But something told me that I would have shared it with her. something that I have a hard time putting it into words, something told me that in 20 years time me and her would somehow share some sort of memories and laugh at old jokes. like old friends do, really good old friends. I did not find in her the kind of love that I found and will probably find again in lovers, or flings or burning insane passions… I did look for that kind of love and maybe a part of me did hope I would find it in her. But what I eventually  found in her, and what she helped me find along the way was the kind of love that I was dreaming of years and years ago… a friend along whom you walk and share the same pace, without feeling lost. A friend along with you can read a book through their mind, sharing the emotions it brings, a friend with whom you can listen to music and vibrate at the same chords. Someone whose hug is precious because it creates a deep soul-mate like link …Someone whose arms feel like home but not like a shore for a shipwreck… someone who creates with you and inspires you to create at the same time.

we, as human beings, cannot stay in the metaphysical sphere all the time.. but I can write about this beautiful friend of mine who showed up one day, out of nowehere, on the playground. It could have been, years ago… or it could have been in the near future.. but I knew she would show up. and she did.

revelations

The flee market had something Dickensian about it… the smell, the way people were dressed, the things being sold. the awkwardness of it all… I just felt good to be there… like an immersion in old times. The old lady who had turned 93 the day before and who was happy still painting her little paintings of children playing on the beach, holding a black teddy bear in their arms… she reminded me of my magical nan and reminded me that important things and memories never leave you.. just like that black urse that kept appearing in all her paintings. therefore we should not be afraid to lose people or things because, if they are truly important to us, they never leave us … they are part of the fabric of life in a way…

‘The little prince was asleep under his giant princess’ (J. N.) … the peeping Tom was looking through his lunette …

I wish I could write my heart out; draw out every single letter, form coherent words, put words into phrases and make sense of them. I wish I could empty my heart of all these unfinished stories that I start telling or living but which fade away too quickly and I lose their meaning. I wish I could extract the ink from my heart… That black thick juice that shadows my reason and makes me sick when I swallow too much or too quickly or both. And I wish I could extract that elixir that fills me up with joy at the first I love you, or at the sight of an old lady selling paintings in a Parisienne boulevard, or at the sight of my mum waking up from surgery, facing a whole new world. I would mix this elixir into the ink, I’d wash my hands and fingers with it, I’d soak the white paper of a notebook and then write … Painfully, but clearly, I feel that I’d know myself this way… Better than I do now I’d make more sense of past confusions, I’d learn from failures and I’d know how to stay happy in one place.

I wish cancer did not exist… I wish our bodies were true temples where the world ‘malign’ never enter. I wish our bodies were in perfect harmony with our minds and souls and that we fade away naturally when the time comes. I the first snow never sets on rooftops… I wish the empty room in the hospital never scared me so much as it did this winter. I wish we had to fight our fights with no fear of getting disarmed by our own bodies.

I wish closeness knew no boundaries. That her eyes never looked so sad that she never was so quiet. I wish closeness would not feel as apart as it does at times… That she never lost her way in tears and self doubt where no one can reach her.

I wish i allowed myself to hope irrespective of how many of my dreams get shattered … I wish i never get bitter about love about friendship and about personal growth.

I wish I had a darkroom at my doorstep where I could go every time I feel my bridges with the works are crumbling. I wish life and ‘the world’ we live in never list their magic… I wish I never stop to wonder how planes fly and that I could always spot Orion in the night sky.

The process is simple. You need to have gone out there and taken the photos, chased the light, played with angles and perspectives, felt the ‘punctum’… Experimented with different types of films and different cameras, tuned in to the different shutter speeds and apertures… You need to have learned how to see in black and white and transform the colourful reality into shades of grey or into darkness and light.
Once you’ve gone out there, lived it all, experienced it all, you get in the darkroom and dissect life once again. You have to develop the films just the way you let feelings and thoughts sink in… The process involves chemicals and safe light… I like the concept… Just as you can’t talk to just anybody about your deepest feelings, just how you cannot really open up to just anybody to let them see your true self… Films need first complete, darkness, a good wash with chemicals and safelight the moment you try to reveal them on a piece of paper.
The process is almost a reliving of the moment of taking the photo … It’s like going back and trying to dig out the picture you had in your head and make the one you print match the original. In some cases distorting the original mental picture is what you want to do… With every photo you reveal a piece of your soul or a projection of what you’d like to be…

The process is simple… What is black and white on paper contains infinite tones of grey that reflect millions if colours what is the mood of the photo most probably reflects your mood whilst taking the photo. Whatever story you are trying to say, you’ve lived it already.

And tonight I felt like I needed to unwind big time. I was in my office at some point, with a few students waiting outside my door and all I could feel was my face melting or my mask melting down. All I could think of was a nice meal jn a restaurant… Pizza and beer. Nothing fancy. I now feel good eating my pizza and ignoring the humming of others who are enjoying their meal. I a starting to feel like myself again…
“he took a face from the ancient gallery and he walked on down the hall” – amazing quote from the doors…

***
I walked on that beach and I felt alive with my own pebbles in my pocket. I know what they are worth. I know my heart is in the right place these days…

People around me are in groups or couples. A bunch of corporates are talking and laughing loudly besides me. There are five or six men and one girl. Asian. She has had a couple of drinks and is visibly excited calling for more alcohol and throwing in French words in the conversation. One of the guys puts his arms around her marking his territory or maybe making a move.

I feel slightly invisible but for once, that is fine… I would not want to be otherwise in this context. Actually I am sure I’m not that invisible… Lonely people in a bar are never invisible… I should look around more, I love people watching… One of my secret pleasures…

Marina Sands Bay

Dark room magic

I have spent quite a bit of time in the darkroom lately and I have learnt a few things:

* there is magic

* you can’t rush magic… developing times and washing time and drying times cannot be cheated

* mistakes are often magic too

* fine tuning needs practice

* darkroom magic involves chemistry

* darkroom magic is fragile and any idiot that walks in letting light leak in can ruin a photo or two, a batch of photographic paper…

*but they can’t ruin the process, the magic. get the safe light on again, light proof your room and you’re back in!

I like spending time in the darkroom as much as I like taking photographs.

but it was simply Autumn in London.

I have never been to America and I really don’t know what an ‘indian summer’ is… to me it holds a slightly poetic and romantic meaning. Years ago, when I left Romania… I remember spending the last week mostly on the beach. It was late september and, back home, September is usually wet and gloomy. but that last week it was beautiful. A soft autumnal light invaded the beach from morning till sunset. Back home, the sun rises from the sea and sets behind the mountains. In london, the sun rises from the Olympic Stadium and sets in the West End. I used to be able to witness this passage from my roof top terrace.

One morning I woke up before the sun and ran on the terrace just to get a gance of the cool mornig light. I woke her up and dragged her out of her dreams on the terrace. She looked like a fizzy drink that’s been shaken a bit  and had the lid of the bottle open… bubbly but sleepy, with perfect bed hair that make something inside me tickle with joy .

I really don’t know who and why Joe Dassin was singing his l’ete indien… I really don’t know what an indian summer is. to me it’s her sleepy image, barefooted on the terrace, admiring the sunriseand the sun set… like a little prince on his little planet, with his lovely flower. His eyes still show an astonished look in the face of the world’s daily miracles…