Futurism

Futurism (pronounced fyoo-chuh-riz-uhm)

(1) A movement in avant-garde art, developed originally by a group of Italian artists in 1909 in which forms (derived often from the then novel cubism) were used to represent rapid movement and dynamic motion  (sometimes with initial capital letter)

(2) A style of art, literature, music, etc and a theory of art and life in which violence, power, speed, mechanization or machines, and hostility to the past or to traditional forms of expression were advocated or portrayed (often with initial capital letter).

(3) As futurology, a quasi-discipline practiced by (often self-described) futurologists who attempt to predict future events, movements, technologies etc.

(4) In the theology of Judaism, the Jewish expectation of the messiah in the future rather than recognizing him in the presence of Christ.

(5) In the theology of Christianity, eschatological interpretations associating some Biblical prophecies with future events yet to be fulfilled, including the Second Coming.

1909: From the Italian futurismo (literally "futurism" and dating from circa 1909), the construct being futur(e) + -ism.  Future was from the Middle English future & futur, from the Old French futur, (that which is to come; the time ahead) from the Latin futūrus, (going to be; yet to be) which (as a noun) was the irregular suppletive future participle of esse (to be) from the primitive Indo-European bheue (to be, exist; grow).  It was cognate with the Old English bēo (I become, I will be, I am) and displaced the native Old English tōweard and the Middle English afterhede (future (literally “afterhood”) in the given sense.  The technical use in grammar (of tense) dates from the 1520s.  The –ism suffix was from the Ancient Greek ισμός (ismós) & -isma noun suffixes, often directly, sometimes through the Latin –ismus & isma (from where English picked up ize) and sometimes through the French –isme or the German –ismus, all ultimately from the Ancient Greek (where it tended more specifically to express a finished act or thing done).  It appeared in loanwords from Greek, where it was used to form abstract nouns of action, state, condition or doctrine from verbs and on this model, was used as a productive suffix in the formation of nouns denoting action or practice, state or condition, principles, doctrines, a usage or characteristic, devotion or adherence (criticism; barbarism; Darwinism; despotism; plagiarism; realism; witticism etc).  Futurism, futurology, & futurology are nouns, futurist is a noun & adjective and futuristic is an adjective; the noun plural is futurisms.

Lindsay Lohan in Maison Martin Margiela (b 1957) Futuristic Eyewear.

As a descriptor of the movement in art and literature, futurism (as the Italian futurismo) was adopted in 1909 by the Italian poet Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1876-1944) and the first reference to futurist (a practitioner in the field of futurism) dates from 1911 although the word had been used as early as 1842 in Protestant theology in the sense of “one who holds that nearly the whole of the Book of Revelations refers principally to events yet to come”.  The secular world did being to use futurist to describe "one who has (positive) feelings about the future" in 1846 but for the remainder of the century, use was apparently rare.  The (now probably extinct) noun futurity was from the early seventeenth century.  The noun futurology was introduced by Aldous Huxley (1894-1963) in his book Science, Liberty and Peace (1946) and has (for better or worse), created a minor industry of (often self-described) futurologists.  In theology, the adjective futuristic came into use in 1856 with reference to prophecy but use soon faded.  In concert with futurism, by 1915 it referred in art to “avant-garde; ultra-modern” while by 1921 it was separated from the exclusive attachment to art and meant also “pertaining to the future, predicted to be in the future”, the use in this context spiking rapidly after World War II (1939-1945) when technological developments in fields such as ballistics, jet aircraft, space exploration, electronics, nuclear physics etc stimulated interest in such progress.

Untouched: Crooked Hillary Clinton (b 1947; US secretary of state 2009-2013) & Bill Clinton (b 1946; US president 1993-2001) with cattle, 92^nd Annual Hopkinton State Fair, Contoocook, New Hampshire, September 2007.

Futures, a financial instrument used in the trade of currencies and commodities appeared first in 1880; they allow (1) speculators to bet on price movements and (2) producers and sellers to hedge against price movements and in both cases profits (and losses) can be booked against movement up or down.  Futures trading can be lucrative but is also risky, those who win gaining from those who lose and those in the markets are usually professionals.  The story behind crooked Hillary Clinton's extraordinary profits in cattle futures (not a field in which she’d previously (or has subsequently) displayed interest or expertise) while “serving” as First Lady of Arkansas ((1979–1981 & 1983–1992) remains murky but it can certainly be said that for an apparently “amateur” dabbling in a market played usually by experienced professionals, she was remarkably successful and while perhaps there was some luck involved, her trading record was such it’s a wonder she didn’t take it up as a career.  While many analysts have, based on what documents are available, commented on crooked Hillary’s somewhat improbable (and apparently sometime “irregular”) foray into cattle futures, there was never an “official governmental investigation” by an independent authority and no thus adverse findings have ever been published.  

The Arrival (1913), oil on canvas by Christopher Richard Wynne Nevinson (1889-1946), Tate Gallery.

