Wonder of wonders, the museum is standing

The list of self-reproachful penitents following the decision by billionaire Sami Ofer to cancel his contribution to the Tel Aviv Museum of Art keeps getting longer. Sometimes it seems like this soap opera - starring a rich businessman and a state that tends toward provincial groveling before the wealthy - will continue for a long time.

Modi Kreitman and Ofer Petersburg's article in Yedioth Ahronoth last weekend, as well as Yonatan Haleli's article in Maariv last December, demonstrate this approach precisely. It is well encapsulated in Yedioth's cranky headline, with its gastro-cardiological wording: "The Tel Aviv Museum can only eat its heart out - the billionaire will pour 20 million pounds into a British museum and probably get a wing named after him."

The article explains that it is only natural that Ofer, a shipping magnate, will donate some of his money to a maritime museum. Sure, our very own Haifa also has a naval museum whose directors would certainly have found a way to use such a substantial contribution, but evidently it is more pleasant to donate in London.

But there are a few other significant differences between the donation offered to the Tel Aviv Museum and the one to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. The Tel Aviv Museum was originally housed in two places: the private residence of Tel Aviv's first mayor Meir Dizengoff, which is on Rothschild Boulevard, and the Helena Rubinstein Pavilion, built with funds donated by Rubinstein.

When it was decided to build a new building for it, Tel Aviv's mayor at the time, Mordechai Namir, allocated a plot and gave the task of securing a budget to the museum's director, Dr. Haim Gamzu, my father. The contributions were raised with immense effort, without today's organizational staff, and some were anonymous.

In other words, the Tel Aviv Museum was built years ago as a public institution, from taxpayer money, from contributions, and on municipality land allocated for the purpose. In contrast to building a new wing - as at the museum in Greenwich - here we are dealing with an existing public monument. Had Ofer's donation been accepted, along with his demand to rename the museum after him, it would have meant selling this institution - established with great effort for the public and from public funds - to a private individual. The provincialism and groveling entailed are underscored by the fact that this was a "bargain" sale - naming the museum for a donor whose contribution ($20 million) would barely cover construction costs for the planned new wing.

Just because this institution has become a cultural center of great value, it does not follow we must consent to turning it into a source for nouveau riche greed. After all, if we were talking here about a sincere aspiration to give, and not somebody's desire to beautify himself with his generosity, the money could have been donated and a modest plaque put up: "Donated by Aviva and Sami Ofer." Or the new wing could have been named for him, even though he did not intend to pay for all of it. But the issue here is not the money, but principle. Would anyone think of naming the Israeli parliament after Sami Ofer? After all, the Knesset is also facing renovations.

Well, what do you know, less than a year after the donation was canceled, the lost money has been found, and the museum will continue to stand and fulfill its role without having to sell its name.

Why did all this happen? Why were the museum's board of directors and the Tel Aviv municipality in such a rush to give in to a rich man's will and agree to a sale, immediately, and with such fanfare? After all, the board of directors never displayed such alacrity in decision making. Even before the agreement was properly approved, a new sign was mounted on the museum. And whoever went to the opera at the Tel Aviv Performing Arts Center next door passed by the Tel Aviv Museum on the way, and on the way back passed by the Sami and Aviva Ofer Museum.

It turns out there is an institution that allows tycoons to behave like lords of the manor on their private estate - none other than the State of Israel - which always ends up several sizes too small for them.

The patrons of culture who remain here like a persecuted minority will look at the removal of the Ofer donor recognition sign from the Tel Aviv Museum as a point marking the ability to keep their heads high, with principles that are growing scarce around here. I will remember the insistence of naysayers as an island of integrity and standards "of bygone times."

Whoever gives with love also knows the secret of modesty.

The writer is an artist and restorer.