Today marks two years since the Tempi train collision in Greece. The collision, which happened on 28 February 2023, resulted in the deaths of 57 people and left many others injured. This tragic incident shook the country, sparking calls for justice and change. Artit spoke with Greek artists who created works inspired by the tragedy, using their art to express grief, resilience, and remembrance.

In an open conversation with the tragic event, Pavlos Liaretidis created "28/02/23", a three-part relief sculpture named after specific seconds in time 23:21:17, 23:21:18, 23:21:19 - marking the unfolding explosion that defined the tragedy. 

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Pavlos, in response to the Tempi tragedy, you created the deeply moving three-part work, “28/02/23,” where each part is named after a specific second in time: 23:21:17, 23:21:18, and 23:21:19. What significance do these precise timestamps hold in the narrative of the artwork, and how did you decide to focus on these fleeting moments of time? 

The individual titles and visual inspiration for this project come from a video released in the days following the accident. As I was in the U.S. at the time, the internet was my only source of Greek news. Like many others, I watched on my phone this CCTV security video that was captured in a gas station located a few kilometers from the crash site. The footage is almost entirely dark, with only the timestamp moving—until 23:21:17, when the first spark of light appears in the depths of the image. In the next few seconds, at 23:21:18 and 23:21:19, the explosion begins to unfold, engulfing the night. 

This experience also ties into my broader artistic practice, where I often explore how people receive and process information, particularly when distanced from events and reliant on digital devices. These elusive moments became important to me and were imprinted in my mind, shaping both the titles and the composition of my piece. The explosive horizon depicted in my work reflects this sequence: it begins subtly on the left plaque and progressively expands in an aggressive manner towards the third, reinforcing the visual and chronological fragmentation of a moment that changed everything…

During the tragedy, you were far from Greece and experienced the event and its aftermath from a distance. How did this physical separation, combined with your emotional connection to the tragedy, shape your approach to creating “28/02/23”? 

The distance undeniably shaped my experience of the tragedy—not necessarily in terms of visual language, but profoundly in the way I approached my studio practice. At the time, I was working on an entirely different project, but the day after the accident, I put everything else on hold to focus solely on this piece.

What compelled me to create 28/02/23 was a deep, personal need to connect with the people in Greece—to express my compassion, solidarity and sorrow. These initial emotions influenced not only my working methods but also the urgency behind the piece. However, when the work is presented, it stands on its own, independent of my personal process, allowing the audience to engage with it through their own lens and emotions.

Did a project like this, responding directly to a societal theme, feel like a natural extension of your work, or did it mark a shift towards more socially or politically engaged art? 

In a way, my work has always been related with societal themes, to social issues, perhaps not in such a direct manner. Previously, I explored human-centered existential and social ideas in a broader sense. However, with 28/02/23 I deeply immersed myself in a work tied to a specific place, time, and group of people—responding to an event with immediacy and personal urgency. Looking back, I see this piece as a turning point. Since then, a significant part of my practice has shifted toward addressing political, environmental, and societal issues more directly, particularly those affecting places where I have lived, like Greece and the U.S. That said, I don’t adhere strictly to this approach, allowing my practice to remain fluid and responsive rather than formulaic. 

Art often delves into what words cannot fully capture. Were there any specific emotions or messages you found particularly difficult to express through this piece, and how did you navigate those challenges? 

I see art as a form of language—something one can be taught, not necessarily to “speak” but at least to be capable of “listening/ reading” and understanding the artwork. While emotions are involved in the creation of a work of art, they are not always the primary element I want to convey to the viewer. Sometimes, they serve merely as an unconscious force guiding the creation of the work, without necessarily being present in the final result. With 28/02/23, however, my intention was very clear from the beginning. The material selection, composition, dimensions, and overall structure were all deliberate choices—each carrying symbolic weight and functioning as a means of communication beyond words. Yet, art and exhibitions do not follow a singular structure. Where and when a piece is shown, what else coexists in the space, the presence of other artists, the historical context of the location, curatorial texts, or accompanying artist statements—all of these factors influence how open a work is to interpretation. Ultimately, this piece invites viewers to engage with it on their own terms, drawing their own readings and emotions from it. I navigate the emotions and messages I wish to express primarily through material selection and their interplay. Materials carry histories and embedded meanings, which, when framed within a specific composition, reveal their symbolic significance. For instance, plaster—a material commonly used in medicine to heal broken bones—undergoes a transformation known as the “curing process” when it hardens from liquid to solid. On 28/02/23, plaster metaphorically represents people healing through grief. However, the metal elements I embedded within it—unintentionally “wounding” its surface—react with the water during this process, causing rust to form over time. Even after the plaster has fully cured, the oxidation leaves behind permanent marks, much like the lingering scars of loss and memory.

