In 2012
the Sabes JCC began a new venture,
a Jewish Artists' Lab. Originally
funded by the Covenant Foundation,
this salon is composed of
artists from many
disciplines. Each year we select a
topic and then meet twice a month
with facilitators to explore it
through many lens. At the end of
the year we have an exhibition and
performance. I joined the lab
during the first year and later
was asked to be its Resident
Writer, writing the blogon
our explorations. Below you will
find my work, both visual and
poetry, which addressed each topic
over the past years.
P2G
- Partners 2gether
In 2018 and 2019,
many of the lab artists also
participated in a program
sponsored by a group of
Jewish organizations both in
Minneapolis and Rehovot,
Israel. You can read more
about it at p2gx.com.
The
project was
designed to build
relationships
between American
artists and Israeli
artists. We
partnered with an Israeli
artist in the creation
of our work and our
exploration of the
topic.
Click
on the images below
to see the artwork,
related poetry and
read more about the
topic.
The Jewish
Artists' Lab
Year 7/8 - Muddy Waters
2018-2019 was a
year of re-framing the lab
concept. We met
periodically but did
not do a show. We resumed in
2019-2020 and six months
into it the pandemic forced
us to isolate. We pivoted to
meeting on-line and
discussed our new topic on
the environment. In
isolating I began to walk
regularly and found myself
paying closer attention to
the environment which
surrounded me. I had always
done figurative work focused
on people. Now I found
myself captivated by trees
as I explored themes of
deforestation and the
flooding caused by it. I
didn't stop at just one
painting, but did a series
on the environment which you
will find on this site. I
loved the idea of trees as
messengers of global
warming, much like the
prophets of old.
Year 9 - Brokenness and
Wholeness
2020-2021 was a
very unusual year as we
stayed in our homes and met
over Zoom. Walking became a
much more important part of
my life and it was in the
course of those walks that I
encountered my subject
matter for our theme. It all
came together metaphorically
as I observed burly trees
and ice melting, realizing
that much goes on beneath
the surface of what we
consider broken. In fact
brokenness opens us to new
pathways and is itself a
pathway through life that we
encounter over and over
again. It is in its
resolution that we move our
life forward with greater
understanding and insight.
Year 6 - Crossing the
Threshold
The
theme for 2017-2018 was
Crossing the Threshold and
grew out of our prior year
theme on boundaries. I began
to consider the thresholds I
have crossed throughout my
life and what it is to enter
a new space. Creating
requires us to cross
thresholds as we step into
the unknown. For me
moving into writing and
creating a book involved
many thresholds.
This piece became a
meditation on the act of
crossing thresholds and how
it often requires new skills
than those we may have used
in our career. There
is an attitude of openness,
a fluidity, that I had to
learn. The exhilaration of
mastering something new is
the reward we find by
venturing into that new
space.
Year 5 - Inside,
Outside: Boundaries and
Otherness
The
theme for 2016-2017 was an
appropriate one for the
year of the wall and the
travel ban. I have always
believed that the way we
define our community also
defines the boundaries of
our empathy. I anticipated
doing something in that
vein, but ended up doing a
detour into the concept of
liminality and personal
boundaries.
I was
intrigued with how we
cross personal boundaries
to find transformation.
When we leave the familiar
to venture into the
unknown it is a difficult
time. That first time we
say we are an artist or a
writer, it feels like a
masquerade. In time it
becomes who we are. I used
the metaphor of a
caterpillar to a butterfly
and through a triptych
design allowed the viewer
to step into the
chrysalis.
Year 4 - Echoes: Voices of
Wisdom
The
theme for 2015-2016 was
one of my favorites and I
knew early what my focus
would be. In the
prior year my mother had
died and I was now engaged
in going through her home,
disposing of years of
memories. My mother was a
wise woman who observed
the world from a kind and
gentle heart.
As I went through the
house I was looking for
traces of her
essence. What I
found became the basis for
my piece on wisdom.
In the lab we explored the
Pirkei Avot, Ethics of the
Fathers, a book that
offers much wisdom.
