Germany's literary love affair: Giving the gift of words

In the land of Goethe and Schiller, books - yes, even the paper kind - are still a favorite Christmas gift. But Germans' love of literature extends well beyond the holiday season. 

"Books are the best present you can give," says Lars, a literature professor with long blond hair. His left arm is loaded with a stack of volumes; another book is in his right hand. In all the commotion and bustle around him, there's hardly room to breathe. Just navigating requires foresight and constant apologizes; standing still even more so.
We're in a local branch of one of Germany's biggest book retailers, Thalia, and Lars is not the only one with his hands full. The lines at the registers stretch across the entire store. Only the very brave have dared to shop today.
Every year from mid-November through Christmas, the bookstores in Germany are flooded with people stocking up on the gift of the written word for their loved ones - and for themselves.
"I can't speak to you, it's Christmas business time" is a typical response from the salespeople if you dare ask a question not directly related to purchasing a present. Books were among the most popular Christmas gifts in Germany in 2012, with the pre-Christmas period accounting for nearly a quarter of bookstores' annual revenues.

Literature groupies 

In the land of Schiller and Goethe, it probably doesn't come as a surprise that Germans love to give books. But the passion for literature in this country is evident the rest of the year as well.
In any large German city, you're bound to find a literary event on any given week. In the largest cities, like Berlin and Cologne, they take place practically every day. Public readings and meetings with authors are as common as concerts, and just as popular.
One of the biggest literary events on Germany's cultural calendar, aside from the world-renowned Frankfurt and Leipzig book fairs, is the international lit.Cologne festival - 11 days with over 150 events for children and adults.
Highlights include readings by some of the most famous authors from Germany and around the world. Ticket sales begin as soon as the previous year's lit.Cologne has ended, and for a good reason - they tend to sell out quickly. The next lit.Cologne runs from March 12-22 and will see big names like Simon Beckett, Cornelia Funke, Hakan Nesser, and Arundhati Roy.
As an example of the importance of public readings in Germany, Ethiopian-born author Asfa-Wossen Asserate described his reception at a reading in a small village in southern Germany. The attendees treated Asserate like a rock star, announcing his arrival with posters, spreading a red carpet and showing up in droves.
Angelika Wolf from the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology at the Free University of Berlin has two theories to explain Germany's enthusiasm for books. "The first is the reading salons which existed in Berlin in the 18th-19th centuries, where people used to meet and talk about literature," she explained.
"The other reason is the fact that Germany had so many authors who influenced reading who stemmed from our culture, such as Schiller, Goethe and Hesse," continued Wolf.

Turning a page

Germans are indeed avid readers, now more than ever. According to the German Bookstores' Association, book shops experienced a small rise in revenue in 2012 - only 0.8 percent, but in the digital age just staying in the black is a feat.
Nevertheless, Goethe's birth country hasn't been left unscathed by digitalization. Between 1991 and 2011, the amount of money the average German household spends on newspapers, books and stationery dropped by 24.4 percent as a result of the global shift away from paper.

This year, for the first time in its nearly 200 years of business, book retailer Mayersche launched an Internet shop and reports that its online sales comprise 20 percent of total 2013 revenue.
A third of its web sales come from e-books. While that means paper books still make up the bulk of its literary wares, e-book sales across Germany tripled, from 4.3 million in 2011 to 13.2 million in 2012.
"The online sales of books and e-books naturally play an important role for the whole book industry," said Mayersche spokeswoman Simone Thelen. Yet in her view, "while the e-book curve is still rising, it is flattening out." Last year's leap in sales will certainly be hard to match.
"My Christmas gifts this year were digital books," revealed Wolf. However, there are some things technology simply cannot replace, she admits. "The social aspect is getting lost. You cannot exchange digital books with one another like you do with printed ones."
For Stephanie, a customer at Thalia, an e-book is not an option. She's searching for a book for her 70-year-old father. "My father doesn't know how to use the computer. He loves taking a book to the shore and reading in the sun."
And once her father is done with the book, Stephanie can borrow it and read it herself.


