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Archive for the month “February, 2016”

Moving to Canada

Just last week I read that Frank Gehry was seriously considering returning to Canada after years in California. He’s in his 80’s and his anguish must be pretty intense if he is thinking that he might leave this beautiful climate for the cold north. But people always say that: “Oh, I’ll move to Canada”- and in the last two weeks, friends have insisted that if Trump is elected, they’ll pack their bags and hightail it out. 

During the Vietnam war in the 60’s, we actually got our slew of draft dodgers. I was at university and there were protests,meet- ins, teach-ins, demonstrations, marchs, musical emissaries and Timothy Leary and pacifists all uniting against their government’s actions. Most recall potently the use of Napalm, attention elicited primarily by the naked child Kim Phuc who ran screaming through the streets. She was sadly the terrible precursor of Alan Kurdi, the Syrian child washed up on Turkey’s shore after fleeing with his family for his life. The light of the disenfranchised recalled for me,None is Too Many, the Abella- Troper book that chronicled the fate of holocaust victims not allowed to our shores. Images in both written but printed formats stick, provoke, shame and induce the public to put pressure on governmental policies. So frustrated by policy and terror, some victims eventually arrive here, motivated by preserving limb and life. But I truly wonder if those threatening migration will actually take the next step; or is it merely idle jib jab to verbally take a stand. 

(Strangely enough, I chatted with a woman yesterday who told me that fearful of radiation thirty or so years ago, she, young and determined, left for New Zealand, but returned years later to the states. Maybe the 60’s were the years of the zealots.!)

 Watching Borgen, Denmark’s answer to  an intelligent television series, we observe how deals among countries are made. The fictional character Birgitte Nyborg is likely based on Denmark’s first female prime minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt,although Thorning-Schmidt had not been elected until after the second series of Borgen. Adam Price, the creator of the series, stated, “I definitely want [ viewers] to believe there is a shred of idealism in Birgitte Nyborg that is real”.( Wikepedia) Although Nyborg possesses strong moral incentives, she learns what to trade or what incentives she wants to promote as representative of her Moderates party. She discovers the dirty little secrets, the huge mismanagement of funds, the soft spots of countries and their powerful politicos.. 

I do believe she acts for the best interests of Denmark ( in the show) in demonstrating fairness, thoughtfulness and increasing savvy, exploring, probingand heeding the voices in her country and outside of it. At great cost to her personal life, she dedicates herself to a job,her success due in large part to an image fostered in the news and television. Of course, it is fiction but the series makes us long for the lofty intentions and inspiring acts of a Roosevelt with his new deals or a Kennedy with his establishing The Peace Corps. ( 1961). And although much is created in the media for the candidates in any race towards influence, we long to believe that behind the façade there is substance :that the person in the glossies is more: better, smarter, kinder, more thoughtful and has gathered the crowds and re- instituted a belief that society can be  and should be good. 

Yet unfortunately, we are downcast and as Philip Roth once quipped of one of his literary characters,“ Beneath the surface was only more surface” in political hopefuls.

We hope for investigative and critical news journalists, uncoverers of the truth such as Katrine Fonsmark in Borgen, to dialogue with those who aspire to the highest throne in the land. In the real world, I miss Tim Russert from Meet the Press who really knew how to dig deep beneath the persona of his guests. 

Incurable my harangue today goes to Donald Trump. I scoffed because I recalled Toronto’s crack- smoking , bigoted mayor Rob Ford who was once a fat guy in a non-descript raincoat hanging around the parking lot in a plaza where my husband first indicated that that that guy was running for election. I guffawed. He won. So anything is possible in our world of sideshow mirrors. 

Huffington Post rightly posted Trump in entertainment. Then they recanted saying, 

“Back in July, we announced our decision to put our coverage of Trump’s presidential campaign in our Entertainment section instead of our Politics section. ‘Our reason is simple, ‘wrote Ryan Grim and Danny Shea. ‘Trump’s campaign is a sideshow.’ 

Since then Trump’s campaign has certainly lived up to that billing… it’s also morphed into something else: an ugly and dangerous force in American politics. So we will no longer be covering his campaign in Entertainment. But that’s not to say we’ll be treating it as if it were a normal campaign. 

Our decision in July was made because we refused to go along with the idea, based simply on poll numbers, that Trump’s candidacy was actually a serious and good faith effort to present ideas on how best to govern the country.” 

