On the streets of Paris over the past few weeks, I have been studying different vestments: bright red stockings with matching heels, an orange overcoat with navy beret and boots, above-the-ankle ripped jeans topped casually with silk or cashmere. And that’s without mentioning the accessories and the perfumes! It may not be Fashion Week, but I am nonetheless surrounded by the trappings of the prêt à porter crowd, and I have been taking my study of Parisian savoir faire very seriously. Whether examining stunning window displays along the Champs-Elysées, noting the luxurious textiles and textures depicted at the Louvre, or simply trying not to gawk at stylish passers-by, I am continually reminded that fashion breathes life into the marble grandeur of this amazing city.
And speaking of the marble! In the center of the city, one is surrounded by architectural splendor and creativity, as if the entire city were a work of art. Inside the newly restored Notre Dame, for example, medieval paintings and gothic architecture look good as new, a testament to the talented artisans who meticulously brought every detail back to life. The massive crowd moving meditatively through the space, and regardless of personal beliefs or tradition, all seemed reverent before the miracle of this phoenix, reborn from her ashes. Countless examples of architectural genius, from the glass pyramids to the Tour Eiffel, surround and envelope those walking the streets, inviting them to feel inspired. Even nature is sculpted in a way that marries musicality and biology, a symphony of plants and sculptures that makes one want to swirl around like Julie Andrews on a mountain top. As I write this, sitting in my perch in my former host mother’s apartment overlooking the Luxembourg Gardens, I see countless plant species and several nude statues partially hidden behind the buds of the renascent trees. Heavenly.
But there are other sides to this city, as to every place on earth. Government-issued tents pepper the waterfront and some metro stations, providing a sliver of protection and privacy to the homeless of the city. The few people that I have seen emerge from these tents do not have the luxury of thinking about regular hygiene, let alone fashion. While they may have a modicum of shelter and dignity, they stand as living testaments to dehumanization, specters around whom to maneuver when biking through the streets or jogging along the paths. Paris also contains countless reminders of injustice in its not-so-distant past, from the temporary exhibit at l’Hôtel de Ville detailing the country’s crimes against humanity under the Nazi Occupation to the heartbreaking sculpture giving a face to the victims of the 1942 Vél d’hiv roundup of Jewish families. Amid the grandeur and the spectacle, silent plaques and memorials tell stories of hatred, hardship, and indifference, eerie reminders of times when humanity has forgotten to be its brother’s keeper.
So where does this week’s Torah portion, Pekudei, fit into all of this? In its lengthy descriptions of sacral vestments, crimson yarns mixed with blue, purple, and gold threads and covered with precious stones, along with the sensual textures and materials laid out for the making and decorating of the mishkan, this parsha often invites commentary about the sacred, setting something aside as holy, different from the day to day, a strategy to pull us from our indifference and routines into contemplation and revery. Still, as I sit here basking in sunshine in the City of Love and Lights, I cannot help but reflect that the most meaningful parts of my time in this city had little to do with the architecture or the fabrics. Meaning has come in spending time with friends, old and new, attending services and b’nei mitzvah, chatting with strangers in the métro and in cafés, smiling for pictures with my family, biological and chosen, meeting a rabbi I have come to admire, visiting a former professor in her office, analyzing Pharaoh’s psychoses in a session of Thorapie with a fun and passionate group of acquaintances. Truly, it is humanity, not fashion or architecture, that makes this, or any place, a sacred space.
No matter how beautiful and breathtaking the surroundings, either or the streets or in a temple, we are often reminded that the sacred lies in the breath of life all around us, in our amazing capacity to love and bear witness to the experiences of the souls we are blessed to know. By all means, let us continue to adorn our mishkan! Let us continue to fill the world with beauty, art, and sacred spaces! And let us never forget that the greatest treasure lies in the gift of life, in the uncertain length of time that we are given to embrace each other and to heal the world around us.
Shabbat Shalom!
Rebecca Abbate
