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University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses
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Typophoto and the reinvention of photography in Weimar Germany
(USC Thesis Other)
Typophoto and the reinvention of photography in Weimar Germany
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XPP! & 2134.%,& & & & & & & & & & XXX! & C1#$1'3.";:D&& & & & & & & & & & d\Z& ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! vi Abstract Acknowledgements List of Figures ii vii xxvii ! ! ! 01,+&'(&2134.%,& ! 09MI>7!U<UV!,IM7A!1I?A@JJ]!"/7>MH79:C7AB7!%C@?@49HB47?>;:C?IAM](!()*%+,'-.)' /0*%1232)42'056'724)80*%91)8#%+:!\Z]!A@<!X!NUWXUO]!WX!!!!!!!!! ! ! !!!!!!XXX! ! 09MI>7!U<PV!,H!F9889?ba5]!(6,2)&+92;25&'-$)'<2=+:85'>)83+51'?5:]!UWP[]!! @JJ87?!H9?C@M>;RC! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !!!!!!XX[! ! 09MI>7!U<XV!Fe8bHf!3@C@H5g*;M5]!"+97!*7I7!#5R@M>;RC97](!9A!@&88&=+*%29'/80%809A' B2+;8)A'CDCDECDFG!N279K;>i!3IA9:CV!=;IC;I8S7>H;M]!UWPXO]!@JJ87?!H9?C@M>;RC<!! =;IC;I8!#5R@M>;RC5!D@HH7:?9@A]!17??5!-787;>:C!.A8?9?I?7]!F@8!)AM7H78 !! ! !!!!!!XXd! ! 09MI>7!U<[V!'7>47>?!=;57>]!:@S7>]!@&88&=+*%29'/80%809A'B2+;8)A'CDCDECDFG!N279K;>i! 3IA9:CV!=;IC;I8S7>H;M]!UWPXO]!@JJ87?!H9?C@M>;RC<!=;IC;I8!#5R@M>;RC5!D@HH7:?9@A]!17??5! -787;>:C!.A8?9?I?7]!F@8!)AM7H78 ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !!!!!!XXd! ! 09MI>7!U<dV!Fe8bHf!3@C@H5g*;M5]!?9?H7!R;M7]!@&88&=+*%29'/80%809A'B2+;8)A'CDCDECDFG! 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B789MA]!9A:HIB9AM!>7?@I:C9AM]!;8!^7HH!;8!?C>@IMC!K7?C@B8!@J!R7>:7R?I;H!R85:C@H@M5<!#C7! ;BS7A?!@J!?C7!?>;B7K;>a]!R9:?@M>;K]!;AB!9AJ@M>;RC9:!;8!:@KR@ 89?7!M>;RC9:!85K4@H8! 78?;4H98C7B!K@A?;M7!;8!;!J@IAB9AM!H@M9:!@J!M>;RC9:!B789MA<!! ! xxvii 1 INTRODUCTION The Phototypographer In Weimar Germany, Typographische Mitteilungen (Typographic Newsletter) was among the most important and widely read professional journals dedicated to typography, printing, bookmaking, and graphic design. 1 As such, it was a hub for discussion and debate about the day’s most relevant issues in these overlapping trades. In January 1932, the journal announced a new monthly supplement, “Der Phototypograph” (“The Phototypographer”), 2 intended to familiarize readers “with photo-design and the use of photography in modern commercial printing.” 3 Curiously, by the time it was announced, photographic images had appeared in print since the commercialization of photogravure in the 1870s and the halftone process in the 1880s. What then, compelled the “necessity” of a supplement dedicated to “Der Phototypograph” in 1932 “in ever wider circles,” according to the journal’s editors? 4 What was still new, they suggested, was thinking of photography not just as a reproductive technology, or as a means of illustration, but rather as integral to a modern method of graphic design: “Photo-design in the typographic sense is still 1 The Bildungsverband der Deutschen Buchdrucker (Educational Association of German Printers), which issued Typographische Mitteilungen monthly between 1903 and 1933, had over 20,000 members at the time of this announcement. Peter Brooker, Sascha Bru, Andrew Thacker, Christian Weikop, eds., The Oxford Critical and Cultural History of Modernist Magazines: Volume III, Europe 1880-1940, Part 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 972. 2 “Was soll und will der ‚Phototypograph,’” Typographische Mitteilungen 29, no. 1 (January 1932): n. p. 3 “Die vorliegende erste Ausgabe der Beilage ,Der Phototypograph‘ ist entstanden aus der Wunsche der Kollegen, mit der Photogestaltung und der Verwendung der Photographie im modernen Akzidenzsatz näher vertraut zu werden. In immer weiteren Kreisen unserer Kollegen drang die Einsicht durch, dass dies für den gestaltenden Buchdruckergehilfen eine Notwendigkeit ist.” Ibid. 4 “In immer weiteren Kreisen unserer Kollegen drang die Einsicht durch, dass dies für den gestaltenden Buchdruckergehilfen eine Notwendigkeit ist.” Ibid. 2 uncharted territory, which is only now being tilled.” 5 The launch of “Der Phototypograph” marked the apogee of an intensive decade of using and defining photography in the nascent profession of graphic design: Between the wars, designers throughout Central Europe, as well as Britain, France, and the United States, vehemently took up the question of photography’s place in graphic design—whether with excitement or anxiety—through their writing and in their work. This dissertation is the first English-language study of Typophoto, which encapsulates the pivotal role of photography in establishing the profession of graphic design in the 1920s. This term was coined by Hungarian artist, designer, and theorist László Moholy-Nagy to describe the synthesis of typography and photography. 6 In his view, this synthesis portended the eventual wholesale replacement of text with purely visual communication. The term first appeared in 1925 in two publications: Moholy- Nagy’s book Malerei Photographie Film, published as part of the Bauhausbücher series, and in his contribution to a special supplement of Typographische Mitteilungen edited by German typographer Jan Tschichold. 7 The supplement announced Typophoto as a central 5 “Die Photogestaltung im typographischen Sinn ist zwar noch Neuland, das erst jetzt beackert werden soll.” Ibid. 6 The term sometimes appears in scholarship as Typofoto, following Moholy-Nagy’s original spelling. I have chosen to use the translated version, Typophoto, throughout this dissertation. One book-length study of Typophoto has been published in German by Claudia Müller, who examines the term primarily in the context of Moholy-Nagy’s Painting Photography Film as his ideas related to typographic experiment by El Lissitzky, Kurt Schwitters, Apollinaire, Stéphane Mallarmé, and at the Bauhaus. Though useful, Müller’s is a brief introduction to Moholy-Nagy’s ideas and the context of avant-garde typographic experiment between the wars. Claudia Müller, Typofoto: Wege der Typografie zur Foto-Text-Montage bei Laszlo Moholy-Nagy (Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag, 1994). Patrick Rössler has also used the term as a point of departure for analyzing the use of photographic images in Weimar-era book design. See Patrick Rössler, “Neue Typografie, Typofoto und der Buchumschlag zwischen den Kriegen” in Wissen im Druck: Zur Epistemologie der modernen Buchgestaltung, ed. Christof Windgätter (Wiesenbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), 68–99. 7 Iwan Tschichold, ed., “sonderheft: elementare typographie,” Typographische Mitteilungen (October 1925). 3 principle of the international graphic design movement, which Tschichold called New Typography, to the journal’s vast readership of German printers, typesetters, designers, and bookmakers. 8 In 1928, Tschichold codified the tenets of New Typography in his first book, Die Neue Typographie. Citing examples of graphics by an array of Central European designers, his treatise promoted the asymmetrical arrangement of type according to the grid, use of white space as a compositional device, rejection of typographic ornament, and exclusive use of sans serif typefaces and photographic illustration. 9 In various writings published between 1925 and 1933, Tschichold insisted that strict adherence to these principles would optimize the function of all graphics as universally legible, efficient, objective, and clear. Tschichold and others promoted “functionalist” graphic design as the synthesis of rationalism and aesthetic harmony. 10 My study of New Typography is motivated by the way in which its enduring legacy as a source of functionalist graphic design has eclipsed the particular conditions in which it emerged. 11 The postwar assimilation of New Typography through the teaching and practice of graphic design in 8 The term “new typography” also originated in Moholy-Nagy’s writing, appearing in the catalogue for the first public Bauhaus exhibition in 1923, in which he also promoted the material, visual, and conceptual hybridity of photography and typography. László Moholy-Nagy, “Die Neue Typographie” in Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 (Weimar; Munich: Bauhausverlag, 1923), 141. 9 Jan Tschichold, Die Neue Typographie: Ein Handbuch für zeitgemäss Schaffende (Berlin: Brinkmann & Rose, 1987 [1928]); Jan Tschichold, The New Typography: A Handbook for Modern Designers, trans. Ruari McLean (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995 [1928]). 10 See Tschichold, The New Typography, 66–67. 11 Notable exceptions include studies of New Typography by Maud Lavin and Julia Meer. Maud Lavin, Clean New World: Cultural Politics and Graphic Design (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001); Julia Meer. Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie: die Rezeption der Avantgarde in der Fachwelt der 1920er Jahre (Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, 2015). 4 the United States and Europe has made its claims seem timeless and self-evident. 12 I therefore consider New Typography’s appeals to legibility and objectivity as historically and culturally determined concepts that emerged from advertising discourse, applied psychology, social science, and photography theory in the 1920s. Die Neue Typographie is widely regarded as the foundational text for New Typography as a modernist graphic design movement. However, this was but one attempt to define New Typography as a set of ideas about visual communication, and its relationship to contemporary art practices, during the interwar era. Tschichold’s book was the first comprehensive attempt to aggregate heterogeneous and international tendencies shared by a network of far-flung practitioners of graphic design, and to identify key affinities between aspects of contemporary art, graphic design, and the printing trade. From 1923 to 1933, the parameters of the movement developed largely through advertising design and remained unfixed. Though New Typography sought to contrast itself with mainstream commercial design, its rhetoric of objectivity, efficiency, and legibility was partly borrowed from international discourse of the young graphic design profession. In the pages of typography and advertising trade literature, designers discussed methods of optimizing the effectiveness of mass-produced graphics as tools of mass persuasion. This dissertation is not intended as a comprehensive treatment of New Typography, but rather as a focused study of Typophoto as one of its key ideas. The term 12 In keeping with New Typography, use of the typographic grid, the superior legibility of sans serif typefaces, preference for photographic illustrations, lack of typographic ornament, and use of white space to focus the reader’s eye are still taught as elements of design that optimize the legibility of graphics today. See, for example, Rob Carter, Ben Day and Phillip Meggs, Typographic Design: Form and Communication, Fourth Edition (Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, 2007). 5 has been repeated so often as a straightforward tenet of the movement that its ambiguity and manifold implications for the professional formation of graphic design have become obscured. Under thorough scrutiny, Typophoto exposes New Typography as experimental, heterogeneous, and constantly under revision. Tschichold initially promoted photography as a vehicle for purely objective visual information. He championed the photographic halftone as the material embodiment of photography’s compatibility with type, and thus promoted photographic illustrations as necessary substitutes for reproductions of hand- drawn illustrations. 13 The halftone process translated photographic images into dots of ink printed from the same matrix as type. In this process, photographic images were atomized into abstract grids that must then be translated optically and psychologically: Halftones appear as coherent images through optical illusion. The halftone’s integration into graphics was also facilitated by techniques of retouching, which effectively combined drawn and photographic illustration. Designers associated with New Typography recognized the material hybridity of the halftone and used it in their work to experiment with the relationship between word and image and the perception of color and space, and to create tension between representation and abstraction. Their uses of photography as a technique of design and the material transformations of photography in print suggest that graphic design reinvented the photographic medium. This dissertation examines how graphic designers, especially those associated with New Typography, used and theorized photography between 1923 and 1933. I do so by taking up Typophoto as both an object of study and as a methodological framework for 13 See Tschichold, “sonderheft: elementare typographie;” Tschichold, The New Typography, 87– 95. The term “halftone” is commonly used to denote both the halftone process and the images that it produced. I use the term in both senses throughout this dissertation. 6 integrating the histories of photography and graphic design. Like “design” and “halftone,” the term Typophoto identifies both a process and a product of making. It refutes the medium specificity of photography and suggests the interrelation of intellectual discourse and material process in the histories of art, design, and technology. I therefore consider Typophoto as a conceptual technique—simultaneously an ideology and a practical tool. 14 I concentrate on New Typography for its explicit recognition of how the translation of photography through the halftone process shaped the profession of graphic design. This study recovers a professional network of practitioners, designs, and ideas. Designers associated with New Typography valued the photographic medium as a technological, conceptual, and visual tool that could be used to enhance perception and change the nature of reading. In my study, Typophoto embodies the interwoven histories of photography and graphic design as key to recovering the foundations not only of New Typography, but of the modern profession of graphic design in Europe and the United States. I study how photography was subsumed into graphics through the halftone process, retouching, photomontage, and methods of perceptual psychology. When Tschichold announced Typophoto as a principle of New Typography, I argue, the term already connoted much more than the synthesis of typography and photography for objective visual communication. It had come to encapsulate a utopian ideology of technologically driven progress and a desire to merge the aesthetic aims of international constructivism with the tradition of German printing. This utopianism was specifically expressed through 14 I borrow the phrase “conceptual technique” from Craig Buckley, who uses this phrase to describe photomontage as a tool of experimental architecture in the later twentieth century. See Craig Buckley, Graphic Assembly: Montage, Media and Experimental Architecture in the 1980s (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2019). 7 Typophoto as an idea of hybridity—not only the integration of photography into graphics, but the creation of a new medium of communication. It also flagged the technique and logic of montage as foundational to graphic design and advertising, which engendered semiotic play, unfixed meaning, and active reader participation as aspects of everyday consumption. This study situates New Typography as a movement at the intersection of composite image-making in art and graphic design, as well as the attempts of artists, designers, and scientists to control, augment, and technologize perception. The Halftone: Translations of Photography in Print If the conceptual technique of Typophoto is this project’s central object of study, the photographic halftone is its visual and material form. Much of New Typography’s discourse on Typophoto alluded to photography in printed matter as a medium between text and image—and correspondingly, to beholding Typophoto as a mode between reading text and viewing images. The photographic halftone materializes this hybrid state. Critical to understanding photography as a mass medium is the fact that photographic images had to be translated in order to circulate on a mass scale. Halftone reproduction was a two-part process: first, a photographic print was re-photographed and developed through a screen, with light penetrating only the openings in the screen. The resulting exposure consisted of an uneven matrix of dots—concentrated densely to articulate forms and sparsely where there was negative space—rather than continuous tones. A printing plate or cylinder was then etched using the dot pattern, which could be used to make multiple prints, each with a single ink color. 15 As a multi-step process of material translation, the halftone simulated 15 My knowledge of the halftone process as it was practiced between 1923 and 1933 comes from various articles published in trade literature as well as technical manuals including, R. Russ and L. Englich, Handbuch der Modernen Reproduktionstechnik: Band I, Reproduktionsphotographie und 8 the continuous tones of the photographic print through printed dots distributed in varied concentration, meant to appear as shades of grey. The halftone grid was intended to be invisible to the naked eye. Typophoto signifies the conceptual and material reinvention of photography as translated into graphic form. Photography’s reinvention by graphic designers, I argue, is embodied in the halftone: as a technology, as an experimental form, and as a hybrid medium that belongs as much to the printed page as it does to photographic process. Some interwar graphic designers—including Max Burchartz, Johannes Canis, Piet Zwart, and Georg Trump—used the halftone to convert photography into the visual language of industrial printing. Rather than try to hide the halftone grid, they used it as a visual motif that called attention to the composite medium of Typophoto. Recognizing Typophoto as the material, visual, and conceptual translation of photography, I argue, goes beyond a consideration of typography as merely context for photographic reproductions. William Ivins’s praise of the photographic halftone as “a cheap and easy means of symbolic communication without syntax,” which yielded “exactly repeatable pictorial statements,” is thoroughly complicated by the critical study of the halftone as a mode of translation rather than of reproduction. 16 Photomechanical reproduction is more accurately understood as a thorough transmutation of images through techniques of engraving, Retusche (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag von Klimsch & Co., 1927); Charles W. Hackleman, Commercial Engraving and Printing: A Manual of Practical Instruction Covering Commercial Illustrating and Printing by All Processes (Indianapolis, IN: Commercial Engraving Publishing Company, 1921); International Correspondence Schools, Retouching for Halftones, Part 1 (Scranton, PA: International Textbook Company, 1921). 16 William Ivins, Prints and Visual Communication (New York: Da Capo Press, 1969 [1953]), 129; 135. 9 stereotyping, electrotyping, casting, inking, printing, painting, drawing, carving, and airbrushing, as well as through the optical and psychological activity of perception. 17 The halftone process was developed and perfected in order to facilitate the swift, inexpensive dissemination of photographic images in print. Experiments with halftone printing began around 1850, when William Henry Fox Talbot began using screens; he patented a gauze mesh screen in 1852. The process was first introduced commercially in 1881 in the United States by Frederic Ives, followed by another version in Germany by Georg Meisenbach in 1882, and the subsequent commercial release of a crossline screen by Max Levy in 1893. 18 By the mid-1920s, the halftone had become ubiquitous in newspapers and magazines, yet it was a technology debated continuously, especially by designers who feared that mechanized image making would threaten the artistry of advertising design or even the necessity of the individual designer. In a well-known essay on photography published in the Frankfurter Illustrierte Zeitung in 1927, German cultural critic Siegfried Kracauer described the visual disjuncture between the abstracted dot matrix, which constitutes a halftone image, and a photographic referent: This is what the film diva looks like. She is twenty-four years old, featured on the cover of an illustrated magazine, 17 I am indebted to Michael Leja in thinking about the transmediation of photography through the halftone process. See Michael Leja, “Fortified Images for the Masses,” Art Journal 70, no. 4 (Winter 2011): 60–83. 18 Lucien Alphonse Legros and John Cameron Grant, Typographical Printing-Surfaces: The Technology and Mechanism of Their Production (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1916), 487; Dusan C. Stulik and Art Kaplan, Halftone: The Atlas of Analytical Signatures of Photographic Processes (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 2013), 5; Geoffrey Wakeman, Victorian Book Illustration: The Technical Revolution (Devon, Norwich: Newton Abbot, David & Charles, 1973), 138–40; Paul Jobling and David Crowley, Graphic Design: Reproduction and representation since 1800 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996), 28. Color halftones were introduced in 1892. Norma Levarie, The Art and History of Books (New York: Da Capo Press, 1968), 279. 10 standing in front of the Hotel Excelsior on the Lido. The date is September. If one were to look through a magnifying glass one could make out the grain, the millions of little dots that constitute the diva, the waves and the hotel. The picture, however, does not refer to the dot matrix but to the living diva on the Lido. 19 Kracauer observed how the reproduction of halftones forced readers to subconsciously and instantaneously navigate between seeing and reading. The photographic halftone presents itself as both an abstract grid and as a representational image. Readers suspend recognition of one in order to see the other. Reading the image as a coherent whole, and in relation to text and other graphic marks on a page, necessitates a willful disregard for the dot matrix that on its own, might be read as an abstract pattern. Kracauer’s account of visual encounter with a magazine cover in 1927 evokes the capacity of technology to bring us closer to the world even as it distances us from it—a phenomenon so relevant in our present moment, as we navigate the world largely through digital screens, that it has become difficult to articulate in fresh ways. Yet in looking back at the persistent strangeness of the halftone—still remarkable half a century after its invention—we might grapple anew with our own ongoing alienation from a world technology has mediated many times over. Like images constituted by digital pixels, the halftone facilitated the mass circulation of photography while also making plain the stark difference between image and referent. Kracauer implied that the halftone revealed the extent to which “photography” was an imagined category that had to be preserved in the minds of readers as they relied on optical illusion to see dot matrices as coherent images, 19 Siegfried Kracauer, “Photography,” in The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays, trans. Thomas Y. Levin (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995) [1927], 47. 11 and to understand those images as materially connected to their referents. 20 The New Typographers recognized the halftone not simply as a tool for multiplying the presence of photographs in the world, but as a new medium of photography in print. My research shows that the halftone continued to be an object of conceptual and visual interest—and fervent debate—well into the twentieth century, particularly for graphic designers. Rather than examine the technology of the halftone process, I analyze the ways in which it was mined formally and theoretically by designers. 21 Japanese graphic designer, curator, and writer Kenya Hara has written: “Verbalizing design is another act of design.” 22 With these words in mind, I consider the theoretical writing of interwar graphic designers as inseparable from their approach to material and form. 23 My study of the halftone as a translation of photography in print places intellectual history at the center of our understanding of the impact of technology on everyday life. To this end, I borrow methods of media theorists including Marshall McLuhan, Friedrich Kittler and Lev Manovich, in analyzing the hybridity of the halftone as constitutive of photography’s meaning. 24 20 In order to see photographic halftones as coherent images, an optical illusion allows the human eye to blend together the dot matrix. This is described, along with the technical process of halftone production, in manuals such as, Hackleman, Commercial Engraving and Printing; Russ and Englich, Handbuch der Modernen Reproduktionstechnik. 21 My approach to intellectual history as integral to technology history is informed by the methods of Adrian Forty and Lisa Gitelman. See Adrian Forty, Objects of Desire: Design Since 1750 (London: Thames and Hudson, 1986); Lisa Gitelman, Scripts, Grooves, and Writing Machines: Representing Technology in the Edison Era (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 1999). 22 Kenya Hara, Designing Design, trans. Maggie Kinsler Hohle and Yukiko Naito (Baden: Lars Müller Publishers, 2007), 19. 23 László Moholy-Nagy is perhaps the most prolific example, leading Matthew Witkovsky to claim boldly Moholy-Nagy’s “primary medium” as writing. Matthew S. Witkovsky, “Elemental Marks” in Matthew S. Witkovsky, Carol S. Eliel, and Karole P.B. Vail, eds., Moholy-Nagy: Future Present (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2016), 21–36. 24 See Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York: McGraw Hill, 1965); Friedrich Kittler, Optical Media: Berlin Lectures 1999, trans. Anthony Enns 12 Most existing scholarship on the cultural significance of the halftone focuses on its early commercial development and initial receptions in the 1880s and 1890s, when it began to dominate newspaper illustration. 25 This is the first study of the halftone as a visual device in twentieth-century graphic design. I follow Sarah Mirseyedi, Neil Harris, and David Phillips in thinking critically about how the halftone transformed the meaning of photographic images and shaped photography’s early history. 26 Thierry Gervais has been especially prolific in showing how the halftone process enabled the advent of modern visual news and transformed photographic images materially and visually. 27 Gerry Beegan’s history of the Victorian popular press includes in-depth technical study of the multi-layered processes of printing and retouching photographic halftones, which resulted in hybrid images that are best described as composite photographs. 28 His study was (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010); Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001). 25 Halftone illustrations became commonplace in some magazines in these decades as well, but the use of halftones for print advertising was unusual until in the 1920s. Ellen Mazur Thomson, The Origins of Graphic Design in America: 1870-1920 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 18. 26 See Sarah Mirseyedi, “Side by Side: The Halftone’s Visual Culture of Pragmatism,” History of Photography 41, no. 3 (2017): 286–310; Gerry Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Neil Harris, “Iconography and Intellectual History: The Halftone Effect,” in Cultural Excursions: Marketing Appetites and Cultural Tastes in Modern America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1990), 304–17; David Clayton Phillips, “Halftone Technology, Mass Photography and the Social Transformation of American Print Culture, 1880-1920,” PhD diss., Yale University (1996). An important historical precedent for scholarship on the photographic halftone is Robert Taft’s social history of photography from 1938. See Robert Taft, “Photography and the Pictorial Press,” in Photography and the American Scene (New York: Macmillan Company, 1938), 419–50. 27 Thierry Gervais, ed, Dispatch: War Photographs in Print, 1854-2008 (Toronto: Ryerson Image Centre, 2014); Gervais, “Illustrating Sports, or the Invention of the Magazine,” in Getting the Picture: The Visual Culture of the News, eds. Jason E. Hill and Vanessa R. Schwartz (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 131–38; Gervais, “La similigravure,” Nouvelles de l’estampe 229 (2010): 8– 25; Gervais, The Making of Visual News: A History of Photography in the Press (London: Bloomsbury, 2015); Gervais, ed., The “Public” Life of Photographs (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2016). 28 See Beegan, The Mass Image; Beegan, “The Studio: Photomechanical Reproduction and the Changing Status of Design,” Design Issues 23, no. 4 (Autumn 2007): 46–61. More recently Beegan has written about the halftone as an artifact of the digital pixel grid. See Beegan, “Staring at the Screen: The Halftone Comes to Light,” AIGA (July 31, 2007). Accessed 13 instrumental for my own articulation of photographic images in German advertising as composite images. Toward a History of Photographic Images Despite its vast literature, the history of photography is still too constrained by an assumption of medium specificity, which falls short in accounting for photography’s vast impact on modern experience. In the collection and exhibition of photography in museums, darkroom prints are privileged as photographic objects to the exclusion of reproductions, books, periodicals, and mixed media works, which are typically the purview of library collections. These practices fetishize the so-called “vintage” print, a category invented by the art market, which denotes the rarity of a print made by a photographer during their lifetime, therefore deemed both culturally and monetarily valuable. 29 The supremacy of the vintage print in museums endorses the notion that photography is valued only according to a select criteria of techniques that are unique to the medium. 30 The constricted and rather conservative definition of photography in museums is reflected in we might call the ontological turn in the field of photography November 26, 2019. https://aigaaix0m5kinte.dxcloud.episerver.net/staring-at-the-screen-the- halftone-comes-to-light. 29 This category emerged as the collection and display of photography became more common in North American art museums in the 1970s and 1980s, thereby establishing a system of value for a medium of multiples that could be assimilated by the art market. Douglas Nickel, “History of Photography: The State of Research,” Art Bulletin 83, no. 3 (September 2001): 554. 30 This is a limitation that can be traced back to the founding of the Photography Department at the Museum of Modern Art in 1940, following the landmark exhibition in 1937 organized by curator Beaumont Newhall, Photography 1839-1937. This exhibition established a narrative of photography’s medium specificity on technical and aesthetic grounds, which continues to dominate the way most museums present and collect photography in the United States. See Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography: From 1839 to the Present (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1982 [1937]); Christopher Phillips, “The Judgment Seat of Photography,” in The Contest of Meaning: Critical Histories of Photography, ed. Richard Bolton (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1992), 15–46. 14 history—the orientation of recent scholarship toward narratives of the medium’s invention in the nineteenth century to posit theories photographic exceptionalism. For example, Kaja Silverman has theorized photography as defined by its ontological connection to the world, yielding images that are uniquely linked, and therefore analogous to, their referents. 31 I invoke the “reinvention of photography” not to claim the Weimar era as year zero for the combination of typography and photography, but rather to flag the limitations of invention narratives for histories of photography and to resist medium specificity. Indeed, Moholy-Nagy first wrote about Typophoto nearly half a century after the commercial halftone process was introduced, following decades of photography’s mass circulation in the press. I suggest the reinvention of photography to situate it as a “conceptual framework” of graphic design. 32 I borrow this phrase from Steffen Siegel who has posited that, in the mid-nineteenth-century, photography was constituted as much by discourse as by tangible objects, technologies, practices, or processes. This remained as true in the 1920s and 1930s as it had been almost a century earlier, intensified by collective anticipation of the centennial of the medium’s first public announcements, which culminated in some of the first published histories of the medium. 33 The discourse and praxis of graphic design is central to a more expansive history of photography. Although Moholy-Nagy’s Painting Photography Film is considered 31 See Kaja Silverman, The Miracle of Analogy or The History of Photography, Part 1 (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2015). See also Robin Kelsey, Photography and the Art of Chance (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2015). 32 Steffen Siegel, ed. First Exposures: Writings from the Beginning of Photography (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2017), 14. 33 These included Erich Stenger, Geschichte der Photographie (Berlin: VDI Verlag, 1929); Helmuth Bossert and Heinrich Guttmann, Aus der Frühzeit der Photographie 1840-70: ein Bildbuch nach 200 Originalen (Frankfurt am Main: Societäts-Verlag, 1930). 15 among the most important theories of photography ever published, the concept of Typophoto—and its powerful currency among designers—has received little critical attention from historians of photography. In studying Typophoto, I follow interwar graphic designers who took up this idea, whether as inspiration or provocation. Geoffrey Batchen recently asserted the need for “a history freed from the tyranny of the photograph” in the era of digital photography, one that would “trace, not the production of singular photographs, but the dissemination of photographic images.” 34 I go further to argue that the need for a history of photographic images can be traced at least as far back as the first commercial uses of the halftone process in the 1880s. This need is reflected in scholarship on the circulation, dissemination, and public display of photographic images in exhibitions, courtrooms, classrooms, and printed in books, newspapers, and periodicals. 35 In her 1936 dissertation, Gisèle Freund argued that photography’s importance inheres “in its ability to shape our ideas, to influence our behavior, and to define our society.” 36 Beginning in the 1980s, Sally Stein critiqued the 34 Geoffrey Batchen, “Double Displacement: Photography and Dissemination,” in The “Public” Life of Photographs, 39. 35 Early scholarship on the reproduction, circulation, and exhibition of photography include work by Douglas Crimp, Christopher Phillips, Abigail Solomon-Godeau, Sally Stein, Carol Squiers, Martha Rosler, Allan Sekula, and John Tagg. See, especially, their essays in Bolton, The Contest of Meaning. Allan Sekula, “The Body and the Archive” October 39 (Winter 1986): 3–64; John Tagg, The Burden of Representation: Essays on Photographies and Histories (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1988). Recently, Olivier Lugon, Thierry Gervais, Mary Panzer, Joel Snyder, and Sophie Hackett have made great strides in this area. See, especially, their essays included in The “Public” Life of Photographs. Michel Frizot’s A New History of Photography is a survey that reflects the importance of circulation and photomechanical reproduction to the social history of the medium. See Michel Frizot, ed., A New History of Photography (Cologne: Könneman Verlagsgesellschaft mbH, 1998). 36 Gisèle Freund, Photography and Society (Boston: David R. Godine, 1980), 5. This study originated as Freund’s doctoral dissertation, La photographie en France au dix-neuvième siècle: essai de sociologie et d'esthétique (Paris: A. Monnier, 1936). This study was revised and expanded in the 1970s, and published in English in 1980, becoming a critical text in establishing a social history of photography. Her approach paved the way for a recent current of scholarship that examines photography as inherently relational and participatory. See, for example, Ariella 16 dominant history of “the photograph as an autonomous artifact,” calling for a reorientation of the field toward the circulation of composite photography and the ways of seeing engendered by photomontage in commercial imagery. 37 My study of Typophoto, including its overlap with photomontage as a conceptual technique of advertising design, is intended as a direct answer to this call. More recently, François Brunet has insisted on circulation as a fundamental art historical category. 38 Andrés Mario Zervigón and Michel Frizot have studied how rotogravure printing enabled the experimental approach to graphic layout in popular periodicals during the 1920s and 1930s, including Arbeiter Illustrierte Zeitung and VU, which served as models for twentieth-century magazines. 39 Olivier Lugon’s scholarship on twentieth-century photography exhibitions has foregrounded the ephemerality of the photographic image and its popular consumption. 40 Azoulay, The Civil Contract of Photography (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2012); Margaret Olin, Touching Photographs (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). 37 Stein has drawn from both John Berger’s Ways of Seeing and Stuart Ewen’s Captains of Consciousness, flagging a reappraisal of the field of photography history as the purview of cultural criticism and the history of advertising and consumerism. See Sally Stein, “The Composite Photographic Image and the Composition of Consumer Ideology,” Art Journal (1981), 39-45; Stein, “The Graphic Ordering of Desire: Modernization of a Middle-Class Women’s Magazine, 1914–1939,” in The Contest of Meaning: Critical Histories of Photography, ed. Richard Bolton (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1992), 145–62; Stuart Ewen, Captains of Consciousness: Advertising and the Social Roots of the Consumer Culture (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976); Stuart Ewen, All Consuming Images: The Politics of Style in Contemporary Culture (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1988); John Berger, Ways of Seeing (London: British Broadcasting Corporation and Penguin Books, 1972). 38 See François Brunet, ed. Circulation (Chicago, Paris: Terra Foundation for American Art, 2017). 39 See Michel Frizot and Cédric de Veigy, VU: The Story of a Magazine (London: Thames & Hudson, 2009); Andrés Mario Zervigón, “Rotogravure and the Modern Aesthetic of News Reporting,” in Getting the Picture: The Visual Culture of the News, eds. Jason E. Hill and Vanessa R. Schwartz (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 197–205. 40 See Olivier Lugon, “The Ubiquitous Exhibition: Magazines, Museums, and the Reproducible Exhibition after World War II,” in The “Public” Life of Photographs, 123–54; Lugon, “Prints from the Thomas Walther Collection and German Exhibitions around 1930,” in Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art, eds. Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014), 1–9. https://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/GraeveIngelmann.pdf. 17 Given that the commercial halftone enabled the mass circulation of photography, the study of photomontage and composite photography in advertising design is critical to understanding how avant-garde techniques and ideas inflected mass visual culture. 41 Recent monographs by Sabine Kriebel and Zervigón on John Heartfield’s work for the Arbeiter Illustrierte Zeitung and Malik Verlag have expanded the study of photomontage as a practice of technical, epistemological, and visual manipulation. 42 Kriebel attends in particular to the haptic experience of reading as constitutive of meaning in Heartfield’s work. 43 Zervigón distinguishes between “truth” and “realism” invoked by photography, especially in photomontage. He insists on the importance of photographs, not as fragments of reality, but rather evoking a “sense of realness” in beholders, used by John Heartfield as a tool of political persuasion. Zervigón writes that Heartfield “prized [photography’s] subjective capacity to link the somatic and the psychic in deeply moving combinations.” 44 Recent studies of Weimar photography by Michael Jennings, Daniel Magilow, and Pepper 41 Here I build on work by Sascha Bru, Kathleen James-Chakraborty, Victor Margolin, Mark Morrison, Frederic Schwartz, and Matthew Witkovsky. See Sascha Bru, ed., Regarding the Popular: Modernism, the Avant-Garde, and High and Low Culture (Berlin; Boston: De Gruyter, 2012); Kathleen James-Chakraborty, ed., Bauhaus Culture: From Weimar to the Cold War (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006); Victor Margolin, The Struggle for Utopia: Rodchenko, Lissitzky, Moholy-Nagy, 1917-1946 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1997); Mark S. Morrisson, The Public Face of Modernism: Little Magazines, Audiences, and Reception, 1905- 1920 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001); Frederic J. Schwartz, Blind Spots: Critical Theory and the History of Art in Twentieth 42 See Sabine Kriebel, Revolutionary Beauty: The Radical Photomontages of John Heartfield (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014); Sabine Kriebel, “Manufacturing Discontent: John Heartfield’s Mass Medium,” New German Critique no. 107, Dada and Photomontage across Borders (Summer 2009): 53–88; Andrés Mario Zervigón, John Heartfield and the Agitated Image: Photography, Persuasion, and the Rise of Avant-Garde Photomontage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). 43 See Sabine Kriebel, “Touch, Absorption, and Radical Politics: The Case of John Heartfield,” Kritische Berichte no. 40 (2012): 21–31. 44 Zervigón, John Heartfield and the Agitated Image, 6. 18 Stetler analyze layout and sequencing in thinking through seriality as a narrative strategy in Weimar-era photography essays and books. 45 The shared concerns of graphic design, photography, and advertising were encapsulated by montage as a mode of image making and as a model for modern perception. Christopher Phillips has characterized the impulse toward montage as embedded in the medium of photography from its inception; he rightly describes the nineteenth-century practices of scrapbooking, early composite darkroom printing, and images combined on cartes de visite as precursors to mass-circulated photomontage in postcards, advertisements, and the popular press. 46 Paraphrasing German art historian and artist Franz Roh’s 1925 definition, Phillips calls photomontage a synthesis of “extreme fantasy and extreme sobriety—or put another way, the pictorial techniques of modernist abstraction and the realism of photographic fragment.” 47 Phillips acknowledges the introduction of the commercial halftone as a watershed. Yet his account excludes composite images that resulted from the extensive retouching of photographic halftones, as well as non-photographic composite images that employed techniques of montage— namely trademarks, pictograms, and infographics. 45 See Michael Jennings, “Agriculture, Industry, and the Birth of the Photo-Essay in the Late Weimar Republic” in October 93 (Summer 2000), 23–56; Daniel Magilow, The Photography of Crisis: The Photo Essays of Weimar Germany (Philadelphia: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012); and Pepper Stetler, Stop Reading! Look! Modern Vision and the Weimar Photographic Book (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015). 46 Christopher Phillips, “Introduction,” in Montage and Modern Life, 1919-1942, eds. Maud Lavin and Matthew Teitelbaum (Cambridge: MIT Press; Boston: Institute of Contemporary Art, 1992), 21–35; Elizabeth Siegel, ed. Playing with Pictures: The Art of Victorian Photocollage (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). 47 Ibid, 26–28. Phillips paraphrases Franz Roh. See Roh, Nach-Expressionismus: Magischer Realismus, Probleme der neuesten europäischen Malerei (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1925). 19 In parsing the meanings of Typophoto for New Typography and the graphic design profession, I use montage as a key term not only for the history of photography, but also for understanding the graphic design process, including but not limited to, its use of photographic images. Although scholars have acknowledged graphic design as an important platform for photomontage, studies of visual montage have excluded non- photographic and non-cinematic images that I argue were critical tools for training beholders to read composite form. 48 In this dissertation, montage refers to a form, or sequence of forms, created through the cut-and-paste process of collage, meant to synthesize pictorial and linguistic representation, and to convey composite, and often multiple meanings. Advertising Theory: Merging Photography and Graphic Design Histories Conventions and discourses in the emerging field of advertising are indispensable for understanding how photography was used not only as a tool of advertising design, but also as a potent metaphor for ambitions to capture consumer attention. 49 Applied psychology emphasized how line, color, and form could be used in graphic design to 48 In this expanded use of “montage,” I follow scholars like Patrizia McBride who examines montage as a literary technique employed to engender active reader participation in the literary work of Kurt Schwitters and theory of László Moholy-Nagy. See Patrizia C. McBride, The Chatter of the Visible: Montage and Narrative in Weimar Germany (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016). 49 Here I build on work by Patricia Johnston, Elspeth Brown, Robert Sobieszek, and Anne McCauley. See, for example, Patricia Johnston’s monograph on the advertising work of Edward Steichen engages larger issues of class, gender, and strategies of early American advertising. Patricia Johnston, Real Fantasies: Edward Steichen’s Advertising Photography (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997). Elspeth Brown has situated late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century photography within the development of American corporate culture. Elspeth Brown, The Corporate Eye: Photography and the Rationalization of American Commercial Culture, 1884-1929 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005); Anne McCauley, Industrial Madness: Commercial Photography in Paris, 1848-1871 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994); Robert Sobieszek, The Art of Persuasion: A History of Advertising Photography (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1988). 20 control the memory and attention of readers. This was a key framework for the modernist idea of New Vision, typically associated with Moholy-Nagy, especially as an ideology for using photography to transform perception and reading. 50 Advertising designers relied on montage and formal abstraction to create evocative symbols and text-image composites. They used photomontage to create images that were read simultaneously as real and constructed, evoking the emotions, memories, desires, and fantasies of consumers. Many designers used photographic metaphors in writing about advertising, invoking the idea of visual memory as a set of latent images that lived in the sensitive substrate of the human mind. Fueled by theories of psychology, designers conjectured that, although seen only momentarily, advertisements could be imprinted on the minds of consumers. They believed that, through repeated viewing and mnemonic stimulation, the best advertisements could be transferred from the pages of newspapers or magazines, or from posters pasted on the sides of buildings, into the mind’s eye. 51 One commentator wrote: “When novelty of form and colour have struck forcibly, the visual memory is impressed; 50 Studies of New Vision as an avant-garde idea include Christine Kühn, Neues Sehen in Berlin: Fotografie der Zwanziger Jahre (Berlin: Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, 2005); Maria Morris Hambourg, The New Vision: Photography Between the World Wars (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1989) 51 I draw on scholarship on the history of advertising including David Ciarlo, Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2011); Michael Cowan, Walter Ruttmann and the Cinema of Multiplicity: Avant-Garde—Advertising— Modernity (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014); Ewen, Captains of Consciousness; Jackson Lears, Fables of Abundance: A Cultural History of Advertising (New York: Basic Books, 1994); Pamela E. Swett, Selling Under the Swastika: Advertising and Commercial Culture in Nazi Germany (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2014); Pamela E. Swett, S. Jonathan Wiesen, and Jonathan R. Zatlin, eds., Selling Modernity: Advertising in Twentieth-Century Germany (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007); Janet Ward, Weimar Surfaces: Urban Visual Culture in 1920s Germany (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001). 21 and when it occurs again, the conscious mind gradually becomes aware of this repeated significance of form and colour.” 52 Advertising was, as Frederic Schwartz has described, a modern medium that “thrived on a certain kind of instability.” 53 Just as advertisers sought to technologize perception by applying scientific principles, they also recognized that meaning was created through the process of cognition. The cognitive procedure described by psychologists and designers in the 1920s was, in effect, a new concept of reading as a protracted process that occurred not only within the time it took to apprehend an advertisement, but which continued to unfold after it was visible to the consumer. In fact, the most important stage of perception, as described by advertisers, was thought to occur long after the initial encounter with an advertisement. Even as consumers tried to ignore advertising, images were designed to imprint themselves on the human memory, remembered and interpreted later. This delayed process of apprehension would ideally stimulate the consumer’s own mental associations, emotions, and purchasing decisions. Repetition was regarded as key to the effectiveness of a given advertisement. The more frequently it was encountered, the more likely a brand or product was to be recognized and remembered, and thus the more “memory-value,” “attention-value,” and “suggestion- value” an advertisement was said to have. 54 52 W. G. Raffé, “The Elements of the Poster: IV Composition: Line and Mass,” Commercial Art (June 1928): 34. 53 Frederic J. Schwartz, The Werkbund: Design Theory and Mass Culture before the First World War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 87. 54 These terms come from Hugo Münsterberg’s Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (1913), in which the psychologist offered preliminary thoughts on how psychotechnical research and principles could be applied to the quantifiable assessment and improvement of advertising and commercial display methods. See Hugo Münsterberg, Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (Boston; New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913). 22 In Germany, advertising discourse of the Wilhelmine and Weimar eras is critical to understanding the rhetoric of New Typography. Advertising agents, designers, social scientists, and psychologists debated how commodities might embody and shape German identity, whether advertising could serve aesthetic interests and act as a vehicle for persuasion and agitation, and to what extent German advertising should adopt American techniques of applied psychology and market research. 55 Indeed, many wondered whether advertising was ethical at all. 56 These debates were indicative of existential dilemmas about the nature of modernity: what it meant to be German in an era of internationalism, and how ordinary Germans could participate in society both as consumers and as parts of a spiritually healthy social body. Designers struggled to express enduring cultural values while responding to technological, political, and economic change, a task that inspired experimentation in Weimar-era advertising. 57 That “functionalist” design emerged during this tumultuous period of German history is precisely why the complexities masked by its aesthetic merit closer scrutiny. In 1926, Siegfried Kracauer observed the “Kult der Zerstreuung” (cult of distraction), which seemed to pervade daily life in Weimar Germany. 58 Following 55 See Schwartz, Blind Spots; Schwartz, The Werkbund. 56 See Chapter 1, “Advertising in the Weimar Republic,” in Swett, Selling Under the Swastika, 17– 46. 57 The state of the German economy fluctuated wildly after Germany’s defeat in World War I and through attempts to stabilize under the Weimar Republic. During a brief period of economic stabilization starting in 1924, catalyzed by American aid mandated by the Dawes Plan, industrial capitalism and consumer culture seemed to promise a way forward, while the German Communist Party gained popularity in the wake of the Russian Revolution. See Detlev Peukert, The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity, trans. Richard Deveson (New York: Hill and Wang, 1992). 58 Kracauer was referring specifically to the cinema as a “cult of distraction,” but recognized it as symptomatic of a larger surface culture, especially in advertising films. Siegfried Kracauer, “Cult of Distraction: On Berlin’s Picture Palaces,” in The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays, trans. and ed. Thomas Y. Levin (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), 323–29. (Originally published: “Kult der Zerstreuung,” Frankfurter Zeitung [March 4, 1926]). 23 Kracauer’s appraisal, Janet Ward has described Weimar-era, urban advertising as a medium that “radically reshaped the experience of idle flânerie into distraction with an applied purpose.” 59 Yet a focus on this period as an “age of distraction” misses the extent to which the harnessing of attention preoccupied advertising designers and thus shaped the everyday experiences of German consumers. 60 In his recent work, Frederic Schwartz has identified a shared preoccupation with “attention” (Aufmerksamkeit) as a key term at the intersection of art and design, intellectual currents of the Frankfurt School, and experimental psychology in Weimar Germany. 61 The very people at whose feet Kracauer laid blame for the increased fracturing of public attention were fiercely committed to doing precisely the opposite. Advertising designers strove to capture attention through visual and verbal play by creating “striking” advertisements that could not be missed. 62 The professionalization of graphic design in Germany is crucial context for the emergence of New Typography and its application primarily in advertising design. Shortly before World War I, German type foundries including Bauer, Klingspor, Stempel, Berthold, Ludwig and Mayer, Weber, and Brüder Butter began commissioning individual typographers, such as Peter Behrens, Fritz Ehmcke, Otto Eckmann, Rudolf Koch, and Paul 59 Ward, Weimar Surfaces, 101. 60 I borrow this phrase from Quentin Bajac. See Bajac, “The Age of Distraction: Photography and Film” In Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg, eds. Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014). https://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/Bajac.pdf. 61 Schwartz, Blind Spots. 62 Advertisers frequently wrote about the visual impact of advertisements in physical terms. W. R. Tillertson, for example, claimed that effective advertising must “strike the eye.” In combination with the application of “accurate psychology,” he continued, “the best advertisement slides into the mind of the consumer without his being well aware of it.” W. R. Tillerton, “Taste as a Commercial Asset,” Commercial Art (November 1922): 3; 18. 24 Renner, to create new typeface designs. 63 These foundries capitalized on the accelerated industrialization of the Wilhelmine era as an opportunity to revitalize Germany’s legacy as home to two of the most important inventions in the history of printing: Johannes Gutenberg’s movable-type printing press in the 1450s and the technique of lithography, invented by Aloïs Senefelder in 1798. 64 Modern visual communication was facilitated, in large part, by the transformation of modern printing technology that had taken place in the nineteenth century: between 1820 and 1850, various mechanized rotary printing presses were invented and patented, and the commercial halftone was introduced in the early 1880s, followed closely by the advent of mechanized typesetting and offset printing. 65 The consolidation of Gebrauchsgraphik (graphic design) as a professional field in the 1920s went hand in hand with the rise of the German advertising industry. In 1908, the Verein Deutscher Reklamefachleute (VDR), the first German association of advertising professionals, was founded. 66 In 1919, the newsletter of the VDR became the widely circulated journal, Die Reklame, dedicated to covering all aspects of advertising. 67 By 1929, fifteen professional advertising and marketing associations had been established in 63 Aynsley, German Graphic Design, 20. 64 The revitalization of German printing was also a motivation of the post-World War I print boom between 1918 and 1924. See Erin Sullivan, “Speculating on Paper: Print Culture and the German Inflation, 1918 – 1924,” PhD diss. (University of Southern California, 2014). 65 Frédéric Barbier, Gutenberg's Europe: The Book and the Invention of Western Modernity, trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge; Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2017); Michael Twyman, Printing 1770–1970: An Illustrated History of its Development and Uses in England (London: The British Library; Reading: Reading University Press, 1998), 25–26; 31–35; 51–63. 66 In 1922, this organization was renamed the Verband Deutscher Reklamefachleute (Association of German Advertising Professionals). Gerard F. Sherayko, “Selling the Modern: The New Consumerism in Weimar Germany,” PhD diss. (Indiana University, 1996), 20. 67 The full name of the journal was Die Reklame: Zeitschrift des Vereins deutsche Reklamefachleute (Advertising: Newspaper for the Association of German Advertising Professionals), and it was published until 1933. Sherayko, “Selling the Modern: The New Consumerism in Weimar Germany,” 19. 25 Germany. 68 The advertising industry’s initial claim to cultural legitimacy was the artistic contribution of designers, exemplified by the advertising poster. This claim was bolstered by the acquisition of advertising posters by museums such as the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe in Hamburg. 69 Arguably the most important early milestone in the professionalization of German graphic design was the founding of the Bund Deutscher Gebrauchsgraphiker (BDG) in 1919 by Max Hertwig, Jupp Wiertz, and Hans Meyer. 70 The graphic arts journal Das Plakat, founded in 1921, was renamed Gebrauchsgraphik in 1924, and became the official organ of the BDG by 1928, edited by graphic designer Hermann K. Frenzel. 71 This transition signified far more than a name change. Under Frenzel and the BDG, Gebrauchsgraphik pivoted away from Das Plakat’s focus on the graphic arts, adopting an explicit orientation toward commercial graphic design. By the late 1920s, Gebrauchsgraphik was recognized internationally as one of the graphic design profession’s most important trade publications, and in 1927, it became a bilingual platform for discourse among European and American professionals. 72 The nascent “science” of advertising in the 1920s was popularized through Gebrauchsgraphik as well as more established publications dedicated to the graphic arts and typography, namely Das 68 Ward, Weimar Surfaces, 96. 69 See David Ciarlo, Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2011), 15. 70 This organization is alternately referred to in historical sources as the Bund Deutscher Graphiker. 71 Gebrauchsgraphik was founded by Frenzel in partnership with publisher A. Engelbrecher in Berlin. Frenzel remained editor of Gebrauchsgraphik until 1937. Rössler, Eine Zeitschrift als gedrucktes Schaufenster zur Werbewelt, 11–15; Aynsley, German Graphic Design, 120; Swett, Selling Under the Swastika, 22. 72 Feature articles in Gebrauchsgraphik were printed in both German and English starting in 1927. See Aynsley, “‘Gebrauchsgraphik’ as an Early Design Journal, 1924-38;” Rössler, Eine Zeitschrift als gedrucktes Schaufenster zur Werbewelt, 11–15. 26 Kunstblatt and Typographische Mitteilungen. Beyond Germany, graphic design was formed as a profession through the international circulation of trade journals published in the United States (Advertising Arts, Printers’ Ink), Britain (Commercial Art), and France (Arts et Métiers Graphiques). These publications dedicated significant space to advertising theory and the standardization of commercial printed matter, including the advertising insert and business prospectus. Legibility and Form in Graphic Design’s Histories In 2011, Teal Triggs described graphic design as a field “still searching for its past.” 73 Still a relatively new field, graphic design history in the United Sates was founded by practicing designers who had been trained in the mid-twentieth century according to a modernist ethos first codified by New Typography and disseminated by émigré designers. Early English-language surveys of graphic design history portrayed design as the creative prerogative of individuals working toward ever-increasing clarity. 74 In the first major English-language survey of graphic design history, originally published in 1983, Philip Meggs established the narrative that identified New Typography as the apex of graphic design’s synthesis of avant-garde aesthetics and pure functionalism. 75 Until recently, this field has offered a history of proper names dominated by narratives of stylistic 73 Teal Triggs, “Graphic Design History: Past, Present and Future,” Design Issues 27, no. 1 (Winter 2011): 3. 74 See, for example, Philip B. Meggs and Alston W. Purvis, A History of Graphic Design (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 2005); Steven Heller and Georgette Balance, eds., Graphic Design History (New York: Allworth Press, 2001); Richard Hollis, Graphic Design, A Concise History (London: Thames and Hudson, 2001); Stephen J. Eskilson, Graphic Design: A History (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007). 75 This book was originally published as, Philip B. Meggs, A History of Graphic Design (New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1983). 27 progression, consequently taking for granted the meanings of “legibility.” 76 Accordingly, Jan Tschichold has too often been suggested as the founding father of New Typography, a reductive characterization that tends to overlook New Typography as a heterogeneous network of designers and graphics. 77 The movement has been lauded as exemplary of twentieth-century modernism’s break with previous traditions as “functionalist” graphic design. 78 However, as Julia Meer has shown, New Typography emerged from an array of ideas rooted in the Wilhelmine era and the social and economic contexts of Weimar Germany. 79 Building on Meer’s efforts to situate the rhetoric of New Typography in professional discourse, I examine their designs closely in order to analyze how and why certain forms were privileged over others. Increasingly, graphic design history has expanded to address the ways aesthetics and taste are shaped by the social, political, and commercial structures in which graphics are consumed and circulated. In 2009, Johanna Drucker and Emily McVarish offered the first critical history of graphic design, surveying the field with the intent to foreground 76 Historical surveys tend to follow the model established by Nikolaus Pevsner in 1936, who championed the emergence of modernist design as a teleological evolution from nineteenth- century design. The arc of his narrative became a model for writing design history in the twentieth century, and for the positioning of interwar modernism within it as an heroic apex. See Nikolaus Pevsner, Pioneers of Modern Design: From William Morris to Walter Gropius (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960 [1936]). A notable exception, and model for my own study of the historical situatedness of legibility, is Peter Bain and Paul Shaw, eds., Blackletter: Type and National Identity (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 1998). 77 This is suggested, in part, by the sheer number of published monographs dedicated to Tschichold. 78 Such studies of New Typography and Jan Tschichold include, Cees W. de Jong, ed. Jan Tschichold: Master Typographer: His Life, Work & Legacy (London: Thames & Hudson, 2008); Robin Kinross, Modern Typography: An Essay in critical history (London: Hyphen Press, 1992); Martijn F. Le Coultre and Alston W. Purvis, Jan Tschichold: Posters of the Avantgarde (Basel and Boston: Birkhäuser, 2007); Ruari McLean, Jan Tschichold (Boston: D.R. Godine, 1975). 79 Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie. 28 social forces as critical to developments in design. 80 In the area of German graphic design, Jeremy Aynsley has examined the development of the profession within the context of industrialization and design reform following Germany’s unification as a nation-state. 81 Maud Lavin has considered interwar German graphic design as a tool of the mass market, insisting on a reappraisal of “functionalism” as a guise for capitalist interests and struggles for corporate power. 82 Sherwin Simmons has observed how the trademark as an important convention of German advertising became a model for the symbolic conventions of mass communication in Weimar and Nazi German politics. 83 I build on studies by Christopher Burke, Doug Clouse, and Ellen Mazur Thomson of the professionalization of graphic design—including adoption of new technologies, establishment of professional associations, and changes in pedagogy and business practices—as crucial to the visual analysis of design. 84 To this end, German-language monographs and studies of interwar 80 This textbook was an important corrective to blind spots of previous surveys and was intended as a companion to existing scholarship. See Johanna Drucker and Emily McVarish, Graphic Design History: A Critical Guide (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2009). 81 See Jeremy Aynsley, Graphic Design in Germany 1890-1945 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000). Aynsley has also authored one of the sole English-language texts on the German graphic design trade journal, Gebrauchsgrafik. See Aynsley, “‘Gebrauchsgraphik’ as an Early Design Journal, 1924-38,” Journal of Design History 5, no. 1 (1992): 53–72. For further context on German design in the Wilhelmine and Weimar eras, see John Heskett, German Design, 1870-1918 (New York: Taplinger Publishing, 1986). 82 See Lavin, Clean New World. 83 See Sherwin Simmons, “‘Hand to the Friend, Fist to the Foe’: The Struggle of Signs in the Weimar Republic,” Journal of Design History 13, no. 4 (2000): 319–39. Like Lavin, Simmons also examines how the work of many Berlin Dadaists as commercial graphic designers shaped both popular culture in Berlin and how it bears on the artistic legacies of Dada. See Simmons, “Advertising Seizes Control of Life: Berlin Dada and the Power of Advertising,” Oxford Art Journal 22, no. 1 (1999): 121–146; Maud Lavin, Cut with the Kitchen Knife: The Weimar Photomontages of Hannah Höch (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993). 84 See Christopher Burke, Active Literature: Jan Tschichold and New Typography (London: Hyphen, 2007); Burke, Paul Renner: The Art of Typography (London: Hyphen, 1998); Burke, Eric Kindel, and Sue Walker, eds., Isotype: Design and Contexts, 1925-1971 (London: Hyphen Press, 2013); Doug S. Clouse, Mackellar, Smiths & Jordan: Typographic Tastemakers of the Late Nineteenth Century (New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press, 2008); Ellen Mazur Thomson, The Origins of Graphic Design in America. 29 graphics and designers by Gerda Breuer, Ute Brüning, Julia Meer, Annemarie Jaeggi, and Patrick Rössler are also indispensable to this project. 85 Scholarship on graphic design must include historical accounts of vision, perception, and cognition in order to understand the field not as premised on a static or universal notion of “legible communication,” but rather as a framework for the endless reframing of legibility. 86 In seeking to recover a history of perception, I follow John Berger, Martin Jay, and Jonathan Crary, whose interdisciplinary methods are foundational for the integrating graphic design and photography histories. 87 Readers—and the practice of reading as visual, cognitive, and interpretive—are virtually absent from histories that explicitly survey the field of graphic design. An important exception is Paul Jobling and David Crowley’s episodic sociopolitical history of graphic design that centers readers’ “daily encounter” with publicly circulated printed matter. 88 Cultural historians have 85 See Gerda Breuer and Julia Meer, eds., Max Burchartz 1887-1961: Künstler, Typograf, Pädagoge (Berlin: Jovis, 2010); Ute Brüning, Das A und O des Bauhauses. Bauhauswerbung: Schriftbilder, Drucksachen, Ausstellungsdesign. Berlin: Bauhaus-Archiv, 1995); Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie; Annemarie Jaeggi, Fagus: Industriekultur zwischen Werkbund und Bauhaus (Berlin: Bauhaus-Archiv/Museum für Gestaltung, 1998); Patrick Rössler, ed., Bauhauskommunikation: Innovative Strategien im Umgang mit Medien, interner und externer Öffentlichkeit (Berlin: Mann Verlag; Bauhaus-Archiv, 2009); Rössler, Das Bauhaus am Kiosk: die neue linie, 1929-1943 (Bielefeld: Kerber Art; New York: Distributed Art Publishers, 2009); Rössler, Eine Zeitschrift als gedrucktes Schaufenster zur Werbewelt: Gebrauchsgraphik 1924-1944 (Munich: Stiebner, 2014). 86 Michael Golec’s analysis of Lester Beall’s posters displayed at the 1938 Rural Electrification Administration (REA) annual conference is exemplary of scholarship that considers legibility as historically determined. Michael J. Golec, “Graphic Visualization and Visuality in Lester Beall's Rural Electrification Posters, 1937,” Journal of Design History 26, no. 4 (2013): 401–15. 87 See, for example, Berger, Ways of Seeing; Martin Jay, Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993). Crary has studied perception in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by situating art objects within broader fields of intellectual activity, technological inventions, and institutional formations—what he has called their “exterior.” Jonathan Crary, Suspensions of Perception: Attention, Spectacle, and Modern Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), 7–9. 88 They argue that graphic design is best defined as a mass medium enabled by mechanized production and inaugurated through the advent of the illustrated press. Accordingly, they name the Illustrated London News, Le Journal Illustré, Punch, and Le Magazine Pittoresque as founding 30 approached reading as a social and relational practice that takes place in physical space and defines quotidian modern experience. 89 Graphics must be studied as materials that are lived with, handled, and which occupy space. Art historians including Michael Cowan, Jennifer Greenhill, Christina Kiaer, and Michael White have attended to the activation and interpretation of graphic form through the haptic and embodied encounters of readers. 90 Indebted to linguist E. A. Levenston, I employ the method of paragraphemic analysis by treating type and layout as material for thorough formal analysis, a practice objects of graphic design. Paul Jobling and David Crowley, Graphic Design: Reproduction and representation since 1800 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, Distributed by St. Martin’s Press, 1996). 89 See, for example, Margaret Beetham, “Open and Closed: The Periodical as a Publishing Genre,” Victorian Periodicals Review, 22 (Fall 1989): 96–100; Peter Fritzsche, Reading Berlin 1900 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1996); Gideon Reuveni, Reading Germany: Literature and Consumer Culture in Germany Before 1933 (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2006); Despina Stratigakos, A Women’s Berlin: Building the Modern City (University of Minnesota Press, 2008); Christopher P. Wilson, “The Rhetoric of Consumption: Mass-Market Magazines and the Demise of the Gentle Reader, 1880-1920” in The Culture of Consumption: Critical Essays in American History, 1880-1980, eds. Richard Wightman Fox and T.J. Jackson Lears (New York: Pantheon Books, 1983), 39–64. Michel de Certeau has theorized the navigation of the cityscape as an interpretive process akin to reading a text. This method is especially useful in thinking about how individual images, like advertisements, are read as part of the constantly negotiated ‘text’ of the modern city. See Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2011). 90 Christina Kiaer and Michael White have notably pioneered methods of addressing reader experience in their studies of Constructivism and De Stijl, respectively. Kiaer argues that Constructivism reconciled its avant-garde ethos with post-revolutionary Soviet socialist consumerism in the design and production of advertising by Aleksandr Rodchenko and Vladimir Mayakovsky. See Christina Kiaer, Imagine No Possessions: The Socialist Objects of Russian Constructivism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005). White recovers the centrality of mass culture to De Stijl, examining urban, graphic, and interior design. White describes geometric abstraction as a means of popular engagement, serving De Stijl’s aim to engage beholders through interpretation of spaces, objects, and forms. See Michael White, De Stijl and Dutch Modernism (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003). See also, Greenhill, “Flip, Linger, Glide;” Elizabeth Guffey, Posters: A Global History (London: Reaktion Books, 2015); Ruth Iskin, The Poster: Art, Advertising, Design, and Collecting, 1860s to 1900s (Hanover, NH: Dartmouth College Press, 2014); Michael Cowan, “Learning to Love the Movies: Puzzles, Participation, and Cinephelia in Interwar European Film Magazines,” Film History 27, no. 4 (2015): 1–45. See also, Kriebel, “Touch, Absorption, and Radical Politics.” 31 still uncommon in graphic design history. 91 This method is particularly important given the prevalence of non-representational forms in the New Typographers’ designs (such as circles, rules, arrows, and solid planes of color), referred to throughout this dissertation as “abstract graphic elements.” This rather unsatisfactory phrase flags a notable limitation in the terminology of the graphic design profession for critical analysis of graphic form. The field lacks a term for non-representational, compositional forms that are intended to be both non-symbolic as well as non-ornamental—that is, marks that are understood to be “functional,” tasked with directing or stopping the reader’s eye. 92 The closest term that exists in the contemporary field of graphic design is “dingbat,” but this term refers specifically to ornamental, abstract graphic marks. The fact that no term exists for a form that is both non-symbolic and non-decorative suggests the extent to which the field of graphic design—and the set of conventions still practiced today—was built on an ethos inherited from New Typography, which insisted that graphic form must be devoid of typographic ornament in order to be purely functional. This absence also speaks to the need for scholarship that continues to expand its critical terms beyond those borrowed from practicing graphic designers. 91 Levenston proposes integration of the study of written form into linguistics, systematically considering how the visual form of language (including spelling, punctuation, typography, layout, and translation) affects and creates meaning. In doing so, he proposed to revive the idea of “paragraphemics” (also referred to by Levenston as “graphicology”), coined in 1959 by the linguist Eric Hamp a science for studying typography and layout. See E. A. Levenston, The Stuff of Literature: Physical Aspects of Texts and Their Relation to Literary Meaning (Albany: State University of New York, 1992). 92 On this point, I am grateful to Renee Granillo for lending her professional expertise as a graphic designer. 32 The Legacies of New Typography This dissertation addresses New Typography in a deliberately capacious way to promote an expanded understanding of the movement. Tschichold was not the first to articulate New Typography as a design ethos nor even to assign it a name. Rather, his first book was an attempt to translate the shared ideological affinities and formal approaches of international constructivism into the professional context of German typography and printing. 93 In his recent monograph, Paul Stirton described Tschichold’s primary role in New Typography as a voracious collector of designs clipped from periodicals and printed ephemera sent by far-flung practitioners across Europe. 94 My own research brings together the now-dispersed materials once contained in Tschichold’s vast personal archive amassed during the interwar years, which is divided today among collections in Switzerland, Germany, and the United States. 95 Through virtually reconstituting this archive, New Typography can be properly understood as a heterogeneous, international network of ideas 93 In his introduction to the English translation of Die Neue Typographie, published in 1995, Robin Kinross noted that Tschichold’s early announcements of New Typography disrupted “the settled world of the German printing trade” by bringing international constructivism to an audience of German typographers and printers. See Robin Kinross, “Introduction to the English-Language Edition,” in The New Typography, trans. Ruari McLean (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995 [1928]), xvii. Julia Meer has greatly expanded upon the context for New Typography by reframing its ideas and practices within the broader context of the emerging profession of graphic design in interwar Germany. See Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie. 94 Tschichold also collected materials from the United States and Japan during the interwar era. See Paul Stirton, Jan Tschichold and the New Typography: Graphic Design Between the World Wars (New Haven/London: Bard Graduate Center & Yale University Press, 2019). An exhibition by the same name was on view at the Bard Graduate Center Gallery in New York City from February 14 – July 7, 2019. 95 Major repositories of Tschichold’s personal papers and collection of graphic design materials from the 1920s and 1930s include the Jan and Edith Tschichold Papers at the Getty Research Institute; in the Nachlass Tschichold at the Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig; and at the Schule für Gestaltung, Basel. Additionally, materials are located in Zürich, at the Zürcher Hochschule der Künste, as well as the Roche Historical Collection in Basel, and the public library of Saint-Gallen, Switzerland. 33 and practices by designers from Germany, Russia, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, and the Netherlands. Some of their names are known today, while others remain unknown. While some explicitly identified with New Typography, others were labeled externally by Tschichold. Included in this study are teachings of some of New Typography’s proponents at the Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker in Munich, namely Paul Renner and Georg Trump, and anonymous work by their students that pushed Typophoto in new directions. The endurance of many of New Typography’s core principals in the profession of graphic design as practiced throughout Europe and the United States today is steeped in irony. In the late 1930s, Tschichold began to disavow the rigid parameters of New Typography as he had originally articulated them, both in his writing and through his work as a designer, a shift that culminated in an infamous public dispute with Swiss designer Max Bill in 1946. 96 In the 1940s, Bill continued to adhere to the principles of New Typography as stated in 1928 and—along with Theo Ballmer, Armin Hofmann, Josef Müller-Brockmann, Richard Lohse, Hans Neuberg, Ernst Keller, and Carlo Vivarelli— became associated with Swiss Style graphic design, also known as International Style. 97 This approach emerged from New Typography, championing sans serif type, asymmetrical layout, preference for photographic illustration, and supremacy of the typographic grid. The importance of the grid was summarized in Müller-Brockmann’s 96 For thorough discussions of Tschichold’s postwar clash with Bill, see Burke, Active Literature, 286–99; Eskilson Graphic Design, 288. 97 The principles of Swiss Style graphic design are most concisely aggregated in Armin Hofmann, Graphic Design Manual: Principles and Practice, trans. D. Q. Stephenson (New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1965). For an historical overview of Swiss Style design, see Richard Hollis, Swiss Graphic Design: The Origin and Growth of an International Style, 1920-1965 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2006). 34 1961 book, Grid Systems in Graphic Design. 98 Emulating the rhetoric of New Typography even more closely than its style, he wrote that, “The use of the grid as an ordering system is the expression of a certain mental attitude inasmuch as it shows that the designer conceives his work in terms that are constructive and oriented toward the future.” 99 His language was infused with the utopian dream of universal standardization that had motivated Tschichold to write Die Neue Typographie over thirty years earlier—and which ultimately found lasting currency in the Western dominance of International Style design. Tschichold’s postwar disavowal of modernist typography, as an example of what he called in 1946, “‘the German bent for the absolute, and its military will to order and claim to sole domination,’” was part of his attempt to grapple with how the Nazis had coopted aspects of modernism in building a totalitarian culture. 100 While he defended the New Typographers as “vehement enemies of Nazism,” he also turned away from modernist dogma, recognizing in retrospect a dangerous intolerance undergirding its utopianism. He even went as far as comparing his own position, in retrospect, to “a ‘Führer’ role, signifying, as it did, an intellectual guardianship of ‘followers’ typical of dictator states.” 101 He suggested that there had been a madness lurking within interwar modernist functionalism. These comments stop just short of suggesting a causal relationship between modernism and Nazism. 98 Josef Müller-Brockmann, Grid Systems in Graphic Design, trans. D. Q. Stephenson (Sulgen: Verlag Niggli, 1996 [1961]). 99 Ibid, 10. 100 Quoted in: Burke, Active Literature, 293. These statements read as deeply inflected with Tschichold’s own guilt as a German in exile, characterizing New Typography as a German phenomenon despite its international network and anti-nationalist ethos. 101 Ibid. 35 Tschichold’s reversal in exile bespeaks the paradoxical nature of Weimar-era functionalism, embodied by the regularity of the typographic grid. Adherence to the logic of the grid, perhaps the most important artifact of New Typography in Swiss Style graphics, exemplifies the modernist dream of standardization that Tschichold had come to see as a dangerous conceit by the end of World War II. Decades later, Rosalind Krauss puzzling over what she regarded as modernism’s obsession with the grid, wrote in 1985: I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that behind every twentieth-century grid there lies—like a trauma that must be repressed—a symbolist window parading in the guise of a treatise on optics. 102 Krauss recognized the relentless rationality of the grid not as the antithesis of the irrational, but rather as a sign of madness. This idea is rendered visually in the raster pattern, a form that distorts as much as it regularizes. Such distortion is most blatant in the photographic halftone and digital photographic image, which imitate the tonality of a photographic print through pixilation, exploding an image into a collection of dots that must be pieced back together in the mind’s eye. The halftone reveals the functionalist ambitions of modernist design to be a fantasy, reliant on subconscious processes beyond a beholder’s comprehension or awareness to create meaning as representation. I argue that the “functionalism” of interwar advertising design, especially in its use of photography, depended on the subconscious processes of perception, cognition, and mental association. Chapter Overview This dissertation unfolds over six chapters, alternating between accounts of New Typography and studies of the international formation of the graphic design profession. 102 Rosalind Krauss, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1985), 17. 36 The chapters on New Typography follow chronologically, tracing debates, practices, and events between 1923 and 1933. Linking these studies, I examine the methods and principles of early perceptual psychology; the practice of and discourse on retouching; and the advent of composite graphic symbols in advertising and social science as key to understanding Typophoto as a paradigm for graphic design and photography histories. Chapter 1, “Photographic Language: A Genealogy of Typophoto (1923 – 1928),” attends closely to explicit articulations of Typophoto, parsing its meanings primarily in the writing of László Moholy-Nagy, Jan Tschichold, Johannes Molzahn, and Max Burchartz. I argue that, for these figures, the term conveyed a particular ideology of modern visual communication: the amalgamation of verbal and visual representation to engender the hyper-efficiency of reading. They regarded photographic halftones as graphic material with the goal of transforming the process of reading from a laborious practice into an instantaneous and effortless reflex. In its first articulations, Typophoto connoted the hybridization of word and image through the abstraction of typographic form and the transmutation of photography into graphic material with the halftone process. Chapter 2, “The Motivation of Form: Defining Legibility in Perceptual Psychology,” surveys early experiments in perceptual psychology in the United States and Germany, popularized in synthetic books on advertising theory published in the 1920s and 1930s. I argue that the concept of legibility in the graphic design profession emerged from the attempts of psychologists to measure perception, memory, and visual attention. The graphic design profession’s legitimacy was established in large part, by assimilating psychological principles in writing about advertising in trade journals. In the context of perceptual psychology, I propose that Typophoto connotes the mechanization of 37 perception in experiments designed to study reading; psychologists’ use of photographic images visual data; and their treatment of graphic forms as optical devices. Chapter 3, “Too Much and Too Little: Photographic Halftones, Bare and Retouched,” proposes that practices of retouching photographic halftones, and discourse about retouching among designers and advertisers, were crucial context for Typophoto as an idea that resisted the medium specificity of both photography and typography. Retouching was used and discussed by designers as an amalgamation of handcraft and mechanized production to create a new kind of image that was neither drawing nor pure photography, but rather a hybridized photographic image suitable for print advertising. These debates exemplify the lack of consensus among graphic designers about the efficacy of photography as a tool for commercial illustration. I look at international discourse on retouching published in German, North American, and British trade magazines. I propose that despite Moholy-Nagy’s and Tschichold’s championing the “pure” photographic halftone, New Typography’s designs in fact used retouching but reframed this practice rhetorically as photomontage. Chapter 4, “Typophoto and The New Photomontage (1928 – 1933),” examines elaborations on and challenges to Tschichold’s initial understanding of Typophoto. This chapter explores how the New Typographers often used experimental photography to destabilize—rather than clarify—relationships between word and image, especially in advertising design. Their designs implicated the reader as a co-producer of graphic design. I argue that by 1930, Typophoto came to identify not the pure functionality of visual communication that Tschichold proposed in his first book, but rather the formal experiment, semiotic play, and persuasive power that the New Typographers associated 38 with photomontage. I use Tschichold’s unpublished typescript for the book Fotomontage (c. 1930-31) to consider photomontage as a paradigm for the layering of media in advertising design and the construction of meaning through reading. This chapter proposes the exhibition and book Gefesselter Blick (The Bound Glance), edited by architects and designers Heinz and Bodo Rasch in 1930, and the contemporaneous writing of Franz Roh as critical to understanding New Typography’s uses of experimental photography. In Chapter 5, “Graphic Design’s Logic of Montage: Trademarks, Pictograms, Infographics,” I argue that non-photographic image types and techniques developed by graphic designers are integral to a genealogy of Typophoto, namely the trademark, pictogram, and infographic. I argue that trademark design, first theorized by German designers Wilhelm Deffke and Carl E. Hinkefuss in 1917, provided a foundation for international conventions of graphic design in the 1920s. I examine the development of pictograms and infographics by Otto Neurath, Marie Neurath, and Gerd Arntz at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna between 1925 and 1934 as devices that trained readers to read composite forms as information. This chapter proposes “montage” as a founding but unnamed principle of graphic design. The trademark, pictogram, and infographic design were developed by combining fragments of letterforms into verbal- visual hybrid forms presented as visual information. In this sense, Typophoto connotes photography as a structuring principle for thinking about graphic conventions constructed as verbal-visual composites. This chapter is a potential limit case for thinking about the extent to which non-photographic images and practices of image making can be integrated into photography’s histories. 