Meeting in Budapest

In which Laszlo takes us to the Young Artists Club and we see Gypsies on the Way

“T will discuss it with my colleagues. It will not be a problem. We will meet again next week.” This was a refrain with which we became increasingly familiar in a quest for film equipment that occupied much of our four month stay in Budapest.

Laszlo, the youngest member of the Intermedia Department of the Academy of Fine Arts, had been charged to look after the foreign exchange students. At our initial meeting, in a spirit of munificence and generosity, Laszlo suggested that we submit proposals for a joint video project on “a day in the life of Budapest.” Our proposals would be referred to the board of directors of the Bela Belasz Studio, who would then allow us to use their facilities. Laszlo himself was on the board. It seemed like a sure thing. “I will discuss it with my colleagues. It will not be a prob- lem,” Laszlo assured us. “We will meet again next week.”

Across the street from the Academy is the Lukacs coffee house. In the bad old days of the former regime, the Secret Police had confiscated it to use as a can- teen. It has since been restored to the Lukacs family. Now all informal meetings and even some classes at the Academy are held under its vaulted Art Nouveau ceil- ings and chandeliers, over coffee and chocolate torte.

When we met Laszlo upstairs at the Lukacs a week later, the first thing he said was, “Well, there is good news, and there is bad news.” To be honest, I can’t re- member what the good news was, but the bad news implied that things had changed at the BBS — government cutbacks, pre- sumably — and that a meeting would have to be called, during which the proposals would be analysed and voted on. Of course, the meeting couldn’t be held for at least another week.

Everybody sighed. Another meeting, and still no decision had been reached.

We decided it was time for supper. Fiona, the visiting artist from Australia, lead us to her local food place. It was what our neighbour Aggy would call a “dirty little bar.” All conversation stopped as we entered. Everybody had a good look at us as we walked through to the restaurant at the back.

As soon as we were seated and look- ing through the menu, the noise from the table across from us resumed. The table

top was covered with litre beer bottles. A boister- ous conversation was taking place. In retrospect I would call it a boisterous conver- . sation — at the time it seemed like a violent argu- ~ | ment. Amidst shouting and clinking of bottles, the lone woman of the group lay her head on the table and started to sing. Her voice was sure and strong, yet the song was almost

: unbearably sad and haunting.

The waitress, a worn-down ill-at-ease looking woman, took our orders. She kept looking at my coat, which I’d hung ona peg on the wall. “She is worried about your coat,” Laszlo explained. “Those are gypsies at that table arid, while they are not necessarily of the criminal class, they are close to it.” | decided to wear my coat.

The food arrived: turkey snitzels and beer. The table of gypsies grew even more animated. Laszlo shook his head. “I cannot beliéve it.” “What are they talking about?” I asked. “They are talking about Life,” Laszlo replied. “About the best way to live. But they keep coming back to the same place. There is no logic. The con- versation comes back, and then it goes in two different directions. And when they

' get excited, there is no grammar at all. It

is unbelievable.”

After supper, we rushed off to yet another meeting, this one of The Young Artists Club, whose members are planning the first issue of a new art magazine. As we scurried along the streets, Fiona and I breathlessly continued our discussion on self determination. Paula asked Laszlo about the gypsies. Laszlo believed that the Communist regime had been very good to the gypsies, providing them with housing and employment. “But they would just chop up the furniture and make cooking fires on the floor of the flat. Three different regimes have tried to find a solution, with no luck. I do not think that it is possible to integrate them.” Fiona suggested that it might be part of their self definition: to rebel against the system, whatever good intentions the system may or may not have. Laszlo shrugged.

Everyone in the smoky meeting room of the Young Artist Club turned to look at us as we entered. Laszlo had casually invited us to the meeting — “It will not be a problem.” — but it seemed that nobody was expecting us and there weren’t enough chairs. Suddenly con- scious of the three little ducklings follow- ing him, blinking nervously at the gang of grizzled artists and intellectuals slouching around the table bedecked with sand- wiches and wine bottles, Laszlo exhorted us to, “Sit down, sit down.” Where? I

wondered.

