KAIROS
The Sacrament of Iconography
Brother Aidan
I
Iconography extends roots into the past, but it also stretches out
branches into the present and future, for it is part of the
Church's mission to "preach the Gospel to the whole creation."
[Icons are becoming increasingly familiar to us in the West, but
quite often are assimilated to our own tradition of religious
images and pious portraits of the saints. What we urgently need to
understand is the spiritual tradition and what might be called the
ontological context, of iconography. Brother Aidan is a convert to
Orthodoxy from Evangelical Christianity. He has lived on Mount
Athos, and now lives at the Hermitage of Saint Antony and Cuthbert
near Shrewsbury in Shropshire, England. He was an artist in the
Western sense before he became a monk and iconographer; he is
therefore well able to understand the deep differences between the
two attitudes-the artistic individualism of the West with its
craving for novelty, and the deep contemplative spirit of the
iconographer, with its love of anonymity and continuity in a
still-living tradition of sacred art.-Stratford Caldecott]
"When the light becomes his pathway, the real man rises to eternal
heights; he contemplates metacosmic realities without being
separated from matter which has been part of his being from the
beginning. Through himself, man leads the whole creation to God."
(St. Gregory Palamas)
Real humans are small gods; in Christ they are corulers of the
universe. The universe is contained within man: when man falls,
all creation falls with him and in him; when man rises in Christ,
all creation rises, and sits with him in heavenly places. Man is
to the cosmos what his own heart is to his body; by him the
universe is offered as a hymn of praise to God, in the same way
that the saints offer to God their whole selves-body, soul and
spirit-upon the altar of their hearts. Through this transformation
and offering of the physical world (grapes are transformed into
wine, wheat into bread), man the <microtheos> makes the good very
good, the beautiful very beautiful. In his humility the great God
wished man to be his co-worker, and thus ordered the universe in
such a way that it needed man's priestly work, one means of the
Church redeeming and offering the material world. As such, icon
painting today, as in any other age, is to be something creative
and dynamic. It must certainly be guarded against stylistic
changes, such as sentimentalism and naturalism, which do not
correspond to the spiritual realities which icons represent. But
is must equally be guarded against a legalistic conservatism that
equates tradition with mindless copying. Today we are in danger
more of the latter than of the former. Iconography extends roots
into the past, but it also stretches out branches into the present
and future, for it is part of the Church's mission to "preach the
Gospel to the whole creation" (Mk 16:15).
Icons: matter transfigured
The flesh of man is an epiphany of his person, just as is his
soul. When uncreated grace* shrinks from man's soul by reason of
his withdrawal from God, it shrinks from his body as well, which
consequently becomes desiccated and dim. On the other hand, when
man's soul is saturated insatiably with the uncreated light of the
Spirit, his body shines together with his soul. When man, who is
the soul and the sanctuary of the cosmos, is transfigured, so too
is the cosmos, just as Christ's garments shone whiter than snow at
his transfiguration. We are perhaps inclined to regard humans as
lower than the angels, because of their very corporeality. In
reality, it is precisely this materiality of man which, when he
lives according to his nature, makes him higher than the angels.
St. Gregory of Nyssa writes: "In previous ages the transcendent
powers knew only the simple, uniform working of God's wisdom which
effected wonders. On the other hand the manifest quality of wisdom
which arose from the union of opposites is clearly manifested
through the Church: the Word became flesh."[1] An important
ministry of the Church therefore is to participate in the Father's
plan "for the fullness of time, to unite all things in heaven and
things on earth" (Eph 1:10). The icon is perhaps the most
immediate and graphic expression of this union, firstly because it
depicts God become flesh (Christ) and flesh become god (saints),
and secondly, because the icon is itself a material bearer of
uncreated grace.
The cosmos shines not by itself, but precisely as cosmos, as man's
adornment, as man's priestly garment, as a vast temple for the
worshipping Church of the living God. What St. John of Damascus
wrote of the Old Testament tabernacle applies even more so to the
New Testament temple, which of course includes icons: "Why is it
that the Mosaic people worshipped the Tabernacle all round, <which
contained the image and pattern of heavenly things, or rather of
the whole creation?>"[2] The images around the Tabernacle
represented the whole cosmos as it is in its paradisal state. In
the New Covenant, icons, liturgical architecture and vessels,
psalmody-all material expressions of the Church's life in Christ-
are likewise epiphanies of Paradise, only now Paradise has been
opened and is beginning to be manifest already in the Church.
Icons <declare> our salvation. But they also partake of this
exodus from death into life, this purification of the stagnant
waters of a fallen world into the running waters of a physical
world offered and not worshipped. Icons not only declare that God
has become flesh, but they are themselves a means of extending
this mystical descent of the Eternal One into created time and
space. What St. John Chrysostom said of the bodies of saints
applies equally to the icons of the saints: the light of God, he
says, "flows from the body to the clothes, and from the clothes to
the sandals, and from the sandals to the shadows."[3]
Just as the Holy Spirit moved over the face of the waters on the
first day of creation, and effected the Word of the Father in
created works; just as he brought the formlessness of the primeval
created world into the fullness of the seventh day, so also does
he now, through the Body of Christ, transform mere biological life
into personal, spiritual, communal life. The sacramental life of
the Church, nearly always involving the sanctification of
something material, is not only a means of saving man, but also of
redeeming matter. Gold trapped in an ingot is good. But it is
raised to a higher level and becomes very good when it is
extracted and made into a wedding ring or a crown or gold leaf in
an icon. Mere matter is blessed and sacramentally "eaten" by the
Church, thus transforming it into part of her very existence.
