The Facebook Experience

For a long time I fought against it, resisting its siren call even though it seemed as if everyone was joining in the party, having fun, making me feel quite left out of things.

But eventually I succumbed and took out a Facebook account, or whatever it is one does to have a presence in that particular segment of the ethereal world. Naturally, I was accompanied on that journey by one of my children, as on my own I could not have achieved anything requiring technical expertise of any kind.

But woe is me, I am new to the game and keep making mistakes. I thought it seemed simple enough, just upload your pictures, make some comment, press ‘like’ here and there, and Bob’s your uncle. My grandchildren do it with the greatest of ease, so why can’t I?

I was warned by my Facebook mentor (i.e., my son) not to breach Facebook etiquette, not to impose myself by commenting on topics that were evidently not intended for me, not to flaunt my grandmotherly knowledge in the face of young people who are interested solely in communicating with their peers, etc., etc.

It is, in fact, quite an eye-opener to see what is posted on Facebook by the people who have consented to be my ‘friends.’ One gains a real insight into what is going on in their minds, what their interests are, and how they relate to the world and the people around them.

Some of the younger members of my ‘Facebook family,’ as I like to think of it, are constantly posting jokes (sometimes rather horrid ones), setting quizzes, or finding puzzles for others to relate to. I say ‘relate to’ because on Facebook you don’t just solve a puzzle, relate to an item, or laugh at a joke, you ‘like’ it, or ‘comment’ on it, or even ‘share’ it, i.e., post it for all those people with whom you are connected can see it, and they in their turn can like, comment, or share, as the fancy takes them.  It’s a bit like an enormous spider’s web (and it makes you wonder who or what is the spider at the centre).

In addition, some of my friends seem to regard Facebook as a platform for airing their political views, and are constantly bombarding me with messages designed to reinforce their view (but actually have the opposite effect). But I take it in a good spirit, as it at least shows a high level of involvement. After all, lethargy, indifference, and non-involvement are the true dangers to our society, aren’t they?

I have tried, really I have, to keep to the rules delineated by my Facebook mentor, but I haven’t always been successful. I have ‘liked’ too indiscriminately, I have actually commented on something I shouldn’t have, causing confusion and dismay in various realms, and I have shared something that caused me embarassment in turn. I have even managed to mislabel a picture I posted, because of my failure to comprehend the oh-so-simple instructions, and have made myself look a complete idiot.

But now, totally without any volition on my part, a message has gone out to all my Facebook family, telling them that I am cleaning up my list of Facebook friends and if they want to continue to be my friend they should tick a box. Two people ticked it. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. It almost took me back to my schooldays, when I was always among the last to be chosen for the netball or hockey team.

But I continue to receive the messages as if nothing has changed, so it looks as if the request to ‘clean up’ my list was just an empty threat. Ah well, so be it. At least I’m still in the party, even if a bit of a wallflower.

Leonardo in la Creuse

Tags

deportations, La Creuse, Leonardo da Vinci

The village where we are currently spending our summer is a place where almost all its inhabitants are either retired, absent or dead. The memorial plaque in the centre of the village commemorating those who died in the two world wars lists 37 names for WWI and 5 for WWII, which probably helps to explain why there are so few people living in rural France today.

But two years ago the energetic mayor of the place set in motion a project intended to revive the fortunes of this backwater. In order to bring new life to the place he decided to liven up its twelfth century church (which has been extensively renovated in the centuries since then and currently presents a strange collage of kitsch and folk art) by introducing a revolutionary innovation: windows made of tapestry, the craft for which this region (dominated by Aubusson) is famous worldwide. Needless to say, no services have been held in the church for many years.

But this is no ordinary tapestry, because windows are supposed to let in light and the wool which constitutes most tapestries would not allow light to pass through. So these tapestries are made from anodized aluminium threads in various colours, a new technique which has only recently been developed. In addition, Jean Fourton, the artist who was commissioned to design the windows, decided to designate them as homage to Leonardo da Vinci, whom the French regard as their adopted son (he died in the arms of his protector, King Francis I). The most notable feature of the windows is, however, that whether by accident or design, they can’t be seen from inside the church, only from the outside.

