Cynthia Motian McGuirl

My dreams hold a strong message from my ancestors to tell their stories. My maternal family line is Armenian. My grandmother survived the early 20th-century Armenian genocide in Turkey. Although I knew some stories about my relatives, they were laden with holes and inconsistencies. Encounters in my dreams push me to research both personal and general history. I find myself drawing the dreams and the narratives. I create portraits of the people I want to know better. Each artwork promotes themes that I often continue to draw and paint. I have built up a stable of symbols like tunnels and bones. Lately, I have been combining the stories with places where I feel a connection with the unknown.

 

Yeksa Calls

I was having an ordinary, pleasant dream of a dinner party. There were about a dozen of us chatting and eating around a large dining room table. The landline phone rang. The hostess went to answer it. She came back and said the call was for me. I thought, “Who even knows I am here [in this dream]?” It was my great grandaunt Yeksa on the other end of the line. She said “Don’t forget about us. We had a deal. You were going to tell our story.” I had been neglecting them, and felt both scared and guilty.

I never knew Yeksa but she makes me pay attention. When I look at old family photos, I want to know more about her. I imagine her as some kind of all powerful matriarch. By drawing her and her story, I get to know her.

 

The Tunnel

This is how I picture my grandmother’s escape from Malatya around 1924. For the previous ten years she and her sister had been working as “maids” for a Turkish family. This is all that was ever said about that time.

Yeksa (paternal aunt) and her son Hovaness came to get them. They escaped in the night on a donkey through tunnels under the city. They could hear the frightening hoof beats of soldiers’ horses above them.

I found out later that Malatya is built on an ancient city, and does indeed have tunnels underneath it. I also discovered that it must have been quite dangerous for my great aunt to go back into Turkey at this time. Malatya was at civil war, with Kurdish fighters vying for and briefly obtaining control of the city.

 

Ball of Ancestors

My mother gives me a present. She is holding a gaseous white sphere. It is composed of spirits with faces and smoky bodies all held together in the shape of a globe. It is a moving/living thing. Different spirits move in and out alternately hiding and exposing their naked bodies. In awe, I ask my mother, “What is this?” She happily explains that ten days after you are born, your ball of ancestors arrives. This is my lineage. It is a matriarchal line. Whenever someone is born or dies in our family, their soul arrives from or enters into this ball.

This dream got me thinking about genetic memory and the importance of my female lineage.

It’s pretty much always women giving me messages in my dreams.

 

The Tunnel Dream No. 27

I go to Rhode Island to start on the picture. Theme: My Family’s Story. Everyone is at Mom’s house. Rosemarie, Tracey, Dave, Aunty Rose. Then I realize, Aunty Rose is dead. I am the only one who can see her. I go over and give her a kiss. She’s going to tell me a secret. “A man will come and show you a tunnel.” “To help with the picture?” She changes her mind. “No, he is false. Do not go with him.”

When I wake up, I often find the delivery of the message amusing. I like the part of dreams that do not make sense. It gives me something to work my imagination with.

 

The Well

I’m walking around outside in some woods and fields. I see an old well. I go over and peer down. I hear the voice of my deceased Aunt. “Uncle Paul told me to tell you to ask Steve to help you with the book.”

This message was clear and literal. I did ask Steve for help and it was just what I needed.

 

Circle Dance

I am in Providence, RI, with my partner James searching around for something. (Maybe something I have lost, maybe something about finding the meaning of my Armenianness.) We see a church and I think, “Oh, this is it.” We go inside and it is tall and light with empty pews. But I get a sinking feeling, no this is not it. This is the patriarchy? There is a woman there. I tell her what I am looking for. She says, “Go out back, that is what you want.” We go in the backyard of the church and find a worn-down-to-dirt large circle in the middle of the field. It is an aha moment. This is where my people have danced, forever. The ground is worn down from the circle dancing. This feels good. I will dance when I get home. We continue walking and go to the edge of the field where there is a stone wall. A snake jumps out and bites my finger which starts bleeding profusely. The hurt is shocking and wakes me up.

Important encounters stick with me. My insatiable curiosity makes me want to know more. I question everything.

 

Monkey

I’m walking in the woods near a river. I’m holding the hand of a young boy whom I am taking care of. We see something in the woods. It’s a monkey. Kind of a circus monkey in a jacket with epaulets. The monkey moves to our path. I excitedly realize that if I take the monkey’s hand, I can fly. The three of us go up. The monkey kind of dissolves, but he’s still there, small, in my hand. In my other hand is the boy, tiny, asleep, tired. He’s in rough shape. He’s been beat up or something. I’m flying really fast over water, the ocean. I lose control every so often, and start plummeting into the water. But as I’m about to panic, I realize I won’t be hurt even if I fall in. If I just relax, trust, go with the flow, I can fly.

A little mystery and the unknowable keep art making interesting.