Author: Nanuli Tskhvediani

Whenever he appeared, everyone on the street would follow him with affection – a calm man, always in a black shirt, with a suit casually thrown over one shoulder. The light in his large eyes could not be hidden even by his thick eyebrows, and yet there was a quiet mystery in the strict lines of his face and in its characteristic expressions.

Once, director Geno Chiradze filmed the artist in a short episodic role, preserving these features, this voice, and these elegant manners forever in the film Zvaraki (1990). In the film, the role of Otar Kandaria was originally meant for Levan Abashidze, who played the main character, but the personal charm of the newly recognized Kutaisi artist was so strong that the young actor refused, saying firmly, “I can’t play this man, I can’t.” Because of this, the episode was changed. For ten years now, Honored Artist of the Republic, Otar Kandaria, has been resting next to his beloved mother in the Sapichkhia cemetery. Yet for Kutaisi, he continues to live through his unique personality and creative identity: through graphic series shown in group and personal exhibitions; through the magnificent paintings hanging in his studio; through the many books he originally designed for writers (more than 400 books!); through delicate designs, posters, and his own beautiful font created on various themes, at different times and in different places. His distinct handwriting was always recognized and easily distinguished, and visitors of all generations would stop in front of his new works at exhibitions. A brilliant representative of the 60s generation, he searched for and expressed his native roots at every stage of his work. Whether in black-and-white etchings, colorful graphics full of lines and ornaments, vine-like carvings, or birds flying toward the sun, in each of Otar Kandaria’s works, in the harmony of colors and plastic lines, lives the spirit of Great Colchis, Mother Georgia. This is especially felt in the artist’s album published in 2006, Harmony of Stone Sounds. It includes 173 historical monuments. Even a quick look at the album, printed without high-quality polygraphy, makes it clear that the artist knew the historical background and architectural style of each monument deeply – its changes over time and its most essential details. His graphic depictions of Georgian temples, fortresses, and towers are not simple sketches of an artist who went out to draw in the open air. They are heartfelt expressions of a man who spent a long time with each monument and loved it endlessly. As a contemporary artist, Otar Kandaria saw and captured with his own eyes what was essential in Georgian architecture through the centuries. In this sense, the album is truly remarkable.

Otar Kandaria was a true Kutaisi native, a representative of an excellent generation of students from Kutaisi First School. Can you picture the most beautiful landscape of his childhood? A large three-story house in the city center, shared by several families, decorated with two linden trees in front. One tree, which stood on the Kandarias’ side, was cut down during the war, while the other had a strange “arm” stretching toward their window, so close that in spring its blossoms almost entered the apartment.

A part of this landscape was the large stone near the linden – the boys’ gathering place; the “steps” made of nails hammered into the linden’s futuristic body; and, most importantly, the mysterious fragments of columns left from an old church, which they used for their games. You know, the artist Otar Kandaria never painted this landscape because he never dared to disturb the lines and colors that had once been imprinted in the childhood dreams of little Otar. And then, what interesting people lived around this place: the Mirakovs, the Mizandars, the Bolkvadzes, the Otskhelis, the Chiradzes, the Khakhiashvilis, the Meskhis, the Chichinadzes… and many others. The traditional intelligence and nobility of old Kutaisi families were still preserved in this central district. National or social differences did not stand in the way of neighborly relations. That is why Aunt Sikho, a kind Jewish woman, cooked such extraordinary dishes; why Grandma Olinka’s guitar, tied with a ribbon, sounded so sweet; and why Kajaia’s Megrelian ghomi was famous throughout the neighborhood.

From that distant childhood, Otar Kandaria gained friends and brothers, and their number never decreased. His circle of friends was surprisingly large: he counted many people as close, yet childhood friends always held a special place. If you were ever lucky enough to look through the carefully preserved family photos, you would instantly see how many beautiful moments, how many sweet and painful memories bound Otar Kandaria to his friends: Ilo Khakhiashvili, Badri Alkhazashvili, Emzar Tsutskiridze, Temur Lortkipanidze, Kote Memanishvili, Mindia Ugrekhelidze, Bernard Nebieridze (Francia), Tamaz Maisuradze, Karino Megrelishvili, Chichiko Tavdidishvili, Duriko Shengelia, Hamlet Javelidze, Nodar Ergemlidze, Tengiz Korinteli, Rezo Gabriadze, Devi Ivanov, and… who knows how many more. Whether alive or gone, each had a place in his heart. These relationships, experienced over decades and intertwined with the deepest threads of the soul, could inspire entire emotional monologues about each person.

As interesting as he was as an artist (I would say “graphic artist,” and he would, smiling, correct me: “Graphic artist”), Otar Kandaria was just as interesting as a person. Outwardly austere, yet with an amazingly sensitive soul hidden inside. Always afraid that something might “go wrong,” always trying to follow his moral principles to the end. Constantly striving to dedicate himself fully to serving others. Once, the respected lawyer and erudite Mr. Guram Ugrekhelidze wrote: “When I look for him, he is not where I expect him to be, but he is where someone is in trouble and where his conscience calls him. Just as a firefly moves unpredictably in the night and lights up unexpected places, so Otari, in our foggy life, flies and weaves a canvas of goodness, so beautiful, so captivating with his mysterious art.”

