The only remaining items in the estate of István Soltész

(1938-1983) of Tibolddaróc are 272 black and white 35mm

rolls of film, several 6x6 contact prints on serrated paper,

some medium format negatives, and a good number of

colour photographs. Normally the fate of the photographs

would have been the same as with any family estate:

disintegration after a few generations of esteem or

misplacement. In this case however, István Soltész (born

1967), the youngest son of István Soltész became a

professional photographer, and driven by respect,

conscience and after a while professional excitement, in

1995 he began reprinting the negatives he had come

across. (The family refrained from introducing the “Sr.” and

“Jr.” constituents to resolve the identity of names, therefore

I will also refrain from using them throughout the present

paper.) After making contact sheets, approximately a

hundred framed exhibition prints were made onto Forte

museum quality paper. Selections from this body of work

were on show in November 1996 by the Miskolc Gallery, in

autumn 1997 at the “Contemporary Hungarian

Photography” show in Pécs (László Cseri wrote about this

in the journal Fotográfia), and in September 1998 at the

Tibolddaróc elementary school. In addition, 40 photographs

from another series of prints were exhibited at the 1998

Katowice show of the series of exhibitions “Circumscribed

Pictures” (Körülírt képek) organised by the Department for

Cultural and Visual Anthropology of the University of

Miskolc.

Throughout the exhibitions the photographs of István

Soltész were welcomed with the enthusiasm of discovery

and unquestionable professional esteem. His surprisingly

flawless composition, the expressive power of the images,

and the immediacy with which he told the life of his village

were highly appreciated. What formed in the minds of the

viewers was unanimous: no other photojournalist or

documentary photographer could have created such an

authentic close-up of this theme. These remarks refer less

to the exhibition at the Tibolddaróc elementary, where, as

expected, the act of reception operated primarily on the level

of recognising events and figures, and retelling the depicted

stories.

At the same time, even an outsider could raise the question:

but after all, whose photographs are we viewing now?

Undoubtedly, young István Soltész made prints of nothing

else than what was on the negatives (each print was strictly

full-frame). Without his expertise, however, these

photographs would be nonexistent: this was proven by the

medium-format contact sheets presented at the Miskolc

show, whose visually intriguing nature could be discovered

only in relation to the exhibited prints, even by the expert

eye. Also, pointing out these couple of hundred shots out of

ten thousand was again the work of the young Soltész: if the

elder István Soltész had thought of organising an exhibition

of his photographs - probably he did not - he most certainly

would have chosen completely different frames from his

negatives. Did he not see the values of his own

photographs? Is it possible that there are amazing but

misplaced photographs in any family archive? As Sándor

Kardos used to say: the photographer is sometimes touched

by the finger of God. There most certainly are one or two

good photographs in any ten thousand. A couple, but not

more.

Here is that early shot from 1964, for instance, depicting two

bartenders in the local pub of Bükkábrány. The photo was

taken on a co-op excursion. The preceding and subsequent

frames on the negative provide no context for the shot; the

figures are neither relatives nor acquaintances - they were

captured for the sake of the photo. The balanced spatial

composition, which evokes Sander, the attire, gestures and

expressions of the figures give a precise report on the social

status, personal attitude, emotions and hierarchy of the two

figures. The background and the choice of tones

consequently serve the creative intention of the

photographer. The ethnographic authenticity of the details

is indubitable. And by showing a peeper, the photographer

even allows himself some visual play, rendering the

interpretation of the photograph multi-layered. Could all this

have been created unconsciously? Hardly conceivable.

And yet, there is not one momentum in the career of István

Soltész, which would demonstrate a conscious and

prepared creative process. His parents and grandparents

were farmers, and there is no record in the scant memories

of family history of any kind of intellectual endeavour. He

was deprived of proper schooling at its due time, as he had

to leave the Miskolc polytechnic in the mid-fifties for financial

reasons. He later graduated by his own means, and

acquired certification as chartered accountant. Further

details of his life also testify the hardships of getting along

in the dismal village at the foot of the Bükk Hills. He married

at 23, raised two children, built a house, and became the

head accountant of the Ferenc Rákóczi Farmers’ Cooperative.

His first camera was probably a Pajtás. He must

have purchased his more serious camera, the much used

Exa later, from his own salary. His darkroom was the

bathroom (he bought his first enlarger, an Opemus 6x6,

around 1965, on a 6-month payment plan). He made an

increasing number of photographs until the end of the 60s.

He subscribed to the journal Fotó. He never submitted his

photographs to exhibitions, but some of his shots on

viticulture were hung on the wall of the co-operative’s office.

In the mid-seventies he switched to a Yashica Electro 35,

and colour technique, which resulted in the deteriorating

quality and dwindling number of photos: his theme was now

just the close family. With the increasing burden and fatigue

his workplace imposed on him, photography gradually

disappeared from his life. He died at the age of 45.

From the mid-sixties he almost always had his camera on

him, taking pictures of everything he considered important

in his close environment or during excursions in the village

or the neighbourhood, on trips abroad. He took photos at

hunts, hunters’ banquets, on the occasion of first

communions, engagements, weddings, mayfests, harvests

and excursions, on family events and in everyday situations.

