Gabor (2021) - full transcript

Kim, the Gaspé International

Photo Festival

is presenting segments

from the documentary GABOR,

which is currently being made...

Yes, it features Gabor Szilasi,

a Canadian photographer

originally from Hungary

who contributed to developing

Quebecois photography

with his many portraits

of the province's residents.

He's also important to

the Gaspé Photography Festival,

as he was awarded the festival's

first artist residency.

We're on the line

with the two people involved:

Joannie Lafrenière

and Gabor Szilasi, hello!

-Hello.

-Hello.

Ms. Lafrenière, first of all,

tell me about how you met

the photographer Gabor Szilasi.

Well, I was familiar

with his work, of course,

and then I had the great luck

to meet him in 2015 at the festival.

I thought: "Wow, he's even

more wonderful than I thought."

Mr. Szilasi, tell us about

your first encounter

with Joannie Lafrenière.

It was in 2015, here at

the Gaspé Photography Festival.

Joannie was giving a presentation.

We started to talk.

Back in Montreal, she called

and asked me if I'd be interested

in making a film

about my life and my work.

I thought she seemed really nice,

she had a great sense of humour,

which I have as well.

I thought about it for a day,

then I said, "Sure, let's do it."

Before heading off

on an adventure

that will take us from Montreal

to Budapest

while passing through

many rural lands,

there's something

you should know:

it was through photography that

Gabor and I connected, years ago.

The first time I saw his photos,

it all became clear to me:

I was going to be a photographer,

just like Gabor.

His images contained everything

that I liked about photography.

In every one of Gabor's shots,

all his goodness,

his humanity,

his poetry and his humour

shone through.

It was then, with my mind

full of Gabor's photos,

that I realized I'd found it.

The thing I wanted

to do when I grew up.

Seasons went by and, like Gabor,

inspiring projects brought me

on the road

to meet people

carrying inside me

the precious legacy of his work.

Inspired by a desire to get to know

the man behind the camera,

I gathered up my courage

and I asked Gabor

if he would be willing

to become a tour guide

of his own life.

And that's how

this great adventure began.

Should it be horizontal or vertical?

Yeah?

I don't think

I can give you lessons!

For me photography was always

a great way to approach people.

To ask questions.

Sometimes indiscreet ones.

But I've heard

there are no indiscreet questions,

only indiscreet answers!

The camera was an excuse.

Because

I really like people.

I love people, actually.

And I think that comes through

in some of the photos.

I was really interested

in ordinary people,

people who had something to say

in their expression,

their way of life, their attire.

That's what I was

mainly interested in.

I was raised in a big city,

in Budapest.

I didn't really know any farmers

or country folk.

It was here in Quebec,

at the Quebec Film Board

where I worked for 12 years

that they sent me out

to the country to report

for the Minister of Agriculture

or of Transport

or in the schools.

That's where I discovered

the farmers,

the rural folk.

And for me, it was something new.

I really liked these people.

When I started photographing

in Montreal,

but also in rural areas,

I worked with what's called

a large format camera, a 4x5.

I would set up the photo

and people would come out.

Or they would stop me in the street

to ask questions.

"Will this house be

demolished or something?"

I said, "No, I like this house

and I want to take

pictures of it."

And people would be really proud

that a real photographer,

a professional one,

had come to their village.

-Thanks!

-Thank you. See you, Sylvain.

-Hello?

-Yes, hello sir.

-A poutine, please.

-What size? Small, medium?

Small.

-To eat here?

-Yes.

One small to eat here.

How long have you been here?

-It's been 26 years.

-26 years?

Yup.

Looks great.

-Here you are, bon appétit.

-Thanks, super.

I have all the photos

that I took here in Charlevoix.

Look, Jean-Marc.

I'll call back.

I went up to the same spot

and you can't see the graveyard

because the trees have grown.

Yes, yes.

So you can't see any of this.

This little house,

is it still there?

Yes, it's still there.

It's the old parish hall.

-Oh yeah?

-It's still there.

A man bought it

and he lives there now.

He's not from around here.

-But the trees are in the way now.

