Chaos

The song to go with it

cha·os, noun: complete disorder and confusion. Disorder, disarray, disorganization, confusion, mayhem, bedlam, pandemonium, havoc, turmoil, tumult, commotion, disruption, upheaval, uproar, maelstrom.

In physics: behaviour so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions. The formless matter supposed to have existed before the creation of the universe.

Bucharest, 1945: Life goes on in a more orderly fashion again, day after day unfurling more or less neatly among the ruins.

One day, out of the blue, while he was waiting at the traffic light on his way home, a guy walked up to him and pointed a gun at his chest, telling him to get out and leave the car. His car. The one he had ordered from the US, after all those years of hard work.
When it finally arrived, everybody had tiptoed around it for days. The elegant silvery coupé with the red upholstery, where she’d lean her lovely head on, tired after a ball. The hatch in the back, where the kids would squeal with joy when he’d take them on a day trip to wherever, the…

All those days in winter he’d driven his family up the mountains, all those summer afternoons to the hills and beaches…Then this guy had just climbed behind the wheel and driven away, his dirty hands clutching that wheel he used to stroke! Now he’s walking aimlessly in the streets, a vague idea he should go home and tell her that…the car was gone. A guy in a uniform had asked for it and he…he had pointed his gun at you.

He hated the war, it was finally over – and now everything just got a whole lot worse.

Earthquake

My great grandma had come to Romania from Switzerland in 1927.
She was born on the side of the Bodensee in 1904 and had seen Zeppelins flying over the lake; she grew up during the First World War. She was in Bucharest in the 1940 earthquake and during the Second World War.
Communism and the 1977 earthquake found her in a room of the house that I later grew up in.
Witnessing changes and hardship had turned her into a mine of stories.

She’d wake up at 6am every day; take a cold shower and an aspirin, ‘to keep the blood clot-free’, then rush out and sweep the pavement, to the utter amazement of all our neighbours.

Sometimes, they’d greet her with: ‘The crazy German lady is out sweeping again. How’s it, missus?’
‘I am NOT German. Please.’
‘But you speak German.’
‘I am Swiss.
‘Swiss, Austrian, German – all Germans who speak German’, the answer would come back.
‘If you had any idea what fierce resistance the Swiss brought up against the Germans in history, you’d NEVER mistake one for another.’
Then she’d retreat to the garden, muttering ‘Ignorants!’ 

After sweeping the dust, leaves or snow, depending on the season, she’d come inside, change her shoes and put the battered kettle on, make filter coffee and also give me a cup, with milk and sugar.

Then she’d go to the market, every day, even in the dark eighties, when it had become just social behaviour, as there was hardly anything to be bought from the pale faced peasants after 1984, neither on the stalls – nor from underneath them. She’d make gratins from half a celery, an egg, some old bread and diary product.

She taught me all about gardening, keeping alive a neat garden with flowers more typical to her birth climate, than to the extreme one in Bucharest. Big-leafed bergenia, wild flowers from the woods and hydrangea bushes, they all needed constant maintenance and watering here. Even the roses were of foreign sorts. When we’d go on a visit to one of her friends, she’d bring along a rose from the garden, a gesture I came to appreciate but decades later, after having searched hard for a perfumed garden rose in all markets of the countries I lived in.

While gardening or taking care of the household, she’d tell me stories of places she’d seen and people she’d met along the way. All rather pedagogical, now I come to think of it.

But she was at her storytelling best during lunch. We’d sit in front of her dark bookshelves, just the two of us. She’d serve the gratin and start telling the goriest stories.

About how she came from poor and starving Switzerland, just to find people here throwing food away…even bread! And how she’d tell them that one day they were going to regret wasting food. About how the war came and the people starved and had no shoes. How they had to sell their belongings at the flea market, the beautiful painted teacups and the paintings and the cutlery. ‘Did you have to sell your things, Omama?’ She wouldn’t answer and go on to the next story.

Of the couple that was having a fight during the earthquake. They were in bed and the rattling started. The husband jumped under the doorframe and begged his wife to join him. But she was cross and told him she’d rather die in bed than join him. So the doorframe collapsed and he was crushed and she survived it, in bed!

When my parents came home that night, I asked them why they had told me to shelter under the doorframe in case of an earthquake, if it wasn’t safe anyway.

‘Who told you that, sweetie, ‘course you’re supposed to run for shelter under the doorframe! Not outside and not the staircase, love. It’s the Doorframe.’
‘But Omama said that the husband in the story got crushed there, so it’s not safe. I’ll go and hide in the cupboard or under the bed.’
‘Omama told you – what?’

