#ArtIHeart 12 - Matryoshka Russian Dolls

Art I Heart

Share the art you love from your walls, a birthday card, what your child drew at school, that you saw in The National Gallery in London...

1. Choose one piece of art that has a short personal story behind it. It could be something on your wall, something you've seen in a gallery and love, homedrawn, on a postcard, on a birthday card, something by Degas or something by your DS.

2. Take a photograph, scan or download a picture of your picture and post it along with the short story about why you are drawn to it, have it on your wall, bought it, or hate it. Don't forget to link back to the linky so your readers can see the other entries.

3. Link up (it's open till next Thursday, 4pm GMT), leave a comment, et voila!

Here's mine:

The original matryoshka

You could say it's not art. However, the crafting and hand-painting of these dolls is a highly skilled job and, as production decreases and factories close, one that is in danger of dying out. You can read about the history and background of Matryoshka here. There is also some debate about whether they are called matryoshka (or matrushka) or babushka. I think babushka is merely a nick-name as it means grandma or old woman in Russian. And you can see many fine examples far better than my pathetic collection, here. This post is about my personal story and I'm eager to tell it without getting bogged down in the whole matryoshka culture.

The full collection (and me in the mirror)

When I was a child we had a biscuit tin that had originally contained Scottish shortbread. It was tartan with a picture of the actual tin itself on the lid. In the picture could be seen a smaller picture of the tin and an even smaller one inside that. Ad infinitum, supposedly, as they get too small to see after the first few. I was fascinated by this tin and would study it for ages. I've since learned (thank you Google) that it is called a droste effect or a recursive picture. I trawled Google Images trying to find a picture of my tin but alas I could not. Suffice to say, I have had a life-long love of things within things. Even today my favourite toys belonging to my daughter involve stacking cups.

Fast forward to 1986 and my friend and I were going to Russia for a week. It was touch and go whether our trip would be cancelled as it was only a few months after the Chenobyl disaster, but in the end we went. (Since then we have given birth to eight healthy children between us, if you're interested.) It was a package, organised tour including 4 days in Moscow and 3 in Leningrad (now St Petersburg again). I knew that I wanted to buy a matryoshka while I was there.

Bought in London and sadly depleted

In Moscow we visited some refusenik families. Families who had applied for visas to emmigrate to Israel and, as a result of this, had lost their jobs or were harrassed by the KGB. They had nothing. Not that anyone had much. The shops in Moscow, the few that we saw, were very sparsely stocked with the drabbest and most uniform products.

On the other hand, all the tourist hotels had a tourist shop overflowing with colourful souvenirs. We went to look around on our first day. The choice of matryoshka was vast. "Do you want to buy your doll now and then we don't have to worry about it anymore?" Asked my friend. I didn't want to.



Assorted odds and bods (oddyoshkas?)

On our last day in Moscow my friend suggested I buy my doll because who knows what will be in Leningrad. Again, I didn't want to. We went through the same scenario in Leningrad on the first and last day. We visited more refusemik families and the tourist shop was just as bounteous as the one in Moscow. The contrast between the two worlds was just as brazen. In the end I knew that I couldn't buy myself a souvenir of my 'holiday' after what we had seen. I just couldn't.

In the early 1990s the iron curtain lifted and about a million Russian Jews arrived in Israel. As you can imagine, they didn't come with much. You used to see them sitting on a blanket by the side of the road, all their worldly goods spread out before them, for sale. I was walking down King George Street one day and I saw a matryoshka (pictured above). The man gave me a price and I gave him double what he asked for. I had my matryoshka at last.

Since then I've collected others. I had mostly complete sets until my daughter discovered the joy of playing with things within things. I am not one to keep chipped mugs or jigsaw puzzles with half the pieces missing, but every so often you come across a lone piece from a matryoshka. I collect them in the hope of one day matching them up somehow.

Henrietta Szold And Me

The task for this week's 100 Word Challenge over at Julia's Place is to write a poem on the theme:

The passing of 60 years.

Obviously it's to celebrate the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. I wish I were in the UK to experience it but as I'm in Israel, I chose to celebrate another strong woman. A woman who's life work has had a direct impact on my life and my happiness.

Henrietta Szold (1860 - 1945)

Henrietta Szold founded Hadassah Women,
Leading to the founding of Hadassah Hospital,
Where she insisted that Jews and Arabs receive equal care.

She founded Youth Aliya,
With a system of youth villages throughout the country,
They rescued over 22,000 children from Hitler.

