From the little I've read or heard from Orthodox writers or speakers concerning Iconography, there's a popular sentiment that the 'carnal' 'realism' of 'Western' art is either spiritually deficient or reflective of 'Western' rationalism and scholasticism. "Redefining the Icon" by Evan Freeman challenges these presuppositions and suggests that reading icons or any sacred art in this way is subtly docetist.
But does style affect theology or is content the defining factor? How does this apply to the maxim of lex orandi est lex credendi? What about musical styles if we look at hymnography and hymnology? Does this redefining of the icon impact other aspects of our liturgical life?
Still, it is good to see this kind of historical reflection and critical research coming from within the Orthodox world, which challenges us not to package our theology or to claim an unequivocal 'perspective' when there's still so much to encounter and live in the depth and width and height of the Holy Church...the Life in Christ.
Forgive me and pray for me a sinner.
Here is the post included for reference:
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Redefining the Icon:
The Problem of Innovation in the Writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou
by Evan Freeman
Source Document is Master’s Paper Submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements of Master of Divinity in St Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary, Crestwood, New York, May 2009
The following extract is intended for reference only. Copyright belongs to the Author, Evan Freeman.
Abstract
The early twentieth century saw both a “revival” of stylistically “traditional” iconography, as well as the emergence of a new genre of theological writings about this “traditional” iconography. In their iconological writings, Pavel Florensky, Leonid Ouspensky, and Fotis Kontoglou, all define icons in terms of style. Furthermore, by identifying a primary theological locus of the icon with the style of the icon, these writers condemn stylistic innovation as a theological departure from orthodox Christianity. To this day, the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou continue to have “canonical” status among most Orthodox Christians.
In this paper, I intend to provide a hermeneutic analysis of the concept of iconographic “innovation” in the iconographic writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou. Additionally, I intend to examine the historical/cultural context from which these twentieth century iconologists emerge and write these texts. Ultimately, I intend to demonstrate that the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou, which define icons based on style and reject all iconographic innovation, are at odds with the long history of iconography in the Church, and do not provide an authentic view from or about Orthodox Christian Tradition.
Introduction
The early twentieth century saw increasing interest in stylistically “traditional” iconography. This included more than a new approach to painting icons which rejected the naturalism found in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, replacing it with “revivalist” imitations of Late- and Post-Byzantine and fourteenth- through midsixteenth- century Russian styles (e.g. the icons of Fotis Kontoglou, Leonid Ouspensky, and Georgii Krug, among others). Traditionalism was also new because – for the first time in Orthodox iconology – its stylistic development was ideologically justified. leading to a new genre of theological writings about “traditional” Orthodox iconography.
Twentieth-century “iconologists” like Pavel Florensky, Leonid Ouspensky, and Fotis Kontoglou sought to explain the stylistic revivalism in “traditional” icons from the perspective of Orthodox Christian Tradition. In his essay. “Iconography.” Kontoglou acknowledged the new interest in “traditional” iconography:
Byzantine an is becoming in our time truly an art of the whole world. Many archaeologists and artists from all the nations are hastening to drink of this immortal water: numerous books about it are being printed: and various nations are attempting to present it as their own heritage.
Likewise in the introduction to his two-volume work. Theology of the Icon. Ouspensky noted that icons had already been studied by scholars “from the historical, aesthetic. sociological, and archaeological points of view.” and proposed to examine icons from a different perspective: “What does the Church itself think of the art which it has created? What are its teachings on this subject?” The views of this school of thought have spread far beyond the “Orthodox countries” because a significant number of books and articles written by these twentieth-century writers have been published in English. Indeed, among the English-reading public the views of these writers, especially Ouspensky, have taken on a new “canonical’’ status.
In their writings. Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou define Orthodox icons primarily in terms of adherence to certain historical stylistic conventions, using style as the primary criterion for differentiating between Orthodox “icons” and “secular” art. All three of these writers assume that the non-naturalistic style of Byzantine and Russian icons is a primary locus of the theological content of the icon. Consequently, most of their theological interpretations of icons are actually mystagogical interpretations of the stylistic characteristics of Byzantine and Russian icons.
As a result of the wide acceptance of their views, many Orthodox Christians still define icons based on style and consider stylistic innovation in Orthodox iconography as a heterodox departure from tradition. Consequently, the Orthodoxy of other forms of iconographic innovation (e.g. compositional innovation, programmatic innovation, theological innovation, etc.), though rarely discussed, is often regarded with skepticism as well.
Methodological Problems
The iconological writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou present a number of methodological problems. These problems emerge not only in the terms and contents of their writings. but even more fundamentally in their historical research and analysis of Orthodox icons. In particular, three major methodological problems can be observed in the research and writings of all three of the iconologists in question. These include generalizations when speaking about icons, inadequate evidence, and ambiguity of terminology.
Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou speak about icons using broad generalizations. They seem to assume that there are a limited number of stylistic, compositional, and programmatic rules that all icons obey. We see this problem when Florensky speaks about the lack of shadows in icons. “In iconpainting. shadows have no place. The iconpainter never enters into an affair with darkness and so he never creates shadows in the icon.” Laying aside the question of the dubious historical accuracy of this statement for now, we may simply note the many methodological problems that these two sentences raise. In this case. Florensky makes broad generalizations about “the icon,” “iconpainting.” and “the iconpainter” without defining what he means by any of these terms. He does not speak about one particular icon, the icons of any particular painter, or the icons of a specific school, region, or period. Without such specificity, the reader has no choice but to assume that Florensky is speaking about all icons ever painted at any place or time. Yet even this assumption raises further questions – what works of art should be considered icons? Where is the line that separates icons from other works of art? Even if Florensky means to speak generally about all icons from every time and place, it is not dear to the reader which objects of art should be included in this broad category. This methodological problem is not limited to the writings of Florensky. One finds an abundance of similar generalizations throughout the writings of Ouspensky and Kontoglou as well.
A second recurring methodological problem with the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou is a consistent lack of evidence to support their many assertions about icons. In Ouspensky’s Theology of the Icon, the inadequacy of evidence often takes the form of unsupported historical statements. For example, Ouspensky asserts that “the Orthodox Church has never accepted the painting of icons according to the imagination of the painter or from a living model.” Ouspensky does not cite any historical evidence, either in a footnote or in the text itself, to support this claim, a claim that icons themselves seem to contradict.” While Ouspensky makes many such unsupported historical assertions, he also presents a number of teachings about icons themselves, which are rarely supported by actual iconographic examples. For example, Ouspensky claims that “an icon is never signed.” a statement which is wildly false in the long history of icon-painting. Here again, we have the same problem of reference as we did with Florensky’s statement about icons never displaying shadows. What icon or icons is Ouspensky actually talking about when he says “an icon is never signed?” A lack of footnotes or specific iconographic examples leaves the reader questioning Ouspensky’s unwritten assumptions.
Like Ouspensky, Florensky also makes assertions about icons without providing adequate evidence. For example, Florensky asserts that “In the depths of Christian antiquity there is rooted the understanding that the icon is something not subject to arbitrary change…” without citing any historical, textual, or iconographic evidence to support this broad statement. Likewise, Kontoglou’s assertions, especially those referring to his idealized perception of Byzantium, are rarely supported with adequate historical or iconographic evidence. For example. Kontoglou states that “Byzantine iconographcrs painted with humility, without any endeavor to astonish and make an impression. They painted as they prayed.” This generalization about the artists from a past era is not supported with any historical evidence whatsoever. With such lack of support for (his statement, the reader is asked to accept the unlikely proposition that Kontoglou knows the mental state of all Byzantine iconographers. While there is a lack of concrete evidence throughout the arguments of these three writers, particularly when they make historical claims, the lack of iconographic evidence in these writings about icons in particular poses the most serious questions about methodology. One may be shocked to find that the few iconographic images in Ouspensky’s Theology’ of the Icon bear little or no connection to the text, but seem to be included for simply decorative purposes.
Finally, Florensky, Ouspensky, and especially Kontoglou repeatedly use ambiguous and imprecise language in their writings without defining their terms. Kontoglou’s writings are the most egregious in this regard: “The most profound kind of painting is religious painting, and the most profound kind of religious painting is Byzantine, because it is more spiritual, because it has truer roots, the Gospels.” What does Kontoglou mean here by “profound.” “religious,” “spiritual,” and “truer?” He does not say. We see another example of such overly-generalized language when Kontoglou asserts:
A good painting is not good because it has anatomy and perspective, but because it is a good painting. A work may look natural and for that very reason not be good. The hands and feet of a saint may appear to some as simply unnatural, crooked, and yet they may be truer and more expressive than those made by Raphael, because they have a certain inspiration that one cannot infuse into one’s work if one works from living models, without also experiencing other things, deeper than anatomy. Truth in painting is deeper than proportion and naturalness.
What does Kontoglou mean here by “good,” “anatomy,” “perspective,” “unnatural,” “truer,” “expressive,” “inspiration,” “experiencing other things ” “deeper,” and “truth?” How one understands these words is essential for understanding Kontoglou’s precise meaning; unfortunately, these words are never defined for us.
Ouspensky, too, uses undefined terminology: “It was indeed given to Russia to produce that perfection of the pictorial language of the icon, which revealed with such great force the depth of meaning of the liturgical image, its spirituality.” What does Ouspensky mean by “perfection of the pictorial language of the icon,” “depth of meaning,” and “spirituality?” Ouspensky speaks of the “language” of icons elsewhere, yet he never actually explains what he means when he applies the word “language” to icons, nor does he explain how this “ language” works.
Of these three writers, Florensky is the most careful and precise with his words. Yet at times, even Florensky’s language becomes imprecise: “In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, Russian iconpainting had reached a height of perfection without parallel in the whole history of world art – a pinnacle shared, perhaps, only by classical Greek sculpture.. What does Florensky mean by “a height of perfection,” and in what way is he comparing Russian icons from this period with “the whole of world art?””’
Why Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou?
