Fellow Field: Εικαστικές Τέχνες

Τελευταία, όταν κυκλοφορώ στην Αθήνα η απώλεια μνήμης μου μοιάζει όλο και πιο απειλητική. Δεν φταίει η ηλικία μου. Ούτε τα χαμένα μου εγκεφαλικά κύτταρα. Η ροή του χρόνου και της ζωής έχει αλλάξει στην πόλη που μεγάλωσα. Η μεταβλητότητα του χώρου συναγωνίζεται τη ρευστότητα των εικόνων και της πληροφορίας στο διαδίκτυο. Βρίσκω τον εαυτό μου εγκλωβισμένο ανάμεσα σε ξενοδοχεία, πολυτελείς μπουτίκ και μαγαζιά πανομοιότυπης αισθητικής που αντικαθιστούν μικρές επιχειρήσεις. Δεν ξέρω προς τα που να κατευθυνθώ. Όλα μου φαίνονται αλλιώτικα και παραδόξως τόσο ομογενοποιημένα. Οι κατασκευές και τα εργοτάξια, μαζί με τα τραπεζοκαθίσματα στο διάβα μου, με περικυκλώνουν και με εκτοπίζουν διαρκώς. Αποπροσανατολίζομαι όσο οι συνδέσεις και οι σχέσεις εμπιστοσύνης που είχα με την Αθήνα, τους ανθρώπους και τις γειτονιές της ξεθωριάζουν. Τη βλέπω να ξεχειλίζει από επιτήδευση, «ποτάρες» και «φαγητάρες», αλλά να ξεμένει από οικεία σημεία αναφοράς, από ανθρώπινο υλικό και κοινωνικό κεφάλαιο.

Η εμπορευματοποίηση και ο εξευγενισμός [1] κάθε σπιθαμής της πόλης «κατεδαφίζει» τα στοιχεία του παρελθόντος, τις χαρές του, τις νίκες του, και σβήνει τον μικτό και λαϊκό χαρακτήρα που γνώριζα. H ορμητική νεοφιλελεύθερη μετάβασή[2] της από το παλιό στο νέο, αγνοεί τις ζωτικές ανάγκες των κατοίκων της και μετατρέπει την αναζήτηση του ανήκειν σε εξαιρετικά ασαφή και αγχωτική διαδικασία. Σε μία πόλη που οι πρωτοβουλίες γειτονιών για τη διασφάλιση της αξιοπρεπούς διαβίωσης αυξάνονται καθημερινά, οι συμμετοχικές/κοινωνικά εμπλεκόμενες καλλιτεχνικές πρακτικές αναδεικνύονται σε δραστηριότητα απόκλισης, που μπορεί να συμβάλλει στην υπεράσπιση του δικαιώματός μας να βιώνουμε τον δημόσιο χώρο ως ελεύθερη περιοχή. Πώς μπορούμε να εκφράσουμε τις απόψεις μας για το είδος της πόλης όπου θέλουμε να κατοικούμε και να συμβιώνουμε μέσω της τέχνης; Με ποιόν τρόπο οι δημόσιες καλλιτεχνικές εκφράσεις αποκαλύπτουν, οριοθετούν ή αμφισβητούν τη νεοφιλελεύθερη αστικοποίηση; Από τη δεκαετία του 1980, η σχέση των καλλιτεχνών με τον αστικό εξευγενισμό θεωρείται αμφιλεγόμενη καθώς έχουν υπάρξει περιπτώσεις που, άθελα τους ή και ηθελημένα, έχουν συνεισφέρει στην ανάπτυξη του. Δεν λείπουν παρ’ όλα αυτά και παραδείγματα που έχουν συντελέσει στο αντίθετο.

Collectif MASI, Tichnos, Collective exhibition Stimoni, MISC.Athens, Αthens, 2023, Photo: Georges Salameh

Ως τέτοια περίπτωση θα μπορούσε να θεωρηθεί η δραστηριότητα της Collectif MASI[3]. Πρόκειται για μια ομάδα που ιδρύθηκε στο Παρίσι το 2018 από τη Μαντλέν Ανηψητάκη και τον Simon Riedler. Πολλαπλοί ορισμοί και χαρακτηρισμοί θα μπορούσαν να αποδώσουν τον πυρήνα της δουλειάς τους, με σταθερό παρονομαστή ωστόσο τον συνδυασμό των γνώσεων και των εμπειριών τους επάνω στην κοινωνιολογία και την αρχιτεκτονική. Πριν μετακομίσουν στην Ελλάδα, είχαν αφήσει το στίγμα τους στο Παρίσι, την πόλη της Γουατεμάλας, το Σαν Χοσέ, τη Λίμα, το Βαλπαραΐσο, το Σάο Πάολο, το Ρίο ντε Τζανέιρο, την Περέιρα, τη Μπογκοτά και την πόλη του Μεξικού με ποικίλα μέσα. Μέχρι στιγμής έχουν δημιουργήσει εφήμερες εγκαταστάσεις στο δημόσιο χώρο, assemblage, τοποειδής (site-specific) παρεμβάσεις, in situ περιβάλλοντα, γλυπτικές κατασκευές, σκηνογραφίες κοινωνικής αλληλεπίδρασης, επιτελεστικά και συμμετοχικά δρώμενα, βίντεο έργα και άλλα. Ανάλογα με τον τόπο στον οποίο βρίσκονται, η εικαστική τους γλώσσα αναδιαμορφώνεται και προσαρμόζεται στον κοινωνικό ιστό, αντικατοπτρίζοντας τις τοπικές συνθήκες. Συχνά μάλιστα αξιοποιούν και δίνουν δεύτερη ζωή σε ευτελή αντικείμενα που βρίσκουν παρατημένα (objet trouvé) προσθέτοντας σε αυτά επιπλέον υλικά καθώς και έντονα χρώματα. Κάθε αντικείμενο που επιλέγουν είναι φορέας προηγούμενων ανθρώπινων εμπειριών, ερμηνειών και χρήσεων. Η επανάχρηση και  η ευφάνταστη αναγέννησή του γίνεται με γνώμονα τις νέες παραδοχές που προέρχονται από τα βιώματα της ομάδας στο χώρο. Η σχέση που αποκτά η Collectif MASI με τα στοιχεία, τα αντικείμενα, και με τις κοινότητες που προσδιορίζουν τον εκάστοτε χώρο, καθορίζει εκ νέου την στρατηγική δημιουργικής σύνθεσης που θα επιλέξει.

Collectif MASI, Persephone, the red carpet, Fertility, Eleusis, 2023, credit Joshua Olsthoorn.

Οι ετερογενείς μεθοδολογίες και προσεγγίσεις της, έχουν σχεδιαστεί με τέτοιο τρόπο ούτως ώστε να προσφέρουν εναλλακτικές και λιγότερο ιεραρχικές μορφές συνύπαρξης, ικανές να επεκτείνουν την κατανόησή μας για την οικοδόμηση των πόλεων και των κοινοτήτων της, όπως επίσης για τη διαφορετικότητα, την πολυπολιτισμικότητα, τη συλλογική ταυτότητα, τη διαπολιτισμική ανταλλαγή και την αναγνώριση των αναγκών εκτοπισμένων και ευπαθών κοινωνικών ομάδων. Στο έργο Πλατεία με θέα. Ανανεώνοντας το αυτοείδωλο μιας πλατείας (2021), που παράχθηκε για το πρόγραμμα φιλοξενίας καλλιτεχνών του Victoria Square Project, Station One AIR 2021, με θέμα Η Ιπποδάμεια εντός Πλαισίου, η ομάδα ενεργοποίησε μια σειρά αλληλεπιδράσεων στην πλατεία Βικτώριας, ένα σημείο της πόλης τραυματισμένο από κοινωνικές και ταξικές αποστάσεις, δίνοντας χώρο για αυτοσχεδιασμό και αυθορμητισμό. Έχοντας ως αφετηρία το νεοκλασικό άγαλμα του Johannes Pfuhl που κοσμεί την πλατεία και αναφέρεται στην Ιπποδάμεια, αρχικά επινόησαν μια παραλλαγή του μύθου της ηρωίδας προκειμένου να της προσδώσουν ένα ενδυναμωτικό τέλος. Σε αντίθεση με τα γεγονότα της πρωτότυπης εκδοχής, στην παραλλαγή της Collectif MASI η Ιπποδάμεια καταφέρνει και σώζει τον εαυτό της. Για την επίτευξη της διάδοσης αυτής της αφήγησης στη γειτονιά, η ομάδα δούλεψε συνεργατικά με κατοίκους της περιοχής. Οι κάτοικοι προσέφεραν φιλοξενία σε οκτώ σεντόνια/πίνακες με διαφορετικές εικόνες που οπτικοποιούν την εναλλακτική ιστορία της Ιπποδάμειας, τοποθετώντας τα στα μπαλκόνια τους. Εκτός από τα σεντόνια/πίνακες, η ομάδα μαζί με παιδιά πρόσφυγες που συχνάζουν στην πλατεία, δημιούργησαν από κοινού τέσσερα κινητά γλυπτά από επαναχρησιμοποιημένα υλικά, όπου Ιπποδάμεια απέκτησε τη μορφή πουλιού. Τα γλυπτά σύντομα μετατράπηκαν σε όχημα/παιχνίδι των παιδιών λειτουργώντας ως αντιπροτάσεις στην στατικότητα και την αποστασιοποίηση που εκπέμπει το υπάρχον δημόσιο μνημείο. Μέσα από αυτήν τη δράση προέκυψαν συμπληρωματικές χειρονομίες δημόσιας σύνδεσης και συμπερίληψης στον χώρο της πλατείας, όπως για παράδειγμα «χαιρετισμοί» ανάμεσα σε άτομα που βρίσκονταν στην πλατεία και σε αυτά που εξέθεταν τα σεντόνια/πίνακες στα μπαλκόνια, προδίδοντας έτσι την κοινή ανάγκη για επικοινωνία, έκφραση και αφύπνιση.

Collectif MASI, Persephone, the red carpet, Innocence, Eleusis, 2023, credit Joshua Olsthoorn

Δύο χρόνια αργότερα, στο πλαίσιο του Προγράμματος 2023 ΕΛΕVΣΙΣ Πολιτιστική Πρωτεύουσα της Ευρώπης στην Ελευσίνα, η Collectif MASI ήταν υπεύθυνη για τη συμμετοχική δράση με τίτλο Περσεφόνη, το κόκκινο χαλί (2023), εμπνευσμένη από τον ομώνυμο μύθο. Για 30 συνεχόμενες μέρες ξεδίπλωνε ένα κόκκινο χαλί μήκους 40 μέτρων και πλάτους 1,5 μέτρου, σύμβολο του θανάτου και της γονιμότητας της ελευσινιακής γης. Πριν την έναρξη της επαναλαμβανόμενης δράσης, η ομάδα είχε έρθει σε επαφή με διάφορες γειτονιές, καθώς και με κοινότητες Ρομά, ώστε να εγκλιματιστεί με την κοινωνική παραγωγή των βιωμένων χώρων της Ελευσίνας και τα υποκείμενα που τους κατοικούν, και να προσκαλέσει τα τελευταία στο δρώμενο. Το χαλί δε βρέθηκε μόνο στο έδαφος, όπως είθισται σε επίσημες περιστάσεις. Μετατράπηκε σε ένα «γλυπτικό» αντικείμενο του οποίου οι όγκοι και η πλαστικότητα καθορίζονταν από την κινησιολογία, τη διάθεση, τη συνεργασία και την πορεία των συμμετεχόντων, που αποτελούνταν από ντόπιους και επισκέπτες. Περιφέρθηκε και απλώθηκε σε διαφορετικά σημεία της Ελευσίνας, μέσα από μία πομπή που έμοιαζε με κατάληψη, αποσυνδεδεμένη από χωρικούς και άλλου είδους διαχωρισμούς. Η πομπή πραγματοποιήθηκε με συνοδεία μουσικής από την τρομπέτα του Ανδρέα Πολυζωγόπουλου, καθώς και χορών και τραγουδιών από τοπικούς συλλόγους (Σύλλογος Μικρασιατών Ελευσίνας – Μουσείο Ιστορίας και Λαογραφίας, Σύλλογος Πελοποννησίων Ελευσίνας, Σύλλογος Ηπειρωτών Θριάσιου Πεδίου, Χιακή Ένωση Ελευσίνος, Συμφωνική Ορχήστρα της Δρέσδης). Ως αποτέλεσμα, μετατράπηκε σε μία θεραπευτική τελετουργία, με ενωτικές και συμφιλιωτικές ιδιότητες, που αντιμετώπισε τον συγκεκριμένο τόπο ως ζωντανό οργανισμό, αναγνωρίζοντας τη σημασία της διάδρασης και της συνυπευθυνότητας για τη διατήρηση της ζωτικότητάς του. Το δρώμενο έχει καταγραφεί και θα παρουσιαστεί στην ομώνυμη ταινία που έχει γυριστεί από τον Joshua Olsthoorn και την Collectif MASI.

Collectif MASI, The Acropolis has left out plate, Collective performance, Eleonas 2023 – Chtonian and Anthropocene, Athens, 2023

Την ίδια χρονιά η ομάδα εργάστηκε επίσης στην υποβαθμισμένη και παραμελημένη περιοχή του Ελαιώνα, και συγκεκριμένα στη γειτονιά Μαρκόνι, για την έκθεση Ελαιώνας ‘23 – Χθόνιο και Ανθρωπόκαινος. Έχοντας περάσει αρκετό χρόνο στη γειτονιά, η Collectif MASI συνέθεσε μαζί με τους κατοίκους την επιτελεστική δράση Έφυγε η Ακρόπολη από το πιάτο μας (2023), που με παιγνιώδη διάθεση ήρθε να δώσει φως στις ανάγκες και τα κρίσιμα ζητήματα που επηρέαζαν την καθημερινότητα τους. Πρόκειται για μία συνάθροιση κατά τη διάρκεια της οποίας κάτοικοι είχαν στήσει ένα τραπέζι έξω από την πόρτα του σπιτιού τους. Σε κάθε τραπέζι είχαν τοποθετήσει ένα πιάτο με ασφαλτικά υλικά και πίσσα που προέρχονταν από τα βουνά μπάζων τα οποία συνθέτουν την τωρινή τους θέα (αντί για την Ακρόπολη που είχαν στο πιάτο πριν), ως προσφορά στους περαστικούς. Μεγάλος αριθμός επισκεπτών πέρασε από κάθε τραπέζι και άνοιξε συζητήσεις με τους κατοίκους, οι οποίοι με τη σειρά τους μοιράστηκαν τις ιστορίες τους αλλά και τα αιτήματα τους για ουσιαστική κρατική μέριμνα. Στη συνέχεια, όλα τα τραπέζια ενώθηκαν σε ένα κοινό. Εκεί συγκεντρώθηκαν οι κάτοικοι για να σπάσουν τα μπάζα με σφυριά ως ένδειξη διαμαρτυρίας αλλά και πράξη συναισθηματικής αποφόρτισης. Ακολούθησε ανοιχτό προς όλους δείπνο, μαγειρεμένο από τους ίδιους, όπου οι συζητήσεις έλαβαν συνέχεια. Η ουσία του έργου εντοπίζεται αφενός στη διαμόρφωση των απαραίτητων συνθηκών οικειότητας και ασφάλειας ώστε να προκύψει αβίαστα ο διάλογος και αφετέρου στην απόδοση του τρόπου με τον οποίο λειτουργεί, ανεπίσημα, μια δημοκρατική διαβούλευση όπου διαφορετικές φωνές εκπροσωπούνται φέρνοντας «στο τραπέζι» ένα πολιτικό ζήτημα. Το να επιτευχθεί η συμμετοχή, τόσο δημιουργικά όσο και κοινωνικά είναι ομολογουμένως μεγάλη πρόκληση. Αξίζει να σημειωθεί πως μετά από δύο βδομάδες ξεκίνησε η διαδικασία απόσυρσης.

