Features
New book by noted art expert Celia Rabinovitch explores many themes
By SIMONE COHEN SCOTT
I first began to write this piece as a review of Celia Rabinovitch’s recently launched book “Duchamp’s Pipe, A Chess Romance”, but it turned out to be much more than a book review.
Celia, if you didn’t know, is a Winnipegger and, ever since we first met, I have thought her to be one of the city’s best kept secrets. She is an internationally known artist, cultural historian, author, educator, scholar, and speaker, and except for some slight exposure here in reent years – speaking at the Rady JCC and at the Remis Forum, she keeps a very low profile in her charming River Heights bungalow.
During the years 2002-2008 Celia was professor and director of the School of Art at the University of Manitoba. Her works have been exhibited at the Winnipeg Art Gallery and at the Plug In Gallery in Winnipeg. Elsewhere in Canada Celia has staged exhibitions at the Emily Carr Gallery of Art and Design and, in 2016, at the University of Victoria, where she was artist in residence. She has had broad exposure in Europe and the United States as well – exhibiting, teaching, and lecturing – in Florence, Vienna, New York, California, Cleveland, and Colorado. Her PhD, from McGill University, was on the history of religions and art history.
We first met in Israel, where she had been invited to give a seminar and lecture at the Israel Museum on components of the surrealism exhibit being held there.
Now – about the book: A number of years back Celia was asked to authenticate the provenance of a smoker’s pipe that had been given by renowned modern artist Marcel Duchamp to Grand Master of Blindfold Chess George Koltanowski who, in turn, had given it much later to Nikki Lastreto, his editor at the San Francisco Chronicle.
Celia’s research skills in the art world are well known, and tracking the path of the spiritual connection through the lives of two men, a game, and an artifact, from the late 19th century, when Duchamp learned to play chess, through to the early 21st century, when the pipe was sold at auction, was right up her alley.
She was able to establish that the pipe did indeed belong to Duchamp, and as such it was sold at auction by Christie’s New York for $87,500 US on the 21st of May 2016 – quite a windfall for Nikki Lastreto.
Celia’s detective work became the matrix for this book. She traces several elements throughout the saga – the two men of course, whose principle pastime was playing chess, but also the nature of the game as an entity in itself, the act of pipe-smoking as another, and time – the thread that weaves the story together.
In the author’s hands, time is not chronological. Celia weaves her story forward and backward as she develops her theme and explores each facet of the ethereal relationship between people and objects. Not to worry, though, because she thoughtfully provides a time-line in the back pages for readers who might like to sort things out.
The story becomes a beautifully written history book of sorts, as the atmosphere of the surrealism period of modern art begins to permeate the senses. It was a time, pre WWI, when certain groups of artists wished to jar the sensibilities of people living in what has since been referred to as “the age of innocence”.
The work that brought Duchamp to worldwide attention was his then shocking painting, ‘Nude Descending a Staircase’, which he entered in the Armory Show in New York in 1913. Later, he became even bolder, positioning a urinal in a photograph and calling it a fountain. (Dada art takes getting used to. Personally, I’m saddened that the artist’s inclination to shock the bourgeoisie has drawn attention away from the skilled painter and original colourist that he was.)
George Koltanowski, International Master of Chess, and Honorary Grand Master, was giving chess exhibitions in Guatemala and Havana, Cuba when the Nazis invaded Belgium. His family in Antwerp, including his mother and his brother, Harry, perished in the Holocaust. The U.S. Consul in Cuba offered him a U.S. visa. George could play chess while blindfolded – and win. He had, he said, a “phonographic memory”, and remembered, once told, what was in each and every square on the chessboard. He made his living at chess, both by playing in exhibits and tournaments all over the world, also by promoting tournaments and chess clubs himself, lecturing, and writing. His column in the San Francisco Chronicle ran for 56 years. In 1986 he was inducted into the U.S. Chess Hall of Fame.
The game itself is another character in this blend of personalities. Chess is comprised of so many exquisitely fascinating features: its age, its forms, and the hypnotic involvement it seems to provoke (all right – call it addictive). Chess clubs were popping up everywhere in that day, some even founded by Duchamp and Koltanowski. Every city they happened to visit needed a venue where they could find partners, although Koltanowski was known to have played against a machine – even an elephant (Ed. note: I din’t know elephants could play chess. Who won the game, Simone?)
