As a child, I would watch my mother light the Shabbos candles. Dad was in Shul, mom glowed yellow from the candle light; all seemed peaceful, safe and magical.
I don’t think the world fully understood the scale of European Jewry’s suffering during WW2 until the death camps were liberated in 1945. I was a child growing up in the Bronx, and would hear the sad stories my parents whispered to each other. Dad struggled to earn a living driving a taxi. We were eight children. And when my brother, two years older than me died of a brain tumour, the wailing in our house was constant and haunting. I suppose it is since those early years that I have equated being Jewish with suffering. Climbing stairs to get to Heaven Is not at all hard for me to imagine. There are no elevators, no escalators. Just lots and lots of stairs.
When I attended Shul as a young boy, and the Torah was carried up and down the aisles, congregants anxiously crowded around, reaching out to touch the Torah with their Tallises, Siddurim, and hands. Dad had briefed us on the dos and don’t you dare of proper Torah kissing: I held the corner of my Tallis, Tsitsis included, between my thumb and index finger. I reached out and gently touched the Sefer Torah with it, then brought the Tallis back to my lips for a kiss. Or we could do the same with the edge of a prayer book. Planting our lips directly upon the velvet covering of the Torah was not an option for us. Dad seemed always concerned that we kids would somehow manage to embarrass him. I don’t believe we ever did.
Our Orthodox Shul was a strict, no nonsense, boring environment for me as a child. Dad would not tolerate any shenanigans like: laughing, talking, fidgeting, giggling, etc. What would have happened, I am wondering now, if a beachball had suddenly fallen into a congregant’s lap? Would it have been slapped back into the air? Would uproarious laughter have ensued among the worshippers? Of course not. The thought, however, brings a devilish grin to my face.
Through my art I am hoping to understand my Jewishness and my life. What do I believe. What is real, and does it really matter. In this drawing, the Tallis acts as a parachute, carrying the faithful aloft on the currents of the wind. Has the falling figure lost faith?
As a child, I would watch my mother light the Shabbos candles. Dad was in Shul, mom glowed yellow from the candle light; all seemed peaceful, safe and magical.
I don’t think the world fully understood the scale of European Jewry’s suffering during WW2 until the death camps were liberated in 1945. I was a child growing up in the Bronx, and would hear the sad stories my parents whispered to each other. Dad struggled to earn a living driving a taxi. We were eight children. And when my brother, two years older than me died of a brain tumour, the wailing in our house was constant and haunting. I suppose it is since those early years that I have equated being Jewish with suffering. Climbing stairs to get to Heaven Is not at all hard for me to imagine. There are no elevators, no escalators. Just lots and lots of stairs.
When I attended Shul as a young boy, and the Torah was carried up and down the aisles, congregants anxiously crowded around, reaching out to touch the Torah with their Tallises, Siddurim, and hands. Dad had briefed us on the dos and don’t you dare of proper Torah kissing: I held the corner of my Tallis, Tsitsis included, between my thumb and index finger. I reached out and gently touched the Sefer Torah with it, then brought the Tallis back to my lips for a kiss. Or we could do the same with the edge of a prayer book. Planting our lips directly upon the velvet covering of the Torah was not an option for us. Dad seemed always concerned that we kids would somehow manage to embarrass him. I don’t believe we ever did.
Our Orthodox Shul was a strict, no nonsense, boring environment for me as a child. Dad would not tolerate any shenanigans like: laughing, talking, fidgeting, giggling, etc. What would have happened, I am wondering now, if a beachball had suddenly fallen into a congregant’s lap? Would it have been slapped back into the air? Would uproarious laughter have ensued among the worshippers? Of course not. The thought, however, brings a devilish grin to my face.
Through my art I am hoping to understand my Jewishness and my life. What do I believe. What is real, and does it really matter. In this drawing, the Tallis acts as a parachute, carrying the faithful aloft on the currents of the wind. Has the falling figure lost faith?