Nicki Green on Reimagining Jewish Rituals and Exploring Queer and Trans Embodiment

Working primarily with clay, Nicki Green explores topics of history preservation, conceptual ornamentation and aesthetics of otherness through a deeply personal lens that merges her Jewish heritage with her ongoing exploration of trans and queer embodiment. 

With two significant solo exhibitions currently on view in San Francisco, Green's multifaceted practice is poised to challenge and redefine cultural and religious boundaries. Across both exhibitions, Green's use of materials such as clay, fermentation, and fungi becomes a tactile metaphor for trans and Jewish identity—fluid, resilient, and ever-evolving—offering a profound meditation on the power of transformation in both the body and the spirit. Green's exploration of Jewish ritual, queer, and trans embodiment occupies a deeply personal and conceptual space in her artistic practice. Drawing from her own experiences as a queer and trans person, Green delves into the mikveh, a Jewish ritual traditionally associated with purification, to interrogate its historical and contemporary relevance to queer and trans lives.

The exhibition Firmament, on view at The Contemporary Jewish Museum until December 15th, Green reimagines the mikveh, a Jewish ritual bath traditionally excluding queer and trans bodies, as a welcoming space for non-binary and trans identities. Through sculptures, fiber works, and drawings, the exhibition explores themes of growth, resilience, and transformation, using fermentation and mycelium as metaphors for regeneration. A prominent feature of the exhibition is a large sculptural tabernacle, referencing the diasporic, collapsible sanctuary from the desert. This immersive structure invites interaction, either by entering it or circling around it, creating a sense of separation between interior and exterior spaces. Similarly, Eye of the Fountain, on view at CULT Aimee Friberg until December 21st, focuses on queer and trans semiotics, with ceramic figures engaged in mikveh-like rituals that blur the sacred and profane. Green's sensuous forms re-envision ritual cleansing as a site of empowerment and connection for trans bodies, inviting new understandings of identity and belonging.

In this conversation, Nicki Green delves into her practice of reimagining Jewish rituals to create inclusive spaces for queer and trans bodies, focusing on the mikveh as a site of renewal and affirmation. She reflects on the intersections of embodiment, spirituality, and materiality, exploring how objects and spaces can challenge exclusionary norms. Green also discusses the concept of diaspora, sharing her journey of distancing herself from Zionist frameworks and embracing a diasporic Jewish identity that aligns with her anti-nationalist and anti-Zionist values. Central to her approach is the desire to assert diasporic Judaism as a distinct and vibrant tradition, pushing back against the conflation of Jewishness with Zionism. In doing so, she draws parallels between the resilience of diasporic and trans communities, emphasizing the intrinsic connection between the Palestinian struggle for liberation, the struggles of all oppressed peoples and communities, and the fight for queer and trans liberation.

Jelena Martinovic: You've been exploring the subject of mikveh, and its relationship to queer and trans embodiment for several years. What initially drew you to this theme in your work, and how has your approach evolved over time?

Nicki Green: I grew up in a fairly progressive Reform Jewish community in Boston, where mikveh wasn't a prominent part of my relationship to Jewishness. It wasn't until later, in my 20s, living in the Bay Area, that I began encountering queer and trans Jews who were exploring mikveh rituals. I realized there were mikveh practices being developed specifically for gender transition.

This made me curious about why this ritual, historically used to mark time and regulate cisgender women's bodies—particularly related to their menstrual cycles—was being adapted by trans Jews to mark time or affirm their state of being. Mikveh is also used by men during high holidays and in conversion rituals, and this ritual practice has a long history that is about the body in its most stripped-down sense. So, I wanted to explore its connection to the body and started digging from there.

My initial engagement with mikveh was through a ritual written by Max Strassfeld and Eli Andrew Ramer called Mikveh Ritual for Gender Transition. I discovered it when I was thinking of ritualizing my own gender transition. This was a pivotal moment for me. From there, I began exploring mikveh both liturgically and ritually—thinking about the text, the theory, and the concepts behind it. As a sculptor and ceramic artist, I was also interested in the material capacity of the mikveh, the space, and the environment it creates—how all of these things fold into this ritual.