She was a teacher, a writer, a scholar and a politician.
She was single and she was childless.
The Hebrew date of her death is Mother's Day in Israel.

She once said to a friend,
I would give it all up for one child of my own.
Sixty years later I started IVF in Hadassah Hospital.

#ArtIHeart 11 - The Rabbi's Nude

Art I Heart

Share the art you love from your walls, a birthday card, what your child drew at school, that you saw in The National Gallery in London...

1. Choose one piece of art that has a short personal story behind it. It could be something on your wall, something you've seen in a gallery and love, homedrawn, on a postcard, on a birthday card, something by Degas or something by your DS.

2. Take a photograph, scan or download a picture of your picture and post it along with the short story about why you are drawn to it, have it on your wall, bought it, or hate it. Don't forget to link back to the linky so your readers can see the other entries.

3. Link up (it's open till next Thursday, 4pm GMT), leave a comment, et voila!

Here's mine:

I admit I chose a provocative title. No the Rabbi is not nude. And there isn't even a nude in the picture - but so many people think it is a nude when they glance at it for the first time. And it did belong to a Rabbi. Here's the story:

About 20 years ago a friend of mine was studying in Jerusalem to become a Rabbi, before returning to the UK. He and his wife rented a flat from a man who was going to sell it after their two year contract finished. Meanwhile he sold them all the furniture in the flat and they could do what they wanted with it before they left. This picture was on the wall.

It is drawn in pastel crayons and is signed Levin '57. I looked in the Artist Database of the Israel Museum but couldn't find any reference to this artist. I even had a friend called Levin in Jerusalem who was an artist, but it wasn't hers.

I first saw the picture on the Rabbi's wall during a Friday night dinner that I was invited to. I commented that it was quite a risque subject for a rabbinical student to host on his wall. He laughed, "it's a chair," he said.  I loved it. "It's yours when we leave," he said.

When their daughter was born and we went to have a celebratory drink, my parents were visiting so they came too. I pointed out the picture to my mother. "That's coming to me," I told her. "Is it'" she said flatly in that way only mothers of a certian generation can express disapproval. "It's a chair," I said.

Here's a sideways view - can you see the nude that isn't there?

The original was framed in an old fashioned, ornate and falling apart frame and the passe-partout seemed to have been cut with blunt scissors. I had it reframed. It now sits above my sideboard which, very soon, is going to change from being part of the playroom back into a grown up sideboard. Soon, very soon. (And the bike is going downstairs to be used outside only - as I said, very soon.)

Blessing My Daughter And Bletchley Park, Part 2

Bletchley Park

Yesterday I started the story about the Friday Night Blessing I give my daughter every week right after lighting the Shabbat candles. You can read it here. I wrote about how I arrived at this particular blessing and about the friend who gave it to me. This friend has always been into doing the cryptic crosswords in the paper and enjoys a regular weekly scabble game with friends. In short, she's a word puzzle person. So it was no shock to learn that her father had been one of the codebreakers at Bletchley Park during WW2.

A matza picnic in the drizzle

Jump back (or should that be forward?) to Easter Sunday in rainy London. DD and I were staying with my sister and her family for the Passover holiday. As Monday was a bank holiday, that was the day we were going on our Matza Ramble. In the old days this meant a ramble in the countryside including a matza picnic (as we only eat matza instead of bread for the week of Passover). We tend to go with other families so that the children (and we) have friends to play with. And over the years, we've become less rambling and more National Trust. In recent years we've gone to Greenwich, Hatfield House, and Knebworth.

It was almost cancelled this year as the weather forecast was heavy rain throughout the day. As phonecalls were exchanged, bowling and a movie were suggested. DD is three so I was seeing our day out with the family rapidly disappear. Another suggestion was everyone come over with board games and we'd have a games day. I couldn't see DD playing Risk somehow. Luckily someone came up with the idea of Bletchley Park - lots of indoor interest and a bit of outdoors if the sun came out.

I was so excited. I wanted to look up my friend's Dad. We have a personal connection to him after all. When we arrived, I realised that I only had his surname and there were two Goldbergs listed. I happened to have my friend's daughter's number in my phone so I texted her in Israel: At Bletchley Park, what's ur Grandpa's name? Two minutes later I got my answer: Joshua David Goldberg. He's in the Japanese Room.

Joshua David Goldberg standing centre

After securing some babysitting, I ran to find the Japanese Room. It was in Block B where we'd come in, upstairs. Reader I found him in the middle of a group photo. They were amazing these men. They were given six months of intensive Japanese and then they had to crack codes in it. Even to read it was a challenge because, as they showed, the written pictograms bore scant resemblance to the printed words.

