Csontvary

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In memoriam Latinovits Zoltn

I, Csontvry Kosztka Tivadar

who renounced his youth in

exchange for the world's renewal

at the time I accepted

the holy ghost's calling

I already had

a decent civil job

confort and abundance.

But I left my country

because I needed to leave it

by the single reason

to see it thriving and glorious

at the twilight of my days.

To attain my purpose

for years I have travelled

Europe, Africa and Asia

searching for

the prophesized truth

and practice it's transference

into painting.

I refrained from advertising

because I did not care

about the kuffar's press.

Instead, I withdrew

to the top of Lebanon

where I painted cedars.

Like this, in solitude, quietly

my head covered in autumn

I can only ponder

to what end

wage this great hatred?

Knowing that into heaven

burdened by might and wealth

nobody ever gained admission.

Without a God, I ask -

what is man's purpose on Earth?

Did you get special approval

for visiting at night?

Approval?

I have a special approval -

assignment - mission -

task - obligation - quest -

and it only concerns me.

Maybe you will have company.

Man imagines

all kinds of things.

He imagines he's alone

or he imagines others are with him.

I imagine that I am myself -

and the things

are rising above me.

We imagine every kind

of important stuff.

Mister Artist, you are

destroying your stomach...

Eat before, alright?

No, I don't want to.

Give me back my shirt.

But... you draped me in it

didn't you?

Be kind and turn away...

Here.

What a man am I.

What a man.

They just make me play

what already happened.

Mister Artist, don't torment yourself.

You are admired by the whole world.

Last night

you told such wonderful

stories about the painter you play...

Artists are

exceptional people.

Of course, I will step out

of Mister Artist's life.

- Yeah?

- Don't be mad at me.

And thanks.

F***!

Why do you always need

to lead such a conditional life?

My good Lord...

Tell me, donkey -

do I love you dearly?

I love you.

I love you dearly.

My greatest joy

would be served -

if... if I could do it...

if I had the power...

the energy...

and would build up in Hungary

the Sanctuary of Geniuses.

Where everybody could

experiment at large

in a carefree

and informal manner.

Noo no no...

It is not my aim

to win appreciation.

It is not my aim

to be celebrated, to be discovered!

This is not

what is needed.

It's not even about the

works I could create.

No!

I...

I am thinking about...

those people... individuals...

who...

who are truly chosen!

Who are split apart

by the energy of their genius!

And yet,

they have problems confronting

their everyday problems,

their livelihoods.

And at home and abroad...

living in misery...

they fall into depravity!

It is them who

we should take care of!

I will establish the

Ophelia Sanatorium.

The asylum where people may evade,

from the coming healthy world,

to find a place where, finally,

they can get sick.

From the world in which

health will become contagious

they can escape

to that sanatorium where

they can get intimate

with the blessings of disease.

Schopenhauers and Nietzsches

will be born there

Mohammeds and Napoleons!

And if I smartly dose the alcohol -

Bismark, Kemny Zsigmond,

Munkcsi, Poe, Musset, Handel

will I heal into

this bitterly healthy world.

It is not my aim

to win appreciation.

No! It is not my aim to

become discovered and celebrated!

It's not even about the

works I could create in the future!

No, I am thinking about those,

those individuals, who are truly chosen!

Who are split apart

by the energy of the genius!

And yet, they can't,

they are simply incapable to confront

they daily problems and

the woes of their livelihood

and at home and abroad

in poverty...

they waste away!

It is them who

we should take care of!

Because the next century's culture

must be founded with them,

in Hungary!

With them!

Yeah!

Yeah!

Yeah!

Yeah!

Yeah!

Yeah!

I do not expect

the rebirth my motherland to come

from the rich elites...

but from those individuals,

possessing brilliant spirit,

each of whom is capable of propelling

culture further than a hundred schools.

Yes.

More than the mistake of

a hundred schools...

or their foundation...

I understand that

extraordinary responsibility lies on me.

That fate proscribed me

to a place where...

I find myself neither

suitable nor prepared.

It's clear.

Fate has assigned me.

But for what?

For what?

For what?

For what?

Oh, you proud Christians,

you foolish mob,

your feeble cocky minds

sowing hope in the way of perversion.

Don't you see what is man?

Maggot.

Which will form

angelic butterfly

redeeming before judgement

without bearing it's shield.

How can your spirit

soar high above?

But you are

just maggots!

Maybe not even

ready for that...

Into butterfly -

maybe in the future turning.

Good day.

I can't sleep for days, Sir...

I would like to ask for

some kind of a sleeping pill.

Here you are.

Thank you.

Not at all.

To sleep is

not necessary.

Genius can be

who's time has come.

Who was picked

by the hand of fate.

Whose ancestors were endowed

with willpower, spiritual cultivation

and artistic talent.

Who came into the world

by way of full-blood and love.

Who was in love with his nanny

in love with the sun

in love with the comet.

Who was eager to claim the open air

and chased after butterflies.

Who confessed to like the truth

and was never bored by himself.

Who puts love in his craft.

Who searches the future

with his thoughts.

Who broke up with the present

and set sail alongside intuition.

Who every where and occasion

used his heart in confrontation.

There is no place

I cannot glance

upon the sun

or the sentinel stars.

You can ponder upon

truths full of sweets

at any point

under the sky.

And there is no need

for inglorious

even shameful

surrender of myself.

After all...

I still have bread.

I didn't draw

I didn't paint

I just observed, staring at

the monumental beauty of nature

the deep and peaceful

rhythm of feeling

the most beautiful

nature-music of rapture...

I made trips in

all directions

seeking the beauty.

I took delight in the immeasurability

of the large-scale perspectives.

Paint me, Mister!

Paint me!

Escape with me to the mountain,

they can't see us there!

My body is

like the Virgin Mary's!

Don't. No. No!

Because they say I am a whore.

Because the devil is in me?

I just want a man...

Look, Mister,

what a body I have!

Look here!

I want a man.

A man!

A man!

A man!

A man!

A man...

This is the way

of the adulterous woman:

eats, then wipes her mouth and says:

- 'I did nothing evil.'

- Arrived, Mister Artist?

- Yeah Mr. Harkaly.

- Well, you?

- Yeah, me.

After you.

Arrived just now or

were you already upstairs?

Just now.

Fantastic.

Where from?

The mountains,

from the waterfalls.

I from the baker,

fresh bread just arrived.

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