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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Today in pulp I'm looking back at one of the greatest albums of all time.
What are the chances...
By 1976 Jeff Wayne was already a successful composer and musician, as well as a producer for David Essex. His next plan was to compose a concept album.
War Of The Worlds was already a well known story, notorious due to the Orson Wells radio play production. For Wayne it seemed like a great choice for a rock opera.
Today in pulp I'm looking back at a very popular (and collectable) form of art: Micro Leyendas covers!
Micro Leyendas (mini legends) are a Mexican form of fumetto, small graphic novels normally pitting the everyday hero against the weird, the occult and the unfathomable.
The art of Micro Leyendas is bold, macabre and very funny. The books often tell a cautionary tale of revenge or humiliation, much like a modern folk tale.
Today in pulp: what makes a good opening sentence for a pulp novel?
Now this is a tricky one…
The opening sentence has an almost mythical status in writing. Authors agonise for months, even years, about crafting the right one. Often it’s the last thing to be written.
Which is odd, because very few people abandon a book if they don’t like the first sentence. It’s not like the first sip of wine that tells you if the Grand Cru has been corked! Most people at least finish Chapter One.
The Time Machine, Brave New World, 1984: these weren’t the first dystopian novels. There's an interesting history of Victorian and Edwardian literature looking at the impact of modernity on humans and finding it worrying.
Today in pulp I look at some early dystopian books…
Paris in the Twentieth Century, written in 1863, was the second novel penned by Jules Verne. However his publisher Pierre-Jules Hetzel rejected it as too gloomy. The manuscript was only discovered in 1994 when Verne’s grandson hired a locksmith to break into an old family safe.
The novel, set in 1961, warns of the dangers of a utilitarian culture. Paris has street lights, motor cars and the electric chair but no artists or writers any more. Instead industry and commerce dominate and citizens see themselves as cogs in a great economic machine.