Reading  Between  the  Lines  at  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin              

Memorial  Architecture:  Exhibiting  the  Unexhibitable    

 Critical  Perspectives  on  Museums:  KYVH7  Figure  1.  The  “Axis  of  Continuity,”  taken  from  the  Sackler  Staircase.  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  photo:  Jens  Ziehe    

KYVH7   2  

Jewish  museum,  Berlin    

A  zinc  shell  Housing  a  history  

Of  terror  In  its  emptiness.  A  giddiness  

Of  uneven  ground.  Propels  you  forward  In  a  zig-­‐zag  light  Towards  inevitable  

Darkness.  A  forest  of  stone  Pillars  brings  Escape  into  air,  Into  exile.  

 -­‐  Lotte  Kramer  

     

 Figure  2.  Aerial  view  of  the  baroque-­‐style  Old  Building  and  the  new  Libeskind  Building  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin.  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  photo:  Luftbild  und  Pressefoto  –  Robert  Grahn        

 

 

 

 

 

KYVH7   3  

INTRODUCTION  

 

There  is  a  sense  that  certain  histories,  such  as  the  history  of  German  Jews,  are  

difficult  and  even  uncomfortable  to  narrate.  Visual  experiences  likewise  can  

seem  impossible  to  explain  with  words;  only  those  who  have  seen  it  hold  the  

true  understanding  of  the  experience  (Hooper-­‐Greenhill  2000:  4).  Can  the  

configuration  of  museum  walls  occupy  the  gaps  no  object  or  text  panel  can  fill?  

The  power  of  space  in  narration  has  long  been  known  to  exhibit  designers  and  

museum  architects,  harnessed  in  different  ways  throughout  the  centuries  to  

reflect  the  purpose  of  the  museum  (Giebelhausen  2006).  What  sort  of  building  

could  justify  housing  the  darkest  and  difficult  history  of  the  last  century  –  one  

that  still  so  deeply  affects  a  specific  religious  group,  an  entire  country,  and  global  

society  as  a  whole?  This  is  precisely  the  question  the  Berlin  Museum  wanted  to  

know  establishing  a  Jewish  Department  in  the  aftermath  of  World  War  II.    

 

The  next  several  pages  will  explore  the  history  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  and  

how  one  architect,  Daniel  Libeskind,  managed  to  exhibit  the  unexhibitable  in  his  

architectural  designs.  In  answer  to  the  impossible  challenge  the  Berlin  Museum  

posed,  Libeskind  embodied  the  philosophical  questions  left  by  such  a  uniquely  

emotional  history  and  thus  produced  a  building  neither  entirely  memorial  nor  

museum.  Facing  the  daunting  challenge  Young  (2000:  10)  describes,  “How  to  

give  voice  to  an  absent  Jewish  culture  without  presuming  to  speak  for  it?  How  to  

bridge  an  open  wound  without  mending  it?  How  to  house  under  a  sing  roof  a  

panoply  of  essential  oppositions  and  contradictions?”  Instead  of  ignoring  or  

attempting  to  justifying  these  frictions  that  so  evidently  haunt  Germany,  and  

particularly  its  capital  Berlin,  Libeskind  confronts  them  through  his  design  –  a  

building  fit  for  no  other  purpose.    

 

The  result  incarnates  these  difficult  questions,  yet  raises  another:  is  it  true  what  

Michaela  Giebelhausen  proposes  –  can  the  architecture  be  the  museum  in  cases  

such  as  the  Jewish  Museum  in  Berlin?    And  if  so,  is  that  necessarily  a  good  thing?  

 

 

KYVH7   4  

A  COMPLICATED  HISTORY  

How  do  you  heal  a  nation  without  downplaying  the  horrors  of  the  past?  Can  you  

confront  Germany’s  dark  past  without  perpetually  punishing  its  citizens  for  it?  

 

“It  wasn’t  that  long  ago  and  you  think  if  it  happened  today.  You  wouldn’t  

let  it  happen  today…  No  definitely.  You  look  back  and  you  think,  I  was  a  

part  of  it,  I  wasn’t  a  part  of  it,  but  I  was  a  part  of  it”  (Quote  from  visitor  to  

Australian  Museum  in  Sydney’s  ‘Indigenous  Australians’  (1997)  as  cited  in  

Hooper-­‐Greenhill  (2000:  20).    

