San Francisco Exhibition of Oil Paintings
Foreword by Henry Miller
Some artists - Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Rouault, for example — give the impression of being immolated afresh in each succeeding creation. We feel their presence as strongly as did the loving disciples when the Master rose from the dead. There are other artists whose work appears to have a uniform excellence but the man seems absent. Perhaps the zeal for perfection nullified their being. At any rate, we do not think of them as supremely human artists: they dissolve in the cultural stream.
Bezalel Schatz is a painter who must be reckoned with as an evolving personality as well as a painter. The evolution of the inner man is clearly registered in each new canvas. A steady, cumulative progression characterizes the unfoldment of this remarkably balanced individual who seems destined to shed light and joy through his works.
To be sure, he had a most auspicious start in life. Born in Jerusalem of gifted, loving parents, nurtured against a Biblical background free of bigotry and superstition, a wanderer at an early age, disciplined in his youth in many arts and crafts, privileged there in Palestine to associate with the great leaders in all walks of life, encouraged to breathe the atmosphere of art every day of his life, trained as a musician as well as a painter, becoming an athlete as well as an artist—what a beginning! No wonder that he is an equilibrated being. No wonder he is happy, carefree, self-possessed, charitable, tolerant, lenient, and forever at the service of his fellow-man.
His father, Boris Schatz, who founded the College of Arts & Crafts in Jerusalem, and thereby vitalized the whole art movement in Palestine, was a man who not only inspired others but awakened them. His mother, a lifelong student of art and literature, and a gifted interpreter as well, has been his foremost champion and critic.
Perhaps it was the visit to Munich at the age of fifteen, where he saw the work of Kokoschka—his first contact with modern art which enabled him to break so early in life with the classical tradition inculcated by his father. At any rate, like Chagall whose work his father held in detestation, he was soon free of the academies. But to be free and to express one-self freely are two different things. He experienced many painful moments in the presence of the men whose work he adored and whom he tried to emulate. Fruitful moments, however, for the masters have a way of helping which is cruelly effective. To bring your idol a masterpiece and have him turn his back on it, what could be more eminently instructive? It is curious to note, incidentally, how much the tactics of the great European masters resemble the celebrated tactics of the Zen masters. Is it because the painters are closer to the world of reality than our educators and philosophers?
He is only in his teens when he begins to make his sorties into the world. As a boy he becomes well acquainted with the land of his birth, mingling freely and affectionately with his neighbors, the Arabs. As violinist in a string quartet he explores a large area of the Middle East. By the time he is twenty-one he has been to Sofia, Budapest, Rome, Vienna, Prague, Paris, even to Wales. By this time he is fluent in a number of tongues—and ripe for a prolonged stay in France. Here he has the opportunity to assimilate what he needs of European culture, to compare the light of the Mediterranean world with that of the Orient. I speak of two lights intentionally, for in his work there are distinct reverberations from these two sources of illumination.
Should you happen to come upon him wearing his Bulgarian jacket and the baker's cap which he stole from the Dybbuk, you sense at once the "ramifold" layers of his rich personality. Un debrouillard, oui. Also a jolly friar, a strolling player, a jack of all trades, with the rounded, sensual, alert and sensitive attributes of a man of the Renaissance. Superficially one thinks of him as living by his wits. But the deep sustaining power in him springs from an essentially religious nature which expresses itself daily in acts of faith and love. He is the most incurable optimist I have ever met. His buoyancy and effervesence are typical of the man who is at one with himself. He is lazy, too, but in a way which makes one envious. Sin and guilt are absent from his make-up.
His most striking quality, however, is his irrepressible desire to be of help. Waging a constant battle for the bare essentials, he nevertheless dispenses freely of his time and energy to aid other artists in righting themselves. If he believes in a man's work he will literally do anything for him. An uncommon trait in the artist! (Max Jacob had this quality to a rare degree.) But Schatz will also go to great lengths to aid an utter stranger - a beggar, a tramp, an outlaw, anybody who makes a claim. His response is ever prompt and full. It is as if he were obeying the urge of appetite. And what an appetite he has—for everything! Often his work seems dangerously sidetracked, so many and so involved are his relationships. But where does one's true work begin and end? In any case, with Schatz it is glaringly obvious that the more burdens he assumes the stronger he waxes. For him as for every selfless individual the law asserts itself: "Give and thou shalt receive!׳׳ Here is a man who does not seek comfort, protection, security. He has the wisdom to pray only for courage, inspiration and understanding.
