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Volume 2 Number 3
Editor: E. C. Simpson Art Editor: E. Mervyn Taylor
Two-Monthly Journal of the Architectural Centre Inc.
G.P.O Box 1628, Wellington, C.1 October-November 1949
Every age evolves a style that is characteristic of it. We are living in an age that has a profound distrust of the ornamental. The slogan of fitness for purpose is a good weapon against the Victorian tendency to apply ornament as an afterthought, but does it necessarily mean that nothing modern can be good unless it has the appearance of a machine-shop product, or should it be understood as meaning that there is no beauty without fitness for purpose?
Looking at the products of our time one tends to see three distinct styles emerge—if “styles” is applicable. First there is Ye Olde Jacobean—electric chandeliers looking like candles but without the smell or the dripping wax. This must be admitted as a style, not only on account of its popularity but also because it is a symptom of our flight from the harassing bustle of modern living. Let me quote from a modern Continental catalogue of electrical fittings:
“The good old days. These four little words express so many wishes and memories; the wish to escape, were it only for a few minutes, from our feverish life and find a moment's rest in a romantic atmosphere of the past.”
The second style might be described as the “jazzy” or modernistic. It is perhaps the lowest aesthetic standard in what must be accepted as belonging to our age. The jazziest and most ornate cinema chandelier cannot be denied a full measure of twentieth century vitality, but its appeal is so violent as to become unbearable, unless one's senses get so blunted by it that they refuse to react.
The third characteristic modern style is 100% sober. The utmost indulgence by way of ornament is a mild flirtation with some elemental figures which have strayed out of a geometry book. But the more drab our workaday lives, the more kick do we need. There remains the same kind of difference as between a whisky when you feel like it, and a continuous state of dipsomania. A style that is bare, austere and completely sterilised feels stale, insipid and anæmic.
People want ornament for good human reasons. We have progressed straight and fast in utilitarian design, whereas ornament has gone to rack and ruin. Overpredominantly functional approach to design is not the only possible approach, nor is it one to be proud of. To rule out ornament as unsound is just as pernicious as to turn out bad and spurious ornament; and these are the two chief design sins of our time.
Letters to the Editor and contributions should be addressed to The Editor, Design Review, P.O. Box 1628, Wellington, C.1., accompanied by a stamped addressed envelope. If written under a pen-name, the writer must enclose his name and address.
The Editor is always glad to consider any contributions. Where possible, they should be accompanied by photographs of the illustrations suggested. Original works of art should not be sent unless requested.
For the purposes of reproduction, glossy photographs are preferable, and contributors are reminded that the appearance of good objects can be easily ruined by bad photography.
A Subscription is the best way to make sure of your copy of Design Review. The subscription is five shillings for six numbers and should be sent to Design Review, P.O. Box 1628, Wellington, C.1.
None left of Nos. 1, 2 and 3. Few copies of Nos. 4, 5, 6 (Volume I).
Advertisers are reminded that the readers of Design Review are people interested in well made and well designed products of all kinds. Rates for display advertising may be obtained on application to the Advertising Manager, Design Review, P.O. Box 1628, Wellington, C.1.
This is a good example of a minimum-sized house, the area being 870 square feet, compact and well arranged. The exterior has a brick base, stained weatherboard walls and a fabric roof.
Inside, the walls of the living room are lined with kahikatea plywood, waxed, other walls with gibraltar board stopped and matt painted.
The warmth of this plywood panelling and the exposed roof joists give a particularly pleasant domestic character to the interior, and contrast effectively with the large unobstructed glazing.
Architect
J. L. Naylor
Contractor
C. E. Spencer
Photographs
Frank Hofmann
Today the garment industries with all their affiliations represent a very important source of industrial employment in the civilised countries of the world. I have, unfortunately, no reliable figures at my disposal and do not wish to quote estimated figures, but it can be stated without exaggeration that the number of men and women who gain their living directly or indirectly in the readymade garment industry amounts to many millions.
In spite of an approximately equal number of men and women in those countries, the latter are by far the bigger consumers of their products. The number of consumers grows in the same proportion as the quality of the product improves. The writer of this article, being a designer of ladies' garments, will have to consider the subject from this angle.
Men are used to identifying female clothing with vanity and I shall not discuss whether this point of view is justified or not. Let us agree, that if the great development of the ladies' garment industry is the result of feminine vanity, then we must treat vanity with due respect and with the seriousness this weakness deserves.
