jane audas

Next week I am doing some quite intensive museum things. Going to a conference about them. My brain might well burst with all the listening rather than doing. Anyhow, I thought I’d carpet the way with a museum-ish post. Another one, I suppose. As I always seem to mention something about them. What can I say? I’m not bored of them yet.

James Laver, who wrote this book Style in Costume, has graced these digital pages before. He was Keeper of Prints, Drawings and Paintings at the V&A for, like, ever (1938-59). You’d think, reading his output, that he was Keeper of Costume & Textiles. But no, he looked after the one and obsessed over the other. A bit (in a very much smaller way) like I do.

Style in Costume has a very clear premise – that fashion follows architecture in any period. The book starts off with a poem by Laver (of course it does!) and ends with his stated Philosophy of Clothes. And there isn’t much of great sense in between.

The plates, though, make a very good argument for fashion mirroring architecture and design. The fashion plate being printed next to the architectural plate for all to see the similarities. However, in all the accompanying texts Laver talks about how parallelism and the ‘spirit of the age’ are the reasons for what we are seeing. He retreats completely from making any real arguments for or against his own stated premise. All in all leaving us with a frilly and trite little book.

But as you know I like a frilly – even a trite – little book. Published in 1949, this is just the sort of small, tight, over-illustrated mid-century book I like.

My favorite plates are the ‘top hats and ‘chimneys’ pictured here. No date or provenance is given for the images. But I’d say the 3 chaps are very obviously taken from an engraved fashion plate. And how lovely they are in their ‘symbols of Industrialism’, stroking their impressive sideburns in, ahem, philosophical thought.

The chimneys are not so picturesque. But I do like to think of Mr Laver hunting around in his drawers at the V&A for a picture of 3 chimneys to prove his visual theory. And his whoop of delight when he found just the thing. He’d have been a blogger, for sure, if he were still alive when WordPress first unfurled its code.

Another cheapie book find, this – change out of three pounds. I really like old spiral-bound books. No idea why. I may have been a spiral binder in another life. The innate practicalness of the very idea of spiral binding is what I like. No spine cracking here.

I’m not sure I twigged this little book was by the author and illustrator of the more famous Curious George books when I bought it. I just, as I say, liked the binding. And the illustrations. Inside it has a pen written inscription ‘Love to Barbara from Daddy and Mummy, Easter 1952.’ A date and a bit of context, all in the one inscription.

OK, I also liked this book because the pages fold out. Am a complete sucker for old interactive books of any description – pop up, cut out, tipped in, folded. If it moves, I’ll want it. That helpless early engagement with lo-fi interactivity may very well have lead me through to producing more hi-fi moving digital things in older real life. Dunno.

Anyway, printed on the cover is: Folding Books Limited. London. Intriguing. H A Rey and his wife Margaret seem to have written rather a lot of these folding books. Pretzel, about a daschund. Spotty, a rabbit. How do you get there? about directions (funnily enough). Feed the Animals, about a zoo. The imprint looks to have been closely aligned with Chatto and Windus, as the same titles cross over rather a lot. ­

Writing of interactives, there is a nice timeline (beautifully illustrated, of course) about the Reys and how they got from Germany to America. It’s on the Jewish Museum, New York website. Included is a snippet from an interview in the 1960s where the couple describe how they met. Margaret sounds like Lauren Bacall. And they both sound like thoroughly good eggs.

There is something incredibly modern about Rey’s illustrations. I especially like his people, who are a bit Fougasse-y in appearance. This spread depicting an airport has plenty to please: dogs, hats, suitcases, red cars, a ladder..

I did a small exhibition for Ernő Goldfinger’s 2 Willow Road in Hampstead a few years ago. On the subject of Goldfinger and toy makers Paul and Marjorie Abbatt. On my research travels, I got excited about the Abbatt logo and a seeming reference to where it came from. Such things are just the sort of dusty nonsense that gets curators excited.

I have recently been revisiting my Abbatt knowledge for an article and remembered the story.

In the towers of Osterley House, the National Trust stores Goldfinger’s bits and pieces that – when the Trust converted his house to a public building – still wouldn’t fit in. In amongst his books I found a nice but tatty copy of Ribambelles, a super Pere Castor book for teaching children to cut paper silhouettes. That chain of silhouettes of children on the cover seemed to my eye very similar to the Abbatt logo. Goldfingers copy was published in 1932, just about the time he sketched said logo.

