3D and Animated Lenticular Photography: Between Utopia and Entertainment 9783110448061, 9783110413069

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KIM TIMBY 3D AND ANIMATED LENTICULAR PHOTOGRAPHY

STUDIES IN THEORY AND HISTORY OF PHOTOGRAPHY VOL. 5 Publication Series of the Center for the Study in Theory and History of Photography (TGF) at the Institute of Art History at the University of Zurich Edited by Bettina Gockel

International Advisory Board Michel Frizot Emeritus Director of Research at the National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS), School for Advanced Studies in the Social Sciences (EHESS), Paris Robin Kelsey Shirley Carter Burden Professor of Photography, Department of History of Art & Architecture, Harvard University Wolfgang Kemp Emeritus Professor of Art History, Institute of Art History, University of Hamburg Charlotte Klonk Professor of Art and New Media, Institute of Art History and Visual Studies, Humboldt University, Berlin Shelley Rice Arts Professor, Department of Photography and Imaging and Department  of Art History, New York University Kelley Wilder Reader in Photographic History, De Montfort University, Leicester Herta Wolf Professor of History and Theory of Photography, Institute of Art History, University of Cologne

KIM TIMBY

3D AND AN I MATED LENTICULAR PHOTOGRAPHY BETWEEN UTOPIA AND ENTERTAINMENT

Printed with generous financial support from the Dr. Carlo Fleischmann Foundation (see www.dcff.org) in Zurich and from the Kaspar M. Fleischmann Project to Support Research on Photography at the Chair for the History of the Fine Arts, Institute of Art History of the University of Zurich.

ISBN 978-3-11-041306-9 eISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-044806-1 eISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-044795-8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de © 2015 Walter De Gruyter GmbH Berlin/Boston Cover: Detail of a 3D portrait without its lenticular screen (see figure 59 and 62), private collection. Editing of the Series: Martin Steinbrück Photo Editing: Patrizia Munforte Design and Layout: Petra Florath, Berlin Printing and Binding: DZA Druckerei zu Altenburg GmbH, Altenburg This paper is resistant to aging (DIN/ISO 9706). Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

CONTENTS

   9

Introduction

  23

Chapter 1: Stereoscopy without a Stereoscope

  43

Chapter 2: Cinema in a Single Photo

  63

Chapter 3: A Window onto the World

  93

Chapter 4: 3D Portraiture and the Integral-Image Utopia

133

Chapter 5: Lights, Color, Action! Point-of-Sale Advertising

155

Chapter 6: A Lenticular Image in Every Home: Promotional Premiums

183

Chapter 7: The 3D Postcard

221

Chapter 8: The Limits of Lenticular Photography

247

Conclusion

251

Notes

297

Index

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Learning about lenticular photography has been a pleasure in particular thanks to the kindness and hospitality of the inventors, photographers, and other talented individuals involved in this field who have opened their doors to me over the years. As this book nears completion, my warmest thoughts go to Antoinette Angénieux, David Burder, Roland Gardin, Roger Karampournis, Marie Soulatzky, Guy Harmand, and especially Michèle Bonnet, who was extremely generous in her support and her investment in recounting her father’s story. It is an immense pleasure to be able to share this book with you and your families. Although lenticular images were meant to be seen and admired, historical examples are hidden away in homes, museums, and archives. This book wouldn’t have been possible without the assistance of numerous individuals who shared their images or the existence of relevant information. In particular, it was a privilege to work with Sylvain Besson, Gérard Bierry, Sylvain Charles, Christian Passeri, and François Cheval at the Musée Nicéphore Niépce. Éric Bourgougnon, Élisabeth Guimard, and Julie ­Corteville were also especially accommodating in helping me to access and publish the rich collections of the Musée Français de la Photographie in Bièvres. For their invaluable assistance, I am also grateful to Olivier Auboin-Vermorel, Paul Bennarroche, Barry Blundell, Alain Bonnet, Katia Busch (Société Française de Photographie), Olivier Cahen, Marie-Sophie Corcy (Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers), Marie-Claude Delmas (Institut National de la Propriété Industrielle), Sabrina Esmeraldo, Jean-Marc Fournier, David Janzow, Michèle Jasnin (Musée de la Publicité), Serge Kakou, Henry Koilski, Gérard Latapie and Bernard Nerin (Éditions Doucet), Gérard Lévy, Laurent Mannoni (Cinémathèque Française), Brian May, Alison Morrison-Low (National Museums of Scotland), Leroy Nordby, Pierre Parreaux, Denis Pellerin, Susan Pinsky and David Starkman, Arturo Silva, Gina Soulier, Bruno Tartarin, Sylvie Treille (Médiathèque de l’Architecture et du Patrimoine), and Dominique Versavel (Bibliothèque Nationale de France). My thoughts also go to Peter Palmquist, who gave me my first stereoview as well as the delightful animated image of a man on the telephone pictured in these pages. I am sorry that he wasn’t able to see the completion of this

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

book and share in the discovery that both women and men worked behind lenticular portrait cameras. Catherine Tambrun and Françoise Reynaud were there from the start of this project, and I am indebted to their initial investigation of lenticular photography the opportunity they provided to begin work on it at the Musée Carnavalet. Michel Frizot has also followed my research from its earliest stages and been especially generous in sharing his intellectual curiosity and appreciation for all photographs great and small. For their probing questions, enlightening comments, and support at different stages of my research on lenticular imagery, I would also like to express my thanks to Jacques Aumont, Jan Baetens, Clément Chéroux, Catherine Clark, Françoise Denoyelle, Elizabeth Edwards, Helen Green, Laurent Guido, Mathilde Kiener, Bertrand Lavédrine, Olivier Lugon, Anne McCauley, Laureline Meizel, Vanessa Schwartz, Graham Smith, Valérie Vignaux, and Kelley Wilder, and my students at the École du Louvre and the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. As my research took the form of a book, the unfailing encouragement, advice, and friendship of Natalie Adamson have been precious. I am also particularly appreciative of the support of my editors Bettina Gockel and Martin Steinbrück, the patient editorial work of Patrizia Munforte and Dorothea Kast, the attentive layout of Petra Florath, and the permission to publish images in this book granted by different individuals and institutions. Friends and family members too numerous to name here have been wonderfully enthusiastic about my research and active image scouts. Among them, I would like to salute Mark, Deborah, and William Timby, Katie Murphy, and especially Arthur Weil, who brought me music throughout this project as well as lenticular images from every location around the world where a conference on differential equations was held. To all of my friends and family, colleagues and readers: enjoy!

INTRODUCTION

Since the invention of photography, one of the most seductive predictions about its future has been that it will one day provide a completely lifelike image, representing the world as our senses perceive it—especially all of its movement and depth. Today this dream seems as potent as ever, with the magic of Harry Potter including photographs showing their subjects moving about and waving at the viewer and “3D” movies vying for our attention in theaters. One of the ways inventors have pursued threedimensional and animated images is via “lenticular” photography. Most people have seen examples of lenticular images, even if they are unfamiliar with their technicalsounding name. They are regularly used on packaging (DVD boxes were a recent favor­ ite), as catchy gift cards, or as postcards that make visual puns as they are tilted. Examined closely, these images have a distinctive finely ridged plastic surface comprised of miniature lenses; the lenses ensure that separate views, interlaced underneath, are perceived individually from different angles. More high-tech uses of the lenticular process include camera, television, or computer screens providing threedimensional vision without special glasses—a technology that has been touted as becoming the next big thing for years. Lenticular photography has a surprisingly sophisticated history. Its technical invention and reinvention were tied to groundbreaking research, from color photography and photomechanical printing to plastics. Those who commercialized it associated it with other popular visual media, including early cinema, free promotional premiums, point-of-sale advertising, picture magazines, and amateur photography. Retracing how this seemingly obscure technology was entwined in the intellectual, material, and popular culture of the twentieth century plunges us into a revealing example of how photography was constantly updated to better respond to longstanding technical challenges as well as to satisfy very contemporary needs and desires— not least of which to awe and amuse.

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INTRODUCTION

PERCEPTION AND ILLUSION The story of lenticular photography is rooted in the growing interest in the workings of visual perception starting in the early decades of the nineteenth century. How long does the eye retain the trace of light that enters it? What do we perceive when different stimuli are viewed in rapid succession? How do our two eyes work together to provide a single image of the world? And what makes us see the diversity of colors we do? Scientists were constructing knowledge of vision as an experience resulting from collaboration between the eyes and the brain. These studies led to experiments imitating our perception of the world using images. This book is particularly concerned with simulation of the perception of movement and of depth. If the brain understood movement by synthesizing things seen at closely spaced intervals in time, as the Belgian physicist Joseph Plateau reasoned in 1832, an illusion of movement could be induced by presenting the eyes with a succession of drawings of the same object in slightly modified positions.1 Similarly, in 1838, the English scientist

1: Anonymous, Phenakistiscope with original viewing mirror, ca. 1834, Cinémathèque Française, Paris.

PERCEPTION AND ILLUSION

Charles Wheatstone demonstrated that if the brain deduced the volumes or distance of an object using binocular vision—two eyes with a slightly different perspective on things—then an illusion of depth could be induced by presenting each eye with drawings of an object as seen from different angles.2 Drawings like these had to be viewed in a precise way to perceive the illusion sought; this was usually achieved using specially designed devices. To elicit an impression of movement, Plateau’s images of a subject in different positions—say, a dancer doing a pirouette—had to be seen one after another in rapid succession. To enable this, he spaced them around the perimeter of a cardboard disk, with a narrow slit between each image and a hole in the center of the disk. The disk was placed on his “phenakistiscope,” with the images facing a mirror, and made to rotate rapidly (fig. 1). If the viewer looked at the back of the disk as it spun, every time a slit passed in front of her eyes, she glimpsed the reflection of one of the images in the mirror. As the view of each new image replaced the last, the impression was one of seeing a single, animated image of a dancer doing a pirouette. Similarly, for depth to be perceived from a pair of drawings of an object seen from different angles, as with the star-like construction in figure 2 (called a stereoscopic image, or a stereoview), each image had to be seen by only the eye that would naturally perceive the object from that perspective. To facilitate this, Wheatstone invented a “stereoscope,” or a device with mirrors to restrict the vision of each eye to the correct image. Later stereoscopes, like the one in figure 3, used prisms or lenses to focus each eye on one image of the stereoview inserted into the back of the device.3 In either case, as the brain interpreted the differences between what was seen by each eye, the impression was one of seeing a single image with volume. The star figure shown in figure 2 appeared to be a solid three-dimensional construction receding into space.

2: Louis-Jules Duboscq, Stereoscopic drawing, ca. 1851, wood-cut print, 8 × 17.5 cm, Serge Kakou collection, Paris. 3: Duboscq-Soleil, Stereoscope, 1850s, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

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Introduction

When the invention of photography was announced in 1839, it became an attrac­ tive way to obtain the precise images necessary for simulating animation or binocu­ lar vision. The association of photographic precision with the illusion of movement and depth was forceful: photography itself was a thought-provoking new form of imagery, sparking discussions related to the differences between visible “reality” and representations. Animated and stereoscopic photographs were first made in scien­ tific circles, then by a growing number of commercial enterprises. By the end of the nineteenth century, urban populations of Europe and America had all likely experi­ enced such photographic illusions, whether as a boardwalk or boulevard curiosity or a regular domestic pastime.4

4: Principle of a line screen. 5: Principle of interlacing two different images using a line screen, in Frederic Ives, patent US 771,824, October 27, 1903.

The principle of lenticular photography first arose around 1900 as a novel way of presenting well-known illusions such as those of depth or animation. At first, the new process used a line screen—a sheet of glass or plastic covered with parallel, opaque lines separated by transparent spaces (fig. 4). For example, to present a stereoview, the left and right images were cut into thin, vertical strips then interlaced using every other strip from each side. The line screen was placed on this composition, a few millimeters from the surface. If the viewing angle was just right, the transparent slits would allow each eye to see only the strips belonging to the correct image necess­ ary for perception of a stereoscopic illusion. The same principles of slicing and inter­ lacing could be used to evoke animation (or even to associate completely different images, as in figure 5). In this case, the line screen was made to slide over the compos­ ite image, or the entire composition tilted back and forth, so that one image then the other was seen alternately. The line screen would later be replaced by a lenticular

VERISIMILITUDE AND WONDER

screen, composed of tiny lenses, but the principle remained the same: combine and interlace multiple images, controlling which eye saw which elements at a given time. Although the term “lenticular” doesn’t technically cover manifestations of the process using a line screen, it is used here in an inclusive sense. Line-screen images have historically elicited a separate vocabulary (involving a “barrier screen” or a “parallax barrier,” for example). Other terms are similarly exclusionary, referring to specific visual effects—as with “autostereoscopic” 3D  images, or “flicker” memorabilia presenting animated or changing images. Conversely, particular brand names have sometimes been applied more widely than originally intended—notably “Vari-Vue” in the English-speaking world and “Visiomatic” in France, both for changing images. Sometimes lenticular images are also mistakenly called “holograms,” although laserproduced holographic images look quite different, often with very unreal colors. The technical complexity of lenticular imagery thus helps explain the linguistic confusion surrounding it to this day and the variety of terms used to refer to the process, whether by its creators, users, or collectors.

VERISIMILITUDE AND WONDER This book explores lenticular photography from its invention around 1900 up through the end of the pre-digital era, in the 1990s. I focus on its history in France, one of the most innovative countries in the field, active in international scientific and commercial networks of exchange. This allows me to target the broader social issues at play in the evolution of this technology instead of seeking an exhaustive worldwide “whodid-what-when” account. Two very distinct periods can be delineated in the history of lenticular photography as viewed from a French perspective. During the first half of the twentieth century (explored in Chapters 1–4), innovation in lenticular imagery was strongly associated with the on-going challenge of mastering photographic “realism.” The potential of self-animating or autostereoscopic images attracted great minds. The Nobel prize–winning scientist Gabriel  Lippmann and the industrialist Louis Lumière, of cinematography and Autochrome fame, both experimented with lenticular photography in the hopes of creating images as realistic as a view out a window. The culmination of the process’s association with faithful representation came around the time of World War II, when a public impressed by the recent addition of sound and color to moving pictures accorded 3D imagery the potential to complete the illusion. In this climate, a lenticular portrait studio offering strikingly real blackand-white 3D likenesses could be found on the Champs-Élysées in Paris. These photographs were presented in histories of photography published at the time. In the period after the war (explored in Chapters  5–8), however, lenticular photography’s connotations changed surprisingly quickly. It lost its futuristic aura, and the public

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INTRODUCTION

abandoned it as a desirable medium for portraiture, now preferring playful massmarket versions of it that were often non-photographic. Animated lenticular imagery was targeted at the growing advertising industry in the form of colorful point-of-sale displays or free premiums (ca. 1955–1965). Meanwhile, 3D lenticular photography all but disappeared before coming back transformed in the form of kitschy postcards (mid-1960s) and snapshots from amateur multi-lens cameras (1980s–1990s). A quest for “realism” and a taste for novel forms of visual entertainment were thus the two main motivations behind the use and development of lenticular imagery. The changing balance between them defined two eras in the history of the process in France, before and after World War II. They were not mutually exclusive goals, however. An initial and fundamental intermingling in lenticular photography of naturalistic associations and entertainment value can be envisioned as part of the “spectacularization of reality” that Vanessa Schwartz has shown to be a dominant aspect of popular French culture at the turn of the twentieth century, also manifesting itself in the cinema, wax museums, panoramas, high-circulation newspapers, and even visits to the morgue.5 Michael Leja has shown that at the same time, on the other side of the Atlantic, while modern science and technology fostered “exuberant optimism about enhancing vision’s purchase on truth and knowledge,” skepticism had become a defining part of “making, seeing, interpreting, and experiencing art and images of every sort.” “If seeing had ever been a basis for believing, it certainly wasn’t now,” he argues.6 In such a climate, salient examples of entertainment and advertising profited from the public’s taste for playfully questioning realistic representations. Lenticular imagery, in this way, simultaneously entertained and promised realism. The two roles could even be mutually reinforcing. For example, animated lenticular portraits showing subjects winking and smiling were popular early in the century. They brought their subjects to life to a certain degree while also being—following Tom Gunning and André Gaudreault’s well-known characterization of films of the time— a medium of “attraction” that captivated the attention of spectators with its engrossing tricks.7 As the naturalism of lenticular imagery was successfully augmented, 3D likenesses of the 1930s and 1940s were received as an ever more enthralling spectacle—a sort of “technological sublime,” to adopt a term David Nye has used in association with awe-inspiring creations like bridges, skyscrapers, and dams.8 A sense of wonder has indeed played an important role in the popularity of lenticular imagery, just as it has for other imaging devices and novelty media across the centuries.9 “Creating realistic images where there is no substance” was, for Thomas Hankins and Robert Silverman, one of the great themes of the “natural magic” of centuries past, the goal of which was “to emulate the wonders of nature and glorify their ‘wondrousness.’”10 However, as the history of lenticular imagery attests, technologies motivated by the challenge of mastering realistic representation were often used to astonish and procure pleasure without exploiting their full naturalistic poten-

PERCEPTUAL REALISM

tial; they weren’t necessarily synonymous with realism in practice. Color—closely associated with 3D and animation, as this book demonstrates—provides a good case in point. Joshua Yumibe has shown, for example, that even “so-called natural color” in early cinema needs to be examined “within the parameters of realism” but also as “a dazzling form of attraction” in its own right.11 Sally Stein has demonstrated that in the 1920s and 1930s, color photography evoked commercialism and images with “popular appeal” as opposed to objectivity and documentation.12 In the history of animated and 3D lenticular imagery, the lures of realism and entertainment similarly coexisted while shifting in balance, calling for critical attention to the role of each.

PERCEPTUAL REALISM “Realism” is a notion as slippery as it is prevalent in the history of visual culture. Media and cinema historians often trace the origins of technologically augmented realism back to the idea of immersion and systems like the Panorama and Cinemascope.13 In analyzing the development and reception of lenticular imagery, I define an alternate point of reference, more fully grounded in the discourses historically surrounding this technology. What I call perceptual realism is a verisimilitude based on the desire to mimic human vision—to make looking at an image more like looking at the world around us. This concept helps highlight comparisons to human vision implicit in much photographic discourse and bring out distinctions among different ways in which a photograph can seem realistic. Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison have identified changing notions of objectivity in images between the eighteenth and the twentieth century, based on study of scientific atlases. They argue that the ideal of “mechanical objectivity” replaced that of “truth to nature” in the 1830s and 1840s, and was itself eclipsed by the idea of “trained judgment” around 1900.14 In a similar way, within photographic history, perceptual realism can be set apart from exactitude, a term used by early observers.15 Exactitude’s point of reference was the handproduced picture, underlining a striking novelty the photographic image possessed: a mechanically precise and unabridged rendition of light and shadow. When Louis Jacques Mandé Daguerre pointed out that words on signs, cracks in buildings, or even stray leaves were visible in his photographs, he was showing off photography’s exactitude—as was William Henry Fox Talbot when he remarked in his Pencil of Nature that “[g]roups of figures take no longer time to obtain than single figures would require, since the Camera depicts them all at once.”16 The notion of perceptual realism (as expressed in historical remarks I associate with the term) compares photog­ raphy not to other images but to human vision, underlining not its novelty but what it lacks. Exactitude was an integral part of photography (although it could be played down). Perceptual realism had to be added.17

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INTRODUCTION

The quest for perceptual realism in photography was largely founded on a trio of elements: color, movement, and depth. Techniques for simulating movement and depth were followed in the 1850s and 1860s by the first experiments with “indirect” color photography, based on the recording of three photographs through filters of different hues, then their appropriate tinting and combination to obtain a chroma­ tically faithful representation. Obtaining all of these illusions (color, movement, depth) depended on the synthesis of multiple images. As a means to do this, the lenticular process was quickly associated with perceptual realism. It could even, in theory, be used to create a full-color, animated, stereoscopic image, giving lenticular photog­ raphy futuristic potential as a facilitator of “total” realism. This was of course a utopian hope. In photography as in hand-drawn imagery, there are always “deviations from reality,” as Ernst Gombrich noted in his classic Art and Illusion.18 Each particular photographic process—a chemical recipe, usually associated with an optical device— has its own parameters for shaping light and recording its action. Great quantities of information are inevitably filtered out just as some invisible to us may be recorded (in X-rays, for example). As Michel Frizot pithily sums up the process: “the only reality to which photography has access is light,” and “if we think photography is about ‘our’ reality, it is because we are attached to the analogy between the camera and the eye.”19 Although technically inexact on many fronts, the parallels articulated between

6: Stereoscope with a stereoview, in L’Illustration (October 1852).

PERCEPTUAL REALISM

photography and vision have been powerful motivators, influencing the desire for new photographic techniques and the kinds of images made with them. Thinking about photography in terms of the imitation of human visual perception reflected profound ideas about vision and the body and subtle cultural relationships to technologies of mechanical representation. Jonathan Crary has argued in his groundbreaking study Techniques of the Observer that the stereoscope, phenakistiscope, and other optical devices were emblematic of the “reorganization of vision” in the first half of the nineteenth century as an experience taking place in the body. Even before the invention of photography, he argued, this model supplanted the Renaissance paradigm of vision manifest in the principles of the camera obscura. For Crary, stereoscopic and animated images used new knowledge of the human body’s perceptive organs to operate “a radical abstraction and reconstruction of optical experience.”20 Stereoscopy was particularly obvious in its imitation of human physiology, functioning thanks to two eyes, two images, and two lenses (fig. 6), and therefore clearly creating the impression of depth in the mind. Hankins and Silverman have shown that imitation of the human body implied valid perceptual realism to nineteenth-century viewers: “The analogy between the eye and the camera owed much of its power to the notion that the divinely constructed human form offered the model for the most efficient application of physical principles. [...] Because it duplicated the optical circumstances of human binocular vision, the stereoscopic camera functioned like a pair of surrogate eyes and could create truthful pictures of the world.”21 Perceptual realism as expressed in stereoscopy was therefore grounded in the body but also, conceptually, in the ideal of the body as a perfect model. James Lastra has underlined the prevalence of metaphors of what he terms “human simulation” and “writing” (akin to my perceptual realism and exactitude) in the histories of both photographic imagery and sound recording. For Lastra, these tropes served to combat the dehumanizing aspect of mechanical inscription. Technologies could simulate the workings of the body, but they were “completely inhuman in range and sensitivity.” Metaphors like perceptual realism helped to “reanthropomorphize” them.22 In introducing new viewing modes for mechanically recorded images simulating human vision, I argue that lenticular imagery participated in moving the referent of perceptual realism from the body to everyday empirical experience. When the principle of the lenticular process was invented, it operated a fairly straightforward reconfiguration of nineteenth-century stereoscopy or short-sequence animation (Chapters 1 and 2). However, it offered a different viewing experience: a single image, to be held in hand, providing illusions of depth or animation without any clear-cut tricks or obvious intermediary. I contend in Chapter 3 that this exacerbated desires

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INTRODUCTION

for 3D photographs that reproduced human visual perception more naturally, inspiring the renowned physicist Gabriel Lippmann to establish a new and influential theo­ retical paradigm for lenticular photography. In 1908, he described what he called “Integral photography” as “a window on the world”—an image visible in depth and with modifications in perspective as the viewer moved. Although impossible to carry out at the time, the idea was alluring. For two decades, researchers sought this new illusion via the synthesis of a series of images (instead of only two or three). They also attempted to manufacture a new type of screen suggested by Lippmann and modeled on insect eyes: one composed not of opaque lines but of lenses. The story of lenticular photography thus turned from the presentation of old illusions in a new way, to a quest for a new, more natural mimicry of vision based on our existence as mobile beings unencumbered by devices. Nothing would appear to contemporaries to come closer to making this utopian ideal a reality than the 3D portraits sold starting in 1942 by Maurice Bonnet, a celebrated figure in the history of lenticular photography. Chapter 4 is a case study of his “La Relièphographie” company and the activities surrounding its portrait studio on the Champs-Élysées in Paris. These lenticular photographs attracted attention and were included in French histories of photography published in the 1940s because they represented the very future of photographic technology as envisioned at the close of World War II: one that, via progress in cinematography, would inevitably lead to complete mastery of perceptual realism.

ENTERTAINMENT Along with the urge to master perceptual realism, the other major driving force shaping the history of lenticular imagery was the desire to entertain—or to find attractive forms of the process that would sell. This book presents case studies of the most commercially successful forms of lenticular imagery. These products invariably corresponded to concerted commercial strategies. They required imagining and developing novel forms of the process providing certain visual illusions or allowing particular uses. They required investment in the fabrication of specialized equipment, the marketing of products to potential clients, and then the everyday filling of orders—all in a profitable way. Mapping the emergence and decline of best-selling forms of lenticular imagery reveals how successive generations adapted it to significant aspects of contemporary popular culture as they sought to keep it alive. In giving weight to commercial history, I delimit a field of study guided by the lenticular process itself and not by traditional disciplinary boundaries, or even by photography strictly speaking. I examine images and cameras, iconographies and techniques, animated and 3D  illusions, and photographic and hand-illustrated

ENTERTAINMENT

imageries, when the latter are essential to understanding the survival of lenticular practice. All of these things form the “world” of lenticular imagery in the sense established by Howard Becker in defining “art worlds” as the basic unit of analysis of how art “happens.”23 A lenticular world, I argue, emerged in the first decades of the twentieth century. Early forms of animated or autostereoscopic line-screen photography could be pursued using material adapted from other domains—most significantly a line screen borrowed from halftone printing. The production of such imagery was thus accessible to isolated individuals and possible on a very small scale. In Lippmann’s wake, however, a new paradigm emerged based on the use of a lenticular screen, designed specifically for 3D or animated photography and very difficult to manufacture. By the early 1940s, the line screen was judged obsolete. An “established network of cooperative links”—indicative of a lenticular “world”—emerged around the production of lenticular screens and the increasingly elaborate cameras associated with them, uniting lenticular photography specialists and anyone wishing to acquire or produce such imagery. The history of lenticular photography is therefore necessarily one of technology as well as of images. Using the best-selling forms of lenticular imagery of each era as the focus of my case studies, I examine what motivated innovation, the technical challenges it posed, and the ways in which the lenticular process was associated with contemporary popular culture in an attempt to maintain its appeal. World War I–era animated portraits and advertisements were the first successful form of line-screen photography (Chapter 2). Astute inventors and businessmen in Europe and the United States chose physical presentations, iconographies, and sales venues for these images that allowed them to tap into the popularity of cinema in its infancy. 3D screen photography posed different problems, initially hindering its commercialization. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, Maurice Bonnet was the first in France to market it widely, developing complex techniques for recording images and mass-producing lenticular screens via his company, La Relièphographie (Chapter 3). Study of La Relièphographie’s successful portrait studio (opened in 1942), its marketing of portrait cameras, and its interaction with burgeoning competition at home and abroad provides a salient example of the way technical invention and commercial strategy were intertwined and played out in an increasingly international marketplace in the 1940s (Chapter 4). I posit that the contemporary desirability of the lenticular process as a medium for self-representation depended on its strong associations with technical and aesthetic moder­ nity. This made the unprecedented perceptual realism provided by these photographs an engaging and desirable spectacle. The post-war era saw the beginning of a radical shift in the uses of lenticular technology, now leaning towards inexpensive, commonplace images espousing massmarket iconographies. Innovation was guided by shaping lenticular imagery into a succession of new products designed to maximize its immediate appeal at a low cost.

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INTRODUCTION

The popularity of each would last about a decade. In the 1950s, some companies ­banked on large-format lenticular photographs in color that used 3D and/or novel animation techniques to provide effective point-of-sale advertisements (Chapter 5). Meanwhile, small, inexpensive promotional premiums were another innovative form of lenticular imagery, rapidly surpassing large-format photography in commercial importance (Chapter 6). The intrinsic appeal of even the simplest animated lenticular image could be boosted by presentation in a collectible form like a key chain, by use of a colorful illustration reminiscent of contemporary advertising posters or animated cartoons, or by making visual associations with television. From the mid-1960s, 3D postcards were the next big thing in the lenticular world. They reached market after more than a decade of research into new printing methods, unbreakable lenticular screens, and cameras for outdoor photography (Chapter  7). The lenticular postcard adopted the strategies of kitsch to appeal to a vast public, revealing the changing connotations of 3D imagery, now associated with advertising, low-budget science fiction (in movies), and tourism (in commercial stereoscopy). The desire to simplify lenticular photography was a key thread running through all of these products. From the mid-1960s through the 1990s, other new products further tested the process’s limits (Chapter  8). Development of thin, supple magazine illustrations exemplified the desire to reduce the physical presence of the lenticular screen. Cam­ eras for amateurs and non-specialized professionals simplified the picture-taking process. Both endeavors trod on dangerous terrain, however, eating away at lenticular photography’s appeal by further reducing the quality of its visual illusions. Visual appeal was the crux of it all: lenticular photography, for all the added hassle and expense, existed to present attractive illusions of 3D or animation. These effects had to be sufficiently immediate and satisfying for viewers to find them interesting and want to participate in the lenticular “world,” so to speak, via the purchase of products supporting its existence. For the historian, too, the nature of these optical illusions is crucial. What they looked like to viewers, and the experience of viewing them, are decisive for understanding lenticular photography’s continual reinvention and the reception of its different forms. Such illusions are one of lenticular photo­g­ raphy’s most elusive aspects, however. They are highly constructed and dependent on many variables including the camera system used, the optical characteristics of the screen, the way the image was printed, and its final size. They are intangible because they exist only in the viewer’s perception. They are also impossible to reproduce exactly on the printed page: even if a screen could be placed on every illustration in a book, the optical qualities of that screen and of the image underneath would differ from the originals, transforming the illusion provided. Throughout this book, I will therefore describe the illusions presented by lenticular imagery, analyzing how they differed over time from one inventor’s system to another, or simply according to the compositional talent manifested in each image. In doing so, I hope to convey to the

ENTERTAINMENT

reader something of the special nature of these illusions—and of the pleasure of viewing images that so awed and amused the public—while at the same time conveying something historically essential. The history of lenticular photography is built on the continual process of maintaining its pertinence to contemporary culture. This process included elaborating relevant ways for its illusions to balance between entertainment and visions of utopian perceptual realism.

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CHAPTER ONE

STEREOSCOPY WITHOUT A STEREOSCOPE

The glass photograph shown in figure 7, picturing a man seated next to a large view camera, seems rather mundane at first. It lacks contrast and appears to be a sort of double exposure. There is something unusual about it, however. When it is held up to a light and tilted back and forth, things in the picture shift places just a little. From a certain slightly oblique viewpoint, the image becomes sharper and appears to take on volume: the man’s foot reaches into the foreground, and the camera’s base visibly stands out beyond the edge of the table. If we remain still and concentrate on the image, progressively exploring its details, the illusion of three-dimensionality be­ comes more pronounced. The large camera appears more voluminous, and the man seems to be more present as he leans back in his chair. Details that didn’t attract attention at first become interesting as we observe their contours and how they are situated at different distances within the depth of the picture. Even the small fox head and calendar on the wall in the background detach from the flat surface on which they are hung. If we move at all, however, abandoning the precise angle from which we have been viewing the photograph, the illusion of depth disappears and the image becomes grey and muddled again. Eugène Estanave, France’s first practitioner of what would later be called lenti­c­ ular photography, made this self-portrait in the 1920s. It is an experimental and rather private creation, symbolic of the status of “autostereoscopic” photography during its first decades. Such photographs provided an impression of depth or 3D without the use of a stereoscope. Prior to this, stereoviews had traditionally taken the form of two images—picturing a subject from slightly different viewpoints—presented side by side. They were viewed in a stereoscope, which used two lenses to ensure that each of the viewer’s eyes saw only one image. Other ways to comfortably observe stereoviews had been sought since the 1850s. For example, in France the principle of the “anaglyph” was invented in 1858 by Joseph d’Almeida: the two images of a stereoscopic pair were printed one on top of the other using complementary colors (often red-orange and blue). When the composition was viewed through glasses with one red lens and one blue lens, each eye perceived only one image.1 Another technique described by

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d’Almeida was based on projection of the two images alternately, in rapid succession, on a screen observed through a rotating disc with two openings. Motives for devising such systems included presenting 3D  illusions to several people at the same time, being able to show larger images, and making the viewing device simpler and less expensive. The new autostereoscopic process first appeared as just another curious system for looking at stereoviews without a traditional stereoscope. It employed a “line screen”: a plate of glass covered with narrow, parallel, opaque lines separated by

7: Eugène Estanave, Autostereoscopic self-portrait, 1920s, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 17.8 × 12.9 cm, Gérard Lévy collection, Paris.

THE INVENTORS

transparent spaces of the same width. This screen was used to photographically interlace the two sides of a stereoview, breaking them into strips, then to view the resulting composition in a way that ensured that each eye perceived only strips from the “correct” image. Stereoscopic line-screen photography was invented around the turn of the twentieth century in several countries at once, with surprising connec­ tions to research in other fields. Its history in France shows that autostereoscopic photography was difficult to master and the first images fickle to view, but that the idea of a photograph appearing in 3D as if by magic was powerfully attractive.

THE INVENTORS The use of a line screen for presenting stereoscopic images was first suggested in 1896 by the Frenchman A. Berthier, who remains unknown today except for this original idea. In the 1890s, stereoscopic photography was experiencing a renaissance as a popular pastime for amateur photographers after having been a best-selling form of commercial imagery in the 1850s and 1860s.2 The market for stereoscopy was dynam­ ic, with numerous models of two-lens cameras and stereoscopes, as well as a diversity of stereoviews, available from any good photography dealer. Berthier published his line-screen idea in a scientific magazine, in a modest article on the history of stereo­ scopes.3 He explained how the two sides of a stereoview could be combined, pub­ lishing an illustration purposely crude in its construction showing the pair of images cut into wide strips, every other one of which was omitted (fig. 8). A second illustra­tion

8: Stereoview cut into strips for an autostereoscopic photograph, in A. Berthier, “Images stéréoscopiques de grand format,” Cosmos (May 23, 1896): 230.

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presented the composite image made by alternating the strips retained from the left and right images. Ideally, this was to be done not with scissors, as it appeared Berthier had done, but when photographically printing a stereoscopic negative. A line screen was placed in contact with the photographic surface when exposing the first image. The screen was then moved the width of one line to reveal the parts of the surface previously covered; the second image was printed in these spaces. To view the composite photograph with an illusion of stereoscopic depth, the same line screen (fig. 9, labeled A) was placed a few millimeters in front of the photograph (P) in such a way that each eye glimpsed only the strips of the image it was meant to see. The stereoview was thus visible “without a stereoscope,” as Ber­ thier’s contemporaries would say. A few years later, circa 1902, similar images were invented independently in the United States by Frederic Eugene Ives (1856–1937), help­ ing to elicit wider interest in the process.4 Ives was already well known for his work on photomechanical printing methods and on color photography devices like the Kromskop—research that influenced the new line-screen process. Ives called his stereoscopic line-screen photographs Parallax Stereograms in reference to the process’s dependence on parallax between the two 9: Principle behind the viewing of an auto������������������������������������������� eyes. His exhibition of several of them at the 1904 stereoscopic ­photograph, in A. Berthier, “Images World’s Fair in St. Louis, Missouri, was to lead to stéréoscopiques de grand format,” Cosmos renewed interest in the idea in France. Léon Gau(May 23, 1896): 229. mont, then an important French manufacturer of stereoscopes and stereoscopic cameras, saw Ives’s photographs there and was impressed enough to bring examples back to Paris, where they were presented at the Académie des Sciences, on October 24, 1904, then at the Société Française de Physique, on November 18.5 The following year, Gaumont gave two attractively framed Parallax Stereograms—a portrait of a girl with a flower and a statuette of a boy holding a camera—to the Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers, where they were put on display.6 The portrait of a girl is meticulously composed, and although it has suffered over time still presents a striking stereoscopic illusion (fig. 10). The girl holds a flower that stands out forcefully against the volumes of cloth draped over her shoulders, and her fingers are gracefully placed in the foreground. Her face has natural three-dimensionality all around the nose, mouth, eyes, and cheekbone, and is attractively framed by wide ringlets of hair. This illusion of depth is visible without too much searching for a viable angle if the viewer is squarely in front of the photograph and approximately 40 to 50 cm away. Two other Ives Parallax Ste-

THE INVENTORS

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reograms—a portrait of a man holding a hat and cane, and a view of a statue—became part of the collections of the Société Française de Photographie at an unknown date, surely contributing to the process’s renown in France as well. They are professionally presented in wooden frames with plaques citing an “Ives Patent” and a manufac­ turer’s address in New York. The mathematician Eugène Estanave (1867–ca. 1937) was France’s first important figure in the history of stereoscopic screen photography.7 Author of the image in figure 7, he started working with line-screen stereograms in late 1905 after seeing Ives’s successful examples. He later wrote, it was “Mr. L. Gaumont himself who encour­ aged me to study this new form of stereoscopy.”8 Estanave’s first publication on the subject was a patent filed on January 24, 1906.9 Like Ives, he described either working from a classic stereoscopic negative (such as one obtained with the readily available Verascope camera) or interlacing the two images when taking the picture, by use of a special camera.10 The latter had a wide lens fitted with a diaphragm possessing two openings several centimeters apart. A line screen was placed close to the negative. Two images entered the camera at different angles and passed through the screen

10: Frederic Ives, Autostereoscopic portrait, 1902–1904, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 25.2 × 20.4 cm with frame, Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers, Paris.

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before reaching the photographic surface, where they were interlaced as each one fell in the areas left in the shadows by the other. Estanave’s photographs were different than Ives’s in their execution, revealing some of the concrete realities of the finicky process. Although Estanave didn’t out­ line the messy details in his writings, his images show that he mounted the glass line screen in the correct position on the final composite image (also on glass) by carefully placing small strips of cardboard of the necessary thickness between the two plates, along the edges, then sealing things in place by gluing a strip of paper around all four sides of the composition. This hand-made finishing is visible in figure 11, one of Estanave’s earliest and more whimsical 3D creations, showing the head of a stuffed fox jutting through a newspaper page.11 The taxidermy subject (also visible on the wall in figure 7) provides a strong stereoscopic image with its sharp muzzle, toothed grin,

11: Eugène Estanave, Autostereoscopic still life, 1905, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 12 × 9 cm, Gérard Lévy collection, Paris.

THE INVENTORS

and pointy ears. Another photograph made by Estanave in 1905 was a strange and clumsily presented still life showing an odd collection of objects (a statuette, flowers, and a mathematics book) and lightly hand-colored. Both photographs are 4 or 5 mm thick and relatively heavy because made using two glass plates, one for the screen and one for the image. In 1908, however, Estanave presented a variant on stereoscopic line-screen photography: his new “Autostereoscopic” plate combined the photo­ graphic surface and the line screen on opposite sides of the same sheet of glass.12 It thus dispensed with the need to make precise screen-placement calculations when photographing, and to mount a separate screen painstakingly on the final composite image for viewing. A photograph of spheres in front of a blackboard inscribed with a message about stereoscopic perception was presented as an example of this technique, in a specially printed cardboard frame promoting its novelty (fig. 12).

12: Eugène Estanave, Autostereoscopic scene, ca. 1910, gelatin silver and line screen on glass in original cardboard frame, image 16.5 × 11.5 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

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COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY The principle of stereoscopic line-screen photography emerged in a climate of crosspollination between fields that might appear separate today, but which around 1900 were interconnected. The idea of autostereoscopic photography occurred to Berthier and Ives, and could immediately be carried out and developed by Estanave and others, because of connections each of them made with other photographic techniques. Particularly influential was the fact that stereoscopy and color photography shared common technical founda­tions: each was (and remains) based on the deconstruction of a phenomenon of optical perception into multiple images, which is then reconstructed via the eyes and the brain to obtain the desired illusion.13 A stereoscopic photograph is composed of two images. The perception of the intended illusion of depth depends on a viewing system reserving one image for each eye, leading the viewer’s brain to interpret the differ­ences between them as resulting from variations in distance. Then-emerging color photography processes were also based on the creation and synthesis of multiple images. The subject was photographed several times (usually three) through filters of different hues. Each filter let past only the light of its color; the photograph made with it was thus a record of the parts of the subject containing that particular color. The three filtered images were tinted according to the light used to record them and presented so that they appeared to overlap. The spectator perceived a single image of the subject with all its chromatic variation. 3D and color photography thus raised similar problems related to the recording and combin­ ing of multiple images. Circa 1900, color photography was revolutionized by the use of a screen com­ posed of lines, dots, or other patterns. The idea of employing a screen in color photog­ raphy initially had been suggested by the Frenchman Louis Ducos du Hauron in the 1860s; the first practical tools for doing so were commercialized in 1895 by the Irishman John Joly.14 Joly employed a screen of fine red, green, and blue translucent lines traced 200 per inch (about 80 per centimeter)—schematically shown in a 1903 book using vibrant inks (fig. 13). The lined filter was placed over the negative in an ordinary camera: each area of the photosensitive surface was thus exposed through the colored line in front of it. The resulting negative was monochrome but at any particular point only exposed when the subject contained the color of the filter. When the positive image was mounted behind a similar striped filter and held in front of a light, the transparent areas of the image took on the colors of the lines in front of them while the dark areas blocked the view of other hues. Greys, of course, nuanced this “sorting” process, allowing the primary colors to mix in different proportions. Seen from a slight distance, the variegated composition appeared to convey the subject with all its chromatic diversity thanks to the optical synthesis of the tiny luminous elements of the screen.

COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY

13: Principle of the line screen used for John Joly’s color ­ hotography process, in Léon Vidal, Traité pratique de photo­ p chromie (Paris: Gauthier-Villars, 1903), plate II.

Both Berthier and Estanave found inspiration in color screen processes when working with stereoscopy. When Berthier proposed his stereoscopic screen process in May 1896, he had just published a book on Gabriel Lippmann’s 1891 interference method of color photography and a series of articles on other color processes, in which he described Joly’s work.15 Presenting his line screen for stereoscopy he wrote, “Maybe several lines could be traced per millimeter, like with the Jolly [sic] process for color reproduction.”16 Estanave declared in his first patent in 1906 that the principle of his invention had been established a few years earlier by Ducos du Hauron, Joly, and Berthier—showing that he was aware of the process’s color heritage even though he had initially based his work on Ives’s Parallax Stereograms.17 Furthermore, his invention of an “Autostereoscopic” plate in 1908 was technically and linguistically inspired by the Lumière Brothers’ successful Autochrome process of 1907. Estanave explained that in his new variant on the 3D process, he was “uniting the line screen and the photographic plate just like Autochrome plates and others unite the polychrome filter and the photosensitive emulsion.”18 The Autochrome indeed simplified techniques like Joly’s by presenting the screen (now composed of a fine trichromatic network of dots) and the photographic emulsion on either side of the same ready-to-

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use glass plate.19 Estanave pushed the ties between color and stereoscopy further in 1909 by proposing an “Autostereochrome” plate, with screens of opaque lines and colored dots. A view he made of a group in a sun-drenched landscape (fig. 14) shows that this was technically possible, although the presence of two filters meant very long exposure times and resulted in a dark image. Ives also found inspiration for 3D photography in color recording techniques. He recounted having invented a camera for Parallax Stereograms in 1902 by modifying his Kromolinoskop, patented in 1899.20 This device was a complex light box used for viewing composite photographs taken through three-color line screens like Joly’s. Ives’s Parallax Stereogram camera also strongly resembled a color camera he had patented in 1901, which recorded color photographs with strips woven together as if taken through a three-color line screen.21

14: Eugène Estanave, Autostereoscopic color photograph, ca. 1910, Autochrome plate and line screen on glass, 18.1 × 13 cm, Gérard Lévy collection, Paris.

HALFTONE REPRODUCTION

HALFTONE REPRODUCTION Color photography was not the only source of inspiration for the new autostereo­ scopic process. Although Ives finalized his system for Parallax Stereograms after working with color photography, he explained that the idea originally came to him circa 1886, when working with halftone printing.22 The halftone process was a relief printing process, used to include photographs alongside text in books and newspapers, for example. The image to be reproduced was photographed through a screen in order to divide it into discreet elements and translate shades of grey into dots of different sizes. A halftone screen could be made up of parallel lines (in the early days of the process) or sets of parallel lines crossing each other at different angles (as in fig­ ure 15).23 Ives was a pioneer of the halftone process. His first patent dated back to 1878, and he made his greatest contribution—the idea of crossing two lined screens at a 90° angle—in the winter of 1885–1886.24 This tool gave him the idea of interlacing and presenting stereoviews in a new way. His Parallax Stereograms were made using halftone screens with one set of parallel lines traced 200 per inch, which Ives re­produced by contact printing original factory screens.25 The resemblance between halftone screens and those necessary for stereoscopic experiments was not lost on other inventors. In his 1906 patent, Estanave specified that he contact printed “ordinary” easy-tofind “plates” (without specifying their original pur­ pose).26 He even combined stereoscopic and animated illusions (to be discussed in Chapter 2) using a screen with vertical and horizontal lines, and wrote that such a screen was easier to obtain than one with a single set of lines. This confirms his dependence on commercially available halftone screens, which generally had crossed lines at the time.27 In 1912, another French practitioner explicitly recommended photographically reproducing halftone screens for 3D work.28 This was likely common 15: Principle of the halftone screen, practice considering the complexity of producing such in H. Calmels, Catalogue général 1911–1912 (Paris: H. Calmels, [1911]), 173. screens from scratch. It was even what made stereoscopic screen photography feasible instead of just an interesting theory. Producing halftone screens was so complex that this burgeoning printing process was itself made commercially viable by the preexistence of machines for wood engraving that accurately cut parallel lines, and which printing pioneers adapted to utilization with glass plates for their new purposes.29

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The use of a screen in photography therefore originated well before it was applied to stereoscopy, dating back to the 1850s for both color and photomechanical reproduction.30 It came into its own in the second half of the nineteenth century, when it was explored internationally in both printing and color. It is striking that although a Frenchman first thought of stereoscopic line-screen photography, he was inspired by an Irish process for color reproduction, itself based on a French idea; and that the stereoscopic process only developed in France after being reintroduced there by American examples—themselves influenced by both halftone printing and color research. In 1905, according to La Nature, the premier popular science journal in France at the time, the United States was then the driving force in screen technology. An article following the presentation of Ives’s stereograms in Paris reported that “[t]he use of screens is quite common in America, where for ten years they have been attempting to use them to resolve the most interesting problems in photography and color reproduction.” Written just before the French Autochrome took the interna­ tional market by storm, the article reported that this principle had “so far met with little success in France.”31 Autostereoscopic photography was therefore part of larger trends. Jonathan Crary has described how in the nineteenth century, experiments with stereoscopy and color were salient examples of a new paradigm placing the site of perception in the viewer’s body.32 Recent scholarship shows to what degree the exploration of theories of subjective perception by artists led to the emergence of abstraction.33 In this sense, we may understand not only halftone printing, the Autochrome, and cinematography (as we will see in Chapter 2) as ideas that were significantly contemporary to autostereoscopic photography, but also Neo-Impressionism, Cubism, and Futurism: via fragmentation of the perception of color, perspective, or time, more complete forms of representation were sought using ocular and cerebral synthesis.34 The inventors working on stereoscopic line-screen photography were in their own way a small part of this effervescence.

AUTOSTEREOSCOPIC PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE PUBLIC Successful commercialization of a photographic process requires that its qualities interest specific publics and that its concrete form be inviting enough to incite its utilization in specific ways. In its early years, autostereoscopic photography appears to have been too complex to create and view to sustain significant commercial or scientific use. However, photographs that presented themselves as single images providing an illusion of depth without the use of a stereoscope or glasses established a radically new viewing experience for stereoscopic photography—one profoundly in synch with modern sensibilities. This opened exciting horizons for 3D imagery and kept a limited public of scientists and inventors interested in developing the process.

AUTOSTEREOSCOPIC PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE PUBLIC

Ives considered his Parallax Stereogram process to be a “minor” invention and only briefly promoted it in scientific and public circles.35 Stereoscopy without a stereoscope appears to have been a lighthearted challenge for the renowned inventor, not an endeavor on which he pinned any serious hopes for scientific or commercial recog­ nition. The New York Times reported in 1903 that Ives had dusted off this idea when asked to present new research at the Franklin Institute of Philadelphia. “As Franklin had given him many medals for various inventions Mr.  Ives wished to comply,” recounted the journalist.36 Ives presented his new curiosity as conducive to portraiture or spectacular commercial imagery. Known Parallax Stereograms are often portraits, and Ives’s contemporaries considered portraiture and education to be promising applications of the process; the New York Times journalist suggested photo­

16: Eugène Estanave, Autostereoscopic scene, ca. 1906–1914, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 24 × 18 cm, Gérard Lévy collection, Paris.

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graphing human organs for medical students, for example.37 The existence of wellframed Parallax Stereograms signed by the “Ives Process Company” reflects Ives’s brief marketing of his invention. One such venture was the edition of seven different images proposed at $5 each by the Scientific Shop in Chicago. They included an impressive close-up portrait of a cowboy pointing a pistol directly at the camera, named “The Brigand” in the catalog.38 Estanave’s iconography is highly personal in comparison. Eighteen of his stereoscopic images are known today. They form an eclectic collection: two self-portraits, still lives including two of a skull (object also visible in figure 7), spheres in front of a blackboard (fig. 12), people at what appears to be an ethnographic exhibition, a statue of Jean Bouin, a city fountain, trenches in Verdun, a man in the street, and what look like family snapshots (as in figure 16).39 Views mentioned in publica­tions are similarly varied: “twelve very successful stereograms representing scientific experts including [...] Mr. Appell, Dean of the Faculté des Sciences de Paris, [and] Mr. Lippmann, member of the Institut”; “very interesting views of the fortified walls and watchtowers of the city of Carcassonne”; and images titled “Un bon tireur,” “Vichy Landscape,” and “A Corporal in 1908.”40 Estanave was above all interested in proving the line-screen process’s technical viability, hoping to market his Autostereoscopic plate like the popular Autochrome plate. In 1909, it was reported that Estanave’s invention would soon be sold by “one of the most important French plate manufacturers” and that licensing agreements were available for purchase.41 Plates were produced by the Lumière company soon after, but it is uncertain in what quantity or if they were ever widely available.42 Likely as part of this project, Estanave printed cardboard frames that still adorn several of his images (fig. 12). The complexity of taking pictures with the line-screen process made Estanave’s commercial ambitions unrealistic. The resounding success of the Autochrome plate depended on its elimination of other specialized equipment for the photographer. The Autostereoscopic plate did no such thing. A dedicated stereoscopic line-screen camera would have required a special wide lens (difficult to obtain)43 and been cumbersome to use, necessitating a tripod because of long exposure times (Estanave reported ten to thirty  seconds)44 and ruling out many subjects favored by handcamera touting stereoscopy amateurs. If the composite images were produced in the darkroom from a traditional stereoscopic negative, the photographer still had to devise a technique for perfectly interlacing the images. Ives’s idea of selling spectac­ ular professionally produced photographs held more commercial promise. The scientific community appears to have been more convinced of the interest of Estanave’s research than amateur photographers were. Estanave worked in the laboratory of Gabriel Lippmann—a renowned physicist, Nobel Prize winner, and author of the concept of “Integral photography” that would soon revolutionize autostereo­ scopic imagery.45 Lippmann presented Estanave’s research at the prestigious Académie

VIEWING WITHOUT A STEREOSCOPE

des Sciences, which awarded grants to the inventor in 1908 and 1909.46 Estanave’s scientific colleagues were particularly interested in the promise of one application of his stereoscopic photography: X-rays. This was a booming new field in Estanave’s day, following Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen’s 1895 discovery. Stereoscopic X-ray experiments raised hopes that depth perception would help doctors locate foreign objects more precisely inside the body.47 To record autostereoscopic X-rays, Estanave used two Xray sources and a special screen with lines opaque to their radiation—composed of either metal wires or a series of grooves cut into a thin wooden board and filled with lead. He was able to show Lippmann an image of “a twisted iron wire with excellent 3D.”48 Lippmann thought the stereoscopic screen process was “clearly” something that would “significantly increase the usefulness and the potential of X-ray photography.”49 Autostereoscopic X-rays elicited the interest of a few doctors, including Théodore Guilloz, who like Estanave started research on the line-screen process in 1904 after learning of Ives’s Parallax Stereograms in Paris.50 Estanave followed the work of ­Guilloz, citing it in his own publications.51 Guilloz showed stereoscopic line-screen Xrays of “nails, screws, metal objects in complicated arrangements,” and “the hand and the wrist of a live adult” at the Société de Biologie in 1904, explaining that “with the help of a compass” he could “make simple distance measurements with a margin of error of under a millimeter.”52 Estanave collaborated with medical personnel on at least one occasion, making an 18 × 24 cm screen in 1915 for “Mr. Jardin at the military hospital of the rue Lodi in Marseille”; it allowed Jardin to produce “X-rays of a hand and even locate a piece of shrapnel.”53 Estanave later explained that X-ray screen photography was limited, however: “These experiments are successful when the X-rays are of metallic objects or certain parts of the body (hand, arm, foot), but the results aren’t nearly as good when dealing with fleshy areas, and the results of trials made by Dr. Infroit on a female pelvis were mediocre.” “[T]he fault wasn’t to be attributed to the method but to the weakness of X-rays,” he said. In other words, the long exposure time required for the creation of such images was prohibitive, at a time when the danger of prolonged radiation exposure was becoming frighteningly evident.54

VIEWING WITHOUT A STEREOSCOPE The practical constraints of the 3D screen process largely determined its reception, but the finicky yet magical experience of viewing stereoscopic photographs “without a stereoscope” was also decisive, both in the short and long term. It was very different from the experience of looking at traditional stereoviews. Classic stereoscopic photographs were two images presented side by side on cards or glass plates. The image pair was inserted into a slot in the stereoscope, which had two lenses or prisms through which to observe it. The basis of how the system worked—practically and in

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17: Anonymous, Viewing stereoscopic photographs (detail of a stereoview), ca. 1857–1858, Roger-Viollet, Paris.

principle—was evident.55 As the viewer peered into the device, as in figure 17, a single, sharp photograph appeared almost instantly—although some views demanded a short adjustment time before the brain made enough sense of the information to combine the images and start constructing depth. The illusion of volume obtained was not like that seen when looking at the surrounding world. As previous scholars have underlined, it was a space in which certain things appeared to be in front of or behind one another, often without any smooth continuity between them.56 Presentation of a pronounced illusion was of course dependent upon the talent of the photog­ rapher, who had to ensure the presence of things at different distances and in differ­ ent areas of the image. There was also the question of the distance that should separate the points from which the two images were recorded—a slight increase in their spacing accentuating the impression of depth in the final image.57 Whatever the

VIEWING WITHOUT A STEREOSCOPE

18: Viewing an autostereoscopic photograph, in Eugène Estanave, “La Photographie Intégrale,” La Nature (June 26, 1926): 412.

intensity of the illusion obtained, the stereoscope isolated the gaze from the surround­ ing environment and focused attention on the image. The viewer couldn’t see what was going on outside the stereoscope, and no one else could simultaneously share his or her experience of that image. A stereoscopic line-screen photograph was viewed in a very different manner. The glass object had to be held up to a light, as in figure 18. The image at first lacked sharpness, or even seemed double in some places, because the viewer’s eyes were most likely incorrectly positioned for the screen to align perfectly with the composite photograph underneath. As the photograph was moved, the image appeared jumpy and confused, with an eye-fatiguing illusion of depth sometimes presenting itself if each eye started focusing on image-strips meant for the other. Slowly tilting the photograph from side to side, sometimes moving it closer or farther away, it was necessary

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to hunt for the illusion of depth until happening upon just the right spot where the image appeared sharper and magically started to take on volume. At that point, if the viewer remained immobile and focused on the image, the impression of depth be­ came more pronounced as his or her eyes and brain adjusted. Estanave, who was as familiar as anyone could be with the process, reported regarding Ives’s Parallax Stereograms: “When simply observed in front of a light, these views present very nice depth, which becomes more marked with a little attention and practice.”58 A limited number of acceptable viewpoints existed. It was easy to miss the 3D illusion if one didn’t know to look out for it—or know how to look for it. Estanave felt compelled to write instructions on his manifesto images: “to be viewed from approximately 30 cm on a white background,” or “view attentively from 40 or 50 cm to see in depth,” he explained. Stereoscopic screen photography asserted its difference from traditional stereoscopic images (or their variants like anaglyphs) through this unique, albeit complex, viewing procedure. The experience marked it out as a completely new sort of 3D photography. The illusion of depth resembled that of a traditional stereoview, because exactly the same two images were used, but it was transformed by the viewer’s new relationship to the image. Whereas the stereoscope had isolated the gaze, the screen process allowed the viewer to remain aware of his or her surroundings. More importantly, whereas the stereoscope had made it obvious what to do to see a 3D illusion, an autostereoscopic photograph provided no such clues. Once visible, the illusion was also particularly curious because it emerged from what was apparently a single image. Stereoscopic screen photography was much more “phantasmagoric” than tradi­ tional stereoscopy, to adopt Jonathan Crary’s use of the term: it was better at “the effacement or mystification” of its operating principle.59 Crary has shown that in the nineteenth century, stereoscopy participated in the “collapse of the camera obscura as a model for the condition of an observer” and the establishment of the body and its perceptive system as the site of vision. He argued that this model was declining at the turn of the twentieth century (when screen photography emerged), giving way to a “denial of the body [...] as the ground of vision” and a growing desire for phantasmagoria. For Crary, stereoscopy had become obsolete, largely because it overtly asserted it dependence upon embodied perception: “Clearly the stereoscope was dependent on a physical engagement with the apparatus that became increasingly unacceptable, and the composite, synthetic nature of the stereoscopic image could never be fully effaced. [...] Photography defeated the stereoscope as a mode of visual consumption [...] because it recre­ ated and perpetuated the fiction that the ‘free’ subject of the camera obscura was still viable.”60

VIEWING WITHOUT A STEREOSCOPE

The idea of 3D images like those of Ives and Estanave—which in theory allowed the viewer to move freely in front of them, magically providing an impression of depth— was therefore particularly attractive. Although the advantage of stereoscopic screen photography over popular, easy-to-make stereoviews wasn’t at all obvious for photog­ raphers and only a small number of specialists were ready to face its constraints, it had phantasmagoria on its side. If traditional stereoscopy was conceptually passé, autostereoscopic photography was at the forefront of the ongoing challenge not only to attain “perceptual realism”—simulation of the nature of our visual perception of the world—but, increasingly, to do so in a way that kept hidden the artifices on which it depended. The presentation of the new line-screen photographs, which masquer­ aded as “normal” images, would soon change expectations: it elicited the desire for a 3D photograph to be like a window opening onto the world, with all the freedom of vision that promised.

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With a little luck on eBay or at a flea market, one can still happen upon the quirky postcards from the 1910s featuring animated line-screen portraits. Figure  19 pre­ sents an amusing example. The image—a man in a coat and tie—has been inserted into a cardboard mount and is framed by an opening with rounded corners. It has poor contrast and appears to be protected by a layer of plastic. A bendable tab along the

19: Bergeron, Ferreté & Cie, Animated portrait, ca. 1918–1921, gelatin silver on paper and line screen on film in cardboard mount, 9 × 13.8 cm, private collection.

right edge of the thick postcard is accompanied by the instruction, “Gently move this edge.” Doing so makes the man in the photograph form exaggerated facial expressions and his hair flip from side to side. He opens his mouth wide as if to yell and makes his eyes big; he then purses his lips as his hair flips to the other side, and then relaxes his expression as his hair lies flat. The poses seem to blend together, but are distinguish-

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able as three different views upon closer inspection. It is fascinating to explore the system and to try to count the different images by observing how they morph from one into the other. A stamp in purple ink on the back reveals that this “Photo-Animée” was produced by “Bergeron, Ferreté & Cie,” in Paris. Postcard portraits like these were the object of a limited fad around the time of World War I and the most visible early example of animated line-screen photography. Like autostereoscopic photographs, animated portraits were invented around the turn of the twentieth century based on the interlacing of different images. Unlike their 3D cousins, however, they were quickly commercialized and brought into mainstream popular culture. A different viewing experience worked in their favor: whereas autostereoscopic photographs could be difficult to appreciate, calling for patience and stillness, animated screen photographs required the viewer to move to see the illusion—either passing in front of the image or physically manipulating it—making the process interactive and playful. From the start, the new animated photographs also profited from public fascination with cinematography. The advertising slogan used by the studio responsible for figure 19 touted the technology as “cinema in a single photo,” perfectly underlining the process’s contemporary associations with the movies but also its originality as a composite photograph masquerading as a single image.1 Animated line-screen photography’s ties to both other photographic research and mass culture made it resonate more immediately and profoundly with modern life than autostereoscopic photography.

INVENTION The invention of animated line-screen photography, like that of stereoscopy without a stereoscope, was part of internationally developing interest in imaging technologies that used a screen. The earliest examples known today of such animated photo­­ graphs are those made by Eugène Estanave, who worked in France on what he called “changing” images starting in 1906, parallel to his research on autostereoscopic imagery.2 His photographs were on glass, making them rather heavy and fragile. They were more vivid than postcard-format views like figure  19, however, because they were larger and translucent and profited from the naturalism of photog­raphy. To create them, Estanave interlaced two different images by printing them through a line screen onto a glass photographic plate; he then mounted the glass line screen a few millimeters in front of the composite image. An illusion of animation was produced as the viewer tilted the final composition or moved in front of it. An early example of Estanave’s work was a female portrait he called “Les yeux trompeurs” (deceptive eyes). As the photograph is slowly tipped, the woman’s eyes are alternately open then closed, changing from one to the other and back again until

INVENTION

20: Eugène Estanave, Animated portrait (as seen from two angles), 1920s, gelatin silver and line screen on glass, image 11.5 × 16.5 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

the viewing angle is too oblique to correctly perceive the interlaced images. The effect is strange because when the strips of one image start to disappear behind the screen’s lines and those of the other are revealed, the impression is not one of lowered eyes but of open eyes covered by eerily translucent eyelids.3 Using the same principle, Estanave also created a photograph of two women with a cat who move slightly; a drawing of Saint Bernadette in prayer in which the Virgin Mary appears (and disappears); and a whimsical portrait of a girl blowing a kiss (fig. 20).4 There is no sign that Estanave ever tried to commercialize his animated or changing photographs, as he attempted to do with his Autostereoscopic plates. While he was developing his research in scientific circles, however, the principle of this technology seduced entrepreneurs for its commercial potential and was rapidly sold

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in playful forms. In 1930, Estanave would even complain of all the “counterfeits” of “his” images to be found, illustrating his remarks with Austrian, French, and Japanese examples sent to him by acquaintances.5 Although these commercial creations did employ a line screen, most of them were quite different from Estanave’s. They were small images made with paper and plastic instead of glass, and they animated when the different layers were slid one over the other. In figure 19, for example, the bendable tab is attached to the edge of a plastic line screen placed inside the mount, and a composite photograph has been printed on paper and glued to the back of the mount, underneath the screen. Bending the tip of the card makes the screen slide over the photograph. With such a system, the image was always rather dark but in exchange weighed next to nothing, was inexpensive and unbreakable, and used standardized materials—all of which facilitated commercial use. Estanave’s choice of the term “counterfeit” to describe these popular animated images was excessive considering not just the presentation of his heavy images on glass but also the patent history of the line-screen process. In the playful form pictured in figure  19, animated images appear to have been invented in the United States, where Alexander S. Spiegel registered several patents for their presentation and manufacture between 1905 and 1911, first in association with drawings then with photographs.6 Some of Spiegel’s early creations used colorful mounts picturing a drawing of a magician waving his hand over the animated image. Spiegel’s early icono­ graphy included drawings of a circus rider (fig. 21), racing horses, a piano player, two lovers, and other easily animated motifs. Soon after, photographic portraits were produced. The idea quickly reached France, where it was the object of multiple patents registered by Spiegel between 1908 and 1915. Other inventors patented slight variations on the process between 1915 and 1917; in 1916, two of them even mentioned the work of their American forerunner, confirming that Spiegel’s images were by then available in France.7 Patents, business directories, and the clothing and hairstyles of the people photographed indicate that animated photography was popular on both sides of the Atlantic during the World War I era. Some published views displayed European or American political personalities of the time, and one American image used as an advertisement even referred explicitly to the war. Labeled “The Triple Entente,” it alternated between the portraits of different heads of state, with the mount displaying the caption: “Middletons Artura shoes are always in the front ranks. Do we have to go to war to get your business?”8 The most common use of animated line-screen photography was portraiture—in the form of stock images or likenesses of individual clients made by photographers who had purchased the necessary specialized equipment. At least two establishments in Paris offered animated line-screen portraits: a first one at 12 boulevard des Italiens, probably opened before or during the war; then one run by Bergeron, Ferreté et Compagnie at 8  rue Martel, from 1918 to 1921.9 Several patents for animated line-

INVENTION

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21: G. Felsenthal & Co., Postcard with an animated illustration of a circus rider, ca. 1906–1909, gelatin silver on paper and line screen on film in cardboard mount, 8.9 × 14 cm, private collection.

screen photography focused on equipment facilitating portraiture.10 For example, Spiegel sold a negative holder that pressed a line screen against the negative, moving it by a precisely calculated fraction of a millimeter between poses.11 As many positives as desired could be printed from the resulting composite negative. Pre-made mounts were sold to present and animate these images. Spiegel, the leader in the field, explained that he wished to make inexpensive mounts commercially available so that photographers wouldn’t need to design and manufacture their own, only take the photographs (as Bergeron, Ferreté et Compagnie did with figure 19).12 Exact prices for personal screen portraits aren’t known, but they were probably fairly affordable. In the United States, stock images in the form of postcards made under Spiegel’s patents retailed for 10 cents circa 1908, when a first-class postage stamp was 2 cents (see figure  27). In Britain in 1917, sample screen portraits sold for 1  shilling, or twelve times the cost of mailing a letter.13 One advertisement for line-screen portrait equipment marketed under the name Move-O-Graph deemed animated line-screen photog­ raphy to be “a bewitching novelty that sells at sight.” It summed up the arguments regarding why the new process should interest those in the photography business:

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“Because if you are a professional photographer you are anxious to extend your profit-making ‘lines’ and must be on the alert for each and every engaging attraction. Because if you are not a professional photographer, but, attracted by the prevailing boom, are looking for an opening, you will find the Move-O-Graph portrait studio a money-making proposition of unexampled kind.”14 Animated screen photography participated in the internationalization of mass culture and, along with the importation of Ives’s Parallax Stereograms just a few years before (Chapter 1), is evidence of a particularly permeable border between America and France. Vanessa Schwartz has argued that the popular culture traditions shared by France and the United States originated in France around the turn of the twentieth century.15 In the case of line-screen photography, the French were at the forefront of the development of new technological principles, and the Americans then initiated attractive presentations and commercial uses for them. These products were then imported back into France where they met with more success than the original concept. A number of small animated photographs in circulation in the 1920s were stamped “Germany” (including those in figures 24 and 26), revealing another source of production, but nothing is known about their exact origin. Inventing technical principles was not enough to ensure line-screen photography’s widespread adoption. Its lasting success depended on the creativity of inventors and entrepreneurs in imagining very specific forms and uses for it, and on their elaboration of workable commercial strategies to bring these ideas to fruition.

