Romanian photographer Hajdu Tamás, who in his day job is a veterinarian, has an eye for colour. His photographs of cars and apartment buildings and pedestrians and dogs seem perfectly balanced, poised even, and their structural harmonies are enhanced and almost supplanted by the gentle minuets of colour contrasts he somehow finds in his scenes. The grey-pink of paving stones below the full-pink fur of a stuffed dog, and a smooth orange-beige wall set back from the pinks, modulating them. The slate blue of a parked car framed lovingly by the cinder grey of a Cold War-era apartment block, both the vehicle and nearby trees brightly outlined in snow. The dusty browns and stark whites of a notebooks on a storage rack, stolid in front of rough plaster walls. His sensibility is close kin to a painter’s, and neither the balanced landscapes of Utagawa Hiroshige nor the colour-soaked urban scenes of Edward Hopper seem very far from Tamás’s zen-like pictures.
On top of all that, he’s often devilishly funny.