Рудольф Хачатрян. Идущий по мосту и сам мост Rudolf Khachatryan: The One Who Walks Across the Bridge and the Bridge Itself Ռուդոլֆ Խաչատրյան. Կամրջով քայլողն ու նույն ինքը` կամուրջը

Translated from Armenian

Hripsime Vardanyan, PhD in Art History, lecturer at the Chair of History and Theory of Armenian Art, Yerevan State University

Rudolf Khachatryan is one of those twentieth-century Armenian artists whose talent developed on the foundation of classical art and, naturally, thanks to his exceptional natural gift[1]. Constant creative searching, meetings and contacts with celebrated Armenian artists helped to shape his aesthetic taste, to perfect his hand and to widen the scope of his searches. Khachatryan tried himself in both drawing and painting. Although painting occupies a considerable place in his art, by his own admission drawing was closest to his heart.

At every successive stage of his work, even in each individual piece, Khachatryan’s searching impulse throbs. He is one of those artists who are bound to a person’s inner world by every fibre of feeling. Giving preference in portraiture to heroes who are strong individuals, he brought out a person’s self-sufficiency, originality and uniqueness. The artist has a gift for subtly probing the spiritual world of the sitter, for studying a theme in depth and giving it form. It is no accident that at different times Armenian and foreign art historians have tried to draw parallels between the Armenian master and the artists of the Renaissance. He stands out for the distinctive thinking and manner of expression of a man whose roots are bound to the past and who is at the same time entirely modern. His portraits and works in other genres reveal psychological, emotional and material combinations, hidden stores of symbolic and allegorical meaning.

Realist Drawings

In the post-war years, and especially in the 1960s, it was easy for us to be captivated by the various creative trends that burst into cultural life. Rudolf Khachatryan’s art, too, made the sharpest leaps—from neorealism to cubism[2]. Yet the dominant part of his graphic legacy consists of works made in the spirit of the Renaissance, the age of the dialogue of cultures, inspired by world-famous masters—a distinctive response to their style. Moreover, from his adored Yervand Kochar, the inventor of “painting in space” (La peinture dans l’espace), Khachatryan inherited a special, sensitive attitude to the visual arts, while his meetings with talented and celebrated Armenians under the roof of his teacher’s home and studio helped to form the young artist’s taste and style.

Rudolf Khachatryan received no systematic professional training: he studied for only a few months at the P. Terlemezyan Art College[3]. The renowned Russian poet Arseny Tarkovsky notes that the bold individuality that had raised its head in the novice artist could not tolerate anything compulsory, and the curriculum had long been a past stage for him. After the college Rudolf devoted the rest of his life to educating himself. “…My school was life, and the remarkable, astonishing, beloved people whom fate sent me. I greedily learned everything from them,” R. Khachatryan once said[4].

The artist’s youthful drawings are made with astonishing mastery. There is no doubt that he was a gifted artist. Without professional training, thanks to his keen powers of observation and his breadth of outlook he was able to see, feel and convey the beautiful.

Khachatryan’s father, Loris Khachatryan, was a talented amateur actor; his mother, Vartush, was a homemaker who nevertheless had a beautiful voice. Perhaps his mother’s favourite pastime—embroidery—became one of the stimuli of her son’s innate artistic gift. As A. Tarkovsky writes, the artist’s mother liked to embroider with white thread on white cloth in such a way that the embroidery became tangible as an object. Rudolf was not yet five when he was already copying the patterns his mother embroidered[5].

Even so, the future artist himself considered fateful and decisive the vision that came to him at the age of thirteen—or rather, a face, a figure that seemed woven of light. The Khachatryan family lived on a semi-basement floor. The near-constant darkness had become a familiar companion for the household. One evening, when the boy Rudolf was lying in bed, a vision with a bright, kind face appeared in that darkness. According to the artist, every blemish on the skin, every pore was visible. After opening and closing his eyes several times in fear, the boy became convinced that it was not a dream, and called out in reply to the face smiling at him. That vision was to become the “prelude” to his later work and would accompany him all his life. Later, when Yervand Kochar—R. Khachatryan’s only teacher and spiritual father—learned of it, he said: “The image of God has visited you”[6].

