A Question of Provenance

The last time I visited MNAC – the modern art museum in Bucharest, more than a year ago, the exhibits exuded a decidedly contemporary (or post-modern?) vibe; massive installations alongside loud paintings sidling up to pop-art hangings. I expected much of the same when I returned to the MNAC this morning.

The museum, tucked away at end of a long driveway in the back of the gargantuan Romanian Parliament building, was just opening its doors when I arrived. It was pin-drop quiet.

MNAC entrance.

The main exhibition, titled THE TWIST, spread its artistic offerings throughout the entire ground floor’s expansive spaces. It was a hodgepodge of mismatching artworks, ancient farming tools and nets juxtaposed against wall-mounted Gen X skateboards, uber-minimalist paintings and abstract sculptures. How the curator had connected the dots in establishing this particular palette of works was a mystery to me.

I stopped in front of one window box, displaying what the catalogue listed as a ‘rattle’ dating back to the late 19th century. As I stared closely at the wooden tchotchke hanging from a string, I searched for a marking that might confirm my hunch: Could it be anything but a Purim gragger? Why call it a rattle? Could the curatorial team have been misled – or chosen to mislead? Why not call it what it is?

Rattle or gragger?

When I entered the second room, one quick glance around – at the walls and display cases, and I was puzzled yet again: so many objects bore signs of a quotidian life. They must have belonged to families, extracted from private homes; a lace tablecloth, an Art Deco lamp, a fancy pair of ladies shoes, an unremarkable oil painting depicting a middle-aged couple.

Suddenly, from afar, I spotted an antique sewing machine; fortunately, the catalogue called it by its name, a Singer. I backed up into one corner of the empty room, swept my gaze across the collection and whispered out loud to nobody but me: Who owned the Singer? Whose gragger was that? Does the museum director know the provenance of these objects? Were they loaned to the museum, or…?

Singer sewing machine.

It was not the first time I had pondered this question since landing in Bucharest more than two years ago. It was not unusual for me to identify objects of a Jewish nature at antique markets and craft fairs, in auction houses, in shopfront windows. Over time, I’d seen a broken t’fillin box, a sidur, a torn tallit, menorahs, shabbat candlesticks, a sign reading “Purim” and even a sepia-colored photograph of William Filderman (President of the Jewish Community during WWII) and his wife. I’ve also seen a fair share of Hitler and Legionnaire paraphernalia, displayed on tables for all to see and buy – even if such displays violate the law.

There I was again, skeptical and wondering about provenance: How many of these objects were left behind by Jewish families who fled the country – persecution or worse – decades ago? Who owned the gragger, the sewing machine, the shoes?

Fortunately, I knew better than to ask the staff…