Javad Mirjavadov rarely put his thoughts and feelings on paper with words. Usually, they were blazoned across canvases in passionate hues which he drew from the sun. Today, his paintings brighten museum walls in Baku, Moscow, Paris, Rome, and London, as well as the private homes of such celebrated thinkers as Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Arthur Miller and Chinguiz Aytmatov (Kirghiz writer).
Published here for the first time in English are excerpts from his diary which provide provocative insight into his character and the evolution of his work.
Excerpts from Mirjavadov's Diary
Heart Attack. January. It seems to me that all the winds, blowing in the Absheron Peninsula, sift through the cracks in the walls and windows in this hospital ward. At night the cold wind howls like a ghost outside my window. It was on such a night accompanied by such wailful sounds that my birthday arrived: sixty.
My eyes won't close in sleep. Thousands of thoughts race through my mind. I have no visitors. The whole world seems to have forgotten me. No one needs me. Only my wife-the most pitiful and miserable creature in the world-is standing day and night over my head, guarding me from death's grasp.
I've died a thousand times in my paintings and now to die one more time seems so easy. Here I am, lying in the filth of this ward...I'm not complaining and criticizing anyone-I've been a happy man. Dying was sure to happen sooner or later. It's destiny. The most important thing is that I've never betrayed my conscience. And I never will. I've lived just as I've liked.
I've spent almost all my life out in nature, enjoying and loving everything created by God.
