bridge guard

01/09/2005

2005-09-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

How many things do you think a person looses during his life? Unintentionally I mean. Not on purpose.
Recently I left my umbrella at the dentist’s office. For all I know it is still there. Is it lost? I would say it isn’t until I know for sure I can’t get it back. It would have been easy. It is only a ten minute walk from my house. But I didn’t feel like going back. It was an old umbrella, I could do without it. I lost it and left it lost. I am to blame. But only by the umbrella. I can live with that. So I bought a new one. Red as red can be. A small and handy one for less than five euros. It fits in my backpack. I can take it anywhere.

Some years ago my boyfriend gave me a Swiss pocketknife. I carried it with me wherever I went. On a holiday in Spain I dropped it in a hole in the ground when I was preparing a sandwich. It was an enchanting spot, the silence was breathtaking. I reached in the hole, thinking of poisonous snakes and small scorpions. The knife was out of reach.
I bought a new one. I carried it with me wherever I went. In Maastricht I cut a muffin in two. My boyfriend and me enjoyed our coffee and shared the muffin. It took a couple of hours before I realised I left the knife on the tray with the empty coffeecups. I went back to the restaurant but it had disappeared. Nobody had seen it. It dissapeared into nowhere.
I bought my third one. At the time of writing it is in a bag on the chair on my right side.

I lost my wallet maybe three times in my life. The last time it was returned to me by the local police who gave me a phonecall before I even realised I had lost it. That was only money though. Money is never a great loss. In 1997 I left two filmrolls in a room in Prague. The pictures from my honeymoon are still in my head.

This summer I lost a bag in Budapest. My favorite blouse was in it. It could have been worse but I hate losing things so I ran back to retrace it. I found myself in front of the big synagogue just before closing time. Unfortunately the gate was already closed and the person with the key had just left. I was desperate to get my belongings and faked some tears to get the other personnel to help me. It took some effort but in the end they managed to let me in and I found the bag at the precise spot where I had been sitting for a long time watching the monument - a metal tree, every branch carrying numerous leaves, every leaf representing a Jewish man our woman who lost his or her life during the war. My favorite blouse wasn’t even in the bag, I suddenly remembered I left it in the hotel. There was just a tiny cheerful bikini. And a huge loss of decency.

02/07/2005

2005-07-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

02/07/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

26/06/2005

2005-06-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

One of my oldest memories is something which happened about 28 years ago. I was 4 years old and it was my first schoolday. It was only a short walk from our house to the school. My mother brought me there and standing amidst the other children at the schoolyard I waved at her cheerfully when she left. I remember a lot of those children were crying. They wanted to go home. I didn’t. I jumped into the sandbox and started digging. Maybe I build a castle. I don’t remember. My memorie stops here.

Years later, my mother told me she remembered that day very well. When she left me at the schoolyard she cried the whole way home and felt terrible the rest of the day. Not because she had to leave me there but because I seemed to have forgotten her the moment I entered school.

I have never been very good at saying goodbye. My friends throw parties when they move house or go for a trip around the world. When they finish their studies or emigrate. I lived in Ireland, in France, in Germany, I finished two studies and I never threw a party. I never said goodbye.

I remember the day I arrived here. It was dark and cold, we had driven for two days and were rather tired. There seemed to be no end to the road from the trainstation to the centre of town. We found the Bridge Guard Residency, unpacked the car and made our first walk through the streets of Sturovo/Parkany. I looked around and felt at home. This is where I wanted to be.

And I still do. I feel at home. I love being here. But Friday I will leave and I won’t say goodbye. I won’t cry. I will simply go. I will enter my house in Amsterdam and it will feel like I’ve never left it. Which is true. Because I haven’t. Just like I never left my house in Ireland, in France, in Germany. Just like I never left my mothers house on that first schoolday. I am still there. Because I felt at home there.

Next Friday I will leave. But I will stay. I won’t say goodbye. I only say thank you. Thank you all for making me feel at home.

25/05/2005

2005-06-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

25/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

23/06/2005

2005-06-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

23/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

22/06/2005

2005-06-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

22/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

15/06/2005

2005-06-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

15/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

15/06/2005

2005-06-15T12:00:00.001-07:00

15/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

15/06/2005

2005-06-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

15/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

14/06/2005

2005-06-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

14/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

13/06/2005

2005-06-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

13/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

11/06/2005

2005-06-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

What surprised me most was how the leaves of the trees moved in the wind. Movement. How could there be movement? A tiny tiny bird lay on the ground. Too young to wear a birdcostume yet. The body still warm.
Small bird. Small sorrow. A small goodbye. Ballad of the fallen. Charlie Haden.

06/06/2005

2005-06-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

06/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

03/06/2005

2005-06-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

03/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

02/06/2005

2005-06-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

02/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

01/06/2005

2005-06-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

01/06/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

27/05/2005

2005-05-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

27/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

24/05/2005

2005-05-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

24/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

23/05/2005

2005-05-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

23/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

19/05/2005

2005-05-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

It is a blissful morning. I don’t know why. It must be written somewhere out there in the sky, behind the elephant-size clouds. In the last days, the chestnut tree threw most of its flowers on the floor. It must be tired of its beautiful looks. When I woke up this morning I saw the contours of a man through the frosted glass of my bedroom.
He moved from left to right, bending over from time to time. When I opened my curtains he was gone and so were the flowers. There were only poodles of water left. Who did the crying? Was it him or the tree? It wasn’t me. It is a blissful morning.

18/05/2005

2005-05-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

Bratislava. Again and again. Why don’t I visit Budapest? An easy question. A simple answer. I always like the underdog best.
In Budapest I feel like another person. In Bratislava I feel like me.

Entering the Academy of Fine Arts and Design I am entering the Gerrit Rietveld Academy. It isn’t just the concierge, the long aisles, the classrooms, the ragged toilets. It is this hint of ......... of what exactly? Creativity? Experiment? Freedom? Or is it just the smell of paint and developer?

I meet the head of the Studio of Space Communications. In a way, you could call him the artistic forerunner of Captain Picard or a modern Einstein. His name is Anton Cierny. I forgot to tell him how much I liked the name of his atelier. But it is even better to tell you (yes you).

I am surprised how neat it is. The Rietveld was always just as neat in the beginning of the year. But during the year the corridors would silt up like the veins of a McDonalds addict. Here people work behind doors in smaller and bigger ateliers. I don’t want to intrude. I peep.

I wait two hours for a dvd being burned by a computer seeming to be tired of these fast and furious times. He promises me it will be ready in an hour (“1 minute elapsed, 58 to go”) but decides to take it easy. I don’t mind. Compelled waiting opens up another space and time. Even more when you are in the Studio of Space Communications. It gives me time to talk to Marián, Anton’s assistant and Lucia (sorry if I spell your name wrong). She shows me a handmade starry sky casting spotlights over a none-existing love couple in a gentle pace that must be a relieve for the computer.

After that I walk and walk and walk. I know the city. I don’t know the city. I know the city. I don’t know the city. I walk the streets like a lover tears petals from a flower. In the end it doesn’t matter. The answer is somewhere else. You can only get it from the beloved person herself. Himself. Itself.

The fast train takes me away from Bratislava. But we will meet again.

17/05/2005

2005-05-17T23:59:00.001-07:00

17/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

17/05/2005

2005-05-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

17/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

17/05/2005

2005-05-17T23:58:00.000-07:00

17/05/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

16/05/2005

2005-05-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

“Het enige dat steeds zal veranderen, is de manier waarop alles hetzelfde blijft.”

