Szabó Ádám - Kelta keringő

There was a lot to this story. There were three people in it. It included a flight. It had a small town with a leaning tower. It had a beach. It had a red umbrella. There was rain in it. It had a clatter in the rain. And it had Toscana. But not the sunny one, but the foggy one. Like a Breton, Welsh, Irish or Scottish, i.e. a Celtic landscape. The painter thought: what a motif. What an art trade void this will fill. Everyone only knows sunny Tuscany, you can read and watch dozens of books, hundreds of movies about it, and it is painted in tons of kitsch paintings. Well, he will. He'll show you. That other face, the less smiling one, hiding behind the foggy face. What they got to know on that November trip. They will buy your pictures like sugar. He will be the painter of Misty Tuscany, as Van Gogh was of the fields of Provence, Monet of the water lilies, and Cézanne of the Montagne Sainte-Victoire. That's what the painter meant, but that's not what he really meant. He thought much more about those two people, his friends, his traveling companions. He thought of them and heard the music, that strange melody. The melody of the Celtic waltz.

There's a lot to these stories. People, flights, beaches. Painters and forty-year-old men, sometimes called Kollarik, sometimes with no name, only a story. Women who sometimes love, sometimes are unfaithful, sometimes present, sometimes present with their absence. There are landscapes, there are cities, there are mountains, there are lakes, there are seas. There is no completeness in these stories, because completeness may only exist as a lack of self, but it contains everything that man calls life. A possible version of life, in which the Celtic waltz melody plays.