Given the prevelance of these methodological problems in the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou, one might ask why it is worthwhile to study these writings. Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou wrote about icons in the twentieth century while a great revival in the production and demand for stylistically “traditional” icons was taking place, in fact, a relationship may be observed between the increased production of “traditional” icons (and icon copies) and the publication of these classic books – and the host of derivative epigone books that derive from them – about these “traditional” icons. The writings of these twentieth century iconologists have become the standard Orthodox texts on icons in the twentieth century and continue their prominence in the field today. Demand for Leonid Ouspensky’s widely-read book The Theology of the Icon (the first volume written in 1960 and translated from the French into English in 1978) has prompted St Vladimir’s Seminary Press to reprint the two-volume work as recently as January 2008. This wide interest in the subject of iconology went hand-in-hand with a fascination with traditional orthodox icons themselves. The twentieth century saw’ a renewed interest in these “traditional” icons, not only among Orthodox Christians, but also among Roman Catholics, Protestants, non-iconographic artists, art historians, art museum curators, and private art collectors – a historical phenomenon that deserves further attention, but for which there is not enough space to be adequately considered in this paper.
Thus, the question is not whether these writings are worth examining. The fact is that these writings have become authoritative texts for Orthodox Christians concerning Orthodox icons; thus, they demand our attention. A more pertinent and pointed question is; why have the iconographic writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou been so widely accepted as definitive and authoritative? We shall see the answer to this question has to do with a tack of Orthodox writings on iconography, as welt as the way that Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou presented their theological assertions about icons.
Perhaps surprisingly, Orthodox writings about icons themselves are fairly limited. The flood of theological texts in the eighth and ninth centuries primarily addressed the validity of using images, rather than about the iconology of the objects themselves. The iconoclast controversy prompted discussion concerning the permissibility of icons and their use in Christian worship. The writings of St John of Damascus, St Theodore the Studite, and the dogmatic pronouncements of the Seventh Ecumenical Council all seek to address this problem. Yet these texts were primarily concerned with questions of the permissibility of displaying icons in churches and the veneration of icons by Christians: they provide little in terms of theological expositions of icons, explanations about how icons work or how icons are to be made (in terms of style or otherwise).
Virtually no in-depth attempts were made to study, define, or exegete the theological meaning of icons from the time of the iconoclast controversy to the twentieth century. The Seventh Ecumenical Council, the Council of Trullo. and the Stoglav Sobor are often cited for their canons relating to icons. Yet those canons do not address the theology, style, or iconographic innovation in any depth. For example, Trullo 82 forbids the symbolic representation of Christ as a lamb, and the Stoglav Sobor declared in general terms and without any elaboration that painters should paint icons according to “the established model’” and “as the Greeks painted them, as Andrei Rublev and other renowned painters made them,” yet these councils are virtually silent about iconographic innovation or style, as well as the theology of icons.
Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou represent reflection on icons that has arisen from within the Church. They seek to explain and define icons not as mere aesthetic, archaeological objects, as art historians have often understood them, but as objects of continued theological and pastoral importance for Christians. At the beginning of his Theology of the Icon, Ouspensky expresses his intention to reveal the “essence” of icons, and to answer the question: “What does the Church itself think of the art which it has created?” This approach led the writers to give theological might to stylistic features that art historians had formerly noticed only for reasons of connoisseurship.
By defining “icons” in stylistic terms and in contrast with the naturalism of the Italian Renaissance and the direction of Western art that followed. Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou lend their voices to the existing anti-Western polemic popular among many Eastern Orthodox writers of the twentieth century. Furthermore, Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou all seem to be influenced by twentieth-century nationalism – Florensky and Ouspensky boast that Russia produced the best of all Orthodox icons, white Kontoglou makes similar claims for Greece.
Finally, while seeking to distance themselves from modern Western art historians, Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou actually share many of the presuppositions of Western art history and ultimately evaluate Orthodox icons with essentially the same criterion central in Western art history of their day, namely style. In their approach, this frequently takes the form of contrasting the non-naturalistic style in traditional icons with the naturalistic style in Western European art beginning with the Renaissance. They equate non-naturalism in icons with spirituality, while naturalism is equated with carnality. Yet, this too is a concept borrowed from twentieth-century Western art historians like Wilhelm Worringer.
Interestingly, little work has been done to analyze the writings of these twentieth century iconologists that have played such a significant role in forming the current Orthodox understanding of icons. Subsequent iconological texts have often simply rephrased what these iconologists have already said. So a question that begs to be answered is: How and why do twentieth-century traditionalist iconologists define authentic orthodox iconography in stylistic terms, rejecting all iconographic innovation that differs from Late/Post-Byzantine or fourteenth- to mid-sixteenth-century Russian icons?
In this paper, I intend to provide a hermeneutic analysis of the concept of iconographic ‘innovation’ in three texts written by Pavel Florensky, Leonid Ouspensky, and Fotis Kontoglou. How do these iconologists understand and speak about iconographic innovation? Additionally, I intend to examine the historical/cultural context from which these twentieth-century iconologists emerge and write these texts. I hope to demonstrate not only how these iconologists speak of iconographic innovation, but also why they speak of innovation the way that they do. Ultimately. I intend to conclude that while Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou helped to initiate a meaningful theological dialogue about icons within the Orthodox Church in the twentieth century. their narrow definition of icons based on style, which leads them to reject all iconographic innovation, is at odds with the long history of iconography in the Church, and cannot be considered as an authentic view from or about the Orthodox Christian tradition.
Chapter One
Pavel Florensky
Pavel Florensky (1882-1937) was born into an educated family in Evlakh, Azerbaijan. He attended the Second Classical Gymnasium in Tiflis between 1892 and 1900, “where he received the traditional grounding in languages, literature, and the sciences,” and graduated with highest honors. Florensky experienced a personal spiritual crisis in 1899 – the empirical sciences, in Florensky’s view, “lost their capacity to explain the world’ – and Florensky embraced Orthodox Christianity with what his family regarded as a “very radical conversion.” Florensky enrolled in the Department of Physics and Mathematics at Moscow University, where he “met a number of idealist and Orthodox philosophers, including El’chaninov and Ern (his old classmates from Tiflis) and especially Sergei Troitsky…” During this time Florensky was influenced by modern ideas about an and aesthetics, joining and meeting regularly with a group of Symbolists: “At this time Florensky was much influenced by the eschatological beliefs and philosophical constructs of Vladimir Soloviev and other cultural heroes of the time, such as Nictzche and Wagner. Myth and primitive culture, the correlation between good and evil. Gesamtkumtwerk and similar concepts were the subjects of long and ardent discussion among the Symbolists…” Florensky was a prolific writer and lecturer; he wrote Iconostasis even after the repressive Soviet state forbade him to publish any new works.
In his writings, Florensky presents icons as windows into a spiritual realm. They represent the spiritual truths perceived by those who have ascended into the heavenly realm. Yet in his view, to succeed in these objectives, icons must be produced according to narrow criteria involving materials and technique, but most importantly, style, specifically that of fourteenth- to mid-sixteenth-century Russia. Florensky rejects most religious art after that of mid-sixteenth-century Russia on the basis of innovations in style, materials, and technique. Because Florensky defines icons as windows into a spiritual realm and believes that the theological content and significance of icons is found in specific materials, techniques, and styles, he rejects any innovation that departs from the icons of fourteenth, fifteenth or early-sixteenth-century Russia.
Florensky begins Iconostasis by asserting the existence of two distinct realms: the material realm that human beings inhabit and a spiritual or heavenly realm. He asserts (hat when one sleeps and dreams, these two worlds intersect. “A dream, then, is a sign of a movement between two realms – and also a symbol: of what? From the heavenly view, the dream symbolizes earth: from the earthly perspective, it symbolizes heaven.” Influenced by Symbolism, Florensky explains that art is created in a similar manner when the artist ascends to the spiritual realm, beholds the spiritual realities, and then, descending back into the material realm, fixes these realities in a material image, “in creating a work of art, the psyche or soul of the artist ascends from the earthly realm into the heavenly; there, free from all images, the soul is fed in contemplation by the essences of the highest realm, knowing the permanent noumena of things; then, satiated with this knowing, it descends again to the earthly realm.. .” Applying this Symbolist understanding of art to Orthodox icons, Florensky asserts that icons function as windows between the earthly and spiritual realm. “The wall that separates two worlds is an iconostasis. One might mean by the iconostasis the boards or the bricks or the stones. In actuality, the iconostasis is a boundary between the visible and invisible worlds… Iconostasis is vision … Iconostasis is the saints themselves..” For Florensky, when one looks at icons, one is able to see a mystical vision of the spiritual realm.
Because icons reveal the spiritual realities encountered in the mystical ascent into the heavenly realm, iconographic innovation is considerably restricted. Florensky tells us: “In the depths of Christian antiquity there is rooted the understanding that the icon is something not subject to arbitrary change …” Indeed, Florensky asserts that the creation and composition of icons is not to be carried out by artists, but only by the “Holy Fathers ” a rule that he attributes to the resolutions of the Seventh Ecumenical Council. “To the Fathers belong the integral right of composition (diastasis) while to the artists belongs only its fulfillment in the technique (tekhni).” If the composition of new icons is permitted, it may only be carried out by Holy Fathers who have mystically ascended and perceived the spiritual truths of the heavenly realm.
Conversely, any artistic divergence from these traditional compositions of the Holy Fathers, or even from traditional styles, only represents an ignorance of the spiritual reality and prevents icons from functioning a s windows into the spiritual realm. “When contemporary artists look about for human models in order to paint sacred images, then they are already proving that they do not clearly see the sacred person their imagery depicts; for if they did, then every alien image from the earthly world would be for them a hindrance and not a help to spiritual contemplation.” Here Florensky rejects not only compositional innovation, but stylistic innovation, by referring to a m ore naturalistic representation of the Virgin based on human models. To use another woman as a model for a painting of the Virgin is, for Florensky, a contradiction. To paint an image of the Virgin based on a human model is to fail to represent the Virgin who dwells in the heavenly realm.
Indeed, for Florensky stylistic innovation is deeply problematic. He even speaks of a particular icon painted by an artist “ badly infected with the disease of naturalism.” Furthermore, Florensky even wrote an essay entirely devoted to condemning naturalistic art on the basis that it is deceitful. As we have previously noted with Florensky’s condemnation of the use of human models as the basis for painting icons, the problem with naturalism is that it does not refer to the spiritual realm. For Florensky, it is impossible to reveal spiritual truths through a naturalistic style.
Instead, Florensky seems to suggest that icons must be painted in the style of icons painted in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Russia if they are to reveal the spiritual truths of the heavenly realm. “…In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, Russian iconpainting had reached a height of perfection without parallel in the whole history of world art—a pinnacle shared, perhaps, only by classical Greek sculpture..” What is it that makes Russian art from this period so successful? Florensky does not say. Yet it is clear that while fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Russian icons are capable of representing the spiritual truths of the heavenly realm, stylistic innovation after this period, particularly in the case of more naturalistic styles, is incapable of representing the spiritual truths, in Florensky’s view.
