OF SEA & STONE: PRAXITELES TZANOULINOS
Inspired by his roots in Tinos, sculptor Praxiteles Tzanoulinos creates sea-themed works drawn from shells and coastal fragments, shaping sculptures that reflect the slow processes of erosion and time along the Aegean shore.
PORTES EDITOR:
Could you recall for us how you felt having completed your very first sculpture?
PRAXITELES TZANOULINOS:
What I remember most is a sense of ambivalence. On the one hand, there was the joy that something had been completed, that a piece of matter had taken shape through my hands. On the other hand, there was also a strong sense of what I had failed to achieve. Every first work—and perhaps every work in general—carries this dual experience: what was realized and what remained unfulfilled. It is as if a path opens before you, while at the same time you realize how long that path truly is. Perhaps that was also the moment when the need to continue was born within me. Because sculpture never ends with a single work. It is an ongoing effort to approach something that constantly escapes you, yet keeps you alive.
Looking back, what moment inspired you to pursue sculpture?
I cannot say exactly when it began—since very early childhood. The environment on the island where I grew up, Tinos, was always favorable to such a path. The road was already there. I simply walked it. Along that road, at every difficult step, my family supported me greatly, as did the scholarship I received from the Panhellenic Holy Foundation of Evangelistria of Tinos for my studies at the Athens School of Fine Arts.
Throughout your career, have people compared you to Praxiteles, the sculptor of antiquity?
Of course. Many people assume that I have become conceited and that “Praxiteles” is a pseudonym. The truth is that this was my grandfather’s name. He fought in Ioannina in 1912. I listened to his stories about the battles as though they were fairy tales. His name was given by German philhellene archaeologists who visited the Church of Panagia in Tinos in 1888 on their way to Delos. To be a sculptor and carry this name is difficult. Fortunately, I have grown used to it over the years.
In three words, describe your art.
Journey. Encounter. Search.
The sea is not simply a landscape. It is an inner experience in constant transformation. I will speak of the open sea, of our Aegean, of the powerful winds, the storms that carve the cliffs with tremendous force and mercilessly give them their form, with great shadows, holes, dark recesses, and intense points of light.
You come from one of the most beautiful islands in Greece, Tinos. What is your relationship with the sea?
Yes, I was born in Falatados, a mountain village on Tinos. My family home was one of the few houses overlooking the sea, toward the bay of Livada in the east. A small opening, far away between the barren mountains, revealed a glimpse of blue. And whenever a ship passed by, my grandmother would call out, “come see the ship passing by!” A tiny white dot would cross that little blue opening. That was my great longing—to see the sea.
And perhaps this later led me, when I was able, to build a small studio and home in the Vrekastro area of Tinos, facing Delos and Mykonos. One thing led to another. There we lived with my wife and our children. The piano also arrived, played by my wife, the distinguished pianist Maria Eirinaiou, who sadly left us too early. She often practiced and performed the music of Claude Debussy, whom she loved deeply. Thus, the dialogue between the wind, the sea, and the music gave rhythm to our lives.
The sea is one of the most timeless symbols of Greek civilization. How has it influenced your sculptural language?
The sea has always inspired us and continues to do so. The sea created Cycladic civilization, with its figurines unique in the world—forms simple yet profoundly essential. It gave birth to the Kouroi of Naxos, Delos, the goddess Aphrodite, the Odyssey, Homer, Odysseus, and Saint Nicholas. It is not merely a landscape, but memory, movement, and perpetual transition. Its light, its fluidity, its strength and calm together have shaped an entire way of seeing the world. This timeless presence and dominance through the centuries cannot exclude our own era. It continues to influence us, shape us, and pass—almost invisibly—into contemporary creation.
Is there a specific seascape or experience in Greece that serves as a source of inspiration for you?
The sea is not simply a landscape. It is an inner experience in constant transformation. I will speak of the open sea, of our Aegean, of the powerful winds, the storms that carve the cliffs with tremendous force and mercilessly give them their form, with great shadows, holes, dark recesses, and intense points of light. There one sees the power of time and nature working ceaselessly, like an invisible sculptor transforming matter. These images do not remain only in the eye. They pass through you and become memory, sensation, experience. Looking at all this, I think it is both hell and paradise together, much like our fleeting lives, filled with contrasts, intensity, and light.
How do you seek to express humanity’s relationship with the sea through your sculptures?
The sea always rekindles memories and sensations that bind us deeply to life. In sculpture, this cannot happen theoretically; the entire experience must be transformed, pass through the hand, and acquire material form. Countless shapes from pebbles, broken shells, and so many other things reveal themselves to me during walks by the sea. They have rhythm, they have colors, and one feels they contain within them an eternal, cosmic music of the waves. These forms, small and humble, carry a wisdom of nature that is difficult to describe. I try, as much as I can, to preserve something of this in my works—not to copy it, but to convey it as sensation, rhythm, and memory. In this way, the encounter becomes for each of us a unique relationship, deeply human, almost existential.
Many sculptors speak of their work as a process of “sculpting time.” Do you see a connection between this process and the way the sea shapes the landscape?
There is a strange fascination in witnessing the contact between sea and land. For millions of years one has touched the other, sometimes tenderly and sometimes violently. Then the sea becomes a ruthless sculptor of rocks. Within this constant alternation, a beauty is born that contains both destruction and serenity. Forms change, erode, and are reborn, and within this process time itself is revealed. It is impossible for all this not to affect a sculptor. It is as though you are witnessing the process of sculpture on a cosmic scale. This experience penetrates our temporary existence and, in a silent way, becomes incorporated into the work together with time.
The sea always rekindles memories and sensations that bind us deeply to life. In sculpture, this cannot happen theoretically; the entire experience must be transformed, pass through the hand, and acquire material form.
As both a student and close friend of Yannis Pappas, what influence has he had on your artistic philosophy?
Yannis Pappas was a model teacher to whom I owe a great deal. As Jean-Paul Sartre clearly said, “We are alone, unforgivably alone,” and yet his presence surpassed the boundaries of death. There remains a presence in absence. Even today, when I work, I sense him watching me and I hear his words: “Sculpture requires devotion, patience, and honesty. It is not something done easily or hastily, but a process that demands time and perseverance.” He was a man who worked with respect for both the material and the human being, and that was a profoundly important lesson for me.
At what moment in the creative process do you feel that the work finds its flow?
At a certain point, I feel the work begins to move on its own. You no longer force it. You follow it. It is a delicate moment, when the form has already been discovered within the material and slowly begins to reveal itself. That is when the “flow” emerges—when the effort becomes quieter, more internal, and the dialogue with the material acquires a natural rhythm. Then I feel that the work finds its path, and I simply accompany it until completion. Of course, to reach that point, deep exploration and interpretation have already taken place.
