Homeing in Yerevan

Being a migrant makes one question familiar routines of (co)existence. As identity fragments through different places and cultures, one wonders what is genuinely valuable in their life and in the suitcases they carry. Coming to a new place, migrants recreate the familiar, blending it with the foreign, reimagining and repurposing the existing context.

When initiated by migrants or displaced people, renovation becomes a remix of place identities.1 It is a claim to place, a demand to be represented within it, and a right to shape its development. This approach to renovation contrasts with those determined by economic interests, which often lead to alienation, disenfranchisement, and even displacement. On the contrary, bottom-up migrant-led renovation engages in a dialogue with place, creating inclusive spaces as a means of integration. This process can be referred to as “homeing.”2

Home is a fluid spatial bricolage, an ongoing process of adaptation and transformation, always in the making and never fully complete. At the core of homeing is the desire to create spaces of belonging and community for those who have lost it. It emerges at the intersection of grassroots, DIY renovation practices and social entrepreneurship, blending local urban fabrics with narratives of displaced cultures. In doing so, homeing blurs the boundaries between interior privacy and exterior semi-public realms, between “them” and “us.” It prioritizes inclusion, adaptability, and connection, challenging exclusionary practices often faced by migrants and other vulnerable social groups. Homeing asserts the agency of individuals in shaping their urban surroundings, and challenges the idea of migrants (and urban residents in general) as passive subjects of urban policies, capital-driven interventions, or expert-led architectural experiments.

The urban landscape of Yerevan has a bit of everything all at once: Soviet-era buildings and hyper-modern interiors, ruins in front of the lavish Ramada hotel in the city center, and glass-and-metal malls with global brands neighboring weathered kiosks of local businesses. Ever since the 1970s, residents of Yerevan have claimed their right to shape the cityscape, taking advantage of hectic privatization, loose regulations, and social networks.3 Throughout the city there are numerous examples of DIY structures and repurposed spaces. Garages—one-story structures predominantly located within Soviet apartment blocks—have become spaces for commerce and amenities that host everything from shops and repair workshops to hostels and offices (basically anything but cars).4 Semi-private courtyards harbor individual storage spaces, mini-bars, and cafés. There is also an endless variety of housing extensions that accommodate the changing needs of big, multigenerational families with additional floors and expanded balconies, or that provide a venue for entrepreneurial activities through occupying boiler rooms, rooftops, and basements.5

This context became a fertile ground for the latest migrant-led urban interventions in Yerevan that resulted from the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine. In search of home and belonging, recent migrants have engaged in low-budget, small-scale reinterpretations of existing structures. As experiments rather than coherent and “monumental” statements, homeing happens where regulations loosened, where private spaces can become (semi)public, where neighborhoods enable dialogue and co-creation.

RageGarage, courtyard view. Photo: Daniil Primak.

RageGarage

RageGarage (Rage) is a typical Soviet garage located in a narrow lane, or rather the backyard, of a high-rise Soviet apartment building in the center of Yerevan. It is one of many garages in the area, but with its artistic appearance and invitingly open glass doors, it is clear that RageGarage is no ordinary storage space. Rage is an environmentally friendly vintage shop and event venue, designed using only reused or local materials and objects. Some of them were found at flea markets or even abandoned buildings in Yerevan by Argenika, the creative founder and ex-owner of Rage. 

In March 2022, Argenika returned to her birth city Yerevan with husband and children, having lived in Nizhny Novgorod and Moscow, Russia, since she was six. On the eve of departing from Russia, feeling “completely spaced out,” Argenika packed a collection of her jackets along with just one pair of pants. As she realized upon arrival, the jackets were excessive in Yerevan. This was the starting point for RageGarage. Before moving back to Armenia, Argenika was not engaged in the vintage business, yet cautious consumption shaped both her creative work and everyday habits, existing in forms of hobbies and charity.

Casually offered in a conversation with a friend, the space for Rage—a garage once storing personal belongings—was found ad hoc. It was the perfect combination of a central but slightly hidden location, and also lacked prior interventions, which allowed Argenika to start from scratch:

I entered and saw total chaos—bare earth under my feet, salt on the walls. But on the back wall, there was a piece of black natural basalt. The garage cluster was built next to a basalt quarry, and several garages still have pieces of natural stone. This one had the largest one.

