Silhouettes hard against sky and walls

A jump in the past, going by the many strange statues decorating the little green parks and squares of Pest, some virulantly expressive (the hammering hand is one example, the jumping silhouette one much more intreaging and complex) others much more... colourful.
Against this lies a changing sky, one of a grey and rainy hungarian afternoon (not something typical, but the week I took Antonino's analog camera it was, sadly enough).
Against the moving silhouettes of bodies, there are hard walls to be found upon which resonates both the sky's light and the people's standing, waiting, walking gestures.
It is there I love these silhouettes the most, against the hard walls of our warm homes.
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Un saut de passe en devalant les petits parcs et petites places de Pest, passant les nombreuses statues etranges qui les occupent, certaines tres expressive (la main martellante est un example, la silhouette en plein saut est elle bien plus captivante), d'autres plus... colorees.
Contre ceci s'illustre un ciel a fort temperament, un ciel changeant d'apres midi hongrois grisonnant et pluvieux (rien de typique, mais la semaine ou j'ai pris l'appareil d'Antonino ca l'etait, malheureusement).
Contre les silhouettes de corps en deplacement, il y a des murs solides, epais et durs contre lesquels a la fois la lumiere du ciel et la gestuelle en marche, en attente, ou debout des gens.
C'est la que j'aime ces silhouettes hombragees le plus, contre les durs murs de nos maisons.

Lakas

The word for flat, "Lakas" is certainly not... a flat one! What a golden opportunity to consider revising the sound of hungarian language!... but no let's leave it there for now, although it should be looked upon more seriously (ndlr: check out some hungarian music... come to the Sziget!)...
It's definitely a good opportunity to talk about architecture, buildings, the remains of their soviet past and of their golden empire all together!
Some flats are a marriage of all this history, shadows behind luxurious or trendy streets in Pest (in this case, the famous "Raday utca" - utca meaning street). Groups of flats clustered together in a different way than the many housing blocks I have discussed so often before... There is a sound in the little yard of the building you see in these pictures, an echo reverbarating against each glass window, and most probably through them, which is why someone's concern is everyone's concern.
It made me think of some Houses I have seen in East-Berlin, with terrasses on their roofs (here there are none) where we could hear silence and every single shouts filling it.
There was a water problem, someone cut the water of somebody else (Vica's flat), and everyone gathered together for help, gave their buckets of hot and cold water for the necessary needs... The evil person who cut the water tank had never even appeared to face his neigbours before - and still didn't, because I believe from the noise he heard in this noisy courtyard with indignated shouts of protests and rage made him put the water-pipe back in!
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Le mot pour appartement, "Lakas", en plus de nous donner l'occasion de reviser la richesse de son de la langue hongroise (et de sa musique... Venez au Sziget!), est une opportunite en or de parler architecture, batiments, des restes de leur passe sovietique et de ceux de leur empire!
Certains appartements reflete bien un marriage de toute cette histoire, a l'hombre des rues luxueuses et fashions de Pest (dans ce cas precis, la celebre "Raday Utca" - Utca voulant dire rue). Des groupes de residences assemblees de maniere differente des bloque pavillonaire des cites Hlms que j'ai si souvent rencontre sur ma route, a Debrecen, par le passe... Il y a un son dans les cours de ce batiment que vous voyez ici en image, un echo qui rebondit sur toutes les surfaces, sur chaque fenetre, et tres probablement a travers celles-ci, et alors ce qui concerne autrui me concerne tout autant...
Cela m'a rappelle certaines maisons que j'avais vu a Berlin-Est, avec des terrasses sur leur toits (ici il n'y en a guere) ou l'on pouvait ecouter le silence et chacun des cris et voix qui le comblait.
Il y avait un probleme d'eau, quelqu'un avait coupe l'eau de quelqu'un d'autre, et tout le monde s'est rassemble pour donner un coup de main, donnerent des sots d'eau froide et chaude pour les besoins necessaires... Le diable en personne qui avait coupe l'eau n'avait apparemment jamais fait face a ses voisins auparavant - il ne rompit pas avec la tradition cette fois la, et je pense entre autre que ayant entendu les voix protestataires, echauffees et remontees de ses voisins dans la cour, il ne mit pas longtemps a rendre l'eau courante a son voisin de pallier!

