There is a threefold rhetoric in Cosmin Bumbut's album: a rhetoric of railway lines, of winter, and of steam. What the first of these, which recur obsessively, especially in the final part of the album, suggest is not so much a poetics of distance, as a metaphor of paths through life which come from nowhere and lead nowhere. And on each occasion, these lines, captured in their indeterminateness, pass through a frozen landscape. Everything is wintry, cold, snowbound: the field, the rails themselves, the people, the lamps, the telegraph poles.
There is a threefold rhetoric in Cosmin Bumbut's album: a rhetoric of railway lines, of winter, and of steam. What the first of these, which recur obsessively, especially in the final part of the album, suggest is not so much a poetics of distance, as a metaphor of paths through life which come from nowhere and lead nowhere. And on each occasion, these lines, captured in their indeterminateness, pass through a frozen landscape. Everything is wintry, cold, snowbound: the field, the rails themselves, the people, the lamps, the telegraph poles.