Self

by Ion Dobrogeanu-Gherea (1895-1978)

by Erwin Kessler

Curator: Marilena Oprescu, Artmix Cultural Association Photo: Mircea Maieru In the early 1990s, everyone thought that we could get rid of the People's House. But some proposals, like to demolish it partially or completely, to bury it under a hill, etc. , seemed utopian

Statuary art gallery in open airIn Bucharest, there are lots of boulevards, streets, buildings that have become so familiar to us that we almost no longer see their beauty, originality, uniqueness. . . It is like being in the middle of an enchanting park that you admire,

Life is nothing but a perpetual interrogation mark placed above that strange and intriguing image of our very own childhood… and where does it even start to provoke our conscience? Remember that grumpy and oversized street, your everyday neighbors that couldn't restrain

A native of Constanta born under the sign of Cancer, therefore dependent on the sea, the sun, the sand and the seagulls, a couple of months ago I moved to Vienna (no sight of the sea), after having spent four years in Bucharest (no sight of the sea) during my years of college

Cismigiu Gardens Every time I visit this place, I feel the same. Maybe it’s because the elegant flower beds, the winding paths and the chatter of happy kids. Or maybe it’s the young lovers who paddle rowing boats, the skeletal old ladies who gossip on benches of battered

from left: rundown houses on Lipscani and Mosilor, Dimbovitza river from Hasdeu bridge, street in Cotroceni Bucharest smells exquisitely during the time of lindens and rain. Vigorously soaked for a half hour, the city heals even from the stenches that make you ill. Under

Both me and the editor of the show listened with great delight to the story of the young American, of Romanian origin, who had come back to Romania in search of his roots and to set up a business. The young man had married a girl from Humuleşti, and now he spoke wonderful

In those days they used to go to the Eastern Station, visiting some acquaintances: friends, as they might, after all, also have called them. Except that on this point, at least, Olga was right: they were not their friends; indeed, there was no way or time when they could

The theme of the provincial man leaving his small town, a closed universe deprived of any kind of perspective and diving into the unknown, attracted by the Big City where he thinks he'll hit it big and get rich overnight, was and continues to be a successful recipe

No matter how much you tried to humanize it, to make a mental projection of it as seen through a magic lens which deforms the world and makes it look more beautiful than it actually is, no matter how much you looked for its weaknesses, you'll never find a new vision,