Full text of "Cantors Assembly Journal of Synagogue Music"

See other formats

J O U RNAL OF
SYNAGOGUE MUSIC

S A C R E D
S P A C E

^^Aounml f /^jytiagogiie-Music^

EDITOR: Joseph A. Levine
ASSOCIATE EDITOR: Richard Berlin

EDITORIAL BOARD

Rona Black, Shoshana Brown, Sanford Cohn, Gershon Freidlin, Geoffrey
Goldberg, Charles Heller, Kimberly Komrad, Sheldon Levin, Laurence
Loeb, Judy Meyersberg, Ruth Ross, Anita Schubert, Neil Schwartz, David
Sislen, Sam Weiss, Yossi Zucker

The Journal of Synagogue Music is published annually by the Cantors As-
sembly. It offers articles and music of broad interest to the hazzan and other
Jewish professionals. Submissions of any length from 1,000 to 10,000 words
will be considered.

GUIDELINES FOR SUBMITTING MATERIAL

All contributions and communications should be sent to the Editor,
Dr. Joseph A. Levine — idlevine(g>comcast.net — as a Microsoft Word
document using footnotes rather than endnotes. Kindly include
a brief biography of the author. Musical and/or graphic material
should be formatted and inserted within the Word document. Links
to audio files may be inserted as well, along with a URL for each.

Footnotes are used rather than endnotes, and should conform to the fol-
lowing style:

A - Abraham Idelsohn, Jewish Liturgy (New York: Henry Holt), 1932: 244.

B - Samuel Rosenbaum, "Congregational Singing"; Proceedings of the

Cantors Assembly Convention (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary),

February 22, 1949:9-11.

erior of North Shore

^=^oumd^ /=^nagogue-Musi €^^B

Vol. 37 'Fall 2012

FROM THE EDITOR

The Issue of Sacred Space — Its Relation to Sacred Time 4

VARIED ASPECTS OF SACRED SPACE

Creating Sacred Space

Livia Straus 9

Liturgy and the Remains of the Dura Europos Synagogue
Building: How Did it Function as a Religious Space?

Steven Fine 20

Music from a Confined Space: Salomone Rossi's Ha-shirim
asher lishlomoh (1622/23) and the Manutua Ghetto

Stefano Patuzzi 49

Sanctifying Two-Dimensional Space: The Avodah of Art
in an Age of Mechanical Reproduction

David Greenstein 70

Music in a Sacred Place: Towards Understanding the
Herodian Temple's Acoustics

Joseph A. Levine 89

Yofi u-k'dushah: The Role of the Aesthetic in the Realm
of the Holy

Diane Cover & Saul Wachs 113

Aranging Two-Dimensional Space for Liturgical Use —
Typography in a Bilingual Siddur

Simon Prais 122

The Shell and the Pearl: Form and Function in Synagogue
Architecture

Gideon Ofrat 139

The "Spaciousness" of Ernest Bloch's Avodath Hakodesh

Albert Weisser 150

Designing Outdoor Space Structurally

Uzzi Elmaleh 153

A LITERARY GLIMPSE

Now From this Place

Charles Davidson 155

POTPOURRI

Hugo Weisgall (1912— 1997)— Centennial Appreciation

of a Jewish Modernist

Emily Wigod Pincus 158

Tales from the Choir Loft: A "Vimalei Boy" Remembers

Solomon Mendelson 165

Roman Cycowski (1900-1998)— A Hazzan Rememberd

Julius Blackman and Robert S. Scherr 169

Secular Jewish Music Expression— Is Nothing Sacred?

Hankus Netsky 173

Crazy Jane Talks with the Rabbis: Pedagogy and Privacy
in Liturgy

Catherine Madsen 187

D'VARK'RIAH

Penitential Trop and the Fishwife

By Victor Tunkel 195

MAILBOX

Re: Sulzer and Minkowsky

Akiva Zimmerman 203

REVIEWS

The Rabbinical Assembly's Mahzor Lev Shalem

Ruth Langer 205

Charles Davidson's Sefer Hadrakhah

Sholom Kalib 214

Geoffrey Shisler's Shim Lo Shir C

Sam Weiss 245

Joey Weisenberger's Building Singing Communities

Shoshana Brown 248

Jack Gottlieb's Funny, It Doesn't Sound Jewish: How Yiddish
Songs and Synagogue Melodies Influenced Tin Pan Alley,
Broadway, and Hollywood

Judith Pinnolis 251

Michael Gerber's Jazz Jews

Jeffrey Nussbaum 255

Two OR-TAV Publications in the Klezmer Department:
Yale Strom's Dave Tarras — The King of Klezmer;
Emil Kroitor's Klezmer Solos, Duets & Trios

Jack Kessler 258

MUSIC

A Cappella Settings that Create an Aura of Openness

Hal'lu (Heard from Berele Chagy) 262

Eits hayyim (Abba Weigal, after Yugoslavian folktune) 263

Kaddish shaleim (Arthur Yolkoff) 265

Ya'aleh (Sholom Katz, after Roumanian Doina) 269

Yih'yu Vratson (Western Sephardic) 271

The Issue of Sacred Space— Its Relation to Sacred Time

Ritual... connects the transitory present moment and
the confined space to the eternal and the cosmic. 1

Gunther Plaut, Emeritus Rabbi of Holy Blossom Temple in Toronto, once
recalled that his lifelong practice of beginning worship by directing the con-
gregation's attention elsewhere, was in line with accepted practice in other
religions as well. He was thinking, perhaps, of the old chorale about God
being "Deep, Incomprehensible, without Beginning," that Armenians sing at
the foot of their church altar while the priest is being vested in the sacristy;
by the time the priest enters, worshipers are already singing the service —
without even realizing it. Rabbi Plaut told me that he'd first experienced how
that worked while a young novice at Berlin's Oranienburgerstrasse Temple.
His senior rabbi had wordlessly stepped forward and thrown open the Ark
doors. The congregation rose instinctively and Lewandowsky's setting of the
hymn Mah Tovu thundered forth simultaneously from choir and organ in
such tremendous volume that it almost knocked Plaut off his feet just as he
had managed to scramble upright. 2

Hearing him relate the incident confirmed a long-held suspicion of mine:
no matter in which religious tradition a service takes place, its most critical
moment is always the opening or introit (from the Old French: "entrance"). An
introit serves the same purpose as a poetic invocation: to give the impression
of beginning in the midst of things. Homer's Goddess sang of Achilles' anger
ten years into the war against Ilion; Milton's Heavenly Muse justified God's
ways to man only after Paradise had already been lost. Protestant minister
Van Ogden Vogt prioritizes worship's dynamic aspect by describing the ideal
introit as a confident declarative exercise that captures attention and gets
things going without anyone being aware of it. 3

1 Manfred Weidhorn, An Anatomy of Skepticism (Lincoln, NE: iUniverse),
2006: 41.

2 In a conversation following the writer's lecture on The Anatomy of Worship,
Holy Blossom Temple, Toronto, January 20, 1992.

3 Van Ogden Vogt, Art and Religion (Boston: Beacon), 1948: 161.

Just so, an indirect approach (note the spatial terminology) is best for
initiating prayer. Much the way a name beyond recall is remembered once we
concentrate on something else, a worship opening has the most impact when
it catches us unaware. On High Holy Days, Traditionalist congregations know
that whoever leads the Musaf service will begin chanting its introit — Hin'ni
he-ani mi-ma'as — from the rear of the synagogue, as if just entering. And
although worshipers are well aware that their shli'ah tsibbur has been in the
room all through Shaharit, that suddenly off-stage voice never fails to create
a stir when it recites the opening words,

Here I am, deficient in deeds and awed by the fear of Your presence,
Yet I dare approach and plead before You on behalf of Your people.
That awe-inspiring phrase,— intoned as the shli'ah tsibbur moves solemnly for-
ward among the rows of seated worshipers, making his/her way to the prayer
Amud— establishes a mood of profound devotion that touches one and all.

The point here is that in order to consecrate worship time— we also need
to sanctify the space where worship occurs. Yet the Talmud took pains to
make sure that the sanctified space known as a synagogue 4 would never
be considered a replacement for the Jerusalem Temple. This "Temple in
Miniature"— mikdash w'a£ 5 — was granted sanctity only in z'man ha-zeh, the
present time between the Temple's destruction and its ultimate rebuilding. 6
This, according to an eschatological reading of Exodus 15:17, would be ef-
fected by God. 7

The word "space" has a musical meaning in Persian, explains Iranian-born
Jewish composer Shakhrokh Yadegary: "We talk about the space of a certain
melody... music that changes the space that you walk into." 8 The Middle
Eastern culture sphere envisions music spatially, assigning a specific area to
each melorhythmic pattern, called makam ("mode" in Western parlance). Mu-
sicologist Harold S. Powers defines the Persian/ Arabic/Turkish word makam as
"a particular^ lace in the general scale of all pitches available in the [musical]

4 From the Greek synagein ("to bring together"), a place where Jews gather to

5 Targum Yonatan on Ezekiel 11: 16.

6 Steven Fein, This Holy Place — on the Sanctity of the Synagogue during the
Greco-Roman Period (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press), 1997: 159.

7 Mikdash adonai kon'nu yadekha ("the Temple, O God, that Your hands
established"). Since we know that the First and Second Temples were built by humans,
the Divinely-built one described here must be the Third Temple.

8 Shakhrokh Yadegary, filmed interview at Revisions through Music exhibit,
Judah L. Magnes Museum, Kerkelry, CA, September 10, 2007- July 6, 2008.

system." 9 Abraham Idelsohn understood makam to mean the place — perhaps a
platform or stage — on which a musician stood when playing before the Sheik/
Emperor/Sultan. 10 The spatial term makam eventually expanded to signify the
geographical area where a particular modal style had developed.

Composers for the Roman Catholic Mass "found the setting of Latin words
to music a satisfying experience" partly because it "put meaning at a distance,"
posits the Irish novelist Bernard MacLaverty. 11 Like Judaism's continued use
of the Hebrew language for t'fillah, Catholicism's tradition (until recently) of
reserving Latin for the offering of its Mass circumscribes a sacred space in which
devotional acts could be performed to ritual music. And like the synagogue
cantor's voice leading a congregation in prayer,

... the linchpin of the Mass... is... mysterious, the first voice like a precentor,
followed by others, each of whom is a precentor to the rest. 12
At the Red Sea, when all Israelites joined together for the very first time
as a worshiping congregation, just as the spontaneous inventiveness of every
individual merged with Moses' voice in a white-hot lava flow of thanksgiving
and glory (Exodus 15:1)— it created a "Palace in Time," 13 the liturgical coun-
terbalance to God's "Tabernacle of Holiness" that would shortly be erected in
space (i.e., the Wilderness of Sinai; Exodus 25:8).

The late Lubavitcher Rebbe's final public utterance, at the last Farbrengen
(general gathering) he addressed, was: "Space depends on time; time reveals
space." 14 A synagogue becomes a holy place when within its confines we perform
a specific ritual act at a specific time, signalling the start of prayer. "In all sacred
space," avers composer Michael Isaacson, "a synergistic energy... is created
between God and Israel." 15 He argues that the sacred music with which we fill
those consecrated spaces gives our communal worship the "larger-than-life"
feeling of drama that it needs to help us reach and understand the role that has
been given us to play in God's world.

9 Harold S. Powers, s. v., "Modal entities in Western Asia and South Asia, (i)
Maqdm, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: macMillan),
1980, 12: 423.

10 Abraham Z. Idelsohn, Tol'dot ha-n'ginah ha-ivrit (Tel-Aviv: Dvir), 1924: 6.

1 1 Bernard MacLaverty, Grace Notes (New York: W.W. Norton and Company,
Inc.), 1997: 73-74.

12 Ibid., pp. 132-133.

13 Abraham J. Heschel, TheSabbath (New York: Harper Torchbooks), 1951: 10,
12.

14 Sam Bourne, The Righteous Men (London: Harper Collins), 2007: 311.

15 Michael Isaacson, Jewish Music as Midrash (Woodland Hills, CA: Isaac
Nathan Publishing Co.), 2007: 138f.

Take, for example, someone who has suffered the loss of a loved one.
Synagogues have always respected a mourner's choice of place from which
to recite Kaddish yatom, whether in the Sanctuary on Shabbat and holy days
or in the Chapel on weekdays. In the Second Jerusalem Temple, mourners
customarily entered the Outer Courtyard through a gate normally used by
those on their way out. Inevitably, people exiting came face-to-face with
mourners entering the "wrong" gate, and took it as a signal to console them
with these words: Hammakom y'naheim et'khem {"'May you be comforted
by the One Who dwells in this Place'.') 16 The word used to indicate "God" was
(and still is) makom, which — like the pan-Arabic makam, also means "place."
The implication is: may you find God's comfort in this Holy Place. If we look
closely, posits Lawrence A. Hoffman, "the history of music turns out to be re-
markably like the [history of]... sacred space." 17

Last year, we attempted

to correct a JSM 1979

error in the attribution

of a poem by Hyam

Plutzik (1911-1962),

and misquoted two of

the lines.

Here is the corrected

poem — with our

apologies to the Estate

of Hyam Plutzik.

IF CAUSALITY IS IMPOSSIBLE,
GENESIS IS RECURRENT

The abrupt appearance of a yellow flower

Out of the perfect nothing, is miraculous.

The sum of Being, being discontinuous,

Must presuppose a God-out-of-the-box

Who makes a primal garden of each garden.

There is no change, but only re-creation.

One step ahead, As in the cinema

Upon the screen, all motion is illusory.

So if your mind were keener and could clinch

More than its flitting beachhead in the Permanent,

You'd see a twinkling world flashing and dying

Projected out of a tireless, winking Eye

Opening and closing in immensity —

Creating, with Its look, beside all else

Always Adamic passion and innocence

The bloodred apple or the yellow flower.

16 Anne Brener, "Reclaiming the Mourner's path," Reform Judaism, Summer
1997: 41; based on Mishnah Middot 11.2 (discussed in the final subsection of David
Greenstein's article in the opening section of this issue).

17 Lawrence A. Hoffman, "Sacred Sound and Social Change," Literature and
Music in Jewish and Christian Experience, Lawrence A. Hofdfman & Janet Walton,
eds. (South bend, IN: Notre Dame University Press), 1991: 331.

Page 186 of the 2011 Journal contained multiple errors in an art song by
Aaron Blumenfeld. We regret these oversights and offer the following corrected
version. Information on the entire collection is available from the composer at
aaronblumenf eld@att.net; music samples are on his website: aarons-world.
com. JAL

Akhein atah eil mistateir
Meditation on the Shoah

Text: Isaiah 45: 15

Slowly, sustained, with devotion

Music: Aaron Blumenfeld
Songs of Supplication, 2010, no. 11

Oy -voi vov - \ oy. oy \ oy,\ ov - \ oy.
S F

Oy-voy oy-voy, oy-voy oy-voy, \

(A-khein a-tah eil mis-ta -

A Bf"/F Am/E Bb^VF Am/E

khcin a - tali.

Truly, you are a God Who has hidden Yourself

Creating Sacred Space: Report on a Group Exploration

By Livia Selmanowitz Straus

Jewish ritual practices are imbedded with sensory stimulants involving visual
input, olfactory stimuli, touch, sound and more. The smell of a candle burning
mingles with the reflected and arced lights of the flame as the smells of spices
sweeten the air and the sounds of Torah chants and melodies of t'fillot and
niggunim lead worshippers beyond the reality of the here and now. This paper
attempts to investigate how the arts can be integrated into the rabbinic and
cantorial curricula as a means for teaching and analyzing specific community
esthetic sensitivities and utilizing this knowledge in creating a worship space
that meets the needs of the particular population being serviced.

Human beings are surrounded by art carried in words, melodies, visuals,
tastes. They impact on our senses, our intellect, our every breath. The words
of the Bible open with the blank canvas of creation to which the supreme
artist adheres an imprint. No 'time out' to sketch a star, outline an ocean,
adhere dates to a tree for Tu B'shvat. There is an inspired unity that echoes
through time and reverberates in each of us. The framers of the rituals and
the b'rakhot understood this.

To the Biblical man, the sublime is but a form in which the presence of God
strikes forth... The stars sing, the mountains tremble in His presence. To
think of God, man must hear the world... Few are the songs in the Bible
that celebrate the beauty of nature, but these songs are ample testimony
to the fact that the Biblical man was highly sensitive to form, color, force
and emotion. . . The beauty of the world issued from the grandeur of God. . .
There is a higher form of seeing. 1

How can I look at a tree, a miracle beyond words, and take it in? My unique
gift as a human being is in the framing of a word, a response that leaves my
heart and mind and subsequently names that wonder that I feel inside. And I
burst out in the mystical, magical words of my ancestors: Barukh oseh b'reishit.
My hands move gracefully to embrace the flame of a candle, a flame which
cannot be contained, which is as ether, which is as the passing as the Shabbat

1 Abraham Joshua Heschel, God in Search of Man (Northvale, New Jersey:
Jason Aronson, Inc.), 1991:95-97.

glow, and I embrace it with the words which echo from my earliest memory,

as if from the womb: L'hadlik neir shel shabbat.

An instantaneous connection is established between the woman saying the
blessing over the candles and the blessing of the priests in the Temple...
While priests bless the congregation, the worshippers customarily avert
their eyes from the radiance of the Shechinah... At the moment of the
physical kindling of the lights. . . a pause. . . allowing her to retreat deep into
herself in imitation of God's initial act of Tzimtzum. Only through these
few personal moments of meditation can she draw down upon herself
and her family the invisible energies of the Primordial Light of Ein-Sof. 2
The conscious use of the arts as a component of religious education can

be valuable in:

• Enhancing the spiritual effect of religious practice

• Developing a critical academic understanding of the value of ritual
performance

• Imbuing textual learning with multiple levels of understanding

We uniquely process the emotional impact of consciously visioning the
'like' fire, 'like' sapphires, 'like' rainbows of the vision of Ezekiel, the psycho-
dramatic performance of a Biblical or Talmudic text, 3 the intonation oiShirat
moshe, the pageantry of the priestly psalmic processionals as bells sewn to
the hems of their garments tinkle and musical instrumentation sounds, the
mournful plaint of U-n'taneh tokef or of a Hasidic niggun, subconsciously
smelling the 'red, red' (Genesis 25:30) which Esau so desperately relishes...
praying in a sanctuary of deep ochres and azure blues or surrounded by mile-
high book cases with heavily scented leather-bound volumes, a wooded area
or a meditation courtyard.

Gaston Bachelard 4 explores what he refers to as the anthro-cosmology
of a space. The theory is that once inhabited, a space continues to carry the
imprint of the inhabitant upon which future residents overlay their unique
stamp. Likewise, the space will impact on the individual in terms of behavior,
decoration, reaction, etc. Bachelard moves us through our childhood homes,
from basement to attic and from nest to manor, through the developmental
stages of our lives, our fears and psychological maturation as paralleled by
our reading of space. The cellar hides psychic fears behind its closed door,

2 Freemah Gottlieb, The Lamp of God (Northvale, New Jersey: Jason Aronson,
Inc.), 1996:230-231.

3 Peter Pitzele, "The Psychodrama of the Bible", Religious Education 86:4, pp.
562-571.

4 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press), 1994.

while the attic is a space we look up to, the space which may eventually be
our "loft". They parallel heaven and hell, shamayim and sh'ol. A closed door
at a child's eye level may hold the terror of the unknown or the mystery for
exploration. A child standing before the closed door to the parent's bedroom
will vision mother and father behind the door.

Peninah Schramm 5 will help a child vision the God presence, by telling a
story which clarifies that the hidden, even if not seen, does exist. Lawrence
Kushner 6 speaks of Abraham's visioning in the Cave of Machpelah. What
he sees is the imprint of ancestral holy ground, reaching back to Adam and
Eve. The darkness that would impact negatively on others, becomes the
black sculptural space of Abraham's genetic memory. This spatial memory is
sensed, envisioned, but not necessarily verbalized. When an individual finds
a dream house, or a young child gravitates to its daydream corner, there is an
internal voice saying: "I belong here." Many films build on this concept: "The
Amityville Horror, "The Sixth Sense," "What Dreams May Come." Pilgrimage
sites are built on this concept. How many of us have touched the stones of the
Wailing Wall and had our minds hark back to our early national memories?
In the Maccabean rededication of the Temple, the Lauder restoration of
the Orenienstrasse Synagogue in Berlin, or any other retrieved religious
sanctuary or historically marked site (witness the reconstruction of the Twin
Tower site in Downtown Manhattan), we have a sense of newness superim-
posed on the old, but the memory of the old remains and is then refracted
through the new. In Maccabees 1:4, we are told that the Temple is cleaned,
weeds removed, defiled alters dismantled and the ritual objects restored or
recreated in replication of the originals. On the day that the rededication
occurs, "it was rededicated with songs and harps and lutes and cymbals...
They decorated the front of the Temple with gold crowns and small shields."
The past is overlaid with present reality, memory of Godly connections with
personal loss as well as victory.

John Stilgoe, in his Introduction to the Bachelard text, states:

If the house is the first universe for its young children... how does its
space shape all subsequent knowledge of other space... Is that house...
the shelter of the imagination itself?... The house is a nest for dreaming,
a shelter for imagining... a nook, a cranny, a seashell... an inner space

5 Peninah Schramm, Together: A Child-Parent Kit, Issue Five —"Hide and
Seek— A Game About God," created by V. Kelman, J. Grishaver, J. Golubi and A. Rowe,
tape narration by Peninah Schramm (New York: The Melton Resdearch Center of the
Jewish Theological Seminary), 1985.

6 Lawrence Kushner, The River of Light (Rossel Books, 1981), pp. 3-23.

of solitude... to be contained in something tiny, (there) to imagine the
immensity of the forest, the voluptuousness of high places.

Stephen Covey 7 speaks of the successful leader as the one who has deep
respect for and understanding of the population s/he is dealing with. An
Academy for Jewish Religion student of mine insightfully drew on Covey
in understanding the move from rage to altered educational approaches by
Moses after the incident near Sinai. Instead of dwelling on a sense of betrayal
and personalizing the sin of the Golden Calf, Moses came to understand the
need to tailor the desert mentality that embraced void and enormity with the
needs of the emancipated Hebrews for active communal participation. He
returned to the Hebrews with design specifications that incorporated some of
the familiar from their Egyptian Bondage, and some of their antiquity going
back to Abrahamic times. There would be no visual idol, but only the invisible
God of Abraham. There would be gold vessels and rich colorful tapestry as in
Egypt. Their possessions, their trinkets of enslavement, were melded into the
new structure (Exodus 35). Physical, historic and cultural memory merged
in an artistic space that spoke to the fears, hopes and desires of the emerging
Hebrew nation. Ritual performances by priests and congregants, visual sym-
bols, identifiable boundaries, the taste of manna speaking to the individual
unique palate, musical instruments, much the conscious design and artistic
execution of Bezalel (Exodus 36:3-39:32), were used to create a space which
embraced the memory, aspirations and dreams of the populace, imprinting
them with a new theology and ethnic language and educating them for their
ultimate home environment so that they emerge with a living faith system.

How then do we transpose all this data so that it is usable for us as educa-
tors, rabbis, leaders in the community of Israel?

At a rabbinical-and-cantorial retreat in November 1999, and then in an
abbreviated presentation in 2010, students of the Academy for Jewish Religion
gathered for a program titled: "Experiencing the Sacred Through the Prism
of the Arts." As individuals vested in becoming religious leaders in the com-
munity, the goal was to explore the artistic expressions of movement, color,
architecture and drama as modalities by which the impact of the spiritual
could be enhanced personally as well as in communitas. A critical subtext was
that artistic and spiritual responses be based in personal memory, communal
or cultural heritage, and personal preference or proclivity. The inference was
that the greater our self understanding as well as the understanding we have
of each individual member of our congregations, the greater will be our suc-

7 Stephen Covey, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People (New York: Fireside

Books), 1990.

cess in creating comfort spaces, integrated programs and the introduction
of materials that embrace participants. Sharing family stories, daydreams,
hopes and aspirations, drawing out specifics of early homes and imprinted
episodes and relationships, creates a richer individual picture than the types
of commonly used surveys which are simply data based.

If our tradition stresses anything, it stresses the uniqueness of each indi-
vidual. A query as to the country or city of origin as opposed to requesting,
say, an exquisite, detailed description of the bedroom in which one grew up,
is a case in point. As inter-connections are discovered, communal connect-
edness evolves. For example, were my room of origin to contain a doorless
closet painted the blue of the sky (as described by one of my students whose
'blue/teal' quote follows), this being a repository for my toys, clothing and
precious objects and not the closed off cubicle of childhood monsters, then
blue may be my color of comfort, my spiritual marker. When this marker is
shared, then an emerging sanctuary of comforting, womb-like blues evolves.
Expanding our artistic markers to encompass oral, aural, movement, dramatic
and olfactory components, serves to broaden experiential impact. When the
richness of individual preference informs the design of our religious space,
then this space will not only be specific to the community, but elements of the
space will remain with us in our homes as well. Thus spiritual and religious
wealth come to surround every facet of our lives in a true manifestation of
Yerushalayim shel ma'alah.

A valuable exercise in learning and sharing within community is the de-
velopment of an interactive art project. Though some people feel comfort-
able verbally sharing in 'friendship circles,' then others need more space for
introspective thought processing and less overt exposure. Visual art can help
provide an entree when thoughtfully designed to incorporate meditative pro-
cessing time. In preparation for our retreat each student was asked to think
about or to create an object reflective of his or her inner "Weltanschauung"
(state of being). A dedicated place for self-reflection would be marked and
some significant amount of time spent there. The space would be:

a. Quiet

b. A space of comfort

c. A space that allows one to identify objects of like and dislike by very
focused attention and concentration.

d. A place to breathe deeply several times as an entree into a self-
investigative process.

Upon arrival at the retreat site, students were asked to place the objects
that they had pre-made, in a particular self-chosen locus. Those created in
situ utilized materials made available by the retreat staff (vividly colored
fabric of varied textures, spices, candles, markers, paints, glitter, etc.), per-
sonal objects brought by the students or found elements from the outside
environment. As each student imprinted his/her own 'being,' a shared com-
munal space emerged. The opportunity to share in words the significance of
the visual presentation, took place at a later point on the retreat so that the
sensory processing could initially stand on its own. Students were also asked
to walk the space of the retreat and to sense the history and topography of
the place, so that their imprint would meld with the memory of that which
was before. One of our student's post-retreat feedback speaks to the core of
the experiential goal:

The shift was slight, but for me it was about color. After the space exercise
in my room back home, I had connected with the sky blue of my closet.
Into the sacred space created in the ice rink (the converted ice rink, with
its blue ceiling, was our assigned prayer space), I brought a necklace with
a bird made of shells. In dreaming in my space at home, I had uncovered
birds etched in copper upon a wicker case. These birds 'flew with me' into
my own space within the ice rink. We were ready to dream a sacred space. 8

The space created was then added onto or altered as the feel or need arose.
It was utilized throughout the retreat as the prayer space. Candles were some-
times used to illuminate the area, decorated movable room dividers were
shifted, allowing the mood to visually fit the needs of the time or the goal of
the service. In keeping with the theme and to 'set the stage,' an opening Torah
study dealing with the use of the color variations of red and their psychological
impact and 'parshanutic' implications was presented. An introduction to the
retreat theme emphasized that we are all 'on the way' that there are no right
or wrong answers, that we are building on the internal and searching for the
interconnectedness of history and community. Each person, each in the im-
age of God, has a unique voice, valuable and complex. Religious education,
experience and performance is not about fact, but is about feeling, yearning,
questioning and reaching.

Session I: Prayer through the arts:

Our formal opening session involved the students in the exploration of the
use of three artistic modalities to enhance the prayer experience. The choice
of prayer for this exercise is critical. It should be a prayer that everyone is
familiar with (the memory factor) , that has various levels of meaning and vari-

8 Leslie Schotz, November 25, 1999.

ous sections of intensity; what might be called a 'rich prayer. For our purposes
we selected the Eil adon for its mystical content as well as its abstract refer-
ences to character traits. Through stages the students moved from dramatic
readings in Hebrew, to unpacking the verses of the text in order to extract
the meaning of the liturgist and then to imprint their own unique order and
thought on it, to free thought collage work, to abstract-color-field emoting,
to movement representation and reaction, to musical rendition in traditional
melody and niggun. After each segment a 'buzz session' was set aside to unpack
the thought processes that went into the artistic presentation. Though most
of the activities were done alone or in small groups, the movement segment
transitioned students from individual to full group interactive space.

During the prose 'unpacking' session, one group folded the male pronouns
of God under so as to validate the female participation in the Godly sphere.
In collage, God was a sun with emanating beams while in the abstract a blank
sheet with streamers reaching beyond and everywhere, or a deep gold or multi
mix of color 'bled' onto the drawing paper. The movement segment drew
on the prosaic and visual artistic experiences, challenging the individual to
portray feelings of dissolution, rage, kindness, wonder, angelic movement and
the emulation of objects in nature. The task then was to meld the movements/
emotions of the individual with partners as well as with the larger group in
a symmetry of motion ending in a moving, ultimately slow-stepping circle,
each person in sync with the one in front, the haunting strains of the guitar
in an Eil adon niggun as a backdrop, slowing in pace over an extended period
of time so that the self coheres in the meditative presence of the other.

Session II:

The second formal art session aimed at drawing on personal objects and
personal story as vehicles to enrich home worship, thus moving from the
communal to the private sphere. Judaism was never meant to be an exclusively
communal religion. Both worship and world -view are framed in the experience
of the lone being as well as the interaction within family. The exclusively 'shull
school Jew' is far from the all-encompassing nature of what 'being Jewish is
about. Run as parallel sessions, some students participated in an encounter
with a Biblical text. The question framed did not simply call for the interpre-
tation or midrash on the text, but for personal reaction: How do I feel about
the characters in the story? While one person might condemn or even be
infuriated by, for example, David for his infraction with Bat Sheva, another
participant may be softer in tone, seeing the evolution of a leader from teen
age impulsiveness . What makes each p erson take the view that they do? What
in their own background, past and present, informs their stand? In the arts
session, various ritual objects were identified for the significance with which

we encounter them. The question is, in fact, raised as to what constitutes a
ritual object? Is it, as for one of the students, a grandfather's old suitcase that
evokes memory and a particular action each time it is seen? Is it the way I cup
my hands over the Sabbath candles as I intone a grandparent's prayer? And,
were I to design a ritual object which would raise my self-conscious being to
the highest level, how would I fashion it in looks, with what prayer mantra,
what action and ultimately, possibly even with what familial participation?
In the words of one student:

The art experience involving memory of ritual objects connected to my
experience of movement from the previous session (moving from the
public prayer space to the private). At first I could not think of a ritual object
that I related to. When Professor Straus shared her own ritual objects (e.g.
a photomontage superimposed over a great grandmother's Yiddish prayer
and a Sephardic Kameah [amulet] with kabbalistic angeology to be hung
on a wall) my memory was jogged! The Sephardic mizrah ritual object
reminded me of the hamsa I hang on my 'travelling backpack' for school.
For me it is one of the most powerful ritual objects that I have owned.
It was the color of the stone that attracted me to obtain my protective
hamsa. As fate would have it, it was the same color as the ceiling in the
ice rink. The teal blue stone symbolizes my past, present and future goal of
creating tikkun olam in my rabbinate. As my ha msa identifies my distinct
backpack in a sea of traveling suitcases and backpacks, it also represents
my unique Jewish neshamah. 9
In the words of another student:

When the assignment was given, I immediately decided that I wanted
something that was portable, that would define its own ground, so to
speak. So I started with an umbrella. Then I thought about tahat kanfei
ha-shekhinah, and I incorporated a tallit that draped over the umbrella. I
remembered how hard it was for me to purchase my first tallit, and I took
a marker and wrote the word mit'atephet on the atarah. I then purchased
tefillin. I asked if one could cut the straps, since they were too long. I was
told yes, but not to throw them away; to put them in a genizah. I'd been
saving them in an envelope, so when I made my umbrella I incorporated
the straps, tying one long piece into a knot like on tefillin shel rosh. Then
I took photos of my ancestors, and hung them from the struts of the
umbrella. I wrote their names in Hebrew on the umbrella fabric. I love
it... If I could, I would take more time, recreate it bigger, all white with
a huge wrap-style tallit, do a performance with it and its accompanying
extended story. 10

In the anonymous words of a third student:

9 Leslie Schotz.

10 Marcia Lane.

The rage I felt over David, was terrifying to me. It was my rage at betrayal,
at abandonment, at personal struggle. I feared continuing the discussion,
yet, was simultaneously dismayed when the session ended. David had
become a mirror into my own soul, and what I saw I did not completely
like. Is this part of our humanity, to hide what is most painful? Is the
pain lessened by seeing one's self reflected in one of the greatest of our
heroes?"
Sharing the stuff of the ritual objects, the memories they evoked as well
the individuals' imprint on what had been handed down, so that relevance to
who I am now becomes part of my worship, closed this session.

Session 3:

The task was now to follow our transition from individual within public space
(session 1), to home space (session 2) and then to communal space growing
out of the shared Buberian 'I-Thou' dialogue. How, in Stephen Covey's words,
do we create for 'win, win'? What can we share and maintain in our personal
vision and what must each individual accommodate to? How can this accom-
modation take place while my spiritual needs are met as well as the spiritual
needs of my co-religionists? And what are basic symbolic and ritual object
ingredients, if such in fact do exist, which must be incorporated as part of
our identity with am yisrael 7 . Does my community share some of my vision
so that we can reach a consensus or is this not the right community for me?
In preparation for this session, students were asked to read an article by
Rabbi Neil Gillman, "Judaism and the Search for Spirituality." 11 In his article,
Gillman states:

On the most elementary level, the design of a physical space in which
worship takes place both reflects and in turn pre-determines the model of
spirituality that can be embodied in the worship service that takes place
within the space... Rows of seats, riveted to the floor... the bimah as an
elevated stage-like structure with two pulpits — for rabbi and cantor — who
are located above and facing the congregation. . . The congregation limited
in its ability to move physically and is hence largely passive. The model is
a theatrical one ... A congregant who would be moved to pace as he prays,
to fall to his knees or to go to the shelves to consult a Bible or a medieval
text would be totally frustrated... Prayer is something you watch others
do.
Using drawing paper, clay, sticks, etc., students joined in groups of 10 to
create their ideal spiritual space. One student described it:

11 Conservative Judaism XXXVIIL2, pp. 2-18, and particularly 15-16.
17

The large-group 'mishkari -building experience proved to be a bashert
moment of the presence of the Shekhinah as our ner tamid had the word
'beneath' cut out in a perfect 8' h -inch shape of a flame. . . Also, that teal-blue
color showed up again as a choice of a select group of materials. Either
I or another member of our group put that teal-colored piece of fabric
upon the sukkah that we had created as a passageway to entering the
mishkan. The word Shalom was built of clay and made up part of our ark.
Each contribution by the members of the mishkan group reflected my
own personal experience. The fact that we had chosen to be near each
other in our spaces in the ice rink seemed to be related to how our beings
connected in creating our mishkan... I felt that art in itself was a means
of tapping into the sacred. 12

With no limits placed on imagination, students were able to integrate ob-
jects that held loving memories with a greater understanding as to how these
elements spoke to them. The recognition of the greater world of memory,
the personal, the communal and the historic, intensified the meaning of the
spaces created. Opened areas were representative of freedom while small
spaces were identified as womb-like structures. The use of natural materials,
an openness to the outside, bringing the outside in through a tree growing in
the center of the sanctuary, a stream running through the sanctuary, under-
girding the reading lectern and flowing on to the ark holding the Torah— the
fluid of life— all creatively added to the spiritual vision.

Closing session:

Panelists, drawn from the artists/instructors and clergy working with the arts
in a congregational setting, gave some insights on observations of student
activity during the retreat, on the growing ease with working in the arts and on
personal resonances. They spoke of the difficulties one may face in integrating
arts in an overt way, in programming, in teaching and in terms of creating
a different, even if potentially more pleasing, esthetic space. Students were
also able to share insights as well as frustrations. Some could barely speak for
the intensity of the memories raised and the palpable present of inner being.
Subsequent to the retreat, students voiced instances where programs on the
retreat were utilized in student pulpits. They shared the impact that the arts
had on their religious performance and spiritual elevation.

In an article titled, "Toward a Process for Critical Response," 13 a dancer
searches for a means of dialoguing with fellow dancers in a way which will not
negate her own creativity, but enrich it. We all have a need for self-verification,

12 Leslie Schotz.

13 Alternate Roots, 1993.

yet hearing others' insights (as opposed to the negative concept of criticism)
greatly enriches our own lives. Though we all express ourselves artistically
on some level, though we all are impacted on by the arts, we sometimes
need encouragement in letting our creativity fly, in using it to enrich our life
experiences. Our author states:

I discovered that the more I made public my own questions about the
work, the more eager I was to engage in a dialogue about how to fix the
problem. . . the more I gently questioned my students the deeper I got into
their work... I find if I tell people I am still working on the evolution...
all of this openness creates an environment... people want to hear that
what they have just completed has meaning to another human being.

As the retreat unfolded, the facilitators on this pathway to art and the
spiritual experience kept meeting, sharing observations (critical since much
in this process is not put into words. The eyes and the physical movements
may bespeak what we hear), and insights and renegotiating plans that, though
programmed in advance, had to be altered to meet the mood, the needs and
the experiences being brought to the table. For creativity to flourish there must
be an intensity of listening, watching, seeing and emoting on the part of the
facilitators, both as leaders and as behavioral models for group interaction.
The end product is never the issue, because there is no end. It is forever fluid,
forever changing. No opinion is invalid. Each dot, each word, each color, is
a mirror of the soul.

Religiosity is the creative — religion is the organizing — principle. Religiosity

starts anew with every young person shaken to his very core by the mystery.

Religiosity means activity — the elemental entering interrelation with the

absolute. 14

Dr. Livia Selmanowitz Straus is Professor of Education & Jewish Religious Thought at
the Academy for Jewish Religion in Riverdale, New York. This article is redacted from
her article, "Religious Esthetics: The Use of the Arts in the Creation of Sacred
Space: A Teaching Retreat" CAJE Jewish Education News, Fall 2000. Dr. Straus
is indebted to Thomas Armstrong for the many insights found in his book, Multiple
Intelligences in the Classroom (Alexandria, Virginia: Association for Supervision
and Curriculum Development, 1 994). She also sincerely thanks Dani Maseng (Artis-
tic Director, Tiferet Program, OSRUI, performer, recording star and kabbalist) , Jill
Schwartz (choreographer and dancer focusing on movement as a vehicle for prayer)
and Judith Wolf (artist and past Assoc. Curator of Education at the Yeshiva University

14 Martin Buber, "Jewish Religiosity", On Judaism, ed. Nachum Glatzer (New
York: Schocken Books), 1972:81.

Liturgy and the Remains of the Dura Europos Synagogue:
How Did It Function as a Religious Venue?

by Steven Fine

To my mind, the explanation of the scheme [of the Dura Europos synagogue
paintings] must be sought among current opinions of the members of the Jewish
Community who commissioned the frescoes. —Henri Stern 1

The pictures were an integral part of the house of worship, related to the order of
prayer or readings and perhaps used as "illustrative" material for sermons.

—Stephen S. Kayser 2

The Dura Europos synagogue is the best-preserved Jewish liturgical space
from late antiquity. 3 The subject of intense investigation, this synagogue has
developed far greater cultural importance than is usually the case with an
excavated artifact. Dura provided the ultimate proof that Jews in antiquity
were not an "aniconic" people. This fact was of more than casual significance.
As Jews worked out their own identities during the turbulent nineteenth
and twentieth centuries, art was often a place where the very humanity of
the Jew was tested. For many, the existence of "Jewish art" was nothing less
than proof that the Jews are a normal nation like any other. The stakes were
thus astonishingly high.

During the decades after the synagogue was discovered in 1932, scholars
sought out literary parallels to these paintings, generally from rabbinic litera-

1 H. Stern, "The Orpheus in the Synagogue of Dura-Europos: A Correction," Journal of the
Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 22 (1959) 373.

2 S. S. Kayser, "Defining Jewish Art," in Mordecai M. Kaplan Jubilee Volume (ed. M. Davis;
New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1953) 460.

3 A less technical version of this essay recently appeared in ray Art and Judaism in the Greco-
Roman World: Toward a New Jewish Archaeology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005)
172—83. Stephen A. Kaufman of the Hebrew Union College kindly assisted me with the computer
enhancement of the Dura Europos Hebrew liturgical fragments and discussed my readings with me.
Many thanks to the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Yale University for images of the
Dura Hebrew liturgical fragments. The bibliography on the Dura Europos synagogue is now quite
large. The most significant monographs on this synagogue include: The Excavations at Dura-Europos:
Preliminary Report of the Sixth Season of Work October 1 932— March 1933 (ed. M. I. Rostovtzeff et
al.; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1936); R. Du Mesnil du Buisson, Les peintures de la synagogue
deDoura-Europos,245— 256 (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1939); E.L.Sukenik, Beit ha-kneset
shel Dura-Europos ve-Tsiyurav (Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1947); C. H. Kraeling, The Synagogue,
with contributions by C. C. Torrey, C. B. Welles, and B. Geiger (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1956); E. R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols during the Graeco-Roman Period (New York: Pantheon,
1953—67); K. Weitzmann and H. L. Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art
(Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1990)

ture. Parallels were found for almost every image. This work was carried out
mainly by archaeologists. For historians of ancient Judaism working during
the second half of the last century, the Dura Europos synagogue (and other
discoveries, most notably the Galilean synagogue mosaics at Beth Alpha and
Hammath Tiberias B) provided the raw materials with which to construct a
non- (or less) rabbinic Judaism. Christians in search of the hellenized Jew-
ish roots of non-orthodox Christianity and Jews interested in marginalizing
the rabbinic Sages within the history of Judaism became fellow travelers in
this search for the "historical rabbis" and the historical non-rabbis. Most art
historians, preoccupied with finding the Jewish roots of early Christian art,
focused on the Dura synagogue as a kind of way-station between Christian
art of the late Roman and Byzantine period and hypothesized (though never
discovered) Jewish manuscripts produced in Alexandria. Precious little re-
flection has appeared on the subject that might seem most obvious in the
history of this synagogue: How did the Dura synagogue function as a religious
space? In this essay I will be-
gin to take up this challenge.
My study will be refracted
through the focusing lens of
a fragmentary Hebrew prayer
parchment discovered near
the synagogue that has been
widely ignored by interpreters
of the Dura synagogue. After
carefully analyzing this text
from a philological perspective,
I will apply the insights gained
from it to the interpretation of
the Dura synagogue's inscrip-
tions and iconography. These
small parchment fragments
have broad implications for
the interpretation of the Dura
Europos synagogue and its
paintings, providing textual
legitimation for the use of rab-
binic materials to interpret the
Fig. 1. home Europos . . _. .

Synagogue, drawing of the Torah Shrine of the paintings. They also suggest

Duras Europas Synagogue by Nahman Avigad that the mind- sets of the com-

(courtesy of the E. L. Sukenik Archive). munity members who commis-

sioned the paintings and lived with them paralleled those of the rabbinic Sages
in many ways. I will illustrate this interpretation by paralleling the themes of
the paintings with those of the central rabbinic prayer, the Tefillah (or, Ami-
dah). By using all of the extant evidence — architectural, artistic, paleographic,
and literary— I will suggest an interpretation that treats the Dura Europos
synagogue as the liturgical setting for the life of the local Jewish community
that built it and played out its communal life there.

I. Questions of Methodology

The Dura Europos synagogue has been the subject of numerous important
studies during the 80 years since its discovery. The best of these interpretations
have focused on identifying the various images in the synagogue paintings,
and identifying literary and iconographic parallels to each image. The most
significant of these were carried out by E. L. Sukenik, whose Hebrew volume
appeared in 1947, and more exhaustively by Carl Kraeling, whose final report
on the synagogue appeared in 1 956. 4 Attempts at the theoretical or global
interpretation of these images have been less successful, with art historians
and historians alike imposing templates upon the material that have had the
net effect of limiting interpretation.

Historians of ancient Judaism have often treated the Dura paintings as a
vehicle for uncovering non-rabbinic Judaism in antiquity. While at some level
useful, this approach originated and was deeply embedded in the nineteenth-
century Protestant notion that art is anathema to Judaism. 5 A derivative of
this approach was developed by E. R. Goodenough, who did not see art as
anathema to Judaism as a whole, but only to the Judaism of the rabbinic Sages.
Goodenough saw the Dura paintings as proof of the existence of a non-rabbinic
Jewish mystery religion on the Greco-Roman model, a stepping-stone between
Pauline Christianity and the late antique Church. 6

Art historians have most often viewed the Dura paintings as a backdrop for
the history of Christian art and assigned significance to them on the basis of
their relationship to what followed centuries later in the Christian West. This
is related to the conflicted, generally negative, images of Judaism and Jewish-
ness presented over the last century by art historians — when they even chose
to deal with these issues at all. Jewish artistic production (like, for example,
Byzantine, African, and Islamic arts) has suffered both marginalization and

4 Ibid.

5 See K.Bland, The Artless Jew: Medieval and Modern Affirmations andDenials of the Visual
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000) 13—58.

6 See my discussion of Goodenough's work in my Art and Judaism in the Greco-Roman
World, 35—46.

worse: it has been valued only for the ways that it relates to the interests of the
dominant and amazingly long-lived Western European canon of Art History 7
Most prominently, Adolph
Goldschmidt, his student Kurt
Weitzmann, and Weitzmann's
student Herbert Kessler be-
lieve that they discovered
in the synagogue paintings
evidence for Jewish manu-
script paintings that serve as
the "missing link" between
supposed Jewish manuscript
painting of the Hellenistic
period and the Christian art
of the fourth century and
beyond. 8 While this theory
is losing its tight hold on the
scholarly imagination, a noted
art historian could still treat it
as "proved" in an article that
appeared in 2000. 9

Fig. 2. Drawing of the Torah Shrine of the Dura Europos Synagogue
by Nahman Avigad courtesy of the E. L. Sukenik Archive).

7 See the essays collected by C. Soussloff, Jewish Identity in Modern Art History (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1999); M. Olin, The Nation without Art (Omaha: University of Ne-
braska Press, 2001); Bland, The Artless Jew, and my review of this work at http://www.caareviews.
org/reviews/bland.html.

8 Weitzmann and Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art, passim.

9 E. Revel-Neher, "From Dream to Reality: Evolution and Continuity in Jewish Art," in From
Dura to Sepphoris: Studies in Jewish Art and Society in Late Antiquity (ed. L. I. Levine and Z.Weiss;
Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series; Portsmouth, R.I.: Journal of Roman Archaeol-
ogy, 2000) 54. Joseph Gutmann is the most consistent critic of this approach. See in particular his
"Illustrated Jewish Manuscript in Antiquity: The Present State of the Question," in No Graven Images:
Studies in Art and the Hebrew Bible (ed. J. Gutmann; New York: Ktav, 1971) 232—48; idem, "The
Illustrated Midrash in the Dura Europos Synagogue Paintings: A New Dimension for the Study of
Judaism," Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 50 (1983) 100—104. See more
recently, A. J. Wharton, Refiguring the Post Classical City: Dura Europos, Jerash, Jerusalem, and
Ravenna (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) 38 — 51; R. Jensen, "The Dura Europos
Synagogue, Early Christian Art, and Religious Life in Dura Europos," in Jews, Christians and Poly-
theists in the Ancient Synagogue: Cultural Interaction during the Greco-Roman Period (ed. S. Fine;
London: Routledge, 1999) 174—89. See Olin, The Nation without Art, 127—54.

yttnH

1 » ; i%

; < £t* '/ C /£S?

J^^\l?' : '^

$!$?!> . * ■ ^sfr

;)". |V-

.;,;. |SB~'--

-• ■ ~T~ " -' j " isf? JpS^ — -

-~^H ^^ J^y jri£

r "*•■ .- ~ -::;-- -^~~ ^^^=^

^~~ < ^'~- j 5r~^^'~^TTHy^ '■ ■■■

P8«s v ^.-.,

The Dura synagogue paintings have seldom been interpreted as decorative
elements of a building produced by a local Jewish community as a context for
its liturgical life. Perhaps this is not all that surprising for classically trained
art historians, who generally have focused on diachronic iconographic analy-
sis and not on localized holistic interpretation. In recent years art historical
scholarship has moved toward more contextual interpretation. 10 Most impor-
tant for our purposes is Annabelle Wharton's analysis of the Dura Europos
synagogue. Wharton criticizes earlier scholarship for ignoring the religious
aspect of synagogue decoration and asserts a holistic approach to the Dura
synagogue paintings. Wharton recognized that the Dura synagogue images
and rabbinic literature are interwoven in ways far more complex than previous
scholars have noted. Her approach stresses the similarities in mind-set that
she posits between the creators of the paintings and the rabbis of Palestine
and Babylonia of the third century. While scholars such as Kraeling, Sukenik,
and later Jewish art historian Gutmann could find parallels between rabbinic
literature and the individual images within the synagogue, Wharton has pos-
ited a shared "midrashic" mind-set with the rabbis. 11 1 have argued similar
correspondences within Palestinian synagogues, which is methodologically
easier owing to the geographical and chronological proximity between rab-
binic literature of the Byzantine period and archaeological sources of the
same period. 12

Relations between rabbinic mind-sets and those of the synagogue paint-
ers/donors/members in Dura are harder to assert. No known rabbis lived in
Dura, and in any event this border city was somewhat distant from rabbinic
centers in the Galilee and Babylonia (modern Iraq). Scholars have noted the
many parallels between rabbinic midrash and the paintings, a search that par-
allels the modern search for exegetical proximity between the Sages and the
Church Fathers. Thankfully, our parchment fragments containing the texts of
a Hebrew liturgy were discovered at Dura. These shed considerable light on
the relationship between Dura and the rabbis. This document provides a key
to the question of conceptual contiguousness with the Sages. Significantly, it
provides an important, if narrow, window into the liturgical life of the Jews
of Dura and their synagogue.

10 I discuss recent scholarship more fully in my Art a he Greco-Roman World,
47—56. See especially T. F. Mathews, The Early Churches of Constantinople: Architecture and Liturgy
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1971); idem, Byzantium from Antiquity to the
Renaissance (New York: Abrams, 1998) 97.

11 Wharton, Refiguring, 38 — 51.

12 Fine, "Art and the Liturgical Context"; idem, Art and Judaism, 146—64, 184—209.

II. The Dura Liturgical Parchment

In concluding his extensive discussion of the Dura Europos synagogue, E. R.
Goodenough, writes: "Just how worship was conducted in the room we have
no way whatever of knowing, except as we transport over to it the information
about synagogue worship which survives in rabbinical writings." 13 Joseph
Gutmann, who hazarded the most extensive discussion of liturgy at Dura,
writes similarly that "we have no evidence of Jewish literature from such Syrian
cities as Dura. . . ," 14 Astonishingly, neither Goodenough nor Gutmann seems
to have been aware of the Dura parchment and its implications. Scholars of
Jewish liturgy did not know of the Dura fragments either. None of the major
monographs or surveys of the history of Jewish prayer makes reference to
them. This is quite perplexing, since the Dura prayer parchment is the earli-
est extant archaeological evidence of Jewish prayer from post-Temple times,
dating perhaps a century before the earliest Aramaic and Hebrew Palestinian
synagogue inscriptions that were influenced by liturgy, 15 and five centuries
before the earliest Cairo Geniza documents. 16 Though the existence of written
liturgical texts is evidenced in rabbinic sources, the Dura parchments are the
earliest physical evidence for Jewish prayer manuscripts during this period.

The Dura Europos Hebrew liturgical fragments were discovered on the
narrow street to the west side of the synagogue (designated "Wall Street"
by the excavators) on December 17, 1932. The Dura parchment was buried
when Wall Street, the synagogue, and all buildings in its environs were filled
with earth to create an embankment wall. 18 This embankment was built in

13 Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 10:198.

14 J. Gutmann, The Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation (Atlanta: Scholars Press,
1992) xx. See also idem, "Early Synagogue and Jewish Catacomb Art and Its Relation to Christian
Art," Aufstieg und Niedergang der Romische Welt 2.21.2 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1984) 1313—42; idem,
"The Synagogue of Dura Europos: A Critical Analysis," inEvolution of the Synagogue: Problems and
Progress (ed. H. C. Kee and L. H. Cohick; Harrisburg: Trinity, 1999) 83.

15 On the relationships between synagogue prayer and synagogue inscriptions, see G. Foerster,
"Synagogue Inscriptions and Their Relation to Liturgical Versions," Cathedra 17 (1981) 12 — 40
[Heb.]; J. Yahalom, "Synagogue Inscriptions in Palestine: A Stylistic Classification," Immanuel 10
(1980) 47—57.

16 On the Cairo Geniza in general, see: N. Danzig, A Catalogue of Fragments ofHalak
Midrash from the Cairo Genizah in the Elkan Nathan Adler Collection of the Library of the Jewish
Theological Seminary of America (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1997) 3—87 [Heb.]; S.
C. Reif, A Jewish Archive from Old Cairo: The History of Cambridge University's Genizah Collection
(Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000).

17 t. Shab. 14:3 and the parallels cited by S. Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah (New York: Jewish
Theological Seminary, 1992) 3:205—6.

18 The synagogue was part of a group of contiguous buildings designated Block L7 by the
excavators. See C. Torrey, "Parchments and Papyri," in TheExcavationsatDura-Europos: Preliminary
Report (ed. M. I. Rostovtzeff; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1936) 417; Kraeling, The Synagogue,

the failed attempt to support the exposed western wall of Dura in preparation
for the final Persian siege of Dura in about 256 c.e. 19 In the frenzy of that mo-
ment, the parchment was apparently lost when covered with a huge mound
of soil. While texts from within the synagogue were apparently cleared away
in the last days of Dura Europos (none were uncovered there), the liturgical
parchment was lost, only to be recovered by modern scholars. 20 The fragments
are today preserved in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library of
Yale University 21

The early and prompt publication of the Dura fragments made this artifact
widely accessible. Scholars who studied the Dura Europos preliminary or final
reports could gain easy access to them. In addition, until very recently they
had not received anything approaching serious attention since the publication
of J. L. Teicher's highly idiosyncratic 1963—64 article, "Ancient Eucharistic
Prayers in Hebrew," in which he claims that the parchment represents Jewish-
Christian prayer. 22 Our document was first published by C. Torrey in 1936
in the preliminary report of the Dura synagogue excavation (and restated by
Kraeling in the final report of the synagogue in 1956). 23 Torrey 's reading was
improved upon by R. Du Mesnil du Buisson in 1939, 24 and by E. L. Sukenik
in 1947. 25 The editors of the final report on the manuscripts at Dura accepted
Du Mesnil du Buisson's readings, adding little to the discussion.

Unlike their peers in related disciplines, academic Talmudists were quite
attentive to the implications of the parchment from a very early date, undoubt-
edly because this document fit well within their general frame of reference.
The publication of medieval manuscripts and Cairo Geniza fragments was,
and still is, a major preoccupation of academic Talmud scholars. Based upon

19 See S. James, "Dura-Europos and the Chronology of Syria in the 250s ad," Chiron 15 (1985)
111—24; D. MacDonald, "Dating the Fall of Dura-Europos," Historia 35/1 (1986) 45—68. These
authors independently reach similar conclusions regarding the dating of the destruction of Dura
Europos and the supposed Persian occupation of the city in 253 c.e.

20 On the centrality of biblical texts in the Dura synagogue, see my This Holy Place: On the
Sanctity of the Synagogue during the Greco-Roman Period (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame University
Press, 1997) 141—46. On the methodology suggested in this article, see my "Art and the Liturgical
Context of the Sepphoris Synagogue Mosaic," in Galilee through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures
(ed. E. M. Meyers; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1999) 227 — 37; idem, "Liturgical Interpretation
of Synagogue Remains in Late Antique Palestine," in Continuity and Renewal: Jews and Judaism in
Byzantine-Christian Palestine (ed. L. I. Levine; Jerusalem: Dinur Center and Ben Zvi Institute, 2004)
402— 29[Heb.].

21 Beineke Library, Inv. D. Pg. 25.

22 JQR 54 (1963—64) 100—109.

23 C. Torrey, "Parchments and Papyri," 417 — 19; idem, in Kraeling, The Synagogue, 259 — 60.

24 "Un Parchemin Liturgique Juif et la Gargote de la Synagogue a Doura-Europos," Syria 20/1
(1939) 23—34.

25 Sukenik, Beit ha-Kneset, 157—59.

Du Mesnil du Buisson's edition of the Dura parchment, the two greatest
Talmudists of the twentieth century, Saul Lieberman and Louis Ginzberg,
each independently offered some brief comments on rabbinic parallels to
the parchment. Lieberman's findings were presented in a brief appendix to
a 1940 Hebrew pamphlet published in Jerusalem, A Lecture on the Yemenite
Midrashim, Their Character and Value. Ginzberg discussed the parchment
in the course of his Hebrew Commentary on the Palestinian Talmud, pub-
lished in New York in 1942. 2S The comments of Lieberman, Ginzberg, and
later of archaeologist Sukenik (who had originally brought the parchment to
Lieberman's attention) 27 are virtually unknown beyond the Hebrew- speaking
academy. The most important study on this parchment, since Sukenik's study,
was published in 1997 by Israeli art historian Shulamit Laderman, who built
on Lieberman's discussion of the relationship between the Dura parchment
and later liturgical poetry {piyyut). Laderman used the Dura parchment as
a jumping-off point for interpreting the Dura paintings in terms of themes
developed in piyyut literature. 28

Three fragments of this animal-skin parchment are extant. The largest
and most complete, fragment "A," is 5.5 x 5 cm. Fragment "B," which is much
less complete is 5 x 3.5 cm, and the third piece, called a "tiny scrap" in the
final report, is only 1.3 x 0.8 cm. 29 Du Mesnil du Buisson suggested that frag-
ments A and B are not contiguous (contra Torrey), which is clearly correct.
The alignment suggested by Du Mesnil du Buisson, with which I concur, is
based on the arc of a curved scratch that appears on both fragments. In the
final report of manuscripts discovered at Dura, C. Bradford Welles rightly
notes that "the upper fragment [frg. A] contains the top margin of the original
sheet, and the lower fragment contains the bottom margin, probably" 30 The
fragments are written by the same rather pedestrian hand. They are written
in Jewish square script, called by the rabbis Ktav Ashurit, "Assyrian script,"
called today Jewish square script. 31 The letter forms, written in black ink,

26 S. Lieberman, Yemenite Midrashim: A Lecture on the Yemenite Midrashim, Their Character
and Value (Jerusalem: Bamberger and Wahrmann, 1940) 40—41 [Heb.]; L. Ginzberg,^4 Commentary
on the Palestinian Talmud (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1941) 3:355 [Heb.].

27 Lieberman thanks Sukenik for bringing the parchment and Du Mesnil du Buisson's publica-
tion to his attention. Sukenik was apparently unaware of Ginzberg 's comments, which are couched
in a literary commentary and hence not readily accessible to the nonspecialist.

28 See the recent discussion by S. Laderman, "A New Look at the Second Register of the West
Wall in Dura Europos," Cahiers Archeologiques 45 (1997) 5—18.

29 The letter bet is readily seen on this fragment through computer enhancement, though its
original location in the manuscript may not be determined.

30 C.B. Welles, R.O. Fink, and J. F. Gilliam, Parchments and Pa lions at Dura
Europos— Final Report V, Part 1 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1959) 75.

31 m. Meg. 1:8, 2: 2.

are consistent with those that were used in Aramaic inscriptions within the
synagogue, particularly those written in ink on two preserved ceiling tiles
bearing Aramaic dedicatory inscriptions. 32 There is evidence of scoring on
the surface of the parchment, which parallels line-markings on the ceiling
tiles. 33 Eight lines of fragment A and the very top of line 9 are extant. Seven
lines of frg. B are extant. The preserved sections of the text are reasonably
clear, particularly when enhanced through computer imaging. The last two
lines of frg. B, as well as details of both fragments, were deciphered thanks
to these technological advancements.

Fragment A:

□Vm -fin X -|-ra
. . , 7 nana nipa 93

. , . S 71DR7 D1X HP®

aa mxm nvu . . .

nana D7a -pa"?

.. .n. .B, . .

jpnV...

. . . N7 mrnfDp

7a73tt

mum nfti Va

. . . nao 7am V . . .

^la^ iteti

Blessed is X, king of the world/eternity

apportioned food, provided si

sons of flesh cattle to .

created man to eat of . .

many bodies of . . .

to bless all cattle

o (eat?)

pure (animals) tc

provides

small and large

all the animals of the field .

. . . feed their young

and sing and bless"

Even in this fragmentary state, this document provides ample evidence of
the liturgical life of Jews at Dura. The language is rich in phraseology that

32 S. A. Birnbaum, The Hebrew Scripts (Leiden: Brill, 1971) 1:180—83.

33 See C. Sirat, Les papyrus en caracteres hebra'iques trouves en Egypte (Paris: Editions du
Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1985) 27, pi. 3.

34 So Sirat, ibid., 27.

35 Sukenik: imp. Du Mesnil du Buisson: V3 1 ? rtTfja.

36 Sukenik conjectures cleverly, "pure [animals] to eat: [VdJxV mi[T1Dj ^ID. The right leg of the
"hay" rmn[Dl is visible under computer enhancement. An alternate translation is ". . . pure, do not. .

Alternately, yD 1 TttP or ■pai-pBT.

closely parallels rabbinic and Cairo Geniza documents. In fact, had this text
been discovered in Tiberias, Pumbedita, or some other rabbinic center, no
one would doubt that it was a rabbinic document. If it had been discovered
in the Cairo Geniza, the Byzantine period providence of the text (though not
the script) would not be doubted. For the sake of illustration, I will suggest
some literary parallels to the text.

A-l. ubV7\ "fVQ X TTa "Blessed is X, king of the w

"Blessed" ("[VQ) plus a divine name ap-
pears as an introductory formula in biblical
and Second Temple period texts. The entire
phrase, however, finds no parallel prior to
the rabbinic introductory blessing formula
"Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the
world/eternity" 38 Reuven Kimelman notes
that this formula first appears in rabbinic
literature during the mid-third century. 39
Kimelman, with earlier interpreters, notes
that the rabbinic formula certainly resonates
with our text.

The use of abbreviations for divine names
and for liturgical formulae is well known in
rabbinic literature.40 M. Beit-Arie notes that
in a palimpsest that predates the eighth cen-
tury, now in Munich, the sign X is used as an
abbreviation for the divine name Elohim and
that, in early Cairo Geniza documents, sub-
stituting the letter aleph, also for Elohim (and
its derivative forms), is common. Beit-Arie is
certainly correct, contrary to most previous
interpreters, that the form following THO in

rid/eternity

Fig. 3. The Dura Europos Hebrew
Liturgical Parchment. (Courtesy
of the Beinecke Rare Book
and Manuscript Library, Yale
University.

38 B. Nitzan, Qumran Prayer and Religious Poetry (Leiden: Brill, 1994) 72—78, esp. 76; J.
Heinemann, Prayer in tin and Patterns (trans. R. Sarason; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1977)
77—103.

39 y. Berakhot 9:1, 12d; b. Berakhot 40b. R. Kimelman, "Blessing Formulae and Divine Sov-
ereignty in Rabbinic Literature," 1—39 in Liturgy in the Life of the Synagogue, (Winona Lake, IN:
Eisenbrauns, 2005).

40 On divine names, see: J. Z. Lauterbach, "Substitutes for the Tetragrammaton," PAAJR 2
(1930—31) 39—67. E.g., t. Shabbat 13:4, and the parallels cited by Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-fshutah,
3:205—6.

line 1 of the Dura parchment is to be read as an X. 41 Comparison of this sign
with the letter a aleph elsewhere in the parchment certainly suggests that it is
an X, though the obvious similarity between an X and an aleph is clear. 42 One
wonders whether the use of this abbreviation at Dura reflects an attempt to
avoid writing a divine name, as is clearly the case in the Munich palimpsest,
paralleling (or perhaps signifying an even stronger connection to) rabbinic
concerns known from Palestinian and Babylonian sources regarding the defile-
ment of divine names and particularly regarding the writing of prayer texts. 43
The phrase "blessed is God, king of the world/eternity" ( absn ~ftQ ) is
paralleled in an Aramaic dedicatory inscription uncovered adjacent to the
synagogue in insula K 8. Joseph Naveh credibly reads the relevant section of
the inscription as follows:

[Dip 3V7 l]tH Remembered for good before

[TDN X'OllZ? 'ID The Lord 44 of heaven, amen

The Aramaic appellation "Lord of heaven" (}P8© *Tb) appears in rabbinic
sources, as well as in a papyrus from Egypt and a synagogue inscription from
Horvat Amudim in the Upper Galilee. 45 While not an exact parallel to our
Hebrew text, the sense of this inscription is quite similar in conception to
that expressed in our parchment.

41 M. Beit-Arie, "The Munich Palimpsest: A Hebrew Scroll Written before the Eighth Cen-
tury," Kirjat Sepher 43 (1967—68) 415 [Heb.]. The Lone Exception is Teicher, "Ancient Eucharistic,"
100 — 109, who reads the X as representing Christos. Ginzberg, A Commentary, 3:355, writes:

It is interesting that on the parchment . . . the [divine] name does not appear. It rather begins:
oVlsn "|V» 'S Hi: . Similarly, in the Erfurt manuscript of the Tosefta the [divine] name does
not appear in a single blessing [formula] (and in the Tractate Berakhot approximately forty
blessings are mentioned!). Even in the printed edition of the Tosefta the [divine] name was
removed in most places . This is not because they [made a practice of] not writing the [divine]
name, for [divine] names appear often in prayers and in Torah verses in the Tosefta. Rather,
[they did not write the divine name] in blessings because it was their practice to abbreviate
and to write [simply] "blessed" or "blessed are you." (my translation)

42 See lines 4, 5.

43 See Lauterbach, Substitutes. E.g., t. Shabbat 13:4, and the parallels cited by Lieberman,
Tosefta Ki-fshutah, 3:205—6.

44 Or "master," M. Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan
University Press, 1990) 331.

45 J. Naveh, On Stone and Mosaic: The Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Ancient Syna-
gogues (Israel: Maariv, 1978) 40—41 [Heb.], interpreted following M. Sokoloff, "Epigraphical Notes
on the Palestinian Talmud," Bar Ilan Annual 18—19 (1980) 218 n. 2 [Heb.]; J. Naveh, "The Aramaic
and Hebrew Inscriptions from Ancient Synagogues," Eretz Israel 20 (1989) 306—7 [Heb.].

A-2. rm]0 1'pnn pTO p^n . . ."apportioned food, provided sustenance . . ."

The phrase "apportioned food" arm p^rti pTD p^lt parallels the rabbinic
"apportions food" ipTO pVn ), which appears first in m. Sheviit 9:8 and later in
Midrash Psalms 136: ". . . the Holy One, blessed be He, sits at the heights of
the universe and apportions food i|1TD P70 ) to all living things." 46 Lieberman
notes that the formula "apportioned food" appears in Geniza fragments of
the blessing after meals. 47 This text praises God, who "apportioned sustain-
ing food for all that He created (XT3 tWX VdV n'TO pm ppnnii." 48 This parallel
adequately explains the letter mem at the end of this line of our parchment.
It is likely that this final word may be read TTTID, "food."

A-3. ... V nana "ltt>3 "'ja "sons of flesh cattle to . . ."

"Sons of flesh" appears in the paragraph following the Alenu prayer, "and
all sons of flesh will call upon your name." 49 It is not otherwise a common
idiom in rabbinic literature. The relationship between the terms in line A-3
is unclear. One might conjecture that the text read something like: "[gives
to] sons of flesh cattle to [eat]."

A-4. ...a *?X}&b D1X IS"* "created man to eat of. . ."

The term DIN "IX"', "created man," is a common phrase in rabbinic liturgy.
The phrase naana onxn nx IX" 1 "I1PX appears, for example, in the blessing
after meals as preserved in y. Berakhot 9:4, 14b. In b. Ketubot 8a this phrase
appears as part of the marriage blessings:

a. Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, creator of man (qtx yz">).

b. Blessed are you, Lord our God, king of the universe, who created man (nx "I3f*
Dixn), in his image a likeness of his form [woman], and established (ppnn) it
for him as an eternal structure.

c. Blessed are you, Lord, creator of man (qtx ly)-

The appearance of the praises onxn nx IX' and ppnm in such close proximity
in the intermediate blessing (line b) parallels the language of our fragment,
where ppnn appears in line 2 and apparently in line 8. 50 This proximity does not
seem to relate to function, however, as much as to shared liturgical vocabulary.

AS. . . . oa man tit% u many bodies of. . ."

46 Midrash Tehillim (ed. S. Buber; Vilna: Romm; repr., New York: Om, 1947) 136.

47 Lieberman, Yemenite Midrashim.

48 Published by A. Marmorstein, "Shibolim" Ha-Zofeh: Quartalis Hebraica 10 (1926) 213. See
also L. Finkelstein, "The Birkat Ha-Mazon,"/Q« 8 (1928-29) 243, 246.

49 Seder Avodat Yisrael (ed. Z. Baer; Palestine: Schoken, 1937) 132.

50 The most recent discussion of this prayer and parallel uses is by M. Bar-Ilan, "The Occur-
rence and Significance of Yotser ha'Adam Benediction," HUCA 56 (1985) 9—27 [Heb.].

Lieberman finds a general parallel to this verse in y. Berakhot 4:4, 8b in a
version of the "short prayer" of the Tefillah (lines 2—3):

a - rnSj? ]nsm pano "7m©' -pi> *rm

b - fma bib jnnw ia*rrj38 tiVxt lan^x 'n tf 't nVn

c - Timona *\ rgm rgg VdVi irans rrpi
d - '3i3nn Vip nim© *a 'n inn
e. ..: n^sn vnw » nnx inn

a. The needs of your people Israel are great and their understanding slackened

b. May it be your will, Lord our God and God of our fathers, to give to each and

c. creature its needs, and to each and every body enough to sustain it.

d. Blessed are you, Lord, for you heard the voice of my supplication(s).

e. Blessed are you, Lord, who hears prayer.

L. Ginzberg went a step into higher criticism of the Talmud based on our
fragment, conjecturing that this short prayer formula originated as a form of
the blessing after meals. He based this on "a parchment that was discovered
two years ago next to the synagogue of Dura Europos that parallels [cxno]
the short prayer." 51 Ginzberg conjectures that the opening and closing formu-
lae of this prayer (lines a, d — e) were added to frame the earlier blessing after
meals (lines b— c) and transform it into a "short prayer." To his mind the "short
prayer" achieved widespread acceptance in both Palestine and Babylonia
precisely because it was based on a well-known version of the blessing after
meals, to which an introductory formula was added. For Ginzberg, the Dura
parchment is proof of the wide distribution of this conjectured early bless-
ing after meals. This position is overstated, though, because the similarities
between the Dura text as preserved and the "short prayer" are not that great.
The maintenance of the aleph in the plural form of ITHO"! is not unusual in
either Tannaitic Hebrew or in Palestinian or Babylonian Aramaic.

It does not seem to me that it is possible to suggest any real parallels to
lines A-7— 9 of frg. 1. Fragment 2 is less complete, though considerable infor-
mation may be gleaned from it— especially using computer imaging. B-2, . . .
Hb nnnjUi may translate, with Sukenik, "Pure (animals) to (eat?)," maintain-
ing the general theme of animal consumption, though "pure (things, animals,
etc.) do not . . ." is just as possible. Vl)VDO"provides sustenance" in line B-3
parallels the phrase "provides sustenance for life with love," 10W2 O^n W?:)»in
the Tefillah prayer. |rnV]115 OS? m3Dp"the small and large," in line B-4 is drawn

51 See Ginzberg, A C i. Neither Ginzberg nor Lieberman cites the other, which

suggests that these scholars reached their conclusions independently.

from Ps. 104: 25, "Yonder is the sea, great and wide, which teems with things
innumerable, living things both small and large." Line B-5, "All the animals
of the field" (m^n rrn b~z) is a phrase that appears with some regularity in
Scripture, appearing for the first time in Gen.. 2: 19: "So out of the ground the
Lord God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air." 52 Line B-6,
• • • Q3D ^DKD '?..."... feed their young" is based on a biblical idiom. In Gen.
47: 24 we read: "and for food for your young," rjsgu'? ^DK^V Line B-7, "["131 T1P1
"and sing and bless," are part of a group of prayer terms often brought together
in liturgical texts. So, for example, in the Qaddish prayer, God is praised as
being "beyond all blessing and song (XHTttn NrOIS), praise and consolation
that is uttered in the world." 53

Thus, the Dura parchment is clearly related in language, form and content
to rabbinic prayer texts. The text of our parchment is, like rabbinic prayer,
a conglomeration of rabbinic and biblical formulae, 54 though ancient Jews
certainly did not distinguish the two as clearly as modern academic scholars
tend to do. This linguistic reality parallels the Dura paintings themselves,
where biblical and legendary themes are freely intertwined. The use of the
Hebrew language on our parchment is significant, for it is the only evidence
of a Hebrew text from Dura. All of the inscriptions in or near the synagogue
are in Aramaic, Greek, or Persian, and the only other document that appears
to be Jewish, a parchment whose text has not yet been fully interpreted, is in
Aramaic. 55 The letter script of this document suggests that it was copied at
Dura, or within a community with ties with Dura Europos.

What kind of prayer is this? Following Du Mesnil du Buisson, who conferred
with Chief Rabbi of France and Professor of Talmud Israel Levi, scholars of
Judaic studies agree that this text is somehow related to the grace after meals,
Birkat ha-Mazon. Classicist Torrey took a different tack. 56 He argued that the
parchment should not be seen as a prayer or as a liturgical document:

The document seems to be concerned only with the eating of animal
food, and to set forth in concise terms both the fact and the authority of
the Jewish practice It may be suggested that the time and place were

52 Seejer. 12: 9; Ezek. 31: 6, 13.

53 Seder -Avodat Yisrael, 75; David de Sola Pool, The Old Jewish-Aramaic Prayer: IheKaddish
(Leipzig: Rudolf Haupt, 1909) 17—18, 34, 61—62, which includes discussion of Hebrew versions.

54 C. Rabin, "The Linguistic Investigation of the Language of Jewish Prayer," in Studies in
Aggadah, Targum and Jewish Liturgy in Memory of Joseph Heinemann (ed. J. J. Petuchowski and E.
Fleischer; Jerusalem: Magnes and Hebrew Union College Press, 1981) 163— 71 [Heb.].

55 J. T. Milik, "Parchemin judeo-arameen de Doura-Europos, an 200 ap. J.-C," Syria 4

97 — 104. On languages used at Dura, see G. D. Kilpatrick, "Dura-Europos: The Parchments and the
Papyri," Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 5/3 (1964) 215—25.

56 Torrey, "Parchments and Papyri," in The Excavations at Dura-Europos: Preliminary Report
(ed. M. I. Rostovtzeff et al.; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1936) 419.

perhaps likely to bring forth a tract of this nature. In Persia, on the other
hand, the vegetarian doctrine had its able champion among the Greeks;
it was in this same generation that Porphyry composed his treatise on
abstaining from animal food. 57 Perhaps we have a text prepared for use
in the Jewish school in Dura.
While following Torrey, Kraeling was clearly uncomfortable with the notion
of separating the parchment from the synagogue and locating it within some
"school" for which we have no archaeological evidence. He posits that, "if so,
it may have belonged to the materials used in the Synagogue, though kept
in the Elder's residence [another place that has never been discovered!] or
the school room." 58 In a brief comment, Jacob Neusner takes Kraeling's ap-
proach in a slightly different direction. While accepting that our fragment
is related to the grace after meals, he suggests tentatively that "this may be
an anti-Mithraistic polemical "blessing" condemning taurobolium." 59 This
is apparently based on the fact that a mithraeum is close by in Dura. 60 The
predilection of some scholars to see polemic in every rabbinic tradition is
not useful for understanding our text, however. 61 Only a pagan philosophical
elite doubted the acceptability of meat consumption. 62

Du Mesnil du Buisson went so far as to identify a kosher restaurant in the
synagogue precinct, on the supposition that "it seems to us certain that Jewish
travelers who found lodging in the Synagogue were able to get there suitable
food, together with the ritual formulas to recite after the meal. Such is the
explanation of the liturgical parchment that was found there." 63 Though drawn

57 Torrey, "Parchments and Papyri," in The Excavations atDura-Europos: Preliminary Report
(ed. M. I. Rostovtzeffet al.; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1936) 419.

58 Kraeling, The Synagogue, 259.

59 J. Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia (Leiden: Brill, 1971) 1:153. Taurobolium: the
cultic slaughter of bulls.

60 On the relationships between the various religious buildings at Dura, see: M. H. Gates,
"Dura-Europos: A Fortress of Syro-Mesopotamean Art," BA MIT, (1984) 166—81.

61 The eating of animals does not seem to have been an issue at Dura or for most other residents
of the Roman Empire. Within the Dura mithraeum itself, two graffiti listing foods and their costs were
uncovered. Meat appears on both lists. See: M. J. Vermaseren, ed., Corpus Inscriptionum et Monu-
mentorum Religionis Mithriacae (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1956—60) nos. 64—65. One lists wine, meat,
oil, wood, turnips ... for prices that are illegible. The second lists meat for 19 dinars and 17 asses, a
sauce for 1 dinar, paper for one ass, water and wood for one dinar each, and again wine for 28 dinars
and 11 asses. Many thanks to Matthias Bode for this reference.

62 C. Osborne, "Ancient Vegeterianism," Food in Antiquity (ed. J. Wilkins, D. Harvey, and M.
Dobson; Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1995) 214—24, esp. 218—23 on Porphyry. See also P.
Garnsey, Food and Society in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999)
16—17,83—95.

63 Du Mesnil du Buisson, "Un Parchemin Liturgique Juif," 28. Translated by Teicher, Em

102. Kraeling does not explain his implicit rejection of the interpretation that the fragment was related
to the grace after meals. He seems to have been completely unaware of the opinions of Lieberman,

apparently from the structures of modern Jewish communities and modern
blessing booklets, Du Mesnil du Buisson's suggestion is less far-fetched than
it sounds. A kitchen was discovered adjacent to the Ostia synagogue. 64 Meals
were eaten within Palestinian synagogues at least from the third century
onward. 65 While the exact context is unclear, the Dura parchment suggests
that Jews participated in meals where some form of grace was enacted, either
within or in close proximity to the Dura synagogue.

We have seen that Ginzberg overstates the resemblance between our text
and a version of the rabbinic "short prayer." Lieberman conjectures that the
Dura parchments are a poetic rendition of the grace after meals for a special
occasion. He assumes without discussion that the Dura parchment may be
interpreted unproblematically in terms of Geniza documents that were cop-
ied centuries later (if not composed in later centuries as well) . While parallels
are obvious, analogous social performance of our text may not be assumed.
Sukenik apparently recognized this, simply and correctly asserting that the
fragments are "without a doubt part of a prayer text that is related to the
blessing after meals" (my translation). 66

This parchment thus is very important evidence that the Durene Jewish
community participated in a "Common Judaism" 67 that as early as the third
century used liturgical forms that are known to have been central to the Sages.
This parallels the evidence of the images found in the synagogue, where lore
that is preserved in rabbinic sources and was well known by Jews beyond the
close-knit rabbinic community found visual expression. The Dura parchment
thus provides external support for the scholars, notably Kraeling, Sukenik,
and Gutmann, who interpreted the Dura Europos synagogue paintings in
light of rabbinic sources. Both the liturgical text (as much as we have of it)
and the decoration of the synagogue reflect an amazing closeness to the world
of the rabbinic Sages.

Ginzberg, and Sukenik.

64 M. Floriani Squarciapino, "The Synagogue at Ostia," Archaeology 16/3 (1963) 194 — 203; A.
Runesson, "The Synagogue at Ancient Ostia: The Building and Its History from the First to the Fifth
Century," in The Synagogue of Ancient Ostia and the Jews of Rome: Interdisciplinary Studies (Skrifter
Utgivna av Svenska Institutet I Rome 457; ed. B. Olsson, D. Mitternacht, and O. Brandt; Stockholm:
Paul Astroms, 2001) 46—49.

65 See, for example, m. Zavim 3:2; Bekhorot 5:5; Z. Safrai, "The Communal Functions of the
Synagogue in the Land of Israel in the Rabbinic Period," in Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis
and Archaeological Discovery (ed. D. Urman and P. V. M. Flesher; Leiden: Brill, 1995) 1:197.

66 Sukenik, Beit ha-Kneset, 158.

67 The term "Common Judaism" was coined by E. P. Sanders. The fullest statement is his Juda-
ism: Practice and Belief 63 bee— 66 ce (London and Philadelphia: Trinity International, 1992).

III. Liturgy and the Remains of the Dura Synagogue Building

The scholars who have written about the synagogue of Dura Europos are
completely correct in their claim that the building does not explicitly tell us
very much about the liturgy 68 that took place there. The paintings nevertheless
provide hints of the liturgical practice of this community and inscriptions
provide even more information. The Dura parchment is an important element
of this tapestry suggesting the possibility that parallels to rabbinic prayer and
rabbinic ways of thinking might be fruitfully applied to the interpretation of
this liturgical space. After a survey of liturgical themes that may be drawn
from the remains of the synagogue proper, I will suggest some broader paral-
lels to the themes and concerns of rabbinic prayer.

Within the space of the synagogue hall, the large aedicula dominates the
center of the western wall of the synagogue. It is the focal point of the hall
and keystone of the wall paintings. The presence of Scripture is celebrated
through this massive ark, which the excavators believe was draped in an
ornate curtain. Scripture as refracted through Jewish lore (the aggadah) is
projected out onto the walls of the synagogue, pointing to its centrality in
the ritual life of the community.

The shrine is called a beit arona in one of the Aramaic dedicatory inscrip-
tions that were somewhat haphazardly painted on its facade. 69 The Aramaic
inscription reads:

[I . . . ] donated (or, made) the beit arona. Joseph son of Abba

The term arona to describe the shrine is significant, because it draws a
connection between the Dura "ark" and the Ark of the Covenant. 70 The Ark
of the Covenant, formed as a Torah shrine, appears prominently in the wall
paintings. We see it in West wall panel 8, set within the Tabernacle, with Aaron
the priest standing to its right. The rounded gable of this ark contains the
image of a menorah. The ark is also shown vanquishing the Temple of Dagon
in Ashdod (WB 4) 71 and in North wall panel 2, the defeat of the Israelites at
Eben-Ezer (NB l). 72 This sort of correspondence between the synagogue

68 Under the rubric of liturgy, I place all texts and behaviors related to the ritual event, breaking
down the traditional Jewish distinction between prayer and study. This holistic approach includes
gestures (particularly gestures of approach and recession), the rehearsal of liturgical texts, Scripture
reading, homiletics, and where available music and other aspects of performance.

69 C. Torrey, "The Aramaic Texts, ibn C. H. Kraeling, The Synagogue, 269; Naveh, On Stone
and Mosaic, 133.

70 As I have demonstrated in This Holy Place, 80.

71 The designation used by Kraeling, West wall, band B, panel 4.

72 These images do not suggest the existence of an ornate ceremony for the entrance and re-
moval of the Torah from the synagogue shrine. Cf. J. Gutmann, "Programmatic Painting in the Dura
Synagogue," in The Dura Europos Synagogue (ed. J. Gutmann; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1973)

shrine and the Ark of the Covenant is expressed in rabbinic literature as well,
as in the comment of Rabbi Huna the Elder of Sepphoris, who is said to have
lamented on the occasion of a public fast that:

Our fathers covered it (the Ark of the Covenant) with gold, and we cover it (the

Torah ark) with ashes. 73

The iconographic correspondence between the Torah shrine at Dura and
the image of the Temple is also seen in the entrance portal of the Temple
illustrated on the face of the Torah ark. Like the Torah shrine, it is crowned
with a large conch shell. 74

The paintings at the center of the western wall were arrayed to highlight
the centrality of the Torah shrine. Two rectangular panels containing por-
traits of standing men, one above the other, were placed on either side of a
central panel above the ark, a symmetry that is unknown elsewhere in the
synagogue. Each faces frontally, "looking" outward from his panel. These im-
ages are more iconic than narrative, making the identification of these biblical
characters difficult for modern scholars. One image is of particular relevance
to us. Above and to the right of the Torah shrine (Wing panel III), the image
of a man holding a biblical scroll emphasizes the significance of Scripture
in the synagogue. The community's intimate knowledge of biblical scrolls is
made clear in this image. The text of Scripture is shown bleeding through the
back of the parchment, a phenomenon that is common with modern biblical
scrolls as well. 75 By showing this detail, our artist emphasizes the words on
the scroll even as its text is turned toward the reader. The animal skin upon
which our liturgical parchment was copied is important evidence for the
types of holy books used at Dura and sheds light on the material of the biblical
scroll illustrated here. Similarly, this illustration teaches us about the size of

147—48; idem, The Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Reevaluation (1932—1992) (Atlanta: Scholar's Press,
1992) xxi. In the most recent version, "The Synagogue of Dura Europos," 81 — 82. On early Torah cer-
emonials, see Fine, This Holy Place, 77; R. Langer, "From Study of Scripture to a Reenactment of Sinai:
The Emergence of the Synagogue Torah Service," Worship 72/1 (1998) 43—67, and her contribution
to this volume (pp. 121—159).

73 y. Taan. 2:1, 65a. See my This Holy Place, 89—80, 145.

74 The conch was a form used to frame religious images during Greco-Roman antiquity.
It appears often within other religious buildings of Dura Europos. See Kraeling, The Synagogue,
22 — 25, 55 — 61; S. Downey, Mesopotamian Religious Architecture: Alexander through the Parthi-
ans (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988) 89, 97, 107—8, 110, 113—14, 116, 118, 120, 128,
and bibliography cited there. See M. Bratschkova, "Die Muschel in der antiken Kunst," Bulletin de
l'lnstitut Archeologique Bulgare 12/1 (1938) 1—121.

75 Kraeling argues against this being an illustration of a Torah scroll on the basis of the fact
that no supporting staves are visible (The Synagogue, 234 n. 993). Such staves are found on modern
Torah scrolls of later invention and are not used by numerous Near Eastern communities. Note that
biblical scrolls from Qumran had no such staves.

the Durene scrolls. 76 Extant Jewish and non-Jewish scrolls from this period
did not exceed 39 cm in length, 77 as is the case of the scroll in proportion to
the man's forearm. The intimate knowledge of the community with biblical
scrolls is made clear in this image.

Garments that are very similar to those illustrated in the synagogue (and
throughout Dura Europos) were uncovered at Dura. 78 The man is illustrated
with fringes at the right corner of his four-cornered mantle, in keeping with
Num. 15: 37—41. Elsewhere in the Dura synagogue paintings, we find fringes
on the corners of the garments of Moses as he leads the Israelites through
the Red Sea (Western wall, register A, Moses on Mt. Sinai [Wing panel II] as
well). 79 This is not, of course, a prayer shawl in the sense of the later Jewish
ritual garment. There was no distinctive Jewish costume during antiquity 80
Nevertheless, the visible fringe is a rather quiet insider reference to Jewish
practice that might easily be missed by those not cognizant of Jewish prac-
tice. Mantles (talitot) that bear great affinity to those illustrated at Dura
were uncovered among the remains of the Bar Kokhba era rebels at Wadi
Murabbaat in the Judean Desert, though no ritual fringes were attached
to these mantles. Also discovered was a bundle of wool died purple that Y.
Yadin identifies as ritual fringes that were being prepared for attachment to
garments. 81 The garments illustrated at Dura thus find an important parallel
in the material culture of late antique Jewish Palestine. Similarly, the man's

76 The image is proportional to the size of the scroll that he holds. On scroll sizes, see S. Fine
and M. Delia Pergola, "The Ostia Synagogue and Its Torah Shrine," in The Jews of Ancient Rome
(ed. J. Goodnick Westenholz; Jerusalem: Bible Lands Museum) 42 — 57.

77 Ibid., 57.

78 See R. Pfister and L. Bellinger, The Textiles: The Excavations at Dura-Europos— Final
Report iv, Part 2 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1945) 10—12, esp. tunic #1, pi. 5. Even as they
provide concrete parallels to the garments illustrated in the wall paintings, our authors caution that
the paintings "may be copied from earlier models" (p. 10). See B. Goldman, "The Dura Synagogue
Costumes and Parthian Art," in The Dura-Europos Synagogue: A Re-evaluation (ed. J. Gutmann;
Chambersburg, Penn.: American Academy of Religion, 1972) 52—77; idem, "Greco-Roman Dress
in Syro-Mesopotamia," in The World of Roman Costume (ed. J. L. Sebesta and L. Bonfante; Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 1994) 163 — 81; L. A. Roussin, "Costume in Roman Palestine: Ar-
chaeological Remains and the Evidence of the Mishnah," in The World of Roman Costume, 182—90.

79 Kraeling, The Synagogue, 81 n. 239, suggests a Palmyrene parallel to the fringes, concluding
that "in all probability those viewing the paintings would take the threads to represent the 'fringes,'
but whether they were included by the artists for this purpose is not entirely clear."

80 S. Safrai and Z. Safrai, The Haggadah of the Sages: The Passover Haggadah (Jerusalem:
Carta, 1998) 133 n. 14 [Heb.], and the bibliography cited there.

81 Y. Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters (Jerusalem: Israel
Exploration Society, 1963) 1:226—58, 289—92 [Heb.]; idem, Bar-Kokhba: The Rediscovery of the
Legendary Hero of the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome (New York: Random, 1971) 81—85.

hairstyle is consistent with hairstyles illustrated throughout Dura Europos
and the Roman east. 82 This is truly a man of his place and time.

Who is the man holding the scroll? Scholars have posited every possible
identification— any biblical character who at any time carried a scroll. 83
One scholar went so far as to suggest that the man
is a rabbinic Sage, Rabbi Judah the Prince, proclaim-
ing the Oral Torah. 84 84 Every narrative image in the
synagogue illustrates a biblical character, so it is
reasonable to suggest that our man with a scroll is a
biblical character as well. Kraeling debated whether
to identify this image as Moses or as Ezra— Moses on
the basis of Exodus 20 and its later interpretations
and Ezra on the basis of Nehemiah 8. He eventually
chose Ezra, mainly because no biblical text explicitly
describes Moses reading the Torah! 85 1 suggest that
this image should be identified as none other than
Moses, the archetypal Sage in Second Temple and
rabbinic times. The rabbinic notion of transmission
is that "Moses received Torah from Sinai, and passed
it on to Joshua, and Joshua to the Elders," through
the prophets to the earliest proto-Sages (the "Men
of the Great Assembly"), and continuing unbroken
to rabbis in our own day 86 The revelation of Torah
at Sinai through Moses is expressed in Nehemiah
8, where the public reading of Scripture on the first
day of the seventh month is led by Ezra, the "priest
and the scribe." This event is clearly modeled on the
Sinaitic prototype and derives its authority from the "book of Moses." 87 From
tannaitic times onward, the public reading of Torah has been modeled on

82 Kraeling, The Synagogue, 371—72. On the significance of hairstyles for art-historical interpre-
tation, see R. Brilliant, "Hairiness: A Matter of Style and Substance in Roman Portraits," Eius Virtutis
Studiosi: Classical and Postclassical Studies inMemory of Frank Edward Brown (1098—1988) (ed.
R. T. Scott, A. R. Scott; Washington, D.C.: National Gallery of Art, 1993) 303—14.

83 See Gutmann, "Early Synagogue and Jewish Catacomb Art and Its Relation to Christian
Art," 1317.

84 L. Denqueker, "Le Zodiaque de la Synagogue de Beth Alpha et la Midrash," Bijdragen,
tijdschrift voor filosofie en theologie 47 (1986) 26. Denqueker further identifies the figure in Wing
panel IV as Rabban Gamaliel proclaiming the lunar calendar.

85 Kraeling, The Synagogue, 234.

86 m. Avot 1: 1. See G. D. Cohen's comments in his edition of Abraham Ibn Daud, The Book
of Tradition (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1967) xliii— lxii.

87 See most recently H. Najman, "Torah of Moses: Pseudonymous Attribution in Second

Fig. 4. Moses with a
scroll, Dura Europos
Synagogue (courtesy of
the E. R. Good-enough
estate). Photograph by
Fred Anderegg.

Nehemiah 8, and numerous sources beginning with Josephus and the Acts of
the Apostles attribute the institution of public Torah-reading to Moses him-
self. 88 The "man with the scroll" at Dura is, then, both Moses and, derivatively,
a Torah-reader who in some way carries the authority of Moses by virtue of
his public reading and/ or interpretation of Scripture in third-century Dura
Europos. The Jews of Dura projected their physical appearance onto Moses
and the other biblical characters in a visual manner, just as Second Temple
and rabbinic lore assumed continuity between the mores and material culture
of their own world and that of the biblical ancestors. 89

This image of Moses is the visual equivalent of rabbinic texts that consis-
tently present Moses in contemporizing terms, and even as a Sage in Roman
garb. A superb example of the latter appears in an early liturgical poem:

Moses was pleased with the gift that you bestowed upon him,

For you called him a faithful servant.

A wreath of glory J0 you placed on his head,

As he stood before you on Mt. Sinai. 91

Here Moses' master, God, praises him and presents him with a wreath as a
sign of divine pleasure and authority. Similar use of wreaths is well known
from the Greco-Roman world. 92 The poet asks us to imagine Moses with a

Temple Writings," in Interpretation of Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity: Studies in Lan-
guage and Tradition (ed. C. A. Evans; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000) 202—16. For Ezra
in rabbinic literature, see L. Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society,
1954) 4:354—59, 6:441—49.

88 Against Apion, 2.175; Acts 15:21, y. Meg. 4:1, 75a; b. Baba Qama 82a. See I. Elbogen, Jewish
Liturgy: A Comprehensive History (trans. R. P. Scheindlin; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society,
1993) 130 pp. 3-6.

89 The literature on this type of projection is vast. For Josephus, see: L. Feldman, Josephus'
Interpretation of the Bible (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1998); for targu-
mic literature: S. Fine, " 'Their Faces Shine with the Brightness of the Firmament': Study Houses and
Synagogues in the Targumim to the Pentateuch," in Bible Translation in Context (Studies and Texts
in Jewish History and Culture 10; ed. F W. Knobloch; Bethesda, Md.: University Press of Maryland,
2002) 63 — 92. For medieval examples, see my "Halakhic Motif in Jewish Iconography: Matzah-Baking
in Late Medieval Southern Germany," in A Crown for a King: Studies in Memory of Prof. Stephen S.
Kayser (ed. S. Fine, S. Sabar, and W. Kramer; Berkeley: Magnes Museum / Jerusalem: Gefen, 2000)
111.

90 See 1QS 4:7—8; 1QH" 17:25—26; lQ28b 4:2; and the discussion by D. Flusser in his in-
troduction to H. Schreckenberg and K. Schubert, Jewish Historiography and Iconography in Early
and Medieval Christianity (Assen/Maastricht: Van Gorcum / Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991) xvii. See
alsoM. Jastrow, Dictionary of the Targumim, the TalmudBabli, and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic
Literature (New York: Traditional Press, 1982) 642; Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Ara-
maic, 260.

91 Incorporated into the Sabbath morning Teflllah. See, for example, Seder Avodat Israel, 219.

92 K. Baus, DerKranz inAntike und Christentum (Bonn, 1940); R. E. Kolarik, "Wreath," Oxford
Dictionary of Byzantium (ed. A. P. Kazhdan; New York: Oxford University Press, 1991) 2205.

wreath on his head, which parallels very nicely our image of the Law-giver
in his Roman garments at Dura.

The Durene assumption that biblical characters wore ritual fringes is par-
alleled in rabbinic sources. Among the most piquant, Babylonian Talmud
Baba Batra 73b — 74a describes one Rabba bar Hanna, who viewed "those
who died in the desert" and tried, unsuccessfully, to take a bit of the blue
string from their ritual fringes. 93 In short, the images at Dura, and particularly
that of Moses with the Torah scroll, suggest a strong parallel with rabbinic
assumptions and patterns of behavior in matters of dress and performance.
This has implications for the performance of other commandments as well. 94

Since our parchment establishes that at least some Durene Jews prayed in
Hebrew, it seems reasonable to suggest that they may also have recited Scrip-
ture in that language. The longer Aramaic labels on some of the synagogue's
images hint that an Aramaic translation or paraphrase may also have been
recited at Dura — whether together with the Hebrew, as was rabbinic practice
in both Palestine and in Babylonia, or perhaps (less likely) on its own. Between
the legs of Moses in the Exodus scene we read: arrsn ]1H pD3 13 niz?o X?DN'> imt.
That is, "Moses when he went out of Egypt and split the sea." 95 Above his head
later in this scene, we find: KttN 1 s[l]2 "id twq. "Moses when he split the sea." 96
This language is very close to Aramaic paraphrases of the Torah. Targum
Neofiti, the only complete Palestinian paraphrase of the Torah, comments
on Exod. 14: 16: "Raise your staff and incline your hand over the sea and split
it (niT 2JT21)." 97 Targum Onkelos, which was essentially Babylonian, preserves
a similar reading. 98 Comparing the language mix in the synagogue with the
languages used in documents recovered throughout Dura Europos, George
D. Kilpatrick finds that "it is remarkable that the largest number of texts is
in Aramaic." 99 Aramaic was a significant language among the Jews of this
community and, like the liturgical use of Hebrew, distinguished them from
their neighbors.

93 The most recent discussion of this text is D. Stein, "Believing is Seeing: Baba Batra 73a —
75b," Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 17 (1999) 9—32 [Heb.].

94 Scholars have interpreted the cloth-covered structure next to "Moses" as a scroll chest,
which is possible, though not conclusive. See Kraeling, The Synagogue, 233 — 34.

95 WA3. Torrey, "The Aramaic Texts," 269.

96 WA3. Torrey, "The Aramaic Texts," 270.

97 Neophyti 1: Targum Palestinense Ms de la Biblioteca Vaticana (ed. A. Diez Macho; Madrid:
Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientif icas, 1968) ad loc; Targum Pseudo- Jonathan of the Pen-
tateuch: Text and Concordance (ed. E. G. Clarke; Hoboken, N.J.: Ktav, 1984) ad loc. This parallel was
pointed out to me by the late Jonas Greenfield.

98 TSBEfi. See The Bible in Aramaic I: The Pentateuch according to Targum Onkelos (ed. A.
Sperber; Leiden: Brill, 1959) ad loc.

99 Kilpatrick, "Dura-Europos: The Parchments and the Papyri," 216.

The Dura paintings also seem to illustrate prayer postures that were known,
and perhaps practiced, by Jews at Dura. In the image of "The Wilderness
Encampment and the Miraculous Well of Be'er" 100 we find personifications
of each of the twelve tribes within their tents, their arms raised in an orans
posture, their hands lifted upward toward heaven, as water flows from the
well to each tribe. Similarly, in the Ezekiel panel, the revived "dry bones": of
the Ezekiel panel (NCI) also stand in an orans posture. Is this indicative of a
prayer stance taken by the Durene Jews, or is it simply a visual convention?
Significantly, Christians assumed this stance; it appears in the Dura church
in the image of Jesus walking on water. 101 Did Jews employ this gesture as
well? Welles suggests that one of the extant Aramaic dedicatory ceiling tiles
("B") concludes: IP'T | fOID . . . rnu? VDU'each Sabbath . . . spreading out [their
hands] in it (in prayer)." Our author is quite cautious in his interpretation:
In the second half of the line the two letters 01 are distinct. Since the suffixed
pronoun at the beginning of line 9 presumably refers to the Synagogue, it is
tempting to conjecture that the two letters named belong to some form of the
verb 019, which is so often used in the phrase "spreading out the hands in prayer."
This is mere conjecture and very possibly wrong." 102

If Welles is right, however, this tile nicely parallels the images of biblical
ancestors adapting the orans position. Rabbinic literature of this period
does not mention the orans as a prayer stance, though silence is not always
evidence of historical fact. 103 Synagogue art from Palestine indicates that the
orans position may have been used by Jews during the fifth or sixth century 104
Was this prayer stance assumed by Jews at Dura as well?

Alternately, the image identified by Kraeling as Abraham in Wing panel IV
stands with his hands clasped under his robe. 105 This clasping of hands was a
prayer stance in the Babylonian diaspora. B. Shabbat 10a relates the practice
of two Babylonian Amoraim:

100 WBl.

101 C. H. Kraeling, The Christian Building, with a contribution by C. Bradford Welles (New
Haven: Dura Europos, 1967) pis. 36 — 37. Compare Kraeling's comments, p. 63. Kraeling suggests
that the hands are "raised high in a gesture of astonishment and all face toward Christ and Peter in
the lower zone." Even if he is correct, it seems to me that this "astonishment" (if that is what it is!) is
expressed through a known liturgical form, superimposing the prayer stance of this community onto
the biblical scene.

102 In Kraeling, The Synagogue, 266. Cf. Naveh, On Stone and Mosaic, 127 — 30.

103 Compare U. Ehrlich, The Non-Verbal Language of Jewish Prayer (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1999)
106—15 [Heb.].

104 Fine, "The Liturgical."

105 For the varied identifications of this image, see Gutmann, The Dura-Europos Synagogue: A
Re-evaluation, 142.

When Rabba prayed, he removed his cloak, folded his hands and prayed,
saying, " [I pray] like a slave before his master."

Said Rav Ashi: I saw Rav Kahana; when there was trouble in the world,
he removed his cloak, folded his hands and prayed, saying, "[I pray] like
a slave before his master." 106

Did Jews at Dura stand with hands folded in prayer, or perhaps did they
assumed the orans posture? Perhaps neither, and perhaps both, depending on
their understanding of the meaning of the gestures. Perhaps both approaches
were taken, just as three languages were spoken by Jews who frequented the
synagogue. Perhaps some members of the community assumed one stance,
and some, the other. Being a border city, Dura certainly had a mixed Jewish
population, and that population must have had varied customs.

The Dura paintings have long served as a sort of Rorschach test for modern
identities and scholarly approaches (including, of course, my own) . As with the
Sepphoris synagogue mosaic, intricate global approaches are more indicative
of Renaissance sensibilities and of modern scholarly modes of thought than
ancient Jewish ones. 107 The fact that only the western wall is fully preserved,
slices of the side walls, and virtually none of the back wall is complicated by
problems of identifying some of the less-complete images. The extant Dura
synagogue paintings do not seem to reflect a carefully structured consecutive
order, on the pattern of a modern comic book or art-history survey (or the
final report of the Dura synagogue), where image number 1 leads to image
number 2, and so on. It is my sense that once the Torah shrine paintings, the
panel above them, and the four flanking images of men were in place, the
designer(s), perhaps the "building committee" listed on the dedicatory ceil-
ing tiles, arranged groups of somewhat related images on the walls. Some
images, such as those detailing the movements of the Ark of the Covenant,
were grouped together, and others stood alone. The image of Moses with
the scroll, the crossing of the sea, and Pharaoh's daughter rescuing Moses
are grouped on the same wall to the right of the Torah shrine; this does not
seem haphazard to me. The second band of the western wall is unified by the
fact that each scene contains a gabled image of the Tabernacle or the Temple,
with the gabled Temple of Dagon to the far right. The placement of Samuel
anointing David above the chair where the synagogue leader, Samuel, seems
to have sat, may have had local political implications; as would images of
local Dura gods destroyed in the Temple of Dagon and of the unsuccessful
sacrifice by the priests of Baal (temples to the Palmyrene gods, including Bel

106 Ibid., 143; Ehrlich, The Non-Verbal Language of Jewish Prayer, 108-9.

107 E.g., G. Vasari, The Lives of the Painters, Sculptors, and Architects (London: Dent / New
York: Dutton, 1949); Wharton, Refiguring, 43.

and Zeus-Kyrios-Baalshamin, existed at Dura). 108 These discredited deities
are set in opposition to images from the biblical cult, from Elijah's success-
ful sacrifice, to Aaron at the Tabernacle, and the averted sacrifice (aqedah)
of Isaac, and images of the Temple and menorah on the face of the Torah
shrine. 109 Unfortunately, the central panel of the western wall, just above
the Torah shrine, was repainted so often that it is hard to know what was
originally there. The fact that this area was reworked, however, is evidence of
how important this area of the paintings was to the community. Of particular
interest is the image of David playing his harp. This image is an important
connection to the themes of David as psalmist, king, and messiah. The artis-
tically adept might have recognized formal similarities between David and
Orpheus, though others probably did not take notice. 110 That certain paintings
were particularly popular is reflected in the Persian graffiti that is preserved
on them. Not surprisingly, these panels were easily within reach because they
were in the lowest register. Were they popular because they were low on the
wall, or were they in the bottom register because the themes were popular?
This we shall never know, just as we shall never know what treasures existed
on the 40 or 50 percent of the walls, which did not survive.

There is no overarching, global theme to the paintings— as much as many
modern scholars would like to find one. One might imagine a preacher within
the synagogue turning to the images and using them to homiletic effect— and
to different effects, according to the content of his homily. The use of syna-
gogue decorations as "props" by homilists is known from rabbinic sources,
as is a similar process within somewhat later church contexts. 111 There was
no one exclusive meaning for each image, but, rather, a range of intercon-
nected interpretations were possible. 112 The preacher likely interpreted the
images differently depending on what lesson he was teaching, the audience,
the liturgical calendar, or the particular text that he was explicating. The vast
quantity of images at Dura certainly facilitate an astonishing wide variety of
possibilities! This approach fits well with the rabbinic midrashic approach
to Scripture itself. Wharton associates this with chaos theories in modern

108 L. Dirven, The Palmyrenes of Dura-Europos: A Study of Religious Interaction in Roman
Syria (Leiden: Brill, 1999), esp. 67—98, 115—17. Wharton, Refiguring, 45. See now J. Eisner, "Cultural
Resistance and the Visual Image: The Case of Dura Europos," Classical Philology 96/3 (2001) 281. See
also pp. 282—99.

109 WB1,WB2,WB3,SC4.

110 P. V. M. Flesher," Rereading the Reredos: David, Orpheus, and Messianism in the Dura
Europos Synagogue," in Ancient Synagogues: Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery (ed.
D. Urman and P. V. M. Flesher; Leiden: Brill, 1995) 2:346—66.

111 M. Bregman, "The Darshan: Preacher and Teacher of Talmudic Times," The Melton Journal
14 (1982) posted at http://www.jtsa.edu/melton/bestof/darshan.html.

112 Wharton, Refiguring, 45—47; S. Fine, "Art and the Liturgical Context."

i lk^

rfin |

^*®%zmy 1

fig. 5. The Ark of the Covenant in the Temple ofDagon, Dura Europos Synagogue
(reprinted courtesy of the E. R. Goodenough estate). Photograph by Fred Anderegg.

literary scholarship, though the model proposed here fits better with the
"organic thinking" that Max Kadushin and Isaak Heinemann 113 in somewhat
different ways suggested were operative in rabbinic thought. This hypothesis
would be reasonable as interpretations of the synagogue without the Dura
parchments. Once again, the Dura liturgical parchment, containing prayer
formulae so close to the world of the rabbinic Sages, warrants a more sustained
interpretation of the synagogue in light of rabbinic literature.

The Dura synagogue served not only as a setting for study and exegesis but
for liturgical prayer in the more-specific sense of the word. This, it seems to
me, is one of the lessons of the Dura parchment: that at least some Jews in
Dura prayed in forms that we know from rabbinic circles. For strictly heuristic
purposes, let us imagine that the Dura Jewish community also prayed the most
central rabbinic prayer, the Tefillah. ni With the weight that I have given here

113 Wharton (Refiguring) associates this multiplicity of meanings with chaos theories in modern
literary scholarship. It fits better with the "organic thinking" that Max Kadushin and Isaak Heinemann
(in somewhat different ways) suggest were operative in rabbinic thought. See M. Kadushin, The
Rabbinic Mind (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1952) and Worship and Ethics (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1964); I. Heinemann, Darkhei ha-Aggadah (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1974).

114 J. Heinemann has demonstrated the close formal relationship between the grace after
meals, the Tefillah, and other synagogue-related liturgical texts. See: Studies in Jewish Literature
(ed. A. Shinan; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1981) 3—11 [Heb.].

to the Dura parchment, this is not as far-fetched as it might sound— especially
because the Tefillah so well encapsulates the central themes of Jewish theol-
ogy. How would the Dura wall paintings function for a community that, say,
recited the weekday Tefillah prayer together in the synagogue? 115

First of all, the language of our prayer text would have been quite recog-
nizable to at least portions of the Dura community. The formulae and lan-
guage of our Dura parchment are closely related to those of rabbinic prayer,
as we have seen. Regarding the content, the power of the divine is expressed
throughout this text, as it is in our images. The references to Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob in the Tefillah would find resonance in the paintings, where the
Binding of Isaac, Abraham, and Jacob's ladder all appear. This focus on bib-
lical ancestors of heroic stature as the backdrop for contemporary religion
is found in both the paintings and the text. Similarly, David the messiah and
the rebuilding of the Temple are central to both. 116 The focus on knowledge
and Torah finds parallels in the project as a whole, and particularly in the
image of "Moses" with the scroll. 117 Hope for health and the resurrection of
the dead are expressed in the images of Elijah revivifying the dead child and
the literal resurrection illustrated in Ezekiel's vision of the dry bones. This
theme was emphasized by one of the Persian graffiti. Above Elijah's right thigh
we read: "Praise to God, praise! For life, life eternally he gives (. . . ??)." 118 The
curse against slanderers and the wicked and, in some Cairo Geniza versions,
against the notsrim and the minim, "the Christians and heretics," 119 119 might
be directed against Jews who behaved poorly (none of whom, "obviously,"
appears on the walls), against the evil Haman, the dead Egyptians at the Sea,
against the "idolatrous" Palmyrenes and worshipers of Baal, and against the
Mithraites (the vanquished Dagon being represented, "coincidentally," by
deities of polytheistic communities at Dura). There is no direct reference

115 For the purpose of this exercise, I will use the standard Ashkenazi version of the Tefillah
as pronounced today, since I am interested in only general correspondences. Variance between the
various versions, of course, is far less than the general agreement. See Seder "Avodat Yisrael, 87 — 104.

1 16 David's role as messiah is emphasized in this panel, and its inscription reads, "Samuel when
he anointed (nil>n )David." See Torrey, The Synagogue, 273. Flesher, "Rereading the Reredos: David,
Orpheus, and Messianism," underplays messianic connotations of the harp-playing David.

117 See Wharton, Refiguring, 43.

118 Kraeling, TheSynagogue, 315. See also p. 264, cited uncritically by J. Gutmann ("The Syna-
gogue of Dura Europos," 82). See the opinion of J. Greenfield and J. Naveh in Naveh, On Stone, 127,
131.

119 S. Schechter, "Genizah Specimens,"/Q# 10 (1898) 657, 659. J. Mann, "Genizah Fragments
of the Palestinian Order of the Service," HUCA 2 (1925) 306; A. Marmorstein, "The Amidah of the
Public Fast Days',' IQR 15 (1924) 415—17. It is not sure, however, that the Geniza formulations
predate the Byzantine period. See my "Non-Jews in the Synagogues of Palestine: Rabbinic and
Archaeological Perspectives," in Jews, Christians and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue: Cultural
Interaction during the Greco-Roman Period (ed. S. Fine; London: Routledge, 1999) 234.

Fi;.;. 6. Ezekiel's Vision of the Dry Bones (reprinted courtesy of the E. R. Goodenough cskile).

to Christians, who may simply be ignored (as they generally were by third
century rabbis). 120 The notion that the Bible, projected through the prism of
midrashic tradition, was a distinctly Jewish possession, a leitmotif of these
images, might to some degree suggest an opaque response to this neighboring
group. 121 The "righteous and godly" are, of course, illustrated on every wall.
The "righteous" include all of the biblical heroes and their exploits. Finally,
this prayer would be recited facing in the direction of the Torah shrine, which
at Dura stood on the western, Jerusalem-aligned wall of the synagogue. 122
On the face of this shrine is the image of the Temple, the menorah, and the
aqedah, the intended sacrifice of Isaac (which 2 Chr 3:1 and later Jewish tradi-
tion place on the Temple Mount). Referring to the restoration of the Temple
and its cult, the Tefillah says, using a visual metaphor that fits well with our
Dura shrine, "May our eyes behold your return in mercy to Zion." In short,
there are few images in the Dura paintings that could not somehow relate to
the themes of this prayer — which itself was not recited without the frame of

120 See my "Between Texts and Archaeology: Nabratein and Jacob of Kefar Nevoraia in Rab-
binic Literature," in Ancient Synagogue Excavations at En-Nabratein, UpperGalilee, 1980—81 (ed.
E. M. and C. L. Meyers; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, forthcoming).

121 The fact that no image in the Dura church is drawn from the Old Testament sets a stark
contrast between the fine quality of the synagogue paintings and the lower quality of New Testament
images used by Christians. See Kraeling, The Christian Building, passim.

122 t. Berakhot 3:15—16; t. Megillah 2:18; This Holy Place, 45—46, 51—53, 112-17.

other liturgical compositions (including biblical texts) and, on specific occa-
sions, Scripture-reading and translation.

Again, I am not suggesting that the Jews at Dura necessarily recited the
rabbinic Tefillah, and I am not suggesting that the text of the Tefillah was
intentionally encoded in these paintings. I am only suggesting that strong
thematic parallels may be drawn between these two "documents" of late
antique synagogue liturgy. The themes of the Tefillah are the basic building
blocks of rabbinic prayer. Jews in the frontier city of Dura Europos partici-
pated with the Sages in a kind of Jewish koine, a shared or common religion,
that included theological, midrashic, and liturgical components that were
not inconsistent with these themes.

The Dura Europos liturgical parchment provides a powerful key for the
interpretation of the Dura synagogue and its paintings. This fragment firmly
anchors the community at Dura within a religious world that was shared by
the rabbinic Sages of Babylonia and Palestine. The proximity of this fragment
to the world of the rabbinic Sages is paralleled in the content of the paint-
ings themselves, particularly in regard to liturgical issues. In comparing the
paintings to the central rabbinic prayer, the Tefillah, I have attempted to show
the close conceptual proximity between the themes inherent in that text and
the Dura synagogue paintings. It is my firm belief that the remains of prayer
texts at Dura and the synagogue furnishings form a holistic whole, "a single
symbolic matrix" for religious experience,

A Professor of Jewish History at Yeshiva University in New York City, Steven Fine
holds a doctorate in Jewish History from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, an
MA in art history from the University of Southern California andaBA in religious
studies from the University of California, Santa Barbara. His books include: Sacred
Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World (1997) and^4r£
and Judaism in the Greco-Roman World: Toward a New Jewish Archaeology
(2005). He is also an editor of IMAGES: A Journal for the Study of Jewish Art and
Visual Culture.

This article first appeared as a chapter, under a slightly different title, in Liturgy in
the Life of the Synagogue, edited by Ruth hanger and Steven Fine (Winona Lake,
IN: Eistenbrauns), 2005, and is reprinted here with the publisher's kindperr,

Readers may visit Professor Fine's website at << http://www.cois.info/stevefim

Music from a Confined Space: Salomone Rossi's Ha-shirim
asher lishlomoh (1622/23) and the Mantuan Ghetto

By Stefano Patuzzi

Indeed, I am convinced that from the day this composition is published,

those who learn [the science of music] will multiply in Israel in order to

sing to the magnificence of our God by using them and others like them.

(Leon Modena, Foreword to Ha-shirim asher lishlomoh) l

Why Mantua

In discussing methodological problems that are inherent in dealing with the
music of ancient times, Joachim Braun points out that

The acoustic restoration of musical events is impossible not only because
the source material is absent in the first place, but primarily because
the historical situation, the social circumstances, and the listeners'
psychological disposition and corresponding reaction to this music are
forever beyond our reach. The acoustic ecology of this ancient past was
radically different from our own. We today can hardly imagine how in the
relative stillness of the ancient world, the rustling of the ornamentation
women wore on their arms, feet, and hips was a significant experience of
sound, or how the sound of an animal horn or of a trumpet was perceived
as a supernatural rumbling. 2
Even though the time and place that interest us here— the last decades
of the 54th century "from the Creation" (early 17th century) in Northern
Italy— were radically different from those described by Braun, nonetheless
striking analogies come to the surface. Certainly the historical situation, the
social circumstance, and the listeners' psychological disposition and cor-
responding reaction to the music I will deal with can be better recovered,
and yet not completely. We are in fact separated from the events of the past,
not only musically, by an invisible barrier, all the more insurmountable the
further we advance away from the past, which is indeed,"a foreign country" 3

1 Salamone Rossi, Complete Works, edited by Don Harran, Part III, Sacred Vo-
cal Works in Hebrew, Volume 13a, TXthwh "lttf N ETTtPn (Hashirim 'asher lishlomo /
"The Songs of Solomon"), General Introduction (Middleton, WI: American Institute
ofMusicology), 2003:184. "Them", towards the end of this passage, means "the songs."

2 Joachim Braun, Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine. Archaeological, Written, and
Comparative Sources (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co.), 2002:xii.

3 "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there," Leslie Poles
Hartley, The Go-Between (London: Hamish Hamilton), 1953, incipit.

The goal of this article is to reconstruct elements of the four areas just
mentioned by exploring some of the consequences that Salomone Rossi's
Ha-shirim asher lishlomoh produced, both with regard to the soundscape of
the ghetto of Mantua and, more broadly, of the town as a whole during the
same years in which Claudio Monteverdi (1567-1643) was active there, and
the concept of Jewish space — as opposed to the concept of space external to
the town's ghetto— sealed off in 1612.

The choice of Mantua is justified in that this small Northern Italian town has
long been deemed exemplary by musicologists for the relationship between
its non-Jewish and Jewish components. To quote Israel Adler: "nowhere else
has the transfer of Jewish musicianship from the outer world to the service
of the synagogue left a more remarkable imprint than in Mantua." 4

Why ghettos?

It is unfeasable— even briefly— to retrace the reasons that caused the establish-
ment of Italian ghettos, because "the ghetto — the physical and legal entity —
should be seen as a specifically early modern tool, put to use by different states
to meet a range of specific political, religious, economic and administrative
purposes." 5 In other words, every single state that existed at that time on the
soil of the Italian peninsula, together with its preceding history, lends itself
to an interpretation on its own, with some points similar to and others quite
different from those in other states. Concerning Mantua in particular, I deem
it necessary to recall the huge tension internal to the Christian world which
grew stronger during the 16th century. From a religious as well as geo-political
point of view, the excruciating splitting with the territories "conquered" by the
Protestant denominations early in the 17th century led to a new status quo
that challenged the previous centrality of Rome with unprecedented force.
Protestant ideas had spread as far into Italy as the Mantuan duchy, and adher-
ence to its doctrines were becoming worryingly numerous in many villages.
This development was one of the causes at the base of the so-called Counter-
Reformation. The latter resulted from belated and manifestly embarrassed
reaction of the Roman Church to the accusations and positions of Martin
Luther and, to a lesser degree, from pressures for reform that had long been

4 Israel Adler, "The Rise of Art Music in the Italian Ghetto: The Influence of
Segregation on Jewish Musical Praxis," in Alexander Altmann, ed., Jewish Medieval
and Renaissance Studies (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP), 1967:321-364:340.

5 Stefanie B. Siegmund, The Medici State and the Ghetto of Florence (Stan-
ford, CA: Stanford Univ. Press), 2006:407-408.

building within the Roman Church. In this framework, and as far as the Ital-
ian Jewish communities are concerned, the Roman Church's harshest overt
act was its decision, in the mid 1550s, to create Jewish ghettos within the
Papal States. The professed aim was to tolerate the presence of Jews in major
urban centers, provided they be enclosed in well-defined, spatially separated,
regulated and controlled spaces, with conversion as the ultimate goal. 6

"But there was a process in the Italian states of redefining Christian belief
and behavior, and it was found not only in the elimination of heresy and
clarification of doctrine but also in the establishing of harder, more visible
boundaries between the two licit faiths — Catholic and Jewish". 7 Even though
the Papal bull which instituted the ghettos, Cum nimis absurdum, had been
issued as early as 1555, negotiations between Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga (1587-
1612) and the local Jewish community regarding implementation of the decree
began only in 1602 and ended in 1612. Thus, "the Mantuan community was
the last of the large Italian communities to be confined to a ghetto." 8 Official
signs of hardening towards the Jews in Mantua had already been detectable,
however, at least since the 1570s; the first discriminatory proclamation, by
Duke Guglielmo, was issued on March 1,1576, pertaining especially to for-
bidden relationships between Jews and Christians. That was followed by a
proclamation on wearing the Jewish badge— which in Mantua was "ranzo,"
by the way, which could mean either "orange" or "golden yellow" — issued on
August 28, 1577.

The first Italian ghetto had been instituted in Venice, 1516. One of the first
Jewish documents to name it is the "Diary" of David Reuveni, the supposed
ambassador of a mythic king of the Jews. A Diary passage written in Venice,
1524, mentions the "Ghetto, the place where the Jews dwell." 9 From a linguistic
point of view it is clear that the word "ghetto" comes from the Venetian noun

6 See Renata Segre, "La Controriforma: espulsioni, conversioni, isolamento,"
and Stephanie Siegmund, "La vita nei ghetti," both in Corrado Vivanti, ed., Sto-
ma d'ltalia—Annali 11°, I. Dall'alto Medioevo all'eta del ghetti (Turin: Einaudi),
1996:707-778 and 843-892, respectively; and Anna Foa, "La logica del ghetto (XVI-
XVII secolo)," in David Bidussa, Enrica Collotti Pischel & Raffaella Scardi, eds.,
ldentita e storia degli ebrei (Milan: Franco Angeli), 2000: 60-67.

7 Stefanie B. Siegmund, The Medici State. .., 2006: 3.

8 Shlomo Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua, Jerusalem,
Kiryath Sepher, 1977: 39.

9 Anna Foa, La logica del ghetto..., 2000:65. For Reuveni, see Lea Sestieri,
David Reubeni: Un ebreo d'Arabia in missione segreta nell'Europa del '500 (Genoa:
Marietti), 1991; the passage quoted is on p. 105: "Ghetto, il luogo dove abitano gli
ebrei."

"getto," after a foundry in that city, where metal was "gettato" (melted to make
cannons). Right from the start, however, Jews tended to derive its social and
cultural meaning from get, Hebrew for "divorce": 10 Christian society's final
disengagement from the Jewish element within it. 11 The other side of this coin,
which would seem to be characterized only by the idea of repudiation, is made
clear by Roberto Bonfil, in two ways: (a) the Republic of Venice formulated the
idea of the "ghetto" in 1516 and it was realized only forty years later (though,
in this case, with more negative intents and even dire consequences) by the
Holy See; and (b) at the root of the idea of the ghetto stood the concept of
abandonment of the traditional policy of exclusion of the Jews from the single
city or state. Accordingly, "the reception of Jews into Christian society was
transformed by means of the ghetto from being exceptional and unnatural
into being unexceptional and natural." 12 Ironically, institution of the ghetto
transformed a dynamic of social instability into one of greater stability and,
in a sense, of some sort of balance.

Despite the negative practical-social-and-psychic consequences caused by
this enforced confinement of a portion of the populace to a single enclosed
space, Jewish communities found in ghettoization an unexpected stimulus
to strengthen their sense of affiliation and to reassert, in many ways, the
uniqueness of their own culture. The Jewish community of Florence offers
confirmation of this point:

The examination of Jewish life in Tuscany before the ghetto [...] led to
the argument [...] that in many ways it was the act of ghettoization that
"made" a Jewish community in Florence. 13

Other historical evidence also confirms that the separated space of the
ghetto was not perceived just negatively by those who were crammed within it:
the community of Mantua was one of those which did not object to the
foundation of the ghetto. The decree was even received with a certain

10 Even though the term, strictly speaking, meant originally a "legal docu-
ment"; see Marcus Jastrow, A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and
Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (London: Luzac; New York: Putnam),
1903:233.

11 See Ariel Toaff, Ghetto, in Enciclopedia delle Scienze Sociali, Treccani,
http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/ghetto (Enciclopedia_delle_Scienze_Sociali).

12 Roberto Bonfil, "Change in the Cultural Patterns of a Jewish Society in Cri-
sis: Italian Jewry at the Close of the Sixteenth Century," Jewish History, III (1988),
n. 2, pages 11-33, and Gli ebrei in Italia nell'epoca del Rinascimento (Florence:
Sansoni), 1991, passim.

13 Stefanie B. Siegmund, The Medici State..., 2006: 408.

measure of satisfaction because of the protection it offered the Jews by
segregating them from the hostile Christian population. 14

It is obvious to state that the ghetto was— spatially— a separate place from
its surrounding urban space. Less obvious is the fact that the ghetto was also
thought of as a space that would be visually almost impenetrable both for
those who looked in from the outside and— more significantly— for those
who gazed towards the outside from inside the ghetto. That would explain
the obligation, in the ducal proclamations of 1576 and 1601, to block up all
the apertures in the houses of the ghetto which looked out on churches and
Christian graveyards. 15

Beyond putting social marginality and geographic propinquity in dialectic
confrontation, this delimitation of the visual capability of those enclosed
within the ghetto implied that the mere gaze of Jews onto Christian holy
places posed a sort of threat as some kind of visual pollution of the purity of
the place itself. A measure of this sort is only comprehensible in the context
of a society which struggled to achieve a self-image that would be monolithi-
cally Christian and Catholic, in which even the sheer visual of the Other— the
outsider — was feared as a dangerous intrusion into the religious and social
order. 16 In addition to their architectural function of letting light and air into
the buildings, it is important to keep in mind that windows were also the
means via which a vital form of social communication took place. Through
the windows, in fact, "people's gazes crossed, determining a condition of
perception that became a cultural, psychological, and moral condition. The
window functioned as a space for mediation, diffusion, and exchange." 17

Soundscapes

We now shift our attention to the musical realm. Following an interpretive line
first advanced by Israel Adler, 18 it comes as no surprise that Rossi's Songs of
1622/23 were (presumably) composed in the years subsequent to the institu-
tion of the Mantuan ghetto (1612) and that they can therefore be considered
as one of the unforeseen consequences of the ghetto's very institution.

14 Simonsohn, History..., 1977:39-40

15 Ibid.,113-116 and 772-773.

16 For this and much more, I refer the reader to an article by Dana E. Katz,
"'Clamber not you up to the casements': On ghetto views and viewing,"in Jewish
History (2010) 24, pages 127-153.

17 Renzo Dubbini, Geography of the Gaze in Early Modern Europe, trans.
Lydia G. Cochrane (Chicago: University of Chicago), 2002:206.

18 See Israel Adler, The Rise..., 1967.

From the viewpoint of those on the outside looking in, some aspects of
ghetto life — above all those that took place within private homes, since the
synagogues were accessible to all, including non-Jews— remained invisible.
This was also true for everything that happened there after the gates closed
every evening. That is why, during night time hours, the only sensory access
to the ghetto from the outside was obtainable by means of smells and sounds.
These could not be contained by doors, walls or gates. At night, the ghetto
could take on a life made freer through festive activities or communal enter-
tainments: "the night was the right moment to rehearse and stage theatrical
works, or to organize choirs and musical concerts." 19

The ghetto's soundscape, in particular, had to change dramatically during
the daily 24-hour cycle. During daytime it was filled with the typical noises
of commercial activities and by the equally noisy (at least to Christian ears)
religious services held in various synagogues. By night the ghetto resonated
with the sounds of instruments or of singing-or-reciting voices for celebra-
tory or entertaining purposes, etcetera. To this we might add the sonic
facets provided by various exotic-sounding languages spoken in the ghetto:
Hebrew and Aramaic in the synagogues and study halls; more generally, the
Judeo-Italian 20 vernacular spoken by the majority, and the Yiddish spoken by
a strong Ashkenazi minority 21

These multiple markers served to delimit a specifically Jewish space. They
also defined the relationship that Jews had, conceptually, with the idea of a
non- Jewish part of the town. In preceding centuries, cultivated Jewish men
had left traces of a strong sense of belonging to the town in its entirety, re-
serving even a particular treatment, replete with wit, for the very name of
the town of Virgil. Learned scribes had, in fact, played literary games with
that name, starting from the

Hebrew expression man tov, which means "a good manna," [...] taking
the liberty which neglected the concordance of gender of the adjective
tov with man, which is in Hebrew masculine, indicated the town of the
Gonzaga and of Mantegna adding the feminine ending to the adjective
and splitting the name in man tovah." 22

19 Stephanie Siegmund, La vita neighetti..., 1996:863.

20 See Maria Mayer Modena, "Le parlate giudeo-italiane," in Corrado Vivanti,
ed., Storia d'ltalia — Annali 11°, II. Dell'emancipazione a oggi (Turin: Einaudi),
1997:937-963.

21 See Roberto Bonfil, Gli ebrei in Italia..., 1991:206-207.

22 Mauro Perani, "Premessa del curatore," in Mauro Perani, ed., Una manna
buona per Mantova — Man Tov le-Man Tovah, Studies in honor of Vittore Colorni
for his 92nd birthday (Florence, Olschki), 2004:XI-XIV.

The name of Mantua came thus to mean, in Hebrew, "[the town of] good
manna."

Such allegiance to one's hometown barely astounds us, if we consider that
between the 15th and the 17th centuries Mantua hosted one of the culturally
more active Jewish communities on the entire Italian peninsula. During the
Middle Ages and Renaissance, Mantua was in fact, a beacon which spread
its light over all Europe. As a result of the migrations which had taken place
from the 13th century onward from Rome, Germany and France, 23 the
Jewish presence in town grew considerably; an increase in the number of
synagogues that were built mirrored this state of things. Suffice it to recall
that at the beginning of the 17th century, twelve were functioning. Among
these, three practiced the Italian rite: the "Prima Scuola Grande" ("First Great
Synagogue"), the "Norsa-Torrazzo" (where "Norsa" is the surname of a local
Jewish family, while "torrazzo" means "big tower" — the only one preserved to
this day, although in a different location), and the "Cases" (another surname).
Three others practiced the Ashkenazi rite: "Delia Beccaria" ("Of the slaugh-
terhouse"), "Ostiglia" (the name of a village in the south of the "Mantovano")
and "Porto" (a surname). 24 The relative sizes of the three groups present in
town (Italiani, Ashkenazi and some Sephardi) 25 is reflected in the fact that, in
the second half of the 16th century, "out of the three massari [i.e., spokesmen]
of the community, there would always be two Italiani and one Ashkenazi." 26

At the end of the 1620s, 24 rabbis were active in town, beyond those liv-
ing in outlying villages of the Mantovano. 27 Unlike other pre-unification
Italian states, in the duchy of Mantua the Jews were also allowed to dwell
in the countryside, even though a ghetto was established in town. 28 Finally,

23 See Vittore Colorni, "Gli ebrei a Sabbioneta" Civilta mantovana, new
series, 1990 (28-29), pages 125-140.

24 See Simonsohn, History..., 1977:567-571; and David Cassuto, "Aronot
Qodes di Mantova in Israele," in Mauro Perani Una manna..., 2004:629-655.

25 "The Sephardi minority had no status whatsoever in the community,
and they assimilated entirely into one of the two groups": Simonsohn, History...,
1977:500. From the data collected by Shifra Baruchson-Arbib we reach the same
conclusion: the Italiani were 73.7%, the Ashkenazi 22.1% and the Sephardi 4.2%; it
is to be noted, however, that these data are based on private as well as "public" Jew-
ish book holdings in Mantua in 1595: see Shifra Baruchson-Arbib, La culture livr-
esque des juifs d'ltalie a la fin de la Renaissance (Paris: CNRS Edition), 2001:243.

26 Simonsohn, History..., 1977:500.

27 Ibid.,, p. 575.

28 See Stephanie Siegmund, La vita neighetti..., 1996: 846, footnote 3, and

toward the middle of the 16th century Mantua had become one of the most
important centers of the diaspora as far as the printing of kabbalistic works
is concerned. This has been made clear in recent decades, thanks mainly to
the studies of Giulio Busi:

within a few years [from 1557 on] a complete collection of texts
previously regarded as highly secret was placed at the disposal of
the reading public. . . . From Mantua the kabbalistic texts reached all
the Italian communities as well as the rest of the diaspora in such
a way that the pages of the Mantuan Zohar soon became familiar
to both erudite Jews further afield in Central Europe and learned
kabbalists in the Holy Land. 29
Positive mentions concerning the Gonzaga, in the Foreword by Leon
Modena to the Songs (13), 30 can be seen in the same value perspective as the
relationship between the town-in-the-town (i.e., the ghetto) and the rest of
the surrounding urban space of Mantua. These acknowledgements take on a
special value, to be measured by a specific unit of measurement. And this of
course because they were written in a language, Hebrew, surely not known to
the dukes themselves, even though we cannot certainly rule out the possibil-
ity of someone, known to the dukes of Mantua, who could have translated
the texts for them from Hebrew into Italian. 31 It is therefore legitimate to ask
whether or not these are mannered verbal gestures, comparable to ones in
Italian or Latin that were very common at that time, in the same patronage
contexts (even though in a broad sense). 32

The Songs vis a vis relationships between Judaism and Christianity

In Mantua at the beginning of the 17th century, two events occurred that
bore great meaning for the history of European music and culture. 1) In 1607
Claudio Monteverdi's L'Orfeo, to a libretto by Alessandro Striggio Jr (whose

854.

29 Giulio Busi, Mantua and the Kabbalah (Milan: Skira), 2001:54, 56.

30 See Salamone Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in Hebrew..., 2003: 178.

31 On the more general topic of the knowledge of Hebrew during the Renais-
sance among non-Jews see Giulio Busi, L'enigma dell'ebraico nel Rinascimento
(Torino: Aragno), 2007.

32 For a complete edition of Ha-shirim that includes positive mention of the
Gonzagas in Leon Modena's Foreword, see the one by Don Harran, Corpus Mensu-
rabilis Musicae, American Institute of Musicology, page 178.

second finale is readable in Counter-Reformistic terms), 33 was staged for the
first time. 2) In the Hebrew calendar year 5383 (straddling 1622 and 1623
CE), the Jewish musician Salomone Rossi (Shlomoh mei-ha-adumim; b. circa
1570— d. after 1630), a Mantuan musician in occasional professional employ
by the Gonzaga dukes who ruled the Mantuan territory, handed to a Venetian
publishing house his volume of vocal polyphonic settings of Hebrew texts,
mostly psalms, entitled The Songs of Solomon (Ha-shirim asher lishlomoh)?*
If Monteverdi's L'Orfeo represents one of the first expressions of modernity
in music, Rossi's Ha-shirim bring to fruition all of the extraordinary activity
that had been ripening during the preceding decades on the highest level —
both commissioned and fostered by the Gonzaga, on the one hand, and
within the Mantuan Jewish community, on the other — starting at least from
the mid-16th century. The value of The Songs can be hardly overestimated,
since they are, in the history of European music, the first known instance of
published polyphonic compositions on Hebrew texts. These 33 settings allow
us to shed light on certain traits of the Jewish culture of that time, traits which
found in Mantua a particularly exuberant expression. They also underscore
relationships on the one hand between this culture and that (whether sacred
or profane) of the surrounding non- Jewish world, and on the other between
individuals (Jews as well as Christians) who took part in such a challenging

33 See Stefano Patuzzi, "Giudaismo e cristianesimo nello specchio della mu-
sica. L'Orfeo di Claudio Monteverdi (1607) e le Armature dei valorosi di Avraham
Portaleone (5367)," Postumia, 22/3 (2011), pages 105-122.

34 See Claudio Gallico, Monteverdi. Poesia musicale, teatro e musica sacra
(Turin: Einaudi), 1979 and Paolo Fabbri, Monteverdi (Turin: EDT), 1985; within the
studies in English stands out Tim Carter, Monteverdi's Musical Theatre (New Ha-
ven and London: Yale UP), 2002. The reference on Salomone Rossi is Don Harran,
Salamone Rossi: Jewish Musician in Late Renaissance Mantua (Oxford and New
York: Oxford UP), 1999. For some "lateral" considerations I refer the reader to my
review of this book, that appeared in the Rivista Italiana di Musicologia, XXXIV
(1999), pages 415-418. For an overall view on Jewish music in Italy I refer the read-
er to Massimo Acanfora Torrefranca, "Sulle musiche degli ebrei in Italia," in Cor-
rado Vivanti, ed., Storia d'ltalia—Annali 11°..., 1996:475-493; Leo Levi, Canti tra-
dizionali e tradizioni liturgiche. Ricerche e studi sulle tradizioni musicali ebraiche e
sui low rapporti con il canto cristiano. 1954-1971, edited by Roberto Leydi (Lucca:
LIM), 2002; and Francesco Spagnolo, "Musiche in contatto— Le tradizioni ebraiche
in Italia nelle registrazioni di Leo Levi— Questioni metodologiche e prospettive di
ricerca," EM (Rivista degli archivi di etnomusicologia dell'Accademia Nazionale di
Santa Cecilia), 2/2 (2006), pages 83-107.

endeavor. 35 Through the lens of The Songs we can see much more clearly
several essential facets of the relationships between these two cultures. They
were sometimes tense and characterized by tragic consequences, sometimes
fruit-bearing and dynamic. Over the centuries Judaism and Christianity were
spatially close in the Mantovano, yet they each found the most different forms
of expression. 36 It is from this historico-cultural perspective that I will deal
with Salomone Rossi's Songs in the following pages.

Even though information on Rossi's life is scant, we are nonetheless able
to say that Salomone was presumably born around 1570 and had more-or-
less continuous work relations with the Gonzaga court from the end of the
1580s to the late 1620s. His duties included his activity both as violist 37 and as
composer. He published eight books of secular vocal music (to texts, among
others, of the greatest Italian poets of that time: Battista Guarini, Gabriello
Chiabrera, Ottavio Rinuccini, Giovan Battista Marino) and four books of
instrumental music. Towering over all of them are The Songs of Solomon,
thanks to their significance for the culture of Mantua generally and for that
of its Jewish culture specifically. Within the former, in fact, the conditions
which allowed for the creation of such a unique work came to be.

The Songs contain 33 settings, and there are good reasons to believe that
Rossi composed additional pieces that remained unpublished. 38 Among the
published ones, the setting of Psalm 8 ("O Lord, how majestic is Thy name
in all the earth") and Psalm 121 ("I lift my eyes to the mountains") stand out.
So do the particularly intense one of Psalm 137 ("By the rivers of Babylon"),
passages from Isaiah 35 ("The wilderness and the parched land shall be glad")
and the Kaddish shaleim ("Reader's Sanctification").

35 On these aspects see Francesco Spagnolo, "Scritto in italiano, ascoltato
in ebraico: a proposito delle fonti scritte della musica ebraica in Italia," in Stefano
Patuzzi, ed., Ebraismo in musica (Mantua: Di Pellegrini), 2011:87-101.

36 See Roberto Bonfil, "Lo spazio culturale degli ebrei d'ltalia fra Rinasci-
mento ed Eta barocca," in Corrado Vivanti, ed., Storia d'ltalia — Annali 11°...,
1996:411-473.

37 See David Nutter, "Salomone Rossi's Chitarrone Madrigals," in Rodolfo
Baroncini, Paola Besutti & Teresa M. Gialdroni, eds., Claudio Monteverdi. Studi e
prospettive, Proceedings of the Monteverdi conference, Mantua, 21-24 October 1993
(Florence: Olschki), 1998:215-261.

38 See Don Harran, "Dum recordaremur Sion': Music in the Light and
Thought of the Venetian Rabbi Leon Modena (1571-1648)," A/S Review, 23/1
(1998), pages 16-71: 49-50.

Here is the volume's title-page, in the translation of Don Harran (with
minor variations): 39

THE SONGS

of Solomon

Psalms, songs and hymns

composed according to the science of song

and of [art] music

for three, four, five, six, seven and eight voices

by his honored eminence, Master Shlomoh mei-ha'adumim (may his Rock

preserve him and grant him life!)

a resident of the holy community of Mantua

for thanking God and singing to His exalted name on all sacred occasions.

A new thing in the land.

Here in Venice, [5] 383,

as a pious act of the lords

Pietro e Lorenzo Bragadini

in the house of Giovanni Calleoni,

for the [publishing firm of the] illustrious lords

Pietro and Lorenzo Bragfadini].

The meaningful epigraph to the "new thing in the land" underlines right
from the title-page the absolutely unique understanding represented by The
Songs of Solomon, which were granted aprivilegio (very similar to a modern
author's copyright) of four influential Venetian rabbis — by means of a docu-
ment issued in 1622 CE — concerning the included compositions:

We have been requested to confirm that which was justly and properly
asked of us by his honored eminence, Master Shlomoh mei-ha-adumim
(may his Rock preserve him and give him life!), a Mantuan, who, in
becoming the first man to print Hebrew music, went to great trouble and

39 As it stands in the Basso part-book, reproduced in D. Harran, Salamone...,
1999, as illustration number 10; the last two lines appear, in the original title-page,
not in Hebrew but in Italian.

incurred accessory expenses, and it would not be right were anyone to
show up and harm him by reprinting such things or making a purchase
of them from another party. Therefore, after seeing the license issued in
this regard by the eminent ministers of the Cattavef 10 (may their glory
be exalted!), we, the undersigned, ordain, by the decree of the angels and
the words of the sanctified and upon [the threat of] the biting snake, that,
for the period of fifteen years from today, no son of Israel, wherever he
may be, print, in any way, any of the pieces, neither in whole nor in part,
that are in the collection of this music without the permission of the
aforementioned composer or his heirs. 41

This privilegio is of the utmost interest, since it was granted to Rossi not
by the civic authorities, as was the custom, but rather by a group of rabbinic
authorities. We also read in it, tellingly, that the composer had become "the
first man to print Hebrew music"— adam ha-rishon lehadpis musikah ivrit:
as Don Harran points out, with regard to the expression "Hebrew music", it
is "the first mention of its kind in the literature". 42

Since The Songs were printed, they were evidently intended for commer-
cial distribution at large. This aspect is particularly significant with regard
to Jewish communities spread over a wide geographical area. Presumably,
considering the lively book circulation of that period, Ha-shirim resonated in
other Jewish locales as well, surely in Italy, and perhaps even abroad. From the
perspective of this new repertoire's potential impact upon multiple diaspora
communities, the emphasis placed by the privilegio on Rossi as the "first man
to print Hebrew music," assumes even greater importance.

From everything we know about the Jewish musical tradition until Salo-
mone Rossi, The Songs can be said to introduce two new elements: the com-
poser is both living and known; and the settings are polyphonic — to texts in
Hebrew (or a mixture of Aramaic and Hebrew in the Kaddish). Rossi appar-
ently drew his inspiration for them from the modes typically associated with
Christian polyphonic vocal music, adjusting them (also, if not exclusively)
for synagogue-usage. He 'judaized' them by posing himself at the top of an
historical process that had its start in the Biblical period. A comprehensive
glance on this centuries-long period of purported Jewish musical continuity
is offered at the beginning of the Foreword to The Songs, written by Rabbi

40 Tax assessors of Venice, also responsible for the administration of the local
ghetto.

41 See Salamone Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in Hebrew..., 2003:220-221
(translation by Don Harran, here with minor variations by the author of this ar-
ticle).

42 Ibid., 220.

Leon Modena (1571-1648). One passage in particular, notable for its radical
reinterpretation of history, deserves a recapitulation.

In ancient Israel, Modena writes, all the sciences flourished, including mu-
sic, as is very clear from the figure of King David (reigned 1010-970 BCE) 43 ;
this state of things lasted until the destruction of the Second Temple in 70
CE. During the centuries of national dispersion that followed, the Jewish
people's familiarity with the sciences trailed off. "Still, their ears picked up
a trace of it [i.e., wisdom, but read the "science [of music]"] afterwards from
their neighbors [i.e., gentiles] as a remembrance of the city [Jerusalem] in
these generations at the end of time." 44 From Modena's reading of history it is
clear that, if Israel's musical greatness originated in the times of King David,
Salomone Rossi was the one who, by drawing on the musical traditions of the
Christians, made this expressive modality come alive again after centuries
of silence.

The Songs as mover of rabbinic mountains

Another interpretation, as well as a justification of the compositional and cul-
tural project undertaken by Salomone can be derived from within the Jewish
world. To fully understand the historical import of The Songs of Solomon it is
necessary to recall that tolerance of music per se in the synagogue, and even
less so of polyphonic music, wasn't granted at all by the rabbis of that time.
It was precisely against this hostile background that Leon Modena wrote— in
or about 1605 45 — a responsum to a question posed to him on the admissibil-
ity of music in the synagogue. In this text Modena makes three points: 1) he
specifies, through quotations and comments from the Torah and Talmud,
that the sh'liah tsibbur [precentor] "is required to make his voice as pleasant
as possible in prayer"; 2) he asks, "and if he were able to make his one voice
sound like ten singers together, would it not be good?"; he extends the implied

43 See Bustanay Oded, s.v "David," in Encyclopedia Judaica (Jerusalem:
Keter), 1972, 5:1318.

44 Salamone Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in Hebrew..., 2003: 177. For a contex-
tualization of this last expression I refer readers to the recent article by Don Har-
ran, "An Early Modern Hebrew Poem on Music in Its Beginnings and at the End
of Time," Journal of the American Musicological Society, 64/1 (Spring 201 1), pages
3-50.

45 See paragraph 34 of Modena's Foreword to The Songs, in which he recalls
"what I wrote in an answer to a question eighteen years ago — I was then a teacher
of Torah in the holy community of "Ferrara..."; S. Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in
Hebrew..., 2003:184.

answer to that question by asking further, "or if, at his side, he had assistants
whom the Lord favored with a sweet voice and they sang along with him not
in [compositional] order but rather [by improvising here and there] a[d] aria
[(WIN HK— "upon the melody"], as is customary all day long in Ashkenazi
congregations, and should it happen that they relate to and coordinate with
him, would it be considered a sin on their part?" 46

The phrasing of Modena's question suggests that some form of polyvocal
singing, albeit not very elaborate, was practiced in local Ashkenazi synagogues,
and actually, as noted previously, an Ashkenazi congregation did flourish in
the Mantua of Salomone Rossi's time. From this type of improvised musical
performance— to a composition polyphonically structured right from its
conception — the step was small, and Salomone Rossi took it.

With regard to the vocal resources available in the late 16th and early
17th century within the Jewish community of Mantua, some data can be
inferred from a proclamation of March 1, 1576— reinforced by a second one
in 1601 — which stated that Jews were forbidden to sing, play instruments or
dance in Christian houses (particularly in the houses of women), nor teach
Christians to sing, play, or dance, unless the Duke's explicit permission were
obtained. 47 If — after a quarter-century and in official documents relating to the
social relations between Jews and Christians — such a prohibition is repeated,
instrumental as well as singing skills among Jews was apparently not so rare.
Moreover, the presence in Ha-shirim of settings for eight voices leads us to
infer the availability in Mantua— in the years preceding the printing— of at
least eight Jewish singers able to read music and (it goes without saying) the
Hebrew lyrics. In fact, Modena himself (in paragraph 29 of his Foreword) tells
us that "in singing, the majority of those versed in the system [of notation]
are also skilled in reading [Hebrew]." 48

46 Ibid., 206-207. Modena's linguistic peculiarity (i.e., his "citing the Italian
term in Hebrew characters") had already been noted by Israel Adler: The Rise...,
1967:339, footnote 77.

47 See Simonsohn, History..., 1977:114; the original Italian text is on page
773: "Che li hebrei non prattichino in casa di Christiani massimamente di donne
di cantare sonare o ballare, overo per insegnare a cantare sonare o ballare, se non
havranno licenza in scritto da noi [...]".

48 S. Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in Hebrew..., 2003:183. Salamone could well
have been one of the eight, since we know from at least one source (Leon Modena's
third dedicatory poem to Ha-shirim) that he could also perform vocally as well:
"Accustomed / amidst singers / before princes / to sing [la-shir] I to his own dukes
/ and nobles"; ibid., p. 189.

Looking beyond musical and performative considerations, one can catch
a glimpse in The Songs, thanks to the texts by Rossi and Modena that accom-
pany them, of very high stakes: cultural dignity, on the one hand; and social
respectability on the other. From the words of Leon Modena in his responsum
(56), his Foreword (15) and his third dedicatory poem (13 and 14), a prevalent
attitude of smugness or maybe even of scorn by non-Jews towards Jews unable
to write music, emerges. In refuting this contention, The Songs of Solomon
constituted tangible proof of how a Jew could write (Hebrew) music of value
in the same way as his Christian colleagues, and on a high level.

Not that The Songs were completely unprecedented; let us mention at least
one earlier example: II primo libro del madrigali a set voci by David Sacer-
dote (Cohen), printed in Venice in 1575, of which only the part-book of the
Quinto is extant. 49 In addition of being the first example of "art" music to be
published by a Jew, 50 this book attests that the general social atmosphere of
the Gonzagas' territories was already predisposed, since the closing decades
of the 16th century, to accept — or ever foster — a music book published by
a Jew. This state of things is witnessed, for example, by the dedications that
appear in Sacerdote's book, which refer continuously precisely to institutions
and key figures of the Mantuan society 51

Getting back to the often silent, never interrupted, sometimes even uncon-
scious dialogue between Jewish-and-Christian cultures, an issue of intellectual
honesty comes to the surface. 52 Modena and Rossi didn't seek, in fact, to "invent

49 A brief technical explanation. In the case of a set of vocal compositions for
five voices (Basso, Tenore, Quinto, Alto, Canto), the vocal lines of each voice for all
the compositions were printed in a small 'part-book'. In the case of Sacerdote's //
primo libro, only the Quinto voice's part-book survived.

50 See D. Harran, Salamone..., 1999:1.

51 See Iain Fenlon, Music and Patronage in Sixteenth-Century Mantua (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge UP), 1980:43; plus the entry on the composer which appears

in the Appendice to Alberto Basso, ed., Dizionario enciclopedico universale della
musica e dei musicisti (Turin: UTET), 1990:640.

52 Interpretations of the relationship— obviously far from being equal on
both sides— vary considerably according to the perspective adopted by each his-
torian. For two different visions I refer the reader to the studies by Roberto Bonfil
(specifically to the aforementioned Gli ebrei in Italia nell'epoca del Rinascimento
and Lo spazio culturale degli ebrei d'ltaliafra Rinascimento edEta barocca) and
Alberto Castaldini, L'ipotesi mimetica. Contributo a una antropologia dell'ebraismo
(Firenze: Olschki), 2001. One wonders, with reference to this last work, whether
The Songs of Solomon could constitute a significant element if inserted in the meth-
odological framework — outlined in the writings of Rene Girard and then drawn

a tradition." That would have been asserting, apparently for purposes with
far-reaching consequences beyond the musical realm, an idea of continuity
with a more or less remote past. 53 Instead, they declare with absolute sincerity
the various steps they took: a process that can be described as a judaization
of the ways of writing polyphonic music typical of the non- Jewish musical
tradition of the late 16th and early 17th centuries. The most cogent element
at the heart of this venture was perhaps the appeal of the madrigals' and
motets' polyphonic structure, which happened to be a la mode for Mantua
as well as for all of Europe during that period. That particular compositional
style contributed a fundamental part of the soundscapes common to every
urban center of the period, and an identity to every institution, either civic
or religious.

The Songs as a soundscape changer

At the same time, performance of Rossi's Ha -shirim marked off, even symboli-
cally, a specifically Jewish space — the ghetto (and within it, the synagogue) — in
a way that could boast very few precedents, perhaps the only one having been
in Ferrara, as mentioned. 54

About the polyphonic structure of the Ferrarese synagogue's singing we
cannot say much, since no musical evidence has survived. What is certain is
that, from the very moments of the first performances of Rossi's composi-
tions which later appeared in the published volume, the soundscape of both
the ghetto and of Mantua changed noticeably, marking in history a point of

upon by Castaldini— of "mimetic desire."

53 The methodological reference is, of course, Eric J. Hobsbawm & Terence
Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge UP), 1983:1 (In-
troduction: "Inventing Traditions," by Hobsbawm): "'Invented tradition' is taken to
mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and
of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of
behavior by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past. In fact,
where possible, they normally attempt to establish continuity with a suitable historic

54 "We may now stress the significance of the date (about 1605) on which this
introduction of art music in the Ferrarese synagogue took place; it was only a few
years after the annexation of Ferrara to the Papal States (1597), which caused an
immediate deterioration in the situation of its Jewish residents. Furthermore, we
may point out that this musical occurrence at Ferrara was not only without rela-
tion to Solomon Rossi but that it no doubt preceded the introduction of art music
in the Mantuan synagogue"(Israel Adler, TheRise..., 1967:340).

no-return. I intend the concept of 'soundscape' to encompass all activities
which contribute to the sonic face of an urban center that by definition will
also refer back to the religious, social and politico-economic realms of the
town in its entirety, with special reference to the institutions that mold its
characteristics and delineate its spaces. In those centuries oiancien regime,
through musical works commissioned by a patron (be it a religious institution
or a ruler), extra-musical values were incidentally transmitted to listeners.
These included values deemed fundamental by the patrons and pertaining,
most often, to the very same image that the patron wanted to give of himself,
so as to "boast to the world his own social rank." 55

In light of all the foregoing we can understand the huge significance of what
happened in Mantua during those years in the early 17th century thanks to
the efforts of Salomone Rossi, the very same years that followed upon the
institution of the ghetto. 56

The Songs as a positive reaction to the institution of the ghetto

Continuing along this interpretive line (following the methodology of Kenneth
Stow), we find it apropos to ask whether and how The Songs of Solomon can be
seen as a sonic projection of the holy tongue, which contributes an enriching
element to the Mantuan soundscape — while simultaneously differentiating
the Jewish entity from its surrounding Christian society. Put somewhat differ-
ently (and following Israel Adler), can Rossi's Songs be considered a positive
reaction to the Mantuan Jews' externally imposed disengagement from their
Christian neighbors through ghettoization? 57 In the final analysis, we are ask-
ing whether Ha-shirim asher lishlomoh can be understood as a centripetally-
inspired reaction to the Mantuan ghetto's institution. Knowing the answer to
that question might enable us to better comprehend why Rossi transferred

55 Claudio Annibaldi, ed., La musica e il mondo. Mecenatismo e committenza
musicale in Italia tra Quattro e Settecento (Bologna: II Mulino), 1993:9 (Introduzi-
one).

56 On the Mantuan ghetto during the period which is of interest here, see Si-
monsohn, History..., 1977:39-44 and passim; Luigi Carnevali, II ghetto di Mantova
(Mantova: Sartori), 1973; Maria Grazia Sandri, "II ghetto di Mantova. Per la storia
di un'architettura distrutta," in // Seicento nell'arte e nella cultura. Con riferimenti
a Mantova (Mantua: Accademia Nazionale Virgiliana), 1985:265-269. Emanuele
Colorni & Mauro Patuzzi, Cera una volta il ghetto (Mantua: Di Pellegrini), 2011,
deals mainly with the 20th-century demolition of the buildings situated within the
ghetto.

57 See Israel Adler, The Rise of Art Music..., 1967.

polyphonic compositional structures typical of the Christian world into the
recently enclosed Jewish urban space. 58

An implicit confirmation of the hypothesis that the institution of the Man-
tuan ghetto and the composition of Rossi's Songs stand in a mutual relationship
of cause-and-effect, might also be construed from a linguistic consideration.
In his edition of The Songs for the Corpus Mensurabilis Musicae, Don Harran
urges readers to notice that numerous terms used in the Hebrew texts which
accompany The Songs are ambiguous. 59

The logical follow-up question then arises: why did neither Leon Modena
nor Salomone Rossi, in their respective writings about The Songs, consider
transliterating in Hebrew characters the compositional Italian terms which
were surely well-known to them, so as to render the reasoning clearer; terms
which in Italian possessed a good degree of precision and were subject neither
to misunderstanding nor interpretive dubiousness? Such a modus operandi
(in this case, concerning the names of musical instruments) was followed,
for instance, by Avraham ben David Portaleone in the musical chapters of
Shiltei ha-gibborim ("Armors of the Valiant Ones"), a Hebrew treatise on the
various activities that took place in the Jerusalem Temple. In this work, most
likely known both to Modena and Rossi— in that it was ended in Mantua
in Elul 5367 (1607 CE) and published in the same town in 5372 (1611/12
CE), 60 — one can read for instance of the "viola da gamba" transliterated in

58 Many of these ideas are in Kenneth R. Stow, "Sanctity and the construction
of space: the Roman ghetto as sacred space," in Menachem Mor, ed., Jewish As-
similation, Acculturation and Accommodation: Past Traditions, Current Issues and
Future Prospects, Proceedings of the Second Annual Symposium of the Philip M.
and Ethel Klutznick Chair in Jewish Civilization, 24-25 September 1989, Creighton
University (Lanham, New York & London: University Press of America), 1991:54-
76.

59 Salamone Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in Hebrew..., 2003:16-17:"IV.
TRANSLATION OF HEBREW TEXTS INTO ENGLISH— 1. Uncertain musi-
cal terms. As was already noted, the Hebrew terminology for music is diverse, yet
often ambiguous. Examples in the texts found in the "Songs" (and their original
prefatory matter) are the multiple terms for music itself: shir, shirot, nigun (or
niggun), negina, neginot, musika, zemer, zimra, zemira, zemirot, renanot [...]: their
exact meaning is arguable. Still other terms for, seemingly, composition or coun-
terpoint, e.g., seder, yahas, erekh ..., which, formally, mean "order" "relation" and
"value/rank", are no less problematical."

60 See Israel Adler, ed., "Hebrew Writings concerning Music," In Manuscripts
and Printed Books from Geonic Times up to 1800, RISM B IX 2 (Miinchen: Henle
Verlag), 1975: 243-283; Daniel Sandler, Pirke hamusikah besefer:"Shilte haghib-

Hebrew characters: !"Q?3frU N'T n^Wl. 61 Moreover, the modus had already
been used by Leon Modena in his forementioned responsum (point 49 — dat-
ing from around 1605 in Ferrara, whose ghetto was instituted in 1624-27). 62
There he writes in Hebrew characters, as noted above, the Italian expression
a[d] aria ("upon the melody"). In this regard it is informative to recall — as
an extreme case, with entirely different purposes, it goes without saying, and
for a different public— that the sermons of rabbi Mordekhai Dato (1525-ca.
1600; whose Eftah shir bisfatai is set musically in Rossi's Ha-shirim), 63 are
written in Hebrew characters even though their basic narrative was originally
uttered in Italian. 64

Why, then, did neither Modena nor Rossi use this device in The Songs of
Solomon? It seems plausible to conjecture that in their writings appended to
The Songs they wanted to avoid, as much as possible, using terms and expres-
sions formulated in a tongue other than Hebrew, i.e., coming from a non-
Jewish cultural tradition. It is as if they wanted to stress with absolute clarity
the unquestioned Jewishness both of the composition and of the verbal as
well as musical consumption. 65 Perhaps— thanks to the latter— they were also
alluding, even indirectly, to the delimitation of certain spaces — the synagogue
above all— within which ritual events that were highly representative of the life
of the Jewish community took place behind the ghetto's impenetrable walls.

borim" (" 'Musical chapters in the book Armors of the Valiant Ones," in Hebrew and
English), PhD thesis, Tel Aviv University, 1980; Gianfranco Miletto, "II significato
dello Silte ha-gibborim di Avraham Ben Dawid da Portaleone ," Materia giudaica,
I (1996), pages 12-13; Avraham ben David Portaleone, Die Heldenschilde, German
translation and commentary by Gianfranco Miletto, 2 tomes (Frankfurt am Main:
Peter Lang), 2002: 180-181; Gianfranco Miletto, Glauben und Wissen im Zeitalter
der Reformation. Der salomonische Temp el bei Abraham ben David Portaleone
(1542-1612) (Berlin: de Gruyter), 2004; Don Harran, "In Search of the 'Song of
Zion': Abraham Portaleone on Music in the Ancient Temple," European Journal of
Jewish Studies, 4/2 (2010), pages 215-239.

61 See Sandler, Pirke..., 1980:117.

62 See Ines Miriam Marach & Annie Sacerdoti (ed.), / luoghi ebraici in Emilia
Romagna (Milan: Touring), 2004:46-53.

63 See S. Rossi, Sacred Vocal Works in Hebrew..., 2003:101-107.

64 See Roberto Bonfil, Lo spazio culturale..., 1996:429. On the biography and
the Judeo-Italian works of Dato, see Giulio Busi, La Istoria dePurim io ve racco-
nto... II libro di Ester secondo un rabbino emiliano del Cinquecento (Rimini: Luise),
1987.

65 Ha-shirim are, in fact, compositions written for Jews who sang and lis-
tened (Foreword 21 and 29) in the interior of Jewish spaces (31 and 35).

Music history's debt to Rossi and Modena

Rossi's musical innovations were conceived and executed in the context of
his community's recent ghettoization. He is rightly viewed— even from a
European-centered perspective— as the first "great" Jewish composer and
one of the most significant ever. 66 However, for the sake of historical accuracy
we should also note that the figure of Leon Modena needs to be enhanced
considerably. He was a rabbi of ample musical skills who, without doubt, in-
fluenced many of the choices that Rossi made, textual ones in particular. One
might say that if Rossi was the masterly hand that wrote The Songs, Modena
was the mind that conceived the entire project, a work that he lists in his
Autobiography among many others to which he contributed. 67

Compositionally speaking, if The Songs of Solomon didn't represent an
absolute novelty (granted that at least one performance of polyphonic sing-
ing, as has been noted above, took place in the synagogue of Ferrara around
1605), 68 they were assuredly an outright innovation for the musical publishing
world; and it is quite telling, from a more general perspective, that polyphonic
singing — in Jewish circles and specifically in the synagogue — is well attested
to in Italy during the decades following the publication of The Songs. 69

This story ended abruptly, along with almost all other expressions of
urban cultural life in Mantua, with the town's sacking in 1630. It happened
during the final phases of the War of the Mantuan Succession, part of the
Thirty Years' War. In July of that year Mantua was plundered by troops of
the Landsknechte (mercenaries) in the pay of the Holy Roman Empire, after
the plague had brought rampant death to the town in preceding months.
Under such circumstances the uniqueness of Rossi's Ha -shirim... publication
becomes readily apparent, even more so in view of the huge economic crisis
that gripped the Italian economy from the 1620s on. All of these setbacks, in

66 For some methodological aspects see Edwin Seroussi, "In the Footsteps of
the 'Great Jewish Composer,'" Min-Ad: Israel Studies in Musicology Online, 4/2004
(www.biu.ac.il/hu/mu/min-ad04/Rossirev.pdf).

67 I refer the reader to D. Harran, "Dum recordaremur Sion"..., 1998 and to
Leone Modena (Mark R. Cohen, ed.), The Autobiography of a Seventeenth-Cen-
tury Venetian Rabbi: Leon Modena's Life ofjudah (Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP),
1988:126.

68 See D. Harran, Salamone..., 1999:203 and following.

69 See for instance Cecil Roth, "LAccademia musicale nel ghetto veneziano"
La Rassegna mensile di Israel, volume III, n.4 (Tebheth 5688): pages 152-162; and
Israel Adler, The Rise of Art Music..., 1967: 360-364.

fact, adversely affected the printing industry, and in the long run, the trans-
mission and preservation of music. 70

Of Salomone Rossi as well— "the first man to print Hebrew music"— we
lose track during those years, terrible ones in which the plague "spread abroad
and the hand of the Lord was heavy upon the people of Israel throughout
Italy, in war, famine and plague. And the congregation of Mantua endured
troubles the like of which there had not been since the destruction of our
Temple until the present." 71

Mantuan-born Stefano Patuzzi earned a diploma in Organ and Organ Composition
at the Conservatory of Mantua, and a Masters degree in Italian Literature at the
University of Parma. He subsequently studied Musicology at the Royal Holloway
College, University of London, and earned a PhD in Musicology at the University
of Bologna. He has taught at the University of Parma and at the Conservatory of
Mantua, and published in Italy and England mainly on music, religion and cul-
tural history between the 16th and 1 7th century. More recently he has been active
in the field of the Jewish studies as well.

The author is pleased to thank anew Don Harrdn for his comments on an earlier ver-
sion of this article that appeared in the Italian journal Vox organalis, and Francesco
Spagnolo for his generous observations on the broader Italian-Jewish and synagogal
context with reference to Rossi's "Songs" which the author dealt with in the book
Ebraismo in ntusica (Mantua: Di Pellegrini), 2011. He would also like to thank
Kenneth Stow for his bibliographical leads, Anna Foa for her observations on the
Northern Italian ghettos between the 1 6th-and-l 7th centuries and Gianfranco Miletto
for his remarks on the use of Hebrew during the first decades of the 17th century. A
particularly warm expression of gratitude goes finally to Joseph Levine for his deep
interest in every phase of this research.

This article is respectfully dedicated to the memory ofFabio Norsa (z"l, 1946-2012),
a sincere friend and late President of the Jewish Community of Mantua.

70 See, on this, Lorenzo Bianconi, Music in the Seventeenth Century (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge UP), 1987:73-81.

71 Leone Modena, The Autobiography..., 1988:49; the quoted passage refers
to the Hebrew year 5390 (1629/1630 CE).

Sanctifying Two-Dimensional Space: The Avodah of
Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

By David Greenstein

Introduction

The question of the place of the arts, and, in particular, the visual arts, in Jewish
tradition has always been colored by a sense of unease born out of a defensive
posture assumed vis-a-vis the host culture — most especially meaning Chris-
tian—and now, secular culture. While evidence of all artistic forms: dance,
music, poetry, visual arts, and perhaps even the rudiments of drama, can be
adduced for ancient Jewish life in the ceremonies and texts of Israel, these
early manifestations have mostly failed to continue to develop and flourish
as Jewish religious expressions. The avid engagement of the Jews in Western
art since the Emancipation has only served to highlight how marginal, or, at
most, secondary is the place the arts have occupied in the Tradition.

Efforts have been made to find an explanation for this phenomenon. There
is a compelling argument to be made that the socio-political realities of Jew-
ish life over the last two millennia have rendered it almost impossible for the
development of a major tradition of Jewish arts. Jewish life in the Diaspora
has lacked the security and stability to allow for the development of agents
of patronage parallel to the nobility, church and, later, middle class that were
necessary for the development of Western Art. Such an argument holds forth
the promise that as the position of the Jew has become more normalized
in modem times, or, with the democratization of the means of production
of wealth and power, the renewal of Jewish artistic expression is now pos-
sible. (Indeed, just such a hope animated the extraordinary burst of Jewish
artistic creativity in the first years after the Russian Revolution. 1 ) However,
this ignores the very real problem of the fragmented nature of the modem
Jewish identity — individual as well as communal — which has made any kind
of Jewish expression, whether traditional, ethnic, experimental, religious or
secular, more problematic than ever. 2

1 See the excellent catalogue produced by the Israel Museum, TRADITION
AND REVOLUTION: The Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde Art 19 '12- 1928,
Jerusalem, 1987.

2 Thus, The Jewish Museum, when it re-opened its newly renovated building,
consciously chose to mount an exhibition, From the Inside Out: Eight Contemporary
Artists (June 13-November 14, 1993) featuring artists with problematic relationships
to their Jewish heritage.

Be that as it may, this socio-political argument has long been neglected
in favor of finding an "essentialist" explanation, an explanation based on the
inner identity of Judaism itself. Ironically, this approach has been adopted
by some of the most virulent anti-Semites as well as by some of the most
devoted exponents of Judaism.

The "positive" Jewish essentialist approach claims that discussions about the
relationship between Jewish tradition and the making, display and experience
of art must invariably begin with reference to the Second Commandment, the
prohibition against idolatrous images. Thus, from the outset, the category of
"Idolatry" assumes a dominant position in the discussion. It is posited that
this major taboo could only hinder free-flowing artistic production among
faithful Jews. This explanation is attractive as it offers an adequately serious
reason for this (for us) very serious question. It is also attractive because
it offers what seems like a way out of our problem. If we can be convinced
that idolatry is no longer a real threat, then Jewish artistic expression may
be encouraged. Traditional opposition to the arts is thus posited as indeed
powerful but, also, as an anachronism.

There are numerous inadequacies to this approach. First, it ignores the
complex and varied interpretations of the Second Commandment and its
related laws. Second, it ignores the vast amount of evidence that Jews have
always produced art, some of it quite baldly in contravention of the simplistic
readings of the Second Commandment. In addition, as mentioned before, it
ignores the socio-political realities of Jewish life. This is important not only
as an additional factor, but also because, to adopt an argument advanced by
Rabbi Leo Baeck, 3 the fact of Judaism's existence as a "minority religion" is
not merely a socio-political datum, unfortunate or fortunate. Beyond that,
this status has a spiritual significance in that it puts Judaism into the place of
the prophet, the counter-cultural force.

Another, powerful critique of the optimism of the positive Jewish essential-
ist view may be derived, paradoxically, from the other essentialist extreme.
Anti-Semitic racist theories proclaim an inherent artistic lack in the Jewish
soul, psyche, or blood. The Jew is viewed as a parasite on the creative body
of the world. The accusation of the anti-Semite posits a life-giving value to
culture and assigns to the Jew the draining, vampire curse that can only lead
to death. This vicious, murderous opinion has itself contributed to the un-
dermining and effacing of the Jew as artist, and to the destruction of millions
of Jewish lives. But in its perverted way this accusation brings up for us the

3 See his The Essence of Judaism, Schocken, 1948, pp. 272-275.

issue of how and in what spirit we might ask ourselves about the place of the
arts in Jewish life.

As moderns (or even as post-moderns), do we not also equate life with
culture? We also consider the vital expression of a community to be identi-
cal with its culture. 4 And we would mostly agree that such a conviction is a
necessary one for any artist to hold in order to aspire to create great art. Yet,
we also have to admit that such an equation is not to be found in traditional
Jewish thought, in which creative living is equated with Torah, rather than
with culture. We have been pushed to consider whether Judaism is "counter-
cultural' in an even more radical sense. A faithful Jew must wonder whether
it is possible to assign a sufficiently high value to culture so as to make its
production on the highest level a supreme desideratum, and, yet, not fall into
a modem day version of idolatry.

So the question becomes how to discuss the cultural development of Juda-
ism while at the same time remaining faithful to its counter-cultural calling. It
is in this spirit that the following discussion, "The Avodah of Art in the Age of
Mechanical Reproduction" — focusing primarily on the visual arts — is offered.

This essay takes its title— with its intentional mistranslation— and some of
its inspiration from the classic essay by Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art
in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction." 5 Benjamin reflected on the meaning
of art and the status of art objects in the modem age, an age of "mechanical
reproductions", and, not surprisingly, the age of the emergence of photography
and film as the predominant art forms. In relating to some of his insights,
I would like, first, to advance some propositions about the concerns of the
Torah as a religious system, that is, as a system of symbolic actions which
embody basic truths about God and reality and that directs Israel toward
certain orientations regarding those truths.

Uniqueness and Reproduction in the Torah

The Torah is intensely concerned with reproduction and duplication. Re-
production involves repetition. It is equally concerned with the meaning of

4 Eliezer Schweid offers an excellent discussion of the urgency of this
belief as expressed in the work of modern Jewish writers and thinkers in his
"Ha-omanutk'ba 'ayah kiyyumit ba-hagut ha-y'hudit shel ha-z'man he-hadash
(Iyyun ba-hagut shel S"Y Agnon, A"D Gordon v'Franz Rosenzweig" (Hebrew) in
David Cassuto, editor, Omanut Ve-Yahadut, Bar Han University, 1989.

5 In his Illuminations, Edited and with an Introduction by Hannah
Arendt, Translated by Harry Zohn, Schocken, 1969, pp. 217-251.

oneness and uniqueness. Our Torah is determined to proclaim the reality of
the Oneness of the True God and the possibility of walking and talking with
that God. The uniqueness of the relationship between Israel and God lies in
the way Israel handles the challenge of relating Uniqueness and Reproduction.
So the Torah begins by explaining that the special status of humans derives
from their being created as duplicates of God — in God's Image — D'm^-N D^3£2
— b'tselem elohim (Gen. 1: 27). The first mitzvah of the Torah, according to
our Tradition, is the command to humans to reproduce themselves. The Tra-
dition tells us that the last mitzvah of the Torah is to create reproductions,
copies of the Torah itself. 6 This is the Torah that was given by the One God
not once, but twice, for Moses was commanded to reproduce the Tablets he
had broken so that God could repeat the words that were written the first
time. 7 And, of course, the Torah must recapitulate itself— through Moses'
Deuteronomy— mill "Jffft —mishneh ha-torah (Deut. 17: 18). in order for
it to become complete. The Torah is to be passed on to succeeding copies of
the Children of Israel through its constant repetition— "And you shall teach
them repeatedly ( QniKn — v'-shinantam) to your children" (Deut. 6: 7). The
unique Jewish institution of Shabbat creates a temporal cycle of weekly rep-
etition that overrides the seasonal cycles embedded in Nature. When Israel
sanctifies the Shabbat, Israel reproduces the unique, primal, Divine Shabbat
from the beginning of Creation. And when Israel celebrates its Festivals, it
reproduces unique moments foundational to its own creation. The mystical
tradition works out manifold expressions of the truth that all that is below is
really a reflection reproducing that which is above. 8 How could it be otherwise,

6 See for example, Seferha-hinnukh, ed. C. Chavel, Jerusalem, 1990, p. 55 {Mitz-
vah 1) and pp. 731-733 {Mitzvah 613).

7 See Ex. 34:1, "And God said to Moses, engrave for yourself two tablets
of stones, just like the first ones, and I will write on the tablets those words
that were on the original tablets which you shattered!'

8 A common medieval term for this correspondence is dugma. Thus R. Moshe
de Leon can say, "For you should know that Gan Eden is in the world and is the ex-
emplum of {dugmat) the two worlds, an exemplum of this world and an exemplum of
the upper world." (In Shnei kuntresim I'rabbi moshe de leon, published by Gershom
Scholem, kovetzalyad, n.s. 8 (1976] ,p. 3.50.] On this parallelism as reflected in nature,
ritual, and, especially, kabbalistic historiosophy, see the essays, and notes thereto, by
E. R. Wolfson, "Re/Membering the Covenant: Memory, Forgetfulness, and the Con-
struction of History in the Zohar," and M. Idel, "Some Concepts of Time and History
in Kabbalah." In Jewish History and Jewish Memory: Essays in Honor ofYosefHayim
Yerushalmi, edited by Elisheva Carlebach, John M. Efron and David N. Myers, pp. 214-

when even according to the simplest meaning of the text, the Mysterious Being
of the Unique God of Israel is expressed through a name which reproduces
itself — iTitK 1EN "TiK —Ehyeh asher ehyeh (Ex. 3: 14)?

The manufacture of holiness requires a production line of repetitive
acts— called rituals or mitzvot— formulated and performed again and again—
imtra TOS! Tby$ —olat shabbat b'shabbato—"a complete sacrifice of the
Sabbath each Sabbath" (Num. 28: 10) — by interchangeable laborers, day after
day, generation after generation. That which is meaningful must be repeated
and reproduced. 9 That which is loved must be reiterated. When God calls
out to Abraham, God calls, "Abraham, Abraham!" (Gen. 22: 11) and Rashi
(there) quotes the midrash— "'1027 JIN "7D1DE? ,K1" rOTI ])&>'— "This is the
language of love, for God repeats his name."

But, of course herein lies a danger and a paradox. For repetition also de-
grades the special and unique. Thus the Talmud says, ^Vj&'-JJQff "liDIN *?D
WIN WTWU ,D , Tli'J-D'HlQ "Anyone who repeats the words oiSh'ma, or of
Modim [in the Amidah] should be silenced, for this impugns the Oneness
of God. 10 Degradation of the unique damages not only the sancta, but also
damages the soul, for it breeds boredom and the loss of meaning, spiritual
fatigue and despair: DE? T?r ,CTO TJ71 10 lj7 ,0 1j? j£> IS ,Ub IS '2
— "For it is precept upon precept, precept upon precept, line upon line, line
upon line; here a little, there a little." (Isa. 28: 10) Or one might refer to the
famous words of Kohelet, which need no repeating. 11

246 and 153-188. Hanover and London: Brandeis University Press/University Press
of New England, 1998. On the level of the individual, see Scholem's study, "Tselem:
The Concept of the Astral Body," in his On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead: Basic
Concepts of the Kabbalah, translated by Joachim Neugroschel, edited by Jonathan
Chipman, Schoken, 1991, pp. 251-273.

9 See Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion, Harper
& Row, 1957, p. H17-113. And see, on Eliade, J. Z. Smith, Map is Not Territory: Studies
in the History of Religion, Leiden: E. J. Brill; 1978, p. 92.

10 BT5er. 33b, Me£.25a.

11 Both the value of copying and the danger of repetition are expressed by the
author of the Sefer ha-hinnukh (op. cit, p. 472) in his discussion of the rationale for
the commandment to copy Torah scroll: "... and we were commanded, each one of us
in Israel, to make an effort for this [mitzvah], even if one's ancestors have already left
one [Torah scroll] for him, so that the scrolls should multiply among us, and we will
be able to lend them to those who cannot afford to acquire them, but also in order
that every one in Israel may read from new scroll, lest they be turned off [pen t'kuts
nafsham] from reading from the old scrolls left to them by their ancestors. "

Uniqueness and Reproduction in Art

Art, too, may be considered a discipline obsessed with the problem of the
relationship between uniqueness and replication. This is clearly the case with
regard to the mimetic tradition. The work of art is conceived therein as a "re-
presentation" of some aspect of the real.

"Can you tell me what mimesis — imitation — is?" asks Socrates of Glaucon
in Plato's Republic [Bk. X, 595ff]. 12 And Socrates proceeds with his analysis:

"Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the world —
plenty of them are there not? ...

"But there are only two ideas or forms of them— one the idea of a bed, the
other of a table."

Socrates explains that these forms are made by the greatest artist of all —
"One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen ... For this is he
who is able to make not only vessels of every kind, but plants and animals,
himself and all other things— the earth and heaven and the thing which are
in heaven or under the earth; he makes the gods also."

All manifestations in the real world are imitations of these created forms.
They are reflections of the Forms, made by craftsmen. And finally, when an
artist then makes an image of a table, he is imitating an imitation.

Socrates then explains the difference between Divine art and human art—

"God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature
and one only... He desired to be the real maker of a real bed, not a particular
maker of a particular bed, and therefore He created a bed which is essentially
and by nature one only."

In this view the artist is condemned to the manufacture of pale imitations,
images that may be deceptively engaging indeed, they must be engaging— in
order to attract our attention to them and deflect it away from the real.

The artist will attempt to counter that s/he— and the viewer, too,— is well
aware that the table painted on the canvas is not a table, but the picture of
a table. "Must I," protests the artist, "paint onto the picture an explicit dis-
claimer, 'This is not a table?'" 13

12 The Dialogues of Plato, Translated by Benjamin Jowett, The University
of Chicago, 1952, pp. 427-428.

13 See the famous painting by Rene Magritte, The Treason of Images, 1928-29
( Wm. N. Copley Collection, NY), in which he places a realistic rendering of a smoker's
pipe over the explanation, "Ceci nest pas unepipe" ("This is not a pipe.") See figure 1.

But the dialectic is not so easily dismissed. Artists have always tried to
capture, to image, to express — which is to say, to represent, to create a copy
of the singular. Even when post-romantic art began questioning the hierar-
chies assumed in deciding what qualified as "singular," when it began asking
"Why not paint a worker, a road, a train station? " — even when the everyday
became a fit subject for art, the artistic enterprise was still committed to giving
to that which was not singular an image or expression that was singular. The
importance of creating a singular expression tended to call for the creation
of works that could claim to be unique. Walter Benjamin called that quality
of the art object its "aura."

But the paradox persisted. For that very quality which made for a success-
ful work of art — its formal adequacy to its expressive demands — was pre-
cisely the quality that allows for and actually calls for the duplication of the
work. Only a work of formal coherence — defined in whatever way a culture
chooses — can claim attention as a significant object — as a work of art. But
any work whose formal coherence can be discerned is, thus, a work that can
be and will be copied. To make a work of art is to make a work that can be
copied. The motive for copying it may be studious— to learn from it the les-
sons of its creation; it may be to render homage to the message of the work
or the skill of the artist; or it may be to exploit the increased demand for the
work, fed by its aura of uniqueness, but thwarted by its singular existence.
Whether from exalted motives or base ones, some will make copies of art
works because reproducibility is inherent in the works' quality as art. This
is the premise which underlies, not only paintings, for instance, but also all
performable works. 14

It is also the premise that applies to all attempts to escape the identification
of art with imitation. Artists in modern times tried to create abstract works,
that is, works with no clear tangible referent. It was hoped that these works
would partake of a spiritual or existential uniqueness no longer accessible
through figurative, mimetic art. After a short time, however, the art world
turned away in dismay from second-generation practitioners of abstraction
and expressionism, finding that all these works tended to look and feel the
same, as if they were mere empty copies of earlier such works.

One alternative was to pursue the lead of the enigmatic controversialist,
Marcel Duchamp. His work exhilarated, outraged, or confounded his public
through his frank admission that it is impossible to overcome the paradox

14 Michael Ayrton touches on some of this in his Introduction to the volume,
Art Themes and Variations: Five Centuries of Interpretations and Re-creations, with
text by K. E. Maison, Abrams, n.d., pp. 7-29.

of uniqueness and reproduction. He created unique works from reproduc-
tions and reproduced multiples of selected objects. It is noteworthy that the
Museum of Modem Art proudly holds a third-hand copy of a ready-made
bicycle wheel once appropriated by Duchamp and presented as a work of art. 15

Duchamp's strategy could be seen as an attempt to clearly identify the threat
posed by art's inclination toward reproduction and to defeat it by embracing
it. Opponents have accused this approach of cynical nihilism. But, ironically,
Duchamp's gambit can also be seen as having reinvested religious concerns
into an art tradition that had failed to persuade its devotees of its interest in
religion and spirituality or its ability to express these experiences. Of course,
the kind of religious experience offered was not the kind to which we were ac-
customed. Instead of beatific communion with the exalted, Duchamp offered
an esoteric, "gnostic" test of salvation. If one accepted Duchamp's revelation,
one was saved. If one rejected it, one was consigned to the camp of the Sons
of Darkness. His enterprise was imbued with typically eschatological features.
As mentioned, one such feature was his defeat of art's destructive forces
through their embrace. The end of art as we knew it was upon us. The new
dispensation involved, not the creation of unique— read: "holy"— objects, but
the raising of the sparks of uniqueness from those humble, fallen objects such
as hat racks and urinals. The holy and the mundane were intertwined. There
could be no sanctification without degradation, no Holy Mother without por-
nography and excrement. 16 This operation of sanctification was accomplished
by assuming for the artist, curator, dealer and exhibition space the sacerdotal
status of priests and temples. If sanctity involves the transformation of that
which is unreal and imitative into a realm of truly singular, then the gallery
and museum are the true holy spaces, transforming any object offered up
in their premises. If a bicycle wheel is on the street, it is not art. Chosen by
the artist and brought to the Temple, that is, the gallery, the wheel becomes
infused with aura.

When we consider Damien Hirst's sheep encased in formaldehyde we
wonder whether it would be appropriate to inscribe upon it, "This is not a
sheep." 17 Perhaps it would be better to consider it an example of the renewal of

15 See figure 2.

16 Consider Chris Ofili's notorious The Holy Virgin Mary (1996), a painting in the
African figurative folkstyle, depicting Mary, with turds of elephant dung attached to
the surface. This painting caused much outrage when exhibit at The Brooklyn Museum
show, "Sensation," in 1999. See figure 4.

17 Hirst exhibited his Away from the Flock — a formaldehyde-filled glass case, in
which a dead sheep floated in suspension — at the Brooklyn Museum show mentioned

that once essential category of service — avodah — a category which we either
quickly or queasily dismiss: I mean "sacrifice." Here we have the offering of
the animal within the sacred precinct, offered out of the desire to "only con-
nect" and perhaps also arousing primal feelings of guilt and shame. Encased
in its preservative, this offering can never be consumed; it is a very different
kind oiolat tamid— perpetual, total offering. And the stench is gone. Is there,
instead, a rei'ah nihpah — an acceptable, pleasing smell?

But the question, then, is, "Pleasing to whom?" For as the artist presents
his ceremonial act and product, whether as supplicant or as priest, we may
imagine him, as if in a remake of Raiders of the Lost Ark, intoning the fol-
lowing incantation:

.K2D7JD ftfm 12 by 161 xarm m& by nV

k|71e?ni 'tyjsn "12 by xbx

"Not in God do we put our trust nor on any angel
do we rely, but on the people and the market."

The artists and their public help each other satisfy their most urgent needs.
The swings between scandal and adulation experienced by the public become
patterned and scripted into a recurrent ritual of entertainment The artist is
no longer craftsperson or creator, but star; the source of his or her brilliance
is no longer skill or soul, but ego.

A work such as Andy Warhol's Marilyn Diptych 18 eschews the pretence
of scandal and, instead, accepts all of this as given: the nod to religion, the
obsessive focus on a movie star, and the invitation to the viewer to imagine
themselves as the creative director of a monthly glossy magazine, pouring
over multiple stills to pick out the one example that perhaps still bears enough
aura in it to lay claim to a moment of singularity, or, in the terms of Warhol's
bland, but apparently genuine generosity, to "fifteen minutes of fame." Aura
thus becomes a marketing tool.

A Sugya — Talmudic discussion in BT Rosh HaShanah 24a-b — On
Making an Image

The Mishnah, in describing how the New Moon was consecrated, relates that
Rabban Gamliel, the Head of the Court, would interrogate eye-witnesses to
the appearance of the New Moon by showing them pictures of the phases of
the moon. The Talmud begins with a strong sense that using such pictures was
forbidden: **T8? *Q1 — U-mi shari? — "Could anyone think this is permitted?"

above. See figure 3.

18 Painted 1962, hanging in the Tate Gallery, London. See figure 5.

The question reflects the strong iconoclastic tendency expressed in various
sources. Thus, in the Mekhilta 19 to the Second Commandment we find a collec-
tion of Biblical verses prohibiting various objects and images of idolatry made
with various materials, including gods, celestial beings, signs of the zodiac,
natural forms in heaven, earth and sea and phantasms, whether in precious
or common materials, whether in relief or engraved. The midrash concludes:

i? pffy $£m jnn ~\v inx mjian q-n -p Vs

Scripture pursued the Evil Inclination to such a degree,
in order to prevent it from finding any excuse to be permissive.
Later the Mekhilta 20 explains the verse,

ad? w$r\ xV 3"T 'rfrxi tpo 'nVx ?m ymyn x 1 ?

Do not make [anything] with Me; do not make gods of
silver and gold for yourselves" [Ex. 20; 19] -by saying:

rmffc mvn trim runn V-xin tMH $?%
*JE£fl nrwa *mi f0$ *FfS impm iron
iE?yn x 1 ? #i n±> )vyn x 1 ? V'n j rimfm
fna ?xb ppiy us nn nowi xVp -dd 1 ?

nd? iffyji x 1 ? V - n ,mnzn pv9 n 7_ inx&'

To prevent you from saying, "Since the Torah gives permission
to do this in the Temple, I will, then, do so in the synagogues and
houses of study", the Teaching says, "Do not make for yourselves".
Another matter: So that you should not say, "We may make these
for decoration, as others do abroad," the Teaching says, "Do not
make for yourselves".

The Mekhilta d'rabban shimon bar yohai 21 applies this lesson to the first
half of the verse:

-p nttfjfn *6 toxj tb j-ay 1 ? ox -vrc p»yn t6
Tto tmci x 1 ? rnt ]wyn x 1 ? rrpu -jx no tn "?dd

pro ji x 1 ? Vn ,nc?yx ux *p ^tf? rw anmw

, u>#h*i pcyii x 1 ? - iw

19 Ktro. Masekhta debahodesh. Parashah vav. Horovitz-Rabin edition,
Jerusalem, 1998, p. 225.

20 Ibid., Parashah yod. p. 241.

21 Epstein — Melamed edition, p. 248 as an addition to p. 156.

"Do not make with Me" [Ex. 20: 20] — if this verse were [written] to prohibit
their worship, it [would not have] already said, "You shall not make an
idol..." [Ex. 20: 3] Then how do I understand "Do not make with Me" ...
this is to prevent you from saying, Just as others make images for beauty
... so shall I do so. The verse speaks to teach you, "Do not make with Me,"
'do not make' even [if only] for beauty.

The Babylonian Talmud in Shabbat [149a] even records the view that the
very act of looking at pictures is forbidden:

rrn birtorfr tbk Vina *i« ~my ruprn
jnna 'sn jr^VNn V« uan bn tsib mm

It is forbidden to gaze at a picture even on the weekday, for it says, "Do
not turn toward the idols". [Lev. 19: 4] What is the derivation? Said R.
Hanin — Do not turn to what you conceive on your own. 22

The rishonim are divided as to whether the images prohibited are idolatrous
or not. But Rashi, for example, describes the pictures as murals depicting
animals, or else narrative paintings, such as a picture of David and Goliath. 23
We can see that the ground for our gemara's surprise is quite solid. The
sugya finally offers a number of possibilities that making images is indeed
forbidden, but having images made by others is permitted, or that owning
three dimensional images is indeed forbidden, but that it is permissible to
own and perhaps even make flat images, or that all this is forbidden under the
suspicion of idolatry, but that Rabban Gamliel was above suspicion, or that
he availed himself of a technical loophole in the way his images were made
and stored, or that everyone may benefit from his example since to own and
display (and perhaps to make) images for educational purposes is permitted.
In other words, the gemara does not come up with one definitive
explanation for Rabban Gamliel's actions. (It should be noted, by the
way, that the whole discussion seems to have taken place 300 years or
more after the fact.) No one answer strikes to the very core of the issue.
All possibilities are brought to bear, from whatever angle occurs to the

22 This is Rashi's reading. According to the Arukh, the reading is— al t'fanu el mi-
da'atkhem -"do not clear God out of your thoughts" See Maimonides' Guide, I V; 51,
which seems to read the verse as does the Arukh, but applies it to mundane activities.
(Rif has the derivation in the name of Rav (!).)

23 See Maimonides, Yad. Hit. A.Z. 2;2, and Rabbenu Asher. But see Tosafot A.z.
S.v. h"g. These sources are discussed from a different perspective in Efraim E. Urbachs,
"The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the light of
Archaeological and Historical Facts," Israel Exploration Journal, 9:3 (1959): 149-165,
and 9:4: 229-245.

sugya, without a sense that it has a firm, coherent outlook. The blanket
prohibition on images is felt to be practically unsustainable in the face of
the record of Rabban Gamliel's actions and in the face of the realities of
life.

What's more, the sugya, before offering its final bouquet of distinctions,
consists of a series of steps whereby it records a distinction offered in the
name of Abaye, challenges that distinction, records a different distinction in
Abaye's name, challenges that one, and so forth, three or four 24 times. Again,
the relation between these different teachings is unclear. Was Abaye present-
ing a series of qualifications that form a coherent whole, or was he struggling
with finding the right answer, disposing of each distinction in favor of the
next as he responded to challenges from his anonymous interlocutor? 25 The
commentators were unequivocal on this. 26

Without attempting to clarify all the issues raised by this text, I would like
to focus on one of the teachings in the sugya. While I have indicated that
there is a kind of unpersuasive, catch-all quality to the sugya as we have it,
I do not think it follows that the various positions disposed of by the sugya
should be considered as devoid of conceptual value. I follow the old traditional
insistence on asking, "What is the hava amino. 7 ."— "What is the reasoning of
the initial proposition?" even though that proposition may be rejected. This
will be helpful for appreciating the approach of Maimonides, to be discussed
a bit further on.

I would like to deal with only the first of Abaye's teachings. The gemara
opens by asking how Rabban Gamliel could do something clearly forbidden.
We note that the gemara does not appeal to the Second Commandment di-
rectly. Rather it cites the later verse in Exodus 20: 20: "Do not make with Me"
In other words, it would seem to be unthinkable that Rabban Gamliel could
be in violation of the explicit prohibition of idolatry. No one would suggest
that he was an idolator. But the gemara reads the Torah as having created its
own fence around the law, forbidding all non-idolatrous images of anything

24 R. Huna, son of R. Idi, offers a deduction he has made from a teaching that
he heard from Abbaye.

25 On the relationship between Abaye and the anonymous questions, see David
(Weiss-)Halivni. M'korot u-m'sorot: Mo'ed — Yoma — Hagigah. Jerusalem, 1975, pp.
391-392.

26 Tosafot. S.v. lo asrah torah, states that all Abaye's statements must be taken
together. But other commentators suggest the second possibility (see reference in
Ritva), or that this may be a basic divergence between the Sh'iltot [Yitro, §571 who
seems to read the sugya as all-of-a-piece, and the Rif andRambamwho don't. Heshek
shlomo on Rambam, Avodah zarah 43a, s.v. gemara].

that can at all be connected to the Divine as a helper or attendant, presumably
out of concern that they might be elevated to divine status. Says the gemara:

Is this allowed?— seeing that it is written, Ye shall not make with me,

[Ex. 20: 20] which we interpret, 'Ye shall not make the likeness of my

attendants'— "E?QE7 JTIftTD -?
Now while the midrashim on this verse which I quoted before seem to derive
a blanket prohibition, the gemara's question already makes explicit a qualify-
ing condition: Only beings attendant to the Divine are assumed prohibited.
Abbaye further qualifies the prohibition in surprising ways:

Abbaye replied: The Torah forbade only those attendants of which it is

possible to make copies,
It is possible to read this as a standard halakhic exchange. A claim is made
that something should be included in an accepted prohibition. In response
the prohibition is defined narrowly so that the action in question escapes
the reach of the issur. This is called "finding a heteir". But I would venture to
push beyond the mechanics of the discussion to try to uncover the concep-
tual underpinnings of the newly revised definition of the prohibition. When
Abbaye offers his new reading of the Torah's words, what values does he as-
sume the Torah really takes seriously? Abbaye's teaching seems to be based
on two premises:

1) Just as the Torah only mandates actions that are perform-
able, it also only prohibits actions which are performable. 2) Image-
making is to be denned as the making of an exact copy or reproduc-
tion. Anything else is not to be taken seriously as an image.

Therefore, argues Abbaye, if the Torah indeed prohibits im-
age making, it must prohibit only the kinds of images that a human
can really make. And image making is conceived of as the making of
a copy. Only certain things can be copied exactly. An image of the
moon, such as the one displayed by Rabban Gamliel, is not an exact
reproduction of the moon. It is merely mtam TPX — as Rashi phras-
es it — merely the picturing of its likeness, a copy of a copy. The force
of Abbaye's contention can be further appreciated when we add the
comments of the P'nei Y'hoshu'a on the Mishnah. 27 He points out
that the images Rabban Gamliel had in his chamber were probably
of crescent moon shapes. Thus there could be no mistaking the im-

27 Ad loc, s. v. Ba-Mishnah.

age as a real attempt to copy the moon. Rather it was an image of
how the moon appears to us. Abbaye contends that the imitation
of appearances does not worry the Torah. Only the making of a real
replica of a Divine attendant is prohibited.

But what beings or attendants could the Torah possibly mean? A baraita
is quoted in support of Abbaye — 8'UR3 — as it has been taught":

A man may not make a house in the form of the Temple, or an exedra
in the form of the Temple hall, or a court corresponding to the Temple
court, or a table corresponding to the [sacred] table or a candlestick
corresponding to the [sacred] candlestick, but he may make one [24b]
with 5 or 6 or 8 lamps, but [one] with seven he should not make, even of
other metals.
The reference is not to any celestial bodies or heavenly figures. Nor is it to
any priestly figure. Rather, the Temple itself, the Sacred Space in Jerusalem,
is God's worldly attendant. The Torah's extension of the prohibition against
idolatry to include making images/copies of God's attendants means that it is
prohibited to make an exact reproduction of one of the items in the Temple. 28
This teaching is hard to understand. In what sense is the Temple or the
table or even the Menorah, God's attendant? And how can it be that there
is a suspicion that making reproductions of objects of the Temple, objects
specifically dedicated to the holy service— Avodah— of the One True God,
will lead to idolatry? 29 If idolatry is defined narrowly— as the mistaken worship
of something other than God, it is hard to see the worry here. But perhaps
another explanation is possible, employing broader considerations of what
might be wrong with acts which may not be directed to false gods, but might
still be included in the notion of prohibited worship.

The concern may not at all be that the production of that image may lead
someone who views it into idolatrous practices. The concern may be focused
on the very act of image-making itself. The discussion in Plato subtly intro-
duces the element of competition between God and Humans with regard
to the act of creating images. God does not want to be the maker of mere
copies, like a human artist. God wants to be better than that. God wants
to make the real thing. Artists, by definition, make copies of copies. But

28 See Minhat hinnukh §39 and §254 on whether the prohibition extends to
implements for which the Torah gives no specific size or form, and the discussion
that follows.

29 Indeed, see Mekor mayyim hayyim on S.A. Y.D. 141, SA. Y.D. 141, where this
is not accepted as the right explanation.

an artist who thinks he can reproduce what God makes is guilty of the sin
of hubris. This idea of God and Humans competing, most especially in the
arena of knowledge, culture and art, is not merely a conceit of the classical
Greeks. We can think of the beginning oiB'reshit, when God worries about
Humans remaining in the Garden after they have become too much like
God — UDD *intO !Ti7 W\K \Ti — Lo! Humans have become as one of us ...
[Gen. 3: 22] The Tower of Babel story lends itself to such a reading as well.
In Rabbinic sources we find many ways that God trumps humans as an art-
ist. For example the Babylonian Talmud in Berakhot 10a re-reads Hannah's
praise in 1 Sam. 2:2— im^-ND TGI fl«— "There is no Rock like our God"
as — 1JTI7-ND T'S J'NI — "There is no artist like our God" — as the gemara
explains —

A human being makes a figure [~T2 H] on a wall, but he cannot invest
it with breath and spirit, bowels and intestines. But the Blessed Holy One
makes a figure within a figure [~T12 TifQ PHIS 12] and puts within it
breath, [etc.]

From a religious point of view, the artistic act is inherently problematic.
The "impassioned God" (Ex. 20: 4)— Nip ^-^ —is incensed when Israel wor-
ships other gods or makes images of gods. After all, who shall make a copy
of whom? The relation between original and copy is a hierarchical one that
must remain clear. The art of making a reproduction must be a conscious act
of subservience and homage, rather than one of competition and displace-
ment. Artistic production is thus to be brought under control and direction.
The great outlet for sanctioned artistry was the making of the Tabernacle,
and then, the Temple. The Tabernacle included all kinds of objects and im-
ages, but they were fashioned as commanded by God. So R. Yehuda Halevi 30
can claim that the sin of the Golden Calf, on the other hand, was not that
the Israelites worshiped an idol, but that they engaged in artistic production
for God's service without God's sanction. The impertinence of the Israelites
was to arrogate to themselves the creative prerogative of God. They chose to
make a ceremonial object that lacked the connectedness to the Divine of an
authorized copy. The making of the Menorah and other items are described
in the midrash as acts of copying. Moses was shown an image that could be
copied. The P'nei y'hoshu'a reminds us of the tradition that the Temple itself
was conceived of as a copy of the Celestial Temple. We are authorized to make
a copy of that Heavenly Temple, but not a copy of the copy? 31

30 Kuzari 1: 97, 99

31 P'nei Y'hoshu'a, s.v. Sham, amar abbayei. On the traditions of the Heavenly
Temple parallel to the earthly one, see the essay by Victor Aptowitzer, "The Celestial
Temple as Viewed in the Aggadah," in Binah: Studies in Jewish Thought, Vol. 2, edited

Maimonides' Copy of this Law

This brings us to the Rambam. In his compendium oiHilkhotavodatkokhavim
it is clear that he does not accept all the suggested distinctions offered in our
sugya. He prohibits the making of the human form only, and then only if it
is three-dimensional. The moon and stars, etc., are forbidden even in flat
images. Images made for the purpose of "HI — decoration — are harmless and
permitted. It would seem that he read the sugya as a progressive argument,
annihilating previous hypotheses as it proceeded. It is therefore intriguing
that while he does not mention the prohibition of copying the Temple objects
in these laws regarding idolatry— presumably because that suggestion had
been rejected — the prohibition nevertheless reappears, but with a different
justification, in another context.

Chapter Seven of The Laws of the Temple — nTTD" JV2 JTDVn — deals with
the commandment to treat the Temple with HST— awe and reverence. One
should dress properly when entering the Temple. The space of the Temple
should not be used for shabby or frivolous purposes or acts. The imperative
to treat the Temple Mount with reverence results in numerous constraints
applied to behavior and appearance.

It is here that Rambam resuscitates his prohibition against copying Temple
objects. His 2?HTi — his new insight is to claim that while the talmudic dis-
cussion that places this prohibition within the discourse of idolatry may be
rejected, nevertheless, there still remains another cogent reason to preserve
this tradition. The new context is 2n|7fa XTlD — reverence for the Temple.

Rambam's decision to include this law here, along with his organization
of all the material in this chapter, is instructive. We can see that Rambam
has built a set of ever widening circles around the place of the Temple. In
so doing he establishes a literary-halakhic equivalent of an aura around the
Temple. And so, in the very way he goes about teaching about the mitzvah
of Reverence for the Sanctuary, he has fulfilled that same mitzvah.

Consider: The first six laws he cites involve behavior within Temple space.
Next Rambam, in Halakhah 7, explains that the place of the Temple is still to
be respected although the structure that once defined its space is no longer
standing. Then, in Halakhot 8- 9, Rambam describes how that location is a
focal, orienting point, radiating outward. One must not act disrespectfully,
even outside of the Temple space, if the offensive behavior is directed toward
that space or location.

Finally, in Halakhah 10, Rambam cites our law from Rosh Hashanah. What
is its place here? The prohibited act of making reproductions of Temple items
by Joseph Dan, pp. 1-29, Praeger, 1989. Compare also, Hebrews 8: 4-5. 9: 23ff. 10: Iff.

does not refer to acts that take place within Temple space or that are directed
toward the place of the Temple — 2?*1p?j!"i Dip ft. But, according to Rambam's
EJTTfl — his new interpretation, it has everything to do with protecting the
aura around the Temple, the aura that Rambam has so carefully constructed.
Rambam posits that the concern of this prohibition is not the lure of idolatry,
nor the hubris of the artist. The concern is simply that reproductions will
destroy the aura of singularity. Making a copy of the Temple's elements will
destroy the reverence we are commanded to feel toward the Temple.

Read from this perspective, the continuation of this law takes on a somewhat
different coloration. How should we read the permission to make any menorah
which does not exactly reproduce the one in the Temple? One could simply
read it as an allowance based on rigid halakhic definitions. The way to avoid
a prohibition is to modify the form of the menorah, even if only slightly. A
heteir has been found. But this permission is enclosed within laws that speak
of more than prohibition and permission. They speak about a positive mitz-
vah to act with reverence. Imagine, then, this last provision to be not a mere
granting of permission, but a call to a certain kind of aesthetic engagement. A
person should avoid trying to copy slavishly or competitively. "Do not make
an exact copy of the Menorah. But one can produce a new form, associated
to the traditional form of the Menorah, yet subtly different. Yes, one can do
this if one works in the spirit of reverence for the holy."

I would not claim that this is precisely what Rambam had in mind. In keeping
with this law, I am not trying to reproduce his thought exactly, but to create
something both intimately associated with his approach, yet somewhat dif-
ferent. Still, I derive some encouragement for this approach by considering
one more element in Rambam's discussion of Reverence for the Sanctuary.

In Rambam's telling, this mitzvah of Reverence produces not only prohibi-
tions and permissions. It also mandates certain behaviors. So in Halakhah 4,
Rambam details how the Temple functionaries must leave the Temple after
they have completed their offices. To show reverence they are to exit the
Sanctuary slowly, walking backwards, looking towards the Holy Chambers as
one might take leave of royalty. This is fairly straightforward. This halakhah is
superficially related to the one preceding it, a restatement of Tractate Middot
11: 2, which regulates the pathway of lay visitors to the Temple. But there is
nothing obvious about Rambam's inclusion of this law in this chapter. Indeed,
this is another beautiful example of the subtle way Rambam could infuse a
new way of understanding into a halakhah simply by means of his choice of
placement and organization. There is no textual warrant for including this

halakhah under this rubric. The mishnaic basis for it does not include this
explanation, nor do any commentators. 32

This, again, is the Rambam's EHTA— his own novel teaching. By incorpo-
rating this mishnah as Halakhah 3 of the chapter on Reverence, Rambam
is stating that requirements of this mitzvah do not only generate behav-
ioral constraints, but also engender a kind of sacred choreography, a solemn
pageant, performed by all who visit. Two circles flow in stately procession,
turning in opposite directions, so that they are sure to intersect. One circle
includes the fortunate. The other includes those beset by misfortune. The
script dictates that the fortunate ones must ask after their counterparts in
the other circle. They are to listen to their sorrows, troubles and shortcom-
ings and then offer them words of solace and courage. In the programmed
retreat of the Temple functionaries, their gaze must be fixed on the Temple.
The procession of the masses of Israel, on the other hand, forces them to
face each other. How is this a fulfillment of Wlpfo Kllfj— Reverence of the
Sanctuary? The answer is that the way Israel is bidden to face each other is
with the reverent invocation of ntn JT2D pUSH — The One Who Dwells in
this House. In this formalized dance, always repeated, but, as life unfolds,
never the same, hesed — lovingkindness — and yir'ah — reverence — are part-
ners. Children of Israel face each other just as the cherubim face each other.
The space between their faces is the space sanctified by TSP^O *fel)— the
revelation of Divine Presence. Thus, in the end, Israel finds a way to replicate
the very image of God's attendants— ^DC JIIDTD —and thereby joins their
ranks— DD1J12 'fiJ^l Vnpt2 "h 1E?J71 — Let them make Me a Sanctuary so
that I may dwell within them. [Ex. 25: 8]

Perhaps this is Rambam's insight: To recognize that "NT — reverence —
makes possible an aesthetic practice that can aspire to something beyond
the superficial category of T 13— decoration, or the discredited categories of
exhibitionism, self aggrandizement and commodification. Instead of aspiring
to the production of representations, such an aesthetic of reverence would,
paradoxically, aspire to no less than the evocation of Presence.

The former President and Rabbinic Dean of The Academy for Jewish Religion in
Riverdale, New York, Rabbi David Greenstein is currently spiritual leader of Con-
servative Congregation Shomrei Emunah in Montclair, New Jersey. He holds a Ph.D
in Kabbalah and Rabbinics from New York University, an MA in Talmud from
Yeshiva University, and an MFA in Painting from Queens College. He is a Core
Faculty member of The Skirball Center for Adult Jewish Learningat Congregation

32 The Rosh (ad. loc), for example, gives a different explanation.
87

5, U,

Copies from reproductions of some words of art mentioned in this essay

Emanu-El in New York, and has taught at SUNY-Stony Brook, Touro College, NYU,
Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, andJTS. He was an exhibiting artist for many
years, served on the Editorial Board of the Journal of Conservative Judaism, and is
a member of the Rabbinical Assembly, CAJE, and The New York Board of Rabbis.

Music in a Sacred Place— Understanding the
Second Temple's Acoustics

By Joseph A. Levine

Introduction: cave or open-air

Michael Forsyth, a teacher and researcher of architecture, argues that "room
acoustics have such an influence on musical composition and performance
that the architectural traditions of different races, and hence the acoustic
characteristics of their buildings, influenced fundamentally the type of music
that they developed." 1

Citing Wallace Clement Sabine, 2 Forsyth qualifies that claim as being de-
pendent upon whether a particular region's people lived in reed hunts or cloth
tents, wooden huts or stone houses. Following Otto von Simson he further
specifies that, together with the acoustics of their dwellings, the architecture
of a people's worship spaces would determine whether their music developed
primarily along melodic or rhythmic lines. Among such determinants are
the height of a temple, the type of ceiling — high vaulted or low-roofed — and
if its furnishings were heavy or light. 3 Niaux, for example, a mountainside
cave near Foix in the French Pyrenees dated back to the Magdalenian era of
13,500 years ago, contains a chamber formed by the crossroads of branching
corridors carved by ancient underground streams. The natural acoustic ambi-
ence of this so-called Salon Noir ("black gallery"), a vaulted space 22 yards in
diameter, amplifies sound without distortion. The cave may have been chosen
not only as a safe repository for the animals exquisitely painted on its walls,
but as a conducive venue for music-accompanied ceremonies as well. 4

The modern concert hall may have developed— over the course of ages—
from caves of prehistoric humankind, such as Niaux. Contrastingly, the the-
ater (classical Greece offers ample evidence) originated in open-air gathering
places. This differentiation is important because, as Michael Forsyth explains,
all auditoria [whether indoors or outdoors] fall into two groups: those
with the acoustics of the cave; and those with the acoustics of the open

1 Michael Forsyth. Buildings for Music (Cambridge, MA: the MIT Press), 1985:3.

2 Wallace Clement Sabine, "Melody and the Origin of the Musical Scale,"
Collected Papers on Acoustics (Harvard University Press, 1922), reprinted Dover, New
York, 1964:114.

3 Otto von Simson. The Gothic Cathedral (Princeton University Press), 1962:23.

4 Michael Fitzgerald, "Before History, Niaux's Art," Wall Street Journal, "Leisure
and Arts," July 19, 2011.

5 Forsyth, op. cit, page 3.

A recent experiment showed that the 5,000-year-old outdoor stone circle
at Stonehenge in Wiltshire, England is ideal for listening to "trance" music.
Its stones seem to provide acoustics perfectly suited to repetitive rhythms like
those used in religious ceremonial music. Professor Rupert Till, an expert in
sound technology at Huddersfield University in West Yorks, UK tested the
effect, at first using a computer model of Stonehenge, and then a concrete
replica of the circle. He reproduced the sound of someone speaking or clap-
ping in the ancient circle, and the entire model-space resonated "almost like a
wine glass will ring if you rub a wetted finger around its edge... a simple drum
beat sounded incredibly dramatic... perhaps to accompany a burial ritual." 6

These acoustical findings bear directly upon our investigation of the
Second Jerusalem Temple's daily sacrificial rite and prayer service during
the eight decades from completion of its Herodian renovation until its final
destruction by Roman legions— allowing for a certain amount of play in the
Talmud's account of lengths, widths, depths, heights and materials. That is
because rabbinic quantifications and measurements (like the ones given in
BT Middot) concerning dimensions of the Temple Mount's architectural
components are problematic. They may not reflect any real historical infor-
mation, having been written down late — in relation to the actual events and
circumstances— even in the time of the Mishnah (codified around 200 C.E.).
Subsequent commentaries on the Mishnaic information, in both the Jerusalem
and Babylonian Talmuds (codified around 400 and 500 C.E., respectively),
present even greater challenges. 7

Furthermore, among the diverse contemporary sources I've consulted while
preparing this article, I found no consensus on the dimensions of either Solo-
mon's mid-10 th "century B.C.E. edifice, Zerubbavel's late-6th-century B.C.E.
restoration or Herod's late-lst-century B.C.E renovation— nor of their com-
ponent parts or of the courtyards that surrounded them or even of the heights
of the walls that delineated the various areas as well as the entire Temple
complex. Simply put, no two sources agreed on all the particulars. Neither
is it at all clear exactly when — and at whose hands — the Temple "Mount," the
open flat area around the Temple proper, was built up with immeasurable

6 "New Assumption: Stonehenge Functioned As a Music-Hall," Yiddish Forward,
January 16, 2008.

7 I am indebted to biblical archeologist Richard Freund, Professor at the Maurice
Greenberg Center for Jewish Studies at the University of Hartford, for this and many
other helpful observations after reading the manuscript of this article (series of personal
communications, October 2009).

amounts of rubble as landfill. Therefore, our narrative will confine itself to
relative dimensions and approximate dates.

Despite the scholarly vagueness about details, our central concern remains:
was the singing heard in Herod's Temple during sacrificial and prayer ser-
vices, sacred concert or sacred theater? In terms of acoustics, did the Second
Temple's sites for levitical singing during sacrificial and prayer services more
closely resemble that of an enclosed cave or that of an open-air gathering
place? To answer the question we need to take a closer look at the Temple
complex as a whole and at the two sites— a dais at the apex of three convergent
courtyards, and a chamber at the end of a long colonnaded portico.

Distinguishing features of Herod's Temple and Mount

Initially, we might describe its overall configuration as a combination of
Greek and Roman architectural preferences at the time — with some notice-
able deviations.

1) Herod's Temple derived its perfectly balanced front facade from the
symmetrical proportions of Greek style. Its impressive height and width
mirrored the imposing Roman style. Its elegant columns, topped with
crown-shaped gold capitals overflowing with bunches of carved grape-
vines, revealed Greek influence. So did its stark geometric whiteness
against the blue mediterranean sky and the brown hills of the Judean
countryside. Its "dazzling white marble, which gave it the look of a snow-
capped mountain" (in Josephus's term) 8 on sunny days, was probably
created by means of a highly polished plaster coating applied to its
yellowish Jerusalem-stone construction, as no marble was imported
into Judea until after the Second Temple's destruction. 9

2) The building's over-all rectangular shape echoed Graeco-Roman usage,
but the floor levels of its inner chambers were stepped-up from front
to back. These varying heights reflected the different functions of each
interior area. To enter the building, one ascended a flight of stairs to
the Porch or Vestibule (ulam). From there, one climbed another flight
of stairs to the Holy Place or Sanctuary (heikhal), where holy vessels
used by the Priests were stored, along with such biblically prescribed

8 Josephus, The Jewish War, tr. G.A. Williamson (New York: Penguin Books),
1959, Excursus VI.

9 Judith Magnes, in the PBS documentary, Jerusalem in Time of Jesus (Camden,
NJ:WNJS-23), 12/18/06.

furnishings as the gold Table and seven-branched Menorah (Exodus
37: 10-24). From there, yet another stairway led up to a curtained-off
chamber at the building's far end. In any other sector of the Graeco-
Roman world, this room would have housed a statue of the temple's
particular god, who looked out through the front portal as if overseeing
whatever sacrifice was being offered on the facing open-air altar. 10 This
chamber at the rear of Herod's Temple was different. Called the D'vir
(Holy of Holies, or Most Holy Place), it did not house a god-statue. In
fact, neither had the d'vir in Solomon's Temple held anything other than
the gold-encrusted Ark of the Covenant, an object of veneration that
would disappear after the First Temple's sacking by Babylonian forces
in the early 6 th century B.C.E., along with its contents, the twin Tablets
of the Law upon which it was believed that Moses had inscribed God's
Ten Commandments at Sinai.

As for the two legendary Cherubim (k'ruvim) with human body and
lion's head, carved of olive-wood, each over eight feet high with a
collective wingspread of over 17 feet, they were non-portable items,
having been built into the chamber. 11 Their "hovering over" the Ark
gave rise to one designation for God, as yosheiv ha-k'ruvim (Dweller
among the Cherubim"; psalms 80:2), and was in line with the common
practice of 10th-century B.C.E rulers in Phoenicia (Byblos) and
Canaan (Megiddo). 12 The d'vir would continue to remain empty in the
subsequent Temples of Zerubbavel and Herod, except for one day each
year— Yom Kippur— when the High Priest entered to make atonement
for his own sins, for those of his family, his family, and the entire House
of Israel (Leviticus 16:1-34).
3) Herod's Temple lacked the attached colonnade (peristyle) that
customarily ringed Greek temples— like the Parthenon in Athens— all
around. Instead, its decorative exterior pattern sublimated that three-
dimensional approach into a relief-like pattern of pilasters (flat, column-

10 Carolyn Humphrey & Piers Vitebsky, Sacred Architecture, Kirsty Seymour-
Ure, ed. (London: Duncan Baird Publishers), 1997, 3 rd edition, 2003: 120.

1 1 The original Cherubim of the Wilderness Tabernacle (Exodus 25:17-21) were
hammered out of the same block of pure gold from which the Ark was fashioned.
Maimonides (Moreh n'vukhim iii.45) posits a rational purpose for their placement in
the d'vir: to preserve popular Israelite belief in the existence of Divine Angels; there
were two Cherubim so that the people would not be misled into accepting them as
images of God (courtesy of Richard Wolberg, Hazzanet commentary on T'rumah,
2/17/07).

12 Yigal Yadin, s.v., "The Cherubim," Encyclopedia Judaica, 1972, 15: 950.

like piers that are partially embedded in the wall), starting at the front
facades corners and continuing along both side walls and the rear wall. 13

4) It also avoided the Roman tendency to provide a large indoor space
(sometimes domed, like the Pantheon in Rome) for worshipers to
congregate. Instead, the Second Temple used its extensive surrounding
areas to their fullest, walling them off into courtyards. The outermost (and
largest) of these, the Court of the Gentiles, was reserved for non-Jews—
except those with special permission — as in the case official foreign or
governmental delegations. 14 These privileged groups would be escorted
to the Court of the Israelites, from which inner vantage point they could
observe the priest-ministered sacrificial service, with its congregational
responses to the levitical choir's psalm-singing in-between offerings. 15

5) Like Solomon's and Zerubbavel's Temples that had stood in the same
spot — and like Graeco-Roman temples still standing today in: Athens
(Hephaistos, 449 B.C.E.), Nimes (Maison Carree, 16 B.C.E.), Croatia
(Pula, 14 B.C.E.) and Evora (Diana, 2 nd century C.E.), Herod's Temple was
built upon a massive podium accessed by steps — twelve, to be precise. 16

6) When exiting the Temple through the golden doors of its ulam, one
descended via these twelve steps, to an area where the enormous Altar
of hewn stone (mizbei'ah) stood. The Altar area was divided into two
sections— the Court of the Priests and the Court of the Israelites-
separated by a low, stone-latticed railing (soreig). As mentioned, the
Israelites' Court accommodated distinguished visitors. But it was also
the court where male Jews offering sacrifices were required to attend
the ceremony 17

7) From those inner courts, what looked like a miniature replica of the
Temple facade complete with its oversized doors— but of bronze instead
of gold— opened out onto a semi-circular dais with fifteen broad steps

13 Michael Avi-Yonah, Model of Jerusalem in the First Century C.E. (scale 1:50),
Jerusalem: Israel Museum.

14 "The Letter of Aristeas," The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Vol. II, James
H. Charlesworth, ed. (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc.), 1985, verses
102-104.

15 Mishnah Tamidl. 1-4.

16 Teddy Kollek and Moshe Pearlman, Jerusalem (Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa:
Steimatzky's Agency, Limited), 1968: 105.

17 Leen Ritmeyer, "From Melchizedek to Herod," lecture delivered before the
Biblical Archeology Society Seminar, on "Herod's Temple Mount," Marriott Hotel at
King of Prussia, PA, 5/22/96.

built in semi-circular form around it. This was the beautiful Nicanor
Gate, whose steps led down to the Court of Women. Despite its name
this court, larger than the inner ones, could be entered and passed
through by all ceremonially clean Jewish men and women. The Temple's
day-to-day affairs were conducted here, since all administrative offices
sat along the perimeters of this court. 18

Fourteen steps down from various gates of the Womens Court brought
one to the Outer Court— also called the Court of Gentiles — which
formed the floor level of the Temple Mount plateau, expanded to the
circumference of almost a mile under King Herod. It ran completely
around the inner-walled Temple courts and was entered mainly from its
southern gates. Countless thousands gathered in it on festivals, including
gentiles from many lands, who were warned by inscriptions on stone,
in Latin and Greek, not to proceed further on pain of death. 19
Although the roof of Herod's Temple was flat— in keeping with
Greek style — its side view revealed a significant lowering of roof level
immediately behind the facade section covering the ulam. Paradoxically,
the lower roof that covered the rest of the building coincided with interior
raisings of the floor level in every chamber, front to back. Thus the ulam
sat higher than the exterior Altar area, the heikhal sat higher than the
ulam, and the d'vir sat highest of all— as befit the Holy of Holies. 20
A curtain {parokhet or "veil"; Leviticus 16: 2, 12: 15, 18: 7) hung at the
Temple's entrance, woven from six-ply linen thread that resembled silk
(BT Yoma 71b), in 72 squares, three fingers thick. It took 300 priests
to carry it for washing, when it was draped over a portico for people
to admire, its blue/purple/scarlet coloring subtly blended into an array
of heavenly images, including Cherubim. It would seem that, since
carved olive-wood Cherubim were no longer needed to hover above a
Golden Ark of the Covenant that no longer existed, their memory was
perpetuated in the two-dimensional form of tapestry. The impressive
parokhet was suspended from gold clasps, hanging one cubit short of

18 Andre Parrot, The Temple of Jerusalem (New York: Philosophical Library),
1955:92; also Wikipedia << GreatBuildings.com >>.