Given what would unfold over during the twentieth century, it’s probably difficult to appreciate quite how optimistic was the Western world in the years leading up to the World War I (1914-1918).  Such had been the rapidity of the discovery of novelties and of progress in so many fields that expectations of the future were high and, beginning in Italy, futurism was a movement devoted to displaying the energy, dynamism and power of machines and the vitality and change they were bringing to society.  It’s also often forgotten that when the first futurist exhibition was staged in Paris in 1912, the critical establishment was unimpressed, the elaborate imagery with its opulence of color offending their sense of refinement, now so attuned to the sparseness of the cubists.

The Hospital Train (1915), oil on canvas by Gino Severini (1883-1966), Stedelijk Museum.

Futurism had debuted with some impact, the Paris newspaper Le Figaro in 1909 publishing the manifesto by Italian poet Filippo Tommaso Marinetti. Marinetti which dismissed all that was old and celebrated change, originality, and innovation in culture and society, something which should be depicted in art, music and literature. Marinetti exalted in the speed, power of new technologies which were disrupting society, automobiles, aeroplanes and other clattering machines.  Whether he found beauty in the machines or the violence and conflict they delivered was something he left his readers to decide and there were those seduced by both but his stated goal was the repudiation of traditional values and the destruction of cultural institutions such as museums and libraries.  Whether this was intended as a revolutionary roadmap or just a provocation to inspire anger and controversy is something historians have debated.  Assessment of Marinetti as a poet has always been colored by his reputation as a proto-fascist and some treat as "fake mysticism" his claim his "visions" of the future and the path to follow to get there came to him in the moment of a violent car crash. 

Futurismo: Uomo Nuovo (New Man, 1918), drawing by Mario Sironi (1885-1961).

As a technique, the futurist artists borrowed much from the cubists, deploying the same fragmented and intersecting plane surfaces and outlines to render a number of simultaneous, overlaid views of an object but whereas the cubists tended to still life, portraiture and other, usually static, studies of the human form, the futurists worshiped movement, their overlays a device to depict rhythmic spatial repetitions of an object’s outlines during movement.  People did appear in futurist works but usually they weren’t the focal point, instead appearing only in relation to some speeding or noisy machine.  Some of the most prolific of the futurist artists were killed in World War I and as a political movement it didn’t survive the conflict, the industrial war dulling the public appetite for the cult of the machine.  However, the influence of the compositional techniques continued in the 1920s and contributed to art deco which, in more elegant form, would integrate the new world of machines and mass-production into motifs still in use today.

Motociclista (Motorcyclist, circa 1924), oil on canvas by Mario Sironi.

By the early twentieth century when the Futurism movement emerged, machines and mechanism were already hundreds of years old (indeed the precursor devices pre-date Christ) but what changed was the new generations of machines had become sexy (at least in the eyes of men), associated as they were with something beyond mere functionalism: speed and style.  While planes, trains & automobiles all attracted the futurists, the motorcycle was a much-favored motif because it possessed an intimacy beyond other forms of transportation in that, literally it was more an extension of the human body, the rider at speed conforming to the shape of the structure fashioned for aerodynamic efficiency with hands and feet all directly attached to the vital controls: machine as extension of man.

The Modern Boy No. 100, Vol 4, Week Ending 4 January, 1930.

The Modern Boy (1928-1939) was, as the name implies, a British magazine targeted at males aged 12-18 and the content reflected the state of mind in the society of the inter-war years, the 1930s a curious decade of progress, regression, hope and despair.  Although what filled much of the pages (guns, military conquest and other exploits, fast cars and motorcycles, stuff the British were doing in other peoples’ countries) would today see the editors cancelled or visited by one of the many organs of the British state concerned with the suppression of such things), it was what readers (presumably with the acquiescence of their parents) wanted.  Best remembered of the authors whose works appeared in The Modern Boy was Captain W.E. Johns (1893–1968), a World War I RFC (Royal Flying Corps) pilot who created the fictional air-adventurer Biggles.  The first Biggles tale appeared in 1928 in Popular Flying magazine (released also as Popular Aviation and still in publication as Flying) and his stories are still sometimes re-printed (although with the blatant racism edited out).  The first Biggles story had a very modern-sounding title: The White Fokker.  The Modern Boy was a successful weekly which in 1988 was re-launched as Modern Boy, the reason for the change not known although dropping superfluous words (and much else) was a feature of modernism.  In October 1939, a few weeks after the outbreak of World War II, publication ceased, Modern Boy like many titles a victim of restrictions by the Board of Trade on the supply of paper for civilian use.

Jockey Club Innovation Tower, Hong Kong (2013) by Zaha Hadid (1950-2016).

If the characteristics of futurism in art were identifiable (though not always admired), in architecture, it can be hard to tell where modernism ends and futurism begins.  Aesthetics aside, the core purpose of modernism was of course its utilitarian value and that did tend to dictate the austerity, straight lines and crisp geometry that evolved into mid-century minimalism so modernism, in its pure form, should probably be thought of as a style without an ulterior motive.  Futurist architecture however carried the agenda which in its earliest days borrowed from the futurist artists in that it was an assault on the past but later moved on and in the twenty-first century, the futurist architects seem now to be interested above all in the possibilities offered by advances in structural engineering, functionality sacrificed if need be just to demonstrate that something new can be done.  That's doubtless of great interest at awards dinners where architects give prizes to each other for this and that but has produced an international consensus that it's better to draw something new than something elegant.  The critique is that while modernism once offered “less is more”, with neo-futurist architecture it's now “less is bore”.  Art deco and mid-century modernism have aged well and it will be interesting to see how history judges the neo-futurists.

