TL#5

My fourth week in Greece passed with a constant running around, doing chores, searching desperately for a surgeon to take care of my mom, assisting to at home surgery, getting disincuraged by the burocracy, the general madness of miss management and life at the edge of disaster. I have started feeling like I am entering the gates of hell.

TL#4

This is the poster for the photography show Max Holtz and Nancy Exarhu are having in Afytos, Chalkidiki, under the name Studio Escargot

TL#3

Last week's highlight was my short trip to Athens. Here is a photo of colorful useless objects of desire from the Acropolis Museum.

On Sunday I took the train to Athens where I met my old room mate Sylvia. We spent the evening at Schinia by the sea, walking along the beach and talking.
On Monday I moved to a hotel in the heart of Athens where I met with Max and went to run errands, had lunch with a couple of good friends in an old taverna , met with more friends and networked for a prospective art show in Athens.
On Tuesday, M and I walked in the market place near Monastiraki, took photos, discovered strange whole sale stores where a professional sheppard can buy bells for his herd, a walking stick, charms against the evil eye, saddles for his mule, wooden mugs for cream and all kinds of tools of the trade. In another shop we saw tin water containers with a faucet, rat traps, bread boxes, sieves, chestnut roasters and all kinds of old fasioned household items made out of tin. The shop next door was selling nothing but mirrors! Max was telling me that the market places in India are exactly the same, only somewhat dirtier and more crowded
Later on we went to visit the new museum of Acropolis, an imposing hard edged cement and glass building that makes every Greek proud. I found the museum boring and dissatsfying as a collection, the buiding being a self concious glorification of Architecture, of a Fascist scale but at least with good vistas all around and a very good, though somewhat expensive bar-restaurant.
In the evening we went to the theater and saw James Thierre, Charly Chaplin's grand son in a performance of dance and pantomime that was at best mediocre albite a couple of brilliant moments.
We walked in the center of Athens and saw the damage the rioters have left behind. It is a shame, because the way things are at the moment in Greece, no one is going to take the initiative and spend energy and money fixing marble steps, delapidated columns of modern buildings, awnings and broken glass windows. The result is a pitiful image of distraction...

TL#2

Here is a photo of Thessaloniki's port at dask.
In the personal realm, my mom's lights are dimming as she is lying in bed immobile, stiff, breathing still and wasting away. I dreamed of her recently and she was her old, usual self, full of life and energy. She is still alive, but I no longer have a mom, just a sick body deteriorating...
The weather has turned hot and sticky, air conditioners are in full blast and when I walk in the streets I chose the shady side.
The past few days have faded away waiting for surgeons and paramedics, trying to keep a distance from the unpleasant reality, closing my ears to my mom's almost breathless voice of moaning and protest...
At night at least I go out for a few hours, visiting friends, going shopping, seeing a late show movie.
I am preparing the frames for a photography show in Afytos, and stay in frequent contact with my gallerist, D. Vlassis. Art is going to keep me sane and going on through this difficult summer.

