On Place and Space in Shirley Kaufman's "Sanctum"

Sanctum*

by Shirley Kaufman

    1On top of a hill near the Lebanese border,Micha Ullman dug a grave, then cut throughthe rocky outcrop and sculpted a throne.As if he'd uncovered its archetypal shapeout of pure limestone.   5

        He raised the throneand tilted it backwards, wedged between rockson both sides of the grave. A throne to lean back on(if you dared) facing the overwhelming sky,trusting the stone to bear your weight, suspended   10over your own death.

        Once he dug holesin Israeli and Arab villages, and filled each with earthfrom the other. It was _'73. Right after the war.We lived on a cul-de-sac called Neve Sha'anan.   15Place of Tranquillity. That too was conceptual art.

    2Houses across the road where I live noware set back from the street, stone from ancient quarries hewn and fitted together like giant bricks:yellow rind and flesh of casaba   20in the first slice of morning, color of milk teawith a spoonful of honey at noon when the light is strong,rose quartz at dusk.

        To live in Jerusalem is to feelthe weight of stones. Stone walls around the City.   25Solemn stones in the digs. Hard-hitting stones.Names chiseled on stone lids over the dead.

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!That bleakness when I walk through ruins belowthe Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif,   30below the sun and moon of the Dome and Al-Aqsa,when I touch the colossal stones hurled downby the Romans who smashed the Temple and sacked the city,when I lay the palm of my hand on pitted history.

    3Sometimes, writing, I watch the words grow heavy   35when I place them in rows on the page.Deliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city,whose materials are ruins, whose gardens are cemeteries.Whose people are desperate in their claims.

Sometimes I need to be nowhere. A place   40without history.

        A life of wanderinglike the desert generation of Moses.The wandering Jew. But that brings meback into history.   45

        Sealed rooms. Windowscriss crossed with tape so the glass won't shatter.A dark noose of memory around my neck.Coffins covered with flags and flagsburning. I need to be nowhere.   50

    4The first time I climbed the road to the sculpture gardento find Turrell's stone sanctum, Space That Sees,I went alone. Entered the narrow passage, fingerssliding across the cool stones. Arrived in a bare roomradiant with light.   55

        Isn't that how they always begin,the delicious stories? Through a secret passage, upa beanstalk, down a hole.

            Cut in to the ceilingwas one square opening. When I looked up   60the sky looked down entirely empty,more blue than any blue dazzle outside.All the unblemished blueness of a Mediterraneansummer in one clear window. No glass. No screen.Nothing between.   65

        I sat on the ledge tucked intothe stone surrounding me, stared till the lightbecame pulse and substance, and I could tasteits language in my mouth. There was no end to it.

During the Vietnam War James Turrell was jailed   70and placed in solitary confinement. His cell so crampedthat he could neither lie down nor stand. Darkas the bottom of a well. He could see nothing.But strangely he discovered there never is no light... even when light is gone you can still sense light.   75

    5I walk from my home in changing seasons, downthrough the Valley of the Cross, up the paththrough the olive trees to the gardens surroundingthat room. Often thin wisps of clouds leavea smoke trail across the blue square over my head,   80or clusters of vapor form and dissolve the waythoughts quicken with words before I lose them.

I have seen two ravens cross in an instant and disappearbeyond the frame. I have seen the sky-space in...