Nikolai Nikolayevich Markarov (Russian: Никола́й Никола́евич Марка́ров ) (18 March 1933 - 28 June 2008) Soviet Russian artist and sculptor. He was a member of the USSR Union of Artists from 1975.
In 1956 Nikolai Markarov graduated from the Baku Art School. Then he enrolled and graduated from the Moscow State Academic Art Institute named after V.I. Surikov, being qualified as a sculptor - artist and continued to live and work in Moscow.
From 1963 to 1965 Nikolai worked as a sculptor in a sculptural production factory of RSFSR. In 1965 Nikolai Markarov was invited to Moscow Architectural Institute (State Academy) – MarchI first as a teacher at the Department of the figure, and then as a sculptor, where he was working for over 13 years.
In 1975 N. Markarov was admitted to the USSR Union of Artists on the recommendation of members of the Union of artists - sculptors A. Stemkovsky, D. Shakhovsky and N. Lavinsky, who believed that N. Markarov entered the list of the thirty best sculptors of the USSR.
Besides the main work of the sculptor -artist N. Markarov illustrated books, wrote poetry and prose.
Lev Feodorovich Dyakonitsyn, Academician of the Russian Academy of Arts, the European Academy of Arts and Sciences, the French Academy of Sciences and Arts, the artist and art critic, at the opening ceremony of N. Markarov's exhibition at the Art Gallery Dresden in autumn 2013 said:
Nikolai Markarov managed to find in his work such a hand movement, a line that would talk about the nature of a man and of the divinity of a man. We are captivated by so soft, friendly, love game of the artist with paper space. It's a very rare, just exceptional phenomenon. Nowadays such masters are few. I think that he will be recalled very often. His wealth of nature is not confined only to graphics. Nikolai Markarov was also a theater artist and a poet, and an illustrator of many books, including his own ones. He was gifted by nature and did not know restraints in his imagination, and this fantasy is a kind of discovery of the world for us. The main theme of Nikolai Markarov is the image of beauty, the image of a woman, his companion or just the one met by his enamored eye, a caught character, and he immediately embodies them with simple means. Nikolai Markarov seems to catch a glimpse of a face in a crowd; he grabs beautiful faces and wants to remember them, as found little treasures. Sometimes these images are pinched out, the line is so solid, being the formula of the character, and the other vice versa are very lazy, very naughty. It is this combination of confidence and freedom that is particularly interesting, because the artist was coming from one method to another and was not afraid to experiment. Nikolai Markarov has left wonderful heritage for us. The artist remains alive for us, a living master, who tells us that we need to endure routine and everyday life philosophically patiently and even heroically and try to rise above it. Nikolai Markarov entered a cohort of selected artists, who knew how and what to say.
There were also exhibitions in Moscow in libraries named after Nekrasov, Bogolyubov, the Club of railwaymen, publishing house of the magazine "Working Woman", etc.
Podolsk TV presented the exhibition of Nikolai Markarov's works on June 15, 2011
***The watch is implacable:It will work even when taken off the wrist and set aside.
(V.4, p. 228)
***
— Immortality?We′ve sliced it into centuries and seconds!
(V.4, p. 228)
***
Oh Lord, pardon me, could it be true that I do see now what You mean?
(V.4, p. 219)
***
I inherit all that has been invented by mankind:the Paper, the Three Nails, and the Atomic Mushroom.
(V.4, p. 215)
ABOUT A MIRROR
The sky was the colour of soil,
His hair was colour of soil,
Hands and bare feet were colour of soil,
There went a dirty man
On a dirty land.
And there was in his bosom
A small round mirror without a rim.
And now and then
When it was light for him like a day
He took his glass,
Mapped sweat and dust off
And cleaned until
It became bright,
As bright as the sky.
And the sky was clean in it
Like a glass.
And not looking into it
He put it again in his bosom
And went on going.
ABOUT AN ARM-CHAIR
I ordered an arm-chair.
But in good time
It wasn't ready.
And when it was ready
The lacquer didn't stick.
When it stopped sticking,
Lost its luster.
And I went to the wood,
Where a stump waited.
All I needed was
To flick the bug off
To seat myself on the stump.