John Avakian—If I Begin to Cry

John Avakian—If I Begin To Cry

ԵՐԿՐՊԱԳՈՒԹԻՒՆ Kiss the Ground exhibition series, curated by Todd Bartel Gagik Aroutiunian—Kiss the Ground September 5 – November 15, 2014 Elliot Baker—The Past Is Not Past Performed in the Thompson Gallery, November 15, 2014, 1:30 P.M. Performed in the Armenian Museum of America, December 7, 2014, 3:30 P.M. Staged Reading by CSW Students: Avery Dove ‘15 - ANRANIK (Father) Miranda Jacobs ‘15 - ADELINE (Mother) Zelime Lewis ‘17 - HARON (Son) Connor Rooks ‘18 - ARAM (Grandson) Amanda Madigan ‘15 - Assistant Director & Narrator Sophie Landa ‘15 - Director Joshua Holtzman ‘16 - Sound Technician, RadioCSW Founder & Host Foreword, and essay, John Avakian—If I Begin to Cry © 2014-15 Todd Bartel Introduction © 2014-15 John Avakian, Elliot Baker Photos © 2015 John Avakian (except pages 52-65, 68-69, 74-75 photos Todd Bartel) Play © 2014 Elliot Baker Edited by Eli Keehn, English teacher Barbara Whitney, Chair of the Theatre Department, Project Support Design & event photos 2014-15 © Todd Bartel © Thompson Gallery, The Cambridge School of Weston Printed on demand by Lulu.com All rights reserved The Cambridge School of Weston 45 Georgian Road Weston, MA 02493 Cover: John Avakian, The Proud and The Profane, 1999, tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), ghost printings, oil-based ink, on BFK, 42 x 59.5 inches

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Kiss the Ground Gagik Aroutiunian, September 5 - November 15, 2014 A New Armenia, part 1, December 6, 2014 - January 20, 2015 (Armenian Museum of America) Talin Megherian, December 18, 2014 - March 13, 2015 A New Armenia, part 2, January 25 - March 1, 2015 (Armenian Museum of America) A New Armenia, part 3, March 30 - June 13, 2015 Lucine Kasbarian—Perspectives from Exile, May 18 - June 13, 2015 Kiss the Ground is a six-part exhibition series that examines and celebrates contemporary Armenian art, one hundred years after the 1915 Armenian Genocide.

ABOUT THE THOMPSON GALLERY The Thompson Gallery is a teaching gallery at The Cambridge School of Weston dedicated to exploring single themes through three separate exhibitions, offering differing vantages on the selected topic. Named in honor of school trustee John Thompson and family, the Gallery promotes opportunities to experience contemporary art by local, national and international artists and periodically showcases the art of faculty, staff and alumni. The Gallery is located within the Garthwaite Center for Science and Art, The Cambridge School of Weston, 45 Georgian Road, Weston, MA 02493. M–F 9–4:30 p.m. and by appointment (school calendar applies). Visit thompsongallery.csw.org to view exhibit art.

ABOUT THE CAMBRIDGE SCHOOL OF WESTON The Cambridge School of Weston, located in a Boston suburb, is a progressive, coeducational, day and boarding school for grades 9 through 12 and post graduate. Established in 1886, the school is dedicated to fostering individual strengths and deep, meaningful relationships through a wide range of challenging courses and a variety of teaching styles. csw.org

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Foreword & Acknowledgments

My father used to tell me as a child growing up, very often, when you see the sight of someone fighting, always side with the weak one, not with the powerful one. There is so much humanity in that saying—coming from someone who lived in an orphanage.1 Gagik Aroutiunian, 2014 The extraordinary privilege of working with artists never ceases to impress and surprise, because it is truly a rare opportunity to gain insight directly from the makers themselves.

Too often in life, the general public is denied access to the creative processes of artists and creative individuals. Curating mitigates this problem to an extent. To gain even the smallest understanding of what an artist does speaks volumes, and I relish the opportunity to shed light on the creator’s achievements for each exhibition the Thompson Gallery mounts. As noted in the six other publications related to the Kiss the Ground exhibition series, the series evolved into many unanticipated projects, and this volume is a particularly unusual example. During the first exhibition in the Kiss the Ground series, Gagik Aroutiunian—Kiss the Ground, the first satellite project took shape as the Thompson Gallery published a short play that reverberated with Aroutiunian’s iconography. Publishing The Past Is Not Past illuminated a separate relationship, unrelated to Aroutiunian. As the play itself echoed Aroutiunian’s art, it also brought to light the relationship between the playwright and his artist friend—Elliot Baker and John Avakian, both introduced below—and thus, the publication emphasized Baker’s play which included supporting material by Avakian. Originally conceived to support a reading by Cambridge School students at Gagik Aroutiunian’s artist talk, The 6

Past Is Not Past publication was designed as a self-contained project to provide a script for those students. However, within a few months of publication, it came to my attention that the Thompson Gallery needed to create an additional, related publication in an effort to provide both creators with publications that support their respective work.

If I Begin to Cry, in turn, was designed to catalog John Avakian’s work, while also highlighting the work of the playwright, Elliot Baker. The power, the longing and the expressed pain of the material that informs Avakian’s work also impacts Baker’s writing. Thus, in a spirit of openness, collaboration, and great vision, detailed attention must be given to provide our readers with some much-needed context.

In the early days of first trying to put together the Kiss the Ground exhibitions series, I visited John Avakian’s studio to select work for the various shows I was planning. That first meeting proved to be a very influential one. Avakian not only shared with me the extensive body of work that this catalog only begins to illuminate; he also introduced me to the writings of his good friend, Elliot Baker, who had recently finished his play The Past is Not Past.

Avakian suggested I somehow involve the play in the Kiss the Ground exhibition series. His passion was so resolute that I contacted Baker, who sent me a copy of his play. I forwarded the play to the chair of the Theatre Department, Barbara Whitney, who in turn proposed a student reading in a public venue. Avakian’s introduction catapulted the Kiss the Ground project into a collaborative venture beyond anything any of us had previously imagined. The first extracurricular project was a world-premier dramatic reading, directed by and starring

students from The Cambridge School of Weston, occurred at the Thompson Gallery on November 15, 2014 among the paintings, sculptures and installations of Gagik Aroutiunian. The play was performed again at the Armenian Museum of America in Watertown, MA, in January 2015. Both the initial publication and the present volume aimed to shed light on the friendship between Avakian and Baker—how Avakian and his work initially inspired the creation of the play in the first place. The initial publication necessarily focused on Baker’s play and was garnered with Avakian’s art as supplementary material. If I Begin to Cry, in contrast, centrally focuses on Avakian’s work and includes Baker’s play in support of that work. This reciprocal relationship is what inspired what might be called mirrored emphasis publications, which each reflect the vantage of the central creator.

Although The Past is Not Past has a single author, the story of how it came to be is one of shared affinities, overlapping histories and compelling circumstances between two creative individuals who found friendship, alignment and mutual inspiration. The Past Is Not Past and If I Begin To Cry circumstantially link the family histories of Elliot Baker (Miami Beach, FL) and John Avakian (Sharon, MA). Baker and Avakian are not related in the family sense, but their respective cultures endured the first two genocides of the modern era.

The central theme of Avakian’s catalog, though hinted at by its title, is about a complex situation, which can be better appreciated by understanding the relationship between an unusual combination of image and text. Readers may jump to page 176 to read the artists’ statements, or they may elect to allow the titles, text

and imagery to accumulate meaning as the pages unfold.

If I Begin to Cry is organized by the chronological and evolutionary development of Avakian’s work. The organization reveals the story of how Avakian came to terms with facing the truth about his familial past, a theme hauntingly echoed in Baker’s play and which parallels much of the imagery of Gagik Aroutiunian’s work. Every chapter of If I Begin To Cry highlights a particular body of Avakian’s work, and each chapter acts as a preparation for the next. Moreover, the chapters gain conceptual and emotional intensity until the works of art that examine Avakian’s biographical origins ultimately set the stage for Baker’s play. Our readers will be interested to learn that the last image in that final chapter of Avakian’s work, before Elliot Baker’s play, is a reprint of a photograph Avakian took of his parents while he was enrolled in high school. The same photograph adorns the cover of The Past Is Not Past, and poetically reflects the educational environment in which all of these projects emanate.

The Past Is Not Past and the efforts to bring Baker’s short play to our community were not part of the original plan for the Kiss the Ground exhibition series.

Additionally, the series exclusively focuses on Armenian artists and the play’s author is not Armenian. Moreover, Baker was not trained in the expressive arts; he worked in the field of clinical psychology for 43 years, and following his retirement turned to playwriting as a second career.

As Baker pointed out in several of his email communications: My father came from England, my mother from Russia…I hope this won’t confuse the reader, but my family name was Futorian.

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I was told it was not an Armenian name...2 …But perhaps because of my Jewish background I was able to identify with the Armenian people.3 As a former psychologist, I knew it was vital to unlock and confront painful memories.4 As The Past Is Not Past unfolds and the characters “unlock and confront painful memories,” they hauntingly transform a complicated global-historical situation into a prescient family drama—an Armenian family who conceals the Genocide from their 15-year-old son, who ultimately finds out and confronts his parents about their choices. Our readers will not have difficulty seeing the relevance of the material given the subject of the Kiss the Ground exhibition series, but as a curator it is important to be up front about the choice to break the rule of exhibiting exclusively Armenian art. Why is a play, written by a playwright of Jewish descent, included in an exhibition series about Armenian artists who remember the Armenian Genocide?

Typically, curators exclude outliers from their focus. In the case of Elliot Baker, everything about the inclusion of The Past Is Not Past in the Kiss the Ground series is about “the other,” or “odar” in Armenian.

There is great poignancy in understanding the ramifications of what it means to be “an other”; otherness as a concept sits at the heart of this exhibition series. It was Raphael Lemkin’s study of otherness that ultimately led him to research the 191523 Armenian Massacres by the Ottoman Turkish government, which in turn led him to coin the term “genocide.” Lemkin had lost 49 relatives to the Holocaust.5 Poignantly, The Past Is Not Past is the 8

outlier that needs to be included to more fully understand the Kiss the Ground project. As both The Past Is Not Past and If I Begin To Cry illuminate, the reality of a family who chooses to disclose their dark past as an “outsider” (or not to disclose it) has great ramifications for generations to come. Regarding just two specific family choices, Avakian’s story ultimately inspired Baker’s. It was Avakian’s awakening that brought him to the need to create his prints series in the first place—and his story is the true focus of this monograph.