 

Consciously,  museums  often  evoke  national  pride  within  citizens;  visitors  

visualize  and  experience  representations  of  the  heritage  that  got  them  where  

they  are  today.  The  narration  of  a  national  story  often  is  told  in  a  way  that  

inspires  pride  and  patriotism  in  those  citizens  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  18).  

Visitors  identify  with  the  forefathers;  they  share  in  their  triumphs  vicariously.  It  

naturally  becomes  very  difficult  then,  to  memorialize  more  shameful  aspects  of  a  

nation.  Memory  evokes  a  moral  responsibility  (Landsberg  2007:  628).  That  

empathy  they  felt  towards  their  victors  must  be  felt  equally  in  the  case  of  their  

victims  as  well.    

 

Of  course  the  Holocaust  is  not  the  only  German-­‐Jewish  history  to  tell.  What  else  

then  does  a  Jewish  museum  exhibit?  Berlin’s  first  Jewish  Museum  (which  

displayed  mostly  Jewish  art),  opened  just  one  week  before  Adolph  Hitler  was  

appointed  Chancellor  in  1933,  struggled  with  these  very  questions.  Before  

eventually  destroying  the  original  museum  in  1938  during  kristallnact,  the  Nazi  

party  decided  for  them:  a  Jewish  museum  could  only  display  art  from  Jewish  

artists  and  only  the  Jewish  people  could  enter  (Young  2000:  4).  Since  before  the  

modern  museum’s  inception,  German  Jews  have  struggled  with  their  own  

definition,  but  particularly  after  World  War  II,  German  Jews  question  what  role  

their  ‘Germanness’  plays  into  their  identity  and  further,  what  role  Jews  play  

within  Germany.    

 

KYVH7   5  

 Figure  3.  Visitors  in  the  exhibition  rooms  at  the  Jewish  Museum  in  the  Oranienburger  Straße,  

31.9.1936  

 

For  decades  the  Jewish  community  within  Berlin  justly  asserted  that  the  German  

government  was  obligated  to  replace  the  Jewish  Museum,  which  had  been  taken  

from  them  during  kristallnact  .  Disagreements  among  the  Jewish  community  

arose  as  to  where  this  new  museum  should  fit  into  Berlin;  the  most  persuasive  

arguments  came  from  Heinz  Galinski,  head  of  the  West  Berlin’s  Jewish  

community  in  the  1960’s,  who  asserted  that  “he  did  not  want  a  mere  replication  

of  the  ghetto  at  a  higher  level  of  cultural  institution.  Rather,  he  wanted  the  

history  of  Berlin’s  Jews  to  be  exhibited  in  the  Berlin  Museum  as  part  of  the  city’s  

own  history”  (Young  2000:6).      

 

The  German  government  preceded  carefully  in  order  to  not  presume  to  engulf  

Jewish  history  entirely  in  the  Berlin  Museum,  funds  were  authorized  in  1988  

create  an  autonomous  “Jewish  Department  of  the  Berlin  Museum”  with  its  own  

building  (Young  2000:  8).  Sensitivity  to  Germany’s  embarrassing  social  divisions  

heightened  only  a  year  later  with  the  fall  of  theBerlin  Wall,  resulting  in  the  name  

change  of  the  architectural  design  competition  to  “Extension  of  the  Berlin  

Museum  with  the  Jewish  Museum  Department”  (Young  2000:8).    

KYVH7   6  

The  decision  to  build  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  in  this  manner,  telling  this  

history  of  German  Jews  along  side  the  history  of  Berlin  while  maintaining  its  

uniqueness,  demonstrated  the  city’s  commitment  to  a  unified  future  and  

responsibility  for  a  divided.  “The  very  existence  of  the  museum,  in  the  heart  of  

the  old  Third  Reich  and  the  capital  of  a  reunified  democratic  Germany,  is  both  

provocative  and  potentially  healing”  (Klein  2001:  no  pagination).  Its  creation  

offered  the  opportunity  to  connect  two  alienated  spheres  of  German  society.  Its  

establishment  neither  suggests  the  past  should  dominate  discussions  of  German-­‐

Jewish  life  nor  that  the  Jewish  people  are  incapable  of  moving  forward.  The  

memory  exists,  but  not  at  the  expense  of  future  opportunities.    