More than 100 people attended the ceremony held in the church this evening to inaugurate the windows, each of which represents in semi-abstact form one of the concepts on which Leonardo da Vinci worked — the human form (DNA), a flying machine (first man on the moon), canals (water), etc. The programme included one hour of arias, both sacred and operatic, sung by some very talented local music students, accompanied at the piano by their teacher, Mme. Josee Carlosema. However, the first song, which was sung by Mme. Carlosema herself and was not listed on the programme, was in Yiddish! The audience listened attentively, but I doubted that anyone other than myself and my husband knew what it was.

After the extensive and lengthy speeches by the mayor and the various participants in the project, not to mention the visiting dignitaries from the region (8 in all), I went up to Mme. Carlosema and asked her what the song was called and why she had chosen to sing it. The song was ‘Zi darf es azoy zein’ (imagine hearing that in a church!) and she said that she sang it to commemorate all those Jews of France who were deported to concentration camps at the time of the Nazi occupation. While I was talking to her the artist whose work we were inaugurating came up to thank her for the music, and in particular for her first song which, he said, ‘brought tears to my eyes.’ Yes, he was Jewish, too.

It’s a small Jewish world, it seems, even in a church in la Creuse.

Retirement from retirement

Tags

France, Israel, La Creuse, media

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but since my (and my husband’s) retirement from work, i.e., from regular, paid employment involving getting up at a given time, going to a given place, and staying there, i.e., ‘working,’ for the specified number of hours, we have never been busier.

It’s true, we no longer have to do all of the above, but yet it seems that all our days are full of activities of various kinds, whether it involves exercising, volunteering, attending or giving lectures, and various other sociable and pleasurable activities. Oh, and of course there are also occasional — but all too frequent — visits to doctors and dentists. Let’s hope they don’t get more frequent than they already are (but they probably will, judging by the history of the human race to date). Even our vacations took on a hectic character of rushing from one place to another, trying to take in all the wonders each place had to offer.

It finally dawned on us some time ago, after experiencing several years of this so-called retirement, that the only way to really experience the tranquillity and peace of mind that is supposed to accompany ceasing to work is to get away from it all in another place, far away from the usual demands on our time and energy.

And so it has come about that for the last few years we have been spending a couple of months each year in rural central France, where the pace of life is slow, there are few people around, there is hardly anything to do, and we hardly know a soul. Staying in the region known as La Creuse is a bit like going back in time, to a period when nobody was ever in a hurry, neither on the roads nor in the stores, when everyone greeted everyone else, whether friend or stranger, with a smile and a cheery ‘bonjour’ and a vapid comment about the vagaries of the weather, and where there is no need to keep up appearances. So, no makeup, no need to dress nicely, no need to have one’s hair done or make an effort of any kind. All one needs to do is to get up in the morning, do one’s exercises, and then one is free to read, write, go for a walk, or do whatever it is that one fancies.

There are newspapers here, but we don’t read them. There are news broadcasts on the radio, but we don’t really understand them, and we don’t have a TV. Suddenly the world outside has dropped away from us, and we are living in a bubble of calm isolation, although our computers keep us more aware of what is going on than we really need to be. But somehow it’s easier to ignore it all from here than it is back home.

The frenetic pace of life in Israel is infectious. The constant bombardment of news items and ‘momentous’ events leaves one’s nerves frazzled and causes sleepless nights. Yet life goes on, both there and here, irrespective of all that. If only we could ignore the news when we are at home. But, as I know only too well, having acquired an M.A. in Communications, it is an economic imperative of newspapers to constantly fill their pages with ‘news’ (whether new or not) and of TV and radio programs to constantly broadcast ‘information,’ opinion pieces, discussions, ‘breaking news,’ and what-have-you in order to keep their audiences glued to those agents of communication.

Perhaps the world would be a better place if there were no media, but one cannot turn the clock back, so they have become an all-pervasive feature of modern life. The world is still the same place, with some modifications, as it has been for the last couple of thousand years, with people slaughtering one another for no good reason except greed and power, with people loving, eating and enjoying themselves while others starve to death in misery, and with the weather dominating many aspects of daily life.

One day it will all end for this individual, as it has and will for all others on this earth, one way or another. But in the meantime the most I can do to retain my sanity is to retire from being ‘retired’ from time to time.