39 The sixth and final chapter, “Typophoto and the Professionalization of Graphic Design at the Munich Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker (1927 – 1932),” examines the founding and early years of this school for the professional training of printing house proprietors as one of New Typography’s most important sites of experimentation with Typophoto. A key example of the pedagogical approaches that shaped the German graphic design profession, the Meisterschule was founded by Paul Renner, and the faculty in its early years included Jan Tschichold and Georg Trump. I use student and faculty designs, as well as published and unpublished pedagogical statements, to analyze the halftone as a formal, material, and theoretical object of inquiry at the Meisterschule. I argue that Typophoto was explored through experiments with the halftone that brought together established practices of typographic design, new theories of business management, and new printing technologies. Design at the Meisterschule evidences how New Typography was formed not only by a network of known designers, but also by anonymous practitioners who embraced experimentation with design and printing in both professional and educational contexts. 40 CHAPTER 1 Photographic Language: A Genealogy of Typophoto (1923 – 1928) “The New Typography, by virtue of its methods of design, embraces the whole domain of printing and not merely the narrow field of pure type. Thus in photography we possess an objective means of reproducing objectivity…which is comprehensible to all. Photography because it is another method of visual speech is also regarded as type.” 103 —Jan Tschichold “The photo is the pacesetter for the tempo of time and development; the multitude and arrangement of visual sensations forces the uninterrupted work on the eye and the psyche.” 104 —Johannes Molzahn In the interwar era, photography was a curious cipher for new ideas about the relationship between word and image among German bookmakers and printers. In 1931, Berlin-based publisher Eugen Gutnoff penned an ambitious book review, which appeared in the Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik, an annual publication of the Verlag des Deutschenbuchgewerbevereins (German Book Trade Association Publisher) in Leipzig. 105 Gutnoff offered much more than a critical summary of a recent book; he proposed that the medium of photography had been reinvented through its integration with type on the printed page. He did so by comparing two recent books on photography: Helmuth Bossert and Heinrich Guttmann’s Aus der Frühzeit der Photographie, 1840-70 (1930), and Franz Roh’s foto-auge: 76 fotos der zeit (1929), made in collaboration with 103 Jan Tschichold, “New Life in Print,” Commercial Art (July 1930): 15. 104 Johannes Molzahn, “Stop Reading! Look!” in The Weimar Republic Sourcebook, eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay, Edward Dimendberg (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 648. (Originally published: Johannes Molzahn, “Nicht mehr lessen! Sehen!” Das Kunstblatt 12, no. 3 [March 1928], 78–82.) 105 Eugen Gutnoff, “Vergleichende Photobildbetrachtung,” Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik 68, no. 3 (1931): 93–99. 41 Jan Tschichold. The former was one of a spate of photography histories published around 1930 that anticipated the centennial of the first public announcements of the medium’s “invention” in 1839. 106 The latter, primarily a pictorial essay, was released as a compendium to the monumental exhibition, Film und Foto, organized by the Deutscher Werkbund. 107 Like the exhibition, Tschichold and Roh’s book quickly became a touchstone for “New Vision” photography. 108 The two publications under review made 106 These included Erich Stenger’s Geschichte der Photographie (1929) and Helmuth Bossert and Heinrich Guttmann’s Aus der Frühzeit der Photographie 1840-70 (1930), as well as Roger Fry’s monograph on Julia Margaret Cameron, published in 1926, and Heinrich Schwarz’s monograph on David Octavius Hill in 1931. Numerous articles published in the 1920s and 1930s reflected on the first century of the photographic medium, and books like László Moholy-Nagy’s Malerei Photographie Film (1925) and Jan Tschichold and Franz Roh’s foto-auge (1929) examined photography’s history by juxtaposing nineteenth-century and contemporary photographs. 107 Initiated by the state-sponsored Deutscher Werkbund with organizational contributions by László Moholy-Nagy, El Lissitzky, Sigfried Giedion, John Heartfield, Hans Hildebrandt, Bernhard Pankok, Jan Tschichold, and Edward Weston, Film und Foto opened in August of 1929 in Stuttgart and traveled to Zürich, Berlin, Danzig, Vienna, Zagreb, Munich, Tokyo, and Osaka from the fall of 1929 through the summer of 1931. The exhibition included contemporary and historical examples of commercial, journalistic, vernacular, art, and scientific photography. For more on this exhibition, see Ute Eskildsen und Jan-Christopher Horak, eds., Film und Foto der zwanziger Jahre: eine Betrachtung der Internationalen Werkbundausstellung "Film und Foto" 1929 (Stuttgart: Gerd Hatje, 1979); Olivier Lugon, “Neues Sehen, Neue Geschichte: Laszlo Moholy- Nagy, Sigfried Giedion und die Ausstellung Film und Foto,” in Sigfried Giedion und die Fotografie. Bildinszenierungen der Moderne, eds. Werner Oechslin and Gregor Harbusch (Zürich: gta Verlag, 2010), 88–105; Gustaf Stotz, Internationale Ausstellung des Deutschen Werkbunds Film und Foto (Stuttgart: Deutscher Werkbund, 1929); Andrés Mario Zervigón, “The Peripatetic Viewer at Heartfield's Film und Foto Exhibition Room,” October no. 150 (Fall 2014): 27–48. 108 Collective interest in how experimental techniques and forms of photography could reveal and shape human vision apposite to modern industrialized society—especially in Weimar Germany and among the Russian and French avant-garde in the 1920s and 1930s—was known as “New Vision,” theorized by Franz Roh and László Moholy-Nagy and exemplified by photography made at the Dessau Bauhaus. See Maria Morris Hambourg and Christopher Phillips, The New Vision: Photography Between the World Wars: Ford Motor Company Collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art; Distributed by H.N. Abrams, 1989); Inka Graeve Ingelmann, “Mechanics and Expression: Franz Roh and the New Vision—A Historical Sketch,” in Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art, eds. Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014). https://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/GraeveIngelmann.pdf; László Moholy-Nagy, The new vision, from material to architecture, trans. Daphne M. Hoffmann (New York: Brewer, Warren & Putnam 1932). 42 claims to photography’s past and future, respectively, and were disseminated to a mass audience by way of the centuries-old German book trade. Gutnoff juxtaposed select photographs reproduced in each book to show how photography had radically changed between the mid-nineteenth century and the present. The first of these comparisons paired the reproduction of a high-contrast photograph by Charles-Victor Hugo—made between 1853 and 1855, depicting the hand of his father, Victor Hugo, isolated against a dark monochrome background—with a composite photograph by El Lissitzky of the artist’s own hand (Fig. 1.1). 109 The latter, dated 1924, is reproduced with the following caption: “Hand of an architect or engineer, with compass. Composition by El Lissitzky.” 110 Though he paired them for their ostensibly identical subject matter, Gutnoff recognized their difference: whereas Lissitzky’s was intended as an anonymous type, Hugo’s pictured the hand of a well-known writer—its dramatic lighting imbuing each detail the expressiveness of early photographic portraiture. 111 Accordingly, Gutnoff described the contemporary overhaul of photography in terms of class; this pairing exemplified photography’s shifting association as a medium of the bourgeoisie, in the nineteenth century, to that of the masses in the twentieth. 112 Gutnoff used this pair of photographs, created almost a century apart, to show how thoroughly the medium had been reinvented in the contemporary era. Printed from 109 The approximate dating of Hugo’s photograph comes from Helmuth Bossert and Heinrich Guttmann, Aus der Frühzeit der Photographie 1840-70: ein Bildbuch nach 200 Originalen (Frankfurt am Main: Societäts-Verlag, 1930). The photograph by Lissitzky is identified as Untitled (Hand with Compasses), 1924, in Nancy Perloff and Brian Reed, eds., Situating El Lissitzky (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2003), 131–32. 110 “Hand mit Zirkel eines Architeketen oder Ingenieurs. Komposition von el lissitzky.” Gutnoff, “Vergleichende Photobildbetrachtung,” 93. 111 Ibid, 99. 112 Ibid. 43 multiple exposures, Lissitzky’s composite photograph announces the strangeness of photographic representation in the planar realm of typography. A hand and compass float above and cast insistent shadows across a ruled surface that appears to be the page itself, obdurately flat. The beholder is challenged to apprehend the curved line drawn with the compass as a mark that belongs to both photographic and typographic space. Lissitzky’s composite photograph was emblematic of Central European modernism both for its experimentation with the photographic medium and veneration of the modern engineer. Most importantly, it illustrated the hybridization of typography and photography, which the publisher regarded as key to photography’s future trajectory: Today, photography is a big thing. It has benefitted from both New Vision and New Objectivity. It is no longer enough for photography to be a picture or a detail; rather, it wants to construct, to allow itself to be moved and photomontaged among assembled elements: photomontage, photo-combination. It pushes further and penetrates the type-picture [Satzbild], replacing a structured sentence, and wants to merge with typography to appear in the graphic schema as photo-typography [Phototypographie]. 113 More than simply the sum of photographic and typographic parts, Gutnoff described Phototypographie as a superior, hybrid medium that could transcend the constraints of image and text as discrete categories of representation, replaced by a new visual-verbal syntax rife with unprecedented formal and communicative possibilities. He also understood the hybridization of Phototypographie to be rooted in the photographic medium itself. As a book publisher, Gutnoff had a particular interest in portraying 113 “Heute ist Photographie eine große Sache. Sie hat vom neuen Sehen und neuen Sachlichkeit profitiert. Es genügt ihr schon nicht mehr Bild oder Bildausschnitt zu sein, sie will konstruktieren, läßt sich in Elemente verlegen, die montiert, photomontiert, werden: Photomontage, Photokombination. Sie drängt weiter und dringt in das typographische Satzbild ein, verdrängt gestaltenden Satz, will mit der Typographie verschmelzen und erscheint als Phototypographie auf dem Plan.” Ibid, 93. 44 Phototypographie not as a manipulation of photography by typographers and printers, but rather as an inherent quality of the modern medium. This implicated the printed halftone—which had enabled photographic reproduction on an unprecedented scale—as innately photographic, suggesting the printed page as a natural habitat for the integration of experimental photography into the typographic Satzbild. The idea of Phototypographie was visualized most commonly during the Weimar era in images that circulated not in photography books, but in promotional materials for corporations and as advertisements reproduced in the pages of newspapers and magazines. The basic composition of Lissitzky’s 1924 photograph of the hand and compass, for example, reappeared in an advertisement for Pelikan Drawing Ink (Fig. 1.2). Reproduced at a variety of sizes, the advertisement shows how the hybridization of photography and typography had become commonplace in commercial graphic design. 114 In this advertisement, the disembodied hand of the “architect or engineer” in Lissitzky’s original photograph now belongs to a different everyman: the consumer, who is identified only by the addition of the smart cuffs of a shirt and jacket. The original, gridded surface has been wiped clean. A hand reaches for a compass and ink jar that seem to float in space, projecting toward the beholder against a planar, monochrome background. The curved line that appeared to be drawn with the compass now traces a perfect circle, circumscribing the words “Drawing Ink.” This design combines the rationality of centripetal composition with implausible spatial relations to sell jars of ink. It has been heavily retouched to smooth out the tonal variation of the original photographic image, especially the hand, 114 My attention was initially drawn to the repurposing of Lissitzky’s Untitled (Hand with Compasses) (1924) for Pelikan by John E. Bowlt’s discussion of handcraft and machine production in Lissitzky’s work. See Bowlt, “Manipulating Metaphors: El Lissitzky and the Crafted Hand,” in Situating El Lissitzky, 129–52. 45 with areas of color applied evenly with an airbrush. Materially, this design retains little of Lissitzky’s composite photograph—and yet it is undeniably a result of his photographic experiments. The presence of his disembodied hand, repurposed to sell a product, suggests advertising as a surreal endgame for the hybridization of photography and type. Gutnoff’s commentary on Phototypographie was one among many efforts of Weimar-era printers and graphic designers to articulate their understanding of, and relationship to, the medium of photography. His remarks betrayed an urgency among designers and printers to identify what it meant to transform photographic images into graphic material, and how photographic images could best be used on the printed page. These questions became particularly pressing as graphic designers first attempted to define their profession, and the roles of technology, handcraft, and commerce within it, in the decade after the First World War. This set of dilemmas about the efficacy of photography in graphic design was articulated as Typophoto and taken up as a central issue by the network of designers known as the New Typographers. This chapter examines Typophoto as a multivalent idea and practice of graphic design, which connoted the hybridization of word and image through the transmutation of photography into graphic material—chiefly through the halftone process. I argue that the New Typographers aspired to integrate type and photographic halftones with the goal of transforming the process of reading from a laborious practice into an instantaneous and effortless reflex. I look primarily at writings in which Typophoto was explicitly invoked in order to parse the meanings of this term as it was explicitly used. Whereas most discussions of Typophoto begin and end with Moholy-Nagy’s Malerei Photographie Film (1925), my own treatment of this concept traces its inception prior to this book’s 46 publication and attends to Typophoto as foundational to the aspirations of New Typography. Examples of typographic design—as both process and product—are visual arguments about New Typography’s investment in the combination of photography and typography. This extends to looking at non-photographic forms to understand how designers thought about photography and its usefulness, identifying “photographic” strategies in the design of type and handmade illustrations. Typophoto was central to Moholy-Nagy’s and Tschichold’s shared conception of New Typography as a distinctly constructivist approach to graphic design. Tschichold, in particular, used “New Typography” interchangeably with “international constructivism” for graphic design and printing. International constructivism referred to the dissemination of ideas and practices associated with Russian constructivism as its proponents, and the avant-garde journals they created, began to migrate westward into Central Europe. 115 There was disagreement among its proponents as to whether international constructivism referred to an artistic style or to the dissolution of the traditional notion of art altogether, 115 Constructivism refers to the Russian avant-garde movement, which strove to replace traditional art with a technology-based approach to the production of useful objects appropriate for a new socialist society in the wake of the Russian Revolution. Its aims were first articulated in the “Program of the First Working Group of Constructivists,” written in 1922 by Aleksandr Rodchenko and Varvara Stepanova. Russian Constructivism redefined the artist as an engineer and proposed that the labor of production be visible in design. While “composition” was a term traditionally used to describe the arrangement of forms in painting, “construction” was a term borrowed from engineering. Their ideas traveled westward through published writings and especially through El Lissitzky, who had studied architecture in Darmstadt before World War I and immigrated to Berlin in 1922. For thorough studies of Constructivism, see See Maria Gough, The Artist as Producer: Russian Constructivism in Revolution (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005); Christina Kiaer, Imagine No Possessions: The Socialist Objects of Russian Constructivism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005); Christina Lodder, Russian Constructivism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); Perloff and Reed, Situating El Lissitzky; Kristin Romberg, Gan’s Constructivism: Aesthetic Theory for an Embedded Modernism (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2019). 47 as in its original Russian context. 116 For the New Typographers, this indeterminacy presented an opportunity to reimagine the relationship between text and image through a visual language inspired by the art and design of Revolutionary Russia. Starting in the early 1920s, László Moholy-Nagy began to treat type as abstract form in his own typographic work. 117 Rather than cling to conventional type design, he advocated for the construction of letterforms and arrangement of graphic elements to stimulate the eye and mind through visual relationships between line, form, and color. He paired this approach to typography with a belief in photography not merely as a signifier of information, but as visual information itself—that is, as a medium that could bring forth the materiality of a subject and reproduce it on the printed page. His experiments with Typophoto were intimately tied to his prediction that photography and film would eventually replace written language as forms of communication. 118 However, as Pepper 116 The term “international constructivism” originated with the cofounding of the Internationale Faktion der Konstruktivisten, by El Lissitzky, Theo van Doesburg, and Hans Richter, at the Kongress der Internationale fortschrittlicher Künstler in Düsseldorf in May 1922. Lissitzky, van Doesburg, and Ilya Ehrenburg brought together the shared ideas of De Sijl and Constructivism in the short-lived magazine Vesch’/Gegenstand/Objet, a channel of exchange between Russia and the West, published in March/April 1922 and May 1922. Christina Lodder, “El Lissitzky and the Export of Constructivism,” in Situating El Lissitzky, 28–30. See also Stephen Bann, The Tradition of Constructivism (New York: The Viking Press, 1974); Bernd Finkeldey, ed. Konstruktivistische internationale, schöpferische Arbeitsgemeinschaft, 1922-1927: Utopien für eine europäische Kultur (Stuttgart: Gerd Hatje, 1992). 117 Moholy-Nagy’s experiments with typography can be traced back to a series of paintings and collages made between 1919 and 1921 in which he combined abstracted, industrial forms with letterforms, numerals, and words, as well as abstract lines, using a primary color palette. See Victor Margolin, The Struggle for Utopia: Rodchenko, Lissitzky, Moholy-Nagy, 1917-1946 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1997), 49–52; Matthew S. Witkovsky, “Elemental Marks” in Moholy-Nagy: Future Present, eds. Matthew S. Witkovsky, Carol S. Eliel, and Karole P.B. Vail (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2016), 21–36. 118 See László Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film (Munich: Albert Langen Verlag, 1925). Despite Moholy-Nagy’s repeated iteration of this idea, Matthew Witkovsky has proposed that Moholy-Nagy’s “primary medium” was, in fact, writing, given that the bulk of his output as an artist, designer, theorist, and pedagogue was in the form of writing. See Witkovsky, “Elemental Marks,” 22. 48 Stetler has argued, Moholy-Nagy did not imagine this as the “assimilation of photography to traditionally textual ways of making meaning.” 119 Rather, he believed that photographic images introduced new kinds of temporality to printed matter, thereby transforming the modern practice of reading. A single photograph could be read instantly, while a sequence of images invited readers’ own interpretations and associations, protracting reading through cognition and memory. In Die Neue Typographie, Tschichold wrote: “We today have recognized photography as an essential typographic tool of the present.” 120 While he did not advocate for visual media to replace written language, he used the idea of Typophoto to promote the visual and material merging of photography and typography facilitated by offset printing and the halftone process. Like Moholy-Nagy, he experimented with abstract graphic form in productive contrast to what he regarded as the representational precision of photography. 121 He embraced Typophoto as a distinctly modern medium that would radically transform typography and book printing. Inventing Typophoto and New Typography The seeds of New Typography as a doctrine for graphic design that centered photography were sown in Jan Tschichold’s first encounter with the work of László Moholy-Nagy in the summer of 1923. 122 Earlier that year, Moholy-Nagy had joined the faculty of the Weimar Bauhaus as head of the Metal Workshop and director of the 119 Pepper Stetler, Stop Reading! Look! Modern Vision and the Weimar Photographic Book (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015), 2. 120 Jan Tschichold, The New Typography: A Handbook for Modern Designers, trans. Ruari McLean (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995 [1928]), 92. 121 Ibid. 122 See Robin Kinross’s introduction. Ibid, xvi. 49 Bauhausbücher series. Tschichold traveled to Weimar from his hometown of Leipzig to attend the school’s first public exhibition. 123 This event was formative for his eventual articulation of a discrete set of principles for graphic design that he believed could embody the spirit of international constructivism. 124 Shortly after, Tschichold began corresponding with Moholy-Nagy, and it was likely through him that Tschichold also became more familiar with the work of El Lissitzky, with whom he began to correspond in 1925. 125 Though he would not coin the term “Typophoto” until 1925, Moholy-Nagy introduced the idea of merging typography and photography in 1923 through his design and writing for the inaugural Bauhaus exhibition catalogue, Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923. 126 This book proposed the interconnectedness of photography and typography in three important ways. First, the catalogue showed—both textually and visually—that photographic illustrations could accompany typography as what Moholy-Nagy would later call “primary visual facts.” 127 He believed that photography’s capacity to capture texture and the visual effects of light through formal contrast—thereby visually instantiating the 123 The first public Bauhaus exhibition opened in the summer of 1923 on the school’s original campus in Weimar. See Barry Bergdoll and Leah Dickerman, eds., Bauhaus 1919-1933: Workshops for Modernity (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2009). 124 Tschichold’s first encounter with the Bauhaus has been repeatedly invoked in religious terms, as his “conversion” to modernism. See, for example, Sebastian Carter, Twentieth-Century Type Designers (London: W. W. Norton & Co., 2002), 122; Le Coultre and Purvis, Jan Tschichold; McLean, Jan Tschichold. For a thorough account of New Typography’s relationship to the Bauhaus, see Robin Kinross, “Das Bauhaus im Kontext der Neuen Typographie” in Das A und O des Bauhauses: Bauhauswerbung, Schriftbilder, Drucksachen, Ausstellungsdesign, eds. Ute Brüning and Jeannine Fiedler (Berlin: Bauhaus Archiv; Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 1995), 9–14. 125 Burke, Active Literature, 25; 40. 126 Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 (Weimar; Munich: Bauhausverlag, 1923). 127 László Moholy-Nagy, “Photography in Advertising,” in Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913-40, trans. and ed. Christopher Phillips (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Aperture, 1989), 88. (Originally published: László Moholy- Nagy, “Die Photographie in der Reklame,” Photographische Korrespondenz, 1927.) 50 materiality of an object on the page—could be used to free typography as abstract form. 128 Second, Moholy-Nagy established the idea that photography fortifies typography with clarity, legibility, and efficiency. 129 Third, Moholy-Nagy’s visual experiments with letterforms made reference to the raster pattern of the photographic halftone—a ubiquitous example of photography’s bearing on a new approach to graphic form. Moholy-Nagy’s essay, “Die Neue Typographie,” appeared in Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 and provided the moniker that Tschichold would soon adopt (Fig. 1.3–4). 130 In the space of a page, Moholy-Nagy described “the new typography” as a paradigm for communication in which the optical effects of formal abstraction could be effectively combined with the “objectivity” (Objektivität) of photographic illustration. The essay began with a simple assertion: “typography is an instrument of communication.” 131 Anodyne as it may seem now this statement introduced the idea that effectiveness of visual communication depended on an understanding of the basic elements of typographic form—that is, the size, color, scale, and arrangement of letterforms, illustrations, and abstract graphic elements. He made the rather radical case that the Klarheit (clarity) and 128 Bauhaus pedagogy, which was developed especially by Wassily Kandinsky, Paul Klee, Johannes Itten, Joseph Albers, and László Moholy-Nagy, was founded on the basic principle that all design and art should begin with abstract form. Bauhaus pedagogue drew alternately from Theosophy, metaphysics, and psychological science. See Bergdoll and Dickerman, eds. Bauhaus 1919-1933; Rainer K. Wick, Teaching at the Bauhaus (Stuttgart: Hatje Cantz Publishers, 2000). 129 These buzzwords in the fledgling profession of graphic design resonated with trends toward rationalization in Weimar-era design and industrial production, reflected in Jan Tschichold’s emphasis on standardization (particularly the adoption of printing and paper standards codified by the Deutsche Industrie-Normen) throughout Die Neue Typographie (1928). For more on rationalization and design in Weimar Germany, see Andreas Killen, “Weimar Psychotechnics between Americanism and Fascism,” Osiris 22, no. 1, The Self as Project: Politics and the Human Sciences (2007): 48–71; David Meskill, Optimizing the German Workforce: Labor Administration From Bismarck to the Economic Miracle (New York: Berghahn Books, 2010); Frederic J. Schwartz, The Werkbund: Design Theory and Mass Culture Before the First World War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996). 130 Moholy-Nagy, “Die Neue Typographie” in Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923, 141. 131 “Die Typographie ist ein Instrument der Mitteilung.” Ibid. 51 Lesbarkeit (legibility) of printed communication depended on principles of formal abstraction rather than on the familiarity of reader with conventional typographic styles. He proposed that “optical and physical laws” could mobilize “the unrestrained use of all line directions (not only horizontal arrangement), all type, letterform sizes, geometric forms, colors, etc” to ensure that the form of printed communication was a clear expression of its contents. 132 Through experiment with the “elasticity, variability, and freshness of typesetting materials,” he proposed “a new typographic language” with myriad applications. 133 Moholy-Nagy’s design of the catalogue’s interior was as consequential for Tschichold’s doctrine of New Typography, if not more so, as his comments on typographic form. 134 The title page suggests another use of photography in graphic design apart from the “objectivity” described in Moholy-Nagy’s writing or suggested with the photographic illustrations found in the book (Fig. 1.5). In what would seem to be the artless task of typesetting the book’s title and publisher, Moholy-Nagy presented this information as a visually dynamic construction using sans serif type, contrasting color, asymmetrical layout, varying scale, line weight, and abstract form. 135 Text is staggered 132 “Der Druck korrespondiere mit dem Inhalt durch seine den optischen und physischen Gesetzen untergeordnete Gestaltung. Wesen und Zweck eines Druckes bestimmen den hemmungslosen Gebrauch aller Zeilenrichtungen (also nicht nur horizontale Gliederung), aller Typen, Schriftgrade, geometrischen Formen, Farben, usw.” Moholy-Nagy, “Die Neue Typographie,” 141. Here Moholy-Nagy makes vague reference to principles of experimental psychology. Their influence on graphic design in the 1920s is discussed in depth in the following chapter. 133 “Mit der Elastizität, Variabilität und Frische des Satzmaterials soll eine neue typographische Sprache geschaffen werden, deren Inanspruchnahme nur der Gesetzmäßigkeit des Ausdrucks und seiner Wirkung unterliegt.” Ibid. 134 Moholy-Nagy was responsible for the catalogue’s interior and Herbert Bayer designed its cover. 135 I use the term “construction” here to describe what graphic designers today typically refer to as the “composition” of layout on a page. My use of “construction” follows New Typography’s self- identification with international constructivism. 52 and printed at disparate sizes. Two lines are turned sideways, prompting the reader to understand the orientation of the page in two directions, and perhaps to physically turn the book (or cock their head) sideways. The decentered arrangement of type echoes the form of the upper left corner of the page. Syncopated lines interrupt the regularity of the typographic grid, nested together like the corners of a series of concentric squares. The layout’s asymmetry is emphasized by the square format of the book, which measures approximately ten by ten inches. 136 The corner construction of the title page layout is emphasized graphically by the treatment of the word “BAUHAUS,” its magnitude amplified by bold red ink and its exaggerated size. Due to the disparity in scale between the “B” and the rest of the word, the first letter is made to look like a logo, which appears both separate from and in relation to, the subsequent red letters. Though the page is only printed in black and red ink, a detail of the type shows that a third color is created by screened patterns of parallel lines that constitute the other two words in the school’s name (Fig. 1.6). The patterned text treatment imbues these words with a relative weightlessness in contrast to the heaviness of the letters printed in opaque black and red ink. These words appear to float on the page, an effect enhanced by the overprinting of “S” and “T,” and by the overall layout of the page. As when looking at a halftone, the eye blends the screened pattern—in order to clearly read the words “Staatliches” and “Weimar”—such that they appear translucent and gray. 136 The book’s square format signaled that industrially printed books could retain an artisanal quality, embodying the Bauhaus ambition to harmonize aestheticism and industrial production. The Dutch design journal Wendingen, founded in 1918 by the architect Hendrik Wijdeveld, had likewise adopted a square format. See Martijn F. Le Coultre, Wendingen: A Journal for the Arts, 1918-1932 (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 2001). 53 If not a direct reference to the photographic halftone, this treatment of text evidences how the raster pattern produced by halftone printing was useful to designers like Moholy-Nagy not just in the faithful reproduction of photographs but as a typographic, formal, and optical device. 137 The overall effect of this typographic treatment is much more than an efficient presentation of information, as Moholy-Nagy described in “Die neue Typographie,” and as Tschichold would later reiterate. Rather, this design implicated the printed page as an architectural and psychological space for experiment with the optical effects of form that operated between verbal and visual modes. Moholy-Nagy’s play with the raster pattern established the photographic as a trope that would be repeated and elaborated by designers including Walter Dexel and Piet Zwart (Fig 1.7–8). Each used the halftone grid and the positive-negative quality of photography to play with typographic form and suggest Typophoto as verbal-visual hybridization. Reading the typographic treatment of the catalogue’s title page as an indirect homage to photography also situates this design among Moholy-Nagy’s many experiments with painting, printmaking, and photography in the early 1920s. The interconnectedness of these experiments evinces his interest in the manipulation of light as not only elemental to photography but something that could be explored with paint on canvas or with ink on a printing matrix. His 1923 postcard designed on the occasion of the first Bauhaus exhibition, for example, reproduces one of Moholy-Nagy’s many abstract “constructions” (Fig. 1.9). This four-color lithograph is one of many variations in which planes of primary color are arranged against a black background. Stippled dots of ink mix where the forms overlap, mimicking photography both by simulating light and shadow 137 I am grateful to Robert Gordon-Fogelson for helping me to articulate this design as an example of how the raster pattern of the photographic halftone informed this typographic treatment. 54 falling on or passing through variously opaque or translucent surfaces, as well as the reproduction of halftones in patterns of dots that cohere optically. As illusions of the action of light, the forms appear to glow as though projected in a dark space, or as negative images inscribed into the emulsion of a photogram. 138 Apparent throughout Moholy-Nagy’s design of the catalogue Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 is a stark disjuncture between the rhetoric of clarity and legibility in his writing and the playful use of abstract forms, scale, color, and layout in his typographic work. Throughout the catalogue, he used sans serif type for titles and subject headings, enlarging them to establish a visual hierarchy among different kinds of information. 139 Yet he also used abstract graphic elements, including vertical and horizontal rules and circles, in order to call attention to the book’s asymmetrical layout and to play with the boundaries between abstract and representational form. 140 While most of the book was printed in black ink, Moholy-Nagy used the color red judiciously yet playfully. On the title pages of each sub-section, he emphasized black text with red overlines (Fig. 1.10). 141 On pages where essays appear, he arranged author names perpendicular to the body of the text and printed in red (Fig. 1.11). Moholy-Nagy also 138 Moholy-Nagy also described this phenomenon in the context of cinema, which he regarded as a more advanced use of the action of light and shadow to create form, evolved out of cameraless photography. See Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film, 39–41. 139 This was a central principle of New Typography as Tschichold articulated it. See Tschichold, The New Typography, 66–68. 140 See the introduction to this dissertation for a brief explanation of my use of the phrase “abstract graphic elements” to describe non-representational forms in graphic design. 141 Overline, sometimes also referred to as an overbar or overscore, connotes a horizontal rule printed immediately above a line of text, word, or letterform, used (like an underline) for emphasis. Rob Carter, Ben Day and Phillip Meggs, Typographic Design: Form and Communication, Fourth edition (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2007). 55 created enlarged, elongated roman numerals using thick vertical rules that operate simultaneously as optical devices and as recognizable letterforms (Fig. 1.12). The book also includes a number of photographic illustrations, reproduced as halftones and printed one to a page, each surrounded by ample white space (see again Fig. 1.10). These photographic reproductions exemplify one of many uses of photography in graphic design that would come to be associated with New Typography. They are presented here as unmediated visual information, by contrast to the playfulness of typographic form printed alongside them. These photographic images present objects against monochrome backgrounds, indeterminate in their occupation of space and devoid of human subjects, despite standing in for the activities of teachers and students. They direct our gaze like the lens of a microscope, focusing to bring a specimen into clear view. This manner of reproducing photography on the printed page suggested that the directly signifying function of typography could be reassigned to photographic images, freeing typographic form to operate as optical devices and as elemental constructions. Inspired by his encounter with the first Bauhaus exhibition, especially graphics by Moholy-Nagy, Tschichold began experimenting with what he called “elemental forms” and incorporating the visual language of constructivism into his own designs. While still living in Leipzig, where the designer had received a traditional education as a lettering artist (Schriftzeichner), he began to explore the boundaries between abstract and typographic form by playing with form and color (Fig. 1.13). 142 Moholy-Nagy’s early 142 The son of a sign painter, Tschichold’s formal training began in 1919 at the Königliche Akademie für graphische Künste und Buchgewerbe in Leipzig, where he studied calligraphy with Hermann Delitsch. Under Delitsch, he was trained in the arts and crafts tradition, which promoted the revival of historic scripts and calligraphy as a mode of personal expression and as a marker of national identity. In 1920, he transferred to the Akademie für Kunstgewerbe in Dresden to work with Heinrich Wieynck. Burke, Active Literature, 17–19. For a more thorough account of 56 typographic designs provided visual guidelines that Tschichold would, between 1923 and 1928, rearticulate as a set of principles for using abstract graphic elements as optical devices to train the reader’s attention and memory. What also emerged in Tschichold’s first attempts to apply constructivist ideas to type design and layout was an interest in creating forms that toggled between representation and abstraction, in effect blurring the distinction between verbal and visual modes of communication. The same year that Tschichold traveled to Weimar to attend the first Bauhaus exhibition, Russian critic and formalist poet Viktor Schlovskii dismissed “nonobjective art” as a monolithic category. He proposed instead that, “there is only motivated art and unmotivated art.” 143 Schlovskii underlined the fact that abstract form could sometimes also be representational, or perform a signifying function, as was the case with abstract elements used as compositional devices in graphic design. In 1930, Tschichold similarly articulated the relationship between abstract forms in contemporary painting and in typography, which he called a “genetic connection.” Whereas “abstract painting is the ‘unpurposing’…of pure colour and form,” he wrote: typography signifies the visual (or aesthetic) ordering of given elements (practical requirements, type, pictures, colour, etc.) on a plane surface. The difference between painting and typography exists only inasmuch as in the former there is a free choice of elements and the resulting design has no practical purpose. 144 In Tschichold’s earliest experiments with constructivism, we already see his keen interest in deciphering the differences between “motivated” and “unmotivated” forms, to borrow Tschichold’s formal training and early career as a typography instructor, see Linda Wößner, “Tschichold als Lehrer—Das Fundament,” in Jan Tschichold–ein Jahrhunderttypograf? Blicke in den Nachlass, eds. Stephanie Jacobs and Patrick Rössler (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2019), 374–79. 143 Translated in: Devon Fore, Realism After Modernism: The Rehumanization of Art and Literature (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2012), 39. 144 Tschichold, “New Life in Print,” 7. 57 Schlovskii’s terms. In 1923, he began to understand the “purpose” of typographic form in an expanded way, as more than a linguistic signifier. New Typography’s eventual call for the banishment of typographic ornament meant that all forms incorporated into typesetting would have to be “motivated,” or purposeful, even those that lacked a clear semiotic function. If all formal choices were “motivated,” then any form could be read as simultaneously representational and abstract. Indeed, all form would draw its motivation from serving as an optical device that guided the eye deliberately around the page. In the summer of 1924, Tschichold began compiling material for a special issue of Typographische Mitteilungen. 145 In an early version of his cover design for this issue, Tschichold arranged the title—“Konstruktive Typographie” in this prototype—around the tilted axis of a large red rule (Fig. 1.14). Here we can see what he described as “elemental typography”: The red rule reads as a non-representational element and, at the same time, as the stem of the letter “T.” Likewise, an unattached, black rule arranged perpendicular to the red rule suggests the bar forming the top of the letter “T.” Its orientation on the page is echoed by the arrangement of the letters “YPO / GRAPHIE” that cut into the red rule below. 146 Tschichold used color, asymmetrical layout, and deconstruction of words and letterforms to test the limits of legibility. These choices render the design like a logo—a constructed image that relies on the interrelation of color and form to direct the movement of a reader’s eye, rather than on the familiarity of conventional typefaces. 145 The trade journal Typographische Mitteilungen: Zeitschrift des Bildungsverbandes der Deutschen Buchdrucker (Typographic News: Journal of the Education Association of German Printers) was founded in Leipzig in 1903 and circulated among professional typographers and printers in Germany. A comprehensive collection of Typographische Mitteilungen from the 1920s and 1930s is included in the Letterform Archive, San Francisco. 146 I use the terms stem and bar in reference to typographic anatomy according to common usage among graphic designers today. For a full glossary of typographic anatomy, see Carter, Day, and Meggs, Typographic Design: Form and Communication, 29–46. 58 The fusion of text and image in this design was achieved in large part through the manner in which it was created: it began as a pencil sketch, in which Tschichold began to map out the formal relationships of the design’s composition (Fig 1.15). He then created a collage of paper strips, using gridded paper to create uniform letterforms arranged irregularly, and adding paint to heighten the contrast between red and black ink on white paper. The design retained its basic orientation, but rotated to the right, roughly at a forty- five degree angle. The move from sketch to collage allowed Tschichold to arrange deconstructed letterforms and parts of each word as autonomous forms that could be overlapped to create different compositional effects. 147 The medium of collage facilitated an approach to the “construction” of design that Tschichold described as an iterative process of layering abstract elements such that they would cohere into a unified design while still maintaining their visual distinction in the final design as parts of a whole. 148 In the final version of the cover design, Tschichold pulled the stem and arm further apart, making them appear more like Moholy-Nagy’s overlines—to emphasize the issue’s title—than as parts of a distinctly legible letterform (Fig. 1.16). Without the collaged mockup for comparison, the “T” shape of the horizontal and vertical rules is all but undetectable in the final, printed cover design. Operating more as ground than figure, the vertical and horizontal rules allude to the underlying structure of the typographic grid. On one level, this process of abstracting and constructing letterforms using collage techniques was a far cry from Tschichold’s formal training in calligraphy. 147 My observations of the iterative process by which Tschichold created this design was facilitated by access to the largest concentrated repository of his work, to my knowledge, included in the Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 148 Tschichold used “construction” interchangeably with “design” throughout Die Neue Typographie. 59 Yet hand lettering was also a process of building the anatomy of type with abstract forms, as is evident in his c. 1919-25 sketch for the cover of the journal Führer der Deutschen Buchkunst (Fig. 1.17). 149 This design combines the conventional style of calligraphic lettering with red and blue elements that might function either as typographic ornament or as optical devices, using the primary color palette that would soon become emblematic of New Typography. Tschichold’s special issue of Typographische Mitteilungen was not published until October of 1925. 150 Meanwhile, his much shorter manifesto, “Die Neue Typographie,” appeared in the pages of the journal Kulturschau in the spring of 1925, borrowing the title and design tropes of Moholy-Nagy’s essay in Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 (Fig. 1.18). 151 It consisted of a succinct list of sixteen principles, printed alongside typographic samples by Lissitzky and Moholy-Nagy. He dedicated one principle to the visual eloquence and cost-effectiveness of photography, claiming the superiority of photographic illustrations over reproductions of drawings: Photography is more persuasive than drawing. With increasing usage and the corresponding reduction in cost of the new reproduction technologies, there is no further obstruction to the 149 This unpublished design mock-up is located in Box 50, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. The approximate date is based on the label affixed to the box, which identifies its contents as, “Plakatentwurfsarbeiten, frühe Entwürfe,” dated between 1919 and 1925. 150 Jan (Iwan) Tschichold, “sonderheft: elementare typographie,” Typographische Mitteilungen (October 1925). The phrase “elementare typographie” can be translated to mean “elemental typography,” referring to the use of basic formal and material elements of typography—including color, line, scale, basic abstract shapes, as well as photographic illustrations—to optimize the legibility and efficiency of a design, rather than using ornamental typography. The word elementare also translates as “elementary” or “basic.” Tschichold often used elementare and konstruktivist interchangeably, thereby explicitly referring to New Typography as constructivist graphic design. 151 Jan Tschichold, “Die Neue Typographie,” Kulturschau no. 4 (Spring 1925): 9–11. See also Christopher Burke’s brief commentary on this manifesto in Burke, Active Literature, 28–30. 60 exclusive and expanded application of photography as a means of illustration, which we fundamentally aspire to. 152 Tschichold’s praise of photography underlined New Typography as a system of communication born of the urgent need to reach as wide a readership as possible. Tschichold invoked photography as both a means of illustration and reproduction, functions that were mutually reinforcing. He recognized photography’s usefulness to graphic design as a medium for creating new forms and for generating faithful copies. In doing so, he acknowledged, the limitless flexibility of the photographic medium as a tool for visual communication. In 1925, the special issue of Typographische Mitteilungen, which Tschichold titled elementare typographie (elemental typography), was published as a much-expanded manifesto for New Typography with many authors. 153 The movement was presented as truly international and collective, defined equally in verbal and visual terms. The issue brought together short texts and designs by practitioners scattered across central and eastern Europe, most of whom had traveled through or immigrated permanently to Germany after World War I. Contributions came from Nathan Altman and El Lissitzky of Russia; Otto Baumberger of Switzerland; Herbert Bayer of Austria; Max Burchartz, Johannes Molzahn, and Kurt Schwitters of Germany; Molnár Farkas and Moholy-Nagy of Hungary; and Mart Stam of the Netherlands. Included was Moholy-Nagy’s essay, “Typographie-Photographie / TYPO-PHOTO,” in which he reiterated photography and typography the “basic elements of the new typography.” 154 Also included were several 152 Tschichold, “Die Neue Typographie,” in Burke, Active Literature, 29. 153 Tschichold, “sonderheft: elementare typographie,” 192–214. 154 László Moholy-Nagy, “Typographie-Photographie / TYPO-PHOTO,” in Tschichold, “sonderheft: elementare typographie,” 202–04. This essay is a variant of the short section, “Typophoto,” which appeared in Malerei Photographie Film, his first Bauhaus book published the 61 short essays by Tschichold, presenting New Typography as an international movement in graphic design, which he regarded as decisive for the revolutionary potential of visual communication. 155 Tschichold’s texts for elementare typographie reframed the paradox that lay at the heart of New Typography that Moholy-Nagy had already articulated in the first Bauhaus exhibition catalogue in 1923. Like Moholy-Nagy, Tschichold emphasized New Typography as purely functional while also implicating this new mode of design as experimental, especially with regard to the interplay between linguistic representation and formal abstraction. One of his short essays in elementare typographie, which shares the issue’s title, focused on how the spirit and aesthetic of Constructivism could be applied specifically to the practice of typography. 156 It began with a numbered list of four aphorisms, starting with the ostensibly simple declaration that, “the new typography is functional [zweckbetont].” 157 Each principle builds on the one before; the second clarifies same year. The essay in Moholy-Nagy’s book is a slightly longer version of what appeared in “sonderheft: elementare typographie.” They also differ in that the version in “sonderheft: elementare typographie” is set in a single typeface. See Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film. 155 Though Tschichold was not outspokenly political and had no known ties to the Communist Party, he borrowed the language of political revolution to promote the formal and technological transformation of typography, bookmaking, and printing. He signaled his association with international constructivism (especially as a follower and friend of Lissitzxky) especially through his choice to go by the first name “Iwan” (from his given name, Johannes). Friedrich Friedl has dated this change to c. 1923-24. His name appears as “Iwan Tschichold” in elementare typographie. See Friedl, “Lernen von Jan Tschichold,” facsimile of Tschichold, ed., sonderheft: elementare typographie (Mainz: H. Schmidt, 1986), 3. In 1926, Tschichold began going by “Jan” at Paul Renner’s request, upon relocating to Munich as the spread of Nazi ideology in Bavaria made Munich increasingly more conservative in the late 1920s. See Burke, Active Literature, 54– 56. 156 This was arguably a more urgent question for Tschichold than other designers associated with New Typography, given that he was the one designer among them who was trained as a calligrapher, and thus was more fully immersed in the traditions of lettering than those who had studied fine art or architecture. Carter, Twentieth-Century Type Designers, 121. 157 “1. Die neue Typographie ist zweckbetont.” Tschichold, “Elementare Typographie,” in sonderheft: elementare typographie, 198. 62 that “the purpose of any typography is communication,” which “must appear in the shortest, simplest, and strongest form.” 158 The third principle emphasizes the importance of the relationship between typographic form and the content it represents. The fourth and final principle of “Elementare Typographie” announced photography as fundamental to modern visual communication: 4. Internal organization is restriction to the basic elements of typography: letters, figures, signs, lines of type set by hand and by machine. The basic elements of the new typography also include, in the optically organized world, the exact image: photography. Elemental type form is sans serif in all its variations: thin— medium—fat—narrow to wide. 159 Like Moholy-Nagy, Tschichold characterized photographic illustration as an “exact picture” (exakte Bild) that should be combined with sans serif type, which he described as the “elemental form of writing” (elementare Schriftform). Despite the prominence of photography in this short outline, Tschichold gave no explanation for why he regarded photography as a superior means of illustration. Rather, in this text, the precision of photographic images is taken to be self-evident. The idea of photographic images as visual facts was not only a defense of photographic illustration but was also used to fortify the typographic distinction of New Typography. Perhaps the most important hallmark of New Typography was the use of sans serif typefaces during a time when sans serif type was still relatively scarce in mass 158 “2. Zweck jeder Typographie ist Mitteilung (deren Mittel sie darstellt). Die Mitteilung muss in kürzester, einfachster, eindringlichster Form erscheinen.” Ibid. 159 “Innere Organisation ist Beschränkung auf die elementaren Mittel der Typographie: Schrift, Zahlen, Zeichen, Linien des Setzkastens und Setzmaschine. Zu den elementaren Mitteln neuer Typographie gehört in der heutigen, auf Optik eingestellten Welt auch das exakte Bild: die Photographie. Elementare Schriftform ist die Groteskschrift aller Variationen: mager—halbfett— fett—schmal bis breit.” Ibid. Italics and bold are original to Tschichold’s text. 63 media. An advertisement from 1926 for the clothing concern Leonard Tietz Kaufhaus in the Württemberger Zeitung by German designer Willi Baumeister, who would soon become associated with New Typography, shows the stark contrast between sans serif type and Fraktur (Fig. 1.19). 160 Like Moholy-Nagy, Baumeister used vertical rules to organize and emphasize information about different items for sale. Baumeister’s use of large-scale, sans serif type also renders the advertisement a pictorial construction consisting only of type, visually distinct from editorial copy on the same page. By insisting on the compatibility of the photographic halftone and simplified form of sans serif type, Tschichold attempted to establish the superiority of sans serif (Grotesk) type on the basis of its association with photography—not because of their similarity, but because of their productive contrast. Specifically, as a means of representing three- dimensional space, photography forced a new way of thinking about graphic space: “The introduction of the photographic block has enabled us to use the dynamics of three dimensions. It is precisely the contrast between the apparent three dimensions of photography and the plane form of type that gives our typography its strength.” 161 He reiterated this productive contrast as key to legibility. By corroborating the superior legibility of Grotesk, the presence of photographic illustration could help combat the dominance of Fraktur, which in the mid-1920s was the dominant typeface in which the majority of German newspapers were set (Fig. 1.20). 162 Given its ubiquity in the popular 160 This clipping from the February 12, 1926 issue of the Würtemberger Zeitung was found in the Typographische Sammlung Jan Tschichold, Bibliothek für Gestaltung Basel. 161 Tschichold, The New Typography, 92. 162 Fraktur was commissioned by Emperor Maximilian I in 1513 and became the most commonly used form of blackletter (also known as Gothic script) soon after its invention, so much so that it eventually became synonymous with blackletter. Fraktur appeared alongside roman type through the nineteenth century but was used to spread and strengthen nationalist sentiment, especially in wartime, in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Hans Peter Willberg, “Fraktur and 64 press, Fraktur was likely the most legible typeface for the average German reader in the 1920s. 163 What is more, deep-seeded associations of Fraktur with the history of German printing infused these typefaces with strong connotations of nationalism and ethnic identity. 164 True to its constructivist origins, New Typography’s advocacy of Grotesk over Fraktur was explicitly internationalist. Thus, making a strong case for the superiority of sans serif type was a radical stance and a defining one for New Typography. Despite its narrowly functionalist rhetoric, New Typography’s principles— especially the association of sans serif type with photography—proved far more malleable in practice than Tschichold initially proposed. Typophoto was, explicitly, a declaration of the superiority of photographic illustration over drawing and of photomechanical reproduction enabled by the halftone process. However, on an implicit level, Typophoto was indicative of the pervasiveness of rationalization, scientific management, and Nationalism,” in Blackletter: Type and National Identity, eds. Peter Bain and Paul Shaw (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 1998), 40–49. 163 Debate over the legibility of Fraktur, frequently compared to that of Antiqua (or Roman type), began in the nineteenth century and continued into the twentieth, prompting the publication of books including August Kirschmann, Antiqua oder Fraktur? (Lateinische oder deutsche Schrift), vol. 1 (Leipzig: Verlag des Deutschen Buchgewerbevereins, 1907). Proponents of Fraktur long advocated its dominance because of its almost exclusive use in Germany after most other European countries had stopped using it after the seventeenth century, while some advocated Antiqua as a more internationalist typeface that would help align Germany with the rest of Europe. Antiqua had become more popular in the Weimar era, but Fraktur was still frequently used. For more on this debate, see Christopher Burke, “German Hybrid Typefaces 1900-1914,” in Bain and Shaw, eds. Blackletter, 38–39; Hannah J. McMurray, “Winning New Freedom: Intersections of Text and Image in the Art of Kurt Schwitters,” PhD diss. (University of Michigan, 2017), 112– 17. According to Dutch researcher Gerrit Ovink, who studied typographic legibility in the 1920s and 1930s, the ubiquity of Fraktur in Germany made it more legible to Germans, but he also argued that Antiqua capital letterforms were more individually legible than isolated Fraktur letterforms. See Gerrit Willem Ovink, Legibility, Atmosphere-Value and Forms of Printing Types (Leiden: A. W. Sijthoff, 1938), 115. A discussion of Ovink’s work is included in the following chapter. 164 The nationalist and ethnic connotations of Fraktur were later weaponized by the Nazi party to malign avant-garde art and design as “degenerate” and un-German, promoting Aryan racial ‘purity’ in efforts to justify hypernationalism and isolationism. See Burke, “German Hybrid Typefaces 1900-1914.” 65 romanticization of technology in Weimar German culture. As in Russian Constructivist graphics, the presence of photographic images in New Typography’s designs signaled a belief in technology as the co-producer of a utopian future. Above all, Typophoto served as a guiding ideology for New Typography: the movement’s stated aims as an unequivocally objective and efficient system of communication were visualized through the ubiquity of photographic illustration. Importantly, the ideological function of Typophoto could not be separated from its practical efficacy; photographic halftones in the designs of New Typography were not merely the most “efficient” means of illustration. Rather, their presence signified the importance of industrial-scale printing for the future of visual communication. Thus the conflation of “photography” as both means of illustration and reproductive technology was key to the meaning of Typophoto for New Typography. Printing Typophoto: Photographic Material and Typographic Form The early writings of Tschichold and Moholy-Nagy on Typophoto suggest that one of its most important, explicit meanings was the material instantiation of photographic facts on the printed page. This idea betrays the deep influence of the Russian avant-garde on their thinking about the usefulness of photography in graphic design. Their matter-of- fact appeals to the exactitude of photographic representation echoed similar declarations by photographer-designers and theorists including Aleksandr Rodchenko, Osip Brik, and El Lissitzky. In the mid-1920s, the Russian Constructivists began to champion photographs as unmediated traces of reality—rather than pictorial representations of the world—which they called “factography.” 165 By reproducing photographic images in 165 See especially Benjamin Buchloh’s discussion of the Constructivist notion of “faktura” giving way to “factography” in 1924. Benjamin H.D. Buchloh, “Faktura to Factography,” October no. 30 66 journals such as Lef and Novyi Lef, they fused a belief in the indexical quality of the photograph—as a material trace of its referent—with their use of printed matter as a space for active reader participation, rather than passive reception. “Elemental typography,” by contrast, enhanced the reader’s sense of the printed page as a constructed space, in productive contrast to the immediacy of photographic images as visual facts. The term Typophoto first appeared in László Moholy-Nagy’s 1925 book, Malerei Photographie Film (Painting Photography Film), the eighth volume in the Bauhausbücher series. In a section dedicated to “Typophoto,” he boldly declared: “The printer’s work is part of the foundation on which the new world will be built.” 166 He framed Typophoto as part of a belief in printing as a utopian process—and the printing press as a literal foundation for the future. 167 He identified artists, scientists and, above all, printers as the agents of a revolution in modern communication, and thus as forerunners of a progressive (Autumn 1984): 82–119. See also Leah Dickerman, “The Fact and the Photograph,” October no. 118, Soviet Factography (Fall 2006): 132–52. 166 Emphasis is original to Moholy-Nagy’s text. See László Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film (Munich: Albert Langen Verlag, 1925), 38–40. Originally published in 1925 as the eighth installment of the Bauhausbücher series, the book’s title was changed from Malerei Photographie Film to Malerei Fotografie Film in its first reprinting in 1927, adopting a spelling of “Fotografie” in accordance with changes to German orthography (Rechtschreibung) promoted as more efficient by the Deutscher Normenausschuss and in Walter Porstmann, Sprache und Schrift, ed. Richard R. Hinz (Berlin: Verlag des Vereins Deutscher Ingenieure, 1920). See Kinross, “Introduction to the English-Language Edition,” in The New Typography, xxxi; Margolin, The Struggle for Utopia, 142, n. 41. Though this was the first volume of the Bauhausbücher written by Moholy-Nagy, his mark is visible throughout as designer. For a study of Moholy-Nagy as a book designer for the Dessau Bauhaus, see Alain Findeli, “Laszlo Moholy-Nagy und das Projekt der Bauhausbücher” in Brüning, ed., Das A und O des Bauhauses, 22–26. 167 Speculations about the future, and urgent appeals to building a “new world,” were common among cultural commentators in Germany during the Weimar era, reflecting a shared sense of urgency around the need to rebuild society in the wake of the physical, psychological, and economic devastation of World War I. For more on these tropes of political and cultural rhetoric in Weimar Germany, see Jeffrey Herf, Reactionary Modernism: Technology, Culture, and Politics in Weimar and the Third Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Detlev Peukert, The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity, trans. Richard Deveson (New York: Hill and Wang, 1992); Eric D. Weitz, Weimar Germany: Promise and Tragedy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2007). 67 vision for the future. Moreover, he implicated them as creators of Typophoto. In describing the wide reach of the printer in shaping society, he insisted that photography had revolutionized printing through processes of photomechanical reproduction. He therefore called for “every printing press [to] possess its own block-making plant” in order to facilitate photomechanical reproduction in all printing. 168 Moholy-Nagy presented Typophoto as a hybrid medium predicated on the material connection between photography and typography that would engender mass photographic literacy. As a typographer, this was an idea that Tschichold found particularly compelling. Between 1923 and 1928, Moholy-Nagy and Tschichold independently developed theories that, when studied together, amount to a collective understanding of photography as a primarily graphic tool. Both men considered photography’s material transmutation through the halftone process into a medium of communication that delivered pure information. This transformation freed typographic form to function in other ways— namely, to direct and control a reader’s attention and memory. For the New Typographers, the interrelation of type as pure form and photographic images as materialized information—rendered immediate and tangible by the halftone—established a way of thinking about how Typophoto could transform the everyday practice of reading in the modern era. When Tschichold first recapitulated Moholy-Nagy’s concept of Typophoto, he used it to elaborate photography’s importance to industrial-scale printing: The invention [of photographic blocks] has introduced a new epoch in graphic design, in whose beginning we now first find ourselves. Nearly everything formerly achieved by drawings, whether engraved, cut, or etched, can now be done better, faster, and usually 168 Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film, 39. 68 more cheaply by photos and blocks…Photographs, like letters, are a means of communication. The faster and simpler the means of communication the better. The development of our type from pictures to writing was intended to increase, as much as possible, understanding between people. Today there is much that we can ‘say’ more simply with photographs than with words. 169 He lauded the efficiency of photographic illustrations both in terms of the speed of their production and as visual forms that could be instantaneously apprehended and therefore speed up the process of reading. On a technological level, the photographic block had created a material equivalence between photographic halftone and type. The halftone process had not only made reproductions of photographs faster, cheaper, and thus more ubiquitous, but in fact had fundamentally changed the materiality of photographic images reproduced in the pages of newspapers, magazines, and books. Introduced commercially in 1880, the halftone process translated the continuous- tone photographic print into a matrix of dots of ink that could be printed from the same matrix as type (Fig. 1.21). 170 Both could be impressed onto paper with printing plates or cylinders, which ultimately enabled the cheap, industrial-scale reproduction of photographic images. This process effectively enabled the dissemination of photography as a mass medium. Yet the photographic halftone did not replace other forms of illustration across the board, nor was it easily assimilated into daily reading habits. When photographic halftones first appeared in the illustrated press, readers struggled to see coherent, photographic images through the graphic matrix of the halftone. They had to be 169 Tschichold, The New Typography, 157–58. 170 See the introduction to this dissertation for a technical description of the halftone process. Paul Jobling and David Crowley have traced the first appearances of photographic halftones in the New York Daily Graphic, in 1880, and in the Illustrated London News, in 1881, but they have noted that wood engraving continued to be a dominant reproductive technique, used until at least 1900. See also Thierry Gervais, “La Similigravure: le récit d’une invention (1878–1893),” Nouvelles de l’Estampe no. 229 (March 2010): 8–25. 69 trained to read the halftone over time through increasingly frequent encounters with photographic reproductions, ultimately learning how to read abstract patterns of printed dots as photographic images. Moreover, the halftones they encountered in newspapers and magazines were heavily retouched by typographers, engravers and printers. These practices often made drawn illustration and photography visually indistinguishable, as in the advertisement by El Lissitzky described in this chapter’s introduction. 171 When Moholy-Nagy announced the halftone as complementary to typography in 1925, Typophoto was, in a sense, already nearly a half-century old. However, New Typography’s attempt to reinvent photographic images in print was radical in several ways. Although photographic halftones were already commonplace in periodicals, this was still a practice widely regarded as suitable only for disposable media, and was not yet routine in book printing. 172 Typophoto also indicated a campaign not only for the inclusion of photographic illustrations in all printed matter, but the wholesale replacement of drawn illustration with photographic images. 173 Moreover, for many of the New Typographers, Typophoto indicated a collective interest in the visibility of the halftone as such—not disguised through extensive retouching or airbrushing. The halftone’s visibility on the 171 For studies on the relationship between photography, engraving and printing around the turn of the twentieth century, see Gerry Beegan. The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Richard Benson, The Printed Picture (New York: Museum of Modern Art/ Distributed by D.A.P., 2008); Jobling and Crowley, Graphic Design. 172 With the exception of books featuring the work of contemporary photographers, it was still relatively rare to use photographic illustrations, especially for “fine” book printing in the 1920s. See Kinross, “Introduction to the English-Language Edition,” in The New Typography, xxxii. Sigfrid Steinberg has noted that there was still a strong tradition of bookmaking in private presses in the 1920s, which tended to strongly favor woodcut and linoleum cut illustrations over photographic illustrations. See S. H. Steinberg, Five Hundred Years of Printing, new ed. (London: British Library; New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press, 2001), 186. 173 See Tschichold, The New Typography, 87–95. 70 page served as an important reminder that printing—the technological foundation of graphic design—enabled the mass dissemination of photography as information to be read. More than half of Moholy-Nagy’s 1923 essay, “Die neue Typographie,” included in Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923, was dedicated to a discussion of photography as a visual medium and as a modern technology. He regarded it as crucial to “the new typography” in two ways: as a technology that enabled photomechanical reproduction, and as a direct means of image production. Embedded in this discussion of photography as a typographic tool was the idea of the medium as both reproductive and productive—now considered one of his most important contributions to theories of photography. 174 He foregrounded the preeminence of photomechanical technology in facilitating visual communication: “Of utmost importance to typography today is the use of zincographic techniques, 175 the mechanical production of photographic reproductions in all formats.” 176 174 Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 79–82. (Originally published: László Moholy-Nagy, “Produktion-Reproducktion,” De Stijl 5, no. 7 (July 1922.) 175 Zincography, to which Moholy-Nagy referred here, was a planometric printing process that used sensitized zinc plates to create larger-scale and more cost-effective reproductions than the use of a lithographic stone. Photogravure was a variant of the zincographic process: as early as 1850, zinc plates were used to transfer photographic images to the printed page. See Lucien Alphonse Legros and John Cameron Grant, Typographical Printing-Surfaces: The Technology and Mechanism of Their Production (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1916), 489; Benson, The Printed Picture, 222–27; Stulik and Kaplan, Halftone, 5. Halftone images produced using zinc or copper plates were also known as “phototones” in the 1920s. See Charles W. Hackleman, Commercial Engraving and Printing: A Manual of Practical Instruction Covering Commercial Illustrating and Printing by All Processes (Indianapolis, IN: Commercial Engraving Publishing Company, 1921), 265. This process was key for the translation of halftones onto printing plates. John Harthan, The History of the Illustrated Book: The Western Tradition (London: Thames and Hudson, 1981), 282. 176 “Das Wichtigste für die heutige Typographie ist der Verwendung der zinkographischen Techniken, die mechanische Herstellung von photographischen Reproduktionen in allen Formaten.” Moholy-Nagy, “Die Neue Typographie,” 141. 71 This assertion points to the hybrid meaning of photography as part of Typophoto. It referred simultaneously to the combined verbal-visual language of typography and photographic illustration as well as to the way in which photographic technology enabled the mass-circulation of typographic form and material. This dual meaning accounts for a notable slippage in Tschichold’s discussions of photography. He often referred to the exactitude and clarity of “photography” without distinguishing between the photographic image and photomechanical reproduction. Noting this imprecision in the designer’s writing, Robin Kinross has argued that Tschichold was primarily advocating the presence of photographic images in printed matter rather than for photomechanical reproduction. 177 Yet I contend that, for Tschichold as for Moholy-Nagy, these connotations could not be pulled apart: the capaciousness of ‘photography’—and the dual status of the halftone as both a means of image production and a technology of reproduction—was precisely what fortified it as a cornerstone of New Typography. Any given usage of the word could connote photography as a means of image production, as a technology of reproduction, or as an idea of mechanized utopia. ‘Typophoto’ preserved all of these meanings simultaneously. Moholy-Nagy believed that reproductive technologies had turned photography into “typographical material,” thereby producing a new, superior medium of communication. As “typographical material,” photographic images could be used as communicative devices integrated with type, or as “Fototext” that could replace written language altogether as unmediated information, which could be immediately understood. 178 This idea was initially interpreted and restated by Tschichold as a claim to the objectivity of 177 Kinross, “Introduction to the English-Language Edition,” in The New Typography, xxxii. 178 Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film, 38. Emphasis in bold is Moholy-Nagy’s. 72 photography as a communicative device. Yet, in Malerei Photographie Film, Moholy- Nagy added: “The form, the rendering is constructed out of the optical and associative relationships: into a visual, associative, conceptual, synthetic continuity: into the typophoto as an unambiguous rendering in an optically valid form.” 179 He implied that reading Typophoto could also be an act of visual construction, seeing and interpreting relationships between forms, and perhaps producing new meaning through cognitive association. Already in its earliest iteration, Typophoto connoted both objective communication and open interpretation. From its inception, the term held contradiction and ambiguity, even in the most direct attempts to define it. Tschichold explicitly adopted Typophoto as a pillar of modernist graphic design in his first book, Die Neue Typographie (1928), which translated the theoretical claims first articulated by Moholy-Nagy in 1923 into a universal handbook for graphic design and printing. 180 The book was published three years after elementare typographie, elaborating the ideas of its dispersed contributors in Tschichold’s own words. He had continued to solicit and compile designs from fellow designers to help visually articulate the principles of New Typography between 1925 and 1928, and much of this material was reproduced in the book as illustrations. 181 Intended for a readership of typographers and printers, Die Neue Typographie offered a little history of typography and a fully codified guide to the standardized design and production of all printed matter, including books, advertisements, 179 Ibid. 180 Tschichold, Die Neue Typographie. 181 This is evident from the illustrations reproduced in Die Neue Typographie, which represent only a fraction of the designer’s vast collection of materials by other designers, amassed in the 1920s and 1930s. These materials are currently divided between: Tschichold’s estate housed by the Deutsches Buch und Schriftsmuseum, housed by the Nationalbibliothek in Leipzig; the Jan and Edith Tschichold papers at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles; and the Typographische Sammlung Jan Tschichold, Bibliothek für Gestaltung Basel. 73 posters, letterhead, business cards, book plates, periodicals, and envelopes. The book is filled with prescriptions of “good” and “bad” graphic design, according to the doctrine of New Typography, many of which would have been familiar to anyone who had read elementare typographie. Equally, the layouts and typographic treatments of both elementare typographie and Malerei Photographie Film, like the 1923 Bauhaus exhibition catalogue, served as visual precedents for the principles of New Typography as Tschichold outlined them in 1928. For both its style and content, Tschichold’s book is best described as both a design handbook and a theoretical manifesto, a format that was as controversial as its contents. He borrowed the conversational, emphatic tone typical of avant-garde manifestos, combined with the didacticism of a practical handbook. One section, “Photographie und Typographie,” dedicated to a lengthy defense of the relationship between photography and typography, begins by firmly dismissing the objections of unnamed “book craftsmen” to combining photography with type. This rhetorical strategy permeates much of Tschichold’s writing: he frequently made reference to antiquated positions of unnamed naysayers as straw man arguments, anticipating critiques and fortifying his own position as modern and future facing. Indeed, the publication of Die Neue Typographie was met with criticism, especially from the printing world. Chairman of the Leipzig Typographical Society, Rudolf Engel-Hardt, praised the “guiding idea of new typography… [as] the expression of the spirit of the present” and “an enrichment of typographic design.” 182 However, he 182 “Die leitende Idee dieser neuen Typographie, Ausdruck des Zeitgeistes der Gegenwart zu sein, ist richtig, und sieht man von den vielen allerdings wohl auch nicht zu umgehenden Fehlgriffen ab, so finden sich doch auch zahlreiche wertvolle Leistungen, die eine Bereicherung typographischen Gestaltens bedeuten.” Rudolf Engel-Hardt, “Neujahrsgedanken zur Typographie,” Klimschs 74 sharply rejected Tschichold’s promotion of a standardized formula for all printed matter. Rather, he maintained that, “typographic form and content” must be reconciled with “the affirmation of a new will to form-production” such that typographic form “corresponds to the character of the printed matter.” 183 At issue for Engel-Hardt, as for many printers and typographers, was how to preserve the craft of bookmaking and the agency of the typographer with the increasing standardization of industrialized printing. However, this dilemma was expressed indirectly through invoking the “character” of typographic form. He portrayed New Typography’s emphasis on the pure functionality as essentially soulless, a dangerous harbinger of “‘Neue Sachlichkeit’ at any price.” 184 Tschichold’s claims to New Typography as the expression of the Zeitgeist are best understood as a Druckerei-Anzeiger 57, no. 2 (January 7, 1930): 31. Engel-Hardt’s remarks are included in a collection of short statements by German printers and typographers on the state of their field, marking the beginning of the new year. Although these reflections were published five years after the release of elementare typographie and two years after Die Neue Typographie was published, many discuss Tschichold’s formula with urgency, evidence of how deeply felt New Typography’s announcements were in the German printing world. 183 “Höchstes Ziel des Buchdruckers muß sein, unter Bejahung des neuen Gestaltungswillens typographische Form und Inhalt aufeinander abzustimmen, d.h. eine Satzweise zu finden, die dem Charakter der Drucksache jeweils entspricht.” Ibid. Though often translated simply as “design,” my translation of Gestaltung is informed by Detlef Mertins and Michael Jennings’s discussion of the complex meanings encoded in this word, in their introduction to G: An Avant-Garde Journal of Art, Architecture, Design, and Film, 1923-1926, on the international journal founded and promoted by Hans Richter, Theo van Doesburg, El Lissitzky, Raoul Hausmann, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, and Werner Graeff. Mertins and Jennings note the intentional slippage in uses of Gestaltung by the Central European avant-garde between parts of speech, using the term to “refer to form as well as to the process of formation or form-creation or form-giving or even production.” Noting the term’s connotation of both biological formation and technological production, they translate Gestaltung principally as “form-creation,” or, when used in the context of constructivism, as “form-production.” I use the latter translation throughout this dissertation to invoke the constructivist connotation of “montage,” referring to photomontage as both a product and process of technological assembly. See Detlef Mertins and Michael W. Jennings, “Introduction: The G- Group and the European Avant-Garde,” in G: An Avant-Garde Journal of Art, Architecture, Design, and Film, 1923-1926 (Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2010), 5. 184 “Jede Verallgemeinerung oder Überbetonung ist verfehlt, falsch ist auch 'Neue Sachlichkeit' um jeden Preis.” Ibid. 75 defense against such critiques. He insisted that the agency of the individual artist or craftsman could be replaced by the collective agency of the unified field of graphic design. The materiality of Typophoto was part of Tschichold’s radical campaign to standardize all printed matter, provoking Engel-Hardt’s concerns. As a mechanical means of image production, photography was emblematic of the spirit of what Walter Porstmann called the “Stahlzeit” (age of steel) of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 185 A German engineer and theoretician who had also worked as a typesetter, Porstmann was a founding member of the Deutsche Institut für Normung whose promotion of script suited to the modern age was deeply influential for Tschichold. 186 Die Neue Typographie was Tschichold’s boldest attempt to bring Porstmann’s theoretical and practical proposals to bear on the field of printing. He envisioned a “graphic culture of the future” in which “photography will be as expressive of our age as the woodcut was of the Middle Ages.” 187 185 He contrasted the Stahlzeit to the Holzzeit (age of wood) of the Middle Ages. Walter Porstmann, Sprache und Schrift, ed. Richard R. Hinz (Berlin: Verlag des Vereins Deutscher Ingenieure, 1920). Steel was a popular motif in interwar German culture, used especially to evoke experiences of soldiers during World War I. Most famously, Ernst Jünger included it in the title of his memoir: Ernst Jünger, In Stahlgewittern: Aus dem Tagebuch eines Stoßtruppführers [In Storms of Steel: From the Diary of a Shock Troop Commander] (Berlin: Verlag von E. S. Mittler & Sohn, 1922). 186 Founded in 1917 as the Normenausschuß der deutschen Industrie, the state-run Deutsche Institut für Normung (DIN) establishes and maintains standards for manufacturing, trade, and science. “DIN – kurz erklärt,” Deutsche Institut für Normung. https://www.din.de/de/ueber- normen-und-standards/basiswissen (accessed July 31, 2019). The influence of Porstmann and the DIN on Tschichold is evident in the overarching argument of Die Neue Typographie, which closely follows that of Porstmann’s Sprache und Schrift, as well as in the reproduction of a number of DIN documents for the standardization of paper size and various references to Porstmann in the book. Tschichold was a voracious collector of DIN materials, many of which are included in the Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. DIN standards were a popular subject of debate among printers and typographers in Weimar Germany. See, for example, Robert Eduard Kukowka, “Der Einfluss des DIN-Formates auf die Satztechnik,” Klimschs Druckerei-Anzeiger 54, no. 14 (1927): 275–77. For studies on Porstmann’s influence on New Typography, see Kinross, “Das Bauhaus im Kontext der Neuen Typographie,” 10; McMurray, “Winning New Freedom,” 126–31. 187 Tschichold, The New Typography, 95. 76 He made clear reference to Porstmann’s historical categories, building on his claim to photography as a “pictorial writing” (bilderschrift) apposite to the modern age. 188 Tschichold’s defense of Typophoto in bookmaking centered on materiality: “the halftone block is composed of many little raised dots, to which type is in fact related.” 189 Like Moholy-Nagy, he recognized that the halftone process effectively transformed photographic images into typographic elements. Moreover, the translation of continuous- tone photographic images into patterns of printed dots forced photography to conform to the typographic grid. Tschichold regarded the reproduction of photographic halftones in the pages of magazines and newspapers, which had become common practice by the 1920s, as a paradigm for the future of bookmaking. 190 The conventions of book design and printing, he insisted, had become outmoded. In his defense of photography’s material compatibility with type, he condemned not only the lingering preference among book designers for etchings and drawings in book illustration but also, implicitly, the practice of tipping in photographic prints rather than the direct reproduction of photographs in book 188 Porstmann, Sprache und Schrift, 58. Among Portsmann’s recommendations for modern script was ‘kleinschreibung,’ the abolition of all capitalization in written language on the basis of efficiency and economy, which Tschichold also advocated in Die Neue Typographie. In addition to photography, he also discussed film as a “visual language“ of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 189 Tschichold, The New Typography, 87. 190 This was an idea partly borrowed from the Russian avant-garde, namely the Russian Futurist literary movement, which sought to level the hierarchy between fine book printing and industrial- scale printed matter. Writers such as Vladimir Mayakovsky, Osip Brik and Viktor Shklovski—in collaboration with visual artists and designers, including El Lissitzky, Aleksandr Rodchenko— published and distributed their work through printed journals, such as Lef and Novyi Lef, as well as pamphlets and books printed on inexpensive paper. See Evgeny Dobrenko, Aesthetics of Alienation: Reassessment of Early Soviet Cultural Theories, Jesse M. Savage, trans. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2005); Maria Gough, “Faktura: The Making of the Russian Avant- Garde,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics no. 36, Faktura (Autumn 1999): 32–59; Nina Gurianova, The Aesthetics of Anarchy: Art and Ideology in the Early Russian Avant-Garde (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 2012); Marjorie Perloff, The Futurist Moment: Avant-Garde, Avant Guerre, and the Language of Rupture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986). 77 pages using the halftone process. For Tschichold, the economy and material suitability of the halftone process were inextricable and mutually reinforcing, fortifying photography as suitable for New Typography and thus for modernity. The Speed of Typophoto and the Future of the Modern Metropolis The ubiquity of photography in the mass press was at the center of a collective reckoning in Weimar Germany with the opportunities and costs of modernity. Shared ambivalence about the marriage of these modern inventions—and how they would continue to shape modern life—was an important backdrop for the New Typographers’ defenses of Typophoto. In 1925, cultural critic Edlef Köppen called the illustrated magazine a “dubious sign” of the times. 191 He regarded the disposability of magazines, and the cursory engagement of readers with their contents, as symptomatic of a nefarious cultural shift that threatened to replace substance with artifice: The mark of our age is haste, hurry, nervousness. People have no time, indeed they flee the calm of contemplation; they reel recklessly through the streets with no intention of catching hold. The rhythm of life pounds short and hard: further—further! The consequence in many respects is superficiality. 192 Siegfried Kracauer similarly wrote about photography as a dubious replacement for memory and lived experience, facilitated in large part by its circulation in the illustrated press. He described the medium—especially when reproduced in newspapers and 191 Edlef Köppen, “The Magazine as a Sign of the Times,” in The Weimar Republic Sourcebook, eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay, Edward Dimendberg (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 645. (Originally published: Edlef Köppen, “Das Magazin als Zeichen der Zeit,” Der Hellweg 5, no. 24 [June 17, 1925], 457.) 192 Ibid, 644. 78 magazines—as one that reduces “the world” to merely “a photographable present,” even while promising greater access to it. 193 Such critiques challenged the New Typographers to make a case for Typophoto, and their profession, as the key to a utopian vision for the future. In an attempt to do so, they exploited photography’s common association with speed as proof that the inherent efficiency of Typophoto could aid in Germany’s postwar economic recovery. In a promotional brochure for his design studio in Magdeburg, Johannes Molzahn described Typophoto as a necessary antidote to the deficit of time in the modern world: Pictorial representation—Typophoto combined with the industrial trademark—will govern the future of advertising and the street, as well as in offices and other economic sites. The fantastic wear of energy in our time will force the most economic means of organization and transportation. 194 Molzahn characterized Typophoto as a modern tool on par with the modern trademark, railroad, or telephone. Invoking Typophoto, for Molzahn, meant equating photography with economy: “The eye of the draftsman is replaced by the eye of the camera…because it is the more economical and therefore the only way.” 195 The laboriousness of drawing, like the more traditional mode of reading, must necessarily be replaced by the efficiency of making and seeing photographic images: “One-hundredth of a second through the highly sensitive eye of your camera and the picture of the object there on the table is captured on 193 Siegfried Kracauer, “Photography,” in The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays, trans. Thomas Y. Levin (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995) [1927], 59. 