Two Schools of Iconography

This article was born from a question by a student in our online class

QUESTION: Good morning! I have a question, when you have time, about the painting process. I was reading and it seems that some people trace their drawing onto the board before painting, rather than painting freehand. What is your opinion on this? Do you use preparatory drawings in this way in your iconographic process? I got the impression that not having to do this is precisely why you teach us to paint first with very diluted color. Can you say more about why you choose this approach?

Using diluted color first allows us to check and not be in a rush to decide where things go and thus get the right positions and measurements, but couldn’t being very precise from the beginning—i.e., using a precise preliminary drawing—also allow for achieving that correctness? I wonder if it’s a different underlying philosophy about where the “correct” aspect comes from (determined in advance or something that emerges in the process) and thus this is very important. Thank you for any insights.

ANSWER: You’ve raised an important point, and you’re absolutely right—this reflects a different philosophy. The key difference is exactly what you identified: whether the artwork is “determined in advance” or “something that emerges in the process.”

Our choices depend on our purpose, and in our case the difference is substantial. I believe that this distinction traces back to the rediscovery of medieval art in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

To the art critics of that time, icons and other medieval images appeared so different from Renaissance or academic art—so contrary to what they had been educated to consider “correct”—that, together with ancient Egyptian art and other non-academic arts, icons were dismissed as mere copying rather than genuine drawing or painting. As a result, everyone who taught iconography from then on taught to copy models, assuming that was how the originals had been produced.

However, in the 20th century this mistaken approach began to be challenged. In Greece it was Photios Kontoglou (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Photis_Kontoglou), and at the end of the 20th century there were some iconographers in Russia, who were first educated as artists, who eventually became fascinated by iconography as a distinct and creative art form—made individually from scratch each time. These pioneering artists also drew upon scholarship by figures like Otto Demus and others, who helped restore iconography as a form of creative expression rather than mechanical reproduction.

Two Main Approaches

Given all this, I believe we can now identify two main approaches to iconography: School 1 and School 2.

School 1: The Copying Approach

This consists of those who were taught that to paint icons, iconographers must reproduce existing medieval icons, frescoes, and manuscript illustrations in minute detail. In my view, these individuals are deeply struck by the beauty and refinement of medieval art, but don’t feel confident or equipped to create their own compositions. So they begin by tracing directly from recognized works and copying prepared drawings, which certainly makes their path to the final result much shorter and easier.

This method has its advantages. First of all, it allows reasonably faithful reproduction of medieval images and speeds up the process, since it requires little or no research. The outcome of this group of iconographers, who consider themselves traditionalists, depends on their technical training in every sense: artisanal skills, availability of desired models, and their ability to use photocopiers and image editing software to enlarge or reduce their models.

Worth mentioning that this group of iconographers has many more commissions than the other. Since today’s Catholic and Orthodox seminaries don’t teach what liturgical art is, most simply accept the stereotype “icons = copies” which has become absolutely dominant among clergy and laypeople, and even among non-believers.

Many of them view icons like texts—believing that, like prayers, they can be repeated by anyone who “knows the technique.” These people highly value the technical skills required for precise copying, while leaving the artistic and interpretive aspects of images outside their field of interest.

School 2: The Creative Approach

Those who belong to what we can identify as “School 2” also begin with admiration for the beauty and power of medieval art—but focus more on how theology is reflected through its visual aspect. Artists with this approach see Christian medieval art not as a catalog of models to copy, but as a treasury of ideas, theology, and artistic insight. They study traditional art to understand how visual means were used to express theological truths.

These artists learn theology and the grammar of iconography to understand the logic behind its conventions. This allows them to create new liturgical images—ones that honor the depth of tradition while resonating with people today.

In practice, this means working freely with traditional artistic tools while adapting images to the unique theological, spatial, and spiritual needs of each piece. Every image is developed individually, often beginning with theological study, iconographic research, reference collection, sketching, and experimentation—allowing the image to gradually evolve into a powerful visual message.