Decalcomania

Decalcomania (pronounced dih-kal-kuh-mey-nee-uh or dih-kal-kuh-meyn-yuh)

(1) The process of transferring designs from specially prepared paper to cardboard, paper, wood, metal, china, glass etc.

(2) A design so transferred (always rare).

1864: From the French décalcomanie, the construct being décalc- (representing décalquer (to trace, transfer (a design)) the construct being dé- (in the sense of “off”) + calquer (to press) + the interfix “-o-” + -manie (–mania).  Decalcomania is a noun; the noun plural is decalcomanias (the plural in French was decalcomania).  Disappointingly, the noun decalcomaniac is non-standard.

The French prefix dé- partly was inherited from the Middle French des-, from the Old French des-, from a conflation of Latin dis- (apart) (ultimately from the primitive Indo-European dwís).  In English, the de- prefix was from the Latin dē-, from the preposition dē (of, from (the Old English æf- was a similar prefix)).  It imparted the sense of (1) reversal, undoing, removing, (2) intensification and (3) derived from; of off.  In French the dé- prefix was used to make antonyms (as un- & dis- function in English) and was partially inherited from the Old and Middle French des-, from the Latin dis- (part), the ultimate source being the primitive Indo-European dwís and partially borrowed from Latin dē-.  In English de- became a most active word-forming element, used with many verbs in some way gained French or Latin.  The frequent use in Latin as “down, down from, from, off; down to the bottom & totally (hence “completely” (intensive or completive)) came to be reflected in many English words.  As a Latin prefix it was used also to “undo” or “reverse” a verb's action; it thus came to be used as a pure privative (ie “not, do the opposite of, undo”) and that remains the predominant function as a living prefix in English such as defrost (1895 and a symbol of the new age of consumer-level refrigeration), defuse (1943 and thus obviously something encouraged by the sudden increase in live bombs in civilian areas which need the fuses to be removed to render them safe) and de-escalate (1964, one of the first linguistic contributions of the political spin related to the war in Vietnam).  In many cases, there is no substantive difference between using de- or dis- as a prefix and the choice can be simply one of stylistic preference.  Calquer (to press) was from the Italian calcare, from the Latin calcāre (to tread on; to press (that sense derived from calx (heel)).

The suffix –mania was from the Latin mania, from the Ancient Greek μανία (mania) (madness).  In modern use in psychiatry it is used to describe a state of abnormally elevated or irritable mood, arousal, and/or energy levels and as a suffix appended as required.  In general use, under the influence of the historic meaning (violent derangement of mind; madness; insanity), it’s applied to describe any “excessive or unreasonable desire; a passion or fanaticism” which can us used even of unthreatening behaviors such as “a mania for flower arranging, crochet etc”.  As a suffix, it’s often appended with the interfix -o- make pronunciation more natural.  The use of the suffix “-mania” in “decalcomania” may appear a curious use of an element in a word describing a process in graphical or decorative art given usually it’s appended to reference a kind of obsession or madness (kleptomania, bibliomania, megalomania et al) but here it’s used in a more abstract way.  The “-manie” in the French décalcomanie was used to suggest a fad or craze (the latter in the sense of something suddenly widely popular) and was not related to the way “mania” is used by mental health clinicians.  So, it was metaphorical rather than medical rather as “Tulipmania” came to be used of the seventeenth century economic bubble in the Netherlands which was centred on the supply of and demand for tulip bulbs.

TeePublic’s Lindsay Lohan decals (page one).

The noun decal (pronounced dee-kal or dih-kal) was in use by at least 1910 as a clipping of decalcomania, a process which came into vogue in France as early as the 1840s before crossing the channel, England taking up the trend in the early 1860s.  As a noun it referred to (1) the prepared paper (or other medium) bearing a image, text, design etc for transfer to another surface (wood, metal, glass, etc) or (2) the picture or design itself.  The verb (“to decal” and also as decaled or decaling) described the process of applying or transferring the image (or whatever) from the medium by decalcomania.  The noun plural is decals.  In the US, the word came to be used of adhesive stickers which could be promotional or decorative and this use is now common throughout the English speaking world.  The special use (by analogy) in computer graphics describes a texture overlaid atop another to provide additional detailing.

Variants of the transfer technique which came to be called decalcomania would for centuries have been used by artists before it became popularized in the mid-eighteenth century.  The method was simply to spread ink or paint onto a surface and, before the substances dried, it was covered with material such as such as paper, glass, or metallic foil, which, when removed, transferred the pattern which could be left in that form or embellished.  Originally the designs were deliberate but the innovation of the Surrealists was to create imagery by chance rather than conscious control of the materials.  The artistic merits of that approach can be discussed but young children have long taken to it like ducks to water, splashing colors on one side of a piece of paper and then folding it in half so, once pressed together, the shape is “mirrored”, creating what is called a “butterfly print”, something like the cards used in the Rorschach tests.

