27/02/2005

When I was a kid my parents bought me a conductors set for children. It consisted of a whistle, a cap, traintickets, a punch and a plastic instrument having the shape of an elongated handmirror, a red circle on one side, a green one on the other side.
With my younger sisters I played “train”. We put the chairs behind each other, I asked them where they wanted to go and I gave them a small cardboard paper, the destination and prize printed in a greyish black. The passangers could recognise me by my special cap: a round blue specimen, flat on top with a red “band” all around and a black bill. When it was time to go I blew my black whistle and put the plastic circle up, the green side towards the train, thereby showing everything was ready for departure. I got on my train, cut a small round hole in the tickets and while everything stood still at the other side of our imaginary windows, we travelled around the world, to Moscow, New York, even Alaska.

From Esztergom it is only 53 kilometres to the centre of Budapest. By train it takes one and a half hour. A long time for a short distance. I don’t mind. Travelling by train is one of the major pleasures in life. Stuck in this big machine with nowhere to run to, the only thing you can do is stare out of the window. While trees, cities, fields, rain, trains, clouds, people pass by, time is standing still at your side of the window.

I bought two tickets at the Esztergom Railway Station, one to go to Budapest, the other one to get back. The lady behind the counter gave me two small cardboard papers, the destination and prize printed in a greyish black. The original prize had been striped out and she had written a new prize on it with a blue pen. I got on the train and seated myself on a soft green chair. I heard the whistle and the train departed.
A young man with an amazing moustache and a blue uniform cut a small round hole in one of my tickets. I smiled at him. He smiled back. He wore a blue and red round hat, flat on top, a black bill casting a shadow over his sparkling eyes. He moved to the next passenger, cut another perfect round hole and smiled a similar smile.
Half an hour later, the train stopped. I looked out of my window, a young man came out of the station, his brown curls jumped from under his blue and red round hat. In his hands he carried a plastic instrument having the shape of an elongated handmirror. He walked towards the moustached conductor, they laughed and shook hands. The curly one walked back, passed another train and conversed with the machinist.
The whistle sounded, the plastic round was up, showing a green circle. The train groaned and moaned and moved on.

An hour later later we arrived at Budapest. I had travelled more than 25 years.

24/02/2005

24/02/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

23/02/2005

23/02/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

22/02/2005

Why am I here? The question has many answers. It depends from whose point of view the question is being asked. When I explained to a newly made young friend from Sturovo that my main goal is to make good art and in that sense I don’t care what others think about it, he accused me of being egoistic. And from his point of view it is. I wasn’t offended. Maybe a little dissapointed. He explained to me that he thought the right goal for the bridge guard was to meet as many people as possible. He advised me to go “clubbing”. Visit as many pubs as possible, make friends. Or: the more beers you drink, the more friends you’ll make and the better bridge guard you will make.
I noticed before that people rather see me as “the girl from Holland” and not “the visual artist in residency”. In fact, in the Sturovo newspaper the article about my flower project was even “censored”: the fact I bought the bulbs at the local supermarket, Billa, was left out and all the emphasis was layed on the fact that the bulbs were tulips from Holland, planted by a Dutch girl and my ironic remark about the Dutch song “tulips from Amsterdam” was transformed into a jolly title. Did I mind? I did. But. I also wondered. Wasn’t it for the best? Wasn’t this a better way to become part of the Sturovo community?
There is a film about the brilliant piano player Glenn Gould, “32 short stories about Glenn Gould”. It shows how, at a certain moment, he decided not to play concerts any more, only focus on recording albums, because there was no way to get his music to the audience in the most perfect way in a concert hall: people would be coughing, the accoustics would be doubtable, he himself might make a mistake, etc. He wanted his audience to hear his music in the best circumstances. He thought making excellent recordings was the only way to achieve that.
You can discuss this point of view. People called this egoistic too. But in fact it was the complete opposite.
I remember a conversation I once had with Ritsaert ten Cate, former director of the Mickery theatre, nowadays a “ young Dutch artist”, despite of his age. I was organising an event in Amsterdam and I had invited some artists I really liked to join in. He borrowed me some of his material and when I went to fetch it at his atelier we sat down to talk and I explained to him that organising this event was really nice because it got me in touch with a lot of artists I admired, but it didn’t leave me enough time to make art. And he told me that according to him a true artist always focuses on his work in the first place. Everything else might be inspiring but still distracts from “the real thing”.

