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Taken with an Argus A2 camera in week 472 of my 52 film cameras in 52 weeks project:
www.flickr.com/photos/tony_kemplen/collections/72157623113584240
Although the shutter seemed to be working OK before I loaded the film, once I was outside in the cold weather it became sluggish. The majority of the photos are hopelessly over-exposed, but I've salvaged a few.
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West-German card. Photo: Urmich. Maria Schell and O.W. Fischer.
Pretty, wide-eyed Austrian leading lady Maria Schell (1926-2005) became one of the first film idols of the European postwar generation. With her ‘smile under tears,’ she appeared in dozens of German and Austrian popular films, but she also starred in British, French, Italian, and Hollywood productions.
Margarete Schell was born in Vienna in 1926 as the daughter of the Swiss author Ferdinand Hermann Schell and Austrian actress Margarete Schell Noé. She was the older sister of the actors Immy, Carl, and Maximilian Schell. Her family had to escape from the Nazi regime in 1938, and she received dramatic training in Zurich, Switzerland. To pay for her studies she worked as a secretary. Billed as Gritli Schell, she made her screen debut at 16 in the Swiss-filmed drama Steibruch (Sigfrit Steiner, 1942). It would be six years before she'd appear before the cameras again in Der Engel mit der Posaune (Karl Hartl, 1948). This Austro-German production was simultaneously filmed in an English-language version, The Angel With the Trumpet (Anthony Bushell, 1950), which brought her to the attention of international filmgoers. In the 1950s Maria often played the sweet and innocent Mädchen in numerous Austrian and German films. She starred opposite Dieter Borsche in popular melodramas like Es kommt ein Tag/A Day Will Come (Rudolf Jugert, 1950) and Dr. Holl (Rolf Hansen, 1951). With O.W. Fischer she formed one of the 'Dream Couples of the German cinema' in romantic melodramas like Bis wir uns wiedersehen/Till We Meet Again (Gustav Ucicky, 1952), Der träumende Mund/Dreaming Lips (Josef von Báky, 1953), and Solange Du da bist/As Long As You're Near Me (Rolf Hansen, 1953). She also starred in British productions like The Magic Box (John Boulting, 1951) with Robert Donat, and The Heart of the Matter (George More O'Ferrall, 1953) opposite Trevor Howard.
In 1954, Maria Schell won a Cannes Film Festival award for her dramatic portrayal of a German nurse imprisoned in wartime Yugoslavia in Die Letzte Brücke/The Last Bridge (Helmut Käutner, 1954). Two years later, she claimed a Venice Film Festival prize for her role in Gervaise (René Clément, 1956). In this adaptation of Emile Zola’s L’Assommoir, she played one of her best roles as a hardworking laundress surrounded by drunks. Other important films were Robert Siodmak’s thriller Die Ratten/The Rats (1955), and Luchino Visconti’s romantic Fyodor Dostoyevski adaptation Le Notti Bianche/White Nights (1957), with Schell as the young and innocent girl in love with Jean Marais but loved by Marcello Mastroianni. Hollywood called and Maria Schell was contracted to star as Grushenka opposite Yul Brynner in The Brothers Karamazov (Richard Brooks, 1958), a messy adaptation of another classic novel by Dostoyevsky. This was followed by roles in the Gary Cooper Western The Hanging Tree (Delmer Daves, 1959), the remake of Edna Ferber's Cimarron (Anthony Mann, 1961), and The Mark (Guy Green, 1961), opposite Academy Award nominee Stuart Whitman. Then she returned to Germany for the family drama Das Riesenrad/The Giant Ferris Wheel (Géza von Radványi, 1961), again with O. W. Fischer.
In 1963, dissatisfied with the diminishing value of the characters she was called upon to play, Maria Schell retired. But in 1969 she made a come-back with the witty French comedy Le Diable par la queue/The Devil By The Tail (Philippe de Broca, 1969) opposite Yves Montand. Then followed two horror films by cult director Jesus Franco, Der Heisse Tod/ 99 Women (1969), and Il Trono di fuoco/Throne of the Blood Monster (1970), starring Christopher Lee. Among her later assignments were Voyage of the Damned (Stuart Rosenberg, 1976), Superman: The Movie (Richard Donner, 1978), Schöner Gigolo, armer Gigolo/Just A Gigolo (David Hemmings, 1978) with David Bowie and Marlene Dietrich. On TV she portrayed the mother of Nazi architect Albert Speer (Rutger Hauer) in Inside the Third Reich (Marvin J. Chomsky, 1992). She also played Mother Maria in the TV sequel to Lilies of the Field called Christmas Lilies of the Field (Ralph Nelson, 1982), and she did guest appearances in popular crime series like Der Kommissar (1969-1975) starring Erik Ode, Kojak (1976) starring Telly Savalas, Derrick (1977-1978), and Tatort (1975-1996). Besides being a film star; Maria Schell appeared in plays in Zurich, Basel, Vienna, Berlin, and Munich, at the Salzburg Festival, and she went on provincial tours from 1963. Among the plays she performed were such classics as Shakespeare's Hamlet, Goethe's Faust, and modern classics such as Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw. With her brother, Maximilian Schell Maria only appeared in one film, the thriller The Odessa File (Ronald Neame, 1974). In 2002 Maximilian made a documentary about her called Meine Schwester, Maria/My Sister, Maria, in which he documented how her mental health deteriorated along with her finances during her later years. In 2005 Maria Schell died at age 79 of heart failure in her sleep. She was twice married, first to film director Horst Hächler and later to another film director, Veit Relin. She was the mother of actor Oliver Schell and of actress Marie-Therese Relin, who is married to Bavarian playwright Franz Xaver Kroetz and has three children. In 1974 Maria Schell was awarded the Bundesverdienstkreuz (Germany's Cross of Merit) and in 1977 the Filmband in Gold for her impressive contributions to the German cinema.
Sources: Stephanie D'Heil (Steffie-line), Guy Bellinger (IMDb), Hal Erickson (AllMovie), Wikipedia, AbsoluteFacts.nl, and IMDb.
And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.
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Class III : Post War "1945 - 1965"
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A 1954 Ford “Pop” Popular 2-door, “sit-up-and-beg” compact saloon, [103E], painted in black sits atop a two-car transporter on property belonging to the famous Mathewson family auction house in Thornton-Le-Dale, Ryedale, North Yorkshire, U.K. The car has an age-related six-character black plate - “323 YUA”, which was first registered in May 2010, indicating that this rust-free RHD car may in fact be an import from overseas, such as Australia, New Zealand, or South Africa. Or perhaps it is a restored example, which was re-registered using a six-character plate? The badges on the front grille are of an old-style AA badge, and two badges from the Ford Popular registry, and the Ford sidevalve owners club.
The 1953-’59 Ford Popular 103E was the basic budget entry-level buy for postwar austerity Britain. The car sold for under £400 (roughly £9,050 adjusted in today’s money), and some years later the “Pop” became a homegrown favourite for British hot rodders.
In the postwar years Penguin Books issued both a free Pengins Progress, as seen here and that was posted free to over forty thousand subscribers, and a 'Classified List' that was issued less frequently. Although the List detailed both available and upcoming books of the Penguin family, the Progress gave a more in depth resume of titles and series that were underway.
This issue as well as being posted from the Vase Press at Thrapston was also printed there. Sadly no designer is shown - the covers showing variations on the Penguin and the end papers cleverly adapting woodcuts from the forthcoming King Penguin book on Bewick's woodcuts. Indeed the front cover carefully takes Bewick's original owl and replaces it with the penguin!
mémoire2cité - Sols absorbants, formes arrondies et couleurs vives, les aires de jeux standardisées font désormais partie du paysage urbain. Toujours les mêmes toboggans sécurisés, châteaux forts en bois et animaux à ressort. Ces non-lieux qu’on finit par ne plus voir ont une histoire, parallèle à celle des différentes visions portées sur l’enfant et l’éducation. En retournant jouer au xixe siècle, sur les premiers playgrounds des États-Unis, on assiste à la construction d’une nation – et à des jeux de société qui changent notre vision sur les balançoires du capitalisme. Ce texte est paru dans le numéro 4 de la revue Jef Klak « Ch’val de Course », printemps-été 2017. La version ici publiée en ligne est une version légèrement remaniée à l’occasion de sa republication dans le magazine Palais no 27 1, paru en juin 2018. la video içi www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwj1wh5k5PY The concept for adventure playgrounds originated in postwar Europe, after a playground designer found that children had more fun with the trash and rubble left behind by bombings -inventing their own toys and playing with them- than on the conventional equipment of swings and slides. Narrator John Snagge was a well-known voice talent in the UK, working as a newsreader for BBC Radio - jefklak.org/le-gouvernement-des-playgrounds/ - www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/chasing-the-vanishing-p... or children, playgrounds are where magic happens. And if you count yourself among Baby Boomers or Gen Xers, you probably have fond memories of high steel jungle gyms and even higher metal slides that squeaked and groaned as you slid down them. The cheerful variety of animals and vehicles on springs gave you plenty of rides to choose from, while a spiral slide, often made of striped panels, was a repeated thrill. When you dismounted from a teeter-totter, you had to be careful not to send your partner crashing to the ground or get hit in the head by your own seat. The tougher, faster kids always pushed the brightly colored merry-go-round, trying to make riders as dizzy as possible. In the same way, you’d dare your sibling or best friend to push you even higher on the swing so your toes could touch the sky. The most exciting playgrounds would take the form of a pirate ship, a giant robot, or a space rocket.
“My husband would look at these big metal things and go, ‘Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!'” - insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
Today, these objects of happy summers past have nearly disappeared, replaced by newer equipment that’s lower to the ground and made of plastic, painted metal, and sometimes rot-resistant woods like cedar or redwood. The transformation began in 1973, when the U.S. Congress established the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which began tracking playground injuries at hospital emergency rooms. The study led to the publication of the first Handbook for Public Playground Safety in 1981, which signaled the beginning of the end for much of the playground equipment in use. (See the latest PPS handbook here.) Then, the American Society for Testing and Materials created a subcommittee of designers and playground-equipment manufacturers to set safety standards for the whole industry. When they published their guidelines in 1993, they suggested most existing playground surfaces, which were usually asphalt, dirt, or grass, needed to be replaced with pits of wood or rubber mulch or sand, prompting many schools and parks to rip their old playgrounds out entirely.
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
That said, removing and replacing playground equipment takes money, so a certain amount of vintage playground equipment survived into the next millennium—but it’s vanishing fast. Fortunately, Brenda Biondo, a freelance journalist turned photographer, felt inspired to document these playscapes before they’ve all been melted down. Her photographs capture the sculptural beauty and creativity of the vintage apparatuses, as well as that feeling of nostalgia you get when you see a piece of your childhood. After a decade of hunting down old playgrounds, Biondo published a coffee-table book, 2014’s Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playgrounds, 1920-1975, which includes both her photographs of vintage equipment and pages of old playground catalogs that sold it.
Starting this November, Biondo’s playground photos will hit the road as part of a four-year ExhibitsUSA traveling show, which will also include vintage playground postcards and catalog pages from Biondo’s collection. The show will make stops in smaller museums and history centers around the United States, passing through Temple, Texas; Lincoln, Nebraska; Kansas City, Missouri; and Greenville, South Carolina. Biondo talked to us on the phone from her home in small-town Colorado, where she lives with her husband and children.
This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, "This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast." (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, “This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast.” (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)Collectors Weekly: What inspired you to photograph playgrounds?Biondo: In 2004, I happened to be at my local park with my 1-year-old daughter, who was playing in the sandbox. I had just switched careers, from freelance journalism to photography, and I was looking for a starter project. I looked around the playground and thought, “Where is all the equipment that I remember growing up on?” They had new plastic contraptions, but nothing like the big metal slides I grew up with. After that, I started driving around to other playgrounds to see if any of this old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly. That got to me.I felt like somebody should be documenting this equipment, because it was such a big part—and a very good part—of so many people’s childhoods. I couldn’t find anybody else who was documenting it, and I didn’t see any evidence that the Smithsonian was collecting it. As far as I could tell, it was just getting ripped up and sent to the scrap heap. At first, I started traveling around Colorado where I live, visiting playgrounds. Eventually, I took longer trips around the Southwest, and then I started looking for playgrounds whenever I was in any other parts of the country, like around California and the East Coast. It was a long-term project—shot over the course of a decade. And every year that I was shooting, it got harder and harder to find those pieces of old equipment.
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did you find them?
Biondo: I would just drive around. I started hunting down local elementary schools and main-street playgrounds as well as neighborhood playgrounds. If I had a weekend, I would say, “OK, I’m going to drive from my home three hours east to the Kansas border, stay overnight and drive back.” Along the way, I would stop at every little town that I’d pass. They usually had one tiny main-street playground and one elementary school. I never knew what I was going to find. In a poorer area, a town often doesn’t have much money to replace playground equipment, whereas more affluent areas usually have updated their playgrounds by now. It was a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes, I’d drive for hours and not really find anything—or I’d find one old playground after the other, because I happened to be in an area where equipment hadn’t been replaced.
I couldn’t get to every state, so I had to shoot where I was. I think there certainly are still old playgrounds out there, especially in small towns. But there’s fewer and fewer of them every year. My book has something like 170 photographs. I would guess that half the equipment pictured is already gone. Sometimes, I’d go back to a playground with a nice piece of equipment a year later to reshoot it, maybe in different lighting or a different season, and so often it had been removed. That pressured me to get out as often as I could because if I waited a few weeks, that piece might not be there anymore.
A 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
a 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
Collectors Weekly: What did you learn about playground history?
Biondo: I didn’t know American playgrounds started as part of the social reform or progressive movement of the early 1900s. Reformers hoped to keep poor inner-city immigrant kids safe and out of trouble. Back then, city children were playing in the streets with nothing to do, and when cars became more popular, kids started to get hit by motorists. Child activists started building playgrounds in big cities like Boston, Chicago, and New York as a way to help and protect these kids. These reformers felt they could build model citizens by teaching cooperation and manners through playgrounds. These early main-street parks would also have playground leaders who orchestrated activities such as games and songs.
“I started driving to playgrounds to see if any old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly.”
In the late 1800s, Germans developed what they called “sand gardens,” which are just piles of sand where kids can come dig and build things. There were few of those in the United States as well. But by the early 1900s, the emphasis of playgrounds was on the apparatuses, things kids could climb on or swing on.
Soon after I started researching playground history, I happened to stumble on an eBay auction for a 1926 catalog that the playground manufacturers used to send to schools. At that point, I wasn’t thinking of doing a book, but I thought I could do something with it. I won the catalog; I paid, like, $12 for it. And it was so interesting because I could see this vintage equipment when it was brand new and considered modern and advanced. The manufacturers boasted about how safe it was and how it was good for building both muscles and imaginations.
After that, I would always search on eBay for playground catalogs, and I ended up with about three dozen catalogs from different manufacturers. My oldest is 1916, and my newest is from 1975. So I would take a photograph of some type of merry-go-round, and then I might find that same merry-go-round in a 1930 catalog. Often in the book, I pair my picture with the page from the catalog showing when it was first manufactured. I discovered a couple dozen manufacturers, which tended to be located in the bigger industrial areas with steel manufacturing, like Trenton, New Jersey, and Kokomo and Litchfield, Indiana. Pueblo, Colorado, even had a playground manufacturer. Burke and GameTime were big 20th century companies, and actually are among few still in existence.
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: I recently came across an old metal slide whose steps had the name of the manufacturer, American, forged in openwork letters.
Biondo: I love those. One of the last pages in the book shows treads from six different slides, and they each had the name of their manufacturer in them, including Porter, American, and Burke. One time when I was traveling, I did a quick side trip to a small town with an elementary school. In the parking lot was this old metal slide with the American step treads, lying on its side. You could tell it had just been ripped off out of the concrete, which was still attached to the bottom, and was waiting for the steel recyclers to come and take it away.
I thought, “Oh my gosh, just put it on eBay! Somebody is going to want that. Don’t melt it down.” But nobody thinks about this stuff getting thrown away when it should be preserved. If you go on eBay, you can find a lot of those small animals on springs that little kids ride, because they’re small enough to be shipped. Once I saw someone selling one of those huge rocket ships, which had been dismantled, on eBay, but I don’t know if anybody ever bid on it. It’s rare to see the big stuff, because it is so expensive to ship. It’s like, “What kind of truck do you need to haul this thing away?” I don’t know of anyone who’s collecting those pieces, but I hope somebody is.
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name "American" in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name “American” in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: It seems like an opportunity for both starting a collection or repurposing the material.
Biondo: I photographed many of the apparatuses as if they were sculptures because they have really cool designs and colors. Even when they’re worn down, the exposed layers of paint can be beautiful. Hardly anybody stops to look at it that way. People drive by and think, “Oh, there’s an old, rusty, rundown playground.” But if you take the time to look closely at this stuff, it’s really interesting. Just by looking at these pieces, you can picture all the kids who played on them.
Collectors Weekly: Aren’t people nostalgic for their childhood playgrounds?
Biondo: While I was taking the pictures, I visited Boulder, Colorado, which is a very affluent community. I was sure there would be no old playground equipment there. When I was driving around, all of a sudden, I looked over and saw this huge rocket ship. It turns out that one of the original NASA astronauts, Scott Carpenter, grew up in Boulder, and this playground was built in the ’60s to honor their hometown boy. Because of that, the citizens of Boulder never wanted to take down the rocket ship. One of the first exhibitions of this photography project happened in Boulder, and at the opening, I sold four prints of that rocket ship. People would come up to me at the exhibition, and they’d go, “Oh my gosh, I grew up playing on this when I was a little kid! Now, my kids are playing on it, and I’m so excited that I can get a picture of it and hang it in their bedroom.” So people have a strong nostalgic attachment to this equipment. It’s sad that most of it’s not going to be around for much longer.
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship play set seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship playset seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Besides slides and animals on springs, what were some other pieces that were common in older playgrounds?
