JOIN USDabbling in antique textiles is an art in itself, and third generation Armenian collector Berdj Achdjian has mastered this art. Hema Vijay talks to the collector about the nuances of finding unique, valuable textiles, from carpets to tapestries...
A coptic textile made around 200 CE! The carpet of Salon De L’Hotel Du Collectionneur by Jacques Emile Ruhlmann, considered by many to be among the greatest art works of the Art Deco period. The famous ‘magic carpet’, a knotted rug that was originally named The Town or ‘La ville’, handwoven sometime between 1908 and 1924 by French cubist painter and art theoretician Rij Rousseau. French Cashmere shawls, Ottoman textiles, antique African textiles, Mughal carpets, some of the most wonderful Jamavar Indian prayer shawls, Ersari prayer rugs and Yomud carpets, the Khorossan sickle-leaf design carpet fragment, textile designs by Nikolei Roerich for the Russian Ballet, Caucasian rugs, Karapinar court carpets and rugs, Moroccan embroidery and abstract weaves... Well, antique and oriental textile dealer Berdj Achdjian has delighted in buying (and sometimes selling) treasures like these for many years.
Berdj is ready with the inside story on every antique rug, carpet, tapestry, scarf or attire that find way into his collection. As also the story of how he acquired it. And the memory of how he (regrettably) let go of some of them. This man who makes antique textiles come alive in our imagination was in India recently.
Textile aesthetics
For that matter, the Achdjian surname has had an enduring reputation in dealing and collecting classical and antique textiles. This tryst with textiles dates back to the last decade of 19th century, when Berdj’s grandfather Boghos Achdjian was trading in antiques in Constantinopolis. In 1915, with the Armenian genocide, Boghos had moved to France with his wife Hismasthouhie Tchiboukdjian and one of his sons, Albert (Berdj’s father), while another son stayed behind in Turkey. In France, Albert became a great antique textile dealer himself. He founded the Armenian Museum in Paris in 1947, the year of Berdj’s birth, and wrote the famous book on antique rugs, The Rug. Albert’s textile shop in Paris drew the likes of notables like David David-Weill, Henri Matisse, Georges Mathieu, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais, and Jean-Claude Pascal.
Obviously, the fact that art runs in his blood did nudge Berdj towards textile collection. And today, his son Zareh Achdjian is working with him and might end up a great dealer too. “As for me, I had always wanted to be an art dealer. Even as a boy, and even in those days when I was in military service in Somalia and Ethiopia,” Berdj says with glee. After a short spell in the Lycee Condorcet and Ecole du Louvre, Berdj had turned back to the legendary Achdjian endeavour. Even during those years outside the Achdjian establishment, Berdj kept networking with auction houses around the globe and textile connoisseurs like Jean Lefevre, whom he regards as a mentor.
Berdj had bought his first piece when he was 15 years old. “I am born around art,” Berdj muses. “In fact, the photographer who took my baptem was Willy Ronis, one of the greatest French photographers of the 20th century.”
“What is most treasured is not necessarily the most beautiful,” Berdj is quick to say. “For instance, my father was a difficult person and I had to buy from him a piece which used to belong to his father. The price was highly expensive, but I had to do it for my ancestors and for the respect that I must keep for them. This piece is most treasured for me, but it might not be so for someone else. Sometimes a piece is “treasured” because it reveals your own personality.” He further insists, “And, I am not so interested in a textile’s age, but in its its aesthetics, its beauty.”
So, how and when does an antique rug or carpet become valuable? How do some buys turn out visionary and others whimsical? “In a split second, we think we have understood the entire picture. When I began, I used to take decisions on buying and selling in less than a second. Now, I take more time,” Berdj shares. Nevertheless, he shares with Henri Cartier Bresson the sense that we do get a real understanding of ‘right aesthetics’ in a short time. “It is a talent. Either you have it or you don’t. But beyond that, sure, you need to study the subject,” Berdj muses. “People say, ‘He has an eye for it’. But actually, it is much more to do with the brain.”
Berdj’s understanding of textiles begins with his eyes. But the photographic eye plays a role too. “Years ago, I used a lens called ‘oeil de vieux’, a lens with several horizontal and vertical lines and the macro eye for the small details. But these are still only technical. It is crucial to go beyond technique — into emotion and sensitivity,” Berdj feels.
Berdj roots for specific individual works, rather than its identity within a group. “For example, even within Mughal carpets, I like few pieces specifically, rather than the entire Mughal label. Likewise, there is this antique Palampore textile made for an Armenian Church and painted in Coromandel Coast in the 17th century. I love this piece for what it is,” he shares. He adds, “Indians have exported so much. They are decorative and a bit boring for me. I rather prefer the few pieces made by Indians for royalty — textiles about real art.”
The real art
Finally, does mass production negate the idea of art? And do textile aesthetics equate with the aesthetics of fine art and sculpture? One does wonder what this antiquarian textile collector would have to say on that. Even now, not many textiles are known by the artist’s name. “Aesthetics in the 20th century came to be specifically connected to artists. The French, and not the English, pioneered aesthetics in mass produced textiles. In India, aesthetics was not adapted to industry. Moghul textiles were fantastic. But the designs were made only for the king. Shah Jahan patronised many designers for his own shawls and carpets,” points out Berdj.
Berdj reckons that Amedee Couder was among the first known textile designers in Paris in the 1830s and 1840s. There was also Antony Berrus in Paris. Here, he has a very intriguing tale to narrate for us Indians. “Indian cashmere shawls were so bloody expensive, and the French paid so much for it that it became a disaster for the economy. So Napoleon decided that we would make our own shawls, but it turned out to be much more expensive to make, than to import, until the invention of the mechanical looms. First we made copies of Indian designs. Later, Indians adapted our designs.”
Apparently, the demand for cashmere shawls was so huge in Paris that Berrus used to employ 120 assistants in his shawl-making venture. “When artistic textiles became an industry, it changed the approach of the artist. In the 17th and 18th centuries, designers were doing textile art on cotton, but no one knew the name of the designer. In France, now we know,” he adds.