“I am
passionate about keeping alive the culture, tradition and memory of the
destroyed shtetls (small Jewish communities) of Europe. My art is my vehicle” Carolyn Manosevitz
quotes in a recent catalogue of work devoted to her personal experiences of
loss. As a part of a long healing process,
in 2003, the artist traveled to Kremenets, her family’s Jewish community in the
Ukraine. She admits that the journey was
“a life-changing experience that brought closure to the great loss of my
family.” A child of immigrants to Winnepeg, Canada, her artwork tells the story
of efforts to work through personal and familial pain suffered because of the
destruction of her loved ones by the Nazis during the Holocaust.
Manosevits
is an artist, educator, and Holocaust scholar who helped organize this June’s
symposium: Responsibility of World Religions in the Age of Genocide, in
Aspen, Colorado. Several of her original
works of art were exhibited during the opening reception, where she spoke
briefly about her mixed media processes and the healing odyssey that lead to
this point in her life. Individual papers, talks, and panels all
addressed issues that are so beautifully echoed in Carolyn Manosevits’ artwork:
the power of one individual’s story, our commitment to family and faith, the
complex and multi-layered journey through healing, recovering memory,
reconciliation, and how incredibly destructive the act of “other-izing” can
be.
Carolyn’s
mixed media and fiber assemblage, “Children of Abraham,” features an
intricate, pencil drawing of a tree. Its
trunk splits into two main branches, and one of these splits again into two
more massive limbs. The tree itself,
though drawn naturalistically, upon closer examination reveals subtly flexing
twigs that evoke veins, arteries and capillaries. From one of the three central limbs dangles a
delicate, white paper square with a Star of David drawn on it. The other limb of
the pair sports a similarly fashioned card featuring a miniature cross. From
the adjacent branch hangs an Islamic crescent moon and star. The three tiny symbol
cards, identical in size, quiver, casting their ever-changing micro-shadows and
reminding us of the sometimes-tenuous nature of our faith journeys. Like the symposium itself, this image speaks to
the differences in each religion’s traditions, but also shows what is shared: foundationally similar values, the strength of
generational network, and the power of community; all springing forth from and
anchored in, a solid sameness and truth.
Humanity is declared and celebrated. Across centuries, and down into the
time of the soul of the earth, the roots reach while the limbs intertwine and
stretch upward, seeking.
The tree
dwarfs a hand-rendered tent that is similarly grounded, offering sanctuary. It
is flanked with fabric of red and white contrasting stripes and is tethered to the
earth with a chord that goes off the bottom of the picture plane, trusting the
same subterranean truths in which the tree is routed. One flap suggests openness
and invitation with a tilt of perspective allowing simultaneous views of
different sides of the man-made structure. Extending out several inches and
above, over the top of the entire composition, Carolyn has draped an amber, fibrous
firmament made up of thousands of tiny, interwoven, glistening threads in a
remnant that is both unraveling and protecting.
It also provides sanctuary; shielding, sheltering, shadowing, and gently
inviting the viewer back down into the tent, perhaps a nod to our civilizing, organizing
nature or our reliance on the temporary. The tether leads our eyes further downward
and then the trunk gently coax us on a journey back up again, toward the
vitality and promise of the tiny branches, reaching outward, once again, in a
seamless cycle. The metaphor is at once optimistic, reassuring, and profound.
Plexiglas
shadowboxes spotlight most of Carolyn’s intimate pieces, none greater than 30
inches in any one dimension. The hand-maid
wonderscapes invite us in for adventures of exploration and discovery. Incredibly tactile, the sensitively crafted scenes
scream to be touched and have a Lilliputian charm that makes the viewer want to
hit the “shrink” button and travel through them, looking around in all
directions. “Reconstructing the story”
is a trio (I, II, III, IV) mixing paint, colored pencil, sculpted papers, collage bits, and
hand-written text as well as color-tinted and sepia toned photographs
painstakingly layered among gauzy netting-like fibers. Framing edges, pathways,
and marks deliberately etched into layers of pigment, all reflect the
immutability of fate, witnessing to a conflict and struggling; to remember, to
leave a mark, to declare “they were once alive, they were here – hold them,
keep them, they are members and need to be RE-membered.”
