a city of contrasts
Creating art in Yerevan, Armenia
When I returned home after the summer break, friends and colleagues asked me if I’d enjoyed the time off and if I had done any traveling. After telling them I had just spent 21 days in Yerevan, Armenia, the usual question was: “Why Armenia?”

Caption:
Farmer’s Market

This question re-entered my mind three months later as I was waiting for the Bx-7 bus to the Bronx. In Yerevan, I could take nine different buses (marshrutkas, or “mini-buses”) about 35 cents to get downtown. Here I was in New York, the greatest city in the world, and I had to wait forever to take a bus for $2.25.

Why Armenia? Because this tiny country has such a unique culture and history and such an outstanding capital city that really should not be missed. And, of course, the bus system is very reliable.

I first heard of Armenia through the ACOSS (AKOS in Armenian) Artist Residency Program. I had to look very carefully at a map to find the country. It is located inland and is surrounded by Georgia, Turkey, Azerbaijan, and Iran. Mount Ararat is visible on clear days and has become the national symbol of the country.

The ACOSS residency program was founded in 2006 by Mkrtich Tonoyan. The program started as an artist’s studio exchange project, then, through the Akos Cultural NGO, the residency became more formalized and began several successful collaborations with the other international organizations. Now, after five productive years, ACOSS has managed many intercultural exchanges with artists from around the world.

The residency location sounded exotic and far off the beaten track. I decided to apply and learn about this often overlooked destination first hand.

My voyage to Armenia took twelve hours of flight time and a stop-over in Moscow. Through jet-lagged eyes I got my first glance of the city and its outskirts from the back-seat of a Lada taxi (a staple car of the Soviet era). Physically, Yerevan reminded me of my time in the Southwest of the United States. Ochers and faded siennas colored the sun-drenched cityscape. The director of ACOSS,  Mkrtich Tonoyan, pointed out landmarks and gave me a quick description of the city and its complex history.

Yerevan’s history dates back 2,800 years, but there is very little of the original city left, save for several archeological excavation sites. This phenomenon of destroying and rebuilding re-occurs many times throughout the turbulent history of the country. During the Ottoman Empire, Yerevan was a strategic location and was repeatedly devastated by war. The city has also had a series of catastrophic earthquakes that leveled the city. In 1918, Yerevan began a large scale reconstruction designed by the architect Alexander Tamanyan. Today, the city is an amalgam of Tamayan’s  neo-classical, European design and Soviet era practicality.

We arrived at a flat that is used as a studio and living space for international artists. The day I arrived also signaled the last day for a visiting artist from Copenhagen. That night, there was a party in his honor. Accompanied by fresh crawfish, Armenian Barbecue, cigarette smoke, vodka and local musicians playing traditional music, I had an incomparable first day and night in Yerevan.

I spent the next few days site-seeing and trying to find my way around the city. I did not know a single phrase in Armenian, and I could not decipher the written language. Few people spoke English, so I had to rely on sign language and pointing at pictures in my guide book. Luckily, I only encountered a few awkward or embarrassing moments. The experience of being unable to communicate was very humbling. I often felt like an infant struggling to express the simplest of requests.

When it came time to start making work, I was at a loss. Usually, I begin an artist residency with a clear focus of what I would create. Usually, the work would reflect some aspect of the country’s history, culture, folklore or landscape. Armenia had not met my pre-conceived vision. Guidebooks and the internet could not offer a clear picture of the singularity of this country and the people.
I had journeyed to Yerevan with a specific model in my mind. I envisioned a very old city with decaying brick streets and small stone buildings. I expected an Arabic culture and an abundance of Mediterranean influences. Instead, Yerevan was a modern city with the layout of a European capital. The culture, despite being surrounded by four influential countries, was very distinct.

Another key influence that I had not fully taken into account was the turbulent history of war, invasion, and genocide that has created a diaspora of Armenians spread throughout the world. About half of the Armenian population lives outside of the country. This history and displacement is strongly felt in every aspect of the creative arts and is even evident in common greetings. One widely used expression among diaspora Armenians is «Akhber jan tsavet danem» which translates to “Dear brother, let me take your pain.”
 
