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A nose is a nose is a nose: A Brooklyn artist’s quest to paint 100 Jewish noses, including mine
I have never been good at resisting advertising, but one day last July, I came across a poster aimed at me like a heat-seeking missile: “Are you Jewish? Do you have a nose?”
Check and check.
The flyer went on: “Looking for noses for the 100 Jewish Noses Project, a series of 100 Jewish nose paintings.”
Strange forces were afoot on Franklin Avenue. I had seen a lot of papers taped to poles in my time, but never one that had seen me so clearly. The page was dominated by a painting of a nose, a handsome Romanesque specimen with an oily sheen. Below, the mystery artist invited me to “Submit your nose here” via a tinyurl link. I didn’t need to be asked twice.
After I filled out a Google Form that asked some basic questions (name, genre of Jewish heritage, availability to come to Brooklyn for reference photos) and a few more nasally-reflective inquiries relating to my nose-job status and my general relationship with my nose, I found myself in artist Goldie Gross’ Crown Heights apartment, preparing to do some modeling for the first time in my life. Gross was reserved but generous with her laughter. Her loose black dress, mane of golden-brown crinkly curls and red nail polish lended her a certain Jew-ne-sais-quoi.
“I don’t think there is such a thing as a Jewish nose,” said Gross once we had sat down on her couch to talk, “and so I wanted to do a series that captures the full range, the diversity of the Jewish nose across one hundred paintings.”
There are Jewish noses hanging on Gross’ living room wall. Well, paintings of Jewish noses. Noses of every conceivable style, from the aquiline to the Asiatic, the beringed to the bulbous. Gross began painting (not just noses) in 2012, when she was 15 or 16, before going on to earn a BA in Art and Business at Baruch College and an MA in Art History at NYU’s Institute of Fine Arts. The 100 Jewish Noses idea intrigued her because it fulfilled a trifecta of artistic goals.
“I wanted a longstanding series that would take time, that would be something on the easel, and that would allow me to master something that was also relevant to the current moment,” she told me.
To Gross, the stereotype of the “Jewish Nose” has cast a huge, humped and hooked shadow over Jewish collective self-esteem for centuries. And, Gross pointed out, unlike wearing a yarmulke or claiming the title “People of the Book,” the “Jewish Nose” is not a feature that the Chosen People chose to be known by.
“It goes back to the 12th or 13th century, just a way to differentiate Jews as ‘other,’” Gross said. “The Nazis really ran with it. A ton of Nazi propaganda has the big nose as this way to ‘other’ the Jew. This propaganda has, I think, become part of our cultural identity. We’ve accepted this image of the Jew as a big-nosed, unattractive person as an actual reflection of who we are and how we view ourselves.”
Like endocrine disruptors sneaking into the bloodstream, these nasal prejudices have been encoded in the Jewish cultural genome and passed from generation to generation. “Asking people to submit their noses, I asked people to write about their relationships with their noses. And so many people have bad relationships with their noses,” Gross said. “They’re like, ‘I hated it growing up, I was bullied, my family made fun of me.’ Or conversely, ‘I have a small nose; I was always proud of it.”
Proud of it? I snorted indignantly through my not-inconspicuous schnozz. Those tiny-nosed Jews — they might laugh now, but they would never, ever build the true grit demanded by a plus-size honker. I almost pitied them.
But as Gross positioned me in direct light and prepared to snap some nose pics, a bit of my bravado wore off. I thought of younger, bat-mitzvah-age Clara, who would have had the same reaction to an iPhone camera pointed at her nose as an AK-47. She would rather have posed nude for a remake of the “Draw me like one of your French girls” scene in Titanic than pose her nose.
Like many girls in middle school, I celebrated my entrance to womanhood by selecting at least one arbitrary physical feature to rag on. I picked my nose (not like that). For years, I fretted over my nose. I pinched and poked it. I spent many enriching hours flaring my nostrils in front of the mirror, amazed and horrified by the width I could achieve. I wished for a more unobtrusive nose, like Keira Knightley’s — or, failing that, Voldemort’s. Never mind that with a Korean-American mother and a Jewish father, looking like Voldemort wasn’t even phenotypically possible.
I don’t remember a revelatory flash that made me accept my nose. My father tried to inspire me by telling me about the “Black Is Beautiful” movement from the 1960s, but I struggled to apply it: “Jewish is … Jewtiful?!” By and by, I became too busy to worry about my nose. Noses receded into the rearview mirror as I sped down the highway of life.
Yet I wonder whether things might have changed for me if I had seen a project like Gross’ sooner. Even if I didn’t suddenly start reveling in my nose’s beauty, I might have seen that nature is creative and full of variety. There’s beauty in that. Around six months after I posed for Gross, she sent me a message on Instagram; my nose was finished. And there it was, Nose 14 of 100, nestled among its Jewish brethren. I blinked at it like a caveman examining his own reflection in a puddle. Could that be me? Yet there my Jewish nose was, one nose among noses beaked, beringed, button and bulbous. Paint me like one of your Jewish girls, I thought.
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Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
The post Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement appeared first on The Forward.
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How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
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Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
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