Bunknown publicist and writer, Stelian Tănase tried his skills as a diarist more than once. He published, among others, the volume "LA vs. NY – Jurnal american" (originally published in 1998 at the Polirom Publishing House in Iasi, republished by Humanitas in 2006, in the Stelian Tănase Author Series), a book from the pages of which a lot of poetry transpires, often with a Paseist air, among the notations kept with a enviable rhythmicity.
Guest, as visiting professor, in Los Angeles (period December 1996 – March 1997) at UCLA (University of California Los Angeles), Stelian Tănase assumed to some extent the role of chronicler-explorer of life and the vast expanses of California (he was not doing it for the first time, because he had already been to the United States) - in the sense that, in addition to the duties related to this internship teacher, he met various people, facts and places which he described with talent and with obvious descriptive veleities.
In this first part of the diary, from the Los Angeles period (the second part includes notations during his stay in New York), Stelian Tănase delights us with aspects of the daily life of the residents of Los Angeles. One of the most interesting stops of the diarist's "camera" was in Fairfax Square, a farmers market which he tells us is "a funny place, an old market, with shops, with mysterious passages, with stalls, with corners where you can sit at taifas, a quiet place, full of vegetation, small cafes and expressways where they gather the old people waiting for death, to dissect past and last histories news, prices, medical treatments, holidays, grandchildren".
Immediately, like an unconditional reflex, Stelian Tănase's thought turns to the house, and the comparison, keeping the proportions and respecting the American description, does not seem out of place at all: "Agitation, the world is buying a lot, in a hurry. As in Obor. It is a place full of poetry, of the atmosphere of the old commercial districts, of the markets near the stations. Cleaning, you can find any goods. You wander in search of Greek olives, French cheeses, Hungarian sweets among stalls full of intensely colored things," the writer tells us.
I said "keeping the proportions" with the image of the Oboru from the 90s in mind, which still kept the gray coloring inherited from the dark 80s. Going beyond that, however, we can't help but enjoy the pictorial details offered in writing by Stelian Tănase: "The way an old woman concentrates counting the little things. How a merchant puts the fish on the scales. The way a flirtatious woman, shopping for sunglasses, tries on many pairs, looking at herself in a mirror. The way a child looks in fascination at cages with exotic birds. The way a housewife measures cauliflowers by eye. The way the policeman leans against a wall, his eyes all over the place. The way butchers sharpen their knives. Everything that happens here is infinite, cosmic. (…) It is a world without fads, natural and strong. Then there are the smells, the colors. Opposite of city odor. When the city has a smell, it is a mixture of dyes, petrol and dust. The colors are of the asphalt and the buildings. Entering Fairfax Market, you are suddenly intoxicated by the smells and colors. Deep green, red, orange, purple, yellow, white. A Flemish painting. Alive, fresh".
And again, with the same unconditional reflex, the connection with what home means is restored, although looking from the distance between Romania and America the sensation is dizzying: "My mind stayed at Fairfax square. I would like to live near her. To be the first memories from childhood? Oboru with its motley world, with its smells, the Garii de Est neighborhood. It smelled of coal, oil, locomotive smoke. Fish and lamb. A hen, a dung. Mulberries, acacias and carobs. To warm bread, the bakery was across the street almost. A church. A pickle, autumn. A homemade soap. The women spread the carpets on the pavement and scrubbed them with the board brush. In autumn, carts filled the street, loaded with large watermelons. I couldn't hold one in my arms. It smelled like must. Grill smoke, pastrami and roast. To quince. How good a ripe quince smells! It smelled of leaves, of rain. A lim. Where is all this now? I'm nowhere. Nowhere. They are gone."
Although we could have stopped at this emotion-charged evocation with a paesian air, we still go a little further, over a few dozen pages, where we discovered another descriptive gem with an air of "Imaginary Obor", as he calls it even Stelian Tănase, here: "Market. Mango. Pumpkin core color, cacti sold for food, chili (green peppers), dark green broccoli, avocado, pineapple. Hogs of pork and lambs hanging on hooks. You can smell the fish. Nervous housewives ask for the piece they want, argue over the price. In a display case, hundreds of species of fish completely unknown to me in scales or cut, or scaled, the white-pink flesh, cut into slices. Red or gray crabs, heaps of black clams, octopuses. Butchers lined up. White cheeses, smelling of salt. White, red and black onions. Place with ford. Crowding, nervousness, agitation, strong colors. A living place... My imaginary airport. The real one, I lost."
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