On our recent trip to Greece, my husband and I saw them everywhere: taped to the dashboards of buses, crammed one above the other in tiny cave chapels, centered in the omnipresent roadside shrines, propped up besides cash registers in bakeries, lining the walls of gift shops, and – of course—in places of adoration in Greek Orthodox churches. Highly symbolized icons, images of Christ and the saints, seemed to be everywhere.

The painted icons generally showed several figures (sometimes a scene, but more often just one or two individuals) sitting, with a solid background of metal or gold leaf, for the viewer to reflect upon. The Virgin Mary and her son Jesus were the most common subjects, shown in several repeated poses: Christos Pantokrator (“Christ Almighty”, grasping the New Testament in his left hand and holding his right hand up in blessing) and Maria Glykophilousa (“Mary of Loving Kindness”, holding her young son and gently touching her cheek to his), just to name two. The poses that go with each name are very specific, and the title always matches the way the figures are standing and what they are holding.

As we saw on a daily basis, people still have a very personal relationship with the icons, often centuries old. In churches, people of all ages still walk in, kiss the icons’ faces, and light candles before them. When they pass them in the tiny shrines on the side of the road, drivers still cross themselves three or four times. The icons seem to be treated less as a spot for meditation and more as a direct connection to the Divine – unsurprising given that a main reason for the close repetition of postures and faces is based largely on a widespread belief that the original of each icon “type” was painted from life, by someone who actually knew the subject – someone who knew the Divine as a living, breathing person.

Now that we’re back home, I’ve noticed some traditional icons on Christmas cards, but otherwise, the swarm of Christian icons is now a thing of the vacationing past. I am noticing them in unexpected forms, though. At the Byzantine Museum in Athens, we were surprised to find an Andy Warhol exhibit – but after a stroll through, it seemed obvious. Like icon painters, Warhol took revered figures, idealized their faces, and put them against solid backgrounds. Celebrities are the revered saints of modern America, and Warhol called us out on it in his work. Since Warhol’s icons were brought to my attention, I’m seeing them now in other surprising places – in magazines, in advertisements, on movie posters.

Whoever our adored figures are, I’m a little jealous of the Greek culture I saw, where people get to look into the faces of their divine protectors around every corner. Sure, we’ve got omnipresent angelic models idealized in ads, but I’m pretty sure Heidi Klum, as much as I like Project Runway, isn’t looking over and protecting me like Greek iconic figures are. We’ve got individuals we elevate to iconic status, but it certainly isn’t the same relationship between subject and viewer.

In your own home, you can choose the figures you elevate to iconic levels and who is portrayed in that way. Maybe you would find inspiration from a handmade, gold-paint background image of the Madonna and Child, or maybe a lovingly painted portrait of your parents is where you’d find strength. Even if we don’t live in the icon-heavy culture of modern Greece, we can still create our own connections through images, and our homes are good places to start with such custom paintings.