The Rail station

Ends her journey when the person will come to it
Evil moment when time picks you by
Ever more than before that

Lasting moment of hope, now
Lingering to and fro for home, a
Little track to go back to
Unbinding in this move, was a
Useless woman's tear,
Unfortunately no Guard saw to her

Et al she said, it's all done for
Endlessly moarning her mistakes
Earning respect from the workers
Searching more and everywhere
Sadly the glass cut into her profile
She waited at the station for that soul

A drifting cloud close to me, this woman
Annoyed but sleeping in a dream
A possibility, a character, a woman
Lost with its poetic umbrellas
Leaving the station in Szolnok to itself
Looking up you'll see what I mean...


Les curieux observateurs Francais observeront surement l'effet, en remontant la page, vous verrez, la, seul dans cette mer d'anglais, "La, seule" inscrit de ma memoire decoupee, dans la gare dejantee d'un esprit perdu dans les chemins de l'heritage.

Breaking the line: a time to Travel

Time to hunch back in our corner, back into trains, watching and slashing the moment with people's blurs. Moving blending misty landscape.
Break the hour, you're in the Magyar express; you're only going to Szolnok, but you know the place, and that's pretty exciting. Budapest always seems different when you're leaving it. Moving to the edges.
"Time, we got time, f****** time" as J.Kerouac's Dean constantly spits out.
Lines are rounding up to the hour, Lines are pooring down on us, on her, on the empty stations, emptyness is full and the monochrom is totally lost in these moving faces.
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L'heure de se retrancher dans son coin, de retour dans les trains, prenant le moment en ligne de mire parmi le flou de l'avancant. Paysage bougeant, se muant, se fondant dans le brouillard.
'Cassez le temps', vous etes dans le Magyar express; vous n'allez qu'a Szolnok, mais vous connaissez l'endroit, et ca c'est assez pour vous excitez. Budapest a toujours l'air different quand vous la quittez.
Demenagement aux bords du cadre.
"Time, we got time, f******* time" ("le temps, on a le temps, le p***** de temps") s'obstine le hero de J.Kerouac, Dean.
Les lignes se rassemblent toutes les heures, des Lignes devalant sur vous, sur elle, sur des stations vides, Vide est plein et le monochrom est tout a fait perdu dans ces visages en deplacement.

Talking about "Travellin'", feel free to check out the song with the same name on the following myspace:

http://www.myspace.com/tristanlebreton

The piece is one of my personal favourites...

University Parking space

I filmed a frame

Could have been a movie, but unfortunately here I'm just cheating, these pictures weren't all taken on the same day (the one of the two antennas was taken in February - so here's 'photo-montage' for you... hum very impressive).
When black digital ink sprays into the side of this black blog, into the pictures, it feels like a nice treat. A typical beginner's taste I heard, we young people like our things nice and contrasty. I do.

First, I was moved by the white hands emerging on the side of a wall underneath the same bridge where I waited for the rain to stop, and waited for the lover's hair to go with the wind... It rose up at the same time as the silhouette coming for shelter, and it seemed like a Cross-call I felt darkness was appropriate for.
Then came this strange parking place, on the other side of the Duna, in Pest, and underneath the same bridge, where some workers were resting, and cars waiting. Where we couldn't hear the loud voices of tourists from the main Pesti streets. And the tires of the cars had traced what could have been a spontaneous graffiti on the ground, a present of the rain I took in the same way, surrounded by darkness.
Later and before these other moments, these corridors of sight more than space to run into. It fell into place within the deep dark lines of the shelter of the buildings...
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Cela aurait pu etre un film, mais malheureusement dans ce cas-ci je me dois de vous devoiler que je ne faisais que tricher, en effet ces photos n'ont pas ete prises le meme jour (celle des deux antennes a ete prise en Fevrier, donc voila une petite demonstration de 'photo-montage'... hum hum enfin voila).
Quand l'encre noire numerique se fond aux cotes de ce blog noir, dans ses photos, ca donne de l'appetit. Mais du gout d'un amateur, m'a-t'on dit, puisque ma generation aime les choses contrastees. Je ne peux le nier.

