On the occasion of the 60th anniversary of the death of Fotis Kontoglou, the exhibition “Taximia”: In the Tradition of the Greek Mode: From History to Contemporary Painting explores the diachronic continuity of a visual mode that permeates Greek art from antiquity to the present. Rather than treating tradition as a static heritage or a style to be reproduced, the exhibition proposes it as a living, evolving method of seeing, thinking, and image-making—one that remains active across time.

Through approximately 150 works, the Greek line, “a thread that carries memory”, emerges as a bearer of deeper meaning. The Greek mode is understood as an attitude that shapes how the artist encounters the world. This continuity in painting is sustained not only by artists, but also by the dedication of individuals, collectors, and institutions who actively preserve and promote a living tradition. Through their participation, the Greek mode is revealed not as heritage, but as an ongoing dialogue, bridging past, present and future creation.

The exhibition’s curatorial approach focuses on the so-called Greek mode  as a way of seeing and constructing the image, notes art historian and curator Niovi Kritikou. From the Minoan era through classical antiquity and Byzantine art, a mode emerges that brings together seemingly opposing elements: abstraction and narration, sacredness and everyday life, measure and rhythm, restraint and expressive tension. These elements persist over time not as fixed forms, but as recurring principles that adapt to new historical and cultural contexts.

Through these principles, the Greek mode establishes a relationship with the viewer that differs fundamentally from Western representational paradigms. Rather than functioning as an illusionistic window into space, the image becomes a field of encounter and dialogue, inviting the viewer into an active, meaningful relationship with the work. The image is not autonomous or self-contained, but socially and culturally active, inseparable from its role within a community.

Fotis Kontoglou occupies a central position in this narrative. His contribution lies in his profound understanding of Byzantine and post-Byzantine art and his ability to translate its principles into a modern artistic context. Kontoglou liberated Byzantine imagery from narrow notions of representation, transforming it into presence—an active visual language relevant to the contemporary world. His work exerted a decisive influence on subsequent generations, particularly artists associated with the Generation of the 1930s, who sought to articulate a modern Greek identity without severing ties to tradition.

The title Taximia, a term borrowed from music referring to improvisation within a traditional framework, aptly encapsulates the exhibition’s conceptual approach. Just as musical taximia involve free improvisation grounded in tradition, explains art historian Emmanouela Archangelaki, the artists improvise upon the Greek mode, reactivating it through personal expression.

This practice begins with Fotis Kontoglou, who translated the lessons of Byzantine and Greek art into a contemporary pictorial language. Artists of the Generation of the 1930s continued this effort, shaping what we now recognize as the Greek mode, one in which line, surface, and palette function as living presence and imprint of place. Contemporary artists do not imitate this mode; rather, they transcribe it into the visual language of the present.

At the heart of the exhibition lies the notion of a Greek script: a thread of memory shaped by light and the erosions of place, where motif carries collective experience and composition becomes a field of measure. The Greek mode does not observe the world from a distance; it traverses it, listens to it, and transcribes it into an image.

Through this encounter of works and generations, the exhibition proposes that the Greek mode is not a fixed aesthetic schema of the past, but an open method continuously reactivated in the present. The exhibition thus forms a public space of shared memory, where tradition is not passively inherited but actively experienced. Art becomes a communal practice, weaving together ideas, emotions, memory, history, and lived experience—a living art, inseparable from the experience it offers.

The exhibition highlights the continuity among key figures of modern Greek art -Stephanos Almaliotis, Aghinor Asteriadis, Fotis Kontoglou, Rallis Kopsidis, and Tasos Mantzavinos- through works from private collections managed by the Archive of Modern Greek Religious Art, as well as works generously loaned by the Vogiatzoglou Art Gallery (Yannis Moralis, Vasso Katraki, Kostas Papanikolaou, Konstantinos Parthenis, Yannis Tsarouchis, Pavlos Samios, Alekos Fassianos). These are presented alongside works by contemporary artists, including Demosthenis Avramidis, Nektarios Antonopoulos, Giorgos Armakollas, Fotis Varthis, Giannis Efthymiou, Markos Kampanis, Nikos Kanavos, Kostas Karakitsos, Christos Kehagioglou, Giorgos Kordis, Alekos Kyrarinis, Dina Liarostathi, Nektarios Mamais, Aimilios Metaxas, Stavroula Mitsakou, Anastasios Babatzias, Christos Papadakis, Xenia Papadopoulou, Gina Papadopoulou, Achilleas Papakostas, Fr. Stamatis Skliris, Kostas Papatriantafyllopoulos, Babis Pylarinos, Jenny Saridi, Hambis, Pantazis Tselios, Emmeleia Filippopoulou, and Faii Psychopaedopoulou.

Intro photo: Christos Kehagioglou Life Giving Fountain

The post Fotis Kontoglou and the Continuity of Greek Art appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Despina Konstantinides Cushing is a New York–based artist of Greek descent, renowned for her large-scale abstract and figurative contemporary landscape paintings that explore metaphysical inner spaces. Her paintings occupy the charged space between landscape and abstraction, where color, gesture, and form dissolve the boundaries of perception. Her painterly language fuses luminosity and introspection as she approaches the canvas as a site of inquiry—where form, color, and gesture reveal what words cannot. 

Despina K. Cushing invites viewers into a contemplative space where painting becomes an act of presence. They are invited not simply to see, but to inhabit—to dwell in the space between observation and introspection, where painting becomes both a world and a mirror, and the act of looking becomes an act of being. Her works are not depictions of places so much as meditations suggesting that true dwelling begins inwardly, in the stillness of perception and sincerity of soul.

Her landscapes resonate with sacred architecture and contemplative practice. They are neither purely representational nor abstract—they exist as spaces where philosophical inquiry, painterly experimentation, and metaphysical reflection converge, offering viewers a chance to dwell within both the painting and themselves. Rooted in her background in philosophy, Cushing paints not what she sees but what she knows through the mind’s eye—a sincerity of touch that turns pigment into presence. 

Despina Konstantinides has earned a degree in philosophy from Trinity College, she pursued an MFA in painting from Indiana University. Her artwork is featured in prominent collections, including the Consulate of Greece in New York, the AIG Corporate Art Collection, The Delson, the George T. Douris Tower, and numerous private collections. Additionally, her work has been recognized on HBO’s hit show Divorce.

In an interview with Greek News Agenda*, Despina Konstantinides reflects on painting as an intuitive, improvisational process that balances landscape and abstraction to dissolve boundaries between inner and outer worlds, inviting both artist and viewer into a shared experience of presence and existential openness.

Your landscapes feel like they exist somewhere between the external world and an inner, rather metaphysical space. How do you balance abstraction and landscape in your work?

The balance comes naturally—abstraction and landscape need each other. The landscape image gives the viewer something to hold onto, a point of entry or anchor into the work, while the abstraction is where the takeoff occurs. 

In an exhibition catalog essay from a previous show, Dr. Jennifer Samet wrote that my work “establishes a relation between losing oneself in nature and losing oneself in the process of painting.” I thought that was very well put, because it captures the play you mention between inner and outer worlds, between abstraction and figuration, and that blurring of thresholds is something of great interest to me.

Your creative process is mostly based on observation, memory or improvisation?

It’s closest to improvisation. I think of it as having an experience while painting, with the painting itself becoming a physical record of that experience. You paint, and suddenly a small section of the work begins to breathe on its own—that’s when the creative process begins. By “begins,” I mean a trust develops with the painting, and it shows you what it needs. 

You are there to serve the painting. There’s no pre-intention, no thought like, “Wouldn’t it be interesting if I made the sky red?” If the sky is red, it’s because that’s what the painting needed. Creativity, to me, is learning to listen to the painting instead of listening to myself.

