ON FIRST SEEING VAN GOGH'S IRISES (10/21/04)
I stood before Van Gogh’s Irises for the first time, and I wept. I had never before wept at a work of art. Not the Mona Lisa. Not the Pieta. Not umpteen Rembrandts and Renoirs. I had been awestruck and inspired, but I had never wept.
My obsession with the Irises is not new. Our home is full of lots of original artwork and beloved family pictures, but the only art poster that I own is of the Irises. Then there are my Irises mug, screen saver, mouse pad and coffee canister. Would I ever abide by such kitsch were it for any other work of art?
What did his tortured soul convey to his canvas as he captured a patch of flowers in the asylum’s walled garden? Giddy elation? Darkest melancholy? Hanging there with no fanfare flanked by two Renoirs, my widening eyes fixed magnetically on it, alone for ten minutes in a world that was entirely of him and my Irises. Let there be no mistaking: The Irises were mine. Not the Getty Museum's. Not the public’s. Mine.
“Look at the brushstrokes.” “Look at how vivid the colors are.”
But I stood sufficiently back that I could see neither brushstrokes nor manufactured colors. I saw through his eyes only a world circumscribed by the walls of the asylum at Saint Remy, less than a year before he took his own life.
What made his Irises my Irises? Why this obsession? In the meditative moments as I wistfully moved on, I wondered whether it was that they did not capture beauty as absolute, but as fragile, volatile, a labyrinth beckoning equally to heaven and hell.
Was he capturing crystalline springtime in a moment of manic whimsy? Or had it been a memorial to fleeting beauty and the inevitable withering of things ephemeral? Was he clutching at a bouquet of hope as his tormented spirit slipped further from his grasp? Was it an epitaph that he wished to be spoken only according to his will? Or even perhaps an encrypted suicide note? I dared to fantasize that the single white iris standing so erect by the side of the drooping blue one somehow bespoke his resolve to cast off the despondency of this world and ascend in purity heavenward.
And one more wonderment about the Irises that he painted at the same time that he was cutting off his ear and planning his suicide: What if they had been able level him off with the good meds like the ones I take, so that neither mania nor depression would go “that far out of control”? Would his palette have stayed so magical and bright? Would his eyes yet behold and his canvases yet express so vividly the dizzying roller-coaster of flighty elation and dank depression? Would he have become just another life of the party or a painter of insipidly “pretty” pictures?
What would have been the price on his living another ten years? Would his genius have been incarcerated in another unrelenting asylum, in which wrinkle-free normalcy is the therapeutic goal?
I make no apologies for overanalyzing a frail man’s take on a bunch of flowers. When irises adorn my own table and garden, they venture to cheer me through my own fits of despondency. Do we not, each of us, have our own asylum window and patch of irises growing immediately outside? Have we not, each of us, seen them through the eyes of profound elation and deepest despair? As we attain the “years that bring the philosophic mind,” do we see beauty not as absolute but as a complex, volatile paradox? God knows, I do.
I will likely never see my Irises again. I will probably not have much more reason to go to LA. But, in larger part, I simply want to remember that in my 54th year I saw my Irises and I wept and that nothing ever will replicate that blessed jumble of darkest melancholy and sweetest joy.
October 21, 2004
October 11, 2004
SIMCHAS TORAH, COLLEGE KIDS AND CUISINE OF NECESSITY (10/11/04)
You and I are up to our earmuffs with self-pitying stories of my departure from the rabbinate and ensuing Jewish isolation, so enough already.
Nonetheless, at certain junctures of the year the aloneness is too much to bear. Simchas Torah converts isolation into deafening emptiness. Self-pity gives way to self-recrimination and tales of tzaddikim who danced in Siberian gulags become not inspiration, but an indictment of my own vapidity of faith.
No dancing with Torahs this year, but an engaging way to celebrate the Holy Day did stop at my doorstep. It was one of those delightful instances that leaves us hanging between “Taste and see that the Lord is good,” and “What a long, strange trip it’s been.”
I received a call from a prof who is teaching a course on the meaning of food in the religious experience. She wanted me to speak to her class on the significance of food in the Jewish tradition. The date: Simchas Torah. She did not pull my name out of the Yellow Pages. She had been reading my columns on Jewish cuisine, “Rabbi Ribeye,” that appear in the Internet magazine, eGullet.