Barely fifteen, Rudolf went to Moscow and then to Leningrad, intending to visit picture galleries, to commune with the art of different periods and to choose his path. After returning to Yerevan he began to make pencil drawings. One of his first works is The Room Where the Artist Was Born (1951), whose masterful execution astonishes to this day. The modest interior is transferred to paper with such perfection that the viewer seems mentally transported there, inside. The mastery of the drawing makes tangible the contrast between outside and inside and conveys the atmosphere of the room and the artist’s warm feeling and love for his home. This work already reveals the young artist’s artistic thinking. The variety of the pencil lines—thick, thin, from dark to light—forced even professionals to admit the fact of the author’s “un-childlike hand.” He never drew in the bright colours typical of children and never invented fanciful, perhaps dreamlike, characters. “All children draw; I drew too, but not like a child—I drew right away,” the artist later recalled[7].

In his teens R. Khachatryan left home to start an independent life. He rented a small lodging and took a temporary job. One pencil drawing after another was born. Man, nature and everything around him became his hero and the axis of his work (The Model, Drapery 1, Drapery 2, all 1952; Old Shoe, 1953, and others). The author’s aesthetic approach to Old Shoe is interesting. It is hard to imagine a more unsightly and unattractive object. Yet, as many examples from world art show, the outwardly ugly can be presented as charming. In just this way Khachatryan managed to depict a worn-out shoe so that the viewer’s first impression turns into study, scrutiny, perhaps admiration. The sixteen-year-old, probably captivated by Vincent van Gogh’s famous Shoes (1886), seems likewise to have tried to depict the hard, difficult life of the working man, as the famous Dutchman had done.

These first drawings aroused both the surprise and the admiration of maestro Yervand Kochar. Years later the artist fondly recalled this beautiful episode of his life and how the master introduced him to the art of Leonardo da Vinci, distant echoes of which are not hard to detect in the Armenian draughtsman’s works of later years.

On one occasion the artist told of his meeting with Kochar. While he was drawing in a park, a man of imposing appearance (whom the boy did not know) came up to him. Interested in his pencil drawings and having examined them, he invited the boy to his studio. Only there did the young artist learn who the stranger was. On seeing the pencil drawing Drapery, the master said that the spirit of Leonardo had been reborn in it. Since Rudolf did not know who Leonardo was, Kochar showed him a book of the great Italian’s works. The boy was astonished at the resemblance between his drawing and the Drapery of the Renaissance genius.

In 1955 Rudolf created a portrait of his teacher, Portrait of Maestro Yervand Kochar. For the eighteen-year-old this was probably a distinctive way of expressing his gratitude. Khachatryan always said that it was the favour of fate that had made him Kochar’s pupil. “If it had not been for Kochar, I would not have found my path. It is another matter that afterwards I had to continue it on my own, but my beginning came from Kochar’s art. Of course, the hand of God was in it too, that I grew up under Kochar’s blessed hand, found myself in his elevated milieu and took from him everything that was possible,” the artist confessed on another occasion[8].

In Portrait of Maestro Yervand Kochar the head resting on the right hand, the penetrating gaze and the pipe, the carelessly combed grey hair, the ordered wrinkles and the barely visible but clearly scrutinizing gaze from beneath half-closed lids complete the image of a venerable sage. This seems to be a description of the first impression the sitter made on the young Khachatryan. It is also possible that the artist captured their very first meeting, when the maestro was looking at his works and at the same time studying the boy himself. The pipe between the lips, the maestro’s half-closed eyes, the head resting on the hand and the whole manner of presentation give the pencil drawing a distinctive mystery and psychological intensity. Besides the linear solutions and emphasized fine lines characteristic of Khachatryan (which we meet in many portraits of that period), one detail is interesting: Kochar’s right hand seems not to belong to this drawing. Unlike the meticulously worked facial features, the hand is clearly “unfinished”: the palm and wrist are unnaturally “attached” to the arm, and proportion is lacking. Here Khachatryan’s eagerness to take lessons from his teacher is already evident. The hand is done entirely in the “Kochar” manner; there is an allegory here: it is not meant to be a continuation of the arm at all. Just as in many of the maestro’s works individual parts of the body often allegorically embody their “mission,” so R. Khachatryan depicted his teacher’s fingers without their natural proportions. The artist did not set himself the task of making every muscle expressive (whereas in other drawings he masterfully depicted every muscle, even the folds of the skin). Kochar’s head resting on his hand is the key to the artist’s message: it is the strong, capable hand that realizes what has been conceived in the head. It is no accident that the author depicted precisely the artist’s right hand—the dominant, creative one.