D'abord, j'ai ete emu par les mains et les pieds blancs qui apparaissaient sur le cote d'un mur sous ce pont ou j'attendis la fin de la pluie, la ou j'attendais aussi que le vent fasse s'envoler les cheveux de l'amoureuse...
Ces mains criantes me sont apparues en meme temps que la silhouette que l'on apercoit au fond qui venait s'abriter, elle aussi. Un appel croise que je voyais bien se reposer dans une sombre chambre a son honneur.
Puis vint ce parking etrange, de l'autre cote de la Duna, du cote de Pest, et sous le meme pont mais sur l'autre rive, ou cette fois des travailleurs se reposaient, et des voitures attendaient. Ou les voix plaintives des touristes des grandes rues de Pest etaient etouffees. Et les pneus des voitures avaient traces ce qui aurait pu etre un graffiti spontane sur le sol, un cadeau de la pluie auquel j'adonnais la meme chambre sombre.
Avant et apres ces moments, des couloirs pour la vue - moins que pour nos pas lourds de leur pleins. Tout s'est mis en ordre en dedans des lignes profondement sombres de ces batiments...

Breathe the Duna

It was a nice walk along the Duna, with Antonino's Camera, and it was not raining yet. the Buda hill looks so defyingly at you from the Pest side, that you can't help but wonder how short a time it would really take you to cross the Duna and the Bridge near Korvinus University, walk the distance until the other end of the Buda hill from the river, to tackle her majesty's giantness (if Buda was a woman). the time it took me to get past three-quarters of the hill rain started pooring down and I was poorly equiped to 'defyantly' continue. So it's under a bridge that I stood staring at lovers and beggers, wet tourists and cyclists, morning my loss in competing against the big hill.
It remained a beautiful day, and I still love Buda more than anything else in Hungary (if Buda was a woman...)
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C'etait un petit tour sympa le long de la Duna, avec l'appareil d'Antonino, et il ne pleuvait pas encore. La colline de Buda defiait notre humble presence du cote de Pest, et l'on ne pouvait s'empecher de se demander combien de temps est-ce que cela nous prendrait vraiment pour traverser la Duna et le pont pres de l'Universite Korvinus, pour marcher toute la distance jusqu'a Buda, le long du fleuve, pour alors chatouiller la grandeure de sa majeste (si Buda etait une femme). La course que j'avais entreprit, passant les trois-quarts de la colline, a ete interrompue par une pluie bien battante et j'etais pauvrement equipe pour la defier, elle. C'est donc sous ce pont que je me mis a fixer les amoureux, les vagabonds, les touristes et cyclistes mouilles, tout en rageant contre la grande colline pour sa victoire.
Cela demeura en vain une journee magnifique, et j'aime toujours Buda plus que tout en Hongrie (si Buda etait une femme...)

Marx's chamber

You face the highest hill of Buda, the one with the statue on top (you can't really see what it's like, but you're thinking of the Lorelei...). You're situated on the Pest side of the Duna river, and back to you is the Korvinus Egyetem, one of the most succesful universities in Hungary, where the current national President attended. You turn your back on Buda, and walk through the impressive doorway, following the elite of the politics/economics student brains. Take to your left, past the security, and your right again towards the main hall (where the cafeteria is, where students wait before exams, where the main lecture theatres are).

Before this hall is a three meters statue of an impressive old man, with the square lettered "Karl Marx" writing underneath it.