Fiona sat on a chair someone had found in the broom closet; Paula and I sat down on what appeared to be a sculpture attached to the wall. The meeting re- sumed, with Laszlo acting as our transla- tor.

The first issue of the new. magazine was to feature a retrospective of the club, which still exists under the new regime, but whose function and future existence is dubious. It turns out that the state used to buy a certain number of paintings per year, the ones that they found agreeable, and these would be duly photographed and entered into the archives.

Not surprisingly, the archives were somewhat chaotic. Somehow, over the | thirty years of its existence, the names of the artists had become separated from their works, so that almost all of the work is now anonymous. To complicate matters further, the artists themselves would often break into the archives and steal either the slides or the original works and re-sell them.

The lights dimmed and a slide show: began: the history of the Young Artist Club. There was much derisive laughter as the slides flashed across the screen. Decade by decade we viewed the state sponsored art. Fiona yawned conspicu- ously and kept looking at her watch. A slide depicting a sculpture of two little matchbox men suspended from the ceiling was flashed up on the screen. Betore anyone could snigger, Laszlo announced, “That was done in 1982.” Either he’s a remarkably knowledgeable historian, or he himself was the sculptor. The little matchbox men did markedly resemble him. The laughter became more intermit- tent as we approached the present day.

No decision was made on which works should be included in the retro- spective. Before we left, Paula took Laszlo aside and asked him if the BBS had any more 16mm cameras available. “I am certain there are one or two in storage which you would be most welcome to use. I will confer with my colleagues.” He smiled warmly. “It will not be a problem. We will meet again next week.”

“by Timothy Ralphs

Timothy Ralphs accompanied Paula Vander on her trip to Hungary, where she studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Budapest.

Still image from the film "Surface Ten- sion" by Paula Vander.

Meeting in Budapest

In which Laszlo takes us to the Young Artists Club and we see Gypsies on the way

“L will discuss it with my colleagues. It will not be a problem. We will meet again next week.” This was a refrain with which we became increasingly fami ‘a quest for film equipment that occupied much of our four month stay in Budapest.

Laszlo, the youngest member of the Intermedia Department of the Academy of Fine Arts, had been charged to look after the foreign exchange students. At our initial meeting, in a spirit of munificence and generosity, Laszlo suggested that we ‘submit proposals for a joint video project. on “a day in the life of Budapest.” Our proposals would be referred to the board of directors of the Bela Belasz Studio, who would then allow us to use their facilities. Laszlo himself was on the board. It seemed like a sure thing. “I will discuss with my colleagues. It will not be a prob- lem,” Laszlo assured us. “We will meet again next week.

‘Across the street from the Academy is the Lukacs coffee house. In the bad oid days of the former regime, the Secret Police had confiscated it to use as a can- teen. It has since been restored to the Lukacs family. Now all informal meetings and even some classes at the Academy are held under its vaulted Art Nouveau ceil- ings and chandeliers, over coffee and chocolate torte.

When we met Laszlo upstairs at the Lukacs a week later, the first thing he said was, “Well, there is good news, and there is bad news.” To be honest, I can’t re- member what the good news was, but the bad news implied that things had changed at the BBS — government cutbacks, pre: sumably — and that a meeting would have to be called, during which the proposals would be analysed and voted on. Of, course, the meeting couldn’t be held for at Teast another week.

Everybody sighed. Another meeting, and still no decision had been reached.

We decided it was time for supper. Fiona, the visiting artist from Australia, lead us to her local food place. It was what our neighbour Aggy would call a “dirty little bar.” All conversation stopped as we entered. Everybody had a good look at us as we walked through to the restaurant at the back.

