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Bob Sylva: Nun reaches back through centuries to create religious icons
By Bob Sylva -- Bee Columnist
Published 2:15 am PDT Saturday, September 4, 2004
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here.
In a tiny basement studio of a big house on L Street that serves as a modern
convent for a pretty hip posse of five Catholic nuns, Anne Sekul sits at her
drawing board and blasts Gregorian chants on her CD player. The solemn music
sets a divine mood.
She fasts, she meditates, she contemplates the beyond. At a precise,
illuminating moment not of her own authority, the spirit arrives - this wet
brush of flame - and the holy image is slowly revealed.
Then, in the aura of grace, in a yielding of control, in a technique of
illustration that is centuries old, Sekul begins to paint on gesso-surfaced
board. Her subdued colors are extracted from vegetables and crushed rock,
mixed with egg emulsion to form tempera. She also applies a haloed radiance
of gold leaf.
Hers is an expression of faith, not artistry.
Sekul paints - the proper term is "writes" - icons. Not those clickable
doodads on computer desktops, but rather these gorgeous and timeless
renditions of Jesus Christ, the saints, the archangels, Blessed Mary, which,
among the faithful, are cherished for their inspired ability to divulge the
eternal.
Icons are typically a fixture of the Eastern Orthodox tradition, Greek,
Russian, Serbian and Armenian among them. But not the Roman Catholic, whose
devotional objects are less stylized and more three-dimensional. Moreover,
icons usually are written by specially trained iconographers authorized by
the patriarch. Not rendered by a bold Catholic nun, however devout in her
spiritual purpose.
"I try to follow and respect the tradition," says Sekul, cognizant of her
encroachment on sacred ground. "When I begin an icon, I fast, I pray, I
meditate. This is a spiritual endeavor, not an artistic one. But I'm just
learning the theology."
Now one afternoon this week, a pool of sunlight afire on the cool, shady
sidewalk, Sekul is sitting in her basement studio. There is a shelf of
texts, a cup of brushes, a chapel-like quiet. On one wall, there is a
gallery of sacred figures: Christ, the Holy Mother, Archangel Gabriel, St.
Anthony of the Desert, St. Teresa de Avila - all rendered in grave,
extenuated figures that recall El Greco.
"You can call me Sister or you can call me Anne," offers Sekul, who herself
is a picture of informality. Later, of her appearance, she quips, "Would you
put down that I'm blond, 5-foot-9, weigh 120 pounds!"
Sister, that would be cause for deceit.
In truth, Sekul, 52, is energetic and fit, with a bowl of brown hair and
watchful brown eyes. She's wearing cropped cargo pants, a blue T-shirt and
sandals. She doesn't look like a nun. But, then, upon reflection, what does
a nun look like?
Sekul grew up at 42nd and J and graduated from St. Francis High School. "I
didn't want to be a nun," she confesses. "I know that sounds terrible to
say. But it didn't seem like a lot of fun. But I also knew that I couldn't
do anything else in life until I tried the community (of Mercy sisters)."
That was 30 years ago. After a satisfying, even fun career of teaching and
administration, of starting the Mercy Education Resource Center, Sekul, a
lifelong painter, took a sabbatical five years ago to pursue icon writing.
She studied under a demanding teacher at Mount Angel in Oregon. "I feel a
call to do this," she says of contemplative icon writing. "I think it has
been in me for a long time."
Lately, Sekul is doing small commissions for local Catholic churches. She
believes the sometimes overly secularized Catholic decor could benefit from
an infusion of the more splendid Byzantine ritual. The holy icons have
amplified the light in the niche of her own soul.
"I think this has changed me for the better," says Sekul. "I think I am more
aware of my faith, my prayer life. I think it has reminded me to be more
patient and kind to people. When you think about life, the meaning of life,
it is about relinquishing control. It is about letting God enter your life
with goodness."