 

“BETWEEN  THE  LINES”  –  MUSEUM  OR  MEMORIAL?  

 

The  extension  building  will  be  new,  not  constructed  in  the  Baroque  style  of  the  

Berlin  Museum,  but  instead  by  the  winning  architectural  design.  Designers  were  

actually  discouraged  from  suggesting  harmonious  reconciliation  prodded  instead  

to  address  the  current  German-­‐Jewish  realities  (Young  2000:  9).  Jewish-­‐

American  architect,  Daniel  Libeskind  recognized  the  project  could  equally  be  

about  the  need  to  excavate  the  long-­‐buried  memory  of  German  Jews  as  well  as  

subtly  suggest  co-­‐existence  and  provide  a  space  for  it  within  the  building  (Young  

2000:  2).  In  design,  this  building  would  abandon  some  of  its  museum  

characteristics  in  exchange  for  memorials  better  suited  to  the  visitors  in  telling  

this  particular  story.    

 

Memorials  and  museums  are  in  no  way  at  odds  with  each  other,  but  they  do  not  

always  share  the  same  agenda.  “Memorials  are  places  for  reverent  

commemoration  and  passive  contemplation;  museums,  on  the  other  hand,  are  

educational  institutions  tasked  with  critical  interpretation  and  historical  

contextualization”  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  19).  It  can  be  said  that  memorials  

hold  emotive  intentions  while  museums  pride  themselves  on  objectivity.  It  is  

argued  here  that  certain  histories,  such  as  the  ones  told  at  the  Jewish  Museum  

Berlin,  would  benefit  from  actually  facilitating  the  emotions  of  the  public  instead  

of  downplaying  them.    

KYVH7   7  

A  memorial  museum  demonstrates  its  dedication  to  a  mutual  communication  

between  community  and  museum;  the  needs  of  the  community  emotionally,  not  

just  their  educational  desires  are  being  catered  to.    Historical  detachment  within  

a  museum  exhibiting  such  a  pervasive  memory  is  now  judged  to  be  

“inappropriate”  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  15);  visitors  to  these  museums  are  

caring  less  about  historical  accuracy  and  want  to  focus  on  the  emotive  nature  of  

the  place.  In  this  way,  memorial  museums  are  responding  to  and  “renegotiating  

the  process  of  narration  and  the  museal  codes  of  communication  with  the  public”  

(Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  18).  

 

In  visiting  such  a  museum,  “empathy  is  seen  either  as  a  prerequisite  or  an  

outcome”  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  42).  Arguably,  no  other  situation  in  history  

universally  inspires  such  compassion  and  outrage  as  the  Holocaust.  A  Jewish  

Museum  in  Berlin  faces  such  demanding  visitors,  calling  for  a  place  to  

understand  what  happened  both  to  heal  emotionally  and  ensure  such  actions  are  

never  to  be  repeated.  Memorials  not  only  look  towards  the  past,  they  also  have  a  

place  in  determining  the  future.  It  is  generating  and  sustaining  empathy  in  the  

visitors,  not  documenting  the  violence  alone  that  is  the  memorial  museums  role  

in  preventing  future  atrocities  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  15).  Libeskind’s  retains  a  

museological  shell  while  adding  memorial  features  to  reflect  the  mission  of  the  

Jewish  Museum  Berlin  towards  the  past  and  the  future.    

 Figure  4.  Architectural  model  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  by  Daniel  Libeskind,  on  permanent  

loan  from  the  Berlin  Senate  Administration  for  Urban  Development  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  

photo:  Jens  Ziehe.  

KYVH7   8  

LIBESKIND’S  ARCHITECTURAL  EMBODIMENTS  OF  PHILOSPHICAL  

PROBLEMS  

How  can  a  building  stand  for  an  identity  so  broken  as  the  German-­‐Jewish  identity?    

