By Andrey Sheptunov
October 14 marks the birthday of Oleksandr Roytburd, one of the most renowned Ukrainian artists of our time. Painter, curator, director of the Odessa Fine Arts Museum, an intellectual with encyclopedic knowledge and a razor-sharp sense of humour — he always managed to combine a profound understanding of history and art with lightness in conversation and an ironic distance from himself.
I would like to recall one story from our trip to Jerusalem. It says a lot about Sasha’s character — his skepticism, his irony, and his ability to find hidden meaning in pure coincidence.
The Trip to Jerusalem
It happened in early spring. We met at the New Bazaar in Odessa, a place we loved to stroll, picking up delicacies and later enjoying them over wine. That day Sasha suddenly said:
— I’m bored. Let’s do something. Let’s go somewhere.
I replied:
— You’ve never been to Jerusalem, that beautiful holy city.
— Perfect! Let’s go to Jerusalem!
Although he was a convinced atheist, and words about the Holy Land hardly worked as an argument. Still, the very next day we bought tickets. On March 8, we landed in the Holy City and checked into the Mamilla Hotel, right by the Jaffa Gate.
In the morning, like decent tourists, we set out to visit the holy sites. The first stop was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I, as always, was filled with reverence — venerating the shrines, climbing the stairs to Golgotha. Sasha grew restless, muttering:
— Enough kissing stones! Let’s get out of here. Where’s a bar? I need wine!
I reassured him: “Just a little longer, we’ll make it.” He kept chanting:
— Bar! Wine! Bar!
When we reached the Western Wall, he flatly refused to go closer:
— Look at all these people… out of their minds, zombified. Let’s leave. I want a drink.
Still, I insisted:
— I’m leaving a note. I want to ask God to give you some wisdom. Like a heavenly text message.
Sasha smirked:
— Fine. Go send your SMS. Then let’s drink.
Wine and Kosher Humour
And so, our adventure turned gastronomic. Jerusalem has it all: vibrant markets, restaurants, galleries. For five days we immersed ourselves in Israeli wines, kosher cuisine, and endless jokes.
In a kosher restaurant, Sasha would demand:
— Bring me lard with garlic!
And in an Arab restaurant:
— A pig’s head, please.
We knew this could get us into trouble, but we laughed until our sides hurt. That was so very Roytburd — humour on the edge, but always charming.
A Divine Sign?
On the fifth day, as we were preparing to head home, Sasha slipped away. I was sitting on the hotel balcony when I heard a sudden rumble. The sky was perfectly clear, not a cloud in sight, so I ignored it. Moments later Sasha returned — flushed, agitated, with marks of small bruises on his forehead.
— You won’t believe it, — he said. — I decided to go to the Western Wall after all. Put on a paper kippah, took a note. I wrote that I wanted to achieve something great, to serve Ukrainian and Odesa art.
But when I got within fifteen meters, the heavens opened — and God pelted me with stones!
He showed me his forehead, dead serious:
— It must be punishment for everything I’ve said. God wouldn’t let me approach.
I thought perhaps five days of wine had caught up with him, and he’d simply imagined it. Still, we packed our things and went to check out. At the reception, I told our story to the clerk. She smiled:
— Oh, that happens. When an air raid alert is declared, F-16s or F-35s fly at supersonic speed over Jerusalem. Sometimes they cut through small clouds, and the condensation turns into localized hail. The sky is blue, the sun shining — and suddenly pebbles fall from the sky. People panic, convinced it’s a sign from above.
I passed this explanation on to Sasha. He brightened, but after a pause said:
— No. It’s still a sign. Which means I must do something good.
And within a year, he became director of the Odessa Fine Arts Museum.
I called this story “An Air Raid or a Divine Sign.” In it lies the essence of Roytburd: skeptic and joker, a man of risk and a man of destiny. He could argue with God, demand lard in a kosher restaurant, and still remain someone who could recognize a sign — and turn it into action.