Until about 50 years ago the manufacture of ladies' dresses, coats and costumes was in the hands of seamstresses and dressmakers. Every garment was made to measure and a great deal of time, labour and material was involved in the making of every single garment. The products were made to last for at least one generation and were expensive. There existed something like fashions, but the changes were slow and not imperative.
At the beginning of this century the ready-made garments made their entry and were generally not well received. A ready-made garment meant an ill-fitting and inferior garment, and was not accepted by the public of means, taste and refinement. The leading manufacturers were forced to improve their products and as most of them were well-organised bodies they soon adapted themselves to the demand. From then onward the garments these factories turned out were steadily improving, and finally conquered the world market.
The most prominent centres of the industry were in chronological order: Vienna, Berlin, London, Amsterdam, Brussels, later New York and San Francisco. Strangely enough, Paris never played a prominent part among the clothing manufacturing cities. The factories all over Europe and America produced highly-specialised products; specialised in regard to price, material size and design. The big American stores pride themselves on being able to serve in their clothing departments every figure, purse and taste; and this is no sales talk, but a fact.
This brings us to the topic with which your journal is mainly concerned: design. Who creates fashions and is fashion designing really creative work? Here again I must treat the subject from my own personal angle. My experience is gained exclusively in the manufacture
Products were made to last for at least one generation
This sketch is handed over to the pattern-maker, who makes his exact paper pattern and passes this on to the cutter, who transfers the pattern to the material and cuts it out.
In this country these operations had to be simplified, and our so-called designer is designer, pattern-maker and cutter in one person. In this article I propose to consider the designer in the classical sense of the word, as the man whose tools are paper and pencil and nothing else.
The Mecca of the Continental, British and American designer was and is— Paris. Before putting the first line on paper for next season's designs, he will have to see in Paris what the “Couture” suggests, indicates or dictates. The “Couture” or Model Mouses of Paris are a strictly organised body subsidised by the French Government; its members are subject to very minutely controlled regulations. The secrets of the coming “collection” are as carefully kept as the secrets of a Foreign Office, and all measures are taken in order to prevent leakages.
The openings of the “Couture” are announced as important economic and social events. The first showings are held for the buyers of foreign wholesale houses and foreign designers. After these the private customers are invited to view the new models. French wholesale buyers and designers are strictly excluded in order to prevent the “Trade” copying the models and competing with the Couture. For the same reason all visitors to the Couture shows oblige themselves not to sell any of the ordered models to French firms. Nobody is admitted to the showings without a buyer's ticket (carte d'acheteur) obtainable through one of the registered Paris Fashion Agents. The card shows no name but only a number, by which the purchases are entered.
In recent years US buyers and designers obtained the privilege of a preview two days before the official opening. This was in order to make it possible for them to catch up with a few days' delay, in the longer time of transport, of their report to the States. For a few years now the carte d'acheteur has not been sufficient to gain admission to the shows of the great couturiers like Robert Piguet, Balenciaga. Marcel Rochas, Christian Dior, Jean Dessès, Charles Montaigne, etc. To be admitted one has to sign an obligation to purchase at least one model. This means that admission costs something like 100,000 francs.
The salons of the prominent couture-houses are in premises which used to be the residences of the French aristocracy of the 17th and 18th centuries, adapted in the most luxurious and breath-taking way to form an impressive background to the crowd of mannequins who show very gracefully, but very quickly, the couturier's ideas of the coming fashion. At Montaigne's, for instance, the walls and doors of a big square hall are hidden behind heavy grey satin curtains. and in the centre of the hall a beautifully sculptured composition sprays water of exotic scent on to a flower display at the base of the fountain.
This is the working-ground of the poor foreign designer who must disregard all fragrance, colour, luxury and feminine grace and beauty and concentrate on the gowns and coats shown. This concentration must be acquired by practice, as what one sees may not be registered elsewhere than in ones memory. The use of drawing paper and pencil brings a serious warning the first time; the second time very polite but definite expulsion.
After the show the designers grab their hats and coats and rush to a close-by café, spread out their sketch-books and sketch feverishly all they can remember of the models seen. Fortunately there is co-operation among the designers. They compare their sketches and one can always add a number of details one missed and pass on ideas in return. One Couture-day in Paris means to a steady working designer the viewing of three collections of approximately 80 models each, and keeps his mind off all the remaining charms of Paris. After three or four days of hard work, the designers leave Paris and it is now that their proper designing work begins.
