17 The Picture in my Bedroom

There is a picture hanging in my bedroom made from a poster of the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam of the painting "The Beautiful Shepherdess" by Paulus Moreelse from Utrecht, from the beginning of the seventeenth century. I like to look at this picture. It has complete mastery of technique and style. It is realistic in so far as the face turned towards us is in exact proportions, the shadows create the illusion of natural light that comes from a definite direction and the face has a live expression that speaks to us.

But the picture is not realistic, and its name gives us a hint of this: "The Beautiful Shepherdess". This delicate shepherdess, fancifully dressed and decorated with flowers, did not get up at the crack of dawn, open the gates of the sheep pen and lead the herd to pasture, dirtied by mud. The entire picture is a mythical fantastic image of the shepherdess as a beautiful, aristocratic maiden, as gentle and heavenly as an angel. That is the way seventeenth century Europeans imagined "the shepherdesses" of ancient times – the ideal, imagined golden age, in which the door between heaven and earth had not yet been closed, and the gods intervened in human affairs and beauty was divine.

What attracts me is the enigmatic, cryptic aspect of the picture. What is the beautiful shepherdess thinking about? Is she in love? Is she about to burst into laughter? Does her expression indicate resentment? Irony? It seems that the secret of the picture's magic is that it captures an unexplained emotional expression and thereby enables the viewer to interpret it in innumerable ways. The shepherdess gazed into our eyes. She doesn't leave us in peace, and she demands an interpretation. But at the same time she enables us to ascribe to her glance a vast number of emotions.

16 Bicycles

The weather is no longer suitable for walking barefoot on the sand by the sea, and the beautiful rainless days are ideal for bicycle trips. I have been watching people riding bicycles for a long time – on highways and by the side of roads, or when their bicycles are hanging on the rear of their cars, and If I had not been wary of becoming another fan of this latest fashion, I would have become one myself a long time ago. Finally I succumbed to the temptation, got on my bicycle and rode to the fields.

Earlier I had checked out the relevant internet sites and learned something about bicycles manufacturers and shock absorbers (I am particularly interested in this because of my problematic back). At long last I crossed the Rubicon and purchased a modest mountain bicycle. Here it is on my first Saturday excursion in the fields between Kibbutz Mishmarot and Kfar Glickson. I went alone, with only a water bottle and a map. It was a pleasure.

The scenery seen riding through fields is surprising, and the difference in the conception of space is even more surprising. The driver on roads has a totally false conception of the region we live in, of distances or directions. If you glance at a map you see that settlements quite close to each other are joined by roads that frequently make detours of tens of kilometers. In spite of the fact that everyone knows that long distances on highways are not necessarily long distances as the crow flies, it is nevertheless the roads that create our conception of distances, to say nothing of the fact that they completely confuse our sense of direction by their many curves. Riding on a bicycle through fields between settlements teaches us the correct direction and distance between settlements and corrects the false concept the roads created for us.

15 Fortress Yechiam

A few months ago I was scheduled to enjoy a weekend in the Galil. For obvious reason (the War) that plan did not materialize. However, lately I managed to take that vacation. I went to a moshav near Nahariya. On one of my vacation days I traveled to Fortress Yechiam. I am interested in the history of the Middle Ages, especially in its architecture, for example the great cathedrals in Europe. The crusaders left behind them in Israel impressive citadels and fortresses.

Yechiam is one of them. Although the fortress the crusaders built in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries is almost completely destroyed and what remains today is a reconstruction from the eighteenth century. None the less there is an impressive tower from Crusader times. Its stone stairs wind between thick walls and shooting slots. The scene from the top of the tower is simply breathtaking.

I took this photograph near the entrance of the tower. I stood with my back to the tower and photographed while facing west. Notice the beautiful arc, the shaded interior stone wall, the hinted rear curve, and of course the tree growing inside the building. The reconstruction was done accurately and artistically. Consequently the building does not look like a shattered ruin or like a polished toy. The tree growing within the structure provides color, shade and a calm atmosphere that softens the stony grimness and enables us to forget that the building is a military installation.

On my way to fortress Yechiam I went to see the statue dedicated to the memory of Haganah fighters who died in the Yechiam convoy before independence. Ninety Haganah members traveled to embattled Yechiam. Their convoy was ambushed and more than half of the fighters were killed. The death toll on that day was forty seven. At that time the population of the Jewish community was about one tenth of what it is today. Those facts help us to consider realistically the meaning of existentialist war – its geography and its price.

14 Wispelwey

Months have passed since I heard Peter Wispelwey play at the Jerusalem Theater one evening as part of the Israel Festival – the six suites for cello solo by J.S. Bach, and I still hear the sounds of his playing. Wispelwey plays discreetly but also with confidence and elegance. He is one of the greatest contemporary cellists and one of the musicians leading the revolution that was called "authentic" which in essence is a reaction to nineteenth century music and the romantic performing tradition which persisted until the middle of the twentieth century. He plays with a little vibrato, has a rough, warm tone, and refrains from excessive demonstrativeness, however, and a declaratory tone. His playing is free and it seems as if he is talking to the audience without losing the authoritative status of an exemplary artist.

