My childhood bedroom was decorated with a butterfly motif. I had a canopy bed with a butterfly cover and bedspread and butterfly wallpaper.  In my childhood play I enjoyed having these lovely fairy-like creatures around me with their delicate, transparent wings and fantastical beauty.  In my early science classes I learned about their amazing life cycle and have often found inspiration from the quote “If nothing ever changed… there would be no butterflies.”

In reviewing the Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum's collection I was excited to discover in the Wallcoverings Department a few butterfly themed objects.  In 1955, S. Stanley Sogg donated to the museum a set of 10 objects.  In the set there are four papers made in Japan in 1954, most likely designed to be used on shoji screens, room dividers or window coverings.

The papers' use of butterflies stood out to me because it looked similar in texture and style to my childhood canopy bed.  However, on closer look I discovered a major difference--there are real butterflies in these objects!  All four of these papers include real leaves and butterfly wings, and three are made of silk while one is made of rice paper. The Japanese papers using silk contain butterflies and leaves laminated between rice paper and silk which creates a nice transparency with some durability. Due to the variety of the butterflies and leaves each roll produces a gradation of tones and values.  Other elements were added to some of the silk pieces including specks of silver and gold. 

Here are the four Japanese papers: lacy rice paper (1955-88-4) turquoise silk gauze (1955-88-5, pictured above), pale orange silk(1955-88-6) and lemon silk (1955-88-7).
 

Looking at this colored glass ewer that was produced in Iran sometime in the seventeenth to early eighteenth century, during the late Safavid dynasty,  I cannot help but be reminded of a colored glass wine bottle.  Coincidentally, this vessel most likely would have been used for wine as well, since much of the glass production in Safavid Iran was linked to the wine industry in Shiraz.  The Shirazi wine industry is credited with spurring glass production in Iran because vessels were needed to store and consume the large quantities of wine that were being produced, and glassmaking became a secondary industry there.  As a result, the Safavids were not known for their glassmaking (as were their contemporaries in the Middle East—the Mughals in India and the Ottomans in Turkey), and they were unable to achieve perfectly clear glass, resulting in the production of colored glass vessels executed mostly in blue or aubergine.  These pieces are also characterized by simple designs and graceful molded shapes.

This piece from Cooper-Hewitt’s collection is a unique example of glass from Safavid Iran because of its gilt and enameled surface decoration, which can be seen throughout the piece.  These rich designs paired with the vessel’s shape can be attributed to the merging of Middle Eastern and European ornamental styles.  The Murano glass industry was also incredibly influential on Iran’s production of glass.  Many pieces of Venetian glass were being imported to Iran and many Italian glassmakers lived and worked in Iran at that time.

Eid-al-Fitr, the end of Ramadan and a time for celebration, seems like a fitting occasion to look at and enjoy this ewer.

Andrea Osgood holds both a B.A. and M.A. in Art History from Binghamton University. She specializes in Early Modern Decorative Arts and Material Culture and has been a curatorial intern for the Product Design and Decorative Arts Department at Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum.

The MyLight.MGX, a hanging lamp by designer Lars Spuybroek for Belgian-based manufacturer Materialise NV, illustrates the possibilities of computerized production methods. Made in 2007, it was digitally printed (also known as 3D printing) using the process of Selective Laser Sintering (SLS). With SLS, a computer controls an infrared laser that solidifies miniscule layers of powdered material—in this case, polyamide, or nylon. The object is then additively built, layer upon layer. There are no molds, there is no assemblage of multiple parts. The object is printed in its entirety.

The MyLight in the Museum’s collection is one in a series of 24 lamps issued in a limited run. With its design, Spuybroek experiments with families of objects made possible only with digital printing—each is unique, but recognizable as a member of a single series. The designer started with a basic spherical form that was spun, stretched, bulged, twisted, perforated, and altered in a computer program, generating irregular ovoid forms. Each unique lamp form, with its surface variations and mutated openings, would not have previously been achievable without the use of computerized printing technology. What results is a functional and yet highly expressive form.

Manufacturer Materialise, which has offered SLS since 1999 largely to the medical and automotive industries, began inviting designers and architects in 2004 to experiment with digital printing in the creation of functional objects for the interior. The MyLight is one example of the freedom of creation that designers, and ultimately consumers, can employ with the process. Spuybroek was free to stop the design anywhere in the process to print an iteration of his lamp. And with digital printing, his lamp could easily have been a stool, a vase, a bowl, anything. The possibilities for the technology are endless. As even President Obama observed in his 2013 State of the Union address, driving mainstream attention to the technology, 3D printing “has the potential to revolutionize the way we make almost everything.”

This ornate and delicate nineteenth century blouse (camisa) from the Philippines made of piña cloth is a testament to the unique and rich textile traditions of this former Spanish colony. The use of piña cloth dates back as early as the mid-sixteenth century, near the dawn of Spanish rule in the Philippines. The production of the fabric is extremely laborious and relies heavily on hand processing.

