A spring story

The place where I found myself “locked up” due to the pandemic, is located just a few steps away from the council houses of Chalkida, a cluster of blocks of flats, climbing  one of the hills of the city. Erected in the early eighties, they were meant to house mainly the families of workers of the back then flourishing industry of Chalkida and its surrounding areas. My own family is one of them. Inspired by the symbolism of my hometown, I started taking photos of it. Besides, as we agreed with my therapist over the phone, “maybe that’s the only way you could photograph your place. Under the guise of a permanent existential threat. ”

What am I seeing? What am I shooting ? A woman holding her partner’s hand, an elderly man suffering from COPD (Chronic Respiratory Pulmonary Disease). My neighbour glued in front of the television, waiting for the prime minister’s speech curtailing basic freedoms for the first time since the seven-year junta. Empty classrooms and churches during the Christian Easter.  Disposable gloves scattered all over the streets. Papers and signed forms for various outings. Exhausted super market assistants on the verge of fainting. Elderly women emptying the super market shelves off bleach bottles. People jogging wearing masks, people walking wearing masks , people selling cigarettes wearing masks, policemen patrolling  the streets wearing masks. The streets get deserted as darkness falls. Fear. Paranoia. And a glimpse of hope, a sense of spring emanating  from those who say: “Patience. This too shall pass.»