I. Origins

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I was born and raised in Greece, in a coastal town called Patras on the west Peloponnese. With a brief gap in Milan for an exchange programme, I lived most of my life in Greece. I moved to London in 2017, at age 22, where I live to this day.

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My father is from Kazakhstan, and my mother's family are Armenian; whilst she was born in Uzbekistan. So whilst I have no Greek blood, and if you ask me where I am from the accurate answer would be everywhere and nowhere, I feel very much Greek in spirit, and in every way that a culture can instil into one's soul. This isn't how I felt growing up, as I was very much aware of my differences and didn't have the confidence to claim my own experience. I feel lucky to have so many cultures in me, and to connect with all of them in different ways. After moving away and getting to deconstruct and reconstruct my identity through a more understanding lens, I was able to clearly see those parts of my psyche that fully belong to Greece. And now, I can recognise those intricate, invisible qualities when I see them in others too.

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II. The Frequency

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Last weekend I met someone from Greece on the Overground in London — I have a dog, so the Overground for me is a social hub. A couple stopped to pet him, and one of them said, 'you must get this all the time.' I told them I liked it, because otherwise no-one ever talks to each other. The other smiled and asked me: 'where do you think the friendliest people in Europe live?' I said Greece —  mostly because I recognised their partner's aura and wanted to acknowledge our connection. They pointed to their partner. I acted surprised. What am I referring to, you may wonder. 

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I am talking about an energy; the way people of a specific region tend to experience life and connect with others and the world in similar ways. In the Mediterranean context, I feel it's eyes that look inside your soul and are waiting to hear back from yours.  

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The Greek word φιλότιμο is fascinating and, of course, untranslatable — so prepare for its essence to be lost in translation. It combines philos = friend and timi = honour. Together, they encompass a deep sense of duty to do what is considered right — mostly for the common good — even at personal cost: a generosity and selflessness towards others, simply put, doing good. A different kind of currency, if you wish. And whilst we are all learning that we are supposed to fill our own cup first before giving to others, admittedly nowadays we often reach the far end of that spectrum.

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There is a responsibility that comes with teaching — and being taught — something; to receive it fully, and to carry it forward. But there is also something that happens when a group of people commit to building something genuinely difficult together; a larger-scale sculpture demands that you expand towards one another, offer and receive help in a way that dissolves the edges of your own ego and enter a state of real exchange. That dissolution, that quality of presence, is the state I aspire for us to reach during this masterclass, and the one I hope we all carry with us after its passing.

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III. Athens

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So for the past nine years I have been returning to Greece — all summers and often in between — in search of that frequency of life which, to me, feels like an antidote to a lot of what feels heavy in the world today. A way of being in connection with oneself and others. A return to the spirit that exists in all of us — a core that is universal and only needs the right environment in which to unravel itself, and for us to reconnect with its power.

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In Athens the earth feels magnetic — a pull that grounds your feet and soul deep into the ground. There, I feel part of a lineage that has been in movement since ancient times, similarly to how I feel about being part of the ceramics community. Once you arrive, you are destined to be absorbed into it: through people's conversations on the street, the precious first coffee of the morning, the working buzz, quieter afternoons where the city holds its breath, and a sunset hour that prepares you for the night — which in Athens feels like a separate day altogether; the smell of jasmine in the evening air, the sound of a distant table of voices carrying across a rooftop, the specific quality of light as it leaves the Acropolis and spreads itself slowly across the city below. A force of life absorbs everyone in it.

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IV. The Invitation

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I invite you to a place that has formed me, and consequently my practice, more than any other. We will spend four mornings together, expanding into large-scale coiling, discussing creative processes and everything in between. Then you will have the rest of the day to explore the joys of life in Athens.

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As always, I can't predict what this experience brings for you personally. I know that the city has a way of nourishing — a slower rhythm, vibrancy in human exchange, and a sense that you are part of something much older and larger than all of us individually.

I suggest you extend your time with the islands — before or after. September sits in that rare in-between: the warmth is still generous, the light is golden and the places themselves have quietened down from the tourist season.