If you‘re crazy for the freaky-yet-beautiful costumes of Björk, and you’re into the surreal pop cultural uniforms of Lady GaGa, you’ll be amazed by this Tel Aviv exhibition. The artworks are examining the symbolism of Judaism and Islam, creating a global phenomenon, using the ever-international language of fashion.

“What would you wish for if you had one chance?” asks Yoko Ono’s installation, an olive tree trimmed with hundreds of little notes about love and piece, written by the visitors of this extraordinary event. She is one of the greatest supporters of the threeASFOUR designer group, formed by Gabi, Adi and Ange, three women with different backgrounds and languages, sharing the same enthusiasm. Beirut, Israel and Russia meets in the exhibition hall of Tel Aviv’s Beit Hair, a community centre and art-playground, where all the walls and floors are covered with well known, re-invented motives of Arabic and Jewish heritage. The mannequins, standing in front of this cultural melting pot-like wallpaper are dressed to impress: some of them look like a tip-to-toe tattoo covered ethnic chic, others are wearing headpieces what Star Wars character Princess Amidala would kill for, and some are „simply“ paved with classic Arabic-style clay mosaics. The collection was already presented on last year’s New York Fashion Week, but there is no question about it how much more it means for all the fashionistas in the underground fashion capital of the Middle East. No doubt: Tel Aviv is the new „it place“ for people who believe in it, that trend is not purely a manifestation of superficiality, but also an amazing way to make a point. In this urban village of white Bauhaus buildings, shiny skyscrapers, old mosques and gigantic synagogues beauty is not an other object to sell, but a conceptual tool to connect us to something what has been forgotten in the Western world: peace doesn’t start in Parliaments and bottle fields. It’s happening in the eyes of the the people who believe in the old phrase: “Love your neighbour as you love yourself.” See it for yourself, and “ma salama”… go with peace.

The InSalaam InShallom exhibition is open every day – except for Shabbats – until the 10th of March at the Beit Ha’Ir Center of Urban Culture, Bialik Street 27, Tel Aviv. Written for The Wild magazine. 

The house in front of us: a strange red castle, with a sign saying „HOTEL“, but locals say it’s more of a whore house to tell the truth.

The Red House

A bleached russian woman lives on the second floor, she is wearing the same minidress all the time, regardless of how is the weather, or what time is it. She is often accompanied by a strange bold dude, who is drunk 24/7, and he likes to – well, how should I say – bark as a dog, jumping and yelling on the balcony.

There is a collector type of guy, living on the third floor. The subject of his collecting obsession has remained a mistery, but there are all kinds of objects hanging from the ceiling at his balcony from paintings to mugs, and the crows of the area are crazy for this strange collection: they hop by to spend some time here all the time. Of course he is not even bothered by the huge black creatures.

At the front of the house, on the corner of Nachalat Benyamin and Gruzenberg streets, an honorary guest is giving a concerto every Friday: she is the Singer Lady. Her voice is rather distracting and unbearable: it could definitely be used as a doorbell on the gates of Hell.

The red, castle-like building is reaching skies in a tower, covered with flake-like tiles. While contemplating those silverish, glimmering slates, I always think, that this house is the home of a dragon, who is sleeping in a foetus position on the top of that tower. The collector must be a wizard, and the craws are their servants. The russian prostitute is probably a charmed princess, and the Singer Lady must be a mermaid, whose voice has once been taken away  from her.

I might ask myself: what is going to happen if the dragon takes me one day? Or am I lost in his enchanted land already, without even noticing it? Am I the next victim?

I have a new neighbor. More correctly: I am the new one, since she was here since 1900. Yesterday as I was walking the doggies on the beach, I looked up on the house next to ours, and I saw I sign: “The poet, Rachel Bluwstein lived and worked in this house…” As  got home I got myself into the grove… I mean Google, and I have to say: now I’m in love!

Hello, stranger…

Rachel  was born in northern Russia in 1890, and died in Tel Aviv in 1931 of tuberculosis, which she contracted while working in schools for refugee children during World War I in Russia. All her poetry was published under her first name only, sometimes spelled ‘Rachel’, sometimes ‘Ra’hel’.  Rachel immigrated to Palestine in 1909, during the period of Ottoman rule, and lived for nearly four years at an agricultural girls’ school on the shores of the Kinneret. In 1913 she traveled to France to study agronomy, and spent the war years in Russia. The poet returned to Palestine in 1919, to Kibbutz Degania, but soon left, as her illness prevented her from working with children, and made physical labor an impossibility as well. She lived out her last years in loneliness in a room in Tel Aviv, and was buried at the Kinneret.

Most of her poetry was published in her last years, her language is so simple and clear, her descriptions deep and emotional; her love poems emphasize pain, loneliness and longing, while the rest often treat the strong connection to the landscape, to biblical figures, to human fate and the puzzle of death. I’m so proud and happy that she is not lonely anymore… I’m her new neighbor.

“Spring and early morning –
do you remember that spring, that day? –
our garden at the foot of Mount Carmel,
facing the blue of the bay?

You are standing under an olive,
and I, like a bird on a spray,
am perched on the silvery tree-top.
We are cutting black branches away.

From below, your saw’s rhythmic buzzing
reaches me in my tree,
and I rain down from above you
aragments of poetry.

Remember that morning, that gladness?
They were – and disappeared,
like the short spring of our country,
the short spring of our years.”

Rachel Bluwstein – Our Garden