A pilgrimage to Enders Island in Connecticut sowed me how ancient art forms can still speak to the modern world.
Published November 24, 2025
This past month, I spent five days with St. Michael the Archangel, and by the end of it, I felt as if we knew each other rather well. We didn’t exactly talk—he’s more of the strong, silent type—but as I painted his image layer by layer, I began to understand him in a new way.
Our encounter took shape in a class on Essentials of Iconography taught by iconographer Marek Czarnecki at St. Edmund’s Retreat near Mystic, Connecticut. Under Marek’s patient guidance, I learned the traditional series of steps in painting an icon. The process was humbling, fascinating, and occasionally nerve-wracking (especially when working on the face—would you like to mess up the face of an angel?!).
The setting was just as remarkable as the workshop. St. Edmund’s Retreat sits on Enders Island, a ten-acre patch of land surrounded by the sea. You reach it by a narrow causeway that seems designed to slow your breathing before you arrive. With its lovely chapel, blooming gardens, and many places to savor views of the water and waves, Enders Island is a landscape steeped in prayers. By the second day, I began to suspect that the Holy Spirit has a vacation home there. Read my article on Enders Island
Marek Czarnecki brings a deep reverence to his work. Raised in a Polish-American community, he earned a BFA from the School of Visual Arts in New York City and then became a student of the acclaimed Russian Orthodox iconographer Ksenia Pokrovsky. “Iconography is an art without a ceiling,” he told us. “I’m still learning, even after three decades.”
In addition to his work doing commissions and restorations, Marek teaches several classes a year through the island’s Sacred Art Institute, which offers courses ranging from Gregorian chant and calligraphy to oil painting. Our eight-person class met in a studio whose stained glass and stonework were reminders that the space once served as the island’s chapel.
Marek began the week with an introduction to the history and meaning of icons. Not all religious art is an icon, he explained, and icons are not simply another art form. Instead they are believed to be windows into the divine realm, conveying theological truths through a sacred language of signs and symbols.. Their quiet beauty carries a sense of order and peace, with light that radiates from within.
Marek noted that interest in iconography has grown in recent years, part of a quiet spiritual resurgence in an age that hungers for stillness and meaning. While they are most associated with the Orthodox Church, they are increasingly treasured by other denominations as well.
And while praying with icons is a time-honored tradition, so is painting them. “The best reason I can give you to paint an icon is to save your own soul,” Marek told us.
It was clear, even in that first session, that this was no mere art class: it was an invitation to enter a centuries-old rhythm of prayer and creativity.
The next morning, we set to work. Under Marek’s guidance, we learned how to mix egg tempera from scratch, an alchemy of mineral pigments, egg yolk, and water. We traced the outlines of the fourteenth-century Byzantine icon that served as our model, then practiced how to build an image gradually, beginning with dark colors and adding lighter ones on top. Along the way came lessons in brush strokes, color mixing, and the meanings behind each part of the process. As we put brush to board, Marek would often remind us to repeat the Jesus Prayer, which is the traditional practice of all icon painters as they work.
The process unfolded slowly, almost ceremonially. Hours passed in near silence, interrupted only by the occasional sigh or the gentle clink of a brush against a glass jar. Each step required focus and patience. When I tried to rush, the paint rebelled; when I breathed and slowed down, it flowed more easily. I began to understand why iconographers say the image isn’t painted so much as revealed.
In the end, I returned home with a beautiful icon, thanks in no small part to Marek’s timely rescue brushstrokes. It now rests on the mantel in my living room, a quiet reminder of that week of paint and prayer. Each time I pass by, its calm presence draws me back to the stillness I felt in the studio.
Lately I’ve found myself pausing before my icon more often. In Christian tradition, St. Michael is the defender, the one who stands for courage in the face of darkness. Yet the icon I painted shows not a warrior in battle, but a serene figure, as if to remind us that true strength is calm, centered, and luminous. When the world feels overwhelming, I picture his golden gaze and try to let a little of his light steady me.
Maybe that’s the point of any creative or spiritual practice: to shape something beautiful enough that it keeps shaping us long after we’ve put the brush down.
