The backdrop of a carpet, silver belts and head decorations, a metal bowler made in 1724 in the East Armenia, two festive dresses, a blue water jug, vessels for milk made of green and turquoise glazed clay, a fabric pouch with gold threads, an agaman — a bag for salt from Voskepar, a clay vessel for salt, "khurdzhin" textile bags made by Yelena Barsegian of Noyemberyan district in the 1910's. The name says nothing to an observer, but serves, along with the indicated years of birth and death (1881–1917), as a rare recognition of individual human presence behind an exhibit. This inevitable presence is the blind spot within a system of classified materials, hierarchical labour, constructed narratives of culture justifying power, as well as a legacy of respective conventions and automatisms pampered by state cultural institutions. Isn't this presence also what induces the lure of a thing, makes one crave it, preserve it, place it in a state between hiding and exposure in an attempt to rationalize the admiration, get hold of relentlessly escaping memories, intercept these signals, and direct these voices? Lulled and gilded to build a myth about distant frontiers of a non-existent empire, things play their part as alienated illustrations of tamed lands, securely pinned under glass, locked inside a treasure-box.