Reviewed by
MELANIE MCDONAGH
Wednesday
31 January 2018 09:45
The one
ocean liner most of us are able to identify is, alas, one that sank: the
Titanic.
Still,
despite that PR misfortune — or possibly because of it — the notion of ocean
travel, especially by steamship, is still invested with irresistible glamour.
The great ships were little worlds in themselves, with inutterable glamour and
style at the top and more cramped class solidarity in steerage.
Think of
the marine bit of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and then the episode in the film
Brooklyn where our heroine is sick in a bucket, mid-Atlantic, in third class.
This
exhibition at the V&A is the most comprehensive ever about international
ocean liners. That, I know, doesn’t sound like much of a fun gig for those
Londoners who know next to nothing about the sea, whose reflexive mode of
transport is a plane and who think of cruises (the sad descendants of the
liners) as floating prisons for the Saga generation (I know of one American
whose solution to parental care is to stick his elderly father on one
transatlantic cruise after another).
But stop it
right there. Ocean liners — ships that actually ran to schedule rather than
turning up at their destination as the weather allowed — were not just incidentally interesting: they
were crucial for shipping more than 11 million emigrants from Europe to America
from 1900 until the First World War; they were militarily important; considered
vital for national prestige and maintaining empires; economically crucial for
cities dependent on shipbuilding; and, just as important, as a way of promoting
design in response to the constraints of space and motion. This exhibition has
some 200 artefacts and finishes with a wooden panel from the first-class lounge
of the Titanic, split where the ship broke in half and floating mournfully on
water as it once did on the Atlantic.
It’s
bookended by two ships: Brunel’s
groundbreaking Great Eastern of 1859 (the Brits led the way on steamships),
which transformed ocean travel, to the Queen Elizabeth II of 1969, which
brought the era of great ocean-going passenger shipping to a close. Between
these two vessels a whole transport culture is on display, from fabulous
posters for the liners to contemporary film clips — such as Hitler on the Nazi
steamship the Johannes Rey, or a moving chronicle of the strength and skill of
Clyde shipbuilders.
Pride of
place goes to interiors from great ships of the nations such as the Normandie.
She was the showgirl of the French fleet, “a floating fragment of the country”
and an exhibition space for French handiwork — including the fabulous Art Deco
lacquer panels by Jean Dunand for the first-class smoking room, depicting
streamlined youths at play. Requisitioned in the war by the Americans, the ship
sank after too much water was used to douse a fire on board.
What was
the appeal of ocean liners? They were a contained world: for the duration of
your voyage you were in a limited space with a defined cast of characters, like
Murder on the Orient Express without the homicide.
Or, as a
spritely Cunard brochure of 1929, The New Art of Going Abroad, put it, “Life
aboard ship is a little world between two worlds… a week of existence suddenly
cast adrift.”
Jules Verne
in his novel A Floating City, put it thus: “If the Great Eastern is not merely
a nautical engine but rather a microcosm, and carries a small world with it, an
observer will not be astonished to meet here, as on a large theatre, all the
instincts, follies, and passions of human nature.” Which is why ocean liners
were so good for film, from Buster Keaton to The Poseidon Adventure.
The
shipping companies’ steely focus on wealthy travellers was directly influenced
by the US government, which in 1921 imposed restrictions on the immigrants
allowed to enter the US. At a stroke, the composition of passengers changed
from a majority in steerage to a more even distribution of classes and the
creation of the new “tourist” class.
An
interesting picture of the cross- section of one ship shows the respective
accommodation for the classes: third class was respectable if not showy. As for the fabulous promotional material on
display here, it was directed at pleasure-seeking travellers for whom the
journey was summed up by the Cunard motto of the Twenties: “Getting There is
Half the Fun!”
For
designers, liners were an obvious showcase. Many engaged with the challenges
posed by limitations of space and motion. Le Corbusier was an enthusiast for
the form (showing the upper classes could cope in a confined space) but for others
it was an exhibition area: as with Doris Zinkeisen’s lively theatrical mural
shown here for the famous Verandah Grill on the Queen Mary.
Restricted
space meant the striking Madonna of the Atlantic altarpiece for the salon on
the Queen Mary, used on Sunday by Catholics, could be covered by panels for
secular use. There was a pretty Torah ark too.
The
children were also looked after: there’s a charming mural here by Edward
Ardizzone for the play area of the Canberra. Ceramics designers made services
with an emphasis on solidity: plates with raised sides to prevent slopping and
glasses with solid bases. There’s a beautiful cane bunk bed, with space-saving
drawers that open as steps.