I thought of the wisdom
offered by the mothers
which I think is equally
powerful and often
neglected.
Year 3 - Water
In
2014-15 our theme was
Water. We explored
the teachings in Judaism
of Bal Tashchit, which
speaks to our obligation
not to be wasteful lest we
damage God's
creation. We
examined the role of water
both in Biblical times and
today and our
responsibility to preserve
it.
My interest lay in a
more metaphoric approach,
the linkage of water and
memory as reflected in our
language. As I was
working on a
series related
to the loss of memory, I
explored the relationship
between flooding and
remembering, creation and
identity. Unable to
confine myself to just one
painting I did a diptych
titled Flood
of Memories.
Year 1 -
Text-Context-Subtext
In
2013 I began to
participate in theJewish
Artists’
Laboratory,
an
arts initiative
through the Sabes
Jewish Community
Center (Sabes
JCC). The first
year explored the
theme of
Text/Context/Subtext
through discussion
and art. During
the first year
I wrote
about the lab
in my personal
blog.
At
the conclusion
of the lab we
had an
exhibition
at the Tychman
Shapiro
Gallery. My
piece,
also found in
Dvora's Story,
explored the
story of a
friend who is
a survivor of
the Holocaust
juxtaposed
with the story
of the Binding
of Isaac. It
takes it in
some
unexpected
directions.
As is
typical of my
work, my artworkembeds
story.Apoemconnected the story within the artwork
to the text
that we
discussed.
Year 2 - Light
In year 2 we addressed a new
theme,
Light.
We also had a
new project in
addition to
the final
exhibition,
a sketchbook
exchange
across the
three
cities.
Each artist
started a
sketchbook on
some topic
related to
light, then
sent it on to
another artist
for their
contribution.
And
one more
addition...I
was asked to
serve as
Resident
Writer and
maintain a
dedicated blogfor
the lab on our
discussions. I continued with the Holocaust
stories of my
friend Dvora,
again
incorporatingpoetrywhich
spoke to both
Holocaust
experiences
and loss of
vision.
I then
developed artwork around one of the poems.
P2G
- Partners 2gether
click on the
images to see the
painting
and learn the
story behind it.
The first year
coincided with
the 70th
anniversary of
the State of
Israel so the
theme, Israel@70:
Yesterday,
Today and
Tomorrow, explored
Israel through
a variety of
texts and
conversations.We
grappled with
questions that
forced us to
examine our
attitudes and
understanding
of Israel and
one
another. Over video chat, we
discussed this
multi-faceted
theme with our
Israeli
partner in
Rehovot and
then each
created
artwork. The
work was shown
in both
Minnesota and
Israel.
The theme of the
2018-2019 year was Judaism,
Art and Science interwoven
and the approach was
Re-Art as we responded to
our partner's work and
created new work out of that
response. The Twin
Cities are a center for
many companies grounded
in science and Rehovot
is home to the Weizmann
Institute, a
world-renown center for
science.
Six
photographers
and graphic
designers
kicked it off,
but alums from
the prior year
also
participated.
We
each did a piece of
artwork on the theme
and then responded to
our partner's work
with a second creation
that picked up on
elements from their
work.
The Story
Brokenness and Wholeness
The Lab theme
in 2020-2021 was
brokenness and
wholeness, This was
a perfect topic
for a time in
which our world
had collectively
suffered a break
because of Covid.
For many it had
tragic
consequences, but
all of us
experienced a
break in our usual
routine and way of
living. We felt
the threat of
illness and the
loss of physical
contact with
friends and
family. We had to
find new ways of
being and for many
of us that meant a
lot more walking
in our
neighborhood. I
was no exception.
I have been finding many
metaphors in nature,
noticing more as walking
became a much more regular
part of my routine. I was
drawn to imagery related to
brokenness, but there was a
subtext. Beneath that
brokenness something was
happening, a mending, an
exploration. Brokenness had
opened up something new. My
painting The Burly Tree,
along with its video, grew
out of a tree I encountered
covered with unusual
growths, burls that I
learned result from injury
to the tree. It explores how
when a traditional pathway
fails, the response to
brokenness is a winding
exploration of
alternative paths. I began to think
of the path of the burl as
a life path, hitting walls
and redirecting, much as
we do throughout our life.
