Design histories through and from sources

After over four years of publication (the first issue came out in March 2013), AIS/Design. Storia e Ricerche celebrates its tenth issue by again featuring – following a series of monograph issues – research studies covering a range of themes. Yet in this case, there is a common thread tying the heterogeneous topics together: methodological considerations on the study and use of primary sources.

As we wrote in the call we launched a year ago, we felt it was appropriate to focus attention back on the historian’s primary working tools, sources and archives, at a time in which we are witnessing an apparently contradictory set of phenomena and trends in the field of historical elaboration and analysis.

While on the one hand, we observe that the narrative dimension is beginning to prevail in the ways that historical events are reconstructed and presented to the public, in a search for greater legibility and a more immediate and emotional involvement of the reader, on the other hand, the relationship with the sources has been immeasurably transformed and enriched, at least in terms of power, by digital technology in particular, which is contributing new tools and stimuli to research work. Offering access to a greater quantity and variety of sources, the digital remediation of documents and materials of various kinds, generated on different types of media, opens new possibilities for exploring and using them, but also calls for a reflection on their interpretation.

This is a time in which historians are advancing across an expanded geography of resources, a landscape of sources ranging from specificity to uniformity in which the challenge, at least for design history, of diversifying the tools and more significantly the methodologies, remains to be clarified and addressed. The questions of method most certainly concern the nature of the digital sources – both those produced by a process of digitization and native digital sources – but the debate also touches upon other typologies of sources that are relatively less attended to, or better, not yet systemized by the historiography of design, such as oral sources, the characteristics of which are quite different from linguistic and written media, or audio or video recordings.
Naturally, the ambition of this issue is not to address each and every one of these problems. Titled “Design histories through and from the sources”, it brings to light in each of the articles a critical reflection on the materials themselves, on their variety, their accessibility or relative inaccessibility. In other words, what we asked the authors to do was to highlight the tools they worked with and the role they played in shaping their research, in an effort to recombine method and content, underscoring the role of the sources in historical research.

For this reason, many of the articles published here share a self-reflecting approach; several authors have used their own investigations as case studies, opening a series of windows onto pragmatic or methodological, operational or conceptual issues in historiographic work. This is the case with the essays by Bahar Emgin, Ida Kamilla Lie, Paola Proverbio, Eleonora Charans, Chiara Lecce, Marta Sironi, Luciana Gunetti and those of Elena Dellapiana, Tanja Marzi and Federica Stella. Their essays offer ideas and references – borrowed from various disciplines, such as architectural history, philology, archival studies, public history, oral history, Actor Network Theory – that confirm the need to continue expanding the horizons for the study of design history, and at the same time to systemize adequate approaches and practices. The article by Dario Scodeller moves in the same direction, concentrating on issues related to the digitization of sources.

Overall, the articles provide a significant sampler of the ways in which the analysis of primary sources can offer new perspectives on the history of design; methodological and operational ideas and opportunities deriving from the heterogeneity of the sources and media, and from the tools used to analyse them; the typologies of sources that may be used to study the different histories of design (in various national contexts); the role of the people involved in the processes of preservation, selection, use and interpretation of the sources, from the historians to the people responsible for the archives, to the designers themselves.

This issue also includes a review of Victor Margolin’s World History of Design – as well as the first version of the new online editorial platform by Bloomsbury Publishing – – and a review of two recent exhibitions dedicated to the history of La Rinascente department store, organized in Milan and in Chiasso, Switzerland, for its one-hundredth anniversary.

Finally, Claudia Collina, a civil servant specialized in the Cultural Heritage, illustrates the premises and results of a wide-ranging research study on various typologies of museums and collections featuring design objects, found in the cultural institutions of the Emilia-Romagna region.
The publication of our tenth issue offers us the opportunity to thank all those who have contributed to the growth of the magazine, to thank our team, all of whom have made it possible, on a voluntary basis, to achieve this result. We also take this opportunity to pledge our commitment to the future.

Raimonda Riccini, Fiorella Bulegato, Maddalena Dalla Mura, Carlo Vinti

Traces of Peter Muller-Munk Associates in the History of Industrial Design in Turkey

This article is based on a wider research study on the handicraft development programme conceived by Peter Muller-Munk Associates in the second half of the 1950s in Turkey. The aim is to document the progress and outcomes of the programme and to reveal the archival research practices involved in the research. To this end, records of major governmental and professional U.S. institutions, located in the National Archives and Records Administration at College Park (Maryland) and Special Collections Research Center at Syracuse University Libraries, are analysed to elucidate the context within which the project took place, as well as its preliminary preparations, project proposals, work plans, problems and termination. The article concludes by discussing the relevance of the findings to the broader study of the advancement of industrial design in developing countries.

1. Introduction

Studies on the historical development of industrial design as a professional field in Turkey mark the design aid program conducted by Peter Muller-Munk Associates in the second half of the 1950s as the moment that introduced the country into the concept of industrial design, while also acknowledging its ultimate failure (Balcıoğlu and Emgin, 2014; Düzakın, 2000; Er, Korkut, Er, 2003). According to Er, Korkut & Er (2003), who provide a general overview of the project by describing its context and objectives, Peter Muller-Munk Associates was assigned by the International Cooperation Administration (ICA) of the U.S. government as part of a comprehensive technical aid program to be implemented in various developing countries in Asia, Latin America and the Middle East by several design agencies. In line with the program’s broader aim, representatives from Peter Muller-Munk Associates dealt in Turkey with improving traditional craft products, including ceramics, meerschaum and copperware, so as to introduce them to the international market (Er et al., 2003, p. 26). The story in the literature ends abruptly at this point by noting its failure. However, this unexplored failure leaves many unanswered questions regarding the scope, organization, execution, actors and complications of the project.

This article derives from a wider research project I conduct to uncover details of the design aid program, its failure and its possible influence on the development of design in Turkey. In what follows, I share the initial findings of the archival research and shed light on the research process that led to the particular outcomes presented here. Thus, I aim at both documenting the experience of Peter Muller-Munk Associates in Turkey and “opening the black box” (Stanley, 2017) of the research work beyond it.

The manual and intellectual labor process involved in archival studies has attracted a good deal of attention in the last decade from various social science disciplines (Kirsch & Rohan, 2008; L’Eplattenier, 2009; Moore et al., 2017) in order to end the “silence” of researchers regarding their archival practices (Stanley, 2017). In this growing literature, scholars point out the necessity of reflecting on the practical strategies of archival research and revealing the what, how and why of research practices. The repertoire of contributions is considered as both a guide for novice archival researchers and a place for the experienced to develop a more elaborate theoretical and methodological framework to study and understand archives. L’Eplattenier (2009) suggests that a “methods section” added to studies based on archival research processes would help in constructing a body of work on primary research methods. As L’Eplattenier further notes, “methods sections” would bring the research process into the open by describing “the pragmatic goals, issues and actions of […] archival research.” In this way, “methods sections” would not only endow the work with credibility but also expose the “cracks, fissures and gaps” that create limitations (L’Eplattenier, 2009, p. 74). In light of these discussions, I see my introduction of “the pragmatic components involved in obtaining the materials that are the foundation” (L’Eplattenier, 2009, p. 71) of my study as an essential part of this article. I therefore begin by clarifying how I found the research subject, how and where I located the primary sources, how many collections I examined, what the content of the records was and how I read them.

2. Method

My interest in Peter Muller-Munk Associates’ visit to Turkey was stimulated by the recognition that it had been covered almost exclusively as an anecdote in the literature, as the following brief account suggests:

In 1955, Peter Müller-Munk [sic] Associates was assigned by ICA to help Turkey, along with India and Israel, to raise the quality of their craft products. Peter Müller-Munk and designers from his firm visited Turkey several times in 1956 and 1957. […] However, this ICA assignment in Turkey—as in the majority of ICA assignments in other developing countries—was not successful. It was, on the other hand, the first known initiative to create an awareness of industrial design in the Turkish context. (Er et al., 2003, p. 26)

The significant gaps in this story raised a succession of questions. Why would such an important incident, identified as Turkey’s first acquaintance with the concept and practice of design, be summarized so briefly? Who were these designers who visited Turkey several times over two years? What were the scope and objectives of their project? What was the plan? How did it proceed? Who were the Turkish counterparts in the project? Why did the project fail? What was it that they failed to accomplish? What traces did they leave behind?
The answers to these questions must have been hidden in somewhere. But where? These questions entailed others. From where would I begin the search? In what forms did the primary sources exist? What were the ways to identify them? I felt like I had encountered the “black box” of archival research.

Before finding a way out from this dead-end, I needed to continue investigating secondary sources. In doing so, I was trying to compensate for my lack of practical knowledge of historical research, as an industrial designer by education. I was particularly focusing extensively on the bibliographies of the works that I had been consulting. My journey towards the archives was initiated in this way, with two studies in particular providing the most guidance. One was a biographical study of Peter Muller-Munk by Rachel Delphia and Jewel Stern (2016) and the other was a study by Emre Gönlügür (2015) of how the American way of life was promoted in the American pavilions at the İzmir International Fair during the 1950s. Both sources helped me take the major step of initiating the research by indicating two major archives to delve into. The former pointed at the records of the Industrial Designers Society of America (IDSA) as a useful resource while latter made me aware of the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), which contained records of the U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies that had conducted non-military foreign aid programs. The present article is built on the research conducted in these two major archives, which document the American side of the story. The traces of the Turkish side also began to come in sight during this time in the American archives. I collected a good amount of information regarding the Turkish institutions and people involved in the project. However, except from a few major reports this article excludes the records of Turkish institutions since the research on them is still in progress.

I began by working on the NARA’s records, which “is the U.S. Government’s collection of documents that records important events in American History” (see “What’s an Archives?” August 15, 2016, It is a vast collection of documents from several centuries prepared by various government agencies. The documents are organized into “numbered record groups, with each record group comprising the records of a major government entity, usually a bureau or an independent agency” (see “Record Group Concept,” August 23, 2016, NARA offers practical online search and research tools to survey the collections. I used the online catalog to make a keyword search and the list of possible research topics containing links to information about particular research groups (see[1] This survey of holdings directed me to the collection of the ICA’s documents, gathered under the “Records of the U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies (RG 469)”. I surveyed around twenty boxes that contained contracts, project status reports, memoranda, briefing papers and correspondence like circulars, aerograms and telegrams.

The second major resource, the IDSA records, is located at Syracuse University Libraries Special Collections Research Center. The records include “office files from predecessor industrial design organizations (ASID, IDI) as well as files from IDSA itself” in the form of bound materials, printed matter and audio-visual material (see The collection’s content can be searched through an online inventory, which offers a list of materials arranged by topic. I worked on files from a total of 8 boxes, arranged under topics or titles including “foreign affairs”, “government relations”, “correspondences”, “newsletters”, “United States Department of State”, “foreign design groups” and “trade fairs”.

The materials from these two institutional archives were later complemented by the documents from the unofficial “archives” of Peter Muller-Munk Associates. This was a personal archive kept by a former employee of the company with a vast range of files from company projects. Since it has not yet been classified, indexed and made accessible to researchers, Rachel Delphia personally helped me access relevant files regarding the company’s mission to Turkey. The materials derived from the unofficial PMMA archives include images of the products, samples and models designed and/or collected in the course of the project, and a number of press clippings, including news about the project from both the U.S. and Turkey. Compared to the other two archives, this source was richer in information about outcomes than the organization itself. In this respect, it helped substantially in filling a major gap.
Apart from these archival documents, I referred to newspapers, institutional and professional publications of the period as other types of primary sources. I found served as an efficient engine for identifying the news regarding the ICA design aid project in the U.S. The site contains “200+ million pages of historical newspapers from 5,000+ newspapers from around the United States and beyond” (see In addition to newspaper articles, I scanned the Industrial Activities Bulletin of the ICA and the journals Industrial Design and Craft Horizons.

In brief, I began my survey and analysis of these resources by compiling a list of primary and secondary sources after an extensive literature review. The preliminary preparation was not limited to appropriating bibliographies of secondary sources but also included surveying and mapping the collections anew to identify additional materials, which created extensive lists of resources to investigate. I then began to copy relevant documents, which I reviewed repeatedly each time for a different purpose. I took various notes to identify the people involved and their roles, create an organizational scheme of the project (Figure 1), produce a timetable (Figure 2), designate key themes and specify lists of new keywords for further searches. In this respect, my archival research was substantially a work of “archigraphics” or “writing the archive,” as Stanley (2017) would define it.

Drawing on de Certeau, Stanley (2017, p. 35) argues that the crucial activity that underlies archival research is “writing, with the researcher actively engaged with secondary sources and primary (archival) documents by rewriting aspects of these in their notes, summaries, transcribed quotations and so on”. Thus, writing is the essential activity for a researcher to make sense of, interpret and frame the primary materials at hand. It refers to both “the different kinds of rewriting that are carried out, in scribbling notes, making quotes from secondary sources, transcribing documents; and also different kinds of writing ‘proper’” (Stanley, 2017, p. 35); namely, the outcomes of research in the form of various scholarly texts. The rest of the article consists of what I wrote out of my inquiry into the primary resources mentioned above.

Fig. 1 – Draft of the organizational scheme of Turkish Handicraft Development Office drawn from the notes taken from several correspondences and reports.

Fig. 2 – Timeline of events re-written after reviewing the primary sources at hand.

3. The beginning

In early 1957, the magazine Industrial Design proudly announced the new political and diplomatic missions assigned to renowned American designers by the U.S. Department of State (Fleishman, 1957; Fiske Mitarachi, 1957). These assignments were part of trade fair and technical aid programs initiated within the Mutual Security Program. As Fleishman (1957, p. 46) clearly put it, the overall objective of the program was to stimulate the development of allied underdeveloped countries and “increase the standard of living of the man-on-the-street […] to give him a better chance of living a productive life free of the allure of communist ideology.” To this end, the ICA, the agency responsible for organizing and implementing foreign aid programs, searched for a wide-ranging plan to integrate these countries into the international market, thinking that this would catalyze the development of their production and economy (Fleishman, 1957, p. 46).

The program appeared to be grounded in Cold War U.S. efforts to promote an abundant consumer market as key to freedom, prosperity, advancement and the peaceful integration of allies against the communist bloc. Within this context, design was gaining prominence as an effective tool to propagate the development of local capitalist markets in the developing world and their articulation into the international market.[2] Designers’ abilities of product differentiation and marketing were exploited to create and display the American way of life while “the talents of designer as coordinator, analyst and trade consultant” (“The Designer as,” 1956, p. 72) were offered as the catalyzers of desired development in countries receiving technical assistance. As intergovernmental correspondence reveals, at the heart of the design aid proposal was the idea to “provide personal services in design, processes, materials, marketing and packaging for handicraft and village industry products.”[3]

Although the initial intention was to advance production techniques and introduce stylistic improvements to make local products appealing to foreign markets, expanding the domestic market of locally-designed consumer goods was also on the agenda. Industrial designers were seen as the experts who would carry out the program with the help of their marketing and management experience. The plan was to work with qualified designers who could “evaluate local production, draft product designs, work up production plans, and finished sketches, and suggest materials, and recommend distribution methods.”[4] It was also considered essential “to utilize existing productive equipment, domestic resources and materials, and the local manufacture of hand tools and larger equipment.”[5]

Armed with this agenda, the Foreign Operations Administration contacted the Society of Industrial Designers to ask for the services of its member design consultant agencies. The government scheduled the program to start in the summer of 1955 in a number of countries in the Near East, Far East, Africa and Latin America, with Israel identified as the first country to collaborate.[6] Participant firms were asked to appoint a team of at least two “to survey local requirements, determine effective methods of rendering assistance, and carry out demonstrations and training activities.”[7] The survey would review production conditions, available resources and marketing possibilities in cooperation with local institutions like trade associations, cooperatives and marketing firms.[8] The survey would be followed by design, production and marketing consultancy whereby participant designers would develop designs to be produced by local craftsmen, suggest possible materials and supplies, help standardize product quality, facilitate advancement of tools and materials, guide their acquisition and establish connections with potential markets. The program was estimated to last around a year.[9]

Following negotiations, five renowned industrial design companies were assigned by the ICA to nineteen countries. The contracts included Russel Wright Associates’ mission to Hong Kong, Taiwan, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam; Walter Dorwin Teague Associates’ mission to Greece, Jordan and Lebanon; Design Research Incorporated’s mission to Pakistan, Afghanistan, Mexico, Surinam, El Salvador, Jamaica and Costa Rica; Peter Muller-Munk Associates’ mission to Israel, Turkey and India; and Smith, Scherr and McDermott’s mission to South Korea (Pulos, 1988, pp. 236-237). The design teams did not implement their projects simultaneously or follow similar routes; rather, the programs in each country were shaped by its particular economic conditions, production capacities, established craft traditions and political agendas.[10] As for Turkey, the project was brought onto the agenda at the end of 1956. U.S. officials saw Turkey as a democratic Middle Eastern country in which the proposed development could achieve significant outcomes.[11] Before proceeding to discuss the details of the program, it is crucial to outline the economic, social and cultural background that foregrounded Turkey as a promising geography regarding the aims of the program.

4. The background

The political, social, cultural and economic atmosphere of Turkey in the 1950s was marked by the transition to multi-party democracy and the resulting Democrat Party (DP) government. As a right-wing political party, DP positioned the country as “a capitalist and anti-communist stronghold,” particularly through its policies encouraging urbanization and agricultural modernization (Örnek & Üngör, 2013, p. 6). DP’s policies also brought Turkey closer to the U.S. in the ideological divisions of the Cold War, which found its greatest expression in the party’s desire “to transform Turkey into a ‘little America’” (Örnek & Üngör, 2013, p. 6). Actually, Turkey’s alignment with the U.S. had commenced earlier, in 1948, during the Republican People’s Party (RPP) government, when the country began to receive Marshall Aid, or even earlier in 1946 with the arrival of the U.S. warship SS Missouri in İstanbul. The alliance strengthened further after Turkey joined NATO in 1952, which definitively located Turkey within the Western bloc in the Cold War (Örnek & Üngör, 2013, pp. 5-6).