Μπορεί τα χρόνια δραστηριότητας της Collectif MASI στην Ελλάδα ως καλλιτεχνική ομάδα να μην είναι πολλά, το κοινωνικό και καλλιτεχνικό της αντίκρισμα στον τόπο όμως δεν είναι καθόλου αμελητέο. Όπως γίνεται φανερό από τα έργα στα οποία αναφερθήκαμε, η δυναμική της πρακτικής τους έγκειται στην αξιοποίηση διαφορετικών τόπων και τρόπων κοινωνικότητας με διακριτικότητα και σεβασμό, και στην ευρηματική ενεργοποίηση όλων εκείνων των δομικών στοιχείων που μπορούν να οικοδομήσουν μια πραγματικά ανοιχτή, ευημερούσα και ενοποιημένη κοινωνία. Είναι γεγονός πως σε εποχές όπως η σημερινή, τέτοιου είδους πρακτικές δεν μπορούν να αντικαταστήσουν την πολιτική δράση, τη διεκδίκηση και την κριτική στους υφιστάμενους κρατικούς θεσμούς. Δεν μπορούν από μόνες τους να σώσουν την πόλη και να κάνουν τους κατοίκους της να ευδοκιμήσουν. Δεν θα επιφέρουν αυτόματα δικαιοσύνη και συστημική αλλαγή. Ωστόσο μπορούν να μας οχυρώσουν από τον κυνισμό, να μας αφυπνίσουν από την απάθεια και να μας κινητοποιήσουν. Μπορούν να γίνουν πολιτικό βίωμα και να μεταλλάξουν την αδράνεια σε αναστοχασμό. Μπορούν να μας βοηθήσουν να αποκτήσουμε (εν)συναίσθηση, να ανακτήσουμε την τρυφερότητά μας και να συντηρήσουμε την απαραίτητη μνήμη προκειμένου να τα επικαλούμαστε πιο τακτικά. Μπορούν ακόμη και να μας υπενθυμίσουν πού πηγαίνουμε και γιατί, σαν μία πυξίδα.

Η Collectif MASI (2018) ιδρύθηκε από την Μαντλέν Ανηψητάκη, αρχιτέκτονα και τον Simon Riedler κοινωνιολόγο. Επικεντρώνεται σε έργα πολεοδομικής σκηνογραφίας και κοινωνικής τέχνης. Έχει πραγματοποιήσει το Δίκτυο σχοινιών στον πολεοδομικό ιστό (Κεντρική και Νότια Αμερική, 2018-2019). H Μαντλέν Ανηψητάκη έχει κερδίσει το βραβείο ARTWORKS και είναι Fellow του Προγράμματος Υποστήριξης Καλλιτεχνών ΙΣΝ (2020). Έχει εκθέσει υλικό αρχείου στο Espace Voltaire, τη Cité internationale des arts (Παρίσι, 2020), το Steinzeit Gallery (Βερολίνο, 2022) και το Evia Film Project (2022). Πειραματίστηκε στη σύνδεση ιδιωτικού και δημόσιου χώρου στο Residency Ateliers Médicis (Pouillenay, 2020) και στο έργο “Crossing Walls” (Nuit Blanche, Παρίσι, 2021). Η συλλογική της περφόρμανς “1 km as the crow flies” (Ecole d’Architecture Paris-Malaquais, 2021) αναγνωρίστηκε ως «εξαιρετική δράση αντίστασης στην πανδημία» από τον Francis Alÿs. Έχει συνεργαστεί με το Victoria Square Project για τα έργα Πλατεία με θέα (2021) και Trikiklo (2022), με την Greenpeace για το έργο Κλεψυδρόγειος (ΚΠΙΣΝ, 2022), με το ΕΛΕΥΣΙΣ 2023 για το έργο Περσεφόνη, το κόκκινο χαλί. Αυτό το φθινόπωρο, η MASI επιλέχθηκε στο Salon de Montrouge (Γαλλία), στο Ελαιώνας 2023 – Χθόνιο και Ανθρωπόκαινος, στο Στημόνι (Misc.Athens) και στο Platforms Project (Αθήνα).

H Μάρη Σπανουδάκη είναι ερευνήτρια, πολιτιστική διαχειρίστρια και επιμελήτρια. Καταπιάνεται με θέματα τα οποία συνδέονται με κοινωνικά κινήματα, πολιτικές ταυτότητας, λαϊκό πολιτισμό και pop κουλτούρα, θεσμική κριτική, μορφές κοινότητας και εγγύτητας, διαχείριση αρχείων και μελέτη εκθέσεων τέχνης. Η εκπαίδευσή της περιλαμβάνει πτυχίο Επικοινωνίας, Μέσων και Πολιτισμού από το Πάντειο Πανεπιστήμιο, μεταπτυχιακό τίτλο Πολιτιστικής Πολιτικής & Διαχείρισης από το City (Πανεπιστήμιο του Λονδίνου) καθώς και μεταπτυχιακό τίτλο στην Ιστορία των Εκθέσεων Σύγχρονης Τέχνης με εξειδίκευση στην έρευνα από το Central Saint Martins (Πανεπιστήμιο των Τεχνών του Λονδίνου). Ασχολείται ενεργά με την παραγωγή, την επικοινωνία και τη διοργάνωση πολιτιστικών εκδηλώσεων, ενώ έχει επιμεληθεί εκδόσεις, κοινοτικά έργα και εκθέσεις σύγχρονης τέχνης στην Ελλάδα, το Ηνωμένο Βασίλειο και τη Γερμανία, τόσο εντός όσο και εκτός διαδικτύου. Υπήρξε υπότροφος του προγράμματος Start – Create Cultural Change (2017-2018), και το 2019 βραβεύτηκε από την ARTWORKS για την επιμελητική της πρακτική, στα πλαίσια του Προγράμματος Υποστήριξης Καλλιτεχνών Ίδρυμα Σταύρος Νιάρχος (ΙΣΝ). Το 2023 επιλέχθηκε να συμμετάσχει στο πρόγραμμα φιλοξενίας UNIDEE «Ούτε στη Στεριά ούτε στη Θάλασσα» (Ενότητα IV) στην Ιταλία. Έχει γράψει κείμενα και άρθρα για καταλόγους εκθέσεων, βιβλία καλλιτεχνών και περιοδικά σύγχρονης τέχνης. Από το 2017, είναι το έτερον ήμισυ της γυναικείας καλλιτεχνικής/επιμελητικής συνέργειας This is not a feminist project, της οποία η δουλειά έχει παρουσιαστεί στο Μέγαρο Μουσικής Θεσσαλονίκης, στο Eleusis European Capital of Culture (Ελευσίνα), στο A-DASH και στο Εθνικό Μουσείου Σύγχρονης Τέχνης (ΕΜΣΤ) στην Αθήνα. Είναι επίσης ιδρυτικό μέλος του Σωματείου Εργαζομένων στη Σύγχρονη Τέχνη στην Ελλάδα, ερασιτέχνις φωτογράφος και dj, και συλλέκτρια αρχειακού υλικού και βινυλίων.

[1] Χαρακτηριστικά παραδείγματα ο Μεγάλος Περίπατος, η Ομόνοια, το Πεδίον του Άρεως, η Ακαδημία Πλάτωνος, η μεταφορά των Υπουργείων από το κέντρο σε «κυβερνητικό πάρκο» στην ΠΥΡΚΑΛ, ο λόφος του Στρέφη (που φαίνεται τελικά ότι σωθεί χάρη στις παρεμβάσεις των κατοίκων), η πλατεία Εξαρχείων, το Μεταξουργείο, το κλείσιμο του κινηματογράφου Ιντεάλ κ.α.

[2] Η ιδιωτικοποίηση και η ανάπλαση περιοχών, η στεγαστική επισφάλεια, η επέλαση των διαμερισμάτων βραχυχρόνιας διαμονής, η έκρηξη των ενοικίων, η μείωση περιοχών πρασίνου σε πάρκα και πλατείες, και η καταστρατήγηση τυπικών προβλέψεων της νομοθεσίας προς όφελος της τουριστικής ανάπτυξης. Δημόσιες διαβουλεύσεις παρακάμπτονται και αρχιτεκτονικοί διαγωνισμοί περιορίζονται ή/και δεν εφαρμόζονται. Όταν ο αστικός σχεδιασμός γίνεται αντικείμενο ιδιωτικής δωρεάς τότε αυτόματα το δικαίωμα στη διαμόρφωση της πόλης παραχωρείται στη διακριτική ευχέρεια ευεργετών που δεν είναι κάτοικοι της εκάστοτε περιοχής, αρχιτέκτονες, ούτε καν ειδικοί επί του θέματος.

[3] Το όνομα Masi προφέρεται όπως η ελληνική λέξη μαζί στα γαλλικά.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

The trolley bus is taking me to Stefania Orfanidou’s studio in Pagrati, the region of Athens where I grew up and moved from years ago. I know that sense that the day is over when the trolley bus turns right after Kallimarmaron stadium — the sound of the machine as it switches lines, resembling that of a deep, long breath. I think of Rena Papaspyrou, Stefania’s neighbor, an iconic Greek artist, who said to me once that “nostalgia is nonsense”. The recollection of these words comforts me, because it really is nonsense. I’m standing in front of the building where Orfanidou lives and works, among the square and the cafes, and I know, that sense of familiarity is not derived from a nostalgic emotion and -let’s admit it- the illusion of ownership that comes along with it. Right there, on that piece of public space I’m sensing instants of a past life escaping to the present and that transgression is by itself, one charming and uncanny connection with my surroundings, here, now.

Stefania is expecting me in a bright spacious dining room, with its furniture and objects carefully put in place. Beside a gracefully organized workstation, a sleek surface of a dining table accommodates a few of her self-published books: Pendulum, Cold Turkey, Jaguar Sun. Later, she would admit to me that this neat surface was rather busy a few minutes before I arrived. There, on the table and up until the clean empty wall surface of its background, dozens of her printed photographs had been spread over. It is a ritual she performs regularly: she selects a group of printed images and disperses them, she arranges and re-arranges them to discover well-hidden narratives, unconscious linearities that inhabited her lens when these stills had been captured. During this ephemeral display, it is not unusual for her to discover affinities of her more recent images with earlier projects, and in that case, she won’t hesitate to archive them back in the series where they belong. The process is indulging, it enhances her concentration, it allows her to observe strange kinships and contradictions among her images, and ultimately, it endorses her to imagine spaces, as immensely broad this term can be. In fact, when one attempts to delve into Orfanidou’s artistic and professional journey up until today, they come across with the infinite methods one can employ to serve the studies of space.

Stefania Orfanidou studied Architecture at the Polytechnic School of Thessaloniki. Until then, her childhood was shared between Chania, Crete and Kavala — all coastal cities, with a rich cosmopolitan history and evident urban traces of a multitude of cultures, ethnic and religious communities they have inhabited them over the centuries. In Thessaloniki, Stefania joined the student’s Photography Club and along with her studies, she started taking analogue pictures of her everyday life in the city. A few years later, she returned from the faculty’s trip in Tokyo with her first dummy of a photobook. A little after that, she spent a semester in the Photography School in Complutense University of Madrid and that time, she came back with the commitment to register at Stereosis School of Photography. Her visit in L’ Aquila resulted Pendulum, a book she has been working on for four years and one of her most personal works. From Berlin, she came back with the photos that composed Unseen, her 6-copy self-publication that was part of her thesis for the PARA-Poesis Post Graduate Program of the University of Thessaly. Today, Stefania Orfanidou is working as an architect and a photographer, residing in Athens permanently for the first time, and she already has at least three open project files, she feeds with new photos every day.

What occurs to her in those cities? During her studies, each change of location, each travel was an incident that unfolded another chapter of her career as an artist. Today, she avidly extracts material from the cities she inhabits, as well as from her regular excursions away from them. Orfanidou works in such a systematic and conscious way, it is impossible for me to think that she is simply amazed by the impressions from the urban and natural landscape, nor by the life and the character of the various urban and natural environments she finds herself into. Her academic and professional occupation with architecture has evidently provided her the means to get over such clichés. Stefania is blown away by her actual subjects, in the most cinematic way. In Cold Turkey, her body of work with photos taken between 2015 and 2018, a pair of bare feet is floating over our sight, cutting in half a building and a sky of cement. Next take: windows in order, each one covered -or blindfolded- by white sheets. Take three: afternoon at the beach, the figure of a girl in the center of the composition, her back covered in a towel resembling a golden cloak. The photographer drives our gaze towards the subjects, that may be human or non-human forms, objects or architectural elements that, quoting Barthes, “rise from the scene” and stand as “sensitive points and wounds”. Cold Turkey is slang for the sudden abstinence from a substance by an addict.

In Orfanidou’s works living and nonliving elements become storytellers, protagonists in a greater narrative where the lines between space and experience are undistinguishable. As active agents of the emotional or even the mythical, her subjects candidly traverse the layers she meticulously recognizes in the notion of space and visually brings to our notice. In her ongoing project Profanation Exercises, faces, details, material and human bodies, banal objects, intensely present in their own conjunction of time and space, form keyholes from where one can spy on a broader, surreal narrative. Her frames, motionless, yet intense and unquestionably pulsing, come from the domestic, the natural and the public realm, nonetheless, familiarity is equally prevailing in all of them. In Orfanidou’s work “inhabited space transcends geometrical space” as with her lens she follows -discreetly, yet daringly- lived experience, that is after all, what actually transforms our surroundings. In the same series, she might capture a snake-like path in a valley, a plaster statuette forgotten in a backyard, a loved one’s face under the sun. At the same time, the light she chooses to photograph in (afternoon hours, mostly), her gesture, her gaze, all address a unified environment, one that life has marked forever.

The city of L’Aquila in central Italy is one of these environments. There, the artist came to heal with a narrative of two ruptures, a personal and a collective, two major events: L’Aquila is the city where her parents met, and an area severely hit by a catastrophic earthquake more recently. Orfanidou went there to contribute as an architect to the restoration of the city and brought back with her a body of work that constituted her self-published book Pendulum. Within her images, the artist narrates the city’s wounds with gentle affection, reflecting in awe the collective trauma, as this is traced in space, in parallel with the rupturing point of time that signifies the beginning of one’s own existence. The remnants of human motion, the emptiness, the absence, her vague fragmental memories tell a profoundly human and timeless tale.

These nuances of memory that hide below a pile of stones, on a feather stuck on a wooden electricity column, under the tanned skin of someone we love, are also in the core of her ongoing project Cache. Stefania is using as a title this technological term, referring to the “hidden” data storage, to continue her research on the narratives that quietly inhabit the surface of physical reality. As she is out in the city and its outskirts, collecting material to complete the project, she envisions Cache in its final version occupying space itself. I am thinking that this would be inevitable, as her editions already consist 3D environments and I can already imagine how smoothly a viewer could immerse into her work in three dimensions, as naturally as visiting another unknown, yet familiar place.

Stefania Orfanidou was born in 1989. She is a photographer and an architect currently living and working in Athens and Chania, Greece. In 2019 she founded the architecture studio Chora Atelier, that integrates research, architecture and supervision, construction, interior and furniture design, books’ editing and scenography. In February 2019 she published the book Pendulum, a visual recounting of a return journey to the city of L’Aquila in Italy. In 2020 she received the SNF Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS. In 2021 she published the book Cold Turkey that deals with the multiple levels of addiction, the relationship of dependence and mourning, the path to redemption. The same year she co-curated and participated in the art installation Daedala at Yiali Tzami, Chania, Crete. In 2022 she was nominated by VOID to join FUTURES European platform of contemporary photography. In her work, a personal experience or event, real or imaginary, is the starting point for fragments’ stitching and the composition of tales, where the irrational, the reasonable, the uncanny and the secret may coexist harmoniously. Her photographic work has been featured in magazines, galleries and festivals in Greece and abroad. Her work belongs to public and private collections.

Christina Petkopoulou, (Athens, 1992) is a free-lance curator, researcher and writer based in Athens. She has studied Archaeology and History of Art at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens and the Paris I-Pantheon-Sorbonne and completed a master’s degree in Cultural Management at the Panteion University of Social Sciences. She is a member and the in-house curator of the A-DASH team, a researcher and curator of the online art projects a time of her own by Zoe Chatziyannaki and Athens Report by Anna Lascari. She has curated exhibitions and public programs (Lipiu, 2020, Playing Ground, Automatic Transmission, 2019, Liminal Aristeidis Lappas solo show, Praxitelous 33, 2016, Choro-graphies-Points of flight, Artscape Athens, 2014 and more). Her texts have been published in several editions and catalogues (The ArtNewspaper Greece, Lipiu, Vera Chotzoglou, Bona Fide, State of Concept, 2021, Ammophila II, Under the Burning Sun, 2021, The Feminine Sublime, 2019 and more). She has worked for the Greek Contemporary Art Institute (ISET) researching and documenting its archive and she has also collaborated with several cultural institutions such as the Athens Biennale (2013, 2015), Art Athina (2014, 2015) and Archaeological Dialogues (2015). In 2016, she was chosen for the Neon Foundation curatorial exchange program in collaboration with the Whitechapel Gallery and in 2019, she received the SNF Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS. She also works as a teacher and a copy editor.