Next day, great grandma got instructed to stop telling the kid ‘terrible stories, understood? She’s a kid, she’s not to be exposed to horror, got that?’, dad had said.
She told me a few stories about great personalities instead, showing me pictures from one of my favourite book ‘Menschen, die die Welt veränderten’ (People who changed the world), the Westermann edition. My favourites were Homer, Alexander the Great, Aristotle, Henri Dunnant, Mohammed the prophet – lovely Persian miniatures where he’s depicted without a face and with flames around the head, riding horses in the sky. Then, Marie Curie, Farraday, Koch, Tesla. Gandhi.

After a while I knew these people’s stories by heart – and wanted MORE STORIES.

So we got back to gore.
‘So, one of the people who survived the great earthquake was this lady in a bathtub. She fell out of the 3rd floor while showering, you know, and – got away.’
‘She fell…into the street?’
‘Yes, dearie. In March, 4th, 1977. Terrible earthquake.’
‘Oh. In her bathtub’.
I went to play in a corner and…digest this new piece of information.
I couldn’t ask the mighty dad, because I knew meanwhile that he didn’t take earthquake stories well. And mom would cut this short, probably. So I turned the story over in my head for a few days. But it started keeping me up, what happened after she fell, once she survived?

A few days later, I had reached the conclusion that this was, although an ‘earthquake story’, one with a happy ending. So, there was a chance to ask dad.
In the evening, dad came to say goodnight and I tried to bring up the matter. ‘Dad, soo…you know, the lady who survived the earthquake?’
‘…’
‘The lady who survived the earthquake in her bathtub?’
‘Here we go again! Horror stories from – let me guess, Omama?!’
‘But…but this one SURVIVED! I was wondering…’
‘No, please stop thinking about the earthquake, sweetie.’
‘But I can’t sleep without knowing the end of the story!
‘Go to bed. Please. It’s late.’
‘But…it’s been 3 nights I’m wondering what happened after that.’
‘After what?!’
‘After she fell. And survived. Please tell me, dad.’
‘Tell you what? She survived. Go to bed. Now’
‘But…what happened next? She fell out, in her bathtub – aaand?’
‘Survived. Great. Sleep now.’
‘But she fell into the street, on the crossroads! From the 3rd floor!’
‘Goodnight’ Dad was already at the door.
‘Please tell me how the story eeends, dad please! I can’t sleep. She was naked or was she taking a shower with her clothes on??’
‘…’
‘I have to know! It was in March, it was cold outside!! Were the people staring? She was naked in the middle of the crossroad? In her bathtub? Please tell me what happened.’
Long sigh. Best dad in the world turns around and comes back from the door. ‘Sweetie. Somebody probably gave her a coat. Now PLEASE go to sleep.’

I finally slept well that night. And the next day I promised Omama I’d never tell dad about the gory stories again.
I often wondered how the guy who had his face hit by a brick got recognized by his relatives – or how the lady whose silk robe caught fire…

But I never asked dad again.
You can see a picture below of the above mentioned Omama and my great grandpa listening to Radio Beromünster in 1946.
He never came home from work at the Pharmacy one night, in 1952. But that’s another story.

***

Listening to Radio Beromünster in 1946

Next Thursday, on March 4th there’ll be 39 years since that terrible earthquake, which struck Bucharest with 7.4° on Richter’s scale and killed more than 1’500 people. 

Among them was our best comedian of all times, Toma Caragiu. 
11’300 people were wounded. 32’900 buildings were damaged or destroyed. The material damage was estimated at 2 billion dollars. 
Ceausescu was on a visit in Nigeria at the time and, on returning, used the damages as an excuse to start a demolition program that erased a quarter of the old town center and destroyed the homes of more people than the earthquake itself.

Let’s hope the next big one spares Bucharest, as we all know that houses don’t mend themselves and this city did nothing to enforce its structures and protect its inhabitants since the last one.

A song to go with it here. 

The Street

One afternoon late last summer, this lady walks into the Ark building. She’s middle-aged and speaks Romanian with the accent of someone who’s lived abroad for longer than she can remember. Timeless chic, scarf, lively black eyes under a fringe, beret cocked to the side, she’s somewhat enraptured by the place.
I show her around and tell her about how the new owners had saved this big old ship from falling into nothingness ten years ago.
The former Commodities Trade Building is one of the few survivors of the Uranus neighbourhood, which had been razed to the ground by Ceausescu in 1982-84, nothing being built on the wasteland instead.

