The Painting of Daphna Arod

The Story behind "The Blue Forest" of Daphna Arod.

When I was invited to paint this huge painting, under a three months dead-line, I knew I would need help. I asked some of my best painting students to be my assistants, Niv Refael,

Eithan Shacham, Dedi Shachar, Lee Trifon, Yasmin Ben-Ron, and Yossi Ronen, who joined towards the very end, when I was mostly painting on my own.

My assistants would come and go as they pleased, some worked more, some took trips to places far away, came back for a while, and continued. Towards the third month I found myself mostly alone. I would open the big derelict empty building in the old city of Jaffa, (The Califf night club) which was hired as a studio for that duration, climb to the third floor, turn on the lights, music (Mostly the Faure requiem) etc, and find myself alone with this amazing task, feeling like a lone swimmer in the deep sea, seeing a very big wave coming towards me. Now I knew I could swim, still, the feeling was overwhelming.

The first step, though, before even starting to paint, was the material. It took sleepless nights and heavy duty day research to find the best solution: as the painting was to be cut to 1,000 pieces and sold individually, (and every cut would be both dangerous to the painting and might eliminate thin lines all together,) I ordered 1,000 squares of M.D.F. wood to be glued like tiles to a wooden background, so no real cutting would be necessary.

The first day the wooden tiles were ready, I came and sat for hours in front of them. I had to find the right spot for the horizon. I knew this was the main thing: if it would be too high, a climbing feeling would arise. If it was too low, The distance would be lost. If to the left or right, I might not be able to establish the most important task of all: I wanted the path to have the "Mona Lisa" effect: as her eyes follow you, so the path had to go with you, from one side of the hall to another, and you should always feel like you were in the middle of the road. So I sat there, for hours, having the paintings image in my heart, looking for that golden spot. Once I found it, I marked it, and then free hand outlined the whole forest scene, with a single oil brush. After that we could start.

The hours were long, the heat unbearable, and after a thorough disinfection of the hall, we no longer suffered from fleas.

There were buckets full of turpentine all around. Climbing up and down scaffolds, combined with the narrow dead line that caused a rush, I often got covered by paint. Then I would wipe myself off with turpentine. Freely. What was still to come I couldn't even guess. Day in and day out The painting work continued, in frenzy, deep concentration, until my body screamed. The assistants started feeling queezy, staying away to recuperate. And still I was oblivious to pending disaster. Meanwhile people started to come visiting me through day and night. Some were my own friends, but mostly, were guests invited by the project manager.

Many nights people would gather and sit through the night, till first light, talking and drinking, watching the painting change. They found secret animals, some I intended, some I never saw. I was told about all this in the morning. Myself, getting home at night to my house full of friends and children, I would open the outdoor jaccuzi water tap before I said hello, and within half an hour (after finishing the quick cooking etc.) I would dive in, never to get out for hours until I went to bed.

This, amazingly enough, must have saved my life.

Towards the end of the three months I was alloted for the painting, I was very weak. Opening night was looming ahead, and I, devoid of energy and utterly exhausted, would by go the Jacuzzi, and fall straight into bed. Two weeks before the end I fainted, which was just the beginning of a long line of such events.

At one point I got the feeling I might die, and crawled back to paint three violet butterflies which I thought would be the last touch. But I went on, and the night before the opening night I went up the scaffolds for the last time. This time I had magic paint with me. Invisible. With it I wrote one of the sayings of my teacher - Maharaji - all across the top of the sky.

Three days later I was in hospital, with paint poisoning, chemical pneumonia and thrombosis. I couldn't breathe, and that same teacher's techniques kept me calm in an otherwise alarming situation. I parted from my children, gave them some last orders and advice, and prepared to die. After three weeks in hospital and a month recuperation on oxygen I found myself back in my home. I could not touch oil paint again.

could not touch oil paint again.