¹ Talking Heads, Heaven, 1979, from album Fear of Music

² Barthes, R. (1993) Camera Lucida (R. Howard, Trans.), Vintage Classics

³ Bachelard, G. (2014) The Poetics of Space, London, England, Penguin Classics.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

The imminent threat of the collapse of cultural subjectivities that has steadily been looming, partially due to the torrent of digitization, has brought about a resurfacing of the study of the universality of the senses by multiple disciplines. The sensorial revolution, as defined by anthropologist David Howes, endorses a “more relational, less holistic perspective on “the body” and its various modes of “being-in-the-world”[2]. At the same time several concerns surrounding issues of disembodiment and dematerialization have been explored in theoretical research internationally. Art theorist Fay Zika has suggested that the claim for the unification of the senses and the arts can no longer be limited to the modernist era, rather should be extended to include today’s digital media through which new means of production and forms have emerged[3]. The use of super-media, data bases, mining, search engines, image processors and simulations in the production of art has revealed a dynamic multi-sensual approach to aesthetics, one that includes interactive participation and puts access and management of information in the core of the aesthetic experience. “Digital media is characterized by the multisensorial immersion and interaction”[4], permitting multiple experiences and perceptions of an artwork, one that departs from the singular consumption of a work through the prism of the artist’s intentionality. The artistic practice of Theodoros Giannakis uses these theories as a starting point to explore digital art and further the discourse between aesthetics and technological ethics.

Theodoros Giannakis is in his third year of his PhD at the Athens School of Fine Arts. He is preoccupied with the topic of cosmotechnics, “the unification of the cosmos and the moral through technical activities, whether craft-making or art-making”[5]. The theory, formed by Yuk Hui, presupposes that there is no singular understanding of the notion of technology but several that vary from culture to culture, allowing numerous perceptions of morality to be acknowledged and accepted. Hui warns that “The Anthropocene is a global axis of time and synchronization that is sustained by this view of technological progress towards the singularity”[6], building a case for a rethinking of the definition of technology as formed by the rather dated, Eurocentric Heidegger argument. “To reopen the question of technology is to refuse this homogeneous technological future that is presented to us as the only option.” Giannakis is precisely interested in exploring the variety of subjective experiences of art, not only from culture to culture but even between different states of mind of an individual encouraging thus a reconsideration of technology’s effects.

The artistic practice of Theodoros Giannakis is not articulated in well-defined bodies of work. Instead it takes form as a constant flow with no firm beginning or end, not unalike the constant flow of information we are constantly exposed to. In both his solo shows, in Eleni Koroneou Gallery in Athens in 2018 and Union Pacific in London in 2019, there is a sense that that two did not occur in sequence but in synchronicity. The works fuse into others and co-exist with what has been and what can be imagined to be. The artworks seem to be in perpetual progress, only briefly pausing to be displayed till they rematerialize in other contexts, through different iterations that allow for additions and reductions, but mostly a rethinking of their purpose, use and effect. Much like his existential ponderings that have stigmatized an entire generation that can barely remember a life before digitization, time has been rendered redundant: “the Anthropocene heralds a collapse of the distinction between geological time and human time”[7]. In his solo show Primitivism mirage, Giannakis presented a collection of paintings, sculptures and installations. The works manufactured largely with 3D reconstruction, fabrication and default machine learning algorithms retell narratives of the past, present and future in co-existence. A blending of time through recontextualized symbols and mythologies achieves an atmosphere of otherworldliness, simulating past perceptions of futurism, largely drawn from early science fiction novels with an emphasis on William Gibson’s Neuromancer. The repetition of perspective grids in Giannakis’ practice reveals the desire to achieve a continuity, a view towards what is yet to materialize and a belief in the cyclical passage of time. The video installation of a real-time rendering of the continuous alternation of night and day through endless sunsets and sunrises in front of an infinite ocean accentuate this point even if only realistically but never real.

His following solo show at Union Pacific in London seemed to be a renegotiation of the previous show, fittingly entitled Always Already aka a primitivism mirage again. He repeats the phrase “always already” to himself, as if thinking out loud. It seems imperative to remind himself that this is the single solid, de facto truth to which he must constantly remember to return in order to ground his inside monologue. Always-already in phenomenological terms refers to the irreducible essence of a thing, being is always-already a given. Althusser claimed that an individual is always-already a subject, that their roles are ideologically predetermined. You get a feeling that this doctrine acts as a lifejacket for Giannakis, reassuring the plausibility of his subjectivity and releasing him from the heavy burden of what he feels to be his major responsibility: moralistic, all-encompassing objectivity as a visual artist. Always-already is a constant return to physicality and all its inherent constraints, something to wrap one’s mind around, even if only fleetingly. It allows one to refocus on the essence of things rather than ideas and meta-ideas surrounding them.

Philosophy of mind, the specialized approach to the study of the relationship between the mind and the body and the physical world is always present in the artist’s work. Various iterations of the Gorgoneion symbol, an ancient talisman said to be commonly worn by Zeus and Athena as a symbol of their descent from deities reappear. The Gorgoneion is always a representation of a, rather rare for Greek antiquity, confrontational, terrifying head, seemingly unattached to a body. In various primitive cultures, similar mask-like symbols are thought to have acted as reminders in order to scare the owner from doing something wrong. The gravitas of responsibility, the acceptance of the limitations of the genealogy of subjectivity and the need to remain in the substantial rather than the mental are in constant negotiation in the forms of Giannakis.

More Common Wild Flowers was published in 1948 by botanist John Hutchinson, known for his research in phylogeny of plants and the evolutionary relationships among species. Theodoros Giannakis tweaks the title of this study into More Common Mirrored Wild Flowers, 2016. The verbal addition to the title reveals part of his preoccupation concerning subjectivity and heterodefinition but the artist maintains the essence of the original’s purpose: the attempt to search for the evolved relationships between new-found species of existence. More Common Mirrored Wild Flowers references the term quantum satis, the minimum physical property necessary for any interaction. As if Giannakis is searching for what human relations can be reduced to before being redefined into a different ontology altogether. The classification reference that he carefully selected reveals the need to create a system of categorization of information, data, input, whether digital, emotional or physical. His artists books seem to be part of a much larger exploration for the artistic methodology that would allow the artist to classify and ultimately comprehend the powers at work in the creative process. More Common Mirrored Wild Flowers includes a series of short form essays that read as a stream of consciousness, interspersed by illustrations indicative of his aesthetic that seem indecipherable in a non-scientific context. Giannakis mentions that these artist books are vital to his artistic process as they act as notes in which he is drafting out his thinking. They read as a type of auto-fictional phenomenology, a study of structures of consciousness as experienced by the narrator. Phenomenology proclaims that the central structure of an experience is its intentionality, how it is addressed or directed towards something, an object. Giannakis suggests that the interesting thing about his writing is that it was not initially intended to be read by anyone, it was not therefore addressed to an object, which is what grants him the freedom for unfiltered exposure of sensual experiences.

How does matter compose itself around me? the artist wonders in the essay Wild Night. In possibly the most existential of all the texts included in the book, Giannakis travels through the fragmented materiality of the urban surrounding, alluding to a new-found natural environment. Mentions of nature are interspersed in the texts, in an attempt to return to the always-already safe space. The artist concludes in his own disembodiment, a type of voluntary human extinction in a posthuman future that finally succumbs to AI takeover. The sort of annihilation that can only be caused by vast amounts of matter that clutter the mind. A type of evaporation that can only be sensed and not explained, a unification of the artist’s senses and his artwork. The distinction of senses seems to have collapsed, the capacity to transcend their limits has been achieved, aesthetics and ethics have finally merged and posthumanism has prevailed.

Evita Tsokanta is an art historian based in Athens who works as a writer, educator and an independent exhibition-maker. She lectures on curatorial practices and contemporary Greek art for the Columbia University Athens Curatorial Summer Program and Arcadia University College of Global Studies. She has contributed to several exhibition catalogues and journals and completed a Goethe Institute writing residency in Leipzig, Halle 14.

[1] Theodor G. Tzimas, More Common Mirrored Wild Flowers, epub, artist book, 2016.

[2] David Howes, Charting the Sensorial Revolution, Senses & Society, Vol. 1 Issue 1, Berg, 2006.

[3] Φαίη Ζήκα, Απορία Τέχνες και Σκέψεις Κατεργάζεται, Άγρα, 2018.

[4] David Howes, Charting the Sensorial Revolution, Senses & Society, Vol. 1 Issue 1, Berg, 2006.

[5] Yuk Hui, Cosmotechnics as Cosmopolitics, e-flux journal, Issue 86, 2017.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Interview of Yuk Hui by Giovanni Menegalle, A thousand Cosmotechnics, Research Network for Philosophy and Technology, 2018.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

The streets (and walls) of Athens have been covered — truly covered — in graffiti for as long as I can remember. As a child visiting from the United States, I didn’t know what to make of these indecipherable tags and scribbles. More broadly, I remember how my feelings about Athens itself were consistently ambivalent. Sometimes I reveled in the city’s chaos; other times I was certain that it was the ugliest place I had ever seen. But as I grew older, and started to travel more widely, Athens’ particularities steadily became more striking to me. Not only did I begin to feel a deep admiration for its flagrant disregard of my opinion, but more specifically, I came to realize how the city’s graffiti contained multitudes. Visiting year after year, a neighborhood walk became many things: a political education (ΕΞΩ ΤΟ ΝΑΤΟ! — NATO, Get Out!); an invaluable source for vocabulary (perhaps best not rewritten here); and finally, a reminder of how a city that always felt both old and new, crumbling yet unchanging, could be the site of ongoing struggle and reinvention. Today, I see these tags and murals as inextricable components of the city’s fabric, as much as the venerated antiquities or devilish topography.

For the multi-disciplinary artist Alexandros Simopoulos, graffiti has also been a near-constant presence in his experience of living and making work in Athens. As early as high school, graffiti served as a creative outlet for Alexandros, establishing an underlying layer that he would later return to and cover over, again and again, in different ways. He continued to produce work while a student in university — where he focused on humanitarian law and international relations, both of which would also express themselves in his artistic work — but still, he could not get graffiti out of his mind. After university, he was once more drawn to the art form, producing graffiti-inspired t-shirts, skateboards, and prints. His timing was propitious: street art was having what Alexandros calls, “its second renaissance in Athens” amidst the growing financial crisis. He quickly realized that his adolescent hobby could become so much more.

Alexandros explains, “The story of graffiti and street art is complex and contradictory. Even the very terms of ‘graffiti’ and ‘street art’ have highly contested histories, which continue to generate intense debate inside and outside the community. In Athens, though, this story had a local twist during the height of the financial crisis. At the time, there were endless reports from major international media outlets about street art in the Greek capital [for example: How Angry Street Art is Making Athens Hip]. The angle was that there must be some key relationship between the country’s economic situation and the city’s street art. The easy narrative: graffiti as resistance, with its images providing an accessible aestheticization of the country’s problems, such as urban poverty, alongside a manifestation of its ‘brave spirit.’ But very few of these articles undertook any in-depth research; rather, I think graffiti provided a free and edgy illustration for their pieces. The crisis put Greece in the spotlight and street art became a handy example.” He then reveals, with a knowing smile, “I am pretty sure that some artists made political work on certain streets because they knew it would be spotted by journalists and later published in, for example, The International New York Times. Easy narratives can be manipulated by both sides…”

Yet as the old adage goes, there is no such thing as bad publicity. As Alexandros explains, “Over the past decade, street art has also created tourism for Athens. Many people travel here to paint — or, at least, they used to — we call them ‘graffiti tourists’. In Greece, it’s easy to work outside, especially since making graffiti is not heavily criminalized and the weather is good. The popularity of street art has certainly contributed to the touristification of the Athenian center, for better and for worse. For my generation, it has certainly been for worse: the recent inundation of visitors, and Airbnbs, has outpriced us all when it comes to housing.” He then reflects, “But what’s important to remember is that there was plenty of street art and political graffiti in Athens before the crisis. Additionally, street art has been used for gentrification for quite some time, all over the world, Berlin being a celebrated example (though we see it in London, New York, Barcelona and other places as well). Artists move where there is space and where it is cheap. All of these phenomena are not confined to a few trendy neighborhoods in post-2010 Athens.”

Alexandros understands these complications better than most: he has engaged with the street art community on many levels, at home and, lately, abroad. In Athens, he not only produced his own work, but collaborated with Cacao Rocks, another prominent practitioner [as well as an inaugural SNFA Artworks Fellow], to run a gallery in the city center dedicated to street artists. As he tells me, “Several years ago, Cacao and I shared a studio in the building’s basement. The gallery was on the ground floor. There, we had more or less free rein to do what we wanted. For over three years, we invited people we knew and gave them a welcoming space to experiment with formats. We even flew in artists from abroad to do mini-residencies and exhibit their work, bringing international points of view to Greece. In addition, the gallery worked as a small arts school for the kids of the neighborhood. It was an amazing experience — at its peak, it was a vibrant hub for varied people to meet, collaborate, experiment, and the spark for many new projects. The gallery was at the core of a small street art scene that was growing bigger and bigger. I remember that Cacao and I once had a completely sold-out show — but no matter how many gallery exhibitions we held and no matter how much work we sold, we lived in a parallel world: we were definitely not part of the contemporary art scene in Athens, nor was it something which we were interested in joining at that time.”

As Alexandros looks back on this heady time, I can hear the mixture of pride and frustration that accompanies the position of the perpetual outsider. Being on the edge — whether as a street artist excluded from contemporary art or as an artist living in Athens, a place that remains on the “periphery” of the global art world — affords a great deal of freedom. But it can also be isolating. Regardless, Alexandros reminds me that periphery is always a relative concept. He refers to the example of the 2017 edition of Documenta to underscore how the art world is never monolithic: at every level, there are insiders and outsiders, irreconcilable narratives, and overlapping spectrums of power. He says, “Documenta portrayed Athens as a locality of chaos and crisis and, at the same time, rebirth and self-determination. It was a narrative drawn from many sources, which made it appealing for different people, especially artists. Still, the event ultimately came from the outside, and thus its narrative exoticized Athens. It didn’t, perhaps couldn’t, explore all the complexities contained here.”

Over the past few years, Alexandros’ own path reveals his efforts to bridge these many competing approaches and gaps — between street and art, politics and space, Greece and abroad. As he tells me, “What’s so special about street art, more than anything, is its directness. It can reach people in their everyday lives. I’m interested in working across worlds, not just speaking to curators and critics. I want to create work that communicates with everyone.” In pursuit of a more legible visual language, Alexandros first left Athens to study illustration and visual arts in London. He then returned, now with a wider focus on making work that deals with the idea of public space — not illegally but as an invited guest. He tells me, “I’m not painting outside much anymore. I don’t even consider myself a street artist at this point. Instead, I am contending with the difference between what I thought I was doing and its perception from the outside. Conceptually, I am thinking about questions such as ‘What happens in your body when you paint graffiti? What happens in your mind? What kind of narratives do you come across, what kind of people, how are they communicated — and how has all of this transformed cities around the world? Concretely, my expanded point of view means I now work with a greater range of people, all of whom have widely disparate perceptions of street art and public space more broadly. Through these interactions, I am exploring my relationship to public spaces from other people’s perspective. I try to actively engage them in the creative process or even make them part of the work.”

As a former student of humanitarian law and international relations, Alexandros’ broadening point of view continues to ripple outward, well outside of Greece. For example, this past summer, he spent three months in Berlin and, prior to that, six months in New Mexico as a Fulbright Fellow. He also received public commissions to paint murals in locations ranging from Hungary to Portugal, and even Greenland. He reflects on the privilege, and challenges, of extending his work in this way. “Traveling creates a global community and network of artists who can exchange skills and ideas. This has always existed in the street art scene — while a piece might not travel, the people who make these public spaces are able to move and bring their knowledge with them to new settings. This does present some complications, though. When I travel to make work, I am confronting a place I’m not from, where I might be unaware of specific tensions or histories. The only way to overcome this deficit is to spend as much time there as possible before making any work and to meet and interact as sincerely as possible with people from different communities. Wherever I go, I try to respond to those around me and make the art meaningful for everyone involved. This has become the most challenging and rewarding part of the process for me.”

Alexandros’ new perspective has not only helped him with his work overseas, but to look at Greece with fresh eyes. This was evident in Still Here Tomorrow, the Artworks group exhibition held at the Stavros Niarchos Foundation last summer. In the show, Alexandros’ piece effectively juxtaposed views from inside and outside, embodying his desire to understand other points of view while retaining his local roots. The installation, titled Best served old (Anti-austerity artists are impressing the tourists), mixed street art motifs such as pigeons and stray dogs with aesthetics taken from ancient Greek art — red and black-figure vase painting and portrait statuary — as well as the pan-Balkan blue evil eye. According to his artist statement, the entire installation was meant to evoke the pandering displays in tacky souvenir shops. But beneath the dark humor, Alexandros had a positive message. “Many of the images on these ceramics relate to stories of tradition. Tradition in Greece (and elsewhere) has been the basis for countless horrible, nationalistic, and extremely conservative narratives. But, in some instances, it can also point us towards more radical ideas. For example, tradition can help foster a connection to the land, by which I mean the actual soil — something that has become revolutionary again today since it runs counter to so many globalized forces.”

