Julius was born in 1999.

Did he live?

He died.

This is the first short film from a series exploring film and cinematography through photography. Editing, together with sound, plays an important role in this exploration, capturing moods and narratives, and achieving the continuity of the film. » Read the rest of this entry «

Finally today the police visited the neighbourhood.  Thea, my girlfriend, told me she heard the drugdealers dealing right outside our door, and when I mean right outside I mean leaning on the door.  Moments after, we heard a big fuss outside, police was arresting some guys, and a big fight started.  Two of the bad guys ended on the floor and handcuffed.

I had to peak out and see what was going on, the panoramic window in the kitchen was to much of a barrier.  So I oppened the door and by it, was a guy on the floor and the police man looked at me and said hi.  I said hi, and closed the door again. » Read the rest of this entry «

Wednesday, 9:50

I sit on the train to Budapest. This time I have company in my booth, a middle aged man on his way to Colombia. I imagine business, but it holidays he tells me. A cruise. He wears a pale pink polo shirt and Pierre Cardin socks. He’s taken over the booth with his luggage, his body spread to dis-encourage people to come in. He is a pleasant company non the less.

Good Pathe I said to the owners friend. thank you he replied in Italian. Idiot, muttered his wife who sat alone next door. They continued the discussion in the living room. I knew it was going to end abruptly although I had no idea what they shouted at each other. It wasn’t important to know. They just couldn’t stand each other anymore. He said that after four children she’d lost the attributes which made him fall, and all she did now was smoke 3 packs per day. Smoke smoke smoke he said to me lowering his voice. His mouth tight, eyes sharp and hands dancing in the air. I heard a slap and he came back to finish his dinner. He started with his comic tone complaints again. He explained how his wife didn’t understand Italian and called him an idiot. I asked him to calm down.

The country side is now flat and merges with the sky on the horizon. I enjoy flat landscapes. Whether in the sea or on land the horizon is special to me. I am tired from yesterday night and it soothes me. I wondered the streets and bars of Novi Sad til late. Merging with the night and the people, being part of nothing. Wasting my hours of sleep, and quenching my thirst. A small bar trapped me, sucked me in by osmosis. The band stood playing amongst the drinking crowd. But there was joy in the air. Everybody sang to the guitar, while the accordion and violin answered to the their voices. The foot bass told it’s own story which no one heard but was still content. I tuned in and merged with the air of joy.

12:20
I wake up in the border when Control asks for my ticket. I lay across 3 seats but had only one ticket. Control starts blabbing Hungarian, it sounds terrible, then says in English, one ticket one seat. I incorporate. What a moment I think, probably just Control.
The Hungarian landscape got cute. Cute little farm houses with Swiss style wooden fences. A man fishing in a pond. I haven’t seen one of those in a long time. Too cute for Serbia. Ponds make me feel like a hypocrite, as much as I would enjoy them, as nauseous they make me. In a plane of green I spot an enormous hare, it is the size of a young deer.

17:49
I couldn’t find a decent pen in Budapest. My blue ink pen was running out. I’ll miss it, specially because it’s replacement is black and has inscribed “I love Budapest” on the side. It works horribly.
There are not as many Chinese tourists in Budapest as there are in Prague, even though the cities are similar. It’s easier to avoid tourist traps here, still I wasn’t prepared for it. But I came to Budapest for one reason only, to take my plane back to London. Yes, unfortunately this is the end, or the beginning of my project.

In Budapest the Danube river is at its most majestic, wide as any river I’ve ever seen, and fast. It is outstanding to sit by the ledge and watch the water flow. So much water flowing with frightful strength. I sit now in a cafe by the river reading Sartre’s “Nausea”. My friend Jaime gave me the book when I visited Argentina this winter. I know what Sartre means by the nausea. It is around me as well. It was there in Belgrade, but not as strong as in Budapest. It left me in Sofia, shortly visited in Nis and was completely forgotten in Pristinha.

Now, it sits next to me, sipping its beer and reading. It feels uncomfortable with my smoking. People who don’t smoke make me uncomfortable, they get annoyed at my smoking as I get annoyed at their not smoking. We are just not compatible. Once, someone said to me that she preferred the company smokers, even that she did not smoke, because they were more pleasant in general, funny, interesting. I don’t know if pleasant, Ill call it surprising.

I look around me suspiciously. I’m trying to understand something I shouldn’t be bothered about. I don’t know what it is. As I look across the river I notice the layers and juxtapositions of different epochs. The pale light of the afternoon hits the buildings across the river. It is a pleasant light and it makes the city lifeless. Except around me, it only accentuates the nausea. I start to understand. I’ve let myself be trapped. The freedom of the rail tracks does not exist here. But then again, I shouldn’t be looking for it here. That is over for the moment. I am here not for freedom. I am here to rest, reflect and give closure to this story. I thank a violin that catches my attention, the music comes to me from the distance and erases my thoughts, takes me away.

