2010 | Little Gestures

In Little Gestures of Cooperation the artist
S. Der-Meguerditchian makes an assamblage between image (fotografy, object (wooden boxes) and narration (handwritings) to tell about the meetings she had with people turkish origin over years. The images are original taken in the moment of the encounter or reinterpreted by the artist. Every object is treated as a little tresor, (some of them have details in goldblatt), the narration is in the mother tongue of the artist, Spanish. Here you can read the English translations that were avalaible for the visitors of the exhibition in the gallery of three selected works.

I would never have thought that, one day, I'd be sitting in an all-male cafe full of Turks, telling them my grandparents' story. The Ballhaus theater in the Naunynstrasse had invited me to participate in a project called Kahvehanne; the guest artists were mostly third-generation Turks. I'm not Turkish, but I, too, belong to the third generation of emigrants from Turkey. At least, I make bold to think so: I'm a third-generation migrant. My grandparents come from the same place as the parents and grandparents of most of those artists, although our ancestors left Turkey for different reasons. After drifting so long through an imaginary world, I make bold to take that place as my point of reference for a while. For four days, the men of Yavuzeli shared their haunt, seeing people coming into their café every 15 minutes to watch my short film in between. Out of interest, or, perhaps, out of the habit of watching a screen whenever something moves on it, many of them saw my film many times. I think they liked seeing their streets and highways, and listening to music, very similar to their own, that evokes the sadness

coopetation1
and the empty feeling that comes with changing places.I had my prejudices about seeing so many Turkish men sitting together in a Kahvehanne. I assumed all of them were deniers.Still, I thought to myself that we shared the experience of living in a foreign country, and that that might lead to the awareness that we had something in common. To my surprise, a man approached me the very first day and asked what my work was about. He said: "It's about the deportees, isn't it?" I said: Yes. He said: "That's a very sad story.I answered that it was. And he continued in a very low voice: The government says that it wasn't genocide but I think it was. I was astounded. Others looked at me with suspicion, but, as a rule, were very kind. Another very interested man invited me to drink a cup of tea and said: But you were collaborating with the French! I answered that we did, but asked what he expected after what had happened in 1915 and 1916. In the end I thought it would be a good idea to treat them all to pakhlava, of the choicest sort, of course. I went to a Kilicoglu bakery in the Adalberstrasse, bought some pakhlava, and served it to them. Then I took my things and said goodbye. In the car, on my way back to Charlottenburg, the tension fell and I burst out crying, the way I did this summer, when I had to climb over a boulder on my path In Austria and, after having the fright of my life, had to release the tension by crying.
 

The European Cultural Foundation invited me to a face to face meeting. At the meeting were curators and artists from different countries who had been fellows of the Foundation. Then I noticed a woman. She was introduced as Melek from Istanbul. I thought, calm down and let's see ... I didn't want to plunge in from the word go. I wanted to protect myself a little. I was letting Banu do something good for me in Berlin as my personal trainer, "without preconditions." So first I wanted to see what kind of a person this Melek was. Each of us was to make a presentation, and, during the discussions, I would find out more about her without exposing myself. Her talk and her movies looked very interesting. There was a feeling of sympathy and empathy, I would say, but we didn't become too close... Now I know that it was for linguistic reasons: my English isn't very good and hers isn't the best, either... at the time, however, I wasn't quite sure why we couldn't communicate very well.The last night we were all invited by

little_gestures_1
the ECF to a dinner on a boat. She wanted to put on lipstick but had no mirror. Instinctively, I wanted to help her, so I stood up and put the lipstick on her lips. And then I realized that the gesture was more than just a matter of being helpful, and meant more for her as well, because she accepted it… Later I received an invitation to apply to take part in the Filmmore film festival, and I did. I thought to myself, these are the roads I have to go down. A year later, I was invited to the festival. Although I know it wasn't easy for the organizers to pay for my travel costs, they did. It was a small gesture, but, for me, it was very important and reassuring, because it showed a real desire to have me participate. In March 2009, when I was in Istanbul to present my film, Hatice told me to consider myself "at home" there, and Melek thanked me; she said that my presence gave them an opportunity to talk about an issue that calls for a lot of discussion. It was a very reassuring gesture.
 
My grandfather Avedis played the kanun. Everything about Avedis was a cultural legacy: he was a photographer, he painted and he was involved in vocational theater. My son Avedis is a musical child. I thought I'd love his having some connection with Armenian culture, given that we live outside the Armenian community because I don’t fit in with the community here in Berlin. Maybe learning the instrument my grandfather used to play would be a way. Earlier, I'd considered having him take lessons from an Arab musician. This year, as I'm bent on reconciliation, I thought I'd look for a school of Turkish oriental music. I found one in Kreuzberg and went there with Avedis. The teacher gave me a very friendly reception. It seemed to me he was wondering why I wanted my child to learn to play that particular instrument. I told him that my family was Armenian and that my grandfather played the kanun. He put his hand on his heart and said he had great admiration for Armenian musicians and that Armenians were great composers of Eastern music. When the time came to buy an instrument, he said, I should

kanum_leccion
buy a Turkish, not an Arab instrument; Turkish instruments were better. Avedis could take private lessons once a week and attend group classes twice a week, in an orchestra with all the oriental instruments.On the one hand, I liked the idea of Avedis playing oriental music and taking part in this world that I didn't know. I asked what language the children spoke. The teacher told me they had that problem; among themselves, the kids spoke German, so I needn't be afraid that Avedis would be excluded. I said we had the same problem in the Armenian schools in Argentina, that Spanish-speaking children wouldn't speak Armenian. On the other hand, I thought: What if they talk about him behind his back? Maybe they'll speak Turkish and he won't understand what they're saying... or, worse, he'll learn Turkish instead of Armenian... I don't know if I can handle this at the moment… Sometimes I have great ideas but can't follow up with feelings. I think I'm going to take Avedis to an Arab music school to learn to play the kanun.