THE HOST by Mircea Sorin Albutiu

The wind from Sfistofca rustles the stories of the past, of ancestors, of dance, of song and wine, of many people, of frosty winters, of recent past, of how everything grew silent, in the meantime, as if in a moment.

At Sfiștofca, the expanse of water and land surrounds you with an infinite horizon. The silence of the fish lets the jackals howl at the villages’ edges, trembling, like crying children. The night is penetrating, and the day is alive and complete. The hours are full and significant.

In a Tarkovskian way, although everything is apparently static and nothing seems to happen, the doors and hearts of people suddenly open, of people who put their entire present at your disposal. Everything is born then, on the spot, there and as if all actions were archetypal.

Essay by Ioana Savin Bursan, PhD in human geography.