Iconography is one such sacramental activity of the Body of
Christ.
An icon is made from wood, earth, ground stones, egg, gold-that
is, from representatives of all the kingdoms of this world: the
mineral, vegetable and animal kingdoms. These good things, like
individual notes of music, are drawn together by the composer
saints into a symphony of praise; they are skillfully managed,
like words by a poet, and prophetically declare the works of God.
The creation which the first Adam and his sons worshipped, is now
being turned by the second Adam and his sons into a cosmic hymn. A
fallen world is a fragmented world, a broken cosmos that, being
broken, is no longer the adornment that is its true nature. But
the Incarnation restores the pristine unity of all things, and
even takes them beyond what they were before, into an intimate
unity with God through the Son's assumed flesh. St. Maximus the
Confessor expressed this mystery of recapitulation beautifully in
the following passage:
"And with us and for us Christ embraced the whole creation through
what is in the centre, the extremes as being part of himself, and
he wrapped them around himself, insolubly uniting them one with
another: Paradise and the inhabited world, heaven and earth, the
sensible and the intelligible, having himself like us a body and
sensibility and soul and intellect.... He recapitulated in himself
all things, showing the whole creation as one, as if it were also
a man." (<Ambigua> 41)
The earth wept when man bowed before it and fashioned dumb idols
from its jewels. The earth rejoiced when the Magi offered its
treasures of gold, frankincense and myrrh, for through them it
bowed down before its Creator. Earth rejoiced when the first icon
was made and venerated, for through this icon it became a means of
leading prodigal mankind back to its heavenly Father.
Without man as its priest, prophet and king the cosmos was dumb,
decapitated. But with its head, with worshipping humanity, the
cosmos becomes articulate in thanksgiving to its Maker. Gold
rejoiced to be melted, purified, beaten, that it could be offered
by the wise men to the Ancient of Days. The frankincense tree was
glad to be cut so that it could offer its aromatic gum to the One
who brought it into existence from nonexistence and planted it in
Paradise. Myrrh was glad to be crushed that it could prophecy the
life-giving death of Life.
In the ancient Russian tradition the iconographer paints with the
icon lying horizontally-prostrate as it were whilst the
iconographer remains upright. The icon is glad that it is this
way, to be the servant of a wise master. When the icon is
completed this order is reversed: the icon is placed vertical, and
the iconographer and the faithful prostrate before it. But again
the icon rejoices, for by virtue of its likeness to the prototype,
mere matter has been changed into a bearer of uncreated grace. It
has been fashioned by a new Noah into an ark which saves the
creation. By thus participating in uncreated grace and man's
salvation, matter has begun to pass from this wicked world into
the age to come. In the fallen world the icon's raw materials-
gold, trees, precious stones, earth-are foolishly worshipped for
created qualities they possess by nature. Within the Church, these
materials, as part of icons, are wisely honoured for uncreated
qualities that they possess, or rather convey, not by nature but
by grace. As Saint John of Damascus says, "do not cease to
venerate the matter through which our salvation was effected" (<On
Divine Images>).
Tradition and creativity
It is evident from the above that icons are important not only for
what they <are>, but also for <how> they are fashioned; the
<process> of making an icon has theological significance as well
as the <product>. To grasp this sacramental, cosmic significance
of icon painting requires a true perception of Tradition, for it
is through Tradition that the Church writes icons that are true
images of spiritual realities, and not mere figments of someone's
fallen imagination, or the soulless money-making products of
commerce. It must be noted here that by Tradition, with a capital
"T" is not meant those secondary local customs-traditions plural
and with a small "t"-which legitimately vary from one locality to
another within the Church, but collectively those elements of the
Church's life which are essential and universally present in her.
What then is Tradition? Or more specifically, what is it to make
an icon today which is within the Church's Tradition? Tradition
means literally "something handed on." But what is handed on in an
icon? A likeness of the one depicted, certainly, for by this
representation of the saint's likeness the icon participates in
his hypostasis, in his personhood. But perhaps the most catholic
description of Tradition has been "the life of the Spirit within
the Church." In this case the "thing" handed on is nothing less
than the third Person of the Holy Trinity, the Holy Spirit. The
Church's Tradition was given it at Pentecost for at Pentecost it
received the Spirit. The Ecumenical Councils, dogmas, written
patristic works, unwritten patristic wisdom, iconographic
schemata-all these and other doctrinal expressions of the Church
are tradition precisely because they correspond to the Spirit of
truth working within the Body of Christ, revealing the incarnate
Word of God to man. At its best and truest, faithfulness to
iconographic tradition is not therefore a matter of following
rules or of making replicas of other icons, as useful as this
might be for students in the beginning; it is rather a matter of
faithfulness to reality, to a reality only fully revealed within
the Church. Traditional iconography is no more a matter of
mindlessly copying models from some previous school of
iconography, any more than prayer is inattentive recitation of
written prayers, or theology is a matter of copying out the
writings of the Fathers.
Tradition and culture
The first creation was effected by the Word of God through the
Spirit, working according to the plan which the Father had before
all ages. This plan, those <logoi> in the Father's mind, are the
source of all Tradition. In a similar way the new creation, the
new theanthropic culture called the Church, is brought into being
by the incarnate Word, through the Holy Spirit, according to the
Father's plan. We might even call this plan eternally in the mind
of the Father the "archetradition," the unreceived Tradition
originating from the Father, which is subsequently handed on
through revelation and sacraments within the Church. The Church's
worship or cult, because it is worship in spirit and in truth,
i.e. because it is according to Tradition, produces a culture, a
new creation. The Church cultivates the world through its cult.