The result of the busy days in Paris are a confusing amount of impressions and masses of stenographic sketches and notes. One illustration to this article shows you a page out of a designer's sketch book which forms an eloquent report to the trained eye. Most of the new ideas must be dropped as unripe or not applicable for the special market the designer represents. To make the right choice and use the right ideas is a matter of intuition and fashionsense. It unfortunately happens that some designers are influenced by an idea which one or more couturiers have followed up very consistently, but is ultimately declined by the public.
An error like this may spoil a whole season's business and the reputation of the designer. It is just as big a mistake to be too timid and not recognise a radical change of line and consequently make a range of models, which are not up to date. The arrival of a new idea always arouses protest and it is impossible for the designer to follow preconceived ideas and let himself be guided by logical or economic principles.
Some time ago a clever fashion advertiser invented the slogan: the new look. This meant longer and wider skirts. The first reaction of women all over the world was: “My skirts are going to remain short, in spite of the new look.” The designer with fashion sense did not take any notice of this general feminine protest and designed the new skirts longer and fuller. We all saw that a lady's skirt only remained short until she bought a new frock; this new frock had a longer and fuller skirt.
When making his own range of models the industrial designer must make his decisions and be guided by nothing else than his intuition, his fashion sense and taste. A thorough study of his Paris sketches and notes follows, whereby a contact with the available materials and accessories is essential. In this productive period one has to endeavour to forget the mass of separate impressions and so arrive at a new—his own—conception of the models to be created.
This is achieved by studying the sketches, discarding some and accepting others, varying them, adding new ideas and much more, until sketches result which are quite personal, although they show some traces of the new idea. The final result will represent the designer's so-called “handwriting”. Some international buyers, with long years of practice, have an amazing ability in recognising the handwriting of the maker.
We see that there is a very strong creative element in fashion designing in spite of the fact that new ideas are inspired by only a few men and women who have the talent and authority to change or modify the feminine silhouette. Artists probably will not accept fashion designers as fellow-artists and yet they have one thing in common; they both endeavour to find their self-expression in the beauty of their work.
[Now we understand Churchill's “never was so much owed by so many to so few.” The editorial staff wish to express their delight in “change or modify the feminine silhouette,” a phrase whose manifold implications only a poet could have invented.—Editor.]
This was Bishop Pompallier's house built in 1841. It has a simple plan and was constructed partly in wood and partly in rammed earth. The lack of available stone or brick in early New Zealand was no doubt the reason why rammed earth or adobe was so extensively used at this time. The pioneers had come from a country in which the great majority of the houses were built of brick or stone, and it would appear they were reluctant to build their houses in this new country of the one material which was in great abundance—timber. The building actually belongs to two periods. The adobe or mud-walled portion was the original house, and it consisted of the three rooms on the ground floor and one big room on the first floor which was divided into cells for the resident or visiting priests. The later additions, which completely enveloped the adobe buildings, were made in the 'seventies—a period when colonial houses were very much influenced by the late Georgian architecture of England. Round the austere core of Pompallier's house was added verandahs, a lean-to at the back, chimneys, windows and doors—in fact nearly everything in the present house except the adobe walls. The appearance of this house is pleasing with its dominating roof, sweeping verandahs and rhythm of post and balustrade. Many similar houses are to be found in New Zealand, Australia and California.
This is a well-preserved house built: in Canterbury in 1850 of rammed earth and roofed with the oldest type of roofing thatch. Only elementary technical ability was required to build this house; it is a house in its simplest form. There is a pleasant proportion between the three openings and the walling. Note the absence of spoutings or the ubiquitous chimney pot. Today the picket fence and ample shrubs enhance this simple cottage, which is typical of many that may be found in England and Europe. Pioneers of New Zealand planned and built their first houses in similar form to the houses they had left in England. It was later that the design was influenced by the social and climatic conditions of this new country. The chimney is not characteristic, but is of a form that is well suited for rammed earth.
This house of the 'sixties is a development of the Canterbury house. The main elements are the same. The steeply pitched roof was covered with shingle or thatch originally. To a rectangular plan there has been added a verandah which was to become a marked characteristic of all New Zealand houses. A comparatively mild and wet climate with clear strong sunshine influenced the widespread use of the verandah; also the unpaved roads and paths of the day, which in winter must have been deep in mud, were a further reason. The verandah offered in winter a halfway place between the mud and the interior of the house to clean boots and remove top-coats before entering. The windows in this house are of the casement type.
