get out Painting

-Lila Papoula ...A paradoxical world, symbolic references, maybe guarded secrets that invite the viewer to discover them in her own way. Events, incidents and sequential stimuli, progressively they take shape and acquire their meaning in the work, within me, but also on the outside, in reality and amidst others. Always in my painting a human presence lies in wait and slips in. Even if it is not registered in the painting, it is always there as an intimation. It’s something like a personal necessity. I’m not interested in empty eloquence. What I am seeking is to show what I see and feel. ... is a continuation of the previous unity of my work entitled Places. They are ‘places’ in the sense that I differentiate place from landscape. It is very simple: landscape is something that we usually observe while place we primarily inhabit… In this way then the ruins, as another place, bear the traces, the signs of time that has passed, and simultaneously the stamps of the present. .. but also the landscapes of our inner world ... These multifarious rifts that we are all living through gave me the incentive for this work. I searched for them as metaphors in the traces of dilapidated houses in the city and in the rubble and I began taking pictures. For that matter, it’s a long time now that photographs have been something like a diary for me. Nostalgia, damaged houses, loss, imprints of deterioration, memories of what used to be, walls that stand up to time but upon which is also written the history and everyday stories of ordinary people. Photographs that become personal frescoes, feeling and memory. I’ve always been interested in the particularity of wall surfaces but also of stucco as material. A material that also recounts in its own language along with me. In other words, I’m not interested in just transferring a story from a wall, but to communicate this other story, the imaginary one that becomes almost imperceptibly visible on the texture of its material. It is a story in which memories and sensations meet with a spontaneous, perhaps “automatic” and very personal painterly script. In the end, these are all pieces, broken fragments from true-life experience that I would call a fresco. The narration is just a pretext. It is not only representation that counts: representation becomes the measure of its capacity to “give utterance” to that which we cannot grasp.