‘Kensho‘ is a Zen Buddhist term meaning ‘seeing one’s essence’. It is the name used by the London art gallery Tristan Hoare (in Fitzroy Square) for an exhibition being held until 31 October 2026.
The exhibition features ceramics by Taizo Kuroda (1946-2021) and works in ink by Sousai Inada (born 1949). Both are Japanese.
The exhibition is small but very satisfying and the gallery provides a wonderful setting for the artwork.
In 1880 at the age of 18, my great-grandfather, Franz Ginsberg (1862-1936) left Germany and migrated to King Williams Town (now ‘Qonce’) in the Cape Colony, which, after 1910, became incorporated into the Union of South Africa. In what is now South Africa, he became a successful industrialist as well as a politician – both at local and national levels. This essay discusses why a German Jew left Germany in 1880, and why he chose to go to a part of Southern Africa where there were few of his co-religionists – and to an area where neither gold nor diamonds were being mined, rather than to the USA, where many other Jewish people from Germany and other parts of Central Europe tended to migrate.
To begin to understand why Franz left Germany in his late teens in 1880, it is helpful to know something about his father Dr Nathan Ginsberg (1814-1890).
Nathan was born in Breslau (now ‘Wroclaw’ in Poland). At school, according to his school report which I have seen, he was recognised by his teachers as being a brilliant student. Based on this report, he was admitted to the University of Breslau. After graduating at Breslau, again with great reports from those who taught him, which I have read, he wished to apply to be awarded with a doctorate (‘PhD’). However, the University of Breslau did not permit Jewish people to be awarded with doctorates unless they converted to Christianity, which was something Nathan did not want to do.
Nathan ‘shopped around’, and applied to the University of Halle, which he discovered would award a doctorate to unconverted Jewish candidates. I have seen his letter of application and the various theses he had written in subjects including mathematics and astronomy. Halle awarded Nathan a doctorate. Next, Dr Nathan Ginsberg, being an academic, attempted to apply for teaching posts in German universities.
In those far-off days, German universities did not admit Jews as members of their academic staff unless they had first converted to Christianity. Several of Nathan’s teachers at the University of Breslau had been born Jewish, but had converted to Christianity. As the author Amos Elon pointed out in his excellent book about Jewish life in Germany, “The Pity of it All”, many of these converts working as university were non-practising Christians.
Nathan Ginsberg was unwilling to convert to Christianity, and had to forego his ambition to become a university teacher. After working for some years in the observatory at Breslau, he moved to Beuthen (now ‘Bytom’ in Poland), where he became a founding member of a new school for Jewish children. It was a school for educating Jewish children, rather than a religious school, one of which already existed in the town. In 1870, when restrictions on the activities of Germany’s Jews eased considerably, the school was adopted by the state, and became known as the Städtisch jüdische Volksschule. It was in Beuthen that my great-grandfather was born. He was one of 12 children born to Nathan and his second wife, Rosalie (née Berg). He had a half-brother, Leo, who was born in Breslau when Nathan was married to his first wife, who died young.
During Franz’s childhood, Germany experienced economic problems that were blamed on the Jews, and this led to an increase in anti-Semitism. Before this became serious, Prussia and France went to war in 1870. Leo, who was old enough to do so, enrolled in the Prussian Army and took part in the invasion of Alsace and Lorraine, which became German territory after 1871. When he married, he and his wife were obliged, as were all newlyweds, to buy a set of chinaware from one of the Royal Prussian porcelain factories. They settled in German occupied Strasbourg (or ‘Strassburg’ as the Germans called it), where they produced four children.
Nathan, a far-sighted person, realised that the future of Jews in Germany was likely to deteriorate. That he did so as early as in the 1880s is indicative of his great wisdom. From the mid-1870s, German anti-Semites regarded the emancipated Jew as (to quote the historian Heinrich von Treitschke {1834-1896}):
“…a symbol and profiteer of modernity, of liberalism and capitalism.”
As well as stating:
“Die Juden sind unser Unglück!” [‘The Jews are our misfortune!’]