Duchamp became obsessed with the game, all but giving up his vocation. He created several sets of chess pieces, which sold successfully . (Although from a well-heeled family, he needed to scrounge for a living like everyone else in Greenwich Village.)
Chess pieces are objets d’art in their own right, but one can also appreciate the artistry that goes into the design of a pipe. A smoker’s pleasure comes from the shape and material – the heft if you like, of the pipe, as much as from the tobacco a smoker uses.
The specific pipe that is the star of the book is a rather chunky, boxy, artifact. It must have been one that Duchamp particularly liked because the author describes the giving of it to George as a gesture of regard, meant to mark the former’s appreciation of their friendship.
If this book were a book club choice, there would be terrific areas for discussion. Every aspect, the times they played chess together, other encounters and journal entries on the part of these two men and their friends, give such nuanced glimpses of character and personality. Chess is – remember, a game of thinking and strategy, although smoking was often a complement to chess in the past: Smoking while studying the board, smoking while visualizing moves, smoking, thinking, imagining, and finally just smoking.
Meanwhile, life, including two world wars, was whipping around the two main protagaonists in the book. Celia has a previous book (2002) entitled “Surrealism and the Sacred: Power, Eros, and the Occult in Modern Art”. That information is important to bear in mind because of the mystic quality the author perceives between people and objects and time, in other words, in existence.
Another Winnipegger, Irwin Lipnowski, has an essay towards the end of this book. Irwin, as we know, is a chess champion in his own right. Here, he speculates on the future of chess cafés in an era subsumed by technology.
Something else interesting about chess: As the Parshas on the last couple of Shabbats were about the naming of Beersheva, I decided to look up that Israeli city on line. Here’s what I came upon, from an article written in October, 2009: “With eight Chess Grand Masters calling Beersheva home, the city has more International Grand Masters per capita than any other city in the world.” Hmm!
“Duchamp’s Pipe, A Chess Romance” was launched via Zoom on November 19th, to an international audience. Celia spoke about her experiences writing the book with Ann McCoy, an artist and writer herself, and their conversation is now on YouTube – a worthwhile watch.
“Duchamp’s Pipe: A Chess Romance”
By Celia Rabinovitch
Published by Pengin Random House, 2020
256 pages
Features
I Speak “Jew”
By MARK E. PAULL I grew up in Montreal. Born in 1956. Anglo by birth, sure. But that never quite fit. I don’t speak “Anglo” the way they mean it. My real language is Jew.
And I don’t mean Hebrew or Yiddish. I mean the language of reading the room before you enter it. The code-switching, shame-dodging, laugh-first-so-they-don’t-pounce dialect we pick up early. It’s a language built on side-eyes and timing and ten generations of tension.
I speak French—enough to make myself understood. Enough to charm a dinner table, crack a joke, get someone’s uncle to nod. I’m not fluent, but I’m fast. Doesn’t matter. In Quebec, language isn’t grammar—it’s inheritance. It’s who your grandfather cursed out in a hardware store.
To the Francophones, I’ll never be one of them. My accent betrays me before I say a word. I’m just an Anglo. And not even that, really. Because when the lens tightens, when they look closely, I’m just un Juif. Just a Jew.
And to the Anglos? Same thing. I can wear the suit, speak the Queen’s English, order the wine properly—still a Jew. Even in rooms where I “pass,” I don’t belong. I’m not invited in to be myself. I’m invited in to behave. To be safe. To not say the thing that makes the air stiff.
We’re the only people still called by our religion. No one says “Orthodox” for a Greek. No one says “Vatican” for an Italian. No one calls a Black man “Baptist” before they see his face. But “Jew”? That sticks. That’s the label. Before passport. Before language. Before hello.
I’ve mostly made peace with that. But there’s still this ache—knowing you can live your whole life in a place and never really be from there.
Let me tell you a story.
We had this block party once—the folding-table, paper-plate kind. Kids zipping by on scooters. Music low. Everyone asked to bring something from “your culture.”
The Greek guy brought lemon potatoes and lamb—felt like it came with a side of Byzantine history. The Italians brought two lasagnas—meat and veggie—with basil placed like confetti. The Vietnamese couple brought shrimp rolls that vanished before they hit the table. Even the German guy—built like a fridge—brought bratwurst and a six-pack with gothic lettering.
And then us.
