A Concert in the Augusta Victoria Church

 

 

 

A performance of Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem by my local choir, the Mevasseret Choir, in which several of my friends and neighbours sing, was more than enough to entice me to attend their recent concert, which was given in the Augusta Victoria church.

The imposing church-hospital complex, which is situated on Mount Scopus adjoining the Mount of Olives, was built in 1907 by German Lutherans to honour Augusta Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, wife of Kaiser Wilhelm II who visited Jerusalem in 1898. Its fifty-meter bell tower commands the skyline from almost any viewpoint in both Old and New Jerusalem.

The compound has had a checkered history, serving as a German military hospital in the First World War, the headquarters of the Ottoman army from 1915 to 1917 and the headquarters of the German expeditionary corps from June to December 1917. After the British conquered the region in 1918 it served as the headquarters of General Allenby’s Egyptian Expeditionary Force and subsequently as that of the British Military Administration of the region. From 1920 to 1927 it was the official residence of the British High Commissioner of the Palestine Mandate, before this moved to Government House in the south of Jerusalem, in the neighbourhood that is known today as Armon Hanatziv, the Hebrew translation of the term.

The local Nazi party held meetings there in the 1930s, when it was controlled by Jordan, under the leadership of one of the Templers who lived in the German Colony. In those years it also served as a military hospital for soldiers of the Arab Legion, and during the Six Day War of 1967 it was the site of fierce fighting, leading to its eventual capture by Israeli paratroops.

After his visit to the region, the Kaiser commissioned the construction of a guesthouse for German pilgrims. The church was designed by architect Robert Leibnitz, who was inspired by German palaces, such as the Hohenzollern Castle. Private donations were collected throughout Germany and donors awarded the Cross of the Mount of Olives. Many of the building materials were imported from Germany. A 50-metre-high church tower was constructed and equipped with four bells, the largest of them weighing six tons, requiring the widening and paving of the road from Jaffa to Jerusalem at considerable cost.

I had never been inside the church before, and it truly is a breathtaking sight, lavishly adorned with colourful mosaics on the walls and ceiling bearing designs and Latin inscriptions from both the Old and the New Testaments, the centerpiece being a depiction of Jerusalem, the Holy City (Urbs Sanctus in Latin). The walls are covered in grey marble interspersed with mother-of-pearl patterns, creating a delicate glittering effect that is both decorative and awe-inspiring.

Statues of saints are to be found in alcoves, and in the one near where I was sitting the personage depicted was presumably meant to signify King David (a stern figure wearing a crown and holding a lyre).

The building is both high and wide, as befits a religious edifice intended to serve the worldwide community of Protestants. However, this seems to create some acoustical problems, at least for people sitting at the back of the hall. Thus, when one of the soloists tried to explain the content of the song she was about to sing, standing twenty feet away from us on the raised dais, all that I and the people sitting near me could hear was a muffled sound, though her clear soprano voice rang out beautifully throughout the space of the church when she started to sing.

The same happened when the choir (also on the raised dais) began its programme with songs by seventeenth-century French composers, Moulinié, Charpentier and Bataille. Thus, no matter what emerged from their throats, all we heard was an inchoate sound with notes that were almost indistinguishable from one another.

Fortunately for all concerned, when it came to the Fauré Requiem, after the interval, the choir was situated in the gallery above us, with the men ranged along one side, the women on the other, facing them, with the soloists in the middle. The church also boasts a magnificent organ, which is all that is needed in the way of orchestral accompaniment for that piece of music. And that did the trick! The voices were clear and pure, the enunciation admirable and the fortissimos and pianissimos came through admirably. 

The music was sublime, and it felt as though we were listening to the angels singing in heaven.

 

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The Blot on the Landscape

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Crusaders, Ehud Olmert, King David, Ronald Storrs, Suleiman the Magnificent

 

 

Over and above the scandal and shenanigans surrounding the prosecution, trial and eventual conviction for accepting bribes and betraying the voters’ trust by the erstwhile mayor of Jerusalem and former Prime Minister Ehud Olmert and his associates is the very material existence of the building that lies at the heart of the whole saga.

 

Almost since time immemorial Jerusalem has been dear to the heart of mankind. The ancient Hebrews conquered the land of Canaan, led by King David, defeated the Jebusites and made the city their capital. Although it did not stand at the mouth of a river or command sea routes, its situation atop a promontory that is part of the Judaean Hills commands the fertile plain to the north and overlooks the desert to the south, and was therefore considered virtually unassailable.