Deutsche Welle, 23.12.2013

Antisemitismus-Debatte: Israel gehört nicht seiner Regierung

Der Fall Jakob Augsteins beleuchtet wieder ein Thema, das seit Jahrzehnten die Welt, vor allem Deutschland beschäftigt: Wie kritisiert man Israels Politik, ohne dabei ein Antisemit genannt zu werden? Das Simon-Wiesenthal-Zentrum (SWZ) scheint zu sagen: „Gar nicht.“ Damit folgt das SWZ einer beliebten Strategie zur Delegitimierung von Israels Kritikern, die sowohl von der Regierung und den israelischen Rechtsnationalisten als auch von unterschiedlichen Israel-Freunden weltweit benutzt wird.

Ihre Mittel sind klar. Das erste ist die Gleichsetzung von Netanjahus Regierung mit dem Staat Israel an sich. „Time Magazine“ hatte im letzten Mai leider völlig recht, als es Netanjahu zum „King Bibi“ auf seinem Titelblatt krönte. Denn wer sich gegen Netanjahu oder seine Spießgesellen äußert, wird als Feind Israels bezeichnet. L’État, c’est moi.
Das zweite Mittel ist, den Staat Israel mit allen Juden der Welt zu verbinden. Denn man kann nicht Augstein (beziehungsweise jedem anderen kritischen Leitartikler) Antisemitismus vorwerfen, ohne zu glauben, dass Zionismus Menschenliebe und Antizionismus (oder einfach das Hinterfragen des Zionismus) Judenhass bedeuteten. Dass viele Juden, darunter viele Israelis, Israels Regierung und ihre Verbrechen verabscheuen, wird selbstverständlich verschwiegen. Auch die Tatsache, dass viele davon post- oder sogar antizionistisch sind; denn jüdische Postzionisten, denen man Antisemitismus keinesfalls vorwerfen kann, passen einfach nicht ins Bild. Dafür werden sie innerhalb des Landes als Verräter diffamiert.

Die Logik lautet: Wenn man nicht auf jeden Einfall von Israels Regierung eingeht, wird das außer Gefecht setzende Wort „Antisemitismus“ wieder in den Ring geworfen. Denn wer sich gegen illegale Siedlungen, die Unterdrückung von arabischen Landwirten oder die Drohung, einen Atomkrieg mit Iran auszulösen, ausspricht, muss ja auch wollen - wie es Netanjahu mit seiner demagogischen Rhetorik wiederholt -, dass „all die Juden ins Meer geworfen“ werden sollten. Dabei bedient sich die Diskussion immer wieder des erprobten Mittels, gegen das nicht zu argumentieren ist, schon gar nicht in Deutschland: des Holocausts.

Die dichotomischen Rollen von Täter und Opfer, die durch die Bildungssysteme in Deutschland und in Israel verewigt werden, darf niemand bestreiten. Sie spiegeln sich durchaus in der deutsch-israelischen Diplomatie. Deutschlands Kollektivschuld, die von Generation zu Generation vererbt zu werden scheint, lässt kaum Spielraum zur Kritik an einem Land, das seine Existenz als Wiedergutmachung an allen Juden der Welt darzustellen meint.

Ein Beispiel dafür gab es erst kürzlich, als Deutschland sich bei der UN-Abstimmung über Palästinas Status als Beobachterstaat bei den Vereinten Nationen der Stimme enthielt. Was selbst der ehemalige israelische Ministerpräsident Ehud Olmert sagte, wagte die deutsche Regierung nicht zu wiederholen. Als der SPD-Vorsitzende Sigmar Gabriel nach seinem Besuch in Hebron letztes Jahr die Besatzung als Apartheid bezeichnete, wurde er wegen seiner Wortwahl angegriffen und als Antisemit beschimpft. In der Tat benutzte er einen Begriff, der laut einer Umfrage in der Zeitung „Haaretz“ teilweise oder völlig von achtundfünfzig Prozent der Israelis akzeptiert ist.

