Self Portrait

By L. Rosenman

Can art overcome greed?

A lively, young artist is trying to make her way to the top of the manipulative world of art, which is saturated in self-interest. This is a journey that, apparently, must go through the bedroom of a famous museum curator and art collector, who is also a possessive man. 

When she wakes up one day in her studio, she finds that she has arrived in a parallel world, where her dreams have come true in the shape of a chilling nightmare. Will she succeed in returning to her own reality - as it used to be? Does she even want to? 

This book reveals the bothersome truth of the art world of Israel and around the globe - a world that involves conspiracy, the exploitation of artists and the shameless flattery of tycoons. In this world, the ambitious need of artists to present their personal, creative message to the world causes them to lose their every moral standard and drift to the base level of the food chain. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Rosenman
• Release date: Jun 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507057292

L. Rosenman

L. Rosenman is an artist and a multidisciplinary creator, who lives in a picturesque little town in Israel, studying spirituality and Kabala. She is a member of the Israeli Artist Association, participating in exhibitions in Israel and overseas. When she is not writing or painting, she likes to travel the world with her husband Lior, and their three children, Shelly, Aviv, and Shiri.

Book preview

Self Portrait

L. Rosenman

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He had looked at his watch three times in the last minute. His shoulders ached, and the voice on the other end went on to sing praises for the artists of Afula. An ant was walking innocently on the carpet next to the computer cables. Just close enough to his foot so that she'd be crushed in a second by the black-heeled shoe.

Yeah, yeah. He lowered his voice and said slowly, I certainly encourage local art. Artists from the North have much to offer to the Israeli and international world of art. We'll talk as soon as there is a clear route on how to proceed. Goodbye.

He hung up the phone with a quick motion and plucked an imaginary hair from his jacket. Leaning on the portfolio that was placed in front of him, he took a quick look at Dalia’s address, the artist from Binyamina. How many times did he have to tell Rina to filter out all of the pathetic artists from the periphery of the country? How had this Dalia infiltrated her way to him?

He ran his fingers over his graying temples, and then he tightly held the designed glass table. His fingers left a sweaty mark on the glass. It needed to be cleaned again with wipes. Every artist, even the greatest one, needed someone to clean up after him.

Finally, he decided to open the folder. Landscapes, landscapes, landscapes. A house with a tiled roof. Sunsets. God, is there nothing urban in Binyamina?

In the last page there was a ridiculous list of exhibitions: the artist’s gallery in Binyamina, The Barn gallery in the Valley, the Hapoalim Bank lobby, and the lobby of the Culture Hall of some Kibbutz.

And here was her photograph. An older lady with tired laughter in her eyes and a purple scarf placed loosely around her neck in an attempt to display some bohemian provincialism.

He sighed and buzzed Rina. She entered with his espresso in hand. She wore a flattering black dress, showcasing the new figure she had achieved after many months of effort in Weight Watchers. 

Rina, what’s with these people from the periphery? Yaakov asked while carefully reviewing each of the seventy one inches of his secretary’s body. 

She placed his coffee on the table and slapped his wrist. Yaakov, keep those looks for the girls you are dating. If you have something to say about the results of my diet, say it to my husband who, by the way, sent his regards this morning.

Yaakov grinned and said something about the professional features that characterized experienced curators, whose job was to evaluate artistic treasures in detail. After which, he snapped the portfolio shut and changed his tone. Why did you let that old Byniaminian in here? You know what we're looking for. Nothing north of Herzlyia or south of Holon.

Yeah, yeah, Rina continued with a sigh, no older than thirty-five and no landscapes. But if the sister of Yossi Yakir suddenly crosses paths with us, do we ignore her?

She looked at him with her ​​black eyes until he had no choice but to close his.

There was no need to say more. As it turned out, Israel's largest collector, the millionaire who constantly starred in Sotheby's and Christie's auctions, had a sister from Binyamina and she painted.

Rina was right. He had to have her. She could not fall into the hands of Uri, the curator at the Ramat Gan Museum.

Okay, set up a meeting for next week. Are you sure what you're saying is true? Why would a millionaire want to live in Binyamina? Are there no available apartments in the Akirov Towers??[1]"

It has something to do with her ​​daughter who lives there. And besides, you know that Yossi Yakir is a stingy man. Why should he hand out his property in his lifetime if it’s possible after his death?

Rina shot playful sparks through her ​​styled eyelashes, and he smiled and lightly brushed his mustache. The black color of the mustache was a striking contrast to his graying temples and was a source of pride for him. He'd find how to organize an exhibition of landscapes in the museum’s basement. Perhaps in the lower floor of the Helena Rubinstein Hall. It was harmless but luxurious.

*

On his way home from the office, he looked at the overshadowed avenue. Sunday was a dull and empty day. There were no new art exhibitions on Sunday nights. On days with exhibitions, everyone circled around him with polished smiles, and he was carried on waves of admiration while the flattery flowed through his veins, fogging his senses.

His eyes were now set on the walls of the neat and polished living room:

A rare Kadishman without a single lamb,