I captured a word: spontaneity.
I don’t know about others, but when they look at each other, stories run from eyes to eyes, old legends told at sunset, on flower filled pastures, in some place where the word home is home and it smells like fresh grass, sounds like crickets and feels like happiness.
They ran to their moment, as two friends going out to play on green fields and secret drawn paths theirs to discover. And night caught up, and tiredness felt like smoldering fire fueled with stories. Masters of this world of theirs, empty of other intruding voices, they decide where happiness caries them and where they stop for rest.
In each other’s arms, covered in dandelions and the body of a four legged fur ball mad about their family, they showed me what it means to make a home, spontaneously, out of arms and words and three souls believing in safety. Among trees older event than the idea of them, and grass made angels, as pretty as the snow, cold ones, they are always children, faced with an endless sky colored like the season and dressed up in fog.
Everything rewrites itself in the irreplaceable space of “home”. Like in old cures and medicines, the dress is left to the sun, to charge it with shine and purity, and the déjà vu inducing smell of mom’s ironing next door makes everyone laugh and laugh, until even the smiling picture on the wall craves the better shaped reality.
He travelled back in the time captured at his cuffs, to times where a sword made a knight. And he was named head of family, an even greater honor and occasion for celebrations inside the family. A family that placed all the emotion and joy in the crooked fingers and times spotted skin of old, loving hands, familiar already with the kneading of life, feeding over time their children and grandchildren with dreams and advices.
Words were said between them, as many as the lines in the pattern of the lace and adding the lines in the lace of the earrings and counting still the lines that form the lips of the roses. And all fell silent when he saw her in lace and colors, an apparition captured between arms, not out of fear, but dedication.
Bread as warm as well wishes fed the ceremony and over the taste of happiness they added a pinch of tears, to grow their union and make it spread, and for the wealth in feeling to multiply over years, like moments counted in white rice glistening in the sun over their heads.
Guarded by luck bringing candles, they played with steps and near their steps they gathered more steps and so on, until there was dance and the dance felt like a mad play of life adoring children. And they were mad about each other, always close in touch or words, in light and shadows, in shouts of Come to me! and I’m here! answers.
And when they escaped the dance, I captured them again among shades of raw green, old rocks and older still forests, like a fairytale told for all to hear but kept close to be felt only by two. Genuine like water carved shore, playful, like a hug reflected in a round haystack, complete, like a mountain lake in need of nothing else to be kept clear, I captured them.
I thought I was capturing a word. Instead, they told a story.
A thousand images for the same word
Wedding Venue: Hanul Domnesc, Brasov
Videographer: Timeless Films by Razvan Cosma
Make-up Artist: Andrea Dumitrache
A thousand images for the same word, by AndreiDumitrache.ro
The story of those images, by Cătălina în cuvinte
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