IASI – VAR Cultural

MIHAI, 28 years old

This crystal appeared out of nowhere in my life 2 years ago. It helped me a lot during that time, when I was exploring mysticism and the significance of the unconscious in our daily existence. When I felt negative energy around, somehow the Crystal was telling me to get out of there…

For example, when I was meeting somebody I didn’t trust yet and I wasn’t sure it was the right way, I looked in my coat pocket and if I had involuntarily placed the crystal there I knew I would be fine or I had chosen the right person or social situation.

Sometimes, after a long day of adventures in which everything had gone decently or well, I arrived home and found out that I’d had the crystal with me, as a confirmation of my trust in the choices made at that time.

A friend told me that a Crystal chooses you and not the other way round.

During those times I preferred to be spontaneous and follow the good vibe. With such energies it is preferable not to analyze too much. I didn’t respect social conventions, I danced and screamed in the street, I met a lot of beautiful or strange people, and I think it was exactly what I needed by my side.

ANA, 27 years old

One, two…or three objects.

When I read the call, the first thing I thought of was the watch that belonged to my grandmother, a very loved object, in which I gathered all her stories and mine too, joys and sorrows, traumas, tears, smiles, hopes and dreams. Inside the metal case, where time stopped at some point, winds a road that began long ago, on which I now travel, enjoying the people and places that come on my way.

But since I can’t send you a picture of it by the entry deadline, I want to say a few words about another object or objects: my pair of crutches – I mean my pair, but they’re on loan – quite worn and most often uncomfortable, but without these the last three weeks (since my leg is in a cast) would have been much harder.

Even if they are not objects to which I feel attachment, I realized how important they were in these moments of vulnerability, when I came to experience strong feelings of frustration and weakness: that I cannot step with both feet, that it’s hard for me to climb the three steps at the entrance, that I can’t do anything I’ve planned for this period. And in these moments when my energy is low and the days pass one after another, between two anticoagulant injections, the only moments of joy have come to be those spent in the flower garden in front of the house, where it would be almost impossible for me to get to if I didn’t have the crutches.

I think they are objects which importance I did not realize until now, when they’ve become indispensable. They are the “witness” and “support” objects, literally and figuratively, of a period that tested my patience, an experience from which I’ve learned a lot, which will find its place in the grandmother’s watch next to all the other happy or sad experiences lived before.

P.S.: I have to accept the crutches for one more week, because after that I’ll get rid of the cast and we’ll say Goodbye to each other.

ALEXANDRA, 28 years old

The notebook

When I first moved, all I took with me was a bag of books – I was never able to get rid of this luggage, which, year by year, got bigger in volume and weight. First it was an orange handle bag that I could carry in my hand. Then it became a box, and then there were two huge trolleys and a box. But of all these bricks of paper with colorful covers, I love my little notebooks the most. I keep these to write down my brilliant ideas or dreams someday.

The notebooks are special because I got them as gifts from certain important people in my life and I can carry them around without writing in them for years. I keep them because they are beautiful, because they were given to me, because they connect me, in time, to the people who gave them to me.

The first time I wanted a notebook was after reading “ The Castles of Anger” by Alessandro Baricco. One of his characters had a notebook in which he wrote one word a day-a word that sounded strange or was totally new. And I got this notebook from a very good friend. We have 11 years of friendship. It was orange and it closed with a magnet. There was a black sun on it and people riding horses in a desert. It had thick covers and embossed drawings. You could touch the sun, the people and the horses with your hand. I didn’t write a single word in that notebook – it was so beautiful that I was afraid to write and make mistakes.

After a long time I gave it as a gift to someone else, to a man I loved and for whom I had the courage to write, for the first time, on these pages. I wrote him a poem, a dedication and some hopes for us.

He never spoke to me again after that day.

What I regretted most was the lost notebook.

Now I’m holding another special notebook. I got it from the mother of the first boy I loved. We were both 18 years old. He was a tall boy with brown eyes, long brown wavy hair. A gorgeous boy who made me think of Klimt’s paintings, even if he liked Van Gogh or Egon Schiele. His aura was so warm that only Klimt’s palette could describe his beauty. He was playing the guitar, painting and he used to draw tags on my skin, with colored pencils – the kind that graffiti artists spray illegally on walls.

This boy and his mother accompanied me everywhere I travelled. Their kind and warm presence is kept by my notebook. This is where I wrote my first dreams in 2014. Nightmares. His mother gave me the idea that I could write down these messages from the world I travel to when I sleep. I also wrote here the feeling I have before going on the stage – even today – the feeling of sharp needles sticking into my hands. I wrote beautifully, on the first pages, about the last days that the three of us were going to spend together.

On the covers and the front page, he subtly drew two hearts linking together. There are 3 drawings. One for each of us.

