There is no other place in Chios where history has left its deep marks, than the region of Kampos, a place that nowadays levitates between its rich history and its present dull reality. Fate, however, has shown avenging fury on Kampos, perhaps because this splendour and exaggeration are not consistent with human suffering, or because decline is the natural consequence of every man-made conquest. For three years I wandered around most places of Kampos, I went into abandoned mansions, in neglected courtyards, in restored houses, I wandered in narrow streets, in countless orchards, I encountered people living there and recorded their narratives
The past in Kampos is not a petrified frame of reference but a transforming force that acts in the present, dilating it, allowing time to get into its cracks. In Kampos, the past seems to impinge upon the present, spreading various fragments that diffuse into space, mingle with the earth in the orchards and the affairs of the people. The inhabitants of Kampos live in a world that extends beyond the boundaries of their geographical location: they live in their memories, in the shady images of the past, in a deceptive utopia.
Mostly I look for the remnants of an era, the footprints left behind by the mingling of the past with the present. The more I observe these admixtures, these fragments of memory in space, the more the boundaries between real time and fantastic time, between comic and tragic become more permeable. I insist on focusing on ephemeral things that turn off as I surpass them: an encounter, a fleeting look, a temporary impression affect me more than the echoes of history. I am walking back and forth to the same places looking for those fine threads that connect me with my own memories. The more I know a place, the more enigmatic it becomes, as if memory, like a shy creature of the forest, is lost in its foliage as you get closer.