 

The Crusaders, who controlled the city for one hundred years in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, built churches and sites of worship, using the local stone, of course, as did their successors, the Muslims. The memory of the brief Christian hegemony of Jerusalem lingers on in the hymns, poems, prayers and yearnings that prevail throughout the Christian world.

 

In 1921 Sir Ronald Storrs the man appointed by the British Mandatory authorities as (to quote his words) “the first military governor of Jerusalem since Pontius Pilate,” ordered that all buildings erected in the city be built of Jerusalem stone. Known for his love of art, literature and music, Storrs was determined to establish firm architectural and town-planning principles for the city, and it is largely thanks to his foresight and vision that these have more or less been maintained ever since. These principles were maintained as the city expanded beyond the crenellated walls surrounding the Old City that were built by Sultan Suleiman the Great in the sixteenth century.

 

And always, no matter what the pressures and exigencies may have been, the hilly skyline surrounding Jerusalem was preserved, providing aesthetic and architectural pleasure for its denizens, both rich and poor.

 

Until the Holyland project came along, that is.

 

One wonders: where were the architects, the town planners, the civil engineers who allowed this travesty to come into existence? Oh, yes, some of them lined their pockets in order to enable the plans to pass the various approval stages, while others simply turned a blind eye. But when one thinks about it, how is it that no one stopped to consider what this would do to Jerusalem’s skyline and the mental state of the people who live there?

 

Evidently not. Now, every time one looks out over the Jerusalem skyline, from pretty much anywhere in Jerusalem, one sees the inelegant blocks of the Holyland project with the tower that dominates them and the surrounding area, like a huge wart on the face of a lovely woman. Instead of feeling uplifted by the beauty of the environment one’s heart sinks at the way it has been so blatantly defaced.

 

Perhaps it’s as well that Ehud Olmert and the others are going to spend some time in jail, as otherwise the inhabitants of Jerusalem might have taken the law into their own hands and torn then limb from limb. Presumably their fellow-inmates in prison won’t care much about aesthetic damage. Jail might even serve as a place of refuge from the wrath of people who are now forced to suffer this eyesore on a daily basis.

 

The blot on the landscape is both physical and metaphorical, the tangible evidence of the corruption and moral depravity that seems to characterize too many of our political leaders these days. From whence cometh our help? Olmert and co. will serve just a few years in prison but those of us who live in Jerusalem are condemned to a life sentence of viewing the result of their wanton greed whenever we lift up our eyes unto the hills.

 

Yohanan Lakicevic’s Watercolours

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Jerusalem Theatre

 

 

 

As anyone who regularly attends events at the Jerusalem Theatre knows, it’s difficult to find a good parking place for one’s car there. The solution that works best for us is to get there well ahead of time. The problem then is, what do you do with all that time to kill before the concert/play/film begins?

 That’s how I found myself studying a large book of watercolour paintings in the bookshop in the foyer. Flicking idly through it I was captivated and could hardly believe my eyes! The paintings were of a singular beauty, depicting sites and scenes all over Israel. The independently published book was aptly titled ‘Land of Beauty.’ As an aspiring watercolourist myself, I immediately recognized a wonderful pace and freedom of movement, as well as bold yet delicate colouring and an enviable economy of brush-strokes.

 That’s how I’ve always wanted to paint! I exclaimed. Only, to my chagrin, my paintings never come out quite like that. I must meet the painter and find out how he does it.

 The book contains over 150 beautifully-painted scenes of places in Israel, and is produced to an extremely high professional standard. It was with immense joy that I bought it, realizing that from now on I could always have it to hand while I was painting, and use it as a guide and didactic tool.

 Since the painter’s website and email address appear on the flyleaf of the book I was able to send him an email. He replied with his phone number, and in the ensuing conversation it turned out that he lives not far from my house, and that during the current month his paintings are on exhibition in the foyer of the Jerusalem Theatre, where he is to be found every evening.

 And so it was that one evening Yigal and I turned up at the exhibition, bringing the book with us so that the artist (and author) could sign it. This he promptly did, very graciously, and for the next hour or so we talked about painting, his work, people we both knew, and even my own feeble attempts at painting.