194 “Die bildliche Darstellung, das Typophoto in Verbindung mit dem Industriesymbol wird die Zukunft der Reklame und die Straße regieren, ebenso wie die Büros und die Stätten der Wirtschaft. Den der phantastische Energieverschleiß unserer Zeit wird die höchste Ökonomie der Organisations- und Verkehrsmittel erzwingen.” Johannes Molzahn, Ökonomie der Reklame- Mechane, 1926, n.p. A copy of this pamphlet is located in the Typographische Sammlung Jan Tschichold, Bibliothek für Gestaltung Basel. 195 Molzahn, “Stop Reading! Look!,” 648. 79 the thin coating of emulsion on the film.” 196 Contrary to the critiques of Köppen and Kracauer, Molzahn described photography as not only fast, but also as a material trace of an object, apt to produce images more intimately tethered to “the world” than drawings made by hand. An avid collector of printed matter by his contemporaries, Tschichold’s earliest articulations of New Typography were particularly informed by the writings of Molzahn as well as Max Burchartz, both of whom contributed to elementare typographie in 1925 and to the meaning of Typophoto. Burchartz and Molzahn each established commercial design studios in the early 1920s, building their reputations and livelihoods primarily through corporate commissions. 197 As part of their recovery from the devastating economic impact of the First World War, steel and chemical manufacturers relied especially on new graphic identities to help rebuild their businesses and public reputations. By promoting their graphic design services, both Burchartz and Molzahn created promotional materials that named the use of photography as key to effective commercial design. In June of 1924, a year before the publication of elementare typographie and Moholy-Nagy’s Malerei Photographie Film, Burchartz released a self-published leaflet, entitled Gestaltung der Reklame (Form-Production of Advertising). Printed in red and black ink, Burchartz’s four-page prospectus announced itself as the first in an ongoing 196 Ibid. 197 Molzahn established his studio in Magdeburg in 1923, and Burchartz founded his solo design studio in Bochum early in 1924, partnering with Johannes Canis later that year to establish the firm known as werbe-bau. See Gerda Breuer, “Vom Mahler zum Werbefachmann. Max Burchartz und die Typographie seiner Zeit,” in Max Burchartz 1887-1961: Künstler, Typograf, Pädagoge, eds. Gerda Breuer and Julia Meer (Berlin: Jovis, 2010), 84–99; Annemarie Jaeggi, Fagus: Industriekultur zwischen Werkbund und Bauhaus (Berlin: Bauhaus-Archiv/Museum für Gestaltung, 1998), 95–98. 80 series (Fig. 1.22). 198 Gestaltung der Reklame was a promotional tool for the designer’s services that doubled as a didactic manual, a tack that by the mid-1920s had become a familiar trope among German graphic designers. In order to establish oneself as legitimate in the field, a designer must stake his own claim to the scope of the field itself. Burchartz claimed the importance of graphic clarity and concision on account of the average consumer’s short attention span. He insisted that, “the modern person is stingy with time,” unable to read, look, or listen for very long, a condition that he deemed an inevitable consequence of modern life. 199 He thus framed the need for economy of form in advertising design as a matter of respect for the modern public: “good advertising takes consideration of the public’s time.” In doing so, advertising need only spark the reader’s interest rather than tell a whole story. Burchartz proposed the need for formal “clarity” and “economy” in design primarily as a necessary response to the inevitable changes in the apprehension of information already wrought by modern life. Unlike Köppen, Burchartz regarded the “haste” of modernity as an opportunity rather than a threat. He claimed that, in order to keep pace with modern life, good advertising must use “new tools of communication,” both technological and scientific. These included “projection and film, gramophone and radio-telegraphy,” as well as 198 This leaflet series was re-titled and continued as werbe-beratung produced by the firm werbe- bau. Both leaflets are included in the Typographische Sammlung Jan Tschichold, Bibliothek für Gestaltung Basel. For a comprehensive study of Max Burchartz’s work as an artist and designer, see Breuer and Meer, eds., Max Burchartz 1887-1961. 199 “Der moderne Mensch geizt mit der Zeit. Wer liest langen Text bei Hunderten von Anzeigen und Plakaten, wer hört auf lange Reden? Wenig zeigen! Wenig sagen! Das Wenige oft!” Burchartz, Gestaltung der Reklame (June 1924), n.p. 81 photography. 200 Modern technologies of image production were deemed appropriate for mass communication on the basis of their speed, especially compared to drawing: Within typography, new possibilities…arise through the novel use of photographic techniques, for example by retouching the peculiarity of the shots and by putting together various shots at different ratios of size and perspective. In the presentation, photography is superior to obsolete hand drawing. It is more objective, more economical. Speed of production avoids the overemphasis of the individual hand, avoiding the expression of idiosyncrasy, but still leaving enough room to play in the arrangement. 201 Though the term Typophoto did not yet exist as he wrote about the superiority of photographic illustration, Burchartz described the sophisticated fusion of typography and photography—especially through techniques like retouching and photomontage—into a medium that could be playful without recourse to the individualized expression of drawing. He implied instead that photography, like type, was a means of collectivist expression. Both had the potential to convey a shared vision of the future rather than a singular point of view. Importantly, the New Typographers regarded the usefulness of photography not merely in reaction to the pace of modernity but also as a means of engendering collective perception. Molzahn predicted that, “the shift to the photographic principle in production processes will inaugurate the final revolution. Only once the ‘phototype’ has matured into 200 “Gute Reklame bedient sich neuester zeitgemäßer Erfindungen als neuer Werkzeuge der Mitteilung. Projektion und Film, Grammophon und Radio-Telegraphie bringen neue Möglichkeiten neben dem Mittel der Typographie.” Ibid. 201 “Innerhalb der Typoegraphie ergeben sich neue Möglichkeiten auch durch Verwendungphotographischer Verfahren auf neuartige Weise, z.B. durch Retouchen, Eigenart der Aufnahmen und Zussamenstellung verschiedener Aufnahmen bei unterschiedlichen Größe- und Perspektive-Verhältnissen. In der Darstellung ist die Photographie der veralteten Handzeichnung überlegen, sie ist sachlicher, ökonomischer. Schnell herstellbar vermeidet sie die Überbetonung individueller Handschrift, ohne den Ausdruck von Eigenart auszuschießen, dem in der Anordnung noch genügend weiter Spielraum bleibt.” Ibid. 82 a reliable instrument can the whole of book printing be integrated into the economy of contemporary production.” 202 Despite their emphasis on Typophoto as a medium of collectivist expression and revolution, both Burchartz and Molzahn were necessarily vague in these remarks, avoiding any particular description of a politics that might be at odds with the worldviews of industrial capitalists on whom they relied for their work as designers. Optical Words, Talking Images, & Photographic Type: Learning to Read Typophoto By the end of the 1920s, advertising and commercial design had become the most ubiquitous and publicly accessible uses of New Typography. Because of commercial design’s imperative to sell products, the function of New Typography was increasingly discussed in terms of optimizing a design’s visual impact and memorability. Tschichold turned his attention increasingly to this subject, as in the article, “Gute und schlechte Reklametypographie” (“Good and Bad Advertising Typography”), which was published several times in 1929 and 1930. 203 He referred to photographic images in commercial design as “optical words” as key to a new kind of reading facilitated by effective advertising. In an undated, handwritten note, the designer suggested the hybridization of Typophoto in yet another way: “photography not only as [an image] alongside [text], but rather as a talking image, as image-type [Bildtype].” 204 Both of these descriptions implied 202 Molzahn, “Stop Reading! Look!,” 648. 203 See, for example: Jan Tschichold, “Gute und schlechte Reklametypographie,” Württembergische Industrie 10, no. 16 (April 20, 1929): 213–16. The same text was republished in 1930 in an unknown publication, as evidenced by a clipping included in the Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig (publication unknown, labeled “Wien 1930” in Tschichold’s hand). 204 “Fotografie nicht nur als Nebenher, sondern als sprechendes Bild / als Bildtype.” This note appears on the back of an envelope scrap, written in pencil. Jan Tschichold, undated handwritten 83 the uniqueness of photography in print as a medium that merged written, spoken, and visual communication. In Tschichold’s writings after his first book was published, he increasingly associated Typophoto with commercial and advertising design. As an “image type” that could operate as an “optical word” and “talking image,” the photographic halftone engendered instant recognition, a modern mode of reading promoted by the New Typographers. The key to the mental impression of a design and its instant recognition was mnemonic stimulation. If words and letterforms could be arranged in such a way that they made a strong, instantaneous impression on the mind of a reader, they could be just as easily recalled in the absence of an advertisement, ideally prompting that reader to purchase a product. It was in this sense that Typophoto connoted an ambition to train readers to recognize and remember unique combinations of image and text—effectively training them to read abstract forms as meaningful symbols—especially in commercial contexts. A closer look at the text and layout of Malerei Photographie Film affords insight into how New Typography conceived of photographic images as optical words and the kind of reading experience they hoped to enable with Typophoto. Most of Moholy-Nagy’s essay, “Typophoto,” is dedicated not to the technical or formal aspects of Typophoto—that is, how typography and photography should be combined in practice—but instead to the broader social implications of the newly announced hybrid medium. He described the ways in which technology had revolutionized communication and thus facilitated an understanding of the world shared by the masses. He identified “deep human interest,” note, Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 84 rather than mere “curiosity” or economic drive, as the impetus for the modern advent and expansion of the news mediated by film, radio, electricity, telegraphy, and typography (especially in newspapers and magazines). He insisted that these modern technologies had and would continue to facilitate the “simultaneity of sensorily perceptible events.” 205 The effect was, in Moholy-Nagy’s view, social transformation forged by technological revolution—a process that he presciently predicted would be ongoing—which had already enabled “all classes” to access “truth” through a multitude of media platforms and thus to attain “international understanding” of a shared world. 206 Typophoto was thus a crucial link between advances in technological and social progress. Even as he seemed to present the term as uncomplicated, Moholy-Nagy’s discussion of Typophoto is characteristic of his theoretical writing; his words are far more evocative than they are didactic. Superficially, the definition of Typophoto was stated simply enough: What is Typophoto? Typography is communication formed in print. 207 Photography is the visual presentation of what can optically be apprehended. Typophoto is the visually most exact rendering of communication. 208 At face value, this statement is straightforward: it presents photography as precise and efficient, legible as soon as it is printed on a page. Yet this definition is not evidence of 205 Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film, 38–39. 206 Ibid, 38. 207 Moholy-Nagy’s original line reads: “Typographie ist in Druck gestaltete Mitteilung.” See Malerei Photographie Film, 37. My translation of this line differs from Janet Seligman’s published translation in Painting Photography Film, which reads: “Typography is communication composed in type.” I have translated “gestaltete” as “formed” and “Druck” as “print,” in keeping with Moholy-Nagy’s emphasis on the process of printing as the foundation of modern communication. 208 Emphasis in bold is part of Moholy-Nagy’s original text. Ibid, 39. 85 Moholy-Nagy’s uncomplicated belief in photography as an objective medium of representation. Rather, by repeatedly invoking the “visual” (visuell) and “optical” (optisch) in this short passage, Moholy-Nagy suggested Typophoto as a paradigm for reading. His introduction of the term Typophoto invites us to read words and images, not as parallel sign systems but together, starting with the book Malerei Photographie Film itself. The content of its argument was not only expressed through parallel textual and visual essays, but equally—and, I argue, perhaps even more importantly—in Moholy- Nagy’s treatment of his own words as visual form and as pliable graphic material. An examination of the book as a physical object—including the formal aspects of its typography and layout—yields a far richer understanding of Typophoto and its part in Moholy-Nagy’s worldview. 209 The brief definition of Typophoto quoted above appears at the top of the second page of the “Typophoto” essay (Fig. 1.23). This interlude reads like aphorisms in an avant- garde manifesto—a style also adopted by Tschichold, as noted above. These short lines are wedged into the middle of a longer piece of prose. This narrative interruption is emphasized by its arrangement on the page: these lines are nestled between two circular graphic elements that punctuate the text, above and below, emphasizing its rhetorical dissonance from the narrative style of the paragraphs directly preceding and following. The final line in this set is perhaps the most succinct, and most frequently repeated, definition of the term: “Typophoto is the visually most exact rendering of 209 In her analysis of Malerei Photographie Film, Pepper Stetler has sought to privilege Moholy- Nagy’s book as a visual and material object that was intended as a manual for the collective training of new vision. While her analysis includes the visual argument of the book’s photographic essay, her efforts to decipher this level of meaning ultimately maintain the assumption that the verbal and visual aspects of the book operate autonomously, just as a purely textual analysis would suggest. See Pepper Stetler, Stop Reading! Look! 86 communication.” This line is set in bold and in a contrasting, slightly compressed, sans serif typeface, which Moholy-Nagy uses throughout to punctuate particular phrases and ideas. 210 Like the circles, this dissonant typographic treatment stops the eye, thereby punctuating textual meaning. Such typographic play calls attention to these lines as a narrative interruption. Tschichold would later identify elements like the circles as purely functional, “abstract ornaments” that create optical contrast in order to lead the eye of the reader and denote a hierarchy of information. 211 The spatial—as well as rhetorical— disjuncture between these short lines of text and the relatively verbose paragraphs preceding and following hint that this simple definition of Typophoto is more complex than it first appears. The typographic treatment of the new term’s pithy definition, phrased as a question-and-answer that interrupts a longer narrative prose, does more than just call attention to itself for emphasis. It approximates an experience that Moholy-Nagy could only describe in prose, and renders it viscerally immediate for the reader: pieces of information are simultaneously delivered through different modes of communication, competing for the reader’s attention. Imagine a reader sitting on a train, reading a newspaper. She looks up, her concentration momentarily interrupted by glimpsing an advertisement on the back of the seat in front of her and a billboard outside, each bearing a few lines of text, likely set in different typefaces than the one she’s been reading. In the blink of an eye, the billboard passes, and she looks back down to the page, returning her 210 This typeface is likely in the Venus-Grotesk family, first released in 1907 by Bauer Type Foundry. Bauerschen Giesserei, Hauptprobe in gedrängter Form der Bauerschen Giesserei (Frankfurt am Main: Bauerschen Giesserei; Barcelona, Madrid: Filialen; Leipzig: Numrich & Co., 1915). It is used throughout to add emphasis to specific lines of text, including Moholy-Nagy’s appeal to “the hygiene of the visual.” Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film, 38. 211 Tschichold, The New Typography, 70. 87 attention to the newspaper article. In the pages of his book, Moholy-Nagy mimicked this distinctly modern experience of reading: perceptual navigation of the graphic texture of a metropolis, compelled by the endless bombardment of information delivered in different forms and the speed of modern transit. Experiences of rupture create the erratic tempo of modernity. This essay demonstrated Typophoto as a crucial component of modern reading as a sensory navigation of visual, spatial, temporal, and somatic experience. The rhetorical style and typographic treatment of the text together require a mode of reading that is an active negotiation of “simultaneity of sensorily perceptible events.” 212 If, as he suggested, photography and film would eventually supersede literature as dominant forms of communication, it was because they could be read much faster than written language. As a paradigm for perception, Moholy-Nagy also invoked photography as a new way of seeing typography—a non-photographic system of representation that nevertheless could be understood as “photographic.” That is, modern type—understood “photographically”— could be faster and more efficient than traditional type, implicating syncopated layout and sans serif typefaces as steps toward purely visual communication. The typographic treatment of Moholy-Nagy’s deceptively simple definition of Typophoto betrays its implication that montage was a new paradigm for representing, understanding, and navigating the modern world. Rather than explain that Typophoto is the process by which word and image fragments are recombined to create new meanings, Moholy-Nagy first demonstrated this typographically. In the book’s final section, this idea is elaborated visually through the combination of type, graphic elements, and 212 Moholy-Nagy, Painting Photography Film, 38–39. 88 photographic images in the storyboard for a never-produced film, “Dynamik der Gross- Stadt” (Fig. 1.24–25). 213 Fourteen pages are given over to “Dynamik der Gross-Stadt,” which Moholy-Nagy identified as an example of Typophoto. 214 In his introductory remarks, he clarified that “Dynamik der Gross-Stadt” was not intended to be didactic, moralizing, or narrative in any way, but rather he explained that, “its effect is meant to be visual, purely visual.” 215 He continued: “The elements in this film have not an absolute logical connection with one another; their photographic, visual relationships, nevertheless, make them knit together in a vital association of events in space and time and bring the viewer actively into the dynamic of the city.” 216 The space of the city finds analogy in the graphic space of the page. Pepper Stetler has offered an understanding of this book as a whole, and the film sketch in particular, as a training manual for modern perception, which used graphic elements to “guide us through like traffic signs.” 217 As Frederic Schwartz has noted, and as its title suggests, Moholy-Nagy’s film sketch stressed, above all, the swift pace of visual encounters in the modern metropolis, “perhaps best exemplified by the experience of the railroad.” 218 The navigation of disparate and fleeting visual encounters that was only subtly suggested by Moholy-Nagy’s treatment of text in the textual essay is here demonstrated unambiguously through a cacophonous amalgamation of photographic 213 Moholy-Nagy noted that this storyboard was originally sketched out between 1921 and 1922, and that he had intended to realize the film in collaboration with Carl Koch. Moholy-Nagy, Painting Photography Film, 122. 214 Ibid. 215 Emphasis in bold is part of Moholy-Nagy’s original text. Ibid. 216 Ibid. 217 Stetler, Stop Reading! Look!, 7. 218 Frederic J. Schwartz, Blind Spots: Critical Theory and the History of Art in Twentieth-Century Germany (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 47. 89 images, abstract graphic elements, and text in a variety of sizes and typefaces, arranged in an irregular grid across seven consecutive page spreads. However, Schwartz contends that the film sketch was not simply a representation of urban visual experience as it existed in 1925, but rather “represents and explores the conditions in which perception and therefore visual communication had come to take place,” thereby offering a graphic space consonant with “new conditions of attention, perception and thought.” 219 We could say, then, that Moholy-Nagy presented graphic space as analogous to the mind space of a modern metropolitan reader, in which perception and cognition are constantly in development. That Typophoto could do more than merely represent the world as it existed—that it could, in fact, be generative of new modes of seeing, thinking, and living—was key for New Typography’s ambition to turn photographic images into tools for envisioning and building the future. Likewise, as pliant form, type could be much more than a fixed signifier of language: typographic form could direct and regulate attention, conjure emotional response, and imprint itself onto the substrate of a reader’s memory. In elementare typographie, these ideas were embedded in a short statement on advertising, co-authored by El Lissitzky with the Dutch designer, architect, and urban planner Mart Stam. “Advertising,” they began, “has become a necessity of contemporary social order, a result of the drive to compete.” 220 They framed advertising as distinctly modern, a product of a primal competitiveness that industrial capitalism nurtured. 219 Ibid, 47–48. 220 “Die Reklame ist in der heutigen Gemeinschaftsordnung eine Notwendigkeit geworden, eine Folge des Konkurrenztriebes.” Mart Stam and El Lissitzky, “Die Reklame,” sonderheft: elementare typographie, 206. 90 As a unique form of communication tasked with suggestion, Stam and Lissitzky explained, advertising necessitated a new understanding of the workings of the human memory with regard to the arrangement of word and image. They described briefly how the practice of reading could be rethought to stimulate the instant recognition of a consumer product, and they encouraged designers to consider their own encounters with advertisements as they approached the problem of commercial design. Stam and Lissitzky distinguished between reading a text and merely recognizing it—describing the superior efficiency of the instantaneous apprehension of a logo over laboriously reading a line of text. Ironically, the desire for instant recognition—as opposed to relying on the procedures of traditional reading—made legibility of utmost importance. Stam and Lissitzky insisted that textual form and color be used only to make text more recognizable, and thus more legible, condemning ornamental graphic elements as useless to the expediency of reading that advertising required. Stam and Lissitzky offered two clear directives for advertising design that set up the merging of text and image as key to a new way of seeing: “the product must be mentioned,” and “the product must be shown.” 221 On the subject of the latter, they wrote: “photographic representation of either the product itself, its function, or both together, should fill the entire surface of the poster.” 222 Further, a brand name or logo should also be visible (in keeping with the first directive), and “a photomechanical reproduction, 221 “Die Ware wird genannt”; “Die Ware wird gezeigt.” Ibid. 222 “Die photographische Darstellung des reklamierenden Gegenstandes selbst, oder seiner Wirkung, oder beides zusammen, füllen allein die ganze Plakatfläche aus.” Ibid, 207. 91 provided with a distinctive signet, is preferable to any more or less skillfully drawn or painted illustration.” 223 As a successful example, Stam and Lissitzky curiously referred to the reproduction of an advertising poster from 1923 by Otto Baumberger, made with graphite, ink, and gouache for the Swiss clothing retailer PKZ, which shares a page with the first half of their essay (Fig. 1.26–27). 224 Baumberger’s design was lauded for its exacting verisimilitude, masquerading as a photographic image. 225 In fact, it is quite possible that Stam and Lissitzky mistook it for a photograph, as evidently did Tschichold. 226 Whether a misunderstanding of its origins or an intentional reading of the image as photographic, Stam and Lissitzky described the advertisement as a successful amalgam of word and image through “photomechanical reproduction.” Baumberger’s design shows only part of a coat—a close up that features the lusciously intricate weave of wool fabric and the shine of satin lining—which fills almost the entirety of the poster. As Stam and Lissitzky described, the only text included is the PKZ logo, which is not as text printed over or next to the image, but rather integrated into it, dissolving any meaningful distinction between advertising copy and illustration. One lapel is opened to show the tag, on which the logo appears, sewn into the coat’s inner lining below the collar. 223 “Für diesen Zweck ist eine photomechanische Reproduktion, mit einem markanten Signet versehen, jeder mehr oder weniger geschickt gezeichneten oder gemalten Abbildung vorzuziehen.” Ibid. 224 This image is also reproduced in Heinz Rasch and Bodo Rasch, eds., Gefesselter Blick (Stuttgart: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Dr. Zaugg & Co., 1930), 18. 225 This is according to Bettina Richter, Curator of the Plakatsammlung, Museum für Gestaltung Zürich. Richter, “Otto Baumberger. Poster, Marque PKZ, 1923,” Museum für Gestaltung Zürich eGuide. https://www.eguide.ch/en/objekt/marque-pkz/ (accessed July 2, 2019). 226 Tschichold wrote: “It is surprising how well a small part of a single photograph can sometimes work as a poster, as in the PKZ poster by Baumberger.It is a pillar-poster made from a colour photograph.” Tschichold, The New Typography, 182. 92 The tropes described by Stam and Lissitzky, and exemplified by Baumberger’s advertisement for PKZ, marked a reinvention of a form of German advertising design known as the Sachplakat (object poster). Fashionable before the First World War and popularized especially by graphic artists Lucian Bernhard, Ludwig Hohlwein, and Julius Klinger, the Sachplakat represented mass-manufactured commodities as visually isolated, singular objects. 227 Bernhard’s advertising posters featured schematic depictions of commodities in basic outline, rendered with sparing detail against a monochrome background (Fig 1.28–29). This style employed a limited, bright color palette that typically had no mimetic relationship to products advertised or their functions. In the interwar period, the Sachplakat, like the word Sachlichkeit, was reinvented in accordance with the popularity of photography associated with Neue Sachlichkeit. 228 In exchange for schematic representations, designers began to mimic the verisimilitude of photography in 227 For studies of the Sachplakat in the context of pre-World War I German poster and advertising design, see Jeremy Aynsley, Graphic Design in Germany 1890-1945 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000); Susanne Bäumler, Die Kunst zu Werben: Das Jahrhundert der Reklame (Munich: Münchner Stadtmuseum, 1996); David Ciarlo, Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2011); Elizabeth Guffey, Posters: A Global History (London: Reaktion Books, 2015); Schwartz, The Werkbund, 136–39. 228 Sachlichkeit had originally been a key term used and debated by the Deutscher Werkbund, a state-sponsored association of economists, designers, and industrialists who sought to reconcile aesthetic value in design with the mass production of commodities in a newly industrialized economy. The term ‘Neue Sachlichkeit’ was coined by Gustav Friedrich Hartlaub and popularized by his exhibition, Die Neue Sachlichkeit. Deutsche Malerei seit dem Expressionismus, which opened in 1925 at the Kunsthalle Mannheim where he served as director. Hartlaub identified Neue Sachlichkeit as an anti-Expressionist tendency toward realism in German painting after World War I, encompassing both verist and classicist modes of representation. The term became ubiquitous to describe a collective desire for a postwar return to order, which manifested in various aspects of Weimar German culture, including photography, architecture, and design. See Stephanie Barron and Sabine Eckmann, eds., New Objectivity: Modern German Art in the Weimar Republic, 1919- 1933 (London: Prestel, 2015); Herbert Molderings, “The Modernist Cause: New Vision and New Objectivity, 1919-1945,” in Collection Photographs: A History of Photography through the Collections of the Centre Pompidou, Musée National d’Art Moderne eds. Quentin Bajac and Clément Chéroux (Paris: Centre Pompidou, 2007): 97–114; Schwartz, The Werkbund. 93 order to evoke the material qualities of commodities. Despite the ubiquity of this style of advertising in Weimar Germany, the Sachplakat has scarcely been discussed in historical accounts of Neue Sachlichkeit, yet it is a crucial link in understanding how Neue Sachlichkeit photography informed both photographic and non-photographic images found in interwar advertising. The application of Neue Sachlichkeit as a mode of picturing and advertising commodities in the late 1920s served to redefine “objectivity” as the material luxury promised by capitalist modernity. It was a style of image making that was invested in selling a way of seeing the world as much as with selling commodities. Though not made with a camera, Baumberger’s close-up of the PKZ coat deprives the beholder of a view of the entire object in exchange for sharp surface detail and a more intimate, visceral sense of its textures and haptic qualities. The poster’s frame successfully mimics that of a photograph, arbitrarily cutting off the parts of the object that we do not see, and pushing the fabric of the coat against the picture plane, as though pressed against the glass of a storefront window or seen through the magnifying lens of a loupe. Baumberger’s design arguably has more in common with photographs by Albert Renger-Patzsch and Hans Finsler than with the prewar Sachplakat advertisements of Bernhard, Hohlwein, or Klinger. Renger-Patzsch and Finsler made close-up, high-contrast photographs commissioned in the late 1920s by Fagus-Werk shoe manufacturer and OSRAM Licht AG lighting manufacturer, respectively (Fig. 1.30–31). Industrially manufactured commodities appear in their photographs as tactile surfaces that fill or float within the photographic frame rather than as objects with mass, weight, or dimension. 229 229 For studies on Renger-Patzsch’s work for Fagus-Werk, see Annemarie Jaeggi, Die Moderne im Blick. Albert Renger-Patzsch fotografiert das Fagus Werk (Berlin: Bauhaus-Archiv/Museum für 94 Like Baumberger’s advertisement for PKZ, these images deprive the beholder of a sense of scale, devoid of human subjects. They emphasize material qualities appreciated through close-up inspection rather than how these objects might be used or lived with. Baumberger used graphite and paint to simulate the play of light and shadow on different materials, exploring how the texture of different fabrics affects the appearance of color. Comparison of a sketch of the design and the final color version—itself a chromolithographic reproduction—show how the image was built up from the gridded surface of the page, ruled in finely drawn pencil lines with the aid of a straightedge (Fig. 1.27, 1.32). Reproduced through the halftone process, the surface textures rendered in Baumberger’s colorful design are retained in black and white, as in elementare typographie. What is more, the entire design takes on a distinctly “photographic” quality when translated into the monochrome visual language of photography. In reproduction, the poster easily passes for a black and white photograph like those of Renger-Patzsch or Finsler. Printed in black ink, all evidence of Baumberger’s handwork is effectively erased by the evenness of photomechanical reproduction. Baumberger’s poster demonstrated that, even without a camera or photochemistry, graphic designers could effectively exploit strategies of photographic imaging to render the page a surface on which commodities could appear to be materially instantiated. For an image to be photographic, it need not necessarily be created with a camera or photochemistry, but could instead be imbued with photographic qualities, speed of Gestaltung, 2011); Jaeggi, Fagus. For a study on Finsler’s work for OSRAM, see Klaus E. Göltz, Theo Immisch, Peter Romanus, and Axel Wendelberger, eds., Hans Finsler, neue Wege der Photographie (Leipzig: Edition Leipzig, 1991). For further discussion of the still life photography of Renger-Patzsch and Finsler in the context of both Neue Sachlichkeit and its utility in advertising, see Megan R. Luke, “Still Lifes and Commodities,” in New Objectivity, 229–57. 95 apprehension chief among them. Likewise, words need not be read, but merely glimpsed in an instant, in order to be recognized upon repeated viewing. Designers likewise devised ways of rendering words as images, a pervasive strategy across the nascent field of graphic design that transcended stylistic differences and national borders. Through economy of form and text, both images and words could pack a great deal of meaning into a simple design. A close-up view of a man’s coat, for example, could signify luxury, style, and quality without the need for a tag line. The New Typographers used the photographic language of Neue Sachlichkeit to train consumers to become photographically literate, as well as to become savvy readers of montage through their everyday encounters with advertising. 96 CHAPTER 2 The Motivation of Form: Defining Legibility in Perceptual Psychology “For does there not in fact exist some graphic means—drawn from aesthetics and psychology—that will, when applied to the fundamental stratum of the individual, allow us to engrave on his mind what image we will, in such a manner that it will not be forgotten?” 230 —Jean Carlu “The first thing that must be done is to become familiar with how the psyche records and consumes, using its organs and functions, in order to deduce the effectiveness of the means of propaganda… The type and quality of sensory stimuli have the greatest influence on the function and performance of sensory organs, which in reality are in constant transformation, adapting to changing phenomena and stimuli.” 231 —Johannes Molzahn “Seeing is deceiving.” 232 —Matthew Luckiesh László Moholy-Nagy’s 1927 article for Photographische Korrespondenz centered on the myriad uses of photography in advertising design. He recommended its application in combination with a very different kind of graphic tool: experimental psychology. In the fledgling field, he recognized the potential to access an understanding of perception on a mass scale: A beginning exists: there are numerous books about advertising, there are institutes dedicated purely to the psychology of advertising, there are first-rate advertisements—but we do not yet 230 Jean Carlu, “Should a Poster be a Work of Art?” Commercial Art (March 1931): 92. 231 “Es wird sich zuerst darum handeln müssen, die Psyche des Verbrauchs der Aufnahme kennen zu lernen, deren Organe und Funktionen, die Wirksamkeit der Mittel davon abzuleiten... Die Art und Qualität der Sinnesreize hat aber größten Einfluß auf Funktion und Leistung der Sinnesorgane, die in Wahrheit in ständiger Umbildung begriffen sind, sich den wechselnden Erscheinungen und Reizen anzupassen.” Johannes Molzahn, Ökonomie der Reklame-Mechane, 1926, n.p. 232 Matthew Luckiesh, Visual Illusions: Their Causes, Characteristics and Applications (New York: Dover, 1965 [1922].) 97 have a clear sense of how advertising in general should adapt to the constantly changing times, how a revolution takes place in the visual and simultaneously in the intellectual sphere without first making itself felt among the masses. 233 Like photography, Moholy-Nagy regarded experimental psychology as a distinctly modern means of engendering “new vision” in advertising, and called for further “research into the physiological and psychological laws of visual effectiveness.” 234 The pairing of photography and psychology was by no means novel; by the mid-1920s, photography had long been used by psychologists to measure and study human perception. 235 Applied psychologists identified the training of visual attention and memory as key to optimizing the legibility of modern graphics in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. They used abstract images as both experimental stimuli and visual information. Their methods were foundational for New Typography and to the wider field of graphic design. 236 In this chapter, I argue that a particular and enduring definition of legibility was developed in commercial graphic design, which drew from both applied psychology and from the typographic traditions and printing technologies that made advertising possible. Commercial designs regarded as “legible” were unique and memorable amalgamations of text and image that could be easily replicated in print and in the mind’s eye. Embedded in this formulation was the efficiency of reading text as a form and images as information. 233 László Moholy-Nagy, “Photography in Advertising,” in Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913-40, ed. Christopher Phillips (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Aperture, 1989), 87. (Originally published: László Moholy-Nagy, “Die Photographie in der Reklame,” Photographische Korrespondenz, 1927.) 234 Moholy-Nagy also noted that psychological science was “still far behind the times, compared to the study of physical laws.” Ibid. 235 This chapter traces a number of key laboratory-based perceptual psychology research conducted between 1880 and 1920 in the United States, Germany, and the Netherlands, with a particular focus on their uses of photography as a tool for measuring and synthesizing data. 236 I am grateful to Grace Converse for her feedback on an earlier draft of this chapter. 98 Moreover, this definition of legibility established reproducibility, made possible by offset printing, and memorability, as studied by psychologists, as mutually reinforcing, twin pillars of print advertising. New Typography explicitly sought to capture and control readers’ attention; imprint photographic images as visual information; and use type and abstract graphic elements as optical devices. These ambitions borrowed from the rhetoric, methods, and findings of applied psychology, a field founded especially in Germany and the United States around the turn of the twentieth century through the interwar era. The origins of modern psychology lay in the establishment of the Institut für Experimentelle Psychologie at the Universität Leipzig, the first formal laboratory for psychological research, founded by Wilhelm Wundt in 1879. 237 Wundt’s laboratory subjected the human mind to measurable experiments in a controlled environment, effectively establishing psychology as a scientific discipline entirely separate from philosophy and much more akin to physiology. 238 The laboratory became a training center for some of the most important figures in psychology’s early history, including German practitioners who immigrated to the United States, as well as many Americans. 239 Wundt’s 237 Kurt Danziger, Constructing the Subject: Historical Origins of Psychological Research (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 28; Ludy T. Benjamin, Jr., A Brief History of Modern Psychology (Malden, MA; Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2007), 37. 238 As an amalgam of physiology and philosophy, the discipline of psychology followed an epistemological model that Zeynep Çelik Alexander has called “kinaesthetic knowing,” mediation between intellectual contemplation and immediate experience, which she argues was foundational for modernist design, particularly in Germany. Alexander’s study is therefore a key text for thinking about the importance of early psychological methods and rhetoric to avant-garde design. See Zeynep Çelik Alexander, Kinaesthetic Knowing: Aesthetics, Epistemology, Modern Design (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017). 239 Among them were G. Stanley Hall, who established the first experimental psychology laboratory in the United States at Johns Hopkins University in 1883; James McKeen Cattell, who in 1889 became the first professor of psychology in the United States at the University of Pennsylvania; and Walter Dill Scott and Hugo Münsterberg, who further developed applied psychology as an academic discipline around the turn of the century at Northwestern University and Harvard University, respectively. Wundt also worked with Oswald Külpe and Karl Marbe, who together founded the Institut für Psychologie at the Universität Würzburg in 1896, another 99 laboratory, and many modeled after it, established experimental psychology as a field that developed through the exchange of ideas, methods, and individuals between the United States and Germany in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. The experimental methods pioneered in Leipzig by Wundt and his students had many consequences for thinking about the role of images in modern life. Early psychologists understood images to live not only on physical surfaces such as paper or canvas, but in the space of the mind as well. They regarded memory and attention as quantifiable entities that could be studied, measured, and controlled. They devised a number of psychological tests around the turn of the century to study eye movement; the interrelation of visual and haptic perception; the mechanics of optical illusion and after images; and the effects of color, formal symmetry, and bodily movement on human attention and memory. Psychologists also made recommendations for design by assessing the effects of print advertising on modern consumers and identified the fracturing of attention as advertising’s major obstacle. Psychologists and designers alike recognized that the fast pace of daily life in urban centers like Berlin, New York, and London meant that advertisements were glimpsed momentarily, if at all. Thus, a designer’s first task was to make people see advertisements. However, visibility alone did not guarantee effectiveness. Psychologists identified the need for advertisements to be memorable, and devised experiments to test and quantify the memorability of different forms. In the 1920s, graphic design established its professional status by adopting the rhetoric of applied psychology and loosely applying its principles to the design of print important center for early psychological research in Germany. On the early history of experimental psychology, see Benjamin, A Brief History of Modern Psychology, 74–92; Danziger, Constructing the Subject. 100 advertising. Graphic design discourse circulated internationally in trade journals, especially those published in Germany (Gebrauchsgraphik, Die Reklame), the United States (Advertising Arts, Printers’ Ink), Britain (Commercial Art), and France (Arts et métiers graphiques). The assimilation of experimental psychology by advertising designers yielded a set of deeply held, if vaguely articulated, approaches to visual form. Commercial designers justified their aesthetic choices in terms of utility: they discussed type, illustrations, and layout as optical tools that could be used to catch the attention of consumers, stimulating their memories and affective associations in order to optimize the likelihood of a future purchase. The New Typographers were among many designers who characterized visual forms as optical-cognitive devices. 240 In advertising discourse of the 1920s and 1930s, designers in Europe and the United States consistently invoked the importance of harnessing consumer attention and memory to make graphics legible. Disagreements among designers about precisely how advertising should best capture attention and trigger memory reflected the contradictory findings of psychologists. Some argued that advertising should, in one commentator’s words, “invite attention” by using visual form to agitate consumers rather than to “satisfy” them. 241 This assertion was premised on the notion that the best advertising was novel and surprising. However, others believed that advertisements that conveyed familiarity and therefore seemed true and reliable stimulated attention. American designer Frank H. 240 See, for example, Eric N. Simons, “White Space and the Reader’s Eye,” Commercial Art (January 1923): 78. 241 Raymond, “Aspects of the Selling Art, VIII—Continuity of Interest,” Commercial Art (February 1927): 69. 101 Young, for example, wrote that in order to be successful, advertising must “hold a reader’s attention for a fraction of a second, it must ring true, and do so instantly.” 242 In Germany, the proliferation of print advertising in the late nineteenth century was met with concerns about the ethics of visual persuasion, which persisted into the Weimar era. Advertisers and graphic designers defended advertising as an honest practice with the potential to democratize culture and promote mass economic prosperity. They bolstered these claims by citing the cutting-edge science of applied psychology. In an article published in 1926 in Gebrauchsgraphik, for example, German advertising expert Paul Wallfisch-Roulin defended advertising by emphatically comparing it to “written advice” that merely encourages the already existing inclinations of consumers. 243 He proposed that, “the suggestive advertisement wants to lead, by means of thought association, to a strong development of available inclinations, wishes, and intentions, which finally ends in a purchasing decision.” 244 The importance of advertising as “suggestion”—a euphemistic term that essentially stood in for “persuasion” in advertising discourse—was recognized internationally. In the British journal Commercial Art, Eric Warne advised businessmen to recognize that the effectiveness of an advertisement was defined, “not so much by what it depicts as by what it suggests.” 245 Yet another contributor to Commercial Art echoed this sentiment, writing that photographs of products “need for their effective advertisement to 242 Frank H. Young, “Modern Layouts Must Sell Rather Than Startle,” in Advertising Arts (January 1930): 43. 243 Die Reklame ist somit nichts anderes als schriftliche Beratung, ferner ein Anknüpfen an schon mehr oder minder vorhandene Neigungen, Wünsche, Absichten.” Paul Wallfisch-Roulin, “Was ist Suggestion in der Reklame?” Gebrauchsgraphik, 3, no. 6 (June 1926): 27. Emphasis in italics is original. 244 “In diesem Sinne will die suggestive Reklame durch das Mittel der Gedankenassoziation zu einem Starkwerden der oft nur keimartig vorhandenen Neigungen, Wünsche, Absichten führen, das heißt letzten Ende zu einem Kaufentschluß.” Ibid. Emphasis in italics is original. 245 Eric Warne, “Making the Artist Get Your Idea,” Commercial Art (November 1922): 5. 102 be surrounded by an atmosphere of luxury, of refinement, of elegance and charm. The sale is made by suggestion far more than by special concentration of technical talking- points.” 246 The common appeal to advertising as a “suggestive” medium of mass communication among designers borrowed heavily from a vast and growing body of literature synthesizing the findings of applied psychology. A number of books published in the early twentieth century codified “scientific” principles of advertising design based on psychological experiments, including Viktor Mataja’s Die Reklame (1910); Münsterberg’s Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (1913); Christoph von Hartungen’s Psychologie der Reklame (1921); Theodor König’s Reklame-Psychologie (1924); and Hanns Kropff’s Psychologie in der Reklame als Hilfe zur Bestgestaltung des Entwurfs (Advertising Psychology as the Best Aid to Design) (1934). 247 By the 1920s, their common ideas had filtered into both advertising trade journals and the curricula of trade schools. 248 Commercial designers who wrote for trade journals shared a common goal of drawing firm parameters around their profession. This included raising fundamental questions about the nature of advertising itself. How could text and image be optimized as persuasive tools? Should designers use the same criteria in assessing the efficacy of 246 Unattributed, “Photographs that Give Atmosphere,” Commercial Art (December 1922): 55; 60. 247 Viktor Mataja, Die Reklame (Leipzig: Duncker and Humblot, 1910); Hugo Münsterberg, Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (Boston; New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913); Christoph von Hartungen, Reklame Psychologie (Stuttgart: C. E. Poeschel Verlag, 1921); Theodor König, Reklame-Psychologie: Ihr gegenwärtiger Stand, ihre praktische Bedeutung (Munich: Verlag R. Oldenbourg, 1924); Hanns Kropff, Psychologie in der Reklame als Hilfe zur Bestgestaltung des Entwurfs (Stuttgart: C. E. Poeschel Verlag, 1934). 248 Among the schools to add Werbewissenschaft (advertising science) to their curriculum were the University of Cologne and the Handelshochschulen in Berlin, Mannheim, and Leipzig. See Corey Ross, Media and the Making of Modern Germany: Mass Communications, Society, and Politics from the Empire to the Third Reich (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 215. 103 illustrations for advertising as for journalism? How could designers fortify advertising against modern distractions? Trade journals served as platforms to establish and disseminate ideas about advertising as a unique mode of visual communication with its own rules, often referred to colloquially as “laws,” invoking the rhetorical certainty of hard science. Chief among them were claims about how form, line, and color should be used in illustration, type design, and layout to direct the eye, remain in the memory, and evoke affective response. Due to the influence of psychologists, advertisers and graphic designers regarded print advertising as a technology of perception as much as a means of communication. Photography and printing were apt metaphors for scientific theories of memory and attention, given that daily encounters with images were facilitated by the abundance of print advertising and the public’s increasing access to both handheld cameras and photomechanical reproductions in books and periodicals. 249 Designers frequently compared the visual attention of consumers to a camera and likened images “recorded” in the mind or “impressed” on the memory to the physical imprint of images on the page. Hermann Frenzel, publisher of Gebrauchsgraphik, described how the advertising poster, for example, should “establish a strong element of optical remembrance, impressing both this and the object itself upon the memory.” 250 In the context of advertising, “objectivity” connoted the power of images to bring an object—that is, a product for sale—closer to the consumer, especially by imprinting in the mind, as Frenzel described. 249 The portable Leica became commercially available in 1925, and rotogravure printing became commonplace in the 1920s for the inexpensive, mass production of newspapers and magazines. See Michel Frizot, Michel, ed., A New History of Photography (Cologne: Könneman Verlagsgesellschaft mbH, 1998); Michel Frizot and Cédric de Veigy, VU: The Story of a Magazine (London: Thames & Hudson, 2009). 250 Hermann Frenzel, “Der Prospekt,” Gebrauchsgraphik 3, no. 6 (June 1926): 4. 104 Given the importance of visual perception to the consumption of print advertising, the fledgling, international field of applied psychology focused much of its early experiments on visual attention, memory, and persuasion. Consequently, experimental psychologists produced some of the twentieth century’s most influential theories about the perception of line, color, and form. Yet art historical scholarship has not yet gone far enough to account for their influence on modernist art and design. 251 Central European modernism was nevertheless infused with impetus to apply scientific principles to visual form, and in recent decades scholars have begun to recover these aims. Frederic Schwartz has shown the interests of New Typography in theories and experiments developed in the German sub-field of psychology known as psychotechnics. 252 Julia Meer has also identified the rhetoric of applied psychology among New Typography’s influences. 253 I build on their work by showing how experimental psychology supplied designers with a vocabulary for describing modernist graphic design, and in turn, how the rhetoric and utopian ambitions of New Typography illuminate the visual culture of early experimental psychology. Perceptual psychologists used photography as an apparatus of scientific measurement, as a tool to create visual data, and as a metaphor to fortify the idea of vision as purely mechanical. In the context of experimental psychology, I propose that Typophoto takes on several new meanings. First, it connotes the mechanization of 251 Design historians have played an important role in foregrounding the influences of psychology on modernist design theory. See, for example, Ellen Lupton and J. Abbott Miller, eds. The ABCs of [triangle square circle]: The Bauhaus and Design Theory (New York: Princeton Architectural Press 2019 [1993]). 252 See Frederic J. Schwartz, Blind Spots: Critical Theory and the History of Art in Twentieth- Century Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005). 66–86. 253 See Julia Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie: Die Rezeption der Avantgarde in der Fachwelt der 1920er Jahre (Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, 2015), 27–45. 105 perception in psychological experiments designed to study the process of reading. Second, it encompasses the way early psychologists came to understand typography as visual form, and graphic forms as perceptual devices, through their experiments on legibility. Finally, it captures how applied psychologists attempted to turn images—especially photographic images reproduced as graphic inscriptions—into information. In doing so, they created a new graphic language to understand the elusive and complex process of reading. Defining Legibility: Measuring Memory and Attention In order to study reading and legibility in the artificial setting of the laboratory, experimental psychologists in the early twentieth century had to atomize their components. Doing so allowed them to represent the elusive concept of legibility using numerical data that easily correlated with the monetary value of advertising. They used this data to quantify how memorable, attention grabbing, and persuasive advertisements were for the average consumer. These characteristics were commonly known as “memory- value,” “attention-value,” and “suggestion-value,” terms popularized by German émigré to the United States Hugo Münsterberg, whose outsized influence on applied psychology is perhaps most apparent in the omnipresence of these concepts in advertising discourse. 254 Together, they defined the legibility of advertising, collapsing criteria for profitability into an ostensibly objective, scientific description of how reading works. In doing so, 254 “We have a number of careful experimental investigations referring to the memory-value, the attention-value, and the suggestion-value, and other mental effects of the printed business advertisements.” Hugo Münsterberg, Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (Boston; New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913), 257–58. Münsterberg was among the first to study human will and the visual perception of space as subjects of psychological inquiry. See Matthew Hale, Jr., Human Science and Social Order: Hugo Münsterberg and the Origins of Applied Psychology (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1980), 22. 106 psychological studies made profit-driven standards for the consumption of advertising seem universal and natural to the efficacy of all graphic form. In a speech transcribed for the German trade journal Gebrauchsgraphik in 1928, W. Buchanan-Taylor, a publicist for the British food manufacturer J. Lyons & Co., emphasized that the field of psychology had proven the scientific basis of effective principles of advertising. He spoke about the application of Taylorist principles to both the production and consumption of commodities through effective commercial propaganda. 255 His speech reached a particularly sympathetic audience in the German readership of Gebrauchsgraphik, given the growing popularity of psychotechnics as a branch of applied psychology developed in Germany in direct response to the popularity of Taylorism. 256 As a founding proponent of psychotechnics, Münsterberg advocated the regulation of workers’ bodily movement and “mental labor” in order to maximize their productivity. 257 He was instrumental in applying psychotechnical methods to studying the effects of advertising, thereby extending attempts to optimize worker productivity to the production 255 W. Buchanan-Taylor, “Reklame—Wissenschaft Oder Kunst?” Gebrauchsgraphik 5, no. 8 (August 1928): 57–58. 256 Psychotechnics was developed by psychologists including Münsterberg, Fritz Giese, Walter Moede, and Emil Kraepelin around the turn of the twentieth century as a German response to the American method of business management known as Taylorism, betraying both the influence and threat of Amerikanismus to Germany’s newly industrialized culture. Fritz Giese, Psychotechnik und Taylorsystem (Langensalza: Wendt und Klauwell, 1920); Hugo Münsterberg, Grundzüge der Psychotechnik (Leipzig: Barth, 1914). 257 For more on this context, see Joan Campbell, Joy in Work, German Work: The National Debate, 1800-1945 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). For more on Taylorism’s influence on industrial design in America, see Terry Smith, Making the Modern: Industry, Art, and Design in America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). Psychotechnics reemerged in the aftermath of World War I as a strategy for rebuilding the German economy. For more on the popularity of psychotechnics in the Weimar era, see Andreas Killen, “Weimar Psychotechnics between Americanism and Fascism,” Osiris 22, no. 1, The Self as Project: Politics and the Human Sciences (2007): 48–71; Charles S. Maier, “Between Taylorism and Technocracy: European Ideologies and the Vision of Industrial Productivity in the 1920s,” Journal of Contemporary History 5, no. 2 (1970): 27–61. 107 of better consumers. Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (1913), arguably Münsterberg’s most influential book, is largely dedicated to the selection of ideal industrial workers and strategies for increasing their productivity. He called for the mutual cooperation of “wage- earners, manufacturers and laborers, exporters, importers, storekeepers, salesmen, and customers” in growing an industrial economy, implicating consumerism as civic responsibility in a modern, industrial economy. 258 The book’s third and final section, “The Best Possible Effect,” concerns practices of buying and selling industrially manufactured goods, including the effects of advertising design and display on consumer behavior. Münsterberg emphasized repeated exposure to advertisements as an indispensable stimulus for recognition, which was therefore key to the “memory-value” of advertising: The psychologically decisive factor here is not the fact of the mere repetition of the impression, but rather the stimulation of the attention which results from the repetition…The second impression awakes the consciousness of recognition, thus exciting the attention, and through it we now turn actively to the repeated impression which forces itself on our memory with increased vividness on account of this active personal reaction. 259 These comments point to the interrelatedness of attention and memory, described as mutually reinforcing. The visual attention of consumers was required for an advertisement to be remembered. In turn, recognition—visualized rhetorically as the “impression” of advertising on the memory—would trigger “the stimulation of the attention.” Thus memory and attention were often referred to interchangeably in early experimental psychology. 258 Hugo Münsterberg, Psychology and Industrial Efficiency, 256. 259 Ibid, 262–63. 108 In order to quantify and evaluate legibility statistically, psychologists, and, by extension, graphic designers, equated ease of reading with the temporal efficiency of memory. Most early legibility studies were essentially memory tests that isolated reading in the controlled setting of a laboratory. In his 1914 book, Psychology, General and Applied, Münsterberg published the results of a set of studies conducted at the Harvard Psychological Laboratory. 260 Under his supervision, subjects were given a book of advertisements, printed at varying sizes and positioned variably on each page, to look at for a finite amount of time. The first experiment tested fifty subjects; each was given ten minutes to look through a one hundred-page book and asked to record what they remembered afterward. According to Münsterberg, this study showed that full-page advertisements were almost three times more memorable than half-page advertisements and over ten times more memorable than quarter-page advertisements. However, a similar experiment showed that smaller advertisements that repeated more frequently than full- page advertisements were more memorable, regardless of size. 261 These experiments also showed that advertisements mixed with other copy were not as memorable as pages solely devoted to advertising. The idea that legibility was quantified by the speed with which a graphic could be read and remembered was central to Tschichold’s first attempt to define “New 260 Hugo Münsterberg, Psychology, General and Applied (New York; London: D. Appleton and Company, 1914), 430–31. He also cited similar studies on legibility published by American psychologists Walter Dill Scott and Daniel Starch, as well as others he had personally conducted and supervised at the Harvard Psychological Laboratory at Harvard University. These studies tested the legibility of advertisements printed at different sizes and positioned variably on a page, as well as the effects of color and composition on the speed and accuracy with which subjects could recall them. 261 Other variants of these experiments showed that advertisements printed on the right side or upper quarter of the page were more memorable, thereby doubling the “mental value” of the right- hand upper quarter of a page. Ibid. 109 Typography” in his own words in the 1925 issue of Kulturschau. In this short manifesto, the designer repeatedly stressed that typographic form should be purposeful and simple. He dismissed the uses of typographic ornament and “national typefaces,” namely in the Fraktur family, as uneconomical “leftovers from history” that ought to be replaced by sans serif typefaces. 262 His rhetorical emphasis on brevity, efficiency, and simplicity in modern communication betray a collective urgency around the economic imperatives of advertising in the Weimar era. Against the backdrop of Germany’s economic recovery in the aftermath of the First World War, advertising came under the scrutiny of social scientists and economists who sought to coordinate the bodies and minds of consumers through efficient commercial design. Thus Tschichold stressed the need for formal simplicity in graphic design and the transformation of reading into instant recognition as “economic considerations” rather than stylistic ones. 263 He implicated New Typography not merely as a typographic expression of Zeitgeist but as a practical necessity to ensure the cultural and economic wellbeing of German society. Yet the economic drives of New Typography were eclipsed in Tschichold’s description of its aesthetic in terms of universal clarity and legibility. Not all psychological experiments designed to test the legibility of printed type attempted to simulate the conditions of encounters with print advertising in newspapers or magazines. In 1938, Dutch typography and legibility scholar Gerrit Ovink aggregated a 262 Jan Tschichold, “Die Neue Typographie,” in Christopher Burke, Active Literature: Jan Tschichold and New Typography (London: Hyphen, 2007), 29–30. Burke notes that Tschichold’s emphasis on the importance of economy and brevity is reflective of the context of economic scarcity and recovery in Germany during the Weimar Republic. 263 Ibid, 29. 110 number of legibility studies, including his own, which compared different typefaces. 264 He described one such experiment that tested the legibility of individual letterforms set in eleven popular display typefaces seen at a distance. 265 Cards printed with one large letterform were inserted one at a time into a box framed with white cardboard and lit with bulbs simulating the lighting in a shop window. The box was hung at about a meter and a half above the floor at the end of a long, narrow hallway, which “riveted the subjects’ eyes to the lighted area,” according to Ovink. 266 Each subject stood at the opposite end of the hallway, approximately fifty meters away from the box, and slowly walked toward it, reporting what they saw with each step forward. From their comments, Ovink observed how the design of each typeface affected how quickly and in what way each letterform came into view. Ovink used this study to make detailed conclusions about how the construction of each letterform—set in eleven different typefaces, in upper and lowercase—affected legibility when seen from various distances. The study was designed to aid in the selection of display typefaces for advertising posters, which were typically seen from afar. Ovink’s conclusions included notes about how certain letters—such as K and X, or C and E— might be confused when set in a typeface that did not distinguish these letters strongly enough in its design. 267 These conclusions implied that the practice of reading was one of active construction. Like the design of a typeface—constructed out of horizontal and 264 Gerrit Willem Ovink, Legibility, Atmosphere-Value and Forms of Printing Types (Leiden: A. W. Sijthoff, 1938). 265 Ibid, 38–71. Display typefaces were considered most appropriate for headings, titles, and very short lines of text—rather than for larger blocks or longer lines of text—and were often used for signage and poster design. 266 Ibid, 38. 267 Ovink also noted that serifs could impede legibility in such cases where one letterform might easily be confused for another, but in other cases, serifs did not affect legibility. Ibid, 44–71. 111 vertical lines, geometric forms, and relationships between positive and negative space— Ovink recognized reading as a process bringing recognizable forms into view, constructed through the perception of abstract fragments that together cohere into meaningful signs. Even further removed from the daily conditions of reading, psychologists often used abstract images as visual stimuli to test specific aspects of attention-value as it related to legibility, in an attempt to decrease the number of variables (such as typeface, size, type or background color, typographical emphasis, line weight or width) in a given experiment. The attention-value of color in particular, was often tested using abstract images. American Harlow Gale was among the first psychologists to conduct experiments on the psychological effects of color. 268 In one study, he used two sets of cards: one set mounted with one-inch colored squares on white backgrounds and another with one-inch circles on black backgrounds, illuminating the cards in different sequences, for a few seconds at a time, in view of a subject, rotating the cards ninety degrees between each view. Each subject was then asked to recall what they had seen. His findings varied along gender lines: while Gale concluded that red on a white background had the greatest attention-value for women, he found that black on white had the greatest attention-value for men. 269 Overall, he concluded that the color red had the greatest attention-value, 268 Gale was one of the many American psychologists trained by Wilhelm Wundt in Leipzig. After returning to the United States in 1895, Gale headed the University of Minnesota’s experimental psychology laboratory, where he established a program to study advertising psychology through the development of laboratory experiments and distribution of consumer surveys. For more on Gale’s legacy and work, see John Eighmey and Sela Sar, “Harlow Gale and the Origins of Psychology in Advertising,” Journal of Advertising 36, no. 4 (Winter 2007): 147–58. 269 Ibid, 153–54. 112 followed by green, and then black. He deduced that black ink printed on a white background was generally more memorable than white printed on black. 270 Color was tested not only in terms of mnemonic value, but also as a stimulus for affective response, considered relevant to the suggestion-value of advertising. Among Gale’s questionnaire-based studies was one on color preference, which found that red was the most commonly preferred color among women, while green was the most commonly disliked among both men and women. 271 However, an article published in Commercial Art claimed the universal preference for the color blue among men and women, citing a paper on “Colour Preference” given by Scottish psychologist James Drever to the Psychology Section of the British Association at Liverpool in September of 1923. 272 Advertising designers frequently cited such studies as proof that their color choices were not simply aesthetically motivated, but rather backed by scientific data. These references implicated design as a product of science rather than art, despite the diverging conclusions of psychological studies. A more complex set of findings on the affective associations of color appeared in American psychologist Albert Poffenberger’s influential book, Psychology in Advertising (1925). 273 Poffenberger summarized a study from 1924, which tested the associative qualities of different color combinations using twenty 8 ½-by-11-inch plates. 274 Every 270 These results were summarized in Walter Dill Scott, The Theory and Practice of Advertising (Boston: Small, Maynard and Company, 1913), 12. 271 Eighmey and Sar, “Harlow Gale and the Origins of Psychology in Advertising,” 153–54. 272 E.H.M. Georgeson, “Blue the Favourite Colour: A Practical Test,” Commercial Art (November 1923): 317. 273 Albert T. Poffenberger, Psychology in Advertising (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1925). 274 Half of these combinations were painted in pairs of “saturated colors,” and the other half were painted in “weak” hues of the same colors. Each group consisted of the following pairs: red- yellow; red-green; red-blue; blue-orange; blue-yellow; blue-green; yellow-green; yellow-green; yellow-purple; yellow-orange; red-orange; and red-purple. Ibid, 453. 113 plate featured the same non-representational image, its frame filled with undulating, vegetal forms, each painted in a different pair of color combinations (Fig. 2.1). Along with the plates, one hundred subjects were given a sheet with a list of twenty terms, categorized as “abstract” or “concrete,” corresponding to an “abstract quality” or “concrete commodity” (Fig. 2.2). 275 The subjects were instructed to match each term to the “meaning or atmosphere” of an image. 276 Overall, the study found that individual color preferences did not necessarily affect the appropriateness of a given color to represent a commodity. 277 It concluded that colors have “feeling-tone values,” or affective associations, which are “stable and permanent” in the minds of individuals, therefore their “meanings or atmosphere…should be utilized wherever possible.” 278 Poffenberger cited another study from the same year that similarly tested the affective associations of different types of line. 279 Five-hundred subjects were given eighteen 8 ½-by-11-inch cyanotypes, each depicting a line in a unique configuration (curved in different directions, zigzagging, and randomly oriented), with an instruction sheet printed with thirteen sets of adjectives denoting “classes” of emotion (Fig. 2.3–4). Subjects were asked to match each “class” with one of the images, yielding a set of numerical data showing how the curvature and orientation of lines corresponded to different emotional responses. Poffenberger suggested that these findings might be useful 275 Ibid, 455. 276 Subjects were permitted to use the same image as many times as they chose. Ibid. 277 This conclusion was especially exemplified by the color yellow. While most subjects reported disliking the color yellow, it was the color that appeared the most in the pairs chosen as matches with the terms given. Ibid, 463. 278 Ibid, 462-63. 279 This study was conducted at the Columbia Psychological Laboratory under the supervision of Poffenberger and B.E. Barrows and was first published in the Journal of Applied Psychology 8 (1924): 187. 114 to advertising designers for selecting ornamental graphic elements, such as borders to frame advertisements (Fig. 2.5). Such an application implicated the geometric and vegetal motifs of ornamental borders—historically used by typographers to signify technical sophistication and good taste—as optical devices encoded with affective meaning. Today, as a century ago, these experiments do not serve as direct explanations for uses of form, line, and color in interwar graphic design. The prescriptions of psychologists were useful to designers, in large part, because they so frequently diverged; there were virtually as many aesthetic choices in design as psychological studies to justify them. Instead, these experiments illuminate how the concept of legibility in graphic design was founded on the shared idea that the memorability of graphic form could stimulate attention, and in turn, trigger emotion. More than anything, psychologists gave graphic designers a language with which to talk about legibility. Equally illuminating are the methods reflected in the rhetoric of experimental psychology. Though their conclusions focused on the clarity, memorability, and legibility of words and images, psychologists consistently relied on abstract images in their experiments to reach these conclusions. The prevalence of abstract images in experiments devised to test legibility suggested the usefulness of text in graphic design not only as a system of linguistic representation, but equally as visual form. Psychologists characterized ‘reading,’ in the context of advertising as an instantaneous process in which words and images were imprinted on the mind and lodged in the memory. Thus New Typography’s appeal to “elemental typography” was, in part, an artifact of the methods of psychological research on which the profession of graphic design was founded. 115 Reading the Eye Reading: Oculomotor Research and Visualizing Perception Along with attention and legibility, understandings of reading by psychologists were critically important in order to establish graphic design as a scientifically backed profession. Embedded in references to the psychological power of form in advertising were conflicting theories about visual perception. While some psychologists in the early twentieth century understood perception as a cognitive process, others located it primarily as a function of the eye. The study of perception had been a focus of psychological science since the founding of Wundt’s laboratory, and diverging theories of perception as optical or cognitive betrayed the field’s diverse origins in the field of physiology and traditions of philosophy. 280 Perception became increasingly important as a subject of psychological research in its application to advertising design. From experimental psychology, graphic designers inherited theories of perception and reading, as well as a vocabulary for discussing reading in terms of efficiency and control. Austrian advertising expert Hanns Kropff cited experiments by Poffenberger, among others, in his own volume on advertising psychology published in 1934, which summarized many of the field’s findings in the United States and Europe. 281 Much of Kropff’s book framed attention-value as a matter of controlling optical perception. A 280 The study of perception was a branch of experimental psychology pioneered especially by Münsterberg at the University of Freiburg, where he was appointed from 1887 until 1892. He promoted the basic tenet of applied psychology, arguing that psychological stimulus is directly connected to physiological action, which was sharply criticized by Wundt and G. E. Müller but praised by American psychologist William James, who invited Münsterberg to teach at Harvard University in 1892. Hale, Human Science and Social Order, 22–25. See also Danziger, Constructing the Subject, 17–33. 281 Kropff worked as a consultant to department store proprietor Leonard Tietz before taking a position teaching commercial advertising at Vienna University of Economics and Business in 1936. Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie, 325. 116 substantial section of his book was dedicated to the subject of “Attention and Interest,” which equated the attention-value of graphics with their visual clarity. 282 Illustrated with examples of advertisements from Germany, Austria, and the United States, Kropff’s book broke down composition in advertising design to demonstrate how each formal element could be exploited psychologically. He argued that an advertisement as a whole was effectively invisible if its parts did not catch a reader’s attention: “When one glances at an advertisement,” he wrote, “one sees nothing if the eyes wander over the whole, but rather the eye recognizes and rests only on the individual parts.” 283 Kropff therefore advocated an elemental approach to design in direct response to the mechanics of seeing: he suggested that every element of text, image, and layout should be treated as discrete formal units, each with its own visual interest. Kropff described each formal element of a commercial image as an optical device, or what he called a “Blickführung” (glance-guide), such as the circle, square, golden section, and black-and-white contrast. 284 He elaborated by offering rules for typographic composition and the construction of text-image combinations. 285 These included reserving the center of a composition for a trademark or an image of a product; using light and the positioning of human figures to direct the gaze; intersecting images with type; exploiting contrast; and arranging type surrounded by ample white space. 286 Similarly, he maintained 282 “Was aufmerksam betrachtet wird, ist klarer.” Kropff, Psychologie in der Reklame als Hilfe zur Bestgestaltung des Entwurfs, 111–12. 283 “Blickt man auf ein Inserat, so sieht man nichts, wenn die Augen über das Ganze schweifen, sondern man erkennt nur die einzelnen Teile, auf denen das Augen ruhen bleibt.” Ibid, 111. 284 Ibid, 129–30. 285 American psychologist Walter Dill Scott similarly offered rules for graphic design through critique of sample advertising. See Walter Dill Scott, The Theory and Practice of Advertising; A Simple Exposition of the Principles of Psychology in their Relation to Successful Advertising (Boston: Small, Maynard and Company, 1913). 286 Ibid, 164. 117 that a single letter was always easier to read than the same letter printed as part of a word. 287 Among the examples he cited as successful was an unattributed American advertisement for Travelese women’s walking shoes (Fig. 2.6). His caption described its composition as a construction of abstract forms: “Combination of rectangles and concentric circles. The rectangles are either mathematical squares, doubled squares, or very strongly approaching the golden section. Strong isolation through black planes.” 288 He located the strength of this advertisement in its use of formal elements, which each increase its attention-value. His prescriptions for design suggested that the effectiveness of an advertisement depended on the construction of abstract forms, which were as crucial to its overall message as the signification of text and image. Though not all of Kropff’s principles matched Tschichold’s tenets of “elemental typography,” his emphasis on optical control, and the efficacy of visual contrast, geometric forms, and ample white space imbued these elements with scientific validity. 289 By encouraging the isolation of images and letterforms to optimize the attention- value of graphics, Kropff tacitly urged the replication of laboratory conditions that psychologists created in order to study reading as an optical phenomenon. 290 Explicitly, he 287 Ibid. 288 “Kombination von Rechtecken und konzentrischen Kreisen. Die Rechtecke sind entweder mathematische Quadrate, doppelte Quadrate oder nähern sich sehr stark dem goldenen Schnitt. Starke Isolierung durch schwarze Flächen.” Ibid, 98. 289 Kropff’s writing was almost certainly known to most German graphic designers in the 1920s and 1930s. See, for example, an outline of a course offered in the summer of 1926 by the Schutzverband der Reklametreibenden Österreichs (Austrian Association of Advertising Protection) by Hanns Kropff and Bruno W. Randolph, published in Gebrauchsgraphik: “Psychologie in der Reklame: Reklame-Psychologie in Theorie und Praxis,” Gebrauchsgraphik 3, no. 6 (June 1926): 48–53. The article indicates that at that time, Kropff taught at the Handelshochschule Köln and Randolph was appointed at Columbia University. 290 For a thorough study of abstract form as a tool of contemporaneous psychological experiments in film, see Michael Cowan, Walter Ruttmann and the Cinema of Multiplicity: Avant-Garde— Advertising—Modernity (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014). 118 identified the task of focusing visual attention as fundamentally a matter of controlling the movement of the reader’s eye: The human eyes have a tendency not to be fixated on one point, but to wander around. Each roaming of the eye, however, means the wandering of attention to another point. This roaming, slipping, or wandering of the eye is a sign of the fluctuation of attention. If the eye is in motion, it sees nothing; only at rest does the human eye see something specific, which is then processed by the rest of the mechanism of the body. 291 These comments implicate the graphic designer as a psychological experimenter who must understand the mechanics of perception in order to control it. To inhibit the natural, inadvertent “roaming of the eye” was to compel readers to see what they might otherwise ignore. For example, his emphasis on the use of circles was based on the principle that when looking at an advertisement, “one’s glance first falls on the center of the page,” which he called the, “optical center.” 292 As evidence, he cited eye-movement studies: “People have photographed people's eyes and found them wandering while reading and looking at images. It has been clearly established how the eyes move, when they rest, and when the attention can take effect.” 293 291 “Die Augen des Menchen haben die Tendenz, nicht auf einen Punkt fixiert zu bleiben, sondern herumzuschweifen. Jedes Herumschweifen des Auges bedeutet aber eine Wanderung der Aufmerksamkeit nach einem anderen Punkt. Diese Herumschweifen, Abgleiten oder Wandern des Auges ist ein Zeichen für das Fluktuieren der Aufmerksamkeit. Wenn das Auge in Bewegung ist, sieht es nichts, nur in Ruh erblickt das menschliche Auge etwas bestimmtes und der übrige Mechanismus des Körpers verarbeitet es.” Kropff, Psychologie in der Reklame als Hilfe zur Bestgestaltung des Entwurfs, 110. 292 “Dazu kommt nun die Gewohnheit des Bildbetrachtens. Sehen wir ab von dem Einfluß durch die Technik der Zeichnung, so fällt der Blick des Menschen zuerst auf die Mitte der Seite, das heißt auf das optische Zentrum.” Ibid, 119. 293 “Man hat die Augen von Personen photographiert und so festgestellt, wie sie beim Lesen und beim Betrachten von Bildern wandern. Man hat so einwandfrei festgestellt, wie sie sich bewegen, beziehungsweise wann sie ruhen und wann die Aufmerksamkeit wirken kann.” Ibid. 119 The study of eye movement began as an observational practice that eventually became mechanized, especially through the use of photography. The earliest studies of eye movement in reading were published by French ophthalmologist Louis Émile Javal in 1878. 294 Javal devised a study that involved placing a mirror in front of subjects and standing behind them, counting their eye movements as they read. As a student and collaborator of German psychologist Benno Erdmann at the University of Halle in the 1890s, American psychologist Raymond Dodge built on Javal’s method. Together, Erdmann and Dodge developed a tachistoscope designed specifically for the study of reading. 295 As a result, they posited that words—rather than individual letters—were the fundamental units of recognition in the process of reading. 296 American psychologist Miles Tinker, writing in 1936, noted that Erdmann and Dodge also used a telescope to more accurately observe the eyes of their subjects. 297 294 Louis Émile Javal, “Essai sur la physiologie de la lecture,” Annales d’oculistique no. 79 (1878): 97–117; 240–74. 295 The tachistoscope is a mechanical device that displays an image for a specific amount of time. Tachistoscopy was first developed in the 1850s and used by scientists such as Hermann von Helmholtz to study human perception. Tachistoscopy served as a tool of experimental psychological study as soon as the field emerged: American psychologist James McKeen Cattell apprenticed with Wundt at the Institut für Experimentelle Psychologie at the Universität Leipzig in the 1880s and designed his own tachistoscope to more precisely measure the perception of images. Walter Dearborn furthered this work, under the mentorship of Cattell at Columbia University, and published a set of photographic images made with a tachistoscope in 1906. See Ruth Benschop, “What is a Tachistoscope: Historical Explorations of an Instrument,” Science in Context 11 (1998): 23–50; David Sweeney Coombs, “An Untrained Eye: The Tachistoscope and Photographic Vision in Early Experimental Psychology,” History and Technology 28, no. 1 (2012): 107–17; Danziger, Constructing the Subject, 28. 296 This finding was published in their co-authored book, Benno Erdmann and Raymond Dodge, Psychologische Untersuchungen über das Lesen auf Experimenteller Grundlager (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1898). Gerrit Ovink cited Erdmann and Dodge’s findings in Ovink, Legibility, Atmosphere-Value and Forms of Printing Types, 71. An earlier version of this theory was posited in, James McKeen Cattell, “The Time it Takes to See and Name Objects” Mind 11 (January 1886): 63–65. 297 Miles A. Tinker, “Eye Movements in Reading,” The Journal of Educational Research 30, no. 4 (December 1936): 242. 120 In their early attempts to record eye movement mechanically, psychologists effectively technologized human vision itself. Though intended to objectively represent natural perception, their inventions turned reading into a highly mechanized process fully removed from the conditions of reading encountered on a daily basis. Moreover, these machines produced images that turned optical and cognitive experiences into abstract images that psychologists interpreted as data, trusted as indexical traces of eye movement. In 1908, American psychologist Edmund Burke Huey published The Psychology and Pedagogy of Reading, which summarized his experiments using a complex mechanical apparatus that he developed to record eye movement (Fig. 2.7). 298 He placed a thin, plaster cup cut with a small round hole on the eyeball of a subject, who was asked to read a passage of text, their head steadied by a headrest. The cup was attached to a thin lever that activated the movement of an aluminum pointer by horizontal movements of the eye, traced with an electric current onto soot-coated paper mounted on a rotating cylinder. 299 The resulting images—reproduced as engravings when they were published— condensed perception to the tracking of a single eyeball (Fig. 2.8). They picture the movement of the eye as a continuous line, punctuated by “saccades” caused by pauses of the eye (known as “fixations”), inscribed onto a receptive surface. 300 The use of such images by psychologists was one of many modern practices that trained modern viewers to understand them, in Lisa Cartwright’s terminology, as “graphic inscriptions”—exact 298 Edmund Burke Huey, The Psychology and Pedagogy of Reading; With a Review of the History of Reading and Writing and of Methods, Texts, and Hygiene in Reading (Cambridge: M.I.T. Press, 1908). 299 Ibid, 24–31. 300 For a thorough discussion of terminology in eye tracking, see Jukka Hyönä, Ralph Radach, and Heiner Deubel, eds., The Mind’s Eye: Cognitive and Applied Aspects of Eye Movement Research (Amsterdam; London: North Holland, 2003). 121 corollaries to imperceptible phenomena. 301 Not only were such graphics used as “a disciplinary mode of representation,” as Cartwright has argued, but the production of such images around the turn of the twentieth century was one of many scientific conventions of reading abstract graphic forms as coded information. 302 As such, the images produced by psychologists essentially functioned as infographics, visual representations of data that became fundamental tools of graphic design in the early twentieth century. 303 Like psychologists, graphic designers created their own visual language of information with the infographic, thereby changing the very nature of information itself. The inscriptions produced by psychological experiments visualized legibility through formal abstraction, and like charts of numerical data on which psychologists also relied, these inscriptions became legible and legitimate as scientific data over time. Thus these psychologists defined legibility, in part by creating images that required new modes of reading information for their results to be meaningful. Around the same time that Huey developed his eye-tracking device, in collaboration with Thomas Cline, Dodge introduced a photochronograph, likely the first camera-based device used to record eye movement (Fig. 2.9–10). 304 Designed to 301 Lisa Cartwright, Screening the Body: Tracing Medicine’s Visual Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1995), 29. 