On 8 November, the feast day of the Great Martyr Demetrius of Thessaloniki, Dmitry Kuntsevich, head of St. Elisabeth Convent’s mosaic studio, celebrates his name day.
Since its founding in 2002 by a team of seven young people with little prior experience in church art, the studio has grown into a respected workshop now employing over 50 artisans.
Their first major work was a mosaic for the Convent’s church dedicated to the Reigning Icon of the Mother of God. Today, the studio’s creations are cherished in churches and monasteries across Belarus, Russia, Ukraine, Greece, Montenegro, Romania, and as far away as South Africa. Notable installations include mosaics in the Cathedral of St. Alexander Nevsky at the Novo-Tikhvin Convent in Yekaterinburg, churches of the Zverinetsky Monastery in Kiev, and Dochiariou Monastery on Mount Athos.
A particularly meaningful project for the studio is the mosaic icon of the Holy Royal Passion-Bearers at the Church on the Blood in Yekaterinburg, located on the site of the Ipatiev House, where the Imperial Family met their martyrdom.
Mosaic of the Holy Royal Passion Bearers in the Church on the Blood, Yekaterinburg
Reflecting on his work, Dmitry shares: “We thank God for the opportunity to be part of such holy work, to be co-workers in God’s action. I am constantly struck that people still need art today, especially church art. I am convinced this is God’s grace reaching people in the world.”
Here, Dmitry Kuntsevich, head of the Convent’s mosaic studio, shares his journey to faith, his quest for true creativity, and his thoughts on art as a spiritual calling.
We all grew up in a completely unchurched environment. The only believers in my family were my grandmothers. I remember my grandmother praying every night before bed in her village home. She had a ‘holy corner’ with icons, where she would bow, kneel, and say her small prayer rule.
It was a miracle to me that, at the age of 19, I turned to God and came to the Church.
If a person receives Сommunion, he has everything he needs. Just a little effort is all it takes to notice the gifts God gives us here and now. I try to tell my children, ‘Look, children, right now, we are happy. We’re together. Whether we’re travelling or simply sitting at home, look how beautiful the trees are, notice the weather. We have understanding between us, shared interests. Remember this... Years from now, you may remember what I told you: happiness is right here and now.’
This sense of a full, present life with God matters more than any outward circumstances.
Dmitry Kuntsevich with his family
My parents were simple people from the village. My mother worked as a nurse and is now retired. My father was a carpenter, employed at a military woodworking factory in Minsk.
I think it was through my father’s prayers or the desire of his heart that I ended up receiving an art education at the Minsk Academy of Arts. He wanted his children — my sister and me — to have a good education.
Dmitry Kuntsevich (second from left) with his parents and sister
When I was still in kindergarten, I was sent to art school, and I had the opportunity to develop my creativity. But until the 9th grade, I saw it more as a punishment or a burden.
I wondered why my ‘normal’ friends were out playing in the yard while I had to go somewhere else. Maybe I had some talent, and certain classes held my interest, but I didn’t notice it at the time. I took for granted this unique opportunity to experience beauty, to create, and to engage with something through my heart and hands.
Over time, I formed friendships with other students, and I began to appreciate the beauty in painting, in colour, and in portraiture. Yet for a while, it all seemed so ordinary that I even thought, ‘Why do I need this? I’d rather have a simple life.’
Then, after the 9th grade, it suddenly hit me that I had to choose a profession. I didn’t want to work on a construction site laying bricks or become a welder. And that’s when it dawned on me how much I actually loved drawing. It was a revelation! I realised this was something I truly enjoyed and knew how to do well. I decided to apply to art school, started studying with enthusiasm, and even took extra classes. Entering the Academy of Arts and becoming an artist became my dream.
Dmitry Kuntsevich at work
I was admitted to the academy on my second attempt after a year of intense preparation. That day, I was thrilled — I had made it! A bright future lay ahead, where I could paint from morning until night. I had workshops, courses on composition, mosaics, techniques of every kind — it was just marvellous.
This happiness, however, only lasted for a year. When the second year started, that sense of joy vanished. Something shifted, and what had seemed so clear yesterday became difficult. I began to feel a pull to search for something deeper, something lasting.
Dmitry Kuntsevich working on murals in the Church of the Reigning Icon of the Mother of God, St Elisabeth Convent, Minsk
A friend of mine, who was also studying at the academy, suggested that I try going to church, quit my bad habits, and change my life. It felt like an opportunity, though also a bit frightening. It meant leaving behind everything I was used to, because life in the Church is different. It would mean learning to live anew.
At the time, I thought maybe I should leave the academy, dedicate myself to helping out at church, work as a guard, wash dishes, and just pray. I felt that must be the ‘real life.’ But the priest I spoke with advised me to complete my studies. ‘You should study church painting and iconography,’ he said. To me, this felt almost like a punishment. I thought, ‘Please, not more studying.’ But I had read from the holy fathers that one must discipline oneself, fight against sin, and follow the advice of one’s spiritual guide. So I took up that cross, believing it to be God’s will.
Dormition of the Mother of God, mural painting in the Archangel Michael Church, Zverinets Monastery, Kiev, created by artisans from St Elisabeth Convent
As the years went by, I came to realise that church art was indeed my path, a path that felt natural, as if it had always been part of me. I remembered a moment from the sixth grade when we learned about icons in art history class. I had carefully noted down how to prepare a board, how to varnish it, and how icons were painted. I’d even drawn icons in my notebook, captivated by the beauty of Byzantine and Russian masterpieces. I had come home from school and made little boards to paint on. I’d forgotten about it for years, but looking back, I saw it was no accident — it was the path God had been laying out for me all along.
