ManosWasHere

When in Capri : Winding roads and cool vibes

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Wed, 01 May 2024 06:26:54 +0000

From where he lay he had been able to see those two great rocks called the Faraglioni. Perhaps he died of the beauty of that sight...

-W. Somerset Maugham. The Lotus Eater.

Τiberius had one hell of a view.

His rare guests at Villa Jovis up in Capri appreciated it too unless some instructed hand unexpectedly gave them a little push towards the magnificent cliffs and the emerald sea 300 metres below. But then again Tiberius was a sombre, misanthropic dude. Yet a stylish one. He built his magnificent villa to live as a hermit and govern his empire remotely from this little gem of an island.

Standing in front of this very view, I’m suspiciously looking around, but there’s no one to see, let alone push me to my demise. I didn’t even pay for the ticket to Tiberius’ villa’s grounds. The entrance booth was abandoned in a typical Caprese take-it-easy fashion. Music was playing from a little radio on an old chair. I’m roaming through the quiet, vast Roman villa, admiring the view to the Bay of Naples, Vesuvius, the Sorrento peninsula, and the countless boats dragging their white foam tails through the deep blue sea like meteorites.

It’s June and Capri is already packed, or so it seems during the day. But none of the buzz is felt around this bit of the island. It takes quite some walking to get here. Proper, straight-up walking, mostly uphill. No cars, no bikes, no buses, no speedboats. None of the little comforts one enjoys in other parts of the island. But what a walk that is! 45 minutes of immaculate gardens, stunning homes, subtropical plants, and rare breeds of cats. Even the names of the roads sound magical. Via Longarno, Via Sopramonte, Via Tiberius.

On my way back to the centre of the Caprese universe, the Piazzetta, dusk drizzles upon me. The blue hour is the gateway to another facet of the island altogether. Gone are the hordes of day-trippers from Naples and Sorrento, gone is the mid-day heat and the scorching sun. Golden-hued lights are on, and perfumes fill the air mixed with notions of apres-soleil lotions and expensive cigars. Restaurants are filling up, white trousers, linen jackets and silk scarves are lining up for gelato, blazers and cocktail dresses are sipping their Negronis and their long drinks at the veranda of the Grand Hotel Quisisana.

But even these glamorous sightings can’t keep me here. I’ve had a long day, my trainers are dusty and my backpack seems to weigh much more than it actually does. Yet, I have a bit of a drive ahead to get to my hotel high in Anacapri, the upper Capri so to speak, where my well-experienced friends advised me to stay.

I head to my scooter, the only decent means of transportation for a curious tourist with a camera on an island with a serious parking problem. I tried to rent a Vespa earlier, to feel a bit more like a proper Paparazzo, but to no avail. All rented out. So I make do with a little machine of questionable mechanics that makes strange noises when braking. Still, fun is to be had. The winding road climbing up the forested slopes offers heart-stopping views and scary encounters with countless busses and taxis, carrying phone-holding tourists trying to grab the perfect Instagram story.

Anacapri, the upper part of the island remains significantly quieter and far more casual. People are strolling through the warmly lit, cobbled-stoned streets, small shops and bars, pretty much the same way W. Somerset Maugham or Maxim Gorky would have done in their day.

Capri’s charm has always tickled the interest of the most diverse and controversial people. The Greeks were here, as were the Phoenicians, then later the Romans and their Emperors. The small island, part exile, part paradise has always offered seclusion and privacy. Scandals were hushed, sexual preferences were tolerated or just ignored and eccentrics were very much welcomed.

One Marchesa Luisa Casati is even said to have dyed her dogs according to her stylish outfits, and Curzio Malaparte, the fachist-turned-maoist esthète built his notoriously inaccessible pompeian-red villa on a rock close to the Faraglioni.

My initial plan is to visit it (an old dream of mine), but I learn it’s not open to the public. So, early next morning I decide to go for a swim at the Marina Picolla, more specifically to the Bagni Internationali, a popular and somehow vintage-posh establishment by the water. My disreputable scooter is not allowed to park there ( not because it’s disreputable, but because nothing on wheels is allowed to park) but it’s really early and since only a bunch of people are around the very kind man at the entrance agrees to let me park for "solo venti minuti signore, per favore". Italians and Greeks have a way of cooperating.

