My way (Oncology Hospital project)

The project that drained my energy this semester...

The failure and success paradigm

"Every mediocre success is a failure, but every great failure is actually an immense success"
I never had a very good name memory. Probably that's why I was never good in History, nor would I ever be good at acting. That's the reason I couldn't tell you who said the words quoted a little earlier, but sure enough, I didn't have the brightness to invent them myself. One of the speakers that had the kindness to share their life's experience with us at Leaders School 7 said it, and ever since I heard it, it kept scratching my thoughts every now and then, with a perseverance that made it quite hard to overlook.
Since I was a little girl, my mother inoculated the "learn from your mistakes" psychology in my childish brain.
I grew up, and the number of mistakes grew also, but my mothers words remain engraved in the back of my skull. She always wanted me to be the best, but I would easily settle up with the second place in many situations. Maybe that makes me a better loser than others, but a loser nonetheless. As I look back in time, I realize that the places where I had my best results, are actually the fields where I wished to "win" so bad, I would give it my best to reach the goal I aimed for. And then I draw my conclusions: set your goal high, but set it where you know your heart wishes it. Otherwise your road toward that goal will be, in the best case scenario, paved with mediocre successes, and probably some mediocre failures too.
I don't want to be just another sheep in the flock, as much as I like sheep. I want to live my life up to my expectations, because one should ask of himself more than any other would. So I'm setting my goals high now, and I shall fail, and learn, and succeed, and do my best to have them all in the extreme. We need less mediocrity, and more excellence.

My last week's experience

Last week I was part of the incredible, the unexpected, but the truly believable. Last week I had the most intense week of the past few years (can't say my whole life, because I can't actually remember all of it). Last week I attended Leaders School 7.

I must say, with complete honesty, that the last 5 years of university worked up a feeling of sadness in me, together with the vision of futility in what concerned my expectations on the involvement of my generation in the change that should happen in Romania. It felt pretty much as a lost cause, when I looked around me and saw 45 people solely interested in their own good, not being able to see the greater picture. It felt bad, and maddening, and frustrating, all put in a mix that shouldn't even exist. Last week I got one of my first shots of antidote.

I found out about "Leaders School"- a training initiated by Leaders Foundation- last year. When I saw their web-site and their speakers, I said "I need to go there!". Unfortunately I couldn't do that in the spring of 2010, but that only made me want it more, and it seems that the saying is right: if you want something hard enough, it will eventually happen. This year I received a full scholarship offered by Adobe, and I was able to live my last year's dream.

What exactly is "Leaders School"? My personal definition would be: a training that teaches young leaders how to become great ones. After participating in this project, it is the personal choice of the participant on what he/she wants to do next: remain a common fellow, or become a great one. The key is given to him/her during the 5 days of intense training, but the door is his/hers alone to open.

What makes this program so great? Exactly what makes every idea great in this world: the people behind it. Created and delivered every year by a team of extraordinary and dedicated people, supported by true leaders of our nation (nation that still needs so many things to become decent, not to mention great), Leaders School is the living proof of the power of perseverance. The project brings together the past, the present and the future- the young leaders of their times, the great and the young leaders of NOW, and the most important element, the future great leaders to be. In the past week I had the chance to meet my generation in a new light, and it gave me such a feeling of optimism, that it almost wiped clean the past 5 years of frustration and bitterness.

But I learned at least one more important thing last week: you can't be a true leader for others unless you are a true leader for yourself. That is what every speaker said, from his/her own experience (and here I can easily mention Mr. Balaceanu Stolnici, academician,Mrs. Alexandra Gatej, former presidential counselor and others),that is what our trainer, Rares Manolescu, underlined in every session delivered to us, and that is what was confirmed to me during the whole learning process that happened in "Leaders School 7".

I could write here for at least 2 more hours, about the extraordinary team I had (thank you Alex, Alexandra, Alexandru, Madalina and Paul), the mind-blowing experience of meeting living legends like Roland Hermann, or the both terrific and terrifying exercise of trying to sell your idea to the investors. I could also throw in some pieces about the kick-ass party that we had in the last evening, with the "Smashed Mosquito", or the funky business exercise during which Marius Ghenea coached us in selling Bio dairy products in the center of Brasov. And even if I would tell you about all of these, I would leave so much out, that I don't think anyone could get even 10% of the true feeling of being there.