Transatlantic Letter #1

It has been already a week since I left for Europe and I must say that it was an interesting one. My short visit with K in Koeln was pleasant and rellaxed. We had breakfast in her garden under blue skies. and then she took me to the airport where I got to see the big transatlantic Lufthansa plane that stoped by on its way to Frankfurt to transport the German soccer team to N. Africa for the games. The Germans were overwhelmed with controlled excitment.
I arrived in Thessaloniki at 10:30 at night with my Panama hat on, definitely with a vacation in the sun look. M who came to pick me up from the airport did not recognize me! I arrived at home by 11 pm and my mom was happy and lucid and talkative. I was happy to see her like that, so when I unpacked, I left the black clothes I took along in case of a funeral, in the suitcase.
The following day was my birthday. M came with birthday cake and one single pink candle. She and my mom sang in Greek and in English "Happy Birthday" and I had what seemed to be a very low key "party". Later on I went with Jenny for a stroll by the waterfront hoping to see the naked bike parade. We missed it but we had a lovely long walk talking and enjoying the evening. She treated me with souvlaki and a beer from a stand and she tried beer for the first time in her life. She made a face of disgust... Her alcoholic bevereges of choice are vodka and georgian wine.
Around 11pm Sofia called to invite me to the party for the naked bikeriders.
I went to a bar in the old fabric market that has now turned into a bustling, hight energy fun place full of bars and night clubs where the students and the 30something crowd of Thessaloniki hangs out. Past sleepy streets of closed stores I entered a neighborhood buzzing with voices, really good dance music and a happy young people having fun.
Every one was dancing, drinking beer and singing along great oldies that only in a Greek club manage to sound fresh and up-to-date making everyone dance and celebrate. Well, almost everyone. Someone had the brilliant idea to buy a loft across from the bar and out of his frustration and annoyance from the loud noise from the music and a few hundred people talking and laughing, started first throwing empty plastic bags, then (luckily) clean socks and underwear and at the end small buckets of water that by the time they were reaching us felt more like tropical showers. At some point around 2am when my shirt started feeling soaked I walked back home.
On Saturday morning checking fb I was shocked to find out that an old and dear friend had passed away. At this point it was time to unpack the black clothes.
Saturday night I met my childhood friend R in front of the White tower and exhausted her walking a couple of kilometers along the waterfront to the Ano Ladadika area and back, looking at art instalations and events that were going on under the aegis of Parallaxi newspaper. It has been a weekend filled with fun and interesting cultural events that made the city vibrate with creativity and energy.
Past midnight I watched from my living room the slide show projection on the wall across the street. I had the best seat in the city. Maybe next year I wiil project my work on the wall.
On Sunday more culture, architecture, music, theater and an interesting installation by the Beforelight group.
Then on Monday I put my blak clothes on and headed to the Agias Sofias church to attend my friend's funeral. I was so upset that I did not pay attention to the time of the service, so I went to the church twice. At first at 12:30 only to find the church empty with just a couple of turists admiring the 12th century mosaics that cover the bysantine dome. Luckily I came upon the priest who was returning from shopping at the market place followed by a young man who was carrying whatever he had bought. We entered the shady airconditioned office in a small building at the back of the church where the priest dismissed the young man with a gesture without tipping him. While he was checking his log looking for the exact time of the funeral (5:30), I noticed at the side room two older ladies pitting cherries getting them ready for making bing cherry perserve...
The funeral was very emotional, I met all the old gang from the '70s, yet it was clear to me that we were meeting at a time that there was little enjoyment for the unforseen "reunion". On top of it all an old frenemy when I went to say "hello" she greeted me saying "go away, go away, go away" with the excuse that she had a fever, but to me was sounding more as ostracism. At that point I felt totally not belonging, so I left.
At night my friend S invited me to join her and a few very young friends for a drink at the classic Defacto bar. The evening turned out very pleasant, I met new people and felt positively grounded.
On Tuesday I visited Vlassis, my gallerist to be, showed him new work and talked about frames etc. Then I went to the opposit end of the city to visit with my old and good friends K and S who live in a cluster of 90 year old houses with miniature gardens.
Then yesterday I met my gallerist for busness and spent the rest of the day at home with my mom and Jenny waiting for a pharmaceutical rep who takes care of my mom's wound. And around midnight we received the visit of our physician friends who came to check on my mom's wound and pay a social visit!
Today I ran errands and then in the afternoon a young surgeon came to clean the wound. It was so stressful that I feel spaced out.
So in a week I have been here I run the whole gamut from elation to despair, from lucky moments to a chain of unfortunate events that happened earlier today, such as the explosion of a bottle of red wine from Georgia that had J and I cleaning franticaly our clothes and the kitchen.
I am curious to see what's in for the next week.

The Queen is Indian!

Photo book

Click here to view this photo book larger

Rose Jam

My mom loves (or should I say loved) roses. Since I was little I remember our dining room table adorned with bouquets of roses from May to September. Not those store bought perfect and somewhat tame ones. She always put together big, juicy and wild bunches of colorful and sweet smelling roses that she cut from friends' gardens and later on from her garden in her house in Eidomeni. One of the first plants we put in that garden 30 years ago were rose bushes.
And since my mom loved to cook, every summer, while others made appricot, strawberry or sour cherry marmelade my mom made rose jelly, a recipe she learned from her mom who was from Istanbul.
Once, many years ago when we went with Max, K and G to Thassos and visited Litsa and Jean Marie they treated us with rose jam that my mom had made for them. Every year up to 4 years ago she made her delightful jam. I have the last jar in the very back of my refrigerator that I am sure it is no longer edible but I can not through away.
Last summer when I visited Elsa Exarhu in Romania she had her own home made rose jam and exquisitely scented scarlet rose sirop that had made from the roses of her garden. That small detail was enough for me to include her in my cyrcle of beloved friends.
Last Wednesday morning I was having breakfast with K and Luis in their garden in Cologne and one of the jams was a rose jam made in Turkey.
Then on Thursday morning in Thessaloniki, I opened a kitchen cabinet looking for marmalade and found a jar of rose jam from Kastoria, Max had bought last summer.
And the best of all my mom is still alive and lucide enaugh to give me her recipe.