Here at the Museum at Eldridge Street, 1887 is always pointed to as the year of the congregation’s genesis. That’s due, of course, to the very obvious reason that this was the year of completion for their grand house of worship. However, this is not the true start of this synagogue’s Jewish community and life! The full story is more complex, and older, than that. Eldridge Street’s origin is really a tale of two synagogues – not just one.

Long before this magnificent building came to be, a small group of Eastern European Orthodox Jewish immigrants arrived on America’s shores in 1852 – three decades before the famous and massive waves of Jewish immigration would begin. In the heart of the Lower East Side, these early immigrants formed the first Eastern European Orthodox congregation in the United States. Led by Rabbi Abraham Joseph Ash, they called themselves Beth Hamedrash (“House of Study”). The congregation moved from location to location in their early years, which was not uncommon for congregations at the time. Finally, in 1856, they settled into a building they had purchased on Allen Street. However, success and stability would continue to elude Beth Hamedrash! A disagreement between the Rabbi and lay leadership over who deserved credit for procuring the Allen Street location soon turned into a massive conflict, leading to a great schism amongst the congregation. A once-united group split into two, one siding with Rabbi Ash, and the other with the lay leader. Rabbi Ash and his followers officially left the community to form a new synagogue, Beth Hamedrash Hagadol (“Great House of Study”). The lay leadership kept both the name Beth Hamedrash and the Allen Street location, until financial difficulties led them to a merge with another congregation, creating the new Kahal Adath Jeshurun (“Community of the People of the Righteous Way”) congregation in 1884. Now that the stage is set with the origin story of these estranged brother congregations, we can trace the similarities and differences in their long histories, and come to an understanding of their roles in shaping and influencing the history of the Jewish Lower East Side.

The Beth Hamedrash Hagadol congregation moved around to various buildings on the Lower East Side before finally settling into the location that would become their permanent home at 60 Norfolk Street. The congregation purchased a Gothic Revival style building, which had once operated as a church for two different Christian denominations, in 1885 for $45,000. While they had not constructed their own, original synagogue building like Kahal Adath Jeshurun would in 1887, Beth Hamedrash Hagadol carried out interior alterations to ensure that this building would become their own. However, they maintained the impressive exterior featuring grand architectural details such as the “flying buttress and peaked windows,” that remained from the original 1850s design. Beyond installing the necessary religious components needed for a synagogue, the Gothic roof spaces had, “been painted a bright blue, studded with stars,” which seems familiar! The congregation at the Eldridge Street Synagogue clearly had the same idea years later when designing their own grand sanctuary!

Much like all siblings, things could sometimes get a little tense between Beth Hamedrash Hagadol and Kahal Adath Jeshurun. While Kahal Adath Jeshurun had built their synagogue from the ground-up, creating the first Eastern European Orthodox Jewish grand house of worship, Beth Hamedrash Hagadol’s location was larger and able to support a congregation of over 1,000 members at its height. Each likely sought to attract the most wealthy and distinguished people possible to their congregation and be the most influential synagogue in the area. Both synagogues filled rabbinic and cantorial positions with the most famous Eastern European Jewish figures around. Bringing in an impressive and well-known cantor who could lead services in the traditional Eastern European Orthodox style was extremely important for a new synagogue, as they were essential in attracting new members to the congregation. If we could make such a comparison, it could almost be described as a cantor race between the different synagogues, each scrambling to get the best and brightest to be their cantor. In this era of the “cantorial craze,” Kahal Adath Jeshurun was particularly successful in their ability to recruit the one and only Pinhas Minkowski, celebrity cantor from Odessa, Russia. 

While Kahal Adath Jeshurun may have triumphed in the cantorial arena, the legacies of two of Beth Hamedrash Hagadol’s rabbis have better survived the test of time. Rabbi Jacob Joseph served as the one and only Chief Rabbi of New York City while he was the official rabbi of Beth Hamedrash Hagadol. Installed in 1888, Rabbi Joseph’s brilliance and stellar reputation contributed to the great renown surrounding Beth Hamedrash Hagadol as a religious and cultural institution. Much later on in the synagogue’s history, Rabbi Ephraim Oshry became Beth Hamedrash Hagadol’s leader in 1952. His personal character and great dedication to the protection of the synagogue was a key factor in its survival through times of great neighborhood change, immigration restrictions, and financial difficulties, as we shall see later on.

Yet, even when the two synagogues seemed to be quite competitive with each other, this would not stop them from working together when it benefitted the Orthodox Jewish community as a whole. One of the most significant acts of cooperation between Eldridge Street Synagogue and Beth Hamesdrash Hagadol, as well as other Orthodox synagogues in New York City, was the creation of the Union of Orothodox Jewish Congregations of America, more generally known as the Orthodox Union (OU). While disagreements and differences may have often defined the relationship between Beth Hamedrash Hagadol and Kahal Adath Jeshurun, at the end of the day they recognized that their position within the incredibly small Jewish minority living in a predominantly Christian country required their ability to lay aside their differences and band together when necessary. As we saw back then and continue to see today, when the general Jewish community is under threat or when there is a movement trying to advance important causes that would benefit many, Jewish people, from all denominations, will come together to protect and better both their specific communities and American Jewry as a whole.

