The Magical Circle in a Small Town, Under a Striped Tent

There was a time in my childhood when I dreamed of joining a traveling circus, not to perform, but to capture its world with my camera.

Needless to say, like most childhood fantasies, that dream never came true. But then, by sheer chance, something like a sign appeared, offering a small taste of that forgotten wish, or perhaps a quiet promise that it might still come true one day. I was walking with my daughter through Victory Park when I suddenly caught sight of a massive circus tent with a banner that read: “Vardanyan Brothers Circus.”

While photographing this story, my dream became stronger and deeper. I hope I’ll be able to get there some day… 

I’ll try to share my impressions with you, partly through text, partly through images. But this is one of those stories where everything pales in comparison to the experience of seeing it.

One thing is crystal clear: the circus is best seen for the first time in childhood, while you haven’t lost the capacity to be amazed and enchanted.

My first encounter with the circus crew began with Aram, the father of the Vardanyan brothers (as I later found out). He was seated outside near one of the blue containers beside the tent. From that moment on, the circus opened itself to me, allowing me a glimpse into its world. At Andranik’s suggestion, one of the brothers, I was invited to attend the show. 

As has been the case for nearly three years now, wherever I go, so does Lea, my youngest daughter, my constant companion, my little badge of honor. Her presence allowed me to experience the show through her emotions and reactions. And as an adult, if you haven’t killed the child within, you can still experience the same wonder but with one important difference: your awe and admiration are no longer about what is happening but about the people making it happen—the performers. Their unconditional and unwavering love for their craft, and the deep sense of responsibility they carry.

It’s astonishing—some step into the circus arena and into a game where the stakes are life itself—yours or your partner’s. To me, the people of the circus belong to that rare group whose actions defy easy explanation, yet on a visceral level, I sense in them a deep love for what they do, unwavering dedication, and strict discipline. Perhaps that’s what draws people to the circus, maybe that’s where the magic lies.

As for my daughter, the circus became a place where, quite miraculously, she would sit still for two full hours, her eyes sparkling and wide with wonder. Backstage, she would copy the warm-up routines of the performers.

The big, magical tent that seems so small from a distance, is the result of a childhood love affair with the circus. It’s born from the Vardanyan brothers’ belief in the wonder passed down by their uncle, the unshakeable trust between them, trust that underlies the very feats they perform and, of course, the community of artists who have gathered, and continue to gather, around them.

A magical circle— in a small town, a small park, underneath a small tent.

I’d like to end this story with a confession of love—addressed to the circus by a truly remarkable girl, Maria.
Her performance was one of the most moving ones I’ve ever seen.

My body lies beneath the dome, it’s breathing heavily, as I whisper something.
So many years. So many years.
For so many years you’ve been taking away my vital force.

I lie in your embrace, outstretched at the center, surrendered and free, gazing into the darkness.

I still think that there’s purpose in this place. And I still feel like it’s not pointless.

There you are—alive. I stroke your rubbery skin, gaze into the dome, into the darkness that pulls in my thoughts, drains my strength, steals my name, my words, and my tears—already absorbed into my cheeks.
My obsession suggested by an evil force for the purpose of temptation, the creature gripping my wrist with its paw, counting my heartbeats.
Darling, how much longer will it beat? 

No one sees me, no one hears me, as I quietly press my face into the rubber.
Sometimes someone passes by the arena—someone on night shift, watching over the animals.
I freeze, so no one disturbs this peace.
Only me and the circus. Only me and the emptiness, pulling me deeper into its center.

Today, during the dance, I hugged a spectator in the audience, and the whole section applauded.
And at the first show, a little girl sat on the barrier and secretly gave me a candy.
The smiles, the tenderness in the eyes of these people, but I’m stealing those sad moments.
And then I cry, lying pressed against your clawed paws, smelling of horses and cotton candy.
And I want nothing.

Just a little more, and I’ll fall asleep, resting my hand on the riverbed of my hot tears.
But somehow—it feels so good.

Maria 

P.S. The brothers don’t like to talk much about themselves, but still, on April 6 of this year, they set an official Guinness World Record in Milan, and this is just the latest addition to their many international awards and performances in prestigious shows. 

The July issue of SALT is a sensory journey through Armenia’s summer landscape — from foraging wild herbal teas in the mountains of Syunik to the weird and wonderful world of Yerevan’s Qrchi Bazaar. We explore the rise of horror writing, visit a museum of strange analogies, and spotlight an artist whose work defies convention. This month, eclecticism is our mood.