A ninth-century Armenian monastery and a modernist writers’ resort make a striking pair. Connected by rough stone and a lake view, both function as residencies for individuals dedicated to faith or art. Osip and Nadezhda Mandelstam, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone De Beauvoir all saw this and stayed here; for £25 for two, we did the same.

For one reason or another, the Sevan Writers’ Resort was all ours for the night. A reflection of its neglect perhaps, compounded by our arrival out of season on an overcast and bitter day. The large dining hall offered silent views of the water in all directions. The staff didn’t speak English and there was no menu, but they read us well. We were presented with a carafe of local wine, a mountain of herbs and a fish from the lake. The interiors had confused energy that only added to the peculiar charm of the place – features fallen out of fashion and abundant kitsch, including a disco ball waiting for a party of guests.

Looking out, the scene had little of the bright colours and naive painting effect described by Nadezhda Mandelstam in her account of the couples sojourning there. An innocence lost. Instead, the harshness of the landscape hit home, sharp and abrasive. This is a landscape to which monks who had sinned were sent - a history that singles out this monastery among Armenia’s countless others. The repentant were banished to this rocky island and its unassuming monastic complex. The Sevanavank architecture is stoic, compact and resoundingly beautiful. Stepping inside the thick stone walls, sheltered from fierce winds off the lake, you could see how one might convert at first sight of the ancient inner chapel. Today the island is a peninsula after Stalin’s rapid industrialisation programme drained the lake, and the hike up to the top has lengthened.

The Resort itself is an astonishing modernist Soviet structure. The earlier thirties accommodation block was designed for the Writers’ Union of Armenia by avant-garde architects Gevorg Kochar and Mikael Mazmanyan. White and made of simple, rational forms, it reflects the constructivist vogue at the time – abstract, austere, angular and with a note of futurism. Each room promises radiant views of the lake with a series of precarious balconies on which to take it all in. Shortly after it opened, the architects were arrested and exiled to Siberia on political charges. Kochar returned in the early sixties to add the lounge. This is an iconic building of concrete and curved glass cantilevered defiantly above the rocks and carpark, leaving the land behind. The design is unapologetically progressive, without sentimentality towards the past and the monastery above. At its centre is a philosophy of organic architecture, an ambition to fit harmoniously with the natural environment and, despite the building’s apparent audacity, it does feel like it belongs.

Although crumbling, it is hard not to idealise the place, and glimpse a dream of another world. A rare successful Soviet utopian project: a quiet and accessible luxury with ideals of creative community at its centre, aspiring to radical aesthetic and social renewal. Unfortunately, Soviet architecture is often cursed by a discrepancy between concept and materialisation. I can’t help but think of the trendy concept of ‘hauntology’ coined by Jacques Derrida, which describes the present haunted by anticipated futures that never came to be.

Retiring to bed, we found a rusty electric heater threatening to combust at any moment; cream cotton sheets decades old, and a shower that refused to be anything but bitingly cold. Today you have to suffer for your art. I turned my mind to the dedication of monks and writers alike.

Words & photography by Chloe Schneider.