The Second Nagorno-Karabakh War brought immense pain and trauma that I had never known before, not even suspecting that it was just the beginning of a chain of wars, disappointments, and despair. However, all these feelings were well-known to my ancestors. The loneliness from the lack of empathy, the despair from the injustice of what was happening, and the helplessness led me to a house with a vast amount of collective and personal memory. This memory is stored in every item: in the creaky parquet floor from 1952, in every pattern on the wallpaper or shadow, in every needle of the cactus, in every look of my grandfather, whom I photograph with my son, in the photographs of my grandmother, and even in her box of needles and threads. Starting from the staircase railings in the entrance hall, every square millimeter of this house embraces and calms me, providing incredible support and a sense of belonging to my ancestry.
*Armat (Armenian: Արմատ) means root.