Nathan must have realised that as the Jews acquired more equality in Germany, hostility to them would grow. Many other Jews discovered this much later; some too late. Franz and some of his siblings left Germany when they were old enough to do so. The atmosphere of anti-Semitism in late nineteenth century Germany was likely to have been a potent reason for Nathan’s children to seek a better life elsewhere. Another reason might well have been the difficulties of achieving his ambitions Nathan, a Jewish man unable to give up his religion, had already encountered.
But why did Nathan Ginsberg’s children head for Southern Africa rather than the USA or elsewhere?
I cannot answer this question for certain, but can suggest the following.
Nathan Ginsberg, who was born in Breslau and lived in Beuthen, must have known the Friedlander and Goldmann families – Jewish people – living in those cities. He would have known that some of their offspring had gone to South Africa in the 1860s and before, and had done well.
And what attracted Franz to King Williams Town?
Whatever was the actual reason for leaving Germany, Franz set off for, and arrived in, South Africa in 1880, aged eighteen. His destination was not one of those most chosen by nineteenth century migrants. It was neither the diamond-rich area in the Cape Colony nor the goldfields of the Boer Transvaal Republic. Instead, he headed for King Williams Town, a small town in the eastern part of the British Cape Colony.
To understand why Franz chose to go to King rather than Kimberley or the Witwatersrand, we must turn the clock back to before his birth. Long before the arrival of Europeans in what was to become the Cape Colony, there were few inhabitants in the area. As time went by, this land was colonised from the sea by first the Dutch and then the British, and from the north by various African peoples. Where the Africans and Europeans met, there were frequently territorial conflicts. One of these trouble spots was the Eastern Cape, and in particular the part that became known as ‘British Kaffraria’, in which King Williams Town – founded in 1835 – was located.
Just before British Kaffraria became a British colony, a huge conflict was taking place far north of the Equator in and around Southern Russia. This was the Crimean War (October 1853 to February 1856). The armies of Great Britain, France, the Ottoman Empire, and Sardinia, were pitted against that of the Russian Empire. As the war dragged on, the British need additional manpower.
The British Government decided to recruit men from neutral European states to strengthen its forces in the Crimea. The German States provided a number of soldiers, who came to England, and were formed into the British German Foreign Legion (the ‘Legion’). Only a small part of the British German Legion had reached the Crimea when the war ended. The British Parliament was now faced with the problem of what to do with the men. They had all joined for the duration of the war and for one year after.
After some discussions between the Government in London and the authorities in the Cape Colony, it was decided to recruit as many as possible of the Legion to become military settlers in British Kaffraria. These settlers were offered land and help to build homes on condition that they would be available for military purposes when the need arose. Before departing for Africa, the men were encouraged to marry if they were not already espoused, because this was thought to be good for encouraging stability and also an increase in the European population of the area. Despite the prospects of good conditions in the Cape presented to the men, only 2362 officers and men out of a possible 8000 took up the offer, and of these only 361 of them were married. Many of the Germans left the Cape to fight for the British in India in 1857, when the so-called Indian Mutiny commenced.
It was believed that one of the reasons for the limited success of the settlement of British Kaffraria by the members of the Legion was the general lack of wives amongst them. Sir George Grey (1812-1898),
Sir George Grey, the Governor of the Cape Colony from 1854 to 1859, proposed re-settling the area with emigrants from the German States. He felt that those of the Legion who had decided to settle in the area would welcome them, and then help them to establish livelihoods. Using an agent, JC Godeffroy of Hamburg, Grey managed to help German families circumvent the laws that discouraged their emigration, and thus they made their way to the colony. After much hardship at first, they became good hardworking residents of British Kaffraria.
When the author Anthony Trollope arrived in King in 1877, three years before Franz Ginsberg, he found it to be:
“… a thoroughly commercial little city with a pleasant club, with a railway to East London, and with smiling German cultivation all around it …”
Some of the Germans were distributed to settlements around King Williams Town. Many of these were given German names such as Frankfort, Berlin, Braunschweig, Potsdam, and Stutterheim.