What a nice fairy tale... "let's meet at Karl Marx's!" or "I'll be reading at Karl Marx's feet" or "go past Karl Marx and you'll find me in the next hall" (sic...). I couldn't talk of any ghosts here, the statue is so impressive and rock solid. Who has understood Karl Marx? That was one of the main question of the end of the XXth century (before the century when we apparently stopped asking ourselves questions or started asking too many), and everyone has their own 'Karl Marx' reader to refer to. Well I am not in any position to talk about this, but his presence still amuses me at the heart of the university where future political and business giants are raised. At the time of Karl Marx, I wonder if he represented anything in this hall, I wonder what he stands for today amidst our intellectual confusion.
A friend just emailed me from Latvia today to tell me about a wall some man designed to be the VIIIth wonder of the world, and it all seems so ridiculous today, that we could actually build this future wannabe "wonder" ourselves, today. It always seems a bit ridiculous on the first and last day of labour, our ancestors might say.
And in the same way, Karl Marx's statue rises in the shadow of prosperous politicians' walk, running towards the heart of the country's liberal races.
Symbols who sleep are here for the irony of it. It is my own anoying obsession, after all we simply live with history, but then the meaning of these symbols has many options...
e.g. to read Marx's chamber, to read in Marx's chamber, or to go past Marx's chamber to read.
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Vous faites face a la plus grande colline de Buda, celle adoubee par la presence d'une statue (vous ne voyez pas trop a quoi elle ressemble, mais elle vous evoque la Lorelei...). Vous etes situes du cote Pest du fleuve de la Duna, et dos a vous se situe l'Universite Korvinus, une des universites les plus flambantes de Hongrie, la ou le president actuel a fait ses classes. Vous tournez le dos a la Duna, et passez sous la grande porte, suivant les pas de l'elite des cerveaux etudiants en politique/economique. Prenez votre gauche, passez la securite, puis la droite a nouveau vers le hall principal (la ou se trouve la cafeteria, ou les etudiants attendent avant leurs exams, la ou les principaux amphitheatres se trouvent).

Avant ce hall se trouve une statue impressionante de trois metres representant un vieux barbu au regard determine et serieux, avec une inscription bien carree sur son socle: "Karl Marx".

Un conte pour enfant... "et si on se retrouvait devant Karl Marx?!" ou "je serais en train de lire aux pieds de Karl Marx" ou encore "tu passes Karl Marx et tu me trouveras dans le hall suivant" (sic...). Je ne pourrais parler de fantome, la statue est tellement impressionante et aux apparences bien solides. Qui a compris Karl Marx? Une des questions principales de la fin du XXeme siecle (avant le siecle ou apparemment on aurait arrete de se pauser trop de questions), en outre tout le monde a son 'auteur Karl Marx' comme reference.
Je ne suis pas moi-meme dans une position facile pour vous parler de ca, mais sa presence m'amuse au sein d'une universite ou les futurs geants de la politique et du business sont eleves. A l'epoque de Karl Marx, je me demandes aussi s'il representait quoique ce soit dans ce hall, je me demande quelle est sa place aujourd'hui dans la confusion intellectuelle qui semble parfois etre la notre.
Un ami vient tout juste de m'emailer de Lettonie au sujet d'un mur dont l'architecture est preparee par un homme qui le voit comme la 8eme merveille du monde, et cela semble si ridicule aujourd'hui que l'on puisse reellement construire cette future merveille contemporaine nous-meme aujourd'hui. Cela semble toujours ridicule le premier et dernier jour de construction, nos ancetres nous dirait sans doute.
De la meme maniere, la statue de Karl Marx s'eleve a l'hombre des cerveaux politiques passants, courrant au coeur de la course liberale du pays.
Des symboles qui dorment sont la pour l'ironie meme. C'est mon obsession personelle - un peu enervante pour certains, apres tout on ne fait que vivre avec l'histoire, mais apres tout le dechiffrage de ses symboles est infini...
Par ex lire la chambre de Marx, lire dans la chambre de Marx, ou passer a travers la chambre de Marx pour lire.

ps: I still haven't given Marx the flower his hand could be praying for...

...La main de Marx n'a pas ete benie de la fleur pour laquelle elle prie...

"Toast" and all the other writers

Toast! What a surprise to find him again after my neighbours' wall in Debrecen 12 months before, I found the cheeky writer's slash in the capital city, more stylish than ever! to have that confirmed, you can check the "Tag, Graffiti hongrois" post from March 2006 (wow! that was the time when it was still snowing in Hungary in winter)

http://jamesdyltrip.blogspot.com/2006/03/tags-graffitis-hongrois.html

No surprise to find the following new guys: I find them even more interesting than the freaking famous London-based graffiti artists whose "Oeuvre d'art" can't stay unnoticed for more than 6 hours... Or lately in Paris there was a big 'graffiti-poster' who was allowed on an advertising board in the tube, it was very strange, but an interesting alternative for the recognition of graffiti writing.
The kind we find everywhere ("Lisz or Ls1", I'm too bad at recognising them to say for sure) the kind you find only on supermarkets (like "Sofa") the guy who only writes on the groud, "DReZ" or on lamps "FrEk"...
And then there are the roads that ride in the centre of these spaces of expression, the daily morose paths we take every morning, or the most visible walls for our curious eye - nothing better than those underground where we litterally just wait, and wait, and wait for the next train.
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Toast! J'ai eu du mal a le croire apres l'avoir découvert sur les murs de mes voisins de Debrecen il y a 12 mois, je retrouves le tracé du taggeur dans la capitale, de plus en plus stylé en plus! Regardez-donc l'article "Tag, Graffiti hongrois" posté en Mars 2006 (... Il neigeait a l'epoque en Hongrie...)

