Random Splendor on Nádor utca

Mask-topped window columns at the rear of the Stock Exchange Palace.

Classical music love triangles, revolutionaries, poets, assassination attempts... Nádor utca's turbulent past deserves its own historical soap opera. Even the name of the street is surrounded with drama.

Musclemen and cherubs of industry toil at No.21

In the 1800s, it alternated names with 'Wind Street' (perhaps after the strong winds that blew off the Danube in winter) and 'Tiger Street' (after the 'Tiger Hostel' that still stands at No.5 - more on this later). It was given its current name in 1847, in honour of Archduke József of Austria. Vienna ruled Hungary at the time, but in his role as nádor (Palantine) József worked with progressive Hungarian figures like Andrassy and Szechenyi to oversee social and economic reforms, the building of a rail and steamboat infrastructure and establish the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (which stands nearby). Magyars took him to their heart and nicknamed the "the most Hungarian of Habsburgs".

Ornate decorative mullions on window of the bank at No.6

It was during this time that many of the street's neo-Classical apartments were constructed. Three were designed (and occupied) by the famous Zitterbarth family, a number by Jozesf Hild.

Ödön Lechner beehive decorating No.1 Nádor utca

In the 1870s, composer and pianist Franz Liszt lived at No.20, in what was then the Continental Hotel. Liszt was as close to a rock star as mid-19th century Europe had ever seen. He toured extensively - despite poor transport links - often performing three or four times a week, electrifying audiences with his intensity. Critics described his performances as creating a feeling of "mystical ecstasy" and poet Henreich Heinne wrote in awe of "powerful... and shattering is his mere physical appearance". Liszt evoked a feverish hysteria in his female fans, and this passion was so widespread, the press of the time named 'Lisztomania'. At the end of a show he would throw his gloves and handkerchief into the crowd, where the women in the audience would tear them to shreds to take home a piece of their idol. It was this passion that led one arduous fan - whom Liszt had spurned in Paris and who had followed him to Budapest, and Nádor utca - to pull a gun and threaten to shoot him. Fortunately, the crowd wrested it from her hand.

Memorial bust of Liszt, close to where a fan almost assassinated him. 

Drama and fervour followed Liszt around Europe, but even these were surpassed by the scandals surrounding his illegitimate daughter, Cosima. At first ignored by her father, in her teenage years Cosima began to work her way through his students, all famous musicians in their own right. She first married pianist Hans Von Bulow. He was initially seduced by her own piano skills, but soon that admiration turned to envy and he became abusive. Cosima then scandalised German and Austrian society by conducting a blatant affair with Richard Wagner, Von Bulow's best friend. Liszt was a huge supporter of Wagner, transcribing much of the younger composer's work for piano and helping to spread his fame by featuring Wagner's pieces in his recitals. What he thought of his protégé's affair with his daughter we don't know, but the two would rendezvous in the Tigris Hotel down the street from where Liszt was staying. The Tiger statue on the lintel is still there.

Door lintel and eponymous statue of the old Tigris hotel, No.5 Nádor utca

The Tigris Hotel's tavern and cafe was at that time a notorious hangout for poets and revolutionaries. Tisza Kálmán held meetings here in response to the banning of the Hungarian National Assembly by Vienna, and his centre-left Democratic Party were nicknamed 'the Tigers' after their meeting place.

We can assume the Liszt didn't entirely approve of Cosima and Wagner's trysts: when they finally did marry in 1870, they failed to announce it to her father and it is rumoured he only discovered the wedding when he read about it in the newspaper.

Trefoiled balcony and historical 'antics' (heads) .... at No.22

Further down the street at No.22 - in what is now the Parliamentary Commisions Office - the groundbreaking Nyugat ('West') literary journal was formed in 1908. The first magazine of its kind in Hungarian, it introduced Nietzsche and Kierkegaard to Budapest circles - but it's main aim was to promote a new generation of Hungarian writers and poets (Árpad Toth and Gyula Krúdy were contributors) who were producing their own unique interpretations of naturalism, Impressionism and Symbolism.

