The first time she fell in love with the color blue was when her dad gave her a fairytale book for her eleventh birthday. She stroked its cover gently, allowing her fingers to get lost in the intricate pattern, adorned with golden accents. But it was the intense shade of blue that fascinated her the most. In it, she saw both the reflection of the sky and the one of the water. Her dad told her that it reminded him of her eyes, which held an infinite sea of blue.
That night, Modra devoured the book, reading one fairytale after the other. Hidden under the covers, with the tiny flashlight she had received as a gift from her grandmother, she lived a thousand lives. She went from being a princess locked in a tower to a brave knight, who fought an entire army. Fairytales sparked her imagination, taking her to faraway lands, where adventure awaited.
The blue book quickly became her favorite, especially since it was given by her father. She adored him and the love she bore for the tall yet ordinary man turned him, time and time again, into a hero. For Modra, a dad was the ideal person to go on an adventure with, even if it was only in their imagination. He was the light of her life, a storyteller like no other and the only one who she confided in – they shared a special bond, which no one could break. The little girl loved to hear her dad singing; he had a beautiful voice and she imagined the doors to heaven opening up, upon the angels hearing him.
Her entire world crumbled to pieces when, one year later, close to her birthday, he died in an accident. A drunk driver had hit him while he was crossing the street and he was found by the paramedics, almost unconscious. He made an effort to say her name one more time, thinking how much he would miss his blue-eyed girl, who had made his life better than anything he could have read in a book.
When her mom entered her room that morning, looking all serious, she realized something bad had happened. Knowing that her dad did not come home last night, she felt restless and spent every minute trying to fight that gnawing sensation in her stomach. She fell asleep when the sun was rising, clutching the blue book tight to her chest. It smelled like him and, upon closing her eyes, she could hear his voice. He had a unique way of reading, making each character seem alive. Even though she was perfectly able to read on her own, she preferred for her dad to read to her. It made the whole experience all the more worthwhile.
She would cuddle in his arms and close her eyes, allowing his voice to guide her into the universe of the fairytale world. He read in a steady, gentle rhythm, and yet you could not help but feel captivated by the story and its characters. Modra, despite being just a child, knew. He was the one who made those stories more beautiful.
The last time he had read to her was the day before. It was raining cats and dogs, and they decided a good book would chase the boredom away. They opened the blue book of fairytales and began reading about the princess who took her brother’s place in the king’s army, becoming a stouthearted warrior. Had she known he would leave her so soon, she would have found a way to bottle his voice and, thus, keep him alive forever.
She was crushed. Everything had changed and, no matter how hard her mother hugged her, she could not fill the void he had left. Modra wanted to cry but the tears refused to come. She wanted to be alone and go through the most precious moments she had shared with her dad. Her mother gave her the space she needed, retreating to her room, where she could finally allow herself to cry.
For a while, it seemed that life had come to halt for them as well. For several weeks, they were both at home, as her mother had taken some time off from work. They slowly settled into a comfortable routine, finding a way to go on with their lives. It was summer, which meant no school for Modra but the long days, and the excellent weather, offered plenty of opportunities for a good time. They went to the park and fed the two squirrels that had made their home in the old oak tree, which everyone called Ike. Modra learned to cook Italian food and she had introduced her mother to her favorite comedies, which she used to watch together with her dad. Reading, however, was not on the list of activities.
From the day her father died, leaving her a mosaic of broken pieces, Modra said goodbye to reading. She still fell asleep with the blue book in her hand but she never opened it. The cover was not affected by the passing of time but the little girl was. She was beginning to turn into a quiet teenager and the stories she once read with voraciousness did not seem so fascinating anymore. Even though there had been months since she had leafed through the book, she still knew all of the stories by heart. But, for the first time, she no longer believed in them. Her father’s death had caused her to grow up faster than expected.
Her mother had timidly suggested other books, which were more suitable for her newfound maturity, yet she always refused. She could not even think about opening a book to read, as it hurt too much.
