Un inger...

...a zburat si a trecut. Dincolo de portile inseninate, unde timpul nu cunoaste masura, ne vom revedea candva. Pana atunci va fi in fiecare zambet si in fiecare imbratisare a zarilor mangaiate de razele zilelor.

Uncovering the eons with bare hands

Hands fill our senses with space and shape, with the unseen, with the untouchable. They reach oneself out on to the others, bring shivers of feelings through the skin, the veins, down to the bones and up to one's mind and heart. They give never to ask back and receive only to remember when in solitude. They are the portrait that one's looking for in all arts. They are art. Hands feel, treasure and unveil time's writings as it flows through.

from the album Sultana Malul Rosu 2010 - A bridge over millenniums

A bridge over milleniums

Vacation is over and done, yet this comes with a sense of fulfillment and no regrets. I've been away on a more or less unexpected trip to a place that sits around and above other worlds and where the river of time is stuck somewhere around 6000 years before us. And there I had the honor of being part of a wonderful team of dedicated people that have built with the bare hands a bridge over this river. Which reminds me of what I was told when I was a kid: 'In life, one is really fulfilled when one planted a tree, built a house and started a family.'

A glimpse into the story that's about to take shape:

Sands of May

Remember that short story about that Romanian most east-southern place where you can find the almost perfect mixture of past, present and future? Well, while digging these days in the stash because of the 1st of May, this nice excuse for hitting the road and heading toward Dobrogea or the seaside and having good fun, I stumbled upon some other reasons for which setting camp on the sand and enjoying the Vama Veche spirit was really worth it.

Of cats and dogs in Bucharest

Bucharest is today full of cats and dogs. That's because it is raining cats and dogs. But it's not that typical summer rain which brings a bit of freshness in the boiling air and rises mist while the feet enjoy a brief relief in the coolness of the grass (i think I've seen this in a commercial, so no original picture here, unfortunately). Don't you miss that already?!...summer rain and puffy clouds? Oh, and the flashes from above.
Yes, I know...there's no cats, nor dogs in the photo. :)

Late hours of an afternoon #2

Invitatie la Salonul Fotografic de Primavara 2010 - Calarasi

Miercuri, 17 martie, ora 13.30, va avea loc in foaierul Consiliului Judetean Calarasi vernisajul expozitiei de fotografie Salonul Fotografic de Primavara 2010. Expozitia este organizata de catre pasionati ai domeniului, Florin Radulescu, Razvan Eremia, Emanuel Tanase si Razvan Clondir, sub patroajul Muzeul Dunarii de Jos Calarasi. In cadrul manifestarii expun: Alecu Daniela, Ceausu Valentin, Cercel Dolores, Clondir Razvan, Constantin Simona, Craciun Corina Elena, Enache Marcian, Eremia Razvan, Florescu Andrei, Grosu Andrei, Juvina Ion Radu, Marinescu Alexandra, Micut Istrate Ilie, Musat Bogdan, Radu Alexandra, Raducanu Laurentiu, Radulescu Florin, Tanase Emanuel, Tudor Daniel. Expozitia va putea fi vizitata in perioada 17 martie - 8 aprilie.

Tinerii expozanti si organizatorii va asteapta la deschiderea expozitiei cu promisiunea unui parcurs vizual impresionant, desfasurat in peste 70 de imagini cu tema libera, in format mare.

"In lumina unei lentile stranii, nu stim ce resort declanseaza incremenirea. Vedem doar asternutul de fibra in luciu de apa si miros de fluide secrete"

 Organizatorii

Pentru detalii suplimentare:

Razvan Clondir: 0722353629

Florin Radulescu: 0745561121

Razvan Eremia: 0744661362

Arenamedia.ro

Late hours of an afternoon

Clearing woods

Location: The Retezat Mountains Natural Park, Romania, September 2008

Fishermen's realm

Music by Vangelis - Song of the Seas


With thoughts for the year pointing toward uncharted lands, I found myself remembering a place. One between so many others where one can find the almost perfect mixture of past, present and future. This is Vama Veche. An old settlement on the most Southern Romanian shores of the Black Sea, refuge from the mundane and trendy trends, heart of folk and rock music with all that a bohemian life implies . Or at least it used to be and this is what makes it the almost perfect mixture. Nowadays, hopefully at least half of its soul survives the frantic flow of modern city life. So happens that one can still have a glimpse of the ever sailing boats of fishermen, whom ignore the sounds of the city people, and set sail in a never ending quest for conquering the seas.
I wish their existence does not come true in the entirety of Walt Whitman's song of the seas and that it finds favorable wind to sail within the quoted lyrics.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
Lyrics by Walt Whitman from 'O Captain! My Captain!'




Location: Vama Veche, Romania, June 2008

Sleigh-riding joy while waiting for Santa

Mozart - Symphony 1 in E flat Allegro Molto


It's almost Christmas and it's that part of the year when most childhood remembrances come to life in a joyful hasty flow. Most of them, for which I am most grateful, are still a live reality of every Christmas. I therefore find very suitable Mozart's Symphony.

