Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Hungarian War songs”

In the last years of World War I, Béla Bartók and Zoltán Kodály compiled a folksong selection One Hundred Hungarian Soldiers’ Songs from their own collections, requested by the Centre for Music History of the Monarchy’s War Ministry in Vienna. The collapse after the war interrupted the publication already in press. Parts of the song collection Kodály asked back in 1921 were returned in 1940 through diplomatic intervention. Later the manuscript was lost, but some parts have been found in the Kodály estate recently. However, the tunes are still latent; not even Kodály knew in his last years where they were. The present paper discusses the circumstances of the volume’s genesis and fate, and as a new development, the process of reconstructing the music section on the basis of the segments of the manuscript found in the estate (introduction and list of sources), the folksong collections of the Institute for Musicology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (Bartók-and Kodály-Systems) and the earlier researchers of the author concerning Kodály’s collection. The collection is an important document of Hungarian folk music history and the history of research. It is also the only collection of the series initiated by the Centre for Music History that was ready for the press as the next volume after Bernhard Paumgartner’s 100 deutsche Soldatenlieder published in 1918.

In contrast to restless students in Bucharest, Cluj, Iasi, Timiş oara, and other cities, who tried to organize rallies calling for government reforms in the fall of 1956 but failed, Romanian workers and peasants expressed their feelings about the revolution in nearby Hungary by going on feverish shopping sprees; stockpiling food staples; writing anonymous leaflets and graffiti; spreading rumors; and engaging in arson, vandalism, and physical brawls. The Hungarian crisis aroused in some citizens fears of a World War III, for others a war over Transylvania, and for still others a Hungarian-style revolt in Romania. A survey of published Securitate reports written between 26 October and 23 November 1956 shows that the three most frequent oral comments recorded were those complaining about the economy, those predicting that “what happened in Hungary will happen in Romania,” and those asking “why was the Soviet intervention necessary?” The economic complaints outnumbered the other two types of comments. Political messages, oral and written, spanned the spectrum, from fascist, Iron Guard songs, monarchist comments, to procapitalist slogans. Although most irredentist comments, oral and written, originated from cities in Transylvania, more than half of the incidents of physical aggression, including arson and other acts of sabotage, occurred in non-Transylvanian regions. Although the Securitate sometimes exploited ethnic tensions to gain recruits, Romanian citizens expressed more rage toward the communist dictatorship than against ethnic Hungarians.

A special chapter of research into the history of folk music in the time of the Austrian-Hungarian Monarchy was the Musikhistorische Zentrale (Music History Department) at the imperial royal Ministry of War. It was established during World War I, modelled on the Austrian Volksliedunternehmen (today Volksliedwerk). The Musikhistorische Zentrale wanted to collect all the soldiers’ songs, fanfares, military music, soldiers’ sayings, customs, jokes, letters and their expressions which are of historical and cultural significance. Bernhard Paumgartner (1887–1971), a musician and lawyer, had the idea of collecting this material. After the war, he became well known as the director of the Mozarteum in Salzburg, as conductor, music researcher and member of the Salzburger Festspiele. Under Paumgartner’s direction, notable individuals were involved in the compilation of Musikhistorische Zentrale. One of these men was the student of composition and musicology Felix Petyrek (1892–1951), who was dedicated to folk music all over his life as composer as well as researcher and music teacher. Other important collaborators for the Hungarian part on the collection were Zoltán Kodály and Béla Bartók.

Artykuł dotyczy twórczości Lwa Węglińskiego (1827–1905), poety z pogranicza polsko-ukraińskiego, który wydał 6 zbiorów w języku ukraińskim pisanych alfabetem łacińskim i 7 książek w języku polskim, w których dominował materiał oparty o reminiscencje z historii i kultury różnych narodów, a także przekłady poezji i folkloru ludowego. Zbiór Snopek z niw słowiańskich i obcych (1885) jest w całości poświęcony przekładom z folkloru słowiańskiego: są w nim zawarte ukraińskie (42), morawskie (69), węgierskie – „obce pole” (21), niemieckie (60) pieśni ludowe. We wstępie Lew Węgliński określił pieśni węgierskie jako „ogniste, dowcipne, namiętne”, a następnie przytoczył przekłady węgierskich pieśni wojennych Erotki wojskowe – Na placu ćwiczeń, Pod czas marszu, Epikurejka i innych.Lew Węgliński informował, że jego przekłady węgierskich pieśni ludowych stanowiły Suplementum (załącznik) do tomu drugiego. Zawartość zbioru Echo z-za Tatr i Karpat (1885) jest przedstawiona bardzo szczegółowo i w całości poświęcona historii, folklorowi i literaturze Węgier, które autor uważa za najbardziej przyjazny Polsce kraj sąsiedzki. Po arkadyjskich epigramatach w języku niemieckim, Słowie wstępnym i Objaśnieniach porównuje on pieśni węgierskie z folklorem innych, w tym słowiańskich, narodów. Lew Węgliński opisuje pozytywne zjawiska dialogu polsko-ukraińskiego, w szczególności przywołuje i cytuje mowę Do parlamentu Węglińskiego petycja o wyswobodzenie Polski. Materiał poetycki zbioru podzielony jest na dwie części: „oryginalne” utwory (44 wiersze) i Pieśni erotyczne oparte na motywach węgierskich (prawie 100 wierszy), natomiast drugi dział Wolne przekłady i naśladownictwa podzielony jest również na części Z węgierskich pieśni ludowych i Z Sándora Petőfiego (50 wierszy).Oryginalny wiersz autorstwa Lwa Węglińskiego Węgierska kraina sławi główne symbole tej krainy – Cisę, Dunaj, Karpaty i Tatry, wino, źródła lecznicze itp. Symbole te w poetycki sposób przedstawiają historię i kulturę Węgier. Autor wspomina o węgierskich „luminarzach” literatury, a szczególną uwagę poświęca najsłynniejszemu lirykowi, „rycerzowi i bardowi” Sándorowi Petőfiemu. W artykule rozważane są przekłady wierszy Petőfiego Przy kominku, Zwaliska czardy, Bachusowe pieśni, a także wierszy patriotycznych Życzenia i Szózat. Te fakty dotyczące polskiej recepcji Sándora Petőfiego powinny zostać uwzględnione w przyszłych badaniach.The paper deals with the work of Lew Węgliński (1827–1905), a poet of the Polish–Ukrainian borderland, who published 6 collections in the Ukrainian language written in the Latin alphabet, and 7 books in Polish, which were dominated by the imaginary material created through appeals to the history and culture of different nations as well as translations of national poetry and folklore. The collection Snopek z niw słowiańskich i obcych (1885) is entirely devoted to translations of Slavic folklore: Ukrainian (42), Moravian (69), Hungarian – “the foreign field” (21), German (60) folk songs. In the introduction, Lew Węgliński described Hungarian songs as “fiery, witty, passionate”, and then cited the translations of Hungarian war songs called Erotki wojskowe – Na placu ćwiczeń, Pod czas marszu, Epikurejka and others.Lew Węgliński informed that his translations of Hungarian folk songs were a Suplementum (the attachment) to volume two. The contents of the collection Echo z-za Tatr i Karpat (1885) are presented in great detail and entirely devoted to the history, folklore, and literature of Hungary, which the author considers to be the most friendly neighbouring country to Poland. After the Arcadian epigraphs in German, the Introductory Word and the Explanations, he compares the Hungarian songs with the folklore of others nations, including Slavic. Lew Węgliński describes the positive facts of the Polish–Ukrainian dialogue, in particular refers and cites the speech Do parlamentu Węglińskiego petycja o wyswobodzenie Polski. The poetic material of the collection is divided into two parts: “original” works (44 poems) and Erotic songs based on Hungarian motifs (almost 100 poems), while the second section Free translations and imitations is also divided into parts From Hungarian folk songs and From Sándor Petőfi (50 poems).The original poem written by Lew Węgliński Hungarian Land, which celebrates the main symbols of this land – the Tisza, Danube, Carpathian and Tatra mountains, wine, medicinal springs, etc. These symbols poetically represent the history and culture of Hungary. The author mentions the Hungarian “luminaries” of literature, and pays a great attention to the most famous lyricist “knight-bard” Sándor Petőfi. Translations of Petőfi’s poems Przy kominku, Zwaliska czardy, Bachusowe pieśni as well as patriotic poems Życzenia and Szózat are considered in the paper. These facts of Polish perception of Sándor Petőfi are to be included in future studies.