So I will stop, and tell you that if you ever have the chance, just be a part of it, and if you don't, then think wisely and do the best of being a leader in your own life first, and then consider leading others to a better cause. Find a model, and live up to it. Read good books, and make the most of them. Travel as much as you can, and let the places you see put their mark on you, and dream BIG! That's the only way you won't feel sorry if you can reach only the half of the way.

Thank you, Leaders Foundation!

primavara lui 2009- impresii cu aer parizian

Trei zile in Paris, orasul indragostitilor si al romantismului. Ar putea fi, sau mai bine spus, a fost o data. In unele momente inca mai este si pe unele stradute laturalnice poti gasi acel quelque chose parisienne de care din pacate duci lipsa in locurile care sunt de fapt renumite pentru asa ceva.
Pentru mine Paris, dupa primul contact, este orasul mansardelor. Inventate de un francez, Philippe Mansarde, locuintele ingenios incadrate sub acoperisul cladirilor dau un aer extrem de pitoresc orasului acesta invadat de turisti si, de ce sa nu recunoastem, odata cu ei, de kitsch. Fiecare coltisor locuibil al unei cladiri e exploatat la maxim, iar acei norocosi ai caror mansarda se gaseste intr-o cladire mai inalta decat cele din jur, se bucura si de o panorama care uneori iti da fiori (de placere), mai ales noaptea, cand luminile turnului Eiffel si turnurile puse in valoare de reflectoare ale maretelor catedrale gotice dau un aer ireal orasului.
Le Tour Eiffel- impresionant. Mai ales pentru faptul ca rezista invaziei milioanelor de turisti care ii bat scarile si platformele si care se-nsira in cozi interminabile ce pornesc de la poarta de acces a fiecarui picior de turn. Totul e suprapopulat la Paris daca e weekend si mai ales daca e dupa ora 10 dimineata.
Notre Damme- ca orice catedrala gotica, iti ia ochii prin detalii. Dantelaria de piatra a acestui stil te face sa ai impresia ca n-o sa poti nicio data sa vezi cu-adevarat un monument care-i apartine, ci doar te minti privindu-l in ansamblu. Oriunde te intorci e un vitraliu, o cheie de bolta, o statuie, un gargui, care are cu totul alta expresie decat cel pe care tocmai l-ai vazut, si decat cel pe care o sa-l vezi data viitoare.
Domul invalizilor- stralucitor. Daca te uiti la el, ti se pare ca e soare si intr-o zi plina de nori, cum era aceea in care l-am vazut eu. Si mai e mare. Imens…
Place de la Concorde- risipa de spatiu. Vara cred ca e incinsa ca un disc pus la foc pe care vrei sa faci un gratar. Un disc incins cu o bucatica de egipt furata si adusa in el. Mi-ar fi rusine sa ma laud cu asa ceva.
Champs Elisees-… Sa zicem ca e o strada pe care n-o sa merg prea des de cate ori voi fi in Paris. Aglomeratie, magazine unul in altul, iar aglomeratie, nimic despre care sa pot spune ca e special. Cel putin nu pentru mine… Poate pentru cei/ cele pentru care Dolce & Gabanna, Gucci si Yves Saint Laurent chiar inseamna ceva.