I stood and looked at the photograph. I wanted to tell him that we use his blessing and that my daughter shares his birthday. I wanted to tell him that it worked as both his daughter and his granddaughter grew up to be good big girls. Instead I told the man and his son who were standing next to me, "I know his daughter." They were (or acted) suitably impressed. I felt a bit silly.

While I was upstairs in B Block I went to look at the WW2 kitchen and living room at the end of the corridor. I love things like that. I also liked the 1940s Post Office, the corner shop, and the vintage toy, clothing and household goods exhibition.

The older children enjoyed a children's guided tour. The vintage cars and other wartime vehicles we also a hit. Some of the adults got engrossed in the stories about the various spies. DD chased a cat and liked the playground.

The main attraction is the Enigma machine itself. The first computer, that took up a whole room, was fascinating. I know it was fascinating because everyone disappeared inside while DD and I ran around in the rain and waited for half an hour for them to gradually and reluctantly emerge - and that was only because the place was closing.

Blessing My Daughter And Bletchley Park, Part 1

There is a connection I promise. First I have to explain about the custom of blessing the children on Friday night at the beginning of the Sabbath (Shabbat). The parent places their hands on each child's head and says the official blessing, often following it up with a personal message of their own.

So, having become a parent with a child old enough to enjoy the whole Friday night thing (candles, songs, blessings, grape-juice, breaking the bread, dinner, grace after, etc...) I decided to look up the official blessings (we never did it at home for some reason). The blessing for boys is actually very nice. You ask God to make your son like Ephraim and Menashe. In the Bible, these two sons of Joseph were blessed by their gandfather, Jacob, before he died and before he blessed his own sons. The reason they were favoured in this way was that they are the first set of brothers mentioned where there is no sibling rivalry. (Think about it - Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau). Very nice.

Then we come to the blessing for the girls. May God make you like Sarah, Rebekah, Leah and Rachel. The explanations of why, apart from being the founding mothers of Judaism (by dint of being married to the patriarchs) are less than satisfactory and not what I would necessarily wish for my daughter. One (orthodox) website puts it like this:

 As matriarchs of the Jewish people Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah each posses qualities that make them worthy role models. According to Jewish tradition they were strong women who kept faith with God during tough times. Between the lot of them, they endured marital troubles, infertility, abduction, envy from other women and the task of raising difficult children. But whatever hardships came their way these women put God and family first, eventually succeeding in building the Jewish people.

If, God forbid, my daughter should have to endure any of the "tough times" mentioned above, I should indeed like her to cope admirably. However, it's not the blessing I choose to give her when I could just as easily ask God to bless her with a much easier life. Another (orthodox) website puts it like this:

Each one lived in recognition that the ultimate in fulfillment is enabling others to realize their potentials as individuals and as members of the Jewish people. The Torah is filled with accounts of these women, recording their insight, their giving nature, and their sensitivity, leadership, and special ability to inspire others. Beyond this, all of the matriarchs were great, righteous women, who hailed from the homes of wicked people ― what we call today " a bad environment."

Seriously? You should grow up to enable others? And what are "wicked people" and "a bad environment"? Could it possibly be people who have different beliefs to one's own? No, no, no, not in my house!

So we'll be sticking with the blessing I used to say to DD when I was pregnant. After lighting the Shabbat candles I would gently rub my bump and say, "God bless you and make you a good big girl."

Bletchley Park

I got this from my friend who, I noticed, after blessing her own daughter, would whisper something extra in her ear. When I asked what she said, she told me these words and said they were what her own father had said to her every week when she was a child. I liked it so I adopted it myself. Also because my friend is a single mother of a daughter and I look to her as a shining example of how to do it right.

When DD was born I told my friend that I'd adopted her blessing for DD. "Remind me of her birthday?" she asked. I gave the date and my friend said, "Ooh, I've got shivers up my spine. That was my late father's birthday."

There is a connection to Bletchley Park but this post is long enough already. The story is continued in Part 2.

Dear So And So...

For the first time I'm linking up with Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow to let in Crazy Town for the Dear So and So. I love her letters to all and sundry on a weekly basis and this week I found I have something (or somethings) to say.