My partner made Moroccan fish. Her grandmother’s recipe. Red with tomatoes, garlic, cumin. Studded with olives and preserved lemon. I brought a bottle of white wine. Dry. Crisp. From the Golan Heights. Not Manischewitz. Not even close.
We laid it out. Someone leaned over: “Moroccan? But I thought you were Jewish.”
We smiled. “We are.”
Then: “So… where’s the brisket? Isn’t Jewish wine supposed to be sweet?”
That’s when it hits you. No matter how long you’ve lived here, how many snowstorms you’ve shoveled through, you’re still explaining yourself. Still translating your presence.
Because they don’t know. They don’t know Jews came from everywhere. That “Jewish” isn’t one dish—it’s a whole map. That we had Jews in Morocco before there was even a France. That some of us grew up on kreplach, some on kefta. That some of our mothers sang in Yiddish, others in Arabic, and some in both—depending on who was knocking.
They don’t know. And worse—they don’t ask.
And that’s the part that gets you. Not the slurs. Not the graffiti. Not even the occasional muttered cliché. It’s the blankness. The shrug. The image they already have of you that’s built out of dreidels and sitcoms.
“Jewish” as nostalgic. As novelty. Something they saw once on a bagel.
Sometimes, when those questions come, I float. One version of me walks out. Another turns into a mouse. One turns into a Frisbee. Just gone. Not mad. Just tired.
Because being a Jew isn’t cute. It’s not nostalgic.
It’s ancient.
Before Montreal.
Before France.
Before Poland. Before Spain.
Before pogroms.
Before ghettos.
Before Hitler.
Before even the word Europe.
We were there.
Go back to the 5th century. 2nd century.
Go back to Jesus—our kid, by the way.
Go further—Babylon. Persia.
Keep going—Temple. Exile. Wandering.
And still, after all that, I’m at a table in Quebec explaining why our fish has cumin in it.
It’s almost funny. If it didn’t wear you down a little.
I’m not looking for pity. This isn’t a complaint.
I’m proud. I know what I carry. I walk into any room with five thousand years behind me. I come from people who kept the lights on through every kind of darkness—and laughed through it, too.
But sometimes, I just wish I didn’t have to explain so much.
All I want is to put down my dish…
…and hear someone say:
“That smells amazing. Tell me the story.”
That’s all.
Mark E. Paull, C.A.C. is a Certified ADHD Coach – IPHM, CMA, IIC&M, CPD Certified
Writer | Lived-Experience Advocate | Type 1 Diabetic since 1967
He has been published in:
The New York Times, The Globe and Mail, Folklife Magazine, Times of Israel, CHADD’s Attention Magazine, The Good Men Project
Features
At 104, Besse Gurevich last original resident of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence
By MYRON LOVE At 104, Besse Gurevich is the last of the original residents of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence. She may also be the oldest member of our Jewish community.
Although her vision and her hearing have diminished considerably, her mind and memory are still intact. A few weeks back, this writer sat down with her in her suite as she recalled a life filled with highs and lows and her many contributions to her community, both in Winnipeg and Fort William before that.
The daughter of Jack and Rebecca Avit, her life’s journey began in 1921 in a home on Carlton Street near Ellice Avenue, near her father’s furniture store. He later operated a cap factory.
When she was ten, the family – she had two brothers and a sister – moved to Manitoba Avenue in the old North End. “My father had put a deposit down on a house on Scotia,” she recalls. “But my parents didn’t feel that the neighbourhood was Jewish enough.”
Her schooling included Peretz School and, like so many of her generation, St. John’s Tech (as it was known back then.) “I was actually supposed to be going to Isaac Newton for high school,” she says. We were living on the wrong side of the tracks for St. John’s. After one day at Isaac Newton, I found a way to transfer to St. John’s.”
In 1940, 19-year-old Bessie Avit married Jack Gurevich, a young man from Fort William. The wedding was marred though, by the sudden, untimely passing of her father.
Following the wedding, Besse moved with her new husband to Fort William where Jack Gurevich worked in retail clothing sales. “We lived in Fort William for 20 years,” she says. “Our three children (Judy, Richard and Howard) were born there.”
She recalls that there were about 200 Jewish families – including her sister and one of her brothers for some years – in town, during the time she lived there. “We were very well known in the community,” she recalls. “I was involved in everything.”
