In the late 1980s, Crown Heights locals going about their daily routine—rushing to farbrengens (Hasidic gatherings) with their Rebbe, or running errands down Kingston Avenue—might have glimpsed an anomaly in their midst: a Japanese woman, camera in tow, capturing the scenes around her. That woman was Chie Nishio, who spent a few years photographing members of the Chabad-Lubavitch community in Brooklyn, New York. Now, over 20 years later, her collection is finally receiving recognition at an exhibition in the Centreal branch of the Brooklyn Public Library, just a few blocks away from the community she so lovingly documented.

I met Nishio at the library last month to get a personal walkthrough of the photographs on display, 43 from the total collection of over 200 black and white prints. (Color would take away from the subject at hand, she insisted). Now 84, with silver hair framing her face, Nishio hasn’t lost any of the energy, wit and candor of her younger days.

As we scanned the prints she told me how she came to turn her lens on the Hasids of Crown Heights. Her interest was initially sparked by her Jewish husband, the acclaimed author James Trager. Though he was firmly atheist, Trager, now deceased, descended from illustrious lineage; his great-grandfather was one of the founding rabbis of the Jewish community in South Carolina. His grandfather moved to a Reform congregation interstate and the family, Trager included, eventually all assimilated.

Eager to learn more about her husband’s heritage, but with Trager unable to offer much insight, Nishio headed to Brooklyn to learn more about the people of the book. She didn’t have much luck with the strongly insular Satmar community in Williamsburg, where most were unwilling to engage with a foreigner and her camera. But in Crown Heights, a community unique among Hasidic sects for welcoming outsiders, Nishio was welcomed, and over the years she and her camera become a fixture in the Brooklyn enclave. She developed deep friendships with many of her subjects, and to this day she occasionally treks from her home in Manhattan to visit them in Crown Heights.

“I would say it all happened by accident,” Nishio laughs, “but with these people, there’s no such thing as accidental.” She points her finger heavenward. “It’s all arranged by God.”

Her photos offer an expansive yet deeply nuanced glimpse of Chabad life. Centered around the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, they portray a community of believers entrenched in ritual and practice. A one-month old baby laying on a silver tray for his pidyon haben ceremony, draped in cascading jewelry; a Bar Mitzvah boy checking the position of his tefillin in the mirror; a young bride trying on wigs in the salon before her wedding day.

Most notably, perhaps, the photos show the community’s reverence for its beloved leader, Rabbi Menachem Schneerson—known amongst his followers simply as ‘the Rebbe’—in the last years of his life, right before his death in 1994. Though women were not allowed into the main sanctuary of the synagogue at 770 Eastern Parkway, Nishio captured the Rebbe from their vantage point in the women’s gallery upstairs. And if the community’s acceptance wasn’t enough, the Rebbe himself seemed to overtly support Nishio’s mission by blessing her on more than one occasion.

In one image the Rebbe uncharacteristically turns aways from the men in the Synagogue, towards Nishio in the women’s gallery above, and hands her a roll of coins. The Rebbe used to hand out dollar bills, and less often coins, with a blessing, as a symbolic gesture to encourage his followers to in turn give the money to charity and pass along the blessing.

“Everyone said I was special,” Nishio told me, “they came up to me after asking for their share in the coins.”

On another occasion, when the Rebbe was handing out honey cake before Rosh Hashanah, he again called over Nishio who was photographing from a distance, giving her a piece of cake and blessings for a sweet year. And Nishio—by her own admission an ardent non-believer—seems to get excited recalling the memory. “Somehow, I don’t know how, he recognized me!” she smiles.

Though ostensibly an outsider, her photos reflect a deep sensitivity and keen understanding of the practices of daily Hasidic life, and also the individuals behind the portraits. They also show the diversity of a community committed to reaching out to and welcoming newcomers to the fold. There’s the bewigged lawyer who gazes out through the frame, the artist surrounded by his artwork inspired by Jewish mysticism, and the mother of six who also edits a magazine.

“I came with no prejudgement,” said Nishio. “Maybe that’s why they were so open to me.”

Nishio, a firm feminist who contributed regularly to Ms. Magazine, hints to a certain kinship with the woman of the community.

“When I came to the United States, people said to me, ‘Oh you’re not typical,’ because they have their own imaginations of what they think a Japanese woman is like. But they don’t know too much about it. Maybe based on a book, maybe they visited Japan and just saw the surface. So what I found in Crown Heights is that, yes, as an outsider walking in, the women are wearing a wig, long skirts, they’re supposed to cover their legs, but you walk in to talk to each family, each woman is different, each individual is different.”

“From the outside and from the inside it’s a completely different story most of the time,” she observed.

Perhaps Nishio is not, after all, an “unlikely portraitist,” but actually the ideal observer of this community, and the perfect person to document the color of its activities—in all the glory of black and white.

