Beverly Lanzetta - Iconography

SACRED ART: Orthodox Iconography
Part I—History and Theology

Introduction
The interior passion and beauty of the spiritual life often find visual expression through the contemplative devotion of sacred art. Throughout history, in diverse cultures and religious orientations, sacred art has played a significant role in the formation of spiritual traditions and practices. Whether in Medieval manuscript illuminations, Tibetan tankha paintings, Islamic calligraphy, or Navajo sand paintings, sacred art is understood to support and evoke contact with a greater reality and, thus, to be a door into divine states of consciousness. Since sacred art is a living expression of the creativity and humility of the faithful, it cannot be fully understood separate from the tradition from which it draws sustenance and inspiration. This article will explore sacred art as it is expressed through the spirituality of Eastern Orthodox Christianity.

Orthodox Iconography
Eastern Orthodox Christianity rests on a two thousand year old foundation of mystical apophatism. Apophatism is a word taken from the Greek that translated means, “to unsay, or move away from speech.” Apophatic theologies caution against using names and attributes to describe the divine nature in the belief that God transcends concepts and ideas. Prevalent in the religions of Asia and India, mystical apophatism became permanently rooted in Christian thought in the first six centuries of the Common Era. Gregory of Nyssa (c. 335-395) and Pseudo-Dionysius (early sixth century), recipients of the negative theology of Philo and Plotinus, were two of the major transmitters of Christian apophatism. Seeking to preserve the mystical splendor of direct experience of God, both theologians maintained the superiority of “unknowing” as a necessary element in ascending to the highest reaches of the mystical life. Here, contemplating Moses’ ascent to Mt. Sinai, and the majesty of a truth that transcended all categories of thought, Gregory of Nyssa wrote of the “divine darkness”: “What does it mean that Moses entered the darkness and then saw God in it? . . . This is the true knowledge that is sought; this is the seeing that consists in not seeing, because that which is sought transcends all knowledge, being separated on all sides by incomprehensibility as by a kind of darkness.”
This focus on the inability of the intellect to name God, coupled with the use of native art as a visual representation for the illiterate, created a climate that was hospitable to the development of iconography. Thus, Gregory’s brother, St. Basil the Great (c. 330-379), in his homily on the martyrdom of St. Barlaam, appeals to the painters to complete his eulogy: “Complete with your art this incomplete image of a great leader. Illuminate with the flowers of your wisdom the indistinct image which I have drawn of the crowned martyr. Let my words be surpassed by your painting of the heroic deeds of this martyr.” Later, John of Damascus in the seventh century echoes this same sentiment with respect to those unable to read: “But since not every one is literate, nor has leisure for reading, the Fathers agreed that these things should be represented on icons, as being acts of supreme heroism, in order that they should serve as a concise memorial of them.” From these writings we glimpse the extent to which theology and art, word and image, were seen as two aspects of the same revelation in the early Orthodox tradition.
The progress of iconography was not without its opposition, however. Concerns about the possibility of idolatry, false veneration, and the confounding of the material and spiritual worlds became issues that soon embroiled the Church in a violent debate that lasted over one hundred years. The struggle to clarify the place of visual representation in relation to the Christian faith lasted from about 726 to 843, in what has come to be known as the Iconoclast Controversy. It was Emperor Leo III, believing that icons were blasphemous who set out to destroy them and along with his son, Constantine V, set in motion a quarrel that nearly tore apart Byzantine Christianity. During the conflict two theologians, St. John of Damascus (c. 675-c.749) and St. Theodore of Studios (759-826), were instrumental in formulating the theological position that the veneration of icons was inextricably bound up with the mystery of creation and the incarnation. The main thrust of their defense rest on a theological clarification of the place of matter in the divine creation, and on the reality of the incarnation. John of Damascus held that because “The Word made flesh has deified the flesh,” matter was no longer to be seen as the lowest rung on a hierarchical chain of being. The bridge between God and creation, according to Christian theology, was mended with Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection. Thus this world,” wrote Leontius of Cyprus, “as the work of the divine artist, mediates divine grace: Through heaven and earth and sea, through wood and stone, through relics and church buildings and the Cross, through angels and men, through all creation visible and invisible, I offer veneration and honour to the Creator and Master and Maker of all things, and to him alone.”
Further, the defenders believed that if the argument concerning the validity of icons was based on the prohibition in the Hebrew Bible against visual imagery, it failed to recognize the nature of the revelation in which Christ’s presence in the flesh has restored the image of God in humans. For them the reality of the incarnation, which the early Christians had worked so long and hard to articulate, was at stake: “In former times, God, without body or form,” contended John of Damascus, “could in no way be represented. But today, since God has appeared in the flesh and lived among men, I can represent what is visible in God.” A century later, Theodore of Studios made a similar comment: “Man has no characteristic more fundamental than this, that he can be represented in an image; that which cannot be represented in this way is not a human being.” Revelation, therefore, worked through all the faculties and expressions of the senses; revelation was communicated through matter. “The language of sacred art is thus a language that corresponds to that of the sacred writings. It is not simply a matter of art illustrating the words of scripture.”
The final important element in the defense championed by John of Damascus and Theodore of Studios was the veneration of icons. The veneration paid to the icon was distinct from the divine reality imaged therein, and therefore was not directed to the paint and pigment, but to the spiritual reality behind the image: “I do not adore matter, but I adore the Creator of matter, who became matter for me, inhabiting matter and accomplishing my salvation through matter.” In this century-long conflict the theological foundation for icon painting was firmly established in the Orthodox Churches, and the validity of the icon as a doorway through which contact with divinity occurs was preserved.

