Looking After Ourselves

“I can’t meet you for coffee this week,” my friend said. “I have an appointment with my nephrologist.”

“Nephrologist? What’s that?” It turns out my friend has a problem with her kidneys, and I didn’t have a clue about it. Cardiologist, neurologist, psychologist, whatever, they’re all part of our lives now.

Yes, we all go for regular medical check-ups. ‘We’ being women of my age, namely, seventy or older. We’re all getting on in years, doing our best to stay sane and functioning, and – most important of all – looking after our health.

So we have our annual mammography, a process involving a long session in the waiting room before we are called, then a painful few minutes as our breasts are squeezed between two glass plates to be X-rayed, followed by a consultation with the doctor who does the ultrasound. I challenge any man reading this to undergo a similar procedure on a regular basis.

But there’s more. Blood tests that often involve fasting. Tests of the various fluids and solids that emerge from our bodies. Visits to one’s GP, to discuss the results of the various tests. Trips to the pharmacy to collect the medicines that have been prescribed subsequently.

Looking after our health is taking on an increasingly important part of our lives. One’s daily routine starts with the pills that have to be taken on an empty stomach, continues with those that are consumed after breakfast, and ends with those (mainly Statins) that are best taken before going to sleep (provided one does manage to get to sleep. At least there are pills that can help with that, too).

Apart from the various medications and medical procedures, there are other aspects of life that call upon our limited reserves of energy. Exercising regularly, and preferably frequently, is just one of the things we are required to do in order to remain active and functioning. Mental agility is demanded of us too, and in order to achieve this we are advised to do crosswords or Soduko, learn languages, attend lectures, dance, sing or learn to play a musical instrument. In addition, we are told to conduct as active a social and cultural life as we possibly can, not to cut ourselves off from society, as some of us would prefer to do, and above all, to eat healthily. That last one is in itself almost a full-time occupation. We do our best, but I’m afraid I’m too weak-willed to eschew chocolate, cookies and cake completely.

So although all this is easier said than done, we’re doing our level best. When we meet for coffee we try not to discuss our aches and pains and medical conditions. We make sure to get vaccinated against flu, as the authorities keep exhorting us to do, and avoid going out when the air quality is poor. That is also something that we are advised to do by the powers-that-be.

There is some consolation in the thought that someone out there is concerned about us old folk, is looking out for us and trying to take care of our welfare. The lessons that were learned in France a few years ago, when thousands of elderly people died in a heat-wave because no one went to see how they were, seem to have been taken to heart by Israel’s health authorities and the medical profession in general.

The question that remains is, will the day ever come when we can be considered responsible adults and the masters, or mistresses, of our own fate?

Bought, Borrowed or Stolen? Art from the Gurlitt Trove

Otto Dix, self-portrait, smoking

At an exhibit entitled ’Fateful Choices: Art from the Gurlitt Trove,’ the Israel Museum’s Curator of European Art, Shlomit Steinberg, gave a fascinating talk about the history, geography, sociology and provenance of the huge collection of paintings, drawings, prints and lithographs found in 2012 in an apartment belonging to Cornelius Gurlitt, an elderly recluse living in Munich and virtually unknown to the German authorities.

By chance, the strange gentleman who occasionally travelled by train to Switzerland, where he would sell a painting, drawing or print to art dealers, was stopped for ticket inspection. He had not broken any law, he protested when asked to clarify why he was carrying a large sum of cash. Upon further investigation it transpired that he had never paid taxes, never worked, never registered at a university, never bought or sold an apartment, never married and never registered the birth of a child. Thus he had remained ‘under the radar’ of the authorities throughout his adult life.

When the tax inspectors looked further into the activities of the mysterious individual, it transpired that in addition to two apartments in Munich he owned another one in Salzburg, Austria. These were all subsequently found to be crammed full of art works of every conceivable kind and genre. Further investigation revealed that Cornelius’s father, Hildebrand, had been a gallery owner and art dealer, a known figure on the German art scene, from the 1920s until his death in 1956.

In the global media the collection was touted as ‘Nazi looted art,’ but that is not completely true. Some of the art works were paintings and drawings made by other members of the Gurlitt family, several of whom were artistically talented. As an art dealer, Hildebrand had accumulated a diverse collection of works from various periods, and some of these were presumed to have been sold legitimately to art collectors in the period of Weimar Germany. After the Nazis’ rise to power the opportunities for buying works defined by them as ‘degenerate’ multiplied, and Hildebrand was not slow to benefit from their availability and reduced price. In addition, in many cases persecuted artists or Jews felt the need to sell their art works in order to cover the heavy cost of leaving Germany. German Jews were required to submit a detailed list of all the furniture and objects in their possession, and in this way many works of art became property of the State.