The start of the 1920s brought impactful changes to the Lower East Side neighborhood and its synagogues. Once home to a flourishing Jewish presence, the community began to change and decline as residents moved uptown, and restrictive immigration policies slowed the waves of Jewish immigrants that had been flooding into the United States. Matters were only made worse when the Great Depression began at the end of 1929. With a dwindling membership and inability to maintain their levels of funding, Kahal Adath Jeshurun could no longer afford to maintain the grand main sanctuary. In the 1940s, they had to make the difficult decision to close it off and move services down to the modest first floor. While the magnificent sanctuary on Eldridge Street slowly deteriorated behind its locked doors, Beth Hamedrash Hagadol was also struggling with financial difficulties. They faced their first threat of demolition in 1946 as much needed improvements and repairs had not been taken care of. However, they continued to maintain a relatively large congregation through the 1940s and 1950s, and the congregation was especially strengthened by their leader at the time, Rabbi Ephraim Oshry.

Before entering his position at Beth Hamedrash Hagadol in 1952, Rabbi Ephraim Oshry had already gained quite a reputation. Famous for being one of the very few Jewish legal scholars (posek) to survive the Holocaust young Rabbi Oshry, while imprisoned in the Kovno Ghetto in Lithuania, answered questions on how to best follow Jewish law during such an oppressive and life-threatening time. Putting himself at great risk to do this critical work, Rabbi Oshry was thankfully not discovered, and was able to recover the fragments of his responsa (written replies or decisions from a rabbinic authority in response to a submitted questions/inquiries on matters of Jewish law) that he had buried in the Kovno Ghetto (these fragments would later be compiled into a monumental work on Jewish law during the Holocaust). After the war, Rabbi Oshry eventually made his way to the United States, dedicating the next fifty years of his life to Beth Hamedrash Hagadol. It was his dedication and commitment to preserving both the synagogue’s physical structure and the congregation of Beth Hamesdrash Hagadol that led to the designation of the synagogue as a New York City Landmark in 1967 by the Landmarks Preservation Commission. Once again under threat of demolition, the application filed by Rabbi Oshry and its acceptance saved the building again – for the time being. 

However, all was still not well for Beth Hamedrash Hagadol. As the years passed, the number of congregants continued to decrease, leading to the continued deterioration of the building. While the Eldridge Street Synagogue had begun to receive support from the Eldridge Street Project, dedicated to renovating and preserving the building after the sanctuary’s rediscovery in the 1980s, Beth Hamesrash Hagadol began to face the major troubles that would unfortunately lead to its downfall. One thing came after the other; a storm in 1997 blew out the main two-story window and was left unrepaired, allowing the elements in. Then, an electrical fire in 2001 left severe damage to the roof, ceiling, and interior decor. Attempts to raise money for desperately needed repairs continued until 2006, but the Rabbi of Beth Hamedrash Hagadol at the time, Rabbi Mendel Greenbaum, made the decision to close the synagogue in 2007 due to hazardous conditions. This was followed by a vacate order issued by the NYC Department of Buildings in 2011. 

It was at this point that the Lower East Side Jewish Conservancy decided to step in and attempt to save the building from complete destruction. While originally open to doing whatever could possibly be done, conflict and friction between the Rabbi and conservators, specifically over financial issues, soon caused the efforts to fall apart. The situation was further worsened when grants that had been obtained in the early 2000s were either withdrawn due to the 2008 financial crisis or were now impossible to fulfill. As plans unraveled  between the infighting, accusations, and inability to maintain funding, the last hope held by synagogue leadership was that developers would purchase the building. The idea was that the building “would be restored and redeveloped for residential use and a portion…would be retained by Beth Hamedrash Hagadol for a small sanctuary,” but that unpopular proposal also never came to light. 

While the Eldridge Street Synagogue had by then come back to life and was thriving in its role as the magnificently restored historic testament to the Jewish Lower East Side, Beth Hamesdrash Hagadol was slowly dying, its days of glory long forgotten. The final blow came on May 14, 2017 when a massive fire broke out in the empty synagogue, destroying much of the historic building. At that point, the possibility of any restoration effort vanished, and the building was eventually demolished due to intense structural damage and instability.  

When comparing and contrasting the stories of these two synagogues, the main question that comes to mind is how did Eldridge Street Synagogue manage to be saved, while Beth Hamedrash Hagadol met such a devastating end? Is it merely luck, coincidence, or perhaps the timing of when the restoration project began? Did it have something to do with those on the restoration team, and their ability to work more cohesively than those trying to save Beth Hamesdrash Hagadol? We can never know for sure. But in reflecting upon the rise and fall of Beth Hamedrash Hagadol, it is critical to recognize that the Eldridge Street Synagogue’s ultimate fate could have mirrored that of Beth Hamesdrash Hagadol. To take the revitalization and preservation of Eldridge Street Synagogue for granted is a dishonor both to those who have dedicated themselves to maintaining it for future generations, and to all of the other historic buildings that have been lost to the ravages of time. When we marvel at the Eldridge Street Synagogue, we must also remember the story of  Beth Hamedrash Hagadol, in order to keep the memory of the lost brother congregation alive as well. 

This blog post was written by Museum intern Hannah Berman:

My name is Hannah Berman, and I am so excited to have been an intern at the Museum at Eldridge Street for the past five months now! I graduated from Queens College with a Bachelor’s in History in May of 2020, and am now in my second year in the Archive and Public History M.A. Program at NYU. My research interests mainly focus on early American Jewish communities, and I am hoping to create a capstone project centered around Jewish-American Patriots during the American Revolution. Making my way into the professional museum world, I hope to focus on curation or exhibition design, but I am also very excited about the many other relevant skills I am developing and the knowledge I am gaining about the inner workings of small museums through this internship program. The magnificent Eldridge Street Synagogue is an incredible historic site, and I am so privileged to have the opportunity to contribute to both behind the scenes work and the more public-facing roles. As an Orthodox Jew myself, this experience will not only be professionally enriching, but also personally meaningful in many ways.

