Apostolos Georgiou. The Same Old Fucking Story

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It is always sunny in Athens, so sunny you do not see the sun. So blindingly sunny you forget about the light. The colours are moody, moodier than before, because these days are; the world is, the country is grey, tending towards a heroic darkness.

Regardless though, the people are still there, doing and undoing, trapped in their daily roles impossible to escape them; celebrations, exchanges, births, interactions. There is something remarkable about humans that makes them forget so fast, switch from the one condition to the other as if nothing ever happened. Trapped in their own reality; throw the newspaper on the floor, jump in the car zoom down the highway through the horror, dismiss it and enter the bar. Engaging with the everyday can be so unreal in this fucking landscape. They swear a lot over there; someone said the other day that swearing is a sign of high intelligence. Possibly. Though it might as well be one more pleasure.

Paranoia soaked in corruption sensed with romance-and its failures.

The work of Apostolos Georgiou is universally endemic. It is not about there though it comes from there. It is not about these people. Placed in airless architectures, one can say stages, filtered through and through, dimmed down to a rough reality. Flowers are flowers and a candle is a candle is a candle. Exhausted and seemingly decent, trapped affairs having hit the dead end, there is an undercurrent of rotten optimism. The one that makes one want to throw the newspaper on the floor, jump in the car and zoom down the highway arrive at the bar and all over again.