302 Ibid. 303 Infographics became conventions of graphic design especially through the development of the Vienna Method of pictorial statistics, a systematic approach to the visual representation of information innovated between 1926 and 1933 at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, under the direction of Otto Neurath, by Gerd Arntz, Marie Neurath, and Peter Alma. An in-depth discussion of the Vienna Method is included in Chapter 5 of this dissertation. See also, Christopher Burke, Eric Kindel, and Sue Walker, eds, Isotype: Design and Contexts, 1925-1971 (London: Hyphen Press, 2013); Frank Hartmann and Erwin K. Bauer, Bildersprache: Otto Neurath; Visualisierung (Vienna: Wiener Universitätsverlag, 2002). 304 Raymond Dodge and Thomas Cline, “The Angle Velocity of Eye Movements,” Psychological Review 8 (1901): 145–57. 122 mechanize both the procedures of reading and of observation, this device included a headrest on one end—to steady a subject’s bodily movement during the study—and a camera mounted on the opposite end, which served as a recording device. Printed text was mounted inside as reading material, and a beam of light was reflected on the subject’s cornea and refracted onto a moving photographic plate in the camera, recording the eye’s movement. 305 In 1906, Walter Dearborn published photographs that he had produced similarly, using a tachistoscope and photochronograph to record eye movement (Fig. 2.11). 306 A number of experimental psychologists working in the 1920s and 1930s used similar machines and improved upon the early photochronographs developed by Dodge and Cline, and by Dearborn. At the University of Chicago’s psychological laboratory, Guy Thomas Buswell and Charles Judd developed a photochronograph loaded with two strips of movable celluloid film, which measured vertical and horizontal eye movement, respectively (Fig. 2.12). 307 Buswell used photochronography to study the legibility of images in a similar manner, attempting to record and map how people “read” images. He published the findings in his 1935 book, How People Look at Pictures, which he claimed as the first known study of its kind. 308 The book aggregated the results of studies in which the eye 305 The device also included a swinging pendulum in the plate holder of the camera, which darkened the edge of the photographic plate at regular intervals, serving as a marker of time in the results recorded on the plate. Ibid. 306 Walter Dearborn, The Psychology of Reading: An Experimental Study of the Reading Pauses and Movements of the Eye (New York: The Science Press, 1906), 54–55. 307 Tinker, “Eye Movements in Reading,” 245. Their experiments were conducted in the 1920s. Miles Tinker noted that these measurements recorded the vertical movement of one eye and the horizontal movement of the other simultaneously. Consequently, the photographs were composite images that amalgamated the independent movement of each of a subject’s eye. 308 Guy Thomas Buswell, How People Look at Pictures; A Study of the Psychology of Perception in Art (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1935), 17. 123 movement of multiple subjects was recorded while looking at a specific image (Fig. 2.13– 14). Tests were done using image reproductions as visual stimuli, including photographs, advertisements, and well-known artworks, such as Katsushika Hokusai’s woodblock print, Under the Wave Off Kanagawa (c. 1830-32); Georges Seurat’s oil painting, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte (1884-86); and Marcel Duchamp’s oil painting, The King and Queen Surrounded by Swift Nudes (1912) (Fig. 2.15–16). The recordings represented the eye in motion with straight lines between points, known as fixations, which represented pauses of the eye. Buswell used them as visual proof that the human eye does not move smoothly across images in a single direction, but rather as with text, moves erratically in fits and starts, pausing in certain places and moving past others. Buswell noted that shorter fixations indicated “the simpler processes of visual perception,” while longer fixations likely indicate “a mental process of reflection.” 309 He presented this visual data as “the most objective evidence available of the centers of interest within a picture,” but stopped short of interpreting “the quality of the mental processes going on,” leaving further interpretation to artists. 310 This study reflected an understanding of “attention” counter to that suggested by memory tests. Rather than measuring attention-value as the speed with which an image could be recalled, he instead attributed the highest attention-value to parts of an image on which subjects lingered the longest, effectively using eye tracking to decouple attention and memory. Buswell’s studies were visualized by several types of abstract images literally mapped onto muted versions of the reproductions used for each study. Tests of individual subjects were represented by a web of lines connecting fixation points, taken from 309 Ibid, 143. 310 Ibid. 124 photochronographic recordings, superimposed onto the reproduction and accompanied by numerical data (Fig. 2.17–18). Buswell aggregated multiple photochronographic recordings—usually from at least forty subjects—to create “density plot maps,” which represented the “patterns of perception” of a given image (Fig. 2.19). 311 Buswell also produced charts representing the distribution of fixations of a given image, overlaid with a grid to organize numerical data according to the aggregate number of fixations in each part of the image (Fig. 2.20). Like the images produced by Huey and Dearborn, Buswell’s represented eye movement as infographics, condensing information even further by aggregating data collected from multiple subjects to represent the most common perceptual patterns. These charts represent the perception of representational images as abstract visual form. They transform image reproductions used for study into ghostly shadows, overlaid with abstract marks made by the localized movement of the human body recorded photographically, and subsequently printed as scientific illustrations. As true hybrids of photographic imaging and graphic inscription, the images resulting from Buswell’s studies suggest a meaning of Typophoto latent in perceptual psychology. Experimental psychologists repeatedly invoked the mutually reinforcing ideas that words operate as formal devices and that images are legible as visual information. Walter Dill Scott advocated for the legibility of “simple” and “heavy” typefaces—such as Block, Futura, and Bodoni—on the premise that they “attract the attention” of the reader. 312 He suggested that legibility could be further optimized by the wholesale replacement of text with images: “The picture which tells the story is more easily comprehended than any 311 Ibid, 18. 312 Scott, The Theory and Practice of Advertising, 14. These “heavy” typefaces are commonly known as display typefaces; see note 265. 125 possible expression in words.” 313 That images could be read efficiently as information was not only made explicit in the writing of early psychologists, it was also embedded in their methods, especially through their uses of photography. Their experiments yielded images that were interpreted as hard scientific data—examples of what Moholy-Nagy called “visual facts.” 314 Moreover, the images produced through early research on eye movement, and those used in other psychological studies of legibility, show that formal abstraction was a crucial tool in the nascent field of psychology. Abstract images produced by machines, especially with photographic technology, translated the perception of representational forms—both word and image—into indexical signs used as raw data. 315 Abstract, photographic images produced in scientific contexts seemed to foreclose interpretation as material traces of experiments. However, like all visual information, people had to be trained to read them as such. Together, studies of eye movement—commonly known as “oculomotor” research—implicated reading and perception as mechanical processes. Implied in the very term “oculomotor” is the idea of the optical sensorium as an organic machine. Oculomotor experiments suggest that ideas about vision as mechanical not only emerged from social scientific research, but also anticipated it. These experiments began with the assumption that the human eye functions like a machine, and apparatuses were designed to reinforce and visualize this assumption. In turn, graphic designers repeatedly referred to reading and 313 Ibid, 24. 314 Moholy-Nagy, “Photography in Advertising,” 88. 315 I use the term “indexical signs” in reference to the semiotic theory of Charles Sanders Peirce, who categorized a sign that bears a causal relationship to its referent as an “index.” Charles S. Peirce, “What is a Sign?” (1894), in The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings, ed. Nathan Houser and Christian J. W. Kloesel, vol. 2 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), 4–10. 126 perception as the reader’s “optical exposure” to a graphic—a rhetorical artifact of the long-standing use of tachistoscopy in laboratory experiments. 316 Despite the artificiality of the conditions in which these machines were used to study reading and the legibility of words and images, the photographic images they produced came to stand for the mechanics of perception. Perhaps because of this artificiality—and the degree to which psychological research attempted to control vision in order to study it—graphic designers aspired to optimize reading by conceiving of sites of advertising consumption—such as city streets and the pages of newspapers and magazines—as extensions of the laboratory. 317 Although designers disagreed about the efficacy of photography in commercial illustration, the idea of photography as a proxy for human vision was reinforced in the writing of both psychologists and graphic designers. Scott, for example, compared reading to the exposure of the film in a camera, which records light reflected off a subject and refracted through a lens. In doing so, he essentially described photochronographic studies of eye movement as reading itself: “As you look at this page the light is reflected to your eyes from each individual word, so one might say that you receive an impression from each of the words on the page….” 318 Several pages later, Scott made the comparison between the eye and the camera even more explicit: 316 David Coombs has noted that “tachistoscopy shared with photography a rhetoric of ‘exposure times’ that makes plain an underlying analogy: what the photographic plate is to photography, the retina and brain are to tachistoscopy. Put another way, tachistoscopic experiments sought to measure a photographic eye.” Coombs, “An Untrained Eye,” 108. 317 This played out especially in psychologists’ reliance on questionnaires to study the effects of advertising on the behaviors, habits, and beliefs of consumers. Unpublished notes and findings from a number of American studies conducted in the 1920s and 1930s at Harvard University are located at Harvard Business School’s Baker Library. 318 Scott, The Theory and Practice of Advertising, 7. 127 The eye is like a photographer’s camera. If it is focused for any particular object, all others appear through it to be blurred and indistinct. If I fix my eyes upon an object directly in front of me, all others are seen but dimly… Objects that fall under the direct gaze of the eyes make stronger visual impressions than those which fall out of the focus. 319 As in the Weimar-era trope of New Vision, the idea in psychology of vision as photographic implied not just the faithful reproduction of images in the mind, but reinforced perception as something that could be mechanized and optimized. If the eye functioned like a camera, then it could be adjusted and focused in order to faithfully record particular images and texts. 320 Optical Gearshifting: Seeing the Whole Picture Eye tracking was not the only means of understanding perception in early psychology. Like Hanns Kropff and many others in his field, German psychologist Theodor König named visual contrast as one of the key criteria for increasing the attention-value, memory-value, and suggestion-value of print advertising. However, his emphasis on contrast suggested alternative understandings of perception to those emanating from eye-movement research. Whereas Kropff relied on studies that located perception primarily in the functions of the optical sensorium, König invoked research on perception as a chiefly cognitive phenomenon. One section of his 1924 book on 319 Ibid, 14–15. 320 The use of photographic metaphors in early twentieth-century psychology adds to a plethora of technology-related metaphors used by psychologists to understand and describe the workings of the mind. David Leary has argued: “The pervasiveness of twentieth-century psychology…is clearly related to its choice of metaphors. By drawing on culturally salient and popular metaphors, psychologists have created a salient and popular discipline.” David E. Leary, “Psyche’s muse: the role of metaphor in the history of psychology,” in Metaphors in the History of Psychology, eds. William R. Woodward and Mitchell G. Ash (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 52. 128 advertising psychology was dedicated to “the influence of the form of an object.” 321 He categorized visual contrast in advertising and product packaging into two types: simultaneous contrast (“Simultankonstrast“)—how two colors appear to change when viewed together—and successive contrast (“Sukzessivkonstrast”)—the effect of viewing one color on the appearance of a subsequently viewed color apart from its material instantiation. 322 These categorizations stressed the appearance of color. 323 Scott likewise named the pairing of complementary colors as a strategy for maximizing the visual impact of advertising: “Contrasts may be so harmoniously formed that the things contrasted are mutually strengthened, just as is the case when red and green are placed in juxtaposition. The red looks redder and the green looks greener.” 324 These observations—and particularly the categories named by König—drew from a vast body of research on visual illusions, which showed that perception begins in the eye but coalesces in the mind. 325 This strain of psychological research recast images not as externally perceived, but as mentally constituted. Though many scientists who studied eye movement also acknowledged perception as a cognitive process, their exacting attempts to 321 “Der Einfluss der Form des Objektes,” in König, Reklame-Psychologie. This book was based on König’s dissertation written at the Universität Würzburg. 322 “In der Reklame wird der Helligkeitskontrast sowohl als Simultankonstrast wie als Sukzessivkontrast wirkunssteigend verwendet.” Ibid, 40. Similar concepts were cited by Josef Albers in his book, Interaction of Color, summarizing his theories of color relationships and color perception as he taught them at the Bauhaus and Black Mountain College. See Josef Albers, Interaction of Color (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013 [1963]). 323 König cited studies on color such as Gale’s but synthesized their results in terms of optical- cognitive perception. He also referenced the work of German economist and advertising expert Rudolf Seyffert, who conducted statistical analysis of poster designs and the corresponding profits of the companies who used them to advertise their products. His findings were published in, Die Statistik des Plakates (1919/20), which analyzed the effectiveness of poster design. Ibid. 324 Scott, The Theory and Practice of Advertising, 17. 325 I use the term ‘visual illusions,’ rather than the more common ‘optical illusions,’ to flag the perception of images as an optical-psychic process that entails forming mental images in response to optical perception. 129 measure and quantify the physiology of reading betrayed their belief in the primacy of optical mechanics. Matthew Luckiesh, an American physicist and lighting engineer at General Electric, synthesized and advanced the study of visual illusions as a subject of psychology in the 1920s through a series of popular books. 326 He pointed to the radical implications of cognitive perception in the introduction to his 1922 book, Visual Illusions: “Only a part of what is perceived comes through the senses from the object; the remainder always comes from within,” which included “past experiences, associations, desires, demands, imaginings.” 327 Studies of visual illusions implicated perceived images as wholly separate, and perhaps vastly different, from images printed on a page. Ultimately, they implicated readers not as passive consumers of images, but as producers whose perception involved a complex amalgamation of voluntary and involuntary actions. Luckiesh played an important role in popularizing research on visual illusions in the 1920s, especially for graphic designers and advertising commentators. Visual Illusions aggregated and summarized over half a century of research, referencing work by a number of German physiologists, physicists, and psychologists, including Hermann Ebbinghaus, Karl Ewald Hering, Ludimar Hermann, Johann Joseph Oppel, Johann Christian Poggendorff, Wilhelm Wundt, and Karl Friedrich Zöllner (Fig. 2.21–24). Luckiesh summarized their collective findings as proof that visual perception is far more cognitive than optical: “The phenomena of binocular vision are far less physical than those of monocular vision. They are much more obscure, illusory, and perplexing because they are 326 In addition to Visual Illusions, Luckiesh’s books included The Language of Color (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1918); Light and Color in Advertising and Merchandising (New York: D. Van Nostrand Company, 1923). 327 Matthew Luckiesh, Visual Illusions: Their Causes, Characteristics and Applications (New York: Dover Publications, 1965 [1922]), 1. 130 completely interwoven with or allied with psychological phenomena.” 328 Still, he loosely categorized visual illusions into seven main groups: “geometrical illusions;” “equivocal figures;” “the influence of angles;” “illusions of depth and distance;” “irradiation and brightness-contrast;” color contrast; and effects of lighting. These categories organized visual illusions into different types of perceptual phenomena, thereby assigning the mostly abstract forms used to illustrate different illusions to groupings that identify their appearance in the “mind’s eye.” In doing so, Luckiesh not only summed up a massive amount of prior research for a lay audience, he demonstrated that images could be classified based on perception rather than production. A 1925 article in Commercial Art cited Luckiesh’s Visual Illusions, one of many declarations that graphic designers must understand the psychology of perception: “Illusions do not as a rule exist externally, but represent an interpreted judgment of the intellect. Such estimation may be attributed to association, imagination, or simply to the fact that we judge objects not as they are but as they appear related to each other.” 329 Still, Luckiesh was a strong advocate for the application of research on visual illusions to various kinds of design. In addition to advertising, he cited the practice of painting war ships in abstract camouflage patterns meant to visually disorient other ships to their location or distance (Fig. 2.25–26). 330 The study of visual illusions suggested an 328 Ibid, 29. 329 Unattributed, “Optical Illusion in Relation to Poster Art,” Commercial Art (August 1925): 194. 330 Luckiesh, Visual Illusions, 225–32. This type of camouflage was known as a “dazzle pattern,” introduced by British marine Norman Wilkinson during World War I. Dazzle patterns—usually comprised of stripes painted in contrasting colors—ere used during the First World War as devices of visual disorientation that made it difficult to determine the distance, direction, or speed of an enemy vessel. The initial development of the technique in 1917 in Liverpool was overseen by Edward Wadsworth, who was associated with Vorticism, along with Lawrence Campbell Taylor. See Jonathan Black, “‘A few broad stripes:’ Perception, Deception, and the ‘Dazzle Ship’ 131 ontological split that is fundamental to image analysis and to design practice: it implied that every image exists simultaneously on a physical substrate and in the mind’s eye of every beholder who encounters it. Whereas a painted or printed image is relatively static and unchanging, mental images are subject to transformation by the pall of emotion and the degradation of memory. Mental images are available only to the individual beholder, denied anyone else by the limits of verbal description and visual representation. Privileging images not simply as they exist physically but primarily as they are perceived was foundational to Gestalt psychology, which contended that forms were perceived primarily as wholes constituted by interrelated parts, rather than as individual elements. Rather than attempt to isolate visual elements in order to study perception as an atomized phenomenon, its proponents theorized instead fundamental laws of “perceptual organization.” 331 As Luckiesh’s publications popularized the idea of visual illusions as key to the efficacy of commercial design, Gestalt psychologists codified their own, closely related laws of visual perception, especially in the journal, Psychologische Forschung, founded in 1921 as Gestalt psychology’s official organ. 332 The movement was founded and shaped primarily by German psychologists Max Wertheimer, Kurt Koffka, and Wolfgang Köhler, especially during the Weimar era. 333 Beyond simply a branch of experimental psychology, Gestalt theory reflected a larger worldview that resisted both the phenomenon of the First World War,” in Contested Objects: Material Memories of the Great War, eds. Nicholas J. Saunders and Paul Cornish (London: Routledge, 2014), 190–202. 331 Max Wertheimer, “Untersuchungen zur Lehre von der Gestalt, II,” Psychologische Forschung 4 (1923): 301–50. 332 Its full title was Psychologische Forschung: Zeitschrift für Psychologie und ihre Grenzwissenschaften and was edited by Kurt Koffka, Wolfgang Köhler, Max Wertheimer, Kurt Goldstein, and Hans Gruhle, each representing its practice in different cities throughout Germany. 333 For a history of Gestalt psychology, see Mitchell G. Ash, Gestalt Psychology in German Culture, 1890-1967: Holism and the Quest for Objectivity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 132 elemental approach of nineteenth-century experimental psychology, as well as the notion that cosmopolitanism had subsumed any meaningful categories of individual, cultural, or national identity. 334 Based on the theory that wholes are fundamental units of perception, the Gestaltists devised experiments to prove the superiority of certain forms over others on the basis of ease of perception. In particular, they advocated the “greater stability of simple forms,” in the words of Koffka. 335 Although the image on a page and the image in the mind’s eye of any given beholder were inescapably different, Gestalt psychologists contended that simple forms were more “stable” (that is, more faithfully replicable) in the mind’s eye. Such an understanding of images undermined the agency of the experimenter and questioned the efficacy of technology designed to record vision as though it were purely mechanical. Moreover, it resisted the atomization of perception on which eye- tracking studies relied and implicated the agency of the graphic designer who applied its principles. In doing so, Gestaltists gave scientific credence to the idea that simplified forms were inherently more legible, a principle that was also foundational for New Typography. Gestalt psychology reframed the misperception of images—implied in the phrase “visual illusion”—as the human mind’s natural inclination to find order and holistic understanding not only in visual forms, but in the wider world. While the Gestaltists and Luckiesh concurred that perception was primarily a psychological phenomenon, the experiments and theories of perception published in Psychologische Forschung attempted 334 Anne Harrington, Reenchanted Science: Holism in German Culture from Wilhelm II to Hitler (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 103–04. 335 Kurt Koffka, Principles of Gestalt Psychology (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1935), 142. 133 to rescue perception as a means of making sense of the world, rather than as deception or disorientation. An experiment published by Ernst Lau in 1922, for example, used the phenomenon known as the Zöllner illusion to illustrate the law of similarity, a basic principle of Gestalt theory that contended that the mind organizes images into patterned wholes, grouping together forms perceived as similar (Fig. 2.27). 336 The basic principles of Gestalt psychology about the perception of images have had a deep and lasting impact on graphic design. Gestalt psychology effectively offered a set of rules for the optimization of graphic form to perception. In 1923, Wertheimer introduced the principle of Prägnanz (conciseness) as fundamental to the perception of images. 337 This was the idea that, in visually apprehending objects and forms, viewers condense them into simple and distinguishable wholes. Gestaltists further posited that perception entails finding visual patterns; understanding a form through continuity and closure; distinguishing figure from ground; and grouping forms together by size, shape, color, and proximity. These principles were illustrated in the articles and books of Gestaltists using abstract forms (Fig. 2.28). These illustrations had obvious didactic efficacy, but they also invited graphic designers to understand the perceptual effects of typography in terms of abstract form. 338 Today, conventions of leading, tracking, kerning, 336 Ernst Lau, “Versuche über das stereoskopische Sehen,” Psychologische Forschung 2 (1922): 1– 4. Another version of this image is reproduced in, Luckiesh, Visual Illusions, 77. 337 Max Wertheimer, “Untersuchungen zur Lehre von der Gestalt, II,” Psychologische Forschung 4 (1923): 301–50. 338 Though the direct influence of Gestalt psychology on interwar graphic design remains contested among scholars, it is clear that its basic principles on perception were assimilated into postwar American and European design theory, in combination with basic tenets of New Typography. See, for example, Rudolf Arnheim, Art and Visual Perception (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1954); Gyorgy Kepec, Language of Vision: Painting, Photography, Advertising Design (Chicago: Theobald & Co., 1944). The influence of Gestaltists on design theory at the Bauhaus was first suggested by Hans Wingler, who noted that a series of lectures on Gestalt psychology were given in 1928 at the Dessau Bauhaus. See Hans M. Wingler, 134 and alignment in typography reflect the idea that words are perceived as whole forms. 339 Thus legibility is also a matter of understanding how words, lines of text, and layouts are perceived as Gestalten, or structured wholes. Divergent theories of perception posited by psychologists were particularly consequential for the efficacy of photographs reproduced as halftones, which are in essence, abstract forms that cohere through visual illusion. One commentator in Commercial Art, writing in 1927, described the constant adjustment of the eye during reading, alternating between text and image, as “optical gearshifting.” 340 However, they suggested that the use of halftones “introduces a restful midway tone between black and white,” thereby facilitating ease of reading. 341 The idea that photographic halftones were akin to type, and thus easier to read—a notion reinforced by New Typography—had a material basis. In order to reproduce photographic images using etched plates, photographs were re-photographed using a camera loaded with a photographic plate and screen. Between the lens and plate, the screen (usually fabric) punctured with a matrix of holes and was spaced slightly away from the plate. Each hole in the screen acted like a tiny pinhole camera. Photographed through the screen, the new exposure was a non- Bauhaus: Weimar, Dessau, Berlin, Chicago (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1978), 159–60. Evidence of this line of influence on Bauhaus pedagogy may include Josef Albers, “werklicher formunterricht,” bauhaus 2/3 (1928): n.p. See also, Ellen Lupton and J. Abbott Miller, eds., The ABCs of [triangle square circle]: The Bauhaus and Design Theory (New York: Princeton Architectural Press 2019 [1993]), n.p.; Julia Moszkowicz, “Gestalt and Graphic Design: An Exploration of the Humanistic and Therapeutic Effects of Visual Organization,” Design Issues 27, no. 4 (Autumn 2011): 56–67. 339 See, for example, the chapter on “Legibility” in Rob Carter, Ben Day and Phillip Meggs, Typographic Design: Form and Communication Fourth Edition (Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, 2007), 73–90. 340 Raymond, “Aspects of the Selling Art, IX—Optical Gearshifting,” Commercial Art (February 1927): 157. 341 Ibid, 158. 135 continuous translation of the original image, with all of its grey tones rendered into a grid of tiny dots of varying sizes. The new plate could then be used to create a printing plate or cylinder for reproduction using letterpress, lithography, or rotogravure printing. However, the dominance of halftones as mass-circulated reproductions of photographs owed as much to optical and psychological translation as it did to photography’s material translation. Halftones become recognizable wholes through the process of perception. The legibility of halftones therefore depended on printing each grid of dots at a small enough size that the eye would interpret them as a coherent, whole image (Fig. 2.29). The modulation in concentration of dots of ink, as well as their size and shape, and spaces between them in the grid—such that they would appear under the threshold of human vision—was critically important to printers and designers. 342 Manuals on halftone reproduction were largely dedicated to techniques for decreasing the visibility of the dot matrix, commonly known as moiré effect (Fig. 2.30). 343 Halftone manuals offered precise advice about each stage of the painstaking halftone process, including the optimal distance between the halftone screen and photographic plate, as well as the ideal shape of apertures in halftone screens, to avoid the visibility of a dot pattern (Fig. 2.31– 34). 344 Because the human eye is far more adept at detecting a pattern when seen as 342 See Emil Köditz, “Die Photomechanische Reproduktionstechnik,” Typographische Mitteilungen 21, no. 6 (June 1924): 93–96. 343 See, for example, Charles W. Hackleman, Commercial Engraving and Printing: A Manual of Practical Instruction Covering Commercial Illustrating and Printing by All Processes (Indianapolis, IN: Commercial Engraving Publishing Company, 1921); Lucien Alphonse Legros and John Cameron Grant, Typographical Printing-Surfaces: The Technology and Mechanism of Their Production (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1916); R. Russ and L. Englich, Handbuch der Modernen Reproduktionstechnik: Band I, Reproduktionsphotographie und Retusche (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag von Klimsch & Co., 1927). 344 Printers also experimented with printing halftones on different kind of paper, testing their effects on the visibility and precision of images. 136 perfectly vertical or horizontal, it was common practice to turn screens so that the dot matrix would be printed at a forty-five-degree angle to the frame of the image (Fig. 2.35). For reproductions in color, printers were advised to combine multiple halftones in different colors by turning each at a fifteen-degree angle to ensure that the colors would blend properly in the mind’s eye. Manuals also offered advice about how colors would combine when printed on top of each other, using the principle of complementary colors to offer advice about the most economical uses of multi-color printing (Fig. 2.36). The prominence of visual illusion as a subject of interest for designers and printers in the early twentieth century supports our understanding of the halftone as both a technological and psychological innovation of mass communication. The ongoing, trial- and-error process of halftone printing was indebted not only to technological innovations, but advancements in perceptual psychology as well. By the 1920s, halftones were ubiquitous in newspapers and magazines. Even while graphic designers and printers continued to discuss and perfect the printing of photographic halftones, readers had learned to read them as coherent images. 345 Although today it seems “natural,” the legibility of halftones depends on the unconscious mental labor of individual perception. In this sense, Typophoto is a paradigm for identifying readers not merely as consumers of mass media but as co-producers of graphic design. New Typography and the Assimilation of Applied Psychology One of the most important sources for Jan Tschichold’s doctrine of New Typography was a self-published leaflet by German graphic designer Max Burchartz, 345 Here I am indebted to Gerry Beegan’s work on the halftone’s early integration into the Victorian press in the late-nineteenth century. Gerry Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 137 Gestaltung der Reklame (Form-Production of Advertising) (1924) (Fig. 2.37). The leaflet promoted his advertising concern in the style of a manifesto, offering sweeping declarations about the nature of commercial design and its impact on society. They were summarized in five pithy maxims: “Good advertising is objective / is clear and concise / uses modern means / has formal punch / [and] is inexpensive.” 346 He illustrated each point with an example of his own design work—including the signet for his firm, an advertising poster, and a store window display showcasing his product packaging design. Among the “modern means” named by Burchartz was psychological research: “good advertising also exploits the results of scientific-psychological research and new perspectives on the development of artistic form-production.” 347 Although he did not elaborate on this research directly, his subsequent comments on “formal punch” in advertising illuminate the usefulness of experimental psychology to design, as he understood it. Burchartz emphasized that advertising design should employ “attention-grabbing form-play” (“Aufmerksamkeit fesselndes Formspiel”) to produce “formal punch” (“Schlagkraft der Form”), drawing a direct link between form on the page and perception. He described the workings of form on the eye and mind of a reader in remarkably physical terms. He argued, rather paradoxically, that the “violent…struggle of contrasts” within a design that achieves overall “balance” has a “harmonious…affect [on] our senses.” 348 Burchartz demonstrated this claim through typographic design: the leaflet incorporates 346 “Die gute Reklame ist sachlich / ist klar und knapp / sie verwendet moderne Mittel / hat Schlagkraft der Form / ist billig.” Max Burchartz, Gestaltung der Reklame (June 1924), n.p. 347 “Als moderne Mittel verwertet gute Reklame auch Ergebnisse wissenschaftlich- psychologischer Forschung und neue Gesichtspunkte der Entwickelung künstlerischer Gestaltung.” Ibid. 348 “Je heftiger sich der Kampf von Kontrasten äußert und je mehr zugleich eine Ausgeglichenheit im ganzen erreicht ist, um so eindringlicher, erregender und um so harmonischer zugleich wirken Gegenstände auf unsere Sinne.” Ibid. 138 visual contrast between typefaces, type sizes, and the colors red and black. Geometric forms, such as squares and vertical and horizontal rules, lead the eye around the page, and some text is printed sideways, forcing the reader to rotate the leaflet in order to read it. The legibility of this piece depends on the treatment of typographic elements as perceptual devices, intended to activate the reader both mentally and physically. Burchartz’s treatment of typographic form was predicated on a specific understanding of legibility that was aligned with, if not directly borrowed from, applied psychology. He understood legible graphic form as an immediate, sensory stimulus for memory, recognition, and attention. Yet, he was not unique in describing the perception of printed advertising in physical terms. W. R. Tillerton, for example, claimed that effective advertising must “strike the eye.” 349 With the application of “accurate psychology,” he continued, “the best advertisement slides into the mind of the consumer without his being well aware of it.” 350 This metaphor of the mind as a repository for advertising, where images could stay long after printed matter had been thrown away, was a powerful description of “memory-value.” The similarity between Tillerton’s language and Burchartz’s emphasis on “formal punch” shows how applied psychology had become popularized through the shared language of graphic design. In 1926, German artist and designer Johannes Molzahn published a brochure promoting his own Magdeburg graphic design studio (Fig. 2.38– 39). 351 It featured Molzahn’s trademark designs, accompanied by an essay that claimed understanding 349 W. R. Tillerton, “Taste as a Commercial Asset,” Commercial Art (November 1922): 3; 18. 350 Ibid. 351 Johannes Molzahn, Ökonomie der Reklame-Mechane, 1926, n.p. A portion of this text was reprinted in the April 1926 issue of the Deutscher Werkbund journal, Die Form: Johannes Molzahn, “Ökonomie der Reklame-Mechane,” in Die Form 1, no. 7 (April 1926): 141–45. 139 perception as key to effective commercial graphics. He described how form is perceived by the human eye and mind, asserting that a designer’s main task is to “determin[e] the graphic representational elements that have the greatest visual impact, and which reflect and preserve the psyche.” 352 By insisting that good design begins with understanding vision and cognition, Molzahn centered the psychology of consumption—rather than the designer’s intent, the quality of a product, or even the manufacturer—in design praxis. Like Burchartz, Molzahn regarded psychological science as a crucial tool of advertising design, which also ensured its cost effectiveness. He described perception as a psychological process akin to photography, by which the eye records images in the mind, as though on the substrate of a photographic negative: The eye, by virtue of its recording function, is best able to reflect concrete phenomena and to arouse the psyche's deepest and most lasting impressions. Therefore, the mechanism to transform propaganda production must rely primarily on these optical functions. 353 He defined a successful trademark design according to its economic efficiency; like Burchartz, he argued that cheap design was good design. Molzahn drew a direct correlation between monetary economy and so-called “opto-mechanical laws.” He made 352 “Propaganda ist aber ihrem Wesen nach Mitteilung in grafischer Darstellung; es wird nun die Frage sein, die grafischen Darstellungselemente zu ermitteln, die größte optische Wirksamkeit haben, sich der Psyche spiegeln und bewahren.” Molzahn, Ökonomie der Reklame-Mechane. The term “propaganda” was generally used interchangeably with “advertising” by designers and businessmen in the 1920s, before the term had become associated with fascism. For a thorough discussion of the term “propaganda” and its many uses and connotations, see Jacques Ellul, Propaganda: The Formation of Men’s Attitudes, trans. Konrad Kellen and Jean Lerner (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1972). 353 “Es bedarf wohl keines Beweises, daß das Auge, infolge seiner optischen Aufnahmefunktion, am besten konkrete Erscheinungen zu spiegeln und der Psyche die tiefsten und nachhaltigsten Eindrücke zu mitteln vermag. Darum wird sich auch der Umformungsmechanismus der Produktionspropaganda in erster Linie auf diese optischen Funktionen stützen müssen.” Ibid. The phrase “optischen Aufnahmefunktion” implies that the eye functions like a camera, creating a “recording” or “shot” of what it sees that lingers as a latent image in the beholder’s mind. 140 the link between memory-value, attention-value, suggestion-value, and monetary value— which had been merely implied in the discourse of applied psychology—explicit and clear: “The consistent application of a full-fledged, optically-psychically effective brand will save you a high percentage of propaganda costs.” 354 The “economy” of good design, according to Molzahn, should be measured temporally because of the dearth of time, made ever scarcer by the conditions of modern life. The pace of modern life, brought about by new technologies and forms of transportation, “have not only given new form to our thinking, they have also transformed the body and most especially the eye.” 355 Molzahn therefore argued that graphics should be designed for a modern viewer who was forced to look at the world with a discriminating glance, which “takes in only a small fraction of myriad optical stimuli.” 356 The need for new forms was thus framed not only as good business practice, but one necessitated by the effects of modernity on human perception. To emphasize the importance of perception, and his own understanding of graphic form as an object of scientific study, Molzahn compared the consumer’s visual apprehension of the trademark to a process of material transfiguration: If we take a magnifying glass in hand and position it between the sun and a piece of paper, in such a way that it is in the focus of the lens, it ignites and starts a fire. So we have transformed solar energy into living energy. In this example, we recognized the principle that also builds the symbols of industry and makes them effective. The trademark has the function of the lens; it stands for the lens. At the focal point = concentration point of the industrial symbol, the same 354 “Eine vollwertige, nach optisch-psychischen Wirkungsgesetzen gestaltete Marke in konsequenter Anwendung spart Ihnen einen hohen Prozentsatz der Propagandakosten.” Ibid. 355 “Das rapide, immer anwachsende Lebenstempo, der rasende Verkehr...haben nicht nur unserem Denken neue Formen gegeben, sie haben auch die Physis und ganz besonders das Auge im Sinne der Anpassung und der Ökonomie ungeformt....” Ibid. 356 “Das Auge übernimmt aus der Unzahl der optischen Reize nur einen geringen Bruchteil, dessen Maximalsumme in der Leistungsgrenze zu suchen ist.” Ibid. 141 transformation process happens: energy production becomes activated in the psyche of the consumer, in approximately the manner shown schematically in Fig. II. 357 He included a schematic diagram to illustrate the point (Fig. 2.40). Nothing short of combustible, the trademark’s power as a symbolic “concentration point” made it an indispensable mediator between production and consumption. This comparison—and especially the inclusion of a technical diagram—underscored Molzahn’s insistence that graphic design was a practice with firm scientific backing. He elaborated by saying that the trademark’s “form alone is determined by opto-mechanical laws,” deeming trademark design, like the design of a machine, as “not primarily an artistic problem, but rather a technical-scientific and living-psychic problem.” 358 Molzahn’s idea of functional form came straight from perceptual psychology’s rhetoric of mechanized vision. These brochures by Burchartz and Molzahn are just two artifacts of New Typography’s assimilation of the rhetoric of applied psychology. Yet the link between applied psychology and New Typography is far richer than a mere matter of unidirectional influence. New Typography’s concept of Typophoto also suggests a way of understanding the hybridity of visual culture produced in early experimental psychology. For New 357 “Nehmen wir ein Vergrößerungsglas zur Hand und schalten wir dieses zwischen Sonne und ein Stück Papier in der Weise, daß sich dieses in Brennpunkt der Linse befindet, so entzündet sich dasselbe, es entsteht Feuer. Wir haben also die Sonnenenergie in lebendige Energie umgeformt. Wir haben an diesem Beispiel das Prinzip erkannt, das auch die Symbole der Industrie aufbauen muß, ihnen Wirkung zu verschaffen. Die Marke hat die Funktion der Linse, sie steht für die Linse. Im Brennpunkt = Konzentrationspunkt des Industriesymbols wiederholt sich der gleiche Umformungsprozeß: die Produktionsenergie wird wirksam in der Psyche des Verbrauchers, etwa in der Weise, wie es in der Fig. II schematisch dargestellt ist.” Ibid. 358 “Der Markensinn ist absolut und die Form wird allein bestimmt von optisch-mechanischen Gesetzen, die die Gestalt nach sich ziehen; hier fordert Funktion eine Form in derselben Weise wie im Maschinebau. Die Markenfrage ist in Wirklichkeit kein künstlerisches Problem zuerst, vielmehr ein technisch-wissenschaftliches und lebendig-psychisches; die ästhetische Form ist hier genau wie bei der Maschine nur das Resultat vollkommener Konstruktion, mit dem Sinn höchster Leistungsfähigkeit.” Ibid. 142 Typography, Typophoto signaled the shared aspiration of a network of designers to use graphics to control vision by combining type and photographic images. In the context of perceptual psychology, I argue, Typophoto connotes the mechanization of human perception; the understanding of graphic forms as optical devices; and the production of photographic images in print as scientific data. American and European graphic designers adopted the rhetoric of applied psychology and purported to follow its principles in order to gain and secure the legitimacy of their profession in the 1920s. As a result, the value of graphic design was articulated and understood primarily in terms of efficiency. As is made abundantly clear in Molzahn’s trademark brochure (written for an audience of potential corporate clients), appeals to the efficiency of visual communication and reading supported profit-driven capitalism using science as an explicit justification. Molzahn collapsed the temporal efficiency and profitability of well-designed graphics into the term “economy.” Typical of New Typography, both Burchartz and Molzahn offered guidelines not only for successful design, but also for reading their own work as such. Contemporary graphic design textbooks and professional manuals retain the idea that legibility is determined by efficiency and cost-effectiveness, expressed in somewhat subtler language. For example, one textbook from 2007 offers the following definition: “Legibility is achieved by controlling the qualities and attributes inherent in typography that make type readable. These attributes make it possible for a reader to comprehend typographic forms with the least amount of difficulty.” 359 Although the claim that legible type is that which is read “with the least amount of difficulty” may on its surface sound 359 Carter, Day and Meggs, Typographic Design, 73. 143 indisputable, it assumes that reading is predicated on temporal efficiency. We might imagine an alternative definition, suggesting that more effort and time required to decipher a word or image—cast pejoratively above as “difficulty”— facilitates a reading experience that privileges contemplation over speed. This may well be a definition applicable to New Typography if we resist interpreting modernist designs according to modernist rhetoric. Doing so suggests that New Typography’s “functionalism” was in fact determined by capitalist interest, veiled in scientific terms, which demanded a legibility synonymous with efficiency. 144 CHAPTER 3 Too Much and Too Little: Photographic Halftones, Bare and Retouched Eric Simons, a British advertising consultant and regular contributor to Commercial Art, offered advice in 1924 to the journal’s international readership of advertising designers on the proper procedures for retouching photographic halftones. In one particular installment, Simons commented on the use of retouched halftones for commercial illustrations of heavy industry. The article served as an extended caption for its own set of illustrations, an array of machine parts and industrial images referenced as good and bad examples of retouching (Fig. 3.1). Simons warned against excessive retouching, critiquing one image (figure 5) as “obviously over-retouched, full of hard edges,” referring to lines and washes that had been added to give definition to the forms of a microscope. 360 However, he also dismissed an example of an un-retouched halftone (figure 3) as “lifeless and dull.” 361 Simons praised figure 7 as an illustration in which retouching had been used judiciously to negotiate “between boredom and interest,” yet provided no further explanation. 362 While the illustrations go further than Simon’s words in clarifying conventions of retouching, the reader is left with only the vaguest sense of their purpose. Despite their arrangement on the page in a grid, these illustrations are numbered nonsensically. 363 This layout inadvertently highlights the futility of Simon’s 360 Eric N. Simons, “The Art of Illustrating Engineering Products,” Commercial Art (February 1924): 408. 361 Ibid. 362 Ibid. 363 I am grateful to Dina Murokh for her keen observations about the peculiar layout of this page of illustrations and for her incisive feedback on an earlier draft of this chapter. 145 attempt to articulate a clear set of rules for retouching in a field that still struggled to justify its use. The commercialization of the halftone process in the 1880s had enabled photographic images to be printed from the same blocks as type, effectively combining photography and typography into the medium that László Moholy-Nagy would eventually name Typophoto. However, this union was neither simple nor stable. The material and visual translation of photographs into halftones invited new methods of manipulating the photographic image in print. Embedded in the hybrid medium of Typophoto were practices of retouching, and debates about them included the discourse on New Typography in the 1920s and 1930s. Estelle Jussim has proposed that a “medium,” in the context of visual communication, can be broken down into two parts: the “channel,” or material and physical processes and components, and the “code,” what she describes as, “the structure imposed upon a message that permits that message to be transmitted”—or what William Ivins called “syntax.” 364 In Jussim’s terms, the halftone process transformed the medium of photography through the channel of printmaking and the abstract code of the halftone grid. I argue that retouching further recoded photographic images in commercial illustration with the visual conventions of hand-drawn illustration. Retouching and its attendant debates reflected a lack of consensus among printers and graphic designers internationally about the efficacy of photography as a tool for graphic communication and persuasion. As halftones began to appear in the illustrated 364 Estelle Jussim, Visual Communication and the Graphic Arts (New York: R.R. Bowker Co., 1974), 12. Jussim proposed these terms in response to William Ivins’s claim that photomechanical reproduction enables images without “syntax.” See William Ivins, Prints and Visual Communication (New York: Da Capo Press, 1969 [1953]). See also, Sarah Mirseyedi, “Side by Side: The Halftone’s Visual Culture of Pragmatism,” History of Photography 41, no. 3 (2017): 286–310. 146 press, retouching quickly became widely accepted among designers, printers, and advertisers for the translation of photographic images in print. Yet the practice was by no means uncontroversial, largely due to the wide range of visual effects produced through the modification of photographic negatives, prints and halftone images at every stage of production. 365 Collapsed into the unassuming term “retouching” were myriad alterations to photographic negatives, prints, and halftones done by hand and with machines. Retouching encompassed an array of techniques, employing tools including ink washes, varnish, acid-based retouching fluid, graphite, watercolors, conté crayons, pastels, brushes, rulers, T squares, tracing paper, etching knives, and straight razors. 366 The most valuable tool for commercial retouching in the 1920s was arguably the airbrush, a machine used to add pigment to photographic images using highly controlled air compression (Fig. 3.2). 367 These tools were employed to trace, outline, and visually define certain elements of an image while smoothing out others; they could erase unwanted details and conjure new ones. The resulting images were true hybrids of painting, drawing, 365 Lee Ann Daffner, “Retouching Revealed: Finishing Practices Observed in the Thomas Walther Collection,” in Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art, eds. Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014). https://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/Daffner.pdf 366 Retouching included the addition or removal of material from photographic negatives and prints (done before an image was translated into a halftone) as well as the alteration of the halftone block through etching and engraving. For a thorough description of halftone retouching in the 1920s, see manuals such as Charles W. Hackleman, Commercial Engraving and Printing: A Manual of Practical Instruction Covering Commercial Illustrating and Printing by All Processes (Indianapolis, IN: Commercial Engraving Publishing Company, 1921); R. Russ and L. Englich, Handbuch der Modernen Reproduktionstechnik: Band I, Reproduktionsphotographie und Retusche (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag von Klimsch & Co., 1927); International Correspondence Schools, Retouching for Halftones, Part 1 (Scranton, PA: International Textbook Company, 1921). See also, Gerry Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 367 Manuals on halftone reproduction published in the 1920s included substantial sections on airbrushing techniques and the proper use and maintenance of airbrushing machines. See, for example, International Correspondence Schools, Retouching for Halftones, Part 1, 20–43. 147 printmaking, and photography. Fusing these interventions into the singular term “retouching” obscured how they fractured and multiplied photographic meaning. The conundrum of retouching is key to our own understanding of how photography was conceptually and materially reinvented by commercial graphic design. When we consider the material hybridity of photographic images in print, it is no wonder that there was so much confusion and debate among commercial designers about the true nature of photography and its usefulness for design. The stakes of these debates were high, for they framed the professionalization of graphic design in Europe and the United States. The practice of heavily retouching prints, negatives, and halftones was so commonplace in the interwar era that the photographic origins of many halftones are visually undetectable to the contemporary eye. Yet these images exemplified “photography” in the eyes of many commercial designers. In this chapter, I argue that this context was crucial for the articulation of Typophoto as a principle of New Typography, especially in its embrace of photomontage, and for a broader understanding of how debates about photography’s malleability shaped the profession of graphic design. Artistic Realism: Redefining Photography in Commercial Graphics Although photographic halftones had circulated in magazines and newspapers since the late nineteenth century, their efficacy and reception remained fraught in the 1920s and 1930s. 368 Many graphic designers still regarded the integration of photographic 368 For studies of the halftone’s early development and reception, see Gerry Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Neil Harris, “Iconography and Intellectual History: The Halftone Effect,” in Cultural Excursions: Marketing Appetites and Cultural Tastes in Modern America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1990), 304–17; Thierry Gervais, “La Similigravure: le récit d’une invention (1878–1893),” Nouvelles de l’Estampe no. 229 (March 2010): 8–25; Sarah Mirseyedi, “Side by Side: The Halftone’s Visual Culture of Pragmatism,” 286–310; David Clayton 148 halftones into design with ambivalence and skepticism. At issue was whether photography was suited to both the accurate representation of products for sale and the more elusive task of persuasion, which required an understanding of how visual form could act as a cognitive and affective stimulus in the minds of consumers. In the words of Walter Raffé, a British graphic artist and author of one of the first published treatises on graphic design, 369 “we must appeal to emotion and desire as well as to vision.” 370 He pondered whether the designer should attempt a “detailed realistic representation of the commodity to be advertised; or whether he will avoid this aim, in part or entirely, and will concentrate rather on suggestion of the pleasurable character of the commodity or service in relation to the consumer.” 371 German designer Walter F. Schubert pondered whether photography could be both practical and artful. He claimed that “technical photography” was the best medium for depicting machines, but he also questioned how it could be integrated into “an attractive design.” 372 At stake in this discourse were larger questions about photography’s efficacy as a medium of representation, communication, and artistic expression. Practitioners and users of photography debated whether the medium was governed by its own unique set of rules, Phillips, “Halftone Technology, Mass Photography and the Social Transformation of American Print Culture, 1880-1920,” PhD diss. (Yale University, 1996); Robert Taft, “Photography and the Pictorial Press,” in Photography and the American Scene (New York: Macmillan Company 1938), 419–50. 369 W. G. Raffé’s Graphic Design (London: Chapman & Hall, 1927) was among the first attempts at a comprehensive treatise on the practice of graphic design and may have been the first book to include the term “graphic design” in its title. It is the source of most of Raffé’s many contributions to Commercial Art. His published books also include Raffé, Art and Labour: Six Essays (London: C. W. Daniel Co., 1927). 370 W. G. Raffé, “The Elements of the Poster: II Representation and Suggestion,” Commercial Art (May 1928): 221–22. 371 Ibid, 216. 372 Walter F. Schubert, “Advertising German Machinery,” Commercial Art (February 1927): 185. 149 and therefore suited to certain uses over others. How could photography be a tool of science, law, and industry as well as a medium of art? Among artists, these questions sparked stylistic debates that were foundational for graphic designers’ discussions of photographic illustration. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, proponents of “pictorialist” photography used labor-intensive darkroom and printing techniques— including combination printing, carving into negative and print emulsion, and an array of retouching practices—to create unique, handcrafted photographs with subtle tonality. Often drawing on allegorical subject matter, pictorialists emulated painting in order to secure photography’s status as art. 373 In reaction to pictorialism, “straight photography” emerged as a style that explicitly rejected the manipulation of photographic negatives and prints. 374 Champions of straight photography instead favored sharp focus and precise detail, claiming these traits as unique to the medium. With its insistence on photography’s medium specificity and suitability for depicting visible “reality,” straight photography was a style that came to more broadly define realism in photography. 375 373 Pictorialism was a style of art photography that was especially popular between 1885 and 1920 in the United States and Europe. Studies of pictorialism include Annette Kicken and Rudolf Kicken, Pictorialism: Hidden Modernism: Photography 1896-1916 (Vienna: Georg Kargl Fine Arts; Berlin: Galerie Kicken, 2008); Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography: From 1839 to the Present Day (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1949 [1937]), 119–38; Thomas Padon, ed., Truth Beauty: Pictorialism and the Photograph as Art, 1845-1945 (Vancouver: Vancouver Art Gallery; Douglas & McIntyre, 2008). 374 The term “straight photography” was popularized by American critic Sadakichi Hartmann in his essay, “A Plea for Straight Photography” (1904), which leveled a critique of pictorialism. Sadakichi Hartmann, “A Plea for Straight Photography,” American Amateur Photographer 16 (March 1904): 101–09. See also Beaumont Newhall, ed., Photography: Essays and Images (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1980), 186; Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography, 139–66. 375 See Therese Thau Heyman, ed., Seeing Straight: The f.64 Revolution in Photography (Oakland: Oakland Museum, 1992); William Innes Homer, Alfred Stieglitz and the Photo- Secession (Boston: Little, Brown, 1983); Nina Klöpper, Fotografische Objekte in Schwarzweiss: Neusachliche Bildtraditionen 1920 bis heute (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 2014); Lauren Kroiz, Creative Composites: Modernism, Race, and the Stieglitz Circle (Los Angeles: University 150 In Weimar Germany, appeals to the medium specificity of photography were expressed through the idea of Neue Sachlichkeit (New Objectivity). Albert Renger- Patzsch, Karl Blossfeldt, and August Sander used sharp focus to verify photography’s “objectivity,” which connoted the camera’s capacity to bring forth the true essence of a subject. 376 In 1929, Renger-Patzsch described how photography had effectively replaced painting as a means of representation, writing: “photography works faster and with greater precision and greater objectivity than the hand of the artist.” 377 This ethos had important implications not only for art but also for product photography, imbuing “photographic” qualities of sharply detailed, black-and-white images with trustworthiness. 378 These associations were crucial for the commercial viability of photographs by Hans Finsler, Aenne Biermann, and Walter Peterhans. Many graphic designers cited photography’s detailed precision as proof of its superiority over drawing as a medium of “honest” commercial illustration. 379 Yet the manipulations that fall under the umbrella term “retouching” were routine in the translation of photography in print through the halftone process; and as such, graphic designers came to understand them as inherent to the medium. of California Press, 2012); Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography: From 1839 to the Present (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1982 [1937]). 376 See Klöpper, Fotografische Objekte in Schwarzweiss, 17–19. 377 Albert Renger-Patzsch, “Photography and Art,” in Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913-40, trans. and ed. Christopher Phillips (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Aperture, 1989), 143. (Originally published: Albert Renger-Patzsch, “Photographie und Kunst,” Das Deutsche Lichtbild, 1929.) 378 Klöpper, Fotografische Objekte in Schwarzweiss, 80–87. 379 See, for example, Hermann Behrmann’s description of the work of Walter Cyliax, a German designer associated with New Typography. Specifically, Behrmann praised Cyliax’s prospectus designs for the Swiss press, Fretz Brothers, which featured photography heavily. H. Behrmann, “Der Graphiker Cyliax und Gebr. Fretz A.G. Zürich,” Gebrauchsgraphik 7, no. 5 (May 1930): 24– 32. 151 Paradoxically, in order to retain the visual characteristics associated with photographic “objectivity,” photographic images in print had to be enhanced through techniques of retouching. Consequently, interwar design discourse on “photography” often served to mask the composite nature of all photographic images in print. These techniques included the practice known as “vignetting,” in which a select part of a photographic image was excised from its frame so that its edges appeared soft and faded, used “to avoid hard edges in printing.” 380 This technique produced images that appeared to emerge from the substrate of the page (Fig. 3.3). While vignetting tended to soften the sharpness of a photographic image, “outlining” and “re-etching” (or “staging”) referred to heightening contrast, either by emphasizing existing lines, or lightening certain parts of an image to create pure white tones. 381 Generally speaking, these techniques were used to either emphasize or deemphasize the visual details of an image, and to alter or erase its background. They were so commonplace that they were usually regarded as entirely necessary to the process of transferring photographic images onto printing plates, and therefore inherent to printed photographic images. 382 As the result of many stages of material manipulation, printed photographic images were also amalgams of subject matter, which combined the image of a photographic referent with elements of fantasy, drawn and etched by hand. 380 Ibid, 108. See also, International Correspondence Schools, Retouching for Halftones, Part 1, 43; Julius Verfasser, The Half-tone Process: A Practical Manual of Photo-Engraving in Half-tone on Zinc, Copper, and Brass (London: Iliffe & Sons, 1904), 263-64; W. Livingston Larned, “Techniques of Advertising Illustration: II. Combination Line and Half-tone,” The Printing Art 37, no. 1 (March 1921): 25–34. 381 Horgan, Horgan’s Half-tone and Photomechanical Processes, 107–08; Verfasser, The Half- tone Process, 261–66. 382 In some manuals on photomechanical reproduction, these techniques were not even referred to as “retouching.” See, for example, Stephen Horgan, Horgan’s Half-tone and Photomechanical Processes (Chicago: Inland Printer, 1913). 152 Graphic designers in the 1920s effectively redefined the efficacy of photography for advertising design as what Raffé called “artistic realism.” While photography was well suited to capturing the details of a product, it could fall short of the kind of emotional truth that advertising required. “The paradox emerges,” he wrote, “that photographic realism…is not nearly realistic enough for adequate impression. Only skillful artistic realism will suffice, in the selected realism for facts that are stated simply, direct, unconfused and hence suggestive.” 383 Implied in these comments is that “suggestive” design was also inherently more artistic; a design that became adequately imprinted on the mind of a beholder had the added benefit of conveying the artistic skill of the designer. Schubert argued that even a prospectus for heavy industry “must not dispense with a certain dignity; it must compel the beholder through force and strength of line and color.” 384 Proponents of heavy retouching understood the practice not as a rejection of photographic realism, but rather as a necessary revision of this idea. Retouching, like the technique of photomontage, yielded the “selective realism” of illustrations that were both materially linked to, but selectively removed from, the specificity of their contexts. “The object which matters is fully detached from the rest of the machine,” another commentator described, “and yet intimately connected with it.” 385 In the 1920s, retouching mimicked the still-popular style of non-photographic commercial illustration, and the status of photographic illustrations was further complicated by the persistence of hand-drawn illustrations. Modern advertising began in 383 W. G. Raffé, “The Elements of the Poster: III Composition: The Fundamental Factors in Design,” Commercial Art (June 1928): 255. 384 “Die Werbemittel der Schwerindustrie dürfen einer gewissen Würde nicht entraten; sie müssen durch Wucht und Kraft in Fläche und Farbe sich Beachten erzwingen.” Walter F. Schubert, Das Deutsche Werbe-Graphik (Berlin: Francken & Lang, 1927), 106. 385 Unattributed, “The Art of Retouching the Photograph,” Commercial Art (December 1923): 343. 153 the mid-nineteenth century with the reproduction of drawn images, which were later translated into line engravings and reproduced as lithographic posters. 386 The early advertising poster featured visual interpretations of commodities by artists rather than mimetic representations of them, thereby establishing the visual idiom of drawing as advertising’s native tongue. In Germany, the prewar popularity of the Sachplakat established the visual codes of drawing as “objective” representation in a commercial context (Fig. 3.4). 387 Commercial artists like Lucian Bernhard depicted commodities schematically, privileging the visual appeal of line and color rather than mimetic accuracy or naturalism. Some regarded the introduction of photographic illustration as a threat to the interpretive license and artistry of advertising, particularly because of photography’s capacity to capture the details of an actual object or its surroundings, whether desired or not. The retouched photographic illustration emerged as a middle ground between the harsh truth of photography and the pure aestheticism of the nineteenth-century advertising poster. This hybrid image type allowed for a blending of reality and fantasy—a territory twentieth-century advertising occupied decisively. Designers and advertisers who defended photography in commercial illustration contemplated whether what was commonly accepted as the medium’s inherent honesty could also be persuasive and emotionally evocative. Heinz Giebelhausen, writing for Die 386 For histories of the advertising poster, see Bradford Collins, "The Poster As Art: Chéret and the Struggle for Equality of the Arts in Late 19 th -century France,” Design Issues 2, no. 1 (1985): 41– 50; Elizabeth Guffey, Posters: A Global History (London: Reaktion Books, 2015); Paul Jobling and David Crowley, Graphic Design: Reproduction and Representation since 1800 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996); Ruth Iskin, The Poster: Art, Advertising, Design, and Collecting, 1860s to 1900s (Hanover, NH: Dartmouth College Press, 2014); Viktoria Schmidt- Linsenhoff, Kurt Wettengl, Almut Junker, Plakate 1880-1914 (Frankfurt: Historisches Museum Frankfurt am Main, 1986). 387 For further discussion of the Sachplakat in the context of interwar advertising, see Chapter 1 of this dissertation, pages 85–89. 154 Reklame, 388 asserted: “The goal of representing a product as not only true to nature, but also appealing, interesting and promotional, can certainly be achieved by photographic means.” 389 Gilbert Russell likewise described photography as a democratic medium capable of “lifelike reproduction” with broad public appeal, and therefore ideal for advertising. 390 He drew a subtle but important distinction between “photographic accuracy” and “realism,” advocating for the savvy and selective use of photography to control the effects of light and shadow in order to create “vivid” and “life-like” illustrations of commodities. 391 Although Russell called the airbrush “an abominable instrument” when overused, retouching was often employed to temper the harshness of photographic “realism” but retain its “accuracy.” 392 The latter has been described by photography historian Andrés Mario Zervigón as a “sense of realness” evoked by photography, especially photomontage. 393 Though photomontage was a technique commercial designers used since photography’s introduction to advertising, the vast majority did not name it as such. 388 Die Reklame: Fachblatt für das gesamte Werbewesen, a German trade journal that concentrated on advertising as a new science, was founded in 1925 as the official organ of the Verband Deutscher Reklamefachleute (VDR), replacing Mitteilungen des Vereins Deutscher Reklamefachleute, which had been published since the VDR’s founding in 1908. Julia Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie: Die Rezeption der Avantgarde in der Fachwelt der 1920er Jahre (Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, 2015), 300; 315-16. 389 “Das Ziel, eine Ware nicht nur naturgetreu, sondern auch ansprechend, interessant und werbend darzustellen, kann jedenfalls durchaus auf photographischem Wege erreicht werden.” Heinz Giebelhausen, “Der Photograph als Werbehelfer,” Die Reklame (September 1925): 1003. 390 Gilbert Russell, “Help From the Camera,” Commercial Art (November 1923): 310. 391 Ibid, 310; 314. 392 Ibid, 314. 393 Zervigón describes this phenomenon as a politically persuasive tool used by German photomonteur and graphic designer John Heartfield, who “prized [photography’s] subjective capacity to link the somatic and the psychic in deeply moving combinations.” Zervigón, John Heartfield and the Agitated Image: Photography, Persuasion, and the Rise of Avant-Garde Photomontage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 6. 155 It was precisely the balance between reality and fantasy that could be achieved with photographic illustration that appealed to many designers. French designer R. L. Dupuy, for example, insisted that photography’s capacity to be surprising and inventive inhered in its “documentary reproduction of the object or scene that is being represented.” 394 The examples accompanying Dupuy’s article included commercial photographs by Lucien Lorelle, André Vigneau, and Laure Albin Guillot, who exploited extreme contrasts in black-and-white photography and ghostly effects of light and shadow in surrealist photograms to suggest commodities come to life, as expressions of the uncanny (Fig. 3.5–6). Faith in the trustworthiness of photography, according to Dupuy, imbued the medium with the power of suggestion, which psychologists unanimously agreed was advertising’s most important quality. 395 Writing for Die Reklame, German psychoanalyst Edmund Heilpern wrote: “Man constantly produces wishful fantasies that he is never happy without. Recognizing these illusions is the first task of the advertiser. Then he has a thousand connecting points and his task is to link desires and goods together.” 396 Advertisers recognized that a single photographic image of a product could operate as evidence and fantasy, simultaneously testifying to the presence of an object and imagining a desired future for its possession and use. Advertising harnessed the temporal slippage in photography to declare that “this has been and this will be,” as Roland Barthes 394 R.L. Dupuy, “Advertising Photo in France,” Gebrauchsgraphik 6, no. 11 (November 1929): 17–21. 395 Applied psychologists in this period frequently referred to “suggestion-value” as key to the effectiveness of advertising. This term was coined by Hugo Münsterberg. See Munsterberg, Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (Boston; New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913). 396 “Der Mensch produziert ständig Wunschphantasien, denn er ist niemals wunschlos glücklich. Diese Illusionen zu erkennen, ist die erste Aufgabe des Werbefachmannes. Dann hat er tausend Anknüpfungspunkte und seine Aufgabe besteht darin. Wunsche und Waren miteinander zu verknüpfen.” E. Heilpern, “Nützt uns die Psychoanalyse?” Die Reklame (April 1932): 253. 156 would later write. 397 Designers recognized how photographic images could function like the fetish object, living in the consumer’s mind as a latent image of unfulfilled desire, a surrogate for future satisfaction. Like Russell, Max Burchartz emphasized the superiority of photography as a direct expression of a person or object. In an article for Gebrauchsgraphik, he compared an expressionist drawing by Oskar Kokoshka and an unidentified photograph that had first appeared in the art journal Der Querschnitt (Fig. 3.7). The lines of Kokoshka’s drawing, Burchartz argued, read as expressions of the artist himself, “but these impressions have nothing or very little to do with the woman who sat in front of the artist as he drew.” 398 He touted the photograph, by contrast, as an objective expression of the sitter herself, and thus as a tool for recognition: “The photograph gives us a clear idea of the appearance of the depicted person. We would recognize her when she meets us in the street. The softness of the lighting and the richness of tonal nuances correspond to the impression we have when we see for ourselves the object in reality.” 399 Photography was most useful, in Burchartz’s estimation, to convey “appearance,” or the unmediated visual “impression” of a person or thing, especially through tonal gradations and subtleties of light and shadow. His emphasis on appearance as the expression of a photographic referent, rather than as faithful mimesis, echoes the subtle difference drawn by Gilbert between “photographic accuracy” 397 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography (New York: Hill and Wang, 1979), 96. 398 “wir lesen aus diesem gewebe von strichen und linien den ausdruck eines erlebnisses, das uns in mitschwingung versetzt, aber diese eindrücke haben nichts oder nur sehr wenig mit jener dame zu tun, die vor dem maler saß, als er zeichnete.” Max Burchartz, “handschrift—type, zeichnung— foto,” Gebrauchsgrafik 3, no. 8, Rhein-Ruhr (August 1926): 42. 399 “die fotografie vermittelt uns eine deutliche vorstellung von der erscheinung der dargestellten person; wir erkennen sie wieder, wenn sie uns auf der straße begegnet. die weichheit der lichtverhältnisse und der reichtum der zwischentöne entspricht dem eindruck, den wir haben, wenn wir den gegenstand in der realität von uns zu sehen.” Ibid, 41. 157 and “realism.” This distinction was critical for the recoding of photography in the context of commercial illustration: the impressionistic “accuracy” of photography had to be decoupled from its association with unforgiving naturalism, imbued instead with suggestive power. This quality of photography was useful in two important ways: it was used to offer vivid impressions of commodities and to implicate the consumer-reader in the space and narrative of an advertisement. Advertisers repeatedly cited the usefulness of photography for the representation of products. Champions of photographic illustration argued that it could give the impression of physically instantiating a product, rather than merely representing it, thereby compelling the consumer-reader to vividly imagine it in their possession. Marcus Adams, for example, praised photographic illustrations as “exact representatives” of products, anthropomorphized as charismatic surrogates for tangible objects: …in some cases the drawing utterly fails to convey the charm of the goods, whereas a photograph if properly taken has the advantage of making you quite at home with the object and familiar with all the details, thus having the peculiar fascination of making you really feel the goods are in front of you are really yours. 400 Charles Wormald likewise lauded sophisticated uses of photography in advertising to suggest a narrative, or to evoke affective and extra-visual sensations: It is one thing to photograph a motorcar or a bottle of perfume, it is quite another to put up a photographic picture of a motor, illustrating the car and all the pleasures of ownership, the thrill of speed, the beauty of open spaces, etc., etc., or in the case of a good perfume all the quality and dignity, beauty and fragrance of the perfume, the charm of its bottle and case, and to suggest its desirability to the fair consumer. The successful portrayal of all this on paper is something that cannot be told or even taught, 400 Marcus Adams, “Tone Versus Line,” Commercial Art (November 1922): 33. 158 it is psychological, something that can only be ‘felt,’ and therein lies the art. 401 Both Adams and Wormald alluded to photography’s indexicality as key for inciting consumer desire. Photographs seemed to evoke and animate the intangible aspects of using and living with commodities, a quality that Wormald recognized as both persuasive and artful. Such defenses of photography suggested that its persuasive power was in no way in conflict with, but rather was enhanced by, its truthfulness. These defenses were fortified by a false binary between photographic and non-photographic illustration. “Besides,” Adams added, “photography has a very good name for telling the truth, whereas a painting or drawing might well be imaginary.” 402 Retouching disrupted this distinction: the addition of painted or drawn elements often enabled photographic images to function as evocative representations of desire. Thus some defenses of photographic illustration masked the importance of retouching by appealing to the purity of the photographic medium. In his own defense of photography as a means of commercial illustration, Giebelhausen contended that, in the hands of the right artists, photography could be as expressive as drawing in depicting commodities. His examples included what he described as “simple” and “naturally lit” product photography for MAGGI tea and Neuerburg cigarettes, which showed that certain “possibilities and stimuli” were evidently “slumbering in the photographic plate” (Fig. 3.8). 403 This reference to the latent image of 401 Charles Wormald, “Camera Craft in Advertising,” Commercial Art (September–October 1925): 209. 402 Adams, “Tone Versus Line,” 33. 403 “…so sieht man doch hinreichend, welche Möglichkeiten und Reize selbst—oder gerade—bei einfachstem Aufbau und ungekünstelter Beleuchtung, in der photographischen Platte schlummern.” Giebelhausen, “Der Photograph als Werbehelfer,” 1003. 159 the photographic negative underscored the material link between these photographic images and the products they pictured, thereby implicating photography as a direct, unmediated means of bringing forth its referent. In blending reality and fantasy, photographic illustrations could also implicate the consumer-reader as part of an advertisement. Advertisements used photography to picture human figures in varyingly intimate scenarios, sometimes addressing the reader directly, with the intent of evoking a sense of urgency or even fear about the failure to buy a product. In one advertisement for Chlorodont toothpaste, for example, a menacing male figure emphasized by an exaggerated shadow occupies the majority of the advertisement’s frame. This archetypal dentist points directly at the reader, accompanied by the text, “Du bist gemeint!” (“This means you!”) (Fig. 3.9). A related advertisement featured the same figure looming menacingly behind a mother, father and child, rendered schematically, silhouetted and dwarfed by the man’s shadow (Fig. 3.10). Both of these advertisements targeted parents with small children, warning of the health risks to children who did not routinely brush their teeth with toothpaste. 404 Other advertisements used photographic fragments to evoke a romantic connection between man and woman, or to suggest the love between mother and child (Fig. 3.11–12). A commentator writing in Die Reklame praised an advertisement for Vasenol skin cream for its use of a photograph of a smiling baby to elicit the emotional response of a mother (Fig. 3.13). 405 Whether meant to induce fear, romantic longing, or maternal affection, the isolation of human figures against a 404 This advertising campaign was backed by the Deutsches Hygiene-Museum in Dresden, of which Chlorodont was a major sponsor. “Chlorodont-Schaubild, um 1950,” Technisches Museum Wien. https://www.technischesmuseum.at/object/chlorodont-schaubild-um-1950 (accessed October 25, 2019). 405 Sapiens, “Anzeigen-Kritik,” Die Reklame (November 1932): 612. 160 monochrome background, and their seamless integration with type, was intended to dramatize the emotional impact of their interactions with each other or with the consumer- reader. This visual isolation was achieved through the techniques of photomontage and retouching. Direct address was intended to implicate the consumer-reader somatically in the world of an advertisement. Sabine Kriebel has described the absorptive quality of photomontaged designs by John Heartfield, especially for political propaganda, which similarly engage the body of the beholder. 406 Though commonly associated with Heartfield as an innovator of photomontage in graphic design, this strategy was arguably pioneered by many anonymous designers working contemporaneously through the combination of photomontage and retouching in advertising. One of the most ubiquitous tropes of photography-based advertising was that of the disembodied hand, or pair of hands, usually pictured holding, utilizing, or pointing to a product for sale (Fig. 3.14–18). Especially in Weimar Germany, where renewed interest in the physiognomy of human hands gained popularity through books and magazines, this trope saturated commercial and political graphics alike (Fig. 3.19–20). 407 In advertising, photographically illustrated 406 Sabine T. Kriebel, Revolutionary Beauty: The Radical Photomontages of John Heartfield (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014); Sabine T. Kriebel, "Touch, Absorption, and Radical Politics in the Magazine: The Case of John Heartfield," Kritische Berichte 40, no. 4 (2012): 21–31. 407 The Weimar era saw the publication of books and popular articles on hands and physiognomy. See, for example, Adolf Koelsch, Die Hände und was sie sagen (Zurich: O. Füssli, 1929); Walter Tritsch, “Die Seele der Hände,” die neue linie (February 1930), 18–19; 46. Stephanie D’Alessandro has noted that ideas about the hand as a reliable sign of character and as an active agent were promoted through popular culture, graphology, psychotechnics, and chirology. See Stephanie D’Alessandro, “Through the Eye and the Hand: Constructing Space, Constructing Vision in the Work of Moholy-Nagy” in Moholy-Nagy: Future Present, eds. Matthew S. Witkovsky, Carol S. Eliel, and Karole P.B. Vail (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2016), 66. 161 hands typically appeared as surrogates for the hands of the consumer. 408 Their resemblance to the reader’s actual hands—in view as they held open and flipped through the pages of a magazine or newspaper—was heightened through photographic representation. 409 Disembodied hands invited the somatic projection of readers into the graphic space of a newspaper or magazine, often pictured cut off at the frame of an advertisement where the page ended and the body of the consumer began. As Kriebel has argued, this trope evidences awareness on the part of graphic designers that reading and perception were not only visual, but haptic experiences as well. 410 Moreover, this trope tacitly emphasized advertising as a participatory medium through which meaning is coproduced by designers and readers—implicating consumption itself as an active choice rather than as passive persuasion. This notion, however subtle, was crucial at a moment when advertisers sought to distance capitalist consumerism from the nefarious connotations of political propaganda. Yet in some cases the visual effects of retouching leveled the visible differences between machine and human, creating what Terry Smith has described as an uncanny equivalency in advertising “between the tactility of treated machine and the metallic sheen of bright flesh.” 411 In an advertisement for Mouson hand lotion, for example, two hands extend from out of frame into the advertisement, meant to demonstrate the superiority of 408 This trope was used to stand in for the hands of a seller as well, but according to my own observation, it was increasingly used to suggest the hands of a consumer as photographic illustrations became more commonplace in advertising. 409 Here I am indebted to Jennifer Greenhill’s analysis of the activation of magazine design through handling and motion. See especially, Jennifer A. Greenhill, “Flip, Linger, Glide: Coles Phillips and the Movements of Magazine Pictures,” Art History 40, no. 3 (2017): 582–611. 410 Kriebel, “Touch, Absorption, and Radical Politics in the Magazine.” 411 Terry Smith, Making the Modern: Industry, Art and Design in America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 183. 162 Mouson’s product (Fig. 3.21). The advertisement boasts that Mouson absorbs into the skin, giving the appearance of “smoothness without shine” (“Glätte ohne Glanz”), illustrated by the hand and forearm that reaches diagonally from the top of the advertisement, around which its layout is arranged. By contrast, another hand reaches into frame from the left, showing “intensely shiny skin” (“Stark glänzende Haut”) coated with a different hand cream. The shinier hand has an altogether inhuman quality, appearing waxy in texture. Both photographic fragments have been retouched to enhance the visual contrast that they are meant to illustrate, making it difficult to discern whether the shiny hand belonged to a human or mannequin. This ambiguity, which Smith called “the homogenization of consumer and product,” was exploited in commercial design to reinforce a harmonious vision of both ideal commodities and consumers. 412 The Photo Was Not Enough: The Limits and Ethics of Retouching While some designers celebrated the possibilities of photographic illustration, others expressed doubt about how to retain craft in photography-based design and whether the aesthetic of drawn illustration could translate in photographic illustration. Some denounced photography’s capacity for specific detail as a threat to both the designer’s control over representation and the generalized impression—as opposed to specific description—that advertisers often wished to convey about a given product. In an article printed in Gebrauchsgraphik by Traugott Schalcher, “Advertising and Naturalism,” the Swiss artist and advertising designer delivered an ambiguous critique of retouching photographic images, a technique he associated with the commercial success of American 412 Ibid. 163 advertising and what he deemed the questionable taste evident in their design. 413 Schalcher grappled with how to reconcile the “naturalism” of photography with what he regarded as the need for archetypal artistic representations of greater truths in commercial design. He concluded that photography was insufficient for such a task. In scrutinizing the shortfall of naturalistic photography as a means of visual persuasion, he confronted the medium’s capacity for specificity in representation as a distinct problem for advertising: “Does the photo suffice to awaken the buyer’s wish to possess any goods? One would think so. And yet the photo was not enough. It gave too much and too little.” 414 In order to correct for photography’s propensity to magnify “the most trifling fault…with exaggerated clarity,” he described retouching as “a method of completely repainting the photographic copy with the airbrush,” which ultimately rendered “all the variations in tone and color inseparable from every photographic reproduction.” 415 He continued: “The concrete picture of the object photographed becomes more abstract through the re-touching process, since it loses the individual characteristics, proper only to itself.” 416 Rather than describing the retouched halftone as purely photographic, he celebrated its ability to go beyond photography’s medium specificity to bring forth objecthood through abstract form. Formal abstraction, Schalcher argued, not only made retouched halftones easier to reproduce, but more importantly, it also imbued them with a kind of archetypal truth: “the 413 Traugott Schalcher, “Advertising and Naturalism,” Gebrauchsgraphik 6, no. 4 (April 1929): 49–57. 414 Ibid, 52. 415 Ibid, 52–53. 416 Ibid, 53. 164 re-touched picture does not show a machine, but the machine.” 