Dear Doom-Merchant,
Not every mother and daughter go through hell during the teenage years. Just because DD is a girl with a strong character it does not mean we are heading for melt-down within the next 10-12 years. And even if we are, is it really necessary to warn me of it gleefully every time we meet? I'm sorry if your experience with your teenager was less than pleasant. I think there's usually a reason behind adolescent turmoil over and above the sensitive hormonal changes. It would be far more useful to look for the causes and try to alleviate them a bit.
I realize that now DD has smoothly and successfully graduated into her own bed, your previous prediction that I'd never get her out of my bed is hitting you hard. However, you could just try to look on the joyful side of motherhood and celebrate our happiness.
Just a thought.
Yours,
Mother And Daughter Doing Just Fine Thank You

Dear Laid Back Picture Framer,
When you have had my picture for over five months I really don't think you are in a position to lecture me about not leaving my name when I phone to speak to you and get the answering service.
Yours,
The Customer Who Was Promised It Would Take About Two Weeks

Dear Queue Jumper,
When you momentarily visit the queue to tell me, "I'm after you, OK?" And then go off to finish your shopping, it's not OK. I also have other stuff I could be doing instead of standing in the queue for half an hour. Unless you want to pay me for keeping your place, when you return I shall be pretending I don't speak Hebrew and I don't think I've ever seen you before.
Yours,
Two Can Play Games

Dear Reader,
I've had a lot of fun getting this lot off my chest. Please pop over to Kat's  to see the other entries on the linky.
Yours,
I Know I'm Not Perfect But I Try Not To Be Obnoxious

Dear Kat,
Thanks for this.
Yours,
Rachel

#ArtIHeart 10 - Wales In My Spudy

Art I Heart

Share the art you love from your walls, a birthday card, what your child drew at school, that you saw in The National Gallery in London...

1. Choose one piece of art that has a short personal story behind it. It could be something on your wall, something you've seen in a gallery and love, homedrawn, on a postcard, on a birthday card, something by Degas or something by your DS.

2. Take a photograph, scan or download a picture of your picture and post it along with the short story about why you are drawn to it, have it on your wall, bought it, or hate it. Don't forget to link back to the linky so your readers can see the other entries.

3. Link up (it's open till next Thursday, 4pm GMT), leave a comment, et voila!

Here's mine:

On November 4th last year Lins Lleisio from Multigenerational Living And Life In Wales published this post. If you look, my comment underneath says:

Midlife Singlemum said...

If you had that photo blown up and made into a poster - I'd buy it and hang it in my study. Just beautiful!

The next thing I knew, Lins contacted me and offered to send me the photo by email. So I had the photo and I trotted off to the photo-shop to ask them if I could email it to them. No, I couldn't. So I went to Office Depot to buy my first ever diskon key (memory stick) and hoped I'd be able to work out how to use it. It was easy. Trotted back to the shop and ordered a modest sized blow-up of the photo so that I'd be able to buy a clip on frame in the shop (at about 40 shekels) and Bob's your uncle, a new piece of art for the spudy.

The enlargement took one week and I went to collect it. However, they'd made a mistake, They'd accidently made me the largest size (value 150 shekels) instead of the size I ordered (value 99 shekels). But as it looked fabulous, I took it at no extra cost to myself. Only they don't have clip on frames that size so off I went to the local framer.

It was December 8th by this time. I chose my frame and the framer told me it would take slightly longer than usual - two weeks instead of one, due to the imminent Hanukah holiday. And it would cost 290 shekels as it had to be stuck to a board by a professional sticker. At this point I should have marched straight back to the photo-shop and demand they redo the enlargement in the size I originally ordered. But I didn't.

So three weeks go by and it's now January. I hear nothing from the framer. February blows in. Nothing. I think I called him in March. "Oh I've been meaning to call you," he says, and then gives me a long story about the frame being out of stock and the new frames that came in not being up to standard. I don't really care. I just want my picture. At some point I worked out that if I told the framer it was too late and I didn't want it anymore, it would be cheaper to cut my losses and start over rather than wait for the large framed version. But I didn't.

I met the framer in the street at the beginning of May. "I have your picture," he informs me, "it's ready!" It crossed my mind that it was a good job we'd met in the street. So I went in to get it. It wasn't there. It was in his storage unit and he was just off to get it now. What a coincidence. So I went in three days later after receiving a text message informing me of the opening times. There was a note on the door - Be back in 20  minutes. I didn't wait.

I phoned later and got the answering service. He called back and gave me a lecture about leaving my name next time I call as he can't always get to the phone. (Yeah, I will next time I don't want my framing returned for over 5 months!)