Biondo: I didn’t come across as many old swings as I expected. I thought they would be all over the place, but I guess they’re gone now because they were so easy to replace. I tended to find merry-go-rounds more frequently—you know, the one where you’d run around pushing them and then jump on. When my kids were younger, they’d go out playground hunting with me, and the merry-go-rounds were their favorite things. They’re just so fun. The other thing you don’t find often is the seesaw or teeter-totter, and that was my favorite.The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado's R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado’s R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Before I started this project, I didn’t know there was such a variety of equipment. I figured I’d see seesaws, swings, slides, and merry-go-rounds. But I had no idea there were such things as revolving swings, which would be attached to a spinning pole via outstretched metal arms. Many mid-century pieces had themes from pop culture like “The Wizard of Oz,” “Cinderella,” “Denis the Menace,” cowboys and Indians, and Saturday-morning cartoons. During the Space Age, you started to see pieces of equipment shaped like rocket ships and satellites, because in the ’60s, Americans were so excited about space exploration. What was going on in the broader culture often got reflected in playground equipment.
Pursuing the catalogs was eye-opening. I live about an hour and a half south of Denver, so I often looked for playgrounds around the city. There, I’d find these contraptions where were shaped like umbrella skeletons, but then they had these rings hanging off the spindles. I’ve never seen them outside of Colorado. Then I bought a 1930s catalog from the manufacturer in Pueblo, Colorado, which is only 45 minutes from me, and it featured this apparatus. Later, I met people in Denver who’d say, “Oh, yeah, I remember that thing as a kid. It’s kind of like monkey bars where you had to try and get from ring to ring swinging and hanging by your arms.” There was so much variety, and even so many variations on the basics.I have a cool catalog from 1926 from the manufacturer Mitchell, which doesn’t exist anymore. I looked at one of the contraptions they advertised and I was like, “Oh my God, this looks like a torture device!” It was their own proprietary apparatus and maybe it didn’t prove to be very popular. I had never seen something like that on a playground. There probably weren’t very many of them installed.
This strange Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Brenda Biondo says she's never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
This Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Biondo’s never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: After a while, were you able to date pieces just by looking at them?
Biondo: From looking at the catalogs, I certainly got a better idea of when things were built. But there were a handful things I couldn’t find in the catalogs. You can guess the age by knowing the design, as well as by looking at the amount of wear and the height of the piece. Usually, the taller it was, the older it was. One of the oldest slides I photographed was probably from the ’30s. I climbed to the top to shoot it as if the viewer were going to go down the slide. Up there, the place where you’d sit before sliding had been used for so many years by so many kids that I could see an outline of all the butts worn into the metal. You can imagine all the children who must have gone down that slide to wear the metal down like that.
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did Modernism influence playground design?
Biondo: In 1953, the Museum of Modern Art in New York held a competition for playground design. Modern Art was just getting popular, and the idea of incorporating the theories of Modernist design into utilitarian objects was in the air, and was translated into playgrounds for several years. I have a 1967 catalog that features very abstract playground equipment made from sinuous blobs of poured concrete. And you’ve probably seen some of it, but there’s not too much of that around. That’s another example of how broader cultural trends were reflected in playgrounds.
When most people think of playgrounds, they say, “Oh, that’s a kiddie subject. There’s not much to it.” But when you start looking into them, you realize playgrounds are a fascinating piece of American culture—they go back a hundred years and played a part in most Americans’ lives. These playground pieces are icons of our childhood.
Collectors Weekly:What was the impact of the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which launched in 1973?
Biondo: Things started to change after that, which is why I limited to book to apparatuses made before 1975. New playgrounds were starting to be build out of plastic and fiberglass. I looked up the statistics, and according to the little research I’ve done—contrary to what you’d expect—there’s not much difference in the number of injuries on older equipment versus injuries on equipment today. A “New York Times” article from 2011 called “Can a Playground Be Too Safe?” explains that studies show when playground equipment was really high and just had asphalt underneath it and not seven layers of mulch, thekids knew they had to be careful because they didn’t want to fall. Nowadays, when everything is lower and there’s so much mulch, kids are just used to jumping down and falling and catching themselves. So kids learned to assess risk by playing on the older equipment. They also learned to challenge themselves because it is a little scary to go up to the top of the thing.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
At my local park where you have new equipment, the monkey bars aren’t that high and there’s mulch below it, but a child fell and broke their arm last year. When I was talking to the principal at the school where they had just torn out that old American slide, I asked her, “Why did you replace the equipment?” She said, “We felt the parents in the community were expecting to have a little bit newer and nicer equipment. And this stuff had been here for so long.” And I said, “Have you seen a difference in injury rates since you put up your newer equipment?” She replied, “I’ve been a principal here several years, and we never had a serious broken-bone injury on the playground until four months ago on the new equipment.”
There were some nasty accidents in the ‘60s and ’70s, where kids got their arms or their heads caught in the contraptions. Those issues definitely needed to be assessed. What’s interesting is the Consumer Product Safety Commission never issued requirements, just suggested guidelines. But manufacturers felt that if their equipment didn’t meet those guidelines, they’d be vulnerable to liability. Everybody went to the extreme, making everything super safe so they wouldn’t risk getting sued.A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
In the last decade, people have been looking at playground-equipment design and trying to make it more challenging and more encouraging of imaginative play, but without making it more likely someone’s going to get injured. And adults, I think, are realizing kids are spending more time indoors on devices so they want to do everything they can to encourage kids to still get outside, run around, and climb on things.
Collectors Weekly: You don’t need a playground to hurt yourself. When I was a kid, I fell off a farm post and broke my arm.Biondo: Oh, yeah, kids have been falling out trees forever—they always want to climb stuff. Playground politics are always evolving. Even in the 1920s, the catalogs talked about how safe their equipment was, and they were selling these 30-foot slides. Sometimes, I’d be out with my family on a vacation, and we’d make a little side tour to look for an old playground to shoot. My husband would look at these big metal things and go, “Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!” because they were so huge and rickety. But back then, these were very safe pieces of equipment compared to what kids had been playing on before.
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Growing up in the 1980s, I always hated the new fiberglass slides because I’d end up with all these tiny glass shards in my butt.
Biondo: Yeah, I remember that, too. It’s always something. It is fun to talk to people about playgrounds because it reminds them of all the fun stuff they did as kids. When people see pictures of these metal slides, they tell me, “Oh my gosh, I remember getting such a bad burn from a metal slide one summer!” The metal would get so hot in the sun, and kids would take pieces of wax paper with them to sit on so they’d go flying down the slide. I have some old postcards that show playgrounds from the early ’20s. The wood seesaws not only were huge, but they had no handles so you had hold on to the sides of the board where you sat. I’m looking at that like, “Oh my God!” It’s all relative.
playground_postcard_milwaukee
Kids ride the rocking-boat seesaw at a Milwaukee, Wisconsin, park in this postcard postmarked 1910.
(To see more of Brenda Biondo’s playground photos and vintage catalog pages, pick up a copy of her book, “Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playground, 1920-1975.” To find an exhibition of Biondo’s playground project, or to bring it to your town, visit the ExhibitsUSA page. To learn more about creative mid-century playgrounds around the globe, also pick up, “The Playground Project” by Xavier Salle and Vincent Romagny.) insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
mémoire2cité - Sols absorbants, formes arrondies et couleurs vives, les aires de jeux standardisées font désormais partie du paysage urbain. Toujours les mêmes toboggans sécurisés, châteaux forts en bois et animaux à ressort. Ces non-lieux qu’on finit par ne plus voir ont une histoire, parallèle à celle des différentes visions portées sur l’enfant et l’éducation. En retournant jouer au xixe siècle, sur les premiers playgrounds des États-Unis, on assiste à la construction d’une nation – et à des jeux de société qui changent notre vision sur les balançoires du capitalisme. Ce texte est paru dans le numéro 4 de la revue Jef Klak « Ch’val de Course », printemps-été 2017. La version ici publiée en ligne est une version légèrement remaniée à l’occasion de sa republication dans le magazine Palais no 27 1, paru en juin 2018. la video içi www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwj1wh5k5PY The concept for adventure playgrounds originated in postwar Europe, after a playground designer found that children had more fun with the trash and rubble left behind by bombings -inventing their own toys and playing with them- than on the conventional equipment of swings and slides. Narrator John Snagge was a well-known voice talent in the UK, working as a newsreader for BBC Radio - jefklak.org/le-gouvernement-des-playgrounds/ - www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/chasing-the-vanishing-p... or children, playgrounds are where magic happens. And if you count yourself among Baby Boomers or Gen Xers, you probably have fond memories of high steel jungle gyms and even higher metal slides that squeaked and groaned as you slid down them. The cheerful variety of animals and vehicles on springs gave you plenty of rides to choose from, while a spiral slide, often made of striped panels, was a repeated thrill. When you dismounted from a teeter-totter, you had to be careful not to send your partner crashing to the ground or get hit in the head by your own seat. The tougher, faster kids always pushed the brightly colored merry-go-round, trying to make riders as dizzy as possible. In the same way, you’d dare your sibling or best friend to push you even higher on the swing so your toes could touch the sky. The most exciting playgrounds would take the form of a pirate ship, a giant robot, or a space rocket.
“My husband would look at these big metal things and go, ‘Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!'” - insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
Today, these objects of happy summers past have nearly disappeared, replaced by newer equipment that’s lower to the ground and made of plastic, painted metal, and sometimes rot-resistant woods like cedar or redwood. The transformation began in 1973, when the U.S. Congress established the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which began tracking playground injuries at hospital emergency rooms. The study led to the publication of the first Handbook for Public Playground Safety in 1981, which signaled the beginning of the end for much of the playground equipment in use. (See the latest PPS handbook here.) Then, the American Society for Testing and Materials created a subcommittee of designers and playground-equipment manufacturers to set safety standards for the whole industry. When they published their guidelines in 1993, they suggested most existing playground surfaces, which were usually asphalt, dirt, or grass, needed to be replaced with pits of wood or rubber mulch or sand, prompting many schools and parks to rip their old playgrounds out entirely.
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
That said, removing and replacing playground equipment takes money, so a certain amount of vintage playground equipment survived into the next millennium—but it’s vanishing fast. Fortunately, Brenda Biondo, a freelance journalist turned photographer, felt inspired to document these playscapes before they’ve all been melted down. Her photographs capture the sculptural beauty and creativity of the vintage apparatuses, as well as that feeling of nostalgia you get when you see a piece of your childhood. After a decade of hunting down old playgrounds, Biondo published a coffee-table book, 2014’s Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playgrounds, 1920-1975, which includes both her photographs of vintage equipment and pages of old playground catalogs that sold it.
Starting this November, Biondo’s playground photos will hit the road as part of a four-year ExhibitsUSA traveling show, which will also include vintage playground postcards and catalog pages from Biondo’s collection. The show will make stops in smaller museums and history centers around the United States, passing through Temple, Texas; Lincoln, Nebraska; Kansas City, Missouri; and Greenville, South Carolina. Biondo talked to us on the phone from her home in small-town Colorado, where she lives with her husband and children.
This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, "This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast." (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, “This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast.” (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)Collectors Weekly: What inspired you to photograph playgrounds?Biondo: In 2004, I happened to be at my local park with my 1-year-old daughter, who was playing in the sandbox. I had just switched careers, from freelance journalism to photography, and I was looking for a starter project. I looked around the playground and thought, “Where is all the equipment that I remember growing up on?” They had new plastic contraptions, but nothing like the big metal slides I grew up with. After that, I started driving around to other playgrounds to see if any of this old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly. That got to me.I felt like somebody should be documenting this equipment, because it was such a big part—and a very good part—of so many people’s childhoods. I couldn’t find anybody else who was documenting it, and I didn’t see any evidence that the Smithsonian was collecting it. As far as I could tell, it was just getting ripped up and sent to the scrap heap. At first, I started traveling around Colorado where I live, visiting playgrounds. Eventually, I took longer trips around the Southwest, and then I started looking for playgrounds whenever I was in any other parts of the country, like around California and the East Coast. It was a long-term project—shot over the course of a decade. And every year that I was shooting, it got harder and harder to find those pieces of old equipment.
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did you find them?
Biondo: I would just drive around. I started hunting down local elementary schools and main-street playgrounds as well as neighborhood playgrounds. If I had a weekend, I would say, “OK, I’m going to drive from my home three hours east to the Kansas border, stay overnight and drive back.” Along the way, I would stop at every little town that I’d pass. They usually had one tiny main-street playground and one elementary school. I never knew what I was going to find. In a poorer area, a town often doesn’t have much money to replace playground equipment, whereas more affluent areas usually have updated their playgrounds by now. It was a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes, I’d drive for hours and not really find anything—or I’d find one old playground after the other, because I happened to be in an area where equipment hadn’t been replaced.
I couldn’t get to every state, so I had to shoot where I was. I think there certainly are still old playgrounds out there, especially in small towns. But there’s fewer and fewer of them every year. My book has something like 170 photographs. I would guess that half the equipment pictured is already gone. Sometimes, I’d go back to a playground with a nice piece of equipment a year later to reshoot it, maybe in different lighting or a different season, and so often it had been removed. That pressured me to get out as often as I could because if I waited a few weeks, that piece might not be there anymore.
A 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
a 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
Collectors Weekly: What did you learn about playground history?
Biondo: I didn’t know American playgrounds started as part of the social reform or progressive movement of the early 1900s. Reformers hoped to keep poor inner-city immigrant kids safe and out of trouble. Back then, city children were playing in the streets with nothing to do, and when cars became more popular, kids started to get hit by motorists. Child activists started building playgrounds in big cities like Boston, Chicago, and New York as a way to help and protect these kids. These reformers felt they could build model citizens by teaching cooperation and manners through playgrounds. These early main-street parks would also have playground leaders who orchestrated activities such as games and songs.
“I started driving to playgrounds to see if any old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly.”
In the late 1800s, Germans developed what they called “sand gardens,” which are just piles of sand where kids can come dig and build things. There were few of those in the United States as well. But by the early 1900s, the emphasis of playgrounds was on the apparatuses, things kids could climb on or swing on.
Soon after I started researching playground history, I happened to stumble on an eBay auction for a 1926 catalog that the playground manufacturers used to send to schools. At that point, I wasn’t thinking of doing a book, but I thought I could do something with it. I won the catalog; I paid, like, $12 for it. And it was so interesting because I could see this vintage equipment when it was brand new and considered modern and advanced. The manufacturers boasted about how safe it was and how it was good for building both muscles and imaginations.
After that, I would always search on eBay for playground catalogs, and I ended up with about three dozen catalogs from different manufacturers. My oldest is 1916, and my newest is from 1975. So I would take a photograph of some type of merry-go-round, and then I might find that same merry-go-round in a 1930 catalog. Often in the book, I pair my picture with the page from the catalog showing when it was first manufactured. I discovered a couple dozen manufacturers, which tended to be located in the bigger industrial areas with steel manufacturing, like Trenton, New Jersey, and Kokomo and Litchfield, Indiana. Pueblo, Colorado, even had a playground manufacturer. Burke and GameTime were big 20th century companies, and actually are among few still in existence.
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: I recently came across an old metal slide whose steps had the name of the manufacturer, American, forged in openwork letters.
Biondo: I love those. One of the last pages in the book shows treads from six different slides, and they each had the name of their manufacturer in them, including Porter, American, and Burke. One time when I was traveling, I did a quick side trip to a small town with an elementary school. In the parking lot was this old metal slide with the American step treads, lying on its side. You could tell it had just been ripped off out of the concrete, which was still attached to the bottom, and was waiting for the steel recyclers to come and take it away.
I thought, “Oh my gosh, just put it on eBay! Somebody is going to want that. Don’t melt it down.” But nobody thinks about this stuff getting thrown away when it should be preserved. If you go on eBay, you can find a lot of those small animals on springs that little kids ride, because they’re small enough to be shipped. Once I saw someone selling one of those huge rocket ships, which had been dismantled, on eBay, but I don’t know if anybody ever bid on it. It’s rare to see the big stuff, because it is so expensive to ship. It’s like, “What kind of truck do you need to haul this thing away?” I don’t know of anyone who’s collecting those pieces, but I hope somebody is.
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name "American" in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name “American” in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: It seems like an opportunity for both starting a collection or repurposing the material.
Biondo: I photographed many of the apparatuses as if they were sculptures because they have really cool designs and colors. Even when they’re worn down, the exposed layers of paint can be beautiful. Hardly anybody stops to look at it that way. People drive by and think, “Oh, there’s an old, rusty, rundown playground.” But if you take the time to look closely at this stuff, it’s really interesting. Just by looking at these pieces, you can picture all the kids who played on them.
Collectors Weekly: Aren’t people nostalgic for their childhood playgrounds?
Biondo: While I was taking the pictures, I visited Boulder, Colorado, which is a very affluent community. I was sure there would be no old playground equipment there. When I was driving around, all of a sudden, I looked over and saw this huge rocket ship. It turns out that one of the original NASA astronauts, Scott Carpenter, grew up in Boulder, and this playground was built in the ’60s to honor their hometown boy. Because of that, the citizens of Boulder never wanted to take down the rocket ship. One of the first exhibitions of this photography project happened in Boulder, and at the opening, I sold four prints of that rocket ship. People would come up to me at the exhibition, and they’d go, “Oh my gosh, I grew up playing on this when I was a little kid! Now, my kids are playing on it, and I’m so excited that I can get a picture of it and hang it in their bedroom.” So people have a strong nostalgic attachment to this equipment. It’s sad that most of it’s not going to be around for much longer.
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship play set seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship playset seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Besides slides and animals on springs, what were some other pieces that were common in older playgrounds?
Biondo: I didn’t come across as many old swings as I expected. I thought they would be all over the place, but I guess they’re gone now because they were so easy to replace. I tended to find merry-go-rounds more frequently—you know, the one where you’d run around pushing them and then jump on. When my kids were younger, they’d go out playground hunting with me, and the merry-go-rounds were their favorite things. They’re just so fun. The other thing you don’t find often is the seesaw or teeter-totter, and that was my favorite.The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado's R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado’s R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Before I started this project, I didn’t know there was such a variety of equipment. I figured I’d see seesaws, swings, slides, and merry-go-rounds. But I had no idea there were such things as revolving swings, which would be attached to a spinning pole via outstretched metal arms. Many mid-century pieces had themes from pop culture like “The Wizard of Oz,” “Cinderella,” “Denis the Menace,” cowboys and Indians, and Saturday-morning cartoons. During the Space Age, you started to see pieces of equipment shaped like rocket ships and satellites, because in the ’60s, Americans were so excited about space exploration. What was going on in the broader culture often got reflected in playground equipment.