And this culture is a divine-human culture, because it is created
by the divine-human Body of Christ. Working in synergy with God,
man cultivates wheat which he makes into bread. He offers this
liturgically; and God in his turn offers himself liturgically
through the descent of the Spirit, and transforms this bread into
the Body of Christ. Similarly, it is not grapes that are offered
by man at the Divine Liturgy, but wine; and God for his part does
not offer wine to man, but his own life-giving Blood. And so
Tradition is the fruit of synergy, the partnership of God and man;
unequal partnership, certainly, but genuine partnership
nonetheless, God with "gods."
There are therefore two complementary elements to Tradition, as we
experience it: it is on the one hand unchanging because it is
complete, catholic, all embracing; it is on the other hand
expressed in a rich variety of uncontradictory ways by different
local churches within the one apostolic Church. Tradition in its
essential, unchanging aspect is the uncreated light shining from
the tomb of Christ. But this uncreated life keeps flowing through
created time and space, bursting its banks and nourishing seeds
hidden within desiccated cultures. Tradition is the one sun and
the one heaven giving light, warmth and water to a vast variety of
seeds so that they may <become themselves.> Tradition is the
synergy of the Triune God working with the many tribes of the
earth, "making disciples of all nations." Icons are one fruit of
this discipling of nations, for, with time, each converted nation
begins to make its own distinct images of the one, unchanging
Christ.
The wisdom of God takes what is partial in a given human culture,
to the degree which that culture decides to embrace the Gospel,
and brings it to fullness. John the Evangelist did this when he
took that word "logos" and used it so richly in his Gospel. He
brought this word, with all its philosophical meaning inherited
from the Platonic tradition, into the Church, affirming those
meanings which accorded with truth, putting aside those which did
not, and adding those things lacking. Saint John neither uses the
word exactly as it stood, as though such a product of human
philosophy could have fully expressed what could only be revealed,
nor did he create a new word, unknown to any culture. Instead he
cultivated a seed already existing, exposing it to the light and
water of the Spirit. It is likewise one task of the iconographer
to find such seeds or approximations of truth in the culture he
works within, and bring them into the full light of the Gospel.
This affirming nature of the Church is exemplified in the icon of
Pentecost. We see an aged king in the centre, surrounded by
darkness. He is holding a napkin in which lie several scrolls.
Above, light streams from a single heavenly source, divides, and
fills each disciple with light, making them light bearers,
"photophoroi." The icon depicts each disciple as evidently a
different person, each with a different face, each wearing
different coloured clothes, each sitting in a slightly different
pose, and yet all are gathered together as a harmonious whole, a
family. Each disciple receives a different tongue from the One who
is beyond expression, so that they might bear this Light to their
ordained nations in the tongue of that nation. They will unroll
and interpret the partially written autobiography of each nation
which awaits the Good News, and then lead it into its consummation
in the Kingdom of God. They will synergize the created works of
man with the uncreated light and water of God. They will teach
each culture to repent and believe, to cease trying to suck life
from dead things and to begin drinking life from the Source of
life. The Apostles will teach the nations to purify themselves
that they might be made by the Spirit into living icons of Christ.
But each culture will be a unique icon, an icon made from the
indigenous materials of their land, that is from their corporate
personality as a people, their language, the architectural,
artistic and musical legacy of their past (where this accords with
the heavenly prototype), and even the actual raw materials of
their terrain. This is not because they seek to preserve and
foster their culture in some nationalistic sense, but simply
because they are what they are; they will love God with the
personality which they have, not with someone else's. The icon
will be of the same Christ, but at the same time, an icon distinct
from others, authentic and not merely copied. This is the work of
Tradition. In its humility the parent Church which bears the
Gospel to the new culture wishes the newborn to grow into maturity
in Christ, and not to become a mere replica of herself.
The pure in heart shall see
The iconographer plays an integral role in this creative work of
reclamation. He is on the one hand a passive receiver of the
unchanging Tradition; on the other hand he is an active cultivator
of the same unchanging Tradition, creatively depicting the Lord,
the Mother of God, the saints, as persons known and loved, and not
merely heard about. The evangelist Matthew writes that "the crowds
were astonished at Christ's teaching, for he taught them as one
who had authority, and not as their scribes"(Mt 7:28-29). He spoke
with authority about the Father because he knew the Father,
whereas the scribes only read about him. The apostles spoke with
the same boldness because through being with Christ and through
the Holy Spirit given them at Pentecost they knew him to whom they
witnessed. They therefore spoke naturally, without artifice. It is
the aim of the iconographer to witness to the Truth in the same
way, for what is a witness but one who simply relates what he has
<seen> and not merely heard about?
Preparing for this exacting task of testifying to the kingdom of
Heaven, the iconographer, like the first disciples, "waits in
Jerusalem until he receives power from on high." He waits in the
upper room with prayer and fasting, together with the whole
Church: "With one accord they devoted themselves to prayer." He
loves to be "in one place" with the saints, in the Liturgy, in the
Upper Room. And he does not merely wait, but calls out day and
night for the grace of the Lord to come and to purify and fill
him. He sheds sweet tears of desire for his Beloved, and bitter
tears of remorse for having expelled the Beloved from the Paradise
of his heart through recklessness. He is not content just to copy
the images that others have painted of his Beloved, but desires to
meet his Beloved and so paint icons that are alive, real, marked
with that sobriety which is the fruit of real encounter.
