excerpt for a work in progress short/long/who knows novel

Since I came to London I only hear stories about memory and exile.
I must confess I started to feel a little bit exiled myself. However the reason for coming here has nothing in common with running away from my country.
But it has to be the story of any immigrant.

Exile…I like this word…The deep meanings carried in its elegant delivery, the frozen melancholy, the lost hell to become paradise.

No, this is not a story of an actual exile. This is a little thought about memory.
Even though memory is a kind of exile…

I can’t remember my childhood…

I can’t remember the names of my ex school mates

I can’t remember even a name of a teacher I had. (…)
Did we had a TV? Or a Radio? What was my favourite food?

I can’t remember the face of my grandmother! I was 7 when she died. It was just before the revolution (You will hear us, Romanians, talking about events “before revolution” or “after 89”.) She was having diabetes and her love for salty boiled eggs must have killed her. Once an old cousin of my grandfather came to “take her blood pressure” and I was so annoyed she didn’t ‘take the diabetes as well’. The special machine for taking illnesses failed in my arms…When my grandmother died my parents took me to some friends. They came after three days to give me the news. If you think a seven year old child won’t be angry with its parents for a thing like that, you are wrong. Last year I have seen a picture of her. I couldn’t relate her face with anything from my past. I was not sure if it was her or not. The face from the picture looked like my mother’s old version, but still I was not sure.
My grandmother sent me once to buy some tomatoes from the little market we had behind our block. She was not feeling well so she sent me even she was a little bit afraid for me…I was her responsibility, a market is not a very good place for little children. But she could see me from the window. It was an old kind of market with stalls filled with goods brought by Romanian farmers, by Turks or Russians. Those little markets were placed among the communist tower blocks…very noisy and spectacular.  I bought exactly six tomatoes…one kilo as she said. But the tomatoes were so beautiful that she was impressed and exclaimed placing them in the fridge “if I knew you can do such a good work I would have told you to buy more of them”.
I was so proud. I was the tomatoes hero!! “But I can go again, please!” I was five or six. And I was the only child in the world who could buy the most beautiful tomatoes for its grandmother.

The memories of my childhood are like an old lost movie found after years in a basement…or like the London weather: blurred and fickle.


‘Timeland’ – a children play, London 2011
‘My town’ , Stage and Art Performance Cafe, Cluj Napoca
‘Escapqe Project’, TEDx 2010, Cluj Napoca
‘A deserter woman’, National Theatre Cluj Napoca


Cristian Luchian, Artist’s personal site
Nocturne Social&Political Theatre, Puck Theatre
Contact I, II, Contemporany Panintig on  Fixed Patrimony Objects and Monuments


The Second Stringers –
Wayang Kulit and the Javanese legacy – natural context, Studia Universitas, Cluj Napoca, Romania
Forum Theatre, Maninfest, Cluj Napoca, Romania
Theatre Laboratorium, Studia Universitas, Cluj Napoca, Romania
Contact I, II, Trip Journal, Contemporany Panintig on  Fixed Patrimony Objects and Monuments