Laszlo Horvath

Laszlo Horvath

Born in Hungary 1943, lives and works in France

Represented by the Galerie La Ligne since 2021

Works by Laszlo Horvath

Laszlo Horvath is a French photographer born in Hungary in 1943 and author of creative documentaries on Jacques Copeau, Roger Martin du Gard or Véra Molnar.

MISCHIEVOUS SURFACES by Vera Molnar

No, no, no, my dear Jack, I'm not the person who could explain the what, the how, the why of Laszlo Horvath's work.

For 80 years, I've been rubbing shoulders with art every day. The little, the very little that I have been able to understand, corresponds only to me, to my work. I've never been able to put myself in someone else's head, someone else's approach.

It's monstrous but perhaps natural. The fence isn't watertight. All I can say is that I love these photos.

It's my visual world. The little, the almost nothing.

But, since I can't say no, I could try to retrace the path that led me to Horvath's photos.

The first photo I ever saw was of Emperor Franz Joseph of Habsburg, a handsome young man in white military dress, with the divine Queen Elisabeth, Sissi, my mother's idol, at his side.

Then, like every child from a wealthy family, I had a Kodak camera. I have no memory of what I did with it. But I do have a clear memory of the next step.

As a reward for my baccalauréat result, my father gave me a Leica. Certainly, a Leica Light for students. But a Leica nonetheless.

I lay down under the dining-room table and photographed the table from underneath. After a few weeks, my style changed. I lay flat on my back again. But this time under the kitchen table and photographed it.

Then the two socialisms, one national and the other international, wiped out this jumble of wealthy bourgeois. I lost both the photos and the Leica.

When I arrived in France, I quickly got to know Lucien Hervé and his photos of the Abbaye du Thoronet. Then his photos of Le Corbusier's architecture in France and India. I found everything I loved in this poetic constructivism.

The next step in my photographic apprenticeship was the work of a student in Nuremberg. To earn her living, she babysat. The baby slept like an angel, while she photographed the angles formed by the ceiling and walls, tickled by the soft light.

I'd love to know what happened to that girl. Just last night, I saw a poorly-lit but very beautiful corner here, as if photographed by her.

And now we come to the great unexpected of my life, the photos by Laszlo Horvath.

I was privileged to witness the genesis of this passion. When I met him 27 years ago, he was a film-maker. He was working on a film about the photographer André Kertész.

I was able to see, week after week, how he got rid of the excess, the superfluous, the anecdotal.

Watching this metamorphosis changed my view of the world. Now I sometimes see things in nature as Horvath.

But it's always me and me alone that I'm talking about. I can't say what he wants to do.

I watch in wonder. But I can't put myself in his place, in his head.

Finally, I give the floor to someone who knew how to put himself in other people's minds: Shakespeare.

Public collections (Selection)