Das amerikanische Simon-Wiesenthal-Zentrum scheint ganz gut zu wissen, was es tut, wenn es ausgerechnet einen deutschen Publizisten in seinem Antisemitismus-Ranking plaziert. Denn Israel-Kritiker, welche dieselbe Terminologie wie Augstein benutzen, gibt es unter Journalisten auf der ganzen Welt - nicht zuletzt auch in Israel. Gidon Levi schrieb in seinem Kommentar in „Haaretz“ über das Gedicht von Günther Grass: „Es gibt in Grass’ ,Was gesagt werden muss‘ auch Sachen, die gesagt werden müssen. Man darf und sollte sagen, dass Israels Politik den Weltfrieden gefährdet.“

Wahrscheinlich nur in Deutschland kann eine solche Kritik als Antisemitismus interpretiert werden. Und wenn man gegen einen deutschen Journalisten diese Anklage erhebt, wird es doppelt so schwierig, seinen guten Namen wiederherzustellen. Denn Deutschland kommt von der Erinnerung an den Holocaust genauso wenig los wie Israel, wenn auch auf umgekehrte Weise. Vielleicht ist die Zeit endlich reif zu sagen: Der Zweite Weltkrieg ist vorbei. Lass uns über die Gegenwart reden.

Frankfurter Allgemeine (FAZ), 07.01.2013

Riff Cohen: ‘Many Israeli artists become reluctant ambassadors’

In mid-2011, YouTube exploded with the video of a petite, dark-haired girl dancing around the colourful streets and markets of Paris, along with a belly dancer and foreign looking youngsters, singing in French to an upbeat rhythm mixed with oriental tunes. It turned Riff Cohen into a sensation. Born in Tel Aviv to a French-Algerian mother and an Israeli father with a Tunisian background, the 27-year-old has been working towards her first official video since childhood.

The Cohen parental home is in Ramat Aviv Gimmel, a wealthy neighborhood in the north of Tel Aviv. The well-groomed tastefully furnished living room, opening into a back yard with an equally well-groomed cat strolling around, is a far cry from the rugged, alternative image of Riff Cohen herself, who answers the door in torn-up skinny jeans and an oversized sweater. ‘I really enjoy saying that I grew up here, because there’s such a specific stigma on this place, which I really don’t feel like I’m a product of,’ she relishes in breaking stereotypes. ‘It would have been proper for me to say that I’m from north Tel Aviv, but why should I? It’s good, it’s starting to change the stigma of things.’

I speak to Cohen a couple of days after she has signed an artist contact with AZ records, the French branch of universal records. Musically, she says she doesn’t approach French audiences differently from Israeli ones. ‘My approach was very universal from the start. But the understanding of certain concepts is totally different. If I say that I’m religious in Israel, they’ll think that I’m right-wing.’ One internet forum really did say that in those very words; ‘Really,’ she laughs. ‘That’s really funny. Just what I meant. On other hand, the fact that I didn’t serve in the army is considered to be very leftist or pacifist. It’s amazing how people look for something to hang onto, even the smallest thing, to jump to conclusions. Just let me be a musician, let go of the other concepts.’

Cohen is Riff’s mother’s maiden name, although the singer was married by the time the video for A-Paris was ready. ‘I sort of ‘got stuck’ with my name, because I started getting famous before I got married. I thought that changing my name would be weird,’ she says. ‘Perhaps I should have done it. Everybody is pissed at Israelis now. Politics seeps into every level, even down to boycotts at the bazar, which sadly is not just about politics. I regret the fact that a few years ago it would have not mattered that I’m Israeli and that my name is Cohen. I’m sure many Israeli artists become reluctant ambassadors. On the other hand, the fact that we’re Israeli creates a great deal of interest.’

Riff’s album deals extensively with questions of identity. It’s a theme which Cohen, who was born with two mother tongues and carries a soft French accent to her Hebrew from the very start, is preoccupied with. ‘If I have to introduce myself, I just say where my parents and grandparents are from, and that I’m just a first-generation in Israel,’ she says. ‘It’s hard for people to make this connection of an Israeli whose grandmother speaks Arabic and dresses in traditional Tunisian clothes; to them, you’re either an Israeli or an Arab.’

