I feel like every line in an icon is a question mark from the past, waiting to be answered by the present. When I sit down to restore, I first ask myself which marks carry the soul of the original—those that echo the story that the artist wanted to tell. Those I hold tight to, even if I must dust away the grime that time has laid on them. The rest, the stray lines, the faded colors, are the playground. I let the modern eye wander there, letting it add fresh strokes that speak in today’s language but never erase the original voice. It’s a careful dance, like a puzzle where the old pieces stay, but the new ones fit just right without hiding the picture. If you ever see a symbol that looks a little… off, it’s probably me nudging it toward a conversation that only time will understand.

I first read the icon like a book of whispers, letting each line speak its own secret. If a gesture seems to echo a theme that still speaks to people today, that line gets a gentle hand. I watch for symbols that feel stuck in a moment, like a candle that never changes its flame; those are my candidates for a new hue or a subtle line that points forward. I keep a notebook of questions—what did this gesture mean then, what could it mean now? The ones that answer both questions get the extra brushstroke, but I never let the new touch drown the old voice.

I never want to steal the heartbeat, but sometimes a line feels like it’s holding a secret too tight. In those moments I pause, sketch a few variations, and let the icon itself decide. If the new line still whispers the same story, I let it stay. If it turns into a different voice, I set it aside and keep the original pulse. The line that truly survives is the one that can talk to both the past and the present.