19 Kollek & Pearlman, Jerusalem, p. 105.

20 Helen Rosenau, Visions of the Temple (London: Oresko Books Ltd.), 1979:
20-21, 38.

reaching the ground. 21 The post-biblical Letter of Aristeas 22 confirms
just how "impressive" was this "veil":

The configuration of the veil was in respects very similar to the door

furnishing, and most of all in view of continuous movement caused to

the material by the undercurrent of the air. It was continuous because the

undercurrent started from the bottom and the billowing extended to the

rippling at the top— the phenomenon making a pleasant and unforgettable

spectacle.

An air current evidently blew in through the cubit of space between

parokhet and ground. This was purportedly the "veil" which was "rent

asunder" at the time of the Crucifixion (Matthew 27: 51; Mark 15: 38;

Luke 23: 45).

10) To complete this verbal painting of Herod's Temple, here is what the

Jewish historian Josephus (Yosefben Matityahu ha-Kohein, 37 C.E.-100

C.E.) reported seeing from the area immediately in front of the building:

The facade was covered in gold all over and through its arch the first

chamber could be seen from without, huge as it was... all glistening with

gold and striking the beholder's eye. The interior was divided into two

chambers but only the first was visible, all the way up, as it rose 135 feet

from the ground. Above the golden doors were carved golden grape-vines

from which hung bunches each as big as a man... There were golden doors,

half the height of the facade. When opened these revealed a curtain of

[almost] the same length, embroidered Babylonian tapestry, a marvelous

example of the craftsman's art. 23

Oral versus Written Transmission of the Hebrew Bible

In ancient times the sacred lore of Judaism was handed down orally (my

emphases, throughout).

I will raise them up a prophet from among their brethren... and I
will put My words in his mouth, and he shall speak unto them all
that I command him. 24

21 Based on a consensus of commentaries on the instruction given in Exodus
25: 26, concerning a similar curtain (or pair of curtains) that separated the d'vir from
the heikhal in the Wilderness Sanctuary Tent (mishkan).

22 Op. Cit„ v. 86.

23 Josepus, loc. Cit.

24 Deuteronomy 18:17-18.

The spoken word was supreme, as evidenced by the implied divine expecta-
tion of auditory compliance with Judaism's proclamation of faith — "Listen,
O Israel, the Lord our God is One!" 25

According to Scripture, God's commandments were transmitted
verbally.

At the end of every seven years, in the solemnity of the year of release,
in the feast of Tabernacles when all Israel is to come to appear before
the Lord your God in the place that He shall choose, you shall read this
Torah before all Israel In their hearing. 26
Furthermore, the oral lessons were to be passed from one generation to
another via the auditory refinement of music.

Now therefore write this song and teach it to the Children of Israel; put
it in their mouths. ..And Moses came and spoke all the words of this song
in the ears of the people. 27
We know that this Pentateuchal injunction was carried out during the Sec-
ond Temple era (514 B.C.E — 70 C.E.) by Moses' levitical descendants. We
find corroboration in the Mishnah: "The Levites entered to speak in song" 2S
before and after the sacrifice. According to the Book of Second Chronicles,
however, the Levites had been commanded to "to sing over the sacrifice," 29 i.e.,
simultaneous with the burnt offerings. It seems dubious that this arrangement
could last very long, since it meant that the Levites' First-Temple singing had
to be powerful enough to override the sound of 128 cymbals (Ezra 2: 41, 3:
10) and 120 trumpets (II Chronicles 5:12), crashing and blasting while sacri-
fices were being offered. Sure enough, by Mishnaic times (beginning around
200 B.C.E. ), things had quieted down considerably. Only plucked strings ac-
companied the singing— in alternation with sacrifices— and only a pair each
of trumpets and cymbals remained, to signal priestly and levitic entrances
and worshipers' responses and genuflections before and after the singing
(Mishnah Arakhin 2.3). The change from unison singing together with the
sacrifice — to responsive singing before and after the Daily Offering — implies
a softer, more lyrical musical background to the Second Temple's worship
rite, as I have discussed at length elsewhere. 30

25 Ibid, 6:4.

26 Ibid, 31: 10-11.

27 Ibid, verses 19, 44, 46.

28 Mishnah: Tamid, 5.6, Eiruvin 13.2, Pesahim 4.1.

29 Metsudat David on Second Chronicles 29:25.

30 Joseph A. Levine, Synagogue Song in America (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson,
Inc.), 2001: 4-7.

Throughout the millennium (960 B.C.E.-70 C.E.) that both Temples
existed and grain-and-animal sacrifices were offered, the levitical choir ac-
companied itself on lyres and harp, joined by two flutes on twelve festal days
during the year (BT Arakhin 10a...). The Levites' singing always took pride
of place, even in Solomon's Temple where it had to compete with massive
brass and percussion. Instrumental accompaniment — whether provided by
the choir itself or by additional Levites on instruments alone — was without
exception relegated to the status of accompaniment to the song. 31

Open air versus "open" cave

By the late-8 th century B.C.E., Solomon's Temple had showed alarming signs
of weakening, as did the religious bonds of purity and morality that had held
the populace together. Hezekiah, King of Judah, determined to strengthen
both, cleansing Jerusalem of pagan worship and reorganizing the Temple
personnel as well as its worship rite. He fortified the Temple gates and rebuilt
the crumbled city walls (II Kings 18: 4; II Chronicles 29: 3-32: 3). He also
sealed a cave outside the city walls, in which the Gihon Spring was located.
He then had a 600-yard tunnel dug to conduct water from it into a newly built
reservoir— called the Pool of Shiloam— within the western part of Jerusalem.
This precautionary action denied the water-source to an invader, specifi-
cally, the Assyrian ruler Sennacherib. 32 For our purposes, Hezekiah's most
relevant accomplishment was his construction of a 500-cubit-square plateau
of landfill around the old Temple, an accomplishment which later rabbinic
authorities valued over anything that came afterwards, as archeologist Leen
Ritmeyer observes:

It was still this first expanded Temple Mount to which Mishnah Middot
(2.1) referred some nine centuries after the event, evidently ignoring King
Herod's later, more extensive expansion, on grounds that his Edomite
lineage effectively excluded any of his innovations from consideration as
authentic measurements for future generations. 33
In the eighteenth year of Herod's reign (19 B.C.E.), that ambitious Edomite
monarch began a colossal expansion and refurbishing of the Second Temple

31 II Chronicles 29:26; BT Arakhin 11a, JT Pesahim 30c.

32 II Kings 20: 20; II Chronicles 32: 30; Kolek & Pearlman, Jerusalem, op. Cit,
p. 62; John Rogerson, Chronicle of the Old Testament Kings (New York: Thames &
Hudson), 1999: 143.

33 Leen Ritmeyer, "The Pre-Herodian Temple Mount," The Temple and the
Rock (Harrowgate, England: Ritmeyer Archeological Design), 1996: 10; also Joshua
M. Grintz, s.v., "Hezekiah," Encyclopedia Judaica, 1972, 8: 452.

along with Hezekiah's Mount, both of which were proving inadequate to
the task of handling the tremendous number of pilgrims and visitors that
thronged to it on holy days. Renovation continued for 34 years after Herod's
death in 4 B.C.E. 34 In this newly refurbished Temple complex, the Levites
stood upon a dais (dukhan) that was centrally located between the upper
Courts of the Priests and Israelites and the lower Court of Women. This
dukhan fronted the bronze Nicanor Gate (Illustration 1 described earlier
under DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS OF HEROD'S TEMPLE AND
MOUNT, n. 7); The psalms (121-134) that Levites sang from these steps are
each titled Shir ha-ma'alot ("A Song of Ascents").

Illustration 1.— The bronze Nicanor Gate, from Michael Avi-Yonah's Scale
Model of Jerusalem in the First Century of the Common Era (the gold doors
and framing columns of Herod's Temple can be seen as background).

The idea of ritually "ascending" is consistent with the common Mideastern
image of a temple as the place where one ascended to God, i.e., a consecrated

34 Kathleen Ritmeyer & Leen Ritmeyer, "Reconstructing Herod's Temple Mount
in Jerusalem," Biblical Archeology Review , November/December 1989, pages 24-25.

place. 35 Such a site might include a ramp similar to the visionary "ladder" about
which Jacob dreamed (Genesis 28: 12). This is the only time that Scripture
uses the word sulam, which B'reishit Rabba equates with "Sinai" through a
shared numerical value. The Midrash postulates: "It was the Divine purpose
not to let Jacob pass the site of the future Temple without stopping," 36 hence
his decision to rest in the shade of a promontory 37 that reappears in his dream
as a "ladder" which rose from earth to heaven — or from the mundane to the
spiritual.

The levitical choir consisted of no less than 12 on weekdays and of many
more on festivals. On those grander ritual occasions, minor children from the
families of Jerusalem's elite were added to achieve "sweetness" (n'imah). 3S The
men accompanied themselves, mostly on stringed instruments; the children
sang but did not play 39 Normal instrumentation consisted of 9 lyres (kinnorot),
2 harps (n'valim) and 1 pair of cymbals (m'tsiltayim); on holy days 2 flutes
(halilim) were added. All in all, it provided a lyrical accompaniment, since the
cymbal — and occasional priestly trumpet — functioned only as punctuation
between stages of the sacrificial ceremony, including the singing.

One might speculate that the Levites' dukhan stood where it did for a
good reason. The fifteen ma'alot upon which Levies were positioned as they
sang were a realization of Jacob's virtual "ladder": their feet planted on earth,
their head lifted toward the Heavenly Gates of the Temple. This analogy is
supported by the Hebrew word for ladder— sulam— which also translates
as musical "mode." The numerical value of the letters that form sulam is
the same as for those that make up the word kol or "voice." This appears to
be no coincidence. Verbal language here hints at the way musical language
works — through vocal conduits by means of which the Levites' song rose to
celestial heights . The musical modes functioned as vehicles for quickening the
devotional pulse of pilgrims attending the sacrificial rites, while transporting
them from profane — to sacred — space and time. And the elevated dukhan
upon which they stood, situated at the elevated nexus of three courtyards,
evidently occupied the "sweet" acoustical spot of the entire Temple complex.

35 The writer's notes from a lecture on Parashat va-yetsei, by Rabbi Andrea
Morrow, weekly Torah Study Luncheon, Center City, Philadelphia, Dec. 8, 1998.

36 Louis Ginzberg, Legends of the Bible (New York: Simon & Schuster), 1966:
166.

37 JT Avodah Zarah 1, 40a, referring to the promontory that rises south of Tyre
(Sulamah shel tsor).

38 Mishnah^lra/cfe'w 3.3-6.

39 BT Arakhin 13a-b, based on Second Chronicles 29:25.

Levites served in the Temple choir from the age of 30 to 50, 40 their prime
vocal years. They had evidently undergone 5 years of prior schooling under
masters, 41 since the Pentateuch mandates that Levites be "called to service
in the Tabernacle at age 25." 42 When they reached 50 years, Levites no longer
sang or played, but instead, served as watchmen. 43 The levitical choir was
directed by an appointed leader, referred to as "the m'natsei'ah" in 55 of the
150 Psalms. Historian Alfred Sendrey elucidates:

M'natseiah is the singer chosen to lead the music or to officiate as
precentor, who probably also instructed the choir, or at least supervised
the rehearsals, and was a specially qualified artist with a superior musical
knowledge. Furthermore, he must have been entrusted with the occasional
solo passages in Psalm-singing. Thus, he may be considered the precursor
of later days' hazzan [cantor], the precentor of the synagogal sacred

The same choir that performed Psalms with instrumental accompaniment
over burnt offerings outdoors also led scriptural excerpts and prayers a cap-
pella in the semi-enclosed Chamber of Hewn Stone— Lishkat ha-gazit— that
served as the Temple Mount's synagogue. 45 The primary use of this Greek-
style portico at the eastern terminus of the Temple complex's double-tiered
southern portico was as seat of the Great Sanhedrin (High Court of Justice).
The portico's central apse was set off by 40 imposing columns on either
side. 46 Called "Solomon's Portico" in the Christian Bible 47 and "Royal Portico"
in Josephus, 48 it was walled along its outer (southern) side, but colonnaded
along the entire front of its northern side, which opened onto the Court of
Gentiles' southern plaza.

After completing the daily prayer service in Lishkat ha-gazit, Priests and
Levites had but a short stroll to the south side of the Temple's raise platform.
There, a stairway gave access to the Temple enclosure's southern wall through
whose four gates they and those offering sacrifices (together with approved

40 First Chronicles 23:3.

41 Ibid, 25:7.

42 Leviticus 8:36.

43 Ibid, verse 38.

44 Alfred Sendrey. Music in Ancient Israel (New York: Philosophical Library),
1969:115.

45 BT Sukkah 51a-b, Mishnah Tamid 4 3.

46 Kathleen & Leen Ritmeyer, "Reconstructing... ,"1989: 32; Josephus, Antiquities
of the Jews, XV:430.

47 Acts 3: 11.

48 Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 15:415.

100

guests) entered. Recent archeological excavations of the Second Temple
Mount show that all four of its outer retaining walls were constructed like
the Royal Portico wall that housed the Chamber of Hewn Stone, though not
as high, with inner-facing colonnades along their full lengths. 49

The Royal portico's eastern end had a built-in apse, creating what we might
term an "open" cave, a long interior room not entirely enclosed. The apse
could easily have focused the sound produced by a Levitic choir while lead-
ing prayer. Instead of a general reverberation, the apse arguably produced
"discrete reverberations distinguishable as echoes." 50 Under these condi-
tions, the Levites, led by a m'natsei'ah just as they were led outdoors, cued a
gathered congregation consisting essentially of Priests, in the Daily liturgy
of excerpts from Scripture: Exodus 20; Numbers 6, 15; Deuteronomy 6, 11;
and prayers: the Daily Amidah ("Eighteen Benedictions"); and Emet v'yatsiv
("True and Firm"). 51

The midday prayer service may have afforded Priests their only opportu-
nity to escape what Israel Knohl calls a self-imposed "Sanctuary of Silence"
that they inhabited when ministering in the Inner Court, around the Altar.
There — at the epicenter of the sacrificial rite — they maintained total silence
(see ACOUSTICS IN HEROD'S TEMPLE, below 52 ).

Speech versus Song

Whether in open air or open cave, the Levites had to reconcile two demands
that are ever present in vocal music: comprehensible transmission of the
words; and the establishment of a suitable musical mood. It was not a question
of two equal forces at bay, in that time and place the contest was weighted
in favor of the sacred texts. Music could not compete by simply marrying
melodic and tonal beauty to linguistic imagery, as in secular song. Levitical
song was totally dependent upon the Holy Writ that it was charged with
transmitting: scriptural excerpts and prayers in the Lishkat ha-gazit service;
Psalms during the sacrificial service. Just as instrumental playing was sub-
servient to the sacred song that was interspersed with sacrifices, so too, the
sung or chanted melodic pattern functioned only as a medium for delivery
of an underlying textual message.

49 Kathleen & Leen Ritmeyer, "Reconstructing...," 1989:24-25; Leen Ritmeyer,
The Temple and the Rock, 1996: 7.

50 Humphret & Vitebsky, Sacred Architecture, p.75.

51 Mishnah Tamid 5.1; BT Sukkah 53a; Arakhin 11a.

52 "The Letter of Aristeas, : Op Cit., v. 92: "The ministering of the priests was
absolutely unsurpassable in its vigor and the arrangement of its well-ordered silence."

101

A reasonable assumption as to what transpired musically at the apex of
the three Temple courtyards accompanied by lyres, harps and occasional
flutes, or in Lishkat ha-gazit unaccompanied, might come close to describing
the melodically restrained and textually oriented linear formula of liturgical
recitative.

The essential characteristic of liturgical recitative is the chanting of a text
on a single note— the reciting tone— with upward or downward inflections
to mark the ends of clauses or sentences. Thus any number of different
[verses] may be sung to the same recitation formula. 53

In 1951, ethnomusicologist Johanna Spector visited several synagogues of
Yemenite Jews who had been transplanted to Jerusalem two years before. She
found that the worship, though traumatized by its sudden shift of venue, still
remained true to its origins. By the time she returned six months later, an
acculturation process had already begun, that would eventuate in thorough
westernization of a Middle Eastern singing style that the Yemenite Jews had
maintained through an exile of some 2400 years. Spector writes:

Of all Jewish music through the ages, Yemenite music is the least influenced
by surrounding peoples and places... The Yemenites claim to have
preserved the traditions of Temple times... As to the music, I marveled
at the unusual rhythmic discipline of the entire congregation. It sounded
almost like a trained choir... Most of the prayers, Psalms and songs were
performed in chorus, everyone — children and adults alike — taking part. 54
The Yemenite liturgical performance that Johanna Spector heard on her first
visit arguably came closer to the psalmody of the Second Temple's Levitical
choir than any other source available to us— their community's founders had
left the Judean homeland for Yemen during the Second Temple's heyday 55
Musical change in that part of the world is quite gradual, occurring very
slowly, if at all. As Abraham Zvi Idelsohn observed, geographic location is
paramount in Semitic song. He cites the Finns and Turks as stemming from
the same ethnic stock, yet their musical traditions pertain to their respec-
tive areas of settlement. In the case of Yemenite mass migration to Israel in
1949, "itinerants may learn other music, but they never forget their own." 56

53 Richard H. Hoppin. Medieval Music (New York: W. W. Norton), 1978:78.

54 Johanna Spector, "On the Trail of Oriental Jewish Music," TheReconstructionist,
vol. XLIII, no. 5, April 1952, pages 7-12.

55 Hayyim Z'ev Hirschberg, Encyclopedia Judaica (Jerusalem: Keter, 1972), s.v.
"Yemen," 16:739.

56 Abraham Zvi Idelsohn. Tol'dot ha-n'ginah ha'ivrit (Tel Aviv: Dvir), 1924:1-3;
my translation.

102

Example 1 . shows Idelsohn's 1 924 transcription of a typical Yemenite chant-
pattern, for Psalm 8. 57

La-m'natsei'ah al hag-gitit. Mizmor I'david

For the Leader; upon the Gittith. 58 A Psalm of David.

Example 1. Idelsohn's transcription of a typical Yemenite chant-pattern, for Psalm 8.

The term "psalmody," although originally associated with the Hebrew
Book of Psalms, has come to mean the rendition of any prayer text in what
we think was the ancient levitical manner, a linear chant designed to follow
the parallelistic structure of all psalm verses, most biblical verses cited in
prayer, and almost all the composed liturgy. Psalmodic technique is thus a
binary (sometimes ternary, depending on the text) recitative balanced by
introductory and concluding flourishes in each segment. It is the driving
force behind synagogue worship, which emerged as an organized communal
activity during the final centuries of the Second Temple, and out of necessity
became institutionalized after the Temple's destruction.

Earliest archeological evidence of synagogue structures per se existing
anywhere in the Holy Land is from midway through the 1 st century B.C.E. 59
Prior to then, already-existent gathering spots such as the open area fronting
upon a city's gates made do as a synagogue (from the Greek synagein "to bring
together"). There, prayers were offered at the exact times fixed for obligatory
offerings at the Temple in Jerusalem. 60 Absence of structures built exclusively
to house synagogues did not preclude the holding of worship in public areas
throughout the Judean hinterland in pre-Christian times. The Mishnah 61 is
quite specific about the prayer service on prescribed fast days: where it was
held (the town square); who led it (one whose house was full of children and
devoid of sustenance); and what was recited (the Eighteen Daily Benedictions
plus six supplementary ones from Psalms, First Kings and Jeremiah). As for
regular morning and afternoon prayer gatherings in the outlying provinces,

57 Idelsohn, op. Cit, p. 235a.

58 Possibly a hand-held lyre perfected in Gat-Rimmon, one of the 3 levitical cities
(Joshua 21:24, First Chronicles 6:54); John Stainer, The Music of the Bible (London:
Novello, Ewer & Co.), 1881:66f.

59 Jericho; excavated in 1998 by Professor Ehud Netzer.

60 Mishnah Ta'anit 4.2.

61 Tamid 2.1-4.

103

Talmudist Solomon Zeitlin suggests that they duplicated all aspects of wor-
ship services held in Jerusalem, where nearly 400 synagogues thrived by the
mid-l st century of this era. 62

Were the synagogues at that time — really "synagogues?

Palestine in the 1 st century C.E. contained a population of about 2.5 million,
including 500,000 Samaritans, Greeks and Nabateans. Jews in the diaspora
centers of Syria, Egypt, Babylonia and Asia Minor outnumbered their co-
religionists in the homeland by 3 to 1, reports historian Salo W. Baron:

Every 10 th Roman was a Jew. . . every 5 lh Hellenistic inhabitant of the eastern
Mediterranean world was a Jew. 63

Despite vehement rabbinic discouragement of conversion during the later
Amoraitic period, 64 at the inception of the Common Era, gentiles were adopt-
ing Judaism in large numbers, particularly women. 65 Many of the converts
visited the Temple to which they had turned in their prayers, 66 so much so
that local residents of Jerusalem — believed to have been 120,000 — were far
outnumbered by the pilgrims. 67 Josephus places the number of visitors at 3
million, 68 while the Talmud quadruples that estimate. 69

The Christian Bible corroborates the multicultural make-up of Jerusalem's
population in the 1st century C.E., each subgroup with their own synagogues.
The Book of Acts includes an arcane list of "Jews, devout men, out of every
nation under heaven dwelling at Jerusalem." 70 The Gospel of Luke elaborates
in more familiar geographic terms: "and the dwellers in Mesopotamia. ..and
Capadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt and Libya, in
Rome, Crete and Arabia. 71 Salo Baron claims a worldwide Jewish population of

62 BT Ketubot 105a; Solomon Zeitlin, "The Origin of the Synagogue," Proceedings
of the American Academy for Jewish Research, 1931, page 78.

63 Salo W. Baron. A Social and Religious History of the Jews, vol. I (New York:
Columbia University Press), 2 nd edition, 1952:168-175.

64 JT Kiddushin IV, 1, 65b; BT Yevamot 24b.

65 Josephus, Wars, 11:14, 3. 820; VI:20, 2. 560; Shaye D. Cohen, "Matrilineal
and Patrilineal Descent in Historical Perspective," Sunday Scholar Series lecture at
Washington Hebrew Congregation, DC: October 27, 1991.

66 As Daniel (6:11) had done in Babylonia; Baron, History, 1952:213.

67 Avi-Yonah & Stern, "Herodian Period," E. J., 1972, 9:1394.

68 Josephus, Wars, 11:14, 3. 280; VI:9, 3. 422-425.

69 BTPesahim64b.

70 Acts 2:5; 8-9.

71 Luke 2:9-11.

104

8 million at that time, 72 citing the Roman Emperor Claudius' mid- 1 st century
census of all his Jewish subjects. 73 If any significant part of that population
went up to Jerusalem for the three Pilgrimage Festivals and High Holy Days,
we must ask how the Temple managed to accommodate them all at once.

The Mishnah's reply is that special sacrificial services were repeated in
their entirety as many times as proved necessary for successive groups that
filled the Temple courtyards on grand occasions. 74 The Temple gates were
opened for those great crowds from midnight on, each day of a festival. 75 This
explanation seems plausible when we recall that a considerable number of
non-Israelites— yir'ei adonai or God-fearers 76 — were still being admitted at
that more-welcoming time in rabbinic thinking — along with a constant stream
of visiting gentile officials and dignitaries who — with their retinues — also
brought Vow-and-Freewill offerings that, for political reasons, could not be
refused. 77 In that category appeared such names as Demetrius I, Ptolemy III,
Marcus Agrippa, Vitellius and Antiochus VII (in the midst of a siege he was
conducting against the Holy City!). 78

Aside from the Festival and High Holy Day crowds, thousands more at-
tended the Daily sacrificial service (Korban ha-tamid), particularly the Morn-
ing Tamid that ended at midday, in order to receive the Priestly Blessing 79 and
to prostrate themselves before God when the Daily Psalm was chanted. A
wine libation was poured over the Altar, trumpets sounded, a flag was waved,
cymbals clashed and "the Levites raised their voices in song" to complete the
Morning Korban ha-tamid. so

Not all of those who desired to do so could afford the time and expenditure
needed in order to attend the Jerusalem Temple's sacrificial service. To accom-
modate this silent majority in their home territories, gathering places known

72 Baron, History 1, 1952:169-170.

73 Idem, based on Bar-Hebraeus, a 13 th -century Christian Syrian of Jewish
extraction.

74 Mishnah P'sahim 5. 5-7.

75 Safrai, "Ritual," E.J., 1972, 15:977-979.

76 Rashi, Ibn Ezra & M'tsudat David on Psalms 135:20; Anchor Bible, Psalms
III, 101-150 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday), 1970, Mitchell Dahood, commentary on
"Hallel" Psalms 115: 9-11, 118: 1-4. 1 am indebted to Rabbi Robert Scheinberg of the
Jewish Theological Seminary for this insight.

77 Mishnah Sh'kalim 1.5, based on Leviticus 22:25; BT P'sahim 3b; Josephus:
Wars 4;262; Antiquities 13;242; Against Apion 2:5, John 12:20.

78 Safrai, loc. cit.

79 Judith 9:1, Luke 1:10.

80 Mishnah Tamid 7.2, ben Sirah 50:2.

105

as synagogues sprang up throughout the 24 provinces of Judea. The Temple's
ritual was democratized through an institution named Anshei ma'amad
("Standing Delegates"). Every province sent a delegation to Jerusalem twice
yearly for a week of participation in Temple activities, by standing and carefully
observing what went on and how it was done. Because the Anshei ma'amad
were then expected to replicate back home what they had experienced in the
Temple, and because sacrifices were not allowed anywhere else but in the
Temple, it would be fair to assume that the delegates' vigil included the Daily
prayer service as well; chanting was the only skill they could take with them.
Since not all appointed members of the delegation could make every
journey, the ones who stayed home gathered in their local "synagogues"
during the day they were supposed to be in the capitol. The composition of
this group corresponded to that of the group in Jerusalem; the majority were
Israelites, and if possible, at least one kohein and one leivi (priestly and levitic
descendants) rounded out the quorum often adult men. Having learned the
Temple's repertoire of chants from previous delegates and from their own
observation over the years, these laymen recited the same Psalms and Bible
readings— even the same Birkat kohanim (Priestly Blessing)— that were being
offered at the same exact times fixed for the Daily Offering in Jerusalem. 81
Talmudist Solomon Zeitlin suggests that the delegates who met in the outlying
districts also duplicated all aspects of the payer service held in the Temple's
synagogue, Lishkat ha-gazit. S2

One such outlying ancient synagogue— a full-blown stone edifice, judging
by its excavated foundation, was unearthed in modern-day Israel in the town
of Migdal near the Sea of Galilee. In its central chamber of 120 square meters
ringed with stone benches, archeologists Dina Avshalom-Gorni and Arfan
Najer of the Israel Antiquities Authority found a stone slab dating from 50
B.C.E.- 100 C.E. It was decorated with reliefs of floral patterns, double-handled
amphorae (earthenware vases) and a seven-branched Menorah like the one
that stood against the southern inner-wall of the Temple's heikhal (Exodus
40: 24). It could quite easily been executed by a craftsman who'd seen the
original, in situ. s3

81 Mishnah Tamidl 2; BT B'rakhot 26b; ToseitzB'rakhofSl; Mishnah Ta'anit
4.2 (Bertinoro's commentary); Maimonides, Mishneih Torah: Sefer Avodah 6.2.

82 Solomon Zeitlin, "The Origin of the Synagogue," Proceedings of the American
Academy for Jewish Research, 1931, p. 78.

83 Gil Ronen, "First-Ever Find: Temple Menorah Relief by Jewish Eyewitness,"
Arutz Sheva ( IsraelNationalNews.com), September 11, 2009.

106

By the 1 st century C.E., synagogues in one form or another had appeared

throughout the Graeco-Roman world, states historian Rachel Wischnitzer:

The synagogue can be traced back to the first century of the Common Era

in Europe, and farther back, to the third century B.C.E., in Egypt. Nothing

has remained of these Egyptian synagogues except the inscriptions. 84

Nor has there been any archeological corroboration of synagogue-type
"gathering-places" from this early period. Written evidence does exist,
however. While shopping for Jewish converts to the new religion of Chris-
tianity, Paul visited the synagogue at Corinth (on the northeast shore of the
Pelopponysian Peninsula) around the year 50 C.E. "In the account of Paul's
missionary journeys," continues Wischnitzer, "we find references to several
other synagogues on the European mainland: one in Athens (Acts 17: 17), and
three in Macedonia, namely in Salonica (Thessalonica; Acts 17: 1), in Verroia
(Beroea; Acts 17: 10) and in Philipi," where Paul writes:

On the Sabbath day we went outside the gate to the river side, where we
supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the
ti who had come together (Acts 16: 13).

Acoustics in Herod's Temple

We can only guess at the architecture of early synagogues in the ancient Judean
hinterland as well as of the other 399 in Jerusalem other than the one that
used Lishkat ha-gazit within the Temple complex. It displayed an open-cave
configuration: columns fronting a covered portico. Any speculation about
the effect those conditions had upon the chanting of prayers and Psalms in
the 1 st century C.E. has to take into account the phenomenon that open air
is sound absorbent. "Consequently," notes Michael Forsyth,

the direct sound from a performer — perhaps reinforced by early-reflected
sound from a wall around the stage — is not masked by reverberation, as it
is in a hard-surfaced enclosure like a cathedral, a cavern, or a bathroom,
where sound reflects off the enclosing surfaces for an appreciable period
before being gradually absorbed. 85
We are pretty certain that, in the makeshift open-air or semi-open-air
synagogues of Judea and the diaspora along the eastern shores of the Medi-
terranean at that time— including the Temple's Lishkat ha-gazit, the need for
crystal-clear audibility of chanted words made any desire for fullness of tone
a merely secondary consideration.

84 Rachel Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue (Philadelphia:
The Jewish Publication Society of America), 1964: 3-4.

85 Forsyth, Buildings for Music, 1985:9.

We also know from the written testimony of a 2nd-century B.C.E. eyewit-
ness, that the daily sacrificial offerings of animals and grain in the Temple's
Priestly Court were held amidst a complete absence of sound:

A general silence reigns, so that one might think that there was not a
single man in the place although the number of ministers in attendance is
more than seven hundred, in addition to a large number of the assistants
bringing forward the animals for sacrifice. Everything is carried out with
reverence and in a manner befitting supreme divinity... The spectacle
makes one awe-struck and dumbfounded. A man would think he came
out of this world and into another. 86
Aside from the absorptive nature of open-air surroundings, one other
factor might have contributed to the Second Temple rite's pervasive silence.
There is a differential between ground and air temperatures, especially in a
warm climate like that of the Holy Land, and even more so at midday when
the Korban ha-tamid was offered, and the mean temperature averages 82.5
degrees fahrenheit from late September to early October, when the Sukkot
(Tabernacles) festival occurs.

I have singled out this specific season for a reason that will become ap-
parent shortly. For the moment, with readers' kind indulgence, I offer an
underlying acoustical explanation for the differential between ground and
air temperatures:

The velocity of sound increases with increase in temperature. If the
temperature of the air is higher near the ground than it is in the upper
layers (the usual case during the day), the sound waves higher above the
ground will travel slower and the sound will be bent upwards, resulting
in quieter conditions at ground level. Conversely, when the temperature
is lower near the ground (the usual case during the night), the sound will
be bent towards the ground, increasing the noise at ground level. 87

Now to the consequences of that acoustical phenomenon in late summer/
early autumn on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, especially at night, when
the average temperature drops to 60.8 degrees fahrenheit. 88 The only Temple

86 "The Letter of Aristeas," The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 2, James H.
Charlesworth, ed. (Garden City, NY: Doubleday), 1985:19; 92, 95-96.

87 Acoustics, Noise and Buildings, P. H. Parkin, H. R. Humphries & J. R. Cowell,
editors (London: Faber and Faber), 4 th edition, 1979:130.

88 These seasonal temperatures— day and night— derive from averaging monthly
tables in: The Temple Dictionary of the Bible, W. Ewing & J.E.H. Thomson, eds. (London:
J.M. Dent & Sons, Ltd.), 1910; and Lonely Planet (Google)— for a century ago and for
now. Since there has been no discernible change in average temperatures over the past
100 years, my assumption is that they were pretty much the same when the Temple
last stood.

108

ritual performed at night was a ceremonial "Rejoicing over the Water Draw-
ing" held during Sukkot (the week-long Festival of Tabernacles). The Mishnah
refers to the water-drawing itself — that occurred during daylight hours on
the second day of the festival— as Beit ha-sho'eivah. The joyous (and noisy)
"Rejoicing over the Water Drawing" that ensued after dark on the same day
was called Simhat beit ha-sho'eivah. It was an event not to be missed, asserts
the Mishnah:

He that has never witnessed Simhat belt ha-sho'eivah
has never in his life seen joy. 89
"The Sukkot festival was singled out for water pouring," posits Haviva
Pedaya, a poet and professor of Jewish Thought at Ben-Gurion University,
because it was the turning of the year, 90 "the autumnal ingathering season
when the quantity of water that would fill the cisterns and lakes of Judea was
set. In a society that revolved around agriculture, water was the life-blood of
existence, and the Jerusalem Temple functioned as its beating heart." 91

The daytime Water-Drawing involved bringing water from a source out-
side of the Temple precinct— the Spring of Gihon for which King Hezekiah
had dug a pool and reservoir late in the 8 th century B.C.E., called the Well of
Shiloam (see OPEN AIR VS. "OPEN" CAVE, above). The ritual is described
in the Mishnah:

They would fill a flagon with water from Shiloam. When they reached
the Water Gate the shofar sounded three blasts: sustained — quavering —
sustained [t'kiah — t'ruah — t'kiah]. The priest whose turn of duty it was
would pour water over the altar from a silver vessel containing two holes.
One was for wine and the other for water. The openings were arranged
so that the two liquids would merge into a single stream that inundated
the Altar's four corners, cleansing the waste that had accumulated and
penetrating the ground on which the Altar stood. A prayer was then offered
for the water to gather and rise from earth to heaven, where it would fall
again as rain upon the Land. During the prayer the priests made circuits
of the Altar, accompanied by the Levites chanting Psalms 113-118 that
spoke of Thanksgiving and Praise {Hallel), punctuated by the people's
ecstatic singing of the refrain, Hoshana. 92

The joyous Simhat beit ha-sho'eivah celebration that followed that same
night was the Temple's only liturgical occasion to allow dancing — by men — in
the Women's court. The men danced below while the women watched from

89 Mishnah Sukkah 5.1.

90 Hag ha-asif, t'kufat ha-shanah, Exodus 34:22.

91 Haviva Pedaya, "Written Word and Voice Emerge Together from the Ark,"
Yediot Aharonot, Sukkot Supplement, October 13, 2006, my translation.

92 Sukkah 4.9.

109

above, in a special raised gallery (referred to as a takkanah— or "amendment" 93
since it override the normal separation of men and women within the Temple
premise — built specifically for this occasion around the entire perimeter of
the court. The scene was brightly lit by four towering golden candlesticks atop
which rested four gigantic golden bowls, each filled with 10 gallons of oil in
which floated numerous blazing wicks. The Mishnah notes:

there was not a courtyard in Jerusalem that did not reflect the light of the
Beit ha-sho'eivah. 94

The greatest sages of the day would dance before the assembled multitude
with burning torches in their hands, singing songs and praises while the entire
corps of Levites played on harps, lyres, cymbals, trumpets and "other musical
instruments," from the dukhan above and the fifteen steps leading down from
the Courts of the Priests and Israelites to the Court of the Women, and — on
this occasion — also from open-faced chambers built into the retaining wall
that supported those upper courts of the Sanctuary area. 95

The dancing that night was spectacular. According to the Talmud's ac-
count the head of the Sanhedrin, Shimon ben Gamliel, would throw eight
burning torches in the air and juggle them so that they were all aloft at any
given moment and no two of them ever touched. When he prostrated himself
he would dig his two thumbs in the ground, bend down while still leaning
on them, kiss the ground and leverage his body upwards without using his
hands. 96 The din during this — and scores of similar gymnastic displays by lead-
ing rabbinic scholars— must have been terrific. Yet because the temperature
near the ground at that time of year was over 20 degrees cooler than during
daylight hours, the sounds of levitic playing (singing probably never entered
the equation, given the prevalent celebratory noise level generated — on this
occasion — by spectators as well as participants) bent toward the ground
rather than dissipating upwards into the atmosphere, thereby reinforcing its
volume and enabling it to override the general chaos.

During warmer daylight hours at any season of the year, the shriek of the
Magreifah 91 signaled commencement of the Daily Korban Tamid service each
morning and evening. The Magreifah was evidently a pneumatic noisemaker

93 Mishnah Sukkah 5.2.

94 Ibid., 5.3.

95 Ibid., 5.4;

96 Talmud Bavli, Sukkah 53a.

97 Mishnah Tamid 5.6. "One of the priests took the Magreifah and cast it on the
ground between the Porch and the Altar {bein ha-ulam v'lamizbei'ah), and in Jerusalem
none could hear his fellow's voice by reason of the noise of the Magreifah"

110

consisting often pipes, each of which contained ten holes. With no ceiling
overhead to contain and reflect its high-pitched sound waves, the deafening
sound it made to herald the priests' entrance in all likelihood sailed over the
heads of those who stood in the Temple courtyards. Also, the air itself would
have attenuated any frequencies above 1,000 Hz. 98 Paradoxically, outside
the Temple's peculiarly quiet acoustic the deafening noise generated by the
Magreifah could be heard as far way as Jericho."

Inside the Temple complex, whatever sound was not bent upwards by the
difference in speeds between even normal winds at ground level and winds up
top 100 would have been soaked up by the highly absorbent robes of hundreds of
ministering priests and their assistants and by the thousands of worshipers and
visitors who were in daily attendance. In addition, the vast open areas of the
Temple courtyards would have precluded any "cue ball" effect of the Levites'
singing and playing reflecting off solid side walls, as in an enclosed shoe-box
shaped auditorium. The lack of lateral reflections from latticed-topped stone
walls and long open colonnades probably resulted in an almost total absence
of the reverberation that our modern ears have become accustomed to in
concert halls. Hence the "general silence" reported by eyewitnesses.

Conclusion

Ironically, the Second Temple's acoustics during the final, most populous
and fully attended century of its existence, lacked that "full-toned, blended
sound, especially rich in the bass frequencies, where the individual notes are
'smoothed out' by the background reverberance... like the sustaining pedal
on a piano." 101 All that the masses of pilgrims huddled below the Levites in
the Women's Court would have heard was the direct sonar emissions of adult
and pre-adolescent male voices, plus plucked strings and occasional flutes.
Those perched in the raised galleries surrounding the Women's Court, as well
as the relatively privileged few admitted behind the Levites in the Priests' and
Israelites' Courts, were less fortunate still. They received hardly any direct
sound at all. Under such conditions our assumption must be that the clear
tattoo of many syllables being chanted on a single note — the "recitation tone"
of psalmody — assumed primacy of place.

Psalmodic technique engenders a sense of ebb and flow arising from the
change of tone density as voices pass from multi-toned upward inflection

98 Parkin et al, Acoustics, 1979:130.

99 TheMishnah, Herbert Danby, ed. (Oxford University Press, 1933), p. 583, n. 1.

100 Parkin et al, Acoustics, 1979:130.

101 Forsyth, Buildings, 1985:217

111

onto a multi-syllabic reciting tone — and multi-toned downward inflection at
the phrase ending. The level of tone density can thus move from one note per
syllable to as many notes per syllable at the upward and downward inflections
as breath will allow, particularly for more elaborate cadences. At a reasonable
average tone density often notes per syllable, late Second Temple psalmody
would therefore have been sung rather quickly, at an essentially Allegro
tempo. To allow for rapid recitation, volume would naturally have moderated
to a consistent mp. This quickened tempo and lowered volume would have
worked well with string and occasional woodwind accompaniment, 102 entirely
in keeping with the muted acoustical ambience of Herod's grandiose Temple
and the salient themes of Davidic Psalms: praise of the Creator; comfort for
the sorrowing; and commendation of the righteous.

The over-all effect of such an elegantly performed liturgy, sung against
the backdrop of a dazzling white and gold Sanctuary facade looking like "a
snow-capped mountain" 103 must have been one of otherworldly serenity and
well-being. A steady stream of syllables flowed impeccably over an ostinato
of string figurations before cascading into a flourish of Middle Eastern vocal
ornamentation. The pattern would have recurred with variations at every verse
until the Psalm text ran out, a performance both calming and uplifting— be-
cause of its restraint— in a world full of violence and messianic expectations. 104

Dr. Joseph A. Levine taught Sacred Music at the Jewish Theological Seminary and
the Academy for Jewish Religion— both in New York— and at the School for Jewish
Liturgical Music at the University of London. He served on the Rabbinical Assembly
Editorial Committee that produced Mahzor Lev Shalem, and is Editor for the Journal
of Synagogue Music. Among his published books are: Synagogue Song in America;
Ba'avur Dovid — the Shabbat Morning Service of David Kusevitsky; Rise and Be
Seated — the Ups and Downs of Jewish Worship; and Emunat Abba — The Sacred
Chant of Abba YosefWeisgal.

102 MishnahAra£/ziw2.3.

103 Herod's Temple appeared to be built of white marble, yet that type of stone
would not be imported into Palestine until after Jerusalem's destruction by the Romans
in 70 C.E. Instead, the glistening whiteness was more probably applied to normally
yellowish local stone by skilled craftsmen using a special plaster coating that was buffed
to a high gloss that reflected sunlight like a mirror (archeologist Judith Magness in a
PBS TV documentary, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus, Camden, NJ: WNJS-23, Dec.
18, 2006).

104 Avi-Yonah & Stern, "Herodian Period," E. J., 1972, 9:1397.

112

Yofi u-k'dushah: The Role of the Aesthetic
in the Realm of the Holy

By Diane Ruth Cover and Saul Philip Wachs

This article reflects an ongoing conversation between us. Saul's background is
in music. While Diane is an artist and a calligrapher. The dialogue began one
day on our honeymoon, while we were strolling down the Tayelet (boardwalk)
in Tel Aviv one late afternoon. Saul wanted to daven Minhah before the sun
set, and so he looked around, trying to find an orientation in the direction
of Jerusalem. Turning his back on the Mediterranean Sea as the sun began
its long descent towards the horizon, he found himself facing — McDonalds!
Diane bemusedly alternated her gaze between the magnificent scene play-
ing out before her and Saul, who was intent on completing hais davening
before the time for Minhah had passed. Afterwards, we engaged in a long
and animated discussion about the trade-off between facing Jerusalem— a
traditional value— and watching one of the great natural phenomena of nature
as a backdrop to praising the Almighty.

That dialogue has continued over the years. We continue to discuss the
nature of authentic Jewish spirituality and the role of contact with nature and
beauty as a form of spirituality which has deep roots in the Hebrew Bible.
During the summer of 2005, we spent several days in a farm house in Tuscany,
one of the most beautiful places on earth, blessed with striking topography
and generations-long reverential care for the land. Saul took advantage of
the opportunity to daven outside each weekday, experiencing a heightened
sense oikavvanah (devotional intensity)— particularly while preparing to
pray— and later, when encountering the liturgical texts which speak of creation
and God's gift of the natural world. We both agreed that experience brought
home a way in which yofi can stimulate a sense of k'dushah.

Beauty

The aesthetic is a bridge which links the tangible world and transcendence.
A beautiful landscape painting or ritual object can cause us to contemplate
that which is beyond the tangible. Music and dance or the drama of ritual are
capable of evoking thoughts and feelings that move us powerfully. A simple
melody produced by the human voice or an instrument can cause the spirit
to soar towards heaven, a recited poem can arouse emotion and feeling. Pro-
portion and harmony or a balance of space, color and texture, all conspire to

create a particular mood. It may be joyous or tranquil. Brightness and light
as well as vivid colors may cause us to feel celebratory, while a soft light and
monochromatic colors could instill a thoughtful and contemplative mood.

Different feelings arise when space is delimited by round contours as op-
posed to sharp angles. Large and uncluttered spaces with high ceilings might
inspire in us a sense of monumentality, grandeur and power while small and
intimate spaces could induce a feeling of safety and warmth.

Sacred music ideally reflects the moods of liturgical texts that are sung
to it. As a case in point, different musical settings of the Friday night prayer
V'shamru ("The people Israel shall observe the Sabbath through all genera-
tions") might highlight its serene grandeur or our people's covenantal com-
mitment to the Law, each of which is implied by this biblically derived prayer
text (Exodus 31:16-17).

Poetry is next-best suited to express the life of the spirit. Like the visual
arts, it can show us other ways of seeing and understanding the world. It may
express our yearnings and desires. It may reflect that which is obvious or that
which is unclear, enigmatic or hidden. Indeed, it provides us with a glimpse
of insight which was not evident before but is now refracted in some new,
dimly imagined way.

The artist, in a sense, prophesies, in that he or she discovers something new
that others might not see or comprehend, and shares that revelation which
reflects a new vision or potentialities. Moreover, posits John Dewey (1859-
1952), through the creation and enjoyment of a work of art, the beholder is
led to a refreshed and re-educated vision. Indeed, the aesthetic experience
can engender and illuminate new insights which could enrich our lives and
move us enough to conceivably change ourselves. 1

The arts, therefore, are catalysts which orient and illuminate. And it is our
imagination which serves as the vehicle for our apprehension. Stimulated
by the senses of hearing and sight, the imagination engages in synthesis,
abstraction, invention, and integration, leading us to new awareness and
understanding. Dewey says that our imagination allows us to adapt to the
exigencies and vicissitudes of life and to accommodate to the whole, as we
connect to one another in a shared experience 2

Rudolph Otto (1869-1937) tells us that art in any form is the most effective
way of presenting the numinous. Music, poetry and the visual arts convey

1 Cited in James Alfred Martin, Jr., Beauty and Holiness: the Dialogue between
Aesthetics and Religion (Princeton: Princeton University Press), 1990:113.

2 Ibid., p. 116.

the mysterious and the numinous, while evoking awe and wonder along with
Divine majesty. 3

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (1903-1993) teaches that the role of the arts
in the worship service is to encourage the congregant to actively participate
in the devotional act of co-creation, to empathize with its pageantry through
the experience of the poet, expressed by means of words and music. The goal
is to unfold one's spirit, to actually transform oneself. The act of prayer, ac-
cording to Rabbi Soloveitchik, is a creative attempt to fill the void of chaos
with beautiful reality. During prayer, through imagination, one renews and
recreates oneself. 4 Moreover, God expects us to be creative— as God is cre-
ative. In sum, the act of prayer is a co-creative partnership with the Almighty,
in which we feel the mystery of the cosmos. That, in turn, fosters within us
halakhic sensibilities. 5

Holiness

In Soloveitchik 's view, beauty iyofi) accompanies creation in the process of
bringing holiness (k'dushah) into the world. Only by coming in contact with
the beautiful and exalted may one even hope to apprehend God. In fact, he
says "the apprehension of beauty elevates the mind, cleanses the spirit, and,
at least for a moment, elevates the heart." 6

Paradoxically, this encounter with the majesty of nature through prayer
can produce two contrasting feelings. On the one hand, we are reminded of
our smallness, our cosmic insignificance in contrast to the majesty of God.
It is not an accident that, like chapter one of Genesis, the b'rakhot (blessings)
that speak of creation — Yotseir or ("Creator of Light"), Ha-ma'ariv aravim
("Bringer of Evenings"), Haz-zan ethak-kol ("Who Nourishes AH")— are texts
in which only God acts, we humans remain silent and passive observers who
receive God's grace. 7 On the other hand, viewing the beauty of nature through
the prism of prayer can enhance one's sense of dignity for, as far as we know,

3 Ibid., p. 73.

4 J.B. Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, translated by Lawrence Kaplan (Philadelphia:
The Jewish Publication Society), 1983:106.

5 J.B. Soloveitchik, Worship of the Heart, Shalom Charney, ed. (Jersey City, NJ:
KTAV Publishing House for Tora HoRav Foundation), 2003:55.

6 Ibid., p. 59.

7 See on this, Saul P. Wachs, "Some Reflections on Two Genres of Berakhah"
Journal of Synagogue Music, vol. xxii, nos. 1-2, July/December 1992.

115

only we human beings have both the capacity to appreciate aesthetics and a
need to do so. 8

Furthermore, Rabbi Soloveitchik elucidates, "man feels overcome by
the impact of beauty. However, he is not crushed by it. On the contrary, he
recovers a sense of worthiness and dignity."

Humans express their joy and pride in being uniquely able to acknowl-
edge beauty, through a b'rakhah recited in response to natural beauty:
l»VlSa V? HDDE? DVlSn fra Wnta a nns J|-Q ("Blessed are You our God,
Sovereign of the Universe Who has [created] such things in Your world"). 9
This b'rakhah acknowledges the poverty of language in trying to express the
mystery and beauty of wonder. Others, too, have noted the same limitation
of language. Elains Scarry observes that beauty is breathtaking; it transfixes
us, stops us in our tracks and makes the heart beat faster, virtually demand-
ing a sense of reverence. 10 Surely we have all reacted with a similar sense of
wonder — even exaltation — to the experience of seeing a colorful rainbow, a
sudden bolt of lightning or the snow-capped peak of a high mountain.

A Place of Worship

TheMishkan (Wilderness Tabernacle) was a work of splendor, gold and light;
the detailed descriptions of which (Exodus chapters 35-38) reflect the love
manifested by those involved and their passionate desire to build a fitting
sanctuary to honor God and to house the Divine words. Indeed, they must
have understood that music, color, stones, jewels, and gold play on our sen-
sibilities and are indirect stimuli to moods of devotion and contrition which
lead to the sublime.

The Divine message was that human beings are capable of creating beauty —
with a spiritual purpose. The splendid Mishkan and the Batei mikdash (both
Jerusalem Temples) were sign posts, evocative of the heavenly, which brought
our ancestors closer to God. In referring to the synagogue as a mikdash mat
("Temple-in-miniature"), the Rabbis of the Talmud were teaching us that each

8 God's awareness of this human capacity is reflected in Genesis 2:9.

9 The translation is by Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, in The Authorised Daily
Prayer Book of United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth, Fourth Edition
(London: Collins), 2006. SiddurSim Shalom (Rabbi Jules Harlow, ed., New York: The
Rabbinical Assembly, 1985), translates the b'rakhah:"..Who has such beauty in His

10 Elaine Scarry, On Beauty and Being Just (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press), 1999.

116

synagogue has a potential to perform the same function. 11 Like its biblical
antecedents, it can serve as a bridge between the mundane concrete world
and the realm of the ineffable. Beautiful prayer spaces which glow with color
and light, rich woods and fabrics play on our sensibilities and can inspire us
to a greater awareness of the Divine. Since the ritual of the synagogue retains
elements of worship in the Mishkan and Batei mikdash, this Mikdash m'at
can express the same human yearning for closeness to God. The use of visual,
verbal, and auditory vehicles are important media for reaching this goal, each
helping us to express this yearning: The light of the Neir Tamid (Eternal Flame)
and the brightness of the Menorah (seven-branched Candelabra) — direct links
to the Mishkan and the Batei mikdash— strengthen our sense of lineage and
remind us that we are links in the chain of Jewish continuity 12

The Shofar (ram's horn) sounding, the chanting and singing, the poetry
and narrative of the prayers, the choreography and pageantry of Torah pro-
cessionals, all create moments of beauty when we sense the Divine. Visually,
we adorn the Sefer (Torah scroll) with colorful fabric mantles, silver crowns
and finials. We place it in the Awn ha-kodesh (Holy Ark), whose paw khet
(Curtain) is often artistically embroidered. Moreover, the worshipper is
moved by the pageantry of the Torah service, wherein the Torah is likened
to a monarch, bejeweled and dressed in regal splendor. Indeed, this beauty
can evoke feelings of closeness to God (it is significant that the liturgy recited
when the Torah is taken from the Awn ha-kodesh and when it is returned,
speak more of God than of the Torah itself). 13

The aesthetic sense is stimulated through contact with the natural world,
the sound and meaning of words, music, dance, drama, and visual arts. In
worship, one experiences a sense of mystery, One senses the ineffable during
these moments while in visual contact with an environment of mystery and

11 The term mikdash m'at originates in Ezekiel 11:16— where God refers to
Himself as being a "diminished sanctuary" for His beleaguered people — but after the
Second Temple's destruction was applied by the Rabbis to the synagogue; BT Megillah
29b;

12 Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World, Steven
Fine, ed. (New York: Oxford University Press), 1996: 24ff. On the function of ritual in
engendering and strengthening three kinds of roots, i.e., a sense of lineage, a sense of
peerage, and a sense of linkage, see Joseph J. Schwab, "The Religiously Oriented School
in the United States: A Memorandum on Policy," Conservative Judaism, vol. viii, no.
3, Spring 1964:7-8.

13 Because the Sefer torah is the primary source of k'dushah in a synagogue, it
is not surprising that it became the focus for artistic gifts of generations throughout
history.

117

beauty. In such an environment one can feel a sense of community while sing-
ing together and yearning for the Divine. John Dewey claims that aesthetic
and religious intensity can engender an experience of exquisite clarity and
intelligibility which introduces us to a deeper reality of the world. It gives us
feelings of belonging and takes us beyond ourselves, to find ourselves. 14 When
the worshipper emerges from the experience of worship more appreciative
and reflective, with more awareness of others and concern for justice for all
humankind, he or she feels morally uplifted.

And in so reaching God— writes Rabbi Soloveitchik— through prayer that
is aesthetically inspiring, people can realize an ecstatic relationship with the
Divine, that is unattainable through gestures limited to the merely cognitive
and ethical. 15 The worshiper, if he/she is truly committed, seeks to empathize
with God through the imagery of the liturgical poet. The committed wor-
shipper asks, "what are the implications of this text for my life right now, for
my family and my community?" This can be daunting, as one may encounter
strong feelings during the service.

Much of the dysfunctional behavior in contemporary synagogues masks
an attempt to flee from engagement with the liturgy 16 In many cases this re-
luctance could well reflect a fear of the feelings that might emerge as a result
of engagement with k'dushah. According to Moshe Halbertal, the single most
important characteristic of k'dushah is that it cannot be manipulated. 17 We
cannot control it and that can be overwhelming and frightening.

Yet we are also drawn to this very engagement. We know that there is a
dimension to reality beyond that which is tangible but we are pre-determined
to view that dimension from the outside. Til D7Sn ""SIKT X^C'No human may
see me and live"). And even as we are frightened of it, we nevertheless yearn
for contact with that which points to k'dushah 18

14 Martin, p. 117.

15 J.B. Soloveichik, Worship of the Heart, p. 59.

16 Samuel Heilman, Synagogue Life: A Study in Symbolic Interaction, 1 976. For
a complementary approach, see Jeremy Schoenfield, Undercurrents of Jewish Prayer
(Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization), 2007.

17 Moshe Halbertal, "Al k'dushah u-g'vulot ha-yitsug ha-amanuti v'ha-l'shoni,"
Borders of Sanctity in Art, Society and Jewish Thought, Emily D. Bilski & Avigdor Shina,
eds. (Jerusalem: Keren Edy), 2003.

18 The classic work on this is Rudolph Otto, The Holy— On the Irrational in the
Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational (first published in German, 1917).
Otto uses the encounter of Moses with God at the burning bush (Exodus chapter 3)
as paradigmatic of this ambivalence. Another example is found in the behavior of the

Modernity has brought with it its own distinctive challenges to spirituality.
If they engage at all, moderns are limited in their ability to do so imagina-
tively. The scientific spirit of the age and the emphasis on critical and literal
inquiry rather than metaphorical reading create barriers to the celebration
and contemplation of the sublime and the mysterious. The latter represent
the very essence of an artistically realized religious experience. 19

Literalness is the chief enemy of the religious spirit. Poetry shows us other
ways of seeing and understanding a world in which the human spirit may
live. 20 Any of the arts— when integrated through our imagination— can evoke a
grander vision than the literal understanding of cognition alone might provide.

A "Surrogate of the Congregation in Prayer"

The challenge that every sh'liah tsibbur faces is to help worshipers overcome
their fear of drawing nearer to the Divine. Instead, anyone who has been
delegated by the community to lead public prayer must do all within their
power to enable congregants to enter the realm of the holy. In this task, the
hazzan (Cantor) 21 is called upon to become a musical artist whose palette
consists of Judaism's multi-colored prayer modes and whose brush is loaded
with words of the received liturgy.

It is noteworthy that, while the Torah places an absolute ban upon any effort
to depict God visually (a ban which was not accepted by Christianity but is
accepted by Islam,) it does not limit our ability to "visualize" God in words.
The artist, poet or musician brings to light what others cannot see and may
be led to see through the aesthetic experience. Through envisioning what has
never been seen before, the artist creates anew. In religious terms, the artist
is not only priest but also prophet, says Alfred Whitehead. 22

The artist of vocalized language can bring words to life, through musical
interpretation. That is a core mission of a hazzan, who reveals new understand-
ings of the liturgical text. The music of the synagogue is logogenic; its words

Israelites at Mount Sinai (compare Exodus 20:12-13 and 21:16).

19 Rudolph Otto, cited in Martin, p. 73.

20 George Santayana, cited in Martin, p. 107

21 Hymanl.Sky, The Development ofthe Office of Hazzan through the Talmudic
Period, unpublished dissertation (Philadelphia: The Dropsie University), 1977, Preface,
vii: "The ubiquitous hazzan [synagogue supervisor] assumed the function ofthe sh'liah
tsibbur so as to deal with a 'canonized' liturgy, after the close of the Talmudic period
but before the beginning ofthe 7th century."

22 Martin, p. 121.

119

are central. Abraham Joshua Heschel taught that a hazzan who is worthy of
his/her calling shows respect for the dignity of words. If the prayer chant is
effective in tone-painting its underlying words, two things result: there is an
experience of beauty; and the building of a bridge to the transcendent. And
here is where the challenge lies, because we live in a world where words are
often debased. To defend against this vulgarization, we have developed a kind
of semantic aphasia: we tune out most commercial announcements; so much
so that we may forget to tune back in when hearing or uttering words of prayer.

Somehow, a hazzan must lead the congregation in such an artful and ar-
resting way that they break through this semantic aphasia. Only then can the
assemblage then collectively begin to engage with the liturgy. Making that
connection will require kavvanah — focus, intention and sincerity — on the
part of every participant.

Indeed, for the aesthetic to play any role in the realm of the holy, awareness
and perception are required. To behold the transcendent once the aesthetic
element has played its part, we need to recapture the openness of early
childhood. Very young children still retain the wide-eyed innocence to see
and respond to the world around them. They sense its wonder and majesty,
before they are trained not to perceive its wholeness: its beauty and holiness
all wrapped together.

To compensate for our loss of youthful innocence, we adults have been given
a liturgy that links yofi and k'dushah. Performance is the key. Facilitated by a
gifted, knowledgeable and committed sh'liah tsibbur, prayer acts as a bridge
between the mundane and the eternal. The element of yofi enters through
the visual adornment of prayer spaces, the sacred music and the inspiring
rendition of liturgy. Experiencing aesthetic beauty leads to an otherworldly
uplift of spirit, a feeling of contact with k'dushah, that imparts a deeper
meaning to our lives.

Aided by all of the above, worshippers are primed to engage in a creative
act which is characterized by struggle. They must first grapple with the me-
dieval Hebrew poetry whose words fill the pages of our prayer books (English
translations, typically bland and banal, will not do it). The sincere 'pray-er'
needs help, which the hazzan is uniquely equipped to provide. Charged with
the task of bringing often obscure written language to life, the hazzan will do
whatever is necessary in order to make worshipers aware of nuanced meanings
woven into the biblically inspired poetic words. When this is done artistically,
yet in a way which remains faithful to the text, it allows the congregant to
make connections and to explore possible implications for personal, familial
and communal life.

120

Music is uniquely endowed with the capacity to link beauty and holiness.
According to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972), "music, is the
only language which seems to be compatible with the wonder and mystery
of being." 23 When one listens to enduring liturgical music, one's soul is lifted
to realms of existence which it could not attain through the power of the
intellect alone. 24

Marshaling music, art and poetry in the creation of beauty— to facilitate
entry into the realm of the holy— is a worthy and significant task. The privilege
of participating in this task is given to each of us who have accepted the role
oish'liah tsibbur. Granted, the creation of yofi cannot be seen as the ultimate
value in Judaism. But it can serve as a portal to k'dushah, opening our minds
and hearts to an awareness of the numinous.

Diane Ruth Cover, M.S.W.,was a psychiatric Social Worker for many years. She
continues in that direction by serving on the clinical faculty at the School of Social
Policy of the University of Pennsylvania. She is also an accomplished painter and
calligrapher. Saul Philip Wachs, Hazzan, Ph. D., is the Rosaline B. Feinstein Profes-
sor of Education and Liturgy and Director of the Doctoral Program in Education
at Gratz College. He is a Graduate of the College of Jewish music at the Jewish
Theological Seminary, and has acted as visiting Hazzan for the High Holidays at
Kehillath Israel Congregation in Brookline, Massachusetts since 1972.
The writers express appreciation to Rabbi Benjamin Segal, and Professors Jeffrey
Tigay, Michael Chernick and Roger Camien, who suggested resources which proved
to be invaluable in the preparation of this article.

23 Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Insecurity of Freedom (New York: Farrar, Straus
& Geroux), 1966: 245.

24 Avraham Holtz, "Religion and the Arts in the Theology of Abraham Joshua
Heschel," Conservative Judaism, vol. xxvii, no. 1, Winter 1978:34.

121

Arranging Two-Dimensional Space for Liturgical Use-
Typography in a Bi-lingual Siddur

By Simon Prais

Typography concerns both choice of font (or design of a new one), and use of
the chosen font/s. This pertains to size, layout and formatting. Both 'choice'
and 'use' each have two key factors requiring careful balance, style and leg-
ibility. In the case of a bi-lingual siddur both these aspects are of paramount
importance. The prayer book's very nature of indicates that its target audience
are those for whom Hebrew is not their first language and so, legibility of the
Hebrew font and its layout is vital. Of comparable importance is design, style
of the font and also the visual appearance of the layout.

It can be challenging to move forward from what we accept as 'traditional.'
However, with the objective of improving legibility and the ability to pray
accurately from a siddur, the basis of such changes can be both historically
and rationally justified. Comparison of early Hebrew lettering to that which
we consider a traditional Hebrew font illustrates how technology and the
secular world influenced the Hebrew fonts of the 18th century, resulting in
a loss of legibility and heritage.

A siddur helps us to perform the mitzvah of prayer. Beautifying the mitzvah
through good design is a mitzvah in itself, encouraging regular and accurate
use. Unlike a novel or a newspaper, both of which would normally be read
just once, a siddur is somewhat unique. The texts are repeated on a daily and
weekly basis, and are poetic in content, which should be taken into account
when considering the suitability of font and layout design.

In order to appreciate the complexities of the subject, it is necessary to first
understand the origin of the written Hebrew letter and that of its subsequent
printed form.

Background to the written and printed Hebrew letter

Comparison of the written Hebrew letter— both earliest examples and later
developments — shows contrasting differences to that which is popularly ac-
cepted as traditional (Figure 1-E).

1-A An early example of
the written Hebrew
letter from the Dead
Sea Scrolls circa 1st
century BCE.

1-B An early example of
Hebrew inscribed in
a coffin lid 1 at Beit
She'arim circa 3rd c.
BCE.

1-C The Aleppo Codex,
written in the 10th
century, the Masoretic
period, which saw
attention to detail and
accuracy of the written
word.

1-D One of the earliest
examples of printed
Hebrew 2 , printed in
Reggio di Calabria.

1-E A 'traditional' Hebrew
font in the style used
from 1825 by the
Romm Family Press in
Vilna. This example is

A) Dead Sea Scrolls (circa 1st c. BCE)

imW l-n^fhu r<\nj*s

3) Belt Sne'arim Inscription (circa 3rd c. CE)
Q Aleppo Codex (10th c, CE)

rrwenaa nna nyu nm

E) Vilna Romm Style (19th c CE)

^-p'onnrmax

k, Germany (1908)

Figure 1. Typefaces A -

from a current edition
of the siddur 'Tefilat
Kol Peh published by
Eshcol, Jerusalem.
1-F Frank Riihl typeface 1908, a key early step in the 20th century's reforms
in Hebrew typography.

A factor contributing to the acceptance of this style (figure 1-E) as be-
ing 'traditional' was its use by the Romm family to print the Vilna Talmud
from 1825, through to its continued use to date. Font designers of the 20th
century set out to improve on the many flaws of this style; the first of note

Ada Yardeni, The Book of Hebrew Scripts, Carta 1997.

Rafael Frank, German Printing Trade Archives, Vol. 48 issue 11, (Ger

being Rafael Frank, who designed the Frank Riihl font in 1908 (figure 1-F).

In his essay printed in the German Printing Trade Archives (Vol. 48, issue

11) of 1911, Frank describes the earliest Hebrew fonts (prior to influences

resulting in the 'traditional' style) as follows:

This type— set without vowels [figure 1-D]— is acute-angled in shape
and, even at this early date, the letters were rectangular at a ratio of 3:4,
the shape I was to demand for the Frank-Riihl typeface [figure 1-F]. And
these characters do not bear the slightest trace of the stark differentiation
between horizontal thickness and vertical thinness that later became a
feature of Hebrew type and has lasted until our day [figure 1-E].
In comparison to earlier written Hebrew letter styles (figures 1-A/C), there

are four noticeable differences in the 'traditional' style:

• Contrast of vertical to horizontal strokes.

• Horizontal to vertical letter ratio.

• Angled to horizontal base strokes.

• Similarity of letters and recurring shapes within letters.

Contrast of vertical to horizontal strokes

The traditional Hebrew font exhibits the extreme of a style applied to Latin
typefaces of the early 19th century; a style pioneered by the likes of John
Baskerville (Birmingham, UK in 1757) and which reached extremes through
Didot and Bodoni in the early 1800s. This resulted in an accentuation of the
difference in the thickness of horizontal to vertical strokes. Parallels to the
traditional Hebrew style are also drawn with that of the Gothic Blackletter
which was popular in Germany through to the mid-20th century. Ittai Tamari
writes. 3

The letter cutters relied on handwritten manuscripts as models that were
not always of an embellished 'square' and corrected script; this resulted
in the printing of distortions and errors. The most obvious of these was
the emphasis of the thick horizontal strokes, characteristically produced
by a flexible quill but which could have been, more or less, regularised
and minimized by the font cutter's tool. Gothic characteristics were thus
fixated in a letter that in fact had nothing in common with the Gothic
tradition.

3 Ittai Tamari, Chair for Jewish History and Culture, Department of History, Munich
University, "New Hebrew Letter Type," Tel Aviv University Exhibition Catalogue, 1985.

Unlike the Latin letter that benefits from a slightly heavier vertical stroke, it
is the horizontal strokes of the Hebrew letter that were exaggerated in thick-
ness. However, there are a number of fundamental problems in applying such
a stvle to Hebrew typography.

M Figure 2 compares a Latin letter 'M' to the Hebrew letter

'Final Mem. They are both of identical outer dimensions, other
than the Hebrew letter actually benefiting in height from the
top of the letter rising above that of the Latin letter. However,
even with the additional physical height of the Hebrew letter,

Qthe Latin letter appears to be taller. An optical illusion, but
when applied to the design of a Latin font, the printed word
benefits from looking taller, whereas the Hebrew letter style
looks shorter. 4
A further aspect of applying extreme contrast differences to
the Latin and Hebrew letters is that of legibility. If the thinner
horizontal strokes of the Latin alphabet are totally removed, the letters
still retain a level of individual recognition, whereas this is far less when
the thinner vertical strokes are removed from the Hebrew alphabet. Every
stroke of the Hebrew alphabet is required to avoid uncertainty of the letters.
The importance of seeing the entire shape of each Hebrew letter compared
to that of the Latin alphabet was researched by Joseph Shimron and David
Navon at the University of Haifa. 5 The experiment highlighted that covering
the top part of each letter in the Latin alphabet did not hinder reading speed
as significantly as when applied to the Hebrew letter.

Incidentally, fonts with a slightly heavier
vertical than horizontal stroke are used in Israel
for signage. This results in the letters looking
taller than if the traditional form of heavier
horizontals were applied (Figure 3).

NO PARKING

Figure 3

4 Simon Prais, Design Considerations affecting the simultaneous use of Latin and Hebrew
Typography, 1984. www.HebrewTypography.me.uk

5 Joseph Shimron & David Navon, "The Distribution of Visual Information in the Verti-
cal Dimension of Roman and Hebrew Letters," Visible Language Vol. 14, No. 1. 1980.

Horizontal to vertical letter ratio

The square ratio of the traditional Hebrew letter uses more space than a nar-
rower 3:4 ratio letter. Although more compact, a correctly designed letter can
actually result in improved differentiation between similar letter pairs, such as
the overhang on a B et i 'Dated to distinguish from a KaflResh comprising a larger
proportion of the letter's width. A 3:4 ratio letter also results in more words
to the line, thus saving space that can be applied to an increase in font size.

Angled to horizontal base strokes

A uniform horizontal base stroke, a characteristic of the traditional Hebrew
typeface and a continued practice in many current day fonts, greatly reduces
legibility. It is clearly an influence of the Latin letter sitting on a baseline and
the format of metal typecasting machines.

As illustrated by the letter samples (Figures 1-A/C), and the traditional
laws for writing a Torah, Hebrew letters hang down from a scored line and
have a sloping baseline. However, the majority of Hebrew fonts currently in
use today are designed to sit flat on a baseline; incorrectly, in my opinion.

The Hebrew letters have far less components than the Latin letters, and a
uniform horizontal base line in a high proportion of the letters reduces the
speed with which one can interpret them. Although a horizontal baseline
would have been practical for the setting of Hebrew with vowels in metal type,
photosetting technology from the 1960s and more recent computer setting can
easily accommodate setting vowels under letters which have a sloping base.

Similarity of letters and recurring shapes within letters

The traditional Hebrew font style lacks accentuation of the differences in
comparable letter pairs; Nun to Gimel, Bet to Kaf, Heh to Het and Samekh
to Final Mem.

Also of note is the letter Lamed in which, although not necessarily reducing
legibility, but not following historic form, the prominence of its ascending
stroke is reduced in the printed letter and the lower part of the letter accentu-
ated. This trait is frequently exacerbated by bending of the top of the Lamed
as shown in figure 1-E. The advantage of such a practice is that less space is
required between lines of text without the Lamed clashing with the hanging
strokes of final letters or vowelization; however, it is not in keeping with the
letter's original characteristics.

Koren — Tanakh font 1958; Book font 1978

{Koren Bi-lingual Siddur 2009)

• II I I B) Frank MM, Rafael Frank, Germany (\9QB)

* » I I . ' C) Koren Tanakh, Blarm Koren, Israel (1958)

n^ipv^3yopDD7p>untin-ruK

I '1 \ r \ I D J Koren Soot, Eliahu Karen, Israel (1978)

Figure 4

The original font, Koren Tanakh (Figure 4-C), was designed by Eliahu Koren
in 1958 for printing the Koren Tanakh. This was the first Bible to be printed
and published entirely by Jews in nearly 500 years. 6 Having studied graphics
and stained glass in Germany, Koren arrived in Jerusalem in 1933. His early
work included running the graphics department of the KKL (Jewish National
Fund). He won a competition to design the emblem for the city of Jerusalem
and his work (The Lion and Olive Branches) is used to this day. Koren originally
embarked on the design of the Koren Tanakh font for printing a Tanakh to be
published by the Hebrew University. However, after their decision to change
the production process to use an existing font rather than proceed with the
manufacture of the Koren font, the University's publication was found to be
inaccurate and subsequently unsuccessful. This resulted in Koren publishing
his own accurate Tanakh— the official Tanakh of Jerusalem and the Knesset.
Koren provides us with references to the inspiration, objectives and science
behind the creation of his font. 7

A) Printing was invented in the middle of the fifteenth century. The inventor,
Johannes Gutenberg, printed the first Bible in non-Hebrew letters. This
Bible is well known not only for being the first one but also because it
is considered to be the most beautifully printed Bible. What letter did
Gutenberg choose for his book? No doubt he looked among the written
letters, searching for the most beautiful ones, in order to cut the letters
for his printing similar to them. I followed the same path. Since I, like

6 Dr. Leila Avrin, Yedidei Ha'sefer No 6, Israel Bibliophiles (Hebrew/English), 1986.

7 Eliahu Koren, The Idea and the Realisation (Hebrew), 1991.

any other person, cannot decide by my own judgment which is the most
beautiful Hebrew letter and the most correct one, I checked the first
printed documents ever made. In this way I made the skeleton for the
Hebrew alphabet. Every letter needed adaptation, since the easier it is for
the eye to take in a letter, the quicker the brain is to understand it, exactly
as the spoken word, when it is uttered with the right tone and strength,
comes better through the ear to the brain.

B) Although I am not keen on using abbreviations in order to explain the

Torah, I was happy when I found a nice explanation that would strengthen
my approach to the work I was facing. In the book of Vayikra, Chapter 17,
Verse 1 1, it is written: For the life is in the blood. I explain the word 'hadam'
(the blood) thusly: 'he' - hidur (giving beauty); 'daled' - diuk (precision);
and 'mem' - massoret (tradition). Those three characteristics - tradition,
precision and beauty - became the basis of my work. They are the life-
blood of a perfect work.

