Kincső Bede x MBBFW

Kincső Bede: As a Hungarian photographer from Romania, I have spent a great deal of time exploring the subject of communism in Romania. Within this, I became particularly interested in the 1989 regime change—the media events surrounding it, the images I first encountered in history class as a child, and later, the footage I would watch for hours at night on YouTube. The remnants of socialism, blended with the sudden influx of capitalist objects and lifestyles, always felt strangely natural to me.As a child, I empathized deeply with my parents, who were raised under communism, endured the upheaval of regime change, and ultimately felt disillusioned by the new system. But even then, I could sense a growing tension between generations, an unspoken divide. I felt compelled to capture a glimpse of it. My work became fundamentally concerned with the landscape left behind by socialism and the way teenagers navigate this new world—a world that often feels incomprehensible to the generation before them.

KB: My biggest inspiration is my hometown, Covasna, and the people who live there. Every single blade of grass touches me, holds meaning. When I’m home, I enter a completely different state of mind. All of it moves me. I think a deep sense of homesickness fuels my photography, shaping the inner images I create. I was born into it, I put my thoughts and my imagination into these objects as a child. I was always present, living in the house I grew up in, with the knowledge that two generations had died there and those walls had seen it. This sense of life can be both beautiful and frightening. It’s our material culture, our heritage, which could be approached in many different ways, and as a creator I chose to approach them with love, to show them and to elevate them. In essence, this has been my ars poetica. I believe in the aura of spaces and the memory of objects; they tell stories and carry something beyond the immediate.I only became more acutely aware of this after I moved to Budapest in 2018. Distance gave me perspective—I needed to leave for a while to see myself, and my home, more clearly. Coming back now, I experience Romania differently, as if seeing it through a refined lens. And, to be honest, I find it more beautiful than ever.

KB: For three years, I worked on my Three Colours I Know in This World project, which was preceded by a year of research. At the same time, I educated myself beyond photography—not just through books but by watching great Romanian films on the subject and speaking with many people, collecting personal stories. A key part of the concept was that I would not leave my hometown, Covasna, while creating the series.During the process, I realized that I would never truly understand what it meant to grow up and live under such a system. That realization brought me a sense of reconciliation. Photography as a medium—the camera, to be more precise—always allows me both distance and immersion, framing my perspective through a lens. Somehow, everything appears more focused, sharper, more comprehensible. And perhaps the most beautiful thing about photography as an art form is that it allows me to show both myself and the world exactly as I want to remember it.

KB: If you look at the images in my series Three Colours I Know in This World, I didn’t photograph my parents or grandparents, just my brother and cousins, close relatives from my generation with whom we inherited this history together. It would have been stupid to photograph my parents, because how could I know what they lived through? It’s theirs and I don’t want to take it away from them. My images are more about how a child’s mind fills the hole of distance, and how it can build its own answers to try to get closer to its parents. There is a pair of photographs from my series Three Colours I Know in This World (2019-2021), where my brother and I dressed up as Nicolae Ceaușescu and his wife, Elena. I dressed up my brother and the fur cap on his head, which was my grandfather’s, was similar to the one that Ceaușescu was wearing. The material and texture of the fur cap is also associated with the texture of the human brain. I work with these associations and I think that’s the most exciting aspect of photography, because in the photo you see a specific fur cap, but if you look closely for a long time – in the way that a photograph feels as if it expands time –  you realise that nothing is what it seems to be. These visual associations, elements and moments are what I find most interesting in photography.

KB: In general, I shoot my images with old clothes and environments, but there is always a hint of the present, such as a Nike sock or a piece of furniture. I capture these scenes with a digital camera, which also adds a contemporary touch. In the background, you have the stage-like setting that the remnants of the communist period create, the guest rooms I used as locations for the series. These rooms were common in every house and can still be found in Transylvania. They became widespread in the late 18th century among wealthier peasant families. They usually faced the street and were adorned with ornate furnishings, which were kept clean at all times, even though they were only used for special events. Such interiors often featured velvet curtains, each with its own scent, texture, and pattern.The materials and the materiality of objects are crucial to me. I’m fascinated by the effect of placing two different textures side by side. I shoot in black and white, but I know exactly what kind of grey shade the color red will produce. 