Dmitry Kuntsevich (first left) and mosaicists from St Elisabeth Convent working in the Monastery's convention centre, “The Ark”
Years later, I started to understand that true artistic sensitivity is often subtle and sometimes hidden in the struggle. Even when what you’re working on feels insufficient or like it’s falling short, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You have to trust that God is present in that struggle, too, and cling to this sense of faith. Creativity is about finding beauty — even when it seems impossible, when your pride, wishful thinking, or fantasies say it isn’t there. You have to sift through all that and take a clear-eyed look to see what’s really there.
Years after I’d finished my studies, I would come across old drawings from my academy days. Sometimes I wouldn’t even recognise them, thinking, ‘Oh, that’s actually quite good; there’s something special here.’ Then I’d realise it was my own work, and I’d wonder why it had seemed so unbearably flawed at the time, why it had tormented me so much.
I remember Father Sergius Nezhbort capturing this feeling perfectly. He would say that, after hours of mixing colours and working tirelessly to find harmony, there comes a moment, often around dusk, when everything finally seems to come together. You look at your work, and suddenly it all starts to make sense. You’re in the flow, the colours blend beautifully, and you think, ‘Yes, now I’ve got it!’ You keep painting into the evening, satisfied, anticipating how good it will look in the morning. But when you return the next day, the daylight reveals something completely different — sometimes even a horror!
Father Sergius Nezhbort and Dmitry Kuntsevich
This is when I learned from Father Sergius the importance of loving your work even if it isn’t perfect. You have to hold on to the good, to approach each day with the mindset of trying again, making small adjustments, adding just a bit more with each effort. This daily commitment is the essence of creativity.
Persistence is the real challenge of being an artist. That constant, sometimes tedious labour, adding a little more to something small each day — that is where real art happens. The artists I admire most worked tirelessly; they ‘ploughed’ like galley slaves. If you keep going, if you don’t give up, you’ll eventually succeed.
Father Sergius Nezhbort and Dmitry Kuntsevich working on murals together
I never initially wanted to work in mosaics. In fact, as a new member of the church, my dream was something entirely different — I wanted to become a monk.
At that time, we already had an icon painting workshop in the monastery. Then, after a Sunday service, our monastery rector, Father Andrey, brought out the cross. As the parishioners were venerating it, he turned to me and said, ‘Dima, we need to create murals for the monastery’s churches. Why don’t you take up mural painting?’ Somehow, I felt prepared for this. With a sense of inspiration, I realised it was time to agree and answered, ‘Yes, of course, bless me, Father.’ From then on, I reoriented myself toward mural painting.
Later, when the Church of the Mother of God began to be built, Father Andrey, the sisters, and the builders started envisioning a mosaic design for its decoration. But who would take on this new task? Then they told me, ‘Dima, now we’re putting mural work on hold; we need to focus on mosaics.’ At first, I was unsure, but then I thought, ‘How would we do this?’ So, I called some friends from my academy days, many of whom were just beginning to introduce themselves to church life. They responded, and together, we began to learn the art of mosaics.
Archpriest Andrey Lemeshonok with the mosaic team from St Elisabeth Convent near the church under construction in honour of the Reigning Icon of the Mother of God, 2003
At first, we visited experts in St. Petersburg and Moscow and were inspired by the stunning mosaics of St. Sophia Cathedral in Kiev. Later, we had the chance to travel and see the historic mosaics in Ravenna and Constantinople, which gave us a powerful push forward.
Eventually, we built a core team of 6-7 people, the original backbone of the workshop, which has since grown to about 50-60 people.
Prayer at the beginning of the working day in the mosaic workshop of St Elisabeth Convent
Our first major project was creating the mosaic work for the Church of the Reigning Icon. This took us seven years. We started with small sketches, and then enlarged them to full size. Using these images, we laid out every piece on tables before transferring each one to the dome, walls, and pendentives of the church.
Mosaic in the Church of the Reigning Icon of the Mother of God, St Elisabeth Convent, Minsk
Our work is collective, yet each person brings something unique. When several people contribute to a mosaic, the result is surprisingly united and harmonious. Often, looking at the finished work, you’d never guess it was created by a team. That’s the advantage of working collectively — you experience the blessing of ‘two or three gathered in His name,’ where the vision begins to form, the solution appears, and the path forward is made clear.
It has been a blessing that, throughout all this, we have had the support and prayers of the monastery’s spiritual father, Fr. Andrey Lemeshonk. His constant patience and trust have been a source of strength for me and the workshop. Later, I learned that he didn’t always agree with our artistic ideas, but he never imposed his opinion. He gave us the space to find solutions on our own. It is invaluable to have someone who trusts you and patiently waits for the result.
Now, as we work on mosaics worldwide, we approach each project seeking a sense of revelation, a new insight that comes through the work. Without that, the art would feel hollow, just another job. True art, especially sacred art, must bring something new to light, deepening our vision and enriching our understanding.
Artisans at work in the mosaic workshop of St Elisabeth Convent
Icon painting and mural painting, to me, is a way of life. As an artist, I don’t see it as just a profession or something I do for a season. It’s life itself. When you work on an image, whether it’s a mosaic, a sketch, or a painting, it doesn’t just pass through you; it fills you. The image starts to work on you as well. What you paint eventually begins to paint you, reshaping you, revealing things within you that you didn’t know were there. Over time, this process brings a transformation, and you find yourself renewed, different. I believe the purpose of this transformation is to draw us closer to God."
