“It is impossible to spend the coming day in faith if we do not think of it as the last day of our life.” ~ St John Climacus
I.
A small blob of light in the distance bounces delicately back and forth. It comes slowly into focus, as though you’re just coming to after having passed out: a single sideways candle flame named fiat lux. You sit up and it’s now flickering up and down, marking the path of invisible air currents in the darkness. No smelling salts, just the acrid odor of hide glue gone bad from somewhere in the squalid apartment. There is almost no light: just the candle, a red flashing digital 12:00 in the corner and cracks of sunlight peering through drawn drapes. It’s cold enough to faintly see your breath.
He’s still hunched over his workbench, the sole area fully benefiting from the light of the candle. You see some discarded egg shells on the floor and on the bench. His brush slowly glides over the smooth white gessoed surface of the thick mahogany panel, leaving a streak of red terra cotta in its wake, a small sable flagellum threshing blood from solid light. You can see the outline of a head and shoulders and a torso gradually emerge from his slow, deliberate strokes. He doesn’t look up or speak to you, but you remember your name: “friend.”
II.
O Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, through the intercessions of Your most pure Mother and of all Your Saints (especially Saint Euthalia whose memory we commemorate today, March 2nd), have mercy on us and save us, for you are good and love mankind. Amen.
III.
It happened during the seven-year reign of the Emperor Valerian, approximately 257 in the Year of Our Lord. Euthalia was a young woman, still a virgin, from Sicily. She had a mother of the same name and a brother named Sermilianus. All were unbaptized pagans.
IV.
He pauses from his painting, lays the brush on the table, shuffles through some scraps of paper next to the bench, apparently looking for one in particular. “It was just a sketch I made,” he says. “A long time ago. Because her eyes… I never remember what her eyes look like, exactly.” You don’t notice his shoulders have been hunched until he relaxes them while lighting a cigarette. He’s shaking as he clamps his dried, cracked lips around the filter, takes a long, deep drag with his eyes closed, the bumps of his irises rolled upward. Some prematurely grey chin stubble is momentarily backlit by the candle. You almost feel the depth of his satisfaction from this minor ritual of smoking. You suspect part of it is from the knowledge of its carcinogenic content. The smoke curls away into the dark.
V.
The Reading is from Proverbs 8:32–9:11.
And now, my sons, listen to me: happy are those who keep my ways. Hear instruction and be wise, and do not neglect it. Happy is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting beside my doors. For he who finds me finds life and obtains favor from the LORD; but he who misses me injures himself; all who hate me love death.
Wisdom has built her house, she has set up her seven pillars. She has slaughtered her beasts, she has mixed her wine, she has also set her table. She has sent out her maids to call from the highest places in the town, “Whoever is simple, let him turn in here!” To him who is without sense she says, “Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed. Leave simpleness, and live, and walk in the way of insight.” He who corrects a scoffer gets himself abuse, and he who reproves a wicked man incurs injury. Do not reprove a scoffer, or he will hate you; reprove a wise man, and he will love you. Give instruction to a wise man, and he will be still wiser; teach a righteous man and he will increase in learning. The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is insight. For by me your days will be multiplied, and years will be added to your life.
VI.
Her mother suffered from a disease of the blood. The holy martyrs, Alphius, Philadelphus and Cyrinus, appeared to her in a dream and told her that she would be healed only if she became baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. The mother thereafter professed her faith in Christ, was baptized, and indeed recovered. Impressed upon seeing this miracle, young Euthalia also requested and received baptism.
VII.
“Where are you going?” he yells at the panel in front of him, a finished icon finally. “I can’t talk to you. I can’t hear you! What are you telling me? ”
Next to the bench is a stack of more wood panels, each identical in dimension and thickness to the one he’s just finished painting. With a deep sigh, he places the icon face down on top of the stack. And he preempts your question: “No, these are the discards. After all this time, I still can’t get it quite right. Almost… almost, and again, and again, but not.”
You ask, “The eyes?”
“The eyes, yes. But it’s about the colors, too. The mixture is always a little off. Here, let me show you.” He pulls a tattered polaroid off a nearby bookshelf, and though the white edges show much wear, the image itself is perfectly preserved: an icon showing a young woman with a light blue headscarf and a red robe, eyes looking into infinity. “This is the reference,” he says. It looks—it is—absolutely identical to the icon he just finished. The two images are revealed, despite the dim light, as entirely lacking any of the iniquity of difference, as though they are speaking to you.
You can’t help yourself. He eyes you silently as you walk to the stack of icons and look through the topmost several. Each one is an exact replica of the others, and each a faithful reproduction, a machine-perfect duplicate in fact, of the image in the photograph. You work your way through that stack, then see another standing half-hidden in the shadows and attack it as well: every icon is identical to every other and a perfect copy of the image in the polaroid, altogether a haunting choir of angels crying “SAME.” You look back at him.
“I know, I know,” he says. “They’re all different, just a little off. Every time I get close, it’s like… something snaps shut in my brain. Like I’m being prodded.”
His eyes go distant, something half-remembered and half-blocked flickering across them for an instant. “I mean, I mix the colors by the book” (he points to a tall shelf-worn orange spine, The Painter’s Manual of Dionysius on a bookshelf by his bench). “I sit here and combine and blend and mix until I have the color of her… what looks like the color of her skin…” He pauses, drifts. “The mixing… warms it a little, you know, brings a little life to the paint. In fact a good icon, hell, a competent icon, should be a living, breathing thing, not this…” He picks up an unpainted block, drops it with a disdainful flourish back on the table with a thud, “… this dead wood.” He sighs, shakes his head slightly, lights a cigarette, pushes smoke from his mouth and nose. “But it’s off. The color is always off. It’s always dead.”
VIII.
Thy Martyr, O Lord, in her courageous contest for Thee received the prize of the crowns of incorruption and life from Thee, our immortal God. For since she possessed Thy strength, she cast down the tyrants and wholly destroyed the demons’ strengthless presumption. O Christ God, by her prayers, save our souls, since Thou art merciful.
IX.
On learning of his sister’s and mother’s baptisms, Sermilianus began to mock and ridicule them because of their faith in Christ. He raged, he stormed through the house hurling objects at walls, he threatened them. Unable to defend herself or her daughter, the elder Euthalia became frightened and fled her home. Then the brother began to persecute his sister. Young Euthalia was not afraid, however, for Christ was more dear to her than her brother. She said to Sermilianus, “I am a Christian and I am not afraid of death.” The wicked brother then sent a servant to defile her. When the servant attacked Euthalia, he lost his eyesight. The evil brother saw this miracle but still remained hard of heart. Just as Cain pursued Abel, Sermilianus pursued his sister. He caught her, restrained her, drew his sword and beheaded her.
X.
Time has passed, and he’s finished another one. It lies on its face on the other side of the room, where he threw it after sitting and looking at it for a long while. His head is in his hands, and he’s shaking, sobbing. “Goddammit. I can’t get it right. I just can’t get it to look like her. It’s stylized, yes I fucking know, but it’s supposed to LOOK LIKE HER.” The photograph of the icon sits there on the table next to another, earlier perfect copy. Her eyes, two identical pairs, are turned toward him.
He ceases abruptly, sits up straight, wipes his eyes and looks at you, the crying now a dead thing of the past. “It’s been so long. I don’t remember anything but this room, these paints, this bench, the cold, this awful smell. But there’s something else, and I know I can’t leave here until I get this icon right. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you’re a friend to me, and for that I thank you.”
Icon of Virgin Martyr St Euthalia, Courtesy of Panagiotis Nioras: www.nioras.com.
