What happens to friends? Where do they disappear? We spend years with someone, we become bosom buddies, eat, drink, shit together, and feel such a bond that we can not imagine life without them. Then, one day, we realize that we are no longer in each others lives. It all happens very gradually and most of the time with no warning. We move away, find new friends,  new interests, our circumstances change, we change, and instead of nourishing the friendship we simply choose to go our own separate ways.

At 15, my “blood brothers” and I started a secret society of warlocks. At 20, my comrades and I were fighting to change the world and ready to give our lives for each other. As I grew older, I had buddies with whom I collaborated on creative projects,  partners I trusted with my life, friends I spent years with, on stage and off.  Today, when I think of them, I realize that those of us who have stayed with each other, have done so because we have continued to work together.

Sartre said friendship develops when people act together.  I think friendship takes a serious hit the moment friends stop working, creating and being productive together.  Spending leisurely time with friends, drinking, playing cards or simply hanging out, might be a lot of fun, but it does very little to nourish the relationship.  What sustains a friendship is the common goal that brings people together and offers a chance to stay active and join forces. Working together on any type of project gives a certain urgency and a sense of commitment to the friendship. Committing to a friendship and making an effort to refresh it every time it wanes is essential, but to keep a friendship fresh and healthy, one must constantly try to come up with a common objective, a joint energy that will give a chance to put petty differences aside and enjoy a sense of solidarity.

I have never felt at home anywhere in my life.  During my travels, I have always searched for a place where I can call home, but the more I travel the more I am convinced that I do not belong anywhere.  Not Lebanon, where I was born and grew up, not Europe, where I have spent so much of my time, not America, where I have been living the past 34 years, and not even Armenia, which is supposed to be the source of my cultural make up.  When I think of home, I think of a composite of everything I love from the places that I have been: the nostalgia of Beirut, the beauty of Paris, the intimacy of Yerevan, a beach on a Greek Island, the California sun, and all my loved ones who are scattered all over the world.  There probably is a little bit of home everywhere I’ve been and I wish I could bring them all together and create a city of my own.  But I can’t.

Is it possible that children of the diaspora, once uprooted and driven from their ancestral home may never find the perfect spot to be transplanted?  Is it possible that once I realized that there is no home to go back to, the chord that tied me to the mother ship snapped and I began to float in an eternal galaxy?

So what do I do with this weltschmerz?  This profound sadness that comes with the realization that physical reality will never satisfy the demands of the mind, and that the juxtaposition of what’s real and what’s ideal can be very cruel sometimes. What do I do with this fragmented sense of home? Do I need to create a larger understanding of home? A lifestyle that will constantly keep me on the move and offer some sense of belonging everywhere I go?  But then again, doesn’t the idea of a home suggest permanency an anchor that will keep me grounded and offer some kind of a base?

Maybe its time for me to stop searching for a place I can call home and accept the fact that I will live with this anomie for the rest of my life.  Or maybe every once in a while I should remind myself that home is where my emotions are, and take up residence in an old lemon tree, in a book resting on my nightstand, in Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor, or in the heart of someone I adore.

A painting, a written piece, a work of art should be able to speak for itself. Any attempt at explaining, elaborating or interpreting it will belittle the work. When someone asked Robert Frost to explain one of his poems, he said: “Why should I use worse words when I have already used the better ones.”

The same applies to painting. A painter paints because that is his creative outlet. He paints because that’s the best way he can express himself. Otherwise he would write or talk about it. Every artist has his own language and it takes a long time to develop that language. As a matter of fact, the biggest paradox that an artist faces is finding his unique, individual language, one that is solely his, and remaining sane, when no one understands it.

Appreciating an artist’s language is not easy. It often takes time for the viewer to become familiar enough with it to develop an appreciation. It is also important to remember that not everyone has the ability to understand or appreciate art, or a particular artist’s work. Personally, I find it impossible to explain my paintings, because they are amalgams of many different worlds.

The following is an extract from my artist’s statement: “I am a blender… or, maybe a grinder, processing all that I consume. Everything goes into this processor–the books I read, the music I listen to, the friends I have, my fears, my politics, my loves… they all go in and I process them–all. And, what comes out of this grinder is not just one thing, but permutations of all I have consumed… and, of course, everything that has consumed me.”

I just finished reading Jonathan Franzen’s latest novel “Freedom” and I am fucking blown away by it. A few years ago after reading his “The Corrections”, I thought Franzen was the most important voice in contemporary American literature. Now, after finishing “Freedom”, I have no doubts about it. I can’t remember the last time I was so engulfed by a book. The 560 page tome is the quintessential American novel, an epic work covering a few generations, by swaying back and forth through a mesh of characters and events surrounding the Berglund family. Patty Berglund, the ideal housewife, is married to Walter, an environmentalist lawyer who is the paragon of goodness. The couple have two kids and they struggle to deal with a changing America under the stampede of the Bush administration, the transnational corporations and the war profiteers.

You could say “Freedom” is a love story, a Tolstoyan novel told with very small brush strokes, like a family snapshot painted with utmost photorealism. From love, to marriage to politics and morals, Franzen holds everything under a microscope and with a keen eye, he is able to find both the tragedy and the humor of it. During the course of my reading, I was tempted to put the book down at least twice, especially when dealing with the couple’s son Joey, who brings in a Jerry Springeresque element to the story, but in the end, the core of the narrative is so compelling, that I was bawling when I finished the last page and put the book down.

I saw “Papiers d’Armenies” perform at the Peniche Anako in Paris recently and I enjoyed every second of it. To see the band on a little boat in an intimate setting, with an audience of hundred, was simply delightful. I normally dislike using words like “amazing”, “incredible” and “fascinating”, but these are some of the words that come to mind when I talk about this band. I fell in love with the CD when I first heard it about to years ago and I haven’t stopped listening to it since. I’m still not sure if “Papiers d’Armenies” is the name of the CD or the band, but the five members that make up the band, Gerard Carcian (Kamantcha), Aret Derderian (accordion), Macha Gharibian (vocals), Dan Gharibian (guitar, bouzouki and vocals) and Pat Kousiguian (doudouk, shevi) are virtuoso musicians and together they create an irresistible, nostalgic sound that is simply delightful.
If the name Dan Gharibian sounds familiar, its because he’s the man behind “Bratsch”, the gypsy, jazzy folk band from Paris and “Papiers d’Armenies” is the creation of his daughter Macha. The CD, as the band puts it, is a musical voyage from Constantinople to Tiflis, passing through Moush and Yerevan, and is a medley of Armenian, Greek, Georgian and Anatolian tunes with classics such as “Serdis Vra”, “Aghavni” and “Matiamou Matiamou”. For more information you can always visit www.papiersdarmenies@free.fr.