Further, Florensky rejects iconographic innovation when it involves new media or techniques. Despite the fact that history reveals icons created in nearly every artistic medium available to iconographic craftsmen in given historical periods. Florensky firmly asserts materials and technique as part of the criteria for what makes an icon an icon, “it is impossible, then, to conceive even as a purely esthetic experiment an icon composed in an alien technique with alien materials: it could not possibly be an icon.” And while Byzantine and Russian iconographers created icons out of mosaics and micro mosaics, carved sculpture in a variety of media including various metals and alloys, frescoes, tapestry, cloisonne enamel, wax encaustic, and egg tempera on wood panel – seemingly any artistic medium at hand – the only media that Florensky specifically condemns are oil paints and stretched canvases, a very specific and pointed attack on the sacred art of the West. Florensky even goes so far as to compare the use of oil on canvas with what he views as the problematic use of the pipe organ in Western Christian liturgical practice.
By specifying the qualities that icons do not exhibit, Florensky defines authentic Orthodox iconography primarily in negative terms. For him, if nothing else, Orthodox iconography is obliged to be non-Western, produced according to the technique and style that is distinctively not influenced by the Italian Renaissance. No doubt Florensky is at least partly reacting against the Western art world’s long dismissal of the sacred art of Byzantium and Russia in favor of the art of the West beginning with the Gionism that began the Italian Renaissance. “Florensky seems to be casting aspersions on his Symbolist colleagues when he mentions that in the recent past aesthetes had pooh-poohed the Russian icon, whereas now they had opened their eyes to the purpose and meaning of religious art…” So for Florensky, icons must be specifically non-Western in style, medium, and technique in order to reveal spiritual truth. Innovations in style, media, or technique, namely those that emerged in the Italian Renaissance, are not acceptable in Orthodox icons.
In part Florensky’s rejection of stylistic innovation can be attributed to the theological value that he places on style. Much of Florensky’s theological analysis of icons is a mystagogical interpretation of the style characteristic of icons from fourteenth and fifteenth-century Russia. An excellent example of this is Florensky’s explanation of the use of light in icons. Presumably based on his observation of Russian icons (though Florensky rarely cites specific icons in Iconostasis), Florensky believes no light source and therefore no shadows exist within icons. “…In iconpainting. shadows have no place. The iconpainter never enters into an affair with darkness and so he never creates shadows in the icon.” Later, Florensky asserts, “Iconpainting depicts objects as forms created by light rather than as things lit by a light-source.” In fact, these are inaccurate observations. Even the Rublev Trinity (Appendix Image 1), which Florensky loved so dearly, clearly makes use of a light source and shadows. This clement can be seen in the highlights on clothing, the table, the faces, and the architecture, as well as in the shadows on clothing, the table and chairs, the faces, and the architecture and windows. Yet one can see why Florensky has made this mistake: there is no doubt that the light depicted in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Russian icons is extremely diffuse, the opposite of the high-contrast lighting in the icons of the Cretan School. And considering that Florensky views this diffuse lighting as theologically significant (perhaps suggesting a parallel between the use of light in icons and the language of “light” and “darkness” in the Gospel of John), it is logical to conclude that for him, stylistic innovation is problematic, since it implies a change not only in the outward appearance of the icon, but in the theological truth that the outward appearance presents.
Chapter Two
Leonid Ouspensky
Leonid Ouspensky (1902-1987) was born in Golaia Snova (now Golosnovka) in Che Voronezh region of Russia. He attended the Zadonski Gymnasium until 1918, at which point he enlisted and fought for the Red Army. In 1926 he traveled to France to work in a foundry. After being injured in the foundry, he enrolled in the newly opened Academy of Arts in Paris. “In 1929, on the initiative of Tatiana Lvovna Sukhotine Tolstoi, an Academy of Arts was opened in Paris, at which many well-known artists taught. Ouspensky enrolled. Until that point his love for painting had found its sole expression in his meticulous copying of post cards with flowers.” Later, after “a growing, serious interest in the icon, he came to a genuine faith and returned to the Church.” at which point he decided to stop painting secular art in order to devote himself exclusively to icon-painting.” Ouspensky was joined by his friend and fellow painter Georgii Krug, and began taking lessons from the Russian icon-painter Fyodorov. Ouspensky met Vladimir Lossky when he joined the “Association of Orthodox theologians, intellectuals, and artists in Paris known as the ‘Stavropcgial Brotherhood of St Phonos.” In 1948, Ouspensky published a pamphlet in French titled, “L’Icone, Vision du Monde Spirituel.” In 1952, Ouspensky wrote The Meaning of Icons with Lossky, which was published in Switzerland in both German and English. Ouspensky published the first volume of Theology of the Icon in 1960 in French. This was translated into English in 1978. The revised, two-volume version of Theology of the Icon was published in French in 1980, and was published in English by St Vladimir’s Seminary Press in 1992.
While Florensky’s writings are theological and even philosophical in their approach, Ouspensky takes a more historical approach to explaining the theology of icons. In the two-volume Theology of the Icons, Ouspensky traces the historical development of icon-painting, paying special attention to councils and dogmatic formulations related to the holy images. Yet, like Florensky, Oupsensky defines and judges icons based on the style and compositional conventions of the icons of fourteenth through mid-sixteenth-century Russia. And as with Florensky, Ouspensky assumes that the stylization of this period is commensurate with, and meant to communicate, the spirituality and theology of the icon. Likewise, Ouspensky discards icons that are not painted according to this style, even including Late-Byzantine icons, which he believes are corrupted by the naturalism of classical art. Although Ouspensky denies that he is advocating mere copying in the continued production of Orthodox icons, this is in fact precisely what he envisions: imitation without any compositional or stylistic deviation from the icons of fourteenth to mid-sixteenth-century Russia.
The purpose of the Theology of the Icon, as Ouspensky himself states in the introduction, is not to examine the sacred art of the Orthodox Church from historical, aesthetic, sociological, theological, or philosophical perspectives: these, he explains, “represent only its external side and are not concerned with its very essence, that is, that which this an conveys.” Instead, Ouspensky seeks to answer the question, “What does the Church itself think of the art which it has created?” Yet, Ouspensky approaches this question primarily through an examination of the historical development of icon-painting and the doctrines of the Church.
Not unlike the Western art historians who are his contemporaries, Ouspensky views the history of icon-painting in linear terms. Beginning with the earliest-known paintings in the catacombs, his record of Christian art progressively develops until it reached its height in the Russian icons of the fourteenth, fifteenth, and mid-sixteenth century. Despite Ouspensky’s prophctic words, “The plague of our time is aestheticism. This is the dictatorship of “taste” he himself declares that “the XIVth, XVth, and the first half of the XVIth centuries represent the finest flowering of Russian iconography which coincides with the finest flowering of Russian sainthood, namely that of the ascetic type…” His statement commands the aesthetics of a particular time and period and is seemingly predicated entirely on the grounds of taste.
Ouspensky perceives a direct correlation between sanctity and iconographic style. Speaking about fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia, Ouspensky states: “It is precisely at this time (hat the pictorial language of sacred art attained its highest expression; it is noted for its expressive form, its freedom and spontaneity, its purify of tone, its intense and joyful colors.” Ouspensky speaks frequently of the visual “language of icons” through which icons communicate theological truths, and elsewhere refers to icons as “liturgical” art. Yet here he identifies the height of iconographic development not with the communication of theological truths or liturgical function, but entirely in terms of color and style. While Ouspensky begins Ideology of the Icon by rejecting the historical and aesthetic approach to analyzing Orthodox icons, his writings reflect a historical approach to the study of icons, and his preference for the icons of fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia are based on his preference for the aesthetic of this particular period.
While on the one hand, Ouspensky asserts that icons transcend regional differences, he also asserts the superiority of the style and colors of the icons of fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia over all other iconographic styles. While Ouspensky acknowledges that “with the exception of certain details, national differences are not reflected in the character of sacred art.” He elsewhere slates, “the expression of the inner harmony of man reconciled with God, with self and with the world, reached its highest perfection in Russian art.” Why does Ouspensky make this assertion? What is it that Ouspensky views as superior in Russian icons? We see the answer to these questions in Ouspensky’s comparison of Byzantine and Russian icons: ‘The art of Byzantium, ascetic and stem, solemn and refined, does not always reach the spiritual height and purity characteristic of the general level of Russian iconography… We often meet with… traces of antique art and dependence on matter, both in Byzantine and in subsequent Greek icons.”” In contrast with his description of what he perceives to be classically influenced Byzantine icons, Ouspensky presents the pure spirituality of Russian icons: “On the other hand Russia, which was not bound by the complex inheritance of antiquity… attained to an exceptionally high level and purity of image… It was indeed given to Russia to produce that perfection of the pictorial language of the icon, which revealed with such great force the depth of meaning of the liturgical image, its spirituality.” Ouspensky thus differentiates Byzantine and Russian icons on the basis of stylistic inheritance. While for him, Byzantine and Post-Byzantine iconography has been corrupted by the antique art that preceded it, Russian iconography was able to break free from the influence of this material art in order to represent the spiritual truths of Christianity in a pure form.
For Ouspensky, that which makes Russian icons superior to Byzantine Greek icons is precisely this spiritualized style; “The icon transmits not the everyday, banal face of man, but his glorious and eternal face… The icon is the image of the man in whom the grace which consumes passions and which sanctifies everything is truly present. This is why his flesh is represented completely differently from ordinary corruptible flesh.” Ouspensky is not alone in recognizing this spiritualizing tendency in Russian iconpainting. Christos Yannaras notes that in Russian iconography.
Formalization replaces faithfulness to nature, and tends to aid the impression that nature is spiritualized and dematerialized. The folds in the clothing do not correspond to a real body underneath, and the positions and movements of the bodies are not natural… This distinction makes Russian iconography more easily accessible to modern western man; it corresponds to the way the European, through his own tradition, understands abstraction as a way of making things spiritual and non-material. Nor is this attitude unrelated to other peculiar features of Russian church life and theology, such as the baroque style which prevailed in Russian church architecture, the way liturgical music was taken over wholesale by the anthropocentric sentimentality of western ‘harmony.’ or the ‘sophiologieal’ tendencies of Russian theology, so akin to western mysticism.
