STUDIO 499

​ Na vele jaren schrijven, herschrijven en reflecteren werk ik momenteel aan de afronding van mijn memoir: Ciocarlia — Between Borders and Belonging Een persoonlijk verhaal over opgroeien in communistisch Oost-Europa, identiteit, migratie, Berlijn na de val van de Muur, hospitality, creativiteit en uiteindelijk het zoeken naar een gevoel van thuis in Nederland. Wat begon als het vastleggen van herinneringen, groeit langzaam uit tot een literair en visueel project waarin ook fotografie en digitale kunst een rol zullen krijgen. Omdat het verhaal zich sterk beweegt tussen cultuur, vrijheid, inclusiviteit, reizen, kunst en menselijke verbinding, onderzoek ik momenteel ook mogelijkheden voor creatieve samenwerkingen of sponsoring rondom de uiteindelijke publicatie. Ik geloof dat sommige verhalen niet alleen gelezen, maar ook gedragen mogen worden door mensen en organisaties die dezelfde waarden herkennen: vrijheid, authenticiteit, diversiteit, creativiteit en verbinding. Werk je binnen hosp...

Born in Eastern Europe during the communist era, I grew up in a time that shaped resilience, adaptability, and perspective. They were strange years — full of ideals on the surface, yet deeply restrictive and quietly dictatorial. Because of that, I don’t blame anyone for the wrong decisions. Nothing truly worked the way it should have back then. It was almost inevitable that my parents shaped the course of my life, even though at the time I didn’t realise it. My heart wanted art. That was my first choice. My second choice was something practical, something technical — architecture. That second path was not really mine; it was my father’s. What he could not achieve himself, I was expected to carry forward. One phone call to the art academy changed everything. In a single moment, my life turned in a different direction and pulled me into the technical world. It was a world I learned to survive in, but never one that truly fit me. After finishing my studies, I chose hospitality instead — a...

​ The year I was born arrived carrying both hope and tension, like the world was holding its breath. I t was a moment when history felt personal, when ideals were spoken out loud, and the future still seemed negotiable. I grew up with echoes rather than headlines. Family voices with New York accents. Visits that felt ordinary at the time, yet left invisible fingerprints. Stories exchanged over tables, glances toward a larger world I hadn’t yet seen, but somehow already knew. Being almost the same age as John F. Kennedy Jr. places me in a quiet parallel — not imitation, but resonance.  Two lives shaped by the same global weather: optimism colliding with loss, promise living side by side with disillusionment. Perhaps that’s why certain connections feel unclear yet persistent, like unfinished conversations carried by time instead of words. The Kennedy story doesn’t live in me as politics or mythology. It lives as atmosphere. As a sense that character matters. That public life and p...