How do we fathom the television showman whose lack of knowledge, experience and credibility has garnered support? How can we support media that did not immediately cut off his personal attacks on Rosie O’ Donnell at an early Republican debate or refuse to debate in the GOP Iowa caucus? Although some might not see a connection with the right to bear arms in America, I see it as part of the same fabric: of those petulant grown up children who use freedom of this or that for their private disregard of the safety and fair play to others. 

Certainly free speech should not embrace and allow the hateful harangues of spewing hideous garbage  from the mouths of candidates. That the news industry permitted and has provided time and platform for Trump’s antics is inexcusable. 

But that he continues to grow support, most recently in Nevada, makes no sense and should shame all citizens who support his buffoonery. Tragically, the other candidates are no better.A recent article by Margaret Wente in the The Globe and Mail discussed this uneviable state, opining that Hilary Clinton, a manipulate and deceitful politician, must be the victor. 

Here in Canada, especially after watching terrified at the possible candidates who are in the US. race, we must, at least, appreciate Justin Trudeau, for his impetus towards making our world safer.He is young, not an intellectual like his father, but fumbling, learning, in a way that we can respect. 

I’m afraid that moving to Canada is not a possibility for those disenchanted with American politics. And I worry that the disenfranchised can somehow imagine that the likes of Trump will create a better world for them. It is as Alice once fretted, “ it is curious and curiouser. “

And truly terrifying. 

Tripping the Life Fantastic

We never cease to feel that we have been given a gift by my mother now two years dead. Even today as I silently fret about the too hot hot weather when my friends and family are shivering at -17 and worse in Toronto. Partly it is the lustrous colour of the sky, not quite the cerulean clarity of Venice, but a clear and lustrous blue, that wraps around my vistas. Here I view the sky through the dappled trees that recall the sidewalks of The Impressionists, so I enjoy turning my head upwards.

And the flowers. Outside our condo , the magenta Bougainvillea welcome every day. Along the path towards our door, huge fans of fringed palms frame our entrance, and at the side white flowers that recall for me the shape of Canterbury bells. The condo and its grounds establish my oasis .  

Not just overlaiden with my sweet memories of LA when I was an adolescent, San Diego too recalls family trips to the world renown zoo when the town was the site of mainly military operations. Still we have made the place our home and our own,endowing the walls with photographs and paintings we love. We laugh to reflect on our home in Toronto where rooms stood empty for years and where Howard painted the walls a shocking pink when he had the time. I think our first real purchase back then was a rug woven in somewhere distant -and eventually piece by piece, we furnished the room: the place of honour given to a huge painting we purchased in Australia and made me cry, evoking some primal emotion by its shapes and textures. Although it was an Aboriginal work that included mandalas, the feet of the artist’s child, hedgehogs and straw bags, it worked much as a Hans Hoffman abstraction, the colour black popping out as foreground, the reversal of what might be expected. It arrived in a wobbly crate barely held together by dangling hinges, somehow magically surviving the arduous trip. Funny how something can touch you so deeply.Maybe it is as Duchamp reflected on an implicit memory that triggers a narrative from within although I had no words for the feelings that emerged from me. 

Our room at home holds small secrets as does our San Diego habitat. A painting of a Muskokoa landscape Howard commissioned for one of my milestone birthdays presents three separate but adjacent trees moving to the hum of the winds. To me they represent my three wonderful and so different children. Here too on a walk in Solana Beach at Fletchers Cove,I gathered a trio of flat distinctly differently marked flat stones. I arranged them at the foot of a tiny Buddha who sits on a platform of brightly coloured Mexican tiles that surround photos of my grandchildren. Like a tiny altar, I pay tribute to my children who have along with their father fostered my growth in unexpected and unintended ways. 

Today I hobble to the store because again I have tripped. Yesterday at Mission Beach. My one knee is permanently purple from its meeting with the ground. Last summer,at a vineyard wedding, I lost my footing on a hillock. Blushing with anger and embarrassment, I quickly popped back up, hoping that those with their tinkling champagne glasses were more focused on cascading flowers entwined in boughs than a tumbling mature lady. But a thoughtful guest came by to express that she had never seen anyone tumble so elegantly.That comment eased me back into the gay mood of the event and fortunately for me, I did not tear my pink dress from Thailand nor dirty my silver heels from Spain.  

