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Since the closure of its factories, Vanadzor has often been considered Armenia’s forgotten third city. Surrounded by lush forests yet marked by abandoned smokestacks and derelict production lines, its reputation is post-industrial: a powerhouse of Soviet industry, from which goods stamped “Made in Kirovakan” flowed, now left without an economic strategy. Framing Vanadzor in this way, as a victim of its past, obscures the reality of a city that has developed a vibrant artistic scene over the past few decades. What does it mean to exist as a “creative” in one of Armenia’s shrinking cities? This is the “alternative” Vanadzor.

Samvel Arakelyan: Kzher Vernissage

Kzher Vernissage, a squat wooden building with peculiar objects dotted in the yard beside it, is nestled in the recently renovated Liberators’ Park. The artist who runs the shop sits quietly in the room adjacent to the entrance. Half-clad in army fatigues, he lets us browse before rising from his chair and offering a proper greeting. Samvel has been running this vernissage for over 30 years, catering predominantly to tourists (growing in number by the year) but still well-regarded among locals. The eclectic mix of traditional Armenian crafts, Soviet memorabilia and contemporary curiosities that fill the shop comes from people passing through the city, who sell their items to Samvel.

Under the Soviets, Samvel worked at the toy factory: one of many factories in Vanadzor that are now abandoned. He does not seem to miss the work terribly, though he is keen to tell us that he does miss the “women who worked with me.” Samvel has been painting since he was five years old, developing a particular enthusiasm for nature morte. Evidence of this is found on the walls of the shop, covered in his paintings, his true passion. Samvel could be described as a painter-shopkeeper of sorts, using the business to support his art. The Soviet Union was known for supporting the arts, but it is notable that only with its collapse was Samvel compelled to pursue his passion. Today, the relationship between tourism and the arts has become central to Vanadzor’s post-industrial economy. The Lori region tourism board introduces Vanadzor not only as a place of interest for “industrial tourism”, but also as a “place of creative freedom and self-realization.” Samvel could be considered one of the pioneers of this cultural scene, persevering through the city’s years of hardship.

His store trades primarily in Soviet nostalgia, but Samvel seems to dwell little on the past. He remains optimistic about the future of both Vanadzor and Armenia. When asked what the biggest change has been over the past three decades, the artist simply replied “democracy”: the reality that you can say what you want without “someone hitting you on the head.” I wasn’t entirely sure how to reconcile this with the inexpensive pro-Putin memorabilia for sale at the back of the shop.

Bogdan Hovhannisyan: Khachkar-maker

“The master welcomes you to his house!” 

Sporting a beret and a colorful woven vest, the cross-stone (khachkar) maker greets us at the door with a knowing grin plastered across his face, ringing a dozen rusty bells and windchimes to announce his presence. This routine has clearly been performed many times before. “This kind of welcome only the Pope of Rome gets, and you!” he bellows with delight as he reads aloud the aphorisms posted on the door his grandfather built: Think, who needs you? Before entering, think about leaving. 

Bogdan is one of the many characters who give Vanadzor its distinctive charm.

He is a local celebrity of sorts: people across the city urged us to meet with Bogdan, for good reason. His work has earned international attention, including an invitation to represent Armenian craft traditions at the 2018’s Smithsonian Folklife Festival in DC. A large poster from the festival, much of it taken up by Bogdan’s face, hangs at the back of the workshop. Bogdan tells us that he has been the subject of 16 documentaries; recognition of his mastery has extended well beyond the local community. He considers himself and his students the “main representatives” for khachkar making in the eyes of the world, though he laments that he takes on fewer and fewer students each year. He blames the acquisitive mindset of young people, concerned only with making money “through computers” rather than earning a living with their hands. Of course, few now have the opportunities Bogdan did. As a boy, he trained as a sculptor under one of the masters in Yerevan, only later dedicating himself entirely to khachkars. Bogdan has had the fortune of spending his whole life within the craft.

