The painting of Andreas Georgiadis narrates stories from the depths: worlds that have escaped the night of oblivion, invisible landscapes briefly revealed as dreams, precious images corroded by the winds of their time, memories—like islands—whose fragments survived through an Odyssean inner journey. Over the years, mastering his use of ink—a medium he has now wholly made his own—Andreas Georgiadis creates a poetics whose lyricism, though apparent, is far from safe. Decay, moisture, absence, and escape become sharp facets of this poetics, capable of safeguarding its core demand: the quest for another light, another sea beyond the horizon, another world that slips from dream to memory.
I am deeply moved by Andreas’ ink work. Its mythology and fragility, the incredible journey of black’s dispersion, the ability to extract from the night its before or after, the bold use of halftones and their shades, and the deliberate omission of color—especially in an era inundated with the worship of images and their overwhelming bursts of color. I loved them from the very first moment I encountered them, when the painter was beginning to wrestle with his medium and build his art. They reminded me of haiku poetry—that challenging form where economy contends with metaphor, and an entire world is captured in just three lines. Though the task may seem like a straightforward technical exercise, success or failure ultimately hinges on the quality of the aim. I’ve always delighted in this battle within his works. The target, though unseen, was always palpably present: the inner landscape of the artist persistently seeking to form itself on paper or canvas, often guiding its own paths independent of its creator. It refused shortcuts or conveniences. It was an urgent need that demanded only time to be transferred. When the goal finally claimed its ground and made it its home, it built its mythology—the essential obsessions and devotions required for artistic expression to reach the point where the creator is consumed by their work, disappearing into it to live another solitary life through their creation.
The journey of memory—or perhaps the memory of the journey—described here by Andreas Georgiadis resonates with us for precisely this reason: it is so private, so solitary, so distinct that it powerfully encompasses us all.
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