16 July 2007

February Trip over (VII)





Same to go back to. It isn't boredome or banality that I face upon arrival, it couldn't be, after all I can't keep in place. It could be summarized by an instant lack of light upon arrival, whatever the green rural Bretonness or exciting urban features. Emptyness could be part of what I have been feading upon during my last travels to Hungary and back to Brittany via big London. A satisfactory feeling of exhaustion, just enough lost for reasurrance, as if in need of loss. Or is it still a teen's poetic ideals? well... let's say that's long gone.
Absence is not what I have been looking for, but maybe it's what I have been collecting.

February Research trip (VI)

What a position: being an anthropology student. I initially took the opportunity to answer to our 'methods' research project request, as I had started to look more seriously upon the matter of Hungarian Roms, or Roms in Hungary - the gypsy population so often and so easily assimilated to the hungarian population from our western european point of view, but so easily rejected from their own...
My question was - and still is - addressing issues of identity, belonging, difference.
Who are Gypsies? (and who are the Roms for that matter - after all the officials have changed from Cigany to Romai in hungarian too) What do people think of them, how do they feel in relation to this "group of people"?
I chose to do this afternoon research in the form of an interview in a tube station in Budapest, knowing I could well be facing 'Roms' there myself. We came up to a cleaner, with Vica who was translating, and it turned out 'he was one' ("hat en vagyok egy."), said he coldly. But sadly enough he refused to engage in any conversation, mistaking our purposes...
Followed some very negative interviews which detailed the full stereotype of the gypsy family as dirty people without work, but with lots of dirty rude children. What was positive was that all of them stopped on the question of the Gypsy identity and none of them could say for sure what a "Rom" or "Gypsy" was, if there was even a difference.


After the Bun-sellers, came the woman in the bookshop, who started to show me some hungarian ethnologies on the Rom question, but I had to refuse them, unable to understand it effectively.
People in Hungary are quite conscious of the importance of the issue, and many things are done, whatever the general mentality. I finished that afternoon drinking a pint with a British school teacher in an Irish pub (watching a welsh rugby game on French Tv in central Budapest), and his situation and engagement was most interesting. He was involved in teaching english as a foreign language to kids, but in a school who gathers gypsy and 'other' children together in the same education. It's very interesting how he has to act differently with families for example, but also how some Roms thank him for his 'normal teaching'.
Some schools in hungary still have the division, but it turns out the country is far more supportive and open about the matter than other neighbouring eastern-european states, like Slovakia.


Then came the surprising encounter with a 'complex' homeless man, whom I will call Janos for the occasion, as I realised my head was fighting to avoid functionalising the poor man, and so in respect to his complexity, I will just leave the image to the reader.
His point of view on the Roms was, first of all - and in a very good english - that I shouldn't be asking people about this freely around town, as "an innocent tourist". Second he didn't 'make up his mind' about the question, but just told me he was mugged long time ago - before going to the street - and by some 'Gypsies', but also the first man who helped him do his builder's internship was a very hard-working Gypsy, or should I say Rom.
Rom seems a term to address to the good Roms, and Gypsies to the stealers and do-nothings...
Janos was more interested about my being here, and why the hell I would start such an enquiry, but he was very patient, and I found it impossible to summarize his opinion, or rather it was a rich one, from a man who, from what he told me, went to the street by choice.
His own life-story is another mystery, a spell he has been stroked by from the moment he chose his position homeless. Homeless is also harsh vocabulary, he said, as he has a home he went to, that of the open-space freedom, where his anarchist-type of thoughts lived.
His story and many others', what a passionate story it must be for a 'researcher' to pursue, and then there remains something about it anyway... A ghost of an answer to a ghost of a project.

February trip (V - Underground Blues Band)





An excellent surprise in a small underground pub along the Duna: a Blues concert by a local band accompanied by an excellent British saxophonist. I was just surprised because I find most of the english musicians I know don't put too much consideration into virtuosity, but this one was a clear exception. The band itself (I forgot its name in the first place - that's how useless this is) was a very good mix of influences on the Blues-rock trunk; a bass player very much into the blues but with a very good groove, a big funny drummer who seemed like he could have played anything, a lead guitarist-singer who sounds like Johnny Lang and did some very nice solo-pieces in the blues-rock tradition, a second guitarist who added an excellent metal spice into the shovel, and a percussionist to make it all swing for the public.
A nice surprise from the basement...