She’s fascinated, the building was renovated so carefully; memories come back. She’s dreamy, but not very talkative.

In the end she says goodbye, delighted about our little chat and walks away – then she stops at the door and turns around with a frown. 
‘Actually, maybe you could help me find this street I’m looking for.’ 
Sure, what street? 
‘It’s strada Minotaurului. It must be somewhere around here, but I can’t find it.’ 
Lady, there must be a mistake; I guess you mean some other name. Are you sure?
She looks at me, shaking her head, and then takes out a map and points sullenly at the street shown on it. 
‘It should be near by, around the corner somewhere.’ The map is new and shiny, the street’s there all right, M-i-n-o-t-a-u-r-u-l-u-i it says, I can see it, but it’s…

 

 

Gheorghe Panu str. – Schitul Maicilor str. Photo from Mihai Isacescu

21, Minotaurului © Dragos Frincu

Arionoaiei Street © Dan Perry

Strada Minotaurului was demolished in 1984, along with all its houses and trees and gardens, to make way for the new civic centre. 
Its people were thrown out and scattered all over town, distributed to the new anonymous concrete blocks of flats. 

Although…for a moment I’m hesitating. I feel like running out to see it with my own eyes. Maybe I’m mistaken and she’s right and the street is still there. Opposite of our building, a bit further down the road, with its trees and cobblestones and people and tiled roofs. The diggers were just a nightmare.

Somebody opened their gate on Lazureanu this morning and left for work, walking down the sloped sidewalk. They’ll be home in the evening, passing the stores and the Cosbuc cinema on that rattling tram from Unirii Square. On the steps on Ecoului, kids are still playing. At Meteorilor, a few older ones are skipping school and hiding with their cigarettes behind an old iron fence. A couple are clinging on to one another as if it was their last day on earth, in the shadow of the old chestnut tree on Arionoaia. Somebody is loading his furniture off a truck on Uranus. A nun scurries out of the Schitul Maicilor monastery, busy as nuns always seem to be. It smells of freshly ground coffee from a house, were the old lady awaits her nephew to return from the military. Cazarmii, Salvatorului. Someone else just finished roasting the joint, opened a window and is calling down ‘Lunch’s ready, boys, wash your hands and come up – now!’

If I run out right now, I will see them all! 

The lady is still looking at me, waiting for an answer. 
‘It was there, if you walk out, left hand side. But now it’s…gone.’ 
She smiles, ‘No, madam, there must be a mistake. Minotaurului is still there, look at the map.’ 
I can see the Parliament’s Palace is there on the map, easy to spot, enourmous as it is. The nightmare is as real. But – the academy building is missing; all the old streets are in their places, LazureanuMinotaurului and EcouluiMeteorilorArionoaiei and Salvatorului, with Ion Taranu crossing them. For a moment, the children are still hanging on the corner, the couple is snogging, and mom’s calling her boys from the window, lunch’s ready, and the tram rattles around the corner.

But it can’t be. I had walked up that hill 2 weeks before, over the wasteland in front of the unfinished academy building. There’s only shrubbery there now, hundreds of hectares of weeds and thorny bushes cover the hill where these houses stood in which these people lived. If you dig in the dirt with your shoe, you can still find some bits of a cobbled street under the bushes.

She hands me the map and points at the little street. The map is brand new. 
I ask her, ‘Lady, where did you get this map from?’ 
‘At the Romanian stand at a tourism fair, back home in the States, last year.’ 
She folds it carefully and walks back to the door, smiling at me.
‘Don’t you worry; I’m sure I’m going to find it. Thanks for your kindness.’

A wonderful superposing of pictures from different times.

Watch a movie from demolishing times, 1984, here.

The Uranus Neighbourhood – Minotauturului street in the lower third – THEN…

…and NOW

Casa de pe soseaua Kiseleff – Imagini din trecut – 1900 – 1948/9

 

Sandu Sturza, col. Radu Miclescu si sotia sa, Elsa, cu cainii, pe terenul de tenis din spatele casei

Aceasta casa, despre care am mai scris (vezi link-uri in josul paginei) a fost proiectata de arhitectul Ion Mincu pentru pictorul G.D.Mirea, caruia se spune ca i s-a epuizat bugetul inainte de terminarea constructiei. In anul 1900 a fost nevoit sa vanda casa, aflata pe Soseaua Kiseleff la nr. 33, pe un teren de 3’000 m2. (Nu stiu exact cat de mare era terenul la 1900, dar mergea pana in spate, pe strada B. St. Delavrancea).

