The name Gigi Căciuleanu is synonymous with contemporary dance, both in Romania and worldwide. Alongside his teacher, Miriam Răducanu, he built forms of expression through movement at a time when Romanians lacked freedom. He then amazed huge names in dance, such as the Soviet ballerina Maya Plisetskaya and the German dancer and choreographer Pina Bausch.

He founded the first National Center for Contemporary Dance in France in Rennes and led the Santiago de Chile National Ballet.

He has lived in Paris for 50 years but has also left his mark on contemporary dance in Romania, both before and after the Revolution.

I met him in the French capital, in the Montmartre district where he lives, and I discovered fascinating stories, from his departure from Romania and periods of financial insecurity, where he ate only jam on dry bread for three months, to career-defining encounters with Pierre Cardin, Astor Piazzolla, Jean Michel Jarre, and Maya Plisetskaya.

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In June 1940, when Romania was ordered to cede Bessarabia as a result of the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact, Gigi Căciuleanu’s grandparents and parents caught the last train to Bucharest.

“My grandmother didn’t take any jewelry, nothing; she only took the Bible and a cactus. If I were to write all my memoirs, I would title it The Bible and the Cactus. She had the Bible since 1900; she would read from it when we were children and she cherished it very much. The way my grandmother read to us made the Bible seem like an adventure book.

We all lived in the basement of a house on Eremia Grigorescu Street, and I was lucky to grow up between the two gardens, Icoanei and Ioanid. In my day, Ioanid was called Pușkin Park. We used to swim in the pond there.”

Gigi Căciuleanu first came into contact with dance when he was only 4 years old. It happened at a ballet school on Frumoasă Street in Bucharest, near George Enescu’s house.

“If you were to look through the keyhole into Alice’s Wonderland, you would see something. You know it’s Wonderland, but you don’t know exactly what it’s like. Dance is not just dance; it’s a necessity. It’s a visceral necessity, just as poetry is a necessity. And for me, poetry and dance and drawing lines are very connected.

My mother took me to ballet for two reasons: one – I was terribly mischievous, and two – my mother would have wanted to be a ballerina, but it was not considered appropriate at the time in our family for a girl to be a ballerina; ballerinas were considered unserious. Unable to be a ballerina, my mother became a botanist. She was very in love with plants. A plant is a dance. It is a line that develops, blooms, has a story. A blade of grass also has extraordinary strength; it comes out of the asphalt without any problem. Put me under the asphalt to see if I can get out. No! I don’t know how the blade of grass makes its way through.

Dance fascinated me in the sense that it hit me on the head; I was very scared because there were all kinds of young ladies who knew much more than I did. I was 4 years old; what does a child know at 4? I started to cry, and a blond, beautiful, very intelligent teacher, Nuți Dona, took me in her arms, and I asked her to marry me. Haha. Then she started training me.

She said: ‘Forget the figures and look: I’m here with you, you’re in an empty lot, you’re playing with a ball, you break a window, the neighbor whose window you broke comes out and scolds you, you answer him, and you are between the ball and the one who scolds you. You dance however you want.’ I don’t know what I danced for her, but I really liked the idea. That was freedom.”

He then continued to go to the dance school, and the meeting that was to decisively mark his artistic path was with the dancer and choreographer Miriam Răducanu.

“Miriam became our teacher when I entered the second cycle, which means at 14 years old. And suddenly, some subjects were added, one of which was called The Actor’s Art. I really liked it; at one point, I wanted to quit dance and become an actor, I realized I could do more things as an actor, and I really liked the idea.

She gave us dance classes, but it was not allowed to say “modern dance”; jazz was frowned upon as modern music. She told us: ‘Look, you are allowed to improvise, but not chaotically, but with some very precise tasks, just like jazz musicians do, she already pronounced the word jazz, which was taboo. Or like very talented musicians do in a Mozart symphony; they have a moment of freedom where they deviate from the written symphony and are allowed to add some nuances that are their own. I want to work on these nuances with you, in which you have the right to be free, but going through the experience of improvising with some very precise tasks.’

With Miriam, I realized that dance and the art of acting do not exclude each other but blend very well. She was the first dance-actor I met.

Together, the two created the famous late-night shows, which took place at the Țăndărică Theater in Bucharest in the late ’60s. The Nocturnes combined music, dance, poetry, and acting, and the interdisciplinary construction was something revolutionary at the time.

“She worked a lot with the theater, with Gina Patrichi, with Virgil Ogășanu. Virgil Ogășanu was part of the first Nocturne we did. He performed a monologue from Gogol’s The Government Inspector, which he had worked on with Andrei Șerban.

Many of the dances I did with Miriam came out of improvisation. Before the Nocturnes, we danced a lot in people’s homes. Whoever had a bigger living room would welcome us. People would sit on chairs as if at a theater.

How was this freedom possible in that regime where Romanians lacked precisely freedom?

“Romanians are Romanians; jokes saved us. Don’t forget that we are in a country of jokes, even if some people would turn you in for this. We always laughed at many things, and Romanians have always been very Latin. No matter how much they try to restrain us, we remain Latin.

Inspired by Brâncuși, Miriam had at one point created a dance called Flight; it was very static, only on an oscillation, the body only had some inclinations. And she was criticized by her colleagues at the opera, who said, ‘What kind of flight is that; in flight, you flap your arms.’ And I went to her and said: ‘Madam, you should know that I am very upset by what people are saying about your dance.’

And she told me: ‘You ask them where the feathers are on Brâncuși’s Bird. Don’t argue with them; just present artistic arguments.’ Miriam is very different from me. Miriam polished her dances, just as Brâncuși polished his sculptures. And I was very much about the immediate moment; I could change a dance in three seconds. During the Nocturnes, I always said that she was the pretzel, and I was dancing, sneaking through the holes of the pretzel.”

When the Nocturnes, theater plays, concerts, and opera shows ended, young people from Bucharest who were interested in the courageous side of art would gather at Preoteasa, the Students’ Cultural Center. There, great Romanian artists would give free rein to their imagination and improvise in a captivating way for the audience.

“We improvised crazily; all kinds of jazz musicians would come, the Berindei brothers, Jancy Korossy, Johnny Raducanu. It was a dialogue where I didn’t care about the way they played and what that was called in music, and they didn’t care what the movement we were doing was called. The audience would come like crazy for this. A lot of young people would come,” Gigi Căciuleanu now recalls.

