Tamás Náray's painting cycle – 2025
The works of the cycle completed so far can currently be reserved - reserved paintings can only be collected after the exhibition to be held in Budapest in October. For details, please contact our colleagues!
The colors appearing on the screen may differ from the actual shades of the artworks and prints due to the different properties/settings of displays and video cards!
The deep, glowing red of the composition seems to be the smoldering realm of the subconscious – the place where dreams, memories, and prophecies intertwine. The blue-gold form trickling down from the top of the painting evokes both a totem and a spirit figure: the wolf who appears in Alexander the Great's dream to reveal to him the secrets of the future. This figure does not float as an earthly being, but above time and space, as if it had been torn from the celestial tapestry itself.
The golden stripe – fractured, yet continuous – stretches across the horizon of the painting as a timeline. On this "film strip" unfolds the series of conquests, the expansion of the empire, the opening world, which according to the prophecy will belong to the young king. In the red undertone lies the promise and price of blood, the fever of haste: Alexander knew his time was limited, and he had to turn every minute into a battle.
The structure of the painting is like the prophecy itself: compact, declarative, and irreversible. The blue-gold totem figure descending from the upper region is not just a vision, but the moment when fate becomes tangible – and there is no turning back.
These two canvases, placed side by side, are not merely a visual composition, but a visual courtroom where the witnesses and the accused of the past stand before the viewer. On the left panel, the blows of history swirl: whirling gold and rusty brown surfaces, sharp white lines, as if the blades of fate were slicing through the fabric of time. Here echoes 336 BC, Aegae, the amphitheater where the people gathered to see their ruler – and where destiny intervened. Philip II, the Macedonian king, approached the stage with a limp, when Pausanias, his own bodyguard, started running towards him and stabbed a hidden dagger between the king's ribs.
The right panel's darker, deeper tones seem to preserve the shadow of guilt. The upper red field, like a sky filled with blood, weighs heavily on the composition. Here, the narrative is no longer about facts, but about the question that has haunted historians for two thousand years: is it possible that Alexander the Great, one of history's brightest conquerors, was complicit in his father's death?
Thus, the diptych is a double report: the first canvas presents the sweeping force of the moment of the act, the second the uncertainty, suspicion, and the grave, unanswered question of history. Between the two panels stretches the invisible gap where certainty breaks, and where art – like historiography – can only fill the void with conjecture.
The golden canvas opens before the viewer like a cosmic explosion: metallic lights and sparkling textures shade the upper region, as if a time gate were opening in space. The golden arc curving from the left evokes the eternal orbits of celestial bodies, while the sharp red rays bursting from the upper right corner seem to pierce the present from another dimension. Below, at the bottom edge of the painting, white cliff edges collapse from the grayish-black depths – the chasms of time, which only a few can cross.
This painting embodies a peculiar fiction: what if Alexander the Great – one of history's greatest conquerors – was actually a time traveler? What if he arrived from the future, with knowledge and visions centuries ahead of his time? For what he traversed and conquered in his short thirty-three years of life, could not be easily covered even by plane today – let alone while fighting battles of life and death along the way.
In the center of the composition is a vivid turquoise square with a red cloud, like the trace of alien technology or a space-time coordinate marker recording the destination of the journey. The painting is both a tribute to the myth and a play with the impossible: the golden lights symbolize divine chosenness, the red rays the heat of battles, and the depth the terrifying risks of the unknown flow of time.
“The Time Traveler” is thus not just a reinterpretation of a historical figure, but a thought experiment about whether the great conquests might be fueled by forces not of this world.
The circular shape of the canvas itself carries a sacred meaning: it appears before the viewer as a symbol of eternity, completeness, and divine cycle. Within this universal frame unfolds the composition, which is at once earth, fire, and celestial radiance—that is, all elements of the world are united within it.
At the center of the painting, the blaze of red and gold dominates, as if the sun god himself had stepped forth from the depths of the canvas. The fiery red background not only evokes the heat of battles or the blood of human sacrifices, but also the divine presence that raised Alexander above all human fate. The blue streak cutting through the color is the water found in the desert, the path of existence and purification, which, splitting in two, reveals the dazzling form of the “Golden Mountain”—the sanctuary standing on the border of myth and reality.