The landscape is wonderful, the sea calm and mellow. I dip in quickly along with some old-fashioned Capresi who smile reassuringly.

On my way back up, my Italian friend at the entrance waves to me to hurry up and as I’m starting the scooter I see the first busses driving down.

The road is absolutely stunning, the villas are magnificent. Little Fiats in old-fashioned colours are parked in front of them. Flashy cars are not welcome here. Even the taxis are either vintage convertibles of humble descent or topless minivans.

Later, I’m heading to Villa San Michele.

As opposed to Tiberius, Mr. Axel Munthe who built it, was a man of the world. A famous doctor of rich and poor ( including the homeless of Naples and his compatriot, the Queen of Sweden) he fell in love with the little chapel of San Michele and years later bought the land around it and built this wonderfully relaxing place.

Surprisingly I have it to myself. No queues, no crowds. Fine with me! It takes a while to run through the wonderful, eclectic villa, enjoy the artefacts and the gardens and grab a coffee. Then a group of people arrives. It’s noon and the day-trippers are commandeering the island.

The crowds are thickening in Anacapri. I cunningly escape to the absolute top of the isle, the Monte Solaro.

The chair lift that leads there is around the corner. A queue has formed but it’s moving fast. In front of me, a family can’t decide who’s going first. Dad is bored. Mom’s scared. The sons can’t wait. So can’t I.

As my chair is smoothly pulled up to the peak, the geography of Capri becomes apparent. So does the whole of the region. The Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles. Ischia to the northwest seems a swim away. Vesuvius to the north is threatening Naples. I wonder how the Capresi experienced its devastating eruption of 79 A.D. or even the last one in 1944.

Towards the south, the Punta Carena lighthouse marks the end of the island. And my last stop for the day.

The sunset there is supposed to be gorgeous. So, I’m back onto the lift and down the mountain.

Anacapri is busy now. Shops offer loose, light-coloured, linen clothing for the style-conscious and (what else?) capri-trousers in all sorts of fabrics and patterns. I grab a sfogliatella to top up on energy, visit quickly the wonderful Chiesa san Michele (not the chapel by the villa, that’s a different one) with the magnificent majolica floor and I head to my trusted scooter to drive around a bit before heading to the Punta.

I arrive just in time for an apperitivo.

There's a lovely canteen-style beach house on the rocky shore. A colourful crowd has gathered. I wish I had come earlier for a quick afternoon swim.

The water is incredibly blue. The sky is golden. “Appuntamento” by Ornella Vanoni is coming through the bar’s speakers. I expect to see Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni arriving, sunglasses on. But they don’t. Some happy young people in straw hats and white linen shirts do.

The sun is setting through my Aperol.

Early the next morning I check out, drop off my trusted scooter in Anacapri and climb down the over 900 Phoenician steps to the Marina Grande to grab my ship to Sorrento. Apparently, it’s easier to climb up than down because of the large steps, but I won’t find out this time. Going down only.

The air is still cool and there’s no one around. Smells of Mediterranean flora mix with a warm sea breeze. Bees are busy working on flowers. I walk slowly. It’s getting hotter

Down at the harbour tourists and luggage are moving around. Taxis are loading and unloading. Yachts are being polished. Speedboats are roaring. At the small pebbly beach of the Marina Grande (Capri has very few easily accessible beaches) tanned people are getting even more tanned and untanned ones are turning pink. I grab a capuccino and wait for my boat to arrive. I look across the road and I see a rent-a-bike store. Full of shiny new Vespas! Oh damn!

Capri // Villa San Michele // Villa Jovis // Bagni Internationali

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Copyright for images and text by Manos Chatzikonstantis. No reproduction or usage is allowed in any form or medium as a whole or as parts of the original post. Social media sharing is only allowed as a whole by sharing the story’s link and adding full credits. Please get in touch in case you are interested in the story or in further material about the subject. All rights reserved.

