Going through time: a photo project on aging
By 2030, it is projected that one in six people globally will be aged 60 years or over. I am starting a new project on aging and how aging affects the way we live, our relationships, and the relation with our past.
https://florinpopa.eu/going-through-time-a-photo-project-on-aging/
The Photographer vs The Scene
Some reflections on my documentary photo project on autism What I photograph is changed by me and it changes me at the same time. This is one of the tensions in documentary photography: you are supposed to witness things without changing the way they are. But you cannot be a fly on the wall so you might as well assume the fact that your presence will alter the scene and the way your subjects behave to some degree.
Some reflections on my documentary photo project on autism What I photograph is changed by me and it changes me at the same time. This is one of the tensions in documentary photography: you are supposed to witness things without changing the way they are. But you cannot be a fly on the wall so […]
We followed a sunlit river valley coiling among hills. We crossed the river keeping our balance on unstable wet rocks. We rested in full sunshine listening to invisible birds singing from all directions. We froze on our path seeing a big mama boar leading her piglets, all lined up behind her, into the forest. I prepared sandwiches for both of us. We lied down on a bed of rocks perfectly sculpted by water over centuries.
The end of the day “And now sleep Dad”. This is how he tells me he wants to go to bed and wants me to tuck him in. There’s nothing random about the next five minutes or so. Everything is scripted and the steps are always the same. He waits for me with the lights […]
Ethan
This is the story of Ethan, a young man with autism, and his mom Noa. Ethan, who was born prematurely and later diagnosed with autism, is passionate about current affairs, history, journalism, and travel. He can easily get lost in a book or in his own imagination. In several visits during 2023, I discussed with Ethan and Noa about the struggles and joys of their daily lives and how they were shaped by Ethan's autism.
This is the story of Ethan, a young man with autism, and his mom Noa. Ethan, who was born prematurely and later diagnosed with autism, is passionate about current affairs, history, journalism, and travel. He can easily get lost in a book or in his own imagination. In several visits during 2023, I discussed with Ethan and Noa about the struggles and joys of their daily lives and how they were shaped by Ethan's autism.
Pierre setting up the camera for a video shooting
"In the semi-basement of his parents’ house, Pierre shows me the small music studio he set up. I ask if he could play something for me. He sits silently for a moment, drum sticks in hand, headphones on ears, trying to decide. He tweaks a few settings on his soundboard. Then he launches into a brief solo, perfectly focused and self-contained."
In the semi-basement of his parents’ house, Pierre shows me the small music studio he set up. The drum set is placed against a large window opening towards the backyard. I ask if he could play something for me. He sits silently for a moment, drum sticks in hand, headphones on ears, trying to decide. […]
Alysa
Alysa working on one of her advanced puzzles Alysa at a weekend exhibition. The flamingo painting is hers. Alysa showing me her paintings at the art studio of her day center Celebrating at the residential center Alysa during a math class It's a sunny, quiet Sunday in early spring. I came to visit Alysa at her parents' place, where she spends her weekends.
It’s a sunny, quiet Sunday in early spring. I came to visit Alysa at her parents’ place, where she spends her weekends. The rest of her time is shared between a day center and a residential center for persons with autism. As I talk to her mom, she remains focused, piecing together a puzzle she […]
2024 in twelve photos
Twelve photos, one for each month of 2024. They are not the greatest. They are not even particularly good. They are not the worst either. They are all small pieces of life, now put together. Moments when I stopped, went out of autopilot, became aware of what was going on. The end of the year has always has some sort of magic for me.
Twelve photos, one for each month of 2024. They are not the greatest. They are not even particularly good. They are not the worst either. They are all small pieces of life, now put together. Moments when I stopped, went out of autopilot, became aware of what was going on. The end of the year has always has some sort of magic for me. I know it’s a human convention when the year start or ends, or how we divide time, but I’m holding on to this tiny piece of magic. When we’re kids, the world is full of unknown and magic. Then we grow up and the magic of childhood fades away. If we’re lucky, we manage to recreate another kind of magic as adults by doing things we’re passionate about, being surrounded by people we trust and care about, feeling connected and in flow. Merry Christmas everybody!
