CONTACTAUTUMN 2005/CHESHVAN 5765 VOLUME 8 NUMBER 1 THE JOURNAL OF JEWISH LIFE NETWORK/STEINHARDT FOUNDATION

Jewish Expression and the ArtsJewish Expression and the Arts

Jewish Expression and the Arts

Inherent in the relationship between any community and the arts is

a tension over representation. Creative artists seek to express things

anew, whereas community leaders often have a vested interest in

visions and celebrations of the status quo. In such an atmosphere,

conflict is inevitable.

For Jews, historically self-conscious over the perceptions and estimations

of the outside world, that tension is only amplified. It is all too easy, and

therefore simplistic, to view innovative artistic expression through the

binary lens of “Is it good or bad for the Jews?” Unfortunately, while such

an assessment seems expedient from the point of view of communal policy,

it fails to appreciate both the nature of artistic expression and the breadth

and depth of Jewish artistic explorations.

Of course, the community has come a long way. From today’s vantage point,

when Jews have achieved success and equality in America unequaled in

Diaspora history, it’s hard to believe that only a short time ago rabbis across

the country were pillorying Philip Roth as a self-hating Jew who would usher

in a new era of Jew-hatred. Still, there are many, particularly in community

leadership positions, who continue to interpret artistic expression not on its

own merits but by the kind of light the art is perceived to shine on Jews.

As the articles in this issue of CONTACT reveal, much of Jewish art, like

much of Judaism itself, is ultimately about wrestling. Areas of struggle are

as diverse as artistic expression itself: obligations to the past versus the

present; tradition versus modernity; sacred versus profane; community

versus individual commitments; and the struggles for meaning, authenticity

and identity in cultures that raise ambiguities about all three. Jewish arts

are flourishing, sometimes in raw, unbridled form, in every conceivable

medium. By acknowledging, celebrating and supporting the artistic struggle,

the community can help all Jews discover new dimensions of the evolving

Jewish experience.

2 CONTACT

contactAUTUMN 2005/CHESHVAN 5765 VOLUME 8 NUMBER 1

Eli Valley Editor

Erica ColemanCopy Editor

Janet Mann Administration

Yakov WisniewskiDesign Director

J E W I S H L I F E N E T W O R K

S T E I N H A R D T F O U N D A T I O N

Michael H. SteinhardtChairman

Rabbi Irving GreenbergPresident

Rabbi David Gedzelman Executive Director

Jonathan J. Greenberg z”lFounding Director

CONTACT is produced and distributed by Jewish Life Network/ Steinhardt Foundation, 6 East 39thStreet, 10th floor, New York, NY 10016.

Phone: (212) 279-2288Fax: (212) 279-1155Email: contact@jewishlife.orgWebsite: www.jewishlife.org

For media inquiries about Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation,please contact Richard Dukas atrichard@dukaspr.com.

Copyright © 2005 by Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation.

Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundationis dedicated to strengthening andtransforming American Jewish Life toensure a flourishing, sustainable commu-nity in a fully integrated free society. Weseek to revitalize Jewish identity througheducational, religious and cultural initia-tives that are designed to reach out to allJews, with an emphasis on those who areon the margins of Jewish life.

Photographs in this issue appear courtesy of con-tributors and Photos.com. Cover painting by Debo-rah Rosenthal. Eli Valley

AUTUMN 2005 3

When Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation createdMakor in New York City inthe late 1990s, we under-

stood that an emphasis on arts and enter-tainment in our programming would beprofoundly attractive to Jewish New Yorkersin their 20s and 30s whom we sought togive opportunities for Jewish explorationand connection. To our great gratification,the arts programming developed not only asa means of attraction but as a forum inwhich young Jewish artists found a Jewishvoice in their work. Artistic expression wasalso used as a tool for reshaping Jewishideas and elements. This began with ourtheater programming but quickly grew in allthe areas of the arts that Makor presents.

The cultural backdrop for this was a re-awakening of Jewish artistic expression inAmerica in general and in New York inparticular in the 1990s. The Jewish newmusic scene, building on the secularKlezmer revival begun in the 1980s, foundits roots in rather non-institutional settingsand was characterized by artists seeking tofuse Jewish voices and elements with main-stream (and not so mainstream) culturaltrends. This movement continues to flowertoday as fusions proliferate — whether

between Klezmer and Cajun, Sephardic tra-ditional with rock and roll, Hasidic melodywith reggae rhythm, or Yiddish traditionalmusic with hip hop sampling.

What is striking is that most of thisartistic explosion comes not from commu-nal prescriptions, but from individualartists taking full control of their own Jew-ish American cultural identity expressions.The artistic arena is the most poignantplace in which American Jews push theenvelope on what is the American Jewishfusion. It may very well be that the JewishAmerican self-understanding is evolvingmost resonantly in the areas of music,film, theater and fiction, rather than intheological tracts, position papers, divreyTorah or strategic plans.

It is interesting to note that at a num-ber of important junctures in modern Jew-ish history, the creation of new Jewish artwas a crucial element in attempts toexpand Jewish definition beyond conven-tional categories. The Zionist Revolutionwould have been a very different enterprisewithout the creative spirit of a revivedHebrew literature, new musical expressionsand other artistic developments. The cre-ation of a new Hebrew culture that foundauthentic sources in traditions of languageand religion but affirmed new articulationsof national identity, spirituality and People-hood was as crucial to creating a new and

sovereign existence for the Jewish peoplein its land as were any of the politicalstrategies and achievements of the Zionistmovement. Without the inspiration of Jew-ish artists — from writers and poets likeBialik, Agnon, Alterman and Amichai tosongwriters like Yedidya Admon andSascha Argov — the revival of the Hebrewlanguage as the spoken expression of thenew national possibility most probablywould have been a hollow pursuit.

At the same time, artistic expression inthe Yiddish milieu of Eastern Europe at thebeginning of the twentieth century was afocal point of another Jewish cultural revo-lution. For their part, scores of Yiddishwriters and other artists saw their work as

New Jewish Voice:The Arts&Identityby RABBI DAVID GEDZELMAN

Rabbi David Gedzelman is Executive Director of Jew-ish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation and was theFounding Creative and Rabbinic Director of Makor.

CONTACT

part of a new Yiddishist secularism whoseartistic expressions were crucial to Jewishself-understanding. Yiddish theater andfilm in the early twentieth century encap-sulated a mix of traditional forms and newdesires. Suffice it to say, whether in Warsawor Tel Aviv, Odessa or Degania, the imagin-ing of new Jewish identities would not bepursued without artistic expression as acentral vehicle. In these contexts, Jewishlife was not understood by the limits ofnarrow theological and religious defini-tions, but was assumed in the terms of anoverall and embracing civilization, albeitone with strong religious emphasis. Artisticmediums, therefore, served as a naturalfocal point for explorations of identity inthe evolution of that civilization.

