In the picture 'Four deities,' one had to travel to his star, but three remained on Hydra for a while since both the painting and the divine statue are gone, probably sold and now living elsewhere. If I could write an email to Michael today, it would go something like this.

Ciao Michael,

Michael, your sudden departure has left a void that cannot be filled. I regret not being able to share one more coffee in your studio, to hear about your past winter's endeavour, and to read your next book about fascinating encounters. Your absence is deeply felt.

It is too easy to wish you rest in peace. I don't think that is what you intend to do on your bright star. I'll bet you have chosen Pollux because of its orange hue. Good choice! It goes well with many of your watercolours. You will, of course, continue your vital work and experiment with new styles and complexions. In your interpretation, you will make more statues like the ones we documented the other year, as the classic Greek goddess.

In eternity, you will have all the time not given on earth, filling paper and canvasses. The good thing is that you left a frail body on earth and let your strong spirit carry on unhindered.

Your art is not just well-represented all over Hydra; it is celebrated. Your life-affirming watercolours hang here and everywhere, bringing sunshine to even the greyest, wintry days. You would have been delighted by the retrospective exhibition that Dina and the Museum opened the other day. The large room breathes precisely the light and colours that were so typical of you. It is impossible not to be uplifted when you step into the room, even in your absence. You could not even dream of the catalogue they made. One hundred fifteen pages with a fantastic selection of your works, including watercolours, paintings, and statues. You can be proud on your star.

If anyone counts your brushes in the studio you left, they will probably notice that some of your favourite ones are missing. You brought them with you, which is wise and typical of you.

That said, Michael, please don't rest in peace, but go on and let people from other cultures and periods enjoy your work in eternity. We, your friends and admirers, should not be heartbroken but excited over the challenge waiting for you among the stars. Just imagine. People with empty walls populate billions of stars. I am sure you will be fully busy fulfilling their demand. Your work will continue to inspire and captivate, transcending time and culture.

See you down the road,
Jorgen

Some years ago, I was with Michael to help him photograph some of his latest sculptures that he wanted to market internationally. He felt like a prisoner on Hydra, unable to meet the right audience, those who visited the significant galleries on the grand streets of New York, London, and Paris, those with big money. Visitors to his studio on Hydra were many, but most bought nothing; they were visiting the island, and their holiday budget was limited. Additionally, luggage restrictions limited spontaneous purchases. A small watercolour in a roll was fine, but none of his larger paintings. Admiring his paintings and having exciting discussions doesn't feed the cat, which could occasionally irritate him. He wanted to be seen as an artist, not a tourist attraction. Rightfully so. We always had these kinds of discussions, but today, we slipped into talking about goddesses. The reason was one of the sculptures, a beautiful woman with a loincloth as her only garment and her arms raised to the sky, one holding a sun disk in her hand.

Michael was unsure who she was; he had various inspirations in mind when he created her during the winter. Grace Kelly or Ariadne. He leaned more towards the latter. Michael gave a brief lecture about Ariadne. She was the daughter of King Minos and Queen Pasiphaë, making her a princess of Crete. Minos's palace in Knossos is sometimes called the "dancing ground of Ariadne." When Theseus came to Crete to kill the Minotaur, Ariadne fell in love with him and gave him a ball of twine to help him navigate the Labyrinth. Ariadne and Theseus left Crete together, but he later abandoned her on the island of Naxos, where she was saved by Dionysus, whom she married. Her wedding wreath was placed in the heavens as the constellation Corona Borealis. Diadem or sun disk, a star is a sun, so it became a disk.

We worked for a few hours; I photographed, and Michael moved and turned the sculpture so that the girl, whatever her name, would be shown to her best advantage. During a break with a cup of tea, the discussions came up again. Who was the woman? I thought she resembled a goddess, an idea that intrigued Michael a bit.

The revealing factor appeared a little later when we had started working again, and it was a painting on the wall of a gracefully resting monochrome woman, covered only by a towel over her hips. The girl posed in a way that reminded me of the shape of the island Dokos, which in turn looked like a reclining woman lazily lying on her side between the Peloponnese and Hydra's southwestern tip. Queen, I used to call her, the reclining Queen of Dokos. Or maybe she was a goddess.

"Definitely a goddess," Michael said firmly.

"So, who could she be?" I prodded, sparking a lively debate about the goddess's identity.

"Hestia," Michael suggested.

"Hestia, beautiful but unsexy," I objected. "I can't imagine her lying like that."

"Why not?" Michael had inexplicably latched onto her.

"Hestia was the kindest and most nurturing among the goddesses. A mother with a capital 'M'. She was the Greek goddess of the hearth and home, a gentle Hestia epitomised the warmth and comfort of domestic life."

"I don't want to scandalise an honourable woman in one of my watercolours. Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Demeter, maybe. Wasn't she a lush woman?" I liked the word "lush," I thought the swelling hills on Dokos facing Hydra looked a bit like that.

"That's probably the kindest thing you can say about Demeter," Michael said, laughing. "A real farmwife, I would say. She was often depicted as a nurturing and motherly figure with a serene and gentle beauty. Being the goddess of harvest and grain, she was highly regarded in ancient Greece. I believe she was the daughter of Kronos, a prominent Titan. No, I don't want to offend the goddess of agriculture," Michael laughed.

"Aphrodite, or Venus as the Romans call her, is overused, right?"

"Definitely. Besides, she should be standing on a seashell with her chest exposed, surrounded by wind and spring."

"Athena was said to be a stately woman."

"Certainly stately, but I have a hard time imagining her lounging like that. She always had a helmet on her head and was ready to go to battle. My painting doesn't depict a warrior."

"What about her mother, Hera, the Queen of Gods? According to legends, she was a gorgeous woman."

"Not my type either, George. In ancient Greek religion, Hera, Zeus's wife, was the goddess of marriage, women, and family and the protector of women during childbirth. Also, she is not the type to stretch out on a divan with all her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to take care of. I need a real beauty," Michael chuckled.

"Nemesis," I said, though I realised she was wrong, exciting and dangerous, no 'donna' if you see what I mean.

"A dangerous woman to make an enemy of," Michael said grimly. "Nemesis personifies divine retribution against those who commit Hubris, arrogance before the Gods. She represents righteous anger due to enactment or divine vengeance. Let's skip her."

"What about Hebe, the youngest daughter of Zeus and Hera? She was considered a real beauty."

"In ancient Greece, she was often given the epithet Ganymeda, the goddess of youth or the prime of life. She functioned as the cupbearer for the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus, serving their nectar and ambrosia, the gods' intoxicants, their drugs. She could fit. The woman in my painting looks a bit tipsy." Michael laughed at his joke.

"Wasn't she often disguised as an eagle?"

"Yes, and often depicted in art both in ancient times and later. Right?"

"Unfortunately, I'm not looking for someone common in my painting. So, Hebe also ends up on the scrap heap of art history," Michael sighed, rejecting another common choice.

"The beauty cupboard is starting to run dry," I said, shaking my head.

"Helen!" Michael said thoughtfully. "Helen of Troy, a woman who stirred many desires. Helen was considered the most beautiful mortal woman during the Age of Heroes. She was the daughter of Zeus and Leda."

"Leda, the one with the swan?"

"Exactly."

"She really caused trouble. When she eloped with Paris, a prince of Troy, the whole Greek world plunged into the Trojan War. And she indirectly sent Odysseus on his wanderings. She was the Cleopatra of her time, using the bed as a weapon. But Helen wasn't a goddess."

"She is now," Michael said firmly. And so his reclining woman personified the island of Dokos and the reclining divinity in Michael's painting—Helen of Troy, a goddess in her own right, a figure of divine beauty and power.

At that moment, the four deities coalesced into a flash, growing into a picture. The picture was already in front of me—four deities in the same image, a moment of inspiration.

The newly appointed goddess in Michael's painting, the statue of Ariadne, also elevated to a goddess in Michael's world, and then the artist himself, a true divinity, and outside the open window Hydra with the sunlit Kamini, a divine view in the background. Three deities are reflected in the glass of the painting, protecting the fourth. I raised my camera and took the picture you see above. The moment captured lasted maybe two seconds because, in the next moment, Michael straightened his back and removed his hands from the statue he had adjusted.

"Ariadne is definitely a goddess. Just look at her posture. Only a goddess can carry herself like that," Michael said, signalling that I could take some pictures from the new angle.

"I'll do it 'Meraki'," I said. "Just like you with your art."

"Sorry? Meraki?"

"Meraki means to do something with passion, absolute devotion, and undivided attention. As I understand it, it's a verb or adverb, a Modern Greek word derived from the Turkish 'Merak,' meaning 'Labor of love,' to do something with pleasure and is applied to tasks, usually creative or artistic tasks, but can be applied to any task at all."

"Then I do everything, Meraki," Michael said, his passion for his art evident in his every word and action, leaving no doubt about his commitment and dedication to his craft.