FRESNO, Calif. —For more than two decades, photographer Winslow Martin traveled to Armenia and Artsakh, capturing not only the region’s landscapes, but also the lives, resilience, and spirit of its people. His photographs now carry even greater significance, preserving glimpses of a homeland and a way of life forever altered by war and displacement.
In this interview with the Armenian Museum of Fresno, Winslow reflects on his experiences in Artsakh, the people he met, and the stories behind the images featured in Artsakh: A Homeland Lost currently on display at the museum through October 16, 2026.
AMF: When did you first pick up a camera, and when did you realize photography could become a way of telling important human stories?
WM: Like many, I took snapshots as a young kid with my Brownie. By the time I was 13 my interest in taking pictures had evolved and I bought a more serious camera, with interchangeable lenses, using 35 mm film. Ironically, I bought this camera — a Russian Zenit, at the Gum Department Store in Moscow. I went to middle school in London at the time and we went there on a school trip.
In high school, my interest turned to nature photography, and I left photography behind once I began college. After time spent as a history teacher I came back to photography and focused more on people. That was then that I saw the storytelling power of the medium. Long story short, I worked at a chain of community newspapers, where the point was to capture the spirit and people we profiled. Along the way I began creating longer form documentary projects combining images and words. My work in Armenia began happenstantially while working at the newspaper and it was with this Armenia work and passion that I honed my skill and profound interest in telling important stories which speak of the present to the future. This lasting effect can hold a deep humanism by combing photos and stories (I call it “historytelling”). I love that impact this can have on viewers when done well.
AMF: You first visited Armenia in 1999 and Artsakh in 2003. What drew you there, and what made you continue returning for more than two decades?
WM: My statement for the Fresno exhibition says it best — the Armenians I met warmly insisted that I return, and I was deeply touched by their kindness and hospitality.
This combined with an immediate fascination in Armenians’ history and culture was an ambrosia for my lifelong interests and photography. The reasons for returning over and over for the last 27 years goes well beyond these initial draws, but they were the root impulse which still work on me.AMF: How would you describe Artsakh and everyday life there before the 2020 war?
WM: I only visited Artsakh twice before the war, each time for a brief stay. It would be presumptuous of me to describe my impressions as anything but on the surface. That said, I often experienced the same open-arm welcome. At other times there was a kind of caution or suspicion of me and my camera that I did not experience in Armenia — understandable considering the hardships the people of Artsakh had endured over the previous 15 years. In 2003 the infrastructure was pretty broken, especially in Shushi. By 2008 things had changed noticeably, with newer building, better roads, and all that comes with successful rebuilding. I assumed some quality-of-life improvements grew hand in hand.
Honoring The People, Culture And Enduring Spirit Of Artsakh
AMF: During the 44-Day War, you documented the home front in Armenia (volunteers, soldiers, the wounded, grieving families and refugees). Which moments from that time have stayed with you most?
WM: My photography is all about being close to situations, open and involved with people, and being interested in anything they are going through. It is intimate in its way. By 2020 my relationship with Armenia and a circle of friends there was well established, as was my affection and dedication to them. The 44 Day War changed everything for Armenia and in my life too. Being in a nation and with people I so loved, despite being an outsider, was so much a part with such existential threats in the backyard. That bonded me more and obliged me more to tell stories I heard and saw. It was the turning point for me to devote my entire work life to my work, my experiences in Armenia, and share it with the world there and outside of Armenia as best I could.
So The 44 Day War changed even my life. There are so many moments to talk about, but I will focus on two.
One night my translator friend and I visited a family who had just received news that their son had been killed. He was in his late 20s and a father of three young children. I felt terrible to intrude with my camera, but they agreed. The mother simply wept inconsolably. The father sat at the dining room table, covered with photographs of the family, of his son over many years. He simply stared into space with his red, tear-sore eyes. I imagined my son being killed in war and cried that night. That broke through the even keel you need to make photos in a traumatic situation.
