Ugrás a tartalomra

Makovecz Imre



Tartalomjegyzék erről az oldalról:

Church of St. Michael’s Struggle.

The Tree and the Church

Visszaugrás a navigációra
Az oldal cikkei bevezetőkkel:


Church of St. Michael’s Struggle.

During the Second World War, in the area of Upper Christina Town parish in Budapest, they began the construction of a church but it had to be abandoned because of the war.

They got as far as the ground floor and the reinforced concrete pillars stretching toward the sky. The Rákosi era deprived the Church of the area and the unfinished edifice, too, and in the late 70’s the unfinished church was converted into a disco. The sanctuary was taken over by music and dance. I have now designed a church from this physical and spiritual distortion by honoring the original ground plan.

As I approach the end of my life, the strength that can vanquish the “dragon”, the distortion, the clever and selfish distortion, the temptation to modify one’s vital energies, becomes more and more important.

The elegance which creates balance by keeping the forces of darkness at bay and which is a precondition of inner peace and is thus of the goal of Creation, the free individual, becomes increasingly important.

This is why the church I have designed is the church of St. Michael, this is why it is the church of the saints and the damned alike.

The towers of the church are as alive as poplars. The nave is topped by arched wooden beams, and about two-thirds of it is also designed to tend inward and appear upside down. The upper and lower churches are divided by a glass floor.

What are we to make of this? That I am making visible the invisible contrast of visible reality, that the person standing on the glass floor who wishes to live together with and to draw strength from the Eucharist should realize that he is standing perched on the borderline between heaven and earth, that despite the dragon-world, the gate to salvation is open to him, too, but that the world — and within it he, too — was created so that damnation is also a realistic alternative.

But in this milieu, the drama taking place in the church can also serve as proof that if he partakes of the sacrament of the wine and bread, he will be saved.

St. Michael vanquished the dragon, but he thrust him down into our world. We need protection and fortification against the temptations of Satan. For this we need the strength of the Creator, for which — shaken by the battle raging in and around us — we can pray in this church.

Above the head of the churchgoer, on the bridges sinking and rearing toward the sky, there is a procession of statues of saints and of humans who tend toward damnation, and the churchgoer sees the same thing in the world beneath the glass floor.

This is the scene of the duality of what has transpired and what might have transpired, of actions and missed opportunities, united in the House of God.

On the towers are the eyes of accumulated suffering that can nevertheless see into the distance, just like the eyes of men who have suffered at the hands of fate.

The new church is the scene of belabored man, of man capable of losing himself in temptation as well as of finding redemption. It is the scene of St. Michael’s own struggle.

The birth of all creative work involves a sequence. First appears a vision, and along with it a “mood” that involves all the details. Only then comes the rough sketch for the structure, regardless of whether we are dealing with music or architecture. The elaboration of the vision and the mood become one with matter. The departing or destruction of a work of creation keeps to the sequence of its creation, except in reverse order. When its material is annihilated, the vision and the mood remain. Where are they located, and can they be accessed? This is a question involving one’s world view. Whether we believe that the alpha of all beginnings is the Word.

If this is not clarified but mixed and muddled, it is no use continuing the search; it is no use trying to understand. It is time to decide.

Why? Because if it is true that the Word, the idea, the vision of the Word comes first, then God created the world in six days and there is no linear development, only a cyclical space-time — maybe — in curved space, in which case the drama of creation lies in time as time-space-location, etc.

If it is not true, then we’re left with the interminable eras of uncertainty, the numbers 6 or 666, the Demiurgos* of false creation as based on one of the principles of the Satanic threesome which is in turn based on the Trinity, etc. Even surnaturalism is better than this unappetizing brew, and so is the wonder mixed with fear; it is better to look Awe in the eye, and it is better to accept the inconceivable, the unacceptable reality of things.

It is better to accept that we come from somewhere and must go somewhere, that we are born and that we must die, that birth and death are not the beginning and the end. However, this must not relieve or circumvent the drastic and unacceptable reality of facts.

The disconsolate wailing, the delirious pleading for life in the face of death is justified and sacred, and the world of pain and blood into which we are born is terrifying. It is not for the faint at heart to confront the Almighty.

* Plato’s name for the Creative principle.

The Tree and the Church

When practicing my vocation, the consecrated world of plants, especially trees, have always inspired me to let their “word” be heard inside my walls.

The vitality of its dynamics, its flexibility, tied to a place yet resistant to storms, the protecting embrace of its shade, the fragrant scent of its blossoms offering themselves up to the skies, its “song”, is the fairy-adviser of my architecture. I say fairy for I have missed them that have left this earthly space, and would like to bring them closer to us.
(Mihály Babits)

The eyes looking out from the “poplars” embracing the church towers give shape to the soul that has made the trees its home. The chiming of the bells issues from these window-eyes. The towers are of glued structures. Their range of motion in the wind is possible to the extent the structures will allow, approximately 1.5 m. at the peak. The towers with the chiming eyes encircled by the poplars swaying in the wind summon all living things to make an offering. This was the aim of the church at Siófok, as well as the towers of the churches in Temesvár [Timişoara, Romania] and Sepsiszentgyörgy [Sfantu Gheorghe, Romania].

The concave spine and ribs of the nave conjure up the interior of the chest, the lungs and the heart, the place of breathing, of the soul, the place from which the soul begins its journey before the offering is made.

I know that this description is unacceptable, overly poetic, bombastic and empty for the new “streamlined”, “modern” tastes. So be it.
Yet I feel that without the redemption and love of nature — including the nature of man — there is no path to the Creator. Architects must take this step, the spiritualization of nature. It will not suffice to think that an empty white square, on the other side of nothingness, is the home of spirituality.

A number of people have asked me to draw for them King Attila’s palace. Although it must have been made of earth, wood and tents, and I even have some notion about the architecture of the Manicheans, the early Christians, the late Romans and the Celts, I didn’t feel like creating a fictitious eclecticism. All that ill-advised reconstruction and the even more ill-advised romanticism made me flinch.

Influenced by Blossfeldt, Plato, Steiner and Maróti, the “Atlantis” drawings made me enter a “still-extant” bygone world, the vision of a former, younger Earth. I am enthralled by the admixture of the magic of folk art, of Böcklin, Kleist and Bartók I find around me, the plant creature, the living, intelligent houses, the relativity of gravity, the cosmic essence
of symbols, the expulsion of the fallen angels.

King Attila’s palace is a haystack shaped dome hovering above the balance of light and dark. His throne consists of four chairs positioned in four directions, with a different winged being standing behind each. These beings also exist upside down in the well behind the throne. Their alter-ego lives in that other world. Above the net woven from one of
the symbols of folk art is its spatial origin — dark and light revolving on a globe. The rock roots of the palace float atop this.

Attila’s palace is a celestial palace, like the palace of the water fairies, re. the Golden Garden — Csallóköz (Zitny ostrov, Slovakia) gleams forth from the Danube’s depths.

Attila is lord of the sky and the earth, the upper world and lower world; he publishes forth the truth toward the four corners of the earth.

Visszaugrás a navigációra

Visszaugrás a navigációra