“We who are the remnants”
and “My children’s children” are similarly crafted with photographic portraits
embedded in pigment. The imagery in both evokes kaddish, the Jewish prayers
children say for their parents after death.
The subtle coloration of what appear to be family photos, groupings of
loved ones, blending in with their richly textured backgrounds, allows a
hiding, a fading, and a temporal aspect of release, of bidding farewell. Into the fields they disappear. Into the past they drift. Leaving is not fleeing and is not by choice. It
is not a march, a trot, or even a trudge: it is a slow melt. It is the
disappearance of a single photographic frame, and the profound loss that
renders the victims frozen in the reel of eternal time, which, in turn, is
forever altered by their absence. Foreground gives way to background where
pathways, arches, and figures simultaneously beckon and block the viewer. Arms interlock, and shapes around community
members morph to suggest spirits accompanying them on their journey, becoming
nearly tangible forces; vital, organic, leading.
Some of
Ms. Manosevits’ images seem more narrative than others. “Krefelder Juden: for Emma” presents
a topsy-turvey, slice-of-time world of mostly gray, and unanswered questions. Hints
of saffron, violet and sage green function to merely highlight small bits of the
primarily black and white composition: a
slightly greened barrier or fence in the foreground, a purplish dress and
shadow in the middle ground accompanied by golden-tinted, flying window panes. Perspective is deliberately unsettling,
swinging different planes of chaos at the viewer behind the collaged photograph
of a woman glancing down, introspective.
Is she Emma? Or is someone
seeking an already missing Emma? “Juden”: the Jews – are they gone? Are they
being mourned, remembered? In the top half of the composition, an ominous
maelstrom of cacophonous marks swirl – bits of text; some indistinguishable but
deliberate forms, repetitive parallel marks suggesting architecture or industry;
a net-like structure; and tiny bits of black and white, all disturbed by a
conflagration of smoke, jagged edges, and flecks that appears to be in motion. Are
they ashes? Is this the crematorium out in the country, the side of a building
in a burning city, or a symbol of our civilizing instincts sinking in a tidal
wave of terror? Is this the future, for Emma?
Or a memory of the past, locked in.
Are we being shown a death camp, a death march into oblivion, stone-cold
fear, extreme despair?. Even if you did
not know the context of these pieces, or the translation of the word Juden;
heavy, aching ambiguity and torn emotions blanket the work. Fury and frenzy
permeate portions of the composition, vying for our attention; with the pensive
sensitive portrait at the bottom, trapped, and the whirling dervish above;
uncertainty hovers, a cyclone of destruction looms.
In
contrast, “Echo” is easy on the eye and one of the pieces that holds
together well, visually. There is
harmony and balance, even amidst the darkness and despair. Several rectangles float and appear to lock
into place, transforming disturbance into a resolution of sorts. Again, multi-layers of fibers, papers, bits
of collage and re-appropriated photographic imagery are treated with a working
and re-working of pigments to render the final surface extraordinarily
rich. All of Carolyn’s work makes you
want to look more, to see, and to think.
The pieces encourage contemplation and meditation. They slow you down. They are labors of a care, of tenderness and
giving back. We can feel optimism,
reverence, and vitality even thought the subject matter evokes an incredible
sadness at the loss of so much more than individuals. Our civilizing has been compromised; it
teeters perilously, yet there is hope. “Seeking the Holy Spirit together” depicts a hand, reaching up into the light. Layering
fibers into much of her work alludes to scripture about remnants; torn from the
whole, separate, asunder. Including text hints at the power of expression and
protest through letter and word, wisdom and book. Tradition and values live even if people
cannot. And of course the photographs themselves declare the power of collective
and personal memory as well as the preciousness of each individual. In the
catalogue, Rev. Dieter Heinzl shares, “Carolyn is a Holocaust scholar/artist
with a passion and deep commitment to Tikkun Olam, the mending of the world. .
. her teaching has broadened minds and opened hearts.”
