Treyf
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 20x20, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1960 I’ll never forget the first time I tried ‘treyf’ (Yiddish for unkosher food). I was in high school and my best friend decided that for my 17th birthday it was ‘enough of that kosher nonsense’ and time to try Chinese food. So off we went to Champion House Szechuan Restaurant. I devoured it. I had no idea food could taste so good. That was the day I was done with kashrut (keeping the Jewish dietary laws). Frankly, I completely understand why so many Jews abandoned it – the laws are stringent and strange, the food is expensive and fine dining options barely exist in most communities in North America. When I first started painting this lady (a friend’s cousin circa 1960) I thought it was hilarious but as I ‘spent time with her’ I started to feel upset. I reminded myself that in my early 40s I felt inklings of regret about my teenaged decision. I was raising children of my own, trying to instill Jewish values in them. I missed the opportunity to show them how to observe kashrut in a meaningful way (beyond the idiosyncratic kosher ‘style’ that we currently keep with milk, meat and treyf dishes). My kids were too old to buy in and I still really like Chinese food. For centuries Jews were defined (and held together as a community) by the observance of the Sabbath and keeping the dietary laws. I really respect my mom for the hard work and discipline it required to make sure that we were conscious of our Judaism and Jewish identity literally every time we took a bite of food. I never understood the full impact of undoing all her efforts until now.
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When Mira Visited the Sukkah
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 16x20, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1972 Sukkot (The Festival of Booths) was my favorite Jewish holiday as a young child and it remains so today. My friends and their families have grown to count on our annual Sukkah Party where we curl up under blankets, drink wine, eat soup and enjoy the crisp fall air in my back yard sukkah. I connect to my late father every year when I build it because that was ‘our thing’. It’s a gorgeous holiday. But oh did I hate it during that short miserable time called middle school! Our house was perched high up on a hill overlooking the ravine where all the neighborhood kids crossed to get to St. Andrew’s Junior High School. Our rickety sukkah was on display for all to see and I thought it was so embarrassing. We lived in a leafy suburb of Toronto with a sizeable Jewish population but a sukkah was “too Jewish” for my too cool teenaged self. It was more than enough that I had to keep kosher and miss sleepovers because of Hebrew school or Friday night dinners. Couldn’t we be ‘normal Jewish’? As I matured I came back to the conclusion that it was a fun holiday and I knew I met the right guy for me when my now husband was so excited to have dinner in our family sukkah early in our courtship. When Parkinson’s disease took over my father’s health we sadly had to stop building it. I am so glad that I have priceless photos of my children as babies sitting on my lap in the expanded and elaborate sukkah that my dad built. Bubba Sara at Casino Rama
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on canvas, 16x20, painted 2018 Original photograph taken - 2010 I never really felt close to my grandparents but I loved them and I knew they loved me. They died when I was quite young and they only spoke Yiddish so it was tough to communicate and establish a real relationship with them beyond the adoring smiles. When I met my husband it was completely strange to me to have that generation alive and well and part of our lives. Lucky for me he had two wonderful grandmothers. Being with them was almost like time-traveling to the shtetls of old and yet both were thoroughly modern women, each with a playful sense of humor. Bubba Sara died in 2017. She lived to be 102. Bubba LOVED the casinos. When she turned 90 we (her grandchildren) took her to Las Vegas because she wanted, as she put it, “to go there one last time before moving to my apartment in the sky”. Even near the end of her life, when she slept a lot, she’d perk up if someone offered to take her to the slot machines. I miss her every day. Two Queen Esthers
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 20x20, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1972 Purim was the holiday that made me love being Jewish. It had all the elements: costumes, hamentaschen cookies, candy, a good story, a seriously fun carnival and lots of noise. I remember my father always opted out of the megillah reading because he couldn’t take the clattering sound of the groggers (noise-makers) cancelling out Haman’s name. But this was the one time in the Jewish calendar year when I fully opted in. I even won the best Queen Esther costume in the ‘under 3 with a bottle category’. It was great. The Four Questions on Jeanne Mance Street
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 18x24, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1968 My mother’s family lived in Montreal. Growing up, we didn’t take many family vacations, so getting in the car and driving from Toronto to Montreal seemed pretty glamorous to me. We were five sisters stuffed into the back seat of the car - no seat belts and definitely no WiFi. We just had Archie comic books and 8-tracks of Tchaikovsky to entertain us. The greeting we received by my mother’s extended family upon our arrival was like walking the red carpet on Oscar Night. My grandparents’ home was a duplex and we had to climb two flights of stairs to get to it. I remember them standing at the top of those stairs bursting to see us. Cousins, aunts and uncles were all waiting to greet and hug the Kott Sisters and my seriously attractive parents. As the grandchildren of Holocaust survivors there was something about our generation. The older relatives regarded us as nothing short of a walking miracle on earth and to see us participate in our Jewish rituals (in the safety of Canada) was a victory for them after everything they’d been through. Hebrew High School Graduation Day