Hildebrand Gurlitt was appointed an official art dealer on behalf of the Nazi regime and went to Paris to purchase or acquire works of art there. These were destined either for the museum Hitler intended to build in his home town on Linz, Austria, or to be sold to foreign buyers in order to gain much-needed foreign currency for the German war effort. After the war Hildebrand was investigated by the American authorities, and was eventually exonerated of having collaborated with the Nazis. The collection, which contained works by such artists as Monet, Renoir, Gauguin, Liebermann, Toulouse-Lautrec, Courbet, Cézanne, Munch and Manet, was restored to him. After his death in 1956 as the result of a car accident, the collection passed to his widow, Helene, and subsequently to their son, Cornelius.

Cornelius Gurlitt died in May 2014, bequeathing all his property to the Museum of Fine Arts in Bern, Switzerland. Since then the collection has been exhibited in several European cities and a few pictures have been identified as having belonged to Jewish families and returned to their heirs. The exhibition currently on show in the Israel Museum will be followed by others elsewhere in order to enable as many people as possible to view it and, if their claims are confirmed, to regain ownership of works that had once been theirs. The emphasis is now on using due diligence procedures to establish the provenance of the works of art in the collection.

A Trip to Remember

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A trip that would last just over three weeks, starting with a few days in Madrid, continuing with visits of several days each to cousins on the east coast of the USA. After that we were due to spend a few days with our son in Las Vegas, and conclude with a few more days in Rome. What a perfect combination of fun, family and art. Lots of art.

What I’d forgotten when I was presented with the itinerary was that it involved many airports, living out of a suitcase at various points, and getting on and off planes. A great many planes. I’d also forgotten that I’m not as young as I was, and that the rigours of intercontinental travel tend to take more of a toll on my ancient body than was the case in the past.

Nevertheless, a great deal — even most — of our trip was enjoyable. In Madrid the delights of the Prado, the Thyssen Museum, the Royal Palace and the Monastery of Descalzas Reales provided a sumptuous feast of paintings, sculptures, tapestries and architecture. A performance of Flamenco singing and dancing gave us another insight into the Spanish heart and mind.

Our trip to the USA gave us the opportunity to renew our ties with family members, who were invariably welcoming and hospitable. Our Baltimore cousins took us to the Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery in Washington, where the latter was hosting a special exhibition of works by the Renaissance artist Verrochio. What a delight that was! It has been said that the handsome young Leonardo da Vinci, who was an apprentice in Verrocio’s studio, was the model for his statue of David. We were also taken to the fascinating National Cryptology Museum.

Our Virginia cousins took us to Monticello, the house that Jefferson built and furnished, all to his own special design. It was especially heartwarming to meet and be hosted by members of the younger generation, who all appear to be ‘happily situated’ (to use Jane Austen’s phrase) with beautiful children, successful careers, and spacious homes, surrounded by greenery, forests and all the comforts that semi-rural suburbia has to offer.

The contrast with our next stop, Las Vegas, couldn’t have been greater. Everything there was bigger, brighter, louder and brasher than anything that had gone before. The hotel room was more spacious (even if it meant forging a path through a casino to get there), the breakfast (a delicious toasted cheese sandwich available from the Starbuck’s downstairs) more satisfying, and the temptations of the Strip more appealing than ever. We ate lunch at one or another of the buffets that offer an enormous range of food of every kind, and wandered through the pseudo-Roman streets of Caesar’s Palace.

When we reached our final destination, Rome, we discovered that the Villa Borghese is merely a poor imitation of the Las Vegas version. No, not really. There are certain similarities, however. The ever-present atmosphere of conspicuous consumption comes to mind. But nothing anywhere can compete with the delicate statues of Bernini, who manages to make marble seem as malleable as flesh in his depiction of the moment when Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne is foiled as she is turned into a tree. Or when Proserpina is being abducted by a the god Pluto, whose fingers dig into her flesh with horrifying realism. Bernini has even managed to make the anguish on the lovely young woman’s face palpable.

Rome is indisputably the site of innumerable riches. It has everything – artistic treasures galore, architectural wonders, archaeological wealth – but getting to see it all is something of an ordeal. For some unknown reason, possibly economic, the streets of central Rome are paved with cobblestones that are rather hard on the feet, so that even with good walking shoes some pain cannot always be evoided. The shops display scrumptious foods and beautiful clothes, and even the museums display the high-heeled shoes that were fashionable in the seventeenth century (see photo below). Thank goodness I didn’t live there then.

In order to rest my feet I entered one of the many churches which abound on all sides. Some of them have piped music in the background, adding to the devout atmosphere. Imagine my surprise at hearing a familiar tune sung very softly in one of them. I recognised it after a momentary shock as the modern Hebrew song, ‘Ani ma’amin,’ sung in Hebrew by what sounded like a boy soprano. I assumed that whoever was responsible for choosing the tracks to be broadcast in the church had seen the Italian or Latin translation of the song, ‘Credo,’ and took it to be part of the church service, as tradition requires.

On finally reaching our home, at four in the morning, I vowed that this would be the last time we undertook such an intensive trip. But who knows? My memory isn’t what it was, and by the time I’m presented with the next itinerary I’ll probably have forgotten all about this one.