The Glykophilousa Icon by Emmanuel Lambardos (16th century AD)

The Glykophilousa of Emmanuel Lambardos: A Theological Reading

The icon of the Glykophilousa by Emmanuel Lambardos, a work of the 16th century now housed in the Benaki Museum, embodies one of the most profound and polysemous expressions of Orthodox iconographic theology. Although it stems from an established hagiographic type with deep roots in the Palaiologan and pre-Palaiologan tradition, its composition simultaneously attests to a transitional juncture; a gentle, yet clearly present, dialogue with the aesthetic nuances of the Western Renaissance world, without, however, lapsing into the genre painting of naturalism.

The Glykophilousa, like the Eleousa from which it typologically descends, puts forward the touch—not merely proximity but the gesture of tenderness as a form of theological discourse. In the icon in question, the little Christ rests his face against that of his Mother, his countenance touches hers, his gaze is slightly vacant, at once intimate and withdrawn, and his hand gently caresses her chin. The Panagia, on the other hand, does not respond with emotion but with proleptic silence. Her expression is mild, almost colourless; not unmoved, but deeply conscious. The harmony of this embrace is not sentimental; it is soteriological.

Lambardos, a child of the Cretan School, utilizes with unparalleled precision the techniques of Byzantine design: the individual volumes are not formed by chiaroscuro but by successive layers of halftones, and the illuminations do not create depth but flattening—an aesthetic of transcending matter, not describing it. The gold background, which is here impressively elaborate, functions as a timeless field of theophany, and not as a decorative substrate. The figure of the Theotokos is elevated in frontal serenity—not to impose, but to receive. At the centre, where the axes of the face and the gaze meet, a rare equilibrium is established: the human and the divine are not juxtaposed; they coexist without fusion.

Panagiotis Zamvakellis notes that “Byzantine hagiography gathers many features from the beauty of the Hellenistic form, but transforms them for the benefit of a spiritual function” (Gr. ἡ βυζαντινή αγιογραφία συγκεντρώνει πολλά γνωρίσματα από το κάλλος της ελληνιστικής μορφής, αλλά τα μεταποιεί προς όφελος μιας πνευματικής λειτουργίας). In the case of the Glykophilousa, this is not accomplished only on a morphoplastic level; it is incarnated in the very theological core of the icon. The body of Christ does not bear natural proportions; it is not the representation of an infant but the visual summation of the body that will be raised on the Cross. His white garment, utterly simple, without luxury or details, attests to the identity of the incarnate God as the innocent Lamb. His gaze, placed with ambiguity between childish innocence and metaphysical premonition, prefigures the duality of His nature—God and Man, indivisibly and unconfusedly.

Beyond its theological structure, however, the Glykophilousa of Lambardos also performs an anthropological function. The gesture of the touch, the nearing of the faces, the sweetness of the posture, constitute a model of the maternal and filial relationship, of love and vulnerability, that is neither romantic nor idealistic. It is existential. Through the icon, the Mother is not exalted as an ideal type, but as a person who embodies the passage from love to loss—from hope to crucifixion.

According to Steven Casson, Post-Byzantine art—and especially its Cretan variant—“captures the moment where technical maturity meets the inner need for spiritual form”. This convergence also constitutes the foundation of the power of Lambardos’s icon. His technique is not an end in itself—it does not charm the viewer; it moves him profoundly. The gentle gradation of light on the Panagia’s face, the precision of the gaze, the anatomy of the neck, do not aim at naturalness; they aim at inner truth. Hagiography is not a representation of the world; it is a transfiguration of vision.

