Mr. Alexandru-Codin Mironescu as we remember him
More than forty years ago, by chance and with the help of a friend, I met Ileana Mironescu, a pianist who, after a concert at the A.R.L.U.S. Hall, invited us to Vasile Lascăr Street, where she lived with her family. There we met her parents, Mr. Alexandru-Codin Mironescu, Mrs. Maria (Mimi) Mironescu and her brother Șerban.
That evening, I was happy to see that the universe I had entered, for which it was difficult to find words to describe, was fascinating. They were not alone, and everyone there seemed to form a cenacle, and the discussion had a pronounced mystical character.
Ilena’s father, after shaking hands with deep affection and warmth, although it was the first time he had seen me and my friend Cornelius Irod, beckoned us to sit down and continued his discussion. Mrs. Mironescu, Mimi, as I had heard Mr. Alexandru call her from time to time, was a person of natural distinction and looked at us with a benevolent expression from the corner in which she had retired. Although tall, not as robust as his father, blond like his mother, dressed in an ecru-coloured shirt, Elena’s brother took part in the conversation in perfect harmony with the group.
But as soon as we entered the impressive, museum-like apartment and heard a little of the discussion, I noticed that Mr Alexandru-Codin Mironescu seemed to be setting the tone, leading the discussion, with a particular knowledge of the Orthodox Christian religion. I listened, looking at the refined, authentically folkloric objects, which once again, without ostentation, created an atmosphere of the highest cultural-artistic feeling. The whole apartment was full of beauty. I remember with pleasure the collection of old Romanian bark, the oriental carpets that were everywhere, either on the floor, on the sofas, on the armchairs or hanging on the walls, harmonising with the Saxon-painted wooden furniture, with a lot of blue, red, yellow and green, with white embroidered here and there. There were cupboards and countertops, simple shelves, rods, benches, chairs, many of these pieces dated back to the 1860s or even earlier. The popular ceramics, also more Transylvanian in nature, were a highlight of the group of objects that covered one wall or another with icons on wood or glass – the hallmark of the collection. There were also many cushions on the couches, chairs and sofas, covered with richly ornamented fabrics and embroideries, collected from the ii or erasers belonging to many Romanian folklore areas. Thanks to the kindness of Mr. Mironescu, I still have at home an icon – a priestly image of the Passion of Jesus Christ – which I copied after the one that was in the great hall, decorated with a Moldavian bark, next to which was a massive peasant’s table, around which were seated those who were so absorbed in philosophical-religious discussions. As I said before, the house of Maria and Alexandru-Codin Mironescu was a real museum in the truest sense of the word, lively and full of life. It was the place where the Mironescu family lived their everyday life. It was a place where people lived and where things were the friends of this family, just as each member of the Mironescu family was a friend of the things that were so beautiful and that were part of the life of the owners.
My wife Gunka and I were in closer contact with the Mironescu family, especially after our marriage in 1959, the year Ileana married Titu.
After Serban and Mr Mironescu returned home from communist imprisonment, for mystical-religious reasons, meetings became more frequent, either at their home or at ours in Palace Square. Both Mr Mironescu and Serban recovered from their years of imprisonment, acting as if nothing had happened in their lives and starting everything from scratch. Their unshakeable faith in God strengthened them and made them what they had been before: people of profound culture, lovers of life and art. Mrs Mironescu, however, from the coquette she had been in the absence of her husband and son, from the dignified and strong woman not to be pitied, became, after their return home, a person less attentive to her appearance. She was no longer coquettish, and that was because she no longer had anything to fight for. Only distinction remained. They were in a particularly difficult situation, they had almost nothing to live on, everyday life had become a problem. We saw each other and sometimes talked until dawn, especially about my painting, and they were not allowed to come to our openings. This went on until the great departure of Mr. Mironescu, about whom N. Steinhardt wrote in a letter to Virgil Ierunca dated 22 January 1973: “I don’t know if you have heard about the death of Codin Mironescu. He was one of the cleanest men I have ever known. And a Christian as we seldom meet: unabashed, unapologetic, unfeigned; just and forgiving. And what a perfectly Romanian life he led (…) I feel that a man of God has died”.
Unfortunately, these beings do not stay long on earth, in the great passage they leave, called, as it were, by the Almighty, who, by placing them at His service, prepares them for the great resurrection, when, of course, they will become apostles.
(Spiru Vergulescu in Alexandru Mironescu, The Flower of Fire, edited by Lis Karian, Elion Publishing House, Bucharest, 2001, pp. 475-477)