The Death of the Artist

In one of the villages of ancient Armenia, there lived a peculiar artist named Manug. Sometimes he would paint a beautiful person as a grotesque figure, and at other times, he would depict a feeble person as a mighty hero. Many disliked him. And they took revenge as they could: sometimes they would hurt his children, other times they would slaughter his sheep. For a poor man, a sheep is as precious as a flock is to a rich man...

Manug worked fiercely and tirelessly. But no one wanted to buy his paintings. The more he worked, the poorer he became. Any potter or blacksmith lived better than this artist. Manug began to think that people needed pots more than art. His wife would ask in bewilderment:

"Why has the Lord punished me? Other women have husbands who are real men: they sow, plow, and reap. But this one only knows how to paint..."

Brooding and loneliness drove the artist into the mountains. One day, on the cliffs, Manug encountered a potter.

"Good day, brother Hovhannes. Why so startled? Are you afraid of me too?"
"You're not some beast, why should I fear you?"
"Everyone avoids me. I thought you would too..."
"People don't like those who don't work."
"Hovhannes, Hovhannes, may your house prosper! I work day and night. I toil like an ox. And you say such things to me."
"This is not work. You distort the straight and straighten the crooked. Paint like everyone else does."
"Painting like everyone else is easier. It's harder to be oneself. But let's not quarrel, brother Hovhannes. After all, you too make pots that are not like everyone else's. Because you are an artist."
"But people buy my pots, and no one buys your paintings. That means you're on the wrong path."
"Hovhannes, I don't tell you how to make better pots. Though I could. But for some reason, everyone feels entitled to lecture artists."
"Teach me? A potter—about pottery?!" the man exclaimed indignantly.
"Why did you come up to the mountains?" Manug smiled. "Looking for clay? You have a whole mountain of it in your yard. Your pots are always in demand. No, you came to look at the grass. In every leaf, you search for something unfamiliar and say to yourself, 'I've seen this before.' I've seen much of what you've created."

"Tell me," the potter whispered for some reason.
"Because you're going the wrong way. The mountains have given you everything—and they ask for no more. Go to the people. To your grandson. Observe him. A child, blowing bubbles, struggles against the swaddling clothes binding him: the desire for freedom develops from childhood. A child has a big head and thin legs.

"You will create him, rejoice, and then grow sad again. Then, at a festival where people sing, laugh, and dance, you'll be amazed at how many slender girls there are in the village. And among them, one with a shy-proud gaze, a graceful neck, and black braids down to her heels—the one you've been searching for all your life. And from her, a slender jug will be born. Not a jug—youth. A ringing one, singing on its own. You'll create it, and no one will be happier than you.

"Everyone grows tired, Hovhannes, of everything. And you'll forget how happy you once were, discovering a new pattern, shade, or curve... You'll begin to search anew for a jug not yet created, to seek the meaning of your life. You'll stop when you find it, before a gray-bearded elder. His head sunk into his shoulders. Hands calloused. Feet worn, as if rooted in the earth. Feet that have walked hundreds of miles. The old man's back is bent under the weight of years. In his eyes, the depth of the heavens and the grandeur of the mountains. The strength of old age lies in wisdom. And where there is wisdom, there can be no shouting: the old man is in no hurry to give away what he has accumulated to random people. You'll see him, and it will be as if lightning strikes you—how to connect the depth of the heavens with the grandeur of the mountains through a bent back, calloused, gnarled hands and feet, the compressed wisdom of his lips, so that through him—one man—you can convey the hardworking people... That is when you'll create a great jug. Not a jug—the culmination of your life."