News
Bob Sylva: Nun reaches back through centuries to create religious icons
By Bob Sylva -- Bee Columnist
Published 2:15 am PDT Saturday, September 4, 2004
Get weekday updates of Sacramento Bee headlines and breaking news. Sign up
here.
In a tiny basement studio of a big house on L Street that serves as a modern
convent for a pretty hip posse of five Catholic nuns, Anne Sekul sits at her
drawing board and blasts Gregorian chants on her CD player. The solemn music
sets a divine mood.
She fasts, she meditates, she contemplates the beyond. At a precise,
illuminating moment not of her own authority, the spirit arrives - this wet
brush of flame - and the holy image is slowly revealed.
Then, in the aura of grace, in a yielding of control, in a technique of
illustration that is centuries old, Sekul begins to paint on gesso-surfaced
board. Her subdued colors are extracted from vegetables and crushed rock,
mixed with egg emulsion to form tempera. She also applies a haloed radiance
of gold leaf.
Hers is an expression of faith, not artistry.
Sekul paints - the proper term is "writes" - icons. Not those clickable
doodads on computer desktops, but rather these gorgeous and timeless
renditions of Jesus Christ, the saints, the archangels, Blessed Mary, which,
among the faithful, are cherished for their inspired ability to divulge the
eternal.
Icons are typically a fixture of the Eastern Orthodox tradition, Greek,
Russian, Serbian and Armenian among them. But not the Roman Catholic, whose
devotional objects are less stylized and more three-dimensional. Moreover,
icons usually are written by specially trained iconographers authorized by
the patriarch. Not rendered by a bold Catholic nun, however devout in her
spiritual purpose.
"I try to follow and respect the tradition," says Sekul, cognizant of her
encroachment on sacred ground. "When I begin an icon, I fast, I pray, I
meditate. This is a spiritual endeavor, not an artistic one. But I'm just
learning the theology."
Now one afternoon this week, a pool of sunlight afire on the cool, shady
sidewalk, Sekul is sitting in her basement studio. There is a shelf of
texts, a cup of brushes, a chapel-like quiet. On one wall, there is a
gallery of sacred figures: Christ, the Holy Mother, Archangel Gabriel, St.
Anthony of the Desert, St. Teresa de Avila - all rendered in grave,
extenuated figures that recall El Greco.
"You can call me Sister or you can call me Anne," offers Sekul, who herself
is a picture of informality. Later, of her appearance, she quips, "Would you
put down that I'm blond, 5-foot-9, weigh 120 pounds!"
Sister, that would be cause for deceit.
In truth, Sekul, 52, is energetic and fit, with a bowl of brown hair and
watchful brown eyes. She's wearing cropped cargo pants, a blue T-shirt and
sandals. She doesn't look like a nun. But, then, upon reflection, what does
a nun look like?
Sekul grew up at 42nd and J and graduated from St. Francis High School. "I
didn't want to be a nun," she confesses. "I know that sounds terrible to
say. But it didn't seem like a lot of fun. But I also knew that I couldn't
do anything else in life until I tried the community (of Mercy sisters)."
That was 30 years ago. After a satisfying, even fun career of teaching and
administration, of starting the Mercy Education Resource Center, Sekul, a
lifelong painter, took a sabbatical five years ago to pursue icon writing.
She studied under a demanding teacher at Mount Angel in Oregon. "I feel a
call to do this," she says of contemplative icon writing. "I think it has
been in me for a long time."
Lately, Sekul is doing small commissions for local Catholic churches. She
believes the sometimes overly secularized Catholic decor could benefit from
an infusion of the more splendid Byzantine ritual. The holy icons have
amplified the light in the niche of her own soul.
"I think this has changed me for the better," says Sekul. "I think I am more
aware of my faith, my prayer life. I think it has reminded me to be more
patient and kind to people. When you think about life, the meaning of life,
it is about relinquishing control. It is about letting God enter your life
with goodness."