“The only thing that will keep on changing, is the way in which everything stays the same”

Hans Kox (composer) in “Het grote zwijgen”, NRC Handelsblad 6/05/2005

15/05/2005

2005-05-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

Of course I knew they would be coming. But in a way I still didn’t believe it. I pictured the Esztergom streets with green trees and nice temperatures and just as crowded as they were during the colder spring months. Terrases with a choice of empty seats. No noise apart from the rolling wheels of skateboards on the small stone bridge and an occasional dog barking.
I am not naive. I knew the warm weather would bring them. However I was hoping they wouldn’t come untill I could imagine them here. But they sneeked in. And now they won’t go away anymore.
Am I being egoïstic? Not at all. I don’t mind them being there, as long as they are gone when I pass by. I want to be the only one walking along the water, admiring the beautiful old buildings, sitting on a bench in the square in front of the Belgium restaurant. Drinking coffee at my favourite terras (they have great cakes too!), walking the off centre streets. Okay, a few I don’t mind. As long as they don’t bring along that ridiculous tourist train, a childish version of a real one but crammed with middle aged men and women, too lazy to walk the cobbled streets. Mocking this beautiful city.

12/05/2005

2005-05-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

I find it hard to look at. They worked like madmen. Flying of and on. But this morning the nest fell from the pillar. It is their second nest within a couple of days. A beautiful piece of work, but again they didn’t find a proper way to attach it to the metal structure. I saw the male trying to lift it from the ground. In vain of course. It is six times as big as he is. A small tragedy. But what can I do?

Get the ladder. Find my gaffertape. There it is. Black and sticky.

07/05/2005

2005-05-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

She is smiling her sweetest smile.

Where is she now? When is she now? She must be standing in this same street. Two small kids on her strong arms. She is the same age as I am. 33. Life has started again. A war has just ended.
Big green trucks pass by. Noisy green motorcycles. Two gigantic tanks. Man with broad smiles. Sweets being thrown in the air. She is smiling her saddest smile.

I have known here all my life. I was born in her house. I spend half of my childhood in her house. I know her eyes. I know her worried look. But best of all I know her smiles.

Some of the men on the wagons are young. But the warcostumes make them look ancient. Some of the men are my grandmothers age. They might have been here 60 years ago. All the way from Canada. Fighting the German occupiers. Freeing this small little village in the east of Holland.

She makes a joke. She laughs like a girl. Sometimes she is here. Sometimes she isn’t. That’s when she is smiling her sweetest smile.

29/04/2005

2005-04-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

“Do you have any hobbies?” My favorite question. It is asked by a small blond girl. Before I can answer the teacher completes the question. “Besides taking photos off course.” I want to kick her. But that wouldn’t be a good idea in front of this class of sweet boys and girls. The girls sit at the left side of the room, the boys at the right side. They are terribly shy, the boys. Keep their lips tightly closed. The girls are also shy but too curious. They ask girls-questions. “What is your favorite colour?” “What is your favorite food?” “ Do you have pets?” “What is your favorite month?” Difficult questions. Well, not the one about the pets though.

Next week I will go to Holland. I asked the children from the Slovak and the Hungarian primary school what they want to know about my country, my city or myself. They can ask anything. But just one question each. In Holland I will film the answers. They gave me a long list.
“Why don’t the Dutch people like soup?” A question always reflects the person asking the question. Or in this case, not just a person but a whole nation. The Hungarians eat soup every day. A meal without soup isn’t a real meal. Therefore people who don’t eat soup every day, don’t eat properly.
Another one: “Did you ever meet Edgar Davids?” This must be a boy. Just like the one asking “King William III had a daughter, her name was Wilma. Is there a street in Holland named after her?” A special interest in history. He must be spending his pocket money on books. Reading stories about knights and kings and heroes. And he isn’t the only one. “Are there any statues in Amsterdam showing kings or national heroes?”
Some kids are interested in nature. “Are there sharks in the Northsea?” Or about me. “Did you ever smoke soft drugs?” Curious little bastards. “What are your hobbies?” Again.

The teacher prepared them well. She asks the children what they know about Holland. I hear some interesting stuff. How most people in Amsterdam live in a “boathouse”. How we eat mainly fastfood. How there is a windmill in every village and city. They tell me about their country too. The teachers asks about their traditional food. The children hesitate. “What do you like to eat?” she tries again. Two of the girls answer simultaneously: “Pizza!”

24/04/2005

2005-04-24T12:00:00.001-07:00

24/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

24/04/2005

2005-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

I like sun in the morning. I like sad songs. I like spaghetti. I like removing splinters from my fingers. I like the smell of mowed grass. I like weeds turning into beautiful flowers. I like carrots, raw, not cooked. I like silence. I like fields. I like the colour of the sky just after twilight. I like old cars. I like wrinkled faces. I like French villages. I like bumblebees.

What on earth am I doing here?

Zilina. A city in the northwest of Slovakia. It is 10 ‘o clock in the morning. The sun is shining. So far, so good. The breakfast table is standing next to the ticketmachine, about 2 metres from the single track. Marek bought ham and orangejuice and white breadrolls. The coffee is almost ready. Traffic zooms by, cars buzzing like big insects. A handfull of viaducts tower over us. When I take the first zip of coffee, a train stops. People leave the train, a woman wishes us a pleasant breakfast. The train moves on. I drink my coffee. Smiling. Smiling?

Did you ever see the French movie “Irreversible?” I did. It is terrible. It is terribly good. The worst scene happens in an underground passage. A woman alone. A man passing her. Haunting music. I’ll spare you the cruel course. But I can tell you a friend of mine saw the video and didn’t want her boyfriend near her for a whole week. She almost got into a fight with the person who had encouraged her to go and see the movie. This made me curious. That is when I rented it.

I arrived in Zilina in the middle of the night. It takes 3.5 hours from Bratislava. I couldn’t leave earlier because I didn’t want to miss a lecture by a British D.J. The lecture was part of the Multiplace festival, an international new media festival. I saw a lot of videos, attended a “walking workshop” and hung around in the “Trash cafe”. It was a relief to see some real contemporary art and talk to people who work in the same field as I do. The dj was an excellent lecturer. The subject of his lecture was “Sonic warfare”.
He talked about sound being used as a weapon during the Vietnam war and by policemen during violent protest actions. About shops attracting customers with music, about rappers and D.J.’s and about the movie “Irreversible”. “It isn’t just the terrible images that make you feel sick” he explained. And he turned on his sound system. Loud. Louder. Louder. It was the music from the movie. The music in the underground passage. Just before my stomach turned around he switched the sound of. A terrible sound. With tunes so low they actually make you feel physically unwell. I hadn’t experienced that while watching the video. But it must have been like that in a cinema with a good sound system.

My train left at 21.30. I slept -or did an attempt to- the biggest part of the journey. The landscape was invisible. It was only from my reading about this area I knew I was in the presence of mountains. The pension I booked was situated outside the centre. The 5 euro rate per night didn’t promise a lot, but it was near my destination.
I crossed the whole village, it was past one ‘o clock already. A big road led to a huge interchange. Big roads crossed bigger roads. Viaducts. A graffiti jungle. Only one way to reach the other side. When I walked down the stairs into a dark tunnel the music started in my head. At the end of the tunnel a man was walking in my direction. I tried very hard not to feel scared. But trying didn’t work. The music got louder.

But here I am. 33 hours later. Zipping my orange juice outside a trainstation in the middle of the interchange. Cars like bumblebees. Graffiti like flowers. Yesterday evening we danced on the platform. Inside students from the art academy showed their videoworks.The D.J. played terrible music, but we danced anyway. Did the others think about the Jews who were transported from this same platform? I didn’t. I forgot. But I remember now. My footsteps on their footsteps.

What is it with this place? When I got here I couldn’t believe somebody would fall for this location, would put all his energy into changing this railwaystation in a culture centre. Now I drink my coffee smiling. I don’t want to leave.

I have to leave.

I enter the underground passage and hope I will walk it again soon.