Back to Sturovo and my young friend. I told him: okay, I’m doing my best. I’m out on the streets every day, people see me walking around and working, I attend openings, movies, balls, pubvisits, go to the local stores and the swimming pool. I put my photos in the window so people can see what I’ve been doing, I’m doing projects on the streets, I’m trying to learn some Hungarian and I invite everybody I meet to come to my atelier. I even had it put in the newspaper: everybody is welcome to visit at any time (at least I think so, I put it in the English version). But nobody ever even asks me what I’m really doing here. The only thing they ask is if I made a lot of friends already. As if that’s my main goal. And what do they mean by that anyway, friend? *


* when I attended an opening at the Muzeum some weeks ago I was introduced by one of the local artists (I believe his name is Sandor, he only speaks Hungarian and Slovak) to a friend of his who lives in Esztergom and speaks English very well. We talked for a long time, he enjoyed talking English and he said we could become very good friends. I gave him my card and never heard from him again.
But maybe this was not about the notion of friendship, it has probably more to do with the way Hungarians make promises, agreements and which is an interesting topic for some other day to write about.
Actually it is no different here than it is in Holland. But the difference in Holland is that I don’t have to deal with the people on the streets. In Holland I’m just an artist. Here I’m the Bridge Guard. What should I tell them if they don’t want to talk about art? What should I tell them if I answered all their questions about Holland and whether I like living in Sturovo?
Maybe my young friend was right. Maybe I should go out every night, drink beers and make friends and have another life during the day, making my strange videos and boring photos. Maybe I shouldn’t try so hard to make people understand what art is about. Maybe I should be happy they like my silly, easy photos and find my good ones not interesting. But it’s hard.

And it’s a challenge. And it doesn’t keep me from enjoying everything happening in this strange city where you can’t see the programmed movie in the cinema unless eight paying customers are present, where the swimming pool already opens at 5 in the morning, where wonderful music with a doubtful political message sounds at four thirty sharp every day, where three cemetaries lie side by side, where two languages get mixed, where people think I’m crazy if I hum while walking the streets, where shopwindows are small and roads are muddy, where people appologize for not speaking English whereas I’m the one not speaking the language spoken here, where balls are being held and where I’m being taken care of so well.

An amateur photographer visited my atelier today. He didn’t like the photos I liked but he was very nice and we talked for a long time. We talked about how beautiful it is when the ice starts melting and freezes again, about poetry, Slovak beer and Zen. I realised again there is a whole world inbetween making art and the basic socialising.

My young friend is partying tonight, in a far away Slovak university city. He invited me to come, one of his friends would travel with me from Sturovo by train and I promised him I would be there. But I never heard from his friend again and actually I’m not that much of a party girl. And as a promise in Hungary is never a promise I think he won’t miss me.

(to be continued)

21/02/2005

The first time I visited the green pub I thought it wasn’t the place for me. The place itself was nice, the beers wonderfull, but the music ............. I don’t mind some heavy music from time to time, but all the time is too much for me. I thought it was a pity. Although there was a small crowd of “heavy dudes” around, there were families and young lovers as well. Was it the bartenders favorite?
One of the leather dressed man moved to the far end corner of the pub from time to time. As I followed him with my eyes I discovered a huge jukebox.
I had forgotten about jukeboxes. You rarely see them in Holland and if you do, they’re usually some sort of decoration. But here it was. A real jukebox. A magic machine for a democratic environment. You can choose what you want to hear. A least if you give it a little effort and you can spare a little money. 2 songs for 10 Sk, that means 8 songs for 1 €. I thought it was a bargain.
I threw in the money and chose a ridiculous song belonging to an amazing film and a beautiful one played by a 1st class band. The waiting began. You never know how many songs are ahead of yours. And then, just as you had forgotten about your favorite music, it happens.

From time to time the Beatles arose. Who was the big fan? The shy guy in the corner? The middle aged party on the far side of the room? A heavy dude with a soft spot? The girl in black? Or was she the one reliving her teens with some nostalgic melodies by the Cure? (I admit, I crumbled too.)
The leather men were the biggest music lovers. And there was no end to their small money. The Beatles admirer was no match for them. I thought about a jukebox with a “silence” button on it. But what should the name of the band performing it be? God? Nature? John Cage?
I’m saving my coins now. Next time I’ll choose the softest song in the machine and play it 50 times. And if the leather folks hate me for that I’ll buy them a beer and dance on their table.

17/02/2005

17/02/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

16/02/2005

There’s no end to the snow. One day the sun is shining so bright that everything starts to melt in a tremendous speed. All day long you hear the dripping of ice and snow turning into water. The next day dark clouds bring a new layer of white. A big truck drives the street, loaded with sand and a man with a shovel. Medieval methods to fight the slipperiness. While being driven slowly through the city, the man shovels sand onto the road. He must be tired in the evenings.