The post A Tale of Two Synagogues: Beth Hamedrash Hagadol and Eldridge Street Synagogue appeared first on Museum at Eldridge Street.

This blog post was written by Hester Milford.

I recently ventured to the Lower East Side neighborhood I grew up in to see the Milton Resnick and Pat Passlof Foundation at  87 Eldridge Street. I was there to check out the exhibition True Fictions, curated by art dealer Eric Brown. I was intrigued by both the artwork, which included works by Thomas Nozkowski and Jane Freilicher, and the history of the building itself. Once a traditional tenement, it was converted into a synagogue, then artist studio, and since 2018 it has been home to the Milton Resnick and Pat Passloff Foundation. The beautifully preserved building reflects a century worth of changes in the neighborhood and, though updated, still holds testament to its original use and character.

Even before entering, I noticed striking remnants of the synagogue that the Foundation’s architects Ryall Sheridan had left untouched. I craned my neck to look up at the original window frames that I imagined once held a beautiful array of colored glass and saw the star of David adorning the building’s smooth white brick exterior. Even more telling was the Hebrew lettering inscribed on a square plaque housed in between the two windows which revealed the name of the synagogue’s congregation: B’nai Tifereth Yerushalayim, or Sons of the Glory of Jerusalem. 

However, once inside the building and past the elegant facade, vestiges of the synagogue were hard to find. Instead, white walls, spotless floors, and LED track lights illuminated a collection of 16 paintings by Thomas Nozkowski and Jane Freilcher. 

After climbing the stairs to the second floor, it became clear that along with creating a functional new gallery space, the preservation of historic details was also important to the architects of the Foundation. The building was not just a tenement and then synagogue but had been a home and studio for artist Milton Resnick. Here the open, airy gallery space was the setting for several of Resnick’s pieces. These dark, heavy canvases with thick, accumulated layers of brown and gray paint and the occasional speckling of subtle dabs of color made quite the impression. His work was reminiscent of fellow heavy-hitting Abstract Expressionist artists like Jackson Pollock, who painted on monumentally scaled canvases. According to its website, the Foundation is “dedicated to the exhibition, publication, and preservation of works by painters Milton Resnick (1917-2004) and Pat Passlof (1928-2011), as well as other painters working in the Abstract Expressionist tradition.” 

Despite the differences in each artist’s style and genre – Frelicher is known for her landscapes and object realism while conversely Nozkowski for his abstraction – they interacted well with one another and shared some aesthetically pleasing commonalities. I was drawn immediately to one of Nozkowski’s untitled paintings, a hazy blue cloud surrounded by squares of light yellow and orange paint. Directly next to it was Frelicher’s rectangular flower pot, which was a similar shade of dark blue, emboldened by a faintly yellow and orange cityscape. Nozkowski acknowledged this similarity himself, and is quoted saying in an interview with the New York Times that his recent work “reminded him, after the fact, of Jane Freilicher’s paintings of objects on window sills.” 

But, there’s more than just Resnick’s art to marvel at on this floor. Look closely at the second-floor gallery, and you will see hints of the skeleton of the synagogue. The large horseshoe-shaped windows with rosette forms that let the sun in were typical of synagogues of the late nineteenth and early-twentieth century. They reminded me of some of the windows at the Museum at Eldridge Street, though on a less grand scale. An exposed brick wall and wooden beams along the ceiling hint at the former ezras nashim, the balcony space where women once worshipped. 

Ascending to the third floor, there was a selection of paintings by Pat Passloff. Her paintings deviate from Milton’s in that they depict recognizable landscapes and have more expressions of color. Yet, these woodland works still have an unsettling way about them and similarly evoke the gestures of the painter. 

As in any adaptation project, The Foundation has had to meld their preservation philosophy with modern necessity. To ensure the space was accessible for gallery-goers and employees, improvements were made to the building’s infrastructure, including the installation of an elevator and a sophisticated climate-control system. Back in the early 1900s, there would have been no modern-day air conditioning, making the building hard to inhabit. Artist Pat Passloff’s parents called the place a “rat’s hole” when they moved in. This was during the 1960s, when the neighborhood was rougher and didn’t have the trendy galleries and art scene of today.  These HVAC upgrades are akin to those made during the restoration of the Museum at Eldridge Street, making a historic landmark comfortable and accessible to all. For a building that displays works of art, climate control is even more essential. 

The third floor with Passlof’s paintings also held a further key to connecting the past with the present: the preservation of Milton Resnick’s ‘Small Studio,’ a closet-sized space that was left entirely untouched following Resnick’s death in 2004. In Resnick’s later years of life, crippling arthritis left him unable to paint on large-scale canvases that he is so well-known for, and he moved to this tiny studio. The room is remarkable. It showcases many of his unfinished works, little sculptures, paint splatters across the wall, cans and jars. Unnervingly, there is even a pair of slippers he has left behind. 

I was reminded of one of my favorites elements of the Eldridge Street Synagogue: the indentations in its wooden floor boards that have been warped from over a century of use. Rather than repairing or replacing the wood, the Museum at Eldridge Street chose to preserve this worn element — a ghostly reminder of the synagogue’s earliest worshippers. Both the Museum at Eldridge Street and the Milton Resnick and Pat Passloff Foundation are just two wonderful examples of how the Lower East Side and the City is home to a rich and diverse history that we’re lucky we can still walk in and out of in our daily lives. 

People before us make their imprint on the world and on our buildings. These are worthy of preservation. Some day, we too may leave evidence of the lives we have led behind. 

Writer Hester Milford is a recent Arizona State University graduate living in Brooklyn.