Meanwhile, Turkey’s economic policies were also being shaped in accordance with its alliance with the capitalist West, with World War II being decisive in introducing a liberal economic transformation. This began in 1947 in response to rising opposition to existing statist policies from Turkey’s commercial bourgeoisie and industrialists, who had grown stronger as an economic and social actor during the war (Zürcher, 2007, p. 312). Besides, the growing capitalist world economy’s tendency towards free trade and criticisms by foreign experts made Turkey more open to American investment, assistance and credit (Boratav, 2008, pp. 96-100). Hence, between 1946 and 1953, inward-looking protectionist economic policies were replaced by more liberal, foreign market and import oriented policies. However, due to an increasing foreign trade deficit, this ended in 1954 with the introduction of import substitution industrialization (ISI) policies (Boratav, 2008, pp. 107-108).

Alpay Er (1997) argues that governments in developing countries like Turkey have indirectly influenced the emergence and development of design practice through such economic and development policies, with ISI policies proving particularly effective in opening the way for the introduction of the concept of design. Yet, at this point, the actors were far from realizing the potential of design for implementing ISI policies and conceptualized design more as a cultural practice than a commercial one (Er, 1997, p. 302).
The technical aid proposal for Turkey was quite promising in terms of introducing the commercial capabilities of design practice to create a domestic mass market for consumer goods. The priority of the proposed program was raising people’s living standards, particularly the rural population that constituted the main workforce of the handicraft industry. In addition, “development of small cottage industries and handicraft activities, to provide much needed consumer essentials, reduce the needs for imports, and hopefully, create some productive capacity for export” was foregrounded as one of the projects that would comply with the objectives.[12]

The Turkish government also approached the handicraft industry in a similar manner. Its approval of the craft development program was a concrete step in its long-term efforts to advance Turkey’s craft industry. Indeed, the issue had been on the agenda almost since the establishment of the republic, with the search for solutions traceable back to The First Handicraft Exhibition and Manufactural Arts Congress, held in 1936 at the initiative of the Ministry of Economy and Commerce. In his comprehensive account of the event, Serkan Tuna (2004, p. 184) describes the exhibition as an attempt at examining the condition of local handicraft industries and determining possible measures to be taken for their enhancement. The exhibition attracted a good deal of attention from individual artisans and institutions, such as the Chamber of Commerce and Industry, the Turkish Red Crescent, the Girls Art Institute, the Society of Weavers, the Society of Shoe Makers and the Academy of Fine Arts (Tuna, 2004, p. 194). The exhibition was followed by a congress at which new laws for regulating handicraft industries were negotiated. Deputies and representatives of craftsmen worked in different committees to discuss common issues like credit problems, legal issues and education, in addition to commissions to investigate the problems of particular branches like clay and stone goods, textiles, leather working and printing (Tuna, 2004, pp. 204-205). The resulting report of the Ministry of Commerce was influential in creating a framework for the suggestions and approaches. The report considered that crafts and small-scale industry were indispensable components of industrial development, and highlighted their role in representing national culture and providing socio-economic balance (Tuna, 2004, p. 206). The measures proposed to defend the craft industry included legislation regarding institutionalization, formation of cooperatives, taxation, education and professional practice. In addition, the state was commissioned to support the marketing and sales of craft products (Tuna, 2004, pp. 208-209).

However, the law proposed at the end of the congress was never fully implemented; instead, the issues remained unresolved for two decades. In 1957, the Turkish Employment Service of the Ministry of Labor prepared A Report on the Requirement and Establishment of a Handicraft and Small-Scale Industry Technology Center. This report was the outcome of a number of meetings since 1956 between numerous relevant ministries and institutions, such as the Ministries of Economy and Commerce, Education and Foreign Relations, the Chamber of Commerce, Halkbank and Sümerbank, the Turkish Standards Institution, the Faculty of Agriculture and the Turkish Employment Service.[13] Like the earlier congress, this report considered the handicraft industry from a developmentalist perspective, emphasizing its potential for stimulating rural reconstruction. As well as emphasizing the economic and political benefits, it was also crucial for the proposed plan to evaluate the stylistic qualities and market appeal of existing craft products. In particular, since it was seen as essential for villagers to acquire the ability to produce products that addressed urban tastes and needs,[14] the report recommended the “procurement of necessary tools and materials, creation of sales opportunities, identification of the most favorable samples, supply of education and training tools.”[15]

In short, both political parties viewed the efficient reconstruction of the handicraft industry as a catalyzer of Turkey’s industrialization and development. This included both stylistic improvements to existing products in line with modernist aesthetics and the advancement of production techniques and capacity. Both the American and Turkish participants viewed these improvements as a means to ensure Turkey’s social and economic well-being since increased productivity would enable the efficient use of labor, create a profitable occupation for rural workers and stimulate a flourishing domestic mass market for consumer goods.

5. The proposed program

Negotiations with the design agency regarding Turkey’s craft development program began in the context of these efforts by both foreign and domestic actors. Peter Muller-Munk Associates was contracted by the ICA for the Small Industry – Product Development, Improvement, and Marketing project in Turkey in 1955.[16] The contract expected the firm to “spend about one-fourth of assigned time to design work proper; the major amount of project time is devoted to market evaluation, product development, technical assistance in placing recommended designs into production, and marketing and distribution arrangements.”[17] The ICA expected Peter Muller-Munk Associates with a staff member to begin by surveying Turkey’s manual and handicraft industries.
Before coming to Turkey to conduct the survey, Peter Muller-Munk and his team received a briefing document from the Turkish Employment Service in December 1955. This outlined the state of crafts in different regions in Turkey and made some suggestions for the design team’s consideration. The report defined craft production largely as a rural trade while noting the predominance of archaic production methods and the need for mechanization in many branches.[18] The report also mentioned that most craft production targeted a very limited local market and was hence considered as an unprofitable business. The proposed solutions focused on turning certain craft activities into profitable businesses for Turkey’s rural population, with hand embroidery, İstanbul spoon making, pottery, ceramic work, copper working, gilding, carpet making, weaving and mother-of-pearl work indicated as having commercial potential.[19]
Paul Karlen and Robert Renaud of Peter Muller-Munk Associates arrived in Turkey on December 16, 1955 for the survey.[20] As they reported, the designers’ visit was organized by the Turkish Ministry of Economy and Commerce and the U.S. Operations Mission to Turkey (Karlen & Renault, 1956, pp. 7-8). They traveled around Turkey for twenty two days, visiting Ankara, Hacıbektaş, Kayseri, Nevşehir, Adana, Antakya, Gaziantep, Konya, Isparta, Burdur, Denizli, İzmir, Demirci, Kütahya, Eskişehir, Bursa, Umurbey, İstanbul, Kartal, Bolu and Amasra, to observe and analyze the problems faced by Turkish craftsmen regarding product design and development, production techniques and marketing. After reviewing the situation of various crafts, including carpet making, weaving, basketry, ceramics and tile making, furniture, leather working and meerschaum carving, the designers prepared a preliminary proposal for a craft development program. The project’s two main objectives were increasing production volume and earning foreign currency (Karlen & Renault, 1956, p. 9). To achieve this, the proposal recommended establishing cooperatives of craftsmen to plan and increase production, creating high-quality products to address the needs and tastes of foreign markets, and organizing marketing and distribution channels through advertising campaigns. The designers based their program on two key points. First, the program should lead to the production of both functional objects for daily use and decorative accessories with high aesthetic appeal. Second, the competitive power of Turkish products should rely on the quality of craftsmanship than price because Turkey’s production capacity was so limited at this point (Karlen & Renault, 1956, pp. 43-44).

Having determined the goals of the project and provided a comprehensive analysis of the situation of various craft activities, the two designers identified five major crafts for the program to concentrate on: coppersmithing, basketry, woodwork, ceramics and meerschaum carving. Copper was highlighted as the backbone of the program because of its potential to bring in foreign currency, given that Turkey was rich in copper and had talented coppersmiths, yet still relied on exporting raw copper. The designers therefore recommended increasing export revenues from copper by encouraging the export of copperware. However, the proposal also suggested designing products that combined different materials, such as copper and basketwork lampshades or furniture combining copper, woodwork and basketwork (Karlen & Renault, 1956, pp. 45-47).

6. The work plan

Following their survey report, Peter Muller-Munk Associates staff delivered a work plan in April 1956, aiming to complete the project in two phases.[21] The first phase was dedicated to developing the above mentioned five fields of handicrafts (Karlen & Renault, 1956, p. 48). Peter Muller-Munk Associates staff was in charge of the entire first phase, which was also divided into three stages: design of new products, establishment of the Handicraft Development Board and the study of marketing strategies.

The design phase was preceded by a comprehensive market analysis in which American designers would analyze competing products and determine a possible market for Turkish handicrafts (Karlen & Renault, 1956, pp. 68-69). The design team would first travel to Rome, Milan, Zurich, Stockholm, Oslo, Copenhagen and Paris to examine the successful handicraft products they offered to the market and then to Montreal, Toronto, Quebec, Boston, New York, Atlanta, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, San Francisco and Los Angeles to discover promising markets. The survey’s focus would be on the range of available products in the market, their prices, marketing and quotation strategies, retailing alternatives and ways of distribution. An essential part of this phase was to collect a variety of products to be used as samples when developing original design concepts for Turkish products.

In the following step, American designers at the design quarters of Peter Muller-Munk Associates in Pittsburgh would develop 150 original product ideas, including trays, tables, lampshades, folding screens, tables, jugs, candlesticks, picnic baskets, cigarette and jewelry boxes, trash cans, cutlery and crockery. After this, Turkish craftsmen would produce a selection of 100 items under the supervision of Peter Muller-Munk Associates staff (Karlen & Renault, 1956, pp. 69-70).

Once the samples had been produced, the Handicraft Development Board would be established in the second phase. The plan suggested turning the board into a Turkish governmental institution. Therefore, its recommended permanent members should include representatives from the Ministry of Economy and Commerce as the head, the Ministry of Labor and the Confederation of Turkish Tradesmen and Craftsmen (Karlen & Renault, 1956, p. 70). Representatives of the American mission and Peter Muller-Munk Associates would become temporary members of the board who would leave once the handicraft development program was completed. In the short-term, the board was responsible for organizing the craftsmen involved in the first phase of the program into cooperatives and creating the means to pay for their work. In the long-term, a committee would be established, responsible for providing, exploring and developing materials and coordinating production facilities and standards (Karlen & Renault, 1956, p. 71). The latter included assuring production in quantity, developing a system for quality control, systematizing production, organizing distribution, granting credits, and working on marketing and retailing strategies (Karlen & Renault, 1956, pp. 71-72). The board would also be expected to encourage the sales of craft products through exhibitions in the U.S. and consulate buildings, prepare product catalogues and provide sales personnel (Karlen & Renault, 1956, p. 72).

7. The outcome

On June 28, 1957, Peter Muller-Munk Associates signed a contract with the government of Turkey to implement the proposed plan.[22] A total of $59,000 was allocated from the 1957 budget for the program.[23] Project proceeded as planned in its first year. The Handicraft Development Board established the Turkish Handicraft Development Office in Ankara, co-directed by Robert Renaud of Peter Muller-Munk Associates and Mehmet Ali Oksal (Delphia & Stern, 2016, p. 122). Under these directors was a Turkish staff of around six people as well as Robert Gabriel of Peter Muller-Munk Associates as assistant to Renaud (Delphia & Stern, 2016, p. 122, 124). The Turkish Handicrafts Development Office worked in coordination with fifteen cooperatives dispersed around the country, including cities like Kütahya, Konya, Antep and Eskişehir, to produce the designs prepared in the office (Delphia & Stern, 2016, p. 124).

In his report to the U.S. government almost a year after the contract was signed, Peter Muller-Munk noted that the project was on schedule and that they had already designed and prepared 115 samples.[24] However, the mass production of these samples was left to 1958-1959 when they could also begin to be exported.[25] Among the samples produced were interior accessories like tables, stools, magazine racks, lamps, fireplace accessories, screens, ashtrays, vases, pillow covers and needlework; some hostess and table accessories like trays, shish-kebab skewers, salad sets, pepper mills, mugs, place mats, napkins and towels; some office accessories like letter holders, calendars, mail trays and desk sets; and other various objects like toys, baskets, jewelry, pipes and souvenirs (Figures 3-8).[26]

The failure to begin commercial production of the samples seems to have caused some discontent on both sides of the project. The Turkish government complained that the American experts had prioritized collecting samples from Turkey for their own interests and had not tried to initiate production and market research (Türk El Sanatları, 1962, p. 36). The government also believed that various organizational and granting problems had disrupted the process (Türk El Sanatları, 1962, p. 36). On the other hand, the Americans complained about the orientation of the program. In its initial negotiations with the firm, the U.S. government had made it clear that assistance in producing consumer products for Turkey’s domestic market was a crucial part of the program.[27] However, the officials observed that the production of export items for the international market had been prioritized instead, which made them openly express their doubts about allocating further budget to the project.[28] These growing complaints from both sides led to the termination of the project when, after three years of activity, the Turkish Handicrafts Development Office was closed at the request of the Turkish government (Türk El Sanatları, 1962, p. 69).

Fig. 3 – Turkish Handicraft Development Office showroom, PMMA Archives.

Fig. 4 – Tabletop accessories, PMMA Archives.

Fig. 5 – Vases and candleholders, PMMA Archives.

Fig. 6 – Whirling dervishes, PMMA Archives.

Fig. 7 – Barbecue, PMMA Archives.

Fig. 8 – Furniture, PMMA Archives.

8. Conclusions

The termination of the project without any tangible outcomes caused some displeasure on the Turkish side. Some of the more moderate criticisms focused on the drawbacks of local conditions and incompetence of local producers. For this group, the project was destined to fail because it was badly timed (Türk El Sanatları, 1962, p. 37). However, more adversarial voices claimed that foreign assistance was incompatible with national interests and blamed foreign agents for exclusively protecting their own interests (Türk El Sanatları, 1962, p. 37). Indeed, interviews with program participants indicate that the American designers had even been accused of spying, leading to requests for their deportation.[29] Whether true or not, such suspicions reflect the ideological conflicts of Cold War Turkey and remind us that any account of design history, whether national or international, should take into consideration the political, ideological and diplomatic context. It also reminds us that this was not a one-way transfer from the center to the periphery; rather, the recipients of design aid reacted to it in certain ways to meet their own interests and agenda.

There are also other more crucial conclusions to draw from the account given here before quickly inferring that the project failed. The story confirms that this introduction of industrial design to the periphery largely took place within the ideological atmosphere of the Cold War as a matter of industrialization. As Gui Bonsiepe noted, “industrial design constitutes an indispensable instrument for endeavours towards development” in the peripheral countries (cited in Er 1997, p. 295). What Bonsiepe (1977) meant was creating a design practice to address local needs with local resources in place of commercially driven design practice as it is in the center. However, as Bonsiepe himself acknowledged, design practice had rather a restricted scope when it is only used to enrich the market for the upper classes through “ephemeral product differentiation”. Similarly, in the case of design aid to Turkey, design’s crucial role for both local and foreign agents lay in its potential to enrich international markets with exotically appealing products, as yet another form of “ephemeral product differentiation” (Bonsiepe, 1977, p. 14).

This brings us to another question to be raised about design practice in the periphery. It is now clear that the development of design in developing countries cannot be comprehensively studied without referring to its role in the development and expansion of capitalist markets (Er, 1997). Through the emphasis they placed on improving local craft products, U.S. design aid programs of the 1950s appear to suggest that peripheral countries were welcome to join the international design scene, particularly through a cultural interpretation of design. This may have further influenced the development of national design discourses in these countries. The way emergent discourses in the early 2000s defined the goal of Turkish design as modernizing the traditional and the aesthetic and conceptual similarities between products marketed under the label Turkish design and those produced in THDO is remarkable in this sense.
Before coming to a conclusion, there are still questions and relations to be explored. It is still too early to claim to understand how the Turkish participants experienced, interpreted and appropriated the whole experience, how they negotiated the design concepts and approaches introduced by the American designers, or how they used this experience to develop the field further because the story as covered in this article represents largely the American point of view and experience while records prepared by Turkish institutions remain unexplored. Analysis of these records would not only fill in existing gaps in knowledge but also open up new perspectives that would alter the analysis of American sources. Finally, to determine how the experience of the Turkish Handicraft Development Office influenced further development of design culture in Turkey and to reveal the dialogue between two parties would require recourse to personal archives and the memories of individual participants. It is through this way that clearer conclusions could be reached.

I conducted a large part of this study, including the archival research in NARA and the Special Collections Research Center at Syracuse University Libraries, during my term as a visiting researcher at Parsons School of Design. I would therefore like to thank to Susan Yelavich, Sarah Lichtman, Jilly Traganou and Clive Dilnot for their support in accepting my proposal and hence enabling this research. I am also grateful to Rachel Delphia for generously sharing her files of Peter Muller-Munk Associates with me. Without her time and support it would have been more than difficult for me to gain any visual evidence about the work done in THDO. Finally I would like to thank Özlem Er, who provided my contact with Rachel Delphia.