23/04/2005

2005-04-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

23/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

22/04/2005

2005-04-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

22/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

20/04/2005

2005-04-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

During my Residency in Sturovo, Slovakia, my husband send me the cultural supplements from Dutch newspapers now and then. This morning I read an old one. On the front page an article by the artcritic Anna Tilroe. The headline being “There is a major lack. The responsibility of artists in dificult times”. Among other things, Tilroe writes about the European soul and where it can be found: “the soul of Europe is incredibly rich, patterned and sensitive, heavy of visions of a possible, better world, impregnated by a sense of adventure and experiment, prepared to create space by throwing traditions overboard and expose moral dilemmas”......”.this sparkling soul is to be found in her art.” I read it carefully, pondering over her words. But not too long, since there is more to be read. A big article by the writer Benno Barnard, starting with the headlines saying European art doesn’t exist. “Forget Europe!”.... “Europe is our sublime combined invention, being part of the nominal reality of scholasticists, of the categories of “evil” or “beauty” ......... “why try to make European art?”.......”There are at least about fifty Europes, voila Europe”.
Here two persons speak. Two well known, intelligent persons. It might be a coincidence they are both published in the same newspaper at the same time. It might be not. As a reader I am asking myself: who is right? I tend to believe Benno Barnard but I am not sure if it is because I think he is right or because I won’t believe the opinion of somebody who titles her article “There is a major lack. The responsibility of artists in difficult times.”

Black is black and white is white. But what is the colour of the Danube? Is it blue? Is it grey? Is it colourless? I can tell you. On sunny days, when the water reflects the sky, it is blue. After the aprilrains, when the high water drops and takes earth and dirt with it, it is grey. And in fact it is colourless, since water doesn’t have a colour. But don’t put a gun to my head and force me to answer the question. You’d have to shoot me.
I started this article writing I am living in Sturovo, Slovakia, but a lot of my fellow citizens here life in Parkany, Hungary. When I enter a shop saying “Dobry den”, the shopemployees answer in Slovak, when I enter the same shop saying “Jo napod” they answer in Hungarian. I am sure. I live in Slovakia. When I look at the map there is no discussion possible. But what about the 88 year old man I was drinking some homebrewn liquor with the other day? He never moved in his life. He lived in the same house for 88 years. He was born in Hungary. So he is still living in Hungary. No discussion possible.
The new Hungarian-Slovak border was formed in 1920. Since there was a river, it was an easy job. The Danube became no mans land. Her left bank Hungarian, her right bank Slovak (facing west) or the other way around (facing east). Slovakia became Czechoslovakia. Bridges crossing the Danube were build and destroyed. Czechoslovakia split up in the Czech and the Slovak republic. The European Union came into being. Hungary, Czech and Slovakia joined. A new bridge was build crossing the Danube. In the middle of the Maria Valeria Bridge there is a line. Stand with one foot on one side and the other on the other side and you are in two countries at the same time.
I cross the bridge almost every day. I know I am entering another country because I have to show my passport. The patrolguards always study it carefully and always let me pass. I walk the bridge, enter Esztergom, I see the same cars, the same plants, the same cats, the same shops, the same people as on the other side. When I walk back I see a bridge, I see patrol guards, I see people showing their passports, but I don’t see a border. The border is invisible. It is colourless like the water in the Danube. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Maybe I don’t see a border because I’m not overly interested in politics. Borders are always political. And don’t get me wrong, I try to keep up with the political situation, I vote, I do my duty, but it is all merely a game, isn’t it? There is more to life than politics. Making art. Meeting 88 year old Slovaks. Walking in the Amsterdam Vondelpark. Or maybe there isn’t. Maybe life is politics. Living in a country with borders invented by politicians. Having the right to vote and this vote being used by political parties even if you don’t go to the polls. Buying groceries at the supermarket, the prices being determined by the economical situation which is inextricably wedded to the political situation.

In the same newspaper I found the two articles about art and Europe there is an article about the hiphopsinger Nelly. He talks about the language he and his friends use. How negative words get a positive meaning. “Pimp” meaning “friend”, “gangsta” meaning something is wonderful, “bad” meaning good. And there are more examples. Like “wicked” or “awsome”. Or in my own language the word “wreed” (cruel) meaning “te gek” (brilliant).
Lets face it: we live in a world where bad can be good and the other way around. A world where borders aren’t borders at all, a world where every european citizen has his own Europe. We live in a relative world. There are facts, I won’t denie that. In 1917 Sturovo was located in Hungary. In 2005 it is located in Slovakia. But what should we call the man who was born in 1917? And what should we call his son? There are a lot of answer to this question. Should we call them what they calls themselves? Should they call themselves what the politicians call them?

Living here, people ask me about life in Holland. They ask me what I like about being here and how it differs from Holland. I tell them I measure the things I encounter. On the one side of the balance is a Dutch event, experience, person, on the other side I put a similar Slovak event, experience, person. The balance always stays equal. The things are different but have the same weight. Do I prefer apples or chocolate? It depends. As a drink, I prefer apple juice, but at a party I prefer the chocolatecake over the applepie. In the morning I eat an apple for breakfast, with my coffee I eat chocolate.
For example. Things aren’t that efficient here. Things go slow. I hate that when my heatingsystem needs to be fixed. I love it when I don’t feel the pressure I feel in Amsterdam to get my duties done.

Apples and oranges. In Holland we compare apples and pears though. Anyway, in the supermarket in Sturovo you can get anything. Mango’s, kiwi’s, banana’s, lichees, rambutans, cockonuts, any fruit you want. It feels like shopping in the Albert Heijn in Amsterdam. It feels like shopping in the European Union. But only until I reach the checkout and have to pay an amount which is ridiculously low for a Dutch mind. Then it feels like shopping in the Slovak republic.
I could tell you I eat a kiwi every morning. I could tell you I eat a piece of fruit every morning. I could tell you I eat some food every morning. There is a difference, off course. But does it matter?

I can tell you I am a Dutch citizen. I can tell you I am a European citizen. I could even tell you I am a world citizen. But does it matter?

Naming the things is necessary to life our lives. Without names there is no order. Without order there is chaos. The human being can’t survive in chaos. That is why there is a country called Hungary and a country called Slovakia. That is why there is a continent called Europe. That is why there is a European Union. That is why there are writers and artists and artcritics and border patrol guards and hiphoppers and cats and bridges and rivers. And that is why there are borders.

There is something which Anna Tilroe calls Europe. I put it on the one side of the balance. There is a collection of fifty countries, the ones Benno Barnard mentions. I put them on the other side of the balance. Two different things. But they have the same weight. The balance stays equal.

17/04/2005

2005-04-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

17/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

15/04/2005

2005-04-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

I have to be careful. A small insekt, a brown beetle, just crawled under my keybord. Without hesitating a moment it dived under the “alt” key and I haven’t seen it since. I don’t know under what letter it has hidden itself. I waited for it to crawl back out but it hasn’t. I hope it is under the “q”. I have to avoid typing my name.
Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t watched “Kafka” last night. Jeremy Irons (playing Kafka) and of all people Jeroen Krabbé in a Steven Soderbergh movie.
Maybe it didn’t happen.

14/04/2005

2005-04-14T12:00:00.001-07:00

Ik liep in het bos. Het denkbeeldige water woelde ter hoogte van mijn borsten. Mijn voeten zakten weg in een stinkende modderachtige kleigrijze substantie. Ik kon de kleine golven horen klotsen op de oever. Een korte visser met lange hengels liep door mijn blikveld. Hij opende zijn mond om mij te groeten. Een maand eerder en de vissen hadden zo naar binnen kunnen zwemmen, rechtstreeks via zijn slokdarm naar zijn maag. Het enige wat hij had hoeven doen was de onverteerbare delen weer uitspugen. Graten en grauwe vinnen. Ik groette terug. Met gesloten mond kan iedereen voor een Hongaar doorgaan. Ik had mezelf blootgegeven.
De visser keek om. Zijn bruine gezicht verried een werkend leven in de buitenlucht. Of herhaalde vakanties op Ibiza. Ik zette mijn hele vermogen in op de eerste optie. Waar waren zijn gevangen vissen? Hij lachte een klein lachje en wees omhoog. Daar zag ik alleen vogels. De bomen kraakten. Ze hadden het zwaar.
Met zompige schoenen zocht ik mij weer een weg naar de dijk. Aan de andere zijde kleine containers achter kippengaas met prikkeldraad. Zomers gezellige vakantiewoningen voor het hele gezin. De Donau op een steenworp afstand. Idyllisch Esztergom aan de overzijde. Het zwemparadijs in eigen dorp. Wat wil de toerist nog meer?
Het bos zou dan het bos niet meer zijn. De veelvuldige aprilregens zouden de klei-jassen van de bomen gewassen hebben. De denkbeeldige boven- en onderwereld weer samengesmolten tot de saaie werkelijkheid.
Ik liep nog één keer terug en maakte een foto. Maar wie gelooft er tegenwoordig nog in een foto? Ik? Ik geloofde mijn eigen ogen nauwelijks.