Whoever has played an instrument can not help thinking of such perfection and how it is achieved. I had two excellent violin teaches, Avigdor Zamir and Israel Amidan. They taught me two things: one is absolute concentration on what you are doing. If you can reach the point of concentrating all your ability and strength on what you are doing at the moment and at that time forget everything else – what you can achieve is amazing. The second thing I learned is that nothing is so complicated that it can not be done – there are only complex activities. If one breaks down any task into its component parts and learns to perform every simple one of them, it will be possible to do the complex task step by step when you are master of every detail. What then is the secret of an all but perfect performance (except for the talent)? Concentration and hard work.

13 Tuesday evening eight o'clock

Every Tuesday evening at eight o'clock, for six years now, I am in Tell Aviv at the home of Rafi Lavi. Yes, Rafi Lavi the Painter. Until recently our group of ardent music lovers met at his place on Jonah Street but now we meet at his new home in Oliphant Street. Rafi is a music freak. He has more than ten thousand discs and continues to buy more and more. This enables him to prepare a program each week in which we hear a musical work – a short part of it – in between ten and twenty different performances. We Then evaluate them and give reasons for our preferences, if we so desire.

Only at the end of the evening does Rafi (or Amir Mandel who lately has been helping to prepare these evenings) disclose who the performers were. Almost always there are surprises. A famous violinist is not viewed favorably, a pianist whom no one has heard of is everyone's favorite, or a performance that I have at home and which I thought was the best – and now I found only bad words for it. Listening to music in that way is very intensive and requires one to make fine distinctions. And if you think that six years is a long time, consider the fact that this group exists for more than fifteen years and there are those who remind me that I am one of the newcomers.

12 In the Spice Store

There are certain items that I never buy in the large stores where buying is a neon illuminated "experience" accompanied by background music and loud speaker announcements of sales in the meat or bakery department. Spices and peanuts, for example, I buy in a spice store located in the center of the moshava (village). You can see the peanuts I bought laying on the scale. I like to take a break at noon time and go for a walk. On my way back from the post office (where I receive the books that are sent to me for evaluation) I stop at the bakery and buy good bread (I slice it myself, place the slices in a number of small nylon bags and put them in the freezer). Afterwards I pass the Cash Dispenser, the toy shop – and reach the spice store.

From my daughter I learned to buy dried tomatoes and soak them in olive oil. For my mother I buy crushed oats. For myself I buy peanuts and roast them at low temperature in a toaster oven without salt or oil, as well as various types of Herbal Teas that are in jars which can be seen in the lower left hand corner of the picture. I buy black pepper as well, either whole or crushed, which I grind in a table mill at meal time. And za'atar as well. At times I also buy a jar of honey. The honey from our region is delicious and it can be found here (but also in supermarkets which provide shopping carts for the price of five shekel as well as background music).

After that I pass the wholesale beverage store, the computer store, the pizza parlor, and the picture frame shop. Finally I return home. Today the skies were clear and the air was fragrant with the smell of the earth and trees after the rain. The walk was invigorating. I put my purchases on the kitchen counter, went up to the second floor, sat down opposite my computer and wrote these words before going back to work.

11 On a bench in Kupat Holim

I spent a morning in Kupat Holim (Health Clinic). Like the Prime Minister, I too go for periodic check-ups. And I am also in good shape, thank you. Since the examination required a stay of about two hours, I took a seat on a bench midway between a lab and a dental hygienist's room (at one corner a circular mirror had been installed) and carefully took out the morning newspaper. Immediately a thick colored leaflet entitled "Cream" fell out. I picked it up and threw it into a nearby waste basket. (Never mind what happened when I got home.) I started to read the paper but trying to hold it by my fingertips in order not to get my fingers dirty, soon got on my nerves. I put down the paper and took out the biography of Charlemagne: a strange, capricious and enthusiastic acquisition from the recent "book fair". This book, like so many others before it, is on its way to my shelf of much loved books that I have not and will not read. I took it with me primarily because it is a thin volume that fits nicely into my bag, unlike "A Suitable Boy" which is waiting on my night table. Tired of that I switched to something much more to my liking – Garrison Keillor.

Ah, Garrison Keillor. My cell phone, which is now also my camera as well as my walkman, has been loaded these past two weeks with 4 disks on which Keillor reads in his charming, sensitive, intelligent and ironic voice the stories of Lake Wobegon, his imaginary home town in Minnesota, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking and all the children above average. Recently Keillor's story has been turned into a film directed by Robert Altman. I can hardly wait to see it.