What do we see when we look at the sky?

Tatev monastery, Armenia

The highland mountains had great significance and meaning for the Armenian people of the past; many were called after pagan gods, their names preserved even after the country became Christian, and it is possible that churches and monasteries, often sited in remote locations, near hills, deep gorges, and cliffs, far from the heart of civilisation, were never built on peaks because they were sacred and it would be disrespectful to do so. Armenian monasteries, some of the earliest in the Christian world, were centres of devotion and education, where monks created richly illuminated manuscripts; the buildings themselves, on the other hand, were plain, stern, and intense. Armenian religious architecture, which began to flourish in the sixth and seventh centuries CE, achieved a distinctive style through a combination of common formal characteristics and materials that were widespread in the country and shared with neighbouring areas; scarcity of wood prevented its use, so ecclesiastical buildings were made almost entirely of stone, usually volcanic tufa or basalt, the former being an ideal construction material because it was light, easy to work, becoming harder and more durable as it was exposed to the elements. Armenia is often thought to have developed the first national style in Christian architecture, before the formation of Byzantine, Romanesque, and Gothic typologies, as well as those of Ethiopian, Scandinavian, and Slavic cultures, but even without knowing this, you sense that old Armenian churches are almost archetypal. With their pointed domes, mounted above vaulted ceilings on cylindrical drums, and their vertical emphasis, with height often exceeding length, they are deeply satisfying, and it is hard to explain exactly why.

Stone and Candle, a beautiful book by Armenian-American photographers Ted & Nune, is the fruit of a photographic project that documents sixty-five Armenian monastic structures, in the main from the 4th to the 13th centuries, that are to be found over the whole country, including the disputed territory of Artsakh. The panoramic images, mostly photographed in winter snow and shot from a height, are idealised, lyrical, and full of longing. In contrast, Arménie Ville, a book and photographic installation by Carlo Gobbi, is analytical and detached, its images drawn from a series that includes more than a hundred and twenty-five Armenian churches in over than twenty-five countries, ranging from Western Europe to Russia and the Caucasus, and from there to the Middle East and elsewhere; taken from various sources, old and contemporary, the photographs highlight the continuity of Armenian church architecture, which has now remained fundamentally unchanged for over 1500 years. The elegantly presented Arménie Ville has at its core an awareness of the memory, migration, and heritage of the Armenian people, its identity surviving even in the wake of the diaspora that followed the tragic genocide at the beginning of the 20th century.

The same historical circumstances helped to turn the pomegranate into an important symbol of Armenian tradition, one that is matched in spirit only by Mount Ararat, which is still regarded as being historically and legally part of its territory, even though it is now across the Turkish border. In Sergei Parajanov’s ‘The Colour of Pomegranates’, the juice of the fruit spills onto a cloth and forms a stain that looks like the shape of of Armenia, but the director, born in Georgia to Armenian parents, always denied that he was concerned with nationalism, maintaining that his late film trilogy, which also included ‘The Legend of Suram Fortress’ and ‘Ashil Kerib’, was intended to celebrate the three main and overlapping cultures of the Caucasus. Nevertheless, ‘The Colour of Pomegranates, a visionary portrait of the 18th century poet Sayat Nova, is a deeply felt testament to Parajanov’s love of Armenian folk art and culture, and although it is in part a lamentation of the destruction of an ancient society and its traditions, the film also celebrates its beauty. Steeped in religious imagery, the film is composed of stylised and slow-moving tableaux, the actors striking poses as artificial and prescribed as those in Persian miniature paintings or Western illuminated manuscripts; Armenian monasteries and churches, encompassed by drifting landscapes, green hills, and deep blue skies, form their settings.

Parajanov invented his own style of film-making, one that is characterised by a pronounced element of what is often called ‘magic realism’, which is also a distinguishing feature of ‘What do we see when we look at the sky?’ by the young Georgian director, Alexander Koberidze. A meandering film, perhaps overly long, it is infused with a kind of postmodern innocence, as in the work of the Italian director, Alice Rohrwacher. Koberidze has explained that he has read a great many folkloric stories that helped to free him from the restriction of having to follow convention rules of ‘reality’, and this influence is evident in the plot, which begins to unfold when Lisa, a pharmacy assistant, accidentally encounters Giorgi, a football player, and drops a book, which he picks up. Later that day they happen upon each other again and agree to meet the following evening. The narrator tells us, however, that they have been cursed by an evil eye, which means that they will wake up looking completely different and without their talents, so they will never be able to find each other again. This is what transpires; Lisa and Giorgi are changed and unrecognisable, but although shocked and puzzled, they gradually come to terms with their new lives, which inevitably follow unforeseen directions. Similarly, the film soon abandons its linear narrative and expands unexpectedly, Koberidze showing us ambling and unhurried summer scenes set in the old Georgian city of Kutaisi. Nothing is more important than anything else, and the focus gently shifts from one character to another, the camera settling its gaze on a variety of things, animals, and people before circling back to develop the main story. ‘What do we see when we look at the sky?’ is full of revelatory moments that convey affectionate attention and a sense of wonder; some are humorous, such as the missed encounter between two stray dogs that agreed to watch a World Cup match together, while others are simple visual pauses or diversions. People sit in town squares or make cakes, a football bobs down a river, a girl practices on her violin, light and wind play on translucent curtains. In the end, everything works out harmoniously.

For further exploration:

Stone and Candle: https://www.tedandnune.com/armenian-monasteries-project-stone-candle

Arménie Ville: https://www.claudiogobbi.com/works/armenie-ville/

Symbol and Tradition in Parajanov’s Caucasian Trilogy: https://eefb.org/retrospectives/symbol-and-tradition-in-parajanovs-caucasian-trilogy/

Review of Koberidze’s film: https://www.bfi.org.uk/sight-and-sound/reviews/what-do-we-see-when-we-look-sky-masterpiece-georgian-movie-magic

Another review: https://mubi.com/en/notebook/posts/berlinale-review-alexandre-koberidze-s-what-do-we-see-when-we-look-at-the-sky

Current listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbWw6lcxaeY&list=PLiN-7mukU_REbSQrTFm6IRzKDx3-NldnN

Image on index page: still from ‘What do we see when we look at the sky?’

Still from ‘The Colour of Pomegranates’ by Sergei Parajanov