Alongside Miriam Răducanu, Gigi Căciuleanu participated in the first international festivals. When the Bulandra Theater, with Liviu Ciulei as director, presented Hamlet at the Edinburgh Festival, Gigi Căciuleanu was dancing in the festival’s underground: “one day, we saw Marin Sorescu and Ion Caramitru come in and join us, in a good way, and they created a moment within our show. It was spontaneous and fit perfectly.”

Poetry, painting, and dance have always had echoes in Gigi Căciuleanu’s dance. He fell in love with the paintings of Kandinsky and Aivazovsky, which gave him the courage not to impose barriers on himself, to build forms in continuous motion, without a contour.

“What is choreography? It is a combination of movements that you invent. You invent the movements and their combination. I make a big distinction between a choreographer and an arranger. It’s like in music; there are people who invent things and others who arrange them. A lot of choreographers call themselves choreographers without being choreographers. They take things from here and there and glue them together.”

Gigi Căciuleanu left Romania in 1973 and settled in France, after a journey through Russia, Germany, Greece, and Belgium, refusing an invitation to move to America.

His meeting with the great German dancer and choreographer Pina Bausch gave him the confidence that he could start over in a new world.

“After leaving the country so many times with Miriam, I told myself I couldn’t wait for visas for who knows how long. I was convinced I had something to say, and I couldn’t say it at the opera, where I had to do what I was told. I didn’t want to go to Moscow, but Miriam told me, ‘Go, boy, to the Russians, and learn the trade!'”

And did you go to the Bolshoi Theater?

“Yes, I stayed for one season, but that was enough for me; it was an extraordinary technical apprenticeship. It was classical, academic dance, but with more freedom. I had three extraordinary teachers; if a double jump was done, we would do a triple. I absolutely loved this technical challenge. And we had the opportunity to sneak in to the soloists, we would open the door and slip in. Maya Plisetskaya, Ekaterina Maximova, Vladimir Vasiliev were there; you couldn’t even touch them.”

He was not interested in staying in Moscow and continued to see the world through international competitions, along with his dance partner, Ruxandra Racoviță.

“We won the only contemporary choreography competition in Germany at that time. I won once, I returned to Romania, and Ruxandra told me: ‘Căciu, let’s do another competition, so we can get out again, so the world can see us.’

And we did a Romanian Bolero, the two of us with a third acting character, Dan Mastacan, who had some acting passages, and Raluca Ianegic, who presented a kind of flamenco, a symbol of death, as I was reading a lot of Lorca at the time. That dance piece won first prize a second time. It had never happened before that the same people would win in a competition two years in a row.

Pina Bausch had been the laureate of the same competition a few years earlier. I said that if I won the prize a second time, I would stay there. Dan Mastacan left for Paris immediately and had an extraordinary career in the world of film.

I stayed in Germany because Pina invited me to join her company. She was the director of the Essen School of Arts. She proposed that I work on choreographies with the people she had, her students, some of whom would later become very well known. Susanne Linke was there.

I had the extraordinary chance to work with those people; I created ten pieces with them. And those productions went on tour. Pina combined them with her pieces and my pieces. So I had moments when I wasn’t dancing and I would watch what she was doing, and she did the same.

That’s when I saw what a great dancer Pina was, and every time I went and said: ‘Pina, you are a divine dancer,’ even though she was like an animal, a combination of Salvador Dalí’s dinosaur and a giraffe in flames.

In the meantime, I convinced Ruxandra to return to Germany, and we left with her for Greece. We bought two boat tickets, without having anything to eat.”

The projects in Greece did not materialize, so Ruxandra Racoviță returned to Romania, but Gigi stayed for another 3 months in Greece, on the island of Hydra near Athens, where a Romanian woman they had met owned a house.

“In 40-degree heat, I ate nothing but dry biscotte with orange marmalade for three months, which Mrs. Ralu Manu had in the house, as she was on vacation. I literally exterminated that cupboard of biscotte—some slices of dry bread. And I would spread a little marmalade on it to make it last. Since then, I can’t stand to see biscotte; I can’t…”

He finally managed to get to Paris, a city that continues to captivate him today, after 50 years.

“When I arrived in Paris in June-July, the last thing on my mind was America. I even slept on benches by the Seine many times; it was possible back then, it’s not like now. Dan Mastacan had left to make a film in Germany, and I had nowhere to stay. But I said that I wasn’t leaving here.”

Now he met us in the Montmartre district, near the Sacre Coeur church, where he lives. He is 78 years old, and dance, cats, and poetry are now his main interests. He perfectly remembers the adventure of settling in France, without any source of income, trying to work at a cabaret while having just requested political asylum.

Ruxandra Racoviță joined him in this madness, and the great American ballerina Rosella Hightower, director of the Nancy Theater, gave them a chance: “she told us she had only one position for a dancer, but she would cut it in half, and we would split the salary. That’s how we got to Nancy, where later, she gave me the direction of the ballet there. Dan Mastacan was my assistant. And Ruxandra was a star dancer.

I stayed there for 5 years. From that company of 30 people, I selected 10 with whom I worked at night, and we then went on tour through France. Unpaid, that’s what we wanted. That’s how the French Ministry of Culture got to know us. And, at one point, I said, ‘God, I really want to do only this; I’m not interested in doing those ballets anymore, which, in fact, I didn’t even know how to do.’

The Ministry of Culture offered me Rennes or Montpellier. I wanted Rennes because it’s closer to Paris. I always gravitate towards Paris. I love Paris, no matter what it’s like. I got to Rennes and stayed there for 15 years. That’s where I founded the first National Center for Contemporary Dance.”

Through the actor Dan Mastacan, who had become the assistant to the famous designer and cultural figure Pierre Cardin, Gigi Căciuleanu received a proposal from Cardin to go on a world tour.

“I was on tour with a show in London, and Pierre Cardin came into the theater and saw me. He said he wanted me. I came by bus and showed Pierre Cardin what we were working on clandestinely at night in Nancy, and he said: ‘I’ll take you with this show.’ And that’s how he gave us tours all over the world: Japan, China, the United States, and a lot in South America.”

Pierre Cardin also connected him with one of the greatest Soviet ballerinas in history, Maya Plisetskaya, whom the young Gigi had only secretly watched at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow.

