History Archive

I, Keyboard

Industrialisation is a ‘process of ubiquitous rationalisation‘. Which is to say: it’s our response to things too big for our minds to grasp.

This was Henry Ford’s genius – a total disregard for reality, sensibility or reason. If you had a plan to build a car for everyone before roads, gas stations and, crucially, a middle class rich enough to pay for them, a little unreason would come in handy. His plant, The Rouge was, at one time, “easily the greatest industrial domain in the world.” George Bernard Shaw’s description of unreasonable men is entirely apt.

Fordlandia

Fordlandia, then

More than just mass-production, industrialisation is a state of mind. Ford’s led him to found Fordlândia, a pre-fabricated town built in the Amazon to supply his American factories with rubber. Fordlândia was a fiasco. Workers revolted. Plants succumbed to disease and pests.

But the more it failed, the more Ford justified the project in idealistic terms. “It increasingly was justified as a work of civilization, or as a sociological experiment,” One newspaper article even reported that Ford’s intent wasn’t just to cultivate rubber, but to cultivate workers and human beings.”

From: Fordlandia: The Failure Of Ford’s Jungle Utopia / US National Public Radio

These days, Fordlândia is another fable of our Taylorised minds with Ford cast in a role half James Bond villain and half Piggy from Lord of the Flies (although the arch-industrialist never visited, preferring to send in management consultants).

But industrialisation’s not always the bad guy. Atul Gawande describes the rise in popularity (30% and rising) of the Caesarian section in The Score. C-sections might seem a trickier, riskier proposition than their forerunner, the forceps delivery. But it’s relatively easy to teach an obstetrician how to perform them and they have a predicatable rate of success. Unlike the forceps method:

Just putting the forceps on a baby’s head is tricky. You have to choose the right one for the shape of the mother’s pelvis and the size of the child’s head—and there are at least half a dozen types of forceps. You have to slide the blades symmetrically along the sides, travelling exactly in the space between the ears and the eyes and over the cheekbones. “For most residents, it took two or three years of training to get this consistently right . . . Some residents had a real feel for it, others didn’t.

Forceps delivery is more of an ‘artisanal skill’ or, to put it another way, a craft.

Medical professionals had to make a choice – was obstetrics a craft, or an industry? Although some studies showed forceps deliveries to be often a better option, the rise of the C-section was a choice based on a specific trade-off between reliability and the ‘possibility of occasional perfection’. In medicine, a desire for perfection is as excessive as anything at The Rouge or Fordlândia. Childbirth has been industrialised.

Industrialisation starts off with these trade-offs (and other rationalisations) and progresses through a process of bootstrapping. Factories make tools, which you can, in turn, use to build better factories. Sooner or later, you end up with robots building robots. Industry refines itself. The jarring results of the trade-offs don’t disappear, but they do fade into the background. Fordlândia today is charming.

Fordlandia, today

Fordlandia, today

Clay Shirky has said, “Tools don’t get socially interesting until they get technologically boring.” Leonard Read explored this in his seminal 1958 essay, I, Pencil“:

I, Pencil, simple though I appear to be, merit your wonder and awe, a claim I shall attempt to prove. In fact, if you can understand me—no, that’s too much to ask of anyone—if you can become aware of the miraculousness which I symbolize, you can help save the freedom mankind is so unhappily losing. I have a profound lesson to teach. And I can teach this lesson better than can an automobile or an airplane or a mechanical dishwasher because—well, because I am seemingly so simple.

He goes on to explain ‘not a single person on the face of this earth’ knows how to make one, even though one and a half billion of them were made a year for kids, engineers and craftspeople. Kevin Kelly makes a similar point about webpages when he points out that they contain 100,000 inventions. Industrialisation is technologically boring.

At its core, it’s a failure to deal with reality. Ford, grappling with an out-sized vision of the future, built an organisation too big to comprehend. His version needed industrial-sized solutions, the intrinsically pathological constructs of the modernist corporation. Industrialisation 2.0 is failing to deal with reality in a different way.

There should be no way that a service company could have over 3 million customers with less than twenty employees. After a certain size, problems inevitably become industrial – when you reach the end-of-the-edge-case scale. But, evidently, industrial-sized solutions aren’t path-dependent. These are the first sub-Dunbar multi-national corporations.

When asked to make a choice between craft or industry, they’ve chosen both. Today’s unreasonable people are craftier.

[Images: Fordlandia, then is from a blog which most readers of The Januarist will enjoy - Iconic Photos. Fordlandia, today is from Wikimedia.]

The Complexities of Absinthe

Absinthe

Many urban myths surround Absinthe; most commonly that it is banned in so-and-so country. In fact, although Absinthe has a notorious history of bans, it is now legal to sell in most countries. There are a few notable exceptions, including Ireland, where it is however legal to import for personal use.

Although there are still limits on the quantities of alcohol or thujone (a chemical produced by wormwood) in many countries, most outright bans have been repealed. Notable bans from the past include:

  • Brazil: 1906-2007
  • Belgium: 1906-2005
  • The Netherlands: 1908-2004
  • Switzerland: 1910-2004
  • United States: 1912-2007
  • France: 1914-1988
  • Germany: 1923-1981

Perhaps not surprisingly, the drink was never banned in The Czech Republic (which is often mis-credited for its origin; whereas its recent history actually originates in Switzerland). More surprisingly, it was never banned in:

  • Canada (though some provinces have their own bans)
  • Portugal
  • Spain
  • United Kingdom

Unlike other spirits (or liqueurs), it has no legal definition in most countries, which means you can sell pretty much anything and call it Absinthe… except, unusually, in France, where you can’t sell anything with the name Absinthe, though you can sell the drink itself under any other name.

Although absinthe was banned at the time, a book of ‘celebrity cocktail recipes’ was published in the US in 1935 (“So red the nose, or Breath in the afternoon“), which included Hemingway’s rather dangerous concoction of absinthe and champagne. As if that wasn’t dangerous enough, he concludes his recipe with: “Drink 3 to 5 of these slowly“.

Absinthe Illustration courtesy of Wikipedia.

The Poppy: Design of Remembrance

Poppy

November is a month now associated with the Poppy, a symbol of remembrance and appreciation of the sacrifices made by past generations, and in the last few years, our own contemporaries. A classic and simple design, the Poppy as a logo is instantly recognisable, as well as a way people can display their own appreciation of this military sacrifice for our own freedoms. The Poppy Appeal has successfully used this flower as an effective iconic design of simple poignancy.

Amidst the carnage and devastation of the battlefields of the First World War, the poppy flower was seen growing amongst no man’s land, and carved such an impression on the mind of a serving doctor, John McCrae, he wrote the famous poem: “In Flanders’ fields, the poppies blow…”. This poem inspired an American War secretary, Moina Michael, to start selling poppies, the proceeds going to the ex-Service community. And thus the Poppy Appeal charity through the British Legion was born.

The first Poppy Day was in 1921, and has remained a tradition every November since. In 1922, Major George Howson, founder of the the Disabled Society (established to help disabled ex-Service men and women from the First World War), suggested to the Legion that members of the Disabled Society could make the artificial poppies sold for the charity. Subsequently, the original artificial poppy was designed so that disabled workers could manufacture it with ease, especially so that it could be made by a worker with only one hand.

The simple design was, therefore, mostly born from a necessity of easy assembly. As with a lot of great iconic logos, less is more. The blood red is striking, and yet the Poppy’s soft edges portray a powerful message of beauty amongst the destruction – of life amongst the dead. And lest we forget.


The Beginnings of Wembley Stadium

Palace of Industry

The area of Wembley in north-west London and its world-famous stadium of the same name are synonymous, if not with prodigious concerts, with that most ghastly and heinous of pastimes: football. But the not-so-humble beginnings of the stadium lie with something altogether quite different.

Opened in 1923, the British Empire Exhibition Stadium–as it was known then–was constructed at a cost of £750,000 as the destination for the British Empire Exhibition which was to be held a year later in 1924: a huge colonial exhibition designed to celebrate the past and future of the British Empire, to boost trade between the Empire’s Dominions and to secure support for the regime and the future thereof.

By the end of the exhibition the cost of the event ran to an astonishing £12 million and had made history as the largest exhibition ever staged thanks to its 27 million visitors. Appropriately, given the deteriorating power and economic strength of the Empire at that time, the exhibition made losses of over £1.5 million despite a government subsidy of £2.2 million. This led to the exhibition and stadium becoming the butt of a national joke: quite befitting, given that the new stadium suffered a very similar fate after incurring a four year delay and having its costs spiral to £340 million more than the originally agreed price (eventually the most expensive stadium ever built).

Visitors to the exhibition, after meandering to the stadium down streets renamed especially for the event by Rudyard Kipling, were presented not only with large-scale re-enactments of the Zulu Wars, but a statue of the Prince of Wales constructed entirely of Canadian butter.

We don’t host exhibitions like we used to.

Palace of Industry photograph by R P Marks (one of the last remaining buildings constructed for the British Empire Exhibition of 1924).

The Credit Crunch started with the Credit Lunch

Diners Club Card 1951

In the UK alone, we now owe £54 billion in credit card debt. How did it ever get to this? Like many of the great inventions, it all started with an innocent story and a genuine solution to a genuine problem.

In 1949, successful businessman Frank McNamara was eating with business friends in a New York restaurant. When the check arrived, he realised he had forgotten his wallet. The story then gets a little hazy; he was either recognised by the restaurant owner and allowed to pay at a later date, or was rescued by his wife bringing him cash.

Whatever the situation, his embarrassment prompted him to develop the Diners Club Card, initially accepted in 14 New York restaurants and issued to 200 members.

Originally, the card didn’t charge interest, allowing members to ‘buy now, pay later (in full)’, with the Diners Club initially paying the restaurant as the middle-man. Instead of charging interest, the restaurants were charged a 7 percent fee of each transaction, and each member paid $3 annually.

Even though 20,000 Americans signed-up during the first year, McNamara thought his idea was a fad, and after three years, sold-out to his partners for $200,000.

Unfortunately for us, it seems, the fad has lasted a little longer than he predicted.

Image copyright Smithsonian National Museum of American History.