Gambia to Walthamstow: How to make proper sourdough bread

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Sun, 24 Mar 2024 10:23:02 +0000

A baker from the Gambia, making one of the best sourdoughs in London?

Yep, exactly that. (Never mind the croissants)

Pa Modou looks at me with a smile. I’ve just asked him how his Suba Bakery in Walthamstow came into being.

Well, it had to happen, he says. Baking is what I do, and the only way to survive the crazy working hours of doing markets and pop-ups out of a workshop was to have a proper bakery and hire people to help out. And I love the front-of-house experience.

I believe him, having spent a whole morning with him and the crew. By the time I got there at 06:00, Pa had already been working for some hours. There’s a process, a litany of things to be done, or the system fails. Doughs are like kids. They need a routine. Break that, and they get naughty.

The bakery is closed for the day while Pa is training new coworkers, but the regulars still knock for a coffee and a loaf, regardless.

His involvement with bread has strong roots. Back home in the Gambia, a small West African country with limited resources, his uncle taught him all sorts of things about baking. Mixing the imported wheat flour with local milled beans, corn and other home-grown seeds, one gets a delicious and strong bread. Process and ingredients are paramount. Time too.

Pa’s family came to London when he was around 11. He grew up in Hackney, studied design and advertising and was involved in the events business for some time. Gradually he came to realise that this wasn’t his world.

Looking for a way out and a different lifestyle he asked for a job at a bakery. He started as an apprentice, helping out at first. His new involvement in bread, especially sourdough, brought back all the memories, all the beauty of mixing ingredients to create something delicious. He was hooked. It became his alchemy and his therapy. A zen process of sorts.

We talk ingredients. It’s all about trust and quality, he tells me.

The flour comes from a mill in Scotland. A small family business. The owner who’s also the miller is in direct contact with him. The grains are milled to order, so things take time. No shortcuts. No warehouse-stored flour at Suba. When the flour is good there’s less to be done in the process. Taste evolves naturally.

The butter he uses for the croissants is sourced from the Estate Dairy, whose yoghurt and butter Pa also retails. Small, family-run, community-driven businesses. That’s where taste begins.

The sourdough starter is his baby of course. Not too sour, just properly mature.

Customers appreciate the mildness.

I do too. The sourdough is moist and firm, it smells like nature.

It keeps almost a week, but at ours, it vanishes within a day or two.

It’s all about the community Pa says with a smile. Suba is all about it. People want to know where the product comes from, producers are happy to know where their produce goes, and the bakery itself is a community of hard-working people creating honest, delicious things.

What does Suba mean, I ask?

Suba can mean good morning and see you tomorrow. he says. But for me, mate, Suba is a good morning.

Suba Bakery // Suba Instagram // Estate Dairy // Food from Gambia

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Of ink and words : The art of letterpress printing

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Sat, 17 Feb 2024 14:02:24 +0000

“I do like to have a message, but I think you can get more people on your side if you ask a question than when sending messages out.”

— Stephen Kenny

I had seen Stephen’s posters in the streets around Fish Island during COVID-19 times.

Beautiful prints with an oversized colour dot in the middle and some Japanese text next to the English one.

But I didn’t know they were his until last autumn when I visited his studio on Dace Road during an open-day event. It’s a small, old-fashioned place that people would call stylish these days, and, indeed, it has a style of its own, as has Stephen himself.

His letterpress printing business is called The Printer’s Devil. For us mortals, this means the printer’s apprentice, the guy who mixes inks, cleans up the type and learns the craft in the process. As a self-educated letterpress printer, Stephen considers himself still an apprentice. I get it, being a self-taught photographer myself.

He’s a soft-spoken, articulate guy who loves American folk music of the 50s ( which I got stuck with myself after the shoot) and has lots of respect for words’ meanings and well-crafted printed paper.

We sat together and had a great chat last December.

Manos: What drew you to letterpress printing in the first place?

Stephen: My journey to letterpress was a straight line. I think I've always been interested in typography,

Those hand-painted signs on walls probably caught my attention quite early. American comics as well. That kind of thing got me interested in typography in general. That was probably when I was about 12 or 13.