“Pierre Cardin calls me and says: ‘Don’t you want to meet Maya Plisetskaya? I’d like to introduce you to her and have her see you dance.’ And I said, ‘Of course, I’ll take the train immediately.’ I go, I arrive at the theater in Paris, and I dance to Ray Charles’s music. Maya likes it very much; she even wrote in her diary ‘I met a brilliant Romanian.’ She says: ‘Don’t you want to teach me some movements?’ I say: ‘Madam, these movements are not learned in three seconds behind a door.’

Years passed since then, and Pierre Cardin called me again: ‘I absolutely want to make a gift show for Maya, and I thought of you.’ Among the proposed titles, I chose The Madwoman of Chaillot; it seemed to fit my personality and hers the most. We were going to put on the show at his theater, Espace Cardin, in the heart of Paris; for me, it was a huge deal. And I said, ‘But how?’ And he said: ‘Maya will come to Rennes, and you will work there.’ And Maya came.

I was late at the station. Rennes is towards the ocean, 80 km from the ocean, so there were many seagulls.

I arrive at the station, the platforms were empty, like in the paintings of Delvaux (n.r. Belgian surrealist painter Paul Delvaux), who drew stations with traffic lights, where there are some naked ladies.

‘Maya, please forgive me, I had rehearsals, let me help you with your luggage.’ She was silent, nothing, she just stood there with her braids in the wind. Then she says: ‘I know how it is. But please show me the movements you have thought of for me.’

And the improvisation starts again, of course. You come huffing and puffing, sweating, because it’s the huge star right there and you’re late? And I start outlining it for her on that platform; I had absolutely nothing prepared, but, anyway, I had Miriam Răducanu’s training. I put on the tape with The Madwoman of Chaillot and danced for her. She didn’t say a word. She let me go through hell on that platform, I stopped at one point because I couldn’t go on, and she says: ‘Yes, I liked it. But I have one single request. Don’t you dare do it any other way than how you did it here.’

Were you able to reproduce it then?

“The hell I was! No, but it didn’t even matter anymore. She didn’t want to see what I had. She wanted to see that my joints would hold up, because otherwise, she could have gotten on the next train and left.

We did the show at the Bolshoi, we did it in Japan. When we arrived at the Bolshoi, it was exactly the day the Russian White House was burning; the government building was on fire, everything was closing on the streets at 9, and Yeltsin gave an extraordinary dispensation so that Maya’s show could be performed at 4.”

In 1993, he founded the Gigi Căciuleanu company in Paris, with Dan Mastacan and Ruxandra Racoviță. At the same time, he returned to Romanian soil as a guest and contributed to the growth of new generations of Romanian dancers.

“Vava Ștefănescu, Răzvan Mazilu, Ștefan Lupu, Arcadie Rusu, Ioana Marchidan, Lari Georgescu – they all were part of my company, and now they are all something.

First and foremost, I taught them that they had to be themselves. That no matter how strict the choreography is, and I work very strictly on choreography, the choreographies are written precisely so that from this writing you can burst out when you want to. But you must have a thought-out foundation. Take a Mozart symphony. Yehudi Menuhin’s genius is not seen because he is interpreting something else, but because he plays it the way he plays it. To be free to be who you are—that is the great art.

To be ‘authentic,’ I was even called ‘Mr. Authentic,’ because I used the word often.

The choreography of the sea is written. There are physical laws. You don’t play with them. But look at the sea; you can stand all day long and you don’t get tired of looking at it. Or the fire in the fireplace. And yet, there are very clear physical laws that direct those things. That would be choreography.

What does Romania mean to you?

I don’t make a distinction between Romania and France. If I stayed in Paris, it’s because it looked a lot like Romania. It seemed to me that I had come home.

But what were the similarities?

There is a certain freedom of thought. There were also our connections with France, Cioran, Ionesco, Enescu. And it seemed like a terribly natural connection, and I spoke French from a very young age.

Romanians are very French, in fact, and the French are very Romanian. There are differences because we had different destinies.”

This article is part of the “France Week” series, an initiative by Cultura la dubă supported by BNP Paribas. So far, within this project, Cultura la dubă has presented the stories of 22 Romanian artists and cultural figures based in France.

The post Gigi Căciuleanu, a life dedicated to dance: “Dance is not just dance. It’s a visceral necessity.” appeared first on Cultura la dubă.

He left Romania for Argentina at 19, and dance opened his horizons to a new world, full of possibilities, to diversity and understanding. He studied ballet, modern dance, and contemporary dance, was part of a church choir, danced in one of Paris’s famous cabarets, and settled in the French capital, where he is a dancer, choreographer, and dance teacher.

Decisively influenced by the great Romanian choreographer Gigi Căciuleanu and trained by his partner, Ruxandra Racoviță, Daniel Pop carries on the love for contemporary dance and enriches it with his own ideas, movements, and emotions.

I met him in Paris just hours before he was to go on stage at the Opéra National de Paris, where he is part of the opera Manon.

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Daniel Pop’s story begins 37 years ago in Târgu-Mureș. Born in one of Romania’s most ethnically mixed communities, he grew up surrounded by diversity, which later helped him adapt to the different cultures he encountered.

“I was raised by grandparents, parents, teachers with this idea that if you learn a foreign language, you’ll have an extra chance in life. They told me: be curious, be open, accept diversity.

In Târgu Mureș, we have this cohabitation of space with those of Hungarian origin. Our neighbors are Hungarian, my mother went to primary school in Hungarian, and so I grew up with this exercise of multiculturalism. It seemed very important to me as an adult, a professional, if I have something to say and am encouraged and warmly welcomed into a new space, then to come and accept this challenge and propose such an exercise of artistic creation in several languages, where at some point, in fact, language was no longer a barrier,” says Daniel.

He always felt a magnetic attraction to dance, even if his father would have preferred him to box, because “boys need to know how to defend themselves.”

“Being a child with bronchial asthma, I had quite fragile health at that time and was forbidden to do sports. I danced from a very young age in front of the television, imitating stars like Marilyn Monroe, Britney Spears. I had a lot of habits that no one understood. I went to ballet somewhat secretly.

I was beaten quite a lot as a child, in front of the block. I was very whiny, often sick, I wasn’t allowed to eat ice cream. I went to classical dance because what I saw on television toughened me up a lot, and I told myself, ‘look how beautiful, how graceful, how good it is there.’

I used to imitate gestures a lot; I imitated my mother who smoked and I secretly smoked pencils. I watched some films about cabaret and taught imaginary children dance and all sorts of subjects.