How has your background in philosophy influenced your painting practice?

John Dewey’s idea of art as experience has always fascinated me—the sense that you can lose the boundary between where you end and the world begins. An experience isn’t something you can simply name or describe; it’s something that transforms you. That dissolving of boundaries is what makes transformation possible and wherein art lies.

The title of your solo show, That which dwells, suggests a deep sense of presence. How do you see the act of “dwelling” reflected in your painting?

The title comes from a line in a Hölderlin poem: “reluctant to leave the place, is that which dwells near the origin.” To me, it’s about completely letting go. The closer you are—through meditation or a certain state of mind—to the unknown, the harder it is to release the everyday self, the part that clings to facts and definitions.

The paintings are not direct copies of landscapes; they are dwellings in the sense that they are concerned with being fully present—to dissolve boundaries and create a relationship with the viewer. They are more interested in the act of creativity than in depiction, and being fully present, to me, involves exactly that.

In my recent show, St. Francis in Ecstasy, I take this idea further, creating a contemplative space where viewers can engage with the work while being surrounded by the landscape visible through the windows.

Looking back on your evolution as an artist, what moments or works of art that stand out as turning points in finding your own voice?

In grad school, the summer between the two-year MFA program, I spent time in Florence, Italy. There, I made oil pastels from life—works on paper—and my approach shifted from strictly representational to getting lost in the process of making the work.

Those pieces changed the course of my practice. Before that, I had been focused on simply copying nature—you know, getting the light right, the perspective, the color. When I returned from studying abroad, I made a few paintings that were in my mind—my first paintings, in a way. I had been looking at the work of Frank Auerbach and how he spoke about making his first painting, and I was intrigued by the idea. Beforehand, I didn’t even know what a painting was. I hadn’t questioned it beyond getting the light, value, and composition—all the formal qualities right—but I hadn’t thought about form itself. I began to think about what it means to find your own hand, your own voice, in a painting, and what it means when a painting references the real world but still  holds its own.

What is the drive behind painting and what is the ultimate goal?

My drive has always been the same: to catch that fleeting glimpse of the greater existential unknown. To hover at the standstill between knowing what it means to exist and not knowing—entering that mystery again and again. Not because you’re ever going to solve it, but because the journey itself changes you.

The goal is to feel understood: to feel seen by the artwork. And when that happens, you open up. That’s where boundaries dissolve. That’s when the painting really begins to do its work. Paintings are like people. The ones you can’t shake off are the ones that have made you feel seen. And when you think of all great artworks that stay with you, it’s because they’ve done exactly that.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

Artist's portrait photo credit: Jinnifer Douglass

Paintings photo credit: Jason Mandella

The post Despina K. Cushing: “Creativity, to me, is learning to listen to the painting instead of listening to myself” appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Pavlina Vagioni’s artistic practice unfolds at the intersection of mythology, language, psychology, and material experimentation. Working across sculpture, installation, sound, video, and digital media, she approaches ancient myths not as historical narratives but as living symbolic systems—repositories of archetypes that continue to shape contemporary experience. Her work draws deeply from classical sources, etymology, and Jungian thought, translating research into immersive environments where form, sound, and material act as carriers of meaning. 

Central to her practice is the belief that language and matter are inseparable. Words, sounds, and materials are treated as active forces—capable of awakening memory, triggering recognition, and revealing hidden structures of identity and transformation. Living between Athens and Houston, Vagioni’s work is shaped by a dynamic dialogue between rootedness and distance, memory and experimentation. 

Paulina Vagioni (b. 1975, Athens, Greece) studied painting, sculpture, ceramics, and scenography at the Athens School of Fine Arts, graduating with highest honors at the postgraduate level in 2016. She also trained for over a decade as a classical soprano soloist, studying piano, music theory, and composition—an interdisciplinary background that continues to inform her practice.

Her work is included in the permanent collection of MOMus—Museum of Contemporary Art in Thessaloniki and has been awarded the Jury Prize by the Lawndale Art Center in Houston. She has held solo exhibitions at Opening Gallery (New York), Carillon Gallery (Fort Worth), TANK Space (Houston), and Kappatos Gallery (Athens), with an upcoming exhibition at Tube Factory Artspace (Indianapolis).

Her interview with Greek News Agenda* offers insight into her research-driven yet intuitive process, her engagement with myth as a universal psychological language and transformative force—one that continues to speak to the complexities of contemporary identity and human consciousness.

As an artist, you work in an interdisciplinary way. What role does research play in your work?

My process always begins with research. I usually start by studying passages from Ogygia by Athanasios Stagirites that relate to the subject I am exploring at a given moment. This 19th-century work compiles Mediterranean mythology in remarkable detail, drawing from both ancient and later sources. It is a true treasure: it has never been translated and remains largely unknown outside Greece. Within it, I often encounter versions of myths that have been lost or significantly altered in modern retellings.

My research, however, is not limited to philology. It extends into Jungian psychology and the interpretation of myths as archetypes and symbolic systems. From there, a process of translation begins: how an idea can become form, color, fabric, or sound. One example is the Kerkis works from the Athena series. While studying the ancient weaving tool, I discovered that the sound it produced closely resembled that of insects. This sonic association led me to create works with symmetrical forms that can be read as both anthropomorphic and insect-like.

In essence, I am not interested in retelling a myth, but in creating the conditions for an encounter with it—allowing the viewer to come into contact with what the myth reveals about human experience.

How do etymology and language become integrated into your work?

Language is always my starting point. I am deeply interested in etymology, because it is where a word’s original meaning resides, before it becomes obscured by layers of interpretation. Antisthenes said, “Wisdom is to be found in the investigation of names,” and I fully agree: a word often reveals the deeper essence of the thing it names.

A characteristic example is Medusa. Her name derives from the verb μέδω, meaning “to govern” or “to protect.” This etymology creates a fascinating paradox: Medusa bears a name associated with protection, yet she is represented as a monster who must be destroyed. The paradox becomes clearer when we recall the apotropaic function of the Gorgoneion in ancient Greece, where her image was used as a protective symbol on temples, houses, and shields. The gaze that petrified the enemy was transformed into a force of protection.

This insight became the starting point for a series of works in which the myth is inverted: snakes with bodies made of braided synthetic hair and heads of cast aluminum shaped like hands mimicking snakes. From a distance, the work appears threatening; up close, it reveals a marionette-like construction. The viewer is invited to ask: what is it that we truly fear?

Another example is the installation Proteus Within, where this linguistic logic is translated into sound. The composition is based on the musical notes E–C–C–E, which in the Anglo-Saxon system correspond to the Greek Mi–Do–Do–Mi and spell the Latin word ECCE, meaning “behold.” “Behold” alludes to Proteus, the god who constantly changes form. It is an invitation to look beyond transformation and recognize essence within change. Sound, voice, and word become a single body—a linguistic experience that activates sensation and thought simultaneously.

Archetypal figures from Greek mythology often inspire your work (Medusa, Sirens). What leads you to reinterpret these mythic figures? What qualities make them timelessly relevant?

My relationship with myths is both personal and profound. Through my journey in psychoanalysis, I came to understand that myths are not distant narratives, but living systems of transformation. They reflect inner states, fears, desires, and our need to make sense of what cannot be fully understood.

Carl Jung described archetypes and symbols as ways through which the psyche communicates the unconscious to consciousness. In this sense, myths function as mirrors of ourselves. They are timeless because they articulate our inner structure; the archetypes they contain act as guides in the psyche’s evolutionary process.

Medusa represents fear. Proteus, the eternally transforming god, embodies the fluidity of identity in the contemporary world—an experience amplified through our digital selves. It is noteworthy that a research at Stanford titled The Proteus Effect examines how digital identities influence behavior. Chiron, in turn, symbolizes healing through empathy.

