For more than four decades, cultural presenter Orly Beigel Halpern has built a career defined not only by extraordinary artists, but by conviction, resilience and an unwavering belief in music’s power to connect people, histories and worlds. From a student room in Jerusalem to the stages of Mexico, Russia and beyond, her story is as remarkable as the artists she has championed. She shares her story with Florian Riem
You have an extraordinary family story, which in many ways has shaped the work you do. Could you start from the beginning?
My name is Orly Beigel Halpern – Beigel from my father, Halpern from my mother. In Mexico we use both family names, and for me it is very important that my mother’s name is always present.
I was born in Mexico, but my parents were from Poland. They both ended up in Palestine, as it was called back then, though their journeys getting there could not have been more different.
My father was sent there after my grandfather had a premonition in 1933 that the whole family would be burned alive. After spending some time in Tel Aviv, my father saw the possibilities, and the whole Beigel family followed, and survived.
My mother was not so lucky. She was the youngest of 10 children, born into a very poor but deeply religious family. During the war, she was deported to Bergen-Belsen – the camp where Anne Frank died. She survived, and after the war, she too made her way to Tel Aviv, which is where my parents met.
How did they end up in Mexico?
After my parents married and had my sister and brother, my mother – whose surviving relatives were living in Mexico – longed for a quieter, easier life after everything she had gone through. So they emigrated to Mexico, where I was born.
I grew up fully Mexican, but I was always drawn to Israel. At 17 I visited for the first time, and a year later I decided to move there, where I remained for 18 years.
How did a young Mexican in Jerusalem become a leading impresario in Mexico?
In a way, the profession found me; I did not go looking for it. When I was in Jerusalem in the ’70s and early ’80s, Latin America was marked by dictatorships, and many artists were living in exile. One of them was Mercedes Sosa, whom I adored.
At that time, Latin American artists were not coming to Israel. When I showed my Israeli friends my Mercedes Sosa records, they would inevitably ask, “Why doesn’t she come here?” And I would reply – half joking, half as a promise – “Alright. I will bring her.”
The truth is, I was not a promoter and knew nothing about the business. What I did know was that I loved music, cinema and art. My mother, whose life was profoundly shaped by the Holocaust, loved opera passionately, so I grew up surrounded by music. When I told my friends I would bring Mercedes, I felt I had made a commitment – first and foremost to myself.
There was no email or WhatsApp – only telephones and telex. Through a chain of contacts, I found Mercedes’ address and wrote to her. She was hesitant for political reasons, but when I explained that Israel had given asylum to those fleeing Latin American dictatorships, she agreed.
Then I panicked. A major Israeli promoter took on the production, and I risked what little I had: I gave him the papers of my only car as a guarantee. He booked three concerts in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, and we sold out. He made a great deal of money, and I “made” Mercedes Sosa happen. That was 1980.
In 1983, when I heard he was planning to bring her back, I called Mercedes and said, “I risked my car for you!” She replied, “But you are not a promoter.” I answered, “Of course I am – from today!” That time, I brought her myself. We sold out six concerts, and that marked the official beginning of my career.
I always say: Mercedes opened the door. She told the Latin American artists, “Go with Orly.” From there, I began opening the market in Israel for Latin American singers, and later for Greek artists such as Mikis Theodorakis and George Dalaras.
Was there a moment when you realised this was no longer a one-off adventure, but your life’s work?
Yes. At some point I decided the next step had to be Soviet artists – first in Israel and later in Mexico – at a time when there were no diplomatic relations. In the early ’80s I went to Prague. Everything still felt very grey – this was before perestroika – and I remember sitting alone in a tiny, dark hotel room wondering what I was doing there.
I met the people from Laterna Magika and the Black Light Theatre. They told me, “Let the Soviets go first, then we’ll come.” That completely depressed me.
Sitting alone in that little room, I decided to call someone in Moscow. I found the number of the Mexican Embassy and explained who I was, asking if they could help me bring Soviet artists to Israel. The response was not especially welcoming, but when I joked, “At least you understand me,” the woman on the line said something extraordinary: they were looking for a promoter in Mexico, and she would invite me to come. She was very brave – she had no idea if I was simply unusual or completely crazy.