But oh, the
clothes! For the occasions liners offered for display, from the entrance on
board to the grand descent that first-class passengers made down the steps to
dinner — brilliantly evoked here — the curators raided the V&A’s own
dressing-up box and came up with some fabulous pieces, from Marlene Dietrich’s
Dior suit, which she wore on the Queen Elizabeth, to a Lanvin Twenties dress
belonging to the heiress Emilie Grigsby.
But, as
with the Titanic, there were tragedies at sea. After the Titanic panel, the
most poignant item on show is the tiara that Lady Marguerite Allan took on the
Lusitania, which her maid rescued when the vessel was torpedoed. Her two
daughters were lost.
Ocean
Liners: Speed and Style is at the V&A, SW7 from Saturday until June 10;
vam.ac.uk
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The luxury
liner SS Normandie sits off the piers in New York in 1935.
Photograph:
Collection French Lines
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A
photograph of the RMS Titanic’s propellers as the ship sits in dry dock. The
ship was sunk by an iceberg on its maiden voyage in 1912.
Photograph:
John Parrot/Getty Images
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Detail of riveters from the 1940s series Shipbuilding on the Clyde by Stanley Spencer.
Photograph: Imperial War Museums
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Breezy and
buoyant return to a more glamorous age - Ocean Liners: Speed and Style, V&A
Alastair Sooke, art critic
31 JANUARY
2018 • 12:01AM
If, like
me, the idea of going on a cruise fills you with dread – the prospect of being
tossed about at the whim of a wild and unforgiving sea is too much for my
lily-livered, landlubber’s constitution – then the V&A’s latest exhibition,
Ocean Liners: Speed and Style, will hold little appeal.
It would be
a mistake, however, to rule it out. The first show ever devoted to the design
of ocean liners, spanning a period from the 1840s to the 1960s, it is full of
fascinating moments, and animated throughout by a breezy, buoyant spirit.
The latter
is most evident in the design of the exhibition, itself, which plays upon a
central conceit: that, as we navigate the show, we are “on board” a ship. To
begin with, though, we remain on dry land, in a section called “Promotion” –
after all, before embarking on a voyage, you need to buy a ticket.
Facing us,
beside a spectacular promotional model of Cunard’s Queen Elizabeth, realised
with extraordinary detail at 1:48 scale, is a wall of striking posters,
designed to drum up trade for the shipping lines. At a stroke, we discover the
great coup of public relations that transformed perceptions of the ocean liner.
To one
side, a drab leaflet from around 1874 reproduces a forgettable wood engraving
of a steamship, advertising a White Star line from Liverpool to New York. It is
a reminder that, during the middle years of the 19th century, steamship travel
was still seen as uncomfortable and dangerous. Mostly it was marketed, cheaply
and perfunctorily, at third-class passengers to fill the steerage decks. This
catered for millions of poor emigrants who left behind Europe for America. By
the final quarter of the 19th century, though, the strategy of the shipping
lines had changed, and fashionable graphic artists were being commissioned to
lure a different sort of passenger, who preferred to travel first class. By the
Twenties and Thirties, often described as the “golden age” of steamship travel,
this PR transformation was complete, and the ocean liner was acknowledged as an
emblem of sleek, glamorous modernity, on a par with the American skyscraper.
Following
this introduction “ashore”, we walk across a gangplank, and make our way
“aboard” the main body of the exhibition, where we are greeted by ship
interiors from the early 20th century.
At this
point, designers were still following the model of grand European hotels, and
even palaces. Opulent doors and panelling, from about 1912, which once adorned
the France, the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique’s largest ship, were
designed explicitly to evoke sumptuous interiors at Versailles. There is also
an ornate carved wooden panel, depicting two allegorical figures, which
provided a decorative centrepiece for the 60ft-high grand staircase of the
Olympic. (An identical carving on the Olympic’s ill-fated sister ship, the
Titanic, was reproduced, with surprising fidelity, for James Cameron’s 1997
Oscar-winning movie, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.)
As well as
inviting us to gawp at the grandeur of yesteryear, though, the curator,
Ghislaine Wood, here emphasises one of the exhibition’s principal themes: that
ocean liners were swiftly understood as vast, tangible expressions of
statehood. They were, in the words of another scholar, “flagships of
imperialism”. This was especially true during the run-up to the First World
War, as European nations jostled to project power. It’s why this section is
called “Politics of Style”.
The
Versailles-like interior of the France offers an excellent case in point, as
does an absurdly overblown allegorical mural expressing German maritime
supremacy, designed for the first-class smoking room of the Kronprinz Wilhelm,
which won the much-coveted Blue Riband for its speedy passage across the
Atlantic.