And I say this now because, after all, I danced for many years in a cabaret, I became a dancer, and I also became a teacher. Somehow these childhood dreams became reality.

How were your childhood dance classes?

I went to ballet classes in Târgu Mureș, at the general school gym. At one point, my parents were called to give their consent for me to receive a scholarship to the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow.

My teacher said it would be good for me to try to go to a ballet school in Russia because boys are needed and because I am tall and could develop very well.

I think ballet saved me from my medical condition, in the sense that I developed my lung capacity. However, my parents were still very worried and did not agree to my leaving for Moscow.

What did you do after that?

At 18, when I finished high school, I had the opportunity to go to Argentina to a dance school, through a very good friend from Târgu Mureș, who had been there for two years studying cinematography.

I was supposed to prepare for the choreography section of UNATC in Bucharest, but it didn’t inspire me at all to go to Bucharest. I think there were also these stereotypes about the relationship between the province and Bucharest. At that time, I was part of a church choir and a high school theater group.

Those at Ariel Theater in Târgu Mureș, where I was already working as an amateur, told me: “Dance is against the clock; go for dance because you can do theater at any age.”

And somehow my work is somewhere at the intersection of theater and dance. My personal artistic projects and interests led me on this path, so somehow I still managed to have some contact with theater.”

In Argentina, however, he was to discover contemporary dance, in a completely different way than he perceived dance, through the lens of the rigors imposed by ballet exercises. There he studied at a dance school and worked in parallel as a waiter to ensure an income.

At the time, Gigi Căciuleanu, who was to become his mentor, was the artistic director of the National Ballet of Chile.

“He was already working with professional dancers; I wasn’t prepared for contemporary dance at that level, and he proposed that I come to Paris to attend the Conservatory, where his lifelong partner, Ruxandra Racoviță, was a professor. She had the Contemporary Dance department, and I was her last generation of students. She trained me in contemporary dance, and after I finished, I started dancing in a company where Gigi Căciuleanu staged shows.

And I worked in that company for about 5-6 years, touring through Europe, dancing a lot here in France and Italy.

What convinced you to make the transition from ballet to contemporary dance?

A very great embarrassment I felt in a contemporary dance class in Buenos Aires where, effectively, after 10 minutes, I picked up my bag to leave. When I put my hand on the doorknob, the teacher stopped the class and said: “Are you sure you want to leave? I think there’s something for you; you just have to give it time.” And it was a challenge, because I’ve always been very agitated, very wild, preoccupied with a hundred things, somewhat dispersed in space, and contemporary dance opened up a vision where anything was possible.

But where did that embarrassment come from?

From some movements that were not necessarily in my comfort zone or in what I knew how to do, namely the very rigorous ABC of classical dance.

When I discovered contemporary dance, I didn’t know these elements; everything was about weight, about breathing, about falling to the ground, about slowing down, movement about speeds, different volumes, bodies. All these things I liked very much and embarrassed me at the same time.

I was somehow afraid to throw myself harder. I saw that there’s always room for more, and in classical dance there’s room for more and movements can be perfected, but classical dance goes through a certain repetition of movement until it becomes perfect, whereas in contemporary dance, that doesn’t exist.

Contemporary dance has more to do with movement that will be nourished by a thought, by an emotion behind it, with deciphering certain cultures and subjects. I think it’s something much more universal and much more open to people.

And you made the complete transition? You no longer danced ballet?

Yes, I continued classical dance as training, because it seemed very rigorous and very important for the body and for body posture. Continuing with classical dance is a kind of morning prayer, but I plunged into the world of contemporary dance, being very convinced that this is the path I want to take.

I also had this inclination towards the world of theater; I really liked talking about different subjects, having different characters, not necessarily being in this world of the romantic prince who has to carry the princess or the swan through space.

Then, in Argentina, I also discovered the world of modern dance, namely jazz, musical. And when I arrived in Paris, apropos of what you work to support yourself, I auditioned for a very famous cabaret here, Paradis Latin – the cabaret that is placed in the same line as Moulin Rouge and Lido. It was built by Gustave Eiffel in an architecture very similar to that of the tower.

It’s a cabaret where the cancan dance was invented and first danced in Paris.

I worked there for 5 years at night, so I could do what I liked during the day – contemporary dance. I was somehow between the two worlds, the world of night and the world of day.

And I also taught in a modern dance club and various body maintenance techniques.

Why did you choose to continue doing this in Paris? Was there no place for contemporary dance in Romania? Or in Argentina?

In Paris, I found my place, and I really liked the diversity. I think what I had to say had to do with something very universal; I liked having colleagues from all over the world.

Then here there is an artist’s status, an “intermittence du spectacle” regime.

This wage system is unique in the world. It is a self-sustaining system. Depending on what you declare and what taxes you pay to the state, they then ensure you a decent living between projects.

How has being part of this much more open world of contemporary dance changed you on a human level?

I believe that contemporary dance is about a lot of introspection and it is an intimate and very internal journey of one’s own self, of being. At the same time, you can be a messenger, a connecting point between cultures, between people, between different languages, between different forms of expression.

I don’t think I would be the same if I hadn’t lived in Argentina for three years and if I hadn’t immersed myself in a Latin American culture.

And regarding tradition, identity, and where I come from, I have always tried to preserve this very beautiful and varied relief of Transylvania, the land where I was born, and to bring it through movements, through a certain melancholy, into dance.”

At the time of our meeting in Paris, Daniel was preparing to go on stage at the Opéra Bastille, where he has been part of the production and cast of the opera Manon since 2020. Following an audition, he was selected for the dance corps. Then the celebrated tenor Benjamin Bernheim chose him as his stage partner for several scenes, so in some performances, he is an actor. In parallel, he was also appointed choreography assistant.

“The choreographic proposal for this show has quite classical and neoclassical content, but also has jazz, modern, and contemporary dance influences. Based on these competencies acquired through the multitude of aesthetics my body has gone through during my years of study, I managed to get this casting.

From the outside, it seems that this multidisciplinary approach is increasingly common in the world of opera and ballet in Paris. I’ve seen shows where hip-hop dancers have performed on stage alongside tenors and sopranos. How is this modernization of a classical world viewed from within?

I think France has always been avant-garde and has aimed to experiment with new forms. Artistic transversality and this interdisciplinarity have found a cradle in France, through its history, through its revolutions. These revolutions were also felt in the arts, because an artist is an active citizen of society through the work he does, through the risks he takes, and through this universality with which he responds to new challenges.

