Eidetic

Eidetic (pronounced ahy-det-ik)

(1) Of, relating to or constituting visual imagery vividly experienced and readily reproducible with great accuracy and in great detail.

(2) In anthropology, political science, sociology etc, of or relating to eidos (the formal content of a culture, encompassing its system of ideas, criteria for interpreting experience, etc).

(3) In psychiatry and neuroscience (as eidetic memory), of visual (or sometimes auditory) images, exceptionally vivid and allowing detailed recall of something previously perceived (most common in young children, the capacity appearing to diminish as language develops).

(4) Relating to or subject to such imagery.

(5) The (1) essence or (2) perfect, vision of an object or concept.

(6) In psychoanalysis (of dreams), as “eidetic memory”, a dream that can be “seen in the mind” so vividly it appears to be “movie-like”.

(7) In philosophy and phenomenology (as “eidetics”), the study of eidetic reduction (a technique used to help identify the essential components of a phenomenon by attempting to reduce it into its necessary essences).

(8) In literary criticism, writing sufficient evocative as to create in a reader’s imagination a “photo-realistic image” of what’s being described or discussed.

(9) In visual art (painting), a technique used to produce a work close to indistinguishable from a photograph (literally possible before advances in photography and photographic reproduction); the work so painted.

1924: From the from German eidetisch (pertaining to the faculty of projecting images), from the Ancient Greek εἰδητικός (eidētikós) (pertaining to images and used also in the sense of “pertaining to knowledge”), from eidesis (knowledge), the construct being εἶδος (eîd(os)) (form, shape) + -etic.  The -etic suffix was from the Ancient Greek -ητικός (-ētikós), from -έω (-éō) + -τικός (-tikós).  It was used to form adjectives meaning “pertaining to”, derived from nouns, most of which end in -esis and -esy.  Most English words formed with the suffix were from words formed in other languages (sometimes mixed), including Old, Middle and Modern French, Italian, Latin, and Ancient Greek.  Eidetisch was in 1924 coined by German psychologist Professor Erich Jaensch (1883-1940).  The back-formation dyseidetic refers to an individual found to be dyslexic (with regard to the visual aspect of written words) while the adjective “noneidetic” (not eidetic) seems one of English’s most significantly pointless words but presumably it’s useful for clinicians making case notes.  The now obsolete alternative spelling was edetic.  Eidetic is an adjevtive, eidetiker is a noun and eidetically is an adverb; the noun plural is eidetikers.  The special case of eidetics (in philosophy the study of eidetic reduction) is an example of a noun plural existing without a base noun

The term “eidetic memory” is used as a synonym of the popular “photographic memory” and an individual possessing the characteristic can in clinical use be described as an “eidetiker” (one with an “eidetic memory”); the medical literature however makes clear there is no evidence of any subject ever having exhibited a true “photographic memory” in the way the condition of “total recall” has been depicted in fiction and elsewhere in popular culture.  Sometimes, a subject may seem to have a “photographic memory” but, upon investigation, it has always been found to be something less impressive.  In the 1980s, one US television comedy had the governor of a state astonished by his secretary’s memory:

Secretary: “I’ve memorized the telephone numbers of the entire US Senate.”

Governor: “What?  All of them?”

Secretary: “Well, there are only two.”

That worked also as a “blonde joke”, a breed now proscribed under threat of cancellation.  In general use, what “photographic memory” usually indicates is “an exceptionally good memory” but often this manifests in specialized fields of learning rather than general experience.  As something more generalized, it’s most common in young children who have, by definition, a limited length of memory from which to draw and the capacity appears usually to diminish as language develops.  In adults, it definitely is a spectrum condition so the adjectival senses (the comparative “more eidetic”, the superlative “most eidetic”) can be used and in neuroscience publications “semi-eidetic (partly or partially eidetic) does appear.  That said, in the literature, there are cases of patients who suffer from being “unable to forget”, a genuinely disturbing condition for those with memories of traumatic events.  Even then however, that is an instance not of “total recall” but rather the recollected events being ones they’d prefer to forget but cannot. 

The legacy: Zur Eidetik und Integrationstypologie: Arbeiten aus dem Institut für psychologische Anthropologie an der Universität Marburg/Lahn (On eidetics and integration typology: Works from the Institute for Psychological Anthropology at the University of Marburg/Lahn, 1941) by Professor Rudolf Jaensch, Barth, Leipzig, Germany.

Although at times one of the most cited and influential psychologists of the inter-war era (1919-1939), Rudolf Jaensch is now remembered only for his work on eidetic analysis, his “eidetic hypothesis formation” still one of the standard models in psychology.  His other work in the theories of constitutional types are now little studied, largely because his reputation was sullied by his enthusiastic commitment to and prosecution of the National Socialist Gleichschaltung (coordination) and restructuring of professional & academic life in Germany after the Nazi Party gained power in 1933.  Although Jaensch joined the party only some months after Adolf Hitler (1889-1945; Führer (leader) and German head of government 1933-1945 & head of state 1934-1945) was appointed chancellor (the oft-quoted reference to the Nazis “seizing power” is misleading, the political & military elite miscalculating in thinking having Hitler as head of a government in which the Nazis were in a minority would leaving him “manageable” and thus “handed him” the office)) and was thus susceptible to being derided by the “old fighters” as one who joined the movement only for career advancement, he’d been affiliated with a number of the party’s organs since mid-1932.  However, he certainly made up for lost time and in March 1933 was one of several hundred professors to sign a declaration of support for the new regime but unlike many of them who genuinely were seeking only to protect their careers and families, Jaensch was an activist, denouncing those who dissented from the party’s new orthodoxies and was particularly interested in excluding Jews from academic life, seeking not only to secure their dismissal but also discredit their work.  That of course resulted in the migration of many Jewish and engineers and scientists, something that at least partially realized Hitler’s core ideological obsession but greatly would come to disadvantage Germany during World War II (1939-1945).  Hitler may have disdained “Jewish physics” but the British and Americans did not as the Irish-born UK journalist & politician Brendan Bracken (1901–1958) would later (and not wholly facetiously) explain: “We won the war because our German scientists were better than their German scientists”.

Portrait of Martin Heidegger (2017) by Mathieu Laca (b 1982).  A painter can use a retreat from photorealism for reasons that may be artistic or political.