If Modra loved her dad because of the way he had with words, in her mother, she had found a number of enviable qualities to admire. At first glance and to someone who was prone to quick judgment, she seemed reserved and unassertive. Modra knew, however, that her mother was kindhearted and warm; most importantly, she was the kind of person who always helped others, without asking for anything in return. Her empathy was one of her most attractive qualities, including in the eyes of her daughter.
She decided to trust her instinct and help Modra heal, perhaps through the discovery of a new passion. Even though she was not an art enthusiast herself, she had always loved how artists were able to express themselves, using a delicate yet sophisticated symphony of colors. She hoped her daughter would find in painting a way to become free of the pain that was slowly eating her from the inside, very much like a real sickness.
Following the advice of the art supply shop assistant, she had purchased all the essentials a beginner might need. She wrapped everything with care and offered the gift to Modra on her birthday. Her little girl was not so little anymore – she was turning thirteen, and she was beautiful. It was enough to take one look at her and you would notice her youth exuding from every pore of her being. Her blue eyes, which her dad loved so much, showed a faint trace of sadness. The sea in them would never be as clear as it was when he was alive.
Modra opened the gift her mother had left on the bed, her nimble fingers moving quickly with excitement. The woman had an innate talent in selecting gifts that people would have actually wanted to receive, as opposed to those who purchased presents that rather matched their own tastes and preferences. She was genuinely surprised to see the painting set, and even more curious to find out what motivated her to purchase that gift.
Her mother told her how Pablo Picasso once said that painting was just another way of keeping a diary. She hoped that, for Modra, painting would turn into a passion and, in the end, it will heal her. If reading no longer offered an opportunity for self-reflection, perhaps painting could be the language she was looking for.
That afternoon, after blowing the candles on her cake and wishing for her heart to feel alive again, she went to her room and opened the set of paints. It contained twenty-four vibrant colors, but her eyes immediately fell on the azure blue. Tears flooded her eyes, as she remembered the trip they took together to the Black Sea. It was the height of summer and the suffocating urban jungle had caused them to seek relief by the seaside.
The girl smiled, as the recollected those endless summer days and how simple life seemed to be. They swam to their heart’s content, together with their German shepherd, who loved water just as much as them. Food was plenty and delicious, and, at night, they walked on the beach – father and daughter, hand in hand. The waves would come crashing at their feet and, just like that, the sea would retreat, allowing them to enjoy each other’s presence. They would stop and look at the star-filled sky, taking delight in the comfortable silence.
Dad would show her the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt, then they would go back to their tent and eat a cup of pudding before going to bed. It was their secret, as mom would have never allowed them to eat so late. She preferred vanilla while dad was a chocolate aficionado all the way. They would taste each other’s pudding, only to crinkle their nose and laugh until their bellies hurt. Different as night and day, they were brought together by the one feeling that surpasses anything – LOVE. How far away those happy times were, Modra thought, as she looked at the white canvas in front of her.
Her hand trembled as she took the brush and applied the first strokes. Guided by something inside her, she began to paint with different shades of blue. She began to cry, as she tried to recreate one of her favorite images – the Black Sea meeting the endless summer sky. Touches of green and a little bit of white were added until Modra lost herself in that painting.
When she finished her first work of art, days later, she was proud of herself. She had brought to light the image she always wore in her mind. No longer crying, she analyzed every inch of her creation and realized it was not as perfect as the memory. The blue color was not intense enough. It was faded as if it lacked the necessary strength to shine.
From that moment on, Modra became obsessed with finding the most intense shade of blue, so that she could use it in her painting. She created one canvas after the other, using an entire palette of blues, but she was never satisfied with the final result. Years went by and Modra never gave up on her search. In vain did her mother try to dissuade her to paint with other colors or maybe give up painting altogether. She remained adamant, spending more and more time confined in the room that smelled intensely of paint. Her mother regretted having introduced her to painting, as it did not have the effect she intended in the first place.
One day, she came out of her room and, for the first time in months, she had a bright smile on her face. Her mother’s heart filled with hope, as she had constantly prayed for the cloud of darkness to pass. The color drained from her face as she heard what Modra had to say.
