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Author of Entries By John Foster

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January 2012

A New American Picture: Doug Rickard and Street Photography in the Age of Google

“What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take?” — Jack Kerouac

#29.942566, New Orleans, LA. 2008, 2009 (More photos below)

Doug Rickard, the son of a retired preacher, grew up learning about America from a decidedly slanted point of view. His father, a Christian conservative who led a mega-church in the 80’s, was highly patriotic and proudly part of the “Moral Majority.” He taught his children that America was “the exception to the rest of the world” — that God had anointed our country as “special and unique.” This patriotic but misleading Reagan-era dogma may have been inspiring to most in the congregation, but young Doug, very much a rebel in his youth, had nagging doubts.

In spite of his troubled youth, Doug would graduate from high school. He then took a break of five years before attending college. In retrospect he sees the break as “one of the best things to occur,” as he could not have been “ready to learn” until that older age. It was through his studies in history and sociology at the University of California, San Diego (History major, graduating in 1994) that Rickard began to compare the greatness of our country with an unsettling truth: that America had a very dark past — a key being the enslavement of Africans to be a workforce for the American South. Deeper studies into the periods of segregation, “Jim Crow” laws, and the Civil Rights movement would impact him greatly.

Rickard, an artist as a child (his teachers would exclaim to his parents that he would surely “do something special” with his artistic talent), discovered photography in adulthood — a discovery that would become an obsession. He began to codify this obsession in early 2008, when he created the now highly popular websites American Suburb X and These Americans (parts of both sites could be considered NSFW, depending). These sites, largely extensions of his personal journey, obsessions, and self-education, are now highly regarded by photography aficionados, educators, and historians for their high quality of writing and massive visual archives. ASX receives approximately 80,000 unique visitors a month and is “Liked” by 38,000 Facebook fans. These Americans is known in part for being a view into Rickard’s personal found-image archive.

With such a strong interest in history, Rickard was used to looking at the past. But for these new web projects he turned his attention to the present, exploring the statistics, demographics, and socio-economics of contemporary America’s neglected communities. While doing this he began to experiment with ordinary static images resulting from keyword searches on Google. But by the next year — in mid-2009 — he discovered Google Street View.

In a telephone interview that lasted well over an hour, the 43-year-old-old Rickard told me that the idea for his recent photographic work emerged as a sort of “epiphany” within 24 hours of using Street View. The project was, he explained, the result of a sort of “perfect storm,” in that it combined his love of photography and its history with his background in American history and sociology. Also, practicality was a component in the form of his inability to travel America, a restriction of the scenarios in real life — a demanding day job and a young family.  According to Rickard, this epiphany fused immediately into a crystal-clear idea: He would use Street View as his camera and, working from a room in his home, travel the roads of neglected American cities and neighborhoods in a 21st-century “road trip.” This single idea would utterly consume his life for close to two years, resulting in the important body of work “A New American Picture,” a selection of which hangs today in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

When Google launched Street View in 2007, it was the company’s intent to map and document every street in the United States. Cars were dispatched into every city to drive every street and back road, using nine directional cameras mounted on the roofs of special cars. These cameras give us 360° movable views at a height of about 8.2 feet. There are also GPS units for positioning and three laser-range scanners designed for measuring up to 50 meters 180° in the front of the vehicle. Rickard analyzed tens or hundreds of thousands of Street Views in his search for perfect pictures, something he describes as containing an “apocalyptic-like brokenness.” Indeed, the height of the camera at 8.2 feet, while creating an aesthetic cohesion and uniformity of vision, adds a distinct feeling of “alienation” that Rickard employs. Unlike the making of street photos in the traditional sense, with Street View there is an obliviousness to the camera as it goes about its job with no feeling or emotion. In spite of this anonymity of machine, his images are layered with empathy.

Rickard has amassed several terabytes of Street View images — nearly 15,000 shots captured, labeled, and stored. From that massive stash, he selected only about 80 images for “A New American Picture.” To give you an idea of the voracity of Rickard’s Street View search, he has virtually explored almost every neighborhood in the “broken” portions of Atlanta, New Orleans, Jersey City, Durham, Houston, Watts (in Los Angeles), and Camden. He has also explored, inch by inch, the smaller towns of America with names like Lovington, Waco, Artesia, Dothan, and Macon. What he looks for are images that carry what he calls a certain “poetry” of subject matter, color, and story — a story described in part by him as “the inverse of the American Dream.” And if the image isn’t “perfect” according to the elements of Rickard’s demands, it’s a no-go. Everything has to be composed, via the camera motion of Street View, to his very subjective, personal, and exacting standards.