This approach treats the creation of an icon as a unique process, with drawing playing a fundamental role. Drawings are often developed step by step—beginning with faint and tentative marks—allowing adjustments and refinements that result in perfect harmony between image, board, and space.

The Heart of the Difference

Since you asked specifically about drawing, I won’t go further into the production process. But we can clearly say this: when comparing individually drawn images with copied ones, the copies tend to seem less convincing.

To put it simply: those who copy rely on their ability to faithfully reproduce a visual message created long ago. But here’s the key point—a copyist has different intentions and executes the image differently than a creative artist. And that difference shows. The result is often unconsciously perceived as imitative or insincere, even when the technique is impeccable.

This is precisely what we want to avoid in ecclesiastical art. It is one of the main qualities that makes traditional iconography so compelling. These images were visual expressions of lived and charismatic faith—capable of communicating belief without words, purely through form and color. Traditional icons were persuasive because of the depth of faith behind them.

By contrast, a contemporary artist who focuses mainly on perfecting technique—burnishing gold to a mirror finish, for example, to suggest visible material value—may inadvertently undermine the icon’s spiritual purpose: bearing witness to living faith.

In creative iconography, composition, drawing, color, tonal range—even the highlights—everything constitutes the message. Like words in a hymn: each word contributes to meaning by how it is arranged with the others. Even more subtle variations in composition or color can elevate a work, making it sing visually—provided it comes from an artist with sensitivity to form.

At the same time, the drawing, composition, and color in a copied image reflect only the desire to replicate a model. Despite good technique, the result may appear like a series of details rather than a coherent and heartfelt message. It’s like trying to imitate a phrase in a foreign language without knowing its rules or meaning: you might sound fine until it matters—and instead of saying “Hello, my name is James,” you say “Squid comes Friday evening.”

A Practical Example

Here I also wanted to give an example of how my wife Olga Shalamova’s works have been copied, but first I wanted to provide you with an illustration of what inspired her to paint her icons. I’m putting all the images together to show this better.

Olga found her original inspiration in an 11th-century fresco, which is located in the apse of the church of San Giovanni ai Campi (near Turin) (#1). She saw a juxtaposition of two very close figures – one all white and the other all dark. To see how this image could be realized as an Annunciation, she made some drawings and sketches. First she tried with the column in the middle, as it was in the original model. She attempted to draw this image on a rectangular panel, but it didn’t work well. Then she decided to try on a semicircular panel and thus succeeded.

A few years later we saw that this image had attracted the attention of two iconographers, but instead of being inspired and doing individual research, these iconographers decided to copy almost everything, except the colors, which they chose independently. For me this is a demonstration of how important research is, because you can see that people who copied without thinking arrived at mere copies.

Where the lines are light, in the copies they are heavy and attract too much attention. Where the colors are delicately connected to each other, in the copies they are excessively bright. The folds, which in the original are barely suggested, in the copies are much more pronounced due to their contrast… And all this happened not because the artist-copiers wanted it, but because they wanted to do their best; however, instead of reflecting and coordinating the parts among themselves, they simply tried to bring everything to “perfection”.

https://youtu.be/Gn_MZj_zTLo  

A Personal Reflection

In the end, one must mean what they do. If we’re writing a book or composing an opera, we are responsible for every note and every word, not just the last chapter. The same applies to painting icons or making any other liturgical art. We must be responsible not only for the final highlights but for every process that leads to them.

And perhaps this is why the debate between these two schools is so passionate. It’s not really about technique—it’s about something deeper. It’s about whether art is a living language that we speak fluently, or whether we use it like ancient phrases that we recite without understanding.

The medieval masters we admire weren’t simply copying. They were creating—rooted in knowledge, faith, and spiritual vision. To truly honor their legacy, we must ask ourselves: Are we preserving their forms, or are we continuing their spirit of authentic creation?

As you so perceptively put it, the choice lies between preservation and living tradition.

Warmly, Philip

P.S. Thank you for the question!