Russian Icons and Spirituality #
V.P. Ryabushinsky
Russians are often accused of excessive ritualism; at the same time, the spirituality of the Russian people today is widely acknowledged. In any case, what often goes unnoticed is this: true spirituality is not merely external forms that inspire the common Russian people, who are inclined to “ritualism” (to use the favored term of intellectuals), but a specific and lofty form of spirituality. This is, however, quite natural. One need only analyze human nature more deeply. According to the great psychologist, the Apostle Paul, human nature is threefold: body, psyche (soul), and spirit. This nature is hierarchical: the body is beneath the soul, and the soul is beneath the spirit. True, not all authorities—especially in the West—regard the soul and the spirit as distinct categories. Many conflate them into one, but even then, the highest level is the spirit. That is sufficient for our present purpose.
How, then, should these three elements of human nature relate to one another?
The remarkable writings attributed to St. Dionysius the Areopagite, a disciple of the Apostle Paul, address among other things the problem of hierarchy. These writings appeared rather late, around the fifth century A.D.; the circumstances of their appearance are shrouded in mystery, but their influence on Christian symbolism and mysticism has been immense. Today, the authorship of Dionysius is almost universally rejected, but this fact in no way diminishes the value of the writings themselves. To address our question about the hierarchical elements of human nature, we may draw an analogy from the Areopagite’s Celestial Hierarchy (chapter VIII, 1). In that book it is stated that the higher angels do not exercise their authority tyrannically or oppressively, but, being themselves irresistibly and harmoniously drawn upward toward the Divine, they lovingly draw with them the orders beneath them. In the same way, the human spirit—as the highest rank in the hierarchy—rising toward the Divine, uplifts the soul (mind and feeling), and likewise the body, causing them to ascend with it. Perfect worship of God occurs only when the entire human nature in its threefold wholeness bows before the Divine. If only the spirit and soul participate while the body is neglected, then the latter will inevitably drag down both soul and spirit. Likewise, when spiritual worship weakens, it leads inevitably to neglect of ritual. The body no longer prays with fervor or diligence as before.
It is natural that the flesh should strive to see and touch the Sacred—such is its nature, as created by God. This is the meaning of rituals and the meaning of the icon. And precisely for this reason, the images of Christ and the saints—necessary to the body, which is guided by the soul and especially by the spirit—must be spiritualized images. As far as human artistry allows, the flesh represented in the icon must give the impression of being purified, inaccessible to temptation and sin. What is said here is no artificial or strained theory, no abstract speculation or idle musing, but rather an explanation of what arose spontaneously in the first centuries of Christianity and then, by God’s grace, continued to grow. The entire history of the icon bears witness to this fact.
The opinion that the early Christians had no sacred images is an absurd prejudice, only recently overcome. One can only marvel that such a notion could have arisen at all, let alone be so stubbornly defended for so long. The flourishing of portrait sculpture—and especially painted portraiture—in the Roman Empire, precisely during the time of Christ and the first centuries after Him, is a well-established fact. It would be incredible if portraits of Christ, His Mother, and His closest disciples had not existed; their existence is far more likely than their absence. In Egypt, where painted portraits on mummies held religious significance, there naturally arose a certain philosophy of portraiture. It was inevitable that the Christian artist would eventually face the question of how to depict holy faces.
It seems that the need for a specific method in portraying Christ, the God-bearer, and the saints (“icon” in Greek means “portrait”) was fully realized and established during the period of persecution against sacred images. This was the response to accusations raised by the iconoclasts against such portraits. The iconoclasts argued that Orthodox Christians who painted portraits of the saints did not honor them but, on the contrary, insulted them: these painters, they said, depicted the visible flesh—whereas the flesh was precisely the enemy of the saints, against which they struggled their whole lives. This argument, by the way, is a clear example of the constant link between iconoclasm and various distortions of Christianity—in this case, with Manichaeism, which condemned the flesh as vile and inherently unclean. In truth, however, the flesh—like all matter—is God’s creation. That is why Orthodoxy teaches that the flesh can be purified and resurrected.
The saints seek the purification and spiritualization of their flesh, and this is precisely how they should be depicted. This is a very characteristic trait of Byzantine iconography in the 10th century, the time when Rus’ was baptized. It was a great privilege for Russia to receive Christianity from Byzantium at the very moment when the latter had reached the peak of its liturgical development in singing, architecture, and painting.
In time, the Russians added their own original features to iconography; the particular provincial psychological characteristics found expression in two main schools: the Novgorod and the Central Russian (Suzdal–Vladimir–Moscow) schools. The first is distinguished by strength, boldness of inspiration, and even a certain indifference to detail; the second is more refined in texture, enlightened and intellectually intense (as in Andrei Rublev). So it should have been: the people of Novgorod were bold, fierce, and warlike, while the people of Moscow were restrained, balanced, and quietly steadfast.
