August 2007 - Vol 01 No 08 - Facsimile Magazine

Goodbye Sundown

Shadow Boxer

All James Harvey wanted was to make fine art. Thanks to Andy Warhol, he did—anonymously

On April 21, 1964, James Harvey, with his friend Joan Washburn, walked into New York’s Stable Gallery to see an opening for a rising artist named Andy Warhol. The show—which attracted a line around the block, despite mostly negative reviews—consisted of 400 large replicas of supermarket product boxes for brands such as Heinz, Del Monte, Mott’s, and Kellogg’s, stacked around the gallery as if in a stockroom. The ones that attracted the most attention were the 120 containers for Brillo cleaning pads. “Oh my god,” Harvey said to Washburn when he saw the Brillo boxes. “I designed those.”

At the time, Harvey was known, if at all, as a second-generation abstract expressionist painter who applied his oils so thickly that a 1961 New York Times review described him as “obviously having a love affair with his paint.” (Washburn worked at the Graham Gallery, which had hosted several of Harvey’s exhibitions.) But his day job was as a commercial artist for the industrial and package designers Stuart and Gunn, creating redesigns for companies like Philip Morris and Bristol-Myers. Three years before, Brillo implemented his drawings for a redesign of the company’s packaging.

Like most artists of that time, Harvey made a great distinction between his commercial art and his fine art. Warhol famously recognized these consumer objects as the most elemental creations of our society. By refusing to separate fine art and commerce, Warhol, who had also been a commercial artist during the ’50s, turned Harvey’s Brillo box into Brillo Box. In the book After the End of Art, the philosopher and art critic Arthur Danto asks, “What distinguishes Warhol’s Brillo Box from the Brillo boxes in which Brillo comes?” On that day in April, the difference had never been so small.

For two artists whose aesthetic philosophies and levels of success were diametrically opposed, Warhol and Harvey had much in common. They both came from blue-collar, immigrant families. Warhol was born in Pittsburgh in 1928, Harvey a year later in Toronto before his family moved to Detroit when he was three months old. Warhol earned a degree at the Carnegie Institute of Technology (now Carnegie Mellon), moved to New York, and started illustrating for Glamour. Harvey studied painting at the Art Institute of Chicago; after a brief move back to Detroit, where he designed window displays for retail giant J. L. Hudson (Warhol designed windows for Bonwit Teller), he moved to New York to break into the art world.

Like other painters unable to support themselves with fine art, Harvey applied for a job as a commercial artist. He secured a position in the studio of Egmont Arens, an industrial and packaging designer who helped usher in the “streamlined” style before World War II. Harvey started at $55 a week and apparently had little enthusiasm for his work. In a 1963 interview with Richard Brown Baker for the Archives of American Art, he discussed his redesign for Philip Morris cigarette packaging, which was precipitated by the success of Raymond Loewy’s famous red-and-white design for Lucky Strike. Harvey and his colleagues had worked for two years on sketches, completed 200 final comps, and did 200 final designs, changing the package’s “quaint-looking, brown, old-Englishy, shoppe look” to “[these] red-and-white, geometric, rather banal, modern-looking things that you can’t tell from any other cigarette package.” The executives gradually pared down the numbers, and the winner, thought Harvey, was the most mediocre of the bunch. “It’s a committee-arrived-at thing,” he said.

Warhol always had a fondness for commercial art, and with his trademark blotted-line technique and eye for color, he became one of the most sought-after commercial illustrators in New York. By 1959, he was making an impressive $100,000 a year.

That same year, Egmont Arens fired his creative team. Two of them, Whitney Stuart and William Gunn, took Harvey with them as a freelance designer when they started their own company, called Stuart and Gunn, where Harvey completed the work for Brillo. One of his talents was drawing lowercase letters, which represented a simple way to update blocky, all-caps design left over from prewar days. (His lowercase i for Ipana—especially the i’s oval dot—prefigured the i that appeared on the Brillo box.) This sort of creativity was not a point of pride for him. “It is a totally mechanical process,” he told Baker. “I could do it in my sleep.” He bemoaned his lack of control: The agency was in charge. “This doesn’t look like Pepsodent. Make it look more like Pepsodent,” the agency would tell him. “Or we’ll do a soap-box thing,” Harvey continued, “and they’ll say, ‘But couldn’t you give us something that looks more like Tide? Make it look like Tide, but make it different—but make it look like Tide.’”

