For nearly 40 years, Mayer Kirshenblatt ran a paint and wallpaper store in Toronto. If you had assured him then that New York’s Jewish Museum would one day devote a show to his paintings of life in the Polish village where he grew up, he would probably have answered rudely. In fact, there were no such paintings. Kirshenblatt
waited until he was 73, retired and depressed, to launch his artistic
career. He developed quickly enough to furnish the museum with the
vivid, engagingly autobiographical They Called Me Mayer July: Painted Memories of a Jewish Childhood in Poland Before the Holocaust.
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Boy with Herring (1992) |
Kirshenblatt,
now 92, has worried his whole life that his relatives and fellow Jews
would be commemorated only for the way they died rather than celebrated
for how they lived. Having emigrated to Canada in 1934, he and his
family were spared the agony of Europe’s Jews. But many of his friends
were not so lucky, and he found that even fleeting exchanges inevitably
returned to the Holocaust. “It was as if there was no life before the
war,” he has written, “so overshadowed had their memories become by the
pain they suffered.”
Kirshenblatt nurtured his own recollections,
which predated the Nazi horrors. He remembered the layout of the
streets in his native Opatów, the stalls of the weekly fish market, the
rich kleptomaniac who secreted fish in her bra, the washing and rinsing
of laundry, the way prostitutes hoisted up their dresses to display
their wares. In 1967, he began describing these vignettes to his
daughter Barbara, who was studying folklore at Berkeley and went on to
a distinguished academic career. For decades, she recorded her father’s
reminiscences and colluded with the family to buy him brushes, pigments
and canvases. But he refused all pleas to commit his memories to paint
– until 1990, when he finally unearthed his gifts, both material and
internal, and produced a portrait of himself as a child in the family
kitchen.
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