In April 2026, my team of Boston-based Israeli artists and I were preparing to install Malegría, a multisensory installation art piece created for the 7th Jerusalem Biennale.

Organized around the theme De Profundis—Latin for “From the Depths,” and a reference to the opening words of Psalm 130: “Out of the depths I call You,” the theme asked artists to explore what lies beneath the surface: grief and memory, prayer and healing, and the difficult work of bringing concealed experiences into the light.

The title Malegría combines the Spanish words mal, meaning bad or painful, and alegría, meaning joy. It expresses the emotional tension at the center of the work: the recognition that sorrow and joy can exist together, and that a meaningful life must somehow make room for both.

Just as we were set to fly to Israel to install in Spring 2026, the Iran war upended our plans. In addition to the fear and uncertainty, it added logistical disruption that made it almost impossible to move forward with the show. The Biennale leadership team gathered representatives from all 42 installations to debate whether the event should proceed as planned, or be postponed until artists could travel more safely. With flights severely disrupted and international artists unable to transport their work to Israel in time, the Biennale ultimately postponed the opening.

Now, months later, the Jerusalem Biennale is finally opening. Its largest edition yet brings together more than 250 artists in 42 exhibitions across 21 venues throughout Jerusalem. The works respond deeply to the pain, resilience, spiritual searching, and demands of the moment in which we are living.

Our Boston creative team partnered with Israel-based ceramic artist Orit Kama to bring Malegría to life. Created by Sandra Mayo, Tutti Druyan, Yuval Gur, and Kama, the installation is layered with texture, light, sound, and meaning. It carries stories of grief and perseverance, not only from the past year, but from the many years of rupture, uncertainty, and endurance that preceded it.

Persisting through the delays and uncertainty has not been easy, which makes me all the more proud of what this work and this team represent. Lead artist Mayo has devoted countless hours to shaping the installation so that it can fulfill its intended purpose: to offer a space for reflection, introspection, and connection.

When visitors enter Malegría, they step into a small, darkened gallery in the former National Library building on the Hebrew University’s Givat Ram campus, a place steeped in history, learning, and collective memory.

The installation invites visitors to move through a labyrinth of sound, light, ceramics, and suspended textiles. At its center, a glowing white light creates a shared horizon: a place to pause, listen, breathe, and sit with what cannot easily be resolved.

The video below shows a sneak peek of the exhibit and the installation process.

The ceramic stones created by Kama evoke the Jewish practice of placing stones on graves, while also recalling the many roles stones play in Israeli landscapes and Jewish memory: as markers, witnesses, building materials, and enduring signs of presence.

Mayo’s intricately embroidered textiles incorporate genograms, a visual language of symbols used to trace relationships across generations. Here, those symbols reveal bonds of many kinds, including relationships marked by absence, rupture, violence, and pain. Domestic fabrics such as sheets, curtains, and tablecloths become witnesses, carrying intimate memories out of the home and into a communal space.

The soundscape, created by Gur with the voice of Druyan, does not tell a single, linear story. Instead, voices, breaths, whispers, and fragments surface and recede, expressing the many dimensions of Malegría: pain and joy, fragility and courage, memory and rest.

With Mayo in Jerusalem and me in Boston, I asked her to share a few reflections on the installation process. Here is what she wrote:

“It’s hard to digest everything I’m feeling while being in Israel right now. So many things are happening at once, and I’m never quite sure where to focus—from the crazy traffic to the new buildings that make me stop and think, ‘Wait, do I know this neighborhood?’ or ‘Is this the same street I remember?’

“The Biennale feels a little like that, too. The familiar part for me is the Givat Ram campus and the old library, but the people are new. Suddenly, everyone around me is an artist, a maker, or a performer. There is something very moving about seeing Malegría take on a life of its own in this place.

“To start, everybody thinks Orit and I are sisters, and they cannot believe we met in person only yesterday! The works match perfectly in real life—and apparently, our looks do too. I’m still processing what that feels like. This has been a true collaboration and a perfect match.

“But what I love most is that it isn’t only the artists. The maintenance staff, managers, carpenters, technicians, and assistants are all curious. They ask questions about the work and what it means. Everyone is working on an individual piece of the puzzle, yet somehow we are all contributing to one larger whole.

“At lunch, we gather around an improvised communal table. The Biennale provides sandwiches, pita, falafel, hummus, tahini, and more—and it is delicious.

“The mix of work is incredible: performance, video installations, embroidery, painting, photography, sculpture, and sound. It is such a rich range of voices and ways of seeing. The variety feels as complex and unexpected as Israel itself. So many languages, backgrounds, ideas, and perspectives share the same space.

“Perhaps that is what I am enjoying most: being part of something in which everyone is doing something completely different, yet we are all, somehow, part of the same conversation.”

Malegría was made possible through a grant from Combined Jewish Philanthropies. The project grew from relationships formed through the JArts/CJP Community Creative Fellowship and reflects what can happen when artists are given the time, trust, and support to create together.

Its journey—from Boston to Jerusalem, through postponement, distance, and war—has become part of the work itself. Malegría doesn’t ask us to choose between grief and joy, or to pretend that pain has passed. Instead, it creates room for us to carry these truths together. And that is an important part of the connection between Boston and Israel that this project makes most visible. We are separated by geography, but not by memory, responsibility, creativity, or care. 

In a moment that offers no easy resolution, Malegria gives us a place to remain present: to listen, to feel, and to recognize one another. Sometimes that shared presence is not the end of the journey; it is the journey.

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