When I became a painter, Melbourne, late 1965 to late ’67

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There’s still a secret there, in that period some fifty years ago which influenced and gave a direction to my path as a painter and shaped my personality. I keep coming back to it, and generally at times when I lose my way – and in this connecting with it there’s something strengthening and clarifying and even radiant for me.
I’m 73. I’ll try here to write about what was there.

And first, a few words about what came before.

In late ’63, twenty years old and totally romantic, I fell in love passionately, twice. First with an inspiring young man who wanted to be a writer and danced rock’n’roll wonderfully. I also married him, hastily and resolutely, to the passive distaste of my parents and my sister. And very soon after this, and with the same resoluteness, I fell in love with my desire to be a painter.

There was a similarity between my first meeting with my young man and my first meeting with painting, which was at a drawing class with a model at the Avni Institute in Tel Aviv. In both I gave myself entirely. Already when I drew the first line with the charcoal chalk in my hand, I felt loved by painting. Easily and fearlessly I gave myself to this abstract sensual lovemaking.

Romantic falling-in-love dissolves and cracks when it encounters reality, and when you marry from such love, you can also expect destructive explosions. For me, these left me without confidence, ashamed, angry, and not knowing how to hold on to the couplehood that I wanted. In painting, however, the process was different. My falling in love and my lovemaking with painting made me curious to learn the language of painting, I wanted to make painting my good friend. I felt sincere and direct with it, and glints of self-appreciation began lighting up in me. I enrolled as a student at the Bezalel Art School in Jerusalem. and like all the students in those days we drew and painted landscapes, still-lifes and people, and did composition exercises in diverse techniques. I quickly discerned that there was an additional quality in the paintings when I painted people from observation and in physical closeness, especially women. Without prior planning, the painted figures took up all of the format, the learning was intuitive, line pursued line in a musical rhythm, my fingers and the materials responded to me, I engaged my consciousness in looking at and concentrating on what was in front of me until I forgot my own existence, and what I created on the sheet of paper was most of all a projection of my existence at that moment. I felt exposed, this aroused me and also frightened me, I said to myself: Just how I paint, that’s how I make love. And the painting knows more than I do.

At the end of that school year my husband and I planned to travel to Australia, to live in Melbourne, the city where he grew up as a refugee from the war, to meet his mother who was a widow and in poor health, and that was a great opening of hope for me.

I brought with me a letter of recommendation from Yosl Bergner to the director of the art academy in Melbourne, who was a friend of his. I wanted to be as far away as possible from the expectations of my parents and the people I had grown up among, to be a foreigner in a big city but with a partner who was generous and who, despite the disappointments, was the only one who knew me, who believed in me, the only one I wanted. I believed I would find a way to live my life as I wanted to. I set out on the big journey.

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Melbourne, 1966

Melbourne, I felt, welcomed me, as it did my husband who had arrived there with his mother in late ’46 together with many other Jewish refugees. A large city, with a center that impressed me with its public buildings, churches, museums and huge department stores. Spacious suburbs, green parks, a large beach, a network of trams, British bureaucracy and English manners. We rented a flat in St Kilda, a suburb close to the beach, still inhabited by many Jewish refugees and immigrants, who to me looked like my parents and others of their generation in Israel. Richard found a job as editor of a Jewish weekly, and in his free time and in the evenings he would go on writing poetry and prose. We visited his mother once a week and even adopted two kittens we found abandoned in the street. I would bounce from feeling foreign to the new place and feeling close to it, between English and Hebrew, between who I had been and who I wanted to be, between chores of life and teaching Hebrew to earn some income, between painting and printmaking at the school and organizing a working space in our living room that I could use as a studio.

But that can’t be all, I said to myself, that can’t be all that painting can give me and that I can give it.

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From nude drawings I made when I arrived in Melbourne, on paper (65/45 cm)

I decided to start painting from a new place, from a place of intention that is more like writing letters to myself.
I made a plan: to start painting from an idea that was formed in my imagination, not through a direct physical encounter, to paint larger than my own size, to remember that I was embodying myself, and to let a woman’s form express this. To use those very mediums and techniques that aren’t friendly to me, so as to slow down the tempo of the act of painting. so that I won’t feel too comfortable.

