The painter was painting his last canvas but he himself did not know about it. Nobody knew. With a red rose in my hands and a gypsy kerchief wrapped up my head I was enjoying the most blissful moment of 2010. Under the voice sounds of Frank Senatra the day coming after New Year drew to a close. First, dreamy colors began to run through the canvas, then the lines turned into the images: me and my dreams, my love and my wishes, Artsrunyan with his brushes and palette and we together united our wishes and our world was intergrated.Three days passed and the painting was almost ready, only a stroke of the brush was missing, but Artsrunyan didn’t want to touch upon the canvas any more. In the history of Armenian fine art my portrait was fixed as Eduard Artsrunyanc’s last work. After this the painter lived three months: he was working on his incomplete works only half an hour a day. The artist was already exhausted, little by little he was losing his strength, but his imagination, his determination and his past life made him live. He was escorting me to the most cherished corners of his sensual world and was introducing to the history of the creation of his canvases.
Now my portrait that is Artsrunyan’s last canvas greets me every morning. Two Anahits seem to look at each other but in fact I see Artsrunyan inside my soul. And I think that this portrait with unusual and fantastic tints seems to be the entity of artist’s life that is very meaningful and inclusive, perhaps endless as Art.
As Artsrunyant was saying, he had created thousands of pictures but it was all the same, the thousands were going to occur. He had many other wishes: only once to go to the “Artist’s Union” and talk to his friends in the cafe, only once to smell the aroma of the trees. These were simple and feasible wishes… if only not the paralysis, because of which the artist was bedridden for six years. In spite of the fact that we were friends for only a year and two months, he managed to become my godfather for that short time, and his past life became a guideline and standard for me. The last years of his life could be defined as heroic. He clutched at the art as a real hero: art was the origin of his happiness and achievements. The illness more or less weakened his hand, but his worldview became brighter and more colored. The crystal sense and Artsrunyanc’s philosophy of perceiving and reinterpreting the life newly came to replace the accepted rules of art. The master of thematic composition did not refuse from his creative convictions keeping devoted to national, historical, rural and everyday-life topics.