( Dizengoff Rescued!)
I came across this little known story as a result of our visit to the Rubin museum. We were so fascinated by Rubin’s life story that I tracked down his (now out of print) autobiography in a local vintage book store. This book, which is every bit as interesting as I thought it would be, includes an inside look at the lighter side of the founding of Tel Aviv’s first art museum.
Born in 1861, Meir Dizengoff, the driving force of this story, came to Israel from Russia where he had been trained as an engineer. He was by all accounts a warm-hearted, ebullient and “get it done” kind of guy, who was prepared to move heaven and earth (and often did) to put his brand new city on the map. He and his wife were one of the 60 founding families who drew lots in 1908 to determine where each of them would build. At the time, the city was just sand dunes as you can see below! He got # 16 Rothschild Blvd, and went on to become the city’s first mayor in 1921 when the city was formally recognized.
Rubin’s background is even more unusual. Born in 1893 to an extremely poor Hassidic family in Galatz, Rumania, he was the 8th or 9th of 13 or 14 children. (He claims his mother was never quite sure!) From an early age he was gifted at drawing, not exactly an esteemed skill in his community, where education was limited and prospects few. However, in a series of events that almost defy belief, he made his way to Israel in 1911 as a teenager, lived for a time in a tent on the dunes in Tel Aviv, went on to Paris and New York, survived the first world war in Rumania, came back to Tel Aviv, and in the process became an artist of some renown.
In 1932, when Rubin was living in Tel Aviv, Dizengoff approached him with an idea. Since Tel Aviv now had schools, a hospital, a fire brigade, police, and even a prison (!), it was clearly time to have an “Art Museum”. His plan was that Rubin, who was by this time a reputable artist, would arrange the whole thing. Rubin thought it was a pretty improbable idea for Dizengoff to be focused on something like a museum so early in the city’s development, and he raised a number of practical objections to the concept. But no objection that Rubin came up with was enough to dissuade Dizengoff. (And this is one of the things I love about him!)
For example; where to put the museum? No problem. Dizengoff would donate his house! Well then where would he live? Dizengoff thought he could easily manage to live in a couple of rooms in the museum. No, Rubin did not approve of that idea. You cannot have someone eating and sleeping in a proper art museum. Well then, after a little thought, Dizengoff had a solution for this too. He would build a small apartment for himself on the roof…and sure enough he did just that.
And what about art for the museum? Well that was easy. They would put Rubin’s work on display to start with, and then Dizengoff would go to Europe to solicit donations of both money and artworks. This really had Rubin concerned, because for all Dizengoff’s undoubted abilities, he knew truly nothing about art. However, Rubin had too much respect for the mayor to really argue the point. (Not to mention that he now knew he would be wasting his breath.)
In a matter of only months, the apartment was built on the roof, (times were clearly different then), and the museum opened with Rubin’s works on display. Tel Avivians were enthusiastic about this new addition to their fledgling city, a foundation was established, and money was raised for future development.
And off went Dizengoff to Europe to solicit support for the new venture. By now, you will not be surprised to learn that he did indeed raise more money and also acquired some important art for the museum. When he got back he told Rubin that, among other things, he had acquired two wonderful pieces of sculpture, perfect for a Jewish art museum: Michelangelo’s Moses, and Donatello’s David! In his enthusiasm, he’d had his heart set on buying the originals, but of course had discovered that they were, most emphatically, not for sale. Not to be deterred, he kept trying and was ultimately sold on a couple of bronze replicas, of the kind that you could pick up anywhere in Rome. Rubin had to break it to him that, sadly, these were not the sorts of things that could go into a museum, so in the end Dizengoff put them on his roof terrace, above the museum.
One night, the local police looked up, and in the moonlight they were convinced that they were seeing two thieves, or possibly murderers (!), crouching on the terrace, no doubt trying to break into the mayor’s apartment. One of them rushed upstairs and gave Moses a mighty whack on the head, breaking off his horns. This clatter woke up Dizengoff who came out on to his terrace in his housecoat, to find his Moses in rough shape. He looked in astonishment at the policeman who sheepishly explained that he had mistaken the statue for a murderer. But damaged or not, Dizengoff loved those statues, and both Moses and David remained on the terrace until the mayor passed away a few years later.
In 1948, it was there, at 16 Rothschild Blvd., that Israel formally declared independence. The museum remained at that site until 1971 when the modern new Tel Aviv art museum opened on King Saul Blvd. The old museum is now known as Independence Hall. And considering his love of statues, it is only fitting that in front of the Hall is a statue of Dizengoff himself, on his horse.