The American Jewish experience wasmostly different. Christian, specificallyProtestant, categories were imposed onJewish self-understanding in the West,resulting in Jewish identity being reducedto a matter of participation in a faith com-munity rather than participation in the lifeof a people. Consequently, American Jew-ish artistic expression during much of thetwentieth century was thought of asmostly a secondary prop in the life of thesynagogue. Although it is true that in theearly part of the twentieth century, Jewish

immigrants to America gave voice to a richand vibrant array of Yiddish artisticexpression, this outpouring mostly disap-peared with the demise of spoken Yiddishand as subsequent generations adopted anarrower Jewish self-understanding prima-rily limited to religion-based categories.

As these generations came of age inAmerica, many of the fiction writers whoattempted to treat Jewish themes were notembraced by the Jewish institutionalworld. To be fair to the community, inmany cases these writers disparaged thelabel “Jewish writer” and often exploredJewish themes in order to reject any rele-vance for Jewish identity in the contempo-rary world. For the most part, duringmuch of the twentieth century in America,unless Jewish art served a liturgical role,decorated the architecture of the syna-gogue, or was incorporated into ritualobjects, it had difficulty finding its basewithin the organized Jewish community.

This seems to have begun to change inthe past fifteen years. As small pockets ofyoung urban Jews in America seek to findnew terms for understanding their Jewish-ness, artistic expression has emerged as apowerful language in which to try on newreasons for finding Jewish ideas, forms andattachments meaningful. Jewish fiction,

music, visual art and theater have seen anexplosion of interest in venues outside oftraditional Jewish institutional life. It is notonly that art is used as a vehicle for explor-ing Jewish ideas, but rather that Jewish ideasand forms give artists an expansive contextfor growing artistically. So that while in thepast, American Jewish fiction writers mighthave treated Jewish themes mostly as adeparture from Jewish life, meaning andcommitment, writers today, like JonathanSafran Foer and Jonathan Rosen, treat Jew-ish themes as part of a return to and explo-ration of Jewish experience. They do so asAmericans fully entrenched in the opensociety who now have the freedom to sum-mon Jewish elements of meaning and iden-tity in an artistic enterprise that forges anAmerican Jewish cultural fusion.

This explosion goes hand in hand witha time in which pockets of American Jewsare seeking to expand what Jewish identityand definition might be. Perhaps it is theJewish artist we should turn to for guidancein a renaissance of Jewish life that breaksthrough old categories and finds new plat-forms on which to ask questions of Jewishmeaning. The greater regard in which wehold these artists, the more profound, rele-vant and vibrant for Jewish life will be thenew creation in which they engage us.

The Makor Artists-in-Residence programanchors a vibrant community of Americanand Israeli artists in New York City by sup-porting emerging Jewish contemporary

visual artists, writers, filmmakers, musicians andperformers who are creating new work in dialoguewith Jewish content and experience. Makor Artists-in-Residence are selected to dedicate 100 programhours over five months to rich curricula designed tofoster creative inspiration and artistic growth. Eachgroup of 15-30 artists explores a unique topic forthe length of the program. Examples of recent top-ics include Journey, Inside and Outside, The Book ofJonah and Wandering. Makor Artists-in-Residencefaculty facilitate Jewish text learning, the study ofexamples of relevant outstanding art of all media,master classes, small and large group discussions,artistic collaboration, development of new work,career counseling and a celebration of each cadre’saccomplishments at the widely attended biannualMakor Marathon.

Upon completion of a program cycle, MakorArtists-in-Residence are invited to remain a part of

the community by joining additional rounds of thecore Makor Artists-in-Residence groups with newtopics and colleagues, by enjoying guest speakersand artists at monthly Makor Artists Salons or bycontinuing to develop and/or present expanded ver-sions of their work at Makor. Over the past threeyears, Makor Artists-in-Residence have taken workdeveloped at Makor to major film, theater and per-formance festivals, gallery and museum exhibitions,and a variety of publications in the U.S. and abroad.

The Makor Artists-in-Residence programaddresses a disturbing weakness in the structure ofNorth American Jewish communities. While NorthAmerican Jews lack nothing in terms of theresources and communal institutions to initiate agolden age of cultural achievement, young Jewishartists, a population of imaginative thinkers and com-munity builders, are placed at the margins of Jewishlife if they find themselves in a Jewish context at all.

The Makor Artists-in-Residence program investsin structures that facilitate the ability of artists toexpand their Jewish consciousness and connection.It offers a model for the deep impact of a passionate,pluralistic Jewish culture in which art and artists,generating Jewish beauty, complexity, joy and com-mitment, can invigorate key centers of Jewish life.

MAKOR Artists-in-Residence by STEPHEN HAZAN ARNOFF

Stephen Hazan Arnoff was Director of Artists Networks and Programmingat the Makor/Steinhardt Center of the 92nd Street Y. He is currently develop-ing new programs for Jewish art and artists as a Mandel Jerusalem Fellow.

AUTUMN 2005 5

When I started the KnittingFactory in 1986, the NewYork music scene, from mymyopic downtown perspec-

tive, seemed to be made up mostly of“Blacks and Jews.” At least, the world ofavant-garde, independent rock and jazzseemed to have an overwhelming numberof us “outsiders” who wanted to remainsomewhat underground and shy awayfrom the traditional institutional influ-ences. Perhaps that is why a scene gath-ered around the “Knit” in the late eightiesand early nineties, and later gravitated in asimilar way to places like Tonic, BAM Caféand other nuclei of activity. This sense ofindependence drew many who were eitherintimidated by or rebelled against perform-ing arts centers, official community centersor synagogues. We were very lucky to bein the right place at the right time to hostbetween 1,000 and 2,000 concerts a year

in one of the most fertile grounds of artistexpression in the world.

With the discovery of my own Jewishidentity along with the many artists inter-ested in creating work identified with Jew-ish themes and references, the stages ofthe Knitting Factory became home to vari-ous forms of Jewish music. I tried to createa safe place that properly balanced theenvironment for experimentation and dis-covery with the financial realities of thecommercial market. The artists were creat-ing a unique forum for Klezmer music,experimental Sephardic music, and unclas-sifiable combinations of liturgical andother Jewish forms of expression. As a pro-ducer, I was able to help foster and mani-fest this into a number of Jewish programsthrough ongoing series and festivals — atthe Knitting Factory, other New York ven-ues and even throughout Europe.

