Today has been quiet up here at the milos (windmill). It was one o’clock when I began painting this particular view through the cypress trees over the rooftops and beyond to the sea and mountains because it made my heart beat faster. Painting transcends all else until the Nefeli slides into view: 4 p.m. already. Wiping my brushes and fitting the top on my palette, I turn to look at the painting drying on my portable easel. Has the watercolor captured an essence of today? I’ve learned that whatever is going on with me during the process will be obvious in the finished painting. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings and I’ve done my share of dabbling in dark colors too. It took a surprise trip to Greece to teach me that life is too precious not to concentrate on the best it offers, and hopefully pass that on. That’s why I’ve chosen to live on Poros Island and paint my bliss.
Each day I wake up amazed and grateful that I chose this simply sublime life, in spite of myself–in spite of other plans. Originally, I’d signed up for the painting workshop in Provence, a landscape I longed to paint. When she changed our destination to Greece, my art mentor asked, “Do you hate the idea?” No. I always held a special reverence for Greek sculpture, architecture, and philosophy yet on my first trip I found myself wondering what we’d paint in Greece. On my fourth trip, we painted up a storm, literally, in the Cyclades: unusually strong winds and rain on the third day ended our sessions of painting en plein air. Our flight from Santorini landed just in time for the other workshop members to catch their flight to the U.S.; I stayed another week, part of my new life plan to return to the UNC-Greensboro for a second degree in Interior Design and paint in Greece during my vacation. Oddly, while I’d been mulling this decision the words the garden kept flitting through my mind.
The next day, on the boat to Poros, I read Greek poetry in translation and made a few quick sketches as people disembarked at Methana. I noticed a giant heart shape cut out of the side of the mountain and jot “love-sick Cyclops” in my notebook for no apparent reason. Some of the poems are by George Seferis, penned while staying at Villa Galini on Poros. Galini, serenity: that’s Poros. I decide to deviate slightly from my itinerary because I hadn’t had a chance to paint on Poros the year before.
I roll my lightweight bags off the boat and am ready to paint. There’s a mild breeze, bright sun shining and good bold shadows. The boat for Hydra is at 2:30 p.m.; perfect. I ask directions for Villa Galini. “There, the rose-colored house on the Neorion road.”
Carrying only my art supplies, I walk briskly. My eyes delight in the vibrant colors–the green of shrubs, cascades of fuchsia from bougainvilleas shading lanes between neoclassical buildings, trees laden with fruit, pink mimosa blossoms like some many tiny ballerinas dancing in the trees lining the quay. Instead of passing the couple walking leisurely ahead, I slow to their pace. The white-haired gentleman walks with his hands behind him, clicking his komboloi. Their quiet conversation in Greek has the calming effect of music even though I don’t understand the words. Why have I been in such a mad rush to get to the Galini? Hurrying toward serenity doesn’t make any sense.
Crossing a small bridge, I turn left, passing wooden fishing boats painted decorated with strips of cobalt, muted viridian, a rose madder bottom, Indian yellow sides. I’ve left cool Ultramarines and cadmiums back in the ‘States and only have transparent colors with me: Greek light is as pervasive as it its elusive. Observing the various hues mirrored darker on the watery surface, palm frond shadows cutting across the docks like scissors, I could paint at least twenty scenes just walking here. Yet there it is: Galini. I set up my easel on a small wooden dock across from the gate. I start to paint the house tucked among curved pines, cypresses, and flowering shrubs. Small birds hop from branch to branch chirping rather loudly. The breeze is stronger and I have to hold the easel steady. My watch shows it’s already two o’clock. I pack up my supplies and the unfinished painting and return to the dock, the scent of jasmine trailing me at intervals.
“Sorry, not today,” I’m told by the agent when I put my ticket on the counter. “But when will the ferry go to Hydra. I have an appointment there this afternoon,” I say and I feel serenity slipping away. “Maybe tomorrow–only the god knows”, replies the man and I wonder whether he might have said “the gods”.
Figuratively kicking myself for changing my plans and being caught on an island in bad weather again, I get a hotel room. “It’s the first hotel of Poros, built by my grandfather,” the owner informs as I follow him up the stairs to a high-ceilinged room with views of the sea and mountains. I prop the unfinished painting of Galini on the desk: it needs for darks in the foliage, so I play with the paints until I’m satisfied. “Tomorrow I’ll be in Hydra,” I write in my diary before lying down for an afternoon nap.
An hour later, the winds have calmed and the sea has quieted. Refreshed, I head out to explore the island. By the time I stroll back to the harbor, the sun has set and the “sleeping lady”, the shape traced by the profile of a distance mountain, has already turned deep purple. I continue on my walk and it’s only when I pass a sign reading “Fresh Fish” that I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. The taverna is empty of diners but its walls are covered with paintings by Greek and foreign artists. I order grilled red snapper and savor horta.
Back at the hotel, I think the island is not unlike others I’ve visited yet it has something different. But the next day, Poseidon delays my departure again, keeping me on Poros another day. I decide to rent a car to explore the rest of the island and look up its sights–the Monastery, which played an important part in the 1821 independent revolt, ruins of the Temple of Poseidon, where I sit on a large slab to paint as chickens strut around. In the afternoon, I explore the Peloponnese across the narrow strait. I drive as far as Ancient Troezen, stopping at Damalas for coffee. Everywhere I go I make mental notes of places to return. I leave the car in Galatas and cross to Poros in a water taxi; the water is so calm now, I might as well be crossing a pond.
The next day I awake to calm seas. Arriving at Hydra, I look at several nice rental villas and check into a hotel. Panayotis Tetsis, my favorite Greek artist is from Hydra. I read more about the island. I take the hydrofoil to Spetses to see if it’s a good place for painters. I return to Poros on the next boat with my notebook full. I look at some studios for me and for next year’s workshop. I spot a villa covered in jasmine vines and set in a garden full of fruit trees. The ticket agent tells me it’s empty and might be available in the spring; he invites me to join him and some friends–three of the women I’ve met earlier in the shop with their husbands–at a taverna the following night. I’m delighted.
Back in the U.S., I cancel my previous plans. I don’t know if I’m making the right decision but ever since my feet touched Greek soil I feel changed. But I can’t deny I’m in love with Greece and particularly a little island known as o Poros.
It’s been twenty-one years since I moved into the jasmine-covered villa. Some things have changed. I’ve moved into another house and my studio now faces the serene Villa Galini across the bay. My garden gives me pomegranates in winter and lemons around the year. I still travel–and I’ve painted in Provence too. Life on a small island is serene, yet it’s seldom static–there’s always something evolving. And some amazing things have happened to me. The “Trireme Celebration” I painted when a replica of this ancient boat was rowed through the strait was presented to Prince Charles by the Greek government. I’ve always admired the actress Claire Bloom, and lo and behold, she bought a Poros villa for quiet retreats as well as several of my oil paintings.
But will I stay “forever” as I’m sometimes asked. I’m still learning Greek, still painting, still in love with Poros. But to paraphrase Socrates, I know nothing–only the god knows.