 

STAR  OF  DAVID  

 Figure  4.  Blueprint  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  ©  Daniel  Libeskind,  Studio  Daniel  Libeskind,  New  York    

What  seems  to  have  brought  Daniel  Libeskind  to  the  forefront  of  the  Berlin  

Museum’s  design  competition  was  his  dislocated  Star  of  David  design.  At  a  quick  

glance,  it  is  more  often  described  as  a  lightning  bolt;  the  reality  of  the  design  

requires  a  more  thoughtful  look  by  the  viewer.  It  requires  effort  from  the  viewer  

to  re-­‐work  the  kinks  into  its  former  shape.  The  orientation  of  the  design  was  

further  connected  to  Jewish  history  within  Berlin  because  it  was  determined  in  

part  by  connecting  the  homes  of  great  Jewish  men  in  Berlin  (Schneider  1999:  36,  

Young  2000:  12).  His  inspiration  for  the  project  could  not  have  been  clearer  if  

Libeskind  had  chosen  to  design  a  broken  heart.    

Both  the  design  itself  and  its  inspiration  were  so  striking  and  compelling,  but  

also  wildly  ambitious:  the  judges  actually  wondered  if  their  winning  design  was  

“unbuildable”  (Young  2000:  10).  They  had  been  unaware  of  the  impossibility  of  

the  project  until  Libeskind’s  building  pointed  it  out  (Young  2000:  13,  20).  

KYVH7   9  

 

 Figure  5.  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  Wayfinding  Map.  http://www.jmberlin.de/main/EN/Pdfs-­‐en/Visitor-­‐Information/Museumsplan_EN.pdf    

KYVH7   10  

How  do  you  re-­‐integrate  Jewish  history  into  Berlin’s  and  Germanness  back  into  

German  Jews  in  a  country  where  so  many  Jews  converted  and  concealed  their  true  

identities?  

 

AXES  AND  ANGLES  

Largely  invisible  above  ground  because  they  are  not  in  line  with  the  dislocated  

Star  of  David  museum  walls  visible  from  the  street,  the  entire  lower  level  of  

Libeskind’s  extension  consists  of  three  intersecting  axes.  These  three  axes:  the  

Axis  of  Holocaust,  the  Axis  of  Exile,  and  the  Axis  of  Continuity,  constitute  the  

“lines”  of  Libeskind’s  “Between  the  Lines”  design.  

 

To  access  them,  and  begin  the  Jewish  Museum  visit,  visitors  must  first  descend  

down  a  flight  of  stairs.  Upon  reaching  the  cold  space,  visitors  are  funneled  

through  the  narrow  hallways:  the  only  spatial  choice  offered  to  visitors  is  which  

corridor  to  follow  first.  Once  one  axis  has  been  completed,  visitors  have  no  

choice  but  to  turn  themselves  around  and  return  the  way  they  came.  The  path  

can  be  discomforting,  as  the  angle  of  the  floor  is  not  consistent  with  the  ceiling  so  

as  visitors  move  down  the  space,  it  appears  to  be  closing  in  around  them  

(Schneider  1999:  50).  This  technique  is  repeated  elsewhere  in  the  building  and  

combined  with  diagonal  ceilings,  walls,  and  windows.  The  visitors’  feeling  of  

losing  their  bearing  has  been  compared  to  the  disorientation  felt  by  Jewish  

emigrants  (Klein  2001:  no  pagination).    

 

KYVH7   11  

 Figure  6.  The  Academy  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  photo:  Jens  Ziehe    

These  axes  are  simply  decorated  with  largely  white  walls  and  cement  floors.  

Periodically,  visitors  can  peer  through  darkly  lit  glass  cases  to  view  the  few  

collections  on  display.  Though  not  object-­‐rich,  the  design  affords  the  visitor  

glimpses  into  individual’s  lives  and  struggles  as  each  item  is  accompanied  by  a  

description  of  the  former  owner  and  the  circumstances  that  parted  them,  

demonstrating  that  people  can  be  ‘haunted’  by  experiences  they  haven’t  even  

lived  themselves  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  28).  These  painfully  true  stories  

transform  visitors:  in  a  way,  they  become  witnesses  through  time.  To  witness  is  

to  feel  a  “the  moral  obligation  to  engage  with  the  event  and  especially  with  

suffering  on  a  personal  and  emotional  level  through  identification  and  empathy”  

(Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  17-­‐18).  