This house, which was built about 1860, is a further development of the rectangular plan. There is more room in the upper storey, but this space is badly lighted with only one dormer window. Details of this window indicate that the builder found difficulty in mastering the details of the structure, which no doube explains why there is only one window of this type. All other details are handled with skill and ability. It is interesting to note that there are no spoutings to the roof. which is covered with shingle, and that, the ridges and hips are covered with metal, no doubt lead. The absence of spouting would indicate that drinking water must have been obtained from a well. It was the introduction of galvanised iron for spoutings, downpipes and tanks which made it possible to collect rainwater for household use. Note the lack of flower garden, which is a characteristic of the houses shown in these early photographs. No doubt there was little time to spare for its cultivation. The windows are casement. In the houses of the next decade the casement window disappeared, to be replaced by the double hung or vertical sliding window. Casement windows again became popular about 50 years later in the early years of this century.
Photos by Courtesy of Turnbull Library
Every man has, to a degree, a natural urge to organise his environment to suit himself. There is no doubt that a great deal of energy during his lifetime is directed to this end; and, moreover, the process of making money (which, when made, gives the widest scope for the satisfaction of this urge) is certainly one of our most popular pastimes.
It seems fundamental then, that man should try to influence his surroundings, and, in fact, much of the joy of life derives from this attempt. To deprive a man of this influence on his environment by, say, placing him in a prison cell, is to punish him. But the prison cell will do more than punish him. Such is the power of environment that the dullness and utter insensibility of his surroundings will eventually warp his whole outlook. Thus the matter doesn't end with man's urge to arrange his surroundings to his own will. Once shaped, his environment begins, in turn, to shape him.
It is in the arrangement of his dwelling that the average man finds his greatest opportunity for exercising this personal influence on his surroundings. When he calls in an architect to arrange it for him he places on him a great responsibility. But through the organisation of walls, roofs, and the spaces they enclose the designer may be able to suggest a particular way of life. If he can form a broad and spacious conception of the good life and represent this succesfully in solid building materials he can open up to his client new and exciting avenues for living. To attempt this for the consideration of the public was one of the principal aims of the Architectural Centre in building the Demonstration House.
In every well-designed house there is complete unity between the inside and the outside. The design of the interior cannot be divorced from the overall conception of the dwelling—it is simply a more intimate expression of the particular approach to living envisaged. Historically this has always been so, but varying emphasis has been placed on the exterior and interior from time to time. Today the emphasis is placed on meeting the needs (both practical and aesthetic) of the occupants rather than making these needs subservient to the demands of a preconceived exterior. Fewer people nowadays seem to feel the need to impress their neighbours with a pompous and overburdened facade, and the contemporary architect plans from the inside to the outside. This, of course, makes it all the more important that he should investigate fully the basic living requirements of the occupants.
While the designers in this case were able to form a reasonably clear picture of the way of life for which they were planning, it was difficult to decide questions of interior detail, as the taste and temperament of the future occupants (which could only be assumed) had also to be considered. Therefore the interiors had to be somewhat non-committal and yet avoid the impersonal atmosphere of
And so the aim generally throughout the house has been to use plain materials and fabrics with simple wall treatments, and to rely for interest on the natural grain of woodwork and contrast in form and texture of materials rather than in applied decoration and floral patterns.
Making the best use of the limited floor space available is a pressing problem today, and in this house built-in furniture has been used as much as possible. This frees the space within the rooms, but a great deal of attention must be paid to its convenient arrangement at the outset, or the flexibility obtainable with movable units is lost. It is not possible to change one's mind and rearrange the furniture if it is built-in, but space-saving considerations will generally outweigh this disadvantage. What movable furniture there is in the house has been designed to be as light as possible to heighten the effect of space in the rooms. This also has practical advantages—think of the daily effort involved in moving the usual heavy chesterfield suite in order to sweep underneath.
Several family activities will take place in the living-room—dining, reading, writing, listening to the radio, talking and entertaining friends. The furniture has had to be planned and disposed to meet all these requirements without “cluttering up” the room and making it appear over-crowded. The low fitting along one wall houses the writing desk, fireplace and fuel bins, radiogram and record storage, and magazine cupboard, while a divan to seat three is built in at one end. The fire-place, incidentally, is covered by a flush-fitting fire-screen during the summer months to fill that dreary gaping hole which usually becomes a receptacle for waste paper and cigarette ends.
living room
The dining table is placed at the other end of the living-room and can be moved under the hatch from the kitchen so that places can be laid and dishes removed without leaving the kitchen.
Lightness has been achieved without sacrifice of comfort in the easy chairs by the use of strong but light plywood and foam rubber upholstery. The design is straightforward for ease in construction and there is no heavy stain to obscure the natural beauties of the wood.