Although an ancient practice, it is French engraver Simon François Ravenet (1706–circa 1774) who is crediting with give the technique its name because he called it décalquer (from the French papier de calque (tracing paper) and this coincided with painters in Europe experimenting with ink blots to add “accidental” forms of expression into their work.  Ravenet spent years working in England (where usually he was styled Simon Francis Ravenet) and was influential in the mid century revival of engraving although it was in ceramics decalcomania first became popular although the word didn’t come into wide use until adopted by the Spanish-born French surrealist Óscar Domínguez (1906–1957).  It was perhaps the German Dadaist and Surrealist Max Ernst (1891–1976) who more than most exemplified the possibilities offered decalcomania and it was US philosopher turned artist Robert Motherwell (1915–1991) who said of him: “Like every consequential modern painter, Max Ernst has enforced his own madness on the world.”  Motherwell was of the New York School (which also included the Russian-born Mark Rothko (1903–1970), drip painter Jackson Pollock (1912-1956) and the Dutch-American Willem de Kooning (1904–1997)) so he was no stranger to the observation of madness.  Condemned by the Nazis variously as an abstractionist, modernist, Dadaist and Surrealist, Ernst fled to Paris and after the outbreak of World War II (1939-1945) he was one of a number of artistic and political figures who enjoyed the distinction of being imprisoned by both the French and the Gestapo; it was with the help of US art patron and collector Peggy Guggenheim (1898–1979) he in 1941 escaped Vichy France and fled to the US.

That “help” involved their marriage, hurriedly arranged shortly after the pair landed in New York but although in the technical sense a “marriage of convenience”, she does seem genuinely to have been fond of Ernst and some romantic element wasn’t entirely absent from their relationship although it’s acknowledged it was a “troubled” marriage. A divorce was granted in 1946 but artistically, she remained faithful, his work displayed prominently in her New York gallery (Art of This Century (1942–1947)), then the city’s most significant centre of the avant-garde.  Through this exposure, although he never quite became integrated into the (surprisingly insular) circle of abstract expressionists, Ernst not only became acquainted with the new wave of American artists but contributed also to making European modernism familiar to Americans at a time when the tastes of collectors (and many critics) remained conservative.  He was an important element in her broader mission to preserve and promote avant-garde art despite the disruption of war.  So, the relationship was part patronage and part curatorial judgment and historians haven’t dwelt too much on the extent it was part love; even after their divorce, Guggenheim continued to collect pieces by Ernst and they remain in her famous “Venice Collection” at the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni.  As a wife she would have had opinions of her husband but as a critic she also classified and never said of Ernst as she said of Pollock: “...the greatest painter since Picasso.”

Untitled (1935), Decalcomania (ink transfer) on paper by André Breton.

For Ernst, the significance of decalcomania was not its utility as a tool of production (as it would appeal to graphic artists and decal-makers) but as something which would result in a randomness to excite his imagination.  What he did was use the oil paint as it ended up on canvas after being “pressed” as merely the starting point, onto which he built elements of realism, suggesting often mythical creatures in strange, unknown places but that was just one fork of decalcomania, Georges Hugnet (1906–1974) rendering satirical images from what he found while André Breton (1896–1966 and a “multi-media” figure decades before term emerged) used the technique to hone surrealism, truly decalcomania’s native environment.

Decalcomania in psychiatry and art: Three of the ink-blot cards (top row) included by Swiss psychiatrist Hermann Rorschach (1885-1922) in his Rorschach Test (1927), a projective psychological tool in which subjects' perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed with psychological interpretation or historical statistical comparison (and now, also AI (artificial intelligence)) and three images from the Pornographic Drawing series by Cornelia Parker (bottom row).

Nor has decalcomania been abandoned by artists, English installation specialist Cornelia Parker (b 1956) producing drawings which overlaid contemporary materials onto surfaces created with the decalcomania process, the best known of which was the series Pornographic Drawing (1996) in which an inky substance extracted from pornographic film material was applied to paper, folded in half and opened again to reveal the sexualised imagery which emerged through the intervention of chance.  Although it’s speculative, had Ms Parker’s work been available and explained to the Nazi defendants at the first Nuremberg Trial (1945-1946) when they were considering the Rorschach Test cards, their responses would likely have been different.  Rudolf Hess (1894–1987; Nazi Deputy Führer 1933-1941) would have been disgusted and become taciturn while Julius Streicher (1885–1946; Nazi Gauleiter of Franconia 1929-1940) would have been stimulated to the point of excitement.

Europe after the Rain II, 1940-1942 (Circa 1941), oil on canvas by Max Ernst.

Regarded as his masterpiece, Europe after the Rain II (often sub-titled “An Abstract, Apocalyptic Landscape”) was intended to evoke feelings of despair, exhaustion, desolation and a fear of the implications of the destructive power of modern, mechanized warfare.  It was a companion work to an earlier to the earlier Europe after the Rain I, (1933), sculpted from plaster and oil on plywood in which Ernst built on a decalcomania base to render an imaginary relief map of Europe.  It was in 1933 Adolf Hitler (1889-1945; Führer (leader) and German head of government 1933-1945 & head of state 1934-1945) gained power in Germany.

Europe after the Rain I, (1933), oil & plaster on plywood by Max Ernst.

