How Painting Found Me and Never Let Me Go

Before I could read, there was a box.
Inside, loose masterpieces.
Fragonard and others.

Each one its own world of story and sensuality.

I would lift the lid and take them out one by one.
Sit with them.
Turn them over.

I couldn't read the words on the back yet.
But I didn't need to.
The paintings already spoke.

I have never stopped listening.

Art was simply the air I breathed growing up.

My mother was an art lover and collector.
I played piano, sang in chorus, performed at celebrations.
Galleries in Budapest.
Museums across Europe.
The Uffizi. The Louvre. The Vatican.
Theatre and opera woven into ordinary life.

But never yet as maker.

Then came the financial markets.
Years of structured, high-pressure work.
Every minute organised.
Every hour accounted for.

I was good at it.
I was successful.

When we moved to Malaysia, I made a decision.
Not a crisis.
A choice.

I would finally give myself everything I'd been postponing.
Meditation. Yoga. Tennis.
Photography classes first —still the observer, still capturing beauty rather than creating it.

But getting closer.

   If you can forget a painting, it's not worth it.

My art is for people who don't forget.
For walls that need a presence, not just a picture.
For lives that have room for beauty that means something.

Welcome.  I'm glad you're here.