Only my burning knee now surrounded by torn layers of coloured skin spoke to the fall. Sometimes I do worry about my balance except for the fact that even as a young girl and a teen, I would appear at our store, always with scraped, bruised and bloodied knees, having daydreamed and tripped on the way home from dreary school days many many times as I unsuccessfully navigated curbs en route home.. Even my sister recalls my return from a grade 12 exam wherein I burst through the store door, crazily crying, my black tights in shreds, seeping and gushing rivulets of blood trickling and gushing from the holes newly created in my foot’s folly. In my self congratulatory mood of praising my responses to the history exam, I stopped short to revisit the exam question in my head and realized I had answered the question on the Stuarts not the Tudors! Awakened from my heady reverie of an A exam, I fell hard to earth, pride and hubris at the heart of my tumble, broken in both body and spirt. 

At Mission Beach , the walkway is varied and slightly rocky, much as if the ground had been creased and pleated and so I once again lose my footing. As I began to trip, I tried to straighten myself, feeling I was in deed regaining my upright stature,balancing and righting my position.. But in a second I perceived I could not do it, my innate lopsided senses seeking their own points of reference. And so once more-flesh meets hard concrete . 

So it goes with me. If I cast my eyes to the ground to observe the undulating surface I encounter a pole, a tree, a door. Should I gaze straight ahead, my feet tangle with the unevenness of the street. So it is a conundrum for one so awkward in connection with the pavements beneath because truly my paths exist somewhere deep in my heads, or imagination, truly unconnected with my wobbling feet. 

The result this time are badly crusted medallions on both knees but worse yet, a leg that refuses to bend. And so each day I ice and re- ice, elevate, walk for brief amounts of time and eventually and slowly attempt to extend the knee’s angle a few degrees. I am angry to miss my yoga and Pilates classes as I cannot transition from floor to standing without support . I am humbled to think of my father and his polio because he could not stand or move at all without his crutches, every dip in the walkways, every uneven sidewalk a possible invitation to a fall- from which he might not be able to regain his mobility. For me, it is a week or so, for him, it was a life sentence after the age of 28. It is as they say, half full or half empty glasses. So we/I should not complain.   

The sun is back out and the variety of greenery draws my eyes as I drink my coffee and my mind rests. 

Maybe wearing knee pads is the answer.

Letting in Other Voices

I’ve always been a fiction girl. From my early days with B is for Betsy, Babar and the Ramona books, many suggested by the lovely librarian at West Prep, but also fostered by my mother reading to me at night. Over the years, I dabbled in a limited way with the odd mystery a few biographies, certainly with journal articles for work related research, but truly I was never too interested in sci- fi, self- help, New Age. I suppose that is keeping with my concept of myself as meat and potatoes in which everything is compartmentalized and sits on the plate not touching, to be eaten in a specific sequence.

Not that I am a total slave to routines. In fact I find them boring. And what is wonderful about my Pilates classes here and at home : they are variations on a theme so that the instructor never repeats him/herself in what exercises or areas of the body are targeted. The element of surprise works to alienate the tedium of the same gongs of the bell and makes it lively – at least for me, themes that relate but do not disrupt the whole.  

But this year my reading list has varied. Stimulated by a friend who had read Niall Ferguson’s biographies,almost 1000 pages each, I decided to plunge into Part One of the Rothschilds. I think the way historical books are presently written has changed over time. Not dry or dull in spite of an objective narration, details of context are included to enliven the writing and make sense of the actions and words of the people. Perhaps this was always so, but having never indulged in this genre, I cannot say. Although I do know that there has been a shift from the heroes and conquerors to the victims, particularly in school texts. And that is a very good thing.  

Ferguson, author of the recent Kissinger and many other biographies, wields a light hand. Afraid The Rothschilds would be hampered ( for me) in the heaviness of financial dealings which must be part of the story as it is essential to the family’s amassing of their immense power and fortune,I was delighted to discover the narrative very interesting, highlighted by the descriptions of Jewish oppression in Europe: from early days on the Judengasses in Stuttgart and the airless unsanitary conditions to defaming cartoons in France that insultingly targeted not just Jews but Scots and Brits. Context is often everything. 