The dialogue of opposites can be grasped in the painting: the ecstasy of red and the calm of blue, the dark-toned body of the earth and the divine decree descending from above as gold. This dramatic tension recalls Alexander's inner quest: the general who shattered empires here reveals himself before the Sun God.
The painting preserves the secret of the Siwa oasis: the moment when the mortal man is elevated to divinity. The protection of the Sun is not merely a blessing, but an empowerment: it makes the son of Amun-Ra part of the divine order that rules the world.
Thus, the circular shape of the canvas is not only a frame, but also a cosmic seal: the destiny marked by the Sun God, which forever closes around the figure of Alexander.
This painting does not simply recall a historical event, but the moment when human greatness finds its own eternity in divine protection.
At first glance, the canvas evokes the dazzling light of the sun disk, from which a golden column rises, like a divine revelation on the scorched field of battle.
The circular shape embodies eternity, the straight lines intersecting the upper plane in a wedge shape remind us of the infinite cycle of time, in which the decision of the moment seals destinies.
In the composition, the yellow radiance, creating the illusion of scorching heat, engulfs everything, while the column standing in the center – the axis clad in gold – rises as a sign of the transcendent, blinding the opponent, but showing the way to the one who dares to hear the Voice of Time.
The reds and blacks dominating the lower region carry the blood of battles and cruel destruction, while the geometric spatial elements and angular forms refer to the cold, calculated existence of Darius’s empire. The blue, sharp, living elements, on the other hand, open up a sense of free spaciousness: the promise of the sky, the eternity of triumph, are brought into the composition, as if divine providence itself had created space for Alexander’s victory.
The painting does not depict the spectacle of struggle, but that mysterious moment when, in the course of history, Time speaks: dazzlingly, mercilessly, and unmistakably.
This round canvas is the icon of time: an eternal reminder that the moment of victory is not sealed by man, but by the Voice of Time.
The viewer stands in the blinding light of the desert: the scorching gold and glowing yellow layers stretch the space of the image: the heat of the endless road leading to the Siwa Oasis radiates through it. The golden surface is not merely a reflection of the sun: it rather embraces the unfolding forms at the center as a divine aura.
At the heart of the composition, a black, vertical shape breaks forth, rising into the radiance like temple gates. The dark blocks of the sanctuary columns recall the trials of Alexander’s journey: the ordeal, the shadow of inner uncertainty that he had to pass through to reach the oracle of the god Amun.
This darkening shadow is cut through by a red and a cobalt blue, powerful painterly gesture. The blood-red is the symbol of the crimson altar, the color of power and sacrifice, given to the conqueror by the high priesthood. The blue is almost metallic, otherworldly in its radiance: the seal of heavenly legitimacy, the mark of sacred rule.
Together, these two colors embody the mystery of the ritual – the meeting of earthly and divine power.
The white band illuminating the top of the composition represents the illuminator itself, of which ancient sources speak: the unquestionable proof of divine presence. The merging of gold, red, blue, and black is nothing less than the imprint of the birth of a new identity, the process of a man becoming the son of a god.
This painting does not simply depict a historical journey, but the deepest initiation story: the moment when the Macedonian king faces the mystery of his own origin, and when, in the scorching gold of the desert, the “son of Zeus” is born, that is, in Egypt, the “son of Amun-Ra.”
The canvas reveals the gateway to a mythical universe: golden celestial rays fall into the infinite depths of the water. Divine will transforms the history of the mortal world. The flowing stream of gold simultaneously evokes sacred intervention and the pathos of victory.
The spectacle is dominated by a symphony of countless shades of blue – from the dark, ominous tones of the sea's depths to the translucent turquoise of the waves. The golden fragments embedded in the blue – like the impregnable walls surrounding the island – represent both the city of Tyre and the titanic force of nature. The boundary stretching between water and gold is the causeway itself, built by the Macedonian army: a passage stretched by human will between myth and reality.
Yet the painting glorifies not only human effort but also the divine intervention of nature. The upper, gold-dissolving band evokes celestial dimensions, from where Poseidon – lord of the seas – lifts the causeway with a single gesture to aid Alexander the Great, lord of the lands. The crests of the waves seem to carry the Macedonian army on their shoulders, breaking through from the depths of the blue into the realm of legends.
This image does not merely depict a historical moment, but the iconic moment of alliance between nature and man: when the world conqueror understands that his empire can only be fulfilled with the approval of the gods.