After leaving the college R. Khachatryan wandered the streets of Yerevan, drawing with astonishing accuracy the portraits of the old men he met. He satisfied his longing for his own roots by drawing old people, old houses that had “lived their lives,” objects, leafless trees. He depicted everything whose time seemed already to have run out, everything that had long since become forgotten history.

In his portraits of elderly people the artist was drawn to their spiritual world—their compassion, the purity of their feelings and thoughts, the calm and balance of their inner world (The Artist’s Grandmother, 1956; Sato, 1956).

Although the artist was at the starting point of a new stage of his work, it was in this very period that he created the graphic work Portrait of Komitas (1969). In the portrait, made in the classical manner, the Vardapet is shown to the chest, his gaze turned to the viewer. The author’s virtuoso execution and his responsibility towards the work are especially evident: in an image charged with great inner tension he conveyed with remarkable skill, through tone and chiaroscuro, the composer’s calm enveloped in wisdom and the inner emotions of a great intellectual. It is no accident that for Portrait of Komitas R. Khachatryan received the prize of the Ministry of Culture of the Armenian SSR at the exhibition dedicated to the composer’s centenary that same year.

In the course of his search for a new stage he briefly abandoned his favourite graphic media (pencil, sanguine, ink) and turned to oil paint.

“Open Forms”

In his youth Rudolf Khachatryan moved away from the realist manner, relying mainly on new, formalist trends. In the 1960s he passed through several creative stages that eventually led him to cubism and surrealism, to the threshold of open forms. Following Kochar, he turned to “open forms in space,” endowing natural figures here and there with deeply opened voids. In this way Rudolf Khachatryan created the image of the “Man of Another World,” as he himself called it—a spiritual and ascetic man. His many works in “open forms” were attempts not only to continue his teacher’s path but also to make discoveries of his own by conveying human states of mind and feelings in his own way. The drawing The Scream (1968) shows a hero split, cleft down to the waist. As in many of Kochar’s works, the body here seems divided between the two sexes—a cavity turning into a female breast and a male chest, divided sections of the face. If Edvard Munch’s The Scream expressed loneliness, despair and alienation, in Khachatryan it is rather an explosion of the inner “I”—a scream coming from within a person.

In Khachatryan’s “open form” works glimmers of a twofold unity are evident: a person is divided, yet at the same time whole in his spiritual contradictions. The artist later developed this direction again, returning to it at various stages of his work.

New Creative Searches: The Moscow Period

Leaving his homeland to settle permanently in Moscow was a turning point in both Rudolf Khachatryan’s creative and personal life. Settling into a new environment at a mature age, as well as giving expression to his artistic message and talent, involved many obstacles. Nor was it easy to overcome the sadness of a long separation from Armenia and the difficulties of starting a new family. Yet his new home and surroundings offered wide opportunities for creation and making.

In Moscow Rudolf joined his life with the talented stage designer Natalia Schneider. The field of Khachatryan’s activity widened—a new environment, new people, new creative stimuli. The atmosphere and surroundings gave the artist fresh energy. Overcoming certain difficulties, he achieved his first successes, above all in portraits, in which beneath the outward appearance he also saw a person’s inner self—his spiritual world, traits of character, human qualities.

The pencil portraits are simple and entirely comprehensible at first glance (Francesca, 1971; Portrait of a Girl, 1971; Mariamik at the Window, 1972). In the pencil drawing Little Armen (1987) Khachatryan’s tender approach to the child-sitter is palpable. Here the artist did not particularly emphasize the child’s body. Although part of the face is subtly shaded, the face as a whole is bathed in bright light. The delicate features are expressive, and especially the eyes, which look at the viewer seriously, without a smile, yet at the same time reveal his mischievous nature. Interestingly, the artist has depicted a distinctive perspective here—not of space but, so to speak, of the sitter’s future. His restrained and meaningful gaze suggests as much.

In depicting each sitter, each hero, Khachatryan set himself a task of character and psychology. It is characteristic that in all his portraits Khachatryan singles out the eyes in his own way: his heroes’ eyes are large and expressive (incidentally, according to those close to Khachatryan, he often began his quick portrait sketches precisely with the sitter’s eyes). In the artist’s works the eyes not only convey beauty but also serve as a key that opens a person’s inner world.

