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Not So Black and White

Not So Black And White: An Inside Look at the Hassidic Community

A chill hovers in the morning air. The bright brass buckle on his leather shoe shines dully in the diffuse sunlight. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. His movements echo on the pavement.  I catch his gaze in the distance. His eyes are intense. Smokey gray, their look scorches. A black velvet cap sits perched atop his head, crowning his shining curled ringlets. He holds a small velvet pouch embroidered with elaborate beading and  gold thread. It is his prayer bag. He clutches it to his side. He looks at me, then looks away.His steps grow faster, more intense. He is in a rush. Please stop, I beg. I can’t, he replies. Just your name, I persist. At least that. Ya’akov, my name is Ya’akov. How old are you Ya’akov? I’ll be Bar Mitzvahed next year, he responds, and walks away, leaving only a rush of air behind him.

Yes he’s different. It’s as though time has frozen in 19th Century Europe. Speaking a foreign tongue and donning strange, archaic attire, the Hassid stands inert against the quickly changing landscape of time. Exuding distance and aloofness, the Hassid turns his back to the world, closes his eyes and seals his lips in silence. To an outsider, the Hassidic community seems like an impenetrable fortress- one impossible to infiltrate, and even more impossible to understand. But beyond the closed doors and beyond the locked lips there lies a story. A story worth telling.

Theirs is a culture of tradition. Formed in an era of extreme Anti-Semitism and brutality, the Hassidic movement sought to return hope to the Jewish people. Its teachings emphasize sincere devotion to G-d and closeness to one another. When the outside forces threatened to destroy them, they insulated themselves with spirituality and love.

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Post by Rachel Berkowitz | December 16th, 2008 | Category: Final Project Essay and Photos | Comments (10)

Not so Black and White: Outside in progress

Field notes:

 

  

Field notes:

 

   We see ‘the other’ as someone far off; someone not near us, not like us.  We tend to overlook ‘the other,’ to dismiss him as someone we cannot comprehend, someone we cannot form a connection with. They say it’s harder to shoot a man when you’re looking him in the eyes. That is because it is hard not to relate to another human being when you are standing right next to him, looking right at him. It’s hard not to feel a kinship towards an individual you capture in a private moment: kissing a child, laughing out loud, wiping a tear. There’s this instantaneous magical moment where you just connect to an absolute stranger; this instant when you realize we are all just part of the larger web of humanity.

      My goal is  to capture a community from the “inside out-” an abstract concept I’m trying to illustrate through the usage of space and distance-both physical and emotional. I hope to capture both private and public moments; weddings, Sunday shopping, prayer services… This is a difficult task and I am not sure I will succeed, but am hopeful that a friend serving as a liaison will ease the constraints. 

 

Belt Parkway, Brooklyn

       Driving down the belt parkway one Sunday in September, I noticed an inordinate amount of Hassidic Jews clustered around the shoreline. I parked the car off to the side and walked towards them with my camera at hand. Many were facing the water, holding small prayer books with tiny ancient print. As I neared, I saw that each person seemed to be enveloped in his own private world, completely engrossed in prayer. Some had their eyes closed, others were mumbling silently, their heads bent in submission. I was hesitant to approach, reluctant to disturb them. But I need not have worried. So absorbed were they in prayer that they did not notice my presence. I stood there for several minutes- for what I was waiting I’m not entirely sure.

I shot several pictures of people praying, but especially liked the symmetry in the image of the couple praying together. I must have been staring at the couple because after a few moments, the woman looked up at me asked if I needed a siddur (prayerbook). Embarrassed, I quickly shook my head and smiled my thanks at the woman, whose name I learnt, was Malka. Malka smiled back at me and said in a Yiddish tinged English, “It’s perfect today. I vas so vorried it vud rain, and we had to come, for tashlich.”

      Tashlich, is an ancient Jewish prayer, recited near a body of water. Said on the ten days between Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year, and Yom Kippur, the day of Judgment, tashlich is a highly emotional, symbolic prayer wherein an individual privately confesses and asks G-d that his sins be forgotten, as  though cast into the sea.

    I turned to the water and noted how beautiful it was, how serene it was to listen the slow melodic lap of the water against the shoreline. Malka seemed to read my thoughts. She said, “here I can be at one with God.”

 

Boro Park, Brooklyn

    Sandwiched  between 12th and 18th Avenues and 40th and 55th Streets in Brooklyn, Boro Park is home to thousands of Hassidic Jews.

        The discordant blaring of a thousand car horns hits me from every angle, loud and jarring- it just won’t stop. Cars are illegally parked,double parked, triple parked. There is no room to move; it is a traffic nightmare. Black and white signs with Yiddish print advertise  any goods from housewares to fresh fish to  Strauss’s homemade cookies. Young mothers in long skirts and silk kerchiefs-covered heads push babies in strollers, shopping for bargains.

      I am hesitant to photograph these people,  fully aware that I myself would not appreciate the invasion. I take some quick shots, hidden from view. A young girl spots me, and points in my direction, jabbering something too quick for me to catch. I find myself looking away and walking quickly in the other directions.

      My first images, I see, are all taken from a distance. Ah well, I conclude, these will be the photos that capture the community from “outside”. There’s always next week to gather my courage and capture them from within.

 

The Klein Family

The heart of Hassidic culture lies in “the family”, and I wanted to somehow capture that. Initially, I tried to photograph families out shopping together, but found that the quality of my photos were rather flat; I was unable to capture the depth and range of emotion that I had hoped for. I thought it’d be best if I went into the home of a family, and took pictures of a family interacting. After asking around, I was introduced to Baruch and Sarah Klein, a middle aged Hassidic couple, with five children. I explained about the project, and they invited me into their home without my having to ask. Sarah suggested I come late Friday afternoon, so that I could witness their Sabbath preparations. When I entered the house, I was instantly put at ease. Sarah and Baruch smiled at me and asked me several questions about myself and my project. Their children aged 2-13, looked at me curiously and smiled shyly.  While several of their children’s toys were askew, the rest of the house was spotless. The windows glistened and the hardwood floors shone. The long dining-room table was decked in a silken white tablecloth, and the oldest daughter Shevy was setting it with silver and crystal tableware. Two crispy braided challahs leaned were set at the head of the table. It looked regal.  While the girls were setting the table, Yossi, one of the boys, was teaching his friend how to play the keyboard.

Sarah told me that the Sabbath was very important to them, as it was the one day the entire family was together, without the interruption of ringing phones or homework. She explained that there this “incredible sense of peace, and with the lit candles and singing …it’s just magical.”

            The Kleins invited me to return later that night which I did. The food was incredible, and the atmosphere was serene. The children all helped without complaint and kept asking me if I needed anything else. The family is very musical, and the father and his children sang well into the night. It was very beautiful.

 

The wedding

I had trouble getting decent shots because of the lighting, but managed to get some. The cluster of men standing together are watching the “Huppa” or marriage ceremony. Men and women are separated then, and they dance separately as well.

Physical touch between man and woman is prohibited until marriage and the first dance between the bride and groom is the first time they are to touch.  This dance is considered to be a special moment, where not only do the bride and groom’s hands touch, but their souls touch as well. Hassidic weddings are thought to be very spiritual, with special prayers said throughout. During the dance the grooms’s eyes were closed, and the bride seemed to be in midst of prayer, perhaps one of thanks for having reached this moment. In the hall, I see a young couple, who seem to be deeply in love. They are staring into each other’s eyes, completely oblivious to the world. I snap a shot feeling somewhat guilty of imposing on them. Later, I speak to them and discover that their names are David and Dina, and they’ve been married for nearly six months. Dina blushes profusely when I tell them they make a beautiful couple.

 

The synagogue

Walking with some friends one night, I pass by an empty synagogue, and decide to step inside. The interior is comprised almost entirely of dark oak, and the windows are made out of stained glass. I step into the men’s section, an area that would ordinarily be off limits to me. I walk around a bit, and see the dark blue velvet draping that houses the Torah scroll. Turning to leave, I notice an array of men’s black and white taleisim, or prayer shawls, left there to be used for the next morning’s prayer services. 

 

Friday morning, Boro Park

I casually walk through the streets, one early Friday morning. It is freezing. Hassidic men and women are rushing about, making last minute preparations for the Sabbath. Men are buying fresh fish to bring home to their wives to cook. There’s a buzz, a charged electricity in the air. The people move in fluid, rushed movements. Hurry, hurry! They seem to say. I spot  a group of men, who’ve stopped to after morning prayer services and quickly exchange greetings before continuing on their way. The bakeries are bursting with people buying steaming fresh challahs and cakes dripping in chocolate. The flower vendors are frantically trying to keep up with demand.

 

 

 

Post by Rachel Berkowitz | December 9th, 2008 | Category: Work-in-Progress | Comments (2)

Inside Out

 

Yes he’s different. It’s as though time has frozen in 19th Century Europe. Donning a fur shtreimel and silken coat, the Hassid stands inert against the quickly changing landscape of time. Exuding distance and aloofness, the Hassid turns his back to the world, closes his eyes and locks his lips in silence. But beyond the closed doors and the closed mouths there lies a story. A story worth telling.

 

Who is the Hassid? How are we to relate to him? Is he like a translucent window, whose outside clearly reflects what is within? Or is he instead like a frosted glass, whose warm interior gets obscured by the icy exterior? The only way to truly understand a people is to uncover them from within. Like the filmy layers of an onion, we must peel back the outer skins in order to expose their innards.

 

And  if we are to get past the strange garb, the  unusual customs, the unfamiliar language, if we go beyond all the externals, what will we find underneath? Surely the heart of a man beats within this people. Surely they leads lives like you and me, with needs like yours and mine. Surely they’re just people. Just like you and me. Just people.

 

 

My goal is to reveal the Hassidic people from the inside, out. To show that beyond the strangeness of without, lies a familiarity of within. I plan on entering their sphere, going into their territory: their homes, their stores, their synagogues- and telling their story, in their language, on their terms. I plan on showing you their world as they see it, and not how you see it.

 

 

Certainly there must be some compelling reason they have shut themselves off from the world? Some tell-tale explanation as to why they’ve shielded themselves from integration and assimilation for all these years?

 

They once tried to blend in. But they couldn’t. They once said, “it can’t happen here.” But it did. And the price they paid was too heavy. The price they paid was six million. Theirs is the story of the Viceroy butterfly. Like the butterfly, the only way they could survive was by blending out.

 

* Mimicry is the ability to to imitate something other than what you really are. Viceroy butterflies use it as a protection mechanism to trick predators into thinking they are an venomous species. Foremost, the intention of mimicry is to draw attention to yourself. This is usually achieved by advertising your presence with bright colors. Bright colors are probably easier for predators to learn and therefore likely reduces the number of casualties necessary before the predator learns the pattern to avoid and providing the mimic with protection.  http://home.cogeco.ca/~lunker/mimicry.htm

 

Post by Rachel Berkowitz | October 27th, 2008 | Category: Final Project Proposal | Comments (2)

Brighton Beach

It is a blustery day, the wind whips at me, lashes out at me, pushes me as if to say ‘get out, you don’t belong here.’ The clouds hover ominously over the ocean. Gray and forbidding. Just like the people. Gray and forbidding. I want to leave, to turn back and run away and return on a different day. But instead I remain where I am. I take out my camera and begin to shoot.

It feels awkward at first; people don’t want an amateur photographer following them, taking their picture, invading their privacy. Or so I think. But I am wrong. Some smile their acquiescence, others shrug indifference. Many are willing to pose. And what of the rest? Well, they’ll never know. And so I begin to freeze individual moments in time.

 

A veteran’s vision The old man sits alone on the bench, seemingly lost in thought. I approach hesitantly; it doesn’t seem right to invade his privacy. The man is lonely, he wants to converse. He tells me that he is a 94 year old veteran who is now blind and partially deaf. He says that I may take any photo of him that I wish, and asks how he should pose. When I am finished he asks disappointed, “That’s it? No more pictures?” I assure him we’ll make a model of him yet.

 

The Walker’s Club I passed this elderly group of women on the boardwalk and snuck a shot of them. I couldn’t help but wonder what brought these women together? Was it merely their infirmity? Or perhaps they were lifelong friends who had grown old together? I was reminded of an old Jewish saying by the celebrated Rabbi Akiva: “Don’t walk in front of me I may not follow, don’t want behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”

 

Army of One This woman walked right past me, but the look on her face made me stop. It was a look of determination. Her lips were pulled tightly together, her eyes set firmly ahead. Her very existence seemed to be a struggle. She appeared to be fighting the world. Her walk held in it a certain resolve as though she was saying, I made it this far, and I’ll continue going.

 

 Uninvited Guest- I snuck my head in an open restaurant doorway, and quickly took a picture of diners in the midst of their meal. How thrilling it was- to just steal a moment.

 

The Present of the Past- There is something very nostalgic about this image. The boardwalk which spans from Brighton Beach to Coney Island is a relic of the past. In  sepia, the image seems to be lifted out of a history book. It’s almost as though nothing has changed from a century ago.

 

 

 

Post by Rachel Berkowitz | October 7th, 2008 | Category: Uncategorized | Comments (6)