For my first work in this method I chose to paint in acrylic on tightly-stretched and framed canvas. For the form of the body I chose one of the drawings I had done of a model (the large drawing in the group of drawings above). I liked the jug shape the woman’s body formed, a container that contains, with the heaviness of the base and the delicacy of the upper part, a body form that reminded me of a drop of water before it disappears.
The idea was to fill this slack body with content, to tell about the anger that can fill the body entirely. In my imagination I saw a river of men’s heads with exaggerated facial expressions, dense and pressed together in distress.
I painted the form of the woman’s body on the large canvas and started filling its inside with men’s faces. and to activate my imagination I looked at photographs of men in the Time magazine we used to get in the mail every week. In the painting the faces took on various expressions – angry, astounded, despairing, sealed – and the chalky whiteness hinted at an atmosphere of phantoms.
Below are the only two photographs I have of this work, which was lost in our life’s travels.

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The painting was in monochrome colors, the woman’s body conveyed a sense of passive and impotent melancholy, allowing the ”river of rage” to flow through or from her and to release the heavy and noisy mass that filled her body and shaped its form. Her small expressionless face turns to the side, towards a dark unquiet space, as if pulling and stretching the body’s mass upwards. The body is exaggerated in its size, heavy, motionless, and its form hints at a body that is pregnant.
Despite the feeling that “This could be better…”, the familiar feeling that accompanies the completion of any work, I felt a satisfaction with the exercise I’d taken on, the same satisfaction that comes with the expressing and shaping of a feeling that can perhaps reach others. Richard was my only viewer of this painting, and then this was enough.
To this day it seems strange to me, but after this episode I decided that I wanted and was ready to start a family of my own, children and responsibility, and marital love, which is also parental… and I have no way of explaining it to myself, what happened and how and why, but I know that it was connected in an almost magical way with the large painting I made and with what I went through with it.

In the year and a half after “the large painting” my body went through a lot –a pregnancy, a miscarriage, a removal procedure, trying again to become pregnant and succeeding, and the birth of our first son. At the age of 24 I became a mother, in a strange land, just myself and Richard.
During this entire period I created a big series of works, like diary-writing, first of all for myself, so I wouldn’t forget the difficulty.
In these works I continued the line of action I’d taken: first the idea and then the execution. The technique I moved on to was engravings and etchings that I made in the printmaking studio of the art academy. The technique was very suited to my goal because before I began an engraving or an etching I had to plan and know what I wanted to do, and what I wanted was to embody in a figurative and “narrative” visual image the essence of emotions that I knew but couldn’t communicate in any other way. In each work I wanted viewers to identify the pregnant woman, my “literary heroine”, in the emotional space that she created for herself.
Here I’m showing only a few examples, because I will want to relate to this series in another place.

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From the series of etchings and engravings I made during my pregnancy

Preparing ourselves for family life with a baby, we moved to an old but relatively spacious terraced house in South Melbourne. Apart from the family rooms, Richard had a work room on the intermediate floor, and I had a large studio with large tables on the top floor, where I could be alone and get things “dirty” without worrying.
In the seventh month of my pregnancy, when my belly had grown, I stopped making prints at the crowded printmaking workshop – what particularly troubled me there was the smell of the acid – and started working with a different printmaking technique, large lino-cuts and wood-cuts, which I could both cut and print in my studio at home.
The gouging of the large plates suited me, there’s something very clear in the act of gouging and in knowing that every mark I gouge out will remain white in the print, and you can’t erase or blur anything. The linoleum is rigid yet soft, there are no fibers in it as there are in the wood, the free hand movement activates the entire arm, the gouged lines are reminiscent of drawn lines on paper. There are no grays here, only the density and the depth of the gouging can give the effect of shading. I was fascinated by the dynamic interactions between the black and the white.
In one of my old sketchbooks I found the idea that I used for my first lino-cut.

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45/35 cm

Yes, there was a story here too. The figure of the pregnant woman split into two different woman figures whose movements and representations complement one another to form a unity that recalls the yin-yang symbol. Both are in movement in the same direction. The black figure, sensuous, earthy and heavy, is stepping forward, her head turned backwards, hinting at some hesitation or fear, and her hand at her belly supports her developing fetus. In contrast, the white figure is light, in a movement of flight forward and upward, with her arms leading the way.