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Düzakın, E. (2000). Son yirmi yılda Türk endüstrisinde Türk Tasarımcılar [Turkish designers in Turkish industry during the last twenty years]. PhD thesis. Marmara University, İstanbul.

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Karlen, P., & Renault, R. (1956). Türkiye el san’atları ve küçük sanayiinin konstrüksyon ve desen durumu hakkında rapor [A report on the condition of design in Turkish Handicrafts and Small Industry]. Ankara: Sonhavadis Matbaası.

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Stanley, L. (2017). Archival methodology inside the black box: Noise in the archive!. In N. Moore et al. (eds.), The archive project: Archival research in the social sciences (33-68). London and New York, NY: Routledge.

The designer as economic diplomat. (1956). Industrial Design, 3(4), 69-73.

Tuna, S. (2004). Birinci El İşleri Sergisi ve Küçük Sanatlar Kongresi [The First Handicraft Exhibition and Manufactural Arts Congress]. Yakın Dönem Türkiye Araştırmaları, 3(5), 177-227.

Türkiye Ticaret Odaları Sanayi Odaları ve Ticaret Borsaları Birliği. (1962). Türk el sanatları ile hediyelik-turistik eşya mevzuu ve bu kollarda gelişme imkanları [The issue of Turkish handicrafts and souvenirs and the possibilities of development]. Ankara: Türkiye Ticaret Odaları Sanayi Odaları ve Ticaret Borsaları Birliği Yayınları.

Yagou, A. (2005). Unwanted innovation: The Athens Design Centre (1961-1963). Journal of Design History, 18(3), 269-283.

Zürcher, E. J. (2007). Modernleşen Türkiye’nin tarihi [Turkey: A Modern History]. (21st ed.). İstanbul: İletişim Yayınları.

Note    (↵ returns to text)

  1. All online sources were last retrieved on July 2017.
  2. The American attempts at encouraging design development in allied countries during particularly postwar period has been subject to a number of design historical studies. Kikuchi (2008) uncovers the ICA led design aid to Japan, conducted by Russel Wright Associates. The U.S. interventions into the European context is covered by Rossi (2015) for the case of Italy and Yagou (2005) fort he case of Greece.
  3. Proposed NEA Regional Small Industry Development Projects, Washington, Feb. 18, 1955; Industry-Handicraft; Subject Files, 1952-1960, p. 1; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  4. Proposed NEA Regional Small Industry Development Projects, Washington, Feb. 18, 1955, p. 2.
  5. Proposed NEA Regional Small Industry Development Projects, Washington, Feb. 18, 1955, p. 2.
  6. Foreign Operations Administration to Society of Industrial Designers, May 4, 1955; Industrial Designers Society of America (IDSA) Records, Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University Libraries, Box 72, Folder: FOA Program on Underdeveloped Countries, 1955.
  7. Foreign Operations Administration to Society of Industrial Designers, May 4, 1955, p. 1.
  8. Foreign Operations Administration to Society of Industrial Designers, May 4, 1955, p. 1.
  9. Foreign Operations Administration to Society of Industrial Designers, May 4, 1955, p. 2.
  10. Brown (1958), Clabby (1957) and Fleishman (1957) provide an overview of the activities of design consultancy agencies in their assigned countries. Peter Muller Munk Associates’ program in Israel is recounted in the article “A New State Gets a New Profession” published in 1960 in Industrial Design. Delphia and Stern (2016) also document the design aid to Israel through a reading of the archival traces of the project. Russel Wright Associates’ mission is neatly summarized in “The Designer as Economic Diplomat” (1956).
  11. Cedric H. Seager to Dr. D. A. Fitzgerald, Nov. 14, 1956; 7.0 Technical Cooperation, 1957 Turkey; Decimal Files, 1955-1960, p. 1; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  12. Cedric H. Seager to Dr. D. A. Fitzgerald, Nov. 14, 1956, p. 1.
  13. Ev-Köy Sanatları ve Küçük Sanayi Teknoloji Merkezi Lüzum ve Kurulması Hakkında Rapor [A Report on the Requirement and Establishment of Handicraft and Small Industry Technology Center], Turkish Employment Service of Ministry of Labor, Ankara, 1957; Industry-Handicraft; Subject Files, 1952-1960, p. 4; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  14. Ev-Köy Sanatları ve Küçük Sanayi Teknoloji Merkezi Lüzum ve Kurulması Hakkında Rapor [A Report on the Requirement and Establishment of Handicraft and Small Industry Technology Center], Turkish Employment Service of Ministry of Labor, Ankara, 1957, p. 32.
  15. Ev-Köy Sanatları ve Küçük Sanayi Teknoloji Merkezi Lüzum ve Kurulması Hakkında Rapor [A Report on the Requirement and Establishment of Handicraft and Small Industry Technology Center], Turkish Employment Service of Ministry of Labor, Ankara, 1957, p. 15.
  16. Proposed NEA Demonstration Project for Small Industry and Handicraft Development, Washington, Jul. 13, 1955; Industry-Handicraft; Subject Files, 1952-1960, p. 1; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  17. Proposed NEA Demonstration Project for Small Industry and Handicraft Development, Washington, Jul. 13, 1955, p. 2.
  18. Handicrafts & Homecrafts in Turkey, Dec. 1, 1955; Industry-Handicraft; Subject Files, 1952-1960; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  19. Handicrafts & Homecrafts in Turkey, Dec. 1, 1955.
  20. USOM/Baghdad to USOM/Ankara, Dec. 6, 1955; Industry-Handicraft; Subject Files, 1952-1960; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  21. USOM/Ankara to ICA/Washington, ICATO 870, June 2, 1958; Proj. 77-29-281 – Handicraft Development 11/56 – 6/58 Central Files; Classified Central Files, 1948-1960, p. 1; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  22. USOM/Ankara to ICA/Washington, ICATO 870, June 2, 1958, p. 1.
  23. International Cooperation Administration Program Approval Summary Sheet, FY 1957; 7.0 Technical Cooperation, 1957 Turkey; Decimal Files, 1955-1960; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  24. USOM/Ankara to ICA/Washington, ICATO 870, June 2, 1958, p. 1.
  25. USOM/Ankara to ICA/Washington, ICATO 870, June 2, 1958, p. 3.
  26. USOM/Ankara to ICA/Washington, ICATO 870, June 2, 1958, p. 2.
  27. Washington, DC to Ankara, ICATO 870, May 26, 1958; Proj. 77-29-281 – Handicraft Development 11/56 – 6/58 Central Files; Classified Central Files, 1948-1960, p. 1; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  28. Secretary of State to American Embassy, ICATO 939, June 13, 1958; Proj. 77-29-281 – Handicraft Development 11/56 – 6/58 Central Files; Classified Central Files, 1948-1960; Records of U.S. Foreign Assistance Agencies, 1942-1963, Record Group 469; National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD.
  29. A. Buldam, personal communication, March 21, 2017.

Ephemeral Voices and Precarious Documents: Fixing Oral History and Grey Literature to the Design Historical Record

Taking as a starting point the recent interest of design history in the history of actors, groups or events that fall outside an institutional context, this article discusses methodological challenges related to research on histories that are less documented in conventional archives. As these histories may often be found in private archives and/or the memories of historical actors rather than in conventional archives, they require a different type of methodological reflection and practice. Drawing on examples from the author’s ongoing PhD research on design education in the Scandinavian countries and the emergence of a discourse on sustainability in the late 1960s and 1970s, this article discusses problems and benefits regarding the use of oral sources, ephemera and grey literature. The latter is presented as a concept to expand the borders of the archival category in order to include more unconventional source material which might otherwise be lost. The article further argues that a more conscious approach to this type of methodology may add nuances to existing interpretations and complement the more conventional use of sources in design historical research.

1. Introduction: Why Oral History and Grey Literature?

Recent developments within design historical research include a broadening of the field to include not only the histories of main actors or institutions, but also to encompass the history of actors, groups or events which fall outside an institutional context (See e.g., Atkinson, 2006; Beegan, Atkinson, & Ryan, 2008; Fallan, 2012; Stern, 2014; Guins, 2015; Stein, 2016). Methodologically speaking, this trend actualizes a range of challenges regarding sources, as these histories are normally not well documented in what could be described as conventional archives, such as archives of educational institutions or professional organizations. Rather, they can be found in a variety of locations such as private archives and, if the time perspective allows it, in the memories of historical actors. The use of such unconventional archive material is far from new in design history, and material such as brochures, company catalogues or oral histories have been used to a large extent within the field. This does not, however, diminish the fact that this material requires special attentiveness and a different type of methodological reflection and practice.

This article draws on examples from my ongoing PhD project conducted at the University of Oslo as part of the research project Back to the Sustainable Future: Visions of Sustainability in the History of Design. The aim of the research project is to explore the historical conditions for, and development of, sustainable design, and my study focuses on design education in particular. It investigates how thoughts on ecology and environmental protection were developed at design schools in the Scandinavian countries, Norway, Sweden and Denmark,[1] in the 1960s and 1970s, and intends to show how design students and educators were important actors in promoting new attitudes regarding the environment. The study thus focuses more on the conceptions of design held by these actors than the actual objects they designed. It thus attempts to respond to Buchanan’s call for an approach that “would reposition design history from material objects or ’things’ to thought and action. In other words, what designers say and do, the history of their art as philosophy and practice” (1992, p. 14). In the case of design education and the emergence of a discourse on ecology and environmental protection in the Scandinavian countries, the design historical importance could be said to reside in “thought and action” just as much as – if not more than – in designed objects.

Despite its prominent role in today’s design discourse, the history of sustainability and design is a scarcely explored field. The generation of design students and educators working with sustainable design in the 1960s and 1970s can hardly be characterised as a marginalized group in the traditional sense. The absence of research on the topic nevertheless shows that these voices are represented in design history to a lesser degree. This may seem a peculiar claim, considering that several of my interviewees must be considered highly acknowledged designers and widely described figures.[2] It does not, however, change the fact that there are histories that have received less attention and which remain to be told.

The design schools examined in the study are The National College of Applied Art and Craft (Statens håndverks- og kunstindustriskole) in Oslo, Bergen College of Arts and Crafts (Bergen Kunsthåndverkerskole), The School of Arts, Crafts, and Design (Konstfack) in Stockholm, The School of Design and Crafts in Gothenburg (Högskolan för design och konsthantverk), The School of Arts and Crafts (Kunsthåndværkerskolen) and The Royal Danish Academy of Architecture (Kunstakademiets Arkitektskole) in Copenhagen. These schools’ archives play a key role in my research as they have provided crucial information on the content of the education through curriculum and syllabus, accounts of the teaching staff and students, minutes of meetings, annual reports, etc. Although these sources have provided valuable information, the archival material available is, however, often sparse, both in volume and in wealth of detail. This has made it necessary to search for information outside the institutional archives, and use interviews with central actors to supplement the written source material and fill in gaps in missing information.

In addition to considering issues regarding the use of oral sources, the article discusses the concept of grey literature, which may be described as source material that falls between oral sources and commercially published material. I consider this a fruitful concept to expand the borders of the archival category in order to include source material which otherwise could be lost. By offering complementary documentation, grey literature may also act as corrective to, or corroboration of, understandings gleaned from sources such as institutional records, oral history and published material. The article further illuminates how a combination of oral history interviews and grey literature may be particularly valuable, as these kinds of sources may supplement each other to bring to light histories that have been either forgotten, under-communicated or omitted from official histories. A more conscious attitude towards this type of source and methodology may further add nuances to existing interpretations and complement more conventional use of sources in design historical research.

2. Oral History and Design History

The use of oral history methodology has a long tradition in scientific disciplines such as anthropology, sociology and cultural history (See e.g., Vansina, 1965; Thompson, 1975; Fraser, 1979; Hareven, 1982). Although a not unfamiliar methodology in design historical research (Walker, 1989, p. 6), the past decades have shown increased interest in oral history within the field of design history. This has led to several initiatives, such as Design History Society’s Oral History Project. The project records a series of interviews with people who have played a significant role in the development of design history as a scholarly field, such as designers, researchers and writers (Design History Society, n.d.). These stories are a valuable resource in the understanding of how individuals and institutions have shaped the notion of design history as an independent discipline. Another initiative is Journal of Design History’s special issue on oral history in 2006, guest edited by Linda Sandino. The issue was motivated by “the increasing tendency amongst design historians to use interviews, both as a means and a resource” (Sandino, 2006, p. 275). Sandino and Partington’s edited volume Oral History in the Visual Arts from 2013 comprises yet another valuable resource. Featuring contributions by historians, archivists and curators, the book provides an insight into the meaning of alternative and often both forgotten and hidden stories about visual practices. Through interviews and the work they produce, the book also demonstrates methods capable of exploring how values and ideologies are constructed, challenged or sustained (Sandino & Partington, 2013, p. 11). With its valuable examples, this work demonstrates how a more extensive use of similar sources would be important in generating new research within the design historical field.

3. The Oral History Interview: A Two-Way Thing

As suggested by Yow, oral history may be defined as “the recording of personal testimony delivered in oral form” (2005, p. 3). The fact that the term easily could be replaced by terms such as in-depth interview, recorded memoir, life history, life narrative, taped memories or life review, according to Yow “impl[ies] that there is someone else involved who frames the topics and inspires the narrator to begin the act of remembering, jogs memory, and records and presents the narrator’s words” (2005, p. 4). An oral history interview is thus made up of at least two people: the person who tells the story, and this “someone else,” that is the interviewer, who records the story. The interviewer consequently holds great power when it comes to the way he or she frames the topics, decides which questions to ask, and last but not least determines the emphasis in the subsequent presentation of the story in a written form. It is therefore essential to be attentive to historicizing the interviewers as well as the interviewees (Armitage & Gluck, 2006, p. 77). In the case of my own research on design education in Scandinavia, this has led to questions such as: how does my foreknowledge of the topic affect my questions to the interviewee? Is my selection of interviewees a result of coincidence or a deliberate sampling? In addition, to what degree is the information I get in the interviews coloured by my need and hypothesis? As stressed by Lees-Maffei and Fallan, researchers are “people with subjective responses” (2015, p. 12). Even though we are ever so much “trained to put aside subjective responses in our analyses, […] personal interests, values and experiences continue to inform the work of design historians, from choice of subject matter and theoretical frameworks to our methodological approaches and conclusions” (Lees-Maffei & Fallan, 2015, p. 6). It is therefore essential that scholars reflect on these issues in view of the ethical responsibility that comes with historical research. In the case of oral history where the sources are recorded, and to some degree formed, in a social interaction between the interviewee and the historian, the historians’ power of influence is particularly evident.

Equally important as being aware of the responsibility of the interviewer is crucial being attentive to the informant’s role. As noted by Oak, the oral history interview paves the way for both a recording and a shaping of the past (Oak, 2006, p. 346). This means that in his or her conveyance of the history, interviewees have the opportunity to exaggerate, understate and even rewrite their role. Being attentive to this aspect is particularly crucial in cases characterized by conflict and differing accounts of events and when the opponents have something to gain from asserting their version of the story. In my own research, I experienced this when I talked to two of the actors who were central in the establishment of an industrial design education in Norway. According to my sources, the process had been far from straightforward, involving considerably more disagreement than one could gather only by reading the minutes. This background information has been important to my further understanding and account of the case. The example further underlines how interviews enable the disclosure of disagreement and conflict in a manner that minutes of meetings never will.

As interviews simultaneously engage with both the period being discussed and the period in which the interview takes place, they must consequently be regarded as “locally managed occasions of interaction in which participants collaboratively construct meaning” (Oak, 2006, p. 346). This aspect of collaboration and social interaction could be said to be one of the key features of oral history. Through the narrator’s descriptions, he or she creates meaning and constructs stories about previous events in order to represent the past. In this way, the interviewee too becomes an historian, and the traditional distinction between professional and amateur collapses (Sandino & Partington, 2013, p. 11).

As appears from the above, oral sources are not objective. As pointed out by Portelli, however, this is of course the case with every source, but the “holiness of writing” often makes us forget it (1991, p. 53). While we usually view written documents such as minutes of meetings and conventions, parliamentary records, interviews reported in newspapers etc. as legitimate historical sources, we tend to forget that these written documents very often are merely the presentation of unidentified oral sources (Portelli, 1991, p. 51). Consequently, a written reproduction is not necessarily truer than an oral one. In oral history, however, one has to take into account the possible deficiency of memory. Memories may be floating and malleable and subject to modification over time. Oral testimonials should therefore be handled with the utmost care when used for research purposes.[3]

4. Whose Stories and How They Are Told

Many of my interviewees have been identified through archival research where their names have appeared in the archive material. While some here have had an evident position, others have been identified more by coincidence. The latter was the case when a negligible voucher revealed the name of a physicist at the University of Oslo who gave a guest lecture on solar energy at The National College of Applied Art and Craft in Oslo in 1976 (Figure 1). Despite the non-existing record of this in any other archival documents, the interview gave me important information, both on the content of the education at the design school in Oslo and the contact between this school and the University, which will be of great importance further on in my project.[4] In many cases, the interviewee’s enthusiasm and knowledge has led me to other interesting actors as well as new leads to explore, a process described by Stein as “snowball sampling” (2016, p. 31). It is, however, important to be aware that this may affect the selection of interviewees and consequently aim at a balanced selection. An enthusiastic interviewee’s “spinning off” may furthermore be both beneficial and challenging for the interviewer (Hazell & Fallan, 2015, p. 117). At best, it may lead to new discoveries and perspectives, which was the case when I interviewed former teacher and rector of the National College of Applied Art and Craft in Oslo, Roar Høyland. In a digression, he came to mention a solar energy installation he designed for the school building’s roof in the 1970s.[5] Highly relevant for my research, but with no record of it in the school’s archive, a possible further exploration of this project will rely on the existence of oral sources and grey literature, such as drawings or notes.

