About > Statements
Tel • Arevordik
“Until we meet again…the diasporic is an act of will and memory.”
—bell hooks, Art on My Mind: Visual Politics, 1995
“Textiles–caught between artifact, heirloom, art, and craft–also carry the memories of their own lives and those of a forgotten, incomprehensible, and often traumatic past into our present. As witnesses to a fragmented history, Armenian textiles offer us fruitful ways of understanding Armenian material culture and heritage.”
–Erin Piñon, A Closer Look: Armenian Block-Printed Curtains, Connecting Threads/Survivor Objects catalog, 2021
A podcast, a museum show, and a Japanese mending technique all led to the making of Tel • Arevordik. The exhibition, Connecting Threads, Survivor Objects, mounted by the Aidekman Arts Center at Tufts University, featured textiles from the history of Armenian churches, including liturgical clothing and altar curtains, which both inspire and inform my recent work with painting and textiles. As a child of an immigrant Armenian priest, I grew accustomed to the church environment, with all the textures, smells, and objects. The Connecting Threads exhibition inspired an exploration of materials and techniques I generally do not use as a painter, which allowed me to expand my studio practice.
My studio practice addresses the Armenian Genocide—survivor stories from the Genocide, including my own family, who are originally from the land that is Eastern Turkey today. I actively read and gather the experiences of women connected to this history. My recent work examines the cultural genocide of the Armenian people, shedding light on the denials of these psychological attacks.
I work to illuminate the stories of women I consider truth-tellers and found an example that informs Tel • Arevordik. In one of Lara Vanian-Green’s "Armenian Enough" podcasts, she interviewed Vazgen Barsegian about Armenian paganism. Armenians are known for being the first nation to adopt Christianity in 301 AD. Before this, Barsegian pointed out, they were pagans, and female deities were venerated. I found this interesting because, as a child, I remember asking, “Why can’t women be on the altar?” The response I received was “Because they menstruate, and are unclean.” That answer had a profound impact on me. I could not understand why menstruation made women unclean and, therefore, left us out of the roles of spiritual leadership. Women still have limited roles today. Some parishes have more leniency in including women, while others follow the traditional male-dominated spiritual roles that have existed since early Christianity.
During the lockdown, I became interested in visible mending and the linear stitches of Japanese Sashiko, a technique that uses running stitches to reinforce and strengthen fabric. I am a painter, but I became very attracted to the idea of using thread to stitch lines and fabric to form shapes of color as a way to make my images. I also became interested in Polish Pajaki (intricate paper chandeliers) and the oil lamps of the Armenian church. During this time, I created a series of drawings that nearly fills a sketchbook, juxtaposing the Pajaki and the Armenian lamps. I also worked on a fabric design sample book, which served as a textile-based sketchbook, generating similar images with thread as a way of exploring lamp imagery through sewing techniques. I worked on both sketchbooks, all the while researching and imagining the creation of an altar curtain. Fueled by my sketchbook work and research, Tel • Arevordik is inspired by the structural design of the Liturgical curtain of Tokat (1689, FIG. 1), featuring an ornate and repetitive pattern of block-printed lanterns set amidst a handful of central Christian stories. While I drew heavily from the visual composition of the Tokat curtain, I exchanged its central stories of Christianity for stories of my own choosing.
In my work, I often look to the past to understand the present and to combine contemporary stories with those found in antiquity. Symbolically, the lanterns scattered throughout Tel • Arevordik shed light on the Urartu people, who the Armenians were before Christianity. The Urartu followed the Zoroastrian religion and worshiped the elements of water, fire, and the sun. The Urartu called themselves “the children of the sun” (Arevodik); they considered nature and light sacred. The Urartu religion also had women priestesses. As the Urartu people evolved into the Armenian people, adopting Christianity and developing their own language, many of their traditions gave way to the ideas of the new religion. Throughout the evolution of Armenian culture, the vestiges of Urartu are still evident. For example, some people have suggested that the fire altar underneath Holy Etchmiadzin, the Mother See of the Armenian Apostolic Church, was built on top of the temple of the goddess, Anahid. Some pagan holidays have been transformed into Christian feast days, with portions of the past still embedded in them.