For Ouspensky, the quality of holiness that icons communicate is not a quality that can be seen in a human. If is invisible, “In real life, if we happen to meet a saint, we do not actually see his holiness… Consequently, we cannot represent this holiness, which we do not see; it cannot be portrayed by word, by image, or by any human means. In the icon, it can only be portrayed with the help of forms, colors, and symbolical lines.” In this regard, Ouspensky reveals his debt to the Symbolist writings of Florensky. Like Florensky, Ouspensky believes that icons symbolically represent invisible spiritual truths, a theologically problematic idea to which we shall return later.
We see here a concept that is fundamental to Ouspensky’s understanding of icons, namely the association of the stylization of the figure with spirituality. While Ouspensky claims this principle for traditional icons, and pits it against the naturalism of the West, this idea is in fact both modern and Western. In his article “Medieval Art without Style? Plato’s Loophole and a modern Detour,” James Trilling demonstrates that the equation of abstraction and spirituality, “Widely assumed to derive from Christian Neoplatonism… is in fact modern. It is rooted in Shopenhauer’s idiosyncratic interpretation of the Platonic Ideas, as elaborated by Wilhelm Worringer in Abstraction amd Empathy (1908).” While it is known that Worringer’s thesis influenced the writings of Florensky, it would seem that this work had an effect on Ouspensky as well (whether he knew it or not). We see this again when Ouspensky explains the iconographic depiction of the human face: “Corresponding with this state of the saint, his whole image in the icon, his face and other details, all lose the sensory aspect of corruptible flesh and become spiritualized… If this language of icons has become unfamiliar to us and seems ‘naive’ and ‘primitive’, the reason is not that the icon has outlived or lost its vital power and significance…” So we see that despite Ouspensky’s desire to distance himself from the “aestheticism” of the modern art world of the West, his writings about Orthodox icons rely heavily on the presuppositions and criteria of modern Western art history.
Just as Ouspensky identifies the height of sacred art with fourteenth through midsixteenth- century Russia on the basis of a spiritualized style, so he notes a decline in Russian iconography from the middle of the sixteenth century onward. This decline is associated with what Ouspensky perceives to be a spiritual decay during this same period in Russia. Yet the decline in iconography is described in stylistic terms and is ultimately identified with the adoption of a more naturalistic style. In the second half of the sixteenth century, “The majestic simplicity and classical moderation, which had endured through centuries, began to totter… The broad planes and the monumental feeling of the image, the classical rhythm and the antique purity and strength of color also disappear. There appears a desire for complexity, virtuosity and abundance of details. . .” Here Ouspensky seems to liken the stylistic innovation of the mid-sixteenth-century with the decay of classical civilization. Ouspensky believes that the icons are the outward signs that reveal the invisible spiritual decay of this period. “In the XVIIth century the decline of Church art sets in. This decline was the result of a deep spiritual crisis, a secularization of religious consciousness, thanks to which, despite the vigorous opposition of the Church, there began the penetration not merely of separate elements but of the very principles of Western religious art, which are alien to Orthodoxy… what is realism in secular art becomes idealism when applied to Church art.” Ouspensky even goes so far as to link the stylistic innovation of this period with the decline of hesychasm. “The period that followed Rublev already witnessed a gradual disappearance of the meaning of the spiritual basis of the image. The hesychasm spirit weakened, spiritual development declined.” Here we see the apparent correlation that Ouspensky sees between hesychasm and the spiritual meaning of icons. Ouspensky even suggests a correlation between the more mystical spirituality of hesychasm and the spiritualized style of icons from fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia on the one hand and similarly. between the spirituality focused on social justice with the stylistic innovation of the second half of the sixteenth century:
In Russia, in the period under scrutiny, hesychasm gradually ceased to play a leading role. In the spiritual life, he trend headed by St Joseph of Volokolamsk achieved dominance. Though a hesychast himself, St Joseph accorded great importance to outward asceticism and to intense activity, whereby prayer became subordinate to social service. For his followers and successors, it was education that occupied the first place. The spiritual life dwindled and grew more narrow; it was oriented above all to the external. Parallel with the orientation of spirituality in the direction of the ritualized, strictly regulated piety, the same, formalistic orientation is found in art. The dogmatic content of the image begins to lose its predominant significance, and is not always understood to be its very basis.
For Ouspensky, this “external” spirituality and the more naturalistic iconographic style that emerged during this period exemplifies spiritual decay and its spoiled fruits, which include iconographic innovation.
Consistent with Florensky, Ouspensky argues that iconographic innovation is only allowable when one attains new spiritual knowledge through mystical experience. “…An icon cannot be invented. Only those who know from personal experience the state it portrays can create images corresponding to it… men who have attained to direct knowledge of God and communion with Him and who have therefore been glorified by the Church as saint-iconographers…. Therefore the Church has repeatedly emphasized the necessity to follow the Tradition.” Thus creativity in stylistic or compositional innovation is strictly forbidden by Ouspensky. New icons could only be authentically created through the revelation of a new spiritual reality. In other words, a new icon should only emerge if it has been divinely revealed.
Yet despite all indications that Ouspensky is arguing against any kind of iconological innovation that departs in style or composition from the iconographic conventions of fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia and perhaps even for the outright copying of Russian icons from this period, Ouspensky claims that “Iconography, therefore, is not copying” Yet his only proof of this is that “the absence of identical icons has been noted long ago… Icons are not copied but are painted from, which means their free creative transposition.” Ouspensky defends against the accusation that he is advocating for mere copying by pointing out that it is ultimately impossible to paint a perfect copy of another icon. There will always be small differences. Yet this means that the iconographer is never free to innovate stylistically, compositionally, programmatically, etc.. unless he or she has mystically received the revelation of a new icon. He or she must make every effort to copy icons from fourteenth-, fifteenth-, or early-sixteenth-century Russia. The only proof that the iconographer is not copying is his or her inability to make a perfect copy.
Chapter Three
Fotis Kontoglou
Fotis Kontoglou (1895-1965) was born in Ayvalik (Aivali / Kydonies) in Asia Minor. He enrolled at the high school in Aivali in 1906 and began studying at the Athens School of Fine Art in 1913. During World War I, Kontoglou travelled to Western Europe and eventually settled in Paris, where he worked as an illustrator.’ At the end of World War I, Kontoglou returned to Aivali, but with the population exchange of 1922, he moved to Athens. It was in the spring of 1923 that Kontoglou visited Mount Athos, where he was deeply impressed by the icons that he saw.” Zias tells us that “Experiencing a kind of holy intoxication on Athos, [Kontoglou] set about copying wall-paintings and icons and made it his task to unravel the secrets of Byzantine art, while at the same time he painted the Athos landscape, the monasteries and their monks, and wrote short tales brimming over with life and poetry.” After this formative experience on Mount Athos, Kontoglou’s artistic career took a new direction. “From 1926 onwards he began to paint in the manner of his forbears in the age of the Byzantine empire, as well as of the later generations of Greeks living under the rule. primarily, of Ottoman sultans. The distinguishing features of this painting lie both in technique and style.”
Interestingly, the “Byzantine” style that Kontoglou acquired was in many ways stylistically similar to modern Art. Kontoglou’s newly adopted “Byzantine” style was marked by a “lack of perspective (and consequently the lack of a third dimension) in the works, the absence of a single light source, and the use not of tonal gradation, but of color contrasts that often serve to complement one another. Some of these aesthetic principles – though springing from different premises – coincided with principles of modern art.” Zias suggests that Kontoglou’s acquisition of this “Byzantine” style may not have been purely inspired by his trip to Mount Athos, but may have also been influenced by his exposure to Modern Art in Paris. To this day, Kontoglou is held in high regard, particularly among Greeks, for the role he played in the revival of the “Byzantine” style in both his paintings and his writings.
While Kontoglou was influenced by the writings of Ouspensky, his own writings are neither systematic and theological like Florensky’s nor historical like Ouspensky’s. Instead, Kontoglou frames his writings in strong reaction to the West, particularly the modern art world, exalting the lost golden age of Byzantium. Kontoglou spills much ink defending Byzantine art against Western art historians who see it as merely a steppingstone on the way to the innovations of the Italian Renaissance. He is also keen to assert the supremacy of Byzantine art over all other art in a tone of thinly-veiled nationalism. And like Florensky and Ouspensky, Kontoglou also asserts the superiority of Byzantine art, particularly over the naturalism of the West, on the basis of style. In Kontoglou’s writings, ambiguity of terminology and faulty observations abound, often making his assertions difficult to follow. Yet Kontoglou is clear in stating that he believes that art reached its zenith in the icons of Late and Post Byzantium and should in no way diverge from die styles or compositions of this period.
Kontoglou notes the increased popularity of Byzantine art in the twentieth century. He argues that Byzantine art is superior to all the Western artistic innovations that followed Byzantine art, starting with the art of the Renaissance, and culminating with Modern Art.
For my heart, the only true art is Byzantine art. I am not offended by the fact that it is called old, outmoded, dogmatic, ascetic, naive, and similar terms, but I am grieved because many persons do not taste its sweetness, having been led astray by certain men who speak disdainfully about this sacred art, employing theories and empty words that they supposedly have learned in Europe, the fount of wisdom. But there exists another wisdom that is truer; and there exist feelings that are more genuine, more nourishing for the soul than the Saharan desert of analysis and objective aesthetics – as these things are called by these wise men, who, both in their faces and in their souls, are like chemists, so to speak, of art.
Kontoglou challenges the long-held assumption of Western art historians that Byzantine art is primitive and not worthwhile after the stylistic innovations of the Renaissance. “Byzantine iconography has been misunderstood to such an extent that for centuries if was despised, and those who occasionally remembered it referred to it as something crude and naive, which represented the end point in the decline of classical Greek art.” He points out that despite the advent of the Renaissance and the artistic innovations of artists like Giotto, ‘Byzantine-style” art continued to be created. In other words, while Western art historians long-viewed the innovations of the Renaissance (e.g. naturalism and linear perspective) as improving comparatively hieratic Byzantine art, these innovations of the Renaissance did not immediately supplant the “Byzantine style,” which continued to be utilized by artists for centuries. For Kontoglou, this demonstrates that while the superiority of the innovations of the Renaissance seem self-evident to modern Western art historians, this was not the case with the artists who actually lived at the time of these innovations.
Kontoglou is not only reacting against the view that the art of the Renaissance supplanted Byzantine art, but he is also reacting against modernism and modern humanism in general:
Some European savant has said that there is no utopia that Europeans have not made into a theory: the theory of Fallmerayer, the theory of Taine. the theory of Einstein, the theory of the fourth dimension, the theory of Freud, and the theory of Existentialism, and so forth. What frightful hobgoblins! And the poor man who wants to escape from these Furies seeks refuge in art, which he thinks is innocent. But, unfortunate creature, here again he finds theories… and they alt rabidly proclaim ‘evolution,’ ‘the contemporary spirit,’ and ‘modernism.’
