JUN.09.2013
Although I never talked to him again after that year, the
author Yoram Kaniuk (1930-2013) was my
hero. We met in my second year of university; he taught fiction in a creative writing workshop. Kaniuk was a well-known novelist in Israel,
but not well respected. His style, in the tradition of the stream of
consciousness, was frowned upon. His writing was different from the way other
Israeli novelists wrote in the 1970s, thus
it was deemed affected and insincere.
To us he seemed old, he was 47 years old at that time (I was
22), but the minute he opened his mouth, we were all smitten. Kaniuk (no one
called him Yoram) was very charismatic and kind -- a rare combination. His
method was not to shred our writing to pieces and to make us feel bad; quite
the opposite, he gave his criticism in an encouraging and helpful way. During
the lessons there were no crises; he kept the atmosphere in the workshop
positive and productive.
We admired the
beautiful miniatures which he used to draw on top of matchboxes (it was at the
time when most of us smoked) when we read our stories. I kept mine for many
years.
But our stories were not the reason for the workshop, Kaniuk
was. He was our star and we became his
fans even his groupies. We were experts in his biography, his writing,
his opinions. We were well versed in his life story: the son of the
first director of Tel Aviv Museum, he enjoyed a privileged childhood, and was
very talented in art and letters. During the war of independence he fought and
was wounded (he was 18 at the time), he
studied art first at Bezalel, the Israel Art Institute, and then in Paris;
hence the beautiful drawings. He had
planned to pursue his art in the US but
changed his mind about being an artist and decided instead to become a novelist. When he returned to Israel some
10 years later he did so with a beautiful American wife.
I felt “chosen” since he was very kind to me and always
called me “a fresh flower,” but I am sure that he was just as kind to other
young women in the workshop. I was a newly-wed at that time and remember that
once the workshop met at my house. My young husband was there as well and
Kaniuk told me later ”your second
marriage will be different, then you will keep a respectful distance from each
other.” Needless to say, Tzvi, my
husband, did not join our fan club.
That year I had written a story which Kaniuk believed was
good enough to be published; when it finally appeared in print I was shocked to discover Kaniuk’s
voice in my story -- his influence was too great. At the workshop I was writing
for Kaniuk, and enjoyed his approval, but after it ended I stopped writing.
It was a privilege to be at Yoram Kaniuk’s creative writing
workshop; he was a real mentor and did his best to encourage us to keep on
writing and to take chances with our work. But as I found out, hero-worshipping
stifled my creativity and paralyzed me. It took me years to lose his voice and
find my own. And . . . just to be on the safe side, I made two resolutions and
kept them: I never read another book by Yoram Kaniuk and never took another
creative writing class..
P.S. This is a photo of a matchbox drawing by Yoram Kaniuk
No comments:
Post a Comment