The Motif Is Only a Point of Departure No.:01
Every painting begins with something visible.
A landscape.
A building.
A shoreline.
A memory.
Yet somewhere in the process, the original motif begins to lose its importance.
The painting starts to follow a different logic—one shaped by water, pigment and paper rather than by representation.
I have become increasingly interested in that moment.
The point at which Lunar Black separates into unexpected shades of blue and grey. When water slows down, gathers at the edge of a wash or leaves behind delicate mineral traces. When the paper itself begins to participate in the image.
The landscape that emerges is no longer geographical.
It becomes a weather system.
An inner meteorology.
Layers of pigment evoke reed beds along Lake Balaton, winter evenings in Budapest or the misty Breton coast that appears in Endre Ady's poetry. None of these places is depicted directly. Instead, they coexist as fragments of memory carried by the material itself.
Recently I have been thinking about how deeply memories are tied to places.
A terrace in Budafok.
A summer evening by Lake Balaton.
Chinese ink drying on the table.
Children's drawings.
Laughter.
And also about how love can sometimes outlast geography.
There are people who travel very far from us, yet remain present in every familiar landscape.
This series is dedicated to that space between memory and material—where the image is no longer a depiction of the world but the record of an encounter between water, pigment and time.
Artwork
Medium
Watercolour on paper
Series
Material Notes
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