Have you ever cooked fairy tales?
I have.
I’ve mixed them, I’ve stirred them, and I’ve baked them and served them to my children as a brand new yarn.
When I was little, I grew up with a big collection of fairy tales in our family's built-in library wall. From Aesop, Lafontaine, Grimm Brothers, Hans Christian Andresen, Alexander Pushkin and Ran Bosilek… And then comes the whole Pleiades of Bulgarian folklore tales.
Hoary and scrawny like a baccalà, the toothless widowed neighbour Toula was peeping behind the grape vines, shaking her head in big disapproval and stringing expletives like a necklace of thunders and curses through her missing teeth “Strumpet! Bloody Strumpet! May you never see a clear day, you night harlot!”
Melina was not paying attention to the hissing cusses of her neighbour, nor she could hear her. She was on the rooftop hanging on the washing line her new filigree lingerie and the fresh octopus. She got it as a present from Stavros, one of the fishermen at the sea dock who was visiting her every so often on his free nights. He was a regular client, but she rarely charged him. Sometimes she will see him gratis just for keeping her company and for sharing a meal. Sometimes, when he just pisses off to the nearest harbors, to the nearest towns’ pubs, and to the other women’s bosoms, she would just wish him dead.
It was the Gypsy Summer of 1988 –
Tracy Chapman was talking about revolution; for about a year Nina Simone has been wayfaring through MTV charts as a play-doh sultry cat; the whole Wimbledon stadium and the rest of the world were chanting “Free Nelson Mandela!” and we were still perplexed for four consecutive years how Madonna managed to be "like a virgin"…
Edessa is a small picturesque town not far from Thessaloniki, in the heart of the green Northern Greece.
I first visited Edessa when I was 8 years old, 41 years ago. In my fading tunnel of memories, the mosaic of recollections about this place is like shining light...
I always believed and preached how much is important to visualize when creating my photography work. But it all goes to shattered pieces like porcelain plates on a Greek dancing floor when it involves my girls and some of the distinguished members of our backyard feathered upper class...
Calmly, with a careless wave of her hand, she stretched down on the daybed. This day was planned for nothing –
The last few years I have been moved to tears on many occasions by the surprising presents from friends that live far and that I haven’t seen for many years or we’ve never met in person. Their gesture was even more touching because it was unexpected and so much thoughtful. I also embraced my friends with loving presents and I honestly hope they loved them.
Thinking gratefully of these gifts, a smile started to sneak on my face, as I realised more and more how our way of showing appreciation, friendship and love resembles the classic short story by O. Henry “The Gift of the Magi”. We are approaching Christmas and now I wish to share with you the stories of gifts from my friends from far and away, from people I knew from long ago and people I only know from recently and I never met… As I have discovered, a “friend” is a very long-drawn-out concept and always demands the presence of care and compassion.
Finding friends and like-minded people is something we wish for every day, but not something we can plan. And when it happens, we know it is the real thing.
Fragrance.
Gentle fragrance.
And nearly impossible to describe, delicate sweet scent, that can draw in people and insect…
Moonlight was streaming through the open window and the hoary gramophone's horn was howling at it. The record was wobbling on the misbalanced turntable and made the pin jump, skip a beat and screech when landing on the disk again...
“Sweetheart, my optometrist called, the glasses are ready to be picked up. Can you please go and get them?” was the short message from my husband. And that would’ve been the end of this story.
I have only sensations beyond the written word when holding a ripe fruit of quince.
Today I invite you to be my co-writer and let’s dive into this imagery story.
My dear friends and you, occasional visitors, that might’ve wondered here lost and with no aim, I have a confession to make.
I’ve sinned...
The days at the freight station had no beginning and never ended. The shifts and movements were simple – “arriving” and “leaving”.
As today I was crying over my badly crashed MacBook, marking quietly the 87th birthday my Dad would've have, I received a press release from the International Photography Awards competition (IPA), Los Angeles...
He wasn't making much effort to undress her – the cashmere coat slipped down swiftly on its own. "Whoosh", the silky lining made a whooshy whisper as it dropped on the floor.