Even after
the war, though, ocean liners, which were of immense economic importance
because constructing them created so many jobs, remained vessels of national
pride. The archetypal example was the great French interwar liner, Normandie,
the apogee of Art Deco maritime glamour, which entered service in 1935. Every
aspect of her glittering décor was an expression of sophisticated French taste.
One of the highlights of the V&A’s show is a soaring golden lacquer panel
depicting lithe young men and women, like classical Greek athletes, engaged in
sports, by the French artist Jean Dunand. It once graced Normandie’s smoking
room. Meanwhile, a nearby display of décor from Cunard’s Queen Mary reveals a
depressingly typical mid-century British ambivalence towards progressive
design.
A dull
painting from 1936, probably commissioned for Cunard’s offices in Liverpool,
depicts the Queen Mary’s first-class dining room, which evoked the interior of
an English country house.
Compared
with the suave modernity of Normandie, it offers a staid vista of parochial
disappointment: a wilderness of tough, grey beef and congealing gravy.
At least we
can take pride in the commitment to modern design of the British Orient Line
after the Second World War, when artists such as Edward Bawden were
commissioned to produce designs for liners. By this point, however, following
the rise of commercial aviation, ocean liners were already on the wane.
Eventually, they would be replaced by a different sort of nautical beast,
altogether: the top-heavy cruise ship.
Having
outlined the development of ocean-liner design – one memorable moment
concentrates on the evolution of the deckchair, and includes an example, with a
ripped caned seat, recovered from the Titanic (a rare moment, you could say,
when arranging deckchairs is the opposite of futile) – the exhibition plunges
us into an “engine room”, packed with information about steam turbines, gyro
stabilisers, and screw propellers, alongside Stanley Spencer’s mesmerising
wartime painting of shipbuilders on the Clyde hammering red-hot rivets. A label
informs us that the hull of the Queen Elizabeth required around 10 million of
the things.
Then, we
are up on deck, considering pool-side fashions, to a soundtrack of seagulls,
before a dramatic projection simulates elegant passengers, dressed in satin and
silk, wafting down the “grande descente” en route to dinner (ie making a very
public entrance on a liner’s imposing staircase).
By now, we
have been whisked away to a sort of luxurious fantasy land, an escapist
dressing-up box filled with crocodile-leather Louis Vuitton vanity cases, and
items of luggage owned by the Duke of Windsor (supposedly he and Wallis Simpson
once boarded the SS United States with a hundred pieces). Yes, of course, there
could be less rubbernecking at the extravagance of how the other half lived –
even if one or two pieces of eye-popping bling, such as a Cartier diamond tiara
from 1909, have terribly sad stories attached to them. The tiara belonged to a
woman who survived the sinking of the Lusitania but lost two daughters during
the catastrophe. It was rescued by one of her maids, but its exorbitant value
must have felt like nothing compared with the priceless lives of her children.
I also wish
that the final gallery, devoted to the impact of the ocean liner upon modern
culture, as filtered through the imaginations of artists, architects, writers
and filmmakers, was more extensive. After all, there are only so many pristine
dinner services one can look at before the onset of ennui.
Still,
Ocean Liners: Speed and Style is a surprisingly sophisticated exhibition. It
will satisfy those who yearn, nostalgically, for the glamour of a lost age. At
the same time, it will sate those with an appetite for serious analysis of
modern design. Above all, though, it will provide a great deal of carefree fun,
as it blithely imitates life on board these marvellous “floating palaces”. Bon
voyage!
From Sat
until June 17. Sponsored by Viking Cruises. Tickets: 0207 942 2000;
vam.ac.uk
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Wooden
panel fragment from an overdoor in the first-class lounge on Titanic, about
1911. © Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
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Empress of
Britain colour lithograph poster for Canadian Pacific Railways, J.R. Tooby,
1920 – 31. Museum no. E.2215-1931. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London
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Paquebot
'Paris', Charles Demuth, 1921 – 22, US. Gift of Ferdinand Howald. © Columbus
Museum of Art, Ohio
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Panel from
The Rape of Europa for the first-class grand salon on board the Normandie, Jean
Dupas, made by Jacques-Charles Champigneulle, 1934, France. © Miottel Museum,
Berkeley, California. Image courtesy Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, Massachusetts
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Luggage
previously belonging to the Duke of Windsor, Maison Goyard, 1940s. © Miottel
Museum, Berkeley, California
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Diamond and
pearl tiara previous
previously owned by Lady Marguerite Allan and saved from the
Lusitania, Cartier, 1909, France. Marian Gérard, Cartier Collection. © Cartier
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