I told the prof that I could not travel her because of Yom Tov, but that I had a better idea. The class and I could prepare a “sacramental” dinner at my home that replicated the Holy Day fare that my grandparents brought from the Old Country.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure? Hey, I’m Rabbi Ribeye!”
But, what to do to make the dinner “sacramental”? Recite Kiddush and the Motzi to be sure. A festively set table, of course. To draw parallels for these Christian girls to the Last Supper, a necessity.
Then, an epiphany: The real sacramental nature of our grandparents’ Sabbath and Yom Tov table was that their struggles, poverty and eking out daily bread never stopped them from setting a majestic feast to celebrate God’s bounty. The same meager ingredients, sans pork, that the impoverished peasants cooked were all that our bubbehs had in their modest pantry. Yet, we never ate “peasant food.” Our table was sacramental because, to lift a Talmudic phrase, “there was blessing to be found in our bread.”
In culinary terms, this is sometimes called “celebrating cuisine of necessity,” that is, elegant menus built from inexpensive, readily available ingredients. That, I decided, would be the lesson in the sacramental nature of Jewish food that I would convey to nine young women who would likely never have to struggle with poverty.
Stop and think, I asked them, what were the ingredients available to poor folks in Eastern Europe: potatoes, carrots, beets, onions, celery, cucumbers, flour, sugar, dried spices, honey, vinegar, certain varieties of fish, dried fruit like prunes and raisins. And then there was all-powerful chicken: eggs, schmaltz (just like lard!), bones for soup, succulent meat for the main course.
I made most of the dishes ahead of time, pointing out that many of the foods required slow cooking and pickling. But they put the finishing touches in the chicken soup with me, made the matzo balls, and prepared a tzimmes that would be ready in time to take it home.
Quite a regal menu: cured lox, pickled cucumber and beet salads, matzo ball soup, roast chicken with veggies, sweet-potato tzimmes, apple-raisin compote and Linda’s challah and honey cake. We served everything buffet style, because I was not sure that the “sheineh shikselach,” as my mother would have called them, would be too turned on by the odd-and-curious fare. I especially gave them a preemptory pass on the pickled beets.
What a mistake. They finished everything, including the beets – everyone from the frumpy, studious kid to the well-tanned homecoming queen. And, no question that they were going to take back the tzimmes they’d made. None of them had ever tasted that kind of roast chicken, but all of them wanted to have it again. And they cleaned up afterward without being asked!
And, we sat at the Yom Tov table and talked, well beyond their departure time. We spoke about everything: the Holocaust, what it was like to be a rabbi, how it was to live in the South, had I ever experienced anti-Semitism, why wasn’t I a Christian, how and why my grandparents came to the States, what going to school was like for them, what their plans were, how they had come to question the faith with which they had been raised, how they had become more open-minded.
Then they asked the ultimate question: What do Jewish people do when they sit at the Sabbath or Holy Day table? To their great amazement I told them, “The topics may be different, but we basically do the same thing that we’ve done this evening: have a lovely meal usually made out of cuisine of necessity whether we can afford better or not, talk, enjoy each other’s company, catch up with each other, discuss things that our daily busyness doesn’t allow us, not feel the constraints of time, feel at one with ourselves and each other.”
“Funny,” I said. “We may not talk a lot about God. But let there be no mistaking. The presence of God is right there at the table with us.”
How different Southern-bred young women can be from our bubbes and zaydes who arrived impoverished on these shores. Yet, somehow I believe that those “sheineh shikselach” may still be working through the delicious Jewish paradox that even the lowliest pickled beets can attain the stature of sacrament.
You and I are up to our earmuffs with self-pitying stories of my departure from the rabbinate and ensuing Jewish isolation, so enough already.
Nonetheless, at certain junctures of the year the aloneness is too much to bear. Simchas Torah converts isolation into deafening emptiness. Self-pity gives way to self-recrimination and tales of tzaddikim who danced in Siberian gulags become not inspiration, but an indictment of my own vapidity of faith.
No dancing with Torahs this year, but an engaging way to celebrate the Holy Day did stop at my doorstep. It was one of those delightful instances that leaves us hanging between “Taste and see that the Lord is good,” and “What a long, strange trip it’s been.”
