The Responding Icon

THE RESPONDING ICON

by Anna Kartsonis

 Icons have long been regarded as one of the most potent expressions of the culture of Byzantium. They stand as supreme visual statements of its religiosity, spirituality, and piety. In icons and through icons the intangible becomes tangible, divinity and holiness become accessible, the unpredictability of the supernatural may become predictable, and the power and philanthropy of the Christian God, the Virgin, the angelic orders, and the armies of saints that have earned the privilege of sharing in God’s holiness may be invoked by the faithful to operate their power, which is not limited by natural law. And the faithful may be granted—individually or collectively, perceptibly and obviously or imperceptibly and mysteriously—their fervent and pious wishes for safety and salvation now and in the hereafter. Icons are, in other words, one of the answers of Byzantium to the universal problem of human existence and the concern over the unpredictability of the fate of man on this earth and beyond. Icons are also one of the answers of Byzantium to man’s perennial quest for access to, and participation in, the realm of the divine.

Given the complex role reserved for icons, it is necessary to address the most basic questions first. What was an icon? What did it look like? What was it made of? How was it used? How did it function? Even though they are rarely straightforward, or simple, or certain, it is important to attempt to sketch some of the possible answers.

To begin with, the word “icon” is a transcription of the very rich ancient Greek word eikon. In its most common interpretation eikon means likeness, image, representation. But eikon could also refer to a living image, an image in a mirror, a phantom and imaginary form, or an image in the mind; that is, a vision. Nowadays the term “Byzantine icon” usually is understood to refer to religious images painted on panels, which depict portraits of Christ (Fig. 3.1), the Virgin (Fig. 3.2), angels (Fig. 3.3), apostles (Fig. 3.4), other saints (Fig. 3.5), or narrative scenes from their lives (Fig. 3.6).

These panels were produced in a variety of sizes ranging from life-size to pocket-size. They were, moreover, made of diverse materials and in various techniques, including painting (Figs. 3.1, 3.3, 3.4), mosaic (Figs. 3.2, 3.5, 3.6), ivory (Fig. 3.7), silver, gold, and enamel (Fig. 3.8). They could be luxuriously framed, and many were literally dressed up in silver and gold revetments, and adorned with all kinds of jewelry dcdicatcd to them by the faithful (Fig. 3.9).

Many icons were portable, although this was not necessary. They could also be painted directly on the walls of a church (Figs. 3.10, 3.17—3.19), sometimes in special frames (Fig. 3.20). A mid-eighth-century example is seen in the fresco panel of the Crucifixion painted above the altar in the Chapel of Theodotus in the church of Santa Maria Antiqua in Rome (Fig. 3.10). Icons could also be individually placed on specially devised stands, sometimes under a baldachin, or canopy. They were often grouped together on the templon screen separating the sanctuary from the rest of the church. Here the larger portrait icons were placed low down o n either side of the “beautiful gate” that opens from the sanctuary to the naos (Figs. 3.14, 3.17, 3.20), while smaller icons frequently were placed higher up (Fig. 3.17). Portable icons were also used at home, sometimes—but not necessarily—in specially designated areas; they could also be simply hidden in a trunk, or worn hanging from the neck as phylacteries (Figs. 3.8 and 3.22).

However, neither size, shape, form, subject matter, medium, or setting suffice to define, or make, an icon. The pictorial representation is transformed into a holy icon by two elements that lie beyond its material existence and appearance. One is the dynamic relation of the image to the actual person it represents, its prototype. The second entails an equally dynamic relation among the actual person represented, his or her image, and the viewer; that is, among the prototype, the icon, and the faithful who venerates it.

This interactive relation of Byzantine icons with the represented prototype, with the faithful, and with one another is one of their fundamental characteristics. It helped transform them into holy icons and was expressed in many ways, as witnessed by numerous legends about icons. These legends provide a good introduction into the manner in which icons were perceived to function in Byzantium. One of them concerns a very special holy icon that has not survived, the Kamoulianai image of Christ.

THE KAMOULIANAI IMAGE OF CHRIST

 There are many legends surrounding the miraculous icon of the Kamoulianai Christ, which was especially venerated in Constantinople. The earliest version recounts that Hypatia, a well-born lady who lived during the Early Christian period at Kamoulianai, in Cappadocia, refused to venerate Christ because she could not see him.

