STARLIGHT

Our conversation with Sirus Mirzazade, People's Artist of Azerbaijan and one of the most prominent figures in modern national fine arts, took place during his personal exhibition, On the Wings of Dreams, held at the Azerbaijan National Museum of Art.

The spacious halls of the museum showcased around one hundred paintings and graphic works by the master, whose creative journey began in 1970. A graduate of the Azim Azimzade Azerbaijan State Art School and the Moscow Higher Art and Industrial School, Sirus Mirzazade has been honoured with numerous international awards throughout his career. His works, distinguished by their deep conceptualism, poetic quality, and philosophically layered imagery, have been exhibited in leading galleries and museums across Russia, Iran, Türkiye, Germany, the Netherlands, France, the UAE, Great Britain, the USA, and other countries. Many of his pieces are held in museum collections and private archives.

In addition to his creative pursuits, Sirus Mirzazade is actively involved in pedagogy, sharing his experience and knowledge with students at the Azerbaijan State Academy of Arts, nurturing a new generation of artists.

"How would you define your style in one word? I imagine you're tired of this question, but is it fair to say that during certain periods of your career, you worked within a specific style?"

"The question isn't tiresome, but it is challenging to answer. Let's say there was a time when I created only black-and-white works. Of course, black-and-white isn't entirely accurate—there are still colours present. For instance, I have a series titled Black and White Dreams. I saw something in a dream and began to paint. This period lasted about ten years, during which I produced around 40 to 50 pictorial works and 100 graphic pieces in black and white. But when you say 'black and white,' you realise it's not so straightforward. Even black has countless shades. At the time, I feared I might never break free from this monochromatic framework, so I occasionally experimented with brightly coloured works. Recently, I've been exploring muted tones—grey, blue, pink, violet—avoiding excessive brightness."

"How does your current creative period differ?"

"Well, for example, I've been working with acrylics for the past decade. Acrylic is much brighter than oil paint, and it requires a different approach. This has slightly altered my technique. You could say it's a result of age—I'm seeking purity."

"Let's not call it age; let's say experience."

"Fair enough. As an artist, I want to refine myself. I aim for conciseness without losing depth. That's why my recent works feature bold colours: black, red, yellow—pure and unadulterated. Some people ask, 'How can you paint like that?' I reply, 'It looks beautiful.' I suppose it's a reflection of my stage in life. I'm 80 now, so it's a period of cleansing—not just for myself, but for my paintings as well. I want my canvases to be free of anything superfluous. It's not easy, by the way. To fill a canvas with a single colour—black, red, or green—and have the viewer feel satisfied, even compelled to return and find their own meaning in it, is a challenge. You can fill a space with details, with nature, with verbosity, but that doesn't achieve anything."

"Your exhibition is titled On the Wings of Dreams. That doesn't quite align with the idea of purification or reflection. The names of your paintings—Adam and Eve, Red Morning, In Dreams, In Sweet Dreams—are filled with dreams and fantasies."

"My paintings are symbolic. I believe an artist always dreams of flying, of seeing things from a distance, as if from above. It's difficult, and when you fail, you're left confronting that harsh reality. For example, I might paint a piece, wait five or six years, and if I'm no longer satisfied with it, I'll paint over it. My colleagues often say, 'Are you mad? Give it to me, and I'll give you a blank canvas.' But I refuse. I don't want that painting to exist anymore."

"Here's a somewhat mundane question. Musicians, and probably artists, often have a recurring nightmare: they're at a social gathering, and someone inevitably asks them to perform. I'm sure artists are also asked to paint someone's portrait on the spot."

"Yes, it's the same. It's like asking a dentist to pull a tooth on a bus. Artists and musicians visit to relax, not to entertain the public. Sometimes, under pressure, you might agree to make a quick sketch, only to hear someone say, 'My grandson draws better' (laughs). About seven years ago, I was asked to paint an office. I visited the space—a beautiful hall, ten by four metres. They wanted a black-and-white theme with shades of grey and colour.