When the Spirit comes as fire to the waiting disciples, they are
purified; their physical and spiritual senses are cleansed. When
the Spirit comes as wind and light they see the <logoi> of created
things; they understand their language; they are in Paradise.
Simultaneously they become more acutely aware of others'
sufferings, for they experience more acutely what true life is.
Compassion fills them. The iconographer in their midst, like the
Apostle Paul in Athens, sees the many idols of the pagans, "and
his spirit is provoked within him." But, again like Paul, being
filled with the spirit of love he seeks out what is good within
his culture, and he finds the altar "To An Unknown God." He finds
a seed of truth, a seed of humility that acknowledges that there
is something beyond, something unknown, Someone who is yet to be
heard. The iconographer places this seed of truth in the context
of God's universal economy: creation, God's revelation of himself
to the Hebrew nation, the Word's incarnation, death, resurrection
and ascension, and the descent of the Spirit. If his hearers
repent and believe, they become co-worshipers with the saints in
the Church's hymn of praise.
The early Byzantine iconographers drew elements from their Greek
culture's earlier tradition-particularly perhaps the Fayum
funerary portraits-and transfigured them. The Copts, Georgians and
the Celts all did the same. The icons of Russia's golden period-
from the twelfth until about the sixteenth century-were the fruit
of a received Byzantine tradition cross-fertilised with indigenous
elements. Just as the Fathers of the Church witnessed to the truth
in the face of heresies and pastoral needs through inspired and
creative use of the current language and thought, not contenting
themselves merely with quoting passages already written, so should
iconographers respond to the given state of people at the time of
painting. They are in the world but not of it.
Beside evident stylistic differences between major cultures, there
are also variations in iconographic style <within> each of these
cultures. Different epochs have brought different emphases, and
these variations are not to be seen simply as concessions to human
weakness, but rather, when they are authentic and inspired
spiritually, as extensions of the universal Church's manifestation
of the living God. The four Gospels are evidence of this. In the
canon of wall painting, the one Pantocrator is depicted in the
dome, and in the four squinches uniting this single heavenly dome
with the four walls of the nave are the four evangelists. The one
and only Gospel is preached to the four corners of the world
through four distinct gospel books. The gold-that is, the
uncreated light-radiating from the Pantocrator is identical with
the halos of all the saints, but their faces are different. The
Church's dogma is the same universally, but is lived and therefore
expressed uniquely by different people, epochs and cultures.
Within Byzantium, for example, we could mention the Comnenian
period (1081-1185), with its icons characterized by large eyes,
figures seemingly immobile, monumental, quiet and dignified. The
Paleolegian school which follows soon after is by contrast full of
dynamic movement. It multiplies figures and uses more depth. Then
follows the dominance of the Cretan school, with its austere
highlighting of the face.
Among the Russian kingdoms we find the early Kievan school,
corresponding largely to the Comnenian period in Byzantium. Later
the dynamic figure of Theophan the Greek comes to Novgorod and
Moscow, painting fire-like figures in his frescoes. Continuing
after him is a pupil of Theophan, Saint Andrei Rubliof. He is the
founder of the Moscow school, which is typified by its subtlety.
Its lucid, transparent colours, epiphanies of matter imbued with
uncreated light, and quiet lines are inspired by the hesychasm of
St. Sergius of Radonezh and his disciples. The more pragmatic
merchant Novgorodians produce crisper, more graphically stated
icons.
The local churches in these cultures have offered to God their
authentic iconographic gifts: what will twentieth century offer to
God in this hymn of Tradition?
Icons unveiling the logoi
Icons are like names which the sons of the second Adam give to
creation's creatures. Each name reveals the true identity of the
thing named. Names are the unveiling of the unique logos of each
individual thing, from stone and tree through to human beings.
What is the saint, who, after Christ and the mother of God, is the
prime subject of icons? A saint is a person who has become what he
already is in the mind of God, who has become his God-given name;
he is his logos realised, a small logos united to the great Logos.
The saint is flesh, phenomenon, radiated from within by the union
of the Creator Logos with his own created logos or hypostasis. It
is because of this that shadows are absent in icons; the uncreated
light which radiates from within the saint conquers shadows, which
are caused by the dominance of the exterior created light. Where
black is used, as in the cave of Christ's nativity and the tomb of
Lazarus, it explicitly signifies the state of the fallen world.
And where a dark colour is used positively, to describe something
in heavenly reality, it paradoxically signifies profound presence
rather than absence. Take for example the centre of the nimbus,
often painted deep blue-black, which surrounds the transfigured
Christ; this signifies the darkness of incomprehensible divine
presence, unknown and unknowable by man, the divine essence from
which shines forth the uncreated and knowable divine energies.
Icons show trees bending, prostrating as it were, before holy
people. Rocks part like waves to let the Saviour enter Hades.
Rivers flee before the baptized Creator. Icons depict a cosmos
returned to its paradisiacal state.