“How can I worship Him [she asked], when He is not visible and I do not know Him?” And after this one day, while she was in her garden...in a fountain of water...she saw a picture of Jesus our Lord, painted on a linen cloth, and it was in the water. And on taking it out she was surprised that it was not wet.

Having understood that she had witnessed a miracle.

And, to show her veneration for it, she concealed it in the head-veil which she was wearing and brought it and showed it to the man who was instructing her and on the head-veil also was imprinted an exact copy of the picture which came out or the water.

Not surprisingly, after the two miracles the two pictures became objects of special

devotion.

And one picture came to Caesarea...and the other picture was kept in the village of Camulia [i.e., Kamoulianai, northwest of Caesarea], and a temple was built in honor of it by Hypatia who became a Christian. But some time afterwards another woman from the village of Diyabudin...when she learned these things, was moved with zeal, and somehow or other brought one copy of the picture from Camulia to her own village; and in that country men call it “acheiropoietos,” i.e., “not made by hand.” And she, too, built a temple in honor of it.

In other words, the original acheiropoietos image of Christ, found by Hypatia in the water, its first copy that was miraculously imprinted on Hypatia’s head-veil, and its second copy—in all likelihood a man-made copy of the Kamoulianai original commissioned by a pious woman from Diyabudin—were treated with equal respect. The original miraculous image of Kamoulianai, as well as its second Diyabudin copy, were both called acheiropoietos, and were both honored in churches that were constructed especially for them. It is unclear whether the reference to the Diyabudin copy as acheiropoietos was intended to function as a reminder of the original image found in the water, or as an allusion to the inherent ability of the Diyabudin copy to operate miraculously. In either case, the Diyabudin acheiropoietos proved as efficacious as its “original” predecessors, and over the course of time the difference among the three images was diluted and blurred. In contrast to twentieth-century mentality, which views a copy at best as an object of lesser significance, and at worst as an imposter, Byzantium exhibited little interest in differentiating the original from the copy. This is verified by the story of the Kamoulianai Christ, which goes on to tell us that in the years 554/5, “in the 27th year of the reign of Justinian, indiction III, a marauding band of barbarians came to the village of Diyabudin, and burnt it and the temple [with the copy of the Kamoulianai icon]. .. . And certain earnest men, natives of the country, informed the serene Emperor of these things, and begged him to give a contribution [to help rebuild the ruins].” Instead of money, Justinian advised them to have the “picture of the Lord” carried by the priests in procession through the cities for the purpose of collecting the funds necessary for rebuilding the temple and the village. The peregrination of the icon lasted for at least six years (from 554/5 to 560/1), during which time sufficient funds were collected to rebuild the temple and the village.

In 574 the acheiropoietos Kamoulianai icon was brought to Constantinople, along with the relics of the True Cross that had been in the city of Apameia in Syria. After its arrival in the capital the icon performed miracles, and before long it became one of the supernatural defenders of the city and the empire. It was probably the Kamoulianai icon of Christ that was taken as early as 586 by Emperor Philippikos to the battle of Arzamon in Mesopotamia to hearten his troops.5 Similarly, Emperor Herakleios took along an acheiropoietos image of Christ in. his holy war against the Persians in 622. And on July 29, 626, it was said to be one of the palladia (safeguards) that contributed to the miraculous deliverance of Constantinople from the siege of the Avars.

This is the legend of the miraculous acheiropoietos, the Kamoulianai icon of Christ, whose traces are lost during the Iconoclastic period. Except for the Iconoclasts of the eighth and ninth centuries, the Byzantines certainly considered it holy. It had been revealed to Hypatia through a miracle, and subsequently it performed miraculously in the name of Christ, as Christ would have done in person. At the same time the icon received in his stead the honor and devotion due to Christ. Its role was not limited to depicting his external likeness; it also represented his internal qualities, by means of wrhich the portrait could operate miraculously as Christ himself would have. The Kamoulianai icon thus linked substantively Christ and the faithful who continued to seek his favor even after his Ascension to heaven, when he ceased being present in person. Through the Kamoulianai icon Christ’s presence, and the power of his holiness, again became accessible because, according to the legend, Christ had chosen to reveal himself through this image “not made by human hand,” so that men and women might know him, remember him, and above all worship him, from the time of Hypatia on.

