Identity and history_
In Ascension _
Emma Re talks about the..._
Painting as Revelation_
Moizer Catalog 2007_
If the ego were an animal_
Joyless Mona Lisa_
There's Painter _
All three are at the end of their twenties. All three are known in the profession. All three have prizes, international references, collectors. Young women and young painters, but – in the sociological sense of the word – not paintresses. They are painters.
The sharp marks of their lion’s claws can already be seen in today’s Hungarian art. The future is theirs, unless something extraordinary happens. All three are very good, very strong, the spiritual daughters of El Kazovsky. They need to be warned of the dangers at this stage. In an alphabetical order, so that the three colleagues do not get offended.
Barabás Zsófi is a full-pro. Her last school master, Keserű Ilona put it another way, but the essence is the same: “she draws all the time, as the blood circulates in her veins.” Her non-figurative compositions are torn and edgy, as well as meandering forms – crossing each other, filled with warm colours and ordered in combative formations. These formations clash, and as a consequence, scattered splinters splash onto the entirely white, or sometimes entirely dark base. When they see her pictures, her analysts (she already has a few!) sometimes think of Szemethy Imre or the late Vajda Lajos. They are wrong. There are neither floating surrealia, nor billowing menacing shadows in her compositions, no depressing transcendence, end-of-the-world feeling, sad tale. It is true that the stake of these abstract battle scenes is reduced by the fact that the leading figures of the compositions seem to have made a pact: they meander, creep, bite each other in the side in such a manner that in the end they form a muster-like pattern. But we get something in exchange. There are happy things clapping on these pictures. They are so harmonious as the choreographed facers of the Piedone films. All she needs to invent is that the spectator should not only enjoy, but also feel a little suspense. And that the welcome tension should come to life by itself, and not at the price of a creative crisis.
Moizer Zsuzsa is a young tragedian. We have been looking for a few years at her self-portrait-like frontal faces applied on a white basis, the suffering girls’ heads achieved with watercolours or watercolour-like oil paint. The Strabag and Smohay Prizes, the most wanted decorations of young painters recognised this feat. This is not accidental. The expressive ogler faces are an extraordinary treasure in Hungarian painting. Only Tóth Menyhért from the Hungarian Great Plains or the European schooler Anna Margit have dared to act out so much pain in close shot, but it was “easy” for them. The condensed feelings, enhanced by an extraordinary picture field, have been justified by a physical deficiency for the one, and a memory of the Holocaust for the other. Moizer’s weltschmerz has glowed without an obvious reason, enchanting her followers and paling the ever growing number of her emulators. Her heads have been filled by now. Her series titled ‘Unknown Parts’ is already exploring the environs of the head. Deformed limbs, distended bellies, dislocated spines sadden her faithful fans. The antagonism is too strange to be intensified. The figures evoke medieval gargoyles and sinister tarot cards. The colours entice us with the gentle sweetness of peach in a milkshake. The effect is still perfect now. It resembles the situation when the heroine on stage confesses that everything is lost and her sin is unforgivable – smiling, musing and muttering instead of shouting and wailing. A great performance once, twice, ten times. For the hundredth time a change will be necessary, or else the manners will dry on it as indelible jam stains.
Soós Nóra is a modern character. She is not afraid to present modern genre scenes, or to compose two subject pictures together in her paintings. One of them is achieved with dense colours and rough surfaces, and the other – with swift-rolling blue silhouettes and spinning orange contours – is “exposed upon” the “real” composition. These latter serves to lessen the seriousness of the melodrama. The mother-child motif is rewritten by a giant paper-clip, the sleeping maiden is tricked by three house-painters with a brush. The observations are acute: our stimuli come thick and fast. We are talking while the MTV is roaring in the background, and we hold our baby’s head with one hand, and the mouse with the other. Her world constructed in pop rhythms is cheerful and closed. It is as colourful as desperate. She is the one who ventured to accomplish a most impossible task. To whet our appetite for the unbearable lightness of being. She should change even more quickly than the others. The appetising depiction of light-genre depression and total breakdown is too successful. We were almost drawn under its influence.
Translated by Bálint Szele