Photographing to Tell the Tale

„Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.” (Gabriel Garcia Marquez – Living to Tell the Tale)

Dobroujan and pandemic December. How much life is there in me now? Did I live for an hour? How much will I live for the next hour? I ask myself a series of existential questions due to the new way of life imposed overnight internationally but also locally.

How could I counteract this reality? For me, the best weapon is photography. And I want very badly one particular camera.

Exactly on New Year’s Eve arrives in my home my long-desired camera. It is as if I am holding a trident in my hand that brings the world closer to me, it doesn’t banish it. It seems as if it brings the world so close to me and on paper for eternity. Now I know that I would be able to see again the beauty of each day. I know that together we would be able to tell emotional stories that could lift one’s soul.

I cannot imagine life without photography. Photography is a form of writing. To write with light. And without light there is nothing. Without light, you cannot see the beauty of shadows. But the most beautiful thing is that, when the light lays down on paper, slowly, I start to reach myself.

It is one of those moments when I realise that photography is all that I have most holy in my history. Memories caught in one moment of decision, one moment of inspiration, memories that seem to remain always in a sacred time.

Photography is very close to my heart. So close that I could wear it close to my heart all the time if it were the image of my mother or my father or of my parents’ parents or, simply, the image of the souls that I love in my life. So close that I could wear it close to my heart if it were the only thing I could carry with me on a deserted island. A sacred image to which I could dedicate each thought and each hope, each sigh and each joy, each trial and each feeling. A sacred image to which I could turn whenever I miss them.

I honour and cherish with my whole being my parents’ and my ancestors’ photo albums. I am truly happy whenever I find a note on the back of one photograph which depicts them or on a piece of paper. I read these notes and I re-read them each time I feel the need because there is their soul and a part of their lives. I look at my grandparents’ pictures and it seems as if they look back at me. What stories would they share with us now? What would make them happy? What would make them feel sad? Would they be proud today? Now, only their photos speak and their hand-written notes on a small piece of paper. I congratulate myself for taking the initiative to take a photo of my grandfather on the Holy Easter Sunday in 2008. I did not know at that moment that that photo would be his last photograph. I didn’t have the chance to photograph my other grandparents because they passed away when I was too little.

It strikes me that image of my grandpa who was far gone in years, heavy-hearted, but wearing a joy from out of this world: the joy of being close to his nieces and his children. He is ready for another journey. He wears only his happiness and his heart desires. His trials and his successes. His love a lifetime: grandmother.
What is Grandpa remembering to share with us?
What do you remember? And what could you do so that your name is not forgotten? Is there something that moved you today? Stop for a few seconds and catch this glimpse of moment.

What do I remember? How could I remember life through the photos I took? I could create the cover of an autobiographic book for each of my living years using one of my photos.

Paragraph by paragraph, photograph by photograph, I started to contribute to my family’s history. And I always ask myself: today, how much love did I add to my ancestors’ legacy? Through my hands run my parents’ and my predecessors’ blood and, daily, I try to figure out how I could create the beauty of today. With the help of words or with the help of images, I try to create daily a meaningful story to last in time.

I feel that soul by soul, shackle by shackle, it is created one imaginary chain of our identity.
Just like a willow bud, to grow along with each spring. To grow along with each generation. And to stay strong against any storm. And even if the strong wind might knock it down, it would still not break because God created the willow to last in time and to rise to the Sky and Him high and beautiful.