Monthly Archives: January 2024

Russian-American artist finds comfort, purpose in his paintings

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Israel Tsvaygenbaum views what is happening in Israel a painful reminder of his own family history. His father was 29 when he fled Poland in 1939 to escape the Nazis. The remaining family members were murdered in Auschwitz-Birkenau. “I have always reflected in my paintings the theme of the Holocaust and, in general, human tragedy, the loss of people close to us,” said the Russian-American artist, whose work representing the magic realism art movement is known throughout the world. 

Tsvaygenbaum has worked to find comfort and purpose in his artwork. In our interview, he cited three works that were especially meaningful to him during this time of war. In The Holocaust, blood red angels on a darker red background are joined by two white doves. The Tree of Weeping depicts draped hooded figures with their arms outstretched in supplication. Prayers at the Tree of Life portrays an Orthodox Jewish man praying to a tree made of bright branches.“At some point in our lives our prayers turn to a Tree of Life where each branch represents the prayers of a generation,” he said, “We all have our Tree of Life that hears our prayers.”

Immediately following the October 7, 2023, Hamas massacre, Tsvaygenbaum began work on his latest piece. The Broken Jar features a fractured vase holding red roses on a background of yellow sunflowers. “Their yellow color represents the anxiety that the Israeli people are now experiencing while waiting for their kidnapping loved ones,” he said. “The hearts of the Israelis are now broken like the jar in my painting, but their souls, like those roses, have preserved their integrity, unity and harmony.”

Tsvaygenbaum was born in 1961 in Derbent, Dagestan, Russia, the youngest child of a Polish Holocaust survivor and a “Mountain Jew” a mother who was a descendent of Persian Jews from Iran. As a result, Tsvaygenbaum children were raised in a uniquely Jewish household, a mixture of Ashkenazi and Sephardic traditions and customs. Although often struggling financially, the family kept a kosher home and observed Shabbat and all religious holidays. His father, respected for his erudition and prior religious education, served as a “spiritual bridge” to fellow survivors who had settled in Derbent.

Adding to young Tsvaygenbaum‘s cultural experiences were his interactions with both Christian and Muslim neighbors. “The memory of these people prompted me to create some of my paintings,” he said. “They were sources of my inspiration.”

These events are chronicled in his 2023 memoir, My Secret Memory: The Memoir of the Artist, where he describes the process of how the ideas for creating his paintings were born to him. The book outlines key events in his childhood that shaped his paintings later in life, including frank and often graphic descriptions of violence and sexual encounters. These dramatic events and the tragedies of his own family members, especially the loneliness and sadness experienced by his father as a result of the Holocaust, are the main themes of his writing. “I pour my soul into my painting,” Tsvaygenbaum said in the YouTube eponymous video. Most importantly, his art represents universal themes of kindness, peace, and our shared humanity. 

Tsvaygenbaum’s artistic interests and talents began at an early age. By eight years old, he was asking his parents to purchase painting supplies so he could capture important moments on canvas. After both undergraduate and graduate fine art degrees from Russian art institutions. From 1983 to 1985, he pursued an acting career, which inspired him to paint pictures of fellow thespians. In 1986, Tsvaygenbaum organized an artist’s group called Coloring,an association of artists based in Derbent. Tsvaygenbaum’s art was well received throughout Russia, with his paintings displayed in both museums and private collections. 

In 1994, he held two successful solo shows in Moscow. This was to be his last in his home country. The escalating conflict between Russian and Chechnya, which bordered Dagestan, made it too dangerous for Tsvaygenbaum and his family to remain in the war-torn area. In 1994, he, his wife Katerina, their three daughters ranging in age from 14 months to nine years; his mother and his maternal grandmother immigrated to New York’s Capital District to be close to his brother, a Saratoga County resident. The family quickly settled in Albany, New York, as he felt the bigger city would provide more opportunities to build a new life for him and his family. 

“Time is showed that I was right,” he remarked. Tsvaygenbaum has enjoyed a successful career in the state’s capital. His extensive collection of paintings have been exhibited in Russia and the United States and are part of private collections in nine countries, including Austria, Bulgaria, France, Israel, Netherlands, Russia, the United Kingdom and the US. Tsvaygenbaum’s two graphical works (ink on paper) The Sarcasm of Fate and The Grief of People are in the Museum of Imitative Arts, Derbent, Dagestan, Russia.

In 2001, Tsvaygenbaum began a collaboration with Judy Trupin, a choreographer and poet,who created dance compositions based on nine of Tsvaygenbaum’s paintings. Worlds in Our Eyes, created to elicit memories of Jewish life in Eastern Europe and Russia while touching on universal themes, was performed in several cities in New York State. Tsvaygenbaum dedicated the performance to the people of his home city, Derbent.