Jaensch's involvement with the Nazis so tainted to his reputation that in the post-war years only his seminal work in eidetic theory remained “acceptable” although the “guilt by association” paradigm was never much of a feature of post Nazi Germany and that he wrote a forward to the published version of Hans Bender’s (1907-1991) revised doctoral dissertation Zur Experimentalpsychologie des Unterbewußten und der außersinnlichen Wahrnehmung (On the Experimental Psychology of the Subconscious and Extrasensory Perception) seems not to have affected Dr Bender’s flourishing career in the 1950s.  There may also been some appeal in the English-speaking world, it being hard to think of a better name then “Bender” for a psychologist working in the field of extrasensory perception.  Unfortunately, in Germanic use, while the name “Bender” was from the Middle High German benden (to bend; to twist), use was typically occupational and applied to (1) a cooper (barrel-maker), with Bender a clipping of Fassbinder or Fassbender (a cooper (ie someone who builds and repairs wooden barrels or casks by bending staves) or (2) a craftsman or metalworker (the artisans and smiths who shaped materials like wood or metal using techniques of bending and curving.  Less commonly, it could be topographic (someone who lived near a sharp curve or bend in a river or a road).  Whether, had Professor Jaensch lived to undergo the de-Nazification process of the post-war years, had he apologized for his conduct, he’d have been “sort of forgiven” in the mood of selective generosity that has seen figures like conductor Herbert von Karajan (1908–1989) and philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889–1976) to one degree or another rehabilitated is unlikely; Karajan’s association with the regime was pure careerism while Heidegger’s flirtation was brief and soon abandoned whereas Jaensch died an unrepentant Nazi and his only legacy is eidetic theory.

Eidetic memory has never appeared in the APA's (American Psychiatric Association) DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), either as a diagnostic term or disorder, presumably because it’s regarded as a natural variation in the human condition.  Although an acknowledged psychological phenomenon, the DSM does not regard an exceptional memory (however described) as pathological, even when discussing the functioning of memory in the context of neuro-cognitive or dissociative disorders.  Despite, that, the term “eidetic” is far from unknown in the psychiatric & psychological literature (professional & popular) but many publications cast a much wider net than the DSM that focuses on the diagnosis of metal disorders rather than reviewing the range of “normal” human characteristics.  So, while there are books devoted to discussing eidetic memory (and related topics) and the “self-help” shelves in bookshops often have volumes on “improving memory” or “developing a photographic memory”, that’s very different from “eidetic memory”.  For example, psychiatric teaching material describes eidetic images as visual memories of almost hallucinatory vividness but the DSM’s editors applied the same rationale when not including Aphantasia (an inability voluntarily to recall or form mental images) in their editions, the DSM being concerned primarily with phenomena insofar as they constitute clinically significant dysfunction or form part of a recognized disorder.  The eidetic memory spectrum does though remain a recognized psychological phenomenon and for clinicians that’s helpful because of the need to differentiate instances from hallucinations, a very different symptom.

In painting, there is a long “eidetic” tradition of works so photorealistic that, unless closely examined (and certainly when reproduced photographically) can be assumed to be photographs, some artists in recent years even adopting the technique as a signature.  Those still able to view art for pleasure can enjoy the perceptual ambiguity (and maybe even enjoy being fooled) but art critics know paintings are there to be criticized and while the sheer technical prowess of the artist can be acknowledged, photorealistic painting often has been treated with hostility.  It wasn’t always so because photorealism predated photography as some artists sought to achieve what would later come to be called the “hyper-realistic” and, in a nice linguistic paradox, it would be decades (well into the twentieth century) before technology had improved to the point at which a developed photograph could match the “realism” achieved by the most skilled artists, a group working not only in paint but also with pencils and, remarkably, even charcoal, a substance uniquely suitable for emulating monochromatic images.  The objection of latter-day critics was not only the predictable: “Why not just take a photograph?” but also it being known many artists actually took photographs and copied these to create their paintings.  To many critics, that meant it was less “art” than “drafting”.

Telephone Booths (1967), acrylic on Masonite by Richard Estes (b 1932), Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum, Madrid, Spain.

The classic exponent of the technique was US artist Richard Estes and Telephone Booths is his best-known work in this vein.  At the technical level, the piece was most accomplished because for a painter, intrinsically, a tree in a park is a less challenging subject than some Manhattan telephone booths in their surrounds, the work demanding the rendering on a two dimensional surface, glass, shiny metal, reflections and transparencies, a grab of multiple overlapping optical images of simultaneous movement.  Now on permanent display at the Thyssen-Bornemisza, the exhibit’s curatorial notes detail the production process, the composition beginning with several photographs taken of a row of telephone booths at the intersection of Broadway, Sixth Avenue, and 34^th Street, subsequently combined as a montage.  The hyperrealism inherent in emulating photography owes something to the tradition of trompe l'oeil (deceives the eye) in that the works often were a deliberate attempt “…to confuse and disorient the viewer.  Despite depicting a recognizable scene, the complexity of the framing and the blurring of reflections require an additional effort of concentration, since nothing can be grasped at a single glance.”  The choice of setting does though hint at the way artists are selective to make the effect work, glass having the necessary characteristics to create ambiguities, the stuff simultaneously reflective and transparent.  What Estes did was use the accumulation of reflections as a “device of distortion”, some images sharply defined on the glass while others appearing on metallic surfaces slightly were warped while still allowing concurrent recognition of the booths before the eye and the buildings “behind us”, cues such as the signs of the Macy's and Woolworth there as markers of familiarity.  Making a painting from a photograph may sound simple (for those with the skill and time) but what Estes did was not mere transcription for he took his montage and rearranged it, Telephone Booths depicting a scene no single photograph recorded.  That didn’t exactly mean “montage beget collage” but it was an interesting take on “appropriating and reconstructing reality”.  For those who like the idea of telephone booths as subjects there are now fewer from which to choose but in many cities there are survivors (some re-purposed as Wi-Fi hotspots) and in Australia, one that provided vital communications when cellular (mobile) services were disabled by bushfires has been granted “Protected Heritage” status.

Central Savings (1975), oil on canvas by Richard Estes.  Reflected images were a feature of the photorealists, the scenes providing a useful layer of “pre-distortion”.

Tellingly, while Estes usually left his cityscapes devoid of human presence, in Telephone Booths there were four figures, each partially visible in the temporary sanctuary of their booth, backs to the viewer.  As a trick on the path to photorealism that was a wise choice because the almost flat expanses of a trench coat’s fabric makes the effect easier to achieve than the contours and colours of a human face.  However, for professional critic and ultracrepidarian alike, the meaning beneath (or perhaps “beyond”) is there for the viewer to take from it what they will, those better-versed in critical theory, tending sometimes to impart meaning, seeking to “know the mind of the artist”.  The Italian art critic Sandro Parmiggiani (b 1946) described those “on the phones” as “metaphors for broken voices and a faceless humanity, remaining unknowable within those impenetrable spaces, to which the stains that border their metallic edges allude as a visual rhyme, increasing the mystery and the visual bewilderment.”  Now we know.  The author John Updike (1932–2009) was no less a deconstructionist, declaring: “We know nothing about the two people on the far right, nothing except that their clothing is light-colored; we know even less about the couple on the left—they seem transparent in their oblique reflections. Thanks to the label of metropolitan crowd, these people have been reduced to mere signifiers affixed to telephone booths; like bytes.  The sounds of a computer or the strokes of a typewriter take their place and convey information. The emptiness of this information contrasts with the visual richness that the painter has imparted without sparing any effort, constructing a profoundly tender artistic irony.”  It was the Anglo-Irish satirist & Anglican cleric Jonathan Swift (1667–1745) who in the poem On Poetry: a Rhapsody (1733) included the lines:

Or else perhaps he may invent
A better than the poet meant;
As learned commentators view
In Homer more than Homer knew.