CINEMA Whether on paper or glass, animated line-screen photographs were contemporaneous with the first decades of cinematography, and fascination with them reflected excitement about this pervasive form of entertainment. Ties with the cinema help explain animated photography’s success and illuminate the strategies entrepreneurs of the 1910s and 1920s developed to create, market, and distribute their images. The association of animated photography with cinema is suggested not least by the vocabulary used to describe it. In France, animated line-screen photographs were usually referred to as “changing images” or “animated photographs.” The latter term was also sometimes used to describe the first screenings of the Cinematograph.16 On occasion, cinematography was even explicitly cited in reference to line-screen imagery: for ­Estanave, his process involved “an embryonic cinematographic movement,” and, as noted, the technique used to create the portrait shown in figure 19 was advertised as “cinema in a single photo.”17 For its practitioners, animated screen photography was an image that moved like at the movies.

CINEMA

22: Life Motion Photo Co., Animated portrait, ca. 1910–1913, gelatin silver on paper and line screen on film in cardboard mount, 8.8 × 13.7 cm, private collection. 23: Anonymous, Animated portrait made with the Move-O-Graph process, ca. 1918–1925, gelatin silver on film and line screen on paper in cardboard mount, 12 × 9 cm, private collection.

The influence of the cinema is also evident in the successful commercial practices surrounding animated line-screen photography. Studios selling animated portraits tended to be in areas known for popular entertainment, including movies. In the United States, animated portraits could be found on the Atlantic City and Asbury Park boardwalks in New Jersey (fig. 22) as well as in department stores and photographic studios in a variety of cities.18 An English portrait made using the Move-OGraph system (fig. 23) was marked “Smiles from Margate”—in reference to an amusement park in Kent where the first cinema was established in 1923. The two known Parisian sources for the production of animated portraits were in the neighborhood of the grands boulevards, where many movie theatres and screening venues were also located. As it had been in the mid-nineteenth century, in the 1910s this district was Paris’s best spot for flânerie, bringing together all sorts of popular spectacles.19 The area apparently catered to a demand for personalized animated images in various forms. One popular item was the flipbook, which gave the impression of animation when its pages were flicked at a steady pace. In 1914, the Parisian “Biofix” studio at 23  bd. Poissonnière (ca.  1913–1921) famously portrayed Guillaume Apollinaire and André Rouveyre this way, chatting and laughing.20 Another flipbook of the day shows an anonymous man stringing together several actions over forty-two images: he

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turns his head, moves a cigarette away from his lips, looks up, then smiles and turns his face towards the camera, smoothes his hair with his hand, turns so as to appear in profile, then looks at the camera again before raising his hand and ending with a laugh. Cameras designed for flipbook production were marketed for professional photographers in much the same way animated line-screen equipment was. A 1911 Gaumont catalog sold flipbook-making necessities and recounted how these images came into fashion along Paris’s boulevards: “As soon as the cinematograph that we still know today appeared under the auspices of the Lumière brothers, people became preoccupied with bringing a convenient, easy-to-use, and inexpensive device into every home that would make it possible to enjoy the synthesis of movement rendered by the cinematograph. Boulevard peddlers started selling small album-notebooks: the fast, regular flipping of pages under the thumb gave the retina the illusion that the image pasted onto them came to life.”21

24: Anonymous, Animated photograph of a man on the telephone (three views), ca. 1920s, gelatin silver on film and line screen on paper in cardboard mount, blind stamp “Made in Germany” on reverse, 9.7 × 7.5 cm, private collection.

Immortalizing one’s own movements in a flipbook or a line-screen portrait was, in a certain sense, a way of associating oneself with the cinema. Elizabeth Carlson has demonstrated how the possibility of seeing one’s own likeness on screen was part of the pleasure of early cinema and was even orchestrated by producers to attract viewers to projections.22 During the 1910s, people also clearly wanted to see them-

CINEMA

25: Anonymous, Postcard with an animated face, 1920s, photographically printed drawing, gelatin silver photograph and line screen, 13.5 × 8.5 cm, private collection. 26: ­A nonymous, Animated photograph (detail of three views), 1920s, gelatin silver on film and line screen on paper in cardboard mount, blind stamp “Germany” on reverse, 7.7 × 6 cm, private collection.

selves represented as if in the movies: animated, in a rectangular frame with round corners—a visual marker of movie screens at the time—and making faces.23 And faces they made. Possibly the strongest sign that animated photography tapped into the craze for cinema is its iconography, which borrowed tropes from the medium. Facial expressivity was part of the aesthetics of the silent cinema of the day, in which exaggerated expressions were common and often shown in close-ups (sometimes even comprising an entire movie).24 It was also part of the representation of cinematography in still images at the time, as can be seen in countless promotional photographs. Such expressivity was very frequent in animated screen photographs (as in the one of the character with tousled hair in figure  19). Animated portraits

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were always close-up views—rare in classic studio portraits of the time—and zoomed in on a limited range of catchy effects: a wink, rolling eyes, a smile, the variation in the angle of a smoker’s cigar, a restless moustache, a raised eyebrow, a stray lock of hair, etc.25 Published animated photographs, of which multiple copies were sold, often featured the most spectacular gestures. These were quite entertaining to manipulate. In one such image (fig. 24), a man on the telephone shouts into the handset with his forehead furrowed, then twists his wide-open mouth into an attitude of astonishment, and finally purses his lips and rolls his eyes upward. Small half-postcard-sized views like this one were the most popular format during the 1920s, when published images appear to have taken over individual portraits in popularity. The animation was produced by alternately pressing the right and left edges of the mount to make the layers (image and screen) slide one over the other. Another common iconographic theme was the vaudeville or music hall world, associated with early cinema. It resulted in views of a flapper dancing, a made-up subject wearing a wig, and a woman strumming a guitar. Sometimes more complex figures or scenes were pictured by present­ ing a traditional illustration over the entire surface of a postcard, into which an oval opening was cut to reveal a head animating with the line-screen process. In this way, a barrel organ player appeared to sing as the tab emerging between two layers of the card was moved (fig.  25). Another animated image referenced cinematography by showing a close-up of a couple in three stages of an embrace—a popular cinema trope: the woman appears cheek to cheek with her lover, eyes and face turned towards the viewer; while still looking at the viewer she turns in the direction of her lover to meet his lips; and finally she lowers her eyes, tilting her head back to receive a kiss (fig. 26). Animated line-screen images manifest many of the cultural and aesthetic markers of the early cinema that Tom Gunning has influentially described as a “cinema of attraction”: association with vaudeville entertainment, use of the close-up “as an attraction in its own right,” and even acknowledgement of the camera.26 In the 1910s and 1920s, when the bulk of animated line-screen images were produced, this was all still very much a part of popular cinema. The iconography of animated line-screen imagery was distinctly different from that of nineteenth-century animation devices like the phenakistiscope, the zoetrope, or the praxinoscope. Jonathan Crary has noted that the preferred subjects of that era were clowns, acrobats, juggles, dancers, animals, and the like, attributing these choices not to their particular iconographic significance but to their adequacy to the devices used and to the specific type of illusion of movement they produced, “with its pulsing, expanding, and contracting in endless, variably slower or faster, loops of motion.”27 The iconography of line-screen photographs is conducive to their specific two- or three-image animation and reveals the process’s associations at the time. One small animated image was even a mise en abyme of the process as “cinema in a single photo.” It shows a woman looking at the

IN A SINGLE PHOTO

portrait of a movie star; when the image is animated, the woman smiles, raises her eyes, and blows a kiss at the portrait, which—a changing image within the image— transforms to show three different actors one after another.28 For Gunning, the cinema of attraction was used less for its narrative potential than as a way to present images that were “fascinating because of their illusory power.”29 In a similar way, animated screen photographs used eye-catching tricks to show off their own technological appeal. A variety of animated line-screen images using illustrations instead of photographs were also in circulation in the 1910s and 1920s. They tended to reference the cinema as well, via decorative or design elements surrounding the image. The most elaborate example was the Ombro-Cinéma, produced starting circa 1915.30 It was a box with a window fitted with a plastic line screen, behind which composite drawings on rolls of paper were displayed and animated by turning a small crank. The box itself pictured Charlie Chaplin as The Tramp and Charles Prince as Rigadin, and could be purchased with or without an integrated music box. Image rolls included “Sailor’s Adventure” and “The Chasers and the Chased,” and classic tales like “Little Red Riding Hood” and “Puss in Boots.” Another simpler device marked “On tourne!” (Rolling!) was composed of two paper wheels attached in the middle; the composite images were printed on the lower wheel and became animated when viewed through a screened window in the top wheel as it turned. The device was decorated with the drawing of a film camera and a movie director. In comparison, animated line-screen photographs, with their plain mounts, were indeed “cinema in a single photo” (my italics) as the advertising slogan claimed. They were not animated views as could be produced prior to 1895 (although sometimes lumped in with pre-cinematic devices) but a sort of reduced version of the public’s image of cinematography during the 1910s and the 1920s: a photography-based form of animated imagery sold near movie theaters and presenting close-ups of expressive faces, spectacular characters, or other connoted iconographies.

IN A SINGLE PHOTO While “cinema” points to the referent of the animated line-screen photograph and helps us understand its place within popular culture, the second part of the slogan “cinema in a single photo” directs attention to the process’s technological originality at the time and to a fundamental and attractive quality of animated line-screen photography: its ambivalence as a cross between still and moving images. Animated screen photography relied on a succession of similar individual views, just like cinema and the apparatuses that preceded it starting in the 1830s. It differed from existing animated images, however, because it interlaced multiple views into what paraded

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as a single image. With devices such as the flipbook or the phenakistiscope, the images required for the illusion were in plain sight; their existence and their differences could be observed while they were at rest. André Gaudreault has argued that the simultaneous presence of multiplicity and singularity marked cinematography: a movie was composed of multiple photographs, but these images were united in a single strip and produced an apparently single image that animated “as if by magic.”31 However, people knew what a filmstrip looked like and how things changed places ever so progressively from one image to the next: although they may never have had the chance to examine a roll of film personally, the illustrated press published examples of sequences from films in the form of a series of still images.32 The linescreen process pushed moving images further towards singularity by not only pre­ senting an illusion of movement in the guise of a standard, hand-held photograph but also by interlacing individual views in a way that precluded ever comparing them one beside another. The image was hardly seamless—its jumpy and approximate anima­ tion gave away its dependence on multiple images—but its components always remained partially in the shadows. The ambivalence of screen photography had repercussions beyond the purely technical sphere of its existence. Its liminal nature contributed to its appeal and thus to its commercial success. Since individual views could be distinguished only by animating the image and then stopping the movement at different stages, exploring the object in detail to penetrate its mystery became a game. These images were designed to be held and animated by a viewer, who was the master of the “show”—of the start, stop, and speed of the animation. With a touch of assiduity, freezing the movement at different points also makes it possible to try to count the three poses that give life to the subject. This isn’t always a simple task, as the views often blend unevenly when changing from one to the other. Moreover, seeing the image in a state of stillness makes it tempting to repeat the animation, so curious to observe. It is a pleasure to make the image move.33 Animated screen portraits thus drew their appeal not only from the popularity of animation and from their expressive subjects, reminiscent of the cinema, but also from the specific way they worked, which amused viewers while always eluding their grasp to some degree. It isn’t uncommon to find examples that have been opened and dissected, their cardboard mount taken apart in an attempt to solve the enigma. One sign of the intrinsic appeal of the animated line-screen process is its association with advertising and other forms of public display. The American Frederic Ives—apparently the first to patent the principle, in 1903—imagined its use for shop signs (see figure  5).34 Spiegel, inventor of the best-selling postcard-format system, promoted the use of his hand-held images for advertising in his first patents.35 Companies could have Spiegel’s images personalized, or choose a stock image and have the mount printed with a message. A promotional postcard for the line-screen system

IN A SINGLE PHOTO

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27: Moving Picture Post Card Co., Promotional postcard with an animated illustration of a lady in a buggy, ca. 1906–1909, printed image and line screen on film in cardboard mount, 8.8 × 14 cm, private collection.

distributed by the Moving Picture Post Card Company of St. Louis, Missouri, listed twenty stock images—including “Girl on the swing,” “Lady in a buggy,” “Rooster fight,” and “Indians on warpath” (fig. 27). Another sample card was printed with the words “Space for advertising” in large letters around the image. Dayton Lumber and Manufacturing Company, in Ohio, advertised this way, selecting stock image num­ ber 11—“Riding on kicking donkey”—and devising the printed message, “If you try our Lumber and Millwork, then no ‘Donkey’ can take you away from us.” During World War I, political portraits were used as stock images for such postcards, as with the shoe advertisement described above (“Middeltons Artura Shoes are always in the front ranks”). Space for advertising could be found on even the smallest images. Easton Sporting Goods Company, in Pennsylvania, glued its labels (listing fishing tackle, canoes, guns, Kodaks, etc.) on the back of various half-postcard-sized portraits of ladies and of a man in a turban moving their eyes or smiling. The mount of a small Belgian view was printed with the inscription “Café—Koffie UNICA” above the image and a name and telephone number in the town of Aalter below it. The photograph pictured a man holding an object (an empty coffee tin?) and making exaggerated expressions. The British Move-O-Graph system was used for advertisements like one for Kolynos dental cream that quite appropriately showed a young girl making smiles (fig. 28).

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28: Anonymous, Animated toothpaste advertisement made with the Move-O-Graph process, ca. 1920s, gelatin ­silver on film and line screen on paper in cardboard mount, 11.5 × 9 cm, private collection.

Hand-held animated advertisements made attractive keepsakes. Much larger images had advantages, too: constructed so that the illusion of animation presented itself when the image was seen from different angles, they could attract passers-by into a store by inciting them to slow down to watch the repercussions of their movement. In 1930, Estanave reported large American-made images on glass “used as advertisements in opticians’ store-fronts” in France.36 Two such French specimens advertising Telegic bifocal glasses were produced by the Animated Picture Products Company of New York.37 One shows a man with glasses opening and closing his eyes and smiling. The other (fig.  29) pictures a woman wearing glasses with her eyes lowered towards a book or, from another angle, smiling and looking at the viewer. A changing text heralds the qualities of Telegic bifocals: “Makes your face look younger [/] perfect eyesight, far and near with the same lens.” Around 1910, when Estanave first presented his animated photographs in France and Belgium, photography experts observed that the system could be put to “good use” in advertising “and more particularly for illuminated advertisements.” They were reminded of signs they had seen interlacing several images “visible separately from distinct points of view.”38 Estanave’s peers thus associated the line-screen process

IN A SINGLE PHOTO

29: Animated Picture Products Co., Animated advertisement for Télégic glasses (as seen from two angles), 1920s, hand-colored gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 35.5 × 27.9 cm, private collection.

with other systems providing a similar visual effect and dating back to the seventeenth century, and especially one in which two different images were cut into strips and alternately applied on an accordion-like surface.39 Such displays gained visibility in the 1910s and 1920s, revealing strong interest in animated or changing illusions at the time. The place of advertising in urban life was rapidly expanding, and the advertising profession was taking hold. Its specialists were keen to identify new ways of attracting and holding the attention of passers-by. Enjoyment of the changing vistas and fleeting images perceived when walking in the city had been a conscious part of the modern experience of Paris since the 1850s, contributing to what Elizabeth Carlson has characterized as a “taste for immersive and mobilized viewing” (manifested, for example, in the widespread use of mirrors in the streets and in fairground attractions).40 Olivier Lugon has demonstrated the existence in the 1920s of an avantgarde interest in the idea of “vision in motion,” noting that “forms of visual communication like photomontage, typophoto, advertising, and exhibition scenography, invoke this condition of urban vision to justify their innovations.”41 The animated line-screen system struck a different chord in this context than it did in its association with cinema-like animation: here, it was an attractive device to harness attention.

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A few avant-garde artists associated with Dada or Surrealism were captivated by animated line-screen images and the other systems affiliated with them.42 Marcel Duchamp, with all his interest in perception, movement, and the representation of added dimensions, noticed such devices around 1912–1915 and contemplated using them in The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even (The Large Glass) so as to present a square (“for instance”) seen straight on or at an angle from a given spot. In his notes, Duchamp drew a zigzag representing what he called the “Wilson-Lincoln system,” adding, “like the portraits that, seen from the left, show Wilson, seen from the right, show Lincoln.”43 Linda D. Henderson has detailed how this system fit into Duchamp’s exploration of four-dimensional geometry, including “the notion of a geometric hinge (such as a line around which a plane might rotate) and the way its four-dimensional counterpart (rotation around a plane) might work.” Duchamp’s use of the WilsonLincoln system was for Henderson an “optical ‘hinge’ through which the Sculpture of Drops was to be projected upward, into the fourth dimension.”44 Duchamp said his inspiration for the Wilson-Lincoln system was “an advertisement of those two faces” which he “had seen in a shop somewhere.”45 He was likely referring to a small changing image integrating the likenesses of the two American politicians. Political portraits were commonly used in association with Spiegel’s system, and Woodrow Wilson’s elevation of Abraham Lincoln as a model during the 1912 presidential campaign could plausibly have led to such a combination in a catchy composition contemporary with Duchamp’s notes.46 Considering his insistence on how the viewing angle changed the picture, however, his reference was more likely an image made with the Photochange process (fig. 30). Patented in 1904 by Deeks and Company and sold in the form of postcards, it presented images with ridges reminiscent of later lenticular photographs. They were made by gluing photographic paper on cardboard and corrugating it in a press to form ridges, then printing two different images on it by projecting them from different angles (fig. 31).47 Some examples pictured illustrations, including an image of dogs alternating with an image of cats; a girl expecting then receiving an embrace; a girl’s face alternating with flowers and the inscription “forget-me-not” (or “black-eyed Susan” in another version); and a smiling, then yawning, baby with the text alternating between “good morning” and “good night.” Other examples used photographs, including a portrait of President Roosevelt alternating with a view of the Whitehouse, a portrait of King Edward alternating with a portrait of Queen Alexandria, and a city scene changing to a country scene.48 André Breton was also taken with changing images, integrating two instances of them into his surrealist novel Nadja (1928). As narrator, he recounted that one day Louis Aragon called his attention to a hotel sign “showing in red letters the words: MAISON ROUGE” and “consist[ing] of certain letters arranged in such a way that when seen from a certain angle in the street, the word MAISON disappeared and

IN A SINGLE PHOTO

30: H. C. J. Deeks, Photochange postcard, ca. 1908, embossed photographic print on cardboard, 13.7 × 8.9 cm, private collection 31: Principle of the Photochange process, in H. C. J. Deeks, patent US 834,048, November 25, 1904.

ROUGE read POLICE.” Then just a few hours later, he explained, an acquaintance took him to see a tableau changeant: “This object was an old engraving which, seen straight on, represents a tiger, but which, regarded perpendicularly to its surface of tiny vertical bands when you stand several feet to the left, represents a vase, and, from several feet to the right, an angel.”49 Nadja is full of chance encounters, connections, and signs. The changing image was among those singled out as richly symbolic—likely, for Breton, of the subjective nature of perception and of the possibility of accessing hidden meaning via the association of seemingly unrelated occurrences and points of view (not to mention of Nadja’s own ambiguity). It is reminiscent of his explanation of why he included pictures of the places described in Nadja: it was a way “to provide a photographic image of them taken at the special angle from which I myself had looked at them” (my italics).50

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These conceptual appropriations of changing images can be seen as further evidence of what Rosalind Krauss has identified as a particular “beat or pulse [...] at work from deep inside” vision in the 1920s and 1930s—a pulse which functioned “as an alternative to or protest against the claims of modernist opticality to have both abstracted vision and rationalized form.”51 Her examples are ripe with references to optical devices, including Max Ernst’s veiled literary evocation of a zoetrope and Picasso’s variations on a theme, which were “the function of a voluptuous passivity: the mechanism of the serial animation of the flipbook’s beat”; and Duchamp’s Roto­ relief discs, which “[bear] witness to [his] commitment to the constitution of the image through the activity of a beat: here, the slow throb of a spiral, contracting and expand­ing bio-rhythmically into a projection forward and an extension backward.”52 Like the animated line-screen photograph, all of these creations engaged the viewer by inviting him or her to actively observe variations and succumb to the pulse of the work. Krauss’s analysis also draws attention to the potential eroticism of the animated line-screen photograph, with its repetitive functioning and capacity to represent alternating states or things seen/hidden. Although examples have yet to surface from the 1910s or 1920s, the process would seem to invite representation not only of a wink or of a direct/lowered, gaze, but also of a dressed/undressed body or other simple actions—something that would have been entirely in keeping with the risqué themes developed in mechanical or other novelty postcards of the time.53 The intriguing, interactive ambivalence of animated line-screen imagery was based on its capacity to show an illusion of movement or change within a single image. The system can seem trivial, especially in its popular forms, but converged with very contemporary concerns, both in popular culture and photographic research. Before entertaining and inspiring the flâneur of the Parisian boulevards in the form of animated portraits or advertisements, photographs using a line screen had been produced to obtain color and stereoscopic photographs, which also relied on the synthesis of multiple images (Chapter  1). Popular animated images were therefore contemporary with the cinema but just as significantly with the Autochrome and the first examples of autostereoscopic photography. Exchanges between animated, three-dimensional, and color photography were encouraged by their shared technical foundations as well as their association with what I call perceptual realism—a form of naturalism based on mimicry of human vision. Screen processes knit these three illusions together even more tightly by making it possible to combine several of them in the same photograph using similar devices. Estanave made photographs combining stereoscopy and color (fig. 14), animation and color (the colors changed as the photograph was tilted), and also stereoscopy and animation, using a screen with both vertical and horizontal lines.54 The last combination provided a striking portrait of a woman, which when viewed from the correct angle and distance appeared with depth, and when slowly tipped top-to-bottom showed the subject opening and closing

IN A SINGLE PHOTO

her eyes. Estanave even expressed the hope that color, stereoscopy, and animation would one day be combined in a single photograph thanks to the simultaneous use of several screens. It would have constituted another step towards the “general problem of photography” as he defined it: “to represent, via images, objects as we see them.”55 Animated screen photography touched on a major theoretical question and an important technical challenge at the turn of the twentieth century: was it possible to augment photography’s perceptual realism while preserving a simple, hand-held image? The popular images sold on the boulevards were pure entertainment, but the technology they used was taking on utopian associations for specialists.

32: Anonymous, Animated portrait made with the Movie-of-U process, 1934, gelatin silver on paper and line screen on film in cardboard mount, 9.5 × 6.7 cm, private ­collection.

The production of animated portraits subsided after the 1920s in Europe, although some American examples were manufactured at fairs in the mid-1930s using the “Movie-of-U” process (fig. 32). Cinematography was still referenced in the process’s name and in the caption “Just a motion picture of me” printed on portraits. The process had been strategically updated, however, by associating it with a more recent popular photographic novelty: the photobooth. Such booths had been installed in

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cities and fairgrounds starting in the late 1920s.56 The Movie-of-U version apparently delivered an image in six minutes.57 In the 1930s, animated line-screen photography no longer interested scientists. It also must have started to appear old-fashioned even to the general public, having been around for a decade or two by then and representing as it did early cinema. Its power of representation surely seemed disappointingly limited now. “The true modernity of 1920s cinema […] isn’t a modernity of the image but of speed,” Jacques Aumont argues.58 The animated line-screen portrait—with its instructions for slow and gentle handling, its reliance on just two or three staged poses, and its jerky animation that always looped back on itself instead of moving forward towards something new—represented anything but fast-paced modern life. It belonged to a specific period in the history of the photographic image when the public was giddy from the new spectacle of life that cinematography breathed into images drawn with light. But cinema was the most powerful solution to animating photography. The screen process could provide stereoscopic depth without a stereoscope, but it could never put all of cinema into a single photo.

CHAPTER THREE

A WINDOW ONTO THE WORLD

An advertising photograph of a smiling Alsatian lady holding a cake (fig. 33) is one of the most striking creations in the early history of autostereoscopic photography. The backlit image is presented in a colorful wooden frame standing 50  cm high and announcing “Alsa Alsatian baking powder, for your baking.” The photograph is expertly composed to create an illusion of space and depth. The model appears almost life-sized and is incredibly present. She proudly holds a delicious looking Gugelhupf

33: La Relièphographie, Auto����������������������������� stereoscopic advertisement for Alsa baking powder, ca. 1937–1940, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass in original painted wooden frame, image 40 × 30 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalonsur-Saône.

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cake out towards the viewer, its powdered sugar-covered ridges almost palpable. Her massive traditional headdress fills the top of the image, framing her face in its deep folds. When we move left and right, our perspective on the scene curiously changes, giving the impression that we can almost look around things. In particular, we can glimpse what is behind the package of baking powder she holds up in one hand. Moving also periodically provokes a sort of visual hiccup in the image, as objects shift place slightly and the 3D  illusion is momentarily lost. An unmarred impression of profound depth and convincing volume returns upon moving again, however. Photographs like this one, from the late 1930s, took the 3D illusions obtained with the line-screen process to their practical limit. They belonged to a new gene­ration of autostereoscopic photographs inspired by the French physicist Gabriel Lippmann’s 1908 announcement of what he termed “Integral” photography. For Lippmann, Integral photography would provide “a window onto the world” that showed a scene with depth and with changing perspective as the viewer moved. Lippmann was unable to make such images a reality in 1908, but Integral photography established a new and influential visual paradigm. To work towards it, inventors sought to make their 3D illusions more complex by combining not just two images, as before, but a whole series of images—something impossible to do with stereoscope-based stereoscopy. The idea of Integral photography further occasioned a major transformation of the screen used to interlace and view these multiple images: rather than opaque lines, the screen would be composed of a network of lenses. In Lippmann’s wake, the story of autostereoscopic photography thus turned from the presentation of old illusions in a novel way to a quest for new, more realistic illusions. This marked a profound shift in what was imitated in the quest for perceptual realism. Older autostereoscopic images had been modeled on traditional stereoviews, which sought to duplicate the human visual apparatus. This emulation was steeped in specific ideas about truth. As Robert J. Silverman has argued: “The analogy between the eye and the camera owed much of its power to the notion that the divinely constructed human form offered the model for the most efficient application of physical principles. For natural theologians, the eye epitomized the perfection of God’s design. The operation of binocular vision, and its expression in the stereoscope, shared this wise application of natural laws.”1 The idea that two-image stereoscopic depth was true to life was thus reinforced by its being modeled on our two-eyed perception of the world. Post-Lippmann autostereoscopic photographs referenced a new ideal of perceptual realism based on the imitation not of human physiology but of our own empirical, mobile experience of vision. As the technical challenges set by Lippmann were slowly met, it became easier for non-specialists to appreciate autostereoscopic photography. The process came out of

LIPPMANN’S WINDOW

the laboratory, meeting with its first commercial success thirty years after animated portraits and the Autochrome had introduced the principle of line-screen photography to the public.

LIPPMANN’S WINDOW When Gabriel Lippmann (1845–1921) presented Integral photography at the Académie des Sciences in Paris on March  2, 1908, he proposed making the new photographs with a screen of tiny lenses. This lenticular screen would be a sort of film embossed in a heated press “to form a great number of small bumps in the shape of spherical segments on each side” (fig. 34). One side was to be coated with a photographic emulsion. The screen would record a photograph without being placed in a camera because each miniature lens formed its own “small spherical camera.”2 It would simply be placed in a holder, to control exposure time, and on a tripod, for stability (fig.  35). Each of its lenses would form an image of the entire scene before it as viewed from a slightly different angle than its neighbors. It would focus this image on the screen’s back surface, where the photographic emulsion was. Once developed to provide a positive image, Lippmann’s film was to be held up to a light and observed from the side that had faced the subject. In this way it would make visible “a single image, suspended in space and full size.”3

34: Principle of the lenticular film to be used for Integral photog­ raphy, in Gabriel Lippmann, “Épreuves réversibles: photographies intégrales,” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Sciences 146 (March 1908): 447. 35: Taking an Integral photograph, in Eugène Estanave, “La Photographie Intégrale,” La Nature (June 26, 1926): 411.

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Although unable to present concrete results in 1908, Lippmann produced a diagram to demonstrate how the illusion was created (fig. 36): point A was recorded by each lens in the spot indicated by a. To view the final image, “thanks to the principle of reversibility possessed by each lens—and by a system of lenses fixed together—the system only needs to be lit from behind to project into space an image that occupies the spot where the subject A posed.” “The same is true for the other points B, C, D of the subject photographed,” Lippmann added.4 Two eyes, of course, would see the picture from different points, providing the necessary conditions for stereoscopic percep­ tion. The viewer could also move left and right or up and down and see the different positions recorded, with the perspective on the subject changing accordingly.

36: The optics of Integral photography, in Gabriel Lippmann, “Épreuves réversibles donnant la sensation du relief,” Journal de physique théorique et appliqué (November 1908): 823.

Lippmann defended the concept of Integral photography with a new type of comparison to vision, declaring that his inspiration for the process was the ocular system of certain insects. Each lens of the lenticular film “was a small spherical cam­ era, just like an eye,” argued Lippmann: “the lens is its transparent cornea; the photographic surface replaces the retina.” And “if each cell is a single eye, then together they are reminiscent of the composite eye of insects.”5 “I thought that if I could recreate the eye of a beetle, I would obtain stereoscopic images,”6 Lippmann explained, citing recent scientific studies on the subject: “Let us remind the reader that the composite eye of the Insect provides a series of tiny photographable images. They have been photographed by Doctor Vigier, who used Coleoptera eyes.”7 P. Vigier’s work on insect vision was presented at the Académie des Sciences in September and October 1907, just six months before the announcement of Integral photography.8 Lippmann therefore placed the workings of his process in a naturalistic paradigm: Integral photog­ raphy mimicked an optical device existing in nature, capturing the scene to be reproduced by simply gazing at it with its multiple “eyes.”

LIPPMANN’S WINDOW

The resulting photograph was associated with natural human perception thanks to a new twist on Alberti’s fifteenth-century analogy of the image as window.9 ­Lippmann said the effect of an Integral photograph would be like looking at a view from a window, with “the outside world apparently framed by the edges of the picture, as if its edges were those of a window onto reality [une fenêtre ouverte sur la réalité].”10 Lippmann sought to convey both an impression of depth and freedom of movement. He remarked: “The most perfect photograph existing today only shows one aspect of reality [...]. Direct vision of reality, as we know, offers infinitely more variety. We see objects in space, life-sized, and in three dimensions, not on a flat plane. And their aspect changes with the viewer’s position.”11 Lippman’s term “Integral” photography reflected the idea that the image was complete; his suggestion that it was “a window onto reality” affirmed that it was complete with respect to our own everyday, mobile visual perception of the world. The time-honored window analogy was not as prevalent in photography as might be expected, and its use in this field appears to have been prompted by heightened perceptual realism. In the early years of photography’s existence, it was more common to compare photographs to a mirror than to a window, despite the fact that a certain number of celebrated early photographs actually represented views from windows (for reasons more practical than philosophical). The analogy was surely encouraged by the fact that the daguerreotype, the first type of photography to be made widely public, was obtained on a highly polished silver surface. “Figure to yourself [...] a mirror which, after having received your image, gives you back your portrait, indelible as a picture,” wrote one American newspaper in 1839, reporting on the new process. “Talk no more of ‘holding the mirror up to nature’—she will hold it up to herself,” claimed another.12 The metaphor was extended to photography in general by the celebrated commentator of photography (and stereoscopy) Oliver Wendell Holmes, who declared in 1859 that photography was “the mirror with a memory.”13 For early observers, one of the most striking things about the new photographic image was its realistic detail—or exactitude—and comparison to a mirror was a way of conveying this precision in the tracing of details and the rendering of light and shadow. Stereoscopy appears to have been conducive to eliciting window metaphors, demonstrating that a window evoked more direct access to “reality” than a mirror and indicated the presence of elements of human vision absent in the flat, reflected view. A striking early parallel between photographs and windows was drawn in 1859, when Charles Baudelaire famously described stereoscopy’s massive success by conjuring up “a thousand hungry eyes [...] bending over the peepholes of the stereoscope, as though they were skylights onto infinity.”14 A century later the French Bruguière company

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used the slogan “a window that opens onto the world” to advertise the adoption of color—a key component of perceptual realism—for its View-Master-style stereoviews (fig. 37).15 The window analogy could draw attention to heightened perceptual realism in different ways. Baudelaire’s peepholes (trous) and skylights (lucarnes) evoked the lenses of the stereoscope through which the viewer peered: they were the frame. His voyeuristic vocabulary also gave erotic undertones to the configuration of looking proposed by the stereoscope. When Lippmann summoned the idea of the window, it was not to describe the frame but the nature of the view. It focused attention on the image itself, with its striking new qualities.16 Nor was Lippmann’s window like Bruguière’s— a catchy visual slogan to sell an existing product and optical illusion with the help of a little hyperbole. His metaphor was a truly hopeful gesture—a sincere proposal of an entirely new type of photograph he hoped would soon become a reality.

37: Bruguière, Advertisement for color stereoviews, ca. 1960, printed envelope, 16 × 10 cm, private collection.

LIPPMANN’S WINDOW

The quest for perceptual realism in photography went back to the birth of the medium but acquired new urgency around the turn of the twentieth century. A complete imitation of vision seemed increasingly attainable now that cinematography provided an apparently definitive means of animating the photographic image. Cinema may even have contributed to the emergence of Integral photography by heightening the desire for photographs that weren’t so “still.” Cinematography proposed a sort of resolution to what Anne Friedberg has termed the “fiction,” or “visuality at odds with vision,” of the “single and immobile eye of perspective.”17 Color photography, another essential element of perceptual realism, was also coming into practical existence in 1908. Lippmann’s 1891 invention of a process based on the recording of interference patterns was highly respected; it led to his being awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in December  1908, just after his announcement of Integral photography.18 More accessible for most photographers, however, was the Autochrome color plate that was marketed by the Lumière company starting in 1907, to well deserved acclaim. All of these inventions drew added attention to stereoscopy as essential for complete perceptual realism in photography. What made Vigier’s insect-eye research immediately resonate with Lippmann as the solution to an existing problem was surely his attentiveness to the general ques­ tion of 3D photography, sharpened by first-hand observation of the limits of stereoscopic line-screen images, invented just a few years before. It was in Lippmann’s laboratory at the Sorbonne that Estanave started working on the new process in 1906. Lippmann knew that while in theory autostereoscopic photographs could be viewed like ordinary photographs, in practice things were more complicated: a 3D illusion didn’t present itself immediately and flawlessly, and the viewer couldn’t move freely without losing depth perception. The fixed viewpoint hadn’t been a problem in the stereoscope because the viewer could move with the device, which was pressed to his or her eyes. When the line-screen process freed stereoscopy from the confines of the stereoscope, it made a fixed viewpoint concrete and obligatory—all the while quite contradictorily promising a more natural visual experience. This surely heightened the desire for more unaffected viewing conditions and a more convincing illusion of reality. What could be more normal and natural than a view from a window? This utopian idea would immediately capture the attention of the photographic world. Lippmann’s Integral photography revolutionized the conception of autostereo­ scopic imagery in two ways: it established a new ideal for the illusion of depth to be obtained, and it inaugurated the search for a new tool to do so—a lenticular screen. These paths posed different challenges. The first concrete results came in obtaining an enhanced 3D illusion providing changing perspectives. The fabrication of lenticular screens progressed more slowly. The parallel resolution of both of these problems— and, ultimately, their combination circa 1940—was to involve changes to the original concept of Integral photography, as inventors pushed techniques and materials of the

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time to their limits. A generation after Lippmann, the images obtained would be faithful to his idea of a profound and more natural rendition of volumes allowing freedom of movement.

GOING BEYOND STEREOSCOPY Despite the contributions of Frederic Ives, Eugène Estanave, and a handful of others, autostereoscopic photographs weren’t always easy for viewers to appreciate when Lippmann announced Integral photography in 1908. Three such photographs given to the Société Française de Photographie in 1910 by a certain Callier are among the rare concrete examples to have circulated in France at the time, and they perfectly illustrate some of the practical difficulties encountered.19 Callier’s 24 × 24 cm photographs are heavy because they are composed of four plates of glass, for the screen, the composite image, and a protective layer on each side. A point from which depth can

38: Principle of a recording system for autostereoscopic photography, in Eugène Estanave, Relief photographique à vision directe (Vitry-sur-Seine: F. Meiller, 1930), 31. 39: Principle of a recording system for autostereoscopic photography, in Louis Chéron, patent FR 443,216, May 1, 1912.

be perceived is difficult to locate, and even a specialist has time to fear that these photographs may not function at all. The stereoscopic effect isn’t visible when hold­ ing the images at arm’s length; it can only be obtained by carefully propping them up in front of a light source and seeking a suitable viewing angle from afar.20 Between 1910 and 1940, a small number of inventors influenced by the idea of Integral photography attempted to improve upon photographs like these by enacting an essential part of Lippmann’s idea: provide a 3D illusion that changes as the viewer moves. As a result, the illusion of depth would be easier to perceive because it would be visible from a greater number of angles. By imagining autostereoscopic photog­ raphy in this way, Lippmann unlocked the potential of the line screen, which unlike

GOING BEYOND STEREOSCOPY

the stereoscope could be used to combine more than two images. Instead of interlacing one point of view for each eye as before (somewhat like looking through the two openings of the drawing in figure  38), inventors started working with a series of images recorded along a horizontal axis (as if looking through the narrow window drawn in figure 39). Louis Chéron, author of a 1912 patent, appears to have been the first to reflect this idea in his work, attempting to create an “illusion of depth and of objects changing positions with respect to each other, as the viewer moves, exactly as if they were objects truly situated in a real space.”21 Like Estanave, he used a camera with a wide-diameter lens, but it was equipped with a diaphragm in the form of the horizontal opening drawn in figure 39. In the 1920s, research on camera systems for multiple-image autostereoscopic photographs produced visible results. Technical questions included how many images to record and how to arrange and space these viewpoints—with tangible consequences for the 3D illusion obtained. Pseudoscopy, or the inversed illusion of depth perceived when each eye saw information meant for the other, also had to be avoided.22 The two-

40: Camera design for autostereoscopic photography, in Gustave Bessière, patent FR 618,880, addition 31,761, December 11, 1925.

image photographs of Ives and Estanave appeared pseudoscopic from certain angles, but this problem was resolved by changing viewing positions. When a series of images was interlaced, a solution had to be built into the photograph. The mathematician and inventor Gustave Bessière (1881–1942), one of the most important French researchers of the inter-war years, proposed some of the first workable solutions to these new questions.23 In 1925, Bessière developed two camera systems: one using an ordinary lens moved horizontally and another with several lenses arranged in a horizontal line or “along the arc of a circle or a parabola” (fig. 40).24 To avoid pseudoscopy, Bessière fitted a prism in front of each of camera lens to inverse individual images right-left as they were interlaced onto the negative. Bessière described his photog­raphs as “peristereoscopic” to mark their novelty.25 In 1926, he showed examples recorded

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using the arc system at the Société Française de Photographie.26 One commentator noted that Bessière obtained “very curious photographs, which seen from different angles, excepting certain narrow zones, gave a perfect sensation of stereoscopy with the relative movement of objects situated at different distances when the viewer moved horizontally.”27 Bessière hoped to market his techniques, as revealed by his creation of a company in 1922, the filing of two patents in 1924 and 1925, and the registry in 1926 of the brand name Diarelief (a rather unfortunate contraction of dia-, “throughout,” and relief, for depth or 3D).28 His company appears to have abandoned 3D photography after 1926, however, before being dissolved in 1934. Bessière’s “beautiful” photographs and their “striking effect” were praised by Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès (1889–1972), who worked on 3D screen photography starting in 1926.29 His 1932 camera used a single lens moving along a straight rail while a screen slid over the negative, recording successive viewpoints in the correct order for proper stereoscopic perception.30 Lassus Saint-Geniès presented his photographs at the Société Française de Photographie in December 1933, calling them “olostereograms” in French (from the Greek holos, “whole,” later to be used in “holography).” The only known example, later given by the inventor to the Musée Français de la Photo­ graphie, exhibits a strong and immediate 3D  illusion allowing comfortable viewer movement (fig. 41). The man pictured appears to be Lassus Saint-Geniès himself.31 Outside France, autostereoscopic photography was developing along similar lines, including in the United States, where inventors were particularly active. Clar­ ence Kanolt was among the first there to describe multi-image autostereoscopic photographs, in 1915, perfecting what he called his Depthograph techniques in 1929–1931 and citing Bessière’s work.32 Ernest Draper filed patents starting in 1930 and by the end of the decade apparently became the first to commercialize complex line-screen photographs, under the name Depth-O-Graph via the Perser Corporation.33 Herbert Ives (son of Frederic Ives) was also influential, developing what he deftly called Parallax Panoramagrams, after his father’s Parallax Stereograms, from 1929 and into the 1930s.34 Lippmann’s influence was clearly felt internationally, and inventors in differ­ ent countries were aware of major developments in France and elsewhere, in particular thanks to patent records and updates on technological developments by the photographic press. For all of these inventors, working with multiple images to create a 3D illusion meant changing the nature of the line screen used to create and view the final photograph. The screen’s opaque lines were made wider so that each one could hide several image strips—as illustrated in figure 42. The transparent spaces remained approx­ imately the width of one image strip. For two-image line-screen photographs, inventors had used commercially available halftone screens. To meet the new requirements, they likely blackened some of the spaces of a halftone screen. Chéron’s description of transparent lines “three to five times narrower” than the opaque ones certainly

MAURICE BONNET’S NEW VISION

suggests so.35 Inventors seldom remarked on screen manufacture, indicating it posed no serious problems.36 The one significant and generally recognized constraint of the newly fashioned screen was tied to viewing: as the width of the opaque lines increased, the photographs made with it became increasingly darker. As a result, they still had to be on glass and strongly backlit, and they remained heavy, fragile, and difficult to exhibit.

41: Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès, Autostereoscopic photograph, 1932, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 24 × 30 cm, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres. 42: La Relièphographie, Principle of an autostereoscopic photograph interlacing eight images, ca. 1939, private collection.

MAURICE BONNET’S NEW VISION Maurice Bonnet (1907–1994) was the French inventor who took 3D line-screen photog­ raphy the furthest. He was the only one to commercialize it in any significant way in his country. Coming from a family of professional studio photographers, he started working on the subject in the mid-1920s, patenting his first 3D camera (now lost) in 1934. In 1937, to market his inventions, he founded a company named La Relièphographie—associating the words relief (for 3D) and photographie (photography).37 In the space of a decade, La Relièphographie would rise to fame in the world of autostereoscopic photography, its images providing a striking illusion of depth approaching more closely than ever before Lippmann’s ideal of a view from a window. Fifteen or so La Relièphographie line-screen photographs are known today, most made with a camera patented in 1937 that recorded thirty-three images. This device had a horizontal opening equipped with a row of thirty-three prisms facing the subject; the prisms directed light to thirty-three lenses, arranged in three rows of eleven

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above, behind, and below them. The images were interlaced in the darkroom by plac­ ing the developed negatives back in the camera, then using it to project the images through a line screen onto a larger photographic plate.38 The advantages of not using a line screen during the initial recording process were short exposure times (no screen filtered out light) and the possibility of enlarging photographs to different sizes from the same negatives.

43: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic portrait, ca. 1937–1939, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 60 × 50 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

MAURICE BONNET’S NEW VISION

The diverse subject matter of the photographs made with this camera reflects La Relièphographie’s identification of a number of potential commercial outlets for autostereoscopic photography. Three (including figure  33) were advertisements— likely an important source of revenue for La  Relièphographie in its early days.39 Another portrayed an unknown sitter and was presented in an undecorated back-lit display frame, suggesting that portraiture was explored.40 La  Relièphographie also developed medical utilizations of its technology, as illustrated by a set of eight photographs of patients with severe facial injuries and of related anatomical details. These or similar images were presented at the Académie de Médecine in October 1939 by Fernand Lemaître, a pioneer of maxillofacial surgery, as unequaled for teaching and for documenting the successive operations necessary for facial reconstruction. Lemaître hoped to establish a 3D  laboratory at his surgical center in Eaubonne.41 X-rays, aerial photography, and cryptography were also identified as possible uses of Bonnet’s techniques, although no examples are known.42 Lastly, there are two very large photographs (60 × 50 cm) of unusual subjects, which could have been advertisements or images made by La Relièphographie to showcase its own technology. They picture an elegantly dressed couple (fig. 43) and a man with a cow. People and animals could easily be photographed with the short exposure times of Bonnet’s multi-lens camera and then enlarged—with spectacular results. Display devices accompanying the Alsa advertisement and the portrait also show La Relièphographie’s attention to the practical issue of how clients could safely present and backlight their glass photo­ graphs.43 All of these thirty-three-image photographs give an excellent and immediate sensation of depth unlike any provided by two-image stereoscopy. Stereoviews could easily give an impression of a series of superimposed planes that, in the words of one 1850s specialist, “looked a lot like screens cut out and placed one behind the other.”44 The effect was exacerbated if the images were recorded from widely spaced points to accentuate depth—a common but debated practice.45 In comparison, the depth of Bonnet’s photographs was smooth from the foreground to the background. The illusion of depth wasn’t just about things being in front of or behind each other: individual objects now appeared to be rounded and to have natural volume. This effect resulted from the number of images recorded and from their close spacing: Bonnet’s thirty-three-image camera used a single row of prisms to direct individual images to adjacent lenses because this allowed him to obtain viewpoints packed more closely together than was possible when assembling lenses in a single row. One of Bonnet’s colleagues observed that this 1937 camera provided a much smoother illusion of being able to move in front of the subject than Bonnet’s first camera, which had only eleven or twelve lenses and wider spacing.46 Bonnet also understood the importance of image format, criticizing the smaller views of other inventors for giving “the impression of showing miniatures.”47

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The camera wasn’t everything, however. La Relièphographie also chose subjects with interesting volumes and details, arranging them within the frame to accentuate depth and engage the viewer. The advertisement for Alsa (fig. 33) is an accomplished example: it renders a deep space encompassing both the model’s headdress and the cake held out in the foreground; in addition, the package of baking powder is held up in a way that provides a satisfying detail behind which we can peek when exploring modifications in perspective. In other photographs, subjects were oriented obliquely to make depth and perspective changes more evident. For example, the couple in figure 43 was posed in a way that filled the depth of the represented space while leaving salient details visible to pull the viewer’s gaze into the image. The way the couple’s hands meet creates attractive forms in the foreground; the illusion of natural volume is continuous into the back of the image, where the woman holds her coat to her

44: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic advertisement for Petit Bateau undergarments, ca. 1937–1939, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 30 × 40 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

MAURICE BONNET’S NEW VISION

shoulder. Oblique angles were also used to strong effect in a pair of advertisements for knit undergarments by Petit Bateau. In one, a boy in his undershirt was posed with a model boat (the brand name translates as “little boat”) so that they formed a V opening toward the spectator (fig. 44). Boy and boat were placed in a fold of a pleated accordion-like background—a form we naturally perceive in volume even when it is drawn in simple perspective on a page.48 Here, the angles of the backdrop’s shaded folds and of the boy and the boat make changes in perspective very apparent as we move. Another Petit Bateau advertisement pictures a woman holding up an undergarment and a young girl pointing at it (fig. 45). The girl was posed almost perpen­ dicularly to the picture plane, in a way that reinforces the impression of her physical presence by making her chest more visible from some angles and her back from others. At the same time, the undergarment was held parallel to the picture plane,

45: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic advertisement for Petit Bateau undergarments, ca. 1937–1939, gelatin silver on glass and line screen on glass, 30 × 40 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

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creating a stable anchor at the center of the depicted space with respect to which the other elements change places as we move. In everyday life, motion parallax—or the fact that closer objects appear to change places faster than distant ones—is an important indicator of depth perception.49 Bonnet’s 3D photographs not only allow the viewer to move, as Lippmann imagined, but also use the effects of motion parallax to heighten the illusion of depth and volume. The visual role of the centrally placed garment in figure 45 underlines another one of La Relièphographie’s compositional tools: the photographer carefully defined the apparent position of the 3D subject with respect to the physical surface of the photograph, making certain elements appear to be in front of the window formed by the edges of the picture. This was already the case with the photographs of Ives and Estanave, but it is particularly impressive when associated with the profound illusion of depth and the large formats of La  Relièphographie’s creations. In figure  45, the undergarment appears to be situated at the surface of the image; the woman’s fingers and the girl’s shoulder, arm, and curly hair appear to come out in front of it; and other elements are situated behind it. In figure  44, the glass surface of the image corresponds to the boy’s eyes, with his shoulder and the bow of the boat coming forward. It is even possible to reach one’s hand into the part of the scene that appears to be in front of the glass. The total space represented appears to be at least 40 or 50 cm deep, and the elements situated behind the image surface have just as much volume as those in front of it. The naturalism of La Relièphographie’s photographs is closely tied to being able to move and see changes in perspective. The effect encourages us to determine just how far we can turn around the subject. In doing so, sudden “hiccups” in the image inevitably appear at regular intervals, corresponding to when we simultaneously perceive the end and the beginning of the series of thirty-three images recorded. If we move progressively in front of the photograph from a position far on the right over to the left, for example, the subject is visible a little from one side then gradually from the other—then suddenly from the first side again, with the sequence repeating several times until our angle of vision through the screen is too oblique to correctly perceive the interlaced images. We are in front of what might appear to be a “window onto reality,” to use Lippmann’s analogy, but this window has its own particular rules, as defined by Bonnet’s camera system and screen. Although the “hiccups” in the image are noticeable, it is hard to believe that what we see doesn’t perfectly correspond to the natural view we would have of the subject. The illusion is so real that even though no vertical parallax information is recorded, our brain creates a slight impression of perspective change if we move up and down—literally not accepting that we aren’t in front of a solid object. Michel Frizot describes the illusion of 3D  photography (whatever the process used) as always being dual, “made up of photography on the one hand and an illusion

MAURICE BONNET’S NEW VISION

of space on the other.” Although stereoscopic illusions can exist separately from photography, in their photographic form, he argues, attention is focused “squarely on the admirable naturalistic testimony of photography” instead of on “the artificiality of the instrumental preparations necessary.”50 Photography and the illusion of depth had never before been so seamlessly intertwined as in Bonnet’s line-screen images. Their perceptual realism is so convincing that even its visible flaws work to the photograph’s advantage when it comes to engaging the viewer. Michael Leja’s analysis of the appeal of the trompe l’oeil paintings of William Harnett for early twentieth-century viewers demonstrates a similarly satisfying cocktail of flawless representation and details that “undermine the illusionism of the image.” In these paintings, strategies including a palpable seeming rendition of texture and the presence of objects showing the luster of handling provoked “a desire for tactile gratification,” inciting viewers to literally reach out and touch the image. Similarly, the illusionistic space of Bonnet’s photographs tempts one to physically locate the perceived image. In the trompe l’oeil paintings, bits of impasto, or thicker paint, made the “materiality” of the creation “erupt” in certain spots. For Leja, these interruptions didn’t break the power of the image; on the contrary, they focused the viewer’s attention on “entry points” into it, eliciting a desire to “pry open” the represented space.51 Likewise, the “hiccups” in Bonnet’s photographs heighten the apparent perfection of the image as seen from unmarred perspectives while constituting a concrete break in the illusion through which we can start to mentally grasp what the photograph does and doesn’t render. Exploring the mediated depth of these line-screen photographs is more seductive than looking at actual objects. “The eye isn’t used to this new vision,” proclaimed Maurice Bonnet in 1936.52 Such an attractive and easily viewed 3D  illusion was essential to commercializing autostereoscopic photography. Because the process was now capable of immediately commanding the attention of unsuspecting passers-by, La  Relièphographie could promote it as an advertising medium (indeed, it recommended placing its photographs in shop windows, at eye level). Bonnet devised an intelligent marketing strategy based on control of the delicate aspects of image production by his company. His photographs also struck a seemingly ideal balance between the number of images interlaced for impressive 3D and the darkening of the photograph entailed by the widening of the line screen’s opaque zones. The inventor wasn’t satisfied, however. He judged his line-screen photographs too dark and fragile to be really commercially successful, and wanted to free them from cumbersome light boxes. The only thing that would allow these changes had also been described by Lippmann in 1908: a screen composed not of lines but of lenses.

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THE LENTICULAR SCREEN Making a useable lenticular screen for 3D  photography had been a key challenge driving research since Lippmann’s 1908 announcement of Integral photography. The new concept was pervasive in patents and academic communications between 1910 and 1940, after which lenticular screens finally replaced line screens for commercial autostereoscopic photography. All those studied above for their work on using a series of images to create autostereoscopic photographs—including Chéron, Bessière, and Lassus Saint-Geniès—also suggested using a lenticular screen, agreeing that it would make possible the same illusions of depth but with better luminosity.53 Research on materials, optical specifications, and manufacturing methods progressively changed the lenticular screen’s design from the one Lippmann described to a more practical and marketable device. During this time, the lenticular screen also became one of the prominent concepts to mark the movie industry, where it provided a promising tool for color reproduction. The intellectual excitement surrounding lenticular screens brings more closely into focus the driving forces behind the development of autostereoscopic photography in the first decades of the twentieth century: the attainment of ever-greater perceptual realism via a more seamless presentation of depth, movement, and color—individually as well as together. In the form in which it would be widely commercialized starting in the 1940s, the lenticular screen was interchangeable with the line screen and could be used in the same cameras. The newly devised screens were composed not of spherical lenses, as described by Lippmann, but of a series of longitudinal semi-cylindrical lenses placed side by side. These lenses formed a thin sheet, ridged on one side and smooth on 46: La Relièphographie, Principle of a lenticular the other (fig. 46). Like the line screen, the lenscreen for autostereoscopic photography, ca. 1942, ticular screen of longitudinal lenses was used private collection. to interlace separate images, making it possi­ ble to expose certain areas of a photographic surface while hiding others. The two screens did this in different ways, however (fig. 47). The line screen’s transparent spaces let light through while its opaque lines blocked it. The lenticular screen, on the other hand, refracted the light falling upon it, concentrating it in certain areas. Light rays hitting the surface of each convex lens from a certain angle (as inside a camera) converged at the lens’s focal point, creating narrow lines of light along the smooth side of the screen, where the photographic surface was placed. If the angle of exposure changed or if the screen was moved, light was focused in a different area, allowing the interlacing of multiple images. The com-

THE LENTICULAR SCREEN

posite photograph could also be viewed in 3D with a lenticular screen. The smooth side of the screen was placed in contact with the surface of the photograph. Looking at it from a given angle, the viewer perceived a very narrow image-line behind each lens, magnified to cover its entire surface; a continuous image of the subject from a given angle was therefore recreated. From different viewpoints (and therefore with each eye), different images were visible. Line and lenticular screens could thus be used to obtain similar visual illusions. But the development of this viable lenticular screen was a long time coming. When Lippmann suggested using a lenticular screen for Integral photography in March  1908, he already referred to problems obtaining the network of spherical lenses he imagined (figs. 34, 36). He appar47: La Relièphographie, The effect of ently had some sort of workable device at the end of line and lenticular screens on light, 1908 because he reported that Integral photography ca. 1942, private collection. “plates” had been “exposed in front of various objects (window, incandescent bulb)” and that he had been able to see “the resulting single, full-sized image.”54 When Lippmann died in 1921, one observer reported that experiments “with a system of only twelve lenses allowed Mr. Lippmann to successfully make views giving the eye an image that changed when moving in front of the device.”55 Such slow progress makes clear the serious technical challenges facing those who wanted to realize the ideal of Integral photography via a lenticular screen. One of the first difficulties was identifying a substance with which lenses possessing the desired optical qualities could be created. At first, Lippmann thought glass, collodion, or celluloid might function. A few months later, he was working with “a thin sheet of collodion” on which he created “a layer of embossed light-sensitive gelatin.”56 But he found that “several attempts to use a sheet of collodion embossed in a hot press as a transparent sheet gave poor results. Collodion and celluloid are very poor materials, optically speaking.”57 He turned to glass, assembling “small Stanhope lenses.” Glass Stanhope lenses, measuring just a few millimeters wide, had been massproduced since the 1860s to integrate miniature photographs into everyday objects like letter openers and needle cases, and quality examples were still commercially available in Lippmann’s time.58 Unlike the lenses initially imagined by Lippmann, Stanhope lenses were square and were flat instead of convex on the focal side. The great physicist’s attempt to transform a commercially available resource underlines the difficulties met trying to make a screen of spherical lenses. Other researchers

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mentioned experiments with similar materials to those explored by Lippmann: sheets of “glass, celluloid, or another transparent substance,” formed “using a mold” (Sauve, 1909); “expanded gelatin” or “any other transparent substance capable of taking on a spherical or cylindrical shape [...]: starch grains, grains of certain emulsions, gelatin, or molded glass, etc.” (Chéron, 1912); or a “sheet of celluloid” (Bessière, 1925).59 They gave no practical details, however, indicating no further advancement towards actual screen manufacture. Eugène Estanave is one of the few in France to have attempted to make Integral photographs as described by Lippmann. He also worked with Stanhope lenses. When making his research public in 1925 (four years after Lippmann’s death), he reported using 56 lenses in one experiment and 95 in another.60 The following year he published a photograph of a screen where approximately 140 lenses are visible (fig. 48), and in 1930 he had reached 432 lenses in a 6.5 × 9 cm plate.61 These relatively small sizes must have limited the extent of the illusion obtained, but Estanave reported viewable results. In 1926, La Nature published a picture of the multiple miniature

������������������������������������������ 48: Block of lenses for Integral photography, in Eugène Estanave, “La Photographie Intégrale,” La Nature (June 26, 1926): 410. 49: Integral photography featured on the cover of La Nature (June 26, 1926).

THE LENTICULAR SCREEN

images recorded of a white cross in one picture and of a white statue in another (fig. 49).62 Another illustration in La Nature showed two people admiring an Integral photograph with proper technique: preferably “against a softly lit background, since the image isn’t always very strong” (fig. 18). Estanave even exhibited one of his Integral photographs in 1925.63 This all indicates that the process functioned, but in 1930 Estanave said he obtained better results using pinholes instead of lenses, citing a maximum surface of 18 × 24 cm pricked with 4,800 openings; he had abandoned the principle of a lenticular screen.64 The most brilliant French researcher to seek to make a lenticular screen as imag­ ined by Lippmann was Louis Lumière, of cinema and Autochrome fame. Starting in 1919, Lumière explored different plastic substances, including celluloid, of which the “most unfortunate aspect,” he wrote to Lippmann, was a “low refractive index.” Lumière hoped to raise it by modifying the chemical composition of the plastic.65 He also experimented with Bakelite, a more recent form of plastic that became malleable at a fairly low temperature but had the disadvantages of imperfect transparency and a slight coloration. The Bakelite idea seems to have come from the fact that this substance was pressed into extremely precise forms to make phonograph records.66 Lumière also studied the desirable optical specifications for Integral photography lenses by ordering a prototype from Rodolphe Berthon, a specialist in lenticular optics, in 1919. This device seems to have been composed of a single large-scale glass lens, convex front and back, which could receive a photosensitive emulsion.67 An idea for the fabrication of a definitive screen—suggested by Berthon’s prototype—was to create two sheets of molded celluloid, smooth on one side and with convex elements on the other, then to glue them together by their smooth sides while inserting between them a thin sheet of black celluloid pricked with holes forming diaphragms.68 Lumière imagined creating molds for these plastic sheets by compressing a copper plate against hardened-steel ball bearings assembled in a rectangular frame. He informed Lippmann that mass-produced ball bearings could be specularly polished and that certain manufacturers guaranteed the diameter of their product to 2  or 3 microns. Lippmann found the idea “excellent.” “From a mechanical point of view, it is the solution,” he wrote Lumière in November  1919. “You use the methods of an experienced inventor who works with precision. [...] I have confidence in your ingenuity and skill and am happy to see the problem [of Integral photography] in such good hands.”69 Despite Lippmann’s encouragement, Louis Lumière doesn’t appear to have ever manufactured lenticular screens. Several years after Lippmann’s death in 1921, he patented a system for Integral photography in which he sandwiched together two plastic screens, smooth on one side and with narrow longitudinal lens elements on the other; they were placed with their ribbed sides together, with the ridges oriented perpendicularly to each other, to form an improved version of Lippmann’s network of

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spherical lenses.70 Lumière then appears to have abandoned the subject. The investment of Lumière—an accomplished inventor and manufacturer—in Integral photography demonstrates that 3D technologies drew serious interest in the early twentieth century. Lumière liked a challenge and had been among the first to produce satisfactory images with Lippmann’s interferential method of color photography back in the 1890s. His lack of success with Integral photography shows how difficult the question was, however. The inventor Lucien Dodin proposed another idea for obtaining spherical-lens systems for Integral photography. He built a box-shaped device with large lenses— sixteen in his prototype, each 3 cm wide with a focal distance of 5 cm. It allowed for the creation and viewing of any number of Integral photographs. With this system, the lenses could be corrected for spherical aberration—problematic with a fine array of lenses—and the use of a costly lenticular screen for each photograph was avoided.71 In the 1930s, several American researchers also sought solutions to Integral photog­ raphy as described by Lippmann, including Clarence Kanolt, Douglas Winnek, and Herbert Ives. They worked on recording with a camera, to improve depth of field and placement of the virtual image, and on correcting the pseudoscopy inherent in ­Lippmann’s technique, but they all apparently used pinhole systems in practice.72 Small spherical lenses with the optical qualities necessary for producing 3D photo­ graphs proved frustratingly difficult to obtain, at least with the materials then available. No concrete examples from this period are known today. Faced with the difficulties of making a lenticular screen as described by Lippmann, most inventors working on autostereoscopic photography changed its specifications by adopting the principle of longitudinal lenses instead of spherical ones (as in figure 46). Such a screen would be placed in the camera (and on the image) with its lenses oriented vertically, like the lines of the older screens. It didn’t make it possible to record vertical perspective changes (no looking under objects) or take pictures without a camera, but it provided the horizontal perspective changes necessary for a 3D illusion and was much easier to produce. Patents reveal a period of transition during which the concept of a lenticular screen with longitudinal lenses took hold before practical results had been widely obtained. Louis Chéron’s 1912 patent is indicative. It first suggested making Integral photographs with a network of pinholes, but explained that a screen of vertical lines was sufficient for recording “stereoscopic depth and the shifting of the relationship of objects with respect to each other as the viewer moved.”73 It then described a line screen with wide transparent spaces forming lenses. In a 1925 patent, Gustave Bessière suggested a similarly hybrid screen, using “cylindrical lenses” equipped with a diaphragm consisting of “a partition of vertical slits”; he also explained that one could “remove the partition of vertical slits and use only the juxtaposed cylindrical lenses since [...] the assembly of lenses was equivalent to a series of vertical slits.”74

THE LENTICULAR SCREEN

50: Walter Hess, Autostereoscopic photographs, ca. 1912–1920, gelatin silver photographs and lenticular screens in original cardboard frames, between 16 × 19 cm and 22.2 × 17.3 cm, Société Française de Photographie, Paris.

The first concrete examples of 3D lenticular-screen photographs known today were made in the 1910s by the Swiss physiologist and ophthalmologist Walter Hess (1881–1973), using celluloid embossed with longitudinal lenses. Hess combined the two images of a stereoscopic photograph instead of the multiple images Integral photography inspired in others. He cited “parallax stereograms” and Lippmann’s work, registering patents in several countries in 1912 in the hope of commercializing his

51: Cross sections of a len���������������������������� ticular screen for stereoscopic photography, in Walter Hess, patent FR 444,578, June 4, 1912.

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process.75 Estanave later wrote that Hess’s photographs had “perfect 3D,” and Bonnet mentioned them as important landmarks.76 Three examples with a curious yellowgreen tinge (likely intentional) are in the collections of the Société Française de Photographie today and present a strong illusion of depth from a number of easy-toidentify angles (fig. 50).77 By concentrating on making lenticular screens instead of complex 3D illusions, Hess moved past abstract concepts. Although his patent gave no practical description of how his screen was manufactured, he was the first inventor to precisely describe lens shape in a French patent for autostereoscopic photography (fig. 51). Hess’s lenticular photographs are contemporary with Estanave’s line-screen images, preceding other known lenticular creations by over twenty years. That he obtained such striking results must have inspired others in this laborious line of research.

COLOR LENTICULAR FILM AND 3D As a consensus was forming around the lenticular screen as a desirable tool for autostereoscopic photography, another development contributed to its momentum: research on lenticular film for color cinema. This idea also originated with Lippmann’s March 1908 announcement of Integral photography. Color lenticular film developed into such an important line of research that it became a critical reference for 3D lenticular photography, where concrete results emerged more slowly. Following the key role the Joly and Autochrome color screen processes played in the invention of autostereoscopic photography, the reach of Lippmann’s influence reveals ongoing permeability between color and 3D technologies.78

52: Principle of lenticular film for color cinematography, in Keller-Dorian, Berthon et Cie, “Procédé de photographie et de cinématographie des couleurs KDB,” Bulletin de la Société française de photographie (January 1923).

COLOR LENTICULAR FILM AND 3D

In May 1908, Rodolphe Berthon (who would later create an Integral photography prototype for Louis Lumière) filed the first patent for color cinematography using lenticular film.79 It described film with “microscopic embossing” on one side (as in figure 52, on the left, for example). A length of this film was placed in an ordinary movie camera, lenticular-side forward, and the camera’s lens was equipped with a filter with three colored bands (fig. 52, center). The photographic surface under each of the film’s microscopic lenses—semi cylindrical or hemispherical lenses would be used at different times by different manufacturers—recorded a filtered image (following the distribution of colors shown in figure 52, right, for example). A color image was obtained for viewers by projecting the film through the same trichromatic filter: each tiny black-and-white image element was tinted by the filter used to record it and combined with the others to form a continuous, full-color image. In France, Berthon patented manufacturing methods with Albert Keller-Dorian starting in 1913 then in 1922 organized what appears to have been the first projection using lenticular film.80 Lenticular film quickly became a great hope of the movie industry for recording color without shooting separate frames or filmstrips through different filters, as in the Technicolor process, and was the object of intense research in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Color historian Joseph Friedman calculated that a third of patents for color reproduction between 1925 and 1935 were related to lenticular film.81 Specific forms of it were marketed by Eastman Kodak (Kodacolor, 1928), Agfa (Agfacolor, 1932), and Thomson-Houston (Thomsoncolor).82 Amateur use largely outweighed feature film demand, but Abel Gance experimented with it for his Napoleon (1927) and Jacques Tati’s Jour de Fête (1947) was shot simultaneously in black-and-white and Thomsoncolor (although only the monochrome version was released at the time).83 Lenticular film was largely abandoned with the arrival of multilayer films like Kodachrome starting in 1935. Problems included difficulties copying the original film, false colors or color fringing, and small projection sizes because of the intensity of light required.84 The hopes momentarily placed on color lenticular film as well as its commercial availability appear to have raised the status of 3D lenticular photography. In France, patents mentioning stereoscopic lenticular processes multiplied a few years after major manufacturers marketed color lenticular film. In the years from 1924 through 1928, only 5 to 7 percent of patents for 3D photography or cinema involved lenticular processes. Starting in 1930, these numbers shot up: 15 percent in 1930, 32 percent in 1931, 37 percent in 1932, a slight dip to 28 percent in 1933, then a peak at 59 percent in 1934.85 Patents for 3D systems often cited color lenticular film, and vice versa.86 These documents reveal excitement about the potential of lenticular technology. The example of Jacques de  Lassus Saint-Genies is emblematic. As discussed above, he developed 3D line-screen photography inspired by the idea of Integral photography. He also studied color lenticular film—briefly in 1912 and then more intensively from 1924 (after Keller-Dorian’s communications), including for Thomson-Houston start-

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ing in 1933. He published a book on the subject in 1939 and patented techniques related to its use in color or 3D recording.87 His archives contain examples of strips of 35 mm lenticular film presenting a clear stereoscopic illusion (fig. 53). The importance major manufacturers placed on color lenticular film supported the idea that 3D lenticular imagery not only functioned but might even be a promising investment.

53: Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès, Strips of 35 mm lenticular film with stereoscopic images, 1937–1953, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTION

INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTION Color and 3D specialists shared excitement regarding lenticular technology, and the screens made in each field sometimes superficially resembled each other (as comparison of figures 48 and 52 reveals). Color lenticular film wasn’t conducive to the new 3D photography, however. Lenticular film was only produced in formats up to 35 mm wide—insufficient for presenting an attractive illusion of depth in a directly observable photograph. More importantly, the lenses of lenticular film were devised for recording color.88 Screens for 3D needed to be designed for its specific optical illusions. In the mid-1930s, when color lenticular film was eclipsed by other color processes, a useable, mass-produced lenticular screen for multi-image autostereoscopic photography had yet to be marketed, despite the weight brought to the idea by more than two decades of research. In France, Maurice Bonnet’s La Relièphographie company would be the first to market 3D photographs made using lenticular screens. By 1937 Bonnet was creating striking 3D line-screen photographs composed of thirty-three individual images. He started research on lenticular screens in 1936, motivated by the desire to present his photographs in ordinary settings and without light boxes. Bonnet knew about color lenticular film, citing it in his company’s patents as unsatisfactory for 3D  photog­ raphy. He stressed that insufficient attention to the optical precision of the individual lenses of such screens had led to “the failures so often observed, when putting theory into practice, whether in the field of 3D or color.”89 In the words of one of his colleagues, for three years La Relièphographie engaged in “a ruthless struggle to conquer raw materials” before obtaining a “perfect” screen at the end of August 1939.90 Bonnet’s lenticular screen had 25 longitudinal lenses per centimeter, whereas color lenticular film typically had 20 to 50 lenses per linear millimeter.91 His lenses had a viewing angle of 16°, corresponding to the total change in parallax between the first and last viewpoints his camera recorded to create a 3D illusion. Bonnet also had at his disposal plastics unavailable to his predecessors. He chose cellulose acetate, developed as a nonflammable replacement for celluloid and marketed as such over the course of the 1920s.92 A thin sheet of cellulose acetate was placed on a glass base, for rigidity, helping to eliminate distortions due to the plastic’s elasticity that would deteriorate the 3D  illusion. La  Relièphographie completed design of its lenticular screen in August 1939. It appropriately unveiled its new state-of-the-art photographs at an industry-sponsored exhibition titled The Age of Plastics.93 Marketing lenticular photography meant developing machines to mass-produce lenticular screens with perfectly consistent quality. La Relièphographie made a promotional documentary film showing its equipment and techniques (fig.  54). Thin, supple sheets of cellulose acetate could be seen being soaked in an unidentified liquid then placed on glass plates, which were heated to make plastic and glass adhere.

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54: La Relièphographie, Lenticular screen production, stills from the promotional film La technique moderne, 1947.

A mold for forming lenses in the plastic layer was made by engraving a metal plate with a diamond-tipped cutting tool: a copper plate was mounted on a lathe where the diamond cut into it as it turned, forming precisely shaped troughs. When the entire surface had been engraved, a fine coating of another metal was added by electrolysis. The plate was then engraved again to give the troughs a perfect finish.94 It was taken off the lathe and flattened, then fitted into a hydraulic press where it was used to form lenses in the glass-backed sheets of plastic. The construction of La  Relièphographie’s screen manufacturing equipment by capable engineers and artisans took several years. The screen was the keystone of any lenticular photography business, making the stakes different than in the line-screen era. This was the aspect of its technology that La Relièphographie guarded the most closely. Later, the company explained that it had no competitors for some time because the manufacture of lenticular screens of consistently high quality at a reasonable price was extremely difficult to master.95 It was the first to do so successfully in France and possibly in the world. Its equipment was in place by May 1942, when it started selling its new lenticular photographs from its studio on the Champs-Élysées

INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTION

in Paris. Its promotional film documented the impressive resources invested and truly merited the title La Relièphographie gave it: La technique moderne au service des procédés de la photographie en relief (Modern technology serving 3D photography).96 When Lippmann conceived of Integral photography in 1908, he redefined the idea behind autostereoscopic photography, making it about reproducing a more natural experience of vision. Before 1908, 3D line-screen photography was “stereoscopy without a stereoscope,” and animated line-screen photography was (albeit playfully) “cinema in a single photo.” With Integral photography, 3D and animation were combined in a certain sense in order to create a new kind of photograph ideally imagined as a view from a window. In 1942, when La Relièphographie commercialized lenticular photography, many aspects of the illusion sought by Lippmann had become a reality. The use of a lenticular screen also added to autostereoscopic photography’s naturalism by further concealing the presence of the optical device on which it depended: the translucent lenticular screen provided photographs that no longer possessed the dark tinge of a line screen or the bulk of a light box. Lippmann’s announcement of Integral photography instigated a revolution (in the sense understood by Thomas Kuhn) in autostereoscopic photography. The technical goals of actors in the field changed rapidly and fairly unanimously: more than two images were now to be combined, and the yet-to-be-obtained lenticular screen was the ideal tool for doing so. A new paradigm had been established.97 Thirty years later, Bonnet’s mass-production of a useable lenticular screen brought the field to a new level of maturity. Once such a device had been commercialized, line-screen technology was no longer desirable. Lenticular screens were complex to produce, however, necessitating precise knowhow and equipment and a significant investment. This made screen photography less accessible than in the line-screen era, when widely available halftone screens could easily be copied. A “world” of lenticular photography was thus established, in Howard Becker’s sense.98 Those interested in making or acquiring autostereoscopic photographs were now united by the need to go through one of a very small number of lenticular-screen manufacturers to obtain the required materials or images. In France, La Relièphographie was the first and only producer of lenticular photography for several years. The French public could now discover the new photographs inspired by the dream of creating “a window onto reality.”

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3D PORTRAITURE AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA

In the spring of 1942, La Relièphographie opened a 3D portrait studio on the prestigious Champs-Élysées in Paris. With this establishment, the company marketing the inventions of Maurice Bonnet brought the innovative lenticular process to the general public for the first time in France, inaugurating a new era for autostereoscopic photography. The studio sold 3D portraits such as the one of a poised woman shown in figure 55. The 30 × 24 cm glass photograph is heavy and elegantly presented in a wooden frame. The likeness seems natural except for the lack of color, and the 3D illusion gives the sitter an almost concrete presence as she leans in toward the camera. Her face and hair, and her hand and arm carefully placed in the foreground, give an impression of tangible volume. The silky fabric of her blouse makes wonderfully deep folds and textures. Even her bracelet and pearl ring stand out realistically. The illusion is immediately visible, and as we shift positions slightly the sitter seems even more present because we get the impression that we can actually turn around her to a small degree. This and other La Relièphographie portraits provide a realistic threedimensionality that is extraordinary even for today’s viewers accustomed to modern imaging technologies. Founded in 1937 by Maurice Bonnet and the publicity specialist Roger Marilhet (1898–1966), La Relièphographie had marketed line-screen images before launching the lenticular process in 1942. Via its new studio, it would successfully dominate the French market for lenticular photography until it went bankrupt in 1954. During this period, La Relièphographie built its commercial strategy around 3D portraiture. It meticulously developed camera systems and compositional protocols allowing it to create aesthetically pleasing images with consistently impressive 3D. The public of the time was impressed enough to give the company its business. La Relièphographie proved lenticular photography to be both technically and commercially viable. While running its Parisian studio, the company also licensed its technology to photographers around the world, asserting itself in an increasingly competitive marketplace. A close consideration of the positive commercial and critical reception of La Relièphographie’s

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work reveals that in the World War II era, lenticular photography was associated with the mastery of perceptual realism. What clients were buying with their 3D lenticular portraits was a truly modern image of themselves.

55: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic portrait in its original wooden frame, 1942–1954, gelatin silver on paper on glass and lenticular screen on glass, 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

THE PORTRAIT STUDIO When La Relièphographie opened its Champs-Élysées studio in 1942, the company’s emphasis shifted towards portraiture and away from the advertising photographs that carried its business in the line-screen era.1 The studio was a powerful venue for highlighting the new lenticular process, becoming an attraction in its own right. The

THE PORTRAIT STUDIO

facade announced “3D Photography” and “Give the gift of a 3D portrait” in giant letters, and passers-by could admire examples displayed in the window (fig. 56). La Relièpho­ graphie clearly wished to define itself as unique and exclusive while at the same time attracting a wide public. The studio’s location near the Arc de Triomphe was prestigious in reputation but part of a popular promenade, and the decoration of its waiting room was elaborate yet homey.2 Its portraits were relatively expensive, with the smallest format—13 × 18  cm—costing about twice as much as a pair of good shoes.3 The 24 × 30 cm size seems to have been the most commonly purchased. Clients could have their photographs framed by the studio, as in figures 55 or 75, for an extra fee. First-hand accounts of La Relièphographie’s studio are extremely rare, but the few there are confirm the attractiveness and exceptional nature of its portraits. The

56: Anonymous, La Relièphographie’s studio on the Champs-Élysées, Paris, ca. 1942, gelatin silver print, 5.4 × 7 cm, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

experience of Gina, a young woman who was a client in the fall of 1945, reflects how the studio and its unique technology were perceived by many at the time.4 Gina’s mother treated her to a 3D portrait for her eighteenth birthday. According to Gina, her mother was “a dynamic woman with good taste who liked to keep up with the latest fashions.” She ran a hair salon and perfume shop in the Eure region of France and came to Paris with her daughter on a regular basis for supplies and to see relatives. On

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one of these trips, the two women discovered La Relièphographie: it was “while walking up the Champs-Élysées, on the right, one day,” recalled Gina years later, “that we saw this new method of photography in the studio’s window.” She didn’t remember anything particularly striking about the picture-taking process. “I was asked to sit on a sort of chair or block that had a wooden back,” she said, “and the decoration was rudimentary considering the luxurious novelty of the photo.” The recording procedure seemed “fairly simple compared to the resulting image.” Gina dressed up and styled her hair for the occasion and purchased two 24 × 30 cm photographs, each of a different poses. Her mother had the portraits framed by the studio with a “very modern” white concave frame. Several years after Gina’s experience, her cousin André was also treated to a set of La Relièphographie portraits by his mother for his twentieth birthday. He opted for three framed 13 × 18 cm poses. As with most portrait studios at the time, the commemoration of important moments was one of La Relièphographie’s specialties; a view of its window display published in 1945 included a first-communion photograph (see fig. 75). For the French working class—André’s parents were employed at the Renault factory—La Relièphographie’s prices could be justified only for very special occasions. The two cousins kept their images for a long time. Gina broke one of hers not long after the sitting and eventually threw it away. The other one cracked in one corner, but she held the pieces together with sparkling silver contact paper. These mishaps and a strong moiré effect (or wavelike interference pattern) resulting from the screen being knocked out of register on Gina’s remaining image show that La Relièphographie’s lenticular photographs were fragile items, but they were treasured for many years for their unusual and precious nature.

THE O. P. 3000 CAMERA The luxurious novelty of La Relièphographie’s portraits was based on techniques that were complex and painstakingly devised even though they seemed simple to clients visiting the studio. Before the Champs-Élysées studio opened, Maurice Bonnet elaborated a special camera for recording 3D portraits with a lenticular screen. The two devices determined the essence of the impressive and characteristic illusion of depth presented by the company’s photographs. Bonnet called the new camera the O.  P.  3000—possibly with an intentionally futuristic touch (fig.  57). It was an imposing wooden apparatus measuring about 220 cm wide and comprised of a large-format view camera that moved along a curved track in front of the sitter during recording.5 The 76 cm path covered by the camera formed a 16° arc, with the camera’s lens pointed at the center of the arc for the entire process (fig. 58).6 The sitter was posed at this central spot, located using a calibrated chain attached to the camera. The photographer focused the camera then fitted a

THE O. P. 3000 CAMERA

57: Anonymous, La Relièphographie’s O. P. 3000 camera, 1940s, gelatin silver print, 13.2 × 18.1 cm, Maurice Bonnet Archives. 58: La Relièphographie, Movement of the O. P. 3000 camera during the recording process, 1940s, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

glass negative of the desired size into the camera’s plate holder, directly against the smooth side of a lenticular screen that was permanently fixed there. The plate holder was installed in the camera with the lenticular screen facing the subject. After veri­ fying that the camera body was at the extreme right end of the platform, the photog­ rapher set off the picture-taking process. When the O. P. 3000 was turned on, the lens opened as a motor started moving the camera body along its track. Inside the camera, the negative and lenticular screen pivoted so as to always remain parallel to their initial position (fig. 58). The lenticular screen was composed of a series of miniature vertical lenses, aligned twenty-five per centimeter. As light hit its surface, each lens focused its “share” of the image onto a very narrow strip of the negative situated behind it. The angle of the incoming light changed with the camera’s progression; as a result, images of the subject seen from different angles were recorded side-by-side in different areas of the negative, smoothly blending into one another (fig. 59). With the O. P. 3000, the notion of counting a precise number of interlaced images wasn’t applicable, however, because the change of perspective occurred gradually. The continuous recording process contributed to the natural-seeming portrayal of volume characteristic of La Relièphographie’s portraits. The camera covered its full trajectory in approximately four seconds, but each part of the negative was only exposed for a fraction of that time.7 The subject therefore didn’t have to remain perfectly still, and a slight unintentional movement—following the camera’s trajectory with one’s eyes, for example—could be recorded without jeopardizing the final result.

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59: Detail of an autostereoscopic portrait without its lenticular screen (see figure 62).

Sitting for the O. P. 3000 seemed simple to the client, but it was conducted with great precision. Bonnet developed the O. P. 3000 as a portrait camera, designing it to record an optimal 3D illusion in a zone of very precise dimensions around the center of the arc described above. This zone was 40  cm deep, and the subject was posed entirely within it. Any elements placed outside this area would appear blurry or double in the final image and make it confusing and tiring to look at.8 The illusion of depth was also recorded in a specific way within this space. The front 10 cm of the recording zone would appear to stand out from the surface of the final photograph, with the remaining 30 cm behind it. The point of transition where details seemed to neither project out of nor recede behind the picture plane was called the “zero point” in the studio’s jargon; it corresponded to the exact center of the arc traced by the camera (visualized using the measuring chain attached to the camera). For a successful portrait, La Relièphographie recommended that the photographer place the “zero point” at the sitter’s eyes for a frontal view or at his or her nose for a profile shot.

THE O. P. 3000 CAMERA

La Relièphographie’s photographers posed the subject inside the 40 cm recording zone in a way that accentuated the illusion of depth in the final picture. Details were included at different distances to structure the perceived space, and angles were used to create an impression of receding perspective. For example, when the 3D image in figure 55 is examined, it becomes clear that the sitter was leaning in significantly towards the camera. She was resting her elbow on a table placed just outside the frame while she raised a perfectly composed hand to her face. Her forearm, nose, and

60: Postures to be avoided in autostereoscopic portraiture, in La Relièphographie, “Conseils pratiques,” ca. 1942, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

front lock of hair were thus brought in front of the “zero point” and in the picture appear to project out in front of the surface of the image. Behind the “zero point,” her other hand, upper arm, and shoulder recede progressively into the depicted space, with the oblique angle of her torso providing a smooth transition towards the back of the image. When making these calculations, the photographer had to ensure that the sitter’s pose would be flattering in 3D. Photographers were advised to avoid making the sitter’s nose, chin, or forehead appear too large by bringing them too far in front of the “zero point” (fig. 60). In one portrait, a woman embraces a fruit bowl with her arms as she leans over it, turning her head without letting her chin or her forehead get too close to the camera. The 40 cm zone inside which she is positioned is clearly evident to the educated viewer, but the pose doesn’t seem unnatural. In another portrait, a couple is posed in a V so that the angle between them creates a three-dimensional space within the frame of the picture (fig.  61); the woman’s hair styling is impressively volumetric, and she holds out her necklace with a carefully placed hand

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61: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic portrait, 1940s, gelatin silver on paper on glass and lenticular screen on glass, 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

in the foreground. La Relièphographie also paid attention to the back of the 40 cm zone. It recommended placing a backdrop close to the sitter, if possible inside the 40 cm zone, so that it would not appear blurry and mobile in 3D and result in eye fatigue for the viewer. A background with “texture or decorative patterns,” such as pleated curtains, was recommended. Unlike traditional portraits, La  Relièphographie’s creations could not be retouched to correct blemishes or make other cosmetic improvements. The interlacing of different viewpoints in the negative (and final print) was so precise that any attempt to modify the image by hand would attract attention when viewed in 3D. In a close-up of a three-quarter-view portrait without a lenticular screen (fig. 59), one can see how elements situated at different depths intermingle in multiple strips when they are close together in the picture—as with the bridge of the nose and the corner of the eye. The rendition of elements not at the “zero point” also created variegation.

THE O. P. 3000 CAMERA

62: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic portrait, 1940s, gelatin s­ ilver on paper on glass and lenticular screen on glass, 40 × 30 cm, private collection.

With retouching impossible, lighting and make-up became extremely important.9 Makeup was applied at the studio. Lighting was even and carefully placed so as not to bring out imperfections or accentuate skin texture.10 According to Louis Walton Sipley, an American involved with lenticular photography at the time, difficulties with retouching probably contributed to the lack of commercial success of the process at the end of the 1940s in the United States: “no portrait business can survive if it represents the majority of people as they really are,” he argued.11 La Relièphographie seems to have found a happy medium between a striking a 3D illusion and a flattering portrait. The camera system designed by Bonnet left the photographer compositional liber­ties within set conditions, and La Relièphographie portraits successfully avoid seeming formulaic by combining different poses with the hairstyles and clothing of individual sitters. The O. P. 3000 came equipped with a set of lenses for photographing

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close-ups, head-and-shoulders shots, and half-length portraits in the standard formats proposed.12 The majority of La Relièphographie’s photographs seem to have been head-and-shoulders portraits. Full-length shots were rare and produced only in conjunction with the largest format, 30 × 40 cm. When this size was used for a headand-shoulders portrait, the 3D illusion was at its most impressive. In the magnificent portrait in figure 62, the sitter appears as large as in life, reinforcing the illusion of her presence. The entire image is subtly composed with no obvious foreground content but minute attention to the angle of pose and to the placement of clothing folds, jewelry, and shadows. While taking 3D requirements into account, La Relièphographie also conformed to contemporary aesthetic trends in portraiture. When it opened its studio, a typical professional portrait was taken at a fairly close distance and included only the sitter’s face and shoulders; in the most modern studios, a face might even fill the entire frame. This contrasted with early twentieth-century portraits, in which the subject was typically shown from head to foot standing in a clearly identifiable studio setting with props. Lighting styles also changed dramatically in the 1930s, as backlighting, stark contrasts, and the accentuation of details through reduced depth of field were adopted in cinematography then still photography.13 The prestigious and renowned Harcourt studio, founded in 1934, epitomized this new cinema-influenced style with its elegant portraits using high-contrast lighting, minimal accessories, and carefully applied make-up—and retouching of both the negative and the final print. Similarly, the majority of La Relièphographie’s portraits seem to have been head-and-shoulders poses, and props were kept to a minimum. The lighting was full of contrast but smooth enough not to be distracting in 3D or bring out unflattering details. In the large-format portrait shown in figure 62, for example, a light source placed on the left sets off the shape of the sitter’s cheekbone and forehead. On the right, another light brings out the form of her face, even making her earring cast a shadow. A third lamp, behind her head, is aimed at her hair, increasing contrast. Coming from a family of portrait photographers, Maurice Bonnet had been immersed in debates about composition and lighting throughout his formative years and was fully versed in contemporary trends.14 La Relièphographie’s images show that he designed his cameras to make the photographs he desired and that the lenticular process didn’t impose problematic stylistic constraints. It may even be that 3D was particularly well received in this era of close-up portraiture, when contrasts and a more “realistic” style were appreciated.15 Once a portrait had been recorded according to the studio’s protocol, the glass negative was developed and marked with an order number and the client’s name in the margin. It was then contact printed—never enlarged or reduced—on a glass base covered with paper or a semi-translucent white varnish on which the photosensitive emulsion was prepared. Opacity was sought for viewing comfort. Glass ensured that

THE O. P. 3000 CAMERA

the photographic surface neither retracted nor expanded when developed and dried. This guaranteed that the positive image would be exactly the same size as the negative image and therefore still perfectly correspond with the individual lenses of the lenticular screen.16 A last touch that could be added was hand tinting. Although apparently done only occasionally, two examples preserved today illustrate the beautiful results obtained by applying subtle pastel colors with an airbrush. In a small 18 × 13 cm portrait, a woman is wearing blush and lipstick, and the cool tones of her dress contrast with the warm tones of the background. An advertising photograph picturing a model with auburn hair wearing makeup and a light blue shirt (fig. 63) is equally impressive, although today the image is warped by deterioration of its lenticular screen. Hand coloring gave beautiful results but called for extreme precision: because the photograph was composed of interlaced strips coming from different viewpoints, details of any one element to be colored were often separated by details belonging to another. To complete the portrait, a lenticular screen identical to the one used in the O. P. 3000 camera was placed on the positive print, directly in contact with the image surface. Studio employees aligned it by hand by slowly sliding it over the photograph until no moiré effect was visible and the 3D illusion appeared at its best from squarely in front of the image. Image and screen were then carefully mounted together with adhesive tape around the edges, resulting in a final photograph that was approximately 4 mm thick. The client could pick it up several days after his or her sitting. The 3D  illusion given by La  Relièphographie’s portraits is very convincing. It gives an impression of natural volume extending beyond a few prominent facial features or foreground details. Naturalism is reinforced by the fact that from different angles the perspective in the image changes as if we could turn around the subject slightly. The sitter was portrayed over a 16° arc, as determined by the optics of the lenticular screen and the camera’s trajectory. The illusion’s only apparent defect is that the subject appears to subtly change positions quite suddenly from certain viewpoints—an effect due to the fact that from certain points we simultaneously glimpse the beginning and the end of the series of images recorded. In other words, the photograph can be observed from areas outside a 16°  angle, but the subject is only portrayed from inside this angle, with the same series of images being presented several times over. La Relièphographie’s Champs-Élysées studio apparently attracted a fair amount of business. Fourteen people worked there in 1947.17 Annual sales results were between 7 and 10 million francs between 1947 and 1952. An inventory of assets in early 1950 allows us to estimate that around 16,700 portraits had been made since the opening of the studio, or an average of approximately forty-two photographs per week—a respectable number compared to other prestigious studios.18 The Harcourt studio, whose activity reached a peak during this period, had around forty clients a day, and

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the Lorelle studio in Paris seems to have averaged about twenty-eight per week between 1927 and 1934.19 The practice of having a professional portrait made was sufficiently entrenched in social practices of the mid-twentieth century for it to incorporate a diversity of forms. Amateur photography had not yet unseated this tradition, and all kinds of technical novelties were commercialized via portraiture. La Relièphographie’s decision to invest in impressive—albeit expensive—likenesses taken by photog­ raphers trained to use its state-of-the-art camera seems to have been commercially sound, allowing Bonnet to interest his contemporaries in lenticular photography and make a living from his inventions.

63: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic advertisement for hosiery, 1940s, hand-colored gelatin silver on glass and lenticular screen on glass in original ­painted wooden frame, 30 × 24 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

EXPERIMENTS OUTSIDE PORTRAITURE

EXPERIMENTS OUTSIDE PORTRAITURE Although 3D portraiture was the mainstay of its business, La Relièphographie also investigated animated illusions and a few alternative subjects for 3D lenticular photog­ raphy, designing relevant camera systems when necessary. These endeavors illustrate some of Maurice Bonnet’s other ideas regarding the commercialization of his research and attest the constraints of lenticular photography when novel iconographies were broached—especially for someone as much of a perfectionist as he was. A small number of images show that La Relièphographie continued to make advertisements in the lenticular era. The new advertisements were composed as portraits

64: La Relièphographie, Animated advertisement for Mossant hats, 1940s, gelatin silver on glass and lenticular screen on glass, wooden frame, cardboard, 28.8 × 20.7 cm, private collection.

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of sorts and likely were recorded with the O. P. 3000 camera. Two large-format photographs, possibly for Bourjois cosmetics, were full-length shots of women in bathing suits—one next to a beach ball and another with a hula hoop. The most impressive and complete of La Relièphographie’s known lenticular-era advertisements is one of the hand-colored photographs described above (fig. 63). It pictures a woman holding a translucent stocking (of an unknown brand), creating a subtle effect of depth and transparency in 3D. The image was presented in a freestanding painted wooden frame. La Relièphographie also explored the creation of animated advertisements. As early as 1940, Bonnet devised a process for recording multiple-image animation using a lenticular screen with horizontal lenses.20 One such image (fig. 64), produced for the hat-maker Mossant, pictures a man taking on and off his hat in a way reminiscent of the brand’s famous 1935 poster by Cappiello. It was mounted on a cardboard support indicating the brand’s name. Animated images were probably recorded with a modified O. P. 22 camera (to be discussed below) in which the negative was fitted with a lenticular screen with horizontal lenses and pivoted around a horizontal axis—or even with a screen with horizontal and vertical lenses, for recording 3D and animation.21 Archival documents indicate, however, that advertising was not La Relièpho­ graphie’s major source of revenue, nor does the company appear to have listed such services in business directories or trade magazines.22 Another niche La Relièphographie hoped would open commercial opportunities for the 3D lenticular process was outdoor photography. Photographing outside the studio called for cameras adapted to complex scenes with important elements situated farther away than in portraiture. In 1944, the company patented its first outdoor system: like the O. P. 3000, it was a single-lens camera that used a negative fitted with a lenticular screen and slid along a track, pivoting so as to always point directly at the assigned subject. For the outdoor system, the track was straight, and the camera could be set to different focal distances.23 In 1945, the company developed another solution to outdoor photography: an imposing device it referred to as the “multimirror” camera, of which at least one was constructed (fig. 65).24 This camera used twenty-four lenses arranged in two rows of twelve, thus adapting the principle of Bonnet’s 1937 system using thirty-three lenses in three rows. A row of twenty-four mirrors was placed in front of the lenses: the twelve even-numbered mirrors were oriented so as to reflect their images to one row of lenses, and the odd-numbered mirrors were oriented so as to reflect their images to the other row. The main advantage of a multi-lens system, as opposed to the scanning principle, was short exposure times. Arranging the lenses in multiple rows and associating them with mirrors made it possible to increase the number of images recorded using a given stereoscopic base (mirrors could be packed in more tightly than lenses, which produced a conic projection). That in turn made the 3D illusion seem all the more smooth and natural. The multi-mirror camera produced a negative with twenty-four separate images in two

EXPERIMENTS OUTSIDE PORTRAITURE

rows. They were interlaced in the studio using a special printing apparatus and a lenticular screen. The stereoscopic base of the multi-mirror camera was almost 70 cm, enough to give a visible impression of depth with many outdoor subjects. In La Relièphographie’s promotional film La technique moderne, the camera was shown in use in front of the Sacré-Coeur basilica in Paris (fig.  65).25 One rare outdoor photograph produced by La Relièphographie—possibly taken with this camera—shows the Notre-Dame cathedral from the southeast with the Seine in the foreground. It gives a wonderful illusion of depth extending to different picture planes, with two rows of trees visibly detaching from the cathedral and its flying buttresses realistically standing out around the nave. Despite extensive research on the subject and promising results, La Relièpho­ graphie doesn’t appear to have ever commercialized outdoor photography. Bonnet’s company also explored 3D macrophotography and 3D X-rays. These, too, required the invention of specific camera systems. For macrophotography, subjects like a fly or a butterfly were placed on a motorized turntable with light sources

65: La Relièphographie’s Multi-Mirror camera in front of the Sacré-Coeur, Paris, still from the promotional film La technique moderne, 1947.

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attached. Inside the large view camera used, a negative fitted with a lenticular screen pivoted in conjunction with the turntable. The subject’s angle of rotation could be modified to influence the strength of the 3D illusion. It was presumed “natural” if the object and the negative holder pivoted at the same angle; the impression of depth would increase if the object pivoted more and decrease if it pivoted less.26 A 30 × 40 cm close-up of a flower with impressive depth is one of only a few of La Relièphographie’s documented macro-photographs. The flower stamens project out in front of the petals, some at an angle of almost 45°; the stigma in the center appears with great depth, almost like an orange peeled and spread open in sections. The company’s simultaneous exploration of 3D  X-ray photography isn’t surprising considering that both World Wars consistently inspired research on medical uses of 3D photography. It patented three different screen X-ray systems from 1943 to 1945 and wasn’t alone in the field.27 None entered the mainstream of medical practice, however. La Relièphographie’s diverse camera systems weren’t always successful commercial products. Nonetheless, their specificities underline the complex nature of the photographs the company did sell and the compromises it made to produce distinctive high-quality 3D portraits. It could have attempted to sell an all-purpose camera, or a more portable one, but the illusion of depth given by the resulting photographs wouldn’t have been nearly as impressive. The company’s technology and commercial strategy were inextricably linked. Lenticular photography’s new visibility was based on portraiture and on the spectacular O. P. 3000 camera designed for this purpose. La Relièphographie meticulously singled out this flagship product in its quest for an attractive and marketable form of 3D lenticular photography, all the while remaining ambitious in its hopes of expanding the uses of lenticular photography.

SELLING LENTICULAR PHOTOGRAPHY In the eyes of the public, La  Relièphographie ran a 3D  portrait studio, but as its research on new camera systems shows, the company’s activities were more diverse than was suggested by an afternoon stroll down the Champs-Élysées. Bonnet supervised new research. The company also actively promoted lenticular photography in order to drum up business at its studio and, increasingly, establish foreign licensing agreements in an attempt to profit more fully from its research investments and tap into a larger market for its products. The French company thus expanded into a worldwide playing field, commanding respect internationally as it confronted burgeoning competition. This pushed it to continue to innovate and to think strategically when marketing its products. In the end, however, some of the decisions made during this process led to perilous conflict regarding the way the company should be managed.

SELLING LENTICULAR PHOTOGRAPHY

66: Maurice Bonnet on the cover of Actu (May 17, 1942), Maurice Bonnet Archives.

When Maurice Bonnet created La Relièphographie in 1937 to commercialize his inventions, he chose an advertising expert, Roger Marilhet, as a partner, indicating he knew that inventing something and selling it were not one and the same. In the spring of 1941, after it had obtained satisfactory lenticular screens but a year before the Champs-Élysées studio opened, La Relièphographie started promoting its activities more intensely. A press campaign touted Bonnet’s lenticular process as “major French invention” and even “a revolution in photography,” coming “a hundred years after the discoveries of Niépce and Daguerre.”28 Bonnet’s own personal story was tied to the theme “Work, Family, Fatherland” promoted by the German-controlled media during the Occupation years, and the public was urged to go see photographs at the “Exposition de la France Européenne,” a propaganda exhibit at the Grand Palais.29 When the studio opened, Bonnet appeared on the cover of Actu magazine with the O. P. 3000 camera (fig. 66).30 La Relièphographie also adapted to conditions in Occupied France by participating in the Vichy regime’s image cult surrounding Marshal Pétain

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with the production of a 3D portrait of Pétain.31 The company’s associates were clearly driven by a strong desire to see their enterprise succeed after years of investment. The choice of the Champs-Élysées and its window display and imposing facade were intended to build visibility and notoriety. The photographer Jacques Chevojon—president of the Chambre Syndicale Française de la Photographie, an industry group— helped market the business, suggesting the address and producing promotional photographs of La Relièphographie’s cameras and techniques.32 Although a series of 3D negatives of the actor Fernandel, the playwright Sacha Guitry, and other lesserknown actors were taken at an early date, the company didn’t go out of its way to photograph celebrities—as the Harcourt studio did, for example, making its portraits of famous sitters available to magazines or movie theaters.33 La Relièphographie considered that the everyday portraits it sold were its best advertisements, and it counted on clients returning home with their spectacular photographs to publicize them around the world. Bonnet’s sister-in-law recounted that “the Germans spent without counting” at La Relièphographie’s studio when it opened in 1942 in Occupied Paris.34 With the end of the war, sales decreased sharply, however.35 The company renewed its promotional activities, the most spectacular of which was a 31-minute documentary film made in 1947. Titled La technique moderne au service des procédés de la photographie en relief (Modern Technology Serving 3D Photography), it showed the entire chain of production of lenticular imagery, from screen fabrication to picture taking, ending with the shipment of cameras in crates marked with destinations across the world. The film was shown at conferences held to woo new professional clients or investors.36 La Relièphographie also subsidized a traveling exhibit of 3D photographs. Snapshots show that it was held in trailers in French villages, with signs outside using a superlative fairground style to laud the photographs as a world-renowned curiosity. Several of La Relièphographie’s most attractive 3D photographs defy categorization and were likely produced as promotional pieces for such events or its waiting room. A large view of a woman at a window watering flowers is a splendid example of the company’s work and presents a magnificent illusion of depth (fig. 67). The woman poses at an angle, bringing out her figure and the folds of her crisply ironed blouse. She is framed by the receding lines of the open windows behind her and by the window railing, with a watering can and flowers in the foreground. In 3D, these last details come out in front of the image surface. The birdcage on the upper left adds a fanciful touch and further highlights changes in perspective when we move (although the bird is clearly fake, leaning perilously off its perch). With equal talent, two American sailors were photographed pouring a glass of champagne (fig. 68). They were artfully posed within the O. P. 3000’s 40 cm recording zone, slightly turned in towards each other. Their forms frame the glass and bottle, which appear in front of the image surface. The ties, collars, and hats of their uniforms add prominent details. The photograph’s appeal is immediate, and

SELLING LENTICULAR PHOTOGRAPHY

67: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic scene, 1940s, gelatin silver on glass and lenticular screen on glass, 40 × 29.8 cm, private collection.

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68: La Relièphographie, Autostereoscopic portrait, ca. 1945–1947, gelatin silver on glass and lenticular screen on glass, 40 × 29.8 cm, private collection.

the sitters’ expressions are genuine and relaxed. Such photographs magnificently highlight La Relièphographie’s technology and compositional skill. After the war, La Relièphographie also worked on creating new business by selling or leasing its cameras. This was intended to generate revenue by increasing demand for its lenticular screens. The strategy was implemented to a very limited degree in France, where the only known example is the 1947 acquisition of a camera by the owner of a photography studio in Paris’s 16th arrondissement.37 Licensing agreements were developed more extensively in foreign countries, however. As early as 1945, La Relièphographie was in the midst of serious negotiations in the United States, Portugal, and Switzerland. Several years after the end of the war, franchises existed in seven countries: Portugal (Antunes Da  Silva), Switzerland (Thomas-Duffort/ Photorelief), Italy (Photorilievo), Belgium (Photorelief S. A.), England (Deep Pictures), Canada (Natural Life Photos  Ltd.), and Egypt (Chehata Metwalli).38 Other contracts

FRENCH COMPETITION AND THE SICPER COMPANY

were signed later in South America and Spain, and an O. P. 3000 was sent to Amsterdam.39 Little is known about La Relièphographie’s experience in most of these places, but analysis of the competition it encountered in France and the United States and of its experience in England (the most well documented cases) nuances our understanding of its business strategy and of what its professional clients and the public expected from lenticular photography.

FRENCH COMPETITION AND THE SICPER COMPANY One of the rare contenders in the French market for lenticular photography during La Relièphographie’s lifetime was the inventor Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès, who developed 3D line-screen photographs starting in the 1930s (Chapter 3). He never marketed his process because, he argued, the Compagnie Française Thomson-Houston had sole rights to his inventions and didn’t wish to pursue 3D photography. Although Lassus Saint-Geniès gradually regained the rights to his patents between 1945 and 1952, he didn’t maintain them.40 Feeling threatened by La Relièphographie, however, he accused it of counterfeiting his inventions and gathered information in the hopes of contesting its patents. He went as far as meeting with La Relièphographie twice in January 1946, but there is no indication that his actions ever met with success.41 The only documented sales of lenticular photographs in France by anyone but La Relièphographie during its time in business originated with a small Parisian company named the Société Industrielle et Commerciale pour la Photographie en Relief— referred to as “Sicper” by specialists.42 Sicper was created in 1944 and during its short life sold cameras and screens for 3D lenticular photography to professional photog­ raphers, apparently producing no photographs of its own. Its encounter with La Relièphographie shows, once again, how closely technical choices and commercial success were linked in the lenticular business and reveals growing interest in affordable access to autostereoscopic photography. Jean Gardin (1908–2002) was one of the professional photographers who chose the Sicper system. He had a studio in the town of Saint-Just-en-Chaussée (about a hundred kilometers north of Paris) and became interested in 3D photography towards the end of the war.43 He went to La Relièphographie’s studio to sit for a portrait with his wife and study the process. He would have liked to acquire an O. P. 3000 but lacked sufficient space. Learning of Sicper’s smaller camera, he placed a wanted ad in the magazine Le Photographe hoping to acquire a used one at a discount.44 He soon received two replies and although not reassured by the rapid response, bought a Sicper camera from the photographer Paul Surelle in Avignon for 50,000  francs instead of the 90,000 francs the manufacturer was asking. This was also significantly cheaper than the 800,000 to 1,200,000 francs an O. P. 3000 would likely have cost.45

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Gardin received his camera in the fall of 1947 and used it to take 18 × 24 cm and 24 × 30  cm black-and-white portraits, which like Bonnet’s were occasionally handcolored (fig. 69).46 The illusion of depth and volume given by the Sicper process wasn’t as pronounced as La Relièphographie’s, but Gardin obtained good results by artfully using props or other elements in the foreground. In one photograph, his father holds his pipe in front of his face, creating a prominent element that nicely complements the 3D effect visible around his facial features, shirt collar, and jacket lapels. Gardin often posed his sitters with objects such as a tennis racket, a musical instrument, a doll, a knitting project, a rosary (for first communion photographs), or flowers. The

69: Jean Gardin, Autostereoscopic portraits made with the Sicper process, 1947–1950, gelatin silver on paper on glass and lenticular screens on glass, from left to right: 28.7 × 22.7 cm; 23.7 × 17.9 cm (without frame); and 28.7 × 22.9 cm, Roland Gardin collection and Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

illusion of depth provided by the Sicper process mainly concerned such foreground detail and the subject’s face and clothing, not his or her whole head as in Bonnet’s photographs. One of Gardin’s most successful portraits shows a woman leaning slightly in towards the camera with her elbows on a table just out of the frame and her hands clasped near her chin (fig. 69). Her figure stands out clearly from the background—a dark backdrop covered with a white diamond grid that Gardin used in most of his portraits. Other Sicper clients were reported in Milan and several French cities, but, like Gardin, they were all soon haunted by the problems the small company had in supplying its clients with lenticular screens.47 Jean Gardin wrote Sicper in April  1948:

FRENCH COMPETITION AND THE SICPER COMPANY

“What is going on? I went to rue de Maubeuge [Sicper’s address] several times and found everything closed and the concierge told me that it was always like that. Should I conclude that your company no longer exists and that the users of your cameras are going to have difficulties?” He added that he regretted “that new problems are occurring just when screen improvement pushed me to step up my launch of 3D photog­ raphy—launch that the problems with the old screens had forced me to interrupt.”48 In 1950, a representative of the Studio Shuttle, in Nantes, which had started 3D photog­ raphy “a few years” before, even wrote Maurice Bonnet explaining that it was “currently incapable of pursuing this fascinating work” because the Sicper company had stopped supplying screens.49 Sicper’s screens, like La Relièphographie’s, were made of a thin layer of plastic on glass. Today, the plastic has often peeled off around the edges, and this was apparently already happening in the 1940s. Gardin abandoned the Sicper process after a few years. He later concluded: “Financially, I lost money overall, but the operation helped my notoriety, so from that perspective I didn’t regret it.”50 In 1946, La Relièphographie seems to have taken action against Sicper for copying its lenticular screen but then abandoned these efforts because of its competitor’s difficulties. A letter from Marilhet, co-director of La  Relièphographie, to his company’s administrative receiver in 1951 gives the impression that La Relièphographie even took over Sicper: “This company put us in charge of marketing its process, which is essentially comprised of a camera it developed. The screens it used were a poor counterfeit of those made by our company. [...] In the end, after long and subtle negotiations, everything worked out for the best for our company.”51 According to Marilhet, at the time of this agreement, Sicper had already stopped doing business for two years (although it appeared in the phone book until 1952). The story of Sicper’s camera reveals further close ties with La Relièphographie and attests the influence of the small company on the commercial strategy of Bonnet’s enterprise. The Sicper camera, patented between 1943 and 1945, used a large-diameter oblong lens (fig. 70).52 During the recording process, the lens rotated left–right around a central vertical axis as a shutter moved across its surface; the plate holder, with the negative covered with a lenticular screen, pivoted at the same time. The movements of these elements were synchronized, and their amplitude depended on the distance at which the camera was focused. The simplicity of Sicper’s camera and its confirmed attractiveness to professional photographers apparently inspired Bonnet to devise a new portrait camera for La Relièphographie. “Give me Sicper’s camera with Bonnet’s screen, and we’ll have attained perfection and simplicity,” La Relièphographie’s patent attorney, Millet, is said to have exclaimed in 1946.53 The next year, Bonnet announced he was working on an extremely simple and sturdy new camera, likening it to a “shoe box.” Because any photographer would be able to use it, he said, it would “make it possible to follow Sicper’s commercial strategy and successfully compete with it.”54

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����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 70: Jean Gardin, Gardin studio employees with the Sicper camera for autostereoscopic photography, 1947–1950, gelatin silver print, 7 × 10 cm, Roland Gardin collection. 71: Chevojon, La Relièphographie’s O. P. 22 camera for autostereoscopic photography, ca. 1947, gelatin silver print, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

THE AMERICAN MARKET

Probably unveiled early in 1947, La  Relièphographie’s new camera was named the O. P. 22 and was later known as the “multi-prism” or “prism” camera in the English-speaking world (fig. 71).55 With their wide lenses, the O. P. 22 and Sicper cameras do resemble each other. The O.  P.  22 used a single plano-convex lens to create the camera’s 30 cm stereoscopic base. In front of the lens was a row of twenty-two prisms (hence its English name), which “ensured the fragmented inversion of the image” necessary to avoid pseudoscopy, or an inversed illusion of depth.56 The camera’s focus was determined by a second plano-convex lens, situated in front of the prisms; a set of interchangeable lenses of different focal lengths allowed it to be adapted to subjects at different distances. Inside, a glass negative (up to 24 × 30 cm) was fitted with a lenticular screen. The O. P. 22 quickly became La Relièphographie’s most used camera after the O. P. 3000. At least several dozen of them were produced, and a few are still known to exist today.57 The history of the Sicper company shows that La Relièphographie was the foremost reference in lenticular photography in France in the 1940s and that it was organized and ruthless when it came to competitors. However, its products had their own drawbacks—namely their price and bulk. When regional French photographers wanted to invest in 3D lenticular photography, they admired Bonnet’s work but opted for the cheaper Sicper system, even though they paid for it by a loss of image quality.

THE AMERICAN MARKET La Relièphographie met with more serious competition when attempting to expand its business in the United States. The 1940s was also a key moment for the development of lenticular photography on the other side of the Atlantic. When Roger Marilhet, La  Relièphographie’s commercial director, traveled to the United  States, he found that the quality of Bonnet’s work commanded respect from specialists, but that there were also American producers of lenticular photographs. One was the New  York– based VitaVision, launched in 1947 by two men from the movie industry: Matthew Fox, a vice-president at Universal-International Pictures, and Gene Towne, a screenwriter who had purchased rights to patents for lenticular photography.58 VitaVision opened 3D studios in several department stores in the fall of 1947, including Macy’s in Manhattan and Lit Brothers in Philadelphia, where using a scanning camera it made portraits and fashion photographs for display in the store’s windows.59 The company worked in black and white (sometimes hand-tinted) and in color, using recently invented Kodachrome transparencies, which clearly distinguished its photographs from La Relièphographie’s. La Relièphographie knew about VitaVision. In 1947 or 1948, the American company apparently even expressed interest in acquiring Bonnet’s process, and Marilhet

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72: Paul A. Hesse Three Dimensionals Inc., Autostereoscopic photograph promoting the 3D film The Charge at Feather River, 1953, color transparency and lenticular screen on glass, 35.6 × 28 cm, Susan Pinsky and David Starkman collection.

was exploring a possible merger between the two companies. La Relièphographie’s lawyer found the association potentially interesting. “I think that La Relièphographie’s process is better than VitaVision’s,” he wrote, “but VitaVision has an important research structure and the best technicians in the country who are constantly looking for something new. I might add that I think VitaVision has not made the most of exploiting its process, because of poor management.” In his opinion, VitaVision was “convinced that if Marilhet worked with it, it would quickly become powerful, and that with both its process and Bonnet’s, they could eliminate competitors and force them to be licensees.”60 La Relièphographie and VitaVision were in direct competition in the United States and had similar commercial strategies based on portrait studios and licensing. At the end of the 1940s, La Relièphographie was encountering its own

THE AMERICAN MARKET

difficulties, however. It began bankruptcy proceedings in the summer of 1948 (to be discussed below), and its unstable position apparently led its administrative receiver to refuse a merger with VitaVision.61 VitaVision itself seems to have disappeared before 1951 and therefore not to have outlived La Relièphographie.62 Bond Displays, from Philadelphia, VitaVision’s main American competitor, also considered working with La  Relièphographie. Marilhet apparently attempted to negotiate some sort of collaboration with this company, which had a large studio for the creation of 3D color photographs for advertisements, marketed under the name Akravue.63 Its laboratories “were probably the best equipped in the country to make and produce large quantities of direct-color transparencies of the three-dimensional or the ‘flat’ type,” noted one close observer in 1951.64 Archival information is extremely sparse, but nothing appears to have become of this potential Franco-American collaboration either. Bond Displays went out of business sometime after 1951. One area of expertise that may have fueled La Relièphographie’s interest in working with its American competitors was color photography. In the 1930s and 1940s, color was one of the most talked-about issues in photography, spurred on by the availability of films like Kodachrome (1935–1936) and Ektachrome (1946). Before 1945, La Relièphographie had patented two prohibitively complicated color photography systems.65 It then investigated Ektachrome films. However, adopting color transparency film would have meant returning to the backlit images Bonnet had worked so hard to eliminate when inventing the lenticular screen. Opaque color print processes had just appeared but had less satisfactory colors and would have required sending images out for development in specialized labs. By sticking with black and white, La Relièphographie chose to master the entire chain of production so as to provide optimum 3D  illusions and opaque images that could be viewed in homes without cumbersome light boxes. Another innovation that was potentially important for competing in an international marketplace was an unbreakable, all-plastic lenticular screen. As early as 1946, Bonnet devised screens made entirely of Plexiglas, which was invented after the cellulose acetate La Relièphographie had traditionally used.66 Plexiglas screens cost twice as much as those made out of cellulose acetate laminated on glass, so their price had to be weighed against the benefits of reduced weight and fragility.67 Bonnet wanted to launch the new screen in the United States. This was logical considering the potential of this market, the strong competition there, and the fact that VitaVision was using plastic-on-glass screens.68 Bonnet’s partner Marilhet wanted to go through La  Relièphographie’s English licensee, Deep Pictures (to be discussed below).69 Disagreement between Bonnet and Marilhet fatally dampened momentum, and in the end La Relièphographie never commercialized Plexiglas screens. Although La Relièphographie didn’t work with VitaVision or Bond Displays, it did manage to conclude two licensing agreements in the United States. One was with

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73: Paul A. Hesse Three Dimensionals Inc., Poster promoting lenticular ­photographs in movie theater lobbies, ca. 1953, 42 × 27.5 cm, private collection.

THE AMERICAN MARKET

­ larence Hyde, on the east coast, and the other with Kurt Heath, on the west coast, C each with exclusive rights for his region. Hyde purchased an O.  P.  3000 camera in November 1948 and set up a studio at the Hotel Touraine, a Boston landmark of which he was the owner.70 Heath lived in Denver, Colorado, then in San Francisco, and bought three O. P. 3000s and one O. P. 22 prism camera between June 1948 and April 1950. These contracts generated immediate revenues for La  Relièphographie and were meant to produce long-term profits via screen sales. However, American camera owners seem to have become independent fairly quickly thanks to metal dies for screen production included in the equipment purchased by Heath.71 Heath sold his cameras to Hollywood photographer Paul Hesse (1896–1973), who also received an O.  P.  3000 directly from La  Relièphographie in 1950.72 Hesse and his associate Harvey Prever (1916–1999), who had previously worked for VitaVision, managed to acquire four O. P. 3000s and four O. P. 22s, which they preferred to VitaVision’s camera and its longer exposure times.73 A friend of Prever remembers that they were buying every Bonnet camera they could find so that they wouldn’t have any competition.74 They made portraits of actors and advertisements and even apparently attempted to lease O. P. 22 cameras to studios around the country as the “Hesse 3-D camera.”75 Hesse’s studio was especially active with lenticular photography during the 3D movie craze of the early 1950s, combining color transparency film with impeccable 3D  composition to create some of the most striking photographs ever made with La Relièphographie’s technology.76 A picture of actors from the film The Charge at Feather River (fig. 72) is a splendid example, bringing out a rich variety of textures and details that include suede, beaded clothing, wood, canvas, and pine branches. Hesse clearly worked at making his photographs as eye-catching as possible. An advertisement for his company even described animated 3D photographs—a twist on the lenticular process that La Relièphographie never developed commercially (fig. 73). Just one image of this type is known, promoting the 3D film Phantom of the Rue Morgue (1954) with a large black gorilla arm reaching into the frame towards a screaming Dolores Dorn in a low-cut red dress. The Hesse studio promoted these photographs to theater owners as “a crowd stopper” and “a lobby idea to make patrons stop and wonder!” When Paul Hesse passed away in 1973, Harvey Prever continued to use his La Relièpho­ graphie cameras to make religious photographs, among other types of image.77 When Prever retired, he sold the cameras he no longer used, and after his death, in 1999, the last of his collection was broken up. Of the eight cameras he once owned, some are still used for commercial lenticular work.78 Thanks to the presence of dies in the United States, these cameras were used independently of La Relièphographie while it still existed and long after it disappeared, influencing the history of American lentic­ ular photography and bearing witness to the lasting appeal of Bonnet’s work.

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BANKRUPTCY Maurice Bonnet and Roger Marilhet, La Relièphographie’s co-directors, each focused their attention on different aspects of the company’s business. As technical director, Bonnet devoted most of his time to product development. Around 1947, more than twenty of La Relièphographie’s forty-seven employees worked in the research laboratories he supervised. Under his direction, the company filed forty-two patents in France and a significant number in other countries, including the United States, Canada, England, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Portugal, Spain, Argentina, and Brazil. As commercial director, Marilhet was in charge of foreign contracts and of traveling to negotiate agreements and work with collaborators. La Relièphographie’s relationship with its English franchise, Deep Pictures Limited, was indicative of the often complex and competitive relationship that developed between Bonnet and Marilhet—and between the Parisian company and those licensed to use its technology. Of all of La Relièphographie’s franchises, Deep Pictures seems to have created the most contentious situation back in France.79 Deep Pictures was created in 1946 and active until 1952.80 It received three O. P. 3000s and one O. P. 22 in June 1947. One of its photographs pictures an elegant couple turned toward each other in a V, each holding a glass of rum out to the camera, showing that the English company effectively mastered La Relièphographie’s compositional strategies (fig. 74). In the way it uses oblique angles, this picture is remi­ niscent of portraits of couples from the Champs-Élysées studio (fig.  61) and of La Relièphographie’s view of champagne drinkers (fig. 68) as well as of one of its earlier line-screen advertisements for Petit Bateau (fig. 44). The English licensee marketed its photographs for advertising, as indicated by a contemporary observer’s mention of its photographs in shop windows and by a label on the back of figure 74 with the slogan “Sell British to the World through a Deep Picture.”81 Marilhet worked closely with Deep Pictures, apparently attempting to use this company to move the lenticular business in the direction he—but not necessarily Bonnet—desired. For example, Marilhet helped Deep Pictures develop a compact outdoor camera with six lenses placed about 10 cm apart.82 He then proposed this camera to La Relièphographie’s Swiss licensee, Photorelief, in place of the unwieldy multimirror camera. Back in France, Bonnet’s research department deemed the principle of Deep Pictures’s invention uninteresting and “only adapted to the photography of subjects situated fairly close to the camera.”83 Business wasn’t easy for La  Relièphographie’s licensees, and their suggestions for product improvements encouraged the parent company to innovate. Recurring issues included fragile images (leading to work on Plexiglas screens), equipment that was difficult to ship, and high prices. In Bonnet’s opinion, however, La Relièphographie should have the final say on such subjects and always maintain technological control.

BANKRUPTCY

74: Deep Pictures, Autostereoscopic advertisement, ca. 1946–1950, gelatin silver on paper and lenticular screen on glass, 40 × 29.8 cm, Dr. Brian May collection.

Deep Pictures exacerbated tensions, even registering patents for its camera in its own name.84 Bonnet accused Marilhet of favoring Deep Pictures to La  Relièpho­ graphie’s detriment. It is indeed surprising that, in October 1947, the English company received dies for pressing lenticular screens from La Relièphographie—apparently going on to make its own Plexiglas screens and even, word had it, proposing them directly to La  Relièphographie’s American licensee Kurt Heath.85 Dies had always been the technology most closely guarded by Bonnet: they were the crux of the business because no company could survive without quality lenticular screens— as Sicper’s story showed. The die issue would be the last straw in the Bonnet-Marilhet conflict. Disputes between Bonnet and Marilhet started coming to a head around September  1947. To arbitrate discussions, Bonnet asked a commercial court to appoint an administrative receiver. Roger Autin started on January 1, 1948. Approximately twenty

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employees were fired the following month.86 A petition for bankruptcy was filed in June. The court decision for the liquidation plan was handed down on September 17, 1948, but the company was allowed to continue its business.87 Relations between the two directors became extremely tense as Bonnet became suspicious of Marilhet’s decisions, especially regarding sales of dies to licensees or potential licensees without his agreement. Both Deep Pictures and Heath apparently took possession of dies before contracts were signed, respectively in October 1947 and October 1949.88 After discovering missing dies in October 1949, Bonnet filed for liquidation of La Relièphographie. Meanwhile, Marilhet accused Bonnet of being mentally unstable and of making decisions that were not in the company’s best interests. A decision by the commercial court on January  12, 1951 ended the dispute by dismissing Bonnet as co-director, judging that he impeded the receiver’s work and didn’t do everything he could to help the company’s finances. La  Relièphographie continued to exist without Bonnet for several years after 1951. Thanks to a combination of quality products, solid patent protection, and the misfortunes of its competitors, it managed to dominate the market for lenticular

75: Discussion of Maurice Bonnet’s lenticular photography in Raymond Lecuyer, Histoire de la photographie (Paris: Baschet et Cie, 1945), 290–293.

