It Fooled the Cat

John Frederick Peto [1854-1907]
Reminiscences of '65

William Michael Harnett [1848-1892]
The Letter Rack
The Faithful Colt

John Haberle [1856-1933]
A Bachelor's Drawer (and 2 details)
The Slate

I just finished The Arts of Deception: Playing with Fraud in the Age of Barnum by James W. Cook. He examines the curious strain in 19th century popular culture of illusionism (the self conscious aesthetic and cultural mode that "exists on the boundary between fact and fiction") and artful deception (which employs illusionism but purports to be real). Illusionism pervaded a range of 19th century entertainment, from Barnum's "humbugs," like the Feejee Mermaid, to Paul Phillipoteaux's Gettysburg Cyclorama, through all sorts of magic lantern displays, wax figures and sleights-of-hand. I imagine Cook could include the rage for seances, mediums and spirit images as well, though he doesn't go into these. In Cook's view, the public's passion for deceptive spectacle was influenced by the new "discourse" of advertising, social hierarchies and the expansion of the middle class, and the scientific inquiries of the time. Why was it though, that in a time of exacting definitions of propriety, when morality was strictly parsed and appearances were de facto comments on pedigree, society was thrilled by the questionable, and the ambiguous?

I was particularly interested in his chapter on trompe l'oeil painting--a genre which relied on spectacle. Numerous notices of the time described audiences that gathered to argue, gape at and dispute the nature of the paintings. Many of these paintings were run-away pop-cultural hits.
Art critics of any standing, though, customarily dismissed trompe l'oeil work, likening it to the "curiosities" that garnered crowds at dime museums– vulgar and without merit. The work was easily employed in aesthetic and social judgments: if you like this stuff you are a philistine or a rube.

Harnett, Haberle, and Peto --three of the most successful trompe l'oeil painters–often used commercial packaging and other ephemera in their work (like the Dadaists would literally do 20-40 years later). But they were consummate nostalgia-peddlars (a pretty new idea at the time, the sentimental as cottage industry) who incorporated emblems of the West and cowboy life, Civil war paraphernalia, souvenir images of Lincoln, even recalling the good old days beside Grandma's Hearthstone. They played to growing anxieties in contemporary society that modernity was erasing a way of life.

The heyday of trompe l'oeil was essentially contemporaneous with Impressionism, or maybe a bit after. Most people think of latter as the aesthetic break-- edgy and avant garde while the former was populist and easily digested. An idea that intrigued me in the book was that trompe l'oeil, while not leading to Modernism, was never-the-less part of a changing visual mode. These sorts of perceptual 'experiments' lead to visual education and redefined the viewer as subjective participant. Visual doubt, essentially, was part of the lead up to modernity.

Also worth noting is the fact that yesterday's avant garde (Impressionism) is today's greeting card art, while the overlooked populist work is the stuff of art historical criticism.

Victor Prevost

Originally from France, Prevost (1820-1881) established a photography studio at 627 Broadway in New York around 1854. He worked in the calotype method which produced a waxed paper negative and allowed multiple image copies to be made– as opposed to the popular daguerreotype which created a single unique image. His studio failed rather quickly but he continued to photograph around New York City for years.

These ethereal, ghostly views of New York are, of course, misleading: The city was bustling and experiencing tremendous manufacturing expansion. The camera was fixed on the stable, unmoving buildings as people, carriages, horses and carts moved through the image, the exposure being too long to capture their presence. And now, in most cases, the buildings have moved on as well, their presence proving, essentially, momentary.

The exhibition of these images and other of Prevost's work is at the New-York Historical Society until October 19th.

From top:

Engine room at the Crystal Palace, 1854

Gurney’s Daguerrean Gallery, undated, 349 Broadway corner of Leonard Street
There were more than 100 daguerreotype saloons in New York City in the mid-nineteenth century and Jeremiah Gurney, "photographist," operated one of the most succesful ones. The Illustrated News (12 November 1853) reported that, “Mr. Gurney’s establishment consists of nine spacious rooms, devoted exclusively to his art.”

Old Herring’s Safe Factory, undated, Hudson Street between 12th and 13th Streets
Portions of the building remain today. I love the type on this building.