February trip (IV - her strength)



A singing voice amidst silent, cold, beautiful walks along the Duna. What a walk.
az erom

February Trip (III - landed)





Landing in my favourite foreign country (in my favourite little Ferihegy), counting each tip on each walking shoe around - meaning I enjoy every single second there - things go so logically and fast once I have settled, and therefore once I go back to this world. Familiar winter blue socks I sherish and laugh on, strange spiny serious shoes from the airport lounge I am not really keen on seing again, and the passing elegance of strangers (of that world).
Erkeztem Magyarorszagon, I have landed. A place I feel ever more tied to.




Landing in my favourite foreign country

Trip in February (II - airport)






Waiting in the airport has nothing to do with the daily waiting rooms of the London tube (as one example...)! A bit of derision in a well calculated commercial area, where we're all first to be served before "a pleasant journey...", a lot of waiting and looking at each other. When flying, people are more patient than in a short tube journey, and because of the whole fuss of going through an airport into the airplane, it takes us long to get to know our unkown features, our gliding faces. It's a place for patience, and a very strange cultural crossroad - mostly consisting of look exchanges, but not a cold feature of your style, or a checkin' yourself out. It's a patient look, not curious, litterally just waiting.
And then there are these lonesome travellers who spend a forth of the year in airplanes and even more on their cell-phones. Some of them sometimes look out of place...

Trip in February





Going back to this - as usual - pleasant trip, I think it's mainly patience and calm that accompanied these images, although I was 'in between things', and still finding it hard to find myself between three quite widely exposed worlds (London, Budapest, and good old Brittany).
What animates the eye at university could be anything, and could be produced in any manner. What's more self-judgement is just as random, depending on one's last arty conversation, on one's last arty encounters, on my every moment's encounter anyway.
I believe these pictures are a student's statement, one keen to go anywhere for any reason. And that is also in empty depths, misty windows (in this case, the window of the Easybus on the way to Luton!).
I was off to Budapest, with a few research goals in my mind, trying to open new doors again...

Szinek.....Colours


15 July 2007

Egyedul

Quatres vers pour la solitude; four verses for solitude; cuatro versos a la soledad; negy versek a egyedulsegnek (az van?)...


Our friend slept off and empty dreams took over
Solemn the man who draws lines on our patient feet
Around paths dragged by speed and impossible presence
Exits not mine to offer, roads he rests on freely
How is your sleep my loneliness?


Walls have sprayed and eyes rest upon spreading oranges
Tumbling down corridors, escalating logically his steps
The little person in the back room breathes respect
For his acquaintance with a number which could be his
Own person Own reason Own eye


Who is lonely looking?
I spectater and fictioner, prince of randomness, lucking up on down
If expressions be alowed... The man above or the man beneath
Earth or its wings sitting inches beneath you - within you
Looks are a lonely choice, our ground a broken paradise.


A moment that lasts for long, I forget who is spectating who
Forgotten is the word for signs who leap back in our mirror of curiosity
Easy words to accompany strange invisible caps tied to our backs
And lingering at the feet of some angel long forgotten and long lost
What can be hidden

13 July 2007

L'equation des murs qui cherchent




J'ai en face de moi, au moins, quelques mots, quelques numeros.
Le choix de certains, certainement aussi le mien.
Ils sont tellement proches que je me fond a eux, je ne veux et ne peux pas reculer car je reviens dans mon monde de passant, de spectateur. Je suis dans la couleure vive et terne, la couleure creative des larmes d'un certain inconnu. Pour sur.
Je n'y comprend rien, autant qu'ils ne me comprennent pas, on est tellement pret l'un de l'autre qu'on cherche dans un flou ivre et feerique.
Je suis pret a tout, a tout effacer de moi pour me jeter dans leur vie.
A ne plus tout entamer par mes mots, mais par la question des quatres murs de notre univers.
La ou c'est plus visible, en ville, on oublie qu'a marcher dans le vert de nos profonds pays, qu'on y est tous, dans ces taches degoulinantes, saignantes; nous y versons tous des larmes alarmantes, mais nous n'y laissons pas toujours la main.
Alors je me noie dans les equations des murs qui cherchent, je me noie dans l'Est, et je bois a sa sante.