Recent violence and displacement occurred again in the early 1990’s and remains an unresolved and bitter presence for Armenians. When the Soviet Union began to withdraw from Azerbaijan, the predominant population of Armenians from The Nagorno-Karabakh region tried to secede from the country. War was declared, and troops from Armenia entered the fight. Finally, in 1994, a shaky cease fire was called. The disputed territory still has a military contingent from both countries and the 800,000 refugees who fled the region remain displaced throughout the world.

Considering the extreme intricacy of the Armenian story, I decided to make sculptural work based around the concept of an artist’s sketchbook. When an artist sketches from life outside of the studio, the subjects and focus reflect what “caught their eye.” I decided to spend my days wandering the city and my nights distilling my “mental sketches” into three dimensional renderings. Before I could get started, I needed to get my hands on some clay. In almost every artist residency or workshop that I have participated in, I have had an understanding of the origins of my clay. In Iceland, Ireland and Nebraska, I dug my own clay from natural deposits. In Mexico, I used clay that was originally intended to make bricks, and in Finland, I used clay purposed for bathroom fixtures. It is important for me to know the where, why and how of the material before I use it.

Mkrtich had a friend who he had fought beside during the Karabakh war. He now manufactured small porcelain crucibles for metal-smithing and could provide me with some clay. We took a cab ride through the outskirts of town and came up to a concrete, stone and brick square building at the end of a dirt road. Artem Poghosyan met us outside the garage door entrance to his studio. He was a quiet man with a steady gaze and an air of unfathomable depth of character. We climbed the stairs to his studio and I got a brief tour of his workshop.

Despite the cramped, disorganized appearance of the space, there was evidence of steady production and calculated efficiency. Poghosyan imported his clay from Moscow. Unfortunately, it was a low-fire white clay body that did not withstand the higher temperatures needed for the production of the crucibles. Poghosyan showed me a bucket filled with a very fine white powder, then a bucket of assorted halogen light bulbs and discarded glass tubing. Mkrtich explained that he ground the glass down to a silica-rich powder and added it to make the clay more refractory.  I loved the resourcefulness and determination of this craftsman. I thought of my own studio practices and choices and realized how spoiled and complacent I had become over the years.

I requested about 25 pounds (11 kilograms) of the dry mix. An assistant milled the clay through two different motorized machines that looked like they were originally designed for construction work. The fine white powder was put into a woven plastic bag. We hauled the clay back to my studio and I mixed it into a usable consistency in a tin wash-tub. The clay was extremely plastic and proved to be an excellent sculpture body. I continued my forays into the city and the outskirts and found an abundance of fascinating subjects for my work. I tried to notice the everyday as well as the exceptional as I made my way around.

Among the exceptional, I was deeply impressed with the Geghard Monastery which was partially carved out of a mountain beginning in the 4th century. The main cathedral was built in 1215 and is said to have housed the spear (called geghard) that was used to pierce the side of Jesus Christ. The dark, interconnecting tunnels lead to chambers lit by oculi and wax candles. Throughout the passages and rooms, there were scattered rock carvings dug out of the very walls of the monastery depicting stylized crosses, animals, and decorative motifs. The rocky outcroppings surrounding the monastery were dotted with small, hand-dug caves were individual monks would isolate themselves for prayer and fasting.

As I began sketching ideas for my sculpture based on Geghard, I found that I was mostly inspired by the incised rock art and the relief images of animals. While the monastery as a whole was awe-inspiring, it was the details of these sculptures and the idea of these works being carved by monks hundreds of years ago that really peaked my creative interest.

I found this same source of inspiration after visiting the Matenadaran. While the Institute houses 17,000 rare books, including 2,500 Armenian illuminated manuscripts, I found the weathered collection of random carved stones in the courtyard fascinating.

One of my favorite pass-times when I travel is shopping for food and drink at local markets and grocery stores. Armenia offered a big challenge and was the cause of some confusing but entertaining moments. Yerevan has several indoor and outdoor markets that offer a wide and varied assortment of fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread and assorted fresh and dried foods. I loved the chaos and the sensory assault of colors, smells, voices and faces. The energy was palpable as I crossed through the narrow passages between overloaded stalls. I tried to capture some of this energy and vitality in my work, but I also knew that no media could ever capture the entirety of these lively spaces.