Of course, it was that very banal consumer environment that so inspired Warhol. In 1962, the artist exhibited his Campbell’s soup series in Los Angeles, to mostly dismissive critical response. But when his silk-screened portraits of Elvis, Marilyn, and Liz debuted, he began to attract more notice. Other artists were helping to create a climate of acceptance for such works. Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg had incorporated graphic elements and ephemera into their paintings, and Lichtenstein was turning comics into flat, linear canvases.

Harvey regarded pop art with distaste. He thought its practitioners were simply recreating the technical underpinnings of an image, instead of plumbing the depths of the soul as abstract expressionists did. “I can’t possibly relate to Andy Warhol as a painter,” he told Baker a year before Warhol would take his own Brillo redesign and turn it on its head. He called pop art “an anti-art movement.”

By 1964, Warhol was only a minor sensation, but the Stable Gallery exhibition—which became known as “the soap-box show”—launched his persona, and made him an artist people loved to revile. One patron wrote “SHIT” in big capitals in the guest book, and critics panned the work. Washburn says that when Harvey saw his design in the gallery, he laughed it off. He and Warhol, who knew each other slightly (though Warhol wasn’t aware of Harvey’s Brillo connection), even chatted during the opening.

The Graham Gallery was less amused. It issued a feeble press release on behalf of Stuart and Gunn (and Harvey) that stated: “It is galling enough for Jim Harvey, an abstract expressionist, to see that a pop artist is running away with the ball, but when the ball happens to be a box designed by Jim Harvey, and Andy Warhol gets the credit for it, well, this makes Jim scream: ‘Andy is running away with my box.’” But the final line practically admitted defeat: “What’s one man’s box, may be another man’s art.”

History has been as kind to Warhol, the aesthetic maestro, as it has been harsh to Harvey, the romantic on the cusp of the age of irony. James Harvey’s last show, at Graham in November 1964, presented paintings that were “dynamic, restless, and painted with rich skill,” according to the Times. But by July 15, 1965, Harvey was dead in New York’s Lenox Hill Hospital. He had succumbed to what was described in his obituary as a “long illness” (according to Washburn, this was a cancer of the blood). His family came and picked up his photographs, unsold canvases, and remaining possessions, and took everything back to Detroit, where it remains.

As for the brand on which he and Warhol had put a spotlight, Brillo enjoyed a spike in popularity after the show but faded away in the ’70s with the advent of dishwashers and Teflon. The company, sold in 1984 to Church and Dwight (makers of Arm & Hammer products and Trojan condoms), doesn’t even own any of the old boxes. According to Brillo’s brand manager, Wendy Bishop, Brillo packaging has been redesigned “at least a dozen times” since Harvey’s 1961 creation.

One of the few surviving examples of Harvey’s box is owned by the art historian Irving Sandler, who keeps it in his Manhattan apartment encased in Plexiglas. When Warhol was autographing copies of his Brillo Box at the Stable Gallery for $300, Sandler suggested that Harvey sign copies of his Brillo boxes at Graham—and sell them for 10 cents. Harvey signed only one and sent it to Sandler as a gift, a half-hearted gesture to reclaim something he never much cared for in the first place.

Original article appears in the July/August issue of Pint Magazine.
Written by James Gaddy.
Additional reporting provided by Sharon Clott.

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The Chau Chan Truong Facsimile

Chau: Do you believe in the power of design? If so, to what extent.

Tim: To design is to act from a position of power. If by "the power of design" you mean the power to change people's lives, then I would have to say yes _ design is changing people's lives every day. I should also say that, by "design" I am referring not only to products but to the fields of industrial and architectural design, as well as urban, social, political and vernacular. As Michael McDonough says, "Design is the first sign of human intention." It is the nature, the quality and the affects of that intention that are of interest.

Chau: Is it possible for an artist to make amazing work after "selling out"?

Tim: This depends on how you define "amazing" and how you define "selling out". Selling out is different for every group, and one's allegiances are a delicate balance of social and ideological forces. But to address your question at face value, I would say no, an artist cannot make amazing work after selling out because selling out is a form of betrayal and has to do with the strategic leveraging of exploitative social relationships. After selling out, your work becomes an outgrowth of these relationships and helps to reproduce exploitation.

Chau: Madonna or Goldfrapp?

Tim: Early Madonna was pretty great, iconic work. She has totally sold out, though. I don't know enough about Goldfrapp to comment. I am a philistine. I am sorry if this does not help resolve your argument with Kit.

Chau: What do you think about the current electronic music scene?

Tim: When every major genre of music in the entire world uses some kind of electronic equipment to produce their music, the idea of electronic music loses its relevance. Justin Timberlake is electronic music. Konono No.1 is electronic music. Maybe you mean music that sounds like electronics? That's cool.

Chau: Which one do you think is more powerful/influential: Architecture or Art?

