music bath in plaine street

Nikon D80 | 1/50 seconds | f 5.3 | ISO 200 | 58 mm

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"An artist, in giving a concert, should not demand an entrance fee but should ask the public to pay, just before leaving as much as they like. From the sum he would be able to judge what the world thinks of him - and we would have fewer mediocre concerts."

Kit Coleman [born Catherine Ferguson. Canada's Pioneer Woman Journalist. 1864 - 1915]

the storytellers

Nikon D80 | 1/40 seconds | f 16 | ISO 200 | 44 mm [left]

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Nikon D80 | 1/500 seconds | f 9 | ISO 200 | 60 mm [right]

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These puppets are made by a local designer named Ana Ponta. You can find more about her work and even buy one by accessing her web page. All her models are made manually.

It is said that the most difficult thing to do is make a puppet walk and talk, but still all the time I stood there and watch Ana Ponta selling her dolls I was under the impression that he is selling also stories.

“Storytellers, by the very act of telling, communicate a radical learning that changes lives and the world: telling stories is a universally accessible means through which people make meaning” Chris Cavanaugh [an American voice actress who has a distinctive speaking style and has provided the voice for a large range of cartoon characters]

selling desires

Nikon D80 | 1/200 seconds | f 5.3 | ISO 200 | 60 mm

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What I found at Street Delivery? People that want to escape. From what or where? Nothing or anything or everything… anywhere. Or maybe just from the concrete walls. It’s one of my favorites shots and it made me remember a text a friend of mine wrote. Maybe you won’t find the connections in the first place, but… sleep on it.

Here it goes…

“Why should we lay on the grass?

I forgot. I’m forgetting. I’m fighting not to forget… the smell of grass. No, I meant the smells of grass, for there are different kinds. The smell of thirsty grass, thirsty and blunted by the cruel sun and by the rockers spiked boots. A pungent, ancient like the furniture in grandma’s house, smell.

The smell of fresh rained on grass or, even more intense, of dew. Delight, slumber, flight, swimming, a woman’s body or anything else that a relaxed mind can draw up. Powerful like a “Paco Rabane” on a seeking male body. Protective, like a wreath of chestnut tree in plain summer or like grandma’s rough hand caressing the child’s skin. Tasty like a peach… Bashful like a schoolgirl… Sweet just like the breast of your first love and bitter like a fight with your mother.

The smell of wet grass opens the gates of imagination, of freedom… Freedom has such a strong resonance… Imagination has no boundaries. Sensations, tastes, colors, memories, wrap around a tiny, stray, soul, with once precise direction, and though, without no goal.

Did I answer the question? Why should we lay on the grass? Aren’t you convinced yet? Go to the first park and make a first step. Doesn’t work? Then run for Sighisoara or London. It’s worth-while!”

p.s. thank you Bogdan for your lovely personal thought that you found proper to share with your friend.

binding waxed pages

Nikon D80 | 1/30 seconds | f 16 | ISO 200 | 62 mm

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Today was the first day – out of three – of StreetDelivery Bucharest, a local street event that “closes the streets for the cars and opens them for the people”. Although the activities were programmed to begin at noon today, when I arrived there the image was quite disappointing. But.. I didn’t loose my hope.

Anyway, from the few things ready was the booth where will take place a workshop about bookbinding. There I took the picture above. Not an extraordinary scene one may say. I agree… not for momentousness I decided to post it, but for the roots of that word… “oracle”. So follow me if you please…

Oracles are the old “memory books” that we used to make in school. I remember that I had my first one when I was in eight grade (this is like a year away from high school in accordance with the romanian education system). It had a deep blue cover and the pages were burned on the sides, wax was dropped here and there and lipstick fake kisses were in the corners.

“What’s your name” or “if I’m not too indiscreet, when did you appear on this planet?” – were two of the not so inspired and shy first questions of the oracle. “What’s your favorite dish?”, “what’s your favorite movie?” or “what do you want to become in life?” and many more, followed them. But the best part of this foolish game was when a boy or girl that you liked accepted to write in your book. It was such an innocent emotional moment. Do you remember? Have you had such a book?

As years gone by, the oracles are less popular. Now we have messenger ids, we are frivol users of facebook, hi5 or some other mass online community and we have blogs, an erudite form of this memory books.

I wonder what will write the passing byes of StreetDelivery 2009 if asked so…

p.s. ii multumesc lui alin care m'a invatat cum sta treaba cu filtrele astea :P

daily childhood mysteries

Nikon D80 | 1/400 seconds | f 3.5 | ISO 100 | 50 mm

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“The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity.”

Albert Einstein [German born American Physicist who developed the special and general theories of relativity. Nobel Prize for Physics in 1921. 1879-1955]

made it through the night

Nikon D80 | 1/50 seconds | f 4 | ISO 640 | 50 mm

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...going through a grey period, have you noticed?

“What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way? Deformations simply do not exist”

Pablo Picasso [25 October 1881 – 8 April 1973. spanish painter and sculptor. one of the most recognized figures in 20th-century art, he is best known for co-founding the Cubist movement and for the wide variety of styles embodied in his work]