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Rustam Khamdamov


Rustam Khamdamov
Rustam Khamdamov
  • The Rustle of the Unknown
  • Les sujets d'existence

    galleries:
  • Cinema
  • Gallery of works
  • Stranger

    videos:
  • «Unexpected Joy» 1974 - I
  • «Unexpected Joy» 1974 - II
  • My heart’s in mountains

    archive:
  • Blessed are the possessors - Beati Possidentes
  • Personal exhibition of RUSTAM KHAMDAMOV painting, graphic arts
  • The Rustle of the UnknownIn a hint of unfinished is essence.
    In the finished stroke-mastery.
    In look unattached-lightness.
    In a flourish- whole life.
    What's it, without vivid colours and emotions? A picture or a sketch?
    Impossibility of determination is an essence of mystery.
    Rustam Khandamov's lines - music of unfinished.
    From a shoe painted hundred times, imagination unerringly creates an image. Hundred images.
    Impersonality of women, almost alike, by miracle of mastery are personalized. Immaterial, imponderable world is submitted to women's faces, multiplied like in mirrors. World, in some sense, without life- impossibility of taking a breath in the world of absolute beauty.
    Mediocre being does choke in this world. He has to put a weight , deteriorate,fracture, to feel more restful, comfortable.
    Drafts- paintings- worlds of Khandamov are for the few who can cry out desperately, without insult « Gentlemen! You are the beasts!” and hiding into uselessly beautiful chiffon, subsiding to the rumble and gritting of a mad tramway of life, hurrying to nowhere. This is the fate of barely a woman, weightless creature, invented and incarnated by Khandamov – The Slave of Love. He paints this image thousand times. It is, almost the only one – most impotent. Like a stranger in Block's poem, incarnated transparent sorrow...
    The helpless needs protection, but where could be found appropriate sentiment. Who can guard
    beauties weaved up by an artist from a web. They are secure on the paper only - impossible exist without. They would have melt here, burn or be trodden down. Would have been killed if touched., you have to be careful even to look at through eyelashes. One inaccurate breath of excitement and they will fly away!
    The paintings of Khandamov, not paintings at all. They are something other.
    Dreams of perpetual motion?
    Leaves whirling in the wind?
    Lace of a rime?
    Strings touched unintentionally?
    Dream?
    You are looking at the lines made up by a magic hand of an artist and understand that you are permeating into his motion, without emotion, without desire uncover mystery, decipher his secret code... you are just looking, simply to see. You can not to tear off your eyes...
    Khandamov is enchanting you with weightless perfection, submerging you into his own fantasies... Astounds you with purity, with an air permeated by aroma of non existing perfumes.
    And there in the fluttering air is hovering something of escaping beauty...
    Bewitching...
    Beclouding...
    It might be somebody else's dream.
    You are left only to catch it, if the wind will not interfere.
    If not catch - to see at least...
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    Aleksandra Panfilova, Moscow, 2008

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