2012, like music to my ears
1. Chromatics | Kill For Love
2. Crystal Castles | III
3. Saint Ettienne | Words and Music
4. Hammock | Departure Songs
5. Holy Other | Held
6. Vitalic | Rave Age
7. K. Bhta | Χρυσαλίδα
8. Johann Johannsson | Copenhagen Dreams
9. Bvdub | The First Day
10. Jessie Ware | Devotion
11. Death Grips | No Love Deep Web
12. Greg Haines | Digressions
13. Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti | Mature Themes
14. Delilah | From The Roots Up
15. The Irrepressibles | Nude
16. Lindstrom | Smallhans
17. Oscar Mulero | Black Propaganda
18. The XX | Coexist
19. Lana Del Rey | Born To Die - The Paradise Edition
20. Paul Banks | Banks
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
“When you invoke something transcendent you arrest movement” - Deleuze
Holocene, Calgary, Perth, Minnesota - allegorical sceneries of a fatal fall that washed us all ashore in what we sustain today. Anesthetized from everyday routine, people forget that we walk on a planet whose ground is filled with bones. Try to understand this futility of life through Art and have faith in a love profane yet glorious, that does not have the shape we usually attribute to her. Many times in the acknowledged patterns (relationships, cohabitation, marriage, et al.) there is no trace of love but fear and abandonment. Henceforth, you realize that while you were looking for God in any plausible den, he lay at your threshold all along. And it is my belief that if this God is love – attainable gratuitously and free in an elusive and pivoting moment of creation and existence, then art is a form of prayer, the humane way of appealing to Him.
Without further ado, these are my best albums of 2011
2. Kate Bush | 50 Words for Snow
3. Com Truise | Galactic Melt
4. John Maus | We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves
5. Dustin O'Halloran | Lumiere
6. PJ Harvey | Let England Shake
7. Austra | Feel it Break
8. Kele | The Hunter
9. Gang Gang Dance | Eye Contact
10. Birdy | Birdy
11. Florence+the Machine | Ceremonials
12. Korallreven | An album by Korallreven
13. Hior Chronik | Unspoken Words
14. The Sound of Arrows | Voyage
15. Gavin Friday | Catholic
16. bvdub | I Remember
17. M83 | Hurry Up, We're Dreaming
18. Glasvegas | EUPHORIC /// HEARTBREAK \\\
19. Epic45 | Weathering
20. Gem Club | Breakers
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Clouds are piling on clouds. Masses of chiaroscuros. The wind in your eyes, a storm within your heart. Hold on tight to a love that will expire with the universe, breathe and dive deeply into your skin. Withdraw all water from pain. Still, only pain remains. Open yourself up as the horizon’s goniometer and embrace world’s mother, the sea, mutely. Suddenly a flock of soul appears, moving relentlessly in circles; and for a rare, fleeting moment in existence you find Him looking right back to you. It is God moving over the face of the waters. ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’ you ask, although you know. And He replies, ‘Nothing is heavy to those who can ascend’.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Sunday, 8 November 2009
When I was little, I was minor. Lying in bed at night, I was looking at pictures, condensing the universe to the size of my room. Utterly alone, I was drifting among planets, the ceiling was opening up, saints were talking to me, corpses were playing hide and seek in the dark and in silence’s great awe I was hoping for just one thing: someone to share the magic and the oddities of what I was experiencing, confess to the world what was inspiring and what was frightening me. Was it a display? Loneliness? An exorcism? I never figured out. I just knew that if I wasn’t to talk, I would choke. And I still feel like choking up, unless I grab a camera or a pen. Then, my blood’s lap dies out and all things are revealed.
Nowadays I am not in my room anymore. And I grew up. With me dreams grew up, words and pictures multiplied. If those who say “Artists create in order to feel loved” are true, then it is not me who grew up, but my need to be loved. Eyes never change colour. Only their way of looking at things changes with time. It was then that I figured out I couldn’t keep cheating on myself. So, I hit the road. And I got lost. And the more I was getting lost the more I was finding me. So, I kept losing my way while repeating, ‘Unwind my heart. Unknown places we’ll reach, through roads yet obscure’. And some friends helped me fit the dreams in suitcases, because whenever I was packing alone, my suitcases were turning out overweight and I couldn’t travel.