I do not approach myths as something “ancient” or exclusively “Greek,” but as a global archive of human experience that speaks directly to the present. Myths survive because they remain open to reinterpretation. When an artist approaches them anew, they do not revive them—they activate them. Each time someone recognizes a part of themselves within a myth, it comes alive again.

How does materiality activate memory in your work?

For me, material is never neutral. Every material carries meaning, whether through direct reference or symbolic resonance. In the sculpture Chiron, for example, the horse’s skin resembles human skin, while the stitching with wire thread evokes sutured wounds. It is simultaneously body and trace of healing—a material metaphor for the relationship between pain and care.

In Kerkis, memory is embedded in the very act of weaving. The knitted and embroidered elements come from different techniques created by other women, which I incorporated into the works. This collective manual labor—the touch of many hands—carries with it a memory of community, continuity, and female creation.

Memory is born through sensory experience and completed in consciousness. Although each work is grounded in research, the act of making unfolds through a more intuitive, almost alchemical process. The work first communicates through color, form, and texture, and only later—if the viewer chooses—reveals its conceptual layers.

Music, sound, and digital media are integrated into your work. How do they expand the viewer’s experience?

Having studied classical singing for over a decade, I use my voice not as a vehicle for musical performance, but as material that connects sound to body and space. Sound, light, and digital media are forms of matter. I treat them not as supplementary elements, but as active agents that shape perception and convey meaning beyond language.

In Fuga delle Sirene, the video component of the installation Isle of the Sirens, my voice is combined with recordings of seascapes, birds, and whales, creating an immersive environment. The work also included an interactive performance in which visitors’ faces were reflected onto the masks of performers who followed them. This mirrored the psychological mechanism of the mythic Sirens, who called sailors by name—a moment of recognition and identification.

In Proteus Within, kinetic lighting creates the illusion of a continuous transformation from sea to fire: a dark, fluid surface dissolving into golden flames, symbolizing both Proteus’s mutability and the fluid nature of human identity. Light is never static; it transforms space and perception.

This orchestration of sound, light, and image shares a structural affinity with music. Music unfolds over time, while an image is grasped instantaneously—yet both rely on rhythm, intensity, and silence. Through their convergence, the viewer does not simply observe the work, but experiences it holistically—with body, memory, and consciousness.

You moved to Houston, USA, a few years ago. How has this relocation influenced you as an artist?

Houston is a multicultural city, full of energy, that encourages experimentation and constant renewal. There, I encountered people from diverse cultural backgrounds, an experience that expanded the way I understand creation and collaboration. Life in Houston gave me the freedom to rethink my practice from the ground up. The distance—both geographical and psychological—created the space to experiment without feeling constrained by expectations.

A significant milestone in my trajectory was the realization of my first large-scale public work in Houston: an eight-meter installation for the ION building. I collaborated closely with engineers and technicians at the ION Prototyping Labs, using technologies such as laser cutting. The difference in working rhythm was striking. In the United States, planning begins much earlier, a shift that provided me with valuable tools for managing complex, large-scale projects.

Athens, by contrast, is the place of memory and inner processing. It is where I return to deepen my work. This oscillation between distance and rootedness keeps my practice alert and alive. I now move between Athens and Houston as if between two systems of reference. One city gives me roots; the other, a horizon. Somewhere between them, the space where I truly create takes shape.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

The post Pavlina Vagioni: Reimagining Myth Today appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Nikos Angelidis’ painting unfolds in time rather than at first glance. Built with discipline, precision, and an unwavering attention to detail, his images invite slow looking, rewarding the viewer with a world where realism is pushed to its limits until it quietly transforms into the dreamlike. Within carefully controlled compositions, familiar interiors, objects, animals, and landscapes acquire an inner life of their own, suspended in a state of lucid stillness. What appears orderly and serene is subtly unsettled by paradox, enigma, and a restrained sense of humor, opening fissures through which imagination and memory emerge.

Nikos Angelidis was born in Athens in 1957. From 1977 to 1982, he studied Painting at the Athens School of Fine Arts under P. Tetsis. During that period, at the same school, he attended courses in icon painting and fresco. He worked as an art teacher in Secondary Education for six years, until he decided to devote himself entirely to painting. In 1987 he presented his work for the first time in a group exhibition at the Nees Morfes Gallery. Since then he has had eleven solo shows and has participated in numerous group shows. He lives and works in Athens.

In an interview with Greek News Agenda*, Angelidis speaks about his meticulous creative process, the deliberate coexistence of realism and dream, and the role of objects and animals as carriers of memory, allegory, and personal experience. The artist offers insight into a practice that does not seek to mirror reality, but to propose another way of seeing it—patient, contemplative, and quietly enchanted.

Your works give the impression of being created with absolute control, discipline, and a strong emphasis on detail and flawlessness. How does your creative process develop in order to achieve this result?

An image always comes first—something that appears in my mind and could be described as “inspiration,” meaning the subject and composition of the work that must be realized. I immediately proceed to a brief, small sketch, sometimes accompanied by written notes so the idea is not lost. This is followed by a second, larger and more precise drawing, which is then enlarged and transferred onto the canvas. At the same time, I study the individual elements that will be used in the work: studies of human figures, objects, plants, or animals, as well as the viewing angles from which they will be depicted. Finally comes the chromatic completion on the canvas, painting the work in sections and with meticulous insistence on detail.

An intensified realism coexists harmoniously with a dreamlike element in your work. What purpose does this coexistence serve?

The purpose is to surprise the viewer—an impressive result produced by the coexistence of opposing elements. In this way, the dreamlike illusion is supported by strongly realistic representational details that attempt to reassure the viewer, yet are ultimately undone by the overall image, as in the end the dream prevails.

What role do subversion, paradox, humor, and the enigmatic play in your practice?

It is a game with the viewer. I like to provoke questions. I ask them not to stop at aesthetic pleasure alone, but at the same time to reflect, to offer their own interpretations of the riddles, or to continue wondering about them.

What is the role of objects and animals in your work?

The objects that surround us exert an influence on us, to a greater or lesser degree. Some, in fact, have such a strong impact that they acquire a symbolic character. They trigger memories, awaken emotions, and affect us so deeply that I would describe them as “magical.” A classic example is children’s toys, and especially dolls. I choose to paint such objects—what I call “personal” objects—things I have lived with in the past or that still exist around me and inspire me.

As for animals, if we turn to Aesop, La Fontaine, or Orwell, we see that animals provide an ideal framework for humans to engage in social critique through metaphor and allegory. Within this context, I use them as well, as visual allegories that, in some works, also introduce an element of humor.

A defining characteristic of your work is the sense of magic, sobriety, order, and the dreamlike stillness of things. How does this way of seeing enter into dialogue with a world that moves at very different rhythms?

Precisely because the world moves at intense and exhausting speeds, there is a need for a stable, sober space—one to which a person can retreat and reflect. It is a necessary framework for turning inward. Essentially, this is the other side of the same coin, the side I naturally prefer, delve into, and attempt, in my own way, to bring to light.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

The post Nikos Angelidis: Quiet Worlds Between Precision and Enigma appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Manousos Manousakis’ work is deeply layered and symbolic. His incredibly intricate compositions allude to dystopian visions and hauntingly alive worlds. His main medium is ink on paper used with incredible precision in order to depict surreal worlds including labyrinths, hybrid creatures and collapsing architectures. His art evokes a sense of unease, but also wonder, revealing landscapes that seem both ancient and futuristic, mechanical yet alive.