C) ...While reading (the font) they filmed the retina of the reader. The more

the retina of the eye was closed it indicated that the eye was making more
of an effort. Comparably, the more open the retina indicated reading
was easy and comfortable... The final results were that the greater the
difference between the letter shapes, the easier the eye interprets them.
The Koren Tanakh font was completed in 1958 after the initial matrices
for casting the letters had been rejected by Koren for varying by one three-
hundredth of a millimeter from his original drawings (the manufacturer's
specified tolerance being up to two-hundredths of a mm). The letters were
drawn lOx the size of the cast letters, which in turn were 50% larger than their
final usage in the largest format of printed Tanakh (the size in a standard size
Tanakh or Siddur being a further 50% smaller).

In addition to maintaining a reasonable difference in vertical to horizontal
line weights, as introduced in the Frank Rtihl typeface, and a similar 3:4 shape
ratio, Koren's objectives are clearly achieved (Figure 4-B/C).

A greater differential in letter shapes is evident through the use of angled
horizontal strokes. The angled heads (rhomboid shapes) of the Koren Tanakh
font accommodate the placement of the Holem vowel and that of the Shin/
Sin dot (Figure 5). Unlike the Lamed letter style of Frank Riihl and traditional
style fonts, the foot of the Lamed in Koren is tapered and greater prominence
and height given to the ascending vertical stroke. In discussions with Eliahu
Koren (1984) he was very particular that the upper stroke of the Lamed is
prominent and not bent as had become customary in traditional fonts.

Remaining true to his objectives of tradition, precision and
•^« ^*^# beauty, the Koren letter maintains the characteristics of the
traditional Hebrew letter, whilst benefitting from the beauty
of well-drafted and balanced forms with an unprecedented
degree of precision. This is achieved not only in the unique
shapes of the letters and combinations accommodating all
Figure 5 vowels and ta'amim in a legible form, but also in the produc-
tion to a precision within two-hundredths of a millimeter.
Figure 6 compares the letters Final Mem and Samekh of the traditional Vilna
(right) to that of Frank Riihl (centre) and Koren (left). The Vilna Samekh and
Final Mem are differentiated only by the angle of the lower right corner while
the upper three-quarters of the letters and the central space remain almost
identical. The difference is increased in Frank Riihl by the rounding of the
lower part of the letter which is also echoed in the central space, but the upper
half of the letters remain similar. Koren substantially changes the dynamics
of the letters, altering both the external proportions and the internal space.
Although the external shape of the Koren Final Mem does not differ much
from the other font styles, Koren introduces an important characteristic to the
central space. The shape of the space tapers in slightly, like a hanging water
droplet, whereas the other fonts exhibit the opposite effect. In this the Koren
font is true to the original structure of the Hebrew letter, hanging from the line.
Having produced the Koren Tanakh font (for cast
metal typesetting) in 1958, a number of other publi-
cations including a bi-lingual Haggadah (1965) were
produced in this typeface. However, Koren ideally
wanted to reserve use of this font exclusively for the
Tanakh and he set about designing a variant of the
typeface, Koren Book (Figure 4-D), which would be
used for the Koren Siddur (Hebrew-only edition, first
published 1982). This font was made available on the
igure ^jyj Verityper phototypesetting system in 1978 for

Koren Publishing. 8
It must have been a struggle for Koren to create a second font — the Koren
Book font— after achieving his ultimate goal with Koren Tanakh. However,
in comparing the two fonts it is clear where his inspiration originated— the
script of the Aleppo Codex. Koren explains 9 how after designing the Koren

8 Yossi Pinchas of Pal-Ron, Jerusalem (Verityper distributor). Recollection of date based
on the invention of Verityper photosetting in 1976 and first equipment becoming available in
Israel by 1977, after which the bespoke Koren font will have been introduced.

9 Eliahu Koren, The Idea and the Realisation (Hebrew), 1991.

129

□ DD
DDD

Tanakh font he had the opportunity to see the Aleppo Codex and was pleased
that its script resembled his Koren Tanakh font. However, although he fails
to say that he subsequently used it as a model for the Koren Book font, there
are a number of key similarities in the character changes made to the Tanakh
font to form this second font. Figure 4-A shows a small detail from the Aleppo
Codex script. Of particular interest is the diamond/lozenge shape forming
the tops of the letters Gimmel and Zayin and other letters in which this
component appears, such as the left arm of the letter Tet. This provides one
of the differentiating features of the Koren Book font. Also, the sloping bases
of the Tet and Tsadi, and increased weight given to the top of the Lamed.
These differences contribute to a further diversification from the repetitive
forms of the traditional style, whilst still maintaining the general feel of the
traditional letter.

The 1982 Siddur comprised of Biblical texts reproduced directly from the
original Tanakh artwork of the cast metal Koren Tanakh font, combined with
the remaining sections typeset in the Koren Book font through the AM Veri-
typer photosetting system. These fonts had a different weight for the vowels
associated with them. The Tanakh font has heavier vowels, requiring them to
be set a further distance from the letters than those of the Siddur font. This
distinguished the Tanakh typeface vowels from the lighter weight trope signs
(t'amim) required. As the addition of notes was not a requirement for the
Koren Book typeface, the vowels could be lighter in weight and subsequently
set closer to the letters. When the fonts were re-drawn for digital typesetting
of the bi-lingual Siddur of 2009 a single set of vowels, based on the weight
of the Tanakh font, was applied to both typefaces. This provides improved
consistency across the two typefaces. A further modification is an alternative
Lamed, not with a bent top which Koren would never even have considered,
but the same shape Lamed with an almost indistinguishably shorter head.
This is used in combinations where the top will otherwise collide with a note
or descender from the line of text above. This can be identified in instances
of consecutive letter Lamed, where only one is in the shorter form.

The continued resemblance to the traditional style by maintaining a sig-
nificant difference in thickness between the vertical to horizontal strokes has
its shortcomings. In small sizes, photographically reduced, the thin vertical
strokes become too thin, thereby reducing legibility. This was something
Koren was aware of and for textual notes within the Koren Siddur of 1982
the Hadassah font is used for references in the margin. Hadassah benefits
from having a more uniform stroke thickness. The Koren Hagadah, printed
earlier on in 1965, also used the Hadassah typeface for the small point size
references.

130

The Koren fonts were specifically designed for religious purposes. JheKoren
Tanakh artwork was directly lifted to provide the biblical text components of
the 1982 Siddur, on which the 2009 Siddur is based. It is said that during the
preparation of the Tanakh, Koren would collect the artwork from his artist
(many worked from home) every Friday afternoon, to ensure no work was
done on Shabbat.

The Koren Siddur

Considerations of a Siddur layout are complex, even when just in Hebrew. In
addition to distinguishing between instructions and text, there is the need
to accommodate texts which are only included on special occasions. Ironi-
cally, such texts which are not said regularly, are frequently set in a smaller
size with other techniques to separate them; subsequently the less familiar
prayers are even less legible.

Adding a second language increases the challenge. Should the Hebrew be
set on the right-hand pages with English to the left, or should it be the reverse?
Or should both be on the same page and, if so, in which order? Also, should
the text be aligned to the left or right? This provides numerous variations
and most have been used for the publication oisiddurim.

The purpose of a bi-lingual Siddur:

• To pray accurately in Hebrew.

• To provide guidance (rubrics).

• To offer easy access to the translation (when required).

To achieve this, many points including the following require consideration:

• Hebrew/English; left/right; single/double pages

• Referencing Hebrew to English

• Initial letters/words

• Alternative and occasional texts, words and paragraphs.

The most apparent variable when opening a bi-lingual Siddur is the jux-
taposition of Hebrew to its translation. Traditionally, the most common
format, as used in both the Authorised Daily Prayer Book 10 and the ArtScroll
Siddur, 11 is to set the Hebrew on the right-hand leaf and its translation on the
left-hand one. The logic is that Hebrew starts at the right and English at the

10 United Synagogue, Jlie Authorised Daily Prayer book of the United Hebrew Congrega-
tions of the Commonwealth, First published 1890.

1 1 Mesorah Publications Ltd. The Complete ArtScroll Siddur, First published 1984.

left, so when looking at a double-page spread it is natural to look to the right
to find the start of the Hebrew. However, such a format does have its failings.
Figure 7 presents a double-page spread of Ashrei in the ArtScroll Siddur,
this prayer having been selected as it is traditionally set line for line, resulting
in an uneven space down the centre of the spread. Although traditionally only
a few prayers are set line for line in such a format, the advantage of splitting
prayers phrase for phrase, like poetry, is that it helps the reader correctly
punctuate the prayers. A large proportion of our prayers are poetic and
would benefit from such a layout. However, in addition to the central white
space, there are further failings with such a layout. The purpose of transla-
tion is for reference when required; normally this would be from the start of
a sentence. But in this layout the Hebrew starts at the far right of each page
and its corresponding translation is at the furthest possible point, at the far
left. Furthermore, when one's primary objective is praying (smoothly without
unnecessary distractions) in Hebrew, it is not ideal that each line of Hebrew
converges into the oncoming line of English.

^MINCHAH^

Immp-*"™"*"'"*'

*lum Ihit i. ., j ,„ . t, , , , r ' 1 , , t

~?2~ n *~- '~ , -' : ' : ■ n7;: ^i— T "i"" ";n"3 ^Z" r nli>W

m'.i^k nirrW oyn ,- &i0K ,"b

-tyj n^ty^ -ymj nanaxi n^nn 'm^K Tinia-n^

.iy] o'jiirV $99 rt&jgj <3yiWf W *S9

,itj] ^rman ,T¥TW tf$i?j **Bt "iVi

.nirtpK qip^J n?71 i5(JSt| 1133 -rig

.njiS^K iii'jnji ,™s> ^nliqU niyi

.njfY ^riR-ijn .W*9B $>ti SI laj

.I'iuyn ba ^ l'ljrni #$ nwr aw

.J^SftJ! ^-rarr Sjtfftig Va ttct flfjti

Vtii {""',' „', ,! ' „;," ■"'"*• M "*»

mo^ 1" --;■ "-2:. z-x- -:i7 ^rf,

",'."' ifaStivlJI* 111 *"'*

,a'3?s?rj igb (pin ,d>!jSct ^3> iim> inio

inya Dfei* nK nr6 jpu riijei n?«p t£s io w

.fn~t i rj Tab yaitrni

Jnj«a irw ™ b;ft .™-v hjb mm ang

* JtSm^^sK "*?sH"S

, jJEmtMomiS ril tto M»

. .,::%:„.,

ssSsra*. "■"

£3$«5 BSfssi

Figure 7

132

The suggested logic for the instigation of this format is that when viewing a
double-page spread, the logical place to position the Hebrew is on the right-
hand page, as Hebrew is read from right to left. However, there is one key
flaw in such a supposition. A Siddur is a book and one must take into account
the mechanics of turning the pages of a book, not just viewing a double-page
spread (as in a poster). An English book reads from left to right, and when
printing on only one side of an English book's page, it is the right-hand side
of each double-page spread which is printed, with the left-hand side remain-
ing blank. This is because it is the right-hand side which the reader first sees
when turning the pages of an English book. Subsequently, in a Hebrew book,
reading from right to left, it is the left-hand side which one sees first, and
thus would be printed. Applying such logic to a Siddur, which reads right to
left with Hebrew the primary language, results in the left to right pages be-
ing reversed from the order used by the Authorised Daily Prayer Book and
ArtScroll Siddur. The Koren Bi-lingual Siddur (Figure 8) uses such a layout.

rftsS rutins: -•-■; Ssy* -inx a-rhs run' -p-s

D7V7 H13: z~~ T~y •

fn«rV™i-!i3:>Hr?a*;

~T'~* ^-' :"•','■-"* z~ ";'- .^os "s—'_" i_ p.s ,rT'-r' r.r.y
c'^'f 2 ~^"': ~".r: ~;~; "n;:~"^ "r'Dirn Ti^firi

,,. 1 ,«,.., ,.i.„^!,n,;,. 1 „ V.',„,.r.-

Figure 8

The Koren layout results in white space, due to the lines being split poeti-
cally, being in the outer margins, where the siddur is held. This ensures that
text is not obscured and many prayers are set poetically, line for line, such as
those in Figure 8. The Hebrew and English start adjacent to each other for
ease of reference, but the translation does not present as a distraction as the
Hebrew is read away from the English. Similarly (as illustrated), the references
to the texts are in the outer margins, separated by the white space, whereas
in the traditional format (Figure 7) references frequently merge with rubrics
and/or the prayers. The Hebrew is also on the side of the page the reader first
sees when turning over a leaf. Such a format was first used by Koren in 1965
in a bi-lingual Haggadah published by Koren and distributed through the
Soncino Press, London and New York.

Figure 9 shows a double-page spread from this Haggadah. A key differ-
ence between the typography of this and other publications under the artistic
guidance of Eliahu Koren, and that of the Koren 2009 Bi-lingual Siddur under
the typographic direction of Rafael Freeman, is the approach to the English
typography. Eliahu Koren was very much one for symmetry, balancing the
Hebrew to the English line for line. As seen in Figure 9, this frequently re-
sulted in the English font size being significantly smaller than the Hebrew
and excessive line-spacing within the English setting. Koren walked a fine
line balancing aesthetics and legibility and on occasion, such as here, the
quality of the English typography suffered. When discussing his approach to
having the Hebrew set to the left of the English with Eliahu Koren in 1984,
it was the aesthetic of reading out from the centre and alignment of Hebrew
with its translation that Koren highlighted. He had not considered the ad-
ditional advantage as to which side of the page the reader first sees when
the page is turned. Koren had discussed applying this layout to other works
with American publishers at the time but none were willing to risk setting
the Hebrew to the left. 12

The approach to the English typesetting by Freeman in the Koren Bi-lingual
Siddur differs inasmuch as the English typography is not compromised for
the sake of balancing it with the Hebrew (which is anyway unachievable).
The English subsequently does not necessarily align with its Hebrew coun-
terpart, but can still easily be referenced through the initial Hebrew words
repeated at the start of the English translation. ArtScroll, and more recently
the Authorised Daily Prayer Book, use a similar approach to matching texts

12 Simon Prais, Design Considerations affecting the simultaneous ut
Typography, 1984.

U THIS

dhto-i ss?*iK3 sjmast tax «r

nD3>i >n>; Tin' 1 ??

nag twiBft

pin »33 rnssri 7^7

Figure 9

to their translation by repeating the initial Hebrew words. 13 This is even more
crucial for these publications as the distance is not either side of the margin
but over the full expanse of the double-page spread.

The general approach to the typography of the Koren Bi-lingual Siddur
was first applied to the Hebrew-only Koren Siddur of 1982. This includes the
format for inclusion of sections said only on specific occasions. For this, Koren
provided the most logical and practical solution. Until then, for a prayer that
was only read once a month or once a year, the general approach by others
had been to make it smaller as it is not crucial to everyday use and so does
not justify taking up more than the minimum of space. This had resulted in
the pre-2006 editions of the Authorised Daily Prayer Book having occasional
texts, ones with which the reader would not be so familiar, set in a smaller
font size but still over the full width of the page. The consequence of this is
that the number of words per line is increased, but legibility is reduced, not
just due to the text being smaller but because the number of words per line
exceeds the maximum recommended for ease of reading. The outcome is
detrimental; texts with which the reader is not familiar are made unneces-
sarily harder to read.

13 This technique can be seen in much earlier prayer books, such as in the Mahzorim
printed by M Phillips, London to the customs of German and Polish Jews, 1823.

ArtScroll Publications take the approach of reducing the font size but also
highlighting such texts with a grey tone behind these sections. However,
this technique makes the words even more difficult to read as the contrast is
significantly reduced and the edges of letters merge with the dots of the grey
tone. By comparison, Koren differentiated these occasional prayers by using
a smaller font size, but rather than further reducing legibility by utilizing the
full line width and/or adding a grey tint, the text is simply set indented. This
crucial expedient provides a helpful visual indication that it is an occasional
section and reduces the words-per-line count to aid legibility. The same ap-
proach, a most logical practical solution, is applied in the 2006 Authorised
Daily Prayer Book.

The Koren Siddur provides further unique characteristics. The original
1982 Koren Siddur contained a physical link to the Koren Tanakh inasmuch
as sections of the Siddur which originate from the Tanakh were reproduced
from the artwork prepared for the Tanakh. Other than saving on the cost of
resetting these sections for use in the Siddur, it provided a direct relationship
to the Tanakh. The use of the Koren Book font for the other sections in the
Siddur provided the benefit of a subtle visual differentiation.

There was, however, considerable editing still required as the Tanakh con-
tained both vowels and notes (which had originally all been positioned by
hand), whereas only vowels were required in the Siddur setting. All the notes
had to be removed by hand, as did adjustments where a k'rilk'tiv needed to
be replaced with just the k'ri for the Siddur. This resulted in some inconsis-
tencies in word spacing and vowels which had been previously positioned to
accommodate a note to their side. There were also inconsistencies between
the Tanakh and the Siddur typesetting of a Kamatz Katan and also of the
furtive Patah, due to different approaches applied to the original Tanakh font
setting and that of the Koren Book font. All these variations have now been
standardised in the Koren Bi-lingual Siddur.

Koren designed unique layouts for some pages. This includes Barukh she-
amar which highlights the extent to which Eliahu Koren was concerned with
balancing legibility and aesthetics, even if it meant compromising his rigid
principles. Figure 10 illustrates the Barukh she-amar page from the original
1982 edition. As the text does not originate from the Tanakh, it is, therefore,
set in Koren Book font. However, the first four words have been set in Koren
Tanakh font. This must have been a deliberate choice, as setting the words in
the Koren Tanakh font would have required considerable work in using the
metal type, rather than the easier process of phototypesetting in Koren Book
font. It was apparent from the first print run of the Koren Bi-lingual Siddur

136

(Figure 11) why Koren went to such trouble. The angled top of the letter Reish
in the Koren Siddur font reduces the impact achieved from the square format
of the Koren Tanakh font. Subsequent editions of the Bi-lingual Siddur now
match Koren's original style for weekday Shaharit (but the same text in Shab-
bat Shaharit has not been corrected). Unfortunately, the expanded rubrics
and inclusion of a commentary results in the lower block of the text in the
bi-lingual edition having to flow on to the next page, thereby detracting from
the original layout.

oSljjrr rrrn

yisjri 'iji nrnn -pa
Jti'-isri Sjr orna -pa

ni'i'7 D;pi tv) m -pi
Wdi nits -pa

rat *sa Vwpn fan-in 3K- Sk-
I'-tajfi i-Ton [icr>a ^-on nasra
utiHk " yvvu ^i3ii in >-y«psi

J11TOI3IJHn3B3

picsjtjriami^jj
D'nStyrt -n -m\ .wrfnt who J3''raj) tpw I'arj)

Wt EC iv -r>' iscai nara . -i'i?
.niraiwia V?nn fin ,»■ nm 71.3

.Kin ira ,oSiyri ithi

yitcn ha nrria 'jra

roSojiji Tib »n 7113

S'ttiiTTTto'jvra

Figure 10

Figure 11

Summation

The Koren approach to layout achieves optimum levels of legibility and
readability, while also being innovative and aesthetically surpassing other
siddurim. Its combined usage of the Koren Tanakh and Koren Book fonts
serves as an intrinsic reminder of prayers originating from the Tanakh. The

font design alludes to the influence of the traditional style whilst optimized
for maximum legibility and beauty, derived from sacred historic references.

Having gained an MA Degree in Visual Communication specializing in multilin-
gual typography, Simon Prais founded TypeMaker (t/a Color Confidence) in 1 986,
offering one of the first PostScript design and typesetting services in the UK. His
continuing interest in multilingual typography has expanded to specialization in
the development of the Hebrew alphabet, technological advances in the field and
related challenges for bi-lingual typography. Simon lives in Birmingham (UK) with
his wife Sybil and two daughters, Ariella and Ronit.

1111

The Salonika Synagogue in Tel-Aviv, 1986; photo by Aliza Urbach

The Shell and the Pearl: Form and Function in Synagogue
Architecture

By Gideon Ofrat

Great rulers knew how to perpetuate their names through buildings. Herod
left herodion in Transjordan, Titus left the Arch of Triumph in Rome, Pom-
pidou left the Art Center named after him in Paris. How will the Tel- Aviv of
Shlomo "Chich" Lahat's era be remembered? Will the amoeba of Dizengoff
Square immortalize his tenure as mayor, or perhaps the Asian House, a wed-
ding cake in the style of the New York Guggenheim— or maybe the annoyingly
round-shouldered Dizengoff Center? It's hard to tell. History's great leaders
are remembered as much for the buildings they destroyed (Titus destroyed
the Second Jerusalem Temple, Pompidou Les Halles— Paris' venerable whole-
sale markets). To Lahat's credit it must be said that at least he didn't destroy
much. In any event, the monument to his era in Tel- Aviv can be characterized
by the following results: white stone surfaces instead of plaster; rejection of
the bare concrete structures of his predecessor Yehoshua Rabinovich's ten-
ure (Atarim Square); revulsion with the basic geometric fortresses that had

typified Tel- Aviv from the 1930s until the city's discovery of multi-storied
construction on reinforced columns. Instead of geometric uniformity the
Chich era's style lies in the monumentality of organic forms, foreign to their
surroundings though they may be.

Now, to the existent amoeba, cake and shoulders has been added a monu-
mental white conch intended to serve as a synagogue for the Salonikan-
descended community of Tel- Aviv. This giant shell flaunts itself at the corner
of Ibn-Gabirol and Jabotinsky Streets not far from a humble little synagogue,
and turns its back scornfully to the atheistic socialists of the Vaad Hapo'eil.
Look-alike huts surround this new building named after Leon Recanati, 1
defying the protection of local politicians in favor of Heavenly security. Tel-
Aviv does t'shuvah.

How do we reach the Holy One? Possibly by placing folded notes in crannies
of the Western Wall, or by praying on a street corner or in a garden — as taught
by the Hasidim, or by topping buildings with skullcaps as in the case of Tel-
Aviv's Great Synagogue or Jerusalem's Heikhal Shlomo. And when God does
not come to the synagogue it's possible to bring the synagogue to God — without
forcing the issue: doing something to the building's walls and roof so that they'll
elevate our prayers sufficiently to capture the Divine spirit.

How to accomplish this? Cathedral builders achieved it with extreme height
(recall Ibsen's hero, the "master builder" Solness who climbed his newly-
completed church's tower and laid a wreath atop it while singing to God above).
Our Israeli architects, who realize that even at a height of fifty meters we won't
reach God, decided simply to set a trap for the Deity. Heinz Rau captured God
at the campus of Hebrew University in 1957 when he parked a white spaceship
on it — or if you prefer — induced God to swallow a white mushroom. In 1961
Joseph Neufeld enclosed God within Marc Chagall's stifling cage between the
stone monsters of Hadassah Hospital in Ein Kerem. God is also imprisoned in
the religious school near Yemin-Ord outside of Haifa, among a camp of pointed
tents purporting to serve as a synagogue.

The Recanati Synagogue's original architects, Yitzhak Toledano (of blessed
memory) and Aharon Rousso, tried to swallow the Lord inside a conch which
they dropped over Him; viewed from its side the building seems to have slipped
to the ground, as if to personify the biblical "Sukkah of David that has fallen." 2
Building a synagogue is no easy job. Not only is one obliged to fill the gap left

1 A Salonika-born Israeli banker and industrialist (1890-1945) who helped
save Greek Jews fleeing Nazi terror, granted them loans and financed Yad Eliyahu, a
residential area for them near Tel-Aviv.

2 Sukkat david ha-nofalet, Amos 9:1 1.

140

by our destroyed Temple, one must also honor the tradition that a synagogue
represents "the People of Israel's most original and seminal creation" (according
to the French historian Ernest Renan). 3 Really? When you examine the preten-
tiousness of those who criticize synagogues as "Judaism's original religious
space" you don't understand exactly what's intended. That's because the mosaic
floors in ancient synagogues in Israel and its neighboring countries, the wall
murals of the Dura-Europos Synagogue in Syria, the ornate Arks of Italian Re-
naissance synagogues and the magnificent wall paintings of 17 ,h -century Polish
synagogues — you see legitimate design and impressive decoration that counter
the myth of "You shall not make for yourself any graven image. . ." (Exodus 20:
4 ). Yet, are these sacred edifices truly original?

Pyramid and Glass Tower

It would seem that ever since our ancestors first began to gather in Babylonian
halls and turn their eyes yearningly westward towards where the Temple once
stood, they've never stopped imitating the holy sanctuaries of other nations.
That which respected professors term "an independent Jewish architectural
form" actually grew from basilicas: halls that served as gathering places for city
dwellers and municipal councils in Greece and Rome. In defense of the Jewish
synagogue let it be noted that at least its two parallel rows of columns with a
raised platform in the area between them 4 influenced the architecture of early
churches. But again, from where were these features borrowed — understand-
ably, from the basilicas. What is so terrible about that, aside from its bringing
back the old canard about there being no original Jewish form? Essentially, we
may lay claim to the specific development of four interior columns flanking a
central platform, 5 i.e. a very limited contribution of originality. When it comes
to incorporating outside influences the Roman Catholic Church exceeds all, yet,
that never seems to arouse the critics.

Indeed, the Church wasn't the only borrower. Columned Syrian and Greek
temples, circular Roman temples and Byzantine domes all served as inspira-
tion for our synagogue builders. We can take the round "Yeshurun" Synagogue
in Jerusalem and replant it on a Roman foundation in exactly the way that the
columns surrounding the (renovated and newly decorated) Great Synagogue in
Tel-Aviv beg comparison with their Gothic prototypes. In 1962 things reached

3 Histoire du people d'Israel, 1887-93.

4 As in the Royal Portico of Herod's Temple, Leen Ritmeyer, The Temple and
the Rock, 1996:7.

5 Seen in Vilna's Great Synagogue, Rachel Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the
European Synagogue, 1964: 119.

141

the point where a Jewish Mandarin named Chou Ing Chang built a synagogue
in Kai-Fu, China, which resembled a pagoda-shaped temple in almost every
detail. Except that it faced west instead of east as is customary among Chinese
temples, we might mistakenly relate to the rabbi as a Buddha.

We should therefore not be surprised to find a synagogue in Augsburg, germany
with Aztec ornamentation, or a synagogue in Philadelphia that was influenced by
archeological discoveries in 19 th -century Egypt. Pleasant or not, it's a fact that
even Muslim cemeteries served as models for our synagogues, in the context
of an Orientalism that dominated institutional architecture at the 1 9 th century's
close. Small wonder, then, that the exemplary American architect Frank Lloyd
Wright designed a "temple" in 1954 in the shape of a pyramid-cum-glass tower.
What is the connection, you ask? Admittedly, many synagogues have affixed Ten
Commandments above their entrances — upon which is engraved the dictum —
"Do not steal." Despite this admonition, where building style is concerned,
Jewish synagogues have borrowed much from the gentiles. And if we recall all
the prior models that influenced the look and layout of churches, we may safely
apply the talmudic postulate, "he who steals from a thief is innocent."

Nothing has had a greater impact on synagogue builders than the example of
the Gothic cathedral. Vienna, for instance, benefited from more Gothic syna-
gogues than any other city. The architect Max Fleischer built three of them: on
Schmelzhofgasse; on Milnergasse; and on Neudgergasse. To this day novice
priests still mistakenly enter these buildings routinely. Elsewhere, in Charleston,
South Carolina, Temple Beth Elohim was erected towards the end of the 19 th
century with a bell tower, just as described in Shaul Tchernikhovsky's well-known
poem. 6 If Rashi did not object to his Worms Synagogue (destroyed by the Nazis
in 1938) being a miniature copy of the town's cathedral, why not simply take
over defunct churches and convert them into "instant synagogues?" There's
nothing new in this suggestion; Jewish communities did this often during the 1 9 th
century. And scholars tell of altars in 1 8 th -century churches closed by Hapsburg
Emperor Joseph II, that were converted by Jews into synagogue Bimahs. By the
same token, numerous synagogues were converted into churches.

A notorious example of the latter is the Synagogue of Rabbi Yitzhak Nahman-
ash, president of the community in Lvov (Yiddish: Lemberg). At the request of
Jesuits the building was excommunicated in 1606 and sanctified as a church.
Only due to the intercession of Rabbi Yitzhak's wife Roza before the local arch-
bishop was the building returned to the Jewish Kehillah (religious community)
five years later. From then on she was called Gildene Roiz ("Golden Rose").

6 The First Dead (1942), "A pity! The white belfry is not ours," tr. T. Carmi, The
Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, 1981: 521.

A darker fate befell the synagogue of Toledo, Spain. Built in the second
half of the 12 th century in the style of Cordova's mosque, it was converted three
centuries later into the "Church of Santa Maria la Blanca." Worse still was what
happened to Masada's synagogue in the second century, converted by the Roman
authorities into a stable.

Any architect who builds a synagogue thinking it will immortalize his
name must be an optimist. Of the 480 synagogues that stood in Jerusalem in
the 1 st century of the Common Era, according to the legend based on the pro-
phetic statement, m 'leiti mishpat, tzedekyalin bah ("Righteous judgement filled
the faithful city;" Isaiah 1: 21), and particularly on the gematriya (numerical
equivalent) of the word m 'leiti — 481 — very few survived the destructive acts of
Roman Emperor Vespasian (69-79 CE). Early in the 4 th century an anonymous
Christian visited Jerusalem and told of seven synagogues that had been gutted
on Mt. Zion alone. "They cried and mourned over synagogues," wrote an 1 1 th -
century Jewish poet in depicting their destruction at the decree of the Egyptian
sultan; scores of synagogues were consumed by fire. But what were those scores
in comparison to 1 800 (that's correct — eighteen hundred!) wooden synagogues,
the pride of Polish Jewry that some claim to have maintained a Khazar (Hebrew:
Kuzari) tradition dating back to the 9 th century, that were decimated in Poland
and the Ukraine during Cossack rampages under Bogdan Chmielnicki in the
17 th century?

And were that not enough, is there need to mention what happened to
synagogues in the Old City of Jerusalem under Jordanian occupation after the
War of Independence, not to speak of the hundreds of synagogues torched
by the Nazis on Kristallnacht, November 9, 1938? A horror story concerning
a small-town German school teacher in Bavaria is relevant here. He set the
local synagogue aflame, wanting to witness "fireworks." Sparks fell from its
dome and exploded on the stone floor near the Ark. As the silken curtain went
up in flames the terrified arsonist remained transfixed, frozen by the sight.
Shortly afterwards he was overtaken by a fit of depression. For days on end
he stared out of his window at the spot where the synagogue had stood. After
a while — so the local villagers relate — he was committed to the sanitarium at
Ansbach.

Yet, should you think of that and other synagogues as pure and passive
sacrifices to violent gentiles, you'd be mistaken. It seems that one of the uses
to which Jewish houses of worship were widely put was military — in the
context of self-defense. Contrary to the accepted picture of frightened Jews
huddled around the Aron kodesh during pogroms in the diaspora (or in the
Holy Land — the synagogue atop the Mount of Olives served as a final refuge

143

for Jerusalem's Jews when Crusaders captured the city from Muslims in the
12 th century), the synagogue has also known bravery and even aggression.
Older readers will surely remember how during Israel's War of Independence
synagogues in the Old City functioned as important positions for the young
Jewish defenders (conflicts between them and elderly ultra-Orthodox Hare-
idim have been portrayed by Yehoshua bar-Yosef in his play Al homotayikh
yerushalayim ("On Your Walls, Jerusalem," 1978). Recall, if you will, the Yo-
hanan ben Zakai Synagogue that served as a corral where the Old City's Jewish
population was herded and from where it was taken to Jordanian prisons. In
the Hurvah Synagogue, one of the front-line defense posts, were stored flags
of the Jewish Brigade that fought for the British Army during World War I.

From the Depths

In our discussion of "military" synagogues, however, we have in mind much
more. Any one passing through Haderah may visit the synagogue erected by
Yehudit Shtulzer in 1935. It contains several fortress-like elements, chiefly
its tower that was designed as a lookout post to guard against Arab attacks.
"Observation" synagogues were a means of self-defense that the Jews of
Poland had devised in the 17 th century to protect their towns. Along with
watchtowers, the synagogue walls were notched with firing-holes. The Jews
of Lutsk built a fortified synagogue at the behest of King Sigismund III. He
also ordered "that the Rabbinite Jews see to it that on the four corners of the
synagogue roof there are sufficient muskets, that adequate funds are provided
to acquire a proper cannon. . . and that they pre-appoint specific men who are
capable of defense in the event of an attack by idol-worshipers..."

All honor to the Jews of Poland! The most oppressed Aliyah among all
the waves of immigration that washed up on Israel's shores can raise its head
proudly— and not only because our prime minister as this is being written—
Yitzhak Shamir— is of Polish descent. The first synagogue art to be found was
developed in Poland. The most splendid synagogues in Israel, exemplars for all
categories of Israeli artists— the Ari Synagogue in Safed as example— belong
to the Polish tradition of the 17 th and 18 th centuries. A Polish artisan from
Galici crafted the Ari Synagogue's Ark, and rabbi Judah the Pious, who came
to the Holy Land from Poland in the 12 th century "to hasten the Redemption
through self-affliction, fasting, prayer, charity and mourning over the exile of
God's presence," understood that along with all the above he'd have to bribe
the head of the Ishmaelites in Jerusalem before they'd allow him to build the

two most magnificent synagogues that the city had ever known — the Hurvah
and Tif ' eret Yisrael.

When we write "magnificent" we mean magnificent. Any one taking the
trouble to walk downstairs at the Israel Museum to the room which houses
an 18 th -century Italian synagogue that's been restored will see painted and
gilded wooden carvings that would not embarrass a church in Arokit/Erokit.
It's generally worthwhile to browse in the Israel Museum in order to appreci-
ate what it means to build a synagogue. The doors of the Rambam Synagogue
from ll th -century Cairo or the painted interior of the Portuguese Synagogue
in Amsterdam merely hint at the rich aura of that architectural tradition. And
if the aforementioned are not enough, a visit to the Beit Hat'futsot in Tel-Aviv,
with its impressive collection of synagogue models from around the globe,
should suffice.

Glorious external portals, opulent interiors — these present a great di-
lemma for the synagogue — even greater than it seems. Hasidim created the
model of a shtibl or a kloiz— the humble prayer-room as alternative to the
magnificent temple-like synagogue. In religious worship, the Hasidim tell us,
intense heartfelt prayer does not require any "reinforcement." The majority of
synagogues in Israel— Ashkenazi and Sephardic— were built on this principle,
often not so much from lack of artistic know-how as from lack of financial
resources. Still there are the Arlinger Street Synagogue in Tel- Aviv's Central
Station and the synagogues of Jerusalem's Nah'lat Sheva. Here, excessive
aestheticism is summed up in an eclectic abundance of gifts from widows
and widowers: Ark curtains; Readers Desk covers; brass Menorahs; silver
Torah finials. We feel a certain intimate warmth, but not much more. Is this
the desired aim of a Jewish house of prayer — an answer to the substantive
sensuality of idol-worshipers?

Does a synagogue's exterior need to entice worshipers into entering its
gates in order to stand naked and barren before the Creator? This has been
a major issue in the history of synagogue architecture, and it didn't always
arise because of ideological objections. Awareness of building restrictions
within the ghetto, continued oppression and relentless persecution brought
about a characteristic humbling of synagogue exteriors. Painted murals on the
synagogue walls in Dura-Europos adorn an otherwise unimposing building
located in a narrow alleyway off of a side street. Even ultra-decorated Italian
Renaissance synagogues are careful not to attract attention to their exteriors.
By contrast, the magnificent facades replete with columns, bas-relief work,
arches, etc., of ancient synagogues are clearly meant to invite worshipers.
Here there was no question of fear from a hostile environment.

145

What to employ when hostility existed — monkish simplicity or unex-
pected grandeur? Inside or out? Raphael Blumenfeld and Meir Pinchuk, who
assumed the project of completing the new Salonikan Synagogue after the
architect Toledano's death, were aware of these historical considerations. Their
solutions were dictated in no small measure by the building's specifications in
relation to its given area. As to whether they would be content with a superb
outer shell or would concentrate on creating an extraordinary pearl within
it, the shell itself supplied the answers.

Nothing could shift the building's orientation from south to east, for ex-
ample, this had literally already been set in cement. If one were to continue
in a straight line from the central Bimah through the Aron Kodesh one would
end up in Beersheba rather than Jerusalem. The floor level was also a given—
not lower than the ground outside — despite the tradition's insistence on a
lower floor according to the verse, "From the depths do I call upon you, O
God" (Psalm 130). True there is a basement area that serves as a daily chapel,
a kind of Salonikan "shtibl" -setting for any intimate Minyan. Unfortunately,
the main Sanctuary's level is that of the surrounding streets. Even the facades
structural elements, which suggest a compromise between the twin tablets
of the Covenant and (dare I mention it?) the Holy trinity, are hard to swal-
low—though copied from the Aron kodesh that the new architectural team
had designed. As for meeting the Tradition's additional requirement that a
synagogue's height exceed that of its neighboring buildings, here too, besides
the fait-accompli factor there is lack of certain knowledge. Conceivably, the
nearby commercial towers will cede their places to all sorts of buildings in
the future. Moreover, we may count on the community of Salonika expatri-
ates to acquire properties adjacent to their synagogue in order to ensure its
survival. And if a skyscraper should rise nearby — no matter — one can always
argue that it's a memorial to the exilic stipulation that a synagogue be lower
than its surrounding churches.

Understandably, the extravagance of this giant white shell draws our at-
tention first and foremost. Why a shell? Very simple: a reminder of beloved
Salonika sitting at the water's edge. By the same token they might have built
their synagogue in the shape of a Bureka. 7 Interesting that the synagogue's
outer skin — the shell — controls its inner space as well. The arched rafters of
poured concrete that support the Sanctuary ceiling from back to front above
worshipers' heads come together at the Ark, which they transform into the bow
of an overturned ship (another echo of Salonika) or perhaps Noah's Ark. The

7 Rectangular Middle Eastern puffed pastry patty, most commonly stuffed with

cheese or spinach filling.

synagogue's architectonic blueprint also compels a strange perception of the
term ezrat nashim — the Women's Gallery. In the best tradition of suppressing
women (which often left them in the situation of "seeing but not being seen"), the
Salonikan Synagogue's architects have crammed the women into an extremely
high balcony There they are indeed closer to God than their husbands and enjoy
an astronaut's view of the hazzan and the Torah, which are "as grasshoppers in
their eyes (Numbers 14:33). Worse, the women reach their lofty perch only with
a lot of huffing and puffing. A special ma 'alit shabbat ("Sabbath elevator" that
goes from ground to gallery levels and back again automatically) was planned,
but no money remained for that purpose. After all, we're only talking about

Without Sustenance There Is No Learning

According to Rafi Blumenfeld and Associates— in whose hands was left the
task of reconciling the Salonikan Synagogue's exterior and interior — a lot
remains to be done. This is an extremely sensitive area, as the saying goes, a
nerve's reaction is easily seen. The exterior's extravagance— grandly provoca-
tive — will induce the Salonikans to come and pray. However, many of them
live south of Tel- Aviv and it's unclear why they situated their new building in
the north. They'll be obliged to drive to it on Sabbaths and holidays. Actually,
their previous building was also located on Ibn-Gabirol Street, opposite Town
Hall, and perhaps they'd grown accustomed to this paradox.

The synagogue's interior bespeaks simplicity, another puzzle. And rest as-
sured that the plain interior's underlying purpose is not to avoid interfering
with the worshipers' intense concentration while davening. Rafi Blumenfeld
and his partner see themselves as serving the dominant form created by
the original architects. The exterior shape — repeated in the inner sacred
space through the skin's undersurface — motivates a sense of reduction and
simplification. This feeling informs the walls' and ceiling's stark whiteness,
the non-cushioned oaken benches, the sparsity of accessories and then only
essential ones like the Ark. If so, one might question the colored old curtain
of Salonikan Jewry that fronts the Ark— but there's nothing to be discussed
concerning such a treasured relic of the immigrant community.

Realistically, the Sanctuary would be impossible without any color. Anyone
who's seen the richly decorated interiors that Rafi Blumenfeld designed for
Asia House , the IBM Building and the Knesset's Plenary Hall (remember
the public uproar about the fabrics that he hung over the heads of our par-
liamentary members?) know that the man specifically goes for an expressive

statement. Therefore, shell or no shell, a carpet is spread inside from wall
to wall, bearing blue / gold / red (to disguise stains?) images, and therefore,
the stained-glass windows as well. Is a synagogue even conceivable without
stained-glass windows? These were made by Yosef Sh'altiel, born in Turkey
but closer to Salonikan culture and amenable to the compelling argument
of the Recanati Brothers — no less — that the windows depict in detail what
every holiday is all about." The dozen windows (of glass specially imported
from Saint-Gobain, France) have been transformed into twelve holy days-
including Shabbat and Yom ha-atsma'ut. This was the only way to bring the
number of Jewish holidays up to twelve. And the over- all design was thereby
forced to relinquish some of its stark simplicity in deference to the figurative
taste of the Salonikan congregation.

For it must be emphasized: just as the cathedrals were built by all the
inhabitants of a city, so too was the synagogue named after Leon Recanati
built by the hands of the Jews from Salonika as a tangible community project.
The chief sponsor — Recanati — is a Salonikan. Moshe Corso, after whom the
synagogue vestibule is named in recognition of his sizable contribution, is also
from Salonika. Every congregant who came from there donated according to
his or her means. Rousso and Toledano, the original architects, were also from
Salonika, and as noted, the artist responsible for the stained-glass windows
came from nearby. The only outsider is Rafi Blumenfeld— a Yekke* — oh well,
an exception only proves the rule! The "problem" was resolved by forming a
public committee of Salonikans who supervised him and approved every as-
pect of his design. In classic Sephardic style ("Let Master Raphael tell us what
he thinks...") the Salonikans enmeshed Blumenfeld in their net. They applied
pressure on the side of conservatism, as counterbalance to the modernism that
was present ever since the shell went up. Essentially they wanted a synagogue
like the one they were used to — with marble columns, lions, etc.

The architects' modernism was not in step with the committee members'
preference. So they insisted on transferring the Memorial tablets and Ark curtain
from their former synagogue on Ibn-Gabirol Street to the new sanctuary. That
way, the move appeared not overly disruptive. They objected to modern lighting
and vetoed the idea of installing pseudo-antique Menorahs, settling instead for
new ones that exude modernity while hinting at the Menorahs from Sephardic
synagogues they'd seen at Beit Hat'futsot. Even the artisan who shaped the ex-
terior concrete into bas-reliefs, Yehezkel Kimhi, had to accept the committee's
choice of Jewish symbols (Ten Commandments, Menorah, Magen David, bibli-
cal verses), including several typical Salonikan motifs: ocean waves and white

8 Of German- Jewish descent.

tower. Taking pride of place was the phrase, Im ein kemah ein torah ("Without
sustenance there is no learning"), a common coin among Salonikans.

In Sephardic synagogues the Bimah, from which prayer is offered and the
Torah is read, stands rather high. The Salonikan committee demanded that
women as well as men be able to see the hazzan from all sides. Indeed, those
men who sit around the Bimah will see him as he reads from the Torah scroll
which stands in an upright position rather than resting flat upon the Read-
ers table as in Ashkenazi practice. Those seated near the Ark have a slight
problem, due to the classic challenge that confronts every architect who
designs a synagogue — the relationship between Bimah and Ark. Here it has
been met in a manner that is liable to divide the Salonikan congregation after
many years of solidarity. Those seated between Bimah and Ark normally face
the Ark because that's the direction in which their seats are orientated. This
leaves their backs turned to the hazzan and to those facing him around the
Bimah. Do you understand? When the Torah is read, those seated forward
will have to contort their upper bodies rather uncomfortably for the better
part of an hour.

No matter, the synagogue named after Leon Recanati is an impressive and
original building, a source of tremendous pride for the Salonikan commu-
nity in Israel. When they see visiting architects and students of the Bezalel
Academy of Art and Design staring and admiring from the Bimah, it dawns
on them that they have built not just a synagogue but en enduring work of
art. The white shell and its surrounding grounds that are about to be laid out
by landscape architect Gideon Sharig guarantee that not only will Salonikan
Jews from Upper Rehovot, Herzl, etc. be riding north to their Sanctuary, but
many others as well — perhaps even Ashkenazim. It seems the colors of the
stained-glass windows are prone to shift and surprise unexpectedly with the
changing light. Anyone who cannot find a place inside will do well to gaze at
these vitreous marvels from the outside.

Gideon Ofrat, a leading Israeli critic, is the author of 100 Years of Israeli Art

(1998). This article is translated from an undated clipping (ca. 1987) from Yis-

The "Spaciousness" of Ernest Bloch's
Avodath Hakodesh

By Albert Weisser

Here at last a composer of the first magnitude has given the Hebrew
liturgy the large and spacious setting it deserves... distinguished by a
dramatic lyricism, a transparency of texture and an elusive simplicity, a
combination of qualities which other less gifted composers have since
frequently sought to imitate, unsuccessfully.

Hugo D. Weisgall

Without doubt the Avodath Hakodesh (Sacred Service), 1 Bloch's first large
scale Jewish work written in America, is the work of a great contemporary
master, and it may very likely be the finest effort among Bloch's entire "Jewish
Cycle." 2 Though the much earlier Three Jewish Poems (1913), Schelomo (1916)
and the Israel Symphony (1916) contain page after page of grand eloquence
and incomparable beauty and have by now become the measuring rod of
western Jewish music, they are occasionally marred by an excessive hysteria
and a Straussian rhetoric. These may inject a certain element of drama into
Bloch's frescoes, yet they tend to leave an impression of a curious off-balance.
The Service, however, exhibits a magnificent poise and assuredness as to both
craft and creative temperament.

"What is refreshing also is Bloch's unmistakably Palestrinian texture, rightly
recognizing the close congruousness between the "Roman Chant" and an-
cient Hebrew cantillation. 3 This is an extremely important accomplishment
on Bloch's part because it has shown one direction in which composers
working with cantillatory elements can be freed from the straight- jacket of
nineteenth century homophony. This was important also in light of Bloch's
own personal style because it made him abandon, temporarily at least (as
some years earlier in occasional portions of his Concerto Grosso) certain Im-
pressionistic harmonic procedures that tended to intrude upon the freedom
of his musical speech. To be sure Palestrina does not hover over the entire
Service, for Baroque elements are not entirely absent. But now when vertical
methods are used, as in the incomparably beautiful Mah Tovu (How Goodly

1 Bloch, Ernest, Sacred Service (Boston: C. C. Birchard), 1934.

2 An extended discussion of Bloch's towering position in the renaissance of modern Jewish music
is not included here because the writer feels his earlier large scale Jewish works belong more in the orbit of
Western and Central Europe and must remain outside the set confines of this article.

3 The Gregorian elements in Bloch's Service were first noted by Lazare Saminsky, see his illuj
analysis in Music of the Ghetto and the Bible (New York: Bloch) 1934: 176-180.

Are Your Tents, O Jacob), the lines move clearly, independently and with a
lovely sonority:
Mah Tov

Neither is there an absence of personality in the Service, for Bloch is im-
printed on every page. We are not speaking of such visible traits as those
exhibited in the opening of the Adon Olom (Eternal God) which strike us as
a bit forced and stagey. We mean more the undefinable lineaments which
move with such strokes of genius in the Yih'yu L'rotzon (May the Words of
My Mouth) and in the Meditation of Part 1:

Meditation

Moderato (J=84)

The Service further exhibits an attitude on the part of Bloch which views
the liturgy as a reenactment of an awesome and poignant drama. Thus, the
tension and ecstasy of the Sh'ma Yisroel (Hear, O Israel) and the Yimloch
Adonoy Le'olom (The Lord shall Reign Forever). Thus too, the subdued Tzur
Yisroel (Oh Rock of Israel) and the serene Va'anachnu Kor'im (Adoration).
There is also present what would seem an intended play of internal dialogue
between cantor and chorus which, though neither in the form of the question
and answer of the so-called Medieval dialogue tropes or the more familiar
antiphony and "response" of the Catholic and Judaic liturgical traditions, act

151

more in Bloch's devices as commentary upon each other. Even structurally
the Service is set out in dramatic terms with its larger division into five parts
(the last acting as epilogue) and the inclusion of two symphonic preludes and
an interlude which form the necessary contrast to the vocal sections and play
the role of scene-setting overture and inserted entr'actes.

The question of the specific use of the old cantillation and the traditional
song in this Service is a fascinating one— not so much because these elements
are hidden or are not decipherable — but because they afford the musical
mind's process a rare and pleasing opportunity of watching the genuinely
creative apparatus at work in an area in which too few are successful. For
after all, other composers have fashioned the old cantillation and ritual
chant "unto themselves," but few have invested them with a more personal
yet universal contour as has Bloch in his Service. He has done this by an art
of broad dimensions and depth which could select in the "usable past" (both
inside and outside the Judaic frame) that which ever remains precious and
vital and which could simultaneously reject the cobwebs, the extraneous and
the pedestrian. It may well be argued whether this contour hinders rather
than prompts religious worship. Our view holds to the latter. It further holds
that Bloch's Sacred Service is one of the glories of Hebraic tonal art and that
it may develop (as it already partially has) into the musical touchstone for all
future composers of synagogal music.

Dr. Albert Weisser, founding President of the American Society for Jewish Music in
1 974, enjoyed a brilliant and multi-faceted career as musicologist, teacher, composer,
pianist, accompanist, choral conductor, editor and bibliographer. This excerpt is from
The Modern Renaissance of Jewish Music (New York: "Centennial" book, Bloch),
1954: 150-152, and is reprinted here with the publisher's kind permission.

Designing Outdoor Space Structurally

By Uzzi Elmaleh

Like Frank Gehry in the northern Spanish town of Bilbao, Israeli architect
Ron Arad has brought Holon, an obscure city five miles south of Tel Aviv,
to worldwide attention with a startlingly innovative museum building. His
Design Museum Holon (2010) bends five steel ribbons, oxidized to differ-
ent shades of reddish-ochre, to wrap around what looks like the exterior of a
sports stadium's terraced grandstand extending further outward with each
rising tier. An open-air atrium at the core of this structure reveals the five
steel bands spread widely enough apart to form a highly stylized steel-ribbed
"wall" for a courtyard whose vertical space comprises a palpable structure of
its own (Figure 1).

When the floating bands that wall off and partially canopy this courtyard
are viewed from below, they resemble a metallic s'khakh 1 under which one
feels sheltered from the everyday world. In effect, the Museum courtyard
comprises a circular sukkah, every moment spent within it seems special.
One can only gaze in awe through its gracefully curved orange bands and
marvel at the cerulean blue sky beyond.

An exquisitely-proportioned space, the courtyard envelopes visitors like an
ultra-modern cocoon in its colossal embrace. That was exactly the impact it
had upon the first group I brought to see Israel's latest tourist attraction. Every
subsequent visit to the Design Museum's courtyard only reinforced the feeling
among guests that they had entered an area made holy by its inspired design.

Yet the Museum stands in a most unlikely spot, a semi-submerged gully
hedged in by a heavy traffic on one side, a nondescript medical facility built of
yellow-and-white cinderblock on the other, and a huge shopping-mall parking
lot on its remaining two sides. Amid this urban unsightliness the Museum's
inner courtyard, hidden from the view of passersby, offers an unmatched
oasis of contemplative solitude.

At the time of this writing, even before the Museum's permanent collection
had been installed, its gem of a courtyard gave promise of becoming Israel's
undiscovered Stonehenge in the Sky.

Uzzi Elmaleh, of Moroccan rabbinic descent, has been a licensed tour guide in
Israel for over twenty years. The above article is based upon introductory remarks
he delivered before a group of visitors to the Design Museum in July of 2010. [JAL]

1 Thatched covering used as a roof for the sukkah.
153

Figure 1. Ron Arad's Design Museum Holon—

steel-ribbed "wall" of its inner courtyard.

NOW, FROM THIS PLACE

By Charles Davidson

Now, from this place

this land
this people
this nation

removed from Europe's age-old feuds

bounded by the Atlantic's surges

and Pacific's rollers

enclosed

safe

insulated with

waters at our shores

held in their embrace

this land apart
this people
this nation unique
our America

open to heavens of blue and black
fleecy wisps
whirling in flocks
that float above

peaks and plains stretch out below

their ranges in upward thrust

impatient at creation's limit

defined by lava

passing below

in verdant green and patchwork

in rainbow procession

canyons of deep purple and dotted slopes

of growing things

turned toward the horizon

we rested here secure

in this place

untrammeled by alien boots

distant and apart

from history's hurtful anger

and abuse

aland
a people
a nation
mourning

because here

at this place

arrived a fearful symmetry

on wings of hate so palpable

the heavens screamed

opening staining it and us

with issue not replaced

America

no longer separate

isolate

untouched

by violent discontent

raging anger

came to this place

and wrenched apart those loved

now

ephemeral

as mists of clouds

touched the tips

of spires standing here

which height assured a place

secure

perhaps this site was never remote from danger's thrust

perhaps at this place

we find a truth

not visited before

that there is no regard for life's gift

to those who see in this world no value

buttressed by trust and self-illusion
our precious gifts displayed
betrayed

by evil incarnate

plummeting memory burst

from this place

propelled into orbs of light

lives

point of light

as we watched from below

now let us embrace and clasp

the hands of wives and husbands

children, friends

strangers never met

remembrances drawn close

in spirit

seeking courage from their lives untimely ended

from lives ultimately stopped

we grasp each other

now

from this place

we ask

for vigilance and a promise

raising sight to the band of darkest blue

its brightest light

illuminating lost souls

on a day never forgot

by this land
by this people
by this nation
from this place

we remember

Charles Davidson, one of America's most respected cantor/composers and the Nathan
Cummings Professor Emeritus of Liturgy and Hazzanut at the Jewish Theological
Seminary's H.L. Miller Cantorial School, is the author of Sefer Hadrakahah: An
Annotated Guide and Commentary on the Application ofNusah Hatefillah
Beminhag Ashkenaz for the Liturgical Year (2012). His compositions— fea-
tured on a Milken Archive CD (Naxos label) — effortlessly traverse musical styles
ranging from Baroque to Yiddish folk to Jazz. His article, "The Tune's the Thing —
Lessons Learned in a Half-Century as Cantor/Composer" — appeared in the Fall
2005 Journal of Synagogue Music. Davidson wrote this poem in 2006, as an
invocation to his cantata, I Love You... Goodbye — A Commemorative to the
Families of 9/11 Victims. He revised it for this reprint on September 18, 2011.

Hugo Weisgall (1912-1997)-
of a Jewish Modernist

By Emily Wigod Pincus

Centennial Appreciation

To claim Hugo Weisgall as "one of our own", a Jewish composer, might seem
problematic to some. Not much has been written on Weisgall in the context
of Jewish music. Unlike many other Jewish composers, he did not attempt to
compose a complete musical service until quite late in life. More importantly,
he rarely attempted to incorporate "Jewish tunes" or nusah ha-t'fillah, even
into the music he composed that others might specifically designate as "Jew-
ish." His style has been considered a fusion of non-tonal neoclassicism with
certain influences from the Second Viennese School, such as Alban Berg. In
terms of style, Weisgall described his own approach thus:

Generally my music is considered complex... It is texturally thick
and multifarious; rhythmically disparate; and [it] has harmonic lines
that move all on their own. It is what is commonly called atonal,
but it is not non-melodic. 1
Indeed, although he was chairman of the cantorial program at the Jew-
ish Theological Seminary for over forty years, according to its archivist, the
Seminary has nothing in its archives on Weisgall. "As you know," he wrote
me, "he (Weisgall) was mostly a secular composer." (Interestingly, much of the
information for this paper was received through the Milken Archive, also an
arm of the Jewish Theological Seminary.) Many have observed that he seemed
to keep his classical music world and his Jewish role completely separate.

There is an explicit assumption of assimilation here. In Block, Schoenberg
and Bernstein, David Schiller examines the topic of assimilation in Jewish
art music of the 20 th Century. He observes that simply by being in a concert
genre, Jewish music assimilates into Western tradition. 2 This means that any

1 Neil W. Levin (2006), Program Notes for Hugo Weisgall's Esther [Recorded
by Julia Gondek, Ted Christopher, Seattle Symphony; Gerard Schwarz, conductor]
in Jewish Operas, Volume 2 [CD recording 8.559450]. Canada, Naxos. [CD recording
LC 05537] New York, Milken Archive of American Jewish Music.

2 David Schiller, Block, Schoenberg and Bernstein (Oxford: Oxford University
Press), 2003: 3.

158

piece of Jewish art music "assimilates" to a certain extent. He recognizes that
having the definition of Jewish music include the contribution of the Jewish
composer within surrounding non- Jewish society can be problematic because
" the notion of art music is alien to a communal tradition in which music and
prayer are linked." 3 Also, in considering a Jewish American composer, one
needs to consider how not just Jewish music but also Judaism itself affect
the composer's body of work. One needs to consider how secular cultural
and political context affect a composer with deep European roots— e.g., text,
language and social structure — and how does this then shape Jewish music. 4
How does one become part of the American collectivity without giving up
Jewish identity? 5

On the subject of his Jewish identity, Weisgall says,

There was never any question of the fact that I was Jewish. The degree
to which that colors my life has probably changed over the course of the
years. But I think the line has consistently been that I don't feel a conflict
between my Jewishness and anything else, that's the point. I was always
able to function Jewishly in my own way, without ever feeling any conflict.
I don't... though I sometimes used to laugh and say, "Gee I wish I were
part of the majority," but I knew perfectly well that I didn't mean that.
But... there is no conflict that I feel, that I am aware of. Now, I do find
it strange that I perhaps am not making more Jewish works, the way so
many of my colleagues have. But I just haven't. I haven't written that many
works. And if someone asks me, What are your Jewish works?" I say, "well,
practically everything I do is Jewish, because I'm ipso facto Jewish." That's
all... I've never had a quarrel with it, I've never blamed my lack of success
or misfortune on the fact that I was Jewish. 6

Weisgall considered his work to be Jewish because he was a Jew. However,
he did not compose much "Jewish music." The reason he avoided writing more
works for synagogue is that he knew his style was not likely to be accepted,
and his sense of identity was too strong to be compromised. One interviewer
described the problem:

He has done some psalm settings, but, he points out ruefully, 'That's
commercial stuff which unfortunately doesn't get sold. I'd like to do a big

3 Ibid., 3.

4 Ibid., 4.

5 Ibid., 5.

6 Neil W Levin, "Hugo Weisgall Interview," with the participation of Deborah
and Jonathan Weisgall, 1995, video transcript, Milken Family Foundation, Santa Monica
California.

synagogue service, but I won't write it unl

and guarantees a performance, because my music isn't that easy. 7

Albert Weisser observed that there was a universal plane in Weisgall's non-
Jewish works: death, alienation, terror, anxiety, fear and trembling, moral
desolation, which finds special force when viewed as the Jewish condition
in the first half of the Twentieth Century. 8 Indeed, the concept of "creative
alienation" as a specifically Jewish response to modern times had been de-
veloped by Eugene Borowitz. He described the American Reform Jews of
the 1960s as "no longer infatuated with the mode of the American 'melting
pot?' He defined creative alienation as implying "sufficient withdrawal from
our society to judge it critically, but also the will and flexibility to keep find-
ing and trying ways of correcting it... Jewishness offers a unique means of
maintaining such creative alienation." 9

For Weisgall, Modernism, in both form and content, was the technique by
which he achieved creative alienation. "Modernism" has had a long and varied
history, but almost all of its different incarnations could apply to Weisgall.
The term started in the 19 th Century with Richard Wagner, who coined the
term to say that music has a purpose beyond itself in direct contrast to a
definition of "modern" as "a cheap concession to popular and philistine taste."
Modernist art had a redemptive quality that countered what Wagner defined
as "modern"— those who try to exploit the spiritually corrupt aspects of mod-
ern life. Modernism at mid-19th century gained a new sense: to signify the
revolutionary avant garde that rejects historical models and tries to penetrate
beyond the surface— experimenting with form, tonality and orchestration to
evoke new qualities of contemporary culture and society. 10

In the 20th Century, Modernism came to imply that art reflects the logic of
history. What is novel becomes dominant, but then is ultimately superceded,
so that success with an established audience is not a criterion of aesthetic
merit. Normative expectations regarding beauty in sound and timbre and

7 "Composer Scores Esther Back to Life at City Opera", The Forward, December
6, 1993, p. 19.

8 Albert Weisser, "Jewish Music in Twentieth Century America: Four Repre-
sentative Figures" (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation.The Jewish Theological Seminary
of America), 1980:1-2.

9 Eugene Borowitz, The Masks Jews Wear: The Self-Deceptions of American
Jewry (New York: Simon and Schuster), 1973:209.

10 Leon Botstein, "Modernism, §1; Origins", Grove Music Online (Oxford Uni-
versity Press), 2007; available from http://www.grovemusic.com/shared/views/article.
html?section=music.40625.1; Internet .

meaning in musical expression were confronted. Alternatives to tonality
were explored. The typical audience was seen as addicted to art as comforting
entertainment and affirmation, unable and unwilling to confront the transfor-
mative power and ethical character of true musical art. Especially after WWI
there was a deepened impulse to use art for protest and criticism. Artists
explicitly distorted traditional expectations to create an art that responded
to the irrationality and cruelty of contemporary life. 11

Here is a comparison between what Weisgall says about Modernism,
and how David Schiller presents it. In response to a question, about how he
defines Modernism, Weisgall says:

It's not romantic. Romantic in the traditional 19th-century sense
of the word. It takes into account what has gone on in the 20th
century— the violence, the hatred, the extreme [ideologies]... I can
go down the list. [My opera] The Tenor has this insane quality of
a man killing his mistress or of the man's mistress dying. Then he
steps over [her] and goes out. Now that's one bit of violence that
occurs only at the end, but it does color the whole work. 12
So here Weisgall sees Modernism in contrast to what has gone before it.
Schiller presents Modernism as defined by Jean-Francois Lyotard: "Nostalgic
aesthetic of the sublime— the unpresentable put forth only as the missing
contents, but the form because of its recognizable consistency continues
to offer the listener solace or pleasure." 13 For example, as a Modernist work,
Schoenberg's Survivor from Warsaw has formal presentation (adherence to
twelve-tone structure) and an inherently unpresentable subject— the Ho-
locaust. Similarly, In Weisgall's Six Characters in Search of an Author, the
characters discuss the unpresentability of their own subject matter (incest,
prostitution, child murderers, etc.) in a work that could at times be described
as beautiful.

By contrast, Postmodernism puts forward the unpresentable in presenta-
tion, but "denies itself the solace of good forms, the consensus of a taste which
would make it possible to share collectively the nostalgia for the unattainable."
A case in point would be Leonard Bernstein's Kaddish, where he disrupts

11 Leon Botstein, "Modernism, § 3: Aesthetic Aspects", Grove Music Online
(Oxford University Press), 2007; available from http://www.grovemusic.com/shared/
views/article.html/section=music.40625.3 .

12 Interview with Hugo Weisgall.

13 Schiller, p. 6, citing Lyotard's The Postmodern Condition, (Manchester, UK:
Manchester University Press), 1979.

"good form" by mixing conventions in order to refer to the assassination of
John F. Kennedy and the Holocaust in the same breath. 14

So Weisgall insists on the grandeur of Modernism whereas Bernstein seems
to be saying that grand statements can no longer be made. And this seems to
apply to the way Weisgall saw his Judaism:

Now, certainly, I am not what is normally called an observant Jew. I am,
however, a very committed Jew, and I find that a great strength. And a large
source of that which I do as a human being is that Jewishness. Now, what
it is besides tradition, tolerance? It's a commitment, it's an acceptance of
5,000 years of Jewish history that I have voluntarily taken upon myself,
and which I feel. is
Not surprisingly, "strength," "grandeur" and "persistence" are terms that
critics have applied to his operas:

At a time when post-modernist taste is dominant and nostalgia and
eclecticism rule, Mr. Weisgall's uncompromising modernism, his
acidic melancholy and muscular dissonances make a compelling
case for difficult music used for difficult purposes. . . [Esther's score's]
power is unmistakable. 16

It is generally felt that he has never received the recognition he is
due. In all probability this is because of the style to which he has
adhered for his entire career — a steely, uncompromising atonality. . .
Weisgall's undoubted dramatic sense and the fluidity of his writing
do contribute to a musical flow which, if hieratic rather than
immediate, suffuses the score with a sort of brilliance that is both
bracing and uplifting. 17
Schiller talked about the musicians he studied in their relationship to the
Holocaust and how it determined their form. He says that with A Survivor
from Warsaw, Schoenberg linked the survival of modernism with Jewish
survival after the Holocaust. Certainly, the Holocaust did not define Weis-
gall as a Jew, but it did stimulate a resurgence of his activity as a composer
to Jewish texts, particularly with The Golden Peacock. When he wrote The
Golden Peacock, a classical setting of well-known Yiddish folk songs, it was
in order not to give Hitler a posthumous victory — he wanted this repertoire

14 Ibid., p. 7.

15 Interview with Hugo Weisgall.

16 Edward Rothstein, "Esther Lives in Modern Musical Terms" in TheNew York
Times, December 11, 1993, p. 30.

17 P.J.S., "A Christmas Wreath," Opera News, December 25, 1993.

162

and its nostalgic longing for a legendary past — to survive through him. Thus
the act of harmonizing Yiddish tunes in a modernist style in a post-modern,
post-Holocaust period, argued for the survival of both.

Weisgall had derided the concept that using "Jewish" elements, like taking
tunes from a Jewish anthology, necessarily made a piece "Jewish." A composer
could take a "Jewish" element, but in order for a piece to be Jewish, it had
to be qualitatively good. In Weisgall's case, it was his perspective itself that
helped define his music as Jewish.

Hugo Weisgall's work and life were deeply imbued with a sense of Jewish
identity and music. He was the son of a famous cantor and descended from
a line of many others. He had spent his youth in synagogue choir, and for
much of his life was music director of a synagogue. He was perfectly capable
of performing as ba'al t'filah in a Conservative service and did so on many
occasions. Yet even in his works for synagogue and on Jewish texts, he rarely
used any recognizably "Jewish" elements.

Because of this, Weisgall's music is defined as "assimilated. One can as-
similate into a larger culture, thereby losing one's identity. Assimilation has,
in general, been regarded by Jews as a bad thing— at the extreme, there is total
absorption within the host culture, Judaism disappears, and assimilation is
thus considered a partner in the Holocaust.

David Schiller notes that A.Z. Idelsohn considered the assimilationist ten-
dencies in Jewish music to be an attack on Judaism. Idelsohn felt the Western
music was "corrupting Jewish music." 18 On the other hand, Hannah Arendt
had said that a Jewish cultural atmosphere would be inconceivable without
an amalgam of old traditions with new awareness. 19 Schiller observed that
once the drama of assimilation was over, so would be the story of a uniquely
creative and original Jewish role. 20

Hugo Weisgall used the technique of Modernism to employ the language
of Western classical music in a new way, influenced by his understanding as
a human being and a Jew. What Hugo Weisgall said musically required the
acrid subjects he chose and his difficult, at times quasi-atonal style. He refused
to make his music more palatable, because this did not correspond with his
vision. Life in the Twentieth Century had revealed some terrible things about
human nature, and terrible things had happened to the Jews. Hugo Weisgall
chose to express this through his music. He was a staunch Modernist.

18 Schiller, p. 8.

19 Idem.

20 Ibid., 11.

As observed previously, David Schiller had argued that Arnold Schoenberg
re-asserted Modernism after WWII and managed to identify the survival of
the Jews after the Holocaust with the survival of Modernist aesthetics. 21 In
a similar way, Weisgall remained true to his Modernist impulse throughout
his life, and explicitly linked it with Judaism. In the earlier part of his long
career, he would be accused of being too advanced and then in the latter half
of being too dated. It was a tough row to hoe. In a letter written in 1963 he
was quoted as saying:

All that I can honestly say is that it's a damn tough job, writing
music. I suppose it always has been. . . I try to do the best I can at all
times. I think I am as self-critical as one can be and yet continue
writing. 22
Fortunately this did not stop him from creating a small body of Jewish
music that is sincere, erudite and illustrative of the challenge to faith in the
Twentieth Century.

A native of New York City, Emily WigodPincus studied voice at Manhattan School
of Music and at La Escuela Superior de Canto in Madrid, and received a BA in
Comparative Literature from Brown University. She is currently the Cantor ofHar
Sinai Temple in Pennington, New Jersey.

This article is excerpted with the author's permission from her Masters thesis,"Hugo
Weisgall- A Jewish Modernist',' completed in 2008 upon her graduation from The
School of Sacred Music at Hebrew Union College in New York.

Ibid., 6.

Interview with Hugi

Tales from the Choir Loft:

A Former " Vimalei Boy" Remembers

By Solomon Mendelson

By the age of eight I was singing professionally in synagogue choirs. Friends
who've heard recordings on which I appeared at that time tell me that it was
pure enough to sound like a soprano, later it acquired an unmistakably vi-
brant alto quality. They called me "Tucky"— as in the Mother Goose nursery
rhyme — Little Tommy Tucker, sing for your supper. That was literally true
in the mid-to-late 1940s, because in those years synagogue choirs were all
business. Young Jewish servicemen were returning home from their military
duty and marrying the sweethearts they had left behind. In still traditionally-
minded New York City, that meant a huge number of weddings taking place
in kosher catering halls, since the largely Orthodox synagogues were built a
generation or more earlier by a community that had never anticipated the
need for social halls large enough to accommodate affairs involving hundreds
of invited guests.

The house caterers at so-called wedding "Palaces" made arrangements
with well-known cantors who in turn had their own deals with popular choir
directors. The directors constantly needed fresh unchanged voices to aug-
ment their basses and tenors in performing the SATB choral accompaniments
prayers and hymns sung at nuptial ceremonies. The cantors-and-choirs were
offered as a package to bridal parties shopping for suitably attractive venues.
In New York State, cantors had been granted official status as "Ministers of the
Jewish Faith" a century before, and were therefore empowered to officiate at
weddings, whereas in many other states that privilege was reserved for rabbis.

With cantors accompanied by large male choirs having become effective
selling points, the less money that choir directors were forced to pay singers,
the more profit they made. Reliable basses and tenors — mostly opera singers
moonlighting on weekends— demanded and received legitimate compensa-
tion. However, the parents of Hebraically literate boy sopranos and altos,
mostly yeshiva students, had no idea what their vocally gifted offspring's ser-
vices were worth. Choir directors habitually played this advantage to the hilt.

In my case, choir director Reuven Kazimirsky — whose sole conducting
technique consisted of repeating in a gravelly baritone: nokh amol ("once
more") — had gotten away with paying me peanuts for a whole year. We were
scheduled to help conduct services at a hotel in the Catskills for the following
High Holidays and, just before rehearsals were to begin, my mother asked
Kazimirsky how much I would receive. He breezily answered, "the air is good
up there," and that marked the end of my association with him.

165

Despite the fact that I didn't get to the mountains that year, the move to
Sam Sterner's choir proved a step up for my career as a m'shoreir. Sterner's
was a better choir, so much so that its boys sported a snottily superior attitude
whenever they met those who sang in other choirs. Once I joined Sterner, I
too enjoyed that particular social benefit. On the subway ride home after a
particular Saturday night wedding, we ran into kids our own age from Meyer
Machtenberg's choir, and beat the stuffing out of them.

I also discovered that I wasn't the only m'shoreir in New York who'd been
given a personalized nickname, Sam Sterner coined one for almost every boy
in several choirs that made the nuptial rounds under his name (if he appeared
personally to conduct, the charge doubled). He never called me "Tucky,"
preferring "Mendy" instead. David, a rather plump and rotund soprano, he
crowned "Pumpkin." Herbie, who loved to hold high notes, he named Der
hanger ("the long one"). A dapper dresser he tagged "Prince," and skinny Jackie
Goldstein — a brilliant musician who went on to conduct his own choir — he
dubbed "Muscles." One of the veteran basses, whose additional job was to carry
the choir's robes from venue to venue, he referred to as "Joe Satchel-house."

The public knew Jan Peerce as a Metropolitan Opera star who also recorded
extensively and soloed with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra under
Arturo Toscanini. M'shor'rim around the city knew that he also performed
locally at weddings. Sterner's choir once rehearsed with him at a Downtown
catering hall where Jan's father, Reverend Perlmutter, worked as the mashgi-
akh (kashruth supervisor). I remember Peerce telling us kids during a break
never to stop practicing. "I'm still taking lessons," he said, even though I know
more about singing than my teacher does." "So," we asked him, "why do you
keep on paying for lessons?" He replied: "Because he can hear me better than
I could ever hear myself!"

Peerce wasn't the only top-flight musician that we sang with — or on one
occasion — sang for. Alexander Olshanetsky and Joseph Rumshinsky, two of
the most popular composers for the Yiddish stage, were notoriously jealous of
each other's success. Yet when Olshanetsky died in 1946 and Rumshinsky was
asked to direct the music at his funeral, the public would never have guessed
that they were bitter rivals. The choir chosen was the one that Olshanetsky
had led at the Concord Resort in Kiamesha Lake, New York on Festivals and
High Holidays. Sam Sterner "loaned" me to the Concord Choir for those Yom
tov services, and Yiddish film star Moishe Oysher served as cantor.

Thousands of Lower East Side Jews turned out for Olshanetsky 's funeral
service, held at the Second Avenue Theatre where he had entertained them
for decades. Afterwards, the choir filed out and led people in a parade down

166

2nd Avenue in tribute to the beloved maestro whose career had been cut
short prematurely at age 50, Rumshinsky conducting as we marched. I was
right next to him as he cried like a baby, leading us in Olshanetsky's hit song
Ikh hob dikh tsufiel lieb — known in English as "I Love You Much Too Much"
(lyrics by Chaim Tauber, from the Yiddish play Di katerinchik — The Organ
Grinder— 1934).