Morning of Christmas Eve brought the waking up to another level. Lovely smells, escaping from the kitchen, were surrounding every inch of every room. Then running around and changing clothes to rush out the door and meet friends with their sleighs. The kids council exchanging wishes that we'd like to come true after Santa had visited each and everyone of us. Then riding again for hours just to come back home all wet and frozen, candid smiling at mom and dad. After warming up, it was time to decorate the lovely tree. Success seemed so far away, usually depending on how much I grew in height during the year. Then came that important moment when writing was most serious and the whole world depended on it: writing a letter to that mysterious old man in which a list of wishes was put together with the list of personal good deeds of the year. Next, falling asleep in a hidden corner of the house while trying to catch a glimpse of the beloved Santa, the next day surprise and rush when opening presents right under the tree whose smell I was so in love with, not knowing why my parents were having the time of their life looking at me. Later came the gathering of the whole family at the Christmas dinner and the smell of all those delicious Romanian delicacies. Then going out and bragging about the presents together with all other kids, issuing and arguing on different hypothesis on how Santa got in our homes without us seeing him. And only afterward, last but not least, riding again our sleighs that underwent some kind of personal fine touch tuning during the year (of course made by our dads)...or, in some cases, simply riding our own clothes downhill only to fearlessly endure the cold and wetness for hours of laughter.

This year I am thinking of writing to Santa again, after so many years. How about you do it too?

Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas to you all! I'll be seeing you next year.

Caragiale. The (ex-)communists. The tormented citizen. The elections.

T w e n t y years lacking o n e month apart, I get the shivers.

O n e H u n d r e d T w e n t y F i v e years ago, on Friday the 13th of November, the Bucharest National Theater hosted a major success. For the first time, the comedy entitled A lost letter (O scrisoare pierduta - ro.) met face to face with its public, the Romanian people. It was to find its place among the most renowned Romanian works of literature, whereas its creator, Ion Luca Caragiale, found his among the greatest Romanian minds. A vivid mirror of the moment's political struggle, corruption and moral petty theft, the depicted characters and events have been haunting us ever since, but lately they've been more than ever in the bone marrow of the society. Caragiale is either laughing at us or he is ashamed and deeply disappointed. I do all three. I wouldn't be amazed if he does so, too.

Closing in even more, as stated in the very beginning, we find ourselves t w e n t y years lacking o n e month apart from the social movement which, at the origin, some call it la révolution and others call it coup d'état (December 1989). History (people) won't tell. Sadly enough though, we are not far from Caragiale's characters, either. Au contraire. One might see a mixture of it with ex-communist structures still in place. The Romanian people would love to think that communists are a distant memory. Some have probably come to believe it. Whereas some are reluctant to close that eye and come to terms with that chapter. Some things are apparently not completely dealt with.

I believe time will take us on the right path. But this will happen only if one takes responsibility and chooses not to embrace ignorance. I would love to prove wrong the following wisdom quotes:

'Ignorance is bliss'

'A people has the leaders it deserves'

There is a song which is known by most of the people that were at least 6 or 7 years old at the time of the recent event. I could not load it, but I can show you, dear reader, the path to it and to its lyrics (in Romanian) - song and lyrics. I believe those lyrics have the same meaning if sang today as they used to have t w e n t y years lacking o n e month ago. Thank you Caragiale. Thank you Valeriu Sterian. For not letting us forget.

Unfortunately, Caragiale's tormented citizen is still asking himself as you're reading:

"Eu cu cine votez?" stands for "Whom do I cast my vote for?"

Location: Bucharest, Romania, 21st of November 2009

Avatars of Minstrel #2

Location: Sibiu, Romania, September 2009

Avatars of Minstrel #1

Music by Vivaldi - Winter in Fa minor, Largo


Somewhere, on the corner of a street, there's a a lost fragment of a long forgotten silence. The city's tremors and hubbub are broken, yet silence has a new cloth which fills the air with smooth vibrance and peace. The Minstrel is there. And for an unknown reason to the rushed passers, he is and always will be there, somewhere. On that corner, or on the next one, or in the heart of those who shall stop time when passing by and then listen to his silence heal wounds of rush and worries.

Location: Budapest, Hungary, October 2009

Untitled #2

Untitled #1

Bridge

Music by Vangelis - "Dreams of Surf


Bridges we build across valleys, across mountains, or rivers. Bridges we build between us. Bridges open paths to places we want to reach. Beyond this one, the gentle touch of the setting sun had laid ahead a peaceful song of silence, a realm of calm winds dancing between leaves of grass that on the ground shed stories of the old vikings.



Sweden, Steninge, July 2009

The picture will be displayed in the gallery of the Print&Sign fair, Romexpo Bucharest, between September 30th - October 3rd, following the selection for the "Fii in rand cu profesionistii" Epson & Nikon contest.

Unspoken

Some moments and countenances cannot be spoken simply because the feeling transcends my understanding. I could guess a father's emotion, a couple's inner bond, but the maternal feelings...maybe the most complex and the strongest around. I can only admire, smile and observe with candid pleasure.

Pride or Prejudice

Music by Moby - "Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad"

How does one define a superior being? By one's actions or representation and reflections of self?
They just are as a result of one's definition. One chooses how they are and how one self defines.

Still steel

Music by Bear McReary - "Pegasus"

A stormy day, when winds of North found the top of the Bucegi mountains to be the best playground for their restless speeding contests, revealed once again snow's creativity.
Steel structures stood still. They listened to a deep silence, broken only by small snow crystals smashing against their steel flesh. They endured rough winds, sudden roars of cold, vows of eternal haunting. Yet they were still, unmoved and silent. The night brought back a liberating mist of stars, which turned into curtains of light and clouds at sunrise. The steel had grizzled over night and snow became its coat. It held prisoner part of the storm's fury and lust for wandering inside its most inner bonds, thus freezing steel into what felt like a restless stillness.