I will never forget my initial experience of seeing John Avakian’s work for the first time, during my summer 2014 visit to his home archives. As Avakian pulled out the first prints for me to see, I was immediately struck by the photographic account of the Armenian Genocide, chronicled by Avakian’s prints. I could not believe my eyes. I stood in awe, in the presence of imagery I had never before seen and thought did not exist—photographic evidence of the Armenian Genocide. I of course had heard time and time again the stories of the struggle of the Armenian people to prove that the Genocide did in fact occur, but never had I seen documentary imagery before. And there it was, right before my eyes—the photographic proof of the mass slaughters—raw, horribly blatant reflections of the manner in which the Armenian people were nearly eradicated from this good earth. How could there be denial of the genocide with such irrefutable evidence? I asked Avakian where he had obtained the images and he told me they were “primarily confined to Armenian History books with only a few well-known images published within domestic, often esoteric, accounts of pre-WW historic publications.”6 I knew then that I had to find a way to show Avakian’s large-scale work but the Thompson Gallery

has limited space and that limitation lead me to approach the Armenian Museum of America to expand our series with more than one venue. And to our surprise, that too became a reality as the project evolved throughout the school year. I am grateful for Gary Lind-Sinanian’s enthusiasm for the project, for his willingness to accommodate Kiss the Ground at the Armenian Museum of America, and for all his assistance throughout our joint project.

I am indebted to John Avakian for introducing me to Elliot Baker, who in turn shared his play with me. I feel most fortunate they helped me to understand how their friendship initiated dialogue, and how each influenced and inspired the other in subsequent work. When I read the play the first time, being familiar with Avakian’s work, I had the great advantage of already knowing what Baker was referencing when I came across Haron’s line, If I begin to cry, I think I will cry forever [page 141]. Avakian uses the same phrase in many of his works.

I knew then that if ever a published version of The Past Is Not Past were to come into existence, it would be greatly enhanced by including Avakian’s series work. That small insight, during the early weeks of planning Kiss the Ground, was a catalyst. With this present volume, I am most pleased to provide a more in-depth examination of Avakian’s work, as the first publication, appropriately so, was not able to explore it to the extent this publication can.

The Past Is Not Past.

I am thankful for, and impressed by Sophie Landa’s ‘15 thoughtful and insightful stage direction, Amanda Madigan’s ‘15 assistance and narration, and the cast of The Past Is Not Past, Avery Dove ‘15, Kayla Seeger ‘15, Zelime Lewis ‘17, Connor Rooks ‘18, and Kasey Soderberg ’15 for bringing this important short play to life within the walls of two art institutions. Our audiences continue to thank me for having organized these readings.

I hope that our audience will find this collection of artwork by John Avakian and this play by Elliot Baker poignant and moving, while shedding much needed light on what has been often called the “forgotten genocide.”

Todd Bartel Gallery Director, Curator Thompson Gallery September 20, 2014 (revised July 10, 2015) ____________________

1. Gagik Aroutiunian, interview notes, 8/29/14 2. Elliot Baker, email correspondence, 9/1/14 3. Ibid.

4. Baker, The Past Is Not Past, Preface, 9/15/14 5. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genocide#cite_ref-18, 9/3/14 6. John Avakian Notes, studio visit, July 31, 2014

I am grateful to Barbara Whitney, Chair of the Theatre Department, for her willingness to involve her students and for her innovative idea to perform a reading of the play in the Thompson Gallery, among the works of Gagik Aroutiunian. Her enthusiasm and support convinced me that there could not be a better time to publish 9

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Introduction

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Introduction Elliot Baker

The past is not past—for anyone. It is not destiny, but it can influence, dictate and color existence—the good and the bad.

John Avakian and I met by chance on Newbury Street, Boston. He knew my wife, Sara, who also taught at Northeastern University. She introduced me to him. We immediately knew that we had much in common. And over a fourteen-year period, we met about three or four times a year over coffee. We shared many interests: his art, our worldviews, my playwriting, the painful history of the Armenian Genocide and its devastating effects on his parents and on himself. I went to two of John's art shows and witnessed the powerful and compelling images that he created depicting the horrors of murder. I was deeply moved.

I was aware of the horrors of the Genocide.

As an adolescent, I had read The Forty Days of Musa Dagh by Franz Werfel. As a person of Jewish descent, I also knew about the Holocaust...the terrifying news on the radio, the images of strewn, naked bodies, the weeping of elders in the synagogue, my awful feelings of helplessness. John and I shared some of history's plagues. I asked John for some of his books on the Genocide which he eagerly lent me and which I read and studied.

When John Avakian, whose grandparents perished during the “long march” but whose parents survived, asked me to write a play in commemoration of the Genocide, I agreed. He told me how his parents kept their ‘secret’ from him, how they suffered and how he struggled with the horrors of the Genocide. He infused his art with images of

the Genocide. Inspired by John's art and his personal history, I wrote a short play, The Past Is Not Past. Just as John's parents concealed their "secret" about the "long March," the death of their parents and their own sufferings, I created a family setting where the parents hide their past from their fifteen year old son, Haron. Eventually the truth comes out of hiding. Haron is changed forever. He will never forget. Like John Avakian, Haron transforms himself. To express and transcend the horrors of the Genocide, he becomes an artist. He has an art show, entitled, "If I Begin to Cry, I Will Cry Forever." This title was borrowed from John's art, which is in this book.

I am honored to have my play in his book and am grateful to Todd Bartel of the Thompson Gallery at The Cambridge School of Weston for the time, skills and dedication to compose this book for John Avakian, the Armenian people and me.

As a former psychologist, I knew it was vital to unlock and confront painful memories.

Self-knowledge was a step to liberation, but not sufficient. It would be necessary to create a life that was fulfilling—make changes in attitudes and change one’s life— “to be able to see…to create life amidst the vultures of death.” Haron in The Past Is Not Past does that.

An aside: About seven years ago, my eldest grandson exchanged stories with his college buddies about their relationships with their grandfathers. His pals mentioned how they talked sports. When he was asked, he said, “we talk about the Armenian Genocide.”

We must remember!

Elliot Baker, September 15, 2014 (revised July 11, 2015) 13

Introduction John Avakian

During the late 1990s, after being challenged by a therapist, I became aware of the impact the Armenian Genocide had had on my entire life. I began to emotionally revisit my childhood and to research and learn all I could about the Genocide that had devastated my parents. I gingerly explored this new content in my art, and gradually over time became emboldened in my Genocide series, creating larger, more complex, and compelling expressions of my heritage and pain. This new catalog focuses more in depth on this exploration and includes many additional examples from this series.

I first met Elliot Baker, the author of this astutely conceived play—The Past is not the Past—some time ago as I was leaving a gallery on Newbury Street in Boston. He was with his wife Sara, whom I recognized as a colleague at Northeastern University.

We became so engaged in a warm and stimulating conversation that we arranged to meet again for coffee.

Our first planned meeting was in late December 2000. These meetings initially included the three of us, but gradually evolved into meetings with just Elliot and myself. We commiserated with each other openly, discovering how much we had in common in similar and differing ways, and how we viewed life as a positive affirmation of humanity—along with its expectations, disappointments, foibles, struggles, misfortunes, and tragedies.

Over the years, we met periodically, 3 or 4 times a year. Elliot had retired from his practice as a psychotherapist and 14

was exploring writing—particularly short plays. He often shared these with me.

I found them compelling, especially the shaping of the characters, their issues and interactions. There was always something to learn and overcome for these characters.

More importantly, I experienced them as expressions of afflictions that, as a caring therapist, he had gleaned from his practice dealing with clients from a wide range of socio-economic backgrounds and challenging life issues.

Eventually, my family history and the Armenian Genocide became a topic in our discussions. A few years later, Elliot asked me if I had some books on the Armenian Genocide that I could lend him. I was delighted he had an interest in this forsaken subject. In subsequent conversations and several years later in 2013 (he was now living in Florida), I shared my interest in participating in the Centennial Anniversary Commemoration of the Armenian Genocide to be held during April 2015, hopefully with an exhibition of my Genocide-focused art. I asked if he might be interested in writing a play. He agreed, and I was delighted.

On August 12th I met Elliot in New York City to discuss the latest version of the play, and also to discuss the matter of adding another section I felt was essential to the unfolding narrative. Two weeks later I received the addition, Act II—a rich and powerful extension of the play to a period 65 years later.

Elliot’s personal life experiences, his listening to anecdotal stories about my childhood, his extensive reading of survivor-memoir books and histories, and his creative imagination and research allowed for the melding together of tragically inhuman acts and their enormous ramifications on a family

of three. It is through Haron’s retelling of the story that hope and light permeates the generations of darkness, changing the collective soul of the family and offsetting their pain and suffering—an important step to personal salvation and peace.

I have read this play several times at different stages of revision and could not stop the tears that welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks. I feel privileged and honored to have played a small part in this endeavor, and am honored that Elliot chose to write such a play about a subject matter that is largely unheard of by the public.

Additionally, I will be forever grateful to him for giving me an insightful understanding beyond what I could have had before he wrote the play. It has helped me reach a level of healing and has brought me closer to the emotion of joy that has for most of my life been unknown to me. This is a beautifully written and poignant play.

John Avakian, September 15, 2014 (revised July 16, 2015)

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John Avakian—If I Begin To Cry

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John Avakian—If I Begin to Cry Photographs of the suffering and martyrdom of a people are more than reminders of death, of failure, of victimization. They invoke a miracle of survival. To aim at the perpetuation of memories means, inevitably, that one has undertaken the task of continually renewing, of creating, memories—aided, above all, by the impress of iconic photographs. People want to be able to visit—and refresh—their memories.1 Susan Sontag Regarding the pain of Others, 2003 John Avakian is a painter and printmaker who has produced and continues to make, among many other works, a large body of monoprints addressing the complex history of the Armenian Genocide. Most of the works examined in If I Begin To Cry are one-ofa-kind prints that fuse a variety of printing technologies essentially designed to create multiples. Avakian’s work stands out for its technological prowess, its blatant imagery, and its monumental scale. This combination of features renders Avakian’s monoprints fitting memorial tributes to the millions of people slaughtered en masse during the 1915-23 Ottoman Turkish “deportations of the Armenians.”

