“The Greek Summer” doesn’t need many words. It’s a feeling, it’s memories. It is a moment that inevitably becomes a memory. It is a goal, it is a purpose of life. It is all the senses together, inseparable. Nothing is engraved more deeply than the afternoon bath with a group of children playing in the sea. And they stay there deeply and lead the soul to repeat or revive them. Many times they are moments inexplicably memorable but often locally and temporally confused. A memory precedes another that happened earlier. In another place, another time. Memory has its own power and recalls as and when it wants.

Time always colors them with a patina like the thin layer of corrosion that covers copper objects. A sweet corrosion that carries the value of the finite, the rare, the unrepeatable. And the more corroded the more beloved.