Miron Zownir: The Valley of the Shaodow
Place and time are irrelevant in Miron's book. Pictures, taken 30 years apart, face each other and look as if between them were not decades but a pan shot. Also if they were taken in New York, Berlin, Bucharest or Moscow is completely marginal. The pictures tell about abysses and hidden things – or about normality, depending on the point of view. About bloody party excesses and calm, nearly classical street scenes, sex orgies and religious ecstasy, victims of alcohol and dead or alive celebrities, misery and vitality, beggars and performing artists. Sounds as if all this could not be reconciled but however: Miron Zownir manages, and shows by this unity how similar we all are. No matter what we are, where, and when. It is one of the greatest books about people, I have seen for a long time.