John Avakian makes use of the monoprinting concept in his Armenian Genocide series, but his combined techniques push the traditional approach well past its original purposes. Avakian often uses multiple layerings of monoprints, which is the first way his series transcends that process. Traditionally, monoprinting involves hand-painting on a surface and then transferring the painting to archival paper— this approach to monoprinting is known as monotype printing. Avakian, however, is 18

dependent on a photographic—not handpainted—monoprinting process. While Avakian’s printings often incorporate the transfer of painted surfaces—or more often, inked surfaces—the work in this catalog is considered monoprinting because of its one-of-a–kind nature. Monotype-printing is typically selected as a printing technology for the gestural spontaneity of mark making that the process affords; whatever marks are made during the painting process are made visible in the final prints, and artists seek such immediacy in order to push the fixed nature of print-making into the realm and status of a painting. While Avakian certainly capitalizes upon such possibilities from time to time in his monoprintings (see page 42, Genocide: It Doesn’t Stop, 1992–2000) he primarily uses monoprint technology for print singularity—the denial of the possibility of a large printing edition— rather than for the purposes of gestural expression. While Avakian’s “gestural” hand is not evidenced in his general usage of the process, a residual sense of spontaneity arises from the handling of an ink brayer— which varies from work to work—as he experiments with the paper-litho process.

Avakian’s use of monoprinting via the paper-litho process, described below, can produce unexpected results; in this sense, his monoprints contain spontaneous aspects, but his is a mechanical sense of gesture rather than one wrought by hand.

While the monoprint process cannot yield an edition per se, monoprints can be reprinted a second or even third time with residual ink and increased pressure from the hand or printing press. Such results are called ghost prints, due to the faint nature of the lessened amount of ink used up by the initial printing/s (see Trails Littered with Generations Lost, 1992-2002, page 43).

Avakian routinely makes use of ghost prints, which either augment an existing

project or initiate yet another multiple-layer work. Avakian uses the monotype principle as a defining feature of his Armenian Genocide series, but he also employs other printing techniques, including dry point, inked objects and photo transfer processes.

Avakian uses stencils and word processing software to distribute text imagery within his work, further expanding his process through the use of digital technology, which he at times offsets with hand-painted elements.

He uses digital technology to capture photographs, create texturally altered images, embed text, or otherwise generate his “printing plates” for the paper-litho process. Avakian often likens his one-of-akind works to paintings, an apt designation due to the sheer size and multi-faceted nature of his works.

Avakian is best known for his expertise regarding the paper-litho process.

Lithography is a traditional printing process invented in the late 18th century; it gets its name from the ancient Greek words for stone (lithos) and writing (graphein), and is “the process of printing from a flat surface treated so as to repel the ink except where it is required for printing.”2 The related paper-litho process uses ordinary xerographic printouts—toner-based copier prints—as printer’s plates. The paper-litho process works because toner is comprised of carbon particles, fused to paper with acrylic and heat during the xerographic process, and wetting photocopier prints creates both a repellent and attractive printing environment: wet paper repels oil-based ink, while the toner accepts it.

Thus, by wetting any xerographic print and inking it with oil-based ink, printmakers can precisely print whatever appears black on the page. Of course, Avakian has to reverse all his images and text in Photoshop, to what is known as “wrong reading” or “reverse reading,” so that the final print

results in a “correct reading” orientation— unless incorrect readying is a desirable feature for a particular work. Avakian sometimes mitigates painful imagery, electing to slow the process of reading down by obfuscating textual information. Before using any xerographic printout as a printing plate, Avakian irons his xerography to insure that the acrylic part of the toner is well fused to the paper. As he points out, “If I don’t, the ink can pull off the toner and that destroys the printed image!”3 The inking process is very demanding because of a level of complication not found in most other printing processes. In order to transform a xerographic print into a paper litho, the paper must first be saturated with a water and gum arabic solution, the soaking of which renders the paper susceptible to tearing. Avakian takes great care to use a brayer, loaded with oil-based ink, as he rolls it over his plates—gentle passes and strategic support of the paper guard against the brayer pulling apart the plate as it distributes the ink.

Avakian often works on his prints over many printing sessions, sometimes separated by years. His technological expertise allows him to create monumental prints, many of which exceed 5 feet in length or height. When one considers that xerographic prints are generally limited to 11 x 17 inches, then the level of difficulty of Avakian’s work can be truly appreciated. Typically Avakian uses industrial xerographic printers, similar to what architects and engineers use—which are capable of printing copies several feet in length and width—but because of the delicacy of the printing technique, he cuts them into tiled sections—as many as 9, depending on the size of the print—in order to manage the demands of the process (see pages 52-65, 68-69, 74-93). Avakian has created close to a thousand unique prints 19

using this combination of processes.

Avakian’s one-of-a-kind-prints in his Armenian Genocide series belong to a lineage of printmakers whose series work has addressed tragedy, including Francisco Goya’s (1746-1828) Disasters of War series, Käthe Kollwitz’s (1867-1945) Peasants’ War etchings, Nancy Spero’s (1926-2009) Torture of Women handprintings, and William Kentridge’s (1955- ) Goya in Mind series. Along with these artists, Avakian’s iconography acts as a call for social change; the notion of repetitive imagery through print series, edition, or repetition of image becomes a vehicle of remembrance. Like Spero’s handprintings, Avakian monoprints make selective usage of repetitive imagery, but this feature owes its provenance to another print-maker/painter, Pop Art icon Andy Warhol; Avakian’s use of image repetition in his Armenian Genocide series is visually akin to Warhol’s Death and Disasters silkscreen series.

Warhol was the first to popularize image repetition, which of course was his signature approach to painting. Avakian uses image repetition for different reasons than Warhol, but both artists possess large bodies of print-based paintings that use mechanical ways of reproducing appropriated photographs. Additionally, both artists use image repetition as a vehicle for exploring the emotionally charged subject of death.

The differences between each artist’s approach to image repetition provide insight into their respective cultural contexts.

Warhol and Avakian differ in their uses of gesture and in their augmentations of painting with printmaking techniques.

Warhol often used drawn gestural markings in the fabrication of his photo-based silkscreens, which he then screen-printed onto his canvas paintings as a way of pushing 20

static printmaking to look and feel more like a gestural painting. Warhol was interested in making images that anyone could make, and the silkscreen process highlighted that.

Warhol once commented: “I think it would be so great if more people took up silkscreens so that no one would know whether my picture was mine or somebody else's.”4 Avakian tends to downplay gestural markings in favor of highlighting texture and pattern, which establish the brooding atmospheres of his work.

In a 1963 interview, Warhol was asked

by Gene Swensen why he had made the iconic Campbell’s Soup Can paintings, and he responded: “I used to have the same lunch every day, for twenty years, I guess, the same thing over and over again. Someone said my life has dominated me; I liked that idea.”5 Warhol also stated in that interview, "The reason I'm painting this way is that I want to be a machine and I feel that whatever I do and do machine-like is what I want to do."6 For Warhol, repetition of image allowed him to explore the collapse of style in art: “The thing I like about it is that it makes you forget about style and that sort of thing; style isn't really important.”7 In fact, the choice to “forget about style” was what led Warhol to investigate dark subjects, which in turn paved the way for artists like Avakian to push historic imagery into similar but ultimately different territory.

Warhol’s Death and Disasters silkscreen series comprises appropriated tabloid imagery—electric chair images and various disasters including plane and car crashes, suicides, and the death of Marilyn Monroe— silkscreened repeatedly on his canvases.

Warhol was interested in the general public’s fascination with celebrities and with tragic events, and he felt that any such perverse interest, oft repeated in the news, ultimately lost its meaning: “when you see a gruesome picture over and over again, it doesn't really have any effect.”8 As pointed out by Neil Printz in his essay Painting

Death In America, Warhol’s “preoccupation with the macabre involved detachment and distance.”9 Moreover, Printz points out, “By Warhol’s own account, his replication of the image…was intended to ‘empty’ the image of its meaning.”10 But where repetitive spectacle loses impact for Warhol and his audience, Avakian’s work gains impact for a particularly potent reason.

The Armenian Genocide, after a century of political unrest and dissent, has not yet achieved the public recognition Armenians demand from the contemporary Turkish government, and American audiences are only beginning to rediscover its complicated history. Avakian makes use of his own context and commandeers the imagery of “the forgotten Genocide” to inform us, incessantly repeating his imagery lest we forget11 again. Because Warhol’s familiar images depict stories average people know and can recognize, their audiences become desensitized. Avakian’s unfamiliar images lack identity, but haunt today’s audiences due to the shocking realization that they do not know the specific imagery of the Armenian people or their stories. Avakian’s use of repetition is aimed at pulling the past out of obscurity.

Unlike Warhol, Avakian appropriates from history books rather than from popular media—many of the original photographs and negatives regarding the documentation of the Armenian Genocide reside in the Smithsonian’s and the Armenian Museum of America’s12 (Watertown, MA) archives— but today, the imagery is largely unknown outside of Armenian communities and historians’ circles. While Warhol was less interested in the specific narratives of the mass produced photographs he appropriated, Avakian comments upon and highlights the narratives of the photographs he incorporates. Where Warhol’s imagery has often been linked to a

critique of capitalism, Avakian’s imagery is connected to cultural preservation and the Armenian people’s ongoing fight for cultural recognition, restitution and the century-long call for social justice.

Susan Sontag describes photographs as “faithful cop[ies] or transcription[s] of an actual moment of reality.”13 In her book Regarding the Pain of Others, she writes “Nonstop imagery (television, streaming video, movies) is our surround, but when it comes to remembering, the photograph has the deeper bite.