Rickard’s exhibition at MoMA opened last September and closes on January 16, 2012. The show is aptly entitled “New Photography 2011,” and includes the work of five other photographers: Moyra Davey, George Georgiou, Deana Lawson, Viviane Sassen, and Zhang Dali.

Doug Rickard is a modern-day photographer not unlike those who went before him. His imagery can be compared to the banal and mysterious cityscapes of painter Edward Hopper, or the great documentary photographers like Ben Shahn, Robert Frank, and Walker Evans, all of whom shone a light on the shadows and made known the “invisible” — the disenfranchised and forgotten communities of America. Just as WPA photographers like Dorothea Lange combed America to document the great American Depression, so has Doug Rickard with his new camera: Google Street View.

Note: The titles of the pictures below were carefully considered and contain three pieces of information. The first number is a Google code that contains geographical (possibly GPS) coordinates, but has been modified by Rickard so as to not disclose the exact Street View location. Second is the name of the city and state. Third are two dates, the first referring to the year the photograph was taken by Google Street View, the second referring to the year that Rickard made his picture. The overall title is meant to resemble an American street address and tie into location without specificity.

#34.546147, Helena-West Helena, AR. 2008, 2010

#39.259736, Baltimore, MD. 2008, 2011

#39.777110, Camden, NJ. 2009, 2010

#40.805716, Bronx, NY. 2009, 2011

#41.779976, Chicago, IL. 2007, 2011

#82.948842, Detroit, MI. 2009, 2010

#83.016417, Detroit, MI. 2009, 2010

 

Edward Hopper, Early Sunday Morning
Oil on canvas, 1930
Collection of The Whitney Museum of American Art, New York
Purchase, with funds from Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney
Photography by Stephen Sloman

Walker Evans
Group Outside Movie Theater, From Moving Automobile
Macon, Georgia
Silver gelatin print
c. 1935

Walker Evans, A Street Scene
61st Street Between 1st and 3rd Avenues
New York, New York
Silver gelatin print
1938

This article was published simultaneously at Design Observer, where TOKY’s John Foster is a regular columnist.

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October 2011

Possessions: Plastic Monkey Heads and Ancient Rituals

On the face of it, Halloween is a fun and innocent ritual that children look forward to — a chance to don masks and costumes with permission to walk the night and tell jokes for a reward of candy. It’s the only time of the year children are allowed to take candy from strangers — a practice forbidden by parents on any other day. Though All Hallow’s Eve has origins that spring from the ancient and dark Paleopagan days, it was the Christian church that eventually sanitized it, and left it easy pickings for the greeting card and candy industries to make it cute. And profitable.

My own memories of Halloween are good, but slightly sullied by my experiences of being reliant on whatever mask my parents would buy for me at Andrew’s Drugstore, just a block from our house in North Carolina. I was fortunate, I guess, as I always got a mask, but never a full costume. It seems the only masks my parents would buy me were the cheapest, preformed plastic masks made by man. One of these plastic monkey heads or pirate faces had to set my parents back no more than 15¢ in those days. I remember the masks displayed on racks, separated by villain or character and so tightly vacuum-packed it took sharp fingernails just to peel one apart from the other. With eye-holes that were perfectly round and inevitably too far apart for a seven-year-old face, I tried to make the best of the evening, eventually figuring out that people would give you candy whether you had a mask on or not.

For this Halloween, I am happy to share with you not only my own memories, but those of others — a selection of snapshots of everyday people in masks. And while most of these people are likely celebrating Halloween, many are not. With the earliest picture dating to the last decade of the 19th century, these anonymous pictures have found a permanent home in my orphanage for abandoned, vernacular photographs. I actually have a few hundred images of people wearing costumes or masks, a favorite subject when digging through flea market bins or bidding on eBay. You’ll find most of these pictures to be rather mysterious and spooky, but I like them that way for their storytelling power. These are photographs where context is forever lost to time, leaving us with fill-in-the-blank histories with no right or wrong answer. It leaves us with your interpretation being just as valid as mine.