 Yohanan Lakicevic (pronounced Lucky Chevich) hails originally from Yugoslavia but has spent most of his life in Israel. After graduating from the Bezalel Academy of Art he was employed for many years by Israel’s main TV channel, producing illustrations, scenery, and any kind of animation or figurative work required. He has also worked as a cartoonist for leading Israeli newspapers and has produced books containing collections of his work. He has worked in many different art media but maintains that his special love has always been watercolours.

 In the introduction to his book Yohanan relates that he never leaves home without his satchel which contains a painting block, watercolour paints and brushes, and in this way documents all his travels in Israel and abroad. He paints quickly, he told me, sometimes sitting in his car, sometimes out in the open, endeavouring to capture the scene, the flavour of the moment, allowing his hand and eye to do the work for him.

 He gave me a few helpful hints about which brushes and paints to use, and even showed interest in seeing my paintings. I’ll need to pluck up a lot of courage before I can bring myself to show them to him.

 

What Makes You Happy?

 

 

A recent survey in England asked people the above question and, after obtaining thousands of replies and running the various statistical analyses, came up with the result that on the whole people are happier after the age of 55 than when they were younger.

 

Various explanations have been put forward for this. By the time we reach what is called ‘middle age’ we have more or less found what it is we want to do in life, possess a home and a family, the children are older and possibly less of a strain, and we face fewer challenges about forging a career, finding a soul-mate and attaining financial stability.

 

The commentators in the TV studio that reported these results were eager to put forward their own views of what makes them happy. “Travelling,” said one. “Blue skies,” said another. “My children – well, most of the time,” was another contribution.

 

“It’s all baloney,” said the only man among the three. “Anyone who’s happy at the age of 55 has simply resigned himself to stagnating and has given up on life.” The other two disagreed with him vehemently, and eventually he was persuaded to say that going on holiday and enjoying the sunshine made him happy.

 

Blue skies? We have those in here in Israel in spades. Sunshine? That too. Similar studies undertaken in Israel have put its inhabitants high on the international happiness index. There’s no apparent reason for this, especially considering the geo-political situation, but perhaps the blue skies and sunshine have something to do with it. I’d venture a guess and say that the close ties that characterize most Israeli families also play their part.

 

I remember reading an interview with a soldier who returned home after being held captive for many months by the Egyptians in the Yom Kippur War. “It’s the little things,” he said, when asked what was the best thing about being home, after his initial joy at being reunited with his family and friends. “Being able to sit in an armchair, have a cup of coffee and a piece of home-made cake.” If that’s what a prisoner dreams about, that’s something I have in abundance.

 

I agree that it’s the little things that make for happiness, and for me, personally, happiness is a commodity in which I feel I am inordinately rich. Right now, at this moment, sitting at my desk, listening to a Beethoven sonata on the radio and glancing out of the window at the sunshine bathing the trees and houses on the hill opposite makes me happy. Enjoying the flowers in my garden, or drinking a cup of coffee with a biscuit early in the morning as I read the newspaper and all is quiet around me makes me happy. Seeing my children and grandchildren gathered around my dining table and eating the meal I’ve prepared makes me happy. Attending a concert of uplifting music makes me happy. Meeting friends in the interval of the concert makes me happy, too, as does having friends round for coffee or a meal. Writing my blog makes me happy, especially if someone writes a comment about it (preferably positive). Remembering a word or a name that’s been evading me for hours or days makes me happy (though the moment when I realize I can’t dredge the item up from my memory makes me distinctly unhappy). Reading an interesting book makes me happy. Watching a good play, movie or TV show (preferably a comedy) makes me happy. Eating a nice meal accompanied by a glass of wine (any plonk will do, I’m no connoisseur), makes me happy.

 

I won’t go on. Yes, travelling is nice, but sitting cramped for many hours in the metal box which passes for a plane is not exactly conducive to happiness (unless it’s in First Class, or even Business Class, which I’ve experienced only once). I no longer like noisy people or loud music, and so tend to avoid public places more and more as I get older. It seems that by now I’ve more or less worked out how to be happy most of the time.

 

Naturally, I’d be overjoyed if Israel were to find a way to make peace with its neighbours, if all the disputes in the world were to be settled and harmony reigned everywhere, but happiness also depends on having realistic expectations.

 

Possibly in my younger days the things that made me happy would have included parties, dances and possibly even a visit to the funfair, but those times have passed. Getting old does seem to have something to do with being happy, after all, and there’s nothing wrong with striving for happiness even when you’re old. Perhaps after turning 55 happiness is easier to find and closer at hand than it ever was before.

 

So, what makes you happy?