The first extract is taken from the book's introduction and the second extract from the story 'The Marias' which was awarded with the first prize in a Greek national literary competition.


In the beginning...photography. And when photography becomes a cause for creation of stories and fiction and it needs to become a written word, it brings about the union of optical-photographic and literary writing. This indissoluble relationship present the twelve stories of the collection «Colourless World». Twelve «photographic» stories, in which the role of the art of photography is not only decorative and referential but also domineering and purpose-built. So that apart from the book's thematic keystone and principal of fiction, it is to become a study for those occupied with photography and the feelings it produces; without neither losing its literary element nor its erotic tone which colours each of these stories in this collection
Of course the style is literary...But it can only be explained as a revelation of those expressive attempts of my photographic writing. Nevertheless the interweaving of the image and the word is always plausible. A thought is expressed because of an image and this image creates writing ( in prose or poetry) from which new images are created for the reader-receiver and in their turn they create new thoughts and so on. There is a perfect co-existence where the one feeds on and is fed by the other, in an endless vicious circle, like the cogs from the infinite gears of this marvelous apparatus the 'mechanical perpetual motion' defined by the physicists at the beginning of the century.
The literary proposal unfolds in a series of ordinary people's stories, realistic as well as imaginary, which are easy to read and without much effort, and have nothing to hide, or to suggest. If they are to become the cause for a different and more direct approach to the inexhaustible and endless world of photography, well then, so much the better.

Extract from "THE MARIAS",(one of the stories of COLOURLESS WORLD )

....... «....For the past few days, all he had been doing was to develop more and more photographs of Maria enjoying her in every captured moment. His tiny, cramped apartment had been swarmed by the several Marias scattered about. Anywhere he would go he found them. On his bed, inside the cupboards, in the kitchen, hanging from the light bulbs, on top of his desk, among the books of his bookcase.... It was impossible for him to walk around his house without stepping on one or having to push her so as to avoid doing so. As the days continued to go by, his obsessive frenzy started to somehow die. The several Marias had overrun his confined space and their constant presence made him feel upset and exasperated. He was no longer moved by the naked Maria's sighs and moans who was calling out for him from his bed. He couldn't go to the kitchen because the three Marias were playing cards, he couldn't go to the bathroom because Maria was complaining about being soaked from the rain, he couldn't open the door and go to the balcony because the gloomy Maria wanted to escape....escape....He could no longer escape from them , he was their captive. He felt as if he was choking.
He was leaning against the wardrobe. 'Maybe if I open the door quickly I'll be able to get inside'. As he opened the door he saw his father's old carbine. He took it in his hands and held it for awhile. There were bullets inside. Then stepping on the three Marias he carefully unlocked the door and started slowly going up the stairs to reach the terrace. The strong sun was blinding him. He brought his hand to his forehead. As he was unshaven and full of sorrow he looked like a prophet who had escaped from a bible. He made sure that the carbine was steady on the rail, closed one eye and aimed. Like the way he used to do when he wanted to capture Maria with his camera. A blond girl was walking light-heartedly carrying a big black bag. Her hips were swaying slightly but steadily. A scarlet red bouquet was left on her back as the bullets hit her a bit higher from her neck...».......

Kostas Kitsos

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