The post “True Fictions” in a One-Time Synagogue appeared first on Museum at Eldridge Street.

Menorahs are customizable. There aren’t many stipulations for their design – you just need nine candles for a Hanukkah menorah, with the shamash, or “helper” candle, set apart from the others. So there’s a lot of room for creativity! Since antiquity, menorah makers have been adjusting or embellishing the basic nine-candle form. Sometimes the design expresses the region where it was made, other times it nods to an important biblical lesson. But some artists have begun to see the modern menorah as an object unto itself; not saddled with centuries of religious tradition but a functional houseware that could simply exude beauty, art, or peace. What makes a menorah so ripe for modification? And what does it say about us that we’re so interested in these glowing objects?

A quick look through our exhibition Lighting the World: Menorahs Around the Globe makes it clear that menorah design has always varied widely. The show features menorahs designed and used everywhere from Persia, to Mexico, to the United States. And the variety of styles is staggering. For instance, the region in which a menorah was made might heavily influence the materials and iconography used. Tin was a common material for menorahs in the early colonies of North America. But the same material in Europe was very rarely used – early menorahs in those countries were very often made of brass. One menorah in our exhibition is from Brazil and adorned with semi-precious stones, like amethyst, that are native to the region. And menorahs made in North Africa use all the Moroccan motifs you’d expect to see on a full-scale building. Of course not every Hanukkiah is decked out in regional flare – a large portion of these pieces are quite simple. But it’s clear from collections like ours, and others around the world, that the menorah has been a source of creative artistry and innovation for many centuries.

That doesn’t mean that they’ve earned a place in our home as everyday objects. There’s something about menorahs, even the highly decorative ones, that makes them ill-suited for year-round display. That’s especially true for younger generations. For better or worse, platforms like Instagram have put a huge emphasis on visual style in recent years. And a calming minimal aesthetic reigns supreme. So artists today are reimagining menorahs as vessels for artistic expression, for the sake of art and beauty alone. Why hide your menorah away for 51 weeks of the year? Why use one that doesn’t speak to you on an aesthetic level? If our menorahs are designed well enough, they could bring us joy everyday. That’s the hope for Jesse Kivel and his fellow co-founders at Judaica Standard Time. The company works with artists around the world to create Judaica that is unshackled from traditional motifs and isolated utility. JST found inspiration in the intersection between Judaica and the resurgence of crafts like ceramics. They want the objects they sell to transcend religion and find a place in the everyday lives of their owners. Ceramicist Julia Elsas has a similar goal. Already an artist in printmaking, installation and performance, she was inspired to create menorahs when she began working with clay. “Like many of the ceramic objects I make,” she says, “the menorahs were created as functional artful objects that I wanted in my life, but I couldn’t find elsewhere.” Elsas originally started by making modern menorahs for herself and her family. Now she sells the menorahs on her website (and they’re in several hip boutiques, too). Elsas’ menorahs are perfectly attuned to the tastes of today’s generation. Minimal, tactical, and a little playful. Perhaps it’s no surprise that one of her favorite menorahs in the Jewish Museum collection is the very Memphis-style menorah by postmodern artist Peter Shire.

But why care so much about what a menorah looks like? Is the proximity to Christmas turning Hanukkah into its own consumerist, commodified holiday? Or is there more to this movement? Kivel thinks it’s likely both. A menorah’s millennial aesthetic might be the original inspiration for someone to purchase one. But once it’s in the home, it can be a catalyst for a deeper relationship with the object and the surrounding traditions. The style might be a “jumping off point.” (Something Kivel says he has experienced himself since founding JST.) Handmade objects also have a tactical sense that is compelling. Judaica Standard Time has even designed the packaging of their menorahs to feel special and meaningful. They hope that the care and intentionality will compel people to interact with their modern menorahs in a deeper way. We’re all certainly more likely to engage with an object that we think looks or feels beautiful. Kivel and Elsas both hope that their menorahs make people proud and excited to light them each night, perhaps renewing energy around the Hanukkah tradition in the process. 

Kivel and Elsas both agree that lighting candles during Hanukkah also touches on something more universal, more visceral, than just a religious rite. Everyone is drawn to flickering light; candles are a mainstay of home decor in Jewish and non-Jewish houses alike. Perhaps it is this innate attraction to light and candles that has made the menorah such an object of interest for centuries. And it’s this connection to a deeper, universally human ritual that inspires this new generation of artists. Their work speaks to the menorah’s function as a light-giving, life-giving object. And whether you celebrate Hanukkah or not, that’s compelling.

Despite design differences, there’s no denying the connection between these modern menorahs and the centuries-old lamps in our exhibition. They serve the same purpose, of course – holding candles for the Hanukkah celebration. But in both instances, we see our drive to customize, to adapt, and to imbue the object with additional meaning. It’s yet another aspect of the Hanukkah story that has been practiced since antiquity – and will no doubt continue for generations to come. Kivel and Elsas both hope so. “It’s humbling to imagine that one of my menorahs might be passed down to a child and later a grandchild many years from now,” Elsas says. And with any luck, Judaica Standard Time’s menorahs will be around long enough to become oldfashioned themselves, Kivel says. The circle of life.

We’ll be sharing selections from the Lighting the World exhibition during every night of Hanukkah this year. Tune in to our Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram channels! And check out the websites of Judaica Standard Time and Julia Elsas to see more of their gorgeous work.

Chelsea Dowell is the Director of Public Engagement at the Museum at Eldridge Street.