The question of historicism, historical authenticity of folklore works has long been of interest to researchers, since oral history not only complements historical sources, but often presents a mixed interpretation of events and characters. In their own way, the people also interpreted the events of the Hungarian liberation revolution of 1848-1849 under the leadership of Layosh Koshut against the Hapsburg dynasty, combined with such a pressing issue for peasants as the abolition of the serfdom. The slavic folklore about Layosh Koshut is represented by folk songs and legends, and reproduces the main points of the liberation war: the mobilization of the local population, its struggle for freedom, the arrival of the Russian army and defeat, the capitulation and escape of Koshut, etc., as well as such a pressing issue for peasants as the elimination of the serfdom, which peasants associate with Koshut or with the Cossier. People’s views on Koshut in songs are controversial. They partially contain anti-Hungarian motives, Koshut’s condemnation, in others his defeat is sympathy. The peasants are struggling for national and social freedom, as opposed to the serfdom, which is devoted to many places in the folk narratives of the region. Over time, in folk works, there is a permutation of time and space, some historical characters and places are replaced by others, changing and actualizing. The article addresses the problem of historical authenticity of folklore works, peculiarities of reproduction of events by artistic and poetic means, their parallels with Hungarian sources, transformation and actualization over time.

In the mid-1870s, a wave of popular urban hauntings in public spaces swept across Europe. These included sightings of the Park Ghost in Sheffield in 1873 and the Westminster Christ Church Ghost in London in 1874. In early December 1874, probably the most famous Czech ghost, the Podskalí Apparition (Podskalské strašidlo), was born. This haunting was followed by that of similar but less popular ghosts that appeared in industrial, working-class Prague neighborhoods in 1876 and 1907, respectively. This paper analyzes newspaper articles from this period about these apparitions and their later depictions in Czech popular culture, and interprets these phenomena as local variants of the so-called “prowling ghosts”, a particular type of suburban phantom documented by current historiographical research on 19th-century ghostlore in England. The paper then describes how these Prague ghosts were utilized socially by two completely different cultural practices. On one hand, these hauntings were used by working-class people as vernacular spectacles and improvised festivities related to pranks, the symbolic occupation of public space, and Czech nationalism. For the middle classes and period newspapers loyal to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, on the other hand, unruly mobs converging on the sites of supposed hauntings were a threat to established social norms and triggered both moral panics and public scorn of these “ghost hunters”. However, this attitude changed quickly when these events entered popular culture in the form of popular songs and, later, memoirs and literature. Between the Belle Époque at the First World War, these famous Prague hauntings were the staple for nostalgic longing in the last few decades of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Serbs and Hungarians are neighboring nations for more than a millennium. Over the course of last couple of centuries, due to historical circumstances, a substantial part of the Serbian population has been intermixed with Hungarians. Their mutual relationship has resulted in more than enough historically memorable events. Out of the conflicts of World War I, Serbs came out as the victors while Hungarians were on the side of the defeated. Consequences of the war in which Serbs and Hungarians fought each other left deep wounds on their mutual relationship. The devastating war blows and hardships which Hungarians brought onto Serbs during World War I have contributed to a certain level of distrust which Serbs felt towards Hungarians between the two world wars. This condition has largely influenced mutual sentiments of both peoples. During the period between the two world wars, Serbs acquired some new attitudes, but even more so strengthened the old ones they have had towards Hungarians. Serbs realized that Hungarians kept their national pride even in the period between the two wars, and that the Hungarian attitude towards Serbs has undergone certain change. The territorial dispute between Hungary as the national state of Hungarians, and Yugoslavia as a country predominantly populated by Serbs, represented the major obstacle and a source of misunderstanding between the two nations. The attitudes of the wider Serbian population towards Hungarians between the two wars are harder to apprehend because there was hardly any such research or analysis done in this period. What is available, however, are various personal i.e. subjective opinions recorded by individual Serbian intellectuals of various profiles of the time. They have acquainted themselves and, to a certain extent, studied both Hungarians who lived in Hungary and the Hungarian national minority who lived in Yugoslavia, mainly throughout the multinational region of Vojvodina. Between the two wars, Serbs held Hungarians in high esteem as serious people who, aside from some warlike and crude traits, possess good work habits, sensibility and integrity. This is evident in the fact that in this period Serbs did not come up with a single pejorative or insulting song, witticism or aphorism in regards to Hungarians. For the purpose of greater understanding and even closeness between the two nations in the future, it would be beneficial to carry out a more extensive research into the mutual relationship of Serbs and Hungarians, as well as of their respective cultural accomplishments, not only in the period between the two wars, but in other periods as well.

Every nation is proud of its national leaders, preserves the memory on them. The Hungarians are no exception, and they gave birth to one of their best sons, who led the national liberation war of 1848 – 1849 and greatly contributed to the birth of their nation. The name of this Hungarian is Lajos Kossuth. Being under the rule of the Habsburg dynasty for a long time, the Hungarian people, who had significant traditions of statesmanship since the Middle Ages, found themselves under the threat of assimilation. Only the ascetic activity of such national leaders as I Szecheny, S. Petőfi, L. Kossuth, F. Deák and others saved Hungarians from such participation. Their activity was most clearly manifested during the revolution and the national liberation war of 1848 – 1849. However, even after the defeat, the leaders had to work on solving the national problems of Hungary and its peoples. In the 60s of the XIX century the views on the political future of former like-minded people diverged diametrically. This applies to the entire spectrum of activities of Ferenc Deák and Lajos Kossuth. The latter, throughout his long life (1802 – 1894), while living in exile, continued to call on all Hungarians to realize the main goal – the restoration of their own independent state, completely separated from the Austrian Empire. The opposite position was taken by the leader of the constitutionalists, the head of the liberal party, F. Deák. Taking into account all internal and external circumstances, he and his numerous like-minded people chose the path of compromise with the dynasty and Austria and advocated the restoration of Hungary’s constitutional rights through purely peaceful means. The political differences between the two national leaders were most clearly manifested during the preparation and conclusion of the dualistic Austro-Hungarian agreement, which determined the state system not only of historical Hungary but also of the entire Habsburg Empire for the next half-century. Among active politicians, it was L. Kossuth who understood the final tragedy of such a compromise choice by the Hungarians, which could bring temporary tactical results but could not ensure strategic national interests.