 

KYVH7   12  

 Figure  7.  The  “Axis  of  Continuity,”  taken  from  the  Sackler  Staircase.  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  photo:  Jens  Ziehe    

It  is  the  last  axis  that  offers  the  visitors  a  hopeful  escape  from  their  discomfort  

below:  The  Axis  of  Continuity,  which  ends  at  a  steep  staircase  leading  to  the  first  

and  second  floors  of  the  zinc  building  where  the  more  positive  histories  and  

futures  of  the  Jewish  people  in  Germany  and  particularly  Berlin  are  displayed.  

These  paths  concretize  the  separation  German  Jews  feel  towards  their  own  

German  people.  They  are  not  however  entirely  cut-­‐off,  as  Arnold-­‐de  Simine  

(2012:  22)  has  accurately  pointed  out,  “lines  can  separate,  but  also  connect.”  The  

dissonance  does  not  need  to  persist.    

 

KYVH7   13  

GARDEN  OF  EXILE  

Walking  towards  the  end  of  the  Axis  of  Exile,  visitors  find  a  door  leading  outside  

the  museum  and  are  confronted  with  a  seemingly  endless  amount  of  cement  

rectangles  emerging  from  the  earth.  It  may  seem  strange  to  fill  a  garden  with  

concrete,  but  the  combination  of  permanence  with  annual  rebirth  coincides  with  

the  intention  of  reminding  visitors  of  what  cannot  be  changed  as  well  as  the  

promise  of  new  opportunities.  

 Figure  7.  The  Garden  of  Exile.  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  photo:  Jens  Ziehe  

 

Like  the  Star  of  David  design,  again  it  is  the  meaning  behind  this  strange  site  

evokes  more  from  the  visitor  than  the  sight  itself:  

 

“The  Garden  of  Exile  consists  of  49  concrete  columns  filled  with  earth,  

each  7  meters  high,  1.3  x  1.5  meters  square,  spaced  a  meter  apart.  Forty-­‐

eight  of  these  columns  are  filled  with  the  earth  from  Berlin,  their  number  

referring  to  the  year  of  Israel’s  independence,  1948;  the  49th  column  

stands  for  Berlin  and  is  filled  with  earth  from  Jerusalem”  (Young  2000:  

18).  

 

In  contrast  to  the  memory  of  individuals  found  in  the  axes,  the  Garden  of  Exile  

exhibits  and  provides  a  place  for  collective  memory.  Throughout  German  history,  

KYVH7   14  

Jews  in  Germany  have  felt  the  need  to  assimilate  or  convert  in  order  to  be  

German  (Klein  2001:  no  pagination).  The  garden  is  a  manifestation  of  what  it  

means  to  be  a  German  Jew  as  both  entirely  German  and  entirely  Jewish,  

inseparable  from  one  another.  Libeskind  surprisingly  succeeds  in  physically  

representing  the  complicated  German-­‐Jewish  identity  and  constructs  a  sense  of  

belonging  as  visitors  walk  among  the  pillars.  

 

How  do  you  spatially  present  a  memory:  a  Jewish  voice  that  can  no  longer  speak  for  

itself,  yet  simultaneously  speaks  volumes?    

 

 VOIDS  

Ironically,  it  is  where  the  building  ceases  to  exist  that  it  has  the  most  impact.  

Emptiness  has  literally  been  built  into  the  museum  or  perhaps  more  accurately:  

the  museum  has  purposely  been  built  around  an  emptiness.  Libeskind  achieved  

this  ingenious  feat  by  not  filling  in  the  spaces  between  the  three  axes  or:  Between  

the  Lines.  As  the  title  of  the  design  suggests,  the  museum  is  as  much  about  what  

is  not  there  as  it  is  about  what  is.    

 

Though  not  many  objects  are  found  throughout  much  of  the  museum,  these  voids  

are  the  ultimate  anti-­‐object.  “Most  museums  start  with  the  material  they  have  

and  then  figure  out  what  the  story  is  that  they  can  tell  about  the  material  they  

have.  We  are  not  starting  out  with  objects,  we’re  starting  out  with  a  story”  

(Freudenheim  2000:  40).  By  breaking  the  building  at  various  points,  the  voids  

narrate  a  more  accurate  story  to  the  visitors.  

