London, Paris, Jerusalem

‘He who tires of London has tired of life,’ wrote Samuel Johnson, and I dare say he had a point. Even in the dead of winter, when the bone-chilling cold really does chill every inch of bone in your body, the place has its pleasures provided you are suitably attired with hat, coat, boots, etc., breathe only through your woolly scarf and try to limit your time outdoors to the absolute minimum.

After all, buses, trains, shops and the tube are reasonably well-heated, and the pub is usually full enough of human bodies to generate sufficient heat to enable one to remove at least one outer layer of clothing. It pains me, though, to see the homeless people (mainly men) huddled in doorways, and probably literally freezing to death. I’m told on good authority (taxi drivers) that these people could find shelter through one of the government or charitable agencies that are prepared to help them, but they prefer to be free to come and go as they please. And for that they have to pay a price.

One of the chief delights of London is the theatre. I confess to being greatly irritated on the rare occasions when I go to the theatre in Israel. The actors do not speak clearly and, worst of all, have never learned to project their voices and rely instead on those odious little face-microphones. What do they think? That the actors in Shakespeare’s day used face-mikes? In England (and America, too, perhaps, but I’ve never been to a play there) part of the basic training of an actor is learning how to project their voice so that even the poor sods up in the gods (the highest, cheapest seats, often limited to standing only) can hear every word. Admittedly, our seats were quite near the stage and so we were in a particularly privileged position, but it was definitely possible to understand most if not all the dialogue on stage. And what a joy the two plays we saw (‘This House’ and ‘The Kite-Runner’) were, with clever dialogue, imaginative staging, competent acting and witty direction.

We left cold and rainy London for freezing central France and felt very sorry for ourselves as we huddled over log fires (me) or spent a lot of time and energy bringing logs into the house and getting fires going (him). The countryside was beautiful in its frozen state, but I’m afraid I didn’t see much of it as simply going outside required immense investment of mental and physical energy. We couldn’t even enjoy the view when we drove to Paris as almost the entire route was shrouded in fog. Can we call freezing fog frog? Let the froggies keep their frog, I say.

Our few days in icy cold Paris enabled us to enjoy an enlightening visit to the Musée d’Orsay to see the special exhibition of works by Frederick Bazille, an early Impressionist painter who was killed at the age of 29 in the Franco-Prussian war in 1870. What a waste! The few paintings he produced are extremely impressive, showing his ability to produce work of great sophistication and beauty.

The pinnacle of our stay in Paris was a stellar performance of Mozart’s Magic Flute opera, with first-rate singers and orchestra. The show ended late and we had to get up early the next morning to catch our plane, but it was worth it.

In Israel we were greeted by pouring rain, but consoled ourselves with the thought that at least it wasn’t freezing, foggy or froggy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Virginia Woolf by Alexandra Harris

 

Who needs yet another biography of Virginia Woolf? Not I certainly, who have been a VW aficionado for dozens of years, possibly ever since the day somewhere in the 1960s when I first came across one of the five volumes of Leonard Woolf’s autobiography, borrowed from the British Council Library in Jerusalem, in the days when it was still situated in Jerusalem’s wonderful Terra Sancta building.

That book led me to my obsession with Virginia Woolf, Leonard’s wife and one of the leading writers of the twentieth century. As ever more volumes about her came out, whether other people’s memoirs about her, her own collected letters, diaries, and essays, and the monumental biography and literary analysis by Hermione Lee, pretty much the entire English reading public was swept away by the conglomeration of artists, writers and intellectuals who constituted what came to be known as the Bloomsbury Group, because of the area of London where many of them lived. By now I have several bookshelves containing her books as well as other people’s books about her and the group of friends that coalesced around her and Leonard.

But it’s been some time now since I immersed myself in Bloomsburyana and eagerly consumed everything I could about Virginia, so that this relatively slim volume (only 187 pages), which I received as a gift, comes as a succinct and well-written reminder of all the things that so fascinated me in the past.