Within a very short time, many artists,including John Zorn, Frank London, AndyStatman, Marc Ribot, Roy Nathanson,Basya Schecter, Gary Lucas, and even LouReed were starting to discuss their Jewishinfluences in their work. There were dis-

cussions at the bar, on tour buses inEurope, and even in panel discussionsabout the relationship between Bob Dylan,Neil Diamond or the Beastie Boys and theirJewish upbringing. This was not summercamp sing-along, but popular music sprin-kled with Jewish thought and influences.

What was going on? We knew themusic industry was very Jewish, but howstrong were the influences within our soci-ety’s musical culture? The first “Radical Jew-ish Music Festival” was created by JohnZorn and held at the Knitting Factory;shortly afterwards, it was hosted in Munich.Zorn invited me to speak on a small panel atthe very well-funded Munich festival on“What was going on with Jewish Music.” Iwish I really knew. But what I did know wasthat the European cultural presenters wereinterested in our bizarre scene of Jewishmusic in New York and were willing to paymore money than we could get in America.

The next year we packaged four groupsto go on a European tour called “JewishAlternative Movement,” which includedthe Hasidic New Wave, Gary Lucas playingto the silent film classic the Golem, The

Michael Dorf is Founder of New York City’s KnittingFactory and a music impresario responsible for,among other programs, the New York Jewish Musicand Heritage Festival.

TheJewishMusicRevolutionby MICHAEL DORF

New Klezmer Trio, and God is my Co-pilot with Anthony Coleman. The tourplayed in 20 markets in 22 days. It was amishugenna tour, since it focused on mar-kets that were both historically relevantto Jews as well as fraught with historicaltragedy. We toured Budapest, Prague,Seville, Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich andelsewhere. In each city, we held a publicforum discussing the New York JewishMusic scene and “what is Jewish Music?”In some cities no one came; in others, itwas a deeply intellectual discussion. InBudapest, 2,000 people came to the con-cert, all walking into the venue wearinggray hats and coats covering tee-shirtswith big Jewish stars and yarmelkas, onlyto be covered up as they exited thevenue. After the concert, in hushed con-versations at the local bar, which servedbagels and booze into the wee hours,people discussed the evening with greatexcitement. It was quite a contrast toperforming in New York.

When we came back to the States, Iapproached the opportunity to presentJewish music with more fervor than ever.We needed to have an all-embracing pro-gramming attitude and an open mind asto what music we should support. In1992 we started our first annual KlezmerFestival during the Christmas holidays. Itwent through many permutations. In1995, I produced the first “DowntownSeder,” which was an attempt to show-

case the most creative interpretations ofthe ancient texts of the Haggadah. Alongwith John Zorn’s Tzadik record label, wecreated our own label to capture thistremendous amount of activity. J.A.M.(Jewish Alternative Music) released 30great recordings between 1996 and 2002,the year I left the Knitting Factory. It wasan incredibly prolific period of time bothin the live performances and recordedmaterial, all of which were heavily mar-keted and advertised. It is gratifying tosee the ongoing support of this activity.There are more Jewish record labelsreleasing Jewish music, and Klezmerseems to be spilling out from clubs on anightly basis.

The New York Jewish Music andHeritage Festival is one way the move-ment’s legacy endures. The festival,which grew out of the 350th anniversaryof the arrival of the first Jews in Amer-ica, will now be an annual celebration ofJewish culture embracing all styles ofJewish music as they continue todevelop and grow. Seeing both Hasidimand secular Jews dancing together as onepeople to Matisyahu or Pharaoah’sDaughter is the fruition of a long-helddream. If our generation can pass on theuse of music as a communication tool tonot only heal divisions within our ownJewish communities, but also betweendifferent nations and cultures, we willhave come quite a long way.

by Aaron BismanThree years ago, if I had told you thatthe Shema would be heard on MTV,that thousands would gather to hearIsraeli, Arab, Jewish and Muslim hiphop musicians perform together, thatJewish music would be featured ontelevision’s most popular late night talkshows, and that a six-foot tall Hasid

would sing his way into the hearts, souls andipods of unaffiliated young Jews the world over,you would have laughed me out of your office.And yet that was our vision when we createdJDub Records.

JDub was the brainchild of Ben Hesse andmyself, two NYU students who believed thatjust because their friends weren’t hanging outat Hillel or showing up at Chabad events, it didnot mean they had no interest in Judaism. JDubdeveloped because we experienced our Jewishand secular interests intersecting. We pouredour hearts into the organization’s development,because we knew that if we offered our peershigh quality, authentic Jewish experiences, theywould flock to opportunities to be actively,proudly and uniquely Jewish. And with the helpof a few brave and visionary supporters, includ-ing the Joshua Venture, Bikkurim and Natan,two young social entrepreneurs were given thechance to put our ideas into action.

JDub Records is a not-for-profit record andevent production company whose mission is tocreate community and foster positive Jewishidentity by promoting proud, authentic Jewishvoices in popular culture and through cross-cul-tural musical dialogue. Since its inception inDecember 2003, JDub has reached over 75,000young adults through its CDs and events and mil-lions more through its websites and media cover-age. JDub has worked with established artistssuch as Frank London and Basya Schecter, andhas discovered and developed new artists includ-ing So Called, Balkan Beat Box and Matisyahu.

As more and more younger Jews findmeaning in Eastern religions, foreign spiritualityand popular culture itself, it is imperative thatthe established Jewish community take steps tomeet them where they are and offer them apoint of connection with no strings attached. Bynurturing and promoting unique Jewish voices,JDub reclaims music as a valid and vitalmethod of self-expression within Judaism andas a means of bridging religious, ethnic and cul-tural boundaries.

Aaron Bisman is Co-Founder and Executive Director ofJDub Records. For more information on JDub, please visitwww.jdubrecords.org or write to info@jdubrecords.org.

Photograph of Balkan Beat Boxcourtesy of JDub Records.6

Writing BetweenWorlds by TOVA MIRVIS

AUTUMN 2005 7

Ido some of my best writing in shul.Not with pen and paper, not withmy computer, all of which are for-bidden on the Sabbath, but in my

head. What moves me to write is the gapcreated in shul, the contrast betweenworlds: the public and the personal, theholy and the prosaic. People sit in rows,their siddurs open to the same page, andrecite the prescribed prayers. They standwhen the ark is opened, kiss the Torahscroll’s velvet cover as it is carried past,bow at the knee as they begin the silentshemoneh esray. Prayers ask for cohesion,everyone saying the same thing at thesame time. The words are scripted, claim-ing to articulate what is in the heart.

Spliced seamlessly into these sacredwords is another more human, moreinteresting world. Here, minds wander.

