Culture, counter-culture, creativity

Quite a few years ago, I spent almost every Sunday afternoon in one of the great museums of the city where we then lived. I no longer remember what first stimulated my interest in art, and specifically in Impressionism, but I I relished those Sunday afternoons, as did my youngest daughter, then no more than six or seven.

The museum we frequented possessed the most extensive collection in the world of the paintings of the French artist Henri Matisse. My daughter became so familiar with the works of Matisse, particularly his colorful paper-cut collages, that when we once ventured into a new museum, she saw some Matisse works at a distance and shouted excitedly, “Matisse, Matisse!” I glowed with pride as the others in the crowded gallery exclaimed, “What a precocious child!”

It was on that occasion that I first encountered a fascinating gentleman. I’ll call him Ernesto. He was a tall hulk of a man, who had been a brilliant Talmud student before the war, but had given up all religious observance and almost all connection with the Jewish people. He had totally lost his faith as a result of his experiences during the Holocaust.

With my black yarmulke, I was readily identifiable as an Orthodox Jew, so I was easy prey. “Jews know nothing about art,” Ernesto bellowed. “Matisse! How can you glorify Matisse? His art is only decorative. All Jewish art is nothing but decoration.”

I had no clue what he was talking about.

We soon sat down together and he began to share his story. Over the subsequent years, I came to know him better and discovered that he had many bones to pick with Judaism and was in a perpetual rage against G-d. But that morning he confined his remarks to his disappointment with what he saw as the absence of fine art in Jewish culture.

Frankly, I had never given much thought to the subject. The best I could do was to refer to Bezalel, mentioned in this week’s Torah portion, Vayakhel (Exodus 35:1-38:20).

I quoted the verses to him: “…See, the Lord has singled out by name Bezalel, son of Uri son of Chur … He has endowed him with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge in every kind of craft and has inspired him to make designs for work in gold, silver and copper.”

“Surely,” I argued, “the figure of Bezalel, so prominent at the very beginning of our history, is evidence that art has a central place in our tradition.”

Not only was he unimpressed, but he responded with a rant that seemed to go on forever. “Bezalel was no more than a Matisse,” he insisted. To him, Matisse was the epitome of a bankrupt artist, one who could produce colorful designs but had no message for the culture at large. He contrasted Matisse with Picasso, who had lot to say, in his art, about the political world in which he lived.

He concluded his tirade by shouting: “Besides pretty decorations for the Tabernacle, what did Bezalel have to teach us? What did he have to say to the human race?!”

In the many years since that first encounter with Ernesto, who passed away 60 years to the day after his release from Auschwitz in 1945, I have struggled with that challenging question: “What can we learn from Bezalel?”

I have since concluded that Bezalel had a lot to teach us, especially about the creative process. He was able to do what so many others who are blessed with creative talents have not been able to do.

Most creative geniuses throughout history, and I say this fully expecting objections to the contrary, have either been misfits or have rebelled against society.

Creativity often sees itself as in opposition to conformity. The place of the artist is rarely in the contemporary culture; rather it is in the counter-culture. The creative artist, whatever his medium, typically sees himself as the creator of a new culture, one which will replace the current culture and render it obsolete.

Bezalel’s genius lay in his ability to channel his artistic gifts to the cause of the culture being constructed around him. He was not rebellious and not withdrawn. He participated in a national project as part of the nation. He combined creativity with conformity.

One lesson that he taught all subsequent artists is that they need not limit their role to critical observation. Quite the contrary, they can cooperatively partner with society and bring their skills to the service of what is going on around them.

This is the deeper meaning of the passage in the Talmud which reads: “Bezalel knew how to combine the mystical primeval letters from which heaven and earth were created” (Berakhot 55a). Bezalel’s art was an art that “combined” letters, joining them together harmoniously. His was not the art that tears asunder the constituent elements of the world around him. His was the art that blends those elements into a beautiful whole.

Bezalel’s lesson is not just a lesson for artists. It is a lesson for all gifted and talented human beings. Somehow, the best and the brightest among us are the ones who are most cynical and critical of the societies in which we live.

We see this today in the harsh criticism directed at Israel from the world of the academe, and sadly, from the Jewish intelligentsia. There is something pernicious about great intelligence that makes one unduly and unfairly critical of the world.

Bezalel, on the other hand, was able to demonstrate that one can be highly gifted, indeed sublimely gifted, and use those gifts in a constructive fashion, cooperating with others who are far less gifted, and participating in a joint venture with the rest of society.

This is a lesson in leadership which all who are blessed with special talents must learn. Special talents do not entitle one to separate oneself from the common cause. Quite the contrary: They equip one to participate in the common cause, and in the process elevate and inspire the rest of society.