TLSR#3

Third week in Greece with splendid days of sunshine and wind that caries the aroma of neroli blossoms and messes up the hair in a playful and mischievous way. I love being in Thessaloniki when the sun shines, the mount Olympus plays hide and seek and the sea sparkles. Life seems good and promising on such a splendid day. 

On Tuesday evening I went to to my cousin's lecture at the MMCA. He talked with great humor and knowledge about the evil characters of cinema who all reside in modernist buildings. 

On Wednsday I attended a lithography workshop by my good friend Erica Gutenschwager. Also accepted the invitation to participate in a conference about Greek Botanical Gardens in June. I will write a paper about Nostalgic gardens of displaced people and will teach a blue print workshop. I realize that I truly belong in both continents and love it! 

On Thursday I went to see yet another play that I found delightful and totally up to date! Then late dinner at Zythos Doree, one of my favorite classic bier bars in Thessaloniki.

On Friday I worked on my paper project, run errands and at night I went to a book reading, where I met an old childhood friend. We stayed up passed midnight drinking white wine and savoring great food at a new small restaurant.

Saturday strated with a headache thanks to the cheap wine. The weather suddenly turned rainy, cold and moody.

We gave mom a bath that turned to be an almost disaster. The wheel chair broke and cut her leg. She was very uncomfortable and moaning most of the day. I thought she was going to pass away. I called the doctor who told me to chill, there is no reason to fear. But the reflection of my eyes on the mirror was full of terror. I spent most of the day at her side observing her malaise. I want to run away!

And I took the plane on Monday morning to go to Cologne. I kissed her good bye and asked her to wait till I'll be back in a week. 