I was already in the eighth month, the time of the birth was getting close, and – before I sat down to knit a woolen suit and a soft blanket for the baby, both yellow, because at that time we couldn’t know if it would be a boy or a girl – I made two last works before the birth: expressive works that surprised me already then. Even if I had a story in my mind, it dissolved from the power of an emotion I hadn’t yet processed. An urgency overcame any will to tell a story. I was quite scared. More than I allowed myself to feel.

This time the pregnant woman was no longer depicted in a narrative composition with a man or a group of people. The figure took up the entire format, with a strong physical presence, laid down with much energy, and one cannot know if this is a descent or a fall, or perhaps a final surrender.

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Before giving birth. Lino-cut print, 45/35 cm. Woodcut print, 60×35 cm

 
Jonathan was born, a difficult birth the doctor told me afterwards, they had to use forceps, and they also cut me quite a lot. Yes, giving birth takes everything, and also gives everything. It took us time, me and my first-born son, to get used to one another. We had both been born.

The last two works from this period were done after I gave birth, no longer letters to Richard, nor a diary of emotions, more like a “declaration of intentions”. I remember that doing them brought me much pleasure, pleasure from the process itself and from my ability to draw.

In the first of these I wanted to define the space of my world as a mother and an artist. What I want and what I can. I remember that I said to myself: “When I feel that my child is protected and breathing calmly, I can always long for and tough my imaginary world of feeling and embody myself again and again and I’ll be OK, and it doesn’t matter if life hurts me, everything will be OK…”
And that is what I painted, and attained a kind of serenity.

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After giving birth. Prints of two states of a lino-cut, 35/45 cm

The second work, too, was one that I did to heal myself and get stronger. I wanted to bring together all the figures that were like recurring personae in my world of imagination and fantasy, with whom I was constantly quarreling. I wanted to combine them into a strong and growing form like a tree-trunk, like my spinal column.

I started the work at the bottom of the sheet of linoleum, with the figure of the desiring and desired woman, and then I started adding the other figures, rising and weaving together one above the other. Figures that expressed the mystery, sadness, terror, innocence, corruptness, cynicism and bestiality, until I reached the highest figure which also surprised me then and to this day – emaciated, sexless, stable in her yogic squat. protecting a baby between her legs and giving breath from her interiority through her hands until it’s like a sound in the air.

untitled-010On Growth. Lino-cut print, 97/60 cm. To the right: A preliminary sketch for this work

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Jonathan & I, Melbourne, late 1967

During the next 5 years I was taken by life’s events. In my actual life no trace remained of the “declaration of intentions” I’d outlined for myself.
In my personal life, our couplehood went through some hard tests, all the conservative frameworks of married life were burst, a strong wind of changing conventions was blowing in the world, free love, physical and spiritual experiences, enhanced by hashish, marijuana and LSD, the revolution of the flower children.
We traveled, we returned to Israel, we lived in Rosh Pina, we were high, we were down, I was torn up inside, life was intensive to a dangerous degree, I didn’t want to give up on our couplehood, the mother in me protected my sanity, I gave birth to two more sons, but I didn’t paint. I did some craft work that calmed me, works combining knitting and sewing. I thought I had lost myself but I also knew I had protected my family.

In 1971, after the birth of my youngest son, we started rehabilitating ourselves from the great frenzy that had taken hold of our lives, and returned to Tel Aviv, the city where we had begun our life together. I taught in art workshops and slowly began to return to painting. And then I again opened the collection of works I’d made five years earlier, and I said to myself, yes, I’m a painter and perhaps one day I’ll also be able to call myself an artist. All I need to do is not to stop painting whatever happens. And how one returns to painting, I and my body, after a long cessation – that’s another story, and not necessarily the next one.

English translation from the Hebrew (& all photographs) by Richard Flantz

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Where did my paintings come from?

Where did my paintings come from?
After half a century of painting and involvement in art, this is the question that has engaged me in recent years.
I delve willingly and with much curiosity into various periods of my creative life, and from this distance I try to see and identify in the paintings what emotional space they arose from – which I couldn’t do when while doing them.

