THEORY

The balcony scene

There is a resemblance in the use and the meaning of the balcony of an old block of flats and the ones of a Romanian old timer called veranda: both are connection areas between the outdoors and interiors, possibly enclosed spaces that bring together a built form of an idea and a main-function-preceding role in architecture as it is the one of daily-living. Let's take the balcony and explore it for a while - see how you have to go it inside out in order to fulfill and fortunately understand it's meaning. As for veranda, you have to go both ways, outside-to-inside and in reverse, just to understand it and complete it rightly. Until the Romanian nineties, the balcony received in large amounts negative assumptions due to being largely related to the communist era propaganda design style. Still, today it caries no lesser ways of exploration for the man than the old veranda can offer one at sight. The very reason why it has been brought to solid form by man puts value in this statement and makes it state of fact: it offers space outside the inhabited skin of any building, immediately within reach and safe, as safe as the volume it took shape from and supports it, yet outside-of, freed from constriction - an at-hand offered choice of liberation, a possibility for passing through, beyond a given set of fixed conditions. So is the door, in an analogy, that gives relief in moments of distress or other troubles. On the heights of a tall building great facade, the-communist-era balcony goes even further from its namely condition: it opens out perspectives, gives larger observation angles over context, it breaks the screen that stops you leaning over to see more thus turning right against the ideology that brought its shame. At the same time we see another valuable role for this tall setting of a balcony: when built open, even repeated on the same facade along a vertical distance, it penetrates and anchors in the surrounding air the very bearing building that supports it, un-isolating the inside to the outside, releasing both. Kinetically imagined, the open balcony slides out of a building structure or defining skin taking in the exterior to flow inside. As a result, the architectural object gets more weight, stability and equilibrium on its site. And furthermore, through the geometry of a repetition, the balcony makes the presence of a building eventually gain more sense on its site, setting the scale, the rhythm and the shape, communicating and relating to the broader context. So, there it is: the balcony of an old block, barely re-legitimated by metaphoric means of reversed consistencies belonging both to the building and the context where it vibrates; that balcony of an old block, gathering shape and consistency out of a composition effort under the plain justification of pure geometry.

Self-referential language in a public address

(Frankenstein)

If ever in doubt about delivering some idea in the right way through the use of words one should look neither further than nor beyond the common sense - if accessible at the time of need which, by the way, is mostly out of reach while speaking and so much closer and more clear at some later time. And the same goes with other forms of expression. Let's, for example, throw an eye over the Monumentul Revolutiei in its unfairly name-related public square in Bucharest, while at the same time being careful our eye not to get stuck on the tip of its obelisk. At the official opening festivity, Alexandru Ghildus described the symbolic events in which his new product has found the source for final shape. Yet this hardly made anyone to get a glimpse of why he did build the way he did. We shall not argue now with Mr Ghildus's whatever reasoning pattern assuming that everyone of us can easily agree with the subjective nature of an artist's mind, understanding and interpretation onto the artistic product. We shall also not cast, at this time, hard judgements on people that already call the obelisk the spear and the round-like shaped object that the spear cuts through... well... the potato. Reasons for this popular perception lay in the spontaneity of the human reaction under the psychical presence of shape, spectacularly stimulated by the powerful volumes of built architecture. This spontaneity has also common grounds with common sense, harvested in the reactive sensibility of individuals. Still, as the public manages to understand and comprehend so simply these likewise simple principles as plain facts-of-life, the artistic nature of Mr Ghildus seems to unfortunately lack the ability to connect with the public common sense, thus altering the clarity of his vision upon the public reaction when facing his new monument. If not aware about the representative vocation of this object one may even believe that this composition has been created with the sole purpose of misleading and playing with the honest minds by the means of the interpretation. But surely this isn't the case here: Mr Ghildus had a specific theme to follow and a quite clearly identifiable historical event to work with and re-present to the masses. Yes, this creation can sit on its master's delivering reasoning but it will always be, as it already looks like, nothing more than a creature sadly confusing, satirically amusing its public that should actually adopt this organism, keep it alive investing it with understanding and, ultimately, with care. Right now I cannot tell which of the two brings more sadness to my heart: the fact that here we have one more potentially wonderful city context completely wasted by an unworthy artist's disregard or that the innocence of this new creature could not absolve its bearer from being born straight into deadly menace of the blame and shame.

(links: Monumentul Revolutiei close-up, Fate and Destiny in Frankenstein, More London Riverside 01, 02)

The feeling is in the eye of the beholder

I found myself stepping over

a shiny floor inside a bank

the other day.

My every step was taking me once more

below the same sharp fear of falling down and rolling

with funny moves

along the icy polished stone

in black and white.

A cold-touch feeling went through my shoes

way down,

onto

my bare sole, up to the obvious rejection

of anything that could become familiar

as I was kept at safe distance from my fear

by the strongly reflecting icy screen below.

I walked so easy, though, as I was carried

on footsteps left over this deep surface of dark mirror -

like frozen water firmly it stood still

against any accreditation of consent.

I was imperiously urged to leave,

rapidly led out by a rejecting air.

I knew so well I only was a passenger,

brought there by means of precise needs - and nothing more.

And yes

I've been reminded through my image,

returned to my wide eyes

in lesser colour

lesser living breath,

that there was no time there to stay still neither

as I could fall,

there was no moment

where

to get

used to,

for any breakthrough could

not be found in site:

the only way for me was to go further,

fast-stepping onward past my need and run,

wearing my reason just like that mirror wearing me.

Still, I was constantly reaching to some courage

in order to complete some moves, seeking release

within this sudden question: should I be feeling safe

inside this bank

whose floors slickly refuse to bear my feet?

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