20:30

I met the Americano from Belgrade on my way to the hostel. He was heading to Buda Palace and dragged me along. I was tired but let go and joined him for a walk. We walked for hours, I’m glad we did.

Thursday 9:55

I sit by the pool of the Gellert Hotel and Spa. I didn’t expect this. The americano told me I should spend a day in one of the many thermal spa’s of Budapest. It seemed to be what I needed. It was.

I think about Sofia and Pristinha. The people I’ve met, those I haven’t, and the atmosphere of those cities and how I felt in them.

I realise now that it was not a coincidence that railway gave me memories of freedom. It was freedom that made me see the railway as a symbol for it. The freedom which I allowed myself and was permitted to me was something I’d never experienced. Not in this way.

In Kosovo, the freedom of photographing a virgin country, new, open for creation, for untold stories. Dynamic, in constant change, learning with its mistakes.

16:51

As the sun falls in to a sea of pale grey, melancholy surrounds me. There is a mist in the air caused by pollution. It only starts to show itself when the sun has lost its power and recedes. Tomorrow there will be no sun. The low London sky will make sure the city keeps going as an ant hill when raindrops precipitate and the colony is forced to live in darkness underground.

I think of Sofia. It happened to me there that I found myself. Something wonderful made me find myself again. Be myself. I felt love, not for anything, anyone or anywhere. Love, life. Sofia saw the back of my eyes and told me what it saw.

Pristinha also lives in me. After what Sofia did, I was able to see with my eyes, with my heart. Pristinha opened to me, showed itself and helped me in the search for freedom. It told me I was on the right track.

9:57

I’ve made it to Central Station. There are no tickets to Budapest. My best chance is Novi Sad, a town about 2 hours north of Beograd. Perhaps there, I can get a train to Budapest tonight, although it might be a good idea to spend the night in Novi Sad. I prefer morning trains, one gets to enjoy landscapes only the railway can show you.
I hardly slept last night at the pension. People kept coming in and out the room, turning the light on, snoring, talking in their sleep and fooling around with zippers and Velcros.
This morning I rose from my nightmares again. I was relieved to be awake. It didn’t take me long to rise from bed, as I didn’t want to fall into darkness again. I got dressed in silence. Everything was prepared last night so I wouldn’t bother the others in their dreams. Sometimes I am very considerate, others I’m not. Today I was.
I improvised a Turkish coffee and lit a cigarette in the balcon as I’d done the previous days. The sky was grey. The air cold and damp. Vladin was sleeping in his mezzaninene bed above the pension ‘office’. This was his life for the past five years. He was still in a good mood most of the time, and was very friendly, kind, and hard working. Qualities to admire, qualities I struggle to keep. His job is endless. His job is his life and life his job.
Vladins phone alarm rings. It plays a punk version of ‘Monkey Man’ from Toots and the Mytals. He doesn’t move. It rings again and again, but the kind giant doesn’t move.

As the train leaves Belgrade the poverty of Serbia becomes evident again. Cities in Serbia seem to have a micro economy. I think about the photos I could have done in those slums but I find nothing out of the ordinary in the. They are not worth the film. They just seem like any other slum. One gets used to the worst so easily. What once was fascinating today is ordinary.

10:42
The train is now on the country side. As I stare blindly out the window, my eyes focus on the rail tracks. I think about how they are constructed. Stones, wood and iron rails guide hundreds of trains every year. I pay close attention to the sleeping wood. Oh! What I’d give to walk on them again. What would I give? I remember the feeling, I remember the uneven step which took me from one to the next, and to the next and to the next. What a feeling! So much m. No, real freedom. Freedom. Balancing on the rails, jumping, running, stopping. A freedom which would last forever, but hasn’t. I can feel it now, in my memory, in my mind. Today, I discover I will always have this freedom. Today and always I will be free in my mind. I smile, and stare out again.