"I spent nearly two months working on the sketch. When I presented it, the manager, the head of the holding company, said, 'I like it.' Then he added, 'You know, I have a grandson who draws. Let's invite him.' I replied, 'Invite him, let him paint too.' He took the sketch and left. That was the end of it. I knew it would lead to complications. This is what happens when people unfamiliar with art interfere. There's a famous story about Picasso. Once, while dining at a restaurant, a woman handed him a napkin and a pen. He sketched something quickly. She asked, 'Is that all?' He replied, 'Two minutes plus fifty years of work.'

"Creating portraits is even more challenging. You paint someone, and they say, 'No, that's not me. I'm better.' I respond, 'That's how I see you.' But not everyone is pleased with that.

"Portraits are often thankless work. Some want a replica of a photograph. Others want an idealised image. The key isn't exact resemblance but capturing the essence of the person. Yet, if an artist strives for truth, not everyone is ready to accept it. People want to look better than they are.

"I once painted a portrait without a face. People asked, 'Why?' I replied, 'Whoever wants to understand it, will.' The viewer can see themselves in it.

"Eyes in portraits are a separate matter. I don't always paint them. I'm not a priest; I don't aim to convey the inner world of the subject. For me, it's more about capturing something elusive."

"How are relationships within your artistic community?"

"Like everywhere else. Take Modigliani—he was a genius. But he and Picasso didn't get along. Modigliani once told Picasso, 'When you die, your last word will be Modigliani.' And indeed, Picasso uttered his name before passing. Artists often clash."

"What about here?"

"Here, everyone hugs and kisses... and then wipes their lips. There's not enough love in art. And not just in art. Artists have always been jealous of one another. It was true in the past, and it's true now. The only difference is that there used to be professional criticism—reviews that could guide and provoke thought without destroying careers. Today, that practice has vanished, leaving art without meaningful analysis."

"By the way, during the Soviet era, there were commissions that evaluated artists' work. It was a form of filtering, but it helped maintain artistic standards. In theatres, there were review boards; in painting, expert commissions. Now, such mechanisms are absent. There's public opinion and private judgments, but no in-depth analysis of style, mood, or technical skill. Do you think artists need this?"

"Now that the market is free and state commissions have largely disappeared, many believe criticism is unnecessary. In the past, the state commissioned works, and these went through a filtering process. Today, artists create what they want, and whether it resonates is subjective. In sculpture, commissions still exist, but not in painting. As a result, art becomes a commodity, and criticism is seen as obsolete."

"You work closely with young artists. What is their situation today?"

"At the Art Academy where I teach, hundreds of young artists graduate each year, but only a few continue in the field. The rest find other paths, and many struggle to compete in the market. In Soviet times, membership in the Union of Artists was a privilege. Today, its ranks have swelled. But are all these members truly artists? Education alone doesn't make a master. The ability to draw isn't just a skill; it's about creating compositions, conveying emotions, and exploring depth. Real art requires time, effort, and introspection. In the Soviet era, artists who weren't accepted into official circles worked in private, honing their craft. Now, with creative freedom, there's no clear direction. Many young artists turn to contemporary art, installations, and performances, but without a foundation in tradition, these experiments often fall flat."

"But today, there's more choice, more avant-garde movements blending with technology."

"Modern art movements aren't new. They existed in the 1920s and 30s. Masters like Kandinsky and Picasso began with classical training before moving to abstraction. Today, someone who can't paint a portrait makes three strokes and calls it abstraction. To achieve abstraction, one must first master the basics. Now, the trend is often the reverse—starting from ignorance and seeking shortcuts. Art has become more accessible but also more complex. It's harder for a talented artist to survive than for someone with money. In Soviet times, an artist could live off their craft. Now, materials are expensive, competition is fierce, and the market dictates terms. Meanwhile, the public often struggles to distinguish between genuine art and imitations. People buy for prestige, not always understanding what they're purchasing. Art has always been, and remains, the privilege of a few. Only those who truly burn with their work, who understand its essence, can create works that endure through the centuries."