His workshop is not large. Khachkars and sculptures crowd it, forcing anyone who wants to admire his work to squeeze through single file, while Bogdan’s warmth and larger-than-life personality fill whatever space remains. Not content with excelling in sculpture and stonemasonry alone, he is also a talented choral singer and flautist. Within 15 minutes he has burst into song, then scolds us for not turning our cameras on to record him. At one point, he refuses to continue until we join in. The religious nature of his craft inspires such devotional acts: after all, he is commemorating Armenia’s dead. Most striking of all, Bogdan is a prolific collector of Armenian folk song, with more than 2,700 recordings to date. Historians and anthropologists have worked with him to publish a book of the songs he collected, five of which were later performed by the national opera.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Bogdan was a figure from a distant past: a time when craftsmen worked through Saturday night so they could celebrate on Sunday, then shirked work at the start of the next week in devotion to “Saint Monday”; when journeymen would dedicate themselves for years to a master while practicing politics or immersing themselves in the arts on the side; when work was often difficult and precarious, yet, in a sense, freer.  

After a magical hour, Bogdan bids us farewell and returns to his work.

Gohar Tadevosyan and Avetis Yegayan: Avetis Studio

A few weeks later, I return to Vanadzor to meet two leatherworkers. They are a young couple working out of a small hillside workshop beneath the Soviet-era Kirovakan Hotel. A faint, comforting smell of leather lingers in the air as we enter. The studio once belonged to an old artist who refused to sell his space to anyone; he died two years ago, and Gohar and Avetis were able to take it over, happily leaving behind the rented space they had on the other side of the city. They produce a range of leather goods, from wallets to bags. Their market is both local and international, aimed at those willing to pay a little more for something that will last. Gohar says “taste” is a big obstacle to expansion within Armenia. Local people much prefer buying cheaper items to more expensive ones “that last”, though for many this is out of necessity.

Avetis Studio is more than a place of business. After work, and sometimes during, it becomes an impromptu bar for fellow artists and artisans. My friend and I were treated to this hospitality in the form of two beers each. Gohar shatters one of the bottles cradled in her arms while chatting to us about the talents of her many friends and colleagues. Unlike Yerevan, or similarly sized European cities, Vanadzor has few places to go out for a drink; there is one “pub” in the city center. Informal spaces like Avetis therefore become a necessity. 

At some point, our conversation turns into a light-hearted argument between husband and wife. They can’t agree on how the former factory sites dotted (perhaps too gentle a term) across the city’s landscape should be treated. One thinks they should be flattened entirely to end the artificial division between the city’s west and east. The other hopes the industrial architecture can be saved, with the buildings transformed into multi-purpose spaces. Redevelopment seems to be on everyone’s mind in Vanadzor. Interestingly, though, Gohar expresses some ambivalence about any potential growth: “Sometimes I think if Vanadzor becomes a tourist city, I won’t love it as much.”

At one point, Avetis’ father stops by to make himself a cup of coffee. Shortly after, one of the couple’s close friends joins us for a beer and plays acoustic renditions of English rock. They love Pink Floyd—I don’t. We find common ground through The Beatles. Gohar is also the manager of the Armenian rock band Lav Eli, and her brother is their guitar player. All the artists in the city are connected in some way. In the space of two hours, I got a sense of the community Gohar and Avetis have built through their studio.

In a final show of hospitality, this artisan couple help my friend and me book our taxi home (at local rates). We jaunt through their garden, up the steps, and away.

***

Vanadzor does not have a monopoly on eccentrics, but does a place need to be utterly unique to produce beauty? Tucked beneath Lori’s green hills and mountains, craft traditions are thriving. That, in and of itself, is worth celebrating. 

From Armenia’s overlooked perfume heritage and the invisible border between Eastern and Western Armenian to Vanadzor’s quietly flourishing creative scene and the enduring voice of the duduk, this month’s SALT reveals the many ways that identity is expressed and preserved.