Light pooled across the nave of St. Clement of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox Cathedral, gilding the scaffold rails and the edge of a saint’s painted robe. The scent of beeswax and incense lingered in the air. Above, artist Georgi Danevski balanced on a platform, one hand steadying himself while the other coaxed the curve of a halo into being. The jars of pigment at his feet shimmered like crushed gemstones.
In that moment, the world outside disappeared. The space felt timeless yet alive, anchored in centuries of Orthodox tradition while speaking powerfully to the present. I stood in awe, initially hesitant to approach Danevski, worried that my questions might interrupt his concentration. Yet as he descended the ladder and greeted me warmly, that anxiety dissolved. There was an ease to him, a generosity of spirit, and I sensed in him a kindred soul.
As we spoke, Danevski’s art revealed itself not merely as decoration but as theology in colour. He spoke of making “heaven present” through his work, of creating images meant to be prayed with, not just admired. He shared his influences — Orthodox mysticism, Catholic devotional traditions, and the philosophical tension between beauty and suffering. In his words and gestures, I saw echoes of my own search for meaning and expression.
At one point, he insisted on pausing his work to prepare tea for us both. It was a simple act, yet it carried a profound weight — an extension of the hospitality that marked his art. As the steam curled from the cups, he mused on how artistic expression itself reveals aspects of quantum reality: the mysterious interplay of presence and absence, of what is seen and unseen.
This was more than an interview.
It was a conversation that bridged two spiritual traditions and, in some ways, two lives.
Listening, I found myself captivated not only by his brush but by his words, which seemed to weave philosophy and theology into everyday gestures. The tea was strong and good, grounding the loftiness of his ideas in the warmth of shared humanity.
This was more than an interview. It was a conversation that bridged two spiritual traditions and, in some ways, two lives. His ability to see and affirm the depth of my interest allowed me to enter his world without pretense.
We talked about art as a vocation, not merely a craft; about painting not as labour but as prayer. Watching him return to his work after our exchange, I saw not just an artist but a man who carried centuries of faith into every brushstroke.
Leaving the cathedral, I carried that sense of stillness and recognition. Danevski’s murals invite viewers of all backgrounds to pause and consider the divine, reminding us that beauty speaks a universal language.
For me, this encounter became more than research for a project. It was a moment of unexpected connection, an invitation to witness grace made tangible — through pigment, prayer, and the hand of a man whose art draws heaven and earth closer together.
Read more by Lee Purcell on St. Clement of Ohrid Macedonian Church.
Lee Purcell is an adjunct faculty member from the United States who teaches communication studies. He produced this report onsite as part of the God in the City Catholic journalism seminar in Toronto.