I was also intrigued with
an image of ice cracking
as water flowed beneath
it. It clearly epitomized
breakage, but it also
seemed to be reawakening
as spring emerged from
winter. I did a painting
of the image, but also
took a video.
Later in
the video Reawakening -
Pulsation of Life, I
incorporated my painting,
a photo and a video of ice
breaking up into shards
coupled with the pulse of
that rebirth as ice shards
melt and life reemerges,
much as the seasons turn,
so does our life.
Brokenness and wholeness
ebb and flow throughout
our life. Often brokenness
opens doorways we might
not have found otherwise.
Video was a new direction
that is still a bit of an
experiment, still based in
artwork, but exploring a
new dimension. And of
course it is hard for me
to restrict myself to just
one artwork so I created
five artworks along the
way as well as the videos.
You can read more about my
process in my blog on Unfolding
where you
will see my path in
artwork.
This painting is
based on one of the oldest
trees in the world. It is
found in California and is
4700 years old.The
tree is aptly called
Methuselah.The
biblical Methuselah was the
grandfather of Noah and
together with Noah acted as
a messenger to the world of
the impending flood, much as
the current day Methuselah
announces the presence of
climate change.
The bristle cone pine is a
twisted and gnarly tree that
grows in difficult
climates. Its age is
determined through taking a
core sample from it
and examining the rings
under a microscope. The
science is known as
Dendrochronology which means
tree time, hence the name of
the painting. I think an
awareness of different time
scales, tree time vs human
time, reminds us that
we bear a responsibility to
the world that extends
beyond our lifespan.The tree
rings reveal changes in
climate, rain, drought,
volcanic activity and frost.
When I painted this, I
wanted something that would
represent the role of this
tree in witnessing,
recording and revealing the
history of our earth. I
decided to paint tree rings
behind it, emphasizing the
linearity of both the tree
and the rings.
This piece became a reflection
on my experience in crossing
thresholds. It is scary,
exhilarating and surprising. I
re-purposed a canvas on which
I had begun a painting of
eggshells. Each attempt
to cross a threshold builds on
past efforts, repurposing our
very self to stretch into
something new. Eggshells
represent newness, an entry
into the world, a fragility
that conjures up the
uncertainty that accompanies
newness. Real eggshells trail
behind me as I step out of my
shell and into the unknown,
through the Dalet.*
Each door casts a shadow, the
fear and uncertainty that
accompanies change, yet also a
glow, the satisfaction I find
each time I pass through
change and am transformed. In
my world of thresholds, doors
jut out at odd angles and
exist on multiple levels, my
path anything but linear. More
like a Rube Goldberg
contraption, a road map I
could never anticipate. I
don’t always cross a threshold
in a traditional way,
sometimes I go over or around,
finding my own path around the
rules that govern entry. All
of this exists in a fluid
space as I must learn to let
go and relax to find
transformation. When I find
that internal flow, I create a
space for beshert, fate.
Surprising opportunities and
connections arise, things I
cannot plan or force, only
invite in. All I can do is
take that first step, relax
into it, welcome the unknown
and hang on for the ride.
*the fourth Hebrew letter,
meaning door
Entering the Dalet
24"x30" Mixed Media
Poetry
Buoyant
Eggshells trail in my wake,
Fearful and tentative,
I step
into the shadow of
uncertainty.
The broad crossbeam
Of the Dalet
Juts overhead.
Air whooshes around me
Falling,
Flailing,
I land with a thud
Sliding as I cling to the
edges with fingertips
Grasping for the familiar
To slow,
My descent.
Rube Goldberg my guide,
On this unpredictable journey.
Doors surround me
Unexpected thresholds await
Beckoning me into
Beshert
I am exhilarated at my
survival
Adrift in a sea of chance,
I am buoyant with amazement.