MAURICE BONNET AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA

photography in France until it went out of business itself. Not much is known about its later activities, but apparently the receivers weren’t able to improve its financial situation. Overall, studio sales seem to have been acceptable, but the research division wasn’t profitable, and the foreign licensing contracts didn’t develop as planned.89 The company was declared bankrupt on April 2, 1954 and officially went out of business on July 8, 1954, seventeen years after its creation, with the sale of its remaining assets.90

MAURICE BONNET AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA La Relièphographie provides the first occasion to examine the commercialization of lenticular photography in France and the public’s reaction to it. The survival of the Champs-Élysées studio for over a decade shows that 1940s viewers found autostereoscopic photography attractive enough to want to see themselves represented in this way, despite the price tag. Reception of La Relièphographie’s portraits is revealing,

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bringing to light some of Bonnet’s underlying motivations and the connotations of the lenticular process for his contemporaries. Bonnet’s photographs elicited surprisingly serious interest in his day compared with today’s skepticism. Their inclusion in French histories of photography published at the close of World War II is especially telling. The most important was Raymond Lecuyer’s lavish large-format Histoire de la photographie (1945), France’s first imagebased survey of the history of the medium. Lecuyer dedicated a chapter to 3D, discussing stereoscopy and anaglyphs (red-and-blue glasses were included) then the work of Estanave and Lippmann; he concluded with a three-page presentation of ­Bonnet’s research accompanied by ten illustrations (fig. 75).91 Also in 1945, the smaller La photographie et ses applications by Jean Prinet included a section on 3D photography that culminated with Bonnet’s work, described with three technical drawings.92 When these books were published, La Relièphographie’s studio had only been open for three years, and readers could visit it, but it was already considered history in the making. The lenticular process had become part of the foundations of the “normal science” of photography, to use Thomas Kuhn’s expression: it was a clear achievement according to the practices and goals that then animated the field in France. 93 The specific way in which photography historians integrated 3D into their surveys is also significant: it was presented as part of a trio of visual illusions, composed of animation, color, and depth. The implication was that, if united, these elements of vision would confer complete perceptual realism on photography, allowing it to fully mimic the way we visually perceive the world. Lecuyer also included chapters on animation and color, and Prinet concluded his section on 3D by remarking: “This isn’t the place to analyze, even briefly, techniques for recording movement and sound that have already been studied elsewhere; just mentioning them [...] is enough to give an idea of the numerous possibilities of photography, capable of reproducing shapes, colors, and depth.”94 Another historical survey, Roger Simonet’s 1947 Cent ans d’image, was dedicated to “the latest progress in photography and cinema.” “Movies now have sound and the processes used to record it are continually improving; color is starting to be used. But even with these qualities, films are still missing something,” explained Simonet in his chapter on 3D. “Current technology provides a projected image that is not the strict reproduction of what the spectator would have seen if he had been at the filming. The impression of what we call depth is missing [...].”95 Unsurprisingly, Simonet concluded his chapter with lenticular photography and Bonnet. In the 1940s, French photographic historians commonly defended 3D as an essential element of photographic portrayal of the world as we see it. Bonnet’s lenticular photographs— with their strikingly realistic depth visible without a stereoscope or special glasses— represented the cutting edge in 3D research, and its future. Around the time he created La Relièphographie, Bonnet witnessed the consolidation of this progressivist vision of photographic technology, portrayed as moving

MAURICE BONNET AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA

towards complete mastery of perceptual realism. An integral-image utopia, as we might describe it, had been fed by technological progress of the previous decades. At the end of the nineteenth century, photography annexed animation in the form of the movies. In the 1920s, the association of different illusions escalated: “talking” and then color films became common fixtures. In the 1930s, writers on cinema increasingly considered auditory, chromatic, and three-dimensional illusions as part of a whole. In his 1935 study of the arrival of sound in movies, for example, Pierre Hémardinquer declared that since “ingenious and successful answers to the question of 3D projection” had been found (referring especially to Louis Lumière’s recent work on anaglyphic cinema), “integral cinema—with sound, in 3D, and in color—no longer seems utopian!”96 Adrian Cornwell-Clyne made an even stronger assertion in his Colour Cinematography, the first edition of which was published in 1936. The advent of sound in cinema “required the coloration of the monochrome image,” he reasoned, because “the extreme realism of the sound representation conflicted with the entirely artificial nature” of black and white. Likewise, he argued that the “inclusion of colour in a stereoscopic image enormously emphasizes its realistic effect.” He concluded that the use of 3D made color necessary: “[T]he presence of a complete illusion of three dimensional projection so increases the sensation of reality as to constitute a contradiction which defies the laws of artistic unity. Solid human figures in grey become ghostly dummies. It follows that the mind expects the image to be coloured as soon as it is perceived as a solid in full projection [italics in the original].”97 When two decades later art historian Ernst Gombrich underlined the importance of creating the right conditions of “expectation” if realistic illusions were to function, his own experience had clearly marked his thinking: he used the example of a Classical artist who “revealed his painting of a soldier to the accompaniment of a blast of trumpets,” adding: “Those of us who still remember the first talking films can imagine something of the effect.”98 It seemed natural in the 1930s and early 1940s that animation, sound, color, and 3D should be combined. Jonathan Auerbach underlines that this putting together of different sensory elements followed their being “taken apart” in the nineteenth century. He associates the tendency to merge them with the desire to ground the illusion of presence “in the whole human body” (my italics).99 French film critic André Bazin had posited in 1946 that the integral-image utopia was what guided the very invention of cinematography. He based his arguments on what he presented as a natural desire to associate different perceptual illusions: “In their imaginations [cinema’s precursors] saw the cinema as a total and complete representation of reality; they saw in a trice the reconstruction of a perfect illusion of the outside world in sound,

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color and relief.” Bazin called this the “myth of total cinema,” describing it as a quest for “the accomplishment of [...] an integral realism, a recreation of the world in its own image.”100 Tom Gunning has rightly underlined that Bazin’s much-commented notion of “total cinema” was steeped in the ideas of its time, when “immersive effects [...] seemed poised to become the norms of cinema rather than isolated special effects.”101 Bonnet’s lenticular photography was caught up in the same web of collective representations. Specialists of the history of photographic techniques (including cinema) were not the only ones to have integrated the utopian idea of an integral image. In 1944, French novelist René Barjavel prophesized in his futuristic Cinéma total essay that the producers of animated imagery would inevitably work with the third dimension: “Cinema is the only art of which the fate is intimately dependent upon technology. [...] Today, the filmmaker can no longer make a silent film. Tomorrow, he will no longer be able to make a grey film, and soon, a flat film.”102 Barjavel had noticed Bonnet’s images and felt disturbed by their truncated realism: “grey men and women [...] projected out of the flat surface that we are used to, surprise us by their immobility and especially by their livid complexion,” he wrote. “They seem like stuffed bodies, mummies preserved by some strange device but having lost all the color of life.”103 In the 1950s, publishing experts Hélène and Pierre Lazareff also strangely recalled the “3D photographs on metallic backgrounds” once exhibited on the Champs-Élysées.104 The way they described these portraits as being on metal suggests they experienced them as cold and grey. Partial perceptual realism was starting to appear unnatural to modern sensibilities. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, written in 1932, presents particularly convincing evidence that integral realism was imagined as a very possible future for the photographic image. Here, people went to the “Feelies”—a neologism that clearly indicated a one-upping of the “talkies,” themselves a recent progression from older “movies.”105 In a vivid passage in Brave New World, Lenina instructs the Savage on how to experience his first film. “Take hold of those metal knobs on the arms of your chair,” she whispered. “Otherwise you won’t get any of the feely effects.” Then: “[S]uddenly, dazzling and incomparably more solid-looking than they would have seemed in actual flesh and blood, far more real than reality, there stood the stereoscopic images, locked in one another’s arms, of a gigantic negro and a golden-haired young brachycephalic Beta-Plus female. The Savage started. That sensation on his lips! He lifted a hand to his mouth; the titillation ceased; let his hand fall back on the metal knob; it began again. The scent organ, meanwhile, breathed pure musk. [...] ‘Ooh-ah! Ooh-ah!’ the stereoscopic lips came together again, and once more the facial erogenous zones of the six thousand spectators in the Alhambra tingled with almost intolerable galvanic pleasure. ‘Ooh…’”106

MAURICE BONNET AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA

Interestingly, spectators at the Feelies had to use a device—knobs on their chairs—to perceive physical sensations but no longer to see the stereoscopic effects, as would be required of Huxley’s contemporary readers if they had had the opportunity to don two-colored glasses at one of the rare 3D films of their era.107 Using the unlimited possibilities of fiction, Huxley makes real a pervasive idea of the future of photographic technology: one of ever-increasing perceptual realism visible in more and more seamless ways. This seemed possible in the 1930s not only for a few lone inventors but clearly for the non-specialized public as well. Photographic imagery and the perceptual realism it promised was a recurring technological theme in the 1930s and 1940s, just as the airplane had been in the 1910s, or nuclear energy and robots would be in the 1950s. As with other technologies, it was when lenticular photography struck a cultural chord that it attracted attention as “new.”108 This happened in the 1940s more than it had in the early 1900s, when (in a form using a line screen) it truly was a recent invention. La Relièphographie’s portraits can only be fully understood in this larger context, namely with respect to utopian ideas regarding “integral” photographic realism that permeated French thought in the interwar years. Maurice Bonnet, born in 1908, was twenty at the end of the 1920s. La Relièphographie focused on 3D illusions because the young inventor’s dream was to obtain a perfect illusion of depth not only in photography but also in motion pictures. Throughout his career, Bonnet kept abreast of research on 3D cinema, especially processes that worked without glasses. All of the inventors studying lenticular photography in the 1930s were interested in 3D projection systems, but none went as far as Bonnet in their dreams for the future. Bonnet was realistic (“we still haven’t done much,” he wrote in 1945); nonetheless his conviction was such that in 1972 he still dreamt of perfecting “the ultimate 3D illusion” (le relief absolu) with a system in which the projection screen no longer existed and the spectator “found himself in a world identical to real life.”109 For Bonnet, 3D lenticular photography was the path towards a natural, glasses-free cinematic experience. Inspired as a youth by a pervasive fascination with perceptual realism, he helped perpetuate it in the 1940s as the public discovered with its own eyes what his striking new lenticular process made possible. Signs set up outside a travelling exhibit of La  Relièphographie’s photographs at the time carried messages that could be dismissed as fairground hype but that read as uncannily accurate when set in historical context: “Honor to 3  Frenchmen,” proclaimed one. “Niépce Nicéphore, inventor of photography. Lumière Louis, inventor of cinematography. Bonnet Maurice, inventor of 3D photography” (fig. 76). After the birth of photography, then animated photog­ raphy, Bonnet’s images were the next step towards full perceptual realism. Bonnet’s photography was the future because 3D cinema was the future: the lenticular process was the only one to provide glasses-free viewing in theaters and therefore to promise “natural” perception of an integral image. The 1940s also witnessed

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76: Anonymous, Traveling exhibit of photographs by La Relièphographie, ca. 1945–1947, gelatin silver print, 6 × 10.5 cm, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

the first public experiments in autostereoscopic cinema. Although René Barjavel, quoted above, claimed in 1944 that Bonnet’s process couldn’t be used for movies, it already had been in Moscow. A theater using Semyon Ivanov’s autostereoscopic linescreen system functioned for a few months in 1941 and would again in lenticular form from 1947.110 During their post-war trip to the USSR, Hélène and Pierre Lazareff went to one of these 3D movies, proudly promoted by the office of tourism. They found the experience lacking in naturalness, however: “To see the image with unpredictable

77: François Savoye’s Cyclostereoscope at Luna Park, Paris, 1945–1946, still photographs shown in a 1963 television interview with Savoye, Institut National de l’Audiovisuel.

MAURICE BONNET AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA

[incertain] 3D, one has to stare at the small rectangle of light placed below the iron or tin screen,” they reported. “The light is green when visibility is good. If—woe is you— you accidentally tilt your head a little to the right or left, the light turns yellow, purple, orange, or red and everything disappears—the 3D and the image. You have to keep still until you are stiff.”111 Back in Paris, the inventor François Savoye presented a first prototype of his “Cyclostéréoscope” 3D projection system at Luna Park in the fall of 1945 (fig. 77). His modest contraption (a line-screen drum rotating around a 110 cm wide projection screen) doesn’t appear to have created much of a public stir, but he did attract financing to build a larger model.112 Actual autostereoscopic cinema was far from Huxley’s Feelies, but it held promise—or at least could claim to at the time, riding on the cresting wave of progressivist discourse surrounding perceptual realism. None other than filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein wrote in the late 1940s, after seeing Ivanov’s autostereoscopic cinema: “To doubt that stereoscopic cinema has its tomorrow is as naive as doubting whether there will be tomorrows at all.”113 The World War II era witnessed a climax in belief in the integral-image utopia. The portrayal of movies as Feelies in Brave New World and the fact that an immersive image experience was part of the story also help us discern discomfort with the development of photographic technology and change in the air regarding the status of lenticular photography.114 Brave New World wasn’t meant to represent an ideal future. It portrayed technology in an overly dominant role—progress running past its desirable outcome. Contemporary writings on photography and cinematography also occasionally voiced such concerns. Cornwell-Clyne underlined the ambiguity of color. It was commonly assumed to be about realism, he argued, but fell short of it and was interesting for other reasons: “Most cinema-goers seem to agree that the colour film is more ‘real’ than the black-and-white film [...]. Only the exceptional observer, generally an artist, is capable of an analysis sufficiently penetrating to be aware of the fact that the colour of film may fail to achieve the increased realism hoped for, and that the addition of colour constitutes a move backwards [...] a move, in fact, away from realism towards the terms of an art form.”115 For Barjavel, color and 3D were an artistically dangerous lure because the cinematographer risked being drawn in by the naturalistic illusion. He hoped filmmakers would use such technical feats as a means of expression instead: “The more the vocabulary of cinematography—a vocabulary of images, colors, and volumes—is enriched, the more film authors will have to work within a rigorous syntax. Not to restrict themselves to a dull realism, but, thanks to the material impression of truth, to sweep the crowd directly into the heart of poetry.”116

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In the early 1940s, lenticular photography reached the general public, consolidating its associations with perceptual realism while image specialists started to hope that technologies permitting such realism not be used strictly to that end. “[T]he perfection of illusion was also the hour of disillusionment,” as Gombrich wrote regarding the history of painting.117 As the war ended and the mythic La Relièphographie studio closed its doors, an interesting stage was set for new actors in the domain of lentic­ ular imagery to explore the commercial potential of the process in a way in tune with post-war desires.

CHAPTER FIVE

LIGHTS, COLOR, ACTION! POINT-OF-SALE ADVERTISING

One wouldn’t expect a photograph of a canning jar to be particularly attractive, but the example shown in figure 78 is strangely captivating. The vibrant, full-color image pictures a smooth glass jar that is set center stage and appears life-sized and three-dimensional. The ordinary jar is majestic in this sparse setting with the straighton perspective adopted. The precision of color transparency film brings realistic luminosity to the glass object and makes the “Le Parfait” brand name in raised letters on its surface perfectly visible. When the photograph is viewed from one angle, the 3D jar is full of red cherries and its lid is closed. From another angle, it is empty with its top slightly open. From yet others (as pictured here) it quite implausibly appears to be filled with cherries on just one side. As we explore the volumes, textures, and different states of this simple still life, every detail of the jar becomes engraved in our minds. This image would make—and surely was intended to be—an eye-catching advertisement. Produced in the second half of the 1950s, this photograph looks nothing like those by Maurice Bonnet’s celebrated La Relièphographie company just a few years earlier. Around the time of La Relièphographie’s bankruptcy in 1954 and the closing of its Champs-Élysées portrait studio, several new enterprises were attracted by the commercial potential of lenticular imagery. Sometimes employing their predecessor’s technology, they marketed the lenticular process in novel ways to adapt it to contemporary tastes. Many of the qualities distinguishing the new images—particularly luminosity, color, and animation—were prized in the growing post-war advertising industry. Technical and commercial innovation in lenticular imagery was driven by this new market, transforming the process from a utopian technology for pursuing perceptual realism to a visual medium capable of sparking curiosity and focusing attention in a competitive visual environment.

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78: Publirama, Animated autostereoscopic advertisement for Le Parfait canning jars, 1956–1961, color transparency and lenticular screen, 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

FROM PORTRAITS TO PUBLICITY The production of lenticular imagery in 1950s France was dominated by two enterprises, both without previous experience in the field but quite aware of La Relièpho­ graphie’s work. The inventor and entrepreneur Georges Mengden (1897–1983) was the first to arrive on the scene. Born in Russia, Mengden emigrated to France around 1922. He worked in aviation engineering at first, but shortly before World War II his primary invention (a navigational system for pilots) was classified by the Department of Defense, depriving him of any possibility of commercial development. His daugh­ ter recounted that after the war, out of frustration, he started working with the lenticular process to distance himself from Defense concerns.1 Mengden knew about the Champs-Élysées studio; his daughter remembered accompanying him there. He filed

FROM PORTRAITS TO PUBLICITY

79: Publirama, Autostereoscopic portrait, 1956–1961, color transparency and lenticular screen, 18.2 × 24.3 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

his first patent for the lenticular process in the spring of 1949, when La  Relièpho­ graphie was still in existence.2 Mengden was soon joined by a second manufacturer of lenticular imagery: Seroptic (also known as Publirama). Seroptic was created in October 1955 under the direction of a businessman named Roger Zoller (1904–1983)3 and based its work on the technology of La Relièphographie, liquidated in July 1954.4 Zoller bought up some of La Relièphographie’s assets in late 1954 or early 1955 and brought them to his new company.5 Seroptic then acquired a number of La Relièphographie’s old cameras in early May  1956.6 By late spring, Seroptic thus possessed the patents, commercial premises (152 avenue des Champs-Élysées), telephone number, and a large part of the equipment of its predecessor. On May 4th, an employee sent Maurice Bonnet invitations to a commercial fair where the company would be present. “I hope you will be able to visit our stand,” he wrote. “After a long time preparing and getting everything ready, we are now ready to do business.”7 The new Seroptic company appeared in the telephone directory for the first time in 1956 as “the exclusive world producer of optical devices and cameras for all kinds of 3D or animated imagery.”8 It regularly called itself Publirama—the brand name it put on its images—and I will subsequently refer to it as Publirama here. In keeping with tradition, both Mengden and Publirama produced portraits, at least in their early years. But the way they transformed lenticular portraiture using

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80: Georges Mengden, Animated portrait (as seen from two angles), 1950s, color transparency and lenticular screen, 24 × 18 cm, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

color and/or animation is indicative of a visual revolution underway in the field. The 3D photograph of the couple in figure 79 appears typical of likenesses produced by Publirama.9 The luminosity and brilliance of the colors obtained with transparency film reinforce the illusion of depth. The careful arrangement of the woman’s hand and jewelry and of the man’s jacket lapels indicate that Publirama had successfully mastered the principles of 3D composition using an O. P. 3000 or possibly an O. P. 22 camera.10 Georges Mengden also produced portraits on color film, specializing not in 3D but in complex animated illusions. His photographs brought unprecedented subtlety to an area of research that hadn’t received significant commercial attention since the line-screen era.11 An 18 × 24  cm portrait of a woman in a blue-and-white striped shirt is a characteristic example (fig. 80). As the image is progressively tipped from top to bottom, the subject slowly smiles, turning her eyes to look toward the camera; she then gazes into the distance again and gradually loses her smile to come back to her initial expression. This complex progression of movement repeats in a loop as the photograph is tilted in one direction and is seen in reverse as it is tilted back again. Mengden installed his camera at home and doesn’t seem to have promoted his specialty portraits in professional directories or the phone book, suggesting a very small private clientele for this product. The uses of lenticular technology described in his patents relate to advertising—the only field he judged would permit him to live from lenticular imagery.12 Portraiture seems to have been a limited activity for Publirama

AT THE POINT OF SALE

as well; no known examples outside archives can be traced to it. Publirama rarely publicized its portrait services and appears not to have maintained La  Relièpho­ graphie’s high-profile studio on the Champs-Élysées.13 Its announcements in the Bottin and Annuaire directories were in the advertising section, and it took out ads in Vendre, an advertising trade journal. Most telling was the name it adopted: “Publirama”— a contraction of publicité, for advertising, and rama, a popular suffix in the 1950s associated with spectacular entertainment.14 In the 1910s and 1920s, line-screen images had been printed with promotional messages, and La Relièphographie occasionally produced in-store advertisements in the late 1930s and 1940s. Now advertising was eclipsing portraiture as the best-selling utilization of lenticular photography.

AT THE POINT OF SALE The specific type of advertising for which Publirama and Mengden used their photographs was point-of-sale display. This was an increasingly popular practice and one particularly compatible with lenticular photography. In France, in-store promotional materials were used to an unprecedented degree starting in the 1950s, becoming the object of concerted efforts by ad men working in a field that had matured since the 1920s.15 This led to the term publicité sur le lieu de vente (advertising at the point of sale) to describe the practice. In France, a national association of point-of-sale advertising was founded in 1957 and established the acronym PLV.16 In 1958, a special section for it appeared in the Annuaire de la presse et de la publicité, an important industry directory. Thinking about this practice therefore intensified just when Mengden and Publirama were launching their businesses. Mengden’s patents describe advertising in display units starting in 1952. Publirama cited point-of-sale applications for its images as early as 1958, indicating that it was also explicitly targeting such accounts. When creating a section for point-of-sale advertising in 1958, the publishers of the Annuaire de la presse et de la publicité explained it thus: “It covers all attempts at advertising made at the last stage of distribution in order to turn the potential customer’s desire to buy—be it conscious or not, inside or in front of the store—into a sale.”17 Philippe Vaillant, author of a book on the subject in 1967, underlined that its growth reflected changes in the distribution of products for general consumption, in particular the appearance of larger stores where no one helped shoppers decide what to purchase. The notion of “impulse” buying played a key role: such purchases could account for as much a 30 percent of sales in supermarkets, and “the decision to buy was made at the point of sale” 40  percent of the time, reported Vaillant with the industry’s love of numbers.18 Women were particularly courted because specialists considered them to be responsible for most household purchases and more impulsive than men when making choices.19

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Eye-catching and intriguing lenticular photographs were an attractive tool for point-of-sale advertising. A Publirama photograph picturing Nuit de Longchamp perfume illustrates one of the company’s approaches to 3D point-of-sale display (fig. 81): a product with its name clearly visible was photographed up close in a spare and intensely colored setting that highlighted its concrete presence.20 The square bottle of perfume is seen in perspective, with the visible construction of the backdrop and subtle lighting contributing to the impression of depth. A Publirama advertisement for Christofle silverware was similarly straightforward and elegant, with three pieces of silver reaching into the frame and clearly detaching from a solid-red background carrying the brand’s name. Other creations were busier. In a 3D ad for Swing-Star ashtrays, an example of the product—an ashtray that “swung” the ashes down into a lower compartment at the push of a button—was placed in the center of the image on a piece of spotted fur. 3D interest was reinforced with the addition of multicolored cartridges and a gloved hand reaching into the frame to press on the ashtray’s mechanism. The words “Swing-Star” appeared at the top on a transparent inlay.

81: Publirama, Autostereoscopic advertisement for Nuit de L­ ongchamp perfume, 1956–1961, color transparency and lenticular screen, 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

AT THE POINT OF SALE

82: Georges Mengden, Animated photograph of woman painting her nails (as seen from two angles), 1950s, color transparency and lenticular screen, 24 × 18 cm, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

Mengden’s advertising photographs were adaptations of his portrait-based technology and employed the complex animated illusions that were his specialty. A playful photograph from the inventor’s archives showing a woman smiling and painting her nails may not have been an actual commission, but it shows the attractive potential of such techniques for advertising (fig. 82). As the photograph is tipped, the model flirtatiously changes her expression while applying polish to one of her nails. Another picture of the same model shows her holding a bottle of soda in one hand and a glass in the other, smiling and moving her eyes as she tips the bottle and raises her glass. Other creations by Mengden picture a woman dressed in evening wear holding a tube of red lipstick, with her made-up lips closed then smiling, and a red-headed woman displaying a bottle of Barbarossa beer while she smiles and moves her eyes. Products for general consumption (like cooking oil, canning jars, powdered milk, coffee, cosmetics, and typewriter ribbons) and luxury items (perfume, silver, leather goods, alcohol) both appear to have been advertised using lenticular photography. 1950s lenticular point-of-sale advertisements brought photographic precision together with depth and/or animation to represent products in a very concrete manner.

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Advertising photographs made by La Relièphographie in the 1930s and 1940s—those for Alsa (fig.  33), Petit Bateau (figs.  44, 45), and hosiery (fig.  63), for example—had played with a combination of the human figure and objects to create an attractive scene referring to the product. In contrast, Publirama’s photographs proposed a more literal rendition of what was being sold. The product was physically present, often in its packaged form, and central to the composition, with people surprisingly absent. Mengden’s advertisements, on the other hand, often drew their appeal from the way an attractive female model changed her expression or moved the items pictured. Whether 3D or animated, 1950s advertisements limited their narrative to simple staging evoking the desired atmosphere: elegance (perfume, silverware, lipstick), playfulness (nail polish, cola), etc. This contrasted with the use of photography in print advertising, in which more complex stories started to gain ground in the 1930s as art directors were swayed by the power of what Patricia Johnston has termed “naturalism” which “seamlessly blended information with sentimental appeal.”21 In the 1950s, the “naturalist” trend strengthened as agencies stressed that good advertising was about the idea behind the campaign and that photographs, if used, were there to assist in illustrating this concept. Photographs in magazine advertisements increasingly mimicked styles used in the articles they accompanied, depicting scenes implying a certain middle-class lifestyle.22 Lenticular photographs, however, were meant to function in a different context than these print ads, which have traditionally dominated scholarly interest in advertising photography. Lenticular point-of-sale advertisements were designed for display in a store, where they should efficiently attract attention in a complex environment, confronting the shopper with a recognizable object placed close to where the real product could be purchased. They could arguably afford less subtlety. Although Publirama and Mengden’s point-of-sale advertisements weren’t very elaborate in their narrative conception compared to those in periodicals, they were modern in their own ways. The directions in which Mengden and Publirama took lenticular photography, both technically and commercially, adapted it to qualities deemed important in the 1950s for advertisements placed in stores. In particular, color and animated illusions were exploited more extensively than ever before, and new allplastic materials made images less fragile.

COLOR!

COLOR! In France, color was one of the primary innovations to mark lenticular photography after World War II and was vital to marketing the process as an advertising medium. American companies had moved in this direction in the late 1940s, and for color and lenticular specialist Louis Walton Sipley, new color films were “responsible for the growth of three-dimensional photography” there at the time.23 Most of the advertisements made by Publirama and Mengden used color transparency films like Ekta­ chrome (commercialized by Kodak in 1946), making monochrome images suddenly look very dated.24 One of Publirama’s early creations was a black-and-white 3D photograph of a chessboard promoting its own services (fig. 83). It described 3D advertising as “hors cadre,” or exceptional, using a play on words literally translating as “out of the frame.” However when Publirama started listing its services in the 1958 Bottin directory, it only mentioned its advertising photographs in “natural color,” and most of its clients appear to have chosen this option.

83: Publirama, Autostereoscopic photograph promoting lenticular advertising, ca. 1956, gelatin silver on paper and lenticular screen, 30 × 24 cm, private collection. 84: Advertisement for the Draeger 301 color printing process, in Vendre (September 1956).

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Since the 1930s, photography, color, and color photography had been increasingly explored to heighten the effectiveness of advertising.25 When Mengden and Publirama launched their lenticular images on transparency film in the 1950s, consumer goods themselves were increasingly designed with attention to chromatic appeal.26 Color remained a hot topic in the illustrated press and advertising industries. The novelty of its reproduction in print attracted attention, and the question of its power was actively discussed in advertising and editorial circles. In 1956, one printer promoted his services by declaring: “There is no question about it. Advertising in Color sells better.”27 The same year, the printer Draeger went as far as to say that high-quality color added depth to the image, describing the “recipe” for its luxurious 301 photogravure process alongside pictures of food: “Lots of Vigor to catch the eye; enough Depth to provoke the urge to touch; Sensibility and Accuracy; and Flavor to arouse the desire to taste” (fig. 84).28 Color and depth were associated with the desire for possession. Vendre also argued that convincing realism fueled desire: “An advertisement in color represents a lively world as we see it—or even in slightly exaggerated tones— but gives the reader the impression of reality,” the trade journal affirmed. “We can conclude that a color advertisement attracts more attention, presents a ‘real’ product, creates more need. But the reproduction must be as faithful as possible.”29 Realism attracted attention, and eye-catching advertisements were judged more effective. This “realism sells” discourse was the driving force behind expansion of the color printing industry, and it intensified as new tools for color photography and color printing converged after World War II.30 The vibrant tones and the precision of the color transparency films used in lenticular photographs provided a realistic and attractive representation of products and their distinctive packaging. Chromatic interest was reinforced using background materials and props. Although the exact colors of these film-based photographs are difficult to ascertain today because of significant fading, the general strategy remains clear.31 For example, a Publirama ad for Solutricine, a sore-throat remedy, shows the product’s yellow metal tin filled with its signature lozenges, vanilla-white on one side and lemon-yellow on the other (fig. 85). The background is a complemen­ tary light blue, and letters cut out of reddish sandpaper spell “maux de gorge” (sore throats). Graphically placed red, white, and blue lines structure the image while serving to suspend the tin of lozenges in a three-dimensional space. The advertisement for Nuit de Longchamp perfume discussed above (fig.  81) also used strong colors, ­displaying a bottle of amber liquid against a raspberry-red background. In a similar way, the red cherries of the Le Parfait canning jar (fig. 78) were made to stand out against a blue backdrop. As when images of food were used to promote color photog­ raphy processes, here the vibrant cherries help make the idea of canning seem appetizing. Props were employed to present products in everyday settings and increase color interest. An expanse of blue carpet formed a solid background in a Publirama

COLOR!

85: Publirama, Animated autostereoscopic advertisement for Solutricine sorethroat medicine, 1956–1961, color transparency and lenticular screen, 18 × 13 cm, private collection. 86: Publirama, Autostereoscopic advertisement for Cointreau, 1956–1961, color transparency and lenticular screen, 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

advertisement for Le Tapis d’Avignon carpets. In 3D, a pair of feet with red polished nails and red pattern-print slippers stood out with natural volumes in front of the carpet, with one slipper cast aside to allow a bare foot to experience the comfort of the product. In a 3D Publirama advertisement for Cointreau, an orange half decorated with bright candied cherries provides an interesting counterpoint to the liqueur’s characteristic amber bottle (fig.  86). A white tabletop and bright pink background brighten the scene further. In his portrait-based advertisements, Mengden worked in a similar way, choosing clothing and backgrounds in contrasting colors, often in shades of red and blue. Color brought constraints to lenticular photography, but they were apparently workable in the context of in-store advertising. Because color transparency films produced no negative, reprints were impossible; the desired number of images had to be ordered from the start. Even so, and even though these color photographs cost two to three times that of black-and-white ones, they apparently were preferred by most clients as more visually modern.32 Color transparencies also had to be lit from behind.

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However, in a store or a store window, space could be made near an electric outlet for a display unit, and the obvious nature of such a contraption would faze no one. The very fact that such photographs were backlit may even have made them more attrac­ tive for advertisers who like the public of the time admired luminous signage as a spectacular visual medium.33

ACTION! The choices made by Publirama, Mengden, and their clients also brought another aspect of lenticular photography to the forefront in the 1950s: animated illusions, popular earlier in the century but eclipsed by increasingly naturalistic 3D imagery in the 1930s and 1940s. Like color, animation was a recurring theme in 1950s advertising discourse. A 1952 article in Vente et publicité is illustrative, explaining that the goal of point-of-sale advertising was “to awaken at the right time a previously created need slumbering in the subconscious mind.” The perception of movement could be of great importance in calling attention to such displays, it said: “Everybody does their utmost to find an eye-catching ‘trick.’ That is why so many ready-to-use apparatuses can be found to create movement and animate point-of-sale advertising.” The journalist described examples of recent inventions aimed at doing so: the “Movietexte” process (words seem to scroll in thin air), the “Slogan” device (“letters swirl around, slow down, then stop: a text appears”), the “Vitriscope” using “cross-fade techniques from the movies” (a miniature scene appears in three dimensions and transforms itself), etc. The Vitriscope technique was described as “a revolution in animated advertising technology”: “It really attracts attention because it is intriguing,” explained the article. “Everyone wants to know how it works.”34 Although lenticular imagery was not

ACTION!

87: Detail of an animated portrait by Georges Mengden (see fig. 80) as seen from eight different angles, 1950s, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

included in this article, it perfectly fits the description of an eye-catching and intriguing movement-based medium. Mengden’s specialization in animated effects was right in line with this trend. The complex movements rendered by his photographs were fascinating. In the portrait shown in figure  80, for example, the sitter’s expression changes in different places at different times. If eight different moments in the animation are photographed and examined separately (fig. 87), it becomes apparent that the sitter develops a smile very progressively but moves her eyes for only a short time, to look briefly

88: Automated display frame for animated photographs, in Georges Mengden, patent FR 1,114,267, March 27, 1952. 89: Publirama, Animated autostereoscopic advertisement for powdered milk (as seen from two angles), 1956–1961, color transparency and lenticular screen, 40 × 30 cm, private collection.

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towards the camera at one point in the sequence. In the nail polish photograph (fig. 82), the model progressively paints her nail as she smiles and looks in different directions. These photographs use a screen with its lenses oriented horizontally, ensuring that each of the viewer’s eyes see the same stage of the animation at a given time for a sharper and more satisfying illusion of natural movement. Images like these were made according to Mengden’s “symmetrical” recording method. During exposure, the inventor explained, the subject “adopts a specific expression, then changes expressions or poses, turning his or her head and/or eyes, then comes back to the original position.”35 A recording time of approximately thirty seconds allowed the subject to move naturally without being rushed. Successful examples show no abrupt jump in the animation where the two ends of the sequence meet. Mengden’s association of symmetrical movement, long exposure times, and large-format color transparency film resulted in highly naturalistic images. When his photographs are animated, they look impressively like short films of their subjects. The animation speeds up or slows down as the photograph is tilted back and forth at different speeds. It is strange when made to go too fast—like a 33-rpm record played at 45, or a film on fast-forward—but when it is perceived at a plausible speed, the subject acquires a strikingly concrete presence that almost seems three-dimensional, even though there is no stereoscopic illusion. Mengden patented the camera that recorded his symmetrical-movement photographs in 1951.36 It was a traditional view camera that had a lens with a special diaphragm and shutter and that was equipped with a motorized device to progressively move the photographic surface behind a lenticular screen during the recording process. The photosensitive surface was placed in contact with the lenticular screen in the film holder. The film holder was inserted in a larger frame—an imposing apparatus with a disc-shaped mechanism on the side that helped synchronize the film’s movement with other aspects of the recording process. When recording began, the camera lens opened and the disc started to rotate; the disc was attached to a micrometer screw and as it turned, the screw tip exerted slow and continuous pressure on a metal tongue in the film holder. This slowly pushed the film behind the lenticular screen as the photograph was recorded. A full rotation of the disc corresponded to the film’s movement over the width of one lenticular-screen lens and thus to exposure of the entire photographic surface. The recording time of thirty seconds was divided into several periods, which could follow each other without interruption (as in the photographs examined above) or be recorded as discreet units. For the latter, the disc that controlled the movement of the film and the opening and closing of the lens was crucial. It was made of a non-con­ductive material on which a series of metal plaques were set, dividing its perime­ter into sections that were “electrically separate from one another,” according to the camera’s patent; these sections were linked by individual wires to other parts

ACTION!

of the synchronization apparatus. Each metallic section corresponded to a portion of the recording time and hence to a fraction of the sensitive surface behind the lenses of the lenticular screen. During exposure, a small metal arm was in contact with the disc as it turned, forming a circuit as it ran across each plaque. When the metallic arm hit the non-conductive part of the disc, the recording could be interrupted (with the lens closed and the film immobilized) and one subject substituted for another or something removed from or added to the scene before resuming. The synchronization disc could be linked to a headrest or to a moving reference point visible to the subject to help him or her to coordinate with the progression of the recording. For Mengden, this was useful in particular for “the production of changing images for advertising.” The camera’s patent described possible uses of the system, including showing the same subject “wearing other clothes, or a different hat or hairstyle.”37 In one archival image, the nail-polish model holds a package of Lux laundry detergent that disappears and reappears as her facial expression changes. In another, a woman holds a compact that appears open or closed in her right hand while a cosmetic brush abruptly appears in different positions in her left hand. Elsewhere, a man gradually changes expressions as the hat he wears suddenly disappears and reappears. Other images made by Mengden were “changing” instead of “animated”: they switched between two completely different views. For example, an advertisement for Duval vegetable oil shows a bottle of the product from certain angles, and a bowl of salad and the name of the product from others; a bottle of Cinzano changes with a figurine of the brand’s zebra emblem set next to a glass; and a Four Roses whiskey bottle alternates with a vase of four red roses. Mengden’s most striking photographs tend to focus on similar types of animation, based on smiles and moving eyes. Attempts at other movements often seem less successful. Black-and-white archival negatives show a man rolling a cigarette, a man lighting a cigarette (the cigarette and the lighter move), and a woman turning her head, but the animation isn’t symmetrical and the activity portrayed isn’t as engaging as facial expressions. Mengden designed a motorized backlit display unit for his advertisements that tipped from top to bottom at the ideal speed (fig.  88).38 The inventor’s daughter remembers some of her father’s creations being presented like this in the window of the optician Leroy on the Champs-Élysées. They likely resembled a transparency from the inventor’s archives showing a woman progressively smiling as glasses appear on her face and a changing rhyming slogan advises: “Si votre vue décroit [/] Portez les lunettes Leroy” (If your eyesight is declining [/] Wear Leroy glasses).39 This type of advertising surely allowed a store to attract the attention of passers-by, on the sidewalk or inside, so that they better remember its location or the product advertised. Animated effects were more immediate than 3D  illusions, which didn’t announce themselves with as much visual force to a moving viewer and required more concentration to admire the full effect.

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Publirama also made animated advertisements, devising a way to combine 3D and animation in the same image using La  Relièphographie’s old equipment and a single screen with vertically oriented lenses. A 30 × 40 cm advertisement for powdered milk is a catchy example (fig. 89). A red tin of milk powder and two glasses appear in 3D in front of an out-of-focus, sky-colored background. The glass on the right appears to be filled with milk from any angle of observation, but the glass on the left transforms: from one point of view it is filled with water and a spoon full of milk powder hovers above it; from another viewpoint, the spoon is tipped and empty and the glass below it is full of milk. The text on the tin also changes. The transformations are abrupt because only two different positions are combined, but the effect is eyecatching. The advertisement for Solutricine examined above (fig. 85) is also animated: it shows the box of lozenges in a three-dimensional space, and when the image is tilted the solid box transforms to reveal the product inside. In Publirama’s hybrid advertisements, a view of the product as it was sold generally alternated with one showing what it looked like inside the packaging or evoking how it was used—as when a small cylindrical tin of Nescafé transformed into a cup of coffee, or an empty Le  Parfait canning jar was suddenly full of cherries (fig.  78). Publirama may have made these photographs with La Relièphographie’s O. P. 3000 portrait camera, which moved around the subject in an arc for several seconds (figs. 57, 58).40 The size of the objects represented appears compatible with this camera’s recording of a zone 40 cm deep. It is plausible that its movement could have been interrupted part way through to change something (replace an empty canning jar with a full one, for example) before resuming. Mengden and Publirama were the first producers of lenticular photographs to truly explore the technical and commercial potential of animation. Unlike the line screen, the recently introduced lenticular screen allowed the interlacing of a large number of images without compromising luminosity. Because an increased amount of information could be synthesized, the illusion of animation could be combined with that of depth using the same vertically oriented screen or used to represent smooth movie-like movement. With more “notes,” the theme played by the image could contain complex rhythms, mixing details moving at different moments for varying lengths of time. The illusion of animation reached a new level of refinement, heightened by brilliantly luxurious color transparency films.

THE ALL-PLASTIC ERA Lenticular photographs of the 1950s were different from those of La Relièphographie conceptually (as advertisements) and aesthetically (with their use of color and animated illusions). They were also very different physically, because they no longer

THE ALL-PLASTIC ERA

90: Cross sections of lenticular screens for animated portraits (left) and advertisements (right), in Georges Mengden, patent FR 1,125,904, April 2, 1951. 91: Publirama, Animated advertisement for Warner’s undergarments (as seen from two angles), 1956– 1961, printed image and lenticular screen, 29.4 × 23.3 cm, private collection.

contained glass. Black-and-white photographs on glass plates were replaced by color photographs on film, and La Relièphographie’s cellulose-acetate-on-glass screen was abandoned for an all-plastic one. La Relièphographie had actively pursued the development of glass-free lenticular screens in the 1940s, but it never commercialized them. They were an important development for opening lenticular photography to advertising because they made the images lighter and sturdier. Publirama seems to have rapidly produced all-plastic screens with similar lens characteristics to those of La Relièphographie’s plastic-on-glass screens, likely using its predecessor’s old equipment.41 Mengden invented his own plastic screens, patenting a “low-cost” method for the industrial production of Plexiglas versions in 1951, when La Relièphographie was still in existence.42 He designed his screens’ optical characteristics to work with his own visual illusions, in particular rethinking the optimal angle over which the viewer moved to see the full series of images recorded before the cycle started over again. The angle of La Relièphographie’s screen was 16°, chosen for recording and rendering a particular 3D illusion; this screen went handin-hand with the company’s cameras, including the O. P. 3000 that moved over a 16° arc. Mengden found this viewing angle to be “very far from the one desirable for perfect animated images.”43 He preferred a screen with an angle of 24°  to  48°—smaller for

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­ ortraits and larger for advertisements, with narrower lenses for images seen up p close (0.4 mm, like in Bonnet’s screen) and wider ones (0.8 mm) for viewing from a distance (fig. 90). Even with a plastic screen, lenticular photographs using color transparency film remained relatively delicate objects. They were constructed by carefully aligning the film by hand behind the rigid plastic lenticular screen then sandwiching it from the back with a sheet of semi-transparent plastic. The composition was sealed tightly by taping it—or riveting and taping it, in Publirama’s case—around the edges to maintain the film in direct contact with the screen and protect it from temperature and humidity changes that would warp it and obstruct proper perception of the illusions. The complexity and cost of these large-format, hand-mounted, original photographs limited sales. One indication of this is that ink-printed images were exerting a sway in the field of lenticular point-of-sale advertising. Alongside its color transparencies, Publirama offered printed display-format images using graphic illustrations; they were surely cheaper because they didn’t necessitate expensive large-format photographic film or as much manual labor.44 For example, a 24 × 30  cm ad for Warner’s undergarments was printed in bold block colors and presented two poses showing a woman in her bra and girdle easily bending over (fig. 91). A printed advertisement for a new “Fantomas” book published by Robert Laffont pictured the mysterious character advancing across the Parisian skyline with his dagger raised. The red-and-black animated illustration was mounted on white cardboard announcing “Fantomas is back” and “for sale here.” A label was glued on the back of one of these images instructing the shopkeeper regarding its easy display: “Place this image at least 150 cm from the eyes for perfect animation.” Printed advertisements weren’t as visually sophisticated as Ektachrome transparencies, but they were certainly catchy, lower-priced, and less cumbersome to display. Large Ektachrome photographs were the most sophisticated lenticular images of the 1950s, prolonging pre-war goals of associating photographic realism with color, depth, and animation. They apparently didn’t sell very well, however. Publirama and Mendgen produced large lenticular photographs for a fairly limited time. They mainly focused on the small printed premiums to be examined in Chapter 6. By the mid-1960s, no active producer of photographic lenticular prints seems to have been active in France. Technical mastery was not the issue: cost was the bottom line. Maurice Bonnet would discover this when he re-entered the arena of commercial lenticular photography in 1966, also banking on point-of-sale advertising (Chapter  8). Printed imagery was the way of the future.

POST-WAR 3D

POST-WAR 3D During the 1950s, lenticular photography found its calling in point-of-sale display, where the power to turn the eye, arouse curiosity, and be memorable were highly valued. This reflected growing approval of lenticular imagery’s qualities in advertising but also waning interest in its use for portraiture, previously an essential moneymaker. It is striking that appropriation of the lenticular process in its most committed form—via personal likenesses—declined just when the realism of lenticular photography reached its height thanks to highly naturalistic volume or life-like movement associated with splendidly sharp color. This suggests a rejection of extreme verisimilitude as unflattering or even disturbing. The evolving connotations of other forms of 3D photography, including movies, show that attitudes towards technologies once associated with a utopian form of perceptual realism were changing. In the 1950s, stereoscopy once again became a popular type of commercial imagery, after existing largely via amateur practice during the first decades of the century.

92: Lestrade, Stereoview catalog, 1954, private ­collection.

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The View-Master system was a favorite, with its extensive catalog of discs of images on film, as were rectangular-card systems sold by Lestrade, Colorelief, Bruguière, and others in France—all to be viewed in inexpensive plastic stereoscopes.45 Travel and nature images abounded.46 French stereoview advertisements highlighted the addition of color as bringing a new level of realism. “3D, color, life with the Lestrade stereoscope and its images in Color!” announced that company in 1954 (fig. 92).47 Bruguière even declared, circa 1965, that its images were “a window opening onto the world,” adopting the metaphor Lippmann had used to describe his futuristic Integral photography in 1908 (fig. 37). The association of depth and color had become decidedly low-market in this form, however, far from the progressivist dreams of the first half of the century. In the 1950s, the connotations of perceptual realism in cinematography had also taken a new turn. Up through World War  II, an integral-image utopia fed on an increasingly strong desire to see color, 3D, and animation brought together, especially at the movies. However, as La  Relièphographie produced its last portraits on the Champs-Élysées, and Mengden and Publirama launched their lenticular advertising businesses, a short-lived but intense fad for stereoscopic movies proved that a desire to entertain now drove the employment of such technologies. 3D films of the early 1950s provided spectacular full-color effects to viewers clad with special glasses, establishing a reputation for showing off stereoscopic illusions using clichéd tricks such as objects thrown at the spectator or voluptuous women—caricatured in a French cartoon showing a writer pitching a 3D film to a producer (fig. 93). “That’s okay—we have a big budget,” he says, pointing to a large-bosomed actress. Many 3D film scenar­ ios fell within the realm of the new post-war genre of science fiction, with strange creatures and suspenseful plots providing a perfect venue for exciting visual effects. 3D quickly became associated with the “B” movie market, a flash-in-the-pan moneymaker.48 The glasses and the often-faulty projection, leading to eyestrain, contributed to public perception of it as a gimmick.49 A few lone inventors were still working on autostereoscopic cinema—notably François Savoye who built a large prototype of his system at the Clichy Palace movie theater in Paris in 1953.50 Autostereoscopic cinema remained too complex, expensive, and problematic to install in theaters for commercial use, however. Instead, a non-stereoscopic way of creating a sense of cinematic immersion soon commercially outpaced stereoscopic  3D: wide-screen technology. Tellingly, a selling point of one such process, CinemaScope, was that it could be seen without special glasses; wide-screen cinema attracted higher-class audiences than 3D as well.51 If immersive cinema was the future (or at least the money-making present), then it was to be obtained not with cumbersome stereoscopic devices, which sought to translate vision too strictly, but by less obtrusive means. The changing status of 3D imagery in general and of lenticular photography in particular played out against a background of growing skepticism regarding tech-

POST-WAR 3D

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93: Piem, Cartoon mocking 3D cinema, ca. 1952–1953, undated clipping from Le Figaro newspaper, private collection.

nological progress. Lenticular photography had been perceived as a new technology over much of its history, the collective consciousness associating it with progress until around 1945, in particular with that progress represented by new developments in cinematography. The 1950s witnessed increasingly ambiguous attitudes towards specific technologies and towards the place of technology in modern life. Science fiction movies (associated with 3D) flourished in the 1950s and for Vivian Sobchack “map[ped] [...] disenchantment with a life-world become increasingly technologized since World War II.” They performed “transformations and displacements of special affects (our desires and anxieties related to technology) into special effects (technologically-achieved images and images of technological achievement).”52 David Nye has shown how at the end of the war, the rocket and atomic bomb “were terrifying realities to civilians, bringing terror back to the technological object and erasing any illusions that science was intrinsically beneficent.”53 Technological progressivism was being eroded, and quite possibly this was shaping the way highly realistic imagery was perceived.54 Until World War II, the challenge of perceptual realism had been the driving force behind research on lenticular photography and what bolstered its public aura. But the post-war years saw the decline of realism as an ideal and the advent of a new era. To remain seductive, lenticular photography embraced ostentatious showiness. Shining forth from its electric display case, it became one of the tiny lights in the giant spectacle of modern consumer society.

CHAPTER SIX

A LENTICULAR IMAGE IN EVERY HOME: PROMOTIONAL PREMIUMS

French baby-boomers nostalgically remember animated lenticular key chains as coveted objects from their childhood. In figure 94, a typical example, a colorful printed illustration is presented in a plastic mount attached to a metal key ring. The image depicts a cartoon-like man in a red suit bicycling on a summery mountain road. When the object is viewed from one angle, the man points to a distant snow-capped peak; when it is tilted to another angle, the character appears at a higher altitude, visibly smiling. A message printed on the flip side completes what is visually conveyed here: the cyclist successfully climbed the slope thanks to “VeloSoleX [/] Le cyclomoteur de sécurité” (VeloSoleX  [/] The safe motorized bicycle). The two parts of the slogan appear alternately, and the address of a retailer in the hilly French city of Limoges is printed below.

94: Attributed to Visiomatic, Animated key chain promoting VeloSolex motorized bicycles (as seen from two angles), ca. 1958–1966, printed images in lenticular mount, image 2.7 × 2.4 cm, private collection.

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Small, playful lenticular images like this one, sporting colorful drawings, appeared in France in the mid-1950s. In just a few years they became ubiquitous, overshadowing the rare and expensive photographic prints that had previously dominated the lenticular market. Although these two types of imagery are radically different, both were highly dependent on post-war consumer culture, with each embodying a specific compromise between production costs and attractive visual illusions. Impressive large-format point-of-sale photographs were labor-intensive and expensive to make. The new small images, on the other hand, were mass-produced and relatively cheap, and they usually used drawings and not photographs and were limited to animated effects. This innovative formula went hand in hand with novel commercial uses of lenticular imagery. Key chains and other pocket-sized images were designed to be given away to consumers (usually with a purchase) and thus integrated into a practice that was rapidly developing in advertising at the time, in parallel with point-of-sale display: promoting products and developing customer loyalty via “free” premiums. Although animated premiums generally were not photographic, they are fundamental to understanding the evolution of lenticular photography and the challenges involved in maintaining it as a business. Premiums played an essential role in the transformation and commercial survival of lenticular technology over time. In France, lenticular premiums first appeared in the workshops of the specialists responsible for large-format lenticular photographs as they struggled to keep their enterprises financially afloat. The new, smaller images were inspired by novel sales strategies and required the development of innovative manufacturing processes. They quickly became the mainstay of the lenticular business, remaining on the forefront of innovation from 1956 to 1966—the apex of public enthusiasm for lenticular key chains in France. By espousing contemporary consumer culture, manufacturers of this era thus initiated the sale of cheap, mass-printed lenticular imagery and of lenticular premiums—both of which became staples of the industry for years to come.

“FREE” WITH PURCHASE In 1950s France, lenticular premiums were manufactured by a very small circle of specialists. Georges Mengden and Publirama, both first involved with large-format photographs, originated the trend early in the decade.1 They were later joined by Visiomatic, founded in 1958 and specializing in “items with animated images.”2 This modest group of manufacturers created images presented in a variety of forms. Some images (usually advertising products) were encased in a plastic base with a chain attached to form a key chain. Others spiced up trinkets like letter openers, pencil sharpeners, change dishes, ashtrays, and postcards—as in figure 95, a postcard of a tuba-playing girl with lenticular eyes.3 Mengden’s daughter also recalled a decorated

“FREE” WITH PURCHASE

cigarette box with a musical mechanism and a small television toy with a lenticular image of banjo-playing cowboys as its “screen.”4 In all of these cases, the lenticular images were promotional in the sense that they were meant to sell an associated product—be it the product or brand described in the image or the item to which it was attached. Promotional premiums contributed to a rapid expansion of the advertising industry in 1950s France. Although the history of advertising ephemera has attracted little attention from historians, the practice of offering attractive items to clients or potential clients goes back at least to the last decades of the nineteenth century, when American companies commonly supplied retailers with collectible cards, calendars, rulers, bookmarks, and other items. Images in particular—then much more

95: Anonymous, Postcard with animated lenticular eyes, ca. 1965, “Made in Western Germany” printed on reverse, handwritten message in French, 14.8 × 10.5 cm, private collection.

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rare than today—were prized by consumers.5 As advertising budgets shifted to illustrated periodicals in the early twentieth century, the appeal of premiums declined. They seem to have made a comeback mid-century, when primary sources reveal their growing popularity. In 1938, for example, the French advertising-industry magazine Vendre noted their presence in cereal boxes (a practice still familiar to contemporary shoppers), reporting that “Kellogg [sic] gave away a wooden spoon with every large box (or every two regular boxes) of All-Bran” and that General Foods included “a Mickey spoon with a box of Grape Nuts Flakes and another one with Post’s 40% Bran.”6 After the war, in-pack promotions flourished in the United States. When buying cere­ al, soap, ice cream, pasta, and other products, 1950s consumers could get figurines, rings, squirt guns, and 3D drawings to admire through red-and-blue glasses. The pre-

96: Magazine advertisement for Bonux laundry detergent, in Confidences (March 1961): back cover.

“FREE” WITH PURCHASE

mium was usually announced on the outside of the package: “Free inside! Racing robot” (Wheat Honeys); “Free inside! A plastic Spoonman from outer space” (Shredded Wheat); “Free Inside! Atomic Submarine with 5 Polaris Missiles” (Trix).7 Among these treasures, lenticular images could sometimes be found, as when Cheerios offered a “Free! Wiggle Picture” showing a lion roaring at a fluttering bird. It was glued on the box as the screen of a television. “Pick me up—See me move!” urged text coming from the lion’s mouth in a cartoon speech bubble.8 The subjects of such “prizes” regularly addressed popular technological themes in contemporary cold-war culture—including robots, space travel, atomic power, and television—often using injection-molded plastic to produce inexpensive colorful objects. In France, from the mid-1950s and for two decades, advertising growth was strong, with increasing budgets and a steady demand for new media.9 A sure sign of the establishment of promotional premiums was the foundation in 1954 of a yearly professional fair called the “Salon du Cadeau et de l’Entreprise,” which specialized in items companies could give away. The most famous French use of premiums had started by the end of the decade: that of Bonux laundry detergent. Bonux was launched in 1958 and dominated the market in the 1960s by including a toy in every package (plastic figurines, cars, etc.).10 Its name—resembling the word “bonus”—

97: Panels displaying animated lenticular advertisements by Publirama, 1956–1961, each panel 40 × 30 cm, ­private collection.

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implied something extra, and its advertising campaign revolved around premiums, touting Bonux as “the-detergent-of-500-gifts.” A 1961 magazine advertisement pictured a mother coming home with a box of detergent and calling out to her happy children: “Of Bonux’s 500 gifts… who is this one for?” (fig. 96). Other brands adopted the same strategy, even if not as intensely. Premiums, and more generally the presentation of attractive images as “free,” created a market for lenticular images that were small and sturdy and used playful iconographies, just as the development of point-of-sale advertising was sustaining a limited market for impressive large-format lenticular transparencies. The technical conception of the new smaller images was thus motivated by the existence of potentially lucrative sales opportunities. France was not isolated in this respect. Similar images appeared in the United States during the same period, made in particular by Pictorial Productions under the name Vari-Vue.11 The first trace of small sturdy lenticular images in France can be found in patents filed by Mengden in 1952 and 1953. Publirama, founded in 1955, participated in the Salon du Cadeau et de l’Entreprise in 1957 (and possibly other years as well), actively seeking this type of business.12 One of its advertisements in Vendre explained that when ordered in large quantities, its animated key chains could cost as little as 12 francs.13 At less than a standard 20-franc postage stamp, this was a price clearly allowing their use as “free” premiums.14 Several advertisements for Publirama products pictured the three Wise Men, known for bearing precious gifts. Accounts of the use of other types of premiums provide clues to the way lentic­ ular freebies circulated. For example, in 1957, the Journal de la publicité described a promotional operation carried out in French West Africa by a sugar-industry group and the pharmaceutical companies Aspro and Cazé. A truck was preparing to drive for eight months over 36,000 km to distribute an impressive list of items in markets, schools, missions, and administrative buildings: “500,000  leaflets describing the benefits of sugar, 500,000  blotters of 8  different types, 50,000  posters for huts, 50,000 for markets, 2,000 metal plaques, 4,000 kg of sugar divided into a million 1-cube packages and 500 kg in 3-cube packages, 50,000 plastic rulers, 1,000 other gifts.”15 The truck, pictured in the article, had a giant Aspro ad on the side similar in design to lenticular advertisements manufactured by Publirama. One of these, visible on a display of the company’s premiums (fig. 97, bottom left), was a purple-and-white ruler-format image flashing the message “N’oubliez pas  [/] votre Aspro” (Don’t forget  [/] your Aspro), with the two elements of the phrase appearing alternately. Another version of the ad (fig. 97, bottom right) declared, “Prenez ‘Aspro’ et la douleur s’en va!” (Take “Aspro” and the pain goes away!) in alternation with an illustration of a man holding his head captioned “Maux de tête-Douleurs-Grippe” (Headaches-Aches-Flu). Lenticular images advertised products as diverse as refrigerators, underwear, synthetic fibers, insurance companies, books, and candy.16 Their distribution was surely

“FREE” WITH PURCHASE

adjusted to the sales methods associated with each type of product. Among the creations on the panels shown in figure 97 is an eye-catching advertisement for Gillette in which a razor blade on a yellow background appears to come out of, then retract into, a blue dispenser. This image would have made an attractive addition to a sales display. Also shown is a colorful ad for the Seb pressure cooker. An illustration of the pot changes into one of a cooked chicken as the brand’s famous rhyming slogan appears and disappears: “Seb... Sebo... Sebon” (Seb... it’s beautiful... it’s good).17 This image could have been integrated into a store display or possibly given to lucky clients to secure a sale. Another formula is visible below the Seb ad: a small blue-andwhite multiplication table marked Nestlé. Similar tables were printed for Damoy (a chain of small grocery stores), Primo (a laundry detergent), Saneb (hosiery), and

98: Visiomatic, Magazine advertisement for animated key chains, in Vendre (January 1959): 32.

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other brands and were possibly included in packages. Other multiplication tables had a blank back that could be stamped and handed out by local stores—as Annette dry cleaners in Dijon did, making the image into a handy reminder of its own business. Lenticular translation tables with key words appearing in different languages at the flick of a wrist were sometimes printed with the name of the Guide Bleue travel guides.18 Generic images like these could be personalized for any number of clients. Small lenticular ads produced by Publirama to promote its own animated premiums perfectly summed up the intended use and goal of these images: “Publirama [/] the advertising that makes people buy,” announced a key chain. “Publirama animated advertising [/] makes sales rise,” boasted a credit-card sized image picturing a snake charmer moving his flute up and down as a snake-shaped arrow rose higher. A Visiomatic magazine ad promised similar results: “You’ll sell more, you’ll sell better with Visiomatic’s animated advertising” (fig. 98).19

THE KEY CHAIN The key chain is particularly emblematic of the development of lenticular premiums in France. It appears to have been much more prevalent there than in the United States or elsewhere. As one of the most popular forms of lenticular premiums, the key chain is indicative of how this kind of advertising functioned, in particular through the encouragement of collecting. French lenticular specialists showed a keen interest in key chains as they turned towards pocket-sized wares. Georges Mengden was the first to mention them in France, in 1953, and one of their early developers.20 One of his first key chains may be a tiny one picturing an Indian paddling a canoe (a recurring motif in his archives). It is made of a square image measuring about a millimeter thick with its lenticular screen; a hole has simply been punched in the corner to attach a chain and ring. A circular image of a cowboy on a galloping horse, inserted into a faux-tortoise shell disk, also appears to be an early example of Mengden’s work. Simple key chains such as these, devoid of any promotional message, are rare and were probably the earliest in the field, with advertising-based examples appearing shortly after. The first date firmly associated with animated promotional key chains in France is 1957, when Publirama announced them in the phone book as new. It started filling orders as early as the spring of that year, including ones for well-known brands like Evian and Citroën.21 Quite a few key chains marked “Publirama” can be found today. One of these, shown in figure 99, was made for Caddie shopping carts. As the key chain is tilted, it flashes the dated slogans “a car for Dad” and “a cart for Mom.” The following year, the new Visiomatic company entered the key-chain market. The name Visiomatic—synonymous with animated key-chains for French collectors today—associated the idea of vision with the popular -omatic suffix, evoking movement

THE KEY CHAIN

and self-controlled action.22 One of its first advertisements revolved around an animated key chain (fig. 98). Although rare images made by smaller companies were in circulation, Publirama and Visiomatic were the main producers of this specialized form of imagery in France.23

99: Publirama, Animated key chain promoting Caddie shopping carts (as seen from two angles), 1960, printed images in lenticular mount, image 3.1 × 2.2 cm, private collection.­

The lenticular key chain’s popularity reached a climax in 1966, as promotional key chains of all kinds surged to become one of the most collectible products of the era. In 1959, Visiomatic touted its lenticular images as “the eye-catching adver­ tisement you keep.”24 By 1966, so many people were collecting key chains that advertising specialists started investigating this marketing strategy. In April  1966, the industry’s Journal de la publicité wrote: “All of a sudden, the key chain has been promoted to gadget #1. Honestly, it isn’t even used for keys anymore, as it’s purely a collector’s item.”25 The same month, a specialized fanzine was created for key chain collectors.26 In May, the Journal de la publicité called the phenomenon “key chain mania,” commenting on the “new craze that in the last few months has taken on astronomical proportions.”27 Collectors most often obtained key chains by purchasing products. For small packaged goods, the premium was usually included in the box.28 One journalist reported that people were sometimes more interested in this prize than in the product it accompanied:

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“A shop clerk told me rather crudely, ‘You could sell them s*** and they’d buy it if it came with a key chain!’ He was exaggerating, of course, but I’ve often seen shoppers refuse to buy an item when they learned that it didn’t get them the famous key chain, and others who, on the contrary, bought a model or a color that they didn’t really like but that came with this popular item.”29 Key chains associated with higher-ticket products like motorized bicycles or shopping carts were likely given out by local dealers, whose addresses were listed. In this case, the parent company and the distributing company may have shared costs.30 It is also easy to imagine a select number of lenticular premiums being given out at special events like the parade of promotional vehicles that preceded the Tour de France cycling race, throwing samples or souvenirs to the crowd.31 Hoping to gain insight into how to create fads on demand, advertising pundits analyzed the key chain’s popularity—in vain.32 Producers of lenticular imagery clearly capitalized on the craze while it lasted. Publirama seems to have survived largely on such imagery until its bankruptcy in 1961. Visiomatic then clearly came to dominate the French market for these increasingly sought-after premiums. A provider of both lenticular and non-lenticular versions, in 1966 it even boasted of being “Europe’s biggest producer of advertising key chains.”33 Its lenticular key chains are much more prevalent than Publirama’s on the collector’s market today, reflecting massive production. Key-chain mania had apparently faded by 1967. The specialized fanzine stopped being published that year, and in 1969 Visiomatic ceased advertising this product in the phone book.

MOM, CAN I HAVE THAT CEREAL? One of the principle groups at which premiums—lenticular and otherwise—were aimed was children. At the end of the 1950s, industry specialists showed increasing interest in the sway of advertising on youth. The trade journal Vendre described a new approach based on the idea that “the child intervened no longer just as a child but a true ‘agent’ integrated into the family, persuasive and perseverant.”34 In 1966, Vendre reported that targeting this segment of the population had become “an efficient specialized method.”35 Premiums were an important vector of advertising aimed at children. Vendre claimed that “two-thirds of mothers purchase the package recommended by the child and that contains a promotional gadget,” and that “interested in premiums, the child makes the scales weigh in favor of the brand that brings him or her the most satisfaction.”36 Bonux detergent, known for its premiums, specifically aimed its choice of objects at children (fig. 96). In addition, this age group was thought to enjoy collecting—a practice on which the long-term effectiveness of such promotions

MOM, CAN I HAVE THAT CEREAL?

depended. Children were reported to have been active participants in the key chain phenomenon. In 1966, Vendre wrote of the “surprising tidal wave of key chains of which 5,000,000 children are the primary fans,” reporting that, “84 percent of key chain collectors were under 20.”37 The Journal de la publicité proposed a psychological analysis, arguing that the key chain was particularly popular with children because it symbolized possession of a car.38 Producers of playful lenticular premiums were perfectly placed to profit from the advertising industry’s interest in young consumers. Visiomatic’s 1959 ad for key chains pictured a delighted little girl (fig.  98), boasting: “Kids love our magic animated medallions. They collect them and make their mother buy your brand.” The iconography used for small lenticular views was often adapted to children; when images didn’t use a brand’s own artwork, cowboys, Indians, pirates, clowns, dancing figures, and other cartoon-like subjects were commonplace. Some animated premiums promoted products primarily aimed at children, like a series of fifteen small images for Delespaul, a candy manufacturer, showing subjects like a rocket moving through a planet-filled sky—a popular cold-war theme (fig. 100). In a corner of each

100: Publirama or Georges Mengden, Animated advertisements for Delespaul candies (as seen from two angles), ca. 1956– 1961, printed images and lenticular screens, 3 × 3 cm, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

image, “Delespaul” alternated with the name of a specific candy—including Carambar, a caramel treat created in 1954 and popular to this day. Premiums were often designed in series in the hopes of encouraging collecting and establishing customer loyalty. Most small images were produced as a set in a coherent style, making them more collectible. Sometimes collecting was even explicitly encouraged. For example, a text on the back of lenticular images given away with La Roche aux Fées yogurts addressed

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children in a direct and familiar manner (using the informal tu and not the formal vous in French): “Disney-Magic images. The 24 most famous Disney characters in animated images free from La Roche aux Fées. To organize your 24 Disney-Magic images, order your La Roche aux Fées album [...], include 3.20 francs in postage stamps, and you’ll get your order in 3 weeks.” Another La Roche aux Fées lenticular series was illustrated with changing photographs of wild animals and reminded young collectors, “[i]f you have doubles, exchange them with your friends”—thus encouraging purchase of the product by multiple members of the child’s social network. The first commercially successful line-screen images in the 1910s and 1920s were playful items thanks to their amusing iconographies and interactive functioning. Half a century later, animated lenticular images were cheap and colorful and continued to be presented as toys of sorts—toys that amused adults and were justified through children. In this game of seduction and spending, women played a key role. Advertising executives aimed premiums, like point-of-sale displays, at a female audience. In the traditional post-war division of labor, women were responsible for everyday purchases and for those related to children (“a shopping cart for Mom, a car for Dad,” quipped the ad in figure 99).39 In addition, advertisers considered women to be subject to impulsive buying, which all forms of in-store advertising were meant to encourage. Via women, lenticular premiums implicated children in purchasing decisions, making them important vectors in the circulation of lenticular imagery. The targeting of youthful audiences—traditionally considered, along with women, to be susceptible to visual illusions40—confirms the intrinsically playful public perception of animated lenticular imagery. However, the 1950s instigated a new twist on how this appeal was used. Lenticular imagery was no longer sold directly to the public. It owed its continuing commercial existence to its inscription in a system reaching far beyond isolated investment in an unusual portrait. The lenticular image’s attractive frivolity was sold to intermediaries, who made their own products more desirable via association with it. In this way, lenticular imagery reached the general public dispossessed of any notion of cost, as one of the “free” amusements of consumer culture.

