I never knew quite clearly whether stories are meant to lull us to sleep or, on the contrary, to keep us awake. For instance, my grandmother would begin to snore right in the middle of the battle between Praslea and the dragon. Much later, I myself would fall asleep, a little concerned, it’s true, about the fate of the brave man forever forgotten buried in the ground up to the waist. No matter how tired the storytellers might be, one thing is sure - their stories are a cure against death. We are forever telling stories, just like Sheherezada, trying thus to chase death away.

Gicu Serban’s photographs aim precisely at fighting this kind of dozing off, which brings about death.

The game of this man who tells his stories by means of images stolen from the world is marked by a special charm and timidity. His photographs are suggestive of a world of the chiaroscuro, of the filtered light that goes through the windows very discreetly, yet almost fearfully. Approaching the subject is achieved in soft and successive catlike steps, and the approaches are often surprising. I like his playing with transparent and obscure provinces, I like the way he chooses to vibrate and to seriously consider even the most common subject, the way he chooses to examine it from all the perspectives as if it were a prey, before deciding on the final angle to adopt.
Regarding his stories, one can distinguish two types: stories which either request an effort in focusing one’s attention, precisely because the listener must go on with the story (once the storyteller has been rendered defeated by his own discourse), or stories that are told by the fire while rocking the cradle of babies whose lips are sealed, babies who can grasp it all, since the beginning of the world, precisely because they have not been given yet the gift of speech. And when the angel bestows that gift upon them, they forget it all, as if by magic, and then are doomed to recreate the world by means of images and truncated words. Gicu Serban’s photographs remind you precisely of this oblivion and force you to recreate the world, to ceaselessly wonder what lies beyond the two twin windows, thorough which the light steals into a deserted stable, wonder what the universe of the figure you see going her way one winter morning looks like, or what the room looks like, through the window of which one can catch a glimpse of the steeple of the church. The beauty resides in the fact that the author’s love for the story nestles at the core of each photograph, beginning with the very moment of its conception; The author’s suggestion is that we, the recipients, harmonize with this gracious spirit and, if possible, that we make sure the story won’t end until the world is properly reestablished.