First of all, Virginia’s life in and of itself is fascinating. Born into an intellectual and relatively wealthy family in London, she and her siblings were subjected to the rigours of a Victorian household, with the manners and mores that pertained to their standing. While her brothers went to public school and Oxford university, Virginia and her sister Vanessa were kept at home, where they were taught by private tutors and their father, the writer Lesley Stephen, and were given the run of their parents’ extensive library. This obviously rankled with Virginia, whose book-length essay, A Room of One’s Own, written many years later, criticizes the discrimination against women implicit – and often explicit – in so many British institutions. The situation has changed since then, it’s true, but reading those lines today still stirs feelings of resentment at the many injustices inherent in the system of education and administration.

For most of her life Virginia was periodically afflicted by some kind of mental illness which has been post-factum defined as mania-depression. Whether or not this was indeed the case, the fact of the matter is that she suffered bouts of terrible depression when she was unable to function normally, let alone write. But it was writing that was her raison d’être, and had it not been for Leonard’s careful and caring stewardship it is not clear whether Virginia would ever have managed to overcome them. Thus, despite the crippling bouts of despair, she managed to produce a large body of work, each of her ten novels was a ground-breaking contribution to contemporary English literature, and her non-fiction reveals an active and brilliant mind combining insights and understanding with a polished literary style.

So it is good to have this new and comprehensive little book, written with clarity and understanding and also containing copious illustrations – photographs of people and places, and of Virginia in particular, as well as paintings and illustrations produced by her sister, Vanessa, who was a talented artist.

Fearing both the recurrence of her mental illness and the consequences of a possible German invasion of Britain, Virginia Woolf took her own life in 1941 at the age of 60. Admittedly, her end was tragic, but her life was full and creative, and that is her legacy to future generations.

A Dangerous Profession

 

In order to spare the feelings of anyone who might happen to read this I am not posting a photo of my face. I look like something out of a horror movie. The sight would be too horrifying for most people. Especially anyone who knows what I look like normally. But just to give you a general idea – think of Charles Laughton in the classic film The Hunchback of Notre Dame. OK, I’ll grant the dentist this: he didn’t give me a hump on my back. But what has happened to my face is, in my opinion, even worse.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The dental X-rays showed that some of my teeth were in a bad shape. Treatment would be required. At first it looked as if a large old filling on a molar would have to come out and be replaced by a new one. Fine. I’m prepared to have fillings done, provided I get all the desensitizing injections that make the process tolerable.

The first dentist, supposedly an expert in his field, removed the said filling and then proceeded to give me a long explanation, most of which I didn’t understand, about the sorry state of what roots were left. I gathered that this meant that there was nothing for it but to extract the offending tooth. However, the state of the rotten roots was so grave that not even a crown could be considered. The only solution, in his view, would be to put in an implant – a procedure that is extremely long, tortuous and expensive. I could only gulp and nod in helpless acceptance of my fate.

But the hapless tooth would be extracted by another, even more expert dentist, a professor no less, whose proficiency in his field is acknowledged worldwide. The appointment was duly made, and I was taken like a lamb to the slaughter by my devoted husband. The extraction was to be implemented at the same time as another dental procedure, the preparation for a previously-ordained implant, and since the two teeth involved were fairly near one another, it seemed advisable to undertake the two together.

The process of preparing a mouth for an implant procedure is interesting. A surgeon’s hat is placed over the patient’s hair, the body is swaddled from the neck to the waist, the head, including the eyes and nose, is wrapped in material so that the only part visible is the mouth. The dentist and his assistant are also dressed in surgical gear, so one has the impression that this is going to be a very sterile and professional procedure.

Several painful injections later the dentist started to work on my mouth, drilling, digging, burrowing and screwing, exerting all his considerable energy on wrestling that darn tooth to the ground. In my head I was trying to sing Brahms’ German Requiem, a performance of which I had attended the previous night. I also wondered if what I was feeling was in any way akin to what my grandparents must have felt in the Auschwitz gas chambers (no, it never leaves me).

I suppose one could say the dentist was ultimately successful, as after an hour or so of vigorous activity he declared my mouth to be rid of the loathsome tooth.

The wrappings were removed from my face and body, and my slightly wobbly legs took me out of the surgery to where my husband was waiting, equipped with chocolate ice-cream and sympathy. The shocked look on his face and the uncharacteristic panic in his voice when he uttered the phrase ‘What’s this!’ told me that something was amiss.

