Some Thoughts About My Work

"Working on philosophy—much like in architecture—is ultimately about working on oneself. On one’s own perception. On how one sees things. (And what one wants from them)."

The reason behind my own work remains something of a blind spot. Perhaps because speaking about one’s own practice is entirely different from actually doing it. When I enter my studio, I usually know what needs to be done. Certain conditions must be in place: I need to show up regularly. My mind must be free from everyday concerns (is that even possible?). But ultimately, there is always something waiting there, demanding attention. Decisions must be made. And just as often, they must be reversed when a particular direction proves fleeting. Doubt is my constant companion—of that much, I am sure.

It is easier for me to articulate what I do not want: namely, to begin with a predetermined concept or content. My radical self-limitation to paper and graphite as my sole means of expression can perhaps be seen as a response to this absence of fixed content. The material poses the questions; I attempt to answer. I attune myself to it, trying to let it speak in all its nuances. This may echo the artistic discourse of the 1950s and 60s, but I firmly believe that certain artistic values are timeless. One such value is the recognition that a work of art consists of its material, and that the artist's task is to make that material speak in a unique way. Of course, one might also argue the reverse—that the material itself compels the artist to speak. If that were true, the artist might ultimately speak of the impossibility of creating new images. While this question is valid, I will set it aside for now.

Alongside my studio practice, I read and write—as I am doing now (though I am also well-versed in the art of doing nothing). I do so in search of clarity, or at least to better understand my own contradictions. Because, in truth, artistic work is also a process of self-exploration and a confrontation with the present moment in which one exists. I would describe myself as a political person, though I do not see my work as a direct political statement. Or perhaps it is—in a subtle way, much like Bartleby’s quiet yet radical refusal within the heart of Wall Street.

A kind of background noise accompanies my work—the hum of the present, the rush of daily life, the unfolding of events both personal and global. This extends to past occurrences as well as those we can only imagine. Yet I do not seek to comment on these events through my work. Instead, my practice allows me to step back. Perhaps it is a form of meditation, though not one of escapism—an attempt to remain grounded, a strategy to resist the pervasive demand for productivity and utility. But perhaps, paradoxically, my work is also an attempt to lose myself completely—to shed my own identity, my personal needs, and internal compulsions.

For me, there is no sense in competing with reality. Art confronts reality—it does not replicate but rather creates distance. That, for me, is the value of my artistic practice: that it stands in opposition to real-world events, rather than merely reflecting them. I favor a quiet, wordless art. I feel at ease when I sense the horizon expanding, when time feels boundless. At the same time, I see my work as a counterpoint to the overwhelming flood of images in contemporary life, which often diverts us from deeper existential questions.

My work is both a conversation partner and a patient listener—but also a mirror, revealing what is amiss. It unsettles me when something feels wrong, making me restless and dissatisfied. It teaches me that clarity only emerges through transformation. My work is, first and foremost, a process of thinking—a dialogue between paper, graphite, my hands, and my tools. Secondly, it is a reflection in space and a confrontation with the other.

It is difficult for me to speak directly about my work. Art communicates in a secret language. Embedded in my work are echoes of a childhood by the sea, fleeting moments of joy. There is an impulse to look inward and push beyond. A longing to be completely free—fully present in the moment, entirely with oneself and the world. But how can one truly speak of such things?


* “Die Arbeit an der Philosophie ist - wie vielfach die Arbeit in der Architektur eigentlich mehr die Arbeit an einem selbst. An der eignen Auffassung. Daran, wie man die Dinge sieht. (Und was man von ihnen verlangt).”quoted after Ludwig Wittgenstein. Mixed remarks. A selection from the estate. Edited by Georg Henrik von Wright with collaboration by Heikki Nyman. New edition of the text by Alois Pichler. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1994, p. 52.






Construction and Mimesis

A key characteristic of contemporary art is its tendency to derive its own rules from the specific engagement with a particular material and to establish new standards based on the internal logic that emerges from this process. Adorno refers to this as construction, meaning the way in which an artwork is made. In this context, the material and its treatment play a crucial role—it is not merely a passive medium for artistic expression but is also shaped by its historical use in art and cultural history. This historical usage reflects ideological and societal concepts that define the relationship between the artist and the material.

This becomes particularly evident in the history of music: the tonal material undergoes a historical development that can be roughly divided into different epochs. Each period—Renaissance, Baroque, Enlightenment, Modernism—utilizes the same fundamental material in a unique way, shaped by the prevailing worldviews of the time. The same applies to the visual arts: while in earlier periods, materials were often subjected to strict formal rules to comply with aesthetic ideals, modernity has fundamentally altered the relationship between artists and their materials.

