Art – Page 12 – I Don't Get It

Creature Comforts of 1928

As I write to you on this sweltering, oppressive August day, I find two words most lovely: frigid air. Indeed, frigid air has been welcome since Frigidaire was founded 103 years ago.

God bless frigid air, the choice of the majority. Such a democratic institution, nestled in its own kitchen nook.

But they didn’t have the monopoly on fridges. Behold the GE model, where all four food groups fit just swell–even wine, which was illegal to sell.

No drain-pipe? Sign me up! Drain pipes are the worst! But you know what’s the best? Running water. You should try it. It’s a “boon to health and pleasure.” You better believe it, sister. Simply turn the handle and PRESTO, legit water appears!

And now that you’ve got water at your whim, how about covering up that hideous radiator?

Me, I’m from Texas, so I’ve never seen a radiator in the wild. Seems like a hazard to me. I’d prefer real wood furniture instead of metal. You know–the kind that could use a nice coating of O-Cedar Polish.

Goodness, she looks happy to be polishing! And that smart bob prevents hair from falling into her eyes. I bet she can see her own reflection.

But what’s this? By the time she gets to the banister, she appears more reticent, withdrawn. Her wrist aches from rubbing.

After all that polishing, Pearl might need a coffee break. But it’s 3pm! It would keep her up all night. Nope, not with Kaffee Hag, which sounds like Cliff Clavin is pronouncing it. Kaffee Hag lets all you hags sleep.

I think I’d rather be a “Pepper, too” than a Kaffee Hag, truth be told. But what a bargain, it is!

Now that you’ve got the inside of your domestic arena addressed, what about the outside? Your coffee may be unleaded, but your roof tiles shouldn’t be.

Leadclad was clad with lead. Only the finest toxins available with exotic Spanish appeal. Ole! Now all that’s left to do is trim that grass. And that’s not Pearl’s domain; that’s Walter’s. So while Pearl massages her aching wrists, Walter needs only a twist of his.

Well, now you’re set, folks! You’re up to date and ready for company!

New Secret To Youth: Positive Agitation

If it keeps your rugs young, maybe it keeps your skin young as well. Perhaps each time I exfoliate, I’m positively agitating my stubborn wrinkles.

I’m pretty sure this is also the secret of a long and happy marriage.

Have you ever experienced any of these synonyms for agitation with your partner?

stirring, whisking, beating, churning, shaking, turbulence

tossing, blending, whipping, folding, rolling, jolting

Perhaps you should implement some new verbs into your marriage tonight!

Men Who Don’t Fit Through Doorways

Look, I’m fine with barrel-chested men. No worries. But this is ridiculous. These heads don’t match these bodies, and these bodies don’t exist in nature.

Just look at the man above! He’s at least three feet wide. It’s like hugging a refrigerator.

The ads aren’t even targeted toward large men. They just presume all men are this wide? Perhaps if an elephant stepped on them, they would be.

One would think that folks would be rationing material in The Great Depression, not overusing it.

This last guy is ridiculous. He’s half farmer, half mobster, and 100% frightening. What do you feed him? Does he eat from a trough?

And just in case you’re not sure what kind of chest you have, here’s a chart.

Well, This Is Awkward

Men’s clothing ads of the 1930s were curious. I certainly don’t get it. Is this normal for a fully-dressed man to be supervising the sporting goods usage of a barely-dressed man? I don’t care for this tone.

Nor do I care for the tone of this one. Young men, arm in arm, marching in their underwear. It’s getting weirder. And I can’t even with their tagline.

This seems to be more normal, just some men in office shirts checking out another man’s clubs. And while it’s odd to buy clothes that “flatter your summer tan,” it doesn’t really get strange until you see the belted briefs. What is that about? Do you have those?

Let’s end on a less naked note, with this 1932 Arrow ad for men who get fooled by shirts. And no, that’s not our president; it’s a fellow who evidently goes fishing in a nice button-down, tie, and khakis. You know, like village fishermen. Is he petting that fish? Is he stroking its fins? Is that the proper protocol? No wonder shirts have been fooling him.

Next To Godliness

J-Lo Spotted In 1936 New Yorker

I realize J-Lo is about to turn 50 in a few days, same age as the first moon landing. That’s what they want you to think. But how do you explain this cartoon rendering of her from a 1936 New Yorker magazine? Same hat, same halter top, same flared pants and ample posterior, surrounded by a diverse group of creatives, as they now say. I mean, she IS Jenny from the block, and that block was The Bronx.

See what I mean?

1932 Oldsmobile: Where Life Is Most Brilliant

Reach For The Shell

Get Your Covet On

Men Of Mars, Jealous Much?

Methodist Mustang Art

While we will, in fact, return to more amazing 1935 Teachers College images later in the week, today I thought we’d cleanse the palate with some yearbook artwork. The year remains 1935, but the source is Southern Methodist University. While you don’t normally think of a yearbook as a trove of great art, I think you will find this interesting. Keep in mind, their mascot is the mustang.

Spare A Square

“He produced a handkerchief—crisply folded—and handed it to her. She took it with silent astonishment. She’d never before known anyone who carried a handkerchief.”
― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones (2007)

A handkerchief. It does seem a romantic (however outdated) notion, as far being used for anything under than a natty pocket square. And should a damsel have the need for dabbing her tears, a clean handkerchief might come in hand.

However, the reality is less romantic.

“Nothing, however, bemused the Indians more than the European habit of blowing their noses into a fine handkerchief, folding it carefully, and placing it back in their pockets as if it were a treasured memento.” ― Bill Bryson, At Home: A Short History of Private Life

Surely we can all agree on that. I believe that my grandfather carried a handkerchief on his person, but he was also known to sneeze 7 to 8 times in a row. As a child, that was one tradition we could always expect at Christmas: to count grandpa’s sneezes as he went along.

Today, as Cassandra Clare, pointed out, almost no one uses them for blow, but merely for show. We live in a disposable world full of affordable soft Kleenex; I have a box within reach right now, as well as in four other rooms in our home.

Growing up in Austin during Willie Nelson’s outlaw years, my first introduction to handkerchiefs was the classic red paisley one he wore as a bandana, and which you still often find gathered around a blue heeler’s neck in the country. But in their day, handkerchiefs were more than just a square for hygienic purposes. They also served as art.

So today, I share some images from “Handkerchiefs: Volume 2.” We start with one fit to hand a lass in need.