“They say that no one knows what the face of Christ looked like, everyone portrays it differently, but I felt I knew it”—this astonishing quote comes from photographer Gyula Ádám. The comment was made when his latest album, Transylvania Catholica, was released in his hometown, Cârța, where he talked about his childhood experience of Christ.
Photographer Gyula Ádám, corresponding member of the Hungarian Academy of Arts, was born in Cârța, village in the Ciucul de Sus region. This is where he spent his childhood and where he returned to recharge and seek inspiration during his studies and at the start and peak of his artistic career. The church in his native village, surrounded by high walls, was the sacred place for him. As a child, he went to the sacristy for Sunday school and singing lessons, and spent the breaks between the two lessons playing in the church with his classmates: chasing, playing hide-and-seek, hiding behind the statues or in the pulpit. And during these games, he could see the paintings in the church from a different perspective than at Mass, or even touch them. It was then, for example, that he learned the paintings were oil on canvas, and that was when he became close to the saints depicted.
One of his favourite paintings was Assumption of the Virgin, and he liked the way the angels were carrying the Blessed Virgin Mary to heaven. He liked the pair of statues of St. Lazarus and St. Stephen, and although he didn't know who they were, he concluded that they must have been valiant outlaws.
Next to the sacristy door, there was a crucifix on the wall that was larger than usual. And since the church was open during the day, he often went in, sat down near the crucifix and quietly drew it. Later he made a painting of it, and as his interest in photography grew, it was on this crucifix that he always tried out his new camera, his new film, and his new lens. For him, Christ was the test, immortalised in countless works in a multitude of genres. His relationship with the crucifix was intimate, he often felt that the peaceful, quiet, reassuring Christ, without suffering or passion, was watching him and often urged him: do not be afraid. Even after he had left home, he often felt the urge to return to his favourite representation of Christ. “They say that no one knows what the face of Christ must have looked like, everyone portrays it differently, but I felt I knew it.” Of course, the volume also includes the magnificent work, which—according to the results of Gyula Ádám’s research and investigations—is a masterpiece from a workshop in South Tyrol, and supports the quote from the Easter sermon of the happily remembered Bishop Áron Márton in 1971. “For us Christians, it is not easy to fully comprehend Jesus’ superhuman essence. We have heard His teachings, parables, miracles, and deeds a thousand times, for they have been repeated, debated, and explained a thousand times. The image we have formed of Him based on these is colourful and sweet, yet rigid and lifeless. It resembles the plaster statues with which we often needlessly clutter our churches. These prefabricated models, the perpetually repeated sermons, the ‘Sweet Jesus’ of the individualistic bourgeois, have not revealed, but rather concealed Jesus’ true form. We must set them aside to truly perceive how unsettling, mysterious, how intangible and powerful—how truly transcendent—is the real nature of Jesus of Nazareth.”
The question of the ideal and resemblance was also addressed by Miklós Barabás, one of the first Hungarian photographers and a prominent figure of Hungarian Biedermeier painting, whose words are quoted by philosopher Péter Egyed in his study Fényes pillanatok Barabás Miklóssal (Luminous Moments with Miklós Barabás): “Posterity does not care in the slightest whether one portrait perfectly resembles another. How many thousands of images of the Redeemer exist, and do any two of them resemble each other? And does even one of them resemble reality?” He also formulates the answer to these questions: ‘posterity will accept it as real’ because an idea is attached to it. According to Egyed, “Barabás has thus set up a rather complex system of interrelations in which the image, the reality, the idea and the interpretation are the most important elements, the decisive factors that, as a four-part matrix, determine the outcome of the act of creation…”
In this context, Gyula Ádám’s statement becomes both interpretable and comprehensible. His album Transylvania Catholica contributes to revealing the true figure of Jesus, to showing the real face of his church and its archdiocese of Transylvania, and to presenting the lives and faith of its believers. Published under the care of the archdiocese, this beautifully produced volume is colourful without being sweet; it is not rigid, for it captures the dynamism of the symbiosis between tradition and modernity; and it is far from lifeless, as it depicts the lives—and more importantly, the heartbeat—of individuals and, above all, of communities. It does not present a sentimentalised Transylvania, but a living one. And such a work can only be created by someone with firm knowledge and unwavering faith—someone like Gyula Ádám, who knows what the face of Christ looks like…
It is thus understandable that the focus of Gyula Ádám’s art is man, and especially the human face: God created man in his own likeness and sent his son, Christ, to redeem him. It is in the face of Christ, in the face of man, that we look for Him, and it is Him that Gyula Ádám found.