Second — simply put, the Yerablur Military Pantheon. I went too many times and saw so much grief. Too many coffins. As a friend said, the nation was dressed in black and Yerablur was its epicenter.
To add, I seemed to respond more viscerally to conflict everywhere after the war. Not that I understood better. Not that my life wasn’t completely safe — but even that now felt like more of a privilege than ever, motivating me to enter into the struggles of others and help lift the blinders, both my own and those of others, even if only a little.
AMF: The use of drones and other advanced weapons made the 2020 war especially frightening for civilians. What did the people you photographed tell you about living under that constant and often unseen threat?
WM: People rarely talked about anything which would imply a fear of defeat. As an outsider it was clear to me that Armenia was simply outmanned and out gunned, with no foreign agents like Turkey or Israel supplying modern training and weaponry. I could afford to understand this coldly. When I talked about this, I was so quickly shut down that I kept this concern to myself. It is not that I was smarter or more realistic. Armenians I met were focused on the crisis at hand and what it would take to prevail. That said, towards the end of the war I began to hear “ïs it worth it.”
As for the Armenians who I met living with war in all of its realities and fears? Much energy was funneled into volunteer work or following news events or just trying to continue everyday life. At one point you could say Yerevan was quiet but moving on as always. For most, the biggest in-your-face stress was not about the big picture of war and politics but for the son, father, uncle, neighbor, friend in the army. That fear was often lived out within the walls of a house or apartment complex or village square.
AMF: Soldiers and civilians experience war very differently. What did your photographs reveal about the effects of the conflict on families and children?
WM: I am not sure how to answer this. It is really the viewers who should, because I cannot detach my having been there. In a way, a first-time viewer of my photos sees what the photos reveal more purely.
I do know that the needs of children were stressful but distracted adults from what could have been a 24/7 worry —children need hands-on care, including playtime. And they did play. The effects of the conflict depended on both personality and the circumstance of an individual’s life. The woman who was pregnant and whose husband was on the battlefield was in a different situation and head space than a grandmother who was with her daughter, grand kids and who had no men in her life at war. Or the single guy we met who simply toughed it out while judging the “complainers.” I remember thinking, Easy for you to say—you have only yourself to worry about. So while there is, of course, a collective experience it is the individual stories and differences which catch my attention.
But big picture? Trauma is the best word to use for the collective experience I witnessed. I almost need someone to talk with about this in a face-to-face conversation to discover what I think; to explain what I sense.
Educational Exhibit is Permanently on Display at the AMF
AMF: In 2023, you spent five weeks with Artsakh Armenians who had been forcibly displaced from their ancestral homeland. What was it like to meet people confronting such an enormous loss?
WM: Photographing refugees from genocide was the most trying and heart wrenching work I have ever done. The fact that some were understandably very reluctant to be photographed was clear, but some said yes, some others asked me to— so I took that with the belief that any story they told, any moment they willingly shared was important for the world to see and remember.
To be frank, at one point Armenians began to criticize the refugees for being ungrateful towards Armenia, blamed Armenia and Armenians for wanting to leave for Russia or Europe and not stay and build a life in “this homeland”. For not seeing the sacrifice of Armenia to protect Artsakh since the early 90s. One Armenian friend simply said, “they should go to Yerablur to see the blood-stained earth of our sons and fathers.” True, Armenians were like a communal relief agency. As during the war, they at first rallied for their brethren. True, some Artsakis I met did blame and say that Artsakh was lost because of Armenia’s politicians in particular. Agree or disagree, I saw most of this resentment towards Armenia as the trauma of incalculable loss and the need to explain what in ways is unexplainable. The blame from Armenians was a kind of pride for their valor and anger at those refugees who did not see that.
I learned that at times of great trauma complex attitudes and divisions arise, fair or not. The division hurts everyone but it is a global phenomenon which is not easily fixed with easy words or even attempted dialogue. All this shocked me, but then I am not from there. Today, sadly, the divide between Armenians of Armenia and Artsakh has grown. It must abate for the good of each person and the nation.