Salonul, 1900

Casa a fost cumparata si terminata de colonelul Radu Miclescu, descendent al unei mari familii de boieri moldoveni, care a trait aici cu mama si sotia sa, Elsa.

Salonul, 1900, detaliu. Mama colonelului

Cele mai mari personalitati ale perioadei interbelice s-au intalnit aici, petrecand in baluri elegante ori venind saptamanal la jour fixe, ce avea loc in fiecare joi. Numele lor – Cantacuzino, Brancoveanu, Sturdza, Carp, Baleanu, Bals, Greceanu, Odobescu, pentru a aminti doar cateva, sunt astazi aproape disparute, pastrate in filele cartilor de istorie.

Olga Carp

Cine isi mai aminteste astazi de “Bâzu” Cantacuzino, unul dintre cei mai buni piloti ai Romaniei, care a trecut cu avionul sau pe sub Arcul de Triumf? Pentru aceasta isprava a fost suspendat din armata, insa rechemat dupa 6 luni..

Sanda Ghika, George Miclescu, Yvonette Baleanu, Didi Greceanu, Dodoi Crisovelony

Istoria anilor ce a urmat, unii dintre voi, din ce in ce mai putini, o stiu pe propria lor piele, altii – mai mult din povestiri.

La sfarsitul anilor ’40, comunistii au ocupat casa, nedandu-si macar osteneala s-o nationalizeze.

Colonelul Miclescu a refuzat sa o parseasca viu. A avut o viata lunga, locuind mai departe intr-o baie, timp de 40 de ani, in subsolul casei la care tinuse atat de mult.

Aceeasi fereastra, azi

In 1968 a venit la Bucuresti in vizita oficiala presedintele Frantei, Charles de Gaulle. Cum a ajuns, generalul a scos o lista cu nume, cerand sa-si vada in interval de 24 de ore fostii colegi de la Scoala Superioara de Ofiteri St. Cyr. Unii dintre acesti fosti colegi au fost luati atunci direct de la lagarul de la Poarta Alba, imbracati “bine” si adusi la Bucuresti; altii, ca Radu Miclescu, invitati sa vina numai decat – la primirea oficiala de la Legatia Franceza.

Colonelul si-a pus uniforma, a urcat treptele ce dadeau din subsol in curte, tinandu-se de o sarma ca “mana curenta” – si s-a dus la primire. Apoi, fara sa arate o urma de umilire, a coborat din nou in baia sa de la subsol, unde a trait si a murit la peste 90 de ani.

Fotografiile alb-negru de mai jos dateaza din perioada anilor 1930-1937.

Pozele color sunt din zilele noastre.

Coltul dinspre str. Ion Mincu

Vedere dinspre soseaua Kiseleff

“Villa Miclescu”

Gazda

Fereastra

Elsa Miclescu pe scara de la intrare

Elsa pe scara

La capatul scarii

Aici era scara

La dreapta era living-ul cu scara

O iarna din anii ’70

Fereastra spatiului, care trebuia sa devina atelierul pictorului Mirea

Pentru mai multe date despre aceasta casa, apasati linkurile de mai jos:

FOTOGRAFIILE, intr-o rezolutie mai mare, aici

Povestea familiei la blogul Sarah-in-Romania (in engleza)

Emisiune la TVR 25.07.2010

Partea 1: Prima intalnire

Partea 2: Update


 

Casa de pe soseaua Kiseleff – 2 – update

Distrugeri nenatural de ordonate

Intre timp am aflat, cum imi dorisem, mai multe despre casa.

Dl. Pippidi scrie in Dilema Veche nr. 261 – 18 februarie 2009:

Casa a fost a pictorului G.D. Mirea şi, mai tîrziu, a colonelului Radu Miclescu. Se găseşte la nr. 33 din Şoseaua Kiseleff. Ceea ce a fost o mare grădină, acum în paragină, este un teren bun de construit care a stîrnit lăcomia afaceristului care a cumpărat casa. Cît timp se prelungeşte procesul în jurul acestei proprietăţi, operaţii nocturne se desfăşoară acolo ca să grăbească ruinarea. (…)

