Leftovers of moments

running plots

running plots

She loves photos; not only taking them but also making them. Making the link between body and mind, exploring the influence of space and time. On people. So many layers; an ignorant look, a timeless smile, a heavy tear, a quick pace, a daily race, a random fear.

She thinks there are no bad photos but only negative emotions jumping out of feeling- bad situations. She also thinks that these situations result from bad- lived lives. Sometimes she photographs those lives in order to dig behind their images and play with their meanings. Meanings coming from inner occurrences. Inner occurrences interacting with outer factors. Outer factors shaping instant images. Instant images becoming the connectors between appearance and perception.

Appearance and perception broken into pieces. Pieces that come together filling in the gaps of the puzzle. A puzzle full of untold secrets. Secrets whispering unfinished truths. Truths partially revealing one’s mystery. A mystery giving way to one’s imagination. An imagination retouching the portrait of one’s memory. A memory guarding the leftovers of moments one lived and they passed.

Moments one can still touch by looking back at the photos he owes today, remains of himself coming back from that day. Is it a truth or a mere representation? It is the reconstruction of past and present relation.

The revolution of everyday life

gazing at life

gazing at life

She loves those tiny crumbs of time when she can climb outside her thoughts and get lost into the acrobatics of another place. A place where the ordinary and the uncombinable can meet. A place where all sorts of people can fit. A third space.

Where lose playfulness can provoke and inspire. Where people can have a space to improve and not a little corner where they cannot move. A place where the fancy lady will dare to look at that filthy beggar in the eyes and drop her arrogance in the garbage for a while. And keep her coins inside her well- sewed pockets to explode like misery rockets.

And the golden war of arrogance and fear will flap the city streets with its angry wings, wounding all it could reach. Every petal of a flower, now flowers are plastic with no smell. And every pure beauty, untouched from dirt, now beauty is naked and nicked from regret. And every little imperfection that gave sense to the world ; the curvy, muddy pavements on which your sneakers would crush, the sweaty skaters whose tricks would make life go fast, the well- thought graffitis on the forgotten walls of an abandoned parking, the echo of the laughs and chats of teenagers in squares, the nasty fight of street- drinkers in fares.

And all you would see is billboards full of recipes for falling deeper in the trap, words of ignorance, orders for being more sad . The necessities of the modern man, crushed under the success towards which he once ran. Lipsticks, flat TVs and guns, where is your history, your consciousness and your rights ? You kind of lost them on the way, you say. So you gotta go back, find them and bring them to this generation in decay. They wait, they hope, they pray. There is nothing they can do but live their life in delay.

Do not avoid the rain they say, it is the only freedom given to us all without the obligation to pay. They can twist their minds inside the water flames and forget all about what society claims. They can cut their bounds with a sharp knife and set up the revolution of their everyday life.

Urban tales

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weaving plots

She would stand in front of that big window observing the multiple aspects of street life. She would try to auscultate urbanity pulling her look from one’s static misery to another’s ephemeral happiness. She would think that people appear as found objects on a large stage of different performances. She would then try to look deeper inside their plots and give names to their feelings. She would sometimes match positive facial expressions to negative emotions, in the beginning just for fun, but she would soon realise that she wasn’t wrong in many cases.

That serious looking man would be a child’s father. He would overflow his lungs with screams and he would close his arms to his kid’s dreams. He would remind his son of his rules and objections and he would abolish any of his freedom and imagination. He would talk about a forgotten war and he would support a nation’s fall. He would release pressure by squeezing his fists and he would strengthen his hope by looking at his tattooed wrist. He would once escape the prison of his mind and an empty home would be all that he would find.

That young lady who had reached the sky in her bad quality heels, a modern Cinderella with Dior bag and a body made of diet pills. She would ignore the role she was given and she would waste herself on raising men’s fever. She would be in love with muscles and sweat, she would be a jerk’s bet. Her internal bruises would colour her face, make uped and dressed up she would make her way. She would drink, dance and fuck with a stranger overcoming her fears, she would wake up vomiting beer brimming over with tears.

That youngster with headphones larger than the decibels of his music, a narcissist of drugs and pussies. Big watch, car and fame, small consciousness, dignity and faith. He would fight with his father late in the nights, he would fill in his pockets with a guilt that bites. He would embrace his complexes inside the impossible circle of the one-armed, he would insulate his ears from the buzzing of the mad. He would pave the street for his dreams with a Land Rover, he would soon understand that his oxygen inside the bubble was over.

That punkie with the crazy mother at home would wander in the streets with black eyes and no hope. He would swear to the god of metal his faith and he would trip every night with the rest of his friends. He would fill in the holes of his spirit with smoke. He would fight against the status quo that broke his world. He would paint over walls with an A bigger than his mind, he would consider it the starting point for shaking the public realm. He would burn cars and break windows to be heard, he would jump on his heart and let it scream his regret.

