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(1. 08. 1915-29. 09. 2001) Gellu Naum (1915-2001) was the only writer pertaining to the historical Romanian surrealist avant-garde who survived, rather untouched but also more or less unheard, the vicissitudes of a half a century of Communist rule. He started publishing

Those writers obsessed by the form, which they do not hesitate to convert into a norm, are too well familiar with the pain that accompanies the process of completing a page in a duly controlled, stylish, manner. Ultimately, one writes on waters, since all messages are, from

*More than a century ago Europe was not yet known as a cultural construction, an intellectual day-dream, a heap of broken images, a copy in a world without originals. Artists tried to escape the big fortress ensconced in coal smog and torn by wars, social conflicts, and

All roads to the West go through Vienna. Generous crossroads where the western world fuses with the horizons of eastern Europe and the Germanic spirit seems to have rich confluences with Latinity, the old Austrian metropolis still conveys the same charm that those claras

Choreographer There are numerous crossroads between the dance unfolding within the space of an art collection and the very own pieces of this assembling, crossroads that make a sort of mutual colonization of artistic discourses. Flowing along a choreographic score, they

The reader will remember, if I draw his attention thereto, that the magnetic attraction exerted by the Hrandt and Rose Avakian home on me during my teenage years originated in the Eastern art statuettes particularly present on the cants, albeit not only there, but rather

Anyone can become a collector, and anything can be collected: matchboxes, pipes, candy bag stickers, paintings, traditional items, arms, books, and so forth. It seems that the Aztec king Montezuma collected and/or collected people with various malformations which he kept

Ever since I was little, the future was something dark and puzzling to me. I am surprised that I have lived so long, when I was around five (it was then, no question, that I got sick) I could by no means picture myself at fifteen and here I am, dear me, well past those days

For well over one year, since I and the retiring actor Stelian Nistor marketed our tee-vees to see the magazine Everybody's Cuisine through the press, our peers, notably those at The Catzavencu Academy, never fail to cheek me: You meatball-journalist, recipe commentator,

It seems almost provocative to launch such an issue on the local pleasures, pastimes and delights, while nowadays a troublesome Romania appears as plunged into unending economic and social difficulties, striving to cope with various shortcomings and weaknesses. However,

Emil Popescu was an architect. His specialty was the oil factories and we can say, without any exaggeration, that wherever in the country an oil factory had been built in the last five or six years, one could easily tell it was the work of architect Popescu's skilled

excerpt Nobody listened to him or did so intermittently, the Russian mumbled something, excited by the other's mumbling, Mr. A. V. Emilian was drinking, capitalizing on the exaggerated attention the strange guest was receiving from the little old lady. This one-nighter,