Glyn Hughes 1931 - 2014

345 Today, would you say that you are basically a painter? Looking back, I would say that I’m a painter. Cyprus made me a painter. I think it is the island that created me, I consider myself a Cypriot painter. For me, my relationship with the place was decisive. I may be sitting in a coffee house and be getting along fine with everyone without, nevertheless, talking a word [of Greek]. And I’m good with words in English. I get along well with everyone, I have never had problems. What is your first impression of Cyprus? I painted St. Hilarion. I used to hop on the bus with my canvas then and when the British army stopped the bus for a search, they were astonished: “What are you doing here?!” Perhaps it was really naive on my part. Later, I rented a room in Asomatos, where I felt somewhat more secure and at weekends I went there to paint. Did you go on painting landscapes? Yes, but when there was a problem, I turned to abstraction. Immediately after the disturbances in Kioneli [a truly horrible time], I came back to abstraction. Of course, I did abstract art in London also, inspired by Jackson Pollock – why not after all? However, during the unfortunate events in Kioneli, we were all under house arrest and I began to paint an abstract work – a very good work, to be precise. It was a good work, not only because it was born during the intense situation related to Kioneli, but also because it had to do with my own problems. I had realised my difficult role –that perhaps I was a homosexual– and this thought led to abstraction right away. But how does this relate to the situation in Kioneli? This is a good question. Well, while I was painting “Kioneli”, a girl named Sheila told me a story about an acquaintance of hers. “Glyn”, she came up to me and said, “you know, so and so was entangled in a strange affair.” She said: “A friend of ours had met a very beautiful girl, they went out on a date, but when he began kissing her, he realised she was a man!” The guy killed the man, who was dressed as a woman, and Sheila knew the murderer! After having this conversation, I started to paint frantically. Of course, it had nothing to do with what was happening in Kioneli... but this story made me see things from a distance while simultaneously feeling they were very close to me. I could only imagine what it was like for these people, but at the same time I deeply sympathised with them. It was, in any case, a frighteningly violent situation and I will never forgive the British for that. Never. Perhaps those were not so tolerant times? In Britain things were very difficult and strict. I had friends who went to prison without having done anything, simply because they had been seen together. In the Middle East, things were much more relaxed. I will never forget when sometime in 1974 –I worked as a film critic for a newspaper– I saw two Greek soldiers coming out of the cinema holding hands. Nobody said anything; I even wrote about it in the newspaper, as I recall, this is how much I was impressed. So, somehow I did not feel socially cut off in Cyprus. Of course, I was not that much active; I painted, though,