The aim of this article is to analyse the relations of the three Ottoman vassal provinces (Transylvania, Moldavia and Wallachia) during the last years of the Long Turkish War (1591/93–1606). The provinces rebelled against the Ottomans at the beginning of the war. Then influenced by the policies of their dynasties or due to the military occupation of the neighbouring great powers such as the Habsburg monarchy, Poland and the Ottoman Empire, they changed the sides of the conflict. The Movilăs (or Movilă family) tried to govern two Romanian voivodships, Moldavia and Wallachia simultaneously. They had a good relation with the Ottomans and they supported rule of István Bocskai (r. 1604–1606), who rebelled against the Habsburgs in 1604 and was elected as the Prince of Transylvania and Hungary by the Hungarian rebels. The voivode of Wallachia, Radu Şerban (r. 1601, 1602–1610, 1611), who secretly allied himself with the Habsburgs, while simultaneously being recognised by the Ottoman side also endorsed him. The Prince of Moldavia, Ieremia Movilă (r. 1595–1606), tried to remove him from the Wallachian throne. He wanted to install his younger brother, Simion (r. 1600–1602 in Wallachia, r. 1606–1607 in Moldavia) – who had once held the title of the Prince of Wallachia – on the Wallachian throne after deposing of Radu Şerban. They formed an alliance with the Ottoman military dignitaries as well as with Bocskai to achieve their goal. Although this was an unsuccessful attempt, they strongly supported the Hungarian uprising. After the death of Ieremia Movilă, his sons tried to gain the power over Moldavia with Polish assistance. By contrast, the Hungarians gave military assistance to Simion against Ieremia’s sons.

Pharmacy activity in Bosnia and Herzegovina was regulated in 1879 by an Order of the Provincial Government, at the beginning of the Austro-Hungarian occupation. The pharmacy owner had to have a doctorate in chemistry or a master's degree in pharmacy obtained at an Austro-Hungarian faculty. The Law on Pharmacies was adopted in 1907. The first modern pharmacy in Banja Luka was opened by Moritz Brammer in 1879. The pharmacy was inherited by his son Robert, who had sons, Ernest, Hans and Alfred, pharmacists. Ernest inherited father's pharmacy, where he worked as of 1921. Hans, also a writer and a publicist, worked in this pharmacy (1921-1930). He emigrated to Israel in 1949. Before World War II, Alfred owned a pharmacy and a drugstore in Zagreb. The Brammer family, a well-known one in Banja Luka, contributed greatly to the cultural and social development of the city in the time in which they lived.

Foreign travellers provided important documentations about Hungary. In the 16th and 17th centuries, the image of the heroic Christian country fighting the pagan Turks took shape. This image was strengthened through the Hussars who distinguished themselves in the battles of Maria Theresia and played an important role in the war of independence in 1848–1849. The Great Hungarian Plain, a sandy steppe, appeared to the travellers as an exotic place with its sand dunes, sand storms, fata morgana, and its inhabitants: shepherds, hussars, and bandits. In the 19th century, Hungary became a beloved topic of the Western European exotic literature. Through his poetry Nikolaus Lenau brought a high contribution to the image of the exotic Hungary. Born in Hungary and a good violinist, Lenau drew a vivid image of the Gipsy musicians and their music. His poem Die drei Zigeuner (The Three Gipsies) was inspired by a painting of Ferenc Pongrácz, and did inspire another painter, Alois Schönn. Liszt purchased the copy of Schönn’s painting and composed a song on Lenau’s poem. His music proves a deep identification with Lenau’s ideas, with the romantic and yet realistic image of the Gipsies, the representatives of the Hungarian music.

The paper looks into how influential the ideology of economic nationalism was in Slovene lands and in what contexts it appeared. This is explored through a case study of an entrepreneur and landowner, Anton Kajfež, and his sons, owners of one of the largest Slovene companies in Kočevje (Gottschee) before World War I and in the interwar period. The company focused primarily on timber trade and became a significant shareholder in many regional companies and banks. Kajfež was a promoter of the local Slovene economy and used his wealth to strengthen it with a series of projects designed to attract Slovene labour, with the goal of overtaking the influence of the Gottscheers, a local group of German origin. The Kajfež family ran up a deficit of several million dinars, so bankruptcy had to be declared in 1928. Because of the close ties the Kajfež company established in the region, the collapse was a major blow to the entire local Slovene economy and politics. The Gottscheers celebrated the company’s demise and its negative impact on Slovenes. The affair is an example of a late interwar national struggle between Slovenes and Germans, much more common in the Austro–Hungarian period.

Karl Goldmark (1830–1915) was undoubtedly one the most influential composers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and through his first opera – The Queen of Sheba – he was also very well-known abroad. This opera, with its very fashionable oriental subject, was first performed in Vienna in 1875 and was one of the greatest successes of the period. After Merlin (1886) and The Cricket on the Hearth (1896), a “song-opera” strongly influenced by the Biedermeier-period, Goldmark wrote three operas over the next ten years. A Prisoner of War (libretto E. Schlicht, premiered in 1899 in Vienna) was based on one episode of the Iliad. In this short opera the composer tried to express the change of Achilles’ soul, but he mostly failed due to a relatively weak and conventional libretto and vague musical style. In the following opera, Götz von Berlichingen (libretto A. M. Willner, premiered 1902) the libretto is also the weakest element of the work and the whole opera reminds one of Meyerbeer ’s operas. The composer found a renewed inspiration during the work on his last opera – The Winter’s Tale (libretto by Alfred Maria Willner after Shakespeare, premiered in 1907 in Vienna). This fairy tale opera is full of interesting musical moments and elements written in Goldmark’s late style and is still attractive for the opera-going public.

