Iconicity
The modern world is always trying to catch our eyes. From flashy advertisements to constant notifications to the infinite scroll of Instagram, there is always something new to look at, something to consume with our sight. French philosopher Jean-Luc Marion has a name for an image like this, an image that points to no original beyond itself: “an idol, the image of a desire, and thus of a voyeuristic gaze” (53).
Marion’s idol is an image that is disconnected from anything but itself; there is no “original” of which the image is an image of; rather, the idol exists only to please the eye, to satisfy the libido vivendi, the pure desire to see. This libido vivendi dangerously conflates the image and the thing, and, Marion warns, will establish a world where “everything is reduced to an image and where every image is valued as a thing” if left unchecked (54).
What, then, is the alternative? Are we to turn to a vicious iconoclasm, labeling all images as idols — after all, Marion does write that “Every image is an idol” (51)?
But Marion continues: “Every image is an idol, or it isn’t even seen” (51). Despite his odd phrasing, Marion’s point becomes clear: an image that is seen as an image is an idol, but an image that is not seen as itself but rather depicts a reality to be seen is something else entirely: an icon. Marion’s icon is “given not to be seen but to be venerated, because it thus offers its prototype to be seen” (60).
The icon is not an end to itself, to be seen for the pleasure of seeing. Rather, an encounter with an icon involves what Marion terms the “gaze” — a seeing of the invisible in the visible (56). One could see a human face for their own pleasure, admiring the visible features of it, but when two people gaze at one another, they look at more than just a face but experience a genuine encounter with the invisible personhood of the other. In an icon, there is something not to look at, but a gaze to meet, a reality to engage with.
Christ is the ultimate icon — “the icon of the invisible God” in the words of St. Paul (Colossians 1:15). In the words of Marion: “If [Christ] demands that I lift my eyes to him, this not at all so that I see him, him only, but so that I might see also and especially the Father” (57). Thus, when we encounter an icon, an image in worship, the icon does not demand that it itself be seen, but rather that which it represents be venerated. In viewing an icon of Christ, or of the Saints, we are meeting the invisible gaze of Christ, or of the Saints. The icon itself is a type of the Incarnation, as the heavenly lowers itself to become visible on earth and the image empties itself like the incarnate Christ. In fact, a bishop at Second Nicaea even opined that Iconoclasm was “the worst of all heresies, as it subverts the incarnation of our savior”(Session One, Second Nicaea). In the words of Marion, “the icon, therefore, is derived from the kenosis of the image” (62).
Marion clarifies that icons need not be images in traditional iconographic style. Rather, his use of icon “designates a doctrine concerning the visibility of the image” that can be found in many styles of artwork (59).
Jan van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece is one such example Twentieth-century American Jesuit art historian Marice McNamee notes that the altarpiece’s clear theme is the union between the eternal sacrifice and eternal liturgy of Christ the high priest (depicted in center, wearing priestly vestments) in the upper half and the mass celebrated on earth in the lower panels: it is a “Eucharistic Summa” (87). Although the painting is gorgeous and rich in symbolism, the piece should not be separated from its purpose as an altarpiece. During mass, the eyes of the faithful — including the celebrant — are invited by the piece to connect the mass they celebrate with the saints who celebrate it with them in heaven and ultimately with Christ’s eternal sacrifice as one event. The Church militant, gathered in public worship, sees the Church triumphant doing the same; it reminds us that we, in the words of Twentieth-century German theologian Romano Guardini, “are not only individuals, but members of a community as well; we are not merely transitory, but something of us belongs to eternity” (Spirit of the Liturgy, 51). The gaze of the people is met by the gaze of the saints and with Christ; the liturgy they celebrate is one and the same, and the altarpiece presents that reality through the image.
This can also be seen in the so-called Firescreen Madonna, a painting of unknown original location or author, though it is attributed to Robert Campin. Twenty-first century American philosopher Beth Williamson suggests that this piece may have been an altarpiece for a small chapel — although likely not for a church’s main altar, due to its size — but it may have also been used in private devotion (389–390). The white clothing of St. Mary and placement of her knees suggests an altar, and the chalice and adjacent book similarly have Eucharistic connotations. The iconic purpose of this work, whether or not it was used as an altarpiece or in private devotion, remains the depiction of the incarnation. Williamson notes that the book adjacent to the infant Christ in particular is an allusion to the Word made flesh, from the prologue to the Gospel of John, and that the turning of the page references the movement of the Holy Spirit, a motif found in other incarnation-focused works (391). Situated between the book and the chalice, or between his incarnation and his passion, and upon the altar and underneath the gaze of his mother, Christ’s eyes directly engage the viewer, drawing them into the mystery of the incarnation.
Fra Angelico’s frescos should also be approached iconically. His fresco The Mocking of Christ with Virgin and St. Dominic, found in Cell 7 at the Convent of San Marco, depicts the mocking of Christ in devotional, not historical, terms. Despite being mocked and beaten, Christ sits serenely on his throne, which is low, rectangular, and red on white, suggesting an altar. He holds a staff in his right hand, and a sphere of power in his left, yet he does not lift a finger to stop his mockers; rather, he turns a blind eye to them, depicted by his blindfold, encouraging the same virtue for the monk beholding the image. The mockers themselves are only shown by their instruments of mockery, suggesting they are only instruments of sin, in the words of St. Paul, or that they have degraded “into non-existence through corruption” in the words of St. Athanasius (Romans 6:13; On the Incarnation chpt 2). Due to the devotional purpose of this work, however, it is also likely that the mockers are depicted as such so that the viewer may imagine themselves in that position, with their sins as the rods that strike and the mouths that mock Christ. St. Mary and St. Dominic sit below, in quiet ponderance of the mocking of Christ as examples for the viewer to imitate. The image is otherwise bare, with the only notable colors being the red and blue of the incarnation behind Christ and empty space being prominent, suggesting the “kenosis of the image” of Marion: the piece is quiet, calm, yet intentional in its devotional purpose. It does not seek to catch the eye or please the beholder, but rather seeks to orient the gaze of the faithful monk, calling him to meditate on the spiritual reality of the mocking of Christ and of his humility in being made flesh.
These pieces, though different in style and purpose, all share the quality of iconicity: rejecting the temptation of the idol, they do not permit our eyes to be pleased by the image itself but instead draw our gaze to meet the grander reality they represent.