Franz Ginsberg, whose mother tongue was German, might have chosen to move to King – the town in the heart of British Kaffraria – because it was in an area full of German speakers. The Suez Canal, which had not been open when the German settlers arrived in the late 1850s, was in use by the time that Franz set sail. Whether or not he sailed through it, thus making a faster voyage than by the Atlantic route, and where he disembarked in South Africa, remain unknown. Other questions that remain unanswered are: was he travelling with a companion or alone, and did he know someone who was already there? These are not idle queries because their answers might establish how he came to know his first business partner (or maybe employer) Jakob Rindl (1853-1937).
I will end here, but in future publications, I will reveal how my great-grandfather made his fortune, and something about his political activities. I will also, eventually, discuss his attitudes towards his African, Indian, and Chinese neighbours, but this must wait for another day.
This article about Franz Ginsberg has been written with reference to my biography of Franz Ginsberg, “Soap to Senate: A German Jew at the dawn of apartheid”, which is available from Amazon.
Most people have heard of London’s Trafalgar Square, Leicester Square, and Parliament Square, but far fewer people will know of Tolmers Square in the London Borough of Camden. Located just north of Euston Road, it is hidden south of Drummond Street between North Gower Street and Hampstead Road. Today it is a peaceful, leafy retreat surrounded by low blocks of dwellings and a pub. I knew of its existence but visited for the first time today in October 2026. However, it has not always been like it is nowadays …
Tolmers Square began life in the 1860s as a housing development with grand residences, as Patrick’ Allen revealed in an essay (https://tolmers.net/stories/how-i-came-to-tolmers-square/) :
“Tolmers was a large, horseshoe shaped square of grand houses built in the 1860s with porticos and balconies.”
By the 1960s, the properties in the square were in a bad state, and this potentially valuable plot of real estate came under the eyes of a property developer, as Allen noted:
“Many houses had been unoccupied for years and were in a very poor state with broken and boarded up windows. The balconies were crumbling and on some houses had fallen down or been removed. I later learned that most of the square had been bought up covertly by Joe Levy and his company Stock Conversion Ltd. Joe Levy was a property developer who had made his fortune developing bomb sites after the war. His company had been responsible for building the massive and unsightly Euston Tower (his greatest achievement) which overlooked Tolmers Square on the corner of the Euston Road and Hampstead Road. Apparently, he wanted to knock down Tolmers Square and build another tower. For this he needed planning permission from Camden Council, then led by Frank Dobson.”
Levy became interested in the square in 1962, and a year later the London County Council (‘LCC’) began trying to demolish unfit houses. Three years later, the LCC became the Greater London Council (‘GLC’) and borough boundaries were changed: the borough of St Pancras, in which the square was located, became incorporated into the new Borough of Camden. Between 1966 and 1971, further ‘unfil’ buildings were demolished.
By about 1970, Camden hoped to redevelop the area into office accommodation. A deal was truck with Joe Levy, but before building was about to start, opposition to the plans began and ‘The Battle of Tolmers Square’ commenced. By 1973:
“The issue starts receiving considerable publicity. Squatters start moving into empty property. Camden Council approves the ‘Levy Deal’. Students from University College London survey the area. Claudius Offer (masterminded by Christopher Booker & Bennie Gray) presented to Camden Council. It still involves building offices but the profits would go to the Council. Tolmers Village Association (TVA) formed. Stop the Levy Deal campaign launched. Camden Council reject the Levy Deal.” (https://spitalfieldslife.com/2018/01/24/the-battle-of-tolmers-square/) .
Meanwhile, the old buildings in and around the square continued to deteriorate seriously. In 1979, Camden evicted the squatters from Tolmers Square, and its redevelopment as a primarily residential precinct commenced. This was completed by 1982, and is what can be seen today. Now, more than 40 years later, the trees and vegetation in the square have matured beautifully and the much fought over patch of real estate has become a delightful peaceful haven in a very busy part of north London.
