ioana lupascu

Running like children on burnt apricot skins disguised as tiled roofs under the Portuguese sun.

It must have been August and our tenancy in London was coming to an end. The thought of finding a new place faded under the desire to go travel and experience summer in Europe. I’ve seen it all before, but I wanted to see it again through another set of eyes, contagious excitement I hoped for . . . . I’m more at peace in transit.

We spread our belongings in three different postcodes, packed our smallest backpacks and secretly wish we wouldn’t come back to pick up where we left off. Six weeks or so, five countries or less, and all means of transport under our feet. 

I point the camera mostly up at the sky, cropping buildings like paper collages. And mostly down, at the fine details and textures. I could say those are my intuitive preferences, or maybe I just didn’t want to look straight forward as I knew I am counting downwards to the return day.

I’ve always been nervous about returning. I rarely take the same street back the way I came, and when I do, I tend to get lost. Maybe I’m just too keen about future discoveries.

One film camera, four hands, too many fuji iso 200 and my side of the story below.



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