Francis Berger's Blog, page 144
October 16, 2019
The People Said . . .
A week from today Hungary will mark the sixty-third anniversary of the failed 1956 uprising against Soviet occupation and its Stalinist regime. October 23rd is a national holiday here; the date commemorates the first day of the protests that triggered the eventual armed rebellion against communist oppression.
The wall painting below was created three years ago on the sixtieth anniversary of the event. I find the simple caption above the shattering red star quite moving. Attributed to Hungarian novelist Sándor Márai, the line reads - "The people said: That's enough!"
I imagine many great and noble struggles have their origins in that simple phrase.
The wall painting below was created three years ago on the sixtieth anniversary of the event. I find the simple caption above the shattering red star quite moving. Attributed to Hungarian novelist Sándor Márai, the line reads - "The people said: That's enough!"
I imagine many great and noble struggles have their origins in that simple phrase.
October 15, 2019
Wellbeing
It is there, even on the worst days. A soft, flickering glow, deep inside. When you become aware of it, you turn your back against the wind and cup a hand around the light.
But none of this is needed. The unsteady flame appears exposed and vulnerable, forever on the verge of going out, yet it dances through the gusts and tempests with defiant joy. A mere breath’s whisper away from nothingness, the flame curls back to life and writhes graciously against the murk. Perpetual darkness presses against it, but the glow never succumbs, and it never accedes.
On the best days it throws off searing sparks. Flash and flare ignite a firestorm; a cleansing conflagration. The blackness blazes – becomes ashes. You emerge from the smoke, smoldering and cauterized, torch in hand, raised high above.
But none of this is needed. The unsteady flame appears exposed and vulnerable, forever on the verge of going out, yet it dances through the gusts and tempests with defiant joy. A mere breath’s whisper away from nothingness, the flame curls back to life and writhes graciously against the murk. Perpetual darkness presses against it, but the glow never succumbs, and it never accedes.
On the best days it throws off searing sparks. Flash and flare ignite a firestorm; a cleansing conflagration. The blackness blazes – becomes ashes. You emerge from the smoke, smoldering and cauterized, torch in hand, raised high above.
October 14, 2019
My Onion Hip
The SI joint inflammation and dysfunction I suffered through this past summer appear to be healing rather nicely. I rarely feel stiffness or soreness on my left side; no crackles of white hot lightning vein down the curvature of my spine into my thigh or groin. The exercises and stretches I have doing over the past three months seem to be building everything back up to almost normal. Of course, getting to this point has been no easy task. I have spent a great deal of time researching the nature of my injury, but the extensive reading I have done into the subject has revealed one thing above all else – human hips are complex constructions and diagnosing the probable source (or sources) of pain in this part of the body can be an elusive and enigmatic task.
For starters, SI joint pain problems can be traced to tightened and shortened psoas muscles, which are a major component of what are commonly referred to as the hip flexors. Tight psoas muscles, in turn, can cause all sorts of trouble for the hamstrings and the pelvis, most notably pelvic tilt. Pelvic tilt, in turn, adds additional strain to the already overstretched hamstrings, which in turn weaken the gluteal muscles, which then further exacerbate the pelvic tilt – in my case, likely anterior.
The chief cause of tight psoas muscles is excessive sitting, especially excessive sitting in the wrong posture which, it turns out, I was an absolute master at. So concerned was I about slouching forward in my office chair that I made a point of arching my spine inward until it became a concave semi-circle, much like the loop of a question mark. Needless to say, this only worsened my already tight psoas situation and grumpy pelvic tilt.
As likely as all of these possible causes appear, they might only be symptoms of a deeper underlying problem located in my feet. Turns out I supinate when I walk, especially on my right side. Foot supination, also known as foot underpronation, can cause trouble much farther up, chiefly in the knees and hips. Then again, the supination could just be a symptom of one, or of a combination of many, of the problems I detailed above.
When it comes to finding the true source of my hip trouble, it appears everything is connected to everything else, just like in that annoying kid’s song. The foot bone really is connected to the ankle bone and everything else, all the way to the base of my spine, to that small vertical wall of bone I didn’t even know had. My hip trouble is like an onion – I peel back layer only to find another layer waiting to be peeled. Every exclamation mark I have managed to locate also yields two question marks. The quest reeks of perpetuity – a veritable never-ending story. But rest assured, none of this dispirits me. I will find the answer one day – which will probably be the same day the doctor tells me my hip needs replacing.