There were also other, less significant schools of iconography, but for the sake of simplicity we shall omit them. In the sixteenth century, a synthesis took place. Yet even earlier, from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, all Russian icons—despite their outward differences—were animated by one and the same spirit: the same spirit that defines the painting of all early Eastern Christian images—Syrian, Coptic, Byzantine, Balkan, and so on. This was expressed in the pursuit of spirituality, in a beauty not carnal, not outward or worldly, but in a beauty inwardly exalted, purified, and illumined. It is remarkable how this ultimate beauty, even from a purely aesthetic point of view, stands above worldly beauty. It is enough to compare the icon of the Vladimir God-bearer with Raphael’s Madonna.
Such was the state of things in Russia until the seventeenth century. Up to that time, Russia was deeply sinful, yet still longed to become “Holy Rus’”; although the heavy, impassioned body of Russia dragged her downward, she still persistently thought of the higher world and strove to purify and discipline her body. There was a different attitude, however, toward the “psychic man,” toward the mind and heart. These were often neglected, perhaps because the worldly mind—as the middle link in the hierarchy—was subconsciously regarded as hopelessly proud and sinful. Russian piety treated the Aristotelian syllogism and the almighty intellect with irony—and rightly so, as we can now see. But the Russian “spirit” committed a grave error in neglecting and scorning the “psychic man,” rather than healing him with love—as a younger brother—and making him a fellow-traveler on the path to heaven.
Thus the following occurred: in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries—during the time of the Schism, and later under Peter the Great—the Russian spirit, appearing for a time weary and weak, was dragged downward by the intellect, which, having long suffered neglect, now asserted itself. The psychic man came to the fore in Russia.
In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Russian Empire presented the spectacle of outward success. There was glory, there were palaces and academies, there was the Hermitage gallery, military victories, and the glitter of the imperial court. There were the Senate and the Synod, universities and museums. The middle and lower rungs of the hierarchy—the intellect and the body—reigned unchallenged. They had displaced the highest link of the hierarchy: the Spirit.
Icons reflected this in their own way: instead of the ancient iconostasis, with its profound spiritual meaning, appeared paintings in the Rococo style—visually appealing, but spiritually lifeless; instead of the God-bearer, there appeared the Madonna—beautiful, but of this world.
One of the most wondrous expressions of Russian liturgical art was the iconostasis of Andrei Rublev, the genius artist and greatest among Russian icon painters. This masterpiece, which once adorned the Dormition Cathedral in Vladimir, was removed in the eighteenth century and replaced with a fashionable amateur daub. Fortunately, a few villagers from nearby Vasilievskoye, moved by a genuine artistic instinct, purchased several of Rublev’s icons for their rural church. Thanks to these peasants, at least a portion of the iconostasis was preserved.
Ancient icons were called “schismatic” and remained so labeled until the end of the nineteenth century—or more precisely, until the beginning of the twentieth.
Then something happened again: a certain shift in mood among a significant portion of the Russian intelligentsia. Filled with a new spirit and moving away from materialism, they began gravitating toward spiritualism, toward religion. This movement was led by gifted individuals, but the souls of some among them were distorted and damaged by a peculiar decadent spirit, reminiscent of the ancient Gnostics. This distortion weakened the very impulse of the movement. On the other hand, one must recognize how large a portion of the Russian people—for over two hundred years—the impassioned body of Russia and the unruly Russian soul—had increasingly rejected the influence of the Spirit. In the end, this culminated in collapse. The return of the cultural elite to spirituality came clearly too late and was powerless to stop the collapse. But what is remarkable is that the Spirit continues its struggle even in the abyss; and here we see, undoubtedly, the importance and significance of such a partially chaotic striving toward religion.
This movement proceeds step by step: not directly from body to Spirit, but first to the soul, and only then from soul to Spirit. As an example of such a development, we may point to the memoirs of Father Sergius Bulgakov, in which he recounts how he was converted—not from the icon to Raphael’s Madonna—but from the Sistine Madonna to the icon. It is a remarkable story, notable for both its content and vivid style. It must be emphasized, generally, that the rediscovery of the Russian icon did not begin with representatives of the ecclesiastical hierarchy—priests or monks—but with representatives of the soul’s cultural realm: the aesthetes.
The catastrophe manifested itself in icons in various ways. One aspect of the disaster concerns renowned icons of high quality and artistic style; another has to do with more common icons. Let us begin with the latter. Some of them were destroyed by fanatical atheists, others lost through indifference and neglect, or vanished under other circumstances. But a considerable number of icons were either deliberately preserved or survived by sheer accident. These icons are a powerful means for the revival of the Spirit and vessels for its preservation. Remarkably unexpected witnesses to this process were found—and may still be found—among the many German soldiers who fought in Russia during the Second World War.
Now let us look at what happened to the more well-known icons. They had material value that could be measured in gold. For this reason, they were not destroyed—except in a few cases of ignorance or negligence. Some were sold abroad, but the majority of them, including the most precious ones, remained—thank God—in Russia, where they were placed in museums. This, of course, was an attempt to strip the sacred images of their halo of sanctity; but the Spirit cannot be extinguished. Those who have seen, for example, the Vladimir Mother of God in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow say that this icon today produces even greater impression than it did when it was enclosed in its jeweled riza in the Dormition Cathedral. One might say that the Queen of Heaven, having removed her royal garments, has stepped out of her temple into the open, to preach Christianity in the streets, where she may be seen by all—by believers and, what is far more important, by those who do not yet know Christ.
