PICPOETRY

Picpoetry: unedited mobile photography and rapidly, almost automatic unedited poetic prose writing, ideally on the spot in order to capture the atmospherics of the specific time and space. I upload all my picpoetry on Instagram under the name picpoet – one of the oldest poets of Instagram combining visual and poetic prose. Picpoetry is a method I invented in 2009 in order to explore an ontology of presence without falling into the standard trappings of visual and textual phenomenology. There have been two waves of picpoetry. The first one, with about 600 picpoems, ended in July 2013 were all except for the very last picpoem were ceremoniously deleted for picpoet’s suicide. The second one, since 2014 and still ongoing, counts more than 1000 picpoems and can be found below and on Instagram.

And just like that, you dropped out of the painting and into my world.
Squeeze your world into the brackets 
but keep a piece that releases sky.
Our water is better than the one outside. We lock the door and seal the glass. Nothing mixes. We are so afraid, we drown. But our bowl is cut glass, our water limpid, our sky diffracted.
Super excited: the Book of Water is finally coming out in English on a translation by Sakis Kyratzis with three new stories in addition to the Greek publication by Thines almost 5 years ago. This time, the publisher is Eris, an extraordinary independent publisher that has already published works by Giorgio Agamben, the new biography of Francis Bacon by Peppiatt, Saatchi's autobiography, Edith Warton, Dora Malech, and oh my god, me too! Preorder for the 6th of December on the link below.

(And the reviews so far are humbling
"You don’t so much read The Book of Water, you float in it. These haunting little fictions heighten some senses while softening others, to an effect that is curiously hallucinatory. Never have words felt so liquid, or stories so cool and refreshing.
—Robert Shearman")

PREORDER with free postage at:
eris.press/The-Book-of-Water
You pay and you pay and you pay and you owe and you don’t own and you pay to own and you own not even your own but you pay and you pay and you pay to pay what you owe but what you owe is why you are never your own
New Yorking it. And yet, gladly, not fitting in. Remaining a Londoner in aesthetics, accent, and sense of personal space. Something, however, might have rubbed off.
This evening had no light of its own. It borrowed the light of past evenings. It touched it without claiming it. It allowed it to bathe its surfaces. And then it turned towards the future.
Posted @withrepost • @artemisherber Playing and exploring ideas with my friend and fellow artist Andreas with “Wearables” for performance. We had such an energetic and creative time. In the last days we approached my sculptures made of corrugated cardboard as coats and covers exploring states of the human and posthuman condition such as conflict, confluence, confidence, and confinement  #performance #cardboardart #sculpture #studiowork #collaboration
Performing Conflict/Confluence with @artemisherber and her sculptures at a haunted Baltimore mansion
For there never was an end that tied to an end. It was all middles tying up to other middles, all concave homes of our bird-eye dreams, warm nests of tropical returns where we slept with boas and hymens, because that’s what our humanity needed.
Performing The Real Law at Cardozo School of Law, New York, the conclusion to the Post-Critical Perspectives on Critical Legal Studies. Photo by @evamuellerart
The Real Law (On Narcissism) performing / being performed now in the Moot Court at Cardozo Law School
This Sunday at around 16:00 US/20:00 GMT/21:00 CET I am giving the closing performance lecture for this extraordinary event with the most humblingly stellar participants at Cardozo Law School NYC. Come along if in town and if not, there’s a zoom link you can join. I may or may not be undressing for the camera 😉
 
