The Virgin Mary Icon Painting That Followed Me Through Grief and Grace

Katerina Miller
Jul 23
6 min read

Some images stay with us, haunting the edges of our consciousness, appearing and reappearing throughout our lives, revealing new meanings each time. For me, one of these images is the 17th-century Greek icon known as "Παναγία του Χάρου"—the "Virgin Mary of Charon." It is the only known depiction of the Virgin Mary not holding the Christ child but instead cradling the Crucifixion itself.

Original Orthodox icon from Greece Virgin Mary Of Charon (Virgin Mary in the front of death) holding crucified Jesus — Virgin Mary of the Charon, 17th-century

I was around 13 years old when I first felt an inexplicable pull toward this icon. Without knowing its history, I was compelled to paint it. Being self-taught, I didn’t know much about traditional techniques, so I used watercolor on black paper—an unorthodox choice that somehow produced an effect I found interesting. I titled this first version after a phrase from Nietzsche: “But my pity is not a crucifixion.” (From Thus Spoke Zarathustra: “What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion.”) At the time, I didn’t fully analyze why I was drawn to that line — I just liked it. Well yes, I’m aware of the complicated tension between Nietzsche and Christianity. But here it isn’t about dogma or rejection; it’s about facing death, crossing the threshold, and holding grief with eyes wide open.

A sorrowful figure in a red cloak holds a crucifix with Jesus. Dark background, somber mood, detailed rendering. — But my pity is not a crucifixion, 2008

Looking back, I now see that this pull toward the icon wasn’t random. Around that same time, an unexpected tragedy struck my family. My cousin passed away suddenly in 2006, when I was thirteen. It was a shock. My grandparents, with whom I was living, were devastated, and our home was consumed by grief. It felt like an endless cycle of mourning, a never-ending wail of sorrow. As a child, I didn’t fully understand it—but on some level, I guess I did.

I wasn’t particularly close to my cousin, but witnessing the unbearable grief my family went through was something I simply couldn’t handle. Only now, at 31, do I started understanding the impact it had on me. In the wake of this loss, I withdrew. I locked myself away in my room, painting, reading Nietzsche, and listening to Marilyn Manson. Both Nietzsche’s philosophy and Manson’s music gave me a strange sense of empowerment, a way to carve out an identity in a world that suddenly felt fragile and unpredictable. Nietzsche’s idea of the "Übermensch"—the "superhuman" who rises above suffering—appealed to me deeply. I wanted to be strong, untouchable, detached. Perhaps, in my teenage mind, I thought this was the only way to survive the grief that had engulfed my family.

Looking at this now through a Jungian lens, I realize I was engaging in a process of psychological self-protection. My fascination with Nietzsche and the darker aesthetics of gothic culture was not just rebellion—it was a way to construct a persona that could endure pain without succumbing to it. The "Virgin Mary of Charon" icon resonated with me because it symbolized that same transformation. It is an image of grief, yes, but also of acceptance, endurance, and ultimately, transcendence. Unlike traditional icons of Mary mourning her son, this one does not despair—she holds the crucifix with a quiet, solemn resolve. It is an image of sorrow transformed into something else—perhaps strength, perhaps peace, perhaps something beyond words.

Returning to the Icon in 2022

More than a decade later, in 2022, I returned to this image. But this time, I approached it with discipline and reverence. This was not just another painting for me—it was a responsibility. I wanted to paint it not just as an artwork but as an icon, and I wanted to feel that I was worthy of this task—not only as an artist, but as a human being. I treated the process as something sacred.

I began with extensive studies, creating a drawing first. I studied how Orthodox icons were traditionally painted, and one of the most fascinating discoveries I made was the use of "reversed perspective" in iconography. Unlike traditional Western paintings, which use linear perspective to create depth, Orthodox icons use reversed perspective, where objects in the background appear larger and recede toward the viewer. This technique isn’t about realism—it’s about shifting the viewer’s perception. It transforms the image into something timeless, something that exists beyond physical space. Icons are meant to be windows to the divine, and reversed perspective draws the viewer into that otherworldly presence rather than trapping them in the confines of earthly realism.