Over time, my work has ranged from small-scale objects, like fermentation crocks, to large, body-sized vessels. Currently, in a solo show at CULT Aimee Friberg in San Francisco, I'm exploring how figurative sculpture can turn the gallery or architectural space itself into a mikveh. Throughout, mikveh has remained a central focus in my practice, and I continue to expand the scale and form in my work.

JM: Mikva traditionally carries gendered and normative connotations that often exclude queer and trans bodies from its rituals. How do you reclaim this space in your work, and what does transforming it into a site of inclusion and renewal mean to you?

NG: Jewish history does acknowledge queer and trans bodies, but much of Jewish practice has historically been centered around the heterosexual, cisgender nuclear family, specifically focused on procreation. As a trans and queer person without biological children, much of Jewish ritual didn't seem to apply to me. There's a lot of contemporary work being done to integrate queer and trans lives into Jewish ritual, but for me, as a sculptor, I've been interested in how objects can both acknowledge and record our bodies in space. Ritual objects that directly reference transness, or are designed for trans bodies, help to create a record of our presence.

As an artist, I'm inspired by the idea that boundaries create opportunities for creative problem-solving. If trans inclusion doesn't exist in these rituals, then I have the chance to explore what it might look like. For me, it could look like anything, and that freedom allows me to explore it in my art. For many years, I've referred to my work as sculptures of functional objects. On one hand, I'm less concerned with the practical engineering of these forms and more interested in the significance of their presence in the world. By bringing these objects into space, I aim to destabilize how we understand rituals, spaces, and objects—particularly in the context of trans inclusion. It’s about shifting perceptions of what these rituals and objects could be, if that makes sense.

JM: This idea of inclusivity is present in both of your current shows. While in the Eye of the Fountain you focus on the physical experience of entering the mikvah, the Firmament presents a sanctuary-like space separating Earth from heaven. How do these distinct approaches fit into your broader exploration of trans and nonbinary embodiment?

NG: I think about both shows in terms of distinction, which is one of the central concepts in Jewish practice. There's this beautiful and significant ritual called Havdalah, that marks the end of Shabbat. When Shabbat ends, we do a series of rituals that separate Shabbat from the rest of the week, emphasizing distinctions like holy versus profane, or ritual versus non-ritual. In my work, the exploration of otherness—the embodied experience of being different—is tied to this idea of distinction.

That being said, in both shows, the gallery space becomes a site of distinction. In Eye of the Fountain, the installation references the mikvah, where visitors enter a space representing immersion. Similarly, in Firmament, the gallery space becomes a sanctuary, with a large sculptural tabernacle to interact with—either by entering it or circling around it. Both works explore the relationship between interior and exterior spaces through acts of entering and exiting, imbuing the gallery with a sense of separation.

Firmament specifically references the concept of an upward expanse, symbolized by a large woven cloth made by my collaborator Ricki Dwyer, that stretches over a wooden structure. The term "firmament" evokes the separation between the heavens and earth, and in the context of the show, it is modeled after the diasporic tabernacle, a collapsible, transportable sanctuary from the desert. In contrast, the mikvah focuses on a downward expanse—the surface of the water. Together, the shows create a circular relationship between these upward and downward expanses. This interplay emphasizes the immersive experience of entering and exiting, while also exploring the distinction between interior and exterior spaces in the gallery.

JM: I'd like to address the themes of mobility and diaspora in Firmament. How do these concepts relate to your personal experiences with Jewishness?

NG: For me, as an American, Ashkenazi Jew, diaspora has been a way to understand or explore my relationship with nationalism. Nationalism, particularly American nationalism, is so pervasive, especially in today's political climate. There's this complex, often borderline toxic relationship with nationalism and the complexities of national identity—something I think is present in most countries. Growing up as a Reform Jew, I was raised with this inherent connection and allegiance to the State of Israel, which required me to have a connection to a place I've never been to and have no practical relationship with. This felt perplexing. As a queer and trans person, I was already aware that what I was told was “mine” didn't actually belong to me. I've had this inherent feeling of, “I don’t know if this is actually for me.”