But what is “modernism” for Kontoglou?
Prudhon, Gericault, Ingres, and Delacroix…worked naturalistically… Such painters are always called, in every epoch, modernists, because their works look natural. Because, for many, eternal modernism consists in naturalism. They do not stop to think that before Christ and His time artists painted naturalistically, whereas after three hundred, five hundred, one thousand years, the Byzantines painted unnaturalistically.
For Kontoglou, modernism and naturalism are synonymous. When Kontoglou speaks against modernism, he is rejecting artistic innovation that replaced the stylization of Byzantine icons with a more naturalistic style.
Kontoglou looked back at Byzantium with nostalgia, describing it as a kind of golden age: “Byzantium, then, is something great, it is a time and place in which men lived with an aspiration for the supernatural, for eternity… The Byzantines believed in the mysteries and truth that Christ revealed, in other words, in the wonderful world that exists beyond what is grasped by our senses and brain…” Kontoglou idealizes the spirituality of the Byzantine Christians. The Byzantine worldview is to be admired and even imitated by modern Christians, and the faithful reproduction of Orthodox icons in the Byzantine style is one way to do this. ‘‘Kontoglou’s great love for Byzantium, the spirituality of the Orthodox Church, and the beauty of its art, led him to feel that his life’s task was to continue this long and great tradition…Kontoglou felt himself duty-bound to both his ancient predecessors and his contemporaries to uphold and revive this tradition that, in part due to Western influences, had been so casually neglected in the first hundred years’ existence of the modern Greek state (c. 1830-1930), and to offer an authentic artistic language by which modern-day Hellenism could express itself.” At the same time as Kontoglou reacted against the modern humanism of Western Europe, he sought refuge in trying to continue the legacy of Byzantium through his own artworks executed in imitation of the Byzantine style and in his writings exalting Byzantine art above all other art.
At times, Kontoglou’s praise of Byzantine art takes on a distinctly nationalistic tone. Kontoglou lived in a time when the modern Greek national identity was still being formed. Kontoglou witnessed the political struggles that the Greeks faced while trying to establish a national identity and niche in the world in the early part of the twentieth century. While “various nations are attempting to present (Byzantine art) as their own heritage,” Kontoglou sought to secure the Byzantine style in a distinctly Greek Legacy. Kenna notes that “The use of icons is in itself a gesture of Greek nationalism directed against those in whose religious beliefs such art is blasphemous, and the Byzantine style in icon painting links the Orthodox church and Greek nationalism to the great days of empire… A rejection of the Byzantine style in the painting and composition of icons would imply a radical alteration in the Greek view of the historical relationship between Orthodoxy and Greek nationalism.” When Kontoglou was commissioned to paint murals in the Athens Town Hall shortly before World War II he sought to consolidate and unify all of Greek history in one Byzantine style.
He was asked to paint scenes from Greek mythology and history, as well as events related more generally to Athens… He was to paint the heroes of classical mythology, such as Theseus, historical figures of antiquity, such as Philip and Alexander the Great, Byzantine emperors and commanders, and the freedom fighters of the Greek War of Independence of 1821, all in the Byzantine style, so that ancients and moderns took on the outward appearance of Byzantine saints. The entire history of the Greek people is turned into a kind of holy narrative.
For Kontoglou, the Byzantine style, and even the Byzantine saints, belong to the overarching narrative of the Hellenistic legacy. Thus, for Kontoglou, this entire Hellenistic narrative can be presented in the style of Byzantine sacred art. A striking example from Kontoglou’s paintings in the Athens Town Hall is his portrayal of the Greek national hero Athanasios Diakos (1788-1821), who was a military commander in the Greek War of Independence (Appendix image 2). In this painting, the head and face of Diakos are represented with essentially the same figura of Kontoglou’s icons of Christ (e.g. Appendix image 4). The only detail that distinguishes the head and face of Diakos from Christ in this image are a few small unkempt hairs which are not present in Kontoglou’s depicitions of Christ. Additionally, the two flaps on the back of the evzorte that Diakos is wearing seem to catch in the wind and fly up behind him, creating the illusion that Diakos has wings like St John the Forerunner or angels as they are depicted in Orthodox icons (e.g. Appendix images 5 and 6). Kontoglou’s intention is clear: he means for the viewer to associate this modern Greek military hero with the Savior Jesus Christ and with the saints who proclaim the word of God.
As with Florensky and Ouspensky, Kontoglou defends his assertion concerning the superiority of Byzantine art over Western sacred art after the Renaissance, primarily through comparison of style.
A good painting is not good because it has anatomy and perspective, but because it is a good painting. A work may look natural and for that very reason not be good. The hands and feet of a saint may appear to some as simply unnatural, crooked, and yet they may be truer and more expressive than those made by Raphael, because they have a certain inspiration that one cannot infuse into one’s work if one works from living models, without also experiencing other things, deeper than anatomy. Truth in painting is deeper than proportion and naturalness.
Kontoglou sets up a dichotomy between the art of the Western Church, “such as those of the Italian Renaissance,” which he also calls “secular,” and “Byzantine art.” He does this on the basis of style. For Kontoglou, Byzantine iconography does not seek to “reproduce” a saint in a naturalistic style, but as he is in the kingdom of heaven, “as he is in eternity.”‘ Here Kontoglou echoes the writings of Florensky and Ouspensky. Through a non-naturalistic style, icons express the invisible spiritual truths of the sacred figures they portray. “In this liturgical art the forms and coloring are mystical analogic, that is, such that they ‘lead one upward,’ raise the soul and mind of the believer who sees the icon to the realm of the spirit, of the incorruptible, of the kingdom of God, as far as this can be achieved with material means.”" For Kontoglou. this is all done stylistically. To portray the saints in a naturalistic manner would fail to convey the invisible spiritual reality of the saints.
The works of the Western Church, such as those of the Italian Renaissance, are simply representational. naturalistic… Only the theme is religious, not the manner in which they are painted. The same style that would have been employed in painting (say) Cicero making an address, would also be used in a religious painting of the West to depict the Apostle Paul speaking before the Roman Festus. In the Byzantine icon, on the other hand, everything has been raised to the religious order – human forms, mountains, buildings, rocks, herbs, flowers, animals, rivers, and so on …
So Kontoglou condemns the art of the Renaissance by accusing it of adopting a non-Christian style. At the same time, he asserts that the Byzantine style is inherently Christian.
Like Florensky and Ouspensky, Kontoglou believes that the spiritual content of the icon is communicated through style of the icon. On this basis, he develops mystagogical interpretations of stylistic features of Late- and Post-Byzantine icons. “Saints are represented facing forward, so that the entire face, or at least three quarters of it, shows, for a spiritual man cannot be depicted incomplete, with one eye. St Macarios the Great says: ‘A soul which has been illuminated by the divine glory becomes all light and all face…and has no part which is behind, but stands altogether face forward.” Thus, because Kontoglou interprets characteristics of the Byzantine style as symbolically and theologically significant, stylistic innovation in icons is tantamount to theological innovation.
Kontoglou envisions Byzantine sacred art as having developed to a point of perfection precisely through the reception and preservation of the inherited artistic (stylistic and compositional) tradition of the Church.
The works of Eastern iconography attained an hieratic perfection and venerable stability which can be accounted for by the faith which the painters had that their work was fearful, like the dogmas of the Church. For this reason, they worked with humility on the archetypes which had been handed down to them by earlier painters, without inopportune and inappropriate changes. To this stability, which we see in their works, contribute to the fact that they painted in every church the same forms, century after century. In this way they developed forms which were more and more stable, because through elaboration they were freed from everything superfluous and inconstant. Being molded by humble hands, which were moved by piety, they finally became spotless images. They passed like gold through a crucible, finally assuming the simplicity and greatness which we see. The most standard and doctrinal ones reached the point of becoming the most perfect and the most apocalyptic, e.g. Pantocrator, Platytera, Hodegetria, Christ the Great High priest, the Archangels, St. John the Baptist, and certain others.”
Kontoglou’s understanding of iconographic development and innovation is not positive, but negative. For him, the only true development of iconography was not one of new ideas and additions, but like the refining of a metal, involved the removal of impurities. The classic recensions that we now have, which he lists, are examples of the refined perfection of Byzantine art. For Kontoglou, Orthodox iconography, and indeed art in general, reached its perfection in the art of Byzantium. Any stylistic or compositional innovation after the Byzantine period is nothing but a rejection of this perfection.
Chapter Four
Evaluating the lconological Writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou
Methodological Problems
As we have already noted, the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou present a number of methodological problems. For example, all three writers tend to make generalized statements about “icons” without specifying which icons they mean (e.g. painted by whom? where? when?). Usually, the broad statements that they make about “icons” are based on observations not from the entire history of what might be called “icons,” but only from a narrow field of images that fit their preference for a particular style – fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia or Late/Post Byzantium. Because these icons exemplify iconographic perfection for these writers, what is true about these particular icons ought to be true about all icons.
For example, Florensky states that “iconpainting depicts objects as forms created by light rather than as things lit by a light-source,” and “in iconpainting shadows have no place. The iconpainter never enters into an affair with darkness and so he never creates shadows in the icons.” Florensky is likely referring to the sense of diffuse light in those icons created during what he believes was the “pinnacle” of iconpainting, fourteenth through mid-sixteenth-century Russia. It is also true that figures and objects rarely cast shadows on the ground in icons from Russia before the mid-sixteenth-century and in Late-Byzantine icons. Both this sense of diffuse light and a lack of cast shadows can be observed in the mid-sixteenth-century Russian icons of the Miracle of Florus and Laurus (Appendix image 10). In this image, the diffuse light makes a distinct light source difficult to perceive at first. Additionally, no shadows are cast on the ground by the human figures or horses.
And yet, to say that there is no light source and no shadows in this icon is simply untrue. By carefully observing the highlights on the rugged terrain and on the clothing and faces of the figures in the upper register of the icon, it is clear that the scene is top-lit – there is a distinct light source in this icon, and it is above the figures, animals, and terrain in the scene. Furthermore, despite how diffuse the light in this icon may be, the icon-painter has depicted shadows in this scene. These shadows are most evident on the rocky terrain, but can also be seen in the folds of the clothing and in the faces of the figures.
