The End of a Perfect Day

The advertising of tobacco products in British periodicals in the inter-war years was, for the most part, especially formulaic, dull and unimaginative. I can’t bring myself to display examples of just how awful much of it could be. Suffice to say that appeals to patriotism, grizzled old mariners and scenes of medieval pageantry predominated. Just occasionally there would be a campaign or individual effort that stood out from the rest. Wills (later Players) Gold Flake is a now defunct brand but in its heyday its distinctive yellow pack made it very easy to spot on the shelves of your tobacconist. The examples above are from 1929-30 and promote the art of nocturnal smoking by associating it with, respectively, the air of excitement generated in busy neon-lit city centres and the quest for relaxation at the end of a demanding working day. Both employ uncredited artists with a flair for evoking the atmosphere of mystery inherent in the landscape at night and make a refreshing change from the more common advertising clichés.


Advertisers in Britain were extremely quick to reach for an equestrian image when imagination deserted them. The world of horse racing, selectively portrayed, could be depended on to suggest quality, discrimination and the social status of the landed gentry. The jockey’s companion wears an animal fur wrapped casually around her throat to confirm the link with wealth and good breeding. Other images of air travel and intimate dining out were pressed into service as indicators of sophistication. It’s a brave effort to market the product to the fashionable and high status consumer and to suggest to those of more modest status that there’s something in it for them. The visual convention is that of fashion illustration and the simple uncluttered monochrome backgrounds bled out to the edge of the page make a strong impression. The pack shot is another idle recourse and something done far better across the Atlantic where there are no inhibitions about employing vast inflated images to bully the consumer into submission. British advertisers, mindful of the need for understatement, prefer a more conventional still-life arrangement (as on the right below) with typically pompous prose or construct a minor pretext, in this instance recalling notice boards with moveable plastic letters of the type sometimes seen even today in more dilapidated, down-at-heel office foyers. Perhaps this was a more high-end association when the ad was originally conceived in the late 1940’s. If you still wish to sample the pleasure of smoking a Gold Flake cigarette, they remain on sale in India, where it is one of the leading brands.

Gladys Peto (1890-1977)

I’ve always been intrigued by the illustrations of Gladys Peto. The combination of a precision line wrapped around flattened areas of colour and pattern gives them an unmistakeable flavour enabling them to be spotted at twenty paces. There’s some affinity with the world of William Brown but the children are often listless and lacking in energy. Another distinctive feature is the absence of shadows. Her figures, mostly children, inhabit a sunlit world in which not a single shadow falls on the ground. The result is subtly disorientating and contributes a certain dreamlike quality. They are superior versions of the type of drawing for children that inspired Glen Baxter’s exercises in the absurd.


The Bookman cover from October 1929 shows her at her best, employing a limited colour palette with a lovely wandering line and a perfectly weighted distribution of pattern and contour. This example of her advertising work for Allenbury’s Infant Foods is a striking image of a squadron of rosy-cheeked children in night attire drifting silently through the night sky with more than a hint of Art Deco. I soon discovered after some casual research that Gladys already has her internet champion in the person of Jeanette Payne whose blogspot (highly recommended) is entirely dedicated to her work. Jeanette is clearly an expert on her subject and has displayed the entire range of the Peto output including a fascinating selection of advertising illustration.


In the twenties and thirties there was a Gladys Peto industry turning out large format colour illustrated books for girls at Bedtime, Twilight or in the Gloaming! Times were Merry, there were Sunshine Tales, Playtime Stories, Summer Days, Holiday Stories and Happy Tales. There was a Peto product for every occasion and well behaved children everywhere were likely to be rewarded with gift-wrapped copies. Despite all this emphasis on pleasure, the children in the illustrations were almost always unsmiling, often with distinctly ambiguous expressions of the sort that Balthus became famous for. The sense of orderly tweeness is undercut by curious images of Alsatians taking afternoon tea or serried ranks of passive mute schoolgirls.

Coming, Sahib!