The last few years in France, it seems to me, have been about breaking these barriers, about trying to go hand in hand with this idea of democratizing dance, of opening up spaces a lot, of mixing the world of professional dancers with amateur dancers.

At the state level, cultural policies have been designed in such a way that dance reaches many new spaces, and even large institutions, such as the opera, bring new voices from certain territories very far from classical forms. Of course, there have been controversies, and there always are controversies. If you look, for example, at the Louvre pyramid, there was a big scandal because something totally innovative, something angular, was intervened in a heritage space, and there were all sorts of conspiracies.

It’s a very clear example that we can live in a very large diversity, and this was also the reason why I stayed here.

Because daily I met new people, from new cultures, from new countries, and it was somehow an adopted land where we all felt equal together.

And from a geographical point of view, it was a strategy to be in Paris because I could go anywhere, east, west, north, south, very easily and return here, as the French say, to a pied-à-terre, having a foot very anchored in this culture and in this diversity.

Have you also become a French citizen?

Yes, after 12 years of living here, as a European citizen with the same rights, after all, as the French. It was a personal decision to also take French citizenship because it seemed to me that it somehow crowns a certain effort I made to understand, without judging, why the French are cold and distant, when, in fact, they are just reserved. I came from a collective education, like communism, to the land of enlightenment thinkers, philosophers, great thinkers, where individualism is paramount and where a person, an individual, must learn to fend for himself.

For me, it was very clear that I am like them, and a citizenship does not cancel the one I have and the identities I have, but it is something that enriches me, something that completes me and makes me feel more complex.”

Although he is already perfectly integrated in France, Daniel frequently returns to Romania, where he has also laid the foundations for an artistic residency in Saschiz, Transylvania. This summer, his project, entitled International Artistic Residencies Camp “LEGĂTURI” (CONNECTIONS), is already in its 4th edition. Every year, international and national artists are invited to meet students from our vocational faculties, as well as the local community.

“I feel at home in Transylvania. And in the places where I grew up, where I am always welcomed with open arms, and where we have the camp, I feel that I receive a lot of trust in the artistic formats I propose.

In Saschiz, I propose a mix of different cultures and worlds: that of art school students, with internationally renowned and national artists, with children from culturally disadvantaged rural areas, with key people in their communities, namely those who work in education and tell children about our activities.

In the first year, they were a little more reluctant when they heard so many different languages on the street, in their village; it was something very new. But when I brought a fashion designer who presented at Fashion Week in Paris, they came, stood close to the door, very quiet, listened to this artist with whom I moderated a discussion about his journey, about how he markets his products, about how he creates in Paris. And at the end, when a video presentation of the Fashion Week runway ended, they were the first to shout bravo and applaud.

Then, I think of the children who took eco-fashion workshops with this designer; they learned to sew, to give new life to an old garment.

All through gestures and through body language, they were able to connect. And then, for me, that was clear proof that when we meet and try to communicate with our bodies, we overcome many barriers.”

***

This article is part of the “France Week” series, an initiative by Cultura la dubă supported by BNP Paribas. So far, within this project, Cultura la dubă has presented the stories of 22 Romanian artists and cultural figures based in France.

The post Daniel Pop, Romanian-French dancer and choreographer: “When we communicate with the body, we overcome many barriers.” appeared first on Cultura la dubă.

Numele Gigi Căciuleanu se confundă cu dansul contemporan, atât în România, cât și la nivel mondial. A construit, alături de profesoara sa, Miriam Răducanu, forme de expresie prin mișcare într-o vreme în care libertatea le lipsea românilor. Și a uimit apoi nume uriașe ale dansului precum balerina sovietică Maya Plisetskaya sau dansatoarea și coregrafa germană Pina Bausch.

A fondat la Rennes primul Centru Național al Dansului Contemporan din Franța și a condus Baletul Național Santiago de Chile.

Locuiește la Paris de 50 de ani, dar și-a pus amprenta și asupra dansului contemporan din România, atât înainte, cât și după Revoluție.

L-am întâlnit în capitala Franței, în cartierul Montmartre, unde locuiește, și am descoperit povești fascinante, de la plecarea din România și perioadele de nesiguranță financiară, în care a mâncat doar gem pe pâine uscată timp de trei luni, până la întâlniri care i-au marcat cariera, cu Pierre Cardin, Astor Piazzolla, Jean Michel Jarre sau Maya Plisetskaya.

***

În iunie 1940, când România a fost somată să elibereze Basarabia, ca urmare a Pactului Ribbentrop-Molotov, bunicii și părinții lui Gigi Căciuleanu au prins ultimul tren spre București.

 “Bunica nu a luat nicio bijuterie, nimic, a luat doar Biblia și un cactus. Dacă am să-mi scriu toate memoriile, o să pun titlul Biblia și cactusul. Biblia o avea încă din 1900, ne citea din ea când eram copii și ținea la ea foarte mult. Felul în care ne citea bunica făcea Biblia să pară o carte de aventuri.

Am locuit cu toții în subsolul unei case de pe strada Eremia Grigorescu, iar eu am avut noroc să cresc între cele două grădini, Icoanei și Ioanid. Pe vremea mea, Ioanid se numea Parcul Pușkin. Acolo ne scăldam în baltă.”

Gigi Căciuleanu a intrat în contact cu dansul pe când avea doar 4 ani. Se întâmpla la o școală de balet de pe Strada Frumoasă din București, în apropierea casei lui George Enescu.

“Dacă ți s-ar întâmpla să te uiți prin gaura cheii, în Țara Minunilor a lui Alice, ai vedea ceva. Știi că e țara minunilor, dar nu știi exact cum e. Dansul nu e doar dans, este necesitate. E o necesitate viscerală, așa cum poezia e o necesitate. Și la mine sunt foarte legate poezia cu dansul și trasatul liniilor.

Mama m-a dus la balet din două motive: unu – eram teribil de neastâmpărat și doi – mama ar fi vrut să fie balerină, dar nu se cădea la vremea aceea în familia noastră ca o fetiță să fie balerină, balerinele erau considerate neserioase. Neputând să fie balerină, mama a devenit botanistă. Era foarte amorezată de plante. Planta este dans. E linie care este dezvoltă, înflorește, are o poveste. Un firicel de iarbă are și o forță extraordinară, iese din asfalt fără nicio problemă. Bagă-mă pe mine sub asfalt să văd dacă pot ieși. Nu! Firicelul de iarbă nu știu cum străbate.