For many Israelis, it remains the most challenging concept of all. The melting pot policy, which was implemented on immigrants for decades, did its best to erase the attributes of their origin cultures right down to their names. Binary identity concepts left hardly any room for exploration. ‘Zionistic Israel erased all the roots and tried to create a new culture, but we’re still in a void of sorts, emulating western culture,’ says Cohen. ‘I also wear jeans and T-shirts; it annoys me, because they don’t necessarily reflect who I am. My grandmother wore cape-like dresses and heavy golden jewellery, as did her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. It’s only because I’m in Israel that I'm wearing jeans and T-shirts that I'm wondering whether I should go to the Mikveh or not.’

Cohen channels this introspective idea into her work. The photo on the cover of the album released in Israel, a black and white of a young girl with braids, is her paternal grandmother Fortuna, who came to Israel from the Tunisian island of Djerba. It was the first photo ever taken of her, for her passport. Cohen tells, with great pride, of a woman of extraordinary talents and character, capable of holding several conversations at the same time, who cannot read nor write. ‘When they lived in Jaffa they used to buy a sheep, raise it for a while and then take it to the butcher when Passover, or some other big event or holiday, came along. I remember seeing the sheepskins hanging out to dry. She used to cover me with a sheepskin blanket, and it had a very strong, unpleasant smell,’ she reminisces. ‘There’s something much more respectful about that, rather than some businessman who has schnitzel for lunch every day without giving it a moment’s thought. My father was ashamed of it all, because it’s something supposedly primitive. But here I am, third generation - and I think that it’s something to showcase and be proud of. We shouldn’t hide it. It’s part of Israel’s cultural landscape. Everyone has their own culture, and we should showcase it and connect to it - without denial, without drawing a blank eye, without erasing our roots and trying to just be western. Part of our job as artists living in Israel’s sixties, is to search for Israeli culture and to create it.’

Café Babel, 21.12.2012

Swapping Hurricane Sandy in New York for Tel Aviv’s bombs

On 14 November, Israel assassinated Hamas strongman Ahmed Jabari; now 3 Israelis and 20 Palestinians are dead. Of course, attacking the Gaza strip right before elections is a long-since beloved tradition of Israeli right wing governments. For the first time in 21 years, since the Gulf war, bombs are landing on Tel Aviv again, and a rocket has been fired on Jerusalem for the first time since 1970.

Three weeks ago I traveled to New York for the first time in my life. The moment I landed, I was informed that the storm which was about to hit was worse than first thought. Watching the news that night from a rented apartment in Jamaica, Brooklyn, I realized that staying was not an option. A mad five hours’ drive to Maine, with Sandy on our heels, roads closing behind us as we went, turned my plans upside down. Returning to the city a week later, I thought that the worst was behind me. I went to museums, watched the US elections at an LGBT cabaret bar on Christopher street ,and took photos of the gorgeous autumn, blissfully unaware of what I was missing in Israel.

As I posted a final Facebook status from New York, informing my friends of my return, someone replied: ‘I would suggest you to stay there, you are coming to be in a shelter from where I see it.’ I thought she was joking, and laughed about it with the Haitian cabby on my way to the airport. Landing in Tel Aviv was nothing if not normal. I came home, unpacked my travel bags, hung my new dresses in the closet and had dinner. Then an alarm sounded. Thoroughly used to drills, I decided to check the online news to make sure: Israel killed a Hamas leader. According to Israeli peace activist Gershon Baskin, who spoke to Haaretz newspaper, it happened while Ahmed Jabari was working on a permanent truce agreement with Israel.

From my apartment in the residential neighbourhood of Neveh Eliezer, in the south-east of the city, you can hear loud booms from time to time. The television is on, with its endless propaganda trying to justify landing yet another war on us, yet again just before an election (which have been moved from October 2013 to January). After multiple packing and re-packing for the past three weeks, this time, I am packing in a way I have always feared most – emergency packing. Every single significant document has been stuck into a big bag – passports, IDs, birth certificates, graduation documents. Some warm clothing. Dry food. Water. Medications. After that, it is time for the dreaded choice: what is my priciest belonging? Thoughts flash through my head – my guitar, my signed copies of Neil Gaiman’s books, mementos from relationships. I go to my jewellery stand. Choosing a necklace to wear to the bomb shelter is certainly the best way to find out which one is your favorite. There are only two things I would save first – my laptop and my camera, without which I cannot work. I pull on a pair of jeans and a beloved T-shirt. I refuse to head down for now, though. Perhaps it is my eternal optimism, perhaps it is insanity, but even with bombs crashing around me, I would still rather stay where I have internet connection and work. However, when they come for me, I’m ready; I have my purple necklace.

