Tamás Urbán: Unwanted Butterfly

D E UN W AN T TA M Á S U R BÁN

TAMÁS UR B ÁN T H E U N WA N T E D B U T T E R F LY 30 YEARS AFTER

ROBERT CAPA CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHY CENTER ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLICT – BONE IDLE BOOKS — 2020

TAMÁS UR B ÁN T H E U N WA N T E D B U T T E R F LY 30 YEARS AFTER

ROBERT CAPA CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHY CENTER ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLICT – BONE IDLE BOOKS — 2020

D E UN W AN T

TAMÁS U R BÁ N ROBERT CAPA CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHY CENTER ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLICT – BONE IDLE BOOKS — 2020

D E UN W AN T

TAMÁS U R BÁ N ROBERT CAPA CONTEMPORARY PHOTOGRAPHY CENTER ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLICT – BONE IDLE BOOKS — 2020

FRO M T HE F IR ST ENCO U NTE R

TO F R EE D O M

FRO M T HE F IR ST ENCO U NTE R

TO F R EE D O M

Pillangó a.k.a the Hungarian Butterfly and his buddies were destined not to survive their youth. They engaged in extreme self-destruction.

Pillangó’s life, his entire self was a perfect example of how easy it was to become irrevocably deadbeat in the 1970s and 1980s, the decades preceding the downfall of the communist regime in Hungary.

Because of his family history, Pillangó started off life from down under and no road presented itself to the surface. No wonder I met him in the infamous prison of Szeged, generally known as the Csillag [Star].

I had been working visiting Hungarian prisons for a while at the time, in 1988. A journalist colleague of mine at Ifjúsági Magazin (Youth Magazine) had the idea that we should report on prison life. We planned on producing a ten-volume series of books.

Each book was supposed to be written by a journalist. For the illustration to be uniform, I was to take all the pictures for the books. It was extremely difficult to get into any public facility, let alone prisons, as Hungarian institutions were quite closed at the time. A colleague’s father used to work at the headquarters of the Hungarian Communist Party before becoming a so-called political parachuter. After that, he was appointed as chief commander of the national institution of law enforcement.

He signed our permission. Eventually, only one book was written

by Péter Heinrich-Tamáska, a historian who was originally assigned to the penitentiary of Márianosztra. I spent two and a half years photographing Hungarian prisons in numerous locations, including Márianosztra, Sopronkőhida, Vác, Tököl, etc.

[The title of the volume written by Péter Heinrich-Tamáska and published in 1988 was Márianosztrai panoptikum [Panopticon of Marianosztra]. The historian Heinrich-Tamáska also wrote a deeper analysis by the title of Kis magyar börtöntörténelem [Little Hungarian prison-history], which was published in 2013. Both monographs are illustrated with the photographs by Tamás Urbán.]

In Márianosztra, I even had a couch of my own as I spent numerous nights in the facility. The swallowed objects that were operated out of prisoners I photographed in Tököl. The institution of Tököl was

outstanding for numerous reasons. Its commander, Tibor Frank organized a graffiti camp at the foot of the prison walls, where not only Hungarian and international public artists but also well-behaving inmates could participate in painting the prison wall.

In Tököl, there even was an inmate whom I greeted as an old acquaintance: I met him earlier at the Juvenile Correction Center in Aszód where I photographed my final piece of work as a graduate photo reporter student of the School of the National Association of Hungarian Journalists in 1975. Some of the prisoners got close to me or at least some of them might have felt so. One of them even visited me at my parents’ apartment in Horvát Street when he was on a short leave. I was not home and my poor folks got quite scared, they did not understand what a convicted felon would have wanted from me.

Thus happened that I visited the Csillag in Szeged at the beginning of 1988. Colonel Vladimir Illovszky, the warden of the prison drew my particular attention to two things on my first visit. One was a special part of the yard where the remains of the two sets of gallows were still visible. One of them had been used for the last time a few months before, on the 3rd of September, to hang the multiple murderer Barnabás Kókai. The other amusement was the famous resident of the Csillag, Ferenc Deák, who worked at the furniture factory spindling chair legs at the time of my visit. I already knew there was a heavily tattooed celebrity in the facility, thus I immediately fancied the opportunity to get to know him. Comrade colonel gave his permission to do so and he also assigned a guard to accompany me. At the time it seemed reasonable because of the circumstances.

Visitors were handled with extra caution, especially around the joiner-shop. A few years before, in October of 1984, a 28-year-old convict by the name of Ricsi Richter ran amok and stabbed six prison guards in only four minutes with a knife handmade by himself. Three of them died on the spot or in the hospital, and the survivors were left with permanent impairment. The rampage could be carried out easily as there were dozens of planing machines and other woodworking machines running simultaneously in the 250-300m-long wood-shop. One could hardly hear their own thoughts there. At the time of Richter's hecatomb people trying to warn each other could not be heard at all because of the noise. We set off along the rows of machines towards the other side of the seemingly endless hall. About midway, the “old screw” prodded me with his elbow, and, as I turned to the side, I saw the prisoner covered in tattoos, but

Pillangó a.k.a the Hungarian Butterfly and his buddies were destined not to survive their youth. They engaged in extreme self-destruction.

Pillangó’s life, his entire self was a perfect example of how easy it was to become irrevocably deadbeat in the 1970s and 1980s, the decades preceding the downfall of the communist regime in Hungary.

Because of his family history, Pillangó started off life from down under and no road presented itself to the surface. No wonder I met him in the infamous prison of Szeged, generally known as the Csillag [Star].

I had been working visiting Hungarian prisons for a while at the time, in 1988. A journalist colleague of mine at Ifjúsági Magazin (Youth Magazine) had the idea that we should report on prison life. We planned on producing a ten-volume series of books.

Each book was supposed to be written by a journalist. For the illustration to be uniform, I was to take all the pictures for the books. It was extremely difficult to get into any public facility, let alone prisons, as Hungarian institutions were quite closed at the time. A colleague’s father used to work at the headquarters of the Hungarian Communist Party before becoming a so-called political parachuter. After that, he was appointed as chief commander of the national institution of law enforcement.

He signed our permission. Eventually, only one book was written

by Péter Heinrich-Tamáska, a historian who was originally assigned to the penitentiary of Márianosztra. I spent two and a half years photographing Hungarian prisons in numerous locations, including Márianosztra, Sopronkőhida, Vác, Tököl, etc.

[The title of the volume written by Péter Heinrich-Tamáska and published in 1988 was Márianosztrai panoptikum [Panopticon of Marianosztra]. The historian Heinrich-Tamáska also wrote a deeper analysis by the title of Kis magyar börtöntörténelem [Little Hungarian prison-history], which was published in 2013. Both monographs are illustrated with the photographs by Tamás Urbán.]

In Márianosztra, I even had a couch of my own as I spent numerous nights in the facility. The swallowed objects that were operated out of prisoners I photographed in Tököl. The institution of Tököl was

outstanding for numerous reasons. Its commander, Tibor Frank organized a graffiti camp at the foot of the prison walls, where not only Hungarian and international public artists but also well-behaving inmates could participate in painting the prison wall.

In Tököl, there even was an inmate whom I greeted as an old acquaintance: I met him earlier at the Juvenile Correction Center in Aszód where I photographed my final piece of work as a graduate photo reporter student of the School of the National Association of Hungarian Journalists in 1975. Some of the prisoners got close to me or at least some of them might have felt so. One of them even visited me at my parents’ apartment in Horvát Street when he was on a short leave. I was not home and my poor folks got quite scared, they did not understand what a convicted felon would have wanted from me.

Thus happened that I visited the Csillag in Szeged at the beginning of 1988. Colonel Vladimir Illovszky, the warden of the prison drew my particular attention to two things on my first visit. One was a special part of the yard where the remains of the two sets of gallows were still visible. One of them had been used for the last time a few months before, on the 3rd of September, to hang the multiple murderer Barnabás Kókai. The other amusement was the famous resident of the Csillag, Ferenc Deák, who worked at the furniture factory spindling chair legs at the time of my visit. I already knew there was a heavily tattooed celebrity in the facility, thus I immediately fancied the opportunity to get to know him. Comrade colonel gave his permission to do so and he also assigned a guard to accompany me. At the time it seemed reasonable because of the circumstances.

Visitors were handled with extra caution, especially around the joiner-shop. A few years before, in October of 1984, a 28-year-old convict by the name of Ricsi Richter ran amok and stabbed six prison guards in only four minutes with a knife handmade by himself. Three of them died on the spot or in the hospital, and the survivors were left with permanent impairment. The rampage could be carried out easily as there were dozens of planing machines and other woodworking machines running simultaneously in the 250-300m-long wood-shop. One could hardly hear their own thoughts there. At the time of Richter's hecatomb people trying to warn each other could not be heard at all because of the noise. We set off along the rows of machines towards the other side of the seemingly endless hall. About midway, the “old screw” prodded me with his elbow, and, as I turned to the side, I saw the prisoner covered in tattoos, but

I kept on walking. At the end of the hall, we turned around and went back. I still didn't take my “weapon”, my Nikon camera mounted with a 35mm lens, off my shoulder. As I was walking back and forth, the prisoners got more and more excited. This had always been my usual method of work: I never asked for permission from anyone to allow me to take a picture. I considered this to be even more important when working in the prisons. Should I have approached a convict who had had no chance whatsoever to say no to anyone for months or even years, I was certain I would not have been able to take a single shot. With my method, however, I could see how the room came alive with tension as the prisoners tried to attract my attention to themselves, with lively gestures. One of the prisoners, who was covering couches with cloth with a group, eventually could not hold his excitement any longer and shouted out: “Hey, you, boss, won’t you come over here and take a picture of us already?”

That was the time when I could explain that I could only take photos if people signed a waiver. The prisoners immediately lined up in a very disciplined manner and in half an hour I had signed sheets from all the convicts who worked in the wood-shop. There were some who signed only with three crosses, showing they dropped out of school during their elementary studies.

In possession of the waivers, I was able to photograph anything anywhere in the facility. Pillangó, whom I only approached afterwards, was spindling a chair-post but I did not take a picture of him at his workstation. Later, when I wandered unaccompanied to the upper row of cells, I found him in a matter of seconds. He was sitting on a stool in his doorway, almost naked.

“My name is Pillangó, the Hungarian Butterfly”, he said, introducing himself. “But my real name is Ferenc Deák. Not the national hero, the so-called wise man of the nation, more like the national felon.”

[Butterflies are quite frequently used as designs for prison tattoos, but their fame arose from the bestseller written by the French author Henri Charrière. His autobiographical book was published in 1969 and was translated into Hungarian a mere two years later. The story of the man known in the criminal circles as Papillon [Butterfly in French] for the butterfly tattoo on his chest, who had been falsely convicted of murder was also adapted by Hollywood resulting in two movies (released in 1973 and 2017). This was how his numerous attempts to escape and his final success became known by the public.]

We went on talking. He said he was born on the 1st of January, 1954, “just like the poet, Sándor Petőfi, only a couple of years later”.

His mother’s first husband died in the war, he fathered his half

brother, who was 9 years older and whom Pillangó did not consider even as a brother of a quarter. His mother’s second husband, Pillangó’s father worked for the national railways as a cramponman. He lived with them until Pillangó was five, after which he disappeared. “He must have been a real boor: besides being fond of booze, when he was given a Christmas package at work that was meant for me, all he left me was a single peanut, with its shell still on. That's all I remember about him. I was twenty when he got in contact with me again, after fifteen years of silence.

I remember eating potato paprikash, when he entered. I took the sausage off my plate and hurled it at him”, he recalled some memories of his father.

His mother worked at the textile factory as a shuttle winder, three shifts a day. That didn't leave her much time for the kids, who then were mostly wandering the streets. Pillangó started smoking when he was six.

Back then, it was possible to buy cigarettes buy the piece, Pillangó bought Kossuth, Munkás and Fecske for 12-20 fillér coins. He was a regular visitor at the police station of Úri Street even as a kid. By the fourth grade, he had been kicked out of school and sent to a penitentiary. First, he was at Ady Endre Children's Home, but after he broke into the basement of Kiscelli Museum with some friends, he was moved to Bakonyoszlop. He went on telling his story as such: “I had my baptism by fire as far as sex is concerned in my sixth grade, while in Bakonyoszlop. The girl was two years older. I used to climb out of the bedroom window of the home at night and met the girl in their backyard, in the village. I had never been caught. After finishing elementary, I returned to Budapest. I went to a painters' and decorators' school in Szondi Street in the sixth district. I eventually ended up in Makarenkó Street, in the eighth district, where I made a like-minded friend.

We got up to plenty of trouble together. So much so, that the teachers used our stories to

frighten the others. I was fifteen when I first ended up in court. It was no big deal, I got a year in the penitentiary, from where I fled on the third day. I had been caught and taken back and I got 10 extra months. That was followed by 2 years, 2 years 10 months, 4 years, and then 7 years. I wasn't on the outside much. My poor mother visited me both in the penitentiary and in the prison. She did everything she could. All she had wished for was that I became a respectable man. Well, that hasn't happened yet!”

His mother died at the age of 61 in 1977. The 23-year old Pillangó was locked up in Szeged at the time. His brother, whom Pillangó was never really keen on, immediately took over the flat they owned together.

When Pillangó got out, he arranged for him to be sent back in no time. Being in his twenties, Pillangó started an affair with an underage minor, who had not turned 14 yet. The brother let it slip to the girl’s mother and as a re-offender, Pillangó was sentenced to 2 years 10 months. By the time he got out, his brother’s family had exchanged the common flat for their own good. Pillangó swore to “kill the son of a bitch! I'm getting out in a few months; the first person I'm going to see is him, and I'm going to slit his throat for that. I will do it even if I spend the rest of my life in prison afterwards”. It was kind of harsh for introductions. Sitting there I was nodding but I was reeling from what I heard. I did think his brother was a scum for dispossessing him of their common flat, but murder seemed to be quite an extreme solution.

Although I did not approve of it, I kind of understood the logic of his plans as I had visited quite a few prisons by then. For those who spent a long time behind bars, inside or out did not pose as a big difference.

It was especially true for Pillangó who had spent half of his life in prison and it was the adult half. Convicts serving a long sentence felt like walking on eggshells once they finally got out. They entered any public institutions or even the corner shop with anxiety.

The only exception, perhaps, were pubs, where anyone could adjust in a matter of seconds.

At the end of 1988, I was photographing prisoners rehearsing for the Christmas show at the “temporary wing” of the Csillag in Dorozsmai Street. The convicts were declaiming Petőfi poems with nothing less but enthusiasm. After I'd finished work for the day, I went over to Mars Square to visit Pillangó, as I did whenever I spent time in Szeged since we first met. Pillangó was having lunch. Although I was quite hungry, the roll soaked in milk wasn’t appealing. Feri offered me some food as he had several plates in front of him. Others seemed to also prefer something more solid

I kept on walking. At the end of the hall, we turned around and went back. I still didn't take my “weapon”, my Nikon camera mounted with a 35mm lens, off my shoulder. As I was walking back and forth, the prisoners got more and more excited. This had always been my usual method of work: I never asked for permission from anyone to allow me to take a picture. I considered this to be even more important when working in the prisons. Should I have approached a convict who had had no chance whatsoever to say no to anyone for months or even years, I was certain I would not have been able to take a single shot. With my method, however, I could see how the room came alive with tension as the prisoners tried to attract my attention to themselves, with lively gestures. One of the prisoners, who was covering couches with cloth with a group, eventually could not hold his excitement any longer and shouted out: “Hey, you, boss, won’t you come over here and take a picture of us already?”

That was the time when I could explain that I could only take photos if people signed a waiver. The prisoners immediately lined up in a very disciplined manner and in half an hour I had signed sheets from all the convicts who worked in the wood-shop. There were some who signed only with three crosses, showing they dropped out of school during their elementary studies.

In possession of the waivers, I was able to photograph anything anywhere in the facility. Pillangó, whom I only approached afterwards, was spindling a chair-post but I did not take a picture of him at his workstation. Later, when I wandered unaccompanied to the upper row of cells, I found him in a matter of seconds. He was sitting on a stool in his doorway, almost naked.

“My name is Pillangó, the Hungarian Butterfly”, he said, introducing himself. “But my real name is Ferenc Deák. Not the national hero, the so-called wise man of the nation, more like the national felon.”

[Butterflies are quite frequently used as designs for prison tattoos, but their fame arose from the bestseller written by the French author Henri Charrière. His autobiographical book was published in 1969 and was translated into Hungarian a mere two years later. The story of the man known in the criminal circles as Papillon [Butterfly in French] for the butterfly tattoo on his chest, who had been falsely convicted of murder was also adapted by Hollywood resulting in two movies (released in 1973 and 2017). This was how his numerous attempts to escape and his final success became known by the public.]

We went on talking. He said he was born on the 1st of January, 1954, “just like the poet, Sándor Petőfi, only a couple of years later”.

His mother’s first husband died in the war, he fathered his half

brother, who was 9 years older and whom Pillangó did not consider even as a brother of a quarter. His mother’s second husband, Pillangó’s father worked for the national railways as a cramponman. He lived with them until Pillangó was five, after which he disappeared. “He must have been a real boor: besides being fond of booze, when he was given a Christmas package at work that was meant for me, all he left me was a single peanut, with its shell still on. That's all I remember about him. I was twenty when he got in contact with me again, after fifteen years of silence.