Pursuing the catalogs was eye-opening. I live about an hour and a half south of Denver, so I often looked for playgrounds around the city. There, I’d find these contraptions where were shaped like umbrella skeletons, but then they had these rings hanging off the spindles. I’ve never seen them outside of Colorado. Then I bought a 1930s catalog from the manufacturer in Pueblo, Colorado, which is only 45 minutes from me, and it featured this apparatus. Later, I met people in Denver who’d say, “Oh, yeah, I remember that thing as a kid. It’s kind of like monkey bars where you had to try and get from ring to ring swinging and hanging by your arms.” There was so much variety, and even so many variations on the basics.I have a cool catalog from 1926 from the manufacturer Mitchell, which doesn’t exist anymore. I looked at one of the contraptions they advertised and I was like, “Oh my God, this looks like a torture device!” It was their own proprietary apparatus and maybe it didn’t prove to be very popular. I had never seen something like that on a playground. There probably weren’t very many of them installed.
This strange Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Brenda Biondo says she's never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
This Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Biondo’s never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: After a while, were you able to date pieces just by looking at them?
Biondo: From looking at the catalogs, I certainly got a better idea of when things were built. But there were a handful things I couldn’t find in the catalogs. You can guess the age by knowing the design, as well as by looking at the amount of wear and the height of the piece. Usually, the taller it was, the older it was. One of the oldest slides I photographed was probably from the ’30s. I climbed to the top to shoot it as if the viewer were going to go down the slide. Up there, the place where you’d sit before sliding had been used for so many years by so many kids that I could see an outline of all the butts worn into the metal. You can imagine all the children who must have gone down that slide to wear the metal down like that.
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did Modernism influence playground design?
Biondo: In 1953, the Museum of Modern Art in New York held a competition for playground design. Modern Art was just getting popular, and the idea of incorporating the theories of Modernist design into utilitarian objects was in the air, and was translated into playgrounds for several years. I have a 1967 catalog that features very abstract playground equipment made from sinuous blobs of poured concrete. And you’ve probably seen some of it, but there’s not too much of that around. That’s another example of how broader cultural trends were reflected in playgrounds.
When most people think of playgrounds, they say, “Oh, that’s a kiddie subject. There’s not much to it.” But when you start looking into them, you realize playgrounds are a fascinating piece of American culture—they go back a hundred years and played a part in most Americans’ lives. These playground pieces are icons of our childhood.
Collectors Weekly:What was the impact of the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which launched in 1973?
Biondo: Things started to change after that, which is why I limited to book to apparatuses made before 1975. New playgrounds were starting to be build out of plastic and fiberglass. I looked up the statistics, and according to the little research I’ve done—contrary to what you’d expect—there’s not much difference in the number of injuries on older equipment versus injuries on equipment today. A “New York Times” article from 2011 called “Can a Playground Be Too Safe?” explains that studies show when playground equipment was really high and just had asphalt underneath it and not seven layers of mulch, thekids knew they had to be careful because they didn’t want to fall. Nowadays, when everything is lower and there’s so much mulch, kids are just used to jumping down and falling and catching themselves. So kids learned to assess risk by playing on the older equipment. They also learned to challenge themselves because it is a little scary to go up to the top of the thing.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
At my local park where you have new equipment, the monkey bars aren’t that high and there’s mulch below it, but a child fell and broke their arm last year. When I was talking to the principal at the school where they had just torn out that old American slide, I asked her, “Why did you replace the equipment?” She said, “We felt the parents in the community were expecting to have a little bit newer and nicer equipment. And this stuff had been here for so long.” And I said, “Have you seen a difference in injury rates since you put up your newer equipment?” She replied, “I’ve been a principal here several years, and we never had a serious broken-bone injury on the playground until four months ago on the new equipment.”
There were some nasty accidents in the ‘60s and ’70s, where kids got their arms or their heads caught in the contraptions. Those issues definitely needed to be assessed. What’s interesting is the Consumer Product Safety Commission never issued requirements, just suggested guidelines. But manufacturers felt that if their equipment didn’t meet those guidelines, they’d be vulnerable to liability. Everybody went to the extreme, making everything super safe so they wouldn’t risk getting sued.A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
In the last decade, people have been looking at playground-equipment design and trying to make it more challenging and more encouraging of imaginative play, but without making it more likely someone’s going to get injured. And adults, I think, are realizing kids are spending more time indoors on devices so they want to do everything they can to encourage kids to still get outside, run around, and climb on things.
Collectors Weekly: You don’t need a playground to hurt yourself. When I was a kid, I fell off a farm post and broke my arm.Biondo: Oh, yeah, kids have been falling out trees forever—they always want to climb stuff. Playground politics are always evolving. Even in the 1920s, the catalogs talked about how safe their equipment was, and they were selling these 30-foot slides. Sometimes, I’d be out with my family on a vacation, and we’d make a little side tour to look for an old playground to shoot. My husband would look at these big metal things and go, “Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!” because they were so huge and rickety. But back then, these were very safe pieces of equipment compared to what kids had been playing on before.
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Growing up in the 1980s, I always hated the new fiberglass slides because I’d end up with all these tiny glass shards in my butt.
Biondo: Yeah, I remember that, too. It’s always something. It is fun to talk to people about playgrounds because it reminds them of all the fun stuff they did as kids. When people see pictures of these metal slides, they tell me, “Oh my gosh, I remember getting such a bad burn from a metal slide one summer!” The metal would get so hot in the sun, and kids would take pieces of wax paper with them to sit on so they’d go flying down the slide. I have some old postcards that show playgrounds from the early ’20s. The wood seesaws not only were huge, but they had no handles so you had hold on to the sides of the board where you sat. I’m looking at that like, “Oh my God!” It’s all relative.
playground_postcard_milwaukee
Kids ride the rocking-boat seesaw at a Milwaukee, Wisconsin, park in this postcard postmarked 1910.
(To see more of Brenda Biondo’s playground photos and vintage catalog pages, pick up a copy of her book, “Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playground, 1920-1975.” To find an exhibition of Biondo’s playground project, or to bring it to your town, visit the ExhibitsUSA page. To learn more about creative mid-century playgrounds around the globe, also pick up, “The Playground Project” by Xavier Salle and Vincent Romagny.) insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
The Mutton was the longest-serving vehicle of the RAM program, with postwar surplus quickly snatched up by civilian railway companies. Despite the vulnerability alluded to in its name, it was beloved by both army and railway branches of the military and was a common sight at the tail of combat trains desiring rapid track repairs during advances or wrecking activities during retreats. With the ability to lift a Lamb tank when balanced by added counterweights, the Mutton also facilitated recovery and general material handling operations.
Play Features:
-Folding boom, idler and rail wheels
-Rotate folding exhaust stack to slew boom
-Rotate spools to control hoist and luff
Early fifties London scene. Model diorama in 1/76 scale OO gauge.
LCC fire station and Black Cat Tavern buildings fom the Kingsway Models range.
All these postwar shopping centres, plonked down in the hearts of bomb-damaged cities such as Southampton, Plymouth, Bristol and Exeter, had the same sort of look about them, didn't they? Any one of them might have been any of the others. How unworthy they were of these famous old cities. How pedestrian, how commonplace, how ignoble, how impoverished, how ...democratic.
The Christmas trimmings were still up, slightly alleviating the welfare state ambiance of Swansea's shopping centre, on New Year's Eve 1976 ...a Friday. A socialist government, that of Edward Heath, had made New Year's Day a public holiday from 1974. The result was that the Christmas and New Year holidays quickly merged into one, becoming the "Christmas break" and lasting from Christmas Eve until the Monday following the weekend after the New Year. All industrial and commercial activity outside the retail sector was suspended during this period.
After a surfeit of telly and stagnant days of gourmandising, idle wage-slaves go shopping. The sales would be on and, New Year's Day being followed by a Sunday (not yet a normal trading day), the shops would be closed for two days. So the streets are thronged with Cortinas and Escorts, and the pavements with harrassed figures, burdened with polythene carrier bags (David Greig, Hepworth, Dolcis?), wrapped up warm against a chilly wind from the Vale of Neath and eager to get home for a pot of tea and a slice of cherry cake. Some choose the bus ...in this case a nice AEC Regent V 2D3RA with Park Royal bodywork, new in 1964.
Postwar Dialogues:
Europe and the United States
The cataclysm of World War II brought in its wake the obligation of profound reflection as well as an intense desire for a new beginning. The nations of Europe were starting to recover from physical and economic devastation and to recognize that the horrors of war had irrevocably damaged former ways of life, social bonds, and cultural assumptions. Having avoided home-front hostilities, the United States emerged from the war a geopolitical superpower, optimistic about the future but also bearing the scars of wartime sacrifice. The artistic cultures on both sides of the Atlantic remained deeply interconnected, but the perceived balance of authority began to shift toward the Americans.
The Brutally reactionary Nazi regime decimated the progressive cultural communities of Europe, and many of its leading talents—among them Hans Hofmann, Willem de Kooning, Piet Modrian, and Arshile Gorky—fled to the United States, infusing new ambition into the country’s artistic life. Abstract Expressionism (in New York), Art Informel (in Paris), and CoBrA (in Copenhagen, Brussels, and Amsterdam) developed as parallel efforts to delve beneath the compromised façade of Western civilization to seek sources of cultural rebirth in archaic eras and the art of children and the insane. Meanwhile, individualists such as Pablo Picasso, Alberto Giacometti, and Balthus explored universal aspects of the human condition: desire, alienation, and dream.
From the Placard: The Philadelphia Museum of Art, PA
2.175 cc
4 in-line
115 hp
Class IV : Post War "1965 - 1985"
Zoute Concours d'Elegance
Royal Zoute Golf Club
Zoute Grand Prix 2022
Knokke - Zoute
België - Belgium
October 2022
gizmodo.com/115165/starcks-ak47
moralism/ethics and jgb
In other words, the breakdown of the formalized social order, and its replacement with one based on more ruthless, informal, spontaneously generated rules, can liberate in a certain sense, in that it permits what was previously impermissible. In Freudian terms, the id escapes the power of the superego; what results both repels and attracts. This lesson Ballard never forgot.
Ballard arrived in England during the austere postwar years, the austerity lengthened by government policy that saw in it an opportunity for ideologically inspired social engineering. (Even now, one occasionally senses nostalgia in medical journals for the era of rationing, which imposed a scientifically approved diet on the population.) Ballard began medical school, but dropped out after two years to become a writer. He never entirely lost his interest in medicine, however, and it is worth noting that doctors are important figures in his novels, the first of which came out in 1962.
All of Ballard’s novels have a Robinson Crusoe theme: What happens to man when the props of civilization are removed from him, as they so easily are, by external circumstances or by the operation of his secret desires or by both in concert? Ballard’s past gave him an awareness of the fragility of things, even when they appear most solid; and in the introduction to his collected short stories, he tells us that he is “interested in the real future that I could see approaching.” His method: extrapolate something—a trend, a feeling of dissatisfaction—that he detects in the present; magnify it; and then examine its consequences. He is a recorder of what he calls “the visionary present,” a sociological Swift who claims (half-mistakenly, I think) that he does not write with a moral purpose but instead serves as “a scout who is sent on ahead to see if the water is drinkable or not.”
In Ballard’s earlier novels, the decomposition of society results largely from natural processes. For example, in his debut novel, The Drowned World, the earth has undergone an extremely rapid warming. (Ballard has an uncanny ability to anticipate future anxieties.)
...
It is significant that Maitland is an architect, for it is the architects, with their modernist dreams of making the world anew according to implacably abstract principles, who have created the wasteland in the first place. Ballard captures the socially isolating nature of modern architecture—and the modern way of life associated with it—with great symbolic force. The taxi driver, encased in his cage of pressed steel, can see in Maitland only a lunatic with whom he shares no humanity. The other drivers have lost their ability to choose: once on the road, they must inexorably move forward. They do not control the situation; the situation controls them. What should liberate—the car, with its theoretical ability to take you anywhere you want to go, whenever you want to go—becomes dehumanizing.
In the same year, Ballard published his most controversial book, Crash, later made into an equally disturbing film by David Cronenberg. The book is a kind of visionary reductio ad absurdum of what Ballard sees as the lack of meaning in modern material abundance, in which erotic and violent sensationalism replace transcendent purpose: the book’s characters speed to the sites of auto accidents to seek sexual congress with the dying bodies and torn metal. Ballard’s method is Swift’s, though with a less general target. To object that Ballard exaggerates the existential predicament of the modern middle classes is to miss the point, just as to object that Swift exaggerates man’s absurdity, pretensions, and nastiness is to miss the point.
In his next book, High-Rise, published in 1975, Ballard sets a small civil war in a luxurious 40-story apartment building, where “the regime of trivial disputes and irritations . . . provided [the] only corporate life” of the 2,000 inhabitants. Robert Laing is a doctor who is divorced, like all of Ballard’s protagonists.
“This over-priced cell, slotted almost at random into the cliff face of the apartment building, he had bought after his divorce specifically for its peace, quiet and anonymity,” Ballard writes. It seems to be part of the modern condition that people find difficulty in living together, preferring an isolation in which human contact becomes superficial, fleeting, and primarily instrumental to immediate needs or desires.
Where people have few affective ties but nonetheless live together in close proximity, the potential for conflict is great. Though all the residents are well-heeled, a version of class war breaks out in the high-rise, pitting the residents of the upper floors, who have paid the most for their apartments, against those of the lower floors. Boredom and a lack of common purpose provoke aggression, and self-destruction follows. Prosperity is not enough.
...
If anything, Ballard’s vision has darkened. Twenty years after High-Rise, prosperity had increased enormously, and Ballard published Cocaine Nights, an attack on the very idea of the good life engendered by British consumer society. The novel is set in imaginary rich expatriate enclaves on the Spanish Mediterranean coast, towns “without either centre or suburbs, that seem to be little more than dispersal ground for golf courses and swimming pools.” As one character says, “It’s Europe’s future. Everywhere will be like this soon.”
The utter vacuity of the abundant life that the inhabitants have worked to achieve, enabling them to retire before 50, is reflected in the enclaves’ architecture and social atmosphere. “I looked down on an endless terrain of picture windows, patios and miniature pools,” relates the protagonist, a travel writer:
Together they had a curiously calming effect, as if these residential compounds were a series of psychological pens that soothed and domesticated. . . . Nothing could ever happen in this affectless realm, where entropic drift calmed the surfaces of a thousand swimming pools.
Everywhere satellite dishes cupped the sky like begging bowls. The residents had retreated to their shady lounges, their bunkers with a view, needing only that part of the external world that was distilled from the sky by their satellite dishes.
The residents are refugees from a disordered world: “There’s excellent security and not a trace of graffiti anywhere—most people’s idea of paradise today.” Freed from economic anxiety, they are also “refugees from time”: in fact, they have “travelled to the far side of boredom” and are now “desperate for new vices.”
A young tennis coach, Crawford, responsible for arranging the social life of the enclaves, hits on the idea of crime as the solution to the prevailing boredom. Unknowingly, he recapitulates sociologist Emil Durkheim’s view that criminals fulfill an important social function by providing the rest of the population with a cause for solidarity: for one can exercise solidarity only against something and somebody else. “How do you energize people, give them some sense of community?” Crawford asks. Politics is boring, religion too demanding. “Only one thing is left which can rouse people, threaten them directly and force them to act together. . . . Crime and transgressive behaviour. [They] provoke us and tap our need for strong emotion, quicken the nervous system and jump the synapses deadened by leisure and inaction.” His conclusion: “A certain level of crime is part of the necessary roughage of life. Total security is a disease of deprivation.”
By arranging for crimes to be committed at random, including a deliberate fire that kills five, Crawford brings the enclaves back to life, including cultural life. The residents start to play music and participate in theater productions. Instead of living in solipsistic isolation, they now meet regularly. Ballard is not suggesting that the immolation of people is a worthwhile price if only people take to the violin and footlights as a result. He is suggesting that, absent a transcendent purpose, material affluence is not sufficient—and may lead to boredom, perversity, and self-destruction.
In his two most recent novels, Millennium People and Kingdom Come, Ballard treats England as a country gripped by a consumerist fever, half-aware that something more is necessary to lead a bearable human life, and thus vulnerable to an inchoate revolutionism whose inspiration is part fascist, part socialist. The books’ characters are, as usual in Ballard, educated and middle class; no member of the underclass ever appears in his pages. This is not accidental. It is the educated class that is essential to running the country and that sets its moral tone; but “sheltered by benevolent shopping malls,” Ballard writes in Kingdom Come, it “waits patiently for the nightmares that will wake [it] into a more passionate world.” Believing in nothing, sated materially, it is capable of anything to escape boredom.
This represents an important insight. When I briefly served as a kind of vulgarity correspondent for a British newspaper—it sent me anywhere the British gathered to behave badly—I discovered to my surprise that the middle classes behaved in crowds with the same menacing disinhibition as their supposed social and educational inferiors. They swore and screamed abuse and made fascistic gestures and urinated in the street with the same abandon that they attributed to the proletarians. It was Ballard who first spotted that the bourgeoisie wanted to proletarianize itself without losing its economic privileges or political power.
In Millennium People, the residents of an affluent housing project called Chelsea Marina “had set about dismantling their middle-class world. They lit bonfires of books and paintings, educational toys and videos. . . . They had quietly discarded their world as if putting out their rubbish for collection. All over England an entire professional caste was rejecting everything it had worked so hard to secure.”
This strikes me as a suggestive metaphor for much that has happened over the last four decades, not only in England (though especially here) but also throughout parts of Western society. We have become bored with what we have inherited, to which, for lack of talent, we have contributed so humiliatingly little. Ballard understands why educated people, haunted by the pointlessness of their lives, feel the need to protest, and he satirizes it in Millennium People. The book’s protagonist, a psychologist, infiltrates the growing middle-class revolutionary movement and attends a protest against a cat show in a London exhibition hall with Angela, a revolutionary:
Angela stared across the road with narrowed eyes and all a suburbanite’s capacity for moral outrage. Walking around the exhibition two hours earlier, I was impressed by her unswerving commitment to the welfare of these luxurious pets. The protest rallies I had recently attended against globalisation, nuclear power and the World Bank were violent but well thought out. By contrast, this demonstration seemed endearingly Quixotic in its detachment from reality. I tried to point this out to Angela as we strolled along the line of cages.
