by Natasha Krenbol

When I think of her I see a small bird in a cage- a tiny red cage with widely-spaced bars, and a circular perch on which a small white plaster bird is swinging.

I met Yaarit in the engraving studio at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, one of a group of cosmopolitan artists who divided their time between cups of green tea and sheets of zinc.

There was something bird-like about her.
She is the angel who sometimes haunts me in my sleep.
She speaks to me of a past; but like that part of the wire that the tightrope walker has

already crossed, it is lost forever.
To console us the wise man says that we learn to win by losing.
With their dogs on leashes, their companions, their dancer, the passer-by, the shadowy

form leaning on the bar, circus and streetlight, all lost in an urban wasteland, Yaarit Makovski’s pictures are dreams- a sort of cosmic game whose tiny pieces make up life’s brief moments, and bring together its squalor and its splendors.

Clasped in each other’s arms, a couple dances in the sultry Tel-Aviv night.
There is a salon, with its fervent and sophisticated illusions, on a meteor.
She quenches her thirst for the absolute in a raga.
She captures the randomness of life the way one entraps a fly buzzing about here and

there. She is haunted by those passers who are themselves the passers-by, trailing along behind them the fury and the gentleness specific to the unvanquished.