Awkward Years: Car Styling 1935-38

The decade of the Great Depression was one of frantic creativity as many manufacturers pushed experimentation to the forefront in an effort to find sales in a stagnant market. This was especially true for the American automobile industry as can be seen by comparing cars from the beginning and conclusion of that economically dark decade.

Above are Chevrolets from 1930 and 1941. The 1930 model is a boxy assemblage of visually discrete parts (hood, passenger compartment, fenders, headlights, etc.) whereas the 1941 is integrated, smooth and lacks awkwardness.

Between those two model years was a transition where, feature by feature, car styling evolved from one convention to a distinctly different one. Below is a gallery of photos showing cars of various makes for model years 1935-38, the midpoint of the transition and the point where awkwardness was maximized.

Most of the cars look roughly similar. That's partly because General Motors was the acknowledged style leader (and had by far the largest market share) and the other companies tended to shy away from being too different from GM for fear sales might suffer. Other reasons were technical, having to do with learning how to shape steel sheets into compound-curve forms using mass-production methods -- something of little matter in the 1920s and earlier.

1935 De Soto Airflow

1935 Pontiac

1936 Buick

1936 Nash

1937 Chrysler Imperial

1937 Graham

1937 Hudson

1938 Oldsmobile Six

Football Program Covers

The end of the American college football season is nigh. For no special reason, this brings to mind the game program publication featuring team rosters surrounded by college sports-related articles and advertising. More specifically, I think of program covers from the days when illustration -- rather than photography -- was in flower.

So without further delay, I offer a smattering of such covers gleaned from the Internet for your weekend entertainment.

The typical cover showed a football scene, as might be expected.

A slight difficulty had to do with the fact that many cover illustrations came from publishers' files and weren't specific to the teams covered in the program. Here, the team in blue does represent Michigan colors, though the helmets aren't decorated in traditional Michigan style. Their opponents are not wearing Michigan State colors.

The blackout effect on this cover is a steal from Coles Phillips who, sadly, had died two before this program was hawked at the stadium.

This is from 1928. It has a vaguely Cubist look to it -- a dash of modernity for the traditional Big Game between the Bay Area rivals.

Popular illustrator Russell Patterson contributed the art for this Yale-Army game program.

Now for some twists. Columbia University is in New York City and Yale is in New Haven, Connecticut. So here we see Lions fans descending on the Yale Bowl by car, plane and speedboat.

This 1941 Penn-Army program salutes fans rather than the teams themselves. The cadets wear traditional West Point gray -- but what about the girl? She's wearing Penn's Red and Blue and could be a real Penn student because Penn was one Ivy school that admitted women in those days.

What does that Indian have to do with the Dartmouth-Stanford game? At the time, both teams were called the Indians. Since then, political correctness caused both schools to forgo the image of bravery and fighting ability and slink off into innocuous color-related names such as The Cardinal (Stanford).

The scene at a college football game isn't all players. Here the cover artist salutes the female fan. (There's truth to this. Back when I was in college I happened to be sitting in front of some players' wives one game and took a real beating somewhat in the matter illustrated.)

Another featured female. It's a huge stretch from football game day, but I suppose the cheesecake made it worthwhile.

Albert von Keller: Spirits in Seattle

Seattle's Frye Art Museum is an odd duck in the art museum zoo. Founded by the owner of a meat packing company (along with his wife), it offers free admission and a permanent collection of Munich-centric painting from roughly 1875-1910. The bequest stipulated that some of this "founding collection" be on display at all times.

(The collection includes painting by Friedrich von Kaulbach, Wilhelm Leibl, Franz von Lenbach, Franz von Stuck (including one of his famous "Sin" paintings) and Fritz von Uhde. There are non-German works from that era including three paintings by William Bouguereau. A list of items in the collection is here.)