That pair of couplets became famous as a critique of overly obsessive literary critics & scholars anxious to find in texts hidden meanings and profundity, the objective perhaps not to inflate the esteem in which the author was held but enhance their own reputations; wisdom displayed by pointing out what the professor down the corridor failed to notice.  Swift may have made a famous point but mostly he was ignored and has of late been steamrollered by the post-modernists & deconstructionists able to construct “meanings in the meanings” although, unfortunately, so jargon-laden are some of their texts the meanings these formalist's documents sometimes barely are decipherable to all but fellow semioticians.  The industry has of course moved on from Homer and the words of figures like Bob Dylan (b 1941) and Jonathan Swift’s now more famous namesake (Taylor Swift (b 1989)) have been analysed as closely as any theologian has studied the Scriptures.  Dylan presumably was on occasions amused by finding out what “he really meant” and was modest, telling one interviewer he was “just a song & dance man” and another that those who “…called his lyrics poetry, probably hadn’t read much poetry”.  Still the critics clearly prevailed because in 2016 the Swedish Academy awarded Dylan the Nobel Prize in Literature, making him one of the more publicized laureates of recent decades.  Of Ms Swift’s oeuvre, meaning may be easier to find: she’s of her generation so the songs are “all about her”.

Hot Fudge Sundae (1972), oil on canvas by Ralph Goings.

The US painter Ralph Goings is sometimes said to have made photorealism “his signature” but it seems to have been more “his calling”, drawn to the technique because of a genuine “aesthetic objection” to the way pop-art artists of the 1960s were tending to expressionism (and even mannerism) in their depictions of simple, mundane objects.  Those approaches were of course “just another path to meaning” but for his bank buildings, diners (condiment sets very much a theme) and pick-up trucks, Goings emulated the camera’s objectivity although, without the original photographs, it’s not known if some licence was taken although almost certainly that happened.  While a dent in the tailgate of a parked pick-up truck is unexceptional, maybe it was added for some optical verisimilitude.  Estes’s Telephone Booths was admitted not to be a “pure” piece of eidetic imagery but a compositional piece that was a construct of what such an image might have been; Goings by contrast claimed always to be “true to the original”.

That should be treated as a statement of intent but Goings never exhibited the 35mm color slides that were his “intermediate tool” but he admitted going “beyond the photographs” in tweaking details such as light and color saturation or adjusting an inconvenient shadow.  That he used slides was also of significance because frequently, in a darkened room, he would project the images onto a primed, blank canvas, enabling him to bypass freehand drawing, instead with a pencil “tracing the grid”, meticulously rendering every the edge of every shape, contour or shadow.  That done, what’d he’d have was a kind of “paint-by-numbers” set, the canvas now an assembly of outlined shapes awaiting paint, the original photograph a legend of the color scheme.  So it could be called “craft” and the much skill and patience was demanded but whether that meant it should be called  “art” divided critics.  However, an artist’s relationship with the critics is just one aspect of life and there’s also the relationship with the auction houses and the customers; the current record sale price for a painting by Goings was some US$700,000 and his stuff definitely is now part of the “art market”.

Airstream (1970), oil on Molino by Ralph Goings (1928-2016), Mumok (Museum moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig Wien (Museum of modern art, Ludwig Foundation), Museumsquartier in Vienna, Austria.  Molino is a fabric-based support, often a plain-weave or un-primed textile material akin to the specialized canvas or heavy cotton & linen weaves used in Europe.  It's known also as “cotton duck canvas” but that has nothing to do with Anatidae feathers, "duck" from the Dutch doek (cloth). 

More eye-catching still was Airstream.  Still in production after 90 years, vintage Airstreams are a collectable, distinguished by their polished aluminium skins, a dramatic look that has at times been controversial because, on sunny days, the reflections from the large surface area were thought to be “distracting” for other road users.  Some owners of latter-day Shelby American Cobras (the originals (1962-1967) all painted) who opted for the expensive option of polished aluminum bodywork also came to rue the decision, the seductive curves showing every fingerprint.  The big Airstreams did however make a great photograph and, as Ralph Goings knew, a great photo had the potential to be a great painting though in his genre, it had to be the right photo.  Airstream was one of his favourites because he thought it best represented the possibilities in his technique and although what he did was in a sense “mechanical”, it could also be exacting, a few square inches of canvas sometimes taking days to complete.  For Goings, the paintings are best thought of as his “love affair with America”.

Lindsay Lohan rendered in the style of nineteenth century Impressionism (right) by Gemini.ai.  The digital version was based on a photograph (left) of her in a Jill Sander (b 1943) gown in light chartreuse from the Spring 2023 collection (with a Tyler Ellis (b 1984) Clutch, Joseph Saidian & Sons Vintage Marquise & Baguette Cut Diamond, Anabela Chan Orchid Diamond Cascade Earrings and Piferi Fade Sandals by Alfredo Pīferi (b 1987)) while attending the Disney Legends Awards ceremony, Anaheim, California, August, 2024.  On the day, although the environment was not optimized for photography, the light and breeze cooperated, the gown’s fabric swishing in a way the Impressionists would have painted, even had the air been still.  In the 2010s, as video cards became more powerful, software emerged to allow users to take photographs and re-create them in a wide variety of modes including pencil sketches, water colors, oils and even styles such as cubism.  This was the opposite process from that used by hyperrealists such as Estes and Goings; now generative AI makes possible just about anything able to be displayed on a screen.

The paradox of course was that Airstream was the exemplar of a painting functionally indistinguishable from a photograph thus illustrating the usual critique: What’s the point?  Why not just produce prints of the photograph, something able to be done in limitless quantities and at marginal cost?  That’s a classic utilitarian question and one that ignores a concept like l'art pour l'art (art for art's sake) but then, other than as generators or economic value, utilitarians likely thought society gained little benefit from movements such as vorticism, cubism, abstraction, expressionism and such.  There was also elitism in the disdain; photorealism associated with craft, folk-art, advertising, ordinary consumer objects and other fields tainted by commercialism (although the art-mafia was untroubled by their business being focused on money like few others).  Still, contemporary conceptual and abstract art was thought intellectually sophisticated in a way “copying photographs” could never match, the technical virtuosity less valued than the imagination of the “true artist”.  Despite all that, photorealism did find a niche and is now an accepted part of the industry.

The Hay Wain (1821), oil on canvas by John Constable (1776–1837), National Gallery, London (left) and Flatford Mill from a Lock on the Stour (circa 1811), oil on canvas by John Constable, Royal Academy of Arts, London (right).

