Traditional icons are written on wood panels prepared with gesso, painted with egg tempera made from natural pigments, and often gilded with gold leaf. These aren’t arbitrary choices. The materials themselves carry theological weight.
The Wood
Iconographers use soft woods that can be worked by hand. Linden (also called basswood) is the most common choice, but you’ll also find poplar, cypress, willow, and birch. Pine gets avoided because it’s resinous and the sap causes problems over time. The wood gets planed smooth, and wooden battens are often attached to the back to keep the panel from warping. Think of how humid it gets here in Southeast Texas in August, and you’ll understand why that matters.
Before any paint touches the surface, the wood gets covered with linen fabric soaked in animal glue. This creates a barrier between the wood and the layers that come next.
The Gesso
Here’s where patience becomes a spiritual discipline. The linen-covered panel receives anywhere from ten to thirty layers of gesso, called levkas in the Russian tradition. Each layer is a mixture of chalk or whiting powder mixed with rabbit skin glue. Some iconographers use fish glue instead. Each layer has to dry completely before the next one goes on, and each gets smoothed with sandpaper or even fish skin.
This process can take weeks. But it creates a brilliant white surface that’s both smooth and slightly absorbent, perfect for receiving the paint. That pure white base isn’t just practical. It represents the purity we’re aiming for, the blank slate of a soul prepared to receive God’s image.
The Paint
Egg tempera is the traditional medium, and it’s exactly what it sounds like. You take egg yolk, separate it carefully from the white, and mix it with finely ground pigments and a bit of water. That’s it. The yolk acts as a binder, holding the pigment particles together and making them adhere to the gesso surface.
The pigments themselves come from the earth. Minerals, mostly. Azurite for blues. Malachite for greens. Cinnabar for reds. Various ochres for earth tones. Iconographers grind these minerals into fine powder and mix them fresh with the egg yolk. The paint dries quickly, which means you work in thin layers, building up color gradually from dark to light.
There’s something profound about using materials God made. An iconographer named Katherine Sanders puts it well when she says these are materials provided by God, returned through the work of our hands as offerings. You’re taking minerals from the earth, eggs from chickens, wood from trees, and transforming them into a window to heaven. It’s a small echo of the Incarnation itself, where God took on material flesh.
The Gold
Gold leaf shows up on halos, backgrounds, and sometimes clothing details. It represents divine light, the uncreated glory of God that the saints now share. But you can’t just slap gold leaf onto gesso and expect it to stick.
First comes the bole, which is red or orange clay mixed with glue. This gets applied in twenty or more layers over the areas that will receive gold. Once the bole is perfectly smooth, the iconographer dampens it slightly and lays down sheets of gold leaf so thin you can see light through them. Then comes the burnishing with an agate stone, rubbing the gold until it shines with that distinctive luster you see on old icons. The burnishing also creates subtle three-dimensional effects, making halos seem to glow.
Why It Matters
You might wonder why iconographers still use these ancient methods when acrylic paint and canvas would be easier. Some do use modern materials, and there’s debate about whether that’s acceptable. But most traditional iconographers insist on the old ways for good reasons.
These materials are organic, drawn from creation. They age in particular ways. Egg tempera doesn’t crack the way oil paint does. The colors remain stable for centuries. Gold doesn’t tarnish. There’s a continuity with the iconographers who came before, stretching back to the earliest centuries of the Church. When you use the same materials St. Andrei Rublev used, you’re participating in a living tradition.
But it goes deeper than technique. The slow, painstaking process of preparing a panel, grinding pigments, applying dozens of layers of gesso and bole becomes a form of prayer. You can’t rush it. You can’t take shortcuts without the icon suffering for it. The materials teach you patience, humility, and attention. They force you to slow down in a world that’s always pushing you to hurry up.
If you ever get a chance to watch an iconographer work or take a class yourself, you’ll see what I mean. Ancient Faith has resources on iconography, and some parishes offer workshops. There’s something about mixing egg yolk with ground minerals that connects you to two thousand years of Christians doing the same thing, offering their hands and their time to create something beautiful for God.