Hovhannes immediately wanted to gift the artist something. But he didn't know how or what. Hastily, he said:

"The village thinks you're mad. But you're a seer! You unravel thoughts and see through people. You found in a moment what I've been searching for years. One thing I don't understand: why don't you paint icons?"
"Hovhannes! God must be sought, found, understood! And not invented—I want to see Him, to ask why there is so much evil in the world."
"Then paint the rich as they wish. Why do you distort them? You're starving your wife Mayram and your children, Manug."
"Hovhannes, dear, you shouldn't have mentioned the children. And my wife—what of her? They always want more. A gift is given to few. To few, but for all. Dare I sell what is not mine alone? Even for the sake of my children. They'll understand when they grow up."
"Don't be angry, dear Manug, I didn't mean to offend. Look at our mountains instead. See how many stones there are? The dream of my life is to become rich, buy carts in every village, and bring soil from the valleys to cover the rocky outcrops."

The artist shuddered. He fixed his eyes on Hovhannes' kind face, as if seeing it for the first time, embraced him abruptly, turned sharply, and ran to his old house. Soon, the artist's wife saw a painting: a hero fighting a monster. And the hero's face resembled the potter.

Mayram hurried to amuse the neighbors. The neighbors told their neighbors. Soon, almost the entire village was laughing to tears. Almost every passerby now shouted to the potter:

"Ah! Brave Hovhannes! Long life to you, savior! Hurry, take your lightning sword, the enemy is upon us!..."

The small, frail, lame Hovhannes, his head bowed, burned with shame. He could find no refuge from the mockers. He cursed:

"May the day of our meeting in the mountains turn black, Manug! May your lineage wither! May your sun be extinguished! Why, heartless one, did you mock an old man? Why did you make me a laughingstock?"

The people's laughter did not trouble Manug. He pondered: "They're not laughing at me. They've simply grown unaccustomed to the truth. They don't see, know, or understand themselves. And it's the artist's duty to help them rise. Even if I live worse than a shoemaker: do I not know how to become rich? But to do that, I'd have to betray my soul. Deception varies. From the merchant's deceit—hundreds are impoverished. From the artist's lie—entire generations suffer. May my children forgive me. They'll understand when they grow up..."

His reflections were interrupted by a knock. Unheard of! Through the low door entered a prince, accompanied by servants.

"Good day, Manug! Good day, master! Show me, show me what you do with people. They say you're a master at mocking them?"
"May your visit bring good, prince. I paint my kinsmen as I see them. And they think they are better or worse than that. That's why they take offense. Even the kindest Hovhannes curses me..."

The prince began to examine the paintings. From one canvas, a peasant looked at him defiantly. "In the eyes of my peasants—there is submission. They are bent by need. And the poorer they are, the more submissive. Why the defiance?"
The prince frowned but restrained himself. He stopped before another painting: a deer was being hunted by a Turk, a Byzantine, and a Persian. A bloody trail stretched from the wounded deer, resembling the outline of Armenia. The prince quickly turned away. And there he saw the portrait of a youth, known for his ugliness. The youth lived on alms but never rejoiced, never gave thanks, and never crossed himself, even when given generously. In the portrait, he gazed with inspiration at a ray of sunlight that split a dark cloud in two.

After examining a few more paintings, the prince returned to the portrait of the youth. The sublime image captivated him.

"If you paint me no worse, the reward will be worthy," he said.

The artist pierced the prince's handsome face with a sharp gaze. And he shuddered: he read nearly all the vices on the ruler's beautiful face. Firmly, he replied:

"No! I cannot paint you like this!"
"What, do I need to become hunchbacked too?" the prince smirked.
"The youth's hump is the suffering and hope of the people. And you, prince, are hunchbacked. But your hump is made of vices and misdeeds."

The prince burst into laughter.

"No! I cannot paint you like this!" the artist repeated, shifting his gaze back to the portrait.
"Manug, you are poor because you are stubborn. Yet your children are no worse than others," and a heavy purse fell at the artist's feet.
"Those who carry the truth are never rich. Take your purse, prince, I am no good flatterer," he had not finished speaking when his wife, Mayram, burst in.

She grabbed the purse, pressed it to her withered chest, and looked at her husband with hatred:

"No, you will paint! There is no one in the village we do not owe. I beg you for the children's sake, not for myself. Give in for once! If you don't, fine! I will pay off the debts now, and you can settle with the prince yourself..." and she slammed the door irritably.