The legend of the Kamoulianai Christ indicates that around the year 600 C.E. the best possible icon was a revealed image that had not been made by human hand, but owed its existence to the direct intervention of the divinity. Its miraculous appearance certified and guaranteed the authenticity of Christ’s likeness. The image thus functioned as a reliable document. The information it contained might therefore be duplicated or multiplied without any apparent loss of effectiveness or prestige, as each copy was a faithful image/icon of the prototype, Christ.

Beyond witnessing Christ’s true likeness, the acheiropoietos also attests to his two natures as man and God in accordance with the Christological doctrine. As a result, the seventh-century poet George of Pisidia saw the materialization of the icon as a second incarnation, renewing the promise of salvation. He asserted that no human hand took part in the second incarnation of Christ in his acheiropoietos icon, just as the sperm of man played no role in Christ’s first incarnation by the Virgin Mary. Furthermore, the promise of salvation that is renewed through the pictorial incarnation is manifested through the performance of the icon. Miracles bear witness to the icon’s ability to intervene dynamically in response to man’s needs, and so the icon guarantees that Christ’s portrait not only vouches for his human appearance, but is also capable of manifesting his divine power, will, and operation. The acheiropoietos functions as a divinely endorsed representative of Christ’s likeness that is empowered to translate into action his response to the viewer.

Clearly, a sixth- or seventh-century icon is not simply a painting, relief, or mosaic that is perceived as a photographic record of events and traces of the past. It is not a passive document that offers visual instruction in the reality of the New Testament. It is a type (typos), an offprint (ektypoma), an image, a material representation and proof (pragmatike parastasis kai apodeixis) of the reality of the prototype to which it lends shape and material form. The icon is therefore capable of vouching for the current will of the prototype and of performing materially on its behalf. Through the performance of the image direct contact is established between the viewer and the viewed—in this case, between man and God. In this way the reality of the past joins the reality of the present and extends to that of the future. The icon manifests its prototype alive and capable of presence, thought, will, action, interaction, and diologue with the viewer. The reality of the prototype is projected onto the icon, which then responds as a live image with a soul, and operates as the seal and guarantee of the prototype.

The identification of the present reality with the reality of the image is demonstrated in a variety of ways. One of them is the use ct' the present tense in literary descriptions of religious images. For instance, Emperor Leo VI described in this manner the mosaic decoration of a church built by his father in law, Stylianos Zaoutzas, which has not survived:

Here a winged being who has just descended from heaven converses with a virgin [the Annunciation, Fig. 5.17]. .. . There, a mother who has just given birth, yet not by the laws of childbearing, turns towards the infant with maternal care and love [the Nativity, Figs. 5.6 and 5.18]. Now men are hastening with precious objects to do homage to the infant [the Adoration of the Magi, Fig. 5.27]. Now a man afflicted by old age receives the babe in his arms . . - trying to forget the burden of his years he quickly stretches out his arms to pick up the babe . . . [the Presentation in the Temple, Fig. 5.8]. . . . Here the stainless One, desirous of washing off our filth, is being cleansed with purifying water [the Baptism, Figs. 5.9 and 5.19]; there His form shines forth as His mortal appearance is removed [the Transfiguration, Fig. 5.20]. In this place the friend who had rotted in the grave throws off corruption and leaps to life at [the sound of] a word [the Raising of Lazarus]. Over there, submitting to His ordeal on behalf of the world. He is Himself affixed to the wood [the Crucifixion, Color Plate 1V.A and Fig. 5.231-- Elsewhere again He rises and raises Adam along with Himself [the Anastasia, Color Plate IV.B], and makes His way to heaven, to ascend together with His human body to the Paternal throne [the Ascension, Fig. 5.22]. His Mother, who has transformed motherhood, and His disciples are standing there, fashioned with such lifelike character by the painter, that they seem indeed to he seized by the various emotions of living persons. One of them gives the impression of following the ascending [Christ] with his eyes; another is seen to be all ears, attempting to capture the meaning of the words that are uttered above (for, indeed, a number of winged beings are assisting in the ascension and seem to be conversing with them); another is pensive because of his astonishment; another is filled with wonderment and fear.

Evidently, the viewer partakes of the reality of the image; through it the faithful has the opportunity to acquire firsthand experience and knowledge of its prototype, and so enter into communion with the divine. The divinization of man (theosis) to which the image thus contributes requires the active participation of the faithful, who addresses it and pays his devotions to it as he would do if he were able to address the prototype directly. For “as the God-inspired Basil, who was learned in things divine, says, ‘The honor [shown] to the image is conveyed to its prototype.’ The prototype is the subject represented from which this derivative [i.e., the image] is made.”