-Yes, it has changed.

You said this was in 1970?

-Yes.

-That is our house there.

-Oh yes?

That's Pascal

from the bakery.

This is the Laurentides Hotel,

but I think it's gone now.

-No, it's gone.

-The building is still there?

It's still there,

but now it's the Saint-Gilles

paper-making shop.

But wasn't Saint-Gilles paper

here before?

Yeah, but they moved there

or right nearby, I think.

This is in front of the church

after Vespers.

That's when I took this photo of

Marie Pedneault and Laura Harvey.

Hey, that's my godfather,

Adrien Bolduc!

Yes.

So you knew him.

He was my uncle.

Married to my mom's sister.

-That was at the stock-car races.

-Oh yes!

That's all gone now.

Luc Simard, Édouard Guay

and Joseph Lajoie.

Luc Simard,

that's Léonard's brother.

Marie-Noëlle's husband,

the vet, that's his brother.

Those are nice souvenirs.

Great photos.

-You're Gabor...?

-Szilasi.

When you came here,

you were 30 years old?

No I was...

Wait a sec.

When I came,

I would have been

35 years old,

maybe even 40.

I worked at the Quebec Film Board.

But where do you come from

originally?

From Budapest, in Hungary.

I'm Hungarian by birth.

-When did you come to Canada?

-I was 29.

You were 29,

so you were finished your studies?

Well, no. I had started

studying medicine.

It's a long story.

I wanted to get out

in 1949,

but the communists caught us

at the border.

So I couldn't go back to school.

I worked in construction,

building the Budapest metro.

And then I started taking photos

and taking French classes

at Alliance Française.

But in French and in every

other language I speak,

I have an accent.

It's good.

We understand you very well.

Can I take your photo?

We'll say yes,

but I don't make very nice photos!

If they aren't beautiful,

it's the photographer's fault.

-You'll get a nice shot.

-Yes.

My face is highly sought after.

It's one of a kind!

I'll take another one.

Thanks.

Super, thanks!

-Here?

-Here.

Alright, let's get arranged.

Big smiles!

Perfect. Thanks.

Nice photo.

Let me put it in a bag for you.

-A souvenir from Isle-aux-Coudres.

-Thank you!

-It was so nice to meet you.

-For me as well!

I'd heard of you before,

but we'd never met.

It's Bagor?

-Your first name?

-Gabor.

It's Gabriel in French.

For us, the word "gabord"

means part of a ship.

The part at the front

is called a "gabord".

Oh yeah?

-G-A-B-O-R.

-Yeah, it's not spelled the same.

-Before, Gabor!

-Yeah, before Gabor.

Before there was Gabor.

Let me get you a bag.

-He wants to give you that gift.

-Great, I'm happy!

Come closer.

Should we sit?

Did you start the self-timer?

No.

-I'll take this off.

-It's nice like that.

I brought out all the photos

you took in 2010.

That's great.

I'll never forget how one lady,

when she saw herself in the shot,

she said,

"I'm going to pee my pants!"

She said, "I never thought

I'd be in a museum."

As though it was a museum!

But she had quite a reaction.

-I'll never forget that.

-Yeah.

This guy is dead now?

Yes, that's what I was saying.

-This is mom.

-Yes, your mother.

This woman is dead now

but the man is still around.

Renée is still around,

and still our president.

These people,

are they dead?

He died last week.

We buried him on Monday.

Monday or Tuesday

of last week.

This is my aunt,

my dad's sister.

She's moved

into an old folks home.

And this is Renée, you and...

Amazing memory!

She was the mayor

at the time, Jovette.

-Post office?

-Yes, bravo!

-And it's still the post office?

-Yes, still.

I think she knew

that she had nice legs.

Oh yes!

-And this was at the factory.

-That's right.

All these photos

are like a piece of our history.

I can say, "These people are gone,

these ones came back."

And they're completely

in their own world.

These photos have a lot to say.

-Have the prices changed?

-Probably!

Hot chicken sandwich,

BBQ thigh, yes, fajitas.

Oh, fajitas!

