ART AND THEATRE

Last week I (Lola) had a great day out with our daughter when we went by train to Tel Aviv to see the Van Gogh Alive exhibition which was held in the Maxi Dome at the Israeli Trade Fairs and Convention Centre. Our enjoyment began immediately on leaving the Jerusalem Station as the almond blossom and fantastic array of wild flowers that we passed on either side of the railway line as it passes through the Judean Hills were a delight to the eyes.

VAN GOGH ALIVE

We left the train at the University Station expecting to take a taxi but discovered that the exhibition site was only over the road from the station and the Maxi Dome just a minute’s walk from the entrance to the site. For anyone who enjoys Vincent Van Gogh’s vibrant paintings this multi-media art exhibition which was created in Australia and is set to a powerful score of classical music is a must. More than two thousand of the famous Dutch artist’s paintings are projected onto huge screens, pillars and even the floor of the exhibition hall. There are also scenes of locations in France such as Arles, Auvers-sur-Oise and Saint Remy that inspired many of his paintings as well as extracts from his writings. The artist’s moods of severe depression which eventually led to his presumed suicide, were cleverly shown by the grouping together of his darker paintings, all noticeably lacking his favourite colour, yellow, and accompanied by somber music. Sometimes the pictures come alive as when the ominous black birds in one of the landscapes, Wheatfield with Crows, suddenly “flew’ out of the painting and around the exhibition hall or the ripe corn in another of the country scenes, rippled gently in the wind.

The presentation lasts for approximately half an hour and is continuous so we very happily watched it through three times, each one from a different vantage point, before going in search of some lunch and then once again, before going back to the station to catch our train back to Jerusalem. The only low point of the day was the lunch, horrible and over-priced sandwiches at the exhibition cafeteria, but I suppose one can’t have everything.

HAIRSPRAY

We have written on several occasions about the Jerusalem-based Encore Educational Theatre Company which gives so much pleasure to the Anglo community and many Hebrew-speakers too with its excellently performed musical shows. This month we went to see the Youth section of Encore’s production of Hairspray, a musical about which we previously knew very little but discovered that it is set in 1962, Baltimore and deals with the theme of prejudice of various kinds, against fat people, people with dark skins and those of different sexual orientation. A programme note stated , “The production is dedicated to those in Jerusalem who rejoice in other’s differences,” and we were happy to see that some of the prejudices depicted in the production, mainly the veto on the mixing of people of different coloured skins, has almost disappeared today. Most of the African-American rolls were played by Ethiopian teenagers from the Malkat Shva Centre for Ethiopian culture in Jerusalem’s Talpiot neighbourhood who were obviously greatly enjoying their first stage appearances. There was also a mix of Brits, Americans, Israelis, Canadians and one Jamaican among the very talented cast.

GREAT MUSIC

The excellent band belted out the rollicking sixties tunes and any minor faults or weaknesses were easy to ignore as all the lead parts were most professionally sung, danced and acted and the audience soon became infused with the sheer energy and joyfulness emanating from the stage. We returned home, together with our young Israeli friends to whom we have been introducing Gilbert and Sullivan’s comic operas and British and American musicals, in a very cheerful mood, all of us singing the lively tunes from the show.

 

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PESACH MEMORIES

 

For me Pesach is not only the Festival of Freedom, a lot of cooking and hard work too, but a time for special memories. They begin to flood in as soon as Norman and I begin unpacking the Pesach dishes and utensils. Out comes the big box containing the tea service, twelve typically English, bone china, green and red flowered plates, cups and saucers, as well as two milk jugs, two sugar basins and two cake plates. In his retirement, my father, always a keen gardener, became passionately interested in growing cactii. One day he saw a meeting of a Cactus Society advertised in the local paper and went eagerly off to the meeting dragging my far less interested mother along with him. They both returned in great excitement, my father loaded with cactus cuttings and bearing between them a large box, containing said tea- service which had been the first prize in a raffle held during the meeting and for which they had got the winning ticket. It has been our Pesach tea-set ever since. Norman’s parents’ Seder plates are also very special, a blue and white matching Seder and matza plate with Matza written in gold in the centre. All we know about them is that they were made in London, over one hundred years ago and that two identical but slightly cracked ones used to be on display at the Hechel Shlomo museum, described as being both rare and valuable. There are, of course, other bowls and plates that belonged to parents and family members and all with their own memories and stories.

The Seder service too brings back vivid memories from my childhood when we always had a huge family Seder at the home of my maternal grandmother. As an only child, I loved these occasions which gave me the opportunity to be with my slightly older cousins whom I adored. We always used ancient, wine-spotted Haggadot which had been printed in Vienna and used by the family for many years (bought I was told, in Woolworths for sixpence each) and in which the English translation had terrible and, to us children, hysterically funny misprints. For example, “Jacob wrestled with the mangle,” note that those were the days before washing machines and spin-driers and every home had an unwieldy wringer for the washing known as a mangle. We would start giggling pages before arriving at the misprint, gradually getting more hysterical as the Egyptians were, “smitten with fitty plagues,” and later when it was written that the time had come, “to say the morning Shemong.” Probably aided by the fact that my older cousins were by that stage slightly drunk having, undetected by the adults, been drinking the real wine instead of the homemade raisin version made especially for us children by my grandmother, invariably at least one of us slid off our chairs and lay giggling helplessly under the table. At this stage my old nanny always predicted that there would be, “A crying match before the night was out,” and, having been reprimanded by one of the uncles for the noise we were making and our lack of attention to the Seder service, there invariably was.

In Israel our Seders are most enjoyable but quite different from our English ones, our son-in-law being Sephardi, we have become used to different customs, foods and tunes for the traditional songs although Norman always leads the Had Gad Yar with our families’ traditional melody. These evenings are wonderful occasions and the fact that we are fortunate enough to be celebrating in The Promised Land make them even more special but no Seder will ever match up to the slightly disorderly and riotous ones of my childhood.

For the last few years I have sworn that this will be the last year I “Make Pesach,” it’s all too exhausting at my age, but now, the last of the Pesach utensils packed away in their cupboard and happily contemplating a bread roll for supper, I can look back on a job well done and know that with the help of HaShem, I shall continue to “Make Pesach,” for as long as I have breath in my body.