The legend of the Kamoulianai icon of Christ shows that the derivative icon operates on more than one level, and in more than one way. It is effective for the individual salvation of Hypatia, as well as for the collective salvation of the empire and its capital. Its beneficial properties may be activated in automatic response to an evident need, or they may be invoked with the appropriate litanies and hymns, sometimes in conjunction with other images and relics commanding comparable power to mediate between man and God.

It is therefore reported that on July 29, 626, during the siege of Constantinople, Patriarch Sergios took in his hands the acheiropoietos icon of Christ, along with the other palladia of the city, the Virgin’s Holy Robe and the relics of the True Cross. He walked with them in procession around the walls of the beleaguered capital. A sixteenth-century fresco from the Moldovitsa monastery in Romania offers an idea of what that procession might have looked like (Fig. 3.11). All the while, with tears in his eyes, the patriarch implored God with verses from Psalm 67(68): “Arise, O God, and let your enemies disperse. As smoke is driven away, so drive them away: as wax melteth before the fire, so let them perish at the presence of God.” In this instance, the acheiropoietos icon of Christ, along with the other palladia, joined forces with the words of the psalm in the fervent petition of the patriarch for a miracle that would save the capital and the empire.

The choice of Psalm 67(68):2-3 for this occasion is not accidental. Its chanting was interwoven with the liturgical celebration of Holy Saturday at Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Its words formulated a prayer to Christ to repeat the miracle of his resurrection. This wish was fulfilled shortly thereafter during the Holy Saturday Vigil, when the ritual rising of Christ took place in the context of the annual celebration of Easter. Therefore, the repetition of these verses by the patriarch during the procession around the walls of the capital on July 29, 626, effectively implored Christ to rise and trample underfoot the barbarians besieging his “City,” as he had trampled on Death during his resurrection. Simultaneously it begged Christ to deliver the empire, as he had delivered Adam and Eve from the bonds of death at the time of the resurrection (Color Plates IV.B and XIV).

Thus, in 626 Patriarch Sergios combined in his urgent and desperate petition for the delivery of C on s tan tin op le the Holy Robe of the Virgin, the relics of the True Cross, the acheiropoieton of Christ, and Psalm 67(68):2-3, which was a readily identifiable component of the ritual celebration of Easter. In this special liturgical formula the icon and the relics combine with oral invocation and procession to plead for the ultimate delivery from perdition. The relics and the image are offered jointly with the ceremony and the word as material representations of the fervent petition for a second resurrection. In 626 the invoked miracle took place, and so the holy and live image of Christ participated in and contributed to the timely delivery of the empire from its enemies.

THE PAGAN CULT IMAGE

 The responsorial and interactive relation of the prototype, the image and the beholder attested to in the various legends surrounding the acheiropoietos image of Christ was neither new, nor was it a unique characteristic of the Christian art of Byzantium. It had long and indigenous roots in the Greco-Roman culture that preceded it.

When Constantine inaugurated Constantinople in May of 330 C.E. he did not provide “New Rome” only with fortifications, thoroughfares, magisterial buildings, and palaces. He and his successors also adorned the city with fabulous works of art. One of them is said to have been the gold and ivory statue of the Olympian Zeus made by Pheidias for the sanctuary of Zeus at Olympia. This pagan cult statue, known only from a couple of Roman coins, depicted Zeus enthroned (Fig. 3.12). His clothes and gear were made of gold, while the undraped parts of his body were of ivory. The statue is believed to have stood nearly 40 feet (12 m) high, giving the powerful impression that, should Zeus decide to rise from his throne, he would knock the roof off the temple in which he sat. The emperor Caligula had wished to remove the statue from the temple in Olympia, bring it to Rome, and replace the head of Zeus with his own. But every time the emperor’s men came near the statue, Zeus miraculously burst into thunderous laughter, which of course forced the Roman imperial envoys to run for cover and, ultimately, to return to Rome empty handed. So, the famous gold and ivory effigy of Zeus miraculously averted its desecration at the hands of the loathsome Caligula, proving that images of pagan gods could also perform miraculously when necessary.

