Nights in White Satin, o formă capricioasă de poezie, ediţia VII, sub egida Institutului Cultural Român, Librăria Cărtureşti Verona. https://www.fractalia.ro/nights-in-white-satin
Cea mai mare parte a fotografiilor publicate in primul număr al revistei bianuale InterRe:ACT aparţine albumului Monsoon filters.
Revista poate fi comandată trimițând un e-mail la adresa: firstname.lastname@example.orgDe asemenea, poate fi găsită la Librăria Hecate (Str. Olari nr. 8, București); Open Art (Str. Pitar Moș nr. 12, București)
Tentația limitelor: Bizonii și fauna actuală. Miercuri, 23 martie 2016, ora 19:30, la The Gallery (Str. Leonida nr. 9-11, București), va avea loc o nouă ediție a Galeriei Întâlnirilor, eveniment coordonat de Daniel Sur. Cu această ocazie va avea loc o retrospectivă a filmului de artă, a fotografiei și a celor ce au văzut bizonii și nu au pierit. Invitați: Raluca Boboc, Octavian Perpelea, Răzvan Pricop, Liviu G. Stan. Evenimentul se derulează sub egida Asociaţiei Naţionale pentru Arte Vizuale Contemporane. Parteneri: SemneBune.ro, Bookaholic.ro și BookHub.ro.
I was walking a by-lane in Peru, when the little curved indio, wound up in the 6 quilts topping the back of a woman of many skirts, two braids and a huge force to keep her balance under the burden of an obscurely old and creative race, scanned me from head to toe, giving me an over human caressing eye. I stopped, my heart suddenly torn open by the vision of beauty.
Soon I set off again, betraying it as I have always betrayed them all, with the easy conscience of the weak-willed. A choking prose of doubtful quality was springing from one of my knees, while the other was flooding the streets with honey-shining poetry. I caught fire.
I was the first to see the umber village, a petite collection of humplike huts scattered like a mesh of sand-buried camels. All at once, we imagined, our fancy intoxicated by the desert, that the village was abandoned, that we were trapped, betrayed, deceived, traded, eaten, swallowed again and over and once more and over again. We had been cheated, cher Vicomte, mon semblable… The turbanless sikh on the motorcycle was just another bloody bird of prey, and the promised feasting on venison in his suburbia palace was just a lie testing surrealist communication as a genre, while all dreams of me esthetically wrapped in a green shawl and winding a path through some highly Rajhput desert were threateningly hinting elsewhere.
Like a hungry shadow, I was crossing the Thar Desert at the peak hour of the sizzling day, my orange turban majestically wrapped around my head. Like a weird projection, the starving contour of a camel in the distance was slowly devastating all the trees, munching away at them with uncorrupted patience. I was not alone on my bicycle. In front of me was le Vicomte, mon semblable, mon frère.
Four hours later, we were still crossing the Thar Desert. The trees behind us, a mere point the color of the raging wind. The trees ahead of us, a weird projection of the trees behind, munched stumps hardly telling the skytanned sand from the sandtanned sky. We were alone, still. The Rajhput village we were looking for, unabatedly hiding among the dunes.
The Rajhputs are ferociously independent; their villages obstinately different. This village had seen it worse. The Rajhputs here were said to have fought a fight to the limits of human strength, to the brink of Rajhput patience and to the end of the Muslim tether, until the invaders’ memory was lost between the dunes. It was practically the un-invaded matrix we were looking for.
The first to meet us was a mother. The windy lady by her side was a mother herself, though one of a different happiness. She engaged me and le Vicomte, mon semblable into an bangleful foot-centered ceremony. We pretended to having known her better, lui as a son and me as a daughter-in-law, long awaiting to affectionately sweep the dust off her feet. And so I did. Half of the spirit of that moment is still lingering out there, in the umber matrix. The other half is with me, at the other end of their tether; it is my desert tether, my survival, my memory. Everybody can remember it.