Memory freeze-frames; its basic unit is the single image. In an era of information overload, the photograph provides a quick way of apprehending something and a compact form for memorizing it.”14 Avakian needs to remember; he wants all of us to remember too. Thus, Avakian’s work is necessarily dark and strident in its portrayal of history, but it also contains a palpable sense of hope and unabashed fortitude. For Avakian, exposing truth about the dark past is a way of insuring a brighter future—a sentiment also echoed in Baker’s play. The Past Is Not Past and If I Begin To Cry overlap in deeply rooted aspirations—to ‘carry on’ under the shadow of outrageous misfortune is an opportunity to spark new life and new hope.

Thus, both Avakian and Baker balance dark imagery with the imagery of possibility and transcendence—seeds for future generations. But the collected works in If I Begin To Cry concentrate on and chronicle Avakian’s own awakening.

Transcendence in Baker’s play comes to light during a conversation about a painting made by the character Haron during a conversation with his grandson Aram: “Life, Aram, life. There is death…but there is life. And that’s what we have to see…create.” Avakian’s current work—which is not the focus of this publication, but an example of which may be found on page 23—focuses on the concept of 21

“wholeness” and finds insight in the writings of Carl Jung, with a specific interest in, as he points out, “healing mandalas, and Jung’s four parts of healing: ‘sensation, thinking, feeling and intuition.’ Trying to establish a good balance between the four, I use sections of images— parts of photographs—from my life in my new compositions. It is a symbol of wholeness that I am after; it’s a reflection of the process of healing and achieving balance.”15 Avakian’s work evolved over many years before he was able to address the possibility of wholeness and new life in his art. As Avakian’s own story painfully illuminates, for much of his life—well into his adult years—he was silent and unwilling to address his past until he finally, therapeutically, uttered the reason why: the true subject of this catalog.

Expression after so long an imposed silence is a powerful release. The utterance of truth finally revealed unleashed a creative force for Avakian. For his audiences, Avakian’s frank but compassionate imagery is begrudgingly effective. When we see his confrontational imagery, we feel its pain and become overwhelmed by its scale, its scope and its blatant reality. Ultimately, however horrible what it discloses may be, we are also relieved to know its truths. This quality, above all, gives Avakian’s work its strength and its staying power. Avakian’s work grants the Armenian people hope, solidarity and advocacy, because after a century of (Modern) Turkey’s denial of the term “genocide” to describe the events of 191523, Avakian’s work gives credence to the victims and the descendants of those who survived the Armenian Genocide. But it does something else as well: it makes witnesses of us all.

Todd Bartel Gallery Director, Curator Thompson Gallery July 10, 2015 22

___________________________________

1. Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others, Picador, New York, NY, 2003, p. 87.

2. Online Etymology Dictionary, http://www.etymonline.com/ index.php?allowed_in_frame=0&search=lithography&searchm ode=none, July 9,2015 3. John Avakian, in conversation with Todd Bartel, July 17, 2015 4. Andy Warhol, 1963 (November) Art News Interview by Gene Swensen reprinted in Art in Theory 1900-1990: An Anthology of Changing Ideas, ed. Blackwell Publishers Ltd., Massachusetts, 1992, 1998, p. 731 5. Warhol, Swensen interview, p. 732 6. Ibid.

7. Warhol, Swensen interview, p. 733 8. Warhol, Swensen interview, p. 732 9. Neil Printz, Painting Death In America, in Andy Warhol Death and Disasters, The Menil Collection, Houston Fine Arts Press, Houston, TX, 1988, p. 9 10. Printz, p. 17 11. See John Avakian, Artist Statement II, page 178 12. Gary Lind-Sinanian, Chief Curator, Armenian Museum of America, in conversation with Todd Bartel, January 2, 2015 13. Sontag, p. 26 14. Sontag, p. 22 15. Avakian interveiw, July 17, 2015

Psychic Symmetries: Mandala 1, 2014 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings)s, oil-based ink, on BFK 21.25 x 21.75 inches 23

24

Remembering

A Break in the Wall: Remembering the Armenian Genocide, 1990, 1997 & 1999 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 20.5 x 15.5 inches 26

A Chilling Passion: Remembering the Armenian Genocide, 1990, 1995 & 2000 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 19.75 x 15.5 inches 27

Is There Anybody Out There: Remembering the Armenian Genocide, 1991, 1997 & 1998 xerographic litho printings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 19.5 x 15.5 inches 28

Unfinished Hope: Remembering the Armenian Genocide, 1991, 1997 & 1998 xerographic litho printings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 19.5 x 15.5 inches 29

The Lifting of Barriers: Remembering the Armenian Genocide, 1991, 1997 & 1999 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 19.5 x 15.5 inches 30

Remembering the Unbearable, 1992–1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 15 x 19.5 inches 31

32

Remembering‌ No. 2, 1995–1996 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 19.5 x 10.5 inches

Remembering—and Denial 1, 1995, 1996 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 15 x 22.5 inches 33

Remembering‌, 1996–1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 16 x 7.5 inches 34

Remembering—and Denial 2, 1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 13.25 x 21 inches 35

Deportation to Death 2, 1997-98 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, drypoint, oil-based ink, on BFK 25.25 x 35.5 inches 36

Censored, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, drypoint on BFK 13.25 x 14 inches 37

38

If I Begin To Cry

If I Begin To Cry..., 1992–1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 15.5 x 19.5 inches 40

I Will Cry Forever, 1992–1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 15.5 x 19.75 inches 41

Genocide: It Doesn’t Stop, 1992–2000 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, oil-based ink, on BFK 25.25 x 35.5 inches 42

Trails Littered with Generations Lost, 1992–2002 Monoprint ghost, drypoint, oil-based ink on BFK 25.25 x 35.5 inches 43

Ghostly Images, Ghostly Memories, 1995–1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 18.5 x 26.25 inches 44

If I Begin To Cry 1, 1995–1998 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 12.5 x 20 inches 45

If I Begin To Cry 2, 1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 15.75 x 22.5 inches 46

If I Begin To Cry 3, 1997 monoprint, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 20 x 12.25 inches 47

If I Begin To Cry: Remember Me, 1997 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 23.5 x 11.25 inches 48

If I Begin To Cry: Van, Zeitoun, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 15 x 6.75 inches 49

If I Could Speak: Marash, Sivas, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 20.25 x 7 inches 50

If I Begin To Cry: Exiled, 1998–1999 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, stencil printings, dry-point, dry-point ghosts, oil-based ink, on BFK 21 x 6.75 inches 51

Orphaned Again and Again, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 25.25 x 35.5 inches 52

Bloody Trees Bear Witness, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 18.25 x 9.75 inches 53

Mounds of Genocide, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 14.75 x 41.625 inches 54

55

Trophies of Genocide 1, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 14 x 42 inches 56

57

The Long Walk, 1998, 1999 monoprint, multiple paper litho-transfers, on BFK 14.75 x 39.5 inches

58

59

Public Display, 1998, 2001, 2003 monoprint, multiple paper litho-transfers, on BFK 14.75 x 42 inches

60

61

Remnants of Genocide, 1998, 2000, 2001 & 2003 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 14.75 x 41.875 inches 62

63

Trophies of Genocide 2, 1998, 2000, 2001 & 2003 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 14.875 x 41.75 inches 64

65

Anatomy of Genocide 6, 2000 xerographic litho printings, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 20 x 10 inches 66

Anatomy of Genocide 9, 2000 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 18.25 x 9.75 inches 67

Deportations to Hell (How Can You Cry When 1.5 Million Innocent People Are Murdered?), 2003, 2005 & 2006 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 11.5 w. X 67.5 inches 68

69

Genocide Crushed & Denied 4, 2006 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 12 x 12 inches 70

Genocide Crushed & Denied 5, 2006 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 12 x 14.25 inches 71

72

I Think I Will Cry Forever

Relocation to Annihilation, 1998 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 15 x 42 inches 74

75

Spectators of Genocide 3, 1998–1999 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), oil-based ink, on BFK 30 x 40 inches 76

Spectators of Genocide 4, 1999, 2000 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 61 inches 77

Trophies of Genocide 3, 1998–1999 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 67.5 inches 78

Trophies of Genocide 4, 1999, 2000–2002 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42.5 x 55 inches 79

Spectators at Mass Grave Site 1, 1999 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 26.5 x 40 inches 80

Spectators at Mass Grave Site 2, 1999–2000 monoprint, xerographic litho transfer, oil-based ink, on BFK 27 x 40 inches 81

Madonna and Child 3, 1999 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 60 x 42 inches 82

Madonna and Child 2, 1999–2000 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 63 x 42 inches 83

The Proud and The Profane, 1999 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 59.5 inches 84

The Proud and The Profane: Is There Anybody Out There?, 1999–2001 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), ghost prints, stencil printings, oilbased ink, on BFK 42 x 54.5 inches 85

Public Display: Genocide 1, 1999–2000 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 62.5 inches 86

Genocide Hangings 2, 1999–2001 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 67.375 inches 87

Killing Field 1915, 1999–2001 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 28 x 39 inches 88

Killing Field 1915 Revisited 2, 1999, 2000–2002 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 39 x 53 inches 89

Innocence and Loss,* 1999–2001 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 27 inches

[*The image used for this work is now stirring controversy due to the likelihood the original photograph was an orchestrated photoshoot designed to extablish empathy on the part of Americans to help put a stop to the “deportations of the Armenians� by the Turkish Ottoman Governement of 1915]

90

Mother and Child: Humanity Lost, 2001–2002 xerographic litho printings, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 30 x 63.5 inches 91

Serenity At Last 1, 1999–2002 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 73.75 inches 92

Serenity At Last 2, 1999–2002 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), dry point, stencil printings, oil-based ink, on BFK 26.75 x 41.75 inches 93

Family Portraits

Married in Marseille, France, 1998 inkjet on archival paper 20 x 28.75 inches 96

Innocence and Vulnerability 1, 2005 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), oil-based ink, on BFK 44.25 x 30 inches 97

Childhood Memory, 1998 inkjet on archival paper 24 x 17.5 inches 98

Artist With Parents, 2007 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 41.5 x 29.5 inches 99

Arshile and Me (de Kooning Left the Studio), 2005 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), oil-based ink, on BFK 29.5 x 39.25 inches 100

The Young Artist, 2004 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), oil-based ink and collage on BFK 21.5 x 30 inches 101

Family Bio 1, 2004–2005 xerographic litho monoprintings, oil-based ink, on BFK 7 x 26.25 inches 102