“Angela, they look so happy. . . . They’re wonderfully cared for. We’re trying to rescue them from heaven.”
Angela never varied her step. “How do you know?”
“Just watch them.” We stopped in front of a row of Abyssinians so deeply immersed in the luxury of being themselves that they barely noticed the admiring crowds. “They’re not exactly unhappy. They’d be prowling around, trying to get out of the cages.”
“They’re drugged.” Angela’s brows knotted. “No living creature should be caged. This isn’t a cat show, it’s a concentration camp.”
“Still, they are rather gorgeous.”
“They’re bred for death, not life. The rest of the litter are drowned at birth. It’s a vicious eugenic experiment, the sort of thing Dr. Mengele got up to.”
The press recently ran obituaries of Peter Cadogan, whom one paper called a “professional protester.” Another wrote that Cadogan “spent fifty years on a long quest of resistance to global injustices.” He appeared inseparable from a megaphone, and no man would have been more disappointed to wake one day to a world denuded of injustice. Apparently, someone read the protest poems of William Blake to him on his deathbed, and these roused him temporarily from a coma. Protest was the meaning of his life. His dying words evoked Blake: “Live differently.” Not better, but differently.
This mind-set can result in the violence from which, as Ballard discovered early in life, we are always but a hairbreadth away, however solidly founded our comfort may seem. Civilization’s fragility does not make it unreal or valueless—quite the reverse. And while I suspect that Ballard would dislike seeing conservative implications drawn from his work, they are most certainly there.
Theodore Dalrymple, a physician, is a contributing editor of City Journal and the Dietrich Weismann Fellow at the Manhattan Institute.
dalrymple - city mag: a moralist reading ballard
now compare to waxman: a doctor friend reading ballard:
(the reality - the books - the writer)
(our bleak society - literary representations of that - the man himself completely unscathed by our bleak society, while thoroughly engaged with it..?)
He was a “Jimmy”, a surprisingly sweet name for a man of such seeming austerity. Although this austerity seemed to be part of the public persona, this view had no origin in fact. He was a man of warmth and love, and a man who himself inspired great love. I was a witness to the affection that people had for him and the tenderness that came to him from his partner Claire and his children.
Perhaps many will not be able to credit that a man who imagined gangs of bored people indulging in random violence (Super Cannes) or protagonists having sex in smashed-up cars (Crash) could be described as a gentle man who inspired great affection. But that is to focus too much on his dystopian writings rather than taking into account his polymathic range - a range that encompassed everything from genre fiction to his most traditional novel, Empire of the Sun.
The occasional brutality of his work was not a reflection of a dark personality. They were instead the fruit of a man who lived the life of the mind to the full, who had a knack of looking at the world in a different way and asking “what if?”. What if, as he imagined in Millennium People, the middle-classes rose up in a tax rebellion?
Though Jimmy had an original mind he was utterly conventional on the surface. He was like any man of his time and upper-middle class upbringing, right down to his tweed jacket and reserved, polite manner.
He was also generous, a great supporter of all who came into his life.
....
baLLArdian.com
‘Content in their little prisons’: J.G. Ballard on ‘The Towers’
Author: Dan OHara • Nov 21st, 2008 •
Category: France, Lead Story, architecture, archival, crime, technology, urban decay
L’ile de béton (Concrete Island), French edition, Calman-Lévy (1974). Thanks to Herve for the scan.
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Interview by Philippe R. Hupp.
Translation by Dan O’Hara.
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Ballard’s novels have always been translated into French with alacrity. His 1974 novel, Concrete Island, was already in translation in time for review in the January 1975 edition of the major Paris literary organ Magazine Littéraire, and Antoine Griset’s review was both penetrating and positive. Griset immediately connected the predicament of Ballard’s protagonist, stranded on an urban desert island between motorway intersections, with the extremes of social inequality within our society.
‘The image or the idea of a man dying of hunger only a step away from a haven of abundance is tragically familiar’, Griset writes, noting how absurd it is that such distress has become a banal commonplace. Whilst admiring the ‘immense talent’ of Ballard in transforming a vague, banal terrain into a hallucinatory hell — a feat also achieved in Crash — Griset observes that although Concrete Island may be a continuation of the earlier novel, this time the automobile is a mere symbolic pretext for an examination of the flip-side of our ordered, automated, aseptic lifestyle.
Griset sees the real focus of Concrete Island as being on the flotsam of urban Man Fridays (or should that be ‘Men Friday’?) living in the interstices of modern cities: the invisible masses we observe daily from behind the safety of the windscreen or the office window. In the novel Maitland, an affluent architect who crosses this invisible barrier, decides to remain on the concrete island, having triumphed over its obstinate vagrants. Yet Griset suggests that, if the Maitland who first arrived on the island dies and is transformed into a new, stronger version of himself, he also remains afraid to recognize his own true nature. In a brilliant insight into Ballard’s metafictional method, Griset implies that this transformation of the protagonist is intended to provoke a similar transformation in the reader. Concrete Island is less concerned with awakening a new moral knowledge than with demonstrating the ways in which the mirror-world of own native brutality is just on the other side of the windscreen.
The following brief interview was printed alongside Griset’s review. Mostly concerned with the novel he was then in the early stages of writing, High-Rise, it does however contain an intriguing reference to Ballard conducting research on the relation between criminal behaviour and the urban environment. Whatever the sources of this research might have been, it seems that it started a line of enquiry which became a central topos of his writing, leading from Concrete Island through High Rise to Running Wild and the loose tetralogy bookended by Cocaine Nights and Kingdom Come.
Dan O’Hara
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PHILIPPE R. HUPP: You’re in the process of writing a new novel called The Towers…
JGB: In fact I still haven’t found a title. It’s a book about what in England and the USA are called ‘high-rises’, these residential towers which can have forty or fifty floors or more. I saw a film about Poland last week, in which one complex of apartments had twenty floors and was a kilometre in length! I’ve been interested for several years now in new lifestyles which permit modern technology; skyscrapers have always attracted me. The life led there seems to me very abstract, and that’s an aspect of setting with which I’m concerned when I write — the technological landscape.
Have you read The World Inside by Robert Silverberg? It’s a novel in which people live in groups of 800 thousand in vertical cities. And Silverberg, instead of simply planting the people of today in a futuristic setting, is concerned with showing how their mentality and their social life would be affected.
I haven’t read that book, but what interests me is the present. I don’t want to extrapolate too far – there’s the risk of becoming detached from reality. Although I did write a story a few years ago, ‘Build up’, in which one city occupied the entire universe. It’s a quite fascinating subject.
You’ve already examined housing schemes?
I did research before sitting down to write. For example, in cities, the degree of criminality is affected by liberty of movement; it’s higher in culs-de-sac. And high-rises are culs-de-sac: two thousand people jammed together in the air…
Entirely isolated.
Cut off from the rest of the world. In this kind of situation, all sorts can happen. Above all I’d like to examine the psychological modifications which occur without the knowledge of the inhabitants themselves, to see to what degree the mind of someone who drives a car or lives in a concrete high-rise has been altered. In the course of my investigations, I observed that there now exists a new race of people who are content in their little prisons, who tolerate a very high level of noise, but for whom the apartment is nothing more than a base allowing them to pass the night in comfort, as they’re absent during the day.
Will this new novel be as symbolic as Crash and Concrete Island?
I think it will be in the same vein, although this time I’m no longer concentrating on one single character.
And after that, will you further continue your series on the ‘technological landscape’?
No. I don’t have an idea for a novel, but I’d very much like to write several stories that I haven’t had the time to write these last few years. And it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything in the way of imaginative narratives, romances…
I.G.H. (High-Rise), French edition, Calmann-Levy, Dimensions SF (1976). Thanks to Herve for the scan.
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Originally published in French as ‘Entretien avec J. G. Ballard’, Magazine Littéraire 96 (January 1975), 54.
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Author: Dan OHara
Find all posts by Dan OHara
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2 Responses »
Rick McGrath on November 24th, 2008 at 1:00 am:
Great one, Dan… thanks!
Clearing the tabs on November 27th, 2008 at 8:16 pm:
[...] Ballardian » ‘Content in their little prisons’: J.G. Ballard on ‘The Towers’ "For example, in cities, the degree of criminality is affected by liberty of movement; it’s higher in culs-de-sac. And high-rises are culs-de-sac: two thousand people jammed together in the air…" (tags: Ballardian Ballard architecture highrise interview urbanism crime) [...]
Coachwork by Baur
Aiming to create a postwar sports car worthy of the brand, in 1954 BMW took a shortened sedan chassis with a 3.186 cc V8 engine and fitted it with an aerodynamic body designed in-house by Heinz Jacht and built by Baur in Stuttgart. Tested at the Nurburgring by former BMW racing director Ernst Loof, the car proved capable of 200 km/h. However, project 502 won few friends and was shelved. The day was saved when US importer Max Hofman employed Count Albrecht Goertz to create the 507.
Class VII : 60th Anniversary BMW 507
Zoute Concours d'Elegance
The Royal Zoute Golf Club
Zoute Grand Prix 2017
Knokke - Zoute
België - Belgium
October 2017
1.098 cc
4 Cylinder
43 kW
760 kg
Special Coachwork Postwar
Concours d'Elégance Paleis Het Loo 2017
Apeldoorn
Nederland - Netherlands
July 2017
Postwar era British military engineering vehicle
This version of the Churchill AVRE (Armoured Vehicle Royal Engineers) was based on a Churchill Mk.VII and was in British Army service between 1954 and 1965. They were fitted with a breech-loading low velocity L9A1 165mm demolition gun, firing a 64lb HESH (High Explosive Squash Head) round designed to destroy bunkers and obstacles.
This example is on display at the Royal Engineers Museum
Gillingham, Kent, UK
24th July 2021
Triumph Mayflower 1949. With RAC motorbike at the Cook Street Gate in Coventry.
Collection: Warwickshire
Date: 1949
Reference Number: T003215
To enquire about any of our images or for more information, please contact photo@britishmotormuseum.co.uk or visit our photographic website at www.motorgraphs.com/.
Sergiu Pasca arrived at his Stanford lab on October 28, 2025, dressed like a scientist from another era. The navy suit, the precisely knotted tie, the substantial black frames all evoked that postwar period when researchers believed they could decode the fundamental mysteries of life itself. But the work happening in his laboratory at the Clark Center represents something thoroughly contemporary: growing human brain tissue in dishes to understand psychiatric disease.
The photograph captures him surrounded by the tools of his trade. Molecular models sit on the desk before him, physical representations of the chemical architecture underlying consciousness itself. Framed certificates hang shadowed on the wall behind. Everything arranged with precision, yet something in his expression suggests the restless intelligence that drives breakthrough science.
Pasca has accomplished what many thought impossible. His assembloids, organized clusters of human brain cells that recapitulate specific regions and their connections, have fundamentally altered how neuroscience approaches mental illness. These aren't merely collections of neurons floating in culture medium. They're structured tissues that develop recognizable features of cortex, striatum, thalamus. More remarkably, when fused together, they form connections that mimic how different brain regions communicate in living humans.
The implications ripple outward. For the first time, researchers can watch human brain development unfold in real time, introduce genetic variations linked to autism or schizophrenia, and observe the cellular consequences. No need for autopsy tissue or animal models that approximate but never fully capture human neurobiology. The actual substrate of human thought, grown from stem cells, available for study.
He came to this work through an unusual path. Born in Romania, trained in medicine before turning to research, Pasca brought a clinician's attention to human suffering alongside a scientist's appetite for mechanism. His early papers on Timothy syndrome, a rare genetic condition causing autism and heart defects, revealed how calcium channel mutations disrupted cortical development. But it was the assembloid work that established him as a pioneer.
By his late thirties, he was directing his own center, publishing in Science and Nature, being recognized with awards typically reserved for researchers decades older. The compression of achievement suggests not just talent but a particular kind of obsessive focus. He had found his problem: how brains build themselves and what goes wrong in psychiatric disease.
The assembloid studies have yielded concrete insights. In certain forms of autism, the difficulty lies not in individual neurons but in how brain regions communicate. His team fused cortical and striatal organoids and watched the connections form aberrantly in tissue carrying autism-associated mutations. Other work revealed how neural stem cells in schizophrenia patients show accelerated maturation, potentially explaining the timing of symptom onset.
This represents detective work at the cellular scale, tracking developmental divergences that manifest years later as a child who cannot speak or an adult who experiences psychosis. The molecular models on his desk aren't decorative but essential: they represent the chemical reality underlying every thought, every perception, every psychiatric symptom.
What makes Pasca's approach distinctive is its philosophical grounding in experimental rigor. By creating these miniature brain circuits, he's solved one of neuroscience's oldest problems: access to living human tissue during the critical period when circuits form. The assembloids provide a window into processes previously hidden, happening in utero or early childhood, long before symptoms appear.
The work has practical applications. Pharmaceutical companies use assembloids to test drug candidates on actual human brain tissue. Clinicians may eventually use patient-derived organoids to predict treatment response. But the deeper contribution is conceptual: a new way to think about brain development and its vulnerabilities.
That October afternoon, photographed in his laboratory, Pasca embodied a particular type of scientist. The formal attire speaks to seriousness of purpose. The molecular models and certificates frame achievement already substantial. But the eyes suggest someone still engaged with fundamental questions, still building toward insights not yet realized. He's made brains in dishes not as spectacle but as tool, a means toward helping people whose brains diverged from typical developmental trajectories.
His career will likely be defined by this work. The questions he's pursuing couldn't be more urgent: What causes autism? Why does schizophrenia emerge in early adulthood? Can we intervene earlier, more precisely? The answers are taking shape in his lab, one assembloid at a time, grown from stem cells into structures that think but cannot yet speak.
In the postwar years, Fiat was working on an eight-cylinder engine which was internally known as Tipo 106. Dante Giacosa originally designed the engine for a luxury sedan, but then that project stopped. Rudolf Hruska, at the time working at S.I.A.T.A., was given the task to design a car around the V8 engine. Development took place in absolute secrecy. To not stress the experimental department of Fiat, S.I.A.T.A took up the production of the chassis. Styled by chief designer Fabio Luigi Rapi, the Fiat 8V or OttoVù was presented to the Italian press in February 1952 and first exhibited in the following March at the Geneva Motor Show.
The Fiat 8V prototype used an art deco grill that extended into the hood. A second series was made featuring four headlights with some of the later cars have a full-width windscreen. A high-performance coupé destined to compete in the GT class, the 2-litre 8V model, was a departure from the usual Fiat production. It was well accepted by Italian private drivers and tuners and was the car to beat in the 2-litre class, also thanks to the unique versions built by Zagato or Siata. The Fiat V8 had a 70-degree V configuration of up to a 1996 cc of volume, at 5600 rpm the engine produced 105 hp (78 kW) in standard form with two two-barrel Weber 36 DCS carburettors giving a top speed of 190 km/h (118 mph). Some engines were fitted with substantial four-throat Weber 36 IF4/C carburettors offering 120 bhp, but the intake manifold was very rare. The Fiat 8V is the only eight-cylinder built by Fiat. The engine was connected to a four-speed gearbox. The shapes of the car have seen several changes over time: the prototype had an art deco grille that extended into the bonnet. A second series was made with four headlights; finally, some of the latest cars had a large windshield without divisions. Only 114 of this high-performance coupé were produced, 63 of which with a “Fiat Carrozzerie Speciali” body, 34 first-series and 29 second-series. It was made available in different body styles, offered by the factory and by various coachbuilders like Zagato, Pinin Farina, Ghia and Vignale. The production ceased in 1954.
Text from:
www.carrozzieri-italiani.com/listing/fiat-8v-carrozzerie-...
A rather wonderful postwar advert for the well known Poole, Dorset, based company of Carter & Co Ltd, the producers of tiles and faience work who were closely associated with the art pottery of Carter, Stabler & Adams. In pre-WW2 years Carter's had produced vast amounts of faience for the interiors of London Transport's new tube stations, including the Stabler designed "London Landmark" relief tiles as well as the tube lined tiled name friezes at stations.
This advert is aimed squarely at the newer trend for patterned and artwork based ceramic tiles and the company went on to produce vast numbers of such tiles - either as part of their 'catalogue' or as bespoke projects and many 1950s and early '60s buildings still carry Carter's tiles. Annoyingly I cannot quite decipher the illustrator's signature but Sludge G below has - Raymond Myerscough-Walker.
Postwar drivers pass by the Banqueting House where three hundred years earlier, Charles I lost his head...
The fleet of trams that I run on Kennington Cross are all in the postwar red London Transport livery. A lay observer might be forgiven for saying that "they all look the same", but this is far from true.
Most strikingly, ex-LCC car 1, is central in the photo - the unique prototype of a new fleet that was never built, showing off a set of doors at the leading end. Those at the rear were left open, so that the car could function in the same way as any other, with passengers free to board even when moving. The LCC originally painted it in a special blue livery, but when London Transport took over in 1933, the fate of the trams was quickly sealed, and 'Bluebird' was disguised to look as normal as possible.
On the left is E1 1571, an example of a 'typical' London tram, though by the time of the early fifties, one of the few cars that only had one trolley pole - most were fitted with two, to ease the task of the conductor, who would otherwise have to swing it around from one end to the other whilst braving passing traffic.
To the right is apparently the least noteworthy of this trio; 1597, a twin pole E1 on route 10. In fact, this was the sole postwar survivor of the E class which were generally disposed of between 1936-8. Originally numbered, 420 it was damaged in an accident in 1937, and rebuilt with a new top deck in the style of the E3s. Renumbered 1597. and reclassified E1, it ran until 1951. Th main distinguishing feature was that the E class lower deck had a window pillar adjacent to the passenger entrance that was noticeably narrower than the E1 type - compare to that on 1571 on the left.
Such variety, and there's not even a passing Feltham, to add some more!
