Without Remorse
Our Lady Tickvinskaja Hodegetria Eleus (Our Lady of Grace), 1773 Russian icon, unknown artist, Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art, University of Oregon
Mary hangs spattered with candle wax darkened by age, giving away too much of herself. Her narrowed eyes stare over my right shoulder, as you thumb through the catalog of Russian icons. See how without remorse she is letting me go. Notice too the distance from her eyes to Christ’s. From her long tender fingers to the outward margins of the wood, each angle carefully measured; the mathematical precision of the iconographer’s art intuited, never seen. Paint covers initial outlines, gold gently brushed along her shoulders, flakes of it fallen to the floor. So far from home, her Russian-born melancholy full-blown, a sour memory of boat rides, ceaseless waves, lull of distant landmarks. The infant is uneasy in her embrace; his delicate man-face knows too much already, his eyes turned upward in adoration. Now she is letting him go. Envisioned together, the painter overlapped their halos like rippled water, one circle emerging from the other, gold thinning near the borders of their garments, over time, shaken loose, one moment covering the wood, one moment letting it go.
Published in Ekphrasis, 2013
Nominated by the editors for a Pushcart Prize
http://ekphrasisjournal.com/
Our Lady Tickvinskaja Hodegetria Eleus (Our Lady of Grace), 1773 Russian icon, unknown artist, Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art, University of Oregon
Mary hangs spattered with candle wax darkened by age, giving away too much of herself. Her narrowed eyes stare over my right shoulder, as you thumb through the catalog of Russian icons. See how without remorse she is letting me go. Notice too the distance from her eyes to Christ’s. From her long tender fingers to the outward margins of the wood, each angle carefully measured; the mathematical precision of the iconographer’s art intuited, never seen. Paint covers initial outlines, gold gently brushed along her shoulders, flakes of it fallen to the floor. So far from home, her Russian-born melancholy full-blown, a sour memory of boat rides, ceaseless waves, lull of distant landmarks. The infant is uneasy in her embrace; his delicate man-face knows too much already, his eyes turned upward in adoration. Now she is letting him go. Envisioned together, the painter overlapped their halos like rippled water, one circle emerging from the other, gold thinning near the borders of their garments, over time, shaken loose, one moment covering the wood, one moment letting it go.
Published in Ekphrasis, 2013
Nominated by the editors for a Pushcart Prize
http://ekphrasisjournal.com/
