I must confess that I thought long and hard before agreeing to express myself in words in this beautiful photo album, one that is meant to provide a picture of my life and work. I happen to agree with those who believe that in the world of fine arts it is the works that matter, not the words.
Nowhere else can a painter be seen as naked as when he appears through his works. These reveal who he really is, what stuff he is made of, what his heart and intellect are like. Whether he has any secrets of which he is the sole keeper, and how clearly he can describe the demeanour of these secrets, or better still, how clearly he can render them visible. What is the strength of the mutual interaction between him and the challenges of his age and whether the embrace between him and his age has produced pictures that humankind can recognize as its own flesh and blood. But I could go further. The works can also reveal whether their creator had been able to use the material (in which he believes), the canvas, the paper, the paint and the wood, or in some cases the tow and the rag, to build a world in which his spirit feels at home, coming and going freely in it.
Now that I am at it, I should not stop here: what else can the works reveal about the painter? For example, when he draws a line, that immediately starts talking about nimself, i.e., "What kind of a fellow am 1?". Over there, in the left corner of the picture, the is a lilac blot wriggling its hips, saying "I am the most beautiful creature in the whole world!". At the bottom, the silence, instead of keeping quiet, is screaming at the top of its voice. Elsewhere, the crowding forms use their silence to show off tneir enormous power. At the top, the height talks about depth, darkness speaks of light. This is how a painter shapes and develops his pictures, until the moment comes that all these beautiful tales combine into the true message of the work.
Now we should also say a few words about the viewers: those who see and comprehend all that, which I have been able to bring out into the open from the abysses of my soul, giving me both much joy and much pain. This is something that fills them with happiness, in a way embracing me, and I happily return the embrace, naturally. Perhaps I am not mistaken in suggesting that this is the miracle of art.
Why did I write all this down? To prove to the reader that a painter should not talk; he is much wiser to stick to painting, because that is where he can show his true self to the best advantage. When I told my friends that they should not force me to write, it was to no avail (even making me pose for a photographer was too much!). But they pleaded with me so lovingly that I finally agreed to put down the brush and pick up the pen. Somehow my story with them resembles Sándor Weöres's story with his iron hat. I quote:
"Once I had an iron helmet that the frog ran off with; now look what decorates the pond weed as a corrugated wreckage. The pond is now embellished with my iron helmet. They besought to give it to them. Alright, you can have it."