Only for Artists Exhibition of András Medvegy

Opening: 28 February 2006

On view till: 17 March 2006 19h

Sweet Suicidal Sweet (1,2)

I contact with beeless honey – he replied impulsively, and searched for his money-rubber hand. The guard of the localisator has always fed upon reliable sources [spatial smell] thus he complemented the automatism of his reaching for the money with a long series of movement. He bent behind his legs.
I’ve brought you a present – he said, and handed over the car component.
On the oval, delicately covered (by thick leather, steely plastic, fur-wrapped) three star wheel sharp words were inscribed in line. “The wheel of the Formula 1 world champion, to His Holiness, Bendictus XVI, the leader of Christianity. Michael Schumacher” He wasn’t familiar with sports, but was sure that he had already seen such a thing.
What the fuck is it? – he asked, and dropped it on the imaginary table.
Where do you suck these from? – he raged for the sake of theatricality.
Take this bloody thing away, but first pay. – he kept on shouting.
Fuck you, to keep to interoperative facts, the second-division Mexican men’s soccer club, Celaya has signed Maribel Dominguezt, the best woman player in the country. The girl has for long been the star of the national team: she scored 42 goals in 43 international games. – the partner soothed him, and in the hope of some extra he rang his mobile. I’ve got a text message, it flashed then in his eye and he had the mail unpacked.
You can only remain young if you have a bad memory. – this radiated from the orange-black coloured display. The number is unknown.
What the fuck is it? – he asked and handed over the phone.
Forward it to me – he said eagerly, and pulled out his mobile to make sure the transfer goes smoothly. You’ll have the truth that you buy for yourself. Good quality truth is an expensive thing. – he screwed up his mouth, because the message didn’t go through for the third time.
The system is overloaded.
Good – he replied. That’s always a portent of earthquakes.
No gentle fanfare, no gentle dead-end! Let’s go to the servers! – now they shouted together. Then they ran down to the ground floor room that had safe walls. There isn’t coverage – it crossed both of their minds, that is to say there the air isn’t commercialised with adequate expertise – they wheezed on downwards.
We’ll discuss it when we’re down – they were looking at each other, but only the shoelace of one of them let itself loose. Good, as I’m just recharging – the other replied with much technicality.

(excerpt from the musical titled “Where I am in Pest?”)
What the fuck is it?
Don’t you see? Two sugar cubes!

(excerpt from the vernissage of András Medvegy’s exhibition titled “Only for Artists”)

Tibor Horváth