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Dec. 14, 2007
The accidental artist
Necessity was the mother of his inventions.
OLGA LIVSHIN
Leon Bronstein, one of Israel's best-known artists, never planned to be a sculptor. By education, he was a construction engineer. He became a sculptor from sheer desperation and because, when the chance presented itself, he grabbed it with both hands.
In 1979, Bronstein emigrated from Moldavia to Israel with his wife and two children. Like many new immigrants, a week after their arrival he went looking for a job. And like many others, without knowing Hebrew, he only hoped for a menial position: cleaning or repairs.
A friend took him to a local souvenir factory, which produced olive wood carvings. Fortunately, the owner needed neither a cleaner, nor a repairman. The factory needed a sculptor.
"I can be a sculptor!" Bronstein declared with aplomb. He had nothing to lose. He did some whittling as a child and often doodled during boring classes, but never before had he even dreamed about being a professional artist. Still, the job was available, his family needed a paycheque and he was already there.
The owner laughed. "You came here to be hired as a cleaning man. Now you want to be a sculptor?" "Let me try," Bronstein pleaded. The owner – obviously a man with a sense of humor – agreed. Three hours later, impressed by Bronstein's first attempt at wooden carving, he hired the new immigrant as a sculptor.
Bronstein carved wooden souvenirs at that factory for two years. At that time, 20 to 30 tourist busses stopped at the factory's souvenir shop every day. Whatever the young sculptor produced never stayed on the shop's shelves for more than several days. Everything sold, for prices higher than the sculptor's salary. "Wood always suggested its own shapes and lines," he recalled. "And the tourists loved my pieces."
Two years later, the factory went bankrupt. By that time, Bronstein was already thinking about going solo, but wasn't ready yet. Although he had bought some equipment, he didn't have a place in which to put it. Upset at his new unemployed status, he settled with a cup of coffee at a local restaurant to contemplate his future. The owners of the restaurant also owned a gallery on the top floor, and Bronstein saw that their backyard was vacant.
Another chance flashed and again, Bronstein snatched at it. He offered the restaurant owners 30 per cent of all his sales, if they allowed him to use their backyard for his workshop. The next morning, before the restaurant even opened, he had made his first sale – to an Italian tourist.
In 1985, Bronstein took his first international exhibition to the Art Expo in New York. Five days after the opening night, all of his 40 wooden sculptures had been sold. Those sales finally allowed him to open his own gallery in Old Caesarea. The same year, he started casting his sculptures in bronze.
Bronstein's gallery on the ancient shore of the Mediterranean looks out at the sea. The water, blue and sparkling during the long, hot summer of Israel, turns angry in November, rupturing the lacy white cockscombs of the waves over the old ruins.
Bronstein's bronze sculptures follow the capricious ways of the water. The lines surge up like the sculptor's fancy, or swirl like a mischievous sea breeze, or flow after the shimmering liquid of the master's vision, or soar on the sails of their creator's talent, defying gravity and the heavy bronze. Like songs, every piece tells a story. And like songs, every sculpture's name reflects its melody, shape and theme.
"First Flight" is a tale of a family. Children all fly in different directions. The parents stand firmly on the ground, worried but ready to help, supporting their loved ones in finding their own ways and wings.
"Dialog," a series of two bronze heads, has many shapes and meanings, but the main message stays the same. We are humans. We search for connections. We talk to each other, albeit sometimes in different languages – now, let's try for some understanding.
Bronstein's love silhouettes resonate in many hearts. "Serenade for the Moon" strikes a romantic note. "Would You Like to be Under My Umbrella" reverberates with humor. The duet "I'm so Proud to Know that You are Mine" is warm and achingly beautiful.
The sculptor's boatmen cycle also reflects a multitude of emotions. "Waiting for the Tide" is tired but content. "To the Opposite Directions" clearly represents a joke. And a fisherman with his beached boat hangs his head in "Despair."
Bronstein's subjects are frequently in motion, echoing the sculptor's racing imagination. They launch into the sky in "Mig" or speed into the unknown in "Bicycle, Bicycle" or engage in a gossiping dance in the full of irony "Have you Heard?"
Always on the move, Bronstein's sculptures are scattered all over the world. His pieces adorn private collections and corporate headquarters in the United States, Israel, Portugal, Japan, France and other countries. Perhaps it's symbolic that Bronstein's "Bird of Paradise" is installed on a cruise ship, roaming the oceans of earth and delighting the happy passengers.
Olga Livshin is a Vancouver freelance writer.
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