-These are the Bernatchez.

-Yes, the whole family.

This barn was blown down

one windy day.

But it was a very old barn.

-And they're still not married?

-Still.

Nothing has changed.

My husband.

-The boys.

-That's right.

I was so warmly accepted

thanks to you.

The people

were very welcoming.

No one refused

to have their portrait taken.

It was a pleasure for us,

people still talk about it.

-Hello sir.

-Hello ma'am.

My name is Gabor Szilasi

and I have a reservation.

Can you sign this, please?

Percé Rock is made of limestone,

a sedimentary rock deposited

at the bottom of a warm, shallow sea

around 400 million years ago.

That's why it contains

so many fossils,

bearing witness to the abundance

of life at the time.

The rock is being eroded

by waves and storms.

Its cliffs are very unstable

due to the wind, rain,

freezing and thawing and the salt,

which makes them

very dangerous to climb.

You're from this island?

No, from Chandler.

Do you have a big family?

Children and grandchildren?

I had two daughters and a son.

Now I just have one son

and one daughter.

And I have four grandchildren.

Oh yeah?

And they live in the area?

My son lives in Gaspé

and my daughter in New Brunswick.

My daughter has two girls

and my son has two boys.

So I have four reasons

to be happy.

I've been on the sea

since I was seven.

So I decided to get certified

to become a captain.

It was a good decision.

I'm composing a piece

about the Saint Lawrence River

for symphony orchestra.

It's called Moliantegok.

It means "great river".

This is beautiful!

Superb.

That's beautiful.

And you stop the vibration

with the pedal?

Like a piano.

I have an autograph collection

that I bought after the war

from a music collector

and a music lover.

I have Dohnányi, Kodály, Bartók...

I have Richard Strauss, Puccini.

All the musicians who had come

to Budapest in the 20s and 30s.

That's amazing.

And singers, too.

I heard an anecdote

about Richard Strauss.

He was in his house

during World War Two

and a soldier showed up,

he was "cleaning things up",

and Richard Strauss was very old,

but the woman

who took care of him said,

"Don't kill him,

he's Richard Strauss!"

And the end of the story was:

"Thank God that the soldier

knew his music!"

-Nice, eh?

-Yes, that's nice.

-This is Bach arranged by Reger.

-Oh yes.

So beautiful.

But you have to sit

and listen.

You sit here,

and look outside.

They play it well, eh?

-The great Johann Sebastian Bach.

-Yes.

I call him the father

of all musicians.

We should go out on the balcony

if you want to get good shots.

Yes, okay.

I met Doreen, my wife, in 1959.

I came from Quebec City,

where I'd lived

for two or three years,

and Doreen was coming from Mexico,

from San Miguel de Allende,

where she was studying painting.

I got her phone number.

So I called Doreen

and it worked.

Growing up,

my picture was taken all the time.

There was no difference

between taking a photo

or having a family photo session.

He was never without

his camera.

And I grew up

with art everywhere.

I'd have my macramé project

on the table.

I'd be painting or making photograms

with my dad in the darkroom.

I'd have all sorts of projects

all over the house.

My mom was making prints

in the basement,

my dad was in the darkroom.

It was dirty, with water everywhere

and paint and papier mâché.

It was very physical.

My childhood was very sensory,

in that it incorporated

all the human senses.

We're a small family,

I'm an only child.

But I never felt that way,

I never felt alone.

I always felt generosity,

and lots of life.

We were always laughing.

Just creativity and love.

I feel really lucky.

Once when I was a teen,

he was teaching at the university.

I had problems

with a friend, a boyfriend,

and other problems

that I can't even remember anymore

but I went to his office

at the university

and I started talking

about my problems.

He looked at me and he listened,

and he didn't say anything

other than:

"Sit down here

and turn to face the window."

And then he took my photo.

We didn't really talk

more than that.

I've always felt really close

to my dad.

Almost like we didn't have to talk

to understand each other.

I think we've always been quite

sensitive to each other's emotions.

How he feels

is very important to me.

I feel really close to him.

I'm always worried about him.