I remember eating potato paprikash, when he entered. I took the sausage off my plate and hurled it at him”, he recalled some memories of his father.

His mother worked at the textile factory as a shuttle winder, three shifts a day. That didn't leave her much time for the kids, who then were mostly wandering the streets. Pillangó started smoking when he was six.

Back then, it was possible to buy cigarettes buy the piece, Pillangó bought Kossuth, Munkás and Fecske for 12-20 fillér coins. He was a regular visitor at the police station of Úri Street even as a kid. By the fourth grade, he had been kicked out of school and sent to a penitentiary. First, he was at Ady Endre Children's Home, but after he broke into the basement of Kiscelli Museum with some friends, he was moved to Bakonyoszlop. He went on telling his story as such: “I had my baptism by fire as far as sex is concerned in my sixth grade, while in Bakonyoszlop. The girl was two years older. I used to climb out of the bedroom window of the home at night and met the girl in their backyard, in the village. I had never been caught. After finishing elementary, I returned to Budapest. I went to a painters' and decorators' school in Szondi Street in the sixth district. I eventually ended up in Makarenkó Street, in the eighth district, where I made a like-minded friend.

We got up to plenty of trouble together. So much so, that the teachers used our stories to

frighten the others. I was fifteen when I first ended up in court. It was no big deal, I got a year in the penitentiary, from where I fled on the third day. I had been caught and taken back and I got 10 extra months. That was followed by 2 years, 2 years 10 months, 4 years, and then 7 years. I wasn't on the outside much. My poor mother visited me both in the penitentiary and in the prison. She did everything she could. All she had wished for was that I became a respectable man. Well, that hasn't happened yet!”

His mother died at the age of 61 in 1977. The 23-year old Pillangó was locked up in Szeged at the time. His brother, whom Pillangó was never really keen on, immediately took over the flat they owned together.

When Pillangó got out, he arranged for him to be sent back in no time. Being in his twenties, Pillangó started an affair with an underage minor, who had not turned 14 yet. The brother let it slip to the girl’s mother and as a re-offender, Pillangó was sentenced to 2 years 10 months. By the time he got out, his brother’s family had exchanged the common flat for their own good. Pillangó swore to “kill the son of a bitch! I'm getting out in a few months; the first person I'm going to see is him, and I'm going to slit his throat for that. I will do it even if I spend the rest of my life in prison afterwards”. It was kind of harsh for introductions. Sitting there I was nodding but I was reeling from what I heard. I did think his brother was a scum for dispossessing him of their common flat, but murder seemed to be quite an extreme solution.

Although I did not approve of it, I kind of understood the logic of his plans as I had visited quite a few prisons by then. For those who spent a long time behind bars, inside or out did not pose as a big difference.

It was especially true for Pillangó who had spent half of his life in prison and it was the adult half. Convicts serving a long sentence felt like walking on eggshells once they finally got out. They entered any public institutions or even the corner shop with anxiety.

The only exception, perhaps, were pubs, where anyone could adjust in a matter of seconds.

At the end of 1988, I was photographing prisoners rehearsing for the Christmas show at the “temporary wing” of the Csillag in Dorozsmai Street. The convicts were declaiming Petőfi poems with nothing less but enthusiasm. After I'd finished work for the day, I went over to Mars Square to visit Pillangó, as I did whenever I spent time in Szeged since we first met. Pillangó was having lunch. Although I was quite hungry, the roll soaked in milk wasn’t appealing. Feri offered me some food as he had several plates in front of him. Others seemed to also prefer something more solid

current standards but in the 1980s he seemed to be unrepeatable.

Pillangó could be considered unique in many ways among the convicts.

He was literate, he drew a lot, he drafted crossword puzzles and he even wrote poems. I thought he was lucky not to see himself from the outside because in my opinion, he would have been the first to pick at his own appearance.

than they managed to barter. As far as they were concerned, kindergarten food could go to waste.

Occasionally even Pillangó refused to eat what was served. We were talking as we had done several

times in the previous months. I found out that Pillangó regularly supplemented the institutional menu with his own cooking. He had planned to cook a pigeon stew that day as well but had been forced to spend ages waiting for the medical officer that morning, thus he hadn’t had time to catch any of the fowl wandering around on the windowsill.

“I took a little break from work”, he said, pointing to his leg. There was an enormous bandage on his foot. “Not to worry, though! I painted the bed of one of my toenails with ink this morning before I went to see the barber-surgeon. He barely even looked at my injury, just gave me a couple of injections, took my perfectly healthy toenail off, and gave me a week's sick leave. There're only two and a half months left of my seven years, I intend to spend it on sick leave”, he said, smiling.

As we met more often and our relationship got deeper, the thought that I should volunteer to be Pillangó’s non-official patron slowly matured in me.

I felt sorry for him and I did not see him as all the other prisoners. I had photographed hundreds of convicts by then and had a fairly good relationship with some of them, too. When working on a longtime project the photographer usually gets drawn to his subject and a more personal relationship forms between them. Unlike the others, Pillangó showed no sign of calculation whatsoever. I was certainly aware that nobody spends 17 years in prison for nothing. Nonetheless, I saw him be miserable and

vulnerable. Probation officers who were supposed to minimize the chance of relapsing were quite unsuccessful at what they did. Their job was to oversee how the freshly released fitted back to society. In the last days of communism, however, thousands of families, especially the ones that had been unstable previously, found themselves at the periphery of society. Most of the institutionalized felons came from such families and had nobody to rely on after they became free. Moreover, many workers’ hostels got closed, the number of the unemployed were on the rise, finding a job even as an unskilled worker was close to impossible. I pitied the tattooed felon and his search for a place in society was admittedly an excellent topic to follow for a photo reporter.

It is no secret that his appearance also played an important role in my decision. At the time even one single tattoo on someone’s skin was considered to be a rarity. Ferenc Deák, who was tattooed from head to toe, would be quite extraordinary even by

The prison management approved of my plans and was extremely helpful. They even let him be one of the last to leave, which was important for me as I figured lights at 5:30 a.m. would be better for the photos. When being released, prisoners were always set free at dawn and family or friends were waiting for them at the gates.

I was staying at the prison's guesthouse but was up at 3 a.m., waiting astir for the time to slowly pass by. I was determined not to miss the moment Pillangó stepped out into freedom. By 4 a.m. relatives of other inmates being released were already gathering at Mars Square.

Some of the more vigilant shopkeepers had opened up and pálinka, the Hungarian spirit made out of fruit, was selling well. I rang at the gate and went up to the cell of prisoners about to be released.

Pillangó was just shaving; then he waited for the guards to come and get him. As he changed into civvies, I felt my jaw drop. He was planning his looks as carefully as if he were a stylist. Every little knick-knack had its place, and each piece of clothing fitted perfectly.

The various stages of release at the gate went according to the usual procedure. Record check, disbursal of pay, a list of various warnings. I had already agreed with Pillangó that I would take care of the prison pay he'd got, all thirteen thousand forints of it. Our deal was that whenever he wrote or drew something for me I would let him have the odd hundred here and there so the money that otherwise would not even cover food would last at least a month. The sum of 13 thousand forints earned in 7 years made me think, even if the amount could have varied according to the inmate’s performance in bartering. To be frank, he did have a bed (on the top bunk of a row of three) as well as three meals a day.

current standards but in the 1980s he seemed to be unrepeatable.

Pillangó could be considered unique in many ways among the convicts.

He was literate, he drew a lot, he drafted crossword puzzles and he even wrote poems. I thought he was lucky not to see himself from the outside because in my opinion, he would have been the first to pick at his own appearance.

than they managed to barter. As far as they were concerned, kindergarten food could go to waste.

Occasionally even Pillangó refused to eat what was served. We were talking as we had done several

times in the previous months. I found out that Pillangó regularly supplemented the institutional menu with his own cooking. He had planned to cook a pigeon stew that day as well but had been forced to spend ages waiting for the medical officer that morning, thus he hadn’t had time to catch any of the fowl wandering around on the windowsill.

“I took a little break from work”, he said, pointing to his leg. There was an enormous bandage on his foot. “Not to worry, though! I painted the bed of one of my toenails with ink this morning before I went to see the barber-surgeon. He barely even looked at my injury, just gave me a couple of injections, took my perfectly healthy toenail off, and gave me a week's sick leave. There're only two and a half months left of my seven years, I intend to spend it on sick leave”, he said, smiling.

As we met more often and our relationship got deeper, the thought that I should volunteer to be Pillangó’s non-official patron slowly matured in me.

I felt sorry for him and I did not see him as all the other prisoners. I had photographed hundreds of convicts by then and had a fairly good relationship with some of them, too. When working on a longtime project the photographer usually gets drawn to his subject and a more personal relationship forms between them. Unlike the others, Pillangó showed no sign of calculation whatsoever. I was certainly aware that nobody spends 17 years in prison for nothing. Nonetheless, I saw him be miserable and

vulnerable. Probation officers who were supposed to minimize the chance of relapsing were quite unsuccessful at what they did. Their job was to oversee how the freshly released fitted back to society. In the last days of communism, however, thousands of families, especially the ones that had been unstable previously, found themselves at the periphery of society. Most of the institutionalized felons came from such families and had nobody to rely on after they became free. Moreover, many workers’ hostels got closed, the number of the unemployed were on the rise, finding a job even as an unskilled worker was close to impossible. I pitied the tattooed felon and his search for a place in society was admittedly an excellent topic to follow for a photo reporter.

It is no secret that his appearance also played an important role in my decision. At the time even one single tattoo on someone’s skin was considered to be a rarity. Ferenc Deák, who was tattooed from head to toe, would be quite extraordinary even by

The prison management approved of my plans and was extremely helpful. They even let him be one of the last to leave, which was important for me as I figured lights at 5:30 a.m. would be better for the photos. When being released, prisoners were always set free at dawn and family or friends were waiting for them at the gates.

I was staying at the prison's guesthouse but was up at 3 a.m., waiting astir for the time to slowly pass by. I was determined not to miss the moment Pillangó stepped out into freedom. By 4 a.m. relatives of other inmates being released were already gathering at Mars Square.

Some of the more vigilant shopkeepers had opened up and pálinka, the Hungarian spirit made out of fruit, was selling well. I rang at the gate and went up to the cell of prisoners about to be released.

Pillangó was just shaving; then he waited for the guards to come and get him. As he changed into civvies, I felt my jaw drop. He was planning his looks as carefully as if he were a stylist. Every little knick-knack had its place, and each piece of clothing fitted perfectly.

The various stages of release at the gate went according to the usual procedure. Record check, disbursal of pay, a list of various warnings. I had already agreed with Pillangó that I would take care of the prison pay he'd got, all thirteen thousand forints of it. Our deal was that whenever he wrote or drew something for me I would let him have the odd hundred here and there so the money that otherwise would not even cover food would last at least a month. The sum of 13 thousand forints earned in 7 years made me think, even if the amount could have varied according to the inmate’s performance in bartering. To be frank, he did have a bed (on the top bunk of a row of three) as well as three meals a day.

E N T R I E S F R O M B U T T E R F LY ’ S DIARY AND OBJECTS F R O M TA M Á S U R B Á N ’ S P R I S O N COLLECTION: PRISON CALENDAR, OBJECTS SWALLOWED BY CONVICTS AND REMOVED FROM THEIR S TO M A C H V I A S U R G ER Y, B U T T E R F LY ’ S P R I S O N TELESCOPE AND ITS HAND WRITTEN DESCRIPTION, PUZZLES AND BOARD GAME D E S I G N E D B Y B U T T E R F LY, O N E O F B U T T E R F LY ’ S ‘ P R I S O N I N V E N T I O N S ’, T H E JERK-OFF-MACHINE AND ITS D E S C R I P T I O N , L E AT H E R BALL AND A PACK OF ILLEG AL PRISON CARDS

E N T R I E S F R O M B U T T E R F LY ’ S DIARY AND OBJECTS F R O M TA M Á S U R B Á N ’ S P R I S O N COLLECTION: PRISON CALENDAR, OBJECTS SWALLOWED BY CONVICTS AND REMOVED FROM THEIR S TO M A C H V I A S U R G ER Y, B U T T E R F LY ’ S P R I S O N TELESCOPE AND ITS HAND WRITTEN DESCRIPTION, PUZZLES AND BOARD GAME D E S I G N E D B Y B U T T E R F LY, O N E O F B U T T E R F LY ’ S ‘ P R I S O N I N V E N T I O N S ’, T H E JERK-OFF-MACHINE AND ITS D E S C R I P T I O N , L E AT H E R BALL AND A PACK OF ILLEG AL PRISON CARDS

Needless to say, the prison kept precise accounts of this, but it At the time, the M5 motorway could hardly be surprising that by the time a newly released between Budapest and Szeged had inmate got to the station, he barely had enough to cover for his not yet been built and the highway train ticket. Many did not even manage to get that far. Pillangó, was extremely busy. We only started however, had a seat arranged in my car. talking between Balástya and Kistelek, The huge oak doors of the Csillag prison opened up at 5:20 about 30 kilometers outside Szeged. a.m. on the 2nd of March 1989. “Prisoner EG 55-76 has left “Whereabouts in Pest?”, I asked to break the building”, said a loudspeaker inside. The 35-year-old the silence. man with a huge brass ring in his nose did not resemble “I am heading to Pesti Street, number 280, someone who had just been released from one of the where my brother lives with his family.” country's highest-security prisons. He looked more like “I thought you said in the autumn, that you he'd just escaped from a circus’ dressing room. Under weren't close, so I did not expect him to be the his arm, he was clutching a thick notebook. As it first person you visit.” turned out later, it was his precious diary. He looked “Sure, but I also told you I intend to kill him for around the market of Mars Square that was just cheating me out of our flat! Why put off until about to stir alive and — as planned — he aimed tomorrow what you can finish today?” for my battered Dacia. When he reached the car, he spat, perhaps to signal that he was starting a new chapter in his life. We set out towards the capital.

I only realised he wasn't joking when he pulled a large blade out of his bag. I suddenly became speechless.

What had I got myself into? I might end up as an adjunct in murder.

I hadn’t expected this, my mind started racing.

I had to pull over, my mind was blurry. Pillangó, on the other hand, did not falter. He got out of the car nice and slow, stretched his limbs and produced his handmade pipe out of his embroidered sabretache.

He settled at the foot of a lamppost and lit up. I tried, in vain, to redirect the conversation, but eventually started to improvise: “What had I organized tonight’s party for? It was meant to celebrate your release. There should be chicks that…”

— I stopped abruptly, mainly because I made all that up on the spot. I had no intention to organize any party at all but the sweet little lie had its effect. Pillangó must have decided that his brother’s death could wait another day and some fun wouldn’t hurt beforehand.

“We are going to Óbuda” — I announced once we got back in the out autographs through the window. car. I planned to ask Gábor Szántó, my friend and colleague for Lunchtime was looming thus I invited help. The two of us might be able to convince Pillangó not to our company to a local restaurant for kick up a row or at least not on his very first day of freedom. a bite. We left the car in the car park When we got to Flórián Square, I rang the bell for the fourth and walked to the restaurant in the next floor. My journalist friend, thank God, was in. I explained street. The restaurant was still closed, the the story in brief, by the time he got dressed and we got waiters were preparing the tables for the back to the car, he was up to speed. “Quite a story, let’s customers working at the nearby offices. go!”, he announced, as he was seemingly thinking of the Most of the tables were reserved for them, piece he would be able to write. In the meantime, quite anyone coming from the streets could only a crowd gathered around the car, Pillangó was handing dine at one of the window tables. Gábor was known at the place, so we had no problem taking hold of one of the tables despite the fact that Pillangó’s looks did cause some confusion.

As it turned out, the staff was under the impression that Pillangó was one of the “stars” coming from a nearby scene of a film shooting. Eventually, they stopped calling him “Mr Artist” as soon as we were served our freshly fried Wiener schnitzel and chips that he started eating with his bare hands. Only after finishing his bottle of beer, of course.

I must admit, it did surprise me a bit, too, no wonder that such a sudden silence fell on the restaurant that even clatter of the cutlery ceased. Everyone was staring at the heavily tattooed Pillangó tucking on his food, even those walking by the windows stopped to peer in for a moment. Pillangó alone remained unconcerned.

He fancied his lunch, especially the beer, although he gave me a long speech on what (basically anything) they used to make hooch from in the prison. They cooked it out of apples, canned cherries, beetroot and a special jam of extremely bad quality, called “Hitler bacon” back in that era.