Tsvaygenbaum also has found success and pride in his family life, especially in seeing that his love for Judaism has been carried onto his children and grandchildren. “I always wanted to pass the baton that I got from my parents,” he said in My Secret Memory. “I am happy to realize I made it.” He and Katerina’s three daughters, all graduates of Albany High School with professional careers, have instilled Jewish values and traditions in their own families. Six out of eight attend Jewish schools. 

“Everything in this world is interconnected,” Tsvaygenbaum wrote in My Secret Memory. He hopes what he has created from his patience, his passion for the conceived idea, and his dedication to work will make the world a little kinder place. Just like the roses in The Broken Jar, he hopes his life and legacy will reflect integrity, unity and harmony.

Versions of this story  were published The Jewish World and the Heritage Florida Jewish News.

Israel Tsvaygenbaum’s memoir

Tsvaygenbaum, Israel. My Secret Memory: The Memoir of the Artist. (2023).

www.israelartgold.com

www.wikipedia.com

A “Chili” Story for A Chilly January

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In mid-December, Central Florida was experiencing a cold snap, and I decided to make chili. I had the canned tomatoes and chopped green chilis and the soy meat crumbles for the recipe, and I had all the ingredients for cornbread, a must whenever I made it.

Once I checked my pantry, however, I realized I was out for canned beans. No problem! I had been meaning use up the dried red kidney beans tucked away for a while.

What I quickly realized that the “while” was at least 9 years. Yes, as evidenced by its Price Chopper label, I had brought the beans with me when we moved here in 2015. Meanwhile, I had no idea how long ago before our move from Upstate New York to Florida when I had purchased them. I knew that archeologists had found barley and other foodstuffs in storage in Masada, and a woman in Minnesota had grown pole beens from 15,000 year old seeds. What did I have to lose? 

So, on that cold Friday, as per instructions, I soaked the beans overnight. The next morning, I boiled the beans and then let them simmer for another hour. As I was going to make the chili on Monday, I put the beans in a large container, covered them with water, and placed them in the refrigerator. The beans weren’t as soft as they should be, but I figured the extra soaking would do its magic.

On Monday morning, I placed the drained beans in my slow cooker with all the other ingredients for the dish. Despite the 36 hour soak, the beans STILL were a little hard, but I reasoned ten hours in the slow cooker would resolve the issue. 

That evening, I made the cornbread and assembled the shredded cheese, onions, and sour cream to top the chili. We were ready to eat. I dished out two large bowls for Larry and me.

My teeth bit into a red kidney bean. Al dente is fine for pasta, but for chili? The dish was barely edible. We picked around them and filled up on cornbread and the other chili ingredients. The glass of red wine also helped. 

As we began to clean up, I realized we had made only made a small dent into the chili. “Maybe if we freeze the leftovers, they will soften a bit,” I told Larry, portioning out another meal into a frozen container. I still had another meal in the pot.

Time to consult Chef Google! The first thing I learned was those ancient beans and barley may have been found, but they had not been cooked. And nine-plus-year-old-beans were too old. Farther down the website, Chef Google suggested adding baking soda to beans to soften them. 

Okay! I pulled out my Arm and Hammer and spooned out a heaping teaspoon into the still warm chili. Immediately, the mixture began to erupt like a volcano. Fearing they would explode out of the crock pot, I screamed to Larry to empty the sink so I could dump the mess down the garbage disposal. Fortunately, they stopped their explosion and even didn’t result in a clog.

I guess I should have read the instructions better. The baking soda should have been added to the “virgin” beans when I first boiled them. Adding the sodium bicarbonate to the chili mixture, which contained acidic tomatoes, replicated what happens when one combines baking soda and vinegar. Remember your childhood/children’s science experience? Yep! That kind of explosion.

Over the next few days, I shared my experience with several friends. Betty, a retired home economics teacher, suggested newer beans. Several others suggested using canned beans. Marcella, who grew up in Costa Rica and was an expert on rice and beans, suggested I trade in my slow cooker for a new appliance.

“I make beans in my Instant Pot© all the time,” Marcella told me. “They cook in 20 minutes.”

Five days later, Amazon had a 9-in-1 Instant Pot© on sale for 40% off. What perfect timing! I quickly ordered it and, a day later, took it out of the box. 

I was a little intimidated with the instruction manual, which began with 27 IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS!!! along with two more pages of warnings that rivaled those found at nuclear power plant. A highlighted block stating “Failure to adhere to safety instructions may result in serious personal injury or property damage” was repeated five times. 

