhibit. The few people present loiter in the various rooms, keeping their distance and milling over the merchandise.
There’s not much of a line to buy a ticket, and once you do, you’re free to enter. The first section consists of a few hallways looping back and forth which hold historical artifacts and photographs. The walls tell the stories of how the Parthenon came to be, its narrow escape from destruction, and the renovations which brought it to its modern state.
Entering a larger chamber, you might expect to find Greek statues, ancient pottery, or even Nashville history. But instead, you come face to face with something entirely different. Lining the walls of the main room are a collection of wooden art pieces, many of them complex collages that undoubtedly took years of skill and weeks of execution to fabricate. Straying away from the theme you might expect, it’s not a piece about the Parthenon at all; it’s an art exhibition.
According to their site, the current display is a modern take on kumiko, an ancient Japanese practice, by artist David Gootnick. While Gootnick doesn’t seem to be native to Nashville or have strong ties here, it makes sense why this exhibition was chosen. Outside of their masterful construction, the pieces blend the old and the new, no doubt a focus of the building as a whole. And while they explore a different craft altogether, it’s easy to see the parallels between the resurrection of this art form and the modern Parthenon’s mission to bring ancient history to life.
There are several other exhibits here, more permanent installations which fill in some of the gaps that the initial hallways left out. More art focused rather than historical, assorted sculptures and paintings dot the back rooms of the area. But there’s far more to be seen up ahead.
On each side of the first floor, staircases take visitors up to the main chamber of the Parthenon. Here, you’ll see the ancient work in all its glory, the echoes of the past which the city seeks to preserve. You ascend the stairs and walk through the threshold.
You are now inside the Acropolis.
The entire landing is wide open, filled with various ruins and temples, but from this entrance the Parthenon stands tall over the landscape. It’s the closest building, drawing you in immediately, the promises of legends long past now within your reach. A short walk across more slick stones puts you right in front of the fabled landmark.
But the first face you see is not the heroic visage it's made out to be. Covered in metal scaffolding, the modern supports surrounding the ancient pillars obstruct much of the view. There’s no doubt about what’s in front of you, but the image of an untattered monument standing strong over centuries falters ever so slightly at this first impression.
This side might be blocked, but the landing allows you to view the Parthenon from any angle. Moving to the left, the scaffolding clears up. But this removes any doubt about the state it’s in.
Toppled stones, crumbling barriers, and an open sky greet you on the other side. The ruin is long past holding together any sort of roof, and the landowners appear to be using a crane within the center to reconstruct certain sections. No doubt attempting to preserve the monument for as long as possible, they’ve even taken to replacing the most damaged sections with new marble; bright white sections within the rock reveal the substitutions.
Centuries is, of course, a long time for such a structure to last, even without the damages it sustained. As mentioned before, the frequent changing of hands it underwent often came with violence. In 1687, fighting between Venetians and Turks caused an explosion in the Parthenon, by way of a cannonball striking the powder magazines stored there. The discharge led to massive destruction on the sides of the building and the complete collapse of its roof, the effects of which remain even now.
Barricaded on all sides, you are not allowed to enter the Parthenon. And rightfully so; there’s no telling how long these stones will hold, how long this spectacle will remain even in a half-finished state. The treasures promised within are no longer present, its interior iconography replaced with the tools to petrify and reanimate what is left in the past.
The Parthenon was known to hold many sculptures and statues in its heyday, the most prominent of which was Athena. Supposedly a grand endeavor, the enormous monument to the goddess took center frame in the main chamber. Now, the weathered ruin looks unsuitable for any sort of reverence.
It’s hard to imagine what once was.
But in Nashville, we don’t have to imagine.
After years of acquiring donations, the Parthenon unveiled its life size replica of the statue of Athena in 1990. Measuring in at 42 feet tall, the statue dominates the central chamber, not unlike the real Parthenon’s position within the Acropolis.
The most striking feature is its gilded nature, the shimmering textures contrasting with spots of pale white to simulate the ivory which made up the original sculpture. Athena literally shines throughout the chamber, her illuminating presence made even more prominent by strategically placed skylights throughout the roof.
The sculpture, as is the rest of the Parthenon, required plenty of research to construct. Sculptor Alan LeQuire was dedicated to accuracy, and conducted research by consulting historical documents and modern archaeologists. The result is about as close as one might get without a photograph or a true eyewitness account; lost to time, and even perhaps to unknown lands, we may never know exactly what happened to the original effigy. In its place is not only a homage to the past, but a tribute to the tools of the present.
The main chamber that holds Athena is certainly striking, but there’s one more room on the upper floor. Through a set of doorways, a smaller but equally grand space is located behind the statue. And here, one is treated to perhaps the most significant artifacts in the entire space.
Cast in stone and remembered for centuries, the statues on either side of the room are faithful copies of what adorned the east and west pediments of the real Parthenon. Headless figures and armless trunks pose in various formations to tell mythological tales, their casts taken from the remains of the real marble that decorated the inside. Now, they lie here for the benefit of those oceans away to see.
Even up close, it’s hard to think of the art as a solid sculpture. The marble, for lack of a better term, flows; cloth drapes over bodily curves, and the outer texture of the pieces lends itself to a deeper, subtler craft. The commitment to hand-woven details, even without modern tools, led to some of the most captivating and enduring art we’ve ever had in our possession. There is no doubt that the old masters deserve their flowers.