417 Such erasure of specificity was especially useful for commercial illustration, which was meant to be more generally evocative than particularly descriptive. Ultimately for Schalcher, the virtual obliteration of the photographic image through retouching—and the effectiveness of the hybrid images that resulted—suggested that only non-photographic images should be used in advertising. He championed the discursive potential of images that did not purport to photorealism, even suggesting their agency as conduits for an active exchange of ideas between advertisement and consumer: “We wish not only to see, but to converse, to take part in thinking and in creating. The naturalistic picture does not excite the imagination. The resolve to buy, however, is a matter of power to buy—and of imagination.” 418 Whereas photography foreclosed consumer fantasy, according to Schalcher, non- photographic illustrations invited and encouraged it. In addition to the anxieties of many commercial designers about photography’s undiscerning ability to capture unwanted details, there were also ethical concerns about both photomontage and retouching. Those who cast doubt on the visual credibility of retouched halftones referred to techniques of manipulation as photographic “stunts,” as in a 1931 article by David Charles in Commercial Art dedicated to photography. 419 Charles identified different techniques used to punch up specific aspects of photographic images: for example, to create visual contrast and make products stand out against a background; 417 Ibid. Italics are original to Schalcher’s published article. His language here invokes the idea of showing archetypes in German advertising in accordance with the ethos of Typisierung. This popular strategy, promoted by some members of the Deutscher Werkbund, favored the design of objects as ideal “types” that reflected collective taste, as opposed to objects as expressions of the individual taste of their makers. See Frederic J. Schwartz, The Werkbund: Design Theory and Mass Culture before the First World War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996). 418 Ibid, 57. 419 David Charles, “Photographic stunts in Advertising,” Commercial Art (July 1931): 17–22. 165 to tell a compelling story (especially through photomontage); or to make an object or scene look dreamlike or nostalgic (through manipulation of camera focus). Like many of his contemporaries, Charles struggled to reconcile the general association with photography as a “realistic” medium with the manipulations that it seemed to enable and invite. Many designers contemplated how photography could be simultaneously truthful and aesthetically compelling, trustworthy, and persuasive. Though photographic halftones populated some of the most widely circulated advertisements and commercial graphics before World War I, many were virtually unidentifiable as such. Retouching was commonly used in order to erase so-called “imperfections” or unwanted details from photographs, to mask the raster pattern imposed by the halftone screen, and to add visual definition that the “bare” halftone lacked. The practice of retouching mimicked the visual language of drawing and painting in order to mask the mechanical regularity of the dot matrix. 420 Gerry Beegan has therefore noted that, “it is more accurate to speak of ‘semi-mechanical’ rather than mechanical reproduction” of mass-circulated images in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. 421 Early twentieth-century retouching is therefore emblematic of the artificiality of “photography” as a distinct medium, which has never been a stable or static category. Paradoxically, designers often depended on non-photographic techniques of retouching to achieve precision, mimesis, and exacting detail—considered to be intrinsic qualities of 420 Gerry Beegan notes that wood engraving had been the dominant medium of illustration since the beginning of the illustrated press. Rather than being cleanly replaced by halftone reproduction, wood engraving continued after the halftone came into popular use. Moreover, some halftone retouching included re-engraving on the block, keeping the high-contrast aesthetic of wood engraving in fashion even as photography assimilated to the conventions of print illustration. Beegan, The Mass Image, 160–85. 421 Ibid, 177. 166 photography. Beegan notes that, in some cases, the softening effects of the airbrush intentionally mimicked the artisanal process of hand drawing. 422 What is clear from looking at retouched photographic images from the 1920s, and from the discourse surrounding this practice, is that they rendered photography and drawing indistinguishable. Moreover, their hybridity was key to the communicative efficacy of photography as commercial illustration. “Photographic” was less a description of a medium apart from drawing and more a matter of degrees of naturalism in any given image. Depending on the subject or message of an advertisement, different characteristics of photography or drawing might be more or less desirable. A 1912 catalogue designed by Peter Behrens showcasing a line of teakettles produced by the German electricity company Allgemeine Elektrizitäts-Gesellschaft (AEG), for example, featured photographic halftones of three teakettles retouched to distinguish between different combinations of material and finish (Fig. 3.22). 423 One page features three octagonal teakettles: one made of brass with a smooth, matte finish; another made of copper with a stippled, wrought texture; and a third made of smooth, nickel- plated brass. These textures are exaggerated through retouching, conveying both their relationship as a set and customization for slightly different tastes. An unattributed article titled “The Art of Retouching the Photograph,” printed in the December 1923 issue of Commercial Art, was one of many that described commercial photography as a hybrid 422 Ibid, 175. 423 Peter Behrens’s comprehensive work for AEG—including the company’s logo, stationary, product design, advertising, and architectural design of AEG Turbine Factory in Berlin—was an important precedent for interwar corporate design commissions by New Typographers including Willi Baumeister, César Domela-Nieuwenhuis, Franz Krause, Robert Michel, Paul Schuitema, and Piet Zwart. For a thorough study of Behrens’s work for AEG, see Tilmann Buddensieg and Henning Rogge, Industriekultur: Peter Behrens and the AEG, trans. Iain Boyd Whyte (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1984). 167 medium produced jointly by photographers, retouchers, engravers, designers, typesetters, and printers. 424 The author warned of the difficulty of photographing objects with particularly reflective surfaces, such as metal, which require the careful control of light and shade to avoid glare. Failure to do so was common especially in the representation of machines and machine parts: “The consequence is that the resulting photograph calls for so much retouching that the final illustration has very little of the photograph left.” 425 The article praised the skillful retoucher’s ability to “bring out parts that are essential,” a skill cultivated through intimate knowledge of the product depicted. 426 This point was illustrated by a photographic image of an Avery typewriter slashed down the middle with a diagonal line, an illustration that, according to its caption, “contrasts the retouched parts of a typewriter with the fuzziness produced by the camera, and proves the necessity of sharpening up the details” (Fig. 3.23). 427 This bifurcated image, shiny and sharply detailed at left and muddled by gray tones at right, highlights the striking visual dissonance between retouched and un-retouched halftones. This image shows how retouchers used their tools to alter composition, sharpen and highlight certain details, and balance light and shade. On the facing page, an advertisement for The Farringdon Studios, a London-based studio that specialized in photographic retouching, features a similar side-by-side comparison of retouched and un-retouched versions of an illustration created for an engineering catalogue (Fig. 3.24). The article’s description of the need for skillful retouching easily describes this advertisement: 424 “The Art of Retouching the Photograph,” Commercial Art (December 1923): 340–41; 343. 425 Ibid, 341. 426 Ibid. 427 Ibid. 168 In the plant the object to be photographed is necessarily surrounded by irrelevant details…. Such a background is the reverse of helpful. It must be removed before the engraving is made. Ordinarily this is done by the retoucher as he attends to other details…. Frequently a photograph is called for that will give prominence to a part or an accessory of a machine, and at the same time show the machine itself, as subdued surroundings. This could be accomplished by the photographer by the manipulation of several photographs, but the retoucher can shine, who can so well differentiate between the tone-values of the machine that he knows exactly which parts to reduce and which to strengthen.… 428 The Farringdon Studios “reduced” the grime of the machine and transformed it into a shiny gleam, thereby visually “strengthening” the metallic quality of its surface. The machine had been “detached” from the murky space of the factory in which it was photographed and effectively placed in the undefined but hermetic white space of a showroom—easily simulated by the white space of the magazine page—anchored spatially by the suggestion of a gleaming, checkered floor. The edges of the image are soft, visually fading away, an example of the technique of vignetting. Retouching has also removed the square frame of the photographic image, silhouetting the machine’s form and visually isolating particular component parts. Elsewhere in Commercial Art, Eric Simons warned of the potentially dangerous homogenizing effects of retouching: You know the sort of thing! A machine stares at you from the page. It looks as though it has been carefully prepared for the South Kensington Museum …Every real and vivid thing has been smoothed and whittled out of it by the dreary hand of the retoucher. It does not move; it is shining and glossy; there is no dirt and grease about it. It is cold and still, resting in a kind of static perfection till the end of all time; an exhibit; a curiosity; perhaps an abortive experiment. But a working machine—Never! 429 428 Ibid, 343. 429 Eric N. Simons, “Retouching and Retouching,” Commercial Art (November 1925): 230. 169 Retouching, when done badly, had the potential to drain an image of life and to create a false visual equivalency between objects as dissimilar as teakettles and typewriters. Simons went so far as to suggest that bad retouching could condemn both an advertisement and the machine it depicted to impotency. The harsh and potentially alienating realities of glare on a metallic surface or the dirty and dangerous conditions of a factory, which the camera could not help but capture, were removed in order to create a sense of familiarity and inviting tactility that would charm and entice potential consumers. Despite Simons’ protest, visual homogenization in the rendering of different kinds of objects through retouching bespeaks the importance of conveying a feeling of luxury and comfort above providing accurate depictions of products and their uses. Designers used both photomontage and retouching to emphasize the objecthood of products for sale. By removing photographic fragments from their square or rectangular frames and using retouching to enhance surface texture, they rendered illustrations more like objects in space. Free of the limitations of both photography and drawing, products appeared not as representations in advertising but as tangible objects. In this sense, the Farringdon Studios advertisement, the bifurcated Avery typewriter illustration, and Behrens’s catalogue of AEG teakettles are all examples of Typophoto in commercial design avant la lettre. These three examples are telling of the agenda that motivated the practice of retouching halftones: they each evoked an idealized version of industrial manufacture as clean and accommodating, producing fantastical commodities that were nevertheless showroom and storefront ready. In this composite form of photographic illustration, objects appeared as though brought forth from the planar surface of the printed page. 170 Pure Illustrations: New Typographers Reframe Retouching In 1927, László Moholy-Nagy wrote: “The appeal of what is new and still unused is one of the most effective factors in advertising; therefore it is appropriate…to include photography in advertising.” 430 Yet he also conceded that “photography in advertising is not an alien concept.” 431 Photographic images had long been present in commercial illustration, but as we have seen, they were often converted “into the language of painting or drawing,” as Moholy-Nagy described it, “never allowing the photographic model to appear as such.” 432 He called instead for the true visibility of photography in print, thereby implicating the halftone as a pure form of photography that had been hidden and corrupted by excessive retouching. He defended “bare” (or un-retouched) halftones on the grounds that photography was an inherently graphic medium more akin to typography than painting or drawing. The heightened visibility of photography in advertising would, in his view, secure its status as a productive medium of communication rather than merely an artistic “model” or a tool for reproduction. Like Moholy-Nagy, Paul Renner also understood the halftone not as a printed translation, but rather as an unmediated form of photography with unique creative potential. In a 1930 article published in the German architecture and design journal Die Form, Renner lauded the originality of modernist design born from industrialization: Today, photography does not want to be anything but itself… A technique can only be intellectually mastered when its inherent laws are acknowledged and understood… The new photography, the new architecture, the new house-hold 430 László Moholy-Nagy, “Photography in Advertising,” in Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913-40, 87. (Originally published: László Moholy- Nagy, “Die Photographie in der Reklame,” Photographische Korrespondenz, 1927.) Emphasis in italics is original. 431 Ibid, 86. 432 Ibid. 171 utensils, and the new typography have gained their specifically modern quality from this kind of imaginative response to the challenge of expressing their inherently mechanical quality. 433 Renner recognized the creative efficacy of both contemporary photography and typography as “inherently mechanical.” The same year, his book Mechanisierte Grafik (Mechanized Graphics) was published, in which he deemed photography a mechanical process akin to printmaking. 434 The clearest expression of photography as a graphic medium was the halftone. Though he did not address retouching explicitly, Renner’s appeal to mastering the “inherent laws” of photography implied retouching as a problematic erasure of the halftone’s compatibility with type. Discourse among the New Typographers about the visibility of the halftone did not amount to a wholesale rejection of retouching, but rather a rhetorical reframing of the manipulations of photography necessitated by printing technology. As we have seen, many designers in the 1920s called attention away from retouching as a practice of manipulation by referring to retouched photographic images simply as “photography.” In doing so, they denied any meaningful distinction between photographic prints and halftones, let alone between retouched and un-retouched halftones. For New Typography, the term “photomontage” stood in for all of the processes of construction and manipulation, including retouching, which made Typophoto possible. Photomontage was a key term for New Typography because of its association with Constructivism and connotations of making visible, rather than hiding, the labor of graphic design, typesetting, and printing. Ironically, however, the term also collapsed a number of techniques that 433 Paul Renner, “The Photograph,” in Photography in the Modern Era, 165. (Originally published: Paul Renner, “Das Lichtbild,” Die Form 1930.) 434 Paul Renner, Mechanisierte Grafik (Berlin: Verlag Hermann Reckendorf, 1930), 96. 172 were necessary to combine photography and type on the printed page—including the many procedures encompassed by the capacious term “retouching.” New Typography borrowed this rhetorical reframing, in part, from discourse on photomontage in the context of art. For example, Franz Roh offered an ambiguous description of Paul Citroen’s arrangement of fragments in his 1923 photocollage, Weltstadt (Meine Geburtsstadt) (Metropolis [City of My Birth]) as a “cubist nesting of pure illustrations” (Fig. 3.25). 435 The visual and spatial play explicitly attributed to photomontage was not only the product of cutting photographic fragments, pasting them in new configurations, and re-photographing the resulting compositions. The visual effects of photomontage were also the result of selectively rejecting some conventions of retouching while retaining others. Rather than add background elements that imitated photographic representation, as in the Farringdon Studios advertisement, the New Typographers tended to isolate objects completely, often excising background illustration altogether. Resistance to this convention, as much as photomontage, created in advertising what Roh had described as “cubist nesting” in Citroen’s work—the complete evacuation of depth of field in exchange for a depiction of the city as continuous, simultaneous, and relentlessly visible. In two commercial illustrations by Willi Baumeister—a graphic for the travel section of the Frankfurter Zeitung (labeled “Photomontage”) and an advertisement for Kübler women’s wear printed in the Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung—photographic 435 Franz Roh, Nach-Expressionismus: Magischer Realismus, Probleme der neuesten europäischen Malerei [After Expressionism: Magical Realism, Problems of Recent European Painting] (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1925), 46. For a brief discussion of Roh’s commentary on Citroen’s photocollage, reproduced in Nach-Expressionismus, see Chapter 4 of this dissertation, page 188. 173 fragments were cleanly cut from their frames (Fig. 3.26–27). In both examples, Baumeister used photography as “pure illustration” in the sense that it appears visually distinct from elements drawn by hand, rather than blended together. He added background elements—schematic line drawings of the bow of a ship and a bucolic outdoor scene, respectively—to heighten the visual contrast between photography and drawing. These illustrations exploit expectations of photographic realism in order to visualize fantasy—a paradox that Roh called “magical realism.” New Typography’s defenses of photographic halftones as “pure illustrations” in graphic design were predicated on a clear—if completely artificial—distinction between mechanized labor and handcraft in graphic design. 436 This distinction was created through rhetorical emphasis of the practice of photomontage, and deemphasis of retouching. While both photomontage and retouching were in fact manual processes, the former carried the connotations of mechanized production, owing to the term’s origins in the verb montieren (to assemble; to install). However, as Otto Bettmann described in 1931, the visual power of photomontage depended on the material hybridity of the halftone in combination with various retouching techniques. It was through deft and selective retouching, as much as the careful arrangement of photographic fragments, that photomontage could be rendered visually seamless. In an article addressing photomontage both as a conceptual technique and as a set of processes, Bettmann emphasized the “paradoxical blend of realism and fantasy” as a fusion of parts into a new, coherent whole: The stimuli of a fantasy-image are combined with the attraction of representations that carry the accent of truth. Photographic images are believed because they reflect the world as we know it. Montage 436 Jan Tschichold borrowed this phrase from Roh in his notes for the unrealized book Fotomontage, written c. 1930-31. For a thorough discussion of this planned publication, and the influence of Roh on New Typography, see Chapter 4. 174 does not change them in principle, but only fuses them to each other in a new sense, emphasizing the essential. 437 Much of his discussion of photomontage was dedicated to the balance of color, tonal values, and composition achieved through drawing, underpainting, and airbrushing. 438 Yet he also warned that, “all such processes are pointless if they are not determined and united from the outset by the intention of a clear-cut artistic whole.” 439 Among Bettmann’s examples of successful photomontage was a poster by Tschichold, in which “image direction and type direction seem balanced. Tonally, the typeface blends in with the black and white of the picture and the background, so that it no longer appears as a foreign body but as a support to the overall structure” (Fig. 3.28). 440 In this design, Tschichold used photomontage to bridge typographic and photographic space by making type appear as part of the wall depicted photographically, and in turn by using typographic elements to make the represented architectural space cohere perceptually. 437 “Diese Paradoxie—Vermischung von Realismus und Fantastik—erklärt die unerhörte Wirkung der Fotomontage. Die Reize eines Fantasiegebildes verbinden sich mit der Anziehungskraft von Darstellungen, die den Akzent der Wahrheit tragen. Den Fotobildern wird geglaubt, weil sie die Welt wiedergeben, wie wir sie kennen. Die Montage ändert an ihnen nicht prinzipiell, sondern fügt sie nur in einem neuen Sinne, Wesentliches heraushebend, aneinander.” Otto Bettmann, “Aufbaugesetze der Fotomontage,” Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik 68, no. 6 (1931): 228. 438 “Einheitliche Struktur der Fotomontage ist schließlich auch in der Farbtönung erforderlich. Durch Auswägung der Gegensätze oder Nivellierung der Tonwerte kann diesem Gebot Genüge getan werden. Farblich überbetonte Teile, die kein Gegengewicht haben, vermögen die Einheit des Ganzen zu zerstören. Lau wirkende Partien nehmen der Fläche den Halt. Das klare Hervortreten der Grundidee, das ja alle kompositionelle Arbeit bestimmt, scheint damit in Frage gestellt. Auch hier kann durch Einbeziehung von zeichnerischen Elementen, durch Verwendung von Tonplatten und mit Hilfe der Spritztechnik ein Ausgleich geschaffen werden.” Ibid, 230. 439 “Auch tonlich muß durch bestimmte Techniken ein Ausgleich zwischen den Einzelteilen erreicht werden durch starkes oder schwaches Kopieren, mit Hilfe des Spritzverfahrens oder durch Untermalung bestimmter Teile. Alle Prozesse aber sind zwecklos, wenn sie nicht von vornherein durch die Intention auf ein klarerfaßtes künstlerisches Ganzes bestimmt und geeint werden.” Ibid, 231. 440 “Bildrichtung und Typenrichtung scheinen ausgeglichen. Tonlich fügt sich die Schrift dem Schwartz-Weiß von Bild und Hintergrund ein, so daß sie nicht mehr als Fremdkörper erscheint, sondern als Stütze der Gesamtstruktur.” Ibid. 175 In the context of commercial design, the fusion of photographic and typographic elements into a legible whole was crucial: advertising was intended as an imaginary reality in which consumers could locate themselves physically and emotionally. Although he warned against over-retouching, Moholy-Nagy’s attitude was certainly more complicated than an outright rejection of the practice. He advocated for the judicious use of retouching in combination with photomontage to create what he called “super-photography,” or Photoplastik (photo-plasticity): 441 Illustrated magazines are trying to produce a realistic representation of ‘nonsensical’ subjects by cleverly retouching parts of the picture or introducing elements that do not belong in it… These photomontages are the precursors to the new and future ‘photo- sculptures.’ My goal is to produce photo-sculptures which—although composed of many photographs (copied, pasted, retouched)—create the controlled and coherent effect of a single picture equivalent to a photograph… This method allows us to depict a seemingly organic super-reality. 442 By referring to photomontages that had been re-photographed and retouched as Photoplastiken, Moholy-Nagy linked the pliability of photographic material to the representation of a “seemingly organic super-reality.” He advocated montage and retouching not as techniques intended to trick the beholder, but in order to stimulate their awareness of the plasticity and constructedness of graphic design. 443 The “super-reality” made possible by Photoplastik was evident in Moholy-Nagy’s own commercial work, especially his first cover of the high-end, luxury women’s lifestyle 441 I am grateful to Megan Luke for her suggestion to translate Photoplastik as “photo-plasticity” in this particular context. 442 Moholy-Nagy, “Photography in Advertising,” 92. 443 Here I use the word “suture” in reference to its use by Sabine Kriebel (a term borrowed in her work from film theory), who has likened John Heartfield’s process as a photomonteur to suturing together photographic fragments in order to create the illusion of a continuous reality. See Kriebel, “Touch, Absorption, and Radical Politics in the Magazine: The Case of John Heartfield.” 176 magazine, die neue linie. 444 Moholy-Nagy designed the cover of the magazine’s first issue, which was published in September of 1929 (Fig. 3.29). Along with fashion, interior design, travel, and architecture, the magazine showcased some of Germany’s most experimental graphic design, featuring a number of cover designs by Moholy-Nagy as well as Herbert Bayer, Otto Arpke, and Georg Teltscher. With a circulation of over 40,000 readers, the magazine was one of the most public examples of Moholy-Nagy’s graphic design work. He established photomontage as a signature feature of the large-format magazine’s bold covers, announcing the relaunched publication as the domain of both modernist graphics and the modern woman. In this design, Moholy-Nagy constructed a scene in which a woman stands in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. She looks out onto an untamed, rocky landscape and wears an elegant, fur-lined coat, shiny high heels, and a cloche hat. She is turned away almost completely so that no part of her body, not even a sliver of her face, is visually accessible. The coat is a proxy for the woman wearing it. The scene is interrupted by a palpable tension between illusion and material reality. The magazine cover is presented dually as a picture plane, recessing in space, and as the stubbornly flat surface that it is. Halftone fragments read simultaneously as a picture of a woman standing in front of a window and as flat planes arranged against other flat planes. The longer we look, the more the woman appears to float bizarrely in vaguely defined architectural space. Unlike in Tschichold’s poster design, the letterforms of the magazine’s title float indeterminately, unassimilated 444 die neue linie was published in Leipzig by Beyer-Verlag, the imprint of Otto Beyer. It began as a re-launch of the women’s magazine Frauen-Mode. Its 1929 incarnation as die neue linie was modeled in part after the American women’s fashion and lifestyle magazine Vanity Fair. Patrick Rössler, Das Bauhaus am Kiosk: die neue linie, 1929-1943 (Bielefeld: Kerber Art; New York: Distributed Art Publishers, 2009). 177 into the illusion of the scene. Type is instead a stubborn reminder that the only real surface is the paper on which the design is printed, a fact that Moholy-Nagy did not try to hide. The materiality of the magazine reminds us of the illusion that Moholy-Nagy has deftly constructed: iridescent silver ink pops out in contrast to bright red and blue ink and muted grays of photographic halftones, heightening the sense of realism suspended in a fantasy. New Typography’s reframing of retouching in terms of photomontage invited readers to see photography as graphic material rather than as a model for non- photographic illustrations. Replacing the term “retouching” with “photomontage” suggested that New Typography had recovered the purity of photographic images, finally unconcealed. Championing the halftone as a symbol of its technology fetishism, New Typographers aspired to reinvent photography in advertising, no longer beholden to what they regarded as outmoded conventions of pre-photographic illustration. Photomontage also connoted a heightened sophistication among readers, who were assumed to be adept at recognizing the constructedness of modern design. This expectation of the reader underlies Moholy-Nagy’s inaugural cover for die neue linie, which invited readers to see how photomontage could both create and interrupt narrative and spatial cohesion. Such a design challenged the overly simplistic assumptions about photography’s “naturalism” that had dominated graphic design in the profession’s earliest decades. Though photomontage had long been used in combination with retouching techniques, New Typography’s rhetorical embrace of photomontage perpetuated discourse in the graphic design and printing world about the nature of photography and its persuasive possibilities. 178 CHAPTER 4 Typophoto and The New Photomontage (1928 – 1933) “Photomontage will be the means of expression of the future. It enables a new type of combination of fragments of reality—on all levels of logic, into an illogical bond— as well as a field for the desire for fantasy.” 445 —Max Burchartz “It should be pointed out to our comrades that the fetishism of fact is not only not needed, it’s also pernicious for photography.” 446 —Alexander Rodchenko In 1927, the Frankfurt-headquartered Bauer Type Foundry commissioned a prospectus to promote the release of Futura, a sans-serif typeface designed by German typographer Paul Renner that quickly became New Typography’s signature typeface (Fig. 4.1). The prospectus was designed by Heinrich Jost and featured photomontage as Futura’s ideal companion. Photography and typography converge in this design as a visual fantasy that celebrates urbanization, industrialization, and mass communication—all harnessed by the creative experimentation of the graphic designer. The prospectus touted photomontage as “a new means of expression that combines the precision of photographic reporting with the optical charm of the free formation of space.” 447 This claim was illustrated by Jost’s playful arrangement of halftones, the effect of which was to merge the 445 Max Burchartz, “handschrift—type, zeichnung—foto,” Gebrauchsgrafik 3, no, 8, Rhein-Ruhr (1926): 42. 446 Alexander Rodchenko, “A Caution,” in Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913-40, ed. Christopher Phillips (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Aperture, 1989), 264. (Originally published: Alexander Rodchenko, “Predosterezhenie,” Novyi Lef, 1928.) 447 “Fotomontage ist ein neues Ausdrucksmittel, das die Präzision der fotografischen Aufnahme mit den optischen Reizen freier Raumgestaltung vereinigt.” Paul Renner, Futura prospectus, Bauer Type Foundry, date unknown (found at Letterform Archive, in the pages of a March 1929 issue of Gebrauchsgraphik). 179 space represented in the photographic fragments with the space of the printed page. On the brochure’s cover, the disembodied, scissor-wielding hand of the monteur looms threateningly over a skyscraper and Futura letterforms. In the interior spread of the prospectus, a factory rises above a mass of people (Fig. 4.2). The back cover shows that the real work of controlling modern experience—through the manipulation of form, material, and perception—is done at the photomonteur’s worktable (Fig. 4.3). When Jan Tschichold first adopted Typophoto as a tenet of New Typography, he championed photographic illustration as precise, efficient, and objective. 448 However in practice, as the Futura prospectus shows, the New Typographers used photography as much more than a tool for objective representation. Accordingly, Tschichold’s writings from around 1930 suggest the significant refinement of his own thinking about photography and typography—both in terms of the relationship between visual and verbal representation and how that relationship is informed by graphic design as process. In Die Neue Typographie, he had distinguished Typophoto from photomontage by describing the latter as a process of cutting, arranging, and pasting by hand, but paid no such attention to the material construction of Typophoto. 449 By emphasizing photomontage as a process of handwork, he had implied Typophoto as a product only of machine work—supporting his claim that photographic illustration fortified type with technological precision, efficiency, and objectivity. After the publication of his first book, Tschichold came to understand photography as a set of experimental techniques that, when used in design, evoked active construction 448 See the section titled, “Photographie und Typographie,” in Jan Tschichold, Die Neue Typographie: Ein Handbuch für zeitgemäss Schaffende (Berlin: Brinkmann & Rose, 1987 [1928]), 89–98. 449 Tschichold, The New Typography, 87–95. 180 and affective response in the minds of beholders. This shift was encapsulated in a second treatise on New Typography: the book Gefesselter Blick (The Bound Glance), edited by architects and designers Heinz and Bodo Rasch in 1930. This compendium brought together photography-based art and graphics by a number of designers associated with New Typography, including Willi Baumesier, Max Burchartz, Johannes Canis, Walter Cyliax, Franz Krause, El Lissitzky, and Piet Zwart. Their experimental uses of photography suggested the interdependency of functionalist graphic design and surrealist art, thereby proposing an alternative definition of New Typography to the one Jan Tschichold had proposed in 1928. This chapter centers the New Typographers’ uses of experimental photographic techniques in visual communication to destabilize the relationship between word and image, to evoke consumer desire, and to implicate readers as co-producers of graphic design. Tschichold’s unpublished writings from the late Weimar era suggest that he sustained a major preoccupation with photomontage in graphic design. Around 1930, he planned to author a book on photomontage, which was never realized. In this chapter, I reconstruct the designer’s intended argument using his extant, unpublished outline and related notes for the book, Fotomontage (c. 1930-31). I recover Tschichold’s thesis that “the new photomontage” encompassed a capacious set of practices, including experimental photographic techniques and artistic collage, as well as Typophoto and the cut-and-paste processes of graphic design. In this book, he intended to identify the techniques and representational strategies of experimental photography as integral to modern visual communication. He had also come to understand Typophoto as a medium 181 of composite image making intimately related to non-photographic collage and printmaking practices of Dada and Surrealism. Tschichold’s thinking about visual communication and photography in this period was deeply influenced by German art historian and critic Franz Roh, who became an important collaborator and interlocutor when Tschichold moved to Munich in 1926. Indeed, an advertisement from 1930 shows that Tschichold’s Fotomontage book was planned as the fourth installment of Roh’s Fototek series (Fig. 4.4). 450 Given that Tschichold had originally named photomontage as an artistic technique antithetical to the objectivity of Typophoto, it is striking that Roh would charge Tschichold with the task of editing this book and writing its introduction. Yet the collaborations of Tschichold and Roh, though little studied in existing scholarship, were part of a larger shift in the connotations of New Typography that took place around 1930. Tschichold’s plan for Fotomontage was one of many publications and exhibitions about graphic design and photomontage in the early 1930s. These contemporaneous projects help unpack the substance of Tschichold’s own unrealized book on photomontage. Photography proved particularly valuable in commercial design precisely because its status as a reliable tool for mimetic representation could be manipulated through the evocative arrangement of photographic fragments in relation to text. The New Typographers sought to produce word-image combinations imbued with what André Breton—in describing images that connote a utopian future or fantasy apart from any 450 Only the first two books in the Fototek series were published: László Moholy-Nagy, László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos (Berlin: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1930); and Aenne Biermann, Aenne Biermann: 60 Fotos (Berlin: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1930). This advertisement for Fototek was designed by students at the Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker, where Tschichold taught from 1927 to 1933, and which is the subject of Chapter 6 of this dissertation. 182 direct referent in the real world—called “the marvelous.” 451 Breton was particularly fascinated by what he deemed the “convulsive beauty” of photographic images: by isolating a moment or image of the world, photography could reconfigure nature as a sign, arresting both space and time. Rather than see photography as a seamless representation of reality, the surrealists relished the ways in which the medium could violently disrupt a sense of continuity between representations of the world and reality itself. 452 New Typography similarly sought to destabilize the idea of photography as mimetic representation, betraying a strong link between surrealist approaches to photography and what Moholy-Nagy called “super-photography” in advertising. 453 Tschichold’s unrealized book on photomontage foregrounds an important paradox that has not yet been adequately addressed in existing scholarship: I argue that New Typography encompassed a dialectic between its own aspirations toward the universal legibility and objectivity of visual communication—encapsulated by the self-imposed label of “functionalism”—and the strategies of Dada and Surrealism that the New Typographers employed in practice. In order to be “functional,” commercial design had to incite desire through pairings of word and image that upended the expectation that text should explain images and in turn, that images should illustrate text. Attention to the dependency of functionalist graphic design on surrealist strategies of representation illuminates the extent to which the Weimar craze for rationalization and standardization was fueled by utopian fantasy and experiments with the human mind. When we look back 451 See Hal Foster, Compulsive Beauty (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1995). 452 Ibid. See also, Rosalind Krauss, “The Photographic Conditions of Surrealism,” October 19 (Winter, 1981): 3–34. 453 László Moholy-Nagy, “Die Photographie in der Reklame,” in Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 92. (Originally published: László Moholy-Nagy, “Die Photographie in Der Reklame,” Photographische Korrespondenz no. 9, [September 1927]: 257–60.) 183 on New Typography’s legacy, the movement is perhaps best understood as emblematic of Weimar Germany’s utopian aspirations, rather than an example of rationalization that actually took place. The New and Old Photomontage All that remains of Tschichold’s book for the Fototek series is an outline consisting of a four-page typescript and one page of handwritten notes. 454 However, these notes represent nearly a decade that the designer spent thinking and writing about photography and graphic design. The outline is rich with ideas that correlate to public discourse in contemporaneous exhibitions and publications. Advertisements for the Fototek series promised that Fotomontage would illuminate “significant possibilities that lie in this new manner of form-production” using “excellent examples.” 455 A short announcement on the Fototek series published in December of 1930 noted the timely relevance of the book: “Especially Tschichold’s book on ‘Photomontage’ will be awaited with impatience, since this new area—so important to our graphic arts—has not been worked on to this day, although there exists already a wealth of excellent material of great beauty.” 456 The contemporary appetite for a monograph on photomontage was whetted not only by the 454 These materials are located in Box 5, Folder 6, Jan and Edith Tschichold papers, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. Additionally, a typed set of notes that appears related to both Fotomontage and Die Neue Typographie is included in Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 455 “An Hand hervorragender Beispiele wird aufgezeigt, welche bedeutsamen Möglichkeiten in dieser neuen Gestaltungsweise liegen.” Fototek advertisement, printed as back matter in Aenne Biermann: 60 Fotos, n.p. 456 “Gerade das Buch von Tschichold über ‘Fotomontage’ wird man mit Ungeduld erwarten, da dieses für unser grafisches Gewerbe so wichtig und neues Gebiet bis heute noch nirgends bearbeitet wurde, obwohl schon eine Fülle hervorragenden Materials von großer Schönheit vorliegt.” Unattributed, Werkbund Gedanken für Volksbildung, Kunsthandwerk und Industrie, no. 12 (16 December 1930), n.p. 184 technique’s prominence in avant-garde art, but equally in graphics that circulated en masse through print advertising. From his outline for Fotomontage, it appears that Tschichold had three major goals for this unrealized book. First, he proposed that the technique of photomontage was neither new nor a recent invention, but rather had a history that had begun in the nineteenth century. “This [book] is an historical survey,” he wrote, “a conscious historical document, showing what is good and bad. Examples and counter-examples.” 457 He intended to situate what he called “the new photomontage” as a reinvention of the technique in early twentieth-century avant-garde art—namely Constructivism, Futurism, Dada, and Surrealism—as well as in modernist graphic design. 458 A key ambition of this publication was to show that contemporary graphic design was inextricably linked to avant-garde art. 459 However, Tschichold also resisted rehearsing a narrative about the “invention” of photomontage by modernists. By identifying the origins of the technique in the nineteenth century and by elaborating its applications beyond art making, Tschichold 457 “es gibt einen geschichtlichen querschnitt, will also bewusst historisches document sein, und zeigt auf, was gut und schlecht ist. beispiele und gegenbeispiele.” Jan Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 4. Many German quotations from sources referenced here are reproduced entirely in lowercase, as their authors originally wrote them. The penchant for kleinschreibung was a signature of New Typography. Designers including Herbert Bayer, Kurt Schwitters, and Jan Tschichold sought to optimize the Latin alphabet as “universally” legible by simplifying letterforms, abolishing letters unique to the German language, and dispensing with the convention of capitalizing German nouns. This practice was strongly advocated by German engineer and theoretician Walter Porstmann in his highly influential book. See Walter Porstmann, Sprache und Schrift, ed. Richard R. Hinz (Berlin: Verlag des Vereins Deutscher Ingenieure, 1920). 458 The typescript includes a note about “constructivist” design and names Futurist painting as an “influence” on contemporary photomontage. He did not explicitly discuss Dada or Surrealism, but many of the artist he names as potential examples of different kinds of photomontage were associated with these movements. He distinguished between historical precedents and current uses of photomontage, naming precursors from the nineteenth century “als urheber der neuen fotomontage” (originators of the new photomontage). Tschichold, Fotomontage outline. 459 This was clearly also true of The New Typography, which included a section called “The New Art,” contextualizing New Typography in part as an extension of modernist tendencies in art that had begun with Impressionist painting. See Tschichold, The New Typography, 30–51. 185 offered a counter-narrative to that propagated most forcefully by Raoul Hausmann who, in his talk delivered at the opening of the 1931 Berlin exhibition Fotomontage, defended Dadaists as “the first photomonteurs.” 460 Both Hausmann and Tschichold sought to claim photomontage for different ends. For Hausmann, insisting on the future importance of photomontage ensured the continued relevance of Dada. Tschichold, however, was interested in expanding the definition of photomontage by illuminating meaningful connections between the many applications of the technique, including advertising. The diverging agendas of Hausmann and Tschichold were brought together by Dutch artist and designer César Domela-Nieuwenhuis, hung side by side somewhat uneasily in his 1931 exhibition, Fotomontage. 461 Domela-Niewenhuis showcased examples of various applications of photomontage, including political propaganda and commercial graphics. Although Hausmann agreed to loan his own work to the exhibition, he objected privately to the inclusion of commercial design by Tschichold, László Moholy-Nagy, Herbert Bayer, and many others. In a letter to Hannah Höch written around the time of the opening, Hausmann referred to these designers as 460 Hausmann made this statement in a speech delivered at the opening of the 1931 exhibition Fotomontage in Berlin, which was also printed in the journal a bis z. See Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 178. (Originally published: Raoul Hausmann, “Fotomontage,” in a bis z [May 1931].) 461 Fotomontage was organized by César Domela-Nieuwenhuis at the Kunstgewerbemuseum, Berlin (today the Martin-Gropius-Bau), on view from April 25 to May 31, 1931 in the museum’s atrium. The exhibition also showcased works by graphic designers including Johannes Canis, Georg Trump, John Heartfield, Paul Schuitema, Karel Teige, Friedrich Vordemberge-Gildewart, Kurt Schwitters, and Piet Zwart. Fotomontage: Ausstellung im Lichthof des ehemaligen Kunstgewerbemuseums (Berlin: Staatliche Museen, Staatliche Kunstbibliothek, 1931), n.p. 186 “our descendants”—pointed language that emphasized the primacy of Dada. He dismissed their work as “quite weak,” praising Höch’s contributions to the show by comparison. 462 Tschichold’s unrealized book and Domela-Nieuwenhuis’s exhibition shared not only a title but also a thesis about photomontage as a paradigm for dissolving the boundaries between art and design, and between historical and modern cultural production. Like Tschichold, Domela-Nieuwenhuis defined photomontage as a capacious category and proposed contemporary photography as part of a longer tradition rather than a clean break from it. The exhibition’s first gallery displayed non-photographic works from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, referred to in the catalogue as “curiosities that can be seen as precursors of photomontage.” 463 Some of these works were borrowed from the collection of the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg, directed by German art historian Max Sauerlandt. 464 Domela-Nieuwenhuis’s exhibition followed Sauerlandt’s radical conviction that modern art belonged in museum collections and exhibitions in order to enliven the entire history of art for a contemporary audience. 465 Sauerlandt’s 462 “Unsere Nachfahren, Tschichold, Bayer, Errell, auch Moholy-Nagy und Nerlinger sind recht schwächlich, leider.” Hausmann, letter to Hannah Höch, April 1931, Berlinische Galerie, BG- HHC K 695/79. 463 “herr prof. stenger ließ uns aus seiner wertvollen fotografiensammlung kuriositäten auswählen, die als vorläufer der fotomontage angesehen werden können.” Fotomontage: Ausstellung im Lichthof des ehemaligen Kunstgewerbemuseums. 464 In the exhibition catalogue for Fotomontage, Max Sauerlandt was acknowledged for lending works from the collection of the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg. Ibid. 465 Sauerlandt championed German Expressionism and was one of the few museum directors to acquire works by members of Die Brücke in the early twentieth century, most of which were confiscated by Nazi authorities in 1937 and remain lost. “Modern Art,” Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg. https://www.mkg-hamburg.de/en/collection/permanent-collection/modern- art.html (accessed August 9, 2019). As one remembrance of Sauerlandt after his death in 1934 stated, his dedication to acquiring modern art “cost him his post” as director of the Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg in 1933. Bernard Rackham, “The Late Max Sauerlandt,” The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 64, no. 371 (February 1934): 95. Sauerlandt’s approach to the history and institutional collecting of art is demonstrated in his book, Die Kunst der letzten 30 Jahre (Berlin: Rembrandt Verlag, 1935). 187 collecting supported Domela-Nieuwenhuis’s attempt to think about modernism historically. Fotomontage also borrowed from the local collection of German photography historian Erich Stenger, echoing his interest in the wide-ranging applications of the medium. 466 For example, Domela-Nieuwenhuis showed a late eighteenth-century collage by Christian Gottlob Winterschmidt, Quodlibet with perpetual calendar, borrowed from Stenger. 467 The collection also included hand-colored photomechanical reproductions of paintings, such as Hermann Wilhelm Vogel’s Dreifarbendruck nach Verfahren: Vogel- Ulrich (Three-color printing according to the procedure: Vogel-Ulrich) of 1892, to which butterfly specimens were pinned (Fig. 4.5). Stenger acquired at least one image of a headless soldier from the late nineteenth century, created as a “template” for a photographic portrait to be added with montage (Fig. 4.6). 468 Stenger historicized photography as a technology that touched every aspect of modern life. In doing so, he implicitly defined the medium somewhat broadly, including techniques of “manipulation” including photomontage and spirit photography. 469 In his own unpublished notes, 466 Erich Stenger wrote one of several prominent surveys of the medium’s early history. His approach to collecting photography and writing its history are evident in his Geschichte der Photographie (Berlin: VDI Verlag, 1929), and in his transcribed remembrances, published in Miriam Halwani, ed. Photographien führen wir nicht ...: Erinnerungen des Sammlers Erich Stenger (1878-1957) (Heidelberg: Kehrer; Cologne: Museum Ludwig, 2014). 467 Adrian Sudhalter and Deborah L. Roldán, eds. Photomontage Between the Wars (1918-1939) (Madrid: Fundación Juan March, 2012), 17. 468 As Brigid Doherty has shown, Hannah Höch recalled seeing similar mementos of fallen soldiers, which she described as commonplace in domestic spaces before World War I, and identified these objects as seminal for her own experiments with photomontage. See Doherty, “Berlin,” in Leah Dickerman, ed. Dada: Zurich, Berlin, Hannover, Cologne, New York, Paris (Washington: National Gallery of Art; New York: D.A.P./ Distributed Art Publishers, 2005), 90– 92. 469 Erich Stenger, The History of Photography: Its Relation to Civilization and Practice, trans. Edward Epstean (Easton, PA: Mack Printing Co., 1939), viii. 188 Tschichold also cited Stenger’s collection as proof that the technique of photomontage had noteworthy historical precedents. 470 In his catalogue essay for Fotomontage, Domela-Nieuwenhuis firmly dismissed any need to pinpoint photomontage’s origins: “Photomontage was not invented, as is frequently claimed, but rather evolved out of a contemporary need for new forms of expression and combinations of materials. For this reason no one can claim to have been the sole creator of the medium.” 471 This framing echoed Aloïs Riegl’s theory of Kunstwollen (will to form) by proposing photomontage as a general formal and material tendency that emerged as a response to modernity, rather than as a narrowly defined technique that could be claimed definitively by the avant-garde. 472 By characterizing photomontage as historically rooted in the nineteenth century, Tschichold similarly suggested that the origins of photomontage could not be easily identified—a position that Hausmann regarded as both threatening and false. 473 470 Jan Tschichold, unpublished notes, page 67. Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 471 César Domela- Nieuwenhuis, “fotomontage” (1931). Trans. Sudhalter and Roldán, Photomontage Between the Wars, 129. (Originally published: César Domela- Niewenhuis, “fotomontage,” Fotomontage: Ausstellung im Lichthof des ehemaligen Kunstgewerbemuseums. [Berlin: Staatliche Museen, Staatliche Kunstbibliothek, 1931].) 472 Riegl proposed that a collective will to form developed within a given historical and cultural context, implicating artistic style as a visual manifestation of the unique, shared values of an historical epoch. Riegl developed the concept of Kunstwollen primarily in two books: Stilfragen: Grundlegungen zu einer Geschichte der Ornamentik (1893) and Spätrömische Kunstindustrie (1901). See Henri Zerner, “Aloïs Riegl: Art, Value, and Historicism,” Daedalus 105, no. 1, In Praise of Books (Winter 1976): 177–88. 473 Hausmann’s objection to the application of photomontage in graphic design was at least partly due to personal animus toward Tschichold. In April of 1930, Tschichold received a letter from Hausmann admonishing him for excluding Hausmann from his 1928 treatise on New Typography, specifically in the narrative of modern art presented in the section, “The New Art.” See Christopher Burke, Active Literature: Jan Tschichold and the New Typography (London: Hyphen, 2007), 115. In a letter to Hausmann dated April 3, 1930, Tschichold replied: “ich möchte ihnen in voller ehrlichkeit versichern, dass ich ihren namen nicht absichtlich an den stellen die sie zitieren, weggelassen habe, ich bin mit kurt schwitters wie sie befreundet, und vielleicht nehmen sie veranlassung ihn zu fragen, welche erfahrungen er mit mir gemacht hat.” (“I would like to assure 189 Hausmann, Tschichold, and Domela-Nieuwenhuis did concur on one important score: all three vehemently defended photomontage as thriving and socially relevant around 1930. Sabine Kriebel has framed Domela-Niewenhuis’s catalogue essay as a defense against a cacophony of declarations in the German press—including art and advertising journals—that the medium of photomontage was a waning trend, or already dead. 474 She has similarly read the remarks Hausmann made at the exhibition’s opening— and I would add, the very impetus to make them, despite his evident misgivings about the show—as a clear rebuttal to those claims. Yet Hausmann also called for the “disciplining” of both photomontage and film for future use, condemning their application to commercial design. 475 Though Domela-Niewenhuis refused to endorse an origin story of photomontage, he declared that, “it would be quite mistaken to think of it as a mere fad,” and stressed that, “photomontage is by no means passé, as one often hears, but rather in the initial stage of its development.” 476 Both Domela-Nieuwenhuis and Tschichold cited the deeper history of photomontage, and its relevance to contemporary life, as proof of its staying power. This defense also shored up theories of modernism’s broader relevance to both history and you, in all honesty, that I have not purposely omitted your name from the passages that you are quoting. Like you, I am a friend of Kurt Schwitters, and perhaps you will have an opportunity to ask him what experience he has had with me.”) In the same letter, he also suggested that it was futile to pinpoint photomontage’s “reinvention”: “ich glaube, dass es zu endlosen und unnützen streitigkeiten führt, wenn man sich ernsthaft darüber unterhalten will, wer die fotomontage neu erfand.” (“I believe that it leads to endless and useless disputes to seriously discuss who reinvented photomontage.”) Jan Tschichold, letter to Hausmann, April 3, 1930, Nachlass Raoul Hausmann, Berlinische Galerie, BG-RHA 1029. 474 Sabine T. Kriebel, Revolutionary Beauty: The Radical Photomontages of John Heartfield (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 101. 475 Hausmann, “Photomontage,” in Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 179. 476 César Domela- Niewenhuis, “fotomontage” (1931), trans. and ed. Sudhalter and Roldán, Photomontage Between the Wars, 130. 190 modernity. In a review of the exhibition, German critic and art historian Adolf Behne at first credited the Dadaists for “inventing montage,” thereby making “the rigid photograph mobile and thinking.” 477 However, he continued, somewhat provocatively: But... is the coat of arms of the old knight shields not the real ancestor of this new art form? Of course, there are the formal beginnings of montage, in those heraldic divisions of the surface, in the combination of half eagles, horse-tailed tails, double heads with mythical creatures, with crenellated walls and gates, with stars, suns, and comets. 478 Behne recognized heraldic images as fantastical, composite forms constructed from preexisting fragments, describing works from Sauerlandt’s collection in Hamburg as “ancestors of photomontage [that] anticipate the adhesive images of a Picasso and a Schwitters.” 479 He reinforced and extended the exhibition’s thesis by asserting that photomontage—as well as Cubism and Dada—had a deeper history. He suggested that modernism had emerged from a tradition of “divisions of the surface” in composite image making, which transcended the boundaries of medium, material, and purpose. To suggest continuity between medieval heraldry and modernist photomontage was a direct challenge to the avant-garde’s self-mythologizing of its own originality. 477 “…die Dadaisten durch Erfindung der Montage das starre Lichtbild beweglich und denkend machten.“ Adolf Behne, “Kunst in Berlin: Fotomontage und Große Berliner,” Die Welt im Abend (May 18, 1931): n.p. 478 “Aber ... ist nicht das Wappen der alten Ritterschilde der eigentliche Urahn dieser neuen Kunstform? Natürlich, dort liegen die formalen Anfänge der Montage, in jenen heraldischen Aufteilungen der Fläche, in der Kombination von halben Adlern, von Roßschweifen, doppelten Köpfen mit Fabelwesen, mit Mauerzinnen und Toren, mit Sternen, Sonnen und Kometen.“ Ibid. 479 “Sauerlandt-Hamburg hat vor kurzem die Ahnen der Fotomontage in seinem Museum zusammengestellt, und Domela-Nieuwenhuis hat einen Teil dieses Materials in seine ausgezeichnete Fotomontagen-Ausstellung (Prinz-Albrecht-Str. 7) übernommen, darunter amüsante und köstliche Stücke des 18. Jahrhunderts, die die Klebebilder eines Picasso und Schwitters vorwegnehmen.” Ibid. 191 Tschichold’s book outline shows that he too had clearly intended to weigh in on this debate about the past and future of photomontage, an ambition that most likely predated the opening of Domela-Niewenhuis’s exhibition. At stake, as Behne suggested, was an understanding of how the long precipitation and current ubiquity of photomontage had fundamentally changed the way people saw images, both past and present. In one of the few fully formed theses for his own project, Tschichold wrote: “My book wants to offer an overview of the possibilities of photomontage, established on the basis of its previous creation, to prove that the talk of the ‘survival’ of these graphics is empty chatter.” 480 His notes confirm that he would certainly have refuted accusations such as Hausmann’s that photomontage had been debased by commercial design, instead framing the technique’s broader use as a reinvention that ensured its future relevance. Tschichold’s second goal was to produce a publication that would serve as both a theoretical text and a practical handbook, offering prescriptions for “good” and “bad” photomontage illustrated by examples and counter-examples. The didacticism of this premise recalls that of most of his publications, including Die Neue Typographie (1928) and Eine Stunde Druckgestaltung (1930). He had made a case for New Typography in a similar manner: He situated the movement historically as a natural progression of typography and printing (understanding history as a teleological development), and he emphasized the diverse applications of New Typography as a universal design program, providing examples and counter-examples of his thinking. Yet, from the outline of 480 “mein buch will an hand des bisher geschaffenen einen überblick über die möglichkeiten der fotomontage geben und nachweisen, dass die rede von der ‘überlebtheit’ dieser grafik leeres geschwätz ist.” Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 4. 192 Fotomontage, it is clear that this book would also have departed somewhat from the format of Tschichold’s other publications. His intent was to blend the format of the design handbook with the theoretical premise and visual argument of foto-auge: 76 fotos der zeit (1929), a book he made in collaboration with Roh, published in response to the Deutscher Werkbund exhibition Film und Foto (1929-31), which described and illustrated myriad uses of photography from its invention to the present day (Fig. 4.7). 481 The book foto-auge was an important prototype for Roh’s Fototek series on photography, inaugurated the following year. It consists primarily of a visual essay of photographic and photography-based images, preceded by Roh’s introduction, “Mechanism and Expression: The Essence and Value of Photography” (printed in German, French, and English). Textually and visually, the book posited photography as a conduit for new ways of seeing by presenting a range of visual experiences produced through the medium. It included anonymous press and archival photographs; aerial, astronomical, and X-ray photographs; designs for book covers, posters, and advertisements; as well as collage and photomontage by numerous photographers, including some associated with Dada and Surrealism. These examples presented photography as inherently heterogeneous, riddled with contradictions, and ultimately undefinable according to any one set of criteria. Their sequencing suggested 481 Franz Roh and Jan Tschichold. foto-auge: 76 fotos der zeit (Stuttgart: Fritz Wedekind, 1929). For studies of Film und Foto, see Ute Eskildsen und Jan-Christopher Horak, eds., Film und Foto der zwanziger Jahre: eine Betrachtung der Internationalen Werkbundausstellung "Film und Foto" 1929 (Stuttgart: Gerd Hatje, 1979); Olivier Lugon, “Neues Sehen, Neue Geschichte: Laszlo Moholy-Nagy, Sigfried Giedion und die Ausstellung Film und Foto,” in Sigfried Giedion und die Fotografie. Bildinszenierungen der Moderne, eds. Werner Oechslin and Gregor Harbusch (Zurich: gta Verlag, 2010), 88–105; Gustaf Stotz, Internationale Ausstellung des Deutschen Werkbunds Film und Foto (Stuttgart: Deutscher Werkbund, 1929); Andrés Mario Zervigón, “The Peripatetic Viewer at Heartfield's Film und Foto Exhibition Room,” October no. 150 (Fall 2014): 27–48. 193 that photographic images are best read dialectically. Each example might spark the reader’s mental associations and connections relative to the previous one, or encourage them to flip forward or backward in the book to reference another image. In his introduction to foto-auge, Roh laid out his theory that photography could extend the capacity of the human eye, or even replace it as a superior optical prosthesis. 482 For Roh, photography included not only the mechanical production of images with a camera, but also encompassed myriad manipulations with photographic chemistry and printing. He pointed to experimental photography—including photomontage, combination printing, solarization, and photograms—as evidence that the medium had radically altered human vision. The new ways of seeing engendered by photography, he argued, permeated the boundaries between the “isms” of contemporary art; between machine production and handcraft; and between art, design, technology, and science. Like Roh, Tschichold intended to offer a theory of photomontage as much more than a technique of the avant-garde. His third goal for the book was to situate “the new photomontage” as a paradigm for making, using, and perceiving images. He intended to show that the myriad applications of photomontage were part of a general, modern impulse toward montage that transcended boundaries between mediums, between fine and 482 Roh drew heavily from the distinction made by László Moholy-Nagy between photography as a “reproductive” medium that produced mimetic images of the world and as a “productive” medium that could extend the capacity of the human eye and inculcate neues Sehen (new vision), a way of seeing commensurate with the technological revolution born of modernity. See especially László Moholy-Nagy, “Production-Reproduction,” [1922] in Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 79–82; László Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film (Munich: Albert Langen Verlag, 1925). See also, Pepper Stetler, “Franz Roh and the Art History of Photography,” in Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg, eds., Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art. (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014). http://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/ Stetler.pdf. 194 applied art, and between techniques of production. The first extant page of the typescript lists a number of different applications as subcategories of photomontage, with shorthanded names of artists and designers under each one, indicating possible examples (Fig. 4.8). 483 We can assume, based on the formats of the two extant Fototek publications, that these names were placeholders for images that together would have constituted a photographic essay—likely consisting of sixty reproductions—preceded by Tschichold’s written introduction. 484 It is telling that he included the category of “freie fotomontage” (abstract photomontage) in the outline but offered no potential examples, instead enumerating its many uses. The first applications of photomontage listed in the typescript are “politische fotomontage” (political montage, exemplified by the work of Georg Grosz and John Heartfield) and “fotomontage als witz” (photomontage as joke or satire, exemplified by Hannah Höch and László Moholy-Nagy). As examples, he may have used works incorporating photomontage that had also been reproduced in the book foto-auge, such as Grosz’s "Der Sträfling" Monteur John Heartfield nach Franz Jungs Versuch ihn auf die Beine zu stellen ("The Convict" Monteur John Heartfield after Franz Jung's Attempt to Set Him on His Feet) (1920); Höch’s Von Oben (From Above) (1927); and Moholy-Nagy’s Leda und der Schwan (Leda and the Swan) (1925) (Fig. 4.9–11). 485 These categories not 483 The outline includes only last names of artists and designers and, in just a few cases, minimal notes indicating specific examples, but for the most part, specific works that Tschichold would have reproduced in his book are unknown. 484 Advertisements for the Fototek series specified that each volume was to include sixty large image reproductions, as in the published volumes on László Moholy-Nagy and Aenne Biermann. 485 Reproductions of these works appear as plates 49, 55, and 60 in foto-auge. The latter also appears in László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos (1930) as plate 3. 195 only named artists who were leading figures of Dada, but who also worked in advertising or as graphic designers between the wars. 486 The typescript pays particular attention to the use of photomontage in various forms of graphic design. These included “fotoplakate” (photographic advertising posters) and photomontage in book design and illustration as applications of the technique by graphic designers. 487 Tschichold may well have used one of his own designs for Phoebus- Palast cinema in Berlin, made in 1926 and 1927, as examples of poster design (Fig. 4.12– 13). These are among the few examples of applied photomontage in his own work. Despite Hausmann’s disapproval of the technique’s commercial application, Tschichold’s poster for the film Die Frau Ohne Namen (1927) anticipated what Hausmann would later describe as “photography and printed texts combined and transformed into a kind of static film.” 488 Importantly, the typescript points beyond examples of hand-held printed matter to include the design and representation of built space as the purview of both experimental photography and graphic design. Yet another application identified in the outline is “fotomontage in der architektenzeichnung” (photomontage in architectural drawing), naming Swiss architect Le Corbusier and Czech architect Jaromír Krejcar as potential examples. These notes may well have referred to representations of built architecture by Le Corbusier or Krejcar, who both employed photomontage in different forms, or to preparatory architectural drawings that integrated photographic elements. Le Corbusier 486 Notably, Tschichold’s outline excluded Hausmann. However, in a separate typed set of notes that are likely related to the outline for Fotomontage, Tschichold acknowledged Hausmann as an innovator of photomontage in Dada. Tschichold, unpublished notes, page 67. Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 487 Ibid, 2–3. 488 Hausmann, “Photomontage,” in Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 178–79. 196 used extensive airbrushing to isolate the “pure” forms of his Villa Schwob, built in 1916, in photographic reproductions for the magazine L’Esprit Nouveau (Fig. 4.14). 489 He also used photomontage to create what he called a “parallel discourse” with images in L’Esprit Nouveau as well as in his books L'Art décoratif d'aujourd'hui (1925) and Vers une architecture (1929) (Fig. 4.15). 490 He understood, for example, that photomontage could more vividly convey the colossal scale of the Aquitania ocean liner than any written description (Fig. 4.16). Krejcar used photomontage to envision his 1923 Olympic department store in Prague, emphasizing its structure as an assembly of pure geometric forms and its exterior planes as readymade surfaces for advertising (Fig. 4.17). 491 Both architects demonstrated a savvy awareness of the habits of the modern reader, who might only flip through a book or magazine, skimming for purely visual content. In the category of “fotomontage in der ausstellungsarchitektur” (photomontage in exhibition architecture), Tschichold named Moholy-Nagy and German graphic designer Joost Schmidt. Moholy-Nagy and Schmidt had become known for their experiments with photography in the design of exhibitions and advertising signage under the auspices of the 489 L’Esprit Nouveau was a journal published from 1920 to 1925 in Paris, primarily concerned with contemporary architecture and design and dedicated to the promotion of the “purist” design movement, led by Amédée Ozenfant and Le Corbusier. The journal was produced under the direction of Paul Dermée and edited, typeset, and printed by Maurice Daratière. For more on purism and L’Esprit Nouveau, see Carol S. Eliel, ed., L’Esprit Nouveau: Purism in Paris, 1918- 1925 (Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art & Harry N. Abrams, 2001); Stanislaus von Moos, ed., L'Esprit Nouveau, Le Corbusier und die Industrie 1920-1925 (Berlin: Ernst & Sohn, 1987). 490 Cited in Beatriz Colomina, "Le Corbusier and Photography," Assemblage no. 4 (October 1987): 15. Colomina has noted that Le Corbusier used images to “construct the text,” rather than to illustrate it. She argues that, through his role soliciting advertising for L’Esprit Nouveau, the architect began appropriating found commercial photography in his own writing and assimilating strategies of combining text and image from advertising. 491 This image was reproduced in Karel Teige’s Práce Jaromíra Krejcara (1933) but likely circulated in the 1920s as well. Krejcar’s use of photomontage was also well known to Tschichold from the cover design for the second issue of the Czech journal Život, published in 1922. This design was reproduced as Plate 19 in foto-auge. 197 Bauhaus sculpture workshop, which Schmidt reestablished in Dessau in 1928. 492 Commercial projects of the Bauhaus sculpture workshop under Schmidt’s direction included a display promoting Junkers water heaters at the 1929 Gas and Water trade exhibition in Berlin, attributed to Schmidt and fellow Bauhaus instructor Xanti Schawinsky, as well as Schmidt’s display for an association of canned fruit and vegetable manufacturers at the 1930 International Hygiene exhibition in Dresden (Fig. 4.18–19). Of Moholy-Nagy’s use of photomontage in exhibition design, Tschichold may well have had in mind the first room of Film und Foto (1929) or Moholy-Nagy’s room for the German section of the 1930 salon of the Société des artistes décorateurs in Paris (Fig. 4.20–21). 493 Schmidt and Moholy-Nagy presented photography and text as detached surfaces—often suspended on wires or freestanding armature and seemingly exempt from the rules of architectural construction—which suggested the exhibition as an extension of the magazine, allowing visitors the freedom to navigate space and information alike. 494 Tschichold named El Lissitzky as an exemplar of photomontage in both architectural drawing and exhibition architecture. Long influenced by Lissitzky’s 492 See Barry Bergdoll and Leah Dickerman, eds., Bauhaus 1919-1933: Workshops for Modernity (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2009); Paul Paret, Experimental Photography from the Bauhaus Sculpture Workshop (Leeds: The Henry Moore Institute, 2007). 493 For more on Moholy-Nagy’s exhibition designs, see Jennifer King, “Back to the Present: Moholy-Nagy’s Exhibition Designs,” in Moholy-Nagy: Future Present, eds. Matthew S. Witkovsky, Carol S. Eliel, and Karole P.B. Vail (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2016), 139– 50. 494 Weimar-era exhibitions designed as spatial analogues to flipping through an illustrated magazine are part of a longer history of photography exhibitions, such as Edward Steichen’s The Family of Man at The Museum of Modern Art, New York, in 1955. See Thierry Gervais, ed., The “Public” Life of Photographs (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2016); Fred Turner, The Democratic Surround: Multimedia and American Liberalism from World War II to the Psychedelic Sixties (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2013). 198 typography, 495 Tschichold featured his designs for the Soviet sections of the 1930 International Hygiene exhibition and the 1928 International Press Exhibition in Cologne, commonly known as Pressa, in an article for Commercial Art, “Display that has Dynamic Force: Exhibition Rooms designed by El Lissitzky,” published in January 1931 (Fig. 4.22– 23). 496 He praised Lissitzky’s “visual design of the exhibition space and its contents,” which incorporated “glass, mirrors, celluloid, nickel and other materials; by contrasting these new materials with wood, lacquer, textiles and photographs,” as well as type in various thicknesses, sizes, colors, and orientations. 497 The result was an exhibition space that Tschichold described as, “a sort of stage on which the visitor himself seemed to be one of the players.” 498 These examples would have demonstrated photomontage as a means of sensory immersion in exhibition design. As in the window display of a department store, the intermingling of photographic materiality with other surfaces and textures in Lissitzky’s exhibitions was intended to subsume the viewing public into these environments and therefore into the ideology they promoted. 499 At the same time, these immersive spaces cultivated visitors as active, embodied participants. In a set of notes that appears to be related to the Fotomontage typescript, Tschichold wrote that the “value [of 495 Lissitzky’s typographic work was featured heavily in Tschichold’s earliest publications on New Typography. See Jan (Iwan) Tschichold, Jan “sonderheft: elementare typographie,” Typographische Mitteilungen (1925); Tschichold, Die Neue Typographie. 496 Jan Tschichold, “Display that has Dynamic Force: Exhibition Rooms designed by El Lissitzky,” Commercial Art (January 1931): 22–26. 497 Ibid, 22. 498 Ibid. 499 Though these examples of Lissitzky’s exhibition designs were mounted as political propaganda on behalf of Soviet Russia, Tshcichold’s discussion of them (especially in the context of an article for Commercial Art) tacitly recognized the strategies of communist propaganda and commercial design as closely related, if not entirely analogous. 199 photomontage] consists in the fact that one can use it to form optical associations.” 500 Thus he sought to enumerate its seemingly limitless applications in design as demonstrations of how to see and move through the modern world. Between Reportage and Gestaltung: Franz Roh and New Typography Tschichold’s capacious concept of “new photomontage” betrayed the strong influence of Franz Roh. During his years living in Munich, Tschichold became personally and professionally acquainted with Roh as a neighbor, friend, and collaborator. 501 After they edited foto-auge together in 1929, Roh inaugurated the Fototek series on “new photography” in 1930, in which eight books were planned. They were to include thematic volumes on police photography, kitsch photography, nude photography, and sports photography as well as a monograph on El Lissitzky, including “Fotos und Typofotos.” 502 500 Tschichold, unpublished notes, page 67. Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. This phrase is repeated, almost verbatim, in Tschichold’s published article, “The Composite Photograph and its place in Advertising,” Commercial Art (December 1930): 237–49. 501 In 1926, Paul Renner invited Tschichold to teach at the newly founded Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker in Munich. According to Ruari McLean and Christopher Burke, Renner originally invited Tschichold to take the position Renner had previously held at the Frankfurt Kunstschule, but then followed up with the invitation to teach in Munich. See Ruari McLean, Jan Tschichold: A Life in Typography (London: Lund Humphries Publishers, 1997), 32; Burke, Active Literature, 53. When Tschichold moved to Munich in 1926, he and his wife Edith became neighbors with Roh while living in Munich’s Borstei housing project. Correspondence in the Jan and Edith Tschichold Papers at the Getty Research Institute indicates that the Tschichold and Roh families sustained a friendship long after the Tschicholds emigrated from Germany in 1933. See also Burke, Active Literature, 105; Inka Graeve Ingelmann, “Mechanics and Expression: Franz Roh and the New Vision—A Historical Sketch,” in Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg, eds., Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014). https://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/GraeveIngelmann.pdf. 502 Fototek advertisement. The book on kitsch photography, referred to in advertisements for Fototek as “Das Monströse” (“The Monstrous”), was to draw from the collection of Austrian journalist and collector Raoul Korty. See Ingelmann, “Mechanics and Expression: Franz Roh and the New Vision—A Historical Sketch.” 200 In 1930, the first and only two books in the series were published: monographs on László Moholy-Nagy and German photographer Aenne Biermann, both designed by Tschichold. 503 The uniformity of their covers and layouts suggests that Tschichold’s typography would have served to unify the series visually, despite its range of subject matter. Although scholars have frequently noted Tschichold’s collaborations with Roh, little attention has been paid to the ways in which the two evidently thought together about the interrelation of contemporary art, modern visual communication, and photography. A page of handwritten notes for Tschichold’s Fotomontage makes explicit reference to Roh’s ideas and ongoing discussions with Tschichold in the late 1920s about the nature of photographic representation and the relationship between fine and applied art (Fig. 4.24). In the typescript, Tschichold referenced several texts by Moholy-Nagy and Roh to be reprinted or excerpted in his own book. One such note reads: Roh on the glued photographic image extreme fantasy with extreme sobriety, freest composition with realistic imitation cubist nesting of pure illustrations Tsch: “constructivist” versus “organized” 504 Here Tschichold quoted directly from Roh’s brief discussion of photomontage in his 1925 book, Nach-Expressionismus: Magischer Realismus, Probleme der neuesten europäischen Malerei (After Expressionism: Magical Realism, Problems of Recent European Painting), which introduced the term “magical realism” to describe contemporary trends in painting 503 Moholy-Nagy, László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos; Biermann, Aenne Biermann: 60 Fotos. 504 “Roh über das Fotoklebebild / äußerste Phantastik bei äußerste Nüchternheit, / freiestes Komponieren bei Wirklichkeitsabklatsch / kubistische Schachtelung bei barem Abbild / Tsch: / ‘Konstruktivistische’ Gestaltung gegenüber ‘organizistischer’” Tschichold, Fotomontage notes, n.p. 201 (including Neue Sachlichkeit and Surrealism) and to a lesser extent, photography. 505 Perhaps Roh’s single most enduring idea about photography was that its potency as a tool of communication and means of expression inhered in its contradictions, especially its dual capacity to show objective reality and to visualize the imaginary. This idea was illustrated in Paul Citroen’s Weltstadt (Meine Geburtsstadt) (Metropolis [City of My Birth]), a collage of photographic fragments made in 1923, one of the only photographic images represented in Nach-Expressionismus (Fig. 4.25). The inclusion of Citroen’s photomontage underscored Roh’s view that the medium of photography was defined as much by its uses—including the arrangement and pasting together of fragments—as by production with a camera or in a darkroom. This was a position with which Tschichold, as a graphic designer, could easily align himself. One among many theorists of photography in Weimar Germany, Roh rejected any singular understanding of the photographic medium. He understood photography’s social and artistic relevance to reside in its inconsistency. Rather than devise a theory of medium specificity to fit his own beliefs about photographic representation, he raised questions about how a single medium could be used in so many contradictory ways. How could one devise a comprehensive theory of photography that could encompass, rather than deny, such inconsistencies? How could photography be so thoroughly elusive—often seeming to 505 “Nichts kann so deutlich die völlige Durchdringung der beiden großen Wesenheiten neuester Kunst zeigen: äußerste Phantastik bei äußerste Nüchternheit, freiestes Komponieren bei Wirklichkeitsabklatsch, kubistische Schachtelung bei barem Abbild.” Franz Roh, Nach- Expressionismus: Magischer Realismus, Probleme der neuesten europäischen Malerei [After Expressionism: Magical Realism, Problems of Recent European Painting] (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1925), 46. For an account of the interactions between Roh and Gustav Hartlaub, who coined “Neue Sachlichkeit,” and their conceptual overlap, see Christian Fuhrmeister, “Hartlaub and Roh: Cooperation and Competition in Popularizing New Objectivity,” in New Objectivity: Modern German Art in the Weimar Republic, 1919-1933, eds. Stephanie Barron and Sabine Eckmann (London: Prestel, 2015), 41–49. 202 operate according to its own logic and fixing images outside and beyond the scope of human vision—and yet be trusted as an accurate and reliable medium of reportage, a tool of journalism, medicine, and law? Roh recognized photography’s artistic value as a direct extension of its contradictions. In Moholy-Nagy’s terms, Roh understood photography to be a “reproductive” and a “productive” medium, holding these modes perpetually in tension. This dialectic became embedded in the term Typophoto in the late 1920s and early 1930s as a paradigm for verbal-visual communication under the auspices of New Typography. Roh upheld Moholy-Nagy’s photographic work as exemplary of the dialectic inherent in the photographic medium. In his introduction to 60 Fotos: László Moholy- Nagy (1930), Roh championed him as a figure of art historical importance and as an exemplar of photography’s relevance to contemporary art. According to Roh, Moholy- Nagy’s turn to working with photography was prompted by dissatisfaction with abstract painting, which failed to capture “the whole range of the human.” 506 Unlike abstract painting, he recognized in photography the possibility to satisfy “the craving for expression of what is contained in external objects.” 507 He praised Moholy-Nagy for harnessing photography’s capacity to produce new forms and to capture the essence of objects in the world, reproduced as images. 506 Roh cited Moholy-Nagy’s role as a leading figure of the Bauhaus and classified him, first and foremost, as a constructivist. Moholy-Nagy, László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos, 6. 507 Ibid. Just prior to this, Roh wrote: “Moholy’s versatility in constructive interests shows that the purism of abstract painting, frequently met with in this modern type of man, does not signify purism in the totality of life: the whole range of the human is to be preserved, yet the primary wants of existence are shunted to other districts. Thus the craving for expression of what is contained in external objects remains, but has left painting and the graphic art for the sphere of photography. Moholy considers the camera the most suitable instrument (and manually unsurpassed) to satisfy this craving for the object.” 203 Roh described photography, especially in Moholy-Nagy’s work, as mediating between two poles: the reporting of experience at one end, and pure formal experiment at the other: Experience and formation, that often had a troubled mixture yesterday, are separated more emphatically today. They are directed to their specific poles and placed in ingenious opposition to each other. The modern emphasis on problems of form on the one hand (the most liberal and unencumbered possibilities of formation), and on the other hand the keenness with which the concept of ‘reportage’ is emphasized, reportage in all fields, are characteristic. Photography is above all reporting. But between reporting and forming [Gestaltung] there is after all only a difference in degree, no absolute distinction. 508 He identified photography as a means of representing what is absolutely extrinsic to the camera (objectifying external objects as images) as well as what is intrinsic to the photographic medium (formal experiment made possible by the photographic apparatus and by the properties of photochemistry). In proposing that “there is…only a difference in degree” and not an “absolute distinction” between reportage and pure abstraction, he identified poles located at opposite ends of a spectrum of representation made possible by photography. Like Moholy-Nagy, Roh understood photographic “realism” to be predicated on, rather than undermined by, construction—choices made by photographers, including mechanical and chemical manipulations. Photography’s capacity for reporting and forming imbued the medium with its unique capacity to create reality, rather than merely re-present it. Tschichold applied Roh’s theory of photography as a more sophisticated framework for defending Typophoto in visual communication than he had initially 508 Ibid. Emphasis in italic is original to Roh’s published text. 204 proposed. He came to understand objective visual communication and propaganda not as opposites but as two poles on a spectrum of graphic representation. Although, in Die Neue Typographie (1928), he emphatically declared the photographic halftone and sans serif type as equivalently “objective” (objektive), he also acknowledged photography and typography as different modes of representation that fused in a dynamic visual contrast. 509 His notes for Fotomontage suggest that, in the years immediately following the publication of his first book, he continued to reflect on how this contrast engendered reading as an active process of optical and cognitive negotiation between photographic and typographic communication. Despite the decisive tone of Die Neue Typographie, his acknowledgement of the contrast between photography and type alluded to unresolved questions of how images and text work together—or clash—in representing and conveying information. Perhaps most importantly for New Typography, and for graphic design writ large, Roh acknowledged that Neue Sachlichkeit and surrealism were not opposite approaches to image making, but rather two sides of the same coin: an idea succinctly captured in the term “magical realism.” 510 He believed that it was in photography’s ostensible trustworthiness that possibilities for surrealist expression were latent. Tschichold came to recognize this quality of photography as well, and eventually acknowledged it as key to the medium’s efficacy as visual communication. Tschichold’s notes for Fotomontage also suggest Roh’s influence on his understanding of photomontage as a technique that encompassed a spectrum of processes, involving both manual labor and machine production, which were to be addressed directly in Tschichold’s book for Fototek. His notes include the following fragments: 509 Tschichold, The New Typography, 96. 510 Roh, Nach-Expressionismus. 205 Glued photographic image Glued image out of parts of manual graphics [Manualgraphik] Mechanical graphics [Mechanographik] 511 Here, Tschichold established a dialectical relationship between Manualgraphik (graphics made by hand) and Mechanographik (graphics produced by machine), especially in the “glued photographic image.” Again Tschichold quoted Roh, who had described photomontage as “bare, glued photographic images” (bloßen Fotoklebebilder). 512 In doing so, he called explicit attention to montage as laying bare a way of making, and by extension, a way of reading. The dialectic of manual and machine-made graphics was key to Roh’s theory about the interrelation of different kinds of paper-based contemporary art, including experimental photography, printmaking, and collage. Tschichold’s reference to the “glued photographic image” in the typescript suggests that his book would address photomontage as both process and product in art and design. He intended to discuss how visual communication, like collage, results from manually cutting, arranging, and recombining fragments to create new wholes—effectively acknowledging that graphic design is a practice of montage, and thus of making meaning, as opposed to the objective communication of information. Stückungsästhetik: New Typography’s Surrealist Underbelly In 1927, Franz Roh’s article, “Max Ernst und Die Stückungsgraphik,” appeared in Das Kunstblatt. 513 In this short text, he effectively offered a theory of images that, in the hands of Tschichold, became a way to understand “the new photomontage” as an umbrella 511 “Fotoklebebild / Klebebild aus Teilen von Manualgraphik / Mechanographik” Tschichold, Fotomontage notes, n.p. 512 Roh, Nach-Expressionismus, 45. 513 Franz Roh, “Max Ernst und die Stückungsgraphik,” Das Kunstblatt 11 (1927): 397–400. 206 term for composite image making in both art and graphic design. The article reflected Roh’s interest in the collages of Max Ernst, which he first became aware of through reproductions in two books, both published in 1922: Répétitions (Repetitions) and Les malheurs des immortels (The misfortunes of the immortals), which both featured Ernst’s prints made from collages, reproduced with poems by French surrealist Paul Éluard. 514 The article started with a discussion of Ernst’s printmaking, including Histoire Naturelle (1926), a recently published portfolio of collotype prints created from Ernst’s self- described “frottage” process. 