Yannis Stavrou, Red Ship, oil on paper
Glass eyes, Resurrected Gazes. On Yannis Stavrou's Paintings - Art criticism by Manos Steafanidis"There is a glass eye that dreams of me"
Giorgos Themelis
In what terms can we discuss painting today? First of all, we have to choose between the world of shapes - the sovereignty of art - and the world of reflections. By reflections I mean the kingdom of shadows which feign existence due to the short-lived and accidental power provided by the medium itself. I’m obviously referring to the glass eye of television, juxtaposing it to the still - but not motionless - images of painting. As time goes by, I have come to realize that an irreconcilable battle has been raging in me. There are those works of art I have loved, which come from the past and rightly aspire to inhabit our future. And there is television’s overweening sorcery which pretends to authority without, however, exorcising vulgarity. This is why I said before that we have to choose. I meant to say that, in modern times, painting is above all an act of resistance of the gaze. This is a silent, and yet valid, protest against the overflow of unthinkable and thoughtless images which keep nibbling on our time and conscience. These images reach us following orders from above; I have no doubt anymore. In order to weigh us down politically and ideologically, a host of latter-day Metternichs of sold-out images have first to trivialize our aesthetics.
The question is how - and against what - can a painted canvas resist? Is this act of resistance possible, when the depicted theme is, for instance, a ship sailing away in dark waters or a city bathed in morning light, authorized to expiate it and censure it for its nocturnal life? First of all, each painting constitutes a form of visual expression which requires above all the viewer’s gaze, his mind, devotion and, if possible, his heart. This secret moment of communion, which could last from a minute to an eternity, comprises in it the elements of a holy drama. In this religious rite the presence of a divine power is not obvious but the ensuing miracle is. This is why I referred earlier to a resurrection of the gaze. Nowadays the art of painting is often used as an alibi for education or power. In certain other instances, it is recruited to serve the costly purposes of interior decoration. And why not? Has anyone ever been harmed by the squandering of beauty? Besides this, painting which respects itself knows how to carry those who trust it along paths of self-awareness to islets of maturity. It has the power, like any other art form, to make its fellow traveler a much better person and to return his time regained. And this is quite an achievement. The wisdom acquired derives from intuition and as such entails a feeling of delight which has no rival. This very pleasure of the gaze invigorates our entire being.
This is how I approach the painting of my friend Yannis Stavrou. He is the nostalgic advocate of a different Thessaloniki, the orderly tracker of those small treasures that lie hidden in the pockets of daily routine. I see his paintings as a challenge for an inner voyage, an opportunity for a resurrection of the gaze - a prolongation of real life. His compositions are structured around two opposite poles: tenderness and a sturdy rhythm; a sense for detail and understanding of the whole; a kind of sentimental escape to mirthful images, as Kosmas Politis would put it, and a preoccupation with form, represented in an unadorned and solid fashion. His paintings keep alive the memory of those places he fell in love with in the past or create novel seas for new journeys. Here plasticity is achieved via abstractive processes, and elsewhere a tiny light - one catalytic brushstroke - unveils a well-hidden secret. His heavy blues are electrified with orange iridescences and his reds never leave his blacks or dark greens unaccompanied. This is how it goes: what is sweet should always come out of what is bitter, and vice versa. Stavrou’s art is guided by his perseverance in striving for a self-sufficient visual language and by his grasp, empirical and therefore true, of modern Greek painting - from Papaloukas to Tsarouchis and from Spyropoulos to Tetsis - until he finds his own style, Clive Bell’s* ‘significant form’ or Cassirer* and Panofsky’s* ‘symbolic form.’ In other words a character of its own which will mark his work regardless of the period it was created. Let me not baffle you with any further technicalities. The robustness of Yannis Stavrou’s painting lies in that it can be enjoyed without the aid of theoretical crutches and critical witticisms. Such improprieties would be unfitting...
Manos Stefanidis, Art historian, Professor of the Athens University