Piña cloth is a fabric made from fibers derived from the leaves of the pineapple plant (specifically the Red Spanish variety) that are grown and cultivated in the Visayan region of the Philippines. The leaves are hand stripped, to reveal gossamer-thin fibers that are carefully washed and painstakingly hand-knotted to create longer filaments for weaving.  The weaving of piña threads is an equally lengthy process thanks to the almost microscopic width of the fibers; in fact, the warping of a sixty meter length of fabric alone can take up to twenty days. Weaving must be accomplished through the use of old looms with foot operated treadles as these delicate fibers cannot withstand most modern machine operated looms.

The blouse has the characteristic shape of a traditional camisa from the nineteenth century with its wider neckline and three-quarter length butterfly sleeves. The intricate surface embellishment features alternating bands of white work embroidery with delicate drawn-work and cut-work, creating an overall rich, tonal, foliate design. Complex embroidery patterns such as this are commonly found on piña cloth; traditional pattens include organic motifs, geometric patterning and/or Spanish Catholic symbolism from colonial times.

Due to the laborious cultivation, extraction and production processes that were involved in making piña cloth, the fabric was primarily enjoyed by the upper classes. During the nineteenth century, the traditional costume for well-to-do women comprised of the camisa and the panuelo, (an embroidered scarf also made of piña cloth worn over the shoulders), over full western-style skirts enhanced by petticoats [see figure 1]. This manner of dress remained fashionable until the early twentieth century. Post World War II, the popularity of piña cloth fell dramatically in favor of western fashions and fabrics. Today, piña is largely reserved for special occasions, such as high society events and government functions. 

Figure 1. This photograph of young Filipina women from the nineteenth century shows how the piña cloth blouse (camisa) was traditionally worn in a complete ensemble. José De Olivares, Our Islands and Their People as Seen with Camera and Pencil, (New York : N. D. Thompson, 1899-1900).

Kyla I. Katigbak hails from the Philippines and loves to spread the word regarding the wonderful weaving traditions of her country. She earned her BS in Fiber Science and Apparel Design from Cornell University and is scheduled to complete her MA in Fashion and Textile Studies from the Fashion Institute of Technology in May 2014.

By the late nineteenth century, the United States was producing millions of yards of roller printed cotton fabric each year. One of the most successful print works in the northeast was Cocheco Mills of Dover, New Hampshire, which produced textiles for fashion and interiors. Their fabrics were well-designed and affordable, which meant those in the lower and working classes could wear clothing made from colorful and attractive cotton prints. In fact, women’s magazines of the period, like Demorest’s Monthly Magazine, hailed the virtues of humble cotton prints for their ability to brighten and refine everyday clothing. In a dyer’s record book from the 1880s entitled “Shirtings,” pages 4-5 show white cotton swatches printed with small designs of shaggy running dogs and cranes standing in water. Shirting fabrics typically have small, isolated motifs printed in one or two colors on a white or off-white ground. They were non-seasonal and cheap to make, so many textile mills produced whimsical variations on a basic style that didn’t see much change year-to-year.

Sample, ca. 1876, Gift of the Fall River Historical Society, 1939-56-9.

As the name suggests, shirting fabrics were used for informal clothing for adults and children. Tiny designs of flowers or meandering vines could be used to make blouses, aprons and wrappers for women and girls, while those with designs of roosters, horses, playing cards, and sports equipment were used to make shirts and handkerchiefs for men and boys. From about 1870 through the 1880s, shirting fabrics with sports-related motifs became very popular and featured small patterns with bicycles, tennis rackets, spurs, and horseshoes. In the 1870s, American Print Works of Fall River, Massachusetts produced this seemingly straightforward shirting fabric with a belt and riding crop that illustrates how the simplest of designs can show movement and vitality.

“I enjoy delivering a finished design, even though it almost hurts me to part with it. One can refine a product forever. The art is to know where to stop.”
– Henning Andreasen

The humble stapler is not an object to which much thought is often given. We likely only notice the stapler when it provides an unsatisfying experience—flimsy in the hand, doesn’t staple through to that last page, is awkward to open and replace the staples, or whose design is otherwise a reminder of the banality of office equipment. In the hands of designer Henning Andreasen, the humble stapler is an icon of beautiful, functional design. Introduced in 1977, the Folle 26 stapler, manufactured by Danish manufacturer Folle, is still in production today—a testament to its timeless appeal and functionality. (In fact, the Product Design and Decorative Arts department here at the Museum has one in its office for daily use.) With its design, Andreasen most certainly perfected the art of knowing when to stop.

Made of steel and enamel, the Folle 26 stapler has a satisfyingly significant weight, lending to its durability and sturdiness. Its simple rectangular form terminates at a circular head, perhaps a nod to Folle’s classic stapler introduced in 1946, with its polished steel button that clearly and delicately suggests the user can operate the stapler with the press of a single finger.

Folle Classic stapler. Designed by Folmer Christensen. 1946. Image from http://www.iainclaridge.co.uk/blog/780.

