When I attended a week-long workshop on iconography three years ago, I had no idea that it would answer my hunger for God. The secularization of much of contemporary life left me feeling empty, and I was unable to discover the beauty of our faith. My faith had a strong rational and intellectual foundation from having studied at Princeton Seminary for both an M.A. and an M.Div. degree, and I continued my intellectual pursuits at the University of Toronto’s Centre for the Study of Religion in a Ph.D. program. My rational and intellectual self was saturated, yet I still felt distant from God. I was seeking a “knowing” that is beyond the intellectual and rational mind. When I saw a description of a workshop in which students would learn the ancient art of iconography, to be held at a Catholic retreat center, I signed up for it.

Nikita Andrejev conducted the class. Nikita’s father, Vladislav Andrejev, a 1980 émigré from the former Soviet Union, founded the Prosopon School of Iconology.

Vladislav was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, and studied art at the St. Petersburg Academy of Art and Design. He worked as a painter and book illustrator. His search for meaning and truth led him to icons and iconography. He traveled alone in parts of the Russian wilderness, and studied icon and fresco painting with a monk icon-writer. Unable to practice this art openly in the Soviet Union, he immigrated to the United States, where he founded the Prosopon School of Iconology1 to share with others the ancient art and practice of icon writing.

My first class exposed me to both the technique of icon painting and the theology of the icon. Iconographers believe that because of the Incarnation, matter has been imbued with divinity. The icon is an example of the process of the Creator interacting with the creation. I also discovered that this process is one of discipline rather than inspiration. When writing an icon, I do not work to express my own thoughts or emotions, but I work to the glory of God. The act of writing an icon is an act of revealing an already present image; the goal of iconographic writing is to reveal the incarnate God.

Icons are holy paintings on wood panels painted in egg tempera. The word “icon” comes from the Greek word “” and simply means image. The subject matter of icons is determined by the great stream of church tradition. The icon is a sacramental object in the Eastern Orthodox Church, and therefore is a piece of transformed matter, in the same way that the Eucharistic elements are transformed matter. We choose from a vast array of ancient prototypes such as images of Christ, the Mother of God, gospel evangelists, prophets from the Hebrew Scriptures, events and people from the time of Jesus and the inception of the church, holy men and women from church tradition, and the heavenly hosts (angels, archangels, cherubim, and seraphim).

We call painting an icon “writing” an icon because it follows rules in the same way that a poet follows rules for writing a poem. If a poet composes verse in hexameter or pentameter, rules of rhyme and verse construction are closely followed. In the same way, an iconographer follows canons or rules that have been passed down through the centuries. Every element in the writing of an icon contributes to its overall meaning and integrity. We use only natural materials in the technique of writing an icon because the materials have an intrinsic spiritual meaning. To use modern or synthetic materials would be to impoverish the icon of its full spiritual essence.

The Prosopon School, located in New York, teaches that there are twenty-two steps to complete an icon. I begin with a carefully chosen wooden panel, as it reflects both the cross of Christ and the Tree of Life from which creation springs. The board is carved to create an outer frame of approximately one-to-two inches. This impression represents the ark of God that will contain the image of God within its contours. I then cover the board with a piece of linen cloth that has been soaked with rabbit-skin glue and gesso (a mixture of chalk and marble dust). This cloth symbolizes the linen shroud that covered the body of Christ. Then, I cover the entire surface of the board with ten coats of gesso to get a very smooth surface for painting. This pure white board represents the potentiality of color and light. Now, I draw the image on the board. I apply gold and pigment to the drawing, separating light from darkness. This symbolizes the act of creation. I begin with the very dark, earthy tones of pigment, and each successive layer of paint that I lay down is lighter and more pure. The icon finally radiates with a light that is not realistic or naturalistic, but transfigured.

After this first workshop, I continued practicing icon writing with Tatiana Berestova, a teacher in the Prosopon School who conducts open studio classes in the basement of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Holy Virgin Protection in lower Manhattan. As I enter the studio, I enter a space truly set apart in the midst of Manhattan. The sound of Byzantine chanting permeates the silence, and the aroma of incense fills the air. I have been drawn to this place over the years not only to refine my skills in the practice of iconography, but also to gather with others who have set their hearts on God’s kingdom. After praying together, we work in silence, except when Tatiana explains one of the finer points of either the theology or the practice of iconography. In the middle of the day, we gather around a common table with food and tea to nourish our bodies as we work together.

Icon writing has become my spiritual rule of life. For centuries, monks and nuns have been living by a “rule” or discipline. The goal is to move beyond one’s self and to center one’s life in God. Monastic rules are typically disciplines of the body and soul such as prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, which assist one to encounter God.

Iconography is my spiritual rule of life because it has been a path for me to encounter the incarnate God. Although I do pray and fast while writing an icon, the rule of life that I follow is much more than these practices. Each time I pick up a paintbrush to write an icon, I take one step further on the ascent to meet God. As I ascend, God descends to meet me. The story of the transfiguration of Christ is an event that prefigures the life of iconographers. As Christ ascended Mount Tabor to become transfigured by the light of God, so the light of God, as I write an icon, also can transfigure me. I am always painting in my mind and my heart. The image of God is with me through each day and night.

When I write an icon, I seek to transfigure the material medium (gessoed board, pigments, gold leaf) into the spiritual, with the hope that through the grace of God my own soul will be similarly transfigured. The glory of God and his Uncreated Light is revealed through the application of gold and light. As I paint an icon, I, too, reenact Creation, moving from nothingness and darkness to holy creation and light. This spiritual discipline and practice has been an epiphany for me. Iconography has revealed to me a God who is beyond language and text, and beyond rational knowing and understanding. It has opened a window to the mysterious ever-present incarnate God. 

Colleen Burlingham is a PTS graduate. She earned her M.A. in 1985 and her M.Div. in 1989.

Icon Painting as Performance Art

On March 2, 2007, as part of the opening night for Princeton Seminary’s Erdman Art Gallery exhibition “In the Image and Likeness: Icons by Students and Masters of the Prosopon School of Iconology,” Gordon Graham, PTS’s Henry Luce III Professor of Philosophy and the Arts, gave a lecture titled “Icon Painting as Performance Art.”

Graham began by contrasting images of the Madonna and Child in Western painting with icons of the Mother of God. The development of the use of light and shadow, naturalism and abstraction, could clearly be seen in the paintings from Western art throughout the centuries. By contrast, the icons were apparently the same over the centuries, deliberately copied again and again. The idea that a “copy” of a masterpiece of Western art would render the piece valueless is not so for icons. What is it about the iconic image that gives value to it, if not the idea that it is an original piece of artwork?

In an effort to understand the meaning of icons, Graham compared the Kantian aesthetic with the Nietzschian. For Kant, art’s purpose is to reflect beauty, which then moves the viewer toward contemplation. Kant sets up a diptych between the spectator and the artwork; art for art’s sake. The artist/creator does not enter into this arrangement. In contrast, Nietzsche sets up a triptych; the artist is a link between the spectator and the artwork.

Graham argues in favor of the Nietzschian aesthetic for understanding icons, which contends that art falls on the side of the Dionysian principle as opposed to the Apollinarian. This principle is action-oriented, and it is the engagement and the act of creating, in this case by the iconographer, that makes the icon different from paintings in Western art. Icons are a “performance art,” that is, they engage the iconographer in the act of creating, which gives icons meaning.

It follows then that it does not matter whether there are hundreds of icons of the Mother of God, nor does it matter that we are seeing an icon executed by the hand of a master or a pupil. What gives the icon its meaning is the act of engagement on the part of the artist.

— Colleen Burlingham

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