After doing a test run, I spent the next few days trying out my new toy. Hard boiled eggs? Perfect! Rice? Perfect! A whole roasting chicken in 28 minutes? Perfect! Butternut squash? Perfect! The only fail was my attempt at mashed potatoes. The finished spuds were brownish grey and turned into a sticky mess when mashed. Those went in the freezer (Maybe they could serve as a base for my potato latkes later that month?) next to the container labeled “11/20/2023 Chili with Bad Beans.”

And the chili? Larry purchased a fresh, one pound package of red kidney beans on one of his recent shopping trips. They are still sitting in the pantry waiting for another cold snap.

As I write this, we are approaching the secular New Year’s Day, January 1, 2024. According to Southern tradition, eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day will bring a year’s worth of good luck and/or monetary gain. Google came up with over 5 million hits for “Black Eyed Peas Chili. [Black-eyed peas are also traditionally served on Rosh Hashanah. Who knew?] Maybe it’s time for another run to the supermarket to start our own tradition, hopefully sans Mount Vesuvius. I’ll keep you posted. 

Versions of this story  were published in The Jewish World and the Heritage Florida Jewish News.

More beans than I ever imagined at the Ferry Building Farmer’s Markey, January 6, 2024

http://www.cityofzion.com/farmersmarket_files/vegucation/

071714_dontknowbeans.pdf

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masada

Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby by Frances Cohen

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The article below was written by my mother, Frances Cohen. It is part of Fradel’s Story, a collection of stories I edited and published in book form in September 2022.

I’m so lucky that my mother had lots of siblings. I was surrounded with lots of loving aunts, uncles, and cousins. Of all the relatives, I was closest to my Aunt Rose, Uncle Ruby, and their older son Elliot.

My first memories of my Aunt Rose were when I was very young as she spent a great deal of time with me. She made clothes for me and even sewed some of the clothes for my trousseau. After Bill and I were married, Aunt Rose taught me how to cook. As the mother of two sons, she treated me as the daughter she never had.

Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby had a wonderful marriage that lasted almost a half a century. They met under very romantic circumstances. Rose worked in New York City in a factory. One rainy day, she was walking home from work and went into a restaurant on Delancey Street to get out of the downpour. As fate may have it, Uncle Ruby was her waiter. Visiting over coffee, Ruby told the poor girl, who was drenched and disheveled, that he was to be finished very soon for the day. Since he had an umbrella, he would be glad to walk her to her home, which was just across the near-by Williamsburg bridge.

When Aunt Rose arrived home, her mother saw how infatuated Aunt Rose was with this tall, handsome guy. Her mother invited Ruby to stay for dinner. That first dinner led to many other dinners. Vichna, ready to feed everyone, would serve herring, boiled potatoes with sauerkraut, and homemade cake and challah. The romance flourished, and they were married within the year.

Soon after they were married, Uncle Ruby lost his job as a waiter. It was the Great Depression, and restaurants did not need as much help. Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby moved up north to join the family in working at one of the many Pearl’s Department Stores. Ruby eventually opened his own store, Ruby’s, in Brushton, New York

Everyone loved Ruby as he had a wonderful sense of humor. When one of his customers complained that the underpants she bought at his store had holes in them, Ruby said that those were for ventilation. Uncle Ruby hated the Yankees, and he rarely missed their game on the radio just to cheer on the opposite team. At family get-togethers in our home in Keeseville, he would often sneak out to his car, turn on the radio, chew on Chiclets gum, and curse out “those damn Yankees!”

Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby lived happily in Upstate New York and, although the only Jews in the town, were beloved by everyone. When Aunt Rose died just before their planned fiftieth anniversary party, her funeral was held in Burlington, Vermont. Even though that was 100 miles from their hometown, all the stores in Brushton were closed for the day so that everyone, including the local priest and the minister with his family, could attend the funeral,

Ruby missed his Rose. When he got lonesome, he would put a sign in the window of his store that stated, “Closed for Jewish Holidays” and travel to visit his children and grandchildren.

Ruby lived until he was ninety years old. His funeral, which was held in Burlington, Vermont, was also hugely attended as he was beloved by all the family and the many friends he and Rose had made during their lifetimes. During his eulogy, the rabbi said, “Ruby was not a religious man, but he took more time off for the Jewish holidays than anyone else I ever knew.”