21 Rue la Boetie, Paris

Tags

21 rue la Boetie, Anne Sinclair, Braque, DSK, Holocaust in France, Matisse, Nazi art theft, Paul Rosenberg, Picasso

In preparation for our summer in France, or perhaps simply because I like to think I can read books in French, I bought Anne Sinclair’s book, ’21 Rue la Boetie.’ Reading it took me into the fascinating world of French art in the twentieth century, with extensive ramifications regarding the Holocaust, the way the French colluded with the Germans in stealing works of art from Jews, and the efforts of the French Resistance to confound this. Having just finished reading the book, I feel I want to share what I have learned with others who may have similar interests.

By now everyone knows Anne Sinclair as the longsuffering wife of former IMF president, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who may or may not have done some naughty things with various women. But Anne Sinclair is a well-known journalist, television personality and writer in her own right, as well as being a very beautiful woman. In addition, she writes well and the tale she tells is well worth reading.

As she states in the preface to the book, which was published this year (2012), the trigger that set off her research into the background of her family, and specifically the history of her maternal grandparents, was what happened one day when a Parisian policeman stopped her in her car and asked her for her driving licence. As she had just moved house she didn’t have it on her, and was told to report with the document next day to the nearest offices of the Ministry of the Interior. Upon presenting herself there, she was shocked to be asked by an official: “Were all four of your grandparents born in France?” Conscious of her Jewish roots, Anne replied that it was that kind of question that was asked before people were packed into cattle trucks and sent off to concentration camps seventy years earlier. The official didn’t seem to understand, and that caused Anne to embark on many months of research in museums, official and family archives, to ascertain her family history.

Anne’s grandfather, Paul Rosenberg, was born in Poland in 1881 and came to France with his family as a child. His father was a wine merchant, but both he and his brother, Leonce, were art dealers. By touring the museums of Europe as a young man, Paul developed a good understanding of art, and used this to discover and befriend many young artists, among them Picasso, Braque and Matisse. He fostered their careers and dealt in their art, using his gallery at 21 rue la Boetie for this purpose. The building was an impressive one, with apartments for the family above the spacious ground floor, where exhibitions were held.

Paul Rosenberg was an almost exact contemporary of Picasso, and the two became great friends, referring to one another as ‘Rosi’ and ‘Pic’ in their correspondence. For some time Picasso lived next door to the Rosenbergs, when he was newly married to Olga, a dancer at Diaghilev’s ‘Ballets Russes.’ Anne Sinclair’s book contains photos of Picasso’s pictures of her grandfather and her mother, as well as one of herself as a teenager with the artist. When she was a child Picasso offered to paint her, too, but she protested, so the picture never came into existence.

In 1940, when the Germans invaded France, the Rosenberg family took refuge first in the South of France, then in Portugal, eventually managing to get to the USA, where Anne herself was born in 1943. Paul Rosenberg was forced to abandon his business in Paris and all the paintings he had acquired. These included many by leading Impressionists, as well as a large number by Picasso, Braque and Matisse. He had, however, managed to send a fair number of canvases to the USA, and so was able to open a gallery in New York.

Anne Sinclair describes in hair-raising detail how the Germans established their office for administering Jewish affairs in the building that had previously housed her grandfather’s art gallery, and how, aided and abetted by the French people who had been employed by the family, they systematically plundered all the art works, furniture, sculptures and objects that had adorned the premises. But as Paul Rosenberg himself said after the war, when the murderous criminality of the Nazis became common knowledge, the loss of his property was as nothing compared with the horrors the Nazis had inflicted on people of all nations, and especially on the Jews.

After the war Paul Rosenberg devoted considerable time and effort to tracing his plundered property and getting it restored to him. Many items had found their way into private hands and museums in various European countries, and although it was not always easy to get them to return the stolen property, on the whole he was successful in his quest. Many of the people concerned, especially those who had been employed by the family, were brought to trial and forced to confess their deeds. Anne makes no bones about mentioning them by name and calling them ‘miserable little thieves.’

In a sad little epilogue Anne mentions that she has recently had occasion to return to her beloved New York under tragic circumstances. Let’s hope that the peccadilloes of her husband, from whom she is now separated, will not overshadow the impact of her interesting and well-written book. I hope for the sake of all those who do not read French that the book has been, or soon will be, translated into English.

