Unfolding Stories, One Frame at a Time: A Conversation with Photographer Petruț Călinescu

In a world saturated with fleeting snapshots and instant gratification, Petruț Călinescu’s work stands as a testament to the power of patience and perseverance. The Bucharest-based documentary photographer and co-founder of the Romanian Documentary Photography Center (CDFD) is celebrated for his ability to capture complex narratives through long-term projects that span years, even decades. From the shifting sands of Oltenia to the evolving communities around the Black Sea, his lens delves deep into the lives and landscapes that define the human experience.

Călinescu’s journey began in the fast-paced environment of newsroom photography, where tight deadlines left little room for exploration. Dissatisfied with the constraints, he carved out a path for himself, one that allowed him to immerse fully in his subjects’ worlds. His projects – such as Pride and Concrete, which chronicles migration and cultural identity, or Stories from the Oltenian Sahara, a poignant reflection on the impact of climate change – are more than visual documentation; they are living, breathing archives of change, resilience, and humanity.

In this interview, Călinescu opens up about the motivations behind his meticulous approach to storytelling, the challenges of working across cultural and geographical boundaries, and the evolving role of documentary photography in an ever-changing world. Whether navigating the fragile lives of Romanian farmers or tracing the cultural heartbeat of Moldovan garages, his work embodies an enduring commitment to authenticity and empathy.

 

Your work is known for delving into long-term documentary photography projects. What drives you to commit to such extended timelines, and how do you sustain your creative focus across different projects?

I used to work as a staff photographer for newspapers decades ago. Back then, having one hour to spend with your subjects was considered a decent amount of time. It was more important to get back to the newspaper in time, process the films, scan a few frames, and meet the deadline before the newspaper was sent to print. I was feeling frustrated, so I swore to find a way out and work on my own projects, taking as much time as needed.

Now, the process of completing a project takes years – even decades in some cases – for various reasons. I’m enjoying the process, so I’m not hurrying to finish it. Photography is only a small part of producing a book or an exhibition. You also need to find resources, apply for grants, work in the field, and then handle post-production, which includes many other steps – all of which take time.


People swimming under a white cloud in the Black Sea, Otrada Beach. (project “The Black Sea”)

How does your creative partnership with your wife Ioana, a journalist and writer, influence your approach to storytelling? Do you each have distinct roles, or is it a more fluid process where ideas and responsibilities naturally overlap?

Whether the result is a book, a website, or a multimedia presentation, the image is at the center of the language. But sometimes, if we decide that the story can be told better through words or text, I can put the images in second place. I don’t think that the image always speaks for itself; it needs context, and this can vary greatly depending on the type of media you’re using. The final result is a team effort, and the designer or the reporter has the right to make decisions.

Your latest project, Pride and Concrete: 10 Years Later, revisits your documentation of Romanian migrants who, after years abroad, return home to build grand houses as symbols of success. What motivated you to return to this story a decade later, and how has your perspective on the project evolved over time?

Time gives me perspective on my work, and I can see exactly what I have done wrong or what was not enough. If I stay two weeks in the field, I may run out of ideas, but after I return home and see the results, new ideas for the next trip start taking shape. It’s a classic process of trial and error. I think each time I return to a place, the work gets better. If you go one time, your work is like a dot in space. If you go two times, you can draw a line that gives you direction. Most of the situations I find in the field are spontaneous or happen by luck. So, the more time I have, the greater the chances of getting better pictures.

Of course, I cannot extend this to every project. Sometimes I get stuck, and the quality of the pictures does not improve over time – then it’s a sign that the project has reached an end.

When we started Pride and Concrete in 2010-2012, we had already proposed to revisit the places in ten years. We did that in 2021-2022, and hopefully we’ll be able to do so again in another ten years. Because time is also an important character in this story.

A family from Trip demolished the house they had built 20 years earlier – a perfectly functional, two-story, rather charming home – simply because they had constructed a “château” behind it, and it wasn’t visible enough from the street. Ana Isac, from Trip village, grew up without her parents and went abroad to work at a very young age. Before turning 30, she had built a modern, two-story home for herself in her home village, right by the street. After marrying a prosperous businessman from Paris (who was also from the Oaș region), a château with towers and an antique stone veneer sprang up behind it. “The stone alone cost 100,000 euros,” Ana told us. Once the new house was completed, the old one was torn down. Even in the competitive society of Oaș, this was seen as excessive. “Even the neighbors admonished us – why destroy such a good, sturdy house?” Ana admits. “It was poorly insulated,” her husband interjects, trying to justify their decision. Later, when her husband walks away, Ana adds, “He kept telling me when we were in France: Everything you built in a lifetime, I can demolish in a day. So I wanted to be the one to do it. I came back from Paris on my own, found a team myself, and told them to bring it down – just so he couldn’t have that satisfaction.” (project: “Pride and Concrete”)

In The Black Sea, you explore a vast region with deep historical, political, and environmental layers. What challenges did you face when trying to capture such a complex and multifaceted area, and how did you decide which stories to focus on?

One of the biggest challenges was obviously the language barrier. Aside from Romanian, I speak only English, which is not sufficient to communicate with people around the Black Sea. The images I have taken are rather singular; they are not connected as stories. I have followed the shores of all the countries and observed how people interact with the sea.

