on these cold and very windy april days in 2014, the old town of constanta, the romanian harbour city on the black sea, looks like a deserted town whose dogs defend the empty terrains all the more doggedly. underground, the infrastructure is often just as ramshackle as the visible remains of past centuries, and these could indeed date back to ovid's times, who had to live here in roman exile until he died.
now they want to repair everything and at the same time. but the deadlines and budgets have already been exceeded and nothing is finished. despondency lies over the city. it has fallen asleep over all the changes. ovid's misfortune seems to be stuck here.