I always want him

to drive less,

or to go out less,

especially at night.

I'm always scared

that he'll slip on the ice

or fall on the sidewalk.

Because that has happened

several times.

But what's extraordinary

about my dad

is that, like a child,

he won't start being afraid.

He'll just keep going.

My dad,

he never stops.

He's funny.

But he's not "ha-ha" funny,

he's funny in a subtle way.

And his humour, I think,

is the humour of Central Europe.

I can recognize it in my family,

in my surroundings,

in the literature,

from the atmosphere.

So it's very familiar.

The tie is by Henry Saxe.

If you don't like it,

I'll give you another one.

I love it.

It's me in 20 years.

This one.

I arrived in the summer of 1971.

There was an exhibition,

and we got there,

and Peter introduced me

to Gabor and Doreen.

They were the first artists

I'd met here in Canada.

For me, it was sort of reassuring,

because I didn't know anyone here

other than Peter and his parents.

Knowing that Gabor came

from Hungary,

he was like me, in a way.

So it reassured me a little.

I'd met people who came

from my part of the world,

so I could get my bearings.

And from there, we slowly

and gradually become friends.

And when you have that kind

of connection or friendship,

you can say that you're home.

I remember when he told me,

"I want to take

your portrait."

I said,

"Sure, whenever you want."

So then he came over,

and he just started taking pictures.

He sent me the contact sheet,

saying that he wanted to enlarge one

and he asked me to choose

the one I liked best.

I said no.

No way!

"You choose! It's your art.

I can't tell you what to do."

So he chose this photo,

which is now in my house.

When I saw it, I said,

"That's an extraordinary portrait."

It could be of anyone...

Well, not anyone, I guess.

But I don't have the impression

that it's my own portrait.

It's an excellent portrait.

Cheers!

Tell them that if they're alive...

If you are all alive,

you're invited to my 100th...

-Here!

-At the same place!

At the arena!

I started taking pictures

at art exhibition launches

in the late 1950s.

Until 1980.

When I started,

there weren't many of them.

Maybe one or two per month

in a few galleries.

And it was mostly

thanks to Doreen, my wife,

who introduced me

to her artist friends,

because she was also an artist.

So the museum decided

to publish a book of 100 photos

with texts.

It's going to be a beautiful book.

Maybe it will be my last project,

a book that documents

these events

that were so important

in my life.

So I'm excited

to see the book.

What a handsome guy!

You think I took this picture

because of her butt?

I really liked developing film,

seeing the image slowly appear

on the paper.

It's still like magic for me.

And then making a contact sheet,

choosing photos from it,

marking the best ones.

I see great photos

from back then

that I had initially ignored.

I mean, of course I'd seen it,

but it didn't speak to me

back then.

So I don't know

if this is about nostalgia,

or simply that my interest

in photographic images has changed.

I don't try to explain.

It's part of reality.

We all change.

We have to accept change.

So will you accept...

You told me last week you had

some problems with your eyes.

Do you think that one day,

you'll stop taking photos?

No.

I have a disease

that may lead to...

How do you say "blindness"?

Aveugle.

Devenir aveugle.

Yes, I may go blind.

But with the vitamins I'm taking

and the glasses I wear,

it's not a problem.

No, my eyes are quite all right.

I mostly just have vision problems

when I read.

It's true that my eyes get tired.

Or I fall asleep.

But for taking photos,

I'm just fine.

It will be fantastic, Gabor.

It will be fantastic.

We're looking forward to seeing you.

-Fantastic?

-Fantastic.

-And you're here too!

-I'm happy to see your place.

It's true, you've never been.

The home

of the great Michel Campeau!

Gabor was introduced to me

in the early 1970s

by Ron Solomon,

who was the photography curator

at the NFB in Ottawa.

He was the first important

photographer I ever met.

I'm hungry.

You had to bring

your own supper!

Right away,

when I met Gabor,

I totally identified

with his world.

I admired his accomplishments,

his work, his lifestyle too.

A little family,

a happy artistic life,

intellectual work and all that.

I could totally relate to that.