 

Mirroring  the  broken  history  of  the  Jews,  these  voids  interrupt  the  fluidity  of  the  

museum  visit,  sometimes  trespassing  right  through  gallery  spaces.  Curators  and  

designers  are  instructed  not  to  use  these  voids  as  the  boundaries  of  exhibits  

(Young  2000:  17).  Wherever  these  voids  disrupt  the  narration,  the  story  is  

paused  and  then  picked  up  on  the  other  side  immediately,  oblivious  to  the  

visitors’  confusion  and  brief  experience  with  emptiness.  They  are  a  persistent  

reminder  that  the  story  exhibited  is  not,  and  never  can  be,  complete  (Young  

KYVH7   15  

2000:  18).  Largely  these  voids  are  not  accessible  to  the  visitors,  but  they  are  

visible,  and  entirely  unavoidable.  

 Figure  8.  Void  with  the  art  instillation  Shalechet  (Fallen  Leaves)  by  Menashe  Kadishman  (born  1932),  1997-­‐2001,  Dieter  and  Si  Rosenkranz,  Berlin.  ©  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  photo:  Marion  Roßner,  Berlin    

All  Jewish  museums  must  cover  the  Holocaust  to  be  comprehensive,  but  overtly  

highlighting  it  could  overshadow  the  present  and  the  future.  “In  contrast  to  

Holocaust  museums,  the  exhibition  does  not  show  any  images  or  traces  of  the  

extermination:  the  almost  complete  annihilation  of  European  Jews  and  their  

culture  has  become  a  part  of  the  museum  architecture  in  the  form  of  the  Voids”  

(Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2012:  25).  These  voids  accurately  depict  the  reality  of  the  

Jews;  the  absence  of  millions  of  their  own  voices  persists  no  matter  how  positive  

a  future  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2012:  11).    Through  them,  Libeskind  took  the  

intangible  and  though  not  entirely  reachable,  at  least  visible.  

 

 

KYVH7   16  

HOLOCAUST  TOWER  

The  most  famous  void,  the  Holocaust  Tower,  produces  arguably  the  most  jarring  

and  memorable  experience  of  the  entire  visit.  Just  as  the  Garden  of  Exile  is  found  

at  the  end  of  the  Axis  of  Exile,  the  Holocaust  Tower  is  found  behind  a  door  at  the  

end  of  the  downward  sloping  Axis  of  Holocaust.  

 

The  space  is  small  but  with  walls  so  tall  one  can  barely  see  the  small  opening  that  

constitutes  the  ‘ceiling,’  it  is  the  visitor  who  feels  small  in  it.  “After  a  metal  door  

clangs  shut,  visitors  enter  an  unheated  space,  a  tetrahedron  with  high,  blank  

concrete  walls.  Here,  one  feels  isolated,  imprisoned,  connected  to  the  world  only  

by  the  sounds  of  the  street  and  the  single  shaft  of  light  that  pierces  the  darkness”  

(Klein  2001:  no  pagination).  The  space  feels  cold,  visitors  are  not  allowed  to  

bring  their  coats  with  them,  and  the  tiniest  of  openings  makes  the  space  

perpetually  dark,  even  on  the  sunniest  days.  Though  not  intended  to  be  an  

authentic,  the  almost  unbearable  feelings  the  space  stirs  are  most  definitely  

memorable  to  those  who  experience  the  Holocaust  Tower.      

 

How  do  you  balance  the  needs  of  the  nation  and  the  city  with  the  need  for  a  

people’s  museum?  

 

Detailing  the  construction  of  this  building  must  be  set  within  its  historical,  

geographical,  and  political  context.  The  fall  of  the  Berlin  Wall  in  1989  meant  

Berlin  was  finally  reunited,  to  the  outside  world.  The  reality  was  a  process  of  

reunification  was  just  beginning,  one  that  would  require  significant  amount  of  

the  city’s  resources,  both  energetically  and  monetarily.  Only  a  year  after  the  

approval  for  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  came,  this  significant  event  would  have  

paramount  effects  on  its  construction.  

 

The  Berlin  Senate  had  approved  87  million  DM  (Deutsche  Mark)  to  the  

construction,  but  Libeskind  reported  his  design  would  require  nearly  double  that  

amount  at  170  million  DM;  they  reached  a  final  agreement  of  115  million  DM  

(Young  2000:  14).  The  ability  to  build  symbolic  architecture  is  often  limited  as  

much  due  to  the  expense  of  it  as  the  physical  capacity  to  do  so  (Dickinson,  Blair  &  

KYVH7   17  

Ott  2010:  28)  and  in  order  to  meet  this  budget,  remarkable  changes  had  to  be  

made  in  the  design.    