Manousos Manousakis was born in Chania in 1997. He studied at the School of Fine Arts of the University of Ioannina, where he completed his master’s degree on the subject “Art and Public Space.” His work has been awarded and presented at Greek and international animation festivals. His artistic production consists of ink drawings on paper featuring complex figures and dystopian scenarios, which he often digitizes and transforms into short video animations to add movement and depth.

In his interview with Greek News Agenda*, Manousos Manousakis reflects on his artistic journey and the intricate, symbolic worlds he creates. He also discusses the influences that guide him, the balance between spontaneity and control in his compositions, and the unique ways audiences—both children and adults—respond to his art.

Your compositions are extremely dense and detailed. Is there any room for spontaneity during the creative process?

Before I begin a complex composition, an initial visual exploration around the theme of the project has already taken place. I already have a general visual framework for the piece, and I usually have an idea of what certain characters will look like. However, most of the smaller compositions — and by extension the final form— are built gradually.

From that point on, the creative process begins. In the beginning, that is the conception of the forms, there is a great deal of experimentation with pencil on paper. Ink is applied only once I have fully decided what I want a form to be. This stage combines spontaneity and control: on the one hand, forms emerge largely spontaneously, often without me being able to explain why something feels right or wrong. On the other hand, I will never ink something that does not satisfy me; I will redraw it again and again until it “clicks.”

When a good composition may appear and how many attempts it will take to achieve this is rather unpredictable. It is always related to the artistic explorations that have already taken place. What ultimately remains in the work is a fully conscious choice. My compositions come together to tell a larger story. So, while I begin with a general idea, it is through artistic experimentation that I gradually come to understand what the work truly wants to communicate. In fact, the conceptual dimension matures slowly as the piece evolves over months.

In your works, do you see more of yourself or the world around us?

I believe that in every work the artists inevitably reveal themselves. However, I never consciously try to depict myself. I have created only two self-portraits, and even those began as a personal challenge, simply because I had never attempted it before.

I see myself more as an observer of the worlds I create — worlds shaped through my perceptions and the “rules” I set for them. Just as a director arranges a scene without appearing in it, yet expresses their personal viewpoint through it, I am also present in my creations in an indirect way.

You create dystopian worlds, hybrid beings, and a peculiar kind of architecture. What draws you to these alternative realities?

When I decided to create a dystopian, “frightening” world, one core principle guided me: I did not want fear to come from an external threat — a monster, for instance — but from our own nature, our mind, our mortality, and the social systems we construct. Over time, I realized that what interested me most was not fear itself, but the uncanny — that unsettling feeling that arises when something familiar becomes distorted.

Through deconstructing the human form and merging it with elements from animals, plants, or objects, characters emerged who could be comic, tragic, or frightening. But I never wanted to force a specific emotion on the viewer. That’s why the term I use to describe my work now is “deconstruction”: the deconstruction of the outward image shaped both personally and socially. This is how worlds are born where every pretentious façade collapses and characters appear in their fully absurd and tragicomic nature.

What is the place of the human figure within your artistic universe?

Human beings take center stage, since these worlds revolve around them. The characters — no matter how strange or hybrid they become — always retain human features so they can communicate with the viewer. At the same time, the human figure is always portrayed as vulnerable and powerless in the face of the forces acting upon it, whether these stem from mortality or from the social systems we build.

Which artists have influenced you?

Each piece is influenced to varying degrees by different artists, but there are some I return to repeatedly. Among Japanese creators, Kentaro Miura made me fall in love with inking and showed me, through his technique, how a world can be fully rendered with it. His depiction of demons and monsters greatly inspired me. Junji Ito also opened new perspectives, making me reconsider the nature of fear.

Among European artists, I often revisit Beksiński’s work, admiring how he deconstructed the human figure and intertwined it with plant-like forms and architectural elements. I also love Giger’s dystopian compositions and the harmony of his forms. And of course, a constant influence is Hieronymus Bosch — for his medieval themes, intricate compositions, and remarkable timelessness.

What does art mean to you and how does the public respond to your work?

At its core, I believe art functions as a mirror of the creator’s perceptions and psychological profile. It achieves this mostly through exaggeration — pushing an idea or a feeling to its limits so it can be revealed in its entirety. For example, my work portrays humanity in a pessimistic, one-sided way. Yet through this process — and through the voices of many viewers — the complexity of reality gradually emerges.

A major part of art for me is the creative process itself. I like to work with loud music. I paint, then get swept up by the song that’s playing as I study the piece. In those moments, my mind feels the most active, filled with emotions and ideas rushing through it. The artwork becomes a conduit for this energy. When the artistic process works well, I see myself in my most active — most alive — version.

With great joy, I’ve noticed that viewers often spend time with the works, studying them and getting lost in the micro-compositions and details. I can’t know what each person thinks, but many who connected deeply with my work told me they saw something familiar in its dystopia — something that paradoxically calmed them. A girl once told me she stumbled upon the works while frustrated, and as she examined the details, she somehow relaxed.

My piece for Plásmata 3 at the Onassis Foundation — an outdoor exhibition at Pedion tou Areos — gave me a broader view of the audience. People stopped, looked, and took photos. But the biggest fans were the children. They tried to touch the projected characters, see where they came from, where they disappeared to. Some shouted and talked to them; others danced to the sounds the figures produced. “Mom, there’s a creature living in the wall — it’ll come out again soon,” I remember a child saying.

The characters were mostly humorous, but even the more dystopian ones appealed to the kids. Perhaps this is because children don’t perceive fear the way adults do. My work relies on symbols — for example, I don’t show an actual photograph of entrails; I draw them. The lines themselves aren’t frightening — only the associations they evoke. Children don’t yet have the experiential references to connect what they see to reality, so they are not afraid.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

Profile photo credits: George Leonidopoulos

The post Manousos Manousakis and the Art of the Uncanny appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

The Basil & Elise Goulandris Foundation unveils one of its most ambitious exhibitions to date: From Monet to Warhol: Three Generations, One Collection, a sweeping visual narrative that traces the evolution of modern art from the late 19th century to the dawn of contemporary culture. Presented at the Goulandris Museum in Athens, from December 6, 2025 to April 11, 2026, the exhibition brings together 83 masterpieces by 45 artists, offering visitors an extraordinary opportunity to encounter works that have shaped, challenged, and redefined the very language of art.

A Panorama of Modernity

Spanning more than 130 years of artistic creation, the exhibition unfolds as a fluid journey through over a dozen pivotal movements — from the shimmering atmospheres of Impressionism to the bold ruptures of Cubism, the emotive intensities of Expressionism, the dreamscapes of Surrealism, and the vibrant iconography of Pop Art.

A Constellation of Masters

Among the exhibition’s highlights are works by some of the most revered figures of modern and contemporary art: Bonnard, Chagall, De Kooning, Degas, Dufy, Ernst, Gauguin, Kandinsky, Lichtenstein, Man Ray, Marquet, Modigliani, Morisot, Munch, Pissarro, Seurat, Signac, Toulouse-Lautrec, Vuillard, and many more.

These are presented alongside artists whose contributions, though sometimes less known to the broader public, played decisive roles in shaping the trajectory of modernity: Angrand, Anquetin, Denis, Feininger, Friesz, Hayet, Lacombe, Laugé, Pourtau, Ranson, Redon, Sérusier, Szafran, Vallotton, among others. Their presence enriches and complicates the narrative, revealing the continuity and diversity of artistic innovation.

A Rare Collection with a Singular Vision

The exhibition is made possible through the generous loan of a Swiss private collection — an exceptional ensemble formed across three generations of passionate collectors. Guided by an instinctive eye for quality and a deep reverence for the history of painting, the collection has achieved a rare harmony: intimate yet authoritative, personal yet comprehensive.

