meet C.

C. in front of the Budapest Parliment building, acting like she owns the place.

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Madeira, black and white

the first thing I recall from Madeira is color. Bursting, wild, overwhelming palette of shades, embraced by the sharp, Atlantic light, hitting my eyes on every occasion.

maybe that’s why I like the photographs of Madeira in black and white the most. jungle tamed. organised chaos. big, vast, the most authentic mix of colors, black and white x-rays the island and leaves only what’s essential.

I miss laying my eyes on the far away, vast landscape. Madeira is a big pillow.

 

the ocean

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we sat on the shore and watched the ocean.

Paul said “look” and the big wave came and than another and another.

as the ocean retreated the hundreds of stones rolled down. what a lovely sound.

I don’t know how many hours passed, but I don’t think the time was going minute by minute. It went a little bit here and a little bit there. tick tock, tick tock, like that.

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1pm piccadilly circus

the queue in the piccadilly circus tesco looks dreadful. i bump into tourists, madmen. this place is mad. epileptic advertisement screens seduce people like moths. i wonder why. i wish i could look at this place and see what you see. i guess i’m too busy standing in the queue.

self portrait

Photographing yourself isn’t easy. As a matter of a fact it’s harder than I could have imagined. We’re living in the world bombarded by selfies, the illusion of the never ending crowd of perfect, beautiful people hidden under ideal make up. If you ask me, it feels pretty intimidating.

When I thought about taking a self portrait I was trying to think about something different, more real and authentic. Something that defines me more than my face on the night out. I take photos of others as I see them. They’re authentic. I document them in a pure, unaware way lost in the moment, ideally a moment characteristic for the subject. In my subjective, or objective eye for the moment of releasing my shutter button they become naked.

It doesn’t work that way with the self. Self is complicated and I am critical. Self is hard to define, and I refuse to seek a definition. Who wants to be put in a box with a definition on a top? Self is the most vulnerable model I could have asked for. Hardest to please and unwilling to compromise.

I decided to go back. To my bed that isn’t the right size anymore, my cat, my post-communist family photo album, the familiar warm light.

After all, could we be ourselves more than at home?

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a childhood bed
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family photos
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a cat
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me and a cat
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window
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window
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gone