Ahead of his upcoming 92U course Jews and Modern Art — a fresh look at the Jewish origins of modern art at the turn of the 20th century — we talked to award-winning art historian and author Charles Dellheim about why Jews noticed avant-garde artistic talent ahead of the curve, Dellheim’s deeply personal commitment to uncovering Jewish culture lost during the Nazi era, the interconnection of art history and politics, and much more.
Your 92U course is an exploration of how Jewish art dealers and collectors helped to shape the trajectory of modernism before WWI. What do you think gave the Jews who figured prominently in this art scene such a keen eye for burgeoning talent?
In good Jewish tradition, let me start by answering a question with a question. Is an eye for art both inherited and acquired? Probably. But the profound appeal that modern art had for certain Jews — dealers, collectors, critics, and, not least, artists, had a lot to do with social circumstances. The migration of large numbers of Jews to metropolitan centers — above all Paris, Vienna, and Berlin — coincided with the birth of successive schools of modern art, from the Impressionists to the Cubists and beyond. Moreover, the fact that Jews played little or no part in the dominant artistic institutions, the academy and the salon, that resisted new forms of aesthetic expression meant that they were more receptive than many non-Jews to experimentation. Unlike Old Master paintings suffused with Christian icons, modern art was mainly secular. Jews had new opportunities for participation in a movement where ethnic origins and religious beliefs mattered less than commitment to “making it modern.”
Your recent book, Belonging and Betrayal: How Jews Made the Art World Modern, is an in-depth study of this time — following through the Nazi era, when so much art was stolen or destroyed, and some of it is still being recovered to this day. What drew you to this period?
Well, one of my teachers liked to say, with pardonable exaggeration, that historical writing contains an element of intellectual autobiography. This is truer in some cases more than others, of course and Belonging and Betrayal is the story of the rise and fall of individuals and families of Jewish origin. It is their story, not mine. Nevertheless, my interest in the Jewish drive to belong and succeed does have deeply personal elements, as does my interest in the dark world of Nazi-occupied Europe. My father’s family were German Jews, who lived for centuries in a small town in the Rhineland. Antisemitism was rarely far from the surface, but they worked hard, did well, and lead good lives, until the Nazi rise to power upended everything that they had worked for. So, the “betrayal” of Jews is firmly ensconced in my family history and, presumably, in my unconscious.
Tell us a bit about some of the ongoing efforts to recover stolen art — in both Europe and the US. What are the different ways that governments, organizations, and individuals are handling these matters?
After 20 years of intensive scrutiny, it would stand to reason that battles over Nazi stolen art would subside. But this has not happened; new cases and controversies continue to come to the fore. This is true because for all the achievements of struggles for restitution — above all Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, countless art objects remain in the wrong hands. Lately, there have been encouraging signs that European governments, the Dutch and Austrians among them, have become increasingly receptive to claims made by survivors — or, more likely, their heirs. Much remains to be done to bring justice to those families who were victims of Nazi dispossession. In 2017, for instance, Thomas Geisel, then Mayor of Dusseldorf, abruptly cancelled an upcoming exhibit of the life and work of German-Jewish refugee art historian and art dealer Max Stern, ostensibly for fear that it would further claims for the restitution of works of art that remained in German museums. What this case points to, among other things, is the tension between remembrance and restitution. But this should not be an either/or: we are obliged to honor, and, still more, to understand stolen lives, and to restitute stolen art.
What do you hope someone enrolled in Jews and Modern Art will take away with them when the course is over?
One of the many things that I love about teaching are the unanticipated connections that take place in a classroom — virtual or not. All the more so in the case of 92U, which attracts smart, sophisticated, and experienced participants who bring their own concerns and insights to the endeavor. But I do have definite aims and aspirations. I want the class to come away with a deeper knowledge and understanding of the complex and compelling encounter between Jews, art, and modernity. I want the class to come away with an appreciation of the sometimes explosive interconnections between art and politics in the late-19th and 20th centuries. I want to recreate, insofar as it is possible, the life, work, and milieu of the people we will be studying together and to do so against the backdrop of the political, social, and economic transformations that shaped their fortunes and misfortunes. I also want to honor the struggles and achievements of men and women, outsiders, many of whom came from humble backgrounds, who against all odds became arbiters of taste who shaped modern culture. Finally, I want all of us to enjoy the experience and to relish the opportunity to talk about important things at a time when so many are struggling to keep going with dignity and humanity.
Charles Dellheim’s 92U course, Jews and Modern Art, starts Tue, Nov 2. Sign up today.