18 & 19 oct 2025 @ ​Morvan - Bourgogne

Spiritual Journey and Ritual in BurgundySpirituality and ritual are deeply woven into the culture of northern Sri Lanka, where I was born and raised until the age of thirteen. These traditions have shaped my sensibility as an artist — the connection between body, earth, and spirit remains at the heart of my practice.

Last summer, in Tonnerre, Burgundy, I collaborated with the town hall’s art gallery to create an open-space performance titled “Joint Family.” The piece involved fifteen participants and unfolded over forty-five minutes, using natural materials inspired by the five elements. I invited my artist friend Cécile Maldera, who then introduced me to Eric Marshall, a guide in shamanism. His connection to natural performance practices led to an invitation for me to join a shamanic ritual at the end of October 2025.

I became a prominent participant in this two-day ceremony held in the hills of the Morvan forest in Burgundy. Saturday was devoted to prayer and dance rituals; Sunday centered on nature, fire prayer, and sona. With no mobile network in the forest, the experience felt deeply spiritual — a return to simplicity and connection. Participants shared food and meals together, reinforcing a sense of community. The conch and organic percussion instruments guided the rhythm of the ritual. I mainly played the conch, which awakened childhood memories of Hindu temples near my birthplace.

The conch I used carried its own story — I had bought it in Pointe-à-Pitre, Guadeloupe, from a street vendor near the canal where Tamil laborers from South India first arrived in 1854.

Those two days of autumn sunlight and spiritual prayer felt like a healing retreat from urban life. On Saturday night, after a long prayer, we sat in silence for a few minutes. Eric spoke about spirituality and the awakening of the third eye. Afterward, we shared a “Joint Family” dinner and I drifted into peaceful dreams.

At dawn, I woke at 5 a.m., made a few sketches, and began writing part of this reflection. I planned to paint a third eye on canvas as an offering for the prayer room. After a simple breakfast of green tea, I returned to the open space, unfolded my canvas, and painted as the sun rose. When I presented the work to Eric, he embraced me warmly and hung the painting — the Third Eye — on the main wall of the prayer room.

Later, we gathered outdoors to build the main fireplace, guided by four guardians of the fire. As the organic drums echoed through the forest, we began the fire prayer. In that moment of devotion, I felt inspired to paint — capturing Eric’s presence and the essence of the ritual. When it was complete, Eric named the painting “Guardian of the Fire.” It felt like the perfect title. We ended the day with a group photo beside the flames.

As the sun set, I said goodbye to Eric and the others. Before I left, he handed me his latest book on shamanism — a gesture of connection and gratitude. The slow, three-hour drive back to my home near Paris felt like a gentle return from another world. Even now, the spirit of that ritual lingers within me.

Eric and I are already planning another performance inspired by the five elements for spring 2027 — naturally, it will include rice and curry.