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In October 2021, the Museum finally opened our first exhibition since the pandemic shuttered our doors for over a year. The exhibition, entitled Debra Olin: Every Protection is a meditation on the folk beliefs, superstitions, and cultural lore that have helped people make sense of childbirth and early development for centuries. Debra Olin‘s large-format monoprint collages, and a hanging installation made specifically for the Museum’s balcony, draw on a 1912-14 ethnographic questionnaire produced by S. An-sky. The survey was designed to document ways of life and beliefs that were rapidly disappearing from the shtetls of the Russian Pale of Settlement before the First World War. Every Protection is inspired by many of the 283 questions relating to pregnancy, childbirth and early childhood. Questions like “Is it considered a protection for a pregnant woman to wear an apron?” and “Is there a belief that one must not place a child in front of a mirror until he gets his first teeth?” illuminate the deep folk traditions of this community – and draw connections between the ways in which people today still grasp for protection, peace, and understanding during uncertain times.

Museum intern Anna Curran asked the artist to answer a few questions about the process of creating the pieces for the Every Protection show, what it means to show this art within a historic synagogue, and the special relevance the show takes on during a global pandemic. Read on to hear from Debra Olin herself!

Although these questions were written over 100 years ago, the subjectivity of pregnancy, childbirth and protection are still relevant today. What is the significance of displaying Every Protection today in 2021?

When I was 30, I had a miscarriage in the first trimester of my pregnancy. The only reason that I was given was that the fetus “was not viable.” What happened? I was in shock! As some time passed, I began talking to other women and I couldn’t believe how many of them had miscarriages. It was a common occurrence, but it felt like a secret door had opened into the world of fertility, medical science and chance all rolled into one! On one hand, we have a lot more knowledge and options than we did 100 years ago, but the chance factor is always there. Having a baby is so common, so “natural”, so everyday, but giving birth is miraculous every time it happens. In addition, we don’t know any more today about where we were before we were born or where we go after we die than An-sky did when he conducted his survey.

Why do you think that The Museum at Eldridge Street is a good home for Every Protection?

The Jews who built and worshipped in this synagogue in 1887 were from Eastern Europe, including the Russian Pale of Settlement. Many of the folk beliefs of those worshippers have been passed down to the visitors of the Museum at Eldridge Street today. In addition, cultures from around the world pass down ideas about what is important to do or avoid during pregnancy and how to care properly for a newborn. Chinese, Latina, Greek, Italian – women from many countries and cultures confide in me when they see Every Protection, telling me stories about their mother’s advice. The Museum at Eldridge Street attracts visitors from everywhere. This exhibition is a way for them to connect and find commonality.

The history of the synagogue, much like many other religions and realms of society, originates from a male-dominating culture. Throughout the years, there have been significant efforts to shed light on the livelihood and experiences of the women who worship. Do you think it is important to display an exhibit that centers on themes related to femininity?

Absolutely, it is important to highlight the lives and accomplishments of women, to recognize their contributions and place them in historical perspective for the next generation of girls coming up. An-sky’s purpose was to retrieve information of each phase of life in the shtetls of The Pale. Pregnancy and Childbirth is the first chapter. He was a man and all the zamlers [Yiddish for collectors] were men. Many of the important milestones mentioned in the ethnographic program were focused on boys and men. Circumcision, Ben Zokher (a boy is born to you), Pidyen h-Ben (redemption of the first born son), Bar Mitzvah. But they couldn’t help but notice and note the important roles of the women in the community as midwives, healers and teachers.

What was the aesthetic process in constructing the monoprint collages? Did the design come naturally after you were inspired by the questions in the questionnaire?

There is a constant balance between the aesthetic and the technical when creating any work of art. I wouldn’t say the design came naturally, but the imagery did seem to pour into the compositions. The figure, the garments, the birds, the vessels, the use of text – this was already a part of my visual language. Someone in my family was pregnant and she sent around the photo of the ultrasound. I had to use it. It is one of our modern day protections. The questions brought me back to a book with stories that my grandfather read me as a child – I had to include illustrations from those pages. The hands, the amulets, the mirrors, the maps – everything was there for me to use.

What was your vision for the intended display of these works? How does the setting of the interior of the synagogue compliment the artwork? Has the vision evolved or changed at all?

There were no surprises with the 2D work, except to find that the frames were almost identical in color to the walls in the museum. They disappeared and made the artwork pop! The installation was another story. I had visited the space a number of times. I knew it was ornate. I didn’t want to compete, but I also didn’t want the work to be swallowed up. I also couldn’t really imagine the light. The exhibition was scheduled to open April 2020, when the light and the season changes would have been very different. I was hoping that the color of the stained glass would have an effect on the translucency of the garments. I was walking over to Eldridge Street around 4:00, the day after installing. It was sunny and the light on the installation was magical! Not something I planned or could have predicted.

You utilized moveable stencils and elements within your monoprint collages. Does this idea of “impermanence” hold a specific meaning? Did any of the artwork change or evolve as you continued your work?

Interesting that you think of movable as impermanent. I suppose that is true. I think of it more as an opening of possibilities. Because of the nature of monoprint, being able to reproduce elements, I am always asking “what if?” What if I put the ultrasound image in the apron? In a vessel? Over the figures head? Covered over with the acupuncture chart of the ear? I can keep playing, trying out compositions. One decision doesn’t negate the others. So yes, this process absolutely lends itself to change and evolution in the work.

Do you think the concept of “protection” had heightened relevance during the age of COVID-19? Have you noticed any unintentional connections since displaying these works?