Already, and he is only in his thirties, his whole organism responds like a clavier. His difficulties are not with the medium, nor with the world, for that matter, for he is one of the most adapted, integrated beings I have run across. His problem is the problem of every serious artist—to define without limit the true nature of reality. Since he left his father's school he has gone through many phases. He has prostrated himself in adoration and he has also tried to soar without wings. From galleries and museums he learned much, from life more. Now he is beginning to learn from his own efforts. He is no longer content to paint what hand and eye have taught him to be so. There is a Buddhist maxim which goes: "Learn to see with eyes that no longer create what they see!" Today, as I see it, he is standing at the frontier of a world which is uniquely his, a world which is a mystery to him but which he must face and eventually penetrate to the core.
Schatz knows all the schools—and their limitations. He belongs to none. His school is the world—with all its ups and downs, its cataclysms and catastrophes, its tunes of creation and destruction. In the oceanic plasm of his pictorial repertoire he swims easily, dives when necessary, and floats in pure delectation when there is nothing better to do. His creations sing of metamorphosis. They are ablaze with the radiations of an inner, molten sun. The subject matter seems bent under the impalpable weight of cosmic rays caught on the tip of the brush. From one canvas to the next an ever-heightening drama projects itself. It is a metaphysical drama which will be solved plastically or left suspended between heaven and earth. In everything he touches with the brush there is the smell of the Diaspora, the gory trail of sacrificial blood—blood of his people, blood of life.
In his recent canvases this extraordinary fruition continues unabated, but with acceleration and what one might well call prestidigitation. It is as if he already glimpsed in the mirror of the phenomenal world what the poet Milosz referred to as "la source des lumieres et des formes .. . le monde des profonds, sages, chastes, archetypes." Milosz speaks of it as "behind him."
Yes, there is a regal splendor in his color harmonies, an unrestrained extravagance, as in Asiatic pomp and ceremony, a vegetal luxuriance spawned with tropical fertility. One could hang these canvases sidewise or upside down without disturbing their musical content. They sing out like the heraldic emblems of a race to come. They tell us of the regenerate potentialities of the ancient peoples of this earth. Juval sings again.
It is generally agreed today that it is his use of color which most distinguishes the artist of our time from those of other epochs. Our contemporary masters are using color with a passion and skill which might be likened to the employment of the grotesque and the obscene in primitive art. Color—pure, profound and inexhaustible—this is the supreme discovery of the painters of our time. The passion with which it is being exploited has the significance of a religious awakening. Van Gogh did not paint the sun in nature, all-devouring though it appears. He incarnated all his sun paintings with the living promise of a new heaven and a new earth. Abraham Rattner carries this promise further, expressing himself with apocalyptic eloquence, at home in death, at home in the world to come.
To be at home in one's medium today one has to span with two feet the world of a past irrevocably dead and the world which will know no end.
This leads me to another aspect of Schatz s character. Though strongly idealistic, he is interested not so much in man the citizen of an earthly paradise as in man-the-creator for whom there is neither heaven nor hell. This preoccupation with man at his true level of being is reflected in his work which is free of literary, social or even spiritual implications. Since every day, as a member of society, he does his part to the fullest, when he paints he is consequently free. His work finished, he puts down the brush with a feeling of ease and satisfaction. He is again free, either to rejoin the herd or to nurse his solitude. This healthy circulation in, through and about the world, this ability to inhale and exhale, to let in and give out, to absorb and to transcend, this continuous sacrifice and redemption testify to the innate adequacy of the man before God and before his fellow-man. As in daily life he leaves no claim unanswered, so in painting he evades no problems, seeks no facile escapes. He is always there before his canvas, as if confronting his own soul, ready to answer, ready to account for himself with loyalty and integrity. He wastes, no time in the vestibule of neurosis.
A man of the world, Schatz is also a man of Israel, if ever there were one. He is at home everywhere because Zion is always with him. In his presence you realize that Palestine is a realm which has always existed and always will exist, even when the last Jew departs it. He does not speak of his country as a refuge for the Jews but as a haven for all those who are seeking liberation. He speaks as a messenger who has found that the homeland is the heart of the world.
