Two recent events made me think of time and how we
handle it. First, my 95 year old grandmother was hospitalized, and still there
at this moment. Secondly, a fellow filmmaker whom I met in Chisinau while
shooting Mamaliga Blues, died of cancer.
I was able to record many conversations with my grandmother,
and made some videos of her cooking old Jewish recipes. People say that
photography and video made people immortal. They are there for us - forever.
Somewhat. But this event also made me think of the many stories she never told
on video, that I always used to hear but can also forget so easily. There is
always so little time to devote to it.
I was unaware my friend had cancer and learned of his
death on Facebook days ago. Viorel and I hung for a few days in Chisinau, he
showed me the city's nightlife, we went to some bars, a rock concert and local
restaurants. He introduced me to some of his friends and told me stories of the
Soviet era. Kind and always available, I admired Viorel's sense of humor. I
remember he said it was hard to film in Moldova's countryside because every
little village he stopped the locals would make sure he tried their homemade
wine. Inevitably drunk, the crew ended up not making the film. And then he said
Moldovans regarded themselves as the Latin people of Eastern Europe. But most
of his other stories I already forgot. Viorel was not recorded by me. I have
only a picture with him.
Everybody knows life is short, but the other problem
is time. We always wished we had more time. Time can be interrupted all of a
sudden. And it can only live through preservation of memory. Memory is
endless time.
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| Viorel and I - our only picture - in Chisinau, 2008 |