13:30
Disappointment arrived as the train arrived at Novi Sad. I was expecting it. It was not the small town I had in my mind. But I knew it wasn’t. I let this happen, I looked for it.
As the train slowed down I spotted a few houses with small land where they grew their crops. It looked like a good place to ask for a bed, or a barn. I was looking for that freedom the rail tracks had awakened.
Before leaving the station I got a ticket to Budapest.
I walked by the railway, not on it, with hopes of freedom. To the other side, stood low budget buildings. Ahead of me, by the rails, behind the trees, was a farmhouse with a broken wooden door. The patio inside was surrounded by the railway and small drunken houses of various colours. Pink, green and turquoise. A man carried things out of one of them. He greeted me and I told him what I was looking for. No, I didn’t say freedom. ‘Here no’ he said. I couldn’t convince him.
I took a small street out of the main one and then a side street that ended on the rails. By a house, on the street, a woman worked the dirt with her shovel. She planted tulips. ‘Dobra’, I said timidly but she didn’t look at me, and kept working the dirt with her shovel in a circular motion. ‘Dobra’ I repeated pathetically; it is my only Serbian word. Now I had her impatient attention. I pointed at myself, then the dirt, made a dribbling sign and then a sleeping one. For every sign I used a word. I, work, for, sleep. ‘Ne, ne’ she mumbled and went back to her duties waving me away. There was not much point to continue the search. I was tired and people from big towns are too. If something doesn’t work for me on the first of second try I try something different.

I headed downtown and found a pension.

18:50

I sit in the kitchen sipping a coffee, smoking and writing. The last one has become my newest habit. A healthier one. I must be on the right track. The furniture is pleasant and everything matches beautifully. The plastic table cloth where my coffee dances in the much, to the rhythm of my writing is mellow beige and washed red. My back is against the wall. Across me, the kitchen furniture resembles the style of the 70′s. Dark wood imitation. Everything on it is spotless clean and in order. The wall has grey tiles for the lower part. The top part and the ceiling is painted apple green.

Next to me sits a woman who’s name I do not know. We talked briefly, the usual. She is the wife of the owners friend. I believe her and her husband live here at the moment. She helps with the cleaning of the place. She does an excellent job. The owners wife is in the end of her 30′s. Tall, blond, thick lip, tight jeans. She keeps well. The woman next to me has a narrow face, big nose, and blue eyes matching her hair which is held up by a broche. She drinks coffee and smokes nervously one cigarette after the other. Her eyes are very tired, maybe even sad. I feel that any moment now she will scream, rip off her hair with both hands and think about jumping out the window. What use would that be, she’d think, it’s only a first floor jump. As she thinks this she would sit down again and sob. I would try to comfort her until her husband would rise from his nap and come to hold her. He know’s the drill.

Her husband, the owners friend is a funny man. He speaks to me in a language which I’ve never heard but understand. Part Serbian, Italian, English and Spanish. Well, all I understood was ‘football’, players names, Barcelona, and ‘Balkan Bet’. This last one is a sports betting chain to be found everywhere in the Balkans.

The owner is in his 40′s. Handsome man I suppose, but can’t really say. He speaks good Italian and has forgotten some of his English and Spanish.

My attention is focused on the woman next to me. She talks with some of the guests with a broken voice. I wish I knew what disturbed her. Her husband is now up and in the kitchen. I catch her smiling. Only now I notice two lighters one the table. They have the ‘Balkan Bet’ logo printed on them.

He grabs his bread and pathe and lays it on the table. As it is a small table, I get my things and head for the living room. That’s where it all starts. They ask me to sit down and she gets up. They are discussing. Between the lines I hear ‘Fuck off’. ‘Fuck off’. ‘Fuck off’. Tension rises. She leaves the room. He follows her. I put my notebook away.

I was happy to see the day was grey when I rose late this morning. I took my time to get out of bed and make a coffee. The hostel was quiet and empty bottles lay on every surface. I made myself a Turkish coffee and smoked a cigarette on the balcon. At 12, I started out to photograph the city.

My first destination was NATO street, as I call it. Perhaps Serbians call it the same way, I don’t know. Along a distance of 400 hundred meters you can find the American embassy, the Polish one, Croatian, Canadian and German. Also the bombed Police Headquarters and Central military headquarters. These two buildings were bombed in 1999 by NATO.

The American embassy looks like a bunker. The windows have been covered with steel sheets and cement. It is situated on a corner, and the perpendicular street to NATO street is barrackaded and cars need a special permit and security check to go through. The residents of the area are not very happy to have to go through this every time they return home.

Across from the bombed Police Headquarters is the new Police Headquarter. I wasn’t very welcome when I photographed the facade. A police officer ran towards me from his booth. I played stupid and walked away.

At the military headquarters I took some photos from the street. There is a wall made from metal panels so one can’t see at street level what is behind. I asked a military guard if there was any possibility to enter the building to photograph. He said I could only do it from the street. I wouldn’t give up that easy. I climbed a tree were the guard couldn’t see me, or I couldn’t see him. I made a shot and he pulled me down by the heel. He had told me it was not possible to photograph inside. I said I was sorry, and he told me I should delete the photo. Fortunately it was a film camera. Unfortunately he wanted to take me in and get the film. I once again said I was sorry and that I was a student from Argentina.