Note added: Back in the late summer/early fall, a reader of this blog suggested I become familar with Danny Dreyer’s Chi Walking technique as a possible recovery tool. Though I have found it practically impossible to adopt Dreyer’s walking technique as my own, his series of videos helped make me aware of my supination and my many other underlying posture problems while walking, which has been an immense help.
For starters, SI joint pain problems can be traced to tightened and shortened psoas muscles, which are a major component of what are commonly referred to as the hip flexors. Tight psoas muscles, in turn, can cause all sorts of trouble for the hamstrings and the pelvis, most notably pelvic tilt. Pelvic tilt, in turn, adds additional strain to the already overstretched hamstrings, which in turn weaken the gluteal muscles, which then further exacerbate the pelvic tilt – in my case, likely anterior.
The chief cause of tight psoas muscles is excessive sitting, especially excessive sitting in the wrong posture which, it turns out, I was an absolute master at. So concerned was I about slouching forward in my office chair that I made a point of arching my spine inward until it became a concave semi-circle, much like the loop of a question mark. Needless to say, this only worsened my already tight psoas situation and grumpy pelvic tilt.
As likely as all of these possible causes appear, they might only be symptoms of a deeper underlying problem located in my feet. Turns out I supinate when I walk, especially on my right side. Foot supination, also known as foot underpronation, can cause trouble much farther up, chiefly in the knees and hips. Then again, the supination could just be a symptom of one, or of a combination of many, of the problems I detailed above.
When it comes to finding the true source of my hip trouble, it appears everything is connected to everything else, just like in that annoying kid’s song. The foot bone really is connected to the ankle bone and everything else, all the way to the base of my spine, to that small vertical wall of bone I didn’t even know had. My hip trouble is like an onion – I peel back layer only to find another layer waiting to be peeled. Every exclamation mark I have managed to locate also yields two question marks. The quest reeks of perpetuity – a veritable never-ending story. But rest assured, none of this dispirits me. I will find the answer one day – which will probably be the same day the doctor tells me my hip needs replacing.
Note added: Back in the late summer/early fall, a reader of this blog suggested I become familar with Danny Dreyer’s Chi Walking technique as a possible recovery tool. Though I have found it practically impossible to adopt Dreyer’s walking technique as my own, his series of videos helped make me aware of my supination and my many other underlying posture problems while walking, which has been an immense help.
October 13, 2019
Unpublished - For Now
I spent the bulk of the weekend wading into my planned revisions for The City of Earthly Desire, and I have decided it is probably best to unpublish the book on Amazon while I complete the editing and revisions. I estimate the work will take two or three months to complete. My current goal is to republish the novel some time before the New Year.
October 10, 2019
István Görgényi's Nightmare
István Görgényi (1917 - 1973) was a Hungarian painter whose limited technical skills did not hinder his uncanny ability to capture the demonic essence of communism in his works. The painting below depicts what must have been a constant danger in Görgényi's life after the failed 1956 Hungarian uprising - being raided and arrested by the communists for his "subversive" art. 
October 9, 2019
A Helpful Review
My novel, The City of Earthly Desire, recently received an incredibly helpful three-star review on Amazon:
A Solid, Readable Effort, But Not Without Challenges
I have never read a self-published novel before (I don't read much fiction at all these days), but I purchased this on a recommendation from a blog I frequent. This is a solid, somewhat engaging novel, with obvious ambition (some might say slight pretension) to greatness, written in concise and effective prose; however, the story is marred by a sagging middle third that could easily have been whittled down considerably and flat characterizations, especially of the antagonists. Suzy is so diabolically narcissistic that she comes off as cartoonish and silly, and Bela (the main character) is so unrelentingly stupid and naive that it becomes difficult to sympathize with him. The parts with Reinhardt and the history of Hungary are fascinating, and Verge was a compelling character, but they are relegated to the background for the majority of the novel. I did appreciate the championing of tradition and the themes of beauty and purpose, which are uncommon in today's literature. I would be interested in reading further work by the author, and was impressed by the scope and ambition of this book, but it does suffer from a noticeable lack of a skilled editor. Overall, a worthwhile read.