SACRED ART: Orthodox Iconography
Part II—Spirituality of Orthodox Iconography

The primary aspect of authentic iconography centers around one thing: expressing the spiritual. The whole ethos of the icon is designed to be reflective of those higher states and qualities that are embodied in the spiritual life. “True iconography,” writes contemporary author Constantine Cavarnos, “is intended to take us beyond anatomy and the three-dimensional world of matter to a realm that is immaterial, spaceless, timeless—the realm of the spirit, of eternity.” Thus, a religious theme, in and of itself, does not qualify to make a painting an icon. In order for a work of art to be a genuine icon, its mode of expression must be anagogic, that is, a spiritual interpretation that points toward a reality beyond the physical, and that lifts those who see it to higher planes of consciousness and feeling.
In order to capture the mystical expression of spiritual beauty and inner illumination, the proportions of icon figures are distorted, some parts being exaggerated while others are diminished. Often the head and/or eyes may be disproportionately large, the nose and mouth made thin and small, and the finger and body elongated to reflect the refined, transfigured state of a saint. “Further dematerialization is attained by reducing space to a minimum,” Cavarnos instructs, “and by suppressing perspective and physical light. Thus the figures depicted give the impression of being two-dimensional, like visions. Finally, the iconographer makes no attempt to imitate faithfully the colors of nature, but uses extensively non-natural, mystical colors.”
Since for the Orthodox Christian the goal of the spiritual life is theosis, or union with God through grace, the anagogic dimension of an icon is an essential element in achieving likeness to God. “The efficacy of the authentic icon in this regard has as its basis the principle that ‘we become like that which we habitually contemplate.’” The icon, therefore, is intended to serve as a focus for the agitated soul and to ignite within a person the desire to emulate the virtues of beauty, humility, faith, stillness, love, meekness, and passionlessness. Of these many virtues, the one which continually presents itself in iconography is the virtue of stillness or silence. Icons exude a presence of utter quiet, a timeless suspension of all worldly affairs. Gazing on the interior stillness of grace, a person is reconnected to the wisdom that emerges when the heart is freed from the noise of words and permitted to bask in silence. This emphasis on the virtue of silence is well expressed in the following selection from The Philokalia:
When the door of the steam bath is continually left open, the heat inside rapidly escapes through it; likewise the soul, in its desire to say many things, dissipates its remembrance of God through the door of speech, even though everything it says may be good. . . Timely silence then is precious, for it is nothing less than the mother of the wisest thoughts.
In contemplating an icon, the viewer enters a world where a different artistic language is employed. It is a language that encourages abandonment of normal aesthetic expectations, and one that is designed to concentrate the soul’s attention on the silence of God. Through the power of divine silence, the viewer learns to be more intuitive and is able to discover the stillness that dwells in the very center of one’s being. The bond that is established between the icon and the one who contemplates its image mirrors the soul’s ascent into the divine. Through prayer, contemplation, and diligent devotion on the icon, the spiritual aspirant is able to break through the bonds of ordinary reality and see the spiritual presence behind the image. Thus the icon serves as the vehicle for spiritual transformation and as the medium through which the person touches silence.
As one focus of the soul’s quest for perfection, the icon functions as mystical art and as a medium for prayer, contemplation, and spiritual union. Since the goal of theosis applies both to the painter of the icon and to those who see it, each through the presence that the icon depicts participates in a sacred liturgy with the Holy. One of the profound elements in Orthodox iconography is the spiritual discipline that is mutually adhered to by the artists and the viewers of this form of sacred art. An iconographer is considered to be a servant of the divine, and thus before painting will enter into a contemplative, prayerful state. Similarly, a devout Orthodox Christian, on approaching an icon, will venerate it with devotion, humility, and prayer. In each case the primary objective is the same—to apprehend the incomprehensible, to make tangible to the heart the mysticism of incarnation and the mutuality of spirit and matter. As John Baggley writes about the iconographer and the icon:

However brilliant or pedestrian they and their work may be, the intention is the same: to externalize the sacred tradition and to enable the beholder to enter into the unseen world of the Spirit which transcends and yet interpenetrates the world of matter and the flesh.

SACRED ART: Orthodox Iconography
Part I—History and Theology

Introduction
The interior passion and beauty of the spiritual life often find visual expression through the contemplative devotion of sacred art. Throughout history, in diverse cultures and religious orientations, sacred art has played a significant role in the formation of spiritual traditions and practices. Whether in Medieval manuscript illuminations, Tibetan tankha paintings, Islamic calligraphy, or Navajo sand paintings, sacred art is understood to support and evoke contact with a greater reality and, thus, to be a door into divine states of consciousness. Since sacred art is a living expression of the creativity and humility of the faithful, it cannot be fully understood separate from the tradition from which it draws sustenance and inspiration. This article will explore sacred art as it is expressed through the spirituality of Eastern Orthodox Christianity.

Orthodox Iconography
Eastern Orthodox Christianity rests on a two thousand year old foundation of mystical apophatism. Apophatism is a word taken from the Greek that translated means, “to unsay, or move away from speech.” Apophatic theologies caution against using names and attributes to describe the divine nature in the belief that God transcends concepts and ideas. Prevalent in the religions of Asia and India, mystical apophatism became permanently rooted in Christian thought in the first six centuries of the Common Era. Gregory of Nyssa (c. 335-395) and Pseudo-Dionysius (early sixth century), recipients of the negative theology of Philo and Plotinus, were two of the major transmitters of Christian apophatism. Seeking to preserve the mystical splendor of direct experience of God, both theologians maintained the superiority of “unknowing” as a necessary element in ascending to the highest reaches of the mystical life. Here, contemplating Moses’ ascent to Mt. Sinai, and the majesty of a truth that transcended all categories of thought, Gregory of Nyssa wrote of the “divine darkness”: “What does it mean that Moses entered the darkness and then saw God in it? . . . This is the true knowledge that is sought; this is the seeing that consists in not seeing, because that which is sought transcends all knowledge, being separated on all sides by incomprehensibility as by a kind of darkness.”

