When it opened in 1980 at the Jewish Museum — after first showing at a Jewish community center in Rockville, Md., and at the Lowe Art Museum at the University of Miami — Andy Warhol’s exhibition “Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century” aroused some controversy. The Jewish Museum’s new exhibition, a reprise of sorts called “Warhol’s Jews: Ten Portraits Reconsidered,” is unlikely to incite similar debate.

The series forming the core of each show consists of paintings and prints of people — such as Albert Einstein, Golda Meir, Franz Kafka, and the Marx Brothers — whom Warhol informally called “Jewish geniuses.” It seems that Warhol’s motives, which were assumed to be basely mercantile, were what raised critical ire 28 years ago. As Hilton Kramer wrote in the New York Times, the series “reeks of commercialism, and its contribution to art is nil.” These days, for good and ill, we have become inured to commercialism in art. Indeed, such Warholian figures as Takashi Murakami, Damien Hirst, and Jeff Koons are celebrated for their nakedly commercial work.

That people in the art world are now less likely to deny the fact that virtually all art is made to be sold and is, therefore, in some sense commercial, and that people are now more likely to regard artistic “purity” as a fantasy is probably, on balance, a good thing. Yet by accommodating the commercial, we have lost a shared sense of what makes art authentic. Before Warhol changed the world, when an artist made artistic choices for merely commercial reasons it was seen as degrading to both the art and the artist.

It would seem that with these “Ten Portraits,” almost all of Warhol’s choices were made for commercial reasons — and, to my eye, it shows. A devout Catholic, Warhol had no particular interest in Jews or Judaism, and indeed the very idea for these 10 portraits was suggested to him by Ronald Feldman, his dealer.

The current exhibition makes apparent other choices, for it is admirably informative. Each of the subjects is represented by a print and a canvas, as well as preparatory material, such as the drawings and photographs from which the artist created his pieces. In the case of Golda Meir, one finds in addition a 1975 portrait painting said to be Mr. Feldman’s inspiration for the series.

The screen prints, on Lenox Museum Board, were produced in editions of 200. And it is interesting to note that the paintings — painted silkscreens on canvas — were produced in editions of five. The resulting pictures are fully in keeping with Warhol’s late portraiture style.

Seen in a photograph, Sarah Bernhardt, for instance, confronts the viewer directly, chin on hand. Atop the photo, Warhol has traced some of the contour lines in green, orange, and red paint. Large geometric blocks of contrasting colors — green, orange, and blue — provide the spice. Warhol has cannily done the clichéd image of Einstein’s face in gray and black tones, which afford it some gravity. Less so the yellow drawing, which seems to outline the face. And the modern-esque wedges of yellow and gray make the whole feel like it was extruded from an advertising company rather than painted by an artist. At best, this is slick decorative art, easy on an unaccustomed eye and well suited to, say, a Jewish community center’s wall.

But the museum has included other compelling material as well: photographs of the openings and a list of close to 100 “famous Jews” — in Mr. Feldman’s hand. The catalog notes that it was the dealer who selected the 10 Jews for immortalization. I was struck by the fact that Bob Dylan’s name appears three times; certainly Warhol, who had fronted the Velvet Underground and whose affection for contemporary music is not in doubt, would have preferred to paint him rather than Martin Buber or Justice Louis Brandeis? The catalog claims Mr. Dylan was excluded for being insufficiently Jewish, since he had recently become a born-again Christian. And the nonpracticing Gertrude Stein, seen here in shades of pink, orange, and yellow — she was Jewish enough? No, it seems clear to me that the final list was designed to appeal to wealthy suburban Jews, people of an age, in 1980, who strongly preferred George Gershwin and Golda to Dylan and Woody Allen, who also didn’t make the cut.

I see no way of denying Mr. Kramer’s original assessment. “Ten Portraits” was certainly commercial, and Warhol would have delighted in the fact. But Mr. Kramer was wrong to say that they contribute nothing to art: History has shown they contributed a new low, which certain segments of the art world, artists and collectors, strive to surpass. No matter how keenly those heavily invested in late Warhol protest, and no matter how loudly the hucksters who have run up his market coo over the work, the vast majority of Warhols from the 1970s and 1980s will always be schlock, 28 years ago and today.

Until August 3 (1109 Fifth Ave. at 92nd Street, 212-423-3200).