There are artists whose work seems to have been seen before it was experienced. In the case of Kati Horna, that relationship is reversed when listening to her granddaughter, Kati Polgovsky Horna, who remembers her not from the perspective of art history, but from the everyday: a presence, a house, a way of being. From the exhibition "Kati Horna and her friends", presented at Georgina Pounds Gallery, this conversation proposes a displaced reading: that of a life that is not explained in its images, but that insists on them.
Interview by Emilio Esquivel
Before we talk about her work, how do you remember your grandmother in everyday life? What kind of presence did she have?
A hard worker, dedicated to her craft, and with a deep appreciation for the everyday. She didn't like being in the spotlight; whatever she did, she did for herself. I don't remember her so much working, but rather being present. She made time for me. I spent every weekend with her. She was very loving, very attentive, both to her work and to her grandchildren. She always made whoever was with her feel special. Very modest.
At what point did you stop seeing her only as your grandmother and begin to understand who Kati Horna was?
In 2000, when she passed away, I never stopped seeing her as my grandmother, but I began to understand much more. I was even a little jealous that so many people wanted to be with her; they loved her dearly. That's when I began to see who she was in her art and in her life: the war, the things she lost, Barcelona, Paris, Budapest.
Is there a specific scene or memory that you feel defines her better than any biography?
I never stopped seeing her as my grandmother, but understanding what she became later impressed me. She never spoke to us about suffering. She was very human, very honest. She felt that unconditional love that you never feel again. She had something very special, a kind of magic, a mystique.
How did she talk about her past—Europe, the war, exile? Was there anything she avoided talking about?
She talked about her family—her mother, her sisters—and her friends, but I never heard her speak of the war. She loved Lake Balaton and Margarita Island. She had a very happy childhood, surrounded by gardens and family.
What kind of humor did she have? How did she interact with others in everyday life?
She had a bit of a cat-like temperament. She was very humane, the most honest person you could meet. She said she was allergic to the question "Where are you from?" because, despite her accent, she considered herself Mexican due to the love and peace she found here.
How would you describe her way of looking at the world, even off-camera?
She was very positive, despite everything she'd been through: she lost her husband, a son, and raised her children as a single mother. No matter what happened, she focused on working, enjoying life, and appreciating it. Very discreet, she never wanted more than she needed. I think that after going through the worst of it, she saw everything differently. She hated politics and bureaucracy.
Did you feel like she was constructing images all the time, even in everyday life?
No. She lived each moment to the fullest. If she was in the park, she was in the park. If she was working, she was working. But she didn't always bring her camera: she was living.
What do you think is not fully understood about her work today?
It's not a matter of people understanding or not; everyone gives her photographs a different meaning. That's the best thing about her work: everyone can give it their own interpretation. No one else lived her life.
Did you ever see her work or hear her talk about how she made her pictures?
Yes. She said that to take a good portrait, you have to see the light in the eyes of the person you're photographing. And that the camera isn't an obstacle: the obstacle is yourself.
What was her relationship with the objects, the settings, the constructed elements within her photographs?
The objects she chose seemed to come to life. She had a very particular, very precise relationship with them.
Was her work more intuitive or more meticulous than it appears?
Intuitive, one hundred percent.
How did she experience her place between Europe and Mexico? Do you feel that Mexico transformed her perspective?
Mexico gave her peace, confidence, and a new lease on life after everything she had experienced in Europe. That life transformed into creativity and tranquility. Although she also missed home very much.
What was her relationship like with other artists or with the cultural scene here?
She built a world inside his house. People came, gathered, had conversations, created, chatted, there were parties. Many preferred to stay there. P. Friedeberg told my mom that Edward James even preferred to sleep in an armchair at home rather than go to a hotel, because he said that there he felt the warmth of home.
What does inheriting her work and archive mean to you? Is it more of a responsibility, a dialogue, a burden?
For me, it's simply about taking care of her work and her life, and sharing it so that everyone can access the world she created.
What do you think this exhibition reveals about her that wasn't so visible before, and how would you like the public to approach her work today?
I would like people to approach it with curiosity. This exhibition includes previously unseen photographs, and that makes me very happy. I hope they approach her work with curiosity.
(1912-2000) Mexican-Hungarian photographer. Exile, war, and surrealism in images. From Budapest to Berlin, Paris, and Mexico City. Between illustrated press, anarchism, and the dreamlike. Experimental vision, subtle humor, fleeting memory.