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Comments on Greek painting, art, contemporary thought

Our blog is an artistic, cultural guide to the Greek landscapes. At the same time it offers an introduction to the history of Greek fine arts, Greek artists, mainly Greek painters, as well as to the recent artistic movements

Our aim is to present the Greek landscapes in a holistic way: Greek landscapes refer to pictures and images of Greece, to paintings and art, to poetry and literature, to ancient philosophy and history, to contemporary thought and culture...
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greek artists, contemporary thought, greek painters, literature, greek paintings, modern greek artists



Showing posts with label modern greek painters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label modern greek painters. Show all posts

Monday, February 8, 2016

the port...

...there is a kind of mysterious and aristocratic pleasure in contemplating, while lying on the belvedere or resting his elbows on the jetty-head, all these movements of men who are leaving and men who are returning...
*
...il y a une sorte de plaisir mystérieux et aristocratique pour celui qui n'a plus ni curiosité ni ambition, à contempler, couché dans le belvédère ou accoudé sur le môle, tous ces mouvements de ceux qui partent et de ceux qui reviennent...

http://yannisstavrou.blogspot.com
Yannis Stavrou, Piraeus Port, oil on canvas

Charles Baudelaire
Twenty Prose Poems
The Port


A port is a delightful place of rest for a soul weary of life's battles. The vastness of the sky, the mobile architecture of the clouds, the changing coloration of the sea, the twinkling of the lights, are a prism marvelously fit to amuse the eyes without ever tiring them. The slender shapes of the ships with their complicated rigging, to which the surge lends harmonious oscillations, serve to sustain within the soul the taste for rhythm and beauty. Also, and above all, for the man who no longer possesses either curiosity or ambition, there is a kind of mysterious and aristocratic pleasure in contemplating, while lying on the belvedere or resting his elbows on the jetty-head, all these movements of men who are leaving and men who are returning, of those who still have the strength to will, the desire to travel or to enrich themselves.


(trans. Michael Hamburger)


Charles Baudelaire
(Prose)
Le Spleen de Paris
Le port


Un port est un séjour charmant pour une âme fatiguée des luttes de la vie. L'ampleur du ciel, l'architecture mobile des nuages, les colorations changeantes de la mer, le scintillement des phares, sont un prisme merveilleusement propre à amuser les yeux sans jamais les lasser. Les formes élancées des navires, au gréement compliqué, auxquels la houle imprime des oscillations harmonieuses, servent à entretenir dans l'âme le goût du rythme et de la beauté. Et puis, surtout, il y a une sorte de plaisir mystérieux et aristocratique pour celui qui n'a plus ni curiosité ni ambition, à contempler, couché dans le belvédère ou accoudé sur le môle, tous ces mouvements de ceux qui partent et de ceux qui reviennent, de ceux qui ont encore la force de vouloir, le désir de voyager ou de s'enrichir.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

His mind moves upon silence...

That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;...


http://greekartists-yannisstavrou.blogspot.com
Yannis Stavrou, Thessaloniki of Colours, oil on canvas

William Butler Yeats
Long-Legged Fly

That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
Her mind moves upon silence.

That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

Monday, June 23, 2014

What seas what shores what granite islands...

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return...



http://yannisstavrou.blogspot.com
Yannis Stavrou, Ship, oil on canvas (detail)

T.S. Eliot
Marina

Quis hic locus, quae
regio, quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger -
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye

Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.

What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

No Time, spoke the clocks, no God, rang the bells...

I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't...(Dylan Thomas)


http://yannisstavrou.blogspot.com

Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Where birds ride like leaves and boats like ducks
I heard, this morning, waking,
Crossly out of the town noises
A voice in the erected air,
No prophet-progeny of mine,
Cry my sea town was breaking.
No Time, spoke the clocks, no God, rang the bells...

http://yannisstavrou.blogspot.com
Yannis Stavrou, Port of Thessaloniki, oil on canvas

Dylan Thomas

When I Woke

When I woke, the town spoke.
Birds and clocks and cross bells
Dinned aside the coiling crowd,
The reptile profligates in a flame,
Spoilers and pokers of sleep,
The next-door sea dispelled
Frogs and satans and woman-luck,
While a man outside with a billhook,
Up to his head in his blood,
Cutting the morning off,
The warm-veined double of Time
And his scarving beard from a book,
Slashed down the last snake as though
It were a wand or subtle bough,
Its tongue peeled in the wrap of a leaf.