Still, as we discuss how to synthesize such opposing views, it seems fitting that we end our conversation on the subject of land. After all, street artists are ever-rooted to their physical surroundings. And so we conclude by returning to the city of Athens one final time, with Alexandros saying, “In so many places in the West, public space is tightly regulated: you go to your work and after you go to designated places to enjoy yourself in very predetermined ways (bar, restaurant, theater). In between, public space is used only as a passage, with few actions produced there. But in the words Martyn Reed, I like to think of streets as ‘repositories of meaning for those who occupy and move through them, as places of contested perceptions and negotiated understanding.’ We can see this in Athens, where public space is chaotic and put under many competing demands. People, bikes, cars, and café tables fight over finite space. It’s not always pleasant, but I love the plethora of communication that happens in these increasingly squeezed plots of land. It excites me to see Athenians using every bit of public space available to them; you find people everywhere. The city’s residents continue to spend a large amount of time outside, together. Here, there is an intensity of community that I don’t find in other cities in Europe or the United States. For me, that’s the essential quality of Athens, that’s a big part of what makes it special.”

Alexander Strecker is pursuing a PhD in Art, Art History and Visual Studies at Duke University. His research explores how artistic practices register the contradictions inherent in ideas of crisis, periphery, and technology, with a focus on how these tensions are felt acutely in contemporary Greece while also resonating worldwide.

H ARTWORKS συνεχίζει τη συνεργασία της με το  Enterprise Projects υποστηρίζοντας το 9ο τεύχος EP Journal (ΕPJ) σε ανάθεση της SNF ARTWORKS Fellow 2020 από το πεδίο της επιμέλειας, Ιωάννα Ζούλη.

Διαβάστε εδώ το EP J9 με τίτλο “ΕΙΚΟΝΕΣ ΠΟΥ (ΕΠΙ)ΠΛΕΟΥΝ”

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

An online correspondence between Ioanna Gerakidi and Iria Vrettou, tracing Vrettou’s artistic practice as a vessel for thinking across the limits of the real, the potentials of the imaginary and the pleasure of the habitual, for becoming with monsters, animals, nymphs and other deities.

Ioanna Gerakidi (IG)
A poem

ceremonies rituals broken
legs wide open
allowing for others to come in
or out
to become

fragments monster animals
having more than one
head licking each others
wounds kissing
their darkness their light
where eternity is
real the ephemeral
is always

speculative

when movement is the only
entrance to silence
skin shows when covered
in blood colors clothes
history

when angels are born the water

flows naked when demons

die the earth grieves her cries

turn fire into love her scars

melt the human
psyches into laughter and affect
blues and bruises
of lives lived in parallel
in synch.

Iria Vrettou (IV)

IG

I’ve been reading a text of Raquel Gutierez, on the work of Wu Chang, it starts by them quoting the words of José Esteban Muñoz: “Communal mourning, by its very nature, is an immensely complicated text to read, for we do not mourn just one lost object or other, but we also mourn as a ‘whole’-or put another way, as a contingent and temporary collection of fragments that is experiencing a loss of its parts”. Muñoz’s words echo, in my ears, a cathartic scheme embodied in your practice; a paradoxical mourning arising from what you call “ephemeral border”, when referring to finding new forms of kinship, togetherness, love in between “water and land”, “individual and collective”, “solid centers and liquid peripheries”. And the reason why I think of this perpetual process as a mourning one, is because it comes with a perpetual separation from the self, in order to find and “touch” the other, a perpetual separation from “land” in order to find safety, or that which has never been explored, a perpetual separation from staticness, solidity, linearity in order to “grow bigger”, to quote the words of Kathy Acker. Within these endlessly transforming ways of being and producing and growing, are you ever scared? Have you ever been attracted by the pleasure and comfort of the habitual?

IV

I am scared. I think this ‘thrill’ of transforming, shifting, changing must include feeling scared. Forms of life are always shared — both collective & singular and in that, there is a responsibility.

I see producing as translating sometimes, and through that, new forms of language arise. There was this lecture of the philosopher Steven Shaviro, where he said something like “to imagine a language means to imagine a new form of life”, and then he continued with what Latour calls ‘a proliferation of hybrids’. To me, forms of life stretch everywhere, they do not respect the borders between entities, they have fuzzy outlines and resist definition. So, in this translation sometimes I am scared; in this exact responsibility I feel towards the real, the imaginary and the in between. What is being gained, and what is being lost in the process. And in this process I find comfort, also, and pleasure of the habitual. Creating worlds of hybrids and hybrids of worlds is an escape and something very familiar to me. It is hopeful.

IG

I’m thinking of your “Volcanic Identity”, for which again you engage with transformations, when you write about their power to “regenerate”. I googled the etymology of the word volcano, and realized that it was named after the Roman God of fire, “Vulcan”. And it’s interesting, because fire to me, is not only the most transformative element, but also -at least symbolically or mythologically- a tool and a mechanism to reach empowerment, demand agency, fight for existence, resist. It’s a vessel through which you can break hierarchies, protect your rights, desires and needs. In that sense, with your project “Volcanic Identity”, it’s not only demons, and nymphs, and all kind of deities that speak, shout, or shriek their voices, but also us, women, outcasts, marginalized, dismissed human, non-human, or as you say “more-than-human” beings.

IV

Absolutely. Volcanic Identity is queer identity. Queer, in the sense of resistance, metamorphosis, active participation, remapping, revisiting, recharging, cultivating, birthing, of a radical empathy and I can keep going. It’s an identity that helps me understand different states & concepts but also the realities around me. Volcanic is femme. And femme is a way of thinking for me. One which reclaims power, reclaims nurture, reclaims love, reclaims anger. Volcanic witchcraft.

Recently I’ve been having more and more dreams about volcanoes. And there is always a very familiar face involved. It is usually my mother, somewhere close by, closer to the crater than me.

And even though the Volcano erupts, and there is lava, and smoke, the dream is never angry, nor scary, nor sad. It is reassuring, it is a feeling of tiptoeing around a shift/a change/a leap. The more I dream of volcanoes, the more I speak to them and they speak to me.

IG

I read elsewhere that you speak of your works as portals. And I remembered you mom telling me once something about portals as inductions to things unknown and therefore as something that has to be tender in its abruption, comforting in its scary quality. I’m sure I paraphrased her words, but it’s interesting, because even though your practice uses various media, your (or your creatures’) presence allows for this exact inclusivity, stroke, affect required when entering an altering state.

IV

Dancing for me is a way to portal. Another one is dreaming. To either be a portal or go through one. And portals in themselves are a neverending in-between.

An ever-shifting feeling, which blends, absorbs and births new entities and moments;

Recentering with no center
Rebalancing without balance
Caressing the vicious
Wilding the tender
Becoming extremophilic.

Teeth and limbs and multiple tails.

Eyes and eyelids and tongues speaking

speaking in tongues

haunting in tongues
mumbling lava
mumbling compost
Portals of love
Profoundly in love.
Profoundly teratomorpho

IG

There is this exercise I ask from my students to do in advance of our first meeting, where I encourage them to send me their alternative short bio. And by alternative, I mean, writing about loves and rejections, past fears and future hopes, unrequited or fulfilled desires, astrology, candles, psalms or prayers, dances, walks or any other schemes meaning something to you.

IV

Dream sharing is something I’m hoping to practice more. It structures my thinking and renders my everyday experience. And I dream a lot. A scheme of dreaming? That could be a part of my short bio. This and making my favorite pasta dish. Cherry tomatoes, feta, caramelized with garlic. It’s a process of healing and comfort. The definition of the habitual for me.

Iria Vrettou is an artist, born in 1995 and based in Athens. She holds a Diploma in Animation from University of the Arts London and an MA in Contemporary Art Practice-Moving Image from the Royal College of Art, London. Her work is primarily focused on concepts and modes of hybridity as methods of research and practice, whilst addressing aspects of hand-drawn animation, performance and installation in relation to their conceptual, eco-queer functions. Her practice critically examines the function of the ‘screen’ in the context of cultural production and political processes, and explores the creation of art works that can work as disquieting, complete spatiotemporal experiences. Within this framework, in the last couple of years she has developed a keen interest in the real and symbolic life of volcanoes. She has participated in various art projects in Athens, London, Seoul and others. She has been awarded the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS (2021). She was a resident of International Studio & Curatorial Program (ISCP) in New York City (2022).

Ioanna Gerakidi is a writer, curator and educator based in Athens. Her research interests think through the subjects of language and disorder, drawing on feminist, educational, poetic and archival studies and schemes. She has collaborated with and curated exhibitions and events for various institutions and galleries and residencies and her texts and poems have appeared in international platforms, magazines and publications. She has lectured or led workshops, seminars and talks for academies and research programs across Europe. Her practice and exhibitions have been awarded by institutions, such as Rupert Residency, Mondriaan Fonds, Outset and the Stavros Niarchos Foundation (SNF) Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS, amongst others.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

In his latest solo gallery show, multidisciplinary artist Yorgos Maraziotis lures the viewer into an environment where not everything is what it seems. The exhibition Monroe Springs at Antwerp’s Base-Alpha Gallery consists of paintings and sculptures of different sizes, installed unorthodoxly to create a carefully-planned spatial choreography that puts the viewer’s body into different situations. The deeper visitors delve into the exhibition, the more they realise that behind the show’s apparent softness and playfulness hides a much darker layer, one that is full of violence, social injustice and late-capitalism ennui.

The exhibition’s title refers to an imaginary place, a Californian town perhaps named after Marilyn Monroe. Maraziotis chose this title because he draws inspiration from California, and specifically Los Angeles, for all the works he created for the exhibition. The artist has never visited Los Angeles though; the place exists in his mind as a collage of the representations he has been exposed to over mass media and through popular culture. The show is referencing the city and its history, but at the same time is also addressing the struggles and plight of any western or westernised modern city. Monroe Springs is therefore not a show about Los Angeles, but turns Los Angeles into a metaphor for 21st-century urban societies and the trappings of urbanisation and capitalism.

Upon entering the gallery space, visitors walk past a set of wall-mounted sculptures in the form of Japanese shuriken made of thick pink marble. The weapons’ sharpness is cancelled by the choice of material, and their colour imbues them with an attractive, almost edible quality. Functioning as the exhibition’s ceremonial gateway, a pedestal stands in the middle of the hallway carrying a pair of pristine white roller skates with iridescent details. The shoes are filled with soil into which two pink candles are standing lit. On either side of the pedestal and near the ceiling hang two neon lights in yellow and pink; they are based on a drawing by Maraziotis of cartoonish blood oozing from an invisible wound.

Passing the pedestal visitors find themselves in the exhibition’s first room. A large copper articulated sculpture is hanging from the ceiling like a metal spine made of laser-cut, identical abstract shapes. The impression of the sculpture changes as one moves around it, becoming almost invisible and razor-like from the side but curvaceous and figurative from the front. The shapes are again based on a doodle by Maraziotis, but being cut out of thin metal adds an element of danger and aggressiveness to them. On the wall across, a small painting is sitting on a metal shelf; a plant removed from its pot is placed right in front of it, concealing its content and at the same time duplicating the tropical plants depicted in the painting.

A pair of large paintings standing back-to-back on the floor conceal the entrance to the next room. They have been placed like a wall that separates this first part of the exhibition from the next, creating an indirect path for visitors to follow. Behind the two paintings and mounted on the wall with magnets is a pair of metal nunchaku, the Japanese karate weapon made famous by Bruce Lee and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Maraziotis’ nunchaku are connected with a very long chain to look more like a skipping rope, confusing in one gesture the limits between violence and play.

In the final and largest room of the exhibition, there are two sculptures. On the left there’s a curving white volume covered in ceramic bathroom tiles and a single metal tube coming out of its top like the railing of a swimming pool ladder. The end of this metal tube that touches the floor is pointed like a weapon. On the other side of the room there’s an austere metal structure that is modelled after a children’s swing with two seats — only in this case the swings are replaced by two angular slates of metal that dangle mournfully from their chains. Above the sculptures, two paintings of identical size are hanging from the ceiling like billboards. A red neon light in the same shape as those in the entrance tints the white wall with an ominous red glare.

The paintings at Monroe Springs are made using a limited palette of bright yellow, pink and red. At first sight, they seem cheerful and harmless, featuring lush palm trees and cartoonish forms painted sparsely on raw canvas. At closer inspection, and especially when one reads their titles, the paintings are in fact a blood bath, referencing violence both real and fictional. In the first room, the 2,4-meter-high painting Rodney King’s Liquor Circus (2019) is back-to-back with LA Guns (2019), referencing Rodney King’s beating by the LA Police in 1991 and the subsequent riots where over 60 people died. Hanging over the dystopian swings in the back room, the two paintings are referencing Kathy Acker’s violent postmodern writing (Cathy’s Eyelids, 2019) and Disney films (Bunny Love, 2019). The exhibition is constantly referencing the 1980s and 90s through various elements — whether that is the vintage roller skates, karate B-movies, the Los Angeles riots or Acker’s punk literature. This conscious decision relates to the constant tug of war that is taking place between violence and play throughout the exhibition, but also to the artist’s own nostalgia for a childhood that is becoming more and more distant (Maraziotis is after all a Millennial, born in 1984). This very clear reference to the late 1980s and early 1990s also highlights that although we change and move on, history repeats itself: this year we saw another filmed incident of excessive police violence in the US that sparked widespread riots, and we’re again sliding into a recession like in the 1990s.

Maraziotis incorporates these issues not only in each work separately but also in the conception of the exhibition as a whole. The nuanced, almost theatrical dramaturgy of moving from one space to the other, the underlying sadness that permeates every attempt to cheerfulness and optimism, the impact that the different materials have on the viewer, the show’s disorienting layout — all are elements that cannot be conveyed via photography and must be experienced in person. That said, Monroe Springs is not just a well-played game of perception and aesthetics, but also a melancholy recollection of the state of the world today. We were promised prosperity and peace, but we ended up with endless war and class oppression. We were promised a playground and we ended up in a torture chamber.

Review by Kiriakos Spirou, originally published on und-athens.com.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

In a way, honeybees are like artists. They venture into their surroundings, seeking out nourishment. In moving from plant to plant, they fertilize flowers and thus bring new life and more beauty to the world. Besides that, deep within their labyrinthine hives, they pool their nectar and painstakingly transform their labor into sustenance. Much like artists, the honeybees’ creative process is opaque from the outside. Few of us ever make the effort to peer into the honeycomb to understand how everyday materials are transfigured into something so sweet and nourishing. The artist’s studio remains similarly remote.

But if any two people are in a position to understand these twinned mysteries, it is the artist-couple Ioannis Koliopoulos and Paola Palavidi. After both growing up on the mainland, and later spending time abroad, the couple have settled together in Komi, a small village on the ruggedly picturesque Cycladic island of Tinos. Ioannis, alongside his artistic practice, has avidly embraced a different art form: beekeeping. And Paola, whose family hails from the island, participates fully in their rural Aegean community while maintaining her own creative output. Together, the pair have formed Hypercomf, a “multidisciplinary artist identity materialized as a company profile.” To understand their playful, boundlessly inventive efforts more clearly, I journeyed to the couple’s charming, white-washed home. While Ioannis was away on a neighboring island, Paola welcomed me into their shared creative universe.

In doing so, Paola put into practice one of her strongest beliefs: that artists need to open up, making both their profession and their work more inviting to the public. She tells me, “I’m against the fantasy of the artist alone in their studio; me alone with my brilliant thoughts. We should involve people in the making. Most times, they only see what happens at the end, and that makes our work needlessly mysterious and misunderstood. If people are let into the creative process from the start, they will have a better appreciation of what the final artwork means.” And so, with our task clearly laid out before us, Paola and I begin, slowly unraveling what Hypercomf — and more generally, what a transparent and truly open artistic mindset — might have to teach us about how we look at the world.

Paola and Ioannis met in London when they were 21 years old. Paola had grown up in Athens, Ioannis in the flat, central city of Karditsa. Both had left Greece for London in order to study art and see more of the world. Each was looking for something bigger out there and amidst this immense metropolis, they found each other. Paola has no trouble recounting the exact moment when their relationship deepened: “From the beginning, we were painting together. That is to say, side by side, in the same space, but still focused on our own canvases. Slowly, we began to play exquisite corpse. That is, we put a canvas in the middle of the room and one person would start painting. Then, they would leave it and allow the other person to pick up in their own direction. We continued this exchange, truly painting together now. It was like a game.”

