torah burial

Is there another people that buries its sacred books; that will not destroy a book which contains the name of God? A torah scroll that is worn out or too damaged to be used is given the burial of a righteous man. I have known about the custom but have never witnessed it. Nor have I ever seen a painting of it. To my knowledge, it has never been a subject of art either Jewish or non-Jewish, but the very thought of this act touches me deeply. There can be no greater tribute to the written sacred word, for a Torah scroll is a living thing, written by the very hand of a once living person and what is writing but the image or shadow of speech, words or thoughts made visible in flowing robes. Speech always comes with a voice, and a torah’s speech is the voice of God echoing through His prophets. And our better actions in life are God’s voice echoing back to Him.            

I drew and painted this subject successfully before, but, to date, this is the best and largest version of it. It is among the first I did after my apparition of the Train of Deliverance. I felt compelled to put my father’s face somehow in with the Torah, but rejected the idea. Under a South Texas night sky, one of those where the full moon hovers amidst clouds drifting by like herded sheep, this burial service unfolds, literally, like a descending robe. Its slow downward motion is modeled after the design of the tender Pietas originating in Christian art. My father (of blessed memory) can be seen in this painting leaning tenderly over the Torah, his hands being the last living person to touch it. Unconsciously I had placed my father in exactly the posture he had when he leaned over my mother (of blessed memory) to comfort her and speak to her during her last invalid years spent in a wheelchair.             

Above him are my grandfather, (of blessed memory) and then opposite and above him, my great grandfather, whom I know from an original photograph made long before I was born and which hung in my grandfather’s home. They wear their talit and tefillin. Above, at the upper left, within the clouds hovers the image of my mother (of blessed memory). She is blessing Sabbath candles as if she had also kindled the moon. Mother’s arms are spread in her gesture of joyful greeting preceding the hugs and kisses she gave to her children and loved ones. Thus the burial of a Torah is no longer an intriguing abstraction, but rather the tribute to our generations and to the Creator of our heritage. As with all families of the Earth, we lay to rest those who gave us life. Some notes that may be of interest: the faceless angel-like figure whose talit and arms sweep across the painting is a design element that gives vertical support, a heavenward motion in spiritual opposition to the relentless downward motion of the overall design. In the great Pietas, which have been my instructors, this element of design is served by the cross, pointing heavenward to declare that our souls are in God’s keeping when our earthly robe is cast down.            

The position of the fingers of the hands is that of the ancient Kohanic (priestly blessing) and is still used in synagogue ritual. I do not know the origin of this peculiar finger placement but a Talmudic comment on behavior has given me an idea. “One’s hands should not be raised in a fist against one’s neighbor but always open in friendly greeting.” It is impossible to hold one’s fingers in the Kohanic blessing and make a fist. Try it.             

Finally, in all my paintings of Jewish themes, there is a dominance of blue, purple, and scarlet and white and gold, the high energy colors of the sky and of the curtains of the Tabernacle, its furniture and the robes of the priests as described in the book of Exodus.