Khachatryan’s Male Heroes

It is characteristic that almost all his male heroes are long-haired and bearded. One might think this was the author’s favourite image for a male portrait. In his portraits Khachatryan often depicted his close friend, the ethnographer Levon Abrahamian, choosing him as the prototype of his heroes (Male Portrait, 1977; Abu Lala Maari, 1978).

If in the first portrait we simply see the ethnographer in profile, in the second we see the Arab thinker and poet. The artistic embodiment of Abu Lala Maari gives the impression of rereading Isahakyan’s poem once more. The turban on the sitter’s head, the clothing, the beard and the thoughtful gaze—not sad, but rather anxious—complete the image of the philosopher. In the eyes of Khachatryan’s hero one reads the bitterness and despair caused by betrayal, injustice and falsehood. The poet’s eyes concentrate heavy suffering and irreconcilability with reality, the only escape from which is his own creative work. The heavy turban deprives the drawing of airiness. With brown ink the artist joins and merges the threads of the turban with the hair. This transition looks like the trace of ink accidentally running on the cardboard. Revealing the poet’s turbulent yet delicate inner world, the artist depicted the whole essence of a sensitive, dreamy person who has nevertheless known the bitterness of life. The artist chooses characters who, in solitude, try to find the answers to all problems and questions and the ways to overcome them. They are individuals who depend on no one, strong even in the face of their suffering and hardship, even in solitude, which demands incredible willpower and optimism. Why does the artist prefer such individual characters—perhaps because he himself is one of them? Or is it the essence of an artist to remain alone with himself and his thoughts all his life? The eyes looking at us from beneath the turban know no rest: the man is in ceaseless struggle with himself, with people, with the world—longing to transform everything.

Rudolf Khachatryan never exhausts the image of his heroes and what they have to say in a single work: he may continue it in the image of another sitter, in other clothing, carrying the main idea from one work to another, developing and enriching it. The poetics of the freedom-loving spirit of Abu Lala Maari finds its continuation, for example, in the graphic works Pilgrim (1981) and Karavan-Bashi (1982).

Drawings on Levkas (1979–1989)

In the 1970s–1980s Khachatryan’s work entered a new stage. The artist’s stormy, emotional temperament constantly drove him to new artistic discoveries. Interestingly, during his creative life he turned to painting many times, but each time returned very soon to his favoured drawing. The desire to turn a graphic work into painting probably prompted him to transfer his preferred technique to levkas, which until then had not yet been used in graphic art[9]. A chance gift—a board coated with levkas—determined the artist’s further path. This kind of ground was not in itself a novelty: in the Middle Ages many icons were made in this technique. The method of preparation has remained essentially the same to this day: the thinner and more even the layer of ground, the better the picture is preserved. After drying, the levkas-coated board is sanded and polished.

Speaking of the drawing Abu Lala Maari, we noted that the image of its freedom-loving hero and his human type develop in their own way in the levkas works Karavan-Bashi and Pilgrim, whose heroes are different but complementary individuals.

In the levkas Pilgrim the sitter’s heavy, massive pose embodies a magical strength in which one sees at once the zealous pilgrim who has paused for a moment on his way to the “Holy Land,” the weary stranger, the seeker of a path, and the abandoned, lonely man. The “story” of Pilgrim involuntarily echoes Christ’s forty days of wandering in the desert. The inner strength radiating from the hero convinces us that he will never yield to temptation. The influence of Kochar’s pencil drawing Reclining Man (1925) is evident in this work. Incidentally, in these works by both Kochar and Khachatryan the heroes lean against a thick tree trunk, which symbolizes closeness to the earth, “deep roots” and steadfastness. The tree and the traveller are fused, just as man and nature are forever together. Incidentally, this levkas is sometimes also called The Outcast or The Exile. That is to say, in the image of the pilgrim the author perhaps also saw a rejected, lonely, yet unbroken man endowed with a strong will.

The portrait Armen Dzhigarkhanyan. Before the Performance (1986) is distinctive: it does seem really to have been made “before the performance,” but it is clear that it is not about any particular performance or role; what is depicted is the restrained turmoil in the soul of a beloved actor and, more generally, of an artist called upon to embody different characters.