The
Story Inside-Outside:
Boundaries and Otherness
Throughout
our lifetime, we
face challenges and
upheaval. When
change enters our
life, we are forced
into the discomfort
of liminal space.
Liminal means
threshold. It is the
space between
boundaries where the
old rules no longer
apply, the new yet
to be mastered. It
is an
anthropological term
marking rites of
passage. Liminal
space is where we
face the unknown, it
is a place of
change, discomfort
and ultimately
transformation.
The crossing of
boundaries into
liminal space is a
concept found
throughout Judaism,
honored through
ritual. A mezuzah
marks our entry into
a home. The
Havdallah marks the
end of Shabbat. Our
holidays recognize
the passage, not
just the arrival or
exit. We count the
Omer between
Passover and
Shavuot, readying
ourselves to accept
the Torah, and what
could be more
liminal than 40
years in the desert?
One of the
ultimate liminal
beings, a metaphor
unfolding before our
eyes, is a
butterfly. But
it is not an easy
road. First that
caterpillar must
shed his skin,
destroying his being
to begin anew. It is
through imagination
that this
transformation
occurs, actually
“imaginal discs”,
the cells that house
the wings of his
future self. What
both we and our
budding butterfly
need is already
hidden deep within.
This piece is about
stepping into the
chrysalis, that
cauldron of change,
where we strip
ourselves down to
become someone new,
drawing on qualities
hidden within us.
The
chrysalis is a home
for growth and
transformation. The
doors of this
chrysalis open, much
like an ark. Within
are housed the seeds
of this mysterious
transformation and
the hidden wings
that prepare us for
the future.
Did you know,
That caterpillars digest
themselves?
Dissolving their very
being
In this torturous act of
growth.
Seeking change,
Shedding skin.
A caterpillar soup
Of which Creation comes,
But first, Destruction,
We boil ourselves down
to essence,
A stew of anxiety and
worry
Of what comes next,
Accompanies us
into our chrysalis,
Our private dressing
chamber
Where we shed our skin,
open our being,
Tiny wings tucked
within,
you would never know by
looking,
Legs and wings,
Antennae yet to form,
Spun from discs of
imagination,
Gold spots glimmer
On our new home,
A tiny mezuzah
A Flash of
Orange
I crawl out on my
liminal limb,
Testing its sturdiness
For support,
Testing my new wet
wings,
Gently wobbling in the
breeze,
More used to crawling
than flight.
I cling to my branch
tightly
With six new feet.
I used to have sixteen
To keep me firmly
grounded,
The world feels more
tenuous,
Less anchored,
Still wet behind the
wings,
I flap them once,
Again,
away
in a flash of vibrant
orange.
Stepping
into the Chrysalis
triptych 36'X48', Acrylic on
canvas and board
Five years
ago, I drove to a lab
retreat in Madison with
two friends from the lab.
The road trip became an
important part of the trip
as we explored along the
way. We decided to
continue that experience
and have done a road trip
in each of the years
since. This year we
decided to do something
consistent with our theme
and headed to Wisconsin to
see outsider art. The
following poem speaks to
our experience. Click to
read more on the road
trip and see pictures
of some of the places
it references.
My
mother was the
wisest person
I knew. She
was a searcher
with a
curiosity
about the
world, open to
wisdom from
many quarters,
a teacher who
carried her
wisdom in a
kind and
gentle heart.
When she died,
I felt the
world shift.
As I
went through
her home
disposing of
belongings, I
realized I was
looking for
something of
her essence.
I found
it in a file
titled Notes
on Books Read.
In it she had
excerpts from
books on many
disciplines,
science,
history,
novels and
Jewish texts
such as the
Talmud, and
the Pirkei
Avot, Ethics
of the
Fathers. If
something
spoke to her
she wrote it
down and many
excerpts
related to
finding
meaning in
life, facing
fears and
making good
use of our
time in this
world.
We had
often talked
about books
and as I
perused this
file I felt as
if I was
having one
more of our
many
conversations.
I used the
apple as a
metaphor for
seeking wisdom
starting with
that first
bite of the
apple by Eve.