Café Babel, 16.11.2012

What’s in an Israeli name?

If you have any Israeli friends on your facebook lists, there’s a good chance you’re slightly confused in recent months as to who exactly they are, as their last names have morphed into new, confusing, and sometimes rather long ones. The inspiration was a Hebrew-speaking ‘event’, initially planned for a week, which has since been extended until May 2013.

The organizers of the Facebook event ‘Melting down the melting pot: Recovering the lost names!’ has a pretty mission: ‘Change your redone Hebrew family name on Facebook to the previous last names of your father’s and mother’s family: whether it was a clerk at the jewish agency or a school teacher who changed your name; whether it was changed out of shame or fear of racism; whether it was due to a family feud, voluntarily, following kabbalah studies; whether it’s your pen name – for a week [now extended] we retrieve the lost name and tell its story.’

Over 1,000 people have joined the initiative, which resonates with descendants of holocaust survivors, Arabic jews and second-generation immigrants alike. The requirement for ‘Hebrew’ names, which many encountered upon arrival, is a subject especially painful for immigrants from Arabic and eastern European countries, whose name were - and, in the case of Russian-speakers, still are - often forcibly changed upon arrival. One fellow, Amos Bar, became ‘Amos Shlomo Bilibil-Stock’ on Facebook. ‘Bilbil is the Turkish name of the Bulbul bird, which is also why my grandfather didn’t hebraicize his name,’ he says; bulbul is Hebrew slang for male genitalia. ‘The second part of the invented surname, Stock, means stick. Grandpa actually hebraicized that, to Sharvit, and then everyone thought he was of oriental descent. Bar is a name my parents made up after my mother refused to be Mrs. Bilbil. I hereby use this stage to kick its behind. Shlomo is my second name, after my grandfather’s father, who died six months before I was born. And he was actually named Zeide.’

Café Babel, 14.11.2012

Concert review: Mashrou’ Leila rock stage in Amman with pro-gay songs

If you believe in reincarnations, you would swear that Freddie Mercury now resides in the body of Hamed Sinno, the charismatic and openly gay lead singer of the Lebanese indie band Mashrou' Leila. The name of the seven-piece from Beirut translates literally from the Arabic to ‘An Overnight Project’.

It is a chilly evening at the Roman Amphitheatre in Amman. Hamed Sinno reigns the stage, as if it was his very own private studio, fueled by passion. He creates an intimacy with every single person in the audience, with his magnificent voice rising up and beating down scales with effortless charm. Everything about him builds up the kind of showmanship that has almost passed from this world.

Sinno is an openly gay man, and Mashrou’ Leila’s lyrics cover just about every taboo imaginable: homosexual love, life in the closet, premarital sex, interfaith relationships and political and religious protest - and they don’t shy away from dirty language either. In a deeply religious, macho, homophobic society, where the very existence of gays is denied, the band gives Arab LGBT youth a much longed-for voice. No wonder that their short career, spanning only two albums so far, has already turned them into global stars, with concerts in Sinno is an openly gay man, and Mashrou’ Leila’s lyrics cover just about every taboo imaginable: homosexual love, life in the closet, premarital sex, interfaith relationships and political and religious protest - and they don’t shy away from dirty language either. In a deeply religious, macho, homophobic society, where the very existence of gays is denied, the band gives Arab LGBT youth a much longed-for voice. No wonder that their short career, spanning only two albums so far, has already turned them into global stars, with concerts in Arab and European countries alike.

However, Sinno’s stage presence is only a small part of what makes Mashrou’ Leila the phenomenon that it is. The band formed after meeting at the American university of Beirut in 2008. Combining electric guitars and keyboards with traditional violin sounds, their sound is neither distinctly oriental nor distinctly modern, and may call upon comparison to the Balkan rock, which took over Europe a few years ago. Nor are they a wedding band in stiff suits, or shallow pop icons – two of the images which are so prevalent in Arabic music nowadays.

