Superman is Jewish? The intersection of history, religion, and popular culture in comics

I have blogged previously about Art Spiegelman’s Maus.  The books were an eye opener for me, seeing the powerful emotions, a storyline that personalizes history while not minimizing it, and a format that invites in reluctant readers.  Graphic novels (books in comic book format, with illustrations, and often dealing with topics that align more with adult themes) are a great entry point for both strong readers and reluctant readers.  The art form of comics allows two media to be conjoined and to deepen the experience of the audience.  Comic books have traditionally been in the realm of pre-teen and teenage boys.  The simplicity of the illustration can fool many in to believing that there is little worth between the covers.  Surprisingly - thankfully - there is so much more going on inside of these books.  Seemingly because of their innocuous nature, they are able to convey adult themes, open doors to history, and deal with current events in a way that can be both profound and easily overlooked at the same time.

 

In 1941, Jack Kirby and Joe Simon created the character Captain America.  On the cover, Cap has infiltrated a Nazi bunker, and is punching Adolf Hitler.  A great image from today’s standard, and nothing less than we would expect from the stories we are taught in our textbooks.  But, the comic came out in March 1941, before the US was committed to the war.  The war was "over there," and Americans wanted nothing to do with it.  Kirby and Simon were young Jewish artists and decided to turn current events into their story.  Their work did not start the war, or increase patriotism.  It took current events and pushed them to the forefront.  It demanded attention and erased ignorance.  It piqued interest and awoke a younger generation.  (Very much in the same vein as Comedy Central’s Daily Show and Colbert Report, today.)

The Holocaust would come up again in popular culture in the 1950s.  Several different stories would deal with the history in different ways.  Stories would continue, ideas would be shared.  And in the 1960s, Stan Lee would create the story of the X-Men, a group of humans that are different, and therefore feared.  I began reading the series in the 1980s, and was immediately drawn to the storyline of exclusion.  While not overtly mentioning antisemitism, it would be hard to deny, even as a boy, the historical basis.  Seeing America’s transformations throughout the 90s - the cultural acceptance of interracial dating, homosexuality, and other minority communities - the X-Men storylines reflected society, and built empathy. 

At some point, I stumbled upon the graphic novel, X-Men:  God Loves, Man Kills.  My eyes were opened.  A part of the story deals with violence aimed at those considered different, and therefore, considered unworthy of life by some (an arching theme in the X-Men universe).  Two young children are hung from a swing set.  They are found by the arch-enemy Magneto (created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, both Jews).  This sets up the backstory.  Magneto will become a complex character that several writers will work to flush out.  Ultimately, in Magneto: Testament, published in 2008, we discover that Magneto is raised Jewish in a German home. His family flees the Nazis and are caught in Poland.  Long story short, his past helps shape his views, and quite possibly reflects the nature of the creators. Magneto’s complexity will be reflected in the movie series, but will not be as effective at generating the empathy and complexity of the character.  The films, though, do provide a decent entry in to the comic world. 

Most recently, Disney has paired up with several creators to develop a film and online graphic novel set entitled, “They Spoke Up:  American Voices Against the Holocaust."  This is an interesting series, and I am just breaking in to it as I write this, but looks to be a promising resource.   I will blog about that in the coming weeks.  There are other great works available out there including a great story entitled 2nd Generation: Things I Never Told My Father, in graphic novel form, dealing with the complexity of the Holocaust that allows entry and absorption at multiple levels.  They just aren’t available in the United States. 

As I was researching for this post, I came across a recently published book (2012) entitled Superman is Jewish? that relates similarities in Jewish culture with the comic book storylines.  The author makes a wonderful comparison of the alien that would become Clark Kent being rocketed to safety by his parents before their destruction:  An interstellar “Kindertransport.”  Comic books are much more complex than we can even imagine. 

Sadly, there has been little new in the way of Holocaust graphic literature.  The stories of the 1950s provided shock and awe at a time when it was still fairly new in the cultural psyche.  The Holocaust is rarely invoked as a teaching tool in modern mainstream culture.  It has been moved to the shelf of distant history.  We must be careful to not lose the lessons learned in such a hard fashion.  We must follow the lead of Jack Kirby and Stan Lee, use the media of comics and graphic novels to shape the future generations in a less blunt fashion.  Truly, it is often those that need the lesson the most that will be most likely to pick up this form of literature.  Rather than just re-illustrating Anne Frank, let us seek to build on the exploration of humanity by find new avenues and new stories to tell in different formats. 

Marian Kolodziej - art and reflection

As I was brainstorming about what to write for my next blog, I kept coming back to the haunting images I saw in the basement of a Polish monastery one dreary October day.  It is in the St. Maximilian Kolbe Franciscan Center where the moving works of Marian Kolodziej permanently reside.  Kolodziej, who was a 17 year old Polish Catholic resistance fighter, was on the first transport to the newly established Auschwitz camp.  As a Polish Catholic, he was not imprisoned in Birkenau- the death camp.  But the suffering he endured as a prisoner of the Nazi regime and the pain he saw inflicted on others left its mark.  Kolodziej suppressed the memories until he suffered a stroke at age 71.  At that point, he used these memories in his recovery process and began drawing moving and symbolic images based on his experiences in Auschwitz, Gross-Rosen, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen and Mauthausen-Gusen.

Because I viewed Marian Kolodziej’s work four years ago, I did a little Googling to view some of his works and get some details of this amazing artists.  Apparently, unbeknownst to me, there was a documentary produced in 2010 (a year after my visit) called “The Labyrinth”.  The makers of this short documentary interviewed Kolodziej before his death.  He allowed his words (not his voice) and profile to be seen but stressed that he wanted his story and his art to be about the memory of those who were lost.  By watching the trailer for the movie (and certainly the movie in its entirety), you can not only see some of his work, but the space in which it is housed.  You can also hear the moving words of Kolodziej.  His story and his work is a powerful way to use a very personal testimony with our students.

Carolyn H. Manosevits Mixes Media and a Powerful Healing Message

“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.

VISIT HER GALLERY

 

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.”