Why the chanukiah is the best Jewish symbol of all

Every Jewish home needs a chanukiah. Whether it’s a contemporary neon pink menorah or a classic candelabra, they bring that magical Chanukah light into our lives. Spotting a chanukiah in someone’s home is like seeing a welcome mat where the “o” has been replaced with a Magen David. You feel safe knowing that somewhere in this house is a stash of chicken schmaltz and an old copy of Tevye the Milkman.

The chanukiah is a symbol of Jewish strength and resistance, displayed proudly on a windowsill sharing the miracle of Chanukah with the world. The classic chanukiah is representative of the shield of our ancestors, but from a design perspective it isn’t very fun. Now though, that’s changed.

Chanukah is a children’s holiday (or, since the 19th century, has been excellently marketed as such) and I want my Chanukah accessories to reflect that. It would give those Maccabees great naches that we celebrate their triumph with the joy they felt on that eighth night of longlasting oil. What would give me more joy? Kitsch, colourful and playfully designed Judaica.

The first time I ever saw colourful, contemporary chanukiahs was, of course, in Tel Aviv – pomegranates and flowers hand-painted on an elaborately decorative backdrop or painterly images of Jerusalem. I love this typically Israeli style of Judaica. It reminds me of fragrant walks through Shuk HaCarmel, late dinners in Neve Tzedek, sahlab in Jaffa by the sea and bakery windows full of sufganiyot. Seeing these pieces on trips to Israel instigated in me the foundations of my love for design and an understanding that good design can be joyful as well as functional.

Outside of my Middle Eastern hunt for fun Jewish heirlooms I have seen so many takes on the classic chanukiah – ceramic minimalist sticks with the shamash set on a concrete block, crystal cubes, elaborate bronze candelabras. Cue modern homeware maestro, my friend Jonathan Adler (OK he’s not my friend but I did once have a conversation with him about circumcision on the BBC).

I have Jonathan Adler’s sausage dog chanukiah and I think it hits a lot of my essential chanukiah requirements – it’s fun (it’s a dog but it’s also a menorah!), it shows off my colourful wax droppings beautifully and its timeless style should keep it in family living rooms for decades.

If your family living room calls for a more modern style, you might want to check out American artist Hannah Polskin, who crafts the most beautiful sculptural menorahs out of materials like pink onyx and Swarovski crystals. Even though I love a multicoloured waxy drip, these ones might demand some investment in dripless candles.
 

My longstanding favourite in modern Jewish design is New York’s Susan Alexandra. Alexandra’s Judaica is the epitome of playful style; if PeeWee’s playhouse had a chanukiah it would be by Susan Alexandra. She makes a martini menorah that plays on the theme of “olive oil” in a way I can really get on board with. But my latest Susan Alexandra obsession is her “spilled pickles” chanukiah, which, when placed on your holiday table looks like a briny puddle of spilled pickled cucumbers, each topped off with a flickering Chanukah flame; if there’s one thing my chag definitely needs, it’s a menorah made from neon green glass cucumbers.

Now for the ultimate Chanukah question – to line your chanukiah with foil or to let those waxy drips trickle freely? I have cousins whose chanukiahs are wrapped meticulously in tin foil every year, distorting their menorahs’ aesthetic in the name of tidiness and requiring a pair of sunglasses to light the candles. I can’t get on board with the anti-drip philosophy; I love the leftover rainbow drips, a symbol of tradition that we have lit the Chanukah candles before and we will do it again and again. I see my candle drippings as a beloved collection of family jewels.

This Chanukah I will be travelling, away from my beloved dachshund menorah. How to celebrate those miraculous lights as a travelling Jew? I recall a menorah I saw once in the US, a menorah brilliantly named The Banorah because it was… a banana menorah. With the shamash in the stalk and the other eight candles along the length of the ceramic fruit, it gave me the most brilliant (and compostable) idea. Despite my love of beautiful homeware and design, this year my family will gather around a piece of fruit. It will be lovingly poked and prodded for eight nights until it is bruised and blackened, a total mush of fruit and rainbow wax. Not quite an heirloom of gold pomegranates, porcelain stars or moulded silver sticks but a symbol still of our joy in kindling the Chanukah lights.

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Francesca Kletz is an interior designer: francesklondon.com