Rustam Khamdamov is an author-myth, an author-enigma. His cinema is a phantom, everything in it is too fragile to be called a "film." Films are produced, films are released for distribution, films are kept in archives. Khamdamov's cinema lives a different life. It exists in the whimsical movement of lines: the plot itself — those who have seen Rustam Khamdamov drawing with ink will understand. The author's hand merely keeps up with what is to be born, to burst forth, to dissolve.
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