The artistic community of animals in Irini Iliopoulou’s work symbolizes humanity’s quest for a supreme, unpretentious innocence in life. Here and now, it is not the dreamlike wonder emerging from nature’s mysteries that delivers the message, but nature itself—alive and vivid—captivates us with its truth, with its utterly realistic presence. Through this presence, it tells its story and expresses a passion for the continuity of its existence in a manner that is, without a doubt, masterfully rendered.
Animals are not supposed to speak, and yet here, Bella, Harris, and the other members of the farm society engage in a face-to-face dialogue with the viewer—often in life-size—through nothing more than their presence and the equilibrium of their being.
True art stirs the depths of our soul like a cyclone, awakening our innermost, most treasured talismans. This is why it speaks uniquely to each viewer who connects with the work, as if whispering a secret confidentially into their ear, rekindling a personal memory. For me, Irini’s donkeys immediately evoke the "ktímata" (as my grandfather called his large animals—two donkeys and a sturdy mule), who were, in a sense, equal members of our family. They bring back to the forefront of my life today an image from then, many decades ago—an image that has, in many ways, shaped the course of my life.
There exists a photograph of my mother and me on my grandfather’s elderly “gara” (she-donkey), taken and developed to be sent to my father, who was then away at sea, “so he could see how much I had grown,” as my mother wrote by hand on the back. And I had indeed grown—but my father never saw me. He had been forced to set sail from Rhodes the day before I was born, having found an opening on a ship during the difficult crisis in the shipping industry in 1958. The opportunity could not wait for my arrival.
It was the living remnants of that era that Irini encountered in the very same landscapes on the island of our hearts. She singled them out, not as something new, but as a rediscovery, to serve as models for her new cycle of expression. This is a defining trait of Irini’s art: what returns in her painting is never repeated—it is reborn and renewed. The cattle figures she presented in 1990 with Galerie Berggruen at the Salon de Mars in Paris clearly belong to the muted landscapes of Central and Northern Europe, whereas the radiant animals of this new series move within the geography (and atmosphere) of the Mediterranean South—especially the sheep dashing along the shoreline of Katarti, as if striving to break into the “Territories of Desire” within our souls.
Whoever has the privilege of witnessing Irini’s creative struggle as she gives birth to the new, experiences her artistic expression doubly and triply. She gives it shape and meaning, molding it with both her mind and hands—literally this time—since the small figurines, the first inhabitants of this animal Ark, were created in the very place where my grandfather once kept the “ktímata,” long before we renovated the space into our home on the island. These figurines possess an even more pronounced earthly quality—or rather, they embody the beauty of earth’s transformation. The earth is the supreme material of life, flowing naturally with the rhythm of living beings, guided by instinct and therefore by a pure, unwavering morality and set of values.
This exhibition is indeed a test of our humanity, but also a marvelous opportunity to reintroduce into our motorized modern lives the sensuous memories (which one might also call values) of past, animal-powered eras. The nostalgia we feel for our father’s car is of a different nature than that for our grandfather’s donkey. The feeling of acquiring a new machine is not the same as when the wild young “Poularina” was brought home. Born in the mountains, far from human contact, to her elderly mother (the very one from the “family” photograph), whom my grandfather had set free to enjoy her final days in peace, the mare defied expectations. She did not wish to end her life soon. She continued to relish her freedom, without daily care. In fact, she mated and brought a new life into the world. Though Poularina was eventually saddled and joined my grandfather’s convoy, she refused to let anyone but him ride her. She remained wild, even if she accepted the yoke.
And yet, Irini’s “Farm” (or Ark) is not merely about awakening memories or timeless, forgotten values—it is, above all, Art. It is incredibly difficult to paint seemingly mundane subjects, realistic animal figures, and to convey meanings that go far beyond their immediate appearance. In the catalogue of her first cattle exhibition, Giuseppe Frigeni wrote:
"But the materiality—through the bloodstained drips of truth—betrays a hidden emotion. The extreme refinement and the discreet dose of painterly technique strive to transmit that emotion, which the banality of the subject seems to deny."
Such is the power of painting—a power that Irini has cultivated within herself in abundance, offering us generous doses of emotion that captivate us, time and again, until the next exhibition.
Nikos G. Mastropavlos
Journalist