According to Feri, only water, sugar and bread had to be added. The only problem was the cooking itself as the fermenting liquid had quite a smell and drew thousands of fruit flies. It was easiest to manage around the workstations: they had stuffed the ingredients into huge plastic cans and left it among the machines or put it into the underground pits until it matured. They even modified a mess tin that could be heated with small tea-candles in order to finestill the liquid. Because of the intense smell, however, it could only be done when there were lazy guards on duty. Whenever they had no chance to cook their hooch, they were no shy of trying out anything that could have a psychoactive effect and was at hand. If not for the fun of it, then purely out of curiosity. They had used methylated spirits, acetone, paint thinners, petrol, glass-cleaners, basically anything. Pillangó told me he had only tried them a couple of times, as he had seen what the effects this stuff had on others. “Prison narc”, on the other hand, that had nothing but tea

Needless to say, the prison kept precise accounts of this, but it At the time, the M5 motorway could hardly be surprising that by the time a newly released between Budapest and Szeged had inmate got to the station, he barely had enough to cover for his not yet been built and the highway train ticket. Many did not even manage to get that far. Pillangó, was extremely busy. We only started however, had a seat arranged in my car. talking between Balástya and Kistelek, The huge oak doors of the Csillag prison opened up at 5:20 about 30 kilometers outside Szeged. a.m. on the 2nd of March 1989. “Prisoner EG 55-76 has left “Whereabouts in Pest?”, I asked to break the building”, said a loudspeaker inside. The 35-year-old the silence. man with a huge brass ring in his nose did not resemble “I am heading to Pesti Street, number 280, someone who had just been released from one of the where my brother lives with his family.” country's highest-security prisons. He looked more like “I thought you said in the autumn, that you he'd just escaped from a circus’ dressing room. Under weren't close, so I did not expect him to be the his arm, he was clutching a thick notebook. As it first person you visit.” turned out later, it was his precious diary. He looked “Sure, but I also told you I intend to kill him for around the market of Mars Square that was just cheating me out of our flat! Why put off until about to stir alive and — as planned — he aimed tomorrow what you can finish today?” for my battered Dacia. When he reached the car, he spat, perhaps to signal that he was starting a new chapter in his life. We set out towards the capital.

I only realised he wasn't joking when he pulled a large blade out of his bag. I suddenly became speechless.

What had I got myself into? I might end up as an adjunct in murder.

I hadn’t expected this, my mind started racing.

I had to pull over, my mind was blurry. Pillangó, on the other hand, did not falter. He got out of the car nice and slow, stretched his limbs and produced his handmade pipe out of his embroidered sabretache.

He settled at the foot of a lamppost and lit up. I tried, in vain, to redirect the conversation, but eventually started to improvise: “What had I organized tonight’s party for? It was meant to celebrate your release. There should be chicks that…”

— I stopped abruptly, mainly because I made all that up on the spot. I had no intention to organize any party at all but the sweet little lie had its effect. Pillangó must have decided that his brother’s death could wait another day and some fun wouldn’t hurt beforehand.

“We are going to Óbuda” — I announced once we got back in the out autographs through the window. car. I planned to ask Gábor Szántó, my friend and colleague for Lunchtime was looming thus I invited help. The two of us might be able to convince Pillangó not to our company to a local restaurant for kick up a row or at least not on his very first day of freedom. a bite. We left the car in the car park When we got to Flórián Square, I rang the bell for the fourth and walked to the restaurant in the next floor. My journalist friend, thank God, was in. I explained street. The restaurant was still closed, the the story in brief, by the time he got dressed and we got waiters were preparing the tables for the back to the car, he was up to speed. “Quite a story, let’s customers working at the nearby offices. go!”, he announced, as he was seemingly thinking of the Most of the tables were reserved for them, piece he would be able to write. In the meantime, quite anyone coming from the streets could only a crowd gathered around the car, Pillangó was handing dine at one of the window tables. Gábor was known at the place, so we had no problem taking hold of one of the tables despite the fact that Pillangó’s looks did cause some confusion.

As it turned out, the staff was under the impression that Pillangó was one of the “stars” coming from a nearby scene of a film shooting. Eventually, they stopped calling him “Mr Artist” as soon as we were served our freshly fried Wiener schnitzel and chips that he started eating with his bare hands. Only after finishing his bottle of beer, of course.

I must admit, it did surprise me a bit, too, no wonder that such a sudden silence fell on the restaurant that even clatter of the cutlery ceased. Everyone was staring at the heavily tattooed Pillangó tucking on his food, even those walking by the windows stopped to peer in for a moment. Pillangó alone remained unconcerned.

He fancied his lunch, especially the beer, although he gave me a long speech on what (basically anything) they used to make hooch from in the prison. They cooked it out of apples, canned cherries, beetroot and a special jam of extremely bad quality, called “Hitler bacon” back in that era.

According to Feri, only water, sugar and bread had to be added. The only problem was the cooking itself as the fermenting liquid had quite a smell and drew thousands of fruit flies. It was easiest to manage around the workstations: they had stuffed the ingredients into huge plastic cans and left it among the machines or put it into the underground pits until it matured. They even modified a mess tin that could be heated with small tea-candles in order to finestill the liquid. Because of the intense smell, however, it could only be done when there were lazy guards on duty. Whenever they had no chance to cook their hooch, they were no shy of trying out anything that could have a psychoactive effect and was at hand. If not for the fun of it, then purely out of curiosity. They had used methylated spirits, acetone, paint thinners, petrol, glass-cleaners, basically anything. Pillangó told me he had only tried them a couple of times, as he had seen what the effects this stuff had on others. “Prison narc”, on the other hand, that had nothing but tea

leaves in it, was not only legal but also provided quite a considerate high. The brew was only about a deciliter but contained 5-6 bags of tea leaves. As commercial immersion heaters were forbidden in the cells of Csillag, inmates manufactured them, the so-called keráló for themselves from scratch.

It was actually quite easy to make, all they needed were two razor blades or bed-springs, a piece of eraser and a piece of a rod (in case they made the keráló out of bed-springs). The metal pieces had to be wired together and it went directly into the wall socket. It made the water boil in a matter of minutes. When offered to take a sip it was clear that I would have to taste it if I wanted my pictures to be made. One draught made the trick, which was quite lucky as it spun me up so much that I couldn’t help walking around my room wide awake all night.

The inmates at Csillag doped themselves with many substances but they couldn’t get hold of any beer, so Pillangó would have been happy to have a third one had he got the chance. But it was up to me and I thought two was more than enough. I had asked for the bill and after paying we found a bench to sit on outside. It was time for us to make a plan as to where the freshly released man could spend the night. I realized that he didn’t even have a change of clothes. It certainly didn’t bother him. “He is the unwanted Butterfly” — Gábor muttered all of a sudden. The phrase described Pillangó’s reality so thoroughly that it stuck with him right to the end of his life.

Gábor and I eventually managed to convince Pillangó that there were other ways of resolving his problem.

I found a phone booth on the spot and called Tibor Strasser, a lawyer friend of mine who worked in Szentendre. I outlined Pillangó’s situation for him and we got an appointment for the next afternoon.

But the most difficult part was still ahead of us: we had to visit Pillangó’s brother in Pesterzsébet.

I purchased another beer, hoping it would calm Pillangó down instead of making him more aggressive. While we were driving there, Gábor and I kept reminding him that he should leave the talking to us and it was best for him to pretend to not even being there. It seemed to be manageable as Pillangó could hardly sit straight.

After ringing the bell I was getting a bit worried as no one answered the door first. On the second attempt, however, we could hear the turning of the keys.

Pillangó stood out of sight and my friend, Gábor quickly stepped into the gap, showing his reporter pass. No matter what it actually said, official ID cards, showing some kind of authority were quite useful and commanded respect in the 1980s. This time it only worked until the brother spotted his real visitor.

Gábor was a thin man, it would have been easy to overtake him but he was also very good with words.

He persuaded the brother in no time that it would serve everyone’s interest if he invited us all in and we sat down and talked things over. After he made one or two attempts to at least keep Pillangó out of the house, the “quarter” brother, László let us all into the yard and eventually even into the kitchen.

Gábor outlined the situation in quite an over-whelming style, he even lectured László about brotherly feelings when he tried to defend himself. Our host by force was soon having his second beer in a row while we did not drink. I assumed it was time to go and Gábor had fortunately finished tormenting the relatives, so all that was left for us was to announce that we should continue the conversation in court. The host seemed to be quite relieved, even if he had no idea that he owed us his new lease for life.

We got back into my car without a further word and we remained silent for quite a while. Gábor and Pillangó were chainsmoking when finally it was Pillangó who broke the silence. After all, he did not kill his brother and was asking for his well-earned reward. He asked about the party I promised in my desperation. That day would be listed as the day of improvisations if I ever wrote a memoir. I normally tend to plan everything and usually leave nothing to chance. In that case, however, one unexpected turn followed the other. It was time for Gábor to return home and while we were transporting him home I was already thinking about the means of finding a flat and girls for the party.

At the time, I was working on a big series featuring sex-workers and their pimps. The neighborhood they lived in was quite eventful, hardly a day went by without some riots. Stabbing, sacking, burglary and assault were everyday matter as the estate of Gőzmozdony Street was dominated by street gangs. The green spot that could hardly be considered the park it was called held several identical blocks in no distinguishable order. So much so that even the residents got confused occasionally when trying to find their own building. We were looking for № 18, of which the glass of the front door was broken and replaced with plywood. The elevator that was designed to hold 12 people had to regularly manage 15 or even more at a time. No surprise that one of them was out of order. It was not roomier in the flats either as they usually hosted way more residents that were designed for.

I left Pillangó in the car, for the time being, as it seemed to be wiser to check out the possibilities alone. The bell — why would I think other wise — was

broken, so I knocked, but soon realized that people living around didn’t really lock their doors. After entering the flat I didn’t look around thoroughly but there must have been at least ten people inside.

People were sitting and lying on the floor half-naked amidst thick cigarette smoke and they weren’t exactly short on beer, wine and vodka. I set off trying to find Böbe, the owner of the apartment, whom I actually intended to visit. Although it was no easy task, I eventually managed to talk to her privately in the bathroom. I tried to explain why I was there and she agreed to come with me to my car. When catching sight of Pillangó, the girl let out such an intensive scream that the block nearly trembled.

“What the hell did you bring me?”, she yelled.

“This thing has never known a mother!”

I could only try to reassure her that he wasn’t born to look like that. When Böbe calmed down I could conduct a proper introduction. Although she had not expected a guy stepping out of a coloring book, Böbe came to her senses quite fast.

I thought they would manage on their own. As Böbe didn’t want to let Pillangó into her flat, I offered them my car and took a walk in the dimly lit park. I was aware that Böbe hung around the line of parked cars and in deserted alleyways. I took a long walk.

leaves in it, was not only legal but also provided quite a considerate high. The brew was only about a deciliter but contained 5-6 bags of tea leaves. As commercial immersion heaters were forbidden in the cells of Csillag, inmates manufactured them, the so-called keráló for themselves from scratch.

It was actually quite easy to make, all they needed were two razor blades or bed-springs, a piece of eraser and a piece of a rod (in case they made the keráló out of bed-springs). The metal pieces had to be wired together and it went directly into the wall socket. It made the water boil in a matter of minutes. When offered to take a sip it was clear that I would have to taste it if I wanted my pictures to be made. One draught made the trick, which was quite lucky as it spun me up so much that I couldn’t help walking around my room wide awake all night.

The inmates at Csillag doped themselves with many substances but they couldn’t get hold of any beer, so Pillangó would have been happy to have a third one had he got the chance. But it was up to me and I thought two was more than enough. I had asked for the bill and after paying we found a bench to sit on outside. It was time for us to make a plan as to where the freshly released man could spend the night. I realized that he didn’t even have a change of clothes. It certainly didn’t bother him. “He is the unwanted Butterfly” — Gábor muttered all of a sudden. The phrase described Pillangó’s reality so thoroughly that it stuck with him right to the end of his life.

Gábor and I eventually managed to convince Pillangó that there were other ways of resolving his problem.

I found a phone booth on the spot and called Tibor Strasser, a lawyer friend of mine who worked in Szentendre. I outlined Pillangó’s situation for him and we got an appointment for the next afternoon.

But the most difficult part was still ahead of us: we had to visit Pillangó’s brother in Pesterzsébet.

I purchased another beer, hoping it would calm Pillangó down instead of making him more aggressive. While we were driving there, Gábor and I kept reminding him that he should leave the talking to us and it was best for him to pretend to not even being there. It seemed to be manageable as Pillangó could hardly sit straight.

After ringing the bell I was getting a bit worried as no one answered the door first. On the second attempt, however, we could hear the turning of the keys.

Pillangó stood out of sight and my friend, Gábor quickly stepped into the gap, showing his reporter pass. No matter what it actually said, official ID cards, showing some kind of authority were quite useful and commanded respect in the 1980s. This time it only worked until the brother spotted his real visitor.

Gábor was a thin man, it would have been easy to overtake him but he was also very good with words.

He persuaded the brother in no time that it would serve everyone’s interest if he invited us all in and we sat down and talked things over. After he made one or two attempts to at least keep Pillangó out of the house, the “quarter” brother, László let us all into the yard and eventually even into the kitchen.

Gábor outlined the situation in quite an over-whelming style, he even lectured László about brotherly feelings when he tried to defend himself. Our host by force was soon having his second beer in a row while we did not drink. I assumed it was time to go and Gábor had fortunately finished tormenting the relatives, so all that was left for us was to announce that we should continue the conversation in court. The host seemed to be quite relieved, even if he had no idea that he owed us his new lease for life.

We got back into my car without a further word and we remained silent for quite a while. Gábor and Pillangó were chainsmoking when finally it was Pillangó who broke the silence. After all, he did not kill his brother and was asking for his well-earned reward. He asked about the party I promised in my desperation. That day would be listed as the day of improvisations if I ever wrote a memoir. I normally tend to plan everything and usually leave nothing to chance. In that case, however, one unexpected turn followed the other. It was time for Gábor to return home and while we were transporting him home I was already thinking about the means of finding a flat and girls for the party.

At the time, I was working on a big series featuring sex-workers and their pimps. The neighborhood they lived in was quite eventful, hardly a day went by without some riots. Stabbing, sacking, burglary and assault were everyday matter as the estate of Gőzmozdony Street was dominated by street gangs. The green spot that could hardly be considered the park it was called held several identical blocks in no distinguishable order. So much so that even the residents got confused occasionally when trying to find their own building. We were looking for № 18, of which the glass of the front door was broken and replaced with plywood. The elevator that was designed to hold 12 people had to regularly manage 15 or even more at a time. No surprise that one of them was out of order. It was not roomier in the flats either as they usually hosted way more residents that were designed for.

I left Pillangó in the car, for the time being, as it seemed to be wiser to check out the possibilities alone. The bell — why would I think other wise — was

broken, so I knocked, but soon realized that people living around didn’t really lock their doors. After entering the flat I didn’t look around thoroughly but there must have been at least ten people inside.

People were sitting and lying on the floor half-naked amidst thick cigarette smoke and they weren’t exactly short on beer, wine and vodka. I set off trying to find Böbe, the owner of the apartment, whom I actually intended to visit. Although it was no easy task, I eventually managed to talk to her privately in the bathroom. I tried to explain why I was there and she agreed to come with me to my car. When catching sight of Pillangó, the girl let out such an intensive scream that the block nearly trembled.

“What the hell did you bring me?”, she yelled.

“This thing has never known a mother!”

I could only try to reassure her that he wasn’t born to look like that. When Böbe calmed down I could conduct a proper introduction. Although she had not expected a guy stepping out of a coloring book, Böbe came to her senses quite fast.

I thought they would manage on their own. As Böbe didn’t want to let Pillangó into her flat, I offered them my car and took a walk in the dimly lit park. I was aware that Böbe hung around the line of parked cars and in deserted alleyways. I took a long walk.

When Böbe was finally adjusting her outfit next to the car, she remarked that “he was not the asshole he looked like”. She even invited us to the party at her apartment, but I wanted to be it over with, as we still had to find accommodation for the night. We paid; the price was 300 forints. The deal must have been beneficial as Böbe helpfully suggested we try “old Pista”, who lived nearby in Gergely Street. For us to succeed, she offered to come with us. Pista had lost two wives in a year. His current partner fell through the window of their 4th floor flat and the previous one drowned in the bathtub.

This did not bother Pillangó so the three of us set off to try our luck.

We picked up a couple of bottles of wine and some beer and were on our way to find Gergely Street № 144 that was just as dilapidated a house as all the rest. The letterboxes opposite to the entrance were all broken into. No one thought it important to have the key to the letterbox, important letters tended to avoid them anyway and the bills mostly ended up in the bin. It was a typical snapshot of conditions in Hungary at the end of the Communist era. On the right-hand wing of the fourth floor, there were at least forty studio flats; we were looking for № 90. Böbe took the lead and Pillangó was at the end of our short line.

The flat smelled of burnt food, although those inside tried, without much effect, to attenuate the smell by cracking the windows open.

Their small flat was packed with people, those inside welcomed Pillangó with mouths agape. Pista, who was known in the neighborhood as “Uncle Pista”, directed him immediately to the bathroom in slurred words, if he wished to scrub the paint off his skin. Feri and Uncle Pista found their common grounds in a matter of no time: both were happy for the drink we had brought. The roof was quickly arranged for Pillangó, at least for his first night out.

I headed home relieved. Besides enjoying the paid service of a prostitute, that was officially forbidden but a widely tolerated phenomenon in the Communist era, my protégée did not commit any crime, no one got hurt and I even fulfilled my promise given impetuously in a state of exasperation. I even managed to take a few good shots. Pillangó was on track, at least for his first day out.

