I had seen the paintings of a young artist, Etienne Sandorfi, at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris in 1973. We exhibited him two years later, in November 1975.
If only for the incredible photographic precision of his works, this young Hungarian could be called a hyperrealist. But his trompe-l’oeil
are tricks: his lacerated faces hide subterfuge and pretense. Sandorfi is a master of fantastic illusionism.
We exhibited him only once. I don’t know, I cannot know if his painting would have survived on the forefront at this time of avant-garde. It was classical painting. Extraordinary, but classical. And our time was not about classicism.