Paola and Ioannis now had each other; next, they needed to fashion an environment in which they could both flourish. They returned to Athens where, individually, their practices were busy. They found the city’s artistic community welcoming and especially appreciated being once more amidst the Greek sense of humor. But over time, Paola began to recognize a “psychological need to be close to landscapes and nature.” Within the choked streets of the city, Paola did what she could, creating a personal oasis of “a balcony with 500 plants.” Still, she felt she had to get away. When she saw an opportunity to go to Tinos for work — helping run an educational program at a museum on the island — she jumped at it and Ioannis followed.

Upon arrival, Paola and Ioannis connected deeply with their surroundings. Ioannis, who had never before lived in such a rural setting, took up beekeeping. Paola, meanwhile, connected with the community from where her grandmother had originally come. “In Komi, half the people are my family. I call everyone aunt or uncle, since we are all somehow related.” More deeply, the island’s culture resonated with her and began to shape her perspective on the world. “Everything is more real here. I think it’s because death is so close at hand. There are over 200 people in Komi and only a few dozen are under the age of 50. That means people are dying a lot. Just outside my house, there is a bell ringing each time someone has passed away; that’s when you know the soul is departing. But none of this is morbid — it’s simply part of life. Death sharpens your focus and keeps away some of the pointless distractions of modern living.”

Immersed in the rhythms of their island village, the ideas behind Hypercomf began to percolate. Far from the galleries of Athens and the city-dwellers’ need to impress each other with their wit, originality, or cynicism, the project adopted a distinctly approachable character. Paola says, “We wanted to make functional art pieces that incorporated elements of design. The pieces would be easy to buy and appeal to a wide range of people. Our humble goal was to make everyday life a little more interesting.” At the same time, since the project emerged from the playful minds of Paola and Ioannis, it came with a twist. Hypercomf, from its beginning, adopted a “fictitious company profile,” a sort of faux corporate sheen that allowed them to poke fun at the commercialization of art while also opening themselves to the possibilities of reaching a wider audience. As Paola tells me, “For our first public event, we held an exhibition that doubled as a pop-up shop. It felt much warmer than an ‘art exhibition’ — we felt we were with the people. Out of this success, the idea of a fake company became established.”

Since its founding, Hypercomf has been a success: brisk sales, numerous openings, and an international footprint. On paper, the envy of many aspiring brands. But all of this, Paola reports to me with a mischievous glint in her eye, is part of the fun. To anyone who has seen their output, it is abundantly clear that Hypercomf is not your average company. For example, on the company’s e-shop, Hypercomf asks people to use its products for “multiple lifetimes” — an unlikely basis for a profitable business model. And anyways, as Paola reveals to me with a laugh, “The e-shop isn’t open yet. Two years after we started, it still says, ‘Coming soon.’ Yes, real soon, real soon — we’ll keep them waiting.”

But for Paola and Ioannis, the real interest of Hypercomf has been creating a new space for their playful explorations — an updated, online channel for their old games of painting-studio exquisite corpse. Given that the two artists have matured since their art school days, their creative spark has leapt beyond the bounds of their own partnership. As Paola tells me, they discovered that adopting a group identity opened up the possibilities of working with other artists. Paola says, “Something about the utopian idea of Hypercomf seems to activate people’s openness.” Such projects have included curating other artists’ work, set-designing exhibition spaces, all while utilizing a diverse range of mediums ranging from film to purely digital experiences.

Indeed, as she hinted at the beginning of our conversation, this expanding spirit of collaboration extends beyond fellow artists to the wider world. She tells me, “Right now, most people have no idea what artists do all day. Yes, making art is complicated — investigating materials, working through concepts, experimenting in the studio, finding money (that’s part of it too!) — but all of this work is real and many kinds of people can have a worthwhile input. I believe we need to involve our potential audiences: inform them, get their opinion, make them part of the process. Not only will they better understand the work, but I think it will make the work itself more interesting.”

She starts with an example close to home. Komi, her village, and the entire island of Tinos have contributed greatly to the material form of Hypercomf’s work. Like the honeybees which Ioannis tends, Paola describes a symbiotic relationship with the two artists’ immediate environment. “We try to find different ways to repurpose what’s already been made. Our work is not fully organic — we use computers and all kinds of manmade materials. But this reflects the reality that humans are everywhere now and so there is no ‘pure’ nature. For example, we use plastics we find on the beach. We use bones. And most of all, we use fabrics that we find stowed away, hidden in the community. A particularly good source are handmade tapestries and rugs. Our neighbors have been happy to open up their ancestral chests and give us their old fabrics; they just want to see them put to good use.”

She goes on to give another example from a project done in Italy. “We were invited to a textile factory and asked to respond to the building as well as the surrounding landscape. Of course, we could have done all our research online, taking ideas from elsewhere and looking at satellite images of the nearby mountains. Instead, we hiked up onto the slopes, found some shepherds, and explained our project to them. We asked if they would put GPS trackers on their sheep and suddenly, we had live data coming in from the locals. As the sheep’s wool had been used to create textiles, we used the sheep’s data to create new weavings that represented their journeys. We were so happy when the shepherd then came to the exhibition opening. He saw his own lands in a new way and he easily understood everything since he was involved in its creation.”

Hypercomf’s projects, both in Tinos and abroad, exemplify Paola’s belief of getting to know a place through its inhabitants and of making art almost literally from the ground up. In this light, then, it can seem odd that Hypercomf bases itself in such a remote location, seemingly secluded from wider connections to the world. But this is perhaps one of the key contradictions that the couple has learned to relax: between place and movement. With the lessons Paola and Ioannis have learned in Tinos about becoming embedded in their community, their fake company has put itself into global circulation, carrying its embodied wisdom everywhere it goes. She says, “Maybe 50% of our creativity happens in Tinos. We think internationally; we are nomadic. If the internet has done something good, it’s that you can live anywhere and still work just fine.”

This winter, for example, the couple will be in residence at Pioneer Works in Brooklyn. Among the endless activities pursued in New York City, Paola and Ioannis found out about a small but tight-knit community of pigeon keepers who understand the city in a way different than anyone else. “Our goal was to research the various networks of the city: urban, digital, natural, transportation, jogging routes, etc. And then we discovered a great entry-point — these crazy pigeons! We plan to explore how this peculiar subculture works as a social structure — both for the humans and their animals.” And then she adds, characteristically, “It also suits us since people claim to love nature but they certainly don’t love pigeons or rats or cockroaches. We’re proud to have a victim of speciesism as the grounding for our next project.”

As we wrap up our conversation, we return again to the idea of structures and scale. It’s funny to think how New York City, a sprawling, bustling center of productivity, can also provide the setting for a small group of fanatics to fly pigeons, unnoticed by the city at large. For Paola, these nested frames are essential to how she sees the world. “I suggest everyone try to experience the full spectrum, from the micro to the macro. I have lived in a village with 200 people, an island with 8,000 people, a capital with four million, and a global metropolis with over ten. What I have learned is the universality of scale. My village neighborhood here in Tinos is like one building in Athens. But the city of Athens, as a community, is not so different from my island. The basic structure of hierarchies and what we individually pursue is always the same. In nature, the atom is round and the earth is round. Maybe the universe is round too? What works on the small scale seems to apply everywhere.”

Alexander Strecker is pursuing a PhD in Art, Art History and Visual Studies at Duke University. His research explores how artistic practices register the contradictions inherent in ideas of crisis, periphery, and technology, with a focus on how these tensions are felt acutely in contemporary Greece while also resonating worldwide.

Στην καρδιά της 6ης Μπιενάλε Κότσι-Μουζίρις της Ινδίας, το έργο Deep Sea, Deep Time της Αθηνάς Κουμπαρούλη, ενσωματώνει σπαράγματα ενός διαλόγου που μοιάζει να διασχίζει αιώνες. Η σύλληψη του έργου ξεκίνησε από την επιθυμία να συγκεραστούν δύο φαινομενικά ασύμβατοι κόσμοι: το αρχαίο λιμάνι Μουζίρις —ένα κέντρο εμπορίου μπαχαρικών, που φέρει ακόμα τα σημάδια της αρχαιότητας και της αποικιακής εκμετάλλευσης— με τον σύγχρονο ρόλο του Κότσι ως κεντρικός κόμβος για τα παγκόσμια υποθαλάσσια καλώδια του διαδικτύου.

Με αυτή την ευκαιρία συνομιλήσαμε με την καλλιτέχνιδα, η οποία σπούδασε «Συντήρηση Αρχαιοτήτων και Έργων Τέχνης» στο Πανεπιστήμιο Δυτικής Αττικής και «Μεταβιομηχανικό Σχεδιασμό» στο πρόγραμμα μεταπτυχιακών σπουδών του Τμήματος Αρχιτεκτόνων του Πανεπιστημίου Θεσσαλίας. Το 2019 ήταν υπότροφη με το πρόγραμμα Erasmus+ στον οργανισμό τέχνης BioArt Laboratories στο Αϊντχόβεν της Ολλανδίας. Πρόσφατα παρουσίασε ατομική της έκθεση στην Αίθουσα Τέχνης A.Antonopoulou Art.

Μαρία Κασιμάτη Τσούτσια (ΜΚΤ): Ας ξεκινήσουμε με το έργο με το οποίο συμμετέχεις στη Μπιενάλε του Κότσι-Μουζίρις στην Ινδία. Μια τόσο μεγάλης κλίμακας εγκατάσταση για πρώτη φορά στην καλλιτεχνική σου πορεία!

Αθηνά Κουμπαρούλη (ΑΚ): Ναι, ξέρεις, το μόνο που δεν με τρομάζει είναι η κλίμακα τελικά. Μου φαίνεται πολύ φυσιολογικό ότι ξαφνικά πάω εκεί. Νιώθω ότι αυτό που κάνω, να σκάβω και να βγάζω αντικείμενα από τη γη – ακριβώς επειδή το κάνω συνέχεια-  ήρθε η στιγμή να ξεπηδήσει από το υπέδαφος. Δημιουργείται πλέον μια προβολή στο μέλλον, που βρίσκεται έξω από το χώμα. Το έργο αποτελείται από τρία στοιχεία, τις σπασμένες οθόνες, τη στήριξη από μπαμπού και τα ψηφιδωτά από τομές καλωδίων και χαλκό στο έδαφος. 

ΜΚΤ: Τα υλικά έχουν ιδιαίτερο ενδιαφέρον, ειδικά στη σύνδεση του παρελθόντος με το ψηφιακό παρόν. Γιατί επέλεξες τα συγκεκριμένα ;

ΑΚ: Όλα τα υλικά που χρησιμοποιώ είναι τοπικά, από την περιοχή, αλλά έχουν ταξιδέψει μέχρι να φτάσουν στο προορισμό τους. Αυτό που με ενδιαφέρει πιο πολύ είναι η σύνδεση με τον τόπο, αλλά και οι ιστορίες που κρύβουν μέσα από τους κύκλους εκμετάλλευσης και αποικιοκρατίας που καθόρισαν τη περιοχή ανά τους αιώνες.

Ξεκινώ από τις οθόνες που είναι το κύριο υλικό και όλες προέρχονται από κέντρο ανακύκλωσης ηλεκτρονικών αποβλήτων στο Κότσι. Οι οθόνες είναι αντικείμενα που βλέπουμε πάρα πολύ στην καθημερινότητα μας, είμαστε τόσο στενά συνδεδεμένοι μαζί τους, πιο πολύ και από τις σχέσεις μας με τους ανθρώπους ή από τον ίδιο μας τον εαυτό. Εδώ όμως δεν τις αναγνωρίζεις απευθείας. Στηρίζονται ψηλά στον αέρα ακουμπώντας πάνω σε μια ψηλή κατασκευή από μπαμπού που πατάει στα θρυμματισμένα ψηφιδωτά. 

Τα ψηφιδωτά ακολουθούν μοτίβο κύματος, όπου «χάνονται» και «εμφανίζονται» ακριβώς όπως συναντάς τα ευρήματα σε έναν αρχαιολογικό χώρο. Αποσπασματικά, σπασμένα και ενσωματωμένα στο έδαφος. Χρησιμοποιώ τομές καλωδίων, μεταξύ άλλων και από υποθαλάσσια καλωδιακά συστήματα της περιοχής και χαλκό, που αντιπροσωπεύει τα υλικά υπολείμματα της ψηφιακής υποδομής αλλά παράλληλα χρησιμοποιείται από την αρχαιότητα. 

Εγκαθιστώντας το Deep Sea, Deep Time, Κότσι, Ινδία, 2025

ΜΚΤ: Η κατασκευή από ένα παραδοσιακό υλικό όπως το μπαμπού, που δημιουργεί αυτή τη κάθετη σύνδεση δύο κόσμων, γήινης και ψηφιακής ύλης, πως προέκυψε;

ΑΚ: Προέκυψε τελείως οργανικά και, αρχικά, καθαρά για πρακτικούς λόγους. Στο Κότσι όπως και σε άλλα μέρη στην Ασία, χρησιμοποιούν το μπαμπού στην αρχιτεκτονική, ιδιαίτερα ως σκαλωσιά για ανέγερση κτηρίων. Η κατασκευή μοιάζει σαν να προσπαθεί να ισορροπήσει ένα ήδη σπασμένο σύστημα το όποιο προέρχεται από άλλη χρονική περίοδο. Για μένα είναι πολύ σημαντικό επίσης να δουλέψω με τους ντόπιους τεχνίτες αλλά και με ένα τόσο διαχρονικό υλικό. Οπότε, πάλι δημιουργείται αυτό το δίπολο παλιάς και νέας τεχνικής/τεχνολογίας. 

Missing Spaces, Eγκατάσταση, ξύλο,Ελευσίνα, 2023

ΜΚΤ: Η έννοια της «συμμετοχικότητας» μοιάζει κεντρική στη τέχνη σου. Με αφορμή όμως το έργο της Μπιενάλε, θεωρείς ότι ξεκινάει μια νέα περίοδος στη πρακτική σου;

ΑΚ: Ναι, ξεκινάει σίγουρα κάτι καινούριο που πηγάζει από τα προηγούμενα, βέβαια. Πάλι κάνω αυτή τη σύνδεση με το αρχαιολογικό παρελθόν ενός μέρους και παράλληλα αντιμετωπίζω με αρχαιολογικό ενδιαφέρον το μέλλον. Αυτό που αλλάζει πάρα πολύ είναι τα υλικά, με τα οποία δεν έχω ξαναδουλέψει, όπως και η κλίμακα. Ξέρεις, από τη στιγμή που πάτησα το πόδι μου στο Κότσι, αισθάνθηκα ότι εδώ όλα μπορούν να συμβούν! Είναι τόσο μπροστά τεχνολογικά αλλά σε πολλά επίπεδα υπάρχει μια πιο παραδοσιακή προσέγγιση. Το περιβάλλον ήδη είναι σε μια κατάσταση που είναι τόσο άγριο και αληθινό, και συγχρόνως τόσο κατεστραμμένο στο βάθος του. Η φύση με την τεχνολογία είναι ένα, τα καλώδια ξεπροβάλλουν σαν ζωντανές ρίζες δέντρων. Να δες στη φωτογραφία, μια κολόνα που στηρίζει εναέρια καλώδια μεταφοράς ηλεκτρικού ρεύματος την οποία την έχει καταπιεί ένα δέντρο και λειτουργεί κανονικά! Είναι αυτή η πολύπλοκη αλληλεξάρτηση μεταξύ ανθρώπινου παράγοντα και φυσικού περιβάλλοντος.

The Forest as a Site of Future Archaeological Interest, Shapes of Absence, 2025

ΜΚΤ:  Από τότε που σε γνώρισα σε έχω ονομάσει «αρχαιολόγο του μέλλοντος». Ο τρόπος που χρησιμοποιείς μεθοδολογίες της αρχαιολογίας για να αντιμετωπίσεις σοβαρά περιβαλλοντολογικά θέματα, και το πώς πειραματίζεσαι με τις διαδικασίες της ανασκαφής, τις οποίες μετασχηματίζεις σε καλλιτεχνικά εργαλεία, είναι πρωτοφανής. Δημιουργείς έργα – μάρτυρες από φαινομενικά ασήμαντα υλικά, με έναν τόσο ποιητικά ορμητικό τρόπο.

ΑΚ: Ναι, στο τέλος βέβαια, σημασία έχει η ερμηνεία που δίνουμε στα ευρήματα—τόσο του παρελθόντος όσο και τα σύγχρονα αντικείμενα. Η ερμηνεία καθορίζει τον ρόλο τους.

Excavating the Excavated Soil, Μικτή Τεχνική, 2022

ΜΚΤ: Θεωρώ σημείο αναφοράς τις ανασκαφές στις οποίες συμμετείχες στην Appia Antica 39 στη Ρώμη. Η συνεργασία μεταξύ καλλιτέχνη – αρχαιολόγου – κοινού – επιτόπιας έρευνας, έπαιξε απ’ ότι φαίνεται καθοριστικό ρόλο στη πρακτική σου αλλά και στην μετέπειτα έρευνα για τις μη-αναστρέψιμες επιπτώσεις των δασικών πυρκαγιών στα φυσικά τοπία. 