A very strange little bride conjures Diane Arbus. c. 1950

Modern day rocket man prepares for a night out. c. 1955

Early photoshop, c. 1935.

You have just moved in—and these are the next door twin boys. c. 1955.

Probably one of the creepiest clown photos I have ever found, c. 1940.

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September 2011

Remembering Bob Cassilly, Creator of City Museum

When the city of St. Louis learned yesterday that it had lost Bob Cassilly, it was a ripple felt throughout the arts community. For me personally, it was the loss of a friend who I knew for the past 25 years. Much has been written already about Bob and his museum, the one-of-a-kind experiential destination where kids were supposed to experience the joy of exploration, a place with a school bus on the roof and other things that could only be described as surreal and wonderful. Cassilly once told me that the last thing he wanted his museum to be was a carpeted, soft, sterile place where kids felt so safe there was no real fun left. He wanted a place of wonder where kids and adults could touch and climb and feel — to some extent — some risk. Today, City Museum stands as a museum masterpiece, a testament to one man’s creativity and lifelong pursuit.

But the story I remember most about Bob Cassilly is a little-known tale he told me about more than 20 years ago. In 1972, Bob was a young sculptor who happened to be on holiday in Rome. He was at St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican admiring the beauty of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Bob recalled that it was a lovely morning in May, and he was just standing there with other admirers when suddenly a man with a long dark beard charged the marble masterpiece, climbed to the top, and began the horrific act of striking it with a steel hammer. As the attacker yelled something about being Jesus Christ, Cassilly said the first sickening blow occurred before anyone in the crowd could react.

As my eyes were getting bigger at the telling of the story, the story got better. Without a hint of excitement in his voice, what Cassilly told me next had me nearly falling out of my chair. He said he ran after the attacker, having to climb onto the Madonna’s head to reach him. Cassilly calmly said he was able to yank the insane man down by his heavy beard, both of them falling in a heap onto the floor in front of stunned and screaming onlookers. Although subdued and soon arrested, the man had unfortunately delivered several blows to the sculpture, actually breaking off the Madonna’s arm and causing damage that would take art restorers several years to repair.

The attacker turned out to be a deranged Hungarian man by the name of Lazlo Toth. Who knows what other damage could have been inflicted if, on that beautiful day in May, a young American sculptor by the name of Bob Cassilly had not been there.

Although Bob Cassilly left this earth too soon, in the end he accomplished two things that few people can lay claim to: he saved a world masterpiece and created another.

Rest in peace, Bob.

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September 2011

Preserving Wonder

19th century bootjacks stand in as trophy heads.

In the 1970’s film Paper Moon, young Tatum O’Neill as Addie Loggins was usually seen tightly clutching her “Cremo” cigar box, the perfect container for her collection of all she owned in the world — a twenty dollar bill, mementos, penny candy and dreams. In some ways, this boxed collection was her safe — they were the things she held precious and the box never left her sight.

Most designers and artists I know are, by nature, collectors. They collect things because they are visual people, and because they seek inspiration. Finding something and placing it on a shelf means that you have, in a way, given new life to that object. This selection process has its roots in childhood. Picking up a shiny piece of tumbled glass or a shell on a beach — the spying of your first “sidewalk penny” — these are moments of discovery that most of us can share. The very act of choosing one thing over another means you have given the selected object a chance for a new life, a chance to be recognized or perhaps even shown to others.

Like young Addie Loggins, my new exhibition at Missouri State University contains things I hold close and dear, objects culled from a lifetime of collecting. This art exhibition at the Brick City Gallery reveals my wonder of everyday, authentic things — my love of art by self-taught makers — a fresh look at things we may have lost touch with in our new century. What I hope to achieve in Self-Taught Art: Pop Culture & Objects of Curiosity is to bring awareness to the idea of interpretation. This is an exhibition where I made nothing and I made everything.

