Hard day’s rite | Aleister Crowley’s Abbey of Thelema, Sicily

Aleister Crowley led a fascinating life – from K2 mountaineering expeditions to drug-fuelled orgies, to being expelled from Italy by Mussolini himself. His teachings have continued to inspire generations of people from Jimmy Page to Kenneth Anger. He knew or was in contact with (or chided by) W.B. Yeats, W. Somerset Maugham, and Rodin, among many other influential peers and enemies.

I had heard the stories of Kenneth Anger’s alleged pillaging of certain architectural elements and the subsequent loss of the film associated with his stay there

I am not a Thelemite. I am not interested in their interpretation of Aleister Crowley’s life or teachings or what these mean to them in their spiritual inheritance. I am not interesting in the systematic banding together of Crowleyian philosophy disseminated by scholars of his teachings. What I am interested in is the history of loss that has occurred around the remaining iconography of Aleister Crowley’s Abbey of Thelema in Sicily. And my experience of it.

Still from 777, by James Batley

I first visited the Abbey in 2011 on a holiday in Palermo, while also researching fascist architecture. I had heard the stories of Kenneth Anger’s alleged pillaging of certain architectural elements and the subsequent loss of the film associated with his stay there (seems reasonable to lose these documents whilst pillaging).

I established that the last asking price for the now ruined Abbey had been €400,000 – a small price to pay for the heritage of such a notable British figure

The remains of the murals on the ruined Abbey walls were defaced with terrible graffiti and were in a deep state of decline: at some point in the last 15 years the roof caved in, destroying many of the original paintings that had remained there since the time of Anger’s visit. I photographed everything I could and asked around to find out what the story was. The owners of the Abbey are, allegedly, two brothers from the Cefalu area who bought it sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s. Given that there’s such superstition relating to the building (and its links to witchcraft, Satanism, and the death of Raoul Loveday) in this devoutly Catholic country, it appears that the Abbey has been deliberately allowed to fall into disrepair. There is also a rumour that the brothers fell into some sort of family dispute and ceased speaking to each other. It was said, too, that a band of rogue Thelemites had intended to purchase the structure, but they had failed to materialise anything (pun intended). After consulting local property offices, I established that the last asking price for the now ruined Abbey had been €400,000 – a small price to pay for the heritage of such a notable British figure, if back on British soil.

Fast forward to January 2014, when I returned to the Abbey alongside experimental film maker James Batley, and a mutual friend who, like me, had little actual interest in the ritualisation of Crowley’s thoughts, but wanted to see what was left, and record the peeling walls on film.

The Abbey was incredibly easy to access. My own fears about its state of decay were sadly confirmed when I entered the room that was Crowley’s bedroom, whose murals I had documented on my 2011 visit. Many of the walls had fallen much further into disrepair; more chunks of murals were missing from theft, and graffiti of incredible ordinariness – “Do what thou wilt” and other mishandled popular quotes – covered the walls in permanent marker.

As the day unfolded, we made our way around the Abbey filming the murals like some last-ditch attempt to save the mosaics of Pompeii. We joked about the ponderous experience of place, pathos, and had a perverse and nuanced discussion about how to best interpret the faux-Crowleyian rituals that amateur hands and teen-beat lovers of the past must have enacted here.

A still from 777, by James Batley

Libation and camaraderie ensued. Whiskey and other psychotropics were consumed. What was previously planned as a day “trip” unfolded into a jovial but disturbing miasma. We started to feel that we should submit to, and make our best of, the decay, and also leave our own mark. At James’s suggestion, we decided we should film outside of the documentary box, so, though still unbending in our contempt for the need for ritual fervor (as stated by The Book of the Law) we began filming…

As the whiskey and other substances circulated through our veins, the walls of the Abbey, though crumbling, inspired us to something like impromptu actionist theatre – the letting of blood, the abandonment of garments, and the dispensation of any inhibition about paying homage to the Great Beast. Filming the events in patchwork moments and fits of laughter, Batley quietly orchestrated what would become the film 777. Dogs howled in the background from the bottom of the hill, bodies stumbled, and blood was shed (much to pain of this author).

A still from 777, by James Batley

Hours passed. In a mistaken and arrogant gesture, I decided we should leave. As the others slowly packed and washed blood and other fluids from their bodies, I hefted my bag full of cameras and other totems of the outside world onto my shoulders. Dissatisfied with the pace of my companions, I bellowed out again that it was time to leave and made my way for the door. I sprung through the door of the abbey and muttered “F––– Crowley!” with light-headed bravado. Within seconds I tripped, falling onto a pile of rocks. Hazily and slowly, I rose to my feet. Already covered in blood, I looked down to see that I was now bleeding profusely from both hands and both legs. Stumbling up the side of the ravine towards the main road, I sat listlessly bleeding, waiting for my compatriots who sauntered up the hill to see my crumpled, muttering mass.

We continued down the hill in a taxi supplied to us by the local cemetery and camped out at the local beach. Within moments of cleaning my wounds and applying the one ineffectual plaster we had on us, I slipped into unconsciousness. The next morning, stumbling to the train, I began to sober and gather my thoughts. I came to the conclusion that I had angered some sort of inducer of pain back at the Abbey. I could see why certain people can abide by a belief system fronted by a figure like Aleister Crowley. Even by cursing him, I had inadvertently become a patron of Crowley’s teachings – of the enjoyment of self and the excess of living. C

James Batley’s 777 can be streamed via Vimeo here