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| “Do
you want me here?” I ask, pointing to the setup. “Yes, exactly.” Herman dries off his hands with a paper towel and walks over to where I am standing. “Look, just relax, get into a pose that is comfortable, something you will be able to hold for a long time.” His voice doesn’t surprise me for the first time. He raises the stand in front of him to chest level with the move of a bolt. He unwraps a large lump of clay from its plastic covering. He dumps the entire piece of clay on the stand and begins to work at its stiffness. His movements reveal strong arm muscles. I watch the dance his muscles perform on the skin of his arm as he increases the speed of his strokes. “... So Rachel tells me you’re Jewish.” He says as he further accelerates the motions of his hands on the clay. He stops for a moment and removes his cap. Under it, his head is covered by a kipa. He reveals his kipa to me like policemen show their badges. It seems as if he is pointing to a trophy of some sort he has worked hard to receive. He is exposing the reason for his line of questioning. “Yes, I am.” I move the pillows aside, and sit on the flat surface of the stage. The soles of my feet are touching each other. I bend my back forward, bringing my head close to my feet. My hands grab my ankles. My triangular breasts are pointing towards my feet. I am bowing down. Not to Herman, to something greater. Since my head is in the diamond space formed by my legs, I can no longer see Herman. I can only feel his presence. “So, what is a nice Jewish girl like you doing modeling for artists?” I think to myself “How dare he assume that I am nice. This man doesn’t even know my name, but because I am Jewish he is so convinced he knows...” I realize I have not yet answered his question. I reply: “I don’t know if you can really call me Jewish. I don’t believe in God.” |
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