It was almost midnight by the time I got home, my family was fast asleep. I, on the other hand, was kept wide awake by my thoughts.

I was up early the next day, on the 3rd of March, 1989. My first thought was to go straight to the editorial office of Ifjúsági Magazin at 34 Dessewffy Street, in the 6th district, but then I realized it was Friday and I had to start catching up with my to-do-list regarding Pillangó’s release as the weekend was closing in quickly. Thus I headed to the flat in Gergely Street and got there by 8 o’clock in the morning. Judging by the fact that everyone was still asleep, I assumed, that the evening must have been satisfying. Beds were provided only for the most fortunate. For lack of anything else to do, I grabbed my camera and took some photos of the crushing turmoil the flat was in. There were piles of scattered clothing, empty bottles, leftover food, ashtrays full of cigarette butts all over the floor and furniture. Once they started to wake up, most of them automatically reached out for their cigarettes.

I glanced at my schedule; our day was meant to be very busy.

Luckily, I hadn’t made all our appointments in advance, otherwise we’d have run late. First, we went to the 1st District Police Department at Pauler Street. The chief officer of the administration office of law enforcement was waiting for us. Pillangó needed a new ID. Not that the old one had gone shabby lying around in various prison warehouses for years, much more because Pillangó’s appearance had changed quite a lot during the previous decade.

To save on costs we used portraits made by me back in Csillag, so the only thing needed was his official signature.

Afterwards we arranged an appointment with the comrade serving as Pillangó’s probation officer for early afternoon, so we had some time to visit the house, where he lived before he got imprisoned in Országház Street.

We couldn’t even get past the gate as people

When Böbe was finally adjusting her outfit next to the car, she remarked that “he was not the asshole he looked like”. She even invited us to the party at her apartment, but I wanted to be it over with, as we still had to find accommodation for the night. We paid; the price was 300 forints. The deal must have been beneficial as Böbe helpfully suggested we try “old Pista”, who lived nearby in Gergely Street. For us to succeed, she offered to come with us. Pista had lost two wives in a year. His current partner fell through the window of their 4th floor flat and the previous one drowned in the bathtub.

This did not bother Pillangó so the three of us set off to try our luck.

We picked up a couple of bottles of wine and some beer and were on our way to find Gergely Street № 144 that was just as dilapidated a house as all the rest. The letterboxes opposite to the entrance were all broken into. No one thought it important to have the key to the letterbox, important letters tended to avoid them anyway and the bills mostly ended up in the bin. It was a typical snapshot of conditions in Hungary at the end of the Communist era. On the right-hand wing of the fourth floor, there were at least forty studio flats; we were looking for № 90. Böbe took the lead and Pillangó was at the end of our short line.

The flat smelled of burnt food, although those inside tried, without much effect, to attenuate the smell by cracking the windows open.

Their small flat was packed with people, those inside welcomed Pillangó with mouths agape. Pista, who was known in the neighborhood as “Uncle Pista”, directed him immediately to the bathroom in slurred words, if he wished to scrub the paint off his skin. Feri and Uncle Pista found their common grounds in a matter of no time: both were happy for the drink we had brought. The roof was quickly arranged for Pillangó, at least for his first night out.

I headed home relieved. Besides enjoying the paid service of a prostitute, that was officially forbidden but a widely tolerated phenomenon in the Communist era, my protégée did not commit any crime, no one got hurt and I even fulfilled my promise given impetuously in a state of exasperation. I even managed to take a few good shots. Pillangó was on track, at least for his first day out.

It was almost midnight by the time I got home, my family was fast asleep. I, on the other hand, was kept wide awake by my thoughts.

I was up early the next day, on the 3rd of March, 1989. My first thought was to go straight to the editorial office of Ifjúsági Magazin at 34 Dessewffy Street, in the 6th district, but then I realized it was Friday and I had to start catching up with my to-do-list regarding Pillangó’s release as the weekend was closing in quickly. Thus I headed to the flat in Gergely Street and got there by 8 o’clock in the morning. Judging by the fact that everyone was still asleep, I assumed, that the evening must have been satisfying. Beds were provided only for the most fortunate. For lack of anything else to do, I grabbed my camera and took some photos of the crushing turmoil the flat was in. There were piles of scattered clothing, empty bottles, leftover food, ashtrays full of cigarette butts all over the floor and furniture. Once they started to wake up, most of them automatically reached out for their cigarettes.

I glanced at my schedule; our day was meant to be very busy.

Luckily, I hadn’t made all our appointments in advance, otherwise we’d have run late. First, we went to the 1st District Police Department at Pauler Street. The chief officer of the administration office of law enforcement was waiting for us. Pillangó needed a new ID. Not that the old one had gone shabby lying around in various prison warehouses for years, much more because Pillangó’s appearance had changed quite a lot during the previous decade.

To save on costs we used portraits made by me back in Csillag, so the only thing needed was his official signature.

Afterwards we arranged an appointment with the comrade serving as Pillangó’s probation officer for early afternoon, so we had some time to visit the house, where he lived before he got imprisoned in Országház Street.

We couldn’t even get past the gate as people

had started locking their doors by the end of the 1980s. They were protecting their property primarily against the hordes of curious tourists that multiplied in number by that time. As soon as we got out of the car, two old mates of Pillangó’s came by, but they didn’t recognise their old buddy. Pillangó took it badly at first, but he realized eventually that his appearance had changed so much that he should get used to it. By the time we set off towards the courthouse in Markó Street, where the probation officer’s office was, we were in quite a bad mood.

It was an exaggeration to call the cramped space behind the elevators an office. The room could hardly hold a desk with two chairs and a filing cabinet. The lights were permanently on and the small window facing the narrow backyard, the so-called lichthof typical of tenements in Budapest, made the room look like a prison cell itself. Following the formalities of the identification process we were given the usual preachment after which the rhetorical question was inevitable: how did the convict plan to reintegrate into society? We listened to the enervated speech of the retired party servant.

We all knew that every word of it was a lie and fortunately the old man at least kept it short. We were forced to listen to the same speech at the probation officer’s room that was to be heard at schools, workplaces, the meetings of the Communist Youth Association [KISZ] and the Hungarian Communist Party itself. At the beginning of the Communist era, it was announced everywhere daily, by the 1980s, it was still proclaimed regularly, although the formality became limited to national and institutional holidays. Even students at schools had to endure it.

Both the speaker and the listener were to be pitied because of the duty. The old comrade was so tired of his own duty lacking any kind of affirmative result, that he showed no trace of interest towards me whatsoever. He finished his well-practiced speech and looked for a suitable date for our next appointment.

Pillangó was to come back on the 13th of April to report on where he lived, what he worked, or anything he achieved in particular in 5 weeks of his freedom.

Naturally, when Pillangó asked if he could help him find a suitable job, the reply was quite laconic: “Nowadays it is difficult enough for decent men to find work, what do you think the chances are for someone like you?“ I felt the urge to provoke a discussion, but it would not have gotten us any further. Pillangó,

who — being a qualified house-painter, offset printing machine operator, heavy machinery operator and bookbinder — had finished his education in four well-paid professions and yet he just laughed: “As I already said, should anyone mention me in relation to work, I would sue him for defamation.”

Thus, instead of a job hunt, we had bought the daily portion of alcohol and I took Pillangó back to Gergely Street. The number of people in the flat was more or less the same but the combination of the people had changed. Some of the former visitors had court appearances, some were on visitation with their children. It did not make any difference; newcomers idled, drank and smoked in the same fashion as the old thugs.

the road I had checked his personal documents and the subpoena for one last time and we headed for my old car. My poor Dacia had quite a hard time adjusting to the required speed but I was well aware that getting to the Castle District of Buda from Kőbánya in 20 minutes was close to being impossible even in the morning hours when the traffic was low. Pillangó must have realized that I was in no good mood, so he remained silent and held on tight all the way to the courthouse.

On the Chain Bridge, I checked my In the afternoon a few days later, we had an watch and sadly realized that we appointment with my lawyer friend, Tibor were running late.

Strasser, who had undertaken the role of being I knew I had no time looking for a Pillangó’s attorney in his legal case against his parking space so I pulled up on the brother for selling the family house and keeping all pavement in front of the courthouse the money. Our meeting took place in Szentendre and put whatever officially looking at the Aranysárkány restaurant, where a nice passes I had from all my previous corner table had been reserved for us. Pillangó works as a crime reporter. Back in told him the story of how he’d been excluded from those days, such papers made the trick the inheritance and signed the contract for legal so as not to get fined. When we got to protection. No obstacle was left for him to go to the first floor we were relieved to see court as a plaintiff, for the first time in his life half that the judge was also late. I even had of which he had spent in prison. some time left to repeat my instructions The date of the trial that was to take place in the to Pillangó whom I asked not to say court of Fő Street was fixed for 11 a.m., the 1 st of anything aside from greetings, yes or no.

June. I went to pick up Pillangó at Gergely Street The judge gave her permission for an open myself. In order not to risk being late I arrived at hearing, thus the courtroom was filled 8 o’clock just to realize that he was nowhere near with people, most likely law students. My his apartment. In lack of any clues on where to lawyer friend, however, did not show up, his look for the plaintiff, I had no choice but to wait. firm was represented by a junior attorney.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t help thinking that Pillangó Pillangó pretty much liked the idea of him stood no chance of acquiring a place of his own being the plaintiff and the court treating should he fail to show up on time. I had been sitting his brother, Mr Szabó, as the defendant. The there for an hour when the entrance door opened judge stated the facts dispassionately, the and Pillangó appeared with his friends. Needless brother tried to defend himself, but his words to say, they were in quite a concerning condition. didn’t really add up and the judge shortly asked I had no time to waste so I filled the bathtub with him to stop. Pillangó did as was told, which must cold water immediately and with the help of some have surprised those sitting the chairs. I have to of his buddies we pushed him under the cooling admit I felt relieved when the judge adjourned and, as we hoped for, sobering bath. His friends the trial. Pillangó won the first round, but the half laid out the clothes, ties and shoes that we had brother being acknowledged not even a quarter borrowed for Pillangó to wear in court. All of us

by Feri, did not give in easily. He appealed and the were busy taking care of Pillangó. Before hitting next hearing was set on the 24 th of November.

had started locking their doors by the end of the 1980s. They were protecting their property primarily against the hordes of curious tourists that multiplied in number by that time. As soon as we got out of the car, two old mates of Pillangó’s came by, but they didn’t recognise their old buddy. Pillangó took it badly at first, but he realized eventually that his appearance had changed so much that he should get used to it. By the time we set off towards the courthouse in Markó Street, where the probation officer’s office was, we were in quite a bad mood.

It was an exaggeration to call the cramped space behind the elevators an office. The room could hardly hold a desk with two chairs and a filing cabinet. The lights were permanently on and the small window facing the narrow backyard, the so-called lichthof typical of tenements in Budapest, made the room look like a prison cell itself. Following the formalities of the identification process we were given the usual preachment after which the rhetorical question was inevitable: how did the convict plan to reintegrate into society? We listened to the enervated speech of the retired party servant.

We all knew that every word of it was a lie and fortunately the old man at least kept it short. We were forced to listen to the same speech at the probation officer’s room that was to be heard at schools, workplaces, the meetings of the Communist Youth Association [KISZ] and the Hungarian Communist Party itself. At the beginning of the Communist era, it was announced everywhere daily, by the 1980s, it was still proclaimed regularly, although the formality became limited to national and institutional holidays. Even students at schools had to endure it.

Both the speaker and the listener were to be pitied because of the duty. The old comrade was so tired of his own duty lacking any kind of affirmative result, that he showed no trace of interest towards me whatsoever. He finished his well-practiced speech and looked for a suitable date for our next appointment.

Pillangó was to come back on the 13th of April to report on where he lived, what he worked, or anything he achieved in particular in 5 weeks of his freedom.

Naturally, when Pillangó asked if he could help him find a suitable job, the reply was quite laconic: “Nowadays it is difficult enough for decent men to find work, what do you think the chances are for someone like you?“ I felt the urge to provoke a discussion, but it would not have gotten us any further. Pillangó,

who — being a qualified house-painter, offset printing machine operator, heavy machinery operator and bookbinder — had finished his education in four well-paid professions and yet he just laughed: “As I already said, should anyone mention me in relation to work, I would sue him for defamation.”

Thus, instead of a job hunt, we had bought the daily portion of alcohol and I took Pillangó back to Gergely Street. The number of people in the flat was more or less the same but the combination of the people had changed. Some of the former visitors had court appearances, some were on visitation with their children. It did not make any difference; newcomers idled, drank and smoked in the same fashion as the old thugs.

the road I had checked his personal documents and the subpoena for one last time and we headed for my old car. My poor Dacia had quite a hard time adjusting to the required speed but I was well aware that getting to the Castle District of Buda from Kőbánya in 20 minutes was close to being impossible even in the morning hours when the traffic was low. Pillangó must have realized that I was in no good mood, so he remained silent and held on tight all the way to the courthouse.

On the Chain Bridge, I checked my In the afternoon a few days later, we had an watch and sadly realized that we appointment with my lawyer friend, Tibor were running late.

Strasser, who had undertaken the role of being I knew I had no time looking for a Pillangó’s attorney in his legal case against his parking space so I pulled up on the brother for selling the family house and keeping all pavement in front of the courthouse the money. Our meeting took place in Szentendre and put whatever officially looking at the Aranysárkány restaurant, where a nice passes I had from all my previous corner table had been reserved for us. Pillangó works as a crime reporter. Back in told him the story of how he’d been excluded from those days, such papers made the trick the inheritance and signed the contract for legal so as not to get fined. When we got to protection. No obstacle was left for him to go to the first floor we were relieved to see court as a plaintiff, for the first time in his life half that the judge was also late. I even had of which he had spent in prison. some time left to repeat my instructions The date of the trial that was to take place in the to Pillangó whom I asked not to say court of Fő Street was fixed for 11 a.m., the 1 st of anything aside from greetings, yes or no.

June. I went to pick up Pillangó at Gergely Street The judge gave her permission for an open myself. In order not to risk being late I arrived at hearing, thus the courtroom was filled 8 o’clock just to realize that he was nowhere near with people, most likely law students. My his apartment. In lack of any clues on where to lawyer friend, however, did not show up, his look for the plaintiff, I had no choice but to wait. firm was represented by a junior attorney.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t help thinking that Pillangó Pillangó pretty much liked the idea of him stood no chance of acquiring a place of his own being the plaintiff and the court treating should he fail to show up on time. I had been sitting his brother, Mr Szabó, as the defendant. The there for an hour when the entrance door opened judge stated the facts dispassionately, the and Pillangó appeared with his friends. Needless brother tried to defend himself, but his words to say, they were in quite a concerning condition. didn’t really add up and the judge shortly asked I had no time to waste so I filled the bathtub with him to stop. Pillangó did as was told, which must cold water immediately and with the help of some have surprised those sitting the chairs. I have to of his buddies we pushed him under the cooling admit I felt relieved when the judge adjourned and, as we hoped for, sobering bath. His friends the trial. Pillangó won the first round, but the half laid out the clothes, ties and shoes that we had brother being acknowledged not even a quarter borrowed for Pillangó to wear in court. All of us

by Feri, did not give in easily. He appealed and the were busy taking care of Pillangó. Before hitting next hearing was set on the 24 th of November.

Pillangó became a kind of celebrity in a very short time. Beside his looks, my photos must have borne a part in that. Before the downfall of the Communist era, multiple tattoos were quite exceptional, especially on easily visible body parts. Artistic figures were even scarcer. Until the end of the 1980s, mostly prison tattoos were to be seen. The first tattoo saloons were opened around the middle of the 1990s, which was so newsworthy that I was the one who shot the first photo report on them. The convict who spent half his life in prison and was tattooed from head to toe was such a buzz that even Sándor Friderikusz had heard of him.

Friderikusz, who later became one of the first television celebrities of Hungary, had staged talk shows at the time, in theatres and community centers across the country. He was already considerably well-known because of his career as a radio journalist. He invited Pillangó for his next show in Debrecen, where he got on stage on the 28th of April, 1989. I drove him to Debrecen. We woke up early and by 9:30 a.m. we reached the Nine-arched Bridge in the middle of Hortobágy, where we stopped for a short rest. I utilized the long journey to uncover how Feri’s life got so derailed. He did not talk much, but some of his stories illuminated how he got off the tracks in his youth.

“I was around fourteen, it happened in 1968. For some reason, I didn’t spend much time at home. With some kids of my age in the neighbourhood, we used to spend the night here and there.

We hung around cellars and the gym in one of the dorms of the Technical University. We didn’t have money, so we used to nick things. When we heard the milk-cart coming, around 3 a.m. we would get on going. The milk, butter, yogurt, cottage cheese were all deposited in front of the corner shop in our street and we took whatever we needed. In the gateway we also found rolls to eat it with. We grabbed our food from there for several weeks until one day, for no particular reason, we didn’t nick anything. I even went home that day. My Mom started telling me that the police picked up a man in front of the corner shop that morning because he was helping himself with the diary products. I didn’t tell her that we had done the same for weeks. The shopkeeper must have had enough of regularly being stolen from and contacted the police. The poor chap could have stolen from him for the first time in his life.”