The relationship between identity and national consciousness is one of the important issues, not only, of the sociology of identity but of the overall opinion of the social sciences. This scientific question has been insufficiently researched in the sociological thought of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and with this paper we are trying to actualize it. Aware of theoretical-methodological and conceptual-logical difficulties related to the research problem, we considered that in the first part of the paper we make some theoretical-methodological notes on the problems in studying this phenomenon, in order to, above all, eliminate conceptual-logical dilemmas. The use of terms and their meaning in sociology and other social sciences is a very important theoretical and methodological issue. The question justifiably arises whether we can adequately name and explain some of the “character traits” of the contemporary national identity of the Bosniak nation that we want to talk about in this paper with classical, generally accepted terms, identity, consciousness, self-awareness, shame or shame, self-shame. Another important theoretical issue of the relationship between identity and consciousness in our case, the relationship between the national consciousness of Bosniaks and their overall socio-historical identity is the dialectical relationship between individual and collective consciousness, ie. the extent to which the national consciousness of an individual or a particular national group, political, cultural, educational, age, etc., is contrary to generally accepted national values and norms. One of the important factors of national consciousness is the culture of remembrance. What does it look like for Bosniaks? More specifically, in this paper we problematize the influence of “prejudicial historiography” on the development of the culture of memory in the direction of oblivion or memory. What to remember, and why to remember. Memory is part of our identity. The phrase, not to deal with the past but to turn to the future, is impossible. How to project the future and not analyze the past. On the basis of what, what social facts? Why the world remembers the crimes of the Nazis, why the memory of the Holocaust and the suffering of the Jews is being renewed. Which is why Bosniaks would not remember and renew the memory of the genocides committed against them. Due to the Bosniak memory of genocide, it is possible that the perpetrators of genocide are celebrated as national heroes and their atrocities as a national liberation struggle. Why is the history of literature and art, political history and all other histories studied in all nations and nations. Why don't European kingdoms give up their own, queens and kings, princesses and princes. These and other theoretical-methodological questions have served us to use comparative analysis to show specific forms of self-esteem among Bosniaks today. The concrete socio-historical examples we cite fully confirm our hypothesis. Here are a few of these examples. Our eastern neighbors invented their epic hero Marko Kraljevic (Ottoman vassal and soldier, killed as a “Turkish” soldier in the fight against Christian soldiers in Bulgaria) who killed the fictional Musa Kesedzija, invented victory on the field of Kosovo, and Bosniaks forgot the real Bosniak epic heroes , brothers Mujo and Halil Hrnjic, Tala od Orašac, Mustaj-beg Lički and others, who defended Bosniaks from persecution and ethnic cleansing in the Bosnian Krajina. Dozens of schools in Bosnia and Herzegovina have been named after the Serbian language reformer, the Serb Vuk Stefanović Karađić (1787-1864), who was born in the village of Tršić near Loznica, Republic of Serbia. Uskufije (1601 / 1602.-?), Born in Dobrinja near Tuzla. Two important guslars and narrators of epic folk songs, Filip Višnjić (1767-1834) and Avdo Medjedović (1875-1953), are unequally present in the memory and symbolic content of the national groups to which they belong, even if the difference in quality is on the side of the almost forgotten. Avdo Medjedovic, the “Balkan Homer”, is known at Harvard University, but very little is known in Bosnia and Herzegovina. And while we learned everything about the murderer Gavril Princip, enlightened by the “logic of an idea” (Hannah Arendt) symbolizing him as a “national hero”, we knew nothing, nor should we have known, about Muhamed Hadžijamaković, a Bosnian patriot and legal soldier, he did not kill a single pregnant woman , a fighter in the Bosnian Army who fought against the Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1878. When it comes to World War II and the fight against fascism are full of hero stories. For one example, we will take Srebrenica, the place of genocidal suffering of Bosniaks. Before the war against Bosnian society and the state 1992-1995. in Srebrenica, the elementary school was called Mihajlo Bjelakovic, a partisan, born in Vidrići near Sokolac. Died in Srebrenica in 1944. The high school in Srebrenica was named Midhat Hacam, a partisan born in the vicinity of Vares. It is not a problem that these two educational institutions were named after two anti-fascists, whose individual work is not known except that they died. None of them were from Srebrenica. That's not a problem either. Then what is it. In the collective memory of Bosniaks. Until recently, the name of the two Srebrenica benefactors and heroes who saved 3,500 Srebrenica Serbs from the Ustasha massacre in 1942, who were imprisoned by the Ustashas in the camp, has not been recorded. These are Ali (Jusuf) efendi Klančević (1888-1952) and his son Nazif Klančević (1910-1975). Nothing was said about them as anti-fascists, most likely that Alija eff. Klančević was an imam-hodža, his work is valued according to Andrić's “logic” as a work that cannot “be the subject of our work” In charity, humanitarian work, but also courage, sacrifice, direct participation in the fight for defense, the strongest Bosniaks do not lag behind Bosniaks, but just like Bosniaks, they are not symbolically represented in the public space of Bosnia and Herzegovina. We had the opportunity to learn about the partisan Marija Bursać and many others, but why the name Ifaket-hanuma Tuzlić-Salihagić (1908-1942), the daughter of Bakir-beg Tulić, was forgotten. In order to feed the muhadjers from eastern Bosnia, Ifaket-hanum, despite the warning not to go for food to Bosanska Dubica, she left. She bravely stood in front of the Ustashas who arrested her and took her to Jasenovac. She was tortured in the camp and eventually died in the greatest agony, watered and fried with hot oil. Nothing was known about that victim of Ustasha crimes. Is it because she is the daughter of Bakir-beg Tuzlić. Bey's children were not desirable in public as benefactors because they were “remnants of rotten feudalism”, belonging to the “sphere of another culture”. In this paper, we have mentioned other, concrete, examples of Bosniak monasticism, from the symbolic content of the entire public space to naming children.

