During my summers in Athens, painting becomes almost unbearable. Colors shift and melt, nothing dries, and my focus slips away. The heat is overwhelming. People are louder, and hurried, and I find myself increasingly annoyed. I accomplish very little. Yet, there’s something primal that surfaces in all my warm landscapes—a slow-moving, wandering presence. The sharpness fades, everything blurs, and the air is so heavy with scent. It’s slow.

Through my practice, I always try to ground myself: not too many colors, easy on the details, and where can the eye rest? The heat takes care of that; it gives room for calmness, and harmony emerges unwillingly.