Even the physical base of Europe After the Rain I was a piece of surrealist symbolism, the plywood taken from the stage sets used for the film L'Âge d'or (1930) (The Age of Gold or the Golden Age depending on the translator's interpretation).  Directed by Spaniard Luis Buñuel (1900-1983), L'Âge d'or was a film focused on the sexual mores of bourgeois society and a critique of the hypocrisies and contradictions of the Roman Catholic Church's clerical establishment.  While one of France's first "sound films", it was, as was typical during what was a transitional era, told mostly with the use of title cards, the full-screen explanatory texts which appeared between scenes.

Snow Flowers (1929) oil on canvas by means of frottage & grattage by Max Ernst.

Technically, Ernst was an innovator in Decalcomania, in 1925 using the technique of frottage (laying a sheet of paper over a textured surface and rubbing it with charcoal or graphite).  The appeal of this was it imparted the quality of three dimensionality and Ernst liked textured surfaces as passages in a larger composition.  He also employed grattage (frottage’s sister technique) in which an object is placed under a piece of paper, which is then covered with a thin layer of pigment and once the pigment is scraped off, what is revealed is a colorful imprint of the object and its texture.

1969 Chrysler (Australia) VF Valiant Pacer 225 (left), 1980 Porsche 924 Turbo (centre) and cloisonné Scuderia Ferrari fender shield on 1996 Ferrari F355 Spider (right).

There was a time when decals on cars were, by some, looked down upon because they were obviously cheaper than badges made of metal.  That attitude changed for a number of reasons including their use on sexy, high-performance cars, the increasing use of decals on race cars after advertising became universally permitted after 1968 and the advent of plastic badges which, being cheaper to produce and affix, soon supplanted metal on all but the most expensive vehicles.  By the mid 1970s, even companies such as Porsche routinely applied decals and the Scuderia Ferrari fender shield, used originally on the cars run by the factory racing team, became a popular after-market accessory and within the Ferrari community, there was a clear hierarchy of respectability between thin, “stuck on” printed decals and the more substantial cloisonné items.

A video clip explaining why a Scuderia Ferrari fender shield costs US$14,000 if it's painted in the factory.

However, many of the cloisonné shields were non-authentic (ie not a factory part number), even the most expensive selling for less than US$1000 and there was no obvious way to advertise one had a genuine “made in Maranello” item.  Ferrari’s solution was to offer as a factory option a form of decalcomania, hand-painted by an artisan in a process said to take about eight hours.  To reassure its consumers (keen students of what the evil Montgomery Burns (of The Simpsons TV cartoon series) calls “price taggery”), the option is advertised (depending on the market) at around US$14,000.

Accidie

Accidie (pronounced ak-si-dee)

Sloth; apathy, in the sense of both (1) a general listlessness and apathy and (2) spiritual torpor.

1200–1250: From the Middle English accidie, from the Anglo-Norman accidie, from the Old French accide & accidie, from the Medieval Latin accidia (an alteration of Late Latin acedia (sloth, torpor), from the Ancient Greek ἀκήδεια (akḗdeia) (indifference), the construct being ἀ- (a-) (in the sense of “not”) +‎ κῆδος (kêdos).  It was a doublet of acedia, still cited as an alternative form and replaced the Middle English accide.  The word was in active use between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries and was revived in the nineteenth as a literary adornment.  Accidie and acediast are nouns and acedious is an adjective; the noun plural is acediasts.

The alternative literary words include (1) ennui (a gripping listlessness or melancholia caused by boredom; depression), an unadapted borrowing from the French ennui, from the Old French enui (annoyance), from enuier (which in Modern French persists as ennuyer), from the Late Latin inodiō, from the Latin in odiō (hated) and a doublet of annoy, (2) weltschmerz, used as an alternative letter-case form of the German Weltschmerz (an apathetic or pessimistic view of life; depression concerning or discomfort with the human condition or state of the world; world-weariness), the construct being Welt (world) + Schmerz (physical ache, pain; emotional pain, heartache, sorrow) and coined by German Romantic writer Jean Paul (1763–1825) for his novel Selina (published posthumously in 1827) and (3) mal du siècle (apathy and world-weariness, involving pessimism towards the current state of the world, often along with nostalgia for the past (originally in the context of French Romanticism) (literally “disease of the century”) and coined by the French writer Alfred de Musset in his autobiographical novel La Confession d'un enfant du siècle (The Confession of a Child of the Century (1936)).

Lindsay Lohan and her lawyer in court, Los Angeles, December, 2011.

In Antiquity, the Greeks seemed to have refined accidie (which translated literally as being in “a state so inert as the be devoid of pain or care”) to be used of those who has become listless and no longer cared for their own lives or their society, thus distinguishing it from other conditions of melancholy which tended to be individually focused although in surviving medical texts, what’s being diagnosed was something like what might now be called “depression”.  Predictably, when adopted by moral theologians in Christian writing, it was depicted as a sin or at least a personal flaw.  Others wrote of it as a “demon” to be overcome and even a temptation placed by the Devil, one to which “young men who read poetry” seem to have been chronically prone.  It can be thought of as falling into the category of sloth, listed in the Medieval Latin tradition as of the seven deadly sins and appeared in Dante Alighieri’s (circa 1265–1321) Divina Commedia (Divine Comedy (circa 1310-1321)) not only as a sin worthy of damnation & eternal punishment but the very sin which led Dante to the edge of Hell.  In his unfinished Summa Theologiae (literally Summary of Theology), the Italian Dominican friar, philosopher & theologian Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) noted accidie was a spiritual sorrow, induced by man’s flight from the Divine good, “…on account of the flesh utterly prevailing over the spirit”, the kind of despair which can culminate in the even greater sin of suicide.