Coincidence? Probably not. The dates tie up. And Goldfinger would have to have started somewhere for his inspiration. In his sketches for the logo (in the RIBA archive) he started with the silhouette idea straight off, no dilly-dallying. To me that suggests he had an idea from somewhere, especially as he wasn’t a graphic designer.

Well, who really knows or cares? But it’s a very nice story, I think.

I really see nothing wrong with this image. At all. It’s from Vogue May 1945.

I have come over a bit Margaret Howell recently. And I helped a friend purchase some classic Howell trousers – very like these here – last week. So, I thought to look back to the designs behind her designs – indubitably the Second World War time.

I also like a bit of a Clarks shoe, too. Clarks still seem to walk a pretty good line between keeping ladies in comfortable shoes comfortable in safe and sound footwear and releasing classic designs from the archive. In some ways their shoes have very little to do with fashionable shoes. And in a lot of ways I like them the better for that. Added to which, I have an abiding weakness for historic clothing brands still going today.

This is a beautiful pair of hinged wood-soled sandals. Where has the hinged shoe gone, you might ask? Since the clompy, clacky Scholl slip-on became acceptable, most wooden shoes we see have a one piece sole. But it makes an awful lot of sense to hinge a wooden sole, if you think about it.

All the better to zip around town on your bike, in your nice wide fitting, turned-up trousers and smart jacket. All the better for an ingénue actress to pause her bike outside a bookshop, smile for the camera, then ride on by.

A Picture Book in Colour II. No fancy titles here. And with a cover design this fancy who needs a fancy title?

This is a Victoria & Albert Museum picture book. Published under the authority of the Board of Education in March 1931: ‘This little book has been prepared primarily for those visitors to the Museum who may wish to take away, in an inexpensive form, some coloured reproductions of objects in the collections.’

It was printed by the Kynoch Press, Birmingham. The cover design isn’t credited but it looks very much like the work of Margaret Calkin James to me. The tasteful tipped-on paper title plate is nice and minimal, so as not to argue with the vibrant boogie-woogie cover pattern. The whole book is so satisfying as to make me want to own it, before thinking of the fine selection of objects pictured within. Ranging from wooden coffers, to embroidered table covers to the Hokusai wave woodblock print.

Picture Book in Colour I had the same cover but different objects within and was published in portrait format. Prosaically containing ‘plates of objects which lend themselves to reproduction in an upright rather than an oblong form.’ Very sensible too.

It may be a bit of a busman’s holiday – my collecting old museum booklets. But they resonate with me, rather a lot. And they certainly don’t make them like they used to.

The New Man. As he was drawn by Douglas in Spring 1933.

This magazine was produced by The Rego Clothiers Ltd. ‘The New man – take a look at him, note his smart, clean-cut lines, the faultless fitting of his every garment, the good taste displayed, and his air of easy confidence. He is a Rego customer and we are proud of him.’

Rego is a company name that hasn’t really gone down in history, as far as I am aware. It’s a shame, that. Because this is very much the working man’s answer to Austin Reed and Simpson of Piccadilly, both of which had an in-house publication schedule of booklets and magazines. In fact Austin Reed had a very smart in-house magazine called Modern Man running in 1933, coincidence? Probably Not.

Rego were listed as tailors back in 1921 when they had a retail branch and production premises in the East End. I found an interesting snippet about a Rego workers strike (including a song!) in 1928, when the company moved production from Bethnal Green Road to Edmonton. By 1933 and our be-suited gent here, Rego had 86 branches in ‘London & provinces’. And Head Offices in Edmonton, indeed. Pretty big stuff. Not as big as Burton’s but not small, either.

So, the tone of this magazine is very Austin Reed-y too. The illustrations like a poor mans version of theirs. Douglas did these, Fougasse did theirs. And the copy is slightly witty and knowing in that Austin Reed manner, too. Amongst other articles of interest here you could read ‘Why girls detest me’ by Maurice Lane-Norcott. Because, we read: ‘The work of being incorrigibly clothes-conscious takes ones attention off women completely.’ Or you could follow a conversation between ‘Mr Warp & Mr Weft’ as ‘there is no reason why you should not, yourself, know something useful about cloth.’