The feeling that accompanied me while doing the painting was that I was responding to and expressing experiences of my life in the actual present, which is surely so, but lately, and perhaps because there is something liberating in the process of aging, I’ve been discovering emotional depths in the paintings that bring with them traces of my growth and the formation of my personality.
It’s about this that I want to tell here.
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For about one year of my life, in 1979, I intensively painted one woman, a painters’ model, who had a great influence on how I painted. Dark-skinned, of South-American-Indian origin, with an electrifying presence, eccentric, she loved to dress and to ornament herself in vintage clothes and extraordinary accessories and jewelry. During the painting process, I discerned that I was being swept away emotionally, simultaneously alarmed and fervent. The paintings became more abstract, distant from what my eyes were seeing, and turned into an independent entity of a sensual world centered in a woman’s body.
For years I’ve wondered where they came from, and how they were connected to my life experiences. I’ve identified excitement and enthusiasm in them, but also dread and recoil. The paintings from this period can embarrass me to this day with their revelations of emotional intimacy. It was this feeling of embarrassment that led me to my memories of the dressmaking days of my childhood, to Tamar the dressmaker from Persia.
I want to tell about her from the eyes of a ten-year-old girl in a typical Tel Aviv workers-housing apartment in 1953

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Tamar was the Israeli name she’d been given, or that she’d adopted when she immigrated to Israel as a young woman from Persia. My mother decided to call her Tamara, in the Russian style, as distinct from the Sabra name Tamar, which was my big sister’s name. She spoke a kind of funny Hebrew, but that wasn’t exceptional in Tel Aviv at the time. There were many new immigrants around me, most of them spoke Hebrew a bit differently, not like what was spoken at school, even my mother and her friends used to translate many sentences from Yiddish to Hebrew. Tamara had an accent I didn’t recognize, especially when she pronounced a sh or an s, I later learned that this was typical of immigrants from Persia.

Here’s how I remember it.
Preparations began about a week before the sewing day itself, which was generally set before the holidays or some family celebration. My mother was already busy with plans and ideas, she had an excellent sense and a good eye – she didn’t look in magazines, she drew her ideas from what she saw around her. She would also make use of “what there is”, like re-using garments of her own that were no longer in fashion and changing them with one addition or another, like sleeves or a different collar, or turning some of her dresses into dresses for us, her daughters. The old garments had to be unstitched, and she got our father involved, he liked doing that. He would sit there in the evenings listening to the radio, unstitching everything that could be unstitched, even the pleats, with confident movements of his skilled fingers and with the aid of a small razor blade.
And before my astonished gaze, a whole and complex dress would turn into a collection of flat forms. My father was very relaxed while he did this, he worked methodically because he loved patterns and building and taking things apart. And I, by observing, learned to identify pattern parts and how they were put together again. I think this was my first lesson in sculpture and in understanding two-dimensionality and three-dimensionality.

Mother just “had to” buy some pieces of new cloth, because otherwise the dressmaker might “make a face” if she saw that all she had to do was “mendings”, that could have ruined the entire day. Every true dressmaker, I understood, also likes to start from the beginning, to cut “virgin” cloth, to make a creation, a matter of professional pride. My mother, even though she’d never made a dress in her life, understood this.
I loved accompanying her to buy fabrics in South Tel Aviv, in Nahalat Binyamin Street, the street of the textile shops. She had shops and salespeople she preferred. The salespeople, with infinite patience, would spread out the half-open rolls on the table, and from time to time would urge Mother to try “how it looks on you”. With the aid of the salesperson carrying the heavy roll of cloth, she would go to the large mirror and stretch the loosed cloth over her body, place one leg forward, raise her stocky body proudly as if she were a beauty queen, before the salesperson’s momentarily veiled eyes. The whole scene was always an enchanting one to me, the colors, the feel of the fabrics, the order and the disorder, the lines and the dots, the talk between my mother and the salesperson, sometimes in Yiddish, repeated consultations, on how much was needed for a full length or a back or a long sleeve, two lengths, perhaps one and three-quarters so as to save…