"Can an artist survive without selling their work?"

"It's very difficult. I don't sell much. I'm reluctant to part with my works, and they often don't fetch the prices they deserve. The art market in Azerbaijan has changed. In the 1990s, paintings could be profitable, but now the situation is only partially improved. People buy art, but they don't always understand its value. Some are willing to pay generously, while others buy for status. Artists working on Fountain Square face challenges too—not all are untalented, but many cater to commercial tastes rather than artistic integrity."

"But your works are in private collections abroad."

"Yes, but those buyers are different. They understand art. We have connoisseurs here too, but they often lack the means. Those with money don't always appreciate what they're buying."

"You've mentioned that some paintings are impossible to sell. Why is that?"

"There are works I'm deeply attached to, and I can't part with them. Sometimes, I'm offered substantial sums, but I still refuse. I tell them, 'If you like it, I can make a copy—a high-quality one, nearly indistinguishable. But I won't give you the original.'"

"Has anyone ever failed to distinguish between a copy and the original?"

"Certainly. Once, a man who claimed to be a psychic visited me. He held metal rods up to one of my works, and they closed. 'This painting has energy,' he said. Then he tried it with another piece, and nothing happened. I realised the first painting was created in a moment of inspiration, while the second was a copy."

"Do you believe in that?"

"I'm not sure. But I have a painting at home that the psychic said, 'It drains energy.' My wife sometimes jokes that it gives us strange sensations."

"Your art often celebrates women. Last year's exhibition was titled The Scent of Woman. Would you say this is the central theme of your work?"

"Yes, honestly, I've always sought to depict the most beautiful creation in the world—women—on my canvases. God created man, but His masterpiece is woman. To me, she is a source of inspiration, so I continually paint women as I see them. They are eternally beautiful."

"Could you say that you've spent your entire life painting one picture, like a writer who spends a lifetime writing one book?"

"You could say that. I've explored various images—women clothed, women nude. At one point, I created the Adam and Eve series, with many works dedicated to this theme. Once, I visited the Adam and Eve exhibition in Moscow, and it captivated me. It was 2012. I saw numerous interpretations of the theme—men and women united, connected. When I returned home, I realised many of my works carried this idea, and I titled some of them Adam and Eve. I admire the beauty of women and strive to convey it on canvas. I don't know how I do it, but I try."

"What about men?"

"When I paint men, it's usually myself. I'm a jealous man."

"But a woman isn't just beauty; she's also the image of a mother, wife, daughter, sister."

"Of course. A woman embodies tenderness, care, and love. She is the most beautiful creation on earth. A man spends his life trying to understand her, for she is his opposite, and through this understanding, he discovers new facets of himself."

"But times have changed, and the world is in turmoil. How can an artist ignore what's happening?"

"It's impossible to ignore. In the 1990s, my palette turned dark. It was a difficult period—war, devastation. I painted about the war, about suffering. These weren't battle scenes but reflections of pain and experience. Art cannot escape reality. Later, my work evolved. The colours darkened, dominated by black and red. Over time, the palette brightened again, but that era left a lasting mark on my soul."

"Does today's reality resemble the 1990s?"

"In some ways, yes. But I have a sanctuary—my studio. There, I'm a different person. No matter what happens outside, I enter my studio, close the door, and it's just me and my canvases."

"Does your family resent that the studio takes precedence over home?"

"They do. They say, 'You treat the house like a hostel—eat, sleep, and leave.' But they understand that the studio is sacred to me."

"What is your most valuable work?"

"The one I haven't painted yet. Every time I finish a piece, I think I can do better. So, I keep going."

"What's next? What are your plans after this exhibition?"

"To keep painting. I haven't created my best work yet. As long as I hold a brush, I'll continue. And yes, women will remain my muse."

"But your work isn't just about beautiful women, is it?"

"Of course not. It's about mood, colour harmony, and energy. When someone looks at a painting and their mood shifts, it means there's life in it. I hope one day I'll create my masterpiece. But for now, I keep searching."