KB: I’ve studied countless Securitate photos, spent time looking through archives… and I found these images deeply inspiring. I think everything is connected—black-and-white photography, flash memory, and the gothic paranoia of the Communist secret police. My own photographs are also rooted in chance, in an observer’s perspective, in a certain way of seeing. In a sense, it feels like I’m exposing myself or my subjects by photographing them.That paranoia has always been present in my life, interestingly enough—especially when I was a child. I’ve always had this fear that people could see right through me, that they would know me too well, that they would somehow discover who I really was.

KB: What I find most inspiring about people is what they are hiding from themselves, what they are unable to express, and what they are unable to live. I believe I have the ability to elevate people and their personalities through my photography.

KB: What set this collaboration apart was their interest in me—not just in what I could produce for them. YSL was remarkably open to my world and my ideas, embracing my creative vision with genuine curiosity. They weren’t trying to project their own expectations onto my work, which gave me a rare sense of creative security. They not only welcomed my input but implemented all my suggestions in the editing of the fanzine, allowing me complete creative freedom throughout the process. I was given six months to create within my own practice, with full financial support, and the project culminated in solo exhibitions at their flagship stores in Paris and Beverly Hills during Halloween. Alongside these exhibitions, YSL produced a fanzine featuring my work, which was distributed to their top clients.Over those months, I took numerous self-portraits—one of which became the cover of the fanzine. It was a fascinating journey, particularly as I was experiencing my first long-term relationship at the time. Documenting that shift and then looking back at myself through those images added another layer of meaning to the project.I was able to attend the Paris show in person, but hearing from acquaintances in Los Angeles about the Beverly Hills installation was surreal. Initially, I had feared my work might become mere decoration, but stepping into the Paris store, I felt no such dilution. The pieces were given prominence, commanding attention in a way that felt powerful and intentional. It was a particular treat to see Anikó, my childhood seamstress, on the wall, posing with her cigarette in a curtain fabric cape she bought herself in a thrift shop. If I hadn’t taken the photo and not known Anikó and someone had said she was a Parisian fashion designer – I would have believed it. So all in all it was a very special experience for me to do this collaboration. And it’s still somewhat incomprehensible to me that Anthony Vaccarello, who is one of the greatest designers in the world today, was looking at and selecting my work. By the way, sometime from now, YSL will be selling my photo book from last year, Porcelain and Wool published by hECTIC bOOKs, in their BABYLONE book and record store.

KB: I think what we have in common is that something can be both elegant and dirty at the same time, mysterious and precise at the same time. But I also think that what YSL and Anthony Vaccarello are doing and representing today is not just fashion—it’s art.

KB: I can only imagine this through very specific, special encounters. If you can create a space where the institution, the brand, and the photographer’s point of view can meet, it requires openness, courage, and a determination to make fashion not just about sales, but also about experience and message. It’s about mutual curiosity, interest, and dedication to making the world around us more beautiful, more acceptable, and better. I think fashion and art have that power; it’s just a question of what they use it for, or if they use it at all.This January, for example, I did a major piece for Another Man Magazine. It came out in April, and I’m proud to be featured alongside some of the most influential names in contemporary photography and art, including Nan Goldin, Paul Mpagi Sepuya, Viviane Sassen, Keizo Kitajima, and Jack Pierson. I began the conversation by saying that I would love to shoot in Romania, my hometown, and they were completely open to it. The crew came down to Romania, and we made it happen there. I photographed a Hermès set on my brother, a Dior coat next to a 200-year-old iron, and a Louis Vuitton set in a field.

KB: Well, if it were up to me, there is definitely a way to make it happen. I’m planning a fashion project—my own project—in my hometown. In collaborating with luxury brands, I really enjoy exploring the endless contrasts, the differences between two worlds, and comparing what we have in common. What I want to do with that, I think, is up to me. I can’t, and perhaps don’t want to, rely on other names and brands for that. I would like to create my own world, a reality within that world, where the live actors—in this case, my models—feel comfortable in the situation and in the clothes, and can be themselves. I want to create something beautiful, something raw, something wild, born from these inner and outer motivations.