This focus on the inability of the intellect to name God, coupled with the use of native art as a visual representation for the illiterate, created a climate that was hospitable to the development of iconography. Thus, Gregory’s brother, St. Basil the Great (c. 330-379), in his homily on the martyrdom of St. Barlaam, appeals to the painters to complete his eulogy: “Complete with your art this incomplete image of a great leader. Illuminate with the flowers of your wisdom the indistinct image which I have drawn of the crowned martyr. Let my words be surpassed by your painting of the heroic deeds of this martyr.” Later, John of Damascus in the seventh century echoes this same sentiment with respect to those unable to read: “But since not every one is literate, nor has leisure for reading, the Fathers agreed that these things should be represented on icons, as being acts of supreme heroism, in order that they should serve as a concise memorial of them.” From these writings we glimpse the extent to which theology and art, word and image, were seen as two aspects of the same revelation in the early Orthodox tradition.

The progress of iconography was not without its opposition, however. Concerns about the possibility of idolatry, false veneration, and the confounding of the material and spiritual worlds became issues that soon embroiled the Church in a violent debate that lasted over one hundred years. The struggle to clarify the place of visual representation in relation to the Christian faith lasted from about 726 to 843, in what has come to be known as the Iconoclast Controversy. It was Emperor Leo III, believing that icons were blasphemous who set out to destroy them and along with his son, Constantine V, set in motion a quarrel that nearly tore apart Byzantine Christianity. During the conflict two theologians, St. John of Damascus (c. 675-c.749) and St. Theodore of Studios (759-826), were instrumental in formulating the theological position that the veneration of icons was inextricably bound up with the mystery of creation and the incarnation. The main thrust of their defense rest on a theological clarification of the place of matter in the divine creation, and on the reality of the incarnation. John of Damascus held that because “The Word made flesh has deified the flesh,” matter was no longer to be seen as the lowest rung on a hierarchical chain of being. The bridge between God and creation, according to Christian theology, was mended with Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection. Thus this world,” wrote Leontius of Cyprus, “as the work of the divine artist, mediates divine grace: Through heaven and earth and sea, through wood and stone, through relics and church buildings and the Cross, through angels and men, through all creation visible and invisible, I offer veneration and honour to the Creator and Master and Maker of all things, and to him alone.”

Further, the defenders believed that if the argument concerning the validity of icons was based on the prohibition in the Hebrew Bible against visual imagery, it failed to recognize the nature of the revelation in which Christ’s presence in the flesh has restored the image of God in humans. For them the reality of the incarnation, which the early Christians had worked so long and hard to articulate, was at stake: “In former times, God, without body or form,” contended John of Damascus, “could in no way be represented. But today, since God has appeared in the flesh and lived among men, I can represent what is visible in God.” A century later, Theodore of Studios made a similar comment: “Man has no characteristic more fundamental than this, that he can be represented in an image; that which cannot be represented in this way is not a human being.” Revelation, therefore, worked through all the faculties and expressions of the senses; revelation was communicated through matter. “The language of sacred art is thus a language that corresponds to that of the sacred writings. It is not simply a matter of art illustrating the words of scripture.”

The final important element in the defense championed by John of Damascus and Theodore of Studios was the veneration of icons. The veneration paid to the icon was distinct from the divine reality imaged therein, and therefore was not directed to the paint and pigment, but to the spiritual reality behind the image: “I do not adore matter, but I adore the Creator of matter, who became matter for me, inhabiting matter and accomplishing my salvation through matter.” In this century-long conflict the theological foundation for icon painting was firmly established in the Orthodox Churches, and the validity of the icon as a doorway through which contact with divinity occurs was preserved.