I received a call from a prof who is teaching a course on the meaning of food in the religious experience. She wanted me to speak to her class on the significance of food in the Jewish tradition. The date: Simchas Torah. She did not pull my name out of the Yellow Pages. She had been reading my columns on Jewish cuisine, “Rabbi Ribeye,” that appear in the Internet magazine, eGullet.
I told the prof that I could not travel her because of Yom Tov, but that I had a better idea. The class and I could prepare a “sacramental” dinner at my home that replicated the Holy Day fare that my grandparents brought from the Old Country.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure? Hey, I’m Rabbi Ribeye!”
But, what to do to make the dinner “sacramental”? Recite Kiddush and the Motzi to be sure. A festively set table, of course. To draw parallels for these Christian girls to the Last Supper, a necessity.
Then, an epiphany: The real sacramental nature of our grandparents’ Sabbath and Yom Tov table was that their struggles, poverty and eking out daily bread never stopped them from setting a majestic feast to celebrate God’s bounty. The same meager ingredients, sans pork, that the impoverished peasants cooked were all that our bubbehs had in their modest pantry. Yet, we never ate “peasant food.” Our table was sacramental because, to lift a Talmudic phrase, “there was blessing to be found in our bread.”
In culinary terms, this is sometimes called “celebrating cuisine of necessity,” that is, elegant menus built from inexpensive, readily available ingredients. That, I decided, would be the lesson in the sacramental nature of Jewish food that I would convey to nine young women who would likely never have to struggle with poverty.
Stop and think, I asked them, what were the ingredients available to poor folks in Eastern Europe: potatoes, carrots, beets, onions, celery, cucumbers, flour, sugar, dried spices, honey, vinegar, certain varieties of fish, dried fruit like prunes and raisins. And then there was all-powerful chicken: eggs, schmaltz (just like lard!), bones for soup, succulent meat for the main course.
I made most of the dishes ahead of time, pointing out that many of the foods required slow cooking and pickling. But they put the finishing touches in the chicken soup with me, made the matzo balls, and prepared a tzimmes that would be ready in time to take it home.
Quite a regal menu: cured lox, pickled cucumber and beet salads, matzo ball soup, roast chicken with veggies, sweet-potato tzimmes, apple-raisin compote and Linda’s challah and honey cake. We served everything buffet style, because I was not sure that the “sheineh shikselach,” as my mother would have called them, would be too turned on by the odd-and-curious fare. I especially gave them a preemptory pass on the pickled beets.
What a mistake. They finished everything, including the beets – everyone from the frumpy, studious kid to the well-tanned homecoming queen. And, no question that they were going to take back the tzimmes they’d made. None of them had ever tasted that kind of roast chicken, but all of them wanted to have it again. And they cleaned up afterward without being asked!
And, we sat at the Yom Tov table and talked, well beyond their departure time. We spoke about everything: the Holocaust, what it was like to be a rabbi, how it was to live in the South, had I ever experienced anti-Semitism, why wasn’t I a Christian, how and why my grandparents came to the States, what going to school was like for them, what their plans were, how they had come to question the faith with which they had been raised, how they had become more open-minded.
Then they asked the ultimate question: What do Jewish people do when they sit at the Sabbath or Holy Day table? To their great amazement I told them, “The topics may be different, but we basically do the same thing that we’ve done this evening: have a lovely meal usually made out of cuisine of necessity whether we can afford better or not, talk, enjoy each other’s company, catch up with each other, discuss things that our daily busyness doesn’t allow us, not feel the constraints of time, feel at one with ourselves and each other.”
“Funny,” I said. “We may not talk a lot about God. But let there be no mistaking. The presence of God is right there at the table with us.”
How different Southern-bred young women can be from our bubbes and zaydes who arrived impoverished on these shores. Yet, somehow I believe that those “sheineh shikselach” may still be working through the delicious Jewish paradox that even the lowliest pickled beets can attain the stature of sacrament.
October 07, 2004
A DING LETTER TO MS. O’HANNA (10/8/04)
Dear Ms. O’Hanna:
The review of your credentials for teacher certification finds them most impressive. This is particularly noteworthy, given that you have been home schooled in a foreign country, one that is embroiled in ongoing strife. Your determination despite tremendous obstacles is well noted.