And so I came to London to find myself, but in ten million people where do you start? Images followed me while I kept growing up. With me, I took a few photographs of people close to me and plenty of somebody for whom I once had lost my sleep for, proof that pictures exist not only to be reminiscent of times and places, but also to help us forget. And I needed that memo of amnesia, an artifact that I once loved and almost died for someone unworthy. Being here, I found reasons to save pictures once again. Brave new pictures, brave different pictures and a sag in my heart (from happiness?) made room for new lovers, new friends and brand new roads as well. But in every fairytale, a twist exists and even if mine was yet to be revealed, I had to create one. I am an artist after all!
Fast forward to last May when I went back to Greece for 4 months, took photographs with a small part of many random grey buildings and a large part of a certain clear blue sky and realized simultaneously that no matter how far I was running, every image was to be added in my diminishing treasures: my love stories, my thirty years, the place I grew up and a couple of people I once loved, but were dead by now. Everything I ever wanted to possess. An archive engraved into my DNA that repeatedly projects all of my life’s stories, my ever-changing body and my grandmother’s smile, which I slowly begin to forget.
Almost like love letters (where words matter, while ink and paper are of no importance), in photographs bodies and smiles mean nothing at all. People in them make the news. Because as a rule, pictures lie. Yes, my grandmother was always smiling in my birthdays next to me. What of it? Does that mean she was happy without her dead husband and her buried son? And how happy could my cousin be in that picture of her at the school yard, when two months later she would turn her back to the world and become a nun? But somehow like being in the dark for quite a while until you suddenly begin to see, photographs’ many lies always lead you to a certain truth: memory fades, but a picture will always linger, a reminder of the huge space my grandmother and my cousin still occupy in me. A piece of paper beauty, forever mine to keep.
Unfortunately, my kind of beauty was never easy. It is as Baudelaire would say, “Something blazing and unhappy, a bit vague and mysterious, open to various interpretations and sorrow – to an extent that makes you wonder if beauty without sadness can actually exist”. This is why whenever I face beauty, I bleed.
This explains why I kept aching, as I was photographing her.
I am talking (but words fail me) about my lady in gold, the woman I met by chance in early autumn at the Acropolis. Weather was far from raining that night but in my soaking heart she managed, with her unbearable and almost deathly beauty, to leave a mess. Her feral strangeness beamed under a dim spotlight as her torn, gold bloodied uniform and veiled face gained an extra layer of twinkle. It felt as if I had shed several layers of skin and I was walking around her like an open wound. In front of something so authentic and unique, you can’t do much but record it. A revelation of the highest kind. Like Japanese poets captivate the spirit of summer within three lines, she briefly summarized the loneliness, the uniqueness and the nostalgia of all the memories I have forever lost and which my futile efforts cannot capture in any other form or shape. Furthermore, she summarized me. More than any photograph of mine ever did. Even now, in absentia, her foreboding chill still creeps into my bones and even in silence, she’s deafening; the sound of a body being thrown out of a window: entirely without hope, of this world, or the next, or the previous one. I mumbled ‘Thank you’, she nodded approval and we parted.
Sometimes photography is useless, I thought later on. Instead of taking pictures, you should always tell the ones you love how you feel, in case you never see them again.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Letters from nowhere are penetrating a man's desolated ambience, while his heart keeps missing some beats. What is the first step in rearranging a broken psyche?
.A soul-porn short film by Giannis Drakos
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Sunday, 10 May 2009
So here we are. Almost there. Escaping the bandwagon effect, oiling joints (even those we never thought that existed), rummaging through fears, putting the puzzle together. Together we cope. Nelda, Milda, Kieran, Ryan and me. From Tuesday the 12th until Sunday, 17th of May, the puzzle will be hanging in mid-air. Make sure you will catch a piece.
(To reprise the atmosphere of Chlamydiart at its very start, what follows is the thesis of our group. Excuse me if it looks a bit sugary, but I wrote it in the midst of an all nighter, almost within a fever dream, as I was trying to join the dots. Our dots as a group. Hopefully, it will line you up with our vision too.)