Ferguson also includes the family’s subjugation of women in the family, to be without money or any inheritance, because they were women. Paradoxically for me, the manipulation and build up of the Rothschilds’ fortunes felt somewhat convoluted as the support of governments, the “ rentes”, the stocks, the mergers were grand and sweepingly explained: to my liking, yet leaving me with only a sense of their machinations. Typically we cannot have it both ways, too much detail leaves us confused and bored; and not enough causes us to desire a deeper comprehension. But yes, I read and enjoyed my first 1000 pages.  

Similarly I immersed myself in Mark Epstein’s The Trauma of Everyday Life. (See It is a very readable book that moves among three voices. There is the author’s own warm, friendly probing stance as he investigates himself, relating his personal progress in order to make sense of his own aloneness and difference; there are the stories or accessible tales, exemplars or guides from the life of the Buddha; and finally Epstein the therapist, connecting his own medical background as a psychiatrist to Buddhism. References to other standout theorists and influential gurus are thoughtfully entwined, primarily , the work of Donald Winnicott on the essential relationship of the mother to the child.  

Much resonates- in terms of treating oneself lovingly as in the mother- child paradigm. And although I concur with importance, wisdom, support and unrelenting love of the duo, Epstein builds his argument on the death of Buddha’s mother seven days after his birth, locating much if not all Buddha’s search on this deprivation- in spite of a second wife/ mother stepping in to most likely to shower , nurture and love the child. It is distressing to all parents and adopted children to imagine, it is only the biological mother who can rear the child in security. That this connection is so innate, that the search might propel a child on his/ her journey of relational knowing is distressing. This recalls for me a recent Margaret Wente column in the Globe where she told her readers it is not necessary to read to your kids because their in- born intelligence will dictate their futures- in spite of whatever doting parents do. 

Epstein recalls an old diagram from medical school of arrows connecting the world with the receiver, as we make the world through our perceptions. Our knowing it, creates it. He explains as well that more than the actual trauma, is our relation to the event. I reflected too on Epstein’s two- prolonged approach to compassion: that we should forgive ourselves our troubling behaviours from the past; along with the compassion we might understand of the present day self who is still struggling with those tormenting narratives. His description of Jack Kornfield’s Vietnam’s nightmares illuminated the possibility of meditation’s healing. From this example, I comprehended that we really do not/ should not just live in the present , that we consolidate past traumas into the present day and allow them to co- exist with the good, bad and ugly: all grist for contemplation. They are part of who we are, and they can foster a new experience that need not retraumatize when those miseries resurface. In this way, Kornfield could remember the blue skies and warm beaches of Vietnam, before the atrocities he had witnessed. 

I realized from reading the book that my initial understanding of letting go of the past constitutes only part of Mindfulness. Epstein iterates that we must go “through”our traumas in order to emerge from them, that emotions are not to be cut off, but examined as part of the process, that the focus on breathing in Mindfulness training is a place to focus in order to separate ego and disaffected or repressed parts of self. We should be able to stand outside of ourselves tenderly looking inward. 

Eventually I will read John Kabot Zinn’s Full Catastrophe Living. But for now Epstein’s book is a gentle touchstone towards the topic. Not preachy or overloaded with medical terms and most importantly, the tone is warm and somewhat searching in itself as he grapples with his own anxieties. 

But again it is the voice , not the old omniscient know-all that speaks down to the reader. Epstein, although knowledgeable, does not laud with scholarly information but offers his own probings as he makes those connections among the personal, historical and medical. He is the best of teachers who is able to awaken in his readers ( patients) those bridges that make sense of narratives, that strive for the insight: the epiphany of the Ah- ha moment, when life is rearranged freshly. Like a good piece of art, the work will speak to diverse viewers in multiple ways.  

Critics say that about Sol Lewitt’s constructions and that is the reason I am a fan of the Abstract Impressions. You can intuit the pain in Mark Rothko’s paintings, layer upon layer of resonating reds, for example. Morris Louis’s paint that sinks into an unprimed canvas and runs in rivulets off the page or Jackson Pollock’s mounding pebbles and lumps of paint that can enclose you into a moment.You must look deeply, be open to the conversation,piercing ( going through perhaps) the canvas to generate something of yourself to yourself. And if you can go far enough, something new and unknown or unfelt may appear. I was interested to read Epstein’s reference to Marcel Duchamp in which Duchamp refers to the deep implicit relationship of a work of art that can make meaning to the viewer through their own personal narrative. 