The next story was even more gruesome:

I honestly doubt that the man who got caught found it as funny as Pillangó did, but Feri, on the other hand, warmed up and told me another story: “A little bit later, I must have been about fifteen, I was travelling on the tram with an old buddy. Tickets, back then, were sold for one forint by the conductors roaming the tram.

My mate was almost two meters tall, compared to me he was a skyscraper.

He said to me: 'Check me out having some fun with the conductor.’ The lady came along with the usual crap: 'Tickets, please!' When she got to where we were standing my mate started acting drunk. 'Ere, mish, take it out me pocket'. He turned to the side and the conductor put her hand in his pocket. Seconds later, she went beetroot red and couldn’t get a word out. She just upped and left right away and went over into the next carriage. It turned out that my mate had made a hole in his pocket and stuck his hard dick right through it.

That was what the conductor grabbed before going scarlet in the face with embarrassment. I doubt that she ever reached into another stranger’s pocket for their ticket ever again.”

“This one time we went to the Római-part and we were in the mood of having some fun. We were hanging around in an outdoor pub where there were no flush toilets, but the traditional ones where you just take your shit in a hole. This one also had a swing door through which you could get down to the cesspool. There were two bits of plank set up inside, thus it was possible to squat down between the holes. I saw a long feather duster in the yard, grabbed it and climbed down into the pit. To counteract the putrid smell I lit up.

I hadn’t even finished my fag when the door opened. Unfortunately, it was a man who was only taking a piss. I had more luck with the next one.

There was a rustling of paper and one of the holes went dark. I didn’t wait for long but stepped slightly to the side and started poking away at the hole with my duster. A second later I almost fell off the plank because of the slamming noise from upwards.

The man I poked sprang up so high that he even took the door with him on his way out.

I was laughing so hard that I struggled to keep my balance. I waited for a little while and climbed out. My friend told me that the bloke had been so frightened that his crap had frozen into him.

I had so much fun that I decided to have a go at the women’s side as well. I did not have to wait for long. The woman I poked screamed so hard as if she was being slaughtered. After I climbed out my friend was still in a state of convulsive laughter.

The woman was so horrified that she hadn’t even pulled her panties back. She'd run all the way to the street by the time she recovered. We were both laughing ourselves mad before we had a couple of beers and hit the road.”

As he went on with his stories, I realized that Feri in his youth stood on ever-thinning ice between mischief and felony. His best buddy was into more serious crimes and Pillangó did not really set a boundary either. The lack of a loving family, the mother working shifts and left alone with existential difficulties and the hardship of everyday life, wandering the streets for days in a row and bad company had their consequences by his age of 14.

“We used to hop by the Palatinus Bath on Margaret Island with a friend occasionally. We paid the entrance fee, handed over our clothes for a token in return and waited. We chose the person we looked for from among a thousand people. He had to look rich or foreign. In the pocket of my trunks, I had a razor blade and a thin bit of string ready.

We didn’t have to wait long to spot, among a group of foreigners, our guy, who had his token hanging loose off the side of his swimming trunks. Now we only had to wait for the right moment to come without creating a sensation.

At the hourly surf-bath show our chance presented itself. As the gong went off we saw our pre-elect victim headed to the wave pool. When I got near him without anyone noticing I cut off his token with my blade and put it in my pocket. Me and my mate had stayed for a couple of more minutes before skipping off. My friend resembled the chap better than me thus it was his task to get his clothes out. I asked for my and my friend’s clothes, I put the latter in a plastic bag and we met in front of the bath. My mate appeared in the chap’s clothes, which fitted him well, but we were not interested in the outfit. On the shore of the Danube, my mate changed into his own clothes and I went through the guy’s wallet. It wasn’t a bad scoop: cash in 340 USD and about 2000 forints, a ring, a watch, and a necklace. These were our concerns. We left the rest of his staff at the spot and walked over to Árpád Bridge, where we got on the tram in the direction of Angyalföld. My friend had a lot of contacts there, one of whom bought the ring, the watch and the necklace while the other changed the dollars for us.”

Pillangó became a kind of celebrity in a very short time. Beside his looks, my photos must have borne a part in that. Before the downfall of the Communist era, multiple tattoos were quite exceptional, especially on easily visible body parts. Artistic figures were even scarcer. Until the end of the 1980s, mostly prison tattoos were to be seen. The first tattoo saloons were opened around the middle of the 1990s, which was so newsworthy that I was the one who shot the first photo report on them. The convict who spent half his life in prison and was tattooed from head to toe was such a buzz that even Sándor Friderikusz had heard of him.

Friderikusz, who later became one of the first television celebrities of Hungary, had staged talk shows at the time, in theatres and community centers across the country. He was already considerably well-known because of his career as a radio journalist. He invited Pillangó for his next show in Debrecen, where he got on stage on the 28th of April, 1989. I drove him to Debrecen. We woke up early and by 9:30 a.m. we reached the Nine-arched Bridge in the middle of Hortobágy, where we stopped for a short rest. I utilized the long journey to uncover how Feri’s life got so derailed. He did not talk much, but some of his stories illuminated how he got off the tracks in his youth.

“I was around fourteen, it happened in 1968. For some reason, I didn’t spend much time at home. With some kids of my age in the neighbourhood, we used to spend the night here and there.

We hung around cellars and the gym in one of the dorms of the Technical University. We didn’t have money, so we used to nick things. When we heard the milk-cart coming, around 3 a.m. we would get on going. The milk, butter, yogurt, cottage cheese were all deposited in front of the corner shop in our street and we took whatever we needed. In the gateway we also found rolls to eat it with. We grabbed our food from there for several weeks until one day, for no particular reason, we didn’t nick anything. I even went home that day. My Mom started telling me that the police picked up a man in front of the corner shop that morning because he was helping himself with the diary products. I didn’t tell her that we had done the same for weeks. The shopkeeper must have had enough of regularly being stolen from and contacted the police. The poor chap could have stolen from him for the first time in his life.”

The next story was even more gruesome:

I honestly doubt that the man who got caught found it as funny as Pillangó did, but Feri, on the other hand, warmed up and told me another story: “A little bit later, I must have been about fifteen, I was travelling on the tram with an old buddy. Tickets, back then, were sold for one forint by the conductors roaming the tram.

My mate was almost two meters tall, compared to me he was a skyscraper.

He said to me: 'Check me out having some fun with the conductor.’ The lady came along with the usual crap: 'Tickets, please!' When she got to where we were standing my mate started acting drunk. 'Ere, mish, take it out me pocket'. He turned to the side and the conductor put her hand in his pocket. Seconds later, she went beetroot red and couldn’t get a word out. She just upped and left right away and went over into the next carriage. It turned out that my mate had made a hole in his pocket and stuck his hard dick right through it.

That was what the conductor grabbed before going scarlet in the face with embarrassment. I doubt that she ever reached into another stranger’s pocket for their ticket ever again.”

“This one time we went to the Római-part and we were in the mood of having some fun. We were hanging around in an outdoor pub where there were no flush toilets, but the traditional ones where you just take your shit in a hole. This one also had a swing door through which you could get down to the cesspool. There were two bits of plank set up inside, thus it was possible to squat down between the holes. I saw a long feather duster in the yard, grabbed it and climbed down into the pit. To counteract the putrid smell I lit up.

I hadn’t even finished my fag when the door opened. Unfortunately, it was a man who was only taking a piss. I had more luck with the next one.

There was a rustling of paper and one of the holes went dark. I didn’t wait for long but stepped slightly to the side and started poking away at the hole with my duster. A second later I almost fell off the plank because of the slamming noise from upwards.

The man I poked sprang up so high that he even took the door with him on his way out.

I was laughing so hard that I struggled to keep my balance. I waited for a little while and climbed out. My friend told me that the bloke had been so frightened that his crap had frozen into him.

I had so much fun that I decided to have a go at the women’s side as well. I did not have to wait for long. The woman I poked screamed so hard as if she was being slaughtered. After I climbed out my friend was still in a state of convulsive laughter.

The woman was so horrified that she hadn’t even pulled her panties back. She'd run all the way to the street by the time she recovered. We were both laughing ourselves mad before we had a couple of beers and hit the road.”

As he went on with his stories, I realized that Feri in his youth stood on ever-thinning ice between mischief and felony. His best buddy was into more serious crimes and Pillangó did not really set a boundary either. The lack of a loving family, the mother working shifts and left alone with existential difficulties and the hardship of everyday life, wandering the streets for days in a row and bad company had their consequences by his age of 14.

“We used to hop by the Palatinus Bath on Margaret Island with a friend occasionally. We paid the entrance fee, handed over our clothes for a token in return and waited. We chose the person we looked for from among a thousand people. He had to look rich or foreign. In the pocket of my trunks, I had a razor blade and a thin bit of string ready.

We didn’t have to wait long to spot, among a group of foreigners, our guy, who had his token hanging loose off the side of his swimming trunks. Now we only had to wait for the right moment to come without creating a sensation.

At the hourly surf-bath show our chance presented itself. As the gong went off we saw our pre-elect victim headed to the wave pool. When I got near him without anyone noticing I cut off his token with my blade and put it in my pocket. Me and my mate had stayed for a couple of more minutes before skipping off. My friend resembled the chap better than me thus it was his task to get his clothes out. I asked for my and my friend’s clothes, I put the latter in a plastic bag and we met in front of the bath. My mate appeared in the chap’s clothes, which fitted him well, but we were not interested in the outfit. On the shore of the Danube, my mate changed into his own clothes and I went through the guy’s wallet. It wasn’t a bad scoop: cash in 340 USD and about 2000 forints, a ring, a watch, and a necklace. These were our concerns. We left the rest of his staff at the spot and walked over to Árpád Bridge, where we got on the tram in the direction of Angyalföld. My friend had a lot of contacts there, one of whom bought the ring, the watch and the necklace while the other changed the dollars for us.”

This is how we finally got to Debrecen. The television crew had a meeting arranged with Friderikusz, the showman and his guests in the lobby of Grand Hotel Aranybika, where we were invited for dinner. The main attraction for the show was Pillangó and the then famous Pa-Dö-Dö music duo. The performance took place at the nearby cultural center, where my only task was not to let Pillangó anywhere near the spirits. It wasn’t easy as he was invited for drinks even before entering the building and no one would offer soft drinks for him to drink. Friderikusz used to be a real icon at the time. Should his name appear on a poster, the show became an instant sell-out with extra chairs needed for the audience. Pillangó presented his usual self. Amid hysterical cheers in the audience, he got rid of his clothes and showed off his whole body from back to front.

“What do people in the streets say when they see you?”, asked Friderikusz.

“The other day a little girl screamed with honest awe in her eyes: Look, Mummy, a paint-man!”

T A

TT

O O

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T A

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79

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C O MM U

AN D

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EN

L IF E

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A

R M A N CE

L IF E

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159

159

E P IL

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TITANILL A FIÁTH

THE HAPPIEST CELL BLOCKs

— Butterfly’s anecdote from the years of state socialism

S TU D Y 1 Q U O T E D B Y S Z E G E D Y- M A S Z Á K , 2 0 0 7.

2 R E F E R E N C E T O D E Á K F E R E N C D E K E H I D A , " T H E W I S E M A N O F N AT I O N ."

“For some people, anecdotes are like ink is for squids: if you want to nd ou ar d ou cl a te ea cr ey th , em th grab themselves and escape into it”, et él Az l ve no s hi in i ka Jó ór M s te ri w 1 ]. fe Li of ns ia ed om komédiásai [The C Reading the some 130-page-long collection of anecdotes from rfly, te ut B as n ow kn so al k, eá D nc re Fe 2 ”, on ti “the wisest criminal of the na le ib ng ta ly on e th at th s el fe ly al re e on thing is his elusiveness.

TITANILL A FIÁTH

THE HAPPIEST CELL BLOCKs

— Butterfly’s anecdote from the years of state socialism

S TU D Y 1 Q U O T E D B Y S Z E G E D Y- M A S Z Á K , 2 0 0 7.

2 R E F E R E N C E T O D E Á K F E R E N C D E K E H I D A , " T H E W I S E M A N O F N AT I O N ."

“For some people, anecdotes are like ink is for squids: if you want to nd ou ar d ou cl a te ea cr ey th , em th grab themselves and escape into it”, et él Az l ve no s hi in i ka Jó ór M s te ri w 1 ]. fe Li of ns ia ed om komédiásai [The C Reading the some 130-page-long collection of anecdotes from rfly, te ut B as n ow kn so al k, eá D nc re Fe 2 ”, on ti “the wisest criminal of the na le ib ng ta ly on e th at th s el fe ly al re e on thing is his elusiveness.

How to introduce someone who “spent half of his life in prison”,3 but when released, he would hold yoga sessions at the Erzsébetváros Sports Club during the day and scream Sziámi songs with a boiled hedgehog skull in his neck at the famed Fekete Lyuk [Black Hole] underground club at night?

Someone who would dip a string of hair in urine and put it into his wound, or paint his toenails blue just to avoid work – done rather in a self-endangering than social parasitic way, – and who would give advice on creating a “jerking machine” in the official magazine of the police titled Zsaru [Cop]. Someone who would cause accidents by his mere looks on the streets of Budapest, who would be shouted at “It’s not even human!”, and who would plan to read bedtime stories from his tattooed body to his never-to-be born children.

Researchers of the Trickster deities say that they violate norms and the established order to such an extent that they resist even all definition attempts.4 The essence of the mythical Trickster figures — for example, Hermes or the Native-American Coyote — is ambivalence, intense play with boundaries, disruption, mixing insanity and attainments, as well as the mocking of positive cultural heroes.5 Always being an outsider: unable to fit into any structures, perpetually stuck in-between, in a “liminal” state that will never be over.6 The presence of irreconcilable antagonism within the same person: in the case of Butterfly, for example, the punishing of “child fuckers” in the prison, while getting himself convicted for establishing a sexual relationship with a 14-year-old girl. Both the swastika and the Star of David tattooed on his skin. The crime of “racial hatred” and identifying himself — as a jailbird — in opposition to “white men”. Being shameless in terms of his crimes or even his tattoos (“They would call me names even for one dot — so let them do it for a million.”). And then his confession that maybe he is not even held back from getting into sexual relationships with men by his “inclinations” but by the danger of being labeled and “screamed at”.

Tamás Urbán, primarily as a patron of Butterfly, believes that his protégé was “a typical example of how one could lose ground for good and beyond recovery in the 1970s and 1980s, the decades before the Democratic change of regime”. However, Butterfly’s short narratives with their sharp roundoffs and morals testify of an entirely different selfdefinition. Indeed, it would be easy to recognize the marginalized figure, or even the psychopath, characterized by the clinical trinity of lacking love, anxiety, and the ability to learn from experience7 on the hand-written pages, but the (self-)legendry of Butterfly is more strongly based on the above-mentioned Trickster-archetype than the hustlers portrayed in the regular TV show of the Hungarian police titled Kékfény.

In the following sections, I will present a selection of Butterfly’s stories based on the most important characteristics of the Trickster.8 I intend to make clear that they are not only about tricking or “bamboozling” some stupid “patsies”, and the point is not to take advantage of someone, but the “show” itself. Similarly to the medieval feasts of fools,9 these acts meant cutting “ritual openings” through the walls of the frustrated society of the Kádár era, through which, at least temporarily, the ever-stiffening world behind the Iron Curtain could be turned inside out. As Butterfly writes about guzzling through a few weeks with some economist: “As for me, the game was okay, so I had myself and my pals taken out for food and drinks, not only one night but on a series of binges. He provided the money — and I provided the show in exchange.”

“ THE FACE IS A DISTINCT WORLD” the Trickster as a shapeshifter

3 4 5 6 7 8 9

SZ Á NTÓ, 19 9 4.

H Y N E S A N D D O T Y, 1 9 9 3 .

C S Ö R G Ő, 2 016 ; H Y N E S , 2 01 3 B .

TURNER, 2002.

K U L C S Á R , 1 9 91 .

H Y N E S , 2 01 3 B .

BAHT YIN, 1982.

10 11 12 13 14

BARKER, 2003.

F O U C A U LT, 1 9 9 0 .

F I ÁT H , 2 016 .

H E W S T O N E E T A L . , 1 9 9 7.

K NEPPER A ND IS T EHED E , 201 3.

The ability to change his appearance is an essential characteristic of the impulsive, ever-moving Trickster. Butterfly’s skin, radically transformed — and going under transformation until his death, with an open textuality — via pricks, cuts, tears, and scratches is probably one of the most perfect examples of a body “worked over by culture”.10 As opposed to the Socialist ideal carrying the “proper” identity traits in terms of class, gender, and age, per the requirements of “normality”, Butterfly, with his body tattooed from head to toe, revolted against the disciplinary authority11 holding a firm grip over people’s body.