I studied fine art at college. I was often using typography or words in my work anyway, I was quite young, probably 22, 23 after college and it was very hard to get work as an artist, so I kind of sidestepped into graphic design. I did a digital publishing course in Hoxton . I did that for the next, kind of, six or seven years. And when my daughter came along in 2008, I was working with some architects as their in-house graphic designer.And then they let me go. That was, you know, the crash of 2008. So I needed something more permanent that I was in control of, so, I dunno, I took a risk. I just started collecting wood type one day.

M: So that's how it happened, right?

S: Yeah. I approached it from the word go as a business. It was never meant to be a hobby. It was always meant to be a proper business. And I wanted to look after my girl as well at the same time at home.

M:But back then, was letterpress a thing,? Or was it, like, something you kind of visualised that it could be a thing?

S: It was around, just a little bit visible. There were a couple of people visible back then. It was just the right time. So the first, kind of ,six months I did get lucky. I got a Tate Modern book cover, I got the V&A and I got Liberty all in the first six months.

M: So you integrated your letterpress thing with your graphic design profession, so to speak.

S: It definitely helped.And you know, the thing with graphic design is that you have limitless amount of choice for font and size and colour and what the rest of it. I never really found that very liberating. I found that a bit of a trap, actually. You see, if you have all this limitless choice, you still end up going for the same font. So I kind of thought, less choice is actually more liberating.

M:Yeah I agree, it’s like Photoshop with us photographers. By the way, here’s a technical question. Does every letterpress work with every letterpress font out there? Or do you have to have a specific kind of fonts for specific presses?

S: Any font can work on any press. As long as you have a big enough press. Or a small enough press. They're all the same type height. So anything can go on my press. You know, limited only to the size of the bed..

M: Do you think the beauty of the letterpress, are the flaws, you know, the wood grain and the ink inconsistencies? Doesn't that make it more humane compared to, like, inkjet print ?

S: Completely, yeah, and I think that's going to be, more and more valuable in the future as well, especially when you get into the AI world which we're almost there now, deep fake and so on. There'll be dual Universes in a few years where you'll have things that are made by hand, clearly handcrafted like ceramics and printmaking and art which are clearly made by hand and are all a bit different. And then you'll have all this other stuff, which is mass produced, or it’s robotic, or it's, you know, artificial intelligence, or whatever.

M: I see it the same way. I think that old methods have an uncontrollable factor of their own. So they are part of the process as creative elements. Things happen that you cannot control over a certain limit.

S: You are constrained by the the physical size of what you've got and the amount of things you have. Yeah. It's not limitless.

M: Okay, so, we talked about those two upcoming universes. What do you feel is the reason that people are drawn to old techniques? People who buy objects made with old techniques, with old methods?[

S: I do that too. I love old books because I know they've been printed by hand, you know, with a metal type. I love all those things. I'm not sure people generally know that's what they've got in their hands, you know, if you pick up a book before well, definitely before 1960, that's been made by hand. That type has been set.

M: Your clients, the people who buy your art, do they appreciate that fact, or they just think it’s just trendy?

S: Don't know if it's trendy…

M: Well, you know, in a way it's like, you know, it's arty.

S: I don't know, it seems to become more important. It's not a trade anymore, so it's more of a craft, so, yeah, it becomes more verified, maybe.

M: Legit...

S: Yeah, it is legit. And it's also, you know, at the end of the day, it's words, you're just talking, you've got a message, you can ask questions and things with it, so, you can make a statement or something like that,

M: Do people actually ask how you make them? When they see you at an art fair or online, do they have questions about the technique?

S: Most people don't know. They assume it's silkscreened. You do get the odd individual who recognises it for what it is. But I think most people don't know, actually.

M: I bet. So, what inspires you as a letterpress printer? Is it people from the past who are amazing at it, or are you just experimenting and stuff just comes out without you consciously knowing where it comes from?

S: There are a couple of letterpress printers who I think are incredible. Well, there's one in particular, Ian Mortimer. Perfect printing and kerning and his use of space font choice and so on is amazing. Incredible. Also, Alan Kitching is much more well-known, but yeah, his style is completely different.

