Chantal Partamian: Reviving Film Archives

My ongoing research into Armenian history is deeply connected to my work as a film archivist and informs both the methodology and ethics of what I do. Recently, a couple of historians shared several silent film reels with me, likely shot in the early 1900s. These reels are untitled and lack clear contextual information, but based on the landscapes, clothing, and atmosphere, they appear to depict Armenians living in Ottoman Turkey. Without proper documentation, however, the images remain suspended in ambiguity.

This lack of information highlights the essential role of archival labor, not only to preserve and restore these materials, but also to historicize them responsibly. I see it as my duty to carefully examine these fragments, to date and catalog them as precisely as possible, and to situate them within a broader historical and cultural context. It’s a slow and rigorous process that often requires collaboration with historians, anthropologists, and local communities. The goal is not to impose meaning, but to allow the footage to be understood within the complexity of its time to avoid erasure or falsification. Without careful contextualization, such materials risk being misinterpreted or misused.

I approach these images with both responsibility and urgency, not only to make them public, but to do so in a way that honors the people within them and the histories they carry. And I believe that through this kind of research and archival practice, we can continue to expand the already multilayered, rich, and vast visual vocabulary of Armenian existence, moving beyond images solely associated with trauma and survival, and recovering a broader, more nuanced spectrum of life. These reels can add vital layers to the multiplicity of our pasts and open new ways of seeing ourselves in history as a complex and enduring presence.

I can recall two remarkable individuals with the surname Partamian — the Armenian literary scholar Vartan Partamian and the American opera singer Maro Partamian. Could you share the story of the Partamian family?

It’s a beautiful question because it touches on the kind of diasporic connections and the possibility of scattered kinship. Although I’m not directly related to either Vartan or Maro Partamian, I did connect with Maro online out of admiration for her voice and legacy. As for my own family, the Partamians I descend from originally came from Aintab, where my great-grandparents were teachers at a local college. They were warned by one of the Pasha’s, whose children they taught, that danger was imminent, and they fled to Aleppo. The rest of the family chose to remain behind and were ultimately lost. My grandfather was born in Aleppo. The family moved several times, to Kessab, back to Aleppo, then to Rayak in Zahle. It was in Rayak, amid the presence of the French military, that my grandfather learned photography. He eventually moved to Beirut and became one of the pioneers of cinema and moving image culture in Lebanon, a legacy that was continued by my father and now by my siblings and me.

So, your grandfather was Antoine Partamian, the cameraman of Lebanese cinema in 1950s… Chantal, in your film “Sandjak,” you explore your Armenian heritage through your grandmother’s memories. How present is your Armenian identity in your artistic work?

Whether I invoke it explicitly or not, my Armenian identity is deeply embedded in everything I create. It’s not always about representing Armenianness in a literal or symbolic way, sometimes it’s about rhythm, memory, absence, or even fragmentation. Growing up in a diasporic environment, surrounded by a language that wasn’t always spoken publicly, a history that was too painful to articulate directly in the family, and a culture that was always negotiating its own survival, these conditions shaped the way I see and the way I create.

“Sandjak” was a particularly intimate film, rooted in my grandmother’s memories, but also in the silences she carried, the gaps in her stories, the rituals of daily life, the ways trauma echoes through generations. In many ways, my work tries to trace those echoes, to understand what is left unsaid, and to find new forms through which to speak it. Even when the work appears abstract or focused on other themes, the underlying impulse often comes from that same place. I see Armenian identity not as a fixed point, but as a dynamic presence, one that evolves and insists, sometimes in unexpected ways.

Could you tell us about your experiences in Armenia?

I’ve visited Armenia many times, and each trip has left a distinct impression. My earliest visits, in the early 2000s, were difficult. Like many diasporans, I was raised with a strong sense of belonging to a homeland I had never seen, the idea of Armenia was emotionally charged, almost mythical. But when I arrived, I was confronted with the reality that this homeland didn’t always recognize me back. The linguistic, cultural, political differences were jarring. Russian was everywhere, as were the post-Soviet sensibilities that I hadn’t been exposed to. I realized that Armenianness was not a unified experience, but a spectrum shaped by geography and history. But over time, that feeling evolved. With each visit, I sensed more openness from myself and from others. The arrival of more Armenians from Syria, Lebanon, and elsewhere has also contributed to a richer understanding within Yerevan and other cities of what the Armenian diaspora looks and sounds like. I feel that there’s more dialogue now between locals and diasporans, more awareness of our different histories, and more curiosity rather than judgment. My last visit, about a year ago, felt affirming. I no longer seek sameness; I’m interested in the multiple ways of being Armenian.