ArtFest Zine Spring 2025
Yechezkel Zach Greenberger Editor
Rayne Lunger
Creative Director
Aliyah Blattner Creative Director
Rachel Szachara Editorial Designer
Rebecca Krevat Copy Editor
Cover Art by Shaindy Weichman
See back cover for description
Content Warning: Some pieces contain references to personal trauma, including suicidal ideation. We encourage you to practice self-care in whatever ways feel right for you as you read through this zine.
It’s been an honor to work on Mimesis, the third Footsteps zine. We invited Footsteppers to consider how art informs and inspires the worlds we are building for ourselves, and how art deepens the joy and the beauty, the pain, and the love in our lives. I’m so incredibly grateful to every member who trusted us enough to share their art that engages with these questions.
For many of us, discovering and immersing ourselves in art facilitated the process of moving away from a very prescriptive way of existing in the world; by definition, art in any form is something the artist creates as an act of self-expression. About a decade ago, when I was first exposed to art I’d never encountered before, I found myself in this weird space – captivated, and, at the same time, unable to make sense of why art was so evocative. When I came across the concept of mimesis, it was like the proverbial lightbulb went off. Mimesis, derived from the Greek word meaning “to imitate” or “re-present,” encapsulates the idea that while art mimics life, it isn’t merely a copy of something else. It’s an honoring of the artist’s unique perception of the world around them, a creation of something new with which the artist communicates their experience of life and, at least according to Aristotle, humans derive pleasure from mimesis.
As we were getting ready to launch the Art Fest and introduce the theme, I logged into an old Google account to find something I had written about Mimesis many years ago. I came across this journal entry, and it felt too perfect not to share here:
April 19, 2020
I needed to find an old email, so I logged into a Google account I haven’t used in years. I couldn’t find the email, but on the Google drive I found everything I wrote in 2015 and early 2016. Everything. Essays, poems, journal entries, short stories, random stuff. A couple of good pieces, and so much cringe that will thankfully never see the light of day.
But oh, to be that girl again… The girl who tasted a tiny bit of freedom for the first time and dared herself to experience more. The girl who was enthralled by the big, wide world she was discovering – beautiful, forbidden, terrifying, exhilarating – full of books and music and art and people and ideas that blew her away. That girl couldn’t have imagined that so many of her dreams would come true that she’d come to take them for granted, that she’d come to wonder whether they were worth everything she had to leave behind.
I’m glad she didn’t know. And I’m glad she left a (very cringey, very long) paper trail of everything that enchanted her before the novelty began to wear off. It’s exactly what I needed to find right now.
It was a privilege to collaborate with the editor of this zine, Yechezkel Zach Greenberger, and to witness the care and appreciation with which he considered each entry. Additionally, this zine would not have happened without the dedication and expertise of Aliyah Blattner, Rachel Szachara, and Rebecca Krevat. I love working together and I cherish everything I’ve learned from each of you.
Rayne Lunger
Creative Director
It is my absolute pleasure to share the art and writing of over thirty incredible members in Footsteps’ third annual zine, Mimesis. As a life-long zinester, I believe in the power of collaborative art making. When we put our stories in conversation with one another, our isolated experiences become something more. Between these pages, stories are woven together in ways that do not eclipse each artist’s unique experience of the world, but rather, celebrate the power of art in facilitating connection and community.
Poetry was the first place I could locate myself. Through the words of queer feminist poets and activists, I discovered a world of women who were asking the questions I was taught to leave alone. These artists and organizers offered art making and language as tools through which I could make my interior life legible and exist as my whole self in a community where my belonging often felt conditional. Every contributor to this zine similarly honors these creative lineages, elucidating personal transformations, abundant curiosity, and a deep capacity for love and care.
Mimesis affirms that the unique and specific ways we experience the world matter. Every painting, photograph, and poem gifts us a new window through which we can better understand ourselves and our communities. It is a privilege to celebrate the incredible writers, artists, and creatives whose work lives in this zine. Thank you Zach, Rayne, Rachel, and Rebecca for your creativity and tenderness throughout the zine making process. I am overjoyed to share Mimesis with you all.
Aliyah Blattner Creative Director
Mimesis. To represent. To imitate. To reflect.
I was born into an information overload where the only way to survive was to take it all in and break it all down. Mimesis — to break down. To break down and cry once in a while and afterwards to trace your tears over with pencil or paint or Microsoft word and stare at what you’ve done and give it a name.
Mimesis. To name. To label. To create.
I played with mentchies until I was thirteen years old, long after my friends had packed up their Legos, locked away their PlayMobile, and disavowed their imaginations. Mimesis — to imagine. To imagine a reality and to make it real and to watch it die on the eve of your bar mitzvah.
Mimesis. To die. To die. To die. To watch yourself die. I was valedictorian of my mesifta because I was a very good boy who never missed shachris, never missed shiur, and because, out of a class of twenty-something students, there were only six of us who were valedictorian eligible — this was our reward for surviving the same yeshiva from ninth grade to twelfth, without transferring in or out. Mimesis — to transfer. To transfer your soul into a hermetically sealed box because it’s starving, dying, on life-support and because you need to become angry for a while.
Mimesis. To freeze.
I used to plead for mashiach three times a day because I was overwhelmed by something and I wasn’t sure if it was the real God or an imposter God or a God conjured by my suffocating imagination. Mimesis — to conjure. To conjure a feeling, built on a vision, built on a belief, built five thousand years ago, built in childhood, built to help you, built to hurt you if it can’t help you.
Mimesis. To wonder. To ask. To thaw.
I was known unofficially as the heretic of chumash shiur. This despite the fact that very few of my questions were heretical (in general I tried to save my heresy for more private, less excitable environments). But it was dangerous even to poke at non-essential ideas, for who knew what I might poke at next and how it might threaten to collapse the yeshiva. Or maybe even bring down the whole of Jerusalem. Mimises — to collapse. To collapse everything and start again.
Mimesis. To start. To die. To start.
On Jan 7, 2023 I produced a staged reading of my first play, The Mashuganas. I thanked everyone who came or had anything whatsoever to do with its staging. I especially thanked two friends. Yitzy, who helped me move from Lakewood to Brooklyn in 2021 and kindly allowed me to weep all over his Hyundai Sonata. And Eli, who’s accompanied me in achieving all the great OTD milestones — first Shabbos outside of Shabbos-town, first cheese burger, first pork chop (we haven’t tried oysters together yet, but we’re prepping for it). I thanked my father too. For being there despite how uncomfortable he was. My mother couldn’t make it but she heard about it. She and my father cried afterwards for a week. I did too, when they told me. Mimesis — to cry. To cry, to cry, to cry so much.
