by Jerome du Bois
Welcome to Part Two, and thank you for your patience. As a reward, I have a surprise: this post will be a lot shorter than I implied.
Everybody who has followed this story knows what happened The Night of January Sixteenth, 2004, when Zvi Mazel performed a mitzvah for all who love life. Jonathan Edelstein of the Head Heeb has the best roundup of the early news reports, and several bloggers' reactions; Bjorn Staerk has more; and Stefan Geens provides three posts, including a long visit to the piece. (Significantly and typically, very few art bloggers bothered covering the story.) Everyone has long discussion threads, which would take forever to summarize or answer point-by-point. But you might not have to read much of it once you consider a little thought experiment.
Because what if it happened differently?
That night the sky was clear. Zvi Mazel and his wife entered the already-crowded courtyard on time, and were met by the museum's directors and other dignitaries. A Bach cantata, somewhat distorted, looped around them. After introductions and greetings, the group parted as the Mazels moved toward Snow White's red pool.
They stood silently for a couple of minutes, looking around, listening to the music, watching the boat float. The three floodlights shone as they had to on that tiny red slash of a smile. The couple whispered together, then Mazel pointed to the other part of the installation, the wall text illuminated by a floodlight against a red-painted background. They walked over and read it, all of it, then whispered together again.
Then Mazel broke away from his wife and strolled over to Dror Feiler, who was just finishing some music. The two men spoke.
Mazel (in Hebrew): " Very impressive, very moving . . . I want to understand clearly, though. First, that music sounds like Bach, but my German's rusty. What is she singing?"
Feiler (in Hebrew): "She is singing that . . . there are various interpretations . . . that her heart flies and drowns in blood, and that, because of her sins, she is a monster in G-d's holy eyes . . . It's about how weak, lonely people are capable of desperate, horrible acts."
Mazel (nodding, head bowed): " . . . I see. I think I see. Thank you."
Mazel extends his hand; Feiler takes it. Mazel returns to his wife, and they enter the exhibition proper, leaving Feiler standing there holding his saxophone.
I think that covers everybody's objections -- I mean, those who objected to what actually happened. Mazel behaved. Mazel was a good, polite Jewish Israeli Ambassador, a true diplomat, a respecter of the new artistic dictates, submitting to the demands of this complex, multi-media installation, seeking understanding, keeping whatever criticism he had to himself (so he could later submit it in writing to Roger Kimball, probably).
Now a lot of people are happy. Look around: In my alternative scenario, nobody -- that is, not one person in Stockholm, Sweden, Europe, the US, or Israel -- made waves, nobody objected, so the little boat will probably float in obscurity for the rest of its tenure. No outcry; no degradation of the diplomatic mission; no armchair pontificators, thousands of miles -- or even two miles -- from exploding bodies; no death threats to museum directors; no inventive saboteurs putting Anna Linde's killer in his own little boat; no protestors with flyers or photos of the Maxim's victims; no ten-thousand-plus email protests. And, above all, no attention drawn to the slick, pervasive antisemitism now crawling all over Europe like a new plague. It's from the oldest joke in the world: When you're in the river of shit, you always whisper to the newcomers, Don't make waves, don't make waves, don't make waves.
Good deal all around. I, for example, way out here in Phoenix Arizona, will probably never hear the mad truth about this new Snow White, because Zvi Mazel will not unplug and topple floodlights. And, according to many bloggers and literally dozens of commenters, this is a good thing. After all, it was crappy art and simplistic politics; what more do you need to ignore it? so why call attention to it? Okay, fine -- consider it undone.
Hours later, the opening is closed, everyone gone, the floodlights are dark and cold. As a thin mist slowly rises from the pool, twenty-one names* come down off the far wall and gather around that dark crimson tarn. And, with endlessness above and horror below, though no one can hear, they chant Kaddish, the mourner's prayer, which does not contain the word for death. In Israel, and in the diaspora perhaps, those Maxim's victims with living relatives echo the prayer, or something similar, wherever they are. But not too many others (since we are ignorant of this nonexistent art scandal) need incur this obligation, or anything similar, even vicariously; so the victims, like many others before them, decide to raise their own voices for themselves.
Irena Sofrin, Kiryat Bialik
Nir Regev, 25, Netanya
Bruria Zer-Aviv, 49, Kibbutz Yagur
Bezalel Zer-Aviv, 30, , Kibbutz Yagur
Keren, Zer-Aviv 29, Kibbutz Yagur
Liran Zer-Aviv, 4, Kibbutz Yagur
Noya Zer-Aviv, 14 months, Kibbutz Yagur
Mark Biano, 30, Haifa
Naomi Biano; 30, Haifa
Osama Najar, 28, Haifa
Matan Askarkabi, Haifa
Sherbel Matar, 23, Fassouta
Hana Francis, 39, Fassouta
Ze’ev Almog, 71, Haifa
Ruth Almog, 70, Haifa
Moshe Almog, 43, Haifa
Tomer Almog, 9, Haifa
Asaf Staier, 11, Haifa
Zvi Bahat, Haifa
They chant the prayer twenty-one times, and as they enter the last few lines the pool begins to vibrate, the little boat rocks back and forth, and then topples, and crimson stains Snow White's pale face as she sinks completely out of sight.
[*I was only able to find nineteen names, since two people died later in hospital. If any reader knows these names, please forward them to me, and I will include them on the list. Thank you.]
[Update 2/23: Franklin Einspruch at artblog.net points to another excellent example of bad artistic judgment. He has some choice words for the offender. Ow!]
Posted by Jerome at February 21, 2004 04:00 PM | TrackBack