Arad/50 mm

I might claim that my project of shooting one day in Arad strictly with the 50 mm lens was a great artistic endeavour of which I thought long and hard and which was aimed at revealing something in particular about the town I’ll always fondly call home.  The truth is, I was lazy. Lazy to take the other lenses to me, lazy to change them according to my subject, just lazy in general because we set out on a very fine autumn day, which the weather gods had proclaimed to be the last but one very fine day of the year in general.

The next step was convincing myself that this is actually great, and will give disparate yet oft photographed subjects a kind of coherence which, as a rule,  lacks from both my person and what I might overblownly call my ouevre. Though I’ve recently read that nothing makes us more human than our capacity to firmly hold contradicting beliefs. Therefore I will claim that I both meant and did not mean this whole thing, and it both makes some sense- or none at all. 

Spring is for the Irresponsible

It’s an odd feeling that whenever I am at home in Arad, I also unavoidably feel like a tourist too: since I have not spent considerable stretches of non-holiday time here for a decade or so, I do not have a data plan on my phone, so I keep hunting wi-fi connections. Needless to say, it’s a silly thing, one of those symptoms of how our society has totally alienated us from others, and ourselves as well.

As I was waiting in a car parked next to a bus stop the other day, I noticed how everyone was either fingering their phones, or talking to someone- on the phone naturally. They usually spent a careful time staring at the screen, looking like they’re working hard at figuring out whom to call, and why. Just as I was about to become comfortably judgmental, it dawned on me how the most pleasant part of my day had been taking in the sun in the Pensioner’s Park- and discovering that there’s a free wi-fi connection.

It was kind of hard to decide whether it had been the sun to make me happy- or the wi-fi. I would say a combination of both, and, for my defense, I could also add that under normal circumstances, I would have settled for a book, but I happened not to have one with me. So as I was merrily browsing the Internet, I bumped upon an article about how February had been the hottest month on record, compared to expected averages.

And that made perfect sense, judging by the number of trees in untimely bloom I had just photographed. Generally, the whole of February had been on fast forward flower-wise: there used to be a time for snowdrops, and then a time of hyacinths and daffodils, and then a time for tulips. This year everything came in fits and starts, and all at once.

So I should have- panicked? Made plans to eat less meat, fly less, shower less, use less poisonous sounding household products? Maybe. But I was just happy for the sunshine, the wi-fi, the pink blooms. Spring is an irresponsible time. Or perhaps I am irresponsible full stop. Is being born in spring an excuse? I hope so.

Fifteen Millimetres of Pure White Snow

So it’s Friday morning and you notice a layer of snow and frost, and you know all too well this won’t last, because the climate is slowly becoming borderline sub-tropical with delusions of being continental, but you’re feeling somewhat sub-tropical yourself, as in very relaxed and not in a rush to do anything, most poignantly not in a rush to go out and take pictures when it’s minus something.

It’s therefore a godsend when the family decides to go on a shopping round and you can tag along and dash out into the cold for the very brief time of snapping a few shots and contentedly commenting that it’s not that freezing after all-the prospect of immediate warmth generally takes away the bite of winter weather.So here are results of said odd-defying expedition of breathtaking bravery, also known as how to make the most of a few square metres of snow in less then five minutes.

Home for the Holidays

It's quite fashionable to moan about the white Christmases of yore and how they don't happen anymore, but I honestly can't recall any. It's not just that I cannot remember a snow-apocalypse type Christmas, I simply can't say if there was snow, ever. This is probably partly due to the fact that I was particularly susceptible to colds as a child, and I would dread winter weather in any of its forms, as it could trigger anything from sniffles to mild pneumonia. Nothing lethal, of course, but Christmas with mild pneumonia kind of loses some of its shine. 

On the other hand, I do think that December is not a typical snow month in Arad. Because I clearly remember biggish snowfalls in November, and pretty devastating ones in both January and February. Those of February had a particular knack at annoying me, as I was kind of already waiting for spring and then, oh damn, let me shovel myself out of five feet of snow on my way to school.

I was therefore completely cool with the fact that on the 23rd of December I undertook my final Christmas shopping in what could be called splendid spring sunshine, while listening to people tragically complain about how they really don't feel like mulled wine, but they'd rather have a spritzer. Have it, for Pete's sake, add some cinnamon and you're good to go. 

I was also quite delighted by not having my hands freeze on my shopping bags, and taking in some vitamin D in the process. For the rest of time, it was quite foggy. Which is more wintry, sure, and I do think it looks splendid, but fog is also ruined for us these days, since it's most probably not good old honest fog, but it's hideous industrial friend, smog. But no matter what, commonplace as it sounds, it's good to be home for Christmas, doing some of the things you always did, and some new ones too, because every tradition has to start somewhere, I guess.