http://jamesdyltrip.blogspot.com/2006/03/tags-graffitis-hongrois.html

Aucune surprise a découvrir des jeunes nouveautés: je les trouves largement plus interessant que les taggeurs Londoniens dont les "Piece of art" ne peuvent rester dans l'anonimat pour plus de 6 heures... A Paris dernierement, une artiste graffiti a participer a une campagne de pub partout dans le metro, dans des emplacements aloués pour la publicité; étrange alternative mais interessante si le graffiti veut se faire respecter.
Ce fut d'abord du genre qu'on trouve partout ("Lisz ou Ls1", j'ai un peu de mal a les lires des fois), le genre qu'on ne peut retrouver que sur les supermarchés (comme "Sofa"), ou meme le mec qui n'écrit que sur le sol, "DReZ" ou sur les lampes "FrEk"...
Puis il y a les chemins qui vont au coeur de ces nouveaux espaces d'expression libre, le chemin pale et morose du quotidien, ou les murs les plus visibles - rien de mieux, en outre que les métros ou l'on ne fait litteralement qu'attendre, attendre, et attendre le train prochain.

Market story

Where could you find the best Paprika, the best Palinka, the best and most original Tokaj, the best variety of szalami, the best hungarian clothing and traditionnal 'couture'???

Certainly not where you see it.
Hungary is made of hidden places and activities, and it seems they cherish this feature of their material culture.

I don't even know the name of the main market in Budapest, but first of all it's a beautiful place to be in, and does charm you by its colorful displays of national ingredients, its Gypsy violinists in the restaurant on the upper floor, and all the 'made in hungary' myth.
"Made in Hungary?" Well it certainly exists, but not in a shop where puppets of traditional women's clothing blend in with a strong man's Juventus shirt (the same year the club spent in Serie B, Italy's second division in Football, after they had been implicated in a financual fraud). It is enough for the German and French tourists around (The kind of retired groups who travel around the world together with the record-breaking feature of not switching from their mother-language even once). Enough for me to buy some paprika for home, and to enjoy the sight - until I find a "Sarkozy" tee-shirt from the brand "Hungarian move".
To realise ever more that the material culture of the country is quite unique, and I'm therefore not surprised that they nearly always compare food or drink products from other countries to their own! I consider this fair: it's 'standing up for themselves', in a way everyone defends the minority they come from. I do, and hungary in itself is full of minorities. Who isn't one, apart from the people who officially declare they are not... (sic)
It's just a normal market day...

Edes Mama

First came she, then the wars, then the new generation.
All this while stunned by the swarming and surrounding guns of unwanted providence.
"We're all waiting for someone", they came unattended.
Gone is already far away, and her look lingers on, pointed towards the soldier's backs, towards the east where they were last seen.
The new generation is also of another time, but they seem to explain this through her aged presence. It is amusement that remains in their own look, or an innocent look at the other side of the bank, towards the reassuring hill of Buda, beauty that has always stood there unbeaten; unbeaten even by the fallen bridges of the war, by the burning nights of liberation.
I have been up there last summer, and it is beauty on a good day. Calm too as few hungarians seem to go up there. It's most surely too short a summary for their country, and the sight on Pest, although it's impressive, lingers onwards to the hungarian steps, where some tolkienesk marshes of souvenirs stay to rest.
The steps is only a necessity, it is place for the traveller, his train, the acid smells of smoking-wagons in the mist of forgetfulness, as our eyes travel through this museum of Cold.
When the long-sighted traveller rests upon the hill of Buda, he can turn his back on the steps, and rest his eyes upon the slowly and elegantly descending streets of the western part of the capital. And true silence is only there.

Welcome to Hungary

Somewhere in Between