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Spiritualité et Rituel : Un Voyage à Travers les Cinq Éléments
​La spiritualité et le rituel sont profondément enracinés dans la culture du nord du Sri Lanka, où je suis né et où j’ai grandi jusqu’à l’âge de treize ans. Ces traditions ont façonné ma manière de voir le monde — en mêlant la nature, la famille et le sacré dans la vie quotidienne.
L’été dernier, à Tonnerre, en Bourgogne, en collaboration avec la galerie d’art de la mairie, j’ai créé une performance intitulée « Joint Family ». Elle s’est déroulée dans un espace ouvert, avec quinze participants, et a duré quarante-cinq minutes. La performance explorait les cinq éléments, en utilisant des matériaux naturels comme médiums d’expression. J’ai invité mon amie artiste Cécile Maldera, qui m’a ensuite présenté Eric Marshall, un guide du chamanisme. Son lien profond avec la performance spirituelle et naturelle l’a conduit à m’inviter à un rituel chamanique à la fin du mois d’octobre 2025.
Je suis devenu un participant actif de cette cérémonie de deux jours, organisée dans les collines de la forêt du Morvan, en Bourgogne.
Le samedi était consacré à la prière et aux rituels de danse, tandis que le dimanche mettait à l’honneur la nature, la prière du feu et le sona.
Sans réseau téléphonique ni distractions, nous étions pleinement présents — connectés à la nature et les uns aux autres. Nous partagions les repas, les histoires et les moments de silence. Les principaux instruments du rituel étaient le coquillage (conque) et les percussions organiques. Je jouais principalement de la conque, dont le son me rappelait les cérémonies des temples hindous de mon enfance.
La conque elle-même portait son histoire. Je l’avais achetée à Pointe-à-Pitre, en Guadeloupe, à un vendeur ambulant près du canal où les ouvriers tamouls venus d’Inde du Sud étaient arrivés pour la première fois en 1854. Le son de la conque ce jour-là résonnait comme un écho de mémoire et de migration — un pont entre les continents et les siècles.
Ces deux journées d’automne, sous un ciel clair, furent une véritable guérison — une pause bienfaisante loin de l’intensité de la vie citadine. Le samedi soir, après la dernière prière, nous nous sommes assis en silence. Eric a parlé de l’éveil du troisième œil, la vision intérieure de la spiritualité. Ensuite, nous avons partagé un dîner joyeux de « Joint Family », avant de tomber dans un sommeil profond et paisible.
Je me suis réveillé à l’aube, vers 5 heures, rempli d’une énergie créative. J’ai esquissé quelques dessins, écrit une partie de cette réflexion, et j’ai eu l’inspiration de peindre le Troisième Œil sur une toile en guise d’offrande pour la salle de prière. Après un petit déjeuner simple au thé vert, je suis allé dans l’espace de prière ouvert et j’ai peint tandis que le soleil se levait. Lorsque j’ai présenté l’œuvre à Eric, il m’a chaleureusement enlacé et a accroché la peinture — Le Troisième Œil — sur le mur principal de la salle de prière.
Plus tard dans la matinée, nous nous sommes réunis pour construire un grand foyer avec l’aide des quatre gardiens du feu. Au moment où les tambours organiques ont commencé à résonner dans la forêt, la prière du feu a débuté. J’ai ressenti une profonde dévotion et j’ai commencé à peindre à nouveau — cette fois, en capturant l’essence de la présence d’Eric dans les flammes. Lorsque j’ai terminé, Eric a regardé la peinture et a dit : « Appelons-la Gardien du Feu. » Le titre m’a semblé parfaitement juste.
Alors que le soleil se couchait, nous avons pris une photo de groupe près du feu. Avant mon départ, Eric m’a offert son dernier livre sur le chamanisme — un beau symbole de notre cheminement spirituel partagé. J’ai conduit lentement jusqu’à ma maison en banlieue parisienne, encore imprégné du rythme du rituel.
Aujourd’hui encore, cette expérience reste vivante en moi — un rappel que la spiritualité, l’art et la nature sont inséparables. Eric et moi prévoyons déjà une nouvelle performance autour des cinq éléments pour le printemps 2027 — et oui, elle se terminera par du riz et du curry.

Ruth Keshishian is a Cypriot-born Armenian intellectual who came of age in the early years of the Republic of Cyprus. She vividly remembers the early 1960s, when the newly established Goethe‑Institut in Nicosia began staging high‑quality string quartet concerts and offering graded German language classes—a great inspiration during her youth

​Ruth also engaged in scholarly and communal discussions. She contributed a paper on “Printing in Armenian Movable Type Fonts and the Culture of Reading on the Island of Cyprus” to a major conference on Armenians in Greece and Cyprus, held at Haigazian University in 2019. This highlights her deep interest in Armenian printing traditions and cultural heritage

​Ruth Keshishian is widely recognized for preserving and promoting literary and historical discourse in Cyprus. She’s been celebrated in local media and remembered as a key reference voice on rare book fairs, local publishing, and cultural memory in Nicosia

A Voice for Armenian-Cypriot Memory - Her voice has now found its rest, but her legacy will continue to echo through the pages she preserved, the conversations she nurtured, and the lives she touched.

Rest In Peace - Ruth Keshishian on 6 August 2025, in Nicosia, Cyprus.​

There were no mobile phones or social media back then. The only way to reach family was through a phone card, used in the CYTA telephone booths next to the park. Those hardworking women labored from Monday morning to Saturday night—their only day off was Sunday. On that day, they would emerge with joyful smiles, like birds flying free from a cage.

Usually, they’d start their sunday by attending the "Holy Cross" Catholic church next to the Paphos Gate, followed by phone calls to families, and then head to the Cyta park, where they'd spend the day chatting and sharing rice and curry. These moments were sweet—filled with laughter and connection—but always carried a quiet undertone of sadness, like a thin line running through the memory.