THE IMAGE The successful integration of lenticular imagery into everyday life in the form of inexpensive trinkets tends to hide the fact that these items were very innovative in their day. Aesthetically, they had a distinctive style with both practical underpinnings and close ties to other aspects of 1950s visual culture. Technically, they necessitated profound changes to manufacturing processes to bring about a small, sturdy object that could be produced inexpensively enough to be “given away.” New materials were tested, and new procedures and machines were developed. Through a com-

THE IMAGE

bination of collaboration and competition (and sometimes imitation bordering on counterfeiting), lenticular specialists of the 1950s and 1960s invented an object that could be used as a premium to seduce both professional clients and the general public. A striking aspect of the images employed for premiums is that most are drawings, not photographs. The rare photographs used represented specific people or places. For 3D illusions, the individual images interlaced behind the lenticular screen had to be so precise in their complementary rendition of the subject that photog­ raphy was the only feasible way to produce them. No such constraint held back animated illusions. It was easy to make them from drawings. Literally any two (or more) views, no matter how rudimentary, could be combined if the goal was simply to obtain an eye-catching effect of change or movement—the more graphic and colorful the better. Other reasons for preferring hand drawn images were cultural. In French advertising of the 1950s and 1960s, hand-drawn artwork was still predominant even though photography had made significant inroads into the field. Many advertisements relied on brightly colored, graphic illustrations to evoke a variety of products and situations in a streamlined, catchy way. Illustrations could be rendered on a variety of surfaces, from printed posters and magazine pages to painted buildings.41 Renowned designers like Raymond Savignac and Jean Colin created logos that were simple yet forceful, often with a touch of humor. Artwork for lenticular premiums was often supplied by the client as part of a campaign cutting across various visual media, thus contrib­ uting to brand recognition. For example, an animated key chain made by Publirama for Astral paint used a logo designed by Savignac showing a red man painting a blue man standing on his head, who in turn appears to be painting the red man.42 This logo was also used on posters and other media. For the lenticular key chain, it was adapted so that from one point of view, the red man is bending over with his paintbrush, starting to draw the blue man; as the image is tilted, the blue man appears fully formed. Savignac’s well-known campaign for Frigéco refrigerators, launched in 1956, was made into an animated key chain by Visiomatic (fig.  101). It shows two images in alternation: in one, a man in summer clothes holding his hand out towards a refriger-

101: Attributed to Visiomatic, Animated key chain promoting Frigéco appliances (as seen from two angles), ca. 1958–1966, printed images in lentic­ ular mount, image 2.7 × 2.4 cm, private collection.

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102: Anonymous, Animated key chain promoting Gévéor wine (as seen from two angles), ca. 1958–1966, printed images in lenticular mount, image 2.7 × 3 cm, private collection. 103: Attributed to Visiomatic, Animated key chain promoting the Comptoir des Cables et Cordages (as seen from two angles), ca. 1958– 1966, printed images in lenticular mount, image 2.7 × 2.4 cm, private collection.

ator is half-covered in frost; in the other, he is shown in his birthday suit dropping clothes into a washing machine. Each of these images was used separately on posters at the time.43 Another lenticular key chain pictured work by the illustrator Hervé Morvan for Gévéor wine: a little man with the top half of his body inside a bottle holds a glass of wine, then tastes it as the image is tipped (fig. 102). The reverse side shows a bottle with a boat of rowers inside; their oars move back and forth with the animated effect.44 Bernard Villemot’s art for Pathé-Marconi was also used on a key chain: a dog listens to his master’s voice, turning his head towards a gramophone then towards a television. Publirama had an illustration department that could produce the necessary adaptations to the client’s illustrations and prepare interlaced images and color separations for printing. Generic images produced in-house were also available. For example, some of the illustrations used by Mengden, including a cute orchestra of baby birds, were drawn by his wife.45 Inevitably, the lenticular keychain also inspired

THE IMAGE

104: Georges Mengden, Sample card of animated Disney images, ca. 1956–1965, each image 3 × 3 cm, private collection.

a few risqué compositions, which businesses found among the stock images available to them. One example pictures a trucker stopped next to a prostitute; she appears in a red dress from one angle, and in a bra and panties from another as he reaches out towards her (fig.  103). Another shows a long-legged scantily clad woman leaning down to water a wilted flower, which then suddenly shoots up so high it surprises her. The use of drawings for small lenticular images surely played into enthusiasm for another aspect of contemporary visual culture as well: animated cartoons. Many premiums by Mengden and his contemporaries are cartoon-like in their colorful style and depiction of movement. A sign of an explicit cultural connection was the circulation in France of lenticular images with Disney characters as early as the 1950s. Mengden and/or Publirama (or some of their clients) seem to have been licensed by Disney.46 Key chains by Publirama showed Donald Duck and other characters smiling and frowning or turning their heads. Mickey Mouse, Bambi, Snow White, and others appeared on cards of sample images prepared by Mengden (fig. 104), and a few French postcards sported animated Disney images. One was a wonderfully graphic flocked creation picturing Donald Duck laughing in front of a television set—its screen formed

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by a lenticular image of his guitar-playing self (fig. 105). An American card for Disneyland from the same era similarly showed Mickey Mouse and Pluto on a city street corner admiring a “painting” on an easel—a Vari-Vue image of Dumbo flying. Although Disney cartoons had been shown in movie theaters around the world since before the World War II, in the 1950s television brought them into homes. Disney productions were broadcast on American television starting in 1954 and in color from 1961.47 They likely reached France not too long after. Postcards like that in figure 105 showing Disney characters as if on TV certainly suggest it. The association of lenticular technology with cartoons was appropriate, as it made it uniquely possible to present a bit of the magic of cartoon animation in the form of a single, portable image. Lenticular premiums’ presentation of snappy animated images also led them to profit from contemporary enthusiasm for television. In the 1950s, TV had replaced movies as the modern technology in the domain of the moving image. Just as when animated line-screen images of the 1910s and 1920s used iconographies tying them to the cinema, in the 1950s small lenticular views were commonly portrayed as tele­ vision screens. Some were set into stylized illustrations of a TV, as on the Disney postcard in figure 105 (part of a series of at least five different cards doing the same) or on the American cereal box announcing “Free! Wiggle Picture,” discussed above. Others adorned little plastic television toys. An example made by Mengden was a pencil sharpener sporting a black-and-white view of a cat and mouse. An American version marked “Kohner” was a small green-and-yellow “Color TV” with a Vari-Vue image of a lion snapping at a fluttering bird (fig. 106). It was common at the time for marketers to visually assimilate all sorts of products with television. A striking example was the pre-packaged meal sold as a “TV dinner” and presented in a box showing a full-color photograph of the food as if it was the image on the screen of a wood-paneled set.48 Color television did not reach France until 1967, which must have given such representations an even more modern tinge there.49 The visual metaphor of the lenticular premium as television was a particularly fitting way to attract attention to the animation provided by the small image. The association highlighted its special qualities and encouraged the spectator-cum-consumer to pick it up and enjoy playing with it. Whether lenticular premiums used anonymous illustrations or ones by wellknown producers, the illusion of change or animation was created using a fixed set of options. In its most basic form, two completely different pictures alternated. Two images could also be combined to convey animation of a single figure. Even such a simple trick could provide a surprisingly fascinating illusion of movement. One Visiomatic key chain for Kores typewriter ribbons showed the silhouette of a woman at a typewriter; when the image is tilted, the rising and falling of the typist’s arms is enough to conjure up the distinctive sound of the keys hitting the roller (for those still familiar with it). Other key chains pictured a woman dancing while a man clapped, an accordion with its bellows expanding and contracting, a dog running, a man

THE IMAGE

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105: Établissements Carrère, Flocked postcard with animated Disney image, 1962, 10.5 × 15 cm, private collection.

throwing a pétanque ball, and a man bowling. Sometimes more than two images were combined. In a series by Mengden, square images measuring only 2 cm across showed four-pose scenes, including a pirate sword-fight; it is fascinating to tilt the tiny images at different speeds, watching the sketch-like yet expressive figures move faster or slower and freezing them in different positions. Five seems to be the maximum number of views combined in 1950s French lenticular premiums, as confirmed by advertisements for the process: in 1958, Publirama announced “Exclusive! Brand

106: Television toys using animated images by Vari-Vue and Mengden, late 1950s or 1960s, plastic with lenticular images and pencil sharpener (right), approximately 4 cm high, private collection.

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new! Attractive! Animated ads with 5 poses,” and in 1965, Visiomatic clients could choose from two to five poses.50 The number of images interlaced varied, as did the types of narratives. The most creative premiums used the illusion of change to tell a story about the product being promoted, as with figure 94, showing a happy customer effortlessly climbing a mountain thanks to Velosolex. A key chain for the Clotseul electric fence similarly pictures a cow in a green field discouraged from wandering: as the image is tilted, the cow touches its nose to the wire enclosure and a red spark appears. On another key chain, a cat on a windowsill knocks a flowerpot off onto a passer-by; the reverse recommends CMA insurance, giving the address and phone number of an office in Montbard. There is a simple pleasure to be found in animating these colorful images over and over again—making them powerful tools for building brand recognition and customer loyalty.

THE OBJECT Selling lenticular imagery in the form of premiums required important changes to its physical characteristics. Up until the early 1950s, French producers used lenticular screens containing a layer of glass, and they hand-mounted them on the composite images to ensure proper alignment. This resulted in products that were fragile and expensive. Give-away premiums had to be sturdy, cheap, and produced in great quantities, creating new technical challenges. The development of manufacturing procedures for lenticular premiums shows that these images were not simply low-quality versions of the larger ones. They were specifically designed to be small, inexpensive, and mass-produced. When premiums became a commercial goal, one aspect of their manufacture to come under scrutiny was the method used to print the images. Premiums were inkprinted, not photographically reproduced—a technique that went hand-in-hand with serial production. Visiomatic’s minimum key chain order was 1,000, for example.51 Some of Mengden’s first small images were photographic, but he quickly turned to ink printing to bring down costs.52 Adoption of an all-plastic lenticular screen was also necessary. Following similar innovations in large-format imagery, new screens were devised using different types of plastics.53 The screen also had to be securely fixed to the image. An early idea was to seal a printed composite illustration in a thin plastic case with a screen on one side. Publirama did this for a series of colorful animated renditions of La Fontaine fables (fig. 107).54 They are 5 mm thick, with an excerpt of the fable sealed inside the transparent case on the reverse. Key chains were made in a similar way. They typically contained two separate transparent plastic elements: a main body with lenses on one side and a hollowed out rectangle on

THE OBJECT

the other, plus a small rectangular plaque the size of this hollow with lenses on one side as well. Composite images were printed on thin paper, cut to size, then inserted back to back in the hollow, which was sealed by clicking the small lenticular plaque into place. Visiomatic key chains with removable lenticular plaques on both sides are probably the earliest examples because their production called for more operations and more plastic.55 In general, new techniques tended towards eliminating expensive plastic and fabrication steps. Fairly quickly, for most premiums, the screen was glued or otherwise bonded to a paper image, or the image was printed directly on the back of the screen. In France, Georges Mengden was the most active developer of new manufacturing methods for lenticular premiums. His research reveals some of the stakes and difficulties involved. One of his main concerns was how to attach images to screens efficiently. In 1952, he patented a way of gluing screens on photographic prints.56 He then devised a system in which the photograph was mounted on a rigid support and set into the back of a hollowed-out lenticular screen (a technique described as adapted to the creation of decorated objects such as matchboxes).57 These methods were fairly labor intensive. Mengden took a significant step towards mechanization in 1955—not

107: Publirama, Animated representations of fables of La Fontaine, ca. 1956, printed images in lenticular mounts, each image 6.6 × 9.5 cm, private collection.

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long before lenticular premiums became common—when he patented a process in which the screen was formed directly on the printed image using injection molding, adhering without the use of glue.58 A set of images was printed on a single sheet of paper, as in figure 108. A metal plate a few millimeters thick (a “form”) was placed on the paper; it had cutouts with the shape of the desired lenticular screens. The metal die with troughs to form the lenses was placed on top of it. Paper, form, and die were aligned in the molding machine, and hot plastic was pumped into the form’s openings from a cross in the center with canals leading to each image. The resulting individual images were cut apart. Mengden never stopped looking for ways to simplify the manufacture of small lenticular images. In 1958, he patented a technique for printing images directly on the back of a screen, eliminating the need for paper.59 However, he later criticized this method for making color printing “extremely tricky and costly.”60 In 1963, he patented another process, in which the images bonded with the screen as it was formed using compression molding—a procedure which could (in theory) be completely automated, making production more efficient and cheaper.61 In 1971, near the end of his career, he improved upon this system, replacing “the intermittent rhythm of compression and of screen-formation” with “a continuous laminating operation.” Plastic was fed into the press in a thin, continuous sheet; sheets of paper printed with the composite images were fed into another part the press. Plastic and paper sheets met and together went through rollers—one of which, in contact with the plastic, was engraved with

108: Uncut sheet of animated lenticular images and metal mold for their manufacture, ca. 1956–1960, each image 2.9 cm in diameter, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

A SMALL WORLD

troughs to form the lenses. Right before it went through the rollers and was pressed into the shape of a lenticular screen, the plastic was fed through a bath of hot glue, which softened it and made it adhere to the paper. A band of narrow, parallel lines was printed in the margin of the image sheets where the screen would cover it; as the finished sheets came out of the machine, a technician could watch for a telltale moiré effect in the test band indicating misalignment and then adjust the machine accordingly while it was running. Always striving for greater efficiency, Mengden devised this system to “eliminate the waste that was otherwise inevitable, improve image quality, and considerably increase output.”62 Whatever the techniques used, lenticular premiums were always manufactured in series, and production was mechanized wherever possible. Mengden’s research shows that these objects were designed to be inexpensively produced and sturdy in order to fit a new intended function bestowed upon the lenticular process: to serve as a playful “free” item.

A SMALL WORLD Mengden’s investments in research and development demonstrate a desire to produce lenticular premiums on a large scale. Considering the number of images still in existence today—surely only a fraction of those made—the demand for this product appears to have been reasonable. Despite their popularity, however, small lenticular images originated from a very limited number of producers in France, who clearly had difficulties surviving in this business. Lenticular premiums were all about play, but living from them was hard work. The French lenticular business was a close-knit circle. Everyone seems to have known everyone else and in some cases worked together. The realities of survival in the field favored collaboration and the pooling of resources. The line between the production of Mengden and Publirama was blurred, for example, with images attrib­ utable to each in the other’s archives. The paternity of Linguarama translation tables is indicative: the name and concept were registered by Roger Zoller, director of Publirama; forms and dies for these images are in Mengden’s archives; and some of the images produced are signed Publirama.63 Confusion also existed between Publirama and a company named Imprirama, specialized in small lenticular images. Imprirama was founded in 1961, when Publirama was going bankrupt, and like Publirama was directed by Zoller. Both Publirama and Imprirama seem to have called on Mengden for the fabrication of their images using his patented techniques. Visiomatic, whose manager was Marcel Baril, may also have had ties with Mengden and/or Publirama. Curiously, the Annuaire de la presse listed Baril as the director of Publirama, suggesting that he may have worked there with Roger Zoller before moving to Visiomatic.

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Lenticular premiums were produced within an intimate circle, but their market was international. Languages and addresses found on images in Mengden’s archives show that French producers found clients in Italy, England, Holland, Luxembourg, Sweden, and South Africa. Foreign competition also gradually became apparent in France, principally in the form of the Vari-Vue process belonging to the American company Pictorial Productions. Vari-Vue images were patented in the United States between 1952 and 1954, when similar images were first being patented in France by Mengden.64 The Vari-Vue process reached France in 1965 at the latest, when the trade press announced it as new and it was marketed for large-format point-of-sale display in France, Germany, and the Benelux countries.65 Its smaller images may have arrived in Europe earlier. One French Vari-Vue premium was a key-chain with a catchy animated view of a matador, one of the company’s stock images, presented in a black leather mount with gold lettering announcing Locatelli’s Italian cheeses (fig.  109). A New Year’s greeting card printed “Bonne et heureuse Année” carried a stylized

109: Key chain with animated Vari-Vue image promoting Locatelli cheeses (front and back), ca. 1955–1965, printed image with lenticular screen, leather, image 2.9 × 3.2 cm, private collection.

1950s-looking drawing of a television with a Vari-Vue “screen” showing a skier coming down a hill with his dog running along side him. There is a strong resemblance between certain Vari-Vue images and certain French ones. Some producers may have copied iconographies in circulation, and in other cases the principle of lenticular animation might have inspired similar images for different specialists.66 Although lenticular premiums are still produced today, their invention and first burst of popu-

A SMALL WORLD

larity delineate a coherent era in the history of lenticular imagery in France, stretching from approximately 1956 to 1966, after which significant changes occurred in the forms and producers of lenticular imagery. Publirama and Imprirama, founded respectively in 1955 and 1961, both met with difficulties after a few years. Publirama (under its official name Seroptic) was declared bankrupt on June 26, 1961, with Imprirama created just a few months earlier on April  5, 1961.67 Zoller managed the new company, probably created in an attempt to escape Publirama’s financial difficulties.68 Imprirama was also soon declared bankrupt, on December 9, 1963.69 One close observer of the situation was Roger Karampournis, director of Relieforama, a company created at the end of the 1960s to market Maurice Bonnet’s research. In 1966, Karampournis met an expert named Castanet who had helped organize Imprirama’s liquidation. After this meeting, Karampournis noted regarding Imprirama: “The company obtained financing from Perugina, which thought it could decorate its candy boxes with three-dimensional photos to increase sales. [...] Mr. Zoller’s unfortunate experience cost him more than 250 million [old francs].”70 According to Castanet, Zoller’s misfortunes resulted from the “inability to obtain the diamond points needed to make perfect dies,” rendering it impossible “to ensure the production of strictly identical lenticular screens for picture-taking and viewing” (although this was likely a minor problem for animated premiums).71 In addition, Castanet cryptically judged that “personality differences also played an important role in Zoller’s failures.” Whatever the reasons, one branch of La Relièphographie’s genealogical tree thus died out as the companies that had acquired its materials and patents went out of business.72 Visiomatic managed to stay afloat a little longer but went bankrupt in 1971.73 It fared better because in 1966 it invested in the 3D postcard, which was soon to be the next fad in lenticular imagery. Despite the lenticular process’s continuing existence, it always seemed to be on the brink of extinction, repeatedly revived through the passion of just a few individuals. In the space of ten years, from 1956 to 1966, the printed image eclipsed the photographic print as the form of lenticular imagery with the most commercial importance and public visibility; advertising overtook portraiture as its main purpose. Both trends reflected the same objectives: expand the uses of lenticular technology and reduce its cost through mass production. But the history of premiums shows that the new lenticular images couldn’t survive on their own, commercially speaking. An excuse was needed to justify their purchase and enjoyment. Lenticular specialists tied their playful images to advertising practices or associated them with other objects, the “usefulness” of which provided a pretext. Lenticular premiums truly deserved the designation “gadget” given to them at the time, which described a new and amusing but often useless thing. “All of a sudden, the key chain has been promoted to gadget #1,” and “Two-thirds of mothers purchase the package recommended by the child and containing a promotional gadget,” wrote advertising journals in 1966.74 This

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use of the word “gadget” appeared in French around 1946, showing that the concept had emerged as part of post-war culture.75 “The machine was the emblem of industrial society. The gadget is the emblem of post-industrial society,” wrote Jean Baudrillard in 1970.76 The commercialization of lenticular imagery followed this cultural turn: La  Relièphographie’s sophisticated equipment, highlighted in its film La technique moderne, was now in other hands in another era. It was used to make gadgets instead of to pursue utopian dreams of technological progress. The success of small animated images was based on the integration of lenticular technology into a new culture of advertisements to enjoy and things to buy. One of the statistics most cited to sum up the spirit of the times was the percentage of French households with refrigerators, which passed from 7.5 percent in 1954 to 50 percent a decade later and 75 percent by the end of the sixties.77 It wasn’t a coincidence that animated key chains for household appliances were common. One for Arthur Martin (fig. 110) illustrated what the acquisition of such devices symbolized, showing a backwards “yesterday,” represented by a woman bent over a black iron stove, changing into a modern “today,” illustrated by a fully equipped, clean, white kitchen.78 Lenticular premiums vaunted these new objects and were one of

110: Anonymous, Animated key chain promoting Arthur Martin appliances (as seen from two angles), ca. 1957–1966, printed images in lenticular mount, image 2.4 × 2.7 cm, private collection.

them, albeit in a modest form. Although there are no statistics documenting the rise of this tiny remnant of 1950s and 1960s consumer culture, without a doubt it was during this period that lenticular imagery reached households along with so many other new goods. A more elitist indicator of the newfound ubiquity of small lenticular images was their appearance in works by two major artists. Richard Hamilton, one of the founders of Pop art, included an animated eye in his painting $he (1958–1961). It has been read

A SMALL WORLD

111: Man Ray, Perpetual Motif, 1971, metronome with animated lenticular eye, 23.5 × 12 × 12 cm, private collection.

as a symbol of his complicity with the viewer.79 It can also be seen as a subtle reference to Marcel Duchamp and as such is revealing of both the evolution of animated lenticular imagery and its enduring popular and conceptual appeal. Duchamp had cited what he called the Wilson-Lincoln system, for showing different images from different perspectives, when making notes for The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even between 1912 and 1915. Hamilton was strongly influenced by Duchamp, discovering his Green Box notes in 1952 and going on to construct a version of the Bride (1965–

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1966).80 His inclusion of a mass-produced lenticular eye in $he is in keeping with his exploration of found images at the time; it parallels the Wilson-Lincoln idea in both its inspiration from contemporary commercial imagery and the interest it marks in spectator engagement, perception, and illusion. In the late 1950s, it was possible for the first time since Duchamp’s youth to encounter and acquire a mass-market changing image. A decade later, in 1971, Man Ray adorned an ultimate version of his famous metronome ready-made with a lenticular eye that opened and closed as the pendulum swung (fig. 111).81 This work had been initiated in 1923 as the Object to Be Destroyed, with an ordinary photograph of an eye. It underwent several transformations over the years based on changes to this image. The last version was named Perpetual Motif in reference to both the work’s own longevity and the metronome’s movement. The title is also a fitting tribute to the attraction of the opening and closing eye in the history of the lenticular image. The presence of this eye as a part of a ready-made—a concept initiated by Duchamp—is emblematic of lenticular imagery’s recently acquired accessibility. It could now truly qualify as an everyday object—as a found object.

112: Allain, Postcard with googly eyes, ca. 1970, printed image with plastic eyes and squeaker, “Made in France” on reverse, 14.5 × 10.5 cm, private collection.

A SMALL WORLD

From 1956 to 1966, lenticular premiums inspired new research and amused the public. Their popular charm was perfectly summed up by the woman who purchased the postcard of a tuba-playing girl with animated lenticular eyes pictured in figure  95. In 1965, she sent it to a young acquaintance off doing his military service: “Dear Francis, I’m sending you a card to entertain you because the eyes change when you move it,” she wrote on the back, adding: “It’s kind of fun.” The spontaneous appeal of animated lenticular imagery touchingly expressed here was essential to its sale. Lenticular premiums were attractive because they sparked curiosity and amusement. The postcard with the moving eyes in figure 95 even has a pinhole near the top, indicating that it had been displayed by its owner. But as lenticular premiums became commonplace, they were condemned to go out of fashion. Postcards in the spirit of figure 95 would soon use googly eyes—little transparent plastic domes with a black disk jiggling around inside—which made crazier faces (fig. 112).82 Lenticular imagery needed to be reinvented if it was to remain commercially successful. Although animated lenticular premiums were produced after the mid-1960s, the industry had already turned to a new idea to ensure its future: inexpensive, mass-produced 3D imagery. The year 1966 marks the transition between two different eras in French lenticular history: it was the climax of the vogue for animated key chains, which symbolize the new generation of images that followed La Relièphographie; and it was the year in which the 3D  postcard successfully reached shops and mailboxes in France, embodying a renewal of autostereoscopic photography via the printed image.

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THE 3D POSTCARD

A colorful, plastic-coated postcard captioned “La Cathédrale de Notre-Dame” pre­ sents an attractive snapshot of Paris on a summer day (fig. 113). A lamppost and a woman in a blue dress stand out in stereoscopic relief in the foreground. A low fence and a line of lampposts receding in perspective back towards the cathedral also create an impression of depth, as do the multiple cars parked one behind the other in front of the monument. Tree branches reach into the frame on the right and cast their shadow over the pavement. They are clearly closer to the camera than the rest, and the lowest-hanging branch even appears to move up and down with the breeze as the postcard is tilted. The three-dimensionality of this everyday scene brings out the relief of the distant facade of Notre-Dame, especially the concavities of its three massive portals. It makes the monument feel like part of the everyday Parisian landscape. Brightly colored postcards like this one were the main vector of 3D  lenticular photography’s dissemination in the second half of the twentieth century. At the end of the 1960s, they reestablished the relevance of autostereoscopic photography after two decades of relative obscurity. Although animated images had sustained the market for the lenticular process during that time, behind the scenes, specialists were working to devise more accessible forms of 3D imagery. Their ambitions converged around a single product, deemed the perfect tool for stimulating sales in the post-war period: the postcard. France provides a telling case study for understanding these new expectations for autostereoscopic photography and the growing internationalization of the lenticular world that accompanied them. Major technical hurdles stood in the way of those who dreamed of bringing the 3D  postcard to fruition. French inventors and entrepreneurs worked on the problems posed by the popular idea, aware that they were part of a competitive global market. However, although the French made early contributions to research on 3D postcards, images produced in Japan and Spain would dominate sales in France as this new product emerged as a worldwide phenomenon.

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113: Anonymous, 3D postcard of Notre-Dame, Paris, ca. 1968–1972, printed image with lenticular screen 14.5 × 10.5 cm, private collection.

The 3D  postcard was also an attractive new genre. The iconographies it inspired reveal the evolving connotations of autostereoscopic technology. The postcard demonstrates that lenticular photography had broken with pre-war utopian ideals and rare and expensive photographic prints and was now asserting itself as a colorful, inexpensive, and tempting form of popular imagery.

THE BIRTH OF THE 3D POSTCARD In the 1950s, a number of French lenticular specialists were competing to be the first to sell 3D postcards. Postcards were of course already a major phenomenon in popular imagery, dating back to the end of the nineteenth century. Animated line-screen images had been presented in postcard-format mounts in the 1910s, and small, ani-

THE BIRTH OF THE 3D POSTCARD

mated lenticular images decorated some postcards in the 1950s. The new objective was to have the postcard itself be a lenticular photograph and to have it present a 3D image—a more finicky illusion to produce than one of change or movement. As the Relièphographie era came to a close in the early 1950s, technical research on lenticular photography revolved around expanding its commercial opportunities by lessening its traditional constraints, including fragility and labor-intensive production. Research on the 3D postcard brought together these and other challenges. Crucially, such a product required a thin, sturdy, all-plastic screen that could be sent through the mail. This screen had to be more optically precise than the ones used for animated premiums. New manufacturing processes were needed to mass-produce it and efficiently bind it to images that had been serially printed in full color. And last but not least, attractive postcard subjects had to be photographed in 3D, bringing the tricky question of outdoor photography to the forefront. Maurice Bonnet, the first inventor to successfully commercialize lenticular photography in France, also appears to have been the first to explore the idea of lenticular postcards. He focused on this project in the summer of 1949, when his company, La Relièphographie, was mired down in drawn-out bankruptcy proceedings.1 He was clearly exploring other ways of living from his inventions and with 3D postcards in mind secretly developed a thin screen with narrower lenses, perfected manufacturing techniques, and planned commercial strategies. Mass production at a reason­ able cost was the central issue. On July  14, 1949, after much work, he wrote to his vacationing wife with great excitement: “Yesterday […] I witnessed the birth of the first polystyrene postcard. Cost: about 29 francs: amazing. We can make […] 5,000 per day and more if needed. The 100-franc postcard sold in bookstores, at the tobacconist, etc. is now possible.” A little later that summer, Bonnet reported on even newer techniques: “[W]e can easily make 25,000  postcards a day. We can sell them for 45 francs each!!!!” Regarding this exciting research, Bonnet promised his wife: “I’ve kept it absolutely top secret […]. It’ll be an atomic bomb in the old frog pond!” Bonnet’s enthusiasm was unmistakable, and the announced price of 45  francs—about three times the cost of mailing a letter—was indeed reasonable.2 The demanding inventor also prided himself on the visual quality of his results, writing to his wife regarding his samples: “It’s absolutely amazing. You can’t even see the lenses. The image precision is miraculous. I’m not exaggerating.” A black-and-white view from Bonnet’s archives showing a woman and child in a city street surrounded by pigeons may be an example of the type of photograph he envisioned for postcards. Although it is slightly bigger than a postcard and printed as a transparency, it presents an attractive subject and uses a new, thin, all-plastic screen. Archival information is fragmentary, but in 1951, after Bonnet’s dismissal from La Relièphographie, he seems to have considered selling lenticular postcards in the United States. In July that year, Jacques Thomas-Duffort, a professional acquaintance,

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wrote him “concerning business in the U. S. A. [and] in particular the 3D postcard,” warning him: “I’m afraid that others will beat you to it, because the idea is in the air.” He recounted that one of Bonnet’s (unnamed) competitors was currently “looking for financial backing to launch the lenticular postcard” and cautioned Bonnet: “even if the quality doesn’t match yours, it would be enough to ruin the launch of your invention.”3 Another contact in the United States wrote Bonnet in July 1955: “It’s now or never for launching your 3D postcard, now that 3D cinema is common in the U. S.”4 It was surely tempting for lenticular specialists to imagine capitalizing on the 3D film craze of the early 1950s with postcards. Bonnet’s other activities appear to have conflicted with patenting and selling them, however. In 1949, he had started what would turn into a decade of contract work for the French Department of Defense, in particular developing 3D  aerial photography using fine lenticular screens like those described for his postcards.5 La Relièphographie’s bankruptcy also obliged Bonnet to wait for the demise of his old company (which officially went out of business in 1954) before he could patent new inventions without risking accusations of infringement.6 In the end, Bonnet moved on to new projects, leaving the 3D postcard to his competitors. When Thomas-Duffort wrote Bonnet in 1951, he didn’t name Bonnet’s postcard rival, but there were several possibilities. Great enthusiasm surrounded this idea in the small field of lenticular photography. One potential competitor was a Parisian doctor named Charles Gaudin, who in November  1951 filed the first French patent describing a 3D postcard using the lenticular process.7 At the time, Gaudin was working with Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès (who had been active with line- then lenticularscreen photography since the mid-1920s), and the duo patented several new inventions together.8 Gaudin’s postcard patent described autostereoscopic photographs made from a traditional stereoview by projecting the image pair onto a lenticular screen backed with a photographic emulsion. By the end of 1951, Gaudin had signed an agreement to exploit this patent with the Bruguière company, specialized in the manufacture of a color stereo-view system of the View-Master sort; he was also negotiating with Mattey, another important stereoscopy firm, to commercialize other aspects of his research, including the manufacture of lenticular screens.9 Although to this day no trace has been found of the sale of postcards or other images based on these contracts, it is interesting that the companies then involved in traditional stere­ oscopy investigated, but ultimately rejected, the sale of lenticular photography. Another inventor, Victor Hudeley, also seems a likely candidate for being Bonnet’s 1951 “competitor.” Hudeley had been involved with screen images and projection systems since the 1930s. In 1954, he filed a patent with Pierre-Frédéric Cuvier describing photographs printed on “film, like commercial movie film, but 90  mm wide and embossed [with lenses].”10 It described rolls of lenticular photographs glued onto rolls of paper and cut to obtain individual postcards. Hudeley apparently had the equipment

FRANCE’S FIRST LENTICULAR POSTCARDS

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to make 35 mm lenticular film.11 A photograph of a preliminary version of his patent, accompanied by a marketing plan, somehow made its way into Bonnet’s archives.12 Might this document have been left with Roger Marilhet, co-director of La Relièpho­ graphie, where Bonnet could have obtained a copy? Hudeley’s enterprise was budgeted at 10,230,000 francs, including patent costs, machine manufacture, and employment of three technicians. He planned to make horizontal and vertical-format 3D postcards with an average production cost of 10 francs per card—reasonable considering that mailing a letter cost 15 francs at the time and that Bonnet cited 29 francs per card in 1949. Nonetheless, no trace remains today of the actual production or sale of 3D postcards by Victor Hudeley either.

FRANCE’S FIRST LENTICULAR POSTCARDS Despite the interest 3D  postcards sparked throughout the 1950s, the earliest trace found today of their sale—in France or elsewhere—is the end of 1962. This honor goes to a small French company named Synel, which briefly sold brightly colored images of various flowers and of Saint Theresa using a thick, rigid lenticular screen (fig. 114). Synel was created on October 15, 1960, with the manufacture and sale of 3D lenticular

114: Synel, Motifs for 3D postcards, 1962, printed images, each image approxi­ mately 15 × 10 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

postcards apparently constituting its sole activity.13 The company’s manager, Nelly Josset, was responsible for financial backing and commercial strategy, and its technology resulted from work by the inventor Alexandre Filippi (ca.  1900–after 1965). Filippi had been researching line-screen technology since the 1930s, especially as used for 3D projection.14 In the mid-1950s, he developed a projection system named Filcorelief with a partner, Jean Colas (“Filco” was a contraction of their two names). Probably motivated by problems marketing this system, towards the end of the decade Filippi started exploring printed lenticular photography.15 In 1958, he imagined

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publishing composite images in magazines and providing the reader with a separate lenticular screen for 3D viewing (reminiscent of how some comic books of the time included two-colored glasses for anaglyphic pages).16 In the end, Filippi’s ambitions merged with Synel’s project, although it is unclear how they became associated. Synel hoped to sell postcards of traditional tourism-related subjects, so one of the first problems it sought to address was how to record autostereoscopic photographs of outdoor scenes. In late 1959 or early 1960, Filippi experimented with interlacing stereoviews in the darkroom, but these photographs proved problematic to perceive in 3D.17 Synel therefore set its sights on an outdoor lenticular camera recording multiple viewpoints. Filippi discussed techniques used previously by La Relièpho­ graphie, Sicper, and Seroptic (Publirama), and Synel even briefly considered acquiring one of La Relièphographie’s O.  P.  22 cameras for sale in Cannes.18 In the end, however, it boldly chose to embark on the design of its own camera. The device had a single lens that moved along a 15–20  cm straight line.19 Behind the lens, a mirror reflected light onto a negative fitted with a lenticular screen. The distance covered by the lens could be modified to adjust the camera to subjects at different distances. When testing this camera, Filippi first experimented with what he intriguingly called “Marilhet” lenticular screens, using the name of Bonnet’s ex-partner from La Relièpho­ graphie, but Synel soon produced its own screens.20 Filippi was confident that he and his associates would succeed where their predecessors had failed. “I want to surpass Champs-Élysées-Seroptic despite the lesser—but very satisfactory—quality of our screens,” he boasted to Colas. “If the opticians go along with me,” he said, “we should soon have a camera that takes a picture using a screen and that can be used in a greater diversity of situations than those of Bonnet or Sicper.”21 Synel hired a technically oriented photographer, Guy Harmand (1921–2013), but Harmand’s first trials shooting typical postcard scenes with the camera revealed problems when everything was more than ten meters away.22 When Harmand and Josset wanted to photograph Parisian monuments, Filippi accused his colleagues of trying to “photograph far-away subjects for which the camera wasn’t designed,” arguing that “no single camera could have the stereoscopic base of several meters necessary” in such situations. “They sent me a photo with the Pont Neuf 60 meters away!!! and said they were getting ready to photograph monuments around Paris! It’s ridiculous,” lamented the inventor.23 The public will “never understand how the 3D could be so weak.”24 Synel’s first official attempt at a postcard was a view of the Place de la Concorde, recorded in May  1961 (fig.  115). Harmand expertly composed it with objects at different distances, including a stone balustrade in the foreground, the famous obelisk further back, and the Eiffel Tower visible against the sky. But mounted with a screen, the final color print had poor depth and distant objects appeared double. The results were judged unsalvageable. Synel abandoned outdoor scenes, turning instead to studio subjects.

FRANCE’S FIRST LENTICULAR POSTCARDS

115: Synel, Trial for a 3D postcard of the Place de la Concorde, Paris, 1961, printed image with lenticular screen, 15 × 10.3 cm, private collection.

Photography was only part of the lenticular-postcard equation, the team soon realized. Making satisfactory original photographs into mass-printed postcards also proved problematic. For example, in Synel’s archives a color transparency showing a model airplane has reasonable depth, but printed versions appear flat because of the loss of information in the four-color offset printing used.25 Synel’s images were also plagued by a moiré pattern. The company used injection-molding to form screens directly on a paper image (a method developed for animated premiums by Georges Mengden in the 1950s), but the paper shrank slightly in contact with the hot plastic, and the screen didn’t always form perfectly.26 At least 20 percent of the postcards produced were judged unfit for sale, with the proportion reaching 75 percent for certain difficult views.27 At best, the 3D illusion was minimal. Nelly Josset, in charge of iconography, had to juggle with these and other constraints when choosing images.28 One card pictured a statue of Saint Theresa, and the remaining ones were of different

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floral compositions. Josset would also have liked to sell views of the Winged Victory of Samothrace, which the company couldn’t access, and of nudes, which Harmand refused. Harmand proposed the Venus de  Milo and the Lourdes grotto (which he reproduced using a scale model), but these suggestions were rejected. The company also apparently considered Christmas cards because its archives contain black-andwhite trials showing a nativity scene and tree branches. When Synel finally started selling postcards in 1962, distribution was informal. Nelly Josset’s husband apparently went around to stores proposing the images as postcards or as greeting cards, made by inserting images into paper mounts. Harmand concluded that nothing ever really came of the operation because of “excessive costs.”29 The small company suspended payments on October 2, 1964 and was declared bankrupt on February 15, 1965. An official report mentioned “a disagreement with a company named Plastora regarding manufacture of a mold,” noting that in the end “[t]he company’s only assets were sundry office furniture and a few miscellaneous items not justifying auction.”30 Synel’s efforts show that 3D lenticular photography posed real technical diffi­ culties at this transformative point in its history. Just as with animated imagery, attractive cheaper versions of it called for new research. Synel’s iconography of choice—monuments, floral compositions, and religious imagery—prefigured the tastes of its successors, however, revealing that from the start, the images on 3D postcards converged around a limited number of subjects with wide appeal.

FOREIGN PRODUCTION In 1966, not long after Synel’s bankruptcy, 3D postcards made in other countries were successfully introduced in France. For the first time, foreign lenticular production was to dominate the French market. This proliferation of imagery from around the world was closely tied to French lenticular history and sparked renewed interest in French technology in France. The American patent for La Relièphographie’s famous O.  P.  3000 camera expired after twenty years, on August  8, 1961.31 At the time, the ­Publirama-Seroptic company, owner of La  Relièphographie’s patents, was going bankrupt, and multiple La  Relièphographie patents were falling into the public domain. This made it possible for others to start using the technology Bonnet had successfully commercialized in the early to mid-1940s. The beginning of the 1960s was thus a time of unprecedented freedom to capitalize on past research. The 3D postcards that started appearing in French stores in 1966 would come from three main cradles of production: Japan, Spain, and the United States. Each source presented different physical characteristics and types of 3D illusions and built on existing research in original ways. This variety sheds light on the compromises postcard production

FOREIGN PRODUCTION

necessitated and illustrates how commercial strategies decisively shaped individual forms of lenticular photography. 3D postcards signed by the Parisian company Visiomatic seem to be the oldest ones in France after Synel’s. They appeared in 1966—the peak of the vogue for animated key chains, of which Visiomatic had been a major promoter since 1958. Visiomatic’s postcards have a screen that is thinner and more flexible than Synel’s, giving them an unfortunate tendency to curl. Their illusion of depth is better, however: it successfully gives the impression that objects are on different layers, even though each thing appears fairly flat and overall depth is relatively shallow. One 1966 postcard presented two dogs in an imaginary landscape (fig. 116). Mushrooms in the foreground and leaves in the upper corners appear to be on one plane, and the dogs are on another, with more greenery forming a separate backdrop. Other Visiomatic post-

116: Visiomatic, 3D postcard, 1966, printed image with lenticular screen, 9 × 13 cm, private collection.

cards sold the first year (with “1966” printed on the back) form an eclectic lot, including fish, roses, a church, the Eiffel Tower, a scene from Cinderella, and characters from the French children’s television shows Bonne Nuit les Petits and Le Manège Enchanté. Visiomatic’s brief use of the 3D postcard as an advertising medium also led to several postcards with drawings of Far West scenes with a text on the back promoting Sargenor pills to combat “physical and psychological fatigue.” Another pictured a model of a Mobil gasoline station, with the reverse offering Monsieur a free lubricating job for

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his car and Madame a pair of stockings upon presentation of the card at the specific station mentioned. In June 1966, Visiomatic’s manager, Marcel Baril, had tried to contact Maurice Bonnet to discuss “the prospects of 3D photography” and evoke “commercial uses” of Bonnet’s process, but the cards it soon starting selling were printed in Japan.32 Their most likely producer was Toppan Printing Company, active in the production of lenticular imagery since around 1960; it had announced “extra-thin” screens and camera technology for postcard subjects in 1965.33 Dai Nippon Printing Company, another Japanese firm, started 3D lenticular research in the mid-1960s and is also said to have made postcards for the French market.34 Although signed French examples have yet to be found, ones from Italy and South Africa show that Dai Nippon used a thin, semiflexible screen that didn’t curl. It resembles the one used for a series of postcards labeled “La France en Relief” (including figure 113) and marked “printed in Japan” and “HC” on the back (the meaning of the latter is uncertain). By the early 1970s, Japan was clearly at the origin of various 3D postcards sold in France and their most prolific source judging from images found on the collector’s market today. On August 19, 1970, a 3D postcard of a bouquet of flowers was sent to France with the message, “Dear Mom, It’s from Spain that we’re writing to wish you a good and happy birthday.” This is the earliest date so far associated with another important cradle of production of 3D postcards available in France by the 1970s: Ediciones Fisa, in Barcelona. Fisa’s postcards have a thick, rigid lenticular screen and present a strong illusion of depth. In a magnificent photograph of dahlias, for example (fig. 117), each flower has volume and appears at a different depth than the others. The petals of the closest pink dahlia at the bottom even come forward in front of the surface of the image. As the card is tilted left or right, the whole bouquet seems to rotate slightly and can be turned about 15° before the illusion is marred by lenticular photography’s characteristic jump in image perception. It is common to find used Fisa cards postmarked in France in the 1970s; others have French captions on the back, or they carry greetings like “Heureux anniversaire” and “Bonne fête” on stickers or stamped into the screen (fig. 117). Two publishers in the French southwest—A. Doucet, in Lourdes, and Dino, in Font-Romeu—distributed some of Fisa’s 3D  postcards. Its production appears to have been less available in France than that of its Japanese rivals, but its catalog was extensive and possibly included several hundred images.35 The illusion of depth displayed by Fisa postcards largely surpasses that of ­Japanese ones found in France around 1970. It results from a combination of a thick lenticular screen and the camera system used.36 One possibility regarding the origin of Fisa’s equipment might be the adaptation of an O.  P.  3000 scanning camera and screen materials from La Relièphographie. Several O. P. 3000s were sent to Spain when Bonnet’s company established a licensing agreement there just after World War II.37 The photographs for Fisa’s postcards were visibly recorded in a studio with a camera

FOREIGN PRODUCTION

117: Fisa, 3D postcard, 1970s, printed image with lenticular screen and “Bonne fête” sticker, 14.5 × 10.2 cm, private collection.

that scanned along a curved path. One known Fisa card, picturing a lady with flowers, is even both 3D and animated—a winking eye and a smile develop smoothly as we move horizontally; this also indicates the use of a scanning camera. Fisa’s postcards have rough edges and slightly variable sizes, as if the screens had been cut from larger formats instead of produced with methods designed specifically for postcards. In addition, both Bonnet’s and Fisa’s screens had twenty-five lenses per inch and produced a 3D  illusion visible over what appears to be the same angle (known to be exactly 16° for La Relièphographie).

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Postcards using the American Xograph process, invented in association with Eastman Kodak and launched in the United States in 1964, represent yet another form of lenticular photography, technically and visually. The influence of French lentic­ ular history is apparent here, with the birth of the new process tied to the arrival of Maurice Bonnet’s technology in the public domain. In April 1961, a few months before the expiration of the O.  P.  3000 patent, New York-based Eastman Kodak wrote to Kodak-Pathé in Paris: “Tennessee Eastman are interested in obtaining a special camera in connection with the work they have been doing in 3-dimensional printing. [...] [A]pparently one of the most successful cameras for still work has been the Bonet [sic], a French camera. We understand that the Sales Office is located in Paris and I believe not too far from Kodak-Pathé on the Champs-Élysées. I have been asked to inquire if a Bonet [sic] Camera could be obtained and, if so, at what cost.”38 The principle of the Xograph camera—a massive, half-ton, single-lens scanning camera—resembles that of the O. P. 3000.39 French journalists immediately saw the influence of their compatriot. One even interviewed Bonnet. “If the Americans are reusing my work,” the inventor declared proudly, “that proves that there is interest in 3D and only encourages me to pursue my research. [...] If they are reusing the camera I made twenty years ago, [...] it means it’s still a classic and hasn’t been surpassed.”40 The Xograph’s developers admitted that their camera system wasn’t new, insisting instead on their contributions to the industrial production of lenticular imagery. Xograph images—named to evoke 3D, with the X referring to the word “parallax”—were designed to be as thin as possible so that they could be used in magazines (see Chapter 8).41 This made them appropriate for postcards as well. Xograph postcards appeared in the United States in 1965 and reached France as early as the summer of 1967. Their illusion of depth was very weak. One of the more successful examples, made using figurines, shows Little Red Riding Hood surprised by the Wolf in a wooded clearing (fig. 118). The foreground of flowering bushes and background of tree trunks are both slightly out of focus and lack significant depth. Only the main characters, at mid-distance, appear three-dimensional: Red is a little figure in a thick cape, and the Wolf rests its front paws on a round tree stump. Xograph images were physically designed to open new commercial opportunities for 3D photography, but their illusion of depth clearly suffered from their thin screen and mechanized production. As Bonnet rightly pointed out when he first viewed examples of the process, its illusion of depth was often barely visible. 3D postcards originating in Japan, Spain, and the United States were thus available in France by the early 1970s. No major French producer emerged despite the enthusiasm the postcard once generated there among lenticular experts.42 Even

FOREIGN PRODUCTION

Maurice Bonnet now seemed uninterested in pursuing this type of imagery, about which he was once passionate. Since July  1961, Bonnet had been employed by the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS) to develop lenticular photog­ raphy. He discussed selling postcards with an entrepreneur named Claude Blay, but their projects never materialized.43 In 1967, the stereoview producer Lestrade (see figure 92) unsuccessfully contacted Bonnet hoping to rent cameras and purchase lenticular screens—likely with postcards in mind.44 Others around the world clearly weren’t as demanding as Bonnet was when it came to producing and marketing small-format lenticular photography. 3D postcards of North America, Europe, Asia, and Africa from the 1970s can be found today and were surely sold in the countries represented. The success of the 3D postcard reinforced post-war trends toward market globalization and inexpensive, mass-produced lenticular imagery. As inventors had hoped, the long-sought postcard successfully brought autostereoscopic photography to the masses. Postcard publishers chose subjects with commercial potential, worked to photograph them, then distributed their wares to appropriate sales venues. Building a cata-

118: Grafa, 3D postcard of Little Red Riding Hood made with the Xograph process, ca. 1968, printed image with lenticular screen, 9.9 × 14.9 cm, private collection.

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log meant adapting to public taste by adding more of the types of images that sold well. Hundreds of 3D postcard stock images were available in France in the 1970s, and thousands of the most successful ones were likely printed. Never had 3D lenticular photography been the object of such abundance. Previously, sales had been based on the limited production of made-to-order portraits or advertisements. The postcard was therefore not only a new format but also a new genre with its own particular iconographies. Professional interest in lenticular postcards was clearly motivated by a desire to bring autostereoscopic 3D to a large public: all the main publishers concentrated on 3D  illusions. Animated postcards were slower in taking hold, possibly because the large circulation of animated premiums made them seem less novel. The earliest animated cards appear to have been 3D photographs of ladies who wink when the card is tilted (a familiar lenticular trope), as in an anonymous creation picturing a woman holding up a glass (fig. 119), found with a message in French on the back.45 Non-3D animated cards of the 1970s were frequently risqué, picturing lightly dressed women who become nude as the card is tilted.46 Although 3D postcards were visually diverse compared to past autostereoscopic imagery, their subjects were highly repetitive. Major publishers produced numerous variations on a limited number of themes, essentially offering the same images from the mid-1960s up through the 1980s and beyond. 3D postcards resembled traditional postcards in many ways: they were in full photographic color, as normal postcards started to be in the first half of the 1960s, and equivalent subjects could be found.47 The iconographic balance of 3D postcard catalogs was different from that of traditional postcards, however. Three main themes emerge as staples of the 3D postcard: monuments and other outdoor views; religious imagery; and all-occasion subjects like flowers, animals, and boats. The motivations behind these subjects and the compositional strategies used to represent them shed light on the remaining challenges involved in postcard image production as well on the connotations of autostereoscopic photography in the 1960s.

TOURISM AND OUTDOOR PHOTOGRAPHY No respectable postcard catalog would be complete without views of monuments for souvenir-hungry travelers. As any foray into the history of postcards reveals, pictures of places were the mainstay of this industry. In the early 1960s, Synel made this subject its priority before meeting with insurmountable technical difficulties. Representing outdoor scenes remained important for Japanese and Spanish publishers, for whom it continued to raise specific and often thorny problems. Parisian sites including the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Place du Tertre in Montmartre, and the new Orly airport terminal figured among Visiomatic’s earliest subjects (1966–1967).

TOURISM AND OUTDOOR PHOTOGRAPHY

119: Anonymous, Animated 3D postcard of a lady winking, 1966–1969, printed image with lenticular screen, 14.5 × 10.5 cm, private collection. 120: Visiomatic, 3D postcard of the Arc de Triomphe, Paris, 1967, printed image with lenticular screen, 14.5 × 10.5 cm, private collection.

Even the untrained viewer could see, however, that these cards were made using models or illustrations. In Visiomatic’s Arc de Triomphe image, for example, the finish on the monument and the lamppost are approximate, and a lone car looks like a toy (fig. 120). The pastel-colored scene has a dreamy, unreal quality to it. Fisa also represented monuments using studio sets. Its view of Perpignan’s Castillet, a fourteenth-century gateway, shows a rough model lacking the finer detailing of the construction’s original masonry. Its rendition of an historic monument in Andorra has it surrounded by distinctly unnatural looking plants. A desire to create 3D postcards of monuments was manifest, but on-site lenticular photography was clearly problematic at first. 3D postcards of true outdoor scenes could be purchased before the end of the 1960s and were a Japanese specialty, first sold in Japan then Europe. Two Toppan postcards sent to France from Japan in 1969–1970 pictured a group in traditional costumes parading in the street alongside a decorated wagon pulled by an ox (visible in figure 142), and two women in kimonos under a parasol in a garden. The illusion of

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depth is as good as in figure 120, made using a model. For large subjects like these, Toppan used cameras it developed specifically for outdoor lenticular photography. One system, patented in 1965, used a single-lens camera rolling along straight rails, with the extent of its movement adjusted according to the distance of the main subject. It had a maximum stereoscopic base of a little under a meter judging from a photograph of it (fig. 121).48 Toppan also used a thirteen-lens camera that was practical when snapshot-length exposures were required.49 By the early 1970s, 3D postcards had been recorded at local French sights using Japanese cameras. Views of Notre-Dame, the Champs-Élysées, Montmartre, Versailles, a Côte d’Azur landscape, and Monaco—all signed Visiorelief—were Japanese-made, most likely by Toppan. One of these colorful cards (fig.  122) showed the ChampsÉlysées with a sidewalk café and pedestrians caught in typical snapshot-style poses. Another series of outdoor views, marked “HC” and possibly made by Dai Nippon, contained at least six images of Paris—picturing the Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame (two cards with different viewpoints, including figure 113), the Eiffel Tower (fig. 123), the

121: Toppan camera for outdoor lenticular photography, in “What’s New in 3D: Japanese Firm Announces Extra-Thin 3D Printing,” Modern Lithography (August 1965): 43.

TOURISM AND OUTDOOR PHOTOGRAPHY

Place de la Concorde, and the Louvre—as well as three outdoor scenes of Lourdes. Dai Nippon used camera systems similar to Toppan’s, with one model moving along a track to record eight to ten images and another, developed by Sumitomo Corporation, with eight or ten separate lenses.50 Outdoor scenes required careful composition, with details arranged at different distances for satisfactory depth. The view of Notre-Dame in figure 113 combined many common formulas. A lamppost, a pedestrian, a fence, and tree branches provided

122: Visiomatic, 3D postcard of the Champs-Élysées, Paris, ca. 1968–1972, printed image with lenticular screen, 14.5 × 10.5 cm, private collection.

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foreground detail, and the impression of depth was reinforced by the diagonal perspective on a row of parked cars, a succession of lampposts, and the fence. The Eiffel Tower postcard from the same series (fig. 123) was taken from a high viewpoint to bring flowered branches into the frame, with the oblique perspective on a row of trees reinforcing the sensation of concrete space between the viewer and the distant monument. (Contrary to figure  122, this photograph was visibly recorded with a scanning camera because when it is tilted, pedestrians advance several paces and cars visible in the intersection behind the trees on the far right move forward.) The requirements of 3D photography clearly influenced the composition of these images without forcing them to diverge from the aesthetics of traditional postcards of the day, in which lively compositions with foreground foliage and people could also be found.

123: Anonymous, 3D postcard of the Eiffel Tower, Paris, ca. 1968– 1972, printed image with lenticular screen, 14.5 × 10.5 cm, private collection.

REPRESENTING LOURDES

The French example illustrates how production of lenticular postcards concentrated on a very limited number of famous sites situated in intensely touristic areas— Paris, Versailles, Lourdes, and the Riviera. The higher cost of lenticular postcards would always result in weaker sales than for traditional postcards, limiting the number of scenes it was productive to propose. Judging from the types of images most commonly found today, outdoor views were strongly outnumbered by other subjects, notably religious themes represented using studio photography.

REPRESENTING LOURDES The town of Lourdes, in the southwest of France, provides a rich case study for understanding why religion was one of the most important themes for the lenticular postcard. Lourdes rose to fame after repeated Apparitions of the Virgin to the young Bernadette Soubirous there in a grotto in 1858. It was institutionalized as a pilgrimage site in the 1870s, quickly developing iconographic traditions and a vibrant souvenir industry that, as Suzanne Kaufman has demonstrated, linked “the practices of Catholic pilgrimage to the emerging mass culture of urban France.”51 The potential market for images in Lourdes was such that it regularly inspired the sale or use of novel imaging technologies. When picture postcards appeared late in the nineteenth century, it soon became common practice to send them to loved ones when visiting Lourdes. Early motion pictures also portrayed the town.52 Even minor novelties found a public there. In the 1920s, for example, the new phosphorescent Radiana system was used for a postcard entitled “Miracle de Lourdes,” which after being exposed to light showed Bernadette and the Virgin glowing in the dark. When the lenticular postcard was invented, it flourished in these conditions. The site was a perfect venue for proposing attractive images. And the story of Lourdes was particularly suited to the ­visual illusions provided by the lenticular process. In the early 1960s, Synel’s photographer Guy Harmand had unsuccessfully proposed publishing a postcard of the Virgin of Lourdes that he prepared using a convincing model of a grotto complete with burning candles.53 Lourdes-related subjects were already present in the catalogs of several publishers of 3D postcards circa 1970. Along with a few outdoor scenes (including the Grotto and the Crown Virgin statue), the most prized subjects were the Apparition to Bernadette and the Virgin in the grotto. Fisa published two images of the Virgin (fig. 124, left) and one of the Appari­ tion (fig. 125); Visiomatic and Toppan produced an Apparition image in 1967 and at least two of the Virgin (fig. 124, right). All of these cards were made by photographing models. Fisa, for example, arranged figurines to obtain an Apparition scene that provides the striking depth characteristic of its work (fig. 125). The figure of Bernadette, kneeling in the foreground, seems to rise out of the surface of the image. Her clogs are

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three-dimensional, and the kindling she has set down reaches out over the water. Each sheep is visibly at a different distance, with the closest one appearing particularly solid. The illusion of depth continues towards the back of the scene where it encompasses the stone on which the Virgin stands and the roses around her. This was Fisa’s best selling 3D postcard judging from the frequency with which it can be found today. Visiomatic’s rendition of the Apparition was similarly composed except that it represented the grotto as it appeared in the 1960s and gave a weaker illusion of depth. Other views of the Virgin of Lourdes used a statue resembling the one exhibited in the actual grotto, with rocky walls, candles, or roses bringing additional depth.

124: 3D postcards of the Virgin of Lourdes, 1967–1970s, printed images with lenticular screens, each image approximately 15 × 10 cm, private collection.

3D postcards of the Apparition drew from established iconographic traditions to create highly recognizable images with a new twist. David Morgan has demonstrated how important it is that popular religious imagery conform to tradition if it is to ensure what he calls “recognition” of both the subject and the spiritual values associated with it.54 Both 3D and traditional Lourdes imagery commonly pictured a praying ­Bernadette, a flock of sheep, a bundle of wood, clogs, the grotto (natural or contemporary), water from the grotto spring, the Basilica of the Rosary built in Lourdes after the Apparitions, and of course the Virgin. The strategy of Lourdes-based postcard publisher A. Doucet when designing more recent lenticular postcards is instructive.55 In the 1970s, A. Doucet was one of the distributors of Fisa’s 3D postcards, and the presence of its name and address printed on the back of Fisa’s Apparition postcard (fig. 125) suggests that it may have instigated its production. In 2003, A. Doucet still had a small stock of a few of Fisa’s 3D cards as well as changing ones combining two completely different images, chosen by Fisa from amongst the most popular postcards in its cata-

REPRESENTING LOURDES

125: Fisa, 3D postcard of the Apparition, ca. early 1970s, printed image with lenticular screen, 14.5 × 10.1 cm, private collection.

log. In 2000 and 2003, A. Doucet published seven lenticular postcards with the help of a Chinese producer, modeling them on its own bestselling traditional cards. For example, a view of the statue of the Virgin in the Grotto was digitally transformed to create the same image in 3D, and a view of the Crown Virgin statue was transformed

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so that the sky became iridescent, changing from blue to yellow to pink when the card was tilted. These lenticular postcards cost more (their price averaged 2 euros in stores in 2003, up to ten times that of a traditional postcard) and didn’t sell as well as classic postcards, but A. Doucet appreciated the diversity they brought to its catalog. Lenticular postcards were a commercial product, and their iconography was chosen accordingly. Fisa and A. Doucet—both also publishers of non-3D postcards—capitalized on their experience in the business to design their lenticular products. As suggested by almost systematic interest in Lourdes on the part of lenticular postcard producers, the site presented a compelling subject for 3D  representation. From a technical point of view, the event for which Lourdes was renowned lent itself especially well to 3D lenticular photography: it was traditionally represented as taking place in a small, contained space and involved a limited set of figures and symbols, thus providing scenes easily created in the studio and arranged for interesting depth. One modern expert in pious imagery, commenting on a series of early twentieth-­ century photographs representing scenes from the life of Christ, even remarked that the use of figurines reinforced the impression of depth in such imagery, better engaging the imagination.56 From a conceptual point of view as well, the Apparition was conducive to 3D representation; the magical qualities of stereoscopy arguably conveyed something of its spirituality. During Bernadette Soubirous’s lifetime, her story had inspired stereoscopic portraits, suggesting that the way the stereoscope isolated the viewer from outside distractions and the illusion of depth drew him or her into

126: Edlux, Lourdes postcard, ca. 1960, tinted gelatin silver print, 8.7 × 14.2 cm, private collection.

REPRESENTING LOURDES

the subject were judged conducive to contemplation of a religious experience.57 In lenticular postcards, the perception of stereoscopic depth could only encourage absorption: the longer the image was observed the more pronounced the 3D illusion became, magically taking shape within the flat object held by the viewer. In figure 125, each sheep seems to be a solid little figure, and the longer we look the more it seems that each member of the flock—turned toward the grotto, muzzle raised attentively—has sensed a presence. The concrete aspect of the figures and the continuity of the illusion of depth make the space seem palpable and encourage lengthy and detailed observation. The 3D  postcard also surely met with fertile ground in Lourdes because local iconographic traditions and activities were already founded on simulacrum. Traditional postcards such as that in figure 126 collaged together elements of Bernadette’s experience (natural grotto, sheep, etc.) and of the pilgrims’ twentieth-century experience (furnished grotto, Basilica of the Rosary). Lines were blurred in real life as well. 3D images represented the Virgin Mary by using a statue, but a statue had been placed in the actual grotto as well in order to help make the spiritual event more present.58 This desire for convincing reenactment reached back to the turn of the twentieth century, when Lourdes pilgrims could visit dioramas, pano­ ramas, and wax renditions of different episodes of Bernadette’s visions and scenes from her life.59 Lourdes was also an ideal subject for animated lenticular postcards. The Appari­ tion already had a history with animated screen imagery. In 1931, Estanave made a

127: Publirama, Animated key chain of the Apparition (as seen from two angles), 1958, printed images in lenticular mount, image 3.1 × 2.2 cm, private collection.

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hand-colored rendition of it with his glass line-screen process; in the 1950s, Georges Mengden created a small black-and-white image of the subject; and Publirama produced an animated key chain as a souvenir of the Lourdes centennial in 1958 (fig. 127). Animated postcards of the Apparition—including one by Toppan showing Bernadette in prayer with the Virgin appearing alternately “normal” or glowing with light—seem to have been made after the first 3D ones but have proved popular. In 2003, a changing postcard by the Italian publisher EGIM could be found in many stores, showing Bernadette kneeling with a rosary, hands raised towards a dark and empty nook in the grotto, which was then illuminated by the Virgin as the card was tilted.60 Just as a 3D illusion encourages contemplation of the Apparition by focusing attention on each element of the scene, the transformation presented by the lenticular process can be said to draw attention to its divine nature. As the image changes from one state to another, the viewer is moved to repeat the curious effect—and for the believer, to contemplate it as spiritually significant. Suzanne Kaufman has shown that mass-produced souvenirs of Lourdes could be effective “aids to worship.”61 In analyzing the appeal of popular religious imagery, David Morgan underlines the importance of “interactivity” between the believer and the image—interactivity manifested, for example, in the way “believers use, handle, move, speak to, dress, and proudly display sacred imagery.”62 Lenticular illusions incite very immediate interaction, focusing contemplation and encouraging repeated viewing. It is not excessive to assume that these new postcards were truly devotional images for some, just as they were an amusing novelty item for others. Via the multifaceted compatibility of their visual effects with representation of the Apparition and because of the intrinsic attractiveness of 3D and animated illusions for viewers, lenticular postcards resonated particularly well in Lourdes.

RELIGIOUS IMAGERY IN LOURDES In 1977, a friend of the inventor Maurice Bonnet visiting Lourdes sent him a 3D Fisa postcard of the Apparition like the one shown in figure  125, reporting: “They sell these for 4 ½ francs here and they sell a lot of them.”63 Bonnet also received a 3D Fisa postcard of the grotto from a relative: “Dear Maurice,” it read. “Thinking of you in Lourdes where I’m passing through, and especially because (see reverse) you are everywhere!”64 3D Fisa postcards showing a dog, an izard, squirrels, and edelweiss of the nearby Pyrenees mountains and scenes from the life of Christ are printed with the name of the Lourdes-based publisher A. Doucet on the back and are sometimes postmarked Lourdes. As an impor­tant pilgrimage site and travel destination, the town clearly came to be not only the object of lenticular postcards but also a place where they were sold in abundance.