 

Still,  the  government  had  to  suspend  the  building  process  in  1991  due  to  money  

constraints  and  political  conflicts  (Young  2000:  14;  Klein  2001:  no  pagination).  

How  could  Berlin  justify  such  an  extravagant  non-­‐essential  expense?  Post-­‐war  

focus  was  naturally  on  civic  essentials  such  as  housing,  hospitals,  and  schools  

(Giebelhausen  2003:  77);  any  money  spent  elsewhere  caused  a  deficit  for  

Berlin’s  civic  core.  The  suspension  lasted  only  a  few  months  due  to  public  

pressure  and  Berlin  seems  to  have  followed  with  Frankfort’s  exception:  the  

reconstruction  of  Paulskirche  due  to  its  historical  significance  (Giebelhausen  

2003:  77).  In  short,  Berlin  could  not  afford  not  to  build  this  memorial  museum  

when  its  existence  would  mean  so  much  to  a  population  attempting  to  heal  itself.    

 

ARCHITECTURE  AT  THE  EXPENSE  OF  THE  MUSEUM  

Where  does  the  museum’s  meaning  reside?    

 

Two  mutually  exclusive  camps  coexist:  one  asserts  the  meaning  of  a  museum  

rests  in  its  collections  (Hooper-­‐Greenhill  2000:  3),  while  the  other  proposes  

meaning  emanates  from  the  architecture  (Giebelhausen  2006:  42).  With  the  

limited  number  of  objects  in  the  original  collection  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  

there  was  a  need  to  supplement  with  the  design,  but  such  a  moving  design  as  

Libeskind’s  can  understandably  dominate  the  little  amount  that  is  there.  “This  

museum  seemed  to  forbid  showing  much  else  beside  itself”  (Young  2000:  13).  

 

“Libeskind’s  museum  can  be  described  as  a  counter-­‐museum  in  many  respects:  

its  architecture  refuses  to  function  as  a  blank  and  neutral  container  and  

background  to  the  exhibition”  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2012:  30).  Because  of  this  

design,  Libeskind  has  made  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  an  impractical  museum:  

many  walls  are  too  steep  to  safely  hang  anything,  some  corners  are  too  sharp  to  

easily  move  objects  around,  certain  areas  are  too  small  and  nearly  all  of  the  voids  

are  forbidden  to  exhibit  anything.  When  “needs  are  seen  to  interfere  with  artistic  

vision,  architects  create  museums  that  are  difficult  to  use”  (Heumann  Gurian  

KYVH7   18  

2005:  117).  The  architectural  vision  has  disregarded  the  needs  of  the  museum  

and  resulted  in  a  building  that  is  nearly  unusable  in  the  traditional  museum  

sense.    

 Figure  9.  Interior  view  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  at  the  1999  opening,  second  level  with  

window  slits  ©  Silke  Helmerdig,  1999  

 

Before  officially  opening,  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  held  a  viewing  of  the  

building  without  exhibitions  in  1999  with  over  350,000  attendees,  many  of  

whom  questioned  “whether  an  exhibition  was  needed  at  all  –  or  where  

Libeskind’s  expressive  building  should  simply  be  permitted  to  speak  for  itself”  

(Klein  2001:  no  pagination).  This  thought  would  persist  and  currently,  no  tours  

are  given  on  the  architecture,  despite  repeated  public  requests,  because  the  

Jewish  Museum  Berlin  does  not  want  Libeskind’s  architectural  story  to  

overshadow  the  museum’s  purpose  (Feldman  &  Peleikis  2014:  49).  

 

The  angled  windows  and  floors  can  be  seen  as  distractions  from  the  curatorial  

story,  and  for  many  museums  this  would  be  true,  but  it  has  already  been  argued  

here  the  many  ways  in  which  they  embody,  exhibit  and  even  enhance  this  

particular  story  as  both  museum  and  memorial.  At  least  with  regards  to  the  

unique  case  of  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  Giebelhausen’s  (2006)  argument  wins  

out:  its  power  stems  primarily  from  its  architecture.  