Over the years, works from this collection have been presented in major institutions around the world, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art, MoMA, the Royal Academy of Art, Tate Modern, the Musée d’Orsay, the Grand Palais, the Musée de l’Orangerie, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, and the Beyeler Foundation. Yet this exhibition marks only the second time such a substantial portion of the collection is shown together — and the first time in Greece.

A Dialogue with the Goulandris Collection

Displayed within the museum’s distinctive architectural environment, these works enter a dynamic conversation with the Foundation’s permanent collection. Together, they emphasize the unique role of the collector — a figure who navigates intuition, knowledge, and love of art to form a cohesive narrative that transcends generations. This interplay reveals how private vision can illuminate public understanding, offering new perspectives on familiar masterpieces and uncovering hidden connections across time and style.

Curatorial Approach

The exhibition is masterfully curated by Marie Koutsomallis-Moreau, Head of Collection at the B&E Goulandris Foundation, and Marina Ferretti Bocquillon, Scientific Director Emerita of the Musée des impressionnismes Giverny.

Through their sensitive curatorial framing, the exhibition encourages visitors not only to observe but to experience the evolution of modern art — its ruptures, revolutions, and reinventions — as a living, continuous dialogue. An extensive trilingual catalogue (Greek, English, French) accompanies the exhibition, featuring detailed essays, scholarly entries, and rich visual documentation. It stands as a significant publication for researchers, students, and art enthusiasts alike.

B&E Goulandris Podcast Series

Expanding the exhibition beyond the museum walls, the Foundation presents a new five-episode chapter of the B&E Goulandris Podcasts, offering an immersive auditory journey through the exhibition.
Curators share insights into the movements and masterpieces on view, while contemporary artists — George Rorris, Andreas Kontellis, Leda Kontogiannopoulou, Andreas Georgiadis, and Manolis Anastasakos — reflect on how these historic figures shaped their own artistic paths.

Intro Photo: Louis Anquetin (1861-1932), Interior of Bruant’s club: The Mirliton, 1886-1887

Dora Trogadi

The post From Monet to Warhol: Three Generations, One Collection — A Journey Through the Evolution of Modern Art appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Anestis Ioannou’s distinctive artistic language emerges from an intimate dialogue with the contemporary urban environment. His surfaces carry traces of everyday life, functioning as tactile archives of movement, memory, and wear. Onto these textured grounds, he constructs fragile, in-between spaces where the boundaries between the real and the imaginary remain fluid. 

In his art the city functions as both a physical landscape and an emotional archive—a place where memory, identity, and everyday gestures of care intertwine. Working with materials that bear traces of urban life, from denim to neon and marble fragments, they construct fragile, transitional worlds inhabited by figures that hover between presence and absence. 

Within these environments, his figures appear as outlines or spectral presences—bodies in transition, neither fully formed nor fully absent. Their theatrical quality suggests characters awaiting their cue, inviting viewers into a narrative space that is intentionally unfinished. Rather than offering fixed identities, Ioannou’s painterly approach embraces ambiguity, allowing the human form to dissolve into its surroundings. 

Anestis Ioannou  (b.1992) is a visual artist who lives and works in Athens. He holds a Master’s Degree (MFA) from LUCA School of Arts, Brussels (2018). In 2020, he was awarded the ARTWORKS fellowship, supported by Stavros Niarchos Foundation. In 2025, he participated in the EMST (National Museum of Contemporary Art, Athens) Mentorship Program. His work has been exhibited in Greece, Belgium, the Netherlands, Croatia, Serbia, France, Germany, and Austria. His work is part of the collection of the Bank of Greece, as well as of many private collections in Europe.

In an interview with Greek News Agenda*, Anestis Ioannou reflects on heterotopias where real and imaginary meet, identities in flux, human figures suspended between presence and absence and objects carrying memories and collective narratives. 

Your works refer directly to the contemporary urban environment, something that largely determines the materials you use (denim canvases, neon lights, concrete). What is it that drives you to make the city a point of reference in your work?

For me, the city is not just a backdrop but the place where my way of seeing was formed. It is a living body, an archive of fragments, palimpsests, and silences that carry memories. Growing up in the center of Athens, I experienced the urban environment through skateboarding, which taught me to see every sidewalk or square as a field of action and freedom. This experience follows me in my work. The city is always in flux, in a constant state of transition, and that is what I am interested in capturing.

I use materials that carry traces, energy, and memory from everyday life: denim instead of canvas, pieces of marble, or neon lights. Fragments of a reality that bear history, wear, and life. Denim in particular—often the surface I paint on—functions for me as a bridge between the personal and the collective. It is industrial yet familiar, connected with labor, youth culture, and the continuous movement of the city.

The spaces I create are makeshift, fragile, often undefined, but they express a search for something concrete—an anxiety for clarity in a fluid world. In them, the real and the imaginary coexist, as in a heterotopia. My figures move within this uncertain landscape like theatrical characters waiting for the action to begin. Within this environment, potted plants often appear—cuttings, containers holding signs of life, found on balconies, courtyards, or rooftops. They represent everyday gestures of care within the urban chaos.

So the city is not simply the backdrop but the very material and narrative field of my work. It is the point of reference not because I want to “depict” it, but because it is the place where the material meets the immaterial, where historical memory intersects with personal storytelling, where the need for roots meets the desire to escape. In this unstable condition I find my most essential raw material.

A fragile, transient, fleeting universe is imprinted in your works. What role does the human figure play in this? 

The human figure in my work is never complete; it is more like an outline, with just a few traces of presence. These are empty bodies in transition, inhabiting in-between places—present and absent at the same time—hovering between being characters and becoming part of the environment. They are empty bodies in passage, dwelling in liminal spaces, present and absent simultaneously, suspended between being characters and places.

For me, this resembles the fragility of identity today: a fluid identity in the urban world that constantly shifts and changes, never fully settling. Like theatrical characters awaiting their cue to step onto the stage, my figures stand in a state of suspension.

In some works, the forms look almost as if they are wearing masks, as if they are performing a role. I try to create a situation where these presences are almost aware of the viewer’s gaze. They are staged encounters, like film stills or fragments of a novel.

These are forms that can dissolve into the environment or re-emerge from it. For me, the figure is not a fixed subject but a temporary narrative. And the absence within the body is not a lack but a possibility: to transform, to disappear, or to take flight. It is a promise that something may occur.

Where does your art meet that of Yiannis Tsarouchis?

My connection to Tsarouchis is not one of imitation but of dialogue. I meet him mainly through theatricality and the power of transformation. In his work I see an artist who united history with myth, the everyday with the allegorical, real space with painted space. What moves me is his ability to respond to the wounds and needs of his time through painting or stage design—a place where the real and the imaginary interpenetrate.

In my work, the idea of a stage—empty or ready to be filled—is crucial. Just as Tsarouchis brought Euripides’ Trojan Women to life in a parking lot in Athens, I also try to transport the viewer to an in-between space, a place both every day and dreamlike. There my figures seek community and meaning, just as the Birds—which Tsarouchis costumed and staged—searched for a world beyond their own.

I follow a narrative approach in the way I construct a canvas. For me, narrative does not simply mean telling a story; it means creating a space where stories can resonate, leaving room for the viewer to imagine the rest.

You have exhibited abroad many times. In which countries would you say the public is most familiar with contemporary art? What is your view of the Greek public?

My experience abroad has brought me into contact with audiences that already have a tradition of approaching contemporary art not as something obscure but almost as part of daily life. In Belgium, the Netherlands, or France, for example, you encounter an audience that has learned to see contemporary art as a component of public life—different in each country, yet always a familiar language. Their interaction with museums, institutions, and education creates an open framework for reception.

