Beersheva on a Saturday afternoon is like a ghost town in Death Valley.  “Where can we have coffee?” we asked the museum guard.  “It’s Beersheva,” he said, his hand buried in the biting embrace of a tiger cat. “It’s Shabbat.  There’s Nothing.”  Eventually, he admitted that there was an ice cream shop not too far away – the famous Glida Beer-Sheva – but he was looking as if he needed coffee to answer me at all.

All this is to explain why I was so surprised to encounter the power of Anat Propper Goldenberg’s exhibit.  The transformations and incorporations of identity woke me up immediately –