Identity and history_
Identity Fiction_
In Ascension _
Emma Re talks about the..._
Painting as Revelation_
Soul Colour_
Girl Figures_
Moizer Catalog 2007_
If the ego were an animal_
Joyless Mona Lisa_
Female Myths_
Febronia _
Incantation _
There's Painter _
Personal Mythologies_

Photo Gallery_
Márta Kovalovszky
Moizer Catalog 2007

Although the curiously blurred features of Zsuzsa Moizer's female heads have only recently appeared in Strabag's painting competition, and she is still at the beginning of her career, the faint but confident outlines of the road that she is on have already begun to show up.


While the shopwindows of perfumeries are decorated with the photographs of stirring, lightly-clad beauties in cheerful autumn colours, Nők Lapja and the other women's magazines destined for men are full of charming fairs and pieces of advice consoling the average woman, while excited, ambitious young country girls cling to the microphone, which is equal to world fame in their eyes, schoolgirls' talk is crammed with vulgar expressions, and woman writers pack their militant lives into passionate anthologies, she paints pale, trembling, secret goddesses who flicker like pallid shadows.


Moizer does not get into a muddle about theoretical questions, she does not get stuck in the train of everyday reality, and is not occupied by the superb or frightful phenomena of the world, or the chaotic layers of our age that encroach one upon the other; nor is she interested in the past in itself. She wants to be a part of a historical process: she treads delicately and reservedly on the path that leads meanderingly through millennia from times past to our age (and, maybe, even further). The earthquake conjured up by the appearance of new technologies and new media has apparently buried the traditions of a thousand-year-old culture, but the lively waves of "new painting" emerging in the 1980s drifted with themselves and saved for us the traditional values of art. In the last decade the heroic noise of change has become quieter, the old and the new world seem to have made peace, and although it is obvious that the new has won, the old has not disappeared without a trace: the tradition of painting is nurtured by fresh forces. Moizer is not alone when she steps on the bridge that arches from the past to the future, and not only the masters of the "great generation" but also younger contemporaries are kept in this direction by the motive power of discovery. Playing hide-and-seek among ages, styles, and techniques, they are trying to find the stable and at the same time flexible point where old and new meet and mix to form ties that connect them with invisible threads.


Zsuzsa Moizer sticks to the classical methods of oil and water-colours in her pieces; she easily steps over questions of style; like an ostrich in the sand, she sticks her head into the memories of antiquity, glimpses at the heart of mythological times. Her figures are curious creatures, who retire into or duplicate themselves, plants grow in their hair, green boughs coil around their body, or shying deers, deer-women with flying hair and skirts. Their forms are pale, their features are faint, and over the almost unmoving plain of the thinly applied paint and the decorative patches of colour running wetly on the torchon paper there is a volatile yet weighty regard directed at us. This is a familiar albeit difficult-to-decode regard coming from a huge depth and distance, from the soft distance of repressed sadness, resigned immobility, the enigmatically fumbling soul, Greek pottery, and antique fresco fragments. Above portraits, intertwined figures, withily sweeping gracile deers, doddering geese there looms the dim light of quasi-mythologies; in that she is a distant relative to Gábor Roskó's painting. It is at this point that Moizer's path diverges from that of her contemporaries, whose raw candour (Zsuzsi Csiszér), sharp irony (Eszter Radák), sense of topicality (Nóra Soós, Eszter Csurka), critique of the banalities of women's behaviour (Ágnes Szépfalvi) creates so vivid and entertaining pictures. She approaches the world from its shady side, from the direction of the lost Eden, the crumbling mythology. At the same time, there is a wry breeze whiffling on the surface of her compositions: the human and animal figures are surrounded by the dumpish air of everyday existence, they live, bend, stand proudly, gracefully, and yet are lost in the canvas, the paper, the nothing.



Translated by Bálint Szele