Yet the Folle 26 has a more compact design, indicating it is intended to be picked up by the hand, which its uniform body and enameled arms easily accommodate. A button along the body is pressed to open the stapler, and the stapling action is a simple, downward action. In Andreasen’s hands, the stapler does not need to be anything more, or less. He stopped designing at precisely the right moment.

Hector Guimard (French, 1867-1942), architect, designer and craftsman, was best known for his iconic Paris Metro entrances (If visiting Paris, you may want to note this contribution).  Guimard heralded the Art Nouveau style to France at a time when historic references in the arts were losing favor. Art Nouveau brought a new vitality to the art scene and promoted decorative arts and crafts to center stage. The ailing Sèvres Porcelain Manufactory again became a leader in ceramics production by adopting the Art Nouveau style.

This porcelain vase of 1908 is based on one of three vase designs Guimard supplied to the Sèvres factory. This model, known as the Cerny vase (ca. 1900) features a subtly ribbed columnar body, appearing rooted to its base. An underlying dynamic force upsweeps it to a series of curves and swirls at the crown where opposite placed scrolls project—suggesting perhaps—the initial bloom of flowers. The glaze’s muted earthy tones in mottled brown, rust and gray-green colors seem to capture nature’s bounty, in abstraction. The exquisite crystalline glaze, a Sèvres innovation, provides the vase with a spiritual effect.

Guimard’s aesthetic was inspired by nature and abstracted floral and plant designs. His intent was not to copy nature, but to capture its very essence. Amorphous undulating lines, vibrant curves, and non-figurative organic designs dominated his vision. Ahead of his time, Guimard celebrated abstraction a decade before it became mainstream.

Art Nouveau had a short life. By the outbreak of World War I in 1914 it was out of fashion. Much of Guimard’s works were destroyed. Sadly, by the time of his death, he was all but forgotten. In the 1960s there was a resurrection of interest in the Art Nouveau style and especially in Guimard.  His works were rediscovered, and he was celebrated posthumously.

Until the seventeenth century–and even after that–knives and forks were personal accoutrements that travelled with their owner.  They were also a status symbol and something you might present to an honored guest or your host to show off the artistry of your home area, and to signal your wealth and refinement.  Even the use of the fork showed a level of refinement when this spoon and fork were made.  The individual fork started its life for eating desserts–candied fruits–at dessert banquets. The fact that the fork was associated with decadent food meant that it was not universally approved of, and it was a luxury item.  Using it meant that you did not sully the food nor did it do so to your fingers, showing an interest in cleanliness as well as making you look more elegant as you raised the food to your lips.

With this duo, a masculine Germanic knight type forms the handle of the fork, whereas the spoon has a seductive female figure of more Italianate styling carrying a basin over her head with her back in an arch-form curve, as if to respond to the fork, while the curve functions as a support for the finger while holding the spoon. The coral would have been an expensive imported material for the German carver who created the handles and for the owner. The designs for the figures probably were inspired by engravings known to more educated patrons. The fork tines and the spoon are silver-gilt which gives the impression of gold but the strength of silver. As gold is softer it would bend with pressure. The overall effect of the red coral and the gold color is rich and very striking. This, when combined with the erudite source of the ornament, the quality of the carving and the value of the materials would tell the recipient or the viewer that the owner was a highly sophisticated person of wealth. It would have made a spectacular present or a great personal statement when put on the table or brought out from a carrying case. The next time you sit down to eat, look at what your fork and spoon look like and try to imagine having someone judge your status by them.

Swiss architect Mario Botta (b. 1943) is perhaps best known in the United States for his design for the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (completed 1995). Composed of striated brick bands along its exterior facade, and featuring a prominent, central skylight, the building is a hallmark of the San Francisco cityscape. Botta’s design for Morbio Superiore (1982-83), a private residence in the Canton Ticino province of Switzerland, at once anticipates and diverges from the museum. Both structures maintain a sense of the monumental, as Botta draws on strong geometric shapes and textures to inform his design. Botta’s work, with its geometricizing forms and megalithic features, recalls the architecture of early modernists such as Le Corbusier and Louis I. Kahn.

The architect’s drawing for Morbio Superiore, composed late in the project’s design evolution, reveals both the logic and the poetry of Botta’s architecture. The upper renderings illustrate the building’s exterior view, including the concave southern façade with its central cavity and light well. The building’s first floor plan is shown left and its ground floor plan is shown on the right. The entire structure is three stories tall, and is set into a sloping hill. As the plans indicate, Botta creates a composition of fragmented, geometric shapes to form the internal spaces. The inner curve of the southern wall is complimented by the outwards curve of the semi-circles on the west and east axis. Just as the hillside topography changes as it moves upwards, the internal walls similarly evolve along each floor level. Botta’s sketchy free-hand conveys the dynamic texture of the southern façade, consisting of grey bricks set at 45 degree angles to the wall. The structure maintains a monumental feel despite its small scale, a feature further accented by Botta’s use of fortress-like concrete bricks and simplified forms.