Ringuet-Leprince, Marcotte & Co. showroom, 1854, 343-347 Fourth Avenue
A favorite of the elite in mid-nineteenth century New York City, eminent French furniture manufacturers Ringuet-Leprince, Marcotte & Co. (1849–60), produced Louis XVI and "Renaissance Revival" style piles of walnut, satin and marquetry. [Note the signs– where did all those beautiful hand-painted wooden signs and letters go...]

Marble Working Establishment of P. Gori, undated, Broadway and 20th Street.
Lord & Taylor would move to this building in 1872.

Clothing Store of Alfred Munroe & Co., 1854, at 441 Broadway between Grand Street and Howard Street, just north of Canal Street.

Homo repugnans*

A few weeks ago I visited the Natural History Museum. It struck me, as we sauntered past the dioramas, that most representations of "Early Man" I have ever seen (Geico cavemen aside) are of these fright-wigged, snaggle-toothed, worried-looking creatures. They've usually got brambles and straw matted into their wild, frazzle mop and often sport a dyspeptic expression. This seems a bit odd considering many animals are fastidious about cleaning themselves. Cats will lick and smooth their coats, chimps will sit and pick lice off one another and appear to have quite a nice, happy time of it. Doesn't it stand to reason that man would be like the rest of the animal kingdom and groom himself? Perhaps even devise a way to get that cr*p out of his hair?

* I made that up

image: I got this on Flickr and regret that I've forgotten whose it was...

groovy roots

For a project about nineteenth century letterpress I'm working on, I was looking into the pendulum swings of criticism about "Victorian" design. I put air quotes on the term because anyone with the slightest knowledge of nineteenth century styles– decorative arts, fashion, whatever– can see that Victorian is cruelly broad brush stroke. It's a term that has been tainted by 20th century prejudices. By the 1920s "Victorian" was the zinger, the punchline, the descriptor flung like a dead fish. It's amazing how critics of the 20th century –through the 1960s at very least–were coolly dismissive of all things with a 19th century aesthetic. And that was when they were being kind. I cant think of another period so freely reviled and ridiculed.

All this by way of saying that by the 1950s and 60s a few avant garde* souls like Push Pin Studios (Milton Glaser and Seymour Chwast et al.) were thumbing their noses at The Man or his stand-in, Swiss Modernism. Rediscovering the cast off visual detritus of the 19th century they made use of posters, engravings, old wood and metal type that were surely lying around in junk stores.

Designers in alternative genres, especially, created a cult look combining vintage display type, Art Nouveau patterning and kaleidoscopic drug- induced positive/negative visual vibrations. I had never stopped to think about how much of Psychedelia had its roots in nineteenth century visual reference, beyond the Victor Moscoso/Alphonse Mucha connection. With the Hippie epicenter in San Francisco, the old Victorian rooming houses and cheap apartments must have had something to do with it as well. And of course, the concept of a Decadent, Symbolist, absinthe-soaked, opium-toking nineteenth century must have seemed very appealing (and familiar) indeed.

Addendum: At bottom right is an 1840s watercolor of quasi-military protesters, which put me in mind of Yellow Submarine immediately....

*(The very avant garde, I suppose, had been Dadaists like Ernst, in the 20s-30s, who incorporated 19th century engravings and type into collage.)

Artwork from OldHandbills.com :
Rick Griffin 1967; William Henry 1968

William Henry, 1968
Bob Schnepf, 1968
Victor Moscoso,1967
Alton Kelley and Stanley Mouse, 1967

Pancras envy

I read with some envy and wistfulness about the reopening of St. Pancras Station in London (images second row) as the new 'home' of the Eurostar.
Why would I care about a train station in London?
Well, first I am inordinately fond of the city, despite the weather and the fact they charge you for matches, and I haven't been since Fall 2005. Mostly though its because London manages to renovate and repurpose old buildings with flair. I seem to recall coming upon various old piles that had been meaningfully and usefully integrated into modern life (Borough Market, Tate Modern come to mind first). Usually with nice signage, too.