Although in the 19th and the 20th centuries, it was chic among the Hungarian nobility and bourgeoisie to get “tetovation” (for example, István Széchenyi and Miklós Horthy were also tattooed), in the later decades body-marking gained a different meaning. Tattooed skin became synonymous with “the deformed”, “the disfigured”, “the one using their body in an unnatural way”.12 Several sociopsychological studies have confirmed that we instinctively see the body as if its outside appearance would represent the inner qualities as well.13 While adherence to the norms of a given era and associating beauty with the assumption of positive inner qualities, the “ugly” is usually connected with a kind of “moral repulsiveness”, for example, with criminal inclinations (compare with Lombroso’s theory). A body “scribbled over”, and thus defiled, and befouled may become filthy and morally contagious partly due to its “ugliness” and partly because of its deliberate violation of conventions, accepting the elements arousing disgust in others as his own and standing up for them.

Butterfly’s tattooed face also evokes the 19th-century attempts to purify society primarily by sifting out the “criminal body” (looking for the clearly identifiable characteristics of the

“depraved” criminal face 14). Butterfly’s face (also) defies the “incarnation” of individuals marked by their appearance, being impossible “not to see it” anymore even if impossible to look at. At the same time, the image-like nature of the painted face also resembles the burial practice of prehistoric times, when the mask was used to restore the lost face of the dead. In this sense, Butterfly’s face is reclaiming individuality from the uniformization attempts of the Kádár era. At the same time, — through its masklike nature —, it is also a defense mechanism against the harmful effects of the outer world, attempting to falsify and normalize the face/personality.

The intention of “reclaiming” of the face is also supported by Butterfly’s story about getting his facial ink. In the below excerpt one can clearly trace the necessity of the “compulsion” to “become himself”, or have his face tattooed, which, as opposed to social constraints, for a moment may seem to have been motivated from the outside and yet later it was clearly accepted as self-congruent: “I’m not entirely sure about how I decided to have my face tattooed. In any case, it requires quite a bit of determination. Because I think not many fellows are running around like this in the world. As far as I know, there is only one more beside me, in England. A guy named Karl Grün, and that’s it. Perhaps it was partly controlled from the outside but forced upon me from the inside. And then when the idea came that it is time to get it done – nothing, nothing could have stopped me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn’t under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I had it done in full control of my senses. I knew it would lead to much inconvenience later – but I did it anyway. I knew I would be subject to a series of disciplinary actions. But even that didn’t bother me. In ‘78, when I had my butterfly done, I got ten days in the hole. […] I have never regretted looking like this. This is how I wanted to look.”

How to introduce someone who “spent half of his life in prison”,3 but when released, he would hold yoga sessions at the Erzsébetváros Sports Club during the day and scream Sziámi songs with a boiled hedgehog skull in his neck at the famed Fekete Lyuk [Black Hole] underground club at night?

Someone who would dip a string of hair in urine and put it into his wound, or paint his toenails blue just to avoid work – done rather in a self-endangering than social parasitic way, – and who would give advice on creating a “jerking machine” in the official magazine of the police titled Zsaru [Cop]. Someone who would cause accidents by his mere looks on the streets of Budapest, who would be shouted at “It’s not even human!”, and who would plan to read bedtime stories from his tattooed body to his never-to-be born children.

Researchers of the Trickster deities say that they violate norms and the established order to such an extent that they resist even all definition attempts.4 The essence of the mythical Trickster figures — for example, Hermes or the Native-American Coyote — is ambivalence, intense play with boundaries, disruption, mixing insanity and attainments, as well as the mocking of positive cultural heroes.5 Always being an outsider: unable to fit into any structures, perpetually stuck in-between, in a “liminal” state that will never be over.6 The presence of irreconcilable antagonism within the same person: in the case of Butterfly, for example, the punishing of “child fuckers” in the prison, while getting himself convicted for establishing a sexual relationship with a 14-year-old girl. Both the swastika and the Star of David tattooed on his skin. The crime of “racial hatred” and identifying himself — as a jailbird — in opposition to “white men”. Being shameless in terms of his crimes or even his tattoos (“They would call me names even for one dot — so let them do it for a million.”). And then his confession that maybe he is not even held back from getting into sexual relationships with men by his “inclinations” but by the danger of being labeled and “screamed at”.

Tamás Urbán, primarily as a patron of Butterfly, believes that his protégé was “a typical example of how one could lose ground for good and beyond recovery in the 1970s and 1980s, the decades before the Democratic change of regime”. However, Butterfly’s short narratives with their sharp roundoffs and morals testify of an entirely different selfdefinition. Indeed, it would be easy to recognize the marginalized figure, or even the psychopath, characterized by the clinical trinity of lacking love, anxiety, and the ability to learn from experience7 on the hand-written pages, but the (self-)legendry of Butterfly is more strongly based on the above-mentioned Trickster-archetype than the hustlers portrayed in the regular TV show of the Hungarian police titled Kékfény.

In the following sections, I will present a selection of Butterfly’s stories based on the most important characteristics of the Trickster.8 I intend to make clear that they are not only about tricking or “bamboozling” some stupid “patsies”, and the point is not to take advantage of someone, but the “show” itself. Similarly to the medieval feasts of fools,9 these acts meant cutting “ritual openings” through the walls of the frustrated society of the Kádár era, through which, at least temporarily, the ever-stiffening world behind the Iron Curtain could be turned inside out. As Butterfly writes about guzzling through a few weeks with some economist: “As for me, the game was okay, so I had myself and my pals taken out for food and drinks, not only one night but on a series of binges. He provided the money — and I provided the show in exchange.”

“ THE FACE IS A DISTINCT WORLD” the Trickster as a shapeshifter

3 4 5 6 7 8 9

SZ Á NTÓ, 19 9 4.

H Y N E S A N D D O T Y, 1 9 9 3 .

C S Ö R G Ő, 2 016 ; H Y N E S , 2 01 3 B .

TURNER, 2002.

K U L C S Á R , 1 9 91 .

H Y N E S , 2 01 3 B .

BAHT YIN, 1982.

10 11 12 13 14

BARKER, 2003.

F O U C A U LT, 1 9 9 0 .

F I ÁT H , 2 016 .

H E W S T O N E E T A L . , 1 9 9 7.

K NEPPER A ND IS T EHED E , 201 3.

The ability to change his appearance is an essential characteristic of the impulsive, ever-moving Trickster. Butterfly’s skin, radically transformed — and going under transformation until his death, with an open textuality — via pricks, cuts, tears, and scratches is probably one of the most perfect examples of a body “worked over by culture”.10 As opposed to the Socialist ideal carrying the “proper” identity traits in terms of class, gender, and age, per the requirements of “normality”, Butterfly, with his body tattooed from head to toe, revolted against the disciplinary authority11 holding a firm grip over people’s body.

Although in the 19th and the 20th centuries, it was chic among the Hungarian nobility and bourgeoisie to get “tetovation” (for example, István Széchenyi and Miklós Horthy were also tattooed), in the later decades body-marking gained a different meaning. Tattooed skin became synonymous with “the deformed”, “the disfigured”, “the one using their body in an unnatural way”.12 Several sociopsychological studies have confirmed that we instinctively see the body as if its outside appearance would represent the inner qualities as well.13 While adherence to the norms of a given era and associating beauty with the assumption of positive inner qualities, the “ugly” is usually connected with a kind of “moral repulsiveness”, for example, with criminal inclinations (compare with Lombroso’s theory). A body “scribbled over”, and thus defiled, and befouled may become filthy and morally contagious partly due to its “ugliness” and partly because of its deliberate violation of conventions, accepting the elements arousing disgust in others as his own and standing up for them.

Butterfly’s tattooed face also evokes the 19th-century attempts to purify society primarily by sifting out the “criminal body” (looking for the clearly identifiable characteristics of the

“depraved” criminal face 14). Butterfly’s face (also) defies the “incarnation” of individuals marked by their appearance, being impossible “not to see it” anymore even if impossible to look at. At the same time, the image-like nature of the painted face also resembles the burial practice of prehistoric times, when the mask was used to restore the lost face of the dead. In this sense, Butterfly’s face is reclaiming individuality from the uniformization attempts of the Kádár era. At the same time, — through its masklike nature —, it is also a defense mechanism against the harmful effects of the outer world, attempting to falsify and normalize the face/personality.

The intention of “reclaiming” of the face is also supported by Butterfly’s story about getting his facial ink. In the below excerpt one can clearly trace the necessity of the “compulsion” to “become himself”, or have his face tattooed, which, as opposed to social constraints, for a moment may seem to have been motivated from the outside and yet later it was clearly accepted as self-congruent: “I’m not entirely sure about how I decided to have my face tattooed. In any case, it requires quite a bit of determination. Because I think not many fellows are running around like this in the world. As far as I know, there is only one more beside me, in England. A guy named Karl Grün, and that’s it. Perhaps it was partly controlled from the outside but forced upon me from the inside. And then when the idea came that it is time to get it done – nothing, nothing could have stopped me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn’t under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I had it done in full control of my senses. I knew it would lead to much inconvenience later – but I did it anyway. I knew I would be subject to a series of disciplinary actions. But even that didn’t bother me. In ‘78, when I had my butterfly done, I got ten days in the hole. […] I have never regretted looking like this. This is how I wanted to look.”

When looking at Butterfly’s tattoos, it is not only his facial ink — which would violate even today’s norms — that could seem uncommon but also having symbols of authority and submission (cuffs, chains, shoulder marks) carved into his body. Yet, the phenomenon of marginalized people stigmatizing themselves is not new in history. In her work about the history of tattoos,15 Rozicky presents a detailed analysis of the turning points when the outcasts started to “reclaim” their bodies.

For example, in the case of the yakuza, who used to be marked coercively, getting their body tattooed has become an illegal and now self-imposed way of expressing their identity, following the 1850s legislation banishing skin marks used as a way of punishment. We can see similar changes in the Russian criminal subcultures. What used to be a stigma in the Russian world of thieves, has become a mark of “honor” and “reputation” due to the tattoo regulation enforced by the authorities.

“It is clearly, at the very least, an interesting irony”, summarizes McCarron,16 “that when the State loses the power to tattoo those it judges to be criminals, they then tattoo themselves.”

Also, among the convicts held in the Hungarian prisons of the 1980s, we often find the symbols of self-inking in the tattoos. The explicit symbols intentionally the marking time spent in prison were the so called “five dot tattoos” put in between the thumb and the index finger: meaning for example “Alone among the four walls” or “I did my time and survived”. Butterfly had another symbol tattooed on himself, the bunch of grapes denoting the youth detention center in Szőlő [Grape] Street). Browsing through the prison tattoos of the Kádár era, one might think that the prisoners were ready to accept the identity offered to them by society. As if the images — especially tattooing on themselves the registration number assigned to them personally — would say: “I am the deviant person you made me be.”

At the same time, the ink on visible body parts, especially Butterfly’s facial tattoos, together with the anti-systemic motives (like the swastikas opposing communist ideology) indicates that the tattooed are not willing to resign themselves to accepting the stigma of deviation, nor to conceal it. They seek to push the meaning of the stigma over the limits of the interpretation offered by the oppressive authority and society and attribute their own meanings to it. This way, instead of passively submitting themselves to the pressure and judgment

of the social world surrounding them, they try to make the majority accept their own self-definition via the images and inscriptions drawn on their skin.

Tattoos, through the mocking, overemphasizing, and re-contextualizing of the readily received identity, basically strengthen the freedom of selfdefinition and action in an environment in which the individual is continually being forced into distinct identity types created by the authority, that is, from the outside.

This is how the stigma of “social parasite” becomes the self-pride of the “Drifter King” or the “Wanderer” (moreover, being tattooed is also a clear indication of the privilege of being unemployed, meaning that the “they won’t hire me anywhere with these looks anyway” is not an expression of being cast out, but it can be interpreted as a self-imposed “aristocratic idling” 17). The supervisor/police shoulder marks, the paragraph sign, the cuffs, and the chains turn into a rebellion against outside regulations, and the “jailbird” label becomes a resistance openly propagating the philosophy of “life is crime”,18 and the impossibility of an honest life (see the animal and Hitler figures wearing prisoner hats).

15 16 17 18

R OZ I C Z K Y, 2 0 0 7.

MCC ARRON, 2008.

VEBLEN, 1975.

R E F E R E N C E T O G Y Ö R G Y M O L D O V A' S B O O K BŰN A Z ÉLET [LIFE IS A SIN]

19 E .G . C A R D OZO - F R E E M A N , 1 9 8 4 ; K A M I N S K I , 2 0 0 4 .

2 0 H Y N E S A N D D O T Y, 1 9 9 3 .

ERHAPS THEY “P EVEN WANTED TO DO IT” the Trickster as a deceiver

The goldfish, where the blindfolded new fish thinks that he is chasing a piece of soap in the washbasin, while the others have actually exchanged it for feces, or the night tricks with water pouring and setting the feet on fire, as well as the fiberglass powder causing maddening itching put into the prison uniform. The prison games and scams presented in detail by Butterfly all share one common trait: the illusion of choice. The person “to be screwed” would “suddenly not know whether to wipe the water off himself or to tend to his burns”: in any case, he is going to suffer. In the case of the self-pouring, “you would put a glass of water next to the guy’s head — the rest is taken care of by the sleeping person, he can decide when he will pour it on himself”. There is only one person who has the freedom to choose between real alternatives: the insider puppet master who is up against the “patsies”. He has earned the right to make the decisions through his knowledge and his leadership skills. As we can read on Butterfly’s body: “A free life is granted only for those who must win it day by day.”

Prison ethnography research 19 suggests that in restricted institutions, the game is a metaphor for survival. Although survival itself is not a game, looking at it as if it was, can help inmates to endure precarious situations and to create a sense of being in control. It helps to make the living conditions more manageable and tolerable through learning the rules and the rules of deviating from the rules.

According to his anecdotes, Butterfly’s tactics, games, and gaming strategies were the same inside and outside the prison walls. The following excerpt well represents his identification of the prison with the wider society: “If I think about it, living inside is

not even as terrible as many »white« people would think. With a little ingenuity, and if you know your way around, you can get everything done, but these traits are not negligible in the outside world either.”

Thus, as the survival in prison is based on taking advantage of the weaknesses and foolishness of others, similar maneuvers would grant creating the individual’s freedom and “being provided for” in the civilian life of the Kádár era as well. Butterfly repeatedly emphasizes that he considers working and fitting in the Socialist society — as opposed to playing tricks — to be an attack on his dignity and his chance for a meaningful life: “To work? No way! I don’t think I’s be working for a company ever again in my life for any outside influence. Because whoever harasses me with such things, I will definitely report them for defamation. […] As long as I can hold myself up, as long as I can speak up for myself, I will teeter my life away — and then game over. I will destroy myself! Because I think that one should only live until you have poise. If you don’t — it is not life. It is merely vegetation, and it is worth but a load of crap, nothing more.”

Based on the anecdotes about his civilian life, one of the most frequent tricks of Butterfly, who was “always suffering from the lack of money”, was to get his victims off guard by “putting up a show”, and then either eat and drink at their expense (and then throw a “jackrabbit parole” on time). Or he put them off with some faulty, worthless goods, or made fun of them through their flaws (see, for example, the rookie soldier drinking urine as a spritzer, the “hardworking” printing office guy using Butterfly’s after-sex towel, or the “conductor lady” gripping his penis through his pocket). However, the Trickster myths

When looking at Butterfly’s tattoos, it is not only his facial ink — which would violate even today’s norms — that could seem uncommon but also having symbols of authority and submission (cuffs, chains, shoulder marks) carved into his body. Yet, the phenomenon of marginalized people stigmatizing themselves is not new in history. In her work about the history of tattoos,15 Rozicky presents a detailed analysis of the turning points when the outcasts started to “reclaim” their bodies.

For example, in the case of the yakuza, who used to be marked coercively, getting their body tattooed has become an illegal and now self-imposed way of expressing their identity, following the 1850s legislation banishing skin marks used as a way of punishment. We can see similar changes in the Russian criminal subcultures. What used to be a stigma in the Russian world of thieves, has become a mark of “honor” and “reputation” due to the tattoo regulation enforced by the authorities.

“It is clearly, at the very least, an interesting irony”, summarizes McCarron,16 “that when the State loses the power to tattoo those it judges to be criminals, they then tattoo themselves.”

Also, among the convicts held in the Hungarian prisons of the 1980s, we often find the symbols of self-inking in the tattoos. The explicit symbols intentionally the marking time spent in prison were the so called “five dot tattoos” put in between the thumb and the index finger: meaning for example “Alone among the four walls” or “I did my time and survived”. Butterfly had another symbol tattooed on himself, the bunch of grapes denoting the youth detention center in Szőlő [Grape] Street). Browsing through the prison tattoos of the Kádár era, one might think that the prisoners were ready to accept the identity offered to them by society. As if the images — especially tattooing on themselves the registration number assigned to them personally — would say: “I am the deviant person you made me be.”

At the same time, the ink on visible body parts, especially Butterfly’s facial tattoos, together with the anti-systemic motives (like the swastikas opposing communist ideology) indicates that the tattooed are not willing to resign themselves to accepting the stigma of deviation, nor to conceal it. They seek to push the meaning of the stigma over the limits of the interpretation offered by the oppressive authority and society and attribute their own meanings to it. This way, instead of passively submitting themselves to the pressure and judgment

of the social world surrounding them, they try to make the majority accept their own self-definition via the images and inscriptions drawn on their skin.