First of all, I completely agree with the reviewer's observation that the book suffers from a noticeable lack of a skilled editor. This is a significant drawback of self-publishing. In all honesty, the shortcomings the reviewer mentions above have been gnawing away at me for years. The protagonist is too gullible and naive throughout the narrative - to the point that he becomes irritating and practically unlikeable. In many ways, he is little more than a Pinocchio character. The antagonist, on the other hand, is too one-dimensional, to the point that she does indeed come off as cartoonish.
Secondly, the narrative is also bloated and overwritten in many places; many needless scenes could be omitted; some descriptions and sentences could be whittled down. Lastly, I have come to realize the novel is too raw in many parts - so much so that it can be off-putting to readers who land on the sqeaumish side. Needless to say, it is extremely helpful for me as a writer to have a reader confirm these flaws in the narrative.
As I mentioned above, I had considered editing and revising the book over the years, but was reluctant to do so for fear my revisions might do more harm than good. Nevertheless, this particular review and some other feedback I have received over the past year has inspired me to take a chance and complete a comprehensive revision of The City of Earthly Desire in the hope that such a revision might indeed make the story better. I estimate the revisions will take two or three months to complete, but I feel it will be a worthwhile investment that will lead to a better version of the novel in the end. I welcome the challenge, especially since my current fiction project has run into a bit of rut in the past two or three months.
A Solid, Readable Effort, But Not Without Challenges
I have never read a self-published novel before (I don't read much fiction at all these days), but I purchased this on a recommendation from a blog I frequent. This is a solid, somewhat engaging novel, with obvious ambition (some might say slight pretension) to greatness, written in concise and effective prose; however, the story is marred by a sagging middle third that could easily have been whittled down considerably and flat characterizations, especially of the antagonists. Suzy is so diabolically narcissistic that she comes off as cartoonish and silly, and Bela (the main character) is so unrelentingly stupid and naive that it becomes difficult to sympathize with him. The parts with Reinhardt and the history of Hungary are fascinating, and Verge was a compelling character, but they are relegated to the background for the majority of the novel. I did appreciate the championing of tradition and the themes of beauty and purpose, which are uncommon in today's literature. I would be interested in reading further work by the author, and was impressed by the scope and ambition of this book, but it does suffer from a noticeable lack of a skilled editor. Overall, a worthwhile read.
First of all, I completely agree with the reviewer's observation that the book suffers from a noticeable lack of a skilled editor. This is a significant drawback of self-publishing. In all honesty, the shortcomings the reviewer mentions above have been gnawing away at me for years. The protagonist is too gullible and naive throughout the narrative - to the point that he becomes irritating and practically unlikeable. In many ways, he is little more than a Pinocchio character. The antagonist, on the other hand, is too one-dimensional, to the point that she does indeed come off as cartoonish.
Secondly, the narrative is also bloated and overwritten in many places; many needless scenes could be omitted; some descriptions and sentences could be whittled down. Lastly, I have come to realize the novel is too raw in many parts - so much so that it can be off-putting to readers who land on the sqeaumish side. Needless to say, it is extremely helpful for me as a writer to have a reader confirm these flaws in the narrative.
As I mentioned above, I had considered editing and revising the book over the years, but was reluctant to do so for fear my revisions might do more harm than good. Nevertheless, this particular review and some other feedback I have received over the past year has inspired me to take a chance and complete a comprehensive revision of The City of Earthly Desire in the hope that such a revision might indeed make the story better. I estimate the revisions will take two or three months to complete, but I feel it will be a worthwhile investment that will lead to a better version of the novel in the end. I welcome the challenge, especially since my current fiction project has run into a bit of rut in the past two or three months.
October 8, 2019
"The Elite" is a Misnomer
Calling those who occupy the highest positions of power and influence in our dying societies “the elite” is a misnomer of the most insidious kind. Yes, the elite are a select group of the richest, most powerful, best educated, and best trained individuals in society, but are they truly superior in both quality and ability when compared to the rest of society? Their wealth and power are undeniable. And they certainly are superior in some qualities and abilities, but what kind of qualities and what kind of abilities do the cream of the crop, the best of the best truly possess?