+++ DISCLAIMER +++
Nothing you see here is real, even though the model, the conversion or the presented background story might be based on historical facts. BEWARE!
Some background:
In the early days of World War II, Royal Navy fighter requirements had been based on cumbersome two-seat designs, such as the fighter/dive-bomber Blackburn Skua (and its turreted derivative the Blackburn Roc) and the fighter/reconnaissance Fairey Fulmar, since it was expected that they would encounter only long-range bombers or flying boats and that navigation over featureless seas required the assistance of a radio operator/navigator. The Royal Navy hurriedly adopted higher-performance single-seat aircraft such as the Hawker Sea Hurricane and the less robust Supermarine Seafire alongside, but neither aircraft had sufficient range to operate at a distance from a carrier task force. The American Vought F4U Corsair was welcomed as a more robust and versatile alternative.
In November 1943, the Royal Navy received its first batch of 95 "birdcage" Vought F4U-1s, which were given the designation "Corsair [Mark] I". The first squadrons were assembled and trained on the U.S. East Coast and then shipped across the Atlantic. The Royal Navy put the Corsair into carrier operations immediately. They found its landing characteristics dangerous, suffering a number of fatal crashes, but considered the Corsair to be the best option they had.
The Royal Navy cleared the F4U for carrier operations well before the U.S. Navy and showed that the Corsair Mk II could be operated with reasonable success even from escort carriers. It was not without problems, though: one was excessive wear of the arrester wires, due both to the weight of the Corsair and the understandable tendency of the pilots to stay well above the stalling speed, and because of the limited hangar deck height in several classes of British carrier, many Corsairs had their outer wings "clipped" by 8 in (200 mm) to clear the deckhead. However, the change in span brought about the added benefit of improving the sink rate, reducing the F4U's propensity to "float" in the final stages of landing. The Royal Navy developed further modifications to the Corsair that made carrier landings more practical. Among these were a bulged canopy (similar to the P-51 B/C’s Malcolm Hood), raising the pilot's seat 7 in (180 mm), and wiring shut the cowl flaps across the top of the engine compartment, diverting frequent oil and hydraulic fluid spray around the sides of the fuselage so that the windscreen remained clear.
The Corsair Mk I was followed by 510 "blown-canopy" F4U-1A/-1Ds, which were designated Corsair Mk II (the final 150 equivalent to the F4U-1D, but not separately designated in British use). 430 Brewster Corsairs (334 F3A-1 and 96 F3A-1D), more than half of Brewster's total production, were delivered to Britain as the Corsair Mk III. 857 Goodyear Corsairs (400 FG-1/-1A and 457 FG-1D) were delivered and designated Corsair Mk IV. A total of 2,012 Corsairs were supplied to the United Kingdom during WWII, and British Corsairs served both in Europe and in the Pacific. Despite the large number of aircraft, the Mk IIs and IVs were the only versions to be actually used in combat.
The first, and also most important, European FAA Corsair operations were the series of attacks in April, July, and August 1944 on the German battleship Tirpitz (Operation Tungsten), for which Corsairs from HMS Victorious and HMS Formidable provided fighter cover. From April 1944, Corsairs from the British Pacific Fleet took part in several major air raids in South-East Asia beginning with Operation Cockpit, an attack on Japanese targets at Sabang island, in the Dutch East Indies. In July and August 1945, RN Corsairs took part in a series of strikes on the Japanese mainland, near Tokyo, operating from Victorious and Formidable. It was during this late phase of the war that the Admiralty was expecting new and more powerful indigenous naval fighters to become available, primarily Griffon-powered Seafires and the Hawker Sea Fury, a navalized derivative of the Hawker Tempest fighter powered by the new Centaurus radial engine. Both types, however, faced development problems, so that the Royal Navy approached Vought and requested a new variant of the proven Corsair, powered by the British Centaurus engine and further tailored to the Royal Navy’s special needs. This became the Corsair Mark V.
The Corsair V was based on the newest American variant, the F4U-4, but it differed in many aspects, so much that it effectively was a totally different aircraft. The F4U-4 was the last American Corsair variant that would be introduced during WWII, but it only saw action during the final weeks of the conflict. It had a 2,100 hp (1,600 kW) dual-stage-supercharged -18W engine, and when the cylinders were injected with the water/alcohol mixture, power was boosted to 2,450 hp (1,830 kW). To better cope with the additional power, the propeller was changed to a four-blade type. Maximum speed was increased to 448 miles per hour (721 km/h) and climb rate to over 4,500 feet per minute (1,400 m/min) as opposed to the 2,900 feet per minute (880 m/min) of the F4U-1A. The unarmored wing fuel tanks of 62 US gal (230 L) capacities were removed for better maneuverability at the expense of maximum range. Other detail improvements were introduced with the F4U-4, too: The windscreen was now flat bullet-resistant glass to avoid optical distortion, a change from the curved Plexiglas windscreens with an internal armor glass plate of the earlier variants. The canopy was furthermore without bracing and slightly bulged – an improvement adopted from the Royal Navy Corsairs.
The original "4-Hog" retained the original armament of six 0.5” machine guns and had all the external load (i.e., drop tanks, bombs, HVARs) capabilities of the F4U-1D. A major sub-type, the F4U-4B, was the same but featured an alternate gun armament of four 20 millimeters (0.79 in) AN/M3 cannon, and the F4U-4P was a rare photo reconnaissance variant with an additional camera compartment in the rear fuselage, but fully combat-capable.
The Royal Navy agreed to adopt the new F4U-4 but insisted on the British Centaurus as powerplant and demanded British equipment and armament, too. The latter included four Hispano 20 mm cannon in the outer wings, adapted wirings for British unguided rockets under the outer wings and a four-channel VHF radio system, a radio altimeter and a G2F compass. Vought reluctantly agreed, even though the different engine meant that a totally different mount had to be developed in short time, and the many alterations to the F4U-4’s original airframe would require a separate, new production line. Since this would block valuable resources for the running standard F4U production for the USN, the Corsair V was outsourced to the newly established Kaiser-Fleetwing company (a ship builder with only limited aircraft experience so far) and designated FK-1 in American circles.
As expected, the development of the FK-1 alone took more time than expected – not only from a technical point of view, but also due to logistic problems. The Centaurus engines and most vital equipment pieces had to be transported across the Atlantic, a hazardous business. The first precious Centaurus engines for the development of the modified engine mount were actually transferred to the USA through the air, hanging in the bomb bays of American B-24 bombers that were used as transporters to supply Great Britain with vital materials.
Because Kaiser-Fleetwings had to establish a proper production line for the FK-1 and supplies for raw F4U-4 airframes had to be diverted and transported to the company’s factory at Bristol, Pennsylvania, delays started to pile up and pushed the Corsair Mk. V development back. The first Centaurus-powered Corsair flew in January 1945 and immediately revealed massive stability problems caused by the engine’s high torque. Enlarged tail surfaces were tested and eventually solved the problem, but this measure changed the F4U-4s standard airframe even more. It was furthermore soon discovered that the early Centaurus engine suffered frequent crankshaft failure due to a poorly designed lubrication system, which led to incidents of the engine seizing while in mid-flight. The problem was resolved when Bristol's improved Centaurus XVIII engine replaced the earlier variant. Tests and adaptations of British equipment to the airframe continued until May 1945, when the Corsair V was eventually cleared for production. But when the first of 100 ordered machines started to roll off the production lines the war was already over.
At that time many of the Fleet Air Arm's carrier fighters were Seafires and Lend-Lease Corsairs. The Seafire had considerable drawbacks as a naval aircraft, notably the narrow undercarriage, while the Corsairs had to be returned or purchased. As the UK did not have the means to pay for them, the Royal Navy Corsairs were mostly pushed overboard into the sea in Moreton Bay off Brisbane, Australia.
Since the Corsair V had not been part of the Lend Lease agreement with the United States, the Royal Navy was not able to easily retreat from the production contract and had to accept the aircraft. Because the Royal Navy’s intended new standard shipborne fighter, the Hawker Sea Fury, was delayed and almost cancelled during this period of re-organizations and cutbacks, the Admiralty bit the bullet, used the inevitable opportunity and procured the Corsair V as a stopgap solution, even though the original production order from May 1945 was not extended and effectively only 95 Corsair Vs were ever produced in the USA and transferred as knocked-down kits via ship to Great Britain.
The first re-assembled Corsair Vs entered Royal Navy service in August 1946, but their frontline service with 802 and 805 NAS, both based at Eglington (Northern Ireland), was only brief. Following the successful completion of weapons trials at the A&AEE Boscombe Down, the Sea Fury was eventually cleared for operational use on 31 July 1947 and quickly entered service. The Corsair Vs were gradually replaced with them until late 1948; 805 NAS was the first unit to abandon the type when 805 Squadron was reformed as a Royal Australian Navy FAA squadron operating Hawker Sea Fury Mk II aircraft. In 1950, 802 NAS was assigned to HMS Ocean and equipped with the Hawker Sea Fury, too, and sent to Korea.
Most Corsair Vs were then relegated to the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (RNVR) in August 1951, where they replaced Supermarine Seafires and took over their role as classic fighter aircraft, despite the Corsair V’s strike/attack potential with bombs and unguided missiles. Most of the time the Corsairs were used for lang range navigation training. RNVR units that operated the Corsair V included Nos. 1831, 1832, 1833, 1834, 1835 and 1836 Squadrons. No. 1832, based at RAF Benson, was the last RNVR squadron to relinquish the type in August 1955 for the jet-powered Supermarine Attacker, and this ended the Corsair V’s short career.
General characteristics:
Crew: One
Length: 34 ft (10.37 m)
Wingspan: 40 ft 8 in (12.10 m)
Height: 15 ft 4 in (4.68 m)
Wing area: 314 sq ft (29.17 m²)
Empty weight: 9,205 lb (4,238 kg)
Gross weight: 14,670 lb (6,654 kg)
Max takeoff weight: 14,533 lb (6,592 kg)
Powerplant:
1× Bristol Centaurus XVIII 18-cylinder air-cooled radial engine with
2,470 hp (1,840 kW) take-off power, driving a 4-bladed
Rotol constant-speed propeller with 14 ft (4.3 m) diameter
Performance:
Maximum speed: 453 mph (730 km/h, 397 kn) at sea level
Cruise speed: 215 mph (346 km/h, 187 kn) at sea level
Stall speed: 89 mph (143 km/h, 77 kn)
Range with internal fuel, clean: 1,005 mi (1,617 km, 873 nmi)
Combat range with max. ordnance: 328 mi (528 km, 285 nmi)
Service ceiling: 41,500 ft (12,600 m)
Rate of climb: 4,360 ft/min (22.1 m/s)
Armament:
4× 20 mm (0.787 in) Hispano Mk II cannon in the outer wings, 250 RPG
A total of 11 hardpoints under the wings and the fuselage for a total ordnance of
4,000 pounds (1.800 kg), including drop tanks, up to 16× 60 lb unguided aircraft rockets on twin
launch rails and/or bombs of up to 1.000 lb (454 kg) caliber
The kit and its assembly:
My first submission to the 2023 “Re-engine” group build at whatifmodellers.com, and a British Corsair with a Centaurus instead of the original R-2800 is almost a no-brainer. But taking the idea to hardware turned out to be a bit trickier than expected. I based my fictional conversion on an Italeri F4U-4, which would have been the appropriate late-WWII basis for a real-life conversion. The kit has good ex- and internal detail with fine engraved panels and offers the late Corsairs’ all-metal wings, too.
The engine replacement is a massive resin piece from OzMods, part of a conversion twin set for a Bristol Brigand; I assume it’s intended for the Valom kit? The set includes resin four-blade props with deep blades which I rather wanted to use than the Sea Fury’s typical five-blade prop.
The Italeri Corsair was basically built OOB, but beyond the different engine, which caused some trouble in itself (see below), I incorporated several mods to change the aircraft’s appearance. The streamlined Centaurus was insofar a problem because it has s slightly smaller diameter than the original R-2800 cowling. Not much, but enough to make a simple exchange impossible or at least look awkward. While the upper cowling section and its curvature blended well into the Corsair fuselage, the difference became more obvious and complicated underneath: late Corsairs have a “flattened” bottom, and from below the Centaurus appears somewhat undersized. To smooth the intersection out I grinded much of the cooling flaps away, and to even out the profile I added a shallow air scoop from an Italeri F4U-7 under the engine, which required some PSR. A good compromise, though. The resin propeller was mounted onto a metal axis and fitted into a hole/channel that was drilled through the Centaurus’ massive resin block.
As an FAA Corsair the wing tips were clipped, which was easy to realize thanks to the massive parts in this area. The Corsair’s original oil coolers in the wing roots were retained, but the four guns in the wings (separate parts in the Italeri kit with quite large holes) were replaced with faired Hispano cannon for/from an early Hawker Tempest, aftermarket brass parts from Master Models.
To change the model’s look further I modified the tail surfaces, too; the rounded fin was replaced with a rather square and slightly bigger donor, a stabilizer from a Novo Supermarine Attacker. The original stabilizers were replaced, too, with trapezoidal alternatives from a Matchbox Meteor night fighter, which offer slightly more area. Since the tail surfaces were all graft-ons now I implanted a vertical styrene tube behind the rear cockpit bulkhead as a display holder adapter for later flight scene pictures. Together with the clipped/squared-off wingtips the new tail creates a consistent look, and with the propeller and its dominant spinner in place the Corsair V reminds a lot of a late Bristol Firebrand mark or even of an Unlimited Class Reno Racer? It looks fast and purposeful now!
Even though unguided missiles and/or bombs could have been a valid ordnance option I decided to leave the Corsair V relatively clean as a pure gun fighter; I just used the OOB drop tank on the centerline station.
Painting and markings:
Very dry and using real 1948 Royal Navy aircraft as benchmark, the Corsair V ended up with a rather simple and dull Extra Dark Sea Grey over Sky (Humbrol 123 and 90, respectively) with a low waterline, and still with wartime Type C roundels with “Identification red (dull)”, even though the RAF officially had reverted to bright identification colors in 1947 and started to use the high-viz Type D roundel as standard marking. To add a British flavor the cockpit interior was painted in very dark grey (Revell 06, Tar Black) while the interior of the landing gear wells was painted in a pale cream yellow (Humbrol 74, Linen) to mimic zinc chromate primer. The only highlight is a red spinner, a contemporary unit marking of 805 NAS.
The kit received a light black ink washing and post-shading to emphasize and/or add surface structures, and this nicely breaks up the otherwise uniform surfaces. Decals/markings came from Xtradecal Hawker Sea Fury und late WWII FAA/RN aircraft sheets, and some decals were mixed to create a fictional serial number for the Corsair V (TF 632 was never allocated, but the code fits into the model’s era). Some light oil and exhaust stains were also added, but not as severely as if the aircraft had been operated under wartime conditions. Finally, the model was sealed with matt acrylic varnish.
While a classic F4U with a British Centaurus engine sounds simple, and actually is, getting there was not as easy as it sounds – the ventral air scoop came to the rescue. With some more small mods like the new tail surfaces the aircraft got a subtly different look from its American ancestor(s). The Corsair V IMHO has now a very Blackburn-ish look, thanks to the big spinner and the square fin! And I wonder what I will do with the other Centaurus from the conversion set?
Postwar London Transport tramway scene in 1/76 scale.
The layout will have it's exhibition debut at Worksop MBF Model Transport Exhibition on 19th January.
Triumph 2000 Mk II 1970. Pictured outside Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire.
Collection: Oxfordshire
Date: 1970
Reference Number: CC006795
To enquire about any of our images or for more information, please contact photo@britishmotormuseum.co.uk or visit our photographic website at www.motorgraphs.com/.
The ultimate icon of jet-age fabulosity, Eero Saarinen's TWA Flight Center demonstrates the confluence of an architectural Modernism divorced from its European leftist constituency and that most fleeting of American achievements, the postwar mass middle class. The situation sowed the seeds of its own ruin. In the short term, the increased acccess to air travel wrecked older tourist economies (like that of Atlantic City), contributing to the growing problems of urban economic stagnation while promising that in due time the glitzy jet-setting of princesses and Rockefellers would be available to everyone. In the long term, the capacity of American capital to extend its representatives and bureaucratic infrastructure across the globe would squeeze the well-paid American factory worker back out of the equation, though this process was not entirely complete by the time that cheap fuel and giant aircraft rendered the TWA Flight Center obsolete.
To present-day eyes, the building seems small, not only in the usual way of architectural masterpieces that just never seem to live up to their photographic billing. It's quaint, really - a departure terminal with food and drink areas prepared to seat a couple of dozen at most. Yes, the building was always only a foyer - aerials here make clear the relationship of the main building to the two actual departure gateways (one added by Roche-Dinkeloo in the late Sixties), both since demolished. But still: its justly-celebrated grace and adventure, its attempt to convert mystical-utopian Expressionism into the giddy coinage of Leisure Time, could only ever be for a relative few. The customer base of flying was made cheaper in part by lowering the quality of accomodations. The ubiquity of interchangable, banal, people-moving airport-space resulted; its manifestations now literally encircle the Saarinen building, which ceased operations in 2001. In later years, if commuter air travel unravels completely, we may look back on the desperate ordinariness of present-day air travel with the same nostalgia that's now directed towards the glamour and the glitz of Saarinen's time. These are both temporary phenomena made possible by particular intersections of money, resources and perceived need.
For all that, though, the Saarinen building is something special, in the same way that the palaces of kings can often lay claim to more architectural merit than the barracks of migrant farm-workers. It is not merely a testament to the economics of its own making, any more than Long Lines or the Moscow subway system. The conventional wisdom is right: this is a hum-dinger and a genuine original, a magnificent synthesis of prewar concrete Expressionism with a triumphant American confidence and literalism. The "bird in flight" here is a far cry from the magical abstractions of Taut or Steiner. TWA's real opposite number is Neviges: a reinvention of the same architectural language to the tune of dour theological agonies and the seeming inversion of Taut's crystalline dream-kingdoms. Just as a nonbeliever may roam Böhm's shadowy city-crown and be moved by the light, the footsteps and the heaviness of air, so may a leftie cynic still relish an aesthetic thrill in Saarinen's fantastic, mass-luxury mirage.
