Slippages Open House on December 6th, 2009

Maureen surveying a future curator at the Slippages Open House

Video Clip from the Opening of Slippages

Check out this video clip from the opening of Slippages and an excerpt from the talk with Lawrence Weschler .

Just click on the link and enjoy!

http://s854.photobucket.com/albums/ab105/nikalevando/?action=view&current=Slippages3.flv

Wedding Gown, Accounting Ledger and Patent of Nobility

Minnie Goldman’s Wedding Gown and Accounting Ledger and Mayor Rachmiel Mises’s Patent of Nobility both evoke wonder about how these important objects worked within their lives and communicated their social standing. The Patent of Nobility commemorates Mayor Mises’s economic achievements and he was presented with this Patent of Nobility in 1881 when he was ennobled by Franz Joseph I of Austria. The importance of this object highlights the rarity of acknowledged nobility amongst Jewish citizens in Austria at the time. This then becomes significant not only to the individual who received this coat of arms, but also to the Jewish community as a whole. Likewise, because this gesture was unheard of, the significance and honor that this bestowed upon Mises would have been indescribable for him.

This honor was contradictory because of the infamous 1938 persecution of Jews in Vienna, which drove 60,000 people from their homes, including Mayor Mises, leaving over 200,000 trying to flee and 65,000 people murdered. Yet, despite the treatment that Mises and countless other Jews faced in Vienna, which included the denial of citizenship, property, and lives, the patent symbolizes Mises’s unwavering identification with being an Austrian citizen. It then becomes incased in wonder: why did Mises take this object after being expelled from Austria? How important was this object for Mises to keep it rather than understanding it as an object that highlights the turn of events in Austria?

The same argument can be applied to Minnie Goldman’s Wedding Gown, which is lovingly worn and aged, but remains highly symbolic of an important moment in her life. This is seen in the care and exactitude with which she conducted her Accounting Ledger that details the expenses of her wedding. Although seemingly personal, this Wedding Gown has just as much impact on the Jewish community as the Patent of Nobility. She initially intended to donate it to the young women in Israel who could not afford a wedding dress. Borrowed and passed on, the gown becomes a communal gesture acknowledging the importance of every woman’s wedding day. Although the dress never made its way to Israel, it found its way instead to this Museum where it fulfills a similar role. In juxtaposing it with the Patent of Nobility, the amount of significance that a wedding dress can represent is preserved.

Although differing in size, scale, and historical importance, each object gives an insight into the gendered dynamics of what is considered important and who is allowed to engage in history and participate within the community. Both in their grandeur and their powerful interactions, these objects evoke wonder and reflection on how objects have multiple stories to tell their viewers.

Spice Girl and Ray of Hope #42

The objects throughout this exhibition represent the vast and rich history of Jewish culture. Looking forward, Spice Girl and Ray of Hope #42 highlight how Jewish culture and expression continue to grow, change, and enable new narratives. Spice Girl and Ray of Hope #42 are contemporary interpretations on Jewish traditions created by contemporary artists.

Spice Girl is a Havdalah Spice Container that was featured in a juried art show at Spertus in 1998. Found materials have been assembled into a Kachina style figure pointing to Hopi tribal symbols of guardian spirits while also referencing the famous British pop group The Spice Girls, as well as its ceremonial function for Havdalah. This piece melds elements from popular, Native American history, and Jewish culture to create an art object that broadens the scope of what a Jewish object can be and how it can function. The artist, Liz Mamorsky, regularly pulls from diverse cultural influences, highlighting how objects relate to their larger contemporary community. Placed within the Open Depot, this art piece is displayed alongside other objects that are not accompanied by a label. How does an art object also enable multiple voices to occur within a cultural institution? Although non-functional, how does the enmeshed cultural references point towards a larger collective narrative?

Similarly, Ray of Hope #42 is an Alms container made from found metal collage that has been assembled to a wooden box in the form of a house. While referencing the traditional Tzedakah box, the art object points to the importance of individuals taking responsibility for their wider community that is essential to modern Judaism. Ray of Hope #42 exemplifies how a non-functional art object can become a middle ground for the institution, the viewer, and the ritual object.

Both Spice Girl and Ray of Hope #42 highlight how the practice of display can intermingle with a larger cultural context, while continuing a narrative of contemporary Jewish culture. They also speak to how we classify cultural objects and the ramifications this has on how objects are displayed, valued, and interpreted. In particular, these objects, which were made and sold for display purposes only, raises questions about how art pieces function alongside the other objects on display in Slippages.