One of the structure’s most outstanding features, apparent in Botta’s drawing for the southern elevation, is a shadowed, triangular cavity that forms a terrace space accessed from the ground floor. This cavity is once external and internal, piercing the heart of the structure, and running upwards into a linear skylight. In opposition to the emphatic, externalizing “rose window” of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, Botta uses a recess to augment the sense of privacy that defines a residence. In describing his work, Botta observed, “I work with today’s reality, but with the memory of the hut where people first lived.”[1] Morbio Superiore defines a modern home, with a gesture towards “the archaeological” in this internal cave-like space that is reminiscent of man’s earliest domiciles.

Ainu culture in Japan has some of the oldest continuing creative traditions in the world dating at least twelve thousand years ago.1  Textiles, and clothing design specifically, have been an important indicator of the Ainu’s ethnic identity and also their most stunning art form exemplified by this nineteenth-century attush (woven elm-bark) robe. 

Textile making was a task reserved for women in Ainu culture although men were involved in the laborious process of stripping the young elmof its bark keeping enough on the tree to protect it. The women then separated the outer and inner bark and soaked the softer inner layers in water for several days to loosen the fibers, which were then split into long, narrow strips and dried. These strands could be twisted to make thread (ohyo) or cord for baskets and rope.  The natural golden color of the thread was generally retained although decorative striping was created with vegetable dyes. The thread was then ready to be woven into cloth on a backstrap loom. 2

The cloth for the robe became the foundation for the beautiful embroidery appliquéd to the robe at strategic locations in order to protect the wearer from evil spirits. Often the most decorative area was on the back, believed by the Ainu to be the most vulnerable spot where evil spirits could enter a person. Design motifs were passed down from mother to daughter and practiced dutifully by drawing in the sand or left-over ashes. The most prized designs proved to be those which had never been produced before but used traditional motifs in new arrangements. Although there has been controversy over the exact meaning of the designs, more recent scholarship reflects that patterns were made simply to protect the wearer and to please the gods, which embodied both the animate and inanimate worlds.

Front of robe

As an architecture buff, I am constantly drawn to those objects in Cooper-Hewitt’s collection that pertain to building design. Not surprisingly, I was intrigued by Cooper-Hewitt’s staircase model collection, and in particular this 19th century curved double staircase surmounted with individual busts of Voltaire and Rousseau. Architecture necessarily entails numerous design stages, from drawings to models, and many of these objects are represented in Cooper-Hewitt’s collection. The architectural model plays a crucial role in the evolution of a design scheme, helping both architect and client to envision and interpret a structure in three dimensions. Architectural models have been used since antiquity, and their resilience suggests the important role that models play in the design program. The staircase as a functional device has likewise played a crucial part in the evolution of built structures; like architecture itself, staircases have evolved to reflect their cultural, historical, and environmental milieus.

This object is particularly fascinating as it pertains to both architecture and to furniture craftsmanship. To a great degree, this model served to flaunt the talent of its maker, who was likely a skilled cabinetmaker who knew how to do veneers. Known as ébénistes, such makers were specialists in veneering ebony. We can identify the maker’s artistry in the complex joinery, the delicate curves throughout the model, its architectural detailing, and the model’s elaborate construction system. The maker also applies multiple veneers to the staircase to imitate a running carpet through an artful trompe-l’oeil effect. The model is constructed from various woods including mahogany, ebony, pear or sycamore, and oak. This object was the product of the compagnonnage guild system in France, for which masters would produce models such as Cooper-Hewitt’s to flaunt their craftsmanship. The Sèvres porcelain busts of Voltaire and Rousseau, placed at the highest point towards the top of the stairs, are a fitting conceit for the staircase model, which ascends towards the height of its enlightened thinkers. Like many of Cooper-Hewitt’s objects, this staircase model fuses both function and aesthetics; it is important to the greater narrative of the museum’s collection as it illustrates the creative discourse between different modes of design, from the decorative arts to architecture. You can visit this object and other staircase models in Cooper-Hewitt’s upcoming exhibition of models when the Museum re-opens in 2014.

You can read more about staircase models and compagnonnage in: Coffin, Sarah D. Made to Scale: Staircase Masterpieces, The Eugene & Clare Thaw Gift. New York : Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum, 2006.

This rhythmic pattern of meandering flames and smoke is one in a series of four woven fabrics, which together represent the four basic elements of nature: earth, water, air and the one depicted here, fire. The Four Elements were a popular theme throughout the history of decorative arts, as seen in this drawing from about 1815. This textile reveals another motif that may be less familiar: the salamander.

The brave little salamanders woven into this design face the fierce flames and billowing smoke plumes head on. For centuries in France, the salamander had been associated with courage and immunity to fire. In particular it was the symbol of King Francis 1 who reigned from 1515 to 1547, and employed this allegorical motif liberally.