Family Bio 3, 2004, 2005 & 2006 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 8.5 x 29.25 inches 103

Family Bio 5, 2003, 2004, 2006 & 2007 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 8.5 x 24.5 inches 104

Family Bio 12, 2002, 2003, 2006 & 2010 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 9.25 x 29.25 inches 105

Family Bio 14, 2005, 2006 & 2010 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 7.25 x 29.75 inches 106

Family Bio 25, 2005, 2006 & 2010 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 8 x 26.25 inches 107

Family Bio 33, 2002, 2003, 2006 & 2010 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 6.75 x 21.75 inches 108

Family Bio 34, 2005, 2006 & 2011 xerographic litho monoprintings, ghost prints, oil-based ink, on BFK 8.25 x 21.75 inches 109

Armenian Immigrants: My Parents, 2002 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), oil-based ink, on BFK 42 x 28.25 inches 110

Armenian Immigrants: My Parents Smiling 2, 1990, 2004 tiled monoprintings (xerographic litho monoprintings), oil-based ink, on BFK 29.5 x 41.5 inches 111

My Grandmother’s Family Portrait, 1998 inkjet on archival paper 15 x 23 inches 112

My Father As A Young Man, 1998 inkjet on archival paper 15 x 23 inches 113

My Grandmother’s Family Portrait, 1900 scanned gelatin silver print 7 x 5 inches 114

Mother and Father Sipping Coffee in the Kitchen, 1960 scanned negative 6.5 x 6.5 inches 115

Elliot Baker—The Past Is Not Past

ԵՐԿՐՊԱԳՈՒԹԻՒՆ

The PAST IS NOT PAST A DRAMA by Elliot Baker

SYNOPSIS: “THE PAST IS NOT PAST” is initially set in 1950 in Watertown, Massachusetts.

A couple who survived the 1915 Armenian Genocide conceals their “secret” from their fifteen year old son. The mother suffers from nightmares, the father from anxieties. In playing checkers with his father, the boy touches a checker but does not move it. The father rages because the child did not think ahead, something that still could be dangerous even in this world. His outburst prompts the mother to reveal and relive the horrors of “the long march.” The boy vows to never forget.

In 2015, the centennial of the Genocide, the boy is now a grandfather and is visited by his grandson with whom he shares turning points in his life, his struggle with the effects of the horrible events and his worldview.

This play was inspired by my friend John Avakian, whose grandparents perished during the 1915 Genocide but whose parents survived.

118

CHARACTERS: The MINASSIAN FAMILY: ANRANIK: Father, age 45. Critical, underlying warmth, troubled.

ADELINE: Mother, age 43. Gentle, firm, anxious.

HARON: Son, age 15. Curious, sensitive, mildly rebellious.

TIME; 1950. Spring time.

SETTING: A kitchen with a wooden table and three chairs. The room is sparse, creating an atmosphere of somberness.

119

ACT ONE SCENE ONE

AT RISE: For fifteen seconds, the stage will be completely dark and silent. It is morning around 4:00 A.M. Then, from off stage, the whimpering sobs of ADELINE who is in a deep but restless sleep.

ADELINE Screams. (in Armenian.) Votch! Votch! (long pause) No! No! ANRANIK Sshh. Sshh. It’s OK my darling. It’s OK. I’m here with you. Go back to sleep (pause.)

ADELINE I’m afraid to. (pause) I don’t want to! (pause) Night after night. Week after week. Year after year. It goes on and on! It’s endless!

She cries.

My poor Adeline.

It’s too big…too much for me!

ANRANIK ADELINE

A long pause.

ADELINE and ANRANIK, wearing bathrobes, enter the kitchen. He turns on the wall light switch. They sit silently at the table, their faces etched in anguish. He holds her hands.

ADELINE I’m sorry. I cause so much worry for you.

Don’t worry about worrying me

120

ANRANIK

You’re such a good husband.

ADELINE

ANRANIK Of course I am. Ha. Besides it won’t kill me to worry for you.

ADELINE Do me a favor…never…never... say that word again!

Forgive me.

Cries softly.

Stands and kisses her forehead,.

Why?! Why?!

Only God knows!

Did we deserve it… to be punished?!

Stop thinking that way!

I can’t.

ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK

ADELINE

HARON Enters. He is wearing pajamas. Stands for a few seconds, studying his parents’ expressions. (to ADELINE) What’s wrong, mother?!

Nothing, nothing.

HARON alarmed

ADELINE 121

Nothing?! Screaming is nothing?

Go back to bed!

After Mom cries? (pause) Am I made of stone?!

I said, “go back to bed!”

Anranik, he means well.

HARON

ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK ADELINE

ANRANIK Some things are not his business, Adeline. Besides, he is just a child.

HARON I’m fifteen. I’m not a child. I have eyes, ears and a brain. I have a right to know what’s going on!

ANRANIK I determine what rights you have! I’m your hayr…your father! Remember!

HARON How could I forget?! You’re on my back over nothings. And now I ask a simple question out of concern and you jump on me! Why? You ask too many questions.

ANRANIK

HARON You taught me that…to be curious about the world…to ask questions.

ANRANIK Not everything is open for discussion. Not EVERY THING! (Pause) Now…go back to bed He softens.

Please.

122

OK. OK.

HARON

He leaves.

Maybe we should tell him.

ADELINE

ANRANIK To what end? To what purpose? So he will have nightmares too? Is that what you want?

ADELINE He will find out the truths sooner or later (In Armenian) Arevn ampi tak chi mna.

SCENE TWO

The next morning. The three are seated at the table, drinking coffee. Empty plates suggest they have finished their breakfast. Several slices of bread in a basket are on the table.

ADELINE Stands and clears the plates, but she leaves the bread.

The bread, Mom. We’re all through eating.

You might be hungry later.

HARON ADELINE

HARON You always say that and I never eat it. For years you do that!

Just a habit.

ADELINE

HARON So break the habit. The bread gets stale. It makes no sense.

123

ANRANIK But we never throw bread away. Your mother makes bread pudding from it. Nothing is ever thrown away.

It’s stupid, if you ask me.

I’m not asking you!

HARON ANRANIK

ADELINE Here we go again. Just stop it, both of you. If I want to leave a few pieces of bread on the table, that’s my business! OK?!

As you wish.

HARON

ADELINE Takes a chair and places it away from the table. She briefly exits and returns with a sewing kit and some socks. As HARON and ANRANIK drink their coffee, she threads a needle and begins to mend the socks.

HARON Mom, why bother with all that work? Socks are cheap.

Keeps on sewing.

And it’s not good for your fingers.

ADELINE HARON

ANRANIK Forget the fingers. It’s good for your mother’s brain to keep busy. Besides when we can save a little, we have more to give to others who are in need or for ourselves in case…

He chokes up. …in case what?! …in case Chokes up.

124

HARON ANRANIK

Stops sewing momentarily.

ADELINE

You can never predict the future. Things happen that you can never imagine.

What are you talking about?!

Some day you’ll understand.

Some day…why not now?

Stop this darn pressuring!

HARON ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK

HARON So… more mysteries…more darkness?! Can you bring in a little light?

Some things need to remain in the shadows!

Angrily

ADELINE HARON

Forget it! (pause)I have to go now.

What’s your hurry?

I have plans to meet a friend.

So early in the morning?

ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK

HARON We’re going on a bike ride along the Charles River into Boston. The light is so soft in the morning and it’s more peaceful then.

But it’s not good to exercise after you just ate.

ADELINE 125

Mother!

I know what I’m talking about.

HARON ADELINE

HARON If it makes you feel better, I’ll hang around for a while.

Good. And who is he… your friend?

Ah…it’s a she, Mom. A school mate.

What’s her name?

You wouldn’t know her.

You’re hiding something from us?

Look who’s talking!

Watch your tongue! So… Her name is Sandra…Connolly.

Her family is not from Hayastan?

Obviously.

It’s not a good idea to see her.

126

ADELINE HARON ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK HARON ADELINE HARON ADELINE

HARON This is America, mother. People don’t shy away from each other because they’re different.

Go, but be careful not to get involved!

Thanks, Dad. I’m not happy with that decision.

Don’t worry so much. She’s a very nice person.

For now, maybe!

What are you saying?!

Quickly changes the subject

ANRANIK HARON ADELINE HARON ADELINE HARON ANRANIK

While you’re digesting your breakfast, how about a game of checkers? Let’s see if you can beat the old man.

I doubt if I ever will.

Don’t put yourself down! So how about it?

OK. Good!

HARON ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK

He exits.

Clears the table. Exits and returns. Sits down

HARON

127

ANRANIK Returns with a checker board and a box of checkers which he places on the table. He sits and sets up the pieces.

Black goes first. Your move.

HARON moves his checker. For the next thirty seconds or so, they each move their checkers rapidly and make some jumps, removing the pieces accordingly. They are both deadly serious.

HARON Touches a checker in anticipation of moving it, but doesn’t move it and retracts his hand.

You touched it. You have to move it!

It would be mistake.

Then you will have to pay for it!

I was a little too quick.

ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK HARON

ANRANIK You have to think first then act! (in Armenian) Mtatsel! THINK! THINK! It’s only a game, Dad. Getting angry.

HARON ANRANIK

A game?! Thinking is a game?! Thinking ahead is a game?! If you don’t anticipate, the price could be enormous! Do you understand?!

I quit!

HARON

He stands and heads for the door.

ANRANIK Furiously swipes the board and the checkers off the table.

128

HARON

Petrified, stands frozen in place.

ADELINE

Distraught.

She slowly gets up from her chair, carefully places her sewing materials on the table and deliberately picks up the pieces one by one, placing them in the box and exits.

ANRANIK

You just don’t understand!

HARON

Perplexed.

No, I don’t.

ADELINE

Returns with a family album.

Sit! Sit.

HARON and ANRANIK

Brings back the chair to the table. She sits.

ADELINE

It’s time!

She slowly opens the album and points.

ADELINE (to HARON) This is my mother. Look how beautiful she is. (pause) This is my handsome father and his three brothers and sister.

She becomes tearful. (long pause) They’re dead. (a slight sob.) Dead! All dead! Murdered! (tears well up in ANRANIK’S and HARON’S eyes.

Becomes wistful, almost trance-like.

ADELINE 129

ADELINE (cont.)