As I mentioned before, Ruby and Rose had two sons, Elliot and Sol. I was especially close to their elder son, Elliot. When things were bad during the Depression, Elliot would spend the summers with my family in New York City. I’m forever grateful to him for introducing me to my husband. Elliot was best man at our wedding, and he drove the car that we took from New York City up north after our honeymoon. It an unforgettable trip. I sat in the front seat with Elliot and Aunt Rose. Bill sat in the back seat with all the wedding presents, including a floor lamp that Bill had to hold for the eight hours. As adults, we remained very close and have spent much time together in Florida and up north. Elliot and his wife Florence were at our fiftieth wedding anniversary. After Florence passed away, Elliot remarried. We have remained very close to Elliot and his second wife Marty. In May 2010, I went down to Staten Island to celebrate his daughter’s sixtieth birthday. I sat with Elliot and visited as if we were still children.

I am very grateful for our relationship with Ruby, Rose, and their family. They very much enriched Bill’s and my life.

Photo of Fran’s aunts and uncles is from Marilyn Cohen Shapiro’s family photo collection. Both Ruby and Rose are standing in the back row. Ruby is second from left; Rose is third from left.

Yes, I am a woman now….

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In today’s crazy world, it is hard to find things for which to be thankful. So I have been trying to find gratitude in the small things: a FaceTime with my children and grandchildren; a good cup of coffee with a piece of warm challah; a special moment with Larry. Recently, I reached back fifty four years to remember an evening that still holds a special place in my heart 

 In 1969, my brother Jay, who was going for his Masters at Cornell University , invited me out to spend the weekend.Jay arranged for me to stay with Leslie, his girlfriend—and his future wife—on the Ithaca College campus.

As a freshman at Albany State, and I was looking forward to the weekend.What made it especially exciting was that Jay and Leslie had arranged for double dates for both Friday and Saturday. 

After bringing me back from the bus stop to his dorm, Jay introduced me to Date One: his roommate Charlie. My first impression of him was not favorable; he looked like a computer nerd and acted like he was roped into an evening for which he had little interest. We all agreed to meet back in Jay’s room after dinner. 

I guess Charlie’s first impression of me was not any better. Charlie was a no-show. Leslie and Jay insisted that it was Charlie, but I was hurt and embarrassed. In my mind, I believed he was turned off by my own nerdiness and my before-contact-lens-coke-bottle glasses. “He probably took one look and headed for the hills,” I thought.

Despite the rough start, the three of us enjoyed our evening and the next day. I already loved Leslie and knew she would be in our lives for a long time. Saturday night, I got ready for Date Two with a great deal of trepidation. Would I be stood up again? Thankfully, Jay’s choice for Date Two made up for Charlie tenfold.. Denny was a Robert Redford doppelgänger: tall, blonde, with a British accent to add to the allure.

Our plans for Saturday evening were to see Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, who was my favorite musical group at the time.I was not alone in my passion. They were one of a very select group of touring acts to achieve prominence worldwide.In 1968 , they earned six consecutive gold records and sold more 45 rpm records than any other recording act-including the Beatles. They played a command performance at the White House for Prince Charles and Princess Anne by special invitation of the president.I had worn out my 78 rpm recording of their first eponymous album, swooning to “Woman, Woman;” “This Girl Is A Woman Now,” and “Young Girl.” Seeing them on stage, live, with handsome, sweet, attentive Denny at my side was special.

When Denny said goodnight, he gave me a gentle kiss—a kiss I still remember for its compassion and kindness. Did Jay tell him about the Charlie catastrophe? Or did Denny just sense my vulnerability and lack of confidence? I never saw Denny again, but I will never forget that cold night in Ithaca, New York where a kind stranger made me feel like a beautiful “woman woman,” with no cheating in her heart.

Move ahead to July 2023. An email blast from one of our social clubs announced that Gary Puckett and the Union Gap on was performing in our 55+ community’s ballroom on Sunday, November 6. Despite Larry’s ambivalence (he barely remembered the group), I scooped up two tickets for the 8 pm show. I was psyched, despite the fact that Gary Puckett had just turned 81 two weeks before the concert. Judging from his website, he didn’t look like the handsome young man in the group’s trademark Civil War uniform I knew back then, but—heck— I was also a little older looking myself.

We arrived a half an hour before the show and took our seats.Soon, the seats next to us were taken by my friend Maryellen. She introduced us to her husband Ed. We commented on the large crowd who had come to see the the show. “I am looking forward to this,” Ed said. “The last time I saw Gary Puckett and the Union Gap was at Cornell in 1969.” I gasped and stared at him. “I was at the same concert,” I told him. 

At 8 pm, the lights dimmed, the three “Union Gappers” took their places on the stage. As the introductory chords played, Gary Puckett burst onto the stage, singing “Lady Willpower.” I am not sure if he asked the audience to sing along to warm us up or to rest his old vocal cords. but we all fell right into his warmth and charm.