General illumination is provided in this room by two recessed fittings in the ceiling, and there are additional light fittings for special uses, e.g., over the desk for writing, and a movable standard lamp for reading or sewing.
The floor treatment in the living-room is simple, and richness is obtained by contrast in texture between a plain wall-to-wall covering and loose rugs. Similarly the woven fabric of the curtains contrasts pleasantly with the smooth wall and ceiling surfaces.
An interesting feature in the kitchen is a built-in breakfast table where the family can have light meals. Asphalt tiles have been used on the floor of this room, the bathroom, hall and playroom-utility room, to provide a smooth, durable and attractive-looking finish. They also have the advantage of not being cold to the touch—a quality usually associated with a tiled floor.
The decorative possibilities of pine timber with its delicate grain and dark knots have long been appreciated in Scandinavia and America, but in this country it has not yet been extensively used as an internal wall lining. It is appropriate, therefore, that it should have been used throughout the hall and playroom-utility room of this exhibition house.
A saving of space is effected in the children's bedroom by the use of built-in bunks. These are arranged one above the other in a recess, giving a shipboard feeling which should appeal to the young mind. Allowance has been made for the mattress to slide outwards while the bed is being made, so that the tucking-in difficulties which usually occur with bunks are avoided.
A light fitting is placed above each bunk and recessed in the wall to avoid accidents. This room will have to serve as a study for the children as well, and the built-in dressing table can be used as a desk. Bookshelves and a separate wardrobe for each child are also built-in. A heavy curtain instead or A door separates this room from the passage so that the space can be opened wide to the court on sunny days.
The smaller single bedroom has been planned with built in bed, bookshelves and dressing-table for an older child. Space is at a premium here but the compact lavout of the furniture allows full advantage to be taken of the area that is available.
The main bedroom, which must also serve as a dressing-room, has ample wardrobe space for hanging clothes. Sliding trays in the wardrobes provide storage for smaller items of clothing. The top of the dressing-table is hinged over a tray designed to contain scent bottles, cosmetic jars, and the usual oddments.
The double bed is built low on simple lines. Here again interest is provided by the natural grain of the wood. The room is lit by wall bracket lamps on flexible couplings.
Throughout all the rooms in the house there has been a conscious attempt to obtain a good standard of design for each article and fitting down to the smallest door handle. In several cases a suitable pattern has not been available ready-made, and a new one has been designed and fabricated. This is not merely an attempt at novelty as such, but derives from the unfortunate fact that many manufactured articles available in the country today are by no means as good-looking or as suited to their functions as they might be. It is hoped that the exhibition of this house and its contents will make some contribution towards a keener appreciation by the public of good design, so that the demand for the well-designed article will become universal.
“The Demonstration House.” 24 pp. illustrated. Articles on the purpose, history, design, interior and construction.
The Architectural Centre, P.O. Box 1628, Wellington C.I One Shilling
Since the average New Zealand housewife has no domestic help and cannot afford, even if obtainable, the electrical labour-saving devices she envies, apart from pressure cookers and perhaps a refrigerator, she must rely entirely on good planning.
From my experience in the usual household, the kitchens of our small homes are used for everything and by every member of the family. This can be exasperating for the poor mother trying to prepare food. The answer, therefore, is to divide in two—one half exclusively for the preparation of food, and the other for the rest of the family.
So when I build my ideal kitchen it will be larger, 15ft by 10ft, even at the expense of a smaller lounge, because with children growing up I shall spend a large part of my life there. It must face the morning sun, have windows on two walls, if possible with window boxes which can be reached from inside, growing parsley, mint, etc.
The sink-bench will divide the kitchen in half, being at right angles to the outside longer wall, with the sink in central position (see illustration). In this way the bench can be used from both sides and it will also act as a “counter”. Under the outside wall-end of the bench will be a cupboard to hold a refuse bin. The cupboard will open outside and will be closed off from the inside except for a well-fitting lid in the bench top so that scraps can be disposed of direct to the bin instead of the endless trips outside. This, of course, must be carefully done in order to prevent odours entering the kitchen.
The cupboards and drawers in the bench beyond the sink will open on both sides, and at the end, which will be rounded for bodily protection, will be storage space for trays. The stove
Underneath the stove and probably to raise it a little, will be a drawer to hold oven trays, while provision at one side will be made for a tea towel rail and a shelf to hold salt and pepper and tea which are in constant use. The safe will be near the stove.