There's this incredible text by the artist Itda Segev, a transgender Israeli-Jewish woman based in New York, that talks about the promise of gender assigned at birth as analogous to Zionist identity: it's this thing promised to us but ultimately not the case. The promise is a complex and problematic way of thinking about what we get and have access to. This resonated with me deeply and articulated the problems with both gender assigned at birth and national identity. Growing up, I was skeptical of Zionism without fully understanding the politics, particularly before the pink-washing of Israel as a queer-friendly place that was meant to distract from its violence towards Palestinians—as a deflection method of sorts. As a queer and trans person, I always felt that I would be unsafe visiting Israel. I've always thought—this is not for me; this is not something that I get to access. So, while my peers went on Birthright trips, I knew it wasn't for me, and I've had an inherent distance from it.

It wasn't until I encountered a community of queer and trans Jews, as well as politically engaged and anti-Zionist Jews, that I started to understand and articulate my discomfort with Zionism. As I began to redefine my Jewish identity, I found a way to engage with diaspora as a form of connection to Jewishness. It felt really powerful, as a diasporic Jew, to explore a relationship that is distancing myself from nationalist, Zionist frameworks. So, a lot of my work, especially in Firmament, explores what a diaspora practice looks like, asking questions about the material presence of diaspora. The tabernacle in the exhibition becomes central, deeply embodying this idea that our connection to one another, to Jewish history, and to the Divine is not rooted in a specific place but rather exists in a fluid, mobile space.

The development of the show was exciting because I had the opportunity to display large ceramic sculptures on their plywood crates, highlighting the objects' travel. The sculptures were designed with visible, functional mechanisms, adding to the sense of movement and fluidity. By centering diaspora in this way, I felt empowered—drawing myself into Judaism through a diasporic lens, emphasizing movement over rootedness.

JM: You have long incorporated mycelium and fungi in your work, using the forms to symbolize resilience, care and transformation. How do these organic processes deepen the themes of queer identity in both of these shows? 

NG: My initial engagement with mycology stemmed from a piece of Nazi propaganda that described Ashkenazi Jewish bodies as "poisonous mushrooms." This sparked a realization that, particularly within the context of Nazi Germany, fluctuating visibility of Ashkenazi bodies—specifically white Jewish bodies—was dangerous. In an environment focused on controlling and identifying groups of people to be wiped out, the ability to have fluctuating visibility was a way of surviving. This became an interesting parallel to queerness, particularly transness, which similarly fluctuates in visibility. Transphobia destabilizes others' ability to recognize or understand transness as tangible. Mycology, for me, became a symbol of otherness, of complex visibility or lack of visibility.

As I explored mycology further, it deepened into a metaphor for the intersections of Jewish identity, queer, and trans lives. Fungi, with their prolific, ever-expanding nature, became a powerful symbol of complex identities that, like queerness, resists simple categorization. Over time, I also began to see mycology as a visual contrast to my other sculptural work, like functional ceramics, which have a more structured, formal quality. This contrast now serves as both a formal and conceptual gesture in my work. I had worked on both mycology and functional ceramics separately for years but eventually sought to push the two practices together to see how they could interact, play off of each other. This blending became an exploration of hybridity—combining the constructed world with the organic, fluid world of fungi.

JM: Your experience of working with clay has been described as analogous to the shaping and interpretation of religion. How does this relationship inform your artistic practice, particularly in the context of reinventing inclusive spaces and a sense of belonging?

NG: A key part of my thinking around clay is its deep connection to the creation myths and histories of the world, particularly in relation to dust and formless material. Clay, at its core, is both nothing and everything at once—it has this inherent formlessness that can be shaped into anything. This capacity to be transformed is incredibly profound.

There is also this poetic articulation of shaping clay and shaping religion and religious practice. This analogy actually comes from Heidi Rabben, the senior curator at the Contemporary Jewish Museum, who described my relationship to material and ritual in this way. While I can't take credit for that phrasing, I deeply resonate with it. Clay, for me, functions as a trans material. It's incredibly versatile; it can both exist as itself and mimic other materials, which feels very aligned with transness and how it operates in the world. Clay, like mud, is of the earth we stand on, adding layers of connection to our physical existence.

JM: To wrap it up, you've mentioned that Firmament serves as a space of warmth and liberation for trans and non-binary bodies, linking it to the Palestinian people’s struggle for freedom, as well as the broader fight for justice among oppressed communities. How do you see these struggles connecting, and what role do you believe inter-community solidarity plays in these overlapping causes?