Amulet, Fake Circumcision Knife and Community Ring

 

Julia Let wrote to Spertus Museum in 1987 to donate two amulets, one of which is shown as part of Slippages. Through this amulet, which was made for her while she was in a German labor camp in 1945, she wanted to tell the story of Klari Braun, the woman who made the amulets in trade for more bread for her pregnant cousin. As Julia put it, “I wanted to tell her story because she deserves to be remembered. There were not too many people in the concentration camps who gave up their bread and sacrificed life for somebody else.”

In contrast to Julia Let’s intensely personal story of the amulet, hardly anything is known about the elaborate knife. The knife came to Spertus Museum in 1968 and bears the inscription “Brit Milah,” suggesting that it is related to the ritual practice of circumcision, though it is much too large and dull to have ever been used for the actual practice. Having an ostentatious fake made for the purpose of reminding one of the circumcision ceremony is an unusual practice and leads to many questions about the artist’s intent and the owner’s desires.

The Community Ring has a similarly complicated history. Though these architecturally styled rings are said to have been used as Jewish betrothal rings based on medieval designs, there is no proof that they were used in this context at all. Ironically, the majority of the rings found in this medieval style seem to have been made within the past hundred years, suggesting that it is in fact the myth about their history that is generating their invention. This particular ring appears to have been made during the twentieth century and is marked with the words mazal tov or congratulations, and kallah and chatan, or bride and groom. These inscriptions are commonly found on reproductions of rings and seem to be an attempt to corroborate the false myth of community rings being used in the Jewish betrothal ceremonies.

Though these three small, intimate objects seem to represent similar personal sentiments as the Wedding Gown and Opera Glasses, the histories of the Amulet, the Circumcision Knife, and the Community Ring interact in ways that make us question our own understanding of ritual and knowledge.

Prisoner Good Conduct Card, Postcard and Cigarette Cards

 

On the surface, each of the cards displayed here represents a simple act of exchange. The Good Conduct Card, issued to prisoners at Flossenbürg Concentration Camp as a reward for work well performed, could be surrendered for an extra bit of food or tobacco. The photographs displayed beside the Good Conduct Card appeared in popular brands of cigarette packages in Germany in the 1930s and 1940s. Collectors traded them or placed them in albums, much like they do with stamps or baseball cards.

The pre-printed Postcard that completes the group expresses thanks for a package sent by a friend to Russel Steiner, a prisoner in Terezin Concentration Camp.  Upon deeper reflection, however, each card tells a more complicated story. The fact that the inhabitants of Flossenbürg had to rely on a good conduct card for an extra bite of bread is deplorable, as is the realization that, as a prisoner, Russel Steiner probably never received the package for which he sent thanks. The only personal handwritten words “My dear friend,” added above to the standardized message make this recognition even more poignant.  This Postcard is typical of similar cards we know of which were disseminated among prisoners to send to family and friends and which described the concentration camps as happy, idyllic locales. Postcards distributed to prisoners at Auschwitz indicated that they were sent from a place called Waldsee, a word meaning “a woodland lake,” in German. These cards contained messages such as “I am doing fine,” “I have found work here,” or even “Follow us here!” Often these messages, if not pre-printed, were dictated to prisoners by SS soldiers minutes before the authors were sent to the gas chambers.  Sometimes, prisoners attempted to signal their deceit to the recipients of the postcards. In two such cards, displayed in a 2006 postcard exhibit in Budapest, the authors, Jozsef and Samuel Stern, signed their names as Joseph R’evim (Hebrew for “hungry”) and Samuel Blimalbiscj (Hebrew for “without clothing”). Similarly to the Postcard, the Cigarette Cards also reinforce the deliberate fiction that the Nazis fabricated and forced upon those living under their regime.

Along with glorifying images of Nazi leaders and the contemporary German state, the Cigarette Cards included texts that familiarized collectors with Nazi initiatives. Sixty years later, the images seem hollow, recognizable as propaganda perpetuating the myth of the Nazi Party as a benevolent government.

Opera Glasses

 

 

Mother-of-pearl, brass, glass, paint Gift of Rosemary Krensky 93.42

This French made mother-of-pearl opera glasses were owned by Rosa Waterman Bock, the grandmother of Rosemary Krensky who donated the glasses to Spertus. The Krensky’s are a prominent family in Chicago whose lineage can be traced back to the seventeenth century. Heavily involved in national and international affairs, charities, and organizations, the Krensky’s have a long history of civil service and leadership in Chicago and abroad.

