on the loneliness of Giannoulis Chalepas
I received the invitation from EKPLOU: we are going back to Tinos to come to an agreement about the obvious, to look for a new wording for what we unanimously declare in a cliché: Chalepas is big. Yes, but why?… in order to go near the true dimension of that unique artist, who remains, even today, “dramatically impossible to classify in international art, but also embarrassingly undetermined amidst our native creation”.
Let’s go back to Tinos, then, to breathe the obvious. The aura he himself breathes and the relief of the land, which even today somehow lives on, treasured in shells, gazing at the winds and the times which rage all around.
It is a blessing to understand the great art. It is neither obvious nor an acquired fact. It is hard to come by and even harder to conquer. If you feel his majesty, do not worry about Giannoulis Chalepas. Maybe the ones who should worry are those who do not share the spirit he definitely embedded into clay and stone, impartial witness and judge of Man. If you can hear the whisper sung by his work, then do not wonder why his name is not to be found in international bibliography. And do not be sorry that he should remain unclassifiable and alone. Bewilderment rescues our intelligence from banality.
The problem lies in the classification and the easiness found in the definition. That stigma of the unregistered, which attracts us continuously to him, but which does not hold in any corner of our minds, most of the times wanders somewhere else, in a place where one is locked out, where words find it difficult to express things, one just feels them and it is enough that they should make one’s soul rejoice and enlighten us with their invaluable and irreplaceable touch. Indefinition subverts like a miracle the power of any definition. The indefinite is always more open and spacious.
Man’s capability to dream is unique. Isn’t it enough therefore for one to understand in such an indefinite miraculous way that Chalepas is «big»? What else does one need to enjoy greatness other than to value the fact of acknowledging that in him? Dumbfounded of course, otherwise how else would one be able to react, in the face of whichever grand work of Man, of his art or of a miracle?
When one feels greatness one is indifferent as to reasons. Neither does one wonder about the motifs of greatness, as long as one is part of it. One lets oneself go. When it does not exist any more or when enthusiasm and the emotion the discovery of truth inside the work raises in us are no longer enough, we overcome it in order to make its meaning intelligible with causes and reasons. When the form is no longer self explaining, we search for the meaning in its substance. But art is its spirit bearer and that otherwise indescribable form is the substance of the work of art. It is thanks to the form that the spirit shines inside the work. And while the spirit remains inside the work it can be Art. As to the when and why and if and how one needs it, it is another matter.
When one interprets greatness or the wonderful, one tries to go beyond the thrill of love, beyond the wonder of admiration. Insatiable for explanations and future, man drops, to a certain extent, his admiration and he gets lost in another abysmal bewitchment, the introspective and extroverted fascination of analysis, speeches, criteria and opinions, Pindar’s dispute over deception, which in the end will still leave him in yet the same obscurity and lacking for light.
Far away from the work itself by then and their mystic understanding, when it opened ajar allowing him to see beyond that other world, if ever such a moment was given him. The work of art is always ready to be loved, criticised, recognised or despised nationally or internationally and, in that same moment, totally indifferent to all that and miles away from there. The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going… and if the work does not carry the spirit, what is the use of it? What will it grab you with? With decorations or with theories? If it is not able to carry one by itself, it is not any international glory or pedestal where powers stick it which will add to it. That applies to others and celebrates other kind of praise.
The light of publicity obscures everything. The biggest challenge lies in our having our own conviction in our judgement as to what is good and essential. As to what each and every time relates to us and rallies us. And most important of all, the prime and first good atop of all things, life itself, unclassified as it is given us and which each time embarrassingly catches us in indefinition.
And the wild flowers disorderly pointing amongst garbage and stones, tender leaves and prickles, muck and mud, bloom and embalm the air and the land opens up together with the spirit each spring. Together with the unborn and the dead art makes amends with the light and our mind breathes, insofar as one stands face to oneself, searching for a face in the darkness, that is to say, standing in the middle of the universe.
In the neoclassical entourage of his time, Chalepas remained his own self like the classical ones. He saw them, angels, gods and saints, folk people and shepherdesses. Land and time, universes. From older days, he participates in all traditions indiscriminately, he sees ancient times around him, he carried tragedy, inhabits it, lives it and prays to be delivered from it, blind Oedipus creating light. Inspired and lonely.
Piraeus, Monday, 31st May 2004, Holy Spirit’s Day.