Sandor Bortnyik - Architect Forbát and his wife
(image from terminartors.com)
Showing posts with label architecture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label architecture. Show all posts
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Old telephone exchange building
Click for a larger view. I stitched this together from a number of photos, so some irregularities may exist.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Chichester
Yesterday I needed to get away.
I find empty trains soothing. Just the gentle sway of coaches, the occasional clack rattling down the train, the rush of wind, and three other people similarly entranced by landscape slipping away. Occasionally the recorded lady announcing a new station.
Swanwich
Fareham
Porchester
Cosham
This is coach number two of four.
In my bag is a jersey, an umbrella and sandwiches for lunch. Two apples, water and a bottle of beer. Two cameras, one for documentation, one for calibration. Lonely planet. And Ward Lock & Co's Red Guide to Southsea and Portsmouth, from the postwar 40s I believe. It comes with a map detailing the route from Southampton to Chichester, a solid black line skimming just north of the coast. I don't think the railroad has shifted much in 60 years. The A27 was just a road then. The map holds that smell of an old library: paper approaching middle age. Only the water is coloured. Blue. Tiny trees make up forests, towns are small blocks that might still refer to houses, warehouses and sheds.
Havant.
I wonder what happens in Havant?
Emsworth.
It is a day that requires distance. Changing spaces, strange faces. Walking, seeing, writing, being. Thinking, unencumbered. The train helps with that. My mind is busy at first, jumping, running. Then comes the blankness. Then the peace.
Chichester
Lunchtime has an organ recital in the cathedral. The scheduled organist cancelled due to ash, so the local Assistant steps in. I feel 40 years younger than anyone in the audience. Creaking men can't sneak out quietly.
I try to recall the architectural terms to remember the building by. The building is Romanesque at heart, but with the inevitable updates over 900 years that make it so interesting. The aisles slip into early Gothic, with more Victorian ornament stuck on top. The stained glass is mostly Victorian too: young and still bright, dappling light on the floor.
A violently bright tapestry by John Piper adorns the high altar - it must have led too weeks of angry letters from outraged residents. A window by Chagall hides in a corner. It is less blue than I expected. Menstruation, someone said.
In the north aisle lies the Arundel Tomb - the earl and his wife. They are holding hands. Philip Larkin noticed it too.
When I emerge into the light again it's too late to rush to the Roman mosaics at Fishbourne. So I slowly explore the town. Shippams has turned into New Look, while Next trades from the Corn Exchange. A building where Keats used to play is a barber shop. And the Roman Amphitheatre is a slightly uneven lawn, today with three boys battling with bat and ball. Yet it remains a pleasant place. With Georgian houses, tea rooms and stores where Conservatives can shops. Pleasant.
A pint, then home.
I find empty trains soothing. Just the gentle sway of coaches, the occasional clack rattling down the train, the rush of wind, and three other people similarly entranced by landscape slipping away. Occasionally the recorded lady announcing a new station.
Swanwich
Fareham
Porchester
Cosham
This is coach number two of four.
In my bag is a jersey, an umbrella and sandwiches for lunch. Two apples, water and a bottle of beer. Two cameras, one for documentation, one for calibration. Lonely planet. And Ward Lock & Co's Red Guide to Southsea and Portsmouth, from the postwar 40s I believe. It comes with a map detailing the route from Southampton to Chichester, a solid black line skimming just north of the coast. I don't think the railroad has shifted much in 60 years. The A27 was just a road then. The map holds that smell of an old library: paper approaching middle age. Only the water is coloured. Blue. Tiny trees make up forests, towns are small blocks that might still refer to houses, warehouses and sheds.
Havant.
I wonder what happens in Havant?
Emsworth.
It is a day that requires distance. Changing spaces, strange faces. Walking, seeing, writing, being. Thinking, unencumbered. The train helps with that. My mind is busy at first, jumping, running. Then comes the blankness. Then the peace.