RELIGIOUS IMAGERY IN LOURDES

A more recent visit to Lourdes sheds light on how 3D postcards were likely sold in the 1970s. In 2003, lenticular images could easily be found throughout the main souvenir district. 3D and animated postcards were typically displayed alongside traditional ones and were priced at around 2 euros. Large-format lenticular images of religious subjects—Christs, Virgins, Michelangelo’s Pietà, Millet’s Angelus, etc.—could also be found. In one store, they were priced at 24 euros each and pre­ sented in a group on the wall between a selection of copper souvenir pans on one side and shelves of candles and platters decorated with scenes of the Apparition on the other. Lenticular images competed for attention amongst Virgin-shaped bottles for holy water, crucifixes, canes, bracelets, t-shirts, plates, decorative thermometers, and various other knick-knacks. They originated from several sources. In 2003, A. Doucet was still selling a stock of six different 3D Fisa postcards—of the Last Supper, Jesus in the Garden of Olives, Christ with Cross, the Crucifixion, a Great Pyrenees dog, and squirrels—even though production had stopped years before; they could be found in a few shops (fig. 128).65 The most common 3D postcards in 2003 were produced in Japan and sold by Robert Cantieni GmbH, including a few images from the old Visiomatic catalog. Wallet-sized views representing various saints in 3D or with anima­tion, made by EGIM from Milan, were also popular at around 50 cents.66 In the 1970s, lenticular postcards by Fisa and others were likely found in a similar way throughout the town, already competing with an 128: Lenticular and embossed postcards impressive variety of items to catch the visitor’s for sale in Lourdes, 2003. eye. Presence in a significant number of stores surely helped sales. Established postcard publishers like A. Doucet and Fisa had the upper hand compared to small operations like Synel because they could build on their experience and established distribution networks. The existence of venues like Lourdes that already sold pious imagery surely contributed to the commercial success of religious lenticular postcards. In the 1970s, Fisa

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published 3D cards depicting scenes from the life of Christ, various saints, and different titles of Mary—in particular those popular in Catalonia and around Spain. Religious imagery constitutes approximately a quarter of its known catalog. Japanese lenticular postcards pictured many Christian subjects as well.67 The most emblematic of these may have been one noted by Abraham Moles in his 1971 study of kitsch when he cited “winking Christs” found in shops in the German town of Oberammergau. He was likely referring to a card by Toppan captioned “Miracle Eyes,” which can still be found in Lourdes and elsewhere.68 It depicts Christ as a living man on the cross. He is shown from the shoulders up, his sweaty beard and crown of thorns standing out clearly in 3D; his eyes are closed from some angles and open and gazing upward from others. The 3D illusion pulls us into the physical reality of the photograph, and the screen-imagery trope of opening and closing eyes is a perfect formula for vividly showing Christ “coming to life” and looking heavenward—a representation of special power in Christ’s eyes that was not limited to the lenticular postcard.69 One animated lenticular postcard found in a Parisian gift shop in 2003 showed that the connotations of this product had then become so religious that overtly satirical postcards were produced: a Christ opened his arms to reveal a large red heart as blue sunglasses appeared on his face. Caricatures aside, religious iconography was an ideal subject for the lenticular postcard, allowing its producers to capitalize on established sales venues, on an existing tradition of pious imagery, on subjects that were technically accessible to 3D studio photography, and even on spiritual themes particularly conducive to representation in 3D or with animation.

FLOWERS AND FURRY CREATURES A last category of subjects was also extremely popular in 3D postcards of the 1960s and 1970s: iconographies with broad appeal like flowers and animals that fit multiple occasions, publics, and points of sale, further enlarging the market for the lenticular postcard. A seemingly infinite number of images represented flowers, accounting for approximately a quarter of the Fisa catalog I have been able to reconstruct and for many Japanese cards. Because flowers themselves were attractive and a common gift, floral postcards were versatile. Sometimes messages like “Heureux anniversaire” or “Bonne fête” were inscribed or pasted on Fisa postcards of flowers (as with figure 117). Animals were also popular: cats and dogs, horses and rabbits, butterflies and eagles, and elephants and tigers were all “posed” for the camera, apparently making up a little under 20 percent of Fisa’s catalog (including the Pyrenees fauna visible in figure 128). The most intriguing of the common 3D postcard subjects, however, is one that seems the most out of proportion with its presence on traditional postcards: boats. At least ten boat images were published by Fisa and a significant number by

FLOWERS AND FURRY CREATURES

Toppan. They may have been the 3D postcard’s equivalent of the traditional ocean view: an image that could be sold at popular waterfront destinations and that had positive connotations for a broad public, from pirate-loving children to vacationing adults. These different iconographies had wide appeal and were adapted to 3D lenticular photography as envisioned for postcards: via representation using objects that were small and intricate and could be arranged in a studio in a way that maximized 3D illusions. Bouquets of flowers had a complex structure providing interesting depth, especially when individual blossoms were fanned out and turned at different angles. Most animal postcards were photographed in the studio using figurines or taxidermy figures, as in one attractive Japanese-made card picturing rabbits and a butterfly arranged around a tree stump and surrounded by flowers and leaves (fig. 129). In Fisa cards, a pair of papier-mâché elephants cavorted in the tall grass and a pair of flamingos stood in a blue “lake” (clearly solid plaster). The composition of animal postcards was often anchored around two main figures placed at slightly different distances from the camera and surrounded by props providing appropriate scenery and

129: Anonymous, 3D postcard, ca. 1970, printed image with lenticular screen, 10.4 × 14.4 cm, private collection.

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130: Fisa, 3D postcard, ca. 1970–1974, printed image with lentic­ ular screen, 14.7 × 10.1 cm, private collection.

depth-reinforcing detail. Boats could fit these same requirements: for 3D postcards, they were represented using models photographed in the studio. The vessels were positioned at an angle so as to visibly recede into the depicted space and make their masts and/or sails stand out. They were placed on plaster “seas” with varying amounts of texture, and plausible props were added around the edges. In one Fisa card, a red sailboat advances toward the viewer, its bow jutting through rough waves and its spinnaker filled with wind (fig. 130). In another, a moored three-mast vessel is framed by a flaming orange sunset, its oblique angle highlighting its long bowsprit, intricate rigging, and decorative flags. Palm branches in an upper corner contribute to depth, and wavelets on the water’s surface bring visible texture. The diversity of secondary props that could be used with boats (including seagulls and lighthouses) helps explain their appeal—and possibly why airplanes weren’t as prevalent.70

FLOWERS AND FURRY CREATURES

These popular iconographies underline that publishers of 3D postcards focused on subjects possessing both strong commercial potential and the qualities necessary for attractive, studio-based lenticular photography. Using scale models instead of the real thing or making real things look fake evidently wasn’t a problem. In animal cards, the stereoscopic effect accentuates the stillness of the subjects, drawing attention to their unnaturalness. Live cats and dogs were occasionally photographed but resulted in less colorful images that generally suffered from weaker 3D. Meticulously arranging and separating flowers in bouquets also made flowers look unnatural. All of these objects seem to have been photographed with a fairly extreme stereoscopic

131: Georges Mengden, Installation for 3D photography, ca. 1970, color transparency, 13 × 18 cm, Musée Français de la Photographie, Bièvres.

base for their size in order to accentuate depth—a technique that could make even large objects look strangely miniature in stereoscopic photography.71 A photograph of a scene composed by Georges Mengden on a rotating table shows the principle behind such studio photography (fig.  131).72 Stereoviews using figurines had been popular back in the nineteenth century, when French publishers created amusing pictures using skeleton figures (sold as diableries) and similarly reconstructed scenes from popular plays or operas.73 Here, too, the use of figurines allowed expert assembly of attractive, visually complex subjects for 3D photography while fooling no one as to the constructed nature of the image. Apparent artificiality may have been appealing in and of itself, especially to children. Kids liked animated lenticular premiums in the 1950s, and advertisers solic­ ited their influence with this product (Chapter 6). The launch of the 3D postcard in

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1966 came at the peak of the popularity of animated key chains. Some early postcard compositions were aimed specifically at children. Visiomatic’s first selection, in 1966, contained both generic children’s images and ones based on fairy tales like Cinderella or on the children’s television shows Le manège enchanté and Bonne nuit les petits.74 Many Xograph postcards also represented fables, including “The Raven and the Fox” and “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” 3D postcards of all kinds of subjects were given to children, however. Examples mailed in France circa 1970 include a Japanese card of fish sent to Miss Patricia P., away at ski camp, and a Japanese card of butterflies addressed to Natacha with the message: “Received your nice letter. Very happy that you are finishing your plate and that you are feeling better. BALLOON air is very good for you. Keep working hard at school.” Reda received a Japanese card of parrots from her grandmother: “Now your cast must be off and I hope your arm is doing o.k.” And ­Raymond sent a particularly chatty boat postcard to some of his young acquaintances: “Hey kids! A little card to give you some news. I hope to be there soon. Are you being good with your mom? Do you want two airplane models? Tell me if you do, I can’t get them too late. Until then, work hard at school and Mom and Dad will be happy.” Raymond’s mention of model airplanes is a reminder that scale models of all sorts were associated with children. The way the subjects of 3D postcards were portrayed—using models or figurines, so in a toy-like way—surely contributed to their associations with a young audience. Producers therefore didn’t need to continue producing overtly puerile cards: 3D postcards of all kinds were appealing to kids. In presenting multiple variations on popular iconographies, 3D postcards perpetuated a successful commercial tradition of serial imagery in both lenticular production (as with premiums) and elsewhere. For example, in the nineteenth century, Pellerin from Epinal created a series of images of different saints in which two-part woodblocks were used to vary central figures while repeating the decorative frames in which they were inscribed.75 In a similar way, publishers of 3D  postcards could work with a stock of themes and an array of props to efficiently create an extensive catalog of attractive images. As with popular religious imagery, for which variations on well-known images provided reassuring familiarity, a variety of similar lenticular postcards could give viewers the pleasure of regularly admiring “new” images.

FROM THE AVANT-GARDE TO THE REAR-GUARD Technical and commercial criteria explain many but not all aspects of the 3D postcard. Once its iconography has been distilled to isolate these elements, an aesthetic specificity remains that can only be attributed to the connotations of 3D lenticular photography circa 1970: a distinctive lack of naturalism. Many postcard subjects could not truly be put in front of a camera (fables, religious history), and even those

FROM THE AVANT-GARDE TO THE REAR-GUARD

that did physically exist were often portrayed via fakes or in a way that made them appear that way. The only thing that can be qualified as naturalistic in the 3D postcard is the illusion of depth, and even it doesn’t appear very natural: most postcards generally give only a vague impression of objects being on separate planes. The longawaited commercialization of inexpensive, printed autostereoscopic photographs demonstrated that perceptual realism as a motivator of innovation in lenticular photography was a thing of the past. Although its goal wasn’t naturalism, the true attraction of the 3D postcard was still arguably the intriguing illusion given by the lenticular process. In this respect, the resolutely lowbrow 3D postcard can be compared to certain artworks contemporary with it: Photorealist paintings, with their almost photographic depiction of everyday subjects. In both categories of imagery, the iconography served the picto­ rial methods explored. Painters like Richard Estes, Malcolm Morley, and Gerhard Richter adopted the highly detailed rendering associated with photography, sometimes conspicuously representing a photograph by painting its white borders, an overexposed spot, rounded corners, or other signs of a photographic object.76 As a

132: Neue Galerie der Stadt Aachen, Kunst um 1970/Art around 1970, 1972, catalog with 3D lenticular photograph on the cover, 24 × 22.6 cm, private collection.

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result, they drew attention to both the process of creation and the differences between the mediated image and the world as we see it. Lenticular postcards worked in a similar way, through the representation of a representation. They were not paintings of photographs but photographs of figurines or scale models. Whether the authors of the images theorized it or not, the final work ultimately drew attention from the depicted object to the means of its reproduction. An attractive subject could be used over and over again with only slight variations because these specialty postcards were really about the illusion provided. Revealingly, 3D lenticular photography elicited fleeting curiosity in contemporary art circles in the early 1970s as the postcard brought the process to the attention of a wide audience and recently developed production structures made it easier to have images made to order. A lenticular photograph was riveted to the cover of a 1972 exhibition catalog by the Neue Galerie der Stadt Aachen showing Duane Hanson’s Supermarket Lady and Football Vignette sculptures (fig. 132).77 Although the depth of the image is disappointing, the choice of lenticular photography to figure works exploring the power of verisimilitude through life-sized sculptural rendition is conceptually interesting. Pop artist Richard Hamilton is the author of the most striking artistic adoption of lenticular photography at the time. He had already included a winking lenticular eye in his painting $he (1958–1961), then based his Flower-piece paintings (1971–1974) on 3D  postcards, cynically transforming a typical still life of fruit and flowers by adding a roll of toilet paper or excrement.78 Hamilton’s exploration of the lenticular process culminated in 1974 with his creation Palindrome, a largeformat 3D photograph made with the Vari-Vue process (fig. 133).79 It uses a very convincing illusion of depth to construct a subtle game of perception. We see Hamilton facing us, smearing white paint across a mirror that isn’t directly visible as a surface but the presence of which can be deduced from details of the image and perceived depth. The artist’s hand appears life-sized and with natural volume in front of the mirror (corresponding to the picture plane in the stereoscopic illusion), with its more distant reflection visible behind it. Blotches of yellow and white paint in the picture and an actual white label appear to be floating in thin air in front of the artist’s shirt, so they must be on the mirror (or surface of the photograph) as well. As we explore the depths of the image, different spaces can be discerned, constructed around the central plane of the mirror, but it becomes less and less clear what is seen directly and what is a reflection. The image presents things as if we, the viewer, were reaching out to paint the mirror; but if we truly were in such a position, it seems impossible that we would not see our own reflection (or that of the camera) in place of Hamilton’s. The actual physical configuration of the perceptive space so precisely photographed is elusive. Palindrome exploits 3D lenticular photography in a highly realistic way to explore the uncertainties of perception and reality. The commercial lenticular postcard had

FROM THE AVANT-GARDE TO THE REAR-GUARD

133: Richard Hamilton, Palindrome, 1974, 3D lenticular photograph: collotype-printed image with lenticular screen and paper sticker, 59.4 × 44.1 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

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no such pretensions. It can indisputably be categorized as kitsch, by both today’s standards and those contemporary with its creation. Writers who theorized kitsch in the 1970s sought to define it via a certain relationship to the real. For Jean Baudrillard, kitsch was a “pseudo-object, a simulation, a copy, an artificial object, a stereotype.”80 This could manifest itself, for example, when prestigious materials were imitated using cheaper ones—as the 3D postcard could be said to do when it substituted model buildings, papier-mâché figurines, and plastic leaves for historic monuments, wild animals, and true foliage. The lenticular process’s simulation of the workings of binocular vision also faked something in a sense, tricking viewers into seeing depth where there was only a flat surface. For Abraham Moles, kitsch also played with the scale of representation, “reproduc[ing] objects smaller or bigger than in nature” (our thoughts wander to tiny elephants cavorting in fake grass and to model boats on plaster seas).81 The way the subjects of 3D  postcards were prepared thus appears instrumental in their qualification as kitsch. This meshes perfectly with Tomas Kulka’s more recent arguments regarding what can make a photog­raphic image kitsch (as opposed to a painting, for example). For Kulka, photographic “kitschiness” is tied to manipulation and “begins exactly where [the image] departs from ‘straight photog­ raphy.’” One road to it is the “staging” of image content.82 3D postcards synthesized different markers of kitsch as photographs of arranged scenes, presenting an illusion of depth that drew attention to the artifice of what was pictured. From time to time, the message written on a 3D postcard indicates that 1970s viewers perceived it as kitsch, lightheartedly mocking it. A perfect example is Fisa’s red sailboat (fig. 130), sent by Sylvie and Bernard to a friend in 1974 with the following message: “Dear Xavier, You thought you were going to get to sit your worthy rear on the Flush Poker. To make up for it, we’re sending you this ‘magnificent’ boat with spinnaker out!!! Hugs from both of us to be shared with the whole family.” The quotes around “magnificent” say it all. The quaint magic of the 3D is broken by the mockery. Sylvie and Bernard clearly saw that the waves caressing the boat’s hull were plaster; that the spinnaker was rigid, not filled by a summer breeze; and that the skipper in yellow at the helm was a mere figurine placed in a toy. They sent this fake boat as a playful substitute for a real one. The kitsch status of 3D  postcards shows to what degree these creations used tried-and-true strategies to appeal to a vast public.83 In 1970, 3D lenticular imagery wasn’t the object of the same collective representations as a generation earlier, when it symbolized the future of photographic technology and attracted clients desiring an exciting modern likeness. It had come to be associated with advertising and flashy colors, simulacrum, childishness, and pious imagery, following in the footsteps of 3D movies of the 1950s with their fantasy-driven plots and easy thrills. Autostereoscopic photography’s change in status can’t be attributed to the disappearance of utopian ideas regarding integral imagery altogether, however. When

FROM THE AVANT-GARDE TO THE REAR-GUARD

3D postcards were at their most popular, public reception of the recently invented technique of holography revealed that the idea of perceptual realism still resonated powerfully.84 In the late 1960s and early 1970s, journalists presented holography in ways highly reminiscent of how lenticular photography was described in the early twentieth century. The first 3D  holograms were monochrome, but commentators insisted that it would one day be possible to obtain full color.85 When researchers developed a technique for creating animated 3D holograms by synthesizing multiple still images, the public imagined the possibilities for cinema.86 One aspect of the new imagery particularly struck imaginations: the idea that any part of a hologram contained the entire image. “If a hologram is ripped up,” insisted one journalist, “each piece, lit with a laser beam, makes it possible to reconstruct the entire original image [italics in the original].”87 Artist Salvador Dali seized the idea in his Dix recettes d’immortalité (1973), proclaiming: “When I found out that a molecule of holographic emulsion contained the entire 3D image, I exclaimed, incontinent: I want to eat it! [...] By doing so, I could—at least in effigy—fulfill one of my dearest desires: eat the loved one.”88 Holography was received as a new sort of Integral photography, and its name meant the same thing. In 1908, Lippmann had explained that each lens of his Integral photograph saw the entire subject. Holography even elicited Lippmann’s analogy for conveying heightened perceptual realism: the window. “One of the properties of a hologram is that any point on the photosensitive surface contains information about all the points of the object,” explained Anne-Marie Christakis, director of Paris’s holography museum. “A hologram is therefore comparable to a window through which we view a landscape. If instead of looking out of a bay window we look out of a skylight [lucarne], the landscape is the same, only the field of vision is narrower.”89 Holography called up familiar referents of the integral-image utopia as if they were archetypes of the collective imagination ready to be reactivated by the emergence of an appropriately evocative technology. Holography’s use of lasers further contributed to its apparent potential, conjuring another element of utopian integral imagery: separation of the perceived image from its physical support. The lenticular process had inspired hopes of this by freeing stereoscopy from the confines of the stereoscope. New communications technologies then reinforced the idea that the ultimate integral image would appear independently of any flat surface. Mid-century, novelist René Barjavel penned his 1944 Cinéma total essay inspired by contemporary cinema techniques and Bonnet’s lenticular photographs but also television. Extrapolating from how television transmitted moving pictures, he imagined that waves would one day liberate the image, carrying it into the space around us. “At home, total cinema—momentarily imprisoned by the receiver and its screen—will break free and roam the apartment,” he wrote. “The well-fed bourgeois snug in his armchair will project the virtual image at his feet, on the carpet or table, or somewhere in between the floor and ceiling. A spin of the knob too far, or

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on a whim of the set, and the image will go through the wall and have a walk around the neighbor’s.”90 Holography’s association with lasers helped imbue it with similar promise in the collective consciousness. The popular press promoted the idea that holograms weren’t made with a camera but with waves that mysteriously penetrated a photosensitive plate and made it possible to reconstruct the subject. Fascination with how waves might transform visual media wasn’t new. The discovery of X-rays and their action on photographic plates at the end of the nineteenth century had led to interest in how forces invisible to the eye could reveal things unseen. One journalist conveyed the experience of a hologram in a similar way: “When the viewer moves, he can see details in the image hidden by objects in the foreground; the operator can photograph things masked by solid objects. How can an object hidden by another be photographed?” he asked. “It’s magic for the layman, since light and not X-rays are used.”91 When holography was referenced in Star Wars in 1977—its first explicit cinematic portrayal (fig. 134)—it allowed Princess Leia not only to transmit a recorded message via an animated 3D  image of herself but also to give this image a free­ standing, embodied form.92

134: R2-D2 projects a holographic image in the film Star Wars, 1977.

Holography demonstrates that the integral image utopia was still a part of the collective imagination. The new technology didn’t fulfill this dream any more than lenticular photography had, however. By the mid-1970s, for historian Sean Johnston, holography had turned toward a period marked by “a search for novelty,” becoming a process providing a sort of “low-order surprise.”93 The parallel between the evolving

FROM THE AVANT-GARDE TO THE REAR-GUARD

connotations of lenticular photography and holography helps underline how when the visual limits of these processes became apparent, they ceased to evoke complete perceptual realism. New technologies of perceptual realism may even have diluted the promise of older ones. In the era of the 3D postcard, holog­raphy’s presence likely quashed any lingering sentiment that lenticular photography was a cutting edge technology. Lenticular specialists were free to focus on the commercial potential of their process as a form of imagery that was intriguing like the new holograms yet much easier to produce and reassuringly familiar in its rendition of the colors that still eluded holographers. The 3D postcard successfully renewed autostereoscopic photography, bringing it to a wide audience just as premiums had for animated imagery. It conferred needed novelty upon lenticular imagery, effectively maintaining its commercial and cultural presence while leading inventors to update the cameras, screens, and printing technologies associated with it. Following a familiar cycle in the field, however, interest in postcards faded after about a decade. In 1980, a member of the Stéréo-Club Français, a group of stereoscopy enthusiasts, reported “a weak interest on the part of postcard sellers today for the 3D variety.”94 In 1983, the photography magazine Chasseur d’images referred to 3D postcards as having been “all the rage a few years ago.”95 Today, it is rare to find ones carrying private correspondence dated after the 1970s. Examples mailed later in France were commonly inscribed with responses to television quiz shows, giving the impression that they were drawn from old collections of which their owners had tired and that they had been resurrected in an attempt to stand out in a batch of mail and win a more attractive prize.

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The November 1965 issue of the advertising trade journal Vendre caught the attention of lenticular specialists. The cover was almost completely occupied by a large 3D photograph of strawberries with silver forks spiked into them. The copy pictured in figure 135 was given to the inventor Maurice Bonnet by a friend or colleague who was keeping a lookout for new examples of lenticular imagery. Today, the image is a little scratched from wear but brightly colored and compelling. As we move in front of it, the edges of the forks appear indistinct and the strawberries closest to the camera shimmer slightly. Upon further inspection and from certain angles, the berries in the foreground seem rounded and the forks stand out from the background. The thin photograph is glued to the journal but supple enough not to interfere with turning its pages. Inside, the editor presented the new American process used to produce this image, along with the address of its French representative. This image is emblematic of the desire for simplification that drove innovation in autostereoscopic photography from the mid-1960s until the advent of the digital era. Lenticular photographs were made thinner in the hopes that they could be used in new ways—in magazines, in particular. Smaller and cheaper cameras were developed to make it easier for amateur and professional photographers to create their own autostereoscopic photographs. Vendre summed up what these changes were to do: sell lenticular photography to a greater number of users. In turn, this would keep the process alive by helping it conquer additional strongholds of traditional photography. The trend towards simplification was international. An exchange of ideas across borders had always shaped lenticular photography, but the balance of influence was changing. Until the mid-1960s, most images sold in France had been domestically produced, and French inventors had even exported their know-how. The new thinner images and mass-market cameras were foreign and sometimes even the object of multi-national collaboration. Because costs could only be kept reasonable through mass production and because lenticular photography remained marginal wherever it was used, tapping an international market appeared indispensable for success. Moreover, the “world” of lenticular imagery needed to maintain a certain critical mass for

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135: Autostereoscopic photograph made using the Xograph process on the cover of Vendre (November 1965), image 23.8 × 21 cm, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

essential materials to be produced and equipment to be modernized; otherwise it risked serious decline or even extinction.1 Since the invention of the lenticular screen, each new form of imagery had been a passing fad; small companies easily went out of business, letting their accumulated expertise and equipment disperse. For individual enterprises that invested in thinner imagery or new cameras, pushing back the limits of lenticular photography was about attempting to profit successfully from an attractive process and find its next popular form. At stake from a historical perspective was the preservation of the lenticular world.

THE XOGRAPH AND MAGAZINES Magazines started to be perceived as a potential market for lenticular photographs after World War II. The emergence of all-plastic lenticular screens made the idea of including such images in print publications fathomable for specialists. At the same time, illustrated periodicals were drawing greater readership, providing an increas-

THE XOGRAPH AND MAGAZINES

ingly attractive venue for advertisers with large budgets. Competition with television led magazine editors to innovate and increasingly adopt attractive technologies like color photography.2

136: Idea for a children’s book with animated lenticular illustrations, in Roger Zoller, patent FR 1,240,094, July 24, 1959. 137: Children’s book with an autostereoscopic photograph on the cover, ca. 1968 (Tourcoing: Artima, n. d.), image 13 × 9 cm, private collection.

Early work on lenticular photography in books and magazines underlined the thorniest problem it posed: the presence of a lenticular screen and its associated bulk. In 1948, Deep Pictures—licensed to use the technology of Maurice Bonnet’s company La Relièphographie in England—reported that it was researching lenticular photography in magazines but that the thickness of its screen (2 mm) was prohibitive for anything but the cover of a catalog. It feared that making the screen slim­mer might harm the stereoscopic effect.3 In 1958, Alexandre Filippi, who would later work with the small French postcard company Synel, dreamed of publishing 3D photographs in the magazine La vie du rail, read by train aficionados. As noted in Chap­ter 7, his proposed solution to publishing lenticular photographs was to supply a single screen to be placed on appropriate images by the reader.4 A children’s book along similar lines, with a movable screen for animating its illustrations, was patented in 1959 by Roger Zoller, manager of Publirama (fig.  136), and several titles were published in 1961.5 They had a small, 6 × 9 cm, animated image behind a cut-out on the cover and a loose lenticular screen of the same format to be placed on a portion of each page inside (indicated by marks for the corners) to see a wagging tail, moving feet, a bouncing

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ball, etc. But properly aligning a screen for 3D viewing was more complex. Children’s books were, however, a promising market for lenticular photography, and they were one of the first forms of print publication to adopt it: in 1966, as soon as 3D postcards appeared, several series of children’s books started adorning their thick covers with postcard-format 3D images printed in Japan (fig. 137).6 Ideally, lenticular photographs in magazines had to be thinner and more supple than those tolerated on rigid book covers so as not to interfere with turning pages or add prohibitive weight or bulk for mailing. This meant making changes to lenticular

138: Visual Panographics, The first published examples of the Xograph process, 1964, printed images with lenticular screens, from left to right: 10.1 × 12.1 cm and 12.1 × 12.1 cm, private collection.

screens and to the techniques used for printing the composite images underneath them. In the mid-1960s, one of the first efforts addressing these challenges resulted in the “Xograph” process—presented on the cover of Vendre (fig.  135). Although sometimes used for postcards (as in figure 118), the new technology was primarily developed for and financed by the magazine industry as a joint venture between photographic powerhouse Eastman Kodak and media giant Cowles Magazines and Broadcasting.7 Together the two companies researched plastics adapted to mass-production of thinner lenticular screens and developed methods to print composite 3D color images with a very fine dot matrix to work with them.8 The time it took for image production was also reigned in to be compatible with magazine lead times.

THE XOGRAPH AND MAGAZINES

Unsurprisingly, the invention of the Xograph process was announced in one of Cowles’s magazines, Look. The February  25, 1964 issue featured a small black-andwhite 3D  photograph of a bust of Thomas Edison surrounded by examples of his inventions (fig. 138). It appeared in an article on Edison, subtly suggesting the historic nature of the new form of photography.9 The small image was bound into the magazine along one edge, with perforations so that it could easily be detached and saved. The page behind it was red with lines fanning out from elements in the image to rein-

139: 3D advertisement for BOAC airlines made with the Xograph process, in Venture (February–March 1966), image 8.9 × 13.7 cm, private collection.

force its apparent perspective. Look published a second Xograph six weeks later, on April 7, 1964—this time in color (also shown in figure 138). The new 3D image pictured a woman in a red dress made with Kodel (a synthetic fiber produced by Eastman) posing in the Kodel factory. On the reverse, a text presented the Xograph process and Kodel and cited Bill Blass as the designer of the dress. It was an elaborate promotional cocktail meant to show potential advertising clients what they could do with the Xograph. Press releases underlined that 8,000,000 copies of the image were printed, demonstrating the new medium’s potential reach.10 Early uses of the Xograph process in the United States included ads in Business Week (for Rust-Oleum), ads in various trade publications (for Pfizer, among others), company annual reports, and direct mailing.11 But its most prominent venue was the magazine Venture: The Traveler’s World, a high-end, subscription-based monthly created by Cowles in 1964. Venture was granted an exclusive franchise to use the process

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in the United States, presenting a 3D photograph on the cover of every issue from June 1965 to July 1971.12 3D advertisements also appeared regularly inside, including ads for American Express (showing a family on a beach), the British Overseas Airline Corporation (an airplane on a runway, fig. 139), and the Mercury Cougar (a car with a young couple next to it). The cover photographs were glued onto the surface of the magazine while the inside ads were smaller and bound in along one edge, with advertising copy printed on the reverse and on the page behind. The Xograph process was marketed in France starting in 1965 but not employed very extensively.13 The Figaro newspaper reported in August 1965 that it would be used to photograph the upcoming auto show in 3D and that the images would appear in “an important French weekly.”14 Although a small 3D advertisement for Citroën’s DS Pallas car may have been produced in conjunction with such an event (fig. 140), the Xograph on the November 1965 cover of Vendre (fig. 135) was apparently the first example published in France and even in Europe. The most prominent use of the Xograph in a

140: Grafa, Autostereoscopic advertisement for the Citroën DS Pallas made with the Xograph process, ca. 1965–1966, printed image with lenticular screen, 9.9 × 13.6 cm, Guy Harmand collection.

THE XOGRAPH AND MAGAZINES

French magazine appears to have been in Elle (fig. 141). 15 The covers of the 1966 and 1967 Christmas issues pictured 3D photographs: the first of models in a snowy forest and the second of a manger scene. Two others issues sported animated Xographs: the September 22, 1966 cover featured a model with a changing smile and eyes; and on June 8, 1967, portraits of sisters Catherine Deneuve and Françoise Dorléac (the two starred in the just-released The Young Girls of Rochefort) alternated in an image accompanied by the headline: “France is changing [/] our color picture story inside.” The illusions given by Xograph images were rather weak, surely limiting the process’s success. Depth was generally confined to the appearance of certain elements on different planes, despite claims that the reader could “actually look around an object.”16 On the cover of Vendre (fig. 135), the strawberries closest to the camera have volume and the forks stand out a little in front of the background, but the impression of 3D depends as much on tonal contrast and on reduced depth of field as on stere­ oscopy. In the Citroën advertisement (fig. 140), the illusion is also best described by

141: Xograph images on the cover of Elle magazine, 1966, each image 16.5 × 16.5 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

how it makes things appear to be on different planes: the steering wheel stands out in front of the dashboard, the woman’s arm on the seat back is in front of her body, and the driver’s seat and cleverly placed notebook are in front of her skirt. Even in changing images (with horizontally oriented lenses), the separate views are difficult to distinguish completely, revealing that the Xograph system had inherent technical weaknesses. Elle editors seem to have planned for such imperfections, astutely pen-

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ning a headline under their September 1966 changing image reading “Elle opens your eyes to your beauty ‘quality-flaws’” (fig. 141). The Xograph process’s inventors favored a thinner image and industrial-scale manufacturing because they were important for winning contracts with magazines, but they did so to the detriment of the visual illusions obtained. Although good cam­ eras were important—the Xograph’s was a massive half-ton scanning device along the lines of Maurice Bonnet’s famous O. P. 3000 of the 1940s17—the screen was what ultimately conveyed the recorded information to the viewer. The images with the best depth had thicker lenticular screens. Industrial production also made it difficult to obtain consistently optimal results, with less-than-perfect screen alignment inevitably plaguing a certain number of images (this is still the case today and requires individual image inspection to ensure that only the best images are used). One couldn’t have low costs, thin images, and a prominent 3D illusion all at once.

THE XOGRAPH’S INFLUENCE Although the Xograph process had its weaknesses, its slim presentation allowed its promoters to create a brief buzz around it in both the United States and France. Of all the foreign lenticular technologies to reach France in the 1960s and 1970s, the Xograph appears to have attracted the most attention among 3D  experts. This was partly because it adopted the principle of a French camera, inspiring a we-thought-of-it-first sentiment, but above all because the Xograph was the most threatening process commercially. French efforts to compete with it underscore the nature of the compromises that structured specific manifestations of lenticular photography. Gaining on one front meant making sacrifices on another, in a battle pitting the technical, physical, and financial limits of a process against the quality of the illusions it provided. After Maurice Bonnet was hired by the Centre National de la Recherche Scien­ tifique (CNRS) to develop lenticular photography in 1961,18 he followed the invention of foreign processes closely. Along with the Xograph issue of Vendre (fig.  135), his archives contain samples of American, Japanese, and Spanish images that are broken or singed, have a corner missing, are annotated on the back with the pitch of the screen, or have had their paper backing removed as part of Bonnet’s close inspection of them (fig.  142). In early 1966, shortly after Vendre published the strawberry Xograph—and likely in reaction to burgeoning foreign competition—the CNRS started to promote Bonnet’s work and its commercial potential, bringing it to the attention of a new generation of observers. For example, his 3D Ektachrome transparencies of insects and flowers were exhibited at the Palais de la Découverte science museum in Paris starting in February 1966.19 In June 1966, the companies Visiomatic and Lestrade were among those to unsuccessfully contact the inventor in the hopes of

THE XOGRAPH’S INFLUENCE

working with him, probably on 3D postcards (Chapter 7). The CNRS’s efforts eventually led to a new wave of commercialization of Bonnet’s research, pushing the inventor to argue the merits of his particular type of lenticular photography and to adapt his techniques to current demands for images that were more versatile and accessible. Relieforama was the first and most important of the enterprises created in the late 1960s to market Bonnet’s technology. The Xograph appears to have influenced Relieforama in the way it went about trying to sell lenticular photography and defend Bonnet’s particular choices in the field. Relieforama rented an O. P. 3000 camera and purchased lenticular screens from the CNRS, and its photographers were personally trained by Bonnet. In late 1967, Relieforama started selling large-format color trans-

142: Samples of printed autostereoscopic images studied by Maurice Bonnet, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

parencies for point of sale advertising.20 Examples included a 3D picture of a couple dressed in Suralo raincoats and a 3D picture of a young woman in a low-cut dress ready to take a sip from a flute of Castellane champagne.21 Other photographs combined 3D with a changing effect—as in an advertisement for Caddy undergarments showing a father and three children dressed in everyday attire as seen from one angle, and in their underwear from another (fig. 143). All of these images were pre­ sented in specially designed light boxes for optimal viewing.

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143: Relieforama, Animated autostereoscopic advertisement for Caddy undergarments (as seen from two angles), ca. 1968, color transparency and lenticular screen in original light box, image 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

Market research done by Relieforama’s director Roger Karampournis before officially creating the company revealed the existence of competition on the lenticular market, in particular in the form of the Xograph process.22 A January 1967 meeting with “Mr.  de  S.,” advertising director at Christian Dior perfumes, was particularly instructive. Karampournis noted: “Mr. de S. was immediately very interested in our transparencies, especially considering that the Parisian company representing the American Xograph process had recently contacted him. From a technical point of view, he recognizes the advantages of the French system over the American one: more natural color bal­ ance, a fine-grained image, better defined 3D. [...] Mr.  de  S. revealed that the Xograph process (a paper print) required a minimum order of 100,000  copies. Photography is done in New York, with a free round trip from Paris for the client.”23 Relieforama’s knowledge of the Xograph process helped it decide to focus on selling original, high-quality lenticular photographs for point-of-sale advertising. The Publi­ rama company, which marketed similar images using La Relièphographie’s technology (discussed in Chapter 5), had gone out of business in 1961. Karampournis judged he would be more successful in filling this niche, in particular by emphasizing the

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144: Relieforama, Animated autostereoscopic adver�������������������������������������������������� tisement for Caddy undergarments, ca. 1968–1970, printed image with lenticular screen, 30 × 24 cm, private collection.

quality of his company’s photographs compared to those made with the new Xograph system. Xographs were printed in large runs and distributed in magazines or through the mail. Each image was relatively inexpensive—“less than the cost of a postage stamp,” claimed it promoters—with basic rates varying between 0.60 and 1.50 francs.24 Although Relieforama’s photographs were costly (about 200  francs per image) and required bulky light boxes that limited their use to point-of-sale display, they could boast splendid naturalistic 3D, and it was possible for clients to order small quantities (typically about a hundred copies were made).25 Relieforama’s story shows the galvanizing effect of the arrival of the Xograph process. Nonetheless, it ultimately confirms that the market was moving towards mass production and more versatile images even if it meant weaker illusions: Relieforama couldn’t sustain enough business to stay afloat and went bankrupt after just a few years, in 1972.26 The commercial success of the Xograph process and of other new forms of printed lenticular photography eventually convinced Bonnet to try his hand at his own printed imagery, despite his traditional reticence towards changes that potentially threatened image quality. The motivations and experiences of printing experts who wished to work with the inventor in the late 1960s further demonstrate that the success of foreign lenticular imagery attracted attention in France and sparked renewed interest in the work of its own expert in the field. The print shop Hélio-Cachan was

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one of the enterprises that envisioned collaborating with Bonnet. It wrote to him in December  1969 to insist that urgent action was needed: it had recently been contacted by “several foreign companies,” it said, and “the Japanese have come to France to take pictures. If we don’t do anything, the French market will surely be overrun by foreigners.” Hélio-Cachan thought working with Bonnet would be “an exceptional opportunity to carve out a position not only in France but worldwide, because there is an important export market.”27 Shortly after this, Bonnet started working with another Parisian printer, Lucien Philippe. In 1968, its technical director Antoinette Angénieux (b.  1925) had traveled to the United States, where she discovered a 3D  photography craze. She successfully negotiated the creation of the company Formes et Espace, in 1970, to produce printed versions of Bonnet’s 3D photographs taken with an O. P. 3000 camera.28 According to the trade press, Bonnet’s first trials with printed 3D photography took place “secretly, in April 1968, in a Parisian print shop” and encountered problems with image quality and screen alignment.29 A printed version of a Castellane champagne advertisement in the inventor’s archives is possibly one of these early experiments. The image (without a lenticular screen) is printed on plastic and is visibly grainy with garish colors. In a printed version of Relieforama’s Caddy advertisement mounted with a screen, the two views are difficult to distinguish and an uneven transition between them distorts the models (fig. 144). To remedy such issues, Formes  et Espace developed new offset methods involving finer printing screens and modifications to the orientation of the printing screens so as to avoid moiré effects when the final image was fitted with a lenticular screen. New paper choices were also explored, and a different balance was sought between ink colors.30 The company announced its new images in December 1971 with a 3D photograph on the cover of the printing industry journal Caractère showing a hand held out as if to greet the viewer (fig. 145). Like Relieforama, Formes et Espaces spelled out to potential clients what distinguished its images from more commonly found Japanese and American ones. It claimed its work had “nothing to do with the gadgets known up until now,” insisting on better 3D as the bottom line: its images presented “continuous depth and not just a simple stacking up of unequally spaced planes like in a puppet theater,” it argued.31 Formes et Espace explained that the difference came from using a camera that turned around the subject in one continuous movement, rather than in steps, and from using thick screens produced according to Bonnet’s methods. These thick screens were fixed manually on each image rather than molded directly on the image, as Bonnet’s new competitors did with their thin lenticular screens. The photograph on the cover of Caractère indeed has more pronounced depth and a smoother rendering of volume than Xograph images. As an unintended consequence, its 3D is frustrating, however, because the hand’s pronounced volume makes one want to try to look at it from the

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side—impossible in practice. This pronounced illusion of depth also required a thick, rigid screen, making commercial magazine contracts implausible. Like Relieforama, Formes et Espace targeted point of sale display, offering quality 3D at lower prices and without light boxes thanks to its opaque printed images. Angénieux recalls that no more than three- or four-hundred copies were produced for any one order. One rare example is a 1971 advertisement for the cleaning product Bul’blanc (fig. 146).32 The image shows a package framed by white curtains, dingy on the left and clean on the right. It is presented in a printed cardboard display frame with a foldout stand in the back. Two increasingly divergent types of lenticular imagery were thus developing: expensive photographs favoring impressive visual illusions that were viewed by few people, and widely distributed images for which a thin screen and low production costs took priority over the quality of the visual illusions provided. Each tendency found an audience, but it was impossible to combine the two—that is, to obtain the most complex illusions of 3D or animation then attainable while seriously lessening lenticular photography’s physical constraints. The dream of lenticular photography

145: Autostereoscopic photograph by Formes et Espace on the cover of Caractère (December 1971), image 12 × 12 cm, Maurice Bonnet Archives. 146: Formes et Espace, Autostereoscopic advertisement for Bul’blanc cleaner, 1970–1972, printed image and lenticular screen in printed cardboard frame, image 22.5 × 17 cm, Maurice Bonnet Archives.

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as a common fixture in magazines was marred by the erosion of the process’s visual distinctiveness when it was made physically compatible with periodicals. Relieforama went bankrupt in 1972, as discussed above. With its weak 3D, the Xograph didn’t outlast the mid-1970s either. Venture, its most prominent platform, ceased publication in the summer of 1971.33 Formes et Espace printed its images, but it couldn’t automate the meticulous process of hand-aligning lenticular screens, which kept its costs high. It went out of business around 1977 and was the last company to market Maurice Bonnet’s research. At the end of the 1970s, Bonnet summed up his attempts at mitigating lenticular photography’s awkward materiality: “[I]n the printing business, producing high-quality products requires such an important investment that we’ll never be able to break into the field unless a strong demand exists.”34 Meanwhile, other inventors were starting to bet that new cameras could create the stronger demand lenticular photography needed to be cost-efficient. They surmised that selling equipment for lenticular photography would be more commercially rewarding than trying to monopolize image creation.

PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHERS AND THE WT-102 CAMERA In the 1970s, it was difficult for photographers interested in lenticular photography to gain access to the cumbersome, complex, and expensive cameras it required. The Xograph process used a massive camera moved around by truck and of which only a few existed. Pictures were taken exclusively by Look’s technical director of photog­ raphy Arthur Rothstein, Venture’s managing editor Cynthia Kellogg, or another specially trained photographer.35 Ads commissioned by French clients were shot in New York.36 Bonnet’s O. P. 3000 was almost as bulky, although a greater number existed. However, the inventor refused to put it into the hands of just any photographer. At least one professional complained about the situation. “I asked Mr. Michalon when your 3D  photography process would be available to professional photographers,” the photographer Jacques Davis wrote to Bonnet in 1977: “He answered that at the present time only Formes et Espace was authorized to use to it, but that I could propose 3D  photo ideas to my clients and Formes et Espace would shoot and print them. I’m sorry to hear that because I can’t see how I could present a photo where my vision of the subject was absent, because I hadn’t taken the photo myself, to a client who chose me for my style.”37 The idea of selling cameras for lenticular photography to professionals went back to the World War  I era, when recording apparatuses for animated portraits were designed for studio photographers. In the 1940s, Bonnet’s La Relièphographie com-

PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHERS AND THE WT-102 CAMERA

pany and its competitor Sicper sold their 3D cameras, but most photographers were deterred by the high cost of equipment with which they were uncertain to turn a profit. Lenticular specialists also often preferred selling images they produced themselves rather than risk being blamed for the weak visual illusions that would result from unskilled use of their equipment. In the late 1960s, however, the low cost and relative ubiquity of 3D  postcards and magazine covers started drawing increased attention to lenticular photography, sparking interest in making one’s own images and highlighting how inaccessible their creation remained. Frustration was surely compounded by the recent expansion of amateur photography. The idea of selling cameras that would allow professional or amateur photographers to make their own lenticular images thus came to the forefront. The principal autostereoscopic camera to be designed for professionals after the invention of the 3D postcard was the “WT-102,” commercialized in 1978 (fig. 147). The WT-102 was invented by the Canadian Ken Law, director of Wonderview Optical Industries, patented in various countries between 1974 and 1976, and sold around the

147: WT-102 camera for autostereoscopic photography, 1978, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône. 148: Pictorial Service, Autostereoscopic advertisement for Hennessy cognac, ca. 1980, color transparency and lenticular screen, approximately 48 × 38 cm, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône.

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world by a company based in Hong Kong.38 It was a traditional 20 × 25 cm view camera that recorded different perspectives using a special back and a wide lens (8 cm). The lens had a shutter composed of a vertical blade on each side; during the recording process, the aperture it created moved across the lens over a distance of 6.5 cm. An exposure time of 1, 2, 4, or 8 seconds could be selected. At the back of the camera, a lenticular screen slid continuously over the negative while the lens was open, in synchronization with the aperture’s movement (covering a distance corresponding to the width of one of the screen’s lenses).39 Images could be enlarged to 30 × 40 or 40 × 50 cm (not possible with Bonnet’s O. P. 3000 or O. P. 22) and fitted with screens calculated for these formats and sold to accompany the camera. The WT-102’s reception in France is indicative of the expectations pinned on a professional lenticular camera by photographers and investors, but also of the pitfalls of such a system. After seeing the prototype at the Photokina trade show in 1974, the Parisian company Pictorial Service became the camera’s French distributor. The magazine Le Photographe dedicated a long article to its 1978 launch, optimistically announcing that 3D photography was finally “entering the commercial era.”40 Pictorial Service argued that the new camera would allow the creation of images that were “free from artistic constraints,” taken “in a single exposure,” and made using “ordinary films and development.”41 The company insisted on the WT-102’s ease of use, offering technical assistance and customer support to its clients. Eddy Gassmann, director of Pictorial Service, explained that he “intuitively felt there was a potential market for it.” The challenge would be “spending time on it, creating a demand, developing the product’s image”—a process he estimated would take several years.42 According to stereoscopy specialists who viewed WT-102 photographs at the time, their 3D appeared “less pronounced” than that of images made with Bonnet’s cameras.43 However, in a 50 × 40 cm advertisement made by Pictorial Service (fig. 148), a bottle of cognac, a glass, and a bunch of grapes appear larger than life and with natural volume, and the overall depth has very convincing continuity. The stereoscopic base of the WT-102 appears to have been perfectly adapted to small subjects like these, which were especially impressive when enlarged. Photographers didn’t find the WT-102 overly complicated. Jean-Claude Dewolf, who created advertisements for Philip Morris cigarettes with it in 1979, relayed “no particular problems” if the photographer included elements at different distances in his picture (“three or four at most”) and ensured contrast in light and color.44 For portraitist Philippe Degoy, the constraints were those of 3D composition in general and of long exposure times.45 The limits imposed by the WT-102 weren’t greater than those of any other scanningtype lenticular camera, and the new device was compact and easily transportable, weighing just 12 kilos. Although it was expensive enough to deter even serious amateur enthusiasts, it offered professionals the possibility of working with lenticular photography.46

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHERS AND THE NIMSLO CAMERA

The real problems of photographers working with the WT-102 appear to have arisen from the attitude of those commissioning pictures. According to Dewolf, clients didn’t understand how 3D  photography worked and asked for images they imagined based on traditional flat media. Gassmann’s intuition was correct when he judged that he would need to create a demand for the WT-102. Sales stagnated. For those who did purchase it, lenticular photography appears to have been a short-lived activity, just as it was in the end for Pictorial Service.47 Experiences with the WT-102 suggest that even when problems of access to a lenticular camera were removed, diffi­ culties selling lenticular photography arose from constraints inherent to the process itself and from the very limited demand for such images.

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHERS AND THE NIMSLO CAMERA As the WT-102 camera was being developed for professionals, other specialists were devising a way to allow amateurs to make autostereoscopic photographs. This was in keeping with the increasingly mass-market existence of lenticular imagery as well as with the multiplication of camera ownership in the 1960s and 1970s. Pierre Bourdieu reported in his groundbreaking 1965 analysis of amateur photography in France that there were then “few households, at least in towns, which [did] not possess a camera,” with 845,000 more sold each year.48 Worldwide, Kodak’s Instamatic camera (1963) had

149: Nimslo camera for autostereoscopic photography, 1982, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône. 150: The Nimslo Opti-1 printer, in Le Photographe (December 1982): 14–15.

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convinced 50 million buyers by 1970, and Polaroid’s SX-70 color system (1972) a few million more.49 People increasingly photographed an ever-greater variety of everyday sights and activities. Lenticular specialists reasoned that a camera allowing those who liked 3D postcards and magazine pictures to easily make their own images could potentially attract an important following. The Nimslo—named after its inventors Jerry Curtis Nims and Allen Kwok Wah Lo—attempted to do just that (fig. 149). Nims and Lo had worked for Asahi, a Japanese producer of lenticular postcards, and wanted to bring similar images within the reach of amateur photographers.50 The Nimslo was the first snapshot-style lenticular camera, patented in the 1970s and launched in the United States in 1982 and in France in 1983.51 It generated quite a bit of chatter several years before it went on sale, suggesting that there was indeed a demand for such a product, at least among existing stereoscopy enthusiasts. In France, the production of Nimslo parts at the Timex factory in Besançon (known for watchmaking) contributed to the enthusiasm. At the end of May 1983, the first Nimslo cameras could be purchased in the French city of Metz, followed by nationwide release in October 1983.52 The Nimslo had four lenses that simultaneously took four images on ordinary 35 mm film. Exposed films were sent to a lab (in Besançon, for France) where special printers and lenticular photographic paper formed the other part of the Nimslo system (fig. 150). Much as when Eastman famously promoted its 1888 Kodak camera with the slogan “You push the button, we do the rest,” the Nimslo enterprise banked on ease of use. The pinnacle of hyperbole was surely a television commercial opening with the voiceover: “You are about to behold a miracle—a miracle in photography. Introducing the most impor­ tant new camera in your lifetime,” as a sky with four rising suns dissolved to the fourlens camera. The ad promised 3D that made “your family look so real you feel you could reach into the picture and hug them,” with computer graphics attempting to convey the effect on the television screen.53 When French photography journalists finally saw their first Nimslo images, positive reactions ranged from calling the system “revolutionary” and its depth “striking”54 to describing its 3D as “satisfactory” and “quite natural.”55 Guy Harmand, photog­ rapher for Synel’s lenticular postcards in the early 1960s, borrowed a Nimslo to test it.56 The 3D in one of his pictures, showing his wife reading in the living room, was typical of what could be obtained (fig. 151). Harmand artfully included elements at different distances, with receding lines to create depth. There is a real feeling of space between the armrests of the sofas, and further behind them around a plant, a lamp, and an end table in the back of the photograph. The open book on Mrs. Harmand’s lap provides another interesting detail with visible volume. The 3D illusion is undeniable but never truly impressive—even in pictures by a photographer versed in lenticular composition. It is more like the depth of a good Japanese postcard than that of a Fisa postcard. Pierre Tavlitzki, of the Stéréo-Club Français, admitted that the 3D illusion

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in Nimslo prints was “undeniable” but found “the overall depth very limited”; in his opinion, the process didn’t provide “the same feeling as traditional stereoscopy (realism, impression of presence).”57 He reported that stereoscopy enthusiasts were telling a joke when the camera came out: “Did you hear the one about the Martian who landed on Earth and discovered a Nimslo before seeing anything else? His reaction was: ‘Poor Earthlings. They only have four eyes like us. They don’t know what good 3D is either!’”58 The disappointment was tangible. Those not versed in stereoscopy were less critical of the depth of Nimslo pictures but put off by restrictive compositional rules. The Nimslo manual advised including a

151: Guy Harmand, Autostereoscopic photograph of Madeleine Harmand taken with a Nimslo camera, 1984, color photograph on lenticular film, 11.3 × 8.9 cm, Guy Harmand collection.

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diversity of objects, leaving space between the main subject and the background, and avoiding things less than six feet from the camera.59 A patent diagram (fig. 152) summed up the type of arrangement for which the camera was designed as one containing a main subject, other more distant objects not too far behind, and/or minor non-central foreground detail. “With the Nimslo, you can’t just stupidly shoot pictures,” wrote Loaëc, a photography journalist. “You have to reason in terms of 3D  illusion and identify the things that will stand out. What can seem exciting for some will become unbearably tiresome for others.”60 While there was no avoiding the need for 3D composition, the design process of the Nimslo indeed entailed certain compromises to the illusion of depth obtained. Nims and Lo judged it important that their camera be compact like other snapshot devices. They gave it a stereoscopic base of only 5.6 cm—narrower than traditional two-lens stereo cameras. A wider camera with more lenses would have given more

152: Typical arrangement when taking a 3D picture, in Allen Lo and Jerry Nims, patent US 4,063,265, March 15, 1976.

pronounced 3D, but it is likely that it would have scared away many potential Nimslo clients, too. One experienced 3D photographer, David Burder, gave proof of that when he assembled several Nimslos to obtain versions with more lenses. His 12-image photographs, printed with the same lenticular film as the 4-image ones (on a hacked Nimslo printer), have depth that is more immediately visible and that portrays scenes, people, and objects with more realistic volumes.61 Twelve lenses resulted in a bulkier camera, however, and tripled the amount of film used. In the 1980s, the simplification of lenticular photography was truly being taken further than ever before. An older, more obscure attempt at a portable lenticular camera hadn’t dared reduce the amount of information recorded as much as the Nimslo did: the 1952 “Lentic” had six

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lenses—“the very minimum possible,” it was judged at the time (fig.  153).62 It used 120-format film (in rolls 6 cm wide), with a total stereoscopic base of about 28 cm. Although a Nimslo prototype also had six lenses, with base of around 20 cm, in the end the final product reduced camera size to 1980s amateur-camera expectations.63 The design of the lenticular screen and the film processing methods used to make Nimslo prints also shaped the 3D  illusions obtained, influencing whether people were excited to try or to keep using the new camera. Negatives were printed using “a real computer,” enthused one 1983 witness.64 The machine automatically aligned each group of four images with the enlarger’s lenses and projected them onto rolls of thin supple lenticular screen with a photographic layer on the back (a system

153: The Lentic camera for autostereoscopic photography, in Julius  B. Kaiser, Make Your Own Stereo Pictures (New York: Macmillan, 1955), 12.

that eliminated the delicate and costly process of lamination, or the fixing of screens on existing images). For each shot, a technician (pictured in figure 150) adjusted the alignment of the four images according to the distance of objects in the picture. This fine-tuned the 3D illusion, determining where the physical plane of the image was situated within the perceived illusion of depth. Ideally, the operator placed the main subject (such as the couple in figure 152) on the picture plane to reduce “ghosting,” or the doubling of important objects. After development, images were cut and mailed back to the photographer. Drawbacks of the Nimslo system were promptly underlined by commentators. The thin screen had a pitch of roughly seventy lenses per  centimeter, making the

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ribbed surface hardly distinguishable as such but limiting depth (just as it had for the Xograph). Experts lamented that the “cardboarding” or “puppet theater” effect made things appear strangely miniature; they seemed to be on different planes instead of having actual volume.65 The small print size (8.9 × 11.3 cm) made matters worse. Also frustrating to those curious about experimenting with lenticular photography was the fact that lab technicians didn’t print the photographs they judged to have unsuccessful 3D—those taken at an angle or with a central subject too close to the camera, for example.66 Waiting times (approximately three weeks in France and up to six to eight in the United States) were much longer than contemporary one-hour color processing, further dampening excitement.67 American artist Jim Pomeroy highlighted that a Nimslo employee said printing would be the company’s moneymaker, just like “a razor to a razor blade company.” For Pomeroy, the razor also evoked the nefarious effect on customer satisfaction of what he called “monopolistic” and censorshipprone photofinishing.68 A few other artists—including Robert Mapplethorpe, Judy Pfaff, Robert Longo, and William Wegman—experimented with the Nimslo when loaned cameras and given free prints, but none appear to have pursued using it with any enthusiasm.69 The Nimslo’s promoters sometimes compared their general marketing strategy to that of Polaroid cameras, and the parallel indeed points to an important hurdle to its success: getting consumers to adopt a specialized camera in addition to the one(s) they already owned, and then pay high prices to continue photographing with it.70 An American observer remarked: “It is these folks, casual users who already own 110-size snapshot cameras, or spit-‘em-out Kodak or Polaroid instant cameras, who will decide the fate of the Nimslo system.”71 Each of these specialized cameras gave photog­ raphers something extra at a significantly higher cost than classic color snapshots. Before the Nimslo went on sale, its promoters announced prints costing less than Polaroids, but that didn’t quite turn out to be true.72 In France, the price of the prints—“over 10 francs per picture!” exclaimed one journalist—was “a serious handicap.”73 Whether for artists or Sunday amateurs, the Nimslo system didn’t offer the sentiment of spontaneity and independence accorded by the Polaroid.74 Appeal of use, price, processing woes, and of course 3D illusions formed a whole for photographers deciding whether to buy or use a Nimslo. Paul Wing, an American stereoscopy specialist, remarked that Nimslo prices would likely have been accepted if a greater percentage of the prints had truly been satisfying.75 Guy Harmand said he was satisfied with the 3D illusions but too dissuaded by the price of the system to use it after his first roll of film. “In five years, the Nimslo company hopes to win at least 3 percent of the photography market in the United States and Europe,” a journalist announced just before the camera was launched.76 But as soon as it went on sale, it seemed it would always remain more marginal. Le Photographe magazine reported in 1982 that specialists were already saying the Nimslo’s success would “never surpass

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that of 3D postcards.”77 For French stereoscopist Tavlitzki, the fact that 3D postcards were already a thing of the past in 1983 didn’t bode well for the Nimslo camera: “One only has to see the lack of interest in ‘3D’ cards on the part of postcard dealers today to ask if anyone we know will give up instant photography, now commonly used, to take up Nimslo-3D for creating memories of the cat or the kids.”78 Fearing its camera would be compared to the ill-fated postcards, Nimslo tried to distance itself by calling the postcard process “2 ½ D,” but the reality of its own system was in the hands of the public.79 The company went bankrupt in 1985, and unused cameras could rapidly be purchased for as little as 30 dollars in the United States—less than 20 percent of their original price.80

154: Cover of Le Photographe (July–August 1996) presenting an autostereoscopic ­photograph taken with the 3D Magic camera, image 11.3 × 8.8 cm, private collection.

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The lifecycle of lenticular products was surprisingly short, and commercial strategy was a delicate brew. Others hoped tweaking how amateur lenticular cameras were designed and sold might help their success. Several devices briefly marketed in the 1980s and 1990s managed to maintain a modest group of users and keep mailaway lenticular printing services in business. The Nissei company purchased patent rights to the Nimslo and in 1989 launched the Nishika N8000. It was larger and heavier than the Nimslo and had some superficial design additions, but it used the same number of lenses and lens spacing and provided similar 3D. Nissei slightly reduced the cost of printing and instituted a novel distribution scheme, relying on independent sales representatives to present samples and explain the system to potential clients.81 Betting that seeing actual 3D photographs would increase sales had indeed been a winning strategy for stereoview publishers like Underwood and Underwood at the turn of the twentieth century, contributing to “the rejuvenated appeal of stere­ oscopy” and its expansion into new, more rural markets.82 Nissei wasn’t as lucky a century later. Another fleeting amateur camera was the 3D  Magic, a single-use, three-lens device sold by ImageTech with a 24-exposure roll of film inside.83 Again, it was marketed worldwide, including in France, where it was featured on the cover of Le Photographe in July–August  1996 (fig.  154). As when Nishika salesmen showed samples, a 3D  print glued on the magazine was aimed at tempting potential buyers with an actual lenticular photograph. It is a successful image, with the satisfying 3D that can be obtained with these cameras when composition is astutely mastered. It pictures a boy blowing a giant soap bubble. The transparent bubble stands out in the foreground, and they boy sits on a low wall with his bubble-gun and knees reaching towards the camera and creating depth. A dog behind him and a geometric background bring additional scope to the picture. The 3D Magic’s stereoscopic base of 3.7 cm was smaller than the Nimslo’s but apparently could provide a similar impression of depth. A version of this camera with a flash unit, the 3D Magic Plus, sold for 150 francs in France in 1996, with the printing of a 16-image roll of film costing an extra 159 francs. That came out to a little over 19 francs (about 3 euros) per photo—only slightly more than commercially produced lenticular postcards.84 The 3D  Magic disappeared rapidly, however, like the other cameras for amateur lenticular photography before it. The new cameras of the 1970s and 1980s represented the completion of a cycle of simplification of lenticular photography that had been underway since the process’s post-war renewal. The 1996 cover of Le Photographe magazine presenting the 3D Magic demonstrated much of what had been accomplished. The 3D-Magic print was in color, opaque, and thin enough to figure as a magazine illustration. It was produced cheaply enough to be included in an inexpensive large-circulation publication without raising the cover price. Unlike when the advertising trade magazine Vendre presented the Xograph of strawberries on its cover in 1965 (fig.  135), now anyone could create a

AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHERS AND THE NIMSLO CAMERA

3D picture with a handheld camera. However, the 3D Magic and its images also represented the limits to how much lenticular photography could be stripped it of its constraints in an attempt to diversify its uses and widen its audience. The disposable, three-lens camera pushed the simplification of recording devices for lenticular photog­ raphy as far as possible without coming back to traditional two-image stereoviews. Its thin prints simplified the materiality of the lenticular photograph to a point beyond which its optical illusions could no longer function in a satisfying manner. At the cusp of the digital era, exactly one hundred years after Berthier first described the idea of autostereoscopic photography, lenticular photography could be practiced by anyone and presented anywhere, but it was at the brink of losing its specificity as a technology providing seductive 3D or animated photographs.

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CONCLUSION

Digital technologies have transformed lenticular photography. In particular, specialized software greatly facilitates the precise interlacing of images for 3D or animated illusions. Images can be created directly from digital models. Preliminary tests can easily be performed to ensure perfect calibration of a particular printing project with a specific batch of lenticular screens, instead of working out problems through trial and error. Quality color printers allow a much wider public to print composite images and then laminate them with commercially available adhesive-backed len­ti­c­ ular screens, facilitating the establishment of new business models for selling lentic­ ular photographs. The Internet makes it possible to research and locate products or a range of lenticular specialists. Lenticular technology has also been integrated into hand-held digital stereoscopic cameras, electronic picture frames, and other devices providing glasses-free 3D viewing.1 Despite the digital revolution, and even now that the Internet makes images and information more accessible than ever before, those working professionally with lenticular photography are still confronted with many of the same fundamental issues as in the past: choosing attractive iconographies, maximizing the ease of viewing images in different situations, and efficiently assembling images and screens, just to name a few. Creating demand for lenticular imagery is still complex. The process remains on the outskirts of photographic practice no matter what form it is given. Lenticular photography’s marginality has led to the idea—common amongst casual observers and those close to inventors alike—that the process is somewhat of a failure. Those having worked in this closely knit field or who were associated with it know it is difficult to make a living from these images: they are far less in demand than traditional imagery, and they are more expensive due to the added cost of the lenticular screen and the labor necessary for optimal visual results. For casual observers, lenticular imagery’s marginality and longstanding associations with kitschy popular culture tend to brand it as an inconsequential curiosity. The mark of real success in the realm of popular culture is generally assumed to be financial prosperity (not the case here) or at least a clear quantitative presence, with the product

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CONCLUSION

attaining ubiquity in a specific context. Lenticular photography has never been nor likely will it ever be the norm for all photography, or even for any specific genre of photography. At no time was it as widely available as color photography or motion pictures, for example. These technologies are everywhere now, in commercial forms that allow them to successfully embrace their technical complexity. Color photog­ raphy and cinema are always underlying references for 3D imagery because of their shared ties to perceptual realism. A cultural presence equal to that of color photog­ raphy, motion pictures, or television would be a tall order to fill for lenticular photog­ raphy, however. But establishment on the fringes of everyday practice doesn’t mean lenticular photography is a failure. On the contrary, the process manifests resounding cultural success through its longevity. Animated lenticular images continue to be popular as premiums, additions to packaging, gift cards, and postcards. Animated gifs can be seen as digital avatars of lenticular images, proving the lasting appeal of the principle of a short, repetitive animated sequence. A number of recent producers of lenticular imagery have associated their product with the gif to convey its originality. They present the lenticular image as a sort of physical, non-electronic gif—a way of printing a gif so that an artistic creation or catchy personal portrait can be cherished and shared in different ways. The lenticular image thus benefits from a deep desire for the palpable in an era when electronic screens are ubiquitous.2 The contemporary connection made between animated lenticular images and gifs is also reminiscent of how generations past made associations with cinematography (1910s–1920s) and television (1950s) to give their animated lenticular images an air of novelty and modernity.3 Accordingly, lenticular images are sometimes used today to simulate the screen of an electronic device—on toy cell phones, for example. Like their animated cousins, 3D lenticular images live on in the form of printed creations, while lenticular technology finds new uses on stereoscopic cameras, computer screens, and televisions designed for 3D viewing. The lenticular process remains the only way for electronic devices to comfortably and immediately present stereoscopic depth without the use of glasses or headsets by the viewer. In the mid-twentieth century, lenticular photography was included in histories of photography as an exciting new technology for 3D vision, not animation. In today’s digital era, this is still where it packs the most promise. Animated lenticular imagery will never be a dominant medium because cinema, television, and now electronic devices fill our desires for moving images more completely. 3D lenticular photography will likely remain marginal as well. Its cost and complexity certainly bridle its adoption. Another deeper running deterrent, however, is limited public interest in seeing the illusion of depth used more widely. Our desire for 3D remains ambiguous, as lenticular photography’s changing connotations have shown. In the 1950s, the process’s associations with utopian perceptual realism

CONCLUSION

withered. This happened when its technical limits were becoming manifest but also, and likely just as importantly, as different technologies were being combined to create very lifelike 3D  photographs in full color. The increased perceptual realism that resulted from such a mix could make people uncomfortable, especially when it came to representing the human figure. Back around 1860, when the popularity of both stereoscopic photography and inexpensive carte-de-visite portraits were at their height, stereoscopic portraits of one’s own acquaintances weren’t popular—possibly too realistic for comfort zones of the time.4 Even now, life-sized lenticular portraits in color made by Maurice Bonnet in the 1970s strike viewers as eerie. With new media, we manifest the same uneasiness when perceptual realism is taken past a certain point: in robots, films, and video games, some realism is exciting, as is perfect realism, but between the two is the “uncanny valley” of unconvincing realism that strikes us as creepy.5 Stereoscopic 3D is spectacular and can contribute to creating an attractive portrayal when all the factors are correctly dosed, but taken too far, its presence can tip an image into becoming unappealing. Also limiting 3D  photography’s draw is the superfluous nature of binocular depth data in most photographs. In everyday situations, information about 3D is discernable from the record of light and shadow provided by the most basic image. We don’t need to see vacation pictures or our friends in 3D to recall them or the memories associated with them; nor is 3D necessary to understand what an advertisement portrays or to follow the storyline of a movie. It is part of our perception of the world and very useful for interacting with it, but it is much less important for recognizing things seen. Photography’s “power to attest” depends on light, not binocular vision.6 In images, as Ernst Gombrich reminds us in Art and Illusion, “it is never space which is represented but familiar things in situations.”7 The most recent craze for 3D cinema is indicative: not every film is produced in 3D; it is enough to be able to see some movies in 3D—especially those with content conducive to being portrayed with an enhanced sense of space and depth. Perceptual realism is an exciting technological challenge and performance, but we apparently don’t really want to see this old dream become an inescapable reality of our image-saturated world. The history of lenticular photography demonstrates that autostereoscopic and animated illusions have more often been about entertainment than about actually coming as close as possible to utopian perceptual realism. The illusions provided by lenticular photography have remained attractive over the years because of the pleasure and curiosity their observation procures. We are satisfied by just a few images manifesting these special effects. We don’t expect reality but a spectacle drawn from it. Photography is decidedly man-made. Its most marginal cases lead us back to our own cultural relationship to the photographic image, underlining that photographic techniques and images are social constructions—and in the case of stereoscopy and animation “invented truths,” to use an apt oxymoron penned by the French author

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Jacques Prévert.8 Lenticular photography confronts us with our contradictory reactions to photography’s naturalism, both pursued and pushed away in an ongoing process that has maintained it over the years as an ideal medium for contemporary practices of visual representation.