John Constable was among the last generation of painters to live before the age of photography and although now regarded as one of the greatest of Britain’s landscape artists, in his lifetime he enjoyed only modest commercial success; not until the age of 52 was he elected to the RA (Royal Academy of Arts).  The two paintings above are examples of the different ways he painted, the high Romantic Flatford Mill from a Lock on the Stour noticeably less “realistic” than The Hay Wain, a work among his most elegiac.  Viewed retrospectively, as the technology of photography improved, there would have been times when each of these paintings could be deemed photorealistic (if, for purposes of comparison, rendered in gray-scale or sepia) but that was not the dominant artistic measure of the era.  It’s not known when Constable made his remark: “My pictures will never be popular for they have no handling, but I do not see handling in nature” (the quote appearing (undated) in Memoirs of the Life of John Constable, Esq (1843) by the UK-based US genre painter Charles Robert Leslie RA (1794–1859)) but it’s tempting to think it might have been before painting Flatford Mill, a work executed with notable “handling”.  Constable used “handling” (then trade jargon among the critics) to describe the painter’s visible manner of applying paint, the brushwork, facture, finish and characteristic “touch” by which a viewer could see how the artist worked their brush.  The comparison was something like the difference between watchmakers who took care to conceal their creations’ movements and those who made visible the wheels & cogs, Constable in effect saying “nature shows no painterly technique, so why should an artist?”  Time of course doesn’t display the mechanism of how it works any more than do the clouds in the sky: both just are.  The critics though were society’s opinion-makers (especially among those who actually paid arts for their work) and in Constable's time, an academic landscape painter of renown was expected to demonstrate skilful, controlled brushwork that made visible the mechanics of the action.  Not all did it in the same way but the most commercially successful had their ways of making obvious how the oil was blended and modulated, clouds, rocks, foliage and all the elements of landscape rendered through established conventions.  As well as the beauty of what was being depicted, the artist's execution was there to be admired.

The Opening of Waterloo Bridge seen from Whitehall Stairs, 18 June, 1817 (circa 1832), oil on canvas by John Constable, Tate Britain, London.  In the industry’s classification system, Constable is listed as a painter of landscapes, in the Romantic tradition but as much as anything, he was a painter of skies and cloudscapes.

Constable made no secret he thought these conspicuous displays of artistic virtuosity as “bravura”, preferring to be what he called a “natural painter” depicting the “natural environment”.  Discarding, the bravura taught during his student years, he eschewed “showing off” and let nature do the talking; nature having no brushstrokes and trees, clouds and sunlight without “handling”, manifesting only as optical phenomena.  That was what Constable wanted to paint.  He was though a realist and in some of his work there is much of his signature “handling”, rough, broken, apparently (though doubtlessly not) spontaneous brushwork applied in flecks, dabs, flecks, streaks and thick impasto (paint applied thickly to create a topography of peaks and crests that, in physically extending from the surface, lends something of a 3D (three-dimensional) effect), sometimes obviously using paint unmixed and straight “from the tube”.  Constable didn’t change his view that he wanted viewers to focus on the painting rather than the independent performance of the painter but whether “Constable 2.0” was an evolving artist or one adapting to commercial reality in “surrendering art to artifice” can be debated but what no historians dispute is that the later impressionists owed a debt to this exemplar of the Romantic movement.  Constable now is more highly regarded than ever he was in his lifetime.

Iconoclast

Iconoclast (pronounced ahy-kon-uh-klast)

(1) A person who attacks cherished beliefs, traditional institutions etc as being based on error or superstition.

(2) A breaker or destroyer of images, especially those set up for religious veneration.

(3) An adherent of the heretical movement within the Greek Orthodox Church from 725-842 AD, the ethos of which was the destruction of icons and religious images (late applied to the Puritans who pursued the same goal during the European Reformation).

1590–1600: From the Middle English, from the French iconoclaste from the Medieval Latin īconoclastēs from the Byzantine Greek εἰκονοκλάστης (eikonoklástēs) (literally image-breaker), the construct being eikono- (genitive eikonos) (icono-) + -klastēs (breaker), equivalent to klas-, variant stem of klân (to break) + -tēs (the agent noun suffix).  The early meaning referred to those who, in acts of theological obedience, literally physically broke or destroyed objects judged "idols"; the figurative meaning in reference to beliefs, cherished institutions etc emerged later, sources variously citing the first use between 1842-1858.  An older word for it was iconomachy (1580s), from the Greek eikonomakhia.  In geology, "clast" is technical term describing a fragment of rock broken from a larger rock or rock unit.  In a religious context, although not exact synonyms, the words often seen when discussing "iconoclast" include: "unbeliever", "revisionist", questioner", "dissenter", "heretic", "radical", "dissident", "non-believer", "critic", "rebel", "revolutionist", "cynic", "sceptic", "ruiner", "revisionist"  & "non-conformist".

In secular use, it’s different.  The targets of the self-appointed iconoclast Christopher Hitchens (1949-2011) included Dr Henry Kissinger (1923-2023; US national security advisor 1969-1975 & secretary of state 1973-1977), the Albanian-Indian Catholic nun Saint Saint Mother Teresa of Calcutta (Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu; 1910–1997; founder of the Missionaries of Charity (1950)) and God, his intellectual method being: “What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.”, now a rule in philosophical debate in the tradition of Bertrand Russell’s (1872–1970) teapot and known as Hitchens’ Razor.  That was based on the model of Occam's razor, a reductionist technique in problem-solving (known also as lex parsimoniae (Latin for “law of parsimony”, the idea being explanations are best found by reducing problems to the smallest number of elements)), attributed to English Franciscan friar, scholastic philosopher and theologian William of Ockham (or Occam, circa 1287-1347).  One suffering iconophobia (an aversion to icons) is said to be iconophobic but this is a condition in metal health (one of many phobias not listed in the APA's (American Psychiatric Association) DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) not necessarily related to any theological or doctrinal object to icons although there's no reason why the conditions can't run in parallel.  Those whose objection to icons is based on religious teachings maintain a position of iconomachy (hostility to images as objects of worship) and may be classed as iconomachs.  Iconoclast, iconoclasm & iconoclasticism are nouns, iconoclastic is a noun & adjective and iconoclastically is an adverb; the noun plural is iconoclasts.

The Byzantine Iconoclastic Controversy

The Iconoclastic Controversy, an eighth & ninth century dispute over the use of religious images in the Byzantine Empire, was one of the many squabbles in Christendom (and other religions) triggered by arguments between those reading ancient texts literally and those treating them as allegory.  Thanks mostly to the efforts of medieval (and later) writers further to the west, much of what grew from the city of Byzantium was a reputation for rules of needless complexity, bureaucracy and seriously weird theology but more recent scholarship of the empire's history of over a millennium has been more positive and there’s now a recognition that in the history of Western civilization, something remarkable happened on the Bosphorus.  The place did though have its moments and the iconoclasts objected to icon veneration, essentially because of the Old Testament's prohibition of images in the Ten Commandments and the possibility of idolatry.

