By right [the women], wouldn’t need to give their jewelry, since of course the men — who removed their earrings and made the Calf from them — needed to give their earrings and jewelry to repent for themselves. But the women, who did not want to give their jewelry in the incident of the Calf, therefore did not need repentance, and so why would they donate their jewelry!?... But since it says “on the women” and it does not say “with the women,” it is reasonable to interpret [the verse] that [the men] came upon them with great force, since the women did not want to give every golden vessel, so that they would not say that they had a part in the gold of the Calf, and the men came upon them and took from them by force every golden vessel. Therefore only the men are mentioned with the bringing of the gold, but the matter of the spinning, about which there was not this concern, the women were involved with, as it is written “And all the skilled women spun with their own hands etc.” ( trans. Avigayil Halpern)
"The heart, in the Torah, is not the seat of emotions. The heart is the home of the will….So when we revisit the language of חַכְמֵי־לֵב, those who are intelligent of heart, we see that their intelligence lies in their ability to project their will into the world. Their wisdom is the capacity to create a whole from the sum of its parts. The encounter between the human being and the wool transforms the latter into a sweater. Or, in the case of our parasha, into the coat and apron of the High Priest.
There is will and skill in the practices that allow us to make things, but there is also, as the presence of the word חַכְמָה shows us, knowledge. Making things is a form of knowing about the world.
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“that knowledge is not simply the set of instructions that one follows, but the deep and embodied knowing that comes from doing. I often read knitting patterns over and over again, trying to understand the directions, but it is only when I cast on that I can truly see the garment take shape before me. I knew what I had to do the whole time, but I only really knew it once I set my will and my hands into the making.”
"If we look at the last four parashiot—including this one—together, a variation on the theme of knowing emerges. Yitro, the parasha of Matan Torah, is the parasha of experiential knowledge. Mishpatim, which follows on its heels, is the parasha of in-depth legal knowledge; what we usually think of as knowing when we say someone knows a lot. And, finally, Terumah and Tetzaveh are the parashiot of techne, the knowledge that comes from doing. All of these forms of knowledge are crucial to building a nation: revelation, scholarship, and craft unite to create the Jewish people and their relationship with God"
Ukeles’s interest in maintenance work as partly occasioned by her becoming a mother in the 1960s. In an interview, she explained, “Being a mother entails an enormous amount of repetitive tasks. I became a maintenance worker. I felt completely abandoned by my culture because it didn’t have a way to incorporate sustaining work.” In 1969, she wrote the “Manifesto for Maintenance Art,” an exhibition proposal in which she considers her own maintenance work as the art. She says “I will live in the museum and do what I customarily do at home with my husband and my baby, for the duration of the exhibition...My working will be the work.” Her manifesto opens with a distinction between what she calls the death force and the life force:
“I. Ideas
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The Death Instinct and the Life Instinct:
The Life Instinct: unification; the eternal return; the perpetuation and MAINTENANCE of the species; survival systems and operations, equilibrium,” (26).
Part of what defines crafts, fiber arts most notably, is repetition, “the eternal return.” In contrast with the steady dedication it takes for those who are “intelligent of heart” to spin yarn for the Mishkan, the men who are “generous of heart” align with Ukeles’s characterization of the Death Instinct, exactly as they did when building the Calf: they pursue their own individual paths and desires, and they want dynamic — and immediate — change.
"...it can be easy to fall into the idea that knowledge is a solely cerebral process. English, for example, distinguishes between art and craft; dismissing the latter and valorizing the former when both are ways of bringing beauty into the world. The artist, this misguided way of thinking says, creates and innovates, while the crafter merely follows a pattern. However, the men and women who created the Mishkan were masters of craft, not art: they followed God’s instructions in order to make God’s Mishkan real. And the language God uses to speak of them is the language of knowledge. חכמה."
But perhaps Vayakhel and Pekudei teach us exactly this: that novelty is not always the point. There is holiness in reading these same words that we have already seen.
The Golden Calf happens quickly, in a dizzying rush, and even the men’s attempts to undo their sin simply repeat that same forceful and violent tempo. The donations for the Mishkan are seized from unconsenting women. What are the costs of speed, of urgency?
The building of the Mishkan takes slowness. We build God’s sanctuary with repetitive, mundane action. The Sanctuary comes into being through careful daily labor.
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We must create communities where we value not just chiddushim and flashy innovations, but the “boring” work of making sure people’s needs are met, over and over and over. We must be able to look at the holy things we’ve made and know that we made them stitch after stitch, day after day, seizing nothing by force. In Ukeles’s words, our working will be the work.