Only after another 7 years I wrote in this notebook again. They were quick guidelines from 3 different projects I worked on- in Cluj, Iasi and Suceava. Short words, tasks that I had to solve in the project, about room or how to cut the music and indications about the quality of the movement while I was dancing.

And now, as I am writing this story for you, I realize that these are not dreams I had during the night, but nights of thoughts that materialized into dream projects. And I think of her again, the one who gave me the notebook, and of him, drawing with pepper on the wedding plates I describe in the first dream. I hug them. I know they would be proud of me and I would love to be able to tell them someday that I still love them.

EMANUEL, 34 years old

The object I’ve chosen for the casting is a painting.

The story behind this item:

Meticulous details have been lost from memory because the following events took place in 2017, and I personally was not in a stable period of my life.

I met a person at a party who also happened to be a co-worker’s flatmate. It sounds like Hollywood romance or something out of “Friends”, but it won’t end as nicely.

We both felt a spark the night of the party and, like any normal human, of course, we started talking – what actually means endless texting on a social media platform, in this case Facebook Messenger.

From November or the beginning of December, when that party took place, we wrote a lot of messages to each other, as she was working from home being at the beginning of her career as an architect and at the same time she was also painting – and I as an IT-ist working 12-hour night shifts.

The way we were talking to each other seemed fun and very passionate, there were no limits in communication, and “sexting” was part of our dialogue.

Now, I have to share something with you. At that time I was doing an advanced and intensive form of therapy because mentally I wasn’t in a very good point, and I was also hiding it because I felt it like a male weakness, so please don’t forget this aspect.

In the months that followed, we scheduled meetings at various events or locations- hers were more on the cultural side – theater, jazz concerts, cafes and tea houses and- I came with proposals for large-scale parties, nightclubs, home cooking, cinema. It seemed that we were compatible, but for various reasons the carnal side had not taken place, as we were not in a relationship, not even an open relationship, and strangely, this was because of some disappointments she had experienced. But it’s not up to me to share them with you. So our label was somewhere on the spectrum of we have priority over others, there are no limitations, everyone does what they want.

It’s not the healthiest way to start a relationship with someone, but, as absurd as it seems, we both resisted into this commitment because it offered us a form of freedom that turned out to be a bitter illusion.

One day in February, she sent me a picture of two bloody hands and I really resonated with that picture, because it was a couple holding hands, covered in blood.

After we passed over the carnal side, which had already become a problem because there was a lot of sexual tension created between us, especially on her part, she gave me a gift- a painting that I had chosen, and she only told me that it was inspired by that picture, and I, as a fool, didn’t ask her about its meaning.

Around April, after some different opinions that kept gathering, we started ghosting each other. On one hand I couldn’t deal with her incisive reactions, on the other hand she accused me of treating her like a trophy. So we broke up, but without declaring it. Strange. I know. Don’t forget that I was still doing therapy.

Some time later she was still writing to me and maintaining a limited dialogue. I asked if she wanted the painting back, and the answer I got was “No”, that I could keep it, because that painting strictly represents me and what I need in life, as just a woman who has been through difficult things just like I did, would be able to handle a relationship with me and hold on to me, and no other woman would deserve me.

Of course I was moved to tears because I had already made progress with the therapy and that was a moment of catharsis.

BEATRICE, 24 years old

Who are you without your mask?!

I ask myself this question every day. We, humans, have this tendency to hide ourselves behind masks. Why? Stan Lee, the creator of Spiderman, gave us an answer: “Spiderman wears a mask so he can’t see the enemies he’s fighting and he’s afraid of.” It would be wonderful if we wore masks too, only when we “fight” against our enemies. But we carry them all the time. Especially when we love. And we are afraid. Sometimes I’m so afraid of what people might see behind the mask that I prefer to run away from love. And let’s be serious now, who can say they never wear a mask? And that they always have the courage to throw himself naked into the “lion’s den” and leave themselves vulnerable in front of the others? I always wonder if the masks we hide behind, in order to appear strong, are actually what make us weaker. And if the inner strength is not measured in outer gentleness? The bad side about masks is that they fit us so well that sometimes we forget we’re wearing them. So every morning when I wake up I go to the mirror and ask myself: “Who are you without the mask, Beatrice?” Some days the answer comes harder, some days easier, some days not at all (and then I realize how stuck to my face the mask is), but it’s important that I don’t forget it’s there. To protect me. Not to show my fears. And like Peter Parker or any other superhero, I keep my identity hidden. Sometimes even in front of love. But I’m working on it, and maybe I’ll soon have the courage to live without any mask. What about you?! Who are you without your mask?!

FLAVIA, 30 years old

Hello and welcome to my TedTalk!

I CHOOSE MY LEFT HAND!

We are objects and we changed ourselves into objects! Seriously! We know very well in what society we live and, no matter how much we want to appear politically correct, we come to the conclusion that we are objects with heartbeats.

