To Make Visible

How long had it been?

She had missed this. Why had it been so long?

She smiled as she glanced over her shoulder. She knew why.

Pulled back to the easel, her eyes traced the charcoal outline again but began to wander—over the gesso board, the brushes, the fresh water in the paint-covered jar…Why hadn’t she ever cleaned that?…the four tubs of paint, stacked in the corner. The massive jars inside looked as though they held enough paint for a lifetime, but she knew how quickly she would run out.

Though she told herself she was sentimental, lingering over and savoring the beginning, she knew she was really just procrastinating because she was nervous. It had been a long time since she had painted—had written.

“No! You do not paint; you must write the icon. I cannot teach you if you do not listen!” Her teacher had reprimanded her often enough.

“You are not a painter, who copies what he sees. You are an iconographer— from the Greek—εἰκών (eikón), ‘image,’ and γραφή (graphé), ‘writing’ or ‘scripture.’ The iconographer writes a visible scripture, which the Word has spoken, and crafts a window to the invisible.”

…

The blank walls and wire shelving made for a singularly uninspiring studio, and she contemplated hanging her teacher’s guides on the walls. At the moment, they were stored in a neat roll, tied off with the last known rubber band in the apartment, but the charcoal designs would match the soft grey and white of the room behind her.

Did she have one of the Good Shepherd? That would be perfect…

She had always loved icons, but never knew why until she began to write them. They are strange works of art, awkward and off-putting. Other art is simple. It is beautiful, and you know why you love it. But icons…with their old-looking babies and contorted proportions…are starkly, intentionally unbeautiful.

Her first icon had been a frustrating process, during which she had contemplated switching to landscape painting. There were so many rules.

“Of course there are many rules, pais, or perhaps, I should say, paidion, for you are clearly an infant still! The icon is written to tell the truth, not to be beautiful. To incarnate truth is dangerous task; this is why we follow strict traditions—one small change and you have written heresy instead…”

“No, no! You have made Him too young!” He sighed. “Ach. Perhaps I cannot teach you, after all. Perhaps you ought to paint a cute Infant and be happy. But while you write this icon, you make visible His invisible eternity. An old face for his divine eternity and a young form for his temporal humanity.”

The next day she had tried to paint a landscape, but it said nothing, and she had returned to writing icons.

…

How long did she have?

She checked the clock she had hung for this purpose even though, at other times, it depressed her to see 2 a.m. advertised back. Not much longer. Time was always short these days, though she tried to carve out more of it for writing.

“Slowly, slowly, paidion! Hold your breath…”

Eventually, she had learned patience and was rewarded when each new layer was finished without the errors of haste.

“Good, it is good! Pais, you have talent! I can teach you!” His jubilant face had become serious. “If you have no talent, I cannot teach you. You will never be any good. If you are a heretic, I cannot teach you. You cannot write the truth. If you are old, I cannot teach you. You cannot learn anything. If you are married, I cannot teach you. You will never have time.” 

He had beamed at her. “But you have talent! I can teach you. You are orthodox! I can teach you. You are young! I can teach you. You are unmarried! I can teach you.”

She heard the door as her husband got home, and she began to clear her supplies away. Another day gone by, but some interruptions were welcome ones. The icon could wait. And as for the iconographer, she had had a great deal of practice in patience lately.

…

Gold leaf. The reason she had been procrastinating. She pulled out the pad of layered tissue paper and gold. 

Gold leaf is fragile and thin. A single stroke of a fingertip and it curls and wrinkles, cringing away like something alive. To apply a smooth layer of gilding is a precise and delicate operation, which is why it must be done so early in the writing process—one small mistake and you had a wrinkly halo. So she held her breath. This labor would brook no interruption.

So small. A single stroke of her fingertip wrinkled a cute little nose and elicited a sneeze. Even the sneeze was adorable. But there were ten fragile fingers and ten thin toes, which adds up to twenty delicate nails in need of trimming. So she held her breath…

There, it was finished. The Infant’s halo shone alone amidst the dull canvas, and she sighed with relief—no wrinkles…and no more excuses. The writing process could begin.

*

Proplasma, first and second enigmata, first and second lamata, the four sarka, highlights—the layers were all there, many of them now almost invisible under their successors.

On the wall now hung eight months of labor in a two-dollar frame. She sat for a moment in the chair she still found hard and uncomfortable and caught herself rocking gently, as she had again and again the last few months. The icon was written, and her teacher would be proud.

But after another moment, she turned around to visit her previous work, of which she was undeniably prouder. 

In a secondhand crib lay nine months of labor, sleeping for now. She bent underneath the lambs hanging from the mobile to peer at the child, this living icon written in her womb.

“It is good, paidion, it is good.” She whispered. “You are my cute infant—Dorothy, from the Greek, “gift from God,” and Lucia, from the Latin, “light.” For you have made visible the invisible goodness of God.”

Her teacher had been right about many things, all but one. She had talent (she hoped). She was orthodox (she hoped). She was still young (she hoped). 

But now she was married. She had little time, truly, just as he had lamented. Yet, she was still learning a great deal about icons.