What interested me while collecting imagery for Tel • Arevordik was noticing a parallel between shifting attitudes toward women during the transition from pagan to Christian Armenia and into contemporary patriarchal society. After the adoption of Christianity, Armenian women were no longer permitted to be priestesses. Today, both nature and the veneration of women are often cast in much dimmer light. The collection of elemental imagery, fauna, celestial bodies, and goddesses at the top of Tel • Arevordik recalls the spiritual imagery of the Urartu.
The Armenian word for thread is Րել (tel). Thread binds, strengthens, and connects. Thread tells stories. Broken stories need mending. I found the act of hand sewing to be devotional and connective. For me, it is a calming and spiritual act of reflection. In Tel • Arevordik, I swapped out the narrative of the Tokat curtain to tell the story of a time when nature and being connected to nature were commonplace, a time when women had considerable roles in the spiritual leadership of their people. Tel • Arevordik addresses the attempted erasure of the Armenians and our culture. We are a people forced into diaspora—our customs kept alive within our communities.
A curtain can conceal and reveal. It is telling, and obscuring. Tel • Arevordik, acknowledges an obscured Armenian past while lighting a possible future in which a concealed and frayed history is symbolically reilluminated and mended. Remembrance is empowerment.
“Until we meet again…the diasporic is an act of will and memory.”
—bell hooks, Art on My Mind: Visual Politics, 1995
“Textiles–caught between artifact, heirloom, art, and craft–also carry the memories of their own lives and those of a forgotten, incomprehensible, and often traumatic past into our present. As witnesses to a fragmented history, Armenian textiles offer us fruitful ways of understanding Armenian material culture and heritage.”
–Erin Piñon, A Closer Look: Armenian Block-Printed Curtains, Connecting Threads/Survivor Objects catalog, 2021
A podcast, a museum show, and a Japanese mending technique all led to the making of Tel • Arevordik. The exhibition, Connecting Threads, Survivor Objects, mounted by the Aidekman Arts Center at Tufts University, featured textiles from the history of Armenian churches, including liturgical clothing and altar curtains, which both inspire and inform my recent work with painting and textiles. As a child of an immigrant Armenian priest, I grew accustomed to the church environment, with all the textures, smells, and objects. The Connecting Threads exhibition inspired an exploration of materials and techniques I generally do not use as a painter, which allowed me to expand my studio practice.
My studio practice addresses the Armenian Genocide—survivor stories from the Genocide, including my own family, who are originally from the land that is Eastern Turkey today. I actively read and gather the experiences of women connected to this history. My recent work examines the cultural genocide of the Armenian people, shedding light on the denials of these psychological attacks.
I work to illuminate the stories of women I consider truth-tellers and found an example that informs Tel • Arevordik. In one of Lara Vanian-Green’s "Armenian Enough" podcasts, she interviewed Vazgen Barsegian about Armenian paganism. Armenians are known for being the first nation to adopt Christianity in 301 AD. Before this, Barsegian pointed out, they were pagans, and female deities were venerated. I found this interesting because, as a child, I remember asking, “Why can’t women be on the altar?” The response I received was “Because they menstruate, and are unclean.” That answer had a profound impact on me. I could not understand why menstruation made women unclean and, therefore, left us out of the roles of spiritual leadership. Women still have limited roles today. Some parishes have more leniency in including women, while others follow the traditional male-dominated spiritual roles that have existed since early Christianity.
During the lockdown, I became interested in visible mending and the linear stitches of Japanese Sashiko, a technique that uses running stitches to reinforce and strengthen fabric. I am a painter, but I became very attracted to the idea of using thread to stitch lines and fabric to form shapes of color as a way to make my images. I also became interested in Polish Pajaki (intricate paper chandeliers) and the oil lamps of the Armenian church. During this time, I created a series of drawings that nearly fills a sketchbook, juxtaposing the Pajaki and the Armenian lamps. I also worked on a fabric design sample book, which served as a textile-based sketchbook, generating similar images with thread as a way of exploring lamp imagery through sewing techniques. I worked on both sketchbooks, all the while researching and imagining the creation of an altar curtain. Fueled by my sketchbook work and research, Tel • Arevordik is inspired by the structural design of the Liturgical curtain of Tokat (1689, FIG. 1), featuring an ornate and repetitive pattern of block-printed lanterns set amidst a handful of central Christian stories. While I drew heavily from the visual composition of the Tokat curtain, I exchanged its central stories of Christianity for stories of my own choosing.