Mimesis. To look. To see. To know.
I visited Rabbi Rosen a couple of years ago — he was the assistant rabbi who would sit next to me in chumash shiur — and to my shock he said he missed me. “The students these days don’t have the same…” what did he call it again? Philosophical zeal? They didn’t challenge or question as much I guess. They entered yeshiva readymade; a cadre of frozen solid decent boys. Mimesis — to challenge. To challenge yourself now, and now, and now; to challenge yourself so much that it’s too much and you have to reel yourself back in every now and again.
Mimesis. To free and be free.
I was thinking the other day and the day before and I’ll think about it again tomorrow… I’m here. Somehow I’m here. My soul is breathing. I get to make art with some of the most creative, inspired, and heartful people I’ve ever met. I get to write, imagine, and challenge, without cease, without edit. With hope. With love. Mimesis — to edit with love. To edit the Footsteps Zine alongside Rayne, Aliyah, Rachel, and Rebecca, and to be floored by their creativity, kindness, and generosity of spirit. Floored by the work submitted by my fellow members who have drawn, painted, photographed, and written their own resurrections, their own reflections, their own creations so honestly and beautifully.
Mimesis — to be grateful.
Yechezkel Zach Greenberger Editor
Mimesis
Mimesis speaks to you, the complexity of reality in relation to perspective. The innocence of childhood stripped bare. The metamorphosis of idea. True reality depicting different dreams. What is life? What is truth? What is self?
Tehilla Muller
acrylic on canvas
The Pincushion
Dov essay
My faith is a Pincushion, I live within my faith. I’m surrounded by questions, by contradictions, by doubts, but it’s okay. They poke at me, at my faith, lodge their way inside of me, inside my faith, but it’s okay. Faith, by its nature, invites questions and contradictions and doubts, so it’s okay. I’m okay. They belong here, piercing my faith, like so many pins in a pincushion. It’s normal, I’ll be okay. My Pincushion surrounds me and protects me from all of the reasons that it shouldn’t.
My faith is a Balloon, I am suspended within my faith. My faith floats, aimlessly now, and bounces away from obstacles in its path. My faith avoids the pins now, my Balloon can hardly survive an encounter with a pointed question, contradiction, or doubt. Better to keep moving, ever upwards.
My faith is a Bubble, I sequester myself inside my Bubble. My Bubble keeps me separated from all there is, and all (it says) there isn’t.
I’m okay here.
I feel safe here. I am safe here. I’m –
*pop*
Come on, man.
My faith was an Illusion. A moment in time. Like any illusion, I can scarcely believe that I once thought it to be real. It certainly felt real at the time, so very real. I wanted it to be real. I wanted to live inside that Illusion, but I never could. My faith, like my heart, is shattered into nothingness. I grieve for the safety of the Pincushion that never was.
This essay captures some of the desperation I felt in trying to keep believing in the frum world I was raised in, as well as some of the sorrow I feel, now that it’s gone.
The Mirror Tells The Truth
Debbie Schore mirrors - tile, hand, convex, concave, holographic
Based on the Yiddish proverb, Der Shpigl Zogt-ois Dem Emes, this piece is made out of mirrors that not only reflect, but warp, reverse or magnify images. While one might think that looking in a mirror is a form of “mimesis,” the piece shows that selfreflection can be elusive.
The work can be seen in the upcoming exhibit “Proverbs, Maxims and Adages” this summer and fall at HUC’s Heller Museum in Manhattan.
A Woman Cut and Carved From Wood, Offering
Rivkah L.
darkroom film print
A silent woman, cut and carved by others, offers everything she has. Her face is formless and indistinct - just the way they like it to be. Maybe if she brings as an offering parts of herself they will let her be free. Maybe all she has to do is cut off and offer just one more piece.
THIS
IS WHERE THE MEMORIES LAY
Rivkah L. words
THIS IS WHERE THE MEMORIES LAY SOFT AND SILENT AGAINST THE BODY THIS IS WHERE I SIT AND PRAY TO THE GOD WITH NO FACE
THIS IS WHERE I OFFER EVERYTHING I HAVE IN MEMORY OF WHAT WAS AND WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN THIS IS WHERE I CUT OUT PARTS OF MYSELF TO THE GOD WITH NO FACE
ALL THE WORDS FIND A HOME HERE ALL THE CONDOLENCES AND THE GRIEFS ALL THE WORDS? JUST THE WORDS WE CAN SAY OUT LOUD TO THE GOD WITH NO FACE
HERE WE HOLD THE FUNERARY SERVICE HERE WE RUN BUT STAY IN ONE PLACE THIS IS WHERE WE TOUCHED FOR THE LAST TIME AND THE GOD WITH NO FACE WATCHED
Of Men Without Dreams
Shneur Ribner essay
I shed a tear for the tears that have never been cried, I cry out for the screams that died in my throat, I pray for the prayers that were left unsaid, I seek atonement for the sins that have never been committed. Words never spoken chase after me with a stick, aspirations never pursued ambush me in my sleep, the shards of dashed hopes cut into the soles of my feet as I try to escape down the road less traveled. There is nowhere to run, no place left to go, and the burden I carry has become too great to bear. What can I do to lighten my load?
There is but one thing I must do, I must obtain forgiveness from the man whose dreams I have shattered. I seek him out but he’s nowhere to be found, I call out his name in the streets but he doesn’t appear. Men without dreams are drawn to the sound of my cries, they make a circle around me, they point their fingers, they make fun. “Who is this madman who runs about the marketplace crying out his own name?” They laugh for the joy that has never been enjoyed, they gossip for the stories that have never been told.
“Oh, please, please tell me, please show me the way! Where do I go to find the man whose dreams I have shattered?” I beg for the pleas that have never been pleaded.
“What is it, this dream that you speak of?”
I tell of a ladder that reaches up to the sky, with white angels ascending the heavens and dark angels coming down to escort me; of a pristine white cloud that once shone down upon me, and of a dark and ominous one that now hangs over my head. I tell of a promised land, a land of abundant milk and honey, and of the land we inhabit, a land that spits out her people. I speak of glory, of redemption and of peace, of wolves and lambs that dwell in harmony together. I tell of hopes that have never been hoped for, of visions cut short by the rise of dawn, of the daylight robbed from us by the god of nightime.
