ARNOLD GROSS

Let the Houses Roll

Ludoteca Kodalyiana

The Hungarian Academy in Rome used to entertain children one Saturday a month. Hungarian-speaking children came from families who were living abroad having at least one of the parents as Hungarian. Children of all age from toddlers to primary school students would attend. I had singing-drawing mornings with them twice, the last occasion was 12 April 2003. At that time, one of the Italian fathers asked me for advice concerning the art-instruction of his very agile little boy. Yes, he hoped for guidance in providing art-instruction in his child’s education. I gave him some ideas, and some guidelines to consider and he said he would continue to develop these at home. 

Why should houses roll?

We play with them. We start out from a song: “We found traces of land this way. Whose house is this? A good man’s. A god-fearing man lives in it. Hej regő rejtem, rejtem [refrain]”. It is a pentatonic song, its end is beautiful, it shoots up with a perfect fifth. It is not the usual pentachord, pacing downwards.
Why don’t you like downward-pacing pentachord tunes?

Because they are pointing towards major tunes. They are boring. I am looking for tunes that have interesting endings, that are a bit special and unexpected. Pentatonicism derives from Kodály’s conception, he was right, it is a lot easier to sing pentatonic songs clearly. It is also easier to improvise in a pentatonic scale, the harmony is beautiful. 

What do you improvise?

Everything, singing conversation, names, any kind of singing communication. We sing the god-fearing man’s house and find out all sots of things to add to it. “What is your house like?” “What is your house made of? “What does your house do?” “Who lives in your house?”

What do they sing back to these questions?

First they sing the reality: the house is made of stones, wood, bricks, concrete. With a little encouragement, however, other ideas start to come: the house is made of gingerbread, wheat or apples. The elf’s house is made of seeds, that of the fairies is made of petals, that of the birds is built of twigs, that of the seven-headed dragon is made of fire, that of the princess is made of gold. Children’s ideas happily bubble up.

Are you happy with fabled houses only?

No I’m very happy with personal houses. What is your house made of? He says it is made of poisonous berries, of dog-hair, of children’s books. Once Árpád said to me: “My house is made of shouting”: That is how I gather information about the mood of my children.

And do you act out houses?

Yes we do, we represent them. 

Do you show them what a house made of fire or twigs may look like?

I never show them anything. I wait until they come up with their independent ideas. When the child does present their ideas, I praise him or her. We all take a look at it and admire it then immediately we show another house, somebody else’s. The ideas are, hopefully, varied.

Why should they?

Children easily imitate one another and yet I always emphasize to them that “it is good because it is yours, you have invented it” when there are differences. The more extraordinary or individual their inventions are, the better.

Can’t they become ridiculous?

No never. If the house is made of the lion’s tail, it is all the more interesting. All solutions are accepted and we laugh at no one. This is the seriousness that I constantly teach to parents and instructors.

Is it a great problem if I laugh a bit at a child’s ideas?

It is. A single laugh may block the sources of creativity, he will feel ashamed, won’t come up with his own ideas, will say nothing or only things he has learnt from adults. Creativity, the independent imagination is a very delicate, fragile capability, it may easily be hurt. 

How did you play in Rome?

At first they came up with all sorts of answers to the question “who lives in your house?”: from the kangaroo to the bunny and wild dogs and ants. Then they conceived bright ideas to answer the question: “What does your house do?” We acted out all of them, houses were flying and trembling, leaning and staggering, then rolling.

Were you rolling, too?

Of course I was! I love rolling on the carpet. We were all rolling energetically to and fro. Then they were drawing, and painting colourful houses. Eszter was meticulously drawing her house full of animals, it became an actual zoo, interesting and varied. Csicsi was drawing an abstract picture, a lot of colourful, bending lines and finally many drops of water with which he mad holes in the paper. He said that a heavy rain is falling on the houses, they are soaking, their roofs are leaking, and everybody has to sit inside in coats.

Did they draw problems?

Yes, a five-year-old, very talented little boy was drawing shattered houses which were bombed. He did not say he was sorry for the bombed houses, he talked about it in a rather objective tone. Yet it is not certain that he was not interested in whether they are bombed or not. 

Were there any children who had difficulties drawing?

Yes, the seven-year-old Oliver. He was an unsociable, contemplative child. He even asked what he should do. He then drew a perfectly schematic house with straight walls. Then the movement from the Scarlati sonata inspired him (played by Andreas Schiff on a great album) and he drew wheels under the house. Four wheels of the same size, rolling. The house was rolling.

Was the house rolling to music?

Yes, to music, to a Scarlatti piece, we were rolling to that on the great carpet. When it came to drawing, we were listening to the music over and over again, and we were drawing in the meanwhile. 

Didn’t they make noise?

Interestingly, they didn’t. They were really enjoying drawing, even those children who were sitting apart because they did not know the others or did not want to join them. They were absorbed in drawing. After that a special programme followed: we went to the exhibition-gallery and saw the pictures of Arnold Gross. It was a great experience, children were absorbed in looking at the pictures, the director, Győző Szabó lifted them up, and they were looking at the pictures depicting tales from that height. Suddenly Olivér recognized that there is a rolling house in one of the pictures, just like in his drawing. He was almost beaming with joy. 

The director of the Academy lifted up the children at the exhibition?

He did. He lifted them up on by one with great pleasure. This is what’s so special about the Hungarian Academy in Rome, that is why I love to go there to teach, art is at home with them, and children have found their way to it, too.

Will you tell Arnold Gross in Budapest what joy his exhibited pictures brought to you?

I will, I’ll go and talk to him about it. Our Hungarian children gladly admire his pictures here. He speaks the language of children. 

Would you take children to museums?

Of course we would, even toddlers. My brother went to see statues and paintings with his one-and-a-half-year-old grandson. There he was, little Tomi, creeping on all fours among the statues enjoying that he can go round them. The statues proved very interesting. But he was also looking at many of the pictures with pleasure.

What or who does his enjoyment of them depend on?

It depends on the adult who is with him with all his heart, soul and spiritual energy. It is always us who radiate the initiative and the enthusiasm. Then the work, the creation, the real work of art appears. Its value, the creative energy flowing from it greets the child. We adults are present with our own joy, enthusiasm and attention. With our complete attention, not just superficially, with half-attention.

Are you always preaching full attention?

Always. You can’t overemphasize that. The most important need of every child is the complete attention of their adults. It is more important than clothes or presents. Food may be plain, but attention can’t be mean. It has to radiate joy. Attention to the child has to sparkle. Especially around the arts, since real, inspired artworks shine by themselves. Art fills those who pay attention with brightness.