Link:
https://yeshiva-university.zoom.us/j/98678687325
Tokyo in New York
The Ptolemean Epoch
Public displays of affection outside my studio in Venice. Love it.
She was trapped in a flock of identical constellations, binary glass rooms floating in the abyss, not looking not reflecting, just one gigantic moment of choice endlessly repeated. In time she developed a technique where she also split into two and became other to herself. Now, she only needed to deal with that nagging sense of seeking. Because she knew, or one of them knew, that she didn’t want to be found.
And he was grateful. He led the life he couldn’t even dream of. He saw himself parading on this world like a galley of joy. He saw himself shine, a gentle moment of armature arching a small planet of scented flowers opening in the late evening. But he was still not inhabiting that planet. He was still one body sliding along his own dream life, curating it from a distance.
every archipelago was a continent
But whatever you, never look behind you.
To begin with a question: has the balance ever been found? To carry on with a fear: we are perched on the edge always and in ways that we cannot even see. To end with a promise: eventually, even the edge will drop us.
There was that moment, everyone remembers it still, when the verticality we so carefully built finally abandoned us, and we had to learn to survive on a flat horizontality. All our steps led to yet another horizon. None of our steps could ever lead higher or lower. We were finally one with the planet.
A wave knocked on the door. The door half-opened. Nothing moved. The wave stayed a wave, no leak or flattening. The space the other side of the door remained dry. But the door never shut again.
Come towards me but don’t turn to look at me. Walk backwards, never stop showing me your back, there’s your history nestled between your shoulders, here’s me waiting to read it all and then softly recite it back to you.
Which one, he wondered. They both go up, slow elegance round the sun. They both go down, controlled gravity in spite of the call. He picked one of them randomly and started climbing down. The air was different down there, denser with jasmine scent and peacocks’ screams. He didn’t stay long. He is now climbing up towards rarity. But this time he picked the other one.
Here. No indication other than Here. Here is Here. The only thing you were ever truly looking for. Here hasn’t left. You can always find it Here. You remember the way, don’t you? You remember the smell of Here? And how it feels when it touches you?
I kept on inviting you in, tea and cake and entrails all lovingly laid out for you to enjoy, the house becoming a moment of tender exile for both of us. You would walk past and peer through the window, you could see the waiting from outside. Could you see me though, or did your reflection blur it? You never walked in anyway.
I will never recognise me from the back. Is that me? is that skin mine, gently turning autumnal in the London sun? Is that hair mine, a sea of chiaroscuro waves? I always look elsewhere, I never see me. I will never see me.
I will always be there, lifting you up, showing you the future. My promise to you - a performative utterance: I promise myself to you, my future to us, my language to your dreams, my elevation to our heaven. This is the promise of a future, because the future of my promise is already here.
Ready ready ready. Launch and then look behind. Still ready ready ready. Feel your body leaving you. Again ready ready ready. Listen to your voice becoming that of another. Ready. Stop being ready. It’s done.
She was caressed by the weather: a breeze of light that made her breathe more slowly, the city entering her lungs in large swaths of belonging. She knew that with each step, another weather was opening, like a mirror reflecting her slightly stooped back. But she will remain forever caressed.
There’s no ‘this way up’ sign and we often get confused and look down instead. We keep on moving ahead with the nagging doubt, is this truly ahead?, touching our head lightly from behind. The sign about where the deep end is must have fallen off, and so we’ve learned to walk on water. We are moving dots on a signless aether, never able to see us from above.
And she was off. Not walking not climbing. Her body one with the metal rising, breathing in an air of levels foreign to her own oxygen, but what a length she got what new heights she ingested!
Footage by @shredosaurusrex
These are the waters of return. The veins and the lake have taken up all surface, the veins pulsing the lake emptying. You invited me to swim but where.
We drew the thick black curtains to keep time out and movement in. We danced on the eyelids of eternity. We became space unfolded, doubled, withdrawn.
Last time I am performing Oceans of Eternity this Tuesday at the stunning @k.u.k_ungkunst gallery in Trondheim with the support of Narrating Sustainability, NTNU Oceans, TransLit, and K-U-K to mark the start of my residency. This is a very demanding performance emotionally and technically and while I come out infinitely richer out of the four times I have performed its different versions so far, I will be glad to leave it behind. So this Tuesday 6pm followed by panel discussion with Kari Nixon, Hanna Musiol, Ferne Edwards, Parissa Chokrai, Ysabel Muñoz. Wish me luck.
If your time changed all of a sudden, your body felt thrown, and your eyes turned upwards like an arm thrust towards a familiar star; from the eternity of options, choose this: stop breathe become grass
And that late summer evening, in the middle of the quiet city emptied during the weekend, the buildings lifted as if all by themselves, divers of the skies, flailing terraces and splashing antennas in their mad escape towards the waters above the clouds.
The space that folds and holds you, aggression and tenderness, because where could the pure space open, and how quickly would we shut it down. 

Still from Verdens Verste Menneske
he dived. he breathed water. he felt.
Mark the world with your mismatching.
Mark the world with your silence.
Mark your world with your absence. 

#ancientmessini
I’d rather you be ok than be mine. I’d rather dwell in the waters their surface rippled by your signing voice, than occupy the terraferma of another continent. I’d rather you swim in my lakes than my rivers corrode your banks. But let me, let me, let me keep on lapping the length of your coasts.
Nothing but the other side. But to see it, you must let it through. This side. And to see it, you must occlude it. Lift your hand, shade the light, and there it is, a visitation, a planetary caress, a dappled morning. 