By then I was a good enough alto soloist to become Sterner 's official "Vi-
malei Boy" at weddings, and even to be farmed out to other choir leaders
occasionally, for a hefty commission. The official title meant that I would walk
slowly down the aisle just before the cantor began his opening Borukh ha-bo
("Blessed be he who comes in the name of the Lord") for the groom, singing
Vimalei mish'aloseinu b'midoh tovoh y'shu'oh v'rakhamim ("May God fulfill
our requests in good measure, for salvation and mercy"). I would be decked
out in a white yarmulke and gown — as opposed to the rest of the choir in
black — with both arms raised as if blessing the bride and groom as I solemnly
approached them under the khuppah. Singing steadily in my brightest tone
while the choir supplied background harmonies underneath, I looked like
a small Priest before the Temple's Altar, entirely appropriate since I happen
to be a kohein.

Which reminds me of the many times in synagogue— particularly Tem-
ple Beth El of Borough Park, Brooklyn, where I spent most of career as a
m'shoreir — when we led the congregational refrain in between the Priestly
Benediction's three verses on Yamim nora'im and Shalosh r'galim. I was
taught not to look at kohanim during this ritual. But from our perch up in
the choir loft we could not see them as they stood before the Ark below. The
only people visible to us were the men of the congregation (women occupied
balconies set at an angle to us). The striking image that has remained with me
to this day is how much the men— with large taleisim completely covering
their heads and bodies so as not to see the kohanim— resembled an ocean
of whitecaps when viewed from the top of the ferris wheel at Steeplechase
Park in Coney Island!

When all is said and done, it was really my mother who made me into
a hazzan. Like most youngsters who grew up in Borough Park during the
1940s, I would have preferred playing punchball in the streets to singing in a
choir. My mom, however— who had a beautiful singing voice herself— spot-
ted whatever God-given talent I had, took me by the hand and led me to the
Grand Mansion catering hall to audition for the manager.

My theory — and I'm not the first to propose it — is that anyone who's ever
sung in or had anything to do with a shul choir always retains a certain con-

167

nectedness to Yiddishkeyt. David Sarnoff, who founded the National Broad-
casting Company and headed RCA, wrote of this from his own experience.
I'm convinced of it through personal knowledge. Ronald Skolnick, who sang
in my choir at Congregation Beth Sholom of Long Beach, NY during his
childhood, is currently President of the United Synagogue for Conservative
Judaism. In his acceptance speech he said: "It was Hazzan Mendelson's influ-
ence that led to my becoming active in synagogue work."

Looking back with a certain amount of professional pride upon the years
I spent in the M'shoreir School of Hard Knocks, I readily admit that I was far
from being the only alto who regularly walked down a crisply laundered white
carpet at catered weddings, singing Vimalei to the star-struck couple. Every
synagogue choir in New York City featured at least one of my kind on any
given evening, and often several, to cover multiple affairs being held simul-
taneously. The most outstanding among my competitors was undoubtedly
Jackie Goldstein, whom I mentioned earlier in connection with the knick-
name "Muscles" that Sam Sterner bestowed upon him. Jackie was only six
months older than me, but displayed a flair for musical leadership that went
beyond his years.

His high alto voice alone would have made him a standout, but his early
grasp of every composition's over-all structure— plus his pianistic facility-
drew people to him. He would later go on to organize and conduct his own
choir, to serve as a congregational cantor and to arrange brilliantly for all
kinds of ensembles, including instrumental groups. He passed away much
too soon, leaving his daughter — Amy Goldstein Faiman, an operatic soprano
in Westchester, NY, and his son Martin, a CA member and hazzan in Denver,
CO— to carry forward the Eastern European khorshul tradition he lovingly
taught them as children.

Hazzan Solomon Mendelson, who sang as a youngster with Cantors Berele Chagy,
Moishe Oysher, Leibele Waldman and Leib Glantz, went on to receive nine Solo-
mon Shechter Awards for visionary programming at Congregation Beth Sholom
in Long Beach, NY during a forty-five year career there. Active in the Cantors As-
sembly even longer, he has served it in virtually every capacity, including President,
Programming Chair and Editorial Board member of its Journal. The many new
musical works that he commissioned have greatly influenced the way we pray in
Conservative synagogues. His article, "The Birth of an Idea— Commissioning Mu-
sic for Cantor and Trained Choir" appeared in JSM 2005, and he helped compile
the memorial list of European hazzanim murdered by the Nazis— "Ishei yisrael
u-tfillatam"—that appeared in JSM 2011.

Roman Cycowski (1900-1998)— A Hazzan Remembered

By Julius Blackman and Roberts. Scherr

Shabbat mornings, the sanctuary of San Francisco's Congregation Beth
Israel in the 1960s afforded the authors of this remembrance a consistently
remarkable worship experience. The high-domed ceiling, the balcony that
completely encircled the sanctuary, a beautiful organ and marble surfaces
adorned with wooden carvings from an earlier age lent an impressive grandeur
to the proceedings. On the high bimah, Hazzan Roman Cycowski offered a
classical service supported by eight singers of the highest quality. He sang
in a powerful yet alluring lyrical baritone, negotiated coloratura effortlessly
and displayed superb musicianship. He shared these stellar qualities unstint-
ingly with us. We were not just disciples in the professional sense, but close
friends as well

Had we been born several decades earlier, in one of the centers of Jewish
life in pre-World War I Poland, we might have heard Roman Cycowski as the
boy alto whose solos in the choirs of Gershon Sirota and Zeidl Rovner in Lodz,
Poland, represented peak moments of the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur
services for a packed synagogue. Born at the beginning of the 20th century,
Cycowski grew up in a Hasidic family that was also scholarly, imbued with
both piety and learning, in a tradition that he adored. He also inherited a
love for music from his father, an excellent ba'al t'fillah. Roman's exceptional
vocal talent soon led to his becoming a highly regarded soloist in the choir.

His innate musicality led to his being appointed leader of Sirota's 70-voice
choir in Warsaw's Tlomacki Synagogue, at the age of 17. To avoid being
drafted to serve as cannon fodder in the Russian and German armies' brutal
back-and-forth fighting over Poland, Cycowski fled to Germany. There he
began to study music formally, first at the Breslau Conservatory, and then
at the Academy of Music in Berlin. During his student years he often served
as hazzan for congregations in Berlin and Dresden. By the early 1920s, he
was also attracting notice in small parts on the operatic stage, and that was
where his career seemed to be heading.

In 1928 he spotted an intriguing advertisement in a show-business jour-
nal, placed by a young entrepreneurial singer, Harry Frommerman. The
latter — son of a cantor — wanted to start a singing group which would rival
the innovative American group, The Revelers. Encouraged by his colleague
Robert Biberti to join this new group as their baritone, Cycowski immediately
found a key place among the six young singers because of his exacting sense
of pitch, wide range, and easy-going personality. The group, known as The

169

Comedian Harmonists, earned a worldwide reputation by the early 1930s,
that filled concert halls and sold out sold out large theaters from Berlin to
Sydney to Paris to Buenos Aires, and turned their recordings into top-sellers.

Erich Collin and Ari Leschnikoff were the Comedian Harmonists' tenors,
Cycowsky and Frommerman sang baritone, Robert Biberti was the bass and
Erwin Bootz provided piano accompaniment. They presented a remark-
able repertoire that included classical, jazz and popular music of the day,
instrumental mimicking, and arrangements so complex that their sound was
acclaimed by all who heard them. Roman was acknowledged by the mem-
bers — all possessors of sizeable egos — as not only their vocal coach, but also
as their peace-keeper!

He had planned to stay with the Harmonists for three years only, in order to
gain some financial stability, and then return to the opera career that awaited
him. the dark cloud of Hitlerism quickly cast a shadow on that plan. The
Harmonists were forced to disband; Nazi Germany would not tolerate such
stardom for a group that included three Jews. After a while, members of the
group reshaped themselves into two entities. One ensemble — all Gentiles —
continued in Germany, while the Jewish members formed a second troupe
that was promoted by impresario Sol Hurok. Neither one ever duplicated the
huge success of the original group. When Roman learned that his father had
been brutally murdered by the Nazis, he felt it was time to fulfill a promise
he had made, that someday he would become a hazzan. That day had arrived,
and so he ended any dreams he had harbored for a stage career, and turned
his talents toward pursuing his original love oihazzanut.

Roman and his wife Mary settled in Los Angeles in the early 1940s, where
he assumed a pulpit at the Western Jewish Institute, Shaarey Tefila. At the
time, cantors in Los Angeles included Leib Glantz at Sinai Temple, Julius
Blackman at the Valley Jewish Community Center and Nathan Katzman at
Beth El. During that era, the Khazonim Farband—]ewish Ministers Cantors
Association — had evolved to include non-Orthodox colleagues, and its local
branch came to be called the Cantors-Ministers Association of California.
One must remember that in the 1940s, California was truly the wild west,
and the formation of a professional organization of hazzanim represented
quite a milestone! A few years later, this organization formed the basis of
the West Coast Region of the newly-created Cantors Assembly of America.

Cycowski functioned as Musical Director of the Association during his
years in Los Angeles. He was also offered a film role by the daughter of movie
producer Louis B. Mayer, but he turned it down. Once he had decided to
abandon the stage in favor of the synagogue pulpit, he never again considered

170

himself a popular performer. In the mid-1940s — as Sinai Temple sought him
(even while Leib Glantz was still their cantor) — Cycowski was contacted by
Beth Israel Congregation in San Francisco, considered to be the foremost
Conservative synagogue in the city. The opportunity to serve in a position
with professional choir, organ, and a distinguished rabbi (Elliot Burstein),
drew him to San Francisco.

Cycowski's 25 years of service to Beth Israel would be filled with notable
achievements. He brought distinguished Jewish musical personalities to the
community, and came to know ones who were already there. Darius Milhaud
was then teaching across the Bay in Oakland at Mills College, and attended
Roman's performance of his Service Sacre for Shabbat.

In 1954 Cycowski commissioned Abraham Binder to write a cantata
in commemoration of the tercentenary of Jewish life in America. He also
introduced such distinguished composers as Paul Discount, Max Helfman
and Solomon Ancis to the Bay Area Jewish community. Among other major
events was a commission to Israeli composer Marc Lavry to create a cantata,
Queen Esther. The premier performance took place at the War Memorial
Opera House with the San Francisco Symphony, the Symphony chorus, and
Cycowski singing the role of Mordechai. Later in the 1950s there took place
a notable television broadcast of a S'lihpt service from Beth Israel, present-
ing their magnificent repertoire of High Holiday choral music. He also was
called upon by local survivors of the Shoah to chant Tehillim and Eil malei
rahamim at their first-ever memorial gathering.

When Roman retired in 1971, he made plans to move to the quiet of
Palm Springs for his golden years. However, his well-known presence in the
Southern California community soon brought a call to serve Temple Isaiah
as hazzan. He could not refuse, and continued to daven with distinction well
into his 90s, earning the enduring love and admiration of the Palm Springs
Jewish community.

As the authors' professional mentor, Roman thoroughly imbued us with
the understanding that davening is not about the music only. "Not just black
notes on a white page," he would say, "but the words that link you and your
congregation to the Ribono shel olam" One had to address the notes, but ever
more so the texts, with all one's heart and soul. Roman was a tremendously
successful performer. But he more highly valued his singing at the amud, and
never failed to let people know that the second half of his life brought his most
important accomplishments and sense of personal fulfillment.

He died in November of 1998 at the age of 97, having lived a most remark-
able life. His days were filled with the fear of Heaven and a pious sense of

171

gratitude to God, with an unconditional a love of humankind and unbounded
appreciation for the day he was living. Roman Cycowski, a most elegant singer,
brought personal sweetness and joy to his service as sh'liah tsibbur for his
synagogue, his community and the Jewish people at large. Many artists would
have been crushed by the loss of a career such as the one that was terminated
by Hitler. "That was then, but today I am glad to be a hazzan," was essential
to Roman's outlook on life for the next 50 years.

He once told a young Robert Scherr: "If you become a hazzan, you will have
everything — people will admire you for helping them to pray, for keeping
alive our musical heritage, and for taking your place among the distinguished
people who have created this profession. There is no better career!"

Julius Blackman helpedfound the West Coast Region of the Cantors Assembly,
and served it in various leadership capacities during a career of over six decades.
He held cantorial positions in Los Angeles, Palm Springs and San Francisco.
For almost four decades, he served as Executive Director of the Hebrew Free
Loan of San Francisco.

Robert S. Scherr was a full-time hazzan for 35 years prior to his retirement from
Temple Israel ofNatick in 2005. He has served on the Cantors Assembly's Execu-
tive Council and is currently its Director of Placement and Human Resources.
He is also the Jewish Chaplain for Williams College in Williamstown, MA.

The Comedian Harmonists at the height of their international fame, ca. 1930;
Roman Cycowski is third from the right.

Secular Jewish Musical Expression— Is Nothing Sacred?

By Hankus Netsky

When I first heard your Shnirele Perele on Rhythm and Jews, no kidding,
it changed my life, oy so gorgeous, so sexy, so full of August Mystery, I
decided to reinvent the kind of Jew I am upon hearing it... I want to be
both a God believing Jew and a historical materialist socialist humanist
agnostic... Hebrew and Yiddish-illiterate, I barely know how to pray;
riddled with ambivalence, child of Marx, Freud, Mahler, Benjamin, Kafka,
Goldman, Luxemburg, Trotsky, An-ski, Schoenberg, mongrel product of
Judaism's and of Jewish exteriority, of its ghetto hungry curiosity, of its
assimilationist genius, I now approach Judaism as Jews once approached
the splendid strangeness of the Goyishe Velt: I am shall we say deeply
confused, but not complacent. And this I think of course is profoundly
Jewish. 1
In this excerpt from the CD booklet for the Klezmatics' Possessed, maver-
ick playwright and director Tony Kushner expresses a sentiment not at all
uncommon these days, especially among American baby-boomer secular
Jews. Never mind that the mystical Messianic song he refers to, Shnirele
Perele ("String of Pearls") is considered by most actual present-day Hasidim
to be a children's song, or that its origin was actually as a populist outcry
against the "Shnirele Perele," the rich and powerful of the nineteenth-century
eastern-European Jewish community. 2 In its current incarnation, the song
has become the "We Will Rock You" of the klezmer revival, sung by swaying
Jewish crowds at Klezkamp, massive non-Jewish crowds at European Jewish
music festivals, and Yiddish choruses worldwide.

It has taken its place alongside a large body of sacred repertoire: Hasidic
nigunim from Breslov, Satmar, Lubavitch, and Modzitz, cantorials from
Golden-age icons including Pinchik, Kwartin, Karniol and Sirota, Kabbalistic
chants from the Zohar and settings of psalms, all of which are now routinely
sung, sampled, riffed upon and freely programmed alongside folksongs and
klezmer tunes as integral components of secular concert and recorded pre-
sentations. Peretz's famous story, A Gilgulfun a Nign ("the metamorphosis of
a melody") has come full circle — these days no metamorphosis is necessary
on the melody's part. The secular community itself has taken the journey,
and their identity, as twenty-first century American Jewish artists and their
audience, is often every bit as complicated as what Mr. Kushner describes.

1 Klezmatics Possessed (Green Linnet Records, xeno 4050, 1997) . The quotation
comes from the liner notes by Tony Kushner.

2 Michael Wex, interview, August 2005.

We need not look too hard to find a philosophical basis for the current
state of sacred-secular co-mingling. A clue might be found in the writings of
Jacques Derrida, who in the late 1940s, looked for a way to describe a revival
of traditional architectural elements, paving the way for "post-modernism."
One might consider the idea of "revisionism" as articulated by Harold Bloom 3
or the musings of Mikhail Bakhtin, who coined the term "chronotope" to
describe multiple layers of meaning attributed to particular forms of expres-
sion over time. 4 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett links the transformation of
traditional Jewish materials in modern performance to theories explaining
the production of European folklore postulated by such historians as Peter
Burke and E.B. Thompson: "What had been rejected as tradition would
eventually emerge as heritage." 5 Explain it through philosophical precedent
or not, use of sacred material has become a staple of contemporary secular
Jewish music presentation.

A Brief History of Jewish Secular Music

The content of secular music presentation has long been a thorny issue in
Jewish society. Even Maimonides had a great deal to say about its decadence. 6
For as long as they have existed (and one can assume they predate the writ-
ten references from the early middle ages), klezmorim and badkhonim, the
traditional emissaries of such expression have occupied positions as decadent
scapegoats within Jewish society, even while their presence at pivotal com-
munity celebrations, such as weddings, has always ensured them a sizable
audience. In "Merrymakers and Jesters Among Jews," E. Lifschutz explains
how such performers were welcomed by the common people of hundreds of
years ago as a foil to the rigorous moralistic scrutiny of the religious leadership:

3 See Harold Bloom, A Map of Misreading, (New York: Oxford University Press,
1975).

4 Ken Hirshkop and David Shepherd, eds, Bakhtin and Cultural Theory.
(Manchester: Manchester University Press 2001), 186.

5 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, "Sounds of Sensibility," in American Klezmer,
Its Roots and Offshoots, ed. Mark Slobin,. (Berkeley: University of California Press 2002),
137.

6 Maimonides issued a six-point summary of prohibitions on music, possibly
inspired by a similar proclamation attributed to Plato. He lists the potential offenses in
ascending order of their magnitude: 1 . Listening to a song with a secular text, whether
it be in Hebrew or Arabic; 2. Listening to a song accompanied by an instrument; 3.
Listening to a song whose content includes obscene language; 4. Listening to a string
instrument; 5. Listening to passages played on such instruments while drinking wine;
6. Listening to the singing and playing of a woman. (Shiloah:74).

174

All the complaints by the rabbis and the criticism of communal lead-
ers that weddings were being transformed from sacred events to secular
gatherings, in which jest, humor, satire and dance were the most important
components, were to no avail. The masses of people, yearning for amusement
and frequently having to seek it outside the ghetto, seized upon a wedding
as a legitimate opportunity for such amusement. Even the more prominent
citizens also enjoyed a jest and a quip no less than the more humble Jew. The
wedding celebration provided the Jew with practically the only opportunity
for such recreation. 7

Indeed, in European Jewish society secular performers often had to deal
with three sets of restrictions: those imposed on all musicians, those imposed
by the secular authorities on Jewish musicians, and those imposed on Jewish
musicians by the Jews themselves. It is not surprising that such performers
had trouble making a decent living. Some even converted to Christianity, so
that they might find opportunities in classical or church music or seek careers
as instrument builders.

Still, Jewish "secular" performers persevered and received a considerable
boost in the late 1800s in Czarist Russia, where the sentiments of Jewish
society finally began to tilt in their favor. This was a time when, thanks to
the recent Haskalah (enlightenment), secular education had transformed
the community almost overnight, an era during which many Jews came to
the conclusion that, if they were to move into the modern world, they had
no choice but to denounce religion as a form of unenlightened ignorance.
Historian David Biale describes this moment:

Religion was the realm of the despised parents, who represented the past;
secularism a necessary component of the revolutionary future. Once...
Jewish Communists came to power, they staged trials of the kheyder
(traditional European Jewish primary school), the Talmud and other
institutions of traditional Jewish life. Synagogues were shut down or
turned into worker's clubs. The brutality with which Jewish Communists
overturned their parents' tables is a story not sufficiently told, or, rather,
it is a story assumed to be no longer part of Jewish history. But only by
understanding how the Jewish Revolution and the Russian Revolutions
combined to commit patricide and matricide can we unravel one of the
sources of modern Jewish secularism. For, the assault on the Jewish religion
carried out primarily by Jewish revolutionaries, themselves in many
cases products of the kheyder and yeshivah, was much more of a family
affair than most of the other secular revolts that made up the Russian

7 E. Lifshutz, "Merrymakers and Jesters Among Jews." YIVO Annual of Jewish
Social Science 7, 1952, 43.

revolution... Yom Kippur balls, ostentatious violations of the Sabbath and
provocative reviling of rabbinical authorities were the stock-in-trade of all
the movements of Jewish Revolution, whether they aimed at a nationalist
solution to the Jewish Question or a cosmopolitan one. 8
The rejection of traditional religious institutions by many Jews created the
need for new ones, "cultural" institutions that were staunchly anti-religious.
Even within Zionism and Bundism, movements normally associated with a
more positive Jewish identity, negative attitudes toward Orthodoxy ruled the
roost, and Yiddish, the Jewish secular language, gave the creative forces of the
time a voice well suited to railing against the powers that tried to maintain
the status quo. Read within the context of their time, such "traditional Yid-
dish writers" as Mendele and Sholem Aleichem were actually revolutionary
thinkers, exposing hypocrisy and religious excess at every turn. Jewish folk-
lorists, including An-ski, Engel, Cahan, and Prilutski, actively sparred over
the inclusion of religious material into their song and folklore collections. 9
In the early twentieth century, Jewish ethnomusicologists (a newly minted
species) also took sides on the issue. A. Z. Idelsohn, the dean of the move-
ment, maintained that Jewish music was inherently intertwined with Jewish
religious society, which he regarded as its only true source. He expressed this
viewpoint in his seminal work, Jewish Music in its Historical Development:
Life as the Jew visualized it, has no room for what is commonly
denominated "secular," therefore Jewish folksongs are rooted in the
sacred... Sacred song has been folk song and folk song, sacred song. Jewish
folk song nestles in the shadow of religion and ethics. 10
For an opposing viewpoint, one need look no further than the pronounce-
ments of Kiev-based ethnomusicologist Moshe Beregovski, who, as a benefi-
ciary of the 1920s Soviet system (only to be undermined by it in the late 1930s),
had little use in his writings for either religious folklore or Idelsohn's point
of view. Beregovski published extraordinarily valuable volumes of klezmer
tunes and Yiddish folksongs, along with ethnographic information that has
become one of our only contemporary sources for understanding the secular
side of early twentieth century eastern European Jewish culture, which he
understandably felt had been sorely neglected by the Jewish establishment:
The zealous adherents and preservers of the liturgical musical tradition
condemned Jewish secular folklore to death and did not want to believe that

8 David Biale, God's Language and the Making of Secular Jewish Culture, 14.

9 Itsik Gottesman, internet communication, June 10, 2005.

10 Abraham Zvi Idelsohn, Jewish Music in its Historical Development. (New
York: Henry Holt, 1929), 358.

176

this useless "Yiddish musical j argon" lay at the basis of Jewish "national music
culture." The only Jewish music worthy of "regeneration" according to the
clerical Zionists (Idelsohn, et al.) was the "lofty liturgical melody" 11

America's Jews, musical and otherwise, quarreled along similar ideologi-
cal lines, producing a plethora of organizations, choral societies, journals,
and newspapers whose philosophical distinctions seemed trivial to outsiders
and all-important to their members. To experience "secular" Jewish music
in its most carefully sculpted form, one needs only to look at songbooks and
choral arrangements produced in the early part of the twentieth century by
such groups as the International Worker's Organization (IWO), the Sholem
Aleichem Club, and the early Workman's Circle. 12 Here one finds a repertoire
that is a far cry from the multi-layered religious/secular mix that had actu-
ally persisted in Jewish eastern Europe: lullabies that seek to educate babies
in the fundamentals of the class struggle, labor movement anthems touting
worker's rights, and celebratory songs extolling brotherhood, albeit usually
only among Jews; Anti-Semitism still excluded them from many mainstream
workers organizations.

Secular Representations of the Sacred

One also finds religion well represented in such collections, albeit with a
particular editorial spin: religion as seen through the lens of the "enlightened"
poet. Maskilik (post-enlightenment) folk-poet Mikhail Gordon's "traditional"
Jews worship at the altar of whiskey and obsess about the power of their
beards. Through Yiddish folk-bard Mordechai Gebirtig we meet dovidl, who
will do anything to lure his love, reyzele— he even offers to feign the observant
lifestyle of her mother. Kiev-based lawyer/songwriter Marek Warshavsky
introduces us to elderly grandparents who endearingly perpetuate outdated
customs and beliefs not shared by their children or grandchildren, even while
he reminds us that within the letters of the Jewish alphabet are contained the
tears and suffering of a nation.

11 Moshe Beregovski, Old Jewish Folk Music. Trans, and ed. by Mark Slobin.
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982), 22. Statements such as this one
led Jewish art music scholar Albert Weisser to criticize Beregovski's work on the basis
of "narrow dialectical critique and unreliable selectivity" (Weisser 1959:52). I must
confess that the more I read "Jewish music studies" authors, the more such Marxist
points of view resonate for me.

12 Many of these songbooks are still in print, and the repertoire continues to be
perpetuated by the surviving branches of these organizations.

177

Meanwhile, in the alternative secular world of Yiddish theatre, Jewish
religious expression finds a niche, as nostalgia (e.g. Ludvig Zatz or Seymour
Rechzeit singing "Ikh Benk Aheym" ("I Long For Home"), as parody (at the
hands of such stars as Peisache Burstein, Gus Goldstein, Molly Picon and
later, non-Jewish superstar Cab Calloway), as fashion statement (for ex-
ample, the kapotes ((Hassidic coats)) worn by such concert-klezmer outfits
as Joseph Cherniavsky's Yiddish-American Jazz Band) or as spectacle in the
mainstream media (Yossele Rosenblatt on the Keith Vaudeville circuit and
Leybele Waldman and Freydele Oysher on countless radio shows). In the
world of Yiddish film, the tug between religion and assimilation fuels the
plot time and time again.

It was the recording industry that made it possible for anyone and everyone
to experience Jewish religious expression in glorious reproduction — and in
a totally secular context. Large numbers of 78 RPM recordings of the great
cantors found their way into homes, businesses, and even juke boxes, and
enabled the immigrant community literally to use their old-country reli-
gion as background music for their transition into American mainstream
society. Classic recordings of such golden-age figures as Yossele Rosenblatt
and Zawel Kwartin prepared the Jewish world for the even more dramatic
cantorial endeavors of Richard Tucker and Jan Peerce, not to mention the
truly mainstream efforts of such non- Jewish pop music superstars as Johnny
Mathis ("Eli Eli") and Perry Como ("Kol Nidre").

A leading figure that set the stage for the complex sacred-secular hybrid that
is the Jewish music scene of today was Moishe Oysher (1907-1958). An actor
whose flamboyant lifestyle challenged the boundaries of traditional Judaism
as much as his gypsy-like cascades and jazzy flourishes stretched the limits
of Jewish musical improvisation, Oysher began his career as a stage actor in
Roumania at age six. He rose to fame in the American Jewish community
for his role in Edgar G. Ulmer's Yiddish film classic Yankel Der Shmid ("The
Singing Blacksmith") and, later as an extraordinary but demented cantor in
Overture to Glory. A first-rate Jewish vocal stylist, Oysher constantly frus-
trated the religious authorities with his lack of regard for traditional Jewish
observance, while his notoriety made him only more legendary. His duet,
"Hassidic in America" (featuring Florence Weiss, his wife at the time) from
the earlier film shows just how astute Oysher was in mingling Hasidic chant
with the popular scat-singing craze of the day. His 1940s recordings of such
selections as Omar, omar ("Thus Said Rabbi Elazar") with musical direction
by the innovative arranger-composer Sam Medoff, offered a prototype for
languid cantorial improvisation over a driving rhythm, an innovation other-

wise ignored in Jewish music until it was re-introduced as a signature sound
of the Middle Eastern World Beat revolution of the 1990s.

Shlomo Carlebach and Hasidic Music for the Masses

If Oysher created a template for outside-the-box cantorials, it was Shlomo
Carlebach (1925-1994) who found his own way to bring Hasidic spirit back
to the Jewish masses. Emanating from a long line of Orthodox German rab-
bis, Carlebach began his career as an outreach emissary for the Lubavitch
movement from 1951 until 1955, eventually splitting with the Lubavitcher
leadership over the issue of inclusion of women in prayer. After three years
on his own, he decided to take up the guitar, recording his first album of new
compositions in 1959. A breakthrough appearance at the Berkeley Folk Fes-
tival in 1966 enabled him to create the "House of Love and Prayer," arguably
the first "New Age" synagogue, in San Francisco and, later, the Carlebach Shul
in New York City. His open friendship with practitioners of various Eastern
religions and his contemporary outlook on love and spirituality drew in both
observant and non-observant followers all over the world while drawing the
scorn of others with a less open outlook. His endeavors laid the groundwork
for a wide network of "Holy Brothers" who embraced "Carlebach Judaism"
as a viable pathway to contemporary enlightenment. It was Carlebach, along
with Jewish renewal pioneer Zalman Schachter Shlomi that created a brand of
Hasidic-style mysticism and spirituality that Jews with any level of observance
could feel good about embracing. Their work was arguably a throwback to
the radical democratization of traditional religious practice sought by the
movement's eighteenth-century founders.

The Jewish Cultural Revolution of the 1950s and its Aftermath

If Hasidism and khazonus (the cantorial tradition) weathered the litmus test of
the 1950s and 60s, many other aspects of Eastern European Jewish culture did
not. In the assimilationist world of postwar America, one could easily argue
that Jewish educators set about to deliberately dismantle the thousand-year-
old cultural infrastructure inherited from the eastern European community,
replacing it in a matter of a few years with a newly constructed modern Jewish
persona where the past was the Bible and the Holocaust — and the only future
was the new homeland in the Middle East. In his preface to The Songs We
Sing, a landmark educational songbook, published in 1950 by the Conservative
movement, editor Harry Coopersmith announced the new agenda:

The rise of the Nationalist Movement, culminating, at long last, in the
establishment of the State of Israel, the upsurge of religious feeling,
especially during the war years, an awakened concern on the part of
educators and parents for the development of an integrated Jewish
personality through a curriculum providing for emotional as well as
intellectual growth— these are the forces most responsible for this renewed
outpouring of a rich and variegated folk and art song. 13
Coopersmith's influential volume, which included compositions by Leon-
ard Bernstein, Isidore Freed, Herbert Fromm and Judith Kaplan Eisenstein
(daughter of Rabbi Mordecai M. Kaplan, the architect of the Reconstructionist
movement), and arrangements by Darius Milhaud and Kurt Weill, offered
a presumed esthetic upgrade to Jewish children growing up in mainstream
Jewish society in the two decades that followed. Unfortunately, in doing so,
it made quick work of paving over the actual cultural inheritance of the vast
majority of America's Jews: music with deep roots in eastern Europe.

Sooner or later, however, for a younger generation craving something
that resonated a bit more with their gut instincts and their grandparents!
the artificial kibbutz and concert hall veneer wore pretty thin. As Yale Uni-
versity English professor William Deresiewicz wrote in a recent book review
in "The Nation:"

My own experience tells me that American Judaism has long been beset
by a deep sense of banality and inauthenticity. To the usual self-contempt
of the liberal middle class is added the feeling that genuine Jewish life is
always elsewhere: in Israel or the shtetl, among the immigrant generation
or the ultra-Orthodox. Jewish culture as lived by the non-Orthodox tends
to feel bland and thin even to its practitioners. 14

New York-based writer Rachel Kafrissen echoes these sentiments while
summing up the perspective of many current American Jewish cultural activ-
ists in her "Jewish Cultural Manifesto," published in the November-December
2005 issue of Jewish Currents, a publication that has long positioned itself as
the voice of America's secular Jewish movement:

... to grow up Jewish in assimilated America is to absorb a world of cultural
confusion. The Jewish history I learned in Hebrew school moved pretty
quickly from the ancient land of Israel to the modern state of Israel, with
brief, terrifying stops between 1939 and 1945. As you can imagine, the
official erasure of our sojourn in Europe creates a bit of an identity crisis
in the average young Jew... even before I spoke one word of Yiddish, the

13 Harry Coopersmith, The Songs We Sing (New York: The United Synagogue
Commission on Jewish Education, 1950).

14 William Deresiewicz, "The Imaginary Jew" in The Nation, May 25, 2007.

language itself was talking to me, telling me that there was more to being
a Jew than the empty signifiers, and emptier materialism, of the modern
Jewish suburb. 15
In embracing the American incarnation of eastern European Jewish culture
as her own locus, Kafrissen recognizes that the positioning of religious versus
secular in mainstream Jewish media is perhaps yet another outmoded, even
entirely artificial, creation of the American Jewish establishment:

Secular and observant. . .are points on a common path. Neither secular nor
observant are immutable characteristics, and we all know someone who's
gone both ways... We all have a duty to know something about the core
texts of our tradition and the languages in which they were written. . . Which
brings me to my next point: Jewish religion cannot be divorced from Jewish
culture. . .Turn a shul into a temple, a khazn into a cantor, Jewish music into
Debbie Friedman, well you better lock the doors, cuz the inmates will be
breaking out. American Jewish culture has turned Camembert into Cheez
Whiz: It is boring and every young Jew knows it. 16

And so, at least for certain members of the younger generation, sacred and
secular, or as one would say in Yiddish, heylik un veltlik, have no problem co-
existing on the same continuum. Rigid identities, forged in late-nineteenth
and early-twentieth century Europe and carried over to a country of new
immigrants, no longer have the momentum to stick in present day society.
Today's Jews are embracing many of same aspects of their culture and history
that their parents and grandparents ran away from in droves. As Steven M.
Cohen and Arnold Eisen point out in The Jew Within, surveys of American Jews
conducted at the end of the twentieth century showed that "more and more
Jews during the past few decades, opposing efforts to diminish, downplay,
and minimize ethnically based differences, have come to see Jewish ethnic
distinctiveness in a new and more positive light." 17 Instead of truly embracing
the tenets of any denomination, twenty-first century Jews tell a "postmodern
story of 'local narratives,' 'multiple life-worlds,' and fluid movement among
commitments by fluid selves, embarked on personal journeys that never end." 18

Furthermore, Hasidism, no longer the object of parody or derision, whether
in Woody Allen movies, New Yorker covers, or the psyches of countless
American Jews, has come to represent "authentic Judaism, the real thing, as
opposed to the ersatz varieties of Judaism born of the other survival strategies

15 Rachel Kafrissen, http://www.jewishcurrents.org/2005-nov-kafrissen.htm .

16 Kafrissen, ibid.

17 Steven M.Cohen and Arnold M. Eisen, The Jew Within. (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 2000), 108.

18 Ibid, 182.

181

employed to navigate modernity." 19 This phenomenon has paved the way for
many new forms of Jewish cultural expression, not the least of which is the
hybrid form of secular-religious Jewish music presentation we so often see
today, one that openly embraces and even romanticizes the most traditional
aspects of the religious world.

Of course, it's also important to realize that the atmosphere in which Jewish
concert presentation often takes place today is one where third-generation
American Jews position their contribution as part of a larger whole, located
mostly outside any ethnic or religious enclaves, as part of a folk, improvisa-
tional, and world music scene in which ghetto walls have no function. Jew-
ish music, sacred or secular is a bona fide "heritage" music that has taken its
place alongside so many other revivified treasures, including New Orleans
jazz, gospel, bluegrass, and Irish ceili 20 Denizens of such subcultures have
traditionally harbored no shortage of religious-secular hang-ups, but on the
musical stage, they've been dealing with them for a long time. Bill Monroe
and the Stanley Brothers or Sam Cooke, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, James
Brown, Lauren Hill — all of them have shown that a culture can move from
church to club at the drop of a hat— that is the American model. 21

19 Ibid, 106.

20 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett has defined "heritage" as "a mode of cultural
production that gives the disappearing and gone a second life as an exhibit of itself."

21 In African American culture it has always been a given that religious and
secular forces were merely two sides of the same coin or, in the cases of traditional
spirituals, the masking of secular messages within a religious cloak. In February of 2004
I was invited to be a special guest in a concert that matched up two of Boston's most
compelling Choral groups, "A Besere Velt," a volunteer secular Jewish chorus organized
by Lisa Gallitan, director of the Boston Chapter of the Workman's Circle, and the "New
England Spiritual Ensemble," a group of professional African American singers. The
concert, entitled "At My Grandmother's Knee" set out to find common ground in the
experiences communicated through traditional Jewish and African American folksong.
Of course, despite the best of liberal intentions, the pairing had its intrinsic tensions.
The Spiritual Ensemble, not surprisingly, brought out spirituals, well-worn hymns
about faith in Jesus and the time of redemption that he would surely bring. "A Besere
Velt," sang about, brotherhood, peace, and political struggle — for them, redemption
was something for human beings to bring about, although after a few drinks on Jewish
holidays, they might deign to ask for a bit of outside intervention. The controversy
made for a lively topic of discussion, albeit only on the Jewish side of the fence. Most
members of the dissenting group had little problem with the concert as a whole; what
they objected to was the finale, which included a collaborative performance of the
popular spiritual "Amen" with its story of the baby Jesus, the miracles he performed,
his crucifixion and redemption, something that Jews with or without religious leaning
could easily find problematic— couldn't the chorus use other lyrics that made the song

182

In fact, the current metamorphosis and renaissance of Jewish music didn't
happen in a vacuum. One can easily see it as a direct reflection and even an
imitation of the African American roots phenomenon of the 1960s, not to
mention the spiritual musical improvisation movement launched in the same
era by such figures as John Coltrane, Albert Ayler, and, one might argue, The
Grateful Dead. 22 But the impulse that triggers musicians to jump on this par-
ticular bandwagon can lead them in extremely divergent directions. On the
very same continuum, one might find Andy Statman, whose immersion in
klezmer eventually led him toward an observant lifestyle, and Anthony Cole-
man, who brings a rich experimental musical palette to bear on traditional
material. Downtown Jewish music scene guru and Klezmatics founder Frank
London sums up the approaches he sees around him in the following way:
For some musicians it's an outgrowth of their secular, cultural Jewish
identity, while for others it's an expression of Jewish spirituality. Some
people draw pride, as I do, in the secular, social activist Yiddish song
tradition, while others are drawn to mystical, trance-inducing Hasidic
nigunim. Some look for that nostalgic, warm feeling, while others look
for answers as large as the (meaning of the) Holocaust, or why Yiddish
culture dies, or why it was killed off. 23
A major figure that cites diverse sources for his motivation, radical Jewish
culture guru and recent MacArthur Foundation fellow John Zorn expresses
his Jewish connection thus:

How do I come to my Jewishness? I was raised in a completely secular
environment; it was an environment of total alienation and denial when
it came to matters Jewish. My parents were brutal when it came to
eliminating the past. I came to Jewishness by walking down very different
paths... I actually came to it when I was living in Japan. There it was
impossible to blend in, and I learned to value my position as "Other. 24

more neutral? Others saw the concert as an innocuous endorsement of pluralism, no
more objectionable than a "Messiah" sing. In the end, the collaboration went through,
but one member of the ensemble (a rabbi) felt compelled to resign.

22 Michael Wex has pointed out that the peripheral identification of many 1950s
and 60s Jazz figures with the nation of Islam may very well have provided a prototype
for the identification of secular Jewish performers with traditional north African Jewish
religious imagery and even fashion (Wex, interview with Hankus Netsky, August 2005).

23 Frank London, quoted in Marcus Gammel, Migration and Identity Politics in
New York's Jewish Downtown Scene. (Berlin: Humboldt-Universitat zu Berlin, 2000), 4.

24 John Zorn quoted in Jerome Chanes, "The Artist as Outsider; the Jew as Artist:
A Conversation with John Zorn." Culture Currents, National Foundation for Jewish
Culture, May 29, 2002, 1.

183

For many years Zorn has flaunted Jewish religious symbolism in his work,
calling his recording label "Tzadik" (the Hasidic term for a mystical religious
scholar) and wearing a tallis as a performance outfit. He, more than any other
individual has encouraged those who partake in what he has dubbed "Radi-
cal Jewish Culture" to draw on any and all possible facets of Jewish cultural
expression, be it American popular music by Jewish composers (such as Burt
Bacharach) or Moroccan religious chant, and, in doing so, has enabled creative
musicians to shake down issues of Jewish identity on their own terms. One
of his recent releases (a session led by Frank London), khazonus (cantorials),
features a prominent Conservative cantor, Jack Mendelsohn, jamming freely
with some of the downtown scene's most creative and innovative musicians,
including pianist Anthony Coleman and percussionist Gerald Cleaver. 25

But if secular Jews have few qualms about appropriating religious imagery,
what sort of reception do their creations receive within circles of observant
Jews? Actually, they receive very little notice at all — such efforts are usually
entirely off the radar screens of Hasidic and Orthodox Jews, aside from oc-
casional Jewish music list or Facebook discussion groups, or solitary Hasidim
seen poking around clubs such as Makor or the Knitting Factory. Probably
the most potent criticism comes from the more educated quarters of the
Jewish music scene itself. Some mention gratuitous use of religious imagery
that smacks of insincere commercial opportunism. Others become angry at
the callous disregard for ownership of the material itself, for example when
groups simply label niggunim as "traditional" when their authorship is actually
widely known, perhaps with the cynical intention of collecting undeserved
royalties. Still others have trouble accepting what they see as excessive senti-
mentalism. Yiddish scholar, award-winning author, and occasional stand-up
comic Michael Wex, raised as an observant Jew, has little patience for the
disengagement of such a scene from the traditions they invoke, not to men-
tion the use of religious garb as a fashion statement:

(Identifying as a) radical Jew seems to be a way of having your cake and
eating it: I am very Jewish, but don't ask me to do anything. I'm carrying my
instrument while wearing a yarmulke that looks as much like an African
cap as I can get, I've gone to the Afro-centric store and bought one of
those shirts with fringes in each corner; now it's a tsitsis too... "Excuse
me, young Jew, we need a tenth for a minion." "Man, don't hang me up
with minions; I've gotta be free." It doesn't engage with that aspect of it.
It's more of an artistic credo. 26

25 Frank London, Hazones (Tzadik, TZ8102, 2006).

26 Michael Wex, interview with Hankus Netsky, August 2005.

He also takes issue with the problem of material being used out of context:
It's dangerous when it trivializes what the khasidic stuffis . . . where khasidic
music is still functional music— if it has lyrics, those lyrics are there to tell
you something, to make a particular point. Earlier today (at Klezkanada,
a Yiddish culture festival), we passed by a vocal class where the students
were learning a song that said "Don't worry about eating or drinking,
what's really important for nourishment is davening (praying)." Pretty
ironic for secular students to be learning a song like that on a Saturday
morning. An even better example is a Yiddish song I've heard around here
that says "I will go out in the streets and yell "shulem (peace), shulem."\
know the song in its original version, where it's not shulem, it's shabbes
(Sabbath). If you drive through the wrong neighborhoods in Jerusalem
on a Saturday, this is the song they sing as they pelt your windows with
rocks." 27
Still, in contemporary America, all of Jewish folklore, religious or other-
wise, tends to be regarded, at least by musicians, as the province of any and
every individual who wants to use it, re-contextualized or otherwise. Well-
respected neo-klezmer fiddler Alicia Svigals explains her attitude toward
sacred-secular co-mingling:

When religious sources are drawn upon, like cantorial singing or Yiddish
Hasidic folk songs, their appeal is basically as cultural artifacts— as
an official stance... (programs such as klezkamp are)... ethnographic,
although the individual's relationship to the material might not necessarily
be that detached. 28
She also goes on to say that "Postmodern identity is hard to pin down.
Things don't mean what they used to." 29 Interestingly, musicians who take
such an ethnographic post-modern stance are receiving recognition in the
religious world for another reason: for their artistry. In 1992, Svigals herself
was sought out by Hasidic superstar Avraham Fried to perform on one of his
most popular recordings, Avinu Malkeynu ("Our Father, Our King"):

Frank (London— New York based trumpeter, arranger, composer, and
klezmatics co-founder) mentioned me to them, and soon this Lubavitcher
rabbi, Zalman Goldstein who has a website and mail order business called
the "Jewish Learning Group" called me... to make "Vodka Zak," aklezmer
CD of Lubavitcher niggunim (melodies). I think Avremi G, Avraham
Fried's arranger got my number from Zalman. Both Zalman and Avremi
expressed the same reaction when they heard me play: "Wow, this is

27 Alicia Svigals, "Why We Do This Anyway," in American Klezmer, ed. Mark
Slobin. (Berkeley: University of California Press 2002), 215).

28 Alicia Svigals, telephone interview with Hankus Netsky, September 2006.

29 Ibid.

185

so amazing, we had no idea that there were these secular Jews like you
people who have such a Jewish feeling to your playing... it sounds even
more Jewish than what we do!" I think it was especially true because I
played the violin. I think they felt that, here was this heathen, but that
pinteleyid (Jewish essence) was crying out to express itself. 30

Such recognition of the work of secular Jews like Svigals is powerful evi-
dence of the emergence of a new kind of Jewish American culture, one in
which individuals from entirely separate Jewish worlds can validate each
other's perspectives in unexpected ways.

In twenty-first century America, creative Jewish artists and members
of their audience are joined together on an inward search where boundaries
denned during a previous century have fallen by the wayside. It is a time of
new juxtapositions and re-contextualizations, as a generation looks to see
what discards it can salvage to create meaning out of contemporary Jewish
identity. Their musical mix might, at any moment, include secular songs
devoid of the ideology that spawned them, or religious songs separated from
the observance that used to give them meaning.

It is hardly surprising that, in such a scene, feathers are occasionally ruffled
and the Jewish establishment shakes its collective head wondering what's go-
ing on but, at this point, it's hardly for them to decide. Today's Jewish music
scene is rich, diverse, confusing, occasionally controversial, sacred, secular,
traditional, and innovative, very American— and very much alive.

Hankus Netsky, who holds a Ph.D. in Ethnomusicology from Wesleyan University,
is a multi-instrumentalist, composer and instructor in jazz and contemporary im-
provisation at the New England Conservatory in Boston, where he has taught for
23 years (serving 10 years as chair of Jazz Studies). He is founder and director of
the internationally renowned Klezmer Conservatory Band, and heads the Klezmer
Conservatory Foundation for the research in and preservation of Yiddish music. His
film credits include The Fool and the Flying Ship, From Immigrants to Americans,
and Three Generations of Working Women. He composed the score to the musical,
Shlemiel the First, and the NPR radio series, Jewish Stories from Eastern Europe
and Beyond. He arranged and directed the music for Joel Gray's Borshtcapades '94,
A Taste of Passover, and A Taste ofChanukah. He collaborated with violinist Itzhak
Perlman on In the Fiddler's House, and arranged and performed the music on CBS's
To Life! America Celebrates Israel's 50th. He has also produced numerous Klezmer
Conservatory Band CDs.

Crazy Jane Talks with the Rabbis: Pedagogy and Privacy in
Liturgy

By Catherine Madsen

Much of liberal liturgical revision presupposes that modern Jews are easily
puzzled, offended, or confused. Liturgists' efforts to modernize prayer-
book language and theology are aimed at making the prayers "accessible,"
immediately comprehensible and unambiguous. Essentially the revisions
employ a sort of classroom model, though they abdicate any real teaching
role, preferring to meet the pupils where they are and leave them there.
When congregants don't know Hebrew, it's unthinkable that they should be
helped to learn; when the nature and uses of prayer are foreign to them, it's
impossible that foreignness should be presented as intriguing rather than
frightening. Congregations must be made to do things together: to recite
responsive readings, or read stanzas of an undemanding poem in round-
robin. They must be told what to think and feel by means of explanations and
kavvanot. Someone who doesn't participate— who sits to one side with an
Art Scroll Siddur, like a kid with a comic book inside the text — is inattentive,
insubordinate, not playing the game.

But liturgy, it seems to me, is designed much more on a public library
model than a pedagogical one. You take what you want. There's a body of
text: some parts of it catch your attention and others don't, and this is not
something you're doing wrong. The text is accessible in some respects and
not in others, and this is not something the author is doing wrong. When
you don't recognize a word, you may look for a definition or you may not
bother, and if you don't bother you'll gradually learn it through context. You
roughly understand the purpose of the book, though you may have major
readjustments to make as you learn to place it in its historical context. And
ultimately you accept or reject it through a complex private equation that
no teacher could entirely understand or gainsay. As a reader, you may always
prefer Kipling or Tolkien to their more politically acceptable counterparts; you
owe something to the writers who saved your life as a child, the personalities
that woke you to language and feeling. I've talked to major Jewish feminist
thinkers who can't cut from their souls the words Avinu malkeinu: there's
more to the experience of davening than what you believe in.

Liturgy differs from library reading in not being solitary, yet it's more like
a reading room with everyone absorbed in their own books, having a general
sense of the time and politely making room for each other, than it is like a class

discussion on a specified topic. Liturgy even has a collective train of thought,
and everyone is on the same page— may even be singing together— but your
attention is your own to direct, and your life experience is valid material for
reflection. As the library reader becomes absorbed in the mind of the author,
the davener becomes absorbed in the prayer book— which is either the mind
of God, the collective mind of the rabbis, or the davener's own mind, but that
never really has to be decided.

I want to argue for the library model of liturgy over the classroom model as
being more sustaining over the long term. Liturgy has to last us a long time;
it needs puzzles and confusions and even offenses, which can be resolved in
various ways at various times of life, or remain unsolved altogether. To get
all your learning from your teachers is a recipe for intellectual dependency,
whereas eclectic and unguided reading promotes exploration, creates pro-
ductive shocks of juxtaposition, and encourages independence of thought.

Following the publication of the Haddassah-Brandeis Institute report
Matrilineal Ascent/Patrilineal Descent, 1 which concludes that men's waning
interest in liberal Judaism is a consequence of women's full access to leadership,
the question of the day in Jewish education is "What do men want?" I suspect
that they want to be let alone to think, with material that catalyzes thought.
My guess is that liberal liturgical revisions as a whole have contributed more
to the male exodus than feminism per se: it is hard to have patience with the
endless procession of mediocre supplementary readings, aimed at group
bonding rather than real thinking or feeling, that constantly intrude them-
selves on the davening (a phenomenon that a male friend of mine describes
as tefilas interruptus). Women in general may have a higher tolerance than
men for group bonding; also liberal liturgy claims to represent them, and is
the first public Jewish liturgy to claim to represent them, and most women
have powerful inhibitions against impatience. But I am not the only woman
to find the new liturgies thin. As a gentle and generous professional woman
in my community said to me recently, "You're supposed to like it, so you try
to like it" — no great testimonial to the appeal of the revisions, still less to their
liberating potential. If the men leaving liberal Judaism are finding something
more interesting elsewhere, I hope they will send dispatches.

The origins of the current liturgical style are not hard to trace. In sociologi-
cal terms, liberal Jewish liturgists in America first responded to the social
anxieties of the immigrant generations in an overwhelmingly Protestant
country, and are now responding to the feminist principles (and sometimes

1 A pdf of Matrilineal Ascent/Patrilineal Descent is available at http://www.

brandeis.edu/hbi/pubs/gendermonograph.html .

the Buddhist and New Age enthusiasms) of the immigrants' grandchildren.
In historical terms, the immigrants' desperate break with old-country families
and educational structures — and the eventual destruction of those families
and structures in Europe — gave rise to a system in which only rabbis were
expected to be fully liturgically competent. In political terms, the children and
grandchildren of socialists found it easy to think that liturgy was disposable,
and that the way to rectify its injustices was to smash them and replace them
with slogans. Cumulatively, however, the process represents not so much
the feminization as the infantilization of Jewish liturgy. Around the edges of
Jewish education, the denunciation of "pediatric Judaism" is gathering steam,
but the news has yet to reach most liberal liturgists.

Meanwhile the traditional liturgy still points the way toward a more absorb-
ing approach. Jeremy Schonfield's Undercurrents of Jewish Prayer 2 presents
the free-associative liturgical reverie as a hotbed of doubt and subversion.
Schonfield explores the idea of liturgy as a literary genre, distinct from biblical
narrative, biblical poetry, and talmudic discourse. He considers the siddur
as writing, and points out the ambivalence that underlies many apparently
straightforward liturgical utterances. In what sense is prayer efficacious? Can
Jewish prayer work at all in the absence of the Temple and its sacrifices? Why
do we repeat the liturgy— and particular elements within it, like the Kad-
dish— so often: didn't it "take" the first time? How far can we trust that God
is really at the other end of the covenant? With great subtlety and erudition,
Schonfield analyzes the daily Birkot ha-shahar and P'sukei d'zimra line byline,
showing how phrases and passages from the Tanakh are recontextualized and
their meanings skewed or even reversed when transplanted into the siddur.
By treating scriptural citations as "lexical items that can be recombined at
will" (265), the siddur's apparently circumscribed and highly controlled body
of prayer nevertheless allows for the most anarchic feelings to surface — pro-
tected, as Schonfield points out, by a mutual reticence among daveners that
prevents them from inquiring into each other's privacy.

This substrate of ambivalence is built in, consciously or unconsciously, to
a liturgy that has been evolving for thousands of years. For those who daven
it three times a day, the liturgy is a point of stability to which they return
every few hours from every circumstance and mood. It serves as a kind of
survival kit for the contingencies of real life: success and humiliation, wealth
and poverty, sickness and health, the dangers of daily business and travel, the
threat of enemies, the functioning of the body's inner plumbing. Its stabilizing

2 Jeremy Schonfield, Undercurrents of Jewish Prayer (Oxford: Littman Library
of Jewish Civilization, 2006).

effect enabled some seasoned daveners to keep on davening even in Aus-
chwitz, just as intellectuals recited poetry to themselves, to keep their souls
alive. To replace this subtle and introspective tissue of prayer with a liturgy
from which ambiguities have been deliberately purged, whose meaning is
always clear and never anarchic, is a move that cannot produce an adequate
substitute and can only make the Orthodox liturgy look more appealing. But
there is no reason liberal liturgy cannot use these same techniques of free-
association, ambivalence, introspection and profound motivation— even use
them in English, if it wants.

Where Schonfield says that even in childhood he saw the liturgy as "teasingly
opaque," liberal liturgists have generally assumed that the opaque can never
tease but only repel. Transparency is one of their first principles. It's worth
looking briefly at how this approach plays out in a coherent and thoroughly
developed example, Marcia Falk's Book of Blessings? Falk was not writing a
movement prayer book, so she had the advantage of complete editorial control
and the freedom to take great liberties with the traditional text. She did not
have to contend with denominational politics, inferior but popular prayers by
eminent colleagues, or the many other difficulties of editing a prayer book by
committee. No more than Mordecai Kaplan did she attempt to write liturgy
without metaphor, but in the service of transparency she replaced metaphors
with abstract nouns at certain critical points, as in the Sh'ma where she
replaced Adonai eloheinu with elohut. It can prove useful to reject personal
language for God and see what remains: to find out what happens when you
set out, as Falk did, simply to say what you mean and mean what you say. Yet
theological transparency often has a way of diluting poetic language. As G.
K. Chesterton remarked of some lines from Shakespeare, "The aim of good
prose words is to mean what they say. The aim of good poetical words is to
mean what they do not say." 4

If we take as a test case Falk's revision of the Aleinu — a problematic text
by all liberal accounts— we find that when she says what she means, she first
of all means something substantially different from the traditional text. She
removes the assertion of chosenness and the denunciation of idolatry that
Kaplan and many others have found unacceptable, excisions which from the
outset shorten the text radically. Her Hebrew revision is still strongly iden-
tifiable as Jewish by phrases like Aleinu I'shabei'ah, tikkun olam, hatsmi'ah
g'ulah, and bay-yom ha-hu, which serve as a kind of lexical residue of the

3 Marcia Falk, The Book of Blessings (San Francisco: Harper, 1996).

4 G. K. Chesterton, "Sorry, I'm Shaw," Collected Works ofG. K. Chesterton (Fort
Collins, CO: Ignatius Press, 1989), 354.

original text: the apparent theological transparency of the new text is shored
up by the opacity of the old one. Her English version, by comparison— and
the comparison is important to make, for the sake of readers with little or
no Hebrew who will take the English as a direct translation — seems only
vestigially Jewish:

It is ours to praise

the beauty of the world

even as we discern
the torn world.

For nothing is whole
that is not first rent

and out of the torn
we make whole again.

May we live with promise
in creation's lap,

redemption budding
in our hands. (288)

This is pleasantly sober and hopeful, makes no supernatural assertions and
gives no commandments, and is unexceptionable in liberal liturgical terms.
The words creation, redemption, and possibly torn have mild Jewish overtones.
But the strongest lexical element in the English version is not Jewish at all:
it is Irish, and its echo has dangerous repercussions for Falk's whole project.
The lines "For nothing is whole / that is not first rent" are closely borrowed
from William Butler Yeats's "Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop." To invoke
Crazy Jane in a revision of the Aleinu is a more risky act than Falk perhaps
appreciates; in alluding to Yeats she has exposed her thinking and her verse
to his cold eye. Her Hebrew revision simply stands beside the traditional
liturgy in a family theological quarrel. Her English version places itself in
explicit comparison with the work of a great modern poet, where it must
stand or fall on its own merits. This is no longer the friendly world of Jewish

feminism, where women looking for gender-neutral alternatives to Barukh
atah adonai will applaud whatever they get; this is the literary realm with its
pitiless judgments.

Crazy Jane is a recurrent character in Yeats's late work, an outspoken and
defiant old woman with a past, whom the local bishop — who has been polic-
ing her private life since they were young— exhorts to repent of her sexual
sins. Here is the poem in full:

I met the bishop on the road

And much said he and I.

"Those breasts are flat and fallen now,

Those veins must soon be dry;

Live in a heavenly mansion,

Not in some foul sty'

'Fair and foul are near of kin,

And fair needs foul,' I cried.

'My friends are gone, but that's a truth

Nor grave nor bed denied,

Learned in bodily lowliness

And in the heart's pride!

A woman can be proud and stiff

When on love intent;

But Love has pitched his mansion in

The place of excrement;

For nothing can be sole or whole

That has not been rent.' 5
Yeats's fierce original instantly eclipses Falk's gentle abstractions. Crazy
Jane says what she means and means what she says, but she means so much
more than Falk wants the Aleinu to mean. Falk believes the only way to fix
the Aleinu is to weaken it: to say only what she can approve, and to relieve the
reader of the tormenting puzzle of what it means to be chosen. Yeats declares

5 The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (New York: Macmillan, 1956), 254.

192

that the tormenting puzzle of our physical nature, at its most disgusting and
its most ecstatic, contributes its whole vigor to our moral life. In borrowing
from Yeats, Falk was a butterfly inviting an eagle — or a swan: it is painful to
see her well-meaning attempt at reconceptualizing the nature of redemption
mastered by the brute blood of finely crafted rhythm and physical knowledge.
To make an alternative Aleinu habitable to Yeats's lines you would have to
re-problematize it — either with the disturbing elements of chosenness and
teleology that Falk removed, or with new and equally disturbing assertions.

It is worth stepping outside the religious realm and looking at Yeats's
standards for his own verse; his work was widely read in his own day, and
remains, for all its sophisticated content, among the clearest, most accessible,
and most easily committed to memory of 20th-century verse. In his 1937
essay "A General Introduction for My Work," he insists that there must be a
strong impersonal element in the writing of verse: "All that is personal soon
rots; it must be packed in ice or salt." He speaks of moments in Shakespeare
when "the supernatural is present, cold winds blow across our hands, upon
our faces, the thermometer falls... There may be in this or that detail pain-
ful tragedy, but in the whole work none... [imagination must dance, must
be carried beyond feeling into the aboriginal ice." Yeats wrote constantly on
personal subjects— his friends, his seances, his opinions political and liter-
ary, his unrequited passion for the Irish revolutionary, Maud Gonne— but by
compressing the personal into strict verse forms he intensified and put his
experience at a distance, driving it inward to the common human rhythms
of language and song. "If I wrote of personal love or sorrow in free verse," he
said, "or in any rhythm that left it unchanged, amid all its accidence, I would
be full of self-contempt because of my egotism and indiscretion, and foresee
the boredom of my reader." 6

The impersonality Yeats speaks of is not un-Jewish or unfamiliar. It was the
discipline that enabled Abraham Sutzkever to keep writing his finely crafted
Yiddish poems even in the Vilna Ghetto. It is the action of the Mourner's
Kaddish, in which the personality and physical presence of our dead is put
to one side, and inconsolable pain is forced — "carried beyond feeling into the
aboriginal ice"— to express itself as praise. The precisely calibrated sound and
rhythm of the Kaddish enacts through our own voices the awful paradox of
remaining alive and capable of feeling when the recipient of our feeling is dead.
Even Crazy Jane's outspokenness, indebted though it is to Jonathan Swift's, 7 is

6 W. B. Yeats, Essays and Introductions (New York: Macmillan, 1961), 522-23.

7 In "The Lady's Dressing Room," 1730, Swift as narrator advises the young
Strephon— dismayed by his lady's dirty laundry, cosmetics, and chamberpot— to admire

not outside the realm of permissible Jewish speech: it also has echoes of Ezekiel
and Hosea. Indeed it is consonant with Jewish ideas of the body: the intimate
realm of sexuality, which is altogether off limits to the bishop, is intimately
considered by the rabbis. (Crazy Jane would, of course, be living outside the
law in either religion.) In liturgical usage, generally only scripture is allowed
to speak as frankly as Crazy Jane, but we will not have contemporary liturgy
worth repeating till we have writing that tries to equal scripture.

Such writing serves the liturgy by being strong enough to strengthen it. In
the end, the purpose of new liturgy is not to provide a respite from the rigors
of prayer, but to intensify them; not to mitigate the effects of prayer, but to
compound them. An acceptable theology is at best a secondary goal. I'm told
that Richard L. Rubenstein, Death-of-God theologian and author of After
Auschwitz, used to tell his students that "an essential task of the theologian is
to reduce the cognitive dissonance between belief and reality" 8 An essential
task of the liturgist is to increase it.

Liturgy worth years of repetition cannot be neatly packaged in intelligible
units. It must be discovered in eagerness and longing and sometimes in pain,
in old language and new, in random wanderings among books and in the
conflicts of our own minds. It can never resemble the expurgated edition for
classroom use; it is what a good book is, a compelling and inexhaustible map
of good and evil consonant with our own knowledge. Liberal Jewish liturgists
need to learn what librarians know: school is a way-station, a means to an
end, and people are glad to get out. Confirmed library users are in it for life.

Catherine Madsen is Bibliographer at the Yiddish Book Center, and a lay leader
at the Jewish Community Center of Amherst (MA). She is the author of The Bones
Reassemble: Reconstituting Liturgical Speech, a critique of contemporary li-
turgical language, and librettist for Robert Stern's oratorio, Shofar. This article is
adapted from a talk she gave at the Association for Jewish Studies conference in 2008.

women's beauty regardless: "Such order from confusion sprung, / Such gaudy tulips
raised from dung."

8 Marc H. Ellis, Unholy Alliance: Religion and Atrocity in Our Time
(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997), 75. Ellis did not cite a source for this statement, but
confirmed in an e-mail of 28 April 2008 that Rubenstein "used to say it in class all the

194

Penitential Trop 1 and the Fishwife

By Victor Tunkel

I write by way of comment on an article in these pages, "Penitential Torah
Reading in Ashkenazic Practice." 2 It quotes the liturgical explanation of why
Ashkenazim alone have felt the need for a distinct Penitential trop: that it
arose to reflect sadness at the deaths of the two sons of Aaron, mentioned in
the Torah portion for Yom Kippur. It then tackles a musicological analysis of
the trop itself. In this it seems to claim that the eastern Ashkenazim adopted
a mode related to their Haftarah chant whereas their western brethren's
Penitential trop is derived from 'Stubentrop,' the chant of the schoolroom,
because it was the custom of the Maharil 3 to leyen 4 thus on Yom Kippur.

I can find no evidence for this duality. There is of course a well-known
divide between Eastern and Western Ashkenazic styles (henceforth EA and
WA) in the regular Torah and Haftarah trops. But I had not noticed any great
difference between them in the Penitential leyening, as heard in England or
the USA. I have therefore searched for published versions of the trop, EA or
WA, among the following sources:

MS Sanger (Munich c. 1830 in Idelsohn Thesaurus vol. VII), (Naumbourg
(Paris 1864, but South German), Sulzer (Vienna 1865), Deutsch (Breslau/
Wrocslaw 1871), Baer (Gothenburg 1877, offering four unspecified alterna-
tives), Wodak (Vienna 1898, but Hungarian), Friedmann (Berlin 1901), F.L.
Cohen (Jewish Encyclopedia 1903), Perlzweig (London 1912), Scheuermann
(Frankfurt 1912), Heller (Brim/Brno 1914), Kisselhof (St. Petersburg 1914),
Franck (Paris 1929), Zalmanoff (New York 1948, Chabad), Cohon (Cincinnati
1951), Binder (New York 1959), Ben-Yehuda (Israel 1968), Ne'eman (Israel

1 Yiddish word indicating both the written symbols and sung motives of signs
by which Hebrew Scripture is sung publicly (cantillated) in synagogue during worship;
it can refer to a single symbol/musical motive or (as here) to an entire system whereby
a particular Book/Section of the Hebrew Bible is cantillated.

2 /SM vol. 33, 2008: 178-186, "Gleaned from Many Sources."

3 Rabbi Moshe ben Yaakov Moellin, Mainz, Germany c. 1360-1427, acknowl-
edged halakhic authority— including matters musical pertaining to liturgy— for the
German-speaking lands of Central and Western Europe.

4 Cantillate Hebrew Scripture.

195

1971), Weinfeld (Israel 1972), Werner (A Voice Still Heard, NY 1976), Rosen-
berg (NY 1981), Weisgal (Levine, Emunat Abba, Baltimore 1981), Rosenbaum
(NY 1982), Zeitlin & Bar-Dayan (Israel 1984), Goren (Israel 1995), Spiro (NY
1999), Portnoy & Wolff (NY 2000), Jacobson (Philadelphia 2002), plus the
1969 Copenhagen recording included with Rossen & Sharvit: A Fusion of
Traditions (Denmark 2006) referred to below. 5

Looking at these as a whole, one discerns no variations so marked as to
suggest different origins. Much more apparent are minor local variants, and
two rare excursive elements: passages colored by Ukranian-Dorian modality
(UD), and/or passages colored by Ah av ah Rabbah (AR) modality. This sug-
gests to me that the trop, leyened on only three occasions a year and perhaps
by only one or two adults in each synagogue, was never defined and taught
in the way that regular Torah or Haftarah trop was. Indeed, it is notable how
many other books that notate regular trop are not listed above, because they
do not bother with Penitential trop at all.

Defining the trop

We need first to look at examples of the basic trop and then at those with the
added colorations mentioned above. JheJSM 2008 article gives an example
of WA but it is unsatisfactory, for reasons I shall soon explain. I offer instead
a version from the first published monograph ever devoted to trop, Asher
Perlzweig's Manual ofNeginoth. 6

Perlzweig (1870-1942) was born in Galitzia, studied hazzanut at the Can-
torenschule and music at the Conservatoire, both in Vienna. He emigrated to
London in 1890 and served at various synagogues before settling at Finsbury
Park in 1903, remaining there until 1931. In those days British congregations
made it a contractual condition that any new officiant absorbed and faithfully
observed their musical minhag, learned all their beloved tunes, trained or
worked with the choir, and taught all their b'nei mitzvah. Perlzweig did all this
assiduously, to such an extent that he was considered worthy of publishing a
cantorial manual that bore the approval of all his London fellow -hazzanim.
It is therefore reasonable to conclude that Perlzweig's notation of the Peniten-
tial trop represents what he found to be the practice of 19th-century British
Jewry. That it had been so for decades is attested by its close resemblance

5 It is understood that the dates and places of publication do not necessarily
indicate the age or locality of the particular tradition; some of the more recent nota-
tions just photo-reprint earlier sources.

6 London, 1912.

196

to WA versions published on the continent decades earlier by Wodak and
Baer, etc. That is why I adopted it in my book, The Music of the Hebrew Bible. 7
Example 1 is Perlzweig's notation, in Adonai Malakh (AM) on C, exhibit-
ing the mode's characteristic flatted 7th and 10th, here, the B-flat and E-flat.
Where Perlzweig's pashta rises only to D, some continental versions have
pashta rising to E-flat. Perlzweig's more triumphal trop motives— azla and
pazeir— do rise to the flatted 10th (E-flat), in line with most other sources.

Example 1. Asher Perlzweig's Penitential trop (excerpted), showing flatted 7th
and 10th of Adonai Malakh mode on C.

The 2008 JSM article relied for an example of WA Penitential trop on a
recording made by a Mr. Kaminkowitz of the Copenhagen Synagogue in 1969,
included on the CD accompanying Jane Mink Rossen & Uri Sharvit's recent
book. 8 1 would agree that the recording is a fair exemplar of WA Pentential
trop. However, the recording only transcribed a single verse (Genesis 22:14). 9
It thereby missed the two occurrences oikadma-azla in earlier verses where
the flatted tenth is heard. It also transcribed the final trop-clause's top note as
an E-natural rather than the expected E-flat. It is true that one or two of the
sources I listed earlier show E-natural in their cadence — and that on the CD
Mr. Kaminkowitz's intonation is imprecise. But the book's own transcription 10
clearly shows an E-flat.

Should this seem an insignificant matter I would repeat that the flatted 10th
as seen in Perlzweig's and other notations of the final clause is an essential
characteristic of the Penitential trop, just as it is in the AM prayer mode. It

7 Tymsder Press, London 2006.

8 A Fusion of Traditions— Liturgical Music it
University Press of Southern Denmark, 2006.

9 JSM article, p. 182.

10 Fusion, p. 148.

the Copenhagen Synagogue,

197

appears in all the major compendia, such as Baer, Wodak, Heller and Fried-
mann, and also in the detailed trop monographs of Binder and Ne'eman. Nor
is there any east-west divide among these Ashkenazic sources. But another
possible explanation exists for the JSM 2008 article's notation of an E-natural:
mistaken reliance on a mis-transcribed piece of doggerel by the renegade
17th-century Jew, Christian Gerson von Recklichhausen.

Penitential Trop and Stubentrop: Enter the Fishwife

In advancing theories as to why we have this special trop for High Holy Day
Torah leyening, the JSM 2008 article accepts the account mentioned earlier
of Maharil's having adopted Stubentrop in his leyening. How reliable this is
as an explanation is hard to say. We do know how influential Maharil was in
establishing many other of our musical/liturgical customs. Nevertheless, we
can test the theory's plausibility by examining Stubentrop to see its relation-
ship, if any, to Penitential trop.

First, what is Stubentrop? The article accepts Eric Werner's portrayal of
Stubentrop 11 as derived from the tract Chelec [Hebrew: Heilek], oder Thal-
mudischer Juudenschatz, published in Helmstadt in 1610. Its author was the
aforementioned apostate Gerson. In misrepresenting Jewish beliefs to his
newfound Christian brethren Gerson sets out some measures of music with
silly words, apparently to caricature what he purports to be the learning-or-
reciting style of chanting questions and answers in Jewish teaching.

Example 2 gives the music transcribed in modern notation by Francis
Lyon Cohen. 12 Its tonic (C) is indicated by the double-length final note. The
song therefore starts on the dominant (G) and is in a very simple pentatonic
major of little character. For some unexplained reason Cohen raised the last
measure's descending notes up an octave, giving a top mediant (E). This error
was repeated by Werner (who also mistakenly translates the last monetary
amount mentioned in the lyrics, zwene as "twenty" [pfennigs], so missing the
punch-line, such as it is. And the JSM 2008 article repeats both these errors.
Here is the text as it should read:

Customer: Ma'm, how much for a herring? Fishwife: Three pfennigs?

Customer: That's too dear. Fishwife: Well, one pfennig?

Customer: That's too cheap. Fishwife: Alright, so

two pfennigs.

1 1 A Voice Still Heard, p. 78.

12 The Jewish Encyclopedia, 1903, Vol. Ill, 549.

notation of the apostate Ger

Example 2. Eric Werner's modei
representation of a Stubentrop.

Werner, again following Cohen, proposes this as the oldest recorded ex-
ample of Stubentrop, but gives no later example. I offer several objections to
accepting Gerson's piece as an example of a learning mode.

1. It has nothing like any sort of mnemonic repetitive-recitative character.
Surely a learning aid, to be effective, has to imitate the contour of a human
voice rising and falling in association with the text, exposition or argument,
so as to make that voice and its words ingrained and memorable. 13

2. From what many experts believe to be the regular pentatonic German
Torah-leyening trop of the Middle Ages, this example, if chanted by
Maharil, would hardly be a radical musical departure from the weekly
norm. But applied, as suggested, to the portion read on Yom Kippur, it
would have been a travesty.

3. This music is nothing like the Penitential trop we have inherited. Werner
himself expresses this doubt. The most he can say is that "there is some
relationship between the [Gerson] Stubentrop and the cantillation: the
rising fourths and the Mixolydian mode with the B-flat are common and
characteristic elements." 14 Perhaps readers can see such resemblances in
Gerson's pentatonic piece; I am unable to.

4. What Gerson was depicting (or should we say ridiculing?) through this
simple-minded question-and-answer episode remains unclear. It would
therefore be most unfortunate if this one isolated, hostile example — itself
a freak survival — should influence all our subsequent notions.

Identifying Stubentrop

Here I will go out on a limb. What I have always understood to be Stubentrop
is preserved in various expository passages in our liturgy. One such passage,
Example 3, is the Father's explication of "Matza"— Ha lahma anya ("This is
our ancestors' Bread of Affliction") — at the beginning of the Seder ritual:

13 The custom of chanting the Talmud is ancient; it was so memorized and taught
long before its committal to writing. And long after it was written, some manuscripts
still had cantillation signs, a la Scripture; Yosef Fagin, "The Function of Talmudic
Chant and Cantillation," Journal of Jewish Music and Liturgy, Vol. XXX, 2008.

14 A Voice Still Heard, p. 78.

199

Example 3. The traditional chant for Ha lahma any a, an expository passage at the
beginning of the Seder ritual.

Abraham Baer 15 gives it as applying traditionally to Mah nishtanah ("How
does this night differ?"), another non-rhythmical expository passage, and of
course just the very chant-tune a child would know. Lionel Wolberger 16 offers
a diagrammatic cantillation of this, charted in comparison with the opening
Mishnah of tractate Bava Metzia. Example 4 is the way I recall hearing it:

Example 4. The author's recollection of a chant for the opening Mishnah of
tractate Bava Metzia.

In these "didactic" examples, with all their stark fourths and fifths, jerky
rhythm, emphases and halfway pauses, we can surely detect the vocal contour
of the teacher, taken up and memorized by his pupils. These are all recogniz-
able elements of the Study mode. Having established that, we can then go back
and look at the Penitential trop in its oldest notations. All the elements of this
suggested Stubentrop are there: the fifths and fourths, though softened by
linking motifs— as one would expect. And the MA prayer mode, a treasured
possession of both WA and EA, seems clearly to underly both the trop and
this suggested Stubentrop. Which of the three came first, and what was the
relationship between them, are questions I readily leave for wiser heads.

Two Intruders

In some, but only some, of the E A versions of Penitential trop we unexpectedly
find two old acquaintances. The earliest of the EA versions is in Zinovi Kis-
selhof 's Lieder-Sammelbuch, 11 Example 5. His notation in C, with the reciting
tone on the supertonic (D), has the flatted 7th— here on B-flat inpashta—as
in most other versions. But in his t'lishah g'dolah and gershayim we find a
tone-row: D / E-flat / F-sharp / G. This little flavoring of theAR mode seems to

15 Baal Tfillah, p. 170.

16 "Music of Holy Argument, the Ethnomusicology of a Talmud Session," Modern
Jews and Their Musical Agendas, Ezra Mendelssohn, ed. (New York: Oxford University
Press), 1993, pp. 110-136.

17 St. Petersburg: 1911, published in 1914.

200

be a local or personal mannerism, because in other melismatic combinations
such as munah-revia and darga-t'vir he introduces no intervallic deviations
within the Penitential trop. 18

Example 5. Zinovi Kisselhof's Penitential trop (excerpted), showing AR flavoring
in motives for t'lishah g'dolah and gershayim.

Shneur Salman Zeitlin and Haim Bar-Dayan, 19 while reproducing Kiselhof
with approval, instead prescribe UD flavoring for the above-mentioned melis-
matic trop motives as well as for darga and revi'a (Leviticus 16:14), Example 6.

s Penitential trop
md revi'a.

ken: -:n:iii

Example 6. Shneur Salman Zeitlin and Haim Bar-Dayar
(excerpted), showing UD flavoring in motives for darga a

Y. L. Ne'eman, born in Jerusalem to a family of Lithuanian hazzanim,
stressed UD still further in his monograph, Tseliley hammiqra? He presented
the complete UD scale in its customary descending form, at the outset, for
the entire Penitential trop system (Example 7). The only three "normal"

18 Beyond the scope of the present article, Kisselhof's Haftarah version has
augmented-seconds in almost every trop motive.

19 Miqraey Qodesh (New York: Israel Matz Foundation), 1984, p. 376.

20 Jerusalem: Israel Institute for Sacred Music, 1971, "Minhag of Lita-Polin," p.

344.

melismatic motives he offered were t'vir, t'lishah g'dolah, and the final sof-
pasuk clause.

Example 7. Y. L. Ne'eman's UD scale for almost all Lithuanian Penitential trop
motives.

It seems that some EA sources incorporated, idiosyncratically, local color-
ings such as AR and UD within their Penitential trop, without abandoning its
underlying mode 21 Surely that is the historical sequence of events, according
to three of our most repected musicologists.

Idelsohn: In Eastern Europe... the Pentateuch mode was badly corrupted. 22
Avenary: The musical dialect of Russia's Jewry, has been affected by
the surrounding Turco-Tatar tribes; as a result of continuous
exposure to these Central Asian sounds, the scales of their
Pentateuch chants took on Asiatic quality 23
Werner: It [ WA] is older and less contaminated by Byzantine and Slavonic
elements than the Eastern European tradition. 24

These statements, referring to the EA versions of our Bible cantillation
systems as a whole, seem especially applicable in the present context.

Victor Tunkel, a London barrister and law lecturer, has had a lifetime involvement in
Jewish music as an amateur chorister, cantor, cantillator, collector and educator. His
elegant taste is evidenced by his article in JSM 2007, "Music of the First Jewish Woman
Composer [Leonora Duarte, 1610-1 678]:' His book, The Music of the Hebrew Bible:
The Western Ashkenazic Tradition, was reviewed in JSM 2006.

21 As opposed to Kisselhof and Ne'eman; Baruch ben Yehuda notates Penitential
trop almost entirely "conventionally."

22 Thesaurus Vol. 7, xiv.

23 The Ashkenazi tradition of Biblical Chant 1500-1900 (Tel-Aviv University),
1978, p. 66).

24 The Sacred Bridge (New York: Columbia University Press), 1959, p. 437.

202

Re: Sulzer and Minkowsky

August 7, 2011

The article in JSM 2011, "Salomon Sulzer (1804-1890) Meets Pinchas
Minkowsky (1859-1924)," shows Minkowsky as a novice coming to be inter-
viewed by an aged Sulzer, who had long retired from singing or — as he now
explained — even from accepting new students. Minkowsky, who had hoped
to study with the Master, was bitterly disappointed, but went on to become
Chief Cantor at the Brody Synagogue in Odessa (1884-1920) and to publish
widely in various journals on Jewish Music, in Hebrew, German and Yiddish.
JSM 2011 also presented an excellent translation of several chapters from
Mayn lebn, the autobiography of Zevulun Kwartin (1874-1952): "My Life in
Turn-of-the-Century Vienna and its Environs," which covers the years pre-
ceding WWI in which he won international acclaim through early Deutsche
Gramophone recordings. Before then, as a fledgling hazzan, Kwartin had
traveled to Odessa and auditioned for Minkowsky — in an ironic reprise of
Minkowsky's earlier pilgrimage to Sulzer. He, too, was to leave disappointed,
but for a different reason. Minkowsky told him:

Young man, it would be sinful to devote a beautiful voice such as yours to
hazzanut. Of what use is it to serve as a synagogue cantor, a profession
that is no longer honored? In addition, there is presently a surplus of
hazzanim and a shortage of positions. You would do far better to pursue
an operatic career.

Momentarily crushed, Kwartin was not to be dissuaded from what he felt
was his destiny. The very next day, he went to see Minkowsky's equally fa-
mous Music Director, the Brody Synagogue's Choirmaster/Composer since
1871, David Nowakowsky After Kwartin had sung for him and repeated
Minkowsky's advise, Nowakowsky burst out laughing:

With that voice, if you learned even minimally how to cultivate it, and
delved a bit more deeply into the requirements of professional hazzanut
from the perspective of both traditional and modern nusah, you would
have no trouble finding a position. There aren't that many good hazzanim;
Minkowsky frightened you for no reason!

This pivotal incident in Kwartin's life underscores the intergenerational ten-
sions between accomplished-but-insecure cantorial luminaries and talented-
but-inexperienced aspirants who sought their counsel over a century ago.
The story appears in my latest volume, The Pinhas Minkowsky Book (2011:
304-309). I trust it will prove of interest to JSM readers.

Akiva Zimmermann

Tel Aviv

FAX: Oil 972 3 718-2125

Odessa: The Brody Synagogues interior and choir early in the 20th
century. (Cantor Pinchas Minkowsky stands 6th from the
right, back row.)

The Rabbinical Assembly's Mahzor Lev
Shalem for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur,
ed. Edward Feld et. al. (2010), 468 + xv pp.

Reviewed by Ruth hanger

In many ways, prayer books express the values and identity of the Jewish com-
munities that they serve. It is therefore particularly noteworthy that the Rab-
binical Assembly of the American Conservative Movement did not produce
its own liturgies for approximately half a century after its establishment. Its
first High Holy Day mahzor was commissioned, even later, in 1957, but the
resultant The High Holyday Prayer Book: Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur,
translated and arranged by Ben Zion Bokser, was published in 1959 by the
Hebrew Publishing Company, a commercial press, listing only the names of the
Rabbinical Assembly and United Synagogue-appointed editorial committee.
This volume followed the traditional Ashkenazi rite very closely, eliminating
some but by no means all piyyutim and introducing new material sparingly
and almost exclusively in English as meditations before significant points in
the service. 1 In 1972, the Rabbinical Assembly published in its own name a
substantially different text, the Mahzor for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur:
A Prayer Book for the Days of Awe, edited by Jules Harlow. Its introduction,
alluding perhaps obliquely to Bokser, states explicitly, "Our editorial approach
demands not only a new translation but editing the Hebrew text and introduc-
ing a variety of prose and poetry as well as explanatory notes and rubrics" (v).
Almost forty years later, in 2010, the Rabbinical Assembly published
Mahzor Lev Shalem (henceforth MLS), edited by a committee chaired by
Rabbi Edward Feld comprised mostly of rabbis, but including also cantors
and some laypeople. The contents of this elegantly produced volume reflect
deep reflection on the liturgical needs of our times, enabling a richly mean-
ingful spiritual and intellectual engagement with the prayers and themes of
the High Holy Days for Jews from diverse backgrounds and dispositions. It
does this primarily by offering a much richer "variety of prose and poetry

1 A significant exception to this is his addition of a reading and piyyut by Hillel
Bavli reflecting on the Holocaust in conjunction with the memorializing of rabbinic
martyrs in the Eilleh Ezkerah of Yom Kippur musaf, 434-436.

as well as explanatory notes and rubrics" than found in Harlow, while at the
same time returning judiciously to a more traditional liturgical experience
and more literal translations.

This is largely a user-friendly and intellectually honest volume. It pays
significant attention to communicating liturgical structure, signally that
these prayers are not a random collection. The bottom of each page identi-
fies clearly both in Hebrew and in English one's location in the service. The
English translations contain even more substantial indications of the service's
structure. These translations themselves strive with remarkable success (given
the difficulty of the task) to be simultaneously a literal and honest portrayal
of what the Hebrew text communicates and readable English. 2 A third level
of structural explanation generally appears in the commentary on the right-
hand margin.

While the presumption is that (most) prayers will be led in Hebrew, the
beginner is not left out. Parts of the liturgy that are most frequently sung by
the congregation, as in the 1998 SiddurSim Shalom for Shabbat and Festivals
(henceforth 555), appear also in transliterated Hebrew. These, as well as the
service's rubrics (instructions) appear in red, easily located. These collectively
invite the intelligent congregant who is less familiar with the service to learn
about it instead of feel frustrated and excluded by its strangeness.

At the same time, the book invites ever deeper participation by those al-
ready familiar with the liturgy. The layout even of familiar prayers, in most
places, emphasizes their internal poetic structures. Historically, this is unusual
for Jewish prayer books, especially for statutory prayers, probably because
such presentation requires space and presumes read rather than memorized
prayers. While it has become more common today, 3 some decisions here are
particularly striking. 4 At the same time, MLS does not contain vast areas of

2 A comparison of prayers shared with the 1998 Siddur Sim Shalom demon-
strates this move towards the literal. See, for instance, the translation of Ti "73 nDC?l
(SSS 1998, 104-106; MLS, 67-69), or the wvm nXD(SSS 1998, 6; MLS. 436, 453). A
comparison of this translation with that of the British Rabbi Jonathan Sacks {Authorised
Daily Prayer Book... [London: United Synagogue, 2006] , TheKoren Siddur: American
Edition [Jerusalem, 2009]), also in excellent English and honest in its literal nature,
suggests that they are of similar level albeit with some differences in specific decisions.

3 See the Orthodox prayer books produced by ArtScroll (where this is incon-
sistent) and Koren.

4 See, for instance, the layout of iii* niassna 7Nn on the top of p. 69, and the right-
hand commentary on it. This text also numbers the ten verses that precede each blowing
of shofar in the Rosh Hashanah musaf service.

206

blank space, unlike in the recent prayer books of the American Reconstruc-
tionist and Reform movements. Instead, wisely chosen readings provide
food for thought and this prayer book, while physically slightly larger than
Harlow's, remains of manageable dimensions.

Commentaries and readings appear on the margins of each two-page
spread, sometimes filling the bottom of the page as well. The commentary,
adjacent to the Hebrew text on the right, is pedagogic, addressing the intel-
lectual needs of the modern worshiper. It accurately presents the history of
the prayer, explains its vocabulary and sources, and sometimes discusses
concepts found in it. Especially the last explicitly names potential conflicts
with contemporary understandings of the world and suggests positive ways
to interpret the liturgy. Other prayer books often handle such issues through
carefully nuanced non-translations; the honesty underlying this volume re-
quires a healthy degree of confrontation and struggle. Thus, for instance, on
God's attribute as one who "gives life to the dead," this volume offers a fairly
lengthy comment acknowledging the complexity of understanding this con-
cept, suggesting that even leading sages have "cautioned against speculation
about" this concept, understanding it "to be an articulation of God's supreme
power: God cares even for the dead." 5

This element of the right-hand commentary blends into the purpose of the
series of readings and meditations found in the left-hand margin of the page
opening. Indeed, at times, it is difficult to discern what, beyond perhaps the
needs of layout, determined the placement. In general, though, the left-hand
margin offers a rich set of (usually) attributed readings, drawn almost entirely
from the Jewish world but from literally all corners of it, designed to enhance
the spiritual experience of engaging with the prayers and themes of the day.
Everything here is offered in English; only in a few cases are Hebrew originals
included as well. Perhaps because these readings are necessarily brief and
must be accessible, the majority of texts are of relatively recent vintage. Two
emphases stand out: the desire to enable spirituality has led to many Hasidic
teachings as well as citations of Abraham Joshua Heschel; the desire to give
women a voice receives its primary expression through this vehicle. Some

5 MLS, pp. 12 et al. Musaf services (p. 126 et al.) suggest understanding the
term to refer to "spiritual revival in this world." In contrast, see, for instance, Bokser's
translations of Epnm rrriQ as "life eternal" (p. 31 et al); Harlow's 1972 mahzor begins
the prayer "Your might, O Lord, is boundless. Your lovingkindness sustains the living.
Your great mercies give life to the dead," skipping the first reference to resurrection of
the dead. He concludes the prayer translating D'nm rrra as "Master of life and death"
(p. 31 et al.). The editions ofSSS restore the missing phrase.

207

congregations may choose to read these compositions communally; many
congregants will choose to dip into them in the course of the day.

Much attention was also given to the liturgical core of MLS. Prayers recited
year round generally follow the model of the 1998 555 (with new translations) ,
except that the option between the versions of the "First B'rakhah: Our An-
cestors" — never called by its traditional name "Avot" (patriarchs) but rather
offered as "with Patriarchs" and "with Patriarchs and Matriarchs"— appears
in parallel columns instead of on sequential pages. The option of inserting
the matriarchs is also offered more consistently here throughout, every time
the traditional Hebrew text mentions the patriarchs. 6 This suggests that the
movement to make Conservative liturgy gender-neutral is becoming more
and more normative.

The distinctive feature of the High Holy Day liturgy is its piyyutim (litur-
gical poetry), which since the nineteenth century have been recited in the
Ashkenazi rite only on these days. Like its Conservative predecessors, MLS
judiciously chooses among possible piyyutim for each service, avoiding those
that are difficult even for the well-educated to comprehend. Thus, much is
omitted. These include especially the opening three piyyutim of the kedushta 7
for each repetition of the amidah. However, this omission (as well as any of
piyyut inserted in the blessings surrounding the shema) results in a substantial
loss of liturgical focus on the specific message of the day 8 Perhaps with time
some new poetry will emerge that can fill this gap.

The editors of MLS do preserve in its conventional place in the first bless-
ing the standardized r'shut (...a i aDn 7loa, "Inspired by the insight of sages..."),
which their commentary acknowledges serves as an introduction to piyyu-
tim. 9 However, as no piyyut appears for another two pages, this now lacks

6 Translated, however, with the neutral "ancestors."

7 The classical kedushta elaborates on the themes of the day, climaxing with the
recitation of the angelic liturgy of the kedushah itself. It begins with a series of three
short poems which originally replaced the bodies of the first three blessings of the
amidah and focused directly on the day's theme. These were followed by as many as
six additional poems that transitioned gradually to the themes of the angelic liturgy.
The editors of MLS have selected poetry from this later part of the kedushta. For an
excellent introduction to piyyut, see Laura Lieber, Yannai on Genesis (Cincinnati:
Hebrew Union College Press, 2010), Part I.

8 Bokser and Harlow had preserved the magein, the first of these preceded by
WEOU TIDQ. Note also that MLS does not offer any different liturgy for the second day
of Rosh Hashanah except, of course, for its Scriptural readings.

9 Note that this comment's identifying this as a response to the controversy over
the halakhic legitimacy of the recitation of piyyut (discussed at length in my To Wor-

208

context. It could have been moved to precede the repetition entirely, but in
the musaf services, as in Harlow, they have moved the hin'ni (the prayer of
the leader), a more elaborate expression of the same ideas, to this location. 10
This traditionally precedes the silent recitation of the amidah, but does indeed
make more sense here. Might the r'shutbe moved instead to precede the first
piyyut actually recited?

The editors have also chosen wisely which piyyutim to include in this
mahzor. Only custom and not law dictates what appears in any particular
mahzor, allowing significant freedom for a movement whose roots are in
the Ashkenazi rite but that does not limit itself to this. Familiar, accessible
Ashkenazi-rite piyyutim with well-beloved melodies for congregational
singing have received obvious preference. Those mumbled in Orthodox
settings (and in many cases relegated to the back of the book in modern
Israeli mahzorim) have all disappeared. There are numerous cases, though,
where the editors have introduced accessible poetry (and readings) from
elsewhere. For instance, Harlow had included English-only "meditations"
before the liturgical elaborations preceding the three sets of shofar blasts in
musaf. Instead, MLS's "Meditations on Malkhuyot" (p. 155) excerpts from
a piyyut traditionally placed earlier in the service, IT 1 ?!* "f?a, "The Sovereign
on High." The parallel meditations on "Zikhronot" (p. 159) and "Shofarot"
(pp. 163-64) excerpt from the earliest known piyyut for these locations, by
the fifth century Yose ben Yose. "Zikhronot" adds an unattributed modern
reading, just in English, and "Shofarot" adds a poem by the Israeli Leah
Goldberg in Hebrew and English. All of these are accompanied by additional
contemporary readings in the left margin.

A similar pattern of decisions shapes the selections of s'lihpt (penitential
poetry) on Yom Kippur. MLS structures these uniquely, explicitly offering
three cycles at the Kol Nidre and Neilah services (where many Orthodox
synagogues recite many more, but Bokser and Harlow offered two each time,
sometimes in abbreviated form ), and including a briefer but explicit poetic
section in the morning and Musaf services where they had been eliminated
from most Ashkenazi rites. 11 Here too MLS introduces materials from the

ship God Properly: Tensions Between Liturgical Custom and Halakhah [Cincinnati:
Hebrew Union College Press, 1998] , ch. 3) is questionable. The genre of r'shut expresses
the humility of the cantor, called upon to represent his community before God.

10 As well as offering a version in the grammatical feminine. Even the version for
a man removes the traditional references to the person's physical maturity, allowing
here for a younger leader.

11 Each cycle typically consists of poetry (of penitence and/or rebuke), then
compositions from verses, followed by the recitation of God's Thirteen Attributes of

209

Sephardi and Italian rites, as well as particularly beloved elements from the
Ashkenazi tradition. However, instead of repeating the same introduction
to the Thirteen Attributes each time, it offers three different introductions.
While more intellectually interesting, it is possible that these cumulative
decisions reduce the emotional sense of banging desperately on the gates of
Heaven communicated by the traditional repetitions of the Thirteen Attri-
butes within their larger setting. However, MLS is to be praised for rejecting
the thirteenth-century Sephardi s'lihah that Harlow had introduced in the
morning service (p. 451) which is theologically difficult at a number of levels. 12
It is also to be praised for explicitly restoring rrotK n^s (Eilleh Ezk'rah: These
I Recall) to its function as the s'lihah of the musaf service.

Traditionally, the rrrosti 170 (The Temple Service) precedes "Eilleh Ezk'rah"
as an elaborate memorialization of the sacrifices of the day. Harlow, however,
reflecting the Conservative Movement's general hesitancy about grieving for
loss of sacrificial worship, had printed this element after Musaf (p. 598 ff.) and
had included just a note at this point (pp. 554-55) that "those congregations
whose custom it is to recite Seder Ha'avodah" should insert it. His text began
with a four-page long English paraphrase of the traditional piyyut combined
with discussion of how one might approach the idea of animal sacrifices.
Then for the critical descriptions of the Yom Kippur liturgy, it employed the
language of Mishnah Yoma instead of its payy'tanic liturgical paraphrase. It
concluded with a declaration that prayer has now taken the place of sacrifices.

As is typical, MLS steps back part way from this radical rewriting of the lit-
urgy. The Seder Ha'avodah appears in its traditional location. For the most part
it employs received liturgical texts. However, it does begin with a two pages
Hasidic teaching about the significance of the moment when the High Priest
invokes the name of God in the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur, 13 designed
to help the reader appreciate the significance of what follows. The received
piyyut that follows, though, consists of an abbreviated anthology, beginning

mercy. In Ashkenaz, the compositions from verses alone generally remain as intro-
ductions to the recitation of the viddui (confessional) prayers in the morning, Musaf,
and afternoon services. Harlow reintroduces the recitation of the Thirteen Attributes,
but without poetic introduction at this point in musaf and minhah and with a single
s'lihah in the morning.

12 Post-Holocaust, a prayer that suggests that one's suffering is self-inflicted is
particularly problematic. In addition, this poem begins with seeking vengeance, a
dangerous theme in today's world where Israel holds military power.

13 P. 326. Note that this uses the entire page spread, and unlike all other page
spreads in the book, it begins on the left and continues on the right. This is not suf-
ficiently indicated in the text itself.

210

with selections from versions used in other rites before turning to Meshul-
lam ben Kalonymus's familiar text for the Yom Kippur rituals themselves.
MLS's abbreviations mean that the grand sweep of the payy'tanic tradition
is lost, one that moves from the creation of the world through Genesis to
the emergence of the descendents of Levi as the priests who will perform
this ritual, thus suggesting that the entire purpose of the preceding history
was for this moment. However, the difficult language of Meshullam and the
tradition of mumbling this in most Orthodox Ashkenazi synagogues creates
its own loss of meaning; the abbreviations here allow for greater if selective
focus. MLS concludes this section with Harlow's presentation of prayer and
deeds of lovingkindness as adequate compensation for the lack of sacrifices
in post-Temple times.

In the wake of the Holocaust, both Bokser and Harlow had felt the need to
expand the memorialization of martyrs offered in Eilleh Ezk'rah and conse-
quently to abbreviate and substitute for the traditional narrative. Instead of
the stylized ten martyrs of the medieval piyyut, MLS recalls four, beginning
with a selection from that piyyut about Rabbi Yishmael, but then substitut-
ing rabbinic-era prose texts about three others of the most famous. It then
goes on to include readings from a Crusades chronicle, a poem responding to
the exile of Jews from Spain, and then a Yiddish poem recalling the author's
family and community lost in the Holocaust. Particularly noteworthy here is
MLS's radical rewriting of the opening stanza, which it like Harlow uses as a
refrain, binding the whole together. Instead of the second line's reading "For
the arrogant have devoured us like an unturned cake," (only the first half of
which Harlow, p. 555, translates) it reads "for the bitter course of our history,
tears pour from my eyes" (p. 337). We mourn without directing specific and
enduring anger at past oppressors. This implicitly allows us to move on in
our relationships with today's neighbors.

This sort of retrieval with modification also marks the Yizkor liturgy. Harlow
had moved Yizkor to between the afternoon and neilah services, perhaps in
imitation of its placement in American Reform liturgies. MLS restores it to
its traditional location in conjunction with the Torah service. Like Harlow,
it offers a series of meditative readings as an introduction, although these
appear in Hebrew as well as in English and come from sources ranging from
the Bible to the Reconstructionist Mahzor Hadash. Noteworthy is the pre-
sentation of the memorial prayers themselves: they appear here in only two
categories, male and female, but within each there is specific language for a
parent, a spouse, a partner, a sibling, a child, an other relative, a friend, and
others (p. 291). This represents a significant re-sorting and widening of the

categories of people for whom one would traditionally recite this prayer but
reflects well the shifting concepts of family and community in twenty-first
century western society. Communal prayers appear on the following page in
memory of martyrs, congregants, and Holocaust victims. That the last does
not name the perpetrators is fully appropriate, as I have argued elsewhere. 14

MLS also includes a small number of elements that can only be labeled
"creative." The evening service for Rosh Hashanah precedes the traditional
Kiddush with a rati"" vnvp (The Dedication of the New Year), which has aggre-
gated readings from Genesis 1 with medieval and modern poetry and prose to
reflect on the intersection of the creation of the world and of humankind with
prayers for the coming year (pp. 20-24). The Rosh Hashanah Torah service
includes ma^EM tqw *?s m^Dn (Prayers of Brokenness and Wholeness) which
extends the boundaries of concern expressed by the traditional mi she-beirakh
for the sick to include caregivers of all sorts as well as reflection on how the
various shofar calls express the feelings of brokenness and the search for
wholeness caused by illness (p. 283). The absence of a parallel on Yom Kippur
is surprising, but may be explained by the inclusion of Yizkor in that service.

The "Concluding Prayers of Confession," following the Al het, found in
its fullest form here at the Kol Nidre service, contains many creative ele-
ments. Heading the traditional list of biblical models for confession is now a
paragraph about Hannah's prayer. This lacks full literary parallelism with the
received parts of this composition that follow because it is (necessarily) mostly
a paraphrase of I Samuel 2 instead of directly employing biblical language
(p. 239 ). New lines about key biblical women have also been incorporated
into the following litany, and this is followed by a poem by Zelda, a modern
Israeli poet, as well as a second, written originally in English by Alvin Fine. 15
This is one of a number of loci where contemporary poetry, especially that by
women, has been integrated into the main text. 16 However, the Conservative
movement's expectation of a halakhically defined liturgy limits opportuni-
ties for such additions; most find expression in the left-hand margin instead.

14 "Liturgy in the Light of Jewish-Christian Dialogue," Studies in Christian-Jewish
Relations 4 (2009): Langer CP 13, http://ejournals.bc.edu/ojs/index.php/scjr/article/
view/1541/1395.

15 Pp. 240-42. Both of these poems, however, function better as introductions to
the Mourner's Kaddish, which is indeed where Alvin Fine's poem appears in Reform
liturgies. They are interpolated here between two litanies, begging God to respond to
our prayers as God did to prayer of known people of merit. It is difficult to understand
how these modern poems contribute to the theme of this liturgical section.

16 See also, pp 163-64, by Leah Goldberg.

212

There are additional smaller details that deserve praise and a shorter list,
mostly of insignificant missed nuances in commentaries, that could be cri-
tiqued. These will not change the larger picture drawn above. Overall, MLS is
a remarkable contribution to the Jewish liturgical scene, one that reflects and
strives constructively to shape the Conservative Movement's identity for our
times. The editors of this volume, under the leadership of Edward Feld, have
addressed in superlative fashion the challenges confronting them: to present
a mostly traditional Ashkenazi liturgy in a way in a way that demonstrates
its relevance and spiritual richness to an intelligent community with diverse
degrees of Jewish knowledge; to update this liturgy in ways that is coherent
with the halakhic guidelines and liturgical precedents of the Conservative
movement; and to respond to the reality of a community in which women
are significant leaders and in which neither American Jews nor Conservative
Jews live in insular communities. This it has done in a volume beautifully
designed by Scott-Martin Kosofsky We can only look forward to their future
contributions to Jewish liturgical life.

Ruth Langer is Associate Professor of Jewish Studies in the Theology Department at
Boston College. Her books include To Worship God Properly: Tensions between
Liturgical Custom and Halakhah in Judaism (1 998), Liturgy in the Life of the
Synagogue (co-edited with Steven Fine, 2005) and Cursing the Christians?: A
History ofBirkat HaMinim (2011). Dr. Langer has written over 50 articles and
reviews in publications rangingfrom The Journal of Semitic Studies (1 995) and The
Medieval Review (1998) to the Encyclopedia Judaica (2nd edition, 2006) and the
Jewish and Christian Perspective Series (2007). Her review, "Continuity, Change
and Retrieval: The New Reform Siddur" appeared in the Fall 2009 issue ofJSM.

Charles Davidson's SEFER HADRAKHAH:
An Annotated Guide and Commentary On the
Application of Nusah ha-t'filah BeminhagAsh-
kenaz For the Liturgical Year, Shabbat Settings
by Max Wohlberg. Second Edition, Ashbourne
Music, 2011.

A Review/Essay by Sholom Kalib

The historical context

In the 19 th and early 20th centuries, a number of documentations of the
musical-liturgical tradition of West Central Europe appeared in publication,
the most comprehensive of which was the Abraham Baer Baal T'fillah. It
included within a single 358-page volume 1,448 musical examples covering
complete services for every liturgical occasion of the year. The examples
include, for the most part, one or two settings of each text in the German
tradition. Most often they also include a setting representative of the Polish-
German tradition. Also included are a relatively small number from the
Portuguese tradition. Baer also provided footnote instructions regarding
ritualistic procedures, as well as variations on them in diverse communities.
Additional information is provided in appendices. No attempt at a similar
work has appeared for approximately a century. Charles Davidson's Sefer
Hadrakhah is a significant contribution toward that objective. A cursory
overview reveals its apparent goal of serving as an updated representation
of the Ashkenazi musical-liturgical tradition, as it evolved subsequent to its
transplantation from the Old World in Europe to the New World and other
continents during approximately the past century.

The first edition of this remarkable work has been used as a textbook at
the Cantorial School of the Jewish Theological Seminary for the past year-
and-a-half, and as a result, a significantly improved second edition is now
available. This review/essay pertains to that revised edition.

As stated in the promotional materials, this work has been in the making
for over 60 years, and it clearly reveals Hazzan Davidson's life-long scholarly
work, as well as his four decades of experience as a hazzan and devoted Na-
than Cummings Professor of Nusah and Liturgy at the Jewish Theological
Seminary, above and beyond his illustrious achievements as a composer.
The work also clearly reveals knowledge acquired from the hazzanic training

and curriculum developed by Hazzan Davidson's teacher and mentor, Max
Wohlberg (z"l), evidenced not only in the totality of the Shabbat examples in
the Sefer Hadrakhah and in the numerous other musical settings by Wohlberg
throughout the book, but in the numerous references to his opinions on many
details regarding various nusahim.

Whereas the Baer Baal T'fillah covers all liturgical occasions, the Sefer
Hadrakhah — although covering most — omits several, most noticeably the
daily weekday services. Whereas Baer provides musical examples for almost
all prayer texts, the Sefer Hadrakhah contains merely 276. For the prayer texts
for which no musical examples are given, the reader is referred either to an
earlier example in the book employing the same nusah, or to outside sources,
ranging from 1—8 referenced works, but mostly 3—4. These referenced works
are listed for prayer texts for which musical examples are provided in the
book as well as for those which are not. Many of the musical examples cover
merely a portion of the chant at hand. The remainder of these chants, as well
as many others for which no musical examples are provided are left to be
improvised within the motivic or template pattern(s) presented in footnotes.

Like Baer, the Sefer Hadrakhah details in footnotes, lucidly and concisely,
the ritualistic practices relating to the liturgical situation at hand, including
customs of exchange between hazzan and kahal where applicable. Diverse
traditions and nusahim relative to numerous texts are pointed out, and vari-
ous nusahim for individual texts— as mandated by special liturgical occasions
(e.g., Lekhah dodi during the period oiS'firat ha'omer) — are presented. Also
as in Baer, concise lists of the order of prayer texts and their nusahim for
various liturgical occasions are presented.

The Sefer Hadrakhah, in addition, provides vital information on issues
totally unaddressed by Baer. First of all, it states the scale-or mode-basis for
every prayer section and individual text where applicable. Key motives within
many nusahim are pointed out, and where applicable, modulatory patterns
and the inclusion of secondary scale-or mode-bases are identified. Also
described is the overall motivic structure for many nusahim. In a few High
Holiday texts, the author points out individual words or phrases calling for
special emphasis. Moreover, in the Glossary, the Sefer Hadrakhah. defines
the basic modes operative within the musical-liturgical tradition as a whole.
Also in the Glossary, as well as in a number of commentaries throughout the
book, the author cites scholarly opinions on various aspects of given nusa-
him, including those of Idelsohn and Werner, and more contemporary ones
including Daniel Katz, Joseph Levine, Brian Mayer and Boaz Tarsi. For a few

texts, a brief history is also presented. In addition, traditions and customs
related to, albeit extraneous to the liturgy proper are detailed, and occasionally
the rationale for them is also given. The presentations are concise, thorough,
clearly and beautifully presented, and are of immense value.

Other key differences between the Baer Baal T'fillah and the Davidson Sefer
Hadrakhah relate to the area, period and resultant scope of their content.
Baer dealt with the West Central European musical-liturgical tradition, and
as the title of his monumental work indicates, it covered the domain of the
ba'al t'fillah— & knowledgeable, musical and God-fearing lay prayer leader— in
the broad sense of that designation, germane to the nineteenth century. It
did not take into consideration advanced hazzanut of the Eastern European
level or choral compositions. As the subtitle of the Sefer Hadrakhah indicates,
it is designed to serve as a guide on the "Application ofNusah ha-tefillah
Beminhag Ashkenaz" and as stated in the Preface, the intent of the book is
"to mirror certain European Ashkenazi traditions." Neither the title nor the
Preface clearly indicate whether the intent is to cover the tradition of West
Central or Eastern Europe, or a combination of both. A cursory overview,
however, reveals that for a number of texts, examples or footnote commen-
taries present both. Moreover, for a number of texts, examples are given of
West Central European nusahim which were either merely optional in the
Eastern European tradition (e.g., the Na'anu'im melody sung while waving
the lulav and etrog in all directions during Hallel for Sukkot; Ex. 2.44d p.
55), or which were alien to it altogether (e.g., Ka-amur ... Or hadash and
Va-havi'einu I'shalom in the Shaharit service of Shalosh R'galim, as well as
Kaddish shaleim at the conclusion of those services (Examples. 12.23, 12.24
and 12.35, pp. 230—31 and 243, respectively).

For the most part, however, the examples given as well as the bulleted
sources of classic published collections of hazzanic recitatives represent the
Eastern European tradition, which was dominant in the United States and all
other countries to which masses of Eastern European Jews immigrated from
the closing decades of the 19 th through the early decades of the 20 th century.
During the course of the 20 th century, however, very much has taken place
which has dramatically affected both the character and content of that tra-
dition. Clarification of those changes is vital before addressing the musical
content of the Sefer Hadrakhah.

As the musical-liturgical tradition of the Eastern European Synagogue
evolved, it took place in an environment of persecution and negative prejudice
against the Jewish population by the host community, a characteristic situa-
tion throughout most of Jewish history. The kahal of the Eastern European

216

synagogue consequently perceived its role as one of davening, placing its
total trust in the merciful Father in Heaven. It perceived the role of the sh'li'ah
tsibbur literally as the representative of the kahal in prayer, as its defense
attorney, as it were, pleading the communal cause before the King of Kings.
Above many anAron ha-kodesh there appeared the Talmudic-based passage,
Da lifnei mi atah omeid ("Know before Whom you stand"). The kahal, indi-
vidually and collectively, felt comforted and strengthened emotionally by the
experience of hern tfiloh (Yiddish, "listening to prayer"), i.e., to the chanted
prayer of the sh'li'ah tsibbur as he interpreted it and brought its message to
the hearts of the worshippers. Also greatly uplifting were renditions of texts
of glorification. Renditions of texts of both supplication and glorification were
also relished when performed by a choir, which consisted of men and boys.
Particularly appealing were solos by boy sopranos and altos, as described in
the autobiography of Zavel Kwartin, who actually credits his own childhood
memories of them as his initial inspiration toward becoming a hazzan. This
kahal had no thoughts about congregational singing or of participating in a
service in any way other than by private davening and hern tfiloh.

The above attitude toward services prevailed for decades in the United
States, and longer in the Lawndale District of Chicago's West Side than in most
other parts of the country, the circumstance of which enabled this reviewer to
experience it, uncompromised, during the decade from 1942—52. In that time
and place there were two synagogues that engaged "star" hazzanim for the
High Holidays, for Shavuot and Sh'mini Atseret, who were invariably assisted
by 4-part choirs of the type mentioned. The two preeminent local hazzanim
at that time were Todros Greenberg and Joshua Lind, and congregational
singing was still essentially non-existent throughout the area. Uppermost of
my impressions upon hearing Pinchik for the first time at a Shavuot service
in 1943 included the choral singing of Mimm'kom'kha (from the Shaharit
K'dushah) by Avraham Berkowitz ("Kalechnik"), Pinchik's rendition of the
"small" Av ha-rahamim (... hu y'raheim am amusim) immediately preceding
Kri'at ha-torah, but especially his rendition of Umipp'nei hata'einu (in the
Musaf hazarat ha-sha"ts). This is a text which particularly touched the hearts
of Eastern European Jews, and one which Pinchik excelled exceptionally in
interpreting, hazzanically As expected, his intonation brought elegant ex-
pression to the prayer text, which begins, "Because of our sins we were exiled
from our lands," and a few lines down pleads "May it be Your will ... Merciful
King, to return and extend mercy on us ... and speedily rebuild Your sanctu-
ary and magnify its glory." At the words, Va-havi'enu I'tsiyyon ("And bring
us back to Zion, Your city, in joy"), Pinchik slowly introduced the Hatikvah

melody in a meditative, prayerful tone, suggesting a dreamt realization of
the prophetic vision. The striking association between the hope symbolized
by the Hatikvah melody and the hope expressed in the U-mipp'nei hata'einu
prayer was electrifying. Particularly in 1943, during World War II and the
Shoah, the impact of that association cannot adequately be described. The
assumption that the congregation would be joining in the singing of Hatik-
vah, which undoubtedly would be commonplace in 2011, was unthinkable
in 1943. No one dared, however slightly, to infringe on the emotional height
achieved by Pinchik's indescribably sublime rendition.

Other precious memories of such services include hearing Kwartin at a
Sh'mini Atseret service in 1944. Highly memorable was the choral rendition
in Hallel of Zeydl Rovner's glorious setting oiHal'lu et Adoshem 1 kolggoyim,
followed shortly by Kwartin's powerful rendition of the Ribbono shel olam
meditation at the opened ark, pleading the requests in the text for divine
guidance in the observance of His commandments and for protection from
evil deeds and bad times that surge upon the world. In this selection, Kwartin
employed the same approach as in his once celebrated recording of the similar
Ribbono shel olam meditation recited on the High Holidays, characterized
by the repeated dramatic interjections of the words Ribbono, ribbono shel
olam (A minor:) d'-e' f '-e'-d' c'-b-a a c'-b-a d'-c', and the still more dramatic,
occasional surge to the upper octave on those same words: a a'-a'-a' a'-a.
This exceptional hazzanic chant was capped by the choir's singing of Zeydl
Rovner's L'kha adoshem hagg'dullah which majestically accompanied the
Torah procession led by Kwartin.

Another unforgettable experience was a Shavuot service in 1948 by Moshe
Koussevitzky, shortly after his arrival in the United States. Among the high-
lights of that occasion, perhaps the most memorable was the inclusion of the
cantorial-choral composition by Brody of the above-mentioned "small" Av
ha-rahamim. Particularly stunning was Koussevitzky 's joining the choir in
the high octave, at the words b'middah tovah y'shu'ah v'rahamim toward the
end of the composition ("[May our heart's desires be fulfilled] abundantly
through salvation and mercy"), the melody of which began in the duple-
meter E minor progression: d' d'-e'-b'-a' a'-g'-a'-g'-f#'-e' e' g'-f#'-e' g'-b' b'-a!
etc. Another highlight was the cantorial-choral composition of Ummipp'nei
hata'einu by Betzalel Brun.

To most readers of this review/essay, it may be difficult to imagine services
in which congregational singing was non-existent and/or unwanted. Quite
revealing, however, is the following excerpt from an article (in Yiddish, trans-

1 Adoshem is the reviewer's preferred transliteration for "God."

lated by this writer) entitled Congregational Singing, written in 1934 (Jewish
Music, vol.1, no. 1) by Pinchas Jassinowsky (1886—1954), prominent hazzan
and composer:

How could one explain to a hazzan, choir leader or respectable layman of
the old school that in New York City, with the largest Jewish population and
wealthiest Orthodox community in the United States a hazzan stands at
the amud, and instead of singing fine choral music, he sings contemporary
trivial melodies with the entire congregation? Instead of harmonic sounds,
one hears simplistic, trite tunes. How could such a change have taken
place? How is it possible to have exchanged tasteful choral music for such
unrefined folkish music? One might think that merely this congregation
has no taste or aesthetic predeliction for fine music and cultured singing,
and has therefore chosen such a bizarre style. The fact is, however, that
today one finds [this situation] across the entire United States and Canada,
and this radical change — of enormous significance — has been taking place
within the last fifteen to twenty years, here in America.
Kwartin, in the closing pages of his autobiography (1952), similarly bewails
the fact that hazzanim "have abandoned the exalted sanctity" of the older
hallowed hazzanut and turned to the introduction of "cheap, tasteless tunes,
to the disgrace of the holy sanctuary, which recalls such glorious times when
the true, wonderful function of the hazzan prevailed."

In response to the growing demand of the times, many prominent hazzanim
assisted Moshe Nathanson in collecting and composing tunes designed for
congregational singing. Entitled Zamru Lo, the first volume (for Friday Eve-
ning services) was published in 1955. A second volume (for the entire Sabbath
Day) appeared in 1960, and a third volume for the High Holidays some years
later. Similar volumes were subsequently composed and/or compiled by a
number of other hazzanim. The Zamru Lo volumes consisted of numerous
choices of melodies for most texts, including those traditionally chanted by
the hazzan or choir. Many selections in the latter category, to some extent at
least, amounted merely to rhythmicized elementary nusah.

Many others were excerpted melodic lines — stripped of their harmo-
nies—from classic choral compositions. Revolutionary in conception, this
movement constituted the first time in the history of synagogue music when
the congregation was encouraged to sing so many and as lengthy selections,
including complete segments of, as well as some entire prayer texts which had
theretofore traditionally been the specific function of the sh'liah tsibbur. To be
sure, precedents for congregational singing existed in a few older works: One
finds, in the Baer Baal T'fillah, in Lewandowski's/<o/.Rz««a/z U't'fillah, and in
A. B. Birnbaum Amanut Hahazzanut, short phrases specified for "choir and

219

congregation," mostly of congregational responses, but nothing suggestive
of anything of the likes oiZamru Lo. Even the now-popular Lewandowski
Magein avot from the above-mentioned Kol Rinnah U't'fillah (p. 20, staff 7)
contains the directive for "choir and congregation" only for the first 8 bars.
The subsequent 13 bars, from L'fanav na'avod until the end, is specifically
assigned to the hazzan.

Nathanson foresaw the possibility that with tunes provided for practi-
cally every text, that a congregation might opt to take over most if not all of
a service. In the Foreword to Zamru Lo, Volume 2, Nathanson forewarned:
We remind those who would use this volume that a well balanced service
represents the combined efforts of hazzan, choir, congregation, and rabbi.
While settings will be found here for almost the entire Sabbath Prayer
Book, it is not intended that every prayer be allotted to the congregation.
However, in the Sefer Hadrakhah, p. 50, footnote 35, dealing with Hallel
Service, the author acknowledges:

In many American synagogues most, if not all, of Hallel is sung to melodies.
Frequently the tunes are chosen for their congregational appeal rather
than for their reflection of the texts. A judicious mixture of tunes and
chant is suggested.
The reality is that congregants who demand participation through singing
have been and increasingly continue to press for ever more tunes, "upbeat"
tunes, and ever less hazzanut. A few among innumerable instances experi-
enced by this reviewer will suffice to reveal the true nature of this phenom-
enon: At a modern Orthodox congregation this past Simhat Torah, the rabbi
announced that the Atah hor'eita verses would be chanted by individual
members of the congregation, adding: "Any musical genre is acceptable." He
himself then proceeded to "chant" the opening verse to the tune of God Save
the Queen (see the nusah for Atah hor'eita in the 5. H., p. 291, Ex. 13.19).
At an ordinary Shabbat Morning service in a Chabad synagogue, a young
layman began the Hatsi-kaddish preceding Musaf with the traditional High
Holiday opening motive l-4-3#, followed by the rousing participation of the
congregation in the now-popularized melody for b'hayyeikhon uv'yomeikhon
from Shestopol's High Holiday composition for that Hatsi-kaddish (see 5. H.,
p. 124, footnote 2). At another Shabbat Morning service, a hazzan and gradu-
ate of the cantorial school of the JTS, ignoring the major-mode basis for the
nusah of the opening paragraphs of the hazarat ha-sha"ts (repetition aloud
of the Amidah by the sh'liah tsibbur), led the congregation in the singing of
the widely used High Holiday duple-meter melody for M'khalkeil hayyim,
E minor: subtonic-B e — f#-g-g-g-g f#-e-f#-g e. At another Shabbat Morning

service, another hazzan and graduate of the cantorial school of the JTS, ig-
noring the major-mode basis for the nusah of the opening paragraphs of the
hazzarat ha-shat"s (a repetition of the Amidah by the shli'ah tsibbur), led the
congregation in singing the widely used High Holiday duple-meter melody
for M'khalkeil hayyim to a different, more "upbeat" minor-mode triple-meter
tune. Undoubtedly, the reader is keenly aware of countless similar and perhaps
more egregious infractions against every aspect of nusah ha-t'filah.

In the Sefer Hadrakhah, although the author comments negatively on a
few melodies he considers inappropriate to the content of a particular text,
throughout the book he describes tunes sung congregationally as a matter of
course, and by doing so, he is at least implicitly sanctioning their pervasive
inclusion— and as integral to "Nusah ha-tefillah Beminhag Ashkenaz" In
the Musaf service of Rosh Hashanah alone, for example, bulleted references
to congregational tunes occur under 20 texts. More than that, however, his
bulleted references throughout the book, being placed in alphabetical order
by composer or compiler, in effect equate the validity and authenticity of
congregational tunes as representative of nusah ha-t'filah with renditions by
Alter, Katchko or other hazzanim of renown, as well as with time-hallowed
choral compositions, on any given text. Such equal accreditation does not
reflect the musical tradition of Minhag Ashkenaz, Eastern or West Central
European, and does not "mirror" any Ashkenazi tradition.

By now, it must be apparent to readers that the views of this writer differ
from some of today's generally accepted norms. What all scholars in the
field of synagogue music share in common, however, is our strong desire
to preserve our sacred musical heritage to the fullest extent possible. It is
precisely that objective which moved Hazzan Davidson to devote a signifi-
cant portion of his life to the creation of the Sefer Hadrakhah as well as this
writer to devote countless hours studying it thoroughly in order to document
resultant observations. Indeed, if the subject of this review were a work of
lesser significance, any number of factors may well have been overlooked.
The Sefer Hadrakhah, however, stands to represent nothing less than the very
essence of our musical-tradition as a whole, to students as well as practic-
ing hazzanim of our day as well as of perhaps untold generations to come.
Integrity therefore demanded scrupulous examination of every statement,
definition and example for accuracy or lack of it to whichever extent noted.
Despite all that is most laudable in the book— which, in both quantity and
quality, is decidedly great— and despite the profound respect this writer holds
for the vast scholarship, talents and achievements of the author, the perceived
obligation to be forthright in terms of scholarly truth— particularly indispens-

able in a work such as the Sefer Hadrakhah — demands candid addressing of
numerous issues, detailed below.

Issues of textual interpretation

The first of these is one which was central to the improvisation, creation and
performance of liturgical music in the Eastern European Synagogue, namely,
peyrush hamilos (Hebrew, as used colloquially in Yiddish, "interpretation of
the words"), which includes the general spirit and mood of a text, relative to
particular liturgical occasions (discussed in Kalib: The Musical Tradition of the
Eastern European Synagogue, Vol. I, Part I, p. 100). In the Sefer Hadrakhah,
in defining the Adoshem Malakh Mode in the Glossary (p. 311), the author
states that "some feel that the mode conveys an ethos of grandeur and majesty."
Whether the author does or not, this dimension remains essentially unad-
dressed in the commentary throughout the book. Evidence of its existence,
however, can be illustrated in innumerable referenced selections. In fact, it is
strikingly apparent in the very first prayer text presented in the book, which
is also the first application of the Adoshem Malakh Mode, namely, in the
bulleted setting by Katchko of the opening verse of Psalm 95 for Kabbalat
Shabbat (S.H., p. 2, and Otsar Ha-hazzanut II, p. 1, no. 1). Unlike all the other
renditions of this verse presented or referenced in the book, which begin in
the authentic range of the major mode, Katchko opens in the elevated plagal
range, with the motive (C major:) g c'-c' c'-c'-c' c'-d'-e', thereby dramatically
interpreting the words L'khu n'rann'nah ladoshem ("Come, let us sing to
God"), and rises further to the upper g', interpreting the word nari'a ("let us
resoundingly extol [the Rock of our salvation] ") , and in this range concludes c'
c'-d'-e'-d' f'-e' c. The obvious objective of this rendition was to bring exalting
majestic expression to these opening words oithe Kabbalat Shabbat service.
Parenthetically, it is for this very reason that this writer wishes to respect-
fully disclaim credit as the source for the Yedid nefesh melody cited on page
1 of the Sefer Hadrakhah, immediately preceding Psalm 95. The melody was
indeed cited in this writer's The Musical Tradition of the Eastern European
Synagogue, Vol. I, Part II, as illustration of a different misuse of this zemer.
Precisely because the nusah for the opening Psalms 95—99 of the Kabbalat
Shabbat service is in the exalted mode exemplified by the Katchko example,
the lovely meditative, tranquil melody for Yedid nefesh, most appropriate for
the traditionally subdued mood oiShalosh S'udot, is at least as inappropriate
as a prelude to Kabbalat Shabbat.

Other instances oinusahim reflective of textual interpretation include Haz-
zan Davidson's observation in connection with Psalm 97 (5. H., p. 3, footnote
2), that despite the overall Adoshem Malakh modal basis for Psalms 95 — 99
as a whole, the Ukrainian Dorian Hexachord is often applied to Psalm 97:10
(5. H., p. 3, Ex. 1.3) and Psalm 99:8 (5. H., p. 4, Ex. 1.5). No explanation is of-
fered. The textual content, however, clarifies the practice: The text of Psalm
97:10, Ohavei ... ("O lovers of God, despise evil, He guards the lives of His
devoted ones, and rescues them from the hand of the wicked"), and that of
Psalm 99:8, Adoshem Elokeinu, 2 atah anitam ("Lord, our God, You answered
them"). These passages once evoked cautious hope within the Eastern Euro-
pean congregant, as well as the urge for intense prayer that they be fulfilled
for him and for Jews everywhere, particularly in the face of ever-prevalent
cruel persecution. These feelings simply found more poignant expression in
the Ukrainian Dorian mode than in the ongoing major-mixolydian mode for
Kabbalat Shabbat.

The above two mentioned instances, however, are not the only ones in
which touches of the Ukrainian Dorian mode were interjected. Yehoshua
L. Ne'eman includes it in Psalm 96:11 at the words Yir'am hayyam u-m'lo'o
("Let the sea and all that is in it thunder.. .before the Lord") (Nosah Lahazan
II, p.ll, no. 5), and in stanzas 2 and 4 of L'kha dodi: at the words ki hi m'kor
habb'rakhah ("For she [the Sabbath] is the source of blessing") (ibid., p. 14, no.
10), and dXHitna'ari mei-afar kumi ("Shake yourself off, arise from the dust!")
(ibid, p. 15, no. 12). Both Katchko and Ne'eman also interject it in stanza 5,
Hit'or'ri, at the words ki va oreikh, kumi ori ("For your light has come, arise
in splendor!") (Katchko: Otsarll, p. 6, no. 13, and Ne'eman, Nosah II, p. 16,
no. 13). In each of these passages, the textual suggestion of divine emotional
and/or physical support inspired the more intense expression inherent in the
Ukrainian Dorian mode.

A number of other instances occur in the Sefer Hadrakhah in which the
commentary describes pitch criteria which point directly to interpretive
causes for their occurrence, but are not recognized as such. The author states
that stanzas 3 and 6 of L'kha dodi (Mikdash melekh and Lo teivoshi) were
formerly chanted in minor, as opposed to the other stanzas, which were in
major (5. H., p. 6, footnote 6). Actually the basic nusah for all the stanzas of
L'kha dodi was merely a resumption— following Psalm 29 and Anna b'kho'ah
(omitted in the S.H.)— of the original major-mixolydian mode of Kabbalat
Shabbat (see Ne'eman, Nosah II, p. 15, no. 11 and p. 16, no. 14, respectively).
However, because the Mikdash melekh stanza refers to the destroyed and

2 Elokeinu is the reviewer's preferred transliteration for "our God."

deserted Temple and because Lo teivoshi addresses the Jewish people as
downcast and disconsolate, hazzanim interpreted these stanzas in a minor
mode. Their interpretations brought solace and hope to the masses to the
extent that the minor mode became standard, virtually becoming the nusah
of those verses. Typically, however, the concluding phrase in both of these
verses returned to the original major-mode nusah (S.H., p. 9, no. 1.10 [mm.
9 — 16] and p. 10, no. 1.13 [staff 2, from the d-natural on]). This nusah, with
all its beautiful and meaningful subtleties, has been swept away by congrega-
tional tunes "in any tonality," a phrase found in the subheading oiL'kha dodi
(S.H., p. 6) as well as numerous other texts throughout the Sefer Hadrakhah.
In the absence of any other stated criteria, one must assume that in these
instances, at least, "anything goes," as indeed is often the case in innumerable
synagogues today.

A similar situation occurs in the description of the nusah oiMimm'kom'kha
from the K'dushah of the Shabbat Shaharit service (5. H., p. 43, Ex. 2.33, foot-
note 24), where the author describes the modulatory procedures commonly
employed, but once again offers no explanation for them. They are, however,
critical to an understanding and effective application of the chant. Here
also, the basic nusah is in actuality merely a continuation of the major-third
phrygian (Ahavah Rabbah) mode of the Shaharit K'dushah and Hazarat ha-
sha"ts (see Ne'eman, Nosah II, p. 67). Hazzanim, however, in order to bring
more intense interpretation to the text, very often — almost typically, though
not always— began in the basic A.R. mode of the nusah (e.g., E major-third
phrygian), typically modulating to the minor mode on the upper-fourth
scale-degree (A minor) at the conclusion of the passage preceding the words
Matai timlokh b'tsiyyon ("O when will You reign in Zion?"), as described by
the author. However, in this elevated minor mode, the supplicatory mode
would be employed in order to bring highly devotional prayer to those words,
as they implied Messianic redemption to the Eastern European Jew. At the
conclusion of this passage, in preparation for the next, which begins with
the words Titgaddal v'titkaddash ("May You be exalted and sanctified"),
modulation typically veered to the relative major mode of the preceding key
(here C major) in order to bring a feeling of majesty to the exalting words of
the text. Thus the modulatory pattern is not merely one of musical contrast,
but far more profound.

The same difficulty is seen in the description of the modulatory proce-
dure in the traditional chanting of Hashkiveinu (S.H., p. 18, footnote 19).
The modulatory procedures described, which are indeed typical, are again
offered with no explanation, but occur for similar textual considerations. In

the case of Hashkiveinu, however, the introduction of the A. R. mode or the
elevation of range to the key of the minor mode on the upper scale-degree 4
at the words V'hagein ba-adeinu ("And shield us and remove from us every
enemy, plague, sword, famine and sorrow ... ") becomes meaningful when
one considers the textual content and the societal and historical circum-
stances in which this hazzanic approach evolved. However, it is not merely
the modulation to another mode or to an elevated range which is vital here,
but rather the intensified emotional expression enabled by these modulatory
movements. This is beautifully demonstrated in the once-famous recording
by David Roitman. Incidentally, in that rendition, Roitman did not employ
the major- third (A.R.) mode at all. In the minor mode entirely, he modulated
twice: from the initial key of F minor to the upper fourth (B-flat minor) in
the passage preceding V'hagein ba-adeinu ("Shield us"), which ends with the
words v'hoshi'enu I'ma'an sh'mekha (" and save us for the sake of Your Name"),
and to an additional ascending fourth (to E-flat minor) at the words V'haseir
satan... ("and remove any adversary... shelter us in the shadow of Your wings;
for You, God, are our Guardian and Deliverer") Other issues relating to the
presentation of this text in the Sefer Hadrakhah, however, call for attention
to various other problems:

First of all, no musical example is given for the Hashkiveinu text, but foot-
note 18 (on p. 18) states merely "Ahavah Rabba" yet of the 8 bulleted refer-
ences, 6 open in minor. The subheading, however, does qualify: "In minor
or in Ahavah Rabbah" Significant, but not stated, however, is the fact that
Hashkiveinu— in the Eastern European tradition— most typically begins in
minor. Some settings indeed begin in A.R. (e.g., Rozumni, Shirei Rozumni, p.
17, no. 29). More typically, however, this would occur in the Ma'ariv service
of the evening of Rosh Hashanah, bringing increased emotional intensity
in deference to the Day of Awe (as in the bulleted reference to a setting by
Zemachson, in Ephros, Vol. 6, p. 7), and of a weekday Ma'ariv service whose
basic nusah is in the A.R. mode.

Parenthetically, the bulleted reference to the recitative by Zemachson does
not belong in the Friday Evening service because it concludes within the
nusah of the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur Ma'ariv services, and therefore
its unqualified inclusion within the nusah of Ma'ariv I'shabbat is misleading.

Secondly, footnote 19 opens with the statement: "The hazzan may begin
and conclude the prayer or sing a cantorial solo." Although it is traditional
for the hazzan to conclude the text of Hashkiveinu or intone its entirety, it is
also traditional for the hazzan to intone the opening words or verse of some
texts. In the case of Hashkiveinu, however, those functions are not equal.

Whereas it is conceivable to intone the opening words or verse of practically
any text, it is not traditional to do so for Hashkiveinu any more than for any
other text within the Ma'ariv service.

More problematic for this reviewer, however, is the designation "solo" for
a hazzanic recitative. In fact, it occurs throughout the Sefer Hadrakhah. It
is true that Baer uses that designation liberally, but with no consistency: It
appears in Baer for renditions of selections as un-soloistic as the B'rakhot for
the weekday Birkhot ha-shahar as well as most texts of the ensuing Hazarat
ha-sha"ts (though not all!) and does not appear for many other texts, with no
apparent justification for or against the designation. In the Sefer Hadrakhah,
however, the designation "solo" can signify only the exclusion of a choral
rendition, or of a congregationally sung piece, because even the shortest,
least "soloistic" chant is technically, at least, a "solo." The word recalls only
too painfully that identical designation as a derogatory, derisive slur by in-
dividuals antagonistic to anything suggestive of the hazzanic art. It would
have been inconceivable for anyone to have referred to hazzanic renditions
such as those cited above by Pinchik, Kwartin, Koussevitsky or Roitman as
"solos," suggesting merely "show pieces," to the exclusion of their infinitely
deeper function. Similarly regrettable is the author's pervasive use of the
adjective "soloistic" when referring to hazzanic embellishment. Whereas
the latter signifies artistic sacred beautification, the former at least suggests
egotistical self-indulgence.

Issues oi nusah

Before citing problems with the presentation of the nusah of Hashkiveinu,
others which occur earlier should be mentioned.

The first is the bulleted LewandowskiZ,7c/zu n'rann'nah (p. 2, under no. l.ld).
The piece is designed to be performed alternately, verse by verse, between
hazzan and congregation. No mention is made of the fact that this mode of
performance was common in West Central Europe only, and totally alien
to Eastern European rendition (as acknowledged by Baer: Baal T'fillah, p.
89, no. 320). Obviously, it serves here merely as one more opportunity for
congregational singing, irrespective of its encroachment on the traditional
procedure and ambience of the Eastern European tradition.

The nusah for Psalm 97 (p. 3, no. 1.3) is categorized in its subheading as
"In Ukrainian Dorian/ 'Adoshem Malakh" and the subheading for Psalm 99
(p. 4, no. 1.5) indicates "In Ukrainian Dorian/Major. These categorizations
seem to imply a change in mode from the Adoshem Malakh modal basis for

the entire group of Psalms 95—99 in the Kabbalat Shabbat service. This
inference, however, is misleading. The occasional inclusion of a passage in
the Ukrainian Dorian mode is merely an option within the overall Adoshem
Malakh mode. Definition of the mode must be sufficiently broad to include
this occurrence, because it is included in numerous usages of the mode (e.g.,
in Y'kum purkan [Rozumni, Shirei Rozumni, p. 50, no. 61, mm. 10, 16—17,
22 — 23, 29—30 and 37]; and mMishe-asah nissim [ibid., p. 57, no. 65, m. 15];
in Y'hadd'sheihu [Ne'eman, Nosah II, p. 97, no. 102, staves 1 — 2, and p. 98,
staves 3, 7 and 8]; in Alkein n'kavveh [Kwartin, Smiroth Zebulon, Vol. 2, p. 68,
no. 41, staves 3 and 7]; and in Atah nigleita [Kwartin, Smiroth Zebulon, Vol.
1, p. 46, no. 36, staff 4]; etc. The situation is analogous to a classical Sonata
in C minor, for example, in which the typical tonal area for the subordinate
theme is the relative major key (E-flat major). Such a piece, however, is never
titled "Sonata in C minor/E-flat major." On the other hand, if the subheadings
of Psalms 97 and 99 in the S.H. are intended to inform the reader of the order
of scale/mode-bases within those selections, neither begins in the Ukrainian
Dorian mode, but rather with the 3 — 5 scale-degree succession of F major:
a — c. Whichever the case, the Ukrainian Dorian mode is decidedly not the
principle mode in these selections, as the subheadings suggest.

The subheading to Psalm 29 (p. 5) states: "In minor or in major." It was
intoned in major, however, only in West Central European synagogues. The
footnote to the psalm (p. 5, footnote 5) proceeds to state that in Eastern Eu-
rope it was "often sung in minor." However, in Eastern Europe this psalm was
characteristically chanted in minor, not "often," as to imply the existence of
other options. One relatively rare exception was its intonation in the major-
third phrygian (A.R.) mode. However, Ne'eman's rendition, in the latter mode
(Nosah II, p. 12, no. 7), if read within a D minor key signature rather than D
major-third phrygian, would serve as a model example of the minor-mode
nusah. Moreover, in the final verse of the text, Ne'eman actually mutates to
the parallel minor mode. Thus the less common usage of the major-third
phrygian mode for this text may well be derived from the minor-mode
nusah. The reason for the change in mode and nusah from the preceding
major-mixolydian (A.M.) mode of Psalms 95—99 is once again understood
from its textual context against the backdrop of the conditions of Jewish life
in Eastern Europe:

In his commentary on Psalm 29, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes: "Its mood is
significant. It describes an earth-shattering storm which subsides, so that the
last word of the psalm is 'peace.' So will the storm of human history one day
be transfigured into peace. Redemption stands to history as does the Shabbat

to the six days of creation." (The Koren Siddur, p. 316, footnote). It is these
considerations which resulted in the employment in the Eastern European
synagogue of the warm, mystical Volhynian minor-mode nusah for this text, as
well as for Psalms 92 and 93, for the conclusion oiAmar rabbi el'azar and for
Ma'ariv I'shabbat. Moreover, despite the general prevalence of other nusahim
in various communities for the intonation of Ma'ariv I'shabbat, the Volhynian
nusah was still retained for some texts within it, as explained below.

Perhaps as an intended example to illustrate a major-mode intonation of
Psalm 29, the author's footnote 5 (p. 5) continues to state that the bulleted
rendition by Alter "moves through Adoshem Malakh, Ukrainian Dorian and
major before concluding in minor." This description, however, is misleading.
The recitative (in Alter, The Sabbath Service, p. 5) indeed begins in D major,
in the major-mixolydian mode nusah of the preceding psalms. This usage of
the major mode, however, is not at all typical of Eastern European practice,
but rather a hazzanic stunt— a frequent occurrence in Alter— designed here as
an unexpected opening (to a knowledgeable congregant) which momentarily
links with the preceding nusah. Already in bar 3, the c-natural serves as a
pivotal note to the ensuing minor mode: initially perceived as the mixolydian
scale-degree 7, in the context of what follows immediately it functions as scale-
degree 7 of the parallel D minor mode, in which key the recitative essentially
remains (from bar 3) until the end of the piece. The Ukrainian Dorian mode
is nowhere in evidence. Undoubtedly, the author was referring to the major-
third phrygian mode, here A major-third phrygian, which appears at the
beginning of bar 13 (on the word "omeir"). This instance, however, does not
constitute "moving through" a modulatory area, because such a momentary
application of the lower tetrachord or pentachord of the major-third phrygian
scale to scale-degree 5 of an overall minor (or major-third phrygian) tonality
is simply a common occurrence in nusahim within those modes (explained
in Kalib: The Musical Tradition of the Eastern European Synagogue, Vol. I,
Part I, Ex. 138b, p. 133, and Part II, p. 142).

Similarly, the short passage in the major mode on scale-degree 4 (G major
here, in mm. 14 [last 3 notes] — 18) is merely a typical passing phase which is
frequently employed in minor (and major-third phrygian) nusahim within
an overlying 5 — 6 — 4 — 8 — 5 Study-mode motive, here: A (m. 14) — B (mm.
15— 16)— G (m. 16)— D (mm. 17— 21)— A (m. 22) (cf. ibid, Vol. I, Part I, p.
134, and Part II, p. 104, Ex. 103j, mm. 4—7). Thus the Alter recitative is set
securely within the Eastern European parameters of the minor-mode Volhyn-
ian nusah, which include the mentioned inherent modulatory digressions.

The refrain melody for L'kha dodi on p. 7, Ex 1.7a (a'-a' c"-c" f'-g'-a'), is er-
roneously credited to Sulzer. Rather, it is the melodic line of a choral setting
of the textual refrain by Sonntag. Sonntag's setting also includes 5 stanzas
of the poem, found in numerous handwritten partitura choral collections of
Eastern European hazzanim. (The original setting of the refrain is included
in the Kalib Musical Tradition, Vol. I, Part II, Ex. 164a, p. 193, and stanzas 6
and 9 are included in the same volume, Part II, Exs. 171a and b, pp. 205 — 6).

In the coverage of the nusahim for Ma'ariv I'shabbat, the author initially
(on pp. 14 — 16) describes the one in most common usage as "East European
style," and subsequently (on pp. 17—18) refers to it merely as "minor." Ambi-
guity results, however, when encountering usages of the Volhynian nusah in a
number of subsequent bulleted references, which are likewise in "minor," and
are also Eastern European. The two minor-mode nusahim, however, are easily
distinguishable — irrespective of other distinctions — in that the more common
nusah is in the plagal range of the minor scale, whereas the Volhynian is in
the authentic range. Moreover, the more common nusah was widely referred
to as the Lithuanian, as seen in Ephros (Cantorial Anthology , Vol. 4, pp. 85,
86 and 102), Katchko {Otsarll, p. 16 ff.), and Ne'eman {Nosah II, Foreword).

This problem of ambiguity surfaces first in reference to Ahavat olam (p.
17). No musical example is given, and bulleted references to both Alter and
Katchko are recitatives ("solos") which open in the Volhynian authentic-range
minor mode. Moreover, they represent quite different approaches from each
other, which, in the absence of footnote clarification, will be incomprehensible
to the reader of limited background. The recitative of Katchko represents
the standard Eastern European approach to hazzanic treatment not only of
Ahavat olam, but to numerous other texts as well, including Hashkiveinu. Al-
though various prayer texts — due to their individual particularities — typically
require variations in the deployment of the pattern, the common element is
the opening section in the authentic-range and devotionally expressive minor
mode, followed by a more emotionally intense section in the elevated range of
the minor mode on scale-degree 4. This approach to Ahavat olam is seen in
Kwartin, Tefillot Zevulun, p. 28, Ex. 63; in Joshua Lind, An Anthology of Haz-
zanic Recitatives, p. 8; Rozumni, Shirei rozumni, p. 15, no. 25; Schaposchnik,
An Anthology of Hazzanic Recitatives, p. 24; and many others.

Whereas Katchko in general— practically without exception— adheres
to the most direct and authentic presentation of a nusah, Alter frequently
seeks to surprise the knowledgeable congregant by momentary digressions
from the norm. If not explained, the reader will be left with the impression

that such digressions are simply other staple elements of a nusah, and will
be misled into thinking that "anything goes." Similar to Alters opening of his
setting of Psalm 29, he begins Ahavat olam with a motive characteristic of
the preceding nusah — in this instance the Lithuanian — namely, the Keil 3 hai
v'kayyam motive, which is followed immediately in bar 2 with the Volhynian
authentic-range nusah. The recitative remains in this latter mode through the
words otanu limad'ta, as does Katchko's. Differently from Katchko, however, at
the words Al kein ("Therefore"), instead of modulating to the minor mode on
scale-degree 4, Alter moves to the relative major mode (G major), rendering
expression to the joy implied in the words v'nismah_... toratekha ("... we will
rejoice in the words of Your Torah"). This approach, although not unique here,
is to some extent exceptional. Far more exceptional, however, is Alters subtle
inclusion of the Akdamut motive precisely at those words (mm. 27 [last two
notes]— 29), associating the leitmotif oi Shavuot, the occasion of the giving of
the Torah, with the cited words in Ahavat olam. The recitative then reverts to
the original authentic-range minor-mode Volhynian nusah, concluding with
the words yomam va-lailah. Katchko also concludes at these words, but in
the elevated plagal range of this mode. Whereas Katchko, having concluded
in the plagal-range minor mode, brings the concluding verse and b'rakhah
via the parallel plagal-range major-mode nusah (termed "Western European
Variant" in the Sefer Hadrakhah), Alter returns to the Lithuanian nusah.

Footnote 16 (p. 17) states that "Ve'ahavta is often chanted to the Shabbat
system of Torah cantillation," and reference to Ve'ahavta in every subsequent
evening and morning service throughout the Sefer Hadakhah reverts to this
footnote. This practice, however, is alien to any musical tradition oiMinhag
Ashkenaz, Eastern or West Central European . It is simply nothing more than
an opportunity for congregational singing.

Footnote 14 (p. 17) states that if one chants Bar'khu in the Lithuanian
("minor") or either of the major-mode (Central European) nusahim, the
selected nusah should be continued until Hashkiveinu. First of all, although
hazzanim typically followed that procedure, lay ba'alei t'fillah who employed
the Lithuanian nusah typically did so beyond Hashkiveinu, through the Hatsi
kaddish preceding the silent Amidah (see Ne'eman, Nosah II, pp. 23—25, Exs.
26 — 28; also Idelsohn, Thesaurus, Vol. 8, p. 11, Ex. 39). Similarly, ba'alei t'fillah
who employed the older Central European major-mode nusah continued it
through Hashkiveinu (see Ne'eman, Nosah II, p. 29, no. 35). Katchko, however,
after employing the newer plagal-range major-mode nusah from Bar'khu on,
turns to the Volhynian minor-mode nusah in the preceding text, V'ne'emar,

3 Keil is the reviewer's preferred transliteration for this variant of "God."

kifadahAdoshem... ("And it is further said: 'For God has redeemed... "; Otsar
II, p. 15, no. 30), in anticipation of that nusah for Hashkiveinu. Similarly Al-
ter, although having begun V'ne'emar, kifadahAdoshem... in the Lithuanian
nusahj departs from it, modulating to the authentic-range Volhynian mode
in order to conclude the selection in it, and thereby also anticipate the nusah
of Hashkiveinu (Alter, The Sabbath Service, p. 16, mm. 7 — 12).

Footnote 19 (p. 18) states that "the concluding berakhah [of Hashkiveinu]
may be in the tonic minor or in major on the fourth scale-degree," and that
the Keil hai v'kayyam motive can be used at u-f'ros aleinu. The newer major-
mode nusah — whose plagal range coincides with the major key on the fourth
scale-degree relative to the typical authentic-range minor mode with which
Hashkiveinu renditions most typically begin— could conceivably include the
Keil hai v'kayyam motive, as seen in Katchko in preceding texts (Otsar II, pp.
12 — 15, nos. 23, 25 and 28). However, neither Katchko nor any of the bulleted
references, nor any other Eastern European hazzan employed this mode for
Hashkiveinu. The inclusion of the Keil hai v'kayyam motive at u-f'ros aleinu
could occur only in the Lithuanian nusah or in the older major-mode Central
European nusahjboth. of which contradict the author's footnote 14 [on p. 17]).

In the subheading for V'sham'ru, one reads "In minor or in major (p. 18)."
Settings in major typically occur in West Central European sources, but only
with rare exception in Eastern European. In the latter, although settings are by
far primarily in the Volhynian minor mode, one does occasionally encounter
settings partially in major- third Phrygian (A.R.), and at times in their entirety.

For Kiddush, footnote 25 (p. 21) reads: "Lewandowski's setting and tune for
Ki vanu vakharta' remain favorites." Although true, when hazzanut flourished,
that setting was seldom if ever heard in the Eastern European synagogue be-
cause it lacked the level of majestic expression and hazzanic ornamentation as
seen in the referenced settings, particularly those of Katchko and Zemachson.

In commenting on settings for Birkhat Kohanim in the Hazarat ha-sha"ts
in footnote 32 (p. 49), the author states that "the Ne'eman setting is in minor."
In fact, Ne'eman presents two settings. The one referred to here (Ne'eman,
Nosah II, p. 84, Ex. 90), indeed in minor, is used only when Dukh'nen oc-
curs, which on an ordinary Shabbat takes place only in the Land of Israel.
Ne'eman's nusah when Dukh'nen 4 does not take place is on his p. 82, Ex. 39,

4 Dukh'nen: Yiddish colloquial usage for the Hebrew dukhan, a raised platform
from which Kohanim (Aaronide Priests) would pronounce the daily Priestly Blessing
in the Second Jerusalem Temple; today it refers to a ritual re-enactment on Festivals
and High Holidays in diaspora synagogues.

231

which is in the regular major-third phrygian (A. R.) mode for Hazarat ha-
shaf's on Shabbat.

In the Hallel section, p. 5 1, footnote 37, a 5-point nusah template is given for
Psalm 113 (Hal'luyah, hal'lu avdei Adoshem), which is repeated for the ensu-
ing 4 selections of Hallel in footnotes 38 — 41: for Psalm 114 (B'tseit yisrael);
for Psalm 115:1—11 (Lo lanu, Adoshem); for Psalm 115: 12—18 (Adoshem
z'kharanu); and for Psalm 116: 1—11 (Ahavti). Although the template is surely
not inaccurate as a basic approach to the intonation of the concluding section
of a Hallel psalm, very little of the 5 given template criteria is employed by
any of the bulleted references in any single selection. The problem is that the
template is too circumscribed to cover the myriad possibilities for the nusah
of Hallel lying within the memory recesses of an Alter, Berkowitz, Ganchoff,
Katchko, Kwartin, Wohlberg, Zemachson (included in the referenced selec-
tions in the Seder Hadrakhah). Indeed, no hazzan of their accomplished level
would rigidly follow such a template for 5 successive selections.

For Hodu (Psalm 118:1—4) in Hallel (p. 54), the subheading states: "In major
or in minor." In the Eastern European synagogue it was, with little exception,
sung in minor. The usages of tunes for special occasions, e.g., Maoz tzur on
Hanukkah, Adir hu on Pesah, etc. (the only musical examples given [pp.
54 — 55, nos. 2.44a through d]), was characteristic of West Central European
synagogues, but uncommon in Eastern European synagogues. The primary
exception, as mentioned earlier, was the Na'anu'im melody on Sukkot.

In the nusah for Y'hadd'sheihu ("May God renew it"; in Seder Birkhat ha-
hodesh, Seder Hadrakhah, p. 63), footnote 62 states:

If there will be a Festival, Chanukah or Tisha BeAv in the new month,
the tune associated with that occasion is sung at Yechadeshehu: AdirHu
before Pesah; etc.

This is true only of Lewandowski (Todah Wesimrah, pp. 122—23). It is not
part of any Ashkenazic musical-liturgical tradition, West Central or Eastern
European, found in the literature.

The subheading for Y'hal'lu/Hodo (p. 64), correctly states: "In major." The
bulleted references to Ephros, Vol. IV, however, direct the reader to settings
by Herbert Fromm (p. 307) and Ephros himself (p. 311). Fromm's is in a
twentieth-century neo-modal idiom. The Ephros setting of Y'hal'lu is in minor,
and the first half of his setting oiHodo is also in minor, followed in the second
half in the parallel mixolydian mode. The Ephros setting is harmonized in a
relatively progressive mid-20th century idiom, but not to the extent employed
by Fromm. Both, however, interesting as they are musically, are alien to the

traditional major mode and majestic expression of the nusah, so illustriously
exemplified in the marvelous choral settings oiHodo by Sulzer and Lewan-
dowski, which were parenthetically adopted and included as standard in the
choral repertoire of the Eastern European synagogue. Of these settings, the
Sefer Hadrakhah refers only to the melodic line of the Sulzer, included in
Katchko (Otsarll, p. 82, no. 120).

Similarly, for Mizmor I'david, the heading correctly states: "In major." How-
ever, the bulleted reference to the Jacob Weinberg setting in Ephros (Vol. 4, p.
312), is again written in a mid-20th century idiom, neo-modal, far from the
traditional mode and spirit associated with the Torah-procession to the Ark.

Under the title Hu Elokeinu ... v'hu yashmi'einu (p. 67), footnote 71 reads:
"Ne'eman notates in Adoshem Malakh and concludes in Ukrainian Dorian."
In Ne'eman (Nosah II, p. 106), the selection begins from Sh'ma yisrael — not
Hu Elokeinu— which, is in the Ukrainian Dorian mode. The ensuing phrase
Hu Elokeinu begins in major, but then turns to Ukrainian Dorian, in which
mode it remains only through the words hu moshi'einu. At the words v'hu
yashmi'einu, a change in mode takes place to the major-third phrygian (A.R.),
in which mode it remains until the end of the text.

The nusah_of Exs. 12.27 and 12.28 (pp. 235—36) by Baer-Davidson for the
Shaharit K'dushah of Pesah (1st Day, and by inference for the other days of
Pesah, as well as for Shavuot or Sukkot) is totally alien to the Eastern Euro-
pean tradition.

For Tik'u va-hodesh shofar in the Rosh Hashanah Ma'ariv service, (p. 85),
once again no musical example is given, and the subheading states: "In major
or in minor." Most settings, by far, are strictly in major, consistent with the
overall major-mode nusah of the service. Of all the bulleted references, the
setting by Sulzer employs the parallel minor mode only in mm. 3 — 4, and the
Schorr 16-bar setting employs it only in mm. 7 — 12. These instances simply
allude artistically to the solemnity perceived by this first reference in the
liturgy to the sound of the shofar. The remainder of these settings and the
totality of practically all others, including all the bulleted ones, are in major.

Issues of modality

Mention should be made of some of the author's attributions of modal status
to momentary passages. For example, in the Glossary, p. 312, footnote 10,
the author cites 5 passages within an unequivocal minor scale-basis which
descend scalewise across the leading-tone to subtonic scale-degree 5, and
describes them as illustrations of "a melodic pattern in Ahavah Rabbah
below the tonic." One of the cited examples is 4.8., the Wohlberg setting for

Shir hama'alot (Psalm 130) from Rosh Hashanah Shaharit, p. 95, staff 2. The
footnote refers to the stepwise descent, (F minor:) f — C across the leading-
tone, e-natural. This progression, however, is followed immediately by a
scalewise ascent, C— a-flat, concluding via descending-third to the tonic
note, f. Consideration of this passage as in C major-third phrygian (A.R.),
however, is possible only when viewing it in isolation, totally out of context.
Within its context, however, this passage as well as each of the others cited
in the footnote is nothing more than a normal scalewise progression within
the key, and in no way a digressive modulatory occurrence.

Similarly, in the Glossary, p. 312, under the heading of the "Festival Amidah
Manner," the author states that "it includes a natural minor scale, the Ukrai-
nian Dorian Hexachord, and movement to a temporary tonal center on the
relative major." In both examples given in the Seder Hadrakhah, 12.30a and
b, pp. 236 — 37, there is no inclusion of the Ukrainian Dorian mode at all, and
although there are turns to scale-degree 3, they are insufficiently decisive
to be perceived as modulatory to the relative major key. It is true, however,
that in bulleted renditions the augmented 4th scale-degree does occasionally
replace the diatonic scale-degree 4, and both the augmented 4th and major
6th (of the Ukrainian Dorian mode) also occur in the Festival A midah man-
ner, albeit relatively rarely. Likewise, there are instances when scale-degree 3
is preceded by a tonicizing fourth below, effecting a momentary turn to the
relative major tonality. These, however, also appear only occasionally, and it
is misleading to generalize beyond that. Indeed, the author may well have
intended to inform the reader that the subsidiary tonal areas mentioned are
part of the totality of the "Festival A midah Manner," but without clearly stat-
ing so, the given impression is that each selection must include them, which
is obviously not the case.

The definition of the "Ukrainian Dorian Hexachord" in the Glossary, p.
314, "describes a musical phrase not exceeding six notes... " The Ukrainian
Dorian mode, however, is an 8-note, not a 6-note scale, varying segments of
which frequently appear in synagogue music, ranging from a single augmented
scale-degree 4 to descending spans 5—1, major-6— 1, minor-7— 1 to the full
octave, 8 — 1, and sometimes merely 8 — 3.

In musical examples or bulleted references within Seder Hadrakhah, the
simple embellishing augmented scale-degree 4 is seen in Katchko within the
"Festival A midah Manner" at the words ahavta otanu ("You loved us"; Otsar
II, p 129, no. 174), and this same gesture appears several times throughout the
Hazarat ha-sha'ts. A slightly broader usage of this gesture, namely, 5— 4#— 3,
is employed by Alter in Hallel (Mi kadoshem Elokeinu— "Who is like the Lord
our God?" — The Sabbath Service, p. 44, mm. 1 — 2); the hexachord, major-6 — 1,

234

is seen in S.H., p. 4 within Kabbalat Shabbat, Psalm 99, beginning of the sec-
ond staff, and in Katchko within the "Festival Amidah Manner" at the words
mippi aharon u-vanav (Otsarll, p. 135, no. 184); the 7—1 segment appears
in Alter in Hallel (Shuvi nafshi — "Return, my soul" — The Sabbath Service, p.
45, mm. 1—6), and in Katchko within Kabbalat Shabbat (Ohavei Adoshem
... yatsileim—"0 lovers of God... He will rescue them"— Otsarll, p. 2, no. 4);
examples of the 8 — 3 segment are seen in Alter in Hallel (at the words Yir'ei
Adoshem bithu vadoshem— "Let those who fear god, trust in God"— The
Sabbath Service, p. 45, mm. 1—2), and in Katchko within Kabbalat Shabbat
(at the words ki va oreikh, kumi ori — "for your light has come, arise in splen-
dor"— Otsar II, p. 6, no. 13).

Examples of the full octave-range are Psalm 97 from Kabbalat Shabbat by
Zemachson (Ephros, Vol. 4, p. 28, mm. 1—7); Mi she-beirakh by Alter (The
Sabbath Service, p. 54, mm. 21 — 22 [on the word u-mi — "and those"]); in
Sh'ma yisrael from Shabbat: Musaf K'dushah by Ne'eman (Nosah II, p. 106);
in Psalm 116 from Hallel: Ki hillatsta nafshi— "for You have delivered my
soul" — by Berkowitz (Ephros, Vol 4, p. 253, mm. 2 — 5); in M'lokh from Rosh
Hashanah-Mwsa/by Rosenblatt (Tefiloth Yosef pp. 36—37, mm. 23—25 [at the
words 'kadd'sheinu ... b'toratekha— "sanctify us... with Your Torah"]); in Atah
zokheir (b) from Rosh Hashana/z Musaf by Katchko (Otsar III, at the words 'ki
hok I'yisrael hu mishpat leilokei ya'akov'— "for it is Israel's law, a decree from
the God of Jacob"); in V'aly'dei avadekha (Zikhronot — "Remembrance Sec-
tion") from Rosh Hashanah Musaf by Alter (The High Holiday Service, p. 67,
bottom 3 staves); and in Ya'aleh from Yom Kippur Eve by Alter (ibid., p. 89,
mm. 1 — 6). Thus the "Ukrainian Dorian Hexachord" is merely one segment
among several others within the 8-note scale employed in synagogue music.

A similar problem exists with the definition of the Viddui ("Confessional")
Mode in the Glossary, p. 314, defined as a pattern referring "to a sequential,
diatonic, descending series in major or in minor (5 — 4 — 5 — 4 — 3 3 — 2 — 3 —
2 — 1) ... " Footnote 19 adds that "it appears in Tavo Ifanekha and Ashamnu
(6:18 and 6:19, pp. 161—62)." The footnote continues to list 4 other usages
of the given motive as other examples of "the Vidui Mode," listed below.
First of all, the assumed prototype in the Yom Kippur Viddui texts — namely,
5—4—5—4—3 3— 2— 3— 2—1— is not present in either Ex. 6:18 or 6:19 (pp.
161 — 62). In both texts (Tavo Ifanekha and Ashamnu), the motivic succession
is: 5—4—3 4—3—2 4—3—2 3— 2— 1. Yes, the motives are related by virtue of
common descending 3-note scalewise segments within the 5—1 span of the
major scale. However, the difference between one branching off from scale-
degrees 5 and 3 only, as opposed to the other with 3 segments branching off
from scale-degrees 5, 4 and 3, respectively, is significant. This is particularly

235

true in view of the fact that in all the other 4 mentioned references to the
common motive, no deviation from the pattern appears whatsoever. The
only direct quotes of the alleged prototype motive within the Viddui texts
of Yom Kippur occur in Ephros, Anu azeifanim (Vol. 2, p. 21, mm. 11 — 12)
and in Alter, Tavo I'fanekha (High Holy Day Service, p. 108, mm. 5 — 6). The
motive is obviously an option within the nusah, but in view of its rarity in its
unvaried form — and totally absent in all renditions oiAshamnu and in most
renditions of Tavo I'fanekha (including those of Baer, Katchko, Ne'eman, Spiro,
Weisgal and Zilberts), the motive cannot be assumed to be the prototype of
the other usages of it, and of course not the primary motivic content of "the
Viddui mode."

Rather, all of the above-cited usages of the 5—4—5—4—3 3—2—3—2—1
motive are in the category of "wandering motives," the vital consideration of
which is, in the words of Hazzan Israel Fuchs (z"l), "their sh'kheinim ('neigh-
bors')," i.e., their contexts. When, for example, it functions as scale-degrees
7 — 6 — 7 — 6 — 5 5 — 4 — 5 — 4 — 3 of a minor scale, the motive unequivocally sig-
nals the Hatsi-kaddish and Avot oi Tal/Geshem (S.H.,p. 246, no. 12.37, fourth
staff; and p. 247, no. 12.38, staves 2—3); when it functions as 5—4—5—4—3
3 — 2 — 3 — 2 — 1 of a major scale, it may signal the pre-cadential motive oi Hatsi-
kaddish of the Evening services of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (S.H., p.
87, fourth staff )— and also Barukh Adoshem hamm'vorakh following Bar'khu
in the same Evening services, employed by Baer and Lewandowski (though
not mentioned in the S.H.), and/or the Viddui nusah of Tavo I'fanekha (cited
above). These last usages (as 5—4—5—4—3 3—2—3—2—1 of a major scale),
however, are not at all standard. Although obviously employed by some, most
do not include it. And as mentioned, this motive is not at all standard in the
Viddui texts. When, on the other hand, the motive functions as 5 — 4 — 5 — 4 — 3
3 — 2 — 3 — 2 — 1 in a minor mode, it unequivocally signals the Hatsi-kaddish
preceding Bar'khu (S.H., p. 93, no. 4.6, fifth staff, as well as one or two other
optional texts) in the Shaharit service of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur;
and when functioning as 8 — 7 — 8 — 7 — 6# 6# — 5 — 6# — 5 — 4 in the subtonic
range of a minor scale, it unequivocally signals the Hatsi-kaddish and Avot of
the Neilah service of Yom Kippur (S.H, p. 192, no. 10.1. The 6# [f# in the key
of A minor] constitutes the inclusion of the Dorian scale-degree 6— replacing
the diatonic scale-degree 6 [f-natural]— resulting in a major pentachord over
scale-degree 4, [d, in A minor] within the overall minor scale).

A number of noticeable omissions in the S.H. should be mentioned. As stated
earlier, there is no section devoted to the daily weekday services. The descrip-
tions of prayer modes in the Glossary attribute no differences to their various
applications. For instance, the weekday Ma'ariv service as well as the Shaharit
services of weekdays, Shabbat and Festivals (from V'khulam pot'khim et pi-
hem through Tsur yisrael), are all in the major-third phrygian mode (A.R.),
but there are subtle as well as not so subtle differences in their applications
(discussed in Kalib: The Musical Tradition of the Eastern European Nusah,
Vol. II, Part IV, pp. 129—31). Clearly, a better understanding and feeling for
the Shabbat usages (as well as others, especially High Holiday applications) of
the mode would be gained by a prior careful study of the weekday usages of it.

Among the bulleted references for Tsur yisrael in the Shabbat (and Festival)
Shaharit service (S.H., p. 40), a setting by Katchko (Otsar II, p. 47, no. 80) is
included. This setting, however, is Katchko's second recitative for that text,
one that is essentially basic nusah, as an alternative to his first setting (p, 46,
no. 79) which is richly hazzanic. Because the text directly pleads: "Rock of
Israel, arise to the aid of Israel, and redeem Judah and Israel, as You promised
... ," its rendition by a gifted hazzan formerly spoke directly to the heart of
the Eastern European Jew, and numerous advanced-hazzanic settings were
composed for it, as evidenced by a number of once widely known recordings
by Chagy, Sholom Katz, Kwartin, Rosenblatt and Vigoda. The first setting by
Katchko is beautifully representative of this level, and its omission from the
referenced settings simply reflects the fact that Tsur yisrael is sung congrega-
tionally almost universally, typically to the tune cited in the S.H. (p. 40, footnote
20), thereby making even the simpler Katchko setting essentially obsolete, let
alone the highly hazzanic one. However, maintaining consistency with the
citing of "solos" for numerous other texts in the S.H. would have called for
the inclusion of one of higher hazzanic level for a text as vital to the history
of synagogue music as Tsur yisrael.

Other omissions are a number of prayer texts which once aroused elevat-
ing spiritual experiences for Jewish masses, particularly when intoned by a
gifted hazzan and/or choir. Most noticeable of these include: the small Av
ha-rahamim (hu y'raheim am amusim) immediately preceding the reading
of the Torah (renditions of which by Pinchik and Moshe Koussevitzky were
cited earlier); Ribbono shel olam, included on Festivals and the High Holidays
following Adoshem, Adoshem (a rendition of which by Kwartin was cited ear-
lier); Ribbono Shel Olam of S'firat Haomer, two model examples of which are
Pinchik 's once-celebrated recording and the choral setting by Samuel Alman
in his Synagogue Compositions, Part I, p. 70, no. 23; the texts beginning with

the words Ribbono shel olam from Yom Kippur katan, so eloquently intoned
by a number of exemplary hazzanim, included in Kalib, The Musical Tradi-
tion, Vol. II, Part Two, pp. 585 — 603; and L'david mizmor (Psalm 24), included
on the Ma'ariv services of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur via a special
nusah immediately preceding Kaddish shaleim, so inspiringly exemplified
in recorded renditions by Kwartin and Roitman.

In the listing of prayer texts from the Malkhuyot ("Kingship") section of
Rosh Hashanah Musaf, that of V'aly'dei avadekha is omitted. One setting of it
is, however, subsumed within the bulleted excerpted portion in Ephros Vol. 6,
p. 6 of M alkhuyot by David Hornstein. Two others, by Katchko and Kwartin,
are also included in the same bulleted Vol. 6 by Ephros (pp. 160 and 161).
Parenthetically, the one by Kwartin is "revised and edited by G.E. [Gershon
Ephros]," in which all original word repetition and coloraturas are either ex-
punged or truncated to the point of near non-recognition. One must wonder:
if references in the S.H. include unabridged recitatives at the level of Katchko's
Adoshem malakh and Hashkiveinu (see bulleted references in S.H., pp. 14 and
18) and Rozumni's Tikanta shabbat and Atah yatsarta (S.H., pp. 67 and 69)
and many more, why would one choose such a tastelessly mutilated version
of one of the most celebrated hazzanic recordings — stripped of its dramatic
power, elegance and vitality— when reference could just as easily have been
made to the original in Kwartin's own Smiroth Zebulon, Vol. 2, p. 70, no. 42!

Similarly, in the Shofarot ("Revelation") section of Rosh Hashanah Musaf
(p. 136), V'aly'dei avadekha is omitted not only in the listing of prayer texts,
but in the referenced sources as well.

Also necessary of mentioning is the limited scope of selections presented
and/or referenced in the S.H. for large segments of the liturgy. Inasmuch as
many advanced- hazzanic recitatives are referenced in numerous sections,
as are some once-standard choral compositions, especially in the sections
for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, their paucity and/or practically total
omission from other sections constitute a serious inconsistency. In the above-
cited article, "Congregational Singing" by Pinchas Jassinowsky, one possible
explanation offered for the replacement of choral music by congregational
tunes is the weakened perception of the sanctity of Shabbat in America,
of its having become vokhedig (Yiddish, "mundane"). Indeed, in the Sefer
Hadrakhah the entire Shabbat Evening Service is devoid of reference to any
choral composition. In the Shabbat Morning service, 5 are referenced: Ein
kamokha by Sulzer ; L'kha Adoshem hagg'dulah by Ephros; Eits hayyim by Hugo
Ch. Adler and A. M. Rothmueller; and Hashiveinu by Dunjewski. However,
relative to the choral repertoire in the Eastern European synagogue, even as

recalled by this writer, these selections are far too little to impart to the reader
the true scope of the choral dimension as it existed. Particularly in view of
the fact that the Ephros volumes are cited so routinely throughout the Sefer
Hadrakhah, one wonders why no other references are made from them, at
least, for choral compositions for Shabbat.

When synagogue music flourished, choral settings were sung for a majority
of the prayer texts. In both West Central and Eastern European synagogues,
choral settings for L'khah dodi and Adoshem malakh (Psalm 93) were created
in profusion, as well as for Tov I'hodot (Psalm 92) in West Central European
synagogues. In Eastern Europe, extant partitura collections reveal highly
numerous settings of Ahavat olam, Hashkiveinu, V'sham'ru and Magein avot.
In the S.H. (p. 18), not only are there no references to any choral composition
for V'sham'ru, but among the references for the nusah, even Katchko — also
referenced practically routinely throughout the book— is omitted there. It so
happens that Katchko, in Otsarll, p. 22, presents a model hazzanic example
of V'sham'ru, in this instance even more so than Alter, who is referenced.
Moreover, Katchko also includes on the same page in his Otsar II a model
example of the nusah for merely the concluding words of the text, the omis-
sion of which leaves the reader of the S.H. with neither a musical example
nor a referential source for that level of the nusah.

In the Eastern European synagogue, Shabbat Morning prayer texts typically
sung by choir included at least Mimm'kom'kha (the composition of which by
Avraham Berkowitz was cited above), Ki mi-tsiyyon, L'kha Adoshem hagg'dulah
(for which Zeydl Rovner's composition was cited above), Mi she-asah nissim
(on Shabbat m'var'khim), Hodo al eretz, U-v'nuho yomar and all four texts —
with their responses— of the Musaf K'dushah: Na'arits'kha; Kadosh/K'vodo;
Barukhk'vodlMimm'komo;andSh'mayisraellHuElokeinu. Many more were
also sung, although not as routinely.

The same limited references to choral compositions is largely true of the
coverage of Hallel in the S.H. There, however, three choral settings are cited
in the referenced Ephros Volumes 3 and 4: Mah ashiv by Lewandowski and
Min ha-meitsar by Halevy and Dunajewski. One can only wonder why the
Nowakowski setting of Adoshem z'kharanu (in Ephros, Vol 3, p. 194) was
bypassed. The Eastern European handwritten partitura collections, however,
contain many settings of these and other texts of Hallel which once enriched
and glorified the psalm texts as well as the occasions on which they were
sung. These include Hal'luy ah, hal'luavdei Adoshem; B'tseityisrael; Adoshem
z'kharanu; Ahavti; and Hal'lu et Adoshem kolgoyim (cited above), in addition,
of course, to Mah ashiv and Min hammeitsar.

Various anomalies

The first S'lihot Service preceding Rosh Hashanah was formerly perceived
as the beginning of the High Holiday season, not merely because of its lit-
urgy, but because of the intensity of feelings it aroused within the masses of
God-fearing Jews. As recalled by this writer in the time and place described
at the beginning of this review, the sounds emanating from synagogues— to
strolling passersby in the cool September evenings— of boys-and-men choirs
rehearsing the seasonal liturgical compositions brought the feel of the ap-
proaching Days of Awe, as did the frequent playing on the Yiddishe Stunde
(" the Jewish Radio Hour") of the 78-rpm recording of Hazzan Mordechai
Hershman singing the once-famous rendition of Sh'ma koleinu. Similar
feelings are described by the author in the S.H.: "... listening to Leib Glantz's
recording [of] 'S'lihot' 1958 ... reveals the formula for creating communal
prayer-excitement ... offered by an inspired hazzan and knowledgeable ka-
hal." Indeed, this was the feeling engendered by synagogue t'fillah on special
liturgical occasions generally, but with a unique quality characteristic of the
first S'lihot service in particular. This quality was created by the uniqueness
of this penitential occasion, its liturgy and the traditional intonation of it by
hazzan and choir. Throngs filled the synagogues in anxious anticipation of
sharing in the special experience of this midnight service, ushering in the
new High Holiday season. One therefore wonders why the S'lihot service is
placed in the Sefer Hadrakhah (pp. 205 — 12) after — rather than before — the
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services.

The usual ongoing references throughout the S.H. to Alter, Katchko and
Ephros (Vol. 2: Yom Kippur in this section) secure coverage of the nusah as
well as traditionally hazzanic treatments of the liturgy in the S'lihot section,
which are enhanced by the inclusion of 3 selections from the mentioned Glantz
S'lihot service as well as the Zavel Zilberts setting of B'motsa'ei m'nuhah and
the Isaac Kaminsky setting of Sh'ma koleinu in the High Holiday volume by
Noah Schall. Choral settings are referenced for a number of the prayer texts
traditionally sung by the choir at the S'lihot service. However, one text noti-
cably lacking is L'khu n'ran'nah within the Shomei'a t'fillah prayer. Another is
the once-celebrated, highly inspirational composition oiKeil erekh appayim
by Baruch Schorr (N'ginoth Baruch Schorr, p. 10, no. 11), and still another is
T'vi'einu (sometimes: Havi'einu) toward the end oiZ'khor rahamekha imme-
diately preceding Sh'ma koleinu. A choral setting by Gerowitsch (in Ephros
Vol. 2, p. Ill) for this text, however, is referred to in the Erev Yom Kippur
service, but the choral singing of this text was more typical of the first S'lihot
service than of Erev Yom Kippur. The primary reason is that the pre-Rosh

Hashanah S'lihot service consisted solely of S'lihot texts, and the T'vi'einu/
Havi'einu passage was the concluding one preceding the opening of the Ark
for Sh'ma koleinu. And inasmuch as the pre-Rosh Hashanah S'lihpt service
was the first occasion on which this text was included in the incoming High
Holiday season, its choral intonation was particularly appealing and inspir-
ing. On Yom Kippur, by contrast, other special t'fillot "competed," as it were,
with the S'lihot section within the various services, rendering somewhat less
priority to the T'vi'einu/Havi'einu passage in those services.

Two departures from traditional norms also appear in the S'lihot section
of the S.H.: The first is Ex. 11.3, p. 208, namely the rendition and Zamru
Lo reference for the singing of Adoshem, Adoshem. In the published S'lihot
services by Alter and Katchko and all Eastern European hazzanim generally,
there is no musical setting for the Sh'losh-esreih middotdX all. The only places
where it was universally intoned during the High Holidays were at Hotsa'at
ha-sefer immmediately following Vaihi binso'a... Ki mi-tsiyyon and in the
piyyut (liturgical poem) in Neilah which begins with that text.

Similarly, the references for the Viddui-mode singing of Ashamnu in the
pre-Rosh Hashanah S'lihot service in the S.H. (p. 211) are from their inclu-
sion in Yom Kippur services. However, in no Ashkenazic tradition, West
Central or Eastern European was Ashamnu sung in that service at all. Baer,
for example, states on p. 69 (under S'lihot kodem rosh hashanah I'yom ris-
hon): Oschamnu leise gebetet ("Ashamnu [is] recited in an undertone"). Its
Viddui-mode intonation was traditionally reserved exclusively for Yom Kippur
Evening and Day services. Such distinctions in the usages of special nusahim
evolved precisely to highlight their significance on specific liturgical occasions
through their deliberate exclusion on others. Loss of this subtlety in relatively
recent decades —in addition to innumerable others— has resulted only from
the pressure to create ever more opportunities for congregational singing.

The Sefer Hadrakhah presumes and encourages improvisation of a number
of segments of the liturgy based upon the general templates given for a par-
ticular nusah. However, all general nusah templates in the S.H. provide nothing
beyond pitch content. In Kwartin's previously mentioned autobiography, he
tells of hearing four ba'alei t'fillah in his youth as well of visiting hazzanim
with their choirs, and mentions especially their boy soloists, all of whom made
lifelong impressions on him through their strongly impassioned intonations
which reflected the thousand-year Jewish suffering from continuous persecu-
tion. Kwartin also speaks of the role of God-fearing parents, of learning and
absorbing as a child in kheyder the fear of heaven, the awe of a higher being,
and identification with the harsh plight of Jews historically. He concludes:

It must therefore be emphasized that a hazzan who did not absorb in
childhood this kind of background and who has never heard the local
pious, God-fearing ba'al t'fillah pour out his embittered heart at the
amud in a veritable sea of tears on the Days of Awe cannot truly feel his
exalted calling, and does not really understand before Whom he stands.
From these words, it is clear that the mere following of a template consist-
ing solely of a scale- or mode-basis, pausal points and a few characteristic
motives cannot effectively reproduce a nusah which grew precisely out of
the type of environment described by Kwartin. Therefore, precisely because
of contemporary circumstances, instead of encouraging improvisation at an
early stage, it is far better to provide the reader with a structured selection of
specific renditions which can simulate as effectively as possible the improvisa-
tions of a hazzan from the background described. Textual interpretation of
the words should of course be emphasized, as well as the significance of their
content to the liturgical occasion, all in light of cumulated Jewish historical
experience. Without conscious attention to these factors, rendition based on
pitch content alone produces no more than what amounts to a body stripped
of its soul. Only after having thoroughly learned and internalized the "feel"
of a nusah should improvisation be considered, and even then only by gifted
individuals capable of doing it justice.

A qualified recommendation

Finally, a word on the practical usage of Sefer Hadrakhah: The serious reader
will need to physically gather the various sources referred to— 1 to 8 volumes—
for each separate prayer text, provided they are owned or at least available,
and will require rigorous discipline and integrity to do so.

The reader who will opt to merely select randomly from the bulleted
references will be faced with the problem that the commentary, with little
exception, offers no information on the purpose of the various examples other
than that stated in the Preface, of providing references "for cantorial solos
or variants of the nusah ha-t'fillah" However, when looking through the list
of bulleted references, no information is given as to whether a reference is
intended as a reinforcement of the given nusah., or whether it is a variant, and
if so, the nature of the variance. Is it a totally different nusah?- Does it involve
hazzanic stunts — momentarily extrinsic to the nusah under consideration — as
pointed out earlier in examples by Alter? Is it a shorter or longer conclusion
of a prayer text? Is it for hazzan, or for choir? Or is it an extended hazzanic
recitative ("solo"), and if so, what is the nature of its individuality? Moreover,

unless the composer or compiler is the composer of a bulleted reference, one
cannot even know the identity of the composer without locating it manually.

The reader who will opt for the path of least resistance and rely only on
the musical examples in the S.H. will have no choice but to improvise the
highly numerous texts for which no musical examples are given, as well as the
sections of prayer texts not covered in the many partially notated examples.
This necessity will obviously incur the above-mentioned problems involved
with improvisation. Moreover, in view of the vast subject the S.H. aims to
represent, the scope of the musical examples in the book is relatively limited.
Therefore, dependence on those examples alone would probably result only
in mediocrity.

Despite all that has been pointed out above, it would be unfair as well as
remiss to fail to acknowledge and emphasize the abundance of decades-
long accumulated scholarly information which pours forth throughout the
pages of the Sefer Hadrakhah. As mentioned at the beginning of this review,
this includes detailed definitions of many nusahim and innumerable details
concerning liturgical practice and tradition, the coverage of which is decid-
edly thorough and excellent. The book is also an immensely valuable source
for references to numerous felicitous hazzanic and choral selections, and
particularly since it covers the entire liturgical year within a single 330-page
volume, it is a most valuable as well as handy reference work for students as
well as professionals in all mentioned areas.

From the perspective of this writer, however, above and beyond all other
issues concerning the Sefer Hadrakhah addressed above, the single most
lamentable is the treatment of congregational singing. As a fact of life in the
21st century, congregational singing is a subject which needs to be addressed
in classes for aspiring hazzanim. In a book which aspires to emulate the Baer
Baal T'fillah in updated form, however, congregational singing— as it has
mushroomed out of control, particularly in recent decades — has no right-
ful place in it. Treating it as an integral part of nusah ha-t'fillah, however,
amounts to an attempted fusion of two worlds in which the primary con-
cerns of one clashes with those of the other. One, the time-hallowed older
tradition, aspires toward addressing the Almighty b'hadrat kodesh ("in the
beauty of holiness" [Psalm 29:2]), with intense devotion and adherence to
nusah through heartfelt interpretation of the prayer texts, some supplicatory,
others glorifying, meditational or mystical— or whichever sentiment the text
and liturgical occasion inspires— all in an ambience of holiness. The second,
the current trend, whose primary goal is formed by the ever weakening feel-
ing for the first, continually agitates for more congregational participation

through the singing of prayer texts regardless of their traditional functional
domain (hazzanic or congregational), regardless of their appropiateness for
the sacred texts upon which they are thrust, and regardless of the nusahim
and inspirational settings of the sacred texts they displace.

The fact is that by comparison with the traditional hazzanic recitative or
choral composition, even the most innocuous of congregational melodies
compromises and dilutes the dignity, subtlety and depth of textual inter-
pretation and associated ambience — in a word, the level of holiness once
conveyed by the older tradition. Such compromise and dilution only become
exacerbated through the ever-pressing demand for more tunes of "light," and
as often stipulated, "fun" character. Hence the attempted fusion of both these
philosophically opposite worlds as a single "Application oiNusah hatefillah
Beminhag Ashkenaz" is, in the view of this writer, aberrational, because the
time-hallowed musical-liturgical tradition and its lofty assumptions are far
too profound, sublime and great to be associated with— let alone on a par
with — the diluted, popularized alternative, which the Sefer Hadrakhah im-
plicitly legitimizes by presenting it as integral to the time-hallowed tradition.

A respected cantor, composer, teacher and scholar, Sholom Kalib currently devotes all
his available time and energy to "The Sabbath Morning Service"— the third in a five-
volume project— The Musical Tradition of the Eastern European Synagogue.

Volume One, "Introduction— History and Definition',' and Volume Two, "The Weekday
Service',' appeared in 2002 and 2005, respectively, each in several parts. Both volumes
were greeted with critical acclaim ("... a job for an entire university department— or at
least several professors and a raft of much- abused graduate students" wrote Alexander
Gelfand in FORWARD, December 2, 2005). The Journal wishes to thank Dr. Kalib for
graciously agreeing to write the above review /essay in honor of his distinguished friend
and colleague, Hazzan Charles Davidson.

Geoffrey Shisler's Shiru Lo Shir Chadash: Original
Compositions for Shabbat, Holy Days and Other
Occasions, with 2 accompanying CDs
Edited by Cantor Arie Subar, and Stephen Glass
Council of Hazzanim of Greater Montreal, 2009
Reviewed by Sam Weiss

Geoffrey Shisler has had a long and varied hazzanic and rabbinic career in
Great Britain. He has also been a passionate teacher and colorful spokesman
for the art of traditional synagogue music, and Shiru Lo Shir Chadash is
the first published collection of his liturgical compositions. The meticulous
production of this handsome book and double-CD set is a labor of love by
a number of Montreal hazzanim along with Montreal pianist and arranger
Stephen Glass, a colleague and student of Shisler's from "the old country."

Glass, who is the music director of Montreal's Shaar Hashomayim congre-
gation, accompanies its hazzan Gideon Zelermayer on the recordings. Glass
also notated the chord symbols of his elegant harmonies for the book. Since
he changes chords on virtually every beat of the measure, these symbols are
an interesting study in and of themselves. The melody lines and lyrics are
beautifully engraved, and complete Hebrew texts precede all the selections.
Noteworthy is the novel presentation of the English translations, which are
printed in complete short phrases above the music rather than word-by- word
below the lyrics. A singer who is unfamiliar with the Hebrew text can thus
quickly scan the meaning of an upcoming passage before singing it, instead of
figuring it out after singing it. An index of the generous spirit evident in this
book's production is the fact that every chorus is fully notated, with virtually
no repeat signs. The recordings, however, usually do not repeat choruses
that are easily construed from the music; but when word placement alters
the repeated music in any way, the passage is sung again with the new words.

The precision of the notation notwithstanding, we are surprisingly never
given any tempo indications or other performance suggestions. The edi-
tors' decision to supply this information only aurally via the recordings will
unfortunately leave many a singer to his or her own devices. A case in point
are the two versions of Adon Olam, both of which have entirely different
characters depending on their tempi. The pervasive J. J>J . rhythm of the
first one implied a dance tempo to me, while the J > triplets throughout the
second version suggested the more relaxed triple-time typical of the rest of

ShiruLo Shir Chadash. It turned out that I had guessed the composer's inten-
tions incorrectly— or at least guessed them differently from the performers'
interpretation on the CDs.

The book concentrates on prayers from the Shabbat and Festival morning
services, plus a few texts from the High Holidays and z'mirot. The "Chadash " in
Shiru Lo Shir Chadash can apply not only to new musical settings but also to
imaginative choices for which liturgical texts to set, e.g.,R'tseih v'hahalitseinu
(from the Birkat Hamazon) and the four selections grouped under the cat-
egory of "Music For Children" (They are Yishtabahj Eil Baruch G'dol Dei'ah,
Ashrei, and L'eil Baruch). These four songs are musically no different from
the majority of the pieces in the collection; the "Children" category is merely
a placeholder for songs without a synagogal liturgical rubric. Indeed, these
pieces could very well have found a home in the last small category called
"Other Pieces," which contain a choral V'hu Rachum and a complete setting
of the Hanukkah lighting ceremony.

The 59 selections — all of which are heard at least in part on the record-
ings—are actually at most 52 distinct compositions and seven variants. These
include versions for duet or choir, alternate harmonic versions of Yism'chu
in minor and Freygish, as well as a supplemental version of Adon Olam with
no repeated words. I say "at most" 52 distinct compositions because many of
the pieces lack a distinctive melodic character of their own but are somewhat
derivative of each other. While Shisler most obviously presents a theme-and-
variations in his two sets of Yism'chu, several other compositions, like the two
versions of Ki Lekach Tov and the three versions of Na'aritzcha, sound like
musical exercises awaiting a composer's final decision. The Na'aritzcha, K'vodo
and Mimkomo sub-sections of the Kedushah have a certain mix-and-match
quality that seems to invite the hazzan to make his own choices among them.

The bulk of the compositions are in gentle triple meter (even some of the
duple-meter songs have triplet undercurrents) and a majority of them are
in major keys. This sonority, combined with the restrained— though refined
and beautiful — singing of Hazzan Zelermayer, gives the collection a decid-
edly continental sound. Fully cognizant of the very subjective and marginally
relevant nature of such judgments, I will say that to my ears the first third
of the work leaned more in the direction of the salon than the shul; only at
selection #18— a cantorial Sh'ma Yisrael of the Musaf Kedushah— were my
ethnic heartstrings finally tugged at.

While the author's yiddishe neshomeh is evinced in a number of other pieces
from Hallel onwards, such passages usually have a cantorial rubato flavor;

rarely do the rhythmic settings, which constitute the core of this work, sound
unambiguously Jewish. One welcome exception is Shisler's charming setting
oiGeshem. Although its six verses are all in the same triple rhythm and in the
same key, the Geshem is actually beautifully through-composed with thought-
ful word-painting. The return of the opening melody in the final verse is very
well conceived. Adding a ritornello for the congregational refrain Ba'avuro
Al Timna Mayim would have rounded out the structure of this composition
and made it pret-d-porter for the synagogue service. A good musical idea for
such a refrain would have been the composer's own clearly congregational
tune in Hoshanot for Shabbat that appears a few pages on. It is in 4/4 time
and would provide a welcome change from the six verses in 3/4 time.

When singling out one of the tunes in Shiru Lo Shir Chadash as "clearly
congregational," I mean to point out that most of them are not written for
that purpose. The simplicity and even predictability of most of the tunes
notwithstanding, there are enough leaps, arpeggios, chromatic passing tones,
and other soloistic figurations to remove this work as a whole from the rubric
of Congregational Melodies. The few pieces arranged for hazzan and men's
choir by Stephen Glass give further testimony to the basic tenor of the col-
lection. Even those melodies that might be sung by a group are better suited
to a unison chorus than to a typical congregation.

The resourceful hazzan, nevertheless, can certainly use or modify some of
these lyrical synagogue pieces as congregational melodies that lie clearly on
the other side of the Shlomo Carlebach-Debbie Friedman musical divide. If
not as congregational melodies, then how best to utilize these new cantabile
liturgical settings that Geoffrey Shisler has composed? The way Hazzan/Rav
Shisler himself probably has done in the synagogues he has served: as solo
material that contrasts nicely with nusah or hazzanut and is ingratiating to
the congregation without necessarily inviting it to join along. This certainly
represents a valuable contribution to the working hazzan's musical arsenal. But
even beyond such utilitarian purposes, ShiruLo Shir Chadash is a marvelous
work that offers us a glimpse into the musical heart of a rabbi who remains
a devoted hazzan. It is a heart that dances at every liturgical opportunity,
inspiring us all.

Sam Weiss, hazzan at the Jewish Community Center of Paramus, NJ, is a recitalist,
lecturer and Jewish Music consultant in the fields of liturgical, Yiddish and Hasidic
song. A frequent contributor to the Journal of Synagogue Music and a member of
its Editorial Board, his review, "Zamru Lo III— The Next Generation— For Hallel,
Shalosh R'galim and the Weekdays" appeared in the Fall 2009 issue.

Joey Weisenberger's Building Singing Communities:
A Practical Guide to Unlocking the Power of Music in
Jewish Prayer, with a Foreword by Rabbi Elie Kaunfer,
201 1; a Publication of Mechon Hadar's Minyan Project

Reviewed by Shoshana Brown

This book, launched together with an accompanying CD {Joey's Nigunim:
Spontaneous Jewish Choir) which is sold separately, is timely and much-
needed. To use it, however, you have to be willing to take a plunge, for Weisen-
berg— Music Director at the Kane Street Synagogue in Brooklyn, NY and
Music Faculty member at Yeshivat Hadar in Manhattan — describes a vision
of synagogue-singing/praying that most of us have never witnessed. I had
heard Weisenberg give a presentation at an Independent Minyan Conference,
and so, was not surprised at what he describes in his book. But I suspect that
neither hearing nor reading about it can give one a true grasp of what it's like.
One probably needs to attend either a service at his synagogue or a class
at his Yeshiva in order to understand the essence of his approach:

...every congregation that aims to take its singing energy to the next level
must develop a core group of singers who stand close together, directly
surrounding the ba'al t'Jillah. I like to call this group the "Spontaneous
Jewish Choir" and its participants "musical gabba'im. But this singing core
is not a new idea at all. In many ways, it's actually a return to a centuries-
old synagogue practice whereby choristers (m'shor'rim) would stand near
the hazzan to sing spontaneous harmonized responses.

Yes, I had heard of m'shor'rim (and seen them on Youtube), but Weisenberg
is not really endorsing a return this late medieval set-up. We are not talking
about a handful of grown men with a sprinkling of young boys here. We are
talking about a much larger group of adult layfolk, men and women, clustered
around the sh'liah tsibbur at a floor-level, centralized prayer amud (he stresses
the importance of not having prayer led from a frontal, raised bimah) for the
duration of the service— who would support the prayer-leader's singing, and
simultaneously take their cues from him/her — and most importantly, encour-
age lustier singing/davening from the rest of the congregation. At least that's
the best I can figure it out from Weisenberg's self-described "manifesto."

Here too, there is a caveat for anyone teaching the "spontaneous singing
choir" a congregational melody in preparation for an actual service. Weisen-
berg's well-taken advice is to avoid introducing harmonies until people have

mastered the tune by singing it together in unison some 30 times. Once they
really know it, harmonies will develop on their own.

The centralized-amud concept also raises certain logistical questions
and may require some reconstruction of our sanctuaries. (In my home shul
we do have a floor-level amud, but there is no room there for such a large
singing-group crowding around it for most of the service). It is also difficult to
understand the logistics of this arrangement. Do all the "spontaneous choir"
members remain standing the whole time the hazzan is davening? Are we
meant to hear the sh'liah tsibbur's voice above the crowd as the distinct leader,
or are all these folks, in a sense, "leading"? Once the congregation is able to
carry a particular melody, can the hazzan harmonize with them?

These are just some of the questions that are bound to arise in readers' minds
as they try to imagine putting Weisenberg's ideas into practice. It is beyond
question today that increased participation and enthusiasm by members of
the congregation during a service is the sine qua non of their engagement in
prayer; it will also enhance their ease with the language of t'fillah. But what
about the "ease" of the prayer leader? Will the hazzan feel comfortable with
so many people hemming him/her in so closely, awaiting their cue for the
next congregational melody? How will the rest of the congregation feel if they
cannot see — and possibly be unable to hear — him/her? Might the harmonies
so overwhelm the melody line that some daveners would not be able to rec-
ognize what the basic tune of the prayer is?

Certainly a field trip to Joey's kahal in Brooklyn, or to Mechon Hadar in
Manhattan, might help one to understand how all this works. Most of our
congregants have not yet attained the same level of Jewish knowledge and
engagement as Joey Weisenberg's regular worshipers or students. It strikes me
that just as he came to his methods in an organic way while leading/teaching
worship, so too, his readers might have to discover through their own process
of trial and error exactly which of his suggestions will work most effectively
for them — and perhaps along the way develop additional methods of their
own. I vividly remember Craig Taubman's visit to the CA convention in Los
Angeles a number of years ago. He did not have his whole band; it was just
Craig and his guitar, and still he had the whole room in the palm of his hand,
singing with fervor. Afterwards one of the cantors asked him, "But what do I
do about the fact that I am not you?" Taubman answered: "You are not sup-
posed to be Craig Taubman. You have to be the you that God meant you to be!"

Indeed, those who share Joey's goal of taking their people's "singing en-
ergy to the next level" will ultimately have to find their own ways to achieve
it. With a willingness to experiment (and with support from the rabbi and

249

synagogue lay leadership), perhaps Weisenberg's recipes will work better
than most of us can imagine. Yet, it might also be prudent to gradually feel
our way in developing a "spontaneous Jewish choir" as we discover what
seems "right" to the rest of the congregation whose leadership in prayer is
our responsibility. (It is worth noting that at Kane Street this more intensely
participatory approach to davening was first developed in an alternate minyan
before gradually entering the main service.)

Weisenberg includes many other "recipes for success" in his slim book,
including tips for how to learn and retain a new melody and how to teach it
to others. His suggestions for a novice ba'al t'fillah in how to lead services
are excellent, and chapters on "Politics and Diplomacy" and "Expanding the
Musical Culture of the Community" are indispensable for our brave new world.

I greatly enjoyed listening to the companion CD of Joey's Nigunim, (the
author's spelling; all melodies composed by him as well), but I suspect that
for many congregants, this kind of music would only be an acquired taste.
Weisenberg's melodies gravitate towards the plaintive; even his faster ones
share this quality. In that sense they resemble meditative hasidic d'veikut nig-
gunim, particularly those of Lubavitch. I happen to be a fan of this musical
genre, but I don't think the same is true for the American Jewish mainstream.
Nonetheless, whether we choose to enrich our davening with Joey's melodies,
with Debbie Friedman's, Solomon Sulzer's, or Mizrahi piyyutim tunes, the aim
is to bring enthusiastic congregational involvement to our t'fillah b'tsibbur.

Joey Weisenberg is doing his part in pointing the way — but he needs our
help. And we need his. Buy the book. Read it. Listen to the CD. Then, with your
mitpall'lim, take the plunge. Join the good fight to transform our synagogues
into arenas of engagement and commitment, aided by the power of music to
elevate our prayer as — more and more — we become "singing communities."

Shoshana Brown received her cantonal s'mikhah from the Alliance for Jewish Renewal
in 2011. Her article, "Nothing New under the Sun: What's Still Wrong with our
Synagogues?" appeared in JSM 2008; and her interview, "The Amidah and Atsilut:
A Dialogue with Zalman Schachter-Shalomi," appeared in JSM 2009. She has served
as hazzan or Jewish music teacher at Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative and
Unaffiliated congregations, and currently resides in Huntington, New York.

Jack Gottlieb's Funny, It Doesn't Sound Jewish:
How Yiddish Songs and Synagogue Melodies Influenced Tin
Pan Alley, Broadway, and Hollywood, Albany, NY: State
University of New York in association with The Library of
Congress, 2004; + 1 digital sound disc

Reviewed by Judith Pinnolis, RIS Humanities Librarian at the

Goldfarb Library, Brandeis University

Jack S. Gottlieb (1930-2011) studied composition with Aaron Copland and
Max Helfman. He worked with Leonard Bernstein as his assistant at the
New York Philharmonic from 1958 to 1966. Among his numerous compo-
sitions were the full-length service Love Songs for the Sabbath (1967), the
opera Tea Party (1955), orchestral chamber
music including the Fantasy on High Holiday
Themes for Cello (1998), keyboard works for
piano and works for organ including Judge of
the World (1975) and The Voice of the Lord in
the Storm (1985), along with a large number
of vocal works. The Library of Congress chose
Gottlieb's Presidential Suite for the website
"I Hear America Singing" in 2002. Recent
publications include Songs of God Love, and
the CD Monkey Biz'nis, A Musical Diversion
in One Act.

Gottlieb was a past president of the Ameri-
can Society for Jewish Music (1991 -1997), and
held jobs as music director of Temple Israel
in St. Louis and was a composer-in-residence
at HUC-JIR in New York from 1973-1975. From 1973-1977, he was the first
full-time professor of music at the School of Sacred Music, Hebrew Union
College. In 1977 he joined the [now called] Leonard Bernstein Office, Inc.
as publications director, and served as consultant for the Bernstein estate.
Among artists who have performed his works are Bernstein, members of
the New York Philharmonic, the Boston Symphony and the Vienna Philhar-
monic Orchestra; singers Jennie Tourel, Adele Addison, Lee Venora and John
Resrdon; the Gregg Smith Singers, as well as many other choral groups; and
actresses Tovah Feldshuh and Felecia Montealegre.

This review first appeared on Judith Pinnoles' website, Jewish Music Web
Center, January 1, 2006.

Jack Gottlieb's mission was to set the record straight. He wished to clearly
demonstrate through musical examples and technical musical means, that in
fact, Jewish music from Yiddish song to synagogue melos, influenced Ameri-
can popular culture. This book could be a coffee table book, but it's more. It
could be the written record of years of Gottlieb's programmatic material, but
it's more than that. Or, it could be the text of a course on Jewish influences on
popular song, but it's not quite that. It can be used as a broad reference work,
and also has many elements of that. The book defies a neat characterization
in terms of style, format and content, but has elements of each: an extensive,
fascinating browse book, a music record with technical references, and a
reference book with listings of hundreds of composers, lyricists, and songs of
Jewish origin. The book is also political: it attempts to dispel the canard that
Jews merely took advantage of or exploited African Americans, but rather
shows that a true cultural exchange with mutual benefits and influences
existed between the two minority groups.

Gottlieb claims that from that time to this, Jewish music has been inex-
tricably linked to American music and vice versa. But exactly how? That is
what this book lays out, in copious musical examples with score, diagram and
theoretical explanation. Now, not every single example was as compelling or
convincing as the others. There were some musical connections that seemed
somewhat thin, but the majority of the examples seem to demonstrate the
various points he makes. Those who do not wish to sit and follow the details
of each and every musical example (although this writer did), may read
through the text and listen to the accompanying CD and get the general effect
of the musical argument. Indeed, many people may wish to read the book in
order to know whether their favorite show tunes came from a Yiddish show
or synagogue music! The book is not a history. It is arranged by organizing
principles of language and various compositional methods or techniques
for using Jewish musical elements, and as such, is somewhat disjointed and
pointillistic at times. One jumps from example to example without much
sense of the historic continuity. One reason for that may be that so many of
the various ideas were happening concurrently.

Whether or not one agrees that each and every example of Jewish influence
on a popular song is compelling, the evidence in total suggests that Gottlieb
has won his thesis. Yes, many composers, especially Jewish ones, brought in
elements of songs they knew or heard, consciously or unconsciously, onto the

252

American scene through their popular songs written in Tin Pan Alley or for
Broadway, and later for movie scores. For some reason, one would presume
this isn't a big revelation on the face of it. Many composers of other ethnic
minorities did the same thing. One could easily say that Italian, Irish, English
or French immigrants brought with them music from their European back-
grounds and used it in America when writing music. It seems logical that the
Jews would do the same, and had their fair share of cultural contributions. And
so they did. The difference is, as Gottlieb realizes, unfortunately, it is currently
very fashionable among some, to deny Jewish artistic contributions as either
very little, light weight, or nonexistent. In regard to whether he proved the
point that Jewish contributions were present, the evidence is overwhelming.
In regard to whether these influences were substantial or significant in the
total output of American popular song, is another question.

One could argue the reverse of Gottlieb's thesis. For example, if it's shown
that Irving Berlin had even a few dozen songs influenced (or lifted) from
Jewish sources, is that significant for a man who wrote over 800 songs? If
Ira and George Gershwin had several pieces that were Jewishly influenced,
they also had influences from African Americans. If Harold Aden had songs
reminiscent of Jewish song, he also wrote mainly in a mainstream idiom. This
book proves important contributions, but percentages or numbers are not
the issue. Gottlieb's point is that proving 'substantial' contribution is a matter
of perspective. He shows that anyone who wants to understand the origins
and early history of American musical theater or 20th-century American
popular song, now needs to be able to recognize these Jewish influences
along with those of other groups. They are all part of the whole and must
be included (not to mention that so many of the composers of early Tin Pan
Alley, Broadway and movies, themselves were Jews). Gottlieb is not leading
a cheer or pep rally, or merely stating "ain't- we-great-because-there-were-so-
many-Jews-who-did-this." He's looking at this body of music not only from
the sociological or historic point of view, but from the inside out— from the
linguistic and compositional views. He starts with the Yiddish [language
itself which Jews brought to America from Eastern Europe via the waves of
mass immigration at the turn of the 20th century. He shows how even the
Jewish language greatly influenced, was part of, and forwarded the progress
of song in America. Change to popular song in America started with the
Yiddish language, and progressed from there through the genius of some of
our greatest songwriters and composers who had the Jewish musical taam
(taste) and sound in their ear.

The book can also be used for sheer fun, a kind of aural "who dunnit" game
and wonderful puzzler. Gottlieb is also a self-proclaimed punner, and the book
is full of good humor, Yiddishkeyt ("Jewishness"), and entertaining anecdotes.
A lot of people, even those unfamiliar with Yiddish, will derive tremendous
delight and "get a kick" going through the songs, hearing the various songs
of origin, and hearing the CD where the examples clearly outline some of
the more easily recognizable Yiddish or synagogue tunes transformed into
a popular song. Another interesting sidelight were some of the ironic anec-
dotes. For example, everyone knows how tightly Irving Berlin guarded the
copyright on his music— yet he apparently didn't seem to mind lifting music
from others, including Yiddish theater composer Abraham Goldfaden.

Besides his demonstrated prodigious musical memory and keen ear, Got-
tlieb's scholarship make the book a handy reference work. Appendix A lists
composers, author, and performers alphabetically, with birth date, place,
and death date and place. It gives Jewish and stage-or-changed American
names. Appendix B lists, by time period, "Yinglish" (mixture of Yiddish and
English) song titles. Appendix C gives musical example titles. This informa-
tion on American- Jewish song is not organized nearly as thoroughly in any
other book, to my knowledge. The Bibliography (pages 267-276) is extensive
(and very worthwhile for students of American music or librarians). The CD
tracks and texts are listed in the book, as well as an Index. In addition to all
this, the CD has fascinating clips of rare recordings by legends of the stage,
radio and film.

The book is highly recommended for college, conservatory and university
libraries and would also make a good gift for your friend who is a popular-
song or Broadway buff.

Michael Gerber's Jazz Jews
Five Leaves Publications, 2009.

Reviewed by Jeffrey Nussbaum

Mike Gerber, a London-based journalist and life-long enthusiast of this mu-
sical genre, does a spectacular job in examining the influence and place of
Jewish musicians in the world of j azz, a proj ect almost adecadeinthe making .
The study of Jewish musical identity has joined the ranks of other related
studies, including, gender, sexual, and ethnic identities. However, it still lags
behind others in scholarly research generally, and in this field in particular.
An interesting case in point is that of Jacques Fromental Halevy. His entry
in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians mentions that he was
a French composer, teacher and writer on music, and goes on to say: "His
parents were Jewish." It seems clear that this statement is indicating that they
were Jewish and he was not. Otherwise, why not simply write that he was a
Jewish composer? Halevy wrote Jewish music for the synagogue and identi-
fied himself as a Jew. An informal viewing of many other entries of Jewish
musicians reveals a similar bias. Jewish identity is either under-played or
not mentioned at all. Gerber 's book goes a long way towards rectifying that
fault by unapologetically demonstrating the relevance of examining Jewish
identity among world-class musicians in the popular field.

Gerber takes it for a fact that there exists substantial Jewish influence in
jazz and its history. The most notable areas are in the creation of the jazz
repertoire (the songs of the Great American SongBook) and activities of what
he calls, "facilitators": concert promoters, impresarios, agents, A & R men,
record producers, and club owners. He contends that even if there were hardly
any Jewish jazz players, participators in the above two areas alone would war-
rant recognition of significant Jewish contributions to jazz and its history.

The truth is that Jewish jazz musicians abound. Gerber brings to light the
Jewish identity of literally dozens and dozens of them. Many were expert
and dependable players of 'journeyman' status, while others were influential
improvisers and star performers. Aside from the obvious big names — Benny
Goodman, Artie Shaw, and George Gershwin — Gerber examines scores of
other Jewish jazz musicians who might not commonly be identified as Jews.
Among them are:

Herbie Mann, Lee Konitz, Lew Tabackin, Dave Schildkraut, Bobby
Rosengarden, Lew Soloff, Larry Adler, Willie the Lion Smither (one of
the few Black jazz musicians who adopted Judaism), Randy and Michael

Brecker, Steve Grossman, Dave Liebman, David Amram, Flora Purim,
Herb Geller, Marty Gosz, Stan Getz, Serge Chaloff, Al Cohen, Terry Gibbs,
Shelly Manne, Buddy Rich, Red Rodney, Joshua Redman (half-Jewish,
raised by a Jewish mother), Fred Hersch, Loren Schoenberg, Lalo Schifrin,
Shorty Rogers, Bernie Glow, Jane Ira Bloom, Paul Bley, Steve Gadd, Burton
Greene, Chris Potter, Dave Douglas, Kenny Werner, Laurie Frink, Pam
Fleing, Jeremy Steig, Perry Robinson (half- Jewish), Barry Altschul, Steve
Lacy, and Sasha Distel.
Gerber also sets the record straight about musicians thought to have been
Jewish, who were not. In particular, the Andrew sisters and Harry James,
with their association with Jewish repertoire such asBeiMirBistu Sheyn and
other klezmer influenced tunes, were often mistakenly identified as Jewish.
To the above list, I would add important contributions made by Jewish jazz
scholars and teachers. As jazz studies has become a vibrant academic field,
further examination of the nature of jazz pedagogy and scholarship would
undoubtedly prove fruitful.

Some of the musicians whom Gerber interviewed delved deeply into a
self- analysis of their music and discovered fascinating Jewish influences. Jane
Ira Bloom, for example, had the following to say about how her Jewishness
influences the music she makes.

I would contend that identity actually goes beyond that of the individual.
Jewish musicians may reject their own heritage or deny any Jewish
influence. However, if they had lived in a Jewish milieu, even if they went
on to reject their Jewish identity, some aspect of a Jewish influence can
exist. The world-view and myriad range of attitudes from a Jewish milieu
are present and at play regardless of whether the individual wants to
acknowledge them or not.

Gerber 's Jazz Jews goes a long way in supporting this view. He is also not shy
about discussing anti-Semitism and reverse discrimination. It is comforting
to note that these attitudes did not always play a large part in the experience
of Jewish musicians as a whole.

Jazz is often cited as the great American art form, yet Gerber peers minutely
into every nook and cranny of the globe where Jewish jazz musicians have
been active. After surveying the American scene past-and-present in great
detail, he presents a comprehensive survey of Jews' involvement in British
jazz. This is followed by a discussion of Germany, France, Italy, Netherlands,
Russia, Hungary, Poland, Austria, Spain, Portugal, Brazil, Argentina, Canada,
Australia, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Trinidad, Scandinavia, and Israel. He focuses
particularly on the recent influx of excellent young Israeli jazz musicians into

the U.S. Nor is Asia overlooked, specifically, Jewish jazz activities in Tokyo,
Japan and Shanghai, China.

While Gerber's list of Jewish jazz musicians is extensive and expertly re-
searched, a few excellent and active musicians— such as Adam Birnbaum,
Tardo Hammer, Dan Kaufman, Trudy Silver and Dan Tepfer — were not men-
tioned. Their inadvertent omission notwithstanding, I highly recommend this
important work to jazz enthusiasts as well as to anyone interested in Jewish
music and Jewish studies.

Jeffrey Nussbaum is President and founder of the Historic Brass Society and has long-
standing research interest in Jewish music. He lives in New York City with his wife, the
computer scientist, Joan Feigenbaum, and his son, SamBaum, a budding jazz pianist.

Two OR-TAV publications in the Klezmer department

Reviewed by Jack Kessler

1) Yale Strom's Dave Tarras, lhe King ofKlei

Klezmer, the 500-year-old celebration music of the Eastern European Jewish
world, is a musical analogue to Yiddish, which some may consider a Creole'
sort-of language. That is to say, while well anchored in a core identity, it has
always been in an osmotic relationship with other influences. So, too, the
influences on klez have been many and varied. It had its origins in the musical
modalities of synagogue chant. The scales of most klezmer music are easily
recognized by hazzanim and anyone familiar with Ashkenazi nusah: Freygish
(aka Ahavah Rabbah), Adonai malakh, Mi she-beirakh (aka Ukrainian Dorian)
plus secondary scales such as the Ler'n (Study) mode with their typical mo-
tives and cadences, along with instrumental imitations of the vocal gestures
oihazzanut (cantorial singing style). Indeed, one could posit that the entire
klezmer 'tradition' is a celebrational, party-oriented, flip-side-of-the-coin of
the more serious dimension of sacred song.

During the centuries of Eastern European Jewish settlement and develop-
ment, the klezmer tradition was primarily influenced — in addition to its roots
in synagogue nusah— by Slavic, Gypsy, Balkan, Greek and to some extent
Turkish (and therefore Middle Eastern) music. The biggest single change and
challenge came with the immigration to America around the end of the 19th
century. Klezmer players were confronted by a huge range of totally new music:
dixieland, jazz, swing, and other American popular music, plus new instru-
mentation such as piano and full drum set. Add to this novel mix a new and
very practical consideration — the need to find work in clubs and theater pit
bands. Klezmer musicians adjusted, or chose not to adjust, in different ways.
Virtuoso clarinetist Naftule Brandwein, for instance, did not do crossover.
He stuck to what he had learned in the old country and did that brilliantly.

Of the players that chose to go with the flow and let their imaginations
open up to new influences, Dave Tarras stands out. He exemplifies the master
klezmer musician of the first half or more of the twentieth century. He was
a creative genius grounded in original European klez, who composed— and
wrote down (a rarity among klez players) — a large repertoire of new klezmer
pieces. He was a technically superb clarinetist and an active bandleader.
His pioneering work incorporated American music, especially swing/jazz
influence, into klezmer, set the stage and the standard, and defined the basic
approach for klezmer musicians since then. Just about all the contemporary

professional ensembles like the Klezmatics, Greg Wall's Later Prophets,
Klezwoods, Yid Vicious, and Klingon Klez (full disclosure: my band) and
more, basically follow in his footsteps. As children of our times, growing up
(if you can call it that) in the musical explosion of the late 20th century, we
have been inspired to develop klezmer in the direction mapped out by Dave
Tarras, blending the musical influences of our times with the language of klez.
Many of the signature pieces of the above-named bands are their contem-
porary versions of Tarras' compositions. While Dave might feel somewhat
less than complimented by having his name honored by folks using electric
bass, electric violin, synthesizer patches, EWI (electronic wind instrument)
and computer-controlled tracks, he essentially created and defined the game
almost a hundred years ago.

Thus it was with great anticipation that I opened Yale Strom's study of this
seminal figure. It is an easy-to-read, tremendously informative book about
the career of Dave Tarras in America. What Strom has created is really more
than just a biography of Tarras. He offers a panoramic picture of the world
of klezmer musicians in the early 20th century as they adjusted to the new
world, made do, and scrambled for work. The band business could be cut-
throat, and Dave clearly had an ego the size of his talent. He could be hard
to work with, but it was a hard business.

The book is deliciously put together. The 8 1/2" x 1 1" format allows for many
pictures and an accessible page layout. The organization of subject material
from paragraph to paragraph can be a bit scattershot, but it works fine if
you're A.D.D., so I loved it. The occasional odd translation issues, I forgive.
Overall, it's a very cool book. Especially enjoyable is the frequent inclusion
of quotes from other musicians who worked the scene, either in Dave's bands
or independently of him, plus lots of footnotes.

The second half of the book is a collection of 28 Tarras pieces. Interestingly,
none of these pieces are, to my best recollection, in earlier-published collec-
tions of Tarras pieces. The doinas (freely improvised sections) are exquisitely
complex enough to rival Moshe Koussevitzky's coloratura in his recorded
prime, yet they are hard to "hear" when visually scanning the page even for
a skilled reader. The best thing is to get original Tarras recordings and listen
while reading the charts. A high level of technical virtuosity is needed to play
this material. The rhythmic pieces are easier to get a feel for on paper, although
some of them, e.g., the Sarvers tants (Waiter's Dance) were possibly designed
just to shake us up. He wrote some of these pieces in the 1930s, but some of
it is quite edgy, with a contemporary feel. There is an element in Tarras' work
that reminds me of listening to Beethoven: it pulls me in and says: 'come here

259

now and listen to this!' It simply won't be taken for granted or allow itself to
become background music like musical wallpaper at a cocktail hour. Did
Tarras play cocktail hours? If he did, not with these charts!

Finally, the author lists an extensive bibliography of sources, which are of
great value for anyone who wants to undertake a serious study of klezmer.
There is also a comprehensive discography of Tarras recordings. Use of the
original recording label names might make these hard to track down, but
Google searches may prove helpful. Living Traditions could also help; there
are Tarras compilations out there. I have some cassettes. One that I have yet
to hear is Cha Cha Cha, Live at Grossinger's with Tito Puente, recorded in
1960. In sum, bravo to Yale Strom for his excellent work!

2) Emil Kroitor's 15 Klezmer Solos, Duos, and Trios

Emil Kroitor is an interesting musician. Much of his career took place in his
native Moldava, a small landlocked state in Eastern Europe, located between
Romania to the West and Ukraine on its other three sides. He was extensively
involved with folk orchestras in that country as composer, arranger, conductor
and performer (accordion), and didn't move to Israel till 1993.

I Therefore began to study this collection of original work from the aspect of
seeking an 'Ur-connection' to the old Moldavian style that is so fundamental
to klezmer repertoire. While much of Kroitor's music is clearly traditional in
that respect, some is surprisingly innovative. From the traditionalist angle, a
lot of these tunes are solid dance numbers (remember, klez is party music).
The style of repetition of simple phrases within sections is a good thing: it
helps establish a dance groove. In terms of innovation, you will find some
chromaticism, and occasional large intervallic leaps reminiscent of Dave
Tarras' compositional style (see prior review of Yale Strom's book). The duets
and trios are a useful addition to the literature. The vast majority of klezmer
charts are single-melodic-line lead sheets, frequently without chords. There
are very few multi-instrument arrangements available, and a band typically
works out its own arrangements and harmonies.

The settings in this volume can be especially helpful for amateur (in the
best sense of the word) klezmer ensembles that are just beginning to develop
their own arrangements. Some of the arrangements are simply structured,
with two voices playing the melody an octave or two octaves apart, with the
third voice adding periodic fills. Others, like the duet Mefirt di kalleh (The
Bride Is Led in) have the second voice varying between playing parallel thirds

to playing an alternative melody. The selections are all clearly written, techni-
cally accessible to entry-level players and musically listenable.

The book comes with a CD, recorded by Kroitor's band. This is not a full-
on studio 'art' product, and clearly was made to be part of the package for
instructional purposes, so it is hard to judge how the band would sound live.
I found the violin to be the most evocative of the instruments.

The collection is handsomely printed and comes with separate instrumental
parts, ready for players to walk onstage and blow those tunes. Everything is in
B flat, i.e., clarinet / sax / /trumpet transposition. Anyone who reads 'concert,'
e.g., violin, flute, etc. may experience some frustration with this. However,
when I contacted the publisher he graciously sent me a pdf of concert charts
to make my reading easier. I recommend this collection as a worthwhile and
useful resource, and commend its Israeli publisher, Or-Tav ( www.ortav.com ) .

Jack Kessler is a traditional hazzan who has stretched to composing-and-arranging
music for, as well as leading the progressive klezmer group Klingon Klez and the
Middle-Eastern ensemble Atzilut: Concerts for Peace (Arab and Jewish musicians
in a single ensemble). He also directs the Cantorial program ofALEPH: Alliance for
Jewish Renewal.

g \

A cappella Settings that Create an Aura of Openness

Hal'lu

Text: Psalms 117: 1
Hallel for Festivals

Music: Heard from Berele Chagy (1946)
Edited by: Charles Heller

Text: Liturgy for Returning

the Torah Scroll

(After Proverbs & Lamentations)

Eits hayyim

Music: Abba Weisgal,
After Yugoslavian Folk Melody
Arranged by: William Milner

Kaddish Shaleim

Text: Daily Liturgy Music: Arthur Yolkoff:

"for my Classmates at JTS, May 1959."

Ya'aleh

Text: Liturgy for
Kol Nidre night

Music: Sholom Katz,
After a Roui

Text: The Amidah

Yih'yu Vratson

Music: Hashkivenu in

the Western Sephardic rite

Arrangement: J. Levine

heg - yon li - bi 1 - fa -

lOO Voices: A Journey Home DVD
Now Available!

A compelling and moving musical documentary that uniquely tells the history of
Jewish culture in Poland. It highlights the current resurgence of Jewish culture
through the personal reflections and musical selections of a group of cantors, and
acclaimed composer Charles Fox, who made an important historical mission to the
birthplace of Cantonal music. This documentary will give generations to come the
opportunity to learn about and re-embrace the Jewish culture that produced one of
the most artistic and educated societies that once flourished in Europe. $25.00

Orders can be placed at

www.cantors.org

or by phone 330.864.8533.

New from

Cantor Meir Finkelstein:

M'nucha V'simcha

Six beautiful new previously unpublished compositions for the Hazzan

by one of the great composers of music for the modern synagogue service.

Pieces include:

Shabbat Hamalkah, Shalom Aleichem, Ma Gadlu, L'cha Dodi II,

Ahavat Olam, And You Shall Love, Hashkiveinu, Mi Chamocha, V'shamru,

Shalom Rav IV, Vay'chulu, Magein Avot. Amar Rabbi Elazar. $24.95

ElSENBRAUNS

■

Limited-time Special Offer

for subscribers to

Journal of Synagogue Music

Purchase this special volume

in the Duke Judaic Studies Series for just

$35.00, including shipping (U.S. orders)

$40.00, including shipping (foreign orders).

Save ca. 40% off

the standard list price of $59.50.

Liturgy in the Life of
the Synagogue

by Edited by Ruth Langer and Steven Fine
From the ancient rabbis to medieval Ashkenaz, from North Africa
to Syria, from the United States to modern Israel, the articles
collected in Uturgy in the Ufe of the Synagogue reflect the diversity
of approaches and the questions that modern scholars residing
in North America, Europe, and Israel bring to bear on the study
of Jewish liturgy. The book spans the entire history of rabbinic
prayer and presents a diverse array of approaches, ranging from

:d to new topics to today's in
approaches.
Pp. xii + 280. 978-1-57506-097-2. $59.50.

apho,

, fax,

. All t

;l|or

I'OB 275, Wmuna Lake, IN 46590-0275
Phone: (574) 269-201 1 Fax: (574) 269-6788

r_servke@eisenbrauns.com

www, eisenbrauns. com

C/:ounml f /^ ^ynagogiie. : Miisic^^ —

Our Fall 2013 issue will feature

Non- Ashkenazic Musical Traditions

with articles exploring a portion of our heritage that is assuming a
position of increasing importance in contemporary synagogues of all
denominations:

• Competition for the Office of Hazzan in the "Great" Portuguese
Synagogue of 18th-Century Amsterdam

• Sephardic Musical Repertoire

• On the Trail of Mizrahi Music

• Leitmotifs in Sephardic High Holiday Liturgy

• Syrian High Holiday Piyyutim

• Self-Imagery in Sephardic and Ashkenazic Folksong

• The Middle Eastern Roots of East European Hazzanut

• Sephardic and Ashkenazic Biblical Chant

• Two Revivals of Ladino Song in 20th-century Italy

The Journal no longer charges for subscriptions— because its raison d'etre
has always been to elevate the standards of Jewish liturgical music and to aid
cantors and synagogue musicians in furthering that endeavor. By eliminating
cost as a factor, the Cantors Assembly hopes to put this scholarly publication
into more hands individually, and collectively via institutional libraries.
Current and past issues are now accessible online through a "Journal of
Synagogue Music / Convention Proceedings" link on the Cantors Assem-
bly website ( www.cantors.org ). Printed back issues from Fall 2005 on may
be ordered prepaid in minimum lots of five @ $25 a copy, plus postage, from
the Cantors Assembly ( caoffice(3)aol.com) , using VISA, AMEX, DISCOVER
or MASTER cards.

J O U RNAL OF
SYNAGOGUE MUSIC

S A C R E D
S P A C E

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Cantors Assembly Journal of Synagogue Music"

See other formats