There’s a small park near my house. I’m not sure if it is constructed for the memorial stone in it or if the stone was put in the park because it’s a fitting place for a monument. The monument commemorates the victims from WWII. There are a couple of trees and some benches. No matter how cold it is, how high the snow has banked up, there’s always somebody sitting on a bench. Different people at different moments, a woman with shopping bags, a man emptying a can of beer, a young couple holding hands, a street sweeper having a break.

I saw a woman today cleaning a radiator. She had a cloth in her hands and slowly moved it through two compartments to clear it from dust. She moved to the next two compartments and again wiped the dust. I’ve never seen anybody healthy move so slowly. But the slow-motion made it look very gracious, as if she was performing a mysterious ritual, a dance almost.

I tried smiling at people I passed on the street today. Nobody smiled back at me. Maybe I’ll try singing tomorrow. Or better: humming. No need to frighten them.

15/02/2005

You don’t need a clock here. In the morning just before 7.30 the big wooden porch is opened by an employee from the office nextdoor. Time for me to get up, unless I worked late the day before. At 11.30 sharp they go out for lunch, time for me to realise the shops close in half an hour and I need to go out to buy some fresh bread for lunch, unless I want to eat the old bread from yesterday. They return at 12.00 sharp. I make coffee and prepare my own lunch. The office closes at 15.30. Half an hour later the museum closes. And at 16.30 the music “from the other side” starts. Time for a drink. Some tea or a nice glass of wine from our neighbour who sells good wine in bottles with beautiful lables. He’s living just behind us and invites his customers in a room where time stood still. A dim room, not only because of the sparse light but mainly because of the objects in it. Old fashioned chairs, goldrimmed cups, a dark painting with an old Magyar on it . One day when he wasn’t in, his wife, who speaks not a word we understand, explained us she would close the curtains in the back of the house when he would be in. Communicating is easy. Language isn’t.
I read an article today about poetry in sign-language. I never really thought about this but sign-language seems to be just as complex and subtle as any other language. It must be beautiful to see somebody ‘speak’ (what word do you use for that?) a poem in this language. Maybe we should all learn this language. What a relief it would be to move around in a world where people shut their mouths up and use their hands to speak. A silent world. Or at least a little more silent.
Yesterday I encountered a woman. She asked me questions and I couldn’t answer. She looked like a good witch from one of those big red leather bound books, filled with fairytales. A typical eastern european good witch. If her hair hadn’t been that blond and her lips not that pink she might have been beautiful. Did she lie about her age or did I mix up the words she spoke? I took her picture. It’s a lousy picture but she looks nice in it. I’ll bring her a copy, she lives near the Danube. A good place for good witches.

After 16.30 nothing indicates time. It has dissapeared. I can do as I please

10/02/2005

Yesterday I returned to Sturovo. I left Albert in Amsterdam. Fortunately I love being alone as much as I hate saying goodbye to him. The airplane was delayed. An hour later than expected the machine taxied along the runway. Inbetween the long stretches of asphalt big birds of prey stared at the enormous silvery bird I was sitting in. We left the ground and as always I had a strange euphoric feeling because of this magical event. This manmade mass lifting itself into thin air.
Not even a week ago we drove 1400 kilometres to get back to Amsterdam, slept in a small hotel, unexpectedly filled with a big crowd of noisy, rude Dutch families on their way to the white slopes in Austria. We arrived in Holland, visited Alberts 92 year old mother who looked like a boxer because she had fallen over and bruised her face severely, came home, ran around for three days and said goodbye again. Albert to me, I to my house and everything in it. As I said: I hate leaving. But I love to be away.

Nothing has changed here. The bridge looks as majestic as always. There’s a lot of ice on the Danube. My house is cold. Half of the heaters in the living room don’t work. Nothing has changed. I turn on the coocking plates to warm up the living room. Slovak live makes me quite inventive. There’s old snow outside. The sun is shining bright. People walk the streets with sad faces. That hasn’t changed either. But it’s probably the same in Amsterdam. Maybe spring will bring new laughs. Or maybe I have to make them laugh?

I thought of a second project. Actually I wanted to wait for March, but this month might be just as fitting. It’s quite simple. I want to spread a sentence through the city. Written down on those square yellow glue-on note papers. Being stuck everywhere: on walls, doors, car windows, trees, tables, where ever I can stick them. The sentence is in Hungarian, it’s the first full sentence I learned here. Jó világ van. It’s a good world.

And indeed it is.