And here I am…eight years old. My aunt made me my dress. See how lovely it was? With ruffles and pleats. She was a seamstress. My father and two of his brothers were house-painters. One was a farmer.

We lived in a small village, Hussenik. (pause) Gone. Burned to the ground. Everything. Everything! Gone!

ANRANIK Let’s go outside and not spoil this beautiful spring day.

ADELINE with a heavy heart.

Spring? Yes,…I remember THAT spring. (pause ) He has to know.

HARON tearful

I NEED to know!

ANRANIK

Everything, Adeline?

ADELINE

Everything!

She puts down the album. Trembling with her voice tremulous It was in the spring. (pause) Nineteen fifteen. (inhales deeply) ) The Turkish gendarmes stormed into our home. We were stunned…frightened. I held onto my mother. She screamed. My father…he swore. They called us “vermin,” “infidels.” They grabbed my mother, tore off her clothes. The biggest one…I remember his stinking body… threw my mother down on the floor. long pause. She gulps and stifles a cry.

They held back my father. He broke loose and pounded the pig on the back. (pause) Two gendarmes stabbed him with their bayonets. His blood spurted through his shirt. (sobs) HARON and ANRANIK sob.

ADELINE They dragged him outside. He struggled. They smashed his head with rifle butts. One took out a long dagger and …and…cut off his head. closes her eyes to shut out the horror.

130

ADELINE (cont.)

They came back in and laughed while my mother was raped.

She opens her eyes and sobs almost uncontrollably. embraces her.

ANRANIK

Stop! No more! Please!

Sobs I can’t stop the flood. It’s too late.

HARON ADELINE

She loosens herself from the embrace.

When the pig finished…they dragged us outside. My mother and I were pushed into long lines of our neighbors. They commanded us to move quickly. If some slowed down, they stabbed or beat them to death. (pause) We were being deported. There were only old men with us. The younger men were shot.… their bodies sprawled along the road…no heads…no clothes…no shoes. (pause) We were not allowed to take any food with us, not even a piece of bread!

Those beasts!

No…worst than beasts!!

HARON ANRANIK

ADELINE We were marched…if you can call it that… into Der-Zor, the Syrian desert. It was cold. My mother …fell. I couldn’t lift her. She cried… “goodbye… I love you.” She stopped breathing. (sobs.)

How did you survive?!

I don’t know. I don’t know.

HARON tearful.

ADELINE

sits crumpled. Worn out.

ANRANIK Your mother, even at eight years old, had a strong will and… faith and she had some luck. A Turkish 131

ANRANIK (cont.) soldier…a good one, gave her a piece of bread. She feasted on it for one whole day. Once during some night, a Bedouin stole into the caravan and secretly slipped her some bread and water. Months later, she made it to the Euphrates River.

ADELINE The River was streaked with blood. Bodies bobbed on the surface. I drank anyway.

A slight expression of pride.

I made it to Aleppo. I made it! (long pause) ( in Armenian) Ants’ yaln e ants’. The past is not past. It lives forever…the pain…sometimes the beauty.

Most of the time, the pain.

She holds HARON’S hands.

Now you have some of the pain. (pause) Was it worth it…knowing…finding out?! embraces ADELINE and ANRANIK

HARON

Yes! (pause) Now…I understand. (pause) I will never forget. Never! sobs

AS THE STAGE LIGHTS FADE A SPOT LIGHT FOCUSES ON HARON’S FACE REVEALING THE INTENSITY OF HIS EMOTIONS. THE ACTORS EXIT. THE STAGE BECOMES COMPLETELY DARK.

A significant time lapse before beginning Scene Three.

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SCENE THREE

SETTING: The kitchen.

TIME: Afternoon of the same day.

AT RISE: ANRANIK is reading a newspaper. A bottle of scotch is on the table. He pours some liquor into a glass, tinkles the ice and sips. He seems quite relaxed at first. ADELINE brings over a plate off cookies and sets it on the table. His mood abruptly changes. He slams the paper down. Gulps down the drink.

ANRANIK Murders, rapes, assaults! What ever changes in this world?!

ADELINE I know. I know. But we have each other, Haron, friends and good neighbors.

Yeah, for how long?

You’re scaring me, Anranik You think it can’t happen here?!

God forbid!

ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK ADELINE

HARON enters. He looks forlorn and exhausted. His brow is sweaty.

ADELINE senses something is wrong.

Are you all right?

A troubled silence.

HARON

ANRANIK Your date with that Sandra girl…it didn’t go well?

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I cancelled.

Cancelled?! You broke your word?!

Is it a crime to change a plan?

What your father means is…

I can speak for myself, Adeline!

HARON ANRANIK HARON

ADELINE ANRANIK

Stands and faces HARON. When you give your word, you stick to it unless you have an extraordinary reason. Do you understand?!

Don’t be so hard on him.

ADELINE

ANRANIK Life is hard, Adeline?! Our neighbors assured our family they would protect them. Did they? No! They broke their word. To me that’s a sin!

HARON You’re comparing breaking a date with what happened to your parents?

Yes! Ridiculous.

Just watch yourself. Now, explain!

ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK

HARON I couldn’t go out with someone who was not Armenian. It didn’t feel right, like I was betraying our people.

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softening Ahh!

ANRANIK

HARON I dropped by her house. I told her I had a head-ache and I wouldn’t be going for a ride with her. Actually, I did have a head-ache. After I left her, I rode my bike for hours. I felt chased… by horrible images. I stopped riding. I sat under an old maple tree along the river. I screamed, “Where was God?! No one heard me. God didn’t either!

Eyes tear. He embraces HARON. A crescendo of anger and anguish.

ANRANIK HARON

Where was HE?!

Sobs.

I don’t know.

Maybe there is no God!

Please!!

And the world…where was the world?!

Nowhere!

ADELINE

HARON

ADELINE HARON ANRANIK

HARON You were born in Turkey. Grandma and grandpa were born in Turkey. Their parents were born in Turkey.

So why, why did they turn against their own country-men?

ANRANIK Maybe because we were Christians. Maybe because we were different. Maybe they were jealous. (pause) The truth is…I don’t know why.

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I wish they’d burn in hell!

HARON

ADELINE Nods affirmatively and then she guiltily crosses her heart.

ANRANIK Is there a God? I don’t know, my son. Is there justice? No! (pause) Maybe someday they will face the truth and give us some peace.

The family is glum.

THE LIGHTS SLOWLY DIM. THE STAGE DARKENS. End of ACT ONE

ACT TWO

SETTING: A room with an easel, some scattered canvasses, a large box or shelves with art supplies, two chairs.

TIME: April 24, 2015. Sixty-five years have passed.

CHARACTERS: HARON: Age 80. He is a bit stooped, wears glasses. He is philosophical and despite a solemn tone, he is spirited and positive in his outlook. He wears jeans and T Shirt.

ARAM: Age 20. HARON’S grandson. He is similar to HARON’S younger self; thoughtful and empathic.

He wears slacks and an open shirt.

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AT RISE: sketches ARAM who is seated on a chair.

HARON

When I look at you, Aram, I see some of myself…the younger me that is.

You look pretty good to me, grandpa.

I can always count on you for a compliment.

And more than that.

With gravity

ARAM HARON ARAM

HARON

I know.

Studies ARAM for a few moments and makes some bold strokes.

I’m flattered that you wanted to spend some of your spring vacation with me. After all, you could be at the beach somewhere, hanging out with beautiful girls and having a grand old time.

No contest.

ARAM

HARON Thanks. (pause) It means a lot to me that you remembered…

He momentarily chokes up, puts down the pencil on the easel and wipes his eyes.

I guess it never goes away.

Not completely.

ARAM HARON

ARAM It’s hard to believe. (pause) How could humans become monsters?

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Unfathomable to me, still.

HARON

Moves the easel to the corner and takes a chair and sits in front of ARAM. HARON Aram, we have to know the bitter but not become bitter. You know what I mean?

Nods affirmatively.

ARAM

Dad thinks the same way.

I did OK then, huh?

More than OK.

HARON ARAM

A long pause.

Gets up and paces the floor.

HARON

I want to tell you a story. I know you heard it from your father, but I need to say it… in my own words…at this time.

Sure.

ARAM

Sighs in anticipation.

HARON After the silences in my family ruptured, I was plagued for years by images of killings, rapes, my grandparents’ deaths, by my parents’ suffering…their grief etched on their faces, their voices dimmed by anguish.

You suffered from THEIR ordeal.

ARAM

HARON Yes. When finally their secret burst out, I got what I wanted…knowledge, but the truth didn’t set me free.

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They should have waited until you were older

ARAM

HARON No. Their silences were unbearable. I HAD to know.

A burden.

ARAM

HARON A necessary one. (pause) Something was lodged deep in me… images of death…sufferings, bodies of innocent children strewn about…heaped in piles… torn, smashed, destroyed. Aram, I wasn’t there but I WAS there. I had nightmares…like my mother…night after night…the same ones…crawling through a dark, dank tunnel. It got narrower and narrower. I was trapped. I was going to suffocate…die. I would wake up screaming and in a cold sweat.

Awful!

ARAM

HARON That’s putting it mildly. Is all this too much for you?

I have to know… too!

ARAM

HARON Of course. (pause) I was living in dread. I couldn’t shake the feeling. It trailed me everywhere. My parents’ pain somehow seeped into me. Their gloom became mine. I felt compelled to plunge myself deep into their past. For me, it was like going into a haunted house to overcome fear.

You were brave.

ARAM

HARON Maybe, but I felt I had no choice. I had to know more. So, I studied archival pictures. I listened to the recorded voices of the victims…their horrors…and yes, their stories of survival.

More nightmares?

Too many.

ARAM HARON 139

A big price, grandpa.

ARAM

HARON Expensive, but for me, necessary. I needed to hear, to see, to feel in order to REALLY know what happened. (pause) I was consumed and in danger of going mad. Now I had to save myself or… I could die….psychologically.

How frightening!

ARAM

HARON Aram, I want you to know, to understand what happened but I don’t want you to suffer.

I think I can do that.

ARAM

HARON How to remember the past but to be able to enjoy the present? That was my new search.

So it was art that saved you?