People glance at their watches. They day-dream and whisper. Silent, inner wordscoexist with the outer, public ones.Underneath the beauty of the prayers,inside the appearance of shared ideologyand practice, I wonder who believes andwho doesn’t, and who is here becausethey want to be and who because theyhave been forced to come. In shul, thegap between the words we say and whowe are becomes more pronounced. Loftymoments of yearning co-mingle withmundane moments. Both exist simultane-ously, so richly, so exquisitely.

It isn’t just in others that I wonderabout this gap. I feel it in myself all toowell. I know that I’m not praying, atleast not usually, at least not very well. Ipractically grew up in shul. Every Shab-bos, in Memphis, Tennessee, in a purpleand silver Orthodox shul resembling adisco, I sat in the women’s section nextto my mother, one row behind mygrandmother, my view obfuscated by thedomes and decorations of grand hatsand the mechitza that separates the menfrom the women. Now, I still daven in an

Tova Mirvis is the author of two novels, The Ladies

Auxiliary and The Outside World. This essay is

excerpted from an essay that appeared originally in

the anthology WHO WE ARE: On Being and Not

Being a Jewish American Writer (Schocken, 2005),

edited by Derek Rubin.

This dangling act,

this living between

worlds, is unresolved

and probably

unsustainable.

It’s not a comfortable

place to live.

But it’s a very

fertile place from

which to write.

8 CONTACT

Ortho-dox shul. Thewords of the prayers stillcome naturally. But it’s harder to feelmoved by them. I am still part of thisOrthodox world but at the edge, lookingoutward. I have one foot inside and onefoot stepping out. This dangling act, thisliving between worlds, is unresolved andprobably unsustainable. It’s not a com-fortable place to live. But it’s a very fer-tile place from which to write.

Orthodox Judaism has so many rules:what to eat, when to eat, what to wear,when to pray. The great works of tradi-tional Judaism are not narrative; they arecodes of law, the Mishnah, the ShulchanAruch, the Mishnah Brurah. Here, everymoment of life is categorized and exam-ined. Creating categories is crucial toJewish law. Underlying much of halachais the need to make distinctions, to sepa-rate between holy and secular, betweennight and day, between Israel and theother nations. There are divisions inspace, in time. The Sabbath is holiness intime; the land of Israel, the holy temple,are holiness in space. There are divisionsbetween men and women, between thepriestly caste and the rest of the people.There are commandments not to mixspecies, for men not to wear women’sclothing. The laws draw clear lines; theycreate and enforce strict borders.

But in day to day life, the bordersaren’t demarcated with the grand strokesof theology. They are constructed fromthousands of tiny details. The law residesin the smallest particulars of domestic life.Clothing, food and furnishings are neverincidental. They have become the stuff ofGod. Seemingly unimportant details, withno clear theological origin, bespeak majorstatements and have taken on the force oflaw. “There nothing goes and everythingmatters; here everything goes and nothingmatters,” Philip Roth wrote, comparingthe Eastern Europe of the 1970s to Amer-ica. The Orthodox world is, in fact, thatEastern Europe. Everything matters.Everything means something. Ideologycan be determined from the tilt of a hat.

Mar-riage prospectsare decided, and a wholeworld is transmitted, in the absenceor presence of a seam down the back of apair of stockings.

All these details, these rules, do morethan just restrict behavior. They holdpeople tightly together, creating ahotbed of community. Every individualaction has an echo in a communal for-est. With eyes and ears lurking every-where, nothing goes unseen or unheard.For me, as a writer, community isalways primary. Both of my novels havetaken place within the Orthodox world.My first novel was about an outsiderlonging for community and trying tobecome part of an insular Orthodoxcommunity in Memphis. But it is nar-rated by the insiders, and ultimately, it isabout them. My second novel is aboutthe confrontation between tradition andmodernity, about doubt and tolerance,about wanting to be inside this worldand wanting to be outside it.

Happily for the fiction writer, com-munities bestow more than just rules.They offer the possibility for rebellion.Flannery O’Connor said, “Whenever I’masked why Southern writers particularlyhave a penchant for writing aboutfreaks, I say it is because we are still ableto recognize one.” In a well-ordered,tightly constructed community, there arealways insiders. And only when thereare insiders can there be outsiders,strangers and freaks, this rich cast ofcharacters that a fiction writer longs for.

I learned about community as muchfrom my Southern background as frommy Jewish one. Though O’Connor’s Mis-sissippi was just a short drive from myhouse, it was supposedly worlds awayfrom Orthodox Memphis. But I recog-nized the voices in which her charactersspoke. This was true of Eudora Weltyand William Faulkner as well. In their

rich,complex

evocations ofcommunity, I saw

my own world clearer.I cannot imagine Eudora

Welty’s characters without com-munity surrounding them, without

these whispering, gossiping, all-seeingand all-knowing voices. The communi-ties in which she places her characters,plots and themes are not merely the side-story of “setting.” The presence of acommunity observing and wonderingmagnifies every individual action. With-out the question of “what will theythink,” the fictional world becomes somuch thinner.

The writer wrestles with her ownquestion of “what will they think.” Inorder to write about a community, youhave to hear their voices, this ubiquitous“they” of public opinion. You have toknow what they are proud of and afraidof, what they wish you would say, whatthey fear you will say. You have to knowyour subject matter so well that you cannarrate a story from their perspective,until you could almost, almost quietyour objections and become one of them again.

But for a writer, this is impossible.The official communal point of viewalways, eventually, must be pushed asidein favor of the individual voices thatbubble underneath. Fiction reveals whatpeople might think but don’t say, orwhat they won’t let themselves think ordon’t notice or simply don’t believe.There is always a story, in every commu-nity, for every individual. Fiction isabout what it feels like to be a humanbeing, in all its complexities. It is thewriter’s job to chip away at any insis-tence that all people act a certain way orfeel a certain way. Stories come from,and strive to capture, the tensions, theoscillations, the struggles and the com-promises. Without ambivalence in eitherdirection, the intersections are gone, theconflicts are blanched, and in its placeeverything is pareve.

In a well-ordered, tightly constructed community, thereare always insiders. And only when there are insiderscan there be outsiders, strangers and freaks, this richcast of characters that a fiction writer longs for.

AUTUMN 2005 9

Over the years, I have often been asked a version of the question:Why should the Jewish community support the Arts? I generallytry to make a compelling case, or at least a coherent case, for sup-porting the Arts in Jewish life by wrapping my response around

whatever word is the current hot concept in the Jewish community. For awhile, it was “Education.” Then it was “Continuity.” (The National Foundationfor Jewish Culture, where I have worked for the past 26 years, had a buttonmade up for the GA one year that said: Culture IS Continuity.) Recently, it’sbeen “Renaissance,” but that seems to be on the decline. (And just as well,since this was probably the only renaissance in history that did not include the Arts.)

Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of trying to make the argument, becauseincreasingly I feel that it is a self-evident proposition, and either one gets it orone doesn’t. We don’t ask: Why is it good for the Jewish community to supportSenior Citizen services? Why is it good for the Jewish community to supportJewish education? Why is it good for the Jewish community to support theresettlement of Ethiopian Jews? We don’t ask these questions because they areself-evident. These are activities that define the Jewish community as a Jewishcommunity.

The question — Why is it good for the Jewish community to support theArts in Jewish life? — should be similarly self-evident, because the Arts areintertwined within the very fabric of a society, of a living community. ImagineAmerica without the Kennedy Center or Lincoln Center or the NationalEndowment for the Arts. And if this is true in general, then it is also true inparticular with regard to the Jewish community. Addressing those communalleaders who view Jewish culture as a luxury in an era of increasing intermar-riage and decreasing affiliation, the writer Nessa Rapoport often begins hertalks with these words:

This speech is being brought to you by the people who gave the worldmonotheism, the Bible, the Sabbath, the idea of covenantal justice, theonly successfully revived language in the history of the world, psycho-analysis, the theory of relativity, the American musical theater,Abstract Expressionism, American feminism — and the comic book.

If we look back on our unique history as a people, what hasenabled us to transform the world if not culture? We have never hadthe most power, the most money, or the most citizens — and wenever will. Our strength and our gift lie in imagination — words,books, symbols, images and ideas that have been, in their seemingdreaminess and impracticality, precisely the most lasting, venerablebuilding blocks of universal civilization.

So perhaps we can just leave it at that. Why should we fund the Arts inJewish life? Because they are “in their seeming dreaminess and impracticality,precisely the most lasting, venerable building blocks of universal civilization.”

I suspect, however, that the “self-evident” proposition will not satisfyeveryone. So let me try yet another response, built around what I predict willbe the next hot concept in Jewish communal life: the Jewish conversation. Inmy recent Executive Director’s Report to the NFJC Board, I spoke aboutJudaism as a conversation, sometimes with God, sometimes with the past,often with the present. And I proposed that if Judaism is fundamentally a con-

Why the Jewish CommunityShould Support the Arts:

AConversationby RICHARD SIEGEL

Richard Siegel is Executive Director of The National Foundationfor Jewish Culture.

The Arts are intertwined

within the very fabric of a

society, of a living community.

Imagine America without the

Kennedy Center or Lincoln

Center or the National

Endowment for the Arts.

10 CONTACT

versation, then the Arts are where some ofthe best Jewish conversations are happen-ing these days.

The Jewish conversation — to someextent for all Jews, and to a great extentfor the more institutionally disaffected —is taking place over coffee after watchingTrembling Before G-d or My Architect, toname just two of the more than 50 docu-mentaries that the NFJC has helped sendinto the dark of the movie theater. TheJewish conversation is happening on eleva-tors with co-workers talking about Char-lotte’s conversion to Judaism on Sex andthe City. The Jewish conversation is takingplace in downtown music clubs like theSlipper Room or Southpaw, when the bandGolem or the Hasidic rapper Matisyahu orthe Hip Hop Hoodios perform. The Jewishconversation is taking place in theater lob-bies after a Paul Taylor Dance Companyperformance of Klezmerbluegrass (commis-sioned by the NFJC), which the programbook describes as “celebrating 350 years ofJewish life in America, where Jews have

long been part of the fabric of the nation’scultural life.” Well, that’s a good topic fordiscussion right there, even before the per-formance begins. The Jewish conversationis taking place in book groups discussingPhilip Roth’s The Plot Against America. TheJewish conversation is taking place in thegalleries of The Jewish Museum — in akind of echo from the recent exhibit on“The Power of Conversation: JewishWomen and Their Salons.” (They basicallycreated the Art of Conversation.)

The Arts in Jewish life provide boththe means and opportunity for interestingJewish conversations. The Arts in Jewishlife provoke the Jewish conversation. Andat their best, the Arts in Jewish life advancethe Jewish conversation. If Judaism is anevolving religious civilization, a proposi-tion of Mordechai Kaplan’s to which I sub-scribe, then the Arts are its RNA.

Contrary to the opinion of the commu-nal pessimists, the Jewish conversation isnot over. In fact, it’s literally going on aswe speak. We are continuing old conversa-

tions. And we are starting new conversa-tions. The American Jewish experience isnot the end of the 4,000-year-old salon ofJewish conversations. It may very wellprove to be one of the most interesting,creative, long-standing and defining Jewishconversations.

One of our most important goals as a living community, when you comeright down to it, should be to seed newJewish conversations in as many venues,and through as many different forms ofexpression as possible. Jewish theater, lit-erature, film, visual art, dance, music —these produce the tastes and smells thatshape our Jewish identities, define ourJewish community, and feed our Jewishconversations.

So why should the Jewish communitysupport the Arts? Because the Arts creategood Jewish conversations. As it says inPirkei Avot, “Where two sit together anddiscuss words of Torah (here understoodto include all Jewish conversations), thenthe Divine Spirit sits with them.”

Avoda Arts was founded on the beliefthat an arts-infused Jewish curriculumcan help teens and young adults tap

into their expressive impulses, create newartistic traditions and tell their own powerfulJewish stories. Started in 1999, Avoda Artsbrings the power of the arts to Jewish stu-dents and educators by integrating film, pho-tography, painting, music and theatre intoJewish learning. Multifaceted programs offera fresh and vibrant perspective to the Jewishcurriculum and provide a valued venue foryoung people in which their cultural interestsand Jewish identities can be fused. Throughtraveling exhibitions, artist-in-residence pro-grams, classroom workshops, custom curricu-lum design and teacher training, participantshave experienced for themselves how art con-nects Jewish culture and community.

The New York-based organization designsand produces a variety of arts-based learningexperiences, including:• THE JEWISH LENS — a comprehensivemiddle/high school curriculum that explores

Jewish values and Jewish commu-nities through the art of photogra-phy. Based on the work ofrenowned photographer Zion Ozeri,the program includes a hands-oncomponent for students to docu-ment their own Jewish communi-ties and curate exhibits of theirwork.• CREATING COMMENTARY —a semester-long “Artist BeitMidrash” for college students thathas been taught at New York Uni-versity and SUNY-Purchase College.Through interactive discussion andhands-on art making, studentsinterpret, critique and make newmeaning from traditional Jewishtexts. The course is now beingadapted for high schools.• THE NEW YORK JEWISH STUDENTFILM FESTIVAL — a showcase of emergingJewish filmmakers from around the world.Since its inception in 2003, the festival hasreceived submissions from more than 150 stu-dent filmmakers and has screened winningfilms from the U.S., Canada, Europe and Israel.