Some of the so-called “museum icons” were taken from churches; others from private homes. Russian icon-lovers lost their treasures, but no one could rip from their hearts the sense of the Divine Presence on earth. That awareness had been deeply planted in them from childhood, when they looked upon icons filled with the Spirit. During the Revolution, they fled into exile, taking those memories with them. Trifles—worldly honors and wealth—were lost, but in doing so the heavy chains were loosed from their feet; it became easier to lift up their spirits. They were granted the great joy of contemplating not only the beautiful ancient icons, but even the memory of them.
True icon painting is not a dead art, but a living one. In Paris, this art was restored according to the patristic tradition. It may be of lesser quality, since the faith of our ancestors was stronger, but the aspiration remains the same.
In an Old Believer prayer book it is written: “Stand before the holy icons, and looking upon them, direct thyself straight to the Invisible God.” One might ask: “Why are icons needed? Even without them, we can direct our prayers to the Invisible God.” We are not in a position to argue with the famous and the learned, but this we know with certainty: that five hundred years ago, when the best of our ancestors withdrew into the deserts, into solitude, to climb the ladder of spiritual perfection, they took their icons with them. We read this, for instance, in the Life of St. Kirill of Beloozero (+1427). We also know that another hermit and renowned iconographer, St. Dionisy of Glushitsa, painted an icon with the portrait of St. Kirill three or four years before the latter’s death, thus foreseeing his glorification.
We know the spiritual meaning of the hermit’s life not merely from books, but from the entire path of Eastern Christianity. However, for those who trust books more, they may verify it there as well. In the Gospel of Luke, speaking of the life of John the Baptist in the wilderness, it says: “And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the deserts till the day of his shewing unto Israel” (Luke 1:80). The Forerunner, of course, could not have had any icons, since only the death and resurrection of Christ completed the restoration of the body’s holiness. We merely mention the Baptist to emphasize the importance of the ascetic life. One could say that the Forerunner was the first monk at the threshold of the New Testament. And if anyone thinks St. Luke’s testimony is too remote from our time, let him recall Henri Brémond, a French priest, historian, and member of the Académie Française (1933); in his preface to The Desert Fathers, Brémond writes: “The greatest teachers of the Church were trained in the University of the Desert.” The same path of ascetic solitude was followed by the great Russian saints—and they took their icons with them into the wilderness—into the universities and laboratories of spirituality. This means that icons were needed even by this religious elite, which had already attained the highest levels of spiritual life.
How many icons are needed today by lonely and aging Russian exiles, scattered across the world, abandoned and nearly forgotten, rejected by all—except by God! I see a small, poor room in Paris. It is winter. The wall bears water stains from dampness. In the corner is an icon of St. Nicholas, and before it a lamp burns. It is December 6th, St. Nicholas Day. And I no longer see a poor shelter, a place of despair, the dwelling of an unhappy old man—but a radiant, joyful temple of God on the feast of his heavenly patron.
The soul of the old, lonely man is now filled not with darkness, but with the breath of the Spirit. All this, by the mercy of God, was wrought by that little icon—the keeper of spirituality.
Blessed be the name of the Lord from henceforth and forevermore.
This article is published here in Russian for the first time, based on the edition: Russian Icons and Spirituality, The Third Hour [New York: Third Hour Foundation], 1951, Issue V, pp. 43–49.
The article is preceded by a foreword, signed “The Editors”:
“The author of this article, Vladimir Ryabushinsky, is a noted Russian scholar of art and the history of the icon. Mr. Ryabushinsky belongs to the religious group of Old Believers, who separated from the dominant church of the Moscow Patriarchate during the ‘Schism,’ or internal rupture. This split, which occurred in the 17th century, created two distinct currents within Russian Orthodoxy. The Old Believers, who constitute a minority, preserved the most ancient features of Russian spirituality, above all in their liturgy and liturgical art. The most precious part of the Old Believer heritage is their icon painting, which faithfully follows the ancient models. Yet this religious group as a whole also maintains a vivid awareness of the ‘worldly’ spirit and the influence of Western secularization introduced into Russia by the reforms of Peter the Great in the 18th century and the period that followed. The author’s views are typical of the current to which he belongs; but they are of exceptional interest not only because the Old Believers express a powerful ethical and religious spirit still alive in Russia today, but also because—while differing from the dominant Russian Church in many respects—they are in harmony with the modern Russian Orthodox revival in the realm of religious art in general, and especially in iconography. In our translation of the Russian text, we have sought as faithfully as possible to preserve Mr. Ryabushinsky’s style and terminology, as well as the spiritual essence of what he expresses. Articulated in the strict and direct language of the Old Believers, it cannot be rendered in ‘worldly’ terms.”