The same could be said about the similarly top-lit scene depicted in Rublev’s Trinity, one of Florensky’s favorite icons. In this icon, as we have already noted, shadows can be seen on the sides of the chairs, footstools, and table, on the clothing of the figures, on the necks and faces of the figures, and on the sides and in the windows of the structure in the background. Hence Florensky’s assertion that iconographers do not portray shadows is simply inaccurate.
Methodologically, Florensky’s statement is problematic for two reasons. First, it is problematic because Florensky’s rule about shadows is based on the style of particular icons from a limited time and place. and yet Florensky argues that the rule is true for all icons in general. While focusing on Russian icons between the fourteenth and midsixteenth century, Florensky ignores other significant groups of icons (like those of the Cretan School), which blatantly contradict this rule about shadows. Second, even within those icons that Florensky identifies with the “pinnacle” of icon-painting (those from fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia), his rule about shadows is not consistently true. Yet, it is on the basis of such inaccurate observations that these three writers define Orthodox icons and reject any innovation that departs from this definition.
Undoubtedly, much of this methodological sloppiness in observing icons might be attributed to a lack of academic training. None of these three writers were trained as art historians; neither do they apply sufficient art historical methodologies to their writings. “In general, as an art historian Florensky often goes awry, as his access to texts and sources was not that good, and he was after all not trained in that field.” Instead, all three writers seem to begin by choosing an iconographic style that they prefer based on personal taste, either fourteenth- through mid-sixteenth-century Russia or Late/Post Byzantium. Then, they study the style of the icons of these periods and develop a set of stylistic “rules.” They then speak of these “rules” (e.g. saints are never depicted in profile) as if they apply to all “icons” from every region and period, rejecting all icons that diverge from these rules.
This problem becomes compounded when such sloppy stylistic observations are interpreted as being theologically significant. For example, Kontoglou asserts that “Saints are represented facing forward, so that the entire face, or at least three quarters of it. shows, for a spiritual man cannot be depicted incomplete, with one eye. St Macarios the Great says: ‘A soul which has been illuminated by the divine glory becomes all light and all face…and has no part which is behind, but stands altogether forward.” Here Kontoglou makes a generalized statement about the depletion of saints in Byzantine icons. Since Kontoglou assumes that the theological content of the icon is reflected in the style of the icon, he assumes that this characteristically Byzantine way of depicting the human face is theologically significant. It is on this basis, when one identifies the theological locus of the icon in its style, that stylistic innovation is considered dangerous. From this perspective, stylistic innovation is equated with theological innovation.
Yet what happens when a significant counterexample presents itself, as in the case of the Byzantine icon of the Conception of the Theotokos, which is part of the masterfully executed fresco decoration of the church dedicated to Sts Joachim and Anna at Studenica Monastery (Appendix image 11), in which St Joachim’s head is depicted in complete profile? Another example is The Kiss of Judas (Appendix image 12), a thirteenth-century fresco in the Church of the Virgin Peribleptos in Orchid which portrays the scene of Christ’s betrayal in Gethsemane. In this icon, a number of figures, both good (Holy Apostles depicted with halos), and evil (the traitor Judas and others helping to capture Christ) are depicted with heads in full profile. Such counterexamples present a challenge to Kontoglou’s statement from an art historical perspective, a theological perspective (St Joachim and the Apostles are saints), and a methodological perspective. Should one really look for the theological content of the icon in its style, which has varied according to region and period since the earliest-known Christian paintings in the Roman catacombs? Even among Byzantine-style icons, counterexamples challenge Kontoglou’s argument.
This problem is even more commonly manifested in the mystagogical interpretation of the stylized facial features of holy figures in icons. Ouspensky asserts that “Transmitted in the icon, this transformed state of the human body is the visible expression of the dogma of transfiguration and has thus a great educational significance. An excessively thin nose, small mouth and large eyes – all these are a conventional method of transmitting the state of a saint whose senses have been ‘refined’ as they used to call it in the old times.” This mystagogical interpretation of the stylized features of holy figures depicted in icons is commonly repeated to this day:
Figures in ancient icons stare at eternity with their large eyes, very often opened in an exaggerated manner. The forehead is often rather convex and quite high, expressing both the power of the Spirit and of wisdom, which are inseparable from love. The nose is thin and elongated, giving nobility to the face. It no longer detects the scents of this world, but only the sweet odor of Christ and the life-giving breath of the Spirit gushing from a throat and neck, which are disproportionately large. The mouth, being an extremely sensual organ, is always drawn finely and geometrically, eliminating its sensuality. The lips remain closed, because true contemplation demands silence. The ears, created to hear the commandments of the Lord, have become interiorized. and they no longer hear or listen to the sounds of this world. They are attentive only to the interior voice. Yet certain details are at times surprising: for instance, lusterless eyes, deformed or funny looking ears. This absence of naturalism, which is a non-conformity to nature as we see it. only reminds us that these transfigured bodies already perceive more, and even something else, than the majority of us do: they see the spiritual and not just the physical world.
However, icons themselves suggest that this theological interpretation of certain traditional styles is flawed. For example, in the mosaic images of the Massacre of the Innocents in the outer narthex at the Chora (Appendix images 13-15), Herod and his soldiers are depicted with the same stylized features as St Elizabeth and the infant John the Baptist, does this mean that Herod and the soldiers should be considered just as holy as Sts Elizabeth and John? Likewise in Theophanes the Cretan’s icon that depicts Christ before Pilate (Appendix image 16). Christ, the accusing Jewish leaders, and Pilate and his soldiers are all depicted with the same stylized features. The only visual attribute that distinguishes Christ from His murderers is His halo. The same is true in the aforementioned icon of The Kiss of Judas. Yet according to Ouspensky, this icon is telling us that Christ and His enemies are both equally holy and transfigured. Clearly the equation of style with theological significance is not without significant problems, icons themselves seem to undermine this kind of theological interpretation of style, and thus the prohibition of stylistic innovation.
A Docetist Aesthetic
Common to the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou is a strong rejection of all naturalism in favor of a more symbolic or spiritualized style. Florensky condemns both oil paints and the sounds of the organ on the basis that both are “wholly of earth and flesh.” Similarly, Ouspensky criticizes the influence of “antique art” in icons because it presents a “dependence on matter.” On this same basis, Kontoglou rejects the art of the Western Church in favor of Byzantine art: “The works of the Western Church, such as those of the Italian Renaissance, are simply representational, naturalistic… Only the theme is religious, not the manner in which they are painted… In the Byzantine icon, on the other hand, everything has been raised to the religious order – human forms, mountains, buildings, rocks, herbs, flowers, animals, rivers, and so on …” In this manner, these three writers repeatedly reject naturalism in icons. For them, naturalism is problematic because it is carnal: it represents matter, rather than spirit. Conversely, a spiritualized, non-naturalistic style allows icons to truly represent the spiritual truths and holy figures who dwell in the heavenly realm.
Yannaras attributes the spiritualized style of Russian icons to sophiological mysticism. The same might be said about this strong dichotomy between the spiritual and the material in the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou. Indeed, Florensky dedicates a large portion of The Pillar and Ground of the Truth to the subject of Sophia. “Sophia, the true Creation or creation in the Truth, is a preliminary hint at the transfigured, spiritualized world as the manifestation, imperceptible for others, of the heavenly in the earthly.” Interestingly, “The letter on ‘Sophia’ was omitted from the first publication of The Pillar and Ground of the Truth in 1908 under ecclesial pressure because of its alleged impropriety.” Indeed the spirit/flesh dichotomy in the iconological writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou present a serious theological problem.
First, the rejection of naturalism on the basis that it is “dependent on matter” and not spiritual enough suggests a kind of dualism, which has always been rejected by Christianity. Even St John of Damascus, well known for his writings in defense of icons, warns, “Do not abuse matter; for it is not dishonorable; this is the view of the Manichees.” Ouspensky himself emphasizes the incarnational basis of Orthodox icons when he writes about the Seventh Ecumenical Council in Theology of the Icon: “Indeed, if the very existence of the icon is based on the Incarnation of the second person of the Holy Trinity, this Incarnation, in turn, is confirmed and proven by the image. In other words, the icon is a proof that the divine Incarnation was not an illusion.” Yet, if icons are “based on” the incarnation of the Word of God and even offer a kind of proof that He became flesh and lived among us, what is wrong with a naturalistic style that reinforces the teaching about the incarnation of an invisible God?
Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou reject any representation of Christ that creates the illusion of real matter and space. Florensky and Ouspensky, who both advocate for the highly spiritualized style of Russian icons, demand that the incarnate Word be depicted in a manner that subverts His material, human body. For them, the only acceptable style in which to depict Christ is one in which His body does not appear the same as the material bodies possessed by living, breathing human beings. This teaching treads on dangerous theological ground, testing the border between orthodox Christianity and one of the earliest heresies refuted by the Church, Docetism. Even the Second Epistle of John warns against this temptation to undermine the Divine Word revealed in the flesh: “Many deceivers have gone out into the world, those who will not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh; any such person is the deceiver and the antichrist!” This danger is very real in the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou.
On the most basic level, this Docetist aesthetic springs from a misperception about divine revelation. Florensky asserts that divine truth is revealed primarily through the mystical experience, through the ascent to the heavenly realm and the contemplation of the invisible spiritual truths. Orthodox icons are then created when, according to Florensky, one descends from this mystical ecstasy back into the material realm. Symbolic art, “born of descent, incarnates in real images the experience of the highest realm; hence, this imagery – which is symbolic imagery – attains a super-reality.” Yet in his book The Mystery of Christ: Life in Death, John Behr notes that from the perspective of orthodox Christianity, the Passion of Christ is the “ locus of the revelation of the transformative power of God.” St Gregory of Nyssa expounds this fundamental Christian assumption:
All who preach the word point out the wonderful character of the mystery in this respect – that ‘God was manifested in the flesh’ [I Timothy 3.16], that ‘the Word was made flesh’ [John 1.14], that ‘the Light shined in darkness’ [John 1.5], ‘the Life tasted death’ [Hebrews 2.9], and all such declarations which the heralds of the faith are wont to make, whereby is increased the marvelous character of Him Who manifested the superabundance of His power by means external to his own nature.”