Regrets

After my sister pointed out (see comment) that my last post about music and decay was somewhat cruel I felt a pang of contrition and wished that I had been more tactful in what I had written. It was but a short step from there to regretting all kinds of things I had said and done recently and in the course of my entire life. This subject has preoccupied me over the past week, and may even have been the reason for my ‘white night’ last night.

I don’t always control my tongue, and occasionally statements slip out that I regret almost immediately. There is sometimes a fine distinction between being witty and being nasty, and that may even depend on the sensitivity of one’s interlocutor. It so happens that many of my conversations are conducted in either Hebrew or English (or both), and perhaps my fluency in one or the other of those languages is not as perfect as I imagine, so that a remark meant to occasion laughter or admiration for my wit falls flat and in fact is hurtful or arouses anger. I sometimes realise this and hasten to apologise, but I can’t be sure that this is always the case. I’m sorry that I have inflicted pain on people through the things I have said.

Then, of course, there are things I have done that I regret. In my teens I used to torment our family dog by holding its muzzle closed so that it couldn’t breathe, though I always desisted when it was obviously in distress. Still, I wish I hadn’t done that. It doesn’t show a very nice side of my youthful character. I used to make fun of boys who seemed keen on me and did not come up to the ridiculously high standard I had set for someone whose feelings I could reciprocate. I’m sorry now for having hurt those boys’ feelings. I’m especially sorry about leaving one particular party, to which I had come with one boyfriend and left with another (whom I eventually married), without even saying goodbye.

I don’t think I have ever deliberately caused anyone physical harm, but I have done so accidentally. I’m sorry I didn’t realise that the traffic light on the road up to French Hill had changed to red, and continued racing to get through the green light, realising my mistake too late and crashing into the car ahead that had stopped. No-one was really hurt, though of course our two cars were damaged, but I wish I had been more careful. Of course I regret all the other occasions when I scraped our car’s bumper or doors. Our current, relatively new, car bears the scars of several of those incidents (though not only mine).

I was launched into motherhood in a woefully unprepared state, and in my ignorance I let my 18-month-old daughter eat peanuts as she played at my feet in the kitchen. When some water splashed onto her she breathed in part of a nut she was eating, and had to be taken to hospital to undergo a bronchoscopy. This was no simple matter, and a specialist in operating on small children had to be summoned before the procedure could go ahead (his name was Professor Feinmesser, incidentally). This happened simply because I was extremely ignorant when it came to child care, never having had any interest in other people’s babies. The doctor was horrified to hear that I hadn’t known that one shouldn’t give nuts to children under five, at least. The hallowed pages of Dr. Spock’s book on looking after your baby had made no mention of any such precaution, although every mother in Israel but me seemed to know about it. Luckily, there were no major ill-effects, but the situation could have been disastrous.

I’m sorry I let our second child have bottles filled with diluted fruit juice in his infancy, just so that he would be quiet for a while. This led to severe decay of his baby teeth, which had to be extracted when he was two. I’m sorry I let our third child sip the whisky his father was drinking, also when he was two or three years old. I hope this did not cause him serious damage. I know now that what I did was stupid and irresponsible, and I have no excuse to make for my actions.

There are many more things I regret in life. Why didn’t I try harder at school? Why didn’t I stay on one more year at the L.S.E. and get an M.A. there instead of struggling for over three years to complete one in Israel? Why didn’t I insist on persevering with my studies after my daughter was born instead of succumbing to the life of a stay-at-home Mum? I know that those were different times, and I was ignorant of the child-care options available at the time, but it shows a certain lack of gumption on my part. Still, I console myself with the thought that I did manage to make some sort of career for myself as a translator, and even to eventually get a decent job as an editor/translator at the Bank of Israel, but it took me a hell of a long time to get there.

I’m sure there are many more things I’ve said and done that I should regret but I can’t because I can’t remember them. There are certain benefits to forgetting things from the past that can only cause one pain.

Yet everything seems to have worked out for the best in the end, after all. Regardless of the stupid things I have said and done and the wrong turns I have taken in life I can still look back on the path I have trodden with a certain modicum of satisfaction. But nonetheless, as my teachers always used to write on my school reports, I should try to do better.