How my birth land made me a painter
My grandfather, God forbid, was a tourist bus driver in Crete. Almost every day, during the endless summers, we threshed in ancient places, in Byzantine churches and Venetian fortresses. The rest of the time I spent it in a rural village in the middle of Crete. There, we wandered during the hot afternoons, barefoot on the rivers and glades among goats and halflings, in the olive groves and vines, hunting birds on plane trees and cypresses, half-naked, drinking water from wells and stagnant springs, warm from the summer heat. At sunset we had to bring the animals back. And from the dullness of women we remained dumb. The light of things melted, leaving a mark so strong that I could not erase it. And I could not leave Arcadia…