While most of the sites I visited were common destinations for visitors, I did explore one attraction that was wonderfully odd and awesome. “Levon’s Divine Underground” in the village of Arinj is an underground series of tunnels, stairs and rooms carved out of stone by one solitary man over a period of 20 years.

Lyova (Levon) Arakelyan began his underground cathedral in 1985 when his wife, Tosya Gharibyan, asked him to dig a small alcove to store potatoes. He began digging in the soil and eventually hit the layer of basalt that the whole village rests upon.  Instead of stopping, he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to keep digging that lasted throughout the rest of his life. Levon dug every day for the next twenty years using only a chisel and hammer. When dependable electricity was scarce in the late 1980’s and through the 1990’s, he worked by lanterns and candlelight. As he dug deeper and deeper into the ground, he hand-cut air vents to the surface that also acted as passages to remove waste material from the dig.

Levon’s goal was simple, even if the actual endeavor was virtually impossible. According to a vision he had when he was in Russia, God wanted him to build an underground cathedral that would be completed when he was 96 years old. The vision told him that he would see images in his mind that would have to be repeated exactly during the many years to come. Levon did not live to 96, but his complex labyrinth is truly miraculous.

The complex of rooms and tunnels spiral down 21 meters, or 70 feet, beneath the surface. Stairs and tunnels lead to six hand- hewn rooms with high ceilings, lighted alcoves and ornamental carvings. Levon’s widow, Tosya Gharibyan, offers guided tours through her late husband’s magnificent work. The work remains as a testament to what one being can accomplish with persistence and will.

One of the great advantages in pursuing artist residencies is that I have been able to secure grants or other funding over the years to subsidize a “working vacation.” But my main incentive has always been to find a way to not just experience a new country, but to also interact with its people. A vacation can be a fulfilling experience of visiting museums, seeing landmarks, eating exotic foods and relaxing. But for myself, I always feel like I am simply treading the surface of what makes a place special. By finding ways to meet, speak and to work alongside the citizens, I am able to get an idea of the soul of the locale.

During my stay in Yerevan, I was able to interact with several people who helped me understand Armenian culture, religion and politics a little bit better. Language always remained as a huge challenge, but sometimes a common tongue can be superfluous. One of my favorite experiences involved sharing breakfast with a friend of Mkrtich’s who was visiting from Moscow. He showed me how to make a funnel out of a piece of the staple bread, Lavash, and fill it with a home-made yogurt called madzoon. He also introduced me to the freshest and tastiest apricots I have ever eaten.

Another memorable interaction was with Mkrtich’s youngest daughter. When I sculpted in the evenings, I would leave my doors open to let in a breeze. My host lived close by and his seven-year-old daughter would often stop by to see what I was making. She would often look over my latest piece and then give me a “thumbs up” and a smile of approval. She would then usually take a little clay and quietly join me making her own series of small figures, bowls, and other works. Though we could not share anything verbally, it was fun sharing my work space with such an enthusiastic young artist.

As the weeks flew by and I came near to the close of my residency, I worked intensely to finish up a series of sculptures. My last weeks of working with clay usually involve the white knuckle moments of firing and glazing, hoping that nothing cracked, exploded, crawled, pin-holed or just came out plumb ugly.

In Yerevan, I made the decision to not fire my work. After learning about the history of unpredictable and often unavailable electricity throughout Armenia, I began thinking about how often I run half-empty kilns in my own studio and the endless multiple firing of my own and student work. Today, Armenia has a stable and abundant supply of electricity, the shadow of the Soviet energy crisis made me re-think my process. I opted for a new approach that would guarantee the permanence of the work, but only if the work was wanted. I remember meeting an artist in New Mexico who was exhibiting a wax sculpture in a gallery. Next to the work were order forms and prices for limited addition bronze casts of the piece. He explained to me that he took down payments to pay for the casting, and then collected in full when the work was delivered from the foundry. I used the same strategy and left instructions to only fire work that was sold. It was a first for me to exhibit greenware, but I felt a little better about my carbon footprint and I was intrigued by the concept of a work’s permanence being up to the patron and not the artist.

My last night in Yerevan involved a studio open house and exhibit. Local artists, neighbors, and other resident artists from ACOSS came by for food, drink and art. The night stretched on into the morning and then, just before dawn, my ride arrived to take me to the airport. I left promising that I would return again with my wife and son and the warm assurance that I would always have a connection with Armenia.