The Inner Content of the Painting

Something significant has happened to the art books published in Israel recently—they have noticeably grown. On the shelves of recent years' art publications, large, thick, and luxurious books stand out. These volumes, dedicated to artists like Menashe Kadishman, Lea Nikel, Yitzhak Danziger, Yehezkel Streichman, and now Pinchas Litvinovsky, seem to compete with one another, loudly proclaiming that size does indeed matter.

It is hard to say that this impressive growth stems from a flourishing in the field of art or publishing. Perhaps precisely because producing art books is such an expensive endeavor, the stakeholders—often not the publishers themselves but families, museums, collectors, or patrons—seek to emphasize their investment by creating a luxurious product that reflects the money spent. The commendable aspect of this investment is the improved quality and generous quantity of printed color reproductions. However, regarding content, the books differ in their approach, depth of research, and presentation style, although they generally share a similar objective.

There is no doubt that the new album dedicated to Litvinovsky (1894–1985) is an important addition to Israeli art literature, if only due to its quality and the large number of images it contains. For this, the publishers deserve praise. However, it is regrettable that the book lacks basic information such as a bibliography or even a list of the included artworks.

Furthermore, Gideon Ofrat's introductory essay mentions paintings and cites articles included in the book, yet there are no references to guide the reader to these sources. The book also includes Ofrat's earlier essay, The Litvinovskys of Van Friesland, which was published in Studio (No. 8, February 1990), with much of its content repeated in the main essay. This duplication is perplexing, especially since the article is printed under a distorted title and with incorrect source and date references. Such mistakes stem from cost-cutting—foregoing a professional editor and the essential tasks of unifying, proofreading, and consolidating materials, which could have prevented these unfortunate errors.

The book is unique in that it includes, in addition to Ofrat's essays, ten other essays originally published as critiques in newspapers or introductions to print albums. Thus, alongside exploring Litvinovsky's works from the 1920s to the 1980s, the writings of Mordechai Narkiss, Chaim Gamzu, Gabriel Talpir, Natan Zach, and others are presented, including French critics Waldemar George and Alain Bosquet. There is a certain charm in reading these old, emotionally charged texts, a style long absent from modern writing:"Colors are the song bursting from the artist's heart and throat, willingly or unwillingly… They symbolize his essence, his being, and reflect his world: humanity, the earth, and the blue sky" (Ch. Aaronson, 1931)."Among the few true colorists among our artists, he is the most colorist. It is as if he is in a state of constant intoxication, intoxication from colors, for the essence of color is one of his primary experiences" (D. A. Friedman, 1944)."Pinchas Litvinovsky knows the secret of the line, as only a few do among us. I dare say: not many in our generation" (Mordechai Narkiss, 1960)."This is painting 'without problems,' drenched in joy. Perhaps it lacks great depth, but in its presence, this lack is not felt at all" (Natan Zach, 1960).

In the absence of exhibition catalogs—Litvinovsky staunchly opposed explanations and catalogs—these critiques are important as sources of information about his exhibitions. They also provide insight into the reception of his work and his standing in the art world. However, as independent texts, most lack the theoretical or historical weight necessary to be re-read today and offer new insights into his art.

A new essay written for the book is Ofrat's introduction, which surveys the artist's biography, points to sources of influence, and describes his activities in the Israeli art world while incorporating interpretive commentary. Ofrat's ornate language aligns with the spirit of past art criticism, and he frequently quotes earlier texts, both to support his own interpretations and to construct a picture of the artist within his artistic environment.

Ofrat faithfully continues a tradition in Israeli art criticism that focuses almost exclusively on questions of style and form, touching only incidentally on thematic content and its meanings. In this regard, Ofrat accepts the artist's own assertions as given: "For me, the hand works better than the head" and "Ideas always cause harm, in every case" (p. 13).

According to Ofrat, these statements reflect modernist reservations about literary content in painting. To emphasize, he adds: "Let us clarify: the internal content of the painting is not necessarily its narrative content. The desired content is not predetermined but arises authentically from the artist, who is stimulated by the figurative form to ignite abstract color" (p. 13).