The Portrait of Hrant Matevosyan (1986) presents the image of a writer who dwells in eternity and nourishes his writing with the soil and water of Tsmakut, concentrating the thoughts that the times dictated to the prose writer: the burden of talent is in his troubled gaze, and his eyes seem to hold the human stories of his native village. Every line of the portrait seems to be made up of the character traits of Matevosyan’s heroes. Khachatryan “curtained” the portrait of Hrant Matevosyan with the writer’s lines—of one “who writes with the bared nerve of the world.”

In 1988, in this decisive and difficult period in the history of the Armenian people, Rudolf Khachatryan turned to portraits of two sons of Armenia who bear an exceptional mission for us—Grigor Narekatsi and Komitas. The two symbols of our being and of the Renaissance of our culture—of Armenian literature and Armenian music—carry two similar destinies in the artist’s works. This is probably why both images have almost the same structure. Like Komitas, Narekatsi too stands in the window of a niche, in an altar, both with a luminous image. The light radiating from and surrounding both Narekatsi and Komitas is depicted here as an allegorical halo. Khachatryan’s Komitas is a particle of the people’s own soul—penetrating and compassionate—an inseparable page of its destiny. In the compositional solution we see a certain similarity with the canvas Komitas, resembling an icon in an arched frame, by Valentin Podpomogov, the painter who paved the way for surrealism in Armenia[10]. Rudolf Khachatryan’s Komitas is in the Mother See of Holy Etchmiadzin. As we have already noted, the draughtsman built the images of both Komitas and Narekatsi with almost identical artistic solutions. Nevertheless there is an essential difference: the founder of the renaissance of Armenian literature stands in front of the arched niche, while the Vardapet is behind the niche, beyond it. By giving such artistic solutions on levkas, Khachatryan surely emphasized the musician’s isolation, the inner world of a suffering soul in the embrace of solitude. Khachatryan portrayed Komitas imbued with the music of silence, seeking consolation in solitude, suffocating from spiritual and mental speechlessness and from his own inner silent scream. The artist emphasized the presence in Komitas’s world of the harmony of the inner and outer beauty of the house of God, where the peal of every church bell can be heard, where the Komitas Liturgy can be heard—the identification of the human soul with nature and with spiritual, illuminating music.

Armenian and Armenian

The harmony of thought and feeling is greatly helped by the environment and atmosphere in which the creator lives. In this sense Khachatryan can be considered fortunate. His studio became a centre of meetings, dialogue, debate and the refining of ideas with specialists in various fields. It was during his years in Moscow that Arno Babajanyan and R. Khachatryan met, and the meeting became the basis of a lasting friendship. In the 1970s the well-known Russian musician and close friend of the artist Alexander Slobodyanik asked Khachatryan to move his piano to his studio for a time. Later the instrument already stood in the artist’s studio, a direct participant in many fascinating evenings. One day Arno Babajanyan, having finished in a single night his famous piano piece Elegy, dedicated to the memory of Aram Khachaturian[11], came to the artist’s studio early in the morning and played it for Rudolf. And so it was in Rudolf Khachatryan’s studio that the modulations of the composer’s music, penetrating the deepest layers of his inner world, were heard for the first time.

The Last Periods of His Work: London and Moscow (1989–2007)

Return to “Open Forms”

The last years of Rudolf Khachatryan’s life—the London (1989–1994) and Moscow (1995–2007) periods—are marked by an unprecedented creative upsurge and a new message. These twenty creative years, comprising ten periods, were marked by works in many genres and styles. Being a continuation of one another in meaning and form, they are united under one common title—Metamorphoses, or Transformations.

Having depicted “living, real” heroes and characters all his life, the artist in the end tried to find, beyond them, the eternal formula of man as creation, man as enigma. Here the innovative artist rises before us with his unexpected conceptions and their embodiment, and not only by the means of painting: sculpture, appliqué and so on.

In the artist’s works of 1989–1990 we mainly encounter biblical figures. Remarkably, years later Khachatryan turned to the very theme that had appeared to him as a vision in childhood.

“I read, and more often reread again and again, the Bible, which is my only beloved and endless book. I know the Bible by heart,” Rudolf Khachatryan noted[12].

Christ’s appearance is unchanging in all Khachatryan’s works; in some works, however, the face is treated with opened forms. The first work of this period is Portrait of the Apostle Thomas (1989), whose prototype is Levon Abrahamian. He interpreted none of the well-known biblical subjects within the bounds of the traditional narrative. All his heroes are in deep emotion, contemplation and a heavy state of mind.

