Sometime in 1982, in Karcag, the desire to draw and paint began in the small apartment on the second floor of an apartment building next to the Cultural Center. Mom cooked dinner, Dad sat at the table, drawing. The kitchen mixed with the smell of paprika potatoes, linseed oil and turpentine. My brother climbed from the chair onto his mother's back, and from there he watched the dumplings fall into the pan. My sister guessed what would become of Dad's lines. - It's a little fox! he gasped. Meanwhile, I snuggled into Dad's lap, watching up close as the pencil glides on the paper