On the edge of town, on the edge of a lush forest, stands an old wall. In the middle of that wall there is a wooden board covering an ancient doorway. Simple and closed. Simply closed. Where it leads, no one knows. It felt like a fairy tale, so we left a key hole with a red thread. Perhaps one day someone will come along, someone that can pull that red-thread and enter the magical garden that lies beyond.
But beware of the cat-bat that guards it day and night.
The city is a living organism of which we are a part, influencing and being influenced simultaneously. It is not just an urban grid, but a network of life that inhabits a given space – buildings, people, air, pollution, roads, cars, pavements, footsteps.
Nature is a living organism of which we are a part, influencing and being influenced simultaneously. It is not just a patch of land, but a habitat in which life moves around, stands still, lives – ants, leaves, wind, grass, hooves, wings, clouds.
Driving in search for breakfast, somewhere in the White Mountains region,
an abandoned piano called us from the side of the road.
A quick U-turn and we heeded its call, stopping at a deserted shop-plaza and lot.
It was a beautiful thing, still, even with its guts laid bare for the mountain winds and rains.
Hesitantly we pressed a key and were startled by a loud and clear note that pierced the morning silence
and sailed across the empty lot, onto the road, onward.
A few more notes and we were off on our way, but we left our heart there
as a quiet companion to the unheard music of the piano’s soul.
On the shore of one of numerous heavenly isles
off the Maine coast, off the main road,
beside a building scorched by fire so as to resemble a black-scaled dragon,
lays a gloriously white vessel in eternal battle with a raging vegetation sea.
A short walk down one of the many creeks that descend, vein-like, down the Carmel Mountain. It’s the end of summer, and there’s not a drop of water to be found. Several trees have been cut down through the years, presumably to clear way for water or travelers, depending on the season. Their carcasses are laid out, sliced, presumably so other trees don’t get any ideas.
This text-construction means: tree – object/bone
(weirdly and not weirdly, in Hebrew it’s the same word).
Read about the De/Construction series in this post:
A walk in the back-alleys of Florentin, Tel Aviv.
Out & about in Haifa
Built on the slopes of Mount Carmel, Haifa has a history spanning more than 3,000 years,
all originated down by the seaside, by the port. This area today is a mishmash of modern, old and ancient;
of active commerce, culture, food and education but also of abandonment and decay.
It’s weird how the city’s center seems to drift further and further away,
opting for newer, blander neighborhoods and businesses
while in many ways leaving behind its oldest structures, in essence its heart and soul.
Our first artistic expedition in our new city.
Moving to Haifa after 15 years in Tel Aviv was surprisingly not dramatic,
and has felt more like the natural course of things.
The two cities are vastly different.
Haifa is laid back and somewhat dormant, whereas Tel Aviv is the hub of activity.
Haifa is green and wild and mountainous, while Tel Aviv is flat and somewhat arid.
And Haifa is multicultural, in a way that no other place in Israel can match.
Muslims, Jews, Christians, Bahá’ís, each group composed of people from a multitude of nations,
all just live here.
There’s a term in Hebrew, “dual existence”, which aims to describe
a somewhat Utopian future where Jews and Arabs live, side by side.
There is no dual existence in Haifa.
Here it is mutual existence, not side by side but simply together.
Like any commercial boulevard, anywhere in the modern world,
Ibn Gabirol St. is a constant bombardment of your senses. It’s more than just colors, sounds and smells. Anywhere you look, you are being sold something. From the shops and cafes to the billboards and the sides of buses.
Unless you are actively shopping at this exact time, the natural reaction is a dimming of the senses, a blurring of the outside reality, to grant yourself some peace. These dimmed hours accumulate over a month, a year, a lifetime.
Our small installations aim to be tiny havens for the senses, spots to which your eyes can flee, where no one is pitching you anything. Spots that remind you and hopefully aid you to stay present and in the present.