Byzantine icons.

4 Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.

5 Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me;

6 And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments. (Exodus 20:4 (King James Version of the Bible (KJV, 1611))

The defenders of the importance of imagery insisted on their symbolic nature and the dignity of created matter and nor was the controversy in Constantinople anything new.  From the Church’s earliest days, the making and veneration of portraits of Christ and the saints had been opposed by many but the use of icons nevertheless steadily gained in popularity, especially in the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire.  By the late sixth century, icons had become the object of an officially encouraged cult, sometimes implying a superstitious belief in their animation and the opposition to these practices became especially strong in Asia Minor (the modern-day Republic of Türkiye (Turkey)).  In 726, the Byzantine emperor Leo III (circa 685–741) took a public stand against the perceived worship of icons, and in 730 proscribed their use, trigging a persecution of icon venerators that was most severe in the reign of Leo’s successor (Constantine V (741–775)).  While the emperor’s scholars expressed the theological edict in elegant Byzantine script, on the ground, the smashing of icons and the attacks on the idolaters was done by angry mobs, assembled for the purpose by the social media of the day, events reprised in the sixteen and seventeenth centuries by Protestants in the Netherlands who vandalized former Roman Catholic churches in a second (and most enthusiastic) burst of iconoclasm.

Icon of the Empress Theodora, from a sixth century wall mosaic, Church of San Vitale, Ravenna, Italy.

Over the decades, in Byzantine fashion, power shifted between the factions.  In 787, the Empress Irene (circa 752–803) convoked the seventh ecumenical council at Nicaea at which Iconoclasm was condemned and the use of images was again permitted.  The Iconoclasts regained power in 814 after the accession of Leo V (circa 755-820) meaning icons returned to the banned list after a ruling at a council in 815, the prohibition lasting until the death of the Emperor Theophilus (Circa 800-842).  Within a year of his death, his widow, the Empress Theodora (circa 815–circa 870s), finally restored icon veneration, an event still celebrated in the Eastern Orthodox Church as the Feast of Orthodoxy although, in a piece of theological sophistry that would have impressed any pope, or those writing the tortured communiqués emerging from Lambeth Conferences, Theodora explained she was permitting only veneration (not worship) and in that state, the Eastern Orthodox view of icons has rested for more than a thousand years.

Neville Chamberlain in “uniform” (bowler hat, winged collar, watch fob & chain and rolled umbrella), 10 Downing Street, July 1937.

Presumably it was for veneration rather than worship one Greek Orthodox church in October 1938 wrote to 10 Downing Street asking for one of Neville Chamberlain's (1869–1940; prime minister of the UK 1937-1940) umbrellas so it could be made into an icon.  Cheered in the House of Commons and for a while the most popular man in Europe after negotiating in Munich "peace in our time", Chamberlain's earnest, sincere hopes for peace were soon dashed.  Chamberlain had often been photographed carrying his rolled black umbrella; it was part of an English gentleman’s “uniform” but when the moral and political bankruptcy of the Munich Agreement was exposed, rapidly his umbrella was transformed from an icon of civilized diplomacy into an emblem of a naïve and ineffectual amateur unsuited to a dangerous new world.  He was the “prime suspect” among 15 and named as “Umbrella Man” in the 1940 pamphlet Guilty Men (an excoriation of the well-intentioned (and highly popular) but failed policy of appeasement) by Cato (the pseudonym of three politically-aligned journalists (Frank Owen (1905-1979, Liberal), Michael Foot (1913-2010, Labour) and Peter Howard (1908-1965, Conservative).  It's not known if the priest ever got his umbrella.  

Screen icons: A MS-Windows 11 system running Windows 10 GUI emulation.

Although, reflecting the state of electronics at the time, the early implementations were chunky and the color range was limited, screen icons first appeared in computer GUIs (graphical user interfaces) in 1973 on the experimental Xerox Alto computer developed at Xerox's PARC (Palo Alto Research Center, later re-branded as the Future Concepts division).  The Xerox Star (1981) is believed to be the first commercially available system (technically a workstation) with a GUI including many now familiar screen icons (folders, trash can etc) although it wasn't until 1975 Xerox began using "icon" to name the shapes.  As many analysts have pondered, such was Xerox's jump-start in what evolved into personal computing that had things been handled differently, it might have been Xerox rather than IBM, Microsoft and Apple which came to dominate the field; within the industry, it’s acknowledged both Apple and Microsoft drew on the pioneering work by Xerox when developing their own GUIs.  Apple’s Lisa (1983-1986) from the start used an icon-rich GUI and although a landmark technical achievement, it was too expensive ever to succeed in the consumer market and in corporate use it was only ever a niche device.

Screen icon: Icon is now one of popular culture's more overused words, but, in fairness, there's been a bit of meaning-shift and re-purposing since the iconoclasts rampaged through Constantinople's churches, all those years ago.

It was the less ambitious Apple Macintosh (1984) that (at around a quarter the Lisa’s price) first popularized the GUI although in the 1980s, such was the influence of IBM (International Business Machines) that although the original IBM PC (1981) and its immediate successors were in many aspects less capable than the Macintosh, those modest machines achieved a much higher level of corporate penetration that Apple in the pre-mobile era managed.  Microsoft though could see the writing on the wall and as early as 1983, the first release of Windows (a GUI operating environment that ran “on top” of the PC & MS-DOS operating systems) included screen icons although, because of limitations in cost-competitive hardware, the implementation was partial with file-loading happening through text-lists while the icons appeared at the base on the screen only when running programs that had been minimized.  Not until Microsoft Windows 3.0 (1990) did the icons appear as central elements and mainstream corporate acceptance came with the release of Windows NT 4.0 (1996) and Windows 98 (1998), both with the object-oriented GUI still used by current versions of Windows.  In the early 1980s, command line junkies of course viewed icons as effete things needed only by “girly men unable to memorize arcane text strings” but, after a while, even those curmudgeons found themselves mousing their way around and clicking rather than typing; they didn’t long remain iconoclasts and many now would deny they ever were.

Breadvan

Breadvan (pronounced bred-vann)

(1) A delivery vehicle adapted for carrying loaves of bread or other bakery items for delivery to retail outlets, hotels, cafés etc.

(2) As the Ferrari 250 GT SWB (short wheelbase) “Breadvan”, a one-off vehicle produced in 1962.

(3) As a descriptor of the “breadvan” style applied to the rear of vehicles to seek aerodynamic advantages in competition, variously applied, mostly during the 1960s & 1970s.