The disembodied brown hand of a native bearer enters the room through a Vorticist explosion of colour, gripping a brass tray laden with tall glasses, a crystal jug and a package of Horlick’s Malted Milk. All the way from Slough to refresh the hard pressed colonial administrator. It can even be mixed with brandy or sherry to make a “drink for the gods”.

Today, we examine the advertiser’s response to the challenge of advertising in India. Some of these examples address the realities of colonial life with explicit reference to the master-servant relationship. The ever attentive servant hovers in the background, almost unseen, ready to perform his duties with perfect self-effacement. The mem-sahib can relax in the knowledge that every household chore will be carried out with discretion and efficiency, leaving plenty of time for leafing through the pages of the Times of India Annual and dream of luxuries like a fashionable watch or a ciné camera. Many of the finest and most reassuring brand names from home can be found there. Peek Frean and Jacob’s biscuits, the perfect accompaniment to Brooke Bond Tea, Horlicks, Wincarnis and Eno’s Fruit Salts to calm the nerves, Pears’ Glycerine Soap for a matchless complexion and Wright’s Coal Tar Soap for well scrubbed children, Odol and Kolynos for gleaming teeth. All the comforts of home for the wives and daughters of the officer class.

One successful artist, possibly of Indian origin whose work features in both advertising and editorial illustration (including the covers) is William Spencer Bagdatopulos (born 1888). His signature appears on the two more exotic adverts for Pears’ and the Valet Auto Strop Safety Razor. The Pears’ image evokes a dreamy sensuality with a sultry foursome in provocative mood. The peacock in the background is the main player in the Valet advert with a severe, unsmiling androgynous creature mounted on its back. The Hindu God, Skanda is sometimes depicted mounted on Parvani the Peacock. Perhaps there is a connection with the world of wet shaving. Follow this link to see some poster designs by Bagdatopulos promoting India as a tourist destination.

Going Home

More advertising from the Raj, with the focus on transport and communications. These sectors were more likely than any other to play up the image of the exotic sub-continent and these examples are typical with their hot colours and deep shadows. The great steamship lines represented the vital link with the mother country for the exhausted colonial master wearily casting a nostalgic backward glance to the freezing fog and drizzle of the green hills of home. And, with the assistance of Callender’s finest cables there are telegrams to dispatch and even the possibility of a brief telephone conversation with loved ones at home.

Nunc est Bibendum

About ten minutes walk south from Albertopolis is the wonderful Michelin Building at 81 Fulham Road. In January 2011 it will be a century since its inauguration. But despite its great age it remains in excellent condition with virtually all the original decoration intact. It was a remarkable conception to design a building that, in its entirety, functioned as an enormous permanent advertisement for Michelin products. In doing so it had one great advantage over all its rivals in the existence of a uniquely successful brand character, Monsieur Bibendum, ripe for exploitation. The image of Bibendum is everywhere on this building in two and three dimensions plus, spectacularly, in stained glass. Every facade and every feature is designed to reinforce the Michelin brand and embed it in the public consciousness. In this sense it has a clear affinity with the Victorian tradition of narrative architecture typical of nearby Albertopolis. It could even be argued that the intensity of commercial imagery begins to take on transcendent or religious overtones. The prominent stained glass feature and the chapel-like frontage on to Fulham Road possess an almost spiritual fervour.

According to Olivier Darmon’s book, ‘One Hundred Years of the Michelin Man’, the character made his debut in April 1898, his form having been inspired by a stack of tyres. The artist responsible was the splendidly named O’Galop. Images of Bibendum rapidly proliferated in poster campaigns and public appearances to the point where it very quickly became one of the best known characters of the century. Rotund, bespectacled and non-threatening, Bibendum was ideally equipped to achieve an extraordinarily high degree of public recognition. The Michelin company was relentless in the deployment of its mascot in the service of publicity; it has been estimated that more than 20,000 images of Bibendum were circulated between 1898 and 1930. The unique brilliance of this character is that it can be inserted into virtually any situation and a humorous response is guaranteed.