Every morning I make,
God in bed, good and bad,
After a water-face walk,
The death-stagged scatter-breath
Mammoth and sparrowfall
Everybody's earth.
Where birds ride like leaves and boats like ducks
I heard, this morning, waking,
Crossly out of the town noises
A voice in the erected air,
No prophet-progeny of mine,
Cry my sea town was breaking.
No Time, spoke the clocks, no God, rang the bells,
I drew the white sheet over the islands
And the coins on my eyelids sang like shells.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I am thinking of the stars that would claim this privilege...

Alexandros Baras
(1906-1990)


THE CLEOPATRA, THE SEMIRAMIS AND THE THEODORA

Once every week,
on a given day,
and always at the same hour,
three handsome ships,
the Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora,
leave their berth
at nine o’clock
for Piraeus always,
for Brindisi and for Trieste
always.

Without manoeuvres or fuss
or hesitation
or unnecessary blowing on the whistle,
they put out to sea,
the Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora,
like certain well-bred people
who take leave of their hosts
without uncouth and superfluous
handshaking.

They leave their berth
at nine o’clock,
for Piraeus always,
for Brindisi and for Trieste
always – rain or shine.
They sail
to daub the blue waters
of the Aegean and the Mediterranean

with smoke.
They sail to cast their lights
like topazes on the sea
at night.
They sail
laden with passengers and luggage….

The Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora,
for years now
on the same route,
arriving on the same day
sailing at the same hour.

They resemble white-collar workers
who have become such time machines
that an office door
might come tumbling down
if they were to miss work
even for a single day.

(If the route is always the same
what if it is across an entire Mediterranean
or from one house to another neighbourhood?)
The Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora
for a long time now and for many years
have felt the tyranny of boredom,
ploughing always the same route,
mooring always at the same ports.

If I were a Captain,
Yes – si j’etais roit! –
if I were a Captain
on the Cleopatra, the Semiramis, the Theodora,
if I were a Captain
with four gold stripes,
abandoned on this same route

year after year,
on a moonlit night,
in the middle of the sea,
I would climb to the bridge deck
and while the music from the first class saloon
played on,
with my best uniform,
my gold stripes
and shiny decorations,
I would trace a most perfect curve
from the bridge deck
into the water,
gold braid and all,
like a shooting star,
like a hero of inexplicable death.

ANN ARBOR REVIEW (USA), No. 10/11, 1970.
MUNDUS ARTIUM (USA), Vol. V, No. 3, 1972.
NEW GREECE, Athens, 1975.
HELLENIC QUARTERLY (Athens), No. 6, Autumn 2000.

THREE LAMPS

Three powerful lamps – the three together
produce a thousand candlepower of blinding light –
placed in the vertices
of an isosceles triangle
which forms between them on the ceiling
of this fashionable café – the only one
that will put up with us night after night –

What were we saying? – three powerful lamps
let out certain insolent
electric light cries
as they converse with each other.
(Now how three lamps can talk,
how they can cry out
without uttering a single sound,
only I and my friends
who sit with me
know it,
that is why we are such close
and inseparable friends at night.)

Three lamps… three cries….
Usually when we speak of cries
the term “sky-high” may be applied.
But here we cannot use it.
They cannot reach sky-high
since the impenetrable ceiling,
a concrete barrier, prevents them
from rising skywards,
and so they break against it
and fall on our senses
with immense cruelty!

Again, even if there were no question
of the term’s inadequacy,
even if these three cursed lamps
shone in the open air,
their cries would still not reach sky-high:

I am thinking of the stars
that would claim this privilege,
especially if it were July
• a beautiful, clear July night –
I am thinking of the stars’ all-powerful
illuminating rivalry,
the stars that aeons and aeons ago
formed a Trust,
the largest Trust, of light.

CAVE (New Zealand), No. 6. No date printed.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek artists: Oedipus' child Descends into the loveless dust...

William Butler Yeats

From The 'Antigone'

Overcome -- O bitter sweetness,
Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl --
The rich man and his affairs,
The fat flocks and the fields' fatness,
Mariners, rough harvesters;
Overcome Gods upon Parnassus;

Overcome the Empyrean; hurl
Heaven and Earth out of their places,
That in the Same calamity
Brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,
City and city may contend,
By that great glory driven wild.