In Greece, the relationship with contemporary art is more contradictory. There is hesitation, but also a genuine curiosity. I often meet people who approach the work through personal stories and emotion, without feeling they need to know the “right way” to interpret it. Despite the lack of institutional support, I see an audience that is eager to participate. And that eagerness can sometimes be more powerful than a formal familiarity because it opens space for real dialogue.

What are the challenges for a young artist in Greece today?

The challenges for a young artist in Greece are often tied to a sense of constant uncertainty due to the lack of stable support, limited institutional infrastructure, and a small market. Yet within this instability lies a force that pushes you to work inventively, rely on community, and seek collaborations and initiatives outside conventional institutional boundaries.

In recent years independent spaces, exhibitions, and initiatives have emerged, showing that the scene is vibrant and restless. In this fluidity, artists often find ways to express themselves beyond established frameworks. At the same time, private initiatives have begun to play an increasingly significant role, frequently filling the gaps left by the state.

I also consider it important that EMST has been operating more dynamically in recent years. It is creating an initial network between Greek artists and the international art world, while also inviting the Greek public to engage more with contemporary art. It is a process in progress, certainly in need of further support, but a substantial effort that is gradually changing the landscape.

Greece is both difficult and fertile. The difficulty pushes you to seek new ways, and the fertility lies in the vitality of the artists themselves, who create the conditions for their work to be heard.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

Photos: Courtesy of the artist and Crux Gallery 

Artist's photo by Valentina Tsaga 

The post Anestis Ioannou on Cities in Flux and Bodies in Transition appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Peggy Kliafa is a multimedia artist who explores themes related to medicines, treatment and healing of the body and soul. Her work emerges at the intersection of art and medicine, a dialogue she has cultivated since the beginning of her artistic journey. She elevates ordinary biomedical items, from blister packs to translucent pharmacy bags, into compelling symbols. In this context, Kliafa’s art becomes a transformative force: the rigid geometries of modernity dissolve into vibrant, ambiguous, and pulsating forms that echo cellular matrices, neural pathways, and the intimate architectures of the human body. 

Her compositions recall the clarity of modernist abstraction. Yet, they resist its sterile self-referentiality. They are charged with emotional, cultural, and existential weight, reflecting the seductions and dangers of a society that seeks immediate relief from the pressures of urban life. 

At the heart of her recent exhibition Healing the Grid lies a proposition: true healing cannot occur within the confines of the modern grid. Healing, in Kliafa’s vision, is not the erasure of fractures but their integration into a new order. Her work becomes a quiet act of resistance, a reconfiguration of the systems that shape us, and a call to imagine new forms of care that transcend the limits of modernity. In this sense, the exhibition is not only an aesthetic investigation but a deeply human one, proposing art as a site where healing can begin.

Peggy Kliafa graduated from the Athens School of Fine Arts– Department of Painting, with a focus on Sculpture. She also holds an Integrated Master’s degree –from the Athens University of Economics and Business with a specialization in Marketing. She has worked as a marketing executive for several years. She lives and works in Athens, Greece. She has held several exhibitions and has participated in many group exhibitions and Art Fairs in Greece and abroad.

In her interview with Greek News Agenda*, she reflects on the ideas that have shaped her practice as well as the grid, not only as an urban or digital pattern, but as a lived condition: the rhythms of city life, the pressures of hyperconnectivity, the relentless flow of data, and the bodily stresses of modern existence

In your art, medicine intersects with artistic practice. How did this connection come about?
The dialogue between art and medicine — and by extension, pharmaceuticals — has a long history and an equally long future. Numerous examples in the history of art show how medicine has inspired artistic creation, while in the history of medicine art has contributed to the study of human anatomy and disease, to the practice of medicine, and even to its teaching. Moreover, the contemporary fields of Art & Science and sci-art are rapidly developing with impressive results.

The relationship between art and medicine has intrigued me from the very beginning of my artistic journey. It is primarily a personal inquiry, a world that fascinates me but also fills me with enormous questions. An advertisement for pills in a magazine many years ago sparked thoughts that had long been dormant. I often caught myself repeating the same questions: “Should I take another pill? Should my children take antibiotics again? Is it right or necessary for medicines to be advertised?”

The words of Jacques Derrida in his book Plato’s Pharmacy — “This medicine, this remedy, this magical potion, which functions simultaneously as cure and poison…” — frequently come to my mind. The discovery of certain medicines, together with the evolution of medical science, changed the course of history and allowed us to live longer and better. The power of pharmaceuticals has always been, to me, non-negotiable and fascinating, yet controversial when we exceed moderation — and I believe this is reflected in my work.

Your recent exhibition invites us to heal the grid. Could you elaborate on this? 

Let us define the grid as I conceptualize it in the exhibition: it is both physical and symbolic, metaphorical — the urban grid, the city itself, social networks and the internet, digital surveillance, and even the human body. It is a system that facilitates us on one hand but also restricts us on the other. In a sense, the grid encompasses everything that constitutes the contemporary, demanding Western lifestyle, especially in large cities.
The city largely determines us. Our daily existence within it is characterized by rhythms we cannot control: haste, noise, images, data, mass movement. Its structures permeate our bodies. Another concern that relates directly to these “grids” is the hyper-connectivity that defines our lives today. We have adopted the habit of monitoring the developments of life online through news media and social networks twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Additionally, we constantly respond to a barrage of messages — emails, social platforms, apps, mobile phones. This new reality may serve us to an extent, but it also creates considerable, often unconscious stress.
It is scientifically proven that our lifestyle significantly affects our health. My concern lies in the ways we choose to heal ourselves and address the pathologies of this pressured way of living. The suggestion is to reflect and perhaps avoid quick, superficial pharmaceutical solutions in favor of a slow, painful process of changing ourselves and our attitudes. Medicines perform miracles. Thanks to them many people live, get out of bed every day, and function — but, like everything in life, they require moderation.
Within this context, art and the exhibition function as an intervention — a point of rupture within the normality of the city and its speed. A pause and reconsideration, a search for the root of the problems. It is not necessarily an escape from reality but a renegotiation of it.
I attempt to show that chaos is not a problem to be solved but a space for reinvention. The city and contemporary civilization offer us an unprecedented quality of life, which we often take for granted without realizing its value. I would like my work to become a visual reflection on how the city and its various “grids” affect our lives — and also a quiet act of resistance. It would be beneficial to occasionally distance ourselves from the momentum of everyday life and make use of the positive aspects of these grids while mitigating their negative ones.

What materials do you primarily use, and what role does light play in your work?
Capsules and pills, blister packs, and pharmacy bags are some of the materials I use — both for their aesthetic value and because they carry meanings and associations. Pills, with their various colors and shapes, capsules and blister packs with their transparency and shine, or the aluminum sheets which are small sculptures in themselves, create a wide range of materials and ideas with which I work, much like another artist might use paint, clay, or mosaic tiles. In my chandeliers, transparent capsules become tiny crystals that reflect light; in my shields, blister packs give the impression of an impenetrable metallic surface; in the “wallpaper” made of pharmacy bags, the organized accumulation of plastic becomes a contemporary palimpsest of urban imagery. The possibilities are endless.
At the same time, these materials carry a heavy load of meanings, often perched on the threshold between the therapeutic and the toxic. A pill can be medicine or addiction; a pharmacy bag can bring relief or the reminder of chronic illness. They also embody, in a very tangible way, the logic of the grid — measurable, standardized, clean, almost impersonal.
I used light for the first time in my stained-glass works and chandeliers, where its use is somewhat self-evident and functional, but due to the nature of medicine and its packaging, it also takes on additional conceptual dimensions. Light has the ability to transmute certain materials, especially those with transparency, gloss, or reflectivity. In my monochrome relief wall works of geometric abstraction, perimeter lighting imparts what I believe is a mystical dimension. Light becomes a carrier of spirituality and tranquility, recalling Byzantine precedents.
Light and its contrast with darkness are used symbolically — as “medicine,” healing, relief, hope, or metaphorically in the sense that art itself, with its light, can “heal” the artist, the viewer, the space. Light becomes defined as life, as eternal life — which is also what medicines have sought since the days of alchemy. I use light because I believe in the positive contribution of pharmaceuticals, as long as there is prudence and moderation.
In this exhibition, and especially in the central installation, my goal — with the help of light — was to engage the viewer. Large-scale artworks that use light have a special power to activate the viewer in ways that transcend traditional viewing. You don’t simply look at the work — you are inside it. Light fills the space, touches the body, affects vision, and often creates conditions that require physical movement and adjustment. It can influence mood (relaxation, tension, awe) and activate mechanisms of attention and perception — it makes the viewer observe actively rather than passively.