NOTES

Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own and all patents are cited according to their filing date, not their issue date.

INTRODUCTION 1

2

3 4

5 6

On early animated imagery, see Laurent Mannoni, Le grand art de la lumière et de l’ombre: archéologie du cinéma (Paris: Nathan, 1995), 191–248; and Hermann Hecht, Pre-Cinema History: An Encyclopaedia and Annotated Bibliography of the Moving Image Before 1896 (London: Bowker-Saur, 1993). On the perception of movement, see Joseph D. Anderson, The Reality of Illusion (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1996), 54–65; and E. Bruce Goldstein, Sensation and Perception, 8th ed. (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2007), 177–198. Charles Wheatstone, “Contributions on the Physiology of Vision: On Some Remarkable and Hitherto Unobserved Phenomena of Binocular Vision,” Philosophical Transactions 128 (1838): 371–394. See also Brian Bowers, “The Stereoscope,” in Sir Charles Wheatstone FRS 1802–1875 (London: Institution of Electrical Engineers and the Science Museum, 2001), 45–54. On depth perception, see Anderson, The Reality of Illusion (note 1), 65–69; Goldstein, Sensation and Perception (see note 1), 229–257; and Bruce Block and Philip McNally, 3D Storytelling (Burlington, MA: Focal Press, 2013). On the history of stereoscopes: Paul Wing, Stereoscopes: The First One Hundred Years (Nashua, NH: Transition, 1996). Studies of nineteenth-century stereoscopy include William C. Darrah, The World of Stereographs (Gettysburg, PA: W. C. Darrah, 1977); Edward Earle, ed., Points of View: The Stereograph in America—A Cultural History (Rochester, NY: Visual Studies Workshop, 1979); Denis Pellerin, La photographie stéréoscopique sous le second Empire (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, 1995); and Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000). Vanessa R. Schwartz, Spectacular Realities: Early Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siècle Paris (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). Michael Leja, Looking Askance: Skepticism and American Art from Eakins to Duchamp (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 1; 13.

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  7 See in particular Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde,” Wide Angle 8, nos. 3–4 (Fall 1986).   8 David E. Nye, American Technological Sublime (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994). Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own.   9 Barbara Maria Stafford and Frances Terpak, Devices of Wonder: From the World in a Box to Images on a Screen (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2001). 10 Thomas L. Hankins and Robert J. Silverman, Instruments and the Imagination (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 3–5. See also Robert J. Silverman, “The Stereoscope and Photographic Depiction in the 19th Century,” Technology and Culture 34, no. 4 (1993): 729–756. 11 Joshua Yumibe, Moving Color: Early Film, Mass Culture, Modernism (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2012), 7. 12 Sally Ann Stein, The Rhetoric of the Colorful and the Colorless: American Photography and Material Culture between the Wars (PhD Dissertation: Yale University, 1991). 13 For one example: Oliver Grau, Virtual Art: From Illusion to Immersion (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003). 14 Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, Objectivity (New York: Zone Books, 2007), 121–135. Although the emergence of “mechanical objectivity” corresponds to the time of photography’s invention, Daston and Galison conclude that photography alone was not responsible for this change because photographs were not necessarily considered objective; the objectivity they did possess was based on their detachment from aesthetic conventions or theories. 15 On “exactitude” in art and photography ca. 1840, see Paul Louis Roubert, L’image sans qualités: les beaux-arts et la critique à l’épreuve de la photographie (Paris: Monum; Éditions du patrimoine, 2006), 62–70; and François Brunet, La naissance de l’idée de la photographie (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2000), 269–270; 281–292. 16 See a collection of early accounts of the daguerreotype at http://daguerre.org/ resource/first2.html. Accessed September 29, 2013; and William Henry Fox Talbot, The Pencil of Nature (London: Longman, Brown, Green and Longmans, 1844), text accompanying pl. xiv (The Ladder). 17 Perceptual realism as understood here is only a small part of how the desire to make photography more closely resemble vision manifested itself. For example, efforts to reduce exposure times in the nineteenth century were motivated by the wish to show the world more like we see it. Others summoned comparisons with vision in exploring photography as a means of expression—most famously Peter Henry Emerson, an 1890’s advocate of soft focus in imitation of the eye’s imperfections. For Emerson, this was a means to convey the image in the mind’s eye. See Peter Henry Emerson, Naturalistic Photography for Students of the Art (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle and Rivington, 1890), 22–24; 97; 114; 119. 18 Ernst H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (London: Phaidon, 1960), 30–31; 56–58. 19 Michel Frizot, “Who’s Afraid of Photons?” in James Elkins, ed., Photography Theory, Art Seminar, 2 (New York: Routledge, 2007), 272. 20 Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 9.

CHAPTER ONE

21 Hankins and Silverman, Instruments and the Imagination (see note 10), 161–163. See also Laura Burd Schiavo, “From Phantom Image to Perfect Vision: Physiological Optics, Commercial Photography, and the Popularization of the Stereoscope,” in Lisa Gitelman and Geoffrey B. Pingree, eds., New Media, 1740–1915 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003), 113–137. 22 James Lastra, Sound Technology and the American Cinema: Perception, Representation, Modernity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), esp. 7–8; 21–22; 60. 23 Howard S. Becker, Art Worlds, 25th anniversary ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 1; 34–35.

CHAPTER ONE: STEREOSCOPY WITHOUT A STEREOSCOPE   1 Joseph Charles d’Almeida, “Nouvel appareil stéréoscopique,” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Sciences (hereafter referred to as CRAS) 47 (1858): 61–63. On the early history of anaglyphic techniques and the work of other inventors, see Ray Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema and the Origins of 3-D Film, 1838–1952 (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2007), 53–59.   2 On stereoscopy’s renewal in the 1890–1930 era, see William C. Darrah, The World of Stereographs (Gettysburg, PA: W. C. Darrah, 1977), 45–56; John Plunkett, “Selling Stereoscopy, 1890–1915: Penny Arcades, Automatic Machines and American Salesmen,” Early Popular Visual Culture 6, no. 3 (2008): 239–255; and Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality, 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000), 106–119; 158–167.   3 A. Berthier, “Images stéréoscopiques de grand format,” Cosmos: revue des sciences et de leurs applications 590 (May 16, 1896): 205–210; and Cosmos 591 (May 23, 1896): 227–233.   4 Frederic E. Ives, “A Novel Stereogram,” Journal of the Franklin Institute (January 1902): 51–52; patents US 725,567, September 25, 1902; and US 761,679, September 17, 1903; and Philadelphia Times (December 8, 1901), in Frederic E. Ives, The Autobiography of an Amateur Inventor (Philadelphia: Innes and Sons, 1928), 83–84.   5 J. Violle, “La stéréoscopie sans stéréoscope,” CRAS 139 (1904): 621–622.   6 Director of the Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers (CNAM) to Gaumont and Cie, July 6, 1905 (image file, inv. no. 13756, CNAM).   7 In 1900, Estanave defended a PhD in mathematics, subsequently working with Gabriel Lippmann, and then (from around 1912) as a science department secretary at the University of Marseille. See Une institution et des hommes: l’ancienne “nouvelle faculté” des sciences de Marseille en 1922 (Aix-en-Provence: Université de Provence, 1996). On Estanave, see also my “Images en relief et images changeantes: la photographie à réseau ligné,” Études photographiques 9 (2001): 126 (available from the digital library http://www.revues.org); and Michel Frizot, “Line Screen Systems,” in Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 2), 52–157.   8 Eugène Estanave, Relief photographique à vision directe: photographies animées et autres applications des réseaux lignés ou quadrillés (Vitry-sur-Seine: F. Meiller, 1930), viii.   9 Estanave, patent FR 371,487, January 24, 1906. 10 Ives used traditional stereoscopic negatives for portraiture to reduce exposure times and allow for retouching (patent US 761,679 [see note 4]).

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NOTES

11 Image dated 1905 in “Exposition rétrospective du Centenaire de la photographie,” ­Bulletin de la Société française de photographie (hereafter referred to as BSFP) (1925): 303. 12 Estanave, patent FR 392,871, August 1, 1908. Estanave’s “autostereoscopic” plate diverged from Ives’s previous work. 13 These ties are analyzed in my “Colour Photography and Stereoscopy: Parallel Histories,” History of Photography 29, no. 2 (2005): 183–196. For an introduction to the principles of color photography, see Brian Coe, Colour Photography: The First Hundred Years 1840–1940 (London: Ash and Grant, 1978); and Sylvie Pénichon, Twentieth-Century Color Photographs: Identification and Care (Los Angeles: The Getty Conservation Institute, 2013). 14 Alcide Ducos du Hauron, La triplice photographique des couleurs et l’imprimerie: système de photochromographie Louis Ducos du Hauron (Paris: Gauthier-Villars et fils, 1897), 457–460; Louis Ducos du Hauron, patent FR 83,061, November 23, 1868; Louis Ducos du Hauron, Les couleurs en photographie: solution du problème (Paris: A. Marion, 1869); Coe, Colour Photography (see note 13), 46–48; 50; Stephen Coonan, “The Joly and McDonough Colour Processes,” History of Photography 18, no. 2 (1994): 195–196; Jack H. Coote, The Illustrated History of Colour Photography (Surrey: Fountain Press, 1993), 32–34; and Pénichon, Twentieth-Century Color (see note 13), 22–24. Joly filed a patent for his process in France on August 24, 1894 (FR 240,939). 15 A. Berthier, Manuel de photochromie interférentielle: procédés de reproduction directe des couleurs (Paris: Gauthier-Villars et fils, 1895); and “La photographie des couleurs: méthodes indirectes,” Cosmos (April–May 1896): 67–70; 108–109; 143–146. Berthier hadn’t personally seen an example but wrote that Dr. Neuhauss, who had found color reproduction very satisfactory. 16 Berthier, “Images stéréoscopiques” (see note 3), 230. 17 Estanave, patent FR 371,487 (see note 9). 18 Estanave, “Plaque à réseaux lignés donnant le relief stéréoscopique à vision directe,” CRAS 148 (1909): 226. The same system is described in his patent FR 392,871, August 1, 1908. 19 On the Autochrome, see Bertrand Lavedrine and Jean-Paul Gandolfo, The Lumière Autochrome: History, Technology, and Preservation (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2013). 20 Frederic Eugene Ives, “A Novel Stereogram,” and idem, Autobiography, 83; 93 (see note 4); and patent US 666,424, November 27, 1899 (source of the citations that follow). 21 Idem, patent US 648,748, January 15, 1901. 22 Idem, “A Novel Stereogram” (see note 4). 23 On the early history of the halftone, see Gerry Beegan, The Mass Image: A Social History of Photomechanical Reproduction in Victorian London (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 72–77; and Louis Walton Sipley, A Half Century of Color (New York: Macmillan, 1951), 22; 25; 27–28. 24 Luis Nadeau, Encyclopedia of Printing, Photographic, and Photomechanical Processes (New Brunswick, Canada: Atelier Luis Nadeau, 1990), 122; 135; and E. Courmont, La photogravure: histoire et technique (Paris: Gauthier-Villars, 1947), 74–75. 25 Nadeau, Encyclopedia (see note 24), 393–394; New York Times (September 27, 1903): 30; and The Scientific Shop, “Circular 325” (May 1907): 18.

CHAPTER ONE

26 Estanave, patent FR 371,487 (see note 9). 27 Idem, Relief photographique (see note 8), 63. On the switch to cross-line screens in the 1890s, see Beegan, The Mass Image (see note 23), 76; 186; and H. Jenkins, A Manual of Photoengraving (Chicago: Inland Press, 1902), 48–49. 28 Louis Camille Daniel André Chéron, patent FR 443,216, May 1, 1912. 29 Beegan, The Mass Image (see note 23), 76. 30 William Henry Fox Talbot first suggested the use of a screen for photomechanical reproduction in 1852, using fabric or a glass plate covered with opaque lines or particles (patent GB 565, October 29, 1852). On early uses of the screen for printing, see Beegan, The Mass Image (see note 23), 72–76. 31 A. Fanton, “Les grils photographiques en Amérique,” La Nature 1651 (January 14, 1905): 98–99. 32 Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990). 33 See for example Aux origines de l’abstraction, 1800–1914 (Paris: Réunion des musées nationaux, 2003); Leah Dickerman, ed., Inventing Abstraction 1910–1925: How A Radical Idea Changed Modern Art (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2013); and Gordon Hughes, “Envisioning Abstraction: The Simultaneity of Robert Delaunay’s ‘First Disk,’” The Art Bulletin 89, no. 2 (2007): 306–332. 34 Ties between the Autochrome process, contemporary schools of painting, and / or printing techniques have been underlined before. See Norma Broude, “New Light on Seurat’s ‘Dot’: Its Relation to Photo-Mechanical Color Printing in France in the 1880s,” The Art Bulletin 56 (1974): 581–589; Ariane Isler-de Jongh, “The Origins of Colour Photography: Scientific and Artistic Interactions,” History of Photography 18, no. 2 (1994): 111–119; and Nathalie Boulouch, “Photographie autochrome et impressionnisme: le paradigme de la couleur-lumière,” Histoire de l’art 39 (October 1997): 69–75. 35 Ives, Autobiography (see note 4), 43. 36 Charles de Kay, “Parallax Stereogram’s Uses,” New York Times (September 27, 1903): 30. 37 Ibid. Ives’s second patent for the process addressed portraiture (US 761,679 [see note 4]). 38 Reproduced in Ray Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema (see note 1), 101–102. The Scientific Shop, “Circular 325” (see note 25), lists prices and seven images: President Roosevelt, Girl with Violin, The Moon, The Brigand, Statuette of Girl’s Head (two references), and Statuette of Man’s Figure with Camera. 39 My thanks to Gérard Lévy for access to his Estanave archive, the most important collection of the inventor’s work (22 images). There are also Estanave images at the Musée Nicéphore Niépce (6), the Societé Française de Photographie (2) and the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (1), and in a private collection (1). 40 BSFP (1906): 230; and (1925): 303. Lost today, Lippmann’s portrait is mentioned in his file at the Académie des Sciences archives. 41 L.-P. Clerc, “Plaques autostéréoscopiques de M. E. Estanave,” BSFP (1909): 105–107; and “Prochainement Plaques Autostéréoscopiques de M. E. Estanave,” Marseille revue photographique (June 1, 1909): 94 (article listing Clerc as the Parisian contact). 42 As reported in C. Fabre, Aide-mémoire de photographie pour 1910 (Paris: Gauthier-Villars, 1910), 140.

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43 Use of a wide lens would later be rejected by Bessière for this reason (Société d’Exploitation des Brevets et Procédés Bessière, patent FR 618,880, November 20, 1925; and addition 31,761, December 11, 1925). 44 Estanave, patent FR 371,487 (see note 9). 45 On Estanave in Lippmann’s laboratory: Estanave, “La stéréophotographie et le procédé des réseaux,” La revue de photographie (1906): 206; BSFP (1906): 228; and CRAS 143 (1906): 644–646. On Integral photography, see Chapter 3. 46 Cullet, “La photographie à l’Académie des Sciences,” Marseille revue de photographie (August 1909): 127. 47 French patents included Jacques Rouilliès and Société Perret et Lacroix, FR 277, 228, April 21, 1898; and Etienne Destot, FR 277,608, May 3, 1898. See also Guy Pallardy, Marie-José Pallardy, and Auguste Wackenheim, Histoire illustrée de la radiologie (Paris: Roger Dacosta, 1989), 405–418. 48 Estanave, patent FR 370,470, October 13, 1906; “Fonds Bonaparte: rapport de la commission chargée de proposer pour l’année 1908 la répartition des subventions,” CRAS 146 (1908): 1434. The screens were made by Guilloz (discussed below) and by Morel at Gaiffe and Callot, on Estanave’s instructions (Estanave, Relief photographique [see note 8], 86–87). 49 “Fonds Bonaparte” (see note 48), 1434. 50 Théodore Guilloz, “De la radiographie stéréoscopique sans stéréoscope,” Comptes rendus des séances de la Société de Biologie (December 24, 1904): 662–665. On Guilloz: Pierre Labrude, “Théodore Guilloz (1868–1916), pharmacien et médecin pionnier et victime de la radiologie,” Revue de l’histoire de la pharmacie 45, no. 313 (1997): 27–34. 51 Estanave, patent FR 370,470 (see note 48); and idem, Relief photographique (see note 8), viii–ix; 86–88; 107–108. 52 Guilloz, “De la radiographie” (see note 50), 664–665. 53 Estanave, Relief photographique (see note 8), 87. 54 Ibid., 87–88, for this and previous quote. Guilloz died from exposure to radiation in 1916, after having earlier lost a hand and forearm (Labrude, “Théodore Guilloz” [see note 50], 31–32). 55 I disagree with the assessment of Laura Burd Schiavo that box stereoscopes “downplayed” stereoscopy’s “operative mechanism” by hiding its component parts. See Laura Burd Schiavo, “From Phantom Image to Perfect Vision,” in Lisa Gitelman and Geoffrey B. Pingree, eds., New Media, 1740–1915 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003), 123. 56 Rosalind Krauss, “Photography’s Discursive Spaces: Landscape/View,” Art Journal 42–44 (Winter 1982): 314; and Crary, Techniques of the Observer (see note 32), 124–126. On the experience of stereoscopy, see also Denis Pellerin, “Les lucarnes de l’infini,” Études photographiques 4 (1998): 27–43. 57 Such practices were the object of debate at the time. On the constructed nature of stereoscopic images, see Robert J. Silverman, “The Stereoscope and Photographic Depiction in the 19th Century,” Technology and Culture 34, no. 4 (1993): 743–756; and my “Colour Photography and Stereoscopy” (see note 13), 196. 58 Estanave, “La stéréophotographie et le procédé des réseaux,” La revue de photographie (1906): 204. 59 Crary, Techniques of the Observer (see note 32), 132–133.

CHAPTER TWO

60 Ibid., 133–137, for this quote and the preceding arguments. It is common but erroneous to state, as Crary does, that stereoscopy was in decline after the mid-nineteenth century. Although it no longer possessed the conceptual modernity of its early years, it was very much alive and well. Increasingly, like photography in general, it was the object of amateur practice, which is more difficult to document than commercial views. Little has been published on this part of its later history; see Plunkett, “Selling Stereoscopy” (note 2).

CHAPTER TWO: CINEMA IN A SINGLE PHOTO   1 An earlier version of this chapter appeared as “‘Le cinéma dans une seule photo’: le portrait animé des années 1910,” in Olivier Lugon and Laurent Guido, eds., Fixe/animé: croisements de la photographie et du cinéma au XXe siècle (Lausanne: Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2010), 117–131; published in English as “‘Cinema in a Single Photo’: The Animated Screen Portrait of the 1910s,” in Olivier Lugon and Laurent Guido, eds., Between Still and Moving Images: Photography and Cinema in the 20th Century (New Barnet: John Libbey, 2012), 97–111.   2 Eugène Estanave, patent FR 371,487, January 24, 1906.   3 This image is in the collection of the Société Française de Photographie, Paris, and another two-image animated portrait at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Estanave also suggested combining three images—apparently portraits of different people—in his “Images changeantes à deux et trois aspects sur plaque autostéréoscopique,” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Sciences (hereafter referred to as CRAS) 150 (1910): 94–95; and Bulletin de la Société française de photographie (hereafter referred to as BSFP) (1910): 121.   4 For the Lourdes image (coll. Gérard Lévy, Paris), see my “Images en relief et images changeantes: la photographie à réseau ligné,” Études photographiques 9 (2001): 131. Other lost animated photographs by Estanave are cited in BSFP (1910): 121; and (1925): 303.   5 Eugène Estanave, Relief photographique à vision directe: photographies animées et autres applications des réseaux lignés ou quadrillés (Vitry-sur-Seine: F. Meiller, 1930), 137–139.   6 Alexander S. Spiegel, patents US 944,385 and US 946,407, both March 15, 1909; and US 1,066,766, November 20, 1911. See also US 829,492, November 29, 1905.   7 Spiegel is cited by Ivan-Louis Andrieux and Edmond-Clément Papeghin in patents FR 480,717, January 19, 1916; and FR 483,190, March 14, 1916.   8 The back of the card added: “War [/] no need to worry [/] … if you are wearing … [/] Middletons [/] Artura shoes.” Reproduction in my “Cinema in a Single Photo” (see note 1), 99.   9 The studio on the boulevard des Italiens was possibly run by “Midget,” the only photographer at this address in the Didot-Bottin directory (1910–1918) during pertinent years. 10 See for example Alvaro Mullor y Perez, addition 20,173 to patent FR 480,866, January 15, 1916; and Andrieux and Papeghin, patent FR 483,190 (see note 7).

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11 The device carried a plaque citing Spiegel’s patent US 1,066,766 (see note 6). Similar systems were patented in France by Spiegel, Glendenning, and Felsenthal, FR 480,413, December 8, 1915; Andrieux and Papeghin, FR 480,717 (see note 7); and Bergeron, Ferreté & Cie. and P. Duchenne, FR 483,610, November 27, 1916. 12 Alexander S. Spiegel, patent FR 478,738, September 9, 1914. Variations on Spiegel’s mounts were patented in France by Alvaro Mullor y Perez, FR 480,866, December 27, 1915; and addition 20,173, January 15, 1916; and by Andrieux et Papeghin, FR 483,190 (see note 7). 13 Portrait price in Stephen Herbert, “Animated Portrait Photography,” History of Photography 13, no. 1 (1989): 71. On British postage rates: www.postalheritage.org.uk/ page/cost-letter-since-1840, accessed May 28, 2014. 14 The British Journal Almanach Advertisements (1917): 491. Move-O-Graph material was patented by A. E. Walsham, A. Bennett, and A. H. F. Perl, GB 106,680 and GB 106,681, both June 1, 1916; and Reginald Atherton, David Burne Jones, and Sidney Croneen, GB 114,173, August 16, 1917. 15 Vanessa R. Schwartz, Spectacular Realities: Early Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siècle Paris (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 7–8; and idem, It’s So French! Hollywood, Paris, and the Making of Cosmopolitan Film Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 53. 16 One poster, showing spectators watching a man jumping over a horse on the screen, announced “Grand succès du jour [/] le Cinématographe [/] la photographie animée [/] par le [/] Cinématographe [/] de A. & L. Lumière.” 17 Estanave, “Photographies à couleurs changeantes,” CRAS 152 (1911): 1158–1159; and “La Photographie Animée, Invention sensationnelle. Le Cinéma Dans Une Seule Photo. Bergeron, Ferreté & Cie., r. Martel, 8. [T] Bergère 41.01” in Didot-Bottin directory, 1918 and 1919. 18 I have documented American portraits from “Life Motion Photo Co., Boardwalk, opposite fishing pier, Asbury Park”; “Cope, 1635 Boardwalk, Atlantic City”; “Myers’ Studios, Photographs, 1521 Boardwalk, Up Stairs, Atlantic City”; “Famous & Barr Co., St. Louis,” Missouri (department store opened in 1911); “Brown’s Photo Shop, 22 Wash. St.,” Grand Haven, Michigan; and “Life Motion Inc., 1608 Broadway, opp. Churchills” (city unknown). 19 On movie screening venues: Jean-Jacques Meusy, Paris palaces ou le temps des cinémas 1894–1918 (Paris: CNRS, 1995). On boulevard culture: Schwartz, Spectacular Realities (see note 15), esp. 19–26; 30–31. The boulevards were a magnet for photographic portrait studios starting in the 1850s; see Anne McCauley, Industrial Madness: Commercial Photography in Paris, 1848–1871 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994), 66–69; 72–75. 20 See Pascal Fouché, “History” section on the website Flipbook.info, accessed February 8, 2013, http://www.flipbook.info/history. An animated rendition of this flipbook can be viewed at Catherine Moore, Laurence Campa, and Mark Moore, “Guillaume Apollinaire” website, accessed February 8, 2013, http://www.apollinaire.ulg.ac.be/ Apollinaire_dit.htm. 21 Comptoir Général de la Photographie and Société des Établissements Gaumont, Tarif général des appareils, fournitures et nouveautés photographiques, January 1911, 50. Stephen

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22 23

24

25

26

27 28

29 30

31

32 33

Herbert dates the use of the flipbook for portraits to 1897–1898 (“Animated Portrait Photography,” [see note 13], 65–78). Elizabeth Carlson, “Reflections to Projections: The Mirror as a Proto-Cinematic Technology,” Early Popular Visual Culture 9, no. 1 (2011): 30–31. Round corners commonly appeared in contemporary representations of projection screens and film screenings of the time. For several examples, see reproductions in Jacques Kermabon, ed., Pathé: premier empire du cinéma (Paris: Centre Pompidou, 1994), 197–209. See François Albera, Frank Kessler, and Sabine Lenk in Claude Murcia and Gilles Menegaldo, eds., L’expression du sentiment au cinéma (Poitiers: La Licorne, 1996); and Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde,” Wide Angle 8, nos. 3–4 (Fall 1986): 66. On traditional portraits: Michel Frizot, ed., A New History of Photography (Cologne: Könemann, 1998), 103–129; 495–512; 527–533. Photographers moved closer to their subjects later, under the influence of cinema and the illustrated press. See for example Hugo van Wadenoyen, Photographing People (London: Focal Press, 1939), 13. Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction” (see note 24), 68. On the mixing of different forms of entertainment, including cinema, see also Schwartz, Spectacular Realities (see note 15), esp. 177–178; 196. Jonathan Crary, Suspensions of Perception: Attention, Spectacle, and Modern Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), 271. This mirrors current trends in the cinema industry, where stardom followed the anonymity of earlier performers. See Gian Luca Farinelli and Jean-Loup Passek, eds., Stars au féminin: naissance, apogée et décadence du star système (Paris: Centre Pompidou, 2000). Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction” (see note 24), 63–70. The Ombro-Cinema was apparently patented in France in 1899. See Hermann Hecht, Pre-Cinema History: An Encyclopaedia and Annotated Bibliography of the Moving Image Before 1896 (London: Bowker-Saur, 1993), 306–307; 430. See also the website of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, “E comme Encyclopédisme—Archives,” last modified December 27, 2012, http://www.bnf.fr/fr/collections_et_services/anx_dec/a.e_comme_ encyclopedisme_archives.html. André Gaudreault, “Du simple au multiple: le cinéma comme série de séries,” Cinémas: Journal of Film Studies 13, no. 1–2 (2002): 33–47. On cinema and magic, see also Tom Gunning, “‘We Are Here and Not Here’: Late Nineteenth-Century Stage Magic and the Roots of Cinema in the Appearance (and Disappearance) of the Virtual Image,” in André Gaudreault, Nicolas Dulac, and Santiago Hidalgo, eds., A Companion to Early Cinema (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 52–63. For one French example, see Daniel Bellet, “Le cinématographe et les photographies animées,” Le journal de la jeunesse (1895): 358–362. Imperfect illusions can result from flaws in mounting of the screen or physical deterioration of the screen (probably made of cellulose nitrate). A 1917 patent for the Move-O-Graph system already cited the plastic screen casting shadows on the image and not lying flat as motivations for placing a paper screen under a transparent image (GB 114,173 [see note 14]).

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34 Frederic Ives, patent US 771,824, October 27, 1903 (describing changing subjects, not a single animated one). 35 Spiegel, patents US 829,492 (see note 6); and FR 397,566, October 12, 1908. 36 Estanave, Relief photographique (see note 5), 137–139. 37 Animated Picture Products Co., patent FR 501,923, July 24, 1919. 38 BSFP (1910): 171; Moritz von Rohr and Étienne Wallon, “Le développement de la Parallax-Stéréoscopie,” in Ve Congrès international de la photographie: compte rendu, procès-verbaux, rapports, notes et documents (Brussels: Émile Bruylant, 1912), 241–242. Line-screen systems were apparently “well known” in advertising in 1925 (René Marot, patent FR 594,637, March 6, 1925). 39 See Barbara Maria Stafford and Frances Terpak, Devices of Wonder: From the World in a Box to Images on a Screen (Los Angeles: Getty Research Center, 2001), 225–226. 40 Carlson, “Reflections to Projections” (see note 22), 15–35. 41 Olivier Lugon, “Le marcheur: piétons et photographes au sein des avant-gardes,” Études photographiques 8 (2000): 68–91. 42 Thomas Elsaesser has suggested that artistic interest in stereoscopy ran in the same “antibourgeois, antiart” circles. Idem, “The ‘Return’ of 3-D: On Some of the Logics and Genealogies of the Image in the Twenty-First Century,” Critical Inquiry 39 (Winter 2013): 232. 43 Michel Sanouillet and Elmer Peterson, eds., The Writings of Marcel Duchamp (New York: Da Capo Press, 1989), 65 (note in the Green Box of 1934). See also Francis M. Naumann, Marcel Duchamp: The Art of Making Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction (Amsterdam: Ludion Press, 1999), 111. 44 Linda D. Henderson, Duchamp in Context: Science and Technology in the Large Glass and Related Works (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 79; 82–83; 152; 213; 294, no. 25. 45 Ibid., 213. 46 Jason R. Jividen, “Woodrow Wilson’s Abraham Lincoln,” paper presented at the annual meeting of the Western Political Science Association, La Riviera Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada, March 8, 2007, accessed October 26, 2012, http://www.allacademic.com/meta/ p176798_index.html. 47 Hiram C. J. Deeks, patent US 834,048, November 25, 1904. Deeks & Co. also sold Colorchange postcards, made using a similar principle and airbrushing (US 856,519, September 24, 1906). 48 These postcards were sold as-is or used as promotional images. A King Edward card carried an advertising stamp at the bottom, “Compliments of Krowler & Tynberg 576– 578 Broadway, New York City.” A dogs/cats card was printed with, “I will take pleasure in calling upon you about [handwritten date: June 9th] in the interest of the Murphy Varnish Company. Yours truly, [name stamp].” 49 André Breton, Nadja (Penguin, 1999 [1928]), 56–59. On the Maison Rouge sign, see also Michel Ballabriga, Sémiotique du surréalisme: André Breton ou la cohérence (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail, 1995), 58; and Magali Nachtergael, “Nadja: images, désir et sacrifice,” in Arts et littérature: dialogues, croisements, interférences (Montréal: Presses de l’Université du Québec, 2006), 163–164. 50 Breton, Nadja (see note 49), 151–152.

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51 Rosalind Krauss, “The Im/pulse to See,” in Hal Foster, ed., Vision and Visuality (New York: New Press, 1988), 50–75. 52 Ibid., 60; 70. 53 Examples of mechanical postcards included a woman with a movable arm spanking a man, a man dancing with a woman who appears nude under her dress when the card is held up to a light, or a woman in a tub standing up to reveal herself. 54 Estanave, Relief photographique (see note 5), 63. Estanave imagined photographs with “changing colors” that were “reminiscent of those that the sun gives to things at various times of the day.” He was inspired by the “principle of color photography with a three-color screen used by Joly.” Idem, “Photographies à couleurs changeantes,” CRAS 152 (1911): 1158–1159; idem, Relief photographique (see note 5), 70–72. 55 Idem, Relief photographique (see note 5), 1. The idea of combining stereoscopy, animation and/or color was an ancient one. For other examples, see Laurent Mannoni, “The ‘Feeling of Life’: The Birth of Stereoscopic Film,” in Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000), 136–142; Kim Timby, “Colour Photography and Stereoscopy: Parallel Histories,” History of Photography 29, no. 2 (2005): 183–196; and John Plunkett, “Depth, Colour, Movement: Embodied Vision and the Stereoscope,” in James Lyons and John Plunkett, eds., Multimedia Histories: From the Magic Lantern to the Internet (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2007), 117–131. 56 Nakki Goranin, American Photobooth (New York: W. W. Norton, 2008). Discussion of line-screen process on page 44. 57 Stanley J. Pask, patent US 1,951,038, November 25, 1930; Popular Mechanics (September 1930); and International Herald Tribune, “In Our Pages 100, 75 and 50 Years Ago, 1930: Movies in 6 Minutes” (May 30, 2005). Known examples date from 1933–1936. 58 Jacques Aumont, Moderne? Comment le cinéma est devenu le plus singulier des arts (Paris: Cahiers du cinéma, 2007), 26.

CHAPTER THREE: A WINDOW ONTO THE WORLD   1 Thomas L. Hankins and Robert J. Silverman, Instruments and the Imagination (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 161–163. See also Robert J. Silverman, “The Stereoscope and Photographic Depiction in the 19th Century,” Technology and Culture 34, no. 4 (1993): 742.   2 Gabriel Lippmann, “Épreuves réversibles: photographies intégrales,” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Sciences (hereafter referred to as CRAS) 146 (1908): 447–448.   3 Idem, “Épreuves réversibles donnant la sensation du relief,” Journal de physique théorique et appliqué 4, no. 7 (1908): 822.   4 Ibid., 823.   5 Lippmann, “Épreuves réversibles: photographies intégrales” (see note 2), 447.   6 Idem, “La photographie en relief est trouvée!” Je sais tout (May 15, 1908): 545–546.   7 Idem, “Épreuves réversibles donnant la sensation du relief” (see note 3), 822.

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  8 P. Vigier, “Sur les terminaisons photoréceptrices dans les yeux composés des Muscides” and idem, “Sur la réception de l’excitant lumineux dans les yeux composés des Insèctes,” in CRAS 145 (1907): 532–536; 633–636.   9 An abundant literature exists on the history of window (and mirror) metaphors. See in particular Anne Friedberg, The Virtual Window: From Alberti to Microsoft (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006); and Meyer H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1953), 30–46. 10 Lippmann, “Épreuves réversibles: photographies intégrales” (see note 2), 446–451. 11 Ibid., 446. 12 “Chemical and Optical Discovery,” Journal of the American Institute: A Monthly Publication, Devoted to the Interests of Agriculture, Commerce, Manufactures, and the Arts 4, no. 5 (February 1839): 277; and “The Pencil of Nature: A New Discovery,” The Corsair: A Gazette of Literature, Art, Dramatic Criticism, Fashion and Novelty 1, no. 5 (April 13, 1839): 71. 13 Oliver Wendell Holmes, “The Stereoscope and the Stereograph,” The Atlantic Monthly 3 (June 1859): 739. 14 Charles Baudelaire, “The Salon of 1859,” in Vicki Goldberg, ed., Photography in Print: Writings from 1816 to the Present (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1988), 124; and William Merrin, “Skylights Onto Infinity: The World in a Stereoscope,” in Simon Popple and Vanessa Toulmin, eds., Visual Delights Two: Audiences and Reception (Eastleigh, UK: John Libbey, 2005), 161–174. I have combined elements of the translations of Baudelaire’s phrase proposed by these two sources. Other aspects of this phrase are analyzed by Denis Pellerin in “Les lucarnes de l’infini,” Études photographiques 4 (1998): 27–43. Pellerin points out that today’s stereo photographers use the phrase “stereoscopic window” to refer to where the surface of the picture (or its edges) lies with respect to the virtual illusion created. For example, see Bruce Block and Philip McNally, 3D Storytelling (Burlington, MA: Focal Press, 2013), 43–57; 182–183. 15 Michel Frizot underlined the symbolic potential of this ad in choosing it to illustrate his text “Surface Space, Instrumental Depth,” in Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000), 30–35. Bruguière’s ad schematically conveyed 3D vision much as 1950s 3D movie posters had recently shown things coming out of the screen in perspective to promise palpable thrills. See David Janzow, 3-D Films of Hollywood’s Golden Age, 1952–1955 (Los Angeles: Fine Arts Publishing, forthcoming); and Hal Morgan and Dan Symmes, Amazing 3-D (Cambridge, MA: Steam Press, 1982), 52–97. 16 Friedberg makes this useful distinction between frame and view in The Virtual Window (see note 9), 12. 17 Ibid., 46. This idea is part of Friedberg’s discussion of the work of art historian Erwin Panofsky. 18 Lippmann, “La photographie des couleurs,” CRAS 112 (1891): 274–275. See also Brian Coe, Color Photography: The First Hundred Years (London: Ash and Grant, 1978), 21–25; Bertrand Lavedrine, Photographs of the Past: Process and Preservation (Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2009), 64–69; and Graham Saxby, The Science of Imaging: An Introduction (Boca Raton, FL: Taylor and Francis, 2011), 93–95.

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19 The author of these images may be the Belgian physicist André Callier (1877–1938). Other European work by Rudolph Rigl, R. Otto Kahler, R. Schmehlik, and J. E. H. van Waegeningh is cited by Moritz Von Rohr and Étienne Wallon, “Le développement de la Parallax-Stéréoscopie,” in Ve Congrès international de la photographie: compte rendu, procès-verbaux, rapports, notes et documents (Brussels: Émile Bruylant, 1912), 231–250. The Italian Giorgio Belloni also worked with this process, apparently with uninteresting results. See Belloni, patent FR 344,522, July 1, 1904; and Eugène Estanave, Relief photographique à vision directe: photographies animées et autres applications des réseaux lignés ou quadrillés (Vitry-sur-Seine: F. Meiller, 1930), viii. 20 The Bulletin de la Société française de photographie diplomatically remarked regarding Callier’s photographs that one had “to look for a viewpoint quite far from the image.” Bulletin de la Société française de photographie (hereafter referred to as BSFP) (1910): 350–351. 21 Louis Camille Daniel André Chéron, patent FR 443,216, May 1, 1912. Estanave mentioned Chéron, but said he had not seen his work, in Estanave, Relief photographique (see note 19), x. 22 Lippmann’s Integral photographs would have been pseudoscopic. See David E. Roberts and Trebor Smith, “The History of Integral Print Methods,” unpublished paper, n.d., accessed April 6, 2013, ftp://ftp.umiacs.umd.edu/pub/aagrawal/ HistoryOfIntegralImaging/Integral_History.pdf. 23 On Bessière: Registre analytique du commerce, 182,680 (Société d’Exploitation des Brevets et Procédés Bessière), Archives de Paris, D33 U3; Delfau and Mouly, Dins l’ort occitan, cited in “Les frères Bessière,” website of the town of Marcillac-Vallon, last modified July 29, 2012, http://www.marcillac-vallon.fr/les-freres-bessiere; and Leslie P. Dudley, Stereoptics: An Introduction (London: MacDonald, 1951), 79–82. 24 Société d’Exploitation des Brevets et Procédés Bessière, patent FR 618,880, November 20, 1925; and Bessière, “Sur une méthode ‘péristéréoscopique,’” BSFP (1926): 53. 25 Bessière, “Sur une méthode conduisant à l’obtention d’images ‘péristéréoscopiques,’” CRAS 182 (1926): 208-210; and idem, “Sur une méthode ‘péristéréoscopique’” (see note 24), 49–54. 26 BSFP (1926): 43; 53. 27 L.-P. Clerc, La technique photographique (Paris: Paul Montel, 1927), 733. Clerc applied this description to work by others in successive editions of his text, only changing it in 1957 to describe Maurice Bonnet’s “Reliefographies” as presenting “blind spots [angles morts] which didn’t exist in Bessière’s Peristereoscopies.” 28 Registre du commerce, 182,680 (see note 23); “Diarelief” registered June 16, 1926, no. 99,696; and Société d’Exploitation des Brevets et Procédés Bessière, patents FR 590,853, February 20, 1924; and FR 618,880, November 20, 1925, and its addition 31,761, December 11, 1925. 29 Lassus Saint-Geniès, “Une solution partielle de la photographie intégrale,” Science et Industries photographiques 2, no. 5 (1934): 68; and CRAS 194 (1932): 2045. 30 Lassus Saint-Geniès, patent FR 752,064, June 11, 1932. Camera pictured in Pierre Hémardinquer, Le cinématographe sonore et la projection en relief (Paris: Léon Eyrolles, 1935), 304.

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31 Compared with a portrait of Lassus Saint-Geniès in Nouveau dictionnaire national des contemporains (Paris: Éditions du Nouveau Dictionnaire National des Contemporains, 1966), 344. 32 On Clarence Kanolt: Popular Science (September 1931): 57; Dudley, Stereoptics (see note 23), 74–79; 82–83; and Kanolt’s patents, in particular: US 1,260,682, January 16, 1915; US 1,838,312, December 9, 1929; and US 1,882,648, June 18, 1930. 33 On Draper: patents US 1,862,847 and US 2,005,777, both August 8, 1930; US 1,958,036, December 27, 1930; Roberts and Smith, “Integral Print Methods” (see note 22), 14–15; Louis Walton Sipley, A Half Century of Color (New York: Macmillan, 1951), 196; 198; and Robert A. Sobieszek, The Art of Persuasion: A History of Advertising Photography (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1988), 79. 34 On Herbert Ives: Ray Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema and the Origins of 3-D Film, 1838–1952 (Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, 2007), 102; 164–165; Dudley, Stereoptics (see note 23), 83–85; and H. Ives patents US 2,012,995, February 9, 1929; and US 1,883,290, October 23, 1930. 35 Chéron, patent FR 443,216 (see note 21). Screens with unusual line proportions and orientations could also be special ordered (H. Calmels, Catalogue general 1911–1912, 173). 36 I have identified only one French patent for line screens for 3D photography: Jean Thériat, FR 781,783, February 14, 1934. Theriat’s work is mentioned in Roger Simonet, Cent ans d’image: les derniers progrès de la photographie et de la cinématographie (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1947), 166–167. 37 Maurice Bonnet’s first 3D patent, for cinema, was FR 742,388, September 10, 1932. His first camera had a row of eleven or twelve lenses recording separate images. See Bonnet and Henry Gandillon (Bonnet’s brother-in-law), patent FR 774,145, June 5, 1934; and “Pièces concernant les travaux de M. Bonnet avant la constitution de la Société La Relièphographie,” ca. 1951, Maurice Bonnet Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Bonnet MSS), private collection. Bonnet’s family background is described by his daughter Michèle Bonnet in Entrelacs biographiques: Maurice Bonnet et la photographie en relief (MA Thesis: Université Toulouse-Le Mirail, 1996). 38 La Relièphographie, patent FR 833 891, July 2, 1937. See also patent FR 845,778, May 6, 1938. 39 La Relièphographie listed its advertising photography in at least one professional directory (Annuaire de la presse française et étrangère et du monde politique, 1937–1939, “Photo publicitaire” section). 40 Portrait reproduced in Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 15), 154. 41 Fernand Lemaitre, “Un procédé nouveau de pratique de photographie en relief (procédé Maurice Bonnet),” Bulletin de l’Académie de Médecine 122 (October 10, 1939): 261–262; and Lemaître to director of the CNRS, December 27, 1939, Bonnet MSS. For one of these medical photographs (coll. Musée Nicéphore Niépce), see my “Images en relief et images changeantes: la photographie à réseau ligné,” Études photographiques 9 (2001): 141 (available from the digital library http://www.revues.org). 42 Bonnet, Entrelacs biographiques (see note 37), 195; and Maurice Bonnet’s resumé, Bonnet MSS. 43 Empty example reproduced in my “Images en relief” (see note 41), 138.

CHAPTER THREE

44 Marc Antoine Gaudin, “Appareil à objectifs jumeaux pour épreuves stéréoscopiques inventé par M. Quinet,” La Lumière (May 21, 1853): 83. 45 Today specialists speak of “cardboarding” to refer to this effect; for example see Block and McNally, 3D Storytelling (see note 14), 220. On the lens separation debate in the 1850s, see also Hankins and Silverman, Instruments and the Imagination (see note 1), 169–171; and Silverman, “The Stereoscope” (see note 1), 743–754. 46 Untitled typed text (hereafter referred to as “Histoire de La Relièphographie, 1936–1939”), Bonnet MSS. 47 Maurice Bonnet, handwritten notes for a conference on 3D photography, 1936, Bonnet MSS. 48 Ernst Gombrich reproduces a pattern of four rhomboids in his Art and Illusion to illustrate how our perception favors geometrical simplicity (seeing a three-dimensional zigzag of regular rectangles) over complex pattern (seeing an assembly of rhomboids on a plane). Ernst Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (London: Phaidon, 1960), 222. 49 E. Bruce Goldstein, Sensation and Perception, 8th ed. (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2007), 233–234. 50 Frizot, “Surface Space” (see note 15), 31–32. 51 Michael Leja, Looking Askance: Skepticism and American Art from Eakins to Duchamp (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 125–144. 52 Maurice Bonnet, handwritten notes for a conference, 1936 (see note 47). 53 Chéron, patent FR 443,216 (see note 21); Société Bessière, patent addition 31,761 (see note 28); and Lassus Saint-Geniès, patent FR 634 973, September 25, 1926. 54 Lippmann, “Épreuves réversibles donnant la sensation du relief” (see note 3), 825. 55 C. de Watteville, “Gabriel Lippmann (1845–1921),” BSFP (1921): 338. The inventor Lucien Dodin reported that Lippmann had ordered a device for Integral photography just before his death and that it resembled one of his own construction with sixteen lenses. See Lucien Dodin, Aventures d’un individu au XXe siècle: mémoires (Montpellier: Les Prismes, 1969), chapter XXX (available via Jean-Daniel Dodin’s website “Lucien Dodin,” accessed June 22, 2014, http://lesprismes.free.fr); and idem, “Photographie et cinématographie en relief,” Photo-Revue (September 15, 1935): 284–287. 56 Lippmann, “La photographie en relief est trouvée!” (see note 6), 546–548. 57 Idem, “Épreuves réversibles: photographies intégrales” (see note 2), 451; idem, “Épreuves réversibles donnant la sensation du relief” (see note 3), 825. On celluloid, introduced circa 1870, see Jeffrey L. Meikle, American Plastic: A Cultural History (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995), 10–30. 58 Jean Scott, Stanhopes: A Closer View (Witham, UK: Greenlight, 2002). 59 Antoine Sauve, patent FR 402,650, May 3, 1909; Chéron, patent FR 443,216 (see note 21); and Société Bessière, patent addition 31,761 (see note 28). 60 Estanave, “Contribution à la réalisation de la photographie intégrale,” CRAS 180 (1925): 1257. 61 Estanave, “La Photographie Intégrale,” La Nature (June 26, 1926): 410; and idem, Relief photographique (see note 19), 123. 62 Images pictured in La Nature, cover and 411. These subjects indicate that Integral photography also suffered from low light-sensitivity.

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63 “Exposition rétrospective du Centenaire de la photographie,” BSFP (1925): 304. 64 Eugène Estanave, “Photographies intégrales obtenues sans objectifs,” CRAS 190 (1930): 1405. 65 Louis Lumière to Lippmann, November 14, 1919; and Lippmann to Lumière, November 16, 1919, in Auguste Lumière and Louis Lumière, Correspondances, 1890–1953 (Paris: Cahiers du Cinéma, 1994), 204–206. 66 Lumière to Lippmann, January 5, 1920; Boissière to Lumière, January 8, 1920; and Lumière to Boissière, January 9, 1920, in ibid., 209–211. On Bakelite, invented in 1907 and commercially available from 1910, see Meikle, American Plastic (see note 57), 31–62. 67 Berthon to Lumière, January 12, 1919, and January 28, 1920; and Lumière to Berthon, January 13, 1920, and January 31, 1920, in Lumière and Lumière, Correspondances (see note 65), 201; 213; 217–218; 220. 68 Berthon to Lumière, January 12, 1919; and Lumière to Lippmann, November 14, 1919, in ibid., 201; 204. 69 Lumière to Lippmann, November 14, 1919; and Lippmann to Lumière, November 16, 1919, in ibid., 205–206. 70 Louis Lumière, patent FR 633,689, September 6, 1926. Sauve also suggested crossing screens of cylindrical lenses in his 1909 patent (see note 59). 71 On Dodin, see idem, Aventures d’un individu (note 55). 72 See Roberts and Smith, “The History of Integral Print Methods” (see note 22). Leslie P. Dudley describes his making of an Integral photograph of electric light bulbs using the pinhole system in Stereoptics (see note 23), 86–89. 73 Chéron, patent FR 443,216 (see note 21). 74 Bessière, patent addition 31,761 (see note 28). 75 Walter Hess, patents US 1,128,979, June 1, 1912; and FR 444,578, June 4, 1912. See also C. W. Hess, “Walter R. Hess (17.3.1881–12.8.1973),” Schweizer Archiv für Neurologie und Psychiatrie 159, no. 4 (2008): 256. 76 Estanave, Relief photographique (see note 19), 55; and Maurice Bonnet, “La photographie en relief,” Cours-conférences du centre de perfectionnement technique 70 (April 1942): 6. Both Estanave and Bonnet knew that Hess’s 3D photographs had been presented in Paris in 1920. On this, see Léon Fredericq, “Compte rendu du congrès de physiologie de Paris du 16 au 20 juillet 1920,” Archives internationales de physiologie (November 1920): 361–377. 77 The frames read “Stereo-Photo nach W. R. Hess Stereo Photographie A.-G. Zürich” and “Patente: [/] Schweiz. Deutschl. Frankr. [/] Italien. Engl. Oesterr. [/] Ver. Staaten angem.” Hess’s patents explained that the screen’s optical qualities were improved by a “light filter”—obtained by tinting it yellow, for example. 78 See Chapter 1 and my “Colour Photography and Stereoscopy: Parallel Histories,” History of Photography 29, no. 2 (2005): 182–196. 79 Rodolphe Berthon, patent FR 399,762, May 1, 1908. See also US 992,151, February 4, 1909. 80 Albert Keller-Dorian, FR 466,781, December 29, 1913; and Keller-Dorian, Berthon et Cie, “Procédé de photographie et de cinématographie des couleurs KDB,” BSFP (January 1923): 28–29. On Keller-Dorian and Berthon, see also François Ede, Jour de fête ou la couleur retrouvée (Paris: Cahiers du cinéma, 1995), 21–22; 28–32; and for a useful technical explanation, F. Honoré, “Un nouveau procédé de cinématographe en couleurs,” L’Illustration (February 10, 1923): 141.

CHAPTER THREE

81 Joseph S. Friedman, History of Color Photography (Boston: American Photographic Publishing Company, 1947), 214. 82 Sipley, A Half Century (see note 33), 163; Coe, Color Photography (see note 18), 81; Luis Nadeau, Encyclopedia of Printing, Photographic, and Photomechanical Processes (New Brunswick, Canada: Atelier Luis Nadeau, 1994), 140; Adrian Cornwell-Clyne, Colour Cinematography (London: Chapman and Hall, 1951), 20; 28; 321; Ede, Jour de fête (see note 80), 32–36; 40–45; 48–49; 58–60; Lassus Saint-Geniès, Note sur l’optique des films gaufrés: application à la cinématographie en couleurs (Paris: Éditions de la Revue d’Optique théorique et instrumentale, 1939), 18; and Lassus Saint-Geniès, “Rapport sur le film en couleur Thomson-Cinema,” December 18, 1935, Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Lassus MSS), Musée Français de la Photographie. 83 No color footage was retained for Napoleon. See Benoît Noël, L’histoire du cinéma couleur (Croissy-sur-Seine: Press’Communication, 1995), 167; and Roger Icart, Abel Gance ou le Prométhée foudroyé (Lausanne: L’Age d’homme, 1983), 184–185. On Tati: Ede, Jour de fête (see note 80). 84 Cornwell-Clyne, Colour Cinematography (see note 82), 317–318; Friedman, History of Color (see note 81), 228–231; Brian Coe, The History of Movie Photography (Westfield, NJ: Eastview, 1981), 124; and “Gardens at Aberthau,” an amateur Kodacolor film presented on the blog of the City of Vancouver Archives, last modified December 6, 2012, http:// www.vancouverarchives.ca/2012/12/exploring-lenticular-kodacolor. 85 Based on my inventory and study of French patents related to 3D photography or cinema, 1852–1952. For an overview of early 3D cinema techniques, see Ray Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema (see note 34). 86 For example: Albert Keller-Dorian, patent FR 521,533, January 19, 1920; and Société du Film en Couleurs Keller-Dorian, patent FR 661,260, January 23, 1928. See also Adrian Cornwell-Clyne, 3-D Kinematography and New Screen Techniques (London: Hutchinson’s, 1954), 71–72. 87 Lassus Saint-Geniès, Note sur l’optique (see note 82), 10; and Nouveau dictionnaire (see note 31), 344. Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès was related to one of the directors of Thomson-Houston and apparently known for having a high opinion of himself and his work. See Ede, Jour de fête (see note 80), 32–34; 48. 88 Friedman gives an example of the calculations involved: “the diameter of the lenticule should be an accurate function of the relative aperture of the camera, the thickness of the film base, and the curvature of the lenticules. Thus with an objective operating at an opening of f/2.5, a film base with a thickness of 120 to 130 µ, and a radius of curvature for the lenticules of 0.04 mm, the diameter of the elements should be 0.04 mm.” See Friedman, History of Color (see note 81), 233–234. 89 La Relièphographie, patent FR 869,293, September 27, 1940. 90 “Histoire de La Relièphographie, 1936–1939,” Bonnet MSS. 91 Cornwell-Clyne, Colour Cinematography (see note 84), 317; Friedman, History of Color (see note 81), 224; and Lassus Saint-Geniès, Note sur l’optique (see note 82), 9. 92 Meikle, American Plastic (see note 57), 78–82. Louis Lumière cited cellulose acetate in his 1926 patent (FR 633,689). Cellulose acetate started replacing older celluloid (nitrate) photographic films around 1939.

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93 Bonnet, “La photographie en relief” (see note 76), 6. The exhibit was held at the Maison de la Chimie, Paris. Lenticular photography’s association with the plastics industry continued into the 1950s and 1960s, with articles on it sometimes appearing in trade journals like Modern Plastics. 94 La Relièphographie patents FR 943,082, April 12, 1941; FR 943,085, June 25, 1941; FR 943,603, May 13, 1942; FR 944,251, November 7, 1942; FR 944,252, February 6, 1943; and FR 944,916, December 1, 1944. 95 “Note relative aux demandes de Brevet déposées en Angleterre par la Société La Relièphographie,” January 1946, Bonnet MSS. 96 Maurice Bonnet, La technique moderne au service des procédés de la photographie en relief, black and white silent film with French captions, 31 minutes, 1947, Archives du Film, inv. PMU840931–33. 97 Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 3rd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 6–7; 10–12; 23–24. See also Howard S. Becker, Art Worlds, 25th anniversary ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 304–308. 98 Becker, Art Worlds (see note 97), 34–39, 310–312. Similarly, for Becker, stereoscopy gave rise to a new art world in the second half of the nineteenth century. See ibid., 314–338; 349; and idem, “Stereographs: Local, National, and International Art Worlds,” in Edward W. Earle, ed., Points of View: The Stereograph in America—A Cultural History (Rochester, NY: Visual Studies Workshop, 1979), 89–96.

CHAPTER FOUR: 3D PORTRAITURE AND THE INTEGRAL-IMAGE UTOPIA 1

2

3

4 5 6 7

Pierre Garcia, “Cent ans après la découverte de Niépce et Daguerre la France présente au monde la photographie en relief,” Paris-Soir (April 22, 1942). The company was listed at 150 and/or 152 avenue des Champs-Élysées at different times. Pictured in Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality, 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000), 172. The formats 13 × 18, 18 × 24, 24 × 30, and 30 × 40 cm cost respectively 1,240, 1,550, 1,985, and 2,480 francs. Prices in Paul Letheule to Lassus Saint-Geniès, November 23, 1945, Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Lassus MSS), Musée Français de la Photographie. A pair of quality men’s shoes cost about 600 francs at the time according to Jean Fourastié, ed., Documents pour l’élaboration d’indices du coût de la vie en France de 1910 à 1965 (Paris: Armand Colin, 1970), 438–445. Gina Soulier to the author, June 7, 2003. La Relièphographie, patents FR 943,083, June 13, 1941; FR 943,084, June 21, 1941; FR 943,086, August 8, 1941; and FR 943,602, May 1, 1942. “Note sur les appareils de photographie en relief 3000,” Maurice Bonnet Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Bonnet MSS), private collection. La Relièphographie, “Brochure I. Appareil de prise de vues en relief à objectif unique: type Studio 3000,” January 1, 1946, Bonnet MSS, indicates 4 seconds but says that exposure time could be set between 3 and 7 seconds for negatives of different speeds;

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  8   9

10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17

18 19 20

21

22

23 24

25

a 2-second exposure is indicated in La Relièphographie, “Les photographies en relief (Sélectographies),” Bonnet MSS. La Relièphographie, “La photographie en relief: conseils pratiques,” Bonnet MSS, for this indication and the information that follows. La Relièphographie employed a make-up girl (list of La Relièphographie employees, 1947, Bonnet MSS). One client, himself a professional photographer, remembers that very thick make-up was applied (Denis Pellerin to the author, quoting Jean Gardin, September 23, 2000). La Relièphographie, “Conseils pratiques” (see note 8). Louis Walton Sipley, A Half Century of Color (New York: Macmillan, 1951), 205. Patent FR 943,602 (see note 5); and “Brochure I” (see note 7). See, for example, Hugo van Wadenoyen, Photographing People: Ways to New Portraiture (London: The Focal Press, 1939), 8–14. Michèle Bonnet, Entrelacs biographiques: Maurice Bonnet et la photographie en relief (MA Thesis: University of Toulouse-Le Mirail, 1996), 118–120. For two photographs by Félix Bonnet, Maurice’s father, see Roman d’une garde-robe: le chic parisienne de la Belle Époque aux années 1930 (Paris: Paris Musées, 2013), 26; 231. The term “realistic” (réaliste) is used in Manuel du portrait (Paris: Mana, 1938), 16. See patent FR 944,603, December 12, 1942. List of La Relièphographie employees (see note 9). They included three photographers (Genviève Gonnet, Jean-Marie Didier, and Edouard Grillot), two printers, one cash-register attendant, and one saleswoman. “Chiffre d’affaires 1947” and “Comptes d’exploitation,” Bonnet MSS. My calculations are based on the price of a 24 × 30 cm portrait. Dominique Baqué and Françoise Denoyelle, Studio Harcourt (Paris: La Manufacture, 1991), 10; 28. “Pièces concernant le groupe Suisse,” Bonnet MSS; patent FR 968,294, May 25, 1946; and La Relièphographie, promotional film, directed by Maurice Bonnet, La technique moderne au service des procédés de la photographie en relief, 1947 (Archives du Film, inv. PMU840931–33). With particularly spectacular results, two photographs from Bonnet’s archives combined animation and depth, for example showing a woman in 3D sticking out her tongue and winking when the image is tilted from top to bottom. This image is reproduced in Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 2), 174–175. No commercial examples of this technique are known. For example, a June 1949 summary of sales in 1948 lists “Export sales 8,867,000,” “Studio sales 9,918,917,” and “France and advertising sales 62,835” (La Relièphographie, “Comptes d’exploitation et de résultats au 30 Juin 1949,” Bonnet MSS). La Relièphographie, patent FR 944,915, November 17, 1944; and “Demandes de brevet déposées en Angleterre,” 35, Bonnet MSS. La Relièphographie, patent FR 945,440, June 14, 1945; and Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 2), 172. A multi-mirror camera in poor condition is in the collections of the Musée Nicéphore Niépce. Bonnet, La technique moderne (see note 20).

