Shalom

A few weeks ago, I decided to take a cruise down main street in the auld Beetle.  I journeyed down main street giving people the peace sign in reply to their thumbs up.  I parked at the end of South Main and made my way up the road towards bricked area of city centre.  I spotted a man sitting on a bench that looked like he could use some company, so I enquired, “Pardon me, sir, would you mind if I sit for a spell?”

He nodded and I sat down beside him and bathed in the spring sunbeams.  The man looked a little out of place amongst the myriad of striplings ambling up and down the pavement.  He was a white headed bearded chap wearing dress slacks, a tweed sport coat, and gleaming Sunday shoes.  There was a silver Star of David glistening on his left lapel. 

The gentleman turned as if to enquire about something.  “Was that you in that old Beetle that came past here a few minutes ago?” 

“Yes, sir.”  I answered with great delight, hoping to start a conversation.

“I had one back in the 50’s, when I lived in England”, he stated with an overwhelming smile.

“Was it a split window, Beetle?”  I asked with excitement.

“Yes, it was a split window, Beetle.  You must know your VW’s.”

“I’m surprised, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.  I didn’t figure that many Jewish people would have anything to do with a car made in Germany, at least back then.”

“Well, they were very economical at the time, and besides, we invented the things”, he answered with a mild smirk overtaking his countenance.

I smiled and said, They are still economical and very good cars, at least the older one’s are”.

I hesitated for a moment pondering whether to ask the question that I really wanted to ask.  He was elderly and theoretically could have survived the holocaust.

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking…”

“I know the question you are going to ask and the answer is, yes.”

“Were you in Germany at the time?”

He stroked his beard for a bit, and said, “I was 8 years-old, when my father lost his job at Heidelberg University.  Well, he was kicked out by the Nazi’s.  It was 1939 and Hitler and all of his cronies were mercilessly expelling Jews from Germany.  My father had just enough money hidden away to move all of us to England.  I lost a lot of friends and family during those horrific years.  I think that everyone who really wants to know how insidious the Nazi’s were, should visit Aushwitz.  It is one thing to read books or watch a documentary, but it is a whole other ball game to see it.   How does the saying go?  “”Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.”””

I almost put my hand up as if answering a question in class, and enunciated, “Edmund Burke is the original orator of that phrase, I think, but it has been rehashed so many times by so many people”.

“Ah right, an Irishman, I believe”, he said whilst stroking his beard and poking at some trash with his cane.

I scratched my head, and said, “I never have understood it, sir.  I have a wee bit of German as well as Jewish blood running through my veins.  I don’t guess…”

Laughingly, he enquired, “You, Jewish ancestors?  I’d take you for being Irish or English.”

“I am mostly Irish, but my mothers, mothers, fathers, mothers, mothers, fathers, fathers, fathers, fathers, father came over from Israel a long time ago.  His grandson, Michael Israel, started the first synagogue in North Carolina.  He and his father, Solomon, fought in the Revolutionary War.  Actually the Germans come in on the same side of the family.  I am proud of all of my ancestors, for if it were not for them, I wouldn’t be here.”

The gentleman leaned back with arched frosty eyebrows and a smile.  “You must be a historian, knowing all of that about your family?” 

“No one in my family seems to care, so I have taken it upon myself to do the research and take the time needed to learn all that I can about all of my ancestors.  Though, I do love history.”

“That’s very admirable of you, son.  We need more people like you in the world”, he said whilst adjusting his hat.

“So, tell me more about yourself, sir”

 

With a great laugh, he responded, “That would take ages, and as you can see, I’m not getting any younger”.

“Where did you grow up in England?”

“We moved around a lot.  My father worked in Reading and London.  London was a great place to be in the 60’s, even for a Jew.”

“When did you move to the states?”  I earnestly enquired.

“Well, I got a job with a great firm in New York, so we moved there in the early 70’s.  My wife had family in Queens, so it wasn’t a hard choice.  We moved to Upstate New York about 15 years ago to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life.”

“What brings you to the upstate of South Carolina, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“We came down for the wedding of a friends granddaughter, but we are also considering moving down here.”

“Ah, that’s grand.”

“Are you sure you’re not from the UK?”  He asked with a mild grin.

“No, I just have some kind friends in Ireland and the UK.  And, I’ve visited a few times.”

“Don’t let the world define you, you define the world.”

“Sir, if has been a pleasure meeting you, if you and your family need any assistance while in town, please give me a call”, I stated whilst giving him my card.

About that time, a crowd of ladies came out of the hotel that is situated directly in city centre.  One of them was an elderly lady making her way towards us.  He gathered up his belongings as the lady got closer. 

“My name is Jefferson Davis, sir.  You all have a safe trip”, I said.

The man turned back around, shook my hand, and said, “My name is Hiram, Hiram Israel.”

I stood there in shock with a half grin on my face as they walked towards the line of restaurants further up main street.  It just proves that you never know who you are going to meet on the street.  I could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t want to talk about the Holocaust, or Shoah.  According to him, it’s been 72 years since he left Germany, but it still shakes him to the bone.  I’m just a mere Gentile, but I will not ever forget what happened so many decades ago.  There is no, nor will there ever be, any reason for killing so many people.  The German people put their hopes and dreams in one man and one party.  That was their ultimate downfall.  Few people could predict in 1925 how power would turn Hitler and his cabinet into a bunch of malign despots.

