To me, the end of a fair feels just as important to be a part of as it's more crowded, chirpy colorful middle happening. While many may try to pry into the swirling of sound, taste and visual babel, I was more curious of its glibly looseness that follows after all celebration and spread.
A sense of space seems to reorder itself into episodic encounters with now the more personal environment that governs the few remaining people. Pavilions and machinery disentangle, small objects and leftovers commingle in an almost amusing attempt to keep their livelihood. It’s a small small universe where things tend to rid themselves of the unnecessary, where the essence of forms can become more apparent.
An expanse that keeps the promise of self-preservation, bordering the more vast, chaotic outside worlds.
(Photos and text: Dragos-Radu Dumitrescu) Kodak Tri-x 400, Ilford hp5 400
These photographs are part of a broader photographic project conducted with Dragos Radu Dumitrescu and Rafael Ianos (all BULB members in an exemplary common project) in Lespezi village, Constanta.
The village is inhabited mostly by ethnic Turks. As the title suggests, the photos do not have a documentary meaning, but they experiment a kind of "documenting" emotions, starting from the idea that if at first sight an image captures factuality (the objective reality of the facts), by interpreting this reality, using technical but mostly aesthetic instruments (available to the author), the author can access, in various degrees, the world beyond factual, the private "reality" of each of us, the world of emotions and affections.
And in fact, these hidden emotions are behind our actions. (by Corneliu Sarion)
What is the time span to get used to misery … to get used to anything?
And who needs a paranoid, unpredictable, opportunist ruler over their head?
Only lately I have regained hope that educated, visionary people, with no invested interests, will do their best to reverse the "degeneration".
I loved my town, and its deserted streets, and its seas, and its abandoned suburbs, and its raped vestiges.
But I read faces. I have this curse. And the faces express more and more despair and solitude when looking for fairness, justice and hope.
So I choose to flee once more … to survive, to be able to talk again through images ... not that anyone cares (by Michail Moscholios)
"Σεπτέμβρης 1979. Aνασαίνοντας τα χνώτα της τσιμεντούπολης, ανάμεσα σε βαλίτσες και στοιβαγμένα όνειρα, πνίγοντας τους λυγμούς του αποχωρισμού ... η έγκυος παιδεία κάνει μια ακόμη έκτρωση ..."