He took portraits, full-body shots, group shots, genre

pictures; sometimes he would position his figures, or give

them enough time to compose themselves, other times he

just took snapshots. According to his son’s accounts, some

of his rolls barely carry more than one noteworthy shot, while

on others - especially towards the late 60s-early 70s - almost

all frames crave to be printed.

The contrast between his career and his pictures, between

his imaging knowledge and these photographs leads us to

conclusions - obviously phrased before, but very vivid when

viewing these photos - about the nature of photography as

such, beyond this unique, individual performance. Looking

at these photographs again and again, our thoughts

continue along four - not necessarily intertwined - threads.

The sequence of the four chapter titles should be something

like: “The anonymous photographer”, followed by the

singular and unique image maker István Soltész, then the

“two István Soltész’s” and finally the “István Soltész

phenomenon”.

"We are all anonymous" - says Pierre de Fenoyl. That would

be nice, but the history of photography is full of attitudinising,

2

gushy, intrusively intimate pictures. Still, with most of the

photographs, their maker is willing to submit to the moment,

to identify with his situation. He accepts that he cannot

control every detail of the photograph. Thus minute facts

and certainties may seep in in the background. Of course

all images - either as objects or as depictions - are possible

sources for the eye scrutinizing the shades of history. Those

compositions, however, which were admittedly taken at a

given place and time, in a given situation, will more probably

behave as evidence, offering “thick description”. Especially

those photographs... (This is one of the remarkable

circumstances of studying photographs: one should avoid

definitive declarations, since every thesis has a

counterexample in the history of the photograph.) So,

especially those photographs, which correspond to Jacques

Maquet’s definition of “instrumental form” when thinking

about aesthetic value: those that have the quality of efficient

utility in their customary environment. The instrumental and

- at least partially - random nature of the photograph which

depicts “life” are therefore deeply related: the authorship of

the successful photograph cannot be attributed to “purely

the author’s action”.

The mentality of István Soltész is that of the ideal

anonymous photographer. In the course of data collection,

the villagers unanimously confirmed that “the ‘photo’ was

always hanging from his shoulder, he recorded moments”.

For instance, take that group photo of six people taken at a

grape harvest in 1969, against the backdrop of a horse

carriage packed with tanks in the autumn forest: on the one

hand, its glory is its instrumentality - it is an ideal point of

departure for recognition and thus remembering and

storytelling, with anecdotal and timeless features,

formulating personal and role-type characteristics. It is

indeed about the six of them (and the photographer), about

that ordinary and therefore, with time, increasingly hazy

year, the autumn, the grape harvest, the co-op, the carriage,

collegiality, friendship (and the unaccountable inside

stories). At the same time the rubber boots, the patch on the

knee, the Soviet camera (Zorkij, Zenit or Fed?) hanging in

the neck: flashes of customs, values, destinies, actions. A

chronicle of “the village” and two generations in the row of

caps and hats.

Let us observe our mode of perception: running our eyes

through the details without the compulsion of forming an

opinion, without inhibitions, giving way to recognitions that

unexpectedly come forth from the ordinary. (It is in line with

Roland Barthes’s description of studium and punctum, if we

discard judgment, which the always conscious Barthes

could never go without.) What surfaces here is “what history

lacks”, the order of existence beyond the immediately

recognisable, the truth of experience known to be past, the

authenticity so craved for by the viewer of photographs, the

substantial similarities in the differences.

Could all this have been created unconsciously? Again -

hardly conceivable. István Soltész innocently lived his life in

a village that hardly knew anything about itself, among

people driven by other things than figuring out how to leave

a trace. The curiosity of Tibolddaróc - its miserable condition

before the war - can be gathered from Zoltán Szabó’s Tardi

helyzet (‘Conditions in the village of Tard’ - which,

interestingly, got its title from the neighbouring village across

the hill). The famous cave homes that had been

documented in writing and photographs, and raised to

symbols of poverty, were already uninhabited by the 60s;

families went out of their bounds to build detached houses.

Peaceful years, individual opportunities, collective hunting

banquets, grand weddings, good-humoured co-op trips to

Moscow, drinking bouts at the cellars at the end of the

village. István Soltész’s latent visual truths are formed within

the framework of “feasible thinking”.

That shot of a wedding feast in 1972, in which the young

couple turns towards the camera revealing a lot about their

character, is apparently one of the “most brilliant average

pieces”. We immerse in the bittersweet gaze of the bride,

and shiver looking at the shut eyes of the husband and his

smile of a proprietor’s satisfaction. At the same time, the

picture allows the gaze to wander towards the edges: the

wardrobe’s style, the patterns of the roll painted wall, the

caoutchouc doll sitting in the armchair and the half-eaten

cake all tell us tales of destiny. We feel that our eyes

perambulate the image via the route defined by the

photographer, every element an intended part of the

composition; and at once we think of the fortunate incident

that made it possible for all these visual elements to appear

in the viewfinder. It therefore has the selective and finite

features of the “good photograph” and the verbose nature

of the anonymous picture, its heterogeneity offering a lot of

browsing.