She would pull the curtains and sit back to rest her eyes.

The breathless city with the poisoned lungs and the rotten heart has no more tales, people are on sales.

The society of the spectacle is on rails and the city fails.

The Great Caucasus adventure ends

Armenia

Up to the north

IMG_4051Wild flowers were rioting across the boarders. The main artery between Georgia and Armenia barricaded my armed soul. I let the heavy breath of the wind land on my sweaty skin and evaporate my sins. I drained my forgotten dreams over the green valleys of the Debed Canyon hoping that they will last. I sent the swallows to catch the promises that I once blew away. The charming monasteries of Haghpat, Odzun and Sanahin were auscultating my secret desires.  I led my handicapped spirit to heal its wounds inside the chapels of the muddy villages. I let my stingy tears travel through the hanging wires. I set my consciousness on the railway tracks of the rusty future. I put my darkness rest in peace and I pulled my light out of my fist. I indulged myself in reveries. I was free.

Yerevan

IMG_4339The iced heart of Mt Ararat was searching for the city’s snugness. I could see the buildings from the Cascade standing like scarecrows in the fields of horrors. I could hear the poor sounds of high heels penetrating deep inside my ear drums like thorns of some poisonous wildflower. The women of modernity were making their way out of the dugout of forbidden passions and the sky was raining regrets above their heads- the reconciliation of the universe and its errant souls. The lath-hammer of the night was reaping the thick clouds of uncertainty. The city was naked under the lucid moonlight. A god- fearing muse of vivid passions.

Down to the south

IMG_4460IMG_4653I put on my wings and I did all my way down to the Yeghegis Valley. The vicissitudes of the height were scandalizing my senses. Sweet- sounding sundrops were my shield against the threatening winds. I dived into the flesh of the legendary ancestry to find the monasteries of Khor Virap, Noravank and later on Tatev wrapped inside a fairytale. Their atmospheric magic reincarnated wild legends of kingdoms and conquerors from the past. The untamed heroism of years of architectural tinkering was marked on their variation but their uniqueness was discovered in the frugality of their pure existence. Embalmed into the silence of its valleys the Caucasus fell asleep and so did we. The world turned its back and it never turned back. Our adventure had come to an end.

More photos on our Armenian road trip can be found here.

The Great Caucasus adventure continues

Azerbaijan

Laza

IMG_302918 hours of train, 3 hours of marshrutky, 3 hours of driving. Mild electroshocks of curiosity pulled me out of the numbness of my body. I saw myself as the snake charmer of the road dyne in which our black Lada Niva was lost. The promising valleys were all standing there untouched with the pure wind brushing their fresh mop of hair and the soft rain oiling their curvy bodies. ‘’If I look long enough into their charming abyss I might put the evil eye on them. But they are beautyproof. They can ward it off with no fear.’’ A cup of warm chai and grapes, that skinny wise looking dog on my knees and the night fairy of the misty valleys hypnotised my fragile spirit. I lost myself in the fog of my dreams. No fear, no regret, only freedom.

Xinaliq

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I woke up on the peak of my heart.I had flown all the way up, I was 2.335m high.I could see well, fresh brewed wind had wiped out all my poisonous worries. I had made it, I was here among the real people with the warm smiles and the exotic souls. I looked at them, I touched them and i lived the way they showed me. They found their place inside my ignorant heart, I gave it to them. I prison no memory, I simply keep it like a hidden treasure. Magically wrapped inside its spooky clouds Xinaliq was now mine.

Baku

IMG_3931I walked fast. I saw people looking at me, i speeded up. The tyrannosaurs of modernity blocked my way. Luxurious facades, seductive ladies with their marble hearts. I forgot how to fly, I lost my pride in the sky.I felt smaller and smaller, I was gradually shrinking. I kept my head down and i learnt to behave. Being back to civilization showed me the way. Skyscrapers pained my eyes but i didn’t fear. The Caspian sea was all that I could hear. I made my way through the tiny stone paths where the patterned carpets and oil lamps whispered the legends of a glorious past. A cloud of madness was hiding the cenotaph of all the future desires. Gentrified mindsets, this is not what I admire.

 Mud volcanoes, Qobustan

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I was now in the desolated semideserts. I dived into the deepest recesses of humanity. Mud was giving birth to slow paced melodies of relief.  The volcanoes were resting under the firing sun. A while later I could feel the vibes of antiquity. The petroglyphs were exposing their engraved secrets. My eyes played with their symmetric lines and milled their rough surfaces. The sun went down and the sky got naked. Gallant darkness ripped off the greedy clouds. The sparks of fire warmed up our tired souls. Wine and tasty meat proved to be the best recipes for sleep.

More photos on our journey around Azerbaijan can be found here.