There's something so vigorous and ...heartening... about a sleek, well-planned new transportation station. Somehow it makes you think there are people in government who see the bigger picture. Something like, 'Ah, the city is working. Somebody's manning the deck. good. progress.'

I never feel that in New York.

Work was begun on St. Pancras station in the eponymous parish section of London in the early 1860’s. A working class slum, Agar town, and the churchyard of old St. Pancras were demolished for the construction. Dickens described it in Dombey and Son (as quoted in the Guardian)

Houses were knocked down; streets broken through and stopped; deep pits and trenches dug in the ground; enormous heaps of earth and clay thrown up; buildings that were undermined and shaking, propped by great beams of wood ..."

It must have been a ghastly affair. I believe they had to submerge or divert a river (the Fleet). Also, a full 8,000 graves had to be removed from the construction site. Supervisor for the exhumations was a 26-year old architect's assistant from Dorset named Thomas Hardy. Yes, that one.

St. Pancras train station opened in 1868. William Barlow's single-span train shed of iron and glass spans 240 feet and is more than 100 feet high at its apex, and was the largest enclosed space in the world when it was completed.

Adjoining the magnificent station —and acting as its public face—was an imposing and sprawling brick edifice. Designed by George Gilbert Scott in a lavish High Victorian Gothic revival style it opened on May 5th, 1873, as the Midland Grand Hotel. Turreted, balconied, arabesqued and decoratively voussoired to within an inch of its life, the Midland Grand operated until 1935. Thereafter it wheezed through much of the 20th century as the office headquarters of British Transport Hotels. After suffering many indignities of a 1950s vintage, including lowered ceilings, it sat vacant since the 1980s.

I think it was about 2000/01 that I wangled my way into a private but abbreviated walk-through of the place, that was, by that point, called St. Pancras Chambers (see my pre-digital photos 4th row down). Scott (the architect) had designed everything down to the drawer pulls. Embellished and illuminated, it was magnificent in its ponderousness and even more evocative in its ruined deshabille.

The Jefferson Market Library, nee Courthouse, in Greenwich Village, at bottom, is a smaller sibling I would say. I had always thought of it as the only representative of Lean Bacon Revival style in NYC. (photo by steve spak.)

Now St. Pancras Chambers will be a hotel again, and, as is the wont of the capitalist market, "luxury lofts." The firm managing the overhaul, oddly named the Manhattan Loft Company, has created a rather nice and detailed animated timeline of the building in the Ken Burnsian manner.

I'm liking what I see as the logo for the residential project (top). Anyone have info?

It seems now is the renaissance for all things Victorian, no? Refreshing I think.
British architectural historian Sir John Summerson once described the Midland as “nauseating”. And certainly for a good deal of the 20th century "Victorian" was an epithet not given in kindness. An interesting take (on Vulpes Libris ) on why Victorian architecture became so reviled by mid century-- at least in the UK:

At its finest Victorian architecture is bullish, ebullient and self-confident … and perhaps that was the problem. It reminded us of our lost past. Simon Bradley probably puts his finger on it fairly accurately when he says:

“The great buildings of Victorian Britain, so confident and optimistic, had become poignant reminders of former glories, like swaggering family portraits squeezed into the commonplace house of a penurious descendant.”

.....

Now I've rashly gone and ordered Simon Bradley's book.
....
Evidently some live art event was staged there (part of a series held in derelict buildings of London).

Orientalism

"Orientalism... is a complex idea, made up of history and scenery, suffused with imagination... We frame to ourselves a deep azure sky, and a languid alluring atmosphere; associate luxurious ease with the coffee-rooms and flower gardens..." Thus an anonymous author in The Knickerbocker, June 1853, attempted to set out a definition of the term, with further visions of fountains and minarets dancing in his head.

Orientalism: A fascination with the East (more Near than Far*) by the West as manifested in the arts. That is how I define the term, anyway. I associate it squarely with the 19th century and the Victorian Imperial vision of a dreamy Romanticized land of caravansaries and hookahs. Think of all those "harem" and "Turkish Bath" paintings that gave artists the chance to depict pretty ladies in dishabille or the exotic photographic landscapes of Frith or Du Camp. Orientalism, which got a big boost in the 20th century from the discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb in 1924, connects the dots between Lawrence of Arabia (the person), and The Mummy (the movie) and Camel cigarettes.