I look about at the circle of men without dreams. “Whither is the man whose dreams I have shattered?! Can you tell me? Is he hiding among you? Has he gone on voyage? I shall tell you. He is dead. He is dead and
it is I who killed him! How, pray tell, can I atone for this sin of all sins — what sacrifice can I bring, what prayer can I pray?”
From the depths I call and I receive no answer. I cry and the heavens cry along with me, I cry and the men without dreams cry along with me. We cry for the dreams that will never be dreamt, we cry for our friends who will never be blessed, we cry for the joy that will never be enjoyed, we cry for the stories that will never be told. We cry together as the rain pours, we cry out in unity as the remnants of our dreams get washed away by the gods of bounty. No longer is there a circle around me; we have become one, shapeless, faceless, nameless, dreamless.
don’t look at me
Yechezkel Zach Greenberger photograph from a collection of self portraits
See page 36 for more.
Sins of the Father
Charlie L.
digital illustration
Find Charlie’s art on Instagram and Facebook: @charlielewinart
What Should the Name of This Spanish Moss Be?
Bina DaFawkes
my crappy phone camera
The twisted tangulars of life.
Foiled by the Tinny gods
By Bina DaFawkes essay
On Purim1, her father didn’t wear his tinfoil hat. Instead, he wore a jumpsuit of tinfoil.
“Why, Papa?” Aliza asked, gobbling up her Purim candy.
“Because even the trees pray on Purim. On Tu Bishvat2, they bud. On Yom Kippur3, they die a little, and on Purim, they put on black hats and make their way to synagogue where everyone else is dressed up, and they fit right in.”
Aliza dipped her lolly into the fizz. “What about flowers? What do they do on Purim?”
Her father’s finger darted into her fizz. “The flowers bow down to the trees on Purim.”
“Papa, who can I bow down to?”
“In this house, the gods have told us to serve tinfoil. Tinfoil is the conduit to God. Especially on Pesach.”
That Purim, Aliza dressed as a Jewish nun. It was her father’s idea. She had wanted to become pious and grow a beard. Her father said no. Aliza dreamt of that beard until one day the tinfoil gods told her she could make a beard of tinfoil. Her tinfoil-fearing father would never begrudge her that.
Aliza’s tinfoil beard was strong and silver. It never needed to be brushed or oiled. She watered and fed it three times a day and talked
1. A Jewish holiday similar to Halloween but more profitable for big alcohol.
2. A minor Jewish holiday celebrating the passage of trees from saplings to morning wood.
3. Yom kippur: is it still kinky if my mouth stinks? I mean banging the chest a million times will clean you out. New beginnings from the rear end(ings).
and sang to it far more than that. It grew, and it grew, and it grew. The beard grew until it outgrew its budgies⁴. At breakfast, it coughed.
At lunch, it sneezed. By supper, it had a full blown cold, replete with snot and sinuses that decried the other type of cold. It grew until it grew feelings that same day, but no one could see past the snot to its crumpled heart. It missed Aliza fiercely when she was not wearing it. It missed her petaled fingers when she was not touching it. Missing her turned into loving her until the beard was buried under the weight of love, not yet lost.
Meanwhile, the baths to clear the beard’s sinuses slowly crawled closer to a different type of green, and the beard grew its very first sprig of mold. With that, even Aliza’s fanatically tinfoiled father said it was time to bury it.
The Shiva5 for the tinfoil beard lasted one year. This was a great excuse for Aliza to wear dirty, ripped clothes and not shower for a year. Grief was a strange master. The eulogy took place every Sunday morning at 5 AM sharp. Some weeks, she read from the expanded book of Psalms her father had written. Some weeks, she whined. Some weeks, the tears did the talking. Some weeks, she just said “sorry” and walked away to water her fork garden. She always spat, kissed, and then spat on the ground when she left.
These weekly eulogies took place until Aliza turned into a sleepguzzling teenager. After that, the tinfoil beard lay rank, rusted, and forgotten one foot under the ground. Sometimes the sky cried, and the beard became cold and wet. You can still hear the echoes of the tinfoil beard screaming if you put your ear close enough to the ground.
4. Yiddish slang for underwear. DID YOU PUT ON FRESH BUDGIES TODAY, SHMILLI?
5. Seven day Jewish mourning period where you wear unfresh, ripped clothes and don’t shower. It’s truly lovely. God’s asthma was caused by Jewish deaths.
The Mask
Miriam Blau poetry
It’s hard
It’s old
It doesn’t fit anymore, And yet I keep wearing it.
It’s tearing, And uncomfortable, And hot.
I try to take it off, But it doesn’t come off.
It’s been there for a long time, And it wants to stay.
I ask people how they feel about my mask. They like it. It’s comfortable for them. I want to remove it
And show people the beauty that’s behind the mask.
I am sure that people will love what they see behind the mask Even more than they like the mask.
Did I forget something? They like the mask. They told me what color to paint it,
What to put on it, They even helped me decide how to wear it.
One day I go somewhere where people love my mask but are willing to help me remove it. I see someone who has a mask
that she freely puts on and takes off.
She peaks behind our masks and tells us what lies behind them. I’m surprised to find out that there is ‘good’ and ‘bad’ behind the mask.
I begin taking off my mask It hurts It’s painful. The mask was covering up so much pain, rejection, and hurt. And as I feel the pain, the dirt and guck, my mask disappears. My mask falls off by itself.
I feel this unfamiliar feeling of love, Peace, joy, light. I feel connected.
I become aware of my own beauty.
I love myself unconditionally. I love everyone around me. I want to share my love, I want to hold onto it forever.
My skin is exposed. It is fresh and bright.
I am like a newborn baby. Pure Innocent.
But I’m an adult. And my mask served a purpose. It protected me from getting hurt. It helped me get by in a world full of pain.
My mask is off.
But these people are experts. They seemed to understand this process better than me.
So I trust them, And listen to them.
And try to do exactly what they tell me to do.
But I didn’t listen to that little voice inside, Saying your skin is exposed. You need to be careful.
They don’t understand my skin because it is different than theirs. It is more sensitive, because it was covered so carefully for so long.
The people around me taught me how to protect it. They knew how to treat sensitive skin.
They knew it needed to be covered up.
It felt so good to be loved. But I forgot I was delicate. My skin was fresh, I thought that I needed to show everyone everything that I had hidden for so long, My emotions, My disorganization, All the parts of me that I was ashamed of.
All they saw was guck. They didn’t like it, I was hurt.
I thought that if only I could show people all of who I was they would love and appreciate me. But I wasn’t showing them all of who I was, I was showing them the stuff I had tried so hard to hide.