The Great Caucasus adventure begins

Georgia

Tbilisi  

Old Town TbilisiJust after midnight we finally reached that Old Town hideaway. The weak moonlight revealed the dilapidated exterior of the 1860s building. The collapsing wooden stairs were helpful enough for making our way up to that lovely wood-columned verandah where warm chai and even warmer smiles were waiting for us. The host was awake full of energy and curiosity. The moon accompanied the magic mumblings of the night and the stars were the spectators to our late night confessions.

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The sunrise found us sunk into our soft mattresses. The wind whispered sweet melodies to our sweaty bodies. The city was awake and so were we. Soon enough, we found ourselves wandering around its old balconied houses and quirky paths resting our bodies at its leafy squares. We made all our way up to the hills to dig with our thirsty eyes inside the confusing mixity of its shabby Soviet apartment blocks which were rubbing shoulders with its old stone churches and eye-catching watchtowers.

view from Nariqala fortress

You could hear the beating heart of the city from the Nariqala fortress when looking down to the villagelike neighbourhoods strung along the Mtkwari river. On our way down imaginative smells of khachapuri tickled our stomachs. Our appetite was captured by the various fresh baked cheese pies which became the perfect keep-me-going meal for the rest of our Georgian trip.

Mtskheta

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Early clouds embraced the morning sky.The hanging wires were soon leaking raindrops of melancholy. We got off the marshrutky and we found Mtskheta soaking uncorroded under the grey sky.A short walk up the hill for a deep breath of fresh air and the near mystical significance of the city for Georgian culture was soon understood.

The Jvari church we so much awaited to see was visible from the cliffy hilltops with its silent blessings weaving spiritual plots in the air. All we did was enjoying the timid sunbeams making their way out of the thick clouds on the tiled rooftops, the Cathedral and the river crossroads setting an alluring panorama blown away by the humid wind.

Davit Gareja

IMG_3977Early afternoon and our wine talks convinced our untamed spirit for a long ride near the boarders of Georgia with Azerbaijan.One of the most remarkable Georgian sites, more than 15 monasteries spread over a wide remote area was now our destination.

IMG_4007The mountains were embracing tightly the monastery caves and the harmonious horizon was uniting the remote wilderness of the sight. Muddy paths of unexplored beauty led us to the way up to the stone chapel where a well- deserved view was finally reached.

Kazbegi

IMG_4836IMG_4950IMG_5032The Georgian Military Highway was hiding a gem somewhere between its first 65 km from Tbilisi. Ananuri fortress was standing there with its churches like an ephemeral oasis that escaped from the Middle Ages. Sublime architecture and fine views made it for the rough ride that was expected for the rest of the journey.

And here we were. The relay race between the mountain sides seemed endless throughout our whole way up to the Tsminda Sameba church.

2200m and the higher we hiked the smaller we looked but the bigger we felt. The sturdy muscles of the wind were squeezing our remaining energy.

But when we arrived the wind of freedom was offered open-handed to our soaking bodies. Dark, misty and sharp the Caucasus was spreading all around us. A feast for the eyes.

More photos on our Georgian adventure can be found here.

To some place I know

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buried city

Rubbish bags all ripped off, concrete walls with dark signs on, the sound of a beer can crushed inside the palm of the punkie teenager, idle footsteps of some hectic neighbourhood stranger. A motorbike parks itself in some dusty city slum, weak streaks of moonlight unlock one of its many paths. It always felt unusual but nice.

You were there again.

Wandering around the small turns of this urban labyrinth, charmed by the echoes of an unfound mystery rhythm. As an urban flâneur, your only guide is your feeling, your only way in and out is your nerve. It provokes and inspires, it is a glorious metropolis in decay.

The sunlight sets fire on your path. You get to see them again, wandering lost and found at the same places, beggars of their own destiny. They stink, they shout, they are crazy they say but you so much want to touch them, they are all so real and safe.

But you keep walking never daring to turn your head to their side, this appalling guilt that scratches your golden inside. You keep walking, sweaty worked out hands give you warm bread, old man with beard spits on your name.

You keep walking.

Old ladies, two of them uncoil their morals in a morning chat, you hear a couple of words or one. There is sun, so much sun.. you need sunglasses, they are your only protection against the spasm of the public realm. Warm grey sunshine, untuned mind.

Meat choppers tik takking and you weigh your lies. Hostile looks and trembling hands, the sound of your coins will nourish his heart. Lost fights with life, headless statues on time. Up and down, shaking hands, exchange is done.

Nighmarish parade of some gypsy kids with chaotic smiles, this city is lost in an accordion’s sound. Insignificant melodies of a young little man, swallowed by the charm of this beautiful smile. Sprayed on the surface of some debris in the street, it demarcates the beyond and the within.

Your heart is squeezing and your inside is freezing, this lava fills you up, your mind is about to crack, stark naked as a tyranny it messes up with your wounds while promising a therapy to all those she could.

Look long enough to see, it is an abyss, a lie, a beauty, a we . It is Athens.