lost trees

I wonder if our universe is part of an even bigger one, and all around us is just the atoms and cells of another larger dimension.. At times it seems that trees are like hairs on the skin of the earth, with deep roots reaching towards my heart, and my eyes, at last, are blurred by the lost longed and branched desires.. 

Have you ever wondered if the water of a tree is pulled from the earth so that the clouds would friend and tender its leaves? And have you noticed how the trees are glowing when softly touched, their leaves dissolving?.. Spending a life time looking for those lost and feeble touches.


I was traveling to Greece and stumbled upon an old waterpark. The place was full of smiles and playful energy. Kids and adults alike were laughing and throwing themselves in the water making splashes. But at the same time there was this allusive seriousness about their play in the water. The more time passed and more water was splashed from above, a hidden sternness and a godly gravity spread throughout. The place made for an unexpected comparison between humans and dancers. With every splash it seemed that humans, with their habitual curious nature, were slowly transformed into rehearsed dancers of a long known and perfectly organized choreography. Their trustful play in dangerous waters seemed driven by a mysterious music and force. A diversion was unveiling itself in front of me, a complete abandonment of these dancers to the powers up above.. I pondered for a moment before jumping in the water, splashing, and losing myself in faith, drop by drop.

motus corporis

Memory is a tricky thing.  Every time we bring memories back, they seem to slightly change. Somehow, with every revival, they seem to lose their fluff and filter down to their essence. At the same time, the longer we don't think about them, the more they fade away. There seems to be a balance where reliving a memory too much leads to its fading away at the same rate as not thinking about it at all. It almost feels that at times we should keep the memory alive by not thinking about it. There seems to be a place where a memory should be kept, not too far in the deepness, not too close to the surface.

This is my attempt to play on memory. I am exposing old negatives from my brain to see if the light changes anything. I have been photographing these body movements (motus corporis) to bring places and situations from the shadows. I am placing them in front of me, and you, to see if they dissolve their fluff, reach their essence, and then faint into the familiar. The alternative is to not think about them at all.

green birds

Growing up in my  family, seagulls were the first to see as we were getting closer to the ocean after long hours of traveling by train at night. The seagulls were the ambassadors of the morning, of the summer joy to come, the beautiful sun and blue splattering waves. Seagulls were my brothers, my sisters, and my reverence, they were there to guide my soul and show me the direction I needed to go. These green birds continued steering me on the journeys along so to stay true to myself. And this is to celebrate all those incipient ideals that have been keeping us abreast. 

street smart

streets smart is an ongoing project documenting the unsung heroes of the Southern California suburban streets. At-risk youth from over-tried families are hardened by their struggles on a daily basis, and still manage to keep their innocence. Gang violence, divided families, sickness and death, are all part of their normalcy. Despite their troubles, there is a majestic, towering beauty to them. A resilience is easily read on their faces, and their eyes still sparkle afloat.

silent recall

silent recall came about unexpectedly while traveling to Transylvania a few years back. I found this aged Jesuit monastery in the middle of a brick paved plaza. Its rooms and chambers have been repurposed about a century earlier to serve as a music school for local children. One would think that music was the new religion in that place. These photos were taken at the time when the school was undergoing a renovation back into a place of prayer. The pupils were long gone, the place was deserted, with chairs and benches scattered. Paint was splattered everywhere, a few old pianos were left behind as if not needed anymore, and some scribblings were lost on the black board as reminders of past innocence. Throughout the meandering and once lively hallways, shadows of small steps seemed to almost trip me. Once my reflection took a turn on an old glass window, I suddenly knew about a song. A very familiar song, one that I could play without a sound, without a doubt, once more: creed.

yellow skies

How does one know when a place is home? Are there any signs around to read, are there old fingerprints to mark a sense of belonging? Is home a place or a feeling? Does one feel home when surrounded by love and kindness? Do we strive for communion when reaching for a roof ahead of our heads?

Looking up to the skies at times we see signs as words written on a blank yellowed by time piece of paper. Birds, winds, clouds, trees, all write these words for us, and is up to us to read and understand their meaning.

In one of those days, I found my home.


Blaise Pascal once said: “Man is only a plant, the weakest in nature; but he is a thinking plant. There is no need for the whole Universe to take up arms to crush him: a vapor, a drop of water is enough to kill him. The Universe knows nothing of this.” These plants stand to symbolize the human individuality, the simplicity, the elegance, the majestic fragility of human condition. Pairs, groups of individuals stand together in the face of adversity, and persevere. The connection, networking of humanity is what bests the cruel time.


There are more than 300 years since the icon from Nicula has been attracting with an incredible power thousands of pilgrims. Groups are coming from all around the Carpathians mountains. In a world that has lost its direction, the piety remains a guiding star. The churches are more crowded than ever. Under the irresistible power of prayings, miracles are burnt again: the soul is purifying from sins and it is back to life, finding its communion wih God.

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