I
was born in a small town in the heart of Transylvania at the end of the
70s when the Communist regime was hocus-pocusing with electricity and
with our lives. My father taught me some painting techniques when I was
7. Surrounded by shadows thrown on the kitchen walls by thin yellow
candles, we were playing guitar, discussing art, Beatles, and the
meaning of life. Those times are now floating in a haze of surreality
and enigmatic sense of freedom. I understood quite fast that art looks like a big word, but feels
like a
small one. What a scandal! If nobless oblige,
art doesn't seem to. Everyone uses it to one's own ends of
survival, destruction or delusion. For years, I was afraid to even
mention the word; let alone admit I take considerable pleasure in
painting.
I grew mature trying to grasp the fact that we weren't given a life to constantly correct it, but to, somehow, live it. So I was living and studying communication, sociology, history of ideas, anthropology, and theology in Bucharest, Paris, Stockholm or Lund, finally getting my PhD in philology with a thesis about modern representations of death. I also spent my time writing two books about socio-anthropology of death and dying - the first won a prize for best debut in 2005 while the second one is still stuck in the obscure process of publishing; I'm lecturing at the university, I'm about to finish a novel, and, whenever I got time on my side, I do my best to show some intriguing art in several European galleries. In short, just like everyone reading these lines, I'm trying to negotiate my way around reality; and, if I'm lucky, around myself.
I