Fig. 1 – Invoice for double lecture on solar energy held by physicist Torfinn Lindem at The National College of Applied Art and Craft in Oslo, March 1976. The Regional State Archive, Oslo.

An informant’s derailment may, however, become a problem if the interviewer allows his or her digressions to unduly form the project. What the informant may wish to tell about may be something other than the interviewer is interested in. The reason for this discrepancy may be caused by the interviewee’s interest, but also by his or her memory. In one of my interviews, I talked to a person who constantly seemed to avoid answering my questions, leading the conversation into other topics outside the scope of my project. Frustrating there and then, this apparent insistence on telling, even if it was ever so irrelevant to my questions, could, however, be because the person felt bad about not remembering the things I asked about, and felt the need to obscure or compensate for this fact by talking about something else. It could also be that they had never known anything about the particular topic at all, but feared that they had forgotten. Whatever the reason, the example points to the possible deficiency or weakening of memory, which seen in relation to ageing might be a source of discomfort to some people. This underlines the distinctive quality of oral testimonials compared to written material, as the sources are people, not documents.

The passing of time and people’s acquisition of experience may also affect their attitudes and opinions. This could influence their recollection of past events, because, as pointed out by Portelli, “people’s versions of their past change when the individual changes” (1991, p. 61). In the case of Scandinavian design education in the late 1960s and 1970s, a time marked by political radicalism and young people manning the barricades for change in society as well as prevalent education, this is an important acknowledgement (Figure 2). Some of my interviewees have expressed that their political views have changed since the late 1960s, and explain their thoughts and actions at that time as “young idealism”. Others have described how their firm belief in the ability to improve the life of the worlds less privileged through design were undermined when they left school and started working for an industry run for profit. The experience these people have acquired over time has thus formed the attitudes they now hold. Their outlook has changed because they have changed, which again may influence the way they recall their past. This illustrates Portelli’s acknowledgement (1991, p. 61) that a life story is a work in progress, and that the point of time when the researcher’s path crosses the narrator’s consequently is a crucial factor for the shape of the presented story.

Fig. 2 – Unknown artist, illustration in notification distributed by the students’ council at The National College of Applied Art and Craft in Oslo, 1968. Despite the charming depiction, the students demanded school democracy, co-determination, interdisciplinary cooperation, and an education more in line with society’s true needs. The Regional State Archive, Oslo.

A personal testimonial from someone who experienced an event has the potential of adding layers of empathy to the story (Kjeldstadli, 1992, p. 186). The value of empathy is further emphasized by Lowenthal, who claims that: “Unless history displays conviction, interest, and involvement, it will not be understood or attended to. That is why subjective interpretation, while limiting knowledge, is also essential to communication. Indeed, the better a narrative exemplifies an historian’s point of view the more credible his account” (Lowenthal, 1985, p. 218). Consequently, according to Lowenthal, the actor’s subjective experience of an event is of great significance for the credibility of the story. In order to investigate how the late 1960s student rebellion developed at Scandinavian design institutions, it becomes significant not only what actually happened or “what people did,” to quote Portelli, “but what they wanted to do, what they believed they were doing, and what they now think they did” (Portelli, 1991, p. 50). In such a context, meanings and feelings about a particular event may be as important as the event itself, and oral history offers a fertile approach to this purpose. Interviewing Roar Høyland, I was initially interested in details on the Austro-American design theoretician Victor Papanek’s visit to the school in 1969. In a digression, quite irrelevant to my enquiry about Papanek, Høyland did, however, come to mention that he had been in Paris in May 1968, taking part in the student protests.[6] His vivid recounting of the event, including his dramatic escape from the Parisian police, revealed an immensely engaged person, extremely updated on student politics and current societal issues. Due to this background, Høyland has turned out to be a highly important actor in my further research and his work as a teacher at the school from 1968 and onwards has become of particular interest.

The positions and voices of key actors like Høyland are crucial in forging a credible account of the events and developments I am interested in. In acknowledging this type of multi-vocal subjectivity in the construction of our narratives, we can turn what is often cast as a weakness of oral history into a strength. Thompson has stated that “Oral evidence, by transforming the ‘objects’ of study into ‘subjects’, makes for a history which is not just richer, more vivid and heartrending, but truer” (Thompson, 1978, p. 90). Without the backdrop of Høyland’s history, his role at the school might have been judged differently. This could again have led to a different interpretation of the history.

People experience things differently and this might sometimes seem challenging for the historian. On some occasions, the interviews have revealed substantially different accounts of the same events. This is particularly the case with the mentioned visit of Victor Papanek to Oslo in 1969. While some of my interviewees describe how Papanek, with his radical views of design, caused furore among the students and irritation among the teachers, others describe the event in more moderate terms. This does not mean that one of the accounts is false. It rather demonstrates how people experience an event or a situation differently, which underlines the impossibility of finding an objective historical truth. In the case of the mentioned example, the differing experiences may also reveal different positions in late 1960s student politics. Even if the late 1960s generally is considered to be a period of student opposition and political revolt, a study on the on the period should not overlook the fact that there also were students with more moderate political views. This is an important acknowledgement when it comes to my project, as it sometimes may be tempting to emphasize and possibly overstate the more spectacular portrayals.

5. Source Material in the Grey Zone

Through my interviews, I have come across a more indefinable category of source material, given to me by interviewees. This material, such as letters, conference programmes and proceedings, reports etc., from the interviewees’ private archives, has often been highly original and of great value to my project, and it has many of the same qualities as the material preserved in the institutional and official archives. This applies, for example, to material complementary to the student publications found in the school’s archives, which has much of the same spontaneous visual expression. The fact that it is not protected by the preservation policies of the former, gives it a precarious nature, which leaves it at risk of being lost. Grey literature is a concept that moves across the sanctioned borderline of institutional archives. By acknowledging and applying this category, one may hopefully equate the status of more unconventional material with that of source material found in traditional archives. Such a rise in status of material of more vulnerable and/or ephemeral character, often found in private archives, may hopefully contribute to more of this material being preserved.

Grey literature may be defined as “non-conventional literature, not issued through the normal commercial publication channels” (Alberani & Castro, 2001, p. 237).[7] It could also be added that grey literature is material that is not always easy to find, not always available, and that the documents usually are intended for a limited number of readers (Alberani & Castro, 2001, pp. 237-238). Based on this definition, material that falls into the category of grey literature includes theses and dissertations, faculty research works, reports of meetings, conferences, seminars and workshops, students’ projects and in-house publications of associations and organizations, to mention a few (Okoroma, 2011, p. 790). Much of the material found in the archives of the design schools has been of this nature. The label “grey” should therefore not be limited only to material outside conventional archives. Drawing a line from published material to oral testimonials, imagining these as bookends, one may rather say that grey literature is everything in between. This consequently includes material from conventional archives as well as more atypical information such as letters and personal notes.

The diverse nature of grey literature may raise questions regarding classification of the source material. One of these is whether or not the definition includes “ephemera”, which according to Makepeace is “the collective name given to material which carries a verbal message and is produced either by printing or illustrative processes, but not in the standard book, periodical or pamphlet format” (Makepeace, 1985, p. 10). Ephemera are usually produced for short-term use, and include material such as tickets, timetables, posters, invitations, postcards etc. (Makepeace, 1985, p. 220). Consequently, this category shares obvious characteristics with grey literature, such as the intention of production, circulation patterns and intended durability. A possible conflation of the two is, however, rejected by Alberani and De Castro (2001) who emphasize the fact that ephemera is not literature (p. 237). I would nonetheless argue that in the context of design history, this is a detrimental and superfluous distinction. Dealing with both visual and text based sources, design historians may easily come across written material on the borderline to ephemera.

This may for example be the case with fanzines, which as (fan) magazines easily could pass as literature and consequently be labelled grey literature, according to Alberani and De Castro’s definition of the term. In a design historical study, however, the fanzine’s visual expression could be considered just as relevant and interesting as its textual expression. This is confirmed by Triggs, who in her study on British punk fanzines from the 1970s argues that it is “as much the graphic language that differentiated fanzines from the mainstream as the content of these publications” (2006, p. 81). A too rigid emphasis on the textual or literary aspect of the material thus seems less productive in a design historical context. Rather, one has more to gain from accepting these blurred lines between ephemera and grey literature, or even be prepared to see the former as a visual form, or an under category of the latter. Fanzines can also serve as an example of how grey literature may enable a broadening of the design historical field to include the histories of actors, groups or events that are not well documented in conventional archives. One of the aims in Triggs study is precisely to “recover from history an area of graphic design activity that has largely been ignored” (Triggs, 2006, p. 69). Showing how “fanzines became vehicles of subcultural communication and played a fundamental role in the construction of punk identity and a political community” (p. 70), Triggs’ study sheds new light on a subculture which would influence cultural expressions in years to come.

In the case of my own project, I came across a comprehensive range of grey literature material in an interview with a former student at the design school in Oslo. The material consisted of extensive documentation on the activities of the Scandinavian Design Students Organization (SDO), a scarcely described pan Nordic cooperation that was active in the late 1960s. By studying the minutes of the organization board’s meetings, the programme for and lectures being held, at three summer seminars, as well as the two published issues of the organization’s members magazine &, I have gained insight into an organization which proved to be influential, not only in the late 1960s design student politics, but also in the further development of Nordic design education (Figure 3 and 4). Thanks to this source material, I have also been able to specify and verify much of the information I have been given in the interviews.

Fig. 3 – Timo Aarniala, front cover of the second issue of the Scandinavian Design Students Organization’s magazine & (1968).

Fig. 4 – Proceedings of the seminar “Industry – Environment – Product Design”, Suomenlinna, 1968. Photo: Helsinki Design Lab, courtesy of Yrjö Sotamaa.

As Makepeace points out, grey literature can “help to give an increased awareness of the age when it was produced” (Makepeace, 1985, p. 219). An interesting example in this context is the project “Affischerna 1967-1979” (The Posters 1967-1979), which presents an impressive collection of posters from the Swedish alternative movement. Originally an online presentation ( of the enthusiast Håkan Agnsäter’s private collection, the project later developed into several exhibitions as well as a book (Agnsäter, 2013). The project is particularly relevant to my project, as the collection contains a series of posters made by student of the School of Arts, Crafts and Design (Konstfack) in protest against the United Nations’ Conference on the Human Environment, held in Stockholm in 1972 (Figure 5). According to Agnsäter, the students went out during the night and “put up posters on the walls of buildings in the central parts of Stockholm, where the UN delegates would pass the next day. Every morning, however, the posters were painted over with grey colour” (Agnsäter, 2013, p. 102). This damaging of the posters that were put up makes the ones that still exist both scarce and valuable. It also brings to our attention an amazing story about which I have found no record of anywhere else but hopefully will be able to research further.

Fig. 5 – Unknown artist, Hur länge ska utvecklingen ligga i förrädarnas händer? [How long will the development be in the hands of traitors?]. One of several protest posters made by Konstfack students for the United Nations’ Conference on the Human Environment, held in Stockholm in 1972. Courtesy of Håkan Agnsäter.

In the introduction to his book, Agnsäter describes how he accidentally, while looking for something else in his basement, came across his old collection of posters:

We roll up poster after poster and are met by a many-coloured splendour, fists eager to fight, solidarity with the Vietnamese people, rock music against nuclear power, ideas for a better world. Memories come flowing; the motives become keys to long-closed rooms. This has to be shown to more people, I keep thinking. (Agnsäter, 2013, p. 7).

In light of the discussion on ephemera, the quote is interesting in several ways. Firstly, it describes Agnsäter’s reaction when he acknowledged the value of the material: that it deserved a better fate than lying hidden and forgotten in a basement (which is exactly the case with much grey literature and ephemera). Agnsäter initially clearly saw the value of saving the collection, as he, at some point, placed it in his basement instead of throwing it away. The rediscovery of the posters many years later was, however, accidental. This points to the fact that the rediscovery and preservation of ephemera often is a result of coincidence. It could also be added that many posters are torn down when they are replaced or pasted over with new ones, especially those which have been put up illegally on walls or fences (Makepeace, 1985, p. 70).

Secondly, Agnsäter’s quote demonstrates the power of ephemera material to serve as memory triggers or, as he describes them; “keys to long-closed rooms”. The posters are thus not only important due to their visual qualities or sentimental value; they are keys to uncovering histories from the past, which makes them valuable tools also in oral history interviews. Stein has shown how this kind of material (in her case photographs) had “the effect of sparking the conversation, reminding the participants of something they had forgotten and that I would not have known to ask about” (Stein, 2014). This has also been the case in several of my interviews. Showing a former student at the design school in Oslo the minutes from a meeting he attended in the late 1960s called forth memories, which again led both him and me onto new themes, valuable for my project.

6. Conclusion

In line with Buchanan’s call for more focus on the various conceptions of design held by designers in the past, presented in the introduction (1992, p. 14), Fallan (2010) has pointed out that design history is best expressed as a history of both objects and ideas, consequently not just manifested in concrete objects, but also as discourse and ideology (p. 48). In this article, I have argued that oral history and grey literature are invaluable assets in this ongoing expansion of the field of design history, as it can facilitate access to historical actors’ ideas and actions not documented by conventional written sources. By listening to the histories of actors in a particular design historical discourse, we may learn about the mode of thought and ideals that have formed the basis of their work, whether as designers or educators. In her study on domestic advice literature, Lees-Maffei (2014) introduces the concept of “real ideals”, which she describes as “the normative ideals shared by members of a society [that] prescribe desirable behaviours and consumption practices” (p. 2). While Lees-Maffei employs advice literature to uncover the real ideals of household advisors past and present, oral history, and also grey literature, may be instrumental in revealing the real ideals of designers and design educators in the 1970s. Time is, however, of essence when it comes to oral sources, and utilization of these requires prompt action.

Although its methodological discourse is more mature in disciplines such as archaeology, medical science and library and information studies (See e.g., Luzi, 2000; Farace & Schöpfel, 2010; Roth, 2010), I would claim that grey literature is also a fertile concept for design history. As a comprehensive category, grey literature includes material from both conventional archives and private archives. The distinction between these two may be changing, as private archives may eventually become sanctioned and institutionalized. This has been the case with the archives of, for example, Richard Buckminster Fuller and Victor J. Papanek, which have been transferred to Stanford University Libraries and the University of Applied Arts in Vienna, respectively (Chu & Trujillo, 2009, p. 1; Sacchetti, 2012). The private archives I use in my research will, however, never go through the same transaction as the affiliated actors do not have the same status. They nevertheless hold important historical documentation on lesser known groups and events, invaluable to both me and researchers to come. A possible application of these archives does, however, require a more general acknowledgement of the value of the material they hold. An expansion of the borders of the archival category, to include conventional as well as unconventional archive material may equalize the relation between the two. Such a rise in status of unsanctioned archive material may, furthermore, contribute to its preservation.

By presenting examples from my research on design education in Norway, Sweden and Denmark in the late 1960s and 1970s, this article has discussed the practice and methodological challenges that accompany the use of oral history and grey literature. It has argued that the value of oral testimonies to design historical research lies in the ability to both reveal information that does not appear in written sources and to supplement and expand existing information. As shown, oral sources may also disclose information on groups that have been left out of public record. Interviews may reveal different perceptions of past events, but this does not necessarily make one perception truer than the other. It does nevertheless indicate that oral histories – as well as conventional archive material, should be treated with an academic distance and presented as one point of view rather than an absolute truth. This is, however, the case with all records of the past, also conventional archive material.

Oral history may be particularly fruitful in combination with grey literature, and the article has suggested the concept of grey literature as a suitable framework to expand the borders of conventional archival categories. By considering written, unpublished sources, whether they are conventional or unconventional archive material, under the umbrella of grey literature, one avoids the risk of underrating the latter and consequently losing important parts of our history. Such an expansion, of course, will not be at the expense of traditional archive material. I would rather claim that a rethinking of the archival category would strengthen the field of design historical research and allow new and interesting histories to be told. Moreover, I believe that through rigorous attention to the use of less conventional sources of grey literature and oral testimony, design history can open up new trajectories of inquiry for a broader constituency of scholars interested in the history of visual and material culture.


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Chu, H.-Y., & Trujillo, R. G. (2009). New Views on R. Buckminster Fuller. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Design History Society. (n.d.). Overview. Retrieved from, 21.11.2017.

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Fallan, K. (2012). Scandinavian Design: Alternative Histories. London: Berg.

Farace, D. J., & Schöpfel, J. (2010). Grey Literature in Library and Information Studies. Berlin: De Gruyter.

Fraser, R. (1979). Blood of Spain: An Oral History of the Spanish Civil War. New York: Pantheon Books.

Guins, R. (2015). Beyond the Bezel: Coin-Op Arcade Video Game Cabinets as Design History. Journal of Design History, 28(4), 405-426. DOI: 10.1093/jdh/epv036

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Kjeldstadli, K. (1992). Fortida er ikke hva den en gang var: en innføring i historiefaget [The Past is Not What It Used to Be: An Introduction to the Field of History]. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget.

Knowles, C., M. (1981). The Bibliographic Presentation of Grey Literature. Bruxelles: Commission of the European Communities.