My left hand has wiped more tears than any other hoodie I own because it reminds me of someone. My left hand hit the walls when I was worst hit by people. My little hand stroke me in the calm evenings spent with wine and fine music on the balcony, when there was no one near me. I wrote medical certificates with it in high school and accidentally broke glasses, sometimes it became my romantic partner, if such a statement is allowed. It holds my forehead when life is too hard and it also has tics when it feels overwhelmed.

My left hand didn’t judge me for being Genderfluid, it never told me I was weird, that I have short hair, on the contrary, it cuts it! It pulled the shoelaces for us to put the shoes on when the roads were unknown. It sticks my lips when I’m not supposed to speak and gives me a hint when we’re safe.

Don’t think it’s a hero, no! It was also my accomplice in the attempt to shorten my destiny when we were younger, and it also helped me rise when the others couldn’t see me… hear me…

If a man dies… doesn’t he become… an object?

It is the one that covers the mirror when we realize we have missed our dreams of evolving…it doesn’t matter anymore. It helps me put on makeup to hide who I really am and to lie to society that I’m like…her.

My left hand gives me the best slaps when I have an OCD attack. It helps me cook my fries and pet the animals on the street. It lights candles for some form of connection with long-forgotten divinities, it scrolls to distract us from reality, it presses “play” when the song is too good and it opens the bottle of wine when the evening is too bad, it lights the cigarette when we run out of breath, it screams “HEY!” for the millionth time…

It applauds the actors at the end of the show, it buys me tickets to concerts, it teaches me that life is still possible, it braids my pigtails with wishes.

We are so many walking objects that deserve to be somewhere else, but some more expensive objects have taken our place. How many of us can be happy to have the desired job? How many have lost their place on that front shelf because another product with a better promotion and a nicer label came out, even though it’s not better than you?

How many of you have pawned your dreams and sold your hopes in installments for a different employment? I’ve always loved inducing the idea of a revolution against injustice, but we always stick to the idea, right?!

We don’t want to live in peace and slavery! We want to live in peace and anarchy!

You can use objects, right?! You can use us, too! You judge them by how they look, how they smell, or how much they cost. Sometimes you even compare them! For example, how many of you would buy the most withered plant in a store thinking that you might bring it back to life by replanting it or giving it a special amp, or maybe just thinking that it will use photosynthesis quietly on your windowsill and not in a common store…ignored…placed as far as possible on the shelf? A few… congrats to you!

I’ve lived for a little bit more than 30 years so far and I’ve somehow realized that we, humans are objects-ish. Objects can be lost in so many ways, right? In floods, earthquakes, theft, fires…isn’t it the same for the human beings? Sometimes we lose beings in these ways, sometimes in more peaceful or morbid ways, but this is my story…of an object.

This is me…an object. We are condemned to become objects from the time we are born because no matter what you believe or what you go through, you want to die as late as possible. Although, it is interpretable.

What is the…deal…with…the…object…? I don’t want to be treated like the smart guy up there with the thinking of a millennial philosopher, or some goddamned creature sent to Wolf Valley with the noble purpose of writing something mega-super-extra-wow…but we’re not, after all, objects?!

MIHAELA, 32 years old

This traditional blouse means a lot to me. It was my grandmother’s, made for her by her mother, my great-grandmother. Then it was my mother’s and now it’s mine. I happily and longingly wear it when I have the opportunity and recently I have made it a point to create more opportunities in this regard. This year I’ve worn it at a festival one night. And when the band I was especially waiting for –Subcarpați – came on stage, I felt its message more clearly than ever. I think that many aspects are transgenerationally transmitted and even if we are the ones who give value to things, they also help us build a bond between generations.

ȘTEFANIA, 22 years old

Once upon a time, not like in the stories, there was a black band hanging on a scratched dial found on the barn’s windowsill. I bought it for myself when I started having the consciousness of life and time, too. I realized I needed a change in my life at the age of 17, and that watch came as an impulse for me. I considered it special because of the rotating mechanism which was manual. Basically, I had the power to decide when to stop time, a super power that I wished for all my childhood and adolescence. I always imagined how I would go into a space-time loop and steal/take sweets from the village shop. I’m wondering now if that room full of all kinds of objects and food thrown one over the others can be called a shop. Anyway, there lay my desire to stop time from the perspective of a 7-year-old child.

I wore the watch when I wanted to record certain events that I considered emblematic in my life. Every time I stopped it and said it was the right place to be at that time, as I am here too while I’m writing. I love it because it’s with me and for me, being the only witness during my life- it was there at my first kiss, at my first baccalaureate exam, at my first job interview, at my first exhibition, at my first glass of wine, at the first poem that opened the way to beauty. An object that has a human life in it and probably even more than that.

Thanks for the time spent reading!

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