Zaven Khedeshian was born in Beirut, Lebanon in 1932. He received his education at the Academy of Beaux-Arts in Beirut from 1949-1952, and at the Ecole Nationale Superieure des Arts Decoratifs de Paris in 1952-1958, from which he graduated. From 1954-1956 he studied portraits with Marcel Gimond and in 1956-1958 he studied monumental and architectural sculpture with Alfred Janniot. Zaven Khedeshian organized numerous exhibitions in Lebanon and other countries. He is the holder of many awards, such as the first award in photography for “The forest of Vincent” (1954,) the first prize of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts de Paris (1955,) first prize of the Strand Center (1965,) second prize by the “L’orient” Daily (1965,) first prize for a sculpture at the Sursok Museum (1973,) and a scholarship for the curricular years 1954-1955 awarded within the spheres of a contest by the RL Ministry of Education. Among his famous works are the Monument dedicated to the Armenian Genocide in Bikfayya (Lebanon,) the sculpture of Saint Sharbel in Aanaya (Lebanon,) the bust of Karekin Njteh (Boston,) the bust of Catholicos Zareh I (Aleppo,) the bust of Shavarsh Missakian in Ainjar (Lebanon,) the bust of Simon Vratsian in Djemaran (Beirut,) the bust of Jebran Khalil Jebran at the park named after the writer (Lebanon,) a monument dedicated to Henri Faraon (Beirut,) a monument titled “Protection” at the Square in Bourj Hammoud, a monument titled “Outbreak” in Mtein (Lebanon,) a monument titled “The prayer” in Byblos (Lebanon.) In 2010 he was honored by the Medal of Hamazkayin and in 2012 he received the honor of St. Mesrob Mashdots by Catholicos Aram I of the Great House of Cicilia. Zaven Khedeshian is the author of a film in French dedicated to the Armenian Genocide. (Source: Hamazkayin).
He passed away yesterday. Attached is an abridged translation of an article he had penned in Aztag Daily.
By Zaven Khedeshian (Aztag Daily, November 30, 2015)
Translated and Abridged by Vahe H. Apelian
That night I was struggling with my insomnia more than the usual when I, know not for what reason, felt my neck and started rubbing it gently.
A shiver passed through my entire body. There was a swelling there. It must have been the one that the doctors were looking for. I had gone to the “Hotel Dieu” hospital. The specialist is traveling, they had told me. There is another one, they had said, a specialist as well. I had entrusted myself to him.
Until that day I had not known that there are doctors who are also “exocentric”. I thought “eccentricity” was reserved only for artists.
– “You erect my statue as well, much like Saddam Hussein’s statue”, he said raising his right arm.
– “What, do you like to subject yourself to the same fate?” I asked.
– “Lay down, I do not have much time. Others are waiting. All I am going to do is a small operation”.
– “Well then, what are you waiting for?”
He took off and returned later resembling a tailor. He was holding a needle in one hand and a thread in the other.”
He did what he had to do.
“Return after a few days”
When I woke up one morning, I sprang from my bed. Unbelievable. My bedding was all red. I dressed up quickly; I put my bloodied bed sheets in a bag and rushed to the hospital.
– “Don’t you see, doctor? My bed sheet is bloodied”
– “You did not have to show me. Lay down” became his answer.
The next day, after feeling the swelling, I rushed to the Greek Hospital instead. I had a doctor friend there, M. Luftfallah. He also rubbed my throat.
– “Tomorrow, at 9 a.m. come to the hospital. I will introduce you to a specialist. Others wait for weeks for their appointment. His name is Dr. Shamseddine”.
The next day I wanted to go to the hospital by myself. But my daughter insisted that she accompanied me.
We presented ourselves to the doctor at the appointment time.
Strangely he did not move from his sitting position and stared at my face. Probably Dr. Lutfallah had told him about my case. He had a strange gaze. He appeared to look at me with one eye and at my daughter with the other. Finally, he opened his mouth and said.
– “Sir, I am one of those doctors who tells the patients the truth. Do you like me to tell you the reality”?
– “Of course I want you to tell me.”
– “Six out of ten who are in your predicament survive, the other four go away”.
– “Where do they go?”
– “The world beyond, from where there is no return.”
– “Doctor, its great that the figures are not the other way around, more stay than go.”
– “Dad, what are you talking about?” Asked my daughter in horror.
