The Greek Harbours.
With "The Greek Harbours" Dimitris Talianis discovers a gate. By passing through it, he will not promise beauty, but truth. Truth, not justice. His obsession with the coupling of light with the breath of things, which has already been imprinted on his lens for three decades, shows worlds that collide, countries that are at sea or are lost, hands that are bleeding, suns that paint the joints red. The color (like a word that slips away from the deed), the moorings (like punctuation marks in a manuscript whose symbols we ignore), the inorganic hulls (always untraveled, even if they scratch the skin of the sea), the ropes (like the ropes used by some ancient explorer, lost in deep, dark forests) hide the obvious, leaving small surfaces of demonic light to surprise the celebrants of a black wedding. Land-based slavery, coastal magic and seafaring truth meet in "Ports". This age of iron, tested on the Greek horizon, matures tenderly with the journey it promises. The best way for Greece to welcome you is through the sea, that is, the ports. The ports, that is, the people. The wide, brightly painted surfaces of the ships that clash with the different hours of approach: light-dark at sunrise, bright light on the sides of the buildings when you excel, the soft residue of a natural dough on winter noons, the guileless and wild white light of summer fragrance, the vapors of fog or heatwave at noon, the scorched borders of the horizon at sunset.