Elliot Baker—The Past Is Not Past
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. Readings by: Avery Dove ‘15 - ANRANIK (Father) Kayla Seeger ‘15 - ADELINE (Mother) Zelime Lewis ‘17 - HARON (Son) Connor Rooks ‘18 - ARAM (Grandson) Amanda Madigan ‘15 - Assistant Director & Narrator Sophie Landa ‘15 - Director Barbara Whitney, Theatre Department Chair, Project Support © Thompson Gallery, The Cambridge School of Weston Design Todd Bartel Printed on demand by Lulu.com Forward © 2014 Todd Bartel Preface © 2014 Elliot Baker, John Avakian Play © 2014 Elliot Baker Edited by Eli Keehn Photos © 2014 John Avakian All rights reserved The Cambridge School of Weston 45 Georgian Road Weston, MA 02493 Cover: John Avakian, Mother and Father Sipping Coffee in the Kitchen, 1960 scanned negative, 6.5 x 6.5 inches
Thompson Gallery 2
Kiss the Ground Gagik Aroutiunian, September 5 - November 15, 2014 Talin Megherian, December 18, 2014 - March 13, 2015 A New Armenia, part 1, December 6, 2014 - January 20, 2015 (Armenian Museum of America) A New Armenia, part 2, January 25 - March 1, 2015 (Armenian Museum of America) A New Armenia, part 3, March 30 - June 13, 2015 Kiss the Ground is a five part exhibition series that examines and celebrates contemporary Armenian art, one hundred years after the 1915 Armenian Diaspora and 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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Elliot Baker—The Past Is Not Past
ԵՐԿՐՊԱԳՈՒԹԻՒՆ
Forward & Acknowledgements 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. 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 Thompson Gallery is honored to be the first institution to host a reading of The Past Is Not Past and that honor has inspired this unique volume, which couples a playwright and a visual artist and which circumstantially links the family histories of Elliot Baker (Miami Beach, FL) and John Avakian (Sharon, MA). Baker and Avakian are not related in the family sense; their respective cultures endured the first two genocides of the modern era. The Past Is Not Past and the efforts to 6
bring this important 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. 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. 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 is at the very heart of this exhibition series. Thus, The Past Is Not Past is the outlier that needs to be included to more fully understand the Kiss the Ground 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 dialog, and how each has 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 cry, I’ll never stop crying [p. 42]. Avakian uses a similar 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. I am also extremely grateful to Barbara Whitney, Chair of the Drama Department, for her enthusiasm to bring the play into her classroom and for her innovative idea to perform a reading of the play in Thompson Gallery, among the work of Gagik Aroutiunian. Her support convinced me that there could not be a better time to publish The Past Is Not Past. I hope that our audience and readers will find this play, about an Armenian family who conceals the Genocide from their 15-year-old son, poignant and moving— especially when read by high school students
standing among Gagik Aroutiunian’s painted, sculpted, and projected memories of his own family. Baker’s play makes explicit the facts of genocide that Aroutiunian’s work leaves unstated. The Thompson Gallery is honored to publish for the first time Elliot Baker’s The Past Is Not Past and extends its deep appreciation to The Cambridge School of Weston’s students who first brought it to light. Todd Bartel September 20, 2014
_________________ 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
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Preface
The past is not past—for anyone. It is not destiny, but it can influence, dictate and color existence—the good and the bad. I was aware of the horrors of the Armenian Genocide when as an adolescent I 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. Awful feelings of helplessness. Like my character, Haron, I never forgot what befell innocent people. I wanted to remember. I owed it to those who were murdered—for what? 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. Haron does the same, transforming himself in the process. 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 10
I first met Elliot Baker, the author of this astutely conceived play—The Past is not the Past—sometime 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 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 from 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 an interest of mine in participating in the Centennial Anniversary Commemoration of the
Armenian Genocide to be held during the month of April 2015, hopefully with an exhibition of my Genocide-focused art. I asked if he might be interested in writing a play. He answered affirmatively, 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. Eliot’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 permeate the generations of darkness, changing the collective soul of the family and offsetting their pain and suffering—an important step toward personal salvation and peace. I have read this play several times at different stages of revision, and each time 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 life been unknown to me. This is a beautifully written and poignant play. John Avakian, September 15, 2014 11
The Past Is Not Past
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 world-view. This play was inspired by my friend John Avakian, whose grandparents perished during the 1915 Genocide but whose parents survived.
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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.
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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. 16
ADELINE I’m sorry. I cause so much worry for you. Don’t worry about worrying me You’re such a good husband.
ANRANIK 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!
ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK ADELINE ANRANIK
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I can’t.
ADELINE
HARON Enters. He is wearing pajamas. Stands for a few seconds, studying his parents’ expressions. (to ADELINE) What’s wrong, mother?! Nothing, nothing. Nothing?! Screaming is nothing? Go back to bed!
HARON alarmed
ADELINE HARON ANRANIK
HARON After Mom cries? (pause) Am I made of stone?! I said, “go back to bed!” Anranik, he means well.
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!
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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. 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.
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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. HARON The bread, Mom. We’re all through eating. You might be hungry later.
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. 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!
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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
HARON ANRANIK
Chokes up.
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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? ADELINE Some things need to remain in the shadows! Angrily
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?
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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. ADELINE But it’s not good to exercise after you just ate. 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…
ADELINE HARON ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK HARON ANRANIK
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Her name is Sandra…Connolly. Her family is not from Hayastan? Obviously. It’s not a good idea to see her.
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.