KYVH7   19  

CONCLUSIONS  AND  IMPLICATIONS  FOR  OTHER  MUSEUMS  

 

Interpretation  of  any  architecture  is  of  course  subject  to  the  individual  and  the  

interpretations  presented  here  constitute  one  way  of  looking  at  the  Jewish  

Museum  Berlin.  Each  visitor  will  of  bring  his  or  her  own  notions  that  can  shape  

their  experience  within  the  space  more  than  curatorial  guidance  (Hooper-­‐

Greenhill  2000:  2,  Feldman  &  Peleikis  2014:  47).  Libeskind  himself  rarely  

divulges  his  convictions  on  the  building,  but  instead  encourages  these  

individualities:  a  notice  within  the  museum  specifically  invites  visitors  to  

interpret  the  design  on  their  own.  He  contents  there  is  no  answer  to  these  

philosophical  questions,  only  sparked  conversations.    

 

In  taking  on  this  project,  Libeskind  achieved  what  many  thought  considered  

impossible.  All  major  aspects  of  German-­‐Jewish  history  are  present,  even  the  

most  emotional  and  challenging  of  them  all:  the  Holocaust.  Without  Libeskind’s  

powerful  design,  visitors  to  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin  would  have  an  entirely  

different  experience.  As  shown  here,  his  architecture  can  be  very  effective  with  

regards  to  emotions  and  empathy,  in  this  case  by  creating  uncomfortable  and  

seemingly  disconnected  spaces.  By  blurring  the  lines  between  memorial  and  

museum,  visitors  are  actually  connecting  with  each  other  in  the  present  when  

they  collectively  remember  their  past  (Dickinson,  Blair  &  Ott  2010:  27).  

 

The  Jewish  Museum  Berlin,  from  inception  to  construction,  it  is  a  product  of  a  

larger  shift  among  museums  with  regards  to  the  ways  in  which  they  exhibit  

memories.  In  direct  response  to  the  needs  and  desires  of  their  communities,  

today’s  museums  must  speak  to  the  issues  of  the  present  when  talking  about  the  

past  to  engage  their  visitors  in  a  meaningful  way  (Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013).  

Moving  away  from  intellectual  repositories,  they  are  becoming  more  transparent  

with  the  difficulties  of  culture  and  community,  aiming  to  provide  spaces  for  their  

visitors  to  publicly  address  parts  of  history  they  are  usually  too  uncomfortable  to  

discuss  (Feldman  &  Peleikis  2014;  Arnold-­‐de  Simine  2013:  9).  In  borrowing  

customs  traditionally  attributed  to  memorials,  museums  are  better  equipped  in  

fulfilling  their  mission  to  the  public.    

KYVH7   20  

REFERENCES      Arnold-­‐de  Simine,  S.  (2012)  ‘Memory  Museum  and  Museum  Text:  Intermediality  

in  Daniel  Libeskind’s  Jewish  Museum  and  W.G.  Sebald’s  Austerlitz’.  Theory,  Culture  &  Society  29(1):  14-­‐35.  

 Arnold-­‐de  Simine,  S.  (2013)  Mediating  Memory  in  the  Museum:  Trauma,  Empathy,  

Nostalgia.  Basingstoke:  Palgrave  Macmillan.    Dickinson,  G.,  Blair,  C.,  &  Ott,  B.L.  (2010)  Places  f  Public  Memory:  The  Rhetoric  of  

Museums  and  Memorials.  Tuscaloosa,  The  University  of  Alabama  Press.    Feldman,  j.  &  Peleikis,  A.  (2014)  ‘Performing  the  Hyphen:  Engaging  German-­‐

Jewishness  at  the  Jewish  Museum  Berlin’.  Anthropological  Journal  of  European  Cultures  23(2):  43-­‐59.  

 Giebelhausen,  M.  (2003)  The  architecture  of  the  museum:  symbolic  structures,  

urban  contexts.  Manchester:  Manchester  University  Press.    Giebelhausen,  M.  (2006)  ‘The  Architecture  is  the  Museum’.  Marstine,  J.  (ed.)  New  

Museum  Theory  and  Practice:  An  Introduction.  Malden,  MA:  Blackwell  (37-­‐63)  

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