This fabric was designed by Yvonne Clarinval and manufactured by Tassinari & Chatel in Lyon specifically for the 1925 Paris Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs. Clarinval’s use of the nationalistic amphibian harkens back to King Francis’s châteaux at Fontainebleau and Chambord, and would have conjured up memories of the grandeur and power of French tradition, an important theme at the exposition.

Carly Lewis is currently earning an M.A. in the History of Decorative Arts and Design at Parsons. She has a B.S. in Textile Design from Philadelphia University and is focusing her studies on gender issues in regard to textile design practices in the 20th century. 

One hundred and ten years ago, Orville and Wilbur Wright launched their first flyer—it became the first powered, heavier-than-air machine to make a controlled, sustained, manned flight. By 1905, the brothers launched their third flyer, which solved many of the pitch problems in their previous two models. In October of that year, Wilbur made a series of circling flights ending in safe landings, the longest covering nearly 25 miles and lasting almost 40 minutes. The 1905 Wright flyer III became their first practical, dependable working airplane and helped usher in the age of piloted, powered flight.

An image such as this one of a Wright flyer would not have been uncommon on a matchsafe in the early twentieth century. Matchsafes themselves were a byproduct of a nineteenth-century advance, the invention of the friction match. Before 1830, methods for igniting fire, such as rubbing together a flint and steel to create a spark and light a wick or kindling, were often laborious and unreliable. This changed with the invention of the friction match, which produced fire instantly. Friction matches were basically slivers of wood or cardboard tipped with a chemical mixture that would catch fire when rubbed across a rough surface. Early matches were particularly combustible, but also susceptible to moisture. To protect them and carry them safely in one’s pocket, a closed container was needed to reduce friction. Matchsafes were the small protective and decorative boxes for this purpose.

An increased need for instantaneous fire came with the popularization of smoking pipes, cigars and cigarettes which were increasingly part of the social scene during the second half of the nineteenth century, and well into the twentieth century. Matchsafes, made of all kinds of of materials in all sorts of forms, were not only a means of personal expression for men and women, much like jewelry, but also served as advertisements for a variety of businesses. Their imagery could also commemorate significant people, places, and events. Here, the ‘reverse’ of the matchsafe has a stylized floral reserve with a clear celluloid window suitable for holding an advertisement, a small name card or personalized motif, while the ‘front’ features the raised image of a Wright flyer, seen from below, soaring high above a bucolic scene of forested hills, meadows and buildings—a celebration of a significant moment at a time when the matchsafe was still a popular practical and decorative form.

Today is National Aviation Day (Orville Wright’s birthday)

For more on many of the 5,000 matchsafes in Cooper-Hewitt’s collection: Shinn, Deborah Sampson. Matchsafes. London: Scala Publishers Ltd., 2001

For more on the Wright brothers: http://airandspace.si.edu/exhibitions/wright-brothers/online/ 

Raymond Loewy was one of the most prominent industrial designers in the United States.  A French émigré, he began practicing in the new field of industrial design in New York City in the 1920s. As a child growing up in Paris, Loewy witnessed developments such as the automobile and the telephone transform everyday life.  These transformations had a profound effect on the designer, and later in life, when Loewy witnessed the explosive growth of broadcast radio and advances in radio technology, he would combine both his personal experiences and views of the modern world into his industrial design objects such as the New World radio for the Colonial Radio Company.

In 1933, Fortune Magazine described Colonial's globe-shaped radio as “the latest radio success” that aligned with the “current fad for globes in gift and drug stores, yet sells in the high price range.”  The radio was the union of Loewy’s technical skills as well as the use of the new material Catalin, a very hard, heat resistant phenolic plastic that could be dyed different colors, filed, ground or cut, and polished to a high sheen.

Named the “New World,” the radio depicts the seven continents, but omits individual country names.  It came in three different color combinations: maroon and gold, seen here, black and gold, and ivory and gold.  The ivory and gold option was considered the “top of the line.”  The radio’s speaker was located in the base, and the metal ring around the center played a dual role—one as the decorative indication of the earth’s equator, and the other as the functional connector of the two metal knobs that controlled power, volume and tuning. Contemporary ads deemed the radio as “the ultimate in design,” and while its $60 price was high for Depression-era consumers, the New World radio was still a commercial success. The use of the globe form and decoration associated listening to the radio with the modern notion of connecting to the world.  It also alluded to the globe as a decorative motif in historical decorative arts, like celestial globes with clockwork and Renaissance automata.

Today is National Radio Day

This is one of six window shades created for the theatre in the Hollywood Wing of Duke Farms in Hillsborough, NJ.  The theme of the six shades is music and dance which are all rendered in an art deco or cubist style.  Each shade contains a central figure portraying a different country or region inspired by the classic four continents theme. While this shade portrays Hawaii, the other shades include Africa, China, Switzerland, Mexico and Russia.  Each of the figures is surrounded by elements of folk tradition mixed with historic elements specific to that country or region.  The Hawaii shade shows a female figure dancing the Hula on a pedestal. She is surrounded by tropical motifs including a palm tree, dolphins, pineapple, tropical fish, and volcanic mountains. Located beneath her are a figure on a surfboard and three bowls of poi. Hawaii is the birthplace of the hula dance and surfing. Poi is a food staple in Polynesia and is made from the underground stems or corm of the taro plant and is eaten with either one, two, or three fingers, depending on its consistency.