Another balcony at No.22

After the Second World War, when a Soviet-controlled Communist government came to power, the nádor's 19th century achievements were afforded little respect by the Communists. Jószef may have been a social reformist, but he was also an aristocrat and therefore an enemy of the people. In 1968, the street was renamed Munich Ferenc utca. This was named after a communist leader who was had assisted the Soviet-imposed Kádár government, and who many saw as betrayed the 1956 revolutionaries.

More Norse-looking zophora at No.10

Terv Presszó

A relic of the Communist era is the Terv Presszó, still a great place for beer, food and rowdy students. This was a celebrated hangout for dissident writers and artists - as well as celebrities - and its walls and shelves are now crowded with phones, tape machines and posters from the period. The name means 'Plan' and is a cheeky reference to Stalin's 'Five Year Plan'. (The wonderful Disappearing Budapest blog has a lovely piece about Terv and other 'presszó'.)

Bygone partying days at Terv

The title of Nádor utca was finally restored as the Communist government began to crumble in 1989. Just days after Kádár's death, on 14th July a group of people gathered beneath the street sign at No.19. They climbed up a ladder and taped a hand-painted sign reading 'Nádor utca' over the Communist street name. In the days that followed, the restored street name became a focus for demonstrations and a symbol for the end of Soviet control of Hungary.

Caryatids at No.32 brave surprise April snow

Just days before this, a young activist named Viktor Orbán had led a protest in Heroes Square, demanding Russian soldiers leave the city. Ironically, almost 30 years later, the former revolutionary is now one of the most right wing prime ministers in Europe: his latest campaign is to try to shut down the Central European University... which actually owns many buildings on Nádor utca (including the one featuring the violent zophora below:)

Violent friezes at no.11 -  coincidentally reflecting Prime Minister Orbán's feelings towards the Central European University the building now houses.

Politicians, virtuosos, poets, lovers and revolutionaries have paraded by; empires and dictatorships come and go... the caryatids of Nádor utca have born witness to them all.

Coolly appraising gaze of an antic at No.6

Memento Park - Remembering History's 'Dead Ends'

"Dictatorships chip away at and plaster over their past in order to get rid of all the memories of previous ages. Democracy is the only regime that is prepared to accept that our past, with all the dead ends, is still ours; we should get to know it, analyse it and think about it."

- Ákos Eleod, Memento Park architect

Liberating Soviet Soldier by Zsigmond Strobl Kisfauldy, 1947
(torn down by revolutionaries in 1956, then re-erected in 1958)

Statues have extraordinary political and cultural significance here in Budapest. Whether it be the aggrandising memorials to some less-than-heroic figures near Parliament, the controversial monument depicting Nazi occupation in Liberty Square, or the recent decision to remove the sculpture of Georgy Lucács, these (admittedly impressive) effigies reflect many of the ideological battles fought across Hungary for the past two centuries, and which continue today.

Monument to Soviet-Hungarian Friendship by Barna Buza, 1975

Memento Park represents the Hungarian attempt to do exactly as its architect says, and preserve the symbols of the Soviet dictatorship whilst exposing the tools of ideological warfare during the Communist period (1949-1989). When this regime ended, the gargantuan statues the communists had erected were immediately pulled down. Instead of destroying them (and 'plastering over' a tragic and difficult period), a decision was made by the city council to create a thematic statue park on the Tétényi moors outside the city centre. 

Even the competition to design the park was an ideological conflict, perhaps reflecting the Hungarian consciousness about the previous 40 years. One approach envisioned a 'Shame Park', a guilty reminder of how many citizens collaborated with the Soviet occupation. Their opposition suggested an 'Irony Park' that would use the statues to ridicule dictatorship. Ákos Eleod's winning design found a third path, intending to capture what he called the "historical series of paradoxes": that these are historical monuments to a dictatorship, yet also elements of a proud history; that they are works of art yet also symbols of authority; and that they are items of propaganda whose psychological power should be exposed not denied. 