Google ngram: Accidie 1800-2020.

Google ngram: Because of the way Google harvests data for their ngrams, they’re not literally a tracking of the use of a word in society but can be usefully indicative of certain trends, (although one is never quite sure which trend(s)), especially over decades.  As a record of actual aggregate use, ngrams are not wholly reliable because: (1) the sub-set of texts Google uses is slanted towards the scientific & academic and (2) the technical limitations imposed by the use of OCR (optical character recognition) when handling older texts of sometime dubious legibility (a process AI should improve).  Where numbers bounce around, this may reflect either: (1) peaks and troughs in use for some reason or (2) some quirk in the data harvested.

Etymologists note that between the mid sixteenth and mid nineteenth centuries the word acedia was close to extinct and whether it was the revival of interest in the Romantic poets (often a glum lot) or the increasing number of women becoming novelists, there was in the late 1800s a revival with the term, once the preserve of theologians, re-purposed as a decorative literary word; in the “terrible twentieth century” there was much scope for use and it appears in the writings of Ian Fleming (1908–1964), Aldous Huxley (1894–1963) and Samuel Beckett (1906-1989).  Intriguingly, in The Decline and Fall of Nokia (2014), Finnish-based expatriate US writer David J Cord introduced the concept of corporate acedia, citing the phenomenon as one of the causes of the collapse of Nokia's once dominant mobile device unit.

Joan Didion (1934-2021) and cigarette with her Daytona Yellow (OEM code 984) 1969 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray (on the C2 Corvette (1963-1967) and in 1968 the spelling had been "Sting Ray”).  The monochrome image was from a photo-session commissioned in 1970 by Life magazine and shot by staff photographer Julian Wasser (1933-2023), outside the house she was renting on Franklin Avenue in the Hollywood Hills.  To great acclaim, her first work of non-fiction, Slouching Towards Bethlehem (1968), had just been published.

Writing mostly, in one way or another, about “feelings”, Joan Didion’s work appealed mostly to a female readership but when photographs were published of her posing with her bright yellow Corvette, among men presumably she gained some “street cred” although that might have evaporated had they learned it was later traded for a Volvo; adding insult to injury, it was a Volvo station wagon with all that implies.  She was later interviewed about the apparent incongruity between owner and machine and acknowledged the strangeness, commenting: “I very definitely remember buying the Stingray because it was a crazy thing to do.  I bought it in Hollywood.”  Craziness and Hollywood were then of course synonymous and a C3 Corvette (1968-1982) really was the ideal symbol of the America about which Ms Didion wrote, being loud, flashy, rendered in plastic and flawed yet underpinned by a solid, well-engineered foundation; the notion of the former detracting from the latter was theme in in her essays on the American experience.

A 1969 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray in Daytona Yellow.

Disillusioned, melancholic and clinical, Ms Didion’s literary oeuvre suited the moment because while obviously political it was also spiritual, a critique of what she called the “accidie” of the late 1960s, the moral torpor of those disappointed by what had followed the hope and optimism captured by “Camelot”, the White House of John Kennedy (JFK, 1917–1963; US president 1961-1963).  In retrospect Camelot was illusory but that of course made real the disillusionment of Lyndon Johnson (LBJ, 1908–1973; US president 1963-1969) leading the people not to a “great society” but deeper into Vietnam.  Her essays were in the style of the “new journalism” and sometimes compared with those of her contemporary Susan Sontag (1933-2004) but the two differed in method, tone, ideological orientation and, debatably, expectation if not purpose.

Susan Sontag (1962), monochrome image by Village Voice staff photographer Fred McDarrah (1926–2007).

Ms Didion’s used accidie to describe a society which the troubled 1960s seemed to have bludgeoned into a state not of acquiescence but indifference, a moral exhaustion.  Her writings were observational (and, as she admitted, sometimes “embellished” for didactic purposes), sceptical and cool, her conception of the failure of contemporary politics a matter of describing the disconnect between rhetoric and reality, understanding the language of theatre criticism was as appropriate as that of the lexicon of political science.  In a sense, 'twas ever thus but Ms Didion captured the imagination by illustrating just how far from the moorings of reality the political spectacle of myth-making had drifted.  Ms Sontag’s tone was declarative and distinctly authoritative (in the way of second-wave feminism), tending often to the polemic and the sense was she was writing in opposition to a collective immorality, not the kind of moral indifference Ms Didion detected.  Both were students of their nation’s cultural pathology but one seemed more a palliative care specialist tending a patient in their dying days while the other offered a diagnosis and suggested a cure which, while not something to enjoy: "would be good for them".  While Ms Didion distrusted ideological certainty, Ms Sontag engaged explicitly with “isms”, not in the sense of one writing of the history of ideas but as a protagonist, using language in an attempt to shape political consciousness, the former a kind of secular moral theologian mourning a loss of coherence in American life while the latter was passionate and wrote often with a strident urgency, never losing the sense that whatever her criticisms, things could be fixed and there was hope.  The irony of being an author to some degree afflicted by the very accide she described in others was not lost on Ms Didion.

