Lightness.

 

…and whose frame is it? I set the square as a window in which to reflect on the world and perhaps myself, allowing for much coincidence to take place. Then coincidence set the window of a tram as inner mask for my original frame. And so whose framing is it? And who is being framed? Homebound. Wednesday. The lightness of an early evening hour…

Gabor Kapolka
2008

 

 

French. Manually built. Racer bike.

…like this. Pronouncing each part in a slow and accentuated manner, savouring the words.

It belongs to my father. A frame of crimson, wheels of twenty-nine inches, a rear axis that can be lubricated from outside, fine gears. The back-pedal brake has allegedly been manufactured in Marseilles. It has never scraped, though, now at the age of sixty-five it occasionally pulls a little. My grandfather regularly rode it to around-the-block-of-houses-championship in old Budapest and in his young years even earned a living by using it to courier screenplays and shooting plans to actors of the sole film company. – The simple folks, my lad, all them unknown film actors, you see, they were true gentlemen, my lad… would often give a tip to last for several days. Unlike stars, you see, as all them they wouldn’t… though often living up in them fancy hills. Uphill cycling, my lad, you see, uphill cycling…
My father inherited it as a family-antique. Used to ride it to the mine-lakes for a swim. Now and again they would take it to Lake Balaton too. On such occasions he would nearly escape the guards of the piers where of course it was forbidden to ride.
And the movie theatre. Taking a ride to the movies! Arriving a good deal earlier than when the film starts and watching all the girls arriving, with your hair neatly oiled down and your body leaning against the frame of the bike, pretending casual indifference.
Mentioning the frame reminds me where the welding on the cross-brace might be originating from. What load could possibly have made this seasoned metal piece so worn out as to need welding. Mystery. And Dad would not say either. Although I keep asking, he seems ignorant of my nagging, hesitantly attempting to satiate my curiosity by mumbling some incoherent references to heavy loads such as bags of potatoes, jars of milk and (horrors) an anchor for a boat.
But I keep beating my brains and slowly a sinister suspicion is starting to take shape in my mind. Since what else could bear a heavier load on a frame (any frame) than the imperceptible weight of the flitting skirt of a lady. Is this how it happened? And if so, just how many young ladies have travelled the hidden streets and courtyards of Budapest sitting on that frame, learning the rules of around-the-block-of-houses races or the ever current movie guide. Answer this, Dad!

Cinema Paradiso…

 

Gabor Kapolka lives and works in Budapest, Hungary.

More documentary portraits on: http://www.gangfoto.hu