A man swims in Pitsunda resort at the Black Sea. Abkhazia, a break-away region of Georgia is a cheap destination for Russian tourists, and it is estimated that almost half a million Russians visit it each year. (project “The Black Sea”)

The Black Sea continues to evolve as a project. How do you balance the dynamic, ongoing nature of this work with the desire to tell a cohesive story? What do you see as the next steps for this project?

The Black Sea is a personal project, not a classical story; it is rather a collection of images born out of my curiosity and nostalgia for the places where I was born – the city of Constanța, the main Romanian port. The next step should be a book and a traveling exhibition. I would like to continue the work; Russia is the country where I have spent the least time – overall, about a week. It is hard to predict if or when this will be possible.


photo from the project “The Black Sea”

In Stories from the Desert of Oltenia, you focus on the extreme conditions that melon farmers face. What was the most challenging part of capturing their stories, and how did the harsh environment shape your approach to the visuals?

The story was taken in the southern part of Romania, which is the hottest place in the country, with a record of 44 degrees Celsius recorded in the shade. As the watermelons are grown in the summer, I had to work under difficult conditions because it was really hot. I could either take pictures early in the morning or late in the afternoon, but in both situations I was under constant attack from mosquitoes. However, knowing that people do this for the entire summer without a break made me realize that my job is much easier than theirs.

photo from the project “Stories from Oltenian Sahara”

There’s also a clear sense of fragility in the project – whether it’s the vulnerability of the crops to natural disasters or the physical toll on the workers. How do you balance portraying this fragility without veering into despair, maintaining a sense of hope or resilience in the storytelling?

I cannot take credit for this. The people have a strong sense of resilience and a long history of survival, as the region has been fighting poverty for a long time. Now, they have this extra layer of climate change impacting them. They also have a strong sense of humor, mocking themselves, and even if the situation is desperate, they take it as a joke. Probably, this way of seeing life has developed as a survival tool.

photo from the project “Stories from Oltenian Sahara”

The project Garage Days delves into how garages in Moldova evolved from purely functional spaces to communal hubs and personal extensions. What inspired you to explore the cultural and social life of garages, and how did this idea take shape?

I was in Moldova for a different photo assignment, and by luck, it happened to be at the same time when an old friend of mine, Daniel, was also there shooting a story for a wire agency. We had been wandering individually each day and then meeting each night to share our impressions. On the last day of his assignment, Daniel told me that he had been to some garages where people were having fun. Chișinău is rather a serious capital, so seeing people having fun intrigued me. I asked Daniel if I could also see that place, and he was happy to share it, as his job there was done and he was not intending to return anymore.

Two brothers drinking vodka at a garage party (project “Garage Days”)

The capital was barely alive, with almost no nightlife and only a few people could be seen after dark in the city center. But the garages were alive; people were gathering to share a beer or a barbecue. With the background of the communist blocks around, that was kind of the thing I was looking for. I knew from the beginning that this would be a good story, so I returned with this in mind.

Family Reunion at a Garage. “Come on in, we’ve been expecting you,” a woman dressed in mourning black tells me as she sets the table. Of course, I step inside. In the small room, two families are gathered around a massive meal, the table overflowing with salads and grilled meat. “This little runt here is to blame for the party – he said he was craving a barbecue, so we got to work. We lost someone in the family recently. Have some more, try this too. I knew you’d come. First, a piece of meat fell off the grill. Then, a beer spilled over. We figured, there you have it – the dead want their share. So we knew a guest would show up to eat for them.” (project: “Garage Days”)

Across your long-term projects, you’ve been able to document how people’s lives change over time. How do you feel about the responsibility that comes with being a witness to such personal and collective transformations, and how do you ensure your work remains empathetic and true to their stories?

I’m trying to give them a voice whenever it is possible, so some of the projects also have a video component (e.g., Pride and Concrete). Others have extended stories, such as Stories from the Oltenian Desert, where they narrate a significant part. I’m trying to be as empathetic as I can; sometimes I censor myself, especially when it comes to social media  – I don’t post images that may be used against them. Working on long-term projects, such as Pride and Concrete, means that I become friends with some of them, which makes the editing even harder afterwards.

Wedding preparation in Racsa (project “Pride and Concrete”)

As co-founders of the Romanian Center for Documentary Photography (CDFD) alongside your wife, Ioana, you’ve taken on the roles of both creators and curators of stories. How has this dual responsibility shaped your approach to storytelling and influenced the broader landscape of documentary photography in Romania?

We are struggling to get grants for our activities, and for some strange reason we cannot explain at the moment, our group projects have a rejection rate much higher than that of personal projects. This means that curating other work is still a smaller part of our overall activity. However, we are happy that we have managed to offer grants for documentary photography twice, which is a very rare thing in Romania.


photo from the project “Stories from Oltenian Sahara”

And one last question, although it might be quite obvious – do you prefer watermelon or melon?

Watermelon, of course, if you say only melon, it confuses me. 🙂

Video for “Stories from the Oltenian Sahara”, a multimedia project created in collaboration with Electric Brother, who composed the soundtrack using field recordings. The project highlights the struggles of Romanian farmers as they battle the environmental changes gradually turning their fertile lands into desert.

 

Interview: Sofia Hussein for Dinya
All photos: courtesy of Petruț Călinescu
Cover photo: from the project “Pride and Concrete”


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