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Art museums figure highly on my list of favorite places. Whenever possible I spend leisurely hours with the inspirations of a muse I myself do not possess. Gazing at the work of artists I have never met, I try to guess their identity and motivation before allowing myself to read its accompanying information. My artistic knowledge is limited, but my admiration of form, color, shadow and composition knows no bounds.

Recently my experience of visual art expanded when I rediscovered iconography. The use of icons dates back more than sixteen hundred years, yet I had only seen them occasionally in university collections and old churches. As a younger woman I thought them awkward, unreal, even unlovely. I certainly did not relate to the artist behind the artwork, or to the meaning of these strained portraits. Now, however, I found myself drawn to their mystery. What lay behind those unusual lines of form, those tints and hues, the eyes that seemed to look at me, or even through me? I felt something alive reach out through nonliving mediums of pigment, canvas, wood.

I simply had to learn more.

I began by attending a lecture by a local iconographer. A gracious artist, she patiently explained that iconography actually means “image writing.” The process involves etching a geometric pattern onto a surface. The artist must then carefully choose which parts to gild, which to paint using other tints. Colors, as well as patterns, have meaning. Even the process of creating the pigment reaches back into antiquity. Clay and carefully ground pigments are mixed and laid down layer upon layer. Upon this surface the artist adds fine lines to define and refine the final image. Then, almost casually, the speaker mentioned that the artist completes the process on a horizontal surface, rather than on an upright easel. Even more startling, the work requires a full year to completely set and dry.

No wonder I experienced icons as portraits of deep mystery! They actually were many-layered, deep and complex visual expressions. Through them art and nature, vision and time, literally meet on a level plane.

Time passed. I gradually forgot about my icon experience. The winter holidays swamped me with a multitude of tasks. I felt overwhelmed, overspent and under-appreciative. As I desperately rummaged through pictures for our annual holiday card, I found an old photo portrait of myself that stopped me in my tracks. As I considered my image, I realized I was not altogether happy with it. This was not the typical dissatisfaction many women feel about their appearance, because it was not based on society’s ideas of beauty. Instead, my feelings stemmed from the internal image I held of myself—and how much this photo portrait differed from my inner self. It was at that point I recalled the mystery of those icons.

Why not consider reframing myself as a piece of art, purposefully composed with the natural materials at hand? Why not use this coming year as one of personal "image writing" where I take a careful, compassionate look at myself and craft an image of who I want to become in 2008? Why not put the “I” back into a very personal form of iconography? Besides, New Year’s resolutions had never worked for me. It was time to try something different. I would treat myself as a piece of iconography, a work-intensive piece of living art that takes time to perfect, but worth the effort.

How will I do this? Like the iconographer I will begin by assembling the necessary materials. Instead of canvas or wood or metal, my blank new 2008 journal will provide that "horizontal surface" upon which I can sketch out the elements vital to my new work-in-progress. Older journals, memories and letters can extend that plane, providing a treasure trove of hopes, dreams and records of personal reality. They will help me draw on valuable pieces of my past and keys to my innermost self. Instead of pigment and clay, I will use a quality pen to list the positive qualities that make me the person I am. Like the iconographer, I will be mindful of the “golden” dimensions of myself-the solid, foundational, well-formed center of my being. Those provide the precious gilt in my new self-image writing. Those are the pieces I most need to enhance and build upon, as my future becomes a new present.

As the year unfolds, I will continually add those fine lines that define and refine my goals, my hopes and my vision for this year.

Like the iconographer, I have committed myself to my art. Dedication, time, energy, insight, patience: the stuff of which I will begin redesigning—or perhaps rediscovering—a new, renewed, self. Perhaps a year will not be enough time. That’s okay. If “image writing” is a living art, then I have a lifetime to get it right.

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