There’s a sober mood on the streets of London. People are noticeably more quiet, more ‘withdrawn’ as I walk the streets of Whitechapel and Spitafields. Digital adverts at the London bus stops have been replaced with Elizabeth II’s image. There are notices in shop windows, edged in black, offering commiserations. Last night, at Piccadilly Circus, the famous electronic board that usually advertises big brands was illuminated with her image.
But this feels very different. This feels ‘personal’ and - in the days that follow - I will learn that millions of people around the country (and the world) feel as I do - that we really did like the Queen, admire the Queen, and have great respect for the Queen. The fact is that the most famous woman in the world (a brand bigger than Nike or Coca Cola), instantly recognisable with her smile and trademark handbag, diplomatic, discerning and also dazzling, is gone…
I then climb into bed and sleep, but only for a few hours. This will become the pattern for the coming weeks - when I do manage to sleep, it is brief, fitful, constantly interrupted. Despite my physical exhaustion, I’m waking almost every morning in the wee small hours with a start. For a split second, all is well with my world but then the horror of my situation hits me like a freight train.
And then - in the blink of an eye - it happens. Silence. I stare at his face, disbelieving, willing him to breathe just one more time. But the gasping has stopped. I reach over to take his pulse but can feel nothing. I call a nurse. She stands over him and does the same thing. “He’s gone, my love.” I cannot take the words in; I am not prepared for this moment. I stare at my father, whose eyes are closed but whose mouth has fallen open. He looks peaceful. Another one of the angels returns with a single red rose, which she places next to his pillow…
To my disbelief, she tells me that he’s deteriorating very fast and he may well die in the next hours or the following day. I look at her, incredulous. This fast? She reassures me that he’s definitely not in pain then breaks the news to me that he’s not sleeping - in fact, in the last hour he has actually slipped into unconsciousness. “It’s very likely now that he won’t open his eyes again, or respond to your hand squeezes.” I don’t believe her. I am convinced he will open his eyes one more time. There cannot be this little time left. There cannot be.
“Your father is dying.” The room spins. I am momentarily at a loss for words. It’s like being punched in the gut. A few moments pass. “How long do you think he has?” The kind doctor pauses, before answering. “Not long. A few days at most”. In my head, I remember that It’s Tuesday afternoon.
“Will he make it to the weekend?” “I don’t think that’s likely.” He is sombre but kind. Above me, there is a skylight and through it I hear a screeching sound.
“It’s the seagulls. They’ve built a nest on our roof.” I think to myself that my father would like that.
After I’ve left the hospital, I feel mentally drained. My mind is cast back to the book I first read in 2018, when my beloved grandmother was dying. Atul Gwande, who is the most extraordinary writer, penned a book entitled ‘Being Mortal - Medicine, Illness and What Really Matters in the End,” It had a profound impact on me back then and his words return to me now…
I am caught off guard when I see him. He looks terrible. I do my best to hide my shock, pulling up a chair, forcing a smile and taking his hand. My father recognises me immediately and seems astonished that I’m standing next to him. He can’t speak properly - he’s slurring his words - nor can he sit up. He is utterly helpless and fights to get his words out…
“Dad, I came to see you.” I squeeze his hand tightly and he responds in kind. Then he whispers, almost inaudibly, “Get me out of here…”
It had been a great trip back to the country of my birth but, six weeks later, I was ready to fly home to Tel Aviv. On my penultimate evening, longing for some British pub grub I met up with two old friends in a local tavern, where we ordered fish and chips and pints of beer and enjoyed what was a perfect summer English evening. Hugging them goodbye, I said I hoped it wouldn’t be as long before my next visit. What little did I know was in store for me.
The canal continues onto Kings Cross, Camden Town, past the London Zoo and Lisson Wide before culminating at Maida Vale (where that stretch of the canal is fondly referred to as ‘Little Venice."‘ For hundreds of years, workers moved people and goods along this waterway, not without risk either (severe storms could be perilous) and being able to work the boats in all weathers and tides was a job that required skill and knowledge. Many of them lived on these boats…
Bunhill fields burial ground was first used in 1665 and remained open until 1854; in this time period historians estimate that 123,000 people (approximately) were buried here. By the time it was closed, it was actually considered to be a health hazard! The name ‘Bunhill’ is derived from Bone Hill Fields - archaeologists have discovered that the area was used to bury the dead as far back as Saxon times…
Because of industry, and a boom in the furniture and rag trades, Shoreditch (and the areas close by - including Brick Lane and Spitalfields) became popular with Jewish immigrants, Having arrived in England with few resources, or even penniless, they moved in droves to the area, taking on low-paid jobs in cabinet-making, tailoring and labouring at the docks. As a result, they needed a place to pray, which accounts for the construction of the Sandys Row synagogue (still active today).
There are several things that make this place so appealing, in my eyes. Firstly, the sheer variety of flowers (as I said above). It’s a floral feast for the eyes - tulips, sunflowers, geraniums, gerberas and orchids at one stall, exotic purple, pink and white orchids at another, kitchen herbs and then one with endless houseplants…
What have I missed the most? London buses, the familiar red double deckers that I adored as a child, climbing up stairs in the hope of finding a seat at the very front, so I could observe everything from on high. The Docklands Light Railway, which thrilled my nephew as a child, as it was driverless. The markets - Portobello for antiques, Columbia Road for flowers, Brick Lane for vintage and Camden for pure nostalgia…
The phone kept ringing. Everyone knew I lived on Dizengoff. The night wore on. The the police and army’s fear was that the gunman would break into a nearby building, in the hope of taking hostages. Soldiers from an elite unit soon arrived, informing us all from the street below that, under no circumstances, could we leave our homes. All traffic in and out of Tel Aviv had been stopped and my block had been cordoned off…
Kusama has, over the years, suffered from panic attacks, hallucinations and had more than one nervous breakdown. These began when she was not even in double digits - as early as aged 7, Kusama heard dogs, pumpkins and violets talking to her (indeed, pumpkins would become one of her leitmotifs, later in her career) and had auras where all around her, she saw objects glittering…
I am truly astounded by what I find, as I go out on ‘collecting’ missions. Bell peppers that would sell in the stores for 10 NIS a kilo ($43). Potatoes, onions, tomatoes, bananas, carrots, orange and pears…sometimes slightly bruised, sometimes in a box where just one is damaged, sometimes in optimum condition and clearly just ‘leftovers.’ On a recent mission, I picked up 12 boxes of strawberries - most were perfect, a few were squishy but none were rotten…
I thought I was alone in my feelings - the despair, the horror, the disgust, the sheer terror…apparently it is not just me. As far as my eye could see, there were people with placards, flags, instruments…so many young people (who have a reputation in Tel Aviv for being more interested in cocktail bars than politics), just as many older people and families with small kids too.
It’s at this point that you’ll spy Daniel Kafri’s marvellous “Statue of Faith” - on it are carved three historic Biblical scenes - the binging of Isaac, the Fall of Jericho and Jacob’s Ladder. Made from Galilee stone, and with a gate-like structure, it represents the “Gate of Entry” into the Promised Land, bringing to life stories of the three Patriarchs - Abraham, Isaac and Jacob...