This project holds a unique place in your artistic timeline. Looking back, how has it impacted your artistic journey and perhaps redefined your purpose or voice as an artist? 

This piece will always hold a significant place in my artistic journey, not only because of its role in my career but because of the profound impact the tragedy had on me—an experience that will stay with me, much like the permanent marks the metal left on the plaster over time. In this way, the work itself serves as a history holder, carrying the weight of remembrance and loss. The structure of 28/02/23 was carefully conceived to reinforce this idea. The triptych relief, with its segmented yet continuous form, recalls an ancient frieze, an architectural element used throughout history to preserve memory, narrate events, and communicate to the public. Much like friezes found in classical architecture, which were placed high on a wall to be viewed collectively, my piece is created as a horizontal sequence of fragmented moments—three distinct yet interconnected plaques that form a continuous visual and symbolic horizon. The depth, texture, and relief of the surface enhance this connection, resembling weathered stone carvings that hold historical weight over time. By embedding materials that change and oxidize, the piece carries its own evolving history, much like ancient structures that bear the marks of time and exposure. This physicality directly informs the conceptual intent. I wanted the work to function as a carrier of memory, creating a space both physically and mentally for reflection, remembrance, and dialogue. Through 28/02/23, I came to understand the power of art to connect people, to express emotions, and to give form to what words often cannot

fully capture. It marked a pivotal shift in my practice, leading me to engage more directly with social and political issues affecting specific communities and helping me further develop my artistic voice.

As we approach two years since the Tempi tragedy, do you envision a larger collective art movement forming to address and reflect on this event, or do you believe individual artistic responses are more impactful?

I strongly believe that both collectivism and individualism have their strengths, and artists should strategically leverage each approach to maximize their impact. Tempi could serve as a foundation for a movement or collective of contemporary Greek artists - one that not only reflects on this tragedy, but also addresses broader issues of our generation and society in Greece. Such a collective could eventually welcome artists and creative thinkers from around the world whose work aligns with these principles. More than just a platform for artistic reflection, this could become a space where diverse voices can be heard and where art actively resists conservative ideologies that seek to silence, censor, or shadow-ban creative expression.There is a wealth of emerging Greek artists whose voices deserve greater visibility, and the Greek visual arts scene, while deeply rooted in history, must evolve with contemporary minds to stay relevant in the ever-changing global art landscape. By fostering dialogue, resistance, and innovation, a movement like this could ensure that Greek contemporary art not only endures but thrives as a force for social and cultural change. 

New details about the tragedy continue to emerge. Does this ongoing process influence you as an artist to create follow-up pieces, or do you feel that “28/02/23” stands on its own as a complete statement? 

Unfortunately, this tragedy remains unresolved in a fair and just way, and the sheer volume of new information emerging daily could provide an artist with material for a lifetime. I haven’t stopped thinking about or creating work in response to this event. The summer after the tragedy, while briefly visiting Greece, I created 28/02/23 No.2—another wall-based triptych relief, similar in composition and materiality to the first. However, the emotions driving this piece were entirely different. Being in Greece, surrounded by the weight of collective grief and new revelations, deeply affected me. Time had also shifted my perspective—grief isn’t static, and neither was my response to it. As a result, 28/02/23 No.2 became a much more aggressive, heavy, sharp, and coarse work, embodying the raw intensity of anger and sorrow. In February 2024, a year after the accident, I created an edition of 20 lithographs (with 2 APs) on paper entitled IC62 x 63503. Now, two years later, with new evidence and revelations painstakingly unearthed, I am developing a new series of works on paper, which I plan to exhibit later this year. While 28/02/23 stands as a complete statement on its own, my engagement with this tragedy is ongoing. The evolving narrative continues to shape my artistic response, and I feel an obligation to bear witness through my work.

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As the tragedy of Tempi continues to unfold in public consciousness, Pavlos’ evolving body of work serves as both a personal and communal act of witness. His practice has shifted toward a deeper engagement with societal issues, yet remains fluid, resisting rigid definitions. Two years on, the echoes of 28/02/23 still resonate—not just in Pavlos’ art, but in the broader conversation about justice, memory, and the responsibility of art to bear witness.