Decisions were made that seemed fateful, at times she would ask me for my opinion. The salesperson would skillfully move all the rejected rolls back to the shelves and clear the table for the cutting. Mother would watch meticulously to be sure the cutting line was straight, and I did too, I’d be hypnotized by the sound of the decisive cutting with the large scissors on the wooden table,
Then we’d stop to buy thread in the colors of the cloths she had bought, needles, pins, sewing bands and, most importantly, thick basting thread, the thread for the preparatory “sketches”, without which I understood there could be no creation.
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The evening before “The Dressmaker’s Day”, and before we had a sewing machine, Father would help to bring the heavy sewing machine from the apartment of Mrs Rosenblum, the elderly tenant of the apartment next to ours, who was bored most of the time and liked my mother. The machine was entirely hidden inside a small cabinet on old and rusty wheels. Moving it made a lot of noise, accompanied by Father’s grumblings – it was his habit to grumble about any little help Mother asked for, except for the things he could do sitting down while smoking a cigarette. The cabinet would be rolled into the room where my sister and I slept, that was the room where the work was done because it had a large inbuilt wall cupboard with a large mirror in it.
Father would lift the cover which opened into a table-top shelf that was supported by the cabinet door when it was fully opened, and as he did so the upside-down body of the machine would be revealed, with a large wheel on one side that was connected to a driving pedal topped with metal strips. He would pull up and raise the machine itself, set it right side up, and thus it stood proudly with all the golden letters in English shining in black and nickel, all at once turning into an impressive form full of strange and diverse parts. He’d connect the leather belt between the upper wheel and the large lower wheel, press the foot-pedal several times, see that the needle was moving up and down in a uniform rhythm in time with the pedal movement, and everything was ready.
In the morning, Father would go off to work as usual at 7, and the dressmaker arrived at around 8. When we girls returned home from school around mid-day, the production was already at its height.

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Tamara the dressmaker was in her working clothes, she wore a half-open floral robe that revealed a white slip, and sat behind the sewing machine with nylon stockings rolled up to the knees on her stout legs, her feet in slippers ornamented with beads moving the pedal and her thighs in a quiet humming. Curly black hair raised one way or another, remnants of make-up and lipstick, a broad smile and laughing dark eyes.
Mother, squeezed inside her “suit of armor” corset under her house-dress, which looked a little strange, because her tits were never so erect under a faded house-dress, and when you touched her, instead of the softness of the flesh you felt something rigid and rustling. The corset consisted of a stomach belt that reached halfway down the thighs, and was connected with loops and buttons to a long brassiere with pointed receptacles for the breasts like Madonna’s bras. The lower part of the stomach belt had loops like hooks, to which the nylon stockings attached. She too wore slippers but before a fitting she would put on high heels. The corset squeezed her body, and pushed the surplus fat to above the bra and to the thighs, in the exposed space between the stockings, the garters and the stomach belt. Over all this there was sometimes a thin white slip that smoothed the shape of her body.

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I loved watching the “fittings” opposite the big mirror, the feeling of satisfaction or disappointment, the discussions, longer, or tighter, how to hide the flaws in the body, how to look thinner or taller. I learned a lot. What stripes do, what dots do, and how the colors blend and influence one another. This too was a lesson in art.
At times a woman neighbor or friend of Mother’s would come in, to gossip a little and to see the results. In the room there was already the smell of women’s sweat, mixed with perfume. Pins and fabric remnants on the floor. A happy time

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The afternoon hours were allocated for sewing for us, the daughters. Old Mrs Rosenblum would come in and sit in the room, and she’d immediately be given work, to “finish by hand” all of Mother’s dresses – the hems, to reinforce the stitching and the buttons, while Mother stood with a hot iron over an ironing board, immediately ironing the hems that Tamara passed to her so as to at least flatten them. Instead of a roller or steam she used one of Father’s handkerchiefs soaked in water and wrung out well, which she spread over the hem or the pleat and smoothed it with the hot iron until you heard the familiar hissing and the white steam rising from it, and all this time there was chatter and laughter, from Persia to Poland.

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Until Tamar touched me, I knew only Mother’s touches, by 4th grade I had already managed to forget my Father’s and my elder sister Tamar’s hugs, but when Tamara the dressmaker fitted clothes on me, I felt an intimacy I hadn’t known. She bent over me, smoothed the cloth that was on my body, pressed it to the waist, tightened it with pins, her breath and her body warmth enveloping me.
I saw from close up the hairpins holding false curls, the beads of sweat under the thick powder, the scar that she tried to conceal on the side of her cheek, the black hairs that covered her arms, her perfect fingernails painted with red lacquer, apart from one finger, the crushed fingernail of the forefinger of her right hand, where even the lacquer was unable to conceal the warping crooked nail. Tamara told me it was from a wound, it had happened when she was young and learning to sew, and a needle had gone deep into her fingernail. I didn’t ask her where the scar on her face was from. I saw the frizzy black mass bursting from under her armpit. My mother had a tiny blond bush. Tamara’s soft and dark-skinned body seemed to want to burst out of the floral robe that clung to her body like a wrap, which was tied freely with a thin belt.
I felt embarrassed when she raised my arms to tighten a sleeve or to attach it well, or when she knelt slowly and sat down on the floor and with the aid of a stick and chalk marked the length line or the folds of the cloche skirt or the pleats of the tunic, and would lightly touch my thighs, while I could feel her warm exhalations into my skin.
All in all, this entire situation, in which another person’s absolute attention was gently directed to my body, quite stunned and embarrassed me, and all of it pleasantly, with a taste and smell of a different culture that I hadn’t known before this.

