With many Jewish communities planning new synagogues or embarking upon building projects deferred by the war, the problem of Jewish religious architecture has become one of wide practical concern. Its discussion, in addition, illuminates the general problem of creating Jewish cultural forms indigenous to the American scene.

Three of the contributions to this informal symposium on the problem of synagogue architecture in this time and place were stimulated by Rachel Wischnitzer-Bernstein’s provocative article on that subject in our March issue. Dr. Landsberger’s essay was prepared originally for the Union of American Hebrew Congregations.

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After reading Mrs. Wischnitzer-Bernstein’s article on synagogue architecture and pondering her conclusions, one realizes anew what a baffling task faces any temple committee entrusted with the mission of deciding upon the character, design, and spirit of a proposed edifice.

It is evident that Jewish houses of worship have had a complicated record. The struggle to exist, the desire to be submerged in a community, the equally strong impulse to be assertive once permission is obtained and the funds are available—all of these factors are registered in the buildings now standing wherever Jews have built.

Fortunately, at this moment in the history of architecture, a very definite change is taking place.

In our own lives, as architects, we discovered—after a thorough training in the historical facts of building and a thorough acquaintance with the records of the master builders of other generations—the absurdity of becoming mere copyists. And we came to know perfectly well that the great figures of the past, like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, scorned to mirror anyone else’s work. The most innocent neophyte must know that no matter how strongly tradition held power the artist struggled furiously, if he was worth his salt, to introduce something fresh and imaginative into his own work.

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Unfortunately, architecture has suffered from an oversupply. In the 19th century the world, as population grew, demanded thousands and thousands of new structures, and cities and towns everywhere poured forth architectural platitudes indiscriminately. London, Paris, Chicago, Tokyo, Vienna, Pekin resemble each other, strange as it may appear, by virtue of the ranks of second-rate boxes that line their streets. There are high spots, to be sure, the residue of some fine thinking, but the great mass of houses in every town and city constitute mere building, in which the senseless copying of historical ornament has been accepted.

Jewish religious buildings had to cope with this wave of mediocrity and at the same time with the weight of spurious tradition, mainly Moorish.

What we face now is not necessarily a revolutionary or startling break, but a serious effort in all of our building to answer contemporary problems honestly, in plan, material, and spirit. This is quite a different philosophy from that which assumes that a new building must necessarily reflect some other structure, however good or bad it may be. There is no modern style. Some simple-minded individuals assume that to be contemporary means to accept a dictum that involves copying, once again, certain established or publicized “modern” elements. The good designer will be as wary of copying the boxes, pipe rails, and other whimsies of the current quacks as he would be of stealing from the books.

Let there be no mistake about it: the problem is difficult. One begins with the fact that many people like the things they are already accustomed to, quite regardless of their aesthetic virtues or deficiencies. It is not an easy matter to make them realize that what they cherish is mere acquaintanceship with things they have seen frequently and that they are ascribing solemn virtues to mere reminders of situations, sad or happy, in their lives. It is incredible that really honest designers should have the effrontery to advise a quasi-Gothic, Moorish, or any other sort of historical potpourri as an expression of Jewish culture.

Quite obviously, the task of any architect is to create a practical and beautiful building. But to build one that will satisfy all the desires of any committee is a herculean task. To try at the same time to produce something entirely original makes the task almost insuperable. It is so much simpler to find a comfortable prototype than to argue, that one wonders at the temerity of the architect who insists nevertheless on being empowered to design the ideal building for a selected site, community, and congregation.

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One may ask, quite properly, where the designer proposes to start. Once acquainted with his problem, with the funds available, and with the wishes of his clients, he will endeavor to find, in his plan, a functional arrangement for a building that will serve the normal weekly requirements as to capacity and, at the same time, accommodate a much larger audience on special occasions such as the High Holy Days.

In the question of character and materials, the designer immediately faces an age-old difficulty. Does the Jewish building want to shrink into its surroundings and be unobtrusive, or should it be proudly imposing, with a wealth of detail and expensive ornament? If the architect feels, as does the author, that modesty and natural beauty should dominate, he might well create a block, simple and beautifully proportioned and set off by attractive planting, so that the worshiper can step into a quiet atmosphere of dignity and restraint.

The actual shapes and actual details will necessarily reflect the surroundings—a particular city, a particular neighborhood—for modern architecture assumes that good communal planning accepts the building as part of a city, not merely as another package dropped into a location. The final goal is a workable and sensible structure, fashioned with the affection and care that should go into any serious study.

Quite obviously, the result will be as good as the designer is. But this requires the full sympathy and understanding of the building committee, for the architect cannot conceivably have the patience and stamina to do good work under constant interference.

The actual details of the interior, the decorative features of the tabernacle, should be entrusted to the finest artists the Jewish community can muster. We are tired of the reverence and repeated respect paid to the tinsel that usually commands the focus of a service. The Scrolls, the Eternal Light, we respect as symbols, but not the forms in which they are presented to us. The fancy trappings are insulting to our intelligence. It is once again the force of tradition that assumes that we must bow to whatever is placed before us, with no right to ask if something more spiritual could not be imagined. It is high time we took stock of our painters, sculptors, and craftsmen and put them to work. The future of Jewish religious buildings is as bright as the imagination of those entrusted with their direction.

What can come through good planning, respect for fine materials, good lighting, ventilation, and, above all, an interpretation of a setting where people can worship in dignity and repose, is difficult to predict. We do know that modern thinking accepts nothing as static. Perhaps such radicalism is too strong for an ancient faith, but since its resistance and power have weathered so much in the past, that faith can possibly still look ahead to an architectural expression whose vitality and cogency are worthy of such a great religion.

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