My new Romanian housemate just landed back in our kitchen from a short trip home to Maramures. (The coincidence of her being Romanian reminds me I need to return).
I’m struggling to fight my urges to run off on an adventure again as my gut is advising me I need to slow down; think a little. I’m sure it wont be long until I pull out the map and start placing the pins but I’m not sure the luxury of travelling is helping me focus. Personally, I am obviously loving the challenges and stories but it feels like a longer endeavour awaits. One with a path. I just need to figure it out.
A long time ago we wooed the train attendants into letting us shoot in Bare Mare station. It’s a beautiful building, strangely peaceful and quiet. The builders were in full swing whilst we shot and I sensed the crumbling interior would soon vanish. Rooms sat empty drowning in dust and old scrap and haggard chairs littered the hall that trailed from a grand staircase. I stumbled across this waiting room flooded with light, the stains on the floor held stories.
With the aid of a wonderful friend of Lucky’s I shot with haste. I recall taking in as much as I could, in case the next time I returned it ceased to inspire.