People saw my flaws and got scared,
She’s not acting like an adult. There’s something wrong with her. They wanted to fix me, But I thought I was fine the way I was.
They thought I needed a lot of medicine to help me get rid of the dirt.
It hurt my face. I hated it.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to get away from all the people who hated what they saw. They had spent years trying to hide the parts of themselves that I was showing. And they didn’t want to see it in me, because it was too painful for them.
They laughed at me, They tried to discipline me. They treated me the way other people had treated them when they showed their faults,
Finally I realized that if I just listened to what they told me to do they wouldn’t have to use such strong medication on me. So I listened to them. I let them give me medication that was weaker.
And then I quickly grabbed my broken mask and put it back on. The mask fit well on top of the medication. And then things started to change.
They saw my mask and loved it. I was better.
Their work was done. They marveled at how quickly I got better.
But only I could feel the pain of the mask.
And the pain they had inflicted on my face.
As time passed by, They started to like me even more.
A lot of people liked me. I thought that they only liked the mask.
But what I didn’t realize was that they could see through the holes in the mask. They could see me. And they liked me. I didn’t need to hide myself from the world.
I could show people who I was in a dignified way.
I still hide things. We all do.
Some of us try to shield our children.
We see their innocence and wholeness.
We want them to hold onto it for the rest of their life. But children need masks too. We need to help them create masks that fit well for them. We need to show them how to take them on and off, and when it’s ok to show parts of ourselves and when it’s not.
There’s no perfect childhood. There’s no perfect life. People won’t like us. People will love us. But one thing that nobody can take away is the unconditional love that we can give ourselves and the people around us.
Ace aCe acE
Anonymous golf balls, paint, resin, wood
I created this as a gift for the office where I once worked. While it might just look like colored golf balls in a row there are hidden Easter eggs that I haven’t pointed out. Eventually someone will see something hidden and understand that there’s a whole lot of meaning hidden inside. Likely most will be missed, but they exist and if you catch it suddenly you are seeing something that has a different meaning. Things that appear one way aren’t always what they seem.
Dizzy and Unfazed
Je’Jae Cleo Mizrahi painting
For the past year I’ve been #volunteering with @theunframedarts located at @sfxaviernyc working with #Dreamers #Immigrants #Homeless folks and those with #mentalhealth challenges through a team of lovely #socialwork #interns from @cunyarts conducting #arttherapy. #Tonight I prioritized my #wellness, by unraveling the unsettling #feelings that are #scary and conflicting that barely anyone likes to go through. Rather than placing myself in a binary, of being fearless or afraid but being able to sit and #explore the discomfort that makes us both misunderstood internally as well as actualized #human. #Inspired by @roberthsminthson.artist & @ gianfrancogorgoni #photography of the #SpiralJetty as well as #JasperJohns painting “target with four faces.”
Find Je’Jae’s art on Instagram and Behance: @Mx.Enigma
Wicked
Anonymous haikus
Your wicked sister, So hard to please, finds trouble Daily in the news.
Frum financial fraud. Rabbis defending rapists. Top ten worst landlords.
A chillul Hashem. Embarrassed, your sister says, “This is not for me.”
Honestly simple, The hypocrisy shines through And distances her.
The community Consistently defends bad Yet calls her evil.
A Portrait of Asthma
Bina DaFawkes it is made of my nebulous health
What is the color of chronic illness? The shape?
I make love to my asthma I caress the soft curves of her body and kiss her as only someone who knows this is the healthiest I’ll ever be It’s only downhill from here.
I sit in front of my easel draw the shape of it gentle curves of my peak flow meter sharpness of the data as I decompensate gentle flow of poison into my body to try and save me Steroids months at a time.
I pick up my pen out flows the irony of poison to supposedly heal the scene where I salute death snatch myself from her
I pour my soul out as a pitcher I shower in the bigness of my emotions
grief that I may never ice skate again joy that my partner caught on camera possibly the last time I will feel joy
ice skating burgeoning acceptance that I may worsen as I age hope for a future that I hope will coexist with the acceptance that things may always be worsening love for life, my son, my friends, my lovers fury that God has the gall to take away my health, my joy, my fun, my loves, my teal ice skates Tears, clearly the pitcher is deep and so am I
The color of asthma eludes me The taste of asthma confounds me
because mostly I just taste my own tears blurrily, blearily in the haze of insomnia wondering what next will asthma steal from me? What next will I lose?
The integrity of my bones is at risk (from meds)
My sugars are trending high (from meds)
My taste buds have dried up and gone home (from meds)
My stomach looks pregnant (from meds)
My pregnancy jokes hurt me (but it hurts more not to joke)
I look at my progeny wonder how dare I be a mother when my body cannot even serve myself
I am responsible for the care of another? What gall I have
What assumptions I make
Am I living under the rock that is my nebulizer?
Am I delusional? I behold the looming shape of chronic illness the blinding color of It and I wonder how I can even be seen in its shadow
Am I even visible?
Can anyone even see me through this bipap that covers my face?
Marionette in my own body I look into my lungs as if they are optical illusions I cannot look away.
Image_1.3.59 Bina DaFawkes photograph
This is the triangle of life in a leaf (in Florida).
bloody heart
rachel wertheimer poetry
i want to drown myself till my wells gone completely dry of all the blood the hurt the knives that crushed my soul down so deep my ego shattered my self image non existent i then
i let them take little sips strangers kisses connections distraction obsessions anything to pour water over my dripping blood flushing out of my cracked broken heart so that i can rid myself of it all doses of dopamine filling my little well as the blood is being drained through the crack she created with the knife i tried to protect her from while i give the last of me to strangers till i have nothing left
i want it that way for now at least to flush it all out till every trace of you is gone
and i can start anew in a place where you don’t exist in a place where i can start again anxious for the next step to fill my new hole dried out drained with water of sleeping around one night stands kisses, dates, connecting
dopamine, self esteem, hope, renewed faith in humanity
till i have nothing left to give standing in a pool of water nothing to hold it there
Collage
Anonymous
mixed media - paper, paint, glitter, beads, rhinestones
I made this collage while feeling angry about my childhood in the ultra-Orthodox community and the lack of support for “negative” feelings like anger and loss.
Melted Mayhem
Lilac C.
wax candle, wax dripping, styrofoam, canvas, photograph
Havdalah Candle is traditionally lit Saturday night after ‘Shabbat’ to distinguish between sacred and mundane (as in days of the week). For me the process of questioning what was trauma taught in the name of religion is anything but mundane. It fact it often felt like mayhem.
