I'm Ugly

• Feature article •

I want to tell a true story with the permission of the person involved, without revealing her identity.

A few weeks ago I received a letter from a 54-year-old woman. I know women are ageless, but this number matters here. She wrote that she would turn 55 within weeks, and the thought was frustrating her. On top of that, she had been alone for almost five years.

She worked hard to stay fit, took care of herself and considered herself someone who could adapt easily in any social environment — yet men simply did not seem to notice her. There was nobody with whom she could share life's small joys, nobody who could hold her tightly and beside whom she could sometimes allow herself to be weak.

As an educated woman, she had come up with only one explanation: she was surrounded by younger people both at work and in her private life, and among them she felt like an "ugly woman".

Made by Midjourney

Her letter revealed that we had actually met before at an advertising conference. A mutual acquaintance introduced us, and we talked about all kinds of things. During that conversation I had said something that stayed with her and eventually prompted her to contact me.

It is a sentence I deeply believe in:

"There are no ugly people — only people who believe themselves to be ugly. And it is the photographer's failure if they do not open their heart and cannot see the beauty inside another person."

Her request was simple: if I believed that so strongly, would I help her prove that she really was a beautiful, attractive woman — someone at least one man in this world could adore?

I have to admit I could not answer immediately. That is not how things work for me. I cannot simply say, "Sure, let's shoot and everything will be wonderful." I tried to search my memory for the conversation she referred to and remember what I had felt about her then.

I am generally guided by feelings and intuition. I believe there is much more behind the visible world than what the eye immediately sees. I remembered the subject of our conversation and how our mutual acquaintance had brought us together — but I could not remember her face.

I had the sense that even then she had been a woman who hid from the world, because she had left no visual trace in my memory. Although, of course, perhaps I had simply not been attentive enough.

I wrote a short reply and asked whether we could meet in person for an informal conversation. I wanted to understand what she actually needed help with and whether I was really the person she should turn to.

Within half an hour she replied with several possible times and places, all within the next 48 hours. I chose an afternoon and suggested one of the most beautiful panoramic locations in Budapest: the Citadel.

The day of the meeting arrived. My phone reminded me that we would meet in four hours.

I normally prepare mentally and emotionally for every meeting, but this time I simply couldn't. It was a pleasant summer day, not too hot, and I sat on our balcony thinking.

I treat this kind of meeting with people as something almost natural, even though I know it isn't. In business, everyone hopes to be chosen — to have someone say, "I want you. I want to work with you because I trust what you do."

Every inquiry is an honour for me and I take each one seriously. But this time I experienced it almost as a burden.

I arrived twenty minutes early and sat on the terrace, absorbed in the Budapest panorama.

Suddenly I felt somebody watching me. At one table a woman was trying to catch my eye. For a moment I wondered whether she might be the person I was meeting. I could not reconstruct her face from the past.

Then I dismissed the thought. There was a plate of food in front of her and a glass of wine. I turned back toward the tourists and the movement around me, thinking about how little I still knew this beautiful city.

Then suddenly the same woman was standing beside me, holding out her hand.

I jumped up. Inside, I was burning with embarrassment. How could I not have recognised her?

I could not hide my confusion. She smiled and asked whether she could sit beside me.

I am a perfectionist and hate making mistakes, so for several minutes I kept mentally beating myself up while she found the whole thing rather amusing.

We began talking about everything except photography. She seemed to be searching for a shared point of connection through which she could decide whether to trust me.

Soon we found it: Eastern philosophy and ways of thinking, a subject in which both of us could happily immerse ourselves.

After almost two and a half hours, we still had not discussed the real reason for meeting.

By the end of the conversation she had let me behind her "walls", and I felt I could finally see her true face.

We reached the moment of saying goodbye. Since we still hadn't talked about the shoot, I thought perhaps we simply wouldn't.

At that exact moment she said:

"So when are we making those beautiful pictures?"

I visibly froze. I did not understand.

She smiled and explained that she had needed to get to know me as a man. As a photographer, she already knew me well through my images.

Good for her, I thought. At least one of us knows what I am as a photographer. I create almost entirely from instinct and feeling. Most of the time I don't feel that I am "going" anywhere. I simply exist in the world as a tiny point, passing moments and emotions outward.

I told her honestly that I did not feel there was anything wrong with her. I thought she was a beautiful woman if she allowed herself to open toward the world and opened the door of her soul. I even said I did not think she needed to spend serious money trying to prove something that was already true.

She was clearly surprised. That was not what she had expected.

I watched her reaction, but she was not moved by what I said. She simply answered:

"If you see it that way, then I'm sure it is true. But I know what I need."

She smiled at the end of the sentence. There was no anger in her eyes, so I mentally closed the subject and congratulated myself on having done a good deed for the day.

We walked away in opposite directions, although I could not shake the strange feeling that the conversation was not actually over.

On the way home I kept wondering what the lesson of the day had been. What was life trying to teach or show me?

Two weeks later, a woman contacted my colleague asking for artistic lingerie photographs — but she wanted me to be the photographer.

She asked for the shoot to happen the very next day because it was urgent.

I reorganised my schedule. Whenever someone specifically chooses me as their photographer, I find it deeply honouring. I believe an artist's work gains real value when people understand it and can connect with it.