M: Do you sometimes feel that you have to compromise between conveying a message and selling prints?

S: I do like to have a message, but I think you can get more people on your side if you ask a question than sending messages out. I'm all keen to ask questions and things, rather than come to my own conclusion, at least publicly.

M: Say, what brought you to Fish Island and how long have you been around here?

S: I've been here five years, and originally Floyd, my friend Floyd, was in this studio, been here for a few years before me. I started subletting off him, it was ideal. It's a really good space for me. It's my fourth workshop, and it's a small one, but it's the best one I've had. Nice wooden floorboards, lovely light. Yeah, good atmosphere.

M: And obviously, the crowds around Fish Island are much more ...

S: Yeah, there are some interesting people around.The longer I'm here, the more I kind of find interesting people and also in this building as well.

M: So this, this is the actual Bridget Riley Studios building, right?

S: Yeah.

M: It's this organization…

S: Space.

M: Space, right. I think Bridget Riley is still around, isn't she?

S: You know what, I'm gonna have to google that one. I don't think she ever worked here, by the way. Goodness me, she is still alive. She's 92. Woah. Gosh, that's incredible. Born April 24th, 1931. That is a good time to be born. That's nice to know. Yeah, she's 92.

M: Sometimes you do these open studios here right? And obviously the area has changed a lot. Like, lots of new people have moved in. Are people, who live in the new developments here, interested in what's going on, in the artist community of Fish Island?

S: I don't know. There are some people that came in during lockdown to buy prints off me, but It's hard to say, really. Yeah, I did, I did sell some COVID prints to locals. So, yeah, maybe.

M: So your main business, so to speak, is selling the prints, or is it also collaborations with people, for example custom made stuff people order from you or projects with clients or whatever? .

S: All of that. Yeah, all of it. I've worked with some really cool brands like Paul Smith, Uniqlo, Danner, Disney, Doc Martens, I've worked with loads of really well known brands. So yeah, there's those, plus there's workshops and my own prints and commissions.

M: Are you, actively seeking collaborations? Or does it just happen because people love, what you do?

S: Yeah, it's mostly people coming to me. But I have an agent in Japan and I've got one now in America as well. In L. A.

M: Is that a different audience than in the UK?

S: Yeah, completely different in Japan. The message needs to be nice and simple. Pretty positive. Uncomplicated. Because it's mostly a visual thing there. And they just want to get the sentiment right. That's it pretty much.Whereas here I can be slightly more playful I think. The Americans are kind of an ideal market actually. They really do get it

M: Do you only sell through your agents or do you also sell online.

S: I do both. I've got stockists too, but I also sell online.

M: How do you react to people's wishes and preferences? Do you go out of your way if somebody comes up with a poster that you're not necessarily, happy with?

S:I do get that occasionally. I think what I tend to do if I'm faced with something that I don't think works, or it's not very interesting, I'll do it, and then if I've got an idea of my own, I'll do that as well.

M: Funny how letterpress, was the only way things were printed with for about….

S: From the 1450s. Yeah.

M: Yeah, and I mean, even earlier I've read in China some guys had like ceramic...

S: Playing cards might have been the first printed thing. The Chinese were before Gutenberg, but Gutenberg was movable type. That was the difference. He could rearrange things.

M: This is a very rare occasion where a whole industry turned, with time, into art. Usually, it's the other way around. Do people actually understand that? That this is the same thing as a newspaper in the 60’s but in another way?

S: Not really. It's not something that occurs to most people. I mean, they really get it once they start printing.

M: That's what I mean, you do these workshops, so do people realise at some point?

S: Yeah. Finally, when you ink up and you print, it's like, oh, okay, I get it now. And it is a bit like magic, a bit like a, being in a photographic dark room. And it's like, gosh, that's magic. It is literally like magic, I think.

M: What are your plans for 2024? Exhibition-wise or whatever? Do you have anything coming up?