Images shot during a reception for Open House New York. Reflections prompted by recent weeks spent struggling with Theodore Adorno and Walt Disney, about which the less said here, the better.
Addendum: Yes, I'm back to posting photos. A month in, the Flickr redesign remains disastrous, and many aspects of the posting and browsing experience are outright hostile to my workflow. They've closed the relevant feedback threads after a total of some 40,000 largely negative comments; all we can really do is hope that behind the scenes, the staff are working to resolve the most egregiously awful features. I'm still not the least bit happy about how things look around here, but what can I do? My archive aside, the people worth talking to are all here...
mémoire2cité - Sols absorbants, formes arrondies et couleurs vives, les aires de jeux standardisées font désormais partie du paysage urbain. Toujours les mêmes toboggans sécurisés, châteaux forts en bois et animaux à ressort. Ces non-lieux qu’on finit par ne plus voir ont une histoire, parallèle à celle des différentes visions portées sur l’enfant et l’éducation. En retournant jouer au xixe siècle, sur les premiers playgrounds des États-Unis, on assiste à la construction d’une nation – et à des jeux de société qui changent notre vision sur les balançoires du capitalisme. Ce texte est paru dans le numéro 4 de la revue Jef Klak « Ch’val de Course », printemps-été 2017. La version ici publiée en ligne est une version légèrement remaniée à l’occasion de sa republication dans le magazine Palais no 27 1, paru en juin 2018. la video içi www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwj1wh5k5PY The concept for adventure playgrounds originated in postwar Europe, after a playground designer found that children had more fun with the trash and rubble left behind by bombings -inventing their own toys and playing with them- than on the conventional equipment of swings and slides. Narrator John Snagge was a well-known voice talent in the UK, working as a newsreader for BBC Radio - jefklak.org/le-gouvernement-des-playgrounds/ - www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/chasing-the-vanishing-p... or children, playgrounds are where magic happens. And if you count yourself among Baby Boomers or Gen Xers, you probably have fond memories of high steel jungle gyms and even higher metal slides that squeaked and groaned as you slid down them. The cheerful variety of animals and vehicles on springs gave you plenty of rides to choose from, while a spiral slide, often made of striped panels, was a repeated thrill. When you dismounted from a teeter-totter, you had to be careful not to send your partner crashing to the ground or get hit in the head by your own seat. The tougher, faster kids always pushed the brightly colored merry-go-round, trying to make riders as dizzy as possible. In the same way, you’d dare your sibling or best friend to push you even higher on the swing so your toes could touch the sky. The most exciting playgrounds would take the form of a pirate ship, a giant robot, or a space rocket.
“My husband would look at these big metal things and go, ‘Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!'” - insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
Today, these objects of happy summers past have nearly disappeared, replaced by newer equipment that’s lower to the ground and made of plastic, painted metal, and sometimes rot-resistant woods like cedar or redwood. The transformation began in 1973, when the U.S. Congress established the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which began tracking playground injuries at hospital emergency rooms. The study led to the publication of the first Handbook for Public Playground Safety in 1981, which signaled the beginning of the end for much of the playground equipment in use. (See the latest PPS handbook here.) Then, the American Society for Testing and Materials created a subcommittee of designers and playground-equipment manufacturers to set safety standards for the whole industry. When they published their guidelines in 1993, they suggested most existing playground surfaces, which were usually asphalt, dirt, or grass, needed to be replaced with pits of wood or rubber mulch or sand, prompting many schools and parks to rip their old playgrounds out entirely.
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
That said, removing and replacing playground equipment takes money, so a certain amount of vintage playground equipment survived into the next millennium—but it’s vanishing fast. Fortunately, Brenda Biondo, a freelance journalist turned photographer, felt inspired to document these playscapes before they’ve all been melted down. Her photographs capture the sculptural beauty and creativity of the vintage apparatuses, as well as that feeling of nostalgia you get when you see a piece of your childhood. After a decade of hunting down old playgrounds, Biondo published a coffee-table book, 2014’s Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playgrounds, 1920-1975, which includes both her photographs of vintage equipment and pages of old playground catalogs that sold it.
Starting this November, Biondo’s playground photos will hit the road as part of a four-year ExhibitsUSA traveling show, which will also include vintage playground postcards and catalog pages from Biondo’s collection. The show will make stops in smaller museums and history centers around the United States, passing through Temple, Texas; Lincoln, Nebraska; Kansas City, Missouri; and Greenville, South Carolina. Biondo talked to us on the phone from her home in small-town Colorado, where she lives with her husband and children.
This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, "This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast." (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, “This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast.” (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)Collectors Weekly: What inspired you to photograph playgrounds?Biondo: In 2004, I happened to be at my local park with my 1-year-old daughter, who was playing in the sandbox. I had just switched careers, from freelance journalism to photography, and I was looking for a starter project. I looked around the playground and thought, “Where is all the equipment that I remember growing up on?” They had new plastic contraptions, but nothing like the big metal slides I grew up with. After that, I started driving around to other playgrounds to see if any of this old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly. That got to me.I felt like somebody should be documenting this equipment, because it was such a big part—and a very good part—of so many people’s childhoods. I couldn’t find anybody else who was documenting it, and I didn’t see any evidence that the Smithsonian was collecting it. As far as I could tell, it was just getting ripped up and sent to the scrap heap. At first, I started traveling around Colorado where I live, visiting playgrounds. Eventually, I took longer trips around the Southwest, and then I started looking for playgrounds whenever I was in any other parts of the country, like around California and the East Coast. It was a long-term project—shot over the course of a decade. And every year that I was shooting, it got harder and harder to find those pieces of old equipment.
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did you find them?
Biondo: I would just drive around. I started hunting down local elementary schools and main-street playgrounds as well as neighborhood playgrounds. If I had a weekend, I would say, “OK, I’m going to drive from my home three hours east to the Kansas border, stay overnight and drive back.” Along the way, I would stop at every little town that I’d pass. They usually had one tiny main-street playground and one elementary school. I never knew what I was going to find. In a poorer area, a town often doesn’t have much money to replace playground equipment, whereas more affluent areas usually have updated their playgrounds by now. It was a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes, I’d drive for hours and not really find anything—or I’d find one old playground after the other, because I happened to be in an area where equipment hadn’t been replaced.
I couldn’t get to every state, so I had to shoot where I was. I think there certainly are still old playgrounds out there, especially in small towns. But there’s fewer and fewer of them every year. My book has something like 170 photographs. I would guess that half the equipment pictured is already gone. Sometimes, I’d go back to a playground with a nice piece of equipment a year later to reshoot it, maybe in different lighting or a different season, and so often it had been removed. That pressured me to get out as often as I could because if I waited a few weeks, that piece might not be there anymore.
A 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
a 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
Collectors Weekly: What did you learn about playground history?
Biondo: I didn’t know American playgrounds started as part of the social reform or progressive movement of the early 1900s. Reformers hoped to keep poor inner-city immigrant kids safe and out of trouble. Back then, city children were playing in the streets with nothing to do, and when cars became more popular, kids started to get hit by motorists. Child activists started building playgrounds in big cities like Boston, Chicago, and New York as a way to help and protect these kids. These reformers felt they could build model citizens by teaching cooperation and manners through playgrounds. These early main-street parks would also have playground leaders who orchestrated activities such as games and songs.
“I started driving to playgrounds to see if any old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly.”
In the late 1800s, Germans developed what they called “sand gardens,” which are just piles of sand where kids can come dig and build things. There were few of those in the United States as well. But by the early 1900s, the emphasis of playgrounds was on the apparatuses, things kids could climb on or swing on.
Soon after I started researching playground history, I happened to stumble on an eBay auction for a 1926 catalog that the playground manufacturers used to send to schools. At that point, I wasn’t thinking of doing a book, but I thought I could do something with it. I won the catalog; I paid, like, $12 for it. And it was so interesting because I could see this vintage equipment when it was brand new and considered modern and advanced. The manufacturers boasted about how safe it was and how it was good for building both muscles and imaginations.
After that, I would always search on eBay for playground catalogs, and I ended up with about three dozen catalogs from different manufacturers. My oldest is 1916, and my newest is from 1975. So I would take a photograph of some type of merry-go-round, and then I might find that same merry-go-round in a 1930 catalog. Often in the book, I pair my picture with the page from the catalog showing when it was first manufactured. I discovered a couple dozen manufacturers, which tended to be located in the bigger industrial areas with steel manufacturing, like Trenton, New Jersey, and Kokomo and Litchfield, Indiana. Pueblo, Colorado, even had a playground manufacturer. Burke and GameTime were big 20th century companies, and actually are among few still in existence.
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: I recently came across an old metal slide whose steps had the name of the manufacturer, American, forged in openwork letters.
Biondo: I love those. One of the last pages in the book shows treads from six different slides, and they each had the name of their manufacturer in them, including Porter, American, and Burke. One time when I was traveling, I did a quick side trip to a small town with an elementary school. In the parking lot was this old metal slide with the American step treads, lying on its side. You could tell it had just been ripped off out of the concrete, which was still attached to the bottom, and was waiting for the steel recyclers to come and take it away.
I thought, “Oh my gosh, just put it on eBay! Somebody is going to want that. Don’t melt it down.” But nobody thinks about this stuff getting thrown away when it should be preserved. If you go on eBay, you can find a lot of those small animals on springs that little kids ride, because they’re small enough to be shipped. Once I saw someone selling one of those huge rocket ships, which had been dismantled, on eBay, but I don’t know if anybody ever bid on it. It’s rare to see the big stuff, because it is so expensive to ship. It’s like, “What kind of truck do you need to haul this thing away?” I don’t know of anyone who’s collecting those pieces, but I hope somebody is.
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name "American" in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name “American” in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: It seems like an opportunity for both starting a collection or repurposing the material.
Biondo: I photographed many of the apparatuses as if they were sculptures because they have really cool designs and colors. Even when they’re worn down, the exposed layers of paint can be beautiful. Hardly anybody stops to look at it that way. People drive by and think, “Oh, there’s an old, rusty, rundown playground.” But if you take the time to look closely at this stuff, it’s really interesting. Just by looking at these pieces, you can picture all the kids who played on them.
Collectors Weekly: Aren’t people nostalgic for their childhood playgrounds?
Biondo: While I was taking the pictures, I visited Boulder, Colorado, which is a very affluent community. I was sure there would be no old playground equipment there. When I was driving around, all of a sudden, I looked over and saw this huge rocket ship. It turns out that one of the original NASA astronauts, Scott Carpenter, grew up in Boulder, and this playground was built in the ’60s to honor their hometown boy. Because of that, the citizens of Boulder never wanted to take down the rocket ship. One of the first exhibitions of this photography project happened in Boulder, and at the opening, I sold four prints of that rocket ship. People would come up to me at the exhibition, and they’d go, “Oh my gosh, I grew up playing on this when I was a little kid! Now, my kids are playing on it, and I’m so excited that I can get a picture of it and hang it in their bedroom.” So people have a strong nostalgic attachment to this equipment. It’s sad that most of it’s not going to be around for much longer.
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship play set seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship playset seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Besides slides and animals on springs, what were some other pieces that were common in older playgrounds?
Biondo: I didn’t come across as many old swings as I expected. I thought they would be all over the place, but I guess they’re gone now because they were so easy to replace. I tended to find merry-go-rounds more frequently—you know, the one where you’d run around pushing them and then jump on. When my kids were younger, they’d go out playground hunting with me, and the merry-go-rounds were their favorite things. They’re just so fun. The other thing you don’t find often is the seesaw or teeter-totter, and that was my favorite.The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado's R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado’s R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Before I started this project, I didn’t know there was such a variety of equipment. I figured I’d see seesaws, swings, slides, and merry-go-rounds. But I had no idea there were such things as revolving swings, which would be attached to a spinning pole via outstretched metal arms. Many mid-century pieces had themes from pop culture like “The Wizard of Oz,” “Cinderella,” “Denis the Menace,” cowboys and Indians, and Saturday-morning cartoons. During the Space Age, you started to see pieces of equipment shaped like rocket ships and satellites, because in the ’60s, Americans were so excited about space exploration. What was going on in the broader culture often got reflected in playground equipment.
Pursuing the catalogs was eye-opening. I live about an hour and a half south of Denver, so I often looked for playgrounds around the city. There, I’d find these contraptions where were shaped like umbrella skeletons, but then they had these rings hanging off the spindles. I’ve never seen them outside of Colorado. Then I bought a 1930s catalog from the manufacturer in Pueblo, Colorado, which is only 45 minutes from me, and it featured this apparatus. Later, I met people in Denver who’d say, “Oh, yeah, I remember that thing as a kid. It’s kind of like monkey bars where you had to try and get from ring to ring swinging and hanging by your arms.” There was so much variety, and even so many variations on the basics.I have a cool catalog from 1926 from the manufacturer Mitchell, which doesn’t exist anymore. I looked at one of the contraptions they advertised and I was like, “Oh my God, this looks like a torture device!” It was their own proprietary apparatus and maybe it didn’t prove to be very popular. I had never seen something like that on a playground. There probably weren’t very many of them installed.
This strange Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Brenda Biondo says she's never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
This Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Biondo’s never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: After a while, were you able to date pieces just by looking at them?
Biondo: From looking at the catalogs, I certainly got a better idea of when things were built. But there were a handful things I couldn’t find in the catalogs. You can guess the age by knowing the design, as well as by looking at the amount of wear and the height of the piece. Usually, the taller it was, the older it was. One of the oldest slides I photographed was probably from the ’30s. I climbed to the top to shoot it as if the viewer were going to go down the slide. Up there, the place where you’d sit before sliding had been used for so many years by so many kids that I could see an outline of all the butts worn into the metal. You can imagine all the children who must have gone down that slide to wear the metal down like that.
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did Modernism influence playground design?
Biondo: In 1953, the Museum of Modern Art in New York held a competition for playground design. Modern Art was just getting popular, and the idea of incorporating the theories of Modernist design into utilitarian objects was in the air, and was translated into playgrounds for several years. I have a 1967 catalog that features very abstract playground equipment made from sinuous blobs of poured concrete. And you’ve probably seen some of it, but there’s not too much of that around. That’s another example of how broader cultural trends were reflected in playgrounds.
When most people think of playgrounds, they say, “Oh, that’s a kiddie subject. There’s not much to it.” But when you start looking into them, you realize playgrounds are a fascinating piece of American culture—they go back a hundred years and played a part in most Americans’ lives. These playground pieces are icons of our childhood.
Collectors Weekly:What was the impact of the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which launched in 1973?
Biondo: Things started to change after that, which is why I limited to book to apparatuses made before 1975. New playgrounds were starting to be build out of plastic and fiberglass. I looked up the statistics, and according to the little research I’ve done—contrary to what you’d expect—there’s not much difference in the number of injuries on older equipment versus injuries on equipment today. A “New York Times” article from 2011 called “Can a Playground Be Too Safe?” explains that studies show when playground equipment was really high and just had asphalt underneath it and not seven layers of mulch, thekids knew they had to be careful because they didn’t want to fall. Nowadays, when everything is lower and there’s so much mulch, kids are just used to jumping down and falling and catching themselves. So kids learned to assess risk by playing on the older equipment. They also learned to challenge themselves because it is a little scary to go up to the top of the thing.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
At my local park where you have new equipment, the monkey bars aren’t that high and there’s mulch below it, but a child fell and broke their arm last year. When I was talking to the principal at the school where they had just torn out that old American slide, I asked her, “Why did you replace the equipment?” She said, “We felt the parents in the community were expecting to have a little bit newer and nicer equipment. And this stuff had been here for so long.” And I said, “Have you seen a difference in injury rates since you put up your newer equipment?” She replied, “I’ve been a principal here several years, and we never had a serious broken-bone injury on the playground until four months ago on the new equipment.”
There were some nasty accidents in the ‘60s and ’70s, where kids got their arms or their heads caught in the contraptions. Those issues definitely needed to be assessed. What’s interesting is the Consumer Product Safety Commission never issued requirements, just suggested guidelines. But manufacturers felt that if their equipment didn’t meet those guidelines, they’d be vulnerable to liability. Everybody went to the extreme, making everything super safe so they wouldn’t risk getting sued.A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
In the last decade, people have been looking at playground-equipment design and trying to make it more challenging and more encouraging of imaginative play, but without making it more likely someone’s going to get injured. And adults, I think, are realizing kids are spending more time indoors on devices so they want to do everything they can to encourage kids to still get outside, run around, and climb on things.
Collectors Weekly: You don’t need a playground to hurt yourself. When I was a kid, I fell off a farm post and broke my arm.Biondo: Oh, yeah, kids have been falling out trees forever—they always want to climb stuff. Playground politics are always evolving. Even in the 1920s, the catalogs talked about how safe their equipment was, and they were selling these 30-foot slides. Sometimes, I’d be out with my family on a vacation, and we’d make a little side tour to look for an old playground to shoot. My husband would look at these big metal things and go, “Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!” because they were so huge and rickety. But back then, these were very safe pieces of equipment compared to what kids had been playing on before.
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Growing up in the 1980s, I always hated the new fiberglass slides because I’d end up with all these tiny glass shards in my butt.
Biondo: Yeah, I remember that, too. It’s always something. It is fun to talk to people about playgrounds because it reminds them of all the fun stuff they did as kids. When people see pictures of these metal slides, they tell me, “Oh my gosh, I remember getting such a bad burn from a metal slide one summer!” The metal would get so hot in the sun, and kids would take pieces of wax paper with them to sit on so they’d go flying down the slide. I have some old postcards that show playgrounds from the early ’20s. The wood seesaws not only were huge, but they had no handles so you had hold on to the sides of the board where you sat. I’m looking at that like, “Oh my God!” It’s all relative.
playground_postcard_milwaukee
Kids ride the rocking-boat seesaw at a Milwaukee, Wisconsin, park in this postcard postmarked 1910.