ANRANIK HARON ADELINE
HARON Don’t worry so much. She’s a very nice person. For now, maybe! What are you saying?! Quickly changes the subject
ADELINE HARON ANRANIK
While you’re digesting your breakfast, how about a game of checkers? Let’s see if you 24
can beat the old man. I doubt if I ever will.
HARON
ANRANIK Don’t put yourself down! So how about it? OK. Good!
HARON ANRANIK
He exits. HARON Clears the table. Exits and returns. Sits down 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.
ANRANIK (cont.)
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!
ANRANIK
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It would be mistake. Then you will have to pay for it! I was a little too quick.
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. Petrified, stands frozen in place. Distraught.
HARON ADELINE
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. 26
ANRANIK
You just don’t understand!
HARON
Perplexed. No, I don’t.
ADELINE
Returns with a family album. Sit! Sit.
HARON and ANRANIK
ADELINE Brings back the chair to the table. She sits. 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
And here I am…eight years old. My aunt made me my dress. See how lovely it was? With 27
ruffles and pleats. She was a seamstress. My father and two of his brothers were housepainters. 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! Everything, Adeline?
ANRANIK ADELINE
Everything!
She puts down the album. Trembling with her voice tremulous ADELINE (cont.) 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.
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ADELINE (cont) 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. 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. ADELINE (cont.) 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
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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 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) ADELINE (cont.) ( 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. ADELINE (cont.) Now you have some of the pain. (pause) Was it worth it…knowing…finding out?!
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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.
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?! 31
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? I cancelled. Cancelled?! You broke your word?! Is it a crime to change a plan?
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HARON ANRANIK HARON
What your father means is… I can speak for myself, Adeline!
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. softening Ahh!
ANRANIK
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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 34
jealous. (pause) The truth is…I don’t know why. 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
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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.
AT RISE: HARON sketches ARAM who is seated on a chair. When I look at you, Aram, I see some of myself…the younger me that is. You look pretty good to me, grandpa.
ARAM
HARON I can always count on you for a compliment. And more than that.
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ARAM
With gravity
HARON
I know. Studies ARAM for a few moments and makes some bold strokes. HARON (cont.) 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? 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?
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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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ARAM They should have waited until you were older 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. 39
I listened to the recorded voices of the victims…their horrors…and yes, their stories of survival. More nightmares? Too many. A big price, grandpa.
ARAM HARON 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. 40
He walks over to his canvasses and picks one and holds it up to ARAM. (The audience does not necessarily see the painting.) ARAM Scrutinizes the painting for a few moments. So…what do you see?
HARON
ARAM I see a barren desert…no trees…no life… emptiness…slivers of a dark sky. Keep on looking.
HARON
Studies the painting for a few moments.
ARAM
Oh…. Yes?
HARON
ARAM In the lower corner, I see a bush with a flower. HARON Life, Aram, life. There is death…but there is life. And that’s what we have to see…create. Ponders and nods affirmatively
ARAM
HARON Places the painting back among the canvasses. Five years after I graduated from Boston University, I had a one-man show at a gallery 41
in Somerville, Massachusetts. I called the show, “If I cry, I’ll never stop crying.”* People glanced at my work and walked out looking either bored or disgusted. 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. 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.
*The title of John Avakian’s digital art piece at a gallery featuring ArmenianAmerican artists. 42
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 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
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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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John Avakian Monoprints & Family Portraits
Ghostly Images, Ghostly Memories, 1995-1997 ghost prints, monotype drawings, stencil and computer generated letters 18.5 x 26.25 inches 48
I Will Cry Forever, 1992-1997 ghost images, rolled and brushed monotype shapes, masking tape, aluminum foil, metal screen grid, stencil for text, and paper-litho monoprint on BFK 15.5 x 19.75 inches 49
Deportations to Hell, 2003, 2005 & 2006 seamed together paper-litho printings, and computer generated text and monoprint on BFK 11.5 w. X 67.5 inches 50
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Mounds of Genocide, 1998 seamed together paper-litho printings, and computer generated text and monoprint on BFK 14.75 x 41.625 inches 52
Trophies of Genocide 1, 1998 seamed together paper-litho printings, and computer generated text and monoprint on BFK 14 x 42 inches 53
Remnants of Genocide, 1998, 2000, 2001 & 2003 seamed together paper-litho printings, and computer generated text and monoprint on BFK 14.75 x 41.875 inches 54
Trophies of Genocide 2, 1998, 2000, 2001 & 2003 seamed together paper-litho printings, and computer generated text and monoprint on BFK 14.875 x 41.75 inches 55
The Proud and The Profane, 1999 digital stylistic augmentation of photo reproduction, seamed together paper-litho printings, and computer generated text on BFK 42 x 59.5 inches 56
Genocide Crushed & Denied 4, 2006 ghost images, computer generated text and a monotype on BFK 12 x 12 inches 57
My Grandmother’s Family Portrait, 1998 composite digital image on archival paper 15 x 23 inches 58
My Father As A Young Man, 1998 composite digital image on archival paper 15 x 23 inches 59
My Grandmother’s Family Portrait, 1900 scanned gelatin silver print 7 x 5 inches 60
Mother and Father Sipping Coffee in the Kitchen, 1960 scanned negative 6.5 x 6.5 inches 61
Artist’s Statements
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 him. In attempting to refresh her memory, he sings one of their favorite songs, “Our Love Is Here to Stay.” 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! 64
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 Gershwin’s song, “Our Love Is Here to Stay.” 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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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 during one of my therapy sessions when I lamented about my frustration in attempting to bring 66
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 68
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 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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Biographies
Elliot Baker, Playwright 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 Smith-Meltzer.
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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. 73