Background: Having lived for several centuries in areas with a polyethnic population, Croatian Rusyns and Ukrainians have repeatedly found themselves on the path of interethnic confrontation between Serbs and Croats. The events of the Serbo-Croatian War (1991–1995) were one of the peak moments of such confrontations in the Yugoslav state. The Serbo-Croatian War is the most favorite topic of Croatian historiography of the entire period of independence. However, the question about the state of the Croatian national minorities during the war was covered only by few researchers. Local researchers actually don't raise the issue of collaborationism in the 1990s. Purpose: to assess the extent of collaboration of Rusyns and Ukrainians with self proclaimed Serbian Krajina, to find out the nature, motives and causes of this phenomenon. Results: The Serbo-Croatian War of 1991–1995 was caused by the disintegration of the SFRY, Croatia's desire to secede from the Federation, and the presence of a large Serb minority on its territory that did not share that desire. Because of military campaigns at the end of 1991, Croatian Serbs completely sepa-rated from Croatia, taking a quarter of its territory under control, and proclaimed the formation of the Republic of Serbian Krajina. It occupied the territory where a large part of the non-Serb population lived. In particular, most of the descendants of immigrants from Ukrainian lands were in a city Vukovar, villages Petrovci and Mikluševci (Eastern Slavonia). The non-Serb population of Serbian Krajina (including Rusyns and Ukrainians) found itself on the path of a “Serbisation” policy of the occupied territories. So an occu-pation regime was established for Rusyns and Ukrainians of this region. Destruction, looting, rape, beatings, damage to the Greek Catholic Churches, “ethnic cleansing”, bru-tal killings of particular families – this is the list of actions of the new government. Territorial Defense headquarters were organized in each settlement occupied by the YPA and insurgent Serbs, which included individual Rusyns and Ukrainians who sympathized with official Belgrade. Due to active collaboration with Serbs, some Rusyns from Mikluševci lived well under Serbian authority. They opened shops, hotels, businesses. Individual Rusyns from Mikluševci, at the behest of local Serbs, tortured fellow villagers and helped to deport them. According to the expelled locals, the hardest thing for them was not to ac-cept the Serbian occupation itself, but the betrayal of their compatriots. There was also a forced collaborationism. Due to the compact location of Ukraini-ans in the border areas between Serbia and Croatia, during the war a large number of Ukrainian men were mobilized to the YPA or the Croatian forces, depending on the place of residence. In 1995, Croatia regained considerable territory during its armed operations. The return of Eastern Slavonia, where most Rusyns and Ukrainians lived, was to be done gradually and under the control of the UN Transitional Administration. During the process of reintegration a complex process of return of refugees and exiles, psychological normalization of social relations, and adaptation of people to new circumstances, has continued. After the reintegration of the Danube region, Croatia has failed to establish an effective mechanism for punishing war criminals. The so-called “Mikluševci’s process” gained considerable resonance. The case was directed against those who deported 98 and killed four people from Mikluševci in the spring of 1992 (all the victims were Rusyns). The investigation was constantly delayed, and the number of defendants decreased due to the deaths of suspects or lack of evidence. At the announcement of the sentence, only three ethnic Rusyns were present (other convicted had fled to Serbia and were inaccessible to the Croatian judiciary). So it turned out that only Rusyns were actually convicted for the war crime of genocide against the Rusyns. Thus, during the Croatian-Serbian war, the policy of the so-called Serbian Krajina, aimed at implementing the “Greater Serbia” plan, left Ukrainians no choice as to whom to support. However, even under such conditions, there were cases of collaboration between the Rusyn-Ukrainian diaspora and the Serbian occupation administration. If we omit forced collaborationism (mobilization into the ranks of the Serbian armed forces), then voluntary cooperation had various reasons: the desire to regain power lost as a result of the 1991 elections; nostalgia for socialist Yugoslavia and stability; as a means of resolving domestic conflicts and settling accounts with neighbors. Voluntary collaborationism among the inhabitants of Mikluševci and Petrovtsi did not become widespread. It was much less common among Ukrainians than among Rusyns – but this can also be explained by the much larger number of the Rusyns in the region. After the reintegration of the Danube, Croatia did not prosecute anyone for collaborationism, but mostly Ruthenians were convicted for “genocide” and “crimes against humanity”. However, this rather indicates the imperfection of the Croatian judiciary. Key words: Croatia, Rusyns, Ukrainians, Serbs, collaborationism, terror, Serbo-Croatian war. Biki, Đ., 2001. Rusyns of Mikluševci in the Homeland War of 1991. Mikluševci. (In Croatian) Burda, S., 1998. From the work of the Crisis Staff of the Union 1991–1993 (2). New opinion, 106, pp.43–45. (In Croatian) Bičanić, J., 1998. News about the return of expelled citizens of Petrovci. New opinion, 104, p.20. (In Ruthenian) Crime in Mikluševtsi, 2016. Documents. Center for Combating the Past. [online] Avialable at: https://www.documenta.hr/hr/zločin-u-mikluševcima.html [Accessed 15 july 2021] (in Croatian) Furminc, J., 1990. At the co-working of coexistence. New opinion, 88, p.2. (In Croa-tian) Jolić, S., 1993. “I have to find my sons grave”. New opinion, 98/99, p.13. (In Rutheni-an) Jurista, M., 1991. We have yours on guard. New opinion, 90/91, p.10. (In Croatian) Kiš, M., 1997. UNTAES Mandate and Reintegration. New opinion, 101/102, pp.7–8. (In Ruthenian) Kostelnik, V. and Takać, G., 2008. 40 years of the Union of Ruthenians and Ukraini-ans of the Republic of Croatia. Vukovar. (In Ruthenian) Lipovlyanians on the front line, 1992. New opinion, 92/93, pp.18–19. (In Ukrainian) Liskyi, B., 2002. Anton Ivakhniuk is a great Ukrainian–Croatian patriot. In: S., Burda and B., Gralyuk, eds. Ukrainians of Croatia: materials and documents. Zagreb, pp.62–73. (In Ukrainian) Malynovs’ka, O., 2002. Ukrainian diaspora in the South Slavic lands. In: S., Burda and B., Gralyuk, eds. Ukrainians of Croatia: materials and documents. Zagreb, pp.6–20. (In Ukrainian) Marijan, D., 2000. Yugoslav People's Army in the aggression against the Republic of Croatia 1990–1992 years. Journal of Contemporary History, No. 2, pp.289–321. (In Croa-tian) Pap, N., 2015. The suffering of the Ruthenians in the 1991/92 Homeland War. Vuko-var. (In Croatian) Perić Kaselj, M., Škiljan, F. and Vukić, A., 2015. Event and ethnic situation: changes in the identity of national minority communities in the Republic of Croatia. Studia ethnologica Croatica, 27 (1), s.7–36. Avialable at: https: //dx.doi.org10.17721/2524-048X.2018.11.8-27 [Accessed 1 august 2021] (In Croatian) Radoš, I. and Šangut, Z., 2013. We defended the homeland: members of national minorities in the defense of Croatia. Zagreb: Udruga pravnika “Vukovar 1991”. (In Croa-tian) Simunovič, J., 1995. Rusyns and Ukrainians in the Republic of Croatia – immigration and the situation before 1991]. In: S. Burda, ed. Rusyns and Ukrainians in the Republic of Croatia (1991–1995). Zagreb, pp.25–29. (In Croatian) Szekely, A. B., 1996. Hungarian Minority in Croatia and Slovenia. Nationalities Pa-pers, 24 (3), pp.483–489. Takać, G., 1991. Miklushevtsi's military chronology (1). New opinion, 92/93, p.11. (In Ruthenian) Takać, G., 1992a. Miklushevtsi's military chronology (2). New opinion, 92/93, pp.20–23. (In Ruthenian) Takać, G., 1992b. Miklushevtsi's military chronology (3). New opinion, 92/93, pp.9–12. (In Ruthenian) Takać, G., 1992c. Miklushevtsi's military chronology (4). New opinion, 92/93, pp.5–9. (In Ruthenian) Takać, G., 1992d. Petrovtsi fell among the last (1). New opinion, 92/93, pp.24–27. (In Ruthenian) Takać, G., 1992e. Petrovtsi fell among the last (2). New opinion, 92/93, pp.13–18. (In Ruthenian) Takać, G., 1992f. Petrovtsi fell among the last (3). New opinion, 92/93, pp.10–13. (In Ruthenian) Tatalović, S., 1997. Minority Peoples and Minorities. Zagreb. (In Croatian) Varga, B., 2016. Tragedy of Ukrainians and Ruthenians from Vukovar. [online] Avialable at: http://balkans.aljazeera.net/vijesti/tragedija-ukrajinaca-i-rusina-iz-vukovara [Accessed 10 may 2021] (in Croatian) Wertheimer-Baletić, A., 1993. One and a half centuries in the numerical development of the population of Vukovar and the Vukovar region. Social research, 4–5 / God. 2, Br. 2–3, pp.455–478. (In Croatian) Zivić, D., 2006. Demographic framework and losses during the Homeland War and postwar period. In: Z., Radelić, ed. The creation of the Croatian state and the Homeland War, pp.420–483. (In Croatian)

Folk music – just like any other work of art – bears the historical imprint of the age when it was born. World War military poetry is the last manifestation of the song creating imagination of Hungarian folk culture. Due to cultural history, we have a particularly colourful and nuanced image of the effects of the “Great War” on Hungarian folk music. It is a unique coincidence – both of historical and academic importance – that the significance of folk music and its research was recognized by the whole continent just a decade before the outbreak of the war, that there were two outstanding researchers of folk music in Hungary, and that these two researchers were both excellent composers. Due to the work of Kodály and Bartók, the collection of folk music, which formerly happened in the small villages of the country, spread to military communities, covering the songs that were born during the war. This way, the study of folk music made it possible for scholars to observe the effect of historical events on folk culture through living examples.

Taking stance regarding the question of war was the “litmus paper” of the test of patriotism. Whoever was against war was a defeatist, moreover, a traitor. The conservative, folk-national group – with a few exceptions - was on the side of war, while the generation producing “new songs for new times” (Endre Ady, Mihály Babits, Dezső Kosztolányi, Margit Kaffka, Ernő Szép, Menyhért Lengyel, Ákos Dutka, Árpád Tóth, etc.) was, apart from some initial hesitation, on the side of peace. The full scale of production cannot be measured; we are talking about tens of thousands of work. One of the main characteristics of war poetry was the emphasis on the defensive aspect. Many poems connected the First World War with the Hungarian War of Independence of 1848-49. Some poets (such as Mihály Szabolcska) saw the essence of Hungarian identity in war-time valour. The main core of these poems consists of heroic and sentimental texts, belittling dying and praising heroic death. Some militarist poems disparaged “rotten” peace as the root of liberalism, cosmopolitanism, and ideas of freemasonry. Propaganda poetry was advocating national unity. War poetry drew an idealistic portrait of the relationship between the officers and the troops. Finally, one can find a multitude of poems mocking and hating the enemy. The Hungarian poetry of the First World War only gained a position of value by an ideological-performative power act; all other instances reveal its rhetorical emptiness.

