The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine Page A

you the lecture. ‘Icon’ is the Greek word for image. The veneration of icons began in the eighth century and flourished under the Byzantine Empire, which in turn influenced the Russian tradition.” He blew some smoke toward the ceiling. “The ‘golden age’ of icons dates from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, about the same time as the Renaissance in the West. The best examples from that period are worth a fortune.”
    That didn’t jibe with what Harry Spears had said. “Really? The auctioneer at Morgan’s told me there isn’t much of a market for icons. Was he wrong?”
    â€œI’ll say. That may have been true before the fall of the Soviet Union, but these days the new oil billionaires will pay huge sums for old icons, especially rare ones. Collecting is a mark of prestige. Even the Russian mafia is involved. Think about it. There aren’t many new Leonardos floating about, but it’s still possible to uncover icons from that era that have never been equaled in terms of color or line.”
    â€œThat’s what’s always puzzled me,” I admitted. “There doesn’t seem to be much progression in the tradition. Why is there so little variation in the style of icon painting from one century to the next?” In fact, I had avoided studying icon painting precisely because the tradition struck me as repetitious.
    â€œOne reason is that the Church had rules as to what you could or couldn’t paint.” Al peered into the bowl of his pipe, which apparently had gone out. It was always doing that. He relit it. “Another is that later painters were in such awe of the early masters that they imitated their compositions, so their work tends to follow set patterns. It’s the quality that differs. It’s true that by the time you reach the nineteenth century, much of the production is mechanical. That’s why the excitement lies in peeling back layers of time. When you start cleaning an icon that’s really old, say one from the sixteenth century, you may have to remove three or four layers of overpainting before you get down to the authentic work.” Al laid his pipe in an ashtray and reached for the dictionary he was using as a weight. “Now, this one here isn’t as old as that, but I think it may be ready. Let’s see what we have.”
    Al lifted the soiled glass and started working again with fresh cotton balls dipped in solvent. Once he was satisfied with the result, he gently lifted any remaining flakes of residue by gliding the edge of his scalpel at a low angle to the surface in a delicate movement. He repeated this process until the entire icon had been treated. Then, using clean balls of cotton, he swabbed the surface one final time until it glowed. “There!”
    At first I thought we were looking at the same painting freshly renewed, just as the dull hood of a car seems newly painted after a rainstorm. But in another moment I realized that not only were the colors brighter, but the composition had subtly changed. Whereas the previous Virgin stared out at the viewer, cradling Jesus in a presentational pose, the Virgin in this painting looked tenderly into her infant’s eyes, her head turned to the side, toward his. Jesus in turn looked into his mother’s eyes, his fingers resting trustingly on her shoulder. The facial details of both figures were more convincing, compared to the first painting, and the brushwork more complex, as in the intricate design of the hem of Mary’s robe.
    â€œIt’s a different painting altogether. I believe it’s the Mother of God of Feodor,” Al exclaimed, with brio. “The original belongs to the Temple of St. Feodor in Kostroma. This version clearly was done in the eighteenth century. You can notice elements of realism as the result of influences filtering in from the West. At the time, the style was controversial. Brighter colors and more