The story of Tolmers Square and its escape from being transformed into characterless office blocks is a great example of ‘people’s power’.
Once when I was about 12 years old, an American, who claimed to be related to my mother, came to dinner at our family home in north London. I had the impression that my parents had no idea who he was. He brought with him a file filled with papers, which he looked at while we were eating. During dinner, he turned to my mother, and said:
“You know you are related to Dr Albert Einstein.”
My mother thought he was pulling her leg, but the event remained in my mind.
Several decades later, I was researching my family tree. One of my mother’s ancestors, her grandmother was Hedwig Ginsberg (née Rieser). Hedwig’s grandmother was one Sarah Rieser, whose maiden name was Sarah Einstein. When I spotted this, along with her dates of birth, marriage, and death, I contacted two leading Einstein genealogists. Both were certain that Sarah Einstein was a blood relative of the famous physicist Albert Einstein. To cut a long story short, my mother was Albert Einstein’s third cousin three times removed – a relative, but not a close one.
Some years later, I was looking into whether Albert Einstein had ever applied to Albania for a visa so that he could emigrate from Nazi Germany. As part of my enquiries, I contacted an Einstein archive in Israel, mentioning en passant the nature of my relationship with the great man.
I received an email that confirmed what I had suspected. Namely, that Einstein never approached Albania for a visa.
Then came a blow to my ego. The lady who wrote to me from Israel pointed out that at the very most I shared only 1% of my genes with those of Albert Einstein.
Still, even 1% of such a genius’s genetic material must be worth having! What do you think?
Classic cars his love
Taken from us by ill health
We will miss you Sean
While researching for an essay about STEVE BIKO, I consulted the diary I kept when I visited South Africa in August 2003. We spent a night in an old-fashioned hotel in the heart of the bleak Karoo. Here is what I wrote about it:
After the village of De Doorns, the Karoo begins: the countryside becomes emptier and emptier, trees become scarce, the ground is covered patchily with small round bushes. The country is desert-like, wild and also hilly.
After about an hour of driving through this empty, though very beautiful, landscape, we spotted the tiny settlement called Matjiesfontein.
This place, in the middle of nowhere, consists of one street, a 19th century grand hotel, the “Lord Milner”, a few cottages, other buildings, and a railway station on the main line from Cape Town to Jo’burg. When we arrived, we were fortunate to be there whilst the famous, luxury “Blue Train” was making a halt. It stops there for a couple of hours three times a week. To travel on this train, a sort of luxury liner on rails, one needs to part with R10, 000 (£880, about) per person. The train takes 3 days and 2 nights to get from Cape Town to Pretoria.
A building along the platform at Matjiesfontein station contains the Rawden Museum that contains a jumble of assorted items extending back to Victorian times. This includes a good selection of bedpans as well as a portable field toilet, housed in a mahogany case, complete with porcelain bowl and a flushing mechanism – an essential item for winning a war (i.e. the Anglo-Boer War). A particularly intriguing item was a portable chapel: it was like a suitcase, which opened up to reveal a folding crucifix, a lectern and a special space to keep a Bible. There were also a great number of Victorian clothes in various states of disintegration.
Near the Hotel there is a “Museum of Transport”, containing a collection of cars, some of which I remember as being new models in the 1960s. There is also some old railway rolling stock that can be entered by visitors.
We ate dinner in the Hotel’s dining room for which the dress code rule is ‘smart casual’. I took this to mean that a blazer would be required, Far from it, in South Africa, smart casual simply means: no shorts or sandals. In fact as the temperature was so low (near freezing point outside) many of the diners ate without removing their outer coats. The food, for which the hotel used to be well known, was indifferent but the wine was good.
After dinner we were shown around the private rooms, filled with antique furniture, of Lord Logan, who founded the Hotel. We slept in a cottage, which was, we were told, where the writer Olive Schreiner(1855-1920) used to stay when she visited Matjiesfontein.