Since "love hopes all things," divine wisdom has inspired
iconographers to paint buildings in such a way that we, the
viewers, are invited beyond the confines of created space into the
spaciousness of life in the Spirit; buildings are painted as
though we are viewing them simultaneously from both sides, from
below and from above. In this way the icon hopes to break the
bonds of proud rationalism, which insists that we see the world
only through the brain and that because it appears to our physical
senses that an object diminishes as it recedes, we must paint it
that way. Icons invite us to see the world in another way, that
is, as God sees it, as much as this is possible for man. If the
icon's multi-view perspective initially confuses us, it is
precisely because it is challenging our rationalism so that we can
become <truly> rational, so that we can go beyond mere mental
concepts and sensual perception and enter the Paradise of God. In
that garden, things are seen from the inside out, not from the
outside in.
Icons unveil the logoi of creation. But it is a dangerous thing
for the passionate person to seek out the reasons or logoi in
nature. A person who makes icons without first purifying his
intellect, or to be more realistic perhaps, who is not striving to
live within the Church humbly and with repentance, will make icons
that are a distortion, and not a true imaging of the inspired
prototype. He may make <semblances> of traditional models, but
they will be soulless, without the freedom which characterises the
inspired iconographic models. His icons will be images of his own
fallen state. If this is the case, what is the iconographer to do?
He must first of all be a member of the Family of God; through
baptism and chrismation he enters the ekklesia, the assembly of
the saints. Then, being within the family, he grows into maturity
through participation in her life, particularly through Holy
Communion, confession, services, fasting and having a spiritual
father. "We must withdraw within ourselves," counsels St.
Nicodemos of the Holy Mountain, "and through our self draw near to
God, through prayer and with calling upon his name." He who would
seek to know the world, and through it, God, must know himself. He
who would seek to know the holy saints must first come to know
himself in all his frailty. Within ourselves, says Abba Isaac the
Syrian, we will find God, heaven, hell, demons, the angels, all
people, all creation.
When the baptised person has entered the seemingly insignificant
door of his heart, he finds himself in Paradise, in the open space
where Christ walks with his disciples. He is transfigured, and
sees things otherwise unseen. As St. Maximus wrote, one pure in
heart experiences "a change in his senses and passes from the
flesh to the Spirit. The Spirit brings about a transformation of
his sensible energies and strips away the veils of passions from
the intellectual faculty" (<Ambigua> 10). And again, "In Christ,
those who were baptised become light in light, and they know the
one who begot them <since they see him.>" Then the iconographer
paints those whom he has seen with his own spiritual eyes. Then he
paints not images of images, but an image taken from the living
prototype. Certainly he will receive the physical likeness of the
saint from existing icons, but these icons he experiences
sacramentally, not as a replacement for the real thing, but as a
sacramental bearer of the very person depicted. He meets the saint
personally in Christ through the Holy Spirit, just as Peter, James
and John met Moses and Elijah on Mount Tabor. The outer likeness
he receives from the Spirit through icons, and the "inner"
likeness, the personal relationship with the saint, he receives
from the same Holy Spirit through purity of heart. In that way the
physical likeness which the iconographer receives through icons is
not something exterior to his life in the Spirit, because the
Spirit who has guarded this likeness through icons is the same
Spirit who fills his heart with light.
It might be said that such a state of purity of heart as here
described is rare, and that therefore most iconographers ought to
content themselves with copying the works of the masters. Of
course, as has been said above, the <likeness> of the saint is
handed on through copying prototypes. But the question here is
whether all the other details need to be copied. It is infinitely
better for someone still subject to the passions to make a
faithful copy of an inspired icon than to paint the fantasies of
his impure heart. And of course what makes an icon holy is not
primarily the details of its style but the fact that it depicts a
holy person. As St. Simeon of Thessalonica writes: "Portray in
colours according to Tradition; this painting is as true as what
is written in books, and the grace of God rests on <it, for what
is portrayed is holy.>"[4] Yet there is a difference between an
iconographer limiting himself to making copies with an awareness
that this is a concession to his low spiritual state, and making
this the norm, the ultimate rule. And besides, what are called
copies today are rarely genuine copies: mechanically applied
thick, opaque layers of brash pigments are hardly faithful
reproductions of the classical masterpieces. Indeed, to make a
true copy of these masterpieces requires no little skill and
humility. Nonetheless, to <equate> copying with Tradition is more
the fruit of a spirit of fear than of spiritual maturity. St.
Simeon the New Theologian was opposing just such a defeatist
spirit, alive at his time-one which reduced monasticism and the
Christian life in general to a legalistic adherence to ritual and
exteriors-when he declared so boldly that all Christians,
regardless of their walk of life, are called to deification
through repentance, are called to know God experientially: "Do not
say that one can possess him without knowing it. Do not say that
God does not manifest himself to man. Do not say that men cannot
perceive the divine light, or that it is impossible in this age!
Never is it found to be impossible, my friends. On the contrary,
it is entirely possible when one desires it." (<Hymn> 27:27-32).
Are we talking here of some sort of artistic expressionism? If by
artistic expressionism is meant the individualistic, anarchic,
loveless and ostentatious display of whim and fleeting fashion
that is common in modern art, then this clearly is not what
iconography is about. If, on the other hand, by artistic is meant
that the icon painter becomes a co-artist with the one true
Artist, then yes, iconography is artistic. If by expressionism is
meant an expression of God, the Virgin Mary and the saints who are
known personally, then yes, mature iconography is expressionist.
To be exact in rendering the Lord's likeness, the iconographer
needs to be expressing his own personal encounter with the Lord.