After the systematic destruction of the pagan sanctuary of Olympia in 426 C.E., in the reign of Theodosios II, the Pheidian statue was brought to Constantinople. This time Zeus capitulated without any resistance, his silence suggesting that he accepted his fate as a trophy in the war against pagan gods, their sanctuaries, and their worship. The statue stood in the capital as a paradigm of the impotence of idols in the face of Christianity until a fire probably consumed it in 475.

The story of the Pheidian masterpiece indicates that the miraculous performance of the Kamoulianai Christ was heir to the tradition of its pagan predecessors. Like them it could perform miraculously in response to human needs and actions, dynamically representing the will and power of the god depicted. It is worth noting, moreover, that we first hear of images of Christ not fashioned by human hands in die sixth century, a relatively short time after the dissolution of the major cults of the ancient gods in the fifth century, and the official closure of the pagan philosophical schools in 529 C.E.

THE IMPERIAL IMAGE

 Similarly dynamic was the relationship between the person of the emperor, his image, and his subjects. In the absence of the emperor the homage and deference due to his person were rendered unto bis image, according to imperial protocol. His effigy thus actively substituted for the person of the emperor. The colossal statue of Constantine the Great in Rome is a good example of how this worked (Fig 1.1).

In the early fourth century it was placed in the apse of the basilica of Maxentius and Constantine, a gigantic public building (328 x 213 feet, or 100 x 65 m) erected in the Roman Forum between 306 and 337; it probably served as a court of law. The drapery covering Constantine’s body was of gilded bronze, while the unclothed pans of his body were of polished marble. The statue apparently continued the earlier tradition of gold and ivory statues that started with the cult images made by Pheidias and expanded in the Hellenistic period. The scale of Constantine’s statue was much larger than its predecessors— his face alone is nearly nine feet (2.6 m) high—but its polished marble and gilded bronze were effective reminders of the impressive tradition of ivory and gold statues on which it drew. The overwhelmingly imposing imperial image was therefore invested with the additional authority of this special statuary tradition.

Accordingly, in addition to serving as a reminder of his likeness Constantine’s portrait effectively substituted for his person. In the absence of the emperor, the statue of Constantine— like its distant predecessor, the cult statue of Zeus in Olympia—claimed the building that housed it as his own, and all that happened in it as addressed directly to him. The emperor’s image thus guaranteed the correct adjudication of all court proceedings, just as his presence in person would have done; the image replaced him in his role as the supreme judicial authority of the state.

The need for the presence of the imperial image in a court of law is similarly reflected in the Rossano Gospels, a manuscript that dates from the sixth century. Two of its miniatures illustrate Christ’s trial and include the imperial portraits that would have to be present in any court of law, including that of Pontius Pilate (Fig. 3.13). For the same reasons, imperial images were erected in marketplaces, theaters, and other public places, overseeing as the emperor would have the activities that took place therein. The use of the image as a substitute for the imperial presence was so deeply ingrained that protocol required city officials all over the empire to receive the advent of the emperor’s image with the same ceremonial honors that would have been accorded the actual person of the emperor. Thus the interrelationship of the imperial prototype represented, the image depicted, and the viewer who came into its presence was perceived as interactive and dialectic. The image of the emperor was empowered to embody his personal presence and authority as head of state.

The legend of the Kamoulianai icon of Christ, the fate of Pheidias’s statue of the Olympian Zeus, and the use of the Roman imperial image suggest that Byzantium inherited a long and living tradition that understood the role and potency of representational imagery differently from the way we do today. This tradition blurred the boundaries that define categories of visual representations. It also bridged the distinct and separate realities of the prototype, its image, and its beholder by weaving together the time and space that interrelates these three factors.

In Byzantium, a prototype that is already part of the past (e.g., Christ) may be transformed to an image that operates in the present (e.g., the Kamoulianai acheiropoietos), and thus contributes to the shaping of the future (e.g., by saving the besieged capital). So Constantinople may be saved through the invocation, imitation, and re-creation of Christ’s presence by means of his icon, which functions as a mediator and empowered reenactment of his live presence.

THE IMAGE AND THE VIEWER

 It is natural that, after the gradual acceptance in the fourth century of Christianity as the exclusive state religion, the only God of the empire would be legitimately represented in images invested with at least the same credentials and powers as those of his defeated pagan predecessors, or those of his imperial envoys on earth. And so, quite miraculously, images of Christ not made by human hand made their appearance sanctioned with the stamp of divine approval. These acheiropoieta, along with their faithful copies, vouched for Christ’s likeness and presence, and lent expression to his will and power as living images and reincarnations of his person.