While the uncreated God is indeed invisible and essentially other than all that He has created, He has chosen to reveal Himself to His creation in His incarnate Word, in this created and material world. “Scripture is clear that God is not seen by human beings, for divinity is not subject to human perception. In the case of the revelation of God in Jesus Christ, what is beheld is the transcendent power of divinity manifested precisely in the things external to the divine nature – in flesh.” The Docetist aesthetic presented in the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou would seem to be at odds with this orthodox Christian understanding of revelation.
Furthermore, while Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou all take a traditionalist position regarding the creation of icons, emphasizing close adherence to the traditional and canonical teachings of the Church on iconography, their writings are actually at odds with this tradition. If these writers are correct in their assertion that the iconographer receives the revelation of spiritual truth from a mystical experience, and that icons reveal not the flesh of real human bodies but a spiritualized and immaterial flesh at odds with the matter of this physical realm, then the iconoclasts of the eighth and ninth centuries were correct. If Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou are right, then St John of Damascus and St Theodore the Studite are wrong, for both iconodules emphasize the incarnational basis of Orthodox icons, “of old, God the incorporeal and formless was never depicted, but now that God has been seen in the flesh and has associated with human kind, I depict what I have seen of God.” According to St John, it is not an invisible spiritual version of Christ or the saints that is depicted in icons, but rather that which has been seen with the eyes of the body. Similarly, St Theodore the Studite asserts that icons are not idols precisely because they depict that which has been revealed in the flesh: “We do not even know that the Godhead exists at all, or what sort of thing it is, as it alone understands about itself. But because of His great goodness one of the Trinity has entered human nature and become like us … For this reason Christ is depicted in images, and the invisible is seen.” To say that icons depict an unseen spiritual reality at odds with the matter of this world is to affirm the teaching of the iconoclasts: icons are idols. In their condemnation of naturalism, all three writers come close to saying this.
Even when Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou describe the Russian and Byzantine styles as being inherently spiritual while they opposed naturalism, they are at odds with the artistic tradition of the Church. As we have already noted, the connection between abstraction and spirituality is itself a twentieth century concept and not ancient or medieval. History suggests that the Byzantines themselves did not view their icons as abstract or opposed to naturalism, but rather often perceived them as being quite realistic. Describing the mosaic icon of the Virgin on the apse of Hagia Sophia, St Photios the Great observes, “With such exactitude has the art of painting, which is a reflection of inspiration from above, set up a lifelike imitation… You might think her not incapable of speaking… to such an extent have the lips been made flesh by the colors …” Likewise, speaking of an icon of the Annunciation in the Church built by Stylianus Zaoutzas, Leo VI observes:
Here a winged being who has just descended from heaven converses with a virgin. You might say that this picture was not devoid of speech, for the artist has infused such natural color and feeling (ethos) into the faces… and His disciples are standing there, fashioned with such lifelike character by the painter, that they seem indeed to be seized by the various emotions of living persons…
Finally, Nicephorus Gregoras states, “…Painters seek to imitate objects exactly, not according to their true properties, but so as to make them recognizable to the viewers within the capabilities of human nature, and they show the length or the breadth of lofty buildings contracting somewhat and sinking down according to the requirements of the art and so as to make them visually more plausible …” Therefore, the words of the Byzantines themselves challenge our modern assumption that the styles of Russian and Byzantine icons are somehow inherently spiritual or holy, as opposed to the naturalism that emerged in the Italian Renaissance.
This rejection of naturalism in favor of more “spiritual” styles is not in fact grounded in the iconographic tradition of the Church and even presents theological problems. Indeed, the Byzantines themselves describe icons as being quite realistic. John of Damascus says that icons depict what has been seen of God. Icons can even be spoken of as “proof ’ that God became incarnate and dwelt among us. Yet this must not be understood as proof in the modern historical sense. Icons do not function as photographic or forensic evidence to prove the historicity of the miraculous events that they depict.
Indeed, many icons are blatantly ahistorical. Icons of Christ Pantokrator (e.g. Appendix image 4) portray Christ in the clothing of classical nobility rather than the garb of a first century Jew. Yet this noble clothing carries symbolic and theological value: this first century Jew who was executed as a common criminal is in fact a king. In this, icons are in complete harmony with the Gospels. For it is not the forensic evidence of miracles or even the ability to be an eyewitness to Christ or His resurrection that finally enlightens the disciples.
Whatever the disciples knew about Jesus Christ prior to the Passion, they still had not come to understand him a s the Lord… Neither the Crucifixion, nor the empty tomb, nor even the appearances of the risen Christ are in themselves the starting point for Christian faith: the leader of the apostles denied Christ; the myrrh-bearing women did not understand the significance of the empty tomb; and the disciples on the road to Emmaus did not recognize the risen Lord. Rather, only when the disciples finally understood the Passion “in accordance with scripture” are they ready to encounter the risen Christ.
Thus, while icons can neither be considered as spiritual objects opposed to matter nor as forensic evidence that prove the historicity of past persons or events, their function can be considered as something analogous to Christ’s opening of the Scriptures to the disciples (Luke 24, 27,32) and their final recognition of the risen Lord at the breaking of bread (Luke 24.31).
The Theological Neutrality of Style
If, as Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou assert, style were the primary criterion for differentiating between Orthodox Christian and secular art, one must consider the problem of icons painted according to traditional styles, which present questionable theological content. The icons of the contemporary iconographer, Robert Lentz, present an apt example. Lentz has learned to reproduce a “Byzantine” style as well as most contemporary Orthodox iconographers. He has produced icons according to traditional recensions, like that of Christ Pantokrator (Appendix image 17) and Our Lady of Perpetual Help (Appendix image 18). Yet in exactly the same style, Lentz has produced a number of icons that present theologically dubious content. These include an icon of Saint Merlin (Appendix image 19 – “A chief Druid who … served the pagan court of Gwenddolau, until this king was defeated and killed at the battle of Arderydd. Merlin then fled into the wilderness… Here he lived safely, far from the Christian kings at Dumbarton and Carlisle …”), and an icon of Jesus Christ: Lord of the Dance (Appendix image 20). Lentz explains the pagan origin of this image:
This image predates Celtic civilization, but was embraced by the Celts for its beauty and truth. The Homed God was a protector of all animal life. He was especially linked with the masculine sexuality and spirituality. He was considered Lord of the Otherworld and guided souls to their destination after death. In Celtic art he is usually shown sitting cross-legged and wearing a torque – the Celtic symbol of authority. Christian missionaries tried to stamp out the image of the horned god when they came to northern lands. Monastic scribes re-told ancient legends with an increasingly sinister twist. In time, the horned god was pictured in the popular imagination as a demonic figure who rode through the night skies in search of damned souls. There are still places in England, however, where Christian men don stag antlers and dance for ancient feasts.
These icons sufficiently reproduce the traditional “Byzantine” style. Yet at the same time, they present images that are completely at odds with orthodox Christianity. The same might be said about Kontoglou’s murals in the Athens Town Hall. Just because he has painted modern Greek military leaders in a traditional “Byzantine” style does not make them saints. Images like these undermine style as a useful criterion for differentiating between Orthodox icons and secular art. Consequently they also call into question those writers who reject stylistic innovation.
While the definition of icons based on style is no longer tenable, it is not entirely surprising that these twentieth-century writers approached icons in this way. Contemporary art historians also considered the same criterion of style in their study of art. In this regard, Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou are all men of their day.
Florensky’s art historical writings demonstrate a keen awareness of the latest European scholarship: his analysis of spatiality betrays a close resemblance to the theories of Ernst Cassirer, Erwin Panofsky, and Alois Riegl; his investigations into iconography and anthropology bring to mind the conclusions of Fritz Saxl, and Aby Warburg, while his personal elaboration of what could be called a Formalist methodology indicates a clear recognition of Conrad Fiedler, Heinrich Wolfflin, and Wilhelm Worringer.
These three writers present their writings as traditional Orthodox teaching about traditional Orthodox icons. In fact, this is not the case. Rather these writers utilize modern art historical criteria and modern aesthetic theories to present modern Orthodox reflections on traditional Orthodox icons.
One would have imagined that Florensky would have interpreted art from a religious perspective, and so argued that icons and church buildings have to be linked closely with their ultimate religious meaning. But he does not argue in this way; on the contrary, he applies a thoroughgoing aestheticism to the analysis of even religious objects, and one cannot tell that the author of these pieces is an Orthodox priest.
And if Florensky has freely applied modern theories of aesthetics to Orthodox icons, then critiques of these modern theories are equally applicable to Florensky as they are to writers like Worringer:
Worringer’s modernist Platonism assumes that sensuous reality is a veil of illusion, and that abstract forms come closest to the absolute. This is Worringer’s great achievement, freeing most of the world’s art from invidious comparisons to Greco-Roman naturalism. It is also the great flaw of his vision. Abstraction as a universal language makes no allowance for cultures with different ideas of reality and different conventions for depicting it.
What is said here about Worringer can be applied just as easily to the writings of Florensky. Indeed, when these three writers attack and condemn the modern art historians of the West, they are undermining their own writings, since they borrow most of their presuppositions and modern aesthetic theories directly from these very art historians.
But if style is neither a useful criterion for distinguishing what should be considered an authentically Orthodox icon, what is? From the perspective of the Church, this question must be answered not aesthetically, but theologically. St John of Damascus explains that “What the book does for those who understand letters, the image does for the illiterate; the word appeals to hearing, the image appeals to sight; it conveys understanding… who will not say that these images are not loudly sounding heralds?” Just as with any other theological text, icons must be read. This must be a process of exegesis, an act of reading and interpreting the icon a s a text, rather than a process of eisegesis, an act of reading what one wants to find in an icon (e.g. icons have no shadows). Just as with any other text, the question of an icon’s orthodoxy or heterodoxy is a question of its harmony or dissonance with the truth revealed to the Church through the opening of Scriptures and the Apostolic kerygma. The question is not simply how icons look, but what do they say?
Yet, if the theological locus of the icon is not its style, what is it? Where precisely does one encounter the theological word of the icon, if not in its style? Just as with the written word, the theological content of the icon is to be found in what the icon says, and not merely in how it says it. While the handwriting or font of a text, as well as writing style (e.g. voice, genre, tone, etc.), is essential to the successful communication of the content of a written text, these outward forms are not typically equated with the ultimate meaning of a text. The same may be said about icons. While Lentz’s icon of Christ as the “Lord of the Dance” masterfully reproduces a “Byzantine” style, this image of Christ is utterly inconsistent with the crucified and risen Christ foretold in the Scriptures, revealed in the Gospels, confessed in the Creed, and worshipped in the Divine Liturgy. This is the image of a pagan deity masquerading as Jesus Christ. On the other hand, while Hayne of Brussels’ Virgin and Child (Appendix image 21) could be described as thoroughly naturalistic in style, the theological content of this image does not differ from a traditional “Eleousa” icon like the thirteenth-century Our Lady of Belozersk (Appendix image 22). Both images represent the Virgin and child Christ, and emphasize the incarnation of the eternal Word of God and His intimate relationship with His creation after being born of the Virgin.
