Tag Archives: sea

Tapping on the core of street photography

For the last two days I have landed in a sort of heaven – a week-long festival of photography on the sunny coast of Black Sea, in the village of Vama Veche.

Attended by over two hundred talented and passionate photographers from Romania and abroad, the fifth edition of Vama Sub Lumini de Oscar has something for everyone, from car  to panoramic photography, from jewelry to nude photography as well as sessions on copyright and finding that unique voice.

So this is my first attempt in street core photography, after an informative workshop with Michail Moscholios.

Summer memories
Summer memories
Flying high
Flying high
Day dream




Waking up into the real dream

I lay in the grass with the pain of inner questions running through my mind, and my heart. And I wonder whether when we lie down for the imaginary  sleep, do we get to revisit the place once held our shape?
Do we get to smell life the way we did that day? And feel the wind through the blades of grass, and stare into the eyes of a faithful friend who cannot speak, but it’s there for us?
Is this what everyone else calls a ghost: us, reliving some of the moments  – when we felt so vulnerable and fragile, that we could have easily be melted by the rain – before sinking into oblivion, before waking up into another dream?
What a terrible misunderstanding…

An average dream

Could not even remember where exactly, but I saw this phrase: ‘average dream last only 20 minutes.’ And I could not help myself stop and stare at the screen, thinking of course, how did they manage to measure that? And started to attempt bringing back from my memories the various dreams I had…that I was going to be a doctor, then a journalists, then a media owner and then a perfumer….I even considered being a writer, I’m sure that dream did not last 20 minutes.


What happens with a dream after the 20 minutes have ended? Is there an automatic machine that sorts them according to the attention we give them?


The small, common and all-the-same, like a bag of freshly picked chestnuts pop up to the surface and blind us with their sense of security and comfort and we fill our palms with them, we smell them for a while and even though they don’t really bring back memories of the soul, we end up buying.


And the big dreams, the larger than life ones, usually end up in this small, recycled box and from the rainbow color they have when they are born, they turn this grey-translucent non-color and form the foundation of us-that-will-never-be.


How many of these dreams escape the sorting and sneak out, living in a sort of resistance in the deep seas of our soul, small ponds that long to touch the sea?

From there they come out disguised as a word a friend mentioned, or a phrase we read while we are running around carrying the small, average dreams on our shoulders, or a sound the wind makes while we have stopped and stared out the window. How many of them will ever recover their colors?



For is it the sunset we see in the sky after those long rainy days, or our dreams, escaping our memories and giving us another chance to look at what-we-could-have-been?

Wisdom of rocks

Thinking of miracles I always imagine something surrounded by fireworks and colors, song and light. But then I remember that it’s in the dark that seeds get their strength to become trees, dreams get their wings to carry us to the highest of ourselves.

So I approach The Old Man and The Sea, one of my favorite spots on the northwest coast of Donegal, on the Wild Atlantic Way.

Old man and the sea

In this land of quiet miracles, I try to learn some of the wisdom of the rocks, discover some of the majesty that makes a rock – like a Romanian poet once said, by never crushing the world’s crown of wonders but understanding it by adding to its secret, by filling it with love…

Soft rocks

Eu nu strivesc corola de minuni a lumii

by Lucian Blaga

Eu nu strivesc corola de minuni a lumii

şi nu ucid

cu mintea tainele, ce le-ntâlnesc

în calea mea

în flori, în ochi, pe buze ori morminte.

Lumina altora

sugrumă vraja nepătrunsului ascuns

în adâncimi de întuneric,

dar eu,

eu cu lumina mea sporesc a lumii taină –

şi-ntocmai cum cu razele ei albe luna

nu micşorează, ci tremurătoare

măreşte şi mai tare taina nopţii,

aşa îmbogăţesc şi eu întunecata zare

cu largi fiori de sfânt mister

şi tot ce-i neînţeles

se schimbă-n neînţelesuri şi mai mari

sub ochii mei-

căci eu iubesc

şi flori şi ochi şi buze şi morminte.

… is life ever in black and white, or only shades of grey?

Shades of grey

… how comes the simple act of mirroring can show you a whole different world?


… how can I really open my eyes to not just see?

Getting close

… if I understand rocks, will I ever understand fear?

Ancestors' memories

Spring at our feet, but we step on it

I live by the sea. I also live nearby an enchanted forest that sings to me every day.
They say that the first people who inhabited Donegal, the Tuatha de Danann, were of the elf kind. And they say that elves sang to the trees and flowers and turned them into homes. That’s how strong their connection with nature was.

spring 1

Donegal still retains such magical places, like Ballyconnell House, hidden away, ignored and left to the past, but coming alive once you take the time to wander through its ancient grounds, listen to the wind combing through the branches of the old trees and lean down to smell the flowers at your feet.

spring 2Built in the 1600s by a Dutch family, the house was once a house of song, hosting a fantastic Irish music school, which closed almost ten years ago “from lack of funding.”

spring 5But the grounds are still enjoyed not only by walkers, nature lovers but also by the local Cloughaneely Golf Club. And was the site of a fabulous ‘Evil Eye Festival’ (Féile na Súile Nimhe) organised by Kathleen Gallagher and her devoted team.

spring 3Recent news that it may be closed to the public to be turned into a Catholic-church run drug addiction clinic, with hundreds of thousand of euro of public money poured into it, made me ponder – how different we are from the ancestors of this land and how much we have changed… that we cannot see the flowers we have and let anyone come and stamp on them…how we don’t value what our forbearers left us and allow even the most innocent of joys to be taken away little by little…

spring 4I smell the scent of these tiny flowers now, as come next Spring, they might be locked up inside another “wall of authority.”

One of the biggest mistakes the Communist regime I grew up in made was to destroy what the previous regime had built instead of seeing its value and develop it.

spring 6Years later, here in Donegal, I’m experiencing deja-vu… and I don’t wonder anymore why the young and beautiful are leaving this lovely place. But I do wonder who will be left wondering where have all the flowers gone…