14/04/2005

2005-04-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

14/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

12/04/2005

2005-04-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

I didn’t know him at all. And here I was, eating his biscuits, drinking some strong homebrewn liquor. Wondering who put the fresh flowers on his table. Admiring the small painting which reminded me of Francis Bacon. I am looking straight into a young man’s mouth.
He told me he had been fighting in France in the Second World War. There was a moment he considered fleeing to Belgium an option. But he couldn’t get the image of his parents out of his head. He had to return, if only to see if they were still alive. They were then. But not anymore. Of course. He was 84 now. Still living in Sturovo.
I had been on my way to the other side. But things don’t always turn out the way you plan them. I filmed a garden behind a long wooden fence. At the end of the fence, a man stood in his doorway. If you film somebodies property and he invites you in, you can’t refuse. Besides, if you are on your way to the other side, a chance meeting can’t be a coincidence.
He poured us another drink. It was three o’ clock.
He used to be a “menegdzser”. He travelled at a time when most people couldn’t. He had been in Amsterdam before I was born. Before my mother had even kissed a boy without any other intention than to tease him. He tried to find the name of the hotel he had stayed in during his days in Amsterdam. But the memory was buried under other memories. When you are 84 they pile up. Hide themselves between more recent ones. He took a new one. “Julia, wie Julia Roberts. Sie ist acht Jahre alt.” He got that look in his eyes grandparents get when talking about their grandchildren. When you can’t walk as fast as you used to, they do the running for you. Maybe even the living.
At four, she walked in, Julia, just like Julia Roberts. She brought her aunt with her. I knew her. She had brought me beautiful flowers once. From the same garden that got me in this house.
She offered me some homemade coockies. They were delicious.

11/04/2005

2005-04-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

I was waiting. I didn’t really know for what. Or whom. Naturally for the sun to start shining again, but that wasn’t just it. I played music in the meantime. Only jazz trio’s. The Bad Plus, Bobo Stenson Trio, Peter Erskine Trio, van Veenendaal/Kneer/Sun. I like this traditional setting. Drums, double bass, piano. A clear choice. Like red, yellow and blue. You can make whatever coulour you want out of it.
Every early morning I wake up at 5.30. I listen untill I get tired of the birds welcoming the day. I fall back asleep again and have disturbing dreams. In my dreams I am waiting but I don’t really know for what. Or whom. I open doors to see what is behind them, I walk through hallways and hear birds whistling. The cellar is where the attic should be. In the dark small birds are being eaten by white cats.
The doorbell rings. I open the door. A friendly face. Familiar words. But I don’t understand their meaning. She doesn’t speak any English or German. She walks away, still smiling. I wonder what she was looking for. When I go back into the livingroom she walks past my windows. Her hair is blue.
Sometimes my grandmother’s hair turned blue too. Too much of the colouring stuff to keep her hair nicely gray. She would panic, stay in for days. She didn’t like hats.
The doorbell rings again. I open the door. It is a man wearing a hat. I can’t see his hair. His coat is blue though. He takes of his hat. There is no hair left. His eyebrows are very black. His hair must have been too. He clears his throat and speaks some words in Slovak. As I answer in German the sun starts to shine and one of the four black neighbourhood cats runs by with a mouse between his teeth. The man shakes his head. Puts on his hat and walks the same way the cat went.
In the big chestnuttree in the courtyard a bird is playing a trumpet. I continue waiting.

09/04/2005

2005-04-09T12:00:00.000-07:00

Bratislava the sequel. Hotel Kyjev hasn’t changed. The weather has, though, and the room we find ourselves in is hot and on top of that very noisy. Partly because it is on the city side but also because one of the windows doesn’t close. That isn’t very strange. It is a miracle the other three windows close well.
We change to a room at the other side. It is the same room. Every room is the same room in this hotel. Even the colourless reproduction of a tree painting is bought in bulk.

To get here, we took a fast EC train. It stops only once on the way here but at every small station the train passes, a railway employee in full uniform is waiting outside the trainstation, the green/red round device buried under his or her armpit. Not moving. Maybe smiling. We are going too fast to see the details. Why on earth are they standing there like that? Whatever it is, I’m sure it makes them feel more real. Maybe that’s why they all grow moustaches too.

The second time you visit a city is the best. From the first time you know the rough outlines, the different rules. Where to get your tramtickets, where to find the galeries, restaurants, cafés. Where to go and where not to go. But still you don’t know it well. You can be surprised. You can be lost. You discover new places. You return to the old ones.

I only get lost in Hotel Kyjev.

I am up before the sun is. I see Albert of at the Bratislava airport. I walk back to the hotel for the famous Kyjev breakfast. These are the small pleasures in life. The extra’s you get for free.

Three hours later I set foot in a sleepy town called Cunovo. No living soul around. A flat metal Jesus hangs on a cross in front of the church. His eyes are closed. Just outside the cemetary a flashy folder is nailed on a tree. Gravestones for reduced prices the whole month of april! In Cunovo you can save a lot of money when you die.
I am here for the Danubiana museum, founded by a Dutch guy named Meulensteen. I am promised to encounter some of the “more cutting-edge art in Slovakia”. The three kilometer walk is surreal. I can’t find a way out of the dusty cluster of houses, walk in circles for three quarters of an hour. Next I find myself in a Tarkovski movie, walking through the woods, out of nowhere the wind starting to blow at full volume. A deserted restaurant followed by a deserted highway. A river, followed by a dike, followed by a huge and entirely empty parking lot. I hear a hammer hammering but I don’t see anybody. There is a lake and on the other side a silvery museum, shining in the sun. Swim or walk? I walk. And walk. And walk. And reach a dam. The sky has turned greenish. Cars pass me by. Big cars, bigger cars. Enormous cars.
Exhausted I reach the museum. And feel betrayed. Respectable paintings in charming colours. Soft easy listening music fills the majestic rooms. Shit, I forgot to wear my “good taste is the enemy of art” button! The coffee is nice though and the waiter charmingly shy. And what can be more soothing than the promise of an exhibition coming up with the once so famous Martina Navratilova. Yes, you are right, there is a tennis player with the same name. In fact, it is the tennis player.

Back to Sturovo. At the window an elderly couple carrying a large container filled with home made wine. Opposite a girl dressed in white, obviously wearing a wrong bra, the whole trainride she keeps adjusting it with one hand, the other one she needs to hold her phone to her ear. Next to me a smelly man, trying to talk to anybody but me. Sometimes it is a blessing not to speak the language. A border patrolguard comes by to check our passports and doesn’t believe I am not travelling to Budapest but get out at Sturovo. “What are you doing there?” he asks. “Living” I answer. He gives me back my passport without a word.

08/04/2005

2005-04-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

08/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

07/04/2005

2005-04-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

07/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

06/04/2005

2005-04-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

06/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

05/04/2005

2005-04-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

Spring has defenitely started. Pregnant women are out on the streets carrying big bellies. In the last few days friends of mine gave birth to two new world citizens. The woodpeckers have cut out a nest in the big chestnut tree in the courtyard. A man proudly drove his harley davidson around the park this morning and from my window I spot people carrying big backpacks and cars with luggage carriers on their roofs: the tourists are coming!

Suddenly there appears to be a nice sunny terras behind a door I have never seen open before, a new shop selling icecreams pops up in the main street playing the cheerful song “I’m walking on sunshine”, women wear skirts which are actually suited for a temperature we didn’t experience yet.

The level of the Danube is still high. No beachwalks yet, but strolling along the dikes is possible. Couples in love sit on sunny stones or block the small path, having only eyes (and lips) for each other.