1840s: A compound word, the construct being bread + van.  Bread was from the Middle English bred & breed (kind of food made from flour or the meal of some grain, kneaded into a dough, fermented, and baked), from the Old English brēad (fragment, bit, morsel, crumb), from the Proto-West Germanic braud, from the Proto-Germanic braudą (cooked food, leavened bread), from the primitive Indo-European berw- & brew- (to boil, to see).  Etymologists note also the Proto-Germanic braudaz & brauþaz (broken piece, fragment), from the primitive Indo-European bera- (to split, beat, hew, struggle) and suggest bread may have been a conflation of both influences.  It was cognate with the Old Norse brauð (bread), the Old Frisian brad (bread), the Middle Dutch brot (bread), the German Brot (bread), the Scots breid (bread), the Saterland Frisian Brad (bread), the West Frisian brea (bread), the Dutch brood (bread), the Danish & Norwegian brød (bread), the Swedish bröd (bread), the Icelandic brauð (bread), the Albanian brydh (I make crumbly, friable, soft) and the Latin frustum (crumb).  It displaced the non-native Middle English payn (bread), from the Old French pain (bread), having in the twelfth century replaced the usual Old English word for "bread" (hlaf).  Van was short for caravan, from the Middle French caravane, from the French caravane, from the Old French carvane & carevane, (or the Medieval Latin caravana), from the Persian کاروان‎ (kârvân), from the Middle Persian (kārawān) (group of desert travelers), from the Old Persian, ultimately from the primitive Indo-European ker- (army).  Most famously, the word was used to designate a group of people who were travelling by camel or horse on the variety of routes referred to as the Silk Road and it reached the West after being picked up during the Crusades, from the Persian forms via the Arabic qairawan and connected ultimately to the Sanskrit karabhah (camel).  Breadvan (also as bread-van) is a noun; the noun plural is breadvans.

Breadvans various

Progress: Horse-drawn breadvan (left) and Austin (left) & Morris (right), breadvans, Melbourne, Australia, 1959 (right).  The Morris Commercial J-type was produced between 1949 and 1961 and between 1957 and 1960s there was also a “badge-engineered” (and mechanically identical) Austin version.  The BMC (British Motor Corporation) conglomerate (that ultimately would be absorbed into the doomed British Leyland (1968-1986) became notorious for “badge-engineering” (one model produced under six different brands) their passenger cars but their light commercial vehicles often were produced as both an Austin and Morris, the original rationale being to provide products to sometimes separate dealer networks.

The breadvans were first horse-drawn and came into use in the in the 1840s.  These vans were used to transport freshly baked bread from bakeries to homes and businesses in cities and towns in the UK, Europe, North America and Australasia.  The breadvan was adopted as an efficiency measure, being a significant improvement on the traditional system of delivery which was usually a “baker’s boy” carrying baskets of bread on foot to customers.  The horse-drawn breadvans allowed bakers increase production and expand their customer base.  The construction of the vehicles was not particularly specialized but they did need to be (1) waterproof to protect the goods from the elements and (2) secure enough that the bread was not accessible by opportunistic birds, dogs or thieves.  Enzo Ferrari (1898-1988) became famous for the cars carrying his name (though never much associated with breadvans) but his imperious attitude to customers and employees alike led to a number of them storming out of Maranello and creating their own machines.  Some, like Lamborghini endured through many ups & downs, others like Bizzarrini survived for a while and ATS (Automobili Turismo Sport) produced a dozen exquisite creations before succumbing to commercial reality.  Another curious product of a dispute with il Commendatore was the Ferrari 250 GT SWB “Breadvan”.

Ferrari 250 GT SWB “Breadvan” in profile (left) and leading a 250 GT SWB, the car on which it was based.

Ferrari’s 250 GTO became available to customers in 1962 and one with his name on the list was Count Giovanni Volpi di Misurata (b 1938), principal of the Scuderia Serenissima (Scuderia SSS Republica di Venezia) operation but when Enzo Ferrari found out Volpi was one of the financial backers of the ATS project, he scratched the count’s name from the order book.  Through one of the back channel deals still a feature of Italian commerce, Volpi did obtain a GTO but he decided he’d like to make a point to il Commendatore so opted to make something even better for his team’s assault on the 1962 Le Mans 24 hour endurance classic.  In the Scuderia Serenissima stable was what was reputed to be the world’s fastest Ferrari GT SWB (serial number 2819 GT) and it was decided to update this to a specification beyond even that of the GTO, a task entrusted to Giotto Bizzarrini (1926-2023) who, with remarkable alacrity, performed the task in the workshops of noted coachbuilder Piero Drogo (1926–1973).  The changes wrought were radical indeed.  To obtain the ideal centre of gravity, the 3.0 litre (180 cubic inch) V12 engine was shifted 4¾ inches (120 mm) rearward, sitting entirely behind the front axle and mounted lower, something permitted by the installation of a dry sump lubrication system.  Emulating the factory GTO, six downdraft, twin choke Weber carburetors sat atop the inlet manifold, the tuned engine generating a healthy 300 HP (horsepower).  Given the re-engineering, on paper, the car was at least a match for the GTO except it lacked the factory machine’s five-speed gearbox, running instead the standard four-speed.  

Ferrari 250 GT SWB “Breadvan”.  It's not known if anyone has ever calculated the rear compartment's capacity but it would have held a few loaves and they'd likely have been delivered more quickly than most.

What really caught the eye however was Bizzarrini’s striking bodywork, the sharp nose so low a Perspex cover had to be fabricated to shield the cluster of a dozen velocity stacks of the Webers protruding above the hood (bonnet) line.  Most extraordinary however was the roofline that extended from the top of the windscreen to the rear where it was sharply cut-off to create what remains perhaps the most extreme Kammtail ever executed.  The count was impressed, the creation matching the GTO for power while being 100 kg (220 lb) lighter and aerodynamically more efficient.  Accordingly he included it in the three-car Ferrari team he assembled for Le Mans along with the GTO and a 250 TR/61; it's appearance caused a sensation, the French dubbing it la camionnette (little truck) but it was the English nickname “Breadvan” that really caught on.  To a degree the count proved his point.  Under pressure from Ferrari the organizers forced the Breadvan to run in the prototype class against pure racing cars rather than the GTOs in the granturismo category but in the race, it outpaced the whole GT field until, after four hours, a broken driveshaft forced its retirement.  Subsequently, it was entered that season in a further four events, scoring two GT class victories and a class track record before being retired.  Count Volpi sold the car in 1965 for US$2,800 (it was then just another no longer competitive, "clapped-out" race car) but it has survived to be a popular entrant on the historic racing circuit.

2021 Ferrari Breadvan homage by Niels van Roij Design.

Dutch designer Niels van Roij (b 1984) runs a specialist design house and in 2019 was commissioned to built a one-off “Ferrari Breadvan homage”.  Two years in the making, the project was based on a 550 Maranello (tipo F133, 1996-2002), the model chosen because it was the company’s last front-engined, V12 built with the classic open-gate manual transmission.  With the increase in the money supply (most of which went to the upper few percent of the population), the market for bespoke creations (thought effectively extinct since the demise in the 1960s of most of the coach-building business) has grown and for those not content with the long and expensive option lists now offered by some manufacturers, true exclusivity can be obtained by commissioning a one-off creation.  Typically, the things cost at least US$2 million.  