I love this question! Yes, the concept of protection has had to be examined with a more critical eye. Also, vulnerability. I have tapes of my Aunt Rosie talking about having the flu as a child during the 1918 pandemic, about how sick she was and how her sister died from that pandemic. When we first started hearing about the outbreak in China, was I thinking it was going to travel around the world? That it was going to affect and connect the lives of all of us? Making connections between disparate cultures is something that I examine through my artwork. I wasn’t expecting the opportunity (maybe a bad word choice?) to be a part of something that was hitting us all at once in both personal and universal ways.

An-sky’s questions, although revealing, leave us with a sense of curiosity. Do you think there is an element of mystery within your artworks?

I think this would be a better question to ask the viewer!

Plan your visit to see Every Protection today, and discover your own answer to Anna’s question about mystery and curiosity. Thanks to Anna and Debra for this great discussion! Debra Olin: Every Protection is on view through April 24th, 2022 and is included in the price of Museum admission.

Anna Curran is an intern at the Museum at Eldridge Street. Anna is an undergraduate student at The New School, where her studies focus on Visual Studies, as well as a minor in Culture and Media and Curatorial Studies. Outside of school, she spends time on her interests in creative writing and poetry along with drawing and mixed media art. During Anna’s time at Eldridge, she hopes to refine her skills in writing and communication, and engage in hands-on experience of the inner workings of a museum.

The post Where the natural and the miraculous meet: an interview with artist Debra Olin appeared first on Museum at Eldridge Street.

This post has been adapted from one originally written in 2020.

This Saturday, September 5th, is perhaps the biggest day of the year at 12 Eldridge Street. On that day in 1887, the Eldridge Street Synagogue officially opened to the public. That makes us 134 years young this week!

Anyone who has visited our building might be under the impression that it would take a long time to build and decorate such a space. But remarkably, construction only took ten months! They began at the very end of 1886. And on September 4th, 1887, the Lower East Side gained its first purpose-built, large-scale synagogue.

Lower East Side residents in 1887 may have been a bit stunned to set their eyes on the completed synagogue. It would have been like nothing else in the neighborhood. The building was much more architecturally ornate than its neighbors in the tenement district, and much taller. It’s not that they were the only congregation in the neighborhood – there were a couple other large congregations in the area at the time. But it was more likely for Eastern European Jewish immigrants to pray in converted churches or other buildings never actually designed to be Jewish sacred spaces. Those venues were much more affordable than building your own grand shul. So the establishment of a synagogue built to a congregation’s exact specifications was a major triumph – for the neighborhood and for the entire community of Jewish immigrants in America.

And the neighborhood showed up to celebrate that September. The congregation send out thousands of invitations to New Yorkers to come join in the opening festivities. Newspapers reported an “immense number of people” converging on the block for the opening, with “crowds extended to the street.” As the numbers grew,  it was reported that order became difficult to maintain. Clearly the opening of this building had caused quite a stir.

The opening event itself caused a commotion in the press, as well. The New York Herald reported that the hours-long opening ceremony included chanting of psalms, lighting the eternal light, many speeches. The Torah was “solemnly deposited in its crimson lined sanctuary.” Not all the reviews were quite as nonbiased. The congregation’s adherence to Orthodoxy drew attention and some criticism. Immigrants to America have always been under scrutiny for being too foreign, too different, too other. There was even prejudice within the American-Jewish community – many “uptown Jews” looked down on the more religious Jewish immigrants in the downtown neighborhoods like Eldridge Street’s. (Read more about that in our recent blog post on the topic.) But many other publications were positive about the congregation’s behavior and decorum on opening day, citing “splendid” oration and a refined quality to the space and its people.

Those positive evaluations were exactly the congregation’s goal. The entire synagogue – grand architecture, strict governance – was designed in pursuit of an elevated social standing. They knew what the establishment thought about people of their kind, and they were determined to upend those prejudices. They wanted the American dream – social mobility and the freedom to practice any custom while pursuing it. A tall order, to be sure. But they had grand ambitions. And September 4th, 1887 marked the first day this congregation could embody those ambitions at 12 Eldridge.

Much of the information from this post can be found in Annie Polland’s book Landmark of the Spirit. Annie wrote an entire chapter about September 4th’s opening day festivities and implications. If this post interested you, I encourage you to get the book! You can get a copy by stopping by the Museum anytime during opening hours – just be mindful of our September holiday closures.

Chelsea Dowell is the Director of Public Engagement at the Museum at Eldridge Street.

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This post is written by Summer 2021 intern Emma Thibodeaux-Thompson.

Working this summer in the Museum’s sanctuary, one of the most common reactions I hear when visitors first enter the space is: “Huh, it looks like a church?” I always tell visitors that they’re right – the general basilical plan of the space (a central nave flanked by columns and aisles), combined with the influx of colored light through stained glass, certainly brings to mind more famous Christian spaces. But why is that? Shouldn’t there be clearer parallels between the Eldridge Street Synagogue and, say, Temple Emanu-el or other Jewish spaces of worship in New York City? What were the architectural and cultural inspirations behind this synagogue?

It’s from this point that I normally give visitors the standard, general architectural labels we use to describe our synagogue: it’s eclectic, using Spanish-Islamic or “Moorish” revival motifs, combined with Gothic and Romanesque or Late Antique. Yet the more time I spend in this space, interacting with its architecture, the harder I find it to stick to even those vague, but simple, labels. A synagogue in the Lower East Side, in the late-19th century, is as much a statement of identity as a space of worship. Meaning, the congregation probably took liberties with the design of their space in an effort to express aspects of their identities outside of religion. There’s a lot more to consider than just simple architectural trends. We say the synagogue has an eclectic blend of styles, but how unique is that blend? Why would the congregants of the 1880s have chosen such a unique mix of motifs and imagery in the first place? Or use some decorative elements that might call Christianity to mind? Examining the historic and cultural context, then, helps to locate this building in a larger history of Jewish spaces of worship, and provides insight to questions of identity in a sacred space. 