I soon
discovered
that apples
often were a
metaphor for
preparing for
God’s law.
Rabbinic
literature
talks of how
the time from
the first
blossoming
until the
ripening of
the fruit is
fifty days, as
was the time
from the
Exodus to the
giving of the
Law on Sinai.
The title of
the painting
is drawn from
a quote from
Wally Lamb
that I found
in my mother’s
file – “The
evidence of
God exists in
the roundness
of things.”
A book lies
open over a
branch, its
pages swirling
out into the
world.
On its cover
is the title
Pirkei Imahot,
Ethics of the
Mothers. No
such book
exists in
print. The
wisdom of
mothers is
often passed
down by
example and as
oral
tradition. I
believe it is
one of the
most powerful
sources of
wisdom.
Read
more in my blog about the development of this piece.
The
Roundness of Things
30" x24" Mixed Media on Canvas
The Story
Water
My inspiration for this
diptych came from a quote
by Toni Morrison.
"You know they
straightened out the
Mississippi River in
places... Occasionally
the river floods these
places. "Floods" is the
word they use, but in
fact it is not flooding;
it is remembering.
Remembering where it
used to be. All water
has a perfect memory and
is forever trying to get
back to where it was."
Water is often used as a
metaphor for memory. We
speak of waves and floods
of memory. Of memories
submerged or bubbling
up.
In the beginning God's
breath hovered
over the
water. Then
God divides
the water into
sky and sea,
then land from
water. The
creation of
the world has
to
do with
differentiation. A
flood signifies a
returning of water to
land, a remembering of
its origin. The sky
offers its rains that
roil the waters and
overtake the land,
joining firmament,
ocean and land into
its original whole.
This
artwork examines the
parallels between memory
and flooding, identity and
creation. My work on
memory explores the
persistence of identity
that also develops out of
differentiation, an echo
of the creation story. We
are this, not that. Even
as memory flees, we
continue to seek the
familiar boundaries of our
one-time identity just as
does the river when it
floods.
Faces became my symbol for
identity. You will
note there are two faces
hidden in the lower
painting representing the
returning to our original
boundaries of
identity. The
painting above created a
face carved out of land
floating in a sea of
memories.
My
friend, a survivor
of the
Shoah, noted
that during the
Holocaust,
darkness often
represented safety
whereas light
meant exposure and
danger. She
recalled the smoke
from the
crematorium and
how it spit fire
into the night
sky, tingeing it
red. I pictured
this as thick and
as heavy as the
plague of
darkness. By
contrast she
recalled a
different moment
when they arrived
at a camp.
It was the eve of
her 21st birthday
when they stepped
from a boxcar into
a pine
forest. She
recalled the
midnight blue of
the night sky
studded with stars
and the trees
dusted with
snow. That
vision of beauty
represented hope
in a world which
offered little.
I refer to the
aleph of one's
face in the
poetry. In the
painting I use the
aleph to represent
stars and sparks
of souls
escaping. In
the lab we learned
of how Rabbi
Naftali Horowitz
looked to the
letter aleph which
represents the
name of God and
noted that it
echoes the form of
our face. If we
disassemble it we
see two yuds and a
vav, two eyes and
a nose,
figuratively
holding God before
us in our own
face, a divine
light surrounding
each of us.
My
friend has since
lost her sight,
but tells me she
sees in her mind's
eye. Light
juxtaposed with
the literal
darkness in which
she now lives,
became a topic
that I explored
through poetry.
On the Eve
of Your 21st
Birthday
Light was often
your enemy,
Furnaces spewed
fire
In the night
As souls escaped
In final release.
Darkness your
friend.
You flattened
yourself
against the wall
of the darkened
stairwell
Safe from the
probing tongues of
bayonets.
And sometimes hope
emerged
Hidden in the
guise of darkness.
On the eve of your
twenty-first
birthday
You stepped from a
boxcar,
A sky of midnight
blue,
Stars shining
against its
darkness,
Evergreens dusted
with snow
Bent to bestow
their blessing.