And finally, you could jolly well enjoy a get together (on a very nice cretonne covered armchair) with your men friends, all in various states of Rego dishabille. Whilst smoking and being, well, manly.

One of my few fashion crushes is Margaret Howell. Their clothes, interiors products, shops, marketing material (in all its Gill Sans-ness) and general look and feel tick all the boxes for me.

I love fashiony fashions too. But classic, sensible and wearable are also nice things. Added to that, Howell’s output has a big nod and wink to the 1940s – my favourite fashion period of all time. Utility fashion proved that less is more, for sure.

A while back, I managed to convince Margaret Howells’ press peeps to put me on their list. And so, occasionally, I get tasty things in the post. Aggravatingly, my GPO post person insists on folding everything, no matter how big the words ‘Do Not Bend’ are printed on them. In fact, probably because the words ‘Do Not Bend’ are printed on them. I could almost have cried when a Howell calendar got folded irreparably. Don’t they know an ephemerist is in this house?

This brochure got folded too. But still, how lovely it is.

As Howell says in the accompanying letter: ‘The shirt is very special to me. I began my career with it and I am still engaged with the production at Edmonton, where each machinist makes a complete shirt.’

A paean, then, to The Shirt. All photographed in B&W beauty by Koto Bolofo, at that very factory in Edmonton. Plain and simple joy.

Shelf Appeal has a new Easter bonnet. The third commissioned header, up there, is by graphic designer Peter Grundy. I’ve long been a fan and am delighted to have a piece of his work sitting here.

It’s a much more graphic than illustrate-y header. But very nice and feeling different for that. I love the arching cat (tiger?) on the final ‘a’ especially. A latter-day Orlando the Marmalade Cat.

The previous header was by Michael Kirkham and the one before that, by Emily Sutton. 3 is the magic number.

I finally saw the Spielberg Tintin film. I have avoided it. It looked a bit of a travesty. I am a fan of Spielberg. I am a fan of Tintin. Spielberg makes a rocking adventure film. Obviously he saw adventure potential in Tintin, too. I had hopes.

But then the news leaked that it was going to be animated rather than live action and I wondered. I was right to wonder. The Tintin books are nothing if not beautiful frame after frame after frame. They are all about detail, line and colour. About characterisation. In just a few lines. And as much about what you don’t see as what you do – like all good comics.

Being Spielberg you wouldn’t expect a lot of subtlety of plot. But most of the story, the twists, turns, the detail, line and colour and even the facial expressions – were out the window here. Lost as Spielberg was unable to resist turning much of the story into chases, to showcase the cleverness of his medium. Yeah, whatever.

Tintin looked nothing like himself in this film. In fact most of the characterisation was flawed from my point of view. If it’s a real person, it is possible to suspend one’s disbelief. Like in the live action Batman films. But why animate and loose your likenesses? The lines of the cartoon character are what make them recognisable.

And I had really wanted Spielberg to make a live action film out of Tintin. The fact that he did – and then 3D motion capture animated it – is just frustrating. It is an OK watch, if you push aside your prior knowledge of the books. But if you were bought up on them, as I was, well, this film just doesn’t make the cut.

This booklet is a Conversation Guide from BP, for the motorist on his or her travels. The driver who may have had a question about a chassis, a tyre pump, something to buy at a BP service station or a speedometer, could reach within. Upon reaching their hotel, those who might want a second pillow, some bandaging material, stamps, a roll film or a page boy, could find just the right words to make themselves understood. Translated in to 12 languages.

How could anyone resist taking this booklet on their travels? Such a grand cover would surpass conversational endeavours and language barriers. And open the right doors without need for words.

Those faces are the work of Maurice Laban, a little known commercial artist of rather large talent. The chap at the BP Archive hasn’t got a copy of this particular booklet and was unable to help with specific dates. But he did tell me the nice windmill logo on the cover – for the BP Touring Service – started in the mid-1950s and continued through the 1960s. This booklet is, I think, c1960. Ascertained from a number on the inside cover – a method I often use to date things, as do the BP Archive, they tell me.

I like the clichés in this illustration. They all look so darn happy to be representing their countries. Well, and why wouldn’t they in those hats? Maurice Laban illustrated some other nice travel things that have proliferated around the web, yet not led to anything more discoverable about him. Oh, for a few hours rampaging in the stacks at the NAL again..