How is it then that a man of this sort can actually frighten people by his work or rouse in them a feeling of revulsion? What is it in his canvases which so disturbs the weak and the weary? I have met some of these people who run away in fear or disgust from the works of our great painters. I have spoken to some of the analytical blood-hounds who find traces everywhere of sickness, evil and frustration. What are they running away from? The man who is diseased, the man who is truly frustrated, the man who spreads fear, ignorance and evil is the man who is afraid of his own image. An artist, if he accomplishes anything by his efforts, always restores the true image of man. If he is a great artist he enables us to recognize the divine image! But, an inspired image is not always a pleasing image! It is usually an overpowering one, and if we are weak and timid souls it is only natural that we will cower and whimper. Sometimes whole nations get to behaving this way under the impact of alien thought and symbol.
There are times when the humblest, simplest objects of nature, when viewed with intensity, arouse in us a feeling of awe. We know then that we are seeing for the first time. With the artist this happens more frequently. When the painter faithfully records what he sees truly and for the first time, a mixture of love and desperation invades his work. Imagination hardly enters the scene. It is revelation at work, moving with the speed of lightning. Even a purely abstract image, when thus summoned, has all the validity of a tree, a rock, a planet.
God always speaks the same language, whether He creates a flower, a universal law, or an abstract symbol. Man talks a jumbled language, until he finds the key to the open secret. Every creative individual is twice blessed, first in his effort to wrestle with chaos and second when he learns to obey the unwritten laws of the universe. Freedom begins when necessity has been fully recognized. It manifests itself in unceasing creation. And creation is a hymn of affirmation, a prayer of thanks. In this sort of creation nothing is excluded, neither the hyena nor the slug, neither dirt nor manure, neither volcano nor typhoon, neither slave nor master, neither saint nor criminal. Man as creator seeks to pierce the phenomenal world, dispel illusion, lay bare the one and only reality. He is not concerned with the abstract and ethereal but with the concrete every day world in all its aspects of infinitude. He makes plastic and tangible—frightfully real, in other words—all that is in danger of being refined away to nothingness by the intellect. His work, now become a divine sport, is a succession of acts in which the Godhood in everything is summoned to manifest itself.
Critics tell us how and why one artist differs from another. Are we really interested in knowing that? More important, it seems to me, is it for us to know how and why one artist resembles another, fundamentally and inevitably. Nor is this enough. Until we are able to comprehend why all men and all things are one we are not even at the threshold of art. If in us there is still revolt, let it not be against the artist or his conception of the universe, but rather against our own limited vision. Eventually we shall cease to contemplate as critics and aesthetes. We will stop running away, even mentally, in the measure that we refuse to become idolatrous. What art teaches, if it has a message, is that every one should sing, dance, write, paint, shout for joy. Shout Hallelujah!
This is the why and wherefore of Bezalel Schatz. I know the man, I revere the artist, I sense the glory that inspires him. Perhaps I see him in his eternality. I hope so. Even when he fails to ring the bell I shout Hosanna! In a missfire work I often detect the seeds of future masterpieces. I see because I believe, because everything the man says and does confirms and augments my faith.
"Seeing is believing," we say. It would be truer to say. To see one must first believe." Is it the light of the sun which makes our vision clear and steady—or is it the work of the holy spirit? “O Soleil"cried St. Anthony at Pispir, "pourquoi me troubles-tu?"
Henry Miller
Big Sur, California
April 23rd,1949
CHRONOLOGY
1912 Born March 14, Jerusalem, Israel.
1920 Entered his father's, Prof. Boris Schatz's "Bezalel" School of Art, Jerusalem. Graduated in 1926.
1925 Exhibition at Schatz Gallery, Jerusalem.
1930 Came with his father to the U.S. for a tour of exhibitions of their work which lasted until 1932.
1933 Went to paint and live in Paris for 4 years. Represented Palestine in the International Exhibition of Art in Chicago.
1935 Exhibition in London.
1936 Exhibition at the Galerie Rive Gauche, Paris.
1937 Designed costumes for dances in Palestine. Came to the U.S. for exhibitions of work by his father, sister and himself.
1941 Exhibition at Carroll Corstairs Gallery, New York. Exhibition at the Art Alliance, Philadelphia. Participated in the show ־'Expressionism, arranged by J. B. Neumann at the Cincinnati Museum. Wrote a series of articles on Jewish Artists for the ־*'Jewish Layman," Cincinnati.
1943 Exhibition at the San Francisco Museum.
1947 Exhibition of his work with Henry Miller of the book "Into the Night Life ״ at the San Francisco Museum. Sketches and tryouts of this book were later exhibited in Paris, Munich and Brussels. Exhibition of oils at Pat Wall Gallery, Monterey, California.