Whatever the case, meeting the refugees was humbling, touching and I was deeply honored to be with them as they faced circumstances beyond anyone’s true understanding. And their Armenian way of welcome and respect was ever present. Amazing!
AMF: Was there one person, family or photograph from those five weeks that, for you, captures the human impact of the displacement?
WM: Yes. When I first met a mother, Mariam, in a Metsamor refugee center (aka apartment complex) she came up to me and my friend and exclaimed, “There you are — I have been waiting for you!” She is a deeply religious woman who believed in that kind of fate. She felt, she saw, she believed, even that. We spent quite a bit of time with her and her family, from her first Sunday church service to meals and their resettlement in Yerevan. Most significantly her son had been severely injured, burned by an explosion at a gas depot on the road from Stepanakert to Armenia. We visited him in the hospital, along with other victims of this calamity, and were there when he came home. He told us all about it.
Also, Mariam had, at great risk, hidden the cross from her church in Artsakh in the trunk of her car. Had the Azeris along the road to Armenia done a car check as they did, and found the cross it would have been a big problem, a possibly life threatening one as she told us. But she took the risk. I wanted to see the cross. Truthfully, it would have been a great photo and story, but she gave it to someone at Etchmiadzin and we were never able to coordinate a visit. When I left, she gave me a plaque with a prayer on it which she had brought from Artsakh. She gave me a gift with all that I asked of her. There you have it— the Armenian spirit. Amazing. I have not seen them since Nov 2023. I am going in October and I must look her up somehow. She is a strong and loving person.
AMF: For those of us who have never been forced to flee our homes, how can your photographs help us understand what it means to lose not only a house, but also a community, livelihood, history and sense of belonging?
WM: The grief you will see. The stories told in my photos and words they tell; however brief, can tell something to help understand what we do not know. If someone takes time and space to enter those mini worlds and use your capacity to have compassion and imagine details of what it would be to lose so much of what you know and love. Some of the photos in their specificity speak to larger truths, as stories do. Put yourself in their shoes after you sense their plight— not generally, but in detail. As an instinct not an effort.
At their best, photographs can transport someone, even for a moment, into the reality they depict. They can point to an immeasurable loss, but it is up to the viewer to truly see it, imagine it and feel it—sometimes so deeply that it becomes difficult to sleep.And sometimes my photographs about a time and place can move one to learn more, read more, look more. To put their plight closer to your center of attention. And occasionally viewers will show them to others, thinking they too will be moved and understand more. At best, my photographs can help spark or strengthen this kind of education and understanding.
Do they actually promote, let alone effect change? Probably not, but change can happen in unforeseen ways and if photographs touch someone or a community who can actually do something, all the better. There is no magic wand or obvious way to the good, but steps of understanding and action are not nothing.
AMF: As a photographer, how do you balance documenting history as it unfolds with respecting people during some of the most painful and vulnerable moments of their lives?
WM: I have kind of answered this already, but the answer is also simple. Being clear about who I am, what I have done and why I am there as a history teller, I am clearly not a journalist. As someone who has been coming and exhibiting in Armenia—through a hopeful and positive, not a negative and critical lens, the explanation is compelling, true and usually draws people to me and my camera. I tell them that I want to be invisible as a photographer with a camera but not sneaky, rather open and present as a person. I show that I am genuinely interested in them, and I believe other will be too. Mutual respect can exist no matter how painful life is for those I am meeting, because the human urge to communicate and share their story is strong, sometimes even stronger at times of great difficulty.
If someone says no, then I respect that. If someone feels shame about being photographed, I might just talk and see if later they might change their minds—not to manipulate, but by coming to trust that my results were more about the respect of truth than anything else.
One more thing— I was once in Yerablur. It was packed with funerals and mourners. I was a complete part of the scene and to take meaningful photos you sometimes must be very close. No one minded. I could tell and I had full permission. But a wave of guilt came over me. How dare I? Who am I? This is so wrong, and I felt all the grief around me, and the interior privacy of that grief, for all the public displays of that day. I could not bear being an intruder. It stopped me until a voice in my head said “do not give in to your petty complaints and reservations. You are here to do a job. To prove. To show.” I had no choice at this point but to continue. That was a responsibility not a choice.
