Lantinou presents What Remains When the Tide Goes Out, the artist's first solo exhibition with the gallery, featuring intervened photographs and objects that integrate the photographs into his new body of work, inspired by nature, the sea and contemplation.

Some images are meant to hang on walls. Others don’t just cling to the mind — they seek to imprint themselves on the skin. These are not images to be looked at, but to be crossed through. Like stepping into the surf without knowing whether you're coming in or going out of yourself.

Here, photography is not about documenting. It’s a trace — like salt that clings to everything that enters the sea. Skin, stone, wood, sand, paint, light: surfaces are not only seen — they’re felt. They vibrate. They resist. They hold on, just enough. The pieces are suspended, framed by light and wood, contained within their own outlines. They seem to hold a moment before dissolving entirely. And still, everything moves — the sky, the weathered stone, the waves, the image itself.

There’s a quiet intuition pulsing beneath each piece. A story not told, but sensed. A narrative that begins at sea, tries to cling to every inch of skin, and expands in the gaze of the viewer. What we see is never complete.
Each image calls us in — not to explain, but to relate. A story left unspoken, yet present. In the salty surfaces, the repetition of textures, the painterly line cutting across the horizon — something is stirred. Like a wave making its way in, searching for a gesture through which it might finally emerge. What once looked like a landscape becomes a reflection. We are part of it. Part of that resistance shaped by time.

But not everything is visible. Something is missing. Someone is missing. And in that absence, a space opens — one we can inhabit. Like driftwood that has lived in the sea: denser, firmer, less vulnerable. Saltwater has changed its fibers, stripped the excess, and strengthened its core. What could have broken, persists. As if the sea didn’t wear things down, but tempered them.

Like skin toughened by the coastal wind. Like a river paused in time, yet not still — its current gone, but its shape intact. A trace between what once was and what can barely be sensed. Images that ask for time, for attention. That invite us to look differently. To listen to the water when it stops moving. To notice what the tide leaves behind.

This exhibition brings together a series of works where the photographic gesture flows through a shared current. In black and white and in color, the images move between the atmospheric and the intimate — open skies, mineral textures, bodies folding like waves. Some have been intervened with paint, as if insisting on defining what the camera cannot reach. Others incorporate plastic objects collected from the shore — fragments of a landscape that is also debris. The lightbox pieces seem to hold suspended motion, scenes still vibrating from within, landscapes still breathing. In contrast, the wooden-framed pieces turn inward: views of the human body that stretch the horizon toward the self — a territory also shaped by erosion.

Luis Manuel Perea