When I was a student in this part of London in the 1960’s this building was much admired, I suspect, in part, because its playful air matched the prevailing Pop Art sensibility. It was riotously eccentric and also contained echoes of the Art Nouveau tradition which was being rehabilitated at the time. The building survives resplendent in its present incarnation as Food Hall and Restaurant. The only disappointment of my recent visit was discovering that contractors have surrounded all of the Fulham Road frontage and part of the Sloane Avenue frontage with a gigantic excavation making photography extremely difficult. So most of these views are of details and the bigger picture will have to wait for another occasion.

Albertopolis Part Three

The Royal College of Organists is the subject of the third stage of our exploration of Albertopolis. This is a compact, bay fronted, four storey building adjacent to the Royal College of Art in the lee of the Albert Hall. It was originally built to house the National Training School for Music in 1875-76 to a design by H H Cole and from 1904 to 1991 it was the home of the Royal College of Organists. The visibility of the building benefits greatly from a decision to distinguish its design from that of the Albert Hall by refraining from the use of red-brick and terracotta. The plasterwork that animates the entire facade was applied in the form of decorative panels in preference to architectural mouldings. A generous provision of glazing is another distinctive feature and was dictated by the need to read musical scores.


The true glory of this building, which appears to be in near perfect external order, is the incised plaster (sgraffito) decoration designed by F W Moody in the form of multiple friezes of musician-cherubs and their instruments combined with vertical and horizontal panels of repeating patterns derived from musical forms. Assemblages of heraldic devices incorporating instruments celebrate Rhythm and Harmony and the scheme is held together by a subtle colour harmony of cream, maroon and pale blue. The projecting bay windows at second and third floor level strike an exotic note and have lead to comparisons with Istanbul and Venice. There is a detailed account of the origins of the building at British History Online and the Victoria & Albert Museum has an online tour of Albertopolis that can be accessed by clicking here.

Albertopolis Part Two

The second stage of our exploration of Albertopolis brings us to the Gothic Revival extravaganza that is the Albert Memorial. Designed by George Gilbert Scott, it serves as a lavish expression of a singular monarchical obsession with commemorating the life and legacy of the late Prince Consort. Scott had the additional responsibility of co-ordinating the large team of sculptors, designers and craft workers. A gilded statue of a many times life-size Prince Albert is seated beneath a gilded canopy supported on marble pillars and surmounted by a pediment and spire and a profusion of ornamental detail. Two groups of four figure sculptures surround the canopy, the inner group representing the industrial arts and science, the outer group representing Europe, Asia, Africa and America. The entire ensemble is a perfect distillation of High Victorian values of dignity and respect, industry and effort, scholarship and discovery overlaid with an imperial narrative of subjection and colonisation. British History Online has a very detailed history of the commissioning process.


It is pleasing that the memorial is free of military associations. Religious piety and virtue don’t get much of a look in, which is equally refreshing. Contemporary critics were quick to take offence at this. The Times commented that Prince Albert’s life was being celebrated for the wrong reasons (his contribution to the arts and sciences) and should more properly have been honoured for his ‘princely ... example of purity of life'. There’s little doubt that the relentless aggregation of ornament was a major contributory factor in the mid-Twentieth Century abhorrence of all things Victorian and the first signs of this rejection were to be found at the time of its completion when a writer in The Pall Mall Gazette dismissed it as ‘organic nullity disguised beneath superficial exuberance’.


Time moves on and each generation experiences the memorial within a different historical context. There is no denying how resplendent it looks after many years of restoration and there are many ways to respond to it. It can be seen as a glorious relic of a distant but fascinating imperial past; product of an age of apparent certainties. Distance has the effect of lending a note of the exotic, especially in the sculptural groups created in an era of very different cultural sensibilities. At the very least, it remains an extraordinary convergence of decorative skills, assembled and combined with an almost reckless sense of confidence.