Pray I will and sing I must,
And yet I weep -- Oedipus' child
Descends into the loveless dust.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek artists: The Night is in my Interest...

the night is in my interest.
First of all, it reduces ambition; moreover,
it corrects thoughts; then,
it collects the grief and makes it more bearable...

Nikos Karouzos

Suspension

In the sky, possibilities
are naught but thrilling.
As I was hanging in the air
holding on to a pure white cloud
on a mythic screen of the imagination,
I observed the quotations
of the elements of my blood
and heard a dazzling musical act
practically non-human
on the left of the geographical map
at the point at which Mt. Terror lies
always wreathed in lightning
and blinding storms.
I went up there once.
There I first heard the song
that said: we belong to water.
And on the other side Ecclesiastes shined.
For some time now I’ve known that the blood
contains all the mystery
which is given through signs
to the human mind, and complete discontinuity.
The circulation perhaps?
queried the brilliant pathologist.
And suddenly
Leonardo came to mind
who knew what exquisite information derives from the body.


Nikos Karouzos (1926-1990)

The Night is in my Interest

Indeed the night is in my interest.
First of all, it reduces ambition; moreover,
it corrects thoughts; then,
it collects the grief and makes it more bearable;
it dissects the silence with respect; in the gardens
it stresses smell,
but above all, night envelops.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, Greek painters: As one who poring on a Grecian urn scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made...

Poets & Greek landscapes, Greek artists, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Acropolis Landscape I, oil on canvas

Oscar Wilde

Camma

As one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
When in the midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?

And yet--methinks I'd rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,--come, great Egypt, shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Antony!

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Comments & Greek painting: the paths of poets & modern Greek artists...

Greek landscapes & Greek artists, modern Greek arists


Yannis Stavrou, Olives in Attica, oil on canvas

The field
of olives
like a fan,
opens, and closes
Over the olives,
deep sky,
and dark rain,
of frozen stars...

Federico Garcia Lorca

The Little Ballad of the Three Rivers

The Guadalquivir’s river
runs past oranges and olives.
The two rivers of Granada,
fall, to wheatfields, out of snow.

Ay, Love, that goes,
and never returns!

The Guadalquivir’s river
has a beard of clear garnet.
The two rivers of Granada
one of sorrow, one of blood.

Ay, Love,
vanished down the wind!

For the sailing-boats,
Seville keeps a roadway:
Through the waters of Granada
only sighs can row.

Ay, Love,
that went,
and never returned!

Guadalquivir – high tower,
and breeze in the orange-trees.
Dauro, Genil – dead turrets,
dead, above the ponds.

Ay, Love,
vanished down the wind!

Who can say,
if water carries
a ghost-fire of cries?

Ay, Love,
that went, and never returned!

Take the orange petals,
take the leaves of olives,
Andalusia, down to your sea.

Ay, Love,
vanished on the wind!


Landscape


The field
of olives
like a fan,
opens, and closes.
Over the olives,
deep sky,
and dark rain,
of frozen stars.
Reeds, and blackness,
tremble, by the river.
Grey air shivers.
The olives are full of cries.
A crowd of imprisoned birds,
moving long tails in shadow.

Paisaje

El campo
de olivos
se abre y se cierra
como un abanico.
Sobre el olivar
hay un cielo hundido
y una lluvia oscura
de luceros fríos.
Tiembla junco y penumbra
a la orilla del río.
Se riza el aire gris.
Los olivos,
están cargados
de gritos.
Una bandada
de pájaros cautivos,
que mueven sus larguísimas
colas en lo sombrío.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek artists, painters: An altered look about the hills...

Poetry & Greek artists, modern Greek artists, Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Man & Tree, oil on canvas

Emily Dickinson

An altered look about the hills

An altered look about the hills—
A Tyrian light the village fills—
A wider sunrise in the morn—
A deeper twilight on the lawn—
A print of a vermillion foot—
A purple finger on the slope—
A flippant fly upon the pane—
A spider at his trade again—
An added strut in Chanticleer—
A flower expected everywhere—
An axe shrill singing in the woods—
Fern odors on untravelled roads—
All this and more I cannot tell—
A furtive look you know as well—
And Nicodemus' Mystery
Receives its annual reply!