Here, one will see “found objects” as common as a handmade hiker’s backpack, made complete with a “make-do” chair back for the frame. Its front, consisting of a rolled-up red and black checked wool shirt, sleeping bag and ax, were tied and bundled just as the hiker left it some 40-plus years earlier. To me, this  object is storytelling at its best. Though I know “what” this is, I interpret it quite differently. I see it as a found, “accidental assemblage” — something the artist Robert Rauschenberg could have certainly identified with.

To that point, what would a collection of primitive bootjacks have in common with an old, round Coca-Cola sign, or “button” as it was called? The answer would be two things: both just happen to be about 50 years of age, and both have now lost their original, intended purpose. With the bootjacks, I am forcing the issue of their accidental anthropomorphic shapes by the simple act of hanging them on a wall, by denying their original use. Bootjacks were originally made for one purpose only: helping a person remove their boots. Look at them as I have them displayed, and suddenly we have a group of horned animals, trophy heads. As for the Coke sign, with its white, paint-crackled surface, perfect rust and patina, this sign is no longer doing its job as an outdoor advertising sign. Today, it hangs as an object about advertising. We look at it now, up close and personal, and we examine it as something authentic. Made of substantial steel and paint that has transformed with age, we see this now as an example of iconic typography married with cracks and rust. It has its lost former life, like a dead butterfly displayed on white cotton.

This is an installation that exhibits important paintings and sculpture by self-taught artists along with found rocks, pig cutting boards, a hand-painted African-American barber sign, police mugshots of smiling prostitutes, shooting gallery targets, paint-by-number paintings, vintage game boards, odd press photos, terra cotta garden planters, carnival knock-downs, Vietnam protest signs, and numerous “things” bound together by a common vision. To put it simply, by taking a new look at common — and some not so common — objects, you just might find art.

A 1940s police target becomes a "pop art" find.

These two rusty signs come from a religious art environment in Alabama created by the self-professed Reverend W.C. Rice.

Two visitors inspect the rants of visionary self-taught artists Howard Finster.

The archetypal "pig cutting board," once the projects of 8th grade industrial arts students, reveal similarities and differences in this collection.

This sawfish blade, pristine and upright, has outstanding sculptural qualities that pushes it into the realm of Modernist art.

A pair of matching paint-by-number paintings are displayed in the original frames.

A 1940's steel and enamel Coca-Cola sign, transformed by time and weather, becomes an object of curiosity.

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July 2011

In the Company of Genius

As I walked through the blockbuster Alexander McQueen exhibition “Savage Beauty” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art this past weekend, I quickly realized that I was in the midst of genius—the kind that comes once in a generation, rare and transformative to those lucky enough to be around it.

Without question, this exhibition was the perfect storm of the late McQueen’s visionary fashions paired with the brilliance of his own production designers Sam Gainsbury and Joseph Bennett. Curated by Andrew Bolton, the installation for these works of art was masterful, from mirrored rooms, over the top ornate cases of the highest order, perfect lighting, sound and ending with a swirling hologram of Kate Moss that literally brought me to my knees.

 

Certainly this exhibition will become a benchmark of inspiration for artists to come. Years from now, as an artist takes his or her own front and center stage, you will read or hear the following statement: “Seeing the Alexander McQueen “Savage Beauty” exhibition at The Metropolitan Museum was the defining moment when I knew I wanted to be an artist.”

And it won’t only be the future fashion designer who will be inspired. The exhibition is so good it may well be the catalyst for the next great designer, poet, art historian, writer, painter or sculptor. My private tour guide for the show was none other than Met curator of photography Jeff Rosenheim, who hails from St. Louis. His insight was wonderful and helpful—for I had little idea just what to expect as I walked inside the exhibition.

The exhibition was broken into various rooms, each different and reflective of the period this brilliant designer experienced in his brief productive life. The first room, called “The Romantic Mind,” was an exact recreation of the atelier he worked in when he first began—complete with fluorescent tube lighting and concrete walls. (1) Oddly, fluorescent lighting never looked so good.

One of my favorite rooms was entitled “Highland Rape,” (2) which had nothing to do with what one might first call to mind—but the generational “genocide” of the land and culture by the British Empire. The royal and highly decorated blood-red dresses were set against a backdrop of violent, broken wood, actual holes in the walls that looked as if they were made by cannon shot or axe.