That should be a lesson heeded by the young of today.  Idolise no man.  Aspire to accomplish what other men have accomplished, but never idolise another man for you will surely see him faulter and sink into an abyss of diffidence.  Have faith in yourselves and God, if you so choose.  Even Jesus says in John 10:34, “Ye are gods”.

Define the world, people.  Make it a better place for us all to live in.  Even the most finite ripples in a pond traverse its entire surface.

Chag Sameach Pesach

High Museum: Part One

Yesterday, I went with the Art Club down to the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. On the way down, I sat in the window seat on the bus and a pretentious – egotist bloke sat beside me. He blabbered on about different pieces we were going to be observing and buttered up one of the instructors in the seat directly in front of us, while I mutely sat and read the New Yorker. It was a pleasant trip filled with laughter.

After we arrived, all of us entered the Louvre section of the museum. We were all captivated and awe struck by “The Tiber” and other gorgeous sculptures and pieces from France, Roma, Greece, Egypt, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Babylon. Chills rained down my back, while gazing at clay tablets over four thousand years old. I pondered about the people that crafted the pieces and the lives they lived.

The “Winged Victory of Samothrace” bewitched my spirit. The implied motion – how the fabric of the garment flows over the body of Nike, the goddess of Victory. And, most importantly, the story behind the sculpture. Most of the students put on headphones, which told them about each sculpture, piece, or painting, but I chose to read the plaques and interpret everything in my own way. That is what I love the most about art and literary works. We can each interpret a novel or a painting differently.

Another sculpture that called to me was “Crouching Aphrodite”, from the Roman Imperial period. I kneeled down beside it and glared into her face – a countenance weighed with thought. Sculptures from the Hellenistic period have always captured my imagination, while paintings from the Romanesque era enchant my intellect. Of course, I love all art, regardless of when it was created. However, pop art unnerves me a bit. :)

Go boil some water for a cuppa because this is long, or you can enjoy the pictures below. :) I have to write a paper about my visit, so this is good practice…

After exiting the Louvre hall, we entered the contemporary hall. Hanging on the first wall, adjacent to the entrance, were a few silhouette images – black cutouts against a white background – in a row, by Kara Walker. Some of her drawings are quite compelling, but her cutouts are an atrocity. She depicts scenes of slaves in the pre civil war south, being brutalised by their respective owners. She shows white men raping slaves (young men and women) and white women pillaging the wombs of female slaves. She does this to push society’s buttons. That is how she has made a name for herself! It’s not by the quality or composition of the artwork, but the horror it projects. Look, every society at one point, has been enslaved by a more powerful civilisation, so I say, get over it! Did I say I didn’t like her? :)

Anyway, back to the artsy Californian that I sat beside on the bus. Whilst standing in front of Kara Walker’s pieces, he said, “Isn’t she fantastic”, with hyper glee.

“Yes, she is”, I replied, as glared at the horrific scenes.

“I love how she uses these slavery images”, he uttered, while making hand gestures at the particular way she depicted blood gushing.

I don’t like her, but I was trying to hold back my judgements and be nice to the guy. Heck, I might have learned something from him.

“Yeah, there was about an eight page write up about her in the New Yorker two months ago.

He stopped dead in his tracks, dropped his jaw, and enquired, “You…read the New Yorker?”

“Indeed”, I answered, with a laughing smirk.

He stepped back, put his arms to the side, and muttered, “You must have borrowed it from someone, right?”

“I have a subscription to that along with New York Times, New York Review of Books, and Contemporary Poetry Review”, I muttered, as I tried not to laugh.

“You?”

“Tis true”

“….I never would have thought it, just being honest and all”, he mumbled, as he crossed his arms.

“Ehhmm…Yeah, I’m a photographer, aspiring poet, amateur author (I have much to learn), professional skirt chaser, and I dab in watercolours and pastels from time to time”, while glinting at the young female art student beside me.

He fell back on his heels, and cried, “Wow, that is totally cool…I never would have thunk it…Dude, I’m like…totally blown away. Do you have any of your poetry with you or some photographs?”

There’s no need to go any further into the discussion. He asked if I did architecture, nature, surreal, abstract, impressionistic, or portraits. I gave him my flickr address and the blog address. So, if you are reading this, sir, I’m not trying to imply that you are an idiot or a jerk, just a Californian. :) Nah, most Californians are cool. Dude is smart. He went to the Art Institute of Chicago. We are all taught at an early age how to view the world, but it is up to us as adults to be open minded and nonjudgmental.

I’ll pick up with part two of The High Museum in a day or two. I have a lot of reading to do. :)

Kewl…862 words in thirty minutes of casual maundering. :)

P.S.: The last image is a one of my abstract paintings contorted in photoshop.

Nooks
Laid Path
Railings
Wire Sculpture
Jeweled Roof
Angled Steps
Art Deco Stairwell
Reflected Observance
Abstracted Colours