04/04/2005

2005-04-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

04/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

03/04/2005

2005-04-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

“Don’t flush the toilet!” he shouted. Too late. Automatically I pushed the button and the cistern emptied itself without being refilled. Valuable water gets lost. We still have a small supplie of yellowish water in pans, bottles and buckets. The bathtub is filled with brownish water I took a bath in yesterday and can be reused for the toilet. Maybe tonight the tabs will run for another 20 minutes. Maybe they will have fixed the watersystem by tomorrow.

The sun is shining again. I didn’t know this is the land of eternal sunshine. The few days there were clouds and rain have dissapeared from my memory. The road outside looks like a miniature hilly country. I’m very happy the roadmenders don’t work on Sundays.

01/04/2005

2005-04-01T12:00:00.000-08:00

01/04/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

31/03/2005

2005-03-31T12:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have the feeling I am being haunted. There was one important reason why I didn’t miss my house in Amsterdam. Since months they are restoring the house nextdoor. From early morning on they are drilling and hammering and singing and throwing and pumping and shouting and whatever else makes noise in the most irritating way. Recently they took the whole rear wall out. If I’m lucky it is finished when I come back in July. But I don’t count on it.
Three weeks ago they started working on the road in Sturovo. It started innocently, some men drawing white lines on the bumpy surface they call a road around the park near my house. Two weeks ago the drilling started. They are going to turn it into a pedestrian zone. A lot of work needs to be done. I’m afraid it won’t be finished before I leave here. The drilling usually starts early. I always have the feeling these workingmen think people don’t deserve to sleep when they are up and about already. The first thing they do at 7 o’ clock is take out their drills and shake up the neighbourhood. When everybody is awake they go for their coffee and after that they continue doing the more silent but still pretty noisy stuff.
Last Tuesday I went on a small trip. I left in the morning, outside my house the workers stood in line in a long ditch, shovels and pickaxes in their hands. They looked like serfs. Or prisoners being forced to do the dirty work. But these men get payed to do this work, although I’m afraid it isn’t much. And it didn’t look like they were enjoying it.
I walked to the trainstation, which is about three kilometres off centre. My goal was Trnava, the oldest known settlement in Slovakia. It still has an ancient city wall and seems to be worthwile visiting, although it isn’t as beautiful as it used to be (but what city is?) After two hours the train arrived, I found the hotel I had planned to spend the night and was led to my room which lay adjacent to a big courtyard. In the courtyard a small army of working men ran around accompanied by the sounds known so well so me. They were working on a new parking lot. I stared at the hotelemployee in horror. “Don’t worry”, she said, “they stop at three o clock”. “And when do they start tomorrow morning?” I asked in return. “About seven, half past seven”, she replied. She must have seen the frustration on my face, because before I could follow my instincts and ran out the frontdoor of the hotel, she had called one of the men and discussed the matter. “Okay”, she said, “they won’t start before ten”. I cheered and threw my bags in my room. Silence at last.
The next morning the working men woke me up at seven fifteen. They didn’t bring the heavy drills, but all the hammering and shouting was enough to wake up a deaf person. I complained, ate the funniest breakfast I ever ate in a hotel (they served eggs only, you could choose in what shape you wanted to have them, a glance in the open kitchen showed big piles of those cartboard things eggs are stored and sold in lying around everywhere) and continued my trip. The next goal was Nitra. A trip by bus this time, followed by a nice walk from the station to the centre and after a quick visit to the information office I found the perfect hotel. Fancy but not too fancy, cheap, but not too cheap, nice big room with a nice big bed at the backside of the hotel, windows looking out on a small empty courtyard with a big tree. Perfect. I unpacked the little items I brought with me, sat on the bed and felt the floor shake. A terrible noise followed. Then above my head the drilling started.

30/03/2005

2005-03-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

30/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

29/03/2005

2005-03-29T12:00:00.000-08:00

29/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

28/03/2005

2005-03-28T12:00:00.000-08:00

28/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

20/03/2005

2005-03-20T12:00:00.000-08:00

Two days my house was open to the public. There was Dutch jazz music, the best wine from Sturovo, all the things I made in the last two months and a lot of people of whom I knew some already.
The mayor wasn’t there, nor was the deputy mayor, the ladies from the local galery, the director from the Culture House, my neighbours from the “selfgovernment” or the journalist from the Hungarian newspaper.* But we didn’t miss them since all the interested people were here.
They came from Bratislava, Budapest, Esztergom and Sturovo. Some were young, some were old, some spoke some English or German, some I couldn’t understand. There was a Slovak man who’s daughter was living in Holland and who could speak a couple of words in Dutch: “mooie kerstboom” (nice christmas tree) and “schakelaar” (switch) . We had a very nice conversation. There was a woman I had never met before who brought me flowers from her own garden.There was a man who had birthmarks on his arm resembling the stellar constellation of Cassiopeia. He posed next to a video of mine showing a hand with a pen drawing lines between the birthmarks on somebodies back. There were two young girls who turned into very helpfull translators. There was a couple bringing us home made cake and local grapa. There were people who didn’t talk, only listened and looked. There were people who didn’t look or listen, only talked.

It was a wonderful weekend and so nice having all them here, but I still don’t have a clue what they think about all this. About the music, the drawings, the videos, the Bridge Guard Residency. Asking straight out doesn’t help. Maybe people are afraid to say something. Maybe having an opinion about art or art presentation isn’t valued highly. When I speak out (always respectful but nevertheless critical) at the openings I attend people also tend not to hear what I’m saying and talk around it. It’s a pity. We could learn from each other

* I found out later there was a journalist present but he didn’t introduce himself as being a journalist. He wrote a piece in the Esztergom newspaper which I am still unable to read, but I’m very curious what he says.

18/03/2005

2005-03-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

18/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

17/03/2005

2005-03-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

After two days Budapest Albert and I travel back to Sturovo. It has been six weeks since he left. I remember our very first day here. We crossed the bridge, went up to the Esztergom basilica to overlook Sturovo and the Danube. Standing there, Albert saw an owl for the first time in his life.
It is already getting dark when we arrive at the house. The temperature in the courtyard is still okay, we put two chairs outside and drink a Slovak beer. Silently, a bird lands on one of the lower branches of the huge tree in the middle of the courtyard. We look up, the owl looks down and doesn’t move for a couple of minutes. Then it flies of again.

15/03/2005

2005-03-15T12:00:00.000-08:00

The Ferihegy National Airport is pretty small for a city as big as Budapest. It lies about 24 kilometres southeast of the city centre. Travelling here from Sturovo takes a couple of hours. I’ve counted the days. Since yesterday I’ve counted the hours. My beloved is due to arrive at twelve.

A Danish couple approaches me. Do you speak english? I do. They sigh relieved. None of the taxibusdrivers want to take them to the centre of Budapest. The deskemployees pretend not to understand any English. How to get to Budapest? Is there a bus? I explain them there is, but not a straight one. Next to me some German travellers curse. The ticketmachine for the bus only takes coins and the busdriver doesn’t want to sell them a ticket in the bus, even though he should. I change their money, they buy a ticket, but the busdriver slams the door shut in front of their faces and hits the road. I leave them with their anger and go for a cup of coffee. I order a normal cappucino and get an extra large and extra expensive one. I get the feeling they don’t really like tourists here.

The plain is delayed. I wait. I enjoy the waiting. There is a flowermachine to look at, you throw in money and you get a bunch of flowers to give to your beloved one. Some people actually buy the flowers. There are people looking for somebody they only know by name. I regret I didn’t bring a big sign saying “ALBERT”. I trie to buy a sandwich but can’t get myself to pay the prize I wouldn’t even pay in Amsterdam for a sandwich. I get lost when I walk to the other terminal and get unlost again. The plain arrives. I stand among the waiting crowd. I don’t need a sign. The name “Albert” is written all over my face.