The colossal sculptures - and those more human-scaled - in the park each tell a different story that reflects these paradoxes, often with a typically Hungarian absurdist wit. The statue of Lenin (below), Budapest's first, was created to stand outside Csepel Iron and Metal Works in advance of Khrushchev's visit in the late 50s. The intention was to remind workers of the power of communist ideology. It was swiftly produced in time for the 41st anniversary of the Great Socialist October Revolution and was unveiled on Nov 7th, 1958. However, the materials used were of such poor quality and the construction so rushed that within ten years the statue was riddled with holes. In March 1970, the ironworks recast the statue and replaced the original in secrecy. The indignities didn't end there: in the early 80s someone placed a piece of bread and dripping into Lenin's saluting hand and hung a sign around his neck that read: "Stop smirking Lenin, this will not last forever. After 150 years we didn't become Turkish either!"

"Stop smirking, Lenin..." - by unknown Soviet sculptor

One of the most awe-inspiring effigies is the Monument to the Hungarian Socialist Republic (below). It is modelled on an army recruitment poster by Róbert Berény entitled "To Arms!" and was erected in 1969 at the edge of Budapest's City Park. The political state it is memorialising is again a political paradox. The Hungarian Socialist Republic was a 'proletariat dictatorship' announced by Béla Kun and his followers in 1919. This was after the collapse of Hungary's 'Chrysanthemum Revolution' that finally freed them from Austrian control. The HRC did lots of progressive things: nationalised the banks, factories, transport and schools, and introduced an eight-hour working day; gave the right to vote to all, championed equal rights for women and minorities; and even introduced social security and child protection laws. Unfortunately, they also began to systematically eliminate any political enemies, a purge which quickly spread into their own party. As a result of this - and the opposition of the rest of post-WWI Europe - the regime lasted for only 133 days.

Monument to the Hungarian Socialist Republic by István Kiss, 1969

The statue also became the butt of many locals jokes. Urban myth has it the figure was nicknamed 'The Cloakroom Attendant', who is running after a departing customer shouting "Sir, you've forgotten your scarf!"

Béla Kun Memorial by Imre Varga, 1986

Possibly one of the most artistically impressive works is this huge bronze, chrome and red copper work of massed figures that was created by Imre Varga, one of Hungary's most respected sculptors. In 1986, the communists commissioned the piece to honour Béla Kun, who led the Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1919 (see above). Kun was an odd choice to heroize: after the collapse of his regime in 1920, he fled Hungary to Russia, where he was responsible for the execution of thousands of prisoners of war and the ethnic cleansing of 60,000 Crimean Turks. Varga himself was an strange choice of artist, renowned for his humanising of heroes and mythological figures, rendering them in human scale and 'bringing them down to size'. 

Civilian figures represent the 'Chrysanthemum Revolution' (detail)

More two-dimensional metallic Red Army soldiers (detail)

The final composition is less than flattering to Kun. He stands at the back, removed from the crowd, his platform a ship (which implies a storm-tossed leadership). He urges the crowd forward, yet seems to be waving goodbye with his hat - perhaps a reference to his abandonment of Hungary after his regime collapsed. On the left are ordinary civilians who formed the 'Chrysanthemum Revolution', but they turn into two-dimensional metallic Red Army soldiers by the end of the procession. The fact they all seem to hover above the ground make them appear like ghosts, symbolising all those who were executed during the Red Terror. Again, the paradox of a turbulent 20th Century is eloquently represented.

The Peace Guards' Bas-Relief by Sándor Ambrózi and Károly Stockert, 1958

What is also nice to see is the array of sculptures representing ordinary working people. Communism is on ideologically unsound ground when it establishes leaders as idols, but when it memorialises the common men and women, then the park can be refreshing. There are numerous busts, reliefs or plaques celebrating union leaders, print-shop worker, carpenters and jewelers who were martyred for their beliefs during the Horthy-fascist regime of the 40s. Though the following regime may have been just as brutal, it doesn't diminish the revolutionary spirit of those honoured. Nor does it undermine the efforts of those who fought to liberate Budapest from German control in 1945. The Peace Guard's Bas-Relief is unusual for celebrating the role of children and female radio-operators, whilst the stunning Liberation Monument is a proud tribute to those who fought the fascists... whilst still a reminder that these freedom fighters were often accused of crimes and persecuted in later years.