Peel back the surface of the term “elite” and it becomes strikingly obvious that our notion of the elite is misshapen and erroneous. In reality, there is not much that is elite about our elite. They are the no class high class. The rancid cream of the crop. The unbeautiful people. The worst of the worst. Why then do we insist on referring to them as the elite? Is it purely because they have risen to the top and manage to remain there for a period of time? Pond scum is capable of the same, yet no one sings its praises. No, calling the power class in our societies the elite simply won’t do. It's time to retire the term and find another one.
Though fitting, the pond scum analogy would be inappropriate. So would any animal term, or any word stripping “the elite” of their human-all-to-human humanity. Dehumanizing them would be far more harmful to me than it would be for them. As would black-and-white divisions of “us” and “them”; like it or not, they are still “us” and, to varying degrees, we are very much “them.” I have often referred to the elite as the Establishment. Though fitting, I find the term too clinical and too corporate, this despite their cold, calculated, clinical, corporatism.
Once again, it lacks humanity – and they are, after all, still human. Of course, their humanity has been deformed through the choices they have made and the dark forces they ultimately serve. In light of this, perhaps they should be called the Damned; but this term implies finality and obliterates any chance at redemption. No, the Damned would be a transgression of boundaries. That is not my call to make. Well, what then? What should I call our un-elite elite? Those possessed souls . . . the Possessed? Suitable, but perhaps limiting.
I have no clear answer as of yet, but my original objection remains, clear as day – calling the powerful and the influential "the elite" is a gross misnomer. The time to speak a new language has come.
Peel back the surface of the term “elite” and it becomes strikingly obvious that our notion of the elite is misshapen and erroneous. In reality, there is not much that is elite about our elite. They are the no class high class. The rancid cream of the crop. The unbeautiful people. The worst of the worst. Why then do we insist on referring to them as the elite? Is it purely because they have risen to the top and manage to remain there for a period of time? Pond scum is capable of the same, yet no one sings its praises. No, calling the power class in our societies the elite simply won’t do. It's time to retire the term and find another one.
Though fitting, the pond scum analogy would be inappropriate. So would any animal term, or any word stripping “the elite” of their human-all-to-human humanity. Dehumanizing them would be far more harmful to me than it would be for them. As would black-and-white divisions of “us” and “them”; like it or not, they are still “us” and, to varying degrees, we are very much “them.” I have often referred to the elite as the Establishment. Though fitting, I find the term too clinical and too corporate, this despite their cold, calculated, clinical, corporatism.
Once again, it lacks humanity – and they are, after all, still human. Of course, their humanity has been deformed through the choices they have made and the dark forces they ultimately serve. In light of this, perhaps they should be called the Damned; but this term implies finality and obliterates any chance at redemption. No, the Damned would be a transgression of boundaries. That is not my call to make. Well, what then? What should I call our un-elite elite? Those possessed souls . . . the Possessed? Suitable, but perhaps limiting.
I have no clear answer as of yet, but my original objection remains, clear as day – calling the powerful and the influential "the elite" is a gross misnomer. The time to speak a new language has come.
October 7, 2019
Sex is a Rope
That keeps us captive; bound and tied up in hedonistic impulses, thoughts, desires, and, in rare cases, acts. And yes, I do believe the acts themselves are less infrequent than is commonly believed or acknowledged – but the acts, if and when they occur – are merely the salting of charred earth. You see, the greatest destruction occurs before the act – in the place that inspired the act; in thought.
All that is required for sex to act as a rope is impulse, thought, and desire. Of course, these can be good things in themselves provided the right motivations fuel them, but we are discussing wrong motivations, not right ones, and when our minds fixate on wrong motivations, and we believe these wrong motivations to be right ones . . . well, that is where the real harm is done; where the greatest damage is inflicted.
All the act does pry open the realm of tangible consequences – the only consequences most of us are willing to acknowledge. This explains why we trick ourselves into believing the rope offers security rather than enslavement; why we keep our ropes short and our spikes driven deep into the granite when we begin to scale the sheer cliffs of our infinite desires. But we are both dishonest and delusional if we cajole ourselves into thinking the intangible consequences are insignificant or, worse still, non-existent. Whether we acknowledge them or not, those consequences exist – and as unbelievable as it seems, they are just as significant.