In your art, medicine becomes a symbol. What does it signify? What do you aim to communicate to the viewer?
In my art, medicine functions at times literally, at times symbolically, and at times as a vehicle for discussing various themes. It may represent its physical property (its medical, therapeutic use) or transcend it, acquiring cultural, social, and existential dimensions.
Medicine refers to the human need for healing — both physical and emotional — and the justified hope that this can be achieved today thanks to the impressive progress of science. Yet it can also allude to society’s dependence on chemical solutions or quick “fixes,” to the illusion of control — the belief that we can “correct” everything through science and technology. It can also be a vehicle for speaking about the futility and fragility of human existence, as medicine reminds us of the limits of the body and of life.
I do not use medicine merely as an object, but as a symbol of social commentary. I aim to prompt the viewer to reflect on overconsumption, psychological dependence, and the ways contemporary humans pursue “healing” through artificial means — to pose questions about the relationship between body and soul, natural and artificial, life and death. I also wish to communicate humanity’s anxiety in the face of decay, illness, and mortality, and the solutions we choose today — to ask what “healing” truly means: whether it is a substance, an action, or a deeper need for inner connection.
In short, medicine for me is no longer merely a substance; it is a symbol of the contemporary human condition, of the need for redemption, and of the alienation produced by consumerist and technological culture.

Your works appear, at first glance, at least, to echo the purity of modernist abstraction. Yet, despite their strict geometric structure, they remain vibrant and multilayered. How is this effect achieved?
The purity of modernist abstraction involves art’s attempt to focus on its own inherent means and values (such as color, surface, and form), rejecting representational or narrative elements in order to express the essence of painting itself.
It is true that I often use strict geometry as a starting point — geometric structures, frequently with repeated motifs, grids, squares — elements reminiscent of modernist abstraction, such as Mondrian, Constructivism, and Minimal Art. This structural discipline gives my works an architectural clarity and rhythm, an organization and formal order.
However, where I fundamentally diverge from strict modernist abstraction is in the materials: I use medicines and their packaging (recyclable or not) — everyday, industrial, and emotionally charged objects. My material is not neutral; it carries social, environmental, and emotional traces. Thus, geometry becomes a framework for content — the work gains life, depth, and meanings that go beyond pure form.
I also use light, transparency, and movement. Many of my works incorporate translucent materials (such as plastic blister packs or gelatin and cellulose capsules) and optical play. This visual fluidity breaks the static nature of geometry and creates an aesthetic vitality: light passes through, reflects, and shifts colors. The form “breathes” — it is not cold or closed, but open to transformation.
This creates a tension between structure and experience: on one side, form (order, organization, clarity), and on the other, material and content (life, decay, environment, consumerism). This duality gives the works emotional depth — they are multilayered, because although they appear abstract, they “speak” about humanity and its time.
One could say that I continue the dialogue with modernist abstraction, but I shift the focus: from the purity of form to the consciousness of content. Geometry is no longer “self-referential,” but a carrier of ecological and social reflection.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

Photo Credits: Christos Filippousis

The post Inside Peggy Kliafa’s Grid: Art, Medicine, and the Architecture of Care appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Nikos Moschos is a Greek visual artist who creates a world of fragmented bodies, hybrid forms and chaotic compositions that resonate with contemporary anxieties. His strikingly recognizable style merges technical precision with conceptual complexity. Central to Moschos’ style is the theme of fragmentation, that essentially reflects the instability of human identity in a world shaped by technological progress, ecological uncertainty and shifting values.

His style balances precision with chaos, tradition with innovation, terror with humor. In doing so, it speaks to the condition of contemporary life: unstable, hybrid, and perpetually in flux. His art, at once unsettling and captivating, transforms the canvas into a stage where the human, the mechanical, and the monumental meet in uneasy coexistence.

Nikos Moschos was born in 1979 in Heraklion, Crete. He studied at the Athens School of Fine Arts (1997-2003). He lives and works in Athens. He has held eleven solo exhibitions and has participated in group exhibitions both in Greece and abroad. He has created numerous artworks for book covers, CDs, films and magazines. His works have been acquired by numerous institutions and private collections in Greece and abroad.

In an interview with Greek News Agenda* Nikos Moschos reflects on the conditions of contemporary existence shaped by deconstruction and fragmentation and articulates a critical response to the accelerated transformations of the digital age.

Deconstruction, fragmentation, and compression dominate your work. To what extent does this perspective reflect your understanding of reality?

My work, and the mindset that shapes it, stems from a desire to trace and transform the stimuli I receive into allegories and symbols, whether familiar or entirely new. I belong to a generation that experienced the world before the total dominance of the internet, lived through its rapid transformation, and now exists in an era where the digital gazes at the tangible with a certain arrogance. This experience allows me to perceive, with clarity, the magnitude of the changes that have taken place. Through painting, I attempt to capture that very fluidity. The deconstruction, fragmentation, and compression evident in my compositions are not merely aesthetic choices; they are ways of approaching and expressing the condition of life as I perceive it.
We live simultaneously in two intersecting worlds, full of horizontal and vertical axes, between which reality flows: constantly shifting, full of tension and contradictions. Stability has almost vanished, and with it, the sense of unity — of the intact body, the coherent identity, the unbroken narrative.

Machines play a central role in your work. How do you perceive the role of technology in our lives?
It has become increasingly difficult to separate life from technology. In developed societies especially, technology has become inseparable from human existence, profoundly altering our spiritual and emotional intelligence.
We are now at a point where technological evolution no longer follows life but largely shapes it, imposing changes at a pace that exceeds our ability for genuine assimilation or critical reflection. Even to its most devoted advocates, the speed at which technology has invaded daily life can be described as rapid, even violent — forcing transformations that have deeply affected not only the individual’s inner composition but also our collective presence within society.
The mechanical and technological elements in my visual language do not represent progress. Instead, they serve as metaphors for a condition in which the human and the technological elements continuously merge, forming a hybrid entity stripped of empathy and trust — a being locked in an obsessive struggle to assert its dominance.

Distortion is a defining feature of your painting. What purpose does this choice serve? Ultimately, how significant is “beauty” in art?
Art creates parallel universes that operate according to their own codes. Depending on the spirit that animates it and the purpose it serves, each work develops its own syntax, one that ensures its internal coherence. Only then does a work truly come to life; that is where its real essence and value lie.
In my narrative, there is no intention to idealize. Yet through distortion, I do not aim to shock or escape “reality.” On the contrary, I use it as a way to approach it — or rather, to reach a deeper version of it.
“Beauty” is not my objective. I am not interested in creating something merely pleasing to the eye. If beauty emerges, it does so naturally, as part of the composition’s internal structure.
The pursuit of beauty has long created a rift between perceptible reality and art — especially today, when beauty is equated with the polished and digitally refined. This standardized culture extends beyond representations of the body and infiltrates everything: language, thought, aesthetics. Against this backdrop, I want to assert the human being — even the one hidden behind the standardized mask — who struggles, wrinkles, and aches beneath it, seeking inner wholeness. Art is not obliged to be pleasant or to conform to aesthetic norms. For me, what matters is authenticity: the expression of truth, even when it is uncomfortable.