If I Manifested Mimesis
Feiga Khutoretsky words and dreams
If I Manifested Mimesis, I wonder if I could capture the cloud
The formless fog I find My mind muddled in Morph the murmurings of My mind into measured memories
Collections, clear and concise
Would be a small price For the tool of my vice
Terrifyingly transformed to A dark documentation
Serious cementation of a selective Scripture of a spotty selection
Each inscribed in its own section
Sincere sins and morbid mitzvos Would I still analyze each תוא?
“If I Manifested Mimesis” is a poem that explores the ways that I unpack all the aspects of my own mind. I imagine my mind as the home for various pieces of me, both from the present and from the past. My mind was the home to my religious obsession, the home to my fascination with the “outside world,” the home to my trauma, and the place where I kept the acts I was told were sins. My mind itself felt like my vice. The poem explores what it’s like to struggle with memory, and trying to put it all down on paper.
Bina DaFawkes and god
the Shechina
Say this every day as a segula1 for parnossa2, gezunt3, and to bring mashiach4 closer, At minimum, this should be read on the anniversary of my death by my progeny.5
Put your hands upon the head of each child, one by one6 gently mutter in the crowded silence Tehillim7 151:
Shir Halamaalos8
I lift my eyes up to the heavens where does my help come from? from god jokes
destroyer of heaven and earth
1. The official Judaic term for waving a rabbi(t)’s foot and knocking on penises in the morning. It is any superstition that you think will save your soul. But the truth is stark. Nothing will save your soul.
2. Being able to make money easily. What every Jew is phenomenal at without trying. If we aren’t making it, we are stealing it.
3. Health, what god refuses to bestow upon me even when I curse him out.
4. The messiah, the man who will save us from the rabbis.
5. Yes, this is a thing. My dad reads something from the Chayei Adam, our ancestor, to us kids once a year.
6. Jews do this Friday night. That’s why it is customary to bathe Friday before the Sabbath begins- so the hair is not oily.
7. Psalms, there are 150 of them- plus mine. Some Jews recite the entire book every day or at least one or two. It is considered especially pious to know as many as possible by heart.
8. Literally “a song to the ascents.” It is a series in Tehillim, like a book series but more boring.
who watches you slip does not help you get up watches you sleep and eat and pee and poop fart fuck just watches
the lord will cause every harm in your life just watch you, content in your pain you will pray to him he will answer with pregnant silence
have mercy on me, god. Take pity ignore me as if I do not exist for that is the greatest blessing this god can ever bestow upon us godforsaken is a blessing, not a curse at least don’t capitalize the g.
The more wives, the more witchcraft. -Pirkei Avot 2:7
Things I Learned in High School
Rivka Gorelick photographs
This photography project contains a series of self-portraits that engage with Judaic texts relating to women. Although some of the text cited is granular and others are more abstract, words like these inform the laws that shaped not only my body and behavior, but my dreams and desires as well. While directly reflective of my experiences as a straight woman in an ultra-Orthodox Jewish community, the selected texts nod to some of the challenges for men while alluding to deep obstacles for queer individuals through their very wording. The methods of response are deliberate, raising questions while not underscoring by simply doing the opposite. Using the evidential quality and connection to truth that is particular to the medium of photography, I am visually inserting myself into this male-centric context and must now be reckoned with. Self-representation becomes a door to reclamation of thought, of voice, of skin.
A person who looks at even a small finger of a woman with the intent of deriving pleasure is considered as if he looked at her genitalia.
-Misneh Torah, 21:2
And to the woman [God] said, “...Yet your urge shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.”
-Genesis 3:16
[Eve’s] additional curses are...she sits and urinates, like an animal.
-Eruvin 100b:26
Rav Sheshet stated: Even a woman’s hair is considered nakedness, for it too is praised.
-Berakhot 24a
Out of Brooklyn
Tova Ovits
haiku
Walk to the water,
Loving the breeze in my hair. Life is so different.
Part II
Long strides in my jeans: I’ll always appreciate How far I have come.
Part III
It has been six years Since freeing my hair and legs. Working on my mind.
don’t look at me
Yechezkel Zach Greenberger photograph from a collection of self portraits am i trying to say something? i’m not really sure. could be. maybe the point is just that self-portraiture is awkward. maybe it’s more than that. or less. or something entirely different. i don’t know. you figure it out. i can’t do everything for you.
Anonymous poetry
I see her
Across the room I freeze
Trying not to blush
I’m for sure blushing
It’s been a while
Twenty years? It feels like a lifetime Ago
But also like yesterday
Like time never passed, in some ways
I’m back in the dorm days
Late nights, so many rites Of passage, for a teenage girl
Sharing her heart
Sharing it all
“It’s good to see you,” I say She looks up, it takes a moment
Then she smiles
“You also,” she says In her primitive, heartful way
Oof, I miss it
Wish I could still be there, with her
So much I still want to say
Still want to be
Why do my cheeks hurt?
Composed during a Footsteps poetry workshop, this poem reflects on an unexpected moment of reconnection — with a friend from a former life, and a version of the self left behind. It lingers in the space where memory mimics reality, and where the past quietly asks: How do you see me now?
Unraveled and Unbound
Beatrice Weber
watercolor, calligraphy, embroidery thread
This is my first deeply intentional mixed-media piece, combining watercolor, Hebrew calligraphy, and embroidery thread. It holds both personal and ancestral memory of stories of women who were silenced, erased, and hidden. At the center is a veiled woman whose body releases Hebrew letters, sacred language that, in my upbringing, belonged only to men. The letters start clearly, then fall apart, breaking under the weight of inherited silence. The tangled threads veil her and spill across the calligraphy, holding generations of shame, control, and patriarchy. Around her, cherry blossoms bloom. I left the night before Passover, with the trees in full bloom. For me, these blossoms are about freedom, risk, and reclaiming myself. Creating this was raw and emotional. It’s the first time I’ve fully allowed myself to say: I am an artist and creator and I always was.