With disgust, Manug painted the prince. The palette fell. Brushes broke. The prince sat patiently before him. Servants stood in the shadows, respectful and silent.

When all the brushes were broken, the prince sent a servant for new ones. With the new brushes, untouched by the past, the work went less awkwardly. Like obedient dogs, they licked up all the colors indiscriminately.

After several new moons, the prince took the portrait. After that, orders from the elite poured in...

Days, weeks, and years spun like millstones, increasing the artist's wealth and gray hairs. And strangely, the less Manug worked, the richer he became. Foreign masters built him a palace. His stables housed the finest breeds of horses. Manug's wife drowned in silks. His daughters sparkled with jewels. His sons carelessly tossed gold. And the elite vied to invite Manug to their gatherings. Silently, he attended every celebration. Silently, he ate and drank. No sooner had he risen from one table than he was seated at another. And again, wine, toasts, and merry music, which sounded to the artist like a funeral dirge. No one guessed that Manug had ceased to see people as they were. Now he saw them as they wished to appear. Light brushes were weighed down by the heaviness of purses. Flattery clouded his once-piercing eyes. His hands grew greasy from fatty kebabs. Manug looked at his wife, who had pushed him down this path, with hatred. He grew to dislike his children, whom wealth had made lazy and arrogant. They squandered money that reeked of their father's humiliation.

Soon, a plague struck the people. The disease swept through the villages like a fierce storm: the strong grew weak, the weak perished. People remembered God and hurried to the temples. They began to slaughter livestock in the name of the Almighty. But frail Ohanes did not fall ill. Nor did a few shepherds. A potter pondered: why? Realizing, he gathered all who could still walk. He led them to the mountain meadows where he sought new shapes for his jugs. The old man said to the weary people:

"If heaven is powerless, we will save ourselves. The shepherds grazed their sheep here—they did not fall ill. I picked these herbs—I did not fall ill. They are healing! Let us gather the herbs. We will give the juice to the weak and the sick. Those who recover will save others."

For a long time, they fought for life. The terrible disease finally retreated. The people were healed and glorified Ohanes. An ashug composed a song about him. Then they remembered Manug's painting: a hero fighting a monster, his face resembling the lame potter. The priests recognized him as a saint. The painting was hung in the church, in a prominent place. It became an icon. And the crowd, which had once laughed at it, now prayed to it with tears.

Since the peasants had saved Manug's family, the spacious palace became too small for him. One night, he could bear it no longer. He left his chambers and headed for the mountains. But the mountains greeted him with hostility: rain lashed fiercely, wind raged, knocking him down. Manug slipped toward the abyss. He fell, and his expensive clothes were soiled. He rose—the wind bent, twisted, and threw him onto the rocks. Wiping away blood, Manug thought bitterly: "I bought earthly goods, giving my magical gift in exchange. I gave it and grew weak. In poverty, I drew strength from the mountains, but now even the mountains weaken me..."

Unable to overcome the ascent in the harsh mountains, Manug returned by dawn. The peasants were already harnessing the oxen. His chilled children were helping them.

"My children are still asleep—tired from dancing and feasting. And they will sleep for a long time... And I am lulled to sleep. Could I have passed by the cry of poverty before?" Suddenly, he heard the potter's voice behind him:

"Manug sees no one now. He has gilded eyes!"

Manug shrank from the insult—knowing it was deserved—and ran to the old house. He broke down the boarded door. He grabbed the broken brushes that had once served him faithfully. Pressing them to his chest, he spoke to them as if to fallen warriors:

"Since I betrayed you, the souls of the destitute have become inaccessible to me. I am bought by wealth, which disfigures my children and has stolen my gift. Now I deceive the people no worse than others. But one can deceive without gilded eyes. So let the deceiver be blinded."

Manug fell onto the palette with dried paints. The palette was covered with blood—the artist's final color.

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The Death of the Artist

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