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Gyula Ádám was born in Cârța in 1961, and it was in his home village that he received the experiences and influences that shaped his entire life, career and creative work. He attended both elementary and secondary school there, and this was where he was encouraged to turn towards art. The distinguished village intellectual Ernő Macalik awakened his interest in visual expression, and his relative, Márton Zsigmond—then a student of fine arts—encouraged him to apply to the art school in Miercurea Ciuc. His parents supported the eccentric child in his search for a path and enrolled him in the Miercurea Ciuc art school, associated with the names of András Gaál, Árpád Márton and Elek Sövér. Although he began his studies slightly behind his classmates, he worked hard to catch up and, thanks to his diligence and talent, soon closed the gap. Yet studying art meant extra effort: he attended general subjects at the school in his home village, then took the train to Miercurea Ciuc in the afternoons to join the specialised art classes.
He graduated from high school in the cradle of Transylvanian Hungarian art education before the regime change, the art lyceum in Târgu Mures, where he studied graphic arts. The school provided a solid foundation for the development and further education of the young artists, who were taught the craft at a high level. They needed to have a solid knowledge base to be able to continue their studies, because although there was no official numerus clausus for Hungarians in higher education in the arts and humanities, in practice only a few people were admitted each year, and political background was a factor in addition to talent. Graphic artist Dénes Molnár taught lettering in his class and urged his students to master it thoroughly, for “letters will be your bread and butter”. In that light, the idea of a “kenyérbetű” (lit. “bread letter”)—the text accompanying a publication—took on new meaning. It was also here that he was first introduced to photography. His teachers guided him into the mysteries of this distinctive form of image-making, teaching not only composition and image creation, but also laboratory work. These two skills became the driving force behind Gyula Ádám’s journey into adulthood, which began in 1981 after he completed secondary school. He applied to the Academy of Fine Arts in Cluj, and, for the reasons mentioned above, it came as no surprise when he was not admitted. So he went to work in Balánbánya, at the copper ore mine, which was later officially known as the Balánbánya Mining Company. His drawing skills proved useful there, as he was assigned to the topography office. He had Western Moldavian Csángó colleagues (an ethnic group of Hungarian origin primarily living in Western Moldavia, Romania), and through them he formed acquaintances and friendships that later became valuable introductions and references during his regular travels in Western Moldavia. Being interested in folk life, folk culture, both its material and spiritual ethnographic aspects, he became a passionate dance enthusiast. His interest and dedication to ethnography also led him to Western Moldavia, where he wanted to capture and document the then almost untouched, archaic world of the Csángó villages in photographs. In 1982 he set off with a friend from his village; they got off the train in Lespezi, and it felt as if they had arrived in the neighbouring Dămăcușeni, where everyone spoke Hungarian in the streets. They greeted people, took photographs, and on their next trip they brought prints and gave them to their subjects. From then on, they were welcomed as friends and esteemed guests.
These photo shoots in Western Moldavia taught him how to use light. Most shots were taken in dark interiors, with light filtering through narrow windows, or in the evenings by kerosene lamp or candlelight. There were no studio conditions—he had to animate the environment with whatever light was available.
He often said that, at first, he was almost excessively careful—concerned that his photographs should feature only authentic objects and hesitant to include any contemporary elements, such as a Dacia car or modern manufactured goods. Later, however, he came to realise that he was not merely documenting the past, but also the present—the ever-changing present.
Later, he travelled the villages of Western Moldavia with his friend, Zsolt Barabás, occasionally reporting to Zoltán Kallós on the results of their work and receiving guidance and instruction for the next steps. These meaningful, profound conversations remained memorable for Gyula Ádám, who admits that he learned more from them than if he had studied ethnography at university. Their regular and consistent visits to Western Moldavia lasted until 1992, by which time they had taken a considerable number of photographs. Their close friendships with the locals shielded them for a long time from the harassment commonly faced by ethnographers and anyone showing interest in Hungarian folk traditions in Moldova. However, shortly after the 1989 regime change, while photographing and filming a wedding in Outer Recea, two policemen burst into their room, declared that they had been searching for them for two years, and escorted them to the county capital’s police headquarters in Bacău. There, the two “culprits” attempted to claim that they were taking photos in Western Moldavia “for money”, hoping to be charged with an economic offence rather than a political one. But the interrogating major was not easily deceived—he was clearly familiar with ethnography, as he could identify precisely which village the subjects came from just by the embroidery on the shirts. Moreover, the officers assumed they were from Hungary and tried to communicate through an interpreter, but when they realised the photographers were from Miercurea Ciuc, they nearly beat them up. Eventually, they were sent home. Troubles continued there too, but fortunately the revolution soon followed. They were still photographing in some parts of the country when they went to Bacău to retrieve their confiscated films and recordings.
