Notes from Budapest

(Thursday)
"Live as if you were to die tomorrow; Learn as if you were to live forever."

Dangerously handsome German artist, charming but not such a great dancer (spectacular artist, just not such a great dancer), three Polish artists, one handsome but scarred, somehow, one cute yet severe, one shockingly beautiful, beautifully ugly, all expert dancers, wild, mad on the dance floor. This club, this Hungarian dance club with a DJ and an accordion (!!!) player, seamlessly moving between American hip-hop, gypsy dance tracks, and latin salsa numbers. This was fantastic. This was worth the trip, sipping ouzo, moving slowly to the music in a sort of blissed-out haze of cold medicine, fever, and alcohol, "this is a real gypsy dance party!" Steve proclaims as he points out the accordion player letting loose in the DJ booth.

The swirl of artist talk, art discussion, leaves my head swimming, leaves me at a loss for words. I invited myself here but contributed very little. I was ill, found it hard to concentrate through the fever and cold medicine, found it hard to organize my thoughts. "Jana is being very quiet," proclaims the mad curator. The people, the talks, the exhibitions, the experience leave me speechless. I'm still (still) trying to understand why art (my art) is important, and what it is that i "do." And I'm so sexually frustrated I can hardly see straight. And what about those six months with the baker in Seattle? Because no matter how much I like to think it was a different life, and a different me, it wasn't. How does that reconcile with this world, this academic, intellectual, esoteric (recondite, obscure...) fantasy land, and what is holding me back, and what is propelling me forward, and when (when?) will I give in and commit, completely, to my art?

(do I actually have something to say?) (am I just a leach? a parasite?) (am I actually dim?) (will they find me out?)

WORKING CLASS vs ACADEMY/ARTISTS/INTELLECTUALS (with MONEY)
(motivations, lifestyles, values, etc)

Working class:
Sex, Drink, Hobbies (crafts, art?), TV (cartoons?!), Comedy, Gossip, History (PERSONAL history), Family, Obligation (Duty, Necessity), Tradition, Drugs, Movies.

Academy/Artists/Intellectuals:
Debate, Art Practice (production), Sex, Drink, Film, Connections, Networking, Gossip, History (Political, Art, Personal), Desire, Ambition, Deconstruction, Subversion, Drugs.


...(*Epiphany*) It feels like play but it is WORK -- this exhibition, the drinks, the talks, the parties, this is how the art world Works. Connections, introductions, networking, leads to projects in Germany, New York, Collaborations with Hungarian artists, Polish artists . . .

[I dreamt about (nearly) sleeping with the German artist last night. It felt good.]

Turkish Baths -- natural hot springs feed these huge, ornate pools that open onto the sky, white steam rising thick into the crisp evening air, old men sit in the corner of the pools, with bathing caps on, playing chess on stone tables that emerge from the sulfured water, as impossible bodies (impossible!) shed robes and dip toes, bellies as big as pony kegs (no exaggeration).

[...Am I trying to break into a BOY's CLUB? All the women here are Curators, or Artist's Girlfriends (even if they are artists themselves), or High-Priced Call Girls. What The Fuck? ...]


(Friday:)
My first and only free day in Budapest. Also, the first day of advent (the Christmas Market opened today). Lunch with a former conspirator/lover/revolutionary of my mother. He is more put together and reserved than I expected, tall, grey hair, and aging quite well. He seems utterly freaked out. Takes me to a nice place near the college where I have a schnitzel bigger than my head and a cup of tea. He has a beer and slowly begins talking. I don't ask about the past, but he is reluctant at first to answer the questions I do ask -- how did you end up in Budapest? What are you working on now? He talks about a film about gypsy music (!!!), but creative problems with the producer leave a bad aftertaste, so I don't push it. A book about market halls, another interesting topic. I talk a bit about myself, my path, about my family and my mom (was I supposed to tell him mom's writing a memoir?). They went to Woodstock together. I feel warm to him, though awkward. He is intelligent, and working on interesting projects. He says, "Ask your mother what it was like working at the Cafe A-Go-Go the night Eric Clapton played." (I did, she claims to remember nothing.) Finally, I say, "Is it weird, me contacting you like this, this meeting?" He says yes, very, he's still not sure how it happened. I try to explain, but I'm not so sure myself. He shows me a small market hall (hidden!!) and gives me directions to a larger one. I take his picture. He looks doubtful. In the end I feel a sudden desire to embrace him, so praise this european custom of farewells with a kiss (always, always with a kiss, all the beautiful artists kissed me, how lovely!).

Walk to a huge indoor market hall just as it is closing, just in time to buy some paprika, use the loo, and take some photos. Walk up by the Danube and look across to the Buda side. Breathtaking. Wander down a pedestrian road and buy a hat, then notice crowds of people so I follow them and find the Christmas Market (opening night!), complete with huge tree, nativity, and bandstand. I wander around for hours, buy some things (candles, transylvanian cake -- delicious! -- glühwein), watch the performances. First a band with bagpipes (?!?) plays traditional christmas songs, then a gypsy band. Not great, but wonderful in the context. There is a man with a hawk, ignoring the crowd he is attracting, listening to the music. Beautiful bird. Insane (no, not insane) man. I watch. He sits next to a woman and a baby. That bird next to a baby?! Eventually she leaves. Two old men dance on opposite sides of the audience (I should have bought some gypsy music here). I stare at the man with the hawk. He looks like an american actor. I think about sitting next to him, trying to start a conversation, going home with him. I don't do it. The music ends, our paths diverge.


Pictures?