Vinczellér Imre

vinczeller_imre-1-274x412“Putting aside my fresh diploma of arts, I started with my wife to Australia. I went on a study tour, plus our relatives waited us. My suitcase was filled with my paintings. These would be good if being out of money, I thought. At the border customs I was full of fear, but at the Budapest airport nobody was care for the paintings of a nameless young painter, the Australian immigration looked for things of plant origin. Finally all of my paintings were sold, and, really, I visited the Sydney Opera House. It seemed to be a dream what happened to me.                                                                                     .                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                .

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As a child, when I hardly reached the level of the table, I remember that relatives arrived for farewell dinner, because there were ones to be forced to leave this country. I had no idea what that means.

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I did not even understand the true stories on events of the war. I remember people of elegant habits, beautiful but worn-out suits and hats. They behaved themselves with dignity and discretion. They came and disappeared. Through these hard times my family lived in Kalocsa. There is not enough book and movie depicting well these times, just to survey somehow what is hidden in our social consciousness.

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“Anyhow, I remember my early life with joy. In the evenings we played music, we were knocking about in the bogs and forests with hunters; we voyaged to Budapest on steamboat. I knew the life of the Tatra sanatoriums from the stories. I learned painting and to play piano. Will I be a pianist, a biologist, or a painter? I made the rebellion of teenagers with living out of the world. The solitude and the smell of turpentine gave me my inner peace. So the question was decided, I became a painter. Since then, I have a kind of defiance, I feel myself balanced when affronting the trendy movements. “

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His small atelier is in a house of the Pasarét district, rich in Bauhaus buildings. Stepping in the studio, even without observing the figures, we are captured by the colours of mystic character. The intricate family history is step-by-step revealing the greenish, brownish, somewhere purple tones; a remembrance or a person is appearing and disappearing behind the contour lines. Artists of the family, love confessions of famous poets to an aunt, details of classicistic buildings of architectural heritage are formed. Bartók is on the radio, the paintings of “Concerto” series are answering back.

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The conductor orders ‘piano’ in vain, the bizarre orchestra seems to defy him. “Hearing music, I compose in more abstract way” – he say. Meanwhile painfully realistic or blurred images of soldiers or refugees are coming out from the near and far past.

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“I always backed the fallen ones, so I must to do something. A clown consoles the wounded child, angels are watching over us”. When we are at the fallen angels, “It is obvious, we are not complete without human weaknesses” – he says, opening his arms wide, as St. Francis does with his palms on the painting with halcyon.

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He has a set of paintings of birds, because the flight is our eternal desire. He, the painter attracted by botanical career once upon a time, delineates even the wild flowers using a bird’s eye view.

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Finishing the intellectual journey, we have some tea. We are sipping it together with Charlie Chaplin, looking down from a collage.

2/2/2011 Budapest


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