So I picked up Lins' photograph on May 14th - five months and one week after I'd given it to the framer. I do love it though. It's a little bit of Wales in Jerusalem. Here it is on the wall (next to Camping In The Wye Valley so it should feel at home).

Thank you Lins, I love my little bit of Wales and I'm sorry it took so long for you to see the results of your beautiful photography.

#TheGallery - Morning

I'm joining The Gallery this week, over at Sticky Fingers. The theme is: morning.

As the mother of an impressionable 3yo daughter, my example has taught her the importance of a good morning facial routine. The lesson has been so well learned that I find myself hiding the jar of moisturizer. On occasions when I forget and leave it on my dressing table in plain sight, this happens:

Pop over to The Gallery to see more photographic interpretations of morning.

Today We Went To The Zoo

Six Word Saturday is hosted by Cate at Show My Face. You describe your Saturday or a part of it, in six words. You can add an explanation and a few photos or not. Mine's pretty self explanatory this week.

Today we went to the zoo

#ArtIHeart 9: Photos As Art

Art I Heart

Share the art you love from your walls, a birthday card, what your child drew at school, that you saw in The National Gallery in London...

1. Choose one piece of art that has a short personal story behind it. It could be something on your wall, something you've seen in a gallery and love, homedrawn, on a postcard, on a birthday card, something by Degas or something by your DS.

2. Take a photograph, scan or download a picture of your picture and post it along with the short story about why you are drawn to it, have it on your wall, bought it, or hate it. Don't forget to link back to the linky so your readers can see the other entries.

3. Link up (it's open till next Thursday, 4pm GMT), leave a comment, et voila!

Here's mine:

The frame is something I wouldn't buy in a million years. I wouldn't even consider it. However, it was bought for us as part of a baby gift when DD was born. To me it is the height of kitch and I don't do kitch. Except sometimes I do. And this one has grown on me to the extent that I really love it now. It's part of my wall of family photos (mainly DD and her cousins at various ages) above the spare bed in the spudy.

It's a work in progress. Nothing is planned or aligned. When I have a new photo in a frame I find a space and up it goes. One day I hope to cover the whole wall (or another whole wall). There are three photos of DD as a baby in my chosen frame.

My favourite is the bottom one with DD asleep on my arm. I've almost forgotten that she was as tiny as that and what she felt like at that age. But I look up from my desk as I'm writing this and there she is. I swear I will never turn my nose up a kitch again.

Lag B'Omer Part 2: Chabad And the Bouncy Castles

The Lag B'Omer celebrations continued today with a day off school (but not off work for working parents which is problematic for parents of younger children) and public happenings and events around the country. We decided to join the local Chabad Parade from the park to a school playground where... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

First, what is Chabad? I mentioned them once before in this post but basically Chabad is an ultra-orthadox and international, Jewish organisation that promotes acts of loving-kindness and emphasises reaching out to the unaffiliated to include them in the community. You may have heard of them called Lubavitch, after the place where the movement started. I am not a member and I'm not even that religious - let alone ultra-anything. However, I do have great respect for the work that Chabad do.

In the park.

So we met in the park and found the drummers. All the children were given hats, flags and raffle tickets and we were off. We marched out of the park and down the street waving our flags and singing out loudly for the Messiah to come soon (that being one of the favourite songs) and about David being being the King of Israel. If you had told me three years ago that I would ever join such a spectacle I would have insisted emphatically, "never! Not in a million years!" But there I was dancing away in my silly hat and enjoying every moment. Amazing what motherhood does to you.

DD with her flag, raffle ticket round her wrist, and her water bottle (hot climate means never leave home without one).

En route.

At one point we stopped under a balcony and this woman came out and threw sweets down for the children. I don't know if it was planned or not but the kids thought it was magic.

Eventually (after about 5 minutes) we arrived at the school gates.

Imagine our excitement when we saw these in the playground.

And this.

And here's another one.

DD spent over an hour in the ship. "Hello Mummy! I'm on a ship!"

And almost an hour on the desert island.

They gave out free ice lollies to the children.

There were hot dogs as well but I think it's a shame to feed your child poison after such a wonderful day.

I tried to sit and listen to the raffle draw but DD took off her shoes and told me, "I going there to the ship." She was off before I could stop her so I had to follow. I gave our tickets to the woman sitting next to me - I hope she won.

It took repeated deals of '5 minutes' to get DD to leave. She ran home still on a high. A quick shower, supper, two short stories and she was asleep within seconds of me leaving the room. Aaaand relaaaax.