“Bring them close together so that they become one stick, joined together in your hand.”
Like a book – whose pages are woven and integrated together, so too the tree and its leaves, the leaves are the pages of the tree: “They will all be bound together in one group” (Vayikra Rabba, Margaliot Edition, 30:12).
I compared this work with an open book; the page-leaves tell the story of the tree. I took the leaves that had fallen from the bohenia tree that are shaped in a whole-divided form: “One should always see oneself as partially guilty and partially innocent” (Bavli Kiddushim 40:2). On every leaf, I perforated another part of the landscape of the tree. The solitary leaf that was cut off from its source of life deserves another chance (through the piece of work) and is a link in the biographic sequence of the tree: “The clusters should ask mercy of the leaves for without the leaves the clusters would not exist.” (Bavli Hullin, 92:2, translated from the Aramaic).
The transparent shelf contains the leaves within, and lets them exist – a memory of the past (their shedding in the leaf-fall) and future memory (transforming them into creation).
The leaves of the leaf-fall are a metaphor for the life of man – in every leaf there is collective time and private time that exist in parallel fashion. At the top of the leaf I placed a small shelf with a single leaf symbolizing the time of birth, which is the time of the individual. On this leaf I perforated a square of contradictory sentences like the miniature letters of tal umatar that are intended to water (with rain) the adjacent sequence of leaves.
The sequence of leaves underwent a process of ripping which illuminated fragility on one hand and strength on the other hand. In a paradox of empty and full, the space created by the ripping of one facilitated the formation of new tissue on the other (from The Melodies of Time by Y. L Peretz). The tree became “a leaf house” in which the individual and the unit inspire one another.
The two last leaves in the sequence are different, “foreign” leaves gathered in distant lands. On one leaf, I perforated the tiled texture of a roof, and on the second leaf, I perforated a stereotypical figure of a man on a raft, rowing on a wave of words. On this leaf the only different stain of color appears, striving for additional observation: the possibility of moving between “no color” as a state of multiplicity, to “there is color” as the state of the individual. I will end with a quote from H. N. Bialik’s poem – “may my portion be with you.”