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Armenian art
survives Dakota winter
By Anna
Astvatsaturian Turcotte
Translated By
Tatul Sonentz-Papazian
 At
one in the morning, on February 1, 1992, after several long
flights across Europe, over the Atlantic and half of the
wintry United States, the family of Norik Astvatsaturov
landed in the desolate Fargo airport, in North Dakota.
Dark and freezing, the Heartland plains were uninviting and
harsh. This was a far cry from their sunny hometown, Baku.
The family was tired and overwhelmed by the new environment.
The forbearing group of Methodists, who had sponsored the
refugee family, met them at the airport. These were good
people who had never met an Armenian before and did not know
what to expect.
While the family was being welcomed, and on its way to
retrieve its luggage, little Mikhail, Norik’s seven-year-old
son, started whimpering from exhaustion and apprehension of
the strange sounds of an unfamiliar language assaulting his
ears.
Everything was different; the strange smells, bright airport
lights and the foreign, smiling people herding them along
towards the luggage claim area, who spoke loudly the whole
time in a fast and brisk tongue. Their luggage consisted of
several suitcases, containing the few things they were
allowed to bring. The family had made sure to follow a
strict Soviet rule allowing only for certain size suitcases,
and certain items to be taken with them.
Nevertheless, Norik’s wife, Irina, was still traumatized by
the experience of going through customs in Moscow, only 14
hours earlier. She was not allowed to bring her diamond
engagement ring; it was deemed Soviet property. She could
not forget the arrogant expression of a customs official, a
rude 18-year-old Russian man in military uniform talking to
down to them as if they had committed a horrible crime. She
had to leave the ring behind.
Norik remained quiet, confused but strong, leading his
family into the darkness of North Dakota at this early hour.
The hard part was over—the family was in America. But, what
was to follow, he wondered? He didn’t understand the
language, and relied on his 14-year-old daughter, Anna, to
translate. She, in turn, tired and scared, struggled to put
her schoolbook language skills to test in this flat and bare
land a few hours before sunrise. When the family, along with
the luggage, was being loaded into a van, Mikhail kept on
crying, “This is not America,” he said between sobs, “Where
are the skyscrapers, Mama? I want to go back home…”
After hearing his son cry, Anna heard her father say under
his breath, “We escaped the Soviets, and so they put us in
America’s Siberia.” Then he turned to her and said,
reassuringly, “But we are so lucky, we are safe, we are home
now.”
*
* *
Norik Y. Astvatsaturov was born in Baku, Azerbaijan on
December 22, 1947. His father, Yeghishe, moved to Baku from
Yerevan shortly after the end of World War II, looking for
work. There, in Baku, Yegishe met Tamar, Norik’s mother.
Yeghishe’s career flourished and he made a comfortable home
for himself, with his new wife and three children.
Despite ethnic tensions between the Armenians and the Azeri
majority, their life in Baku was comfortable. There was food
on the table, the family was doing well, and growing. But
Yegishe knew that the security and comfort in Baku, even
with that city’s “international,” reputation, was to be
short lived. He changed his last name, Astvatsaturian, to
sound more Russian by substituting the traditional Armenian
ending for a Russian ending of “ov” or “ova.” This, he hoped
would protect his family some day.
The first few years of his life, Norik only spoke Armenian,
but learned to speak Russian soon after starting first grade
in school. Although Baku was known to be “multi-ethnic,”
Armenian schools were rare. So, the choice was between a
Russian school or an Armenian school.
In Baku, Armenian students mostly attended Russian schools.
Even as a child, Norik liked to draw, and later learned to
carve in wood and stone, using traditional motifs. He
developed a keen interest in various art forms. After
completing his military service, Norik returned to Baku, and
was introduced to traditional metalworking by an old
artisan, who taught Norik ancient techniques enabling him to
work in various kinds of metal, including bronze, copper,
aluminum, and gold.
In the early 1970s, Norik began working at an art studio
making various signs and mosaics. His passion for the
ancient Armenian art forms was hampered by the realities of
Soviet life. Under the Communist regime, Norik could not
publicly produce religious pieces.