Exactitude needs inspiration. St. Kallistos Xanthopoulos (14th
century) wrote of the famous Paleolegian painter, Eulalios:
"Either Christ himself came down from heaven and showed the exact
traits of his face to him who has such eloquent hands, or else the
famous Eulalios mounted up to the very skies to paint with his
skilled hand Christ's exact appearance."[5]
Could one be so bold as to suggest that the frank, honest
expression of metaphysical angst that we see in much of the more
worthy modern art is something more precious to God, as a prayer,
than soulless icons churned out "in the Byzantine style" merely
for monetary gain? Might not the former rise to God like the
groans of the Hebrews in Egypt, whereas the latter fall back to
earth like Pharisaic babbling?
It might be argued that since an icon is an icon by virtue of it
bearing the name and the likeness of the prototype, the style is
of little or no importance; the faithful venerate the saint by
venerating his icon, and so the particulars of the icon's style
are not significant. There is an element of truth in this: that
great friend of the Virgin, St. Seraphim of Sarov, highly
venerated an icon of her which was painted in that naturalistic,
sentimental style which we now have put aside as unfaithful to
Tradition. However, this argument concerns itself with the virtue
of those venerating the icon: despite the deficiencies in the
icon's style, the faithful still see the saint whom it represents.
But the matter we are considering here is not what the task of the
venerator is, but rather that of the iconographer, and surely his
task is to make an image whose style conveys spiritual reality as
fully as possible. In the case of well executed icons we venerate
the one depicted <because> of the icon and not despite it.
Pigments
According to St. Gregory the Theologian, the "back part" of God
which Moses was granted to see on Sinai was God's majesty, which
St. Gregory equates with the logoi of creation. And so for one to
paint the image of Christ worthily, to behold God face to face,
one needs first to see God's "back," to meet him through his
words, his logoi implanted within the things which he has created.
For the iconographer, this knowledge of the logoi within created
things means first of all the logoi of the very materials with
which he makes the icons: the wood, the gold leaf, the pigments,
the varnish etc. The importance of this cannot be emphasised
enough in our technological age, where machines separate us from
the raw materials of existence, alienating us from the subtlety of
God's creation.
But this understanding of the special characteristics of each
material, and the skill in handling them, takes time and patience
to develop, and especially love. The handling of these materials
is not merely a means to an end, a process of no theological
significance, something to be finished as quickly as possible. It
is rather a form of liturgical celebration, a priestly offering of
spiritual prayer through matter transformed. An iconographer
carelessly painting an icon is like a priest carelessly
celebrating the Divine Liturgy.
The importance of this knowledge and respect for one's materials
raises the question of artificial pigments, and of artificial
materials in general. Of old it was common for apprentice
iconographers to first spend months, even years, simply learning
to grind pigments, and perhaps even where to find them in the
earth. Through this intimate contact with the different pigments
the apprentice would learn their secrets, discover the unique
logos of each mineral and earth. He would learn that lapis is best
crushed rather than ground, that it produces a richer colour when
burnt at 800 degrees C., that when washed afterwards there are two
usable pigments, the lighter ash and the darker sediment. When the
iconographer works in this way, through the microcosm of the icon
he begins to see the whole earth, the macrocosm, in a different
way. Hitherto insignificant stones and lumps of dirt become
potential participants in the Church's hymn of praise. Is it
possible for an iconographer to have such intimacy with his
pigments when he only uses factory prepared pigments? Surely not,
for this intimate knowledge can only come through intimate
contact. This of course is not to say that a painter should only
use pigments which he himself has prepared. But what is true is
that through having at least some experience of preparing his own
pigments an iconographer gains a respect for them otherwise
impossible. He will be able to bring out more of the inherent
qualities of each colour because of this respect.
A second point to be made about artificial pigments concerns the
colours themselves. A common characteristic of factory-made
pigments is purity. Now this may sound attractive, but in fact it
is this very purity which can make them so harsh and brash.
Naturally occurring colours are rarely, if ever, pure in the
material sense. Precisely therein lies their charm and subtlety.
One need only compare a so-called cinnabar which is factory made
with a cinnabar from the earth to see how loud and inharmonious is
the former.
Numerous benefits derive from natural colours' impurity. Firstly,
different hues exist together in the icon much more successfully.
This is so because each pigment contains minerals common to its
neighbours, thus creating a sort of interpenetration, or
<perichoresis>, (to use a corresponding theological term). It is
also due to the dominant hue of each pigment being quietened by
its mingling with other hues which are present, albeit in only
trace quantities.
A second comparative disadvantage of commercially manufactured
colours is that they are generally formulated to produce the most
powerful and opaque tinting possible. For this reason, unless
carefully controlled by the painter, they tend to produce opaque,
heavy layers which allow for no interaction either with the
luminous white gesso underground or with the proplasmos. Of course
this can be counteracted by the addition of more water to the egg
tempera, but one is nonetheless fighting against the inherent
tendency of the chemical. By contrast, natural colours are
generally more translucent. This, along with the above mentioned
chromatic harmony, creates a communion of colours rather than an
uneasy cohabitation of individual colours, with each hue staking
out its property like a jealous landowner.
A third effect of natural pigment concerns the subjective
associations which they elicit within the user. When I use a
colour taken from the earth, those feelings associated with the
God-given richness of the earth come to me; when using colour from
a factory, I see only images of factories. It is a bit like the
difference between living in a stone or wood house and a concrete
one.
Surely the albeit subconscious associations evoked by the material
with which he is working will have an effect on the iconographer's
soul, and therefore on his icons?