Avoda Arts has worked with more than

7,500 high school and college-age students,some 350 Jewish educators and scores ofJewish communal professionals across thecountry. By using the arts as an entry point intoJewish learning, Avoda Arts offers educationaland communal institutions an opportunity toengage young people in a dynamic, substantivemanner that resonates with students’ lives.

Debbie Krivoy is Director of Avoda Arts. For moreinformation on Avoda Arts, please visit www.Avo-daArts.org.

Avoda Arts by DEBBIE KRIVOY

AUTUMN 2005 11

If anyone in my childhood synagogue hadwanted to investigate whether the littlegirl with fat black braids was actuallypaying attention to Shabbat services, they

might have discovered the truth: I always hada novel tucked neatly inside my prayer book.My parents were aware of my transgression.My dad questioned it sometimes, but mymother always defended me. Leave her alone,she’d whisper — at least it’s a Jewish book.

And it always was a Jewish book. Justbefore services, I’d sneak upstairs to the syn-agogue library to select my diversion. Therewas no librarian and no stacks, just a fewcrowded shelves and a tin box where youcould leave a signed card if you took some-thing out. My favorite options were the “All-of-a-Kind Family books,” a series about alarge family of sisters living in a crowdedapartment on the Lower East Side in theearly 1900s. The book fit right into myromantic worldview of New York Jews, a clanthat my parents had left behind when theymoved to the Rocky Mountains.

My family obviously wasn’t the only Jew-ish family in Boulder, Colorado, but we weredefinitely in the minority. A childhoodfriend’s great aunt once told me about thefamily of “Hebrews” who had moved in nextdoor to her. “They’re the nicest people,” shesaid, “those Hebrews.” Surrounded by kidswhose family trees were exclusively rooted inWestern Europe, I found solidarity in thosebooks I turned to on Friday nights, while theadults around me navigated through theShabbat service. Those novels fueled mydesire to connect to an experience of grow-ing up Jewish that was both similar to andentirely different from my own.

I wrote a lot as a kid, and some projectscertainly reflected this fascination with theworld my family came from. I created a fic-tional diary of a young Jewish woman who sur-vived the 1911 Triangle Fire in a New Yorkshirtwaist factory, and I collaborated on a playabout three generations of Jewish women inAmerica. Of course there were unrelated proj-ects too, such as an elaborate mystery in whicha blonde cheerleader named Jillian was found

murdered on the tennis courts during a highschool reunion. My parents didn’t love themystery novel too much. I guess it wasn’t thesort of thing a good Jewish parent would wanttheir kid dreaming up during someone’s BarMitzvah service. But I’ve never believed inquestioning inspiration too much. If somethingcompels me to sit down and write, I follow myinstincts. I may produce a great opus, or I mayfill three spiral notebooks with a trashy teenmystery. But I never know where it will lead.

When my grandmother died while I wastaking my first playwriting course in college,I did a writing exercise based on my experi-ence helping my parents clean out her NewYork apartment. When my playwritingteacher encouraged me to move beyond theautobiographical set up, I introduced a fic-tional story in which these characters dis-cover that their atheist grandmother had anunsuccessful love affair with an OrthodoxJew. The piece, called In Every Generation,became my first full-length play.

I have never defined myself as a Jewishwriter. There have been only a few occasionsin which I set out to write Jewish material. Iwas once commissioned by the Makor TheatreProject to write a play based on a Yiddish folktale, and I have written a couple of Purimplays. But Jewish themes and characters havealways had a way of creeping into my work.

Rabbis, in particular, have a habit ofshowing up in my stories. I was involved in arabbi search in college and became fascinatedwith the combination of skills the rolerequires — scholarship, writing, public speak-ing, leadership and counseling. At that time Ibriefly flirted with the idea of becoming arabbi myself, but had to acknowledge that myown religious beliefs were not solid enough togive spiritual guidance to anyone else. But Iseem to have remained interested in rabbis.

First there is Rabbi Mendel, a small butsignificant character in my film Heights. Playedbrilliantly by George Segal, Rabbi Mendel got alot of laughs with his exercises meant to pre-pare couples for interfaith marriage. But laterin the film, the character has a more seriousfunction — he offers a source of humanity andcomfort to a character who does not knowwhere else to turn. I am currently working ona novel, Signs of Rejection, which features

another strong rabbi character, a woman whobecomes a source of fascination for a recently-separated woman who is beginning a new lifein, of all places, Boulder, Colorado.

I have lived in New York City for the pasteight years, and I have had ample opportuni-ties to explore the world I was so fascinated byas a child. A couple of years ago, I returned tofamiliar creative territory in a play about gar-ment workers, in which I interwove the storyof early twentieth-century Jewish immigrantswith the stories of Asian immigrants currentlyworking in sweatshops. I have just finished ascreenplay set in 1940s New York, based on atrue story about a group of white tenants,many of whom were Jewish Communists, whojoined residents of Harlem in a fight to inte-grate an enormous housing complex.

I’m sure there are more subtle ways inwhich my Jewish heritage manifests itself inmy writing. Perhaps there is something rec-ognizably “Jewish” in my voice and sense ofhumor. (My father was often compared toWoody Allen by Coloradans who may havehad limited exposure to funny neurotic menwith glasses and thick New York accents.) Iknow that my Jewish upbringing encouragedthe budding storyteller within. I loved howthe act of storytelling was incorporated intorituals like the Passover Seder, and I foundsomething inherently theatrical in the publicreading of the Megillah at Purim.

And Jewish experience carried a reminder ofthe power of words, oral and written. As ayoung adult, I learned about the Holocaustmostly through the words of survivors and cameto understand that storytelling can be an act ofremembering and witnessing. I believe that writ-ing carries social responsibility. I’ve taken onprojects which explore social issues, such as civilrights or drug research, but the act of writing isperhaps more significant than the choice oftopic. Writing is not only self-expression — it isa means by which people can exchange memo-ries, experiences and perspectives. The sharingof experience creates empathy. Stories compel usto imagine the perspective of others, just as weare asked during the Passover Seder to remem-ber that the plagues caused suffering for theEgyptians. Storytelling is one way we can beginto heal a broken world, something Judaism chal-lenges us to do.

