By Apostolis Artinos
There comes a time when the
dark dates start thickening around us, a series of events which overwhelm and
devastate us. A veil of grief takes its toll and our life becomes unbearable.
We then turn into seemingly dead beings, clinically going about our everyday
rituals, begrudgingly dragging our feet until that slow day comes to an end.
Lizzie Calligas recently found
herself bound by a similar series of daisy-chained events. The fire that burned
down her house on the island of Spetses—and with it part of her artwork—coupled
with a number of family incidents and the powerlessness that comes with age,
added weight to the burden of the every day which saw her seized by an
indisposition to life. This is how the days went by…Until, on one of those
difficult mornings Lizzie found her gaze lingering on a vase of flowers picked
the previous day on her walk with Coco: a glass vase, with its transparency and
reflections, standing next to the reception’s window. And that was it! Lizzie
grabbed the cardboard box next to her containing Coco’s biscuits,
cut off one of its sides, and started drawing the vase using a biro pen. Her
mood transformed instantly as the day regained a sense of strong possibility.
Each of us find their own way
to hold on to life and Lizzie found hers: Every morning she would draw the
vase, with the same or different flowers, onto the same cardboard surface… The
results of this 'here goes nothing' effort was a series of small-scale works,
which inspired by their shape Lizzie titled “bookmarks”. With them was also
born a strong desire to gift them to friends. For Lizzie, the bookmarks became
an address, a signalling gesture, an act of giving which in time—the bookmarks’
own time—would exchange hands. The period of their making however also marks
the departure of some of Lizzie’s nearest are dearest, to-be recipients of the
bookmarks, which Lizzie now ends up keeping; she will deliver these herself, in
her own secret time, in their final and only meeting.
During hardship Lizzie acted
instinctively, in accordance with her inner demons. After all, it is at this
moment that the Genius governing our life from birth to the moment of ultimate
resignation, takes action; precisely at this moment of our ultimate fall. Artists
know this—they are at least amongst those who know—it is a sort of destiny. Our
calling is our inner demon, our deepest being, and when we surrender ourselves
to this deeper self, not quite a customized self, we also experience an
ineffable joy, a secret pleasure. When Lizzie says that the “bookmarks” are not
her “works”, it is this deeper voice speaking within her. The demon, as Agamben
says, is in no need of our work, it precedes it.
Art is a means to illuminate the darkness. The wound needs to be articulated, worshiped even according to Kristeva. This is the gift of transformation undertaken by the ephemeral environment of our lives, returned to us in its eternal glory, and suddenly all that surrounds us become imaginary objects, precious, real consolations, and only these…
Translation in English by Irini
Bachlitzanaki