ARAM

HARON You got it right again. Ha. I discovered I could gain some mastery over the terrorizing images….get them out of my brain by painting them on canvas. I could transform the scenes and make them less frightening by creating beauty amidst the vultures of death. I could be faithful to history AND be able to free myself from the frozen past.

He walks over to his canvasses and picks one and holds it up to ARAM. (The audience does not necessarily see the painting.)

Scrutinizes the painting for a few moments.

So…what do you see?

ARAM HARON

ARAM I see a barren desert…no trees…no life… emptiness…slivers of a dark sky.

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Keep on looking.

Studies the painting for a few moments.

HARON ARAM

Oh….

Yes? In the lower corner, I see a bush with a flower.

HARON ARAM

HARON Life, Aram, life. There is death…but there is life. And that’s what we have to see…create.

Ponders and nods affirmatively Places the painting back among the canvasses.

ARAM HARON

Five years after I graduated from Boston University, I had a one-man show at a gallery in Somerville, Massachusetts. I called the show, “If I begin to cry, I think I will cry forever.”* People glanced at my work and walked out looking either bored or disgusted. *The title of John Avakian’s digital art piece at a gallery featuring Armenian-American artists.

So demoralizing!

ARAM

HARON I was demolished. (pause) Near closing, I saw a beautiful woman studying my paintings.

Ayda?

ARAM

HARON Yes. Ha. (pause) I walked over to her. We talked. She saw the sadness, the agony, the poignancy in my work. She told me so. I felt she saw me like no one ever had.

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What a wonderful feeling.

Exquisite feeling!

Did she buy a painting?

ARAM HARON ARAM

HARON Ha. No. Anyway, I asked her out for coffee. She smiled and said, “I would love to have a coffee with you.”

We went to a café a few blocks away. We talked for hours about art and life. She was deep, so intelligent and expressive. As she talked, she touched my hand. I was in heaven. We missed the busses, so we walked three miles to her home. I kissed her…on her forehead. And I flew back to my house. Ha. (pause) There was a problem looming. I knew it would happen.

She was Turkish. And your parents?

ARAM

HARON They were devastated. How could I do that to them? Did I not promise to remember what crimes the Turks committed? They threatened to disown me. It was a horrible time.

Until?

ARAM

HARON Until Ayda revealed to them that her grandfather had died in nineteen fifteen….murdered by the Turks.

Even though he was Turkish.

Did you memorize the story? Ha. Practically.

ARAM HARON ARAM

HARON I’ll refresh your memory anyway even though some of it is painful. (A deep sigh) The gendarmes arrested her grandfather’s neighbor, an Armenian farmer. They worked in the same fields together, drank coffee together and went to their children’s weddings. He protested his neighbor’s arrest. He pleaded with them 142

HARON (cont.) and stood protectively between him and those scum. They stabbed him with a bayonet and clubbed his friend to death. They tossed both bodies into a trench!

Wipes a tear.

ARAM

HARON Sorry. With my coaxing, Ayda eventually told my parents the story of what happened in the small town of Hussenik, the village where they had been born and lived. And how Ayda’s grandfather was murdered trying to protect his Armenian neighbor. And who was the neighbor? (long pause) Barely able to speak.

Petrak…my mother’s uncle. (pause) They were stunned. They cried and cried and cried.

Wipes a tear.

ARAM

HARON Some time later, they invited Ayda for dinner and we talked. I mean, talked! They appreciated who she was…a loving, wonderful person, not a feared and despised Turk. (pause) Our world changed forever.

My parents even smiled from time to time. (pause) Aram, the past is not past but it is not destiny.

Remember… but LIVE! Hugs HARON.

ARAM

HARON Places his arm around ARAM’S shoulder as they walk toward the door.

THE STAGE LIGHTS DIM. THE LIGHTS GO OUT. END OF PLAY

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The Past Is Not Past

November 15, 2014 CSW Staged Reading

Gagik Aroutiunian, gallery talk

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Gagik Aroutiunian, gallery talk

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Sophie Landa ‘15, Director, The Past Is Not Past

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Amanda Madigan ‘15 - Assistant Director & Narrator

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Avery Dove ‘15 - ANRANIK (Father) Connor Rooks ‘18 - ARAM (Grandson) Joshua Holtzman ‘16 - Sound Technician Miranda Jacobs ‘15 - ADELINE (Mother) 150

Avery Dove ‘15 - ANRANIK (Father) Zelime Lewis ‘17 - HARON (Son) Miranda Jacobs ‘15 - ADELINE (Mother) 151

Avery Dove ‘15 - ANRANIK (Father)

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Miranda Jacobs ‘15 - ADELINE (Mother)

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Zelime Lewis ‘17 - HARON (Son)

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Connor Rooks ‘18 - ARAM (Grandson)

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Avery Dove ‘15 - ANRANIK (Father) Zelime Lewis ‘17 - HARON (Son) Miranda Jacobs ‘15 - ADELINE (Mother) 156

bottom: Lindsay Coolidge, Adrienne Der Marderosian, Marsha Odabashian middle: Lisa Landa, John Avakian top: Phil Landa, Gagik Aroutiunian 157

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Kiss the Ground—A New Armenia Part 2: January 25 - March 15, 2015 Exhibition Installation at the Armenian Museum of America Adele & Haig Der Manuelian Galleries

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Kiss the Ground—A New Armenia Part 3: March 30 - June 13, 2015 Exhibition Installation at the Thompson Gallery, Weston, MA

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monoprint grouping March 30 to May 6, 2015

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monoprint grouping May 7 to June 13, 2015

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vitrine display above: The Avengers, 2001 below: To the Living We Owe Respect, But to the Dead We Owe Only the Truth, 2001 (books closed)

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vitrine display above: The Avengers, 2001 below: To the Living We Owe Respect, But to the Dead We Owe Only the Truth, 2001 (books open)

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John Avakian To the Living We Owe Respect, But to the Dead We Owe Only the Truth, 2001 24 page book, multiple paper litho-transfers, on BFK, (page 1) 8.5 x 7.5 inches (pages 14-15) 172

John Avakian The Avengers, 2001 24-page book, multiple paper litho-transfers, on BFK 10.5 x 30 inches (open) (pages 6-7) 173

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Artist’s Statements

Part I: If I Start To Cry, I think I Will Cry Forever As far back as I can remember, I realized there was something very different about my parents and myself. I hated it. Besides looking different, something seemed to separate us from those who lived in the neighborhood. Even Armenian families seemed to be walled off from one another. As I approached my teens, I began to realize something unthinkable had happened to my parents. Somehow, their lives and psyches had been irreversibly changed. Nowhere to turn, except the church which did little good, their suffering was destined to continue and find expression on its own terms wherever and whenever it could. As an only child, I would be a captive witness, the only witness to their fears, mistrust, sadness, anger, hopelessness, and most of all, to their protective silence.

My entanglement with family suffering and remembering began unexpectedly in 1994 when my girlfriend invited me to attend her therapy appointment. Even though it seemed awkward to tag along, I consented after some persuasion, thinking my presence would be supportive to her. I sat completely relaxed in a kind of reverie during the session, not listening to the specifics of what was being said—when suddenly, in a incomprehensible flash of time, the therapist was facing me, and saying the unspeakable: You are the child of parents who survived the Armenian Genocide.

Uncontrollably, tears slid down my cheeks in an emotional release, as if a secret door, concealed for decades, had finally been opened. It was a miraculous moment, and I was eternally grateful. There was no turning back. I needed to enter the room of pain that I had so skillfully rationalized out of existence.

At long last, I felt reconnected to my parents in an emotional way. I also realized I had never known them for who they were. I felt compelled to revisit my memories of them, examining aging photos and memorabilia. I bought and read books on the Armenian Genocide. I read about the hideous roundups and brutal killings in Marash and Van where my parents once lived. I looked at heart-wrenching photographs of the naked dead bodies of innocent young men heaped one on top of the other, and road maps that showed the bloody routes of mass murder. I read unbelievable first-hand accounts of brutality and terror, examined official telegrams received by the United States government, which were never acted on—and finally, I read how the Turkish government continues to deny the Armenian Genocide. This research strengthened my resolve to begin a fearful journey in my art that would explore an extremely dark history of humankind that personally has affected me. How could I bring this unbearable darkness into my art when art had been a safe haven, a place of universal beauty for me?

Thanks to an insightful therapist, I began to confront my fears. A breakthrough occurred 176

during one of my therapy sessions when I lamented about my frustration in attempting to bring gruesome images from historical photographs into my art. To my surprise, she asked me: What is holding you back? After a long thoughtful pause, I responded, I feel like crying. The therapist asked me why I was holding back. After a paralyzing duration of silence, which I thought would never end, I unburdened myself—with the words:

If I start to cry I think I will cry forever.

My response surprisingly made such a strong impression on me that I nervously began searching for my pad to write down what I had just heard. Even more important—these words were my own. I had come to value them for the first time.

“If I start to cry, I think that I will cry forever” are the words I have chosen for the title of this show. It represents an extraordinary journey into darkness and suffering to reclaim my past, and honor my loving parents who suffered so much.

John Avakian Statement reprinted from the exhibition at the Mathewson Street Methodist Church Art Gallery, Providence, RI, March 11- April 29, 2005

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PART II: LEST WE FORGET Unbelievably, genocide continues today in Darfur with little or no interference to stop it.

Before this, it was Cambodia, Rwanda, etc. I don’t think the mental and physical suffering brought upon countless innocent people by other “human beings” who demonize, murder, rob, and rape them can be adequately expressed with language. Even though genocide has a comprehensible definition, the magnitude of the perpetrated act and its aftermath remains truly incomprehensible, beyond the possibility of any real expressive eloquence.

For those who escaped death were changed forever. They lived in darkness when the sun was shining. Their shadow followed them everywhere, always reminding them of how much they had lost and how much they suffered, despite their occasional laughter and whatever social and financial success they were able to achieve.

With occasional therapy sessions, I began this highly charged part of my printmaking journey in 1997 that linked me back to times and places that began with the horror and traumatization of my parents. Unknowingly, their sadness, fears, frustration, anger, and alienation, readily found their mark on me, their only child—despite their guarded pain, protective silences, and my unanswered questions.

During my research, I discovered many photographs taken secretly in 1915, considered by historians as the first large-scale genocide of the 20th century; a precursor to the Jewish Holocaust.