Adorno’s concept of construction acknowledges this transformation. For him, a successful construction in an artwork can only emerge if it mimetically adapts to the underlying sensory impulses of both the subject and the material. Here, mimesis does not mean mere imitation but rather a sensitive attunement to the inherent tendencies of the material, without subjecting it to dominant formal constraints. This process is characterized by what Adorno describes as a “renunciation of the authoritarian gesture towards the material” and a “consistent turning towards its intrinsic properties.”

According to Adorno, this suspension of the authoritarian stance towards materials becomes one of the defining features of modern art. Instead of domination, mimesis takes center stage—an intuitive, process-oriented approach that respects the material and acknowledges its own internal logic. For Adorno, this approach holds a utopian dimension: art becomes an expression of hope for a society liberated from instrumental reason, in which both nature and humanity are no longer subjected to pure utilitarian logic. In this sense, art does not merely refer to itself but points toward a possible future beyond the dominance of technical rationality.






Leon Manoloudakis’ Artistic Practice: Key Features

While various media and their hybrids are expanding in our reality, it is primarily the interplay of two materials that has shaped Leon Manoloudakis' artistic practice for years, culminating in a growing body of work. On the one hand, dark graphite—a crystalline structure composed of natural carbon. On the other, light-colored paper—a breathing cellulose structure that binds oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon.

In classical drawing, the combination of these two components has been a fundamental part of cultural history for centuries. However, Manoloudakis departs from this tradition by capturing graphite and paper as primary elements in their respective material properties, examining their essence, and innovatively interlocking them. Through this fundamental research, the usual limits of the medium are stretched and expanded. While graphite presents itself as a crystalline powder of varying hardness, grain size, color, and gloss intensity, paper offers a sensitive composite of cells, functioning as a carrier of traces and expression, with different grammages, textures, porosities, and colors.

A closer look at Manoloudakis' work reveals several distinct features, some of which are highlighted here. Graphite is often used as a self-ground powder, which is wiped and swept over the paper in layers, penetrating the deep structure of the material and forming intense black sediments. On finer paper, these graphite layers develop a closed, opaque, metallic-lead sheen. At the same time, the graphite powder creates a wafer-thin, smoky layer of dust—highly sensitive and capable of recording every mechanical trace. In addition to the pencil, the eraser plays a crucial role: like an archaeological tool in a search for traces, it removes or disrupts the applied layers, revealing underlying surfaces in a way that makes them appear "painted." Frequently, these erased areas are covered again with graphite powder, standing out against the first layer. The effect of this iterative process is a pictorial space graded into subtly distinguishable gray values, from deep black anthracite to fine light gray, often resembling archaic landscapes or heavily underexposed photographs. A striking feature is that the erasure mark—usually invisible—is brought to the foreground by the dark background, becoming a significant carrier of expression. This is particularly evident where erasure marks cut through the dark pictorial space like horizon lines or wave crests.

In other works, Manoloudakis manipulates oversized sheets of paper by folding, tearing, cutting, and reassembling them like collages, following a systematic approach that deliberately balances controlled action and chance. In these works, the paper is pushed to the limits of its durability, with tears creating bright traces on the tectonic surfaces, resembling wounds. Consequently, the works evoke the image of a churning sea or a jagged mountain landscape. At the same time, they suggest associations with unnatural deformation processes caused by external forces, such as the crumpled bodywork of a car after an accident or the burnt-out wreckage of a destroyed tank or airplane.

As a result, Manoloudakis' works resist easy categorization. On the one hand, the emptiness of the image can be interpreted as a deliberate refusal to tie the content to concrete observation. Nothing is explicitly depicted; rather, the pictorial elements themselves are staged as the subject. The works reveal their fundamental essence: they engage with the basics of drawing—pencil, eraser, graphite, and paper. Yet, it is precisely at this juncture that the works evoke numerous memories and emotions stored in the viewer’s mind through their carefully considered and accentuated use of pictorial means. Confronting us with a profound emptiness, Manoloudakis' works offer a space for contemplation amidst an overwhelming flood of media stimuli.






The World in Which We Live: A Short Essay on the Possibilities of the Sublime

Kant argued that we construct the world according to our own ideas. Our perception is inherently subjective, clouded by imagination and limited intellect. True objectivity is beyond our reach. What surpasses all measures is the sublime par excellence. In contemplating the sublime, we confront our own limitations. For Kant, the sublime is not found in objects themselves but in the mental state they evoke. He writes:

"Thus the vast ocean outraged by storms cannot be called sublime. Its sight is ghastly; and one must already have filled the mind with many ideas if it is to be tuned by such a sight to a feeling which is itself sublime."*

According to Kant, man recognizes his powerlessness in the face of the infinite sea. However, he counters nature’s supremacy with the realization that while he may be physically insignificant, his consciousness, his "sublimity of destiny," remains unaffected. This transcendence of sensual limitations defines Kant’s approach to the sublime. The advancements of modern science testify to this realization.

