I met Tsarouchis as an old man on Mount Athos, where he would come to attend the services of Holy Week. He was a mature man, filled with deep wisdom and humanity—qualities one attains only after having suffered much and being grateful for it. Within him there was a clarity and boldness akin to the clarity and boldness of the Holy Mountain itself.
Thus, it is neither possible nor meaningful, when speaking of Tsarouchis, to list his talents and abilities one by one. What had been granted to him was the power to synthesize and transcend them all, reaching—through true repentance—the blessed end that illuminates a person with the gentle light of holy glory.
Tsarouchis was not merely an artist or thinker; we have many of those. He was a spiritual man, in the truest sense of the word. And in a single simple phrase, he revealed the fullness and strength of his spiritual greatness.
When asked whether he had been happy in his life, he said:
“Now, in old age and with illness, I feel happy, because I have found what I was seeking. When I was young, I was unhappy, because I searched for all these things and could not find them.”
This was the revolutionary and serene essence of Tsarouchis—something he had received from the Orthodox Church. For him to answer in this way meant he possessed a force that overturns the established order of decay and turns everything upside down.
People commonly say, “Health is everything.” And also, “Old age does not come alone,” meaning it brings many hardships that lead toward death. Essentially, these sayings express resignation and defeatism.
But neither the Church nor Tsarouchis sees things this way. Health is a precious gift—but it is not everything. And indeed old age does not come alone, but for those who seek what is honorable, it brings an indescribable happiness.
The setting of the sun—said, I believe, only in Greek—is experienced as bασίλεμα, a kind of gentle enthronement. The sun “reigns” not when it stands at its zenith, but when it sets and fades away. And the true human being finds sunset and the end of life to be a bασίλεμα as well—the dawn of a new light, an uncreated radiance.
In the Orthodox Church, Psalm 103, when chanted as the introductory psalm at Vespers, does not end as it does in the Old Testament. Instead, it concludes with the earlier (penultimate) verses: “Thou makest darkness, and it becomes night” (v. 20), and “O Lord, how manifold are Thy works; in wisdom hast Thou made them all” (v. 24). Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and forever and unto the ages of ages. Amen.
Because human beings long for great light—and the Church knows this—the Psalm does not end with the created light of the world, but with what appears to ordinary senses as darkness, though it is in truth the fullness of uncreated light, too radiant to be perceived.
And when, during a Great Vespers, he heard the hymn “O Gladsome Light” (Φως ιλαρόν) chanted by the priests, his sensitivity aligned with the rhythm of that ancient hymn—a hymn capable, as it were, of toppling the walls of Jericho. Tsarouchis had grasped the message of the centuries. And upon stepping outside after Vespers, he said:
“This is the true intoxication. Let the young people come here, those who seek it in vain through a thousand other ways.”
When you step onto the summit of certainty that makes old age a cause for happiness, you become calm—you stand firm and move forward. Through stillness and contemplation, new depths of the past and the future are constantly revealed to you. You speak freely about everything, because everything now appears near you. You have answers to difficult matters. You find the connection between opposites. You are serene amid turmoil, nourished by the unchanging through the transient. You neither wound nor are wounded. You seek neither praise nor position. Your mind rests on other things.
And Tsarouchis never oriented himself toward things that pass away. He did not rely on foundations that slip and vanish. He had suffered—and suffering imposes simplicity. It forbids idle chatter.
His comments on people and things possessed an inner coherence. He did not remark on shallow matters—trifles swept away by the wind. Or rather, whatever he said about any person, thing, or event was never of the sort that the wind carries off.
When someone saw him for the first time on Mount Athos, he exclaimed in surprise:
“Ah, so you are Mr. Tsarouchis?”
Tsarouchis replied:
“I am someone who feels like a cockroach tossed on its back in a bathtub. And the issue is whether I can manage to stand on my feet.”
On another occasion, during a discussion on the nature of Orthodoxy, he said:
“Orthodoxy is like a stain that no detergent can remove.”
He used bold expressions to say what he meant—because he was a painter, and things inside him were utterly clear.
I have known women who took their own lives when they saw wrinkles on their faces. I have met “spiritual” people who were embittered because they had not been appointed to a prestigious position. And I have encountered elderly, simple, poor monks who, as time passed, shone from within with the unfading light of spiritual joy that flooded their souls. The same happened with Tsarouchis: the older he grew, the more his inner wisdom and light increased. Serious and unsmiling, yet at the same time certain and happy, he carried within himself a divine consolation that ordered his life.
Once, when he was shuffling slowly down to the church on Mount Athos—he attended every service—and saw students heading toward the guesthouse, he told them:
“Go and rest. You are young and you need sleep. I have no need of rest, because I am like a mummy.”
Old age did not trouble him; that is why he could call himself a mummy without hesitation. He did not require recognition or special treatment, because he carried within him the spark of eternal life—something that revealed him as a true artist and a true human being. In some of his early works one finds traces of the unhappiness he spoke about, but in his later works and words, the mournful and melancholic happiness—the fullness of joy—became evident. It weighed upon his soul, making him poor—“I am poor and needy”—yet enriching many.
Someone once criticized his book As a Sparrow Alone upon the Housetop, saying:
“But he doesn’t miss a single social gathering—how can he be a sparrow living alone?”
He had not understood that Tsarouchis was with everyone without ever leaving the quiet of his solitude. He was with all, and at the same time elsewhere, because he always saw beyond the passing things seen by most. Amid confusion and noise, he could draw elements of stillness and certainty.
Once, as he was leaving Mount Athos on the small ferryboat, many students surrounded him and all but “drowned” him in questions, conversations, and noise. As he descended the steps of the boat, I said to him:
When I told him, “Forgive us, we tired you with endless noise” (many of the people in the group were pilgrims of our Monastery), he replied: “No. Everything was fine, because I always keep the painter’s distance.”
This painter’s distance, shaped by maturity, protected him from superficialities. And the pain he had endured made him capable of being nourished by things that confuse and irritate the immature. That is why, when someone recently told me, “We have lost Tsarouchis. Until now we knew he was in Marousi, and that alone was a comfort,” I understood what he meant. I agreed and disagreed at the same time—for Tsarouchis achieved something that is not lost through death, but purified by it.
He was an old man with a vigilant mind. He was calm, yet he stirred the waters of complacency. His quietness was sustained by companionship, and his solitude became a source of rest for everyone.
To ordinary questions, he responded in unexpected ways, effortlessly, because he had gone beyond the opposition between the traditional and the modern by immersing himself in what is true.
He was great; therefore he gave rest to the small. He was genuinely successful; therefore he spoke of the failures and hardships of his life.
He did not smile, yet he transmitted joy. He was a trembling old man, yet he revealed the steady light of happiness that emerges from old age and suffering.
Many wished to be near him, because he hurt no one—he only illuminated.
In his final years, he would have the funeral service read to him every morning so that he could have a joyful day.
He passed away peacefully, leaving lasting consolation to many.
Fr. Vasileios Gondikakis
Collective volume on Yannis Tsarouchis, As If Myrrh, edited by Alexios Savvakis, Athens 1998, pp. 21–24.