Shane’s OTD Experience at the Beach
Shane and Jood Lannette poetry
Crying
Tears pouring down my eyes
“I’m free” I whispered at such a low decibel
That I could barely hear myself
“I’m free” I reiterated I can finally be me
I stood barefoot in the sand
And my feet sunk deeper and deeper until the grains covered them
A thin towel encased me
I felt so afraid to unwrap it
And let the world see my barely covered skin
I took a deep breath
Whispered to myself again
“I can do this”
I reminded myself
Hell is an illusion
I don’t have to follow pointless rules any longer
These actions won’t kill my father
My family members’ words are lies
I repeated these words
Louder and louder
Until I was screaming on the top of my lungs
“I can do this”
I told myself
Convinced myself
I slowly unwrapped the towel
And let it drop to the floor
I walked with confidence to the
waters
I held my head high
Let the world see what has been covered all these years
Hidden due to the laws of modesty
Let them see my bare arms and legs
Let them see that hidden tattoo
It’s time for me to be free I jumped in the waters
Of Coney Island’s beach
And more tears fell down my cheeks
“I can finally be my authentic self” I roared
At that very moment
On June 18 2021
Against all odds
I accepted myself for who I am I watched as my body shaming
Diet culture
Body dysphoria
And religious indoctrination
Rode away with each crashing wave
Until the societal negativity was no more
And I embraced every part of me
And discovered the self-love that had been inside of me all this time
I smiled for the first time It was a genuine smile
“Today is the first day of a new life” I shouted loudly
“Today is my new beginning”
Big Sur Surprise
Rochelle G. photograph
It mimes Ireland and other parts of Europe but is actually in Northern California. It represents freedom from religion and to explore the big beautiful world, both literally and figuratively, since this trip took place on Passover.
Chiddush Salon
Rochelle Ginsburg acrylic on canvas
Inspired by Gertrude Stein’s salon and the bold experimentation of the Paris avant-garde, this painting is a tribute to mimesis as re-creation — a reclaiming of creative and intellectual autonomy once denied. It celebrates the luxury of trying things out: intellectually, creatively, and personally. The walls pulse with works in varied styles, echoing the collage-like process of rebuilding identity. A canvas on the easel is mid-stroke, hinting at something just beginning to take form — even a foreshadowing technologies yet unknown. Around it, discarded attempts scatter the floor—each one a stepping stone, not a mistake. Evidence of freedom. In the midst of it all, a deep blue chair offers comfort and rest: a place to think, to imagine, and to regroup between leaps. Painted during a Footsteps Art Fest, this piece reflects the nonlinear journey of those leaving behind rigid certainties in search of something more spacious. It honors the brave act of beginning. Here, comfort and experimentation coexist. The room doesn’t offer answers — only possibilities.
A Sunday Afternoon
Shaindy Weichman
colored pencils
Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte feels like time put on pause — little dots holding everything together, a whole world just barely breathing. His painting is calm, exact, almost too perfect. When I made my piece, I stayed with his colors but let go of the perfection. My colored pencils move differently — rougher, closer, more human. Where Seurat is all patience and polish, my drawing is messier, quicker, a little more like catching sunlight before it disappears. I wasn’t trying to remake his Sunday. I was making my own version of stillness — one that’s a little warmer, a little more cracked open, and a lot more mine.
Whoever Saves One Life
Debbie Shore
scraps of paper, mirror, marker
A superhero made of fragments of everyday consumer imagery and a mirror for a face suggests that heroism isn’t reserved for the extraordinary - anyone can make a difference in the world. In that way, this collage transforms mimicry into possibility.
Hold On
Lilac C. poetry
Can you hold on? he said.
And instantly, I fumed! I spiraled down a staircase into the crevices of nuance and started to rant. Hold on?
What do you mean — HOLD ON?!
I’ve been holding on for all my life! How dare you ask if I can hold on?!
Do you even know how many times I just wanted to let go?
Countless times. Many, many times.
When life was too much trouble to “tie a knot and hang on” — like some obscene saying says. Tie a knot?
With what? What exactly?! I demand loudly. And I don’t think we should be talking about rope — the ones that bind my feet, paralyzing my every move with fear.
So I steer round in circles —
but only in my mind. ’Cause in truth, I’m standing in place. Only I’m barely standing. My feet quiver with spasms of muscle tension they have yet to release — from 25 years ago. Damn, hold on! Why, what all the nerve! Suddenly, a voice loudly resounded — pushing itself into my head. “Ma’am, are you there?”
AM I HERE?!
My stomach acid hit the roof of my mouth!
Yes, I am here!
What the fuck is wrong with people — asking such startling, stupid, intrusive questions with that little lilt in their voice, like I just don’t know what and why they are asking! Fuck them all.
Thank you for holding on, the disembodied voice continued. I hysterically burst out laughing. Well, that’s a first, I shrieked like a hyena. No one in my entire life has EVER told me that! How ironic!
Excuse me, ma’am?
Are you okay? I rolled my eyes. Again with the questions! What do you mean, AM I OKAY?! I bellowed!
Well, I am still trying to find out why your package was delayed. It seems to have been rerouted by mistake.
That’s why I asked if you could hold on — I had to speak to a supervisor.
Uh!
I did not see that one coming. My eyes practically rolled out of
my head, so I did the only thing I could. I looked down at my feet, which were shaking in fury. I slammed the phone down. I’ve had enough of holding on!
A50
Hindel
Moskovits cigar bands, glue, wood
This painting is made of discarded cigar bands. The person who smoked these enjoyed them a lot. I hate cigars. Take something you dislike and find a way to have a different perspective. Find beauty in places you think you possibly couldn’t. See things in a different way, turn that thing you hate into something you can appreciate.
A Good Type of Bad
Anonymous poetry
Life’s full of good; life’s full of bad. But the bad makes the good that much better. When an icy winter is all you’ve had, You can appreciate the nice weather. When you dislike a food’s bitter taste, The more you enjoy when food’s sweet. When you fight and victory’s what you face, The relief is greater after defeat. And when your garden has many a weed, The more you enjoy simple flowers. When it takes you many tries to succeed, The satisfaction is high and empowers. Life’s bad brings good in a way good can’t bring, A life without bad would be a bad thing.
In life, suffering is inevitable. For those of us who have left ultraOrthodox communities/ religion and struggle with our understanding of spirituality, religion, or God, it is often an immense struggle to assign meaning to our painful challenges and accept them. This merely compounds the problem. Currently, my only comforting thought is that the deeper my pain, the deeper my capacity to experience joy.