When you look at Otar Kandaria’s graphic works, even for a moment, you immediately notice that these compositions – created with “sun-stripes,” unsharpened swords, white temples, vines or flower stems, “with a single movement of the hand” – hold deep inner poetry and tenderness. Each work is like a word turned into a painting, shaped and colored with Georgian intonations. And not only because Otar Kandaria decorated Georgian writers’ books, magazines, and newspapers for years, or because he knew countless poems by heart and recited them with wonderful improvisation. Perhaps it was because the native word was so closely connected to his line and color that he lived and grew wiser with every sound, every letter, every drop of blood. The graphic artist followed each word to its roots, touched it gently, studied it with love for days and months, tasting it again and again.

If Otar Kandaria was an “unsuccessful” poet, then he was, on the contrary, a great lover and connoisseur of the Georgian word – a passionate reader and admirer. Did you want to feel spiritual elevation? Then you had to ask Otar Kandaria to read poetry – he knew countless poems by heart! But do not ask him to recite the ballad of Vajika and Khvaramze. Khvaramze was “his” sacred, untouchable, eternally feminine and eternally dreamy, something you cannot approach even “by knowing it by heart.” That is why he never painted Khvaramze. Instead, all the rest of Georgian poetry nourished his extraordinary graphics.

You should have heard how he told stories with gentle self-irony, how he humorously called himself “Kandaria,” how he recalled the amazing adventures of his friends. Many people asked: Why does the artist always dress in black? Why can’t he “add” colorful clothes? After Hamlet Javelidze’s death, he never stopped wearing black. Hamlet later had other friends… And the sadness that he never imposed on others touched the finest strings of his soul. Otar Kandaria always hid this sadness.

A visitor to his studio would never forget the “out-of-place” graphics lined up on the walls and especially stacked in the corners, nor the beautifully sharpened pencils and brushes arranged in glasses, nor the wonderfully simple meal offered by the host. With a small sandwich and a glass of wine, you could share the magic of poetry, discuss the latest in science and art, and simply reflect on the essence of human existence. The host was unusually attentive and warm, and because of his inner artistry, extremely charming. If the guitar joined in and his captivating voice sounded – even better.

His friendship was respected by everyone, whether a famous writer, artist, or public figure. I won’t list them all, but it is enough to name Guram Dochanashvili, Rezo Gabriadze, Valiko Mizandari, Zurab Kukhianidze, Mindia Ugrekhelidze, and Ilo the photographer. You were also a guest in his workshop that day. “Manana, didn’t you bring leeks?” he asked his wife with a hidden smile (I understood the meaning later). Manana was sorting greens for the Imeretian table on the open balcony, and I involuntarily repeated Mizana Bregvadze’s famous line: “We don’t want leeks, we already have them!” “Do you know, dear, where that phrase in the film Eccentrics comes from?” Mr. Otari asked me. And I finally understood why he was smiling: “Valiko Mizandari loved leeks. Sometimes he went to take the mask of someone who had passed away, and when he finished his work, as usual, the family would say: Please drink to the memory of the deceased. They would bring bread, salt, herbs, and sour cream – but never leeks. It happened once, twice, three times… Then Valiko put a leek in his pocket: ‘If they invite us and they don’t have leeks, I’ll take out my own.’ Rezo Gabriadze used exactly this moment in Eccentrics – that’s where the phrase comes from.”

“Besides Valiko Mizandari, who else did you know from the prototypes of Gabriadze’s characters?” – “The prototype of ‘Feola’ was Jemal Khurtsidze. His character and qualities are described exactly, word for word. He was a very interesting man, full of humor and well-educated. When municipal governments had football teams, he led one of them. Unfortunately, he died young; he was single and had no children. But he had good brothers: Guram, a lecturer at the Polytechnic Institute, and Vakhtang, a doctor. Jemal was their brother.”

“I’ll tell you another story,” he continued. “A boy once offended Roller Lekveishvili. Roller was incredibly strong. He couldn’t catch the boy anywhere to teach him a lesson. One day, Temur Lortkipanidze, Roller, and the boy were standing near Temur’s polished Moskvich. The boy, running from Roller, jumped into the car and started it. Roller grabbed the car, lifted it, and the rear wheels spun in the air. He said to Temur: ‘Beat him.’ Temur shouted: ‘He didn’t do anything to me – why should I beat him?’ ‘Then hold my car!’ he said. Imagine – how can you hold a car?! Rezo loved this story – later he used it in a film.”

…How much we talked that day in the workshop! You can read much more interesting things in the two richly illustrated books dedicated to Otar Kandaria, written by his wife, journalist Manana Lartsuliani, with excellent design by the artist’s daughter, Lizi Kandaria. I will only add that although Otar Kandaria, Cavalier of the Order of Honor, did not receive any awards in his lifetime, his greatest honor came in 2000, when he was named an Honorary Citizen of Kutaisi.