I did several sketches, revising the composition carefully. But when it came to the Virgin Mary's face... In one of my early sketches, her face appeared almost effortlessly—there was something undeniable about it. I felt, instinctively, that this was the only true sketch. I have a belief that the first attempt—the first embodiment of the idea—should be always preserved. I honored that.

The Painting Process: A Sacred Approach

Once I was ready to commit the image to canvas, I chose to work in oils but deviated from my usual approach. Normally, I begin my paintings with a monochrome grisaille underpainting to establish values, but for this piece, I only used that technique for the background and the lilies. When it came to the Virgin Mary herself, I took a different path.

Her garments began with a base of bright golden hues. I knew that in the final image, her robe needed to be a deep, radiant red, glowing with a kind of unearthly majesty. To achieve this, I worked in delicate, transparent layers of "glazes"—each one shifting subtly in tone, breathing life into the fabric.

The Virgin Mary icon painting process

This slow and meticulous process allowed the colors to build a depth and luminosity that couldn’t be achieved with opaque paint alone. As the layers accumulated, the red became rich, powerful, almost alive.

But through all of this, I did not touch their faces.

I had learned that in Orthodox iconography, the holy face of a saint—and their hands—should be painted at the very end. This tradition is rooted in the belief that the presence of the divine is revealed in the final moments of creation. It is the moment when the icon ceases to be just paint on a surface and becomes something more.

And so, I waited.

When everything else was complete—the background, the lilies, the glowing folds of her robe—I finally turned to her face. I held my breath as I worked, knowing this was the moment where everything would come together. There is something indescribable about this stage of painting—when an image that has existed in your mind for so long finally takes shape before you, when the lifeless becomes living.

Orthodox icon of Virgin Mary in red cloak holding a crucifix, adorned with halo and ornate jewelry. Greek letters on a dark background. — Virgin Mary in the face of death, close-up

The Challenge of Iconic Lettering

During my research, I also learned about the sacred inscriptions found on Orthodox icons. Traditionally, on either side of the Virgin Mary’s head, the Greek abbreviation "ΜΡ ΘΥ" (Μήτηρ Θεοῦ) is written, meaning "Mother of God." The abbreviation "ΙC ΧC" (Ιησούς Χριστός), meaning "Jesus Christ," is often placed near Christ. The most striking detail is the inscription within the halo around Christ’s head—"Ο ΩΝ" (Ho On), meaning "The One Who Is"—a direct reference to God’s eternal existence from the Old Testament. Additionally, the letters "INRI" (Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum—"Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews") are sometimes included, a reminder of the inscription placed above Christ at the Crucifixion.

I wanted the lettering to be as flawless as possible, but this was an ordeal. Holding a long liner brush, I steadied my hand with the other, trying to prevent even the slightest shake. The same struggle applied to the delicate lines of blood and the intricate ornaments on Mary’s garments. I gained an overwhelming respect for those who have devoted their lives to painting icons—because this is not just art, it is an act of devotion, an exercise in patience, humility, and faith.

Some symbols never leave us. They grow with us, change with us, and when we are ready, they reveal their deeper truths. And sometimes, if we are patient, they become miracles.

An Unbelievable Encounter in Russia

In 2024, I traveled to Russia and visited a city I had never been to before—Nizhny Novgorod. This city is famous for its historic architecture, particularly its stunning churches. There were so many, each one rich with centuries of history, but my time there was short. I had to choose carefully which churches to visit.

I picked one at random, following nothing but intuition. The first church I stepped into took my breath away. It was the Rozhdestvenskaya tserkov (Church of the Christmas), a beautiful and ancient place. And there, inside, standing on a beautiful altar, was the icon.

Illuminated red and white church with colorful onion domes and golden crosses against a night sky, surrounded by snow. — Rozhdestvenskaya tserkov in Nizhny Novgorod

Not just any icon—this icon. The rare depiction of the Virgin Mary with her adult son Jesus Christ being crucified.

I had visited countless churches in Moscow and around the world, and I had never seen this icon in real life before. Yet here it was, staring right at me as soon as I walked in. I could not take my eyes off it. I could not believe that I was seeing it.