Delight becomes pictorial

Delight becomes pictorial
When viewed through pain,--
More fair, because impossible
That any gain.

The mountaln at a given distance
In amber lies;
Approached, the amber flits a little,--
And that's the skies!

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek artists: enjoy the moon light...

Moon and Greek artists, Greek painting, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Thessaloniki in Colours, oil on canvas

Thessaloniki under moon light...

According to scientists the universe will continue to expand forever and will eventually become a dead and cold wasteland...

Anyway, we have enough time to enjoy the light of the moon - although it is shrinking...

The moon is shrinking & the universe is expanding!

The moon is shrinking
Quardian.co.uk (August 19, 2010)

Astronomers have declared that the moon is shrinking after spotting wrinkles all over the lunar surface. The tell-tale contraction marks were discovered by US scientists who examined thousands of photographs of the moon's surface taken by a Nasa orbiter.

Some of the wrinkles are several miles long and rise tens of metres above the dusty terrain. Researchers believe they arise from the moon decreasing in size by around 200 metres across its diameter. The moon's mean diameter is generally calculated to be 2,159 miles.

The prospect of a shrinking moon is not new to planetary experts. When the moon formed it had a hot core, much like that of the Earth, which caused it first to expand and then contract as it cooled down.

The latest findings suggest the moon could still be cooling, a process that causes the surface to compress and form the wrinkle-like features, known as lobate scarps.

A team led by Thomas Watters at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC studied high-resolution images of the moon taken over the past year by Nasa's latest moon probe, the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter. The spacecraft cameras provide the most detailed images of the moon ever taken from orbit.

Fourteen lobate scarps were identified, at sites as far apart as the lunar equator and near the poles. The features are so pristine scientists think they could be no more than a billion years old.

"Not only could they be indicating recent contraction of the moon, they may be indicating that the moon is still contracting," said Watters. "Until now, we really had no evidence of cooling and the contraction of the moon that would go along with it. This isn't anything to worry about. The moon may be shrinking, but not by much. It's not going anywhere."

Scientists believe the moon formed after a Mars-sized object slammed into the Earth and produced an enormous cloud of debris 4.5bn years ago. The debris coalesced into the fledgling moon and warmed up as particles were crushed together and some released radiation.

A shrinking moon overturns the view that our natural satellite is a cold lump of rock and suggests it might still have a warm core and be geologically active.

"There's a general impression that the moon is geologically dead, that anything of significance that happened geologically up there happened billions of years ago. This population of young scarps indicates that really isn't the case," said Watters.

Similar markings were photographed on the moon during the Apollo missions. Scientists will now compare those pictures with the latest images to see if anything has changed in the past 40 years.

Over the next three to four years the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter will build a detailed map of the moon's surface. "It will be very interesting to see the overall distribution of all lobate scarps and other telltale features, as more images of the lunar surface are returned," said Peter Grindrod, a planetary geologist at University College London. "The extent and age of these features will help reveal whether there was a global period of contraction on the moon, and ultimately tell us more about how the moon formed and evolved."



The Universe will expand forever
TrekMovie.com (August 20, 2010)

According to a new NASA study on the ever elusive dark energy, the universe will continue to expand forever. NASA researchers have been using the Hubble Space Telescope and European Space Observatory’s Very Large Telescope to observe how light from distant stars becomes distorted around nearby galaxy clusters. Dark energy, which makes up 72% of our universe, along with dark matter, another 24%, can’t be seen, but their effects on other matter in the universe can be observed. The recent determination of the distribution of dark energy in the universe have led the scientists to conclude that the universe will continue to expand forever and will eventually become a dead and cold wasteland.

Source

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Comments & Greek painters, Greek artists: There is not A single soul among the trees...

Poetry & Greek artists, Greek painting, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, On the Hill, oil on canvas

The river that runs by
is always
running back...

Octavio Paz

Last Dawn

Your hair is lost in the forest,
your feet touching mine.
Asleep you are bigger than the night,
but your dream fits within this room.
How much we are who are so little!
Outside a taxi passes
with its load of ghosts.
The river that runs by
is always
running back.
Will tomorrow be another day?


Octavio Paz (1914-1998)

Passage

More than air
More than water
More than lips
Light light

Your body is the trace of your body

Where Without Whom

There is not
A single soul among the trees
And I
Don't know where I've gone.

