An unexpected meeting with him one Saturday afternoon at his exhibition in Kolonaki left a lasting impression. I was struck by the expansive works adorning the gallery’s left wall. A triptych depicted a procession of figures—bishops, singers, clowns, and many others—standing stoically. In the foreground, two fried eggs sizzled on a stove, with a garlic braid in the backdrop. I must admit, the country sausages whetted my appetite.
An accordionist at the edge of the painting caught my eye, wearing mismatched shoes. Che stile! Sacaillan stood just behind me, though I didn’t recognize him at first. He remarked on my baggy pants, and our conversation swiftly turned to honesty in art and human relationships. “Painting begins where words end,” he added, just as a disruptive visitor interrupted the flow.
Exploring further, I encountered his latest series titled “Les Toits de Paris,” which lent its name to the show. The rooftops of Paris—a glance out the window at the sky, a study of evolving light that travels us into the painter’s dream world. “I’m visiting the City of Light for the first time next week,” I awkwardly confessed, setting up our next meeting upon my return.
Before departing, I revisited the collective portraits, meticulously observing the dynamic mass of subjects in perfect alignment. A choreographed composition. An architecture of bodies on stage reminiscent of George Balanchine’s ballets. Structure and anarchy coexisted, with the figures seemingly watching me in return, curiosity bridging both sides, requiring patience, perseverance, endurance, and tolerance—a visit pushing limits.
For a moment, I thought a viewer might pull out their cell phone and snap a picture of me from up there. I smiled. You never know; some people are sneaky. They judge me from their seat. Are they suffering? They seem to be enjoying it. I do take a lot of pictures myself. I caught up with them! I’m posting some on social media. They’re making a buzz. I step back.
I attempt to study them through my screen. I draw nearer. What exactly have they set their sights on? I strategically focus. Scanning upward, downward, to the right, to the left, and beyond. Spread out kaleidoscopically.Their eyes express playfulness, passion, drowsiness, irritation, surprise, indifference. A spectrum of relationships and dynamics. Their significance is profound. Or is it nothing? I could categorize their traits and present them through infographics. I catch myself counting faces, or perhaps masks? What thoughts occupy their minds? Where do they originate? What attire do they don? Do they all live together? And if so, how do they coexist?
Alongside them stand poultry and goats. Naked and inverted. Humans and animals. A fun fact: collective nouns for groups of animals in English initially served as hunting terms but have since permeated everyday language. While many, like ‘swarm of bees’ and ‘colony of ants’, find common usage in Greek, others such as ‘parliament of owls’ and ‘party of peacocks’ are more fanciful. These poetic designations were inspired by the unique characteristics of each animal, in terms of their behavior, appearance, or habitat, and reflect a particular societal disposition towards them.
I land back in the theater with the viewers. Scattered thoughts. Silence. Whispers. Soft voices, loud ones. Even screams. Are you also on this trip? Ma’am, the bus is leaving. This isn’t just a province. Obsessions. Ideas come and go. Repetition. Yet something lingers. Or nothing? Chinese whispers. Darkness, then an opening. Points of intersection, contact, overlap, slaughter. Their presence carries weight. Substance. Νow. Then? Alone, together. Never again. They move slowly across the canvas, ceaseless, like a game. Whoever stops, loses. They disappear when you’re not looking. They harbor secrets.
I feel like I already know some of them. But we are mere acquaintances, not friends. Others I yearn to know better. Attention, attention. How do you identify yourself? It’s not polite to speculate. Asking is always an option. Just to be sure. I doubt everything. I guess so. Next question. What drives them? Opportunities, pitfalls, news, clients. They witness history unfolding. I like to make stories. Are there any lovers among them? I swear I heard someone pray. Don’t wait any longer; it’s all over since your lips, oh, betrayed me. One final question—who are all these people anyway? They are us, the crowds. We who? The madness!
I’m on the phone with Sacaillan. He sounds both relaxed and alert. He mentions he has plenty of buttons. I inquire about what brings him joy. “I just want to paint. It’s so simple, so silly, so inglorious”, he responds. His practice is his motivation—it’s both his starting point and his vehicle. After all, painting transcends the mere depiction of the world; it’s not without pain. It’s a discovery, a metaphor, a way to relish life. He creates an image that contains both truth and lies, leaning a bit closer to chaos—chaos as a form of freedom.
Before we conclude, he reminds me that his works are vertical, offering a technical tip: the eye’s movement across them should align with this orientation. Intrigued, I seek to learn more. I encounter him in his welcoming home, in the studio, in the sanctuary, in the Wunderkammer. Conversations arise, reach their zenith. I attempt to chart his path. The journey continues.
Sacaillan exudes optimism. As the saying goes, when you’re good, others follow suit, right? Relationships entail risks; not everyone shares the same tastes. Essentially, painting is a solitary endeavor for him. Others become involved later, playing significant roles. He has been painting his life from the outset—his family, his background—a carnival where joy often gives way to a horror show. The sensitive child amid priests, soldiers, macho types, butchers, and many more. He appreciates the aesthetics of decadence and he curses, if needed.
Sacaillan approaches his work with a sense of decorum, night and day, to maintain cohesion and integrity. He seeks a unified whole, where each part is organically interconnected. Recognition is not his aim; he values the journey and self-knowledge. Let’s remember, this is a fusion of biological, social, and cultural elements in constant evolution. Geographically, he straddles one country, dips into another, and conjures an imaginary third. There are certainly other facets of him that remain unknown to me, for now.
Sacaillan embodies nature. Though his work is profoundly anthropocentric, there is undeniable evidence that he is a product of lightning and thunder. Perhaps we are not at the center of the world after all? We are mutable, beautiful beings—miracles, some might say, for we contain the stars. Standing on “Volcano”, a pivotal chapter in his work, I experience a different, extreme creation—a rupture that almost denies his own identity. Or does it strengthen it? I hear the deafening explosion, feel the power of fiery lava and smoke, yet I am unafraid, for the volcano is already a part of me. It is redeeming.
Sacaillan resembles a beast—a spiritual animal in pursuit of freedom, seeking oxygen amidst a daily existence where shadows outnumber the light. Everywhere, there are conflicts, challenges, rejections—a somewhat cursed context where the gears turn at the edges, either extremely slowly or swiftly, losing the sense of infinity. He cannot endure being a clumsy, passive spectator. He breathes. He yearns to devour life, to embrace change, gripping the brush firmly, as if wielding a weapon.
Sacaillan loves (non) humans, collectives, seeking the brotherhood and solidarity of peoples—the vitality that youth infuses. What is its ultimate value? To see the world anew each day with fresh eyes. He paints himself differently, documenting growth, transformation, renewal, beautification, setting the terms of the game. He celebrates, albeit with unsettling tendencies. His true nature is quiet, focused, meditative.
Sacaillan rejects the image, the idol—a true iconoclast. He ponders whether we are polyphonic, but this remains a fantasy, a wish—a skillfully constructed yet false paradise where we all blend into anonymity. Human drama mingles with comedy. We don our masks, members of society, participants in the spectacle, the herds of profound solitude. Since the dawn of time, we’ve wondered: What defines a group? How does one maintain or relinquish individual characteristics within it? When does one’s work stand out? How does one become a leader?
Sacaillan abhors monsters. He refrains from distorting what remains unseen, preferring absence, as his values are sacred. He echoes the same words repeatedly—chaos, freedom, light. He creates with fervor, above all with rhythm—start, stop, start again—a physical feat in a continuous loop. He is undoubtedly crazy. Crazy about painting.