Traditionally, the Frye was Seattle's bastion of representational art. But a new management regime has in recent years fielded exhibits featuring seriously bad postmodern "art" in various media. There are some exceptions, however. Within the last two or three years the Frye had shows on the Munich Secession and 1900-vintage art from the University of Washington's Henry Gallery which nowadays stresses modernism.

Moreover, the Frye is currently showing (through 2 January 2011) paintings by Albert von Keller (1844-1920) that largely deal with spiritualism and the occult. The museum's Web blurb on Keller and the exhibit is here.

To me, spiritualism and the occult are curiosities of little interest. But many folks in the late 19th and early 20th centuries including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle took them seriously, as did Keller.

Keller's work is different enough to be interesting. Whiffs of expressionism, unusual colors schemes (often enough, brownish reds) and more than a dab of sex attract attention from more conventional (and perhaps better) paintings by others.

Below are some paintings to be found in the exhibit plus two extras for your entertainment.

Die Traumtänzerin Madeleine (The Dream-Dancer) - ca. 1904

Im Mondschein (In Moonlight) - 1894

Kassandra - 1911 (Gisela von Wehner)

In Erwartung - 1912 (Gisela von Wehner)

Gisella von Wehner mit Tochter Ilka - ca. 1906

Hoellenfart (Journey to Hell) - 1912

End of the Evening

Gisela von Wehner - ca. 1907

What Garnier Created, Chagall Desecrated

Fifty years ago, French Culture Minister André Malraux pulled the trigger, commissioning Marc Chagall to create a new ceiling painting for the Paris opera house that's today best known by the name Opéra Garnier.

The "Garnier" in the name comes from the name of its architect Charles Garnier; it's also known as the Palais Garnier, the title used in the building's Wikipedia entry, here.

The teacher of my undergraduate History of Architecture class hated the place. It was "dishonest" in that its metal framing was covered by ornate stone surfaces. And that grand staircase? ... an abomination of utterly superfluous ornamentation, a confusing mix of different marbles, all of it intended for the pleasure of Louis-Napoléon's aristocracy. That dolt Garnier should have been inspired by the iron-and-glass train sheds at those gares popping up on the right bank not so far from the opera site: those structures were honest, true to their materials and function.

By the time I actually visited the Opéra Garnier the architectural history teacher's work had long since rung hollow. I enjoyed the building. Sure, it probably was a bit over-done, but that was part of its charm.

However, there was one jarring note: that replacement ceiling painting by Chagall. I found Chagall's ceiling totally out of character with the rest of the auditorium it covers.

What could Malraux have been thinking? I suspect it was the groupthink of the late 1950s that included my architectural history indoctrination. Modernism is the only true path; the 19th century was a crazed attempt to preserve classical forms while technological change was sweeping away their underpinnings; the uncomprehending masses need re-education in order for them to comprehend these truths that really ought to be obvious.

Worse for me, even in the days when I'd pretty much bought into modernist ideology, I never thought that Chagall was more than a second- or even third-rate artist. I'll probably get around to writing a post dealing with him, so for now just accept that I'm biased against the guy's work.

So what was there before Chagall worked his magic? About what one would expect: A ceiling filled with classical figures swirling around up there where looking at it strains one's neck and where it's hard to figure out what's going on anyway. Note that this is the case for ceiling art in general.

The original painting was done by Jules-Eugène Lenepveu and titled "The Muses and the Hours of the Day and Night."

And its sad fate? Apparently it still exists. It can be found under Chagall's painting according to this source.

The last link is a comprehensive account of the building and the art it contains and is well worth browsing. I would have extracted some quotes from it, but the poster guarded it with some strongly-worded copyright warnings that made me chicken out. Let me add that he too is not amused by the Chagall ceiling.

To illustrate what's at stake, below are a study for the original ceiling and a photo showing most of the Chagall ceiling.

Postcard view of the opera house, early 1900s.

Lenepveu ceiling; study or reproduction.

Chagall ceiling.

