Usually, I expose my images. Black and white or color. The flat ones or the embossed ones. My structures or facilities. My words and images.
The ones that help me play the game of reconstructing my memories.
I anchor in words as well as in my images, like immigrants, creating defensive associations, conceptual in nature and experiential experiences.
I obey, to the emotions of the moment, and to the necessarily audiovisual and not only stimuli.
I cultivate my place, fertilizing, carving and watering conscious and unconscious.
I make room in my field, for my emigrants to stand upright and tall. To have a place to lean their head.
To feel their smells, their screams, their whispers, their silences, their breaths, the thoughts of their music.
I hear and obey and meditate on the aphorisms fighting injustice over and over again.
I classify puzzles that involve rhythm and creepiness, reflections and shadows.
In the wake of associations, I practice not grand narratives but the wonder of the momentary.
I stage and direct my migrants, with care but also with deliberate simplicity. With simple and unnecessary speech.
I autobiograph on absolute black, white and clear or I delve into the color palette. And as an observer I take every opportunity to climb the scaffolding. To see from there my exiles, who are not ashamed to sulk, tear, cry and laugh like little children, but also like wise adults.
I don't pass them. I analyze them because I analyze myself.
I respect and value them because I respect and value myself. You can read them in ten to fifteen minutes in their short sentences, or warm tributes.
They may seem incomplete. But I write because life is an unfinished poem, with statements or questions and full of gaps, which I try in vain to complete.
We must not forget Pessoa's little phrase that, "when the soul ceases to admire, it has been defeated"
Maybe my books and my pictures look like – sorry. However, they prove that my welcoming body embraces my immigrants, proving that they have in my own life, that I bow my head defending their existence in every way because life is inextricably linked with them.
I thank my own immigrants, and those who follow my path in letters and arts inside and outside Greece for now, yesterday and tomorrow.
For the necessary poetics of the moment.