Do you consider yourself a representative of figurative painting? What defines your visual language?
My work carries a strong sense of narrative. Most of its elements are recognizable, with clear references to form, human body, and space. In that sense, I could be described as a figurative painter. However, as far as I am concerned, figuration is not the final destination. I am not interested in realistic depiction or fidelity to visible reality. I use form as a storytelling tool, not as an end in itself. Through my compositions, I create worlds governed by their own internal laws — worlds in which reality bends, distorts, and constantly transforms.
The framework within which these figurative elements operate is often undefined or fluid, emerging organically from the emotional weight the work carries at its core. Many parts arise almost directly from the initial sketches I make around an idea. My ideas begin as abstract structures that weave themselves onto the canvas. Before painting, I analyze the basic shapes and axes through numerous preliminary drawings. The composition is built almost abstractly; recognizable forms are incorporated later, serving the narrative rather than dictating it.

Where do you see figurative painting today, in relation to other forms such as conceptual art, abstraction, video art, or installation?
In recent years, painting, figurative painting in particular, has made a strong comeback, reclaiming space even in arenas that were once less receptive. This trend is especially visible through social media.
Initially, its resurgence was driven by economic motivations and market demand. Yet today, its impact has fostered a new dynamic:  many artists have opened new paths, not only in figurative but also in non-representational art, breaking traditional boundaries and creating fascinating hybrids.
Beyond the commercial aspect, I believe we are living in a time when all forms of art coexist on equal footing. They complement and often merge within one another, dissolving long-standing divisions. As a result, many contemporary artists are experimenting across multiple media, expressing their vision in an increasingly layered, holistic, and multidimensional way.

What sparks your artistic creation, and when do you consider a work complete?
Painting, both as an act and a mode of thinking, has been central to my life from an early age. I spend most of my day in the studio, and often my mind remains there even when I’m away — transforming thoughts, memories, or subtle emotional states into images on the canvas.
This creates a constant flow of associations, where one thought leads to another. As a result, it’s almost impossible to pinpoint the exact moment a work is conceived. The common notion of inspiration as a sudden “big bang” in the mind does not fully capture the process; rather, it is part of a longer, ongoing sequence of reflection and incubation.Equally elusive is the question of when a work is finished. I know a piece is complete when I feel a sense of inner silence before it—when it has achieved coherence and a life of its own, and there is nothing more to add. At that moment, it “stands” independently.

Today, many works follow the aesthetics of the hyper-image: filtered, “clean,” digitally constructed with striking precision, often fully realized on the artist’s screen before the painting even begins. In such cases, the work is essentially complete before the physical act of painting. Certain traditions, such as Byzantine painting, as well as other expressive media, also require a predetermined method of completion for the work to function.Personally, I never see my work as truly “finished.” It remains open—an invitation for the viewer to continue engaging with it in their own way.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

Photo Credits: Christos Simatos

The post Nikos Moschos on his Fragmented Realities appeared first on Greek News Agenda.

Moving fluidly between figuration and abstraction, Juliano Kaglis canvases inhabit a liminal space where the visible world dissolves into something deeper — a poetic, often metaphysical undercurrent that invites contemplation.  His work hovers in the charged space between the visible and the invisible, crafting images that seem to emerge slowly from mist, shadow, and the inner light of memory. His recent exhibition, Deception, brings this tension sharply into focus, revealing an artist who believes deeply in the emotional power of illusion.

Kaglis work carries echoes of Moralis, Tetsis, and Milios, yet it resists imitation. Instead, he approaches the past as a living source of inquiry that guides him toward reinvention. In his canvases, figures drift between worlds, seascapes dissolve into abstractions, and light appears as if excavated from darkness. His evolution over the years has been marked by a persistent refusal to become predictable. Each series becomes an act of recalibration, an invitation to move deeper into the unknown territories of form, gesture, and perception.

As distinguished art critic Takis Mavrotas insightfully observes, throughout his artistic journey, Kaglis “persistently and consistently explores new aesthetic adventures of line and color, keeping his gaze fixed between earth and sky, between desire and dream. For him, life is a path toward the unknown and the infinite.”

Juliano Kaglis was born in Athens in 1974. He studied painting at the Athens School of Fine Arts under Triantafyllos Patraskidis and Martinos Gavathas, and engraving under Giorgos Milios (1996–2002). In 2003, he was awarded a scholarship by the State Scholarships Foundation and in 2013, he received the Young Painter Award from the Academy of Athens. He has presented twelve solo exhibitions in Greece and abroad and has participated in numerous group exhibitions. His works are held in major public and private collections.

In an interview with Greek News Agenda*, Juliano Kaglis reflects on his ongoing exploration of painting as a perceptual and poetic experience, the interplay between illusion and truth, and the subtle ways in which painting can reveal what lies beneath the surface of the visible world.

In your painting, figuration and abstraction coexist. What purpose does each serve, and how do you achieve a balance between them?

Figuration is life—the “objective” part of the world where our shared experiences meet. That’s where I begin, establishing common ground with the viewer. From what we know, I move toward what even I do not yet know: abstraction, the realm of poetry and the unknown.

I am not interested in a theoretical or formal dialogue between the two. The balance emerges through the process itself. Instinct guides me, and the work undergoes numerous transformations until that fragile equilibrium appears.

How does your creative process unfold? Where do your subjects come from?

The process is slightly different each time—partly so I do not get bored, and partly because each subject has its own demands. Some themes haunt me, and I return to them in new variations. Often, a fleeting moment in life suddenly reveals its poetic dimension. That is when the desire arises to extend it into infinity, to “freeze” it forever.

Anything can become a starting point: a nighttime walk in the park, an aquarium, a violent storm. But that is only the beginning—an elusive idea, essentially almost nothing—until the work becomes something real. That is where the heart of painting lies.

When do you consider a work complete?

Many times, I tell myself, “It’s finished,” but a few days later I look at it with calm and clarity and see that something is not working. Then I return to it, rework it… and begin again. Often, I need to leave it for weeks or even months to gain the distance required to understand what the work itself is asking for.

In the early stages, there is a freshness in the gesture, an initial charm, but one must dare to “ruin” it in order to move forward, to go deeper. In truth, a work never really ends. There simply comes a moment when you decide to let it go, aware of both your own limits and those of your materials.

What elements would you say define your art?

A painter is always emotionally entangled with their work, so they are not necessarily the best person to judge what they have achieved or meant to express. The work exists for the viewer.

In simple terms, I am interested in beginning with the visible, with realism, and gradually letting the work guide me elsewhere. I am drawn to moments that seem familiar but conceal something beneath the surface.

For me, painting is a transition—from observation toward a more poetic, almost metaphysical sensation. If a work does not ultimately possess a certain magic, I am not interested.

How easy is it for an artist to balance a recognizable identity with experimentation?

Identity is not something one should pursue. Trying to establish a style can feel contrived. We do not invent our handwriting; we do not think about it—we simply write. And that is what makes it unique. I have never sought to be recognizable. My goal has always been to make a good painting, as I understand it. Since I am the one making it, it will inevitably reflect my own vision of the world.

Experimentation for its own sake does not interest me; it has value only if it leads somewhere. I show the viewer what I discovered while painting. Why would I show them my experiments? My intentions are secondary—in art, what matters is the final work, the distilled essence.

*Interview by Dora Trogadi

Featured photo credits Xaviera Kouvara

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