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| I
hear his hands struggling rapidly with the clay. I feel his eyes
looking at the back of my neck. “Well, do you believe you
have a soul?” He asks. I wait a few seconds. I try to come up with an answer that will break the argument he is about to construct. “I don’t know. I am really not sure if I have a soul or not.” I feel my breath hitting my feet as I speak. “Of course you have a soul.” He replies. “I would not have an interest in sculpting you if you didn’t have a soul. You would be a hollow person. And although you may not know it yet, your soul is a Jewish one.” I am ambivalent towards his assertion. I find his words condescending, but the comic tone in which he delivered them leaves me appeased. I remain still in my pose on the stage for two hours, every so often declining his suggestion for a break. I close my eyes. I remain silent and silent. I focus on the numbness developing in different parts of my body. I try to feel a soul inside me. Lesson Two: God is imperfect I walk straight down the hall to Herman’s studio. I enter. Herman is standing with hands dirty of clay setting up the sculpture he started the prior week. The piece is still very abstract and I cannot recognize myself in it. My eyes focus on Herman’s kipa. It is turned upward like a bowl on his head. It seems like it is hovering above his head. I laugh at the illusion my eyes are creating once I spot the hair clip on his head. The ‘floating’ kipa would definitely have fallen off his head if it were not attached. I taste comfort in the shower of light and great space I have just entered. We exchange hellos. I remove my clothing and assume the position I began the prior week. The stage is marked with little stickers outlining the pose. I fit into these markings perfectly. I am relieved to have my head low between my legs. I find the intensity of eye contact with Herman unbearable. |
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