A message
almost missed,
Hidden neath
the weight of
the
insignificant
Lay my muse.
Ah, but fate
persists,
A second try
from closer
quarter
And
gratefully, we
connect.
An odd
connection
this,
A familiar
persistence
and energy,
I recognize
myself in
different
guise.
Eighty-five
years ago
our families
greeted,
in the
cold crisp
morning
Of our
ancestral
town.
Now full
circle
We greet each
other
Beshert,
A blessing of
fate.
The
Aleph of Your
Mother's Face
I had known
you six months
when we
returned
to the Polish
streets
of your
childhood.
Your inner eye
charted our
course.
Unerringly you
guided us
Around the
town you left
Seventy years
before.
It was there
Your vision of
your life
upended,
Not sure if
there was even
life to
vision,
As German
soldiers
Took your
town.
You never
looked them in
the face,
Like a child
you looked
away
Hoping to hide
from their
view.
Through those
darkest of
times,
A light shone.
Through the
aleph
of your
mother's face,
You found
hope.
She held
an unwavering
vision
of you,
Your face,
Always before
her,
A persistent
flame of hope.
Her child
would survive.
You sustained
her
And she you.
Shielding
each other's
light
From those
who would
douse it.
After the war,
A once warm
community
destroyed
Return
impossible,
And so
a revision,
A life
re-imagined.
In a new
country
Brother,
father,
husband
Gather round
the kitchen
table,
Planning a
future.
So much more
than many,
Yet so many
lost.
Ten cousins
for whom
you now speak.
A life
re-imagined
A new vision
Built on
memories and
hope.
Surprising
Sight
Shrouded in
darkness,
Never seeing
what lies in
front,
The aleph of a
face
Closed to you.
You find your
light
elsewhere,
That of an
enlightened
mind
Burning
brightly.
No mere
flicker,
It is an
insistent
flame.
You are forced
to find your
sight
in the
peripheral,
The sideways
glance,
Surprising
unsuspecting
Sight.
Often
surprising me,
as well.
You can use
those? you
ask,
As I grasp the
chopsticks.
You can see
those?
I reply.
What do you
see? I ask.
What does it
look like?
SQUINT,
Squint until
you can barely
see.
I close my
eyes,
eyelashes
flutter.
Graying the
world into
flickers
Like an old
celluloid
film.
Can you see my
face?
No, I have
never seen
your face.
I move to your
side.
Now, can you
see me?
Not clearly,
And yet,
you see me
better than
most,
who I am,
You recognize
the core of
me.
Thirty years
ago you knew
that
Sight was
fleeting,
A gradual
loss,
Each year
worse
Than the one
before.
The year you
stopped
driving,
A watershed.
An independent
woman
In need of
others.
You despaired,
Unable to
re-imagine
yet one more
time,
Chaffing at
the losses.
How does one
live when your
world changes
in every
conceivable
way.
Where is the
light
when there is
only darkness?
But after
despair came
light,
A new vision
Of life
without
vision.
Your inner
light burns
brightly,
A tape player
like a
cornerstone
On which you
build this new
edifice.
Reading
regained
Through ears,
not eyes.
You take it
all in,
Stoking your
light
Til it roars
like a
furnace,
Talmud by
telephone,
Translation by
magnification
Embraced by
family
And friends,
drawn
to your light.
In
the Artists' Lab we talked
of the Binding of Isaac and
found little resolution in
this story where God
commands Abraham to
sacrifice his child.
We talked of the negative
space, the sparseness of the
story that offers little as
to the emotional state of
our protagonists. That
space allows each of us to
project our emotion from our
own experience, everyone
once a child, perhaps a
parent.
The following week I got
together with my
friend who is a
survivor of the Shoah and
has told me many of her
stories of that time.
We had talked of me painting
some of her stories and she
reminded me of that
discussion. I began to
paint one of the most vivid
of her stories, the death
march from Auschwitz towards
Bergen-Belsen, a march that
she did with her mother who
was by her side throughout
the war and in the camps.