Jewish law does not, in fact, state design requirements for synagogues. They are a curious phenomenon in this sense – they have no standard elements and thus no architectural standard against which any one can be judged (however, any interior does need an ark, bimah, and eternal light to truly be worthy of the name). Almost any attempt to classify synagogues across the Western world produces words like “exotic” and “eclectic:” attempts to apply the canonical terms for Christian European architectural styles to structures that have, for much of their history, housed the communities persecuted and/or oppressed by those same Christian institutions. Yet these words do seem to be the most fitting, and there is no denying that the Herter Brothers (the German Catholic architects who created the Eldridge Street Synagogue) and the lay leaders of the Kahal Anath Jeshurun congregation pursued their own unique combination of styles.

Jewish congregations have a long tradition of making their synagogues on the sites of, or in the same buildings as, previously used religious houses. (And oftentimes these buildings go through many such adaptations.) Excavations at Dura-Europos (in modern-day Syria) yielded the remains of what is now regarded as one of the oldest synagogues in the region, if not the world: rich wall-paintings depicting biblical scenes decorate the walls of this third-century synagogue, adapted from a Mithraic temple when the city of Dura-Europos was an earlier Roman colony. The site was later converted into an early Christian church, further underscoring the often adaptable nature of synagogue construction. In these cases, it is advantageous that the synagogue has no clear requirements for design or floorplan; the spaces can be adopted and adapted many times over.

Historic violence and persecution against Jews has also impacted the way synagogues have been designed. By the Medieval period, many cities and towns enacted laws that forbade Jewish synagogues to be visible from the street. With such restrictions, it is obvious why there is such a scant record of synagogue architecture from this period. There are a few exceptions, but still, extant buildings from this early period are often concealed behind unassuming facades. Padua boasts a richly decorated 16th/17th-century synagogue, complete with ornate marble and woodwork and intricate Baroque accents. But all that decorative intricacy is in a plain building whose facade is practically identical to the other modest, crooked buildings lining its narrow street. This practice, evolved from the Medieval necessity of concealing synagogues behind unassuming facades, was one that left a lasting mark on Jewish communities – it is even evident that Jews brought it with them to the United States in the 19th century, establishing countless stiebels (storefront synagogues) in the Lower East Side. It’s easy to imagine that the legacy of persecution and destruction of sacred space would lead many congregations to prefer inconspicuousness, and deter them from creating a legacy of uniquely Jewish architecture and ornamentation.

Yet the Eldridge Street Synagogue veered definitively away from these practices of concealment and pragmatism, drawing cultural inspiration from an emerging trend toward bold, distinctive architecture found in European synagogues, especially Germany. In 1886 the congregation’s lay leaders laid the cornerstone for the first great Jewish house of worship built from the ground up by Eastern European Jewish immigrants in the United States. Far from the first synagogue in the country (that honor goes to the Mill Street Synagogue, c.1730), the Eldridge synagogue, it seems, sought to announce itself as a definitive symbol of the Jewish Orthodox presence in New York. Drawing on the contemporary fervor for Spanish-Islamic (“Moorish”) styles present in Europe, its facade features elaborately carved finials and a row of blind arcaded keyhole windows, alongside a Gothic rose window and broad, deep-set Romanesque windows and stonework. The interior is perhaps an even more jarring mixture, even more “eclectic”. So just what was the original congregation (and their architects) aiming to communicate with such a blend of styles?

Of course, the sheer crowdedness of the wall painting and trompe l’oeil designs filling the interior space of the synagogue present a compelling argument for one explanation: that the congregation’s lay leaders, as well as the Herter Brothers, were likely trying to present a space that was the very height of contemporary taste. Horror vacui, or the ‘fear of empty space’, was a common signifier for late Anglo-American taste (just picture those overcrowded photos of Victorian living rooms). A Jewish Orthodox congregation’s choice to commission such richly detailed imagery could speak directly to a desire to appear modern and savvy, and perhaps therefore decidedly American. Perhaps they were thinking that if their synagogue were the very word on modern decor, then the Orthodox presence in New York could be more easily accepted and even respected.

The stained glass windows, both in the rose window on the facade and in the repeated colorful windows along the aisles and nave, fit this interpretation as well. Stained glass, while often associated with Christian churches, became a lasting fixture in American synagogues for the same reason it did in churches: it allows the light of the ‘divine’ to enter a space while blocking views of the outside world. Eldridge Street’s stained glass is entirely abstract and geometric – the Orthodox congregation chose, then as now, to strictly interpret the Second Commandment ban on graven images. Not so in all synagogues, however: the nearby German Anshi Chesed Congregation, of the Norfolk Street Synagogue, famously took years to settle a controversy over the stained glass windows depicting the Ten Commandments that it installed in the 1850s. The issue at hand was more specifically about whether it was acceptable to display the Commandments on something other than tablets – an issue which, given the traditions in Judaism (both Reform and Orthodox) as well as Christianity, many New Yorkers of both faiths would easily have found jarring or at least novel when the windows were installed. And although anonymous rabbinical authority eventually settled the matter within a couple years by claiming the glass display did not violate any sacred laws, many congregants remained upset with the imagery long into the following decades, claiming it to be an unwelcome sign of modernity. Yet by the end of the century stained glass had become a fixture in American synagogues, with many of Louis Comfort Tiffany’s own clients belonging to the Jewish faith. The windows at Eldridge Street then are another signifier of a contemporary taste.