The present icon, therefore, cannot be read exclusively within the parameters of art history. It functions more as visual theology, that is, as a system of transferring meaning from the experience of sight to the existential self-awareness of the beholder. To the extent that the icon depicts Love—not as an emotion but as a person and a type of Salvation—it functions as an iconographic locus of the Mystery. And this is not merely dogmatic elaboration, but an existential offering: the Mother and Son are not presented here as theological information, but as a living reminder of man’s calling to the love that saves. The understanding of the icon of the Glykophilousa as a theological event is not exhausted in its iconographic content; it presupposes an access to its figurative ethos—to the way in which the icon, through its technique and its narrative silence, gives form to a theological place. Emmanuel Lambardos, acting within a tradition and also beyond it, composes a visual field where the created and the uncreated dialogue without opposition, where the plasticity of the body functions not as an indication of naturalistic intention but as a disciplined reminder of the incarnation.

Technique as Theology

At this point, it is worth dwelling on the relationship between technique and theological function, a relationship which Mihail Dachev considers central to the constitution of hagiography as a genre: the use of shadows, the tonal transitions, the thin layers of light, do not serve a simple mimesis of nature but are inscribed in the spiritual anatomy of the person. The technique here is already function: it does not prepare theology; it executes it.

In the Glykophilousa of Lambardos, the technique is intensified to the limit of silence. The folds of the garment do not betray movement but calmness—not stasis but tension under suppression. The inclination of the Panagia’s head does not render sentimentalism; it inscribes inner accord with the pre-eternal will. Here the expression, the posture, the gesture, do not function descriptively but mnemonically: they bring back to the memory of the Church not a snapshot but a theological event—the acceptance of Salvation through maternal obedience.

The two angels who stand at the upper extremities of the icon are not present as celestial beings of the choir; they function as theological indicators. Their position, their symmetry, their chromatic harmony with the Panagia’s garment, create an internal closure in the icon; a circulation of divine energy that does not exit but returns—from Christ to the Mother, from the Mother to the Angels, from the Angels back to the viewer. Thus, the gaze is not led outside the icon; it revolves internally, trapped in a circular flow, which depicts the nascent possibility of the viewer to become a partaker of divine providence.

If we accept the observation of Kalokyrēs that “the Glykophilousa is composed of two similar types” (Gr. ἡ Γλυκοφιλούσα συντίθεται ἀπὸ δύο παραπλησίους τύπους), then we must distinguish these types not merely morphologically but also functionally. The confusion between the Eleousa and the Glykophilousa is neither accidental nor secondary; it reveals the very identity of the person of the Theotokos as simultaneously Platytera and Mētēr, as Throne and Lament. The mother who holds her child is not simply the Panagia of the Annunciation; she is the Panagia of the Cross. Her lament is not manifested with a sob but with silence; her embrace is not tenderness but a reminder of “and a sword will pierce your own soul too” (Luke 2:35).

The technical treatment of the details of this icon, such as the gaze of Christ, the sidelight on the face of the Theotokos, the fine layer of the white garment that shows through from under the red maphorion, all attest to a profound knowledge of the Western plastic tradition—but the use of this knowledge is not aimed at the humanisation of the divine; it is aimed at the transcendence of the natural. The body here is a form of matter that radiates the uncreated—not because it is beautiful but because it is obedient to the divine will. The very medium that makes iconography possible—the wooden surface, the egg as a binding material, the gold leaf—constitutes a liminal space: matter is not simply a medium; it is a form of repentance.

The composition, the perspective, the vertical plane of the background, all contribute to an aesthetic ethos that does not respond to the gaze but shapes it. The Mother of God is not projected to the viewer as a familiar figure for emotional response, but as an unknown proximity for transformation. The gaze does not rest; it is called to pass from recognition to participation. And this participation is not a mental act; it is a form of repentance. The icon does not ask to be seen; it asks to be venerated. Inasmuch as the Glykophilousa of Lambardos functions as a carrier of theological meaning and not merely as an aesthetic object, its reception must occur within a logic that transcends both historicocritical analysis and technical description. The icon does not address only the eye; it addresses the embodied and repentant conscience of the pilgrim. It thus becomes an intermediary between the world of the fall and the promise of restoration, between the experience of death and the opening towards Life.