Susan Sontag, circa 1971, photographed by Jim Cartier.  The pop-art portrait of comrade Chairman Mao Zedong (1893–1976; chairman of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) 1949-1976) was a print of Roy Lichtenstein's (1923–1997) Mao (1971) which had been used as the cover for US author Frederic Tuten's (b 1936) novel The Adventures of Mao on the Long March (1971).  Ms Sontag had written a most favourable review of the book and the framed print was reputedly a gift.

Joan Didion with Corvette, another image from Julian Wasser’s 1970 photo-shoot.  The staging in this one is for feminists to ponder.

While a stretch to say that in trading-in the Corvette for a Volvo station wagon, Ms Didion was tracking the nation which had moved from Kennedy to Richard Nixon (1913-1994; US president 1969-1974), it’s too tempting not to make.  Of the Corvette, she used the phrase: “I gave up on it”, later recounting: “the dealer was baffled” but denied the change was related to moving after eight years from Malibu to leafy, up-market suburban Brentwood.  While she “…needed a new car because with the Corvette something was always wrong…” she “…didn’t need a Volvo station wagon” although did concede: “Maybe it was the idea of moving into Brentwood.”  She should have persevered because as many an owner of a C3 Corvette understands, the faults and flaws are just part of the brutish charm.  Whether the car still exists isn't known; while Corvette's have a higher than average survival rate, their use on drag strips & race tracks as well as their attractiveness to males aged 17-25 has meant not a few suffered misadventure.

Joan Didion with Corvette, rendered as oil on canvas with yellow filter.

The configuration of her car seems not anywhere documented but a reasonable guess is it likely was ordered with the (base) 300 horsepower (hp) version (ZQ3) of the 350 cubic inch (5.7 litre) small-block V8, coupled with the Turbo-Hydramatic 400 (TH400) (M40) three-speed automatic transmission (the lighter TH350 wouldn't be used until 1976 by which time power outputs had fallen so much the robustness of the TH400 was no longer required).  When scanning the option list, although things like the side-mounted exhaust system (N14) or the 430 hp versions (the iron-block L88 & all aluminium ZL1, the power ratings of what were barely-disguised race car engines deliberately understated, the true output between 540-560 hp) of the 427 cubic inch (7.0 litre) big-block V8 would not have tempted Ms Didion, she may have ticked the box for the leather trim (available in six colors and the photos do suggest black (402 (but if vinyl the code was ZQ4)), air conditioning (C60), power steering (N40), power brakes (J50), power windows (A31) or an AM-FM radio (U69 and available also (at extra cost) with stereo (U79)).  Given she later traded-in the Corvette on a Volvo station wagon, presumably the speed warning indicator (U15) would have been thought superfluous but, living in Malibu, the alarm system (UA6) might have caught her eye.

An emo with 1977 Volvo 245 station wagon; if she had a Corvette to pose with she’d be smiling because Corvettes can make even emos happy.  This is Emma Myers (b 2002) as Pippa "Pip" Fitz-Amobi in A Good Girl's Guide to Murder (Netflix, 2024).

Quintessential symbols of France, Bridget Bardot (b 1934), Citroën La Déesse and a lit Gitanes.

The combination of a car, a woman with JBF and a cigarette continued to draw photographers even after smoking ceased to be glamorous and became a social crime.  First sold in 1910, Gitanes production in France survived two world wars, the Great Depression, Nazi occupation but the regime of Jacques Chirac (1932–2019; President of France 1995-2007) proved too much and, following the assault on tobacco by Brussels and Paris, in 2005 the factory in Lille was shuttered.  Although Gitanes (and the sister cigarette Gauloise) remain available in France, they are now shipped from Spain and while in most of the Western world fewer now smoke, Gitanes Blondes retain a cult following.

Emily Labowe with Mercedes-Benz 300 TD (S123), photographed by Kristin Gallegos.

An image like this illustrate why, even if no longer quite as glamourous, smoking can still look sexy.  The 300 TD is finished in Manila Beige and for the W123 range Mercedes-Benz also offered the subdued Maple Yellow and the exuberant Sun Yellow which was as vivid as the Corvette's Daytona Yellow. 

No images seem to exist of Ms Didion with her Volvo station wagon but Laurel Canyon's Kristin Gallegos (b 1984) later followed Julian Wasser’s staging by photographing artist Emily Labowe (b 1993) with a Mercedes-Benz 300 TD station wagon and that once essential accessory: a cigarette.  One of the last of the “chrome Mercedes”, the W123 range was in production between 1975-1986 and the station wagon appeared in 1977 with the internal code S123 (only nerds use that and to the rest of the world they’re “W123 wagons”).  The designation was “T” (the very Germanic Tourismus und Transport (Touring and Transport)) or TD for the diesel-powered cars and the S123 was the company’s first station wagon to enter series production, previous such “long roof” models coming from coach-builders including many hearses & ambulances as well as station wagons.  The English still call station wagons "estates" (a clipping of "estate car") although a publication like Country Life probably still hankers after "shooting brake" and the most Prussian of the German style guides list the compound noun Kombinationskraftwagen which for decades has usually been clipped to the semi-formal Kombiwagen, (plural Kombiwagen or Kombiwägen) or, in general use: Kombi.

