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On Liebling Haus, Memory, and the Delicate Space Between Matter and Spirit

עודכן: 23 ביולי


When historic buildings are damaged, the word “repair” hardly seems adequate.

Can we ever truly restore something that carries layers of time, meaning, and life?

No matter how precise, a reconstruction is never the real thing — just as artificial sweeteners can never truly replace the taste of a spoonful of sugar.


Liebling Haus was built in 1936 in the International Style — what we often call "Bauhaus" today, despite the term’s complexities. The architect, Dov Karmi, was the first recipient of the Rokach Prize for Architecture and a pivotal figure in the history of Israeli architecture. Influenced by Henry van de Velde and the Ghent school, Karmi’s inspirations are clearly reflected in the building’s lines and underlying thinking.


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When we began renovating the building — exactly a decade ago — we had no idea how deeply we would delve into its hidden history. Architectural preservation was only the tip of the iceberg. We gathered stories and memories from residents who had lived here since the early days. From documenting original furniture to uncovering family photos and childhood recollections, each detail shed light on the life that once unfolded behind the modernist windows and clean lines.


In one archive, we came across one of the most moving and unsettling discoveries: the Transfer Agreements — documents revealing that some of the building’s first residents arrived from Germany under these infamous arrangements. They brought with them not only furniture, but also memories, trauma, and languages. The house became a vessel of layered memory — personal, political, material. Every terrazzo tile, every wooden railing, every peeling shutter held a story.


And then, yesterday, war struck.

A powerful explosion in the city caused severe damage to the house. About 50% of its windows and doors were shattered or torn from place. Plaster crumbled. Walls cracked. Layers of memory were erased in an instant.


When we entered the building this morning — surrounded by dust, debris, and shock — we also felt something else: gratitude. The building still stands. Scarred, fractured — but present.


It reminds us that even as we advance in technology, we remain far from understanding what truly matters.


War and suffering are not progress. They are painful reminders of what we have yet to learn.

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