Accept it – the rope offers no security. The rope curtails; diminishes. The rope downsizes us; abridges us. The rope anchors us; hems us in; limits our worlds to small circles. Like junkyard dogs tied to trees protecting their great treasures, round and round we go, but we never actually get anywhere. The rope keeps freedom within sight but out of reach. Yet, we somehow manage to find solace in this state, which is why we refuse to cut the rope. Yes, that is all we would need to do – simply cut the rope – but instead of cutting it, we yearn for more rope, and when enough is provided, we will eagerly tie our own nooses and happily hang ourselves without a care for consequences, tangible or otherwise.
All that is required for sex to act as a rope is impulse, thought, and desire. Of course, these can be good things in themselves provided the right motivations fuel them, but we are discussing wrong motivations, not right ones, and when our minds fixate on wrong motivations, and we believe these wrong motivations to be right ones . . . well, that is where the real harm is done; where the greatest damage is inflicted.
All the act does pry open the realm of tangible consequences – the only consequences most of us are willing to acknowledge. This explains why we trick ourselves into believing the rope offers security rather than enslavement; why we keep our ropes short and our spikes driven deep into the granite when we begin to scale the sheer cliffs of our infinite desires. But we are both dishonest and delusional if we cajole ourselves into thinking the intangible consequences are insignificant or, worse still, non-existent. Whether we acknowledge them or not, those consequences exist – and as unbelievable as it seems, they are just as significant.
Accept it – the rope offers no security. The rope curtails; diminishes. The rope downsizes us; abridges us. The rope anchors us; hems us in; limits our worlds to small circles. Like junkyard dogs tied to trees protecting their great treasures, round and round we go, but we never actually get anywhere. The rope keeps freedom within sight but out of reach. Yet, we somehow manage to find solace in this state, which is why we refuse to cut the rope. Yes, that is all we would need to do – simply cut the rope – but instead of cutting it, we yearn for more rope, and when enough is provided, we will eagerly tie our own nooses and happily hang ourselves without a care for consequences, tangible or otherwise.
October 4, 2019
Hungarians Drive Well, But . . .
Most Hungarians are skilled drivers. Unfortunately, skilled does not necessarily mean good. Though Hungarians generally handle their vehicles far better than Americans and Canadians do, they are also far more committed to taking reckless and unnecessary risks. In fact, the average North American would have to watch a Hollywood action film to experience the same level of over-adventurous driving Hungarians enthusiastically engage in on a daily basis. Unlike Canadians and Americans, who are stymied by manual transmissions and often struggle with simple maneuvers such as parallel parking or navigating a traffic circle, Hungarians have a natural panache behind the wheel. Everyday sights such as clumsy three-point-turns, timorous driving in reverse, and logic-defying fender benders in shopping mall parking lots – all common in the US and Canada – are practically nonexistent here. Simply put, unlike some North American drivers, Hungarian motorists know how to drive. The problem with Hungarians is they know how to drive a little too well, which inspires them to heights of daring North American drivers would feel uncomfortable even contemplating.
For example, Hungarians see nothing wrong with overtaking another vehicle at speeds of 140 kilometers per hour in blind, hairpin turns. This ties in to their overall lack of concern for speed limits, which most motorists here regard as strictly optional. Doing 200 kilometers per hour or more on highways with 130-kilometer speed limits is taken as a national duty. Tailgating other vehicles at distances of less than two centimeters is a national pastime. And cutting in front of other vehicles at the very last minute during lane changes and turns is merely par for the course. Thanks to their superior driving skills, Hungarians successfully manage these precarious maneuvers and thousands more, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.
I have been driving in Hungary for nearly four years and during this time I have tried to find explanations for the foolhardy and unsafe manner in which most Hungarians choose to drive. I have made the following observation: Hungarians generally find the presence of other vehicles on the roads insulting and offensive, and they tend to regard their fellow motorists as nothing little than annoying obstacles whose only purpose in life is to be in the way. It is with sense of injury and insult that most Hungarians take to the road, which helps explain the palpable antagonism and irritation that hangs over most Hungarian roads like a cold, dawn fog. Everyone is familiar with the “Keep calm and carry on” posters the Brits created during the Second World War. I once saw a satirical version that read “I can’t keep calm; I’m Hungarian, damn it.” That pretty much sums up why the average Hungarian driver thinks it is perfectly acceptable to enter a traffic circle doing 90 kilometers per hour despite the clearly posted 30 km speed sign.