The composition floats before our eyes as an eternal maritime vision on the border of myth and history.
At first glance, the canvas reveals the triumph of light: the golden horizon shines above the bay, the shimmering of blue and gold paint layers seems to scatter the first rays of the sun on the water. Yet in the lower region of the painting, a dramatic contrast erupts with a blood-red, vertical cascade of paint – bringing the shadow of history into this radiance.
This is the moment when Alexander the Great crossed the Bosphorus delta to conquer Constantinople. Behind the city walls, the memory of Constantine the Great is still preserved – the emperor who gave the city its name, and who, according to legend, was related to Alexander’s mother. Poros also originated from here, the conqueror's “friend.” Perhaps because of these ties – and perhaps listening to divine whispers – the conqueror spared the inhabitants of the city. Here, the blood-red streak of paint does not refer to destruction, but to the nuanced tension of preserved life: to the mercy that dances on the edge of the sword.
The duality of the composition – the radiant sky and the blood-soaked foreground – evokes the nature of power: the eternal alliance of glory and danger, light and blood. The golden surfaces and the roughly applied red textures together create the living fabric of history, in which the moment of conquest pulses forever.
At first glance, the canvas suggests peace: a soft, opalescent sky, the silvery silence of mountains on the horizon. But this calm is deceptive. The golden central band of the painting, spreading out like a divine beam of light, does not merely convey beauty – but the dawn moment of a story. This is the moment when Alexander the Great, revived from a mortal wound, slowly regains his breath after a week of total unconsciousness. The whispers of the afterlife accompany his return to existence: the command of the gods to subjugate Constantinople before he closes his eyes again.
On the right side of the painting, the city silhouette built from black and red shades is already Constantinople itself, a shadowed yet radiant fortress, both a promise and a threat. The red spots, like blood-soaked seals, indicate the price of the mission – conquest is never pure. The cold blue and gray tones emerging from behind the mountains carry the frozen silence of the hero's past, while the golden field represents the ecstatic yet fleeting light of rebirth.
This painting is both a tribute to the power of human will and a warning of the weight of missions: ascension is never free from loss, and the divine message is not of peace, but of trial. "The Awakening" is thus not only a historical scene, but a visual hymn to the eternal duality of power and mortality.
The work is not merely a depiction of an object, but an allegory of an era, a moment of power and glory drowned in gold, yet doomed to destruction. The radiant gold texture dominating the surface of the painting at first glance evokes the brilliance of conquests – the crown that, with blood and iron will, subdued the world. But upon closer inspection, the cracked, crumbling surface is already the harbinger of decline: the glory slowly worn down by time and human suffering.
At the top of the composition, dark, splintered forms tower like blackened mountain peaks or burnt-out towers, between which blood-red cascades descend. These red strokes – bold and uncompromising gestures – evoke the price of conquest: the spilled blood that pulses behind every triumph. The dramatic contrast of the deep blue sky and the black mountain range intensifies the weight of the painting, as if the sky itself were witness to the fall of the crown.
Thus, the work not only records the transience of power, but also an eternal truth: only that which does not arise from the suffering of others remains above. The "Crown" is both a historical monument and a moral warning – a memento sealed in gold, prompting the viewer to self-reflection.
The painting stands on the axis of two worlds in tension with each other: the golden and luminous architectural fragments on the left recall the order of earthly civilization and the glory of already conquered empires, while the deep red and cobalt blue bands on the right conceal the dark oceans of unknown, as yet unexplored timelines.
At the center of the composition, almost hidden, is the tension of a figure standing half-turned. The arc flashing out from the red paint avalanche—the Sun's protective shield, which is in fact nothing other than the symbol and energy core of infinite, self-returning time—seems to be the condensed moment of all future and past.
Here, Alexander the Great is no longer the victorious general, but the traveler who knows that, crossing time, every battle, every glory falls into the obscurity of the past. The transition between the golden left side and the blue right side is dramatic, almost apocalyptic. This is the moment when one of history's greatest figures understands: there is no more conquest, only the last journey—along the cracked spatial lines cutting diagonally across the space, which are at once bridge and axis between timelines—back to where he started, before his Creator, his gods. His mission is accomplished.
This painting is not merely a visual record of “the last day,” but a cosmic final chord: the single tense, heavy, silent moment of man and time's infinity frozen in silence.
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