My first mistake when visiting the Hebrew Manuscripts exhibition at the British Library was arriving with my hopes impractically high. Having written my undergraduate dissertation on three 14th century illuminated Hebrew manuscripts, all owned by the British Library, I was expecting a cameo from at least one of my prized books. During the final months of my degree, I spent hours trawling through the British Library’s extensive digitised manuscript archives, poring over each minute detail, zooming so far into images that I could see miniscule tears and scratches on the parchment. However, this exhibition was sadly (and realistically) not catered towards a budding Jewish art historian with a profound interest in manuscript illuminations. It was curated with the average layperson in mind, someone with no prior knowledge of the Hebrew language. The exhibition was, so to speak, a stepping stone into the diverse ways Hebrew was written, used, and preserved within an array of vibrant religious and secular texts.
The manuscripts were positioned snugly within a single room, dimly lit by a tangle of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. Each themed section of the small exhibition was clearly signposted, introducing visitors to aspects of the Hebrew language and Jewish diaspora in an un-intimidating and intimate fashion. Indeed, where many galleries fall frustratingly short, the British Library truly excelled. The curators opted to scrap the part-jargon part-gibberish (widely known as arty bollocks) that many contemporary galleries favour. Instead, they chose to ease their visitors through their collection using refreshingly uncomplicated language and concepts. Thus, the purpose of the exhibition was clear. Boasting manuscripts plucked from every far-reaching corner of the earth; it presented Hebrew as a culturally robust, adaptable, and amalgamated language.
Thankfully, my initial disappointment at the lack of illuminated manuscripts quickly dissipated. Amongst the collection of objects displayed, I encountered numerous pieces that were uniquely precious and compelling in their own right. A slim, rectangular volume of wedding and circumcision poems known as a Dīwān was particularly fascinating. Shalom Shabazi, a 17th century Yemeni poet, wrote this anthology in Hebrew and Judeo-Arabic. Strongly influenced by Arabic verse, his poems were composed with the intention of being sung. The volume is unusually narrow, sensibly designed to be held comfortably in the singer’s left hand during a feast if there was no room on the dining table. The physical composition of the book is curious, with verses scrambling to fit on the same page, a breathless tumble of notes and harmonies. One can imagine the electricity the manuscript exuded when used at a ritual feast, perched precariously between three of the singer’s fingers, a floating anchor that Jewish ceremony would be useless without.
Another intriguing item was Imrani of Shiraz’s Fath Nama/Book of Conquest. This 17th century Judeo-Persian illustrated manuscript is a poetical paraphrase of narratives from the biblical books of Joshua, Ruth and Samuel. Combining Hebrew and Aramaic words to form a Judeo-Persian dialect, Imrani aspired to elevate biblical stories to the level of the Persian epic. The visible images document Seven Priests blowing horns in front of the Walls of Jericho, and Joshua and the Israelites fighting Jericho's townspeople. The two illustrations share an earthy, vibrant colour palette that seeps with warm browns, yellows, and oranges; appearing hot to the touch. There exists a perfect compositional balance between the calm, geometric order of the strategically placed Priests; and the flurry of dynamic energy emanating from the hostile fight scene. These energetic illuminations allow the biblical narrative to jump effortlessly between pages, living and breathing within the parchment itself.
Treasures aside, the British Library’s exhibition did fail in numerous areas. Unfortunately, the curators passed up the opportunity to explore the relationship between text and image within their collection of illustrated manuscripts. In doing so, they lost an element of the electricity that the Hebrew language holds. Hebrew characters come together to form a delicate and elegant script, which was often copied and decorated with painstaking detail. For example, note the zoomorphic lettering in the Golden Haggadah’s ‘Son Who Does Not Know How to Ask’ page. These characters form the shape of miniscule animals, opening the section of text which a playful expression of frivolity. Not only would these whimsical animals keep readers interested, they were also a clear expression of the scribe’s artistry and talent. Another example of Hebrew characters’ sheer opulence can be found within the Barcelona Haggadah’s ‘Bread of Affliction’ page. Here, the gold-plated text is emblazoned centrally above a family embarking upon a ritual meal. These three simple words have been transformed into the loudest, punchiest, most emphatic opening number. Sadly, the British Library’s exhibition was missing the vitality that usually courses through illuminated manuscripts, brought about through the pairing of text and image.
Additionally, by presenting artefacts from all over the world, the exhibition managed to explore the wide geographic reach the Jewish diaspora existed within. However, in doing so, sufficient attention was not granted to each manuscript, historical time period, and geographical area. What resulted instead was a whistle stop tour of every location Jewish communities flourished within, leaving the collection and its supporting information bitty and unfocussed.
Finally, without any hint of a logical explanation, two modern pieces were awkwardly placed within the exhibition. Indeed, it was jarring to come across a 21st century handwritten marriage contract, and a painting by Vetta Alexis from 1999. While the marriage contract was inoffensive, albeit unappealing, my real gripe was with Alexis’ painting. Crudely washed with a patchy blue watercolour, the painting depicts 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet forming the leaves of a simply drawn tree. Within the tree, a small globe sits over a cartoon love heart, surrounded by golden stars. I can wholeheartedly, undoubtedly, sincerely affirm that this painting should not have been displayed in the Hebrew Manuscripts exhibition. Poorly made, with a tenuous link to the Kabbalistic manuscripts it was paired with, the painting’s place within the exhibition was a colossal waste. It was truly inexplicable that considering the calibre of Hebrew manuscripts the British Library owns, the curators chose to fill precious space with a painting that quite frankly belonged on a primary school notice board.
I can only suppose that a purposeful decision was made to sloppily lump the two modern pieces into the display. Their presence was required to encourage visitors to consider how the older manuscripts fit in with their modern lives. Alongside the marriage contract, Alexis’ painting attempted to act as a visual aid that separated old from new, giving the exhibition a push in the direction of the 21st century. Unfortunately, these modern touches were largely unnecessary. If anything, the curators of this exhibition needed more faith in their visitors. I can confidently assure that every person within the small room was switched on and present. Each visitor stood, shifting weight from one foot to another, looking from object to object with their faint reflections peering back at them from beneath the glass. Each visitor waited their turn, patiently approaching the collection and returning to their favourite pieces for a quick photograph. Of course gallery-goers are able to connect, unprompted, with older material. By merely entering the room they are already engaging in dialogue with the manuscripts, imagining who used the books last and under what circumstances. It is with this engagement in mind that I urge the British Library to put more trust in its visitors. While it may have been just me hoping for more illuminated manuscripts, many other exhibition visitors arrived with blank slates, eager to learn and explore. It is unfortunate, then, that the British Library was unable to express an exhibition with a clear and unified message.
Comments