Liberation Monument by Viktor Kalló, 1965

It is fitting that the entrance to the museum is guarded by the dais and colossal boots of Stalin. The dais is a replica of that which stood in Felvonulási tér, where the communist leaders stood to be saluted by marching crowds on national holidays.

1949 parade before Stalin's statue in Felvonulási tér

During the October 1956 revolution, the rebelling public sawed the statue of Stalin off at the knees and pulled it down. Over following days, before the Red Army was called in to crush the revolution, the huge boots that were left behind became a comical image, mocking the dangerous might of the dictator. Now, the park's final view is down a walled tunnel, imitating the forced idolatory of the regime, with the boots framed at the end - an Ozymandias-style reminder that all such dictatorships will eventually crumble.

Entrance, with a replica of the grandstand dias and Stalin's boots in the background

And as one leaves the park, a poster reduces to Lenin's power to a more contemporary form of 'people power':

Marzipan Macabre - Szabó Marzipan Musuem, Szentandre

Yoinks, indeed. Scooby and Shaggy rendered in marzipan.

Wax museums occupy a particularly sinister place in our culture - one exploited by horror movies since the 1930s. It's that 'uncanny valley' feeling. They look unsettlingly human, but  we know it's just a carved mannequin. Something about the wax gives them an organic sheen, like perspiration, that marble or clay sculptures don't have. Or maybe it's the way they stare?
So... What could be more spooky than a museum full of wax dummies? How about a museum full of marzipan dummies?

A confectionery rendition of the Hungarian Parliament.

The Szabó Marzipan Museum in Szentandre is definitely impressive, a testament to the astonishing confectionery-sculptural skills of the people who work here. It's also a bit of a horror show when those skills are applied to dead celebrities. 

Busts of Hungarian nobility and fairytale tableaux we can marvel at, because we don't know what these people and places looked like in reality. The detail is astonishing, the craftsmanship indisputable.

What would Waldorf and Statler have said about this...?

The Disney/Hanna-Barbera characters are also mostly well-wrought. But that's where something doesn't seem quite right. The characters may be cartoons or puppets, but we know these bright smiley faces. When rendered accurately it is a bit disturbing to see familiar faces manifested in almond-sugar. When they aren't, there's a whiff of nightmare...

Marzipan Bam-Bam wonders: "What have you done with my parents?"

The exhibition is book-ended by the two most ambitious and also unsettling figures. First, Princess Diana, that faux-shy smile turned into a marzipan rictus, her nose... ahem. But her hair is spot on - in real life it always had that 80s 'frosted' texture, so it works when rendered in strands of sugar.

Like she's in the room... Princess Diana, in marzipan.

Then, to see us out... Michael Jackson. There's layers to the weirdness here. The man himself always felt an affinity with Pinocchio, and it was by his own design that for the last decade of his life he looked a bit like a doll come to life. Wax dummies of Michael Jackson always look odd because their surfaces seem more lustrous than his actual flesh did. How do you carve from wax someone who already looks like a human waxwork?

The wet-look vest really doesn't help. But check out the glove-studs...

In that respect, the marzipan mannequin here succeeds: maybe it is apt that the most life-like dummy of the King of Pop is one made entirely from sugar? Sweet dreams....

Beasts of the Marziopene Period.

 

Szentendre Spring

Giant lampshades strung across Szentendre town square.

Warm sunshine bounces off the white church walls, orange plaster and undulating red tiles of the buildings in the main town square. Strung between them are beautiful giant bell lampshades, rocking back and forth in the breeze. This is Szentendre - a pretty riverside town about 45 mins train ride from Budapest.

It is also what feels like the first Friday of Spring. Last week was the climax of Farsang, the Hungarian carnival-festival where people dress up and make lots of noise to scare away the Winter. It seems to have worked!

