Today in pulp... a question. Is it better to be maximalist when it comes to interior design? For this I'll need to revisit the ideal homes of the 1970s. Come this way.
Yes, we do take our shoes off in this house...
We've grown so used to Swedish-style modernism that we've sort of forgotten that maximalism, rather than minimalism, was once the sign of a cultured abode.
The 1970s in many ways reached back to the rich ideas of Victorian decor: heavy, autumnal and cluttered. Home was meant to be a baroque and sensual experience, rather than a 'machine for living in.'
Gaudy was certainly in by 1970: colour choices for interior design were rich and varied, with every room becoming a boutique of signature design.
Experimentation and adventurism were also coming to the fore: now we had landed on the Moon surely we should start to live like astronauts on Earth.
Conspicuous consumption was reaching one of its periodic zeniths in 1970. Unlike today where we flaunt our home technology, in 1970 it was decor rather than data that we craved in abundance.
Our choice of colours also reflected the mood of the new decade: warmer, heavier and more nostalgic. Every surface of every room needed to bear the imprimatur of the age.
The oil shock of the early 1970s soon put a stop to our maximalist dreams of rich design: soon the aesthetic became more homely, more protective, smaller. Our homes now resembled a refuge from uncertainty.
Looking back, 1970 seemed like the last gasp of an idea of modernity that we have somewhat lost: an idea that home is a place that we welcome other people into, a place where we are entertained by entertaining others.
I'm not suggesting we can tackle the loneliness epidemic of the 2020s by going back to the 1970s, but I will leave you with this thought: what is a home for? Is it just shelter and protection, or is it also for hospitality and generosity?
More stories another time...
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Given the current heatwave, I feel obliged to ask my favourite question: is it time to bring back the leisure suit?
Let's find out...
Now we all know what a man's lounge suit is, but if we're honest it can be a bit... stuffy. Formal. Businesslike. Not what you'd wear 'in da club' as the young folks say.
So for many years tailors have been experimenting with less formal, but still upmarket gents attire. The sort of garb you could wear for both a high level business meeting AND for listening to the Moody Blues in an espresso bar. Something versatile.
Today in pulp I look back at the publishing phenomenon of gamebooks: novels in which YOU are the hero!
A pencil and dice may be required for this thread...
Gamebooks are a simple but addictive concept: you control the narrative. At the end of each section of the story you are offered a choice of outcomes, and based on that you turn to the page indicated to see what happens next.
Gamebook plots are in fact complicated decision tree maps: one or more branches end in success, but many more end in failure! It's down to you to decide which path to tread.
He was the terror of London; a demonic figure with glowing eyes and fiery breath who could leap ten feet high. The penny dreadfuls of the time wrote up his exploits in lurid terms. But who was he really?
Today I look at one of the earliest pulp legends: Spring-Heeled Jack!
London has always attracted ghosts, and in the 19th Century they increasingly left their haunted houses and graveyards and began to wader the capital's streets.
But one apparition caught the Victorian public attention more than most...
In October 1837 a 'leaping character' with a look of the Devil began to prey on Londoners. Often he would leap high into the air and land in front of a carriage, causing it to crash. It would then flee with a high-pitched laugh.