Yossi's Gutmann's story and photographs of "My Father's Kitchen, Tel Aviv" appear in the Spring 2008 issue.

What is the history of your father and this house?

The three-story house was finished in 1925, the year my ninety-four-year-old father first arrived in Israel. Located next to the famous Carmel Market, the house is in the oldest part of Tel Aviv. Father lives on the top floor, across from the shop where he still works, every day, as a watchmaker. Like my father, the building is both tenacious and rickety. He's the last inhabitant. Pigeons occupy the other apartments now. But this skeleton of a once-great building has personality and, as long as my father is there, life. You can still see evidence of the building's noble pedigree--its cupola, rounded corner balconies, and the hand-painted tiles on all the floors. Listed as a historical monument on the UNESCO roster, the building can't be torn down. But it won't be renovated, either, because my father won't move out. He still has his contract from 1934. Eventually, I suppose, it'll be gutted, rebuilt--chic and expensive.

What was it like growing up in such an eclectic house?

Back then, everyone's doors were always open, welcoming. We were more like family than neighbors. The many apartments and families were all connected by a staircase in the backyard. At thirteen, I liked my neighbors more than my own family. I was already a musician at that age, but my parents wouldn't allow me to listen to music at home. I could always go to a neighbor's, though, to listen to records, as loud and as long as I liked. My own family's apartment was overcrowded. It was hard to be an individual there. Twelve people, all of whom had run for their lives to Israel, lived in that place--one kitchen, one toilet, one bathroom. Every other room in the apartment was used as a bedroom .No one had any money. One family alone couldn't have afforded such a place. But at least I had the other apartments to escape to. Today, the exterior staircase leading up to the other apartments is gone. At one point, recently, a thief fell down those stairs, and they collapsed beneath him. The city tore them down instead of repairing them. My father is happy, because now no one can break in.

What is the house like now, with only your father living in it?

Everything is collapsing, but whenever someone mentions renovation, my father only says, "The house isn't in such bad shape." So every year, the ceiling gets lower, because he puts up tongue-and-groove wood slats to keep the roof from falling on his head. From the outside you can even see the beams of the house, now that so much cement has fallen off. My father doesn't look at the bad side of things. If something actually collapses, then that's "bad shape." Otherwise, to him, the place is perfectly fine. Our apartment, inside and out, is layered with history, an accretion of frugal handmade solutions, all cobbled together. Father calls these his "patents." Nothing is ever removed. The iron poles on the windows were put up fifty-seven years ago to protect us children from falling out. The tape still clings to all our windows, there since 1942 when they feared the Italian bombs. Then there are the handmade shutters. To some people they may look shabby, but my father is proud of them. They are full of his personality. Those shutters hang there, cobbled together with wire, bent with age. They are cracking and brittle, but like my father, they're still there.