Renowned artist Yoram Ra’anan is optimistic as he starts to rebuild career.
By ELISSA EINHORNYoram and Meira Ra'anan(photo credit: YORAM RAANAN)
In 1976, Yoram Raanan arrived in Israel with a pack on his back and $500 in his pocket. Among the first purchases from his coveted savings was a box of pastels and watercolors that would allow him to do what he loved – create art. And create he has. From humble beginnings of selling his work to fellow yeshiva students, to commissioned public works and private collectors, Raanan describes his career as one where “money sometimes trickled in, sometimes it rained, sometimes it poured, and sometimes there was a drought.”On the 40th anniversary of his aliya, the metaphor of this prolific artist’s success shifted from water to another of earth’s fickle elements. On November 25, Raanan watched as an estimated 1,500 paintings valued at $2 million to $3m. went up in smoke as his studio fell victim to fires that raged through Moshav Beit Meir in the Judean Hills. Also lost were exhibition catalogues, records, photo collages, tools and other materials that once filled 300 square meters of space.“I thought she was overreacting,” the artist recalls of his wife Meira’s 2 a.m. pleas to evacuate his studio where he was sleeping after a typical 12-hour day of painting, until he went outside and saw sparks on the ground.“There was nothing I could do. The first order was to get out alive.”Grabbing his keys, wallet and back-up files on an old computer, Raanan accepted the fate of what was once an old chicken coop that had new life breathed into it by his own hands. In addition to nurturing a garden from scratch, he planted 200 trees the first year he arrived at the moshav, 23 years ago.“The studio was the heart of the farm,” says the graduate of the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. “People who came there said it was a magical place. It had large windows and doors, a garden, a back view where you could see from Ashkelon to Herzliya, a wood-burning stove and an aquarium. It fluctuated between an art studio and a showroom.”Adopting a matter-of-fact attitude that belies the trauma he and his family experienced reflects Raanan’s daily search for balance in his life. He believes “it must be time to start over,” while also appreciating certain ironies that have presented themselves. For example, less than a week after it all began, the couple was gifted a stay by friends at Jerusalem’s Waldorf Astoria. The first thing Meira points out is a number of her husband’s works that grace the walls of the hotel. And moving from the pages of the Jerusalem Post Magazine where, three years ago, his work inspired by the weekly parashot began appearing, to being the subject of front-page news, also gives the artist pause.“Some artists have to die to get famous,” he says with an almost wicked smile. “You see God’s kindness to me?” Still, on-the-ground realities are no laughing matter. The immediate tasks mimic the rebuilding process. Starting with a basic foundation of purchasing new clothes, a computer, a camera and a phone, Raanan will add walls and expects his new studio to open within a month, allowing him to throw fresh paint onto blank canvases once again.“All we Jews have done for 2,000 years is rebuild,” he says optimistically.“Give me some windows and running water, it’s that simple.”
Meira, his wife of 37 years, barely has time to mourn the loss she feels. The constant ring of the telephone is a reminder of the practical matters at hand: government bureaucracy, media inquiries and keeping track of the barrage of emails and Facebook messages the couple has received from Finland, China, New Zealand and elsewhere.Being thrust into the public eye has turned the tables on this self-described modern-day hermit.“For me, coming out of this is what I have to do right now,” he explains. “It’s what I’ve been given. This is a watershed event. I get to start over with no constraints. If my work is inspirational and my attitude is inspirational, that’s great.” And he adds, with a chuckle, “I can’t look back. There are no records left.”