Breadvans, crashed and fixed.

Breadvans ancient and (slightly more) modern can crash or otherwise be damaged and while some will be written off (typically if replacement is economically more viable than repair), if the vehicle is sufficiently valuable, it will be repaired.  The Ferrari Breadvan hasn’t been sold in a public exchange since the mid-1960s although it has shifted between collections on a number of occasions but always via private treaties.  A current market valuation is thus speculative but as a unique Ferrari 250 SWB of historical significance, it will be a big number and current estimates are between US$25-30 million, a reasonable increase from the US$2,800 realized in 1965.  So, the dented Ferrari Breadvan gets fixed and England’s RS Panels, based in Attleborough Fields Industrial Estate, Nuneaton was entrusted with the task after one “prang”.  Specialists in the aluminum and steel panels forming the usually curvaceous but occasionally brutalist lines of classic-era Ferraris, Maseratis, Jaguars, Aston Martins and such, as many owners discovered after RS returned their repaired or restored cars, they found the fit and finish was of a higher standard than when they left the factory, all those years ago.  Ferraris especially were notorious for looking gorgeous but if one looked too closely at the welds and joins not usually seen, the impression could be a little dented.  After emerging from RS Panels, it’s likely the Breadvan is in its finest ever condition.

1965 Ford GT40 Mark I (left) 1966 Ford J Car (centre) & 1967 Ford GT40 Mark IV (right).

As well as the ATS, Lamborghinis and Bizzarrinis, Enzo Ferrari’s attitude to those who disagreed with him also begat the Ford GT40, a well-known tale recounted (with a little license) in the 20th century Fox film Ford vs Ferrari (2019).  In 7.0 litre (427 cubic inch) form, the GT40 Mark II won at Le Mans in 1966 but Ford’s engineers were aware the thing was overweight and lacked the aerodynamic efficiency of the latest designs so embarked on a development program, choosing the project name “J Car”, an allusion to the “Appendix J” regulations (one of the few genuinely good ideas the FIA (Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile (the International Automobile Federation) came up with before it became world sport's dopiest regulatory body) with which it conformed.  The aluminum honeycomb chassis was commendably light and, noting the speed advantage gained by the Ferrari Breadvan in 1962, a similar rear section was fabricated with tests confirming the reduction in drag.  Unfortunately, the additional speed it enabled exposed the limitation of the breadvanesque lines: above a certain speed the large flat surface acted like an aircraft’s wing and the ensuing lift provoked lethal instability, one fatal crash proving the lightweight chassis also was fragile.  The “J Car” was thus abandoned and a more conventional approach was taken for both the chassis and body of the GT40 Mark IV and it proved successful, in 1967 gaining the second of Ford’s four successive victories at Le Mans (1966-1969).

The modern Ferrari "breadvans"

Ferrari 250 GT SWB “Breadvan” (left) and 2013 Ferrari FF (right).

Rather than the 250 Breadvan, it was probably market research that inspired the Ferrari FF (2011-2016), the Italian factory's first take on the shooting brake concept although in the 1950s there had been some built with opening rear hatches a la the fixed-roof versions of the Jaguar E-Type (1961-1974).  Over the decades, there had been more than a dozen "variations on the theme of a Ferrari station wagon" by a number of coachbuilders, all in their own way distinctive but none improved the lines of the donor car on which they were based, unlike the Jaguar XJS shooting brakes which looked so good it was remarkable one never appeared in the factory's catalogue.  According to the factory, "FF" stood for "Ferrari Four" a reference to the AWD (all wheel drive) configuration although it may also have been intended to remind potential buyers the thing could seat four and the promotional material included pictures of ski-racks and even a roof-mounted “ski-box”, able to hold ski-gear for four.  Clearly, the combination of AWD traction and the carrying capacity was a hint this was a car for those who liked to drive to the ski-fields.  The Ferrari FF "shooting brake" (the factory seems not to have used the term although most journalists seems to thought it best except the better informed who referenced the 250 "Breadvan") was very much in the same vein, its capaciousness closer to that of a “big coupé” rather than any size of station wagon although the factory did circulate photographs of the rear-compartment comfortably (if snugly) packed with a set of golf-clubs and a half dozen-odd travel bags; with folding rear seats, Ferrari claimed a trunk (boot) capacity of 450-800 litres (16-28 cubic feet).

1966 Jensen FF Series 1 (left) and 2017 Ferrari GTC4Lusso (right).

Despite the name, there was apparently no intention to link the car with the Jensen FF (1966-1971) a pioneering machine which featured both all wheel drive (AWD although then still called 4WD (four wheel drive)) and anti-lock brakes (an early, mechanical implementation derived from use in aviation which was most effective).  Anti-lock braking is essentially a form of “pressure modulation” and the modern abbreviation "ABS" doesn’t reference the often quoted  “Anti-Lock Braking System”; the correct source is Anti-Bloc System, the name adopted in 1966 when Daimler-Benz and the Heidelberg electronics company Teldix (later absorbed by Bosch) began a co-development of a hybrid analogue-electronic system.  The system used on the Jensen FF was an early, mechanical implementation derived from use in aviation which have proved effective for aircraft landing on icy runways).

Marketing opportunity for niche players: A Lindsay Lohan breadvan, Reykjavik, Iceland.

The Jensen FF really wasn’t a shooting brake although the huge and distinctive rear window was also a hatch so it did offer some of the advantages.  Despite the high price, the Jensen FF sold remarkably well but its market potential was limited because all Ferguson’s development work had been done in England using RHD (right-hand-drive) vehicles and the system was so specific it wasn’t possible to make a left-hand-drive (LHD) FF without re-engineering the whole mechanism, the apparatus so bulky the passenger's front seat was narrower than that of the driver so much did things intrude.  Consequently, only 320 were built, apparently at a financial loss.  Ferrari did better with their FF, over 2000 sold between 2011–2016 and although the packaging may have been remarkably efficient, with a 6.3 litre (382 cubic inch) V12 it was never going to be economical, listed by the 2013 US Department of Energy as the least fuel-efficient car in the midsize class, sharing that dubious honor with the bigger, heavier (though not as rapid) Bentley Mulsanne.  For owners, the 335 km/h (208 mph) top speed was presumably sufficient compensation.  When production ended, the FF was replaced by the conceptually similiar GTC4Lusso (2016-2020) and, unusually, in 2017 the factory announced the GTC4Lusso T, the appended "T" a reference to it being powered by a twin-turbocharged V8 rather than its older sibling's V12; the V8 was RWD (rear wheel drive) but did retain the 4WS (four-wheel steering) system.  The last of the pair left the factory late in 2020 and were not replaced so there have been no Ferrari Breadvans since.