The entire side of my face had swollen. My skin had turned bright red. It looked to him as if a big red balloon had been placed atop my neck. The dentist, who seemed to be similarly alarmed, took me back to the surgery and tried by force to depress the swollen cheek. He’s big and strong. It hurt. Nothing doing. “Well, at least it irons out the wrinkles,” he said with a playful smile. I did not appreciate the humour.

“Put ice on it,” the dentist called after us as my husband led me out of the surgery.

Yes, the swelling went down gradually over the next few days, though eating, talking and smiling are still difficult one week later. But worse was to come. My face turned all the colours of the rainbow. I have two big black eyes (just like the song), with purple, blue and wine-coloured bruises around my mouth, chin and neck.

I have not felt up to leaving the house for a week, and although the pain and discomfort have subsided I am still too embarrassed to be seen by anyone but my close family. Heavy makeup helps to some extent, but tends to wear off after a while.

So that’s it. I’ve had it with dentists. Until every single tooth in my head rots itself to death I’ll think twenty times before venturing into another dentist’s surgery.

A Visit to the Ballet

 

Once a year Israel’s classical ballet comany puts on a performance of a traditional ballet. This is intended mainly for the entertainment of children during the Chanukah/Christmas holiday season. For me, however, this is a golden opportunity to enjoy a very special aesthetic and artistic treat.

When I was growing up my parents showed no interest in the ballet, and I don’t regard myself as a great connoisseur of that particular art form, but ever since I saw my first performance in Jerusalem some twenty years ago I have loved it and waited eagerly for the next opportunity to attend a performance. In addition, ever since the massive immigration from the former Soviet Union in the 1980s the intake of dancers in the field of classical ballet in Israel has risen in both quantity and quality. The number of Russian-sounding names participating in the show each year is a clear indication of this. Until 2012 the Israel Ballet was headed by Bertha Yampolsky and Hillel Markman, who founded the company in 1967, directed and choreographed the performances and kept up a very high standard. Upon their retirement in 2012 they were replaced by Leah Lavi and Matte Morai, who have succeeded in maintaining the company’s excellence.

Over the years, accompanied by one or two of my granddaughters (the boys declined to join us), as well as the occasional daughter-in-law, I have been able to see some wonderful performances here in Jerusalem (though the company’s home is in Tel Aviv). It goes without saying that putting on a ballet is a highly complicated and complex undertaking, involving scenery-painters and movers, set designers, choreographers, costume designers and makers and lighting experts, not to mention male and female dancers (predominantly the latter), all of whom must demonstrate consummate skill and artistry as well as being lithe, athletic and beautiful. Amazingly, all the dancers in the one I saw last week fulfilled all those requirements, making for a breathtakingly beautiful performance.

This year the ballet chosen for the stage was ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ with the music of Tchaikovsky, and what a delight it was! So although my granddaughters and daughter-in-law and I are all fairly grown-up and no longer entranced by fairy-tales, we were all enchanted by the beauty of the dancing, the superior technical level, the beautiful costumes and the excellence of every aspect of the show.

It is customary in Israel to use recorded music rather than a full orchestra for a ballet performance (the cost would be prohibitive), but the professional sound system used dispelled all reservations about the quality of the sound. And Tchaikovsky’s music resonated throughout the Jerusalem Theatre, bringing joy and emotion to our hearts.

The costumes and dancing of the corps de ballet, as well as the soloists (the Good Fairy, the Wicked Fairy, the Prince, Sleeping Beauty herself) were outstanding, and each dancer managed to convey a gamut of emotions through movement and expression alone. I have never forgotten the question my granddaughter asked on her first visit to the ballet. Accustomed to seeing children’s plays, after half an hour of music and dance she turned to me and whispered “Why aren’t they talking?” Many dancers and wonderful music have entranced her since then, and now grown up she is quite the connoisseur, but I hope that my answer to her question then made it clear that in ballet there is no need for words.

Now that the season’s performances have ended all that remains is to wait eagerly for next year’s offering. We are truly blessed in Israel to be able to enjoy artistic performances of such a high standard and such variety. And for me to be able to share that pleasure with my grandchildren is an added bonus.