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my vision locks on my familiar ankles, Herman resumes his speech: “It
is the truthfulness of art that makes it brilliant, not the details.” I
hear him step away. I raise my head. Herman is walking towards
the shelf with the sculpture of me. He picks it up and then carries
it to the stand. He removes the plastic covering and I see something
of myself: the arch in my back, the little bun of hair on the back
of my head. I lower my head. Herman starts mumbling and measuring.
I feel his hand pointing to and fro, I sense his eyes dancing on
my body. He mumbles to himself: “Din...Tifereth...Hesed.” I
wonder whether this is a prayer or a sculpting technique. I remain
as still as I can. I hear the familiar sound of Herman’s
hands in dialogue with the clay. I look at my long, outgrown toenails.
I begin to think of how I’ve been neglecting my body since
Steven left, as if I took care of myself only for him. I treated
my body like his trophy. “Are you an Artist?” Herman asks, interrupting my thoughts. “No. I don’t know. I write in my journal everyday.” “Don’t discredit the art of writing. What do you write about?” He asks. “Sometimes my thoughts on the events of the prior day; sometimes stories that float into my mind. Yesterday I wrote a five-page letter to a friend that is traveling. But I really had no intentions of mailing it. I don’t even have his address. It was more for me than for him.” “The Kabbalah teaches that writing is the most magical act of creativity, superior to all other art forms. The books of the Kabbalah were written by real people, not God. In fact, some believe that writing is a Jewish form of meditation. Some Kabbalists explain that when they write their minds become a vehicle to something greater.” |
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