 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Tamas Revesz: NEW YORK
Preface of the photo book published by W.W.Norton, 2000, New York-London
Translated by Ivan Sanders
The
early-morning magic show across the river lasts but for a few moments. A waking
dream. Through the sheer curtain the silhouette of the city turns into a cubist
composition, the shimmering, uniform slabs interrupted by the Gothic Batman-hood
of Riverside Church. A gray-blue Hudson fades into my balcony; the river seems
to flow right under me.
Just as one turns a fine morsel of food in one's mouth, savoring every subtle,
delectable flavor, so I keep looking, with eyes closed, at the imprint-a panorama
of New York framed by my window.
The soundtrack is the periodic hum of the elevator, the even drone of air conditioners, and water gushing from the tap as though liberated, and then with a rattle sucked down the drain.
How
different and yet similar was the picture I woke up to each morning not that
long ago. From our home on Rose Hill, the city of Budapest, like a bashful
girl reluctant to reveal her charms, uncovered itself slowly, suggestively
-a bit of the Castle district and, rolling along underneath, the Danube. Up
on the hill, in the early morning quiet, even a birdcall sounded like a piercing
cry.
New
York is not bashful,
it hides nothing, it offers itself to you: Here I am. Want me? Buy me. Its
openness is a little frightening.
The
suitor's heart begins
to race, it pounds with excitement and reverberates in his eardrums as the
meeting nears. This is what I wanted, yet I find myself muttering: Slow down,
we hardly know each other.
I am from the Old World,
I am not used to this much vehemence.
A grotesque image: I see myself as the newcomer, an immigrant knight trotting down Fifth Avenue on my trusty steed, a veteran of many European battlefields. "Won't it be better if you stay peacefully at home, and don't go off round the world looking for better bread than is made of wheat, without first reflecting that many go for wool and come back empty handed?" Cervantes's words from Don Quixote come back to me, but I don't let them sink in; a defensive impulse squelches my doubts.
I cannot say whether it was the challenge of it or perhaps a midlife crisis that made me cross the ocean with my family and, leaving behind a stable existence, plunge into the unknown, start life anew.
The familiar Mediterranean brown-red stucco is nowhere to be seen. And the East Central European knack for regulations is supplanted here by another principle: Everything not prohibited is allowed. The liberating dynamic of diversity predominates. But to the ear, and spirit, accustomed to rhymed verse, a regular beat, the hubbub is a bit much. It takes a while to pick up the wilder rhythm.
It's as if I had a kaleidoscopic view of the city. It's like a huge cell, seen through a microscope; it throbs, changes overnight, absorbing everything from all over only to beam it back, strained, digested, streamlined.
Its speed gets to me; a whirlwind, it picks me up, pulls me in, and spins me around on its slender, granite-hard body until I lose my head and fall for the city.
