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The Armenian Museum of America, located in Watertown, Massachusetts, not only contextualizes Armenia’s lengthy and turmoiled past, but it also presents a more contemporary view of Armenian people today. Treasures are unveiled in “Gandzaran! Notable Selections from our Collection”, threading generations of people together through modern interpretations of a shared culture. Shadows, carvings, etchings and textiles all permanently engrave the history of a displaced country onto a physical plain, memorializing the lives that were lost to a genocide.
Melkon Hovhannisyan’s impressionistic paintings are earthy and moody, with vibrant colors that bleed into one another and subjects that are almost indistinguishable from their background.
“The Walk,” 1995, is a momentary glimpse of two figures, faceless and limbless yet they still feel alive. It seems as though the two people are moving forward despite being pushed back by an imagined wind, making their journey even more difficult. The figure toward the right of the painting almost appears to have a pair of wings, hearkened by the gossamer-thin streak of white just below their head. Maybe it is a guiding angel, encouraging the person in the foreground to continue ahead despite their troubles.
“Untitled,” c. 1996, is a darker, more morose image from Hovhannisyan than its angelic counterpart, perhaps alluding to a devilish circle of religious practice. The edges of the painting are engulfed in a shadowy blackness that encircles a grouping toward its center where human-like figures are spread around in a symmetrical fashion. The painting is jagged and dangerous, with its almost exclusively vertical nature that feels pointed like a sharp knife. The figures are connected by a draped piece of fabric, but it is unclear if it is a form of protection from the outside world. This image feels more inhuman than “The Walk,” and the two displayed side by side conjure feelings of religious contention but faith in community.
When walking through the collection of abstract bloodied figures and corporeal punishments, the viewer’s eyes are reprieved by a seemingly innocent collage of toast. From a distance, the work can perhaps be perceived as decaying clay tiles or pieces of weathered paper. Up close, the piece makes itself known through the texture of the grain. Despite its incongruous material, Apo Torosyan’s “Bread 214,” 1994, plainly conveys the 1915 Armenian Genocide’s forced starvation in an undeniable presentation of an everyday object that was denied as a means of deprivation.
Director of Finance and Building Operations at the museum, Berj Chekijian, told me that the varying degrees of color on each piece of bread are representative of humanity. “We are all similar but look different”; “Bread 214” tells of survival, perseverance, and universality. Torosyan would be pleased that Chekijian understands his desire to pay homage his ancestors: “If you look closely, you can never find one single slice of bread similar to another.” The bread, etched with color that ranges from a light toasting to a charred burning, also tells of poverty; the specific bread that Torosyan used for his collage is not a traditionally leavened lavash bread of the Armenian people, suggesting a colonization of something that was once so integral to daily routine and survival but is now perceived to be plain and accessible.
The artist’s intention with his “Bread” series was to historicize Armenia’s people with textural objects. Through living, people naturally leave a mark on the world. Dirt paths become worn, coats of paint chip away and coal is left behind after a fire has gone out. Torosyan brands pieces of white bread with heat, color and texture to transform white bread into toast as an undeniable reminder of ethnic cleansing; despite their absence, people were once present to immortalize these changes, no matter how small.
“Femme à l’enfant blessé (Woman with injured child),” 1997, by Jean Jansem, is a starkly human sketch of a woman presumed to be a mother who is holding a bleeding baby. Both the woman and the child position their heads toward the sky, where they might be searching for the wisdom and healing of God. The woman is nude, and her hair is frayed, drawn with a naturalistic appreciation for the female body.
However, it is unfortunate to consider the circumstances that could have led to this scene; it is hard to imagine that the woman is nude of her own volition. The colors of the image all contribute to its earthen feel, as the brown tones emulate the lived-in dirtiness of dust and desiccated land and the red pencil muddies with the background, dissipating into the air as the wounded child struggles to breathe.
“Woman in Orange,” c. 1960, is a lithograph of a woman whose face is turned from our view. Her profile depicts little discernible emotion, with her brow slightly furrowed and her mouth slightly agape. The woman’s headgear is most notable, as it is a more modern style of dress. The cloth does not cover her hair entirely, nor is it fitted to her head or beaded with ornamental decoration. It looks to be a rustic ‘60s pastiche of the taraz, or Armenian dress. Similarly, Armenian clothing is elemental in color, with orange and apricot shades often signifying common sense and hard work.
Despite the title of Jansem’s piece, the woman herself is not colored orange but is instead surrounded by it. This creates a feeling of isolation and loneliness, as the color has left her body and circles around her as a constant reminder of how close she is to obtaining these values, or perhaps what has been stripped from her.
Like the myth of the Holy Oil, rumored to have been first taken from Christ and dispelled into every new oil blend to come, art tells of generational reciprocity and survival. Each person’s story is interwoven yet individual, relying upon a common faith and a shared story. The Armenian Genocide and its effects are well-documented throughout the collection of archives, but it also provides insight into the personal lives of those who survived, and those who survive their families today.
(“Gandzaran! Notable Selections from Our Collection” continues through August 4 at the Armenian Museum of America, 65 Main St., Watertown, Massachusetts. For more information, visit armenianmuseum.org).