In 19th-century America, gardens became the ultimate status symbol. Fruit trees, varieties of vegetables, and exotic flowers moved into private households. For a long time, however, seed and plant merchants were unable to present their wares in a particularly seductive way. But suddenly, the world turned colorful. Very colorful!
Until the mid-19th century, seed catalogs were merely unattractive lists. The few illustrations — lithographs, engravings, or woodcuts — were printed in black and white. Coloring them by hand would have been far too time-consuming and thus too expensive.
It was not until the second half of the 19th century that high-quality, inexpensive mechanical color printing in large editions became possible. In 1837, the Franco-German lithographer Godefroy Engelmann patented chromolithography. Although technically complex, it soon allowed for the mass production of vibrant postcards, cigar boxes, posters, and calendars. And finally: plant catalogs.
Chromolithos: A Threat to Culture?
These “chromolithos” now washed over America like a garish, multicolored wave. And they sparked fears and anxieties. Edwin L. Godkin, editor of the weekly magazine The Nation and one of the most prominent American cultural critics of the 19th century, argued in 1874 against the idea that color prints could ever rise to the level of “fine arts.” Godkin believed that chromolithography was symptomatic of a general decline in the values of modern American culture. He feared that these cheap, colorful prints were creating a pseudo-culture.
His concern: people surround themselves with the appearance of art and knowledge without understanding the depth behind it. For Godkin, chromolithography was the “fast food” of education — attractive, but without nutritional value.
The subtle and delicate color applied by an artist’s hand was, for the journalist, something entirely different from the intense color mass-produced by machines. Godkin warned of the decline of cultural values through this “Chromo-civilization.”
“Subtle and delicate” are certainly not the words for the colors on the covers of these mass-produced plant catalogs; they rather testify to a naive joy in the new possibilities of color printing. They were the pioneers of a new advertising psychology. With their luminous hues, they promised a splendor that nature in a home garden could never truly deliver. It was the beginning of the modern consumer world, where the image matters more than the reality.
However, I find that these catalog titles have a very unique aesthetic of their own, which I wouldn’t want to keep from you.
Text: Gerhard Groebe | Images: Public domain
Chromolithos published around 1900:
