RETOUR                                                                                                                                           RETURN

Hovsep Onanian
(Ardanouch, Arménie, 1896-Toronto, Canada, 1996)
L'un des derniers troubadours arméniens
 One of the last Armenian Troubadours


  Hovsep et sa femme Agnes, photographie par Onnig Cavouk, Toronto, Canada, vers 1965
Hovsep and his wife Agnes, photographed by Onnig Cavouk, Toronto, Canada, circa 1965

     Nous ne venons pas de nulle part.
Si depuis toujours je suis attiré par l'Art, cela prend certainement racines dans le passé de mes ancêtres. La musique et la poésie ont toujours été pour moi une source d'inspiration importante.
     Ma mère est pianiste, mes tantes violoncelliste et harpiste (*), mon oncle connait tout le répertoire de l'Opéra par coeur...
     Venant corroborer tout cela, une anecdote : Très récemment, j'ai eu le plaisir d' expertiser une très petite collection d'éventails (environ 25 pièces) appartenant à une française. Cette collection,
était qualitativement quasi parfaite ! Cette personne était musicienne !

     Je voudrais par cette page rendre hommage à mon grand oncle. C'était l'un des derniers troubadours arméniens ("Ashough" en arménien). Il était un interprète accompli de l'instrument traditionnel du Caucase, le Kemancha. A la fois poète et instrumentaliste, il a composé de très nombreuses pièces et aimait aussi à improviser librement, souvent en alexandrins ! Un ouvrage bibliographique a été écrit sur lui, hélas seulement en langue arménienne.
     C'est pourquoi je vous livre ci-après un texte qu'il a écrit dans sa 85ème année et aimablement
traduit de l'arménien en anglais par Arra S. Avakian, Fresno, CA, USA

     We come from nowhere.  I always had an interest in the Arts.  Most likely this interest is rooted in my ancestors’ past. Music and poetry have always been an important part of my life.
     My mother is a pianist, my aunts are violoncellist and harpist (*), my uncle knows by heart the entire Opera repertory….
     To corroborate this, here is a small anecdote: Recently, I had the pleasure to appraise a small fan collection (about 25 pieces) belonging to a French lady.  The quality of this collection was near perfection! This person is a musician! 

     This page is to honor my great uncle, who was one of the last Armenian Troubadours (“Ashough” in Armenian).
He was a virtuoso of the “Kemancha”, the traditional Caucasian  instrument. Both a poet and a musician he wrote many pieces.  He also enjoyed improvisation in twelve syllable verses! A bibliography was written on him, unfortunately in Armenian only.
     This is why I am including the text below written at age 85 and graciously translated into English by Arra S. Avakian, Fresno, CA, USA

 


                                                                                 WHO AM I ?


                                       When I was small, a child of eight, a convent filled my needs.
                                       And all the things that there I learned were prayers, and hymns, and creeds.
                                       The kemancha became my love, no school for me whereat
                                       To learn important things, instead of neither this not that.

                                       The first great war brought father death. In grief I buried him.
                                       Life tribulations wore me down. My days were pretty grim.
                                       At twenty years to war I went and served Tsar Nicholas.
                                       The Eastern Front, Armenian lands - there were none left of us.

                                       I would not tax you patient folk with trivial detail.
                                       My purpose only is in brief to tell you whence I hail.
                                       Was born in hills of Middle East, migrated to Iran.
                                       The last great war brought me much of pain - left a woeful man.

                                       We roamed and roamed, our bellies groaned, its void just had to fill.
                                       We tried in France. No work, they said, instead go try Brazil.
                                       That far off  land seemed strange to us. We whished no more to roam.
                                       So wife and I we boarded ship, and made Toronto home.

                                       For thirty years we've lived here in this great, abundant land.
                                       Its leaders, four or five we've seen, they've all been noble, grand.
                                       No confrontation have I had with courts, police, because
                                       I've never had the cause to violate its law.

                                       Sayat-Nova (**), our minstrel great, he traveled far and near.
                                       While I, Hovnan, I mean to stay within in this hemisphere.
                                       I've lived my eighties, now, please note, I knock at ninety's door.
                                       I've found my home, my resting place. It's here for evermore.

                      

                                            Hovnan

***

(*) Susanna Mildonian, voir le site : http://www.amiraharp.com/AboutSM.htm
(**) Sayat Nova (1712-1795), voir le site : http://www.netarmenie.com/culture/poesie/sayat.php 

RETOUR                                                                                                                                           RETURN