She proudly informed her mother that she had finally found a solution to her problem. For that, she needed to go to Bucovina, and, more specifically, to the Voroneț Monastery. Everyone knew the medieval monastery, which was famous for its intense blue color, designated as “Voroneț blue”. It was said that the paint was incredibly resistant, having lasted for over five hundred years. That was the kind of blue she needed.
Modra went on to tell her mother that the actual composition of the blue paint was a secret, which not even the most reputed scientists were able to decipher. But she was going there anyway, and find out the answer herself. She would find a way.
A legend about the monastery caused her to become even more attracted to the mystery surrounding it. The legend said: “In the beginning, the sky was white and so it was decided to remain. Stephen the Great, ruler of Moldavia, called his painters one day and ordered them to paint the sky blue. They did as they were told and when it was done, they were again ordered to cut a window into the sky. Through this window, it was said, anyone could see God. The window was Voroneț Monastery.”
Throughout time, the Voroneț blue was compared to the red used by Peter Paul Ruben, the Flemish painter who adopted a baroque style, or the Veronese green, which was named after Paolo Caliari, a painter born in Verona. It was known that the color composition included a mineral called azurite, well-known for its vivid blue color.
The crystal, native to countries such as Maroc, Namibia or China, and not Romania, was first chopped, then turned into a fine powder and mixed with another substance, which had remained unidentified. A chemist from Romania had suggested that the azurite powder was mixed with curd, but her research was not as conclusive as one would have wanted.
The Voroneț Blue, which was said to represent the color of the Bucovina sky when grapes were harvested, had become a major point of interest for Modra.
The monasteries in the region were painted in the most splendid colors, being centuries old. Countless painters and chemists had tried, throughout time, to identify their compositions. They had been successful with all of the colors belonging to the “colors of Bucovina”, such as the Humor white, rusty red, yellow, ochre, violet, and green. Except for the blue.
Perhaps the Romanian chemist was right after all. The Humor white, they discovered, owes its luminosity, even today, to a mixture of lime powder and curd. It was customary to apply it last, not only to protect the painting from decay but also to make the clothes and faces of the saints brighter. However, when they had tried to recreate the Voroneț blue in the laboratory, it was an utter failure.
Armed with all that knowledge and mountains of hope, Modra decided to leave for Bucovina first thing in the morning. She packed light but made sure her luggage would include the blue fairytale book. A photograph of her papa was safely hidden between the pages containing stories she still remembered. Her mother no longer tried to prevent her from leaving, as she knew it was no use. She only asked her to be careful and call every day, so as to know she was okay.
The journey by train lasted a few hours. Modra sipped the delicious latte bought from her favorite bakery and looked out the window, enjoying the gentle rocking of the train. She was lost in thought when a voice announced that she had reached her destination.
After leaving her bag at the small pension in Gura Humorului, where she had booked a room, she decided to visit the monastery. Her heart beat fast as she arrived at its gate, feeling as if she finally had a reason to be happy. An old man, dressed in a worn-out traditional Romanian costume, politely stopped her and asked for some money.
He looked as if he had come straight out one of those stories she had read as a child, and Modra could not help but look at his eyes. They were exactly the shade of blue she was looking for, exuding deep kindness – you would look at him and could not help but feel sympathetic. She gave him a little bit of money, as well as a sandwich. The old man offered a toothless smile in return, thanking her for the generosity. He then told her to come back to him after she visited the monastery, and saw the Voroneț blue with her own eyes. Perhaps he could be of help.
Modra opened her mouth to speak but the old man raised his hand and gestured her to go in. He then proceeded to eat his sandwich, supporting his frail body on a cane. The curious girl did as said, hoping he will still be there when she returned.
She paid the entrance ticket and put her phone on silent, as she was instructed by a nun with a friendly appearance. The courtyard was a splendor of its own, being filled to the brim with flowers. Bees buzzed from one flower to the other, in search of pollen, filling the air with an enchanting melody. The atmosphere was warm and sweet, and Modra already felt more peaceful. She had heard that monasteries had this effect on people but she did not believe it, at least, not until she came to Voroneț.
