some playing!
nor bad or good
a blossom still

[the earth and the world, they have no place like this amongst the two of us]

I put on my glasses, put a pillow behind my back. This screen is my virtual white sheet of paper. My mind whispers to my hand the spelling of the words. I write having the sense of the keyboard on the tip of my fingers. I write with both of my hands. My thought is being spelled down, I play it on this different piano. Why have I been feeling the need to get back to my pen and book? When do I have a better touch of my written down words, the words that are a part of me? Is it the temperature of the sheet of paper? Is it my handwriting that makes it more real, I mean more physical? Sometimes I would urgently write with my hands wet, the paper absorbed the drops, the ink would go dispersed in some free patterns, like a river or the rain. I would see my thought then change, quite out of hand. Then, I would stuff the paper into the special drawer. Is it the thought that what I wrote now has a place? It takes some place, it is this big, this small, it ages, it may be unreadable, someday it will be gone, not shaved on a hard disk's memory or deleted by a bygone flaw? Is it about duration? Is it about imperfection? What makes the printed version different, I wonder. Sometimes I would write with my eyes shut- that helped me hear myself clearlier, helped me concentrate. Is it about control? If I now place my hands a bit on the right, no meaning will be held in those distorted made languages. Is it about consciousness? Every now and then I now click and order 'save'. When I make a new word, it shines, it gets alone in its context. Is it about mistakes? Is it about my freedom? Is it about surprise?

απομεσήμερο της πρώτης μέρας του Σεπτέμβρη

Right this moment, it is so quiet. The neighborhood seems to be resting. It is sunny and the small dog who lives with the happy family on the opposite house is barking, asking for play.

I remember:




looking at different directions from the same point,
I can see different things

the sea rises upon the trees

sometimes I feel we are so cut off from everything - we are looking out from a steel window, and the world keeps "dancing" into the universe;
sometimes I like this human-made new civilities and civilisations, they seem to be fun;

but there is 'no end to that keyboard' and there is no understanding in a mere human steel reflection

Greek painters in the 19th century [here]






details


this synthesis seems strange to me: the red colours, some items reminding of the past, traditions, the mixture of social and kind little personal and domestic moments, contrasting influences, some nobleness and some serenity in difficult historical times.

My kind of work requires time; I cannot work very fast.

My mind and my hand take time to be adjoined.

old

on the top of the hill (Τούμπα), there stands a small church

after the summer storm

today's walk

There is tearing up and there is comparing.

time reversed and transformed

1

2

3

the more we relate time with space, the better we remember

lives turning into spaces in the memories of the past everywhere

reminders

waking

brought back with for the new beginning

being acurate through more and less

these are accidental views

While on the move, there sometimes occurs a
kind enrichment into moments of spare time
so as to keep us looking where there was nothing in particular,
until now.

But our eyes hardly see what a camera sees;
photographs portray what we have done, where we have been, who we are, in time, in space.
This is what we 've got:
in fact
a mere reflection,
a picture somewhat inherently accidental,
I think.

Η ποιητική αντιμετώπιση της αρχιτεκτονικής από τον Aldo Rossi αναμφίβολα προβληματίζει το κοινό του...

"Είμαι απλά ένας αρχιτέκτονας. Το να είναι κανείς αρχιτέκτονας δεν σημαίνει μονάχα να σχεδιάζει και να κατασκευάζει, αλλά να μελετά και να ζει τα προβλήματα της αρχιτεκτονικής με έναν προσωπικό τρόπο".

Έτσι είχε αρχίσει ο Aldo Rossi τη διάλεξη που έδωσε τον Απρίλη του 1983 ...

Βασιλική Πετρίδου ("Η Αρχιτεκτονική της Πόλης" του Aldo Rossi)

*Ενδεχομένως,
κάποιος θα μπορούσε να μου εξηγήσει
τη φράση: 'Η ποιητική... το κοινό του',
γιατί δεν καταλαβαίνω.

Artist		Aldo Rossi
Title		Venezia analoga
Medium		Wax Crayon on printed base
Size		28.1 x 23.2 in. / 71.5 x 59 cm.
Year		1984

time to go
with a soft memory.

I keep asking: how much do I need?

I watch us being infatuated with things when we are mostly satisfied by obtaining them. That's what I like about Finns- if I am not mistaken, they use, touch and feel. I think that's as much as I need.

So, I am into building in my dreams.

η γιορτή της Θεοτόκου

Κοίμηση Θεοτόκου
Dormition of Theotokos, El Greco

Χρόνια πολλά

[in time]

So, you see, it is not actually important what I choose to buy, but why, and - most importantly- from whom, where and how, that is how am I positioned in a structure of relationships that allows me and, at the same time, restricts me from being free, the way freedom would originally be.

The same goes for the places that I choose to visit and the things that I choose to do. That position is as easily recognizable as the sound of a branch while the wind comes across the forest.