Painting exhibition by Alexandros Androulakis
and presentation of his book
“The Sheikh’s Pots”
with paradoxical… yet expected short stories.
and presentation of his book
“The Sheikh’s Pots”with paradoxical… yet expected short stories.
What does a painter do when he loses his colors and the whole world turns gray?
Why, of course, he goes to the Wise Wizard of the mountain for help.What did he go through from then on, until he found them again and presented them before a colorful and beautiful audience?
And what does a writer do when the Evil Wizard of Frustration casts a spell on the City of Words and he cannot string together — not a story — but not even a single word?
And finally… what happens when this writer is the same person as the painter?©︎ ALEXANDROS ANDROULAKIS
I was born unknowingly two months after May ’68. I was raised in the Greece of dust, mud, strong sun, incense, and saltiness. I was educated with Mimi’s apple, Paris’s apple, Eve’s apple, the apple that keeps the doctor away, and the apple juice they distributed in large tins. I was also educated, however, with the teacher’s slap, the father’s slap, and the caress of dreams. My main comfort was the lilacs of Holy Week, colored pencils, and July (Verne).
I was born unknowingly two months after May ’68. I was raised in the Greece of dust, mud, strong sun, incense, and saltiness. I was educated with Mimi’s apple, Paris’s apple, Eve’s apple, the apple that keeps the doctor away, and the apple juice they distributed in large tins. I was also educated, however, with the teacher’s slap, the father’s slap, and the caress of dreams. My main comfort was the lilacs of Holy Week, colored pencils, and July (Verne).
I got to know painting at a young age, but I married it late in life. I also got to know poetry at a young age, when, in fourth grade, I wrote a fifteen-syllable poem about Athanasios Diakos, and when I proudly showed it to my teacher Skarlis, he yelled: “Are you writing such nonsense instead of studying your lessons?” and demonstratively tore the page with the only copy. I took my tin of apple juice that they distributed, and I was what they call “happy in the evening and sh*t in the morning.” Of course, I didn’t say anything at home, because I had some objections regarding my father’s upbringing.
Good times!
I studied Physics and Philosophy, but not in depth!
Since then, I have definitively separated art from science.
I have left traces in people’s hearts, in taverns, traditional eateries, raki bars, bars, and university halls. In the latter, I have also left indelible cheat sheets with equations, laws of physics, and chemical formulas, as a legacy for future generations of copycats. Some Platos, Aristotles, and Descartes said so much that it couldn’t fit on a cheat sheet. With them, future generations of copycats will have a hard time.
I constantly leave traces, so that those who seek me can find me. And there are many. Most pass right by me. I don’t understand, however, why they don’t see me.
And I keep leaving marks. Especially these blank pages have endured a lot from me: verses, scattered ideas, serious, funny, silly, clever, happy or sad or very sad, pencil drawings, etc., etc. I do whatever I can for them to find me.
Nothing, though.
Both God and the devil are looking elsewhere.
The video is below: