DrawingTogetherGM 14: Listening and Hearing

I thought I was maybe a bit too excited to return to the Graphic Medicine drawing group after a whole month without prompts and exercises and sharing - it was good to see that I was not the only one who felt glad to be together again.

And then ... disaster struck. Our task was to draw a comic, in 10 minutes, about a conversation where somebody hadn't been listened to. Or maybe had been heard. I wasn't sure. I thought I was listening to Shelley, but somehow I couldn't understand what she wanted us to do. My thoughts were made of molasses.

We only had 10 minutes. I didn't know what to draw. I needed a story, and had bubkes. And that made me crazy. When do I never have a story? I can think of a story for any occasion. Or adapt something so it just about fits the occasion. My head hurt.

But I really do want to draw. So I came up with a compromise and, in the time that I had left, drew what I've just taken 134 words to tell you all:

Sigh. But I drew something. And very much enjoyed seeing all the other interpretations that people shared at the meeting. 

At the end, as people were leaving, someone asked if there might be any chance that we could go back to the weekly meetings. There wasn't a complete refusal. Hurrah! 

PS  we do not share other people's drawing without permission, but I think it is ok to mention a thought shared by one of the artists present. In preparation for the warm-up exercise, we were talking about listening to the soundscape around us in the room. Someone alerted us to the sounds of everyday that we do not notice, giving examples such as breathing, clocks, one's stomach and our hearts. When we listen, what do we hear? 

I do remember that Shelley began the session by talking about the speech bubbles (and thought bubbles) traditionally used in cartoons, and suggested that all the space outside them was listening space. Often, my problem is that I am so busy working on what I will say in response to the current speaker that I do not listen properly. I really should be quiet in the listening space. (I need to work on this). 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Drawing Withdrawal

My Drawing Together group switched from weekly to monthly. I am missing it a lot. I decided to keep that same weekly hour for drawing, but it's so easy to be distracted when you have to be self-motivating. 

Thank goodness for Snoopygrams on Insta! Every now and then, they are offering a 5-minute tutorial on how to draw a Peanuts character. This week was Peppermint Patty (one of L's favourites):

Before I found these videos, I had only ever tried to draw Charlie Brown and Snoopy, and not since I was about 12. It's a bit scary to try to draw new characters (new for drawing), and afterwards the mistakes seem so glaring (fingers & toes, always. proportions. & half of PP's freckles are upside-down). But I'd like to improve, so I have to have a go.

Next up? Sally Brown and Schroeder. The piano should be fun! And, don't worry, I am also working on some things that are less copying and more my own ideas.

Remembrance of Things Past

Piglet fans, rejoice! Here he is again, in all his glory. Sadly it is not a recent photo, as he has been sheltering in place for some time now.  This was taken in 2014 when we climbed to the top of the Duomo in Milan. It feels particularly poignant considering the current situation we all are facing.

Looking forward to a time when we may hold each other's hand once more. 

A Lesson in Jamming

Apologies to any musicians inadvertently directed to this page. As the photograph shows, we are going to talk about how my plum preserves went pear-shaped, rather than spontaneous melodic interactions.

I am terribly disappointed to find some of my first attempts with plums ready to explode. It was arrogant, I suppose, to think that I'd smashed it first time up. 

Googling possible causes, I think I can eliminate not skimming the bubbles as the plums were cooking, because I did do that. I don't think it was a hygiene issue as I washed the jars in boiling hot water and dried them in the oven. This should have sterilised them properly. That leaves me with the possibility that I did not seal the jar completely and/or I let a bad plum or two through the prepping process. 

A second jar fizzed today. It was from the same batch. And both jars were ones that were not boiled after filling. So maybe the absence of a bain-marie is key?

Meanwhile, we wait and check and hope. The last unboiled jar is by the kitchen sink so if anything untoward takes place while we are busy living our lives, the mess shouldn't be too difficult to clean up.

Apropos of nothing, when googling bain-marie (or bagno-maria here), it was named after a person called Mary the Jewess or Mary the Prophetess. According to Wiki she is considered to be the first true alchemist of the Western world. 

It was disheartening to find my lovely jar full of fermentation. But I won't give up. The next fruit to be preserved according to locality and season will be, we hope, the fig. They should be at their best later in August. That should give me time to learn more about jamming.

The Blessing of Sara the Cat

Have I mentioned that Sara is the first cat, or animal of any kind, with which I have shared a home? Our family parrot-sat a few times in the 1970's, but Mervyn was my father's friend. 

This is a picture of Sara the Cat putting up with my relentless photographing of her every position. Today it is the crossed paws that entice me.

She hides and she chases imaginary demons and she stinks out the place with her poo just after everyone is happily in bed and she scratches furniture and doors and cardboard boxes and humans who are careless when they play with her and she gives me the heebie jeebies when she leans quite far out of our 3rd-floor window and she complains if you won't throw her ball but then she won't chase it if she doesn't approve of the trajectory ... and she lets me pick her up and kiss her for at least 5 seconds now before she jumps down, and curls up behind my knees when I nap and runs to the door when we come home and, to be honest, we would never have come through this past lockdown so well without Sara to play with and to care for. Thank you my pussycat friend.

Missing Wimbledon (but not the Pimms)

In no way what whatsoever do I advocate any kind of sporting competition taking place under the present circumstances. The world of tennis is still dealing with the fallout from the unofficial charity tournament organised by Novak Djokovic last month (see here), and it is clear that public health and safety must come first.

Yet it is Wimbledon time, and I miss it. If I still lived in London, I might consider queuing for tickets one day, as I did all those years ago. In those olden golden days, there was a standing area on Centre Court just behind the press photographers, and if I could get to the front there, I would take a few pictures, stay up all night developing the film and printing some b&w shots, and then flog them to people in the queue the next day. It would just about cover the cost of the materials. The rest of the time it was lazy afternoons in front of the tv, and just about the only sporting occasion for which my mother willingly joined us.

In those days we loved Billie Jean King and Chris Evert and Evonne Goolagong. We didn't like Martina Navratilova (she won us over in the end. Mostly.) or Ilie Nastase. Jimmy Connors was a good player, but too brash for the Brits. Virginia Wade won in the Silver Jubilee year, and the Fred Perry shirts we had to wear for games lessons at school were the nearest we got to a British man winning the singles.

Once I was old enough to cast off the influence of my parents' likes and dislikes, I enjoyed the tantrums of John McEnroe (and the Not the 9 O'Clock News parody), he was much more exciting than Bjorn Borg. I loved Gigi Fernandez, and didn't dislike Martina so much any more. I cried when Hana Mandlikova lost to Chris Evert, and was sad when Chris lost to Martina. Above all, I loved Steffi Graf. So calm. So powerful. That forehand. 

My memory skips a few generations, and ends up with the giants of today. The excitement of Andy Murray, a Brit, actually winning. The Federer-Nadal-Djokovic axis (my mother was Federer all the way. Elegance in person and playing style. If only Nadal could keep his hands away from his nether regions, he would be my outright favourite) and the Williams sisters. Hope is fading, but I would love for Serena to get the all-time Grand Slam record. Where are the new personalities and heroes? The real ones, not the media darlings. I don't know. Hopefully they will emerge at the next Wimbledon tournament. Meanwhile, I close my eyes and remember past loves.

Thinking of Helga

Going through old papers, I came across diary notes from a trip to NYC for Helga's ordination in 2000, and wanted to write something about her. We became friends on the day that we met, in a classroom in Jerusalem. Helga was born in Essen, as was my grandmother, and that's where our conversation began. It was a dialogue that continued for 21 years, in person and on the telephone (that quaint old way of communicating). I miss the sound of her voice: the touch of a German accent, the hint of a lisp with s's and z's, and especially the mischievous chuckle that she had. Here are a couple of memories that come to mind.

I started with a look at what is out there. If you google "Rabbi Helga Newmark" there are a few links, but very few photographs. Most of the articles refer to her being the first female Shoah survivor to be ordained a rabbi. Of all the articles to read, start with Betsy Morais in the Tablet. It makes a big deal out of Helga not liking Anne Frank, but I don't remember that at all. I was excited to learn that Helga's family lived on the same Amsterdam street as the Frank family, and of course I asked what she remembered. Helga told me that Anne was a couple of years older, and played with the older girls, and the main thing she remembered was that Anne was very bossy. I don't doubt that Helga said, more than once, that "Anne Frank was a brat." But I suspect she said it with a twinkle in her eye, if not with mischief in her voice. If you have read Anne's diary, especially the unexpurgated version, you will know how human Anne was. So she probably could be a brat sometimes, just like any of us.*

It was a struggle for Helga to get accepted into rabbinical school. Although she was well-known as an educator throughout New Jersey, she was initially rejected for not having the appropriate academic qualifications for graduate school. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went away, got the necessary certifications, and reapplied. She was warned that her age would make it extremely difficult to find employment in the field. This did not deter her. In fact, the five year programme took her eight years - she took time out to support family members in difficulty, returned, and then had to take more time off for health reasons. Nevertheless she persisted, and in May 2000 I travelled from my pulpit in the Shenandoah Valley up to Temple Emanu-El to attend her ordination ceremony.

Things had changed since my own ceremony four years earlier, and there was a new custom that when the ordinand went up for their smicha, their family stood up in the pews and applauded. I was rather dismissive of this:  "you're not supposed to applaud in the sanctuary during a ritual!" I said to my neighbour, indignantly. And then it was Helga's turn. I wrote in my diary:

"Instead of being led right up to the ark, Rabbi Zimmerman took her to the podium to tell us all about her. Hypocrite that I am, I had turned to Michael (Mandel) and said, well if everyone is applauding their guys then I am jolly well going to stand up for Helga!  Well, as she went up on the bima, the entire class and the entire congregation all of Temple Emanu-El rose and gave her an ovation. Yes I cried again. And then Helga was ordained."

That was an incredible moment. I remember that as she ascended to the bima, she was blowing kisses to the congregation. After she had received her smicha, I had to dash off back to Virginia to make the annual congregational meeting that evening. According to the diary:

"I had to leave early ... so I got the security lady to let me round the back and entered the other side of the sanctuary and snuck into the pew next to Helga. "Hey, rabbi," I say. "I have to go, and wanted to say goodbye." "Is it really true?" says Helga, "Am I really a rabbi?" "You bet!" I say, "and I am so proud of you!"

The community celebrated Helga's achievement as the first female Shoah survivor to become a rabbi, but was not so supportive when it came to offering her the opportunity to share her knowledge and experience in pulpit positions. Her life continued to be challenging. Nevertheless, she persisted. A few years later, I moved back to Europe, and by then Helga was dealing with several health problems. Even when she no longer remembered who I was, we still spoke regularly, and I might hear that mischievous chuckle as she told me about an incident with her carer or her meds.

After Helga died, many people shared their fond memories of her. She had been lonely and depressed for a long time, and I was rather angry and judgmental for a while, wishing more of them had spent more time with her when she was alive. Of course I was wishing that I had done better by Helga. This was pre-Internet and WhatsApp etc, and I was thousands of miles away, but I still felt guilty. But I also know that she knew I loved her, and vice versa. 

Although, as chronicled by herself and others, Helga had a dark and disturbing past, I will always remember her laugh and her love. May she rest in peace.

* after writing this, I came across this article by Rachel Kadish, who tells us more about Helga and Anne Frank.

Caught on Camera - the Cat that got the Cream

Thanks to my friend Martin for sharing a humorous video from Canterbury Cathedral. The minister is trying to share his biblical wisdom, but his audience, including the cameraperson, who zooms in on the table, is distracted by a feline visitor who decides to slake its thirst. You may see the whole minute here.

Sara the (Rabbi's) Cat, however, is not a dairy fan. She loves water, preferably from the bidet tap, but she's not averse to a cheeky dip into my glass if she can get away with it.

Remembering Friend & Teacher Rabbi Dr A Stanley Dreyfus Z"L

Remembering that today is not only yahrzeit for my father, but also for his friend and my teacher Rabbi Dr A Stanley Dreyfus. For those who were not lucky enough to meet him, you may read a little about his life here.

Wishing a long life to Marianne and all the family. 

When thinking about him today I remembered what he would say to me at moments of departure, both in person and on the phone:

"Be good."

I'm trying! 

(and now I can hear my dad responding, "yes, very!")

Rabbi Stanley Dreyfus. Still loved and missed by so many. May his memory continue to be a blessing.

How Many Rabbis Do You See in this Photo?

In March 1965, Dr Martin Luther King Jr and other US Civil Rights leaders marched in protest from Selma to Montgomery. On this particular march, they wore Hawaiian leis (for the story behind that, have a look here). I'm sharing this photo today to mark the yahrzeit of my darling father, Rabbi Albert H Friedlander.

I've mentioned elsewhere that we grew up with the story that when he brought his students from Columbia University to join the march, he spent some time with Dr King. We kind of found that part, that they had a chat and shared a sandwich during a lunch break, a bit hard to swallow. Some years after our father died, my sister found a photo from the march that appeared to show the top part of his head within arm's length of Dr King. Anyone who knew him knew it was him, but only half of his face was visible. I recently found this second photo that definitively proves he was up at the front of the march (4th row, in the middle, wearing a kippah, under the red X I added to help you find him). We were wrong to doubt him, and I am very sorry. 

As we remember him today, considering what is going on in the world at the moment, I am proud that he was part of this fight during his life. But that was then, and this is now. According to our tradition, we wish that someone's memory will be a blessing. 16 years after my father's death, he continues to remind us of what we ourselves should be doing. I do wish he were here now to help us continue the work that must be done. However, he isn't, and it is my turn. 

(btw, I can see two)

Sunflowers

Our lovely friends W&S have an allotment outside town. They've gone on a mini-break (my opposing heritages tend to struggle over this weekend - Happy Fourth of July! O yeah, right, happy goodbye to the English oppressors, sure! etc.) and suggested we stop by their patch and pick up some salad for the weekend. So we did. Well, L did most of the picking, because she wore wellies. I went in my tough Teva sandals, which immediately turned into mud clogs. So I took some photos of the sunflowers instead.

Did you know that every sunflower is actually thousands of tiny flowers? This sunflower fact and more may be found here. Have a great weekend!

Carl Reiner, z"l

Sometime yesterday the news began to filter through that Carl Reiner had died. Having reached the age of 98, this actor, comedian, director, screenwriter, author, parent and source of joy to myriad people was blessed with a fruitful life. The multiple tributes I've seen on social and other internet media so far focus mainly on Carl Reiner's work with Mel Brooks, especially the 2000 Year Old Man sketches, and the Dick van Dyke TV show from the early 1960's. Strangely enough, I just started watching the Dick van Dyke Show last weekend. I have loved the sketches for a while longer. For me, there is nothing more healing than laughter, and Carl Reiner brought so much of that into my life, for which I will always be grateful.

Here is a selection of links that may be of interest at this time:

New York magazine on how the 2000-year-old Man was born.

Two hour old baby sketch (suggested by Cary Grant)

First appearance on Late Night with Conan

2000-year-old-man in the year 2000 on Jay Leno

and again on Charlie Rose

tributes on the BBC website

Mel Brooks' tribute as reported in Rolling Stone

a few words from Max Brooks in the Forward

Obituaries from

The Guardian

Corriere della Sera (headline:  Carl Reiner is dead - friend of Mel Brooks & winner of 9 Emmys)

NY Times (paywall)

Variety

The Times (paywall)

and the last word for today is from Max Brooks:

"It's expected, but it's unbelievable," Brooks said of his father's reaction to Reiner's death. "No more Carl? How do you reconcile no more Carl? It's like you wake up in the morning and the sun never comes up."