Life Cycles
Rifkalla Nechama Hashem poetry
Sometimes I want to curl up into a ball
Sometimes I want to hide my existence
Sometimes I feel like what is happening
Sometimes it’s the trees and the birds that wake me up
Sometimes I feel deeply in my soul the pain
Sometimes I feel deeply in my soul the joy
At times I remember who I am
At times I remember my existence isn’t just for existence
It is magical
At times I remember the magical places I have been to
At times I remember the magical energies I have acquired
At times I remember the magical spirit I have found deep within humans on earth
Sometimes I think to myself what would the world look like without me
At times I ponder and I think what would the world look like if I was to have a lot of power
What would I do first
Would I build bridges or would I burn the old ones
Would I create temples with love
Would I create healing sanctuaries
Would I create meals where the homeless can come and eat
Would I create community centers where all are welcome
to exist without having to prove anything
What would Earth look like with my power
What would I feel like with my power
Because now I feel powerless
Now I feel hopeless
Now I feel the last breath of sunshine has left my body
I question the day I will feel whole again
The day I will feel okay
Today I will feel seen for who I am at my depths at my core
And then I wake up from my daydream and I wonder what else can I do today to feel better
And I remind myself that there are vast oceans and territories I have not explored yet around the Earth
And I think to myself whom will I travel with and when
Because my bags are packed ready to go on an adventure
Here we go
Unleash your inner turmoil
Rifkalla the time has come
For you to shine your light
And so has yours
Until we meet again I love you all
Guggenheim Museum
Hinda Silverman
recycled cardboard, pipe cleaners, star gems, hot glue, white glue, pearly stickers, construction paper, diamond stickers.
Inspired by my first museum visit during Footsteps Art Fest. I learned so much and made great friendships and had an amazing experience.
From Breathing to Living
Jood Lannette poetry
Nearly 2 years ago
When I was deep into my healing journey
I started a habit. Every night before sleep, I’d take a moment - just a minute -
To write down 3 things. This simple act, This tiny spark of gratitude, Ignited a flame, Creating a fire of transformation and growth
That spread throughout my life, Impacting me in countless ways.
I propose a question To each one of you . . . What comes to mind When you think about gratitude? Your partner? Your family? Your pets? Your job? Footsteps?
I’m grateful for all of that But there’s one thingOne thing that stands above all the rest
I’m grateful for my second chance at life.
Let me explain . . . For so long, Too long, I felt like a zombie. I was alive,
But barely. Breathing, but not living. Walking through life, Doing the motions, Without any emotions. Barely surviving in this worldNumb.
I felt like a ghost in my own skin.
Day after day, It was but the same I would pull myself out of bed, Find distractions, But mostly . . . I counted the hours until the day was done.
For years,
I lived but half a life, Until one day, I had enough. I knew that I had to get my life together, For the life I was living It was slowly destroying me. I took action. I created a plan. And I followed through.
Self-improvement is no fairytaleIt’s messy, It’s grueling, It’s painful. It means looking in the mirror And confronting what’s been buried
Healing takes workHard, relentless work. It involves self-reflection, Introspection, Motivation, The courage to face the past,
To revisit the scars, And to heal them, One by one.
I built myself up from ground zero, I recreated who I was, It took time, But slowly I came back to lifeThrough resilience, determination, And most of all, an unyielding refusal to give up. I shaped myself into the person I am today.
And even though the road was rough,
Even though I wanted to quit, I kept going. I still have miles to walk, But I know I’ll reach the other side.
When I was at my lowest, Years before this habit began, Finding gratitude felt impossible. Sure I’d tryI’d put in abundant effort, Tirelessly seeking anything to be thankful for.
And when I’d finally come up With things I was grateful for I’d jot them down. But try how I might I couldn’t connect with what I’d written And the failure of connection Would leave me in disarray, Causing me to give up entirely.
But todayToday, gratitude is more than a list. It’s a connection,
A pulse, A heartbeat. I feel it in my bones, in every breath I take. Gratitude isn’t just words, It’s the energy that fuels my soul, It’s the reason I keep going, The reason I’m alive — And not just breathing, But living.
Midnight Strumming
Hindel Moskovits perler beads, cardboard.
This is a picture of my son wearing his Nirvana shirt and playing guitar. The things that bring him joy are different than the things that bring me joy. It represents that we like different things, have different ideas, and put our energy in different places. It means for everything in life there is more than one way. This also represents both of our passions, him and his guitar and me and my art. Within our differences there’s a place for everyone.
My son enjoys that we share this talent, he likes seeing that we’re both good at making art. It’s true. I had a mother who is a “real artist” but seeing the talent in my kids made me think that I must have it too.
Find Hindel’s art on Instagram: @icantdrawastraightline
A is A
Hindel Moskovits perler beads, cardboard
This is a picture of my daughter painting. We couldn’t be more different, but the one place we understand each other is through art. She inspires me all the time. I don’t understand her, she’s happy to be the only yellow crayon among 100s of blue crayons. She wears two different shoes and doesn’t care what you think. It makes me happy that we can both live differently but share the same happy place, where we create art.
My daughter says she was the one who inspired me to start creating art, that I am an artist because of her, and I love that she sees herself as part of my artistic journey.
Fly High
Shane Lannette nails, string, stickers, paper
Fly High was created during the Shiva of my partner’s grandmother. She loved both of us and accepted us fully. The piece has queer colors and a tulip, because she liked tulips.
Emesis of Mimesis
Bina DaFawkes poetry
It is time to do still art I still my soul sit, I say. it sits I stand and leave it sitting soul whines soul stirs I give it a look it quietens
I sit down at my easel my medium is prepared a single papermate pen draw up my non-existent sleeves peer at my subject the shape of my soul is misted in swaths of grey and black and breezes that scream white I squint to better see underneath the stained gauze there I see — ?! is this the soul I was supposed to draw in words? a roiling mass colors fighting for purchase
where is the breath of God here? did I get God’s crappiest breath? if this is the famous soul, is there a god? or is this a fool’s soul
I be the fool if I believed a soul to be holy
I close my eyes
I take the red broiling flame and hold it gently in my hands. I know your names. I say it out loud. I have talked to you. Give me my drive, my passion, my will. I touch it to my chest. My chest lights up but it does not catch fire.
I reach in and yellow alights on my hand. I raise it high and bless it. You are my light. I touch it to my toes and do a head stand.
I do this for all the shapes and shades of the colors until there is only one lefteigengrau the color I see when I close my eyes which is to say the only color I choose to see the color of choice of freedom and that is the soul I choose
Cutting the Toxic Cord
Shane Lannette poetry
Mommy I miss you
Mommy you were there for me many times
Mommy I remember sitting in your room and talking late at night
Mommy I remember all the times I called you on the phone
Mommy you paid for marriage counseling and helped with my first divorce
Mommy you heard me when I struggled
I wish I can pick up the phone after a hard day and you can support me
Mommy you’re still around but you are not around for me.