Another room, entitled “Romantic Gothic and Cabinet of Curiosities,” (3) was highlighted by multi-leveled shelving of deeply burned and scorched wood, with haunting music mixed with sound recordings of howling wolves. Dark and mysterious, this exhibit touched on fetish-like accessories, bodices of mollusk shells (4) and almost armor-like leather tops (5) for the female form.

Not comfortable with drawing as a way to plan his designs—McQueen instead preferred to simply cut directly into fabric with scissors, a personal style that involved extreme confidence and improvisation.

The exhibit consisted of over 100 ensembles and 70+ accessories from his brief nineteen-year career. The son of a taxi driver, McQueen started as an apprentice in Savile Row at the tender age of 16 and was later hailed and promoted by legendary style icon Isabella Blow. His brief career ended last year with his suicide, which occurred only months after the death of his mother.

The exhibition, which has been extended to August 7, 2011, is a must-see if you are in New York.

(1) The first room of the McQueen exhibition ”Savage Beauty“ did not prepare me for the wonders to come.

 

(2) Conflicting forces of violence and fashion were the focus of “Highland Rape.”

 

(3) Encrusted accessories, hats and dresses fit for a Midnight Ball occupied scorched and burned cabinets, perfect for McQueen’s “Romantic Gothic and Cabinet of Curiosities.”

 

McQueen’s vision of Romantic Primitivism.

 

(4) A McQueen dress of mollusk shells.

 

Feathers fit for a fashion bird at the next Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis gala.

 

(5) Incredible leather tops set against lace fabric provided plenty of “ooh’s” and ”ahh’s” from visitors.

 

(5) A close up of the carved wood leg in the above photo.

 

YouTube Preview Image

Kate Moss performs an ethereal dance captured with hologram technology. (You HAD to see it in person.)

 

All images courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art and Alexander McQueen.

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June 2011

Lost City

Two St. Louis women around 1900 take a snooze in one of our city parks.

 

Some months ago, a friend of mine in Chicago gave me two large boxes of century old glass plate negatives for no other reason than she thought I would appreciate them. She told me that she had them for 25 years and “hadn’t yet done anything with them,” so she wanted me to have them. I was obviously very appreciative and thanked her for the treasure. She knew the images were of St. Louis, but also had the foresight to know that with each passing year deterioration of the emulsion was taking its toll.

Indeed, most of the glass plates have severe losses to the emulsion edges and other areas, but thankfully most of the important parts of the images are in fine shape. Some images show impressive detail, so sharp that even street signs can be read from a distance.

Not only was the gift incredibly generous, it was a significant trove of never before seen glimpses of our city by an anonymous photographer—most of the images from around 1895 to 1910. Standout images include several believed to be of Forest Park as they began clearing trees for the construction of the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, the international event we call the Saint Louis World’s Fair. In fact, many images show the construction of well-known city landmarks, including parts of the World’s Fair grand exposition halls. Neighborhood views, like an immensely rare shot of the actual construction of the Compton Hill Water Tower in 1899, a 179-foot French Romanesque structure that proudly stands today. Other images appear to be shot in and around nearby Tower Grove Park, of Washington University, and the Missouri Botanical Garden. Many shots were of busy city intersections and dozens of images of everyday life. It seems our anonymous photographer was intent on capturing a city undergoing a Renaissance of change, and construction scaffolding is visible in the majority of the 100+ images I received.

The fashions of the day, big hats and long skirts, give away that the time period was that of the early part of the Edwardian era (1901 – 1919), featuring parades and other outdoor activities, from foot races to picnicking, to just napping in the great outdoors.

While not all of the images are scanned and ready to share, here are some views of our city that haven’t seen the light of day for over a century.

All images © John Foster, and may not be reproduced in any manner without permission.

A father and his two little girls observe the massive clearing that was taking place for the upcoming World's Fair. This would have been about 1899. Washington University is to the right.

A woman takes in a view of Forest Park during early construction set-up for the World's Fair, c. 1898.

Looking a lot like the launchpad of the NASA Space Shuttle 100 years later, this image from 1899 may be the only existing photograph of the construction of the Compton Hill Water Tower off Grand Avenue.

The old City Art Museum on the corner of 19th Street and Locust.

From the steps of the old City Art Museum was this restaurant, which stands yet today as Jim Edmond's "15 Restaurant."