515 Histoire Naturelle took its name from more than thirty scientific volumes published between 1749 and 1788 by Georges Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon on the propagation of animal and plant species through biological reproduction. 516 These books introduced the modern concept of sexual propagation in biology using the metaphor of graphic reproduction, aptly illustrated with a series of engravings. Roh’s discussion of Ernst’s printmaking included reproductions of two images from Les malheurs des immortels, identified in the captions simply as woodcuts, though Roh was interested in them as images that resulted from multiple processes of reproduction (Fig. 4.26). 514 Virginia Heckert has noted that it was through these publications of that Roh first discovered Ernst’s work with collage. Heckert, Franz Roh: Photography and Collage from the 1930s (New York: Ubu Gallery, 2006), n.p. 515 Roh, “Max Ernst und die Stückungsgraphik,” 400. The portfolio Histoire Naturelle was published in 1926 by the Parisian Galerie Jeanne Bucher. Ernst’s “frottage” was a process invented in 1925 of creating rubbings on paper with crayon or pencil of various found objects or textured surfaces. Ernst would add to the rubbings to create new forms, and the resulting drawings were reproduced using the collotype process, a photomechanical technique known for reproducing fine detail. Julia Drost and Werner Spies, eds., Beyond Painting: Max Ernst in the Würth Collection (Málaga: Museo Picasso Málaga; Collection Würth Künzelsau, 2008). 516 See Joel Snyder, “Making Photographs Public,” in The “Public” Life of Photographs, ed. Thierry Gervais (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2016), 17–37. 207 What began as a focused account of printmaking by Max Ernst opened onto a much larger theoretical meditation on interrelated practices of contemporary graphic art. Roh used these examples of Ernst’s surrealist prints—all of which were mechanical reproductions of works constructed by hand out of layered fragments—to introduce a contemporary phenomenon he called Stückungsästhetik (pieced-together aesthetic). This term described the visual quality of images created through any number of layered and hybrid techniques of graphic image making, which combined mechanical and manual processes. The term Stückungsgraphik (pieced-together graphics) appears only in the article’s title, referring to a sphere of graphic practices including (and combining) printmaking, collage, and photomontage. Roh identified Stückungsgraphik as a disruption of another false binary: that of Maschinenarbeit (machine work) and art. 517 Like the generous word “photography,” Stückungsgraphik encompassed both the processes and products of these techniques. Much of this short article was given over to a discussion of experimental photography, which Roh regarded as definitive proof of the interdependence of art and technology. He effectively argued that Surrealism was unbound by medium, defined instead by a collective impulse to recombine image fragments into new wholes. He dispelled the notion that creative photography was merely aberrant to a purely mechanical process, noting—as he had elsewhere—that all photographs are created through a series of human decisions. “Since a dispute has erupted lately over the function and limit of the mechanical in art,” he wrote, 518 “it must be remembered that there is a human spirit behind 517 Roh, “Max Ernst und die Stückungsgraphik,” 399. 518 The “dispute” that Roh referred to here was likely the one catalyzed by a contentious article, “Malerei und Fotografie,” by Hungarian art critic Ernst (Ernö) Kallai, which was published in 1927 in the Dutch avant-garde journal i10. Kallai, an outspoken communist who would later 208 machine work.” 519 As evidence, Roh named cameraless photography, photographs made from multiple exposures, and photomontage, as well as the Photoklebebild (glued photographic image). He described the latter as a technique of physical rearrangement that puts photographic representations into dialectical relationships: “The human hand has once more intervened in those black-and-white pages, which we call photomontage, where a completely new structure is created out of speaking segments of reality (glued photographic image).” 520 For Roh, both experimental photography and Ernst’s printmaking exemplified the expression of multiple meanings in a single image created through layered mechanical and manual techniques. Roh’s theory of Stückungsästhetik folded photomontage into a family of composite, graphic image-making practices encompassing both photography and non- photography. Under the rubric of “new photomontage,” Tschichold included not only hybrid and experimental photography, but also contemporary forms of non-photographic composite images. The typescript names many subcategories of photomontage: photo collage, photo drawing, photo painting, photo sculpture, and of course, Typophoto. However, Tschichold also identified a number of non-photographic hybrid forms under the umbrella of photomontage, including typomontage (montaged typography), Roh’s stückungsgraphik, graphikmontage (pieced-together graphics, graphic montage), and become editor of the bauhaus journal, argued forcefully against the combination of mechanical techniques and art, particularly on the grounds that photography—unlike painting—lacked facture. This prompted rebuttals by Willi Baumeister, Adolf Behne, and László Moholy-Nagy. See Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 94–103. 519 “Da heute Streit um eine Funktion und Grenze des Maschinellen in der Kunst entbrannte, muß erinnert werden, daß auch hinter Maschinenarbeit menschlicher Geist steht.” Roh, “Max Ernst und die Stückungsgraphik,” 399. 520 “Noch einmal starker hat Menschenhand in diejenigen Schwarzweißblätter eingegriffen, die wir Photomontage nennen, wo aus sprechenden Teilstücken der Wirklichkeit ein völlig neues Gebilde getürmt wird (Photoklebebild).” Ibid. 209 zeichnungsmontage (montaged drawing or illustration). 521 This capacious idea of “new photomontage” supposed that contemporary typographic and photographic practices shared an impulse toward creating hybrid images with highly associative meaning— collectively known as montage—using both mechanical and manual means of combining, layering, and stacking fragments. We cannot know precisely what “typomontage,” “graphikmontage,” and “zeichnungsmontage” referred to, or how their meanings might have differed. However, they suggest that what Tschichold had called “elemental typography” in his first book, Die Neue Typographie, could also be understood as “montage.” Consider, for example, the relationship between two abstract letterpress prints by Piet Zwart, both made in 1925, and his designs for a suite of ephemera for the Fortoliet Concrete Factory from 1926 (Fig. 4.27–28). In the abstract prints, Zwart used letterpress to layer and combine elements of varying sizes, thicknesses, and qualities, testing how these forms could be oriented and printed to maximize the use of two complementary colors. In the Fortoliet ephemera, heavier blocks of color constitute parts of letterforms and refer to physical blocks of concrete, punctuating both the company’s name and its product. The abstract prints demonstrated how the limited tools of the type case and constraints of two-color printing could be used in unlimited combinations to experiment with new possibilities of form. What began as graphikmontage clearly informed Zwart’s typomontage for Fortoliert, resulting from formal play as much as economic necessity. His designs for Netherlands Cable Works, such as a leaflet made c. 1926, similarly made use of abstract elements to construct letterforms, as well as a corporate trademark, a potential example of 521 Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 2–5. 210 zeichnungsmontage—the combination of abstract forms to create a new form imbued with symbolic value (Fig. 4.29). By emphasizing graphic design as a practice of montage, Tschichold implicitly linked the representational strategies of Dada and Surrealism to two important aspects of graphic design: semiotic play with word-image combinations, and the physical combination of fragments into new, unified wholes. The link between graphic design and Surrealism was supported by the many examples of Surrealist photomontage that Tschichold had in mind for his book. The typescript reads like a dictionary of terms for hybrid photographic practices, some of which were elaborated with schematic definitions. Sub-categories of “the new photomontage” included fotomalerei (photo painting), naming Max Ernst as an example. 522 He identified the fotoklebebild (glued photographic image) and stückungsgraphik (pieced-together graphics)—a term he attributed to Roh—as closely related. He described the latter, for which he gave the most examples, as “a new, unified image composed of old drawing parts / ernst, capeli, teige, mesens.” 523 Here he referred again to Ernst, as well as British surrealist P. Capeli, Czech constructivist Karel Teige, and Belgian surrealist Edouard Léon Théodore Mesens. Some of these terms also appear in foto-auge (1929), which is useful both in unpacking their meanings, and in speculating which examples Tschichold may have reproduced in his unrealized book. 524 The plates in foto-auge included three collages by Max Ernst, each identified as a fotomalerei. Plate 33 522 Ibid, 4. 523 “stückungsgrafik (wort von franz roh) dem fotoklebebilde verwandt (klebebild aus manualgrafik) ist eine aus alten zeichnungsteilen zusammengesetzte neue einheit.” Ibid. 524 Most plates are captioned captions that include the maker’s name or image source, along with a short description of the process by which each image was made, in all three languages, with little other information such as titles or dates. These descriptions were most likely written by Roh, given that he authored the book’s introductory essay. 211 reproduced The Massacre of the Innocents (1920), a hand-colored photograph to which Ernst applied gouache, watercolor, and ink (Fig. 4.30). Plate 43 reproduces Approaching Puberty (The Pleiades) (1921), painted in oil and gouache on paper with collaged photographic fragments (Fig. 4.31). From these examples, it is clear that fotomalerei denoted any combination of paint and photographic image—whether photographic paper acted as the main material substrate, or photographic elements were added to a painted image on a non-photographic surface. Undergirding the entire, unfinished project of Tschichold’s Fotomontage book was Roh’s theory of Stückungsästhetik: a framework for considering the relationship between technique and representation—how the physical layering of image fragments creates dialectical relationships between them. Experimental Photography as a Technique of Design One of the most notable aspects of Tschichold’s unpublished book was its intended focus on the omnipresence of experimental photographic techniques in both contemporary art and graphic design. Among the many photography-based techniques named in the outline under the rubric of “new photomontage” were darkroom techniques that had, in the 1920s, become emblematic of New Vision: photo-composition, also known as photo-combination, created using purely photographic means (copying several recordings on a plate: photogram, etc.), instead of scissors and glue, as a meaningful superimposition and penetrating fixing of light. 525 Tschichold referred here to darkroom experiments with printing multiple exposures on the same print, known as combination printing, as well as camera-less photography, a practice 525 “fotokomposition auch fotokombination genannt, schafft statt mit schere und klebestoff mit rein fotografischen mitteln (übereinanderkopieren mehrerer aufnahmen auf einer platte, fotogramm usw.) ein als gestaltung sinnvolles über- und nebeneinander verschiedener lichtfixierungen, durchdringungen.” Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 4. 212 of exposing photo-sensitive paper directly to a controlled light source in order to record the shapes of objects passed between the paper and light source, creating images known as photograms. He noted these techniques as “purely photographic,” in contradistinction to the cut-and-paste process of photomontage, yet at the same time identified them as interrelated. Tschichold’s outline for Fotomontage points to a broader fascination with photographic materiality in Weimar culture. By referring to the action and “fixing of light” as “purely photographic means” of image making, Tschichold considered how photography could produce images unique to its own procedures, both technological and chemical. Due to its scientific applications in the late nineteenth century, cameraless photography held particular fascination for artists working in Weimar Germany. 526 Images made from the direct fixing of light on photographic emulsion were imbued with the capacity to make the invisible visible to the human eye using a technique and visual language unique to photography. Artists such as Moholy-Nagy, Lissitzky, Christian Schad, and Man Ray experimented with light as a material that could fix motion, register facture, and generate novel, abstract forms. If the photographic medium in general connoted a modern way of seeing, cameraless photography enabled the beholder to see through opaque surfaces, as though replicating the penetrating action of light itself. The Fotomontage typescript named Moholy-Nagy and Lissitzky as examples in the category of “photo-composition,” referring specifically to Lissitzky’s “self-portrait,” a 526 Most notably, the advent of radiography in 1895 by Wilhelm Röntgen established the X-ray photograph as a tool of medical science. Lisa Cartwright, Screening the Body: Tracing Medicine’s Visual Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1995), 107–42. For more on Moholy- Nagy’s interest in cameraless photography, see Herbert Molderings, “Light Years of a Life: The Photogram in the Aesthetic of Lázsló Moholy-Nagy,” in Moholy-Nagy: The Photograms, eds. Renate Heyne and Hattula Moholy-Nagy (Stuttgart: Hatje Cantz, 2009), 15–25. 213 combination print also known as The Constructor, made in 1924, which also graced the cover of foto-auge (Fig. 4.7). Next to Moholy-Nagy’s name, Tschichold indicated an example with the placeholder “zeissfotogramm.” 527 Though it is unclear precisely what this note means, “zeiss” likely referred to Zeiss AG, a German manufacturer of optical instruments including camera lenses, spectacles, microscopes, and telescopes, founded by Carl Zeiss in 1846 and headquartered in Jena. On a trip to Jena with Walter Gropius and a group of Bauhaus students in 1925, Moholy-Nagy visited the Sternentheater (now known as Zeiss Planetarium), which was then under construction and opened in 1926 as the world’s first permanent planetarium. 528 In his 1929 book Von Material zu Architektur, Moholy-Nagy included a photograph of the geodesic steel dome of the planetarium in Jena, seen from below with construction workers appearing the float in midair (Fig. 4.32). Not only did Moholy-Nagy’s encounter with Zeiss Planetarium clearly impact his thinking about new possibilities of architectural construction, it may also have informed his experiments with the representation of cosmic space in his photograms. Tschichold may have had in mind one in which a celestial sphere appears suspended in a black void, untethered by gravity and floating through space (Fig. 4.33). Another photogram he may have been referring to was reproduced as plate 7 in 60 Fotos: László Moholy-Nagy (1930) with the caption, “Lightning running through astral gleam” (Fig. 4.34). 529 Tschichold’s discussion of experimental photography in Fotomontage would by no means have been his first. The outline for Fotomontage culminated nearly a decade of writing about and collecting examples of art and design that incorporated combination 527 Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 4. 528 William Firebrace, Star Theatre: The Story of the Planetarium (London: Reaktion, 2017), 79– 81. 529 Moholy-Nagy. László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos, plate 7. 214 prints, negative prints, and photograms, as well as photomontage. In an article for the British journal Commercial Art published in December of 1930, likely written around the same time he outlined the book for Fototek, Tschichold defended “composite photography”—which he used as an umbrella term that included photograms, multiple- exposures, and photomontage—in commercial graphic design. 530 He described successful uses of composite photography in advertising as a technique not intended to fool the eye of the beholder, but rather as one that “enables us to build up optical associations.” 531 Experimental photography held far more value in commercial design as a visual stimulus in the minds of readers than as a mere tool of representation. Die Neue Typographie included a brief discussion of the photogram, attributing its advent “as an art form” to Man Ray. 532 It also included two examples of photograms in advertising: a 1924 advertisement by Lissitzky for Pelikan Ink and an insert by Piet Zwart for Nederlandsche Kabelfabriek (Netherlands Cable Works), made c. 1925, advertising paper insulation for high-tension cables (Fig. 4.35–37). These examples represent two important ways that graphic designers used the photogram in the 1920s: as a technique for using light as typographic material and as a means of illustrating the materiality of a particular product for sale. Lissitzky’s Pelikan advertisement used stencils and an ink pen and bottle—presumably Pelikan’s own products—as props to create an advertisement made from the action of light and shadow on sensitized paper. 533 Zwart’s advertisement 530 Jan Tschichold, “The Composite Photograph and its place in Advertising,” 237–49. 531 Ibid, 248. 532 However, he also noted that the “simple technique is not new: photograms of flowers, for example, made by simply laying the object on photographic paper, have been known for a long time.” Tschichold, The New Typography, 91. 533 Due to its light background, the final advertisement for Pelikan appears to be a contact print made from the original photogram. 215 includes a photogram that registers the fineness of paper insulation, so thin that it appears nearly translucent, in contrast to the opaque metal cable, which appears solidly bright white. The vertical form of the cable echoes the elongated stems of two “H”s that appear to cast shadows in the form of horizontal lines of text. Both designs use the photogram as a technique to synthesize word and image, suggesting a kind of reversal of other iterations of Typophoto: they show how photographic material could be used to create typographic form, just as typographic material (dot patterns in ink) could be used to create photographic form (the halftone). In its distillation of photography down to its most fundamental meaning—writing with light—the photogram was a means of demonstrating how photography could not only complement typography but actually produce it. Lissitzky used his work for Pelikan to further experiment with the technique as a means of graphic composition, and Moholy- Nagy created a photogram as a cover design proposal for the fourth issue of the American avant-garde journal Broom (Fig. 4.38). In 1931, Moholy-Nagy included a contact print made from one of a series of photograms on the cover of Foto-Qualität, a special issue of the German graphic design journal Qualität (Fig. 4.39). 534 These examples underscore the positive-negative reversal of photographic chemistry as a corollary to the reversal of letterforms on the bed of a press. They call attention not only to the process of photography as a means of constructing typographic composition, but also to the ways in which all typography is physically constructed, whether on a letterpress or light table. 534 Qualität was founded and art directed by German graphic designer Carl Ernst Hinkefuss. Chapter 5 of this dissertation discusses the collaboration of Hinkefuss with Wilhelm Deffke to produce one of the first treatises on trademark design, released in 1917. 216 Tschichold himself made a series of photograms for a proposal to Insel Verlag for the cover of the Leipzig publisher’s 1929 annual, which was never put into production (Fig. 4.40–41). He used cameraless photography to create an image of a book as well as the publisher’s trademark, name, and date, using stencils. These prints evidence Tschichold’s trial-and-error process of using light to record the tactility of the book as an object. These images literalize Tschichold’s idea that book design must evolve to include photography by rendering the book itself as photographic material. Evidently, photographic techniques had not only influenced Tschichold’s idea of illustration in modern graphic design, but also his recognition of Typophoto as a way to understand typography and photography as materially intertwined, and even interchangeable. Typophoto in Three Dimensions In Die Neue Typographie, Tschichold had discussed color as a key element of New Typography, and in the Fotomontage typescript he explicitly included it as part of the definition of Typophoto. The term first appears in a two-part definition of photomontage: II. photomontage text = typophoto photomontage and color 535 Color is an element that would certainly have illuminated the link between Dada and Surrealism and New Typography that Tschichold intended to draw in Fotomontage. Looking at commercial work by the New Typographers, such a link is easy to imagine, especially in deciphering what work color does in their designs. A 1926 advertising insert by Max Burchartz and Johannes Canis for Orion vacuum cleaners, for example, features two women peering into a schematically rendered room, loosely suggested by a plane of 535 “II. fotomontage schrift = typofoto / fotomontage und farbe” Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 2. 217 red ink that loosely frames the scene (Fig. 4.42). They appear in the midst of conversation; advertising copy animates their expositional exchange about the health and economic benefits of an electrical vacuum cleaner and where to purchase it. There is a clear distinction between the space of reality—the photographic depiction of the two women, who act as surrogates for potential consumers—and that of fantasy, connoted by the color planes that constitute the vaguely articulated architectural space. The red color blocks highlight each photographic fragment as a different type of illustration: the two women represent reality in the present, while the boisterous crowd represents the excitement and desire we are meant to feel as consumers, and the vacuum represents the object of desire— a future reality. Within a single design, photography’s contradictions are laid bare through montage, and color signals the juxtaposition of fantasy and reality. The supernatural effect that Tschichold ascribed to the combination of photographic with type, abstract elements of color, and the white substrate of the page was especially useful in designs featuring intangible phenomena that resisted illustration. Consider, for example, covers by German designer Walter Cyliax for the journal Die Elektrizität, published between 1928 and 1930 (Fig. 3.43). In each of these designs, Cyliax animated the elusive phenomenon of electricity using montage, combining photographic fragments with text and other graphics printed in a single, striking color. Rather than function as straightforward illustrations, each cover focuses on a particular use of electricity—such as powering a refrigerator or incubating chicks on a farm—through designs presented to the beholder as visual puzzles. Reading these designs begins as an attempt to decode their meanings. Yet their visual potency lies in their resistance to being easily interpreted. Instead, visual dissonance between the illusionism of photography and 218 the synthetic quality of typography and colorful graphic elements creates a destabilizing effect. These deigns might evoke excitement about the many uses of electricity or dread for an increasingly mechanized world. They provide visual and affective stimulus from which the beholder must construct meaning. Typophoto appears again on the third typed page of the Fotomontage typescript, along with references to several examples: photomontage (general term) is the assembled form-production [gestaltende einbau] of one or more photographs, or parts of photographs, on a surface regardless [of] whether it is partially or completely covered. the quality of the work depends first and foremost on the power of form-production [gestaltugskraft] of the author, 536 secondarily on the quality of the photos used. when typography is added to photomontage, it is called typophoto. examples: burchartz, bochumer verein tschichold, bellisana bad typography with bare photos good typography with bare photos (bayer) calendar for franzsche book publisher (counter-example) 537 Tschichold indicated that Typophoto results “when typography is added to photomontage.” His examples of “good” Typophoto include a prospectus design by Burchartz and Canis for the Bochumer Verein, a touchstone for New Typography in Tschichold’s publications (Fig. 4.44). 538 This montaged prospectus depicts an amalgam of 536 My translations of “gestaltende einbau” and “gestaltungskraft” are again informed by Detlef Mertins and Michael W. Jennings’s translation of Gestaltung as “form-production.” See Mertins and Jennings, “Introduction: The G-Group and the European Avant-Garde,” 5. 537 “fotomontage (oberbegriff) / ist der gestaltende einbau eines oder mehrer fotos oder fototeile in eine fläche, gleichviel, ob diese davon nur teilweise oder ganz bedeck wird. die qualität der arbeit hängt in erster linie von der gestaltungskraft des urhebers ab, erst in zweiter linie von der qualität der verwendeten fotos. / beispiele: / burchartz, bochumer verein / tschichold, bellisana / schlechte typographie mit blossen fotos / gute typographie mit blossen fotos (bayer) / kalender franzsche buchdruckerei (gegenbeispiel)” Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 4. 538 Burchartz and Canis founded the Bochum-based commercial concern, known as werbe-bau, in 1925. The Bochumer Verein für Bergbau und Gussstahlfabrikation quickly became one of the werbe-bau’s most important clients. This image was reproduced in Die Neue Typographie (1928) and Eine Stunde Druckgestaltung [One Hour of Design for Print] (Stuttgart: Dr. Fritz Wedekind & Co., 1930). 219 machine parts arranged asymmetrically on the page with the company’s trademark printed in black in the upper left corner. It showcases no fewer than seven different products of the Bochumer Verein that overlap and appear to float dynamically in undefined space against a gray background. Burchartz and Canis used the disparate scale of the photographic fragments to simulate the regression of deep space—not for the purpose of realistic illusion, but to draw the reader’s eye deliberately around the page. The centripetal arrangement of the fragments frames a bolt of red ink at the center, against which the manufacturer’s name appears in white. Color creates not only visual contrast between text and image but also a tension between the three-dimensional space of photography with two-dimensional typographic space. The emphasis on color and photomontage in Tschichold’s revised definition of Typophoto was part of an evolving approach to New Typography as not only a set of principles for creating typographic form, but as a corresponding framework for their reception. This approach responded to a cacophony of ideas from the fields of graphic design and advertising about the relationship between form and cognition, and how that relationship could be optimized. Many graphic designers came to understand form not solely as the purview of the designer, but as something co-created by beholders through perception. In 1926, Hermann Frenzel, editor of the prominent German graphic design journal Gebrauchsgraphik, remarked on the importance of color to the design of a business prospectus: “the universal joy in color lures the beholder to examine the object more exhaustively.” 539 Frenzel set up the primacy of the relationship between beholder and form, insinuating that the graphic designer’s primary task was to activate that 539 Hermann Frenzel, “Der Prospekt,” Gebrauchsgraphik 3, no. 6 (June 1926): 4. 220 relationship. He noted that the business prospectus—a type of printed commercial ephemera that was widely recognized by commercial designers as key to the success of heavy industry—had to do the work of advertising while also conveying detailed, technical information to a specialist clientele of factory owners. He remarked that the prospectus must “be full of charm and interesting,” while also balancing “the right harmonious accord of art and practical purpose.” 540 According to Frenzel, “universal joy,” induced in the beholder through color, was as important to the function of the industrial business prospectus as the accurate illustration of machine parts. Close consideration of color as an abstract, graphic element in New Typography betrays the often-murky distinction between decorative and utilitarian graphic forms. Despite its functionalist rhetoric, I contend that New Typography was not a wholesale rejection of typographic ornament. 541 Its practitioners were deeply invested in instilling abstract, decorative elements with optical, cognitive, and affective purpose—an ambition that corresponded to the international maturation of graphic design between the wars. In 1929, German graphic designer Egon Juda penned an article, “Typography in German 540 Ibid, 8. 541 I follow Alina Payne and Jeffrey Meikle in critically reexamining “functionalist” design. Payne has reframed the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century shift from ornamental architecture toward the anti-decorative ethos of European modernism as part of a longer history of ornament. Rather than accept that modernists broke from tradition by stripping architecture of ornament in favor of austere, purely “functional” facades and surfaces, she has argued that the discursive purpose that had once belonged to architectural ornament was transferred into objects of daily use. I contend that New Typography likewise continued to use typographic ornament, rather than making a clean break from the decorative typography of the nineteenth century. See Alina Payne, From Ornament to Object: Genealogies of Architectural Modernism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012). Jeffrey Meikle has studied 1930s American industrial design and the rise of what was frequently referred to as a “streamlined” aesthetic as a “means of extending rational control” over consumers. In an effort to associate household objects with utopianism and optimism about the future, he argues that they were marketed to consumers as “streamlined,” and thus more functional, after the Great Depression. Jeffrey L. Meikle, Twentieth Century Limited: Industrial Design in America, 1925-1939, Second edition (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001). 221 Advertising,” in the British journal Commercial Art. In an unusual move for an adherent of New Typography, Juda pointed out the use of abstract graphic elements as “ornamental” signifiers of “revolutionary tendencies,” referring to New Typography’s association with international constructivism. He claimed that the use of these elements in New Typography “came originally from an emphasizing of the technical side of typography, of the work itself. Thus we find that what ornamentation there is, is derived from the typographer’s matter—from rules, quadrats, points, etc.” 542 In other words, the New Typographers used abstract graphic elements, such as vertical rules or abstract halftone patterns, as emblems of the labor involved in typesetting and printing. By illuminating the contradictions of a so-called functionalist design movement that used decoration to express its identity, Juda explicitly described abstract graphic elements used in New Typography as “ornamental” and “decorative”: This manifestation of German typography, realistic as it claims to be, is in the last resort ornamental, and is distinguished from conventional styles only in so far as it derives its decorative forms from the contents of the letter-case and disclaims all other ornament. 543 At the article’s conclusion, Juda abandoned the critical tone that had infused his earlier comments; he claimed that, “symmetry, balance, and order will frequently have to give way to the principle of ‘catching-the-eye,’” and insisted that the diagonal arrangement of type yielded the “highest possible degree of legibility.” 544 Juda’s assessment of particular abstract elements can also extend to a number of New Typography’s core tropes—including asymmetrical layout, diagonal orientation, use 542 Egon Juda, “Typography in German Advertising,” Commercial Art (December 1929): 258. 543 Ibid, 260. 544 Ibid, 262. 222 of color, and not least, photographic illustration—best understood both as “functional” devices intended to catch the beholder’s eye and as signifiers of ideological affinity. As Robin Kinross has noted, Tschichold’s “arguments may employ the terms of use, need, and function, but they are deeply and explicitly infused with the idea that form must be created and that it must be the form of a new age.” 545 More than simply a formula for optimal legibility, the so-called “functionalism” of New Typography—like its architectural counterparts—manifested as a visual idiom, which fetishized technology and industrial production, and combined abstract and representational forms through montage. 546 Moreover, this visual idiom married the tropes of international constructivism with trends in the field of advertising—a fact that provoked the criticism of an anonymous reviewer for the journal bauhaus, accusing Tschichold of appropriating constructivism as merely a formalist approach to commercial design. 547 The full suite of werbe-bau prospectus designs for the Bochumer Verein, from which Tschichold sourced this oft-cited example, shows how Burchartz and Canis used color to mediate between the flat plane of the page and the three-dimensional space represented in photographic fragments (Fig. 4.45). This suite consists of five unbound leaflets, each folded and collated in a cardstock folder. Each was printed in two ink colors: black as well as blue, orange, green, yellow or magenta. The outer folder is coated in shiny silver ink, a dazzling reminder of the gleaming steel of machine parts manufactured by the Bochumer Verein. The blocks of color create a sense of spatial depth, appearing as 545 Robin Kinross, “Introduction,” in The New Typography, xxii. 546 For a thorough discussion of the fetishization of technology in design associated with New Typography, see Maud Lavin, Clean New World: Cultural Politics and Graphic Design (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001). 547 Unattributed, “jan tschichold: die neue typographie,” bauhaus 3.2 (1929): 28. 223 solid planes suspended behind, and parallel to, the surface of the page. Machine parts appear to hover above the page, protruding toward the reader from these furthermost color planes. The visual effects of these graphic experiments were related to another realm of activity that was integral to the aesthetic of New Typography: the design of illuminated advertisements and retail signage for installation on building facades and electrically-lit advertising columns known as Litfaßsäulen. 548 Designs for illuminated advertisements and storefront signs by German artist and designer Walter Dexel exemplify the translation of New Typographic principles into three dimensions (Fig. 4.46). 549 Dexel saw the careful arrangement of color planes as crucial to commercial design, explaining that “economical” and “correctly chosen color” emphasizes information and “really does the job of catching the eye.” 550 The thoughtful application of color, he claimed, was necessary in order to 548 These were sometimes also referred to in German as Lichtsäulen. The term Litfaßsäulen came from Ernst Litfaß, who invented the first freestanding columns for advertising posters in Berlin in 1855. See Sandra Uhrig, “Werbund im Stadtbild,” in Die Kunst zu werben. Das Jahrhundert der Reklame, ed. Susanne Bäumler (Munich: Münchner Stadtmuseum/Dumont, 1996), 52-56. See also Janet Ward, Weimar Surfaces: Urban Visual Culture in 1920s Germany. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001, 92–95. 549 Das Neue Frankfurt, a journal dedicated to the international exchange of new ideas in architecture, education, and city planning, was founded in 1926 by architect and city planner Ernst May in conjunction with the municipal housing project of the same name. It was an important platform for members of the association of commercial graphic designers known as the ring neue werbegestalter (ring of new advertising designers), and other adherents to New Typography, including Willi Baumeister, Max Burchartz, Walter Dexel, Hans Leistikow, Grete Leistikow, and Paul Renner. The journal showcased their work both in the design of the publication itself and as the subject of articles on exhibition design and advertising. 550 “Sparsam verwendete Farbe hebt die Hauptpunkte der Mitteilung hervor, aber nur die jeweils gut und richtig gewählte Farbe erfüllt ihren Zweck und übernimmt wirklich die Aufgabe des Blickfanges.” Walter Dexel, “Reklame im Stadtbilde,” Das Neue Frankfurt 1, no. 3 (1926–27): 46. His reference to “correctly chosen color” betrays the influence of De Stijl architecture, especially the designs of Dutch architect J. J. P. Oud, which Dexel cited in the same article. According to De Stijl principles, modern expression in art and design should employ pure abstraction, namely straight lines, square and rectangular forms, and primary colors. See Michael White, De Stijl and Dutch Modernism (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003). 224 instantly convey information, thereby capturing the attention of typical urbanites who tried to ignore the distraction of advertising as they rushed through the cityscape. Despite Dexel’s rather pragmatic description of the “economical” use of color in his designs, they nevertheless made use of dazzling optical effects. His signage consisted of interlocking color planes that appeared differently from every angle, as evidenced in a sketch from 1926 and an extant replica of one of his designs from the same year installed in the city of Jena (Fig. 4.47–48). Rather than treat signage as inert structures or surfaces seen properly from a single viewpoint, Dexel created dynamic spatial constructions out of inert color planes that appeared to shift and change with the bodily movement of passersby. The signs consisted of geometric forms built up in the mind, seen from many angles in varying sequences, creating a dynamic interplay of color and form that played like a mental filmstrip. The illumination of these signs heightened this effect, making blocks of color appear to float in space, especially when lit against a dark night sky. 551 Like the werbe-bau prospectus designs, there was a dynamic tension in Dexel’s illuminated signage between two- and three-dimensional forms, which was activated through perception. While Burchartz and Canis achieved this tension by juxtaposing photographic fragments against color planes, Dexel did so by enhancing color with the basic material of photography—controlled light—in his illuminated signage. In the werbe-bau prospectus designs, color tempers the contrast between the flatness of typography and the dimensionality of photography. However, this mediation 551 Moholy-Nagy observed this visual effect in painting: “Experiments with painting on highly polished black panels…produce strange optical effects: it looks as though the colour were floating almost without material effect in a space in front of the plane to which it is in fact applied.” László Moholy-Nagy, Painting Photography Film, trans. Janet Seligman (London: Lund Humphries, 1969 [1925]), 25. Emphasis in bold is original. 225 between two- and three-dimensional representation is unresolved, its effect ambiguous. It is unclear whether color creates a sense of order and cohesion in these designs, as Tschichold would argue, or whether it in fact has the opposite effect, introducing visual chaos into the designs. Color sometimes appears as a conduit, and sometimes a disruption, between typographic and photographic elements. It holds photographic and typographic elements together visually, but just barely, anchoring photographic fragments that look like they might otherwise fly off the page entirely. Color enhances our sense of beholding a fantasy—as destabilizing as it is intriguing. Despite the rhetoric of Sachlichkeit in the promotion of New Typography, its visual tropes tended to produce “effects that touch the imagination and give you a thrill of sheer surprise,” as one commentator put it in 1930. 552 In exchange for realism, such a design elicits sensation, but one person’s fantasy of a technologized future might read as another’s nightmare. Likewise, one person’s favorite color is the next person’s least, but the design is predicated on the idea that both readers are likely to pay attention. Rather than guaranteeing exactly what affective response the design might evoke, color facilitates the movement of the eye through the constructed space of the page, underlining and highlighting pieces of text. It keeps the eye moving in an effort to keep it from wandering aimlessly, or from dwelling too long on one particular photographic detail. 553 The exuberant colors in each design for the Bochumer Verein visualized the “joy” and “charm” that Frenzel had called for in a business prospectus. Color served to 552 John Harrison, “What the Camera can do for you: The New Photography enters the field,” Commercial Art (June 1930): 257. 553 As discussed in Chapter 2, the strategic use of color in graphic design to control eye movement and arrest the reader’s attention was a dominant subject of applied psychology in the 1920s and 1930s. 226 humanize these assemblages of machine parts. This was necessary because the products of industry are represented here through industrial processes, twice over—mediated by the medium of photography and then reproduced as halftones. Photomontage renders the gleaming metallic forms visible from multiple points of view simultaneously. They are magnified, detached, and abstracted—shot through with technology fetishism. Industrial production is glorified in these designs through formal play, overtly presenting industrial manufacture as the product of fantasy and desire, rather than of human labor. The photographs of machines produced at the Bochumer Verein, which Burchartz and Canis used as source material, were made by Ernst Topp (Fig. 4.49). 554 The visual and conceptual transformation of these images through photomontage is evident by comparison. Topp’s photographs show turbines, cranks, wheels, and sprockets as inert and impossibly massive on the factory floor, dwarfing workers who stand beside them. Yet in the werbe-bau designs, machine parts appear to glide weightlessly through undefined space, untethered by the laws of gravity or physics. The arrangement of photographic halftone fragments against irregularly shaped color blocks evokes the kineticism of machine parts and suggests our own dynamic, shifting point of view as a beholder in unfixed space. Like typography and the Bochumer Verein trademark, these machines seem to lack mass or permanent attachment to any fixed plane. Montage’s effect is to fully divorce the prospectuses from the conditions of production at the Bochumer Verein. In these designs, technology is presented as dynamic, exhilarating, and even whimsical— floating high above the hazards and filth of the factory floor. 554 Ernst Topp worked as the primary in-house photographer of the Bochumer Verein from 1922 until his death in 1932. Ralf Stremmel, Industrie und Fotografie: Der Bochumer Verein für Bergbau und Gussstahlfabrikation. 1854-1926 (Münster: Aschendorff Verlag, 2017). 227 The true subject of these designs is not the manufacture of machine parts by the Bochumer Verein, but rather photomontage itself. Like the abstract elements described by Egon Juda, photomontage symbolized a utopian belief propagated by the New Typographers—and undoubtedly shared by the German steel manufacturer—that technology would help build a prosperous future. The werbe-bau’s use of photomontage is emblematic of what American historian Leo Marx later called the “technological sublime,” describing the glorification of technology as a visual motif. 555 Color breathes a different kind of life into these graphic constructions, contrasting sharply with the relentlessly mechanical character of the montaged halftones. Despite the anti-decorative dogma of New Typography, both color elements and halftone fragments demonstrate an important paradox of this doctrine: in order to be clear, legible, and memorable—that is, in order to be “functional”—a commercial design must combine the “joy” and “charm” of abstract visual elements with image fragments that operate as connotative, rather than denotative, signifiers of unfixed meaning. Gefesselter Blick and Reading as Optical Construction As Tschichold began outlining his book on photomontage in 1930, German architects, industrial designers, and brothers Heinz and Bodo Rasch, were at work organizing Gefesselter Blick (The Bound Glance). Sponsored by the Graphischer Klub Stuttgart, a local association of printers, typographers, and designers, this exhibition was 555 Leo Marx, The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1964). See also, Jeffrey L. Meikle, “Ghosts in the Machine: Why It's Hard to Write about Design,” Technology and Culture 46, no. 2 (April 2005): 385–92. I am grateful to Amy Ogata for helping me thinking through the pertinence of Leo Marx’s idea of the “technological sublime” to Weimar-era “functionalist” design. 228 on view at the Gustav-Siegle-Haus for only four days: from February 8 – 11, 1930. 556 The exhibition was apparently a pretext to publish a book by the same title, which has endured as the definitive compendium of work by members of the ring neuer werbegestalter (ring of new advertising designers), a loose association of Dutch and German graphic designers associated with New Typography. 557 Initiated by German artist and graphic designer Kurt Schwitters in 1928 the ring communicated with members through a series of circular letters that solicited samples of their work for promotion through various public exhibitions and also suggested Schwitters’s intent to publish a compendium similar to Gefesselter Blick. 558 Heinz and Bodo Rasch’s book contains illustrated textual contributions by twenty- six designers and artists, including Tschichold and Moholy-Nagy, as well as by Willi Baumeister, Max Burchartz, Johannes Canis, Walter Dexel, and César Domela- 556 According to the recollection of Heinz Rasch in 1989, Willi Baumeister had originally been charged with designing the book, but he had recently accepted a professorship at the Frankfurter Kunstgewerbeschule and declined. Roland Nachtigäller notes that it was likely through Baumeister’s close friendship with the Rasch brothers that they came to edit and design the publication. Contributions for the book were solicited at least as early as September of 1929. Roland Nachtigäller, “Mit Scharfem Auge zum Gefesselter Blick: Die Bruder Rasch und die konstruktivistische Typographie der 1920er-Jahre,” in Rasch Rasch: der entfesselte Blick: die Brüder Rasch und ihre Impulse für die moderne Architektur, ed. Marta Herford (Tübingen: Wasmuth, 2014), 93–94. 557 The ring’s membership also included Willi Baumeister, Walter Dexel, Hans Leistikow, Robert Michel, Paul Schuitema, Georg Trump, Friedrich Vordemberge-Gildewart, and Piet Zwart. A slate of exhibitions in Germany and the Netherlands showcased their work between the ring’s founding in 1928 and dissolution by 1932. Getty Research Institute, Piet Zwart letters received, 1928-1946. Roland Nachtigäller has noted that Schwitters also invited Theo van Doesburg, who declined to join the ring, as well as to Werner Graeff, John Heartfield, Johannes Molzahn, and Hans Richter, none of whom responded to the invitation. Ibid, 93. 558 Letters circulated to members of the ring neue werbegestalter are located in various collections at the Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles, including Piet Zwart letters received; Bauhaus typography collection; and Walter Dexel letters received. 229 Nieuwenhuis. 559 Each contributor received a letter from Heinz Rasch soliciting his age, education, examples of his work, and a response to a broad query: The book is structured such that each artist will be represented with 2-4 pages for his examples and a right-hand title page, including his name, and dates printed smaller underneath, and his answer to the following survey: Which principles do you follow in the formation of your typography, or do you actually have principles in mind? 560 General though this brief was, it was intended to focus responses on the subject of graphic design. Arranged in alphabetical order by designers’ last names, the entries comprised a directory of expertise in the field. Gefesselter Blick proposed experimental uses of photography as essential to modern design, thereby offering an alternative definition of New Typography to the one offered by Tschichold in his first book, and more in keeping with the thesis of his unfinished book on photomontage. Most of the contributors to Gefesselter Blick submitted short responses on general principles of typography, as instructed. However, Rasch’s letter also acknowledged “the diversity of the assembled materials” in the book, acknowledging that its contributors were not strictly limited to members of the ring, nor even to practicing 559 The full list of contributors to Gefesselter Blick is as follows: Otto Baumberger, Willi Baumeister, Max Bill, Max Burchartz, Johannes Canis, Walter Cyliax, Walter Dexel, César Domela-Nieuwenhuis, Hermann Elias, Werner Graeff, John Heartfield, Franz Krause, Hans and Grete Leistikow, El Lissitzky, Robert Michel, László Moholy-Nagy, Heinz and Bodo Rasch, Hans Richter, Paul Schuitema, Kurt Schwitters, Mart Stam, Karel Teige, Georg Trump, Jan Tschichold, Friedrich Vordemberge-Gildewart, and Piet Zwart. Heinz Rasch and Bodo Rasch, eds., Gefesselter Blick (Stuttgart: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Dr. Zaugg & Co., 1930), 4. All translations of quotations from Gefesselter Blick are my own. 560 “Das Buch ist so aufgebaut, das jeder darin vertretenen Künstler 2-4 Seiten für seine Beispiele bekommt und eine rechte Titelseite, auf der sein Name, darunter klein seine Daten und ferner die Beantworten der Rundfrage: ‘Welchen Prinzipen verfolgen Sie bei der Gestaltung Ihrer Typografien bezw. haben Sie überhaupt Prinzipen dabei?’ steht.” This form letter was sent to Dutch designer Piet Zwart and is likely a good indicator of the initial solicitation sent to each contributor. Heinz Rasch, letter to Piet Zwart, January 29, 1930. Box 1, Folder 2, Piet Zwart letters received, 1928-1946, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 230 designers. 561 While this book is, on the surface, a compendium about modernist graphic design, its deeper import is as a collective theory of modern perception and photography’s role in mass media to engender active reading. Photography is reproduced and described throughout as a medium that necessitates new modes of perception in printed matter. The book’s title established the pursuit of visual attention as graphic design’s central challenge. In keeping with its emphasis on perception, I suggest an alternative translation of the book’s title than has previously been published. 562 Gefesselter Blick is typically translated in English as either The Captured Glance or The Captured Gaze, and has also appeared as The Bound Gaze. I offer my own translation, The Bound Glance, to emphasize the title’s paradoxical meaning. The word “bound” connotes not only the idea of catching one’s eye or attention, but also of holding, restraining, or binding—a sustained, and more physically aggressive, and even violent, action. “Glance,” by contrast, connotes the fugitivity of an inadvertent look, as when one glances at an advertisement in passing. As the Rasch brothers described in their introduction, a glance must be actively arrested in order to ensure that an advertisement is actually seen. These connotations address the particular difficulty of commercial design, which has to combat the beholder’s resistance to even seeing, let alone reading, an advertisement. The opening sentence of Heinz and Bodo Rasch’s introduction to Gefesselter Blick succinctly established visual perception as the book’s framing concern: “The means of 561 “Bei der Verschiedenartigkeit des zusammenkommen Materials hat sich als wichtig für die schnellere Erfassung durch den Leser herausgestellt, zu wissen, ob der Künstler Maler, Architekt, Drucker oder Buchgewerber ist und welcher Generation er angehört.” (Due to the diversity of the assembled materials, it is important that the reader can quickly apprehend whether each artist is a painter, architect, printer, or book maker, and to which generation he belongs.) Ibid. 562 I am grateful to Virginia Heckert for pointing out the multiple meanings embedded in the word “gefesselt,” which helped me arrive at a more nuanced translation of this title. 231 communicating anything through the human visual sensorium is image and text.” 563 In unpacking how word and image are perceived and apprehended, they borrowed German Enlightenment philosopher Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s concept of the fundamental difference between the verbal and the visual: whereas words describe “events” or “functions” (which occur in time), images represent static “conditions” or “objects” (which exist in space). 564 Importantly, Heinz and Bodo Rasch subtly converted what had, for Lessing, been an argument about mimesis into one about mass communication. They did so in order to tease out a central dilemma of commercial design—that is, how different forms of representation could support the interrelation of advertising copy and illustration toward the goal of eliciting consumer desire. The Rasch brothers framed modern graphic design as a practice that had the potential to resolve the fundamental tension between verbal and visual representation. Advertising, they claimed, surpassed the limitations of both as a superior, hybrid medium of communication. A promotional brochure for Gefesselter Blick declared this in tactile terms: “Commercial graphics is a completely exceptional form of communication, namely a fusion [Verschmelzung] of image and word.” 565 The idea of image and word merging into a new, unified entity was illustrated in the brochure by a design by German architect, 563 “Die Mittel, um über das Sehorgan des Menschen etwas mitzuteilen, sind Bild und Schrift.” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 4. 564 The Rasch brothers drew from Lessing’s Laocoön: An Essay on the Limits of Painting and Poetry, originally published in 1766 as Laokoön oder Über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie, which posed the anti-classical argument that poetry and painting were distinct modes of representation thus could not be modeled after each other. They summarized Lessing’s argument as follows: “Lessing bereits hat dem Sinn nach schon erfaßt, daß demnach es sich bei der Schrift rein um Wiedergabe von Funktionen bei dem Bild rein um Wiedergabe von Objekten dreht.” Ibid. 565 “Werbegraphik ist eine ganz besondere Form der Mitteilung, nämlich eine Verschmelzung von Bild und Wort.” Promotional brochure for Gefesselter Blick, c. 1930. Box 4, Folder 13, Bauhaus typography collection, 1919-1937, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 232 artist and designer Franz Krause for Daimona flashlights, also reproduced on page 57 of Gefesselter Blick (Fig. 4.50). The two-color design depicts a drawn illustration of a diminutive Daimona flashlight within a red circle, cut by a beam of light emanating from the small bulb. The light appears to illuminate a patterned repetition of the manufacturer’s trademark, framed by the beam’s powerful reach. By incorporating text into this illustration—and effectively rendering word as image—Krause demonstrated the fusion that the Rasch brothers described. They termed the resulting synthesis, located specifically in the broken red circle where “text and image touch one another,” as an “eye-catcher” (Blickfang) charged with purpose. 566 Catching the reader’s eye and attention was merely the initial step in the cognitive operation of commercial design. Whereas the Rasch brothers characterized the act of reading text as a relatively passive experience, they also suggested that the act of beholding could animate an object or image. They described the perception of images— also referred to as “illustrated objects” (dargestellten Objekten)—as an active experience generative of cognitive association in which “the function of an object is triggered in the [mind of the] viewer.” 567 By contrast to the immediacy of images, they described text as communication that unfolds in sequence, and in this sense, proposed that film was a visual analogue to text. In drawing this comparison, they posited the Raster (grid) as the basic structure of both text and film: “The densest grid, which is the densest resolution of action in an image, is film. Film is function interpreted through images. Text is closely related: 566 In the caption for this reproduction on page 57, they wrote: “Einerseits: den Text für den Kunden, die Bekanntmachung. Anderseits: das Bild, die Sache. Beide: Text und Bild berühren sich in dem roten Kreis, dem Blickfang.” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 57. 567 “Ein Objekt also löst im Beschauer eine Funktion aus.” Ibid, 4. 233 text is truly just a film made from symbolic images.” 568 They established this structural congruency between text and film to introduce the idea of effective graphic design as a conduit between the human senses. At the center of their description of interrelated media is the Raster—a word that also translates to “halftone”—implicating photography as fundamental to graphic communication. The matrix of the halftone, like the typographic grid, or the grid of a filmstrip or photographic negative, structures the arrangement of words and images on planar surfaces. This visual and spatial arrangement, they argued, evokes the construction of meaning. They explicitly linked the manipulation of photography in graphic design to the beholder’s perception. As a medium apposite to representing static objects and capturing fleeting moments in time, they wrote, photography upended Lessing’s word-image dichotomy. Echoing Moholy-Nagy’s idea of modern photographic literacy, the Rasch brothers characterized photography as a hybridized visual language that had superseded verbal communication. 569 Photography was thus well suited to advertising design. Yet they also noted the photographic tendency to capture “things that do not belong,” which might obscure “truth” and impede the beholder’s “close personal relationship with an 568 “Das engste Raster, die engste Auflösung der Handlung im Bild ist der Film. Der Film ist bildinterpretierte Funktion. Der Schrift nahe verwandt: Die Schrift ist eigentlich nu rein Film aus Symbolzeichen.” Ibid. 569 In a short text originally published in the Dutch avant-garde journal i10, Moholy-Nagy wrote: “The fanatical zeal with which photography is pursued in all circles today indicates that those with no knowledge of it will be the illiterates of the future.” Phillips, Photography in the Modern Era, 102. 234 object.” 570 Photomontage could effectively remove “trivialities” (Nebensächliche) so that “realities” (Eigentlichen) could be made clearly visible. 571 Experimental photography, the Rasch brothers speculated, was crucial to drawing the beholder into a printed design. They championed photomontage as a medium that generated meaning and sharpened the interrelation of text and image by causing the beholder’s eye to move purposefully across the page. This idea was also expressed by invoking photography as a metaphor for human perception, describing the human eye as a framing device akin to a camera lens that “takes aim” at an object, rendering it an “image fragment” through perception. 572 The Rasch brothers upended the common trope in Weimar writing on photography of the camera as an extension of the photographer’s eye, instead describing photomontage as a model for seeing: “the camera must identify itself with the eye of the beholder.” 573 Two images accompany their discussion of photography and perception (Fig. 4.51). In the upper, left-hand corner is a photomontage of a jovial woman’s face framed within the lens of a camera. 574 A hand reaches into the space between the lens and the 570 “Der Fotoapparat nimmt natürlich auch vieles auf, was zufällig in der Umgebung des Blickzieles liegt, was man in Wirklichkeit gar nicht oder nur nebenbei gesehen hat, was nicht zur Sache gehört. Das kann man aber wegschneiden. Es kommt bei einem Bild auf nichts anderes an, als den Beschauer in nahe persönliche Beziehung zum Objekt zu bringen....” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 7. 571 Ibid, 8. 572 “Das Bildausschnitt ist durch den Sehrahmen der Augen bedingt. Dieser ist (wie die Iris einer Kamera) größer oder kleiner, je nachdem, ob wir den Gegenstand mehr oder weniger ‚aufs Korn nehmen.‘” Ibid, 7. 573 “In der Idee muß die Kamera identisch sein mit dem Auge des Beschauers.” Ibid, 7. 574 This photomontage is labeled “Ohler Photos Stuttgart Tübingerstr. 20.T.20081,” suggesting that it was composed using fragments of photographs by the professional, Stuttgart-based photographer Arthur Ohler, whose work was also represented in the exhibition Film und Foto (1929-31) and reproduced in a 1933 issue of Das Neue Frankfurt (no. 11) featuring art and architecture in Stuttgart. In a brochure advertising Gefesselter Blick, this photomontage is attributed to “Rasch” (likely referring to Heinz Rasch). Promotional brochure, n.d. Box 4, Folder 13, Bauhaus Typography collection, 1919–1937, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 235 viewer, holding a shutter release and poised to press the button. This disembodied representation of the camera operator, along with the visual suggestion that the lens doubles as a viewfinder, indicates that the image is being visually isolated, framed, and focused by the camera itself—a visualization of the idea that “the camera must identify itself with the eye of the beholder.” The lower image is a close-up photograph of a rotary press in the process of printing a newspaper; the lower, gravure cylinder rolls off the upper, impression cylinder to create one of many imprints on a large sheet of paper. This image depicts the high-speed process of rotogravure, a technology that became widely used in the 1920s and revolutionized the reproduction of illustrated periodicals quickly and cheaply. 575 The pairing of these images suggests the consumption of photographic images in the popular press—facilitated by the savvy arrangement of text and image in layout—as essential to training modern beholders to read visual information. Photomontage was a compelling metaphor for a new kind of reading, as it suggested that disparate visual elements could be actively constructed into new, meaningful wholes that coalesced in the mind. Like Tschichold’s outline for Fotomontage, Gefesselter Blick offered examples of optical construction in commercial graphic design as well as a number of other experimental composite images. One such example was identified as a fotozeichnung (photo-drawing) by Willi Baumeister, titled Kopf (c. 1923), 575 Rotogravure—a high-speed, rotary printing technology using intaglio cylinders to print long runs of newspaper, magazine, and book pages—was popularized in the 1920s. Andrés Mario Zervigón has noted the significance of rotogravure as a technology that enabled the sophisticated visual interplay of word and image in the popular press. Rotogravure facilitated the manipulation of letterforms and halftones beyond the confines of the layout grid, and its effects were evident in the visually striking layouts of magazines like French VU (1928–40) and the German newspaper Arbeiter-Illustrierte Zeitung (1921–38). See Andrés Mario Zervigón, “Rotogravure and the Modern Aesthetic of News Reporting,” in Getting the Picture: The Visual Culture of the News, eds. Jason E. Hill and Vanessa R. Schwartz (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 197–205; Michel Frizot and Cédric de Veigy, VU: The Story of a Magazine (London: Thames & Hudson, 2009). 236 which embodied the idea of photomontage as a paradigm for modern perception (Fig. 4.52). The term fotozeichnung also appears in Tschichold’s book outline, citing Baumeister as an example. 576 Baumeister’s contribution to Gefesselter Blick was substantial, including five images, three of which were identified by the term fotozeichnung. The first appears on page 19 with the following caption: “lighthearted photo-drawing. summary of existing picture elements. they become irony themselves. the painter works here like the architect, who must search for the conditions (building place, building purpose) of a form” (Fig. 4.53). 577 The image is comprised of three halftone fragments representing a man’s head and several extremities, roughly grafted onto a crude, amorphous line drawing that connects the photographic parts into a visually coherent, albeit anatomically impossible, body. The disjuncture between the halftone fragments and the whimsically drawn human figure call attention to the constructedness of the image. The caption—written by Heinz Rasch, 578 himself an architect—likens the practice of montage to that of architecture: both are processes of construction under certain practical constraints. Both the architect and the monteur offer solutions to a given set of problems, ultimately creating forms that 576 Tschichold, Fotomontage outline, 2. 577 “heitere fotozeichnung. zusammenfassung vonhandener bildelemente. sie warden zur ironie ihrer selbst. Der maler arbeitet hier wie der architect, der für gegebenheiten (bauplatz und bauprogramm) eine form suchen muß.” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 19. 578 Roland Nachtigäller has cited a letter from Heinz Rasch to Willi Baumeister, which indicates that Rasch had authored the captions for Baumeister’s images in Gefesselter Blick. Nachtigäller, “Mit Scharfem Auge zum Gefesselter Blick: Die Bruder Rasch und die konstruktivistische Typographie der 1920er-Jahre,” 96–97, n. 35. This is confirmed by a number of letters now housed in the Archiv Baumeister, dated between January and February of 1930, from Heinz and Bodo Rasch to Baumeister, in which they propose descriptions of each image as the three negotiate which images will appear in the book, and in what order. These letters confirm that only the biographical information and short statement on typography printed at the top of page 19 of Gefesselter Blick were authored by Baumeister. Archiv Baumeister, Kunstmuseum Stuttgart. 237 necessarily engage the beholder’s imagination. Above this image, Baumeister concluded his own remarks with the statement: “Imagination and fantasy are fertile soil for all speculative-artistic creation.” 579 If we are to read Gefesselter Blick as a definitive survey of New Typography, as is frequently claimed by historians of graphic design, the following two-page spread featuring Baumeister’s work is perhaps the most perplexing (Fig. 4.54). 580 Baumeister’s idiosyncratic contributions to Gefesselter Blick exemplify the idea that photomontage induces active optical construction as a co-creative act. Pages 20 and 21 reproduce three photographic works by Baumeister, none of which were used in his work as a graphic designer, including the image that also appears on the book’s title page (Fig. 4.55). This image is reproduced in Gefesselter Blick with the following caption: photo-drawing. a photograph like many others……the constructive structure is so strict that the foreign element [fremdkörper] of photography will become completely fused with it. the rhythmic dislocations create continuous movement, which the eye of the beholder must continually follow. – result: kinetic. 581 The Rasch brothers suggested that this image is constructed through perception, in a kind of feedback loop between the “foreign” photographic fragments and the beholder’s eye: as the eye attempts to apprehend the image, the disjointed composition of photographic 579 “die einbildungskraft un fantasie sind der nährboden alles spekulativ-künstlerischen schaffens.” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 19. 580 See, for example, Richard Hollis, Swiss Graphic Design: The Origin and Growth of an International Style, 1920–1965 (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 2006), 29–30; Martijn F. Le Coultre, Jan Tschichold: Posters of the Avantgarde (Laren, The Netherlands: VK Projects, 2007), 61. 581 “fotozeichnung. eine fotografie wie viele andere auch……das konstruktive gefüge ist so streng, daß der fremdkörper der fotografie vollständig verschmolzen wird. die rhythmischen versetzungen ergeben eine durchgehende bewegung, der das auge des beschauers ständig folgen muß. – resultat: kinetik.” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 21. 238 fragments directs its movement, propelled by the visual rhythm of its “dislocations,” until disparate forms “become completely fused” into a single image. This is a quintessential example of a constructed image, in the sense first propagated by the Russian avant-garde; this image is not apprehended as a harmonious composition, but rather as an accumulation of dissonant parts that require assembly by an active beholder. 582 The prominence of this image, repeated on the book’s title page, suggests optical construction as a cornerstone of not only modernist graphic design, but as a paradigm of modern communication and perception. Gefesselter Blick proposed a fully integrated method of reading Typophoto. Baumeister’s contributions to Gefesselter Blick exemplify the book’s key contribution: the idea that printed, photographic images combined with graphic marks or text activate the reader’s fleeting “glance,” which in turn incites the mental construction of form and meaning. In keeping with Tschichold’s claim that photomontage enabled readers “to form optical associations,” 583 the Rasch brothers advocated for applied photomontage in graphic design as a stimulus for active perception. Beyond the technique of photomontage, the Rasch brothers also proposed that all photographic images in print have trained us to read 582 In the context of the Russian Revolution, artists, designers, and writers, including Osip Brik, Naum Gabo, Aleksei Gan, El Lissitzky, Lyobov Popova, Aleksandr Rodchenko, and Varvara Stepanova, promoted the construction of objects—as opposed to the composition of mimetic images—by rendering the facture of industrial materials and the labor of production visually evident, thereby implicating the beholder as co-producer. See Maria Gough. The Artist as Producer: Russian Constructivism in Revolution (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005); Christina Kiaer. Imagine No Possessions: The Socialist Objects of Russian Constructivism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005); Kristin Romberg, Gan’s Constructivism: Aesthetic Theory for an Embedded Modernism (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2019). For primary texts by Russian Constructivists and discussion of their influence on the Central European avant-garde, see Stephen Bann, The Tradition of Constructivism (New York: Da Capo Press, 1974). 583 Tschichold, unpublished notes, page 67. Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 239 graphics in a particular way. Their introduction included a photographic image of the façade of a Schocken department store, which they included as an “example of the spatial observation of text” (Fig. 4.56) 584 They described the process of perceiving this image in terms of spatial navigation: the text is first read backwards, as the eye travels from right to left, taking in the depth of space depicted in the photograph; and then from left to right, moving back across the image to read the word “SCHOCKEN.” Read in both directions, the letterforms spanning the store’s façade are rendered as text and image through the photographic sign. This example illustrated the idea that Typophoto held the possibility of integrating word and image through the act of perception. Gefesselter Blick is perhaps the closest thing to a manifesto that captures the true heterogeneity of New Typography. Rather than summarize an array of practices according to a rigid set of principles written by a single author, the book offers as many perspectives on modern graphic design as it has contributors. Together the entries offer diverse, sometimes clashing perspectives. Among the multiplicity of voices is that of Heinz Rasch, whose image captions throughout the book create dialogue with each contributor. Gefesselter Blick is perhaps most articulate as a manifesto on experimental photography as a crucial link between functionalist graphic design and Dada and surrealism. Photography’s assumed link to the “real,” which Tschichold had initially lauded as its objectivity, was in fact what made the medium so “functional” as a tool for animating the fictions of advertising. The “magical realism” of photography that Roh described is perhaps most apparent in photomontage, broadly defined as it would have been in Tschichold’s unrealized book. Gefesselter Blick offers an understanding of photomontage 584 “Beispiel für die räumliche Erfassung von Schrift.” Rasch and Rasch, Gefesselter Blick, 10. 240 as a medium that layers mechanical and manual processes, combining photographic fragments with non-photographic elements to create productive visual contrast and dialectical meaning—an example of what Roh called Stückungsästhetik. In doing so, Gefesselter Blick expresses the import of photography to New Typography, thereby retooling the meaning of Typophoto. In the pages of Gefesselter Blick and as Tschichold recognized by 1930, Typophoto engendered perception as a kinetic experience of navigating graphic space. 241 CHAPTER 5 Graphic Design’s Logic of Montage: Trademarks, Pictograms, Infographics “A peep into the studio of one of our big trademark designers is a revelation. Who would have guessed, for instance, that so many folios of sketches, pencil drawings and large studies had been necessary for the production of one such seemingly simple and matter-of-fact device?” 585 —Walter F. Schubert “A good symbol is usually, but not always, the expression of a unified design for advertising and manufacture. It must be original and simple in form, have a very high degree of memorability, and be easily recognized and noticeable. By no means every symbol has these characteristics, a proof of how difficult it is to design a really good symbol for a firm or a range of goods.” 586 — Jan Tschichold “The enemies of form are no strange phenomenon, and the sermon they preach is ever the same: the gist of the matter, they say, the true content, is actually concealed by the outward form, which is nothing but deceptive illusion!... Truth and real progress, however, can be served only by strictly avoiding every illusion, so that the bare facts may be easily recognized by the willing observer.” 587 —Hans Piorkowski In 1930, the Berlin office of tourism commissioned a trademark design by Erich Charal to promote the city itself. This idea was both ancient and modern: city seals had been carved and stamped since antiquity, 588 but they became marketing tools through modern graphic design. Hermann Frenzel praised Charal’s “Schutzmarke” (trademark) for Berlin in the pages of Gebrauchsgraphik, recognizing the commercial trademark as a 585 Walter F. Schubert, “Karl Schulpig,” Commercial Art (October 1927): 155. 586 Jan Tschichold, The New Typography: A Handbook for Modern Designers, trans. Ruari McLean (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995 [1928]), 109. 587 Hans Piorkowski, “The Value of the Good Package,” Gebrauchsgraphik 4, no. 6 (June 1927): 3. 588 For studies of ancient and medieval city seals see, for example, John H. Betts and Dominique Collon, eds., 7000 Years of Seals (London: British Museum Press, 1997); Laura J. Whatley, ed., A Companion to Seals in the Middle Ages (Leiden, NL: Brill, 2019). 242 useful model for modern tourism (Fig. 5.1). 589 Charal’s design assimilated the methods of advertising in order to commodify the intangible experience of place: “Berlin is trying to sell a visit to Berlin,” Frenzel wrote, “or Berlin offers a trip to Berlin.” 590 Visually, the design fused text and image into a form meant to be instantly recognizable and easily reproduced both in print and in the mind’s eye. In several iterations, Charal created a silhouette of the iconic Brandenburg Gate, replacing its immense columns with blockish, upper-case letterforms that spelled the city’s name (Fig. 5.2). Smaller, negative letterforms were carved out of the lintel of the gate to complete the phrase, “Jeder einmal in Berlin,” a tourism slogan declaring that everyone should visit Berlin at least once. Less explicitly, Charal’s design conveyed that Berlin was a world-class center of capitalism and culture that embraced modern methods of advertising as a matter of cultivating good taste—chief among them, the trademark. The Berlin trademark is but one example of how consumers were trained through repeated exposure to read modern verbal-visual graphic conventions as information. This chapter centers on the conceptual and technical inventions of the trademark, pictogram, and infographic as composite image conventions used to promote visual literacy as vital to participation in modern life. I argue that, in order to understand what it meant for these visual devices to be legible in the 1920s and 1930s, we must recognize montage as a founding logic and technique of graphic design. In the study of visual culture, the term 589 “Die übrigen Beispiele Berliner Werbedrucksachen, die wir hier anfügen, zeigen, wie vorteilhaft sich auch in der Verkehrswerbung eine Schutzmarke verwenden läßt.” Hermann Frenzel, “Berlin und sein Zeichen,” Gebrauchsgraphik 7, no. 5 (May 1930): 21. 590 In the second half of this statement, Frenzel deliberately used the verb anbieten (to offer), which connotes selling a product or service: “Berlin versucht den Besuch von Berlin zu verkaufen oder Berlin bietet den Besuch von Berlin an.” Ibid. (My translation differs slightly from the English version that was printed in Gebrauchsgraphik.) 243 “montage” has scarcely been used to describe non-photographic or non-filmic composites. However, the fervor for photomontage in interwar advertising was rooted in techniques of collage, experimental printing, semiotic play, and composite form—techniques that were foundational for graphic design. For the New Typographers, the concept of Typophoto flagged the desire to merge text and image into a hybrid medium of communication that would engender active reading. I argue that this ambition was in fact, fundamental to graphic design. The term “montage” derives from the French verb monter (to mount), and connoted the construction of composite wholes by cutting filmstrips into fragments and pasting them together. 591 Accordingly, most studies of montage have belonged to histories of film and photography, recognizing how the technique registered the freneticism and disjointedness of life in the industrial age. Increasingly however, scholars have identified montage as both a technique and form that was crucial to new ways of making and 591 ‘Montage’ typically refers to a technique of experimental filmmaking, first associated with avant-garde Russian filmmakers such as Sergei Eisenstein and Dziga Vertov, while ‘photomontage’ refers to the technique of cutting and recombining photographic fragments. Historical studies of montage and photomontage include Richard Hiepe, Die Fotomontage: Geschichte und Wesen einer Kunstform (Bochum: Städtische Kunstgalerie Bochum, 1969); Dawn Ades, Photomontage (London: Thames & Hudson, 1976); Robert Sobieszek, “Composite Imagery and the Origins of Photomontage, Pt. 1: The Naturalistic Strain,” Artforum (September 1978): 58– 65; Robert Sobieszek “Composite Imagery and the Origins of Photomontage, Pt. 2: The Formalist Strain,” Artforum (October 1978): 40–45; Sally Stein, “The Composite Photographic Image and the Composition of Consumer Ideology,” Art Journal (1981): 39–45; Annette Michelson, ed., Kino-eye: the writings of Dziga Vertov, trans. Kevin O'Brien (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); Richard Taylor, ed., The Eisenstein Reader, trans. Richard Taylor and William Powell (London: British Film Institute, 1998); Adrian Sudhalter and Deborah L. Roldán, eds., Photomontage Between the Wars (1918-1939) (Madrid: Fundación Juan March, 2012); Matthew Teitelbaum, ed., Montage and Modern Life, 1919-1942 (Cambridge: MIT Press; Boston: Institute of Contemporary Art, 1992); Andrés Mario Zervigón, John Heartfield and the Agitated Image: Photography, Persuasion, and the Rise of Avant-Garde Photomontage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012); Sabine T. Kriebel, Revolutionary Beauty: The Radical Photomontages of John Heartfield (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2014); Pascal Rousse, Le montage organique: Eisenstein et la synthèse des arts (Geneva: MētisPresses, 2019). 244 interpreting literature, theater, architecture, exhibitions, and advertising in the twentieth century. 592 As Christopher Phillips has written, “for much of the first half of [the twentieth] century, montage served not only as an innovative artistic technique but functioned, too, as a kind of symbolic form, providing a shared visual idiom that more than any other expressed the tumultuous arrival of a fully urbanized, industrialized culture.” 593 The trademark, pictogram, and infographic emerged in response to and among the conditions Phillips describes. Their ubiquity in everyday life established techniques of montage as commonplace in making, interpreting, and perceiving visual culture. In this chapter, montage connotes strategies of production, formal hybridity, and perception that were common to the graphic conventions under study. I use this term to consider photography’s conceptual efficacy in graphic design beyond the integration of photographic images into graphics. I propose that the labor and imaging strategies of photomontage are analogous to non-photographic processes and forms in graphic design. Just as photographic fragments were excised from their original contexts and pasted into new wholes, so were fragments of images and letterforms pieced together through collage, painting, drawing, and printmaking to create trademarks and pictograms. These seamless composite forms were designed to mask such labor; their mixed-media origins became neutralized through reproduction in print. The invisibility of labor was similarly important 592 See, for example, Nanni Baltzer and Martino Stierli, eds., Before Publication: Montage in Art, Architecture, and Book Design (Zurich: Park Books, 2016); Craig Buckley, Graphic Assembly: Montage, Media and Experimental Architecture in the 1980s (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2019); Michael Cowan, Walter Ruttmann and the Cinema of Multiplicity: Avant- Garde—Advertising—Modernity (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014); Patrizia C. McBride, The Chatter of the Visible: Montage and Narrative in Weimar Germany (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016); Martino Stierli, Montage and the Metropolis: Architecture, Modernity, and the Representation of Space (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018). 593 Christopher Phillips, “Introduction,” in Montage and Modern Life, 1919-1942, 22. 245 in the design of trademarks and infographics, but to different ends. The trademark was intended to verify the quality, honesty, and authenticity of a commodity and corporate firm through unique design attributed to an individual designer. The pictogram, by contrast, was conceived as a standardized form that could be read by anyone, replacing verbal legibility with verbal recognition. Unlike the trademark, the pictogram was intended to represent universal concepts, and its authorship was intended to be anonymous. Although the standardization of the pictogram was conceptually at odds with montage, it nevertheless required the construction of composite form. Both the trademark and pictogram merged verbal and visual representation in different ways. Trademarks abstracted the formal elements of text and image to merge verbal and visual signs into composite form—what Wilhelm Deffke and Carl Hinkesfuss called the Wortbild (word-picture). Trademarks were designed to be easily recognizable, and equally reproducible on the printed page and in the human memory. As visual representations of universal concepts, pictograms were intended to replace words altogether, combined in the visual grammar of the infographic to convey complex information. Writing in 1930, French graphic designer Jean Carlu emphasized the need for advertising that “addresses the emotions even before it speaks to the reason,” and therefore “becomes a sort of ‘ideogram’ or symbol expressing the idea of a thing without the aid of words.” 594 Although the trademark was a tool of consumerism and the pictogram was a non-commercial device, both functioned as “ideograms,” operating between pure symbolism and mimesis. Trademarks were designed with the intent to link tangible products and producers with the abstract qualities of reliability, honesty, and good 594 Jean Carlu, “Should a Poster be a Work of Art?” Commercial Art (March 1931): 101–02. 246 taste. Otto Neurath referred to the pictogram as the Sachbild (object-picture), conceived as the most direct representation of a person, place, thing, or idea. The legibility of pictograms and infographics was predicated on the displacement of the symbolic signs of written language with universally recognizable iconic signs, yet it also depended on repeated exposure and training in modern habits of image consumption. As with the halftone, readers had to learn to read graphic conventions as visual information. This chapter examines two key contexts for the advent of composite, verbal-visual devices in graphic design: The first was the 1917 book, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen (Trademarks and Factory Marks), published by Wilhelm Deffke and Carl Hinkefuss to promote their Berlin advertising firm, Wilhelmwerk. 595 Among the very first books dedicated to trademarks and trademark design, 596 it provides insight into the conception of the trademark as a conduit between tangible goods and intangible qualities, describing the ideal trademark as unique, trustworthy, and charming, yet infinitely reproducible. Tellingly, the treatise resisted straightforward explanation of the relationship between the form and meaning of a trademark. Discussion of the trademark’s visual form was displaced by justifications of its cultural and economic value. In doing so, the book prefigured international advertising discourse on trademark design between the wars, 595 Wilhelm Deffke and Carl Ernst Hinkefuss, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen (Berlin: Wilhelmwerk, 1917). I am grateful to Robert Gordon-Fogelson for first the Carl Ernst Hinkefuss Papers in the special collections of the Getty Research Institute to my attention. 596 Fritz Ehmcke’s Die Gildenzeichen (Guild Symbols), published in 1907, was a noteworthy predecessor to Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen. Ehmcke’s book, along with Deffke and Hinkefuss’s Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, catalyzed the publication of a number of books and articles on trademark design in the interwar period. In 1920, for example, both Karl Schulpig’s collection of his own trademark designs, Handelszeichen (Commercial Symbols), and Max Körner’s Warenzeichen und Fabrikmarken (Product Symbols and Factory Brands) were published. Ehmcke’s later book, Wahrzeichen—Warenzeichen (Emblems—Product Symbols) (1921) was excerpted in the February 1921 issue of Das Plakat. 247 which suggests the complex function of the trademark as a representational device. German designer Walter Kersting—quoted in 1930—referred to the “dark mystery” of the trademark: “If it is really alive in design, it breathes with force and vigor, radiating personality like flux about a magnetic pole.’” 597 Although trademarks were designed ostensibly to represent and sell commodities, in practice they functioned as graphic signs of spiritual authenticity. In an article for Commercial Art, British advertising commentator G. M. Ellwood praised the trademarks of German designer Karl Schulpig: “The thing most likely to hit as a trademark is the simple, witty device which is all idea and very little work.” 598 In order to be functional, trademarks had to compress many ideas into a “simple” form that purported to be “very little work” for the reader. Yet paradoxically, these “simple” forms masked their semiotic complexity, training consumers to read trademarks as signifiers of the interrelation of manufactured goods, monetary and cultural values, and their own habits of consumption. The second context examined in this chapter is the development of the Wiener Methode der Bildstatistik (Vienna Method of Pictorial Statistics) at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Social and Economic Museum) between 1925 and 1934. Under the direction of Austrian political economist and sociologist Otto Neurath, a group of collaborators at the Museum developed a system for representing data with visual signs— today known as pictograms—often combined with text in charts, maps, or diagrams collectively known as infographics. At the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum, pictograms and infographics were displayed in public exhibitions to communicate 597 Clarence P. Hornung, “The German Trade-Mark: A Work of Genius,” Advertising Arts (April 1930): 39–40. 598 G. M. Ellwood, “Trade Marks That Tell,” Commercial Art (January 1925): 50. 248 complex information about economics, public health, social trends and habits, manufacturing, migration, and the allocation of natural resources. Pictograms and infographics at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum were primarily designed by Otto Neurath, Marie Neurath, and Gerd Arntz. 