Chlamydia is a common sexually transmitted infection caused by the Chlamydia trachomatis bacterium, an obligate intracellular parasite of eukaryotic cells only found in humans and it is a major infectious cause of human genitalia and eye disease (Chlamydia Conjunctivitis)
(Or: How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Disease)
(Or: How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Disease)
Art was always considered an elitistic realm of the few, made by the few, so, inevitably, addressed to the few as well. But isn’t Art (the need to ask questions, keep evolving and generally unveil, underline or tweak reality) similar to Life’s fundamental goals? Wondering about the relation between Life & Art is like questioning life’s relevance to living.
Colliding Chlamydia with Art, we created a juxtaposition addressed as Chlamydiart, wanting not only to pinpoint Art’s infectiousness, but also spread it to the public consciousness like a disease for the eyes (and maybe the genitals!). Then why Chlamydiart instead of Glaucomart or Catarart (which also sound interesting)?
The answer is simple. In real Art –or at least the eidos we are interested in as a team, the artist works as a thoroughfare to his/her mind and his/her soul. It is cathartic. And like all things cathartic, it feels as if you just shed several layers of skin and you are left walking around naked, perhaps still in questioning and wounded for sure. However, this wound, this pain heightens you to the next level.
Easy doesn’t make you grow. Easy doesn’t make you think; and with getting ourselves through a highly demanding second year, we, as Chlamydiartists, got infected from ‘messing around’ with Art, but we are not willing to get cured any time soon. Instead, we decided to exhibit our disease and showcase our will to leave pure shores behind, in case we might find an ocean.
Friday, 1 May 2009
You move in haze within my headspace. Slow down. Hold still. Someone is circling a little lower than the angels. Blissful I am (even though...)
Roots grow deeper; in ways we can't conceive. From beneath the ground you stare at me, daring me to blink. Blissful I am (even though...)
Calm down. Be still. We've got plenty of time to kill. Take me in, under your skin and bury me deep in love. Blissful I am (even though...)
Preoccupied, like a moth with the light, I came to your party dressed as a shadow. No one imperils, love evades. Yet, blissful I am (even though you're gone).
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Friday, 20 March 2009
This is the second version of the third, minor, exercise we had after the one with the picture we would take with us in a prison cell, had we been imprisoned, and the one we had to pair the same image with 5 different texts.
It is safe to state that this one was tantalising in the making, even if it shouldn't be. It was my fault. Throughout this second year in University it feels as if I am making easy things difficult. How and when I aquired this queer tendency to masochism, is something that escapes my mind though. In the first edit of it, I had included 3 portraits that all three worked perfectly in my opinion (in a attept to stay positive within my melancholia?), even if the guidelines of the exersise were sharply accurate. Bring:
- A successful portrait I have taken
- A successful portrait taken by someone else
- A portrait I consider unsucessful (that either I or someone else has taken)
Therefore, it felt suitable to re-edit it in parts. The only image which survived this revision is the one with John and Yoko taken by Annie Leibovitz on the 8th of December, 1980. That same evening when Lennon, on his way home from the recording studio, was shot and killed by a deranged fan. This photo was set out to become the cover of Rolling Stone's commemorative issue and John Lennon's last photograph ever."We were feeling comfortable because it was Annie whom we respected and trusted", says Ono for the picture. This is the one reason for choosing this image (the other one is that it exeplifies the state-of-the-art ways in Leibovitz's practice): in my mind, therefore in my own work, a good picture occurs not only of the mathematics behind the shooting (what camera you use, what kind of flash, et al.), but mostly of your relation with the subject. It is not about how you take a picture, but what you actually put in it. And this image occured mostly from the qualities arised from the intimacy formed by the relationship of Leibovitz with John & Yoko.
Talking about intimacy, this is the reason I have chosen the first image as well. It is a portrait of my niece taken while she was playing at my house's garden. I used to babysit her whenever I was in Greece and no matter how many pictures I ever take of her, she always begs for one more! Out of the hundred portraits I have taken of her, this might not be my favourite one, but it still suprises me due to her stunning assurance, especially for a then 3-year-old child.And that is exactly what repels me in the following image: the lack of assurance.
Instead, it is a Kingdom of boredom, which justifies all the cliches of photographs taken for promotional reasons. Oasis in this portait, taken by Nick Wilson, are a bunch of guys that their ages added together come close to 200 years. Yet, they can't reach the craftiness of a little girl.