Am auzit că, într-unul din primele interviuri prin care şi-a declarat intenţiile cu care şi-a luat în primire funcţia, noul ministru al Culturii şi al Patrimoniului s-a referit la această casă. Fusesem de altfel informat că vor începe demersurile oficiale pentru exproprierea ei. De atunci însă trecuse multă vreme şi distrugerea nu s-a oprit. Fotografiile arată brutal ceea ce, de pe stradă, trecătorul doar zăreşte: acoperişul spintecat, geamurile sparte, bolţile rupte. Casa a avut o “grădină de iarnă” (cum ar fi lipsit? este un element caracteristic al arhitecturii de la 1900, acolo se întîlneau personajele lui Oscar Wilde), o seră cu pereţii de sticlă, acum făcuţi ţăndări. Din toate părţile, o vegetaţie nebună a împresurat şi se strecoară înăuntru. În pivniţă erau ciuperci de pe cînd trăia bătrînul colonel. Elanul cu care se revarsă viaţa sălbatică nu poate fi stăpînit.

 Planseu smuls

Proprietarii de atunci, familia Miclescu, trebuisera sa-si abandoneze posesiile prin 1948, dupa cum rezulta din articolul aparut in Evenimentul de Botosani.
Casa nu a fost niciodata nationalizata, ci ocupata. Totusi, proprietarul a trebuit sa faca proces pentru a o recastiga. A pierdut la primele doua infatisari. Cand a vrut sa faca recurs, i s-a pus in vedere ca risca sa piarda totul, din cauza unui amendament la lege adus pe vremea presedintelui Iliescu. Atunci, considerand ca nu merita riscul si eforturile, s-a vazut nevoit s-o vanda, impreuna cu un alt teren, pentru mai putin de 10% din valoarea casei. Asta se intampla in 1994-96.

Casa purta stricaciuni de la cutremurul din 1977 si nu a fost reparata cum trebuie, dar in pivnita au fost pusi stalpi de sustinere.

Stie cineva mai multe despre zvonul cu nationalizarea ei?

Fotografii actuale AICI

Mai multe poze poti vedea pe acest blog la Pictures

aici gasesti povestea fostului proprietar in Evenimentul de Botosani

Articol in Dilema Veche, nr.261 2009-02-18 | Andrei PIPPIDI

Partea 1: Imagini din trecut

Imagini mai noi pe Reptilianul – un blog curajos de explorare urbana

O constructie dementa intr-un oras scapat din frau

 

Dorobanti Tower, Render © Zaha Hadid Architects

Nu ne ajungea Casa Poporului cu suprafata ei record, acum ne trebuie si o capodopera dominanta in plan vertical… Intr-un oras scuturat de cutremure, in care vara temperatura ajunge la 60°C pe asfalt si betoane, maxima inregistrandu-se in centru abia la sapte seara, din cauza functiei de acumulatori de caldura a blocurilor, intr-un oras in care terenul de constructie este nisipos – s-ar construi un turn de sticla de 200m inaltime, ale carui ferestre vor fi mereu obturate de storuri trase si a carui climatizare ar necesita anual volumul de energie produs de o intreaga centrala nucleara! Ce sa mai vorbim despre acces: probabil primele 20 de etaje sunt destinate parcarii. Ori este cumva planuita o linie de metrou directa intre aeroportul international aflat la numai 6km (sic!) si obiectivul cel nou? Numai pentru materialele necesare santierului si construirea fundatiilor ar trebui nivelata in zona o suprafata de 3 ori cat cea a turnului. Ori vor fi aduse cu elicopterul direct elemente prefabricate?

In descrierea biroului realizator, proiectul este laudat cu adjectivul “timeless”. Niciodata cultul arhitectului-star nu a fost mai puternic decat astazi, niciodata indiferenta acestuia fata de functionalitate si sit nu a fost mai mare. Inainte era nevoie de un conducator totalitar pentru construirea unor monumente pompoase, acum ajunge un arhitect renumit…

Ce bine ca ne preocupa construirea unui centru urbanistic modern in inima unui oras haotic, in care circulatia a ingenuncheat de mult, in care in fiecare zi case vechi demne de titlul de “patrimoniu”, ce reusisera sa scape furiei demolarilor comuniste si carora orice neamt le-ar pune sub protectie pana si gaura cheii – sunt demolate ca sa faca loc unor mari structuri intamplatoare, care nu reusesc nici macar sa imite cu succes alte blocuri “moderne” din restul lumii. In felul acesta ne-am apropia ca imagine tocmai de Moscova, orasul in care fabuloasele monumente noi trezesc in loc de admiratia Vestului tocmai repulsia acestuia, prin contrastul extrordinar intre costurile noilor cladiri prestigioase si mizeria locuitorilor. In situatia in care tara noastra, cu probleme serioase de infrastructura, este incapabila sa asigure majoritatii cetatenilor ei o existenta deasupra nivelului de saracie, construirea unui asemenea monument ar ilustra tot ce este mai rau in capitalism.