The 3,000 people at the Roman amphitheater are a rare view to be seen in the Jordanian capital. The public sphere in Jordan is a male dominated one. Walking in Amman’s city center, you would be lucky to encounter a woman for every hundred men that cross your path. The women you do see are inevitably covered up from head to toe. Jordan’s modesty rules require that every woman going outside must be dressed accordingly: trousers and skirts must be long; tops must cover shoulders, chest and elbows; no item may be skintight. The female body is to be kept from sight – and this goes for female tourists as much as for residents.

Behind the theatre’s massive stone walls, however, it is another world altogether, and occasional hijabs mix in with the mass of revealing tops and tight jeans. Mashrou’ Leila’s crowd is as modern and rebellious as the band itself, singing the lyrics loudly when prompted. Shim el-Yasmin (‘Smell the jasmine’), a heartfelt ballad about the breakup of a gay couple as one of them chooses a closeted life with a wife and children, turns into a slow-dance for queer couples.

It is now the second year in a row that Chady Baddarni, a 23-year-old Palestinian from Tel Aviv, has orchestrated an organized trip to Amman to see his beloved band play live. What started out as just a desire to see Mashrou’ Leila perform live along with a couple of friends, turned into dozens of Palestinian and Israeli youth filling buses to spend a weekend in the Jordanian capital. This year an Israeli-Palestinian after-party was planned in one of Amman’s few nightclubs, Seventh Heaven. However, as is often the case with Middle Eastern politics, music is never just music.

 A week prior to the trip, the Jordanian popular boycott movement posted a letter on Facebook addressed to the event organizers of the after-party and to Baddarni personally, going from political opposition to racism and downright threats towards participants: ‘We cannot stress enough our firm opposition to any form of political or cultural normalisation activity with the so-called ‘State of Israel’ therefore facilitating the visit of any Zionist performer or attendee(s) to any cultural event hosted here in Jordan is entirely unacceptable,’ they wrote. ‘Despite your confirmation and that of your associate here in Amman, the event you’re organising will not host any Zionists (to be clear we take this stand against all Israeli nationality holders that are non-Arab). We are very vigilant to all cultural events in Amman, and will have our ears to the ground during Mashrou’ Leila, so we urge you to keep your word and promise to keep our event and country Zionist-free.’

‘In two words: racist thugs,’ responds Baddarni, a Palestinian activist himself. ‘This blatantly contradicts the guidelines by the BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) movement and deals a near death-blow to the huge efforts they invested to distinguish between ‘institutional’ and ‘individual’ boycotts. Our goal isn’t only overcoming Zionism but also building a future after it.’ Thus, one week later, I am standing in the desert air of the Roman amphitheater, surrounded by the 111 other youths who came along with Baddarni, 29 of whom are Jewish like myself. It has been a long day walking around the city, and I have spent most of it fully wrapped up under the blazing desert sun. I roll up my short sleeves and surrender to Sinno’s magnificent voice.

  

Café Babel, 02.10.2012

KLONE YOURSELF

Photo: Alexandra Belopolsky

I've been following his strange creatures for years. Fox-like predators with sharp teeth, giant birds with menacing beaks, monstrous fish. All staring at the passersby through big, human-like eyes full of sadness. You can see them all over Tel Aviv - on crumbling buildings and electrical cabinets, on walls and on rooftops, in hidden corners and in plain sight. Klone Yourself (or simply, Klone) is one of Israel's most prolific and creative street artists. His pseudonym is a comment on the modern lifestyle. "We all go to school, enlist in the army, carry smartphones, watch TV – it's a form of self-cloning. We all follow a norm. The point is to be a different type of clone, a clone of yourself, so to say. An original one".

