What’s the bibi?
How could that mean a problem? Everything is set the installation is in stall, images are imagined, the welcomer well came and while the hoar harper at the door – while all breathe in silent pain, won’t be rude this time1. There’s no bibi at all. Spanyolnátha, lo I am honoured to hail you.
Wrong tone, may be.
What is the bibi?
General answer: everyone has a bibi; a bibi-story. Mine is about Madeleine Messager, daughter of the big-moustached chorus-master of Montluçon, who was the first ever in history to take a pee while being photographed for love. But this is another story. Someone else tells yours and you tell someone else’s. Let us now hear about the bibi of Tibor Vass; about his „Bibinke”.
Around the seventh chapter tension becomes palpable, we would be very cautious to avoid this kind of narrative but in the presence of Tibor Vass there’s no place for another mode. This is on the menu: style practice in sauce a’la Tibor Vass. Some get it, some fall out but we go on speaking like Tibor Vass shouts. In this circle everyone’s perfect, not interpreted. As if the images were being self-written by means of an imagewriter. And Tibor Vass is like Chuck Norris. Or even more like that. A picture is worth more than a thousand words. Tibor Vass is worth more than a billion words. Tibor Vass knows what’s the last digit in pi and he knows what’s cool.
What is a moment? Or in other places: what is a jiff?
To the call they would all line up seventy times in a hundred a quarter hundred, the platoon, the acknowledged imagegraphers who have received the Spanish Flu, who met Bibi in person. Now they can see what this prize means, what this vocation is worth. Being loyal to the image, loyal to art. Under glass cover, before anniversary, dim sky above Miskolc, soon some snow to come. Twenty five sentences in hyphens without limits, these twenty five would be enough to say. We are almost there but one must ask:
What the heck?
What is this thirty percent red here and there? Julien Sorel may have cast it there, open space for me, at least thirty percent of it. Or is it Alexei Ivanovich who spins the bullet toward thirty percent red? Red, rouge, rot, punainen, rosu, cerveny, extremely dangerous citations again. “Why, so you, too, are sometimes distressed at the impossibility of putting thought into words?”2 Mamma mia, what a quotation!
Mamma, what a…?
What an exhibition?
Let it be seen.
(Speech given at the opening of the exhibition „Mi a bibi" in Herman Ottó Múzeum−Miskolci Galéria 22nd January 2014.)
1From the Bards of Wales by János Arany, translated by Watson Kirkconnell, published in: The Magyar Muse An Anthology of Hungarian Poetry 1400−1932. Edited...
2A Raw Youth by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett; Dial Press, New York, 1947.; http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks01/0100161.txt