By that time, Gyula Ádám already had his own “studio” in Miercurea Ciuc, as after eight years in mining he had started working as a window dresser for the county’s fruit and vegetable trading company. After the regime change, he was contacted by journalist István Ferenczes—later the founding editor-in-chief of the cultural journal Székelyföld (lit. Székely Land) and a Kossuth Prize-winning poet—who, during the days of the revolution, was the head of the Harghita County Cultural Inspectorate, an institution that shaped the cultural life of the county. Ferenczes invited him to participate in institution-building work, setting up what became a kind of research centre. Their work proved so effective that people even came from Bucharest to see how they operated. They began filming and archiving folk music and folk dance. As Ádám recalls, photography took a back seat for a while, as there were still so many living folk customs to record. “We managed to film many dancers who could still share their knowledge—people who soon after took it with them to the grave. Somehow, István Ferenczes and Alpár Kostyák sensed that I knew what to do. So I wasn’t just a technician behind the camera; I was someone who understood what was happening in front of it,” he recalled in an interview. In the first years of the new system, everything changed rapidly: institutions closed and new ones were created. He soon became a specialist at the House of Folk Art and, from 1999 until his retirement in 2024, worked at its successor, the Harghita County Cultural Centre. He considers himself fortunate to have been able to combine his livelihood with his passion, dedicating his life to photography. And he has no regrets that, after three unsuccessful applications to the Academy of Fine Arts, he stopped trying—even though people encouraged him, saying, “You’ll be next.” “If I’d been accepted, I’d probably be a small-time painter or drawing teacher somewhere. But I feel photography offered me far more opportunities,” he recalls of that fateful choice.
Before the regime change, he did not even dare to think about exhibiting his Csángó photos, it would have been a hopeless attempt. He sent a few works to some places, but no one dared to engage with the Csángó theme. After the political turnaround, the opportunity finally arose to exhibit these pictures. Zoltán Kallós had once taught him that creative work should never exist for its own sake: “What is the point if I don’t make it public?” Together with Zsolt Barabás, he contacted his former teacher, artist Árpád Márton, presented their exhibition plans, and received his enthusiastic support. Their joint exhibition, Western Moldavian Hungarians, held in Csíkszereda, was a great success; both professionals and the general public were astonished by what they saw. Later that year, they travelled to Hungary with some of their photographs and knocked on the door of a gallery. When they explained who they were and what they wanted, they were told that the people there had had enough of Transylvanians. Then, when they saw the pictures, they just hummed and said that the exhibition would be ready in two years. And it indeed was. As Ádám later reflected: “Until then, the Csángó theme in Hungary had been dominated by exoticism. I think our photographs succeeded because of their authenticity. You could see that these were living, flesh-and-blood people.”
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In 1992, the period of Western Moldavian journeys with Zsolt Barabás came to an end, but Gyula Ádám continued to return, maintaining his contacts and documenting the rapid transformation of this easternmost Hungarian ethnic group—how medieval conditions were replaced within a few short years by what is called civilisation. “The change there didn’t happen gradually, as it did in Székely Land, but suddenly, almost brutally. The medieval world was instantly swept away by the new age: hemp and linen cloth became shiny textile, shingles were replaced by the latest building materials, and huts became palaces. I had to experience this contrast. One day there was no electricity, and the next there was digital technology—the fastest internet was already available there when we in Székely Land were only beginning to talk about it,” he recalled, summing up the fast development. His interests broadened: he travelled not only through Csángó villages but also across the settlements of Ciucani, Comitatul Odorheiu, Giurgeu and Trei Scaune, as well as the Transylvanian Saxon countryside. In every circumstance, his curiosity guided him; his lens was always searching for people, focusing his camera on their faces and the souls reflected in them.
One of the artist’s favourite quotes is attributed to Sándor Márai: although humankind was expelled from Paradise, we Hungarians went back through the back gate, and the Lord saw that it was good, and let us carry on with our work. “Paradise wasn’t lost, there is no exile”— Ádám affirms. He confesses that on countless occasions he met people who, despite living in poverty, would tell him they were living “in Paradise”. For him, this proves that happiness is possible even without material wealth. To experience this, Gyula Ádám has time and again “walked the perimeter of Paradise”, returning repeatedly to capture its inhabitants—the unknown “great souls”. He admits that sometimes one must leave, rise above, to see one’s own world more clearly; but one must always return to live the everyday life of the people one photographs. As he recounts, in some places he was introduced to strangers as a brother; elsewhere his name even appeared in laments: “Wake up, Mother, Gyula is here, and he will take a nice, colourful picture of you!”. What greater recognition could an artist ask for?—he wonders, and immediately answers himself: there is no greater reward. He is convinced that photography is not about technique, because no one truly cares how a photograph is made—only what it conveys.