Argenika proudly points out that everything inside the space has meaning and a story to tell:

I’ve never been involved in interior design, but I had a picture in my head of how Rage should look. Blue and pink floor tiles as an homage to Picasso’s Family of Comedians; grey concrete walls, a solid stone desk, and tufa to mark a connection with Yerevan’s architectural history (the city is almost entirely built from tufa). My poor [construction] workers didn’t understand my scribbles. In the end, I glued the layout together from leftover pizza boxes and added markings. Based on that, my designer friend created a proper visualization.

The outcome strayed slightly from her initial ideas, and Argenika admits there were many mistakes, both because she’s not a professional designer and due to the availability (or lack thereof) of materials. The basalt piece replaced the solid rock desk, which turned out to be too costly and time-consuming to make. Old Soviet tiles, which Argenika found after several months of searching, were not floor-mounted but instead mosaically crafted and placed on the walls. The mirror hanging diagonally above the basalt was actually intended to be horizontal, but then one of the hangers broke.

Left: RageGarage, interior view. Photo: Daniil Primak. Right: RageGarage. Lecture by Homeing platform. Photo: Daniil Primak.

Since opening in December 2022, Rage presents a limited, carefully curated collection of vintage and upcycled clothing, shoes, and accessories, as well as jewelry and crockery made by local Armenian craftspeople. But retail is not its central function:

We want people to feel at home here—both migrants and locals. I put a lot of effort into avoiding Rage becoming a segregated space. [Slavic] emigrants will come here anyway, but I want to mix them with the local cool crowd, especially through events. It’s not just about fun. Rage is about connecting different people and about education. Every element is about belonging, cautious consumption, and environmental awareness. 

Rage invites visitors to slow down, to relax and chat, seated in one of the comfortable green armchairs in front of the glass doors on the street. During events, the area becomes a buzzing, Babylonian mix of languages, people, and music. The space is often decorated with red fabric, and sometimes folding chairs and tables with food and drinks are set outside. Events range from evening lectures with an improvised screen made from a bedsheet attached to the walls of the opposite building, to DJ sets or exhibitions on the garage’s rooftop, live music, and vintage markets with local brands serving food and drinks. At around 10:00 p.m., events wrap up to avoid disturbing neighbors and maintain good relations. After all, Rage is still a garage in the yard, even if repurposed.

Museum of New Analogies, bird’s-eye view. A. Kudryashov, “The Voices Are Strange.” An interactive documentary audio performance composed of the director’s random conversations, phone calls, and snoring. Photo: Daniil Primak.

Museum of New Analogies

Alexey, one of the founders of the Museum of New Analogies (MNA), was waiting outside his residential building on a busy Yerevan crossroad. The elevator carried visitors to the eighth floor, past his rental apartment, and up a metal staircase to the half-floor above. Stepping through red metal doors onto the rooftop, a breathtaking view of the pinkish tufa city began to unfold. Alexey humorously compared the scene to Being John Malkovich (1999), referencing its surreal hidden half-floor:

My partner and I found and rented this place by chance while looking for an apartment. The host seemed hesitant to show it, because the ceilings are very low, only 1.8-meters-high. Hence, the price was modest for such a central location. The rooftop, unmentioned in the ad, was an unexpected bonus.

This “unexpected bonus” became a powerful metaphor for migrant experiences, where one finds opportunity in overlooked and disregarded spaces. In gaining access to the rooftop, Alexey immediately declared it to be a physical manifestation of MNA, which previously existed as a hoax between him and his friends. The inaugural MNA event featured an exhibition of old nonfunctional antennas left by former or current residents. Each antenna was marked with a QR-code sticker, which led to an audio recording of Alexey’s friends and acquaintances, who, like him, had left their hometowns and scattered across the world. The repurposing of abandoned antennas—objects designed to receive distant signals—into vessels for migrant stories transformed these mundane objects into nodes linking Yerevan to countless other places, producing a coherent transnational space of mutual presence:

This rooftop is a museum as a space for aesthetic attention, where people come together to admire something, to discuss perspectives, to be connected. It is where you spend time with friends and friends of friends, a micro-community that forms organically. We are open, and anyone can bring their creative idea which fits into a “library format” [i.e. quiet gatherings].

Museum of New Analogies, exterior views. A. Plotnikov, “Alpha Centauri.” A solo performance based on a story about cosmonauts who never made it to space. Photos: Dmitry Lyalin.

These gatherings create a micropublic place allowing habitual contact between people with different cultural backgrounds in a routinized use of shared spaces.6 Connecting directly to Yerevan’s history of DIY place-making and the fuzzy divide between fully public and private spaces, MNA’s rooftop blends naturally into the local context: 

The rooftop can accommodate twenty to thirty people. Some are personally invited, while others find out through word of mouth or social media. We look at the neighbors, they look at us from their balconies. Yerevan has a tradition of rooftop life. Everyone here masters their roof with their own ingenuity. If you look around, you will see sheds, outbuildings, barbecue setups, and chill-out zones. Rooftops here are not just utilitarian surfaces; they invite social life. 