The low cupboards about 2ft wide which line up with the sink bench make a three-sided continuous working area, and when stocking them, materials should be arranged in the routine of cooking work. The upper wall space opposite the bench will be 9in cupboards with plenty of shelves to contain uniform containers for small groceries, so that you can see at a glance where things are. On this wall in the corner will be the hot water cupboard opening, if possible, through to another side to be used as a linen press.
Drawings by
The refrigerator will be on this wall next to the hot water. Cupboards from ceiling to floor will take up the remaining wall: these may open both into the kitchen and the other side where the dining department would be. The door opposite the bench end will lead into the house. As there is no door in the working half of the kitchen there is no thoroughfare through it. In this way, with the minimum of movement, cooking can be done while keeping an eye on the children in the other department.
The side parallel with the bench will have a good-sized table that can be folded up against the wall if more floor space is needed. The built-in seat at the side has storage room underneath it. Perhaps an ironing board can be incorporated underneath the table-top, to be lowered independently for skirts, with power point nearby also handy for the sewing machine. The outside door will be on the wall opposite the sink-bench with a broom cupboard behind it which will open into the kitchen.
Outside the back door on the porch will be a well-ventilated store cupboard for cases of fruit, sacks of potatoes, shoes and their cleaning gear, to say nothing of bottles and hanging game or ham when necessary. Lighting is most important, especially over sink, stove and the table which will be used for everything, including homework. There must also be toe-room throughout, and the side on which all doors open must be carefully worked out.
Finally. no one will ever make me have my wash-house part of the kitchen —the bathroom perhaps. Babies' washing and football clothes do not go with the preparation of food.
Miss V. D. Blumnhardt is area orgoniser of the Arts and Crafts Branch, Wellington. She has played a prominent part in the formation of the new scheme for Arts and Crafts in the primary schools. She is at present visiting England, Europe and U.S.A. to study new methods of art teaching in those countries.
Drawing and painting stimulate children to grow towards a full adult life by giving them confidence in their own individual personalities and by building up their own individual awareness. They help to fit them for life as members of a community. Creative expression is the natural right of young children and is necessary for their development as well-rounded individuals.
The art teaching in our schools is not concerned with teaching art for art's sake, but in teaching art as something which develops personality, and leads to a fuller life. The aim of this teaching should be to preserve in children their enjoyment of art as an integral part of their adult life.
Artistic activity must be considered not only as a form of expression concerned with satisfying the desire to create, but also as evidence of a child's emotions and innermost feelings. The art of children is not an unskilful attempt at copying; it is original expression, a definite symbol resulting from something in the mind of a child and blending with his past experience. This free expression is of extreme value to a child and should be encouraged. Later it will stimulate his observation and preserve his power of imagination until, in the adult, it will overflow into creative expression.
In order that children may get full benefit from drawing and painting we must avoid attempting to mould pupils to a standard pattern and a single style of work. The attitude of grown-ups should not be critical but should be directed towards providing the right atmosphere and environment for full freedom of expression. Children have remarkable powers of imagination and are sensitive to colour, balance and design. The art teacher needs to have tact, imagination and adaptability. There is no rigid textbook theory to rely on.
By means of this activity a child satisfies an inner longing to produce and to share his thoughts and feelings with others. Its value is partly social as it provides a child with a means of making contacts with others not possible in any other way.
Children develop a sense of selfreliance and display ingenuity in the use of materials. When delight in beauty and in freedom of emotional and aesthetic expression which drawing can provide becomes part of childhood, there is no telling what valuable work may result when the child grows up. Art enriches the mind as it grows to maturity by keeping it lively and sensitive. It enables us to discriminate and take a pleasure in creative work. Children love the feeling of having made something which is all their own. This sense of having made something helps to build a child's confidence in himself.
When children first start to draw, their drawings have little relation to what is seen with the eye. Their drawings are symbols of those things which at the time have meaning and importance to them. Thus the human figure in a very young child's work may appear as a large head mounted on two legs. Although the child knows that the body is there and sees it, he draws only those parts of the body that he thinks important; the face because it speaks, the legs because they move about. Children do not depict what is before their eyes so much as their feelings and emotions in relation to things about them. At this early stage the materials provided should require the least technical skill, e.g., large paper, large stiff brushes and opaque water paint.