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Note    (↵ returns to text)

  1. Even if Finland often is included in design historical discussions on Scandinavia, I here employ a stricter definition, based on established geographical and language cultural demarcations.
  2. Among my interviewees are industrial designer Peter Opsvik, of international renown for his ergonomic chairs.
  3. For a thorough discussion of oral history and memory, see Yow (2005, pp. 35-67).
  4. Interview with Torfinn Lindem, December 14, 2016.
  5. Interview with Roar Høyland, January 13, 2017.
  6. Interview with Roar Høyland, February 27, 2013.
  7. This definition was formulated at the 1978 York seminar, which was organized by the Commission of the European Communities – EC (now European Union) in co-operation with the British Library Lending Division – BLLD (now: British Library Bibliographic Services & Document Supply Centre), as a response to the growing awareness of the problems associated with access to documents not issued through normal communication channels. A major aim of the seminar was to agree on a definition of the concept (Knowles, 1981). According to Alberani and De Castro, the seminar “represents a fundamental stage in the discussion about non-conventional or grey literature (GL) in Europe” (Alberani & De Castro, 236).

Historical research process and considerations on primary sources in the case of Gino Sarfatti – Arteluce

This article is a critical account of the process and modes of a research study conducted by the author and dedicated to the entrepreneur and designer Gino Sarfatti and to his lighting manufacturing company, Arteluce. Despite its relevance at the moment of its development, this story – which took place in Milan between the late 1930s and the first half of the 1970s – has mostly been overlooked since the company closed in 1974. Twenty years later, in 1994, the author had the opportunity to begin exploring Arteluce and Sarfatti’s work in greater depth: begun within the context of her MA thesis, this exploration developed into the publication of a long article and finally, in 2012, of a monograph. At a distance of several years, the research into the case of Sarfatti-Arteluce gives the author an opportunity to reflect on the use of sources. On the one hand, the article discusses several issues concerning the use of oral history and information pertaining to collecting practices; on the other, it considers the use of the digitization process and its relevance to the work of the design historian.

This article is only available in Italian.

Franco Albini and the design of the ephemeral (1936-1958): archival sources as traces of the evolution of a method

This paper refers to two research studies, based on primary archival resources, developed through the study of the materials collected by the Fondazione Franco Albini, an institution that considers one of its primary goals to be the enhancement of its extensive archival heritage dedicated to the work of one of the most important Italian architects of the twentieth century.
The first concerns the author’s work on the project for a “Virtual Museum” of Franco Albini’s exhibition designs. A research study that became the opportunity for an in-depth examination and discovery of previously unpublished works by Albini, in which the author brought together all the drawings up to a scale of 1:1, including project reports, photos and available documents, in an attempt to restore the memory of his exhibition designs, lost by virtue of their ephemeral nature. The second research study, still underway, unveils a folder from the archives titled “Furniture Prospects”, which casts light on a previously undisclosed story. Developed during the war years, it constitutes a precious collection of objects and furniture designed by Albini, confirming this as a decisive and prolific period in his career. These two sources reinforce the thesis that views the Thirties and Forties as a time of fertile experimentation, and a founding basis for his major architectural works and industrially-produced furniture of the postwar years.

This article is only available in Italian.

Toward a history of the Sportsystem District in Montebelluna: museum, archives, sources

This article focuses on the history of the Sportsystem District in Montebelluna and on the issues related to the identification and use of sources relevant to its elaboration. In addition to providing a context for this case within the framework of Italian design history, the author discusses the process and results of a project to institute a museum devoted to the Sportsystem District: the first part of the article deals with the district’s museum as a place of memory; the second part analyses the types of sources and the condition of the various archives located in the territory; the final part reflects on the findings of the research process.

This article is only available in Italian.

The Mondadori book covers through its publisher’s letters

This article analyses the genesis of Mondadori’s earliest book covers by examining the publisher’s correspondence with editorial directors, writers and illustrators. The consequent historical intersections provide critical new information about the history of graphic design that is usually portrayed in very general terms, and based exclusively on the description of the book covers themselves.

While Cisari’s covers fully captured the national taste, the shift towards more popular graphic models meant adapting to solutions already tested abroad, compared to which Italian solutions often proved inferior, as demonstrated by the example of Mondadori’s collection of detective novels (known as “gialli”). The research was made possible thanks to the comprehensive documentation conserved by the Arnoldo and Alberto Mondadori Foundation, and in particular the Bortone Bertagnolli bibliographic collection of about 9,000 twentieth-century Italian books. They have been collected and classified on the basis of the authors of the book covers, which has been essential for comparing the covers and contextualizing them in the era of their production.

This article is only available in Italian.

“Hot” and “cold” re-use of the (media) instruments in the Albe and Lica Steiner and AG Fronzoni archives, through historiographic and pedagogical productions

Albe Steiner left an archive ready for use, with instruments based on a “system of images”, as opposed to the intellectual experience of AG Fronzoni which produced instruments guided by a “cold” re-use of the project narratives. This paper presents a comparative analysis of the two systems from an ethnological perspective. The process of analysis and synthesis of the sources produced by the two designers is similar to that of two ethnologists who constructed their own visual culture using two different methodological approaches: a method based on authorship for Steiner and a method based on classification for Fronzoni. Though they used two distinct modalities and processes, the two designers both merged the phenomenology of their creative production with their critical thought: the production of a socially oriented historiography in the case of the Steiners and their heirs, and in the case of Fronzoni, an absence of publications substituted by a rich oral history, originating in his teaching, and re-told by his students.
The transition between two paradigms – Atlas by Aby Warburg (1924-29) and Actor Network Theory by Bruno Latour, Michel Callon, and John Law (mid-1980s) – makes it possible to explore the ways in which archives preserve the connections and the meaningful exchanges between designers and theorists, in different historical periods and cultural situations, through the use of (media) instruments such as: identity narratives, critical reading, archives and pedagogical experiences, managed using old and new, analogue and digital languages.
From this perspective two main categories of archives may be identified. First, there are the “existing” or “ready-to-use” archives, second, the archives “in progress”, converting from the condition of “state of the art” or “artefact” to a worknet system. The poetics of AG Fronzoni’s teaching are the “existing” potential for an oral and political history of his work and his archive; the politics in the lives of Albe and Lica Steiner and the memory of their teaching are a manifestation “in progress” of their archive within an eminent shared cultural project.
This paper introduces a research study on the two instrument-actors, conserved in the archives of the two designers: the U magazine of the Umanitaria school and the U newspaper of the municipality of Urbino. The first educational project offers a comprehensive insight into AG Fronzoni’s intellectual experience, re-arranging in sequence a “cold” use of images; it is then compared with the second educational project based on the “hot” re-use of a “system of images” presented by Steiner, in a hermeneutic circuit oriented towards oral history and a social historiography of graphic design.

This article is only available in Italian.

Architetti e designer: È anche questione di fonti. L’archivio dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto a Pino Torinese

La circolarità dei saperi e degli approcci progettuali che caratterizza architettura e design emerge chiaramente a patto che la ricerca interroghi e interpreti le fonti a partire dall’assunto che, in molte fasi storiche, non ci sia soluzione di continuità tra le due discipline. Il metodo della ricerca tipico della storia dell’architettura, sedimentato in secoli di pratica, che vede diacronicamente molte scuole storiografiche a scala sia nazionale sia internazionale e che ha tra le sue caratteristiche la contaminazione tra saperi limitrofi e l’analisi di fonti variegate, a partire da archivi di informazioni, può in questo senso essere messo a frutto per articolare e ampliare la ricerca sul design potenziando il metodo filologico per ottenere sintesi più efficaci, anche al fine di valorizzare giacimenti di informazioni/archivi per la presentazione e la fruizione di pubblici variegati: dagli studiosi ai non specialisti. L’archivio dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto a Torino (fondato nel 1979) costituisce un buon terreno di prova per simulare la suddivisione delle famiglie di fonti (design, architettura, arti visive, arti applicate) e per le ricongiunzioni/sovrapposizioni dei diversi momenti a partire da temi trasversali da rendere disponibili attraverso strumenti espositivi, archivi digitali interrogabili secondo queries multilivello. L’Istituto presenta infatti, nella molteplicità dei documenti conservati, almeno due consistenti corpora, uno relativo all’attività multisfaccettata di Nicola Mosso e uno incentrato sui rapporti tra Leonardo Mosso e Alvar Aalto, permettendo di definire due ampi archi cronologici che abbracciano fasi cruciali per la storia del progetto: il periodo tra le due guerre e quello che va dal secondo dopoguerra agli anni ottanta.

1. Problemi di metodo e sperimentazione

Nella ormai abbondante produzione scientifica e accademica sulla metodologia della ricerca storica nel campo del design, che prende in esame anche tutte le trasformazioni degli strumenti di indagine, il rapporto con le fonti è relativamente poco trattato, rispetto ad altri problemi come l’allargamento e la contaminazione disciplinare o la definizione stessa del significato del termine “design”, mutevole a seconda delle scelte cronologiche o del taglio interpretativo scelto (si veda Margolin, 2013) o, in alcuni casi localizzabili nelle scuole di progetto, condizionato dall’opzione maieutica dell’uso della storia come materia e fondamento per il progetto (Kubler, 1965). Il rapporto con le fonti, quello che nelle discipline della storia pura prende il nome di “esegesi delle fonti storiche”, non sembra godere di particolare interesse se non, in tempi molto recenti, relativamente ai modi di interrogare banche dati e informazioni liquide, rivolgendosi al più generale – e liquido appunto – campo della storia digitale (Bird, 2014; Weller, 2013; Blevins, 2016).

Il contributo di Castelnuovo, Gubler e Matteoni, come postfazione alla monumentale Storia del disegno industriale (Castelnuovo, Gubler & Matteoni, 1991), aveva provato ad avviare una riflessione sulle fonti, sulla loro diversificazione e ricomposizione, ma, evidentemente, in tale testo si davano per scontati sia i metodi di esplorazione dei giacimenti sia il modo di affrontare e di costruire archivi. Questo per un motivo banale quanto poco visibile: i tre autori stavano mettendo a frutto, in un campo allora relativamente poco esplorato, le loro esperienze in discipline storiche ben precise e consolidate nel tempo. Storico dell’arte moderna il primo, con uno spiccato interesse per la storia sociale dell’arte (Donato & Ferretti 2012), dell’architettura contemporanea il secondo, dell’arte e dell’architettura il terzo, con un’intensa frequentazione di temi risalenti al XIX secolo: i tre autori portavano un bagaglio di pluriennali esperienze nello scavo d’archivio su argomenti di studio specialistici, dalle vetrate medievali ai concorsi di architettura, alla città ottocentesca. Quanto si sottolinea nel breve e denso saggio è la complessità del soggetto “disegno industriale” che aggiunge elementi a quelli propri delle modalità di indagine sorelle o ne varia le sfumature (forma, tecnica, significato, committenza, circolazione, ricaduta sociale, fortuna critica, militanza e così via) e, aspetto fondamentale, ne propone l’interrelazione con lo sfuggente concetto di “vita quotidiana”, che riconduce evidentemente alla storia sociale dell’arte. Per chi voglia ripercorrere la sequenza che conduce Castelnuovo – in quanto storico dell’arte – e gli altri – storici dell’architettura – ad affrontare anche da un punto di vista metodologico il tema storia/storiografia del design, è utile forse risalire alle seminali disamine di Julius von Schlosser relativamente al trattamento delle fonti e alla ormai canonica divisione tra fonti primarie e secondarie (Schlosser, 1892),[1] divisione ampliata poi nell’ambito della storia dell’architettura dall’approccio proposto prima da Gustavo Giovannoni e, in seguito, dagli studi ospitati nei Quaderni dell’Istituto di Storia dell’architettura, a partire dal 1953 e in cui, intorno alla figura di Guglielmo De Angelis D’Ossat, si formano competenze di storici-progettisti-didatti-funzionari, che, al di là delle rispettive militanze, consolidano un metodo di indagine storiografica che moltiplica la varietà delle fonti giungendo in qualche modo a sistematizzarne i modi di interrogazione.

Le fonti primarie, vale a dire il manufatto o “monumento”, si diramano in tutti i processi che ne riguardano la costruzione (materiali, contratti, dinamiche d’impresa, addetti e così via); quelle secondarie (letterarie) fanno discendere una miriade di possibilità relative alla ricezione, teoria, contaminazione con altri linguaggi.[2] Nell’alveo della storia dell’arte, prima, e della storia dell’architettura (soprattutto di scuola romana), poi, si è individuato dunque un protocollo che, per quanto flessibile e perfettibile, può essere utile terreno di riflessione, ricongiunto con le considerazioni di Castelnuovo, per rimanere in ambito italiano, o di altri che hanno richiamato l’approccio delle Annales e della storia della cultura materiale sulle specificità del design.[3] Un ulteriore spunto critico è innescato dal naturale e biunivoco contatto tra storia e progetto rintracciabile nella storia dell’architettura e che si accentua divenendo via via più operativo in seno alle proposte nelle scuole di architettura italiane, appunto (Dellapiana, Prina & Sebregondi, 2010); al di là delle considerazioni in ordine alla didattica, è innegabile che il dialogo tra discipline di indagine scientifica e discipline operative produce oltre che un continuo e reciproco aggiornamento, anche la necessità da parte dei ricercatori-storici di attingere, confrontarsi e interrogare una quantità sempre maggiore e variamente declinata di fonti per seguire, anche a ritroso, gli strumenti della progettazione e proseguire il dialogo mediante un linguaggio condiviso. Si tratta di un progressivo ampliamento facilmente leggibile nelle storie dell’architettura che si stanno articolando sempre più anche contaminando i propri strumenti consolidati con altri propri del progetto, abbandonando la tentazione di preservare una presunta quanto sfuggente purezza disciplinare.[4] In tal modo vengono assunti tra le fonti per la storia del progetto, oltre al progetto stesso e le sue ragioni culturali, sociali e formali – mutuandole anche da altri linguaggi –, anche gli aspetti fisici ed economici, la sua rappresentazione, il suo uso e la ricezione, le tecniche, i materiali e la loro obsolescenza, anche nelle consuetudini di utilizzo.

Il possibile bilancio a valle del breve percorso tracciato è che, da una parte, è necessario per la storia del design uno statuto disciplinare specifico a fronte di una grande frammentazione di approcci – le molte storie (Pasca & Trabucco, 1995; Fallan, 2010; Peruccio & Russo, 2015) –, dall’altra, che rientrare nel più ampio ambito della storia del progetto potrebbe fornire una soluzione a tale frammentazione e continua crescita di specialismi, a patto però che, senza andare incontro a derive di dogmatismi metodologici, la definizione del panorama delle possibili fonti per la costruzione delle diverse storie sia condiviso.

Ancora a valle di ricognizioni che hanno tentato di ricomporre storie del design, dell’architettura e dello spazio urbano (in una riproduzione dell’adagio rogersiano), come quelle operate da chi scrive (Bulegato & Dellapiana, 2014; Dellapiana & Montanari, 2015), si può ipotizzare dunque di assumere gli strumenti della storia dell’architettura – nella sua più ampia accezione di storia delle forme, delle funzioni, dei processi e delle ricadute sociali – come i maggiormente consolidati, sperimentati ed efficaci per l’analisi e l’interpretazione delle fonti per storia del design. Tali fonti sono oggi, per motivi di organizzazione e salvaguardia, quasi sempre frammentate: archivi dei progettisti o di impresa nei quali le proprietà e gli eredi hanno spesso ritenuto di conservare le sole testimonianze del lavoro creativo, mettendo da parte o eliminando documenti finanziari, commerciali, muti dal punto di vista grafico o apparentemente slegati dall’attività progettuale. Negli archivi pubblici – di stato, depositati presso le università, o di fondazioni – il sistema di archiviazione provoca ancora spezzettamento suddividendo il materiale, a seconda della modalità di inventariazione, in categorie separate e poco permeabili tra loro: per esempio, disgiungendo il materiale grafico relativo a prodotti o edifici dai documenti finanziari o burocratici, dall’informe patrimonio dell’“archivio personale” (appunti, corrispondenze a tema non professionale, carte sciolte) o da collezioni costruite ex post sulla base di operatori logici sovente imperscrutabili o che obbediscono a meri criteri estetici.[5]

L’approccio con i modi di indagine adottati dagli storici dell’architettura e gli automatismi che spingono a interpellare diverse categorie di documenti rispondono a una proposta non solo e non tanto di circuito disciplinare – la necessità sentita di utilizzare la più generale categoria di storia del progetto –, quanto di considerazioni effettuabili a seguito dell’incontro con realtà archivistiche che per motivi non sempre virtuosi, sono sfuggite alla consueta categorizzazione e dunque allo smembramento di giacimenti altrimenti misti e multisfaccettati.
È il caso dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto di Pino Torinese, fondato nel 1979 e sede, oltre che del Centro Studi di Architettura Programmata di Cibernetica Ambientale (dal 1969), del Museo di Architettura Arti Applicate e Design (dal 1984) e dell’abitazione dei suoi fondatori/curatori, gli architetti torinesi Laura Castagno e Leonardo Mosso. Il paziente e appassionato lavoro di raccolta, studio e progetto che contraddistingue l’attività di entrambi sin dagli esordi, fortemente condizionato dall’eredità culturale lasciata da Nicola Mosso, padre di Leonardo, architetto vicino al gruppo del MIAR torinese (Pagano, Aloisio, Passanti, Sottsass sr., Cuzzi, Levi-Montalcini) (Viglino, 1974, 2010; Montanari, 1992), si è rivelato negli anni il collante e collettore per documenti di vario genere. Il centro infatti conserva una delle più complesse e articolate raccolte di elaborati progettuali, lettere, libri, riviste, opere pittoriche e scultoree, fotografie, manufatti, oggetti d’uso anonimi e d’autore, arredi, plastici, ritagli di giornale ed eterogenei materiali ascrivibili a molteplici collezioni di architettura, arte, design afferenti al Movimento Moderno e ai suoi esiti più o meno ortodossi degli anni cinquanta e sessanta del secolo scorso (figg. 1-2).

