To say "He lived a long and beautiful life" it is first necessary to say that it is easy to live a short and beautiful life. to the small beauty done, good people rightly add the great beauty that would have been done, but was not done; but life is full of other examples. there have been so many births that ended in quiet burials. if not by curse. life's resistance is a tremendous thing, and so many goals have been diverted and so many aspirations have been thwarted by life's resistance. And that's why instead of saying "he lived a long and beautiful life" you want to say he lived a long but beautiful life.
He lived a long but beautiful life and died unexpectedly for us. along with the immortality of his enlightened work, we already cherished the sense of the permanence of his person. There was the destroyed Ani, there were the Gosh khachkar and the remains of Zvartnots, and among them were the hot ashes of the old big bonfire, the remains of the old great Saryan, which promised us to be eternal like them, and around which we warmed.
In order to say that fame did not become a burden on his shoulders, it is first necessary to say that fame does not find a place to ride on those shoulders that are already burdened with the weight of work. he was a farmer, and the farmers, when the table is abundant with the approaching winter and the pantry is full and the hearth is lit and the barn is full of burnt wood up to the ceiling, they are slightly happy with only one eye, the care of summer is coming into the other eye. The warm, pleasant glow of glory was always under his nails, but never stuck inside his nails; his ears were constantly full of a charming murmur of his own; all that time he himself was pleasing flowers, mountains, the thought of faces, the fullness of faces, the vanity of faces, the meaning of masks, fruits and women and flowers again; whether it is singing of glory or noise, the old believers were able not to hear it, to deafen themselves and not hear it. such a nipple was the priest who turned Gosh's limestone into a khach stone. Lenktemur came, Lenktemur passed, and that priest, clinging to his quartz stone, enchanted the quartz stone for a hundred years, until the miracle of the khachkar appeared in the quartz stone.
To say: that he was the son of this motherland, it is appropriate to first say that many people proudly declare that they are the son of such and such a motherland, and in those cases you look above the height of his motherland, and your gaze rises and your hat rises with that height, and you understand that you yourself would also live proudly in the security of being the son or adopted son of that giant.
His motherland did not have any adopted children, but also gave thousands, hundreds of thousands of its children for adoption to other homelands. Out of those hundreds of thousands, he was one of the unique ones and the most unique among the unique ones, who recognized his homeland, which, however, did not exist, which, however, was more hope than land, and more than hope, it was more difficult. He found his homeland on the way to search for light. with the light he found the south, with the south the homeland. after the light, he went on a pilgrimage to the Mecca of painting, he reached the Mecca of painting, blinked his eyes and saw that he was in the homeland of his great-grandfathers. it was luck. The soft attachment of new humanitarian ideas and his art imbued with great humanity was equally fortunate and natural.
Saryan created a homeland, had a homeland and became his son with those who fought in Sardarapat, those who took out the stream from Zangvi, Toramanian, Myasnikyan. Now we can all proudly say that I am the son of this motherland, and even if no one's hat will fall off their head when they look at our father's height, at least they will be treated with respect to stand with their heads open against this small country endowed with Saryan's art. The old question "Does art have a homeland?" had a purely Armenian answer. art creates a homeland.
Let's not please, let's not please the dead, even in the eternity of life, a passing pearl deserves the most beautiful and the most poignant words. Our ancestors had a hard time grinding quartz and regretted desecrating the pure grind with the hooks of words. Then it became easier to polish, and all the words in the epitaphs faded. In which coffin is the stingy writing that should have belonged only to Saryan, the pioneer and the greatest representative of Soviet art, whose work was a major contribution to imposing the existence of this country on the world, that is, validating, emblazoning the solid existence of Soviet philanthropy on the refined palate of the world?
In the end, he often spoke about the universe, eternity, immortality. Matter is immortal, man is temporary, and he was talking about the immortality of man. He wandered into metaphysics, and he had that right, for in his works he had often dealt with immortality. Immortality was gradually becoming a materially familiar world for him, and the earthly pod of life, everything - words, grace, and love - the pod that made life swelled and became lighter. His body was no longer a poor shelter for him. And the body itself held back. Thus the idle rocket of a spaceship shuts off, thus dying its seed, the seed-throwing flower releases its immortality.
Blessed will be the child of tomorrow, through whom Saryan's eyes will look again.