They were given three things
at the outset, a blanket, a
can with a picture of a
chicken and bread. The
cans soon littered the road
as they had no way to open
them. The blankets
hung like nooses around
their necks. If you sat down
to rest, you received a
bullet in the back of the
head. After two ten hour
days of walking, Dvora asked
a guard when they were going
to stop. He motioned
to a village ahead.
When they continued forward
after reaching the village,
Dvora exhausted, prepared to
sit down despite the
consequence.
Her
mother tried to dissuade
her unsuccessfully and
finally responded, "All
right, we'll sit down
together" to which Dvora
replied, "Not
you!!" In
that moment came the
realization that their
lives were bound
together and they
continued on.
As I
painted, I realized the
many parallels with the
story we had discussed in
the Lab. Each
contains a parent-child
relationship, a journey,
the threat of impending
death, a sacrifice
proposed, but not enacted
and three things which
they carried. I
found myself thinking of
the Binding of Isaac as
representing the
inextricable bond
between a parent and
child.
Perhaps I have merely
recast a story which is
difficult to understand
into one which while still
one of high drama, is more
comprehensible. Or
perhaps one story sheds
light on aspects of the
other in a more
metaphorical sense, to
sacrifice one is in fact
to sacrifice the other, to
give oneself fully, for
Abraham and Isaac as well
as for Dvora and her
mother.
The accompanying
poem began with a series of
questions to my friend Dvora.What
was the weather like?
Where did you sleep? What did you
feel?I began to craft the story
from her responses and then refined
it into
an alternating and often
parallel structure between Isaac and
Abraham and Dvora and her mother
told in the
voices of Isaac and
Dvora. When juxtaposed,
the two stories present different
views of sacrifice and the bond
between a parent and child.
We Walk
Together by Susan Weinberg
We
walk
together,
My mother and I.
We always walked
together,
In the labor camp,
In Auschwitz,
Always my mother
by my side,
My protector,
My sustenance
And I, hers.
We walk
together.
My father and I,
I, the child of
his old age,
I know his love
well.
But now his heart
seems heavy.
Silence drapes us.
Mt Moriah, our
destination.
Three things we
carry,
The wood,
the flint
and the knife.
We left Auschwitz
yesterday.
They gave us three
things,
A blanket,
A can
with a picture of
a chicken,
And bread.
Cans soon littered
the road,
A cruel joke,
Contents locked
within
With no means to
escape,
The blanket, a
noose around the
neck,
First on one
shoulder, then the
other.
To falter or pause
is deadly,
Greeted by a
bullet
in the back of the
head.
Soon bodies litter
the road.
We hold the bread
tightly,
Grasping life,
A slim chance of
survival
amongst a world of
death.
We walk together,
My father and I,
To the foot of the
mountain.
Wait for us he
says
To our two men.
We will go to pray
And return to you.
A man of faith my
father,
A man of faith.
We
walk together
My
mother and I,
A
day we walked,
for
ten hours.
At
night we slept
in a barn.
Our
heads rested
on our wet
shoes
Lest
they disappear
in the night.
Sharing
a blanket
between us,
As
snow coated
the ground
And
cold froze our
limbs.
Today
we walk again.
Now
dusk settles
over our
tracks
And
exhaustion
weighs
heavy.
(continued
in next
column)
(continued)
My
father binds me
And
places me on the
wood.
My
father
who
always protects
me from harm.
He
looks at me
tenderly
And
I see his hand
tremble
As
he lifts the
knife.
And
his eyes inquire
to the heavens
I
venture to ask
When will we
stop?
The
guard motions
ahead
The
lights of a
village beckon,
Relief as the
distance closes.
But
Anguish seizes
me
as
we continue past
"He
lied to me," I
cry out.
All
my weariness
descends
in
that moment of
betrayal
"I
want to sit down
I
want to sit
down"
A
bullet unseen
This misery
ended
I
hold that
thought in my
hands
And my grasp
on life
loosens.
They try to
dissuade me
My mother and
the women
They still
cling to life
Even now, even
now
"I want to sit
down,
I want
to sit down"
Quietly
my mother
replies,
"All right,
We'll
sit down
together."