(To see more of Brenda Biondo’s playground photos and vintage catalog pages, pick up a copy of her book, “Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playground, 1920-1975.” To find an exhibition of Biondo’s playground project, or to bring it to your town, visit the ExhibitsUSA page. To learn more about creative mid-century playgrounds around the globe, also pick up, “The Playground Project” by Xavier Salle and Vincent Romagny.) insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
Standard Motor Company resumed civilian car production with the small 8 model, which was essentially a warmed-up prewar design, but from 1947 launched the eye-catching Vanguard, with distinctly American styling cues. Standard engineers were have said to got their inspiration while on fire-watch duties at the Coventry plant.
mémoire2cité - Sols absorbants, formes arrondies et couleurs vives, les aires de jeux standardisées font désormais partie du paysage urbain. Toujours les mêmes toboggans sécurisés, châteaux forts en bois et animaux à ressort. Ces non-lieux qu’on finit par ne plus voir ont une histoire, parallèle à celle des différentes visions portées sur l’enfant et l’éducation. En retournant jouer au xixe siècle, sur les premiers playgrounds des États-Unis, on assiste à la construction d’une nation – et à des jeux de société qui changent notre vision sur les balançoires du capitalisme. Ce texte est paru dans le numéro 4 de la revue Jef Klak « Ch’val de Course », printemps-été 2017. La version ici publiée en ligne est une version légèrement remaniée à l’occasion de sa republication dans le magazine Palais no 27 1, paru en juin 2018. la video içi www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uwj1wh5k5PY The concept for adventure playgrounds originated in postwar Europe, after a playground designer found that children had more fun with the trash and rubble left behind by bombings -inventing their own toys and playing with them- than on the conventional equipment of swings and slides. Narrator John Snagge was a well-known voice talent in the UK, working as a newsreader for BBC Radio - jefklak.org/le-gouvernement-des-playgrounds/ - www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/chasing-the-vanishing-p... or children, playgrounds are where magic happens. And if you count yourself among Baby Boomers or Gen Xers, you probably have fond memories of high steel jungle gyms and even higher metal slides that squeaked and groaned as you slid down them. The cheerful variety of animals and vehicles on springs gave you plenty of rides to choose from, while a spiral slide, often made of striped panels, was a repeated thrill. When you dismounted from a teeter-totter, you had to be careful not to send your partner crashing to the ground or get hit in the head by your own seat. The tougher, faster kids always pushed the brightly colored merry-go-round, trying to make riders as dizzy as possible. In the same way, you’d dare your sibling or best friend to push you even higher on the swing so your toes could touch the sky. The most exciting playgrounds would take the form of a pirate ship, a giant robot, or a space rocket.
“My husband would look at these big metal things and go, ‘Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!'” - insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
Today, these objects of happy summers past have nearly disappeared, replaced by newer equipment that’s lower to the ground and made of plastic, painted metal, and sometimes rot-resistant woods like cedar or redwood. The transformation began in 1973, when the U.S. Congress established the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which began tracking playground injuries at hospital emergency rooms. The study led to the publication of the first Handbook for Public Playground Safety in 1981, which signaled the beginning of the end for much of the playground equipment in use. (See the latest PPS handbook here.) Then, the American Society for Testing and Materials created a subcommittee of designers and playground-equipment manufacturers to set safety standards for the whole industry. When they published their guidelines in 1993, they suggested most existing playground surfaces, which were usually asphalt, dirt, or grass, needed to be replaced with pits of wood or rubber mulch or sand, prompting many schools and parks to rip their old playgrounds out entirely.
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
Top: A Space Age rocket-themed playground set by Miracle Playground Equipment, introduced circa 1968, photographed in Burlington, Colorado, in 2009. Above: Two seesaws and a snail-shaped climber, circa 1970s, photographed in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, in 2007. (Photos by Brenda Biondo)
That said, removing and replacing playground equipment takes money, so a certain amount of vintage playground equipment survived into the next millennium—but it’s vanishing fast. Fortunately, Brenda Biondo, a freelance journalist turned photographer, felt inspired to document these playscapes before they’ve all been melted down. Her photographs capture the sculptural beauty and creativity of the vintage apparatuses, as well as that feeling of nostalgia you get when you see a piece of your childhood. After a decade of hunting down old playgrounds, Biondo published a coffee-table book, 2014’s Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playgrounds, 1920-1975, which includes both her photographs of vintage equipment and pages of old playground catalogs that sold it.
Starting this November, Biondo’s playground photos will hit the road as part of a four-year ExhibitsUSA traveling show, which will also include vintage playground postcards and catalog pages from Biondo’s collection. The show will make stops in smaller museums and history centers around the United States, passing through Temple, Texas; Lincoln, Nebraska; Kansas City, Missouri; and Greenville, South Carolina. Biondo talked to us on the phone from her home in small-town Colorado, where she lives with her husband and children.
This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, "This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast." (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)This 1975 Miracle catalog page reads, “This famous Lifetime Whirl has delighted three generations of children and still is a safe, playground favorite. Although it has gone through many improvements many of the original models are still spinning on playgrounds from coast to coast.” (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)Collectors Weekly: What inspired you to photograph playgrounds?Biondo: In 2004, I happened to be at my local park with my 1-year-old daughter, who was playing in the sandbox. I had just switched careers, from freelance journalism to photography, and I was looking for a starter project. I looked around the playground and thought, “Where is all the equipment that I remember growing up on?” They had new plastic contraptions, but nothing like the big metal slides I grew up with. After that, I started driving around to other playgrounds to see if any of this old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly. That got to me.I felt like somebody should be documenting this equipment, because it was such a big part—and a very good part—of so many people’s childhoods. I couldn’t find anybody else who was documenting it, and I didn’t see any evidence that the Smithsonian was collecting it. As far as I could tell, it was just getting ripped up and sent to the scrap heap. At first, I started traveling around Colorado where I live, visiting playgrounds. Eventually, I took longer trips around the Southwest, and then I started looking for playgrounds whenever I was in any other parts of the country, like around California and the East Coast. It was a long-term project—shot over the course of a decade. And every year that I was shooting, it got harder and harder to find those pieces of old equipment.
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This merry-go-round, photographed in Cañon City, Colorado, in 2006, is very similar to the Lifetime Whirl above. In the background are a rideable jalopy and animals, including four attached to a teeter-totter. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did you find them?
Biondo: I would just drive around. I started hunting down local elementary schools and main-street playgrounds as well as neighborhood playgrounds. If I had a weekend, I would say, “OK, I’m going to drive from my home three hours east to the Kansas border, stay overnight and drive back.” Along the way, I would stop at every little town that I’d pass. They usually had one tiny main-street playground and one elementary school. I never knew what I was going to find. In a poorer area, a town often doesn’t have much money to replace playground equipment, whereas more affluent areas usually have updated their playgrounds by now. It was a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes, I’d drive for hours and not really find anything—or I’d find one old playground after the other, because I happened to be in an area where equipment hadn’t been replaced.
I couldn’t get to every state, so I had to shoot where I was. I think there certainly are still old playgrounds out there, especially in small towns. But there’s fewer and fewer of them every year. My book has something like 170 photographs. I would guess that half the equipment pictured is already gone. Sometimes, I’d go back to a playground with a nice piece of equipment a year later to reshoot it, maybe in different lighting or a different season, and so often it had been removed. That pressured me to get out as often as I could because if I waited a few weeks, that piece might not be there anymore.
A 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
a 1911 postcard shows girls playing on an outdoor gymnasium at Mayo Park in Rochester, Minnesota.
Collectors Weekly: What did you learn about playground history?
Biondo: I didn’t know American playgrounds started as part of the social reform or progressive movement of the early 1900s. Reformers hoped to keep poor inner-city immigrant kids safe and out of trouble. Back then, city children were playing in the streets with nothing to do, and when cars became more popular, kids started to get hit by motorists. Child activists started building playgrounds in big cities like Boston, Chicago, and New York as a way to help and protect these kids. These reformers felt they could build model citizens by teaching cooperation and manners through playgrounds. These early main-street parks would also have playground leaders who orchestrated activities such as games and songs.
“I started driving to playgrounds to see if any old equipment still existed. I found very little of it and realized it was disappearing quickly.”
In the late 1800s, Germans developed what they called “sand gardens,” which are just piles of sand where kids can come dig and build things. There were few of those in the United States as well. But by the early 1900s, the emphasis of playgrounds was on the apparatuses, things kids could climb on or swing on.
Soon after I started researching playground history, I happened to stumble on an eBay auction for a 1926 catalog that the playground manufacturers used to send to schools. At that point, I wasn’t thinking of doing a book, but I thought I could do something with it. I won the catalog; I paid, like, $12 for it. And it was so interesting because I could see this vintage equipment when it was brand new and considered modern and advanced. The manufacturers boasted about how safe it was and how it was good for building both muscles and imaginations.
After that, I would always search on eBay for playground catalogs, and I ended up with about three dozen catalogs from different manufacturers. My oldest is 1916, and my newest is from 1975. So I would take a photograph of some type of merry-go-round, and then I might find that same merry-go-round in a 1930 catalog. Often in the book, I pair my picture with the page from the catalog showing when it was first manufactured. I discovered a couple dozen manufacturers, which tended to be located in the bigger industrial areas with steel manufacturing, like Trenton, New Jersey, and Kokomo and Litchfield, Indiana. Pueblo, Colorado, even had a playground manufacturer. Burke and GameTime were big 20th century companies, and actually are among few still in existence.
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
The cover of a 1926 catalog for EverWear Manufacturing Company. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: I recently came across an old metal slide whose steps had the name of the manufacturer, American, forged in openwork letters.
Biondo: I love those. One of the last pages in the book shows treads from six different slides, and they each had the name of their manufacturer in them, including Porter, American, and Burke. One time when I was traveling, I did a quick side trip to a small town with an elementary school. In the parking lot was this old metal slide with the American step treads, lying on its side. You could tell it had just been ripped off out of the concrete, which was still attached to the bottom, and was waiting for the steel recyclers to come and take it away.
I thought, “Oh my gosh, just put it on eBay! Somebody is going to want that. Don’t melt it down.” But nobody thinks about this stuff getting thrown away when it should be preserved. If you go on eBay, you can find a lot of those small animals on springs that little kids ride, because they’re small enough to be shipped. Once I saw someone selling one of those huge rocket ships, which had been dismantled, on eBay, but I don’t know if anybody ever bid on it. It’s rare to see the big stuff, because it is so expensive to ship. It’s like, “What kind of truck do you need to haul this thing away?” I don’t know of anyone who’s collecting those pieces, but I hope somebody is.
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name "American" in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A metal slide in Victor, Colorado, had step treads with the name “American” in them. Photographed in 2008. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: It seems like an opportunity for both starting a collection or repurposing the material.
Biondo: I photographed many of the apparatuses as if they were sculptures because they have really cool designs and colors. Even when they’re worn down, the exposed layers of paint can be beautiful. Hardly anybody stops to look at it that way. People drive by and think, “Oh, there’s an old, rusty, rundown playground.” But if you take the time to look closely at this stuff, it’s really interesting. Just by looking at these pieces, you can picture all the kids who played on them.
Collectors Weekly: Aren’t people nostalgic for their childhood playgrounds?
Biondo: While I was taking the pictures, I visited Boulder, Colorado, which is a very affluent community. I was sure there would be no old playground equipment there. When I was driving around, all of a sudden, I looked over and saw this huge rocket ship. It turns out that one of the original NASA astronauts, Scott Carpenter, grew up in Boulder, and this playground was built in the ’60s to honor their hometown boy. Because of that, the citizens of Boulder never wanted to take down the rocket ship. One of the first exhibitions of this photography project happened in Boulder, and at the opening, I sold four prints of that rocket ship. People would come up to me at the exhibition, and they’d go, “Oh my gosh, I grew up playing on this when I was a little kid! Now, my kids are playing on it, and I’m so excited that I can get a picture of it and hang it in their bedroom.” So people have a strong nostalgic attachment to this equipment. It’s sad that most of it’s not going to be around for much longer.
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship play set seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A 1968 Miracle Playground Equipment catalog features the huge rocket-ship playset seen at the top of this story. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Besides slides and animals on springs, what were some other pieces that were common in older playgrounds?
Biondo: I didn’t come across as many old swings as I expected. I thought they would be all over the place, but I guess they’re gone now because they were so easy to replace. I tended to find merry-go-rounds more frequently—you know, the one where you’d run around pushing them and then jump on. When my kids were younger, they’d go out playground hunting with me, and the merry-go-rounds were their favorite things. They’re just so fun. The other thing you don’t find often is the seesaw or teeter-totter, and that was my favorite.The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado's R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
The Karymor Stationary Jingle Ring Outfit appeared in the 1931 playground catalog put out by Pueblo, Colorado’s R.F. Lamar and Co. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Before I started this project, I didn’t know there was such a variety of equipment. I figured I’d see seesaws, swings, slides, and merry-go-rounds. But I had no idea there were such things as revolving swings, which would be attached to a spinning pole via outstretched metal arms. Many mid-century pieces had themes from pop culture like “The Wizard of Oz,” “Cinderella,” “Denis the Menace,” cowboys and Indians, and Saturday-morning cartoons. During the Space Age, you started to see pieces of equipment shaped like rocket ships and satellites, because in the ’60s, Americans were so excited about space exploration. What was going on in the broader culture often got reflected in playground equipment.
Pursuing the catalogs was eye-opening. I live about an hour and a half south of Denver, so I often looked for playgrounds around the city. There, I’d find these contraptions where were shaped like umbrella skeletons, but then they had these rings hanging off the spindles. I’ve never seen them outside of Colorado. Then I bought a 1930s catalog from the manufacturer in Pueblo, Colorado, which is only 45 minutes from me, and it featured this apparatus. Later, I met people in Denver who’d say, “Oh, yeah, I remember that thing as a kid. It’s kind of like monkey bars where you had to try and get from ring to ring swinging and hanging by your arms.” There was so much variety, and even so many variations on the basics.I have a cool catalog from 1926 from the manufacturer Mitchell, which doesn’t exist anymore. I looked at one of the contraptions they advertised and I was like, “Oh my God, this looks like a torture device!” It was their own proprietary apparatus and maybe it didn’t prove to be very popular. I had never seen something like that on a playground. There probably weren’t very many of them installed.
This strange Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Brenda Biondo says she's never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
This Climbing Swing from the 1926 Mitchell Manufacturing Company catalog looks a bit like a torture device. Biondo’s never found one in the wild. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: After a while, were you able to date pieces just by looking at them?
Biondo: From looking at the catalogs, I certainly got a better idea of when things were built. But there were a handful things I couldn’t find in the catalogs. You can guess the age by knowing the design, as well as by looking at the amount of wear and the height of the piece. Usually, the taller it was, the older it was. One of the oldest slides I photographed was probably from the ’30s. I climbed to the top to shoot it as if the viewer were going to go down the slide. Up there, the place where you’d sit before sliding had been used for so many years by so many kids that I could see an outline of all the butts worn into the metal. You can imagine all the children who must have gone down that slide to wear the metal down like that.
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
This 1930s-era slide, found in Sargents, Colorado, in 2007, developed a butt-shaped imprint. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: How did Modernism influence playground design?
Biondo: In 1953, the Museum of Modern Art in New York held a competition for playground design. Modern Art was just getting popular, and the idea of incorporating the theories of Modernist design into utilitarian objects was in the air, and was translated into playgrounds for several years. I have a 1967 catalog that features very abstract playground equipment made from sinuous blobs of poured concrete. And you’ve probably seen some of it, but there’s not too much of that around. That’s another example of how broader cultural trends were reflected in playgrounds.
When most people think of playgrounds, they say, “Oh, that’s a kiddie subject. There’s not much to it.” But when you start looking into them, you realize playgrounds are a fascinating piece of American culture—they go back a hundred years and played a part in most Americans’ lives. These playground pieces are icons of our childhood.
Collectors Weekly:What was the impact of the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which launched in 1973?
Biondo: Things started to change after that, which is why I limited to book to apparatuses made before 1975. New playgrounds were starting to be build out of plastic and fiberglass. I looked up the statistics, and according to the little research I’ve done—contrary to what you’d expect—there’s not much difference in the number of injuries on older equipment versus injuries on equipment today. A “New York Times” article from 2011 called “Can a Playground Be Too Safe?” explains that studies show when playground equipment was really high and just had asphalt underneath it and not seven layers of mulch, thekids knew they had to be careful because they didn’t want to fall. Nowadays, when everything is lower and there’s so much mulch, kids are just used to jumping down and falling and catching themselves. So kids learned to assess risk by playing on the older equipment. They also learned to challenge themselves because it is a little scary to go up to the top of the thing.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
This old postcard of Shawnee Park in Kansas City, Kansas, circa 1912, shows how tall slides could get.
At my local park where you have new equipment, the monkey bars aren’t that high and there’s mulch below it, but a child fell and broke their arm last year. When I was talking to the principal at the school where they had just torn out that old American slide, I asked her, “Why did you replace the equipment?” She said, “We felt the parents in the community were expecting to have a little bit newer and nicer equipment. And this stuff had been here for so long.” And I said, “Have you seen a difference in injury rates since you put up your newer equipment?” She replied, “I’ve been a principal here several years, and we never had a serious broken-bone injury on the playground until four months ago on the new equipment.”
There were some nasty accidents in the ‘60s and ’70s, where kids got their arms or their heads caught in the contraptions. Those issues definitely needed to be assessed. What’s interesting is the Consumer Product Safety Commission never issued requirements, just suggested guidelines. But manufacturers felt that if their equipment didn’t meet those guidelines, they’d be vulnerable to liability. Everybody went to the extreme, making everything super safe so they wouldn’t risk getting sued.A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
A 1970s-era climbing-bar apparatus, photographed in Rocky Ford, Colorado, in 2006. (Photo by Brenda Biondo)
In the last decade, people have been looking at playground-equipment design and trying to make it more challenging and more encouraging of imaginative play, but without making it more likely someone’s going to get injured. And adults, I think, are realizing kids are spending more time indoors on devices so they want to do everything they can to encourage kids to still get outside, run around, and climb on things.
Collectors Weekly: You don’t need a playground to hurt yourself. When I was a kid, I fell off a farm post and broke my arm.Biondo: Oh, yeah, kids have been falling out trees forever—they always want to climb stuff. Playground politics are always evolving. Even in the 1920s, the catalogs talked about how safe their equipment was, and they were selling these 30-foot slides. Sometimes, I’d be out with my family on a vacation, and we’d make a little side tour to look for an old playground to shoot. My husband would look at these big metal things and go, “Oh my God, those are the Slides of Death!” because they were so huge and rickety. But back then, these were very safe pieces of equipment compared to what kids had been playing on before.