SACRED ART: Orthodox Iconography
Part II—Spirituality of Orthodox Iconography

The primary aspect of authentic iconography centers around one thing: expressing the spiritual. The whole ethos of the icon is designed to be reflective of those higher states and qualities that are embodied in the spiritual life. “True iconography,” writes contemporary author Constantine Cavarnos, “is intended to take us beyond anatomy and the three-dimensional world of matter to a realm that is immaterial, spaceless, timeless—the realm of the spirit, of eternity.” Thus, a religious theme, in and of itself, does not qualify to make a painting an icon. In order for a work of art to be a genuine icon, its mode of expression must be anagogic, that is, a spiritual interpretation that points toward a reality beyond the physical, and that lifts those who see it to higher planes of consciousness and feeling.

In order to capture the mystical expression of spiritual beauty and inner illumination, the proportions of icon figures are distorted, some parts being exaggerated while others are diminished. Often the head and/or eyes may be disproportionately large, the nose and mouth made thin and small, and the finger and body elongated to reflect the refined, transfigured state of a saint. “Further dematerialization is attained by reducing space to a minimum,” Cavarnos instructs, “and by suppressing perspective and physical light. Thus the figures depicted give the impression of being two-dimensional, like visions. Finally, the iconographer makes no attempt to imitate faithfully the colors of nature, but uses extensively non-natural, mystical colors.”

Since for the Orthodox Christian the goal of the spiritual life is theosis, or union with God through grace, the anagogic dimension of an icon is an essential element in achieving likeness to God. “The efficacy of the authentic icon in this regard has as its basis the principle that ‘we become like that which we habitually contemplate.’” The icon, therefore, is intended to serve as a focus for the agitated soul and to ignite within a person the desire to emulate the virtues of beauty, humility, faith, stillness, love, meekness, and passionlessness. Of these many virtues, the one which continually presents itself in iconography is the virtue of stillness or silence. Icons exude a presence of utter quiet, a timeless suspension of all worldly affairs. Gazing on the interior stillness of grace, a person is reconnected to the wisdom that emerges when the heart is freed from the noise of words and permitted to bask in silence. This emphasis on the virtue of silence is well expressed in the following selection from The Philokalia:

When the door of the steam bath is continually left open, the heat inside rapidly escapes through it; likewise the soul, in its desire to say many things, dissipates its remembrance of God through the door of speech, even though everything it says may be good. . . Timely silence then is precious, for it is nothing less than the mother of the wisest thoughts.

In contemplating an icon, the viewer enters a world where a different artistic language is employed. It is a language that encourages abandonment of normal aesthetic expectations, and one that is designed to concentrate the soul’s attention on the silence of God. Through the power of divine silence, the viewer learns to be more intuitive and is able to discover the stillness that dwells in the very center of one’s being. The bond that is established between the icon and the one who contemplates its image mirrors the soul’s ascent into the divine. Through prayer, contemplation, and diligent devotion on the icon, the spiritual aspirant is able to break through the bonds of ordinary reality and see the spiritual presence behind the image. Thus the icon serves as the vehicle for spiritual transformation and as the medium through which the person touches silence.

As one focus of the soul’s quest for perfection, the icon functions as mystical art and as a medium for prayer, contemplation, and spiritual union. Since the goal of theosis applies both to the painter of the icon and to those who see it, each through the presence that the icon depicts participates in a sacred liturgy with the Holy. One of the profound elements in Orthodox iconography is the spiritual discipline that is mutually adhered to by the artists and the viewers of this form of sacred art. An iconographer is considered to be a servant of the divine, and thus before painting will enter into a contemplative, prayerful state. Similarly, a devout Orthodox Christian, on approaching an icon, will venerate it with devotion, humility, and prayer. In each case the primary objective is the same—to apprehend the incomprehensible, to make tangible to the heart the mysticism of incarnation and the mutuality of spirit and matter. As John Baggley writes about the iconographer and the icon:

However brilliant or pedestrian they and their work may be, the intention is the same: to externalize the sacred tradition and to enable the beholder to enter into the unseen world of the Spirit which transcends and yet interpenetrates the world of matter and the flesh.