Between Going and Staying

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, contemporary Greek artists: desire for pure and simple aesthetic moments...

Chinese poetry & Greek artists, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Almond Trees, oil on canvas

Our desire for pure and simple aesthetic moments...

A travel to China's poetry...

Li Yu (937-978)

Last night the wind and rain together blew

Last night the wind and rain together blew,
The wall-curtains rustled in their autumn song.
The candle died, the water-clock was exhausted,
I rose and sat, but could not be at peace.
Man's affairs are like the flow of floodwater,
A life is just like floating in a dream.
I should more often go drunken through the country,
For otherwise I could not bear to live.

Outside the curtains the rain is murmering

Outside the curtains the rain is murmering,
And spring is waning,
Silk bedding cannot resist the fifth watch cold.
While in my dream, I forget I am a guest,
And covet pleasure!
I should not lean alone on these railings,
The land is unlimited;
It's easy to part- to meet again is hard.
Spring's gone like blossom fallen on flowing water,
My paradise too!


Liu Zongyuan (813-858)

Travelling on the Southern Valley Path to a Deserted Village on an Autumn Morning

The end of autumn- there's heavy frost and dew;
At dawn, I rise and go to the hidden valley.
Yellow leaves cover the stream and bridge,
In the empty village, just ancient trees.
Cold flowers are scattered, each alone,
The hidden stream breaks off, and reappears.
My own heart's plans are long forgotten now,
What can it be that startles the deer?


Meng Haoran (689-740)

Spring Dawn

I slumbered this spring morning, and missed the dawn,
From everywhere I heard the cry of birds.
That night the sound of wind and rain had come,
Who knows how many petals then had fallen?

Monday, August 9, 2010

Comments & Greek painting, Greek artists: The majesty that shuts his burning eye...

Poets & Greek artists, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Sunday Promenade, Thessaloniki, oil on canvas

The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie...

William Butler Yeats

These Are The Clouds


These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye:
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, So much the more thereby
Have you made greatness your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye.


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

He Wishes For The Clothes Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek painters: The moon goes through the sky with a child in her hand...

Moon & Greek paintings, Greek artists, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou. FIX Factory, Thessaloniki, oil on canvas

Thessaloniki under the moon light...

The moon continues to shine in August...

Consolation and magic...

Following the moon paths...

Federico García Lorca

Ballad of the Moon

The moon came to the forge
wearing a bustle of nards.
The boy is looking at her.
The boy is looking hard.
In the troubled air,
the wind moves her arms,
showing lewd and pure,
her hard, tin breasts.
'Run, moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies came,
they would make of your heart
necklaces and white rings.'
'Child, let me dance.
When the gypsies come,
they will find you on the anvil
with your little eyes shut tight.'
'Run, moon moon moon.
I can hear their horses.
Child, let me be, don't walk
on my starchy white.'

The rider was drawing closer
playing the drum of the plain.
In the forge the child
has his eyes shut tight.
Bronze and dream, the gypsies
cross the olive grove.
Their heads held high,
their eyes half open.

Ay how the nightjar sings!
How it sings in the tree!
The moon goes through the sky
with a child in her hand.

In the forge the gypsies
wept and cried aloud.
The air is watching, watching.
The air watched all night long.


Beethoven, Moonlight Sonata

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Comments & Greek artists: Yannis Stavrou paints MYRTIS & participates in the exhibition "Myrtis: face to face with the past"

Ancient Greece & Greek artists, modern Greek painters

Play
Look at the video:
Discussing Yannis Stavrou artistic work with Myrtis...


Yannis Stavrou paints the portrait of MYRTIS and participates in the moving exhibition "Myrtis: face to face with the past"...

The exhibition constitutes an interdisciplinary effort to depict aspects of Ancient Greece through the case study of Myrtis' skull, a girl that lived in Kerameikos in the 5th century BC.

A portrait of this girl was created by the painter Yannis Stavrou...


Interview - Discussing Yannis Stavrou artistic work with Myrtis...

My thoughts are just filled with responsibility and sensitivity...

It is very intriguing to paint the portrait of a person that you have never met...

What I'm trying to do is to elect my personal point of view through the existing material, to imagine Myrtis...

I was really moved by Myrtis story. She was a little girl who died at the time of the plague in 430 BC. I thought of her as young girl of the time, a daughter of a potter, maybe, living somewhere near Iera Odos...

