Marina Dilanyan - artist

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Letter to my friend and first teacher, artist HrantKarakhanyan You told me that being in Paris you often escaped into asmall Japanese shop. After noisy, eclectic streets and pressing you 20thcentury modern art you felt so entrancingly calm among Japanese masters’ far-fetched engravings, fans, treasure-boxes and folding screens made by the peoplefor whom beauty is the essence of life and aesthetics has become religion. AndLouver was the place where you could enjoy the grandeur spirit, mightyworkmanship of Titian, Velasquez, and Rembrandt. Your art studio was your calm and retired world which I seelooking at your landscapes – in a milky, foggy haze there is a calm andnonfictional land, silver-green mountain with the outlines of the city, thevibrating surface of the canvas….
Series of Spanish dancing women is a plastic expression ofyour musical talent. Your ability to make a right choice is felt in femaleimages: they are full of softness, picturesqueness and beauty without any shadeof grotesque. A body is like a musical instrument which plays and soundsonly in master’s hand. Only painter loves so. You used to live only this way.
They say that man’s work is perfect in case it is created byman’s wholly participation plus “help from above”. You always worked holding nothingback. I am absolutely sure that you created your works wit allyour heart. Your brush hated falseness, you were not verbose, you were all inwork. I want to cite Shakespeare’s sonnet which you loved best.

Sonnet 76
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To newfound methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument:
So all my best is dressing old world new,
Spending again what is already spent;
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

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