I meet him at his studio, in a warehouse in Tel Aviv. Looking at him you would never guess that this 29 year old guy, of average height and build and straightforward features, is the mind behind some of the most haunting images of the city. Throughout our conversation he never stops cutting shapes - on August 23rd he opens his first solo exhibition abroad at the Urban Spree gallery in Berlin, and there is still much work to be done. It will be a massive paper installation, mostly in black, white and brown, akin to the one he presented in Tel Aviv in 2011. Klone's art varies in accordance to the location – his gallery work, his street work and his studio work are all inherently different. "I believe that what's done in the street should stay in the street. A gallery is a completely different stage, and it needs to be treated differently in terms of space and medium".

This moto is carried into his street art as well – he never repeats the same work, making it a point to create something unique for every place where he leaves his mark, especially in the past few years. "I no longer paint simply for the sake of there being a painting", he clarifies, "I paint for the sake of leaving a particular painting on a specific location". Recently, his palette changed as well, leaving the bright multi-colored works a thing of the past. "I don't see the need for color now", he says. "I can now express myself well without hiding behind the colors. A lot of times when you create a colorful work, the viewer is hooked on the colors. I like dealing with my subject by going down to the basics – black and white, and maybe an additional color. I think it tells a lot more about me as an artist, in the same way that a good sketch tells more about an artist than some amazing painting where you can't see the brush strokes".

Photo: Alexandra Belopolsky

As someone working in a field where his work can be, and often is, destroyed at any given moment, Klone is more than comfortable with that risk. He has been known to go back and paint over locations where his previous work has been erased, sometimes several times on the same spot. But that, to him, is an essential part of being an artist, street or otherwise. "Things need to be erased and renewed", he states, presenting a philosophy that might sound radical. "Nothing should be eternal .I think it would do the art world a lot of good if we were to dilute about 10 percent of it every year. This incisive preoccupation with what's already been done… Just the sheer costs of storing all that! When they could have gone into supporting young art and new generations. How many people do you know who have actually seen the real Mona Lisa? Is that really important? It's already public domain as far as images on the internet go. No one has actually seen it. People know the image, they learn about it, but when you go to look at it you find some picture behind glass as thick as a wall and guards. You don't get to really see it."

Photo: Alexandra Belopolsky

The Berlin exhibition came about after the curator of the gallery discovered online the book which Klone had independently published last year – a collection of works he describes as a travelogue. It was the curator's first encounter with the artist's work, in spite of the fact that there are places in Berlin (as well as Amsterdam, Paris and Saint Petersburg) where he left creative testimonies of his previous visits to the city. But perhaps it is understandable, since he makes sure to choose the less central and more run-down spots for his art wherever he goes. "I want to relate to a place that accepts me", he says when I wonder whether painting in a posh part of the city may not be considered as a challenge, to bring his world view to the people who want to hear it the least. "In an overly primped area the painting would look like mere decoration, regardless of how subversive it might be. The most subversive work, if you put it in a gallery in a nice frame, under good lighting, would look like something to be hung in some rich man's living room. I prefer to work in less groomed areas."

Yet groomed or not, painting in a city where he doesn't live is a completely different experience for Klone: "I'm not used to how the city reacts to me. It's a different vibe. When I travel, I stay in the city for a while and only then do I paint something. But it still doesn't feel like, say, Berliner art. It feels like my own art. When I paint in Tel Aviv it's different, it's a part of Tel Aviv. It's Tel Aviv art".

Photo: Alexandra Belopolsky

Klone was not, however, born in Tel Aviv. He was born in Kharkiv, Ukraine, back when it was the USSR. When he was 11 years old his family immigrated to Israel. The uprooting from his home and the displacement did not come easy for the young boy. Five years later he took up a can of paint and, years before evolving into street art, joined the world of graffiti tagging. For the young émigré struggling to fit in, it felt natural. It was a way of bringing himself out, of leaving his mark on Israeli society, of saying "Here I am!". He was not the only one – many graffiti and street artists were immigrants. They still are - Klone is a member of a group of artists, which include such locally well-known names as Know Hope, Foma and Zerocents – all immigrants. They hang out together, and often go out on painting missions together. Some might argue that perhaps it was the immigration experience that turned them into street artists in the first place. "Had we stayed in Ukraine, I would probably have become an engineer, like half the people there", laughs Klone. Seems as though design of urban spaces is in his blood, after all.

Café Babel - Berlin, 20.08.2012