What is authentic in contemporary Eastern European culture? Is the local music that people stick into their ears aee? Or is it branded elsewhere? Are the new films coming out really aee or perhaps strong-armed by Cannes or Berlin?
Is it not safe to say that interjecting the English word „change” into a Hungarian sentence produces a less than aee linguistic background for creative capacity and cultural autonomy? Would you mind if I rendered just that word into its Hunglish format – „Kérek vissza a change-emet”? If we scuff up the surface really determinedly, where might we find the most probable instances of aee?
Perhaps somewhere in a small village at the local pub, full of people dancing the ring dance to turbo-pop, to chalga? Would they even consider themselves shining beacons of the real thing? Is there something to be found in the classic instance of an Eastern European café that is authentic to the touch? Do the sometimes easy transformations of socreal ground floor furnishings into morning fresh brew dispensers provide us with a bastion of the genuine local token? Can anything as makeshift as a few plastic chairs and a plastic table next to a crumbling house be a summertime Mecca for assiduous a double e?
Do Imre Makovecz’s architectural remarkables dispense an aee more-than-meets-the-eye shebang? And when Theodossi Spassov fires up his kaval and invigorates our dormant bones into jazz and pizzazz, do we detect the symbol, feel the tingle? The bristly beard of Amorf Ördögök, while it shakes like the snakes of Medusa, is there something there that we can’t find elsewhere? Did David Černy’s giant babies crawling up the TV tower in Praha – Žižkov crawl out of the aee baby factory?
When Janaq Pani uses words like shkallëve and nënëdhembura to poetically encapsulate his beloved mountain-sea village of Qeparo, can we let float his ballades into the sea of aee? Christo has brightened lots of people’s days by wrapping up objects small and large with big white sheets, what glee? Can we suppose that the Laibach core of N.S.K. produced such a surge of cacophonous Yugo musicality that all that is left to do is to take our hats and throw them likewise into Janaq Pani’s sea?
If David Černy and Theodossi Spassov met by chance one fine spring day in a red and white café on the outskirts of Hódmezővásárhely, would their conversation not turn quickly to the USA? Or would their chat alight instead on all the bright new talent coming out of Bosnia, say, or the new Estonian way?