Mommy I don’t even have the address of your new home in Lakewood
Mommy you pretend that my partner Jood doesn’t exist and it breaks me every time
Mommy I wish my personal lifestyle wouldn’t come between us and that you would accept me as queer and secular
Mommy I wish you would have a conversation with me and speak to me about my life changes
The last open conversation I had with you was when I came out to you as queer.
It went downhill from there, you told me, “I wish it was a religious girl” but now I see that wouldn’t even matter.
Nothing I do will ever be good enough
Mommy, I know our relationship will never be the same I just hope we get to meet again face to face one day
Mommy I want to share with you all my highs, my successes ,my love, my positives, my good and everything that is going right. You never heard me talk good about any of my exes, or anyone at all.
All I ever told you about in the past was full of pain, negativity, and hurt
No one will ever replace you Mommy.
But today I recognize that and have come to peace with it. I see what I gave up and I’m okay with it
Mommy you have my phone number and you can reach out to me anytime
I’m not begging for your love anymore
Because you chose to listen to rabbis who messed up our relationship
Rabbis who don’t understand mental health
Who make matters worse and bridge gaps between so many So today I discovered that I will find other ways to let go of hardships such as this one To continue to focus on my blossoming relationship and my own happiness
Mommy I miss you, but today I’m letting you go Bye for now
Banana Mimesis
Anonymous photograph
This is a photo of a banana slug. It looks very much like a banana and like something for which banana is also used as a metaphor, except the slug is intact. It kept retracting its antennae into its hood and then when it felt safe, it would poke its antennae back out. To me the banana slug represents an incredible phenomenon in nature where a creature mines being a fruit and made me reflect upon my strong feelings about a Jewish ritual that I detest and object to because it is a violation of human rights.
Spring Dew On Stone
Sapir Blum photograph
This photo captures a serene springtime moment, featuring a fresh green leaf adorned with dew drops, resting on a bed of smooth white pebbles. The leaf, with its distinct lobed shape, and the dew add a natural sparkle typical of the season’s renewal. The background of scattered rocks provides a neutral contrast, highlighting the leaf’s vibrant color and delicate details. The image beautifully evokes the quiet, rejuvenating essence of spring after a morning rain.
Find Sapir’s art on Instagram: @sapirblumphotography
THE GOOD AND THE BAD
Sarah
S. (11 years old)
poetry
I’ll take you away
To a world where everything’s ok
I think you know this place
Take your time to think, it’s not a race
I’ll give you a hint
You have been there before
A place where, like the birds you can soar
Bad things happen too
Like losing something new
Or breaking your head
This is your perfect dream land
This place is the land in your head
The dreams you dream in your bed
The worries before a test
The words telling you you’re the best It keeps pushing you down
Giving into a frown
But once in a while it’s nice
Some encouragement and hope and good
If you are lucky when your stabbed with worry you wont lose too much blood
It’s where your dreams are born
It’s where your heart is torn
It is a mix of good and bad
You’re stuck here forever but try not to be sad
The Thing It Wasn’t
Hindel Moskovits
perler beads, cardboard
In the summer of 2020, I saw a man walking down the street with his wife playing oldies on his melodica. At the time, depression was kicking my ass hard, my ex took my daughter to his family and they barely let me speak to her, then he dragged me back to court, the world was falling apart dealing with covid. I didn’t want to get out of bed or face the world. But I had no choice: my son needed to see a doctor.
Seeing that man, dressed in Chasidic garb, his wife wearing a wig, playing upbeat oldies — shifted something in me. That day, my mood lifted. Things stopped feeling impossible. That day he saved my life.
Months later, I came across a heartbreaking story about a young woman named Yocheved Gourarie who had taken her own life. I read about her, and I felt a sense of recognition — I felt like she was me. Then I learned something else: the man I’d seen on the street that day — the one who saved my life — was Yocheved’s father.
Not long after, a letter addressed to Yocheved’s parents mistakenly ended up in my mailbox. As it turns out, they had lived next door to me fifteen years earlier. I had just returned home from fulfilling a promise I’d made in Yocheved’s honor when I found the envelope. I reached out to her father, Avremi — the man with the melodica. We’ve been friends ever since.
I never felt so lucky as I did that day to have seen Avremi walking down the street. I feel just as lucky today to say that he is still my dear friend.
Moshe
Tehilla Muller paper, pencil, colored pencil
Moshe Fessel 1975-2024
Moshe was a dear friend of mine, who was taken away at the young age of 49 after being hit by a car on April 2, 2024. These pieces represent to me that ever present feeling of loss and grief, and how it appreciates our minds as we remember the good, the bad, and all the in-between. Our minds are filled with walls with pictures of the face of the loved one we’ve lost.
Love I Let Go
Nechama Bar-Chaim poetry
Sometimes I picture myself Bathed in patchwork watercolors Under a glaring sun in June. I sit under the waves as they crest and crash over me, Aglow in the beams of the moon.
My heels click on the pavement, And I kick up the dust that once made this place mine. Concrete bleachers scorching under my fingers — I still mourn this, the city I left behind.
We paint our nails bright, Colored red, blue, and green. This is the only thing We are allowed to let be.
I swing from laundry lines, broken pegs Littered over my town. I hear the voices that tore so loudly, And still they never made a sound.
The glorious daylight is unbothered Anytime it must hide — Not a single thing in this place Will live without knowing night.
Havdalah Shaindy Weichman paper, pen
The two pieces I am submitting explore the theme of mimesis — the process of imitation and reproduction — through contrasting methods of representation. The first piece, a pen drawing of a Havdalah set, directly mimics the original object. By capturing the intricate details of the set, I sought to preserve its form and essence in a way that reflects the classical concept of mimesis — a faithful reproduction of the real world. This act of imitation serves as an homage to the ritual object and its significance in Jewish tradition. The second piece, a paper collage that recreates the pen drawing, pushes the boundaries of mimesis. While it begins with the pen drawing as its foundation, the use of catalog paper and collage techniques introduces an element of abstraction. The original form is transformed, highlighting how the act of imitation can evolve into something new and interpretive. By breaking down the original drawing and reconstructing it in a different medium, I explore how the process of mimesis is not just about copying, but also about reinterpretation and transformation. Together, these pieces reflect on the fluid nature of mimesis. The first piece demonstrates the act of reproduction, while the second piece illustrates how imitation can be reshaped and reimagined, offering a deeper reflection on the relationship between the original and its copy.
Find Shaindy’s art on Instagram: @seen.captured.displayed
