Litvinovsky Died

The gravediggers hurried. It was the eve of a holiday, and they still had to make it to the market or something similar. Litvinovsky lay on the stretcher, bundled in the shroud of the dead. Even great and veteran artists eventually pass away. I counted about twenty people. At the last moment, a car stopped, and four representatives from the Jerusalem Artists' Association stepped out. Two artists. The only artists by the grave.

Artists love Litvinovsky. The 11:00 news announced the passing of the important artist, but people did not come. No one waited for them here for too long. It was, after all, the eve of a holiday. Litvinovsky was taken to a new burial plot. Even here, he was among the pioneers. Hundreds of pre-cast concrete burial units stood waiting for all of us, like a massive military formation. It was just a matter of time and a difference of two meters between being above or below. This was Litvinovsky’s last moment above. The gravedigger tilted the stretcher diagonally into the grave, and Litvinovsky slid into his final resting place.

I thought of children sliding in playgrounds, perhaps because Litvinovsky so often sought the spirit of childhood in his paintings.

The gravedigger now straightened the artist’s body within the pit. There were no particular difficulties—Litvinovsky had always avoided being a burden. I looked into the grave. It was very cramped. Unlike the large and tall rooms that Litvinovsky filled with his paintings day after day.

Then, the gravedigger asked for forgiveness from… (he bent down to the plaque to check whose grave this was). As the soil was tossed in, the few mourners stood for a few more minutes. It was hot.

The artist’s two silent daughters looked like replicas of Litvinovsky; they resembled him so much. The painter Tova Berlinski whispered tearfully that she had only started painting with oil pastels thanks to Litvinovsky. The grocer from "Hyper-Shuk," who always ensured Litvinovsky had the best vegetables and fruits for his strict vegan diet, stood by and listened to how beloved the artist was. He and his wife had received Litvinovsky’s last portrait, painted when the artist was already losing his sight and could no longer work. Less than a year ago.

B.S., who had cared for Litvinovsky with rare dedication, day after day for years, stood off to the side, somewhat distant. He did not throw gravel into the grave—it must have been too hard for him. The sun beat down, and the dry concrete burial slots desperately needed the vibrant colors of Litvinovsky. Mordechai Ish-Shalom was silent. Teddy Kollek did not come. Nor did the hundreds to whom Litvinovsky had gifted his paintings. The recipient of the Israel Prize for Painting was now properly covered with earth. His "Joy of Life," which he so often painted, had now turned into the silence of death—mundane and humiliating. Three modest wreaths were placed on the grave, already beginning to wither on the spot. Not a single gallery owner was present. Not a single museum official. At least that justice was served.

If Litvinovsky hated anything in life, it was hypocrisy. And if he had an issue, it was with the museums that had not allowed him a retrospective exhibition since 1960. True, he was not an easy person, but he could afford a few eccentricities. The museums could not. In fact, there was something fitting in this small gathering of final mourners. Litvinovsky despised ceremonies. Had anyone dared to eulogize him here, he would surely have lifted the ton of earth and the concrete slabs placed over him and sent the speaker flying.

This extraordinary man, the last descendant of Tolstoyan giants, had stubbornly secluded himself in his home on 29th of November Street for decades. He almost renounced the vanities of this world. He despised publicity. He threw journalists and TV crews down the steps of his house. He changed his phone number regularly.

Perhaps this was precisely the kind of burial he would have wanted—unless his solitude was, in fact, a paradoxical, desperate cry for love and attention.

Either way, Litvinovsky was gone. Ninety-one years of titanic struggle ended in the silent banality of a rectangular block of concrete and a small bundle within it.

What does this have to do with the intensity of his overflowing creativity, night after night, under neon lights from 2:00 to 5:00 a.m.? What does this have to do with his hopeless fight, to the very last moment, enlisting veganism, exercise bikes, Japanese seaweed salt, and Dead Sea baths? What does this have to do with the rare legend of a man whose soul was so beautiful, whose artistic depth made him a pillar of Israeli art since its inception?

The concrete block swallows everything. And all the rest is vanity.

Litvinovsky knew this well. From his unique cooking and his finest of fine wines, I learned much from him about true and false values in life and art.

Like a cat that quietly and secretly retreats to die, Litvinovsky passed away, hidden from the eyes of the world. While he was still on his deathbed, burglars broke into his home. They did not touch his paintings.

Our museums have managed to erase Litvinovsky’s name even from the consciousness of thieves.

It will not help them.