KUDÁSZ GÁBOR ARION photography

CAMP (TÁBOR)

…A camp is temporary habitation, and a city is a camp, which took roots. Inhabitants don’t drag it along their journeys anymore, as they carried their tents before, but they drag it through time. In fact it drags them.
We, townsmen are watchmen, even if we’re not exactly like night watchmen or security guards. The only superior aim of our variegated activity is to guard and maintain the camp, the net of camps. Day after day we try to stabilize the provisionality, and every time we fail to notice that the camp can only be temporary by its nature. We populate it, enlarge it, but it becomes empty by the caprice of fate and history.
After the final evacuation the difference vanishes between the estates, the barracks of the bunkhouses, the pioneer, internment or refugee camps.
Abandoned camps are all the same… 

CITY OF THE NIGHT WATCHMEN
/text in the book by the artist/ 

Carefully, not to raise the part-time hermit, I lean over his head and secretly look out the window. I wonder if he, the watchman is afraid of loneliness, when he pries into the darkness, or has he counted the bricks on the partition-wall. The well-known sight of the parking lot, the office block, the base of operation, is not only a simple picture for him, but also his only word-bound partner throughout sleepless nights. In his superannuated van that stands on bricks, he waits for liberation, as Robinson Crusoe. Occasionally he deals passionately and eagerly with the unguarded intruder, and he is hoping to get some justification of his banishments necessity. He watches the horizon and inevitably becomes an elemental part of his wretched surroundings. His perpetually tired eyes get heavy with sleep in the umpteenth shift’s longest hour and he dozes off in the endless night. His boots are steaming on the radiator, and in his skull, the maddening inaction of eventless nights start to work. The observed area is now watching him as he slowly falls through the universe, ultimately and solitarily…
A camp is temporary habitation, and a city is a camp, which took roots. Inhabitants don’t drag it along their journeys anymore, as they carried their tents before, but they drag it through time. In fact it drags them.
We, townsmen are watchmen, even if we’re not exactly like night watchmen or security guards. The only superior aim of our variegated activity is to guard and maintain the camp, the net of camps. Day after day we try to stabilize the provisionality, and every time we fail to notice that the camp can only be temporary by its nature. We populate it, enlarge it, but it becomes empty by the caprice of fate and history.
After the final evacuation the difference vanishes between the estates, the barracks of the bunkhouses, the pioneer, internment or refugee camps.
Abandoned camps are all the same.

These photographs were taken from the only possible point of view, which I could denominate as the sight from my brick-wheeled, immobile van. The peephole of my cabin is really a framed picture, in which it could not be easily decided whether its object is being built, or is waiting for demolition.
The difference is unimportant.