But in private, he created commemorative marriage plates,
book covers, angels, religious icons, and mosaics for
private individuals. His creations included large works like
copper mosaics that covered entire walls, or metal dragons
that flanked fireplaces. During this time, Norik learned the
face of Lenin to the point of memorizing it after completing
nearly 2,000 Lenin portraits for various Azeri government
officials. Even a slight hint of an Armenian theme enraged
the customers, who were typical government officials. For
example, once, an Azeri client, who ordered a metal portrait
of his daughter, blamed Norik for making his daughter look
too Armenian.
But Norik had the freedom to create everything else he
desired. At the studio, he was surrounded by talented
artisans whose works influenced him. Their competitive, but
friendly relationships continued to spark Norik’s creative
side and he enjoyed sharing and showing his pieces to his
friends. Here, in this creative atmosphere, he met Irina, an
artist and architect, who contributed to his creative
development by making renderings of his ideas onto paper,
from which he created his metal pieces.
Although Norik’s parents passed away long before 1989, all
of their worst fears for their progeny came true in that
dreadful year. The security and comfort that Baku offered
vanished and friends and relatives began leaving, one by
one. Norik and his wife found themselves in an extremely
dangerous situation when gangs of enraged Azeris scoured
their neighborhood in search of remaining Armenians. The
family’s “Russianized” name helped them for a little while.
Many of their Azeri and Russian neighbors tried to shield
them from the violence; however, Norik did not trust some of
the neighbors to keep quiet.
In addition, Anna’s school was on the large street, which
led to Lenin Square, where frustrated and angry mobs of
Azeris demonstrated violently against Armenia’s claim to
Nagorno-Karabagh. Gangs of agitators looking for Armenian
children frequently bombarded the school. The teachers
demanded, then begged them to leave, which they did, after
beating up a few of the teachers to satisfy their
frustration and anger.
Norik knew that, one of these days, the mobs would not leave
and would go up the stairs to the classrooms. The
demonstrators also used the street where Norik’s family
lived, to walk toward Lenin Square. Norik slept with knives
under his pillow and an ax under his bed. The family’s
decision was hurried, but quiet and emotional. They packed
what they could and fled Baku on September 18, 1989, hoping
that this would be a temporary disturbance, which would
dissipate and allow them to return to their home.
This was not to be the case. The family was among hundreds
of thousands of refugees who fled Azerbaijan in the late
1980s due to the ethnic, religious and territorial conflicts
between Azerbaijan and the neighboring Republic of Armenia.
They would never set foot again in Azerbaijan, homeland for
most of their relatives.
Along with their relatives, the Astvatsaturovs tried to seek
refuge in Armenia and Russia. Armenia, although burdened by
the rigors of a blockade and the ravages of the recent
earthquake, seemed to be a better option. According to
friends and relatives who settled in Russia, living with
Russians was difficult. They blamed their problems in the
Caucasus, on Armenians, Azeris or Georgians—anyone with dark
complexions or hair.
Norik did not want to raise his children immersed in
prejudice and menace. They moved to Armenia in hopes it
would be the home to them as it had been for their
ancestors. But in fear that the difficulties Armenia was
experiencing would force them to leave, Norik and his
brother Novik applied for refugee status at the American
embassy in Moscow. There was a slight hope that America was
an option, but the family did not dare spend a moment
fantasizing what it would be like to live in America. They
tried not to look too far ahead.
In Armenia, they lived in the cement-floored basement of a
relative in Kanaker, an outer borough of Yerevan. There was
no running water, no central heating, and the electricity
was so sporadic that the washing and cooking had to be done
within the limits of the hour when the current was turned
on. After two years in Armenia, the family found their luck
was running out. There was power for most of the days, food
was rare and winters were harsh. The children were not going
to school during those long winters because the schools were
unheated. Irina and the kids looked for wood on the streets
and around abandoned construction projects of Kanaker to
warm their small basement dwelling.
Norik continued to do his artwork in that basement, working
early mornings and late afternoons in a small factory down
the street, assembling crystal chandeliers. Only here, in
Armenia, he had the opportunity to explore the true nature
of his passion for the Armenian Repoussé.
