Shlomith sits in her usual spot, next to the wall under Liza Minnelli’s photograph, and places her usual order. She is unquestionably now Shkhina, not just Shlomith, because of course the staff and regulars at the restaurant know her. She’s a sightseeing attraction herself! People come just to look at her. The glances are furtive and polite as always in the big city. Sometimes someone (usually a visiting foreigner, a gallery buff who’s up to date with the trends of the art world) comes over to exchange a few words with Shlomith. “How goes the hunger?” the buff might ask in the hushed tones of an initiate.
Slowly, feigning enjoyment, Shlomith-Shkhina consumes her half pastrami sandwich. Between the two slices of bread is an obscenely thick layer of thinly sliced turkey which has been salted, partially dried, rubbed with herbs, and finally smoked and steamed; the recipe originated in a time before the refrigerator. Romanian Jewish immigrants brought the delicacy to the United States in the mid-nineteenth century, and it is even enjoyed by those who don’t care much about Him Who Is, Him for whose glory the Orthodox must eat food with recipes originating during the age before refrigeration. The manager, Dan, always brings Shlomith-Shkhina the other half of the sandwich in a paper bag with the bill. “Shlomith, please take this to eat later tonight. Our treat.” Shlomith takes the paper bag and leaves a princely tip, which is all part of the routine.
Shlomith-Shkhina steps out of Katz’s Deli onto East Houston Street with tired but happy legs. She totters a few blocks to the west, toward Sarah D. Roosevelt Park, and descends into the underworld, down to the F train, which returns her to Park Slope, to Seventh Avenue right near her home.
The daily hunger and euphoria, the pain and the torpor, the hollow, mental anguish and the tight-rope walker’s ingenuousness, the supernatural effort and the irrational self-denial, the numberless sleepless nights, the endless search for knowledge, the follow-up calls, the full notebooks, which could have sealed a whole apartment building of drafty windows—all this becomes her prayer, the fruit of her lips, tfila. Shlomith-Shkhina’s final performance, which dozens of performance researchers from around the world have come to observe. The auditorium of the Jewish Museum is full to overflowing. Officially it seats 230, but now a quarter more than that are here. Some sit on the floor.
On the sixteenth of August, the red stage curtains rise. A stir runs through the crowd. There stands Shlomith-Shkhina, finally, a microphone in her hand, in her underwear, surrounded by ugly heaters blasting warm air. She is like something exhumed from the grave. She’s so thin she can’t be alive. So angular and pale, as if dented all over. But there she stands, obviously alive, ever so slightly moving. Shlomith-Shkhina raises the microphone to her lips and makes a sound: “Ladies and gentlemen!” The sound comes from somewhere deep. Robust and hollow, it carries through the hall. From such an insubstantial body one would expect little more than weak squeaks punctuated by panting, but now, Shlomith-Shkhina’s voice is as strong as steel. And so Shlomith-Shkhina begins to speak for the last time on earth.
JUDAISM AND ANOREXIA
LECTURE PERFORMANCE
JEWISH MUSEUM
16.08.2007
Ladies and gentlemen! I’d like to welcome you all to this lecture, which I’ve entitled “Judaism and Anorexia”. As you can see, this is a topic that touches me at a very personal level. I stand before you, surrounded by these glowing heaters, nearly naked. I’m freezing. The downy blanket of hair on my skin, my lanugo, is fluffed up like a baby chick; due to the lighting behind me, you see it as a gleaming aura. Me you see as a silhouette, not as a person, even less so as a woman. Instead of a person, you see a symbol, instead of a woman a metaphor—you see a sign.
I know I’m far too thin. I know I’m disfigured and ugly. One would even be justified in saying that I’m dying right before your eyes. Am I playing with fire? Most certainly. Am I a narcissist? Perhaps to some degree. Insane? I don’t believe so. Am I incompetent? No. Am I glorifying the sickness called anorexia in the name of art? Absolutely not! Am I encouraging Jewish girls and women to follow my example? No, no, no!
You may ask in confusion, “Why have you done this to yourself, Shlomith-Shkhina?” Over the next forty-five minutes, I’ll attempt to provide answers to that question.
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As you know, I’m a Jew. That sentence contains the first question: what does it mean “to be a Jew”? Is this a matter of religion or ethnicity? Both options are possible to argue. First of all, “Jewish atheist” is not a paradoxical concept. Personally I’ve never been able to believe in God, but I still feel Jewish in my blood and soul. Secondly, however difficult, it is possible to convert to Judaism. All you have to do is make a serious study of the fundamentals of the religion. However, joining the ethnic group is not a matter of choice. You’re born into it and you remain in it.
I approach Judaism in a broad, cultural sense. I would argue that even the most worldly Jew carries, perhaps unconsciously, principles of purity and immiscibility that are an organic part of our cultural heritage. In Judaism these ideals are approached in particular through food, which makes Jewish culture especially susceptible to pathologies related to eating.
During the course of this lecture I will also investigate Jewishness through individual doctrines. These reveal the mind of Judaism, that certain something that makes Judaism unique compared to other world views and religions.
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My childhood home was not particularly religious, although certain clichés of Jewish