As soon as we were seated and look- ing through the menu, the noise from the table across from us resumed. The table top was covered with litre beer bottles. A boister- ous conversation was taking place. In retrospect I would call ita boisterous conver- sation — at the time it seemed like a violent argu- ment. Amidst shouting and clinking of bottles, the lone woman of the group lay her head on the table and started to sing. Her voice was sure and strong, yet the song was almost unbearably sad

and haunting.

The waitress, a worn-down ill-at-ease looking woman, took our orders. She kept looking at my coat, which I'd hung on a peg on the wall. “She is worried about your coat,” Laszlo explained. “Those are gypsies at that table arid, while they are not necessarily of the criminal class, they are close to it.” I decided to wear my coat.

‘The food arrived: turkey snitzels and beer. The table of gypsies grew even more animated. Laszlo shook his head. “I cannot beliéve it.” “What are they talking about?” Lasked. “They are talking about Life,” Laszlo replied. “About the best way to live. But they keep coming back to the same place. There is no logic. The con- versation comes back, and then it goes in two different directions. And when they get excited, there is no grammar at all. It is unbelievable.”

After supper, we rushed off to yet another meeting, this one of The Young Artists Club, whose members are planning the first issue of a new art magazine. As wwe scurried along the streets, Fiona and I breathlessly continued our discussion on self determination. Paula asked Laszlo about the gypsies. Laszlo believed that the Communist regime had been very good to the gypsies, providing them with housing and employment. “But they. would just chop up the furniture and make cooking fires on the floor of the flat. Three different regimes have tried to find a solution, with no luck. I do not think that it is possible to integrate them.” Fiona suggested that it might be part of their self definition: to rebel against the system, whatever good intentions the system may or may not have. Laszlo shrugged.

Everyone in the smoky meeting room of the Young Artist Club turned to look at us as we entered. Laszlo had casually invited us to the meeting — “It will not be a problem.” — but it seemed that nobody was expecting us and there weren’t enough chairs. Suddenly con- scious of the three little ducklings follow- ing him, blinking nervously at the gang of grizzled artists and intellectuals slouching around the table bedecked with sand- wiches and wine bottles, Laszlo exhorted us to, “Sit down, sit down.” Where? I

wondered.

Fiona sat on a chair someone had found in the broom closet; Paula and I sat down on what appeared to be a sculpture attached to the wall. The meeting r sumed, with Laszlo acting as our t tor

nsla-

The first issue of the new magazine was to feature a retrospective of the club, which still exists under the new regime, but whose function and future existence is dubious. It turns out that the state used to buy a certain number of paintings per year, the ones that they found agreeable, and these would be duly photographed and entered into the archives.

Not surprisingly, the archives were somewhat chaotic. Somehow, over the thirty years of its existence, the names of the artists had become separated from their works, so that almost all of the work is now anonymous. To complicate matters further, the artists themselves would often break into the archives and steal either the slides or the original works and re-sell them.

‘The lights dimmed and a slide show began: the history of the Young Artist Club. There was much derisive laughter as the slides flashed across the screen. Decade by decade we viewed the state sponsored art. Fiona yawned conspicu- ously and kept looking at her watch. A slide depicting a sculpture of two little matchbox men suspended from the ceiling was flashed up on the screen. Betore anyone could snigger, Laszlo annount “That was done in 1982.” Either he's a remarkably knowledgeable historian, or he himself was the sculptor. The little matchbox men did markedly resemble him, The laughter became more intermit- tent as we approached the present day.

No decision was made on which works should be included in the retro- spective. Before we left, Paula took Laszlo aside and asked him if the BBS had any more 16mm cameras available. “lam certain there are one or two in storage which you would be most welcome to use. Iwill confer with my colleagues.” He smiled warmly. “It will not be a problem. We will meet again next week.”

aa

by Timothy Ralphs

Timothy Ralphs accompanied Paula Vander on her trip to Hungary, where she studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Budapest.

Still image from the film "Surface Ten- sion” by Paula Vander.