ΑΚ: Νομίζω ότι με τις ανασκαφές και το υπέδαφος έχω διανύσει ήδη μια μεγάλη πορεία που ξεκίνησε από την Ιταλία το 2022. Αυτή η πειραματική συνεργασία ήταν πολύ ιδιαίτερη και συμβαίνει σπάνια. Συμμετείχα σε μια εν εξέλιξή ανασκαφή, μια πολύ οικία συνθήκη, αλλά αυτή τη φορά ως καλλιτέχνης, και να διαχειριστώ αρχαιολογικά εργαλεία με αυτή την ιδιότητα. Η συνεργασία συνεχίστηκε στη Ρώμη, όταν μου αποκαλύφθηκε ένα αρχαίο σε ηλικία ρυάκι και κατέληξε στην έρευνα που παρουσίασα στην ατομική μου έκθεση, φέτος το καλοκαίρι, για τα κατεστραμμένα τοπία της Εύβοιας και της Πάρνηθας. Όλα είναι ταξίδια στο χρόνο, μπλέκω διαφορετικές χρονικότητες κάνοντας αυτό το μπρος πίσω… Σήμερα όμως αισθάνομαι σα να έχω ξεφύγει από αυτό, ανεβαίνοντας προς τα πάνω. Οι σπασμένες οθόνες στο Κότσι, ανήκουν σε μια άλλη χρονικότητα, δεν είναι η δική μας, είναι η επόμενη.

Souvenirs from the Critical Zone / Chapter 1, Τεκμηρίωση της διαδικασίας και της αλληλεπίδρασης με το κοινό, 2022

ΜΚΤ: Αυτό φαίνεται έντονα στο τρόπο που στήνεις την έρευνα/έργο σου. Δημιουργείς αυτές τις στρωματογραφίες που μας μπερδεύουν. Δε μπορείς να γνωρίζεις τι έχει υπάρξει πριν ή μετά, δε μπορεί να σε ορίσει ούτε το παρελθόν, ούτε το μέλλον. Σαν να βρισκόμαστε μπροστά σε μια συμπαντική χρόνο-κάψουλα.

ΑΚ: Ακριβώς. Πες ότι, με ένα τρόπο, την ύλη την αντιλαμβάνομαι σαν αγγείο. Αυτό που έλεγα και στην Ιταλία – ότι ο τάφος είναι το αγγείο για το σώμα και τα κόκαλα είναι ένα αγγείο πληροφορίας. Και φτάνουμε στα ψηφιακά αγγεία, και στους σκληρούς δίσκους.  Όλα αυτά είναι ένα. Ας πούμε ένας σκληρός δίσκος έχει χαλκό, ο χαλκός υπάρχει ως φυσικό υλικό πριν από τη κατασκευή του αγγείου. Οπότε αναρωτιέμαι, τι είναι πιο παλιό τελικά; Γι αυτό λέω ότι όλα τελικά αναμειγνύονται. Είναι θέμα οπτικής. Γιατί αν στο μέλλον ερευνήσεις έναν σκληρό δίσκο, πέρα από το πλαστικό, η βασική του ουσία είναι πιο αρχαία και από την κεραμική. Ανήκει σε έναν παλαιότερο βιολογικό χρόνο. Κάτι αντίστοιχο συμβαίνει και με το πλαστικό, αν σκεφτούμε την προέλευση του, που είναι το πετρέλαιο. 

Souvenirs from the Critical Zone, λεπτομέρεια εγκατάστασης , 2022

ΜΚΤ: Τι συνέβη όμως με το ρυάκι στην Ιταλία ; Δεν μιλήσαμε καθόλου για τα καλούπια.

ΑΚ: Όσες φορές έχω ρίξει καλούπια, όπως ας πούμε με το ρυάκι, ή με τις ρίζες δέντρων, γεννιέται από μια απελπιστική ανάγκη να διασώσω αυτό το ίχνος της απουσίας όσο πιο γρήγορα μπορώ. Στην ανασκαφή στη Ρώμη, μας αποκαλύφθηκε ένα ίχνος στο έδαφος που είχε σχηματιστεί από υγρασία και είχε επιβιώσει εδώ και αιώνες. Εκ πρώτης άποψης ήθελα να αποτυπώσω αυτό το ρυάκι που έμεινε σαν ίχνος για δύο χιλιετίες στο έδαφος. Αλλά με ενδιέφερε να αποτυπώσω και τι συνέβη τις επόμενες δέκα μέρες με την ανθρώπινη παρουσία. Και στις δύο αφηγήσεις που προκύπτουν, δεν αποτυπώνω ένα αντικείμενο, ούτε κάτι υπαρκτό, αλλά κάτι που δεν υπάρχει πια. Βλέπεις, πάλι καταλήγω στο ότι η αρχαιολογία έχει αυτή τη μαγική δυνατότητα να σου ανοίγει την πόρτα στο μέλλον.

Fragments of Water, άποψη εγκατάστασης στον αρχαιολογικό χώρο Appia Antica 39, γύψος και σίδηρος, 2023

ΜΚΤ: Πιστεύεις στις παράδοξες συμπτώσεις ; Σ’ αυτό που λέμε “συγχρονικότητα” στη δημιουργία των ιδεών; 

ΑΚ: Ναι και στο ένστικτο! Θα σου μιλήσω για ένα συμβάν που ήταν καθοριστικό στην πρακτική μου. Με είχαν καλέσει σ ’ένα residency, πετούσα νύχτα προς την Ολλανδία, όπου το βιομηχανικό τοπίο του Budel-Dorplein είναι ορατό από τον ουρανό – μια περιοχή που φιλοξενεί εργοστάσια ψευδαργύρου για πάνω από 130 χρόνια. Εγώ πίστευα πως είχα εντοπίσει τετράγωνες λίμνες τις οποίες άρχισα να ψάχνω στο google maps μέχρι που συνειδητοποίησα ότι ήταν ηλιακά πάνελ ! Ερεύνησα τη περιοχή και έμαθα ότι είναι μια βιομηχανική περιοχή και συγχρόνως χαρακτηρισμένη προστατευόμενη περιοχή στο δίκτυο Natura. Ζήτησα να την επισκεφτώ και να μου κάνουν ξενάγηση. Τίποτα δε με ενέπνευσε περισσότερο όσο η ιστορία που αφηγήθηκε ο ξεναγός για τον αετό που άφηναν να ζει στη καμινάδα ώστε να κυνηγάει τους λαγούς οι οποίοι άνοιγαν τρύπες στα βουνά που είχαν κρύψει τα λύματα. Τέτοιες συμβιωτικές ιστορίες, μιας παράδοξης συνύπαρξης ήταν η αφορμή για τη γέννηση μιας ιδέας. Δεν είναι απίστευτο; Μια βιομηχανική περιοχή όπου η μόλυνση έχει διατηρήσει ένα σπάνιο και προστατευόμενο οικοσύστημα.  

ΜΚΤ: Πίσω στο Κότσι και στην επικείμενη συμμετοχή σου στη Μπιενάλε, έφερες κάποιο ίχνος  από το ταξίδι σου στην Ινδία ;

ΑΚ: Δεν έφερα πολλά πράγματα, έφερα πίσω ένα καρπό μοσχοκάρυδου. Δε ξέρω γιατί, αλλά με εντυπωσίασε. Δεν είχα ξαναδεί ποτέ. Με κάποιο τρόπο μοιάζει παράδοξο αυτό, έτσι;

More than water, more than rain, I need electricity, 2019

Η συμμετοχή της Αθηνάς Κουμπαρούλη στην 6η Μπιενάλε Kochi-Muziris είναι αποτέλεσμα του ΕΜΣΤ International Curators Visiting Programme (ICVP) και υποστηρίζεται από το πρόγραμμα 2025 ARTWORKS Grants που χρηματοδοτείται από το Ίδρυμα Σταύρος Νιάρχος (ΙΣΝ) και άλλους ιδιώτες δωρητές.

Η Μαρία Τσούτσια είναι ανεξάρτητη επιμελήτρια και ερευνήτρια.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

Nana Seferli’s studio is situated near the Southern suburbs of the city, and that, in Athens, means it can be found within the dense urban tissue, yet a breath away from the seacoast. In the broader region of Kallithea, the artist found a store space, bright and calm, among other small businesses and family houses. The wide street allows the sunlight to enter the room, where she paints among large canvases that brim every available surface. An enormous pink Bougainvillea tree consumes the front window and the entrance of the studio and seems to be enjoying the sun, nearly as much as does the artist, who spends most of her day there, behind that facade that resembles a vibrant summer house.

Seferli started working there after the former resident of the studio, a friend and artist, moved abroad. She explains that her working hours in the studio are more fruitful in comparison with those in her apartment, where she used to paint before. Her house, not very far from Kallithea, is already filled with paintings, material ideas, sketches, drawings and her favorite objects, while it also provides vital space for a cat, two parrots and herself. Beyond being “busy”, her private space functions more like a dynamic ecosystem of affection, comfort and safety for the artist and her loved ones. After all, she tends to establish her painting work in such holistic, non-hierarchical, organic terrenes.

Nana Seferli, Wheat Boat, 2022, acrylic on paper, 32 X 24 cm

She studied at the Department of Fine Arts and Art Sciences of the University of Ioannina and that progressive, decentralized department allowed Nana to explore her subjects, experiment with natural materials and envision the elements that were meant to reappear in her practice: organicity, textures, light, color. The calm and the uncongested environment of her student years in Ioannina is still present through her preferable working state: serene, yet approachable.

However, as part of her discipline and in absolute coherence with the principles that are suffused all over her work, Seferli has recently decided to expose herself in the challenging conditions of collaborative work process. With painting as a vehicle — probably the most lonesome artistic practice — she is currently in a creative dialogue with her colleague and artist Nicolas Simantirakis, sharing the same canvas’ surface. The result is a painting series in progress of monumental compositions, where conflict and unity can be both of great value. The fact that she confronts her tendency to work in isolation, not only challenges her off path, but also liberates her. In parallel, she is part of an alluring initiative, a closed weekly sketch session of a group of women artists that is taking place on a weekly basis at Olga Vlassi’s and Anna Zissi’s studio in Neos Kosmos. There, the participants draw using as models one another, in a healing and empowering process. Seferli is grateful for both experiences, and I find her passionate way of overcoming the challenges of co-creation is exquisitely inspiring and profoundly influential to her work in terms of practice, form and content.

Nana Seferli, Moose Hunt, 2013, ink and acrylic on canvas, 300 x 200 cm

Since her graduation, Nana was intrigued by the power relations between human and non-human entities within ecosystems, representation in patriarchal schemes and the invention of an abolishing iconography, as a response to the above. In her degree show, under the title Simulacra (2013), scenes of hunt intertwine with emblematic authoritative figures, hunters and armed women. Among other scenes and abstract portraits, she visualized an encounter between a moose and Theodore Roosevelt. The American president was a pillar of the belief that nature exists in favor of mankind. Incarnating a patriarchal and mechanical perception of the natural world, the president is here presented hunting the same animal that he used as his own, masculine symbol during his political campaign. Until today, Seferli investigates this arbitrary attribution of meaning — even speech — to silent and precarious subjects by those in power. In 2022, she published her limited self-published edition Metazoa, where she designed the whole Greek alphabet portraying an animal for every single letter.

Nana Seferli, Bird crying, 2023, acrylic on canvas, 40 X 50 cm

Seferli’s animal figures are not wild, nor tamed or enslaved. They are wise, emotional and self-actualized, but not human-like, as her painting is a reflection on an organic, autonomous and unified world. Cats, birds, dogs and plants project a realm of circulation and undisrupted flow, to which they contribute with their own special character and emotional imprint. At the same time, layers of gesso, acrylic and aquarelles form mountains, bring rivers and pulsing arteries into the third dimension. An idealized animistic utopia is very far from her inherently haunted compositions. Enigmatic animal figures, dominating vegetal organisms, scattered undefinable bodily forms evoke a sense of agony, they imply an obscure silent threat. The world as we know it, is at stake. It is not about the death of nature, it is, however, the end of the reign of structure, duality and force.

Nana Seferli, Makkuro, 2023, oil on canvas, 18 X 24 cm

Interestingly, as I am writing these lines about Seferli’s work, an article is going viral: orca whales have been witnessed to be attacking vessels in the ocean, driven by the urge to take revenge for the loss of their babies due to interventional human activities. According to a team of scientists, it seems as though the orcas witnessed a repetitive phenomenon that activated an instinct for defense against extinction. One, of course, cannot argue with certainty that this behavior is entirely mechanical, at least I prefer to think it isn’t. I like to read this behavior as an emotional response to a collective, as well as personal threat. Seferli’s depictions of the natural world incorporate this sense of subliminal lack of safety. The viewer cannot easily choose their subject of identification: are we the endangered ones or the danger itself? The figures of cats and birds have always been used in the classical tradition to evoke feelings of affection, admiration and calmness or even as symbols of high ideas, or people of power, divinities and political personalities. In Seferli’s work, animals govern their own life, and her visual language is not appealing, cute or easy to read. It is, though, as beautiful as a flock of orcas floating in the Iberic sea, seeking for revenge.

As I am leaving the studio, I notice that the closed store next door is a former butcher’s shop. A sign on the glass window informs the business is on sale, along with the store and its equipment. I peek inside: everything is white and clean and the room is nearly of the same width as the artist’s workplace on the other side of the wall. Nothing suggests the slaughter that was once exhibited there. Nothing but the shiny, clean blade lying on the wooden cutting surface. I imagine Nana sneaking in there one night, with her parrots perched on her shoulders, using her magical paintbrush to resurrect the animals and set them free into the wild once again.

Christina Petkopoulou

Nana Seferli (b.1989) lives and works in Athens, Greece. She graduated from the Department of Fine Arts and Arts Sciences of the University of Ioannina and continued her studies with a postgraduate degree from École Européenne Supérieure d’Art de Bretagne in Quimper, France. She has presented her work at festivals and art venues in Greece and abroad. Selected group exhibitions include: Ammophila Vol.3 There Was Land Here Before (Elafonisos, 2022), Imago Mundi in Venice in 2015; PEINDRE # 2 in MICA Gallery, Rennes (France, 2014); 7> 5 in Quimper (2013); Thrills and Chills at CAN Christina Androulidaki Gallery (Athens, 2013); and Kodra Fresh 2013 Floating Walls, part of the Action Field Kodra festival held annually in Thessaloniki (Greece, 2013). Together with Lucie Ferezou, she has co-curated and participated in the duo show Under the Luna, presented in Booze Cooperativa (Athens, 2018); and with Akis Karanos in the duo show The Way the Dog Ran Away, held at Galaxias Municipal Cultural Centre in Nea Smyrni, Attica (Greece, 2016). From 2014 to 2020 she worked as an art teacher in special and general education. She has been awarded the Stavros Niarchos Foundation (SNF) Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS (2021).

Christina Petkopoulou (Athens, 1992) is a free-lance curator, researcher and writer based in Athens. She has studied Archaeology and History of Art at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens and the Paris I-Pantheon-Sorbonne and completed a master’s degree in Cultural Management at the Panteion University of Social Sciences. She is a member and the in-house curator of the A-DASH team, a researcher and curator of the online art projects a time of her own by Zoe Chatziyannaki and Athens Report by Anna Lascari. She has curated exhibitions and public programs (Lipiu, 2020, Playing Ground, Automatic Transmission, 2019, Liminal Aristeidis Lappas solo show, Praxitelous 33, 2016, Choro-graphies-Points of flight, Artscape Athens, 2014 and more). Her texts have been published in several editions and catalogues (The ArtNewspaper Greece, Lipiu, Vera Chotzoglou, Bona Fide, State of Concept, 2021, Ammophila II, Under the Burning Sun, 2021, The Feminine Sublime, 2019 and more). She has worked for the Greek Contemporary Art Institute (ISET) researching and documenting its archive and she has also collaborated with several cultural institutions such as the Athens Biennale (2013, 2015), Art Athina (2014, 2015) and Archaeological Dialogues (2015). In 2016, she was chosen for the Neon Foundation curatorial exchange program in collaboration with the Whitechapel Gallery and in 2019, she received the SNF Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS. She also works as a teacher and a copy editor.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

“So someone would have to wait for the perfect society before daring to speak? Or perhaps speak while disguising their meaning. Or altogether assume the risk and speak in order to lie,” remarks the protagonist of Theo Prodromidis’ film Towards the Bank of the Future, 2013(2013). As bodily presence in the public sphere tragically reemerges as a right needing to be constantly reaffirmed, we are called on to invent new ways through which we will be able to speak about participatory, political or public art. What do we really mean, or what are we trying to disclose, when we talk about art taking on the notions of the political subject, everyday life or the very art of politics and its historicity? Within the framework of this inquiry, the need emerges to reflect these issues anew in a manner that would bypass a series of archetypal ethical questions, such as who has the right to speak and in which way, and would, instead, focus on the reality of things: what is the vocabulary that could include the excluded subjects. If we want to stop speaking ABOUT these subjects and comprehend the actual condition of being excluded, it is perhaps necessary to dedicate oneself to the study of art’s capacity to let the precarious subjects speak for themselves.

