The City

Tel-Aviv has not been the same ever since UNESCO declared the city a World Heritage site in 2004. Hundreds out of its nearly 4,000 Bauhaus buildings — the source of the prestigious recognition — have already been restored and many others are poised for restoration. The city experiences a revival of one of the most influential architectural and design styles of the last century.

Not everything goes smoothly. There are several objections to the municipality supported massive restoration. Some architects point to the political implications of Jaffo (the old city) marginalization and many residents are unsure about the noise pollution. Still, none of these can ruin the excitement and the celebration of architecture that slowly but surely prepares Tel-Aviv for the reclaiming of its once widespread title as the “White City.”

Upon hearing of the opening of a Bauhaus museum on Bialik Street 21, I decided to visit the new exhibition and witness first hand what the restored houses looked like, how Tel-Avivians respond to the restoration and, yes, to bate my curiosity by observing an actual restoration in process.

The trip was a success. Some of the buildings hide behind trees, as if unsure of their refurbished status. It is perhaps the vision of few adjacent dilapidated structures, also Bauhaus and clearly the next in turn for restoration, that somewhat compromises the buildings’ newly acquired sheen. The most conspicuous are the corner houses; each is unique with a character of its own. By observing the rounded edges and slender, elongated frames, Bauhaus can be minimalist and strikingly beautiful at the same time.

The restoration process does not only renew the facades of numerous buildings across the city. Hundreds of houses are scattered around a relatively small area in the city’s center, altering the urban dynamics. Tel-Aviv has always been about the melting pot of multi-cultural people but for the first time in the city’s history since the declaration of independence in 1948, the center of balance shifts from the dwellers to the dwellings.

Within an area outlined by just three or four streets, the city has plunged into an architectural adventure of a journey into the past that would become a permanent part of the cityscape. Bauhaus, a European architectural style imbued with Germanic minimalism and simplicity enjoys a belated renaissance — and collides with the muddled Levantine atmosphere in the process. This clash sparks an unfamiliar mood that infects the people and permeates the bustle on the sidewalks around the renovated buildings. Next year, when Tel-Aviv celebrates its first centenary, the people will be able to rightfully call their town a classic mix of the European and the Middle Eastern.

The Museum

On Bialik Street, grumpy construction workers darted here and there, and I could not locate a single suit without a yellow helmet. So much for the glamor and the “celebration of the arts.” I was compensated fully by the museum itself — an appropriately white Bauhaus building with a miniature patio and partial glass walls.

The museum consists of a single hall packed with Bauhaus objects: desks, chairs, dining tables, lamps, kitchen utensils and stoneware. The curatorial principle behind the exhibition becomes clear upon entry: in order to demonstrate the usability and high functionality — the precepts of Bauhaus — of the exhibits, they are being used as originally intended.

Thus, ceiling lights designed by Willem H. Gispen illuminate the entire collection. Made in 1927, in Rotterdam, they comprise a glass sphere linked to a flat glass circle by a nickel-plated metallic clamp, all connected by a straight metallic rod to the ceiling. Employing perfect geometrical forms and simplicity of conception, the designer closely adheres to another Bauhaus maxim.

Even more surprising was the discovery that the receptionist situated near the entrance was sitting on an authentic Gebruder Thonet side chair from 1932 and using a Bruno Weil desk, also from 1932, for administrative purposes. When I started making notes, the receptionist offered me to take a seat on another Thonet chair — I declined, unable to assimilate the curator’s intention. Then, as if trying to dispel my doubts, the clerk pulled off a catalogue from one of the drawers, and handed the brochure over to me.

Before exiting, I circled the room one more time, paying more attention to the little Bauhaus island within an island in the center. There the curator modeled an exotic nook: an Erich Diekmann lounge chair from 1931, a Christian Dell floor lamp reminiscent of an umbrella shade from the late 1920s, and a Christian Dell pendulum wall clock posing as the setting sun. I was reminded that the sea is just a five minute drive away and realized that this island was the curator’s way to gently usher the visitors out and to continue enjoying the sights and beaches of Tel-Aviv.

I left the museum with the sense of having been transferred, if only for a short period of time, into pre World War II Europe. This was the time when political upheaval in Germany forced many young Jewish architects to flee to Palestine and apply their skills there; the school in Berlin was closed. Although Bauhaus buildings in Tel-Aviv were designed with some local adaptations (such as smaller windows to keep the hot air out), the spirit of the style lived on, and now it thrives — in the least expected setting. In a circle-closing gesture, Tel-Aviv is now often cited as the “world capital of Bauhaus.”

>Written by d/visible contributor Elijah Shifrin.

This entry was posted on Monday, July 7th, 2008 at 10:21 am and is filed under Culture, Architecture, Art & Design. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.