1949 Exhibition at the San Francisco Museum.
San Francisco Exhibition of Oil Paintings
Foreword by Henry Miller
Some artists - Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Rouault, for example — give the impression of being immolated afresh in each succeeding creation. We feel their presence as strongly as did the loving disciples when the Master rose from the dead. There are other artists whose work appears to have a uniform excellence but the man seems absent. Perhaps the zeal for perfection nullified their being. At any rate, we do not think of them as supremely human artists: they dissolve in the cultural stream.
Bezalel Schatz is a painter who must be reckoned with as an evolving personality as well as a painter. The evolution of the inner man is clearly registered in each new canvas. A steady, cumulative progression characterizes the unfoldment of this remarkably balanced individual who seems destined to shed light and joy through his works.
To be sure, he had a most auspicious start in life. Born in Jerusalem of gifted, loving parents, nurtured against a Biblical background free of bigotry and superstition, a wanderer at an early age, disciplined in his youth in many arts and crafts, privileged there in Palestine to associate with the great leaders in all walks of life, encouraged to breathe the atmosphere of art every day of his life, trained as a musician as well as a painter, becoming an athlete as well as an artist—what a beginning! No wonder that he is an equilibrated being. No wonder he is happy, carefree, self-possessed, charitable, tolerant, lenient, and forever at the service of his fellow-man.
His father, Boris Schatz, who founded the College of Arts & Crafts in Jerusalem, and thereby vitalized the whole art movement in Palestine, was a man who not only inspired others but awakened them. His mother, a lifelong student of art and literature, and a gifted interpreter as well, has been his foremost champion and critic.
Perhaps it was the visit to Munich at the age of fifteen, where he saw the work of Kokoschka—his first contact with modern art which enabled him to break so early in life with the classical tradition inculcated by his father. At any rate, like Chagall whose work his father held in detestation, he was soon free of the academies. But to be free and to express one-self freely are two different things. He experienced many painful moments in the presence of the men whose work he adored and whom he tried to emulate. Fruitful moments, however, for the masters have a way of helping which is cruelly effective. To bring your idol a masterpiece and have him turn his back on it, what could be more eminently instructive? It is curious to note, incidentally, how much the tactics of the great European masters resemble the celebrated tactics of the Zen masters. Is it because the painters are closer to the world of reality than our educators and philosophers?
He is only in his teens when he begins to make his sorties into the world. As a boy he becomes well acquainted with the land of his birth, mingling freely and affectionately with his neighbors, the Arabs. As violinist in a string quartet he explores a large area of the Middle East. By the time he is twenty-one he has been to Sofia, Budapest, Rome, Vienna, Prague, Paris, even to Wales. By this time he is fluent in a number of tongues—and ripe for a prolonged stay in France. Here he has the opportunity to assimilate what he needs of European culture, to compare the light of the Mediterranean world with that of the Orient. I speak of two lights intentionally, for in his work there are distinct reverberations from these two sources of illumination.
Should you happen to come upon him wearing his Bulgarian jacket and the baker's cap which he stole from the Dybbuk, you sense at once the "ramifold" layers of his rich personality. Un debrouillard, oui. Also a jolly friar, a strolling player, a jack of all trades, with the rounded, sensual, alert and sensitive attributes of a man of the Renaissance. Superficially one thinks of him as living by his wits. But the deep sustaining power in him springs from an essentially religious nature which expresses itself daily in acts of faith and love. He is the most incurable optimist I have ever met. His buoyancy and effervesence are typical of the man who is at one with himself. He is lazy, too, but in a way which makes one envious. Sin and guilt are absent from his make-up.
His most striking quality, however, is his irrepressible desire to be of help. Waging a constant battle for the bare essentials, he nevertheless dispenses freely of his time and energy to aid other artists in righting themselves. If he believes in a man's work he will literally do anything for him. An uncommon trait in the artist! (Max Jacob had this quality to a rare degree.) But Schatz will also go to great lengths to aid an utter stranger - a beggar, a tramp, an outlaw, anybody who makes a claim. His response is ever prompt and full. It is as if he were obeying the urge of appetite. And what an appetite he has—for everything! Often his work seems dangerously sidetracked, so many and so involved are his relationships. But where does one's true work begin and end? In any case, with Schatz it is glaringly obvious that the more burdens he assumes the stronger he waxes. For him as for every selfless individual the law asserts itself: "Give and thou shalt receive!׳׳ Here is a man who does not seek comfort, protection, security. He has the wisdom to pray only for courage, inspiration and understanding.