14/03/2005

2005-03-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

I’m invited to visit the primary school today. It is a monday. A sunny day. It even seems to be warmer than before. You don’t only feel it, you can smell it as well. From my window I see people walking the street. They carry bags and babies.
At eleven thirty I take my bike and cross my street. Cars are parked everywhere. In the main street the sidewalk is packed with people. They eat icecreams and walk in a long line. Like the ants crossing my kitchen floor in the morning. Where did they come from? What are they doing here? I’ve never seen that many people in Sturovo. Or did I? I’m getting confused. Is it because of the lunch hour? Because of the beautiful weather? It must be the weather.

When I enter the school I hear singing. Three men jump out of their car. They wear long blue cloaks and stumble over their swords. One of them resembles a guy from the Dutch television. He locks the car, straightens the feathers on his helmet and opens the schooldoor. I follow them. Inside all the children are gathered. Everybody is wearing a ribbon in the colours of the Hungarian flag. I suddenly remember somebody telling me about the Day of the Revolution.

In the early 19th century the Habsburg empire began to weaken as Hungarian nationalism increased. Certain reforms were introduced: the replacement of Latin as the official languafe of administration with Magyar, increased Hungarian representation in the council of State, a law giving serfs more rights.
But the reforms carried out were still too limited and the wave of revolution sweeping Europe spurred on the more radical faction. On 15 March 1848 a group calling itself the Youth of march, led by the poet Sandor Petofi, took to the streets to press for even more radical reforms and revolution. This day is celebrated as the 1848 Revolution or national Day. The celebration starts already on 14 March.

I chat with the schooldirector about some plans for a project with the kids and go home again. There are even more people outside now. They are everywhere, walking and walking. The bridge is jammed on both sides, the park near my house is filled with people. I’m curious what will happen today and when. They must be here for some reason, some special event will surely happen, maybe music or speeches, I didn’t see posters, where will the action be? I don’t want to miss it. I try to figuer out their main direction but there doesn’t seem to be one. I ask some people but they don’t understand me. I better find somebody who speaks some English.

The director of the Museum is in. I ask my question, hoping I’m not too late. He seems to be surprised about my excitement, shakes his head and tells me there is no more action than what I’ve seen already. This is what they are here for. To walk the streets, cross the bridge, buy things at the local shops, eat icecreams.

So I walk the streets and buy myself a big icecream. I cross the bridge twice and buy some food at a small shop. I take a photo or two and walk back to my house. The sun is still shining but there is just enough wind to let the Hungarian flags fly.

11/03/2005

2005-03-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

Walking home I pass three man standing around an old car. They’re waiting for something in front of the city hall. My house is just around the corner. They look a little sleezy. They stop me, two of them start speaking. There aren’t a lot of teeth left in their mouths. They’re not that old though. Are they curious about my equipment? Do they want to ask something? In my best Hungarian I tell them I don’t speak Hungarian. They start pointing at the other side saying “Ungarn”, “Magyar”. I nod. Hungary is over there. I know. Again they start pointing. “Hid”, “Bridge” they say now. I nod. I point at myself and say “Hídör”, “Bridgeguard”. They nod and laugh. Are they making fun of me? I want to walk on, they start to talk again, point at the other side, again telling me “bridge!” and “Hungary!” I point in the direction of my house, point at myself and say “haz”, “Parkanban lakik”, “I life in Sturovo”. They laugh. Do they understand? Are they drunk? Do they speak Slovak only? I wave and move on. One of them grabs my arm. He’s shaking his head, saying “Nem!”, “No!”. Again he’s pointing at the other side, making a wide armgesture. “Bridge!” “Hungary”. Now I get it. They think I’m walking in the wrong direction. They want to show me the way to the bridge. They’re trying to help. They want to make sure the silly tourist girl doesn’t get lost. They’re being nice.

Is it because spring is getting near? Is it because people are getting used to my face? Is it because I look different at the world? I have the feeling people open up. They stop at my windows to look at my photos (there are five photos hanging there. I change one every day). They start to talk to me on the streets. My Hungarian language course hasn’t helped me so far. My best Hungarian is still “I don’t speak Hungarian”. I can say “I can speak a little Hungarian” too, but that’s too risky. Then people start talking slowly in Hungarian, hoping I might answer. The good thing is that I can use my other sentence then, “Nem értem”, “I don’t understand”.

Somebody taught me some usefull words. “Lehet”: possibly. “Talán”: possibly. “Holnap”: tomorrow. “Esetleg”: maybe. “Után”: later. They are used a lot. Everything is possible and will happen tomorrow. And if it doesn’t happen tomorrow it happens later on. The day after tomorrow. Or next week. Possibly.

07/03/2005

2005-03-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

I cross my bridge. The border patrol knows about my function but has to check my passport anyway. When Bush was in the neighbourhood the Slovak guards even scanned it every time I passed. I told them they should send all the copies to Bush when he would be safe again in his White House. It would make a nice wallpaper. And he would like the fact they are taking all this effort for him.

It hasn’t become ordinary to walk the bridge. How could it ever be? Walking over this massive but elegant construction, the Danube flowing under my feet, Hungarian hills to the left and right and in the middle the impressive Esztergom basilica. The moment your left foot is already in Hungary while the right one is still in the Slovak Republic. The sound of wind and water and moaning iron.

I go left and walk along the bank. More than thirty swans accompany me for a while. It makes me feel like a heroine from an old Greek tale. The Danube wind is treacherous. The more photos I take, the less feeling I have in my fingers. I pass strange round buildings, presumably out of use border crossingpoints, no need to sneak over the border secretly any more. The grey shells in the sand grow bigger and bigger. The wind gets colder and colder. In the distance a big house in hanging in the air. I trie to reach it but the water bars my way. Might it be a fata morgana? Did my fingers freeze, am I hallucinating? I am on the other side now. Everything is possible.

When I walk back I’m being followed by sixty six hungry swans. Some of them proudly wear a yellow plastic necklace. At a nearby supermarket I buy a head of lettuce. When I cross the bridge again I throw it over the railing. The sound of swan wings is one of the most beautiful sounds I know.

05/03/2005

2005-03-05T12:00:00.000-08:00

04/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

04/03/2005

2005-03-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

There is another opening in the museum tonight. I didn’t know. I wasn’t invited. I found out because I saw some nicely dressed people walking out at five thirty and I remembered the small army of workmen sweeping the courtyard this morning. That only happens when something special is going on.

I get angry, walk to the museum (20 metres) to hit the director on the head but he is faster then me and bows down to kiss my hand and apologize. In these things I’m old-fashioned. If somebody kisses your hand you can’t hit him. He even hugs me, and hugs me again and again. He must feel really sorry. He pours me some homemade wine -in Holland people have allotment gardens (volkstuintjes), here people have vineyards- and shows me the exhibition in person. It appears to be valuable material, on loan from Budapest. I remember the policemen banging on my window some night last week because the alarm went of in the Museum and they didn’t know who to call. I took their photo, four smiling men in black uniforms waiting for a nervous museum director to bring the key. No burglar was found, everybody went home, I slept sound that night. Why worry when the policemen are your neighbours and the museum nextdoor has far more valuable objects to choose from than you have? Although I’m not sure a thief would prefer paintings of hairy hungarian pigs to my computer. They were nice by the way. The paintings, I mean. And the policemen too.

The director offers me another drink in his office and invites me for anything he can possibly think of. The next opening in the town galery next wednesday, his vineyard, his winecellar, the rehearsal that evening of the local theatre company. He plays the role of prince. He will be wearing a fine costume and sing a beautiful song. I suspect from the look in his eyes he prefers being a prince to being a museum director.
It is tempting to go and see the rehearsal but I have other things on my mind. It does explain the kiss on the hand though.