You are multilingual, which would be a tremendous asset in our foundering school system, where budgetary cutbacks would make you a special multitasking asset. At the same time, you appear to have an incredibly broad grasp of history, world events, philosophy, theology, and of all things, crafts – woodworking, isn’t it? (Have you ever thought of coaching girls’ volleyball?) Again, the prospect of multitasking makes you a most attractive candidate for our strapped school system.
God knows your wonderful track record in mentoring the most dangerously at-risk children has not gone unnoticed. And, your gentle, calm demeanor is unusual among teachers in today’s emotionally-charged classroom.
The teacher certification committee has duly noted your request for days off to celebrate the Jewish holy days, and we assure you that we would make all the accommodations within our capacity. We are especially touched by your eagerness to compensate for your time off by mentoring and serving extra after-school and cafeteria duty. You will find that our state has a proud, progressive record of tolerance for minorities and are grateful for their contributions to our local prosperity.
Regrettably, however, one critical issue supersedes all the qualities you might bring to our educational system. You likely know what it is: the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. The statement that that makes to young people about ones basic moral fiber transcends all the other healthy lessons an otherwise gifted teacher like you might provide. The fact that you avow a long-term monogamous commitment with, even a betrothal to, your fiancé Joseph, only underscores the false justification of premarital relations.
You might be exonerated by the rumor that you were violated by a Roman soldier, but this would require exhaustive, definitive documentation. Your situation is further exacerbated by other more specious rumors, namely that you have been impregnated by God and that you bear the Messiah in your womb.
If you have anything – actively or even passively – to do with dissemination of these horrific assertions, then you have not only blasphemed that which is most sacred. You have been playing with the fires of the occult, which indeed disqualifies you from ever tainting the minds of our vulnerable young students.
Ms. O’Hanna – May I call you Mary? – You certainly understand that impressive credentials are no substitute for basic moral fiber. In such matters, no benefit of the doubt can be justified. We are a state that prides itself on the highest family values. After all, what would Jesus do?
Most respectfully,
James DeMint
Chairman, Teacher Certification
Dear Ms. O’Hanna:
The review of your credentials for teacher certification finds them most impressive. This is particularly noteworthy, given that you have been home schooled in a foreign country, one that is embroiled in ongoing strife. Your determination despite tremendous obstacles is well noted.
You are multilingual, which would be a tremendous asset in our foundering school system, where budgetary cutbacks would make you a special multitasking asset. At the same time, you appear to have an incredibly broad grasp of history, world events, philosophy, theology, and of all things, crafts – woodworking, isn’t it? (Have you ever thought of coaching girls’ volleyball?) Again, the prospect of multitasking makes you a most attractive candidate for our strapped school system.
God knows your wonderful track record in mentoring the most dangerously at-risk children has not gone unnoticed. And, your gentle, calm demeanor is unusual among teachers in today’s emotionally-charged classroom.
The teacher certification committee has duly noted your request for days off to celebrate the Jewish holy days, and we assure you that we would make all the accommodations within our capacity. We are especially touched by your eagerness to compensate for your time off by mentoring and serving extra after-school and cafeteria duty. You will find that our state has a proud, progressive record of tolerance for minorities and are grateful for their contributions to our local prosperity.
Regrettably, however, one critical issue supersedes all the qualities you might bring to our educational system. You likely know what it is: the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. The statement that that makes to young people about ones basic moral fiber transcends all the other healthy lessons an otherwise gifted teacher like you might provide. The fact that you avow a long-term monogamous commitment with, even a betrothal to, your fiancé Joseph, only underscores the false justification of premarital relations.
You might be exonerated by the rumor that you were violated by a Roman soldier, but this would require exhaustive, definitive documentation. Your situation is further exacerbated by other more specious rumors, namely that you have been impregnated by God and that you bear the Messiah in your womb.
If you have anything – actively or even passively – to do with dissemination of these horrific assertions, then you have not only blasphemed that which is most sacred. You have been playing with the fires of the occult, which indeed disqualifies you from ever tainting the minds of our vulnerable young students.
Ms. O’Hanna – May I call you Mary? – You certainly understand that impressive credentials are no substitute for basic moral fiber. In such matters, no benefit of the doubt can be justified. We are a state that prides itself on the highest family values. After all, what would Jesus do?
Most respectfully,
James DeMint
Chairman, Teacher Certification
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