A rare view of our Missouri Botanical Garden c. 1900.

Two girls in long white dresses, who look as if they could be extra's in the film "Meet Me in St. Louis" run a footrace in a city park.

 

 

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June 2010

Dead Brand Walking

BP Oil Spill Protest Graphic by Anonymous Designer

In light of the recent and on-going BP Gulf of Mexico oil spill disaster catastrophe horror, an event that will be a benchmark regarding our use of fossil fuels, I ask you to turn a moment to something else— something paltry in comparison. BP’s brand image.

In the year 2000, and at the cost of over $200 million dollars (a drop of oil in their bucket), British Petroleum launched their new logo and public identity with a well-orchestrated advertising and PR campaign. I remember well how my local Amoco station, with their red, white and blue colors, slowly and methodically began to morph over the period of that year into a new company, a company simply called “BP”. My acceptance of the new brand mark was cautious at first, as the green and yellow sun/flower shape was so dramatically different from anything I had ever seen. As the brand began to unfold that year, from “BP/Amoco” to “BP” to eventually changing the colors of the entire station, I finally came to believe the branding was absolutely brilliant. Metaphorically, the new brand mark just felt global, and it referenced the sun, the earth, flowers and plants—and it was fundamentally different that any other brand in the oil industry. Over the years, I actually came to feel good about buying my gas at BP because little by little, I too, was drinking the Kool-Aid.

BTW, it was branding powerhouse Landor who began the branding work in 1998, and they did it well. Landor designers and strategists worked with Amoco/BP corporate officials to discover a new brand “that would reflect attributes the company aspired to.” Those attributes were performance, environmental leadership, innovation and progressive ideas.”

Just yesterday I found the following on the BP web site: “Safe and reliable operations are integral to BP’s success, and we strive continuously to improve our safety record.” Ri-iight.

When CEO Tony said “I want my life back!” —where was his sensitivity to the 11 men killed on his oil rig? PR gaffe after PR gaffe were to follow, including saying numerous times to Congress that he “could not recall” certain key issues regarding safety. This was after it was revealed that BP went “on the cheap” for safety measures, pushed workers to work faster, and received nearly 800 safety violations in the last three years alone.

Now, the enviro-friendly BP mark that slowly won over this admittedly tough, brand consumer 10 years ago, is as dead in the oil-mucked water as the multitudes of fish, waterfowl, amphibians, shrimp and wetlands his company has killed. Accident? Yes it was an accident. But this was a “world changing” accident that occurred because the company failed to live up to it’s brand promises. Sadly, it has been shown that safety was second or third behind profit.

The beautifully designed BP brand mark now stands for ineptitude, false promises and a preventable environmental disaster that may be biblical in its proportions. BP will never be the same, and may never regain consumer respect. Now the brand mark is being parodied, heckled and vandalized all over the world. I may be wrong, but I say it’s time for BP live up to their commitments to fix this problem, then quietly reemerge as a better, different, and more committed company.

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March 2010

Sparing No Expense

Like many premium product brands of today, cigar box labels of the late 19th century were designed to express something of the highest quality. Cigar manufacturer’s wished to express two things to potential buyers—great taste and high-quality tobacco. Cigar smoking was at the height of popularity at the turn of the century, so naturally competition to influence a potential consumer was fierce. Given that every cigar manufacturer said their tobacco leaf and finely rolled cigars provided exceptional taste and the highest quality, how did they express that to the consumer? They did it by sparing no expense with the latest printing, embossing, foil stamping and highest quality graphic design they could find.

The label shown at top, for Ninus brand cigars, was no exception. The colors are still rich and beautiful, and the gold foil and embossing would make any buyer of this product feel as if they were opening something rare and expensive— lessons that continue today with so many consumer products across many categories. I contend that the very act of just opening a box of cigars, the process of breaking the seal, lifting the lid, and witnessing the tight and perfect arrangement of the cigars inside was, in effect, like the distant memory of opening a special gift in childhood. Dr. Freud would be all over this theory.

For Bank Note cigars, their branding strategy led them towards the look of a finely engraved monetary bank note—certainly an expensive look in the marketing war to win the hearts, minds (and taste) of the cigar smoking gentlemen of the day.

Images found on eBay.

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