Abstract This article explores the consequences of the Austro-Hungarian Empire's end through the tumultuous biography of a philanthropic entrepreneur and quasi-consul community leader known today for assisting thousands of Jewish refugees during World War II. Focusing on Paul Komor (1886–1973) and the migrant community of Shanghai Hungarians, the article contends that postimperial diasporas preserved a piece of empire in their commitment to Jewish emancipation, imperialist nationalism, multiple loyalties, and political nostalgia. It also argues that diasporic networks and charitable actions communicated political and national loyalties while creating and defining the boundaries of the community. Presenting original research involving sources in multiple languages from China, Hungary, the U.S., the U.K., and the Netherlands, the article traces the fortunes of a Jewish Hungarian family in colonial Shanghai, shows the limits of its son's charity-rooted advancement in community leadership, sheds light on the seemingly contradictory political ideas of a postimperial expatriate to explain his complicated relationship with his kinstate, and analyzes the institutionalization of communal charity and the competing prerequisite definitions of postimperial national belonging.

Mór Jókai’s novel, A kőszívű ember fiai (The Baron’s Sons), published in 1869, has become one of the cornerstones of national memory regarding the 1848-49 Hungarian Revolution and War of Independence in the 20th century, and in the past century in academic writing it has been interwoven with the notions of mythical novel and new national origin story. However, the result of the closer rereading of the novel led to the conclusion that The Baron’s Sons may not have become one of the outstanding bearers of the 48-49 memory because of its layered representation of the past and its memory work that easily leaps through time, but the lengthy embedding work of the Hungarian collective memory might have been needed (as well). The Baron’s Sons can be best described by its genre-poetical forms, it was fundamentally a popular novel, deeply rooted in the present of its time of creation, it satisfied the contemporary reader in many ways (adventure fiction, fitted for serialization etc.). While it considers the heroic and tragic fights of the (near) past, it offers points for orientation to understand its age, and it uses appropriate acting strategies fit for outlining the values of the reshaping society. To describe these notions Biedermeier’s conceptual net offers some grasping points: the staging of the moving on after the end of the mourning, the deheroisation and the placing of the events in the distancing memory all serve the revelation of safety, homeliness, and conservation in the novel.

A decisive turning point signalling the demarcation between the Romantic era and the so-called “modern music” is a symbolic date during the last year of the First World War, the day of Debussy’s death: 25th March, 1918. The Revue Musicale in Paris devoted a whole thematic issue to the significant composer as well as to the important date. The magazine’s sheet music supplement (“Tombeau de Debussy”) contained pages from his contemporaries. Béla Bartók paid his homage with a Hungarian folk song adaptation. We can approach the background against this extraordinary decision from several perspectives. What is of importance here is that his work mirrored the end of an era and the need for something new. Igor Stravinsky had a totally different attitude. He contributed to the supplement with a modern chorale which, owing to his personal methods, became one of his greatest masterpieces, the “Symphony for Wind Instruments.” After all, he, just like Bartók, also intended to set the foundations of a completely new era with its new acoustics, inspired by Debussy and his oeuvre.