Gary Puckett still had a great voice, albeit a little choppier and less smooth than I remembered.He missed a few high notes and forgot some of the lyrics to a song by the Beach Boys. He turned to the audience, apologized, and asked“So, how is your memory doing?” The audience roared with laughter.

A little over an hour later, the group finished off with “Young Girl,” which is how I felt that evening. There was an opportunity to wait in a long line for a picture, but Larry, who had enjoyed the concert more than I hoped, agreed that I probably would be walking home if I stayed.

So, I am thankful. Thankful for that memorable evening in Ithaca. Thankful that Jay married Leslie and gave me a much beloved sister-of-my-heart.Thankful that Gary Puckett was still alive and kicking and entertaining the crowd. And, most of all, thankful that Larry—not Charlie or even Denny—was sitting next to me. As we walked to our car, my husband of almost 50 years, gave me a not-so-gentle kiss. Yes, that girl is a woman now, and she knows how to live.

The art of listening: Advice for the new year

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When you talk, you are only repeating what you already know. But if you listen, you may learn something new. Dalai Lama XIV

So many stories if we just listen. Sitting next to someone on a plane, we often stick earbuds in our ears to make sure they don’t prattle on about nothing.  But sometimes there is much to be learned from hearing—and really listening—to what others have to say. 

Some of us are experts at listening. Lou, a friend and former co-worker, not only hears what the person is saying but engages his entire body: he leans forward, plants his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees,  and looks the speaker in the eye. He nods in agreement. You know he cares about what is being said. 

I think of Lou, and I want to emulate him. I am as guilty as anyone, often not really paying attention.

How many times have I sat through a rabbi’s dracha —sermon— and spent too much of my time checking my watch? Even when I have signed up for a lecture sponsored by my community’s book circle, I often find myself thinking about what I need to do later that day rather than focusing on the topic being discussed. I have missed much by not being not more mindful.

Our failure to focus often carries into our daily conversations. We often are not listening to what the person is saying but rather waiting for the moment to express our own “pearls of wisdom.” And, what is worse,  what we want to say takes the conversation in a different direction. “That’s great,” we comment. “That reminds me of the time I…..” Note the emphasis is on the word “I.” To quote John Wayne, we are “short on ears and long on mouth.” 

We can learn from Lou and other good listeners. Young adult author Sarah Desson describes them well: “They don’t jump in on your sentences, saving you from actually finishing them, or talk over you, allowing what you do manage to get out to be lost or altered in transit. Instead, they wait, so you have to keep going.” 

How much richer our lives can be if we allow the speaker to continue talking.

Larry and I recently spent time with a group of friends in in Key West, Florida.  Before the trip, Larry had played pickleball with several people in the group, and we both had shared time around the pool and eaten lunch together. But being together for a week gave us more time to learn about each other.

Stories abounded. One woman had contracted polio when she was six, just months before the polio vaccine had come out. A very attractive woman who was visiting from England had become an actress in her sixties and is a regular on a British medical drama. A couple’s son had left his career as a graphic designer behind and became a tattoo artist. Several in the group had served in the military and regaled us with their stories about their experiences in basic training, in fighter planes, in submarines. Again and again, I thought to myself, “Who knew?”

Four days into our trip, Larry said to me, “I love hearing everyone’s stories!” And so did I. So many stories, so much to learn. And as my friend Lynn tells me about her own life, “You can’t make this stuff up!”

In the months ahead, I will be sharing people’s stories with you.  My friend’s son, who we have known since childhood, is now a rabbi in New Orleans. A friend in our 55-plus active adult community has turned his lifelong interest in the Titanic into a post-retirement career, as he travels the world giving lectures on the infamous boat and its many passengers. A friend of mine, a thirty-eight year old resident Daughters of Sarah Nursing Home, was paralyzed from the neck down in a freak motorcycle accident when he was sixteen. Each has a story to tell, and we can  all learn by listening. 

At one of the recent meetings of my writer’s group, one of the members shared a poignant story she had written about woman she had met twenty years earlier on a train stuck outside of Washington, D.C.  The writer—who was not wearing earbuds to block out conversations with strangers—learned that the woman was recently married to her childhood sweetheart. A month before the wedding, he was in a terrible accident and had suffered traumatic brain injury. Despite warnings from friends and family to back out of the wedding, the young woman realized her vow to love one another through sickness and health was sealed before the ceremony. By the time she finished reading her story, many of us were in tears. “How did you learn so much about a complete stranger?” we asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “She talked, I listened, and I remembered.” Good advice for all of us. 

A version of this article originally appeared in the November 10, 2016, Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.