S: Yeah, there's that one around the corner, at the Not for Sale gallery. Me and George are going to put a show together called Two plus Two equals Five, which is from 1984, George Orwell. The character in the book Winston Smith has to believe that two and two really does make five so his brain is kind of broken by this process of torture and repetition. There’s a lot of double thinking around today, people aren't supposed to notice certain things, you know, there's lots of words that changed their meaning suddenly while you weren’t looking…

M: Is that what the exhibition is going to be about?

S: Yeah, it's all about that.

Manos: Great stuff. Thanks mate, that was it then!

Stephen: Oh okay. Good that you stopped me before I got going on that one…(laughs)

The Printer’s Devil website // The Devil’s Instagram // Letterpress printing // Space Studios // Ian Mortimer // Alan Kitching // Bridget Riley

This story was shot in December 2023. This post was published in February 2024

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Dream and tell: How a boat became an oneiric museum.

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Thu, 18 Jan 2024 08:45:02 +0000

There used to be a dream-collecting lady on a quirky sailboat in East London.

True story, none of it a dream.

Ondine, the aptly named, elegant vessel, is moored alongside the Regent’s canal towpath by Victoria Park. It’s summer 2018

I meet Lucie and she invites me onboard. A sign above the cabin entrance says Museum.

Upon entering, I see a sculpture of feet, half-painted in yellow. I see dashboard switches marked “Lucidity”, “REM”, “Awake”. I see a typewriter and a passport of the International Dream State. Lucie smiles. She asks me whether I’d like to contribute my latest dream to the Archive, but for the life of me I can’t remember any dream at all.

That’s fine says Lucie. Fancy reading other people’s dreams? A stack of papers, some handwritten, some printed, some typed ( I‘m guessing on the typewriter in the cabin), lie neatly on a shelf.

I sit on the sunny cockpit, summer breeze and sparkling water surrounding me and start reading. Dreams are such strange things. I recognise patterns I’ve encountered too and weirdly vague, dreamy memories spring to mind. The power of the Archive I suppose.

Lucie Treacher started the International Archive of Dreams along with three companions ( Catalin Philip, Josie Malinowski and Ruby Revell) as her dissertation at Durham University. She’s a musician and an artist. The idea was to invite people onboard to share dreams, talk about them and inspire Lucie and her collaborators to create tangible objects and mise en scenes inspired by them. The dreams and objects would then be archived and eventually form a museum.

Ondine, the sailboat acts as the main venue and the Museum of the Archive. A pop-up museum really, it is meant to go on for a year or so, until the project’s completion. A permanent venue might follow conditions permitting. I ask Lucie what will happen to the boat? We’ll see, she replies.

Almost a year goes by. It’s now April 2019.

I write to Lucie to catch up and ask her if I could revisit, take some extra shots. We meet at her home, a narrowboat. close to where Ondine used to be. I just sold Ondine, she tells me. The project is so far completed. Lucie is moving on, to different ventures, music-related this time. The Archive is still alive though, in the form of a website and in the hope of finding a suitable roof for the future. Ondine, stripped of her dreams, lives by her new owners, up the canal.

Later, that day walking home at dusk, I’m sure I catch a glimpse of Ondine in the distance, sailing softly up the canal near Broadway Market. Some people are on board. Laughs are heard, music is playing. Balmy evening. A dream?

International Archive of Dreams // Lucie Treacher // What is a dream?

This story was shot in Junbe 2018 and May 2019. This post was published in January 2024

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On foot to Mani: The House that Paddy Built

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Mon, 30 Oct 2023 19:00:00 +0000

Every rock and stream is a myth.

― Patrick Leigh Fermor, from his book Mani

I’d heard about this place. A long-time fan of Leigh Fermor’s work and of the man himself, I’d read about the almost mythical country house he built with his wife in the 60s in Mani. I’d seen pictures and yearned to go.

Then, the opportunity came to photograph it for Lodestars Anthology. The Benaki Museum, which has been running the House since the Leigh Fermors' passing, kindly granted me permission to visit. As you might imagine, I couldn’t have been happier.