The monastery was not big but, for Modra, it represented everything. She could see the Voroneț blue from up close, thanking God for having guided her to that place. It was exactly as she had imagined it – a shade of blue that spoke of the infinite sky, a color as amazing as everyone had described it. The girl circled the monastery, caressing its walls and thinking of her dad. Even though so many years had passed since his death, he was ever-present, in her thoughts and in her heart.
She went inside, and, as it was customary in the Christian Orthodox faith, made the sign of the cross and kissed the icons depicting various saints. She also lit two candles, one for the living and the other one for the dead. On her way out, she saw the nun who had sold her the entrance ticket and asked her about the Voroneț blue. They sat on a bench, near a rose bush that had a sweet yet spicy scent, reminding Modra of meadow honey. The nun proceeded to tell her what she knew, speaking in a soft voice.
Numerous experts had come and analyzed the blue paint but not even one had been able to identify its exact composition. She believed God had played His part, keeping the secret, so that Voroneț blue would remain there and not be transformed into a profitable business.
The girl thanked the nun for all of her help and promised to return the next day so that she could take part in a special sermon, dedicated to Stephen the Great, the ruler who had commissioned the construction of the monastery.
She was thinking about her next move when she stepped out of the courtyard and was greeted by the old man. He was waiting for her as promised and, even though she did not necessarily believe he could actually help her, she was glad to see him. It gave her comfort to know that there were still kind people in the world, who had no hidden interests.
They retreated under the shadow of an old linden tree, as the heat of the afternoon was torrid, to say the least. The old man introduced himself as Martin, a traveler of the world and a passionate nationalist, who loved his country more than anything. He asked Modra to tell him a little bit about herself, waiting patiently for her to speak.
Despite the fact that he was a complete stranger, the girl found it incredibly easy to share her story with him. She was in tears when she finished, while Martin slowly padded her on the shoulder. He had been crying as well, wiping the tears that rolled on his cheeks with his sleeve.
The old man told her to stop crying and do exactly as he instructed her. On a soft tone, he offered instructions on how to reach the sanctum of Serafim, a monk who lived in complete seclusion. It was not easy to arrive here and only a few people knew of his existence. She jotted down everything he said and asked him why he wanted to help her. His answer was simple, yet full of meaning – “you deserve it”.
She took a few steps, then turned around to take one more look at the monastery and the man who had given her a glimmer of hope. But he was gone. It was as if he had vanished in thin air, and Modra knew she will never see him again. She would remember Martin, though, for the rest of her life.
The sun was setting when she reached the sanctum. It was surrounded by wild nature, and the only point of access was a shabby, wooden bridge. She advanced slowly toward the small hut, feeling the wooden slates creak under her feet and praying they would support her weight. After what seemed an eternity, she crossed the bridge and found herself in front of the hut. She gently knocked on the door and held her breath, while waiting for an answer.
The door opened slowly and a smallish man, bald and with an inquisitive look on his face, made his appearance. He waited for Modra to speak, looking as if she had all the time in the world. The girl built up the courage to break the silence hanging in the air, as she was quite intimidated by the monk and how certain he was of himself. She told him her story and finished with how she met Martin, and how he had sent her there. The monk listened to all she had to say and asked her to come in.
As her eyes accommodated to the dim light of the hut, which came from a flickering candle, she noticed that it was mostly empty. It contained only the bare essentials, suggesting that the monk lived a frugal existence. She noticed a door in the back and wondered what was behind it. But there was no time to be curious, as the monk had offered her a cup of tea and asked her to sit down.
His words seemed to be carefully chosen, with their actual enunciation requiring a considerable effort on behalf of the monk. Many people had come to him to discover the precise composition of the Voroneț blue but they all a hidden purpose – to turn something that precious into a profitable business. Modra thought that the nun had said exactly the same thing. The monk continued his discourse. Their greed had no limit and he could not bear to see people falling prey to the hunger for more. He had retreated to this hut and learned to live in peace, only Martin coming to see him, from time to time.
Serafim told Modra that no one will ever find out the composition of the Voroneț blue, at least not until humanity learned that some things are meant to be protected and not used to make money. He then took a rusty key from the wooden shelf which housed his few belongings and opened the door Modra could not stop looking at; it was full of books, all with leather-bound covers, reminding her of the one her father had given her many moons ago.
