Leaves of longing

A tribute to Ion Druță? Maybe. I won't risk contradicting the author.

The leaf, however, is truly the symbol of longing.

The leaf is a fragile, fleeting form. Here, in the case of Ioan Grecu, it becomes monumental, a sign that longing - for people, for place, for time - takes on weight and duration. It is more than sweet nostalgia. It is living memory.

The leaf is made of planks fastened with visible nails, showing that longing is not a uniform feeling; it is made of pieces of memory, of simple things collected over time. The fact that the joints remain visible tells the truth: nothing is completely smooth.

The arrangement of the planks suggests a discreet cross in the center of the leaf. Thus, Longing takes on a sacred dimension: assumed suffering, a connection between earth and sky, between those who remain and those who have departed.

The sculpture rises from the grass, like a thought that cannot stay down, suggesting to the passerby that Longing does not keep you grounded; it lifts you up - even if it weighs you down.

Wood bears the marks of time. It changes, it breathes, it ages.

Longing is not preserved; it transforms with you.

Leaves of Longing is a sculpture of assumed memory: Longing not as an open wound, but as a structure that keeps you whole.

The longing in the center of Ungheni doesn't shout, but it calls you, it waits, like a leaf caught between times and seasons.