Right or wrong, that is what I thought, and I am glad I continued. It took a certain sudden numbness to continue, but I learned that too goes with the job of not stopping.
AMF: You are not Armenian, yet you have devoted more than 27 years to photographing Armenia and its people. How has that outsider’s perspective influenced your work—and how has Armenia changed you personally?
WM: At one point I thought that I had become more of an insider but then realized that was impossible. Yes, I was photographing as if from inside but with other people’s feedback. I had an intimate familiarity with the cuisine, music, art, roads, traffic, villages, Yerevan. I had driven all over, dealt with police, museum directors, educated elite, the poorest of the poor and mostly just wonderful everyday people. By now, my roots there are quite deep. But I am an outsider still, not just because I do not live there or speak Armenian. I try to have that bend to the advantage and impact of my art.
I attempt in exhibits, talks, and my storytelling stage performances to remind Armenians of their blessings, their gifts, their inherent character— all of which I have seen and experienced. The country of a million helping hands. The small country with a big heart. Such intelligent, intense, blunt, and kind people. The upside of Armenians is rare and worthy our attention.
I say “let this outsider with his feet in two worlds feel the warmth of the air you breath but do not notice.” I asked a friend if photographing as an outsider was superficial problematic (a big discussion in contemporary documentary photography). They said “no,” the opposite. You see things we have forgotten. You remind us of what we should open our eyes to. I actually think there is some truth to that. So, I love being an “ABC” — Armenian by Choice. It is a badge of honor, proudly worn and very consciously chosen.
It has changed me by giving me the most rewarding and meaning work of my life—more a mission than work. It has helped me, an Anglo American with my traditions, to be more openly passionate, opinionated. It has taught me even more about the importance of family and community. The power of a simple genatz, of a table full of food or a bunch of flowers when you visit. Like a simple story which speaks volumes, these little things have changed my perspective on little things in life that are in a way life changing—more about us than me you could say. It is the dream of most of us to become a better person. I doubt Armenia has made me a better person, but it has certainly enlarged my world in a way I cherish. Could this have happened elsewhere, say in Greece or Brazil or wherever? In its way sure, but I am lucky that it happened to be in Armenia.
AMF: What do you hope viewers take away from Artsakh: A Homeland Lost today, while these events remain fresh, and what do you hope the photographs communicate decades from now?
WM: I think my answer to question #9 covers that. Today I hope the presentation simply opens peoples’ eyes to Artsakh, Armenia and human suffering today in a way they have not, specifically, seen. I hope it is a personal experience they take to heart, not just another bummer quickly sent into that morass in our hearts and souls which just cannot take it anymore. And I am really big on the hope that someone will now follow the news, try the food, explore the culture, even travel to Armenia. Artsakh is an integral part of the Armenian story and exists in Armenia today too. My show is, you could say, a tragedy. It is a terrible chapter of our times. But I hope that in decades from now the photos will be a reminder not just of that, but of incredible resilience and the ability not just to survive but build. we cannot see that now, but I of course wish that for the future. I certainly pray that reality does not unfold such that the photos of this or any other tragedy come to be known as a document of a precursor to even worse events. But this we cannot know. Hope is a crystal ball I do not have, so I hope the photos have meaning as a document of truth of something that mattered and still matters. At least that.
Sunday, October 11, 6 pm
SYUNIK: The Last Border
Documentary
FREE Admission
SUNDAY, October 18, 1:30 pm
There’s No Place Like HOME
A special evening
at the Armenian Museum of Fresno
550 E. Shaw Ave. Fresno, CA 93710
Friday, October 23, from 5 to 8 pm
The Art and Life of Robin Armen Dolarian
ISABEL BAYRAKDARIAN CONCERT
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