Fig. 1 – Immagine di parte degli eterogenei elaborati conservati presso l’Istituto di Pino Torinese che documentano la collaborazione tra Aalto e Mosso / fotografia F. Stella.

Fig. 2 – Proto-macchina per scrivere Mignon e disegno di avio-pittura / fotografia E. Dellapiana.

Sebbene il corpus documentario più cospicuo sia riconducibile a Nicola Mosso, Leonardo Mosso e Laura Castagno, in un labirinto di ambienti disposti su più livelli – atelier, cortili interni e stanze espositive distribuiti i più sedi – l’Istituto conserva anche quadri di Luigi Colombo Fillia, elaborati documentali e originali di Umberto Cuzzi, Mario Dezzutti, Pippo Oriani, Luigi Chessa, Giuseppe Pagano, Gino Levi Montalcini, Alberto Sartoris, Ottorino Aloisio, Carlo Mollino, Mario Sturani, Nicolay Diulgheroff, Mies Van der Rohe, Alvar Aalto, Oscar Niemeyer (fig. 3), fotografie di Le Corbusier, oltre a oggetti e modelli afferenti la produzione di arredi, ceramiche, attrezzature tecniche. L’abbondantissima messe di documenti non è a oggi organicamente ordinata, né da un punto di vista archivistico – se non per piccole porzioni –, né da un punto di vista museografico/allestitivo, riflettendo piuttosto la naturale tensione accumulatrice dei Mosso, carattere suggestivo quanto sfumato che richiederebbe ulteriori riflessioni relativamente al tema della fruibilità.

Fig. 3 – Disegni originali, scritti e fotografie di Oscar Niemeyer / fotografia F. Stella.

Tutte le testimonianze sono state raccolte infatti secondo una logica di contaminazione tra progetto, arte e oggetto d’uso tipica tanto dell’indole dei due, quanto della cultura progettuale in cui si formano e operano: entrambi architetti/artisti, Leonardo (1926) esordisce nell’insegnamento alla Facoltà di Architettura del Politecnico di Torino nel 1961, con i corsi di Plastica Ornamentale (Annuari, 1961-1969), Laura (1938), laureata negli stessi anni, si dedica da subito all’attività nelle arti di ricerca. Partendo da questo presupposto e dall’assunto che già negli anni tra le due guerre, in particolare in area torinese, la circolazione tra i diversi linguaggi visivi e progettuali costituisce un fil rouge tipico e incontestabile (Lamberti, 2000), il giacimento conservato presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto si dispone a una molteplicità di modi di indagine e offre varie chiavi interpretative amplificate dai suoi contenuti, ognuno da mettere ulteriormente in relazione con altri fondi archivistici e con fonti secondarie.

Un prima suddivisione del complesso – che fornisce una griglia primitiva ma indispensabile per successivi ordinamenti – è quella cronologica/tematica, vale a dire la suddivisione tra i documenti riconducibili all’attività di Leonardo e quelli relativi alle azioni del padre Nicola, suddivisione che, attraverso l’indispensabile sovrapposizione alle poco note informazioni biografiche, permette –circolarmente – di individuare chiavi di lettura consequenziali le une alle altre.

2. Il corpus Alvar Aalto

L’aspetto più sintomatico e rivelatore dell’entità del giacimento da restituire come luogo di osmosi tra arte e architettura è la natura stessa dell’attività professionale, scientifica e culturale di Leonardo Mosso, per la quale è dirimente l’influenza della collaborazione con Alvar Aalto.

“Maestro d’irregolarità e d’indipendenza” (Pastorin & Mandrello, 2014), attore di caratura internazionale del pensiero critico dell’architettura, dell’urbanistica, dell’arte e del design del Novecento e uno dei principali interlocutori e promotori dell’opera del maestro finnico nel nostro paese, la figura di Mosso permette di comprendere appieno l’entità dell’archivio e le ragioni della sua denominazione. La complessità del materiale conservato al suo interno, infatti, è lo specchio fedele delle eterogenee dinamiche e circostanze che hanno contraddistinto la sua lunga esperienza professionale e l’attività didattica (oltre che presso il Politecnico di Torino, in diverse università europee: Berlino, Grenoble e Karlsruhe), così come i contatti e le collaborazioni con alcuni tra i pionieri dell’architettura contemporanea (Aalto, Le Corbusier, Neutra, Mollino, Colonnetti, Ponti, Rogers, Munari, Flusser).

Dall’esperienza acquisita nell’ambito dell’assistentato al corso di Elementi di composizione architettonica tenuto a Torino da Cesare Bairati e dalla formazione ricevuta tra le mura domestiche a contatto con alcuni dei più importanti esponenti del primo e del secondo movimento futurista torinese (Michele Frapolli, Luigi Colombo Fillia e Pippo Oriani), poco più che ventenne Mosso vanta un vasto bagaglio di esperienze. Noto a livello locale già all’indomani della conclusione del percorso universitario, grazie ai progetti elaborati col padre, primo fra tutti la Chiesa del SS. Redentore nel quartiere di Mirafiori,[6] la svolta professionale avviene nella seconda metà degli anni cinquanta del Novecento, nel momento dell’incontro con l’opera di Aalto attraverso la lettura di Spazio tempo e architettura di Sigfried Giedion.[7]

All’epoca, nel biennio 1953-1954, Leonardo Mosso sta sviluppando infatti una serie di ricerche sul rapporto architettura e industria e rimane colpito dall’analisi critica sviluppata da Giedion sulla fabbrica aaltiana di Sunila (1937-1939) sul mar Baltico e, in special modo, sulla capacità del suo autore di “trasformare una fabbrica da strumento puramente tecnico in un pezzo d’architettura, in cui l’ubicazione, l’impiego dei vari materiali e l’articolazione dei volumi nello spazio sono trattati con altrettanta cura della linea di produzione”, nella quale “nessun uomo è abbassato al rango di accessorio della macchina” (Giedion, 1941, pp. 587, 591).

L’umanesimo di Aalto mutuato dalla lettura di Giedion, il personale modo di concepire il progetto – dando medesima importanza all’uomo e all’architettura – e l’assegnazione di una borsa di studio del governo finlandese sono i fattori determinati che spingono Mosso a partire alla volta della Finlandia. Nel 1955 desideroso di conoscere di persona l’opera di Aalto e di provare ad accedere al suo studio, grazie a una lettera di presentazione di Ernesto Nathan Rogers (all’epoca in contatto con Nicola Mosso), raccoglie i progetti elaborati col padre e parte in treno per Helsinki. Dopo mesi di attesa, trascorsi frequentando il Politecnico della città e studiando l’architettura finlandese antica, contemporanea e l’opera del maestro, entra come tirocinante nel suo atelier sino al 1959, anno in cui rientra in Italia per via di nuove commesse che lo vedono impegnato nella realizzazione della biblioteca di Pollone e nel restauro della Loggia dei Mercanti di Alba – tutti progetti documentati in archivio. Ha inizio a partire da questo momento una collaborazione destinata a durare per più di vent’anni, che condizionerà indelebilmente la professione dell’architetto piemontese e che si articolerà principalmente secondo tre linee specifiche di attività: “una, storica, di decodifica dell’iter processuale di ogni sua opera; una teorica e pratica, di collaborazione progettuale con lui; e una terza, di rivelazione, di sistemazione e di ricostruzione dall’interno, e quindi dalla realtà stessa dei suoi lavori, dall’impianto complessivo della sua grande ricerca logica e costruttiva” (Mosso, 1964). Si deve difatti a Mosso la partecipazione di Aalto a una serie di documentate conferenze a Torino, Genova, Milano e Roma promosse nel 1956 dalle sorelle Antonetto dell’Associazione Culturale Italiana (ACI) che consentono al maestro scandinavo di instaurare un primo proficuo contatto professionale con l’Italia (fig. 4).[8]

Fig. 4 – Aalto e Leonardo Mosso a Moncalieri durante un sopralluogo sul terreno di villa Erica (foto G. Cavaglià, Archivio Istituto Alvar Aalto, Pino Torinese).

E ancora, è proprio Mosso, attraverso i numerosi articoli scritti nella seconda metà degli anni cinquanta, specie sulle pagine di Zodiac, Parametro, Edizioni di Comunità, Casabella-Continuità, uno dei principali attori del rinnovato interesse per l’architetto finlandese in Italia, promosso in precedenza da Persico e Zevi (Fiore & Stella, 2015) e che otterrà il definitivo riconoscimento con la mostra fiorentina del 1965. Nell’ambito di questo evento, ampiamente documentato dal materiale conservato presso l’Istituto di Pino Torinese, si concretizza il ruolo di Mosso quale tessitore della trama di relazioni, incontri e incarichi che vedono un sempre maggior coinvolgimento del maestro finnico all’interno del dibattito nazionale (fig. 5).

Fig. 5 – Alcuni modelli di vasi “Aalto”, anche noti come “Savoy”, disegnati da Alvar Aalto nel 1936 per Karhula-Iittala; sullo sfondo strutture luminose opera di Leonardo Mosso nel giardino della Ca’ Bianca a Pino Torinese / fotografia T. Marzi.

In particolare, è proprio il ruolo di congiunzione tra Finlandia e Italia acquisito dall’architetto italiano nel decennio compreso tra gli anni cinquanta e sessanta e le conoscenze instaurate da Mosso nell’ambito della collaborazione delle Edizioni di Comunità[9] che nel 1965 inducono Carlo Ludovico Ragghianti a sceglierlo quale curatore della mostra sulla produzione aaltiana (1918-1970) organizzata a Palazzo Strozzi, a Firenze, e del catalogo L’opera di Alvar Aalto (Mosso, 1965). Questo episodio, al pari della mostre dedicate a Wright (1950) e a Le Corbusier (1963), dalla metà del XX secolo riscuote un tale successo da condizionare le scelte progettuali e urbanistiche e innescare un rinnovato interesse per la sua opera e il moltiplicarsi di incarichi nazionali.[10] Nonostante l’interesse suscitato, però, degli otto progetti italiani commissionati ad Aalto, ne verranno realizzati solamente due.[11] Di questi progetti sono conservati materiali documentari di varia natura (schizzi, elaborati grafici, maquette, fotografie, etc.) presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto, in particolare quelli concernenti il complesso residenziale pavese Patrizia e le esperienze incompiute di matrice piemontese, che risalgono al decennio compreso tra il 1964 e il 1972. Quest’ultime sono particolarmente significative, oltre che per la loro scarsa notorietà, per la rilevanza che rivestono per la completa comprensione tanto del rapporto tra Aalto, Mosso e l’entourage imprenditoriale locale quanto dell’influenza del maestro finnico sulla cultura progettuale italiana, aprendo così un ulteriore capitolo di indagine su ruolo e qualità della committenza. Si tratta precisamente di tre commesse: un complesso alberghiero a ricucitura di un brano del tessuto storico di Torino, un prototipo di filiale per uffici e amministrazione da collocarsi lungo i percorsi autostradali territoriali e internazionali e una villa in collina, rispettivamente commissionati da Agnelli, Ferrero e dalla nipote di Adriano Olivetti, Erica.

Il primo progetto, risalente al 1964-1965 e coincidente quindi con l’organizzazione della mostra a Palazzo Strozzi, scaturisce dall’interesse maturato da parte di Giovanni Agnelli per l’opera del maestro finnico. L’esito dell’incontro organizzato da Vittorino Chiusano, stretto collaboratore della famiglia Agnelli, e da Leonardo Mosso tra l’imprenditore piemontese e Alvar Aalto si rivela sin da subito fruttuoso: ne deriva difatti la commissione di un complesso alberghiero e centro congressi da realizzarsi nel cuore della città che segna perentoriamente l’interesse locale per l’opera del maestro e la sempre più stretta collaborazione tra i due architetti. La proposta progettuale integra funzioni diverse: “di centro alberghiero, di spettacolo, di congressi e di uffici oltre che di relazione pubblica, in un mega-organismo a stratificazioni verticali di grande e complessa originalità; in esso ritornava, riscoperta e quindi in chiave sudeuropea e di tutt’altra dimensione, la stessa matrice generativa e formale della piazza coperta del Rautatalo (Mosso, 1964, p. 40)”.[12] Del progetto non restano oggi che alcuni schizzi, maquette e disegni preparatori che, sebbene consentano di individuare solamente gli spazi esterni e interni o la diversificazione dei percorsi pedonali e viari, rappresentano comunque una singolare testimonianza dell’attenzione riservata da Aalto alla “contaminazione polifunzionale e pubblico-privata a favore delle problematiche umanistiche, culturali, urbane e sociali della città”.[13]

Medesima sorte spetta al secondo dei progetti piemontesi, il prototipo di filiali per uffici, amministrazione e magazzini commissionato nel 1965 dall’industriale Ferrero (figg. 6-7). Gli architetti sono in questo caso chiamati a ideare un fabbricato fortemente sviluppato in orizzontale, da ubicare lungo le autostrade europee (Torino e Bruxelles). La forma, oltre a rispondere a esigenze funzionali e distributive, deve fungere da vero e proprio marchio aziendale, capace di generare un forte impatto di richiamo visivo. Il progetto è il frutto di una complessa ricerca di Aalto e Mosso sulla percezione visiva e sull’architettura in rapporto al movimento:[14] il profilo dell’edificio è concepito in modo tale da essere percepibile anche a una velocità di 120 km/h, così da garantire una sicura efficacia pubblicitaria.

Figg. 6-7 – Particolari di uno dei modelli del prototipo di filiale e magazzini Ferrero Co. In primo piano saggi di sfibratura e piegatura del legno per le produzioni Artek, conservato negli ambienti dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto Museo dell’Architettura e delle Arti Applicate di Pino Torinese

In questo caso, sebbene il progetto rimanga sulla carta, i disegni e i modelli elaborati (in quattro varianti) raggiungono una definizione tale da consentire la chiara visualizzazione della concezione pratica e tecnica alla base della composizione architettonica. Il volume principale è dato da una struttura flessibile e componibile (grazie all’utilizzo di elementi costruttivi prefabbricati) il cui scheletro strutturale è originato dall’accostamento di una serie di portali doppi in calcestruzzo armato che sostengono le piastre di solai frangisole. La pianta invece è utilizzata come criterio ordinatore che compone lo spazio così da consentire la massima semplificazione delle operazioni connesse all’arrivo, all’immagazzinamento e al prelievo dei prodotti.[15]

L’ultimo incontro tra Aalto e la committenza piemontese avviene intorno al 1969 quando Erica Olivetti, nipote dell’industriale eporediese, e il marito Marino Bin chiedono al maestro, alla moglie Elissa e a Leonardo Mosso di misurarsi con un progetto di edilizia residenziale sul colle della Maddalena, tra Torino e Moncalieri (fig. 8).

Fig. 8 – In primo piano uno dei modelli di villa Erica, immersa sul colle della Maddalena, conservato presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto, Pino Torinese, sullo sfondo lampade in metallo di Diulgheroff e Aalto / fotografia T. Marzi.

Il progetto si inserisce in un preciso filone di ricerca di Aalto, avviato a partire dalla villa Mairea (1938-1939) e perfezionato con la Maison Louis Carré (1958). Come le precedenti realizzazioni, l’incarico è quanto mai ambizioso: la villa, immersa nella natura e contraddistinta da un’articolazione spaziale terrazzata, deve assolvere alla duplice funzione di residenza e galleria d’arte. Al piano sotterraneo si trovano i locali di servizio, una palestra e la cantina, lungo la facciata prospiciente la valle, al piano terra, è collocato il soggiorno (comunicante, per mezzo di ampie finestre, con un giardino d’inverno e una piscina coperta) con il caratteristico camino finlandese, la biblioteca, la cucina e la sala da pranzo; infine, al piano superiore, al livello del giardino a monte, secondo una disposizione a raggiera convergente in corrispondenza della scala di collegamento e dell’accesso al parco, si trovano le stanze e gli uffici. La collaborazione tra Aalto e Mosso si concretizza in quest’occasione in una serie di studi ed elaborati che rappresentano una fonte preziosa tanto del rapporto tra i due professionisti quanto per la reale comprensione dell’ultima fase professionale dell’architetto finnico e della sua effettiva eredità progettuale in Italia.

A differenza dei precedenti fabbricati piemontesi, Villa Erica non solo è definita in tutti i dettagli strutturali ed esecutivi,[16] ma nel 1972 si è già addirittura in fase di allestimento del cantiere quando la dissoluzione del matrimonio dei committenti impedisce il concretizzarsi del progetto.

La mancata esecuzione dei suoi progetti, al pari della superficialità e la limitatezza di vedute degli enti pubblici e privati, non riescono comunque a intaccare il profondo legame tra Aalto e l’Italia: come testimoniano i suoi frequenti viaggi (Mangone, 2002) e i continui rimandi alla sua architettura e cultura, l’Italia lo affascina a tal punto da divenire nel tempo “principio ed esigenza fondamentale di una permanente comunicazione culturale” (Mosso, 1964).

È proprio la “comunicazione” a essere riconosciuta da Mosso tra i paradigmi fondativi della complessa opera aaltiana e a indirizzarlo, pressoché contemporaneamente alla collaborazione professionale con Aalto nei progetti piemontesi, verso l’esperienza della docenza. In particolare, il corso di Plastica Ornamentale tenuto presso la Facoltà di Architettura del Politecnico di Torino negli anni sessanta[17] è l’occasione di veicolare la lectio del maestro finlandese tra i giovani architetti e aprire al dibattito architettonico internazionale il sistema didattico torinese. Durante le lezioni teoriche, la rilettura critica dell’opera aaltiana “con l’ausilio di mezzi audiovisivi quali films, diapositive, registrazioni di conferenze nonché presentazione di modelli, schizzi e disegni originali del maestro finlandese, sotto forma di piccole esposizioni” (Bettinelli & Castagno, 1974, pp. 14-17) orienta gli allievi a un approccio progettuale libero da pregiudizi. Attraverso il lavoro sui moduli e i meccanismi compositivi[18] si mette in moto il processo progettuale: “un lungo viaggio alla ricerca continua che si costruisce a ogni aggiunta di segno in modo sempre più complesso” (Bettinelli & Castagno, 1974, p. 110). Mosso riconosce uno dei cardini della lezione del Maestro finlandese nel significato di “segni architettonici” come “mediatori di altra natura, comportamentale, sociale e politica” (Mosso, 1964).