In Prodromidis’ video Towards the Bank of the Future (2013), we follow a writer-intellectual as he visits monumental spaces and monument-spaces across the city and witness his revelatory meeting with a Cavafian character. A film documentation that starts off as an endless questioning of the citizen’s place through time and space soon turns into a record of the subject’s agonising need to become included in a historicity weighing heavily down on his/her shoulders. What ethical measure can a person apply when assuming the responsibility to be actively present within his/her own time? What are the costs involved and which parts of them are levied on the individual? The video contains footage from Cairo during the Arab Spring uprisings, shot in 2011 by Mosireen, the independent media collective that came together to document and transmit images of the Egyptian Revolution. Mosireen’s bottom-up approach delivered archive footage that figures as cracks or traumas inflicted on the narrative of Prodromidis’ video. The real space of action comes to provide an answer -and perhaps at the same time pose a challenge- to the main character’s existentialist self-referentiality and to the moral mire into which he is plunged. Historicity itself provides the answer on our behalf: “Somebody is searching for the right words and cannot find them, that’s why you don’t know what to say”.

Still, a few years later, Prodromidis teams up with actress Angeliki Papoulia and does indeed try to find the right words in the course of two 8 hour-long performances presented at Kunsthalle Athena, which will form the basis for his new installation, Goodbye Etc. Element for the support of new structures (2015). Following an open call, the artist amassed a collection of journals and books containing emblems that marked the development of left-wing political discourse. The gathered texts were then torn and taken apart randomly — or not — before being reassembled in front of the audience. The objective: to create a new book out of the existing ones. The publication resulting out of Goodbye…Etc. Element for the support of new structures (2015) traveled widely: it was shown at the Thessaloniki Biennale of contemporary art and at the Fodazione Sandretto re Rabodengo, where it was presented as an installation without, however, disowning its performative origins. These archives, bound together into 16 bright red copies-objects, claim to forge their own relationship with the audience, which is invited to leaf through them, change their position or even try and remove them from the exhibition space. Both the archives and the visitors participate in a well-orchestrated and surprising choreography in order to shape, using chance and their own mobility as a vehicle, a new, sculptural common space. Fragments of texts that played a key role in the evolution of revolutionary and emancipatory politics and whose echo still reverberates strongly not just in contemporary discourses articulating political demands but also on people’s collective memory, for a moment cease to function as theoretical monuments and organically transform into the joints of a live mechanism calling for involvement and active participation. Rid of the burden of having to deliver a narrative at the end his archival research, Prodromidis explores the possibilities of a dialogue unfolding between the text and the architectural landscape, as well as the public space and the people inhabiting it. The fact that Goodbye etc. performs all of the above in the context of institutionally established cultural settings, such as the ones provided by modern art biennials, already intimated a clear orientation towards a bold artistic practice which, in the following years, would tap even more firmly into the problematics germinating within the axis politics-art-community.

In 2019, the work A poem as an image (Amartolo) lends a voice to groups deprived of one. Woman activists, members of collectivities, and female immigrants read Galateia Kazantaki’s poem “Amartolo” and their voice becomes the focal point of an installation presented at State of Concept gallery in Athens, in the context of an exhibition curated by the collectivity What, How and for Whom / WHW. “From the depths of my hell I scream to you: I am your image, society, and I resemble you”, are the words blurted out from the headphones, thus delivering a public performance, an attempt to claim visibility. The poetry of a woman persecuted for her political activities placed in the mouths of women fighting for their experience of femininity to be acknowledged within the realms of society turns into an almost corporeal assembly releasing an emotional charge akin to that of a public protest. Yet the sound of this installation did not find an outlet into the urban space, which is the natural setting of every collective action, but instead resounded only within the confines of a modern art project space. To what extent, then, did the project manage to circumnavigate the authority of the dominant discourse, so as to challenge it or at least break its continuity? Prodromidis has no illusions: he does not believe that art is capable of bridging the distance separating the exhibition space from the socio-political sphere. Instead, then, of proposing solutions he brings into relief the potential inherent in each moment: he probes into, shapes and delivers a temporary performative field that is conducive to solidarity and participation, a sphere through which inroads can be made into the public.

Pushing on with this peculiar attempt to own up to the artist’s privilege vis-a-vis the community, in March 2020, in the context of the exhibition Translocal Cooperation held in Furtherfield gallery in London, Prodromidis decides to contribute an edited volume featuring texts written by multiple authors. In the work An open newspaper (You can’t evict a movement) (2020), the result of his collaboration with Theodoros Karyotis, Tonia Katerini, Stathis Mitropoulos, Nemanca Pantovic and Ana Vilenica, Prodromidis sets himself the goal of publishing a newspaper gathering new texts discussing the protection of first residence and the movements against evictions. In this manner, he tries to welcome people whose housing rights have been thrown into precarity and the solidarity movements favourably inclined towards them into an area of the public sphere that usually remains barred to them. Most importantly, though, he does this without purporting that his own writings can represent the members of this community, his track record of advocating for social causes notwithstanding. As the editor of the publication, he instead invited grassroots activists as well as scholars studying the solidarity movements organised in recent years for the protection of the first residence in Greece and Serbia. In Theo Prodromidis’ work, political activism, solidarity and the notion of collective action are not embodied in the work but rather heard, seen and strengthened through the work of art, whose visibility and institutional support the artist uses as his instruments. I finish this article, the result of many meetings and conversations with the artist, less with a sense of ownership over it and more with the feeling that it is a piece of writing I have contributed to. And this feeling possibly best encapsulates the importance of producing something in a shared condition.

Theo Prodromidis (SNF ARTWORKS Fellow 2019) is a visual artist and film director based in Athens, Greece.

Christina Petkopoulou (SNF ARTWORKS Fellow 2019) is an independent curator currently based in Athens.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

Augustus Veinoglou is a man in demand. Before we were able to find a moment to sit down and talk, I tried no fewer than a half dozen times to schedule a meeting. The recurring phrase I heard in reply was “non-stop.” But when I did finally get a hold of him, I began to understand the cause of his elusiveness. If you imagine that any single artist has x number of concurrent plans, project sketches, fantasies, and crazy ideas running through their mind on a given day, then just think about managing the experience of three or four other artists at the same time. This is Augustus’ daily juggling routine: trying to maintain clarity and headspace for his own work while simultaneously helping to sustain Snehta, an Athens-based artist residency that he founded in 2012, which has plans to welcome 12 different visiting artists over the course of the upcoming year.

Augustus has the stamina, perhaps even a bit of the masochist’s pleasure, to drive the tempo of this treadmill of endless demands. But as we sit together at a bar and ease into a moment of early evening repose — with the promise of a few days of August holiday ahead — I can see Augustus settle in, briefly, to a different mode of being. He seems to appreciate the rare pause for self-reflection. As the various, interlocking logistical loops begin to relax, we turn our attention away from the hustle of Athens and Snehta, focusing on Augustus’ creative origins as a sculptor. We start within the confines of the artist’s studio, and then slowly rippling outward, arrive at a wider view of the city’s contemporary artistic landscape, touching on the most fundamental questions facing Athens’ artists today.

Augustus grew up in Athens and left promptly at the age of 18. He went to Scotland to study fine art for four years, focusing on sculpture. The rigor of art school was formative, and the approach he adopted for solving problems in the studio has stayed with him since. “Sculpture is a battle with matter,” he says. “It’s like being an athlete: you’re striving for a goal that is very hard to see when you begin. Instead, you just go back, day after day, trusting your persistence will bring you closer.” I had seen Augustus around the city many times over the previous months, most often at openings, enthusing about other people’s work. But now it becomes evident that he maintains a hidden reserve of energy for his own practice. He goes on, “When you have a studio full of materials, it is a messy space. In the midst of it, you are standing there, everything depending on your hands and your mind. At the start, it seems like a mythological labor — almost impossible. You forget that you have done this already. And then, suddenly, the reminiscence of those other 100 times gives you the courage to begin anew.”

The other important habit built up during art school was the balance between self-motivation and external critique. “What I learned in school was how to push a project until there are no other options. It’s easy to stop midway, but you know when you haven’t done the best you could do. For me, good art reveals that it went as far as it could. In London, some artists respond to critical feedback by saying, ‘Fuck your opinion, I’m more important than you.’ But I don’t support this position. I know when something works; there is a DNA understanding when ‘it’ is there. It’s a feeling in my whole body — and that belief will resonate with others.”

As we talk, it becomes evident how Augustus’ passions can be infectious, whether over a single work or an entire artistic program. But more deeply, I see that what drives all of Augustus’ efforts is a desire to draw structure out of chaos, coherency from entropy. He says, “Matter and ideas are really the same. To create shape, all you need is space and time. For example, when I’m working on Snehta, I need to have sketchbook time. I start by writing things down: a wood workshop, two interns, a gallery space, three artists. These are our materials. And then I begin putting them together in different arrangements, seeing what will resonate, and what new associations emerge.”

But I divert Augustus back to his early formation as an artist, before Snehta had come into being; its institutional structure was still a long way off. After finishing his BA, Augustus went on a trip to Italy. This turned out to be key to his creative perspective. Little enduring artwork came out of his travels, but he “worked by moving through space and writing many texts, poetry, and observations.” In retrospect, this is where the first seeds of Snehta were planted. “It was here that I became intrigued by the imaginary dimensions of a given place,” he explains. “I had always been drawn to Italian cinema, and as I moved through the landscape, I began to see Italy as a modern, industrialized Greece. It was like my homeland, but as a parallel reality.”

In the years that followed, Augustus bounced between Scotland and Athens, while the idea of reimagining the familiar slowly evolved in his mind. Snehta first began as a personal project, seen solely from the perspective of one person. By reversing the name of his hometown, Augustus pushed himself to understand it differently. “I was back in Athens and began driving around the city. I found myself drawn to its periphery, the lesser-known areas. I used my car as a studio, drawing what I saw from the front seat or out the side window.” All of this was before the crisis, when Athens was still basking in the glow of its 2004 Olympic Games. Having left at a young age, Augustus found that he had both an insider’s and outsider’s view of his birthplace. He became interested in telling a different story about the city, hinting at its echoes with the American way of life. He thought about the similarities between Athens and LA, two cityscapes similarly dominated by the automobile. “Often, I would drive with a friend of mine who is an architect. At the end of the day, we would go up Mt. Hymettus, on the edge of the city, and look down on the expanse below. By removing myself from the city center and the street level, I could contemplate Athens more clearly.”

In 2012, Snehta took on a new form: the artist residency that continues to this day. Rooted firmly in the neighborhood of Kypseli, where Augustus has a long family history, the space offers its residents a temporary home to produce new work, and to also make sense of the endless contradictions of Athens. Snehta, then, continues the mission that motivated Augustus from the start: taking that which is familiar about the city and turning it on its head (hence the name). He explains, “Each residency culminates in a group exhibition, giving the visiting artists a chance to share their experience of the city with others. To me, the core of the project is exchanging points of view.” As Snehta established itself and began to grow, Augustus saw that his own efforts in the studio were in continuity with the work of creating an organization. As with any sculpture, Augustus strove to balance flights of inspiration with stability. He says, “My personal investment in the idea had to exist within a professional, sustainable structure. I wanted to share my experience of Athens with all the guests, but I soon found that I couldn’t always be the one showing the artists around, especially if I wanted to maintain my excitement. So I invited new curators to work on each show. Sharing the burden has made it more sustainable, but it also threatens to become too managerial. Fortunately, its continued evolution means the challenges are always different. That’s what makes it creative.”

Of course, from the first iteration of Snehta in 2006 until today, one thing that has evolved even more than Snehta itself is the city of Athens. In that time, the Greek capital has gone from Olympic host to a region wracked by crisis and, most recently, a city rediscovering itself through its (purported) recovery. Founding Snehta in 2012, amidst such a historically difficult time, has given Augustus a distinct perspective on Athens’ recent rebirth as an alternative, artistic hub.

He says, quite bluntly, “I’ve had a lot of problems with those who came during the crisis. They were opportunists. They came to Athens because it was cheap, warm, and a fun place to party.” Augustus’ opposition is not personal, but rather represents the substantive position of someone who has helped create an institution, however small, in a challenging environment. “My debate with these people is that they come with a very loose, free-spirited approach — and meanwhile, what we need most here is structure. We need to oppose ourselves to entropy. The fact that Athens became attractive to the press and the art world was a complete accident. A small group instrumentalized the crisis for themselves and in doing so, created a chain of effects outside of anyone’s control.” Skyrocketing rents in the center against stagnant salaries immediately come to mind as just one of these unintended consequences.

Augustus continues, “In Athens, we lack both internal structures and an awareness of our identity. As Greek artists, we are not good at contextualizing what we generate. For the outsiders who simply come here to enjoy the chaos, I have no respect. It’s like they’re putting their finger in the jam, and offering nothing in return. It shows that we’re still the tourist nation that we’ve always been. We can make nice facades, but we’re not able to generate anything of our own.”

Just as Augustus gets going, threatening to fall into that characteristic Greek position of criticizing everything to the point of paralysis — he steps outside of the pattern. His years abroad, it seems, grant him an ability to find a precious bit of remove. “It’s getting better, I’m positive about that. But improvement won’t happen on its own. In a city with a non-functional museum of contemporary art and no people in the ministry of culture who support artists, it’s easy to feel stuck. Or, if not stuck, at least demanding some legitimate institutions! Not foreign institutions, but home-grown ones. It’s not about trying to imitate what they’re doing in London or becoming the ‘new Berlin’ — that’s impossible. Even if we did everything like Berlin, we would still be different. But that’s a good thing; there should be thoughtful, structural calibrations towards our particularities.”

As the afternoon turns to evening and the bar around us begins to fill up, it’s easy to see what Augustus means. Anyone who has visited Athens knows the city has a unique energy, a rhythm and texture unlike anywhere else in Europe — as far from Berlin or London as you could imagine. Why should Athens resign itself to be merely an echo, an imitation of another city’s success? Augustus concludes, “We don’t need to become stiff, but we do require some organization. We must create the space to use our difference rather than try to break it; celebrate what makes us Greek, rather than dismissing it. Think about the importance of family structures here and how they are connected to one another. That’s just one example; we always look Westward for guidance without seriously studying our own country. We should maintain our freedom, openness, even our humor. But we can’t give in to chaos.”

Despite his grand vision, Augustus ends our conversation by admitting, “Listen to me going on — I’m just trying to survive.” Indeed, this is where his personal efforts, organizational forays, and institutional critique all come together. He says, “One thing we’re sorely lacking in this community, at all levels, is a discussion about sustainability. As an artist, I wonder how I can keep going, if I still have the fire it takes. For Snehta, I wonder if it can be sustained and continue serving the community. And for Athens more widely, I’m curious if this recovery (economic, creative, and otherwise) will last.”

But ever the problem-solver, Augustus doesn’t allow these questions to hang in the air unanswered. He quickly runs through a mental list of to-dos, areas for improvement. “One thing we are lacking is audience-building skills. I am always asking myself: Why is Snehta relevant to anyone beyond my little world? Who else could I invite to my next event? How can we relate the residency to more people? These are questions for all of contemporary art! I don’t believe the answer lies in changing the art or watering it down. Rather, it’s a question of how we exhibit the work, and how we invite others into the experience. At Snehta, we emphasize participation-based practices. I want to support artists who are interested in the community, and who feed their energy back into their surroundings.” And then, Augustus grows adventurous once more, his desire to develop new forms manifesting yet again. “An art exhibition might not always be the most successful vector. I love trying new things. For example, in the spring, I organized a treasure hunt across Kypseli. Why does art have to stay within the walls of the institution?”

Alexander Strecker is pursuing a PhD in Art, Art History and Visual Studies at Duke University. His research explores how artistic practices register the contradictions inherent in ideas of crisis, periphery, and technology, with a focus on how these tensions are felt acutely in contemporary Greece while also resonating worldwide.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

Nicolas Vamvouklis (NV): Foteini, it’s great meeting you at the Ileana Tounta Contemporary Art Center, where your solo show is currently on view. This is actually the first time I get to see your work up close. Could you briefly introduce me to your art practice?