The Jews have been called the people ofthe book. I know this refers to the Torah, notto the books I routinely hid inside my Sidduron Friday nights. But I can’t help but think ofthose library books as the triggers for a partic-ular kind of creative development in my con-sciousness. I don’t attempt to explain themysteries of creativity. I don’t know where acharacter like Rabbi Mendel comes from whenhe shows up in my brain with his interfaithexercises, saying he wants to be in pictures.But I trust that he has come for a reason, so Imake room for him in the story.

Storytelling From A Jewish Point of Viewby AMY FOX

Writing is not only self-expression — it is a means by which people can exchange memories, experiences and perspectives.

Amy Fox writes plays, screenplays and fiction. Herfilm Heights was released in theaters last summer.

12 CONTACT

The abstractionist Ilya Bolo-towsky introduced me toAbstraction and Empathy, a psy-chology of art by the early

twentieth-century art historian WilhelmWorringer. Once, when Bolotowsky andI were talking about the motivation topaint abstractly — one of Worringer’ssubjects — Bolotowsky said to me, “Youpaint abstractly because you’re a reli-gious Jew.” At that point, in 1977, thisseemed wrong to me. It seemed to situ-ate me too far from the painting issuesthat obsessed me, too far from my artis-tic roots in early twentieth-centuryabstraction. Ironically, with the paint-ings that I have done over the past fif-teen years — where the human figureappears often — I finally feel that thereis some truth to what Bolotowsky saidto me. Through motifs and conventionslearned from their applications in Chris-tian art, I have come to painting pictureswhich arise from my Jewishness, notleast of which is a connection to thenarratives and personalities of the Torah.

Sacred art is no longer possible.

Nothing can equal it. It is a decadenceto fashion the sacerdotal from art itself.Like the Kabbalist, I decline orthodoxy(in painting) in order to expand freelythrough a universe of thought whilefirmly rooted in traditional practices.Paint is always there, and the easel pic-ture leads me, inevitably, to the lyricmode. But I revolve my rectangle of can-vas, lengthen it, bisect it in shadows andemanations of the iconic, the hieratic,even the sacred. The frescoed wall andthe illuminated page, the carved stonecathedral doorway and the stained-glassmirage, all haunt me. History and hom-age have nothing to do with it! This is,instead, where I begin.

When I see what many of my pic-tures look like — frontal, flat, hieratic,geometric — I think of the painter AndréMasson’s dictum, “I paint as I must.” I donot will — though I think a great dealabout — my affinity for the sacred aspectof Catalan painting, Romanesque andGothic stained glass, sculpture, andpainting. I have dreamt of and yearnedtowards such an art of the “non-I” — an

Deborah Rosenthal is a New York artist whose recentwork may be seen at Lori Bookstein Fine Art. She receiveda National Endowment for the Arts award for her writingon art, and she is Professor of Art at Rider University.

SacredArtIs No LongerPossibleby DEBORAH ROSENTHAL

AUTUMN 2005 13

anonymous, seemingly handless art. Theexact sufficiency of the manuscript illumi-nator’s concise line, forming pleated drap-ery and gesturing fingers colored in withhue or gold, attracts me. But I look in myown canvases and find their scumbled,impastoed or thinly washed surfaces, theirsigns, lines and shapes loudly proclaimingmy inevitable presence. The structure andthe narrative must indeed be willed, sum-moned into existence. Regrettably, the “I”surfaces from its temporary shade (was itever safely there?).

Ornament is a special mode withinabstraction that I am drawn to, perhapsowing to my lifelong exposure to the orna-mentation of letters in scribe-written Jew-ish sacred texts. Pictorial ornamentachieves its final shapes by accretion,through many artists’ refining journeysalong nature’s ways. No “I” can inventornament, but perhaps the traditions ofornament can propel the “I” down oneavenue toward the heart of the maze —nature and creation itself. The hubris of themanuscript illuminator (going beyond theornamentation of script) lies in his expatia-

tion on form even unto the highest degree:the human figure. How I’ve learned that noamount of variation or expatiation can hidean emergent human — moral — presence!I paint as I must both because of my being,and despite my being, a religious Jew.

Artists like me who are drawn toabstraction are under the spell of analogy(as was the Psalmist). The direct, one-to-one equation of time and space that percep-tually based art exacts is not for us. Weknow there is a bifurcation in our con-sciousness. Each forward-pressing, out-ward-glancing moment of the advancingpresent is a foil for a barrage of glancesbackward, inward. From the small fragmentof sense memory to the Biblical story, it ismemories, reveries and dreams that engrossus and distract us into painting. Thoughcontemplative, I am not a stationary con-templator, a passive worshipper. Formbegins to occur to me through the mentaljuxtaposition of two places, two times, twostates of being. This back and forth is themotion of analogy, the turns from here tothere making a gyre of the horizon line, andsuggesting a vantage point anywhere from

ground to heaven. The remembered time ofthe Jew Proust, the dream time of the JewFreud, have their corollary in ritual time,which also insists on the double conscious-ness, of now and then, of the individual andthe people.

Of course I recognize that my tendencyto abstract is anti-naturalistic, anti-illusion-istic. As a young artist, I found in suchabstraction my deepest inclinations, mysense of the abstraction that lies behind theperceived world. I worked hard to makemy pictures as full of this abstraction asthey could be. But in maturity, having livedin my temperament for so long, I feel moreof an otherness within myself. Thoughtending towards being a fabulist, a myth-painter, a dreamer, I have found ways to letthe world in, to exhale my life as the par-ticular perfume of my work. The figurepaintings I have done on Jewish themeshave ranged from Biblical narratives toimages based on metaphors from Psalms toimages from Jewish life such as the wed-ding ceremony. They have been a roman-tic’s and a woman’s zigzag path throughherself in the world of the Creator.

From the small

fragment of

sense memory

to the Biblical

story, it is

memories,

reveries and

dreams that

engross us and

distract us into

painting.

14 CONTACT

Ihave never set out to treat Jewishthemes, or any other themes forthat matter. Characters, conflicts,visual images and spoken wordspresent themselves; only in fol-

lowing them, their internal logic andrequirements, have I (sometimes) comeupon a theme.

The only explicitly Jewish film Ihave written is The Believer, yet when Ifirst read about Daniel Burros — whoselife as a “Jewish Nazi” was the jumpingoff point for my story — it was not Jew-ishness that seemed to me the subject,but hiddenness and self-hatred. Thatwhat he hated and hid was his religion(and mine) made it easier for me tograsp, yet that seemed, in the end, inci-dental. Indeed, it was easy to imagine all

sorts of alternative versions: gay, Black,lower or upper class and so on. A secretwas a secret; I was more interested inthe impulse to concealment and the tor-ments of self-hatred than in what wasbeing concealed and hated.

