Snapping Tel Aviv: Alex Levac on capturing the city that never sleeps

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2 days ago

Israel's city that never sleeps was founded over Passover, 1909, during the counting of the Omer leading up to Shavuot.
Photographer Alex Levac sees things the average person on the street doesn't catch.
When we meet up at his Tel Aviv apartment, a stone's throw away from the beach, I ask the evergreen octogenarian, who was awarded the Israel Prize for his groundbreaking photography 20 years ago, where the notion of snapping incongruous yet complementary overlaps first emerged.
'I don't know. Perhaps I got it from the French photographers, like Robert Doisneau and Henri Cartier-Bresson,' he suggests bringing the lauded humanist documentarists into the philosophical equation. 'But, it was mostly a British photographer called Tony Ray-Jones.'
Those men were powerful sources of inspiration, who shined a bright light on his own path to visual expression, Levac says.
'I didn't invent anything. You know, you see something you like and you think, 'I'll try to do something like that.''
The above lauded trio may have sparked the young Israeli's imagination and sowed the seeds for one of his main lines of thought and endeavor, but it was something of a slow burner. 'I left Israel for London in late 1967,' he says. 'I left Israel for a year and stayed 14 years. But I came back from time to time, to visit family and friends.' And snap a few frames, he may have added.
Levac studied photography in London in its Swinging Sixties heyday, and subsequently worked in the field in Britain. But the time and, in particular, the place were not aligned with Levac's native cultural continuum. 'I don't think, then, I looked for these [idiosyncratic] confluences. That didn't interest me outside the Israeli context.'
But the idea of getting into that after he returned here to roost was gestating just below the surface. 'I thought that it was more interesting to do in Israel because I am more familiar with the culture and the visual language.'
Evidently, there is more to what Levac does than observing quotidian jigsaw pieces align themselves and pressing the shutter release button at exactly the right happenstance microsecond. 'It is not just a combination of all sorts of anecdotal elements. There is, here, also a statement about the Israeli public domain.'
The dynamics of human behavior, of course, can vary a lot between differing societies. In Israel, we are much more physically expressive than the average Brit or, for that matter, Japanese.
ONCE RESETTLED in the Middle East, the mix-and-match line of photography soon took on tangible form, without too much premeditation. 'I don't remember exactly when it started but I took one of the first shots one day when I was in Ashkelon. I lived there at the time with my first wife. I started seeing a lot of contrasts on the street, coming together at the same time.'
It was around that time that still largely conservative Israel got its first tabloid newspaper, Hadashot, which shook up the industry and Israeli society, and introduced it to risqué material and full-color photographs. Levac was soon on board and, before too long, also found himself in hot water as a result of the now-famous news picture he took. 'That was Kav 300 (Bus 300),' he recalls.
The said snap was of a terrorist being led away from the scene after IDF soldiers stormed an Egged bus in which passengers were being held captive. The initial official IDF report was that all four Palestinian terrorists had been killed in the attack. However, Levac's picture provided irrefutable evidence that one of the terrorists was still alive after the operation was over. 'They shut the paper down for a while after that.'
Brief hiatus notwithstanding, Levac had, by then, established himself as a bona fide photojournalist here. 'I had a regular column in a Hadashot supplement called 'Segol' (purple). They had very visual-oriented editors at the time, so photographers were given a lot of column space. Then I got my regular weekly spot. I've been doing that for around 40 years, every single week. That's crazy!'
That may be wonderful, but it comes with a commitment to produce the visually left-field goods, week in and week out. 'Sometimes I can just pop out and I'll find something really good, very quickly. Other times, it can take a while, and there are times I come back without having taken a photograph,' he says.
After all these years, Levac's sixth sense is constantly primed and ready to pick up on some unexpected sequence of events that could fuse into an amusing or captivating frame.
Anyone who has seen his candid snaps, which have been running in the Haaretz newspaper for the past three-plus decades, will have a good idea of his special acumen for noting and documenting surprising, and often humorous, street-level juxtapositions.
'By now, I see those kinds of things more than I see the ordinary stuff,' he smiles. 'I also look for that, like Gadi.'
GADI ROYZ is a hi-tech entrepreneur and enthusiastic amateur photographer.
Levac recalls that 'Gadi came up to me one day and told me he'd attended a lecture of mine and began taking photographs,' he recalls. At first, Levac wasn't sure where it was leading.
'You know, you get nudniks telling me how much they like my photographs and all that,' he chuckles. 'You have to be nice when people do that, but it can get a bit tiresome.'
However, it quickly became clear that Royz was in a different league and had serious plans for the two of them.
'Gadi didn't just want to be complimentary; he said, 'Let's do a book together.''
Producing a book with high-quality prints can be a financially challenging business. But, it seems, Royz didn't just bring boundless enthusiasm and artistic talent to the venture; he also helped with the nuts and bolts of putting the proposition into attractive corporeal practice.
In fact, the book, which goes by the intriguing name of A City of Refuge, is a co-production together with Royz, who, judging by his around 40 prints in the book, also has a gift for discerning the extraordinary in everyday situations, and capturing them to good aesthetic and compelling effect. The city in question is, of course, Tel Aviv, where Levac was born and has lived for most of his life.
'Gadi said he had the money to get the book done,' Levac notes. That sounded tempting, but Levac still wanted to be sure the end product would be worth the effort. 'We sat down together, and I saw some of his photographs. I liked them, so I said, 'Let's go for it.'' And so A City of Refuge came to be.
There are around 100 prints in the plushly produced volume. All offer fascinating added visual and cerebral value. There is always some surprise in store for the viewer, although it can take a moment to absorb it, which, in this day and age of lightning speed instantaneous gratification, is a palliative boon.
The unlikely interfaces, which can be topical or simply contextually aesthetic, may be comical, arresting, or even a little emotive. Every picture demands a moment or two of your time and, as Levac noted in the dedication he generously wrote for me in my copy of the book, can be revisited for further pondering and enjoyment.
The book is great fun to leaf through.
One of Levac's more sophisticated items shows a man sitting on a bench with a serious expression on his face, which is echoed and amplified by a childish figure on the wall behind him of a character with a look of utter glumness.
There's a smile-inducing shot by Royz (following in Levac's photographic footsteps) with a young, heavily pregnant woman walking from the left, about to pass behind a spiraling tree trunk with a hefty protrusion of its own.
Royz also has a classic picture of Yaacov Agam's famed fire and water sculpture, in its original polychromic rendition in Dizengoff Square of several years ago. The picture shows two workers cleaning the work, each on a different level. The worker on the top level is visible from his stomach upward, while his colleague, on the street level, can only be seen from his waist down. Together, they looked like an extremely elongated character, something along the lines of a Tallest Man in the World circus performer.
It is often a matter of camera angle, such as Royz's shot of a wheelie bin in Yarkon Park with a giant hot balloon-looking orb looking like it is billowing out of the trash can. And Levac's delightfully crafted frame of an elegant, long-haired blonde striding along the sidewalk led by her sleek canine pal, which appears to have an even more graceful step, poses a question about the human-animal grace divide.
I wondered whether, in this day and age if – when we all take countless photos with our smartphones, of everything and everyone around us – his job has become harder.
'Quite the opposite,' he exclaims. 'Now that everyone takes pictures, people notice me less, which means I can do what I want and snap with greater freedom.'
Long may that continue. ■