My mother 1983

Chronis Botsoglou's portrait, simply titled "My Mother," is a dance of water and pigment, a whispered memory made visible. The colors, mostly greys and mauves, feel like they're trying to escape the form, dissolving at the edges. Look closely at her hands, folded together. See how the pink bleeds into the surrounding space, almost like a heartbeat fading away. Botsoglou doesn't conceal his process. The drips and splatters are part of the story, as if the portrait is in the process of becoming, or maybe unbecoming. The way the colors blend and separate reminds me of Gerhard Richter’s blurred portraits. This piece feels so vulnerable, so human. It’s not just a picture of his mother, it’s a record of his love, his grief, and the way memory shifts and changes over time. A really moving exploration of the fragility of being.