Nell’ambito dell’esperienza pedagogica svolta nelle aule politecniche e dell’attività svolta nello studio professionale prima e negli atelier dell’Istituto poi si concretizza così la convergenza culturale tra Italia e Finlandia, che determina in questi anni, in ambito torinese ma non solo, alcune significative occasioni di reciproca contaminazione culturale e stilistica e che confluiranno nel 1973 nella Mostra nazionale dell’Architettura finlandese organizzata dalla S.p.A. Torino Esposizioni, con la collaborazione delle autorità finlandesi in Italia e del Museo di Architettura Finlandese di Helsinki.

Al di là della necessaria ricostruzione della vicenda personale di Mosso, attraverso la moltitudine di documenti conservati all’Istituto, lo scavo archivistico permette una serie di processi abduttivi che possono portare – pare di intuire – a una lettura maggiormente articolata delle vicende della cultura progettuale del secondo dopoguerra: dalla ricollocazione critica delle sedi “periferiche”, al reale peso dei “maestri”, alla scoperta di committenti presenti sulla scena dell’indagine sul prodotto industriale – Agnelli, Ferrero, Olivetti – che timidamente, tranne l’ultimo, tentano di affacciarsi anche al panorama dell’architettura di caratura internazionale, al rapporto, spesso presentato come conflittuale, con la scuola scandinava, fino agli strumenti di divulgazione e didattica.

3. Il corpus Nicola Mosso

Se la sede principale dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto è Villa Nuytz Antonielli Mosso (Ca’ Bianca), immersa nei boschi della collina di Pino Torinese, dove è conservata la maggior parte delle collezioni, la sede decentrata è invece la casa-studio di Nicola Mosso che costituisce stazione museale e rientra nelle attività che l’Istituto dedica, come istituzione privata, da quasi quaranta anni alla tutela, conservazione, studio e promozione culturale del patrimonio di architetture, arredi, archivi, fondi, biblioteche, opere d’arte, di design e d’arte applicata del Novecento. Anche in questo caso il luogo e il suo contenuto fotografano uno spaccato e una testimonianza unica della cultura artistico architettonica del Novecento, illustrando con i suoi spazi, arredi e opere, la figura del protagonista e tutti gli addentellati della sua attività e offrendo ulteriori appigli per approfondimenti e individuazione di reti.

L’abitazione e studio dell’architetto Nicola Mosso (1899-1986), conservata pressoché intatta dal figlio Leonardo è situata in via Grassi a Torino, all’interno di Casa Campra-Mosso, un edificio progettato dallo stesso Nicola Mosso in due tempi che rappresenta perfettamente l’evoluzione del suo lessico architettonico. La prima parte, del 1928, concepita come un’opera Art Nouveau spogliata però della decorazione, riflette la scuola di Michele Frapolli (architetto torinese degli inizi del Novecento nel cui atelier il giovane Mosso lavorò per alcuni anni dirigendone lo studio), mentre la seconda parte, del 1952, evidenzia l’influenza del lessico internazionale con un esempio originale di facciata con finestre a nastro con modulazione variabile di aperture (Lupo, 1996; Sistri, 2002).

Di origine biellese, Nicola Mosso si forma all’Accademia Albertina di Torino e nel 1927 partecipa, tra i pochi italiani, al concorso per la Società delle Nazioni di Ginevra. L’incontro con l’avanguardia razionalista internazionale e con Le Corbusier costituisce un evento fondamentale per la piena svolta stilistica che, nel 1930-1931, lo vede accostarsi al Secondo Futurismo (Godoli, 1983; Crispolti, 1984), legandosi con rapporti di amicizia e impegno artistico-culturale con Fillia (Luigi Colombo), Marinetti, Oriani, Rosso, Pozzo e Diulgheroff, pubblicando progetti su riviste come La Città Nuova, Stile Futurista e nel volume di Fillia Gli ambienti della nuova architettura edito da Utet nel 1935.
L’arredamento della casa-studio risale perlopiù al periodo razional-futurista dei primi anni trenta, quando Nicola Mosso svolgeva la sua attività accanto a Sartoris, Pagano, Levi Montalcini, Diulgheroff, Fiorini, collaborando in particolare con gli esponenti torinesi del Secondo Futurismo. Qui Mosso progetta alcuni ambienti totali, ideando strutture scomponibili, con elementi sovrapponibili e incastrabili, utilizzando diversi materiali e rivelando un’attenzione particolare per i colori utilizzati per i dettagli dei mobili, pareti, pavimenti (Dragone, 1970; Marzi, 2006). La visione dell’architetto e la poetica dell’epoca si riflettono nell’arredo della casa-studio, concepito come “struttura”, come sistema modulare, come elemento destinato ad assumere posizioni e relazioni diverse, anche in ambienti differenti da quelli per cui è stato pensato, che costituisce una vera e propria “unità interna di architettura” ante litteram (Castagno, 2008). Tra gli ambienti più interessanti troviamo gli arredi del 1935 per la stanza del figlio Leonardo (fig. 9) con mobili laccati in tonalità pastello nei colori verde, grigio, giallo, marrone e la stoffa del divano-letto tessuta a mano con gli stessi colori dei mobili. Degli stessi anni è l’arredo della camera da pranzo-salotto trasformabile, in radica di rosa con elementi mobili e aggregabili in diverse soluzioni (tavolo allungabile, sedie, mobile polivalente, credenza, cristalliera, radiogrammofono).

Fig. 9 – Nicola Mosso, Cameretta del figlio, 1936, bozzetto a matita e gouache su carta. Collezione Nicola Mosso, in deposito presso Istituto Alvar Aalto, Pino Torinese.

Vi è poi l’ampio studio con una grande biblioteca, un’intera parete-scacchiera di lastre di marmi diversi, finestre angolari continue, l’insieme di mobili da ufficio realizzati per il Concorso per una scrivania e relativa sedia o poltrona della Triennale di Milano del 1936. In questa stanza emerge l’impegno scientifico in campi progettuali poco esplorati: dalla matematica, all’astronomia, al soleggiamento degli edifici (Mosso, 1961). Nello stesso ambiente si trova l’attrezzatura tecnica, gli archivi dei disegni, delle fotografie, delle pratiche e dei materiali, la biblioteca scientifica e personale e un corpus di disegni di Michele Frapolli. Qui è conservato l’archivio integrale di Nicola Mosso (60.000 disegni di architettura), in cui lo stesso architetto archiviò cronologicamente tutti i progetti, come i più noti per Casa Barberis ad Asti (1925), la stazione ferroviaria di Cossato (1932) – una delle più interessanti architetture italiane prebelliche purtroppo andata distrutta, che venne esposta a Londra alla mostra internazionale di architettura del Royal Institute of British Architects del 1934 –, il Piccolo Albergo di mezza montagna, medaglia d’oro alla V Triennale di Milano del 1933, Casa Cervo a Biella (1934), e la sede dell’Unione Industriale Biellese del 1937.

Nicola Mosso dedicò grande attenzione all’arredamento e alla decorazione dei suoi edifici, utilizzando materiali quali linoleum e buxus e molti prototipi di mobili da lui progettati si trovano conservati nella casa-studio di via Grassi.

Nello studio si trovano anche varie testimonianze dell’attenzione ai particolari tecnologici e costruttivi, fra cui i modelli strutturali delle chiese di San Pietro in Vincoli a Moncalieri (1956-1965) e del SS. Redentore a Torino (1947-1957). Quest’ultima, progettata con il figlio Leonardo e con Livio Norzi, costituisce un’opera di notevole interesse, riconducibile all’ascendenza espressionista per via della struttura a forma di “cristallo” che consente alla luce di penetrare all’interno delle sfaccettature vetrate della copertura, una struttura reticolare resistente per forma che crea uno spazio mistico, con possibili riferimenti guariniani (Sistri, 2002).

Il complesso della casa-studio (fig. 10) è arricchito da quadri, sculture, disegni, corrispondenza, grafiche e documenti di artisti, architetti e designer del periodo Futurista e successivi (tra cui opere pittoriche e scultoree di Diulgheroff, Fillia, Pozzo, Terracini, Zucconi, Pistarino), fotografie di Ernie, l’archivio fotografico di Giulia Veronesi, numerosi oggetti di design internazionale quali vetri finlandesi (disegnati tra gli altri da Tapio Wirkkala, Timo Sapaneva, Kaj Franck, Alvar Aalto, Nanny Still) e ceramiche danesi degli anni cinquanta, che testimoniano i rapporti di amicizia e di collaborazione di Mosso con gli artisti del suo tempo.

Fig. 10 – Studio della Casa-Studio di Nicola Mosso in via Grassi a Torino, sede decentrata dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto. Tavolo-scrivania progettato da Nicola Mosso per la Triennale di Milano del 1936, prototipi di poltrone, opere e sculture del periodo Futurista. Fotogramma tratto dal film documentario Leonardo Mosso. Un secolo in un giorno realizzato dall’Ordine degli architetti di Biella, 2016.

I rapporti di fraterna amicizia di Nicola Mosso con Fillia hanno creato anche stretti rapporti di lavoro con lui e con altri pittori futuristi torinesi. Un esempio è costituito dai bozzetti futuristi di Fillia, Filippo Oriani e Mino Rosso per le plastiche murali da realizzarsi sui muri laterali delle loggette della Casa Cervo di Biella (1934), architettura cubo-futurista progettata da Nicola Mosso (fig. 11), perfetto esempio di integrazione delle arti. Si conserva il corpus integrale dei bozzetti futuristi su temi legati ai simboli del territorio biellese, alla natura, alle fabbriche, e un prototipo – modello al vero di plastica murale – raro esempio di opera polidisciplinare e polimaterica che non venne mai realizzato sull’edificio (fig. 12).[19] Tali disegni, realizzati “a fresco” nelle logge degli appartamenti di Casa Cervo e visibili dalla strada, risultano fruibili sia dai residenti sia dai cittadini, assumendo un certo valore pedagogico, perfetta sintesi di arte domestica e pubblica (Mosso, 2008).

Fig. 11 – Nicola Mosso, Progetto per Casa Cervo a Biella, Veduta prospettica con inserimento delle plastiche murali nelle logge, 1934. Collezione Nicola Mosso, in deposito presso Istituto Alvar Aalto, Pino Torinese.

Fig. 12 – Fillia, Pippo Oriani, Mino Rosso, Bozzetti di plastiche murali per Casa Cervo, 1934, gouache su carta. Collezione Nicola Mosso, in deposito presso Istituto Alvar Aalto, Pino Torinese (fotogramma tratto dal film documentario Leonardo Mosso. Un secolo in un giorno realizzato dall’Ordine degli architetti di Biella, 2016).

Di Fillia è conservato anche il bozzetto di una grande Maternità da realizzarsi all’interno della cupola della chiesa di San Giovanni Evangelista di Vaglio Chiavazza (1931) e il bozzetto di una veduta del golfo di Lerici, da realizzarsi a Torino nel Palazzo Nasi Agnelli (1936), ancora edifici progettati da Nicola Mosso.
A completare la mole di materiali una consistente quantità di manufatti raccolti nelle diverse fasi di composizione e intorno ai corpora principali, testimonianze di interessi culturali, estetici e occasioni di vita e conservati, come in una serie di Wunderkammer, nella sede di Pino Torinese: ceramiche (molte di provenienza sovietica (fig. 13), oltre ad alcuni pezzi futuristi prodotti da Mazzotti, Albissola), arredi, sia prime edizioni aaltiane, sia prodotti industriali di ambito piemontese e di origine prebellica (tutti ancora da definire in termini di reti), libri e riviste, questi ultimi materiale di riflessione e elaborazione progettuale per Mosso e Castagno. L’Istituto pubblica infatti dal 1988 il semestrale d’artista Lettera, rivista europea intorno alle arti. Sono inoltre attive, a intermittenza, le Edizioni di Lettera per la pubblicazione di volumi monografici.

Fig. 13 – Collezione di ceramiche d’uso russe e italiane, anni Venti, conservato negli ambienti dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto Museo dell’Architettura e delle Arti Applicate di Pino Torinese / fotografia E. Dellapiana.

La biblioteca dell’Istituto, infine, conta più di 20.000 volumi e numerose raccolte. Si distinguono al suo interno la sezione della “biblioteca finnica”, una delle più complete esistenti fuori dalla Finlandia, la sezione sull’architettura popolare, sul costruttivismo internazionale e sulle copertine d’autore e d’artista. Proprio legata a questo ultimo settore ha avuto luogo la mostra L’arte del Novecento e il libro (Castagno & Cavaglià, 2004)[20] (fig. 14) dedicata al lavoro che pittori, scultori, architetti del Novecento, hanno destinato alle copertine di libri, riviste e pubblicazioni. Sono presenti copertine firmate da molti dei protagonisti dei movimenti artistici che hanno segnato le arti del Novecento, dalle avanguardie storiche fino agli sviluppi più attuali dell’arte contemporanea, tra i quali Fausto Melotti, Fernand Léger, Le Corbusier, Max Ernst, Henri Matisse, Carlo Mollino, Alvar Aalto, Gino Severini, Sonia Delaunay, Andy Warhol, Giulio Paolini, Tapio Wirkkala, Reima Pietilä, Bruno Munari, Felice Casorati, Arrigo Lora Totino, Sandro De Alexandris, Nicola Mosso, Leonardo Mosso, Laura Castagno. L’esplicito obbiettivo è proporre la realizzazione di una pinacoteca in piccolo formato che copre tutto l’arco del secolo, in una logica di democraticizzazione dell’arte “alta”.

Fig. 14 – Manifesto della mostra L’arte del Novecento e il libro 1944-2010, Pino Torinese, 11 maggio – 31 ottobre 2017. Collezione e curatela L. Mosso e L. Castagno; progetto mostra e allestimento G. Cavaglià, A.R. Bertorello.

Tornando al tema delle fonti e rimandando a un auspicabile riordino e valorizzazione dell’archivio dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto, fino a ora trascurato, quest’ultimo spunto proposto, ricorrente nelle occasioni puntuali di presentazioni di parti dell’archivio e del complesso, offre un’ulteriore occasione di riflessione sulle fonti per la storia della cultura di progetto e per la sua condivisione. Non si tratta soltanto di utilizzare correttamente tutta la possibile varietà di fonti offerte dall’Istituto o da altre situazioni analoghe o simili, catalogandole, ordinandole e interpretandole, per ottenere esiti corretti dal punto di vista della storiografia e per rendere il giacimento di fonti disponibile agli studiosi, quanto di affrontarne l’analisi fin da subito nella logica della Public History, “storia pubblica” (Noiret, 2009), di cui archivi e musei sono il naturale terreno di sperimentazione e applicazione.
Interrogare le fonti a partire dai presupposti di una storia “per il pubblico”, adatta non solo alla diffusione di informazioni a più livelli, ma anche come strumento metaprogettuale nel senso più ampio del termine – progetto vero e proprio, valorizzazione, creazione e rafforzamento di identità comunitarie, senso di appartenenza e condivisione-, comporta un metodo di ricerca, di confronto e di interpretazione del materiale documentario che necessita di alcuni correttivi.

A Pino Torinese, a un primo e complessivo ordinamento, cronologicamente sistematizzato in sequenze e distinto solo per fondi di provenienza e settore “operativo” (architettura, design, arti applicate, arti visive, materiale bibliografico, manoscritti), può fare seguito, sull’esempio delle mostre sulle copertine dei libri, la proposta di una serie di queries implementabile per parole chiave che metta in grado gli studiosi e gli interessati, di “costruire” un proprio archivio tematico, che può essere facilmente messo in relazione con il più ampio contesto culturale e progettuale e a farne discendere una circolazione di informazioni sotto forma tanto di storia accademica quanto di “storia viva”.[21]

Gli strumenti e gli indirizzi per attuare tali approcci culturali sono oggetto di dibattito e di prime definizioni anche normative da almeno un decennio (Caldesi Valeri, 2016) e coinvolgono i temi della computer ethic, del patrimonio e della storia digitale. La situazione ancora relativamente liquida della disciplina della storia del design si presta bene – e bene si prestano i giacimenti di fonti ad essa connesse – a una sperimentazione più avanzata rispetto ad altri settori maggiormente sedimentati e richiede, da una parte, un estremo rigore nel trattamento dei documenti – seguendo la lezione della storia dell’architettura – dall’altra una grande sensibilità all’apertura a campi di indagine solo apparentemente liminari, nella logica del progetto.

Il saggio è frutto di un continuo confronto tra le autrici; più in particolare si devono a E. Dellapiana il primo paragrafo e le conclusioni, a F. Stella il secondo paragrafo e a T. Marzi il terzo.

Riferimenti bibliografici

Aalto, A. (1956). Problemi d’architettura. Quaderni ACI, 22, 5-14.

Annuari del Politecnico di Torino, A.A. 1961/62-1968/69 (1961-1985). Torino: Bona.