The exhibition, ‘The Hasidim of Crown Heights, Brooklyn: A Community Study by Chie Nishio’, is on display at the Brooklyn Public Library’s Central branch through February 1, 2015.

(Image: Chie Nishio)

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When someone says Williamsburg the first word that pops into most people’s heads is “hipster”: too-cool-for-school millennials feigning indifference, well thought-out nonchalance expertly uploaded to Instagram. But where north meets south at Broadway Avenue, a whole different world exists. The dress code turns black and white and the streets are filled with ultra-Orthodox Jews; the men distinguished by their side curls, the women by the lines of children who follow after them, some pushing strollers themselves. In this community, the internet and crushing modernity that looms around every corner is perceived as the biggest threat to their pious way of life.

In 2012, the community’s rabbis gathered tens of thousands of followers at Citi Field for an urgent proclamation against the use of the Internet. Outside on the corner of the street, protected by police, stood about 50 people, all former members of the same community, standing up against the rabbinical leaders. They protested that the leaders were not addressing the right problems—instead of directly addressing the darker issues within the community itself, they were blaming the outside world.

This is where the idea for our upcoming Kickstarter-funded feature film ‘The Other Side’ was born. While our movie is a work of fiction, it is largely based on the true stories of people who have left the Satmar Hasidic community in Williamsburg. We took those stories, fictionalized and reimagined them, and created an indie drama about a young Hasidic Jewish man who turns to the outside world for help in exposing a crime being committed within his community. In the process, his family and world are turned upside down and he comes to question all that he has believed in.

We agonized over each word of this story, knowing that exploring the dark subject of sexual abuse in the Orthodox community would encounter resistance—some people might even label project as anti-Semitic. All of us involved in creating the film are Jewish and our goal has always been to make the Jewish community stronger. I grew up as a reform Jew, director Dani Tenenbaum is Israeli, and our other two partners are both former members of the Hasidic community. We understand why the community has been so reluctant to talk about the issue of sexual abuse. But now is the time to speak up and to stop the silence.

In ‘The Other Side’ we will explore the beauty and deviance that coexist in the Hasidic enclave of Williamsburg, and how a thriving hipster community right next door tempts young members away from a life of safety to a life of the unknown. To stay true to the authenticity of the cultures, we will shoot the movie in Yiddish, English, and also some Hebrew.

Since our Kickstarter campaign started, we have received many emails, messages, and comments—from people within the community who are extremely supportive of the project, and also from those who hope that this topic never sees the light of day. We can’t make this movie without the help of the public. We’ve created a short video to introduce you to the project, as well as an interactive video where you can “choose your own adventure” and discover the different worlds of our film.

This is a very dynamic time in the Hasidic community of Brooklyn. New voices are being heard, and the old structure of the community is changing. As the number of people leaving this world grow, the need to explore what this phenomenon really means—on an individual level, and for Judaism as a whole—grows more urgent. It’s a story of clashing cultures and changing perceptions. It’s ‘The Other Side.’

Stacey Maltin is the screenplay writer and producer of ‘The Other Side.’ She has BFA from NYU Tisch with a minor in journalism and has been working professionally in film and theater for over ten years.

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28-year-old artist Michael Levin has always used concepts of Jewish identity as inspiration, whether it was building a shrine to the apocryphal “Red Jews” or painting on shaimos, aka “retired” pieces of scripture. His newest series, Jews of Today, features arresting, intricately detailed depictions of Hasidim in Williamsburg, and is on display starting tomorrow at 7 Dunham Gallery in South Williamsburg. He’s also publishing Jews of Today, an illustrated primer on Hasidic dress, in conjunction with the exhibit.

In the series, Levin zeroes in on the sartorial aspects of Hasidic culture: various styles of beaver hats, the ornate robes worn by the Satmar rebbes, and the “rebbish” hems of shirts worn by boys from prominent families. While his fascination with his pious neighbors borders on reverence, his outsider status and sense of humor keeps the work from becoming a strict homage. I talked to Levin about Italian conversos, Tay-Sachs, Plato, and Orientalism.

Where did you grow up? What is your Jewish background? Was your family observant?

I grew up in Los Angeles, born and raised. Only my father’s family is Jewish; my mother is from an Italian Catholic family in San Francisco, and converted when she married my dad. Of course, there is much speculation about her family origins. Her maiden name is Bonfilio, which is a common name for Italian conversos (Jews who converted to Catholicism during the inquisition).

Regardless, having a mixed background while being raised with a strong Jewish consciousness—a term I use because we were not, nor am I now, religiously observant in any significant way—brought up a lot of issues. For one, friends would constantly say I wasn’t really Jewish, because my mother wasn’t born Jewish. This wasn’t said maliciously at all, just in that casual way that can really stick with you. It was often followed by the acknowledgement that I was the most “Jewish” of all of our friends anyway (in some intangible way that I also could sense but never understand). I guess it got me thinking from an early age about what constitutes “Jewishness,” what that je ne sais quoi is that can make someone so Jewish even without the risk of Tay-Sachs—or without even keeping kosher.