Dansul m-a fascinat în sensul în care mi-a tras o lovitură-n cap, m-am speriat foarte tare pentru că erau tot felul de domnițe care știau mult mai multe decât mine. Eu aveam 4 ani, ce știe un copil la 4 ani? Am început să plâng și o doamnă profesoară blondă, superbă, foarte inteligentă, Nuți Dona, m-a luat în brațe, iar eu am cerut-o de nevastă. Haha. Apoi a început să mă dreseze.

Mi-a zis: <lasă figurile și uite: eu sunt cu tine aici, tu ești pe un maidan, te joci cu o minge, spargi un geam, iese vecinul căruia i-ai spart geamul și te ceartă, tu îi răspunzi și ești între minge și ăla care te ceartă. Tu dansezi cum vrei.> Eu nu știu ce i-am dansat, dar mi-a plăcut foarte mult ideea. Asta era libertatea.”

A continuat apoi să meargă la școala de dans, iar întâlnirea care avea să îi marcheze decisiv traseul artistic a fost cea cu dansatoarea și coregrafa Miriam Răducanu. 

“Miriam a devenit profesoara noastră când am intrat în ciclu 2, adică la 14 ani. Și deodată mi s-au adăugat niște materii, dintre care una se numea Arta Actorului. Mi-a plăcut foarte mult, la un moment dat voiam să las dansul și să mă fac actor, îmi dădeam seama că puteam să fac mai multe lucruri ca actor și mi-a plăcut foarte mult ideea.

Ea ne dădea cursuri de dans, dar nu era voie să se spună dans modern, jazzul era prost văzut, ca fiind muzică modernă. Ea ne-a zis: <uite, aveți voie să improvizați, dar nu halandala, ci cu niște sarcini foarte precise, așa cum fac muzicienii de jazz, deja a pronunțat cuvântul jazz, care era tabu. Sau cum fac muzicienii de foarte mare talent într-o simfonie de Mozart, au un moment de libertate în care pleacă de la simfonia scrisă și au voie să adauge niște nuanțe care sunt ale lor. Eu vreau să lucrez aceste nuanțe cu voi, în care aveți dreptul să fiți liberi, dar trecând prin experiența improvizării cu niște sarcini foarte precise.>

Cu Miriam mi-am dat seama că dansul cu arta actorului nu se exclud una pe alta, ci se îmbină foarte bine. Ea a fost primul dans-actor pe care l-am cunoscut. 

Cei doi au construit împreună celebrele spectacole nocturne, care aveau loc la Teatrul Țăndărică din București, la sfârșitul anilor ‘60. Nocturnele îmbinau muzica, dansul, poezia și actoria, construcția interdisciplinară fiind ceva revoluționar la vremea respectivă.

“Ea a lucrat foarte mult cu teatrul, cu Gina Patrichi, cu Virgil Ogășanu. Virgil Ogășanu a făcut parte din primul nocturn pe care l-am făcut. El a interpretat un monolog din Revizorul, de Gogol, pe care îl lucrase cu Andrei Șerban.

Foarte multe din dansurile pe care le-am făcut cu Miriam au ieșit din improvizație. Înainte de nocturne am dansat foarte mult la oameni acasă. Cine avea un salon mai măricel, ne primea. Oamenii se așezau pe scaune ca la teatru.

Cum a fost posibilă această libertate în acel regim în care exact libertatea le lipsea românilor?

Românii sunt români, pe noi ne-au salvat bancurile, nu uitați că suntem într-o țară de bancuri, chiar dacă unii te turnau pe chestia asta. Noi am râs întotdeauna de multe lucruri și românii au fost mereu foarte latini. Oricât ar încerca să ne strunească, tot latini rămânem. 

Miriam, inspirată de Brâncuși, făcuse la un moment dat un dans care se numea Zborul, era foarte static, doar pe o oscilație, corpul doar avea niște înclinări. Și a fost criticată de colegii ei de la operă, că ce zbor e ală, la zbor se fâlfie din brațe. Și eu m-am dus la ea și am zis: <doamnă, să știți că sunt foarte mâhnit de ceea zic oamenii despre dansul dumneavoastră.>

Și ea mi-a zis: <tu întreabă-i pe ei unde sunt penele la Pasărea lui Brâncuși. Nu te certa cu ei, prezintă doar argumente artistice.> Miriam e foarte diferită de mine. Miriam își cizela dansurile, așa cum Brâncuși își cizela sculpturile. Iar eu eram foarte pe momentul imediat, puteam să schimb un dans în trei secunde. În vremea nocturnelor am spus întotdeauna că ea era covrigul, iar eu dansam, mă strecuram printre găurile covrigului.”

Când Nocturnele, spectacolele de teatru, concertele și spectacolele de opera luau sfârșit, tinerii bucureșteni interesați de zona curajoasă a artei, se adunau la Preoteasa, Casa de Cultură a Studenților. Acolo, mari artiști români dădeau frâu liber imaginației și improvizau într-un mod cuceritor pentru public.

“Improvizam nebunește, veneau tot felul de muzicieni de jazz, frații Berindei, Jancy Korossy, Johnny Raducanu, era un dialog în care nu îmi păsa de felul în care cântau și cum se numește asta în muzică, iar lor nu ne păsa cum se numește mișcarea pe care o făceam noi. La asta, publicul venea în draci. Foarte mulți tineri veneau.”, povestește acum Gigi Căciuleanu.

Alături de Miriam Răducanu, Gigi Căciuleanu a participat la primele festivaluri internaționale. Când Teatrul Bulandra, cu Liviu Ciulei director, prezenta Hamlet la Festivalul de la Edinburgh, Gigi Căciuleanu dansa în undergroundul festivalului: “ne-am pomenit într-o zi că intră Marin Sorescu cu Ion Caramitru și se bagă peste noi, în sensul frumos, și își fac un moment în cadrul spectacolului nostru. A fost spontan și s-a potrivit perfect.”

Poezia, pictura și dansul au avut mereu ecouri în dansul lui Gigi Căciuleanu. S-a îndrăgostit de picturile lui Kandinsky și de cele ale lui Aivazovsky, care i-au dat curajul de a nu-și impune bariere, de a construi forme în mișcare continuă, fără contur.