Tattoos, through the mocking, overemphasizing, and re-contextualizing of the readily received identity, basically strengthen the freedom of selfdefinition and action in an environment in which the individual is continually being forced into distinct identity types created by the authority, that is, from the outside.

This is how the stigma of “social parasite” becomes the self-pride of the “Drifter King” or the “Wanderer” (moreover, being tattooed is also a clear indication of the privilege of being unemployed, meaning that the “they won’t hire me anywhere with these looks anyway” is not an expression of being cast out, but it can be interpreted as a self-imposed “aristocratic idling” 17). The supervisor/police shoulder marks, the paragraph sign, the cuffs, and the chains turn into a rebellion against outside regulations, and the “jailbird” label becomes a resistance openly propagating the philosophy of “life is crime”,18 and the impossibility of an honest life (see the animal and Hitler figures wearing prisoner hats).

15 16 17 18

R OZ I C Z K Y, 2 0 0 7.

MCC ARRON, 2008.

VEBLEN, 1975.

R E F E R E N C E T O G Y Ö R G Y M O L D O V A' S B O O K BŰN A Z ÉLET [LIFE IS A SIN]

19 E .G . C A R D OZO - F R E E M A N , 1 9 8 4 ; K A M I N S K I , 2 0 0 4 .

2 0 H Y N E S A N D D O T Y, 1 9 9 3 .

ERHAPS THEY “P EVEN WANTED TO DO IT” the Trickster as a deceiver

The goldfish, where the blindfolded new fish thinks that he is chasing a piece of soap in the washbasin, while the others have actually exchanged it for feces, or the night tricks with water pouring and setting the feet on fire, as well as the fiberglass powder causing maddening itching put into the prison uniform. The prison games and scams presented in detail by Butterfly all share one common trait: the illusion of choice. The person “to be screwed” would “suddenly not know whether to wipe the water off himself or to tend to his burns”: in any case, he is going to suffer. In the case of the self-pouring, “you would put a glass of water next to the guy’s head — the rest is taken care of by the sleeping person, he can decide when he will pour it on himself”. There is only one person who has the freedom to choose between real alternatives: the insider puppet master who is up against the “patsies”. He has earned the right to make the decisions through his knowledge and his leadership skills. As we can read on Butterfly’s body: “A free life is granted only for those who must win it day by day.”

Prison ethnography research 19 suggests that in restricted institutions, the game is a metaphor for survival. Although survival itself is not a game, looking at it as if it was, can help inmates to endure precarious situations and to create a sense of being in control. It helps to make the living conditions more manageable and tolerable through learning the rules and the rules of deviating from the rules.

According to his anecdotes, Butterfly’s tactics, games, and gaming strategies were the same inside and outside the prison walls. The following excerpt well represents his identification of the prison with the wider society: “If I think about it, living inside is

not even as terrible as many »white« people would think. With a little ingenuity, and if you know your way around, you can get everything done, but these traits are not negligible in the outside world either.”

Thus, as the survival in prison is based on taking advantage of the weaknesses and foolishness of others, similar maneuvers would grant creating the individual’s freedom and “being provided for” in the civilian life of the Kádár era as well. Butterfly repeatedly emphasizes that he considers working and fitting in the Socialist society — as opposed to playing tricks — to be an attack on his dignity and his chance for a meaningful life: “To work? No way! I don’t think I’s be working for a company ever again in my life for any outside influence. Because whoever harasses me with such things, I will definitely report them for defamation. […] As long as I can hold myself up, as long as I can speak up for myself, I will teeter my life away — and then game over. I will destroy myself! Because I think that one should only live until you have poise. If you don’t — it is not life. It is merely vegetation, and it is worth but a load of crap, nothing more.”

Based on the anecdotes about his civilian life, one of the most frequent tricks of Butterfly, who was “always suffering from the lack of money”, was to get his victims off guard by “putting up a show”, and then either eat and drink at their expense (and then throw a “jackrabbit parole” on time). Or he put them off with some faulty, worthless goods, or made fun of them through their flaws (see, for example, the rookie soldier drinking urine as a spritzer, the “hardworking” printing office guy using Butterfly’s after-sex towel, or the “conductor lady” gripping his penis through his pocket). However, the Trickster myths

are essentially not about individually motivated deviant behavior, but about the clash of values and more general morals: the Trickster pulls you down the ground if you are too stuck up: he provides microcosmic justice to the self while becoming the macrocosmic judge of society as well20. In the stories construed by Butterfly, we can similarly trace the “morale”: what leads to the downfall of the “patsies” and what it is they should learn from it.

The central element of the anecdotes connecting the staged deceptions is the bait. This object or opportunity seeming valuable is always unrealistic from some aspect (Butterfly promises girls or a quickie, rare and fashionable goods at a low price and so on). It is effective because it opens a loophole to a world of special benefits and the unexpected fulfillment of desires from the tight constraints of the “have and could have” of Socialist reality.21 Due to their greed, stupidity, and narrow-mindedness, the patsies — as weak players — fail to grasp what is available to them in the constrained Hungarian reality, they fail to see what they are entitled to:

“I couldn’t care less how they would pay the tab in the end because I was like as long as there is horse shit, there will always be sparrows as well. But sparrows are just small-scale pigeons, after all. And even if they didn’t get off all merry and happy, I would think they still learned something, right?” The other flaw that Butterfly considered to be a just cause for the fall was blind and humiliating greed: “This was around the time when the HVG magazine published the scaled-down copies of various banknotes. With a little makeup, I put some color on them. In the broken toilets, there would always be one or two piles of crap. I would put these notes on top of these with a stick. And what the hell! They would just go ahead to fish them out, and they were not disgusted or anything, just hoping to get the money. In any case, I didn’t tell anyone because that would have surely led to some conflicts with some of them patsies. I just laughed to myself that people could be so naive. It seemed that they would not refrain even from digging in the most disgusting things; perhaps they even wanted to do it.”

“ I DECIDED TO GET AT IT” ter the Trickster as a subversive charac

Butterfly is the one who would identify himself to the cops with a monthly pass made out to Brandon Buffoon (in which he would even shamelessly enter the address of the 1st District Police Station). He would make a jerking machine from the frame of the Code of Conduct (which the guard would find, of course, and, believing it was used for spirits distillation, he would taste its contents). He would teach the wardens tricks of uncuffing oneself for a pack of cigarettes. He would try to break the annoying habit of a supervisor doing a “shakedown” on him all the time by cutting the legs of tables or hiding razor blades into matchboxes. (“This way I managed to convince the guard not to fumble about in my locker, as he wouldn’t take any chances.

After all, Makarenko’s education theory would come handy against the »grey coats« from time to time.”)

Butterfly is the subversive Trickster who had the ability to defeat any figure of authority, system, or belief – regardless of their level of prestige. For him, there is no order set in stone, no taboos: everything can be turned upside down. The more established the conviction, the higher is the probability that he would ridicule it.22 In the midst of the Victorian prudery rampaging in Hungary in the 1970s and 1980s,23 it was probably high time that the shadow archetype 24 would get on stage. Breaking into the framework of normality, Butterfly’s character could bring forth such values — opposing the dominant world order,

oppressed and inverted — as spontaneity, the capacity for joy, sexuality, autonomy, and rebellion, through which the “formal culture” would still be faced with human equality and timeless cosmic values in one way or another.

In the Hungary of the 1970s and 1980s, the “marginalized” person embodied the essential social experience: the general, subjective sense of being left out of progress, as well as the actual, objective shifting of society towards the peripheries of the world25 (see the Butterfly-image of the patronage Tamás Urbán mentioned at the beginning of this study). Yet, the most memorable stories of Butterfly call into question the very hierarchy in which his character could be interpreted as a loser to the system, a “marginal” man. “I decided to get at it”, he writes in a longer story. “Things were just about right for it, as there was a power outage. They started handing out lunch food in the dark. It was kale with some hog-wash. As we were bringing back the food, I thought it was time to get at it.” Throughout the text, there is the unfading suspension of whether we will ever find out the actual reason for “getting at it”. In the course of the fast-paced events, Butterfly would swallow a razor blade, put in a straight jacket, get some “punching” until he almost suffocates, and then he would be forced to vomit the razor blade and was chilled down with plenty of water. What was all this good for? Why would he close yet another one of his stories ending with his own, serious

injuries with the following sentence, suggesting profound satisfaction and balance: “I stretched out on one of the bunks, and had some good sleep after all the razzle I had with my gracious company”?

What did he have to gain from all this?

As opposed to the stories of deception, where the booty would be mostly composed of tangible material assets and luxury goods, the gain in subversive stories is primarily symbolic. When Butterfly fakes being delusional due to poisoning and tells the guards to “shove it up in their commie asses” as a kind of court jester of the prison, having himself chased around by the jail staff, it is clearly turning the hierarchy upside-down: the joy and freedom resulting from the momentary exchange of roles. Yet, there is a more enduring gain created during the reconstruction of the stories. For example, when he talks about how after being “bumped” by the guards, the prison physician would note that there were “no injuries, no sign of bruises”, Butterfly also adds: “so I made sure to have him suck my dick nice and deep. If you're gonna get wet, might as well go swimming.”

The rewriting of the story and reinterpretation of the events by changing the position of the actors also contributes to the recreation of the narrative identity: in the course of the anecdote, the “marginalized, subordinate convict” appears as the autonomous agent possessing free will and power, setting the events in motion and maintaining full control.

PÁLINK A OUT OF HITLER BACON ty the Trickster as the agent of creativi

Besides being the embodiment of productivity and ingenuity, the Trickster was able to turn any object at hand into another.

He would make stew from the cats and the pigeons living in his cell window, a jemmy out of the wires of a broom, a distiller from copper pipes, or binoculars from some newspapers and eyeglass

21 22 23 24

H A N K I S S , 1 9 9 7.

HYNES, 1993B. K L A N I C Z AY, 2 0 0 4 .

JUNG, 1956.

2 5 K A P I TÁ N Y A N D K A P I TÁ N Y, 1 9 9 5 .

26 JUNG, 1956.

are essentially not about individually motivated deviant behavior, but about the clash of values and more general morals: the Trickster pulls you down the ground if you are too stuck up: he provides microcosmic justice to the self while becoming the macrocosmic judge of society as well20. In the stories construed by Butterfly, we can similarly trace the “morale”: what leads to the downfall of the “patsies” and what it is they should learn from it.

The central element of the anecdotes connecting the staged deceptions is the bait. This object or opportunity seeming valuable is always unrealistic from some aspect (Butterfly promises girls or a quickie, rare and fashionable goods at a low price and so on). It is effective because it opens a loophole to a world of special benefits and the unexpected fulfillment of desires from the tight constraints of the “have and could have” of Socialist reality.21 Due to their greed, stupidity, and narrow-mindedness, the patsies — as weak players — fail to grasp what is available to them in the constrained Hungarian reality, they fail to see what they are entitled to:

“I couldn’t care less how they would pay the tab in the end because I was like as long as there is horse shit, there will always be sparrows as well. But sparrows are just small-scale pigeons, after all. And even if they didn’t get off all merry and happy, I would think they still learned something, right?” The other flaw that Butterfly considered to be a just cause for the fall was blind and humiliating greed: “This was around the time when the HVG magazine published the scaled-down copies of various banknotes. With a little makeup, I put some color on them. In the broken toilets, there would always be one or two piles of crap. I would put these notes on top of these with a stick. And what the hell! They would just go ahead to fish them out, and they were not disgusted or anything, just hoping to get the money. In any case, I didn’t tell anyone because that would have surely led to some conflicts with some of them patsies. I just laughed to myself that people could be so naive. It seemed that they would not refrain even from digging in the most disgusting things; perhaps they even wanted to do it.”

“ I DECIDED TO GET AT IT” ter the Trickster as a subversive charac

Butterfly is the one who would identify himself to the cops with a monthly pass made out to Brandon Buffoon (in which he would even shamelessly enter the address of the 1st District Police Station). He would make a jerking machine from the frame of the Code of Conduct (which the guard would find, of course, and, believing it was used for spirits distillation, he would taste its contents). He would teach the wardens tricks of uncuffing oneself for a pack of cigarettes. He would try to break the annoying habit of a supervisor doing a “shakedown” on him all the time by cutting the legs of tables or hiding razor blades into matchboxes. (“This way I managed to convince the guard not to fumble about in my locker, as he wouldn’t take any chances.

After all, Makarenko’s education theory would come handy against the »grey coats« from time to time.”)

Butterfly is the subversive Trickster who had the ability to defeat any figure of authority, system, or belief – regardless of their level of prestige. For him, there is no order set in stone, no taboos: everything can be turned upside down. The more established the conviction, the higher is the probability that he would ridicule it.22 In the midst of the Victorian prudery rampaging in Hungary in the 1970s and 1980s,23 it was probably high time that the shadow archetype 24 would get on stage. Breaking into the framework of normality, Butterfly’s character could bring forth such values — opposing the dominant world order,

oppressed and inverted — as spontaneity, the capacity for joy, sexuality, autonomy, and rebellion, through which the “formal culture” would still be faced with human equality and timeless cosmic values in one way or another.

In the Hungary of the 1970s and 1980s, the “marginalized” person embodied the essential social experience: the general, subjective sense of being left out of progress, as well as the actual, objective shifting of society towards the peripheries of the world25 (see the Butterfly-image of the patronage Tamás Urbán mentioned at the beginning of this study). Yet, the most memorable stories of Butterfly call into question the very hierarchy in which his character could be interpreted as a loser to the system, a “marginal” man. “I decided to get at it”, he writes in a longer story. “Things were just about right for it, as there was a power outage. They started handing out lunch food in the dark. It was kale with some hog-wash. As we were bringing back the food, I thought it was time to get at it.” Throughout the text, there is the unfading suspension of whether we will ever find out the actual reason for “getting at it”. In the course of the fast-paced events, Butterfly would swallow a razor blade, put in a straight jacket, get some “punching” until he almost suffocates, and then he would be forced to vomit the razor blade and was chilled down with plenty of water. What was all this good for? Why would he close yet another one of his stories ending with his own, serious

injuries with the following sentence, suggesting profound satisfaction and balance: “I stretched out on one of the bunks, and had some good sleep after all the razzle I had with my gracious company”?

What did he have to gain from all this?

As opposed to the stories of deception, where the booty would be mostly composed of tangible material assets and luxury goods, the gain in subversive stories is primarily symbolic. When Butterfly fakes being delusional due to poisoning and tells the guards to “shove it up in their commie asses” as a kind of court jester of the prison, having himself chased around by the jail staff, it is clearly turning the hierarchy upside-down: the joy and freedom resulting from the momentary exchange of roles. Yet, there is a more enduring gain created during the reconstruction of the stories. For example, when he talks about how after being “bumped” by the guards, the prison physician would note that there were “no injuries, no sign of bruises”, Butterfly also adds: “so I made sure to have him suck my dick nice and deep. If you're gonna get wet, might as well go swimming.”

The rewriting of the story and reinterpretation of the events by changing the position of the actors also contributes to the recreation of the narrative identity: in the course of the anecdote, the “marginalized, subordinate convict” appears as the autonomous agent possessing free will and power, setting the events in motion and maintaining full control.

PÁLINK A OUT OF HITLER BACON ty the Trickster as the agent of creativi

Besides being the embodiment of productivity and ingenuity, the Trickster was able to turn any object at hand into another.

He would make stew from the cats and the pigeons living in his cell window, a jemmy out of the wires of a broom, a distiller from copper pipes, or binoculars from some newspapers and eyeglass

21 22 23 24

H A N K I S S , 1 9 9 7.

HYNES, 1993B. K L A N I C Z AY, 2 0 0 4 .

JUNG, 1956.

2 5 K A P I TÁ N Y A N D K A P I TÁ N Y, 1 9 9 5 .

26 JUNG, 1956.

lenses). But Butterfly is also characterized by a much more important creative attribute: as an artist “he is always heading to where others are afraid to enter”. 26 In the 1980s, “in the world of music and behavioral styles worn down by commercialization, only the greatest outrages, the most daring taboo violations, the most astonishing and the most repulsive eccentricities could bring about some excitement”. 27 The singer-performer Butterfly of the eccentric Sziámi concerts most probably met the expectations of the new underground genres as well.

Yet, being the “out-person” he was, Butterfly as a Trickster figure was not able to “fit in”, and he could not abide long in the world of off-mainstream

artists either. He appeared on stage with Sziámi only for a few months, and, due to some minor and major incidents, he was definitively expelled from Black Hole. The most ironic element of the “expulsion” is probably that Butterfly was accused of taking the videotapes and most of the recording equipment used for documenting those times. Although “punk and new wave — according to their own philosophy — were not among the archiving, safekeeping, documenting trends”, 28 Butterfly’s expulsion was associated with exactly such an event — the destruction of documents —, which captured the very essence of the movement: the rebellion against the stiffening of punk into a structure.

BIBLIOGR APHY Bahtyin, M.: Francois Rabelais művészete, a középkor és a reneszánsz népi kultúrája.

Budapest, Európa Könyvkiadó, 1982.

Barker, C.: Cultural Studies. London, Sage Publications, 2003.

Belting, H.: Faces. Az arc története. Budapest, Atlantisz Könyvkiadó, 2018.

Cardozo-Freeman, I.: The Joint. Language and Culture in a Maximum Security Prison.