Arcul de Triumf- da… DA! Ramane sa ma documentez cand a fost construit. Cel din Bucuresti e minciuna pe langa asta.
Luvrul- l-am vazut doar de la distanta. Presupun ca ma va impresiona mai mult pe interior decat pe exterior. Din nou invazie de turisti, si o coada imensa la care lumea astepta sa o vada pe Monalisa. Eu am vazut Monalisait- lantul de librarii cu preturi incredibil de mici unde mi-am lasat si infima mea suma de bani de cheltuiala, aproape in totalitate (restul s-a dus pe transport).
Si totusi, unde e acel quelque chose? Well… Daca vrei sa vezi ACEL Paris de care povesteste Hugo, ori iesi noaptea foarte tarziu, ori dimineata foarte devreme. Recomandat pana in ora 10… Probabil ca nu vei putea vizita mare lucru dintre obiectivele turistice, cum ar fi muzeul Georges Pompidou (care este si el impresionant, si care gazduieste atelierul de lucru al lui Brancusi- daca esti Roman si mergi la Paris, e o datorie nationala sa mergi acolo!), dar vei vedea bulevardele neinvadate de furnici multinationale, care baga blitzul in ochi oricarui colt de strada. Si daca mai e si soare, cum a fost sambata dimineata, si stai cu o prietena draga pe terasa unei cafenele sorbind un espresso, parca mai simti putin acel aer “parisienne” pe care-l cautai. Uneori mai dai de el si pe timpul zilei, dar trebuie sa cauti strazile ascunse, cu mici cafenele si restaurante care parca nu si-au schimbat alura din anii 30, unde nu te-agata kitchoasele magazine de suveniruri si zgomotul multimii.
Uitasem de-un loc…. Paire La chaise… Locul unde sunt adunate pentru totdeauna mari personalitati ale lumii, ca Jim Morisson, Balzac, Enescu, Proust, Chopin, Modigliani, majoritatea redusi la o lespede, un nume, si o bulina pe o harta…
L-am cautat pe Modigliani indelung… mi-a luat vre-o 10 minute sa-I gasesc mormantul. Ma asteptam la o placa memoriala, la o imagine care sa aduca aminte de ochii pe care i-a pictat cand i-a vazut sufletul EI. Era intr-adevar o imagine a celebrei picturi, una de marimea unei icoane, imprimata pe hartie de proasta calitate, si pusa de vre-un admirator cu pietate pe mormant, ancorata cu o pietricica. Nici macar o floare sau o coroana… Pe mormantul Eugeniei Popescu, un contur al Romaniei facut din pietricele albe cu o moneda pe care sa se vada stema in mijloc. Pe mormantul lui Enescu doar o garoafa rosie si nimic altceva. Doar o mare lespede din piatra crem pe care abia se intelegea scrisul. Oare Enescu e doar o garoafa rosie pentru noi? Paire La Chaise- casa de veci a multor oameni care in sute de ani mi-au construit mie (si nu numai) copilaria si adolescenta prin ceea ce au creat, din pacate multi uitati acum.
J’ai deux amours… Mon pays et Paris… Asa canta Madeline Peyroux. Eu nu pot spune ca a fost chiar dragoste la prima vedere. As spune mai degraba ca Parisul e pentru mine ca o sticla de vin: Cu cat e mai vechi, cu-atat e mai bun.