#leighfermor #benakimuseum
Free floating ladders filled our city. They climbed up the walls of our homes, a new breed of locusts promising eternal promises, eternal eternity, eternal duplication. And we all started climbing like insects sniffing the pollen.
He waited for that knock on his door
That’s why he never did much. All his activities were conditioned by the hypothesis - will it happen now? Halfway through cleaning the bathroom or writing that email or watching that series. He was always ready. So when it came, he grabbed his rucksack and jumped on the stepladder. This one seemed sturdier than the previous one. He might manage to reach up two more floors. It was a long way to the sky but he knew, there will always be ladders visiting. He just had to wait.
And this, she said, is how I’ve learned to live my life. Scared that I won’t be able to escape, never here always in the posture of someone taking leave.
We wrapped up the exhibition Our Distance Became Water and send the works on the water to float. Some go to Greece, some to Washington, some to new homes in other counties and continents. And some came back home, sliding noiselessly in the Venice studio shelves and the flat’s walls. But I think they liked that flight into the outer world because I can feel them fluttering around me, ready to fly out again.
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Detail from 
All ascends carry the weight of the ground they leave behind 
triptych, 
oil paint, gold metal spray and gold leaf on canvas board with found Murano glass and string, 60x100, 2021
Photography by @rothfjell
Her body heard the water and she danced.
In less than a week we take down And Our Distance Became Water, my Venice solo show of paintings and sculptures. I called them ‘painted surfaces’ - I am still so interested in the surface, the way it emerges from the water like a floating promise, not of depths but of a certain being carried away.

Sinking Islands: Black Venice, 2021, oil and tempera paint, gold leaf on discarded forcola wood, found Murano glass.
Even in those moments that you were certain you knew you could feel the hand touching your head, you knew it, it was there, the warmth the attachment the direction, even in those moments that your head rose up to meet it, you knew, in fact you also always knew, that there has never been a hand.
Not just us (a skin of folded skins), not just the other of us (air breathed by slant surfaces), but all of it: us and other of us and other than us, all of it cuts and opens, spreads and sighs, refracts and multiplies.
Firework meditation. Or the world is revealed bigger than you, and you drink it like a spectacle.

#redentore #redentore2022 #venice
Your orange as deep as my blue. 

#redentore2022
#barbarakruger sainthood moment
Something sounded astern, something that brought into our sleep the sussuration of waking stars and surprised starfish. We were forgiven for thinking that something might have been wrong with the world. We were forgiven when we declared our dreams perpetual.
Dr Perez Joli n’est pas là.
We sit opposite that hole on the facade of time and just talk. We bridge the openness with discourse and the darkness with side stares. We don’t listen because we say, what’s to listen, no one’s talking. We endure our own lack of reflection, our absorption into the surface that commands our slow self-obliteration. We survive but how.
“But on a day like today, when the water gets sharpened rough against the breeze, flat surface facing the sky, rectilinear nuptials, the grand parallel of otherness:  on a day like this, the sound darts so sharply that our vowels become razors and our dipthongs lacerate the air 
like torrent, 
oh 
it is too much, 
the whole thing becomes an echo”
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Performance for one person, three voices and three languages, Our Distance Became Water, Ca’ Pisani, Friday 8th of July. Thanks to @prince_katz for stepping in at the very last moment and yet rising to the horizontality of the occasion, to Marco Gandini for translating into Italian and stentorially performing, and to @capisanihotelvenice for enabling and organising another beautiful event. Pic by Sam Fiorenza
But I am not climbing. I am not going up those ladders. I am not building any more floors on top of our roofs. I am not rearranging the scaffolding. I am not rising. I am not going back to the vertical of skyscrapers and airplanes. I am not standing taller than this lake that covers the world. I am not looking at it from above. Not again. There is only water. There is nothing but flatness. I am not doing it.
Doing my dooda at the magnificent EASST - the biennial STS gathering, invited by Michela Cozza and Sally Wyatt. I was crawling under seats and feet before, so I needed a good drenching :)
Of all the windows in her life, she always opens first the one that looks inside.
She slid on the other side of the dream, never to wake up again.
Nothing to report. The city comes in through the window, and with it slides the evening, a red reminder of the sky on the other side.
She held that world so fast in her hands, so fast that it drowned, so fast that it blossomed into a sea, so fast that she dived in and dwelled in it, again and again
Berlin evenings. A garden round the corner of the building. A soft rose wine. Two candles, a few shadows. Berlin evenings like pearls.
Promise.
Don’t worry. I will keep an eye over you. 
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#richardbell #richardbellembassy #documenta #kassel #documentafifteen #embassy
We sit and listen. No one talks. We sit and listen to each other. No one talks. We sit and listen to what the other is. No one talks. We sit and listen to what we are. No one needs to talk.
When your body belongs to others. The US is proving once again a failed, hypocritical and corrupt country. Disgust and fear of what is happening to this world. 

