yannismastoros

Oftentimes, for me, the camera serves as an instrument that facilitates the ceasing of time. It serves both as a piece of machinery that can capture a moment, and a medium through which I can be transported to different stages in my life. My village of Kefalos, in Greece, serves a similar function for me. The juxtaposition of the past and the present is so clearly visible. It captures the perfect imperfectness of the little details in my town, forming the narrative of how I recall the memories of me and my ancestors. This series of fifteen photos serves as a physical manifestation of how I experience time and its intersection with my idea of home.

Kastrí, 2021

It's easy to romanticize youth, but I genuinely believe that my childhood was as romantic as I remember it. This photo conveys this belief. These girls epitomize the friendship and bliss felt between my friends and I, years ago, when our only responsibility was to show up. It was a devout ritual of ours. The freedom and beautifully naive joy we felt is the same that I know, these girls are feeling as they sit on that dock.

Filoxenía, 2021

When I was young, my godfather would take me on his “Kamari Boat” to pick up tourists at the harbor. He would take them fishing near the docks of a remote beach, where he would cook with them, drink with them, and dance with them. He was enchanting; he showed me that hospitality is not bound by language. The memories he gave these strangers—in this boat and on this beach—transcend any barriers he could have had with anyone who climbed aboard.

Treis Fotografíes, 2021

Three pictures in one: The past, the present and the future. The young girl carefree and ankle deep in the ocean, the diver throwing the fish trap back onto the boat, and the older man absorbing the stillness of the afternoon. Three generations, three pictures, one family.

Ónia, 2021

My cousins, Kosta and Veno, always dreamt of playing in the NBA. Growing up, my neighbor, cousins, and I would spend our summers playing basketball in the parking lot by my grandmother’s summer house. One year when the backboard broke, we replaced it with one we made out of wood, just like the one in this photo. This basketball hoop is a material vacuum of time, preserving our childhood and our dreams.

Vasilikós, 2021

Within this photo, the juxtaposition of the antiquated elements of my village and the commercially imported goods embody the reluctant modernization I feel every time I’m home. Time is tactile in my village—the old terracotta vases sitting next to plastic reproductions, the aluminum doors and windows serving as an entryway to an archaic building. The depleting demand for craftsmanship leaves me feeling nostalgic and fearful of commercialization. What if these antiquities become obsolete? There is both beauty and mourning in modernization.

Kathréftis, 2021

This painting was in my living room growing up. When I went back to my now-abandoned childhood home, I felt the urge to take a photo of it. It felt important. On the wall adjacent to it, is a two-hundred year old mirror that was passed down to my mother from my great grandmother. When I developed this photo, I saw the reflection of the mirror in my print. The mirror may not be visible, but it is present.

Pétros, 2021

When I was younger, my dad would take me on adventures in the mountains of Kefalos. They would always start on this path, but we never knew where we would end up. Whether or not I was aware of it back then, this path prepared me for my journey to the United States. This road is an exposition, an introduction, a foundation.

Theodósis Fourtoúnis, 2021

When I was around ten, I would start my summer days by picking up stale bread that was thrown out at the mini market by my house. I’d take the bread, my fishing pole, and a bucket to this harbor where I would sit alone and fish. This practice allowed me to feel independent and free; in hindsight, this habit of exercising my independence was one of the best parts of my childhood. When I recently went back to this harbor, I saw my late grandfather’s boat being repaired behind the grey car. I made so many memories on that fishing boat. My grandfather and I would prepare lures, put together small meals that got us through the day and go on fishing trips. He passed away in that boat—the proudest way for him to go.

Áspri Pétra, 2021

Every winter, my father took my brother, cousins, and I to this cave known as “White Rock.” We’d bring hot dogs and pick seasonal berries along the way. I remember lighting bonfires and roasting the hot dogs on skewers we crafted from branches of the bushes nearby. Every time I bring people back to Kefalos, I feel the need to bring them to this cave. The memories made here by me and the generations before me are palpable in this ancient cave—it’s almost magic.

Mantíli, 2021

I have such a distinct memory of my mother wrapping thin fabric around her waist every time we went to the beach when I was a child. When I went back this summer, Lotta took the Drake’s scarf I’d packed from New York, wrapped it around her waist, and carried my old diving mask and Barcelona towel on our walk to the beach. All of these elements coming together in this one image is a personification of my journey through the years—from Kefalos to New York, from childhood to adulthood.

Strofí, 2021

When our new neighbor moved into the house next door to my grandparents’ hotel, they blocked the path that created the fastest route to the beach. My family hated that fence and decided to allow the seasonal flowers along the edge to overwhelm the blocked path. Ultimately, my family’s refusal to groom these flowers cultivated something beautiful.

Avgá, 2021

Whenever I’m back in Kefalos, the first thing my grandmother asks me when I wake up is, “Do you want eggs?” A warm “Good morning” always comes after. In New York, I mimicked this practice. “Coffee?” always came before “How are you?” My grandmother’s breakfast always consists of bacon and eggs from the village, and Spanakopita and Tyropita from our local bakery. The avocados and pour over with oat milk are things I bring to the table.