It is unclear if this explanation makes things clearer to readers, but it does highlight the writer's alignment with formalist tendencies in Israeli art criticism, which have long dominated the field. Nevertheless, Ofrat is compelled, by the paintings themselves, to address the question of Jewish themes in Litvinovsky’s work. "Judaism did not give the Jerusalem painter peace. He alternated between approaching and distancing himself from it," Ofrat writes (p. 32), mentioning the portraits of rabbis, the influence of the Sarajevo Haggadah, and various Kabbalistic concepts or Jewish symbols in Litvinovsky's paintings.

However, Ofrat largely avoids a deeper discussion of the issues raised by these themes. He briefly and hesitantly references the interpretations of Yigal Zalmona and Dorit Shafir in the catalog for the Litvinovsky exhibition at the Israel Museum in 1990, but he prefers noncommittal formulations such as: "Litvinovsky sought a way to create modern Jewish painting, one that internalizes both the content of Judaism and the full expression of the new language of painting" (p. 33). In the late 1990s, such an explanation, even in a popular book intended for a wide audience, no longer suffices.

The conventional method of stylistic description in Israeli art relies on associating it with the "isms" of modern art, supplemented by mentions of renowned artists, as if referring to a concept or an artist explains everything. Ofrat follows this path but also scatters many conceptual pitfalls for readers, such as "latent modernism—constructivist" or "post-Cézannean monochromaticity."

One influence worth exploring is that of Picasso, evident in Litvinovsky's work from the 1940s and 1950s and especially prominent in the 1960s. Picasso, unquestionably one of the dominant artists of the 20th century who influenced leading figures like Henry Moore and Jackson Pollock, had little impact on Israeli art. Aside from a brief period in the 1920s, most of Picasso’s work did not leave a mark on Israeli art (except perhaps in Menashe Kadishman's later sculptures).

When discussing "avant-garde" in Israeli painting of the 1940s and 1950s, the term usually refers to a turn toward late 19th and early 20th-century post-Impressionism—Cézanne, Bonnard, Rouault, and to some extent Braque after Cubism. Why was Picasso rejected as a source of reference and influence? This is an intriguing subject for separate discussion. However, it is clear that for Litvinovsky, who found abundant material in Picasso, this influence facilitated his departure from the mainstream of Israeli art into an independent, free, and overtly liberated path from the conventions of "good painting."

A closer look at the book’s images reveals several interesting aspects of Litvinovsky’s work. For instance, the prevalence of Arab figures in his paintings. True, most of them appear in the 1920s, when the theme was "on the agenda" in Israeli art, but they also appear in later years. While the figures are often depicted in stereotypical settings—at a café, smoking hookahs, with a donkey or a flock of sheep—they are also shown in portraits and family scenes. Litvinovsky's paintings, considered central to the 1920s and 1930s, challenge the prevailing thesis (recently presented in the Kadima exhibition at the Israel Museum) about the Arab image in Israeli painting: a heroic image in the 1920s that underwent a turning point and abandonment after the 1929 riots. Perhaps it is time to reevaluate this thesis, which is primarily based on the works of Nachum Gutman.

Another striking phenomenon in Litvinovsky's paintings is their "childlike" appearance. This too is timely against the backdrop of an exhibition on infantilization in Israeli art currently displayed at the Israel Museum. As early as the 1940s and 1950s, long before Rafi Lavie and even before (and later alongside) Arie Aroch, Litvinovsky painted in a style resembling children's drawings, in stark contrast to the Impressionist and lyrical abstraction of the "New Horizons" group. Inspired by the 1930s works of Paul Klee and Joan Miró, Litvinovsky painted seemingly childlike figures, sometimes comical, in bold colors—red, yellow, green, blue—on large surfaces, with rough lines and complete flatness. These are not "late-style" works but rather a substantial portion of Litvinovsky’s oeuvre as reflected in the book. In any case, this is painting that, in the Israeli context, was ahead of its time, and its influence, if any, remains a topic for consideration.

Dalia Manor curated the exhibition "Perspective" at the Tel Aviv Museum in 1991.