John the Baptist (1989) is isolated from the whole world. One has the impression that the artist depicted him lifeless, yet at the same time with a living presence. His gaze reflects the response to the deeds done in the world and the pain of farewell. There is also regret at injustice. The author again turned to allegory: the Baptist’s gaze holds the reflection of his deeds and the pain of farewell. The position of his body is notable, recalling Yervand Kochar’s De profundis… (1919). In Khachatryan, as in Kochar, man is connected to the earth as a symbol of roots and steadfastness.

Rudolf Khachatryan depicted biblical figures without clothing, yet they are never naked: they are spiritualized, immaterial. This approach testifies to his sincere reverence for the Bible, emphasizing the unearthly, sacred nature of the figures.

Self-Portraits

It is true that whatever an artist paints, he also expresses his own identity—all the more so if the hero is himself, in time and space, with his feelings, thoughts and state of mind. Rudolf Khachatryan’s self-portraits clearly record not only outward changes but also new traits of character.

In the 1951 Self-Portrait the young artist looks at the viewer straight on, without turning. This is the only case in which he presents himself so directly. In later years the gaze in his self-portraits becomes more oblique, inward and psychological. In the early works the artist searches for his style, his facial expression, the particular features of his mimicry. It is characteristic that he often depicted himself in an artistic pose, as a creative individual searching for himself. In the later Self-Portrait of 1971, from the Moscow period, the weight of accumulated life experience and inner struggle are already noticeable.

The 1989 Self-Portrait stands out for its inner tension, its anxiety and at the same time its unwavering strength. And in the works of his last creative period the artist appears bolder, more self-contained, a person who now addresses to the viewer his own judgement as a master.

His self-portraits are not only a record of his outward appearance but also a continuing study of his inner world. Throughout his life his art was an inner struggle—between man, time and art.

Rudolf Khachatryan once said: “It is hard to imitate me, even impossible, because I am both the one who walks across the bridge and the bridge itself”[13].

[1] It should be noted that a single article cannot cover Rudolf Khachatryan’s entire creative path. We have examined the artist’s art as a whole in the PhD dissertation devoted to him. See: Vardanyan H. The Art of Rudolf Khachatryan. Yerevan: Institute of Arts, NAS RA, 2014 (academic supervisor: Ararat Aghasyan) (in Armenian).

[2] See: Rudolf Khachatryan (album, foreword by H. Igityan). Yerevan: House of Artists of Armenia, 1980, pp. 5–6.

[3] See: Haytayan P. Rudolf Khachatryan at 70: a belated but not too late attempt at a portrait // Azg. Yerevan, 24 March 2007 (in Armenian).

[4] See: Tarkovsky A. Rudolf Khachatryan’s Monochrome Polyphony // Literaturnaya Armeniya. Yerevan, 1983, no. 5, p. 62.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Rudolf Khachatryan. Metamorphoses. The Art and Mythology of Rudolf Khachatryan (introductory essay by L. Abrahamian). Moscow, 1993, p. 12. The literature on the artist, however, also contains another version, in which Khachatryan tells his mother only in the morning that he has seen God.

[7] Kazhoyan J. Rudolf Khachatryan. Public Television of Armenia, 2007.

[8] Papikyan H. “I Will Go On Painting Yerevan.” Rudolf Khachatryan // Yerevan 7 Days. Yerevan, 24–30 March 2004 (in Armenian).

[9] In Renaissance art, works were made on prepared (grounded) paper combining various techniques, which produced a multicoloured effect.

[10] For more detail see: Aghasyan A. Komitas through the Eyes of Armenian Artists. NAS RA, Gitutyun, 2019, p. 15 (in Armenian).

[11] Asatryan A. Sayat-Nova, “Qani vur jan im” – Arno Babajanyan, Elegy // Sayat-Nova – 300. Yerevan: Gitutyun, 2012, pp. 83–85 (in Armenian). In the article A. Asatryan describes in detail the history of the Elegy’s creation.

[12] See: Arazyan H. “Now I Have Something to Say… and a Lot” (in Armenian).

[13] See: Manukyan E. He himself – both the one who walks across the bridge and… the bridge // Azg. Yerevan, 7 August 2007 (in Armenian).