This process is central to Adorno and Horkheimer’s critique of culture. In Dialectic of Enlightenment, they show how Kant’s ideal of reason has degenerated into an instrument of domination. They describe this as "instrumental reason," where knowledge serves control rather than enlightenment. While Adorno criticizes Kant’s implicit hierarchy, he acknowledges that Kant at least recognized man as part of nature. Adorno refers to this as man’s "naturalness" (Naturhaftigkeit).**

Adorno seeks to detach the sublime from the subject’s claim to dominance. For him, the sublime brings about a necessary catharsis: it reveals that man is merely a fragment of nature while also freeing him from self-centeredness. This theme underlies Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory, where he explores how art can liberate individuals from their rigid selves and open them to the unknown.

The French philosopher Lyotard also sees the sublime as central to contemporary art, particularly abstraction. Building on Adorno, he defines the sublime as a realm where the unrepresentable, the incommunicable, and the irrational find space. Crucially, he does not seek to represent the unrepresentable but to expose the inadequacy of representation itself. Works of art in this tradition suggest something precisely by not depicting it. Meaning arises in the mind of the viewer. This interpretation of the sublime sheds the grandiosity of earlier notions, moving beyond the absolute, the beautiful, and the great to engage with what rationalization has repressed.***

However, one may question whether abstraction still functions in this way. Once a radical rejection of representation, abstraction has become a stylistic convention, largely stripped of its avant-garde potential. If abstraction makes any general statement today, it is that of emptiness and superficiality. What was once a refusal of imagery to highlight the unseen or transcendent is now a mainstream aesthetic, pleasing but detached from its origins.

If abstraction is to maintain significance beyond its exchange value in the art market, it must resist historical amnesia. Instead of nostalgic references to modernist avant-gardes, it must engage contemporary realities. Its power lies in bridging what is and what is yet to come. It must illuminate the darkness.

We do not need more images—we need fewer but better ones. Images that resist forgetfulness, challenge perception, and reject complacency. Art should provoke, disturb, and question. A century ago, the empty canvas was a source of horror. Today, we have accepted this void. What does this say about us?

Artists do not live in ivory towers. Since the Enlightenment, our world has been in perpetual crisis, culminating in climate catastrophe and the totalizing logic of late capitalism—precisely the process Adorno and Horkheimer described. The planet itself has become hostage to instrumental reason.

For me, as a visual artist, consciously engaging with the sublime means confronting these conditions. Not as a nostalgic return to past formulations, nor as mere illustration, but as an attempt to rupture the stagnation of our social reality. Political leaders repeatedly insist "there is no alternative," perpetuating inertia. The unfinishable potentials of the sublime might offer a space where resistance can emerge, where new possibilities can be imagined.

Art is an instrument of enlightenment. It does not exist to please but to awaken. The sublime remains relevant because it frees us from selective perception and destructive self-centeredness, revealing that reality itself is already breaking through the fractures of our media-constructed world.


* Immanuel Kant: Kritik der Urteilskraft - Kapitel 32, Zweites Buch:Analytik des Erhabenen:  “ So kann der weite, durch Stürme empörte Ozean nicht erhaben genannt werden. Sein Anblick ist gräßlich; und man muss das Gemüt schon mit mancherlei Ideen angefüllt haben, wenn es durch eine solche Anschauung zu einem Gefühl gestimmt werden soll, welches selbst erhaben ist.”

** „Weniger wird der Geist, wie Kant es möchte, vor der Natur seiner eigenen Superiorität gewahr als seiner Naturhaftigkeit. Dieser Augenblick bewegt das Subjekt vorm Erhabenen zum Weinen. Eingedenken der Natur löst den Trotz seiner Selbstsetzung: »Die Träne quillt, die Erde hat mich wieder!« Darin tritt das Ich, geistig, aus der Gefangenschaft in sich selbst heraus.“ Theodor W. Adorno:Ästhetische Theorie.Gesammelte Schriften, Band 7, Frankfurt am Main 1970, S. 410.

