Occasionally someone will ask me why I call my blog “Dizengoff and Me”. It ‘s a good question. And with all due credit to Mike, who thought of the name, there is a story behind it. And since I am finally back in Tel Aviv, it is time to tell it.
Tel Aviv was, and still remains, the original inspiration for this blog. Anyone who has ever visited this city knows the name “Dizengoff.” It is everywhere. Dizengoff Street is a wide elegant avenue — lined with restaurants, bars, cafes, and shops — that runs south from the port and eventually leads to (and around ) Dizengoff Square, which is not a square, but a circle. There is more to this circular square than meets the eye — more about that later.
From there the street leads to the Dizengoff Centre, an indoor shopping mall in the heart of town, designed in the same confusing spirit — and with almost as much concrete — as the city’s central bus station (see earlier post). A peculiar spiral layout ensures that even if you can see where you want to go, you can go through a frustrating exercise in “going around in circles” before you get there — if you ever do. (And even after a full year, I have yet to figure out where the alleged movie theatre is.)
Add to this the Dizengoff Tower right next door — another unfortunate example of 60’s architecture — and you would be forgiven for thinking the man must have been in the concrete business.
But no, it was just his misfortune that city officials chose to honour Meir Dizengoff at a time when Brutalist architecture was all the rage.
On the other hand, there is a lovely park in his memory, Gan Meir, a green oasis in the heart of town. Full of towering shade trees, children’s playgrounds, benches, and a large pond, it is also a good place to find a dog — of your own — since every Friday the local version of the Humane Society brings dogs and puppies in need of home to this park for adoption. I’d like to think that Dizengoff would have approved.
So who was Meir Dizengoff and why is he all over the Tel Aviv map? The simple answer is that he was Tel Aviv’s first mayor; but there is more to it than that.
Few people are instrumental in creating a city from scratch, but Meir Dizengoff is such a one. His was among the 60 founding families that drew lots in 1909 for the first homes to be built on the sand dunes that would become Tel Aviv. While his fellow Zionists largely concentrated on restoring the countryside to agricultural productivity, he and the first families of what was then called “Ahuzat Beit”, were building a brand new city. It was said about him that he could “reminisce about the future” — and what a future he had in mind! His vision included a vibrant garden city with parks, wide green boulevards, running water, and modern utilities. (In 1923 Tel Aviv became the first city in Palestine to be wired for electricity.) The town was to be the epicentre of the newly flourishing Hebrew language, full of culture and innovation, and built in an orderly grid pattern. The “orderly” part did not exactly come about — this being Israel — but much of the rest did.
He first came to Palestine as a young engineer, in the late 19th century – at the behest of Baron Rothschild – to build a glass factory near Haifa. He brought with him his beautiful and gracious young wife Zina, who soon contracted malaria, a common risk of living in the region at that time. She recovered, but lost their first and only baby girl to the illness. Some say that Tel Aviv subsequently became their beloved only child, so great was their love for the fledgling city and its people.
A force of nature, Dizengoff persuaded famous literary figures such as Bialik and Ahad Ha’am to come to Tel Aviv, and immediately named streets after them. He strong-armed Reuven Rubin into collaborating on the first Tel Aviv Art Museum, a tribute to Zina Dizengoff who died young and who so loved fine art. Dizengoff donated his house for this purpose and the museum opened in 1932, well before the founding of the state of Israel. Fittingly it was there, in 1948, that Israel declared Independence. Few now remember that 16 Rothschild Blvd. was first Dizengoff’s home and then Tel Aviv’s first art gallery. But there, in front of what is now Independence Hall, is his statue for those who care to look.
Although cars had come into use in Tel Aviv while Dizengoff was mayor, he continued his practice of riding his horse daily from his house to the City Hall, which was then on Bialik Street. He and his horse were also always at the head of the annual Purim parade. Curiously, as I was writing this post, I heard what sounded like a horse going by my window. I went to look and sure enough there was an old fashioned scrap cart drawn by a horse down Luria St! Not nearly as impressive a creature as Dizengoff’s, but the timing of its appearance could hardly have been better, and was my first sight of a “working horse” in car-jammed Tel Aviv. I saw it again a few days later.
To bring the story back to Dizengoff Square, I am sure I am not the only one who just assumed that this landmark was yet another tribute to this visionary figure, so vital toTel Aviv’s history. But I learned otherwise when I read the biography of his wife Zina. A modest man, Dizengoff was initially reluctant to allow the use of his name for the square when it was inaugurated in 1934, but he relented when persuaded that it would be a tribute to his wife’s memory. It was formally called Zina Dizengoff square. A lovely circular park —featuring a large fountain, flowers, and trees — anchored the site: and both Dizengoff Street and its buildings were built to curve around this graceful green space. It was all designed by Genia Auerbach, a prominent female Zionist architect. .
For over 40 years it remained a central meeting spot much visited by locals and tourists alike. Sadly, in 1978 the demands of traffic flow caused the city to decide to demolish the square and the fountain and create an elevated concrete pedestrian overpass featuring a modern fountain (called a “kinetic sculpture”) at its centre. This was the only way I had ever seen the site and I just considered it another Brutalist eyesore. I had no idea how attractive it had once been.
Today the city has restored the square to its original design. For most of the year we were here it was a giant construction site, and I had no idea what was to come. I was pleasantly surprised to come back and find the square back to its lovely circular configuration at street level; and even the modern “kinetic” fountain sculpture has found a new home at its centre.
Meir Dizengoff died in 1936, having spent the better part of 25 years as the founder and leader of the first Jewish municipality to be established in modern times. He never saw the establishment of the State of Israel, nor the impressive growth of Tel Aviv — the city to which he was devoted, and which in turn keeps his name alive. The title of my blog is a modest tribute to both the man and the city.