Happy birthday, Skirball! Today you turn eighteen. If you were like other Angelenos your age, you might be spending these days preparing for prom… or waiting for college acceptance letters… or applying for that job you weren’t eligible for until now. Hopefully you’d live up to your mission and register to vote and not dodge jury duty. You’re not quite old enough for a cocktail, but we’ll toast you nonetheless.
It’s been a good year for you, Skirball. At last, your fifteen-acre campus was completed, and in grand style at that. The Jewish Journal took note of the special occasion in a cover story on your founder, Uri D. Herscher, and he and architect Moshe Safdie reflected upon the journey of your building on film. Of this particular birthday, Uri also reminds us, “Eighteen in Jewish life is special cause for celebration, for in Hebrew the number spells life—and the Skirball’s life is thriving like never before.”
Now, as an eighteen-year-old, you would certainly spend a ton of your time taking selfies and posting them online—if only you could. But since you can’t, a few of us on staff took some for you. Here are eighteen gorgeous—and some unexpected—views of you, all taken in the last week or so. Thanks for being home to us and to so many of our visitors. Happy eighteenth!
This past Sunday was my first time attending the Skirball’s annual Puppet Festival, and as soon as I reached the parking lot, it was obvious that everyone in attendance was filled with excitement and anticipation. Moms, dads, friends, and relatives were actively engaged in conversation while their children—many dressed in colorful costumes—were skipping with joy at the thought of seeing the myriad of puppets. Throughout the day, I observed many memorable moments; fortunately, talented photographer Peter Turman was there to capture some of them with his camera. The Puppet Festival was a full day of celebrating families, friends, and puppets! Click through the slideshow below to catch a glimpse of the day as seen through my favorite ten of Peter’s photographs.
All photos by Peter Turman
In celebration of the opening of The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats this week, Deborah Pope, head of the Ezra Jack Keats Foundation, shared the following essay by her father, Martin Pope, with us. Martin and Deborah’s heartfelt words help express the true joy the Skirball feels in presenting this wonderful exhibition.
Because my father and Ezra Jack Keats were best friends, I grew up thinking Ezra was my uncle. He had not yet written The Snowy Day when I was of an age to read picture books and so when he did, I couldn’t really grasp the magnitude of his accomplishment. Nor could I, as a child, understand the fact that my father, Martin Pope, was a world-renowned scientist. For me, these two men were present as playfellows, co-conspirators, and cheerleaders.
The essay below was written by my father for the opening of The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats at The Jewish Museum in New York City, now at the Skirball. I would like to add a few words to his. The experience of poverty and prejudice might have hardened my father’s and Ezra’s hearts; instead, it made each of them, in his own way, determined to work against the perpetuation of such injustice. Their deep affection for and belief in one another fed their resolve to escape from deprived childhoods and realize their dreams, one in science and one in art. Integral to their plans was marking their path—the path of books, friendship, and imagination—to help coming generations of children find their way to better lives. Even now, at the age of 95, I think you will hear in my father’s words the depth of his continuing dedication to their shared childhood dreams.
Ezra Jack Keats (left) and my father, Martin Pope (right). Different paths, same road.
My story with Ezra began eighty-one years ago, in the East New York section of Brooklyn, so often pictured in his books. We met in summer school; he was fourteen and I was twelve. Ezra had failed algebra because he wasn’t interested in math, I failed because I corrected my teacher. Our bond as friends was cemented that summer. Continue reading