Monumentele reprezentative celebre se deosebesc de experimentele de gust indoielnic prin autenticitatea lor. Desigur Turnul Eiffel din Paris sau World Trade Center-ul din New York au fost la vremea lor considerate foarte avantgardistice, dar ele isi implineau menirea: erau construite in momente de succes economic si functionau ca simbol – unul, al maiestriei tehnice iar celalalt, al puterii comerciale. Erau credibile, de aceea si-au pastrat in timp functia emblematica.

Stiinta si puterea obliga. Sa nu ne batem joc de aceasta obligatie, altfel riscam sa ajungem ca bancherii.

Mai jos extras din textul de pe pagina biroului “Zaha Hadid Architects”, din care provin si randarile:

“an iconic presence in the heart of Bucharest. (…) The purity of its form – a chamfered diamond- like structure – will be a timeless, elegant landmark in the centre of Bucharest. Zaha Hadid Architect’s design concept (…) naturally expresses the changing programme of hotel, amenities, and residential apartments. The site is located in the centre of Bucharest, to the west of Piaza Romana, and approximately 6km south of the international airport. The brief called for a 100,000 square metre mixed-use development at the junction of Calea Dorobanti and St. Mihail Eminescu. The project comprises 34,000 square metres of a 5-star hotel (including restaurants and a convention centre) and 35,000 square metres of luxury apartments.(…) This public area will be unlike anything else in Bucharest, representing a major attraction within the dense urban character of the City, offering an important new meeting space and urban plaza.”


Dorobanti Tower, Render © Zaha Hadid Architects

aici gasesti HARTA sitului pe google-maps

aici gasesti PROIECTUL pe pagina Zaha Hadid Architects

prof. Andrei Pippidi comenteaza proiectul aici

Casa de pe soseaua Kiseleff, 1900-1994

 

Intotdeauna m-a fascinat aceasta casa, care decade acum cate un pic pe zi ce trece.
Parca au parasit-o cele din urma spirite bune.
S-au dus, casa a ramas la indemana unor paznici care o dezghioaca pe dinauntru, incercand sa lase fatada in picioare pana in ultimul moment, ca sa nu vada nimeni ce se petrece intre zidurile inca semete. Mobila zace faramata in camere in molozul tavanelor cazute – sau scoasa gramada afara, grinzile au fost smulse din pereti odata cu planseele, de se vede in sus cerul prin trei etaje..In spate scara mare a cazut si ea, copaci tineri cresc acolo unde se tineau petreceri inainte si ploaia bate dinauntru in ferestre si pe peretii firidelor.

Pentru noi a inceput un an nou. Ma intreb cati ani va fi vazut incepand aceasta casa, cu musafiri petrecand la mese imbelsugate, ciocnind paharele si urandu-si unii altora un an care sa le aduca tot ce le-a lipsit in ceilalti ani. Cate coafuri elegante, rochii din matasuri rafinate au foit oare pe aici, cate conversatii inteligente si rasete sincere or fi rasunat intre peretii de pe care se coscoveste acum ultimul rest de culoare. Ani mai buni.. Si ani mai rai, oamenii care locuiau acolo poate s-au temut de vremurile ce au urmat. Au fost razboaie, au fost schimbari.

Nu stiu istoria casei, as fi vrut sa aflu mai multe despre ea. As vrea sa vad fotografii din vremuri mai bune, in care casa era locuita de oameni care o locuiau cum se cuvine. Imi doresc ca spiritele bune sa se intoarca si sa trazneasca „proprietarii“ si „paznicii“ cu perceptia brusca a frumusetii casei de care si-au batut joc atata timp. Imi doresc sa supravietuiasca si alte case mai mari si mai mici din Bucuresti, sa ajunga sa retraiasca tihna vremurilor in care au inflorit si sa adaposteasca din nou oameni care stiu sa le pretuiasca.

aici casa vazuta din satelit

Articol in Dilema Veche, nr.261 2009-02-18 | Andrei PIPPIDI | SOS Bucureşti | Fotografii furate de la inamic