Norik was able to create pieces with Armenian themes of
ancient legends and narratives. He was also able to create
Biblical pieces. Inexorably, the Soviet Union was
collapsing, triggering bittersweet expectations of change in
the population.
Finally, after two and a half years of waiting, and numerous
trips to Moscow for interviews at the American consulate,
Norik and his family were allowed to come to the United
States. All they needed now was the Soviets’ permission to
leave the country. The time was set for the summer of 1991,
but the unexpected coup d’etat in Moscow in August of 1991,
replaced their plans on the back burner of the officials
involved in matters of emigration.
Unable to wait any longer, Norik picked up his family, a few
belongings and moved everyone to Moscow. After several
months there, and numerous bribes, the required papers
finally went through and they were allowed to leave.
*
* *
The Astvatsaturovs were able to leave the Soviet Union only
by abandoning most of their belongings. Norik, however, was
able to bring with him the tools of his art—the only tools
Norik uses in his work are a hammer, punch, and various
spike-like tools. He said, “A good artist is one who can
carry all of the tools he needs in his pocket.” The family
settled in North Dakota in February 1992, where Norik
continues to produce his beautiful pieces of art.
Although life in North Dakota was the complete opposite of
what they were used to in the old country, the family was
grateful for the opportunity to settle in the United States.
They tried to make the best of the harsh weather, suspicious
and introverted people, and the geographic flatness of the
surrounding scenery.
Thankful to the Methodist Church, which sponsored his
family, Norik made an Armenian Cross—his first piece of
artwork in the United States—and donated it to the church.
The family invited the local population into their home,
enveloped them in the warmth and hospitality of an Armenian
home.
Slowly and reluctantly, the people who socialized with them
over the first few months were able to learn about their
culture, what drove them to survive, what made them work
harder and what gave them hope for the future of their
children.
During the first year, while working the night shift in a
furniture factory, Norik found a metal supplier and bought
large rolls of metal to continue with his calling. In the
early morning, after work, while the children were in school
and Irina was at work at the local High School kitchen,
Norik pounded out his ideas and images onto the metal.
At first, he created small pieces to show to the people
around him. Then, in a few years, he began to receive
funding from the State to teach youngsters the skills of his
ancient form of art. He appeared in various newspapers, news
shows and exhibited throughout the state.
At present, his studio is the unfinished basement of the
family’s home. He still works at the furniture factory, and
creates his masterpieces after work, daily, in the cold and
crowded basement. Most of the time his creations are born
while he listening to Armenian music, sometimes sad,
something joyful, but always nostalgic. Norik continues to
create pieces for the North Dakota Council on the Arts, (NDCA),
for numerous art museums, churches and individuals.
This year, the North Dakota Council on the Arts has awarded
Norik one of two Individual Fellowships for his artwork. Not
only is this the first time an Armenian won this award, but
this is also the first time a folk artist was awarded this
prestigious Fellowship. This summer, after receiving his
award, Norik traveled around the state exhibiting his
Armenian creations.
Norik is gratified by the success of his work, but one
factor is still missing from the equation. Norik and his
family are part of a very small group of Armenians in the
area. He feels the void daily when reading and thinking
about Armenia, its culture, history and new independence. He
created a little glimpse of Armenia in the state where no
one had heard of Armenians, and he did it by creating
beautiful images illustrating their church, history and
culture.
But while working on his artwork in the basement of their
small home, Norik misses the collaborative atmosphere
created by the artists in his old studio. In many ways, no
matter how long they stay in North Dakota, or how many
people they meet, Norik and Irina miss an important part of
the Armenian ethos—interaction with other Armenians.
For Norik, interweaving his Christian faith and Armenian
culture helps him define and state his identity. He and his
family, now American citizens, are proud to be able to
express their artistic and cultural character through the
national style of their ancestors.
Here, in United States, Norik expresses himself freely. But
wherever he is, in sunny yet oppressive Azerbaijan, or a
desolate and cold North Dakota, Norik has all he needs to
tell people of the beauty of the Armenian culture—the tools
he can carry in his pocket.
For more about Norik and his art, visit Web site
www.artbynorik.com.
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