Tim: Both Art and Architecture have some degree of power. Unfortunately, the field of architecture as a professional, creative practice seems to be only powerful/influential for a select few individuals who use it to symbolize their power and wealth over those who cannot afford the luxury of "architecture" even though we move through some form of the built environment every day. This is unfortunate because society at large could benefit greatly from the creativity and knowledge of thoughtful architects. Art on the other hand, has been a huge influence on architectural ideas and the world of ideas in general. So in that sense, it also has great power and influence. It is also suffering from its pathetic role as a luxury device for class war.

Chau: What CD would you bring if you were stuck in a desert island with Chau, and why?

Tim: Well, I like to keep Chau happy, so it would have to be a Goldfrapp CD. I don't know which one is his favorite, though.

Chau: Have you ever fallen in love? If so, describe the experience.

Tim: Every time I fall in love, I think that the last time must have been a mistake because this one feels different but really that's just the difference between people. I think it deserves mention that describing the experience of falling in love has been the elusive objective of the majority of popular culture since the beginning of our existence. Has anyone ever been able to accurately describe the experience? We keep trying, though.

Chau: Which city do you imagine yourself settling in and why?

Tim: Perhaps the more accurate question is "do I see myself settling in?" In the near future, no. Let's say Berlin for the sake of argument. Other possibilities include rural Montana and Reykjavik.

Chau: Twincest... Hot? or Disgusting?

Tim: Nothing surprises me any more. Hot.

Chau: Your biggest fear in life is...?

Tim: Gruesome, painful, accidental, premature death.

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Colin of Japan

Colin of Japan sends us these pictures of him and his english class by way of electronic mail...

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Stitch Bitch

By Chris Anderko

You have to realize that you are working in a factory and you're part of the mechanism. If you break down, you'll be replaced.

- Mel Gibson

At the beginning of Dances with Wolves, Kevin Costner decides he doesn't want to be an amputee, so he shuffles himself up on horse and rides the lines in front of Confederate forces rathering be shot than sawed. Last week, Stephon Marbury called out Michael Jordan. Earlier in the year, Marbury responded to a slight from LeBron, saying "I'd rather own, than be owned." Bron had criticized Marbury's line of $15 kicks targeted at kids who can't afford to have The Global Icon's brand stitched on their shoes. Now, Marbury is imploring Jordan to follow his social justice business model and start producing affordable Nikes.

The fall of the Jordan icon since his return with the Washington franchise has not been humanizing. Jordan was not admired because he was human, but superhuman. A transcendent athlete with an [otherwise] inexcusable amount of determination/ego/ruthlessness. Jordan's initial humanization was mediated through Nike and Spike Lee. It had to be the shoes. Jordan's transcendence was an inherent part of his build; a ph7 of nature/nurture. Likewise, Spud Webb, Sky Walker and Tom Chambers were not admired for their will but their way. Failure within a character creates depth, but for superheroes its just a reason to move on.

On May 18th, 1990, Bird on a Wire opened as the number one movie in America. Five years later, as William Wallace, Gibson refused a serum to numb the pain of his impending torture death. A tenement of the Catholic Church, which Gibson had not at that point disavowed, believes embracing unnecessary pain is the sin of Pride. Without the chance for repentance before his death, a Mortal Sin. Mel Gibson's father was a Nazi or something, so we let it slide. But once he told police that "Jews were responsible for all the wars in the world" putting a gentile on a pole to get hit by lightning a couple times seemed even more indefensible.

Stoned Marbury Interview

Since Marbury's appearance on Oprah his reality's gone from being "the most reviled athlete in New York" to urban visionary. He reported today that he hopes to play in Italy when his contract expires in 2 years. People are liking basketball in Italy. He'll be 32 then. This coincides with the expiration of his contract with his shoe partner, Steve & Barry's. With respect to King James, his position in being owned vs pwned vs owning is apparent. A Finals bow out with a shitty team that's getting shittier; lackey host of corporate awards shows; his only public redemption comes from a choosing to play in a 4th class city that's geographically close to his birth place. LeBron's promise was about transcendence, not placation. Sincerity in form, not sublymonal commercialism. As other stars and non-stars seem to be gauging the changing landscape of perception better, the public discontent with LeBron is escalating. Less attention was paid to his refusal to "be a witness" against genocide without talking to his people than his on-court disappointments. His inability to ascend to champion will turn him into MJ the failed GM instead of MJ the phenomena.

