When Xenia Nikolskaya first went to Egypt in 2006, she thought she knew what she was looking for. Born and raised in the Soviet Union, where religion had been systematically suppressed, Nikolskaya was fascinated by Christianity, particularly its Eastern traditions.
The granddaughter of an Orthodox priest who was imprisoned under Stalin, she saw her trip to Egypt as an opportunity to explore the Coptic Church and its rich history. But as life often does, her plans took an unexpected turn.
Enthused by Egypt's colonial-era history, she instead spent a decade working on a photography project, Dust, which documented abandoned buildings in Egypt from that period. “Dust distracted me,” Nikolskaya says with a laugh.
Yet even as her focus shifted, she found herself quietly collecting religious souvenirs – plastic icons, rosaries, pillows and tapestries adorned with Jesus, the Virgin Mary or one of the saints.
These humble, mass-produced objects were everywhere: in churches, monasteries and convents. “They were being sold at every church I visited and for me, they were absolutely remarkable,” she says. “So simple, so cheap, but so full of meaning.”
Now, almost 20 years later, those objects take centre stage in her new book, Plastic Jesus. Part photography collection, part personal exploration, the book elevates these everyday items into symbols of faith, resilience and accessibility. “It’s a love letter,” Nikolskaya says. “Not a critique, but a celebration of how faith can be deeply personal and democratic.”
Religious repression
Nikolskaya’s relationship with religion has always been complicated. Growing up in the Soviet Union where most worship happened under the radar of a strongly atheist establishment, she was taught to view faith with scepticism.
During her childhood, churches were turned into swimming pools, and religious holidays were overshadowed by state-sponsored distractions, she recounts.
“On the night of Easter, they’d show movies like The Godfather or one of Bob Fosse’s jazz films. These movies that were semi-forbidden because of their racy content were meant to keep people from going to church on religious holidays,” she tells The National.
Yet, beneath this enforced atheism, religion lingered, a ghostly presence in her family history. Her grandfather, Georgiy Mikhailovich Nikolskiy, was an Orthodox priest who spent nearly 20 years in the Siberian gulag.
“Learning about his life after the fall of the Soviet Union was a revelation,” she says. “It brought me closer to him, but also to the idea of faith itself.”
This longing to understand her grandfather’s world led her to study iconography and religious art as a young artist in St Petersburg. But it wasn’t until she moved to Egypt that she found a way to connect her personal history with her creative practice.
“The Coptic Church fascinated me,” she says. “It’s ancient, resilient and deeply tied to the history of Christianity.”
Kitschy - but with meaning
At first glance, the objects featured in Plastic Jesus might seem kitschy – a low rent tapestry of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper, an image of the Coptic patriarch washing Jesus’s feet in a tub embossed on a rubber keychain, and felt pillows with paintings of the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus.
But through Nikolskaya’s lens, they become something more. Photographed against plain backgrounds and cataloged with meticulous care, they resemble museum artefacts, elevated from the mundane to the extraordinary.
“We presented the items against plain backdrops and included their size dimensions below each photo. I wanted to create a museum of this contemporary religious experience. I wanted to elevate the items and make them look important,” she explains.
The book’s title, Plastic Jesus, captures this tension between the sacred and the synthetic. Inspired by a rendition by Paul Newman of the 1962 song Plastic Jesus, which he sang in the film Cool Hand Luke, the song’s lyrics recount a satirical yet poignant reflection on faith and materialism.
With lyrics like “Going ninety I ain't scary, cause I've got the Virgin Mary, assuring me that I won't go to hell,” the song highlights the deep bonds that people form with religious icons that they can take with them anywhere they go.
Modern-day religion
Similarly, Nikolskaya’s work embraces this duality, celebrating the accessibility and deeply personal nature of faith through objects often dismissed as trivial or kitschy.
It’s a nod to the accessibility of these objects, but also a reflection on how religion adapts to modernity. “Faith doesn’t need to be grand or gilded to be meaningful,” she says. “It can be messy, imperfect, funny even. But that doesn’t make it any less powerful.”
To bring Plastic Jesus to life, Nikolskaya collaborated with graphic designer Omar Al Zobi (and his Amman-based studio Eyen), a colleague from the German University in Cairo where she is a professor of photography.
This approach is also a quiet critique of traditional institutions, such as churches and museums, which often dictate what is considered valuable or beautiful.
“Religious institutions and museums both have this authority,” she says. “They decide what matters, what’s worth preserving. But perhaps there is a world where these objects can matter too. Because they tell a story. They carry faith.”
The book is also a reflection on materiality and spirituality. “In a world focused on material things, some objects go beyond their physical form,” she says. “They become symbols of something deeper.”
While Plastic Jesus focuses on Egypt’s Coptic community, Nikolskaya sees parallels with other traditions, from Latin America to Russia. One photograph in the book, taken in a monastery in Luxor, shows ancient Egyptian reliefs repurposed as the foundation for Christian symbols. “It’s fascinating to see how everything is recycled, intertwined,” she says. “Faith is always adapting, always finding new forms.
"Under all the dust and sand that many people associate with the pharaohs, Egypt is as colorful as India or Mexico, but people always look at Cairo and other Egyptian cities through the dust filter. With this book, we were trying to bring that colour out. Egyptian ancient history is fascinating, but it's also overtold and very popular. And there are so many things which are hidden or unknown that deserve attention," she muses.
Sense of continuity
This sense of continuity is central to the book. As Adam Makari writes in the book’s preface, Plastic Jesus is “an ode to the fantastic; to the people of Egypt. Dedicated to the flamboyant glories and reminders of our everyday miracles; made by them for them and for us to truly believe what we believe.”
For Nikolskaya, Plastic Jesus is not just a celebration of faith – it’s a deeply personal project. “It’s my spiritual journey,” she says. “I’m not religious in the traditional sense, but these objects resonate with me. They remind me of my grandfather, of his faith, of everything he endured.”
The book is also a tribute to the resilience and creativity of the Coptic community. “These objects may seem funny or cheap, but they serve a much more vital purpose. They remind us of what it means to believe.”
As Nikolskaya’s photographs show, faith doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a plastic Jesus in your pocket – a small, everyday miracle.