Her community activism continued after the family’s return to her home town. While Jack went to work as a salesman for Western Glove Works, Besse became an indefatigable community volunteer. At one time or another, she served as vice-president of ORT, Hadassah and National Council of Jewish Women in Winnipeg. She was also a long time B’nai Brith member.
In the business world, the highlight of her career was the building of Linden Woods. “I became involved in real estate development for a time,” she recalls. “I was hired by Genstar to develop Linden Woods. The company estimated that it would take about 20 years to complete. I got it done in two.”
She also taught hair dressing for a while. “I worked with many young Jewish brides,” she says.
Recent years have not been kind to Besse Gurevich. Her beloved husband, Jack, died in 2016 – after almost 65 years of marriage. Older son, Richard, passed away in Vancouver in 2018 and, most recently –six months ago – younger son, Howard, followed. She notes that there were 200 mourners at Howard’s funeral.
(Howard Gurevich was in marketing for many years before turning his talents to the art world. In recent years, he was best known for Gurevich Fine Art in the Exchange District and his support of local artists.)
Besse Gurevich celebrated her 100th birthday – which took place at the height of the Covid shutdown – quietly.
While she used to enjoy reading. she is unable to do so any more. She can still listen to television.
And while she has few family members to visit her any more, she does have a group of friends interesting enough from the local theatre scene. For many years, she was a close friend of the late Doreen Brownstone, one of the leading figures in theatre in Winnipeg for more than half a century. Besse became part of the group that would visit Doreen every week and, since Doreen passed on three years ago, the members of the group have continued to visit Besse on a weekly basis.
Features
Winnipeg author’s first novel gripping tale of romance, action and intrigue, set in 15th century Spain and Morocco
By MYRON LOVE “The Chronos of Andalucia”, a novel just released by first-time author Merom Toledano, is a historical romance set in late 15th century Spain and Morocco, filled with passion, action, intrigue, unexpected twists and turns – and, of course, with the requirement of any medieval story – a quest.
The easy-to-read, 190 page book follows the adventures of Catalina, a young woman living by her wits on the streets of Granada in the year 1487, (just after the Christian armies of Ferdinand and Isabella had recaptured all of Spain from the Moors) – while trying to evade the agents of the Inquisition, who had murdered her Jewish mother and Christian father 10 years earlier. She was left with an insatiable desire to learn about astronomy, along with a mysterious map and an astrolabe (an instrument formerly used to make astronomical measurements) – the importance of which will only be unveiled if she can get to the city of Tangier in Morocco.
Early on, there is a reference to Abraham Zacuto, a prominent Spanish rabbi famed for his knowledge of astronomy and astrology.
The action begins when she has a casual interaction with a former Spanish soldier, Diego. When the forces of the Inquisition approach, she flees with the soldier – who is also her love interest – and who helps her to escape. They turn for help to a childhood friend of Catalina’s – Roberta, a nun, who helps them on their perilous journey to Tangier – a journey that includes being captured by pirates, surviving a shipwreck, being separated for a long period of time and, of course, finding each other again and realizing the success of their joint quest.
In his writing, the author paints vivid word pictures of the different characters and beautifully invokes the colour, sights, sounds and scents of the time and the places.
What I found truly remarkable about the writing of “The Chronos of Andalucia” is that English is not Merom Toledano’s first language. The Israeli-born author – he grew up near Haifa – came to Winnipeg with his young family just eight years ago.
“I have had this book in mind for several years now,” says the satellite engineer whose working career takes him to many different parts of the world.
He notes that he has always felt a connection to Spain, Spanish music and literature – a reflection of his family’s modern origins in that country. His great-grandparents, he relates, lived in Toledo – hence the family name, Toledano. His parents lived in Meknes in Morocco while his father attended university in Tangier before making aliyah.
Toledano just published “The Chronos of Andalucia” in April on Amazon. He reports that the book – which is available here at McNally Robinson – has been selling well –close to 100 copies – with orders coming from a bookstore chain in England, a bookstore in Denmark, and one in Italy.
“I have had between 30 and 40 positive reviews so far,” he reports.
Toledano adds that he envisages “The Chronos of Andalucia” to be the first in a series – a la the writer Danielle Steele. He is already working on a sequel – which is hinted at the end of “The Chronos” and, he reports, he is establishing his own independent publishing operation.