Homemade breadvans

Ford Anglia, Rallye Monte-Carlo, 1962 (left) & Ford Anglia "breadvans" built for New Zealand Allcomer racing during the 1960s.

In the US, at a time with a million dollars was still a lot of money, Ford spent probably at least a million on the GT40’s abortive breadvan but in New Zealand, it doubtful the amateur racers in the popular “Allcomers” category (a close cousin of the admirable Formula Libre) spent even UD$100 in the development of their “breadvans”.  In the Allcomer category, the “breadvans” (again a nod to the Count Volpi’s 1962 Ferrari) were Ford Anglias with a rear section modified to gain some aerodynamic advantage.  The English Ford Anglia 105E (1959–1968) had an unusual reverse-angle rear-window (borrowed from some of the corporation's US Lincolns & Mercurys), a design chosen to optimize headroom for back-seat passengers and that it did but it also induced additional drag which, while of no great consequence at the speeds attained in rallying or on public roads, did compromise the top speed, something of great concern to those who found the light, agile machines otherwise well-suited to racing.  In the spirit of improvisation for which New Zealand Allcomer racing was renowned, “breadvans” soon proliferated, fabricated variously from fibreglass, aluminum or steel (and reputedly even paper-mache although that may be apocryphal and based on the use of the technique to create molds for a fibreglass structure) and the approach was successful, Anglias competitive in some forms of racing well into the 1970s by which time some had, improbably, been re-powered with V8 engines, an Allcomer solution for just about any problem.

La camionnette: Citroën Baguette Vans

1972 Citroën SM with Michelin's RR “plastic” wheels.

The Citroën SM (1970-1975) was not the success the manufacturer had anticipated in the heady days of the mid 1960s when the design parameters were finalized.  Then, oil was cheap, seemingly limitless and rules about exhaust emissions and safety so minor as to be barely an impediment to the imagination of engineers but, in a very short time much would change, notably US legislators beginning to impose passenger vehicle emission standards in an attempt to reduce the smog that had become a blight upon many cities and the publication in 1965 of Unsafe at Any Speed by crusading lawyer Ralph Nader (b 1934).  Nader’s book was an incitement of the design of US-built cars but what it triggered was an on-rush of legislation that would be imposed on any car sold in that lucrative market and while re-engineering was viable for some imports selling in volume, for niche products, the accountants couldn’t make the economics work; the SM was one of many victims, the last sold in the US leaving the showroom in 1973.  That meant its demise there couldn’t be blamed on the first oil shock (1973-1974) that wrought such a change on the global industry and one of the ironies of the era is that among vehicles sold in the US in its price range and offering such performance (especially were top-speed used as a yardstick), the SM was the one with the lowest fuel consumption, achieved by the use of a relatively small (a V6 of 2.7 or 3.0 litres (163 or 181 cubic inch)) and what were at the time industry-leading aerodynamics.

1974 Citroën HY (1947–1981) breadvan.

Things were however different in Europe where gas (petrol) was more expensive and an engine of that displacement was thought “large”; greatly SM sales were affected although the writing was on the wall even before OAPEC (Organization of Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries) on 17 October, 1973 imposed their first oil embargo, the car’s reputation for unreliability and costly maintenance spreading rapidly although that was a product more of infrastructure than design.  While by the standards of the time a complex machine, experience has shown well-maintained SMs are commendably robust but the problem was the Maserati-sourced V6 engine was unusual in using a 90^o configuration (it was essentially a cut-down V8) meaning aspects of the tuning were novel to most mechanics and the hydraulic systems were in some ways different to those used on the DS (1955-1975), the car on which most mechanics had gained their experience of such things.  As it was, sales in Europe dropped precipitously after 1971 (the first year of full-production) and the SM’s future likely anyway would have been bleak had it not been doomed by the rising price of gas and the loss of the lucrative US market.

1988 Citroën 2CV (1948-1990) camionnette.

The SM had been one of the cases of “mission creep” that were a characteristic of the industry in the optimistic and prosperous 1960s.  The origin design brief issued in 1960 had been for a “high-performance DS”, a car that although the lines were upon release in 1955 stunningly modernist (“like a spaceship” a phrase frequently used in press reports), was always hampered by having to use an ancient and rather agricultural four-cylinder power-plant, the funds to develop the planned flat-6 the car deserved never made available.  Even in 1970, the Maserati V6 wasn’t ideal for such a machine but Citroën in 1968 had acquired the Italian concern with the express purpose of gaining an engine powerful enough for a grand-touring car (then a challenging assignment for something with FWD (front-wheel-drive)) and although the V6 delivered the desired power, the compromises inherent in the 90^o layout meant the ultimate smoothness and refinement expected in such cars was never quite achieved.  Still, it was in so many ways unique that many were prepared to overlook the odd foible and the press response generally was enthusiastic, as was that of the public with sales in the first two seasons approaching expectations.  However, the reputation for unreliability and costly repairs quickly quelled demand and the unfortunate “external circumstances” of 1973-1974 ensured the project would be terminated earlier than planned with fewer than 13,000 having been built.  Had the SM been the company’s only disastrous venture in the troubled 1970s, Citroën may have been able to avoid bankruptcy but the mistakes had been many and in 1974 administrators were called in, the company sold to the more stable Peugeot (with a still murky involvement by the French state).

1971 Citroën SM "Breadvan".

Between 1970 and 1975, the factory produced the SM only as a LHD (left-hand drive), two-door coupé but coach-builders saw the possibilities with four-door sedans and two-door cabriolets being constructed along with some even more exotic creations but all were very expensive and production of none of these variants reached double figures.  Most exclusive however were the two SM Présidentielles, four-door cabriolets built for le président’s parades during state occasions, the pair not retired from the Élysée Palace’s fleet until 2009.  Unusually among state limousines built since the 1940s, the Présidentielles used the SM’s five-speed manual transmission, first gear being a “crawler”, enabling the cars to percolate slowly along.  Improbable as the SM may have seemed as a rally car, the factory did enter a number of them in such events and for a couple of seasons there was some success, demonstrating also the strength of the novel “plastic wheels” (the Michelin RR (roues resin (resin wheel)) properly described as “constructed of synthetic resin reinforced with long-strand carbon fibre”) but the most eye-catching were a handful of SWB versions, some of which (it may have been as many as four) used the “breadvan” style kammback, a la the earlier Ferrari.  This further improved the aerodynamics which, combined with lower weight and engines tuned for additional power, delivered a reputed top speed of 285 km/h (177 mph, with rally-car gearing!), some 60 km/h (35 mph) more than the fastest of the production models.  It thus joined the short list of "unlikely rally cars" but it was effective and more might have been achieve had the company's financial problems not curtailed the venture.  More practically, the rear compartment allowed an additional two spare tyres to be carried, a useful asset in long-distant events conducted over rough roads.