I think I also thought of him

as something of a father,

a spiritual or aesthetic father.

He supported me

in my art,

there's no doubt about that.

Hold on a sec.

What's this?

My dear friends!

I'm so happy to be celebrating

the solstice with all of you.

The idea was that everyone would

present a few slides of their work.

And the pleasure

of being together, Michel!

Well, of course!

I already said that!

This is a photo of my family:

my mom, my aunt,

and my uncle.

This is a man looking at my mom

while my mom looks at my dad

who's taking the picture.

We find these strange moments

in our family slides, don't we?

The camera is on the bar

and we're having

a kissing free-for-all.

This is life and love and friendship

and we celebrate it with glee!

Like we're doing here.

Gabor was at the burial

of my mother, Georgette,

and he even took some photos,

believe it or not.

Somewhere in my house

I have the contact sheets

for my mom's funeral,

from Gabor's photos at

the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges cemetery.

That's really something.

I think that he knew that

it was an exceptional moment,

for me and maybe for him, too.

I mean,

he knew what it meant,

the presence or absence of a mother.

No social commentary,

these are just family photos.

This was our wedding

in London, Ontario, in 1964.

It wasn't me who took this shot.

Who took it?

No comment.

Gabor, is this really the first time

you've shown these photos?

Yes.

This is Doreen in Atlantic City.

Andrea and I,

comparing muscles.

Pierre Gaudard and Gabor Szilasi

on Mont Washington.

Pierre Gaudard was a close friend,

a French photographer.

Unfortunately, he's gone now.

And that's it.

You once told me that sometimes

you remember taking the photo,

and other times

you don't really remember.

Do you remember taking this one?

Yes, this one I remember.

After the revolution,

there was a week of joy

and of calm.

But after that,

the Russian tanks rolled in

and that's what you see

in this shot.

The terror has returned.

-The calm before the storm.

-Yes.

Well, I'll make another one.

This negative is really tricky.

It was tough when I printed it

the first time, too.

But this image is really important.

This one's no good either.

A quick exposure here...

And?

-It looks okay.

-Yes, not bad.

I can see the details

in the sky.

Yes, I think it will be good.

I left Romania after trying

to leave for two years.

I only succeeded

due to a fairly extraordinary

set of circumstances.

I got to Montreal

and my lover was here,

his parents were here too.

And I would make

a life here.

But when I learned how

Gabor had left Budapest,

it was clear that

he left under

absolutely horrible conditions.

I could allow myself the luxury,

even though I left

under very difficult conditions,

I could allow myself the luxury

of saying,

"I'm not so sure

if I like it here."

It's not that I wanted to go back

to Romania.

Absolutely not.

But I was able to give myself

time to integrate.

But for Gabor, I have the impression

that it was a sink-or-swim

kind of situation.

And that was the case for me too,

eventually.

But I wasn't aware of it,

because the stakes weren't the same.

And later,

quite a bit later,

maybe only

seven or eight years ago,

he started talking to me

about his family.

I never knew,

up to that point,

that he'd had a brother

and a sister.

That was a shock.

Because if you look at him,

he's open and generous,

funny, witty and intelligent.

He knows

an amazing number of things.

He reads, he is cultivated

and all that.

But he only opens up

so far.

After that, the door is closed.

I was born in Budapest in 1928.

My parents were Jewish,

from middle class families.

Due to growing antisemitism

in Hungary,

they decided to convert

to Christianity,

so I was raised

as a Lutheran.

I went to high school

at the Evangélikus Gimnázium

in Budapest.

When the Nazi German army

entered Budapest in 1944,

the antisemitic Hungarian

Arrow Cross Party

started to round up the Jews,

the gypsies, the homosexuals

and all others who didn't fit

into the Nazi Aryan ideal.

My father worked in a forced

labour camp close to Budapest,

but he could come home

in the evenings.

As for us, my mother,

my brother and I,

we were arrested by the police

and brought to a school

where they were gathering up

undesirables.

Thanks to a good friend

of my father,

János and I were able

to get out of the school

but unfortunately,

my mother was separated from us.