The original house on the estate dates to 1893 and was the home of James Buchanan Duke, who made his wealth in tobacco and hydroelectric power.  Duke gained a competitive edge by being the first person to successfully use machines to roll cigarettes.  In 1924, James established a $40 million trust called The Duke Endowment, with some of that money going to Trinity College. The college was then renamed Duke University in honor of James’ father Washington.

The Hollywood Wing of Duke Farms was added by daughter Doris Duke in 1938-39.  The theatre was designed by Thomas W. Lamb, (1871-1942) one of the foremost theatre and cinema architects in the late 19th - early 20th century.  He designed many of the most well-known theatres in New York City and across the country including the Ziegfield Theatre in 1927, Madison Square Garden in 1925, and the Academy of Music (later the Palladium Theatre) in 1927.  The window shades are hand painted on canvas.

Uniformity with moments of variety delight the senses in this mid-century wall hanging. Using natural fibers and the ancient technique of tapestry weaving, Swedish designer Ann-Mari Forsberg created this wall hanging, Red Crocus, in which flattened silhouettes of the flower dance across the visual field.

This object was part of an important collection that was graciously donated to the museum by writer, editor and collector, Elizabeth Gordon. Christian Rohlfing of the Cooper Union Museum praised her taste and devotion to collecting when he said: 

“The sensibilities of Elizabeth Gordon have been touched both by skill of technique and by artistry of design in the production of textiles. She has responded to the appeal of superior craftsmanship and of artistic merit by acquiring these textiles for her own enjoyment.”¹

Indeed she held textiles in very high regard; here she eloquently explains why:

“[Textiles can] be electric in the way they can stimulate you – intellectually, emotionally, tactily. Becoming aware of textiles as more than mundane necessities can add a whole new dimension to your daily life…This is why historians rank textiles, as illuminating instruments, alongside the written documents of a culture…Even in contemporary times…they are excellent indicators of the metabolic health of the technical and artistic aspects of a society.”²

Red Crocus was shown in situ in a 1955 issue of House Beautiful, of which she was editor from 1941 to 1964. Elizabeth Gordon’s collection was celebrated with an exhibition at the Cooper Union Museum in 1964 called The Wonders of Thread.

1. "Elizabeth Gordon: A Finding Aid to Her Papers at the Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery Archives," Freer Sackler - The Smithsonian's Museums of Asian Art, section goes here, accessed April 17, 2013, http://www.asia.si.edu/archives/finding_aids/gordon.html.
2. Elizabeth Gordon and Christian Rohlfing, "Introduction," introduction to The Wonders of Thread: A Gift of Textiles From The Collection of Elizabeth Gordon(New York City: Cooper Union Museum, 1964-1965), 2.
3. Elizabeth Gordon and Christian Rohlfing, 1.

Carly Lewis is currently earning an M.A. in the History of Decorative Arts and Design at Parsons. She has a B.S. in Textile Design from Philadelphia University and is focusing her studies on gender issues in regard to textile design practices in the 20th century. 

Today, the words “asylum” and “sanatorium” conjure mental images of patients in white gowns sitting in cold, sparsely furnished, whitewashed rooms with faded checkerboard linoleum flooring. Knowing the dismal associations with these interiors, it may be surprising to learn that Josef Hoffmann’s textile, Notschrei, was one element of the holistically conceived décor for a sanatorium.

At the turn of the twentieth century, there was a rising interest in psychotherapy and the treatment of individuals with mental illness. In Vienna, Sigmund Freud was one of the influential figures leading dialogues about psychiatric treatment. Cities were perceived as breeding grounds for nervous disorders (which had symptoms that are currently diagnosed as depression, anxiety, and stress), and patients were prescribed retreats into nature to escape the overstimulation and chaos of urban life. It is important to note that during this time there was a clear distinction made between asylums and sanatoriums.  Asylums were designated for those with mental illness while sanatoriums treated individuals with nervous conditions.  Unlike asylums, commitment to a sanatorium was usually voluntary.[1] Most patients did not choose to go to an asylum or have a say about which asylum they were assigned to. Asylum interiors were Spartan and sterile, often reflecting their status as public institutions. Conversely, some sanatoriums, such as the Purkersdorf Sanatorium, located outside of Vienna, were more like luxury hotels than medical facilities. Purkersdorf, a private institution, was a retreat for the urban elite to recuperate from the stresses of the city.   