“Argentina!” he exclaimed, “Ok, but please don’t take photos inside the building.”

“I’m sorry.” I shook his hand and introduced myself properly.

We talked about politics. Kosovo was mentioned, America was mentioned. Chavez, Che Guevara, Hugo Morales and Fidel Castro. I asked Ivan if I could photograph him. He smiled, I could tell he was flattered, but he was doubtful about it. He said that if somebody saw this he would get in trouble. In the end he said I could photograph him from behind, only because I was from Argentina. I made him walk towards the wall and shot. All throughout, he looked worried that someone might see us. When it was over, we walked away in opposite directions.

It started raining. I went into a street restaurant to rest and have some food and write my diary. I spend one hour there until it stopped raining. A city’s tempo changes dramatically when it rains, I enjoyed seeing this happen for a short time. When it stopped the normal tempo was restored.

Sunday. I will rest.

I sit by the door of the hostel. It looks out to a baranda passage in the heart of the building block. The sun is strong and the air dry. Up through the apples heart rises a mist of dust carrying voices and scraping sounds of cement spoons. The sheets drying in the air shade my feet and cool my blood. I light up a cigarette and continue writing.

I arrived to Beograd yesterday around 6pm. The sun was still strong and the air still. I sat in the tram stop across central station waiting. There I met Alexander, a big man with gray hair to his shoulders and beard. I asked him if he knew where the street I was going to was. He offered to take me there as he was going the same direction. In the tram I sat in silence hearing the city and watching it live. I stared out as I always do when I find myself in an unknown place.

Alexander was a curious man. He’d studied film direction in Moscow, made a few documentaries and had an intriguing fascination for travelling by ship. When we arrived at the hostel we agreed to keep in touch.

The hostel was by the walking street. An old building under refurbishment. It resembled a “conventillo” from Buenos Aires, with different architecture. A staircase connected the east wing with the west and the long hallways in each floor were actually a long balcon with doors to each apartment.

In the last floor I found what would be my home for the night. I was welcomed by Vladin and a shot of Rakija (strong Balkan spirit). He looked like the heavy metal type but without the outfit and blond. Funny guy, friendly.

As we drank rakija and smoked tobacco in the balcon, he told me about him and his life and the recent misfortunes of Love. He was determined, this time, to end his relationship with his future wife. She was the jealous type and he was the friendly loyal type. We talked about personal things and about the history of Serbia.

“Some Serbians say that Kosovo is the heart of Serbia, I think Serbia had a heart attack.” And he laughed trying to contain himself. He seemed to enjoy that frase very much.

By then the sun had gone down, so he offered me a bean stew with dark bread and some more Rakija. By the time we finished dinner we’d had 4 Rakija’s and the first one was just starting to kick in.

Today’s entry is not any exiting story. It is a conclusion that I have arrived to as an individual living in europe for almost 2 and a half years. It is a conclusion not about Europe but closer to an understanding of how Europe, or Europeans more precisely have afected me mentaly and personaly.
As I walked down the streets of Nis last night I saw a fellow from the hostel sitting at a restaurant. I said hello and he invited me to sit and eat together. His name was N and he was English, excelent company. During our time together I learned about the Otoman empire and the history of Nis. But who was N? What was he about. I tried changing the direction of our conversation but I found my self speaking alone and being looked at in awe. I spoke about people, about myself, about how I felt about the concentration camp he had visited in Nis and how I FELT about things and histories.
I have nothing against western Europeans, how could I live there if I did? But they are so stiff, dull and closed. They are an open book in the literal sense. Finding an open westerner is like finding a tasteful tomato from their own production. They neither produce it or if they do it’s tasteless, red as a tomatol yes, but no personality. They are impersonal, and never something about them. Only about things or others. I don’t mean they have to be a “me, me, me” person, but it’s like talking to a machine or reading wikipedia. I don’t want to only hear from someone the Ottoman history, as I said I can read a book about it. In the least I want to know how they feel about the Ottomans. But don’t try to ask them this, they think you want to hear more objective history What’s wrong with exposing ones feelings, ideas and personalty? What is this fear of subjectivity? How can I be myself when people look at me strange when I expose my opinion and show myself? Am I a monster? Do I say the wrong things or speakn I blasphemy?
To fit in western society I have been too preocupied with enciclopedias and textbooks and abandoned my feelings and opinions. They have been lost for some time now, but I have found them and discovered how important they were to me. I will not let go this time whatever look or reproach I get. I am who I am, I’d rather have people dislike me because of who I am than like me because I am not.