“It’s too noisy”
- catherine mary
- Jun 6
- 5 min read
I’ve been reflecting recently on silence - what it is, what qualities it has and, as an artist, how that might be represented visually. And of course, once you start focussing on concepts of silence, it is not too long before you realise just how absent it is in today’s world. Whether that is the hum of a vending machine in a hospital waiting room, the distant (or not) sirens of emergency services going about their necessary work, or self-imposed interactions when scrolling through social media feeds, solitude and silence are gifts not readily offered in our every-day existence. I am writing this blog from a train, as I travel from Glasgow Queen Street to Oban, and my senses are being assaulted by the gentle chatter of seated travellers around me, the intrusive joshing of those striding through the carriage in search of the refreshments trolley, the intermittent announcements as we near and then depart from each station, and the ever-present hum of the train engine itself with the varied sounds of wheels on the rails.
Don’t get me wrong - there are times when in my studio that I enjoy putting on some music to aid my focus. I find that I cannot work to pop music or even contemporary worship music; instead I have playlists of ancient plainsong, or gentle choral music with melifluous harmonies, that create an atmosphere of worship and unite my soul with the eternal worship of the saints. Yet more often, what I crave most when creating an icon is silence, a deep, prayerful silence that, I hope, is somehow transferred into the icon itself. People often comment when seeing icons that they feel drawn to them, that they cannot but keep coming back to them. For me, it seems as though the stillness and quietness of an icon could well be (at least in part) what calls to our innermost selves.
In his wonderful book, ‘Praying with Icons’, Jim Forest tells the story of a visit to an art gallery with an Orthodox monk. Standing before a sizeable oil painting, which depicted the parting of the Red Sea, and was by one of the grand masters of Western art, their senses were offered a feast of artistic skill, bravura use of colour and all the dynamism and tumult that we imagine accompanied the Israelites upon their rescue from the doomed Egyptian chariots. Asked what he thought of this monumental artwork, the monk replied simply “It’s too noisy”. In his desire to communicate the scene, the artist had so thoroughly conveyed the events of the Exodus that the viewer was drawn into the drama, experiencing all the sensory overload that befits such a epic moment. Not so with an icon.
When speaking about icons, one of the first things that I explain is that an icon is not a work of religious art in this sense. There are numerous grounds upon which we can make this distinction and it is not my intention to rehearse all of them here. Yet one of the features of an icon should be, to take the monk’s phrase, that an icon is not noisy. In depicting a saint in an icon, there should be a sense in which here is a person entirely at ease with him- or her-self; they embody the peace of Christ within their physical demeanour and gaze. The saint does not cry or smile or laugh or show any obvious sign of emotion; it is not the intention of the icon to evoke emotion in us as we pray. That is not to say that an icon lacks emotion - you only have to look at an icon of the Crucifixion to see the crestfallen postures of those standing with Christ at that moment.
Yet there is no outpouring of emotion, no loss of control, any more than there are sensationalist depictions of Christ’s sufferings. There is a Greek term often used to describe the emotional state in an icon, χαρμολύπη (charmo-lypé), translated as “bright sadness” or “sorrowful joy”. The theological depth of this term is to tell us that, notwithstanding the grief of this moment of Crucifixion, there is still the joyful truth of Christ’s resurrection; even in the exultation of the Nativity, there is the ever-present reality of the sword that will pierce Mary’s soul too. As one who prays with icons, therefore, we are not at the mercy of an image designed to orchestrate our emotions or provoke a specific response; instead, we are permitted simply to come into the presence of the saint depicted and “be”, presenting ourselves as we are, with all the emotions that we might bring in that moment, and being welcomed without contradiction or judgment. The icon represents that kenosis (self-emptying) that allows us to pour ourselves out to Christ.
So next time you find yourself spending time with an icon, perhaps pay attention to the stillness, to the silence, that it embodies. Take the opportunity, if you can, to quieten your own inner noise and drink in the silence that surely is refreshment for the soul. As St Augustine wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you".
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Travelling to Oban, in my experience, means only one thing - I am on my way to Iona! I look forward to sharing with you some reflections from my time there next month. I am travelling with a generosity of luggage that includes boxes of greetings cards and original art pieces; most importantly, though, I managed to complete my icon of St Columba in time to provide our focus for the week.
Just before I left, I was also able to complete my latest commission of St John the Evangelist, which is now safely with its intended recipient.
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