Сергей Параджанов…

Sergei Paradzhanov…



A man of colossal, even overwhelming, almost elemental energy, a force field that drew people in and did not let them go. His thick, seemingly clumsy fingers worked tirelessly and with astonishing dexterity. He drew, cut, sewed, cooked, washed dishes with the ease and elegance of a magician. He could not bear it when someone was unable to hammer a nail, tie a knot, or hang a picture. He lived and created every hour, every minute, at any time, in any place — at a table, on a film set, in a prison cell…



June 27, 1979. I came into his courtyard when he, together with the artist Gogi Meshkishvili and his nephew Garik (then Khachaturov), was displaying a beautiful lace fabric. Where it eventually disappeared, I do not know. Most likely, it was given away to someone with one of his dramatic, theatrical gestures.

He absorbed life; he thirsted to live, to create, with a kind of wild, unrestrained fervor. He fashioned his own unique and unrepeatable beauty, free from any canon, out of the most unexpected things — the foil lids of kefir bottles, old combs, broken toys… He gave his objects whimsical lives and stories of their own. A guest at his home would inevitably be honored to sit on the chair that “Napoleon himself once sat in,” to examine a picture that had “once hung in the tsar’s chambers,” and to drink tea from a cup that had “belonged” to some great personality. He loved to give, and to give beautifully. In the act of giving, he distributed beauty to those who hungered for it. And yet he could not bear it when his gifts did not “work”, when they failed to adorn someone or something.

Paradzhanov’s home became a center for celebrities from around the world. Generous neighbors had long ceased to be surprised at the appearance of Maya Plisetskaya, Vladimir Vysotsky, Marcello Mastroianni, Allen Ginsberg, and other distinguished guests. One could find him alone only early in the morning: until late at night he was surrounded by an astonishing variety of people — traders and directors, former princes and crime bosses, ex-convicts and district police officers.

Understanding people well, he spoke to them with complete frankness, often startling and shocking them. Some left convinced they had met a great man; others were certain they had encountered the devil himself.

He was far from favored by the authorities. Probably, above all, because he possessed an undeniable sense of freedom. He was a man outside systems, outside files, passports, and commendations. He was sentenced for “Ukrainian nationalism,” for “violence against party members,” for speculation.

In prisons and labor camps, Paradzhanov formed genuine relationships with prisoners, guards, wardens. They became his friends, and so the “especially dangerous criminal” would be transferred to another camp, where everything began again.

For all his joy in life, he regarded death with extraordinary reverence. When his sister’s husband died, Paradjanov stayed up the entire night preparing the body, trying to make the departed more beautiful, so that he could look dignified in the final act of his life's drama.

Paradzhanov suffered deeply from the conflict that erupted between Armenians and Azerbaijanis. For one so steeped in material culture, customs, and traditions, borders had never been anything more than a formality. At the Georgia-Film studio, he filmed “Ashik-Kerib” in Baku with an Armenian cinematographer.

August 1, 1979. “Dancing Kurd and Kurdish Woman” — that is what he called his mural. Constantly changing, it survived more than ten years, and after its creator was gone, it was dismantled for souvenirs. I remember breaking off a fragment for myself, but I couldn’t find a place for it.


His last unfinished film, “Confession”, was dedicated to the city of his childhood — Tbilisi, which he loved to the point of pain. Only a few frames were shot in the courtyard where he was born, raised, and lived his final twelve years. He was spared the sight of Tbilisi burned, wounded, suffering, and deprived of its joy.

Paradzhanov was neither a believer nor an atheist. He crossed the thresholds of Catholic and Orthodox churches, synagogues, and mosques with equal reverence. He believed in beauty, and he found it in every person, every custom, every object…He left us this beauty as his legacy. It endures in his films, his scripts, his collages and drawings, and in the memories of those who will never be able to forget him.


December 1980. I met Sergei Iosifovich on his way home with his shopping — three bottles of lemonade and a few other inexpensive things. Along the way, he didn’t hesitate to pick up an old bicycle wheel, which turned into a brilliant photographic composition

“March 4, 1981. A neighbor, a small boy, also came up to visit Parajanov.
“He’s an assistant to apartment thieves, a window climber,” — Sergei explained to me. “They deliberately don’t feed him so that he can slip through a narrow window and unlock the door from inside.” The stout man in the portrait, according to Sergei, was his relative — a merchant”.

Yuri Mechitov, photographer

From the book “Sergei Parajanov. Chronicles of a Dialogue” — Tbilisi: GAMS-print, 2009.


Last updated on 11.11.2025




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