Introduction: Brutal?The word “brutal” has associations with cruelty, inhumanity, and aggression. Within the field of architecture, however, the term “Brutalism” refers to a post-World War II Modernist style, deriving from the French phrase betón brut, which means raw concrete (Clement 18). Core traits of Brutalism include functionalist design, daring geometry, overbearing scale, and the blatant exposure of structural materials, chiefly concrete and steel (Meades 1).The emergence of Brutalism coincided with chronic housing shortages in European countries ravaged by World War II (Power 5) and government-sponsored slum clearance in the UK (Power 190; Baker). Brutalism’s promise to accommodate an astonishing number of civilians within a minimal area through high-rise configurations and elevated walkways was alluring to architects and city planners (High Rise Dreams). Concrete was the material of choice due to its affordability, durability, and versatility; it also allowed buildings to be erected quickly (Allen and Iano 622).The Brutalist style was used for cultural centres, such as the Perth Concert Hall in Western Australia, educational institutions such as the Yale School of Architecture, and government buildings such as the Secretariat Building in Chandigarh, India. However, as pioneering Brutalist architect Alison Smithson explained, the style achieved full expression by “thinking on a much bigger scale somehow than if you only got [sic] one house to do” (Smithson and Smithson, Conversation 40). Brutalism, therefore, lent itself to the design of large residential complexes. It was consequently used worldwide for public housing developments, that is, residences built by a government authority with the aim of providing affordable housing. Notable examples include the Western City Gate in Belgrade, Serbia, and Habitat 67 in Montreal, Canada.Brutalist architecture polarised opinion and continues to do so to this day. On the one hand, protected cultural heritage status has been awarded to some Brutalist buildings (Carter; Glancey) and the style remains extremely influential, for example in the recent award-winning work of architect Zaha Hadid (Niesewand). On the other hand, the public housing projects associated with Brutalism are widely perceived as failures (The Great British Housing Disaster). Many Brutalist objects currently at risk of demolition are social housing estates, such as the Smithsons’ Robin Hood Gardens in London, UK. Whether the blame for the demise of such housing developments lies with architects, inhabitants, or local government has been widely debated. In the UK and USA, local authorities had relocated families of predominantly lower socio-economic status into the newly completed developments, but were unable or unwilling to finance subsequent maintenance and security costs (Hanley 115; R. Carroll; The Pruitt-Igoe Myth). Consequently, the residents became fearful of criminal activity in staircases and corridors that lacked “defensible space” (Newman 9), which undermined a vision of “streets in the sky” (Moran 615).In spite of its later problems, Brutalism’s architects had intended to develop a style that expressed 1950s contemporary living in an authentic manner. To them, this meant exposing building materials in their “raw” state and creating an aesthetic for an age of science, machine mass production, and consumerism (Stadler 264; 267; Smithson and Smithson, But Today 44). Corporeal sensations did not feature in this “machine” aesthetic (Dalrymple). Exceptionally, acclaimed Brutalist architect Ernö Goldfinger discussed how “visual sensation,” “sound and touch with smell,” and “the physical touch of the walls of a narrow passage” contributed to “sensations of space” within architecture (Goldfinger 48). However, the effects of residing within Brutalist objects may not have quite conformed to predictions, since Goldfinger moved out of his Brutalist construction, Balfron Tower, after two months, to live in a terraced house (Hanley 112).An abstract perspective that favours theorisation over subjective experiences characterises discourse on Brutalist social housing developments to this day (Singh). There are limited data on the everyday lived experience of residents of Brutalist social housing estates, both then and now (for exceptions, see Hanley; The Pruitt-Igoe Myth; Cooper et al.).Yet, our bodily interaction with the objects around us shapes our lived experience. On a broader physical scale, this includes the structures within which we live and work. The importance of the interaction between architecture and embodied being is increasingly recognised. Today, architecture is described in corporeal terms—for example, as a “skin” that surrounds and protects its human inhabitants (Manan and Smith 37; Armstrong 77). Biological processes are also inspiring new architectural approaches, such as synthetic building materials with life-like biochemical properties (Armstrong 79), and structures that exhibit emergent behaviour in response to human presence, like a living system (Biloria 76).In this article, we employ an autoethnographic perspective to explore the corporeal effects of Brutalist buildings, thereby revealing a new dimension to the anthropological significance of these controversial structures. We trace how they shape the physicality of the bodies interacting within them. Our approach is one step towards considering the historically under-appreciated subjective, corporeal experience elicited in interaction with Brutalist objects.Method: An Autoethnographic ApproachAutoethnography is a form of self-narrative research that connects the researcher’s personal experience to wider cultural understandings (Ellis 31; Johnson). It can be analytical (Anderson 374) or emotionally evocative (Denzin 426).We investigated two Brutalist residential estates in London, UK:(i) The Barbican Estate: This was devised to redevelop London’s severely bombed post-WWII Cripplegate area, combining private residences for middle class professionals with an assortment of amenities including a concert hall, library, conservatory, and school. It was designed by architects Chamberlin, Powell, and Bon. Opened in 1982, the Estate polarised opinion on its aesthetic qualities but has enjoyed success with residents and visitors. The development now comprises extremely expensive housing (Brophy). It was Grade II-listed in 2001 (Glancey), indicating a status of architectural preservation that restricts alterations to significant buildings.(ii) Trellick Tower: This was built to replace dilapidated 19th-century housing in the North Kensington area. It was designed by Hungarian-born architect Ernő Goldfinger to be a social housing development and was completed in 1972. During the 1980s and 1990s, it became known as the “Tower of Terror” due to its high level of crime (Hanley 113). Nevertheless, Trellick Tower was granted Grade II listed status in 1998 (Carter), and subsequent improvements have increased its desirability as a residence (R. Carroll).We explored the grounds, communal spaces, and one dwelling within each structure, independently recording our corporeal impressions and sensations in detailed notes, which formed the basis of longhand journals written afterwards. Our analysis was developed through co-constructed autoethnographic reflection (emerald and Carpenter 748).For reasons of space, one full journal entry is presented for each Brutalist structure, with an excerpt from each remaining journal presented in the subsequent analysis. To identify quotations from our journals, we use the codes R- and N- to refer to RB’s and NC’s journals, respectively; we use -B and -T to refer to the Barbican Estate and Trellick Tower, respectively.The Barbican Estate: Autoethnographic JournalAn intricate concrete world emerges almost without warning from the throng of glass office blocks and commercial buildings that make up the City of London's Square Mile. The Barbican Estate comprises a multitude of low-rise buildings, a glass conservatory, and three enormous high-rise towers. Each modular building component is finished in the same coarse concrete with burnished brick underfoot, whilst the entire structure is elevated above ground level by enormous concrete stilts. Plants hang from residential balconies over glimmering pools in a manner evocative of concrete Hanging Gardens of Babylon.Figure 1. Barbican Estate Figure 2. Cromwell Tower from below, Barbican Estate. Figure 3: The stairwell, Cromwell Tower, Barbican Estate. Figure 4. Lift button pods, Cromwell Tower, Barbican Estate.R’s journalMy first footsteps upon the Barbican Estate are elevated two storeys above the street below, and already an eerie calm settles on me. The noise of traffic and the bustle of pedestrians have seemingly been left far behind, and a path of polished brown brick has replaced the paving slabs of the city's pavement. I am made more aware of the sound of my shoes upon the ground as I take each step through the serenity.Running my hands along the walkway's concrete sides as we proceed further into the estate I feel its coarseness, and look up to imagine the same sensation touching the uppermost balcony of the towers. As we travel, the cold nature and relentless employ of concrete takes over and quickly becomes the norm.Our route takes us through the Barbican's central Arts building and into the Conservatory, a space full of plant-life and water features. The noise of rushing water comes as a shock, and I'm reminded just how hauntingly peaceful the atmosphere of the outside estate has been. As we leave the conservatory, the hush returns and we follow another walkway, this time allowing a balcony-like view over the edge of the estate. I'm quickly absorbed by a sensation I can liken only to peering down at the ground from a concrete cloud as we observe the pedestrians and traffic below.Turning back, we follow the walkways and begin our approach to Cromwell Tower, a jagged structure scraping the sky ahead of us and growing menacingly larger with every step. The estate has up till now seemed devoid of wind, but even so a cold begins to prickle my neck and I increase my speed toward the door.A high-ceilinged foyer greets us as we enter and continue to the lifts. As we push the button and wait, I am suddenly aware that carpet has replaced bricks beneath my feet. A homely sensation spreads, my breathing slows, and for a brief moment I begin to relax.We travel at heart-racing speed upwards to the 32nd floor to observe the view from the Tower's fire escape stairwell. A brief glance over the stair's railing as we enter reveals over 30 storeys of stair casing in a hard-edged, triangular configuration. My mind reels, I take a second glance and fail once again to achieve focus on the speck of ground at the bottom far below. After appreciating the eastward view from the adjacent window that encompasses almost the entirety of Central London, we make our way to a 23rd floor apartment.Entering the dwelling, we explore from room to room before reaching the balcony of the apartment's main living space. Looking sheepishly from the ledge, nothing short of a genuine concrete fortress stretches out beneath us in all directions. The spirit and commotion of London as I know it seems yet more distant as we gaze at the now miniaturized buildings. An impression of self-satisfied confidence dawns on me. The fortress where we stand offers security, elevation, sanctuary and I'm furnished with the power to view London's chaos at such a distance that it's almost silent.As we leave the apartment, I am shadowed by the same inherent air of tranquillity, pressing yet another futuristic lift access button, plummeting silently back towards the ground, and padding across the foyer's soft carpet to pursue our exit route through the estate's sky-suspended walkways, back to the bustle of regular London civilization.Trellick Tower: Autoethnographic JournalThe concrete majesty of Trellick Tower is visible from