The New York Historical Society is presenting a small but worthy show of choice Orientalist tidbits: Allure of the East-- Orientalism in New York, 1850-1930. Included are a Gerome painting, Tiffany lamp, a Zoave costume, posters and tobacco advertisements among other items. The N-YHS exhibitions department has rather effectively transformed the space into a vest pocket Moorish arcade and all is accompanied by a graphic identity of unabashed pastiche by yours truly.

*The preoccupation with things Japanese that flourished after Japan opened trade with the West in 1853, seems, to me, a thing apart. The West wanted Japanese lacquer, vases, metalwork– but no one seemed to have the desire to be Asian. Japonisme mimicked and adapted Japanese asymmetry and spareness to Western decorative arts, Europeans liked the "alien" approach to line and space, but no one dreamed of inhabiting Asian landscapes or fantasized acting out tales from Japanese history. The Orientalists, meanwhile, engaged in a fair bit of projecting and playacting. From creating Hajji Baba Clubs to themed fancy dress balls the West seemed to envelope itself in dreams of Pashas and swordplay. I would think this distinction of coveting a style at arm's length vs appropriating an interpretive cultural identity has something to do with the imperial/colonial contact with and subjugation of the Near East. Not having read Edward Said's book on the subject I cannot say whether I have just discovered the color of Napoleon's white horse.

Bottom photo: Mrs. Arthur Henry Paget (1853-1919), dressed as Cleopatra for the 1875 Delmonico Ball.

Tuesday with Mori

Oh sorry, that title's a really bad pun. I've already thought through and choked on two other post topics so I decided to just go with it as it comes to me.

Yesterday I came across the Farber Gravestone Collection, a photographic resource of 13,500 images documenting the sculpture on old gravestones and my heart did a leap. Oh so long ago I made a little book about gravestone carving for my senior project. It was mainly a graphic design exercise on the changing iconography of gravestones, but the text came out of a paper I wrote for a history class. What a help this collection would have been! Of course the photos existed (most images the Farbers, a husband and wife team, took were from the 70s and 80s) but they were on a shelf somewhere in the American Antiquarian Society and without the power of the internets, I was Farberless.

I knew that formally, Colonial graves had headstones and footstones, like a bed for the occupants' everlasting repose. This idea also lent the markers their distinctive headboard shape. What I learned was that they typically had carving on the outer sides of the stones, so the visitor-reader would not tread on the grave. Also, graves were positioned with occupants' feet to the East, so that come Judgment they would stand to face the rising sun...

Skulls, Death's heads, cherubs, hourglasses-- the symbols were often copied directly from engravings that came over from England. These were then copied again and again by dedicated stonemasons or itinerant carvers, mostly without the benefit of reference to the original design. Changed, embellished, streamlined and mutated, by skilled intent or by lesser hands, the imagery is at once repetitive and wildly divergent. Truly bizarre figures emerge. Wings become decorative swirls, collars, mustaches. Leering Death's heads become benign cyphers, cherubs morph into strange stupefied-looking sexless trophy heads. Once the Puritan ethic loosens its grip, attempts at portraiture get added into the mix and things got really interesting. When the fashion for Neo-classicism trickled down to the gravemarker, winged messengers were supplanted by urns, willows, swags and often, a disembodied hand pointing skyward.

The inscriptions, too, can be fascinating in all their mangled phonetics and "ye Olde"-iness. Sometimes creepily elliptical ("RB. di'd 1712"), or filled with florid religious boilerplate, they can sometimes stop your heart with personal, real, specificity: at top, little Aaron Bowers, aged 2 years 10 months, was "instantly kill'd by a stack of boards" on September 12, 1791. And there he is, splayed out behind two planks.

My Trembling Heart with Grief overflows,
While I Record the death of Those;
Who died by Thunder Sent from Heaven,
In Seventeen hundred and Seventy Seven

Abraham Rice, struck by lightening, 1777
Framingham, Massachusetts