I continued using my imagination and that is how this character was born, a character that is certainly a myth, but that myth will become a reality and that little girl will come to life...

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Myrtis letter is posted at the United Nations website:

MYRTIS, AN ATHENIAN GIRL WHO LIVED 2500 YEARS AGO,

IS SENDING A STRONG MESSAGE TO THE WORLD

(With these words, the United Nations Organization has declared Myrtis “a Millennium Friend” and a symbol of its global campaign “We Can End Poverty”)

My name is Myrtis. Actually this is not my true name. I was named “Myrtis” by the archeologists that discovered my bones in 1994-1995, in a mass grave with another 150 skeletons in the Athens area of Kerameikos.

I may look like a girl of the 21st century but I can assure you that I’m an eleven year old Athenian girl who lived and died in Athens during the 5th century BC.

So, how can a young ancient Athenian become a Millennium Friend of the United Nations?

The scientists are certain that I was one of the victims of the plague that struck Athens during the 5th century BC. They also know that the cause of my death was the typhoid fever that also killed the ancient Athenian statesman Pericles and roughly one third of all people living in the city at that time. They also say that it was this plague that contributed to Athens´ defeat by Sparta during the Peloponnesian Wars.

My skull was in an unusually good condition and this inspired Athens University Orthodontics professor Manolis J. Papagrigorakis to begin – with the help of specialist scientists – to effect a facial reconstruction. And, here I am. You can see the result of their efforts in my photo. I look almost exactly the same as the day I died.

Prof. Manolis J. Papagrigorakis thought that my ‘resurrection’ should not only be an opportunity for the world to see the face of a girl who played at the Acropolis while the Athenians were building the Parthenon, but he also wanted my “return” to send a strong message to the world and its leaders.

My death was inevitable. In the 5th century BC we had neither the knowledge nor the means to fight deadly illnesses. However, you, the people of the 21st century, have no excuse. You possess all the necessary means and resources to save the lives of millions of people. To save the lives of millions of children like me who are dying of preventable and curable diseases.

2,500 years after my death, I hope that my message will engage and inspire more people to work and make the Millennium Development Goals a reality.
Listen to me. I know what I’m saying. Never forget that I’m much older and therefore much wiser than you.»

Myrtis is the central person of the exhibition «Myrtis: Face to face with the past» which has begun a planned tour of Greek and foreign cities....

Monday, July 26, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek artists: without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony...

Poets & Greek artists, Greek painters, modern Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Red Ships, oil on canvas

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.


Artists are, above all, men who want to become inhuman.


I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

Joy always came after pain.

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.

When man wanted to make a machine that would walk he created the wheel, which does not resemble a leg.


Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)

Guillaume Apollinaire

The Farewell
(Alcools: L’Adieu)

I’ve gathered this sprig of heather

Autumn is dead you will remember

On earth we’ll see no more of each other

Fragrance of time sprig of heather

Remember I wait for you forever


L' Adieu

J'ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère

L'automne est morte souviens-t'en

Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre

Odeur du temps brin de bruyère

Et souviens-toi que je t'attends



Twilight
(Alcools: Crépuscule)


Brushed by the shadows of the dead

On the grass where day expires

Columbine strips bare admires

her body in the pond instead

A charlatan of twilight formed

Boasts of the tricks to be performed

The sky without a stain unmarred

Is studded with the milk-white stars

From the boards pale Harlequin

First salutes the spectators

Sorcerers from Bohemia

Fairies sundry enchanters

Having unhooked a star

He proffers it with outstretched hand

While with his feet a hanging man

Sounds the cymbals bar by bar

The blind man rocks a pretty child

The doe with all her fauns slips by

The dwarf observes with saddened pose

How Harlequin magically grows

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Comments & Greek painting, Greek artists: That here, obedient to their laws, we lie...

Ancient Greek poetry & Greek artists, modern Greek artists


Yannis Stavrou, Acropolis II, oil on canvas

Simonides of Ceos
(556 BC-468 BC)

Epitaph at Thermopylae - Simonides Epigram

Go, tell the Spartans, stranger passing by,
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.