599 Importantly, these graphics were not intended to reflect the style of any individual designer. Unlike Deffke and Hinkefuss, Neurath made several attempts, in both unpublished and published writing, to explain the process by which they had developed pictograms formally. Most of this writing was done after the fact—retrospective descriptions of a working method rather than prescriptive instructions. These writings, along with extant design mockups and sketches, illuminate the ideological, technical, and visual principles of the Vienna Method as a method of standardized visual communication. Composite forms developed by graphic designers are prime examples of how techniques of montage and abstraction were not only artistic strategies of the avant-garde in the early twentieth century, but in fact were embraced for the purposes of commercial and civic communication. Although the publication of Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen and the founding of the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum are separated by only 599 My research adds to a large body of scholarship on the work of Otto Neurath, Maria Neurath, Gerd Arntz, and Isotype. See especially, Ed Annink and Max Bruinsma, eds., Gerd Arntz: Graphic Designer (Rotterdam: 010, 2010); Annink and Bruinsma, Lovely Language. Words divide, images unite (Rotterdam: Veenman Publishers, 2008); Flip Bool, Gerd Arntz. Kritische grafiek en beeldstatistiek (The Hague: Gemeentemuseum Den Haag, 1976); Christopher Burke, Eric Kindel, and Sue Walker, eds. Isotype: Design and Contexts, 1925-1971 (London: Hyphen Press, 2013); J. A. Edwards and Michael Twyman, Graphic communication through ISOTYPE (Reading: Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading, 1975); Frank Hartmann and Erwin K. Bauer, Bildersprache: Otto Neurath; Visualisierung (Vienna: Wiener Universitätsverlag, 2002); W. Boyd Rayward, ed., European Modernism and the Information Society: Informing the Present, Understanding the Past (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008); Friedrich Stadler, ed., Arbeiterbildung in der Zwischenkriegszeit: Otto Neurath, Gerd Arntz (Vienna: Löcker, 1982). 249 seven years, they bookended a period of unprecedented political and social change in Central Europe. Following the end of the First World War and the Russian Revolution, and amid a wave of socialist revolutions across Central Europe, Germany and Austria were established as republican states in 1919. After Germany’s economic stabilization in 1923, many industries that had flourished before the war began to rebuild, commissioning graphic designers to revive corporate branding and the advertising industry. 600 Interwar commercial graphic designers looked to predecessors including Hinkefuss and Deffke, who had established themselves professionally before the war as pioneers of their profession. 601 Meanwhile, Vienna became a center of progressive efforts to improve and support education, municipal housing, professional training, working conditions, and public health under social democracy in Austria. 602 In 1925, the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum was established among these initiatives. Its ethos of collective design reflected the museum’s egalitarian mission to educate the broadest audience, especially illiterate or undereducated workers. 603 Lauded as reproducible and clear, the trademark, pictogram, and infographic may seem antithetical to the definition of montage posited in 1970 by Theodor Adorno, who 600 John Heskett, German Design, 1870-1918 (New York: Taplinger Publishing, 1986); Detlev Peukert, The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity, trans. Richard Deveson (New York: Hill and Wang, 1992); Paul Stirton, Jan Tschichold and the New Typography: Graphic Design Between the World Wars (New Haven; London: Bard Graduate Center & Yale University Press, 2019). 601 Jeremy Aynsley, Graphic Design in Germany 1890-1945 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000). 602 Eve Blau, The Architecture of Red Vienna, 1919-1934 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1999); Helmut Gruber, Red Vienna: Experiment in Working-Class Culture, 1919-1934 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991). 603 Eve Blau, “Isotype and Architecture in Red Vienna: The Modern Projects of Otto Neurath and Josef Frank,” Austrian Studies 14, Culture and Politics in Red Vienna (2006): 227–59. 250 wrote that, “the negation of synthesis becomes a principle of form.” 604 However, the legibility of these synthetic forms as efficient, successful design is predicated on the invisibility of two kinds of labor. These graphic devices hide the work of producing design, including the messy, trial-and-error process of recombining fragments into new wholes through sketching, cutting, pasting, and printing. Equally, they hide the work of interpretation required to read composite forms as simple, seamless wholes. The concept of montage is key to identifying these paradoxes in graphic design. Moreover, in making the work of production and interpretation visible, photomonteurs responded directly to these erasures in visual culture. In recovering montage as a structuring logic of graphic design, I propose that even in the absence of photography, the medium provides a conceptual framework for examining graphic devices anew. Dignity and Strength: Trademarks of Wilhelmwerk In 1917, Deffke and Hinkefuss published one of the first books dedicated to the subject of the trademark. 605 As suggested by the title of their treatise, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen (Trademarks and Factory Marks) promoted the general use of trademarks to represent both mass-manufactured goods and the firms that produced them (Fig. 5.3). Pitched to potential clients, the luxurious publication served primarily as a marketing tool for their own firm, Wilhelmwerk. The partnership of Deffke and Hinkefuss was unusual 604 Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 155. 605 The terms Mark and Schutzmarke best translate to “brand” and “trademark,” respectively. I am referring only to the “trademark” here for the sake of clarity, and because Deffke and Hinkefuss do not distinguish between the Mark and Schutzmarke in any meaningful way in Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen. There are a number of other terms for trademarks in this period—including Handelsmarken, Fabrikzeichen, and Warenzeichen—that are all translated as “trademark” here unless otherwise noted. 251 for its time but foretold the rise of advertising as a profession that aspired to marry modern business and the graphic arts. They met in 1912, when German book publisher and printer Otto Elsner hired Deffke as in-house designer and Hinkefuss as an advertising consultant. 606 Deffke’s work as a professional designer had begun in 1901 with an apprenticeship in pattern drawing and point paper design in Ernst Meckenstock’s textile studio in Elberfeld. He later worked for Peter Behrens in Potsdam-Neubabelsberg from 1909 to 1910, and was subsequently appointed to the faculty of the Reimann Schule in Berlin, where he taught courses in pattern drawing, typeface design, book art illustration, batik, bookbinding, and commercial art. He competed in 1914 to create trademark and poster designs for the Deutscher Werkbund, which ultimately awarded the commission to Behrens but simultaneously admitted Deffke as a new member. Meanwhile, Hinkefuss had worked as an editor and graphic artist for Berlin’s electricity company and then established the department of propaganda at Dr. Paul Meyer AG, a company that specialized in electrical measuring instruments. He became the head of advertising at Junkers & Co. in Dessau in 1907, and then assumed a similar role for the printer Kuno Bergmann in Berlin in 1909. 607 606 Roland Jaeger, “From Wilhelmwerk (1915-1920) to Internatio (1920-1933): The Wilhelm Deffke and Carl Ernst Hinkefuss Advertising Studios,” in Wilhelm Deffke, 103. 607 Gerda Breuer, “The Search for a Modern Form of Surface Design—Wilhelm Deffke’s Training in Wuppertal,” in Wilhelm Deffke: Pioneer of the Modern Logo, ed. Bröhan Design Foundation, Berlin (Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2014), 15; Susanne Engelhard, “Developing Talents— Wilhelm Deffke’s Early Years in Berlin (1909-1914),” in Wilhelm Deffke, 32–39; Christopher Oestereich, “Deffke and the Werkbund,” in Wilhelm Deffke, 75–83. 252 In 1915, Hinkefuss proposed establishing a collaborative commercial design firm with Deffke. 608 Hinkefuss already had in mind a name (Wilhelmwerk) and—fitting to the firm’s first publication—a trademark design: the Roman numeral II circumscribed by a circle (Fig. 5.4). 609 In his diary, Hinkefuss described Wilhelmwerk’s trademark as a symbol of duality on several levels: of the eras before and after the First World War; of the era of Wilhelm II; and of the convergence of the “will” of Hinkefuss the businessman and “ability” of Deffke the artist as “2 pillars” with “contrasting natures.” 610 The third level of meaning foretold the division of concept (the purview of the advertising professional) from execution (by a designer) in commercial graphic design. The founding of Wilhelmwerk was, in this sense, a bellwether for the professionalization of commercial design. 611 Following the overarching aim of the Deutscher Werkbund to reconcile “form” and “economy” in design, Wilhelmwerk promoted effective commercial design as a combination of modern business savvy and artistic skill in equal measure. 612 Wilhelmwerk’s first publication is a materially luxurious and visually striking object, printed in four colors on thick, double-leaf paper stock and assuming an unusual square format with Japanese binding. 613 Set in Behrens Medieval typeface, the book lacks 608 Deffke and Hinkefuss worked together under the auspices of Wilhelmwerk until 1920. Jaeger, “From Wilhelmwerk (1915-1920) to Internatio (1920-1933),” 101–55. 609 Ibid, 107. 610 Ibid. 611 Another early model for the German advertising agency was the Steglitz Werkstatt, a commercial studio founded in 1900 by Fritz Ehmcke, Georg Belwe, and Friedrich Wilhelm Kleukens, which was active in Berlin until 1903. This collaboration helped launch the careers of all three of its principle designers. See Arthur C. Croyle, “The Steglitz Studio in Berlin: 1900- 1903,” The Journal of Decorative and Propaganda Arts 14 (Autumn 1989): 78–93. 612 For a thorough study of these terms as key in the early debates of the Deutscher Werkbund over the place of artists and craftsmen in the production of industrially manufactured goods, see Frederic J. Schwartz, The Werkbund: Design Theory and Mass Culture Before the First World War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996). 613 Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen was initially printed with a combination of letterpress and lithography. The specific copy of the book I am referring to is in the collection of the Getty 253 margins and paragraph breaks, instead running text in continuous bands across each page (Fig. 5.5). On the pages featuring Deffke’s designs, images were printed one to a page, at center, framed by upper and lower captions, with copious white space around each image (Fig. 5.6). The book begins with an historical narrative, a common trope of graphic design and typography treatises of this period. 614 Textually and visually, Deffke and Hinkefuss positioned the trademark not simply as a device invented by and for modern industry, but rather as a staple of visual communication with a deep history. They traced the enduring historical importance of emblems in politics, religion, and pre-modern commerce. In doing so, they suggested the trademark as imperative to the economic and cultural prosperity of Germany, and as such, the most valuable product of their own firm. Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen is structured in two parts: a relatively short essay, authored by Hinkefuss and divided into brief sections, followed by a longer suite of trademark designs by Deffke that visualized his partner’s text and established a unique brand identity for Wilhelmwerk. The Wilhelmwerk trademark was embossed on the front cover and appeared again on the title page and back cover. The two sections of the book are best read as parallel and mutually reinforcing narratives. The opening section of Hinkefuss’s text, titled “Origin,” (“URSPRUNG”) offered a teleological history that described the evolution of pre-modern emblems into modern trademarks as a natural progression, and as a deeply German phenomenon. Hinkefuss named coats of arms, seals, Research Institute, inscribed as number 887 in an edition of 1000 copies. Approximately one thousand copies were printed in house and sent to potential clients, including publishers, printers, and business owners. Jaeger, “From Wilhelmwerk (1915-1920) to Internatio (1920-1933),” 114. 614 See, for example, Walter F. Schubert, Das Deutsche Werbe-Graphik (Berlin: Francken & Lang, 1927). Schubert framed the emergence and development of advertising and commercial design as a matter of German exceptionalism with regard to Germany’s history as a center for graphic art and innovations in printing techniques. Jan Tschichold’s Die Neue Typographie (1928) also followed this format. 254 and guild emblems as precursors to the modern trademark. 615 He traced the use of emblems back to the medieval period and credited Johannes Gutenberg’s fifteenth-century printing press for their increased ubiquity and importance. Hinkefuss named the imperial eagle (Reichsadler) and cross as examples of the trademark’s cultural importance, framing their use as a matter of national pride and heritage, and implicitly linking Germany’s legacy of innovation in printing technology to modern capitalism and nationalism. 616 Hinkefuss emphasized the importance of repetition in the use of emblems: in order to be meaningful, emblems must be repeatedly worn on clothing and affixed to various objects. They could signify the religious, national, or professional affiliation of a person or object, linking them to a social, religious, or corporate institution. Emblems thus serve as identity markers—for a person or object, and for the larger group or institution of which they are a part. Hinkefuss described emblems as a source of collective pride—symbolic expressions of “dignity and strength.” 617 This association of trademarks with the character of a product or firm became a critical point of defense among commercial designers against charges that their work was meant to deceive consumers. While it was commonly agreed that commercial design should have “suggestion-value,” 618 designers were careful to frame their choices as honest, trustworthy, and objective. The trademark was the key indicator of the honesty of design, especially printed on product packaging. Dishonest design, warned German designer Hans Piorkowski in 1927, 615 Deffke and Hinkefuss, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, n.p. 616 “In Namen des Reiches, unter dem ZEICHEN des Aars, vollziehen sich die wichtigsten Staatsgeschäfte; Post und Eisenbahn, Landesverteidigung und Wohlfahrtspflege benutzen MARKEN, die diesen straffen Organisationen ihren Charakter geben.” Ibid. 617 “Wie ehedem werden sie benutzt, um bestimmtem Verlangen Geltung zu verschaffen, Würde und Macht sinnbildlich auszudrücken.” Ibid. 618 The uses and origins of this term is discussed at length in Chapter 2 of this dissertation. 255 could induce the “confusion of emotions, opinions, and conceptions,” which obscured “bare facts.” 619 The notion of the trademark as a transparent, honest signifier was supported by references to graphics as authentic symbols of a designer’s personal character, as in a description of Karl Schulpig’s design printed in Gebrauchsgraphik: “All his sketches breathe out quiet and security. They mirror the personality of Schulpig—a straightforward, honest fellow, full of character. He presents himself simply, as he is, and most of his problems seem just as simply solved.” 620 Such anthropomorphic language reflects an intent to humanize the trademark—and corporations, by extension—in the eyes of consumers. The trademark was thus far from a simple pictorial representation: It was conceived as a device that could translate the human qualities of a corporate entity into visual terms, consolidated into an easily legible form. Simple, Sacred Signs: Imprinting the Wortbild In a subsequent section of Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, “Value / Dissemination / Form” (“WERT / VERBREITUNG / FORM”), Hinkefuss elaborated on the nature and importance of the modern trademark. He praised the trademark first for “its means of refining taste,” which imbued it with both artistic and economic value. 621 He listed a number of corporations—including AEG, Manoli, Kodak, Nestle, Lipton, and Singer—that owed their international name recognition to trademarks (“Weltmarken”). He went so far as to imply that the reputation, and thus the power, of these corporations would not have existed without the trademark. Hinkefuss characterized the economic, 619 Piorkowski, “The Value of the Good Package,” 3. 620 Unattributed, “Karl Schulpig Schutzmarken,” Gebrauchsgraphik 5, no. 2 (February 1928): 5. 621 “Sie find es, die besondere Aufmerksamkeit verdienen, al seines Mittels zur Veredlung des Geschmackes; dann aber auch wegen ihrer hervorragenden wirtschaftlichen Bedeutung.” Deffke and Hinkefuss, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, n.p. 256 nationalist, artistic, and affective power of trademarks as inextricably intertwined, and lauded them as “irreplaceable…to the assets of the nation,” and “so beloved and valued” for their capacity to “significantly improve society.” 622 He praised American trademarks as exceptionally profitable, tacitly implying Germany’s need to keep pace with American industry by adopting American business practices. He named the AEG trademark as exemplary of the effectiveness of wide dissemination through what is now known as corporate branding. Hinkefuss used this example to emphasize the importance of the scalability of a good trademark, “whether…on an enormous generator or a tiny light bulb.” 623 Around the time Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen was published, trademark design became a model for (and a staple of) many other forms of commercial graphics, including product packaging, advertising posters, business prospectuses, magazine and newspaper advertisements, and advertising inserts. The importance of scalability emphasized by Hinkefuss and Deffke was crucial to the efficacy of the trademark as a flexible but consistent mediator between manufacturers, corporations, retailers, and consumers. Graphic designers often compared the design of trademarks and advertising posters as equivalent tasks at vastly different scales. American graphic designer Clarence Hornung, for example, implored readers “to consider the trade-mark strictly as a poster 622 “Sie umfassen Millionenwerte, und es würde einen unersetzlichen Verlust am Nationalvermögen jedes Landes bedeuten, sollten sie aufhören zu bestehen…Ihr Ruf hat sich nicht nur zum Nutzten ihrer Urheber bewährt, sie haben auch für die Allgemeinheit unendlich viel Gutes gestiftet…Es darf daher nicht Wunder nehmen, wenn die Schutzmarken aller Länder sich allgemeiner Beliebtheit und Wertschätzung erfreuen.” Ibid. 623 “In richtige Erkenntnis ihres Wertes wurden die zur eindrucksvollen Marke geformten die Buchstaben AEG nicht nur in allen Reklamen dargeboten, sondern auch allen Erzeugnissen einverleibt, gleichviel ob es sich dabei um eine riesige Kraftmaschine oder eine winzige Glühlampe handelte.” Ibid. 257 problem in miniature,” 624 and quoted German designer Konrad Jochheim’s assertion that trademark designers “‘must be familiar with the requirements of poster expression…and must know how to translate this powerful energy into the miniature form of the trade- mark.’” 625 Advertising posters, like trademarks, were meant to be instantly perceptible, visually appealing, and highly memorable. In an article featuring designs by Schulpig, Walter Schubert stressed the importance of trademark design that could be not only easily reproduced on paper at different sizes, but also translated across many different kinds of materials, such as stone or metal (Fig. 5.7). 626 The importance of an easily reproducible and scalable trademark design was ultimately in the service of its mnemonic function. With regard to the form of the trademark, Hinkefuss named “austerity of form, powerful beauty and unusual novelty” as the essential traits of a successful trademark, ensuring that it can “imprint itself instantaneously and indelibly [on the mind of] the viewer.” 627 It was imperative, he insisted, that the trademark appear without fail on product packaging of all kinds. Trademarks should be formally simple in order to be easily reproduced, thereby optimizing their efficiency and memorability. Hinkefuss set up an equivalency between the printing of trademarks on paper and in the mind that would continue to be a powerful metaphor for German advertising designers. 624 Clarence P. Hornung, “Modernizing the Trade-Mark”, Advertising Arts (January 1930): 43. 625 Hornung, “The German Trade-Mark: A Work of Genius,” 40. 626 Schubert, “Karl Schulpig,” 154–56. 627 “Größte Knappheit der Form, kraftvolle Schönheit und eigenartige Erfindung sind die zu erfüllenden Voraussetzungen für jede gute Handelsmarke. Nur so gestaltet, wird sie sich dem Beschauer augenblicklich und unauslöschlich einprägen, nur so wird sie die Bedingungen erfüllen, die ihre vielartige Verwendung fordert, und die Möglichkeit, sie in jedem Material zu formen.” Deffke and Hinkefuss, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, n.p. 258 Hinkefuss’s narrative set an important precedent for subsequent graphic design manuals by characterizing the trademark as a device that speaks for itself. He pitched the trademark as a new image type that did not simply signify the value of a product or service, but which had its own agency, and thus an inherent value. The conceit of the book was as a primer on good trademark design, but its content concerned the social and cultural significance of the trademark. Consequently, the book modeled a way of talking about modern image forms—and graphic design in general—that substituted discussion of the value of graphics for descriptions of their form. By focusing only on the trademark’s cultural agency, Hinkefuss implied the visual suitability of Deffke’s trademark designs as entirely self-evident. The only clues to the formal qualities of an effective trademark were the sample designs themselves. Hinkefuss’s text established an idea crucial to modern commercial graphics: that economic, national, artistic, and affective “values” were one and the same, and that these values were condensed into the form of the trademark. As Deffke and Hinkefuss established Wilhelmwerk, the trademark was widely adopted by German corporations as a tool for what is now known as brand identity, later defined by Johannes Molzahn as the “optical-formal consistency of design.” Molzahn advocated the trademark as key to creating a comprehensive corporate design that “grows your advertising means beyond the constraints of time and of the consumer psyche.” 628 Trademarks not only created a visual corporate identity, they also served to differentiate consumer goods that might otherwise appear interchangeable. Frederic Schwartz has cited the trademark as an important and 628 “Die optische-formale Gestaltungskonsequenz, die Iren Werbemitteln aus der Gebundenheit der Zeit- und Verbrauchs-psyche erwächst....” Johannes Molzahn, Ökonomie der Reklame-Mechane (1926), n.p. 259 enduring byproduct of Typisierung, the concept of developing “types” of consumer products, which emerged before the First World War, promoted especially in the discourse of the Deutscher Werkbund. 629 Just before World War I, trademarks were increasingly used by corporations to represent a limited set of brands that consumers came to know and trust. 630 Trademark design was prioritized by major companies like Odol and the Allgemeine Elektrizitäts-Gesellschaft (AEG), Schwartz argues, over the design of new products themselves. These companies focused on creating simple and memorable trademarks that would appear on all advertisements and on products themselves, and products became “types” of a known brand. Schwartz notes that, increasingly, the trademark—rather than the formal or stylistic elements of a product’s design—carried its exchange value. This use of the trademark inaugurated the process of updating product design in order to “exploit a trademark effectively.” Schwartz has shown that the increasing prominence of the trademark accounts for the formal simplification of the design of products, often associated with optimizing “function,” as well as their schematic representation in advertisements and storefront displays. 631 Given the powerful function of 629 Typisierung represented one of two polarizing views among members of the Werkbund on how best to reconcile economic interests with formal aspects of design, a debate that drove deep a wedge between its members. These views were represented by Hermann Muthesius’s defense of the “type,” on the one hand, and Henry Van De Velde’s defense of “individuality” in design, on the other, at the Werkbund meeting in 1914. Schwartz, The Werkbund, 121–46. 630 Ibid, 130. In addition to the work of graphic designers for industrial firms, the idea of corporate branding was promoted in Germany by advertising psychologists, most notably Viktor Mataja and Hans Domizlaff. See Victor Mataja, Die Reklame: Eine Untersuchung über Ankündigungswesen und Werbetätigkeit im Geschäftsleben (Munich; Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1916); Hans Domizlaff, Typische Denkfehler der Reklamekritik (Verlag für Industrie-Kultur, 1929). See also, Holm Friebe, “Branding Germany: Hans Domizlaff’s Markentechnik and its Ideological Impact,” in Selling Modernity: Advertising in Twentieth-Century Germany, eds. Pamela E. Swett, S. Jonathan Wiesen, and Jonathan R. Zatlin (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007), 78–101. 631 Schwartz, The Werkbund, 130–35. 260 the trademark to represent a product and its manufacturer, the shop window need only display a schematic view of a brand-name product and its trademark. These displays could be visually simplified, and products displayed in memorable, abstract patterns rather than in a way that might suggest their purpose or demonstrate how they could be handled and used. According to Schwartz, the trademark was “more effective as the rendering of its carrier became less specific.” 632 In other words, the techniques of viewing engendered by montage, which allowed consumers to see trademarks as surrogates for commodities, became second nature through encounters with advertising and storefront window displays. Hinkefuss’s particular praise of the AEG’s trademark in the narrative of Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen underlines the development of the AEG’s brand identity as definitive for the nascent field of graphic design in Germany. In 1907, the same year that the Deutscher Werkbund was founded, the AEG hired architect and designer Peter Behrens as its in-house artistic consultant. 633 Behrens’s exhaustive branding of the AEG—which included the design of factory buildings, exhibition and storefront displays, stamps, brochures, advertising inters and posters, delivery trucks, product packaging, office stationery, and products manufactured by the AEG (such as clocks, switches, fans, and tea kettles)—was unified and anchored by the company’s trademark. In his suite of trademark designs in Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, Deffke offered his own version of Behrens’s 1908 AEG trademark, 634 an indication of Wilhelmwerk’s lofty ambitions (Fig. 5.8–9). The revision, along with Wilhelmwerk’s choice to set the text of the book in 632 Ibid, 138. 633 Tilmann Buddensieg and Henning Rogge, Industriekultur: Peter Behrens and the AEG, trans. Iain Boyd Whyte (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1984). 634 Ute Brüning, “The Book Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen,” in Wilhelm Deffke, 161. 261 Behrens Medieval, was also a nod to Deffke’s apprenticeship under Behrens, and a clear signal of the younger designer’s aspiration to outpace his mentor. The visual “simplicity” championed by Hinkefuss and Deffke implied formal abstraction and montage as fundamental techniques of trademark design. Trademarks were tasked with representing both a producer and product by creating a corporate brand, the function of which must be somewhat elusive in order to be effective; its form should evoke a set of intangible values, characteristics, and traits without being too literal as a graphic representation. Nowhere in his essay did Hinkefuss discuss the representational relationship between the form of a trademark and the product or manufacturer that it represents—between signifier and signified. Nor did he discuss the corporate trademarks used as examples in Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen as composite forms made from combining and schematizing letterforms and/or pictorial representations into new abstracted forms. Trademark designers explicitly favored formal simplicity, uniqueness, and reproducibility rather than a form that might elucidate what a particular company produced or how its products should be used. Deffke’s sample designs, which occupy forty-five pages of the book’s longer second section, titled “World Trademarks” (“Weltmarken”), evince abstraction and montage as fundamental techniques of trademark design. The first ten examples, which illustrate Hinkefuss’s narrative of the trademark as a descendent of ancient symbolic forms, are non-corporate symbols associated with German identity through religion, nobility, military and state institutions, science, and art. 635 The first symbol in this suite is 635 Ibid, 160. 262 the swastika, 636 described in the first line of Hinkefuss’s text as a “sacred sign” (“Heilzeichen”) of Aryan culture. 637 Like Hinkefuss, Deffke traced a clear lineage from these symbols to ones associated with contemporary institutions, beginning with two book publishers. These included Deffke’s signet design for Otto Elsner, created in 1912. 638 The remaining designs were reworked versions of existing corporate trademarks, including AEG, J.A. Henkels, Hansa und Brandenburgische Flugzeugwerke AG, Bogs & Voigt, and Siemens & Halske AG—a showcase not only of Deffke’s work as a designer but of the many steel and chemical manufacturing, transportation, and electrical firms established in Germany around the turn of the century (Fig. 5.10). Deffke’s designs followed an implicit visual formula, illuminating what Hinkefuss meant when he described the “austerity of form, powerful beauty and unusual novelty” of effective trademarks. Formally, this translated to one- or two-color images that used the white space of a page to add recognizable features or add minimal depth to otherwise flat and schematic images. Most incorporated only very simple, geometric shapes without much detail, rendered primarily through half-circular forms and right angles. They suggested representational forms primarily in outline or silhouette with select and sparse 636 Sherwin Simmons notes that Mana Tress, who worked as an assistant to Deffke, claimed that his reworked design of the swastika with thicker lines later became a prototype for the official emblem of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (Nazi Party). Tress was originally quoted in Steven Heller’s article, “Symbol of the Century,” in the January-February 1992 issue of Print. See Sherwin Simmons, “‘Hand to the Friend, Fist to the Foe’: The Struggle of Signs in the Weimar Republic,” Journal of Design History 13, no. 4 (2000): 336, n. 26. The emblem of the Nazi party and the swastika reproduced in Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen were both similarly oriented, but Deffke’s version was rotated forty-five degrees counter-clock-wise. 637 Deffke and Hinkefuss, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, unpaginated. In the copy of the book in the special collections of the Getty Research Institute, the first three lines of this text are blacked out, and the page on which Deffke’s rendering of the swastika appeared has been cut out of the book. A faint impression of the form remains on its facing page. These pages are reproduced as originally printed in Brüning, “The Book Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen,” 159. 638 Engelhard, “Developing Talents—Wilhelm Deffke’s Early Years in Berlin (1909-1914),” 40. 263 details articulated with basic shapes. Thick blocks and bands of color are continuous in most designs, dispensing almost completely with any thin lines, and therefore conducive to translation on a stamp or recognition on packaging that might wrap around a box and distort a trademark. 639 In an article praising German trademarks, Clarence Hornung described this quality of line as “a definite, bold retaining wall” surrounding a design. 640 There is variety among Deffke’s trademarks in terms of composition; some are closed (such as the encircled “M” for Manoli), some are open, and many combine the two. This combination makes certain trademarks appear dynamic and suggestive of movement, as in the Tego Glykol trademark for the chemical manufacturer Th. Goldschmidt AG (Fig. 5.11). Each of Deffke’s designs combined one or more pictorial forms, letterforms, or a combination thereof. The resulting composite images were radically abstracted or, as Deffke and his contemporaries claimed, “simplified.” Deffke’s “Winged B” trademark for Hansa und Brandenburgische Flugzeugwerke, for example, used black ink and negative white space to create a boldly-outlined letter “B” that morphs into the shape of a wing, signified both by its upward curve that mirrors the downward curves that constitute the eyes of the letter “B,” and by the small line protruding into the schematic outline of an aircraft wing (Fig. 5.12). In his trademark for Siemens & Halske, created only with letterforms, Deffke manipulated scale and orientation to intersect the letters “S” and “H” into a monogram that, like the Winged B, reads as simultaneously abstract and 639 Sherwin Simmons notes that the simplicity and thickness of line in Deffke’s emblem for the German Military Officers’ association—a composite image of a sword and anchor—“suggested a quality of authoritarian power” and was thus well suited to the economic centralization that followed Paul von Hindenburg’s 1916 declaration of “total war.” Simmons, “‘Hand to the Friend, Fist to the Foe’: The Struggle of Signs in the Weimar Republic,” 322. 640 Hornung, “The German Trade-Mark: A Work of Genius,” 39. 264 representational, linguistic and pictorial (Fig. 5.13). This simultaneity is key to the trademark’s legibility: a reader should be able to recognize its component parts, but at the same time, apprehend its form as novel and distinct. A degree of abstraction allows the trademark to be both recognizable and new, and to operate between verbal and visual modes of communication. The necessary relationship between the abstracted form and symbolic value of the trademark is implied in only one short passage of the book: Hinkefuss cautioned designers to beware of trademarks consisting of letters (Wortmarken), such as AEG, which may be difficult to distinguish in close proximity to other trademarks due to formal similarity of Wortbild or Wortklang—that is, if they looked or sounded too similar. 641 Apart from explicitly making the case for originality as crucial to a trademark’s success, this point also tacitly acknowledged that the crafting of a trademark involves crafting an abstract form—suggested by the term Wortbild—that becomes a meaningful symbol only through visual and verbal repetition. Not only should the trademark avoid mimetic representation of an existing object or place, it must assume a hybrid form that invokes an indirect association with a company, which is then reinforced and imprinted mentally as a consumer is exposed to the trademark repeatedly. The question of how the form of a trademark should relate to the product it represents loomed over interwar advertising discourse. In his influential treatise on German advertising, Das Deutsche Werbe-Graphik (1927), Walter Schubert wrote about the dual nature of representation in commercial illustration: 641 Hinkefuss offered the following examples: “AEG – NAG – MAG. HAPAG – BAMAG – DEMAG. ODOL – AMOL – SIDOL.” Deffke and Hinkefuss, Handelsmarken und Fabrikzeichen, n.p. 265 Before the eye of the beholder, the thousands of advertising-art pages…can be divided into two large groups: the purely graphic, horizontally recorded, and pictorially constructed representations / Both conceptions have their full reason to exist side by side; those in which it seeks to illustrate technical details—the desirability and precision of a tool, gear, or the like; and those, when it comes to showing a construction in its entirety, in use or adapting to the environment… The graphic line permits the enhancement of characteristics much more than does the tonal surface / a connecting rod, for example, or a sprocket, to a far greater extent than the toned surface: every detail must be rendered with a razor-sharp line. 642 Schubert proposed that different representational modalities—what he referred to as “graphic” and “pictorial”—each had their own discrete uses in advertising design, depending on the purpose of a printed piece. He argued that the “graphic line” was best suited to depicting the detailed parts of machinery, as in a business prospectus illustration. The advertising poster, on the other hand, was better suited to “showing a construction in its entirety,” and therefore required less formal precision. Clarence Hornung similarly offered his own parameters for trademark design, warning against “complex structure,” “realism,” and “thin lines and gray tones” to ensure that a trademark was easily recognized and faithfully reproduced. 643 Evoking contemporary methods of experimental perceptual psychology, he proposed a two-part test 642 “Vor dem Auge des Betrachters scheiden sich die Tausende von Werbe-Kunstblättern...in zwei große Gruppen: in die rein graphisch, flächig erfassten und in die malerisch aufgebauten Darstellungen / Beide Auffassungen haben ihre volle Daseinsberechtigung nebeneinander; jene, wo es such darum handelt, technische Einzelheiten—die Zweckmäßigkeit und Präzision eines Werkzeugs, eines Zahnrades oder ähnliches zu veranschaulichen; diese, wenn es gilt, eine Konstruktion in ihrer Gesamtheit, in ihrer Verwendung oder in ihrer Anpassung an die Umwelt zu... Die graphische Linie gestattet eben in weit höherem Maße als die tonige Fläche die Heraushebung des Charakteristischen / Eine Pleuelstange etwa oder ein Zahnkranz: da muss jede Einzelheit mit messerscharfem Strich wiedergegeben werden.” Schubert, Das Deutsche Werbe- Graphik, 107. 643 Hornung, “Modernizing the Trade-Mark,” 43. 266 for assessing a trademark’s effectiveness, which he called the “double rule of five.” 644 First, he suggested placing a trademark printed at the size of a postage stamp five feet away. The trademark should be recognizable and legible at this distance. Ellwood similarly stressed the importance of the trademark’s visibility from afar, praising the visibility of Selfridge’s trademark at a distance of five-hundred yards. 645 To test a trademark’s “appropriateness to the subject at hand,” Hornung continued, a five-year-old child should be able to understand it as the symbol of a firm or product. 646 Like Hinkefuss and Deffke thirteen years prior, Hornung emphasized that trademarks should be visually striking, distinctive, recognizable, memorable, and should appear on a variety of printed matter associated with a particular firm or product represented. 647 However, Hornung also grappled explicitly with the hybrid nature of trademarks as visual-verbal composites. He stipulated that the “trade-mark may be either (1) a commercial name for a firm or its products…or (2) a mark, sign, symbol, or device” or a combination of the two. 648 Like many of his contemporaries, most of the language Hornung used to describe the ideal form of the trademark was strikingly non-visual: “it must ring true and clear,” he wrote, “terse and epigrammatic, the mark should display a singleness of purpose, and its entire design must be reduced to a least common multiple of thought.” 649 Tellingly, he used sonic, linguistic, and even mathematical metaphors to describe what trademarks should look like. These descriptions betray the complex and 644 Hornung, “Modernizing the Trade-Mark,” 43–44. 645 Ellwood, “Trade Marks That Tell,” 50–51. 646 Hornung, “Modernizing the Trade-Mark,” 44. 647 Ibid, 42–45. 648 He also suggested that “trade names” should be distinguished from trademarks, acknowledging (and perhaps even disparaging) that the term “trademark” encapsulated both linguistic and pictorial signs. Ibid, 42. 649 Ibid, 43. 267 discursive nature of the trademark as a symbolic amalgamation of linguistic and visual signification. Superficially, the trademark stood for a commodity and/or its maker, but more importantly, it represented a set of ideas and associations that corporations used to imbue products with intangible value in the minds of consumers. Teaching by Pictures: Sachbild and the Vienna Method of Pictorial Statistics In 1925, Otto Neurath founded the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, 650 where a cohort of economists, architects, draftsmen, exhibition and costume designers, bookbinders, graphic artists, and typographers developed the Vienna Method of Pictorial Statistics. 651 The Vienna Method—later known as Isotype 652 —was a system for communicating dense information and unwieldy statistics in pictorial form, in an effort to translate information gathered by specialists into a universally legible visual language. Using the Vienna Method, the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum produced, exhibited, and circulated images now known as infographics (including charts, graphs, maps, and other forms of graphic display) (Fig. 5.14). The infographic combined minimal 650 The Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum was converted from the short-lived Museum für Siedlung- und Städtebau, where prototypes for Vienna Method of Pictorial Statistics were developed between 1923 to 1924. Christopher Burke, “The Gesellschaft- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Wien, 1925-34,” in Isotype, 21–28. Christopher Burke notes that the Museum’s new name may have come from Max Weber’s 1922 book, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft, in which Weber cited Neurath. Ibid, 29, n. 28. 651 Neurath’s most notable collaborators at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum included Marie Neurath, Gerd Arntz, Josef Frank, as well as Edith Matzalik, Bruno Zuckerman, Josef Scheer, Fritz Jahnel, Erwin Bernath, and Friedrich Bauermeister. Nader Vossoughian, “The Modern Museum in the Age of its Mechanical Reproducibility: Otto Neurath and the Museum of Society and Economy in Vienna,” in European Modernism and the Information Society, 241–56. 652 Isotype stands for: International System of Typographic Picture Education. The acronym ISOTYPE was coined by Marie Neurath in 1935. Frank Hartmann, “Visualizing Social Facts: Otto Neurath’s ISOTYPE Project,” in European Modernism and the Information Society, 286, n. 5. 268 text and images, and eventually became a staple of non-commercial visual communication after World War II. 653 The basic building block of the infographic was the pictogram, an image type intended to convey meaning through its visual resemblance to a referent. At the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum, the pictogram was commonly known as the Sachbild, literally “object picture,” which translates more accurately as “visual fact.” In an unpublished typescript describing the Vienna Method titled, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode” (“Basics of Method”), Neurath explained the Sachbild as, “an unmistakable and generally understandable statement of fact.” 654 This description said much more about the intended use of the pictogram than about its formal components or process of its design. It was meant to convey purely factual information and to be read uniformly by anyone, regardless of verbal literacy. In an article for Commercial Art, Jan Tschichold reiterated the aims of the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum unequivocally: “the most important thing in the work of the museum is the systematic emphasis laid on essentials, and expressed in pictorial symbols universally intelligible, valid as international currency.” 655 Tschichold and Neurath shared not only a lofty ambition to design “universally 653 Graphic design manuals and textbooks typically include infographics as a major category of visual communication. See, for example, Edward R. Tufte, Visual Explanations: Images and Quantities, Evidence and Narrative (Cheshire, CT: Graphics Press, 1997); Dona M. Wong, The Wall Street Journal guide to information graphics: the dos and don’ts of presenting data, facts, and figures (New York: W. W. Norton, 2010). 654 “Der Charakter des Sachbildes ist: einen Tatbestand unmissverständlich und allgemeinverständlich ausdrücken.” Otto Neurath, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode” (“Basics of Method”), c. 1929-1930, unpublished typescript. Box 3.1/1-14. Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. The attribution and approximate dating of the typescript is according to the recollection of Marie Neurath, from whom the Isotype Collection was gifted to the University of Reading after her husband’s death in 1945. 655 Jan Tschichold, “Statistics in Pictures,” Commercial Art (September 1931): 114. 269 intelligible” visual communication, but equally, a propensity for stating utopian aims as self-evident, foregone conclusions. These commonalities have safeguarded the staying power of both figures in the history of graphic design. The Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum aimed to educate the widest possible audience, particularly the working class, on social issues related to housing and home furnishing, health, economics, employment, politics, modern science, and education. Neurath explicitly envisioned the Museum as a “teaching museum…a schoolbook on a grand scale” rather than as a “technical museum, the objective of which is to show and explain the achievements of the human intellect insofar as they reveal themselves in machines and tools.” 656 It is easy to accept Neurath’s claims to the objectivity of the pictogram given its enduring ubiquity on signage, in newspapers, in classrooms and textbooks, and as digital tools ranging from desktop icons to smartphone emojis. Graphic design historian Christopher Burke has insisted that pictograms developed at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum were icons rather than symbols, because they were intended to “directly depict the objects they represent.” 657 Yet a clean distinction between icon and symbol diminishes the importance of formal abstraction to the Vienna Method— and the pictogram as an enduring graphic convention—and obscures the trial-and-error process of the Vienna Method. Despite being representational, pictograms required a degree of abstraction and relied on new symbolic relationships in order to be standardized and reproducible. I argue that, like the trademark, the pictogram was from its inception, an image type that necessarily trafficked between iconicity and symbolism. 656 Otto Neurath, Denkschrift (1925) in Burke, “The Gesellschaft- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Wien, 1925-34,” 30–31. 657 Burke, “Introduction,” Isotype, 17. 270 Expanding on his definition of the Sachbild in an article for Die Form, Neurath wrote: “A good factual image should make a fact generally understandable, be it an apartment, a machine, a house, an animal, a city, the social structure of a people, the economic structure of the world, or anything else that can be represented visually.” 658 The range of entities included even in this short list is emblematic of both the ambition of Neurath’s system as well as the conceptual complexity of the Sachbild as a visual convention. If a “fact” could be as concrete as an animal or as intangible as social structure, a corresponding visual sign would have to combine recognizable forms with abstract elements in order to create a new, comprehensive formal code that could be universally applied and understood. The Vienna Method thus proposed that virtually everything “can be represented visually” and communicated plainly through graphic convention. Much of Neurath’s published writing on the Sachbild focused on its general usefulness as a didactic tool that has potential to transform modern education. 659 In a series of articles for the Deutscher Werkbund journal, Die Form, published in 1930 and 1931, he argued that “pictorial education” (“Bildhafte Pädagogik”), like the advertising 658 “Ein gutes Sachbild soll einen Tatbestand allgemeinverständlich zum Bewußtsein bringen, sei dies nun eine Wohnung, eine Maschine, ein Haus, ein Tier, eine Stadt, di soziale Gliederung eines Volkes, die wirtschaftliche Struktur der Welt oder sonst etwas, das sich bildhaft darstellen lässt.” Otto Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” Die Form 5, no. 2 (15 January 1930): 29. 659 Neurath envisioned public exhibitions and school classrooms as the primary venues for promoting widespread use of pictorial statistics. In an unpublished typescript, he described the use of pictograms and infographics developed at the Museum at a Viennese school for boys. See Neurath, “Bericht über die Verwendung der Bildstatistik an der Knabehauptschule Schweglerstrasse” (“Report on the use of pictorial statistics at the main school for boys on Schweglerstrasse”), c. 1929-1930, unpublished typescript. Box 3.1/1-14. Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. He was evidently invested in how pictorial statistics could be integrated into modern pedagogy, and frequently cited children’s books and classrooms among the Vienna Method’s most important applications. See, for example: Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” 34. 271 poster, deserved international recognition as an essential category of modern design. 660 He advocated for infographics as devices essential to modern communication, which should be as ubiquitous as well-designed advertisements, houses, and books. 661 In making this case, he also distinguished the usefulness of pictograms and infographics from commercial graphics: whereas each advertising poster must necessarily stand out and compete with others for attention, pictograms were meant to complement one another in a comprehensive “system of education,” thereby necessitating standardization. 662 In keeping with contemporary advertising and experimental psychology, Neurath believed that images were more impactful and memorable than text. Like László Moholy- Nagy and the New Typographers, Neurath advocated for images as tools inherently well suited to efficient communication based on the unique power of visual media. He wrote: Our age might be known as the age of the eye. Modern democracy began with speech, with the press, with the book. Today, the cinema, the advertising poster, the illustrated magazine, and the exhibition have become powerful. Those who want to communicate something quickly do so most effectively using optical means. 663 660 Otto Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” Die Form 5, no. 2 (15 January 1930): 29–35; Otto Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” Die Form 6, no. 6 (15 June 1931): 219–25. 661 This was stated as a direct appeal to the Deutscher Werkbund to support the adoption of the Vienna Method and its conventions in non-commercial design: “Die Qualität der Sachbilder würde sicher gewinnen, wenn eine Stelle von öffentlichem Einfluss sich um sie systematisch kümmerte. Hier hätte der Werkbund einzugreifen. Er betreut Tisch, Topf, Teppich, Bucheinband, Zigarettenschachtel, Auto, Haus, Stadt, Ausstellung und Reklameplakat. Warum soll er sich nicht auch um der Sachbild kümmern?” Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” 29. 662 “Ein Sachbild kann man neben ein anderes hängen; sie wollen einander nicht stören. Ein Reklameplakat dagegen strebt nach Alleinherrschaft. Der Versuch, Straßenreklame bändigen und Normen zu wollen, widerspricht dem Sinn der heute herrschenden kaufmännischen Konkurrenz, Sachbilder dagegen können einander ergänzen, —alle zusammen sing ein System der Aufklärung. Hier kommt internationale Normung in Frage.” Ibid. 663 “Unser Zeitalter wird vielleicht einmal das Zeitalter des Auges genannt werden. Die moderne Demokratie begann mit der Rede, mit der Presse, mit dem Buch. Heute sind das Kino, das Reklameplakat, das illustrierte Magazin, die Ausstellung mächtig geworden. Wer der Mensch rasch etwas mitteilen will, bedient sich am wirksamsten optischen Mittel.” Ibid. 272 Though he echoed Moholy-Nagy’s claim, in 1925, to the supremacy of visual experience in modern life, Neurath also recognized that visual communication was not new. 664 Indeed, his papers evidence his interest in ancient forms of writing, medieval mapmaking, children’s drawings, and pictorial communication in non-Western cultures (Fig. 5.15). 665 He called infographics a “a new hieroglyphic script,” which converted “signs to schematic illustrations…to carefully selected object-photos [Sachfotos].” 666 Citing ancient and “primitive” forms of pictorial communication as precedents, he positioned the Vienna Method as a system that harnessed the inherently human impulse toward visual communication, modernized through standardization. 667 Just as trademarks were anthropomorphized in defense of their charm and honesty, Neurath situated infographics as deeply human. By comparing the non-photographic Sachbild to the Sachfoto, Neurath defended the immediacy of the schematic form of the pictogram as analogous to the photographic image. He regarded both as visual facts that dispensed with all extraneous detail or association. In both his published and unpublished writing, Neurath discussed the actual design 664 See László Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film (Munich: Albert Langen Verlag, 1925). 665 Neurath’s collection of papers includes historical maps, scientific charts, and articles on ancient and non-Western forms of pictorial communication, as well as articles on contemporary trends in visual education, data visualization, and the uses of images and films in exhibitions and classrooms. Box 3.1/1–14. Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. 666 “Eine neue Hieroglyphenschrift entsteht, Zeichen werden geschaffen, je einfacher, um so besser...Es ist wichtig, von den Zeichen zu schematischen Abbildungen hinüberzuführen, von diesen zu sorgsam ausgewählten Sachfotos.” Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” 31–32. 667 “Manchmal kann man auch von älteren Versuchen lernen, insbesondere auch von gewissen Darstellungsweisen primitiver Völker und aus Kinderzeichnungen.” Ibid., 33. The parallel claim that all graphic design is rooted in prehistoric forms of pictorial writing has been used to posit the modern practice as fundamental to the progress of humanity. Most notably, this was how Philip Meggs framed the first-ever attempt at a comprehensive history of graphic design, first published in 1983. See Philip Meggs and Alston W. Purvis, A History of Graphic Design (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 2005 [1983]). 273 of the Sachbild in a manner that goes further in revealing his own struggle to describe the Vienna Method in formal terms than in actually explaining its aesthetic. He repeatedly wrote about the need to dispense with naturalistic representation, and instead, to distill each Sachbild down to “a minimum of features,” 668 in order to ensure ease of reading and reproducibility. Like the New Typographers, Neurath understood simplified form as synonymous with visual clarity and legibility. He also insisted that the Sachbild must be collectively designed, reflecting a consensus perspective rather than the style of any individual designer. Unlike advertisements, these images were to avoid specificity of both designer and representation. 669 A pictogram of a house was not any particular house, rendered in a specific style, but rather the definitive “visual fact” of the archetypal house. International Picture Language Neurath’s most comprehensive account of the principles of the Vienna Method was published as International Picture Language in 1936. 670 By way of introducing the system now known as Isotype, Neurath declared that, “…pictures, whose details are clear to everybody, are free from the limits of language; they are international. WORDS MAKE DIVISION, PICTURES MAKE CONNECTION.” 671 Like Tschichold in Die Neue Typographie (1928), Neurath promoted the Vienna Method as internationally legible by 668 “Aber nun fragt es sich, wie sollen solch entsprechende Zeichen gestaltet werden. Soll man die Gegenstände möglichst naturalistisch wiedergeben oder wird der Sinn der Aufklärung am besten erreicht, wenn man mit einem Mindestmaß an Merkmalen auskommt.” Neurath, “Das Sachbild,” 30–31. 669 “Die Versuche, zu vereinfachten Normen vorzudringen, können sich nur auf wenig Grafiker stützen. Die Meister der Reklame sind nicht immer bereit, diesen Formungen ihr Augenmerk zuzuwenden, die weniger auffallend sind und vor allem letzten Endes nur durch Kollektivarbeit entstehen können.” Neurath, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode.” 670 Otto Neurath, International Picture Language: The First Rules of Isotype (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co., 1936). 671 Ibid, 18. 274 invoking the scientifically proven attention-value and memory-value of “simple” design, which excluded “unnecessary details.” 672 He wrote: “The value of teaching by pictures is that facts are put before the mind in a simple, straightforward way and are kept in the memory.” 673 He elaborated this claim, casting effective pictograms as optical and psychological devices: The purpose of teaching-pictures is to have an effect on the mind. The distribution of signs and colours over the plane of the picture has to be made in such a way that the attention is guided to certain points that have to be looked at first. That is like the selection of words in a discussion or in a book, like the weight put on words in talking or in reading. If a word is printed w i d e r you will give it more attention, as when one word is said louder than another. 674 Like Tschichold, Neurath described reading as a procedure that logically followed a hierarchy of information, made clear to the reader through form on a page: “At the first look you see the most important points, at the second, the less important points, at the third, the details, at the fourth, nothing more—if you see more, the teaching-picture is bad.” 675 In this description, reading a pictogram effectively reverses the procedure of producing it, implicating montage as a tacit principle of perception that requires the reader to construct meaning through ordered looking. Neurath implied the consumption of the Vienna Method as key to understanding the guiding principles of its production: By noting the ordered procedure of reading a pictorial sign, he suggested, the viewer learns about how its form embeds and orders information. In practice, the “simplification” of the Sachbild entailed drawing on old visual codes and creating new ones in order to facilitate the easy, quick recognition of visual 672 Ibid, 27. 673 Ibid, 27–28. 674 Ibid, 62. 675 Ibid, 27. 275 information on a chart, diagram, or map. Although he emphasized that pictograms should be legible whether printed in black and white or in color, 676 Neurath repeatedly referred to the color coding of various kinds of pictorial representation, especially in drawing visual contrast between different people, places, and things. Evidently, by the mid-1930s, the simple color coding that began with the Vienna Method was codified as a standardized set of colors to be used for pictograms and infographics (Fig. 5.16). 677 Abstract raster patterns were designed to depict and differentiate topography as well as profession (Fig. 5.17–21). As other graphic designers exploited the halftone raster as both an abstract and representational form, designers at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum similarly experimented with raster patterns as an alternately recognizable form and as a pattern that appeared to recede into the background. Some raster patterns related visually to what they represented, such as pictograms signifying a forest, dappled with recognizable tree-like forms (Fig. 5.22). However, most were purely abstract, and thus required context and trained viewing in order to be legible. Despite Neurath’s insistence on the Sachbild as the clearest visual statement of fact, both written and visual evidence betray the true complexity of formal “simplification” according to the Vienna Method. This is apparent in his unpublished “Basics of Method” typescript, best understood as a reflection on the early development of 676 “Bei der Bestimmung einer Signatur wird es jedoch auch wichtig sein, dass das Zeichen auch in der Schwarz-weisswiedergabe, wann es der symbolische Wert der Farbe nicht unterstützt, durchaus verständlich bleibt.” (“When determining a signature, however, it will also be important that the sign remains perfectly understandable in black and white, when it does not support the symbolic value of the color.”) Neurath, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode.” 677 “Standard Colors of Isotype Pictures,” undated chart (c. 1936). Box 3.2/1–12. Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. 276 the Vienna Method at the end of its first five years. Emphasizing the importance of excluding extraneous visual detail from the form of the Sachbild, Neurath wrote: Image pedagogy is therefore the method in which only as much can be seen in the images as is stated. Of course, this purpose influences the design of the factual image considerably. It is obvious that naturalistic representations are out of the question. The Sachbild is the sum of the characteristics of a fact reduced to the essentials. 678 Here he described design both as a process of aggregation and reduction, suggesting that—unlike naturalistic representation—the pictogram resulted from carefully scrutinizing exactly how many characteristics must be present in a form for a given “fact” to be recognizable. Any more details and the form would be too specific; any less, and it would be illegible as an iconic sign. Extant process material from the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum makes visible the design of pictograms as a dual process of aggregation and reduction. As Otto Neurath, Marie Neurath, Gerd Arntz, and their colleagues developed the Vienna Method in the late 1920s and early 1930s, they compiled books mounted with linocut-printed pictograms, bound and organized alphabetically by subject, like a visual dictionary (Fig. 5.23). 679 Their pages reveal the development of each pictogram as a trial-and-error process. Different versions of each pictogram test the conditions and limits of legibility through experimentation with color, scale, perspective, and line. These mockups evince 678 “Bildpädagogik ist also jene Methode, in der auf den Bildern nur soviel zu sehen ist, als ausgesagt wird. Natürlich beeinflusst dieser Zweck die Gestaltung des Sachbildes erheblich. Es liegt auf der Hand, dass naturalistische Darstellungen nicht in Frage kommen. Das Sachbild ist die auf das Wesentliche reduzierte Summe der Charakteristika eines Tatbestandes.” Neurath, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode.” 679 These pictogram designs were made or overseen by Gerd Arntz. The books are now unbound, organized and housed in ten boxes in the Isotype Collection: “Isotype 4/1 – 4/10 Symbols.” Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. 277 Neurath’s aspirations to standardize the pictogram as a universally legible pictorial language, and the more nuanced principles of the Vienna Method in practice. The process of standardization evidently necessitated variability. Each subject occupied at least one page, sometimes several, depicted in a variety of different ways. Although they were created to show the flexibility of the Sachbild in conveying the same, basic information regardless of color or scale, these mockups also reveal the ambiguity of the subject categories identified by the Vienna Method. The subject “Arbeiter” (“Worker”), for example, includes three pages of pictograms (Fig. 5.24). 680 The depiction of different figures suggest a number of visual interpretations of the idea of a “worker;” some wear flat caps and stand in a statuesque pose, while others carry tools and appear to perform heavy manual labor. The category “Angestellter” (“employees’ or “clerks”), by contrast, includes figures reading, operating a cash register, and using a telephone, some donning suit jackets and homburg hats to signify white-collar status (Fig. 5.25). These details are conveyed only in silhouette or through minimal lines, giving contour to their otherwise geometric, unarticulated bodies. While these images are identifiable through resemblance, they also operate as symbols, relying on convention for a reader to understand the difference between the representations of blue- and white-collar workers. Overall, figures were simplified as much as possible, some comprising only of a stack of rectangles and circles combined to form the vague outline of a human form (Fig. 5.26–27). Neurath wrote in the unpublished typescript: “The degree of possible simplification will often be determined by the type of comparison.” 681 When a chart 680 These pages are found in: Box 4/1, Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. 681 “Der Grad der möglichen Vereinfachung wird oft durch die Art der Gegenüberstellung gegeben sein.” Neurath, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode.” 278 referred to whole populations of people, the most basic human form was used, while charts that differentiated information according to gender, ethnicity, or occupation had added detail. Depictions of women, for example, included the addition of the silhouette of a skirt. The visual encyclopedia compiled at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum also demonstrates how certain visual elements could make a pictogram appear more detailed but might not be strictly necessary for visual recognition. Three pages of pictograms depicting “woman,” for example, include depictions that articulate an apron over a dress or a particular hairstyle, but the more simplified versions show that gender is distinguishable by an outline or silhouette (Fig. 5.28). Pictograms that stood for inanimate objects show how little visual detail separated an abstract form from a visually recognizable one. Three pages depicting the subject “Fabrik” (“factory”), for example, include several red forms made up of rectangular grids topped with two or three vertical lines. The lines only read as smokestacks, and the grids as buildings, with the addition of the subject name and other forms that appear on the same page (Fig. 5.29). The most legible of these variations are those that include an amorphous form connected to the top of the vertical lines, signifying a cloud of smoke. Similarly, pictograms representing “Brot” (“bread”) and “Wohnung” (“dwelling place” or “apartment”) are virtually unrecognizable out of context (Fig. 5.30–31). Their legibility as “visual facts” depends entirely on their placement in a chart, graph, or diagram in relation to other pictograms and in combination with minimal verbal text. The grammar of the infographic thus renders pictograms legible as a visual language. Starting in 1926, designers at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum began using collage, in combination with paint, to create pictograms that could be reproduced at 279 different sizes and in various colors as linoleum-cut prints. 682 A chart published in Der Aufbau in 1926, and again in Die Quelle in 1927, addresses the technique of developing pictograms according to the Vienna Method: “For the most part, the scissor-cut silhouette is used in order to ensure the unity of the area of color that is essential to achieve the desired effect. The letter-like character of the pictograms becomes clearly visible” (Fig. 5.32). 683 This process is evident in pictogram mockups attributed to Marie Neurath and Gerd Arntz, whose style came to define that of the materials produced according to the Vienna Method (Fig. 5.33–38). 684 These extant mockups show how pictograms were developed through meticulous measurement and sketching, as well as using collage and painting, creating outlines and silhouettes in black paint and then using white paint to smooth out any irregularities in line weight. These multimedia mockups then became templates for linoleum-cut prints, pulled in a variety of colors. Paradoxically, it was through this painstaking and highly tactile process that Arntz and his colleagues developed images that, when printed, erased all visual traces of an artist’s hand. This process was also meant to ensure that “the performance of the individual [designer] cannot be clearly distinguished,” in Neurath’s words. 685 As with the tradition of drawing letterforms by 682 In the Museum’s first year, Robin Kinross notes, “pictograms [were] drawn in ink” and “some cut from paper,” yielding “comparatively realistic” representations. Kinross, “The graphic formation of Isotype, 1925-40,” in Isotype, 126. 683 “Es wird hauptsächlich Scherenschnitt verwendet, der Einheitlichkeit der Farbflächen sichert, die für Wirkung recht wesentlich ist. Der schriftartige Charakter der Zeichen wird deutlich sichtbar.” My translation differs slightly from the one by Robin Kinross. Ibid, 146. 684 Extant process material by Marie Neurath is dated c. 1934-35, and process material by Arntz dated c. 1934-39, are located in Box 3.2 and Box 4.10, respectively, Otto and Marie Neurath Isotype Collection, Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, University of Reading. Though some of these mockups were likely produced after the emigration of the Neuraths and Arntz from Austria, they are excellent examples of the way collage, paint, and pencil were used to develop pictograms at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum between 1926 and 1934. 685 “Die Leistung eines einzelnen lässt sich nicht deutlich abheben.” Neurath, “Grundsätzliches zur Methode.” 280 hand, the mark of true skill in achieving the “letter-like character of the pictograms” was how they translated an artisanal process into standardized, repeatable form. Montage is not only a useful term in describing pictograms as both iconic and symbolic forms developed through collage, painting, drawing, and printmaking. It is also useful in understanding how pictograms were combined in infographics to visually convey information and data. In 1936, Neurath wrote: “The ISOTYPE picture language is not a sign-for-sign parallel of a word language. It is a language that can be put into words in very different ways. The units of the picture language have different senses when they are in different positions.” 686 Like an alphabet, pictograms were assigned meaning only when placed in relation to one another in a “language picture,” be it a chart, graph, or map. 687 Moreover, he acknowledged that infographics accrued meaning as a “complete picture,” and not simply by placing pictograms in proximity to one another. “Like words,” he wrote, “they are used again and again to make quite different statements.” 688 Despite Neurath’s insistence that infographics function like textual language, it is worth considering how they function differently as composite, visual wholes that amalgamate text and images fragments—that is to say, as montage. While, as Neurath claimed, pictograms accrue meaning through their positioning in relation to one another, like letters in a word or words in a sentence, there is significantly more freedom in how the space of an infographic can be used to organize pictograms as information. This is evident in the variety of types of infographics produced at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum. While some organized pictograms on a map, their position signifying 686 Neurath, International Picture Language, 18. 687 Ibid, 19. 688 Ibid. 281 a product or people corresponding to a particular place, others like charts and graphs operating with their own, internal spatial logic (Fig. 5.39). Pictograms also appeared not only side-by-side in an infographic but were sometimes printed one over another to signify composite representation. Neurath’s book, International Picture Language (1936), offered simple examples, such as combining a pictogram representing “shoe” with others to signify “shoe-works, “shoes produced by machine,” and “shoes produced by handwork” (Fig. 5.40). 689 Similarly, the “worker” pictogram could be combined with other symbols to signify a particular type of labor, or mode of production of a given product (Fig. 5.41). 690 Pictograms and composite pictograms were combined in myriad ways to convey information about economics, health, history, natural science, and the military, among many other subjects. Importantly, infographics at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum were intended to represent a collective view—a self-consciously egalitarian image of the world and the many facets of modern life as an amalgam available to any and all beholders. As a form of montage, the infographic retained elements of both factual and fantastical representation. This is an aspect of visual communication at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum that is difficult to recover, because the Vienna Method has served as a touchstone among graphic designers as an example of the visual representation of pure fact. Beyond the facts and figures that emerged from empirical study, these images represent the utopian fantasy underlying the entire project of the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum: the dreams of universal communication and understanding; of a total worldview beyond cultural difference or bias; and of a world free of the need for either 689 Ibid, 51. 690 Ibid, 53. 282 national borders or linguistic translation. These utopian aspirations are foundational to the profession of graphic design, which has continued to reiterate the efficacy of simple, clear, legible, and reproducible form in transcending the boundaries of language, culture, and geography to communicate ideas and information to every possible reader. Yet, as Neurath recognized, graphic design necessitates both the aggregation and reduction of information—a circuitous process of compressing an unwieldy accumulation of ideas and associations into forms that readers learn to recognize and interpret through repeated encounter. While we are expected, as readers, to respond uniformly to graphic conventions, individual subjectivity constantly proves this to be impossible. Whether intended or not, all forms of montage invite multiple interpretations by combining “extreme fantasy with extreme sobriety,” to borrow Franz Roh’s phrase. 691 As an enduring example, the infographic is a symbolic convention that embodies a profession founded on the dream of universal communication for a universal reader. It is only fitting, then, that it privileged abstracted form placed in unfixed space over naturalism in attempting to communicate pure, unmediated facts. Even as he promoted the universal legibility of pictograms and infographics, Neurath was aware of the impossibility of this goal. 692 The legacy of the Vienna Method has nevertheless perpetuated an enduring, utopian belief in standardized communication among graphic designers. As refugees fleeing Vienna under Nazi occupation, Otto and 691 “Nichts kann so deutlich die völlige Durchdringung der beiden großen Wesenheiten neuester Kunst zeigen: äußerste Phantastik bei äußerste Nüchternheit, freiestes Komponieren bei Wirklichkeitsabklatsch, kubistische Schachtelung bei barem Abbild.” Franz Roh, Nach- Expressionismus: Magischer Realismus, Probleme der neuesten europäischen Malerei (After Expressionism: Magical Realism, Problems of Recent European Painting) (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1925), 46. 692 Burke, “Introduction,” in Isotype, 16. 283 Marie Neurath established the International Foundation for Visual Education in The Hague in 1934, and eventually founded the Isotype Institute in Oxford in 1942. These successors of the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum propagated the Vienna Method not only in the Netherlands and Britain, but also in North America, the Soviet Union, Ghana, and Nigeria during World War II and after. Today, the use of pictorial signs is simultaneously commonplace and contested. Although it is difficult to establish a direct connection between the Vienna Method and the pictograms that remain ubiquitous as way-finding and safety devices on traffic signage and in public spaces, graphic designers have proudly claimed the Vienna Method as a source of their profession’s civic necessity. 693 Like the trademark, pictograms and infographics have endured ostensibly for their visual efficiency. As omnipresent signs, they have also ensured that techniques of montage have come to seem as natural as reading photographic halftones. 693 This is evident in the majority of extant scholarship on the Vienna Method, which has been dominated by practicing designers. This was largely prompted by the donation of Otto Neurath’s papers to the University of Reading’s Department of Typography and Graphic Communication, which remains one of the largest repositories of material from the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in the world. 284 CHAPTER 6 Typophoto and the Professionalization of Graphic Design at the Munich Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker (1927 – 1932) “There is no doubt that the graphic culture of the future will make a far greater use of photography than today. Photography will be as expressive of our age as the woodcut was of the Middle Ages. For this reason it is absolutely necessary for every graphic professional, even today, to develop creatively all the techniques of photography and reproduction as far as possible and prepare them for the higher demands that will surely be made of them in the near future.” 694 —Jan Tschichold The emergence of New Typography between 1925 and 1930 corresponded with the accelerated professionalization of graphic design in Germany. “Design,” in the modern sense, is typically defined by the separation of concept from production, bracketing the conceptual work of graphic design from the labor of printing. 695 However, in her study of the professionalization of graphic design in the United States, Ellen Mazur Thomson has shown that this was also a process of consolidating a heterogeneous set of techniques, terms, traditions, and disciplines into a single field. 696 In response to a growing demand for mass-circulated commercial graphics in Weimar Germany, the practices of typography, book design, advertising design, printing, art directing, commercial 694 Jan Tschichold, The New Typography: A Handbook for Modern Designers, trans. Ruari McLean (Berkeley; Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995 [1928]), 95. 695 In the context of graphic design history, see for example, Stephen Eskilson, Graphic Design: A New History (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007); Richard Hollis, Graphic Design, A Concise History (London: Thames and Hudson, 2001 [1994]); Paul Jobling and David Crowley, Graphic Design: Reproduction and Representation since 1800 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996). 696 See Ellen Mazur Thomson, The Origins of Graphic Design in America: 1870-1920 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 1–7. Johanna Drucker has similarly described the founding of graphic design as a modern field in terms of its consolidation: “The establishment of professional organizations, publications, and curricula in the early twentieth century consolidated graphic design’s distinct identity.” Johanna Drucker, “Philip Meggs and Richard Hollis: Models of Graphic Design History,” Design and Culture 1, no. 1 (2009): 53. 285 photography, and layout were subsumed into the field that became known as Gebrauchsgraphik. The closest German equivalent to ‘graphic design,’ this term came into common use at least by the end of World War I. By the mid-1920s, it had mostly collapsed a variety of terms applied to specific print mediums, including Schriftkunst, Buchkunst, Plakatkunst, and Reklamekunst. 697 The modern Gebrauchsgraphiker was expected to have expertise in calligraphy, book art, poster art, and advertising design—a set of skills that connected the long history of fine book printing to modern advertising. Importantly, in the 1920s Gebrauchsgraphik was also frequently translated as “commercial art,” which became indistinguishable from “graphic design” as the field matured under Western capitalism. 698 The professional consolidation of Gebrauchsgraphik included graphic arts education reform. Modern printing technology not only made the production of printed matter easier, faster, and cheaper, but also facilitated training graphic designers in a wider 697 The English-language term ‘graphic design’ was coined in 1922 by the American book and type designer William Addison Dwiggins in his article, “A New Kind of Printing Calls for New Design,” published in the Boston Evening Transcript (29 August 1922). Thomson, The Origins of Graphic Design in America, 7. Though it is difficult to pinpoint the advent of the term ‘Gebrauchsgraphik,’ several sources suggest that it emerged shortly after World War I. In a 1925 profile on the Bund Deutscher Graphiker for Commercial Art, Paul Winkler-Leers wrote: “In Germany as in other countries, the term for commercial art—‘Gebrauchs Graphik’ (literally ‘Applied Graphic Art’)—has only recently come into general use. The term ‘Gebrauchs Graphik’ as opposed to ‘Freie Graphik’ which means ‘Free Graphic Art,’ i.e. etching, wood engraving, pen and pencil drawing—embraces all art work, etc., for advertising purposes, and also book decoration, book covers, illustration, fashion drawings and designs, ornamental writing and lettering, ex-libris, etc.” Paul Winkler-Leers, “A Society of Commercial Artists and What it Does,” Commercial Art (September-October 1925): 204. Jeremy Aynsley has quoted the graphic designer Fritz Ehmcke, writing in 1927 that the term Gebrauchsgraphik had not existed fifteen years prior. Orig. Ehmcke, “Deutsche Gebrauchsgraphik,” Klimschs Jahrbuch, Frankfurt am Main, 1927. See Jeremy Aynsley, Graphic Design in Germany 1890-1945 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2000), 120. 698 For example, the title of an article by Fritz Hellwag printed in both German and English in Gebrauchsgraphik in 1926, was printed as, “Die Berliner Gebrauchsgraphik” and “The Commercial Art of Berlin.” See Fritz Hellwag, “Die Berliner Gebrauchsgraphik,” Gebrauchsgraphik 3, no. 5 (May 1926): 3. 286 array of skills related to the profession. Given how formative the founding of professional schools around the turn of the twentieth century was for the nascent graphic design profession in Germany, surprisingly few have been studied. Schools that have received the most scholarly attention, namely the Reimann Schule in Berlin and the Dessau Bauhaus, offered graphic design training among many other subjects. 699 These schools primarily trained freelance designers, but this model was atypical at the time. Far more schools established in the early decades of the twentieth century trained students in many aspects of graphic design, including the histories and traditions of printing and calligraphy. 700 This chapter examines the early curriculum and student work of one such school: the Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker, located in Munich (referred to hereafter as 699 At the Reimann Schule, Julius Klinger offered the first Poster Design course in 1911, and Max Hertwig began teaching a course on Gebrauchsgraphik in 1913. Carl Gadau taught courses on calligraphy, poster design, and advertising design at the Reimann Schule beginning in 1920. 25 Jahre Schule Reimann, 19021927: Ausstellung Kunst-Gewerbe-Museum, Prinz Albrecht-Str., 1.- 14. April 1927 (Berlin: Verlag Schule Reimann, 1927), 11. See also Aynsley, Graphic Design in Germany 1890-1945, 102–14. By 1925, a graphic design curriculum was under development at the Dessau Bauhaus, formalized by 1929 as the printing and publicity workshop. For histories of the Reimann Schule, see Swantje Kuhfuss-Wickenheiser, Die Reimann-Schule in Berlin und London 1902-1943: Ein jüdisches Unternehmen zur Kunst- und Designausbildung internationaler Prägung bis zur Vernichtung durch das Hitlerregime (Aachen: Shaker Media, 2009); Albert Reimann, Die Reimann-Schule in Berlin (Berlin: Verlag Bruno Hessling, 1966); Hans M. Wingler, ed., Kunstschulreform 1900-1933: Bauhaus Weimar, Dessau, Berlin, Kunstschule Debschitz, München, Frankfurter Kunstschule, Akademie Breslau, Reimann-Schule Berlin (Berlin: Mann Verlag; Bauhaus-Archiv, 1977). For thorough studies of the Bauhaus, see Barry Bergdoll and Leah Dickerman, Bauhaus 1919-1933: Workshops for Modernity (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2009); Ute Brüning, ed, Das A und O des Bauhauses. Bauhauswerbung: Schriftbilder, Drucksachen, Ausstellungsdesign (Berlin: Bauhaus-Archiv, 1995); Ute Brüning, “Joost Schmidt: ein Curriculum für Werbegrafiker,” Bauhauskommunikation: Innovative Strategien im Umgang mit Medien, interner und externer Öffentlichkeit ed., Patrick Rössler (Berlin: Mann Verlag; Bauhaus-Archiv, 2009), 257–64; Magdalena Droste, Bauhaus: Reform and Avant-Garde, 1919- 1933 (Cologne: Taschen, 1993); Rainer K. Wick, Teaching at the Bauhaus. Stuttgart: Hatje Cantz, 2000). 700 Other examples include the Frankfurter Kunstschule, Akademie für Kunst und Kunstgewerbe Breslau, and the Leipzig Meisterschule für das Buchdruckgewerbe. 287 the Meisterschule). 701 I center this as an important example of institutions where the German graphic design profession was shaped by pedagogy, and as a key site for experimentation with Typophoto during the founding years of New Typography. On February 1, 1927, German typographer Paul Renner founded the Meisterschule in order to provide a combination of aesthetic instruction, theoretical grounding, and practical experience for future printing house proprietors. 702 The school was established in partnership with the Verein Münchner Buchdruckerei Besitzer (Union of Munich Printing- House Proprietors) and with funds from the Deutscher Buchdrucker-Verein (German Printers Association), an investment that personally benefitted its members. 703 Indeed, a Meisterschule pamphlet printed c. 1932 explicitly specified that the school’s main purpose was to train the sons of Deutscher Buchdrucker-Verein members: “The intention of the Deutsche Buchdrucker-Verein at the founding of the school has been achieved: the sons of its members and other ambitious young forces of the German book trade now have the opportunity to prepare systematically and methodically for their profession in Munich” (Fig. 6.1). 704 The muted, blue halftone illustration on the pamphlet depicts the disembodied process of offset printing, specifically the transfer of a photographic image 701 The full name of the school was Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker, Schule der Stadt München und des Deutschen Buchdrucker-Vereins (Master School for German Printers, School of the City of Munich and the German Printers Association). 702 Christopher Burke, Paul Renner: The Art of Typography (London: Hyphen, 1998), 59. 703 Ibid. 704 “Die Absicht, die der Deutsche Buchdrucker-Verein bei der Gründung der Schule hatte, ist damit erreicht: den Söhnen seiner Mitglieder und anderen strebsamen jungen Kräften des deutschen Buchgewerbes ist heute in München Gelegenheit geboten, sich systematisch und methodisch auf ihren Beruf vorbereiten zu lassen.“ Pamphlet: “Der Ausbau der Meisterschule ist jetzt vollendet!” c. 1932, Box 23, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. Emphasis in bold is original. 288 onto a printing plate, highlighting the school’s adoption of modern printing technology— and key to the systematic and methodical approach boasted by the pamphlet. 705 In 1926, Renner had left his post teaching a preliminary course in typography at the Frankfurter Kunstschule to direct the Graphische Berufsschule (Professional School for Graphics) in Munich, 706 which shared a campus with several other state- and city- sponsored trade schools. At the same site, Renner soon established a new school—the adjoining Meisterschule. 707 Upon returning to Munich, he also began corresponding with Jan Tschichold with the initial intent of recommending that he take Renner’s place at the Frankfurter Kunstschule, but ultimately invited Tschichold to join him in Munich. In June of 1927, Tschichold began teaching at the newly established Meisterschule, where he taught typography and calligraphy until he immigrated with his family to Switzerland in 1933. 708 Renner’s decision to hire Tschichold supported his ambition to bring modernist design to the city of Munich, which Renner feared was retrograde in its resistance to modernist design relative to Berlin and Frankfurt. 709 Though not typically associated with Weimar modernism, I argue that Munich was 705 For a history of offset printing, see Richard Benson, The Printed Picture (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2008); Michael Twyman, Printing 1770-1970: An Illustrated History of its Development and Uses in England (London: The British Library; Reading: Reading University Press, 1998). 706 Though Renner only stayed in Frankfurt from July 1925 until early 1926, Christopher Burke notes that the reorganization of the school in tandem with Ernst May’s plans for urban housing in Frankfurt seem to have had a major impact on Renner’s approach to design education in Munich. See Burke, Paul Renner, 54–58. 707 Renner founded the school in conjunction with an overhaul of the faculty and curriculum of the Graphische Berufsschule. When the Meisterschule opened on February 1, 1927, it shared a building, teaching staff, and other resources with the Graphische Berufsschule. Ibid, 59–63. 708 Tschichold also taught courses at the adjoining Graphische Berufschule. Before fleeing Germany, Tschichold was briefly imprisoned after a Gestapo raid of his apartment turned up Russian children’s books. Jeffrey Ladd, “Making 60 Fotos,” in László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos (New York: Errata Editions, 2011 [1930]), n.p. 709 Burke, Paul Renner, 57. 289 a key site for the development of New Typography. In the founding curriculum of the Meisterschule, some of New Typography’s guiding principles were converted into pedagogical method. Soon after relocating to Munich in 1927, Jan and Edith Tschichold moved into the newly completed Borstei Wohnsiedlung, where their neighbors included Franz Roh and Georg Trump. 710 Designed by Bernhard Borst, this housing development was built between 1924 and in 1929. 711 Borstei’s graphic identity—including the logo and lettering of its house numbers and shop signage—was designed by Eduard Ege, who also taught at the Meisterschule from 1927 until 1958 (Fig. 6.2–3). 712 The first five years of the Meisterschule were exceptionally fruitful for Tschichold’s development of New Typography as a graphic design doctrine. While living at Borstei and teaching in Munich, Tschichold published his momentous first book, Die Neue Typographie (1928). As he prepared the book for publication in 1927 and 1928, he also gave a number of public lectures on New Typography in Munich. 