Baccaglioni, L., Del Canto, E., & Mosso, L. (a cura di). (1981). Leonardo Mosso: Architettura e pensiero logico. Catalogo della mostra, aprile – maggio 1981. Mantova: Provincia di Mantova, Casa del Mantegna.

Bettinelli, E., & Mosso Castagno, L. (1974). Ricerca, struttura e scelta. 1991-1967 Storia e critica dell’esperienza didattica del corso di Plastica ornamentale tenuto da Leonardo Mosso alla facoltà di Architettura di Torino. Torino: Centro studi di cibernetica ambientale.

Bird, M. (2014). Design History Research in the Digital Age. Design and Culture, 6(2), 243-249.

Blevins, C. (2016). Digital History’s Perpetual Future Tense. In M. K. Gold & L. F. Klein (a cura di), Debates in the Digital Humanities 2016 (pp. 308-324), Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press.

Bruschi, A. (2009). Introduzione alla storia dell’architettura. Considerazioni sul metodo e sulla storia degli studi. Milano-Roma: Mondadori-Sapienza .

Bulegato, F., & Dellapiana, E. (2014). Il design degli architetti italiani 1920-2000. Milano: Electa.

Caldesi Valeri, C. (2016). Beni Culturali e infosfera. Processi, metodi, mediazione. Tesi di Dottorato in Beni Culturali, Politecnico di Torino, tutor E. Dellapiana.

Castagno, L. (2008). Masserizie avanguardiste. AfterVille, 3, 3.

Castagno, L. & Mosso, L. (2015). Una vicenda internazionale. Lettera. Rivista dell’Istituto Alvar Aalto/maaad, 48.

Castagno, L., Mosso, L. & Signorelli, B. (a cura di). (1985). Dispensa quadro e generale introduttiva. Nicola Mosso. Pino Torinese: Istituto Alvar Aalto.

Castagno, L. & Cavaglià G. (a cura di). (2004). L’arte del Novecento e il libro. Catalogo della mostra 25 marzo – 30 aprile 2004. Milano: Lybra.

Castelnuovo, E., Gubler, J. & Matteoni, D. (1991). L’oggetto misterioso. Note sulla storiografia del design. In E. Castelnuovo (a cura di), Storia del disegno industriale (pp. 404-413). Milano: Electa.

Colonna, F. & Costantini S. (a cura di). (1992). Principi e metodi della storia dell’architettura e l’eredità della “scuola romana”. Roma: Ateneo.

Crispolti, E. (1984). Attraverso l’architettura futurista. Modena: Galleria Fonte D’Abisso.

D’Amico, F., & Carbone, B. (a cura di). (2013). Eureka! L’invenzione e il modello. Mottola (Ta): Stampa Sud.

Dellapiana, E. & Montanari, G. (2015). Una storia dell’architettura contemporanea. Torino: Utet

Dellapiana, E., Prina, D. & Sebregondi, G. (2010). Explorations. Architectural History in Italian Schools of Architecture. EAHN Newsletter, 2, 26-35.

Donato, M. M. & Ferretti, M. (a cura di). (2012). «CONOSCO UN OTTIMO STORICO DELL’ARTE…» Per Enrico Castelnuovo. Scritti di allievi e amici pisani. Pisa: Edizioni della Normale.

Dragone, A. (1970). A Torino nella casa di un architetto razionalista. Interni. La rivista dell’arredamento, 38, 42-44.

Fallan K. (2010). Design History. Understanding Theory and Method. Oxford: Berg.

Fillia (Colombo, L.) (1935). Gli ambienti della nuova architettura. Torino: Utet.

Fiore, I., & Stella, F. (2015). Istituto Alvar Aalto. A connection between Italy and Finland through the work of Leonardo Mosso. In S. Micheli & E. Laaksonen (a cura di), Aalto beyond Finland. Architecture and design (pp. 81-90). Helsinki: Alvar Aalto Foundation.

Giedion, S. (1941). Space, Time and Architecture. Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Tr. it. Spazio, Tempo e Architettura, Hoepli, Milano 1954.

Godoli, E. (1983). Il Futurismo, Roma-Bari: Laterza.

Kubler, G. (1965). What can Historians do for Architects. Perspecta, 9/10, 299-303.

Lamberti, M.M. (a cura di). (2000). Lionello Venturi e la pittura a Torino 1919-1931. Torino: CRT.

Leonardo Mosso. Strutture e paesaggi di luce (2008). Atti del convegno, 13 – 15 novembre 2008. Genova: Dipartimento pianificazione territoriale.

Lupo, G.M. (a cura di). (1996). Gli architetti dell’Accademia Albertina. L’insegnamento e la professione dell’architettura fra Ottocento e Novecento. Torino: Allemandi.

Mangone, F. (2002). Viaggi a sud. Gli architetti nordici e l’Italia 1850-1925. Napoli: Electa.

Margolin, V. (2015). Introduction. In Id. (a cura di), World History of Design (pp. 5-7).London: Bloomsbury.

Margolin, V. (2013). Il Design nella storia. A/I/S/design storia e ricerche 1.

Marzi, T. (2006). Casa-Studio di Nicola Mosso a Torino. Do.Co.Mo.Mo. Italia Giornale 19, 13.

Red. (1977). Moncalieri (Turin). Italie. Villa Erica – 1969/1972. L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui, 191, 82-84.

Montanari, G. (1992). Interventi urbani e architetture pubbliche negli anni Trenta. Il caso del Piemonte. Milano: CLUT

Mosso, L. (1964). Alvar Aalto e l’Italia. In Id. (a cura di), Alvar Aalto ja Italia. Roma: 2RC.

Mosso, L. (a cura di). (1965). L’opera di Alvar Aalto. Catalogo della mostra, 14 novembre 1965 – 9 gennaio 1966. Milano: Edizioni di Comunità.

Mosso, L. (2008). Una svolta futurista. AfterVille, 3, 2.

Mosso, N. (1961). Teorie e procedimenti per il calcolo rapido del soleggiamento. Atti dell’Accademia delle Scienze di Torino, Classe di Scienze Fisiche, Matematiche e Naturali, 95, 437-454.

Noiret, S., (2009). “Public History” e “Storia pubblica” nella rete. Ricerche storiche, 2-3, 275-326.

Pasca V. & Trabucco F. (a cura di). (1995). Design: storia e storiografia. Bologna: Progetto Leonardo.

Pelkonen, E. L. (2013). In search of Aalto. A review of Alvar Aalto: the mark of the hand. New Haven: Yale University.

Peruccio P. P. & Russo D. (a cura di). (2015). Storia hic et nunc. La formazione dello storico del design in Italia e all’estero. Torino: Allemandi.

Raimondi, L., Apollonio, U., & Pietila, R. (1977). Leonardo Mosso, parole e strutture 1961-1977. Catalogo della mostra, 13 – 31 ottobre 1977. Jyvaskylä: Alvar Aalto Museo.

Santini, P. C. (1967). Alvar Aalto in Italia. Ottagono, 7, 91-95.

Schlosser, von J. (1892). Die Betendung der Quellen für die neue Kustgeshishte [Il significato delle fonti per la storia dell’arte dell’epoca moderna]. Supplemento all’Allgemeine Zeitung, 261.

Signorelli, B. (2012), Mosso Nicola. In Dizionario Biografico degli italiani, vol. 77.

Sistri, A. (2002). Nicola Mosso. In Ordine degli Architetti, Pianificatori, Paesaggisti e Conservatori della Provincia di Torino (a cura di). Albo d’Onore del Novecento. Architetti a Torino. Torino: Celid, pp.104-107.

Tentori, F. (1959). Nicola e Leonardo Mosso e Livio Norzi. Chiesa del quartiere Mirafiori a Torino. Casabella-Continuità, 229, 30-37.

Viglino Davico, M. (1974). Note per una storia del Miar torinese. Ottorino Aloisio e l’architettura gestuale. Torino: RapiRapida.

Viglino Davico, M. (2010). L’altro MIAR torinese. In M. Docci, M.G. Turco (a cura di), L’architettura dell’altra modernità (pp. 149-157). Roma: Gangemi.

Weller, T. (a cura di). (2013). History in the digital age. London – New York : Routledge.

Film documentario Leonardo Mosso, maestro di indipendenza realizzato dall’Ordine degli architetti di Torino e curato da Liana Pastorin e da Riccardo Mandrello (2014).

Film documentario Leonardo Mosso. Un secolo in un giorno realizzato dall’Ordine degli architetti di Biella (2016).

Note    (↵ returns to text)

  1. Schlosser 1892; lo spunto è poi ovviamente sviluppato nella Die Kunstliteratur, ein Handbuch zur Quellenkunde der neueren Kunstgeschichte, pubblicato a Vienna nel 1924 e tradotto per la prima volta in Italia nel 1935.
  2. Una sintesi storica e una proposta metodologica è in Bruschi 2009.
  3. Per esempio l’introduzione di Margolin (2015, pp. 5-7).
  4. Un ottimo esempio di un simile processo di “evoluzione metodologica” è fornito proprio dalla pur paludata “Scuola romana”, dalla quale, non casualmente, traggono la loro formazione autori che si sono fruttuosamente occupati anche di design, come Argan o Casciato (Colonna & Costantini, 1992).
  5. Un curioso esempio, del tutto puntuale, è la prima scrematura dell’archivio di Alfredo d’Andrade, architetto e artista attivo tra XIX e XX secolo, versato all’Archivio di Stato di Torino negli anni Novanta del secolo scorso, in cui manufatti e documentazione relativi a lavori di ricamo sono stati relegati in una voce a nome della moglie, solo in quanto lavori femminili, mentre costituivano un’importante parte della ricerca e delle esercitazioni svolte dall’architetto lusitano con gli allievi del corso di Arti applicate all’industria presso l’Accademia Linguistica di Genova negli anni 1868-1875.
  6. Il progetto di Nicola e Leonardo Mosso e Livio Norzi per la Chiesa torinese del SS. Redentore (1953-1957) corrisponde a uno spazio fortemente espressivo e nel contempo mistico. Contraddistinto da una struttura reticolare resistente per forma, frutto della sapienza matematica di Nicola Mosso e Livio Norzi, l’edificio in laterizio e cemento è una citazione all’architettura guariniana, all’architettura futurista e a quella nordica (Tentori, 1959).
  7. Il capitolo dedicato alla figura di Aalto è significativo in quanto l’autore riserva 39 pagine all’architetto, annoverandolo tra i maestri dell’architettura moderna: Gropius, Le Corbusier, Wright e Mies van der Rohe (cui Giedion dedica rispettivamente 35, 31, 27 e 23 pagine) (Pelkonen, 2013, p. 1).
  8. Tali incontri avvengono presso il teatro Carignano di Torino, il Circolo Tunnel nel palazzo Doria Spinola di Genova, il teatro di via Manzoni di Milano e il teatro Eliseo di Roma. La prima conferenza tenuta da Aalto a Torino, il 23 novembre 1956, dal titolo Problemi di architettura, oltre a consentire di rintracciare l’entità del rapporto tra Mosso e Aalto, fornisce altresì una peculiare testimonianza del carattere e del pensiero progettuale di Aalto.
  9. I rapporti di Mosso con Ragghianti (autore di diversi articoli di Edizioni di Comunità) e Pier Carlo Santini (direttore della medesima) rappresentano un fattore decisivo nella scelta da parte di Ragghianti, nell’autunno del 1963 (anno in cui prende avvio la gestazione della mostra fiorentina), quale curatore della manifestazione e del catalogo critico delle opere di Aalto realizzate tra il 1918 e il 1970.
  10. Se è in concomitanza e dopo la mostra fiorentina che si assiste a un rinnovato interesse per la sua opera, la mole di articoli, scritti critici e studi risalenti ai mesi precedenti alla mostra e conservati in una serie di volumi conservati presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto di Pino Torinese mette in luce la caratura effettiva dell’evento e rivela come il suo successo sia fortemente determinato dalle strategie di promozione mediatica attuate nei mesi precedenti la mostra.
  11. Degli otto progetti italiani solo due vengono realizzati: il padiglione finlandese della Biennale di Venezia (1956) e la chiesa di Riola di Vergato (1966-1994). I progetti rimasti incompiuti corrispondono invece ai progetti di una casa-studio per Roberto Sambonet sul lago di Como (1954), di un complesso alberghiero, centro congressi e uffici nel centro di Torino (1964-1965), di un prototipo di filiale per uffici e amministrazione per la società Ferrero (1965-70), di un centro culturale all’interno della fortezza di Siena (1966), del complesso residenziale Patrizia, presso Pavia (1966-68) e di una villa per Erica Olivetti a Moncalieri (1969-1972).
  12. La conformazione del lotto in cui è previsto l’inserimento del complesso induce Aalto a optare per un edificio a cratere, che si sviluppa su tre lati dell’odierna piazza Valdo Fusi. Lungo il perimetro è prevista la collocazione di uffici, verso la corte interna le 150 camere/appartamenti dell’albergo (disposti lungo terrazze digradanti) e sul quarto lato il centro congressi e le sale spettacolo. Il progetto è arricchito di giardini, piazzette, percorsi pedonali su più livelli, i quali fungono da elementi separatori e unificanti tra il complesso e il contesto urbano. Infine, l’area è collegata agli isolati adiacenti attraverso un percorso diagonale al lotto che connette l’edificio al parco adiacente (Santini, 1967, pp. 91-92).
  13. Notizie tratte dalla testimonianza diretta di Leonardo Mosso (giugno 2013) e dalla documentazione conservata presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto di Torino/Museo dell’architettura arti applicate e design, s.c.
  14. “In questa “architettura per la velocità” […] si evidenzia chiaramente non soltanto la linea aaltiana di tipologia ripetitiva, ma anche un concetto di Landmerkmal […] che, per la sua stessa forma e configurazione si identifica come logo di una azienda a livello mondiale: architettura-segno visivamente coglibile, per la persistenza dell’immagine, anche durante il transito veloce lungo le autostrade”; L. Mosso, 1965-70 Filiali Ferrero, 19989 (documentazione conservata presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto di Torino/Museo dell’architettura arti applicate e design) s.c.].
  15. Notizie tratte dalla testimonianza diretta di Leonardo Mosso (giugno 2013) e dal materiale personale dell’architetto conservato presso l’Istituto Alvar Aalto di Torino/Museo dell’architettura e delle arti applicate, s.c.
  16. Il progetto esecutivo della villa è elaborato nei minimi dettagli. La struttura portante è in cemento armato, rivestita da uno zoccolo in pietra in corrispondenza del piano terra e da una pelle in muratura al primo piano; la piscina invece è contraddistinta da una struttura vetrata, al fine di consentire la compenetrazione tra spazio interno ed esterno (Moncalieri, 1977).
  17. Mosso è incaricato del corso di Plastica Ornamentale della Facoltà di Architettura di Torino dall’a.a. 1961-1962 all’a.a. 1967-1968. Dal 1971 insegna Architettura sociale, e dal 1975 Composizione Architettonica A di cui Mosso mantiene la docenza sino al 1984. L’ultimo incarico didattico presso il Politecnico di Torino è per il corso di Progettazione Architettonica nell’a.a. 1984-1985; cfr. Annuari del Politecnico di Torino (dall’a.a. 1961-1962 all’a.a. 1984-1985).
  18. I programmi didattici prevedono un ciclo di esercitazioni pratiche, quali “l’organizzazione nello spazio di elementi identici per crescenza direzionata e modulata” attraverso l’uso di legno in listelli o, in altri casi, l’“organizzazione nello spazio di elementi ottenuti con operazioni di taglio, piegatura e foratura, da un foglio di cartoncino bianco cm. 30*30*0,05” (Bettinelli & Castagno, 1974, p. 65).
  19. I disegni dei bozzetti vennero realizzati “a fresco” nelle logge ma non vennero realizzati con la tecnica della plastica murale, bassorilievo cromatico polimaterico che prevedeva l’impiego di diversi strati di intonaco cementizio colorato. Altri inserimenti di plastiche murali verranno in quegli anni proposti da Nicola Mosso per diversi lavori, come per esempio il progetto della stazione delle Ferrovie Elettriche di Orbassano (1936) e il Palazzo Nasi Agnelli (1936) di Piazza Carlina a Torino ma non avranno esecuzione (Mosso, 2008).
  20. Una variante, concentrata su una selezione di copertine a partire dal secondo dopoguerra, è costituita dalla mostra curata da Laura Castagno e Leonardo Mosso, L’arte del Novecento e il libro 1944-2010, Biblioteca Comunale di Pino Torinese, 11 maggio – 31 ottobre 2017.
  21. Un buon esempio di tale tipo di approccio è il Museo Archivio Alessi, (Crusinallo), che sotto la guida di Francesca Appiani offre materiale documentario tanto agli studiosi quanto ai progettisti in termini di modelli formali, processi produttivi e relazioni culturali.

Digital archives and primary sources: new historical and historiographical perspectives in design research? Three case histories: Gio Ponti, Vinicio Vianello and Vico Magistretti

The possibility offered by open-access digital archives to consult and use often unpublished primary sources, opens significant prospects for the field of historical research in design, by making it possible to use archival bonds for the comparative study of documents. But it will also require design historians to develop a more efficient methodology, based on a philological and historiographical approach.

Following a critical discussion of the use of primary sources in design history, this paper will analyse the recently-digitized archives of three Italian designers: Gio Ponti, Vinicio Vianello and Vico Magistretti. In examining the user interface and accessibility to scholars of the websites hosting these archives, as well as the problems (or opportunities) afforded the design historian by a multiplicity of documents, the aim is to reflect on the significance and on the prospects of digitization for the advancement of design history, and in light of this new “vision”, to specifically consider how it might lead to the formulation of new critical and historical hypotheses.

This article is only available in Italian.