Tag Archives: inspiration


almond blossoms at the top of the little hill where I live in Jerusalem

When I came into this world, it was hell on earth. My earliest memories are of nightmare qualities. My parents, who were orthodox Jews, were married by ‘arrangement’. and complemented each other in a strange and unexpected manner. My father didn’t really want to bring any children into this world, but my mother wouldn’t hear of such a plan. It was either marriage with children or no marriage and he agreed. In an attempt to offer me some consolation, he suggested that I read history, and this I did. It gave me a wider perspective of human affairs. My mother, on the other hand, told me of the good in the world. She tried to share with me what she loved about life. She was an incurable optimist.

Nechama my cat does not believe in religion or any ideology. she looks at life from the ground up. she has an exaggerated faith in me. but when we’re taking a walk together and she sees a dog in the area, she hides behind a bush or up in the tree. she doesn’t rely on me to save her.

As a young man I started my learning with the study of religion, and from there I continued to mechanics, science and engineering. This was simply because Jewish people could not feel safe in any country. They had been driven out of one country after another and been forced to adjust to endless changes in language and cultures. The study of engineering or mechanics would allow me to feed myself and my family regardless of where I might have to go to find shelter. But after securing a professional base, I found myself drawn to philosophy. As I would read the thoughts of different philosophers, I was convinced almost every time, identifying with the thinker, and adopting his point of view until I came across the next which I would adopt too. I was naive and trusting when reading these volumes by intelligent rational people… well, some of them were rational. Eventually, I came to existentialism, and this was more or less where that search ended. I tried to live the present. Not to reach out in hope and prayer for the future… not to entertain fantasies about what could happen, and what I wanted to happen. And not to look back… because in my case, I couldn’t even take a peek without inadvertently seeing images of a blood drenched inferno, being beaten up, and tortured by fear.

she’s an old one eyed cat, but she hasn’t run to fat. she watches the birds on the hill without disclosing her opinions

For most of my life, I continued on this path. And as I’ve mentioned many times in this journal, my life became better and better. To the point where after sixty some years, dying quietly on the floor of my college office after a heart attack, I argued with an ambulance paramedic who wanted to take me to the hospital, saying that I had a good life, and just wanted to be taken home, which was a good place in which to say good bye to the world. Circumstances outwitted me, and I was eventually taken to the hospital where I was saved, but that is a story for another time.

this is wild mustard that grows freely in the fields at this season, and can be included in a sandwich without industrial additives

What I wanted to say, though, was that for most of my life I preferred to focus on the present. But as I grew old, I realized that in many cases that which was most precious to me, was not the contemporary favorite. It was not just that I’d grown old and was no longer able to keep up, and so waxed nostalgic about what had been popular when I was younger. In my youth I had enjoyed Vivaldi and Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and Schubert. I had read philosophical speculations that were sometimes two and three thousand years old, and back again up till the present day. In the pursuit of happiness I had the advantage of checking out anything and everything that had been studied before me. And then… sometime after my retirement, I became entranced by the desire to keep ‘up to date’… and was disappointed.

more almond blossoms at the same place

technology is a straight line; the arts, philosophy, and music are part of a timeless blossoming of the human spirit. there is no before and after in art.


As we all know, there is nobility in ‘art for art’s sake, or studying for the sake of knowledge. One discerns music by taste. The reason to play is for the sake of enjoyment…of the player or the listener; either or both. But in the case of technology, there is constant forward motion and progress is judged by practicality. Technology started before recorded history, before the invention of the wheel, before the invention of scissors and pliers or the discover of the uses of fire. And we moved a step forward every time we encountered a practical way to get results that were even better than what we were getting before. There was a long period of time when man was learning how to harness the power of water moving in a river to perform jobs that people had previously been doing by hand. And then there was the steam engine, and then the internal combustion engine. And while these major industrial miracles were being celebrated, there were hundreds and thousands ‘little’ miracles that added to man’s ability to impose his will on nature.

the same corner where we looked at post modern sculptures on that rainy day

The industrial revolution was perhaps the first time that major customs and conventions were replaced and changed in order to placate the demands of technological progress. After that came the electrical era, and we are now at the very start of the digital age. It is hard to guess just exactly where we’ll go. But I keep in mind that the god of technology is efficiency, whereas the god of art, music and philosophy is reflected in the infinite variations of human sensitivity, empathy, emotions, and the questioning of our own existence.


corner Jaffa & King George


the teeth are hard

a taste of nature in the city (Vienna)

The rain is coming down, hard and fast now. It looks like winter. And yet because it was late in coming, it took me by surprise. Went for a walk this morning, thinking that I would enjoy walking in the rain, dressed in a raincoat, and well bundled up underneath. But I suppose I wasn’t ready for it yet. Much more enjoyable to watch it from within the house, with the heater going So I came back earlier than I had intended.

people like to put things in a box
painting on pomelo by Leah

Theoretically, I believe there is much to photograph in the rain, and I had taken a little camera with me… one that fits in my pocket, that I could take out at the right moment without drowning the camera. But I couldn’t find a single picture that appealed to me. And looking back, I have very few rainy scenes from all my years of photography. As time has passed, I’ve learned to sympathize with the thirsty earth… to want the rain to come… even, to feel a certain joy when the showers begin. Yet visually, I remain uninspired when it comes.

sculpture in the village where I’m staying

What’s unique about artistic inspiration is that it comes to you as if from outside yourslf. It helps you… it does part of the work. And as you move forward, as you begin to paint or write or photograph, the subject itself engages you in conversation. The images demand attention. The subjects of your stories have a will of their own. You could have planned a certain plot, and then find that one of the characters in your story just refuses to behave the way you wanted him to… or goes off and does something completely unexpected. Ah, how could that be, you ask. After all, you’re the master of his universe. You are god himself in this story you’re writing. But no, every subject has a will of his own, and if you try to bend the subject to your will, the subject will, in the end, seem flat and unconvincing. It is a lesson in life.

Bonnie, well adjusted to suburbia

For in fact, all of life is that way. We want to believe otherwise. We delude ourselves into thinking we have much more control than we have. We try laying down rules to our cats and dogs, to the grass on our front lawn, to our husband or wife. We have so many rules. And sometimes the rules seem to work. Our environment seems to comply to the strict order of things. But there are undercurrents and echoes… there are whispers in the dark, and ghosts behind doors. The stricter the rules, the more the ghosts, the double meanings, the underground and the unexpected; the Freudian slip and the accident. There are those that see it all, and those that see only what they expected to see.. blind in their innocence until they are swallowed up by that sudden tsunami, or revolution, or volcanic explosion.

electric pylon

Go with the flow, say the eastern thinkers… everything is interconnected… accept and don’t try to control. But when we have reality fixed in our minds… when we are absolutely sure we know what’s right, we don’t seem able to internalize such ideas. It seems the more we’ve suffered, the more we want to control, thinking that we can avoid those things we can’t stand. Life can be a constant struggle, full of tension and challenges. And all of it, coming out of our own selves, just because we are not willing or not able to accept what’s going on around us. Of course, that doesn’t mean that we can’t use self discipline to guide our own actions in this world. But the problem starts when we try to discipline those around us. And it’s not only those human beings around us… it can even be the dog or the grass…

the very spot where I wrote this blog post

I remember reading a Chinese proverb once, many years ago… to the effect that the teeth are hard, and yet the tongue outlasts them by far, because of its flexibility.

the fountain of creativity

all pictures on this post by Stefano Spinelli

My friend Bob mentioned the spark of creativity in his comment on last week’s post. Some see it as the muse. Some have described it as a gift from god. There have been many efforts to analyze and study what allows an artist to bring something out… sometimes from the depth of his soul… that at times, is greater than the artist himself. The illustration that I like of dipping one’s toes in the water, is the image of a person talking on the phone, or some such thing, and starting to doodle on a piece of paper. Sometimes that innocent doodle can become intricate and deep. I had a dear friend who sometimes started drawing on a piece of paper, and as the picture would grow, he would attach his first drawing to the wall with masking tape and then add a sheet of paper or more, and the drawing would grow far outside the original frame.


There are two major stages in the life of an artist. In the first, as a student, it is beneficial to him or her to receive feedback and critique. He can learn from the comments of others. He or she can discover what reaches others; what is understood of his work; what works. But in the second stage, when he or she has matured as a creative artist, there is a need to discount many of the influences outside of himself. He has to dig deep into his soul, and find content that is an expression of his unique personality and awareness. It goes without saying, that the deepest understandings are often engraved as scars on the heart, forgotten memories in the subconscious, of great pain, embarrassment, guilt, and loss. But there is a process of elevating these primal experiences from the heartbroken depths to an enlightened awareness, and this process is called sublimation. It can be a deliverance, a great release, and a source of joy to the same person who once suffered inestimable pain and distress.


There are many ways to deal with these primal wounds and scars. One can go to a psychologist and do the work of excavating the memories that have been buried or put away. The artist does the same work that a person might do with the help of a psychologist. But his work is not to resolve issues… but to take the raw bleeding truth in his arms and bear it as a mother would a new born child, bare to the world. You may ask, what does this have to do with a painter painting a landscape seen on the steps of a mountain, or a poet writing of the rain under dark clouds in autumn? It doesn’t really matter what the painter paints, or the poet sings. An artist has to be a human being too. The greater he is as a human being, the more sensitive he is… the more empathetic… the more he identifies with the world around him, and is aware of the subtleties of life… the more he distills the essence of what was once drowned in noise and conflicting emotions, and pain and misery, and then puts the rags and the torn bits of life in order, the more he grows and matures as an artist, the better he is able to whistle in the crisp air of the mountain top, and see to the horizon, and the air around him transparent, and the expression pure.


For as we said earlier, each person is different… both the artist and the art appreciator. But the artist, in order to express himself with the clarity of art must eliminate the noise, the distractions, the defenses, and the rationalizations which so many of us use to survive what is too painful to think about or to remember. The lies we’ve invented to help us forgive ourselves, and the rationalizations, just get in the way. Those stories may win the compassion of a dear friend, but they aren’t really unique. They are tainted by sickly motivations. It is only when the expression is clean of all foreign influences, and true to the soul of the artist, having the reverberations of a string or a reed on a musical instrument, that the artistic voice can transcend the context of personal experience and join the tree and the wildflower in drinking from the roots and bathing in sunlight, releasing oxygen to the air around us.


The secret of the artist’s fruitfulness is the immense pleasure he receives from the work itself. That is the antidote to writer’s block and the desolation of not knowing what to do. It is the sheer pleasure of work that motivates the artist. He, she, awakes and is stimulated at every step, by every sight and sound. The very experience of life is heard in the reverberations of his soul. He is happiest when he is in conversation with the world and all that surrounds him. And he brings to the conversation his bare soul. He can relate to good and bad. There are times when he confronts the terrible. But it is no longer as a frightened child or victim. He is as strong as a tree or as delicate as a wildflower, but he is secure in his presence as part of the entirety.


The illustrations accompanying this post are the works of a dear friend of mine, Stefano Spinelli http://www.stefanospinelli.ch/welcome.php . These are photographs of Jerusalem, taken when he was living in our city. He is not Jewish, and came to our city not knowing any Hebrew. He had fallen in love with a woman who came from here. He photographed using a little single-use plastic camera. You usually would shoot one film with the camera, and then it would be thrown away. But he would reload it each time, and he developed the film and printed the pictures by himself. He is a true artist, and his photos are among my favorites of Jerusalem, my home town. I am moved and awestruck by the way he reveals the most intimate aspects of this city that I know as well as my mother’s face.