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BETLEHEM-NEK POUSTÁILLÁ-BAN
PÁÁS-TO-ROK VIDIÁZATÁ-BAN
NADJ EUREU-EUM HIRDE-TETIQUE
MERT A BÁRMOK PAITÁILLÁBAN
EUKEUR SAMÁR IÁSOILLÁBAN
UDVEU-EUZI-I-TEUNK SZULE-TETT

Ô SENT YOJEF MIT GONDOL-TÁL
HODJ ICHTÁ-LOT VÁLASTO-TÁL
EBEN A-A ZORD HIDEGBEN
SAILLE BE HOZÁNK MÁRIÁ-VAL
SULETET QUICHE IÉZOUCHKÁ-VAL
LAQUIA-ATO-OK SI-VE-INK-BEN

Boldog Karácsonyt...

ami magyarul

Without realising, I wrote down "ami", which both means "that which is" in Hungarian ('magyarul') and "friend" in French. Familiar signs growing around me as I raise my eyes in streets of North-East Pest or the London underground. In a corridor at University waiting for exam-time or on the staff-board... A Hungarian name, a 'made in Hungary', and the complexities those words swallow for our good use.

Further on while I am searching for colours of those very grounds that project those signs. History bares no dress when one is shy and curious at the same time. Colours referring to the unsaid, to the patterns of life and craft of passing time, which itself is no pure human gift. There is a sense in which one re-creates time as representations go, but the responsibility is so complex there is no one road to it. Responsibility means having the time, means of traveling and walking, and making use of this time in the elsewhere one constructs as an observer. Of course such poetics are a choice, but can one reduce the image to mere personal experience in such media-spaces as blogging?

This is not to say - it would be absurd in the digital age - that each picture is an ethical choice, but merely this is the reflection upon me of my experience as well as the reflection of the eyes of passers-by looking dubiously at me for choosing this particular place and bus tire (see previous post) to stop and observe. They cannot be disconnected, as much as a digital picture is only rarely reserved 'private' today.

'ami' is both an affectionate relationship on my behalf to a certain place and people, as well as a sense of this very place, a part of it.
Similar to the effort of translation; a friendship and a place in the lense of the camera, l'effort du respect.

bíznesz

scaffolded nature

colour mat

words at a loss
shame, imagine
colours slithering
through the grey paper

travels, mat and glass
pain on the edge
of a slippy photo
colours glazing

rejoicing of the heat
of late-summer szolnok
and its memories in a dark
cold, and imaginary capital

colours at loss

their profile was well chosen
colour was as golden as branch
words were leaves drafting dust
and his was a shadow of doubt

The tree of their body
gave way to the cold window
instantly traveling away
to the east, hortobágyi train

the pale blue of the wood
they left on the window sill
was like a bottle on a bench
words of solitude

recherche

I am in London, researching the relation London Hungarians have to their traditional heritage or rather hunting down symbols. I'm also forcing a dialogue, and they tell me they're here to work. Creating a dialogue when things are normal, and again I feel like attracting far-away romantic notions back on the grounds. This 'work' or 'labour of love', or 'labour on work' is for me as much as it is for them. Does it make it awkward nevertheless?
I feel like I'm painting a horizontal line in yellow on one of Depardon's diagonally driven roads thriving for a horizontal landscape, or rather I'm lost in Paris, Texas and really tracing this line (I'll go for black, references old timer's warm melted tar, the kind deserved for a cowboy's shoulders) while the dust feeds into the hot paint, and the white interrupted line goes on to kill the imaginary distance.
Why did Johnny Cash just pop in on the radio? I'm not joking..
I am told to remember the importance of working for others, painting on their grounds, yet sinking into paternalistic visions of truth as I take each step. Wherever the road goes I'm convinced it's for each other's good, and this makes me as living as my subject. Hopefully words will follow as images chill yet words of ponder, not of chilling.
Every evening I come back and pass the shivering cold light reflected along the neck of my bass. I click on the radio and the next day I'm off with a bit of my library humming in the ears. Cables of thought, fort though arsed modern.
Echoe of the woman, living ghost of our university, whose words like a cold knife reminded me of unworthy stillness of our aims, our methods, our texts. "Is this what Goldsmiths has become?" Like the cabin boy I answered in my breath how little I knew..
The best steps, therefore, are those that will be taken unexpectedly.