TL#21

TL#12

Turkish baths

The first 7 years of my life I've spent them in Aristotelous street, in the center of Thessaloniki. We were living in an apartment that was surrounded by busy markets and historic buildings. Regardless to its prime location that apartment lacked essential conveniences such as hot water and a bath or shower. We used the kitchen sink for our daily grooming, but serious bathing was a big nuisance that took place once a week.
Saturday was usually the day we got ready for Sunday. Which meant clean the apartment and decorate the dining table with fresh flowers, buy all the provisions for an elaborate meal and also take a bath so we'd be ready for our Sunday best.
Taking a bath was a big production that required planning and preparation. We had two options: to set it up in the kitchen were my mom and grandma boiled hot water, set the laundry basin in lieu of a bath tub and brought all the necessary accoutrements such as soap, sponges, a big bucket for mixing hot and cold water, a pitcher for rinsing, towels, special wooden shoes to wear after the bath, clean clothes and of course a mop for cleaning the floor afterwards. That way bathing seized to be a pleasure, it was plain hard work.
The other, more delightful option was going to Hamam Paradisos, the Turkish Baths. In the mid 1950s there were at least 5 active Turkish baths in Thessaloniki. A Turkish bath is not only a place for bathing but also a great way to socialize in a leisurely environment. We always went in a group: I, my mom, my grandmother, her sister who's body was similar to the Venus of Milo plus the arms, my god mother, her mother in law, her sister in law and my god sister Mary, a happy party of eight.
We walked to the Hamam that was at the end of our street, odos Aristotelous. We carried our bags with clean clothes, towels, toiletries and the tasia, metal bowls with a concave middle that fit perfectly in the wet hands. We used them for throwing water on our bodies and for rinsing our hair.  We also brought along some fruit and tea to revive us after hours of exposure to heat.
Sultan Murat II built the Hamam of our choice in 1444 at a time likely prior to the birth of Columbus. After 500+ years of continuous use as a public bath nowadays it has acquired the status of a monument.
My god sister Mary and I have recently visited Hamam Bey as it is now officially called. It looks dry, cold and somehow dead.
We have a different image of the place.
Upon entering through the Moorish door of the building we could smell the sweet aroma of soap and jasmine oil, and feel the excitement of the anticipation of playing with the warm water. After taking our clothes off and leaving them in wooden lockers we would walk into the first chamber, a bare place filled with sweet smelling steam that hid the naked bodies in a warm fog. From there passing through a small marble threshold we could finally enter the paradisiacal room with the marble alcoves and the round center under the big domed ceiling. As you entered that space the first thing you noticed was the sound of the water coming endlessly out of about a dozen bronze faucets that kept the marble alcoves filled with warm water. Steam was rising up to the dome that had colored windows in the shape of stars. From there we could see shafts of light penetrating the mist and creating a magical ambience.
Mary and I always managed to escape the attention of our relatives and run around splashing each other and dipping our selves in the other bather's alcoves. We were often scolded but nevertheless we always managed to amuse ourselves.
There were adjacent rooms: one with extreme heat that I was never allowed to walk in and another one smaller that had a marble bed in its middle. That was the domain of a big menacing looking woman with a mustache, who gave massages. We liked to pick through the threshold and get ourselves scared watching her rubbing the naked bodies till they turned red and sometimes using a long brush made out of horsehair flaying their skin to improve the circulation.
We stopped going to the Hamam once we moved to another apartment that finally had hot water and a bathroom. Now we could bathe in privacy whenever we wanted but we were missing the fun and magical atmosphere of the Turkish Baths.
By the mid 1970s all the Hamams in Thessaloniki were closed.
But I was lucky enough to go two more times to the Turkish baths.
In the summer of 1983, my husband and I were on a 50day honeymoon. One of the places we visited was the town of Rodes, in Greece. My friend, our host who was native to the island, treated me to a Turkish bath. The Bath was in a small building divided in a man's and a women's part and  was used regularly by the remaining turkish population of the town of Rodes. The women's baths were modest domed rooms, divided in tepid, hot and unbearably hot spaces. My friend and I walked in bare, wearing only the wooden clogs they gave us at the entrance, that were similar to the ones we used in my childhood. A wood platform like a japanese shoe with a horizontal top band made out of a black rubber strip cut form a recycled tire The rooms were steamy and fogy, and since I could not wear my glasses the whole place looked dreamy and bleary. I remember 3 things: the beams of light coming from the star shaped holes on the dome with golden particles dancing in the mist. The muslim women who were rushing to hand me back my soap that had fallen on the ground telling me to be careful not to slip and fall (I was 6 months pregnant), and the poetic image of a mother with her 5 year old son, draped into her arms in a languid abandon, almost like a Pieta.
Apparently boys up to the age of 7 are permitted into this strictly feminine world.
The last time I went to a Turkish bath, was in Paris in June of 1989. My friend Francoise and her girlfriend of that time went to the Hamam de la Mosqee, on the Left Bank. The building is big and impressive, a slice of Arabia in the heart of Paris. We chose a day that was open to the women only. We walked passed the big gate door into the atrium and from there we entered the secret franco-arabian world. The Hamam, the only place of the Mosqee open to non muslims, was covered with wooden panels painted with birds and plants, all in greens, reds and blues. The light was dim, this time I was wearing contacts and no detail was going to be lost. When we bought our tickets, the cashier asked us if we had  "le gant noir"- the black glove. We hurried to purchase one for each one of us for the sum of few francs and as we found out later it was one of the most useful purchases. The black glove was a small washcloth, like a pocket made out of a rough black damask fabric that was perfect for exfoliating the skin. We left our clothes in one of the painted cabinets and walked into a very big marble room, full of steam and Maroccan and Algerian women of all ages. We sat on a marble bench and with a plastic bottle cut in half started the cleaning ritual. Apparently we were not supposed to use soap at the beginning, but with the help of the black glove and hot water we worked the dead cells off our skin. Once our skin was polished, we lathered ourselves with soap. We stayed for at least two hours, exfoliating, massaging, soaping and rinsing, getting overwhelmed by the heat of the steam and the waters. And at the same we gossiped, laughed and told stories.  By the time we ended wrapped in big towels on the soft mats on the "recovery room" under the painted cabinets, we were exhausted but sparkling clean, with rosy cheeks.  Also our heads were empty of worries and preoccupations and we were in a euphoric state. After we found the strength to get dressed, we walked through a colored glass double door into the teahouse where we were revived by freshly made mint tea and maroccan pastries. The teahouse is lavishly decorated in a fashion straight out of the 1001 nights. When we walked out of this magical world my French friends confessed that they had never thought that  taking a bath could be so demanding and so much fun!

Το Ναυαγιο

The shipwreck, a magical place, a 45' drive from the center of Thessaloniki. Great beach, open sea and this old boat like a reclining dinosaur sunk in the shallow waters.

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.

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.

Getting ready to fly

In two nights I'll be on a plane going for the summer in Greece. It is the first time I feel a lack of enthusiasm going overseas. I look around me in St. Louis and I enjoy the trees and the gardens, the easy life, the evenings with live music, the party season just starting... Usually I would scorn at all this, and would be impatient to set foot at the tarmac at SKG airport feeling the excitement of nostos.
This time I am going solo, not knowing what I will have to deal with, without being able to make plans since it is all depended on my mom's health...
Never the less I am looking forward meeting old friends, spending my birthday at home, meeting new people, going to outings, gallery openings, museums and all there is to be seen in Thessaloniki. I am going to try hard not to fall under the spell of the end of a personal era, the end of the line where I come from.
I am taking along, as a security blanket, my art work that I will show this summer in Greece, a small book of unpublished poems I can work on, and the urge to get my self out there. May the wind blow my direction and bring fulfillment of my dreams.

Urban Zoo

Thessaloniki

St. Louis