The monk invited her into the small room, which smelled of paper, ink and times long gone. He asked her to choose one book – she went every shelf, tracing the titles on the spines with her delicate fingers. The girl eventually decided on a book that contained the history of the Voroneț Monastery, with a cover just as blue as its walls. Serafim approved of her choice and they returned to the other room, locking the books with the gentle turn of the key. He told her that books choose us, as they know when we need them. Offering her a smile, which seemed like a rare treat, he took her hand and placed a small bottle in her palm.
Much to her surprise, it contained a modest quantity of the Voroneț blue paint. Just as it happened with the old man, she opened her mouth to speak but he asked her to be patient. He told her that she had been the only one who had wanted the color for purely personal reasons. While he could not share the secret composition with her, he did agree to give her that bottle, which contained the thing she craved the most. Now, she could finally paint her greatest work of art and get the closure she needed to heal.
Modra embraced Serafim and asked him what she could offer in return. He only said that she should live her life, never forgetting that, one day, we will meet again with those we have lost. Until then, it was our duty to make the most of every day we were alive.
He then asked Modra to return to the world of books, as they had so many answers to offer. A wise man, Serafim encouraged her to re-read the fairytale book – she might have been a young woman but reading that book would be like a travel back in time. Back to that period when her dad was alive and everything was less complicated. She nodded in agreement and said her goodbye, asking him to thank Martin as well. He agreed to do so, and also that the hoped the book she had chosen from his collection would become a cherished possession as well.
The next morning, she went back to the monastery and attended the sermon. She then talked to the nun, telling her what had happened but leaving out the fact that the monk had given her such a precious gift. The woman looked at her with amazement and told her that she had a rich imagination indeed. A monk truly lived in that hut but that was over one hundred years ago. As for the old man, he was just a beggar, who came and went as he pleased. Sometimes, he would disappear for months, only to reappear, in his frail costume, as if he had always been there. She would not trust anything that came out of his mouth.
Modra could not believe what she had heard but decided not to complicate matters. She stood and said goodbye to the nun, thanking her again for her guidance. The monastery appeared even more beautiful in the morning sun, and the girl hoped she will come back someday. She looked for Martin but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Following his instructions one more, and retracing her steps from the previous night, she tried to go back to Serafim and get some answers. But, no matter how hard she tried, she could not find it. Tired from her fruitless search and the scorching heat, she went back to the pension and packed her bag. It was time to go home. As for the monk, perhaps some things were better left in peace.
The train came into the station and she got into it, choosing a seat by the window. Reflecting on her journey and its unexpected outcome, she opened the fairytale book and started to read. Soon, she was fully immersed in the stories that had made her childhood so happy. She heard her father’s voice and recounted the time spent together, feeling more at peace than she had felt in a long time. Close to her hometown, she opened the book the monk had given her and was surprised to discover that it had been printed over one hundred years ago. It also contained a small note from Serafim, which said: “you deserve this”. The same thing that Martin had told her.
At home, her mother noticed that her daughter had changed but she decided not to be intrusive. She only asked her one question. Did she find what she was looking for? Modra nodded and went into her room, placing the bottle of paint on the table and the two books in her library.
The white canvas transformed, under her eyes, into the painting that was always present in her dreams. She could not find the words to describe how she felt but it seemed like the cloud of sadness that always enveloped her was slowly dispersing. Each stroke of the brush brought her closer to the healing she sought for such a long time. She was finally able to let her dad go and feel at peace.
Modra went on to become a great painter, being appreciated for her unparalleled combinations of blue nuances. Her paintings reminded people of the sky on a summer day, coming shyly to meet the enchanting waves of the sea. She kept the bottle of Voroneț blue in her atelier, being amazed by the fact that it never dried. It was only her who knew about its existence. And she had another secret – she had never used it. All that time she was searching for that perfect shade of blue, she did not realize everything she needed was hidden inside her. How different life would be if we looked for the answers we need within ourselves!
Comments