Minor Chefs – the cake After doing research about different Transylvanian (Romanian and Hungarian) recipes we decided to bake a cake during the performance. It seems like they love cakes here! And the more layers it has, the better. Here is one of the original recipes for the delicious Romanian
The recipe for creating “Minor Chefs” Ingredients: Batter: 1 (small) starting point 1 space for performing, including a small space for the audience and enough sockets to plug in lights, kitchen equipment, sound system Lots of pans, cups, bowls etc. 1 oven, 1 hotplate, 1 table and 1 shelf Ingredients
A bike on the roof in Targu Mures. It will be difficult for this local espontaneous artist to get international attention, but I like this instalation much more than the overvalued “bike wheel” of Marcel Duchamp
https://youtu.be/K0ewiYsYwjY Preparation for our work in progress presentation at the University of Arts Târgu Mureș. We called this a “living breathing installation” and began by writing on the walls personal stories, confessions and secrets collected during our focus group work and rehearsals. The writings on the walls were intimate and voluntary
https://makeamoveproject.eu/web/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/KATARINA2.mp3 this is katarina talking to her brother stepan, complaining about the increasing religious fanatism of their mother, Varvara.
https://makeamoveproject.eu/web/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/stepancanttalk.mp4 this is stepan. he says he works for apple in ireland. he is back home to take some holiday and also destroy human society by means of a nihilist sect. here we see him talking to his mother, who is a dedicated member of the evangelical sect ETERNAL SOMETHING,
Országúton masirozom, A lábammal nagy port hajtok. Olyan nehéz maradásom, Keserves az elválásom. Nézz ki rózsám ablakidon! Ki jár kerek udvaridon? Vess utánam ëgy pillantást! Többet úgyse látjuk ëgymást. Ne sirj rózsám, ne keserëgj, Hogy a tied nem lëhetëk! Már én mostan másé vagyok, Magam válta gazda vagyok. 4. Szabad
Just before landing in Romania, when the plane passed through the clouds and we could finally see the fields, I immediately thought of T.S. Eliot’s poem Wasteland. The hills were brown but also white. The snow had fallen during the night. I did not take a photo from the plane,
Every work turns against its author: the poem will crush the poet, the system the philosopher, the event the man of action. Destruction awaits anyone who, answering to his vocation and fulfilling it, exerts himself within history; only the man who sacrifices every gift and talent escapes: released from his