She was deported and she died

in the Stutthof concentration camp

in Germany.

Should I do it again?

How was it for you to dig

back into those memories?

It was a little painful.

But you know,

with everything that happened

during the fascist era

in Hungary,

I've forgotten some of it.

But I think of my mother often.

It's emotional for me.

I remember

they started

compiling statistics

and conducting research

on the gypsies and the Jews.

They measured

our noses,

our ears, our mouths and everything,

complete with photos.

It was research to show

that Jews have big noses,

that gypsies had dark brown skin.

My father had a really good friend,

a Catholic.

Risking his own safety,

he was able to get us out.

I never asked my father

what happened,

if there was money involved, or...

And I regret that,

but I never asked him,

and he never told me about it.

I don't know why

he wasn't able to get

our mother out.

So she was deported and she died

in a concentration camp.

He never spoke about his past

when I was growing up.

So I had a gap in my mind

about these historical facts.

I always wondered:

did he not talk about it because

it was too hard for him to talk

about his parents and family?

Because he wanted to start over

here in Canada?

Or was it that he didn't want me

to think of those terrible things,

because I'm his daughter?

His father lived with us.

I was 11 or 12 when his father died,

I think.

And I remember visiting him

in his room,

it was like going

into another apartment.

He had these old paintings,

his encyclopedias

and old wooden furniture.

It was very Hungarian.

I played school with him,

like I was his teacher

and he was my student.

Sometimes he gave me

and my friends money

to buy candy at the corner store.

But I never talked to him

about his past.

It never occurred to me.

And my mom never really

talked about it either.

I think I'd have liked him

to talk to me about it,

because just talking

about something

shows that it's possible to discuss

difficult things that happen.

But it remained mysterious,

and that made everything harder.

When I was a young teen,

my dad wanted to go to Budapest

to show me the house

where he used to live.

That was a time when my dad

wanted to be closer to me,

to show me things.

They're in no hurry.

And I regret that

I wasn't as receptive then

as I would be today.

He wanted to talk one night,

and I was just like,

"I'm going to sleep."

He said he felt

less close to me,

and that was painful to hear.

I didn't jump on the opportunity

to talk or to cry together,

just to have that contact.

Maybe I subconsciously felt

like that door was closed,

and I was happy

to leave it closed.

On our last trip to Budapest,

it wasn't like in the movies where

there's a communication breakthrough

where all the unasked questions

get answered.

But just being there together

was good.

I felt like the silences

were rich and full.

You said that here in Budapest,

we are the survivors?

Excuse me.

Hello?

Mária, please come back.

Tell Zoli that I can't talk to him.

That was one of my students

who now works

as a sound man.

Really?

Yes, that's his profession.

-Like him?

-Yes.

You know, the last one who died

from our class was Ilyes Györgei.

-You visited him a few times.

-Yes.

In the 70s and 80s,

with my wife Doreen,

we came to Budapest

every three years.

So you saw him several

more times.

Yes, and I took a picture of you.

I even sent it to you.

You were the two

handsomest ones, eh?

What do you mean?

Like visually?

Do you mind?

My hearing is a bit poor.

She asked if we were

the handsomest in school.

I said we were not.

Him yes,

but I've never been very handsome.

I don't remember

when you left Hungary.

In 1956.

-In 1956.

-Yeah.

I tried to get out in 1949,

but they caught us

at the border.

I was in prison for five months.

And after, I couldn't go back

to study medicine.

I started working in construction,

building the Budapest metro.

And that's when I bought

a Russian camera, a Zorki.

That's when I started

taking pictures.

I remember that Zorki.

I still have it,

but it no longer works.

It's a museum artifact.

Did you know

that he'd gone to prison?

You didn't know

that I was in prison, did you?

You never told me that.

That's because I wasn't proud

of being a prisoner.

But I don't mind talking about it.

Can I take a picture of you

with Mária?

It's not against the rules.

A candid photo.

Now a real artistic photographer

is taking our picture.

That's right.

Here we go.

The best is how the photographer

is being photographed.

Yes.

As he does his work.

By several people.

