the little of forever

snowy morning glorifies the sun coming through my balcony,
leaving golden traces in the path of the smoke covering the ceiling.
what i've felt was lonely yet another taste makes it sweet
it is the habit that changes the way we see things.

ill face. ink. pencil

a chair problem, pencil and marker on paper

• You make a chair. You design it a special way because Mr. Smith ordered it for his salon. And you, being a good worker, you design it according to assessed principles, like the width of Mr. Smith’s behind. So your chair becomes an exhibit at the gentleman’s salon. That is architecture for Private Individual.
• Or on the other hand, you make a chair for the city and the municipality clinches it at a park. Years pass by and old ladies come to rest, there is someone who ties his shoelaces and pigeons make a use of it too. Dogs make their need at the legs and loved ones carve their names on. But it is still the same chair you made, about 10 years ago, and it is under the rain, the sun, the dust, dirty, and someone in great despair, broke a leg of it. That is public architecture.
• But at some given moment, someone looks at it, and gazes at the magic moment of the conception of the idea or the greatness of a design. And thus takes it home, cleans it and puts it on a stand, with glass and ropes around it. People then say “oh it is indeed beautiful” That is museum architecture.

FACEii, watercolour, pencil, carchoal on paper

Take the cloak from his face, and at first
Let the corpse do its worst!

How he lies in his rights of a man!
Death has done all death can.
And, absorbed in the new life he leads,
He recks not, he heeds
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike
On his senses alike,
And are lost in the solemn and strange
Surprise of the change.
Ha, what avails death to erase
His offence, my disgrace?
I would we were boys as of old
In the field, by the fold:
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn
Were so easily borne!
I stand here now, he lies in his place:
Cover the face!

Robert Browning, After

Free Horse. Ink on paper

A masters’ handiwork cannot be measured,

But still those priests wag their tongues explaining the “Way” and babbling about “Zen”.

This old monk has never cared for false piety,

And my nose wrinkles at the dark smell of incense before the Buddha.

Ikkyo, I hate incense

FACE, watercolour, pencil, carchoal on paper

Figure II. pencil, water colour, carchoal

It is nice to get a glimpse of a lady bathing –
You scrubbed your flower face and cleansed your lovely body
While this old monk sat in the hot water,
Feeling more blessed than even the emperor of China!

Ikkyu, A meal with fresh octopus

Figure I. pencil, water colour, carchoal

Although they are
only breath, words
which I command
are immortal.

Sappho, Although they are

naked form, pencil on paper

Awed by her splendor
stars near the lovely
moon cover their own
bright faces
when she
is roundest and lights
earth with her silver

Sappho, Awed by her splendor

Expression and freedom

what is a constant thought is the expression and freedom.
It is a dualism critical to every creator of anything, to any artist. Freedom and expression.
One tries to express himself in ways that recall the feeling of the receiver, the beholder, that there is something inner that wants to be set free. Not by deattachment but by turning the inner outwards.
And admitting that, is the first step. To nowhere specific, to the unknown. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Then, by acknowledging it we can begin the search of the way...

a problem and a chair. Ink, pencil and marker

Lysis of a face in architectural ideas, colour pencils, pencil

Η πρώτη γραμμή

Η πρώτη γραμμή είναι πάντα ένα πρόβλημα, είναι η στιγμή που αρχίζεις να βάζεις τον εαυτό σου στο χαρτί, καταθέτοντας το είναι σου εκείνη τη στιγμή.
Ακολουθεί μια μάχη σκληρή με τη λευκή επιφάνεια, πουπρέπει να την κυριεύσεις, να τη δουλέψεις, να την πλάσεις, να την κάνεις να πάρει μορφή.
Το λευκό σου επιτίθεται, σε προκαλεί. Σε αμφισβητεί και σε παγώνει. Δε θέλει να υποταχθεί.
Αυτός είναι ο φόβος του κενού. Για αυτό η πρώτη γραμμή είναι πάντα ένα θέμα.

Faces. Charcoal, watercolor, pencil.

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in read, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.

William Blake, Holy Thursday

Time x Effort= equably

Προσπάθεια x Χρόνος= Σταθερά

Να μια παγκόσμια αλήθεια.

figures. ink and pencil at carboard

Some figures dancing

Us. A beginning

After a long period of rest, and inner search through valleys dry neither from inspiration nor fantasy, but from a complex system of oppresion, i came forth again with a quick sketch and i am ready to start again, slowly at this very beginning but steadily, thanks to you.