713 He subsequently collaborated with Franz Roh 710 Georg Trump’s address in the Borstei Wohnsiedlung on Hildebrandtstrasse is confirmed on documents found in Box TRUM.5, Typographische Vorbildsammlung von Jan Tschichold, Bibliothek für Gestaltung Basel. For references to Roh’s residence at Borstei, see Inka Graeve Ingelmann, “Mechanics and Expression: Franz Roh and the New Vision—A Historical Sketch,” in Mitra Abbaspour, Lee Ann Daffner, and Maria Morris Hambourg, eds. Object:Photo. Modern Photographs: The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949. An Online Project of The Museum of Modern Art. (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2014). https://www.moma.org/interactives/objectphoto/assets/essays/GraeveIngelmann.pdf. 711 Borstei was among a number of German and Austrian housing projects built in this period— including Karl Marx-Hof in Vienna, Weißenhofsiedlung in Stuttgart, Hufeisensiedlung in Berlin, and Das Neue Frankfurt—which offered new models for living efficiently, economically, and with access to green space in fast-growing urban centers. 712 Gewidmet Bernhard and Erna Borst, Die Kunstwerke der Borstei (Munich: Borstei-Museum, 2010), 127. Jakob Wetzel, “Designer erforschen eigene Geschichte,” Süddeutsche Zeitung München (July 17, 2017) https://www.sueddeutsche.de/muenchen/blick-zurueck-designer- erforschen-eigene-geschichte-1.3551159 (accessed November 22, 2019). 713 A number of materials, including unpublished lecture notes and printed flyers promoting his public lectures on New Typography in Munich in 1927 and 1928, can be found in Box 74, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. 290 on foto-auge (1929), László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos (1930), and Aenne Biermann: 60 Fotos (1930), and his relationship with Roh was formative for Tschichold’s thinking as a designer. 714 It was also during this period that he worked on a never-realized book on photomontage, intended as part of Roh’s Fototek series on photography. 715 Beyond Tschichold’s connection to the school, study of the Meisterschule affords a more expansive way of understanding New Typography’s impact on the modern graphic design profession. 716 When László Moholy-Nagy introduced the idea of Typophoto in 1925, he declared: “The printer’s work is part of the foundation on which the new world will be built.” 717 It was fitting, then, that some of the most inventive explorations of Typophoto took place at a school founded to train future print masters. Experimental design at the Meisterschule was not confined to hypothetical pieces made as student assignments. Most of the school’s official promotional materials, including brochures, prospectuses, and letterhead, were designed by students, often in collaboration with instructors. Their work is emblematic of the modern design school as a place where students receive training in professional best practices to test the boundaries of material and technology. While printing manuals warned against printing halftones in light colored ink to avoid the muddying of contrast, and promoted the printer’s ability to render halftone 714 Franz Roh and Jan Tschichold, foto-auge: 76 fotos der zeit (Stuttgart: Fritz Wedekind, 1929); László Moholy-Nagy, László Moholy-Nagy: 60 Fotos (Berlin: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1930); Aenne Biermann, Aenne Biermann: 60 Fotos (Berlin: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1930). 715 See Chapter 4 of this dissertation for a thorough discussion of Roh’s influence on Tschichold’s conception of New Typography and Typophoto, especially in relation to the unwritten book Fotomontage. 716 The inclusion of anonymous student designers in the history of New Typography is especially important given that many of their designs have been erroneously attributed to Tschichold. See, for example, Cees W. de Jong, ed., Jan Tschichold, Master Typographer: His Life, Work & Legacy (London: Thames & Hudson, 2008), 72; 74–75. 717 Moholy-Nagy, Malerei Photographie Film, 38–40. Emphasis in italics is original. 291 dots invisible, students and instructors at the Meisterschule played with color and abstract raster patterns as visible graphic elements. 718 I argue that the school’s importance to New Typography was chiefly in explorations of Typophoto by students whose identities remain unknown. By calling visual attention to the halftone, they made visible the labor of printing, thereby demonstrating how the technologies and skills of modern printing not only facilitated the mass dissemination of graphic design, but in fact, made innovative design possible. Craft and Technology in the Modern Print Shop Founded in 1927, the Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker was located at Pranckhstraße 2 in Munich, the present-day campus of the Berufliches Schulzentrum Alois Senefelder München (Fig. 6.4). 719 Since 1906, this has been a site for vocational training in typesetting, bookbinding, printing, and papermaking (Fig. 6.5). 720 In an article published in 1931, typography instructor Josef Käufer described the main goal of the Meisterschule in succinct terms: “to train the student theoretically and practically to 718 See, for example, Charles W. Hackleman, Commercial Engraving and Printing: A Manual of Practical Instruction Covering Commercial Illustrating and Printing by All Processes (Indianapolis, IN: Commercial Engraving Publishing Company, 1921); R. Russ and L. Englich, Handbuch der Modernen Reproduktionstechnik: Band I, Reproduktionsphotographie und Retusche (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag von Klimsch & Co., 1927); International Correspondence Schools, Retouching for Halftones, Part 1 (Scranton, PA: International Textbook Company, 1921). 719 The Berufliches Schulzentrum (BSZ) Alois Senefelder is located in the central Maxvorstadt district of Munich. In 1956, the Meisterschule was renamed the Akademie für das Graphische Gewerbe, and again in 1973 as the Berufsbildungszentrum für Druck, Grafik und Fotografie. In 1999, the school was given its current name. The BSZ Alois Senefelder is a consortium of technical programs, which include training in bookbinding, paper processing, advertising design, printing, and photography. “Schulgeschichte des BSZ Alois Senefelder,” Berufliches Schulzentrum Alois Senefelder München http://www.senefelder.musin.de/index.php?id=schulgeschichte (accessed November 12, 2019). 720 The original school building was partially destroyed by Allied bombing in the Second World War, and the present-day building was completed in 1952. Heinz Kal Schmid and Klaus Buchegger, eds, Broschüre zur 100-Jahr-Feier des BSZ Alois Senefelder (Munich: Berufliches Schulzentrum Alois Senefelder, 2006), 14. 292 become the head of a printing house.” 721 The school’s less explicit but no less important mission was to combine instruction and training in type design, type setting, and printing by hand, as well as practices of industrial printing without sacrificing either. Käufer emphasized the need for future print masters to be trained in an array of skills—including the centuries-old practices of letterpress, calligraphy, punch-cutting, and bookbinding—as well as business theory, scientific management, and law. The school claimed this combination was unique to its curriculum. Rather than training specialists in one particular trade, such as typography, the Meisterschule offered typographic instruction in order to fortify students with a holistic understanding of the printing trade, to prepare for managing a printing house, and to “help [the student] identify the spiritual attitude of his business.” 722 Käufer described the training of students at the Meisterschule as a community in which students gained practical skills as part of a deeper understanding of printing as a trade perpetuated not by the forces of industrialization, but rather by the importance of printed matter as an expression of culture. Käufer characterized the school primarily as a workshop, essentially an autonomous printing house, in which students took turns performing each task, including playing the role of manager. According to Käufer, hands-on training served to unite students as a “working community” bound by a shared “work ethos,” cultivated through 721 “Sie will den Schüler theoretisch und praktisch zum Leiter einer Druckerei ausbilden.” Josef Käufer, “Der Unterricht im Satz und Druck an der Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker in München,” Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik 68, no. 3 (1931): 486. 722 “Die Schule vermeidet es deshalb bewußt, zum Spezialistentum in irgendeiner Sparte zu erziehen. Der intensive und energisch betriebene, von Meistern auf diesem Gebiet betreute künstlerisch-typographische Unterricht sieht sein Ziel weniger darin, zum versierten ersten Akzidenzsetzer zu erziehen, als vielmehr den Leiter der modernen Setzerei heranzubilden und ihm wie dem künftigen Betriebsleiter oder Buchdruckereibesitzer jene Unterlagen zu vermitteln, die ihm helfen, die geistige Haltung seines Betriebes zu bestimmen.” Ibid. 293 first-hand knowledge of the challenges of leadership and collaborative work. 723 Students gained experience with a variety of machines, tools, and tasks, bringing together students of various backgrounds. The gamut of skills needed in a modern printing house— including layout, typesetting, paper making, bookbinding, plate making, etching, and printing—were unified by the vision and managerial dexterity of its proprietor, who was expected to have at least a basic knowledge of all aspects of the graphic design and printing process in order to ensure and balance both quality and efficiency. According to Käufer, this training ensured that each student “will inevitably become a useful member of our profession, regardless of where his special qualifications or predetermined path should lead.” 724 His description implied the modern workshop as ideal not for training individual designers but rather specialists of the trade who were well equipped for any task. The Meisterschule, as Käufer described it, was modeled after the Werkstatt (workshop), a particular business type that emerged in the 1890s in Germany, operating as semi-autonomous firms that allowed artists control and ownership over the execution of their own designs. 725 In the context of the print shop, the Werkstatt model was intended to 723 “Es entsteht, wie sich dies in den letzten Jahren deutlich herausgestellt hat, sehr bald eine Werkgemeinschaft, eine Werkgesinnung, die wesentlich dazu beiträgt, daß der Betrieb das gebrauchsfähige Werkzeug bleibt, das er in geordnetem Zustand darstellen soll, und daß damit ein angenehmes, befriedigendes Arbeiten für jeden Schüler gewährleistet ist. Vor allem aber bleibt dabei dem Schüler der Blick für das Wesentliche erhalten, für die wirklichen Tatsachen.” Ibid, 487. 724 “Er sieht selbst die Schwierigkeiten, die nun mal mit der Leitung eines jeden Betriebsteiles verknüpft sind, lernt die Hemmungen kennen, die dem einzelnen erstehen durch gemeinsame Arbeit mit Kollegen von geringerer Arbeitsdisziplin, und er wird damit zwangsläufig ein brauchbares Mitglied unsers Berufes werden, gleichgültig, an welche Stelle ihn seine besondere Befähigung oder der ihm vorgezeichnete Weg führen sollte. Und das ist ja wohl die Aufgabe der Schule.” Ibid, 488. 725 Frederic Schwartz notes that the idea of the German Werkstatt (namely the Vereinigte Werkstätten and Dresdener Werkstätten) came from William Morris’s novel, News From Nowhere (2890), which described “banded-workshops” as collective work spaces for the production of handcrafted objects. Frederic J. Schwartz, Blind Spots: Critical Theory and the History of Art in Twentieth-Century Germany (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 159–60. See also 294 preserve the craft of printing and book making, in part by resisting the separation of concept and production that had become dominant in industrialized printing. After World War I, Renner and others sought to revitalize the fine book trade that had flourished before the war, seeing the trade school as a place where the values of the Werkstatt could be revived. The Meisterschule was founded to prepare future printing house proprietors as craftsmen and businessmen equipped to maintain both artistic and legal control of their future businesses. It operated as a small-scale firm that prepared students to solve modern design problems using both centuries-old techniques and new technologies. The balance sought at the Meisterschule between teaching printing as a craft and a modern business was embodied in the trajectory of its founder. Renner was trained in fine art at the Akademie der Bildenden Künste München and then studied Graphik (graphics) for a year at the Debschitz-Schule in Munich in 1906. 726 The Debschitz-Schule was particularly formative for Renner: the school was structured in workshops where students prototyped design for manufacture, and Renner received training in all aspects of book design. 727 If not a direct model for the Meisterschule, then the Graphik workshop of the Debschitz-Schule provided a template for the school as a small-scale print shop that retained the values of the early modern printing guild. Renner recognized in Tschichold a typographer who was trained in pre-industrial techniques of calligraphy, hand-lettering, and punch-cutting, all of which were taught at the Meisterschule. At the same time, as a John Heskett, German Design, 1870-1918 (New York: Taplinger, 1986), 93. In 1891, Morris’s founded Kelmscott Press, which was an important model for preserving techniques of making, printing, and binding books by hand as an alternative to the industrial press. See William S. Peterson, The Kelmscott Press: A History of William Morris’s Typographical Adventure (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). 726 David Jury, Reinventing Print: Technology and Craft in Typography (London: Bloomsbury, 2018), 38–39. 727 Ibid, 39. For more on the Debschitz-Schule, see Wingler, Kunstschulreform 1900-1933. 295 vocal advocate for New Typography, Tschichold also represented a new way of promoting type design as an expression of zeitgeist, which Renner recognized as an asset to his new school. 728 Käufer’s description of the Meisterschule was published in a special issue of the Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik largely dedicated to the school and its instructors. It included a prospectus that outlined the two-year Meisterschule curriculum. Elaborating on Käufer’s remarks, the published prospectus reflected the school’s general aim to combine theoretical and practical training, promoting modern printing as both a craft and business requiring artistic skill, technical acumen, and business savvy. This balance was sought through practical experience as well as in the historical and theoretical offerings of the school. Emphasis on the histories of calligraphy, bookbinding, and paper making at the Meisterschule supported its ambition to retain craftsmanship in a modern print shop. At the same time, its facilities included modern technologies like rotary printing presses and Linotype machines. 729 Images published in another promotional prospectus feature students working with the school’s up-to-date facilities and machinery (Fig. 6.6–11). 730 The diverse facilities of the Meisterschule were meant to prepare students not only for book printing but also for printing newspapers, magazines, and advertising. While its workshop environment offered opportunities to hone practical skills and apply 728 Christopher Burke, Active Literature: Jan Tschichold and New Typography (London: Hyphen, 2007), 54. 729 Mechanized typesetting included the casting, composing, and line justifying of type. These processes were still relatively new in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Lucien Alphonse Legros, Typographical Printing-Surfaces: The Technology and Mechanism of their Production (London: Longmans, Green, and Cp., 1916), 279–452. Linotype machines, used to mechanically set lines of type, were introduced commercially in 1886. See S. H. Steinberg, Five Hundred Years of Printing, new ed (London: British Library; New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press, 2001), 170–72. 730 The images featured in the school’s printed promotional materials are also the only extant photographic evidence of its activities that I have found. 296 theories of business management and law, the Meisterschule also offered lectures on the histories of printing and the printing trade. Typography courses at the Meisterschule were instructed—some jointly—by Tschichold, Käufer, Eduard Ege, Georg Trump (between 1929 and 1931), and Herbert Post (starting in 1930). 731 Their courses provided hands-on instruction in the traditional practices of calligraphy, drawing letterforms by hand, bookbinding, and manual typesetting, as well as mechanized typesetting and techniques of photomechanical reproduction. Although not primarily a typography school, courses on Satz (type composition) and Schriftschreiben (training through formal writing exercises to help students understand letterforms) were staples of the school’s first-year program. These were considered outmoded methods of teaching the skills associated with typography at schools like the Bauhaus, where typographic design was taught through the construction of geometric forms. 732 Students at the Meisterschule were not encouraged to work exclusively with sans serif type, but rather were challenged to create multiple specimens for a given assignment using several typefaces, including Roman and Fraktur. This reflected Renner’s belief that skilled designers should be well versed in using all available tools and choosing those best suited to the job at hand. Second-year instruction was dedicated to courses on general theories of business and advertising, as well as printing house management in particular, as students continued honing technical skills. 733 Training 731 Burke, Active Literature, 57–59; Schmid and Buchegger, Broschüre zur 100-Jahr-Feier des BSZ Alois Senefelder, 15–24. 732 Jury, Reinventing Print, 38–39. 733 Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker, München, “Typographische Beilagen und Schulprospekt,” Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik 69, no. 8 (1932): 375. See also, Burke, Active Literature, 56–57. 297 at the Meisterschule included reprographic techniques such as stereotyping, electrotyping, zincography, etching, lithography, and halftone printing. 734 The immediate result of this training was the design and production of many printed materials promoting the Meisterschule as well as neighboring trade schools. Through assignments, students demonstrated that the halftone could be much more than a tool for faithful reproduction. In their designs, halftones operated as illustrations, optical devices, and compositional elements. Student designers deftly used the halftone as a technology that produced both representational and abstract images, which could be scaled up, printed in a spectrum of colors and bled off the edges of the page (Fig. 6.12–13). These designs not only gave the school a unique graphic identity, they also attested to the quality of its training. In 1932, the school’s prestigious reputation earned its students the opportunity to take the Meisterschule final exam in lieu of the exam traditionally required after a three-year apprenticeship in order to be certified as a professional printer in Bavaria. 735 By agreeing to this, the Handwerkskammer für München und Oberbayern (Chamber of Craft for Munich and Upper Bavaria) effectively stated that two years of training at the Meisterschule was equivalent to three years of apprenticeship under a master printer. The decision set a precedent for other vocational schools, namely the Meisterschule für das Buchdruckgewerbe Leipzig. 736 Although seemingly somewhat 734 Meisterschule für Deutschlands Buchdrucker, München, “Typographische Beilagen und Schulprospekt,” 5–6. 735 Unattributed, “Vorrechte für die Meisterschule?” Typographische Mitteilungen 29, no. 5 (May 1932): 101. 736 Ibid. 298 controversial, these decisions helped solidify the place of modern vocational schools as integral to professional training. 737 In its holistic operation as a functioning printing house, vocational training at the Meisterschule was emblematic of the consolidation of the field of graphic design, represented by the term Gebrauchsgraphik. On one level, the school’s approach was a very practical response to the dilemma that permeated the German printing trade in the early twentieth century—and, indeed, German culture more generally: how could established traditions be preserved while keeping pace with innovations in technology and modern business practice? With its roots no shallower than Gutenberg’s fifteenth-century printing press, this dilemma was especially urgent for the German printing trade. Yet the operation of the Meisterschule as both a school and a functioning, modern printing house also made an important statement about graphic design—namely, that the heart of its potential for innovation was the printing trade. Rather than privilege modern design as something that occurs separately from production, the Meisterschule exemplified how skills at every stage of production could drive design innovation. Nowhere was this suggested more forcefully than in the experimental approach to Typophoto in student assignments and printed ephemera promoting the Meisterschule. Another New Typography: Georg Trump and the “Bielefelder Richtung” The instructor who seems to have had the greatest impact on the design aesthetic cultivated at the Meisterschule in its early years was German typographer Georg Trump. Fittingly, the issue of Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik that included 737 This article noted that the evaluation of printers by vocational school teachers was opposed by some business organizations, but did not specify further. Ibid. 299 Käufer’s article on the workshop model of the school also featured a cover design by Trump (Fig. 6.14). Divided in half by a black halftone grid, the design features a play of color and texture between different kinds of halftones. One blossom from a spray of flowers, printed in red, spills into the abstract grid, interrupting its uniformity. This floral motif was a signature element in many of his designs. Red ink appears faded where the halftones overlap. This design exemplifies his interest in making visible the materiality of printing—especially ink color and the halftone matrix. Rather than attempt to mimic the tones of a black-and-white photograph or to hide the halftone’s raster pattern, the designer instead exaggerates it, turning the halftone into a visual motif. The formal elegance, and even softness, of this design is achieved because of mechanization and not in spite of it. Georg Trump’s importance to the history of graphic design is primarily as a professor of typography and calligraphy starting in the 1920s until his retirement from teaching in the early 1950s. From 1926 until 1929, he served as a professor of typography at the Handwerker- und Kunstgewerbeschule in Bielefeld. 738 In 1929, he left Bielefeld to join the faculty of the Meisterschule at Renner’s invitation. Renner had first encountered his work at the International Press Exhibition, commonly known as Pressa, held in Cologne in 1928. 739 In 1931, Trump left Munich to direct the Berlin Kunstgewerbe- und 738 Julia Meer, Neuer Blick auf die Neue Typographie: Die Rezeption der Avantgarde in der Fachwelt der 1920er Jahre (Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, 2015), 329. 739 In a profile on Georg Trump published in 1931, Otto Bettmann described the inclusion of Georg Trump’s designs in a section of Pressa as the occasion that elevated the designer to the level of national prominence, making his work known widely to graphic designers, advertisers, and printers. Otto Bettmann, “Georg Trump,” Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik 68, no. 3 (1931): 425. For further information on Pressa, see Jeremy Aynsley, "Pressa Cologne, 1928: Exhibitions and Publication Design in the Weimar Period," Design Issues 10, no. 3 (1994): 52–76; Die Pressa: Katalog des Sowjets Pavillon auf der Internationale Presse-Ausstellung. Exhibition catalogue (Cologne: Dumont Verlag, 1928). 300 Handwerkschule, returning in 1934 to succeed Renner as director of the Meisterschule for nearly two decades. 740 In the early 1930s, Trump also established himself as a type designer who experimented with the halftone in commercial designs, some published in type specimens (Fig. 6.15–19). Many of these designs incorporated color by printing halftones in colors other than black ink, giving photographic images a faded quality, against which text appears more clearly visible. Another hallmark of his distinctive style was the combination of abstract raster patterns with halftones used for precise image reproduction. A full-page advertisement for Agfa cameras, for example, is divided asymmetrically into quarters (Fig. 6.20). Each of its four panels are occupied by a different kind of graphic material: a crisp halftone reproduction of a photographic portrait of a child; a solid monochrome rectangle of black ink; black text printed on the white background of the page; and the Agfa logo printed against a black-and-white raster-patterned background. The prominence of the raster in the Agfa advertisement suggests a relationship between the technical dexterity of manipulating and printing halftones and the quality of the camera that captured the image translated on the page. Trump used the visible halftone pattern to explore photography not as an objective image of the world captured by the camera’s lens, but rather as a visible screen through which readers must look in order to see photography in print. In his work, the raster is a visual reminder that photography in print must be mediated by the mechanisms of printing. When printed as a halftone, 740 Burke, Active Literature, 57–59. This tenure was interrupted when Georg Trump was drafted into the German army in 1939 and discharged in 1945. He subsequently continued to serve as director of the Meisterschule until he retired from teaching in 1953. Neil Macmillan, An A-Z of Type Designers (London: Laurence King, 2006), 174; Schmid and Buchegger, Broschüre zur 100- Jahr-Feier des BSZ Alois Senefelder, 20. 301 photography is visually restructured according to the logic of the grid, and in turn, the grid becomes embedded in the photographic image. Rather than exploit the “halftone's ability to masquerade as a photograph,” as Gerry Beegan has described, Trump instead celebrated the graphic nature of the halftone as truly photographic. 741 In his hands, the halftone was a unique image type with its own aesthetic possibilities, not a technique meant to operate invisibly. In his designs and those of his students, readers were invited to relish the visual complexity of the halftone rather than ignore it. Trump became known in the German printing and graphic design world as the chief exponent of a distinct alternative to Tschichold’s New Typography, known as the “Bielefelder Richtung” (Bielefeld Direction). The 1931 issue of Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik featuring the Meisterschule included a profile on Trump by Otto Bettmann, who cited Pressa as the event that not only caught Renner’s attention, but brought the designer’s work to prominence among a wide circle of German graphic designers. 742 Like many graphic designers of his generation, Trump was trained in typography, but his work was not limited to the graphic arts. 743 Bettmann emphasized the expansiveness of his artistic practice as evidence that craft was at the center of all of his work. According to Bettmann, Trump considered his non-typographic work “his more essential achievements,” despite being known primarily for typography. 744 Bettmann 741 Gerry Beegan, “Staring at the Screen: The Halftone Comes to Light,” AIGA (July 31, 2007) https://aigaaix0m5kinte.dxcloud.episerver.net/staring-at-the-screen-the-halftone-comes-to-light (accessed November 26, 2019). 742 Bettmann, “Georg Trump,” 425–26. 743 Georg Trump trained as a typographer at the Staatliche Kunstgewerbeschule in Stuttgart under German typographer Friedrich Hermann Ernst Schneidler, interrupted by his first tour in the German army during World War I. From 1923 to 1926, he lived in Italy, where he practiced ceramics, painting, and drawing. Ibid, 425. 744 “trump selbst betrachtet diese arbeiten als seine wesentlicheren leistungen. er will ungern sich nur reinen typographen stempeln lassen. überwiegen während der letzten jahre auch gestaltungen 302 described the designer’s approach to typography as non-formulaic, “artisan-oriented,” and consistently responsive to materials. 745 These qualities evidently extended to Trump’s teaching: “He does not let the students commit themselves to dogmatic forms. He rather forces them to rethink every work from scratch—but it also forces them to remain strictly on the ground of technical conditions.” 746 Despite his embrace of technology and use of ample white space and heavy, geometric typefaces, Trump resisted Tschichold’s doctrinaire approach to typography, an attitude that earned him a reputation as an alternative New Typographer. Yet this distinction was immaterial to those in the German printing world who regarded any overtly modernist graphic style as a threat to centuries-old tradition, especially as it seemed to infiltrate the training of typographers and printers at places like the Meisterschule. Trump’s influence on his students in Bielefeld, Munich, and Berlin in the 1920s and 1930s was conspicuous. In January of 1932, an editorial was printed in Typographische Mitteilungen indicating that the designer’s departure from Munich to Berlin in 1931 had prompted renewed critique of New Typography (generously defined) by designers who saw his pedagogical influence as a threat to typography as a craft. 747 The editorial referred to a number of letters received by various trade periodicals, including dieses gebietes, so sind diese doch ohne seine zeichnerisch-malerische tätigkeit nicht denkbar.” Ibid, 426. 745 “als freier künstler, der nicht setze übernimmt, sondern für jede arbeit ganz original ein neues gesetz schafft, hat er die typographie der letzten jahre massgeblich beeinflusst... trump will nicht künstlerische, ästhetisierende formen schaffen, in denen das material vergewaltigt wird. er ist handwerklich orientiert und von solchem boden aus erreichen seine schöpfungen das niveau der kunst.” Ibid. 746 “er lässt die schüler sich nicht festlegen auf dogmatische formen. er zwingt sie vielmehr, jede arbeit von grund auf neu zu durchdenken—aber er zwingt sie auch, streng auf dem boden der technischen gegebenheiten zu verbleiben.” Ibid. 747 A.G., “Die Bielefelder ‘Richtung,’” Typographische Mitteilungen 29, no. 1 (January 1932), 5– 6. 303 Offset and Deutscher Drucker, from concerned typographers dismissing and even outright admonishing the work of Trump and the so-called “Bielefelder Richtung.” 748 One such letter accused the New Typographers of being “objectivity fanatics” (“Sachlichkeitsfanatiker”) whose work was devoid of creativity. 749 Defenders of New Typography, such as Bettmann and the editors of Typographische Mitteilungen, championed his work as a clear rebuttal to such accusations. In particular, Bettmann cited Trump’s integration of photography into his designs as an example of his thoughtful artistry. He described Trump’s design for the cover and interior pages of André Reuze’s 1928 novel about the Tour de France, Giganten der Landstraße, 750 as a clear example of Trump’s deft handling of photography as a graphic element: “Trump boldly approached this task. He gives each picture a special position on the page, a special size, depending on its content and meaning, so that its true unity of type and photo is created” (Fig. 6.21). 751 His handling of photographic halftones as both representational images and abstract, graphic elements was emblematic of Georg Trump’s apparent conviction that artistry and technology were not at odds. This was perhaps best expressed in 1930, when he created a cover for Deutscher Drucker, one of many German periodicals dedicated to the graphic arts and new printing techniques (Fig. 6.22–23). The focus of the design is a circular photographic image of reprographic machinery. Its visual 748 Ibid. 749 Ibid, 6. 750 André Reuze, Giganten der Landstraße (Berlin: Büchergilde Gutenberg, 1928). 751 für das buch suchte trump neue wege in einem werk der büchergilde gutenberg, ‘giganten der landstrasse.’ es handelte sich hier darum—erstmalig wohl—die photographie in einen tatsachenroman organisch einzugliedern. an diese aufgabe ist trump kühn herangegangen. jedem bild gibt er eine besondere stellung auf der seite, eine besondere grösse, je nach gehalt und bedeutung, so das seine wirkliche einheit von type und photo entsteht.” Bettmann, “Georg Trump,” 426. 304 continuity is interrupted by vectors that splice the image into asymmetrical segments, filtered with vibrant, orange ink applied in varying values. The image appears as if through a prism of contiguous, tinted screens or photographic filters. The intended reader—likely a professional printer—is challenged to mentally reconstitute the image, hyperaware of the printing techniques flaunted in this design. Strikingly, an article in the same issue of Deutscher Drucker by Otto Mente discussed the difficulty of reading photographic images through distracting moiré patterns that could result from the halftone process. Mente credited the perfection of offset printing and practice of tilting halftone screens at a forty-five-degree angle with the prevention of this unwanted visual effect. 752 Yet Georg Trump’s cover design did not simply celebrate the capacity of the offset rotary press to render the halftone matrix invisible. Rather, it showed how the grid itself could be useful as an element of visual play with color, texture, and contrast. In his cover, the designer deftly combined abstract moiré patterns with crisp photographic images reproduced using finer halftone screens. He also experimented with different patterns to create interplay of line and color in the composition, enticing readers to linger over its complexity before opening the magazine. The cover combined five distinct moiré patterns, each demarcated by an orange panel and thin white border. As in many of Georg Trump’s designs, Typophoto is presented here as a hybrid medium with endless possibilities for sophisticated visual play with combinations of representational and abstract form. Trump’s cover for Deutscher Drucker demonstrated how designers could use the official rules of printing, in part, in order to bend or undermine them. By doing so, he 752 Otto Mente, “Autotypie nach Autotypie,” Deutscher Drucker 37, no. 1 (October 1930): 20–23. 305 demonstrated technical knowledge and skill, but little deference to professional dogmatism—tactics he evidently imparted to his students at the Meisterschule. Yet he was not unique in his use of halftone patterns. An advertisement for raster paper by the firm Spitta & Leutz in Typographische Mitteilungen evidences that there was a market in the early 1930s for using raster patterns as graphic form (Fig. 6.24–26). The advertisement includes ten samples of raster-patterned paper, presented like fabric swatches alongside an illustration of a landscape constructed entirely out of contrasting raster patterns. Experimental uses of the halftone like Georg Trump’s suggested a sophisticated understanding of the technologies and materials of modern printing. His approach became a tacit, if not official, part of the pedagogy of the Meisterschule. Zur Farbenlehre: Color Theory and Color Printing at the Meisterschule Color theory and color printing were emphasized throughout the published Meisterschule curriculum, due especially to Renner’s particular interest in the subject. He authored an undated booklet, Zur Farbenlehre, written c. 1930 and printed at the Meisterschule, which outlined his own principles for teaching and applying color theory in design (Fig. 6.27). 753 This text would later become the basis for Renner’s book, Ordnung und Harmonie der Farben. Eine Farbenlehre für Künstler und Handwerker, published in 1947. 754 One section of Renner’s booklet is dedicated to the subject of teaching color 753 A copy of Paul Renner’s pamphlet, Zur Farbenlehre, is located in Box 24, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. As far as I am aware, this brochure was only printed at the Meisterschule and not published elsewhere. 754 Paul Renner, Ordnung und Harmonie der Farben. Eine Farbenlehre für Künstler und Handwerker (Ravensburg: Otto Maier Verlag, 1947). An English translation was later published as: Paul Renner, Color: Order and Harmony: Color Theory for Artists and Craftsmen, trans. Alexander Nesbitt (New York: Reinhold, 1964). 306 theory—a window into instruction at the Meisterschule. 755 In keeping with the school’s stated mission to combine theory and practice, he described the application of theoretical principles to hands-on student assignments. He emphasized the importance of teaching students how to see color and how to recognize color relationships found in nature. He described, for example, assignments in which students were instructed to play with an array of colored paper in different sizes to observe how color relationships appear to change through juxtaposition, and to collect objects in nature for the purpose of similar observation. Given Renner’s deep interest in color theory and comments on his pedagogical approach to training designers on the subject, it is not surprising that many extant student assignments from courses at the Meisterschule show the manipulation of the photographic halftone through color printing. One such example is an anonymous student design of a speculative cover for the August 1931 issue of Gebrauchsgraphik, 756 arguably the most important graphic design journal published in Weimar Germany (Fig. 6.28–29). 757 Lavishly printed in black, blue, yellow, and red ink, the design epitomizes the manipulation of photography as graphic material by calling particular attention to the malleability of the halftone grid. In this design, the journal’s masthead is set in all-lowercase letters, in Georg Trump’s City 755 Renner, Zur Farbenlehre, 25–31. 756 A proof copy of this design is located in Box 23, Nachlass Jan Tschichold, Deutsches Buch- und Schriftmuseum der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Leipzig. There is no evidence that this design was ever submitted to Gebrauchsgraphik for possible publication. 757 Gebrauchsgraphik (formerly Das Plakat) was founded in 1924 and became the official organ of the Bund Deutscher Graphiker (Association of German Graphic Designers) in 1928. It also circulated widely outside Germany, and its feature articles were printed in both German and English. The journal was edited by Hermann K. Frenzel until it ceased publication in 1937. See Jeremy Aynsley, “‘Gebrauchsgraphik’ as an Early Design Journal, 1924-38,” Journal of Design History Vol. 5, No. 1 (1992): 53–72; Patrick Rössler, Eine Zeitschrift als gedrucktes Schaufenster zur Werbewelt: Gebrauchsgraphik 1924-1944 (Munich: Stiebner, 2014). 307 typeface. 758 The black text overlays three, triangular photographic images of flowers, which begin in neat wedges at their base and fan out across the page like an abstracted bouquet. Upon close inspection, the flowers in this design are made from the same cliché that Georg Trump used in the prospectus for City, published by the Berlin type foundry Berthold AG in 1931 (Fig. 6.30–31). 759 Both this specific iconography and playful approach to color printing and form suggest the strong influence of Trump on his students. Compared to the cover of Gebrauchsgraphik that was actually published in August 1931—reproducing a painting by Munich-based, Polish commercial artist Valentin Zietara in the style of Sachplakat advertising—this speculative design is unusual in featuring intricate, overprinted halftones, showcasing both an artistic and technical acumen (Fig. 6.32). 760 Halftones are employed in this design to experiment with asymmetrical composition, primary color relationships, and the optical effects of patterns. The lower quarter of the page is occupied by a solid raster pattern printed in black ink, its uniform 758 City is a slab serif typeface, released in 1931 by the Berlin-based Berthold typefoundry. ‘Slab serif’ refers to the block-like thickness of serifs in this type family. While slab serif typefaces were popularized in the nineteenth century, City is a good example New Typography’s relevance not only to the design of sans serif typefaces like Paul Renner’s Futura, but to the modulation of serif typefaces as well. Vita Activa. Georg Trump. Bilder, Schriften & Schriftbilder (Munich: Typographische Gesellschaft, 1967); Alexander Lawson, Anatomy of a Typeface (Boston: David R. Godine, 1990). 759 Vita Activa. Georg Trump. Bilder, Schriften & Schriftbilder, 60–61. 760 The Polish-German commercial artist Valentin Zietara was a member of the Neue Vereinigung Münchner Plakatkünstler (New Association of Munich Poster Artists), a group that included Ludwig Hohlwein and established in 1931 with the intent to preserve artistry in commercial design. An article on the Neue Vereinigung Münchner Plakatkünstler was included in the August 1931 issue of Gebrauchsgraphik that featured Zietara’s cover design, and a short feature on the group was published in the April 1932 issue of Die Reklame. See also Rössler, Eine Zeitschrift als gedrucktes Schaufenster zur Werbewelt: Gebrauchsgraphik 1924-1944, 146. The aesthetic championed by this group stood in stark contrast to the speculative cover made at the Meisterschule, which was clearly aligned with the so-called Bielefelder Richtung associated with Georg Trump. 308 grid of dots intersected by a half circle and a slice of the red flowers. The photographic print from which these halftones were made was cut such that the wild, unevenly shaped flower heads appear as though they are bursting out of the perfectly geometric right angle that photography has forced them into. These images are forced not only into the photographic frame but the typographic grid as well. The solid black grid in the lower half of the page echoes the spacing of letters within the regularity of the typographic grid. This part of the design, though purely non-representational, is perhaps the most important: it anchors the colorful, photographic halftones to the band of black text printed at the top of the page. The band of black dots—a pattern that hybridizes text and image—suggests the need for a perceptual mode that operates somewhere between seeing and reading. The halftone bouquet, as described above, is created by careful arrangement of overlapping fragments, each printed in a different color and rotated clockwise in succession, creating new colors and patterns in their overlap. Overprinting of each of the four colors—blue, yellow, red, and black—creates greens, dark blues, pinks, and dark grays. These overlaps make it difficult to discern exactly where each halftone begins and ends, and to see that the floral images printed in blue, yellow, and red ink are in fact, identical fragments printed from a single photograph. The reader’s eye is compelled to move around the page in an effort to solve this visual riddle, dazzled in the process by unexpected juxtapositions of color and form. Abstract forms tangle together like flower stems. The clean corners of each floral halftone meet at the center of the half-circle, completed not on the page, but in the mind’s eye. Eventually the underlying structure of the layout becomes clear: the halftones printed in blue, yellow, and red are each right- angle corners, rotated so that they overlap in thirty-degree-angle slivers. Seen this way, the 309 halftones create a partial color wheel, demonstrating the relationships between primary colors. Each halftone is internally structured by the raster grid. Representational, reproductive, and visual possibilities of the photographic medium are harnessed in this design as tools for formal experiment and cognitive stimulation in graphic space. Beyond the stylistic influence of instructors like Trump, the speculative Gebrauchsgraphik cover evidences a sophisticated understanding of color perception among students at the Meisterschule. In Renner’s writings and teachings on color theory from the 1930s and 1940s, he sought to balance purely scientific theories of color—based on the empirical measurement of light-producing rays—with a more intuitive and subjective approach to the use of color in art and design. In doing so, he built on the ideas put forward in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Zur Farbenlehre (1810), a theoretical treatise that sought to distinguish the phenomenon of color perception from visible color. Following Goethe, Renner further bracketed the physical and physiological phenomena of color perception from five basic meanings of “color” as visual or material: as coloring matter (pigment); as an inherent characteristic possessed by an object or image; as an unfixed appearance caused by retinal sensation; as a general family of hues; and as a condition of being “colored,” in contradistinction to “colorless.” 761 Renner demonstrated a careful understanding of prevailing scientific theories of optics to extend Goethe’s position that color is best understood in terms of the “perceived harmonies” created when 761 Renner, Zur Farbenlehre. Renner further aligned himself with Goethe by critiquing the controversial remarks on color theory made by German chemist Wilhelm Ostwald at the 1919 meeting of the Deutscher Werkbund, held in Stuttgart. Renner rejected Ostwald’s claim that artists could perfect their work by applying an objective, scientifically-based understanding of color, which Renner regarded as too narrow with regard to subjective experiences of color. See Joan Campbell, The German Werkbund: The Politics of Reform in the Applied Arts (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 138–39. 310 two or more colors are juxtaposed. Despite all that was known about color through measuring the wavelengths of light rays, he contended this was of little use to artists and designers who sought to create harmonious color combinations in their own work. 762 Much of Renner’s 1947 book on color, an expanded version of the Meisterschule booklet, was dedicated to a discussion of how artists and designers should create harmonious juxtapositions of two or more colors in their work. This was based on Goethe’s understanding of colors as “dialectical effects,” as media theorist Friedrich Kittler put it—that contrasts between colors, and embedded within colors, were integral to understanding them as perceptual phenomena. 763 Goethe had asserted that effective color combinations could create a sense of visual totality. 764 He quoted Goethe directly to posit that one must understand the importance of complementary color relationships in order to create harmonious color combinations, thereby satisfying the eye’s innate “need for totality.” 765 In Renner’s words: “[Goethe] believed that the secret of all color harmony could be traced back to the fact that the eye, through looking at any one color, becomes hungry for the complementary color.…” 766 Understanding the phenomenon of visual perception as stimulus for and fulfillment of innate human desire was crucial for a designer whose goal was to arrest the visual attention of the beholder. 762 This argument aligned with the findings of contemporary applied psychology research on perception discussed in Chapter 2 of this dissertation. 763 Friedrich Kittler, Optical Media: Berlin Lectures 1999, trans. Anthony Enns (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010), 124. 764 Goethe’s discussions of crating harmonious totality through color combinations were part of his broader, holistic approach to nature that was particularly influential in the field of natural science as it developed in the early twentieth century in Germany. See Anne Harrington, Reenchanted Science: Holism in German Culture from Wilhelm II to Hitler (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). 765 Renner, Color: Order and Harmony, 45. Here Renner quotes Goethe directly. 766 Ibid. 311 In his own writing on color combinations, Renner advocated for a mix of contrasts—making use of the tension between complementary colors—and harmonies, especially in combining more than two colors. He discussed at length what he called the three “opposition pairs,” which he proposed to classify and describe any particular hue: “color direction” (light/dark); “color value” (pure/cloudy); and “color purity” (warm/cold). 767 He insisted that all three aspects of color must be accounted for in evaluating combinations of contrasting and harmonious colors: If we want to understand the interchangeable relations between contiguous colors then we must learn to experience each separate color in this threefold contrast in which it is suspended. The cloudier and grayer a color is, the more tension it will have in contrast to all pure and strong colors; the brighter it is, the more tension it will have to all dark colors. And, what a conflagration the contrast of neighboring complementary colors can kindle! The dialectic relation of contiguous colors gets its tension, its liveliness, through these contrasts of color direction, value, and purity. This dialectic becomes a witty, delightful conversation only if there is in at least one of these three determinants of every hue an agreement or some similarity that joins the colors to one another and creates confidence, without which any harmonious gathering, even of colors, is impossible. 768 Following Goethe, Renner emphasized the importance of using color relationships to create compositional unity in a given work of art or design, making use of their harmonies and tensions. Renner’s account of the dialectics of color as “a witty, delightful conversation” is telling of what he regarded as the utility of color theory: graphic designers could use the dialectical relationship between colors to create aesthetic discipline in their work, intuited by readers through the act of perception. The “confidence” to which he referred belongs to the reader who, perhaps unconsciously, 767 Ibid, 55–62. 768 Ibid, 53. 312 experiences a sense of harmony in a design. Through the deft handling of color printing and keen understanding of color perception, designers instill their work with a kind of trustworthiness. This is perhaps best demonstrated in the way students played with halftones in their assignments at the Meisterschule, using them as forms embedded with dialectical relationships—between different colors, between abstraction and representation, and between playfulness and control. Anonymous student designs made at the Meisterschule tested how complementary colors could create compositional unity in design. In doing so, they often demonstrated the complementarity and even interchangeability of photographic images and type as graphic elements. As discussed in Chapter 1 of this dissertation, the term Typophoto became useful to Tschichold in describing how photographic images could operate more like type. I contend that students at the Meisterschule took this idea a step further by suggesting that type could also mimic certain aspects of photography, bolstering the idea that photographic halftones belonged to the printed page. As graphic material, the halftone could be treated as an element interchangeable with type in certain ways. Through the manipulation of color and scale, type and halftone could operate together as a complex system of signification masquerading as simple, clean design. A brochure for bookbinding instruction at the adjoining Graphische Berufsschule, for example, used color halftone printing and sans serif type to convey a tacit message about the value of retaining craftsmanship in bookbinding for the modern printer (Fig. 6.33). The brochure includes halftones printed in blue and red, which appear to recede into the page, while text set in black or a complementary color appears solid and more immediately legible by contrast. The halftones have been transformed into seemingly 313 translucent screens with visible texture and depth using colored ink. The effect is to soften the photographic images, both visually and conceptually. If the halftone, printed in black ink, was meant to instantiate the immediacy of photographic images in print, the colored halftone had a more ethereal quality, like an image from a dream or a memory. The oneiric quality of these images paired with sans serif type evokes a harmonious confrontation between past and present—nostalgia for the tradition of bookbinding is met with the present-day innovation of modern design. Color printing and complementary color relationships were also used at the Meisterschule to mimic the chemical aspects of the photographic medium through their translation into graphic elements using the halftone process, thereby suggesting the inherently graphic nature of all photography. For example, the anonymous student design of a brochure titled, “Moderne Fensterdekorationen,” produced for the Munich textile manufacturer Indathrenhaus, evoked the positive-negative reversibility of photography just as it overtly aimed to suggest the material luxury of modern drapery (Fig. 6.34). Here, similar photographic fragments are printed in complementary blue and red inks, echoing the reversal between a photographic positive and negative. The halftones also bear evidence of photographic reversal: they alternate panels that appear as positive and negative representations of decorative motifs. They appear like filmstrips floating in a bath of developer, images just beginning to emerge like hazy apparitions from their emulsions. Their translucent quality suggests an analogous relationship between the delicacy of photographic materials and fine fabric. Their vegetal forms recall nineteenth-century cameraless photographs, which long predated the avant-garde “photogram,” by photographers such as British botanist Anna 314 Atkins. 769 The first volume of her multi-part book, British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions (1843) was the first publication to include photographic illustrations, predating William Henry Fox Talbot’s The Pencil of Nature (1844) (Fig. 6.35). 770 Atkins used the cyanotype process to create direct impressions of botanical specimens on chemically treated paper. These two-dimensional images gave a tangible sense of the particular heft, opacity, and translucency of different objects, rendered through the action of light passing through and bouncing off surfaces of varying opacity and transparency. Likewise, the abstracted draperies that grace the Indathrenhaus brochure’s cover as halftones appear materially palpable, using the stippled halftone to evoke the translucent surface of a textile penetrated and dappled by light and shadow. The photographic quality of these halftones is also evoked in their orientation on the page. The halftones are flipped, mimicking how positive and negative images from the same photographic exposure read as mirror images when viewed side-by-side. The red halftone bleeds off the left-hand side of the page, while the smaller blue halftone— perhaps a direct nod to the cyanotype—bleeds off the top edge of the page, oriented at a slight diagonal so that the halftones intersect. The word “moderne” describes not only the dyed textiles made possible by the titan German chemical manufacturer IG Farben, but also the processes of photography, the halftone, and offset printing that have been used to 769 Cameraless photographs, commonly known as photograms, are created by placing objects on light-sensitive photographic paper or cloth and exposing the material to light. This technique served diverse purposes in the nineteenth century, from marketing intricate lace patterns to imaging botanical specimens. For histories of the photogram, see Martin Barnes, Cameraless Photography (London: Thames & Hudson; V&A, 2019); Geoffrey Batchen, Emanations: The Art of the Cameraless Photograph (Munich: Prestel, 2016). 770 Larry J. Schaaf, Sun Gardens: Victorian Photograms by Anna Atkins (New York: Aperture, 1985), 8–9. Talbot’s far better-known book was the first commercially published book to include photographic illustrations, while Atkins’ British Algae was privately published the previous year. 315 translate chemical dyes into printed form and the translucency of fabric into the language of photography. Like many German commercial designs from the late 1920s that incorporated photographic illustration, the modernity of the product for sale is substantiated by photographic representation, emphasized further by calling attention to the halftone. Designs such as this one evidence the conscious manipulation of photographic halftones by graphic designers. Savvy design enabled by modern printing technology could approximate the inherent characteristics of photography through purely graphic means. Doing so suggested that the printed page was a natural habitat for the photographic medium. In effect, this use of the halftone implied the merging of two seemingly opposite aspects of photography—what Kaja Silverman has called “liquid intelligence” and “optical intelligence” in reference to photography as a chemical and mechanical process. 771 Students’ treatment of the photographic halftone as a graphic element suggested that chemical and industrial forms of photography might be truly complementary, rendered as such through skillful printing. 771 Borrowing from theories by Jeff Wall and Walter Benjamin, Silverman has drawn a stark distinction between what she sees as two distinct ways of understanding photography: as a n analogical medium, a conduit for the “unstoppable development” of unfixed images received from nature, on the one hand, as an industrial medium used to control nature through the production (and reproduction) of fixed, mechanical images, on the other. See Kaja Silverman. The Miracle of Analogy or The History of Photography, Part 1 (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 2015). See also Jeff Wall, “Liquid Intelligence” In Works and Collected Writings (Barcelona: Poligrafa, 2007), n.p.; Walter Benjamin, “Little History of Photography,” in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, vol. 2, eds. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland and Gary Smith (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999 [1931]), 507–30. 316 The Vagueness of the Halftone Design in the early years of the Meisterschule illuminates an important meaning of Typophoto: an approach to the printed halftone as a distinct tool of graphic design, definitively native to the printed page, and thus subject to specific criteria for understanding photography in print and what it can do. Whereas Moholy-Nagy and Tschichold, in their discussions of Typophoto, emphasized the halftone as a means of translating photography into a graphic medium, students at the Meisterschule took this a step further. Their designs incorporated the halftone as an element always already belonging to the printed page. Rather than trying to emulate photographic prints, they showcased the halftone as a graphic element with which to test the technical limitations of printing. In their hands, halftones were subject to manipulations of scale, color, value, and layout, just like letterforms. Their designs embraced what British philosopher Bertrand Russell, in 1923, characterized as the “vagueness” of some photographic images. 772 This concept is key to understanding how designers have consciously used photographic halftones as graphic elements. Russell attempted to define “vagueness”—in contradistinction to “accuracy” or “precision”—within a larger discussion of representation, both textual and visual, as a central problem of philosophy. He proposed that, whereas representational precision denotes a one-to-one relationship between sign and signified, “a representation is vague when the relation of the representing system to the represented system is not one-one, but one-many.” 773 He cited photography as an example of both kinds of relations—in some 772 Bertrand Russell, “Vagueness,” The Australian Journal of Psychology and Philosophy 1, no. 2 (1923): 89. 773 Ibid. 317 cases, the medium could emulate the likeness of a particular subject with visual accuracy, producing a specific representation. However, in other instances, photographic images act as more generalized representations. He used the example of a “smudged” photograph depicting a man, which might be used to represent men in general rather than one particular individual. Architect Michelle Chang borrows Russell’s term to help explain why “vague” images, namely blurred and pixelated photographic images, are so ubiquitous in twenty-first century architectural rendering. 774 Both the jpeg and the printed halftone are digitized in the sense that they convert the continuous data (or tones) of a photograph into what Lev Manovich has called the “sampled” data of the halftone or pixel grid. 775 Chang’s discussion of how twenty-first- century architects make use of blurry or pixelated digital photographs in architectural rendering is valuable in thinking about the efficacy of abstracted or imprecise reproductions of photographs as halftones in graphic design. Chang recognizes that blurred or pixelated photographic images retain the medium’s association with accuracy, even while gaining new connotative meaning by virtue of their visual imprecision: While abstraction can be conceived as a critical methodology for responding to formal intricacy, in raster imagery it is possible to work with both seemingly opposing concepts at once. That is, articulation in the medium can coexist with inarticulation in the content. In raster images, any blurriness makes identifying content difficult, even though the pictorial structure has the capacity to carry millions of discrete bits of information. 776 774 Michelle Chang, “Something Vague,” Log no. 44 (Fall 2018): 103–13. 775 Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001), 28. 776 Chang, “Something Vague,” 111. 318 Chang raises an important paradox of digitized, mass circulated photographic images: while the halftone or pixel grid is an “articulate”—or data rich—material translation of a single photograph into hundreds or thousands of dots or pixels, it is one that nevertheless disarticulates content. This disarticulation can be useful in transforming the message of an image from too specific to just vague enough. By eroding the visual precision of a photographic image as a sign, it is allowed to signify in far more capacious ways, as Bertrand described. The disarticulation of photographic images has been useful in graphic design as a means of converting images into a kind of text. In pondering the efficacy of breaking continuous images into quantifiable data, Manovich recognizes digital conversion as more than merely technologically expedient. He writes: “But why, we may ask, are modern media technologies often in part discrete? The key assumption of modern semiotics is that communication requires discrete units. Without discrete units, there is no language.” 777 In essence, digitization turns images into elements of communication. Visual information must be broken up into what Manovich calls “discrete units”—whether halftone dots or letterforms—in order to be read and assigned meaning. 778 He suggests, therefore, that a halftone or jpeg is legible as information in a way that a photograph could never be. Understanding digitization on these terms forces us to understand New Typography’s appeal to the “legibility” of halftones in an entirely new way. Tschichold, in Die Neue Typographie (1928), made explicit claims to the precision of halftones, and Moholy-Nagy referred to them as “visual facts.” 779 In practice, however, halftones were legible as 777 Manovich, The Language of New Media, 28. 778 Ibid. 779 László Moholy-Nagy, “Photography in Advertising,” in Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913-40, trans. and ed. Christopher Phillips (New 319 information due to their visual imprecision. At the same time, they were also regarded as faithful translations of actual photographs. The halftone thus accrued status as “information” both by its association with the indexical medium of photography and through its digitization into discrete, legible units. Students at the Meisterschule showcased their skills as printers by calling visual attention to the digitization of photographic images in print. In doing so, they also allowed photographs to function flexibly in terms of their meaning. When used as illustrations, halftones were sufficiently vague, inviting prospective students to imagine themselves in a classroom or workshop of a vocational school. One such example was a brochure for the neighboring Meisterschule für Mode, designed by students at the Meisterschule, 780 printed in red and black ink, with type set in Trump’s City and Paul Renner’s Futura (Fig. 6.36). 781 The brochure integrates photography not just as illustration, but rather as material that appears as though part of the substrate of the page. In one spread that outlined the departmental structure of the school, for example, it is clear how Typophoto could create an organizational logic that eclipsed the typographic grid. Thin, horizontal rules run across the gutter between pages, breaking the grid and unifying the two-page spread into a unified chart of information. Placement of the photographic image, printed to fit precisely into the upper left quadrant of the chart, reinforces he organization of the pages superimposed by horizontal rules. York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Aperture, 1989), 88. (Originally published: László Moholy- Nagy, “Die Photographie in der Reklame,” Photographische Korrespondenz, 1927.) 780 Burke, Active Literature, 55. 781 In 1927, Futura was issued by the Bauerische Gießerei in Frankfurt. While working on it, Renner sent early sketches to Tschichold. Alston W. Purvis, “Tschichold and the New Typography,” in Jan Tschichold, Master Typographer: His Life, Work & Legacy, eds. Cees W. de Jong and Alston W. Purvis (London, New York: Thames and Hudson, 2008), 44. 320 In an elevated view of an instructor working with two students, the photographic image is printed in a pale red ink, its color muted by the dispersal of ink by the halftone grid, necessarily losing visual information that would normally be legible in a black-and- white photograph. Black rules are printed over the image. The placement of the rules and color of the halftone effectively render the image a backdrop to the text on the page, rather than an illustration of its contents. This photographic image is representational, yet it functions more like the rules—as an abstract, graphic element that creates spatial logic. The images seem to recede back, the pattern of the halftone grid and ink color diluting their hues and pictorial detail, creating an almost ghostly quality. As such, they suggest the representation of instructor and students as prefigured, rather than captured in the present, by the camera. In this sense, the halftone transforms not only the material of the photographic image, but its temporality as well. Black text, by contrast, appears to pop out from the page toward the reader, insistently present. On the brochure’s cover, black type is again printed over the pale red ink of a halftone fragment, picturing a woman looking at herself in a two-way mirror (Fig. 6.37). Two thin, diagonal rules buttress the thrice-repeated figure of the woman, pictured from three angles, suggesting the mirrored surfaces that we imagine to be part of the photograph from which these fragments were taken. They create a sense of architectural space even while the text at the top of the page reinforces the flatness of the page. Typographic and photographic elements are brought together subtly by a line of text printed toward the bottom of the page, bearing the school’s street address. Printed diagonally, the address follows the bottom-most line that cuts off the dress in the woman’s reflection. Photographic fragments simultaneously interrupt and rhyme with the arrangement of type 321 on the page. The brochure’s second and third pages present yet another relationship between halftones and type (Fig. 6.38). A grid of images depicting classes and students at work occupies the top half of the third page, mirrored on the facing page by a blank expanse of white space above an austere table of contents. Here, halftones conform once again to the typographic grid. Throughout this brochure, as in many of the early Meisterschule designs, photography and type are used as complementary elements—one dark, the other light; one muted, the other saturated—in order to test the rigidity of the typographic grid and the rules of printing. The resulting designs are characterized by visual complexity using deceptively simple means. However, through the material economy of two-color printing, another kind of complexity is created—on the level of meaning. The ghostly halftones appear like images remembered or imagined, their details lost to both the eye and mind. They are visually and conceptually vague, more connotative than denotative. As such, they function more like text that requires a reader’s interpretation, rather than as illustration meant to provide a clear and immediate visual account. Just as the materials produced in the early years of the Meisterschule figure the labor of printing into their designs, so do they require the labor of reading, as well. By inviting readers to linger, anticipate, or remember, these designs make modern printing itself an object of contemplation, rather than merely an expedient means of delivering information. 322 EPILOGUE Hybrid Imagery: The Enduring Fascination of the Halftone “I love all dots. I am married to many of them. I want all dots to be happy. Dots are my brothers. I am a dot myself.” 782 —Sigmar Polke “Images scatter into data, data gather into images.” 783 —Peter Galion “Pixelating or blurring has taken over the role of authenticity. A pixelated picture must surely be authentic if it has unacceptable areas which are concealed. […] It therefore seems clear that pixels stand for authentification: authentification through authority.” 784 —Thomas Hirshhorn You might encounter Magdalena Fernández’s video installation, 1pmS011 (2011), in a darkened gallery (Fig. E.1). 785 Wherever you happen to walk in during the video’s almost seven-minute loop, a series of raster patterns appear, disappear, and reappear at seemingly random intervals. The grids consist only of tiny points of white light, arranged not unlike halftone screens, titled at varying angles. They appear layered over one another like the screens on a window or door, protruding from and receding into the digital screen. Some patterns are so saturated that individual dots are difficult to distinguish, while others are clear grids with few enough dots to count. As the grids fade in and out of view, the beholder’s eye is forced to adjust and readjust, performing an accelerated version of the 782 Sigmar Polke quoted in David Hopkins, After Modern Art: 1945-2017 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 118. 783 Peter Galison, “Images Scatter into Data, Data Gather into Images,” in Iconoclash: Beyond the Image Wars in Science, Religion, and Art eds. Bruno Latour and Peter Weibel (Karlsruhe: ZKM; Cambridge: MIT Press, 2002), 300–23. 784 Thomas Hirshhorn quoted in Francesco Casetti and Antonio Somaini, “Resolution: Digital materialities, thresholds of visibility,” NECSUS 7, no. 1 (Spring 2018): 87–103. 785 This digital video can be viewed in its entirety on the artist’s website: http://www.magdalenafernandez.com/video/1pmS011.htm 323 optical-psychological labor we engage in constantly when looking at images on digital screens. A beholder can scarcely see this work without a heightened awareness that each raster pattern is structured by the pixel grid of the digital projection that makes this work visible. This rare, immersive viewing experience calls attention to the mundane, relentless practice of looking through—but not at—pixel grids. In his 1964 book, Understanding Media, American media theorist Marshall McLuhan famously declared, “the medium is the message.” 786 He refuted the existence of unmediated content apart from the formal, material, and technological vessels of culture. McLuhan offered “hot” and “cold” to describe different concentrations of information offered by different media. He cited photography as an example of a hot medium, “well filled with data,” which requires relatively little effort on the part of a beholder: “A photograph is, visually, ‘high definition.’” 787 The “hot” quality of photography, certainly, was recognized by László Moholy-Nagy and Jan Tschichold—which they articulated as legibility, efficiency, and objectivity, which made photographic images well suited to balance the relative coldness of type. As this study has shown, many interwar graphic designers extended the visual possibilities of the photographic halftone far beyond the parameters of Typophoto that Moholy-Nagy and Tschichold initially proposed. In practice, the halftone was malleable and ambiguous—a dazzling form tasked with arresting visual attention, which sometimes achieved this goal not through its efficiency, but rather by slowing down the process of reading. Halftones commanded attention not necessarily for their clarity and visual 786 See Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York: McGraw Hill, 1965). 787 Ibid, 22. 324 succinctness, but because they demanded to be deciphered by readers, occupying a perceptual space between text and image. In McLuhan’s terms, the fragmented tonal register of the halftone cools down the “hot” medium of photography. By converting the precision of continuous-tone photography into the vaguely articulated halftone grid, many of the New Typographers offered an expanded visual definition of Typophoto. They exploited the halftone grid as an optical field that alternately coheres in the mind’s eye and remains stubbornly abstract, an almost hypnotic pattern that keeps the eye lingering on the page, struggling—and at times failing delightfully—to make sense of printed form. The density of visual information that McLuhan described as “hot” is known in today’s digital age as high resolution. Film and media scholars Francesco Casetti and Antonio Somaini have extended McLuhan’s theory of “hot” and “cold” media to the materiality of digital images, which they recognize as part of a long history of rasterized images. They explain rasterization in the following way: To begin with, resolution is a property of images that are rasterised: that is, images that are visualised as an orthogonal grid of picture elements or pixels, which represent continuous visual phenomena through a series of distinct, discrete elements. This in itself conditions the plasticity of digital images, the transformations they may undergo and the visual artefacts they produce within the rectangular space of a screen, and locates them, from a media- archaeological standpoint, within the longue durée of a history of grid-like, point-based images…. 788 Rasterization describes how the form of an image makes visible both the evidence of past material transformation and the potential for further or continuous change. Within the capacious category of “grid-like, point-based images,” they include: …machine-woven or hand-woven textiles (from Jacquard loom punch cards to petit point), pictorial styles such as pointillisme, 788 Casetti and Somaini, “Resolution: Digital materialities, thresholds of visibility,” 88. Italics are original. 325 printing techniques such as halftone and Ben-Day dots, all the way up, along a genealogical line leading ‘from print to pixels’ to the luminous points of cathode ray tube screens and fixed-pixel-array displays (including plasma display panels, liquid crystal displays, light-emitting diode displays, digital light processing projectors). 789 This heterogeneous set of images and objects is related not only through the form of the grid, but for how each of these examples makes plainly visible the in-betweenness of transmediation. A weaving, photographic halftone, and pointillist painting lay bare the record of atomization and reconstitution on their surfaces as formal structure. All begin with a cohesive image or idea—whether in the mind’s eye, sketched on paper, or photochemically printed—which must be fragmented in order to be put back together. Since its invention, the halftone has been an object of fascination in art and design. After New Typography emerged nearly a century ago, artists and designers continued to thematize rasterization, visual translation, and the distortions and material degradations of transmediation, printing, and digital projection. The halftone and pixel grid are forms that modern readers have been trained not to see. Many artists have used the halftones and pixel grids as motifs that remind beholders that it is our privilege, and indeed our responsibility, to look closely. As forms that were invented to be ignored, halftone and pixel grids look strange when they are made visible. Yet once I began looking for them, I found that they are everywhere. The November of 1941 issue of Gebrauchsgraphik featured a striking cover design by Wilm Wahl, filled almost entirely by a photographic halftone printed in white ink against a black background (Fig. E.2). 790 Zoomed in so much that the image of a woman’s face is almost imperceptible, the design readily exposes the mechanical regularity of the 789 Ibid. 790 See Gebrauchsgraphik 18, no. 11 (November 1941). 326 halftone grid. Despite being tilted at a forty-five-degree angle to the page (presumably to avoid moiré effect when printed at intended size), every dot is clearly visible. The logic of the grid overtakes that of the image of a human face, the contours of her head and chin lost in an abstract visual field. Wahl’s design nodded to the strangeness of an image type that had become entirely commonplace, reminding readers that the halftone was a type of media that they had dutifully learned to ignore through repeat exposure. The extreme close up, however, thwarted the halftone’s usual trickery, instead asking readers to consider the precise line between legibility and total abstraction. Starting in the 1970s, as graphic designers began to experiment with digital technology, the halftone assumed new connotations as a hinge between the profession’s pre-digital era and its transformation by desktop publishing in the late twentieth century. The halftone was a visual artifact of pre-digital design and, as such, a precursor to the digital pixel grid. April Greiman, a Los-Angeles based graphic designer and student of Armin Hofmann and Wolfgang Weingart at the Allgemeine Gewerbeschule Basel in the 1970s, was among the first to embrace digital imaging, typography, and layout. 791 Greiman became known in the late 1970s and 1980s for undermining the supremacy of the typographic grid in favor of mining graphic space as a fluid visual terrain between two and three dimensions (Fig. E.3–4). Rather than lament the desktop computer as a threat to her profession, Greiman embraced what she called “hybrid imagery,” playfully layering and mixing digital and analogue techniques, including halftone printing. 792 She used halftones 791 In this early moment of digital graphic design, Greiman and others used Macintosh computers and PageMaker composition software in combination with digital printing, screen printing, and traditional offset printing. See April Greiman, Hybrid Imagery: The fusion of technology and graphic design, ed. Eric Martin (New York: Watson-Guptill, 1990). 792 Ibid. 327 and bright colors to create texture and movement in her designs, resisting the stasis of the printed page. The halftone grid has served not only as visual inspiration for subverting stylistic norms of modern design, but also as a means of asserting feminist and social justice issues as central to contemporary art and design. As graphic designer Sheila de Bretteville was in the process of establishing a women’s design program at the California Institute of the Arts in 1970, she was commissioned to design a special issue of the feminist newspaper, Everywoman (Fig. E.5–6). Her design was intended to evoke the ethos of consciousness raising, giving equal space to each writer represented therein. Fittingly, her design rejected the typographic grid typical of newspaper design, used to denote a hierarchy of information. Instead, she chose to layer large, colorful halftones across full page spreads. A contemporary of de Bretteville, Barbara Kruger brought together her training in graphic design with an overtly feminist approach to conceptual art (Fig. E.7). Since the 1960s, she has used the visual and verbal language of print advertising to exploit elements such as bold sans serif type, direct rhetorical address, and blown-up halftones in order to subvert the misogynist messages of Western capitalism. Her work calls attention to the black-and- white halftone’s alleged neutrality as a vessel of news, evidence, and information. In doing so, she highlights how mechanisms of reproduction—the halftone, the magazine, the newspaper, and photography itself—fortify power structures while allowing them to remain invisible. The 1960s and 1970s also saw a particular fascination in the form of the raster among artists working with screen printing and painting. Pop artists subverted the expectations of mechanized regularity associated with print media by adopting the visual 328 language of print in painting, thereby blurring the distinction between mechanized and gestural image making. Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol, Robert Rauschenberg, Sigmar Polke, Richard Hamilton, and JCJ Vanderheyden all used the raster grid in their work— whether in reference to comic strip Ben Day dots or newspaper halftones (Fig. E.8–11). Their references to mass culture call attention to the connotations of the raster as inherently cheap, fast, objective, and easy to overlook. By rendering Ben Day and halftone dots in paint, Pop artists upended such expectations to poke fun at the highbrow artworld. Their works compromised the coherence of representation in exchange for monumentalizing dot patterns usually intended to be ignored, turning those forms into objects of visual contemplation. David Hopkins has described how simulated halftone dots in Polke’s Rasterbilder paintings “achieved a distracting autonomy” in their visual irregularity. 793 Though the halftone was invented to force the infinitely variable tones of the photographic print to conform to the rigid mechanization of industrial printing, dots appear in Polke’s paintings as unruly and inconsistent. Artists have also used the halftone as a visual metaphor for the ultimate failure of technology to capture reality or convey truth. While the halftone process enabled the mass circulation of photographic images as news, it has paradoxically kept us from seeing the world coherently. The halftone embodies both the lofty promises and dismal failures of modernity—especially industrial capitalism—to create an efficient, egalitarian, informed, and virtuous world. As Romare Bearden worked to promote art as integral to civil rights activism in the 1960s, he began making photocopied collages of photographic reproductions from different contexts, brought together into chaotic images that resist the 793 Hopkins, After Modern Art, 118. 329 coherence of a composed photograph (Fig. E.12). In these works, human figures are constructed like cubist portraits, combining close-up fragments of facial features with bodies seen from myriad angles, destabilizing both subject matter and the beholder’s point of view. These works picture the inadequacy of representations of Black subjects and suggest collage as a harbinger of what Ralph Ellison called “a new visual order.” 794 The halftone and pixel grid continue to serve as visual motifs for the rejection of photography’s assumed authenticity or authority. Conceptual photographer Hank Willis Thomas uses the materials and visual language of mass media to show how photography has historically been used as a medium of erasure, even as it holds the promise of disclosure. In a series of photography-based works from 2018, Thomas found archival images of civilian protests from around the world, dating from the 1910s to the 1970s, and screen printed them at large scale on Dibond (Fig. E.13). The images were printed with a combination of ink and retroflective vinyl, typically used to paint traffic signs to increase their visibility at night. Shown in a dimly lit gallery, the works require the viewer to shine a flashlight, or the flash of a smartphone, directly at the surface of each work in order to see a part of the image that is otherwise invisible. An image of Black women walking to school, when illuminated, reveals a mob of white women protesting the integration of American schools in the 1960s (Fig. E.14). The glowing halftone dots of these blown-up archival photographs serve as reminders of how these images are used as self- congratulatory proof of American desegregation even while they testify to the incompleteness and inadequacy of this project. 794 Ralph Ellison, “The Art of Romare Bearden,” The Massachusetts Review 18, no. 4 (Winter 1977): 675. 330 Contemporary artists use raster patterns, halftones, and pixel grids as ciphers for ethical questions that frequently underlie making or looking at photography. Filipino- American conceptual artist Stephanie Syjuco has used the raster pattern to call attention to the erasures of history inscribed by conventions of photographic portraiture (Fig. E.15). In the series Cargo Cults: Cover-Up (2013–16), Syjuco uses the raster as disorienting “dazzle camouflage”—borrowed from the World War I practice of painting battle ships with abstract patterns. She uses rasters as forms that visually disrupt the authority of ethnographic portraiture, a convention historically used to reinforce white European dominance through colonial subjugation. 795 In Thomas Hirschhorn’s Pixel- Collages (2015-16), oversized pixels obscure images of extreme physical violence sourced from contemporary mass media, thereby calling attention to the ethical dilemma of whether to look at such images (Fig. E.16). In obscuring graphic imagery, the abstraction of the pixel grid heightens the beholder’s fascination and horror at imagining what they are prohibited from seeing. I propose that photographic halftones belong to a category of images that German artist Hito Steyerl has called “poor images.” 796 She uses this term to describe how digital images undergo visual and material corrosion when copied and circulated: The poor image is a copy in motion. Its quality is bad, its resolution substandard. As it accelerates, it deteriorates. It is a ghost of an image, a preview, a thumbnail, an errant idea, an itinerant image distributed for free, squeezed through slow digital connections, compressed, reproduced, ripped, remixed, as well as copied and pasted into other channels of distribution.… 797 795 See the artist’s website: https://www.stephaniesyjuco.com/projects/cargo-cults Dazzle camouflage is discussed briefly in Chapter 2 of this dissertation, in the context of perceptual research on optical illusions. 796 Hito Steyerl, “In Defense of the Poor Image,” e-flux journal No. 10 (November 2009), accessed December 1, 2019, https://www.e-flux.com/journal/10/61362/in-defense-of-the-poor-image/. 797 Ibid. 331 In the process of information loss through endless reproduction and circulation, “poor images” accrue connotative value as vague signifiers that stand in for shared ideologies, beliefs, and aspirations. Like pictograms, poor images masquerade as iconic signs while trading on the symbolic. They insinuate, promote, and endorse more than they represent. In the vagueness of their form, they are able to signify much more than a faithfully mimetic representation. Steyerl continues: The poor image…builds alliances as it travels, provokes translation or mistranslation, and creates new publics and debates. By losing its visual substance it recovers some of its political punch and creates a new aura around it. This aura is no longer based on the permanence of the ‘original,’ but on the transience of the copy. 798 Importantly, it is not in spite of the deterioration of the poor image, but rather because of it, that this “new aura” develops. As a “poor” image, a vague signifier premised on material corrosion, the halftone has been enormously useful to graphic design as an image type that retains a link to the “real” world while necessitating interpretation. Matthew Brandt’s series Clippings (2016-17) materialize the new aura that Steyerl has described: Using mass media images as source material, Brandt reconstitutes the dots of the halftone or pixel grid in blown-up versions of these images, formed by rhinestuds and caviar rather than ink or points of light (Fig. E.17). The preciousness of these materials suggests that, even while mass-circulated images degrade, they accrue a value that Brandt makes literal and material in this work. The visual language of the halftone grid has lately received an ambiguous recoding in popular culture, seemingly used as a kind of retro-futurist motif in both popular 798 Ibid. 332 entertainment and in politics. From the computer-animated film Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018) to the online campaign of Elizabeth Warren for the 2020 Democratic presidential nomination, today the halftone is enjoying a renewed if unspoken popularity (Fig. E.18–19). In both of these examples, digital simulations of Ben Day and halftone dots connote a particular idea of authenticity—one that recodes nostalgia for antiquated technology as a symbol of a utopian future that has not yet come to pass. The antiquated dot patterns offer visual immersion into a world of twenty-first-century social aspiration— toward a future in which a Black child can imagine himself as a mainstream American super hero, and a woman can imagine herself as president of the United States. They suggest that perhaps such a world has been here all along, hiding in plain sight. 333 Figure 1.1 Eugen Gutnoff, “Vergleichende Photobildbetrachtung,” Archiv für Buchgewerbe und Gebrauchsgraphik 68, no. 3 (1931), 93. 334 Figure 1.2 El Lissitzky, Advertisement for Pelikan Drawing Ink, 1924, offset lithograph. 335 Figure 1.3 László Moholy-Nagy, “Die Neue Typographie,” in Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919- 1923 (Weimar; Munich: Bauhausverlag, 1923), offset lithograph. Bauhaus Typography Collection, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. Figure 1.4 Herbert Bayer, cover of Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 (Weimar; Munich: Bauhausverlag, 1923), offset lithograph. Bauhaus Typography Collection, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 336 Figure 1.5 László Moholy-Nagy, title page of Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 (Weimar; Munich: Bauhausverlag, 1923), offset lithograph. Bauhaus Typography Collection, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 337 Figure 1.6 László Moholy-Nagy, title page (detail), Staatliches Bauhaus, Weimar, 1919-1923 (Weimar; Munich: Bauhausverlag, 1923), offset lithograph. Bauhaus Typography Collection, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 338 Figure 1.7 Walter Dexel, Fotografie der Gegenwart exhibition brochure, 1929, offset lithograph. Jan and Edith Tschichold Papers, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 339 Figure 1.8 Piet Zwart, cover of C. J. Graadt van Roggen, Het Linnen Venster (with detail