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 24x36, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1986 If it’s possible for a child to be both equally compliant and rebellious in the same moment, that would describe me and my relationship to after-school Hebrew school. I went to my synagogue's religious school for two and a half hours every Monday, Wednesday and Sunday from the time I was 6 until I turned 17. I hated every second of it but the obedient child in me never argued with my parents about enrolling year after year. The ‘rebellious’ part of me rejected literally every single ounce of information imparted there. I showed up, I tuned out the teachers and I socialized, I traded stickers and, not surprisingly, I doodled elaborate drawings in my ‘machberet’ (blue notebook). Somehow I still received a certificate of completion even though I learned almost NOTHING. A couple of summers after my graduation I went on a teen tour to Israel. When I got to Jerusalem and saw the Kotel (Western Wall) I had no idea what I was looking at. I was overcome with emotion – most of it disappointment in myself for not paying attention at Hebrew School and for not knowing who I was or where I came from. It was Shabbat In Jerusalem when I came face to face with my Jewish illiteracy and at 19 I made a big decision. I wanted to make up for lost time and try to learn as much as I could about Judaism in college and beyond. And even though having children seemed a million years away, I swore to myself that my future kids would never feel as ignorant and stupid as I felt that day. That explains our decision to enroll them at Solomon Schechter Jewish Day School. Sabra Tours
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 28x30, painted 2017 Original photograph taken - 1978 I’ll never forget the first time my parents went to Israel. It was monumental because they had never gone on a real vacation before. I remember my mom shopping up a storm to have just the right outfits for the Middle Eastern climate (and vibe). Those were the days when parents didn’t think much of leaving their teenaged kids at home alone for a couple of weeks to hold down the fort in their absence. (Of course everything that could go wrong did go wrong! Caroline got the mumps and I had a horse riding accident at camp…). When they returned I saw that my dad (in particular) was profoundly moved by the whole experience. If I think about the arc of history I am amazed by the shift in mentality that took place for Jews in the space of 25-30 years. My parents were born approximately 15 years before the establishment of the modern State of Israel and my sisters and I were born approximately 15-20 years after it. The Jewish State was a fact that I took for granted for my entire life. But when my parents were children they experienced unthinkable insecurity and danger as Jews living in Europe. If Israel been there when the Nazis came to power they could have escaped there and never would have endured so much pain and loss. That must be difficult for their generation to reconcile. Visitors Day Camp Massad 1976
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 24x36, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1976 My earliest memory of overnight camp was in the summer of 1976. I was seven years old and my parents had shipped off all four of my sisters to sleep-away camp. I remember sitting quietly in the back seat of my dad’s car beside my Zeidi and driving for hours into Ontario’s cottage country as we set out for Visitors Day. As soon as we pulled into the grounds of Camp Massad I was smitten. There was something about that place – the sparkling lake, the sounds of screen doors slamming, cool kids everywhere, Hebrew music over the loudspeaker, Israeli and Canadian flags draped on the walls of the ‘chadar ochel’ (the mess hall). I wanted to grow up fast so I would be old enough to go to camp. What makes Jewish camp special? On Friday nights, the mood shifts to something magical when campers dress up in white for weekly Shabbat dinners; Saturday services by the lake are usually accompanied by Shabbat-only treats such as donuts or chocolate cereals; lazy Sabbath afternoons are spent hanging out with great friends, discussing life’s biggest questions while making macramé bracelets in the bunks; Shabbat concludes at sundown with Havdalah (candle lighting) and raucous song sessions with the whole camp community arm-in-arm. As a child so much of being Jewish during the school year felt limiting (‘don’t eat this – it’s not kosher’; ‘you can’t go there because you have Hebrew School’). But camp is different. For many kids Jewish spirituality is sparked at camp. Jewish overnight camp is a uniquely American invention and studies have shown that attending Jewish camp is an important predictor of Jewish affiliation into the future. It remains an American Jewish success story and my kids love their Jewish summer camping experience just as much as I did. The Pines Resort in the Catskill Mountains
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 24x24, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 1961 If time travel was possible and I had to make a list of my top ten places to visit I’d have to say I’d choose any one of the Jewish resorts in the heyday of the Catskills. This is an experience that exists only in my imagination from movies like “Dirty Dancing” and more recently from the hit Prime series “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel”. After my friend Brad’s mom passed away he gave me the privilege of going through their family photos and I came across this gem. He told me that growing up this was how his older siblings and parents spent the better part of the summer. In my research I discovered that within the last five years there was a photographer who travelled to the Catskills to take pictures of the now abandoned and decaying resorts. It was heartbreaking to see the condition of the Pines. I have a feeling someone will revive the concept and when they do, I’ll be the first one to sign up for tango lessons! Our Turn to Host Rosh Hashanah
By J. Kott-Wolle Oil on Canvas, 16x20, painted 2019 Original photograph taken - 2010 I have this theory that you are not officially a grown up until it is your turn to start hosting the family for holiday observances. As the youngest in my family, I got away with never having to host a holiday meal until I was well into my adult life. But then the Toronto shul where my husband’s parents belonged had shut down and they weren’t sure where they would go to services for the High Holidays. Naturally, I invited them to travel to our shul and be our guests. I saw this as a significant moment in my adult life. The torch had been passed to me – it was time to finally grow up and make Rosh Hashanah dinner at my house. I was thrilled that Bubba Sara, at 95, was willing and able to travel to Chicago to be with us. I love this image – four generations together bringing in the Jewish new year of 5771. The best part was when we cooked the meal. Bubba was in charge of the gefilte fish and the apples and honey, my mother-in-law made the chicken soup and matzo balls. I was reasonably confident that my brisket would be tasty enough to serve to these two women who had hosted countless delicious holiday meals around their dining room tables. It was a priceless experience and we never had the opportunity to do it together like that again. Bubba became too frail to travel after that year. |