There are minimal objects on the rooftop. Seating is improvised using pallets with cushions for comfort, which can be easily reconfigured to accommodate different gathering types or serve as functional surfaces (tables, props). Running water allows for cleaning and an inflatable pool during hot summers. Electricity enables a projector and mobile lamps, extending events past sunset. Food and drinks are sometimes provided, or attendees bring their own. Most of the attendees are Slavic migrants, but Armenians also come. Potluck-style gatherings mix cultures through shared food experiences and build community across cultural boundaries.

The quiet approach of MNA allows visitors to develop a deeper connection with Yerevan: observing the skyline, listening to street sounds and birdsong, noticing the changing light. This multisensory experience is a crucial component of homeing, when unfamiliar spaces become encoded with meaning and memory. Through these embodied experiences, MNA transforms the rooftop from simply a physical location into a place of practice, where identity is performed, belonging is created, and home is actively made through building new connections.

“Lost&Found Bureau” exhibition, bird’s-eye view. Photo: Daniil Primak.

Lost&Found Bureau

In mid-September 2024, the “Lost&Found Bureau” exhibition took place in a garage space of the Library for Architecture in Yerevan, a mansion with a courtyard located in a residential area of the city center. Curated by the Homeing Platform, the exhibition was inspired by Yerevan’s tradition of repurposing garages and presented the space as a newcomer’s room: semi-empty and waiting to be domesticated. Its deliberate sparseness sought to embody the common state experienced by migrants and displaced individuals, and capture the liminal space between departure and settlement.

The plain interior of the exhibition featured a wooden window frame hanging on the wall, a mirror, several chairs, shelves, and a desk. An existing metal shelving structure left by the previous owner was adapted with a tabletop and a desk lamp. All the objects placed on the shelves and desk—books, cutlery, and other personal items—were brought from the homes of recent migrants to Yerevan. Many objects had traveled with their owners from their previous homes, carrying emotional significance and embedded histories that transcended their utilitarian function. They were what people chose to preserve when forced to leave almost everything behind.

The exhibition invited active participation. A mirror and a map allowed visitors to leave their own memories of home or messages to loved ones using markers and sticky notes. But the centerpiece of the exhibition was a wooden cube with a chair and lamp inside, which had previously traveled between Yerevan, Tbilisi, Batumi, and Berlin, collecting stories of those who were forced to leave their homes since 2022 while mirroring the movement patterns of many displaced people in the region. The cube was coated in bubble wrap to create an intimate environment where one could ponder or engage with a questionnaire about their former homes, their objects, smells, traditions, and surroundings. Having previously gathered over two hundred memories, during the exhibition in Yerevan the cube stood bare, without the protective barrier to allow a better view of the improvised room.

Left: “Lost&Found Bureau” exhibition, interior view showing mixed reality. Image courtesy of Homeing platform. Right: "Lost&Found Bureau" exhibition, Mapping memories and dreams of lost homes. Image courtesy of Anastasia Nachenkina.

The apparent emptiness of the room was an illusion. Memories collected during the cube’s travels formed the basis for poetic reinterpretation by artists from the Caucasus region in virtual reality. Wearing a VR headset, visitors could see the room filled with objects and images that spoke to memory and longing. A crystal night-light, a giant soft toy, freshly brewed coffee, a cupboard, a vyshyvanka (a traditional Ukrainian embroidered shirt), and other symbolic items offered glimpses into past lives or imagined future homes. This juxtaposition of an empty physical room with rich virtual content expressed how memories endure even when material possessions are lost.

Epilogue

Homeing is both an act of place-making and an act of care, fostering inclusion and social cohesion. It is driven by the needs, desires, and resourcefulness of individuals who seek to rebuild their sense of belonging and bridge their past and present after semi-voluntary migration or forced displacement. Formerly overlooked or marginal spaces can become vibrant cultural nexuses that unite diverse people, where history and newness cohabit. Homeing in Yerevan highlights the fluid, relational, and participatory nature of dealing with space, in which people shape their surroundings as much as their surroundings shape them. It is a reciprocal way of (re)claiming the city as a space of human connection, collective memory, and shared futures. Homeing underscores cities’ potential to evolve, to be reimagined, rethought, reprogrammed, and renovated in ways that are more inclusive, organic, and socially just.