Patrick, Paddy to his friends, Kyr Michalis to Greeks (Mister Michael, a name from his days fighting the Germans along the Greek resistance troops in Crete) decided to settle somewhere in Greece in the ’60s and set out to look for an appropriate place to do so. An olive grove on a small peninsula called Kalamitsi, a bit further down the (then non-existent) road heading east of Kardamyli, was proposed to him by friends.

So he set out to visit the place, using his favourite means of transportation since he was 18. His legs. The same legs that had transported him all the way from Holland to Greece in the ’30s.

From Sparta, he walked through Taygetos, a gorgeously beautiful, very high and quite rugged mountain separating the first from the second peninsula of Peloponnese. The long walk to his future property was worthwhile. This was the place!

Dwelling a little tent set up within the property, Paddy and Joan, his wife and an accomplished photographer in her own right, made notes about the changing light, the winds, the rain, the nearby stream, the people, the trees, the sea. Following patterns by Vitruvius and Palladio, they started. Using stones on the ground as markers to draft and re-draft a basic design of what would eventually become their home, they altered the orientation countless times.

The openings had to be perfectly positioned, the materials had to be local, maybe even from the very spot the house would later stand on, and the architecture had to be eclectic like the well-travelled Leigh Fermors themselves.

Assisted by their friend, architect Nikos Hatzimichalis, local builders and lots of music, wine and cigarettes, the House came into being, with bits and pieces added over the next few years to complete the initial vision of the now happily settled travellers.

It, of course, became the landmark it was predestined to be. Open and hospitable, with a vast, beautiful lounge, charming gardens, lots of guest rooms, little hideaways, porches, courtyards, tree-hidden benches, vast amounts of books and the crystal-clear sea just down the path, it was a well-appreciated long or shortstop for many a friend of the Leigh Fermors. Alberto Giacometti, Francis Bacon, Lawrence Durrell, Bruce Chatwin, Giorgos Seferis and Nikos Hadjikyriakos-Ghikas, to name a few.

Even unexpected guests were catered for. The lower part of the House, facing the garden by the sea, was conceived in such a way that the bathrooms were accessible from the gardens as well, unlocked at all times for guests arriving by sea to refresh themselves in case the Fermors happened to be away.

I spent two beautifully crisp February days photographing. The Taygetos’ snow-capped peaks to the north and the sparkling Aegean Sea to the south embrace the building, the olive grove and the elegant pool ( added during the renovation of 2011).

I followed the sun and the shadows as Paddy and Joan would probably have done, felt the cool breeze and heard the trickling stream by the property. I browsed through the books, I sat on their sofa. I was mesmerised by the view. It was too cold a day for me to swim, but I’m sure Paddy would have jumped into the sea in a heartbeat.

In 1996, Paddy and Joan bequeathed the House to the Benaki Museum of Athens, wishing that the property remain accessible to visitors, authors and researchers. After their passing, the property underwent a meticulous restoration and a delicate modernisation by the Museum, funded by the Stavros Niarchos Foundation. It is again fully functional and accessible to the public as “The Benaki Museum – Patrick & Joan Leigh Fermor House.” During a short period in the summer, it’s also available to rent.

Patrick Leigh Fermor // Benaki Museum // Lodestars Anthology // Mani

This story was shot in February 2020. This post was published in October 2023

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The Championships Qualy: The Other Wimbledon

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Sat, 30 Sep 2023 13:41:00 +0000

Wimbledon is for rich tennis fans, and the Qualy is for real tennis fans.

So I’ve heard, and it’s obviously not true. But it says a lot about the Qualifying Competition!

You’ll notice right away when visiting the Qualifying competition.

The vibe is fantastic, the matches intense, the players approachable and the location beautiful. The action happens at the Community Sports Centre in Roehampton, an intriguing contrast to the prestigious setting of the main competition at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club in Wimbledon.

Over 4 days, a large number of ladies and gents play their best tennis and hope to make it to the main draw of the Championships over at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. Tickets are very affordable and available online, even as late as a few days before play.

(Worlds apart from the struggle to get into the main competition where one needs to enter a public ballot several months ahead of the tournament with the chance of winning the right to buy an expensive ticket being about 1 to 10).