As I sit doing my 10 minute body scan meditations every morning after coffee, my meta- brain is still floundering en route to witness whatever disassociated everyday traumas I am hoping to disclose to myself. Letting other voices in such as Ferguson and Epstein’s has extended my thinking beyond fiction, these narratives involving the personal to make facts and theories come alive. 

But Alas, at heart, I must confess that I am still that girl who revels in fiction.Having just finished Fates and Furies, I am looking forward to Franzen’s Purity.

Thinking about the stories behind the pictures

Here in San Diego, I chanced upon an exhibit at the Jacobs Family Community Centre and was drawn to the stories behind the paintings.

The Stories Behind the Pictures. 

Walk into the JCC and you pass a room with colourful pictures. Because I paint and write, I peek in and discover it is an exhibit based on the artists’ connection to their faith, Judaism: Things We Pass Down.

Drawn by colour and shape , I enter and my eyes catches fabric, object, paint, texture..But there is, as well, a mood, a somber feeling pervading the premise. It’s not as if this is great art, but somehow these pieces have reached out and combined as a melody or a chant of something past and beautiful.
At the entrance there is a welcoming piece by Judy Mandel, a trunk overflowing with shoes, candlesticks, a hat and teapot. Immediately, notions of the diaspora, exile, fleeing quickly, packing up, the search for home and what we cherish is established. These are themes we connect with our history: they have marked us with longing. Here the application of paint, the quality of drawing or even the composition is not the story; however the pictures invite us in to explore the inspiration behind these offerings. 
Usually I scorn the small cards that hold provenance and provide information behind paintings displayed in art galleries, for people wind up reading, not looking, not perceiving the connection between themselves and the work of art. But the back stories of each artist here enhance the motifs of tradition, learning, Torah with personal reflections that support the art. 
With Dennis Ellman, the topic is obvious: old bearded man, obviously religious. One of his sextet entitled” Joy “ displays an acrobat reminiscent of Marc Chagall . A brief biography relates that the bearded man is the painter’s grandfather who accompanied him to the Russian Orthodox shul in Venice. Shown contemplatively fingering his lush beard, the dignified old fellow is framed by the luminance of stained glass. The affection for the zaida is clear as we imagine how the grandfather has bequeathed his love of prayer and Torah to his devoted kinder. My mind recalls my husband’s story of a small synagogue in Hamilton, Ontario where his grandfather hoisted him up on the bema and told him to dance and the old men drank schnapps after service, laughing together. 
Similarly when I notice a cooking pot on a pedestal here,I think immediately of DuChamp’s Readymades or Claus Oldenburg’s hamburgers: ordinary objects set apart from their everyday contexts, and I ponder “ cooking pot ?” . Actually the lemons on the wal had lured me further into this exhibit. But again it is the sweet story of longing by Judith Shufro that touches me deeply. She recalls her mother, Frances’ food: borscht, stuffed cabbage, sweet and sour soup. And the pot presented once transported cholent in a hat box to New York for the artist. I recall the narratives of women in Theresienstadt in book entitled Memory’s Kitchen: a Kegacy from the women of Terezin who cobbled bits of paper together in order to jot down recipes as a way to endure their tortures in the camp, able to endure by holding on to fragrant memories of happier times surrounded by their loved ones at table .
I think too of Eva Hoffman’s Lost in Translation and her story as an immigrant from Poland. Americanized so she would fit better into school life, her name is changed. For Hoffman,a new language alienates her from her early identity:, her childhood lessons at the piano, her rambles on leafy streets in her first home with her friends. She longed to re- embrace that divided self and spent much of her life searching for the alienated little girl who grew up and experienced life in another language. Maybe it is this pot too that stirs my own remembrances of my mother’s roasted chicken with carrots and potatoes tucked under its edges every Friday night that gives me pause, a solitary object that holds so much more than soup. The dreams of tantalizing smells that return us to the days of love and comfort plunge us back to a secure childhood.
Lenore Simon has assembled fragments of past lives into collages. Papers, photographs, documents are carefully cut and arranged yet few overlap as one might expect in this art form. 
Similarly Deborah Amerling also creates collages but hers overlays with paper, objects such as red ribbons and painted symbols of the Evil Eye that recall for me Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg who interwove real materials into their work . Amerling laments how life is changing, regretting that traditions and rituals are being lost. Even though, once all of her friends understood” Kenahora Pu, Pu( the name of one of her collages) she worries that the sound of Yiddish, the funny little sayings passed down from our bubbles will not survive. I understand her well, and conclude that the collage of individual bits are an apt form for her longing, a fine metaphor for the search for connecting past and present as she seeks to convey to her children the treasured morsels from her own days of growing up Jewish. Not wanting to make religion an artifact that has no life, we desire at the same time to ensure the traditions we ourselves loved as children continue as meaningful into the future.