Szentendre's Danube promenade

There's a Mediterranean vibe to the cobbled streets of Szentendre. This probably stems from the diverse population. After the Ottoman occupation decimated the buildings and the people in the 15th and 16th century, the town welcomed foreign settlers, particularly Serbs and people from the Dalmation coast (present day Croatia). Churches and houses were rebuilt in a Baroque-Rococo style, topped with Orthodox spires. But every street also has startling Modernist structures, too.

Striking Modernist architecture interspersed with the Baroque and Rococo.

Since 1929, the town has attracted numerous artists, lending its name to a 'school' of painters, sculptors and ceramicists, whose work can be seen in the multitude of museums, but whose work is evident around the public spaces, too. The Margit Kovács Ceramic Museum has a particularly beautiful exterior, bright orange tiles with faces and figures emerging from the wall.

Faces and figures emerge from the tiled walls of the Margit Kovács Ceramic Museum.

We eat lunch at Aranysarkany Vendéglo in the sun-drenched town square. The peaceful atmosphere and good wine encourages us to abandon plans for anything too cultural. Instead we spend the afternoon basking in the spring rays, unable to leave our Vitamin D addled bliss until the sun moves behind one of the rooves. (Though: we do visit the Szamos Marzipan Museum before departing... but that deserves a post of its own).

Baroque crucifix in the town centre, erected to celebrate the town being spared by the plague.

Frozen Random Splendor (and some political irony in Parliament Square)

Snow-covered but still imposing soldier and mother on the István Tisza monument
 - ironic considering Tisza's politics.

I've avoided posting images of the admittedly stunning Parliament building and Kossuth Lajos Square. Why replicate what a million postcards and tourist snaps have already captured? But there's been snow in the night, and the mounds of white on the black cast-iron statues looks awesome. Plus, there is some real irony to what is included in the composition of these monuments.
First, overlooking the (frozen) Danube is a massive monument to István Tisza. The man himself stands bold and intellectual, flanked by WWI soldiers and mothers with screaming infants in their arms.

István Tisza, cloaked in snow as he looks down his nose at the liberals.

You'd be forgiven for assuming Tisza (twice prime minister 1903-05 and 1913-17) to be a real man of the people. In actuality, when this reconstructed monument opened in 2014, Hungarian socialists protested. Tisza was actually a defender of landowners, opposed reform and supported compromise with his Austrian rulers. The inclusion of soldiers in the monument is particularly ironic as Tisza not only supported Hungary joining the First World War, he also blocked plans to give soldiers on the front the right to vote. (At that time only 10% of Hungarians had suffrage). So how come he has almost the most impressive (after the revolutionary Kossuth) statue in the square? A clue may be found in the opening of the reconstruction by current prime minister Viktor Orbán. He drew a parallel between himself and Tisza, as nationalist leaders who are trying to guide Hungary after a "disastrous liberal period" and who believe hard work (but not socialism) to be the saviour of Hungary. He didn't mention that Tisza actually encouraged migrants, especially Jewish workers, as the future of the Hungarian economy. Nor that Tisza was so unpopular that there were three assassination attempts, before he was finally killed by 'Chrysanthemum' revolutionaries on the first day of Hungary's separation from Austria in 1918. 

Statue of Francis Rákóczi II - with that damned horse!

A more traditionally heroic statue is that of Rácóczi, complete with formidable rearing horse. Rácóczi's revolutionary status is less controversial that of Tisza: he led a revolt against Habsburg empire with an army of Hajduk (emancipated peasant warriors) rather than nobility. But the inclusion of the horse seems a bit odd. Rácóczi's revolution was effectively ended during the Battle of Trencsen in 1708 when his horse stumbled, fell and knocked him unconscious. His soldiers believed he'd been killed and fled. The statue is impressive, even flecked with snow, but I'd have probably left the horse out of it.

Ice floes on the Danube at dusk.

Meanwhile, the Danube majestically flows on, past the Parliament and its statues, and it's been so cold that the mighty river has frozen. Huge slabs of ice drift past, making the beautiful cityscape even more dramatic than usual.

However, spotted by the river's edge: an early duckling looks like it really, really regrets hatching in mid-January. Shivering passing pedestrians empathise.

Squint and you can just about see the tiny duckling, unappreciative of the semi-frozen water.