“Ce ea coreografie? Este o îmbinare de mișcări pe care o inventezi. Inventezi mișcările și îmbinarea lor. Eu fac foarte mult diferența între coreograf și aranjeur. E ca și în muzică, există oameni care inventează niște lucruri și alții care aranjează. Foarte mulți coreografi se autonumesc coreografi nefiind coregrafi. Iau de colo-colo și le lipesc.”

Gigi Căciuleanu a părăsit România în 1973 și s-a stabilit în Franța, după un periplu prin Rusia, Germania, Grecia sau Belgia, refuzând o invitație de a se muta în America.

Întâlnirea cu marea dansatoare și coregrafă germană Pina Bausch i-a dat încredere că o poate lua de la capăt într-o lume nouă.

“Tot ieșind cu Miriam din țară, eu mi-am zis că nu mai pot să așteptăm niște vize, nu știu câtă vreme. Sunt convins că am ceva de spus și nu pot să o spun la operă, unde trebuia să fac ce mi se dădea. La Moscova eu nu voiam să merg, dar Miriam mi-a zis <du-te, băiatule, la ruși, și învață carte!>

Și ați fost la Teatrul Bolșoi?

Da, am stat o stagiune, dar mi-a ajuns, a fost o ucenicie tehnică extraordinară. Era dans clasic, academic, dar cu mai multă libertate. Am avut trei profesori extraordinari, dacă se făcea o săritură dublă, noi o făceam triplă. Mi-a plăcut la nebunie acest challenge tehnic. Și aveam posibilitatea să intrăm pe furiș la soliști, deschideam ușa și ne strecuram. Acolo erau Maia Plisetskaya, Ekaterina Maximova, Vladimir Vasiliev, nici nu te puteai atinge de ei.”

Nu a fost interesat să rămână la Moscova și a continuat să vadă lumea prin intermediul concursurilor internaționale, alături de partenera sa de dans, Ruxandra Racoviță.

“Am câștigat în Germania singurul concurs de coreografie contemporană în acele vremuri. Am câștigat o dată, m-am întors în România și Ruxandra mi-a zis: <Căciu, hai să mai facem un concurs, să mai ieșim, ne mai vede lumea.>

Și am făcut un moment Bolero românesc, noi doi cu un al treilea personaj actoricesc,  Dan Mastacan, care avea niște pasaje actoricești și Raluca Ianegic, care prezenta un fel de flamenco, de simbol al morții, eu citindu-l foarte mult pe Lorca atunci. Acel moment de dans a luat premiul întâi, a doua oară. Niciodată nu se pomenise ca într-un concurs să ia aceiași de doi ani la rând.

Pina Bausch a fost laureata aceluiași concurs cu câțiva ani înainte.Eu am zis că dacă am luat și a doua oară premiul, o să rămân acolo. Dan Mastacan a plecat la Paris imediat și a făcut o carieră extraordinară în lumea filmului.

Eu am rămas în Germania pentru că Pina m-a invitat să vin la ea în companie. Ea era directoarea Școlii de Arte de la Essen. Mi-a propus să lucrez coregrafii cu oamenii pe care îi avea, elevii ei, unii aveau să devină apoi foarte cunoscuți. Era Susanne Linke acolo. 

Am avut șansa extraordinară să lucrez cu acei oameni, am făcut zece creații cu ei. Și acele producții s-au dat prin turnee. Pina le-a combinat cu momente ale ei și momente ale mele. Deci eu aveam momente în care nu dansam și mă uitam ce făcea ea și ea invers. 

Atunci am văzut ce mare dansatoare era Pina și mă duceam de fiecare dată și ziceam: Pina, ești o dansatoare divină, cu toate că era ca un animal, o combinație de dinozaur și de girafă în flăcări a lui Salvador Dalí.

Între timp am făcut-o pe Ruxandra să revină în Germania Și am plecat cu ea în Grecia. Am luat două bilete de vapor, fără să avem ce să mâncăm.”

Proiectele din Grecia nu s-au concretizat, așa că Ruxandra Racoviță s-a întors în România, dar Gigi a mai rămas 3 luni în Grecia, pe insula Hydra de lângă Atena, unde o româncă pe care o întâlniseră deținea o casă. 

“Pe o căldură de 40 de grade, am mâncat timp de trei luni numai biscotte uscate cu marmeladă de portocale, pe care le avea doamna Ralu Manu în casă, ea fiindcă plecată în vacanță. Efectiv i-am exterminat dulapul ăla cu biscotte – niște felii de pâine uscată. Și marmelada o ungeam un pic ca să trag de ea. De atunci, eu nu suport să văd biscotte, nu pot…”

A reușit să ajungă, până la urmă, la Paris, oraș care continuă să îl cucerească și azi, după 50 de ani. 

“Când am ajuns la Paris în iunie-iulie, numai de America nu îmi ardea mie. Am și dormit și de multe ori pe bănci pe malul Senei, atunci se putea, nu e ca acum. Dan Mastacan era plecat, făcea un film în Germania si nu aveam unde să stau. Dar am zis că eu nu plec de aici.”

Acum ne-a dat întâlnire în cartierul Montmartre, lângă biserica Sacre Coeur, în apropierea căreia locuiește. Are 78 de ani, iar dansul, pisicile și poezia reprezintă acum principalele sale interese. Își amintește perfect aventura instalării în Franța, fără să aibă vreo sursă de venit, încercând să lucreze la un cabaret, în timp ce tocmai ceruse azil politic. 

Ruxandra Racoviță i s-a alăturat în această nebunie, iar marea balerină americană Rosella Hightower, directoare a Teatrului din Nancy, le-a dat o șansă: “ne-a spus că are un singur post de dansator, dar îl taie în două și împărțim salariul. Așa am ajuns la Nancy, unde apoi, mi-a dat direcția baletului de acolo. Dan Mastacan mi-a fost asistent. Iar Ruxandra dansatoare – stea.

Am stat 5 ani acolo. Din acea companie de 30 de oameni, am selectat 10 cu care lucram noaptea și făceam apoi turnee prin Franța. Neplătiți, așa voiam noi. Așa ne-a cunoscut ministerul Culturii francez. Și, la un moment dat, am zis, doamne, eu vreau foarte mult să fac numai asta, nu mă interesează să mai fac încă baletele alea pe care, de fapt, nici nu știam să le fac.

