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Maryon Park I found a memory card the day before yesterday. It was black. It lay under a Maryon Park bench, and it bore no kind of mark. Nobody noticed me ducking down to pick it up. There was only a tourist around. He was making photographs of the bottom of a bush. It must have reminded him of something , for that piece of grass was not exactly spectacular. The card contained pictures. Photographs. I spent hours looking at them. I was expecting to find some secret. A story, that only offers itself to the patient interrogator. I waited. Sometimes I thought I found the beginning of the story, but finally I had to admit, that all pictures live a life of their own. Then I thought I should organize them according to their forms, to see if they find their meanings. I started with the small, rectangular ones. They resembled to magic boxes. One of the magic boxes was swallowing a coat hanger with its huge fangs. In another one, hands broke free and lived their own life, the third one showed a strange fellow, who hid his face beyond his name- plate. Smile came to my face. I thought I found the right track. On the usual-shaped photographies, things happen exactly the way things usually happen. All corners of the picture came to life easily. Last, I took the snake-like, never-ending photographs. Some of them almost coiled around me, some eyes glanced straight at me. All the other eyes were happy to see that the things they saw had also found their way to the photograph. Only one of the faces looked out of the picture. What is he looking for? Certainly not just looking around. I knew he was looking at something. It unnerved me, not being able to see what, though the space of the picture was almost round. And then something dawned on me. He was looking at himself. Yes. He is the strange faceless figure from the magic box. I was sure. That was when I understood, there was no need for classification, story, timeline or blurry theories. There are only two persons needed. One of them sees, gives, shows, the other circles the world with the help of one, only to realize, he was searching for secrets too far away. Since then, whenever my mind drifts toward those pictures, I have a strange sensation, that somehow I know that man in the funny hat. Zsófia Ilosvai, 2005
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