03/03/2005

2005-03-03T12:00:00.000-08:00

03/03/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

01/03/2005

2005-03-01T12:00:00.000-08:00

It is cold in Sturovo. With this bright blue sky it looks like spring, but the eye deceives. A cold wind chills the bones. Yesterday I was outside all afternoon, when I got home I couldn’t get the chill out of my body. Today I feel sick.
I don’t want to leave the house but there’s nothing to eat. Dressed up like an eskimo I head for the local supermarket. It is just before twelve. Fifteen minutes before everything closes.
In the hall of SAMA customers are waiting. At the other side of the door the saleswomen are waiting. The light is off. The door is locked. I check my watch. 11.50. I trie the small shop at the other side of the street. I open the door, lights are off, three women stare at me. I trie to ask them if I can go inside, I trie English, I trie German, I trie my baby-Hungarian, I trie handlanguage. They don’t move, they don’t answer, they smile and ignore me when another customer gets in and asks a question which is probably the same as mine.
I walk back to SAMA but it is twelve already. I head back home, shall I take my bike and go to the big supermarket? I don’t feel like it. And I know there’s always something edible left in the far end of my cupboard. Besides I’m dying for some coffee.
When I open the fridge there’s a dark hole. No light. I look at the coffee machine with some regret. The only thing I can do is wait. This happens every now and then. The whole city, or at least the whole center, has to do without electricity.
So I wait and type untill my computer’s battery is dead.

27/02/2005

2005-02-27T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

24/02/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

23/02/2005

2005-02-23T12:00:00.000-08:00

23/02/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

22/02/2005

2005-02-22T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-21T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-17T12:00:00.001-08:00

17/02/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

16/02/2005

2005-02-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-15T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

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.

28/01/2005

2005-01-28T12:00:00.000-08:00

28/01/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

25/01/2005

2005-01-25T12:00:00.001-08:00

Screaming trees all day long. I can’t stand the sight of it. Years and years it took them to grow this magnificant and then one small man with a big electric saw takes them down within the hour.
One tree took its revenge and destroyed an electricity cable on its way down. Our electricity cable. Instead of drinking my morning coffee and working on my computer, I’m thinking of trees. My hair is slowly turning green.

When evening falls I go out to take some photos. Standing in front of the city hall with my camera and tripod, a police car drives by. I realise I left my passport at home. I realise I might look suspicious. My nerves wake up and my fear frightens me, even though it is only small fear.
Even in Holland we have to carry an identity card these days. What world are we living in?

I go home, get my passport and continue my shooting. The police car drives by again. They are not interested in me.

25/01/2005

2005-01-25T12:00:00.000-08:00

25/01/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

23/01/2005

2005-01-23T12:00:00.000-08:00

23/01/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

22/01/2005

2005-01-22T12:00:00.000-08:00

Today was the day of the big ball, held for all citizens of Stúrovo/Parkany and Esztergom. About 120 local people and two Dutch citizens gathered in the Culture House. Many meters of black velvet, coloured silk and gold necklaces.
An unknown phenomenon for us, big city dutchies, but for these people a welcome way to lighten the long and dark wintermonths. Like caterpillars these people take of their grimy faceless clothes and dress themselves in conspicious garments to glitter and shine on the dancefloor.
Actually it is just like in the old days. The very old days, when the nobility amused themselves by meeting each other in the ballroom. Probably (hopefully!) the music was different then.
There was a tombola and Albert bought a lot of tickets but had forgotten we hadn’t learned the Hungarian numbers yet.
I took my camera but forgot to take my memory card (I had a digital day) so all the images are left in their heads and mine only.

Important tip for the next winter bridge guard: bring an evening gown! Or perhaps we can set up a bridge guard wardrobe for unexpected special events.

20/01/2005

2005-01-20T12:00:00.000-08:00

Travelling from Stúrovo to Buda, you are first passing God. Actually God with dots. Göd.
In Budapest we enter an arbitrary restaurant. We are hungry. And find ourselves in an Amsterdam surrounding. Pictures of our homecity eveywhere, typical Dutch objects and symbols of Amsterdam on the walls. Some bad Dutch newspapers on the bar.
At first we feel uncomfortable. Then we laugh. And eat. And feel like Göd is playing us.

19/01/2005

2005-01-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

The photos which I printed today look like photos which have been lying around in some drawer for twenty years. Photos of buildings, streets, images no older than one hour. A city from the present, bearing the colours of the past.
It seems nostalgic, almost romantic. Every picture seems to be worthwhile. But it is not by definition the quality of the image itself, but the presence of history, our longing for travelling back in time, which seduces the eye.

Something similar happened in the local galery, later on this day. We were caught by the wonderful sound and rhythm of the speeches in both the Slovak and the Hungarian language and the charming clumsiness of two women playing the piano. The deputy mayor, on the other hand, could only just keep himself from yawning. Seeing this I realised that in Holland I would probably be yawning too.

The opening followed the same rules all art openings do. At first everybody has to listen to long speeches, after this everybody glances quickly at the artworks and finally people gather around the bar (in this case table) to drink and eat and talk about trivial things without taking any further notice of the artworks.

18/01/2005

2005-01-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

18-01-2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

17/01/2005

2005-01-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

“Let us ask ourselves sincerely whether the swallow from this summer is another swallow than the one from the first summer and if between these two summers indeed a million times the miracle occured by which something was created out of nothing after which it was ridiculed just as many times by complete destruction. Whoever hears me assuring that the cat that is playing at this spot is the same cat that jumped and crept about this same spot threehundred years ago, may think whatever he wants: it is even far more foolish to imagine it being a really different cat.”

Schopenhauer/Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung

16/01/2005

2005-01-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

16/01/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

15/01/2005

2005-01-15T12:00:00.000-08:00

This Sunday will be remembered as the day we learned the most important sentence in Hungarian. Jó villág van. It is a good life. To make sure we got the meaning right, Gyuri’s wife Zsofi coocked us a wonderful Hungarian lunch. There was no end to the food and the wine. We couldn’t but say the sentence again and again.
During the meal Gyuri made a list of the new English words he learned. Gyuri likes lists. In our first week here, he came by now and then and when anything was needed, he took a small notebook from his breastpocket and wrote the errant in question down meticulously. Striking it through again five minutes later when it appeared not to be necessary after all.
It was the same notebook he was writing in now. And at the end of the lunch, it was almost evening, he named the words one by one. Ridiculous. Terrible. Disaster. Horrible. Nightmare. Deception. We fell silent. So this is what our Hungarian friends learn from us Dutchmen? Fortunately Gyuri knew the solution. He striked the words through one by one and poured us another drink. Jó világ van!

14/01/2005

2005-01-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

14/01/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

13/01/2005

2005-01-13T12:00:00.000-08:00

Today I planted my tulips at the other side, I expanded my territory all the way up to the Basilica of Esztergom. For more than 1.000 years this has been the seat of Roman Catholicism. The country’s first King, St. Stephen, was born here and it was the royal seat from the late 10th to mid 13th century. Esztergom has both great spiritual and temporal significance for most Hungarians.

Every afternoon at 16.30 sharp a song is being played and send out into the world from the majestic rock on which the basilica is build. It is a Hungarian nationalistic song and therefore some people on this side despise it. 16.30 is the exact time when the treaty was signed by which Hungary lost two third of its territory after WWI.
It is a sad song, a lonely flute, a melancholic sound. To me it is beautiful. Because it is only music. Although it can be used as a symbol, as a nationalistic mean, in itself it is only music. And it is beautiful music indeed.

12/01/2005

2005-01-12T12:00:00.001-08:00

Workers are moving around outside. It’s unclear what they’re doing. Walking from here to there, staring through windows, opening doors, smoking cigarettes, talking, waiting.

I’m trying to teach myself some Hungarian. It’s difficult. My tongue still stumbles over the ö, ó, ú, ü, but I’m starting to remember the first words. My first word is “apa”. Father. Is it a coincidence that this word is one of the first words my Hungarian language course presents to teach people like me the pronounciation of the a-sound? Or are they trying to put this language, this culture, this country under my skin?
Of course, officialy I’m not in Hungary but this part of Slovakia used to belong to Hungary. Or to be precise: the whole of Slovakia was once part of the big Hungarian Empire. Just like Transsylvania, Croatia, Roethenia (Ukrain) and Burgenland. After the First World War Hungary had to give up two third of its territory. Half of the Hungarian citizens “moved” to one of the neighbouring countries while in fact they didn’t move a single step.

