“A few days. They’ll monitor the blood values and decide.”
“And what do you want to do when you get out?”
“Gallery tour,” she answered immediately. This time, we both laughed, tears of release mingling with the laughter.
A few days later, Lily was disconnected from the dialysis and discharged. Her tests had improved. Of course, she insisted that we go on the gallery tour she had promised herself while hospitalized. Already in the elevator, she said that after the galleries we should go to Bnei Brak, since she might soon lose her hair and it would be good to prepare a wig, at least according to what the department head had told her.
“Maybe cut your hair short?” I suggested. I knew that womenwith cancer often cut their hair before starting chemotherapy, which causes it to fall out.
“All right, but not before I do a new body-art work.”
“What kind?”
“You’ll live to see it.” Her mysteriousness never ceased, not even then.
In hindsight, her choice of phrase suited the situation all too well.
Did Mira’s death, her beloved aunt, change something in her determination? Did it weaken the fierce resistance she had had toward the illness? I knew there was a connection between emotional strength and physical resilience. But with Lily, it was immeasurable.
Chapter 56
Dialysis
“At first, I took the talk about hair loss very hard,” Lily laughed. “But now I really don’t care about being bald – it might even become part of a future work of mine,” she told me one evening. I couldn’t argue with her. The subject had already gone places I didn’t want to go.
“Then before you cut your hair, I want to photograph you,” I asked her.
“Before you photograph me, I want to put on makeup.”
“That’s fine, but why now?”
“Because you’ve sparked a new idea in me.”
“But you never wear makeup – maybe just a touch here and there, maybe.”
“This time I want to … really want to.” Lily smiled.
“Let me photograph you first without makeup, and then with.”
“All right,” she answered in a tone that made it clear there was no point in asking for further explanation.
In general, Lily didn’t like to be photographed casually. But when she did pose, she knew how to present herself. She let me take a few shots without makeup. Right after, she applied it heavily, especially around her eyes.
“Photograph me during the process,” she asked. I did as she said. When she finished putting on the makeup, I took more pictures from angles I thought might be interesting.
“So what do you want to do with the pictures?”
“Exhibit them at the College of Art and Design.”
“In what context?”
“Body art. Oh, I forgot to show you the work I did with one of the photos you took in the desert.” Lily went into her studioand came back with a large wooden board. I stared at the work, stunned. I didn’t understand how she managed to shock me, more and more and over and over.
She had mounted the “Burial in the Desert” photo on the board. She had attached a cotton form wrapped in white cloth to its bottom, like a shroud, with a bloodstain at its center.
As I photographed her, there was a knock at the door. Neither of us remembered who was supposed to come. Only when I opened the door and saw Lily’s mother did I recall that we had invited her that evening. She walked in and looked at the work Lily was holding. Her eyes widened, then after a few seconds, she turned them away. She didn’t want to see how her daughter was tormenting herself. Lily put the work down and went to the kitchen to make tea.
“How could you let her do this kind of work?” her mother asked me angrily.
