18 Questions With...
Grigorios Ilaridis

I've been thinking a lot about freedom of expression in a time when public debate feels so intense, not just in art but in society as a whole. Symbols like the fig leaf keep appearing in my work, sometimes transparent, sometimes as a literal mirror. It speaks to hiding and revealing. For me the fig leaf is less about modesty and more about what gets covered, what gets exposed, and who decides. Using it feels like a small push against censorship. Art isn't a single fixed narrative but a space where ideas can be explored freely; at the same time I want my work to be an escape, pieces that carry complexity but still allow moments of wonder and discovery.

I put on music or a podcast. It sets the mood and helps me get into the right headspace to start working.

I’m drawn to exhibition spaces that allow themselves to transform, that don’t impose a fixed identity on the work, but instead adapt to it. At Base-Alpha Gallery, I’ve seen exhibitions so distinct from one another that you’d barely recognize it as the same space. That kind of flexibility and openness gives artists the freedom to really shape the atmosphere around their work, which I deeply value.

Bernini. His small clay studies are insanely powerful—and the fact that he basically reshaped the whole visual language of Rome? I’d love to just watch him work, see how he approached it all.

My most recent purchase that really mattered were flight tickets to Los Angeles. This summer, I explored the Getty's collection thanks to an emerging talent grant from the Flemish government. The trip was deeply inspiring, and I'm still reflecting on how it will feed back into my practice.

People assume galleries are an artist's employer. In reality, they're partners—if I succeed, the gallery succeeds and vice versa. It’s about mutual trust and investment.

One day I’d love to create a public monument, perhaps for my hometown, Dendermonde. Something that honors the city’s heritage but also feels fresh and redefines what a monument can be. A work that invites people to pause, look, and connect with the stories that shape their community.

To just keep going. No one is going to believe in your work more than you do, so you have to back yourself, even when it’s difficult. Strong work will always surface.

Navigating the transition from art school to the professional art world. It’s a different game, and you have to adapt quickly.

There’s this cherry-flavored Greek drink called Amita Vissino. I can't have it often, but when I do it's instant time travel.

Rome. I still remember my first visit to the Vatican Museums. I've been three times now. Standing in front of the Laocoön after the crowds had left, just letting the work sink in, was unforgettable. There's a tension, a drama in that piece that lingers with you. The city is full of moments like that: hidden corners, layers of history, and art that keeps revealing itself the longer you look. It's impossible not to be inspired there.

Clay, hands down. It’s incredibly versatile. You can easily add, remove, reshape—it allows for that constant push and pull in the creative process. Unlike stone or wood, you’re not locked into a single decision, and unlike wax, clay has just the right grip.

That your body is just as important as your work. If you don’t take care of yourself, it has a way of catching up with you.

The ones that stay with me are when people really see the work. When they notice small details or sense the layers of symbolism I've embedded. Knowing that someone feels that depth means more than any surface compliment.

I knew little about the art world until I was 22. I was a year away from finishing a degree in Biotechnology when I made the switch. Starting at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp felt like entering a completely new world. Every art history class pulled back the curtain a bit more—it was like learning a new language.

My first solo show, KΛEOΣ, at Base-Alpha Gallery. Seeing everything I worked months towards come together in that exhibition was a big moment for me.

I'm working on pushing sculpture beyond being a static object—treating it as a kind of living retelling. I'm drawn to how materials can echo and layer, like stories that shift with each retelling. My grant is letting me test new materials that add fresh inflections to that language.

Besides teaching sculpture, which keeps me close to the practice, I’d probably be working with animals in some way. My mom passed that love on to me. Maybe veterinary work, or something in wildlife care. But honestly, I can’t imagine doing anything else. Art feels like home—it’s where everything clicks.