The Magic Scissors

The Magic Scissors

by Ellen M. Shapiro

In the Jewish year 5105, everything in Spain was upside down. People put their clothes on inside out. They wore hats on their feet and shoes on their heads. It was sticky hot in February and freezing cold in June. The cabbages grew big and round under the earth and the carrots grew long and fat facing the sky.

One very, very cold night that June, a rabbi named Shem Tov ben Yitzak was getting ready to write a few words of Torah on parchment. He did that every week so he could remember what to say in shul during his Shabbos morning sermon. But it was so cold that his ink froze. When he stuck his brush into the ink bottle, it hit a solid mass of black. He tried rubbing the bottle between his hands to warm it up, but the ink did not melt. He held the bottle over the candle that lit his kitchen table, but the ink stayed frozen. Alas, he could not write one letter of Torah.

In frustration, he grabbed a pair of tiny scissors from his wife’s sewing basket and tried to cut the words out of the parchment. I’ve got to put the scissors back right away, he told himself. She needs them to embroider the pillowcases and baby dresses she sells to keep this roof over our heads.

The first letter he cut, the aleph, was rough and crude. The second letter, the bet, was better. And the third letter, the gimel, was almost perfect. “Amazing!” he exclaimed. “I’ve invented a new way to bring the words of the Holy One to my congregants.

Reb Shem Tov enjoyed cutting letters so much that when he finished the words, he wanted to keep going and make a fancy border design around the edges of the parchment. Could making art be another way to praise God, he wondered. Let me try. Hmm, he thought, what should I cut into the border? What was the most important point of my sermon again? Oh yes, the Israelites, amidst their journey across the desert from slavery to the Promised Land, were stuck at the bottom of a mountain because an evil ruler was trying to stop them from entering his territory. So what else is new? The point was that when you need to accomplish something important, you must figure out how to overcome the obstacles in your way.

“Oy!” Reb Shem Tov clopped himself on the head with his hand. “The design has to include a donkey, a whole drove of donkeys.” The parasha that upside-down week was the one about the talking donkey who helped the Israelites continue their journey across the desert. How could a donkey do that? The Holy One, of course, opened the donkey’s mouth and got him to convince the evil ruler to let the Israelites through.

But the Reb could not bring himself to cut even one donkey. It was a graven image and an unkosher beast as well. So he decided to cut silhouettes of mountains and trees and the rope that kept the donkey from running away or falling down the mountain.

After he finished, he put the scissors down with a satisfied smile. Ales getun! But the art was not all done. The little scissors rose from the table and floated in the air. The blades began moving on their own, open-close, open-close, like the mouth of a hungry baby bird. They zoomed down to the parchment and began cutting all by themselves. They cut the whole scene: Men arguing, the Israelites at the bottom of the mountain, ready to march up, and the donkey with his mouth open, talking, talking, talking, convincing the ruler to let the people enter his land.

When the scissors were done, they quietly folded themselves up and went back to their usual place in the sewing basket.

Reb Shem Tov was more than astonished. He was so excited by his discovery he couldn’t sleep all night. When Mrs. Shem Tov woke up she was astonished too. “That is the most miraculous thing I’ve ever seen!” she said. “All these years and I did not know you were a fine artist!”

When he showed his papercut to the congregants at shul, they were also astonished. They finished praying quickly so they could tell all their friends about the nes, the miraculous parchment they’d just seen.

People came from far and wide to see the parchment. Soon, they began bringing their own blank parchments. They gave Reb Shem Tov gold and silver coins to get special designs made. And whenever he began cutting a verse of Torah or a marriage contract, a a ketubah, the magic scissors helped him finish the work. They cut borders and decorations that added layers of meaning to the words. The scissors got so busy Mrs. Shem Tov had to buy a new pair for herself.

Little by little, though, the Reb’s scissors began to slow down. They let him do most of the work. Then, one day, all by themselves, they cut a parchment to read, “God gave us the stuff of the earth, but it’s your job to finish the work all by yourself.” Those verse sounded a bit odd, but they inspired the Reb to write a sermon about how God makes wheat, but it’s our job to thresh it and grind it and bake it into bread and cakes. The scissors remained in the basket, quiet, unmoving, just like before the magic started happening. And thus, the Reb realized he didn’t need them anymore. On his own, he was able to make exquisite papercuts and to train other paper-cutters. Soon, people with an interest in Torah and art started coming to his newly enlarged studio—now with a wood stove, even—and take classes.

Before long, the paper-cutters the Reb trained began to move to Tzfat, Israel, and open shops. They sold their work to the faithful who lived there and to the many travelers who visited. They delivered by horse-drawn carriage, boat, and carrier pigeon. They competed with all the micro-calligraphers as to which art form was the oldest and most authentic. They, too, trained apprentices who opened studios in towns and villages all over the known world.

Alas, with the advent of the printing press, the tradition began to disappear. Sure, every now and then, a bride and groom ordered an original ketubah with their names and a pair of lovebirds cut from paper. The last remaining pieces cut by hand survived in homes and museums, gathering dust and a few admirers.

In the Jewish year 5738, a painter named Deborah took up the art. She studied and practiced and did not let any obstacle—such as people saying things like, “What do you want to do that for?” — get in her way. Her answer was, “It’s a hiddur mitzvah, a way to make beautiful art to glorify God.” She brought the art of paper-cutting back to life. Now, every day in her studio, scissors and pen-knives make magic in her hands. She creates papercuts for Jewish institutions and art exhibitions, for soon-to-be married couples, and for people like you and me. She teaches classes for adults and children and gives lectures and demonstrations to share this special Jewish art with others. In her art, there are colorful birds and flowers, lions and deer, musical notes and dancers, faces and eyes, pomegranates and grapes, trees and leaves… many, many trees and leaves.

And even a talking donkey, should you request one.