A beneficiary and a debtor, or an occupied plot filled with Houses of Endurance.

The structure keeps its secrets well. It catapults the ignorance of essence and moves gracefully through a chaotic stillness. Think in contradictions and create prolonged transgressions. One said.

The building is our home, where truths of a fractured self collide, melding into a white, fluid mass of a persistently noisy silence. It is me. It is my head—my head that holds everything and nothing, drifting through the idea of space, forever beneath the oppressive weight of an immense, unseen hand. This hand existed before, the hand that pointed, that judged. Now, the hand of pressure, but also the hand of resistance, of counterforce, of power. The great hand above my head is painfully strange and deeply compelling. Oppressive yet protective -it is the eyed hand guiding art through the winding paths of self -deception, like the sarcophagus I created, which holds within it all of time, place, and landscape, and hovers in the memory of denial. And to all these I say yes. I will continue to forge my own paths and they will be shine bright.

The structure was destined to shelter all sins, all thoughts, all longings. It carries memories, recollections of a secret life. A life that packed its burdens onto a broken crossing, silently marking the unfolding of a fragile utopia. It boasts a courtyard, where blooms and lush greens refuse to fade. There exists a quiet force that moves us forward, to tend, to hope, to withstand. It is the dwelling of endurance.

White heads within white walls, in their houses. Houses of ill repute. Houses of endurance. Tightly sealed in their polystyrene prisons, or forged from hardened plaster, bound together with screws, forming a vast sculptural shrine. Protagonists in a house that brazenly dispenses guilt. A guilt they feel, yet they endure.

I am a beneficiary. But who says I am a debtor? One said. You ought to defend the values of your house. A building that balances on a foundation laid by others. Still, you strive to make it stronger. The finest concrete molds into boots you wear. Boots fit for walking, not for running. No rush in your steps, only steady pace. You blend potholes with gardens. Polyester with plaster. Customs and traditions that came before. Always driven forward by the morals you uphold, while the harsh substance of reality demands endurance.

Leonidas Papadopoulos, through his sculptural narrative, weaves together memories and experiences, continuing an organic story he began many years ago. In his fourth solo exhibition, he takes us on a journey from the past to the present, delicately balancing on a utopian artistic tight rope. His house of endurance stands as a symbol of survival and devotion.

Art is a dream. It lives within white houses of endurance, tolerance, and guilt—and it persists. Because above all, art is life, the only thing that consumes its own flesh without dying.

Leonidas is here. Like you and me, he is both beneficiary and debtor. As are we all. Let us take advantage.

Angie Karatza* July 2025

Angie Karatza is a visual artist and much more. For ten years, she was in charge of Art at the children’s newspaper “The Explorers Go Everywhere”, until one day, quite suddenly, that unique newspaper was discontinued. She has the privilege of holding no doctoral degrees but considers herself a researcher, persistently and obsessively exploring the power of art and thus, of life. She writes only through automatic writing, poetically. She has known Leonidas since he was 18, back when she was 27 and happened to be his teacher. Since then, they have been friends—debtors and beneficiaries alike.