Times T2

Simply Divine
Phoebe Greenwood

Times T2
07 September 2004

The bare monks' cells of a new Czech monastery by John Pawson triggered childhood memories for Phoebe Greenwood.

The Consecration of the first Czech monastery since the fall of communism was always destined to be an unusual event. Attending at the invitation of my stepfather, the monastery's architect, John Pawson, it marked the end of a five-year project that I'd been following ever since he joked, "I might be about to get the project of a lifetime but the clients are concerned my work might be too severe". He'd just played host to a party of Cistercian monks. Austere and concerned with light and volume, Pawson's work has always been monastic, whatever its function. Firmly of the "less is more" school, he has long been influenced by Cistercian hairshirt architecture. I should know. As a child, it took me years of battling to upgrade from a futon (preferable because it is rolled up and hidden in a cupboard) to a bed.

It was thanks to a French monk with a passion for architecture and a copy of John's 1996 bestseller Minimum that his work came to the attention of his heroes at the Abbey of Sept-Fons in Burgundy. Twelve Czech monks were returning home and the search was on for an architect for their new monastery. Impressed by Pawson's love of Le Thoronet (the sublime Romanesque abbey in Provence) and his monumental Calvin Klein store in Manhattan, some of the monks paid him a visit at home. Their ideas of simplicity matched (they found the lack of chairs reassuring), and last Thursday at 6.30am, we set off for the consecration of the church of the new Monastery of Our Lady of Novy Dvur.

Once you've left the drab concrete suburbs of Pilsen, 60km (37 miles) southwest of Prague, apple trees line the road, hay glistens in the fields and wild flowers scent the air. We pass through a fairytale forest of enormous pines. Thick beams of sunlight pierce the cool air. It's mysterious and awe-inspiring - nature's own cathedral. When you emerge, a simple lump of rock with a cross carved into it signals that you've arrived.

The monks had anticipated more than 1,000 visitors and as the bells tolled, people poured across fields from all directions. Monks and nuns, robes flowing, walking purposefully; bizarre Czech retro fashions; plenty of bright national costume; hippy backpackers with serene expressions; a few Prada suits even a cowboy. The most Felliniesque was the Japanese lady in full kimono shielding herself from the fierce heat with an umbrella.

All converged towards the church which appears suddenly, an enormous white windowless cube, with - surprisingly for a Pawson design - a dramatic, sensuous curve. Seamlessly grafted on to an 18th- century Baroque manor house, its stark form sits beacon-like in the woodland.

The service itself was chaotic: there are obvious disadvantages in flooding a monastery built for 45 silent, well-ordered Trappists with 1,000 spiritually charged visitors. It began outside with a procession of relics. After that the exterior walls were blessed with water, provoking a few "good first test for the paint job" jokes from the Pawson camp. After a knock on the door with the abbot's crozier came the scrum to get into the church.

Almost instantly, the chaos melted. Cool and windowless, the tall church is nevertheless luminous. Two skylights channel light in along the sides, transforming the all-white interior into a complex interplay of blues, whites and greys.

Impressive shafts of light pierce gaps in two hanging walls. As the incense rises, skeins of smoke are dramatically illuminated. It's effects such as these - what an honest architect would call serendipity and the monks divine intervention - that underpin Minimalism and Cistercian belief. Who needs stained glass or icons when you can have the eternal qualities of light and space?

The most stunning part of all, though, is hidden from the lay seats. The ground drops away behind the altar. Exquisite steps lead down to a wide curved door in the wall. The effect is suitably breathtaking - the "death chute" is the monks' final exit route. The cloister is equally moving. The outside landscape is framed, as in Piero della Francesca frescoes, by arched floor-to-ceiling windows at each end.

Having lived in a Pawson home, the cells - with only a bed and shelf - were less of a surprise. I realised that I might have fared better as a child if I'd snored: the snorers get a larger cell with glass ceilings and padded doors. And it's a comfort to know that at 3.30am in the bleak midwinter, after the monks have silently left their cells and checked that their thin towel is on its hook, they get to step into a nice power shower.