Likewise, Simon Ushakov’s icon of the Trinity (Appendix image 23), while painted in a somewhat naturalistic style and portraying a classical arch in the background, does not present a theological message that differs significantly from Rublev’s Trinity, which is considered to epitomize the traditional Russian Orthodox style of iconography.
Both represent the typological revelation of the Holy Trinity as recorded in the story of the hospitality of Abraham in Genesis . On the other hand, the late-fourteenth-century icon of the “New Testament Trinity” (Appendix Image 24) executed in the traditional style of the Novgorod School, represents the Holy Trinity in a manner at odds with Scripture, the theology of the Church, and the canonical rulings of numerous Church councils. Bathas’ Holy Trinity (Appendix image 25), while finely-executed in a Post-Byzantine style, presents a similarly dubious portrayal of the “New Testament Trinity.” So in the case of these four icons of the Holy Trinity, the difference between orthodoxy and heterodoxy is not determined by style, but by what or who is represented in harmony with Scripture and the orthodox theology of the Church.
A Note on Innovation
Florensky asserts that “ In the depths of Christian antiquity there is rooted the understanding that the icon is something not subject to arbitrary change.” However, this is not what is seen in the history of iconography. Instead, even a superficial look at the history of icon-painting reveals a history of ongoing innovation and change. This is reflected not only in the changing styles of different regions and periods (e.g. the so called Cretan and Novgorod Schools), but in elaboration and modulation of known recensions (e.g. Gabriel Bunge traces the historical evolution of icons of the “Hospitality of Abraham” or “The Trinity” in The Rublev Trinity). Sometimes, this even takes the form of entirely new compositions. The history of iconography takes innovation for granted. Therefore the question should not be whether iconographic innovation is orthodox or not, but rather: how can we distinguish between orthodox and heterodox innovation?
In this paper, I have briefly reviewed and evaluated the problem of innovation in the iconographic writings of Pavel Florensky, Leonid Ouspensky, and Fotis Kontoglou. All three writers define icons primarily in terms of style. Not only do they consider style the criterion by which to differentiate between authentic Orthodox icons and secular art. but style is even considered to be the locus of the theological content of the icon. These three writers each select the iconographic style of a particular period, idealize this style, and judge all other art on the basis of the idealized style. Ultimately, they reject any iconographic innovation in terms of style, composition, or even media or technique.
As I have already noted, the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou are considered by many to be the authoritative source on icons from an Orthodox perspective. Particularly because the rhetoric of these writers is couched in reaction to the modernism of the West and in defense of tradition, they are often considered to be completely in step with the tradition of Orthodox iconography and theology. For example. Scouteris says of Ouspensky: “His entire theological attitude was in complete harmony with the spirit and the ethos of Orthodox life… We may say without hesitation that Ouspensky’s theology arises from within the Orthodox patristic tradition.” Similarly, Yazykova also praises Ouspensky saying, “Leonid Alexandrovich Ouspensky was an eminent figure in Russian emigre circles. His Theology of the icon is the definitive work for the theological interpretation of the icon-painting tradition.” To this day, many people, particularly Orthodox Christians, consider the iconographic writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou as authoritative words from and about the tradition.
I have noted that these three writers do not observe or describe the tradition of icon-painting accurately. In idealizing the icons from a narrow scope of the history of icon-painting, they discard most of the icons made and used by the faithful throughout the history of the Church. As I have sought to demonstrate, their definition of icons based on style is untenable, as are their theological interpretations of style. Their writings are formulated in reaction to the West, yet they use the language and categories of modern Western art historians, rather than drawing on the Orthodox Tradition as they claim.
Furthermore, from a theological perspective, what I have referred to as their Docetist aesthetic is theologically dangerous. These methodological problems, stylistic definitions of icons, and problematic theological interpretations all challenge the assumption that the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou are in harmony with the history and tradition of the Orthodox Church.
While we can certainly be grateful to Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou for helping to begin the modern discussion concerning the intersection of art and theology in Orthodox icons, it would behoove us to receive their writings critically. As with any new theological writing, we must consider whether the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou are consistent with the Gospel and with the dogmatic teachings of the Church.
In this paper, I have briefly examined the ways in which Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou define icons and reject iconographic innovation. I have also identified a number of problems with their writings, which should challenge the acceptance of the writings of Florensky, Ouspensky, and Kontoglou as the final word on icons for Orthodox Christian. Rather, the study and discussion concerning the history, meaning, ongoing creation, and use of Orthodox icons must continue. After all, according to Patrick Doolan, Ouspensky himself said, before his death, that “He had not yet managed to say what was. in his view, the most important thing (about Orthodox icons).”
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Appendix Images:
1. St Luke the Evangelist painting on icon of the Virgin, 16th Cen, Pskov Museum, Pskov Russia.
2. Andrei Rublev. The Trinity, 1410-1420, Treiakov Gallery, Moscow
3. Fotis Kontoglou. Athansios Diakos, Athens Town Hall, Athens.
4. Andrea del Castagno (1421-1457), Pippo Spano, Galleria delgi Uffizi, Florence.
5. Fotis Kontoglou, Christ Pantokrator, 1935. Parekklesion of the Zaimi Family, Rio, Greece
6. Fotis Kontoglou. St John the Forerunner, 1948. Church of St Andrew, Athens
7. Fotis Kontoglou. Archangel Michael, 1932. Church of the Dormition of the Theotokos. Athens.
8. Aristotle, Plato. Apollonius. Solon. Plutarch. Cheilon, and Thucydides, 1560. Filanthropinon Monastery. loannina Island. Greece
9. Aristotle (detail), 1560. Filanthropinon Monastery. loannina Island. Greece
10. Theophanes the Cretan. St Merkourios (detail), Stravronikita Monastery, Mount Athos.
11. Miracle of Florus and Laurus, mid-16th, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
12. Conception of the Theotokos (detail: Sts Joachim and Anna), 1313-1314, South wall. King’s Church, Studenica Monastery, Serbia.
13. The Kiss of Judas, 1295. Church of the Virgin Peribleptos, Ochrid
14. Massacre of the Innocents, early 14th c., The Chora Church. Istanbul
15. Massacre of the Innocents (detail), early 14th c., The Chora Church. Istanbul
16. Massacre of the Innocents (detail: Sts Elizabeth and John the Forerunner hiding in the mountain), early 14th c., The Chora Church. Istanbul
17. Theophanes the Cretan. Christ before Pilate, 16th Cen, Stavronikita Monastery, Mount Athos.
18. Robert Lentz. Christ Pantokrator, 22 April 2009
19. Robert Lentz, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, 22 April 2009
20. Robert Lentz. St Merlin, 22 April 2009
21. Robert Lentz. Jesus Christ: Lord of the Dance, 22 April 2009
22. Hayne of Brussels. Virgin and Child, 1455. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Kansas City.
23. Our Lady of Belozersk, Early 13th C, Russian Museum, St Petersberg.
24. Simon Ushakov, The Trinity, 1671. Russian Museum. St Petersberg
25. Paternity, c. 1420 (Novgorod School). Treyrakov Gallery, Mosscow.
26. Thomas Bathas. Holy Trinity, late 16,h c.. Byzantine Museum, Athens
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| 1. St Luke the Evangelist painting on icon of the Virgin, 16th Cen, Pskov Museum, Pskov Russia. |
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| 2. Andrei Rublev. The Trinity, 1410-1420, Treiakov Gallery, Moscow |
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| 3. Fotis Kontoglou. Athansios Diakos, Athens Town Hall, Athens. |
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| 4. Andrea del Castagno (1421-1457), Pippo Spano, Galleria delgi Uffizi, Florence. |
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| 5. Fotis Kontoglou, Christ Pantokrator, 1935. Parekklesion of the Zaimi Family, Rio, Greece (This Icon is an approximate of the Fotis Kontoglou Icon referenced) |
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| 6. Fotis Kontoglou. St John the Forerunner, 1948. Church of St Andrew, Athens (This is a reproduction, not an image of the original Fotis Kontoglou one) |
(Was not able to find the appropriate image online)
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| 8. Aristotle, Plato. Apollonius. Solon. Plutarch. Cheilon, and Thucydides, 1560. Filanthropinon Monastery. loannina Island. Greece (Partial view) |
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| 9. Aristotle (detail), 1560. Filanthropinon Monastery. loannina Island. Greece |
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| 10. Theophanes the Cretan. St Merkourios (detail), Stravronikita Monastery, Mount Athos. |
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| 11. Miracle of Florus and Laurus, mid-16th, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. |
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| 12. Conception of the Theotokos (Focus on detail: Sts Joachim and Anna), 1313-1314, South wall. King’s Church, Studenica Monastery, Serbia. |
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| 13. The Kiss of Judas, 1295. Church of the Virgin Peribleptos, Ochrid |
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| 14. Massacre of the Innocents, early 14th c., The Chora Church. Istanbul |
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| 15. Massacre of the Innocents (detail), early 14th c., The Chora Church. Istanbul |
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| 16. Massacre of the Innocents (detail: Sts Elizabeth and John the Forerunner hiding in the mountain), early 14th c., The Chora Church. Istanbul |
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| 17. Theophanes the Cretan. Christ before Pilate, 16th Cen, Stavronikita Monastery, Mount Athos. |
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| 18. Robert Lentz. Christ Pantokrator, 22 April 2009 |
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| 19. Robert Lentz, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, 22 April 2009 |
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| 20. Robert Lentz. St Merlin, 22 April 2009 |
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| 21. Robert Lentz. Jesus Christ: Lord of the Dance, 22 April 2009 |
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| 22. Hayne of Brussels. Virgin and Child, 1455. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Kansas City. |
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| 23. Our Lady of Belozersk, Early 13th C, Russian Museum, St Petersberg. |
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| 24. Simon Ushakov, The Trinity, 1671. Russian Museum. St Petersberg |
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| 25. Paternity, c. 1420 (Novgorod School). Treyrakov Gallery, Mosscow. |
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| 26. Thomas Bathas. Holy Trinity, late 16,h c.. Byzantine Museum, Athens |