In my work, I often look to the past to understand the present and to combine contemporary stories with those found in antiquity. Symbolically, the lanterns scattered throughout Tel • Arevordik shed light on the Urartu people, who the Armenians were before Christianity. The Urartu followed the Zoroastrian religion and worshiped the elements of water, fire, and the sun. The Urartu called themselves “the children of the sun” (Arevodik); they considered nature and light sacred. The Urartu religion also had women priestesses. As the Urartu people evolved into the Armenian people, adopting Christianity and developing their own language, many of their traditions gave way to the ideas of the new religion. Throughout the evolution of Armenian culture, the vestiges of Urartu are still evident. For example, some people have suggested that the fire altar underneath Holy Etchmiadzin, the Mother See of the Armenian Apostolic Church, was built on top of the temple of the goddess, Anahid. Some pagan holidays have been transformed into Christian feast days, with portions of the past still embedded in them.
What interested me while collecting imagery for Tel • Arevordik was noticing a parallel between shifting attitudes toward women during the transition from pagan to Christian Armenia and into contemporary patriarchal society. After the adoption of Christianity, Armenian women were no longer permitted to be priestesses. Today, both nature and the veneration of women are often cast in much dimmer light. The collection of elemental imagery, fauna, celestial bodies, and goddesses at the top of Tel • Arevordik recalls the spiritual imagery of the Urartu.
The Armenian word for thread is Րել (tel). Thread binds, strengthens, and connects. Thread tells stories. Broken stories need mending. I found the act of hand sewing to be devotional and connective. For me, it is a calming and spiritual act of reflection. In Tel • Arevordik, I swapped out the narrative of the Tokat curtain to tell the story of a time when nature and being connected to nature were commonplace, a time when women had considerable roles in the spiritual leadership of their people. Tel • Arevordik addresses the attempted erasure of the Armenians and our culture. We are a people forced into diaspora—our customs kept alive within our communities.
A curtain can conceal and reveal. It is telling, and obscuring. Tel • Arevordik, acknowledges an obscured Armenian past while lighting a possible future in which a concealed and frayed history is symbolically reilluminated and mended. Remembrance is empowerment.
Braids
My braid images hold stories and memories, most of which I have not experienced myself, but are still closely connected to me. As physical objects, the braids I paint from observation are my own, from when I was about nine years of age. The costumes worn for Armenian women’s dance performances often portray the woman with two long dark braids. These hair extensions read as a symbol for the Armenian female. I learned traditional dances and have seen dance performances throughout my life—expressions of beauty that deeply connect an entire culture. Growing up, I always had two long dark braids, until I reluctantly agreed to have them cut off. I kept them. Today I paint them.
I’ve heard and read accounts of the atrocities of the Armenian genocide—philosophers, artists, priests, and teachers were some of the first to go. My father was born in the Armenian Diaspora. He was born while his family was fleeing from their homeland. His father wanted to leave him in the snow, because of the difficulty of traveling on foot with an infant. My grandmother refused and she fed him chewed grass to keep him alive. My grandfather was a guerilla fighter. He was captured by Turkish soldiers and thrown into prison. Three years later he escaped. It is amazing that he survived, let alone was reunited with his family. There are tragic stories from both sides of my family. I feel compelled to give them a voice—in part for a people that have not healed, in part for myself, and in part for my family that still remembers. I feel the small degrees of separation between the events that occurred during the genocide and myself. I work to give voice to Armenian women—imagery of beauty marginalized and compromised by brutality.
Connected-hair, so close to my being; disconnected, my hair.