Many of the photographers risked their lives to record an unbelievable dimension of horror and evil that was unleashed against a helpless Armenian population. I felt compelled to elevate many of these photos to the status of icons, freeing them forever from their archival prisons.

My large prints—up to 3.5 feet by 5.5 feet—evolved over a three-year period, beginning in 1999. I began by scanning small photo-reproductions, which were sometimes digitally enhanced or augmented with special effects, and printed out as black and white laser copies on tabloid size paper. The laser copies were then enlarged to a very large scale, and cut into sections for easy inking, handling, and printing. After transferring the inked photocopy to acid-free paper, the names of more than 60 cities, towns, and villages affected by the genocide were added in the margins. The names were typeset and reversed for transfer, so they could be read as a memorial piece, in remembrance of those who once lived there and perished at the hands of the Ottoman-Turkish government. Every name has a colored dot before it, symbolizing the marking of a historical place of an ancient people and culture. Lastly, the entire surface is overlaid with torn fragmented shapes of transparent colors, often intersecting with one another, their colorful veil-like forms against a background of unbelievable brutality and horror. All the names are used again 178

in a series of relatively small horizontal prints. Here the abstract names at first glance act as legitimate labels, pointing impersonally to various anatomical parts of the skull. It becomes rather chilling when you realize what they represent.

These powerful and unique prints are both beautiful and horrific, and represent the most visually imposing statement I can make as an artist regarding the Armenian Genocide.

John Avakian, November 8, 2006

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My Playwriting Heraclitus, the ancient Greek philosopher, wrote that character is fate. I will modify his powerful dictum: my personal character largely but not wholly determines the fate of my writings; i.e. my values, philosophy, outlooks, interests, needs and strivings.

Chance happenings and choice also enter the equation of what I imagine and create.

When I conceive a play, I “choose” the theme, the characters and often decide the ending before I begin to write. But why do I choose particular themes and characters?

The choice may be affected by an accidental meeting of someone on the street, or a stray comment from a stranger, or because I enjoy creating a problem and solving it through writing. Or perhaps something deep in me, beyond my awareness, from my past, prompts me to express a need or wish.

“Connection” is a central element in many of my plays…how and why people connect and what happens as a result of those connections. I do not consciously intend to “make” my characters connect but often they do.

I have chosen five short plays to illustrate the importance of connections between people.

THE PAST IS NOT PAST: A couple who survived the Armenian Genocide keeps their “secret” from their son, Haron. When finally they reveal the horrors, he is plagued by those images. He discovers through painting, he can achieve some mastery over his own horror. Along the way, he meets Ayda, a girl of Turkish descent. They talk about art and life. They connect. Years later, as a grandfather, Haron shares with his grandson, Aram, his world view and encourages him to remember what happened, but to try to see and create life even among the vultures of death. (Obviously there is a deep connection between them.)

A GLIMMER: Mark, a naïve but good-hearted social worker, is treating Jim, a frightened and almost catatonic army veteran. His attempts to help him are failing until he discards his therapeutic armor and shares with him his own personal struggles. Aware that music was part of the patient’s life, Mark sits at a keyboard and plays a few bars of “Claire de Lune.” The veteran cautiously edges over to the keyboard and plays the next few bars. A connection has been made. For the first time in the play, Jim speaks, “I’m Jim…Jim Carr.”

TOMORROW: A woman, Pearl, suffering from Alzheimer’s, does not recognize her husband, Lewis, and can not remember that she has two daughters who will be visiting her tomorrow. He desperately tries to reach her, to connect. She insults and rejects 180

him. In attempting to refresh her memory, he sings one of their favorite songs, “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” by George and Ira Gershwin. Almost dream-like, she sings a few phrases and then asks, “Are the girls coming to see me tomorrow?”

LOST AND FOUND: A Homeless Man befriends a stray dog. They have much in common.

Both have been discarded. A Stranger seems to recognize the Man and asks whether or not he is an artist. He was. Would he consider making art on the street? No! The Stranger, who is a social worker, offers the Homeless Man the opportunity to live in a shelter and to supply him with art supplies. The Man, who has been threatened by a bully, is worried for himself and the dog. Moved by the kindness of the Stranger, he considers leaving street life and becoming an artist again.

A BLIND DATE: Two misfits, Eileen and Skip, meet on a blind date at her messy home.

Each is turned off by the other. When Skip, browsing through her bookshelf, reads a line from Wordsworth, Eileen completes the next line of the poem. They discover that they have much in common. They connect. Eileen invites Skip to dance with her. They dance awkwardly but caringly to Rodgers and Hammerstein’s song, “Isn’t It Romantic.”

For those who cannot connect, isolation, bitterness and hatred may follow and for some…murder. I am hoping that my plays will highlight the importance of connecting to each other with understanding and compassion.

Elliot Baker, September 17, 2014

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Directing The Past Is Not Past While working on the staging of The Past Is Not Past, I spent time with Amanda (the Narrator and assistant director) sitting in the Thompson Gallery, surrounded by Gagik Aroutiunian’s art. We read the gallery statements and Baker’s play, and we researched victim and survivor accounts of the Armenian Genocide.

As this was my first professional experience directing, I wanted to establish strong themes of parenting, pain, and sacrifice. I tried to convey the struggle between protecting and teaching. Because the Thompson Gallery provides a nontraditional performance space, while directing, I wanted to keep the staging simple—minimal movement, with characters playing off Aroutiunian’s art. Each actor began facing away from the audience and towards the projection of the deserted home and broken electronics—Aroutiunian’s House of Memories (2014). This piece represented the past. As soon as each character spoke, they turned around, staying in the past before moving to their locations in the present, near specific sculptures by Aroutiunian. Mother (ADELINE) stood near To My Mother—Between Two Stones (1996), while father (ANRANIK) stood at Father, Father (1997). Their son (HARON) stood at Traveler and His Road No. 3 (2000) and later moved to Traveler and His Road No. 4 (2004).

And the Grandson (ARAM) stood at Traveler and His Road No. 3, becoming the newest generation to listen to the stories of anguish and pain. When the mother and father die, they turn and head towards Aroutiunian’s family portrait paintings. Each painting has a picture of a family member surrounded in color—this represents death. The narrator stood by the projection of the birdcage—Maya Angelou’s Caged Bird comes to mind. I wanted to convey the individual reactions people feel after hearing about horrendous events in history. Which is why the actors are only standing next to each other in tragedy and in death—two things that can either bring people closer together or push them away.

Sophie Landa, November 19, 2014

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Biographies

John Avakian, Visual Artist John Avakian received a B.F.A and M.F.A. in painting and a minor in printmaking from Yale School of Art. He has enrolled in monotype/ monoprint courses at the School of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts SMFA every semester from 1990 to 2012. He has taught design classes at Northeastern University, Pair College of Art and the School of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

Avakian has been a consistent visiting critic at Massachusetts College of Art’s painting classes since 1998. He has lectured on his printmaking techniques and work and the paper-litho method of printing at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia and Holy Cross College. Since 1989, Avakian has been developing a hybrid mono-printmaking technique, which combines digital scanning and photo-imaging along with the montype and paperlitho plate-making processes. Avakian’s prints, due to their one-of-a-kind nature, blend a painterly attitude with printmaker’s technologies. But unlike traditional printmaking, Avakian is not an editionbased printmaker. Rather, he is a serial monoprint artist, dedicated to developing theme-based bodies of work. Avakian’s series work spans many areas of content, including portraiture, family history, themes of social justice and an extensive exploration of the Armenian Genocide. Avakian has received numerous awards and prizes, including the Weiss Sisters prize for the best print in show at the New Haven Paint & Clay Club; 1st prize print for the 10th and 11th Annual Blanche Ames National Art Exhibitions; 2nd prize print, Fitchburg Art Museum, MGNE 2nd National Monotype/Monoprint Exhibition. Avakian has had solo exhibitions at the Attleboro Arts Museum, Providence College, and the University of the Arts, printmaking department. His monoprints have been in numerous national and regional juried shows.

Avakian’s prints, drawings, and paintings are in many private collections, and in the collections of the Fogg Art Museum, New York and Boston Public Libraries, and the New Haven Paint & Clay Club.

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Elliot Baker, Playwright

Sophie Landa, Director

Elliot Baker is a retired clinical psychologist with a Ph.D from Pennsylvania State University.

Playwriting is a second career. His plays have been produced on Channel 34 (Tarrytown, NY), KYRS Spokane Radio (Spokane, WA), and published by Off The Wall Plays, UK. Baker’s plays have been performed at the 13th Street Repertory Theatre (NYC), Strike 38 Productions (NYC), Culture Park (New Bedford, MA), Bristol Community College (Fall River, MA), the Mountain Stage Company (Hendersonville, NC), the Jewish Fringe Theatre at J-CAT (North Miami Beach, FL), and Judson University (Elgin, IL). He was a four-time finalist at the Boston Theatre Marathon, a finalist and semi-finalist at the Lake Shore Players (St. Paul, MN), and a semi-finalist at Drury University (Springfield, MO). Two of Baker’s children’s stories have won awards from the Manatee Writers Guild (Bradenton, FL) and two children’s stories won awards from the Mt. Dora Festival of Music and Literature (Mount Dora, FL). A chorale was accepted by the Alfred Publishing Company and performed at two colleges. Baker studied music composition with Dr. Hugo Norden, Boston University, and playwriting with Molly SmithMeltzer.

Sophie Landa ‘15 has spent the past eight years performing. She caught the theater bug at age ten, during a production of Fiddler on the Roof at the Watertown Children’s Theater (where she spent four years learning). During that time, Sophie joined and has subsequently spent the past five years as a founding member of the teen improv troupe Jones Junior. Landa is a four year senior at The Cambridge School of Weston. She has acted in seven Main Stage shows, as well as other performances. Over the summer she spends her time teaching Improv to ages 6-18 at Improv Boston in Central Square. Sophie has also been a set and lighting designer as well as a playwright. While taking part in a playwriting class, her play Infernus Park was chosen to be read by professional actors at the Boston Playwrights’ Theater’s New Noises festival. While Sophie has taken several directing classes, she is honored to be making her directorial debut with The Past Is Not Past.

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