Already, and he is only in his thirties, his whole organism responds like a clavier. His difficulties are not with the medium, nor with the world, for that matter, for he is one of the most adapted, integrated beings I have run across. His problem is the problem of every serious artist—to define without limit the true nature of reality. Since he left his father's school he has gone through many phases. He has prostrated himself in adoration and he has also tried to soar without wings. From galleries and museums he learned much, from life more. Now he is beginning to learn from his own efforts. He is no longer content to paint what hand and eye have taught him to be so. There is a Buddhist maxim which goes: "Learn to see with eyes that no longer create what they see!" Today, as I see it, he is standing at the frontier of a world which is uniquely his, a world which is a mystery to him but which he must face and eventually penetrate to the core.
Schatz knows all the schools—and their limitations. He belongs to none. His school is the world—with all its ups and downs, its cataclysms and catastrophes, its tunes of creation and destruction. In the oceanic plasm of his pictorial repertoire he swims easily, dives when necessary, and floats in pure delectation when there is nothing better to do. His creations sing of metamorphosis. They are ablaze with the radiations of an inner, molten sun. The subject matter seems bent under the impalpable weight of cosmic rays caught on the tip of the brush. From one canvas to the next an ever-heightening drama projects itself. It is a metaphysical drama which will be solved plastically or left suspended between heaven and earth. In everything he touches with the brush there is the smell of the Diaspora, the gory trail of sacrificial blood—blood of his people, blood of life.
In his recent canvases this extraordinary fruition continues unabated, but with acceleration and what one might well call prestidigitation. It is as if he already glimpsed in the mirror of the phenomenal world what the poet Milosz referred to as "la source des lumieres et des formes .. . le monde des profonds, sages, chastes, archetypes." Milosz speaks of it as "behind him."
Yes, there is a regal splendor in his color harmonies, an unrestrained extravagance, as in Asiatic pomp and ceremony, a vegetal luxuriance spawned with tropical fertility. One could hang these canvases sidewise or upside down without disturbing their musical content. They sing out like the heraldic emblems of a race to come. They tell us of the regenerate potentialities of the ancient peoples of this earth. Juval sings again.
It is generally agreed today that it is his use of color which most distinguishes the artist of our time from those of other epochs. Our contemporary masters are using color with a passion and skill which might be likened to the employment of the grotesque and the obscene in primitive art. Color—pure, profound and inexhaustible—this is the supreme discovery of the painters of our time. The passion with which it is being exploited has the significance of a religious awakening. Van Gogh did not paint the sun in nature, all-devouring though it appears. He incarnated all his sun paintings with the living promise of a new heaven and a new earth. Abraham Rattner carries this promise further, expressing himself with apocalyptic eloquence, at home in death, at home in the world to come.
To be at home in one's medium today one has to span with two feet the world of a past irrevocably dead and the world which will know no end.
This leads me to another aspect of Schatz s character. Though strongly idealistic, he is interested not so much in man the citizen of an earthly paradise as in man-the-creator for whom there is neither heaven nor hell. This preoccupation with man at his true level of being is reflected in his work which is free of literary, social or even spiritual implications. Since every day, as a member of society, he does his part to the fullest, when he paints he is consequently free. His work finished, he puts down the brush with a feeling of ease and satisfaction. He is again free, either to rejoin the herd or to nurse his solitude. This healthy circulation in, through and about the world, this ability to inhale and exhale, to let in and give out, to absorb and to transcend, this continuous sacrifice and redemption testify to the innate adequacy of the man before God and before his fellow-man. As in daily life he leaves no claim unanswered, so in painting he evades no problems, seeks no facile escapes. He is always there before his canvas, as if confronting his own soul, ready to answer, ready to account for himself with loyalty and integrity. He wastes, no time in the vestibule of neurosis.
A man of the world, Schatz is also a man of Israel, if ever there were one. He is at home everywhere because Zion is always with him. In his presence you realize that Palestine is a realm which has always existed and always will exist, even when the last Jew departs it. He does not speak of his country as a refuge for the Jews but as a haven for all those who are seeking liberation. He speaks as a messenger who has found that the homeland is the heart of the world.