Vicam


Pourquoi le "M" est-il possessif, pourquoi aussi est-il international? Pourquoi sommes nous les memes hommes dans tous ces pays?
Pourquoi ecrit-on les memes cris sur les murs, les memes traces de destins rates?
Pourquoi me regarde-t-elle ainsi?
Pourquoi le gris une journee ou le soleil nous prend en plein visage a l'horizontal? Sa plus belle dance on pourrait dire...
Pourquoi ces cheveux, les siens, les miens? Pourquoi suis-je a elle, et elle a moi?
Le savons-nous vraiment dans ce reel a nous?

je signe alors de cette curieuse magniere:
le A du debut, et le M qui m'appartient,

A.M.
comme le matin qui se leve dans mes mains

Barbed and wired - Budapest after the riots, the parliament scandal


Some fences, some wires, some walls -I find - are so full of sarcasm. What happened in Budapest in December and the beginning of 2007 spoke for itself, and does give a natural role to the fences surrounding the parliament. To the policemen patrolling all around it.
History does leave us with so much irony to deal with though... It's hard to talk about symbols, when they could just be read out of context, but symbols always do have some meaning.
I was alerted by someone in February for not knowing the meaning of the celtic chain I had attached around my neck (one I mysteriously lost since then...). The presence of these impressive displays of soviet propaganda in the historical shadow of the Hungarian parliament (a building whose architecture the hungarians are quite right to be immensely proud of), the four patriots rising towards their evangelical leader, himself showing the road to his good followers...


Fences do have a limit, but we certainly don't need many limits to make a bunch of crazy rose buds from the past and the present to make the future look quite uncertain (the picture might even say clumsy).

We often need a little time in our mind to get a grip upon the whole scale of the frame. To see more litteraly what is behind the wire, behind the fence. A bunch of garbage in an empty field, sky, a patch of clouds, or just a ridiculous 30cm piece of barbed wire over the door of a household. Security is made of very strange patches of humanity...


Le bleu de Mikhailov




J'avais decouvert quelque temps auparavant le bleu du photographe Boris Mikhailov, son projet sur le rouge post-communiste. Ce photographe a travaille sur l'avant, le pendant, et l'apres sovietique dans les pays de l'Est, mais surtout dans son Ukraine natale. Le Bleu caracterisait une periode d'avant l'explosion du bloc communiste, une periode un peu malade, et il peignait meme sur les negatifs pour y ajouter de l'effet (cette partie de son travail etait exposee a l'expo "The dawn" au Victorian and Albert Museum en Fevrier). Il etait surtout connu artistiquement pour ses collages de photos a la peinture, autre de ses specialites.
J'ai dans mes livres une autre de ses 'series', du nom de "Dancing", qui tracait un portrait tres intime des cours ukrainiennes dans lesquelles les adultes s'adonnait au bal hebdomadaire du coin (principalement des vieilles personnes, a moins qu'il ait voulu montrer le caractere vieillissant de la cicatrice sovietique, ou plutot ses dernieres traces...).
Dernierement encore, il a fait la une des musees a travers son exposition "Rouge" (meme les anglais on garde le nom de la couleure en francais), qui la portait un regard attendrit sur les restes du rouge du passe communiste aujourd'hui dans l'Est bourgeonnant.

Et cet hiver en arrivant a Budapest, je ne pouvais m'empecher de songer a ce bleu qui demeure encore plus dramatique et tragique a certains instants de la journee.
Je pense egalement au caractere gris permanent dans ces paysages urbains d'aujourd'hui a Budapest ; C'est bien la ville ou le noir et blanc n'a pas de monde, ou la couleure, mis a part la nuit, a toujours sa place dans un gris quotidien profond.
Le rouge, on y pense peut-etre trop.