The worst thing happened that could happen to our culture today, our music, our literature, our painting. These are not charming words against the vision of a great artist who passed away tragically too soon. We felt rich with his existence, many people looked beautiful with his light. With his death, our art was robbed. We were robbed, his confused friends, for whom his idle presence provided the confidence of his talent and faith. He created and created. He was unique - he knew and he loved. Neither love without love is one thing, nor love without ability, and he was a mortar of high artistry and deep love. One of his canvases may declare a man a great artist, his canvases may declare great artists to their number, but the most perfect of these canvases, nor all the canvases together, give the complete perfection which was Minas-condensation itself. He was inexhaustible. By the honor of his work and his individuality, he had become a man whose created imperfections were also value, whose creation was already value. Yes, he was exhausted. He only needed time, he needed a long time to work the heavy drop of divine talent that had been dripped into his body with long-term continuity, with the diligent continuity of an Armenian peasant. He was born fifty years after Saryan - he would die fifty years after Saryan. He was born heir to the throne, he was going to inherit the vacant throne of the Great One, he was already worthy of the vacant throne of the Host and the Great One, but it is very beautiful when unquestionable merit is also crowned with respectable old age. He was going to live the life and glory of Saryan, and his light body, his fragile body that gave his heart and love to his motherland, that memory of his old body full of life, would be handed over to his native land in 2020 with a beautiful burial...