Since 2012, I’ve returned to Cyprus regularly. Each visit, I make it a point to walk through the same gate—a ritual that stirs memories, both distant and vivid. While the footpaths and surrounding area saw some renovation over a decade ago, the wooden gate itself has remained untouched since the end of the medieval era. Beyond it, the buffer zone—still marked by its familiar blue-and-white line—stands frozen in time, unchanged since the 1974 conflict.

Beneath the tunnel at Paphos Gate, artist Glyn Hughes created an installation titled Synergy. It stood as a quiet witness to the passage of time—much like my own memories.

Bethlehem, Summer 1996 – Where History Breathes and Faith Resonates

In the scorching summer of 1996, I journeyed to Bethlehem, with few friends, a name that carries echoes of two millennia of history. The land was parched under a relentless sun—a true desert climate, where the heat clings like a second skin. As we walked through its narrow streets, I felt an odd familiarity, a sense of tension in the air: soldiers stationed everywhere, rifles slung over their shoulders, checkpoints marking invisible borders. It instantly reminded me of Jaffna in the late ’80s—a city under the weight of conflict, where life persists against all odds.

Yet, amid this backdrop, the people of Bethlehem radiated something extraordinary: humility and warmth. Every smile felt genuine, every greeting an open door. We visited a local restaurant and tasted authentic Palestinian cuisine for the first time—rich, layered flavors, and surprisingly spicy, almost like Sri Lankan food, igniting my senses as much as the desert heat.

But the true heartbeat of Bethlehem lay beyond its streets, inside a sacred structure that has drawn pilgrims for centuries: the Church of the Nativity, believed to mark the birthplace of Jesus Christ. The headline of my journey—the reason Bethlehem lives in the world’s memory. Standing there, I was struck by its unique architecture: four different periods of history, four different churches layered one upon another, each stone whispering the faith of generations.

Inside, the atmosphere was unlike anything I had ever felt—a deep, vibrating energy, as though time itself had paused. I stood silently, thinking of Jesus, 2000 years ago. What was His life like in this land? How did hope and hardship coexist then as they do now? The questions lingered, echoing in the stillness.

Bethlehem, in that summer of 1996, was more than a destination—it was an encounter with faith, history, and humanity. A city where ancient walls hold sacred memories, and where people, despite struggles, welcome strangers with open hearts.

​Arriving in Cyprus in November 1995 was a real challenge for me. It was the first time I had ever left my home country to live abroad, far away from my family. I was filled with curiosity, endless questions—and fear.

The moment I landed at Larnaca Airport, I felt like I had stepped into a completely different world. At the taxi rank, there were only Mercedes-Benz cars, something I had never seen before. The drive from Larnaca to Nicosia took about 30 minutes, and as the sun set, the unfamiliar roads and landscapes added to my anxiety. I didn’t have a cell phone back then—smartphones were unheard of—so there was no way to check my location or call anyone for reassurance.

When I finally arrived in Nicosia, at 14 Fevriou Street, right across from "Our Lady of Graces Maronite Church", I moved into a large house with 13 other students. For the next three months, we shared everything—space, meals, and experiences. This communal lifestyle was completely new to me. Fortunately, my university was only a 10-minute walk away.

Every day on the island brought something unexpected. Cyprus, though small, carries an immense history—even older than Egypt. Before beginning my main course in Hotel Management, I spent time learning Greek and improving my English.

Yet, every night before bed, homesickness would set in. I would often hide under the sheets and cry, silently carrying the weight of missing home until sleep took over.

By early spring of 1996, I moved into a new home to live more independently. Around that time, I met someone who would profoundly shape my life—my artistic mentor and teacher, Mr. Glyn Hughes. While pursuing my Hotel Management studies, I found myself drawn into the world of art, exploring new dimensions of creativity and self-expression under Glyn’s guidance. He introduced me to weekend art classes in Kaimakli, held next to" Church Agia Varvara", where I immersed myself in painting and creative techniques. Beyond the classroom, Glyn gave me personal lessons and guidance, helping me understand not just the technical aspects of art but also the deeper meaning behind it. Through him, I also became involved in various cultural and artistic activities across the island—experiences that enriched my perspective and shaped my identity in ways I could never have imagined.

Life on this small, seemingly barren island taught me lessons I’ll never forget. Cyprus has a unique magnetic energy—it draws you in, and it never really lets you go. Even today, I return regularly, each visit stirring old memories and new inspirations.

I plan to share more stories from those years in upcoming blog posts—stay tuned for the journey.