Mummy, by Shirley, age 4
Children's first marks on paper are scribbles. In calling them “scribble” we use a word that shows that their meaning may be hidden from us, as the scribble may bear no likeness to any of the objects we know. As drawings they appear disorderly and we may not be able to judge their signficance except with the help of the child. For him they have provided a full emotional release, and because they are thus so completely personal they differ from one child to another. A little later this scribbling becomes controlled and a child derives much greater enjoyment from his efforts. What hitherto has been a scribble is now given a name, or a story is told during the process of drawing.
During this transition stage it is most important that children, to develop
The Allotment, by Pamela Dickens, age 15, pupil at a secondary school
At first the human figure always represents either himself or those nearest and best known. The subject matter at this stage will be “Me” and “Mine”, e.g., “Me and Mummy”, “Brushing My Teeth”, etc. Because children have not yet developed sufficiently for them to feel the connection between themselves and the things that surround them, every object is drawn and thought of separately and without relation to one another or the space around them.
Later, children develop a highly definite individual concept of human beings and their surroundings. Objects within pictures are now definitely related to one another, and although still drawn as symbols, the trees, houses, people, assume different sizes with some attempt at showing distance. Those things which children think are most important are drawn of larger size. When some object, or some part of it, is drawn in exaggerated size, we can assume that object has special significance, or that it has been the cause of some deeply felt emotion. When we know the causes of this disproportionate drawing, we see its value, not as attempt at reproduction but as true expression. From this we may gather the importance of not judging children's drawings from the viewpoint of an adult's idea of relative proportion.
When a child starts to put the things in his drawings on one or more base lines, we know that he has reached the stage of development at which he is beginning to feel his connection with what is outside or beyond himself. These base lines are used either to stand things on or to give surface character to the landscape. One line may indicate a valley and the other be bent up to form a hill. All the things on the hill, whether trees, houses, people, etc., will be drawn at right-angles to the hill.
Some children will not develop beyond this stage, and even when they become adults will still draw after this fashion. Many, however, will develop further and will reach by the age of 10 or 11 a stage when they draw things as they see them. This desire to make their drawings closely resemble what is seen is deeply rooted in a large number of adolescent children. Care should be taken that they do not get completely absorbed in mere photographic imitation. This is important since a work of art does not consist in copying appearance, but in creating a symbol for the artist's experience and reaction. All the parts of a child's picture at this stage are now inter-related and much more attention is given to detail. But it is still those parts which are emotionally significant which receive the greatest attention.
The children who will develop beyond this stage of drawing at the age of 12 or 13 comprise about one-third. The adolescent is still a child, though in many ways, in the development of his understanding and in his method of attacking problems, he is becoming an adult. But he is still essentially a child as is seen in the freedom of his imagination; for instance, a pencil can become a gun or an aeroplane as easily as the fairy's wand changes a pumpkin into a coach and horses. It is during this change from childhood to adolescence that those responsible are called upon to use the greatest care and tact.
It is now that a failure in sympathetic understanding may kill the chances of young people keeping and increasing their ability to respond in later life to aesthetic impulse. With adolescence comes a more conscious appreciation of the difference between materials, and a wider range of materials should be provided. This will help promote an appreciation of art which in adult life will bring the joy of discriminating between standards and styles of work in painting, drawing and all forms of design.
The change from the unconscious creative approach to this of critical awareness takes place by natural stages of development. If we allow this to take place we keep alive the ability to create and enjoy—the greatest gifts of mankind.
As we fondle the first issue, perceiving dimly the prodigious effort it embodies and gravely estimating the perils it will meet with, we cannot but speculate on the reasons that have compelled a few noble and disinterested people to found Here & Now. Why has it been published and—a related question—to whom is it addressed?
To the first part of the question the editors have supplied a convincing, if not remarkably original, answer. Free diseussion, we are informed, is an essential part of the demoeratie process; a commercially controlled daily press and a politically controlled broadcasting system do not permit the free circulation of ideas and opinions in this country; the purpose of Here & Now is to fill this gap in our democratic institutions. It is, quoting the editors, to supply ‘a desperate need for fresh air.’ We can merely comment ‘Fine!’ though experience has taught us a certain scepticism when we see democracy and its derivatives linked with the promise of future performance.
Here & Now is to be a kind of ventilating system; it will add a necessary piece of apparatus to the defective machinery of New Zealand demoeraey. We are now in sight of an answer to our second question. If its function is demoeratic, if must be designed for the whole mass of New Zealand's population, certainly for the voting mass. And here we find explicit support in the editors who ‘hope to give, over a period, something like a time picture of the collective state of mind of those people in New Zealand who think about anything at all beyond horse racing, football and the next meal.’