Finally, I need to mention that in order to fully understand the controversy, you need to tour the opera house and view the present ceiling in the context of both the rest of the room and entire building.

Sagrada Construction Zone

Sagrada Família, the giant church designed by architect Antoni Gaudí is probably Barcelona's most famous landmark, an unmistakable symbol of the city. Its motifs and others by Gaudí are now grist for souvenir shops. In fact, Gaudí is to Barcelona is what Wolfgang Mozart and Gustav Klimt are to Vienna.

Given that the Sagrada Família is one of a handful of structures I've wanted to see ever since I became aware of architecture, my wife and I dutifully exited the subway around 10 one chilly October morning hoping to avoid the worst of the crowds guidebooks had warned us about. No luck. The books told us to expect a 45-minute wait to enter, and that's just about the time it took us. While in line we were entertained by helicopters circling the site bearing tourist-photographers.

The church is unfinished even though construction has been under way for nearly 130 years. The Wikipedia link above mentions that there are hopes it will be completed in 2026, the centennial of Gaudí's death. The link also notes that it was consecrated by the Pope a few days ago despite its unfinished state.

As things stand, construction is going full tilt. Outside, the church is surrounded by cranes and the interior is cluttered with workers and their equipment. The following photos I took are intended to give you a sense of where things stand.

This is the east front with the Nativity Entrance. It was built earlier and is the view people are most familiar with.

Tourists enter on the opposite side, however. This is a general view of that entrance.

Four interior views looking upward.

Views of interior construction.

This photo is of a display case containing models.

Models have been an important design aid since the beginning. This is a room where they are fabricated and stored.


The completed church is supposed to include a large central tower topped by a cross. I'm not sure that will be an improvement over the present state where the building is surrounded by a host of spires.

First, You Put an Airship on the Cover

Science Fiction was simple when I was younger, ranging from "space opera" (cowboys and Indians plots adapted to interplanetary settings) to more genteel, literary "speculative fiction." And when I dropped by the Sci-Fi section of a bookstore, the displayed books dealt pretty much with the spectrum just noted.

Alas (as Sci-Fi writer Jerry Pournelle would preface many a remark), these days matters are a lot messier. It seems that something called Fantasy invaded and then merged with the Sci-Fi book displays. More recently, books about vampires have been added to the mix. The result for me is that I have to do a good deal of serious screening to distill a selection of books dealing with blasters, energy shields and bug-eyed monsters.

That's not all! Over the last couple of decades, a new genre has materialized: steampunk.

This is not a bad thing because I'm prone to like it thanks to my interest in history and technology. My problem is finding steampunk novels that are actually pretty good (I keep wasting money on stuff I discard in boredom or disgust after 40 or 50 pages).

A further confession: What hooks me into buying some of those substandard novels is an image of an airship on the book's cover. Apparently, there are enough folks out there who are fascinated by airships that such covers pop up with alarming regularity. Here are some examples.

The last three illustrations are by Stephan Martiniere, the final two for Jay Lake's "Escapement" and L. Neil Smith's "The American Zone."


Real-world airships come in three structural flavors. At one extreme are those where the main "hull" is the gasbag itself, what we commonly call a "blimp." A more technical name is "non-rigid airship" where rigidity refers to its structure. Opposing this are "rigid airships" that traditionally have a light aluminum frame structure within which is a set of large gasbags. There is an intermediate type called "semi-rigid."

Another term for rigid airships is "dirigible," but sometimes this is sloppily applied to blimps as well. Yet another term is "Zeppelin," but that really should be reserved for German-built dirigibles, the name coming from their great proponent Count (Graf) Zeppelin.

German dirigible LZ 127 Graf Zeppelin, the most successful of its breed.
For whatever it's worth, in the steampunk book cover world, airships seldom get displaced by actual airplanes. But if a cover actually did feature a Victorian airplane, I suspect sales would comparatively suffer.