*** Wolfgang Welsch, Ästhetisches Denken, Die Geburt der postmodernen Philosophie, d) Experiment, Reclam 1990 , Seite 90-91







Horizontal and Vertical

In his 1917 essay Malerei, Graphik, Zeichen, Mal, Walter Benjamin distinguishes drawing from painting by defining drawing through the presence of a line against a background. The surface, then, becomes a map, making drawing a medium that is read horizontally. Painting, on the other hand, is characterized by layered surfaces that create a sense of depth and must therefore be viewed vertically, like a window.

Following this interpretation, my work exists in a gray zone between drawing and painting. Although I use the light tools of drawing—pencil, graphite, eraser, and paper—one essential characteristic of drawing is often absent: the line. My work lies in-between, allowing it to engage with both media while remaining distinct from either. According to Benjamin’s framework, it can be read both horizontally and vertically.

Graphite is not merely a writing or drawing material in my practice; I also employ it as a finely ground pigment. My process is layered and iterative: I apply graphite dust to paper by hand and with a broom, building up varying shades of gray from light to deep black. Often, a monochrome black graphite surface serves as the starting point for further intervention. Using an eraser, I remove or reveal areas, a process that can be repeated multiple times across different works. Like a photographic long exposure, traces of the working process accumulate. The reflective quality of graphite means that the surfaces change depending on the incidence of light and the viewer’s perspective, appearing simultaneously dark and luminous.

Why, then, do I refer to my work as drawing when it could just as easily be classified as painting—or as neither?

Drawing is my artistic foundation. I am fascinated by its provisional nature: it embodies a layout, an idea, a proposal, a sketch. It mediates between imagination and reality, past and future. Walter Benjamin saw the contrast between graphic line and background as not only visual but also metaphysical. Art historian Norman Bryson describes the background in drawing as "perceptually present, conceptually absent."* Similarly, John Locke likened the white paper to the very essence of consciousness: "Let us then suppose the Mind to be, as we say, white Paper, void of all Characters, without any Ideas; How comes it to be furnished?"**

Few other media create such a direct connection between thought and action, between virtuality and materiality. The paper’s surface is an inexhaustible space of possibilities—it embodies pure becoming. Unlike painting, which often aims for completion and a fixed statement, drawing remains open-ended. It is a medium of exploration, allowing ideas to emerge, transform, and dissolve. This openness is crucial to my practice, as it resists closure and embraces ambiguity. The act of drawing—layering, erasing, revealing—mirrors the way thought itself unfolds, never fully fixed, always subject to revision. In this way, my work does not seek to define, but rather to question and engage with the ephemeral nature of perception and creation


* Painting, or Signs and Marks , Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, 1: 1913–1926, Walter Benjamin, Edited by Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings,  Belknap Press, 2004, „Die graphische Linie ist durch den Gegensatz zur Fläche bestimmt; dieser Gegensatz hat bei ihr nicht etwa nur visuelle sondern metaphysische Bedeutung. ... Die graphische Linie bezeichnet die Fläche und bestimmt damit diese, indem sie sich als ihren Untergrund zuordnet. Umgekehrt gibt es auch eine graphische Linie nur auf diesem Untergrunde, so dass beispielsweise eine Zeichnung, die ihren Untergrund restlos bedecken würde, aufhören würde, eine solche zu sein...“


***A Walk for a Walk´s Sake, Norman Bryson, in “The Stage of Drawing: Gestures and Act”, (London and New York: Tate Publishing and The Drawing Center, 2003), 151

*** An Essay concerning Human Understanding, John Locke. Hg. Peter H. Nidditch. Clarendon, Oxford 1975






“This order is not as fixed as it pretends to be; no thing, no ego, no form, no principle is certain, everything is in a state of invisible but never resting change, there is more of the future in the unsolid than in the solid, and the present is nothing but a hypothesis beyond which one has not yet progressed.”*


* Robert Musil's "The Man Without Qualities". „Diese Ordnung ist nicht so fest, wie sie sich gibt; kein Ding, kein Ich, keine Form, kein Grundsatz sind sicher, alles ist in einer unsichtbaren, aber niemals ruhenden Wandlung begriffen, im Unfesten liegt mehr von der Zukunft, als im Festen, und die Gegenwart ist nichts als eine Hypothese, über die man noch nicht hinausgekommen ist.“



 


“It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. Much later, when he was able to think about the things that happened to him, he would conclude that nothing was real except chance. But that was much later. In the beginning, there was simply the event and its consequences. Whether it might have turned out differently, or whether it was all predetermined with the first word that came from the stranger´s mouth, is not the question. The question is the story itself, and whether or not it means something is not for the story to tell.”*

*”City of Glass”, Paul Auster: Sun & Moon Press, Los Angeles, 1985.