However, not all Christian images could claim to be an achenopoieton or a copy of one. Most were produced by artists employing visual means that succeeded in bypassing the conventional boundaries separating the realities of the viewer, the representation, and the represented. Furthermore, the devices used enabled images to communicate both with their viewer and with each other. Through them the inert matter of the icons revealed and re-created the potential of die image, and its prototype, for action. It is therefore important to turn our attention to the various means used to express the response and interaction of icons.

One of the most striking means used to suggest the ability of images to communicate was to set them up so that they physically communicate with each other in an environment that bridges the space and time of the images and the beholder. For instance, in the sixth-century church of Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna, the enthroned Virgin on the left wall of the nave is flanked by four attending archangels while receiving the sumptuous gifts of the three Magi and a row of female saints-” Facing her, on the opposite side of the nave, the enthroned figure of Christ is receiving a row of male saints. The architectural setting of these two images across from each other in the nave, their identical hierarchical composition, in combination with their frontality and the intense gazes of the protagonists, enable the Virgin and Christ of Sant’ Apollniare Nuovo to address themselves directly and simultaneously to each other and to the viewer. In turn, the viewer has joined the procession of the female and male saints flanking him or her on the walls, and has slowly traversed the length of the nave. Having reached its end, he or she is now presenting himself to the enthroned Virgin and to Christ. They respond by turning their attention from the Magi and saints on the walls to the live beholder who has just arrived in their presence. The ensuing visual dialogue that joins Christ, the Virgin, and the viewer unifies the reality of the timeless celestial court and the faithful on earth, neutralizing the temporal space of the church and its transitory time frame.

The dialogue between the enthroned Virgin and the enthroned Christ in Sant Apollinare Nuovo is largely the result of the parallel setting of identical compositions across from each other in a unified, symmetrical architectural setting. No direct communication appears to transpire here between them. In other instances, however, the conversation between the two images also becomes direct. An example is offered by the icons on the templon of the church of Saint Neophytos near Paphos, Cyprus (Figs. 3.14—3.16).

The Virgin is depicted here in profile turning toward the icon of Christ, addressing him with hands raised imploringly. Her petition reaches the icon of Christ after traversing the “beautiful gate,” the door of the templon that connects the sanctuary with the main body of the church. In the process, the Virgin’s mediation embraces this important passageway and all that transpires there ceremonially during the performance of the liturgy. In this way the eternal petition of the Virgin and the temporal petition of the celebrant priests address Christ jointly.

Christ responds through his icon on the opposite side of the beautiful gate. His response is determined by his frontality and glance, which directly address the viewer. The message is reinforced by the invitation inscribed in his open book: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt- 11:28). It is sealed by the inscription identifying Christ’s portrait as “Jesus Chirst, the Philanthropist.” The combination confirms Christ’s favorable disposition toward the prayers that the officiating priest speaks directly into Christ’s right ear from the “beautiful gate.” and toward the petitions of the attendant icon of the Virgin, who ts appropriately identified at Saint Neophytos as “Mother of God, the Merciful.”

A chain of relatively simple artistic conventions links Christ, the Virgin, the clergy, and the faithful, and allows them to interact through their attitudes and words. The outcome is dependent upon interrelated formulas that combine spatial, diachronic, ceremonial, verbal, and visual components. Through diem, icons participate in the invocation and delivery of the desired results, lending material reality to the personal presence and involvement of Christ and the Virgin. They are thus transformed from passive to active components in the action that takes place within the space of the church, and the idle matter of the icon is transformed into a live participant in the service of church drama.

The pictorial formula represented by the portative icons of the Virgin and Christ on the templon of Saint Neophytos is both flexible and scaHe. It is, for instance, easily transferred to the piers framing the templon in the related Cypriot churches of the Virgin tou Arakos at Lagoudera and the Virgin Asinou (Figs. 3.17-3.20). In each case there are minor variations, for example in the choice of the texts and names inscribed. However, the message and the means of communicating it to the viewer remain stable. The wall paintings continue to express dynamically the good intentions of Christ and the Virgin toward the beholder. Their icons thus continue functioning as material representations and proofs of the benevolent disposition and magnanimity of their prototypes. At the same time they share the reality of their eternal time and space with the faithful, who are thereby offered an opportunity to face the divine and to partake of its holiness. Similarly, their pictorial formula maintains its identity and its effectiveness when it is miniaturized on smaller portable objects.

