I have Grandma Ruti, a true Tel Aviv-born ninja at heart (and currently a resident of Modi’in) who’s eighty-something and a bit more. Every time we meet, I can’t believe her age—eighty-something—and that I’m in my thirties, or more accurately, almost forty.

Growing old isn’t a picnic; it’s hard for everyone. It brings encounters and struggles with health and with yourself, a lot of soul-searching, and frustration over forced separations from loved ones, from the things you loved to do but are now harder to do. Everything condenses and shrinks. It’s tough.

For ninjas like Grandma Ruti, it’s extra hard because she’s such an active woman—sharp, multi-talented, sociable, loves to go out and experience life. You can take Grandma out of Tel Aviv, but you can’t take Tel Aviv out of Grandma.

During the height of the coronavirus pandemic, there were a few moments I think were especially tough for her. I believe Passover and the days leading up to it were the hardest. As part of her “war” on the virus, she opened a central kitchen and insisted on cooking the traditional holiday food (gefilte fish, chopped liver, charoset).

There was a distribution operation—each family sent a representative to the building entrance to pick up their share, and the Pyrex containers spread everywhere. On the holiday evening, I sat and ate her food crying, regretting so much that we weren’t together.

Today, after a long time staying mostly around home, we drove to Tel Aviv together. It felt like being abroad.

We visited the Museum of Art (MuZA), the Biennale of Art and Design. How wonderful to see an open museum full of visitors. How strange that everyone wore masks—it looked like an art installation in itself, people with covered faces wandering around the art.

For me, the big highlight of the Biennale was the prominent space dedicated to embroidery works. Go see it—all of it. Truly worth it.

My grandma stood for several long minutes in front of works by Lucy Elkowitz called “Marionettes” (exhibited at the “Adam V’amlo” center). She stood there with sparkling eyes.

I admit I was surprised by how long she lingered in front of these mixed-media works on cardboard, reminiscent of the clown marionettes we made at school for Purim. Not exactly her usual style—she prefers glamour and handicrafts.

I approached her and didn’t have to ask—she immediately told me this story. I regret not filming her, but she’s not a big fan of being filmed. I’ll try to stay as true to the original as I can:

“I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I was a very naughty child. If I were a kid today, they’d probably say I was hyperactive. I was constantly being punished, but by then I wasn’t bothered by it anymore.

One day they taught us to make marionettes, like this one. I wonder if it still works.”

(At this point, she meant to pull the string, and I stopped her. I’m sure she checked when I wasn’t looking. Please don’t touch art unless it says you may.)

“So, we made these dolls and hung them in class, and I thought it was great because my doll was hanging right next to me, hiding a small hole I started digging in the wall with a pencil. For several days, I dug that hole and hid it with the doll until it became a big enough hole that I could put my hand through and touch the yard outside.

One time, I pretended to go to the bathroom, then I reached my hand into the classroom from outside, grabbed the string, and started moving the doll around, putting on a show and making funny noises. Everyone laughed, but the teacher got mad and of course, I got punished for that too. I can’t believe it’s been seventy years since then. Where did seventy years go?”

Little Ruti stood there telling me about her successful “Shawshank prison prank” with enthusiasm and pride, then in a few seconds, like a soap bubble, she faded away, leaving behind Grandma Ruti—the same bright blue eyes on the verge of tears, missing my grandfather who passed away six months ago and everything that’s happened since.

Besides being incredibly funny and telling everything wonderfully (and I could definitely believe she was a mischievous child)—I was glad for the memory these works stirred in her because it helped me illustrate to her what a therapeutic unit in an art museum is about. It was a great example that brought up a lot of nostalgia and helped me explain what I did at the museum until almost a year ago. And more broadly, what this profession—art therapy—is, where it can lead, and how it truly touches everyone. We both agreed that it’s much nicer to talk about life within the experience of an exhibition than sitting in a neutral room. She could have gone her whole life without remembering this story if not for these works.

Later, we sat in a café. Grandma Ruti ate a sabich sandwich and couldn’t stop marveling at this brilliant combination she only recently discovered: “Who thought to put egg, tahini, and eggplant in a sandwich? It’s unthinkable and so tasty!”

We talked, as usual, about politics and family matters. When we left, our waitress said to me, “How nice for you—a fun day with Grandma.” And I wished for many more fun days like this, where my grandma tells me stories, buys me surprises, and apologizes for walking so slowly because of her, even though to me, that’s exactly the right pace to walk at.