Art show at the Pannikin Cafe in La Jolla, CA, April 2011.

Blue robot

Pen and Acrylic Paint.

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The city

Pen.

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A friend

Ink Painting.

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Girl 1

Pen.

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Girl 2

Pen and Brush Pens.

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Farmer girl.

Pen.

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Man

Pen.

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Pasternak

Ink Painting.

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Winter Night
by Boris Pasternak
translated by Lydia Pasternak

It swept, it swept on all the earth,
At every turning,
A candle on the table flared,
A candle, burning.

Like swarms of midges to a flame
In summer weather,
Snowflakes flew up towards the pane
In flocks together.

Snow moulded arrows, rings and stars
The pane adorning.
A candle on the table shone
A candle, burning.

Entangled shadows spread across
The flickering ceiling,
Entangled arms, entangled legs,
And doom, and feeling.

And with a thud against the floor
Two shoes came falling,
And drops of molten candle wax
Like tears were rolling.

And all was lost in snowy mist,
Grey-white and blurring.
A candle on the table stood,
A candle, burning.

The flame was trembling in the draught;
Heat of temptation,
It lifted up two crossing wings
As of an angel.

All February the snow-storm swept,
Each time returning.
A candle on the table wept,
A candle, burning

Pasternak

Ink Painting.

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Parting
by Boris Pasternak
translated by Lydia Pasternak

A man is standing in the hall
His house not recognizing.
Her sudden leaving was a flight,
Herself, maybe, surprising.

The chaos reigning in the room
He does not try to master.
His tears and headache hide in gloom
The extent of his disaster.

His ears are ringing all day long
As though he has been drinking.
And why is it that all the time
Of waves he keeps on thinking?

When frosty window-panes blank out
The world of light and motion,
Despair and grief are doubly like
The desert and the ocean.

She was a dear to him, as close
In all her ways and features,
As is the seashore to the wave,
The ocean to the beaches.

As over rushes, after storm
The swell of water surges,
Into the deepness of his soul
Her memory submerges.

In years of strife, in times which were
Unthinkable to live in,
Upon a wave of destiny
To him she had been driven,

Through countless obstacles, and past
All dangers never-ended,
The wave had carried, carried her,
Till close to him she'd landed.

And now, so suddenly, she'd left.
What power overrode them?
The parting will destroy them both,
The grief bone-deep corrode them.

He looks around him. On the floor
In frantic haste she'd scattered
The contents of the cupboard, scraps
Of stuff, her sewing patterns.

He wanders through deserted rooms
And tidies up for hours;
Till darkness falls he folds away
Her things into the drawers;

And pricks his finger on a pin
In her unfinished sewing,
And sees the whole of her again,
And silent tears come flowing.

red tree, in the front yard

Pen, Brush Pen, Acrylic Paint.

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tree 2

Pen, Brush Pen, Acrylic Paint.

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tree 3

Pen, Brush Pen, Acrylic Paint.

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vanish

Pen and Brush Pens.

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mom and daughter

Pen and Brush Pen.

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Jonathan Netanyahu

Ink Painting.

Planned and lead the Israeli special forces unit that rescued 103 hostages from the Entebbe airport in Uganda on July 4th, 1976.

The operation took place in the middle of the night, thousands of miles from Israel, it lasted 90 minutes, Yoni, the commander was the only commando killed.

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Jonathan Netanyahu

Ink Painting.

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Yoni's last letter to his girlfriend.

A week before Entebbe:
(To Bruria)
I find myself at a critical stage in my life, facing a profound inner crisis that has been disturbing my whole frame of reference for a long time.
What's so sad and ridiculous about it is that the only solution my way of life until now suggests is just to go on plowing the same deep furrow in the same laborious field. I am tired most of the time, but that's only part of the problem – I have lost the spark so vital for any achievement, the spark of creative joy, of self-renewal, of reawakening.
I keep asking myself: Why? Why now of all times? Is it that my work doesn't absorb, doesn't hold me? Wrong! On the contrary, it possesses me and I don't want it to. I do things because they have to be done, and not because I want to... I don't even have time to do the necessary things – replace a filling fox a torn lamp fixture and rest, rest, rest – do nothing obligatory – come to a stop.
Yes I am having a hard time as seldom before in my life, and what troubles me is that the alternatives outside the army have lost much of their luster. Will I have the energy to start everything from scratch? I may want to return to the Army, in which I've been involved all my manhood, but I've got to stop and get off now, at once!
I recall the mad miserable cry in a play I saw long ago: Stop the World I want to get off!
But it isn't possible to stop the mad globe we're moving on, and the force of gravity won't let us escape its pull and so willy nilly, alive or dead, your in...Good that I have you, and good that I have a place to lay my weary head. I know I am not with you enough, and that it's hard for you to be alone so much, but I trust you me both of us, to succeed in living our youth to the fullest – you to live your youth and your life and I – my life and the flicker of my youth...
It'll be ok.