That invitation opened the door to the Soviet classical world. I began bringing major orchestras and artists, including the Leningrad Symphony Orchestra and the USSR State Symphony, and eventually I brought Lazar Berman, first with an orchestra and later in recital.
I travelled constantly to Moscow and Leningrad. As a Mexican citizen officially invited by Gosconcert, I was not checked very thoroughly. Families in Israel, who had lost contact with relatives in the Soviet Union for years, gave me letters, which I carried in my suitcase, connecting mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters. It was very emotional.
After concerts, musicians would sometimes approach me on the bus and whisper in Russian, “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” And I would say, “Da, da.”
I will never forget meeting the Leningrad Symphony at the airport: 130 musicians, 260 bags – but no proper suitcases, just these big sacks. The tour coordinator, Nina, looked at me and asked, “Where is the impresario?” She couldn’t believe that this young woman was in charge. After 10 soldout concerts in Mexico, she believed me.
Later, when perestroika started, another chapter began. I helped open the market in Moscow for Western pop and crossover artists. The first three major international acts I brought to Russia were the Gipsy Kings, Tom Jones and Liza Minnelli, performing at Russia Hall and at the Kremlin.
I’m still very proud of that, even though the Liza Minnelli project proved far more complicated.
At some point you settled in Mexico again. How did that change your career?
After spending eight years in the United States, Mexico eventually called me back. In retrospect, it was a very important step for my life and for my career.
In Israel, the market is relatively small, sponsorship is limited, and most major classical artists are presented exclusively by the Israel Philharmonic. In Mexico, I found the space to build something of my own: festivals, tours and long-term artistic relationships. I had strong support from festivals and from the National Institute of Fine Arts (INBA). That is where my work with major soloists and orchestras truly took off.
It has now been more than 40 years since I organised my first Mercedes Sosa concerts. Sometimes I look at the wall of photographs in my office and still find it hard to believe that from a small student room in Jerusalem I ended up working with all these giants.
Among the many “giants”, you often mention Mstislav Rostropovich as a turning point.
Rostropovich was my big opening in Mexico for major classical soloists. A colleague, Valentin Proczynski – a prominent European promoter – told me that Rostropovich would be in Seville playing the Bach Suites. “You have 15 minutes backstage,” he said. “Come and convince him.” So I flew to Seville.
After the concert, Valentin took me into his dressing room, and I spent 10 minutes talking to Rostropovich and invited him to Mexico. “Mexico is not of interest to me,” he replied. That was it. We thanked him and began to leave.
But standing at the door, I realised I still had five minutes left. So I turned back and told him how deeply admired he was in Mexico, and how sad it would be if audiences in Latin America were denied the chance to hear him live.
He looked at me and asked me how many concerts I wanted. I told him four and he agreed immediately, and Valentin signed the contract on the spot. With Rostropovich came credibility. From there, I was able to work with artists including Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman and Maxim Vengerov, among others. Many of them were from the Russian or Jewish tradition, yes, but that was not the point – I simply wanted the best.
Another deep artistic and personal relationship in your life was with Jessye Norman.
Jessye was one of the greatest voices of the 20th century, and she ended up becoming a close friend. For four years I tried to invite her to Mexico through her agency in the United States, and each time the answer was no – a reminder of how those surrounding an artist can sometimes make our lives as promoters much more difficult than they need to be.
Eventually, a friend working at the Grammys in Los Angeles agreed to deliver a letter on my behalf. Jessye read it and said something unforgettable: “Finally, an invitation to Mexico!” It became clear that she had no idea of my repeated invitations, believing no one was inviting her.
When she finally came to Mexico, I was warned not to speak to her too much, which made me nervous. When I first met her – so tall and majestic, like a queen, with her turban – I felt intimidated. During the limousine ride, we sat in silence, each of us quietly observing the other. When the ice eventually broke, she asked why I had barely spoken. I told her honestly that I had been advised not to. That was the beginning of our relationship.
After her first concerts, I still addressed her as “Ms Norman”. One day she smiled and said, “Call me Jessye.” That is when I knew I had found a place in her heart. Later, she invited me to spend Christmas at her home, which was an extraordinary honour.