The most interesting work for me as an art reviewer is Janet Lazerow’s who calls herself a “narrative artist. “ Her biography continues that she is interested “ in the dynamics playing out among characters…” The I’ m New Here, Could You Fill Me In?reveals Eve and the serpent against an energetic background,freshly sparkling from its creation by G-d. Thickly composed of acrylic and metallic mica, nature glistens and pulsates with life so that everything shakes and moves. Even the roots of the trees fresh from the act of creation visibly tremble, perhaps foreshadowing how Eve will tremble when she transgresses. At the same time in the same place , wind, rain, and sun wonder- fully coexist. The landscape is one song, all melodies combining in its shining magnificent gleaming lustre. Eve and the serpent stand out against the dazzling backdrop, her hands on her hips, all ready wondering,Which path? What direction? Will you be my friend?: all the questions of the new arrival . Yet we too tremble as we know the outcome of this story.
Lazerow’s story continues in A Low Long Thing that suggests feminist underpinnings. The composition is strong as Eve appears to be in conversation or dispute with the serpent. Again the luminous background is alive and shimmering. Here the repetition of curvilinear forms in Eve’s arm is answered in the shape of the snake’s body. They are held taut in a broken circle.Lazerow thoughtfully continues her explanation behind her work, that her paintings extend “ visual interpretations to the verbal river of Torah commentary”. In Rib, Eve is surrounded , a bit perplexed by Adam’s flying ribs, she at the eye of the hurricane. As in the strongest of paintings, there is a quality that works beyond the literal and the viewer can relate to any “ newcomer”, perhaps aware of lessons from the past, but determining their own journey in a diverse context. Artistically Lazerow also suggests other artistic genres: icons, Fauvism, her flatness, her colour application, the way Eve’s body extends the canvas into our space as viewers. The question might be who is this Eve and where will she wander?
Ronni Jolles’ A Moment to Remember offers a sweet commentary. His small illustration of the unrolled Torah that stretches from today way into the past of the hills of Judea exudes a vision that connects both backward and forward . The artist expresses this idea also physically by layering with papers as if building a bridge from the days of our ancestors to contemporary society. That the work is a compilation of papers gathered from around the world enhances the meaning. The precision of the technique and drawing evokes days of my working on an illuminated manuscript from Stuttgart, burnishing gold leaf, grinding colours,, smoothing the curl of parchment so the preparation and execution relied as much on the materials as replicating the ideas.
But once again it is the presence of real objects, beautiful woven prayer shawls or tallits in magenta and purples by Jacqueline Jacobs that conveys a starkness of beauty as they sit out of context – far from the warmth of the shoulders of the wearer. I think of my elder daughter’s bat mitzvah class, her fashioning a prayer shawl the blue colour of a bird’s egg in spring.. And my mind lingers on my father’s silver tarnished Kiddish cup polished and set out for Elijahu each Passover, even after he was gone.
Like Shufro’s mother’s precious pot, away from the humans who used it, the object feels lonely and sad. Purposely raised to the level of objets d’art in this exhibit, viewing the pot and tallit out of place, is exactly the point -so as to appreciate their separateness and yet call the viewer to relocate the piece to the clamour of Jewish life that bustles and is so full of life. I reflect on Chagall’s shetls in Russia and how his wife wrote so tenderly about the gathering of family during the holidays. No doubt, the women bent over and struggling with their heavy cooking pots, the men wrapped in their tallits, haggling, discussing, their hands touching their beards.I think of the Judengasses all over Europe and heaps of books, torn and discarded documents of holocaust survivors: a burning collage that did not destroy the messages from the past.And I think of the glow of gloriously coloured licht from Israel uniting the faces of my children at Channukah.
Walk into this exhibit at the JCC. Look at the pieces and think about who you are and the resonances of your own life to the pieces in the exhibit. I promise you that hidden memories will swamp you and you will welcome their return.

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