The Norfolk Street Synagogue borrowed another design element from its Christian contemporaries; it was originally done in a strong Gothic Revival, rather than the ‘eclectic’ style of our own synagogue. Perhaps this Reform congregation felt more comfortable drawing from its Christian neighbors than did the Orthodox leadership of Kahal Adath Jeshurun. Yet this, too, introduces another complication: if the congregants at Eldridge Street were simply seeking to assert a clear Orthodox Jewish presence in New York, why did they commission two German-born Catholics to design their house of worship? (There is speculation of proximity to the Herters’ offices or familiarity with their tenements, but neither prospect fully explains the choice). Indeed, much is often made here at the Museum of the Herter Brothers’ involvement: they had made a name building tenements in the neighborhood, and may have never set foot in a synagogue, something I have heard used to explain why the interior of the synagogue looks so “church-like”. But as we know, there are no sacred laws or requirements for how a synagogue should be laid out, and the Eldridge Street Synagogue is hardly the only synagogue to have rows of wooden pews or stained glass. 

So how can we begin to interpret the architectural or cultural inspirations and influences of congregants almost 140 years ago, with only the building they left behind as evidence? Perhaps this Orthodox Jewish congregation felt that the ostracization of centuries of persecution could be put to use in marketing their image as an intriguing novelty – indeed, we know that in its first years, New Yorkers of all faiths and cultures often flocked downtown to visit the synagogue, simply to take in its beauty or witness a famous cantor. Or perhaps we risk the common mistake of many art historians in simply reading too far into the intentions of an artist or patron. It may be equally likely that the congregants sought only to ensure their Orthodox faith would maintain a firm hold on the chaos of immigrant life, and to do so through a synagogue whose design would leave no doubt about where security and community lay in the Jewish Lower East Side. We may not have confirmation on any of the inner motives of the Kahal Adath Jeshurun, nor indeed the Herter Brothers and their outsider’s lens on the goals of an immigrant-driven Jewish Orthodox congregation. What we do have is a fascinating facade and a richly decorated interior full of the imagery that the leaders of this congregation felt reflected their aims and beliefs. Maybe in giving that imagery and those details the attention they deserve, we can begin to make sense of the way such a unique (and indeed ‘church-like’) building has shaped, and been shaped by, the people who have created and used it for over a century.

Emma just finished her sophomore year of undergrad at Sarah Lawrence College, and will spend the next year abroad studying at the University of Leeds in England. She grew up in Springfield, IL and is studying European/American art history and history.

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This 1909 photograph shows Jewish women praying on the Lower East Side’s then-new marvel: the Williamsburg Bridge! Opened in 1903, the bridge was the longest suspension bridge at the time, and was designed for both trolley and horse and carriage traffic. It also included a walker’s pathway. That’s where this group decided to pause and pray. The bridge, which connected the Lower East Side to Brooklyn, inspired many Jewish families to leave the Lower East Side and seek out less crowded neighborhoods across the East River. While people can still walk across the bridge today, trolleys and carriages are no longer welcome; these days, it’s train and vehicle traffic only!

Credit: Library of Congress

More to Think About….

• Why do you think this group stopped to pray on the bridge?
• Why do you think families would have wanted to live in a less crowded neighborhood?

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This picture was taken in 1908, probably just before the Jewish holiday of Passover. What’s the clue? Did you notice how many people in the picture are carrying rectangular, white-wrapped parcels? Inside are matzot – which are typically eaten during Passover when Jewish people refrain from eating leavened products. Behind the group is a furrier’s shop. Perhaps just beyond the frame was a shop selling matzot. The biggest mystery in this picture? The contents of the sack that the little boy in the center is carrying!

Credit: Library of Congress

More to Think About….

• What foods are central to your holiday celebrations?
• What are the elements that make a holiday feel festive and special?

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This photograph shows a group of well-dressed men and women standing in front of several kneeling children. The woman in the center of the photo wearing a dark dress is pulling up the hem of her skirt. And that’s because she and the others are getting their shoes shined by the children, who are young bootblacks, in preparation for Rosh Hashanah. Is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, a holiday celebrating shiny shoes? No, but it is traditional for Jewish people to wear their best clothes on that day. In New York City, bootblacks dotted the streets, offering to shine shoes and, so Jewish immigrants added a new twist to New Year preparations: getting their shoes shined. Dingy shoes just wouldn’t do!

Credit: Library of Congress

More to Think About….

• What can you tell about the people in this picture by the clothing they are wearing?
• Do you think the two children standing on the right side of the picture are bootblacks? Why or why not?
• These people are getting their shoes shined for a holiday. What activities do you do on a holiday that you don’t do on a typical day?

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This photo shows crowds of Jewish people spilling out of a synagogue on Rivington Street after religious services. The sign on the front of the building shows Hebrew letters, which reflects the fact that most Jewish people spoke Yiddish in the early 1900s when the picture was taken. The Lower East Side at that time was home to hundreds of synagogues, the houses of worship where Jewish people pray and celebrate holidays. While some synagogues were converted storefronts or repurposed churches, others, like the Eldridge Street Synagogue (which is, today, the Museum at Eldridge Street) were built as synagogues. No matter what kind of synagogue they attended, it was exciting for Jewish immigrants who had faced religious persecution in Eastern Europe to be able to openly express their religious beliefs in America. The people leaving this service are dressed up: most men are wearing suits and some of the women are wearing elaborate hats with feathers. Why all the splendor? The photo was taken on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year’s celebration.

Credit: Library of Congress

More to Think About….

• How do you think it felt to Jewish immigrants to be able to express their religious beliefs openly?
• In your own religious or cultural traditions, how do you use clothing to express yourself?

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