Interview by Marco Martello
Michalis, let’s break the ice with a simple yet important question: how have you been feeling lately?
Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit conflicted, to be honest. We’re living through a very strange and quite dark time, and it feels like almost every day something heavier, more disturbing, or more disorienting happens somewhere around us. It’s not always easy to remain creative under these conditions, or to stay emotionally open, when there’s so much noise, so much tension, and so much visible chaos in the world. At the same time, I think art becomes even more necessary in periods like this. Not as an escape, but as a way to hold on to something true, something human. So, I’d say I feel both affected by the darkness around us and very aware of the need to keep creating despite it. Maybe even because of it.
What’s your first art-related memory?
I always took it very seriously. Even in kindergarten, I was mostly drawing human profiles. When I was nine, I made a pencil drawing of the dry-stone walls of Kythnos, with the ruins of an old Byzantine church in the background. It was pinned in the corridor of my primary school with the other children’s drawings, until an archaeologist who visited the school noticed it and offered my parents 100,000 drachmas to use it for the cover of his book. That was probably the first time I understood that something I made could have a life beyond me. At the same time, I think my deepest early love was music. Even before the first drawing I can clearly remember, there was already something in me that responded very strongly to sound, rhythm, and emotion. So art was present from the beginning, but not in just one form.
You come from Kythnos, Greece. If you close your eyes and think about your hometown, what’s the first image you see?
The first thing I see is the port of Mérichas. The light, the sea, the dryness of the landscape, the boats, the wind, that very specific island feeling that’s both peaceful and a little wild. I think I carry that place inside me all the time. Even when I’m far from it, it’s still there in the way I see light, in the way I experience silence, even in the way I understand the body in relation to nature.
What was your family’s first reaction when you told them that you wanted painting and photography to be more than a hobby for you?
I think, like most families, they were probably worried before they were convinced. Not because they didn’t believe in me, but because art is not the safest road and everyone knows that. But I also think they understood that this was never just a hobby for me. It was too central to who I was. So even if there was some hesitation at first, I believe they knew I was serious and that I wasn’t going to leave it behind.
Michalis, did anyone help you navigate the art world in the early days of your career?
Not in a very structured way, no. I didn’t have one person taking me by the hand and showing me how everything works. A lot of it I had to figure out alone, through mistakes, through trial and error, through experience. Of course there were people who supported me, encouraged me, or believed in the work at important moments, and that matters a lot. But overall I think I learnt by moving forward step by step and understanding the art world from within, not from theory.
How did you find your voice as a photographer and painter? And what’s your first reaction when you see someone imitate that style?
I think I found my voice slowly by staying close to what felt true to me and trying not to follow what was fashionable around me. Painting has always been at the core of how I think, so even in photography I don’t think like someone documenting an image, I think more like someone constructing it emotionally and visually. As for imitation, my first reaction depends. If it comes from genuine influence, I understand it, because we all begin by absorbing things. But if it feels
too direct, too close, then of course it doesn’t feel good. Usually though, I just keep going. In the end, style alone is never enough. What matters is the inner world behind it.
Looking back on your journey in the art world, what was the most important handshake of your career?
That’s a beautiful question. I don’t know if I can reduce it to one specific handshake, because usually what changes your path is not one dramatic moment, but a series of meetings, recognitions, and people who see something in your work at the right time. If I had to say something, the most important ‘handshake’ was probably the moment my work began to meet the right audience. When that connection happens, everything changes a little. You feel less alone in what you’re building.
Michalis, can you please take us through the making of ‘Summer Renaissance’, a project that you released in 2023 and that’s since gained international recognition?
Summer Renaissance came out of things that were already deeply inside me: the sea, the body, Greek summer light, the history of painting, and a desire to move away from literal photography into something more fluid and emotional. Growing up on an island, water was never separate from life, it was part of my everyday reality. At some point, I realised that underwater photography allowed me to see the body in a way that felt much closer to painting: less fixed, less descriptive, more vulnerable, more dreamlike. The project took time because I wasn’t interested in just making beautiful images. I wanted to create a whole world with its own atmosphere and emotional logic. The fact that it travelled internationally was very meaningful to me, because it showed me that something deeply personal could also speak to people far away from my own landscape.
You’ve exhibited your work in many different countries. Do you still feel the same kind of emotions when you enter a room full of both strangers and old friends on opening nights?
Yes, I do, although maybe now I carry it differently. There’s always some vulnerability in that moment because the work is no longer only yours, it belongs to the room. People are looking at it, responding to it, projecting themselves onto it. That never feels completely neutral. But I’ve become more comfortable with that exposure over time. I still feel emotion, curiosity, and sometimes a kind of quiet tension before entering the space. I don’t think that ever fully disappears, and maybe it shouldn’t.
Last but not least, your birthday is next week. How are you going to celebrate?
Usually, I don’t throw a big party for my birthday. But every year, the day somehow always finds me with good food, some kind of dessert, and close friends around a table playing group games like Mafia or a board game which usually ends with all of us arguing. It’s never very formal or planned, but it always feels warm, chaotic, and real.