dazzling- mircea cartareascu

When she started working again, it was deep summer, the walls of the sleeping room, a deep, dark red, with rock sparkles and little branches drawn with cheap paint, were radiating the summer heat, and even though we always kept the window open, sweat was pouring down on us. Even the bed sheets were sticky, yellowish from the sweat absorbed all through the night. Mother's hands were barely visible, the famous "crooked toothed" fork moved up and down with the speed of lightning, just like a samurai sword, and the carpet was growing almost visible, revealing new faces every minute, new delicate details of a butterfly wing, or a military plan, a topographic map of some sort, another page from an Arabic manuscript, another neutronic star caught in gravity colaps, another fragment from an unheard chant, a technical drawing of a mechanism with racks and Malta crosses, another moll from my face, a thistle caught in the scarf of her sister, Anita, a small, white spot, on the crucified's Christ toe nail, another blue-painted Dutch landscape on the ceramic of a cup, another inferno sank in pus and stench, another Bucharest, from other times, or from no times at all (so detailed in its drawing, that you could even distinguish the smallest of snow flakes in the light of the tram headlights that was stopped in the Round station in the evening when, after two years, we would come back home soaking wet, with gum boots on our feet, through the red evening filled with neon shop fronts, and through the falling snow a man with his face burnt,without lips and nose, comes close to us with his teeth grinning, and climbs in the tram next to us; and it was snowing as it would have been the end), other gardens, other baroque buildings, other voices, other rooms, other havens, other gods. With the water pouring like ground-waters on her glossy, naked body, with her frail hair pinned up in a tight bun, with disgracious bushes of red hair marking her armpits, mother was working on the most wonderful carpet in the world, wonderful because it was the world itself and more, being a concentration of universes, a painting of all paintings and icon of the world's icons. I would take the big magnifying glass, the one specially made for weavers, with which I played most of the time, and I would magnify one of mother's breasts, until the top of its granulated nipple would become as big as a pomegranate or, watching my eye in the mirror, its pupil would invade the glass and the whole magnifier would become a cloudy blackish-green spot, and I would "open", as I then put it, a small portion, the size of a stamp, from the carpet. Any point on it would then flourish into an image, an object, a landscape, a human face from all places and all times, a spermatozoon in the pearly liquid put on the glass of the microscope, a scolex tapeworm, caught on the wall of an intestin, a Roman emperor resting his varicose legs on a purple stool, one of Altdorfer's battles, a Jodorovski movie, a magnified photograph of the surface of the Calisto satellite, a strong, unpleasant smell of hipermanganat. It was a codex of the worlds, one of Maxwell's daemons, but above it all, the new carpet was for me the proof of mother's magic and almightiness, for which I had now a love impossible to retain in the weak container of my skull.
I would rarely go out, and when I would, I would do terrible things, as if I wanted to prove mother I was only well next to her. One morning I lay down in the middle of the street, on the oil-stained asphalt, and I stayed there for a few buses to pass over me, their drivers not noticing me, or knowing the fact that they couldn't harm me, their tires being so high. A long time after this I would recall in my sleep the immense metal bodies passing on top of me with an apocalyptic sound. Most of the time I would just jump on the bed, behind my mother, looking through the game cards of "Fool", with the national costumes of the socialist nations: the Russians, the Serbs, the Bulgarians, the Hungarians, the Chinese, putting them one on top of the other "to kiss", or I would have a futile struggle with the patience game: a plastic spiral on which I had to make a small ball climb, all under some sort of sapphire work, identical to the summer sky in its transparency.
We would both play with the carpet too, but some other way than before when I would guess if from the little dots of the pattern a flower, or a snail would reveal itself. Now I would look through the magnifier to a corner of the immense painting, and I would solemnly say: "Father will come tonight with a big fish wrapped up in a newspaper under his arm", or "Tomorrow aunt Vasilica will come over and bring me glucose". And that would happen. Mother didn't have to tell me stories with naughty princesses, for I found all the story books I needed weaved and interweaved in the carpet.

Unknown territory

As it is probably obvious by now, I am stuck in an architecture office in Barcelona. What other people may not know is that this office hasn't got any name/brand on the door, window, wall or anywhere on the outside of its establishment. Furthermore, the front door is closed, and a little piece of paper (and by little I mean A6) tells you that you should enter on the side door. But still, what you don't know, as a newcomer, is that the side door means the black, iron door, that resembles a door of a deposit more than a door of an architecture office. Yup. That's right. That's THE DOOR!
Of course, the door is not so friendly as to have a door-bell. You just have to knock on the black painted iron, and peep through the huge window next to it hoping that anybody will see you.
So, tu sumarise, the architecture office looks like just about anything with computers from outside.

Sometimes when somebody goes to the shop, or to the coffee place next door, they let the door slightly ajar, in order not to bother anyone to open in from the inside when they come back. Today, during luch, somebody did.

We were chatting our lunch break away. I was with my back at the office, Andrei, my colleague was facing it. Suddenly I see his eyes set on something behind me.
"What are you staring at?"
"We have new people, I think..."
I turn slowly and see two peculiar fellows, well, to better describe it, to "cool, skinny, gipsy guys" in leather jackets, waving at us, and saying something that we couldn't hear because of the glass wall separating us.
"Those CAN'T be interns!"
Then one of them makes the unmistakable sign of using a keyboard, and I lip-read him "Internet!".
I burst out laughing histerically! They mistook the famous office ran buy the even more famous architect to be "An internet cafe!".

Beautiful...

suflete de sticla

Ploua cu curcubee-n ochii mei
Radeau culorile in iris ca nebune
Strangeam lumina-n pumni ca o minune
Pasind cu pleoape calde printre zei.

Ploua caldut pe sufletul de sticla
Lipit de fruntea mea cu riduri verzi
Si cum lumina te-ndemna sa crezi
Simteam cum vraja-ntreaga se-nfiripa.

Mi-am amintit atunci de o poveste
O soapta incalcita printre vremi
In sufletul de sticla cand il chemi
Cum se invart culorile celeste.