A superficial inspection of the first issue lends some colour to this assumption. In the externals of printing, arrangement and layout, Here & Now introduces something quite new in my experience of New Zealand journalism. The cover is bold and arresting, the paper pleasing to the touch; the type is clear and, for the most part inoffensive; illustrations are numerous and varied (among them a few very old friends); no article exceeds three pages in length, and most of them are carved into easily digestible segments; even the advertisements harmonise so well that one is almost tempted to read them.
Again to the casual glance, the contents even more strikingly than the format, seem designed for a large and heterogeneous public. There is something here for every taste, except perhaps the lowest. Foreign correspondents, with their peeuliar faded jargon, create tableau vivants, where buildings ‘loom majestically’ against the skyline and a horse, ‘its flanks white with foam,’ cavorts in a Madrid square. New Zealand's most fertile novelist, writing from Oxford, chivalrously acclaims New Zealand's ‘best fiving writer.’ The editors matily announce their policy in “Kick-Off” (an editorial), already quoted. Messrs Fairburn and Blake provide us with a full-length portrait of our future prime minister; we can have our choice, it seems, between a calculating humbug or a political cretin. Irony is next briefly invoked by
Now half-way in our marathon, we pause before plunging into a further instalment of Mr Middleton's American adventures, oddly labelled ‘fiction,’ and pass on to a solution of the waterfront problem. (Clearly no one is interested in a scheme that would deprive the people of its favourite scapegoat.) The next problem to be solved is that of the small house, but what is the cost? The problem still remains of building a house while remaining solvent. I have my own solution for the problem of the errant husband which seems to bother certain contributers: persuade him in build ‘a house to stay home in,’ leg-rope him with a mertgage, enclose him in the walled patio, then, for added seeurity, inveigle him into cooking meals in the manner suggested by ‘Alouette’ (a pseudonym concealing the identity of an artist in the more refined forms of social torture). The National Sport now elaims our attention, and our Fred Allen, ‘a fine footballer … one of the finest sportsmen
Nagging doubts afflict us as we attempt to marshal our impressions. Will New Zealand democracy, in the mass, respond to this appeal? May it even be that we are mistaken in supposing that Here & Now is designed for all the people? Perhaps the definition ‘those people who think about anything at all beyond horse racing, etc., etc.,’ is not meant to be read quite literally; the words may be just an elaborate paraphrase for ‘intellectuals’ or ‘progressive thinkers’ or ‘highbrows’; we begin to suspect that they mean merely the old gang reinforced by new recruits and a sprinkling of conscripts. Possibly the apparatus is designed for the circulation of hot air rather than fresh air. With these uncharitable thoughts we must strangulate a review almost as irresponsible, almost as scrupulously unfair to Here & Now as Mr Fairburn has been to Mr Fraser. May it live to flourish and confound all base detractors and illiterate apes.
Sir: Although, like yourself, I found Mr Sutton-Smith's “dialectic” somewhat intimidating, I am inclined to think that the issues raised by him were not unimportant. They dealt, in fact, with the problems of the precise relations between art and criticism: and his general plea was for a species of art criticism in which reason and feeling are harmoniously combined.
Now few people will quarrel with your own contention that every work of art (worthy of the name) contains certain “elusive qualities” which escape analysis. But, if art consisted entirely of “elusive qualities” and intangible essences there would be no possibility of intelligent criticism at all: and we would have to fall back on that “miserably insufficient conception of art as the subject-matter of ‘taste”’ (Herbert Read).
Is this a paradox? I do not think so. The truth of the matter is that all art criticism has to steer an even and precarious course between the opposed evils of a sterile dogmatism and esoteric humbug. What we require are not dogmas but “standards” of value.
What, then, is “design”? Well, the truth of the matter is that “Design Review” has not always been so evasive and inarticulate on the subject. One of the first principles of modern design (as several of your contributors have pointed out) is the criterion (one might almost say the “big stick”) of utility. An article should be “easy to make” and “easy to handle”. A house should be easy to live in. And so on. Now this is not a dogma: but it certainly is a “theory” (it couldn't be more abstract!) and implies a whole philosophy of artistic values.
And this brings me to my final point: Why all this hysterical denunciation of “theories”? Many fertile theories have played an essentially creative part in the history of art; and, unless I am very much mistaken, even modern design is, to some extent, the product of a long series of “Adventures of Ideas”. You cannot avoid them. Moreover, to be very precise, you cannot discuss a work of art “on its own merits”. The sine qua non of all intelligent criticism is a comparative standard of values.