As leaders in the Chicago Jewish community, the Krensky family played a major role in the development of Spertus College and their objects highlight their importance here at Spertus. Many of the items donated by the Krensky’s were from Rosa’s husband, Louis Bock’s, import business, highlighting the Krensky’s international involvement. The opera glasses, made by Lemaire Paris in the Lorgnette style, which features a handle on one side, highlight an air of class, exclusivity, and desirability. Glasses made by Pierre Lemaire were the first refined and fashionable opera glasses made publicly available and were highly en vogue at the time. Since these were imported through Louis Block’s business, these glasses were extremely valuable and coveted. As demonstrated by their elaborate construction, the ornate glasses are meant to be seen rather than to aid the owner in seeing. However, the opera glasses provide a rare look into the private lives of a very public-oriented family.

Shopping Bag, Brass Roller, and Prayer Shawl Tag

How do objects become imbued with the power that makes them worthy of display? How is the knowledge that we have about an object authenticated? This grouping features an everyday shopping bag, along with a brass roller used to label meat as kosher and a tag, originally attached to a prayer shawl that certifies that the rayon tzit tzits are kosher and acceptable for use on a rayon tallit.  

In each case, the object presented here is usually considered to be of little or no value, except in its relation to something far more important—the purchased item carried home in the shopping bag, the piece of meat labeled as kosher by the roller, and the prayer shawl itself. The objects on display, themselves mere markers of validity, suggest the presence of those primary items that are usually considered the valuable commodity. After serving their purpose, the tag and the shopping bag may be discarded without a second thought, while the roller is unlikely even to be considered by the individual who is more concerned that the meat be properly prepared than with how it is marked. Showcasing these three items, as opposed to those that they validate, focuses attention on the symbol of authenticity, and raises provocative questions about how cultural value is determined and cultural knowledge is certified.

Koran Holder, Koshering Board, and fake Meat Cutter

The Koran Holder, Koshering Board, and the fake Meat Cutter communicate issues of authenticity and the slippery nature of signs on objects. The Koran Holder was one of the original donations to the museum by Maurice Spertus and with its six-pointed star it was initially mistaken for a Siddur case. However, it is actually an Islamic object. Without a reason for being in a Jewish museum, the Koran Holder raises the issue of how reading an object can be mutable, affecting its value.

As a counter point to the Koran Holder, the unusual presence of the six-pointed Magen David on the Koshering Board points to the same possible misreading. Yet, crafted by a Jewish artisan, the Koshering Board was a gift to the artist’s mother to cut fish for the Friday night Sabbath meal and is thus a Judaic object. On the other hand, the crudely fashioned fake Meat Cutter, also a part of Maurice’s original gift, is obviously not a kosher object due to its dull edges and decorative aesthetic, pointing to its lack of utility. Although the fake Meat Cutter can be considered Jewish by its representation and Hebrew lettering spelling “kosher”, the Meat Cutter does not function as a kosher object. As a result, within an institutional setting the cutter’s value is diminished, as it is not considered a Jewish object despite its symbolic references.

Interestingly, placed together these objects relate by not relating; within an institutional setting, these objects intermingle and provoke questions of authenticity and how this designation changes depending on context and perspective. In particular, the fake Meat Cutter highlights the presence of three levels of institutional criticism occurring; because the Meat Cutter is deemed not kosher, it points to the authenticity of the Koshering board, while also highlighting the Koran Holder as being authentic only out of a cultural institution setting. In this context, however, it holds a different value and presence. These relations point to the additional narratives that are affixed to these objects once brought into an institution that would otherwise not exist.

Wedding Photograph

Wedding Photograph

Gibson, Sykes and Fowler Studio

Chicago, Illinois, United States of America, June 7, 1925

Photograph

Gift on behalf of their children, Sidney Kaplan, Evelyn Gold, Gerson Kaplan and Miriam Clarke, commemorates Dora Bariff’s wedding to Hayman B. Kaplan

94.19

The portrait of Dora Bariff on her wedding day enables a glimpse into a moment instilled with religious and social rituals, hope, and cultural critique. The Gibson, Sykes, and Fowler studio, a prominent Chicago photography studio that operated during the early twentieth century, took this particular photograph. The studio played a key part in the history of Chicago’s first photographic union and it regularly contributed to local newspapers while also documenting some of the most prominent people of the Midwest.

The fact that Dora Bariff chose such a prestigious studio for her wedding day not only signifies her social stature and the importance she placed on commemorating this special day, but it also signals to why we would find such a seemingly standard wedding portrait within a cultural institution. In many ways, the brand name of this studio lends more significance to the photograph than the portrait itself, enabling this object to communicate the history of the individual person, her family, and their relationship to Chicago, while also referring to its own unique presence.

Despite the personal value this photograph held for Dora, it raises questions about how cultural objects work within a museum setting. Why preserve this particular wedding portrait? How does the prominence of the studio and the subject within the portrait interact to affect the longevity of the photograph within social memory? What information is transmitted through its care and presentation? How does this object highlight the slippery nature of identity and the inscribed value of an object?