1978 Mercedes Benz 280 TE (S123).

That Mercedes-Benz in the mid-1970s decided their first station wagon in regular production should be a “T” (and understood as a Tourenwagen (touring car) rather than a “K” (ie Kombiwagen, the designation used by other manufacturers) reflected the prevailing German view of such cars.  Unlike the US where station wagons had long been emblematic of middle-class respectability (often as a family’s second car for the wife & mother) or England where the style enjoyed an association with the upper class HFS (huntin’, fishin’ & shootin’) set, to Germans the utilitarian long-roofs had a down-market image, bought only by those unable to afford separate vehicles for business & pleasure.  Coach-builders had of course used Mercedes-Benz saloons as the basis for station wagons, ambulances and hearses but these were always expensive and thus not tainted by association with thriftiness by necessity.  In their alphanumeric soup of model designations, Mercedes-Benz had previously used “K” to mean either Kompressor (supercharged) (eg 770 K) or Kurz  (short) (eg SSK) and other letters had also done double-duty, “L” standing for either Lang (long) (eg 500 SEL) or Licht (light) (eg SSKL) and “S” could mean both Super (300 SL) or Sports (300 SLR) so for the S123 “K” wasn’t avoided because of fears of confusing folk; it was just an image thing: "Don't mention the kombi".  That all changed in the 1980s when the Germans decided wagons were sexy after all, the high performance arms of Audi, BMW & Mercedes-Benz all producing some remarkably fast ones.   

Mercedes-Benz G4s: Gepäckwagen (baggage car, top left) & Funkauto (radio car, top right) and 300 Messwagen (bottom left) at speed on the test track, tethered to a W111 sedan (1959-1968, bottom right).

The factory did though over the decades build a handful including a brace of the three-axle G4s (W31, 1934-1939), one configured as a Gepäckwagen (baggage car), the other a Funkauto (radio car).  In 1960 there was also the Messwagen (measuring car), a kind of “rolling laboratory” from the era before technology allowed most testing to be emulated in software.  The capacious Messwagen was based on the W189 300 “Adenauer” (W186 & W189 1951-1962) and was then state of the art but by the 2020s, the capabilities of all the bulky equipment which filled the rear compartment could have been included in a single phone app.  Students of design will admire the mid-century modernism in the curve of the rear-side windows but might be surprised to learn the muscle car-like scoop on the roof is not an air-intake but an aperture housing ports for connecting the Messwagen’s electronic gear with the vehicle being monitored, the two closely driven in unison (often at high speed) on the test track while being linked with a few metres of cabling and although we now live in a wireless age, real nerds know often a cable is preferable, the old ways sometimes best.  The Messwagen remained in service until 1972 and is now on display at the factory’s museum in Stuttgart.   

1956 Mercedes-Benz 300c (W186 "Adenauer") Estate Car by Binz.

The factory's Messwagen wasn't the first use of the big W186/W189 for long-roof variants, hearses and ambulances having appeared in several European countries and there was at least one station wagon, proving consumption can be conspicuous yet still subtle, achieved usually if a bespoke creation is both expensive and functional.  The 300 saloons and four-door cabriolets were large, stately and beautifully built, the 1956 example pictured was delivered to a customer in the US who for whatever reason prized exclusivity over capacity or speed, all the major US manufacturers at the time offering station wagons able to accommodate more people and more more luggage while going much faster.  The 300 certainly would have delivered better fuel economy but that wouldn't have crossed the mind of the purchaser who would have been deterred from something like a Chrysler New Yorker or Ford Country Squire because they were, by comparison with her one-off, cheap and common whereas a custom built 300 “dripped money”; even to the uninformed they would obviously have been expensive and it was thus a classic "Veblen good" a quirk in the supply & demand curve of orthodox economics in that for a certain (ie the "1%") demographic demand for an item can increase as its price rises.  The car still exists, traded between collectors to be exhibited at concours d'elegance.

1957 Mercury Turnpike Cruiser (left), details of the apparatuses above the windscreen (centre) and the Breezeaway rear window lowered (right)

The 1957 Mercury Turnpike Cruiser was notable for (1) the truly memorable model name, (2) the “Breezeway" rear window which could be lowered and (3) having a truly bizarre assembly  of “features” above the windscreen.  There’s no suggestion that when fashioning the 300 Messwagen the engineers in Stuttgart were aware of the Turnpike Cruiser but had they looked, it could have provided an inspiration for the way access to ports in the roof could have been handled.  Unfortunately, the pair of “radio aerials” protruding from the pods at the top of the Mercury’s A-pillars were a mere affectation, a “jet-age” motif embellishing what were actually air-intakes.  They were though a harbinger of the way in which future “measuring vehicles” would be configured when various forms of wireless communication had advanced to the point at which a cable connection was no longer required.