There had been no opportunity to meet beforehand, so I structured the day to leave plenty of time for conversation. A lingerie shoot does not begin, in my world, with the model immediately taking off her clothes.

First we talk informally, get to know each other's personalities, establish mutual trust, and only then begin deciding what we will create in images.

The bell rang.

I opened the door.

And froze.

Standing there was the woman I had met at the Citadel two weeks earlier.

I could not hide my surprise. She gave me one of those smiles you see on the winning side after a battle.

I invited her into our small apartment studio.

I did not have to ask anything. She went straight to the point:

"I know you weren't expecting me, but I'd like us to just take a few pictures. Don't overcomplicate it. Let's forget the last conversation. Just click one or two photos and you'll already make me very happy."

The sentence immediately relaxed me.

I asked whether she would like to take a short walk outside while we talked, with my camera coming along.

She answered with a firm yes.

We left the building and headed toward Gellért Hill, about a 500-metre walk from the studio.

We originally chose this location in Budapest's 11th district precisely because the Danube, Feneketlen Lake and Gellért Hill are so close. At any time of year, we can find an outdoor environment nearby that adds variety to a photographic series.

When we reached Liberty Bridge, I felt for the first time that our inner worlds were beginning to move closer together during the conversation. I was starting to see and feel the woman hidden behind the walls.

I asked her to step onto the bridge and lean lightly on the railing, as if watching the boats moving along the Danube. I told her to switch off every other thought and, with each breath, try to come a little more into harmony with herself.

I was already looking at her through the lens as I said this.

Suddenly she burst into a completely spontaneous laugh.

I pressed the shutter.

"Oh no, that can't be good. My smile isn't pretty. Take another one!" she said almost immediately after realising I had captured a photograph she had never expected.

"May I show you?" I asked quietly.

"Fine, show me — but if it's bad, you delete it here and now."

"All right."

My heart began pounding. I had no idea what the photograph would do to her.

It has long been shown that the first image a model sees of themselves during a shoot can strongly influence the rest of the session.

In the digital world we can make unlimited photographs, but I consider it extremely important that the first image I show a model is one in which I genuinely see them as beautiful.

If they can also see themselves as beautiful in that photograph, the trust between photographer and model immediately deepens.

The model sees and feels that they are in safe hands. From that point, it becomes easier to relax, dismantle the walls and reveal who actually lives behind them.

I have learned to try to give people back something beautiful about themselves — something they rarely get to see. That can open a door toward self-acceptance and self-understanding.

In that moment, everything seemed to align. The background was beautiful, the soft wind caught her hair exactly right, and the entire image felt harmonious.

When I saw it on the camera display, even I was surprised.

I no longer wanted to climb the hill. I did not want to make another picture.

By accident — or perhaps not — we had created the image she had come for on the very first frame.

I stepped toward her and turned the display in her direction.

The few moments in which her eyes moved carefully across every part of the screen felt like very long seconds.

I became uncertain. I was expecting a smile, celebration, something — because I thought the image was excellent.

Instead, her face became sad.

I was frightened.

"Is it really that bad?" I asked, feeling my heart accelerate.

"The picture disappeared," she said softly.

I quickly turned the camera back, restored the image and showed it to her again.

Then I looked up.

Her eyes had filled slightly with tears.

I panicked.

Had I done something terribly wrong?

I stood there speechless because this was not the reaction I had expected at all.

She turned away for a few seconds. Then, when our eyes met again, she stepped toward me and a tiny smile appeared.

"Sorry I got emotional. Can I hug you?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.

I stood there like a statue.

"Well… if you'd like," I said uncertainly. "But did I do something bad or not?"

"You did something good. Only good. This is the best photograph of my life. Sorry about my reaction, but I didn't expect this — especially not on the first try. This gave me exactly what I came here for."

She spoke quietly while hugging me tightly.

We did not take another photograph that day.

We walked back toward the studio, and all the way she held the camera in her hands, looking at the photograph again and again.

I could see pure happiness in her face. I was walking back beside a different person.

I thought that no matter how valuable that single photograph was, I could not possibly charge the standard price from our price list for it.

So I had another idea: take her to the nearby shopping centre and have the photograph printed and framed on canvas.

"I have an idea," I said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.

"Another photo?" she asked excitedly.

"Something like that," I smiled.

She was very surprised by the idea. At first she protested at the thought of seeing herself that large on her wall every day. But once she saw the finished framed canvas, she could only grin and admit that it was, quite literally, an enormous gift.

Almost four hours had passed since she first entered the studio.

Now she stood there holding a large package and smiling from ear to ear.

The photograph itself was nothing complicated: one spontaneous moment. Wind. Sunlight. A smile.

We returned to the studio, packed up and said goodbye.

---

Several weeks later I received a text message from her:

"Just thought I'd tell you: I think I've found the one. Love at first sight, just like in the movies! I can't believe it, I'm sooo happy!!! Thank you! ;)"

Brand photography – details.

Part of the BANHALMI ecosystem

For the professional context and practical side of portrait photography, visit the BANHALMI professional website. Related art series, books and exhibitions are preserved in the BANHALMI ART archive.