The Village I Thought Would Always Be There

I grew up loving Koufopoulo, a small village near Andritsaina. It was close enough to feel permanent: I could always return next time, stay longer next time, pay proper attention next time. Proximity tells a very convincing lie.

The archive says I spent quite a bit of time there. Memory says I should have spent more. Both are probably right.

In 2012 I photographed everything: old houses, roofs held down with stones, water coming through the wall, ruined buildings being swallowed by plants, the moon, the mountains and the light changing over the valley. I was already trying to preserve the place before admitting that this was what I was doing.

The water, the trees and the stone gave Koufopoulo its rhythm. Even the neglected parts belonged to it. A wall could be collapsing and still look as if it had found the correct place to do so.

Years later I returned to the same lanes and houses with a different life attached to me. The stone was still there. So was the shade. Apparently even nostalgia has Wi-Fi now.

Around 2012, poor decisions and too much concrete also changed parts of the place, and people fought over it. I remember the conflict as clearly as some of the views. Familiar places keep moving while we are elsewhere.

I have not been back for years. Koufopoulo is still there. The unlimited supply of later was the thing I invented.