Andrei Baciu

At first, there was a discreet rustle, as short as it was concrete. I was very tired, since, as usual, I had woken up in the middle of the night, driven for about three hours, climbed gaspingly the hills of Holbav because my heart wouldn’t let me stop and risk missing the sunrise while in the shade of the valley

Wise men say that, at first look, that is, of someone completely entangled in the ferocious net of appearance, of the realm of flesh and dust, a stone is merely a stone.

There are moments in the fierce – and so much the more beautiful – battle with the self (Gosh, what an outdated and pathetic phrase, isn’t it? Yet, using any other one would mean self-betrayal) when you feel that the road ahead is leading inevitably to a dead end.

Maybe sometimes the meaning of a photography doesn’t reside in transcending the one thousand words’ border.