Opera Singing...

Around this time of year I get a very strong longing for the Greek sea. I know it's not before too long that I will be seeing it again, but that fact makes the longing even stronger. When I think of the sea there are different things that come to my mind, the sea itself, but also the things I could be doing around the sea. I think of painting landscapes on an island, of swimming, of fishing, of being on a big boat, of snorkeling, of looking on the beach and very prominently, a difficult to describe sense of the sea, I guess mainly its smell and feel and the whole atmosphere surrounding it. All these notions are mixed up in my mind, creating a sense of the sea that does not really exist in that way, an amalgamation of my best sensations and memories of it, spreading through the years and mixed from different places and from different islands. The sense of the sea grows deeper for me each year, more experiences and memories adding to it, so that it seems that eventually the longing for it will become unbearable.

Painting on an island is a very strong part of this longing. Many times I have visited an island having decided not to do any painting at all and just have a quiet break and do some fishing. But before long the urge becomes too strong and I find myself looking desperately for any kind of materials to buy and borrow so I can start painting. It has become such an integral part of being near the sea, on an island, that I can hardly consider painting alone, without thinking at the same time of the sea. That has caused me a series of problems. When I paint on an island, I paint from direct observation and the "act" of painting becomes a very complex experience. I have to arrange the equipment in advance making sure the final bundles are not too heavy, but still include plenty of drinking water. Then I have to start relatively early before it gets too hot. I need to walk quite a distance and occasionally climb to get to the spot I want to. Then I need to make sure I do not get carried away and spend too much time in the sun or sit at the same spot for too long and hurt my back. Then the whole practical issues of getting back again without destroying the painting on the way and maybe stopping for a swim as well. Memories of days are mixed up with painting, swimming, sweat and bush scratches, exhaustion and a deep feeling of achievement. Even when the painting is no good.

This experience of panting is very hard to recreate anywhere else. Moreover, after starting to work from direct observation as a kid, I realised that the paintings I did that way were much better than the ones I did from photographs at home. So painting now in my mind is strangely connected with the sea, with direct observation and with "direct marks", meaning applying paint with brushes on a surface (for more on that see the post Direct and Indirect Marks). Because of this, painting at home away from the sea means that I often use "indirect marks" and work with collages and other techniques, avoiding to paint anything from a photograph using paints and brushes. This obscure situation is very comical and I often break this silly state of affairs by indulging in some photograph painting from the comforts of the house.

When I was a kid, an opera singer used to live in the same block of flats as we did. His name was George Pappas and we often heard him practicing. We even got tickets to see him sing twice and I think those performances were the start of my love for Opera. But before that, when I was really young, my uncle used to come and pick me up in his red van to drive me to my cousins' place for Christmas. We often got stuck in traffic and my uncle used to put on Opera cassettes for us to hear. He always put Rigoletto, L'elisir d'Amore and the Barber of Seville. And then he told me that he was singing in them. That he was an Opera singer and the voice on the cassette was actually him singing. And I believed him. He talked about his performances and his travels and how he could not sing for me as he had to preserve his voice for his next performance. I was in absolute amazement that I had an uncle who was an Opera singer!

When I grew up a bit, I asked my father about it and about getting tickets to see him singing. My father laughed and laughed and said my uncle could not sing to save his soul! He had no rhythm at all and he had been pulling my leg all this time. I remember that instead of being angry or disappointed I was quite intrigued that my uncle had made such an effort to convince me of his Opera singing abilities. So from that point onward, I continued to pretend that I believed my uncle was an Opera singer when we were in the van and he kept on putting an act on, and we listened and listened to the cassettes of Opera years after years, making it a joke and a game between us.

These following paintings of the Jubilee Boat Parade are done from photographs, taken from the television screen, with acrylic paint, on boards. They are the complete antithesis of what I consider a genuine painting experience for me personally. They were done in the night, with poor light, on the living room floor. However, there was a secret indulgence involved when painting them, reminding me a bit of how I enjoyed listening to the Opera in my uncle's van, even when knowing that it was not him singing. It is the satisfaction of being able to essentially enjoy the act of painting itself, cut away from my own set conceptions surrounding it. And of retrieving this enjoyment in the most unlikely for myself circumstances, in the most unorthodox for me fashion.

In memory of George Pappas (1938-2012)