You studied Classics at the University of Chicago. Does this influence your work at all?

I have always been an artist, but not a committed one until my early twenties, after University of Chicago had made an intellectual of me. My studies do inform my painting, but more in terms of big ideas and ways of thinking. I don’t sit down to paint thinking about Plato, but I do think about the issues that interested me in the classics, which centered around the process of cultural exchange and integration, and ways of constructing the insider/outsider dynamic.

When did you move to Williamsburg?

I moved to South 2nd and Bedford in January 2007, about six months after graduating. At that time this was still on the outskirts of what young college grads thought of as “Williamsburg.” I started seeing Hasidim around here and there, and, after deciding to commit myself as an artist, they became the center of my work. At Chicago we were always trained to find “problems”—more like questions that carry the flavor of something wrong or amiss—and make them the starting point for any research. So because of this training, I got very little out of painting landscapes or self-portraits. Hasidim were the only subjects in my view that constituted a “problem” for me. So my painting became a kind of extension of my academic study, and Hasidim a new subject for the same set of questions I had already been dealing with, only now in a more personal sphere, because of my abiding difficulties in establishing my own Jewish identity. Add to that how strangely arresting and beautiful the Hasidic look is, to me at least, and there you have the genesis of this work.

Do you draw mostly from memory? What I’m trying to ask here is: how much skulking around Williamsburg do you do?

It’s almost all from memory, but the way I get my memories is by skulking around Williamsburg, a lot. Part of the reason I’m going to Pratt next year for my MFA and not somewhere else is that I can walk there, and that walk takes me right through the heart of the Hasidic neighborhood. I don’t take pictures of people on the street. I take pictures from my window sometimes, but putting a camera in someone’s face doesn’t feel right to me. Painting is my alternative, a way to preserve my memories and also push my conceptual agenda into them.

Are there any other artistic traditions that inspire your work?

Definitely miniature painting, especially the international Islamic miniature style popular from Persia to India. I want to take Jews out of the European narrative, and there is something about Mughal painting in particular that really suits this subject. Of course 19th century Orientalist painting is a big influence too. I kind of see myself as an Orientalist, because (if you’ve ever read Edward Said), the Orientalist approach was to use exotic cultures to reflect one’s feelings about one’s own heritage, and not to objectively document a different culture.

So I’m looking at Hasidim as this “primitive” eastern culture that nonetheless carries some essence of what makes me me. It’s a laughable idea, and I mean it as a little joke about alienation most of the time. Besides, there is the view that most people have (and never question) that Hasidim are the real, authentic Jews; that we all used to dress like that and then some of us decided to sneak out and put on “white people” clothes. The Hasid is the primitive Jew in the popular imagination, a view which is utterly baseless yet very stubborn.

What’s on the horizon for you? Do you think you will stick with Hasidim as subjects, or do you feel yourself moving in a different direction?

More Hasidim is where my heart is, but the MFA process is bound to push me in some unexpected direction. Whatever happens, I have unfinished business with this subject and will most definitely return to it (if I ever leave it, that is).

Jews of Today is on display at 7 Dunham gallery in South Williamsburg from July 20-31, with an opening reception July 20 from 7-10 p.m. The book is available online and at the exhibit.

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American Apparel’s nail polish collection may be free from formaldehyde, but it’s hardly free from the clothing company’s signature in-your-face cheekiness. A reader drew our attention to the line’s black shade, which is tastefully named ‘Hassid.’

We take nail polish names pretty seriously around here, and understand the pressure to compete with polish powerhouses like Essie and OPI, which seem to have completely cornered the pun market. Still, Hassid seems like a particularly uninspired choice.

The meeting probably went something like this:

“So, we’ve already decided on names for American Denim, African Violet, and Factory Grey. What should we call our black color?”

“Well, we went with Raccoon for brown, and Passport Blue for navy. I just wish there was some cute way to describe the color black.”

“What about those funny black hats Hasidic Jews wear?”

“Perfect! We’ll call it Hassid.”

This isn’t the first time American Apparel founder Dov Charney, who is Jewish, has gotten himself in hot water with his fellow MOTs. In 2009, Woody Allen sued the company for using an unauthorized image of him dressed as a Hasidic Jew in a scene from Annie Hall on a billboard advertisement, and received a $5 million payment.

American Apparel has never seemed to mind ruffling a few feathers to get attention; it’s pretty much their business model at this point (that and floral crop tops). Should we take the bait on this one?

(screenshot, americanapparel.net)

(photo by the author)

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