Springfield, IL., Charles C. Thomas, 1984.

Csörgő Z.: Április elsejéhez – A tréfacsináló archetípusa. 2016 https://www.symbolonintezet.hu/aprilis-elsejehez-a-trefacsinalo-archetipusa-2 Fiáth T.: Börtönkönyv. Kulturális antropológia a rácsok mögött. Budapest, Háttér Kiadó, 2012.

Fiáth T.: Horogkereszt és Hófehérke. Magyar börtöntetoválások a ’80-as években.

Börtönügyi Szemle. 2016; (35) 4: 5–18.

Foucault, M.: Felügyelet és büntetés. Budapest, Gondolat Kiadó, 1990.

“ I’LL LOOK OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE” Butterfly’s face tattoo — the ink itself — was partially made of the rubber soles of the shoes provided for inmates in detention facilities. Just as the food provided in prison — metonymically considered to be “inedible” — can be made “suitable for human consumption” by various methods,29 the creation of one’s “own face” using “prison material” — the boot sole gaining new meaning through the artistic act — also contributes to the creation of freedom. Moreover, Butterfly — carrying the prison in himself in this way — requested that after his death, his head is to be given to the “prison museum” of Tamás Urbán. Thus, with an elegant flick, the head created from some prison material within the walls of the restricted institution, would have wanted to proclaim the possibility of freedom in confinement for eternity.

As I have noted above, Butterfly’s figure defies all attempts at categorization or stiff structuralization.

He cannot be, and actually could not have become an exhibition object: As the Pesti Riport wrote following his death,30 “his beautifully tattooed head cannot be

given to the photojournalist patronizing him for so many years, to whom he had left it in his will. Neither can the prepared head e included in the collection of the Institute of Forensic Science, because the tendering work of the Danube caused the most damage exactly to the fully tattooed facial skin.” One wonders whether there exists a death mask that could restore the individuality of the face he created for himself, the face that existed only as a fragment, unfinished, and stripped into its “natural form” in his death.

Hankiss Á.: Kötéltánc. A bizalom anatómiája. In.: Lengyel Zs. (ed.): Szociálpszichológia szöveggyűjtemény. Budapest, Osiris Kiadó, 1997.

Hewstone, M., Stroebe, W., Codol, J., Stephenson, J. M.: Szociálpszichológia – európai szemszögből. Budapest, Közgazdasági és Jogi Könyvkiadó Kft., 1997.

Hynes, W. J.: Inconclusive Conclusions: Tricksters – Metaplayers and Revealers. In.: Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G. (eds.): Mythical Trickster Figures. Contours, Contexts, and Criticism. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 1993a.

Hynes, W. J.: Mapping the Characteristics of Mythic Tricksters: A Heuristic Guide. In.: Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G. (eds.): Mythical Trickster Figures. Contours, Contexts, and Criticism. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 1993b.

Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G.: Introducing the Fascinating and Perplexing Trickster Figure.

In.: Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G. (eds.): Mythical Trickster Figures. Contours, Contexts, and Criticism. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 1993.

Jung, C. G.: On the Psychology of the Trickster Figure. In.: Radin, P. (ed.): The Trickster.

A Study on American Indian Mythology. New York, Philosophical Library, 1956.

Kaminski, M. M.: Games Prisoners Play. The Tragicomic Worlds of Polish Prison.

Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2004.

Kapitány Á., Kapitány G.: Rejtjelek 2. Budapest, Kossuth Kiadó, 1995.

Klaniczay G.: Ellenkultúra a hetvenes-nyolcvanas években. Budapest, Noran Kiadó, 2004.

Knepper, P., Istehede, P. J. (eds.): The Cesare Lombroso Handbook. London, Routledge, 2013.

Kulcsár Zs.: Pszichopátia. Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó, 1991.

McCarron, K.: Skin and Self-Indictment: Prison Tattoos, Race, and Heroin Addiction.

English Studies in Canada. 2008; (34) 1: 85–102.

Oltai K.: Új hullámosok fotón. In.: Rieder G. (ed.): Pokoli aranykor. New wave koncertplakátok a ’80-as évekből. Budapest, Kieselbach Galéria Kereskedelmi Kft., 2017.

Rozycki, A.: Prison Tattoos as a Reflection of the Criminal Lifestyle and Predictor of Recidivism. PhD. Dissertation, 2007.

Szabó I.: Tetovált börtön. Szociológia. 1989; (18)3–4: 311–327.

Szántó G.: Pillangó vízbe fúlt. Pesti Riport. 1994. május 20.

27 28 29 30

K L A N I C Z AY, 2 0 0 4 .

O LTA I , 2 017.

F I ÁT H , 2 01 2 .

SZ Á NTÓ, 19 9 4.

Szegedy-Maszák M.: A magyar irodalom történetei II. Budapest, Gondolat Kiadó, 2007.

Turner, V.: A rituális folyamat. Budapest, Osiris Kiadó, 2002.

Veblen T.: A dologtalan osztály elmélete. Budapest, Közgazdasági és Jogi Kiadó, 1975.

lenses). But Butterfly is also characterized by a much more important creative attribute: as an artist “he is always heading to where others are afraid to enter”. 26 In the 1980s, “in the world of music and behavioral styles worn down by commercialization, only the greatest outrages, the most daring taboo violations, the most astonishing and the most repulsive eccentricities could bring about some excitement”. 27 The singer-performer Butterfly of the eccentric Sziámi concerts most probably met the expectations of the new underground genres as well.

Yet, being the “out-person” he was, Butterfly as a Trickster figure was not able to “fit in”, and he could not abide long in the world of off-mainstream

artists either. He appeared on stage with Sziámi only for a few months, and, due to some minor and major incidents, he was definitively expelled from Black Hole. The most ironic element of the “expulsion” is probably that Butterfly was accused of taking the videotapes and most of the recording equipment used for documenting those times. Although “punk and new wave — according to their own philosophy — were not among the archiving, safekeeping, documenting trends”, 28 Butterfly’s expulsion was associated with exactly such an event — the destruction of documents —, which captured the very essence of the movement: the rebellion against the stiffening of punk into a structure.

BIBLIOGR APHY Bahtyin, M.: Francois Rabelais művészete, a középkor és a reneszánsz népi kultúrája.

Budapest, Európa Könyvkiadó, 1982.

Barker, C.: Cultural Studies. London, Sage Publications, 2003.

Belting, H.: Faces. Az arc története. Budapest, Atlantisz Könyvkiadó, 2018.

Cardozo-Freeman, I.: The Joint. Language and Culture in a Maximum Security Prison.

Springfield, IL., Charles C. Thomas, 1984.

Csörgő Z.: Április elsejéhez – A tréfacsináló archetípusa. 2016 https://www.symbolonintezet.hu/aprilis-elsejehez-a-trefacsinalo-archetipusa-2 Fiáth T.: Börtönkönyv. Kulturális antropológia a rácsok mögött. Budapest, Háttér Kiadó, 2012.

Fiáth T.: Horogkereszt és Hófehérke. Magyar börtöntetoválások a ’80-as években.

Börtönügyi Szemle. 2016; (35) 4: 5–18.

Foucault, M.: Felügyelet és büntetés. Budapest, Gondolat Kiadó, 1990.

“ I’LL LOOK OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE” Butterfly’s face tattoo — the ink itself — was partially made of the rubber soles of the shoes provided for inmates in detention facilities. Just as the food provided in prison — metonymically considered to be “inedible” — can be made “suitable for human consumption” by various methods,29 the creation of one’s “own face” using “prison material” — the boot sole gaining new meaning through the artistic act — also contributes to the creation of freedom. Moreover, Butterfly — carrying the prison in himself in this way — requested that after his death, his head is to be given to the “prison museum” of Tamás Urbán. Thus, with an elegant flick, the head created from some prison material within the walls of the restricted institution, would have wanted to proclaim the possibility of freedom in confinement for eternity.

As I have noted above, Butterfly’s figure defies all attempts at categorization or stiff structuralization.

He cannot be, and actually could not have become an exhibition object: As the Pesti Riport wrote following his death,30 “his beautifully tattooed head cannot be

given to the photojournalist patronizing him for so many years, to whom he had left it in his will. Neither can the prepared head e included in the collection of the Institute of Forensic Science, because the tendering work of the Danube caused the most damage exactly to the fully tattooed facial skin.” One wonders whether there exists a death mask that could restore the individuality of the face he created for himself, the face that existed only as a fragment, unfinished, and stripped into its “natural form” in his death.

Hankiss Á.: Kötéltánc. A bizalom anatómiája. In.: Lengyel Zs. (ed.): Szociálpszichológia szöveggyűjtemény. Budapest, Osiris Kiadó, 1997.

Hewstone, M., Stroebe, W., Codol, J., Stephenson, J. M.: Szociálpszichológia – európai szemszögből. Budapest, Közgazdasági és Jogi Könyvkiadó Kft., 1997.

Hynes, W. J.: Inconclusive Conclusions: Tricksters – Metaplayers and Revealers. In.: Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G. (eds.): Mythical Trickster Figures. Contours, Contexts, and Criticism. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 1993a.

Hynes, W. J.: Mapping the Characteristics of Mythic Tricksters: A Heuristic Guide. In.: Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G. (eds.): Mythical Trickster Figures. Contours, Contexts, and Criticism. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 1993b.

Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G.: Introducing the Fascinating and Perplexing Trickster Figure.

In.: Hynes, W. J., Doty, W. G. (eds.): Mythical Trickster Figures. Contours, Contexts, and Criticism. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 1993.

Jung, C. G.: On the Psychology of the Trickster Figure. In.: Radin, P. (ed.): The Trickster.

A Study on American Indian Mythology. New York, Philosophical Library, 1956.

Kaminski, M. M.: Games Prisoners Play. The Tragicomic Worlds of Polish Prison.

Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2004.

Kapitány Á., Kapitány G.: Rejtjelek 2. Budapest, Kossuth Kiadó, 1995.

Klaniczay G.: Ellenkultúra a hetvenes-nyolcvanas években. Budapest, Noran Kiadó, 2004.

Knepper, P., Istehede, P. J. (eds.): The Cesare Lombroso Handbook. London, Routledge, 2013.

Kulcsár Zs.: Pszichopátia. Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó, 1991.

McCarron, K.: Skin and Self-Indictment: Prison Tattoos, Race, and Heroin Addiction.

English Studies in Canada. 2008; (34) 1: 85–102.

Oltai K.: Új hullámosok fotón. In.: Rieder G. (ed.): Pokoli aranykor. New wave koncertplakátok a ’80-as évekből. Budapest, Kieselbach Galéria Kereskedelmi Kft., 2017.

Rozycki, A.: Prison Tattoos as a Reflection of the Criminal Lifestyle and Predictor of Recidivism. PhD. Dissertation, 2007.

Szabó I.: Tetovált börtön. Szociológia. 1989; (18)3–4: 311–327.

Szántó G.: Pillangó vízbe fúlt. Pesti Riport. 1994. május 20.

27 28 29 30

K L A N I C Z AY, 2 0 0 4 .

O LTA I , 2 017.

F I ÁT H , 2 01 2 .

SZ Á NTÓ, 19 9 4.

Szegedy-Maszák M.: A magyar irodalom történetei II. Budapest, Gondolat Kiadó, 2007.

Turner, V.: A rituális folyamat. Budapest, Osiris Kiadó, 2002.

Veblen T.: A dologtalan osztály elmélete. Budapest, Közgazdasági és Jogi Kiadó, 1975.

EXHIBITION

Special thanks to my son Ádám Urbán and his wife Judit Barabás.

—

TA M Á S U R B Á N : U N W A N T E D B U T T E R F LY R O B E R T C A PA C O N T E M P O R A R Y PHOTOGR APHY CENTER , BUDAPEST MARCH 4 – APRIL 5, 2020

curator I S T VÁ N V I R Á G V Ö LG Y I project coordinator PÁ L P E N T E L É N Y I graphic design NÓR A SZÜCS translation Z S UZ S A N N A B A L Á Z S V E R A B A KO N Y I -TÁ N C ZO S proofreading B A L Á Z S G Á S PÁ R V I V I E N B O R O N YÁ K installation R Ó B E R T M AY E R MÁRTON SÜLE L Á SZLÓ SZ ABÓ PÉTER GYENEI scanning F O R T E PA N ( Z S O LT PÁ L I N K Á S) retouching J Á N O S O S T YÁ N I photo printing P I G M E N TA A R T P R I N T L A B framing Z S O LT S Z I L Á G Y I printing q u A R Ts S T Ú D I Ó ar t works loans TA M Á S S ZŐ N Y E I ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLIC T

THE PHOTOS ON THE COVER AND A B O V E W E R E TA K E N B Y P E T E R MEISSNER IN 1990. ON THE INSIDE O F T H E C O V E R S A R E B U T T E R F LY ' S DR AWINGS.

special thanks LOR ÁND BALL A G Y Ö R G Y B P. S Z A B Ó PÉTER SZIÁMI MÜLLER ZO É S Z I L Á G Y I TA M Á S S Z LU KO V É N Y I TA M Á S S ZŐ N Y E I M I K L Ó S TA M Á S I professional par tner ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLIC T The exhibition and the digital catalogue were supported by the National Cultural Fund of Hungary © 2 0 2 0 TA M Á S U R B Á N © 2 0 2 0 T H E A U T H O R S A N D E D I T O R O F T H E C ATA L O G U E © 2 0 2 0 R O B E R T C A PA CONTEMPOR ARY PHOTOGR APHY CENTER

C ATA L O G U E editor I S T VÁ N V I R Á G V Ö LG Y I authors TA M Á S U R B Á N FERENC DE ÁK T I TA N I L L A F I ÁT H picture editor TA M Á S S Z LU KO V É N Y I tex t editor Z S UZ S A N N A B A L Á Z S translation Z S UZ S A N N A B A L Á Z S V E R A B A KO N Y I -TÁ N C ZO S M Á R K B A C ZO N I proof reading B A L Á Z S G Á S PÁ R PÉTER AR ADI V I V I E N B O R O N YÁ K The poster from Tamás Szőnyei's collection on page 150 was digitized

by Artpool.

The catalogue is published by the Robert Capa Contemporary Photography Center in collaboration with the Archive of Modern Conflict – Idle Books. publisher O R S O LYA KŐ R Ö S I managing director

EXHIBITION

Special thanks to my son Ádám Urbán and his wife Judit Barabás.

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TA M Á S U R B Á N : U N W A N T E D B U T T E R F LY R O B E R T C A PA C O N T E M P O R A R Y PHOTOGR APHY CENTER , BUDAPEST MARCH 4 – APRIL 5, 2020

curator I S T VÁ N V I R Á G V Ö LG Y I project coordinator PÁ L P E N T E L É N Y I graphic design NÓR A SZÜCS translation Z S UZ S A N N A B A L Á Z S V E R A B A KO N Y I -TÁ N C ZO S proofreading B A L Á Z S G Á S PÁ R V I V I E N B O R O N YÁ K installation R Ó B E R T M AY E R MÁRTON SÜLE L Á SZLÓ SZ ABÓ PÉTER GYENEI scanning F O R T E PA N ( Z S O LT PÁ L I N K Á S) retouching J Á N O S O S T YÁ N I photo printing P I G M E N TA A R T P R I N T L A B framing Z S O LT S Z I L Á G Y I printing q u A R Ts S T Ú D I Ó ar t works loans TA M Á S S ZŐ N Y E I ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLIC T

THE PHOTOS ON THE COVER AND A B O V E W E R E TA K E N B Y P E T E R MEISSNER IN 1990. ON THE INSIDE O F T H E C O V E R S A R E B U T T E R F LY ' S DR AWINGS.

special thanks LOR ÁND BALL A G Y Ö R G Y B P. S Z A B Ó PÉTER SZIÁMI MÜLLER ZO É S Z I L Á G Y I TA M Á S S Z LU KO V É N Y I TA M Á S S ZŐ N Y E I M I K L Ó S TA M Á S I professional par tner ARCHIVE OF MODERN CONFLIC T The exhibition and the digital catalogue were supported by the National Cultural Fund of Hungary © 2 0 2 0 TA M Á S U R B Á N © 2 0 2 0 T H E A U T H O R S A N D E D I T O R O F T H E C ATA L O G U E © 2 0 2 0 R O B E R T C A PA CONTEMPOR ARY PHOTOGR APHY CENTER

C ATA L O G U E editor I S T VÁ N V I R Á G V Ö LG Y I authors TA M Á S U R B Á N FERENC DE ÁK T I TA N I L L A F I ÁT H picture editor TA M Á S S Z LU KO V É N Y I tex t editor Z S UZ S A N N A B A L Á Z S translation Z S UZ S A N N A B A L Á Z S V E R A B A KO N Y I -TÁ N C ZO S M Á R K B A C ZO N I proof reading B A L Á Z S G Á S PÁ R PÉTER AR ADI V I V I E N B O R O N YÁ K The poster from Tamás Szőnyei's collection on page 150 was digitized

by Artpool.

The catalogue is published by the Robert Capa Contemporary Photography Center in collaboration with the Archive of Modern Conflict – Idle Books. publisher O R S O LYA KŐ R Ö S I managing director