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Towards the end of the work day, in the late afternoon hours, Mother would get very active, starting to rapidly organize the house, with utmost delicacy sending Mrs Rosenblum home with a pile of dresses to “finish by hand”, closing the machine with Tamara’s help, and starting to sweep, and to collect pins and needles, to clean the formica dining table that stood on the closed patio where it had served for cutting the fabrics. All with a degree of nervousness, to do it quickly, to finish before Father returned, weary from work and wanting to eat his dinner quietly.
Tamara gathered her tools, her large scissors and her own measuring tape, rolled up the magazines very tightly, tied them with a piece of cloth, put them in her handbag, and now turned to her ‘holy work’, which for me was a wondrous spectacle.

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Tamara was already not young. She probably lived with her family in one of the moshav settlements near the city. When she finished her work day in the city she would go out for an evening entertainment there.

It took her a long time to make the transformation, from a somewhat plump, somewhat short dressmaker with crushed curls and a heavy jaw, into a femme fatale such as I’d seen only in magazines. This was the best living theater that I’d seen in my young life.
It began with her putting on her corset over pink lace-trimmed underwear, of a kind my mother didn’t have. Her corset too was more beautiful than my mother’s, pink, with lots of lovely little hooks instead of laces. The hooks would be closed one by one and in ascending order, pressing inward on the soft flesh until the body took on a flattering form, the remnants of the stomach or the behind were pressed tight and became smaller. The nylon stockings that had been rolled down negligently were now raised to the middle of the thigh and attached with garters to the long stomach belt.

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Afterwards, in her tight slip, after she smoothed the length of her body with her hands in evident self-satisfaction, she would add make-up to the remnants of the make-up from the morning. Blue and black for the yes, a strengthening line for the eyebrows, a lot of powder and rouge on the cheeks and finally the red lipstick, the same shade as her fingernails. She organized her curls again in an especially high-set style, with the aid of a special ball that she drew out of her handbag, a soft ball, full of hairs that were certainly hers, bound in a fine hairnet, pressed the addition onto the crown of her head, and with confident hands lifted her curls and managed to hide the ball-shaped addition. She looked marvelous. She loved it that I watched her with admiration and she knew she merited it.
She sprayed eau de cologne under her armpits, between her legs and also in the groove between her ‘titties’. She put on exceptionally high heels, and stepped around proudly in the room, made-up tip-top in her white slip, tapping her heels on the floor tiles, and started getting dressed. Generally this was a tight and tiny suit on a shiny blouse with some feminine curlicues. The skirt was always too narrow and too short, and her somewhat thick thighs seemed to want to burst
out of it.

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Tamara looks at herself with much enjoyment in the large mirror. From the front, from the sides, and even a glance at the back with her head turned around. She puts on some gleaming accessories – earrings, a necklace, bracelets, and does the last thing before she goes and says goodbye: she takes a small bottle of perfume out of her bag, the same bag of marvels that has everything in it, and puts a drop behind each ear and two drops on the inside of her palms.
She receives her money from Mother, who has never been stingy. And she leaves with a smile, with the cloud of perfume following her like a comet’s tail of glamour.

I heard my mother gossiping with her friends, who raised the basic question “And why isn’t she married?…..” My mother answered, with a knowing wink, and in Yiddish, but I understood: “Could be that her man can’t marry her, maybe he hasn’t divorced yet.”

After a few years she stopped working for us. I don’t know why and there’s no-one I can ask. Sophie, from Bulgaria, was our next dressmaker, but that’s another story.

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All of the works were done on paper with charcoal, pastel chalk, acrylic and cosmetic materials (makeup, powders, lipsticks, etc).
The size of most of the works is 100/70cm

I  thank Richard Flantz for translating from my Hebrew version