A real Mona Lisa smile.

Thank you.

-Bye István.

-Goodbye.

And I'll be back.

Next year, maybe.

Let me call the elevator.

Bye.

It's very hard to go back.

It's hard.

You go back to a place

where you know everything,

your feet know the stones

in the street.

It's no longer the same.

You still have good memories,

because it was your youth.

But it's hard.

You have your memories

in your head,

but when you go back and see

the street corner you know so well,

the restaurant where you went

with your friends,

the café by the university

that is now gone...

It's terrible.

Going to the cemetery,

that's what you do

when you return to your native land.

I don't want

to come back to live here.

I've lived two-thirds of my life

in Canada.

In Montreal.

And I like it there.

All my friends are there.

It has really become my country.

So here, I'm a bit of a tourist,

but that's okay.

Maybe you've started to look

at the exhibition.

These are forty years' worth

of archives

by three photographers

about friendship.

I'll try to keep this simple.

And I'd say that at the same time,

it's a mirror project,

because each visitor recognizes

the images that they see

in their own history.

That's all I have to say.

So have a good trip.

Have a good projection.

The mirror is yours!

It's a work that celebrates

friendship, life, our families.

I'd say about this project

that we're wearing

our cameras over our hearts,

first and foremost.

And again, I can only thank

my friend Gabor.

Can I say a few words?

I love this exhibition.

It's a bit nostalgic,

but it's an important work

about the development

of documentary photography

here and everywhere else.

This exhibition really touches me.

Not just because

it's from our youth.

We look a lot younger,

it's normal.

But especially,

it's really

the energy

of the photographers of the time.

We documented

what was important in their lives.

So thank you for that.

When I take a picture,

it's one 125th of a second.

At the time,

I am present at the scene,

so I know what happened

the minute before

and the minute after.

Yes, what I see right away

is important,

but there's surely something

that holds me,

that I feel strongly

when I capture

that 125th of a second.

Which becomes the past.

Yes, which becomes the past.

Because for you, the present moment

has always been important.

Yes.

And it's the only thing

that a camera can capture:

the present moment.

And that's so different

from cinema or video,

because we know what happened

when the person enters the image

or leaves it.

For me, photography is a poem,

but cinema

is more like a novel.

This and this.

-And all this. But not this.

-Okay.

When we get to that point,

we'll ask you.

I don't want to bring things

that shouldn't come with us.

-These ones?

-Yes.

-But not these?

-No, that's paper.

-And this?

-No.

This yes.

And this?

No.

Okay, we'll put that aside

right away.

All these, and those four there.

There are four in the back?

There are five.

Ten boxes, Alain?

Yeah, I think that should

be enough for now.

We don't want to make too many.

Let me get my camera.

I'm going to need

some sleeves, Serge.

Seventy years of photos, leaving.

-Seventy years?

-Yes.

Incredible. That's a whole life.

Well, yeah.

We collected 13 boxes

and one flat document

with those two big boxes

of negatives.

Fourteen in total.

Received by Alain.

Today is March 19.

I need you to sign here,

and then I'll give you a copy.

Thank you, Mr. Gabor.

-Take care, drive safe!

-Thanks.

-See you.

-Bye.

It's not just a job,

being a photographer.

It's who he is,

and with my mother and me,

it's part of us,

our bodies and our selves.

In all ways.

So I was worried, because I felt

that it was the largest part

of our lives and our past

and our existence as a family.

It wasn't being lost,

but it was leaving.

Or it no longer existed

in the same way.

It's coming.

Did it hit the ceiling?

-Gabor, cheers!

-Thank you.

To your good work,

which will live on.

Thank you.

What's coming up next for you?

In the next years,

what do you wish for?

Continuing good health,

to start.

Good food.

As happy a life as is possible.

I don't think about whether I have

five years left or ten years.

I'm not so worried about that.

If I died right away,

I would die a happy man.

Maybe that won't be

in the film.

No, I'm happy with my life.

Particularly because

I have an extraordinary family

that I really love.

And finally,

the best thing in life is love.

Love forever.

Isn't that a song?