There's been a marked shift in hero-worship after Jordan. Mainstream culture's inability to quantify a hero since Jordan has caused extinction. Hollywood's retardation of its product in conjunction with the lack of clout to authentically own celebrity has created the revolving door of stardom. The first time a picture of Lindsey Lohan's pussy is available she's already considered spent. She's 22. Lebron's 23 this offseason. Short of a championship in the next 2 years the window will have closed on his legacy. With increasingly contemptible revelations of failings by marketed icons, it's getting harder to insist that it isn't the shoes.

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Type in the Sky

Lisa Rienermann looked up in Barcelona and found letterforms in the sky created by the negative space of buildings.

“It began with the Q,” she tells Slanted. “I was in a kind of courtyard in Barcelona. I looked upward and saw houses, the blue sky and clouds. The more I looked, I saw that the houses formed a letter Q.”

This unique font is specially created for those that eat and breath architecture, it is highly recommended that all students should use it in their architecture presentation board in order to score an A in their design.

Via Slanted

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Dewey Decimal and the Librarians

In today's complex society of higher education we frequently discover some seemingly unacademic elements like guitarists, ethnic folk singers, humorists, just plain singers and interested students, who unite to fulfill a very definite need on campuses everywhere. Combine these and other variables and from time to time a group will hit the scene that is both very talented and has the ability to fraw on the above-mentioned sources in such a way as to create a very refreshing and entertaining styyle. Such a group is Dewey Decimal and the Librarians, who produced a sensation at Macalester College and throughout Minnesota during the 63-64 school year.

They have gone their seperate ways now: Dave Howard, bass and producer of much of the group's color, is in grad school in Los Angeles; Pete Malen, tenor with a pleasantly relaxed style, is traveling the country for General Mills; Bob Stimson, guitarist, bangoist and baritone who invariably forgot punch lines, is in grad school at the University of Minnesota and Don Mackenzie, guitarist and baritone and possessor of a delightful, subtle wit, is a junior at Macalester. This album, then, is a tribute to their work, which now lies in the past. Unfortunately, we can not recreate the stage presentation which made their shows so enjoyable. However, if it had not been for the music that these four fellows could produce, no amount of stage technique could have made them more than just another group.

Here, then, are Dewey Decimal and the Librarians at their best, singing the songs they enjoyed the most.

Special thanks to Ellen Holt-Werle, Leslie Mollner & Denise Tyburski of the Macalester College Library & Media Archives.
Listen to the entire album here (Quicktime RTSP Protocol).

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Bicycle

By Frisbee Jackson

I was thoroughly content riding my little pink bike-- the standard pink with the white basket in the front number. In fact, as the streamers that hung from the handlebars brushed against my arms as I ventured through my suburban neighborhood, I thought I was a pretty sweet kid. Except for that one pesky little thing that stood in the way-- the training wheels. The little plastic foes, the tiny wheels whose customary purpose was to help me keep balance, but in actuality were holding me back from all the wonders of "Two-Wheelerdom." My brother would often speak of the wonders and majesty of "Two-Wheelerdom," trying to convince me to at least try it out. I had been adamantly refusing because everytime I'd think about going without training wheels, I could only see images of my six-year-old body slumped on the sidewalk, scratched and bruised, and my bent-up pink bike stuck in a bush nearby. That's when my brother went vigilante on me. He mercilessly ripped the training wheels off my defenseless bicycle. And I don't use the verb "ripped" in this case to mean "unscrew and gently take off." He literally snapped them off in front of my eyes, probably just to add a dramatic touch. I sobbed and begged him to stop and through blurred eyes saw the pieces of splintered plastic that defined my childhood days lie there defeated on the driveway. But at the same time something inside of me beat excitedly. I couldn't put off riding my bike without training wheels any longer. I would have to at least try and ride my bike on its own two wheels. And sure enough within a week, I was cruising around, holding my own in Two-Wheelerdom.

This is when I had my first real taste of an important life lesson. Sometimes you just have to take action. Or to take a page out of Nike's brilliant marketing team's book, "Just Do It" because sometimes that's the only way to get it done. Too much time is wasted in hesitation, overanalyzing, worrying, biting your nails. In the time that it takes to form a pro/con list, venn diagram and bar graph of possible options, the task could have been completed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating following through on every whim and impulse. Just because you cut some of the hesitation and mental chart-making out, doesn't mean you cut out the logical reasoning as well. Basically, if you want to ride a bike without training wheels. Give it a try. Or ask your older brother to use brute force to break them off for you.

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Facsimile August 2007

Origins of Fear & Hatred of Disco

Goodbye Sundown

Shadow Boxer

The Chau Chan Truong Facsimile

Colin of Japan

Stitch Bitch

Type in the Sky

Dewey Decimal and the Librarians

Bicycle