Fragment o1

When, upon the well-wrought chest,
Fiercely heat the howling wind,
And the oceans heaving breast
Filled with terror DanaCs mind ;
All in tears, her arm she throws
Over Perseus, as he lay
0, my babe, she said, what woes
On thy mothers bosom weigh!

Thou dost sleep with careless breast,
Slumbering in this dreary home,
Thou dost sweetly take thy rest,
In the darkness and the gloom.

In thy little mantle there,
Passing wave thou dost not mind,
Dashing oer thy clustering hair,
Nor fhe voices of the wind.

Yet if thou, my beauteous one!
Felt the weight of this deep woe,
Not unconscious would my son
Hear his mothers sorrows now.

Yet sleep on, my babe, I pray,
Sleep thou too, tumultuous deep
And th unmeasured cares that stay
On my heart,let them too sleep!

Father Jove! I ask of thee,
Vain their evil counsels make!
And, though bold the prayer may be,
Right my wrongs, for Perseus sake.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, Greek paintings: what enables the Greek to die οn his feet rather than live kneeling in subjection...

Greek history & Greek artists, Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Rotonda, Thessaloniki, oil on canvas

We have no other certainties but freedom and language
Helene Glykatzi Ahrweiler

It is characteristic that the Byzantines referred to XIV century Turks as Persians and Achaimenides, not because they saw a racial connection between the Persians of yesterday and the Turks of their day, but because they considered themselves as carrying οn the struggle against the despotic greed of Asia which began at Marathon, Salamis and Thermopylae and was to end οn the ramparts of Constantinople in 1453 with dramatic consequences for the free spirit of Renaissance Europe.

This dedication to freedom, magnificently served by simple folk at every stage in the Greek continuum, is an undeniable instance of that Greek continuity which stirred Andre Malraux to declare, as he stood in the shadow of the Parthenon: “The ‘Νο!’ of 1940 is the same as that of Prometheus or of Antigone. This nation which celebrates its ‘Νο!’ is the same one that fought at Marathon, that chanted victory troparia in Aghia Sophia and that sacrificed itself at Souli and Messolonghi. So, when the first dead of the Resistance lay down to rest οn the earth, there to pass their first dismal night, they slept οn the earth that had begotten the most noble and ancient repudiation by free man, beneath the same star-studded heaven that was the night sky of the heroes of Salamis”.

Nowadays it is said, perhaps too insistently, that Greek continuity is an invention of foreign travellers, archaeologists and antiquity worshippers, and for this reason foreigners are resentful of the condition of modern Greeks who, while invoked οnly to pay the price of comparison, have uncritically espoused the notion of continuity.

It is nο longer the time for revisions. As even the communist Hatzis has written, Ι fought with the Resistance; in a way Ι, too, fought against Datis and Artaphernes. Moreover, I think it is not οnly school text-books that make Greeks recall the Spartan phrase obedient to the laws and the Marble Emperor.

As a last resort the laconic provocation Μολών λαβέ, (Come and get it!), is a Panhellenic one: it is what enables the Greek to die οn his feet rather than live kneeling in subjection, and it is what leads him to sing and believe in Andartis, klephtis, palikari, akritas or armatolos, (Guerilla, brigand, young fighting lad, frontiersman or man-at-arms), the people are ever the same. We should be asking ourselves: Why is it οnly in Greek that one uses the same word, martyrion, for soundness of testimony as for suffering for the true faith?

Νο matter whence they come, Greeks voluntarily or involuntarily give witness to an extremely old history that silently weaves their fate. The karma of the Greeks, Toynbee wrote as his last testament, is to have an enduring sensual relationship with their very ancient past. That says it all - and Toynbee was not what we call a philhellene.

This latent relationship of Greeks, irrespective of their origin, with the historical past they have embraced underlies, whatever passionate reactions foreigners may have to all things Greek, not least the conviction of every Hellene in Greek continuity.

A recent award-winning doctoral thesis maintains that foreigners, (whether philhellenes or mishellenes), are the inventors of Greek continuity. Cocteau, for instance; believed that nothing has changed in Greece for twenty-five centuries and even was ready to swear it οn oath; so too was Andre Breton who, as he told me in person, refused to visit Greece because nο one goes voluntarily to the country οf the conquerors who for twenty-five centuries have dominated the European spirit.

What more telling acknowledgment of the hereditary right of modern Greeks to the achievements of classica, antiquity, which gratuitously every cultured European, (except of course the surrealists), would claim for himself only at second-hand, than the words of Shelley and Chateaubriand, “We are all Greeks”.