We shared many projects, including recital tours in Japan with Kajimoto Concert Management in 2001. Thanks to her, I witnessed Pollini performing in Tokyo and saw firsthand the extraordinary effect Jessye had on audiences.
You mentioned earlier some of your largescale projects. Tell us about Nunca Más (Never Again), which you call your “masterpiece”.
Nunca Más – A Concert for Life is probably the project that is closest to my soul. It was created in 2006 for the 60th anniversary of the end of the Holocaust, and it took me a year to build from scratch.
It was not simply about presenting a great soloist or an orchestra, but about creating an entire artistic world centred on memory and survival, combining a large orchestra and choir with film projections and testimonies of a Holocaust survivor, both on screen and on stage in person.
The programme brought together artists including Philip Glass, Giora Feidman, Laurie Anderson, Ute Lemper, Shlomo Mintz and Denyce Graves – all woven into one concept.
I gave each artist a book: Songs Never Silenced, which was a collection of Yiddish songs written and composed by people who were murdered in the Holocaust. When I gave that book to Ute Lemper, I told her how much I hoped she might one day create a programme based on it. Years later, she did exactly that in Berlin with SONGS FOR ETERNITY, a project that went on to form the basis of a documentary about her life and artistic journey.
Let’s talk more about Ute Lemper. This is another friendship that has been very important to you.
Our story is very special. A festival in Mexico City invited me to bring Ute Lemper to perform at Bellas Artes. Before her arrival, I had written her a letter, though I did not give it to her until the second day.
In that letter I tried to express something deeply personal: when I began my career, I had promised myself I would never present an artist from the country that had sought to extinguish my people and nearly taken my mother’s life. But knowing who Ute was, and what she represented, it felt not only appropriate, but an honour to call myself her promoter in Mexico.
We both cried reading it. What followed was a long and profoundly moving conversation, one that connected us in a way that went far beyond any professional relationship.
For more than 25 years now, we have continued to work together, and she became an essential part of projects such as Nunca Más. When the Berlin documentary connected to Songs Never Silenced was filmed, she invited me to Germany to participate.
I had never set foot in Germany and had decided I would never go. But Ute insisted, saying she would take care of me and met me at the airport.
We travelled together, eventually visiting Bergen-Belsen, where we found the location of the barracks in which my mother had been imprisoned. To stand there, and to keep my mother’s memory alive through art, is something for which I will always be grateful.
That journey brought us even closer. Ute is one of my dearest friends, and ours remains a very real relationship, even if not always an easy one – I am not an easy person.
Beyond these artists, your career spans an enormous range: jazz, alternative, classical, festivals…
I think of myself as a cultural presenter rather than solely a classical promoter. Over the years, I’ve organised major jazz festivals in Cancún and Puerto Vallarta, working with artists such as Ray Charles, Al Jarreau and the Manhattan Transfer, among many others. I’ve also presented ensembles and creators who move between genres, including the Kronos Quartet, Angelique Kidjo, Laurie Anderson and Philip Glass – artists who resist easy categorisation.
In Mexico, I rarely present mainstream pop, as the market is highly monopolised. Internationally, however, I have worked in the pop world, including projects in the Soviet Union and Israel, where I once presented Stevie Wonder.
Before all of this, I lived many lives: I was a competitive volleyball player, a model, a broadcaster and even a writer. In many ways, those earlier chapters continue to shape the work I do today.
If you had to summarise your philosophy after four decades in this profession, how would you put it?
I believe in the power of music. This work has enriched my life, my soul and my heart. Coming from a family marked by darkness and survival, I have always tried to build something luminous through art. Above all, I want to connect people: artists and audiences, and countries that were enemies, past and present.
I am grateful for the artists who trusted me, and for the friendships that grew from those collaborations. And I am grateful that from a tiny room in Jerusalem, with a seemingly impossible promise to bring Mercedes Sosa to Israel, I was able to build a lifetime shaped by music.
To listen to SONGS FOR ETERNITY,
visit utelemper.com/repertoire/eternity