The ceiling of the nave of St Cyprian’s church in London’s Clarence Gate is almost 50 feet above the floor. Three swathes of indigo dyed cotton are suspended from it, forming three, parallel, giant, parabolic loops. Each piece of cloth is 88.6 feet in length and together the three strips are 8.4 feet wide, each one separated from the other by a narrow gap.
St Cyprian’s is a gothic revival church built between 1901 and 1903. It was designed by Ninian Comper (1864–1960). It is a perfect example of Perpendicular Gothic architecture, and has a beautiful, intricately constructed, gilded rood screen.
The indigo dyed parabolic swathes of cloth are made with ‘gedog’, a cotton cloth made in Indonesia with cotton grown there and spun by women in East Java. Onto these loops, the Mongolian multidisciplinary artist and silversmith Nomin Zezegmaa (born in Berlin in 1992) has created circular white coloured batik patterns, which relate to, as a handout explained: “… the cosmology of the Javanese world and Mongolian shamanism.” Additionally, the swathes of cloth contain networks of embroidery, which is almost the same deep blue colour as the loops.
The artist commissioned other artworks that can be seen on both sides of the impressive cloth parabolas. These include mask-like copper sculptures created by a craftsman called Erdenebileg Byambatsogt, who also made 108 tiny bells arranged on thin threads that are, like the masks and the loops, suspended from the ceiling. On the floor of the church, there were several cloth mattresses filled with Mongolian wool.
I have described what can be seen of Zezegmaa’s artistic installation, The church is filled with the recorded sounds of Mongolian musicians and singers. Although it was difficult to hear them on the opening night of the exhibition because of visitors chatting, the artist’s idea was to create a Mongolian soundscape, In her introductory speech, she explained that in Mongolia, songs like those being heard in the church are used traditionally to communicate messages over long distances. However, as she pointed out, these songs are usually sung and heard in the wide, open spaces of Mongolia, but she found it interesting to hear them in the enclosed space of a church, whose acoustics are completely different to those of the great Mongolian outdoors. I hope to return to the church to hear the sounds on a day when there will be fewer visitors than on the opening evening.
Although the parabolic, cotton swathes are themselves intrinsically interesting from both visual and intellectual points of view, it is their setting in the beautiful space of St Cyprian’s church that transforms them from being merely attractive to becoming spectacular. Just as the church enhances the artwork, the artwork, in particular the indigo parabolas add to the viewer’s appreciation of Ninian Comper’s superb edifice.
The show “You Who Sing Into Existence”, which is sponsored by the Bagri Foundation, continues until 24 October 2026.
Apart from seeing work by a Mongolian artist, visiting her show brought home to me the fact that in addition to the inherent beauty of an artwork, one’s experience and appreciation of it can be influenced by its surroundings – the environment it which it is viewed.
Bhel is a savoury snack that originated as a refreshment which was (and still is) sold on the beaches of Bombay. It consists of ingredients always including puffed rice, raw vegetables (such as chopped onions and tomatoes), coriander, at least two chutneys (one sweet and another sour). Other ingredients are often added. These might include crushed puris or sev (thin crispy noodles), chillies, and chopped boiled potatoes. There are many variations of this dish which is both sweet and sour and always fresh tasting. All the ingredients are mixed, often stirred by the preparer’s hands. Because of this and the presence of raw vegetables, it is essential that bhel is prepared in a hygienic kitchen.
The bhel which I ate at the Ananda Bhavan in Pondicherry (south India) was prepared in its spotlessly clean kitchen, which can be seen by customers in the restaurant. It did not cause me to suffer any ill-effects.
A week or two later, when sitting in Kamat’s restaurant in Bangalore’s Commercial Street district, I spotted bhel on the menu, and could not resist ordering it. The kitchen at this place, where we have eaten often, always ordering freshly cooked dishes, is not visible to customers. As I was ordering the bhel, I began to wonder whether I had made a mistake. Nevertheless, I did not change my mind. I felt like a driver in a car without brakes heading towards the edge of a cliff at high speed. I imagined that it had been a mistake to order bhel in this restaurant, but when it came, I could not resist eating it. It was a very poor tasting version of this dish that I usually enjoy, and I should not have finished it. I spent the next couple of days consuming pills to treat diarrhoea.