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
A page from the 1971 GameTime catalog offering rideable Saddle Mates. (Courtesy of Brenda Biondo)
Collectors Weekly: Growing up in the 1980s, I always hated the new fiberglass slides because I’d end up with all these tiny glass shards in my butt.
Biondo: Yeah, I remember that, too. It’s always something. It is fun to talk to people about playgrounds because it reminds them of all the fun stuff they did as kids. When people see pictures of these metal slides, they tell me, “Oh my gosh, I remember getting such a bad burn from a metal slide one summer!” The metal would get so hot in the sun, and kids would take pieces of wax paper with them to sit on so they’d go flying down the slide. I have some old postcards that show playgrounds from the early ’20s. The wood seesaws not only were huge, but they had no handles so you had hold on to the sides of the board where you sat. I’m looking at that like, “Oh my God!” It’s all relative.
playground_postcard_milwaukee
Kids ride the rocking-boat seesaw at a Milwaukee, Wisconsin, park in this postcard postmarked 1910.
(To see more of Brenda Biondo’s playground photos and vintage catalog pages, pick up a copy of her book, “Once Upon a Playground: A Celebration of Classic American Playground, 1920-1975.” To find an exhibition of Biondo’s playground project, or to bring it to your town, visit the ExhibitsUSA page. To learn more about creative mid-century playgrounds around the globe, also pick up, “The Playground Project” by Xavier Salle and Vincent Romagny.) insh.world/history/playground-equipment-of-yesterday-that...
Last vehicle from my first Brighton Run on 5/5/68 is RT44 which in those days was preserved in postwar livery - the condition in which I saw them used as Learners in the 1950's. She is followed by RT 191 - here at Bolney.
This was Bury Corporation's first bus to be delivered after the end of the second world war, in the Corporation's then-new green and cream livery. The six years of war took a heavy toll on heavily used buses due to petrol rationing and war work in the factories. with little maintenance due to staff shortages of men who had gone to the forces and shortages of spares. Moreover the flow of new buses slowed to a trickle as factories concentrated on war transport.
So the sight of new buses at the end of the war was a welcome sight for weary travellers and staff alike, and Bury took its new acquisition to the junction of Rochdale Road and Wash Lane for a photo.
In fact 102 has a place of history not just as Bury's first postwar bus, but the first postwar Leyland 'PD1' model to be delivered. Leyland had been planning for its postwar designs since the mid-war years and number 102 was the very first postwar Leyland bus to be seen on the streets.
For the enthusiast, you can tell this is a very early postwar Leyland because the first few had a concealed radiator cap, under a flap in the chrome cowling: but this was impractical and the more traditional cap at the top soon returned.
Today. there are two Bury Corporation buses preserved in the Museum of Transport Greater Manchester: number 177 of 1952, and number 116 of 1963.
If you'd like to know more about the Museum of Transport Greater Manchester and its collection of vintage buses, go to www.gmts.co.uk.
4,0 Litre
6 In-line
150 hp
Class III : Post War "1945-1965"
Zoute Concours d'Elegance
Royal Zoute Golf Club
Zoute Grand Prix 2022
Knokke - Zoute
België - Belgium
October 2022
“Sunsets on the Overhead” (Liverpool)
From and oil painting by Eric Bottomley G R A.
Eric Bottomley Prints.
Post card: - British Postwar Trams, No. 3 of 8.
West window by Hugh Easton 1955, representing Christ in Glory seated upon the globe and surrounded by significant figures from ecclesiastical history. Perhap's Easton's finest work, the overall effect is very much a mid 20th century version of a Last Judgement, which aptly is reflected by the recently uncovered medieval interpretation of the subject in the mural painted at the opposite end of the nave.
Holy Trinity would have been the star attraction in any other town or city, it is a majestic cruciform 15th century Perpendicular church with a tapering central tower and spire, the second of Coventry's famous 'Three Spires'. However it has always been overshadowed by larger neighbours, having been encircled by no less than three separate cathedrals through it's history, a unique distinction! Holy Trinity was founded by the monks of the adjoining priory to act as a parish church for it's lay tenants, thus it is ironic that it has long outlived the parent building.
The earliest part is the north porch, which dates from the 13th century, but the majority of the building dates from a more ambitious phase in 15th century Perpendicular style. The 15th century rebuilding has given us the present cruciform arrangement with small transepts and extra chapels on the north side giving an overall roughly rectangular footprint. These chapels were some of many in the church that served the city's separate guilds in medieval times.
The church has gone through much restoration, most notably the rebuilding of it's spire after it was blown down in a storm in 1665. The east end of the chancel was extended in 1786 (in sympathetic style) and much of the exterior was refaced in the early 19th century in then fashionable Bath stone (which clashes with the original red sandstone).
The church luckily escaped major damage during the Coventry Blitz in 1940, largely thanks to the vigilance of Canon Clitheroe and his team of firewatchers who spent a perilous night on the roof tackling incendaries. The main loss was the Victorian stained glass in the east and west windows, which were replaced with much more fetching glass in the postwar restoration.
The most recent restoration involved the uncovering of the 15th century Doom painting over the chancel arch in 2004. Hidden under blackened varnish since it's rediscovery in the early Victorian period, it has now been revealed to be one of the most complete and important medieval Last Judgement murals in the country. There is further painting contemporary with this on the exquisite nave ceiling, painted a beautiful dusty blue with large kneeling angels flanking passion shields on every rafter.
There are only a handful of monuments and most of the furnishings date from G.G.Scott's 1850s restoration (as does the magnificent vaulted ceiling high above the crossing) but there are some notable medieval survivals in the rare stone pulpit and the brass eagle lectern, both 15th century, along with a fine set of misericords originating from the former Whitefriars monastery church. Just a few fragments of medieval glass survive in the north west chapel.
The church is happily normally open and welcoming to visitors every day.
For more detail on this church see it's entry on the Warwickshire Churches website below:-
warwickshirechurches.weebly.com/coventry---holy-trinity.html
The offside view of the paint scheme applied to earlier Crossley streamliners from fleet nos. 551 to 659 (given that 565-600 were built as Standards to expedite faster delivery). This postwar view in Piccadilly shows it in original 1937 condition, with the exception of the wartime grey roof.
This style of 7V is the postwar model introduced in 1947 and updated from the original 7V of 1937. It could be fitted with a four-cylinder side valve engine but more usually the 30 hp V8 of 3,622cc the same powerful petrol engine as used in the Ford V8 Pilot saloon car.
This particular lorry fitted with a tipping tanker body for carrying liquid concrete is one of half a dozen employed on building sites and most likely not even road registered. Seen on the construction of a vast oil storage depot on the outskirts of London the cheap to buy little Fordsons would at the end of the contract probably have their bodies removed and the chassis sold off.
In the background a long coal train, once a common sight on Britain’s railways before the destruction of the coal indusrty by the Iron Lady, trundles by hauled by a Standard 2.10.0.
This painting in oils on a 20”x30” canvas originally made for a transport calendar hangs in the offices of Kelsey Publishing of Cudham in Kent.
Please remember this image is protected by copyright law.
You may download any image for personal or non-commercial use only.
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Recreation, a nearly one-meter tinplate cabin cruiser produced in Japan between 1948 and 1955, represents the pinnacle of postwar mechanical toy boats—ambitious in scale, meticulously constructed, and clearly intended as a prestige item. Made entirely of painted steel, with a stamped metal deck and applied fittings, the vessel houses a large spring motor still intact inside the hull, originally wound through a side port and geared to drive a stern propeller.
At this dramatic size, the Recreation was never a dime-store impulse buy. Large-format tin cruisers were marketed as mechanical yachts, occupying the top tier of the toy departments in America’s better stores. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, these boats typically retailed for $9.95–$19.95, with deluxe versions reaching $24.95–$29.95—a major purchase in that period, roughly equivalent to $120–$350 today. They belonged to a completely different economic category from the small friction or wind-up toys sold for pocket change.
Who Bought a Meter-Long Tin Cruiser?
A boat like this appealed to a very specific set of buyers:
>> Well-off parents or grandparents seeking a dramatic Christmas or birthday showstopper.
>> Fathers who were boating enthusiasts, delighted to give a mechanically minded child a “real” boat.
>> Adult collectors even then, especially through FAO Schwarz, the go-to toy store of many childhoods and a retailer famous for treating oversized tin toys as decorative art objects.
>> Department-store gift buyers looking for a premium, centerpiece toy.
>> Occasional hotel or resort gift shops in lakeside or coastal towns.
A meter-long cruiser was never bought casually. It was a statement purchase, often displayed prominently before it ever touched water.
Fun Factor for Its Original Owner
For the child lucky enough to receive one—typically a boy of about 6 to 12—the excitement was enormous. The boat’s theatrical size made it feel almost like a scale model rather than a toy, and the resistance of the big spring motor as it was wound lent a sense of power and responsibility. These cruisers were treated as miniature yachts, not bathtub toys.
Launching the vessel on a pond or lake became an event: parents gathered, siblings watched, and the cruiser surged across the water in a brief but thrilling 30–60 second burst. The pleasure lay less in long-distance travel than in the ritual itself—winding, releasing, watching, retrieving, and repeating. Because the boat was expensive and somewhat fragile, the experience mixed awe with a sense of privilege.
Condition and Present-Day Value
The example seen here is a survivor: bent at the bow and missing some fittings. Yet the survival of the internal spring motor gives it more historical integrity than many surviving large cruisers. In the contemporary market, condition and completeness matter far more than sheer size. While pristine, boxed examples can command four-figure prices, a weathered example like this generally falls within the $250–$450 range.
The antique shop’s $1,300 asking price reflects enthusiasm rather than the realities of the tin-toy market. Size impresses—but in vintage tinplate, condition, completeness, and provenance decide the value.
This text is a collaboration with ChatGPT.
Class III b : Post-War Closed Cars "The Special Ones"
Zoute Concours d'Elegance
Royal Zoute Golf Club
Zoute Grand Prix 2021
Knokke - Zoute
België - Belgium
October 2021
Herz Jesu Kirche
Schildgen
Bergisch Gladbach
Germany
Gottfried Böhm, arch. 1960
As Herr Böhm just turned 100, it is as good a time as any to show more of his work, especially this great piece right outside of Köln. A fantastically simple yet complex set of layers and solids and voids, leading one to the sanctuary in the center of this walled oasis.
I was also delighted to discover that my father-in-law, Theo Heiermann, a sculptor, did a lot of work here, such as the stations of the cross, the tabernacle and the figures on the tops of the towers.
Originally, the tower-cones (altogether 6) were not clad in lead, but were naked concrete--powerful geometrical figures.
The Duchess copper deposit was discovered by Jack Kennedy, the son of pioneer pastoralist Alexander Kennedy, in 1897. In 1906 the Hampden-Cloncurry Copper Mines Ltd acquired it and it became the richest producer in the region. By 1912, Hampden-Cloncurry had also gained control of the rich Trekelano copper mine to the south of the smaller Mount Mascotte mines to the north. The ore was railed to Kuridala for processing. However, in 1918 continuing labour shortages, breakdowns, exhaustion of the high-grade oxidised ore, and the drastic postwar drop in copper prices forced the closure of most of the company’s mines including Duchess. At the time, the Duchess copper mine boasted a 100 ton capacity bin. This elaborate structure was the wonder of northwest Queensland at the time and it enabled a full train to be loaded in a relatively short time. Mining activities in the region then almost ceased. The Duchess mine had produced 204 865 t of ore that yielded 25 155t of copper, 76kg of gold and 62kg of silver.
The Duchess orebody occurred in a steep west-dipping shear zone that cuts granite and dolerite, which are probably the same age as the Burstall Granite, and mica schist and calc-silicate rocks of the Corella Formation. The lode in the upper levels of the mine consisted of bornite and subordinate chalcocite, malachite, and cuptire in calcite, but at deeper levels chalcopyrite with quartz was dominant. The mine was worked to a depth of 259m. Today only concrete footings of the machinery remain, apart from a small pit and trenches excavated by more recent exploration. Malachite forming veins and fracture coatings in quartz, and some pyrite can be found on the site. Numerous smaller copper mines occur in the vicinity of Duchess but most are very small.
The Duchess railway opened on the 21st of October 1912 as a temporary terminus for the Great Western Railway construction project. The Hampden Co pressured for the early completion of the line to Duchess to reach its copper mine situated near the station. Ore was forwarded on the 10th of June 1912 as soon as the rails reached Duchess, several months before all the bridging and ballasting was completely finished, such was the urgency.
When the railway arrived in 1912 a small town sprung up on both sides of the station. Amenity comprised a hotel, store, butcher, school, police station, and a post office. There was a local activity as shown by passenger traffic levels at around 4000 annual journeys. Distant travellers were catered for by the connecting road coach services. A weekly coach ran from here to Camooweal via Colton Hills (320km), taking in mines and pastoral stations on the way. The service departed Duchess on Thursday at 0800am and arrived at Camooweal by 1800pm. Another coach service ran to Trekelano mine twice a week on a day return.
At first there was no water infrastructure required here, locos apparently running to and from Duchess ex Malbon without filing tender tanks. However when the Trekelano tramway opened in 1917 the locos were required to haul a water gin owing to the extra distance involved. In 1918 the manager of the Duchess mine offered Queensland Rail (QR) access to a mine well and this was availed of. QR erected a 30 000 gallon tank for loco water. After the mines closed QR was able to tape the shafts of several mines in turn to maintain supply, which water was suitable after softening.
Rail passenger figures remained firm for a few years by dipped after 1921 and settled at around 1200 annually until the late 1950s when they increased to the mid-1960s, probably due to workers from the Mount Isa Line rehabilitation project. A sharp decline then ensued, and numbers dwindled to a couple of hundreds per year.
The downturn in smelting saw Duchess ore loadings terminate abruptly at the end of 1920. The Hampden Co closed the Duchess mine in 1921 and the site was not revived until 1926 when the dumps were able to be sold for smelting. QR repaired the long unsued siding to allow safe access and over the next 18 months the dumps were completely removed. The Hampden Co has no further use for the mine (its workings completely flooded by then) and none for the rail connection so it sold the siding to QR in 1928. The mine plant and the rail weighbridge were removed at the same time. Penny packets of ore continued to be sent away throughout the 1930s by district gougers and tributers, presumably loaded at the mine siding.
The copper ore and limestone traffic revived in the earnest for Mount Isa Mines from the late 1940s and a few thousand tons annually were loaded at Duchess for a while and again in the mid-1960s at around 10 000 annual tons. No copper ore or limestone was loaded after 1970. The largest single burst ore traffic came from the Phosphate Hill mine in 1975 and 1976 when phosphatic rock to the order of 176 000 tons was road trucked to rail at Duchess pending completion of the Flynn to Phosphate Hill railway and associated loaders at the mine.
The station lost its status as a terminus when the line was continued to Butru in 1915 but the place came into its own when the Mount Isa mining filed was discovered and subsequently developed. Traffic for Mount Isa went through Duchess as it was the closest railhead. The railway extension to Mount Isa officially opened on the 17th of May 1929 and Duchess became the junction to Dajarra and Mount Isa from this time. The yard was expanded, and a full suite of signals was installed. The station was protected from three directions (Mount Isa, Dajarra, and Cloncurry) by distant and home signals all worked from a six lever frame near the station office.
Some sidings were re-arranged to a new layout. The goods shed road was lifted at one end and relaid around the Mount Isa curve where a new loading bank was installed. The passing loop was extended at the Dajarra end to run beyond the Mount Isa turn out. A refreshment room was established in 1929 when the new line opened and it catered for passengers on the Mail plus the mixed trains and those transferring to and from the Dajarra service. The rooms remained in business until 1938 and benefited from the Dajarra service being worked from Mount Isa for a period in the 1930s.
Additional staff and their accommodations were placed at Duchess from 1929, including track gangs and train crews. The train crews were necessary to do away with the need for Cloncurry crews to run the full distance to Mount Isa on overnight rest.
The mine siding remained in place until around 1950 when it was lifted and an alternative ore loading ramp provided between the legs of the angle that was served by a new length of siding. The rehabilitation project of 1961 – 1962 saw the crossing loop extended at the Cloncurry end and the Up home signal moved further out.
The place generated enough traffic to justify the appointment of a station master, particularly when the copper boom lasted. However, when ore traffic ceased in 1921 the place was immediately downgraded to a gate. Developments from Mount Isa from 1924 onwards saw the station master position returned in 1928 when construction of the extension was underway and Duchess becoming a junction station. Fettling gangs were placed at Duchess to maintain the track in three directions.
The station master position lasted until 1972 when replaced by Porter-in-Charge under gate conditions but the building and opening of the Phosphate Hill branch and a rise in ore traffic caused the position to be reinstated in 1975. Changed in train running and safe working led to the final demise of the station master office in 1988 and the place was unattended from the 30th of September that year. The introduction of mechanised gangs from 1966 led to the gradual attrition of the fettling gangs and track inspectors and from a high point of 20 or so staff and a dozen departmental residences the Duchess staffing establishment dwindled to nothing by the late 1990s.
In 1988 Train Order Working was implemented here and yard rationalisation was initiated in instalments from this time through to 2004. Removed during this phase were the goods shed, water softener, ore loading siding, goods shed sign and loading bank, the western leg of the angle and, a little later, the eastern leg plus the Dajarra line stub and loop continuation at that end of the yard. The loco water tank was retained as the basis for the town water supply after being lifted from its stand and mountain at ground level. The wooden station office (a 1949 replacement to the original which was destroyed by fire) was demolished in 2006. Its substitute is a new high level, short length, passenger platform and rudimentary shelter.
The Duchess township slowly diminished in concert with the railway attrition and by 2007 was down to a few houses, the hotel, and the corrugated iron public hall (with children’s playground intact). The opening of the Trekelano mine and associated camp 14km out of town in 2005, with the access road junctioning at Duchess, gave the hotel a welcome injection of custom.
Source: Rocks and Landscapes of Northwest Queensland by Laurie Hutton and Ian Withnall, Copper in the Curry by Norman Houghton.