From an early age, I embarked on my cinephile journey with the aim of entering as deeply as possible into the world of cinema as a viewer. I still continue to research and explore as a devoted cinephile. An exploration that never ends.

I made short films and worked alongside Pantelis Voulgaris and Giorgos Karypidis, but it was only when I was given the opportunity to become a member of the team behind Paraskinio, ERT's legendary documentary series, in 2000, that I understood the significance of the other side, beyond fiction.

Most people naturally know me as a director who makes documentaries.

Having made approximately 400 documentaries so far, however, I have come to realize that the differences and similarities between the two genres can be considerable, while at the same time being almost nonexistent.

Many times, when making documentaries, without altering or falsifying reality, I have had to adopt mechanisms of fiction, because the people, the groups and even public space itself often function as actors, attempting to convey their own, highly subjective truth—in other words, a truth that borders on fiction.

And then you may use techniques, perhaps psychological maneuvers, in order to locate reality.

Conversely, in fiction, there comes a moment when, beyond the preparation, rehearsals and everything else you have worked out together with actors and collaborators, you have to seize truth as a product of reality. Of chance, that is. Of the moment. Of improvisation that unexpectedly led somewhere else. Or of the unforeseen. The unexpected is what both documentary and fiction ultimately seek.

One of the most interesting relationships between fiction and documentary, or reality, emerges through Luchino Visconti and his masterpiece The Leopard, in 1963. The American representative of the company that had undertaken the film's distribution outside Europe, thereby making its production possible because of its enormous budget, asked Visconti why the set designers' assistants needed to place authentic silver, gold and all kinds of expensive and rare objects inside buffets and drawers—objects that the viewer would never see.

The great filmmaker restrained his quick temper and replied that if someone—an actor, a technician, or even an extra actor —opened a drawer and saw an imitation, everything would be lost. Everything would be meaningless.

I think that if I had not become so deeply involved with documentary, my fiction films would have been poorer. Documentary empowers you to find the solution on the spot.

Essentially, I consider myself a portraitist. Whether through documentary or fiction, I always focus on the human being. Not on ideological, activist, theoretical, historical or topical issues. I make films about the reality of the human being. Having made documentaries since 2000 and fiction since 1996, I have now realized that reality, in the sense of authenticity, exists in both genres, despite the differences in their processes.

I love the genre of documentary, which is like second nature to me. My role as an unofficial Keeper of Memory, something I became conscious of from a very young age, found its fullest expression in my involvement with documentary. It is my natural territory, and in this way I was able to delve deeper—drawing primarily on my experience with Paraskinio — into the three areas that constitute my main field of reference: cultural, historical and sports documentaries.

Nevertheless, I have always believed, and continue to believe, that fiction is the area in which I am most creative. Perhaps because documentary has certain boundaries associated with the existence of real people, not characters written on paper, with their real lives and sensitive personal information, which cannot be ignored when one is pursuing truth. Fiction, therefore, offers a greater field of freedom.

I will continue, as long as I am healthy, making the documentaries I love so much. But now that I have completed my third feature-length fiction film, Mahi, I am eagerly preparing for the next one, entitled Rafaela. The screenplay is already complete, while my mind is already wandering toward the film I would like to make after that, which I have been systematically working on for years. If I make that film, it will be completely different from anything else I have done and may be the best.

It is precisely what I mentioned above—the longing, that is—which drives me toward fiction more than anything else.

And now, as the years pass, I want to honor this longing I feel, which I had put aside for years because of making a living, debts from the independent fiction films I make, and all the other difficulties that have come my way.

If, before I stop or leave this life, I am able to complete five or six fiction films in total, at the level I aspire to, I will be a happy and fulfilled person.