“Art is a microscope which the artist fixes on the secrets of his soul, and shows to people these secrets which are common to all.” –Tolstoy diary entry, May 1896
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Talents are our gifts from God; what we do with them is our gift back to Him, showing gratitude through our offerings. We’re reminded to remain humble by St. John Climacus: “Be exalted only by such achievements as you had before your birth. But what you received after your birth, as also birth itself, God gave you. Only those virtues which you have obtained without the co-operation of the mind belong to you, because your mind was given to you by God. Only such victories as you have won without the co-operation of the body have been accomplished by your efforts, because the body is not yours, but a work of God.” –Ladder of Divine Ascent, Step 23
Since “my” egg talents are not my own, I never refuse a request to teach this art, nor to offer a public demonstration. Just as a traditional religious icon reaches deeper than its wood-and-pigment façade, so too do pysanky awaken and enlighten some dusty, neglected corners of our souls. Eggs are so fragile and compelling a medium, sporting such delicate lines, and with designs that connect us back to our far-distant ancestors and the spiritual lenses through which they viewed their world. Beauty shared is prayer itself, as are the smiles and double-takes that catch people at first glance. “Whoa, are those real eggs?!” Once drawn in, I can reveal the detailed stepwise process that belies their usual status as a cultural craft. “No, friend, what you’re viewing is nothing less than an icon of the universe that contains upon it and within it the mysteries of life and death and everything in between.”
Teaching, too, continues to be a fulfilling pursuit. I don’t remember my own first-ever lines on an egg, but instead I have the joy of watching others take their initial baby-scratches into this art. Here too a parallel to iconography: the process reflects the artist’s heart even as it transforms the same. By creating sacred objects, we ourselves become sacred. By focusing our minds on the creation of beauty, we offer a prayer of peace and love to a world that’s in desperate need of both.
I ask all first-timers to start with the classic “beginner-egg” design, gleaned from the groundbreaking Eggs Beautiful by Luciow et. al. I sketch each by hand, first the gateway division, then a star on each side. Adults symmetrically work that design onto both sides; kids get the traditional on one side, while the other remains blank for their own doodling and experimentations. After years of this blind tradition, I once questioned the chosen symbols: is there a better introduction to the art? Perhaps. Instead of changing it, though, I chose instead a mindful approach, drawing prayers for my students onto their shells as scaffolding. A central star to represent the presence of God. Yellow flower petals as a kiss from the earth’s vegetation. Pine branches as a symbol of eternal life for adults, but a “chicken-feet” motif for the youth, symbolizing the earth’s protection and teaching of the children. Dots as both the microcosm of a single, immovable fixed point, as well as stars shining in the infinity of the universe. Keeping them to the traditional dyes as well: white, yellow, orange, red, black, walking through the seasons of life that each color represents.
At the end of the introductory presentation, I share the traditional story of the Ukrainian “Pysanky Monster,” as I’ve come to call him. He’s bound and chained in the recesses of a dark cave in the midst of a deep chasm that’s positioned such that it never receives any direct sunlight over the course of a day. Each year, this monster sends minions out to scour the world, looking specifically to see how many pysanky have been made that year. In years of few pysanky, the monster’s chains are loosened and he’s allowed to wreak havoc upon the earth. If many pysanky have been brought into being, the monster’s chains tighten and the world is spared his fury. Here’s Dostyevsy’s “Beauty will save the world,” applied to the creation of this art. As I tell my students, this isn’t a true story, but it’s a story that I very much believe in. These classes become global community service through art: the more eggs we make, the better off the world will be. And judging by the state of things, we need more pysanky now than ever before!
The introduction makes the process seem as simple as doodling on paper. Reality quickly sets in soon after I hand each participant an egg. Within ten minutes, the complaints and excuses begin. “Oh, I’m just not an artist.” “My hand is too shaky.” “My lines are uneven.” “Look at this terrible thing.” How quickly and easily we tell ourselves “I can’t” even as our hands are doing the very thing we’re proclaiming incompetence with! I remind them in all honesty: I’ve never seen an ugly egg. The process itself is beautiful, as are the hearts of anyone seeking to bring forth their heart’s beauty into the world. Any sincere attempt to follow the steps will bring forth that beauty no matter how many disparaging words are spoken into their work. This egg-art is remarkably self-regulating like that. And I, as teacher, remain with unmoving faith in the abilities of my students. A child will pick up pencil and paper and crayons and sketch out the most incomprehensible tangle of scribbles and shadings and proudly proclaim it a bird, not a word of doubt or apology in their joyful voices. And darn it, a bird it is in all of its toddleresque glory. Creativity for the sake of creating, and deserving of all of the oohs and ahhs that the parents are obliged to offer. Adults, on the other hand, often start complaining and apologizing before the blank shell is even dropped into their cold hands.
The work of each artist reflects their personality and character. The obedient will unwaveringly follow my directions from start to finish, producing as close to a carbon copy as their budding skills allow. Always looking outside the box, the more artistic-creative folk skew away from the pencil lines and add their own personal flair to their work. The doubtful and hesitant lay thin, scratchy lines across the surface. The bold will confidently and unapologetically pour wax from end to end even if their lines run slightly askew, as if they meant it to be such. Some will work with deliberate slowness, others rush as if desiring a pat-on-the-head recognition as first in the class. The few, humble-minded, bow their heads in silent reverence and apply themselves and their hearts as they are, celebrating equally their successes and failures as valuable growth. And for all, their blind faith in the process becomes prayer whether they’re aware of it or not. Whatever the complaints, I remind people that there are no mistakes; just repeat the same blobbed wax or doubled line seven more times and it becomes a legitimate, symmetrical part of the eight-sectioned pattern.
When I hand a first-time artist their egg fresh out of the final black dye, I can see the doubts in their eyes. How can any beauty rise from such an ugly lump? I use the first participant’s finished egg as a demonstration, gathering us all into a semi-circle as if for a sacred ceremony. And ceremony it is with a lit candle as our sacred fire, me down on one knee over a school-desk altar, a hush of expectation with their doubts held in check by the stirrings of hope and a long-forgotten childlike faith in miracles. I offer instruction as I go, but words are but comfort and distraction at this point. There is no greater reward to these lessons than the first wiping of wax. This blackened lump is held to the light. The matte wax begins to melt and glisten in the yellow flame. And that first wipe brings audible gasps of wonder through the spectators’ smiles—life-hardened adults, no less—and usually a catch of emotion in my own throat. Wonder and miracles still exist, and can be found with splendor in even the tiniest of actions, in the most humble of moments. Indeed that’s where all miracles ultimately arise from.
From the beginning of the class, the participants have trusted my instruction, have put their faith in me—blind faith, as it is—that I would lead them from blank shell to fine art. And in their smiles and animated reactions their blind faith is rewarded with a vision of their final destination. No longer do they work from one detached step to the next; now it’s a fluid progress, a journey through, towards, and into beauty that sparkles in their eyes and adds purpose to their fingertips. They return to their seats as changed people and soon the room is alight with each their own offering of beauty. They signed up for the class to learn a cultural art; instead they were unwittingly folded into an ancient ritual-offering of prayers that sprang naturally from their hearts, that were then held tangible in the very hands that created them. And those new creations, carefully returned to the egg carton, line up like a tiny hedgerow of blessings.
Somewhere in the distance, deep, rumbling growls of frustration rise from the depths of a hidden Ukrainian cave. The monster’s chains are slightly tighter today than they were yesterday. And the whole unsuspecting world is all the better for it.