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Description
My mother's father was a renaissance man, who had many talents. First of all, talent of survive. He was a sculptor, a painter, miner, accountant, poet, polyglot, carpenter, stonemason, teacher, human rights activist before he could even heard about the term and loving father all above anything else. He was good in things he did, and he did things all the time, and couldn't stop create and invent until his death. He was an orphan of a secler family living near Abrud and having some 14 brothers and sisters, and he had to do the things the hardest way. A wealthy relative with good investments in the mine industry there gave him a job. A kind of. He was a servant, a kind of odd job man, help in the fields and the kitchen, and also a jester. This relative used him as a party attraction because he couldn't speak French. He was commanded in French and punished if he did not obey well. So he learnt French. When they realized that he learned the language within some months, his role has been changed. He had to speak French and he was laughed at because of his pronounciation. It hadn't went for long, as he learnt a fashionable style and he talked smoothly and properly. When it turned out that he won't be useful as a dumbass, he was beaten up and fired. And this was just the beginning, about one hundred years ago. He fought in two great wars and helped the Jews with bread and water when the trains wait near their hometown. He was shot at few times by the guards, but he got away with minor injuries. When the communists took over, the Soviet HQ demanded a memorial statue and he had the assignment. The statue got ready in time and erected in its designated place, and he received a kilogram of butter (that was a very decent payment in 1947). In 1952 the Hungarian communist leaders of the town found out that he accepted the offered butter, and sent him to the coal mine to the 'robbery'—he and his mates had to pull out the wooden beams of scaffolding from the unused mine shafts because they were low on timbers. He survived more than twenty teammates because pulling out the beams usually caused that the shaft collapsed. There were political prisoners working in the mine, too. He contacted their relatives and brought and sent messages—sometimes the postman brought him two dozen letters to be smugged to the prisoners. He always wondered why the Big Ones did not stop him. About five years later he was the accountant of the same mine and some more years later he was the head of the accountants. He did not like the office. He wanted to be creative, working with stone and wood, and with metal sometimes, so he moved to carve tombstones and stone decorations for parks and alike—but mostly tombstones. Almost all of his works have been lost, save some but very few tombs. His poems and writings, including his autobiography has been lost when he moved another house.

I have but faint direct memories of him as I was about twelve when he passed away. I loved his workshop, the forbidden realm of interesting and very heavy tools, the darkness, the smell of dust and iron and the cracking sound of his ancient radio that was always on.

I took part in a model photo workshop at a strange train maintenance factory. The part of the factory is quite normal, they maintain Stadler Flirt EMUs and some other currently used rolling stock, and the other part of the factory is scrapping unusable units. A third part of it is the strangest place you could expect in a work like this. First of all, the yard is full of almost shapeless heaps of rust that once were different types of rolling stock. Steam locomotives, ancient Diesel engines from the 30s, cars and stationary locomotives (stabile engines they say). Some of them are assigned to museums but their preservation is non-existent. The most of the halls roofs missing, there is no window with intact glass, and the whole thing is like the Michigan Central Station in the opening sequences of Naqoyqatsi or even worse. And there are people still working at that place, slowly and accurately (mostly slowly, sometimes accurately) and they have their own microcosmos. Some of them work at the same bench for more than forty years.

When I saw the corner with two enormous lathes and all kinds of tools for using them, it brought back the feeling of my Grandfather's workshop. I asked the rather bored and tired model who "enjoyed" the cold and depressing place for six hours already to stand in front one of them, just for the reference sake.

The workshop was organized by Spektrum Fotó Kft , and led by Peter Karl . Model: Kitty Zsoldos. The contracts doesn't allow prints and downloads, and explicitly prohibit derivated works, sorry.

Description
My mother's father was a renaissance man, who had many talents. First of all, talent of survive. He was a sculptor, a painter, miner, accountant, poet, polyglot, carpenter, stonemason, teacher, human rights activist before he could even heard about the term and loving father all above anything else. He was good in things he did, and he did things all the time, and couldn't stop create and invent until his death. He was an orphan of a secler family living near Abrud and having some 14 brothers and sisters, and he had to do the things the hardest way. A wealthy relative with good investments in the mine industry there gave him a job. A kind of. He was a servant, a kind of odd job man, help in the fields and the kitchen, and also a jester. This relative used him as a party attraction because he couldn't speak French. He was commanded in French and punished if he did not obey well. So he learnt French. When they realized that he learned the language within some months, his role has been changed. He had to speak French and he was laughed at because of his pronounciation. It hadn't went for long, as he learnt a fashionable style and he talked smoothly and properly. When it turned out that he won't be useful as a dumbass, he was beaten up and fired. And this was just the beginning, about one hundred years ago. He fought in two great wars and helped the Jews with bread and water when the trains wait near their hometown. He was shot at few times by the guards, but he got away with minor injuries. When the communists took over, the Soviet HQ demanded a memorial statue and he had the assignment. The statue got ready in time and erected in its designated place, and he received a kilogram of butter (that was a very decent payment in 1947). In 1952 the Hungarian communist leaders of the town found out that he accepted the offered butter, and sent him to the coal mine to the 'robbery'—he and his mates had to pull out the wooden beams of scaffolding from the unused mine shafts because they were low on timbers. He survived more than twenty teammates because pulling out the beams usually caused that the shaft collapsed. There were political prisoners working in the mine, too. He contacted their relatives and brought and sent messages—sometimes the postman brought him two dozen letters to be smugged to the prisoners. He always wondered why the Big Ones did not stop him. About five years later he was the accountant of the same mine and some more years later he was the head of the accountants. He did not like the office. He wanted to be creative, working with stone and wood, and with metal sometimes, so he moved to carve tombstones and stone decorations for parks and alike—but mostly tombstones. Almost all of his works have been lost, save some but very few tombs. His poems and writings, including his autobiography has been lost when he moved another house.

I have but faint direct memories of him as I was about twelve when he passed away. I loved his workshop, the forbidden realm of interesting and very heavy tools, the darkness, the smell of dust and iron and the cracking sound of his ancient radio that was always on.

I took part in a model photo workshop at a strange train maintenance factory. The part of the factory is quite normal, they maintain Stadler Flirt EMUs and some other currently used rolling stock, and the other part of the factory is scrapping unusable units. A third part of it is the strangest place you could expect in a work like this. First of all, the yard is full of almost shapeless heaps of rust that once were different types of rolling stock. Steam locomotives, ancient Diesel engines from the 30s, cars and stationary locomotives (stabile engines they say). Some of them are assigned to museums but their preservation is non-existent. The most of the halls roofs missing, there is no window with intact glass, and the whole thing is like the Michigan Central Station in the opening sequences of Naqoyqatsi or even worse. And there are people still working at that place, slowly and accurately (mostly slowly, sometimes accurately) and they have their own microcosmos. Some of them work at the same bench for more than forty years.

When I saw the corner with two enormous lathes and all kinds of tools for using them, it brought back the feeling of my Grandfather's workshop. I asked the rather bored and tired model who "enjoyed" the cold and depressing place for six hours already to stand in front one of them, just for the reference sake.

The workshop was organized by Spektrum Fotó Kft , and led by Peter Karl . Model: Kitty Zsoldos. The contracts doesn't allow prints and downloads, and explicitly prohibit derivated works, sorry.