'Not you," I
cry,
"Me!"
Even as I say
the words
I
know the
impossibility
He
releases me to
life
My
father.
Rubs my wrists
between his
large hands
Until feeling
returns,
Takes a ram
caught in the
thicket
And
makes a
sacrifice to
God.
She
releases me to
life
My
mother
In
sacrifice
proposed
She
nurtures life
Gives me
strength and
Warms me with
her love
Always by my
side.
And
we walk on
together
Bound together
Inextricably
bound
we
walk on
together.
My partner
and I agreed to
represent the
significance of the
passage "Loving
peace, but knowing
how to defend," from
the Declaration of
the State of Israel.
This captures the
delicate balance
between vision and
reality. In this
work the vision of
peace is expressed
through a strand of
DNA enclosing a
quote from Isaiah
2:4 (nation shall
not lift up sword
against nation) and
speaking to God's
call for us to
"choose life"
(Deuteronomy 30:19).
The flying bird is
drawn from the first
postage stamp with
the name of Israel
and represents the
birth of the new
nation. Contrasted
with the vision of
church, synagogue
and mosque, all
peacefully
co-existing is the
line at the
checkpoint, awaiting
passage. The
checkpoint sits atop
a rocky promontory
constructed of
crushed egg shells,
representing the
lives lost in the
Shoah and the
rebuilding upon that
base of a new life
in the State of
Israel, albeit, an
ever-vigilant
existence focused on
security.
I
often begin a project with
research. In my
explorations I ran across
a book called Judaism,
Physics and God by
Rabbi David Nelson in
which he explored
scientific concepts as
metaphors for Judaism. It
was there that I learned
about fractals, a
discovery by the Jewish
mathematician Benoit
Mandelbrot. Fractals can
be defined by mathematical
equations and explain
things that have
complexity and variation
that can’t be captured by
the simplified forms of
Euclidean geometry. They
are reflected in nature
and in the human body. One
fractal formula addresses
branching found in
lightening, rivers and
trees. In the human body
you find them in the
bronchi of the lungs, the
blood vessels and nervous
system. Fractals allow for
the study of such diverse
ideas as the growth of
bacteria, traffic patterns
and the stock market,
concepts that often appear
irregular and
unpredictable, but have an
order and logic of their
own.
To capture this idea, I
explored the idea of
fractals in clouds, rivers
and trees. In the clouds
you will find a passage
from Genesis that reads
"Let us make man in our
image after our likeness."
I am intrigued with the
way the universe has an
internal logic that is
repeating and reflected
throughout many forms,
from trees and clouds to
the human body. I am also
drawn to the idea that
what appears random and
chaotic many not actually
be.
I began with a Star of
David angled into space, the
background for this exploration.
My partner’s work contained
scientific discoveries, so I
pulled up a lengthy list of
discoveries by Jews. I collaged in
images of nuclear chain reactions,
quantum mechanics, computer
technology, and the polio vaccine.
I noted that there were many
discoveries related to the heart
such as defibrillators,
pacemakers, even the application
of electrocardiography. Jews
expended a lot of energy on
keeping the heart beating. The
Torah looks to the heart as the
seat of wisdom with over 900
mentions. I placed a heart in the
middle of the star with
defibrillators on either side, the
beating heart of Judaism, ready
for a jolt if necessary.
In my partner’s
work, two tall figures pointed
smaller figures in opposite
directions. I had once read The
Great Escape by Kati Marton
about nine Budapest Jews, many of
them scientists, who carried their
scientific knowledge with them as
they escaped Hungary during WWII.
The figures reminded me of those
Jewish refugee scientists. I
multiplied them and collaged them
moving out from the star in
opposite directions, imagining
them carrying their knowledge
around the world. Jews are often
the canary in the coal mine, so I
perched a canary on the star. The
heartbeat of Judaism represents
the safety of otherness in our
world. The EKG beats a path at the
bottom of the painting, blank at
the end, the future. Where does it
lead us?