I’ll definitely be there next year too.

With a more down-to-earth atmosphere and a focus on the rising stars of tennis (although you might see some big names of momentarily lower ranking), the Qualy allows fans to witness the passion and determination of players striving to make it to the main draw. A beautiful thing. Standing on the edge of the court and following the action from a close distance is a hugely different experience than watching from the stands. One gets to mingle with umpires, line judges, ball boys and girls, referees, officials, helpers, volunteers of a certain age, fans of all possible ages, coaches, and the player's family.

Green and purple dominate with splashes of all possible colours from the fans’ outfits.

If you plan to visit you’ll find all the info here: Wimbledon Qualifying

The story was shot in June 2021. The post was published in September 2023

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The Bottarga Whisperers: Living by the mullets

Manos Chatzikonstantis — Wed, 30 Aug 2023 16:50:00 +0000

"Take a seat at the stern," instructs Antonis, gesturing for silence. "We mustn't scare them."

By "them," he refers to the female grey mullets, locally known as Bhafhes (Μπάφες). It is “them” we’re after, or rather the roe pouch they carry in their belly, soon to be cured into the renowned Messolonghi Bottarga, a.k.a Avgotaraho (αυγοτάραχο) in Greek. He swiftly jumps onto the slender boat, grabbing a pole to steady it. I follow suit, camera in hand.

Calmy, we navigate the lagoon's mirror-like surface, our little blue boat scarcely disturbing the waters. As the dawn's blue hues turn to orange, we approach one of the "pyres" (πύρες), the spiral cages trapping fish as they follow the gentle local tides. I can barely see below the shallow, crystal clear water, but Antonis’ trained eye has already identified 4-5 bhafhes swimming in the trap. "Welcome, ladies," he smirks, grabbing a hand net to pull them aboard and into a red bucket, alongside some smaller fish.

We glide to the next pyres, yet Antonis is not happy with quantities and sizes. "Perhaps it's still a little early in August," he tells me. "Give them time, and they'll come. September will be better." September is the major bottarga season.

Gradually, he steers the boat back to the shack—a simple home and boat house where he spends his working time all year round, in shifts.

Later in the day, as twilight descends, I meet Manos and Giorgos at another fishing facility near an inlet by the open sea. Like Antonis, they work in the family-run fish business, but instead of traps, those two use nets to catch the fish in these parts of the lagoon.

Aboard their slightly longer but also very narrow boat ( again blue), we head out to a distant part of the lagoon, where they throw the nets into the water in a huge circle and leave them there until about midnight.

Against the backdrop of fading light and the lagoon's Dalmatian pelicans flying homeward, Giorgos tells me of an era when nets were prohibited, a time when the fish population thrived, and traps alone sufficed to fulfil bottarga quotas.

Unfortunately, poor lagoon maintenance, climate change, and over-fertilization of the groundwater have severely reduced fish numbers, so nets were introduced to allow for fishing in distant areas of the lagoon where pyres couldn’t be maintained.

We meet again the next morning at their bottarga prep workshop. With surgical precision, Giorgos extracts the roe pouch from a 40 cm mullet, trims it, and preps the remaining fish for the Messolonghi town market (bhafhes, incidentally, are excellent for grilling and roasting). He immerses the ochre-hued roe in salt for drying and curing, carefully recording details and timings for each fish processed.

Moving to the next, smaller room, I see the already cured, bright orange bottarga left to air-dry. Giorgos, ceremoniously, begins the beeswax-covering ritual. Three thin layers of natural wax, that’s the way to do it. While still soft at this stage, the bottarga will gradually harden by the time it hits the shelves. A lucky few will have the pleasure to taste the unwaxed soft bottarga. A privilege of the locals and certain photographers.

Greek bottarga fans savour thin slices of it alongside ouzo, wine or tsipouro, meze style. Across the Ionian Sea, Italians grate Sardinian bottarga onto their spaghetti. I tell that to Giorgos whose family has been running the business for years. Lunatics, he shouts and laughs!

Messolonghi // Bottarga

The story was shot in the summer of 2019. This post was published in August 2023

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