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A Conversation With Eva Cellini
When did you first discover you were an artist?
"I started drawing incessantly at about 5 or 6 years old. My father was an artist, he designed posters and stage sets in
Hungary. Of course, my mother was a well-known dancer. They were both bohemians. So it seemed natural to become an artist."
Why do you paint?
"I feel that when we're born,
we're given a gift, skills. I developed mine to the best of my ability and knowledge. I use this in my painting. But it is only the beginning. The spiritual or greater meaning comes from
somewhere else. I am just the vessel for its expression. It is a connection - the opposite of loneliness. We all breathe the same air, live in the same world. It is my connection to the world -
to everything.
What I am creating is a gift - I must give it away. If I stay out of the way, so to speak, not think about it too much, it is authentic, and the viewer recognizes this. It is not a
matter of talent or lack of it, it is a hunger to create.”
Who were the most influential persons in your life?
"I had an older friend when I was a teenager. She would later take me in to
her family. I remember a time during the siege of Hungary: I was up in the kitchen cooking with her, when suddenly half the building was destroyed by a bomb. Both our families moved into the
basement. We were actually homeless. I am alive today because of her generosity.
"On September 13, 1979, Joseph and I met with a new agent. I can see it now, like it was a movie. The
agent instantly took a dislike to me - he actually laughed out loud at my work. It was humiliating. I promised myself I would prove to this man that I could paint. I struggled with the medium for a
time, and then emerged as if I had been apprenticing my whole life with a master painter.
"Joseph, my husband always pushed me. He seemed to see a great potential in me. I never fully
understood it. I think he must have had a Pygmalion complex and decided he would make a great artist of me.”
Was there anything else that affected your career?
“Yes. I was in New
York City visiting galleries. I had my portfolio under my arm. I felt like a peddler trying to sell my wares, it was humiliating. I was ready to give up, not just trying to find a gallery, but
painting too. I just thought no one wanted my work. I went into this beautiful gallery on Madison Avenue. There was this elegant woman at the desk. I asked if they were looking at new
work. She said they weren't. I turned to leave, and she stopped me. I don't know why, but she said 'let's take a look.' She turned out to be the owner's wife. They
liked my work and gave me a show and carried my work until the gallery closed. It's funny how things work - it was like the hand of fate touched me that day.”
What about art?
"I am
fascinated by the 17th Century. I feel a closeness to this period. I could have been born then. Of course I love the art: de Hooch, Vermeer, Rembrandt, van Dyck, Breueghel. I feel a kinship to
everything about this period, even the music and the writing."
You paint so few works each year, how do you decide what subjects to use?
"Everyone asks me this. I don't
know. I’m always open to ideas, but sometimes I have to wait. But when I see the right thing - suddenly I know I have to paint it. Then I can't wait to get it done. I can't wait to
see what it will look like.”
You are sometimes hesitant to tell the story behind your paintings, why?
"I don't want to tell people what they mean. Each one of us has our own set of
experiences; no two people are the same. I don't want to destroy their connection. I paint what comes through me. When the paintings are done, they tell their story. I didn't write the
story - I'm just the vessel. I'm learning about it, just like anyone else seeing the painting.”
Your work is often surreal. When were you first exposed to surrealism and how has it
influenced your work?
"When I was about 12 years old, I saw a surrealistic play with my aunt called ‘The Balladeer of his Sorrow.’ I can't remember what it was about, but I recall the
mood, and I got a glimpse of the unknown - that there was more to the world than reality. It is a feeling that has stayed with me, that there is something more, hiding just out of sight.”
There is
a distinct difference between your recent work and your earlier work. What changed?
"During most of my life, I felt inhibited, as if I were in a straightjacket. I felt that I needed to be rescued,
that I couldn't do things on my own. When I started to paint, I gained a confidence in myself, that I could do more. When Joseph got ill and finally died, I had to do so many things for myself. I
developed a 'self.' My paintings reflect this in the lighter backgrounds and flowers emerging from objects."
Sometimes you are very particular about who buys your work, even refusing to sell
your paintings to certain people. What kind of person do you like to see own your work?
"I want someone who has the sensitivity to look beyond the surface. Someone with a questioning mind, who
asks why things are the way they are. I want someone who is curious, who wants to get into my mind."
You experienced some dreadful things in war-torn Hungary and when the country turned to
communism. In 1956 you left everything you knew and moved to America with no money or job, where you didn't know the culture or the language. And yet you have always remained optimistic, holding a
child-like innocence in your heart. Is this something you were born with, or was it a choice you made long ago?
"It’s just the way I was born. I have a naïve optimism that never waivers.
I've seen some truly horrific things, but I always knew things would get better, that it would work out. When I came to America with Joseph , It never occurred to me that it wouldn't work. I was
never frightened. I followed my heart when it was time to leave Hungary, and I knew it would be fine. After just a short time, we were in a beautiful apartment near Central Park. I have a deep trust
in the Universe."
You were married to Joseph Cellini, an extremely talented artist, for 42 years. You have described him as driving you to the "Supreme Effort," that experience when you
think you can't do more, but instead, push beyond this resistance into the unknown, and pull more from yourself than you think you are capable of. Is there anything you would like to say to Joseph?
"I had a dream recently. I was in a convertible. Joseph was sitting there and I was walking away. And I said, 'It would be nice if you waited for me.' What I would like to say to him is,
'I hope to see you again, wait for me.'"
Aspen, January 2002
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