But during the film’s long gestation,this changed, and religion became morecentral. There seem to me now two chiefreasons for this. One was personal: overthose years, for a variety of reasons, Ibecame more involved in Judaism, bothin study and practice. For the first time, Iattended shul with some regularity, andthe prayers and the Torah and even cer-tain spiritual matters began swimmingaround in my daily thoughts. Perhapsthe key moment came when, readingsome essays by Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Ifound an answer to a question I hadbeen asking for years: what is a Jew? Areligious Jew, Leibowitz says, is one who

accepts the “yoke of Torah,” by which hemeans dutifully performing the mitzvot.

That definition could have beennews only to someone who knew as lit-tle about the religion as I did, but in itsrigorous simplicity, its complete freedomfrom questions of belief or faith, itsimmense if mysterious practicality, ithad for me the force of revelation. Evenif I did not keep these mitzvot myself (orat best in a haphazard way), this under-standing seemed to make Judaism minein a way it had never been. Knowingwhat a “real Jew” was demonstrated thatI was not one, yet that in itself somehowdrew me closer to the religion.

The other reason that Judaismbecame central to The Believer concernsthe exigencies of writing. It is all well andgood to announce that you are interestedin the concealment, not in the thing con-cealed, but the moment you try to make

Henry Bean is a novelist, screenwriter and occasionaldirector. His new film, Noise, will be shot in the fall.

Coming to A Jewish Themeby HENRY BEAN

AUTUMN 2005 15

real characters speak and act, you arecompelled to use specifics — not only thehiding, but the thing hidden. Self-hatredmay be universal, but we each hate our-selves in our own way, and we hate differ-ent things: you, perhaps, your body, memy dark thoughts, and that one overthere his entire ethnic identity. The sensesof shame are different, as are the strate-gies of concealment, the ways in whichthe truth might leak out, the conse-quences of discovery and so on.

It is worth noting that to this point Ihad been “thinking about” the film formore than ten years without writing aword. As long as I remained stuck inabstractions, like concealment, there wasnothing to write. And, I suspect, nothingwould ever have been written if thecharacter hadn’t one day gotten up andstarted doing things on his own.

One day Danny — my inventedDanny, not the historical one — led agroup of neo-Nazis into a synagogue,

intending to vandalize and desecrate theplace. But standing before the ark, hehesitated. To his surprise and disgust,the Torah meant more to him than hehad realized. This reaction enraged him,but he was helpless before it.

I had not planned that scene. It hadsprung to mind unbidden, at least inpart, I suppose, as a result of my ownreading and davening. But whatever thecause, in that moment the film changed.It ceased to be about a self-hating Jewand became instead about a rabbi-manque, a rabbi in spite of himself, arabbi who didn’t know he was one, butwhose discovery of this strange destinywould both save and destroy him.

The film, from this new vantage,wasn’t so much about hiddenness orself-hatred as about contradiction,Danny’s longing for an “impossibility”that, alone, could accommodate thecomplexity of his heart. And in this loveof contradiction, in the film’s endless

argumentativeness, its attempt to recon-cile the irreconcilable, the Jew and theNazi, it was like certain passages ofmidrash, or even Talmud, which set outas if to resolve some abstruse and diffi-cult point, but leave us instead with amyriad of opinions, still competing, eachraising its voice in an endless disputethat seems, finally, richer, more vital andeven truer than a single, definitiveanswer could possibly be.

In short, the story was Jewish to itscore, and all those alternative versions —gay, Black and so on — that I had pre-sented as proof that the religion was“incidental” were a self-deception. In fact,it wasn’t merely Jewish, it was aboutJudaism, my understanding of it, and if ithad never found its way to acknowledgethis Jewish theme, it would have per-sisted forever in the netherworld ofabstraction and never become a film.Which might have been a good thing, butnow, thank God, it’s too late for that.

As an urban arts center in downtownBrooklyn, Brooklyn Academy of Music(BAM) serves the general New York Cityand Brooklyn audiences. In addition, we

reach out to specific ethnic and cultural con-stituencies with the hope that they will makeBAM a home. To that end, we’ve developedcommunity partnerships with groups such asCinema Tropical, NewFest, the Haitian FilmFestival and the New York Korean Film Festi-val. These partnerships provide each importantcommunity with a connection to BAM and cre-ate opportunities for general audiences tolearn about another culture’s heritage, tradi-tions and concerns.

The Jewish community has a great historyin Brooklyn. Its multifaceted and influentialculture, size, traditions of social activism anddepth of cultural engagement all contribute toour great interest in reaching its members.However, many young Jews don’t necessarilyrelate to religious-based institutions. We felt itwas vitally important to establish a programlike the Steinhardt Jewish Heritage Festival ata secular and diverse organization like ours.

The inaugural Stein-hardt Festival included avariety of contemporarymusic — Klezmer, hiphop and jazz. The AliciaSvigals Tribute, at whichshe and others per-formed her work, was aparticular success andbrought her more visibil-ity. Rebbetzin HadassahGross: Unleavened!, acabaret with the “Queenof Judeo-Kitsch,” wasalso a hit. We includedan array of films andstand-up comics. In the future, we’ll look toadd literature, lectures, and discussions.

On its main stages, BAM has presented avariety of artistic works which connect to theJewish experience. Krzysztof Warlikowski’s Dyb-buk combined biblical text with the dybbuk as ametaphor for larger concepts, creating a speciallanguage with which to examine anti-Semitism.John Adams, Alice Goodman and Peter Sellars’sThe Death of Klinghoffer, a controversial opera,examined the tragedy of Leon Klinghoffer’s mur-der and the underlying issues of hatred and ter-rorism as seen from all sides. Steve Reich/BerylKorot’s The Cave featured the ancient cave at

Hebron with the viewpoints of Israelis andPalestinians. Israel’s modern Batsheva DanceCompany brought the highly acclaimed Naharin’sVirus to BAM in 2002; they return this fall withMamootot. We know that these programs, pre-sented in large theaters, have fostered knowl-edge and an atmosphere of empathy.

Historically, the BAM audience has been artistically curious and intellectuallyopen. Many of our audience members believein the integrity of what BAM presents. There-fore, we have the ideal foundation on which tobuild ongoing explorations of Jewish artisticexpression.

Karen Brooks Hopkins, BAM’s president who is cele-brating her 25th year at BAM, was a volunteer in the1973 Yom Kippur War, and lived on a kibbutz and inJerusalem for over a year.

The Steinhardt Jewish Heritage Festival by KAREN BROOKS HOPKINS

Jewish Life Network/Steinhardt Foundation6 East 39th Street10th floorNew York, NY 10016

Non-Profit Org.U.S. PostagePaidRockville, MDPermit No. 800

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