Icons and Artistry
It is a fact to rejoice over that the decadent, sentimental style
of the last two or so centuries has now been laid aside in favour
of the traditional style. But there are elements of over-reaction
in this revival. Because the decadence was primarily due to
iconographers taking it upon themselves to change styles according
to their whim or current secular trends (Renaissance naturalism
and later the Baroque movement), true icon painting is now usually
juxtaposed to artistic creation; the icon is not a work of art, it
is often said. This over-reaction, which ossifies iconography, is
perhaps reinforced by the presence around us of the twentieth
century "art for art's sake" philosophy, of the cult of
aestheticism. The holy iconographer, we are told by the
reactionist, paints only faithful copies, whereas the secular
artist paints according to his personal vision. Or again: an icon
is holy only by virtue of whom it depicts, whereas a work of art
is good inasmuch as it is pleasing to the eye.
That this opposition of iconography to art is not an attitude
traditional to the Church will be shown below by numerous
testimonies from contemporaries of Byzantium. These commentators
of course regarded icons as higher than, say, depictions of the
hunt in the emperor's palace, but they did not regard icons as
non-art. To the contrary, they praised great icons as great works
of art. They praised the skill of the artist in faithfully
conveying the likeness and spirit of the prototype. Iconography
includes and sublimates artistic ability and inspiration- it does
not annihilate it. A comparison can be drawn between psalmody and
iconography. The text which a choir sings conveys spiritual power,
just as does the subject matter of an icon. Nevertheless, the more
skillfully (though not more ostentatiously!) and more
compunctionately the choir sings these texts the more readily
these holy texts will enter the hearts of the faithful. The beauty
of the melody fosters an attitude of heart which prepares the
hearer to better receive the seed of the text. Similarly, the more
skillfully and lovingly the iconographer paints the saint he is
depicting, the more readily are the faithful drawn to love of the
saint. Carelessly, hastily made icons grate hard on the soul. And
an icon is beautiful because it is the fruit of love not only
between the painter and the saint, but also between the painter
and his materials.
The following extracts show that throughout her history the Church
has valued certain icons as great not for their being
mathematically accurate reproductions of models, but for vividly
evoking the saint or scene depicted with spiritual profundity and
artistic skill. (Italics in the extracts are added).
St. Nilus of Sinai (died c. 430) wrote to the Prefect
Olympiaodorus who was seeking advice on how to decorate his
church: "fill the holy church on both sides with pictures from the
Old and the New Testaments executed by <an excellent painter> . .
."[6] The holiness of the scene was not an excuse to allow just
anyone to paint it, as though the power of the prototype was
sufficient in itself regardless of the skill of execution. To the
contrary, the more sublime the prototype, the more artistic skill
was expected by St. Nilus to do it justice.
St. Gregory of Nyssa (c. 335- c. 395) writes concerning a certain
depiction of Abraham offering up Isaac: "I have often seen this
tragic event depicted in painting and could not walk by the sight
of it without shedding tears, <so clearly did the art present the
story to one's eyes.>"[7] The same saint, speaking at the
martyrion of St. Theodore, lauds the painter: "The painter . . .
has spread out <the blooms of his art>, having depicted on an
image the martyr's brave deeds . . . and so he both represented
the martyr's feats <with all clarity and adorned the church like a
beautiful meadow.>"[8] The art of the painter has served to convey
the theme "with all clarity." St. Gregory saw artistic ability as
a service and not a threat to the spiritual life.
Manuel Raoul, a fourteenth century author of letters, writes to
the iconographer Gastreas to commission an icon: "Granted that a
painter's hand possesses sagacity and is skilled in imitating
truth, I, too, have need of Your Sagacity's hand [for an icon of]
the venerable and glorious Dormition of the most-pure Mother of
Christ our Saviour. All the more so since I remember your very
considerable zeal in this respect when . . . you sought an exact
[picture] of this, and often repaired in the morning to Upper
Tavia in order to reproduce the ancient icons there."[9] This is
an interesting comment, since it shows that Raoul considered that
even to copy from other icons required perception and artistic
skill.
Writing in the early fourteenth century, St. Kallistos
Xanthopoulos attributes the success of an icon of the Archangel
Michael to "the ardent love" of the painter for his work: "How is
it that matter can draw the spirit down and encompass the
immaterial by means of colours? This is [a work] of ardent love,
as shown by the facts, and it kindles the heart."[10]
We know from the extant works and mosaics of the above mentioned
epochs that the realism of which these witnesses speak is not the
naturalism of the secular Renaissance (today we are perhaps too
easily inclined to equate a good likeness with photographic
reproduction of physiognomy). Whilst certainly remaining faithful
to known physical characteristics, these icons are "abstracted" in
that compared to photographic likenesses, many liberties have been
taken with proportion, colour, perspective and so on. But these
liberties were taken by skilled and inspired artists precisely in
order to capture a likeness. The Church sees persons spiritually,
and therefore inspires icons which, through abstract means, are
faithful to these otherwise invisible spiritual realities. St.
John of Damascus alludes to this when he writes in his treatise
<On Icons>; "Secondly, what is the purpose of an image? <Every
image is declarative and indicative of something hidden.> I mean
the following: inasmuch as a man has no direct knowledge of the
invisible (his soul being covered by a body), or of the future, or
of things that are severed and distant from him in space, being as
he is circumscribed by place and time, the image has been invented
for the sake of guiding knowledge and manifesting publicly that
which is concealed. . ."[11] For the iconographer to translate
these spiritual realities into visible material he needs not only
spiritual vision to perceive these realities, but also artistic
ability and skill to translate them. Neither a saint without
artistic ability nor a skilled artist bound by passion can paint a
good icon; both sanctity and artistic gift are required.