In light of this intricacy, you might think that seeing these statues in their original location would evoke something even deeper.
You would be mistaken.
That’s because they don’t exist, at least not here. This is on account of a disagreement handled not with sword or cannon fire, but bureaucracy.
In the 1800s, a British ambassador known as Lord Elgin removed many of the marble statues within the Parthenon and sold them to the British Museum, where they remain even today. This removal has been the subject of scrutiny, debate, and even damaged relations between the British and Greek governments.
So in the name of conquest, the statues remain in the British Museum even now. And perhaps their greatest humiliation comes from a change in terminology. Rarely called by any historical name, it’s far more common to hear these pieces referred to as the “Elgin marbles.” Stripped from their homeland, their titles, and their most intricate features, the marbles now lie in wait, the visages of half-bodies and subjugated gods confined to a mere commodified spectacle.*
It’s not unlike the Parthenon’s current state. The Acropolis, once filled with architects, scholars, and artists now holds within its confines those who seek to consume rather than create. On all sides those who enter aim their lenses skyward, their own bodies often dominating the frame. One worker blows a whistle; a tourist was attempting to clear out the space for a photo, which is not allowed for obvious reasons. You can’t dominate the Parthenon.
The Acropolis holds several other roped off collections of things like marble, ancient lettering, and flared pillars. But the most eye-catching feature past the Parthenon lies at the back, where a raised circular landing serves as an observation deck for all of Athens. In its center is a flagpole, the Greek banner proudly flying high above the rest of the city. From this spot, one may see the Parthenon from a clearer angle.
But standing out even more is not what remains of the past. From the edges of the landing, Athens seems to sprawl on forever, from the mountains to the sea, the simple white buildings packed in and crowded together not unlike those of us wishing to see the remnants of a civilization so highly revered.
I recall the sanitized feeling of Mykonos from up here, the uncanny feeling of an experience that was constructed specifically to evoke something. Down below, the streets of Athens are strewn with graffiti, inhabited by citizens struggling to make ends meet. It’s much more Messini than Mystras.
And for that reason, I once again felt like I was riding on the coattails of a world that no longer exists. Shoulder to shoulder with those enthralled by accomplishments of long ago, I can only gaze off this landing for so long and not think about the here and now. How powerless it feels to help anyone from hundreds of feet in the air, the physical distance a reminder of how isolating it must feel to be so close and yet so far away from one of society’s greatest civilizations.
Above me, the Greek flag flutters in the wind.
The final exhibit of the Parthenon is not an exhibit at all.
Against the back wall of the room that holds the pediments, a massive set of doors lies open to the outside. The passage is covered in glass, preventing exit or entry, but it does provide a clear view. At first, there doesn’t seem to be much to see on the outside; a line of cars is parked on a grassy strip just past the pillars. And there is one similarity to the real thing: Nashville has its own crane close by, this one working on a modern building.
But that’s not what catches my eye. Stepping up the raised landing of the Parthenon, enthralled by the towering pillars like so many others, is a little girl. Her father follows close behind, the pride from her excitement evident even under the dark shadows of the landing. After a moment, she raises her arms, posing almost like a game show host unveiling a prize for their contestant. In this state, her father takes a picture.
It’s a simple scene, one that has occurred countless times over the years this building has stood. And yet this scene was the most important thing I witnessed that day.
Centuries ago, the Acropolis birthed many of the ideas we take for granted even now, the principles of thought and democracy which allow us to strive for something better. Those who created these ideals survived hardships, war, and loss beyond our comprehension. They could have focused on the physical, neglecting these things in favor of raw survival, never pushing the boundaries of what we’re capable of.
But they didn’t. And it’s all led to this moment. I think they’d be happy to see what they’ve created, a world where the children can live and flourish in the advancements of art and industry that they planted the seeds to so long ago.
And further down the line, I think of my family. On Ikaria I reflected on my duty to be something more, to carry on the legacy they left. But this future is not just a responsibility; it’s a privilege. How fortunate I am to live, to write, and to understand the meaning behind the abilities to do so. None of this would have been possible without those first leaps: the ancients for seeing what our minds were capable of, and my ancestors for knowing somewhere else out there would be better to cultivate it.
I see a lot of myself in that little girl. I’m a mere consumer of the world they’ve built, my arms outstretched to show off a grand invention I played no part in building. To acknowledge it for what it represents is truly the least I could ever do. And perhaps by telling the story, by reminding others of what it means, I can help others to understand just how incredible it really is.
So I move forward, just as those before me, or perhaps in their honor. I leave behind the streets of Kalamata, the enduring ruins of Mystras and Messini, and the lingering legacy of Sparta. I leave behind the glitzy clubs of Mykonos and the endless blue of Ikaria. I leave behind the Acropolis, both Parthenons, and the city of Athens. Soon, I will board a plane and leave behind the rest of the country.
There are two options we all must face. The first is to stay stuck in the past, riding the highs of a bygone era until it all crumbles to dust. The second is to look forward to the future, to acknowledge the present and put into action what you can do right here and right now to improve it. One path is easier, met with less resistance. But history tends to look more kindly on the other.
I leave Greece. I know which one I will choose.
Additional information courtesy of Encyclopedia Britannica, UNESCO, and the Nashville Parthenon website.
*Just two days before the publication of this blog post, this website reported that the current chairman of the British Museum is pursuing a deal to return the Elgin marbles to Greece. If all goes well, the statues could make their return after more than 200 years.