From 1903-1904, Josef Hoffmann designed a new building for the Purkersdorf Sanatorium, which was established in 1890. From the architectural plan to the furniture inside, Hoffmann focused on creating a soothing atmosphere.  The textile Notschrei references its place of use only by its name, which translates to “cry for help.” The geometric and linear pattern accurately reflects Hoffmann’s style and practice, but nothing indicates it is specifically made for a mental health facility.  However, Hoffmann believed in the power of one’s environment as powerful tool to influence change. Geometric and linear elements were utilized throughout the building and interior design to calm patients. In addition to providing a palliative experience, it was important that sanatoriums for middle class and elite patients not reflect or have any direct connotations of mental illness. A beautifully decorated facility cloaked the stigma associated with sterile institutions for the mentally ill.[2] Hoffmann’s Notschrei is a unique decorative element for a medical building. With nervous conditions, there is no fear of spreading disease or infecting other patients, allowing for the use of woven textiles and upholstered furniture. In a tuberculosis hospital, textiles would have been replaced with wood or another easily sanitized material. Hoffmann’s involvement in the design of Purkersdorf illustrates how psychiatry was piquing the interest of artists and designers during this period.

Read more about Josef Hoffmann’s Purkersdorf:

Cakes and ice cream were the rage in the United States in the nineteenth century. People often entertained at tea and for dessert parties, so this meant the implements to serve these treats were often specialty items that did not match silver services for the dinner table. Some cake knives doubled as ice cream saws as their cutting edge could also saw through the brick-like consistency of ice cream kept cold with blocks of ice.

This example, sold by Albany silversmiths Sperry Douglas Brower and Son, after the retirement of Brower's partner John Hewson in 1873, is engraved with the name Meta, for Meta Kemble deForest (1852-1933), who married Aesthetic Movement designer Lockwood deForest, in 1881. Lockwood deForest designed the teak library room in the Carnegie Mansion, now Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum. The carved woodwork in that room was made in a studio he set up in Ahmedabad, India, which he did while Meta and he were on a year-long honeymoon in India. The walls of the Teak Room are covered with Indian-inspired stencils of deForest's design, all installed when the house was built in 1902.

What a woman Meta must have been! Our knowledge of the couple's travels and collecting of Indian artifacts and designs, as well as some of the information about the establishment of deForest's Ahmedabad wood and metalworking studio, is much due to letters Meta sent back to various family members. They saved many of these that now reside in the Smithsonian's Archives of American Art. Meta was a good observer, supportive of her husband's interests and clearly adventurous. While the couple often had introductions to well-connected people, they also stayed in places that were not for those who wanted luxury—but there were no complaints from Meta. I am not sure they ever camped in our sense of the word, but I like to think that she received this silver object from someone who knew she would appreciate the scene with the tent and palm trees.

Lockwood deForest was related to Frederic Edwin Church and travelled with him to the Middle East, where he sketched with Church, including in Egypt and Greece in the 1870's prior to his marriage to Meta. He valued his sketches as souvenirs of pleasant places so it is tempting to associate the scene on the cake knife with one of the images he or Church created there. While we do not yet know who gave the cake saw to Meta, it is possible that the scene is taken from a sketch done by Lockwood deForest on his or their travels. However, it is tempting to link Frederic Church to the gift as the silver company that produced it was in Albany, much closer to Church's exotic home Olana than to the deForests' in New York City.  This cake knife must have been engraved specially with the idea of giving pleasure to Meta and embodies the deForests' interest in exoticism, which Meta shared with her husband, directly relating this piece of flatware for an amazing woman to the Teak Room here in the Museum. Maybe someday a wedding present register will surface in the family, or a letter from Meta to say thank you in someone else's family, to tell us who the clever giver was!

Today is National Knife Day


Josef Hillerbrand (1892-1981), was a German-born architect and painter who also designed textiles, as well as carpets, ceramics, glass, metalwork, furniture, lighting, and interiors. He received his formal training from the Kunstgewerbeschule (School of Arts and Crafts) in Munich, where in 1922 he was asked by Richard Rimmerschmid, a prominent Art Nouveau artist and designer, to teach. He also taught at the Academy of Applied Arts in Munich. However, in 1923, shortly after his appointment to the Kunstgewerbeschule, Hillerbrand began work at the Deutsche Werkstätten in the newly formed Textilgesellschaft mbH, or the textile division, where he was a prominent figure until 1945. The Deutsche Werkstätten, like many contemporary workshops, was born out of a recommitment to craftsmanship and the applied arts that was sweeping Germany – at the DeWe a community of artists created and promoted a sort of “mainstream modernity,” and ultimately the workshop was one of the most successful of its kind (Harrod, p. 21).