How is it then that a man of this sort can actually frighten people by his work or rouse in them a feeling of revulsion? What is it in his canvases which so disturbs the weak and the weary? I have met some of these people who run away in fear or disgust from the works of our great painters. I have spoken to some of the analytical blood-hounds who find traces everywhere of sickness, evil and frustration. What are they running away from? The man who is diseased, the man who is truly frustrated, the man who spreads fear, ignorance and evil is the man who is afraid of his own image. An artist, if he accomplishes anything by his efforts, always restores the true image of man. If he is a great artist he enables us to recognize the divine image! But, an inspired image is not always a pleasing image! It is usually an overpowering one, and if we are weak and timid souls it is only natural that we will cower and whimper. Sometimes whole nations get to behaving this way under the impact of alien thought and symbol.
There are times when the humblest, simplest objects of nature, when viewed with intensity, arouse in us a feeling of awe. We know then that we are seeing for the first time. With the artist this happens more frequently. When the painter faithfully records what he sees truly and for the first time, a mixture of love and desperation invades his work. Imagination hardly enters the scene. It is revelation at work, moving with the speed of lightning. Even a purely abstract image, when thus summoned, has all the validity of a tree, a rock, a planet.
God always speaks the same language, whether He creates a flower, a universal law, or an abstract symbol. Man talks a jumbled language, until he finds the key to the open secret. Every creative individual is twice blessed, first in his effort to wrestle with chaos and second when he learns to obey the unwritten laws of the universe. Freedom begins when necessity has been fully recognized. It manifests itself in unceasing creation. And creation is a hymn of affirmation, a prayer of thanks. In this sort of creation nothing is excluded, neither the hyena nor the slug, neither dirt nor manure, neither volcano nor typhoon, neither slave nor master, neither saint nor criminal. Man as creator seeks to pierce the phenomenal world, dispel illusion, lay bare the one and only reality. He is not concerned with the abstract and ethereal but with the concrete every day world in all its aspects of infinitude. He makes plastic and tangible—frightfully real, in other words—all that is in danger of being refined away to nothingness by the intellect. His work, now become a divine sport, is a succession of acts in which the Godhood in everything is summoned to manifest itself.
Critics tell us how and why one artist differs from another. Are we really interested in knowing that? More important, it seems to me, is it for us to know how and why one artist resembles another, fundamentally and inevitably. Nor is this enough. Until we are able to comprehend why all men and all things are one we are not even at the threshold of art. If in us there is still revolt, let it not be against the artist or his conception of the universe, but rather against our own limited vision. Eventually we shall cease to contemplate as critics and aesthetes. We will stop running away, even mentally, in the measure that we refuse to become idolatrous. What art teaches, if it has a message, is that every one should sing, dance, write, paint, shout for joy. Shout Hallelujah!
This is the why and wherefore of Bezalel Schatz. I know the man, I revere the artist, I sense the glory that inspires him. Perhaps I see him in his eternality. I hope so. Even when he fails to ring the bell I shout Hosanna! In a missfire work I often detect the seeds of future masterpieces. I see because I believe, because everything the man says and does confirms and augments my faith.
"Seeing is believing," we say. It would be truer to say. To see one must first believe." Is it the light of the sun which makes our vision clear and steady—or is it the work of the holy spirit? “O Soleil"cried St. Anthony at Pispir, "pourquoi me troubles-tu?"
Henry Miller
Big Sur, California
April 23rd,1949
CHRONOLOGY
1912 Born March 14, Jerusalem, Israel.
1920 Entered his father's, Prof. Boris Schatz's "Bezalel" School of Art, Jerusalem. Graduated in 1926.
1925 Exhibition at Schatz Gallery, Jerusalem.
1930 Came with his father to the U.S. for a tour of exhibitions of their work which lasted until 1932.
1933 Went to paint and live in Paris for 4 years. Represented Palestine in the International Exhibition of Art in Chicago.
1935 Exhibition in London.
1936 Exhibition at the Galerie Rive Gauche, Paris.
1937 Designed costumes for dances in Palestine. Came to the U.S. for exhibitions of work by his father, sister and himself.
1941 Exhibition at Carroll Corstairs Gallery, New York. Exhibition at the Art Alliance, Philadelphia. Participated in the show ־'Expressionism, arranged by J. B. Neumann at the Cincinnati Museum. Wrote a series of articles on Jewish Artists for the ־*'Jewish Layman," Cincinnati.
1943 Exhibition at the San Francisco Museum.
1947 Exhibition of his work with Henry Miller of the book "Into the Night Life ״ at the San Francisco Museum. Sketches and tryouts of this book were later exhibited in Paris, Munich and Brussels. Exhibition of oils at Pat Wall Gallery, Monterey, California.
1949 Exhibition at the San Francisco Museum.