Is (Khatchkar No. 6)
The impetus for creating Is (Khatchkar No.6) was an article about the khatchkars of Julfa in Azerbaijan’s enclave Nakhitchevan. Khatchkars—translated literally as “cross-rocks”—are intricately carved stone monuments as small as 27 inches tall and as large as 16 feet. Khatchkars are sometimes carved as tombstones, at other times cut as memorial stelae. The Julfa khatchkars were located on a burial ground. The creation of the first khatchkars of Julfa dates back as early as the 6th century and at one point in time numbered about 10,000. The Julfa site “boasted the world’s largest collection of khatchkars.” [See: A Regime Conceals Its Erasure of Indigenous Armenian Culture, Hyper Allergic, Simon Maghakyan, and Sarah Pickman, February 18, 2019.] By 1987 only 3,000 were left standing. By 2005, they were all destroyed. In 2006, the Julfa khatchkar burial ground was replaced by the erection of a military base. The only proof of the Julfa khatchkars is people’s memories and extant photographs and films of the area. According to “Azerbaijani officials, this reported destruction was a farce…the sight has not been disturbed, because it never existed in the first place.” [Maghakyan and Pickman] The Azerbaijani position is an all too familiar willful fallacy, echoing post-Ottoman political posturing. To this day, the Armenian Genocide is still not recognized as a genocide by many countries.
Denial runs rampant in America’s political climate, too. The political rejection of global warming by previous presidencies and the denial the #metoo movement faces regularly are particularly troubling. I am outraged by the lack of accountability in my country regarding women who stand up in solidarity while speaking the truth. Denial of women only serves to perpetuate the deplorable ways women are treated. The blatant ignorance of climate change science should scare us all. The denial of climate change drives us all toward ruin. Such public rejections remind me of the century-long denial Armenians have faced regarding the Genocide.
Denial of documented history and science prevents healing and rectification on a cultural level.
In light of the Julfa denial, I have titled my piece Is to honor the 10,000 khatchkars that did exist. In my Khatchkar series, I typically paint over text. I marked each of the 90 component paintings of Is with 10,000 Armenian alphabet letter forms—one letter to represent each destroyed Julfa khatchkar. The single Armenian letter form I used is the letter “eh” (Է). The capital form of “Է” means “God,” while the uncapitalized letter form of “Է” means “is,” which inspired the title of the work. The 90 paintings come together to form a 2- x 16-foot tower when shown in its intended presentation. The tallest khatchkars of St. Tavit in Abrank, Turkey, served as inspiration for Is’ proportions.
For over a century, the Armenian people have lived with a lack of accountability and responsibility by Genocide perpetrators. My work channels the collective outrage felt in the face of these forms of denial by embedding visual narratives that reference both the contemporary issues of today and the past. Additionally, I borrowed and transformed historical imagery as visual reminders critical to understanding loss and denial while also standing as a beacon of possibility and endurance.
Braille Fiction
My series titled Braille Fictions is painted on paper that is embossed with Braille. These educational pages for school children, were being discarded from the local school for the blind. I chose to work in a monochromatic color palette. Using Payne’s gray liquid watercolor, and black gouache. My process includes wiping away paint to reveal the Braille. I respond to the effects made with the watercolor in conjunction with the Braille and use black gouache to accentuate the areas that I want to stand out or tell a story. Haruki Murakami’s book, Killing Commendatore, sparked this series. In the book characters from a painting come to life. One character called themselves Idea, the other Metaphor. The protagonist (an artist) must kill both characters to save somebody. In the book, Idea says;
“Ideas are felicitous insofar as we possess no form of our own. We materialize when others become aware of us—only then do we take shape. Though that shape is but a borrowed thing, for the sake of convenience”
I see this “idea” as the foundation of this series. It correlates with my practice of responding to what materializes in my paintings.
One Hours
The combination of being a parent, a teacher and an artist make it difficult to find adequate time in the studio. The One Hour Series came out of a self-imposed need to establish a disciplined work habit to insure my productivity: the challenge of starting and ending a small painting in one hour. At times, I am uncomfortable with the results, but remain true to the hour confinement. I paint by exploring both additive and subtractive processes, and normally enjoy a leisurely period of reflection before I risk sanding or washing my paintings. The One Hour Series forces quick decisions and the reduction of reflection time. Ultimately, the challenge evolved into my regular practice to begin a day of painting.