Textiles had always been an important element of the Deutsche Werkstätten’s productivity since its inception, but block-printed textiles such as this work from the collection began to take on increased importance in the workshop (Jackson, p. 42).  There patterns, which were much more bold than ever before, seem to suggest a moving away from the past, and a rebirth, a recommitment to a new, more colorful world. This textile, which is dated to 1926, is featured in the 1928 DeWe Yearbook or Jahrbuch Der Deutsche Werkstättenin the Bunte Stoffe (color fabrics) category. The Yearbook celebrates the fabrics for their vivacious colors, which have replaced the dull grays and browns of days gone by, and names the bright fabrics as ideal decoration for the home. In the Yearbook from the following year, 1929, the textile is illustrated again in a different colorway, however this time it has been made into pajamas. There is also evidence to suggest that this textile was used as upholstery fabric.  In each case, the fabric, though in different colorways and used multiple ways, reads as fun and fresh, even friendly and inviting. The bold, block printed flowers, trees, and birds stand apart from the colored ground – the fabric is decidedly modern with its adoption of bright hues and abandonment of representation. Here in the Museum’s version, the eye dances from branch to branch, through the repeat, off the off-white, to the various pinks, onto the pale gray, and vibrates back off the warm brown background.

This bold fabric is indicative of Hillerbrand’s work. Lesley Jackson says, “During the mid-1920s stylized leaves and flowers became a recurrent theme, used as a vehicle for geometricized infill patterns, with a lively interplay between flat colour and fine line” (Jackson, p. 44). Hillerbrand capitalized off abstraction and an adventurous use of colors.  As we see in the pink of the Museum’s piece, Hillerbrand would often use ‘variants of one intense shade’ and a bold background (Jackson, p. 44). While according to Jackson, Hillerbrand was also known to use more subtle patterns that were less intense, and characterized by simplified geometrics, this work "…shows Hillerbrand at the height of his powers” (Jackson, pp. 43-44). In looking at this work not only do we get a sense of Hillerbrand’s design aesthetic, we gain a glimpse into the types of versatile works produced in the textiles division at DeWe, and consequently the types of works which help to define the Modern design movement itself, and even design today. Though this textile is nearing 90 years old, it’s still fresh, bright, and bold, perfect for twenty-first-century interiors…or pajamas!

Laurel McEuen is currently a freelance archivist and researcher in the New York City area. She holds a Master’s degree in The History of Decorative Art and Design offered by the Smithsonian Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum and The New School for Design and a BA in Art History from Southwestern University. Laurel has acted as a Teaching Assistant at Parsons, and has held internships at Christie’s, The Museum of Modern Art, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Whitney Museum of American Art, and the Museum of Fine Art, Houston.

SOURCES

Deutsche Werkstätten.  Jahrbuch Der Deutsche Werkstätten. Hellerau bei Dresden: Verlag der Deutsche Werkstätten  A.G., 1928.

Deutsche Werkstätten.  Jahrbuch Der Deutsche Werkstätten. Hellerau bei Dresden: Verlag der Deutsche Werkstätten  A.G., 1929.

Harrod, W. Owen. “The Deutsche Werkstätten and the Dissemination of Mainstream Modernity.” Studies in the Decorative Arts. Vol. 10, No. 2. The University of Chicago Press. (Spring/Summer 2003), pp. 21-41.

 Jackson, Lesley. Twentieth-Century Pattern Design: Textile & Wallpaper Pioneers. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2002.

Nymphenberg. “Josef Hillerbrand.” Nymphenberg Official Website.

http://www.nymphenburg.com/en/artists-and-designers/artists/josef-hiller...

Wichmann, Hans. Deutsche Werkstätten und WK-Verband, 1898-1990: Aufbruch zum neuen Wohnen. Munich: Prestel, 1992.

The roots of the firm Reed & Barton in Taunton, Massachusetts, go back to several ownerships starting in 1824, and by 1840 the firm of the silversmiths Reed & Barton was firmly established.  They created high quality goods that could compete with European and British silversmithing.  They achieved success as both a manufacturer and marketer of fine tableware and giftware products that are renowned for their outstanding design and exceptional craftsmanship.

Reed & Barton was a pioneer in silver plating in the 1850’s and when the famous Comstock lode of silver was discovered in Nevada in the 1870’s, silver became more widely available, greatly increasing the manufacture and accessibility of sterling silver and silver-like tableware for many American families.  Reed & Barton took advantage of the new technology of electroplating, which deposits a thin layer of silver or gold over the surface of an object made of a less expensive base metal, which made goods of silver or gold accessible to the growing American middle class. 

This trade catalog has beautifully engraved illustrations, with some chromolithographic color plates, mainly of objects for the Victorian table.  Ninety different categories of products are listed in the Front Index, and the catalogue contains 2,300 gold and silver items, both in sterling, silverplate and gold plate.   The objects depicted are mostly in the highly ornate Victorian style, but also show examples of the stylistic trends toward Japonisme and the Aesthetic movement.

Trade catalogs are an important source for the history of business, technology, marketing, consumption, and design. Manufacturers issued trade catalogs to promote and sell their products, and they have become valuable research tools because they are often the primary or only source that documents products and design from a given time or place.  Published in 1884, at the height of the Victorian era, this trade catalog illustrates the styles and taste of an important era in American history and culture, the material culture of that time, and gives us a glimpse of the dining and entertaining customs, and growing consumerism of the period.  This catalog is especially useful in that every object and plate number is identified, indexed and has a price list, which today allows researchers to identify Reed & Barton products.