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.

Sometimes the icon whispers back, like a quiet echo that guides my brush, but I always make sure its own voice stays louder than mine. The real trick is hearing that echo and letting it flow through my own hand.