This photograph is two-faced in other respects, too. One of

the figures, the young lady in bride’s dress, is a relative, the

photographer’s niece. The photograph still lacks a kind of

intimacy, the confidentiality of in-family photographers. At

the same time, it lacks the matter-of-fact air of professional

photographers, or the typifying simplification of journalists,

or the aestheticizing of amateurs. István Soltész observes

with unfaltering care, keeping a strictly equal distance from

each theme. The most typical characteristic of his approach

could be said to be accuracy: visual, ethnographic,

emotional accuracy. Therein lies the essence of his

photographs: he discovered that extraordinary possibility of

photography, which, neither suggests a sense of

reconstruction, nor of construction and is familiar and

immediate in a manner no other medium is capable of.

If enough heritages like that of István Soltész became

public, would they modify the history of Hungarian

photography, up to now written mainly by art photographers

and aestheticians? The desired answer is: yes. And not only

3

because the photographs of Soltész enrich the “menu” of

our cultivation with hitherto unknown “pleasures”. The

pictures of anonymous local chroniclers, travelling

photographers, photographing discoverers, naive village

photographers and provincial studio photographers would

reveal an incredibly detailed view of the everydays of the

past century and a half, full of experiences. There exist

somewhere a vast number of photographs relating the true

nature of photography by their mere existence. The history

of photography, which has so far focused on technical and

aesthetic aspects, would suddenly acquire multiple readings

- open to professionals and the public alike. However, the

program of “publishing the Hungarian visual heritage” is an

almost hopeless task.

István Soltész captured the local barber in 1966. The portrait

format and the two mirrors in the image produce a complex

spatial construction; despite the narrow, concentrated

composition, the shop can be “perambulated”, the

decoration on the opposite wall can be seen together with

another person waiting for a shave. The point of view is

a little below eye level, creating a rather fortunate

composition: the master’s facial expressions complete

the expressiveness of the scene. The puckish smile of the

lanky, white-gowned figure at the moment of exposure may

be an embarrassed reaction to the shot, or a moment of

banter with the client. Shaving is done with expertise. The

classic tools of the trade are on the table. In that moment,

however, whoever had the task of putting down the bits of

information on the image would be in trouble if the

description of the image had to approach a verbal accuracy

equal to its visual accuracy: the names of objects and tools,

their methods of use, “archaeological” value, details of the

lives of the people on the photo, their relation to each other,

to this moment, to the photographer and to the photograph,

the future fate and impact of the photograph... That there is

no need for all this? That the moment speaks for itself? I

don’t think so: if we fail to capture the images in words, all

we have to theorise about is ourselves. And about the time,

which was exactly half past one (if the clock was accurate).

István Soltész’s accurately formulated photograph draws the

invisible aspect of life worlds into the domain of the visible.

We should approach it with the same austerity to prevent all

of this from undeservingly mouldering in our hands.

And if enough heritages like that of István Soltész became

public? But are there indeed such heritages and only the

research should be done more meticulously, or we are

looking at some mysteriously singular, unparalleled oeuvre?

And in case the former was true, what should we name this

little known mentality: naive photographer?

The choice of term might even be fortunate had we recalled

its original interpretation by Kandinsky: It was precisely the

“power of depicted things” that Kandinsky valued the most

in the work of Rousseau the toll collector. Thus, precisely

not the representation of some collective unconscious, but

an extraordinary, individual invention of making things seen,

founded on very much worn-out visual traditions. The

strange thing is that the “power of depicted things” in fact

lies in the masterly use of visual traditions in the

photographs of István Soltész. Their conscious use, we

might add, but how could he have known all this about

Sander, Kertész and Cartier-Bresson? Definitely not from

the journal Fotó. One of the most important aspects of

studying the creation of images is the transfer of visual

knowledge, the issue of acquiring the devices of expression.

However logical it would be for István Soltész’s photographs

to be characterised by irregularity and a non-customary

system of proportions, there are no traces of this. In his case

outsiderness did not produce a behaviour, vision and style

analogous to that of a “Sunday painter”; his images are

characterised precisely by “the unsettling peculiarity of

obvious things”. For the sake of the history of photography

we may hope for similar heritages to turn up, but it will in fact

be the new finds that highlight the peculiar uniqueness and

inimitability of his photographs, his power of image creation,

his mentality.

4

An d r á s Bá n

András Bán: Art Historian, Director of the City Gallery of Miskolc, Professor

of Visual and Cultural Anthropology at the University of Miskolc.

Published in Fotóművészet (Fine Art Photography) Magazine in 1999. Since

then the photographs of István Soltész were on show at the Hungarian House

of Photographers in 2006.

The first photograph shown in this essay was taken on the occasion of an

excursion in 1958. This image is from the very first 35 mm film that my father

ever exposed. It is very likely that the picture was taken by a good friend of

him, who subsequently became my godfather. My father is on the right, my

mother is in the middle, and a friend of my mother is on the left.

Istvan Soltesz Jr.