"In one sense, the term 'atomic kitchen' is a fun way of describing a streamlined, labor-saving, 1950s super kitchen, offering the ultimate in Space Age modern convenience, ease, and beauty," Alexander says. "But it's also a term appropriate for its time--one that illustrates the optimism that housewives held for the future." Indeed, paging through this book, with three very short chapters and a huge bulk of 1950s gizmo ads and appliances, some of that post-War optimism rubs off. Brian dug through the bowels of the 1950s advertising world and unearthed hundreds of those suburban paradises that defined a generation: lipsticked, smiling women with pointy red nails beaming almost orgasmically in front of their new "Kelvinator 'Automatic Cook' Electric Range" or their Servel Ice Cube maker.
Alexander generally steps out of the way of the old ads, contributing only a few pages of text to what's largely a picture book with captions. In the Fifties, he says correctly, the Atomic Kitchen wasn't a laughable metaphor at all; Scientific American was giddy about the future of atomic-powered devices, and these gadgets making it into kitchens seemed "just around the corner." From the "Can-O-Mat" to "Decorator Refrigerator" (possibly one of the first LSD-inspired ideas, consisting of matching, say, your plaid curtains with a plaid refrigerator), the future looked both high-tech and high-fashion.
Because the decade's advertisements are probably its most iconic feature, often imitated for satirical purposes, it's impossible not to shake your head and laugh when you read an ad pushing an "all-steel" kitchen that "brightens her eyes...because it's beautiful" and "lightens her heart...because it lightens her housework." Or an ad for a refrigerator that "practically hands you the food." Clearly, some things caught on (electric mixers, individual ice cube makers) and some things didn't (eye-level, cabinet-style refrigerators, spaghetti forks), and some things probably should have (a nifty "sandwich pie" maker that toasted the contents of a sandwich over the stove). Anyone who spent time in the kitchen in the Fifties is bound to find something (maybe with some embarrassment) that graced their cupboards proudly back then.
The most interesting part of the book, though, was Alexander's examples of variations on "Kitchen of Tomorrow" displays that were popular at the time. The "House of Tomorrow" featured at the 1933 Chicago Century of Progess Exposition inspired a strange kind of sadness, a sort of failure to live up to expectations: it was 12-faced and still looks futuristic, with a personal airplane hangar where the garage still, unfortunately, is today. General Electric's "Kitchen of Tomorrow" foresaw TVs and air purifyers creeping into the kitchen, but also predicted automatic floor cleaners and a control station that would monitor temperature levels and food stock, for instance, features that have yet to come true or whose functions are outdated. These sorts of features make this book a great coffee-table book, something to pick up and page through every once in a while for kicks and giggles or party entertainment.
That said, Alexander never quite addresses the key question: What became of the Atomic Kitchen? He acknowledges that fashions changed: fruity decorations and shiny "magic" gadgets gave way to smooth lines and earth-tone colors. But that's not it at all. Although these ads are hilarious and even pathetic to observe today, they were truly inspirational to department store owners and consumers alike in their heyday; basically, these things were SERIOUS in the Fifties--these pieces of colorful, exaggerated marketing paraphenalia made General Electric's, Servel's, Tupperware's, and many other companies' fortunes. They moved merchandise. Because once, in the euphoria of post-War economic prosperity and optimism, when people looked at the shiny, perfect kitchen and the flawless, pacified women, they held a tremendous quantity of hope: "Someday, somehow, that woman could be ME!"
What changed wasn't only the designs; what changed was people's attitudes. In the Sixties, when the bitter Baby Boomers hijacked public opinion, the optimism soured, and suddenly, these sorts of ads inspired quite a different sentiment: "This is a LIE"; "These women aren't real"; "This isn't how people live"; and, later, "All these women are WHITE." The Great American Pessimism was born, and every generation since had varying degrees of it rubbed off on them. The Atomic Kitchen was burned down by the fires of the 1968 DNC, firehosed with the civil rights protestors in the South, detonated with the bombs of Vietnam. Technological advancement continued, of course, at a rapidfire pace, but the milieu changed, and advertising changed with it.
Still, even with all these changes, the American yearning for a touch of magic to accompany technology lives on. Jackson Lears, a commentator on the American Experience, has said that "the recurring motif in the cultural history of American advertising could be characterized as the attempt to conjure up the magic of self transformation through purchase while at the same time containing the subversive implications of a successful trick." Basically, Americans want some soul with their progress. They don't only want a dishwasher that will wash the most dishes in the fastest amount of time; they want a dishwasher that will do all that AND make them feel like good people. Rob Walker, in the last book, Buying In, talks about selling an idea along with a product, and although the media has changed, some of that "self transformation" implied in the Fifties "Kelvinator Kitchen" ads survives in marketing in the millenium.
And who knows? Maybe the optimism, at long last, was warranted. Maybe Atomic Kitchen itself will become the object of parody in the future as atomic-enabled citizens page through this turn-of-the-twenty-first-century book, marvelling at the lack of foresight during our own "modern" era.
Some things never change
RECOMMENDED
0 comments:
Post a Comment