This morning a man wearing a hat peeped into our bedroom. Our bedroom is what the map calls storage, but we changed that name into bedroom, so we can use it to sleep. During the day we call it studio, so Albert can work there. It is adjacent to the space where the big boiler for the whole building is situated and where at night the sea seems to hide itself. The hatted man entered the boiler room and took out my grandmother’s grandmother’s furnace. Or at least it looked like it. It was time to get up.

12/01/2005

2005-01-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

12/01/2005
Originally uploaded by bridge guard.

11/01/2005

2005-01-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

Stúrovo is veiled in mist. It crept through the city all day and now, when dusk is falling, there’s a visibility of only a couple of metres. You can’t see the other side. the bridge seems to dissapear into air.

This morning the fog forced its way into our heads. We moved through the new apartment and lost sight. Where to go? What to do? The fog lifted. We drank coffee and seated ourselves in front of our computers. Straight ahead, just keep on moving. Even when it’s the wrong direction, you’re still on the right track.

Actually it is amazingly easy to step from one life into another. When we open our eyes in the morning we wonder what we’re doing here. And what we used to do in our other life. Everything is different here but everything is the same. Outside people are walking the pavement, trees are standing along the road, water is streaming through a bed, birds are flying over our heads, shopdoors are sliding open, cars are driving to and fro. There’s grass, there are clouds, there is a city and there is a bridge.

I planted the bulbs throughout the city today. People stared. Nobody asked. These people don’t seem to be used to ask.

09/01/2005

2005-01-09T12:00:00.000-08:00

Stúrovo is named after Ludovít Stúr, a 19th-century nationalist and linguist. The Slovak grammar is based on his work. But in Stúrovo most people use the Hungarian language. Including Hungarian names. That means most people talk about “Parkany” instead of “Stúrovo”, a name which is in fact not Hungarian at all but Turkish: a reminder of the Turkish occupation which happened centuries ago.
I don’t know which name to use. So I use them both. If you’d put a knife on my throat and ask me which name I like best I would say Stúrovo. This doesn’t mean I have Slovak nationalistic tendencies. I just like the sound of the word “Stúrovo” more than the sound of the word “Parkany”.

On our first day in Stúrovo-Parkany, Gyuri showed us a memorial stone in the small park near my house. It commemorated the take-over of the city by the Turkish. Withered floral wreaths laid by its side.
It turned over my head. My imagination ran away with me and flowers started growing in my head. One tulip, ten tulips, hundreds of tulips, feeding on my brain.
The “Dutch” tulip is the dubious symbol of Holland, there’s even a song “Tulips from Amsterdam”. In fact the Turkish are the rightfull owners of this culture symbol since “we” imported it centuries ago in large quantities from Turkey to make it “our” national symbol.
I thought about a Dutch bridge guard in a Slovak city that was once occupied by the Turkish and pondered over a way to conquer this area with the help of an innocent flower.

So I went to Billa. This is a large supermarket, on the edge of the centre of town and very near the bridge. The large supermarkets are the most recent conquerers of this city. There’s also Coop and Tesco, they all came after the bridge was restored to eat away the income from the local shops. Billa also sells tulip bulbs. I bought 200 bulbs, in different sizes and with a promise of different colurs. “Product of Holland. Aus Kulturmaterial vermehrt”.
During my “explorative” walks through Stúrovo and Esztergom I will plant them at arbitrary places, one by one. In every new street, park, corner I encounter, I will plant one. In spring they will grow and bloom. Not just on this side, but on the other side as well. And people can see: the bridgeguard was here.
I thought of a name. “Biological graffiti”.

08/01/2005

2005-01-08T12:00:00.000-08:00

Leaving Amsterdam was easy. We closed our frontdoor and drove off. It was a wednesday, early afternoon. The next day we crossed the border crossing between western and eastern Europe. A giant rainbow stretched itself out over the landscape. A welcoming arch for the new bridge guard.
We drove under it and I saw a landscape reminding me of my Dutch native region. The Danube, who had kept us company during the last part of our journey, made up the border with Slovakia. It was already dark when we crossed her and entered our new temporary home.

The welcome by Gyuri* and his colleague Eva was warm, our new apartment spacious and wonderful. We drank to our new dreams and didn’t care yet about the big pile of boxes and suitcases which we moved from the Berlingo into the middle of the livingroom.
A first walk through the village, a first look at the bridge; how beautiful she was!
Next soft matrasses and a deep sleep. Eva had told us that the dreams you dream the first night at a new place will come true. When I woke up next morning I convinced myself otherwise.

The mayor receives us at his office, seated behind a majestic desk, the deputy mayor at his right side. We are welcomed in a language we don’t yet understand but we get the message. This new job of mine is serious business. Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I feel at home already.

(Gyuri Himmler = Himmler György is the person coordinating the project here. He teaches history and philosophy at the local gymnasium, he is the president of the Cultural Society in Sturovo and he is the chief editor of the local newspaper. He knows everybody and everybody knows him. He looks just like Herman Finkers. Eva is teaching German at the gymnasium.)

01/01/2005

2005-01-01T12:00:00.000-08:00

The new year has started. From today on I’m the official Bridge Guard of the Mária Valéria Bridge. I haven’t seen the bridge in real yet. I only read about it. About the bridge and about my duties:

“In the year 2001 the Mária Valéria bridge between Stúrovo (Slovakia) and Esztergom (Hungary) was reopened. During its history, this bridge was destroyed and unusable for a longer time than it was actually connecting the two towns.

The rebuilt bridge deserves to be saved from further destruction by people. To this aim, mental protection is more important than physical protection. As long as the mental connection between people is intact, the bridge is not endangered.

The post of Bridge Guard requires a person in whose work boundaries of countries of eras are bridged, mental, social, religious or political boundaries are crossed, different scientific fields are connected, or various artistic media are utilized.”

(from the Bridge Guard Residency website, http//www.bridgeguard.org)

“The guard of the bridge shall be a builder of a virtual bridge. Therefore creative people working across disciplines or shifting boundaries of their own discipline are qualified to guard the bridge”

(from the Trans Artists newsletter, March 2004)

For six months I will live and work as an artist on the border between two countries. I’ll take my videocamera, my photocamera, my books and my paper. I'll be provided with an apartment and an atelier situated near the bridge. I’ll write in the bridge guard logbook and wander the streets of Stúrovo to gather new material.

I wrote the following to Karol Frühauf, the initiator of the Bridge Guard residency:

“I studied history. I learned seven languages but prefer to be speechless. I herded sheep in France. I prefer mornings to evenings. I rather make stories than be the subject of them. I’m fond of rituals. I hate miscommunication. I keep forgetting I’m growing older. I keep forgetting I’m an artist.
For being an artist and being a human being is the same thing to me. I’m trying to make art the way I leed my life. In my artwork, I’m trying to show how I experience the world.
In a way, art is something “out of this world”, art creates a world of its own, mirroring the real world, using elements from this real world. They depend strongly on each other, art and the world we’re living in. One can’t do without the other.
As an artist, I’m balancing on the border of these two worlds. This borderline is my subject.”

I prepared myself well. In the last months, I walked an imaginary bridge. 496 meters. 711 steps. Always starting from my doorstep, always ending anywhere. Anywhere 711 steps from the startingpoint.

Day 1:

I closed the front door of my house in Amsterdam behind me and walked 711 steps. As a child I used to count them. My steps, I mean. I took a certain amount and tried to reach the given goal within that number. Usually the goal was my house or a shop my mother send me to in order to get some things she forgot during her usual morning shopping. If I succeeded, the day would be mine.

I don't remember any specific day I failed my mission. I don't remember any day I succeeded either. I just remember the ritual.

This morning I had a goal, as in the old days. This was to be found at step 711. I crossed a couple of roads on my way, bumped into a woman walking her twin dogs, avoided some kids playing football, noticed a giant pigeon looking at me taking my 699th step and reached my goal. There it was. A grey tile on the sidewalk. Next to it another similar tile. Next to it a bike leaning against a streetlight.
I looked around me. I knew this place. But I never knew it was a 496 meter walk from my front door. I took a picture and retraced my steps. The door was where I left it. I hadn't expected anything else.