Vasilios Papaioannu

Vasilios Papaioannu uses film to slow things down. His images are quiet and careful, often shifting between places, memories, or moods without needing to explain. He works across formats—16mm, Super 8, HD—and lets the texture of each speak for itself. What we see and hear feels personal, like something held onto for just long enough to be shared.

In “A Poem,” a woman sits alone in a parking garage, recording a voice message. Outside, the city moves, but the focus stays on her—still, thoughtful, waiting. The film connects that moment with shots of the sea, the sky, the road. He often follows in-between moments, when time feels stretched and attention becomes sharper. Small gestures carry weight, and the viewer is invited to slow down with them.

Still 2 - A Poem

Still 3- A Poem

Q: What made you choose a parking garage as the place to reflect on nature and grief?

A: The parking garage is a space of transition, a pause between destinations. In "A Poem", the character lingers there just long enough to send a voice message, caught, like the space itself, between movement and rest.

Q: You use both 16mm and HD. What makes you reach for one format over the other?

A: In "A Poem", I depict mental images. But what do mental images look like? They can be grainy and chaotic, like a 16mm film, or crisp and precise, like high-definition video. But they can also be more than that, fleeting like shadows, vivid like the brightest colors, or muted like a faded photograph. They might rush forward with the speed of thought or slow down, lingering like memories. Mental images can be anything: black and white, colorful, abstract, or sharply defined, constantly shifting with the rhythm of the mind. I adapt various technologies to reflect these shifting inner visions.

Still 4- A Poem

Still 5 - A Poem

Q: You say sound represents the present and image the past. How did that idea come about?

A: The sound flows without interruption, continuous, anchoring us firmly in the present moment. In contrast, the image is heavily edited, fractured, and disjointed, resisting any organic flow. It evokes memories or fleeting glimpses of a distant future—anything but the immediate now.

Q: Nature appears as a kind of escape in your work. Does it still feel that way to you?

A: Always.

Q: What keeps you returning to the tension between natural and built environments?

A: The contrast I return to is between nature and culture—culture as anything shaped by human hands, and nature as the untouched, wild realm free from our intervention. It’s like two worlds existing side by side, yet speaking different languages. Nature feels almost sacred; its presence is holy precisely because the hand of man is absent. There is an undeniable magic in nature, while culture holds its own enigmatic mystery. I am drawn to this tension in "A Poem": the harsh metallic clang of pipes deep within an underground garage, echoing against the tranquil breath of an open field bathed in quiet light.

Q: Do you think your films are more about getting somewhere or staying still?

A: Both. "A Poem" embodies sonic stillness alongside visual motion. In my films, the camera roams freely while the microphones remain still, letting the images drift as the sound stays grounded.