Westbourne Park, the nearest Tube station. The Tower dominates the skyline, soaring above its neighbouring estate, cafes, and shops. As one nears the Tower, the south face becomes visible, revealing the suspended corridors that join the service tower to the main body of flats. Light of all shades and colours pours from its tightly stacked dwellings, which stretch up into the sky. Figure 5. Trellick Tower, South face. Figure 6. Balcony in a 27th-floor flat, Trellick Tower.N’s journalOutside the tower, I sense danger and experience a heightened sense of awareness. A thorny frame of metal poles holds up the tower’s facade, each pole poised as if to slip down and impale me as I enter the building.At first, the tower is too big for comprehension; the scale is unnatural, gigantic. I feel small and quite squashable in comparison. Swathes of unmarked concrete surround the tower, walls that are just too high to see over. Who or what are they hiding? I feel uncertain about what is around me.It takes some time to reach the 27th floor, even though the lift only stops on every 3rd floor. I feel the forces of acceleration exert their pressure on me as we rise. The lift is very quiet.Looking through the windows on the 27th-floor walkway that connects the lift tower to the main building, I realise how high up I am. I can see fog. The city moves and modulates beneath me. It is so far away, and I can’t reach it. I’m suspended, isolated, cut off in the air, as if floating in space.The buildings underneath appear tiny in comparison to me, but I know I’m tiny compared to this building. It’s a dichotomy, an internal tension, and feels quite unreal.The sound of the wind in the corridors is a constant whine.In the flat, the large kitchen window above the sink opens directly onto the narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, on the other side of which, through a second window, I again see London far beneath. People pass by here to reach their front doors, moving so close to the kitchen window that you could touch them while you’re washing up, if it weren’t for the glass. Eye contact is possible with a neighbour, or a stranger. I am close to that which I’m normally separated from, but at the same time I’m far from what I could normally access.On the balcony, I have a strong sensation of vertigo. We are so high up that we cannot be seen by the city and we cannot see others. I feel physically cut off from the world and realise that I’m dependent on the lift or endlessly spiralling stairs to reach it again.Materials: sharp edges, rough concrete, is abrasive to my skin, not warm or welcoming. Sharp little stones are embedded in some places. I mind not to brush close against them.Behind the tower is a mysterious dark maze of sharp turns that I can’t see around, and dark, narrow walkways that confine me to straight movements on sloping ramps.“Relentless Employ of Concrete:” Body versus Stone and HeightThe “relentless employ of concrete” (R-B) in the Barbican Estate and Trellick Tower determined our physical interactions with these Brutalist objects. Our attention was first directed towards texture: rough, abrasive, sharp, frictive. Raw concrete’s potential to damage skin, should one fall or brush too hard against it, made our bodies vulnerable. Simultaneously, the ubiquitous grey colour and the constant cold anaesthetised our senses.As we continued to explore, the constant presence of concrete, metal gratings, wire, and reinforced glass affected our real and imagined corporeal potentialities. Bodies are powerless against these materials, such that, in these buildings, you can only go where you are allowed to go by design, and there are no other options.Conversely, the strength of concrete also has a corporeal manifestation through a sense of increased physical security. To R, standing within the “concrete fortress” of the Barbican Estate, the object offered “security, elevation, sanctuary,” and even “power” (R-B).The heights of the Barbican’s towers (123 metres) and Trellick Tower (93 metres) were physically overwhelming when first encountered. We both felt that these menacing, jagged towers dominated our bodies.Excerpt from R’s journal (Trellick Tower)Gaining access to the apartment, we begin to explore from room to room. As we proceed through to the main living area we spot the balcony and I am suddenly aware that, in a short space of time, I had abandoned the knowledge that some 26 floors lay below me. My balance is again shaken and I dig my heels into the laminate flooring, as if to achieve some imaginary extra purchase.What are the consequences of extreme height on the body? Certainly, there is the possibility of a lethal fall and those with vertigo or who fear heights would feel uncomfortable. We discovered that height also affects physical instantiation in many other ways, both empowering and destabilising.Distance from ground-level bustle contributed to a profound silence and sense of calm. Areas of intermediate height, such as elevated communal walkways, enhanced our sensory abilities by granting the advantage of observation from above.Extreme heights, however, limited our ability to sense the outside world, placing objects beyond our range of visual focus, and setting up a “bizarre segregation” (R-T) between our physical presence and that of the rest of the world. Height also limited potentialities of movement: no longer self-sufficient, we depended on a working lift to regain access to the ground and the rest of the city. In the lift itself, our bodies passively endured a cycle of opposing forces as we plummeted up or down numerous storeys in mere seconds.At both locations, N noticed how extreme height altered her relative body size: for example, “London looks really small. I have become huge compared to the tiny city” (N-B). As such, the building’s lift could be likened to a cake or potion from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. This illustrates how the heuristics that we use to discern visual perspective and object size, which are determined by the environment in which we live (Segall et al.), can be undermined by the unusual scales and distances found in Brutalist structures.Excerpt from N’s journal (Barbican Estate)Warning: These buildings give you AFTER-EFFECTS. On the way home, the size of other buildings seems tiny, perspectives feel strange; all the scales seem to have been re-scaled. I had to become re-used to the sensation of travelling on public trains, after travelling in the tower lifts.We both experienced perceptual after-effects from the disproportional perspectives of Brutalist spaces. Brutalist structures thus have the power to affect physical sensations even when the body is no longer in direct interaction with them!“Challenge to Privacy:” Intersubjective Ideals in Brutalist DesignAs embodied beings, our corporeal manifestations are the primary transducers of our interactions with other people, who in turn contribute to our own body schema construction (Joas). Architects of Brutalist habitats aimed to create residential utopias, but we found that the impact of their designs on intersubjective corporeality were often incoherent and contradictory. Brutalist structures positioned us at two extremes in relation to the bodies of others, forcing either an uncomfortable intersection of personal space or, conversely, excessive separation.The confined spaces of the lifts, and ubiquitous narrow, low-ceilinged corridors produced uncomfortable overlaps in the personal space of the individuals present. We were fascinated by the design of the flat in Trellick Tower, where the large kitchen window opened out directly onto the narrow 27th-floor corridor, as described in N’s journal. This enforced a physical “challenge to privacy” (R-T), although the original aim may have been to promote a sense of community in the “streets in the sky” (Moran 615). The inter-slotting of hundreds of flats in Trellick Tower led to “a multitude of different cooking aromas from neighbouring flats” (R-T) and hence a direct sensing of the closeness of other people’s corporeal activities, such as eating.By contrast, enormous heights and scales constantly placed other people out of sight, out of hearing, and out of reach. Sharp-angled walkways and blind alleys rendered other bodies invisible even when they were near. In the Barbican Estate, huge concrete columns, behind which one could hide, instilled a sense of unease.We also considered the intersubjective interaction between the Brutalist architect-designer and the inhabitant. The elements of futuristic design—such as the “spaceship”-like pods for lift buttons in Cromwell Tower (N-B)—reconstruct the inhabitant’s physicality as alien relative to the Brutalist building, and by extension, to the city that commissioned it.ReflectionsThe strength of the autoethnographic approach is also its limitation (Chang 54); it is an individual’s subjective perspective, and as such we cannot experience or represent the full range of corporeal effects of Brutalist designs. Corporeal experience is informed by myriad factors, including age, body size, and ability or disability. Since we only visited these structures, rather than lived in them, we could have experienced heightened sensations that would become normalised through familiarity over time. Class dynamics, including previous residences and, importantly, the amount of choice that one has over where one lives, would also affect this experience. For a full perspective, further data on the everyday lived experiences of residents from a range of different backgrounds are necessary.R’s reflectionDespite researching Brutalist architecture for years, I was unprepared for the true corporeal experience of exploring these buildings. Reading back through my journals, I'm struck by an evident conflict between stylistic admiration and physical uneasiness. I feel I have gained a sympathetic perspective on the notion of residing in the structures day-to-day.Nevertheless, analysing Brutalist objects through a corporeal perspective helped to further our understanding of the experience of living within them in a way that abstract thought could never have done. Our reflections also emphasise the tension between the physical and the psychological, whereby corporeal struggle intertwines with an abstract, aesthetic admiration of the Brutalist objects.N’s reflectionIt was a wonderful experience to explore these extraordinary buildings with an inward focus on my own physical sensations and an outward focus on my body’s interaction with others. On re-reading my journals, I was surprised by the negativity that pervaded my descriptions. How does physical discomfort and alienation translate into cognitive pleasure, or delight?ConclusionBrutalist objects shape corporeality in fundamental and sometimes contradictory ways. The range of visual and somatosensory experiences is narrowed by the ubiquitous use of raw concrete and metal. Materials that damage skin combine with lethal heights to emphasise corporeal vulnerability. The body’s movements and sensations of the external world are alternately limited or extended by extreme heights and scales, which also dominate the human frame and undermine normal heuristics of perception. Simultaneously, the structures endow a sense of physical stability, security, and even power. By positioning multiple corporealities in extremes of overlap or segregation, Brutalist objects constitute a unique challenge to both physical privacy and intersubjective potentiality.Recognising these effects on embodied being enhances our current understanding of the impact of Brutalist residences on corporeal sensation. This can inform the future design of residential estates. Our autoethnographic findings are also in line with the suggestion that Brutalist structures can be “appreciated as challenging, enlivening environments” exactly because they demand “physical and perceptual exertion” (Sroat). 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