Ministerul Culturii mi-a oferit Rennes ori Montpellier. Eu am vrut Rennes, că e mai aproape de Paris. Eu tot la Paris trag. Eu iubesc Parisul, cum o fi el. Am ajuns la Rennes și am stat acolo 15 ani. Acolo am înființat primul Centru Național de Dans Contemporan.”

Prin actorul Dan Mastacan, care devenise asistentul celebrului designer și om de cultură Pierre Cardin, Gigi Căciuleanu a primit de la Cardin propunerea de a face un turneu în toată lumea. 

 Aveam turneu cu un spectacol la Londra, iar Pierre Cardin a intrat în teatru și m-a văzut. A zis că mă vrea. Am venit cu autobuzul și i-am arătat lui Pierre Cardin ce lucram noi noaptea, în mod clandestin, la Nancy, el a zis: vă iau cu acest spectacol. Și așa ne-a făcut turnee prin toată lumea, Japonia, China, în Statele Unite, în America de Sud foarte mult.”

Tot Pierre Cardin l-a pus în legătura cu una dintre cele mai mari balerine sovietice din istorie, Maya Plisetskaya, pe care tânărul Gigi o umărise doar pe ascuns, la Teatrul Bolshoi din Moscova. 

 “Mă sună Pierre Cardin și îmi zice: <nu vrei să o întâlnești pe Maya Plisetskaya? Aș vrea să ți-o prezint și să te vadă dansând>. Și zic, sigur, iau trenul imediat. Mă duc, ajung la Paris la teatru și dansez pe muzică de Ray Charles. Mayei îi place foarte mult, a și scris în jurnalul ei <am întâlnit un român genial>. Ea zice: <nu vrei să mă înveți niște mișcări>? Zic: <doamnă, mișcările astea nu se învață așa, în trei secunde, după o ușă.>

Au trecut ani de atunci și m-a sunat din nou Pierre Cardin: <vreau neapărat să-i facem Mayei un spectacol cadou și m-am gândit la tine.> Dintre titlurile propuse, am ales Nebuna din Chaillot, mi se părea că se potrivește cel mai mult cu personalitatea mea și a ei. Urma să punem spectacolul la teatrul lui, Espace Cardin, în buricul Parisului, pentru mine era o chestie enormă. Și eu am zis, dar cum? Și el a zis: <vine Maya la Rennes și lucrați acolo.> Și a venit Maya.

 Eu am întârziat la gară. Rennes e spre ocean, la 80 km de ocean, deci erau mulți pescăruși.

Ajung la gară, peroanele erau goale, ca în picturile lui Delvaux (n.r. pictorul Belgian suprarealist Paul Delvaux), care desenea niște gări cu semafoare, în care sunt niște doamne goale.

<Maya, vă rog frumos să mă scuzați, am avut repetiții, haideți să vă ajut cu bagajul.> Ea tace, nimic, rămâne așa cu pletele în vânt. Apoi zice <Știu cum este. Dar vă rog să-mi arătați mișcările pe care le-ați gândit pentru mine.>

Și iar începe improvizația, normal. Tu vii gâfâind, transpirând, că e ditamai vedeta acolo și tu întârzii? și încep să-i trasez pe acea gară, nu aveam absolut nimic pregătit, dar, în fine, aveam  școala lui Miriam Raducanu. Am pus banda cu Nebuna din Chaillot și i-am dansat. Ea n-a zis nici pâs. M-a lăsat să mă ia mama naibii pe cheiul ăla, am oprit la un moment dat, că nu mai puteam, și zice: <Da, mi-a plăcut. Dar am o singură pretenție. Să nu cumva să mă lăsați să fac altfel decât cum ați făcut-o dumneavoastră aici.

Ați mai știut să reproduceți apoi?

Pe dracu! Nu, dar nici n-a mai contat. Ea n-a vrut să vadă ce am. Ea a vrut să vadă că mă țin balamalele, că altfel putea să urce-n trenul următor și să plece.

Am făcut spectacolul la Balșoi, l-am făcut în Japonia. Când am ajuns la Balșoi era fix ziua în care ardea Casa Albă a rușilor, sediul guvernului era în flăcări, totul se închidea pe străzi la 9, iar  Elțin a dat o dispensă extraordinară ca spectacolul Mayei să se poată face la ora 4.”

În 1993 a înființat compania Gigi Căciuleanu la Paris, alături de Dan Mastacan și Ruxandra Racoviță.  În paralel s-a întors pe tărâm românesc ca invitat și a contribuit la creșterea unor noi generații de dansatori români. 

 “Vava Ștefănescu, Răzvan Mazilu, Ștefan Lupu, Arcadie Rusu, Ioana Marchidan, Lari Georgescu – toți au făcut parte din compania mea și acum toți sunt ceva.

I-am învățat în primul rând că trebuie să fie ei însuși. Că oricât de strictă ar fi coreografia, eu lucrez foarte strict pe coregrafie, coregrafiile sunt scrise tocmai pentru ca din această scriere să poți țâșni afară când vrei. Dar trebuie să ai o bază gândită. Luați o simfonie de Mozart. La Yehudi Menuhin nu se vede geniul pentru că interpretează altceva, ci că o cântă cum o cântă. Să fii liber să fii cum ești tu, asta este marea artă.

Să fie neaoș, mi se spunea chiar domnul Neaoș, fiindcă foloseam cuvântul des. 

Coreografia mării e scrisă. Sunt niște legi fizice. Nu te joci cu ele. Dar uitați-vă la mare, puteți sta ziua întreagă și nu te saturi să o privești. Sau focul din cămin. Și, totuși, sunt legi fizice foarte clare care regizează acele lucruri. Asta ar fi coreografia.

Ce înseamnă România pentru dumneavoastră?

Eu nu fac diferență între România și Franța. Dacă am rămas la Paris, e din cauză că semăna al dracului cu România. Mi s-a părut că am nimerit acasă.

Dar care erau asemănările? 

Există o anumită libertate de gândire. Erau și legăturile noastre cu Franța, Cioran, Ionesco, Enescu. Și mi s-a părut o legătură teribil de firească, iar franceza vorbeam de foarte mic.

Românii sunt foarte francezi, de fapt, și francezii sunt foarte români. Sunt diferențe pentru că am avut alte destine.”

***
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The post Gigi Căciuleanu, o viață dedicată dansului: “Dansul nu este doar dans. E o necesitate viscerală.” appeared first on Cultura la dubă.