A Map of a Place That No Longer Exists
The past is a messy construction site. Some parts seem to have been there forever. Unchanged, seemingly unchangeable. Other parts have a big "works in progress" sign guarding the entrance. What is happening in there and how fast works are progressing remains unclear. Some parts remain in the dark and we only get a glimpse of their presence at certain moments.
https://florinpopa.eu/a-map-of-a-place-that-no-longer-exists/
The past is a messy construction site. Some parts seem to have been there forever. Unchanged, seemingly unchangeable. Other parts have a big “works in progress” sign guarding the entrance. What is happening in there and how fast works are progressing remains unclear. Some parts remain in the dark and we only get a glimpse of their presence at certain moments. Usually when it hurts. Recently I went back to grandma’s place in the countryside. I spent several years there as a kid. The old house. The summer kitchen. The barn. The shed. The giant old pear tree guarding the entrance to the garden. The cherry tree that I climbed so many times to get to the sweetest cherries, those on top, most exposed to the sun. The attic with its hidden treasures. Grandma left the house a long time ago. She needed to be hospitalized after an AVC that left her severely disabled. Although she recovered some cognitive and physical function, she spent the rest of her life in bed, away from home, needing constant care. She never stopped talking about her house, her garden, and her animals, which she never got to see again. She became more and more confused and disconnected from reality. Often she was talking as if she had just left her house and village for a couple of days. She was complaining about the neighbors’ shenanigans and worrying about who would feed her cows and pigs. Without her, the old house started a long transformation process. At first, the crumbling wooden fence was replaced by a new one. Then a taller metallic fence replaced the wooden one. Long after grandma’s death, the old house was almost fully renovated to make space for a small kitchen and a bathroom. The buildings surrounding the main house (summer kitchen, stable, toolshed, different storing spaces) were brought down. The old, unproductive trees in the garden were cut down. Of course, this was only part of the transformation. The other one was less visible and a lot slower, but no less important. The carrion continued to dig their little tunnels in the wood of the house. The rains followed one another and insinuated themselves between the beams, between the cracks in the walls, down into the cellar and deep, at the foundation of the house. The house slowly began to lean to one side. It reminded me of my grandpa, leaning on one of the crutches while raising the bottle to his mouth. And then there was the smell. Houses have their specific smells, like people. Grandma’s house smelled of old age and many sunny summers, of countless rains and storms that passed over it, of dung and roses, of dust accumulated for decades in the attic, of rotten wood, of river stone watching over the foundation of the house. The smell of a dwelling will subsist even through touch-ups and renovations, like an indelible imprint. This is what remains of her house and her world. That old, mineral-musky smell of a building that has been through so many seasons, rain, pain, loneliness, wind, and snow. And the attic, with a pile of old books and notebooks thrown on top of each other. Up there, the dust seems to never settle. The smell of decayed wood is the strongest, the loudest on top of all the other ancient smells coming from downstairs, from the walls and ever further down, from the foundation. And the garden. That magical space in which, as a child, I invented stories of bravery, honor and sacrifice, in which I was inevitably the hero. The one who fights on the side of justice and gives his life for a noble cause. I was playing all alone and, after each heroic death for justice, I would get up and start a new fight. While at grandma’s place, I slept in a small villa built close to the old house, facing the garden. I woke up early, before sunrise. I opened the large window door and I went out. The garden was alive as I have never seen it during the day. Birds were singing from all directions. Loud and clear, as if this was the moment, as if there was not enough time left and all the singing needed to be compressed in this one point in time. A light breeze descended from the hills. I don’t know if it was nostalgia that drove me to climb up in the attic and roam the garden alone. What I know is that, for a while, I felt so connected to that kid playing out his own heroic stories with wooden swords and spears. And when I climbed up in that cherry tree it wasn’t because the sweetest cherries were on top. This time, the cherry trees were heavy with fruit, with loaded branches leaning all the way to the ground. I did it for that kid. I guess he’s stuck somewhere there, still playing his games, dying heroically only to get up and start a new battle, waiting for a parent to come and take him back.
In Frame: The Challenges and Rewards of Personal Photography Projects
Last week I had the first visits in my photo projects on adults with autism, which is a continuation of the Autism Stories project started last year. It's exciting. The last few months, which were a time of reflection and recalibration, I missed working with people: getting to know them, discussing, photographing them.
I go over some the challenges of finding time for photo projects, especially those involving sensitive topics like adults with autism. Despite these challenges, I find photography incredibly rewarding. It's not just about taking pictures; it's a powerful way to express myself, tell meaningful stories, and find moments of calm and focus in my otherwise pretty hectic life. Photography offers me a space of play, connection, and storytelling that brings me back to myself and grounds me in the present.
One Year Into My Photo Project: What I’ve Learned
It’s the last day of the year. I want to take a moment to make sense of what happened with my photo project. I started my Autism Stories project in January 2023. My first visit to my first participant was on the 21st. I am writing this post almost one year later. My photo project explores the lives of people with autism and of those around them: family, friends, therapists. It looks at the relations between the persons…
