From the dawn of art history, and not only in the 20th century, artists have wondered about the line between an object and a work of art: between a stone and a sculpture, between a stain and a painting. What is the minimum aesthetic manifestation that already represents something in the world, less than which there is nothing? Think of Michelangelo's unfinished sculptures: here is a stone, it represents nothing. A little later it is broken, chisel paths have been cut into it, it is still devoid of form and content; soon it begins to be rounded, refined; and finally, lo—there is a polished knee or a protruding elbow. Where is the point where nothingness shifts into being? It is hard to say.
Asaf Ben Zvi (b. 1953, Kfar Yehezkel, Israel; lives and works in Jerusalem) transpires at this very point. His art tickles nothingness. The reason for this, it seems to me, is that Ben Zvi recognizes our profound need to exercise our meaning-generating powers, the higher faculties of reason, those that see form in the clouds and identify patterns in the world. One
may say that human perception is divided in two: passive reception of sensory data, and active organization and signification of that data. Popular culture strives to produce images that will be as comfortable, processed, chewed as possible, so as to make our viewing experience as passive as possible: sit at home, raise your hands, and we will tickle you; you don't even have to laugh—we have recorded laughs into the soundtrack, so we will laugh for you; just sit, semi-conscious in front of the screen.
Ben Zvi is on the other end of the scale. His works ask us to participate, to be active in the construction of meaning, to show great sensitivity to the line, the stain, the materiality, the void. In his painting, almost nothing happens by itself. We bring the drama, we introduce the emotion. In a sense, his works ask us to love them, inasmuch as love is an act performed by the lover, and not a passive acceptance of the beloved. His goal is not to apply cinematic and entertainment manipulation on us, nor to stimulate us with special effects, or overwhelm us with spectacles of skill and production, but to whisper faintly enough so that we will have to complete the sentence in our heads.
According to French philosopher Alain Badiou, love, like a political revolution or a work of art, is an "event." Badiou's "event" is a decisive moment in which a person shifts from autopilot to a state of being a subject; being a man of love, a man of revolution, a man of creation. (In this context it is interesting to note Ben Zvi's turning to the figure of prophet Jonah, who refuses to respond to the demand, in a work that reminds me that Raffi Lavie—whose impact on Ben Zvi is conspicuous—lived on Yona Hanavi Street). In any event, this is an age-old intuition that identifies the everyday with sleep, and intentionality with awakening. Art, thus, differs from popular culture in that its purpose is to awaken, while that of popular culture is to anesthetize. The way art and love and revolution stimulate us is called a demand. The revolution tells you, get out of your warm living room into the street.
Love says, get out of yourself, your desires, thoughts, impulses and needs, and attend to the desires, thoughts, impulses, and needs of your beloved. Ben Zvi's art demands that you enhance your attention and sensitivity to the finest visual expressions.
I think this is why Ben Zvi's paintings contain texts. They turn to us, sometimes shouting at us, sometimes whispering: draw nearer, read the fine print; draw away, observe the large stains; act, step out of yourself, wake up. Thus, even though they contain not a word about current affairs, his works are quite political.
"Painting is art, but love is more" is an accurate sentence, because love is more demanding; more of a subjectification machine. Ben Zvi's painting strives to be love.