It is these direct human connections that form the foundation of his art. His repeated returns have enabled him to create not just photographic records of single villages, but sometimes of entire families within them, each series telling its own story—sometimes a dramatic one—capturing the arc of life from birth, through struggle and joy, to death.
He has also documented other forms of change on an artistic level. In the early 2000s, he followed the first three or four seasons of the newly established Municipal Theatre of Miercurea Ciuc, and his theatre photography was a revelation. The low-light techniques he had refined in Western Moldavia produced results rarely seen before. He took similar photographs at performances of the Miercurea Ciuc professional folk ensemble, understanding instinctively what was happening both behind and in front of the camera. Yet he did not wish to be confined to theatre photography—his focus remained on people and faces.
Throughout his career, he helped organise numerous traditional festivals and documented them through his photography. He played a key role in the Tatros Forrás fesztivál (lit. Tatros Fountain Festival) in Gyimes, the annual gathering of artistic groups that keep the farsang (the Hungarian carnival season, which lasts until the day before Lent begins) traditions of Harghita County alive, and the establishment and continuation of the Ezer Székely Leány Napja (lit. Day of a Thousand Székely Girls) in Șumuleu. These recurring events provided the rhythm of his work, much like the pages of a calendar. In addition, he regularly took part in photography camps and courses, sharing his ever-growing knowledge and experience with fellow photographers and students.
From time to time, he recalls the advice of his former teacher, Dénes Molnár, who told him to cultivate a good relationship with letters, for they would be his “bread and butter”. True to that, he has designed numerous book covers, laid out dozens of publications, and created posters and flyers—each reflecting his unique visual perspective, his grounding in folk culture, and his uncompromising professionalism. Since its founding, he has worked as a graphic editor for the Székelyföld (lit. Székely Land) magazine, most widely circulated cultural periodical in the Hungarian-speaking world, and until its closure he also served as graphic editor and photographer for the journal Moldvai Magyarság (lit. Western Moldavian Hungarians).
His versatile, devoted work has brought him recognition. He admits that, for him, success lies in the ability to keep working—and he works a great deal. Each year, he presents several solo and group exhibitions, both in prestigious galleries and local community halls. His photographs have been seen and appreciated in Budapest, Bucharest, and Brussels alike.
Through his life’s work, Gyula Ádám has proved the belief that people living in peripheral regions can only stand out through extra effort, knowledge, and creative talent, since they lack the economic resources and conditions necessary to compete with their environment. The truth of this idea was affirmed by the recognition he has earned as a photographer. The Film and Photography Section of the Hungarian Academy of Arts awarded him the István Szőts Prize for his photographs portraying folk life. The prize acknowledged his documentary-style images that, with remarkable sensitivity, capture the everyday lives of the Csángó people of Western Moldavia and Gyimes, and the Hungarians living in Ținutul Secuiesc and in isolated communities. For him, this honour is as meaningful as the Knight’s Cross of the Hungarian Order of Merit he received earlier, as the award bearing the name of István Szőts is awarded by the finest of the Hungarian photographic profession. Gyula Ádám’s photographs—like the works of István Szőts—are imbued with humanity. They deal with social themes, their compositions are concise and expressive, and they often carry the atmosphere of a ballad. At the same time, the artist makes extensive use of the shades created by natural light, playing with light and shadow. It is hard to imagine a more fitting professional accolade than this prize from the Hungarian Academy of Arts, which has borne István Szőts’ name since 2013. Although Ádám is a member of several professional organisations, he is most proud of being selected as a corresponding member of the Hungarian Academy of Arts.
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The art of Gyula Ádám is, at its core, poetry—poetry of the face. It is no coincidence that the late Gábor Cseke—poet, writer, newspaper editor, selfless friend and supporter of the photographer, and a diligent chronicler of his career—chose the title Arcpoétika (lit. “Face Poetics”) for their collection of conversations. Neither the author, who kept his personality completely in the background and merely encouraged the photographer to talk, nor the subject of the work intended the title to be a cheap pun. Gyula Ádám says the following about this in the cited work: “The title requires a little explanation. Some people consider it a cheap pun, but that was not my intention. Human faces have surrounded me and accompanied me throughout my life. I capture them at every possible opportunity and in every possible way. For me, everything has a face: the years, objects, people, my actions and my omissions.”
Only those who have set the bar high are capable of this. For Gyula Ádám, the face of Christ in the church of his childhood is the standard. It was on this image that he tested his drawing and painting skills, and later every new camera and lens. His connection to it was deeply personal: he often felt that the calm, gentle, reassuring Christ—free of pain and passion—watched over him and encouraged him, whispering: “Do not be afraid.” It was to this face that he compared all the faces he captured throughout his life. For he knows what the face of Christ must have looked like—and he continues to rediscover it again and again, in the faces of his fellow human beings.
[2024]