Oil and canvas behave like structure and terrain.
Each painting is composed over months, as oil dries layer by layer.
These aren’t spontaneous gestures — they are deliberate constructions.
Pigment is laid with the precision of an engineer, but disrupted like weather over stone.
The form is mathematical. The paradox is not.
What begins as a stable figure often breaks into illusion.
Lines appear rigid, yet betray perspective.
Geometry becomes a riddle — a structure you cannot fully enter, but feel compelled to solve.
Each mark balances thought and accident.
Babos drafts with clinical precision, but finishes with irreverent texture.
This duality gives the works life: part ideological, part visceral — a fusion of calculation and chaos.
Illusions emerge through nothing but oil and angle.
There are no physical layers, yet the viewer feels pulled in.
Every corner, shadow, and highlight is built to create three-dimensional presence on a flat surface.
Light bends. Space shifts. The eye falls in.
Surfaces aren’t decoration — they’re language.
Scrapes, ridges, and gloss are part of the storytelling.
Paint is layered thickly, then disturbed, revealing the tension between perfection and imperfection, polish and violence.
It’s an aesthetic of erosion.
CONSTRUCTIVE UNREALISM
Budapest / New York / Miami
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