#roevswade #roevwade #abortionrights #prolife but a real life where you choose where your love will go
Play with me. One of my terraces has been taken over by angry rabbits. The other by yoga mats. The other by the wind who uses it as her bed. The other was mine but I decided to give it to you.
We are all multiplicities.
Touch for forest.
Posted @withregram • Do not miss the exhibition "Our distance bacame water" by Andreas Philippopoulos - Mihalopoulos @picpoet: a reflection on climate change and social distancing through paintings and sculptural installations made with recycled materials embellished with gold leaf and Murano glass.

May 28th 2022 - July 10th 2022
Every day from 10am to 7pm
Free admission, in compliance with the Covid regulations 

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Non perdetevi la mostra "Our distance became water" di Andreas Philippopoulos - Mihalopoulos : una riflessione sul cambiamento climatico e distanziamento sociale attraverso dipinti e installazioni scultoree realizzate con materiali di riciclo impreziositi da foglia d’oro e vetro di Murano.

28 Maggio 2022 -10 Luglio 2022
Tutti i giorni dalle 10 alle 19
Entrata libera, nel rispetto della normativa in vigore
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#visitvenice #fallinlovewithveniceagain #fallinlovewithvenice #hotelinvenice #capisanihotel #capisanihotelvenice #dorsoduro
Sometimes she couldn’t tell whether her bowl became the sea outside or the sea outside had nestled in her bowl.
Materially just : just the material please, not the form // materially just : here with, not for // materially just: flow with an element that is of you but not you // but also, go against an atmosphere that is you but not you (notes on a new project)
Swapping Venice for London/Berlin/Kassel/Valencia/Madrid and leaving my show behind to breathe away from me. It feels good to take some distance. It allows it to become water. I’ll be back for the finissage though! 
Pic by @loshedinspace
These islands were left on the surface of a foamy dream, coasts frazzled like lace punctured in another lagunar island. These islands forever horizontal, forever battling the vertical messiah, forever losing.
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Sinking Islands: Funafuti, 2020, egg tempera and gold leaf on discarded forcola wood and found Murano glass. 
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Currently on show at Our Distance Became Water, Ca’ Pisani Venice, till 10th of July
Breathe around your desire.
You shut the door behind you. Not particularly loudly but enough. Something moved in the eaves, something shook at the water below the foundations. Imperceptible. And the building gave up its spirit like a quiet glass of an evening past.
There was a city in the city in the city. And in that inner city, water was surging, flooding all streets and rooms, spreading out towards the other cities. 
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Sinking City 2019, egg tempera and gold leaf on discarded forcola wood and found Murano glass. 
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Currently on show at Our Distance Became Water, Ca’ Pisani Venice, till 10th of July
Sometimes he thought that Venice was about to be swallowed by a vast wave. The wave would come from Pellestrina. It would fly above the island and reach the city on a warm early spring evening, when the green of her gardens and terraces would be indistinguishable from the green of the water. 
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Sinking City VII, 2020
oil and gold metal paint on canvas
75×30

Currently on show at Ca’ Pisani Venice, part of my solo exhibition of paintings and sculptures Our Distance Became Water. 10:00-19:00 everyday until the 10th of July.
We opened the exhibition Our Distance Became Water at the beautiful but challenging piano nobile of Ca’ Pisani, amongst friends from all over Europe and the city of Venice. It was a lovefest that carried on for three days. It was all worth it just to listen to the extraordinary soprano Rosie Forbes-Butler giving a vocalised guided tour of the works, on an undulating lagunar soundscape by the genius @iforduncan
When installing (by the heroic Ivano) matches the art. @davidcass.art father asked me, why stepladders. I could not say this: It’s the promise of a future that isn’t delivered. It’s the need to climb higher even though we all know we are bound to be disappointed. It’s the space of judgement in our own private Sinai. But to David’s father I just said, oh I like the form! (Also true)