Foteini Palpana (FP): It is great meeting you too, Nicolas, and thank you for this interview. As is the case in this show, my work develops in installations combining different mediums, which tend to become more sculptural over the years. My practice is linked to an interest in categories of the natural environment, such as the ground and the landscape. In the past, my works have adopted the characteristics of the map, the model, the index, or the archive, gradually giving way to artificial environments of geological or even bodily formations.

NV: A couple of years ago, you created “View of Me,” a performance for the camera, and now this exhibition is entitled “View of Us.” There seems to be a shift to collectivity. How do these two cases relate to each other?

FP: Performance for the camera is recurrent in my practice. So far, I am the performer of minimal actions that either put me in some kind of contact with the natural element (e.g., “Stand” 2015) or others that focus on the interaction with my works, which is the case in “View of Me.” I regard this video as a key piece not only to the present exhibition but to my overall focus. When I explore and portray my own response to the natural surroundings, I am hoping to recreate a relatable human experience. So, this shift between Me and Us, far from revealing a change in thinking, it rather indicates that they may be used interchangeably, especially when it comes to (what I consider to be) our universal, fundamental right to experience nature in an unlimited, uninhibited way and access it with our senses.

NV: I’m naturally contrasting at the moment your physical characteristics being petite and fragile to the sculptures here, which are pretty heavy and rough. In a previous conversation with Constantinos Hadzinikolaou, you mentioned that the “scale and weight [of the works] indicate the limits of my abilities.” Could you elaborate on this?

FP: This means that I try to create things I can carry or at least move them around and work on them myself. Inevitably, I often need help with their transportation. However, whether a sculpture is big enough for me to walk on or such that I can lay it on me, their size is always in some rapport with my own. There is this sense of a one-to-one relationship, some kind of respectful confrontation, where I am often surprised to discover my limitations.

NV: I find it quite touching how you move around the exhibits. Your gestures reveal a caregiving relationship. What is your idea of care?

FP: This relationship begins in the making, where instead of bringing a sculpture to match a preconceived image, I set the guidelines for it to develop while I work and observe. Then, there is the handling of the works: no matter how big and rough they are, fragility is also one of their characteristics. At times it resembles a choreography, a slow one, where I have to hug and place them, also being careful not to overwork myself. I am not the most patient person, but I understand that caring means giving time in this instance.

NV: My favourite piece in this show is “View of Us — Soft Sculpture I.” The way you have sewn up the fabric reflects the perpetual shaping of the landscape. But, at the same time, it gives me sartorial vibes, so we return to the body. Could clothing bring a new direction to your research?

FP: I have been making these soft sculptures for some time now, and I enjoy exploring the properties of the fabric and its several possibilities as sculpture material. It is a compensation for the limits set by the hard materials I usually use. Softness is always relatable to the body and the pleasure of touch. Although I like to encounter a corporeal element in the volumes and the surfaces I create, I am not (yet) drawn to building directly on the human body.

NV: I’m trying to imagine your working space. Could you give me a glimpse of your studio?

FP: I share a studio with my partner and fellow artist, Giannis Cheimonakis. Although I enjoy my studio space very much, it may remain unused for large periods of time, while there are times when it resembles a construction site. There was this period while working for the show when the space had to be strictly divided into two zones: the messy, muddy, and dusty one and one impeccably clean, where I could work on the fabric pieces.

NV: Last summer, you spent some time on a residency program in Ios. It is exciting that there are more and more cultural initiatives in the Greek periphery. How was your experience of the local community accessing contemporary art?

FP: The residency in Ios was an initiative by Dimitris Foutris (also the curator of this show) and the association Save Ios. The objective was to foreground the natural environment of the island and raise awareness of the human intervention. In this first edition, I participated together with Dimitra Kondylatou and Orestis Mavroudis. Right before an intense tourist period, people were keen on meeting and assisting us, discovering our approaches to their own familiar place. Dimitra worked on a video based on her interaction with people that live and work in Ios, while Orestis’ work in the public space meant that the community, including the authorities, were involved in order to enable him.

What we gathered from this endeavour was the demand for continuity. People in peripheral communities are interested in strengthening the presence of contemporary art on a continuous basis rather than one-off events — and this is also the intention of Ios Art Residency. We met people preoccupied with the cultural profile of their community and fully aware of the importance of such initiatives for the cultivation of environmental and social sensitivity.

NV: Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are also originally from a Cycladic island. What’s your connection with your homeland? Would you consider launching an art project there?

FP: That would be Syros. I am not from there originally, but I spent there my whole adolescence and go back to my family and friends as often as possible. On the other hand, many of my works do originate there. Interestingly enough, Syros is an important geological site, and of course, apart from that, it carries a rich history from the first prehistoric settlements to today. With Campus Novel artist group (I was a member until 2020), we worked on a site-specific workshop and group show that took place there, focusing on the lighthouse of 1834 on the islet facing the port of Hermoupolis.

Recently, environmental issues have arisen that have people, friends actively involved. As we can see, there are wider concerns across the Cyclades about the welfare of the unique ecosystem and the conservation of the landscape, along with worries about the rapid turn to a tourist-dependent economy and the societal change this inevitably brings about. To return to your question, I am personally preoccupied with all this, and naturally, it has been finding its way into my work. I am not settled yet on launching another project in Syros, but I would very much like among my next steps to be a show there, as a response to the place and the people I love and with whom I share such a common background.

Foteini Palpana (1984) is a visual artist and art educator living in Athens. She holds a BFA and MFA from the Athens School of Fine Arts with a scholarship by the Onassis Foundation, as well as a BA in English Language and Literature from the University of Athens. She is a recipient of the 1st ARTWORKS SNF Artist Fellowship Program 2018–2019. Between 2011 and 2020, she was a member of the group Campus Novel, with artistic and curatorial activity. She has participated in artist-in-residence programs, and her work has been exhibited in galleries, museums, and project spaces in Greece and abroad. “View of Us” curated by Dimitris Foutris at Ileana Tounta Contemporary Art Center, is her first solo show in an art gallery.

Nicolas Vamvouklis is a curator and arts writer. He is the artistic director of K-Gold Temporary Gallery and has curated exhibitions at Mediterranea 19 Biennale, 7th Thessaloniki Biennale, and Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo. Since 2016, he has served as senior curator at the Benetton cultural panorama. He has also collaborated with Béjart Ballet Lausanne, Marina Abramovic Institute, Prague Quadrennial, and Triennale Milano. Vamvouklis contributes to art magazines and publications, including The Art Newspaper and MIT Press. In 2021, he was awarded the Stavros Niarchos Foundation (SNF) Artist Fellowship by ARTWORKS.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

In psychoanalysis, it is common for patients to repeatedly relate the same events. A slight change in the structure of a sentence or a word used mistakenly in the course of one of the many iterations can shift the patient’s way of thinking and force them to see themselves in the reality of the situation, now presented under a different light. Something completely obvious to one’s milieu may remain unperceived by the person in analysis. Once aware of this otherwise conspicuous trait, the patient becomes frightened. It is a little like seeing one’s bare back captured in a picture. How scaringly blatant is this image! The experience produces a displacement of what was previously a familiar part of one’s body and personal narrative and in that sense cannot but inspire fear.

When I look at Anastasia Douka’s sculptures, the same thought always springs to mind. “But it is obvious,” I hear myself musing, though of course I have never before imagined or recalled in this particular way the object Anastasia chose to use. Once Anastasia’s sculptures have rendered their revelatory service to the object, the result is the emergence of a new type of ‘existence’. The object, be it a chain, an inverted ladder or the ‘skin’ of a crocodile or a female figure depicted in a public sculpture, is displaced first mildly, then at an intimidating degree.

This ‘object’ is so close to my nose I almost feel I am unable to see it! Or, to put it more accurately, it is embossed on my nose. Suspended half inside, half outside my nostril, it radiates as it is left to create prismatic reflections on the symbol it has chosen as its content.

Anastasia’s sculpture is embossed on body and conscience alike. Therein, in my opinion, lies the explanation for the coexistence of the positive and the negative in her practice.

The works are like toys that have been cut open, revealing an interior you had always formed a picture of though not quite in this way. When faced with Anastasia’s sculptures, I have the feeling that I am wearing an elastic mask. I suck on it with my mouth so that the plastic skin of the mask becomes attached to mine. Then this skin bursts, and, for a while, I see it reappearing before me.

Anastasia Douka (SNF ARTWORKS Fellow 2019) is a visual artist working with sculptural media. Her work “Crocodile” is presented in the group exhibition “Unhappy Monuments” at Parko Eleftherias (10–20 October, 2020).

Andreas Ragnar Kassapis (SNF ARTWORKS Fellow 2020) is a visual artist working in painting, text, sound and photography.

Γλώσσα πρωτότυπου κειμένου: Αγγλικά

Picture yourself standing alone on the highest point of an island. In every direction you look, the land runs underneath your gaze. It may be bare in places, there may be trees, roads, buildings, terracing, walls, farms, hotels, beaches — but, at some point, everything falls away and ends at the sea. If the island is small enough, you will be able to see its limits in every direction you turn. Your separation is unavoidable: the word “insular” derives from insula, the Latin word for island. Still, if you are lucky, other forms are visible in the distance. No need to despair then: close by, you have neighbours, new people to meet, other lands to explore. As solitary as you might feel standing on these heights, there is the comfort that your island is part of something bigger: an archipelago.

There is no way to understand Kyriaki Goni’s work without the concept of the archipelago. More than a cluster of islands, it is a community — a carefully balanced collection of individualities that each retain their sense of separation and independence. A confederation of singularities. The clear inspiration for Kyriaki, in this regard, are Greece’s approximately 6,000 islands. Indeed, for the seafaring ancient Greeks, the water separating their islands was neither empty space nor a barrier, but an interconnected web of swift roads and fertile feeding grounds.

Kyriaki tells me she spent every summer (“beginning at age 0”) traveling across the Aegean archipelago. As a multi-disciplinary artist who focuses on the relationship between humanity and technology, for Kyriaki, the idea of the archipelago has a contemporary analog: the network. While popular techno-discourse pushes us to feel ever-more connected (to make more and more “friends”), Kyriaki’s vision of a network aims to retain the individual within the larger group. Even her most up-to-date work flows back and forth through time: an InterPlanetary File System (IPFS) overlaid with the ancient geological structures of the Aegean islands; a 19th-century astronomer converses with a machine learning algorithm.

But before ranging too far afield, let’s begin with the single point at the center of this particular assemblage: Kyriaki herself. Born in Athens, Kyriaki was educated at the city’s German school (to the extent that she calls German a “second mother tongue”). Trained first in anthropology, in Greece and then the Netherlands, she eventually returned to settle in Greece. Kyriaki, though influenced by her research-based training, is definitively an artist. She tells me, “The starting point of my works are very emotional. It’s not a research curiosity that drives me but an ‘emotional trigger.’ My topics are ones that I’m moved by as a person, as a human being, living right now; not as a ‘researcher.’ For example, my recent works have focused on observing technology and how it’s connected to society. I want to understand how these processes affect me, and then how they are shaping the way we all live, perceive, and express our emotions.”

But, I ask her, with the growing popularity of research-based artistic practice, she must draw on her anthropological studies to some degree? She resists: “My creative process is never strictly linear. Throughout my preparation, I feel myself falling into a black hole: I become overinformed, I’m in chaos. Eventually, this becomes a period of digestion; eventually, something starts to take shape. It’s not a predictable process, but neither is it driven by luck. Inevitably, my feelings, my observations, and yes, my research, start to form structures which organize my thinking. Still, I am uneasy when people present their artistic process as overly ‘research-oriented.’ Methodologies and rigor are fine but we shouldn’t, as artists, lose our freedom. Creativity and openness are the most important traits we have.”

To drive home her point, she draws one more contrast: “I feel certain that the artistic process cannot be quantified. Yes, there are specific times of day when I’m ‘working’ — that is, consciously thinking and gathering material. But I don’t have an 8-hour schedule; it never stops. Ideas and solutions pop up throughout the day (and the night!), especially when I’m not in the studio. I believe you must put your brain, your body, and your soul into the artistic process — you must expose yourself fully to the questions you’re having. There is never truly a pause; a part of my mind is always dedicated to these questions.”

Going beyond Kyriaki’s internal processes, we discuss how these complex tangles of emotions and research find concrete expression. Take a recent project, Networks of Trust, motivated by an opposition to how world’s largest corporations (Facebook, Google, et. al) are profiting from our memories and feelings. To explore this vast subject, Kyriaki produced a multi-faceted work, consisting of a media installation, drawings, an audio manifesto, and a trove of digital material that can only be accessed when viewers are in proximity with one of three nodes that make up her alternative “network of trust.” Thus, like a pilgrim from days gone by, Kyriaki asks us to travel to one of the trio of nodes (on Tilos; in her studio in Athens; and a nomadic one which pops up wherever the project is exhibited) to experience the work. Through her demand, the universal ease and convenience promised by today’s start-up culture is confronted with an old-fashioned idea of locality, the topos.

Such a sense of place is essential for Kyriaki, since from this groundedness, she can emphasize the idea of collectivity. She says, “It’s important for me to cultivate a collective narration at the bridge between ancient oral traditions and contemporary internet culture. For example, in another project, Aegean Datahavens, I imagine places where our data could be stored and protected, not exploited. These havens would be powered by the sun and cooled by the Mediterranean water. They would be owned through a cooperation of the islands that housed them. They would mirror the way in which memory has always been preserved amongst islanders, as a shared effort.”

Across her works, elegant syntheses of disparate artistic materials help her imagine futuristic possibilities built on past relationships — a return to old ways, but with a difference. Indeed, Networks of Trust, Aegean Datahavens, or any of her projects really, are telling of the way that Kyriaki asks us to question our relationship to technology. She is no Luddite, she does not want to smash the machines. She expertly utilizes P2P and IPFS technologies. But she also wants us to be reminded of other ways of thinking, remembering, relating, and looking. She reveals how the newest, must-have technologies insist on making us forget that we ever lived otherwise.

But she is never didactic, nor patronizing. Rather, Kyriaki’s works reveal themselves gradually; they demand time and listening. She admits, “They are highly complicated. I can’t escape this. They ask for your sustained attention and engagement.” Two things that in our contemporary media environment are often in short supply — which is exactly why such slow work is invaluable today.

The subtlety of Kyriaki’s message may be difficult to grasp for overtaxed adults, but she is gratified with her work with children. In a series of workshops, with titles like, “Do Robots Dream, Mom? Are Robots Afraid, Dad?”, Kyriaki commits time and energy to working through these same topics with the next generation. She is consistently amazed by their flexibility and creativity. For example, a group of children asked to invent their own “Aegean Datahavens” came up with refreshingly original solutions. Meanwhile, in another workshop focused on our relationship to technology, an unaccompanied Syrian refugee child living in Athens spoke about the importance of Messenger for keeping in touch with his distant family. Moments like these help broaden Kyriaki’s perspective. Our contemporary society has countless tech evangelists and a small but vocal chorus of critics. Rarer, though, are those who ask us to be more thoughtful with our machines while connecting their functions to ancient practices of connection and communication.

Kyriaki has another motivation for running her workshops: countering the feeling that people on the periphery have of always being behind. Especially when her work began to focus on technology, she became worried herself about not having access to the latest advances and developments. Even as someone with the fortune of access to a good education, experiences abroad, and the ability to travel, she regretted her remoteness. She didn’t want young people in Greece to have the same fear.

Lately, though, she has begun to see her surroundings in a more positive light. After all, it is the particularities of Greece that have informed her belief in other, older kinds of networks. And anyways, she adds, “People on the periphery are closer to each other.” She then goes on, “Being on the periphery has its problems but it can also be fruitful. You have the space to take a different approach. I feel like I have an off space quality, one that allows me to draw on local and personal experiences to have a more balanced perspective. These days, I don’t feel like I’m chasing after the latest thing. Instead, by being in the periphery, I feel a desire to support other people who are with me on the edge.”

As we conclude our conversation, we turn once more towards the future. While the periphery has often been defined from the outside as that which is behind, away from the center and its cutting-edge developments, Kyriaki points out that the edge also lies at the frontier and the avant-garde. She says, “While preparing my presentation for Transmediale on Networks of Trust, I came across something from a writer about the concept of the periphery. He said that we, on the international periphery, have the destiny to be the first to meet the future. For example, the peripheries have already been the first areas to face the effects of climate change. This is frightening but also inspiring. Who knows what will come out of the periphery next?”

Alexander Strecker is pursuing a PhD in Art, Art History and Visual Studies at Duke University. His research explores how artistic practices register the contradictions inherent in ideas of crisis, periphery, and technology, with a focus on how these tensions are felt acutely in contemporary Greece while also resonating worldwide.