I have mentioned that Hungarians nearly always manage to pull off their incautious driving maneuvers, but nearly always is not always. Accidents are rare in Hungary, but when they do happen, they tend to be incredibly spectacular and destructive affairs inevitably involving fatalities. Drive past an average Hungarian accident scene and you would swear you were driving by an abstract sculpture exhibit or a scene from some Mad Max-style apocalypse film. As a result, small gravestones, wooden crosses, and other little tributes dot the shoulders of most Hungarian roads. I see a half-dozen or more of them every time I drive, regardless of the route I take.
Families of traffic accident victims erect these melancholy memorials at the accident sites, and then visit them with the same dedication and diligence they visit the actual graves. Recent memorials are often adorned with flowers. At night, candles illuminate the small smiling portraits encased in the granite and wood. You can see these memorials everywhere, and you would think they would serve as a warning, or have some effect on the way people over here choose to drive. But they don't. I sometimes stop at these little markers and spend a few minutes contemplating the hows and whys of these roadside deaths before continuing on my way. When I pull back onto the road, I am usually overtaken by some hotshot clocking 150 or more even though the posted speed limit is only 70. I respond by sighing and praying that my destiny in this world does not involve being memorialized on a small strip of gravel sandwiched between a corn field and a stretch of deadly roadway.
For example, Hungarians see nothing wrong with overtaking another vehicle at speeds of 140 kilometers per hour in blind, hairpin turns. This ties in to their overall lack of concern for speed limits, which most motorists here regard as strictly optional. Doing 200 kilometers per hour or more on highways with 130-kilometer speed limits is taken as a national duty. Tailgating other vehicles at distances of less than two centimeters is a national pastime. And cutting in front of other vehicles at the very last minute during lane changes and turns is merely par for the course. Thanks to their superior driving skills, Hungarians successfully manage these precarious maneuvers and thousands more, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.
I have been driving in Hungary for nearly four years and during this time I have tried to find explanations for the foolhardy and unsafe manner in which most Hungarians choose to drive. I have made the following observation: Hungarians generally find the presence of other vehicles on the roads insulting and offensive, and they tend to regard their fellow motorists as nothing little than annoying obstacles whose only purpose in life is to be in the way. It is with sense of injury and insult that most Hungarians take to the road, which helps explain the palpable antagonism and irritation that hangs over most Hungarian roads like a cold, dawn fog. Everyone is familiar with the “Keep calm and carry on” posters the Brits created during the Second World War. I once saw a satirical version that read “I can’t keep calm; I’m Hungarian, damn it.” That pretty much sums up why the average Hungarian driver thinks it is perfectly acceptable to enter a traffic circle doing 90 kilometers per hour despite the clearly posted 30 km speed sign.
I have mentioned that Hungarians nearly always manage to pull off their incautious driving maneuvers, but nearly always is not always. Accidents are rare in Hungary, but when they do happen, they tend to be incredibly spectacular and destructive affairs inevitably involving fatalities. Drive past an average Hungarian accident scene and you would swear you were driving by an abstract sculpture exhibit or a scene from some Mad Max-style apocalypse film. As a result, small gravestones, wooden crosses, and other little tributes dot the shoulders of most Hungarian roads. I see a half-dozen or more of them every time I drive, regardless of the route I take.
Families of traffic accident victims erect these melancholy memorials at the accident sites, and then visit them with the same dedication and diligence they visit the actual graves. Recent memorials are often adorned with flowers. At night, candles illuminate the small smiling portraits encased in the granite and wood. You can see these memorials everywhere, and you would think they would serve as a warning, or have some effect on the way people over here choose to drive. But they don't. I sometimes stop at these little markers and spend a few minutes contemplating the hows and whys of these roadside deaths before continuing on my way. When I pull back onto the road, I am usually overtaken by some hotshot clocking 150 or more even though the posted speed limit is only 70. I respond by sighing and praying that my destiny in this world does not involve being memorialized on a small strip of gravel sandwiched between a corn field and a stretch of deadly roadway.
October 2, 2019
Autumn Landscape
Some days still cling to summer's fading whispers, yet the ever-descending arch the sun carves speaks another language. The change is already behind us. The signs are everywhere. Yes, the frosts will soon be upon us, but for now simply sip your tea and watch the softly tapping rain at your window blur the cascading leaves into a living, kaleidoscopic painting. 
Autumn Landscape - László Mednyánszky
Autumn Landscape - László Mednyánszky