Before relating this true story, the reader needs to know what I mean by a ‘minicab’. Long before Uber and similar companies began operating in London, minicabs came into existence. Despite their name, these cars are not usually small. They are, in effect, taxis that can be hired in advance by telephone, or, now, via the Internet, but not hailed on the street. Unlike regular taxis, whose fares are determined by a meter, minicab fares are usually agreed before the ride. Now for my story …
One evening some years ago, we wanted to travel from our home in Kensington to an address in northwest London. We hired a minicab from an office that used to exist near our home, but unusually we did not check the price before the journey.
The car had a radio/cassette player. I noticed that the music playing sounded as if it was popular music from Eastern Europe. I asked the driver about what was playing. He told me that it was music from Russia. I told him that I liked it.
After a few minutes, I asked him where he was from originally. He answered “Afghanistan”, but he said that he had lived in Russia for a few years before coming to London. He mentioned that he drove his minicab most evenings, and in the day time he ran his own shoe shop.
After about half an hour, we arrived at our destination, and parked outside their home. I said to the driver:
“How much do we owe you?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “You are my friend.”
“But, we must pay for the ride,” I said.
“No, nothing, my friend.”
Both my wife and I wondered what to do. We knew that the fare was usually £10. After about a minute, I had an idea. I turned to the drive, next to whom I was sitting, and, holding a £10 note, I said:
“Take this for your family. Buy your children a treat.”
He accepted the cash, and we bid him farewell.
After dinner, we rang the same minicab company, and ordered a cab to take us home. Once again, no fare was quoted. The driver of the cab who came to fetch us was also from Afghanistan. He was not as chatty as the first driver. When we reached our home, I asked him:
“What do we owe you?”
He answered:
“The same as you paid earlier.”
Now, as far as I am aware, he had no idea what we had paid earlier, but he was happy with the £10 I gave him.
These minicab trips occurred soon after I had finished reading an excellent book about Afghanistan, “An Unexpected Light” by Jason Elliot (published in 2007). In it, he described making purchases in rural Afghanistan. He wrote that prices are not displayed, and the purchaser must make an offer. If the offer is too low or to high, the customer gets laughed or otherwise subtly criticised. Remembering this, I felt that what both of our Afghan drivers were doing about the fare is what they would have done back in their country of origin, Afghanistan.
I have often walked past number 27 Berkeley Square in London’s Mayfair. I am usually on my way to or from the Gagosian Gallery just north of the square. Today, on my way to view some paintings by René Magritte on display at the Gagosian until 12 December 2026, I spotted something I had not noticed before. It was a commemorative plaque attached to number 27, which was constructed between 1821 and 1823.
The plaque commemorates the fact that number 27 Berkeley Square was once used as a hospital. A website that details former hospitals (https://ezitis.myzen.co.uk/27berkeleysq.html) provided plenty of information about this building that served as a hospital between 1916 and 1918.
On 1 March 1916, Mrs FW Salisbury-Jones opened an auxiliary hospital for convalescent officers in her home at 27 Berkeley Square. It was connected with Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital at Millbank and had 18 beds.
The website related:
“Mrs Salisbury-Jones was the Commandant and the nursing staff consisted of 2 trained nurses, and 12 full-time and 9 part-time members of a Voluntary Aid Detachment. The War Office later requested that accommodation be increased; the Hospital then had 22 beds.”
Mrs Salisbury-Jones’s neighbour, Mrs Asher, who lived at number 30:
“… allowed the two nurses to lodge in her house for the duration of the war, and even lent her butler to work as an orderly at the Hospital.”
The hospital closed in May 1919. By then, it had admitted 496 patients, of whom only one died.
The commemorative plaque reproduces the words on a certificate of gratitude issued by the War Office and is signed by Winston S Churchill.
Currently, the former hospital is privately owned and contains offices. If as the song goes, a nightingale sung in Berkeley Square, I wonder how many of the patients in the short-lived hospital heard it.
