Club Talks: Arsen Yarman on Armenian Goldsmiths and the Jewels History Forgot

As soon as I opened Arsen Yarman’s two-volume Jewelry and Armenian Goldsmiths Under the Ottomans, I knew that this was not a book to skim. It is vast, scholarly and deeply personal in its mission to bring renewed attention to the Armenian goldsmiths whose names, hands and creations helped shape the jewellery culture of the Ottoman world.

A researcher and independent historian of Ottoman Armenian heritage, Yarman has spent years tracing these forgotten makers through archives, family collections and scattered historical records. The resulting two-volume work is both the culmination of that detective work and an attempt to restore the Armenian masters who helped shape Ottoman jewellery culture to their rightful place in history.

For this edition of Club Talks, I spoke with him about the thrill of unearthing lost names and missing jewels, the challenge of piecing together fragmented archives, and why the legacy of these remarkable craftsmen deserves to be far better known.

There were also moments that forced me to rethink sections entirely. Some records that first appeared isolated gradually revealed themselves as part of much larger networks of families, workshops, merchants and court connections. At that point, the story could no longer be told only through individuals. It became clear that this was also the history of a long-standing civilisation of production.

That trust allowed important discoveries to emerge. Through private collections and family estates, I was able to document works by masters whose names had faded from view, including jewellers such as Mıgırdiç Melkonyan and Levon Mazlumyan.

For me, the visual richness of the book is not simply illustration. It is the return of a shared memory.

There are also diplomatic jewels described in documents but still physically missing, such as a diamond engraved with the tughra of Abdülhamid II believed to have been created for Queen Victoria. In historical research, a document may prove that an object existed, while the object itself remains silent.

In that sense, the book is also a call to search again for lost treasures.

Reading it, I felt I was hearing the voices of craftsmen who had worked at the bench more than a century earlier. It showed that Armenian jewellers were not only skilled makers, but part of a disciplined and closely connected professional community.

For me, that document remains one of the most valuable discoveries in the book because it preserves not only how they worked, but how they lived.

Another moment that affected me profoundly came while researching the swordsmith known in his works as Acemoglu. I identified him as the Armenian Chief Swordsmith Sarkis Acemoğlu, who served the Ottoman palace, and later learned that he had been buried in an Armenian cemetery in Istanbul.

I searched the cemetery for days, reading inscriptions stone by stone, until I finally found his fallen gravestone, leaning into the earth and almost forgotten. It is difficult to describe that feeling. It was as if a master who had been silent for centuries had begun to speak again.

Certain technical traditions were especially associated with Armenian jewellers, including sophisticated foil-backing used to enhance diamonds and the strong adhesive once known as Armenian cement, used in stone-setting. Contemporary sources also frequently remarked on their skill in mounting and finishing precious stones.

So rather than looking for one motif, I would look for intelligence of workmanship, elegance of proportion and technical confidence. Often there is no signature, but the craftsmanship speaks for itself.

Inspired to learn more? Order your copy of Jewelry and Armenian Goldsmiths Under the Ottomans here and use the discount code KRTN10 to receive 10% off.