Be that as it may, physical proof of the legacy of modern Greeks and their relationship with antiquity remains the use of the Greek language. Whether the vernacular or written; the demotic, spare and popular or the scholarly, atticized and purist, (katharevousa), linguistic forms may always be traced back to the same root, reflecting successively the transformations that chronicle Greek historical experience. Fοr instance the verb paideuo, initially meaning “to teach”, has acquired the sense “to pester or torment”. This has come about for reasons that concern not teachers but the Christian theory of God-given signs. Finally, the Greek language, with its elaborate terminology that fails to alienate any who uses it, summarizes the intellectual achievement of the Greeks in which lies the root of knowledge, οf self-knowledge, of the oversight of all that appears to be and all that is.

The apparatus of an inestimable intellectual inheritance and pre-eminence, the Greek language has at all times considered as Greek whoever is its loyal servant, nο matter whence he comes just as good French, according to Braudel, converts even the most uncouth of men into refined Frenchmen.

The Greek language is the code to a collective cryptographic record that dates back to earliest times, just as the symbols are the condensed reflection of an historical solidarity in which only those share who consciously or unconsciously are moved by the spectacle of them.

Ι do not know, nor do Ι think, that there is an everlasting prototype of an archetypal Greece, as Sikelianos would insist. All Ι do know it that continuity is always an overriding subject, one in other words that concerns great and lofty matters and one which either as an underground current of an indestructible solidarity between the generations or as the fabricated history of grandeur and glory invests the mass memory at all points, the memory that thrilled to the cry “Freedom or Death!”, the cry that succeeded to the Aeschylean “Forward, sons of Greeks!” the memory that lives οn in “Ιn the Cross conquer!” and that reverberates in churches and chapels οn every Friday devoted to the Salutations of the Virgin in the words “Triumphal praises to the Champion Defender”.

Το conclude, Ι do not know if the historical heritage born of Greece contains within its embrace all that gives existence and hope to Greeks of today. Rather it is almost certain that modern Greeks possess elements that originate in other traditions, (among them European), foreign traditions which assimilated Greek classical learning at times when Greece itself was displaying an historical and intellectual lethargy.

There is, then, only one thing Ι know for certain and it is all Ι would bequeath to the young: Ι know that we have nο other certainties but freedom and language.

But that and that alone is enough to bind Greeks undyingly to a mythical, if imaginary and fantastical, very ancient Greece, a Greece perhaps nonexistent today but nonetheless immortal.

Immortal like the yearning implicit in Romiosyni, that invisible and unbroken thread of Greek actualities which, as Seferis says with a profound sense of piety, is seated in the lap of the Virgin Mother.

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Excerpts from H. Ahrweiler, The Making of Europe, Athens 2000. Helene Glykatzi Ahrweiler was a professor of history in France, vice-president, and then president of the University of Paris 1 Pantheon-Sorbonne, Rector of the Academy of Paris, Chancellor of the Universities of Paris, and president of the Centre Georges Pompidou.

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Source: ELLOPOS BLOG

Monday, May 24, 2010

Comments & Greek artists, Greek painters: Like a white stone in a well’s depths, a single memory remains to me...

Poetry & Greek painting, Greek artists, modern Greek artists


Yannis Stavrou, Thessaloniki ΙΙ, oil on canvas

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?
Anna Akhmatova



Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)

Anna Akhmatova


I don’t know if you’re alive or dead

I don’t know if you’re alive or dead –
Can you be found on earth, though,
or only in twilit thoughts insteadbe mourned for,
in that peaceful glow.
All for you: the prayer daily,
the hot sleeplessness at night,
the white flock of poetry,
and the blue fire of my eyes.
No one was cherished more,
or tormented me so, no nothim,
who betrayed me to torture,
nor him,
who caressed and forgot.

Like a white stone in a well’s depths

Like a white stone in a well’s depths,
a single memory remains to me,
that I can’t, won’t fight against:
It’s happiness – and misery.
I think someone who gazed fullin my eyes,
would see it straight.
They’d be sad, be thoughtful,
as if hearing a mournful tale.
I know the gods changed peopleto things,
yet left consciousness free,
to keep suffering’s wonder alive still.
In memory, you changed into me.

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.
And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.