NG: It's a great question, and, in some ways, it's both complicated and not complicated. On a fundamental level, the idea that our freedom is interconnected—that all of our liberation is tied together is straightforward. While the show was in development before October 7th, most of the work—particularly the objects and texts—came together after that point and were created in with this solidarity with Palestine at the forefront of my mind and intention. My belief is that my liberation as a trans person is inherently connected to the Palestinian struggle for freedom. The positioning was tied to the context in which it was developed.

If I were creating the show now, I'd also address other struggles for freedom—Lebanon, Congo, and beyond. I see an inherent connection between all oppressed peoples and communities and the fight for queer and trans liberation. There is a kind of contextual relationship. However, the way mainstream Jewish institutions and communities place Zionism at the center of Jewish identity creates an opportunity for me to push back and say that not only is Zionism not the only way people interact with Jewishness but it is also antithetical to the way that I understand my own Jewish identity. There was also this desire to place diasporic Judaism at the center of my show as a way to push back against conflating Jewishness with Zionism. I really wanted to be explicit about that. 

The opportunity to have my work shown at the Contemporary Jewish Museum, an institution I've had a long-standing relationship with, was significant. I've only agreed to do this show if I could position it in solidarity with Palestine at this moment in time. They are a large, mainstream institution, and they were willing to present my anti-Zionist perspective within a public exhibition. We've had a lot of conversations about the impact on visitors. A big thing that came up for me, as an anti-Zionist Jew,  was that Zionism is an alienating and violent way of exploring Jewish identity. When I enter Zionist spaces, I feel immediately uncomfortable, particularly by this conflating of Jewishness and Zionism. This exhibition allowed me to emphasize diaspora as an alternative to Zionism, offering a vision of Jewish identity that is not rooted in a colonial or nationalistic framework.

There's a complicated layer here, though—about how we hold these positions without erasing the complexities of people’s lived experiences. For example, I participated on a panel about queerness in higher education this past spring, and some panelists expressed that certain places, like the South, are too dangerous for queer folks to visit. I was concerned that while I identify with this experience, it also erases the queer people who currently live and survive there. A student came up to me after the panel and affirmed this, that he was studying and making work and community in the south as a queer person and it’s important not to forget this. Similarly, in the context of Israel, as I rejecting and condemn Zionism, I'm also very much aware of the very real, lived experiences of the Israeli people, as not all Israelis people are Zionists or violently racist, there are so many people doing important work there and pushing back.

There's something I've been reflecting on regarding the idea of majority spaces for marginalized communities. On one level, I understand the draw—they offer a kind of safety and critical mass. But I think this framing can sometimes obscure the reality that marginalization is relational and fluid. As Jews, we can exist in marginalized or oppressed positions, but that doesn’t negate the fact that we can also oppress others—quickly and seamlessly. It’s vital to approach these dynamics with sensitivity, not through a dangerous "both-sides" argument, but by recognizing the nuances between broad political concepts and the lived realities of individuals.

In developing this show and positioning it in solidarity with Palestine, I had conversations with collaborators about how people—especially those who aren’t Jewish—often put "Israel" in quotes. On one hand, I understand the intent: Israel, as a nation-state born out of the Zionist project, operates as a colonialist entity. But those quotes also make me uneasy because they deny the lived reality of Israelis. After October 7th, for example, my immediate reaction was to text a close Israeli friend, an anti-Zionist now living in the U.S., to check in on her family still living there was doing. That reflex comes from acknowledging that there are real people there, even amidst the state’s genocidal violence.

These collaborators helped crystallize something for me: the anxiety about what quotes around "Israel" might imply—potential anti-Semitic violence or the denial of Israeli legitimacy—isn't unfounded. But at the same time, the fear of potential violence isn’t comparable to the very real and ongoing violence, genocide, enacted by the Israeli state on Palestinians. As Jews, we carry histories of extreme violence within us, and the anxiety of that history is so deeply real. But it’s crucial to distinguish between the fear of violence and actual and systemic violence. I'm so grateful to my community and collaborators around me who have helped me articulate these nuances and ultimately develop these shows.