For me, when I heard that the title of Kinga Ráthonyi’s new exhibition would be Pillow Book, I immediately imagined an angel lying on a fluffy cloud, wrapped in it, seeing the sky, waking up, and then falling back asleep a little more. Or rather, I first thought of the Pillow Book written a thousand years ago by Szei Sónagon, a Japanese court lady, and then I imagined Kinga sitting on the plane home over the Chinese plain, looking down at the closed clouds below. She brings with her, carefully packed, red, black and gold inks, beautiful pure white and patterned rice papers, and in her head new knowledge of the never-to-be-know nature of porcelain, its infinitely complex psyche. But you could also call this material narcissistic: you never know what will emerge from the kiln, what will have collapsed inside, which sculpture, sculpted with great care, will have taken on a form that will leave the sculptor in doubt. The porcelain comes out of the kiln and hastily says to its sculptor: love me like this or throw me out, I don’t care. But you are responsible!
István Kemény