Perhaps the most vivid account we have of an old master who
possessed both of these virtues is that given by the Russian
Epifanij the Wise (d. 420) concerning Theophan the Greek, whom he
knew as a personal friend: "While he delineated and painted all
these things no one ever saw him looking at models as some of our
painters do, who being filled with doubt, constantly bend over
them casting their eyes hither and thither, and instead of
painting with colours they gaze at the models as often as they
need to. He, however, seemed to be painting with his hands, while
his feet moved without rest, his tongue conversed with visitors,
his mind dwelled on something lofty and wise, and his rational
eyes contemplated that beauty which is rational."[12]
Theophan had evidently so imbibed the Tradition that it was in the
very fibre of his being. It is clear from his extant frescoes and
icons that he knew ancient iconographic models and knew them well;
but it is equally clear from their style that he did not consider
himself a slave to the secondary details of these models. A devout
church attender will easily recognise the saints depicted in
Theophan's fiery frescoes at Novgorod, but they will equally
recognise that the <way> they are depicted is unique, though
certainly within the Tradition. These figures are clearly painted
by someone who is in the Holy Spirit: "Now the Lord is the Spirit,
and where the Spirit of the Lord is there is freedom" (2 Cor
3:17). Theophan and other masters are <in> the Tradition rather
than under it. Rather than making Theophan's natural and acquired
artistic skill redundant, the Church's Tradition stretched it to
its limit. Just as the Church called upon the Fathers to use to
their utmost their lofty intelligence and learning to humbly
expound the truth, so it also calls upon iconographers to use
their artistic abilities to represent the saints. Of course this
does not give license for pride on the iconographer's part.
Theophan's reply to Epifanij's request for paintings for various
buildings in Constantinople shows how humbly he regarded his God-
given talents: "It is as impossible for you to obtain this as it
is for me to draw it; however, on account of your insistence, I
shall draw for you a small part . . . so that thanks to this
paltry representation of mine you may be able to imagine and
understand the rest, great as it is."
Theophan wanted his pupils, both as individuals and as Russians,
to mature into their own personal iconography rather than be mere
imitators of his own method. This is clear from a comparison of
his work and that of his great pupil, St. Andrei Rubliof. St.
Andrei was a monk known for his gentleness and meekness, and this
is manifest in his icons. Whereas Theophan's frescoes are dynamic,
afire, Rubliof's are quiet, imbued with lucid but gentle,
translucent colours; they are both within the Tradition, but each
emphasises different elements of that Tradition.
What is it for someone to be an icon painter today? It is to be a
lover of beauty, a "philokalos." To thirst for divine beauty as
though his life depended on it. To strip off the veil of the
passions and pretension, so that with unveiled face he may behold
the glory of the Lord and be changed into his likeness from one
degree of glory to another. To love the Lord, the mother of God
and the saints whom he paints. To love the people for whom he is
painting the icons. To love the icon itself, and the act of
painting it, and the materials he is painting with. To be genuine,
natural. To be willing to become nothing, to remain unknown, to
leave his icons unsigned because he wants only to be a servant,
leading the faithful closer to the saint whom he paints. To seek
tirelessly the secrets of the great masters. To have the humility
to copy the works of masters with understanding that he might
learn from them, and then in due time have the courage to go
beyond copying and paint with the same spirit but with a different
hand. To have the faith to believe that to the extent that he
lives within the Church, he bears the Holy Spirit, and that "where
the Spirit of the Lord is there is liberty."
ENDNOTES
* According to the Orthodox Church's patristic teaching, God is
utterly unknowable in his essence, but knowable in his uncreated
energies. These energies flow eternally from his essence, like
rays reaching us from the unapproachable orb of the sun. These
energies, being uncreated, are God himself, and not mere created,
mediating gifts.
1 <Song of Songs> VIII: 255.
2 <On the Orthodox Faith> IV, 16: PG 94,1158.
3 <Dicta postquam reliquiae martyrum>, PG 63, 469.
4 <Dialogue against Heresies>, 23: PG 155, 113D.
5 "Nicephorous Kallistos Xanthopoulos," ed. A. Papadopoulos-
Kerameus, <Byzantinische Zeitschrift> 11 (1902): 46, no. 14.
6 PG 79, 580. Unless otherwise noted, the English translations are
from C. Mango, ea., <The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312-1453>
(Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1986).
7 <De deitate Filii et Spiritus Sancti>, PG 46, 572c.
8 PG 46, 737.
9 Epet. Hetair. Byzant. Spoudon XXVI, ed. R. J. Loenertz
(1956),162.
10 "Nicephoros Kallistos Xanthopoulos," ed. A Papadopoulos-
Kemameus, <Bzantinische Zeitschrift> 11 (1902): 46, no. 16.
11 De <imag. Orat.> III, 17: PG 94,1338.
12 V.N. <Lazarev, Feofan Grek i ego skola> (Moscow, 1961),113.
This article was taken from the Fall 1996 issue of "Communio:
International Catholic Review". To subscribe write Communio, P.O.
Box 4557, Washington, D.C. 20017-0557. Published quarterly,
subscription cost is $23.00 per year.
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