The same pictorial devices may be compacted within a single image, which may then appear in a variety of contexts. The boundaries of the various categories of objects and images, techniques, and media remain flexible and adjustable, while the identity, message, and direct communication between the viewer, the image, and the prototype remain stable. Thus, the image known as the Deesis (intercession) portrays within a single frame the twin petitions of the Virgin and John the Baptist to Christ on behalf of mankind. Its representation is equally appropriate as a wall mosaic, as in the south gallery of Hagia Sophia (Fig. 3.21); as a portable icon from Mount Sinai (Fig. 8.37); as an ivory triptych from Constantinople, now in the Louvre; or as a personal phylactery hung around its owner’s neck, such as the Martvili triptych in Tblisi, Georgia (Fig. 3.8).

The same is true of the Crucifixion. It appears on a multitude of personal phylacteries of various sizes, shapes, and materials, where it stands as a pictorial confession of faith in the Christological doctrine (Fig. 3.22a). It is also used on such liturgical objects as Gospel book covers and patens (Fig. 6.29), interrelating the pictorial representation of the Crucifixion and its liturgical reenactment, the Eucharist. In return this interrelation enriches the Crucifixion through the inclusion of specific references to the Eucharist. An early eighth-century icon from Mount Sinai emphasizes the arcing of two screams of water and blood from Christ’s side, alluding to and interpreting all at once the ceremonial admixture of wine and water in the eucharistic chalice (Fig. 3.23), while the mid-tenth-century Chemochmedi enamel from Georgia actually depicts the chalice collecting the flow from Christ’s side (Fig. 3.24). For a similar reason the Crucifixion is placed above the altar of the church, either as a panel icon painted directly on the wall, as in the Chapel of Theodotus in Santa Maria Antiqua (Fig. 3.10), or as a composition occupying the entire width of the apse, as in the New Tokali Kilise in Cappadocia, in Asia Minor (Fig. 3.25).

Thus, no matter where and when it was used, the standardized image of the Crucifixion successfully carries with it the messages accumulated through its multiple use as a confession of faith and as a reflection of the Eucharist. In all cases, the image interrelates the prototypical event (the historical Crucifixion), its numerous representations (visual, verbal, ceremonial), and the faithful, who as beholder, witness, and participant responds to its reenactment and re-creation. In the process, the pictorial representation—the icon— remains both constant and flexible in communicating the interrelation and interaction between the prototype, its representation, and the faithful. It witnesses and confirms the objective and multiple reality of the event it represents, and its effectiveness for the beholder.

Evidently, the Byzantine icon was not merely a visual reproduction and reminder of the events and persons depicted. Beyond that, it was their representation and reenactment, in accordance with and in continuation of a long-standing tradition that was still active in the sixth century when special miraculous icons, the acheiropoieta, made their first recorded appearance. These images, their copies, and their more distant successors did not passively record the events and persons depicted; they also represented the will and energy of their prototype, and were empowered to express these materially. Therefore, they were perceived as capable of establishing a live line of communication and action among the prototype, the icon, and the viewer. Through them the holiness of the prototype could be reached, embraced, and shared by the faithful who beseeched it and aspired to it. Icons thus became one of the most potent means of reaching out for holiness in the hope of becoming divinized by its presence and contact.

In the course of time the external appearance of icons often remained stable independent of the material, function, context, and other features that colored their individual interpretations. This was largely because icons continued to be perceived, like their acheiropoieta antecedents, as vouching for the absolute, uncompromised divine truth. Byzantium passionately sought to define this truth coherently and consistently through church doctrine. Moreover, it sought to make sure it was practiced by requiring that the faithful confess to this truth by unconditionally admitting to its reality through “the intellect, the mouth, the heart and the mind, in writing as well as in images.” Icons thus came to be official representatives and embodiments of the truth that once more made holiness, divinity, and eternity accessible to man. As such, they continue to operate to this day.

SOURCE: Anna Kartsoni, "The Responding Icon" in "Heaven on Earth: Art and the Church in Byzantium." Edited by Linda Safran (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998) 58 - 80.

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