– “We will talk outside, my daughter”.
– “You need an immediate surgery”. He noted the name of the surgeon and some of the tests I had to undergo.
The next day I met the surgeon and handed him the paper.
His first question was:
– “Do you smoke?”
– “Yes, doctor”.
– “How long have you been smoking?”
– “For fifty years.”
– “Your cancer is due to your smoking.”
– “But doctor, for many years I suffered from a migraine. Last two years I ceased smoking because it was exacerbating it but this illness came upon me. In my opinion, it was due to my not smoking.”
The doctor smiled.
I was admitted to the hospital. They woke me up early in the next morning and in a hurry carried me on a stretcher to the basement where a large group of attendants was waiting for me. They told me the surgery would last long.
– “Are you not going to numb me?”
– “Of course we will, it will be a long operation.”
– “As far as I am concerned it matters not to me whether it’s long or short as long as I do not experience pain and the passing of time. Would you let me tell you a joke? It will take only a couple of minutes.”
– “Please do so.”
– “A man undergoes a surgery by a young surgeon much like you. When the patient opens his eyes, asks the surgeon in astonishment why has he grayed so much?”
– The person answers, “I am not your surgeon, I am Saint Peter.”
They all laughed. They said it was the first time they would be entering the operating room after a hearty laugh.
Now, to the Wagner’s duel.
I continued to put my things in order always with the specter of death looming over me.
There was sadness on my face. Friends did not dare ask me the reason often time pretending they are unaware of my predicament. But the expressions on their faces betrayed them and revealed their inner uneasiness.
– “You heard about Zaven. Did you not?”
These talks intensified my worries
My brother, who had lost his right leg during the Lebanese civil war, one day visited me with a DVD and said:
– “Zaven, this DVD is one of Wagner’s magnificent operas. There is only the voice, but no picture. Wagner had written it when he was 27 years old and was fleeing to England to avoid taxes. He was inspired by the storm crossing Riga. It is a masterpiece.”
In spite of the fact that it was not the first time that I was listening to Wagner; this time around it took me to different worlds.
I was enchanted and not long after Wagner captivated me.
The disk was always in its place. Every time right after I returned home, “Flying Dutchman” would be heard. I would hear it one more time over and over, again and again, Stop! Continue! Lighten up! Senta, louder, more louder, now mellow down!
Not long after I memorized by heart the two and half hours long opera that took me to different worlds. It took me alone with it. The specter of death vanished every time Wagner sang.
One day I realized that a duel had started between Wagner and my cancer. In spite of the fact that the specter of my death was strong, Wagner often time succeeded in bringing it down. But, whenever I was away from home, the specter of death would take over me. Wagner was absent.
At times it happened that the two met each other. Both would struggle. Often times one would fall, later on, the other and often the duel would continue.
Days would pass. I was still alive. My disfigured face slowly started recovering its former expressions. Wagner continued to play. Music is an abstract art. Unbelievable. Wagner had succeeded in turning music into a higher level of abstraction by making use of the voices that meshed with each other at times loud, at other times mellowed down, at times conflicting each other and other times complementing each other. The voices created a new and an unknown world that helped a person traverse the endless, and live with the deception of reaching the infinite.
One day I had the courage to attend an exhibit. A lady I knew asked me.
– “ What is that exactly you have, Zaven?”
– “Caner, cancer. Can’t you see me disfigured? They tore my throat. I do not know how many tumors they removed from it. They made my face look like “Frankenstein”.”
– “Ha, exactly what Catholicos Karekin had. They also tore his throat and removed things from it and more, they cut off his tongue.”
Not only the woman explained to me my condition, she also told me what was in store for me.
– “What kind of inconsiderate woman was she? The only thing left for her was to tell you that you surely would die.”
I returned home. I took the most effective medicine I had. As usual, Wagner succeeded in bringing down my enemy.
– “We heard Khedeshian. May it be over. How are you doing now?”
I would not speak about Wagner, thinking that this woman too might classify me among those “eccentric” artists.
– “They were difficult days, madam.”
I tried to calm myself down. Often times I used to say myself, Bedros Tourian, Missak Medzarents lived 21 to 22 years, half of which was their youthful years. I, on the other hand, lived some six to seven times longer than they did. I tried to pacify myself in this manner.
I do not know what did that woman think of me. Surely, not like the woman I met at the exhibit.
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