Chichester
Lunchtime has an organ recital in the cathedral. The scheduled organist cancelled due to ash, so the local Assistant steps in. I feel 40 years younger than anyone in the audience. Creaking men can't sneak out quietly.
I try to recall the architectural terms to remember the building by. The building is Romanesque at heart, but with the inevitable updates over 900 years that make it so interesting. The aisles slip into early Gothic, with more Victorian ornament stuck on top. The stained glass is mostly Victorian too: young and still bright, dappling light on the floor.
A violently bright tapestry by John Piper adorns the high altar - it must have led too weeks of angry letters from outraged residents. A window by Chagall hides in a corner. It is less blue than I expected. Menstruation, someone said.
In the north aisle lies the Arundel Tomb - the earl and his wife. They are holding hands. Philip Larkin noticed it too.
When I emerge into the light again it's too late to rush to the Roman mosaics at Fishbourne. So I slowly explore the town. Shippams has turned into New Look, while Next trades from the Corn Exchange. A building where Keats used to play is a barber shop. And the Roman Amphitheatre is a slightly uneven lawn, today with three boys battling with bat and ball. Yet it remains a pleasant place. With Georgian houses, tea rooms and stores where Conservatives can shops. Pleasant.
A pint, then home.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Encountering old dreams
Yesterday I found myself at a conference, a meeting of students interested in or involved with space. There were talks by people from industry, a BBC man and scientists too. But it was definitely a student thing - the exhibition and recruitment by potential employers confirmed this. On a campus that felt overcrowded with buildings. Like a medieval walled city, but built in the 70s and 80s, in a largely inoffensive style. And then some modern redevelopments, from when a university's architecture again had to reflect it future-looking vision.
The attendees were young, mostly male, but not exclusively so. Generally bright, interested, but above all optimistic. And 99% of the room wanted to be astronauts once, at least 40% (those without glasses) still want to be.
And the optimism should have been contagious, but it mostly passed me by. Maybe I've become a cynic? Then I realised that the people around me were living the choices I did not make. The master's program I discovered too late, but still considered, the offer from the university I declined (the very university hosting the day), people staying in industry, or heading towards it with a mix of trepidation and excitement.
But they were interesting people, with interesting experiences, to the point where I felt distinct pangs of jealousy. I try to console myself: that I made my own decisions, they are being groomed into industrial bunnies, and that some might very well be jealous of me. But still. You're not supposed to be confronted with the roads you did not take.
I have to rush away from the dinner party, to catch my train. Suddenly it is dark, and raining fat cold drops. I make it, with 2 minutes to spare. As the train pulls away, I can see some late Guy Fawkes rockets explode in the sky.
The attendees were young, mostly male, but not exclusively so. Generally bright, interested, but above all optimistic. And 99% of the room wanted to be astronauts once, at least 40% (those without glasses) still want to be.
And the optimism should have been contagious, but it mostly passed me by. Maybe I've become a cynic? Then I realised that the people around me were living the choices I did not make. The master's program I discovered too late, but still considered, the offer from the university I declined (the very university hosting the day), people staying in industry, or heading towards it with a mix of trepidation and excitement.
But they were interesting people, with interesting experiences, to the point where I felt distinct pangs of jealousy. I try to console myself: that I made my own decisions, they are being groomed into industrial bunnies, and that some might very well be jealous of me. But still. You're not supposed to be confronted with the roads you did not take.
I have to rush away from the dinner party, to catch my train. Suddenly it is dark, and raining fat cold drops. I make it, with 2 minutes to spare. As the train pulls away, I can see some late Guy Fawkes rockets explode in the sky.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Poprad
In Poprad they are taking apart the pleasingly decaying Soviet station, complete with marble floors, inspiring relief carvings against the wall, small liquor store and eatery, and windows stained brown by ears of industry. The replacement will probably be shiny, with lots of glass, to welcome tourists from rich countries to the Tatras.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
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