“The Drawn Shirt” by Yan Shenkman

The following excerpt is from Russian author Yan Shenkman’s book “At Home in Yerevan” (Yerevan, ARI Literature Foundation, 2024). Shenkman, born in 1973, is a writer, journalist, literary and musical critic. He is the author of five books. On March 30, 2024, after the outbreak of the Ukrainian war, he migrated from Russia. Currently, he lives in Yerevan, works at the Noyan Tapan News Agency in Yerevan and hosts the “Displaced People” program. This excerpt was translated by Artsvi Bakhchinyan. The Drawn Shirt by Yan Shenkman I visited the Parajanov Museum many years ago, during a time when both Russia and Armenia had different presidents than they do now, but there was still a war ongoing. It had felt like it was a distant place on the outskirts, and I travelled there by taxi. Now, years later, everything seems much closer, just a ten-minute walk away. You pass the Russian Embassy, Belarusian Products, Belarusian Cosmetics, the office of the European Party of Armenia, a couple more blocks and you're already there. The museum stands on the edge of a cliff. Below lies the empty Hrazdan Stadium with a flea market. To the left are two cognac factories facing each other, Noy Brandy Factory and Ararat Brandy Factory. Ararat was bought by the French about twenty years ago. There is a joke that cognac is now counterfeited right at the factory: instead of Armenian cognac, they pour French one. Between the Noy and Ararat Factories flows the Hrazdan River. It’s small and frail within the city, but in the mountains, it’s powerful and fast-moving, with power plants built on it. This also applies to people. I look up and suddenly see Mount Ararat. It always appears unexpectedly. The fog disperses, becomes clearer and there it is. There are two of them; Ararat is always accompanied by a friend on his right hand. Two mountains, one smaller, the other larger. And all this is nearby, just behind the microdistricts. I looked at them and thought that Turkey was very close. There are also many Russian emigrants there. I know the editorial office of the magazine, which, after the beginning of the war, moved the entire office out of Russia. Half to Yerevan, half to Istanbul — on opposite sides of Ararat. The museum curator told us about her experience filming with Parajanov. For the film “Confession,” the director needed mourners. He didn’t like how they cried on camera, although Armenians have more than enough reasons to cry. He even lay down in the coffin himself to cheer up the actors. She was afraid that she might not laugh — the girl laughed: “It’s uncomfortable, it’s a funeral, but I’m laughing.” And then she showed us Parajanov’s shirt — an artifact, drawn on fabric with a ballpoint pen. On the right side is Western Armenia, which has been under Turkish rule for over a century. Horror, blood, desolation, faces distorted by fear. On the left is Eastern Armenia. Church, fruit, Russian soldiers, kind bearded angels... This is how the artist saw it. Strictly in the middle, right under the neckline of the shirt, there is an intricate squiggle. Not a banal blot, clearly Parajanov drew it out artistically, wanting to say something. I ask the caretaker: “What is this?” “And this is beauty. Simply beauty. We are unable to understand this.” All photos are courtesy of the author

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Artsvi Bakhchinyan

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