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26 La Relièphographie, patent FR 943,601, October 13, 1941; and its certificate of addition 54,363, August 9, 1944. 27 See La Relièphographie, patents FR 944,255, May 28, 1943; FR 944,912, June 12, 1944; FR 944,914, July 29, 1944; and FR 968,292, July 9, 1945. La Relièphographie registered the names Selectix and Sterix for X-ray technology. On lenticular X-rays, see also Compagnie Générale de Radiologie (CGR), patents FR 908,520 and FR 908,521, both July 19, 1944; and Lassus Saint-Geniès, patents FR 909,020 and FR 960,529, both September 11, 1944. The CGR made annual payments on Lassus Saint-Geniès’s X-ray patents until 1952. 28 Pierre Malo, “Et voici la photo en relief,” Le Matin (June 1, 1941): 4; Roger Bouet, “Une révolution dans la photographie,” Détente (August 7, 1941): 21; Jacques Saint-Germain, “Une grande invention française: la photographie en relief,” Toute la vie (August 14, 1941): 22–23; and Garcia, “Cent ans” (see note 1). 29 The magazine La France européenne: revue mensuelle de l’Exposition du Grand Palais, published in conjunction with this exhibit, never mentioned Bonnet. On cultural life and exhibitions in Paris during the Occupation, see Lynn H. Nicholas, The Rape of Europa: The Fate of Europe’s Treasures in the Third Reich and the Second World War (New York: Vintage Books, 1994), 174–183. 30 Actu (May 17, 1942), with article inside: L. Humbert, “Cent ans après la découverte de la photographie la France présente au monde la photographie en relief”: 2. 31 The project was described on a label on the back of the photograph. Benefits from the sale of the photograph were to go to the Secours National, the Vichy government’s relief agency. It is unclear how many of these portraits were sold, if any. On photography of Pétain, see Françoise Denoyelle, La photographie d’actualité et de propagande sous le régime de Vichy (Paris: Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 2003), 60–67. 32 Chevojon, “Note pour Monsieur Maurice Bonnet,” November 3, 1947, Bonnet MSS; and photographs with Chevojon stamp on reverse, Bonnet MSS. 33 Negatives each containing 26 images in a single line, Musée Nicéphore Niépce, inv. 2002.37.1.846–880. On Harcourt: Baqué and Denoyelle, Studio Harcourt (see note 19), 11; 39–42. 34 Yette Bonnet in Michèle Bonnet, Entrelacs biographiques (see note 14), 183. 35 Guinot, “À Messieurs les Créanciers de la liquidation judiciaire de la Sté La Relièphographie,” [1950], bankruptcy (faillite) file 65754, Archives de Paris, 1505 W 360. 36 Bonnet, La technique moderne (see note 20). In 1947, it was shown at a conference to which professional photographers and at least a dozen bankers were invited (invitations in Bonnet MSS). 37 Mr. Roulet, 14 boulevard Émile Augier, was granted exclusive rights to portraiture in his district of Paris and used his 3D camera for several years at least (Roger Marilhet to Roulet, December 15, 1947; and “A” [answers to accusations], ca. 1949–1952, Bonnet MSS). 38 “Adresses des licenciés,” ca. 1946–1948, Bonnet MSS. 39 “La Relièphographie, S. A. R. L. a été constitué le 1 février 1937 […],” ca. 1950; and “Pièces concernant les tractations de Marilhet avec Da Silva,” ca. 1951, Bonnet MSS. Amsterdam photographer Broekman acquired an O. P. 3000 after the war, using it to

CHAPTER FOUR

40 41

42

43

44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58

take portraits until ca. 1956; in 1964, his widow sold it to Piet Harman van Dijken, who produced images under the name Stereo-Centrum (P. H. van Dijken to Paul Jay, June 26, 1987 [Musée Nicéphore Niépce library archive folder 6]). Lassus Saint-Geniès to Paul Letheule (engineering consultant), May 7, 1945, Lassus MSS. Based on correspondence between Lassus Saint-Geniès and Letheule, 1944–1947, Lassus MSS. The inventor also accused others of copying his work on color lenticular film; see François Ede, Jour de fête ou la couleur retrouvée (Paris: Cahiers du Cinéma, 1995), 32. Sicper’s managers in 1944 were Emile Bleuse (1907–?) and Gaston Bézard (1914–2000), replaced by Raymond Gobert (1898–?) at the end of 1945 (Registre analytique du commerce, 294,851B, Archives de Paris, D33 U3). Roland Gardin, “Essai biographique de Jean Gardin, photographe et inventeur,” November 2003, Jean Gardin Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Gardin MSS), private collection. Jean Gardin, “Que de joies, que de peines,” vol. 2, 1991, 41; and Jean Gardin to Le Photographe, April 17, 1947, Gardin MSS. Purchased from Paul Surelle, 11 avenue de la République, Avignon (Gardin to Surelle, July 1, 1947 and August 8, 1947; and Gardin to Sicper, July 10, 1947, Gardin MSS). The other interested seller was Studio-Marc, 102 rue Nationale, Le Mans. Sicper prices in Gardin to Studio-Marc, June 2, 1947. O. P. 3000 price based on “Pièces concernant Da Silva” (see note 39); Marilhet to Da Silva, October 11, 1946; and “Pièces concernant la licencié anglaise Société Deep Pictures,” Bonnet MSS. Approximately fifty Gardin portraits are known today between his family and the Musée Nicéphore Niépce. On Milan: Manfred Reiffenstein to Maurice Bonnet, January 5, 1948, Bonnet MSS. Jean Gardin to Sicper, April 20, 1948, Gardin MSS. Studio Shettle to Maurice Bonnet, August 9, 1950, Bonnet MSS. Gardin, “Que de joies” (see note 44), 41. Roger Marilhet to Roger Autin, May 1951, Bonnet MSS. Gaston Bézard, patent FR 928,071, June 1, 1943; additions 55,671, August 28, 1943 and 55,929, January 17, 1945; and Raymond Gobert, patent FR 914,414, September 12, 1945. Letheule to Lassus Saint-Geniès, June 18, 1946, Lassus MSS. Letheule to Lassus Saint-Geniès, April 11, 1947, Lassus MSS. La Relièphographie, patents FR 968,293, May 15, 1946; FR 968,294, May 25, 1946; FR 968,295, June 12, 1946; and FR 968,299, March 17, 1947. La Relièphographie, patent FR 968,293; and David Burder to the author, June 10, 2003. Bonnet adopted this idea from Gustave Bessière (see Chapter 3). A March 5, 1947 note (Bonnet MSS) refers to the fabrication of twenty-five O. P. 22s. Three partially dismantled examples are at the Musée Nicéphore Niépce, inv. 2003.69.2–4. London photographer David Burder still owns three O. P. 22s once having belonged to Harvey Prever (see below). Time, “Foxy Photo,” (October 13, 1947): 37. La Relièphographie’s American lawyer Brinn explained that VitaVision “had employed the best inventors and technicians, such as Draper, Winnek, Adams, Kanolt and others”; inventors Ernest Draper and Douglas Winnek were apparently working for VitaVision and attended a meeting with Marilhet

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NOTES

59

60 61 62

63 64

65

66

67

68

69 70 71 72 73

74 75 76 77

and Brinn (Brinn to Autin, February 14, 1949, Bonnet MSS). Sipley cited Draper in A Half Century (see note 11), 198. “Foxy Photo”; “New Photo Process Shown at Store Here,” New York Times (October 2, 1947): 56; and Sipley, A Half Century (see note 11), 194; 196; 198–199; 204. Portrait prices varied from $6.95 for a black-and-white image to $34.98 for color film (Leah Painter, “Sipley Collection: Notes on Lenticular Slide Collection,” February 1982, George Eastman House archives). Brinn to Autin (see note 58). “Pièces concernant Marilhet aux États-Unis,” Bonnet MSS. In a chronology of La Relièphographie’s contacts in the United States, the notation “We learn that VitaVision no longer exists” appears after the date February 5, 1951 (“Pièces concernant Marilhet” [see note 61]). Ibid.; and Sipley, A Half Century (see note 11), 195; 203. Sipley, A Half Century (see note 11), 204. Sipley gives the most detailed account known of Bond Displays and its work with the inventor Harold Backus. Ibid., 195; 198-199; 203-204; and Harold A. Backus, patent US 2,566,110, July 1, 1947. La Relièphographie, patents FR 833,891, July 2, 1937 (camera with three rows of lenses with mention of a variant using colored filters and an Autochrome-like plate); and FR 944,250, June 27, 1942 (involving a three-color line screen). “Pièces concernant les rapports avec M. Autin,” ca. 1951, Bonnet MSS. See also La Relièphographie, patent FR 1,008,687, May 12, 1948. On Plexiglas, see Jeffrey L. Meikle, American Plastic: A Cultural History (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995), 85–88. A 24 × 30 cm screen cost 130 francs in cellulose-acetate-and-glass and 250 francs in ­Plexiglas (“L’avenir de la photographie en relief,” 1948, Bonnet MSS). In 1945, a portrait of this format sold for 1985 francs. Sipley reported that VitaVision used plastic-on-glass screens with 64 lenses per inch and that “Bond’s Akravue employed only lenticular plastic screens, 90 ribs to the inch.” Sipley, A Half Century (see note 11), 199; 203. “Pièces concernant Marilhet” (see note 61); and “Pièces concernant Autin” (see note 66). “Pièces concernant Marilhet” (see note 61); and Brinn to Autin (see note 58). “Pièces concernant Marilhet” (see note 61); and “Pièces concernant Autin” (see note 66). “Pièces concernant Marilhet” (see note 61). Bob Willoughby, “Depth without Specs,” Photography 33, no. 3 (1953): 84–89; and Robert Vance, “The Lenticular Legacy of Harvey Prever,” Stereo World 27, no. 5 (2000): 4–5. Paul Hesse Three Dimensionals, Inc., was created in 1951. Leroy Nordby, conversation with the author, Paris, June 9, 2003; and Leroy Nordby to Michèle Bonnet, May 14, 2003. See also Vance, “The Lenticular Legacy.” Willoughby, “Depth,” (see note 73). A selection is presented on Michèle Bonnet’s website dedicated to La Relièphographie, last modified February 28, 2004, http://www.reliephographie.com/harvey0.htm. Vance, “The Lenticular Legacy” (see note 73), 8; and Nordby to Michèle Bonnet (see note 74).

CHAPTER FOUR

78 Nordby, conversation (see note 74); and Vance, “The Lenticular Legacy” (see note 73), 7–8. 79 Based on “Pièces concernant Deep Pictures” (see note 45); “Pièces concernant Autin” (see note 66); and “Pièces concernant le groupe Suisse” (see note 20). 80 Deep Pictures Limited, founded May 23, 1946, signed a contract with La Relièphographie on July 25, 1946. Colin Butement served as Research Manager. See Butement, “The ‘Deep Pictures’ Process of Three-Dimensional Photography,” Journal of the Royal Society of Arts 4765 (March 26, 1948): 260–270; and London Gazette (July 11, 1952): 3760; 3763. 81 Butement, “The ‘Deep Pictures’ Process” (see note 80), 269. 82 Ibid., 268–269; Deep Pictures, patent FR 990,529, July 12, 1949; and “Pièces concernant le groupe Suisse” (see note 20). This is likely the beginning of the Lentic camera (see Chapter 8).   83 MF, “Rapport de mon activité à la Société la Relièphographie pendant l’année 1949,” February 1950, Bonnet MSS. “MF” is probably Marcel Fournier, who had worked for La Relièphographie since 1944.   84 Patent FR 990,529 (see note 82). It was indicated in “Pièces concernant Deep Pictures” (see note 45) that the company filed a patent in South Africa the same year.   85 Butement said Deep Pictures used all-plastic screens, resulting in an “unbreakable” product “considerably lighter in weight.” See “The ‘Deep Pictures’ Process” (see note 80).   86 List of employees fired by La Relièphographie, February 2, 1948, Bonnet MSS.   87 La Relièphographie bankruptcy file 65754 (see note 35).   88 “Pièces concernant Autin” (see note 66).   89 La Relièphographie bankruptcy file 65754 (see note 35).   90 Registre analytique du commerce, 272,760 B (La Relièphographie), Archives de Paris, D33 U3.   91 Raymond Lecuyer, Histoire de la photographie (Paris: Baschet et Cie, 1945), 290–294.   92 Jean Prinet, La photographie et ses applications (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1945), 77–81.   93 See Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 3rd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 10. This does not appear to have been the case in the United States. Just one extensive discussion of lenticular imagery appears to have been published in a general American work at the time: Sipley’s 1951 A Half Century (see note 11), 193–205, in the last chapter “The Half Century Closes.”   94 Prinet, La photographie (see note 92), 81.   95 Roger Simonet, Cent ans d’image: les derniers progrès de la photographie et de la cinématographie (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1947), 161; 164–169.   96 Pierre Hémardinquer, Le cinématographe sonore et la projection en relief, 3rd ed. (Paris: Eyrolles, 1935), 6. On Lumière and 3D cinema, see “Les essais Lumière de cinéma en relief,” in Thierry Lefebvre and Philippe-Alain Michaud, eds., Le relief au cinema (Paris: Association Française de Recherche sur l’Histoire du Cinéma, 1997, special issue of the journal 1895), 156–164; Ray Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema and the Origins of 3-D Film, 1838–1952 (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2007), 141–143; and Reynaud, Tambrun and, Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 2), 123.

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  97 Adrian Cornwell-Clyne, Colour Cinematography, 3rd ed. (London: Chapman and Hall, 1951), xii; 614.   98 Ernst H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (London: Phaidon, 1960), 174.   99 Jonathan Auerbach, Body Shots: Early Cinema’s Incarnations (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 63–67. 100 André Bazin, “The Myth of Total Cinema” (1946) in, What is Cinema? (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 17–22. 101 Tom Gunning, “The World in Its Own Image: The Myth of Total Cinema,” in Dudley Andrew, ed., Opening Bazin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 122. Gunning has also pointed out that movie viewers at the end of the nineteenth century already found truncated realism disturbing. See his “‘Animated Pictures’: Tales of the Cinema’s Forgotten Future, After 100 Years of Film,” in Vanessa R. Schwartz and Jeannene M. Przyblyski, eds., The Nineteenth-Century Visual Culture Reader (New York: Routledge, 2004), 100–113. 102 René Barjavel, Cinéma total: essai sur les formes futures du cinéma (Paris: Denoël, 1944), 9. 103 Ibid., 50–51. This confirms that La Relièphographie’s hand-tinting of portraits was far from systematic. 104 Hélène Lazareff and Pierre Lazareff, L’URSS à l’heure Malenkov (Paris: La Table Ronde, 1954), 156. 105 On the term “talkies”: Robert K. Barnhart, ed., Chambers Dictionary of Etymology (Edinburgh: Chambers, 1988). 106 Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (London: Chatto and Windus, 1932), chapter 11. I have found no previous discussion of the representation of image technologies by Huxley. See for example Alexandra Aldridge, The Scientific World View in Dystopia (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1984). 107 On anaglyphic 3D cinema in the 1920s, see Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema (see note 96), 103–127. Inexpensive polarizing filters reached the field in the mid-1930s. See ibid., 149–159; Adrian Cornwell-Clyne, 3-D Kinematography and New Screen Techniques (London: Hutchinson’s, 1954), 37–61; and Christopher Bonanos, Instant: The Story of Polaroid (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2012), 17–18; 26–28. 108 See Marita Sturken, Douglas Thomas, and Sandra J. Ball-Rokeach, eds., Technological Visions: The Hopes and Fears that Shape New Technologies (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2004), 1. 109 Maurice Bonnet, “Le présent document vient à l’appui de l’étude consacrée aux conditions de la promotion d’une politique du Relief en France,” June 1972, Bonnet MSS. Dennis Gabor, one of the inventors of holography, also experienced the enthusiasm for 3D cinema research in the early 1940s. See Sean F. Johnston, Holographic Visions: A History of New Science (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 20. 110 Barry Blundell, “On Aspects of Glasses-Free 3D Cinema ca. 70 Years Ago,” accessed September 10, 2013, http://www.barrygblundell.com; and Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema (see note 96), 167–169. 111 Lazareff and Lazareff, L’URSS (see note 104), 156. Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema (see note 96), 169, relays a few other accounts of Ivanov’s system. The greatest challenge in

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112

113 114 115 116

117

autostereoscopic cinema was and remains providing a sufficient number of comfortable viewing positions. Interview of Savoye by Jacques Bloch Morhange, televised March 20, 1963, archived by France’s Institut National de l’Audiovisuel, accessed May 17, 2013, http://www.ina.fr/ video/CAF97060248/le-cyclo-stereoscope-video.html; Jacques Polieri, Scénographie Nouvelle, no. 42–43 of Aujourd’hui: art et architecture (1963); and Savoye, “Historique du Cyclostéréoscope de F. Savoye,” 1962, Bonnet MSS. Sergei M. Eisenstein, “About Stereoscopic Cinema,” Penguin Film Review 8 (January 1949), quoted by Zone, Stereoscopic Cinema (see note 96), 169. On Huxley and science, see Aldridge, The Scientific World View (see note 106), 45–63. Cornwell-Clyne, Colour Cinematography (see note 97), xii (quote from the forward to the second edition, 1939). Barjavel, Cinéma total (see note 102), 54. Moviemakers appear to have conformed to these wishes. In his study of sound in Hollywood cinema, James Lastra identifies a pervasive model of “perceptual fidelity,” then its decline to the benefit of “audience effect” by the end of the 1930s. See James Lastra, Sound Technology and the American Cinema: Perception, Representation, Modernity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), 184–194. Scott Higgins has argued that in the mid 1930s, Technicolor went through a “demonstration” stage using color “in particularly forceful ways,” followed by a “more restrained mode” marked by “a subtle and nuanced approach to color.” See Scott Higgins, Harnessing the Technicolor Rainbow: Color Design in the 1930s (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 19–20. Gombrich, Art and Illusion (see note 98), 235.

CHAPTER FIVE: LIGHTS, COLOR, ACTION! POINT-OF-SALE ADVERTISING   1 Marie Soulatzky, one of Georges Mengden’s daughters, told me about his life and work over the course of three interviews on September 6, 2001; October 26, 2001; and November 14, 2002.   2 Georges Mengden, patent FR 1,115,903, April 4, 1949.   3 Seroptic stood for Société d’Études et de Recherches Optiques. Zoller registered “Publirama” on June 18, 1955. The company’s advertisements reflect the name change over the 1957–1960 period.   4 La Relièphographie’s assets were first acquired by a company named S. E. M. I. A. on July 8, 1954 (Registre analytique du commerce, 272,760 B, Archives de Paris, D33 U3) for a total of 8,010,000 francs, as reported in E. Massin to Maurice Bonnet, July 18, 1954, Maurice Bonnet Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Bonnet MSS), private collection.   5 These assets were comprised in particular of goodwill, leasing rights, and part of the equipment used for its activities. Registre du commerce, 55 B 13766 (Seroptic), Institut National de la Propriété Industrielle; and La Loi: Journal judiciaire du soir bi-hebdomadaire, (November 16–18, 1955): 2. Zoller had worked in the clothing manufacturing business since the end of the 1930s and his most recent company, Sofraco, supplied a significant part of Seroptic’s capital, with its headquarters at 130 quai de Jemmapes, along the

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  6   7   8   9

10

11 12 13 14

15

16 17 18 19

20

21 22

Canal Saint-Martin in Paris, becoming the factory and “research lab” of the new enterprise. Registre analytique du commerce, 281,551 B and 360,626 B (Roger Zoller), Archives de Paris, D33 U3; Annuaire des abonnées au téléphone, 1940s; and Didot-Bottin directory, 1952–1955. Caisse Nationale des Marchés de l’État to Maurice Bonnet, May 2, 1956, Bonnet MSS. Seroptic only purchased some of the available cameras, at 120,000 francs each. Maurice Divot (on Seroptic letterhead) to Maurice Bonnet, May 4, 1956, Bonnet MSS. Didot-Bottin directory, vol. “Professions Paris,” 1956. My observations of Publirama’s work are based on a group of images that were dispersed in Parisian flea markets in the mid-1980s and that, according to various clues, were last in the possession of Roger Zoller. Today, some of these images are in private collections and others at the Musée Nicéphore Niépce. An inventory of Seroptic’s equipment ca. 1960 lists two O. P. 3000 cameras, one O. P. 22, one type-6000 camera, two macrophotography cameras, one O. P. 30 prototype, and one type-13000 printer apparatus. Bankruptcy (faillite) file 5840 (Seroptic), Archives de Paris, 1505 W 497. Mengden’s archives at the Musée Français de la Photographie (inv. 94.9033–9035) contain three 3D portraits (in black and white) and dozens of animated ones. Soulatzky, interviews (see note 1). Portraits were mentioned in the Didot-Bottin directory in 1958 and 1961 and never in ads in professional publications. Vendre December 1956; April, August, and December 1957; November and December 1958; and January 1959. The -rama suffix dates back to the popular nineteenth-century panorama and diorama. In the early 1950s, its use became a new fad, most notably in “Cinerama,” a wide-screen movie technology launched in 1952. See “Some Popular Components of Trade Names,” American Speech 33, no. 2 (1958): 22–24; 27–28. On the general situation in France: Marie-Emmanuelle Chessel, La publicité, naissance d’une profession, 1900–1940 (Paris: CNRS Éditions, 1998), 19–49; and Marc Martin, Trois siècles de publicité en France (Paris: Odile Jacob, 1992), 247–276. Philippe G. Vaillant, Qu’est-ce que la PLV? Publicité sur le lieu de vente (Paris: Éditions d’Organisation and Gamma, 1967), 13. Annuaire de la presse française et étrangère et du monde politique (Paris: Chambre Syndicale des Éditeurs d’Annuaires, 1958), 1481. Vaillant, Qu’est-ce que la PLV? (see note 16), 15–16; 19–21. Ibid., 20, citing a study concluding that women represented 56 percent of buyers and were responsible for 64 percent of impulse purchases, and that men represented 31 percent of buyers and made only 20 percent of impulse purchases. On women and advertising in the 1930s, see also Patricia Johnston, Real Fantasies: Edward Steichen’s Advertising Photography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 132–165; 204–219. Forty or so examples of Publirama advertisements are known today, ranging from 13 × 18 cm to 30 × 40 cm and usually on color transparency film; many are films without screens and so may not be definitive versions. Johnston, Real Fantasies (see note 19), 72–104. Robert A. Sobieszek, The Art of Persuasion: A History of Advertising Photography (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1988), 96–99.

CHAPTER FIVE

23 Louis Walton Sipley, A Half Century of Color (New York: Macmillan, 1951), 205. 24 Only two black-and-white Publirama advertisements were part of the known “Zoller” archive (see note 9). 25 For several case studies highlighting debates surrounding color in the press in the 1920s and 1930s, see Johnston, Real Fantasies (see note 19), 75–78; 237–247; and Sally Ann Stein, The Rhetoric of the Colorful and the Colorless: American Photography and Material Culture between the Wars (PhD Dissertation: Yale University, 1991). 26 On the coloring of consumer goods, see Regina Lee Blaszczyk, The Color Revolution (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012); and Jeffrey L. Meikle, American Plastic: A Cultural History (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995), 74–76. 27 Imprimerie Cannier, advertisement, Vendre (July 1956): 586. 28 Draeger, advertisement, Vendre (September 1956): 1203. On eliciting the desire to touch in advertising earlier in the century, see Michael Leja, Looking Askance: Skepticism and American Art from Eakins to Duchamp (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 145–152. 29 Guy Gillette, “La couleur et la publicité,” Vendre (June 1958): 44. 30 See for example Richard Benson, The Printed Picture (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2008), 228–229; and on color in magazines Kim Timby, “Look at those Lollipops! Integrating Color into News Pictures,” in Vanessa Schwartz and Jason Hill, eds., Getting the Picture: The History and Visual Culture of the News (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 236–243. 31 On the severe color loss characteristic of films from the time, see Henry Wilhelm, The Permanence and Care of Color Photographs (Grinnell, IA: Preservation Publishing, 1993), 25–26. 32 Color portraits cost 10,300, 13,300, 17,700, and 29,000 francs, and black-and-white ones 5,340, 5,700, 8,700, and 10,740 francs (formats 13 × 18 cm to 30 × 40 cm). The smallest color portrait had the same relative value as the smallest monochrome one in 1945, at a little more than twice the price of a good pair of shoes (see similar comparison in Chapter 4). 33 A 1943 law restricting advertising on buildings robbed post-war Paris of the luminous signs admired by many in the 1920s and 1930s. Outdoor advertising slowly came back during the 1950s. Bruno Ulmer and Thomas Plaichinger, Les écritures de la nuit: un siècle d’illuminations et de publicité lumineuse (Paris: Syros, 1987), 110–126. 34 “La publicité animée au point d’achat,” Vente et publicité 2 (July 15, 1952): 26. 35 Georges Mengden, patent FR 1,125,904, April 2, 1951. 36 Patent FR 1,125,904. The following description is based on this patent and on my inspection of the camera, today at the Musée Français de la Photographie (see note 11). The camera could also record depth: the screen was placed with its lenses oriented vertically and the film moved horizontally while the subject sat on a stool that rotated. See Mengden, patent 1,114,809, March 10, 1952. 37 Patent FR 1,125,904. 38 Patent FR 1,114,267, March 27, 1952. 39 The association of animated lenticular imagery with opticians was a recurring one. In the 1920s, the line-screen process had been used to promote Télégic glasses. In 1962, one observer cited animated images (possibly Mengden’s) that “still sometimes intrigued the clients of certain opticians.” See Pierre Hémardinquer, “Les films

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40

41

42 43 44

45

46 47 48 49

50

51 52

photographiques composites à images multiples et leurs applications,” Le Photographe (July 20–August 5, 1962): 4. Another possibility could have been an adaptation of the O. P. 30 prototype, a horizontally pivoting plate holder designed by Maurice Bonnet to record animation with the O. P. 22 camera. It was in Seroptic’s bankruptcy inventory (see note 10). Publirama’s 1960 inventory in its bankruptcy file (see note 10) included “1 lathe with accessories,” “dies of different formats (stored by suppliers),” and “a set of industrial diamonds”; a 1960 accounting document listed “salaries for Die Lab.” Patent FR 1,132,344, November 13, 1951. There are no glass-backed screens in Mengden’s archives. Mengden, patent FR 1,125,904 (see note 35), for this and the following quotes. Visiomatic also produced large printed point-of-sale display imagery from the mid-1960s; see “Visiomatic propose: la plaquette changeante pour la PLV,” Décoration PLV Sérigraphie 59 (January–February 1965): 14. Maurice Bonnet attempted to do the same in the early 1970s with the company Formes et Espace (Chapter 8). Severine Vasselin, La Maison Bruguière (research paper, École Nationale Supérieure Louis Lumière, 1997). For an American history of 1950s stereoscopy, see Hal Morgan and Dan Symmes, Amazing 3-D (Cambridge, MA: Steam Press, 1982). Inventory of View-Master reels: http://www.3dstereo.com/Viewmaster-URL/index. html. Accessed May 17, 2013. Lestrade image list, September 1, 1954. John Belton, “CinemaScope and Historical Methodology,” Cinema Journal 28, no. 1 (1988): 33–37. For Thomas Elsaesser, the dominant explanation for the rapid fall of 3D cinema in the 1950s revolves around technical constraints: “competing and incompatible technical systems (anaglyph and polarized 3D), cumbersome glasses, restricted angles of vision, and suspected headaches”; he adds to this the reluctant adoption of 3D by theater owners, who often “bet against it.” Thomas Elsaesser, “The ‘Return’ of 3-D: On Some of the Logics and Genealogies of the Image in the Twenty-First Century,” Critical Inquiry 39 (Winter 2013): 220. On 3D movies in the 1950s: Kenneth MacGowan, “The Screen’s ‘New Look’: Wider and Deeper,” The Quarterly of Film, Radio and Television 11, no. 2 (1956): 109–130; Morgan and Symmes, Amazing 3-D (see note 45); and R. M. Hayes, 3-D Movies: A History and Filmography of Stereoscopic Cinema (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1989). A projection screen 7 meters wide was housed inside a rotating line-screen drum 11 meters in diameter and weighing 1500 kilos (interview of Savoye by Jacques Bloch Morhange, televised March 20, 1963, coll. Institut National de l’Audiovisuel; and Savoye, “Historique du Cyclostéréoscope de F. Savoye,” 1962, Bonnet MSS). See also my “Images en relief et images changeantes: la photographie à réseau ligné,” Études photographiques 9 (2001): 140–142; and Barry Blundell, “On Aspects of Glasses-Free 3D Cinema ca. 70 Years Ago,” accessed September 10, 2013, http://www.barrygblundell. com. Belton, “CinemaScope” (see note 48). On wide-screen cinema, see also MacGowan, “The Screen’s ‘New Look’” (see note 49). Vivian Sobchack, “Science Fiction Film and the Technological Imagination,” in Marita Sturken, Douglas Thomas, and Sandra J. Ball-Rokeach, eds., Technological Visions: The

CHAPTER SIX

Hopes and Fears that Shape New Technologies (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2004), 145–147. See also Vivian Sobchack, Screening Space: The American Science Fiction Film (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2004), 281–291. 53 David E. Nye, American Technological Sublime (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994), 225. On nuclear anxiety and science fiction cinema, see Cynthia Hendershot, Paranoia, the Bomb, and 1950s Science Fiction Films (Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1999); and Sobchack, Screening Space (see note 52), 30; 36–37; 44–51. 54 Sean F. Johnston has shown that in the 1950s, this shift marked historians of technology as well, with technological progressivism giving way to a more cultural approach. Sean F. Johnston, Holographic Visions: A History of New Science (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 415–417.

CHAPTER SIX: A LENTICULAR IMAGE IN EVERY HOME: PROMOTIONAL PREMIUMS   1 The company’s official name was Seroptic (Société d’Études et de Recherches Optiques), but it signed its images “Publirama” (see Chapter 5).   2 Visiomatic’s manager was Marcel Baril. Registre du commerce, 58 B 14032 (Visiomatic), Institut National de la Propriété Industrielle (INPI).   3 The same eyes are found in Mengden’s archives, Musée Français de la Photographie, inv. 94.9035. Mengden also mentioned the decoration of picture frames, brooches, pendants, and charm bracelets in his patents FR 1,144,055, December 23, 1952; and FR 1,143,548, December 24, 1953. Visiomatic was the only one to mention pencil sharpeners (Annuaire de la presse, 1965, bookmark).   4 A negative of two boys dressed as cowboys that fits this description is in Mengden’s archives (Musée Français de la Photographie, inv. 94.9035.234). Similarly, a small television toy with a lenticular photograph of a guitar-playing woman is pictured in Martin Parr, Objects (Paris: Textuel, 2008), 114.   5 Pamela Walker Laird, Advertising Progress: American Business and the Rise of Consumer Marketing (Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press, 1998), 76; 85–86; 88.   6 “Les primes au consommateur,” Vendre (February 1938): 91–92.   7 Packages pictured in Steve Roden and Dan Goodsell, Krazy Kids’ Food! Vintage Food Graphics (Cologne; Los Angeles: Taschen, 2003), 43; 100; 126.   8 Box using a Vari-Vue image, pictured on Dan Goodsell’s website “The Imaginary World,” accessed July 15, 2009, http://theimaginaryworld.com/box527.jpg.   9 Marc Martin, Trois siècles de publicité en France (Paris: Odile Jacob, 1992), 328–329. 10 Exhibit Les années glorieuses de la pub, 1950–1970, Musée de la Publicité, Paris, May 12– November 14, 2004. 11 See Victor Anderson, patent US 2,815,310, March 1, 1952. Isolated bits of information on Vari-Vue can be found on Frank Didik, “History and Guide Book to Lenticular Technology,” self-published CD-ROM, 2003. The history of American animated premiums remains to be written but clearly paralleled the French story closely. 12 “Le cadeau et l’entreprise,” Vendre (November 1957): 85–87. 13 Vendre (November 1958): 5.

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14 Jean Fourastié, ed., Documents pour l’élaboration d’indices du coût de la vie en France de 1910 à 1965 (Paris: Armand Colin, 1970), 494–495. 15 “Une mission de propagande commerciale en A. O. F.,” Journal de la publicité (October 25, 1957): 3. 16 Based on images seen and a Publirama ad listing the following clients: A. A. T., Adet Seward, Alitalia, Allard, Banania, Baril (toothpaste), Corcellet, Corona (paint), Couzineau, Diener, Excel, Flambo, Flertex, F. M. B., France-lait, Gaby, G. F. A., Gourdonnaud, Guyenne, Hutchinson, Igol, Industrie textile, Le Guellec, Le Parnasse, Lepitre, Lion Noir, Magétophone, Massey Harris, Mazda, Michelin, Ofco, Pelloux, Printemps (department store), Radiola, Radiomatic, Robri, Roquefort Rigal, Roquefort Société, Sanders, Satam, Solitaire, St-Amand (thermal spring), and Tudor. Ad insert with animated key chain, Vendre, [April 1957?], author’s collection. 17 “Sebo” and “Sebon” are homophones for “C’est beau” (it’s beautiful) and “C’est bon” (it’s good). 18 Conversion tools appeared in France at the end of the 1950s. Publirama advertised rulers starting in 1958. Roger Zoller, its director, filed patents (FR 1,240,095 and FR 1,240,096, both July 24, 1959) and registered the brand names Linguarama, Lexicorama, Bridgerama, and Bridgematic (July 10, 1959). Visiomatic first advertised such images in 1964 (Annuaire officiel des abonnés au téléphone). 19 Vendre (February 1959): 13. The original slogans of the lenticular ads read: “Publirama [/] la publicité qui fait acheter” (key chain) and “Publirama publicité animée [/] fait monter les ventes” (card). 20 Mengden, patent FR 1,143, 548, December 24, 1953. 21 In an incomplete archive of Publirama key-chain order forms with mockups, the oldest one is dated April 26, 1957 (private collection). 22 See Louise Pound, “Trade-Name Irradiations,” American Speech 26, no. 3 (1951): 166–167; “Some Popular Components of Trade Names,” American Speech 33, no. 2 (1958): 19–22; 26–27; and B. J. Koekkoek, “Some German Trade Names with ‘-Mat’ and ‘-Matic,’” American Speech 34, no. 3 (1959): 237–238. 23 I have collected unmarked French examples and one promoting advertising uses of animated key chains produced by “P-A-M-P,” an undocumented company situated at 23 rue des Lombards, Paris. 24 Vendre (February 1959): 13. Original version: “La publicité que l’on regarde et que l’on garde.” 25 “Sous le signe des ‘gadgets’ s’est ouvert le 17e Salon ‘Le Cadeau et l’Entreprise,’” Journal de la publicité (April 22, 1966): 3. In a 1966 survey, 45 percent of French households had a collector—64 percent of whom collected key chains. See “Porte-clefs et ‘nouveau franc,’” Vendre (November 5, 1966): 54. 26 L’OBI: le journal du porte-clés, published until April 1967. 27 Marcel Nancey, “Portecléomanie,” Journal de la publicité (May 6, 1966): 1. 28 Françoise Chappuy, Les porte-clés (Paris: Éditions Alternatives, 1996), 14. 29 Nancey, “Portecléomanie” (see note 27). 30 This was the case in the nineteenth century. See Laird, Advertising Progress (see note 5), 78–79.

CHAPTER SIX

31 Advertisers actively participated in the Tour de France, and the fees they were charged are documented in trade magazines; see for example “Prix moyens de la publicité dans divers supports,” Vendre (January 20, 1966): 83. 32 See for example Jacques Mendel, “Psychologie du porte-clé,” Journal de la publicité (November 18, 1966): 5; and “Porte-clefs et ‘nouveau franc,’” Vendre (November 5, 1966): 54. 33 L’OBI: le journal du porte-clés (March 1966): back cover. 34 Jean-Christian Fauvet, “La publicité par et pour l’enfant,” Vendre (October 1958): 53. 35 Idem, “8 ans de publicité auprès des jeunes,” Vendre (October 5, 1966): 33. 36 Ibid., 37–39. 37 Ibid., 37; and Jean-Christian Fauvet, “Pratique de la publicité auprès des jeunes,” Vendre (December 20, 1966): 19. 38 Mendel, “Psychologie du porte-clé” (see note 32). 39 Representations of distinct male and female spheres, as on this Caddie key chain, were ubiquitous in advertising discourse of the era, and such messages were internalized by consumers. See Kristen Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1995), 24–26; 58–59; 71; 73; 82; 84; 90; 97–98. 40 Argument developed by Anne McCauley in “Realism and its Detractors,” in Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality, 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000), 23–24. 41 On painted advertisements in France, see Marc Combier, Anciennes publicités murales (Rennes: Éditions Ouest-France, 2006). 42 On this Astral campaign, see Anne-Claude Lelieur and Raymond Bachollet, Savignac affichiste (Paris: Bibliothèque Forney, 2001), 350. 43 On these Frigeco ads, see ibid., 211; and Anne-Claude Lelieur, De bébé Cadum à Mamie Nova: un siècle de personnages publicitaires (Paris: Paris-Bibliothèques, 1999), 177. 44 On this Gévéor campaign, see Anne-Claude Lelieur and Raymond Bachollet, Hervé Morvan affichiste (Paris: Agence Culturelle de Paris, 1997), 212–213. 45 Marie Soulatzky, daughter of George Mengden, interviews with the author, September 6, 2001; October 26, 2001; and November 14, 2002. 46 Imprirama (see below) was licensed by Disney as reported in its bankruptcy (règlement judiciaire) file 2890, Archives de Paris, 1505 W 910. 47 Karal Ann Marling, As Seen on TV: The Visual Culture of Everyday Life in the 1950s (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), 122; and Carroll Pursell, Technology in Postwar America: A History (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 113. 48 See Marling, As Seen on TV (see note 47), 236–237. 49 On the diffusion of television in France: Jean-Pierre Rioux and Jean-François Sirinelli, eds., Histoire culturelle de la France: le temps des masses, le vingtième siècle (Paris: Seuil, 1998), 266–271. 50 Vendre (December 1958): 138; and Annuaire de la presse (1965): bookmark. 51 L’OBI: le journal du porte-clés (March 1966): back cover. 52 See Mengden, patents FR 1,144,055, December 23, 1952; FR 1,143,548, December 24, 1953; and FR 1,141,498, December 6, 1955. 53 Mengden cited polymethyl methacrylate (Plexiglas) (patent FR 1,132,344, November 13, 1951), polystyrene (patents FR 1,143,548 and FR 1,141,198), and polyvinyl chloride (PVC) (patents FR 1,501,707, January 26, 1963; FR 2,126,500, February 9, 1971).

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54 Roger Zoller of Publirama patented children’s books that included a moveable lenticular screen used to animate the illustrations; the patent drawings resembled these fables (FR 1,240,094, July 24, 1959). 55 A Publirama patent cited a thinner screen as an improvement because the cost of producing lenticular screens by injection molding was calculated by weight (patent FR 1,149,291, April 4, 1956). On how streamlined mold design lowered costs, see also Jeffrey L. Meikle, American Plastic: A Cultural History (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995), 115–116. 56 Mengden, patent FR 1,144,055, December 23, 1952. 57 Idem, patent FR 1,143,548, December 24, 1953. 58 Idem, patent FR 1,141,498, December 6, 1955. 59 Idem, addition 73,259 to patent FR 1,141,498, March 25, 1958. 60 Idem, patent FR 2,126,500, February 9, 1971. 61 Idem, patent FR 1,501,707, January 26, 1963. 62 Idem, patent FR 2,126,500. 63 Zoller, brand name registry 129,020, July 10, 1959; and patent FR 1,240,095, July 24, 1959. 64 “Plastics Add an Exciting New Dimension,” Modern Plastics (May 1964): 90–93; and Victor Anderson, patents US 2,815,310, March 1, 1952; and US 2,799,938, February 9, 1954. Many images dispersed following the sale of the company’s archives in 1986 can be found today. See also note 11. 65 On Vari-Vue’s distribution by Socor, Leon Goodman, then Grafa: Décoration PLV Sérigraphie, January–February 1965, March–April 1965. This trade journal was run by G. Gozes—likely the Gilbert Gozes, who was later Grafa’s commercial director (as indicated by an animated Vari-Vue business card in Maurice Bonnet’s archives). 66 One possible point of comparison between images produced on either side of the Atlantic is conversion tools. They were patented in February 1954 by Victor Anderson (US 2,799,938 [see note 64]) and advertised in France starting in 1958 by Publirama (ad in Vendre [November 1958]: 5). 67 Registre du commerce, 55 B 13766 (Seroptic), INPI. 68 Zoller registered the name Imprirama; the company’s main office was at 134 rue de Tocqueville, where Zoller was listed in the phone book. Imprirama’s official manager was Christiane Braillard (Registre du commerce, 61 B 3074, INPI). 69 Registre du commerce, 61 B 3074 (Imprirama); and Gazette du Palais (December 11–13, 1963): 5. 70 Roger Karampournis, “Note de synthèse,” no. 28 (October 17, 1966): coll. Karampournis. 71 Ibid., no. 27; 28. 72 After Imprirama’s bankruptcy, in 1968, the screen-manufacture equipment was sold to France Reconstruction Plan, Inc., 19 Congress Street, Boston, for $15,000. Other equipment seems to have been stored by Zoller. 73 Registre du commerce, 58 B 14032 (Visiomatic), INPI. 74 “Sous le signe des ‘gadgets’” (see note 25), 3; and Fauvet, “8 ans de publicité” (see note 35), 37. 75 Le Nouveau Petit Robert (Paris: Le Robert, 2004). 76 Jean Baudrillard, The Consumer Society: Myths and Structures (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 1998), 11.

CHAPTER SEVEN

77 Jean-François Sirinelli, “Au cœur des Trente Glorieuses,” in Rioux and Sirinelli, Histoire culturelle de la France (see note 49), 283; and Michel Winock, Chronique des années soixante (Paris: Seuil, 1987), 112. 78 Kristen Ross analyzes the larger significance of contemporary representations of clean, modern appliances in Fast Cars, Clean Bodies (see note 39), 84–90; 98–105. 79 Richard Morphet, “Richard Hamilton: The Longer View,” in Richard Hamilton (London: Tate Gallery, 1992), 25 ($he reproduced on page 76). 80 On Hamilton and Duchamp, see for example Sarat Maharaj, “A Liquid, Elemental Scattering,” in Richard Hamilton (see note 79), 40–48. 81 Arturo Schwartz, Man Ray: The Rigour of Imagination (New York: Rizzoli, 1977), 69; 136; 206–207; Gilbert Perlein and Daniela Palazzoli, Man Ray: rétrospective 1912–1976 (Nice: Musée d’Art Moderne et d’Art Contemporain, 1997), 187; 294; and the website of the Tate, accessed August 24, 2012, http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/ man-ray-indestructible-object-t07614/text-summary. 82 The production of the French publisher Allain demonstrates this shift, with older illustration-based postcards (measuring 14 × 9 cm) having lenticular eyes and more recent photographic ones (measuring 14.5 × 10.5 cm) googly eyes.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE 3D POSTCARD   1 Bonnet’s postcard research is described in eight letters from Maurice Bonnet to Françoise Bonnet (née Dessart), June–July 1949, Bonnet Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Bonnet MSS), private collection. All quotes in this paragraph are from these letters, some of which do not carry exact dates.   2 Stamp prices in Jean Fourastié, ed., Documents pour l’élaboration d’indices du coût de la vie en France de 1910 à 1965 (Paris: Armand Colin, 1970), 495. Bonnet’s lenticular postcards would have been comparatively less expensive than ones sold today—priced at 2–3 euros with a letter stamp costing about 55 cents.   3 Jacques Thomas-Duffort to Maurice Bonnet, July 24, 1951, Bonnet MSS.   4 Charles Lucien Sasson to Maurice Bonnet, July 26, 1955, Bonnet MSS.   5 A few images are preserved in Bonnet’s archives and at the Musée Nicéphore Niépce, Chalon-sur-Saône, inv. 2002.37.1.888–893. Little is known about Bonnet’s work for the Defense department (1950–1961).   6 Anonymous to Maître Allehaut (lawyer involved in La Relièphographie’s bankruptcy proceedings), May 28, 1954, Bonnet MSS.   7 Charles Gaudin, patent FR 1,044,455, November 5, 1951.   8 See for example Charles Gaudin and Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès, patents FR 1,046,587 and FR 1,049,316, both May 5, 1951.   9 Both agreements described in Charles Gaudin to the Société des Anciens Établissements A. Mattey, December 24, 1951, Lassus Saint-Geniès Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Lassus MSS), Musée Français de la Photographie. 10 Pierre-Frédéric Cuvier and Victor Hudeley, patent FR 1,102,632, April 9, 1954. 11 Lassus Saint-Geniès to Ph. Chr. Danneel, September 24, 1957, Lassus MSS: “Kodak-Pathé doesn’t have a lenticular laboratory in Vincennes [and], to do me a favor, they had

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12 13 14

15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24 25 26

27

28 29 30 31

already agreed to not go through my Parisian counterfeiters, Bonnet and Hudeley, who have fairly good equipment for making 35 [mm] lenticular film.” “Brevet d’Invention V. Hudeley. Carte postale en Relief et en Couleurs. Dépôt Secret du 15 février 51, sous le no. 604,829,” Bonnet MSS. Registre du commerce de la Seine, 60 B 5447 (Synel), Institut National de la Propriété Industrielle (INPI). See, for example, Alexandre Filippi, patents FR 804,549, April 3, 1936; FR 1,006,458, January 17, 1948 (and certificate of addition 62,720, June 8, 1951); and FR 1,109,138, July 13, 1954. Filippi signed a licensing agreement for patent FR 1,109,138 with André Lévy, from Optique Boyer, in October 1957. Few screens were sold, if any; the contract was terminated in 1963. Tribunal de Grande Instance de la Seine, “Jugement du 9 février 1963 Aff. Filippi c. Lévy,” Guy Harmand Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Harmand MSS), private collection. Alexandre Filippi to Jean Colas, May 10, 1958, Harmand MSS. Filippi-Colas correspondence, Harmand MSS. Filippi to Colas, January 22, 1960; March 12, 1960; and June 24, 1960, Harmand MSS. “Appareil continu universel,” October 14, 1960, Harmand MSS. The camera itself is at the Musée Nicéphore Niépce, inv. MNN 1976.111.3. Filippi to Colas, September 10, 1958; and January 22, 1960. Nothing is known about Marilhet’s activities after La Relièphographie’s bankruptcy in 1954. Filippi to Colas, March 22, 1960; and June 18, 1960. Filippi to Harmand, April 21, 1961, Harmand MSS. Harmand made mechanical improvements to the camera, replacing its hand-operated movement mechanism, which slid the optical unit in a runner using a bicycle chain, with a motorized system using ball bearings (Harmand to the author, July 8, 2006). Filippi to Colas, May 2, 1961, Harmand MSS. Filippi, “Note d’observations sur la photo Pont-Neuf,” Harmand MSS. Several groups of Synel images, most originating from Guy Harmand, are in the collections of the Musée Nicéphore Niépce, inv. MNN 1976.111; 1981.98; and 2007.295. Guy Harmand, interview with the author, Sceaux, March 14, 2003; and Harmand to Filippi, [February or August] 1962, Harmand MSS. A technique devised by Filippi and Colas was supposed to eliminate moiré patterns (patent FR 1,179,431, June 15, 1957). An account of a March 29, 1963 delivery, Harmand MSS, lists 772 acceptable cards and 192 “unusable” cards, with success rates varying by image; 75 percent of the freesia cards were judged unacceptable. Harmand, interview, for this and the following remarks. Guy Harmand, “Cartes postales en relief éditées par les Établissements Synel,” ca. 1981, Musée Nicéphore Niépce. Bankruptcy (faillite) file 10186 (Synel), Archives de Paris, 1505 W 582. La Relièphographie, patents FR 943,086, August 8, 1941; and US 2,508,487, October 25, 1945; and Bonnet to Jean-Jacques Bastardie (head of the CNRS photography department), March 21, 1960, Bonnet MSS. Seroptic’s bankruptcy was declared on June 26, 1961.

CHAPTER SEVEN

32 Contact with Baril described in Pierre Laboissière to Maurice Bonnet, June 30, 1966, Bonnet MSS. A Visiomatic announcement in Vendre, August–September 1966, included a postcard-sized insert—missing from issues I have consulted. The back of early Visiomatic postcards indicated they were printed in Japan. 33 Akihiko Kanari (Toppan) to the author, July 1, 2003; and “What’s New in 3-D: Japanese Firm Announces Extra-Thin 3-D Printing,” Modern Lithography (August 1965): 43. 34 Rey Saida (Public Relations, Dai Nippon) to the author, June 30, 2003. Saida wrote that her company produced 3D postcards of France, Italy, Belgium, Greece, and Africa and had photographers based in West Germany. 35 I have identified over 160 images, with reference numbers falling between R-1 and R-405. It is uncertain whether all of the numbers were used or even whether smaller numbers indicate an earlier publication. Arrangement of known cards by the copyright registration number on the back leads to a different order and no obvious clues about the chronology of production. 36 Japanese postcards sold in the United States, dated 1966 and distributed by W. C. Jones, Los Angeles, had thick screens and very strong 3D. Later Fisa cards used thinner screens and had fainter depth. 37 A 1946 La Relièphographie document, Bonnet MSS, discussed a planned shipment of ten O. P. 3000s. Comercial Escudo de Oro, S. A., the parent company of Ediciones FISA, still exists but no longer produces 3D postcards. The director at the time has since retired, and information about this production has been lost (Comercial Escudo de Oro, S. A., to the author, June 20, 2003). 38 Eastman Kodak to B. Blanchard (Kodak-Pathé), April 7, 1961, Bonnet MSS. 39 See for example Len Lipton, “Color 3-D Printing Process Permits Mass Press Run, Glassless Viewing,” Popular Photography (May 1964): 92–93. 40 Alain Audouy, “Une grande invention française nous revient d’Amérique,” La cinématographie française (August–September 1964): ii–iii. 41 Walter Carlson, “Advertising: Third Dimension Being Added,” New York Times (April 4, 1965): F14. 42 A few minor French sources of lenticular postcards are also known to have existed, and others may yet be discovered. Abeille Cartes, in Paris, sold 3D and animated cards. A single 3D postcard, of Romania, has been found signed Eurorelief—listed in the Paris phone book as specialized in lenticular imagery (1967–1985) and citing “Carte postale 3 B [sic]” in the Annuaire de la presse (1972–1975). 43 Claude Blay, “Projet de protocole d’accord entre le CNRS et Claude Blay,” April 25, 1966; “Compte rendu de la visite de M. Blay le 25 avril 1966”; “Note concernant Messieurs Blay et Brenot,” May 1966; and two untitled CNRS documents assessing Blay, [1966], all in Bonnet MSS. 44 L. Lestrade, Stéréoscopes Lestrade & Cie. to Maurice Bonnet, February 10 and October 25, 1967, Bonnet MSS. 45 Card with message dated December 18, 1969. This is the earliest animated card I have identified. A Toppan card along the same lines pictured a 3D woman in a kimono winking and smiling (August 21, 1970 postmark). 46 Dai Nippon and Toppan were among those signing the erotic cards found in France in the 1970s, but many were anonymously produced.

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47 For a French account of the postcard business’s adoption of color, see Marc Combier, Un siècle de cartes postales: Cim-Combier Imprimer Mâcon (Paris: Éditions Alternatives, 2005). 48 “What’s New in 3-D” (see note 33), 43. This device strongly resembled one for outdoor photography patented by La Relièphographie (FR 944,915, November 17, 1944), in the public domain starting in 1964. See Toppan Printing Co. Ltd., patents GB 1,126,631, September 7, 1965; US 3,503,316, November 8, 1966; and FR 1,528,397, June 21, 1967. 49 Kanari to the author (see note 33). 50 Saida to the author (see note 34). 51 Suzanne K. Kaufman, Consuming Visions: Mass Culture and the Lourdes Shrine (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005), 18. 52 Ibid., 46–48. Kaufman demonstrates that the attraction of novelties was already strong at the end of the nineteenth century; on postcards see ibid., 13; 17–18; 36–42; 45; 55–56; on film: 57. 53 Harmand showed me a color transparency of the scene during one of our interviews. 54 David Morgan, Visual Piety: A History and Theory of Popular Religious Images (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 32–50. 55 Based on my interview with Gérard Latapie (commercial director of A. Doucet since 1999) and Bernard Nerin (warehouse assistant with A. Doucet since 1980), Lourdes, August 1, 2003. 56 Alain Vircondelet, Le monde merveilleux des images pieuses (Paris: Hermé, 1988), 26–27. 57 See René Laurentin, Visage de Bernadette (Paris: P. Lethielleux; Lourdes: Œuvre de la Grotte, 1978), 12; Denis Pellerin, “Les lucarnes de l’infini,” Études Photographiques 4 (1998): 38–39; and Kaufman, Consuming Visions (see note 51), 52–53. 58 Anthropologist Clara Gallini argues that the statue displayed in the Grotto was about “a search for objective truth” because when it was made in 1874, the sculptor worked with Bernadette Soubirous herself as a model, posing in a praying position. Clara Gallini, Il miracolo et la sua prova: un etnologo a Lourdes (Naples: Liguori, 1998), 145–146. 59 Kaufman, Consuming Visions (see note 51), 51–52. 60 See Egim, Religious Art Catalogue (Milan: Egim, 2014), 26 (“Our Lady of Lourdes,” reference B27). This catalog is available on Egim’s website, accessed June 20, 2014, http://www.egim.it/catalogs. 61 Kaufman, Consuming Visions (see note 51), 54. 62 Morgan, Visual Piety (see note 54), 50–58. 63 G. Vergeau (?) to the Bonnet family, April 6, 1977, on Fisa postcard R-104, Bonnet MSS. 64 Yette Bonnet to Maurice Bonnet, n.d., on Fisa postcard R-267, Bonnet MSS. 65 A. Doucet also distributed examples of Fisa’s squirrel postcard mounted on a wooden souvenir plaque with key-hooks. No one there or at Fisa was able to specify when 3D printing stopped. Latapie and Nerin, interview (see note 55); and Comercial Escudo de Oro, S. A., to the author. 66 In 2003, http://www.egim.it listed over eighty references for these small images. EGIM’s illustrated 2014 catalog (see note 60) includes 126 of them. 67 Christian references represented almost 30 percent of the catalog Robert Cantieni GmbH sent to me in 2001, titled 3-D Century Stereo Art (Oberursel: Cantieni and CA Printing Studio, n.d.). It even included some images sold in the 1960s and 1970s.

CHAPTER SEVEN

68 Abraham Moles, Psychologie du kitsch: l’art du bonheur (Paris: Denoël; Gonthier, 1977 [1971]), 38. This card was reported in Vatican gift shops by Marie Gautheron in “Miracle Eyes,” Xoana 4 (1996): 53–59. It was sold in Lourdes in 2003—at the time marketed by Robert Cantieni. 69 See Alain Boillat, “L’amplification des évangiles par la bande (dessinée) à l’aube du XXIe siècle,” Études de Lettres 280 (2008): 105; and Morgan, Visual Piety (see note 54), 56. 70 In 1967, Visiomatic’s postcard of the new Orly airport terminal pictured an indistinct airport in the background and an airborne Air France flight (with good 3D) in perspective in the foreground. For a selection of rare airplane cards, see the website of the collector Christian Gerbich, accessed September 24, 2014, http://www.aircards. de/3D/3d.htm. Variations on the angle of the planes and their wings were used to create depth. 71 Stereoscopy enthusiasts referred to this as the “model effect.” See for example Pierre Tavlitzki, “L’effet de maquette,” Bulletin du stéréo-club français (November 1978): 10; and Thomas L. Hankins and Robert J. Silverman, Instruments and the Imagination (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 169. 72 The scale is given by the turntable (32 cm in diameter as measured in Mengden’s archives at the Musée Français de la Photographie). Mengden cited 3D postcards as a possible use of the lenticular process in 1952 and 1955 (patents FR 1,144,055, December 23, 1952; and FR 1,141,498, December 6, 1955). The few examples in his archives likely date from the 1970s; I have never found any having circulated. 73 On diableries, see Paula Fleming, Brian May, and Denis Pellerin, Diableries: Stereoscopic Adventures in Hell (London: London Stereoscopic Company, 2013). 74 3D cards were only one of the products in the vast licensing scheme the television network developed to advertise these shows. See Henri-Bernard Rey, “Variations autour de personnages,” Vendre (November 1966): 28–31. 75 Frédéric Maguet, “De la série éditoriale dans l’imagerie: l’exemple des costumes régionaux,” Ethnologie française 24, no. 2 (1994): 236–237. 76 See for example Jean-Claude Lebensztejn, ed., Hyperréalismes, USA 1965–1975 (Strasbourg: Les Musées de Strasbourg; Paris: Hazan, 2003). 77 Neue Galerie der Stadt Aachen, Der Bestand ’72: Kunst um 1970 (Aachen: Auslieferung; Cologne: W. König, 1972). Today this institution is known as the Ludwig Forum für Internationale Kunst. 78 Because the Flower Pieces picture bouquets accompanied by fruit, they appear to be based on Fisa postcards more than Japanese ones. Hamilton’s familiarity with Fisa’s production makes sense, as he had purchased a house in Cadaqués, Spain, in 1969 and frequented the region into the 1970s. See Richard Hamilton (London: Tate Gallery Publishing, 2014), 224–226; 318–320. 79 See Richard Hamilton: Druckgraphik und Multiples, 1939–2002 (Düsseldorf: Richter Verlag, 2002), 146–147. 80 Jean Baudrillard, La société de consommation (Paris: Denoël, 1970), 165–168. 81 Moles, Psychologie du kitsch (see note 68), 38; 47. 82 Tomas Kulka, Kitsch and Art (University Park: Pennsylvania State University, 1996), 88–94.

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83 Clement Greenberg characterized kitsch as the rear-guard of culture as opposed to its avant-garde. See “Avant-garde and kitsch,” Partisan Review 6, no. 5 (1939): 34–49. In noting here how the lenticular process moved from being considered modern to a form of kitsch, I do not wish to espouse Greenberg’s pejorative view of popular culture. 84 For a detailed account of holography’s development and reception, see Sean F. Johnston, Holographic Visions: A History of New Science (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); on holography techniques, see Graham Saxby, Practical Holography, 3rd ed. (Bristol: Institute of Physics, 2004). 85 For example François de Closets, “Révolution en optique: le relief total en photographie,” Sciences et Avenir (March 1965): 167; Pierre Hémardinquer, “La photographie intégrale par le laser,” Photo-ciné-revue (March 1966): 79; and Luc Fellot, “Hologrammes: la révolution de la lumière blanche et du mouvement,” Science et vie (October 1977): 60. 86 For example Luc Fellot, “Photo et cinéma au laser,” Photo-ciné-revue (April 1978): 190– 197; and Denis Gabor, “Comment j’ai inventé l’holographie,” Science et vie (August 1973): 48; 59. On these “holographic stereograms,” or “Multiplex” holograms, see Johnston, Holographic Visions (see note 84), 212–216. 87 Closets, “Révolution en optique” (see note 85), 163. See also Serge Lowenthal, “Laser et traitement de l’information,” Atomes (April 1966): 166. This was only true for some types of holograms. Johnston identifies it as one of the earliest memes to mark holography’s reception. Johnston, Holographic Visions (see note 84), 118; 402; 406. 88 Salvador Dali, Dix recettes d’immortalité (Paris: Audouin-Descharnes, 1973), section “L’homme ressuscité par l’holographie de l’écureuil.” On Dali’s own holograms, see Robert Descharnes, “Dali, l’image et l’espace,” in Salvador Dali: rétrospective (Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1979), 391–402; and Johnston, Holographic Visions (see note 84), 214; 289 n. 10. 89 Anne-Marie Christakis, La magie du laser: les hologrammes, image du futur (Paris: Musée de l’Holographie, 1983), 8. 90 René Barjavel, Cinéma total: essai sur les formes futures du Cinéma (Paris: Denoël, 1944), 60–63. On Barjavel and Bonnet, see Chapter 4. 91 Closets, “Révolution en optique” (see note 85), 162. See also Lowenthal, “Laser et traitement de l’information” (see note 87), 168. 92 For further discussion of holography in George Lucas’s Star Wars series, see Johnston, Holographic Visions (see note 84), 406–407. 93 Ibid., 189; 399. 94 Pierre Tavlitzki, “En attendant le Nimslo,” Bulletin du stéréo-club français (July– August 1980): 12. 95 “La photo en relief,” Chasseur d’images (November 1983): 9.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE LIMITS OF LENTICULAR PHOTOGRAPHY 1

2

3 4

5

6

7

8

9

Howard S. Becker argues that the “world” of traditional stereoscopy suffered such a decline by the 1960s. Idem, “Stereographs: Local, National and International Art Worlds,” in Edward W. Earle, ed., Points of View: The Stereograph in America—A Cultural History (Rochester, NY: Visual Studies Workshop, 1979), 89–96; and idem, Art Worlds, 25th anniversary ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 34–35; 349–350. See for example Theodore Peterson, Magazines in the Twentieth Century (Urbana: University of Illinois, 1964), 22–37. On the adoption of color in magazines, see my text “Look at those Lollipops!” in Jason Hill and Vanessa Schwartz, eds., Getting the Picture: The History and Visual Culture of the News (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 236–243. Colin Butement, “The ‘Deep Pictures’ Process of Three-Dimensional Photography,” Journal of the Royal Society of Arts 4765 (March 26, 1948): 270. Alexandre Filippi to Jean Colas, May 10, 1958, Guy Harmand Manuscripts, private collection. Anaglyphs, viewed with two-colored glasses, were a regular feature of 1950s European risqué publications like Paris-Hollywood and of American comic books. See, for example, Françoise Reynaud, Catherine Tambrun, and Kim Timby, eds., Paris in 3D: From Stereoscopy to Virtual Reality 1850–2000 (London: Booth-Clibborn; Paris: Paris-Musées, 2000), 121–135; and Hal Morgan and Dan Symmes, Amazing 3-D (Cambridge, MA: Steam Press, 1982), 106–153. Roger Zoller, patent FR 1,240,094, July 24, 1959. At least four books were published, by Pont Royal: Une poursuite mouvementée, Une singulière partie de lasso, Les mésaventures de Roudoudou, and Riquiqui photographe. Coined “télélivre” on the cover (term printed inside a schematic drawing of a television), they cited Publirama’s patented “cinephoto” process on the copyright page. The principle is reminiscent of a much older publication that supplied a line screen to animate images with a moiré effect: The Motograph Moving Picture Book (London: Bliss, Sands and Co., 1898), reprinted as the Magic Moving Picture Book (New York: Dover, 1975). Publishers included Artima (in France), Golden Press, Grosset and Dunlap, and Crown and Playmore (in the United States). The books were printed by Froebel-Kan Toppan, Froebel-Kan, or Zokeisha. A changing selection is visible on Scott Stine’s vintage memorabilia website “The Trash Collector,” accessed August 6, 2013, http:// thetrashcollector.com/bookschildrens3Dbooks.html. The process was marketed by Visual Panographics, a subsidiary created for the purpose. See Walter Carlson, “Advertising: Third Dimension Being Added,” New York Times (April 4, 1965): F14. Eastman sought a plastic “that would adhere to paper, have the correct optical qualities, plus melting and solidifying properties so that it could be handled in a high-speed press at moderate cost”; it chose Epolene, a form of polypropylene. See Leo Rosten, “They Made Our World… Edison,” Look (February 25, 1964): 102. See also “Printing in Depth,” Printing Magazine / National Lithographer (March 1964): 62–87; Pierre de Latil, “Une révolution dans la photographie,” Le Figaro Littéraire (July 15–21): 1965; and “Notre couverture” and “La photo en relief,” Vendre (November 5, 1965): 2; 68. Rosten, “They Made Our World” (see note 8), 101–105.

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10 Marvin C. Whatmore, “Revolution in three-dimensional printing,” presentation at the Sales Executives Association, May 13, 1964, Maurice Bonnet Manuscripts (hereafter referred to as Bonnet MSS), private collection. 11 Carlson, “Advertising” (see note 7); and Roland Wolseley, Understanding Magazines (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1965), 247 (Xograph included). 12 On Venture, see “Advertising: New Horizons for Venture,” New York Times (July 31, 1966), 113; Robert James Leonard, “Venture Magazine and the Xograph,” Stereo World 29, no. 5 (2002–2003): 36–41; and “Lenticular Imaging: Venture Magazine” (a detailed list of cover images), FTL Design, accessed August 30, 2013, http://lenticular3d.com/venture.htm. 13 The Xograph was represented in France by Grafa, as reported by Vendre (November 5, 1965): 68; and Annuaire de la Presse, listing for Grafa from 1966 to 1978. Press included Latil, “Une révolution” (see note 8); “La révolution Xographique,” L’Express (July 26– August 1, 1965): 21; and Pierre Hémardinquer, “La photographie industrielle en relief ou Xographie,” Le Photographe 1109 (1966): 394–397. 14 Pierre de Latil, “Le prochain Salon de l’Auto serait photographié en relief,” Le Figaro (August 1, 1965). 15 Elle, September 22, 1966; December 1, 1966; June 8, 1967; and December 7, 1967. 16 Whatmore, “Revolution” (see note 10), 7. 17 Contrary to Bonnet’s methods, the Xograph negative was fitted with a line screen. See Len Lipton, “Color 3-D Printing Process Permits Mass Press Run, Glassless Viewing,” Popular Photography (May 1964): 92–93; and Whatmore, “Revolution” (see note 10), 4–5. 18 Bonnet worked for the CNRS from July 1, 1961 until his retirement in 1988 and created the “Laboratoire du Film Gaufré” there. 19 CNRS, “Communiqué de presse,” February 1, 1966, Bonnet MSS; and “Une découverte française: des photographies en couleurs en vrai relief,” Le Pèlerin du 20ème siècle (April 17, 1966): 21. 20 Gérard Bonnot, “Photo en relief pour laboratoire,” L’Express (January 1–7, 1968): 38; contract 670084 between the CNRS and Relieforama, December 28, 1967, Bonnet MSS; and Registre du commerce, 67 B 4525 (Relieforama), Institut National de la Propriété Industrielle (INPI). Screen prices were 2 francs for 7 × 9 cm, 20 francs for 24 × 30 cm, and 40 francs for 30 × 40 cm. Relieforama’s photographers were Michel and Armelle Sarret. 21 Relieforama ads for Castellane, Suralo, and Pierre Cardin are pictured in Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 4), 183; 186–187. 22 Planning phase described by Roger Karampournis in his “Notes de synthèse” (minutes of meetings), numbered 1–47, dated April 8, 1966–July 28, 1967, Karampournis Manuscripts. 23 Idem, “Note de synthèse,” no. 36, January 23, 1967. 24 Whatmore, “Revolution” (see note 10), 9. Mailing a letter cost 0.30 francs at the time. Métiers graphiques reported: “In the United States, reproduction in 3D by the Xograph process currently costs (photography included) 18,000 francs. For a 9 × 13 image, 120,000 copies: 0.60 francs each (extra copies: 0.09 francs). For a 13 x 18 cm image, 50,000 copies, 1.46 francs each (extra copies: 0.20 francs). A significant discount is given for more than 200,000 copies.” See “Coût impression relief,” Métiers graphiques (January 10, 1966): 1.

CHAPTER EIGHT

25 Price (without light box) in Karampournis, “Notes de synthèse,” no. 33 (see note 22), 36. A traditional point-of-sale display averaged between 17 and 26 francs per store according to “Prix moyens de la publicité dans divers supports,” Vendre (January 1968): 4/81–4/89. 26 Relieforama went bankrupt in 1972 after investing in an ill-fated 3D-portrait studio. The studio opened on September 23, 1970 near the Champs-Élysées, in the new Inter Shopping Foch shopping center; it was created under the auspices of a separate company, the Société Générale de Photographie en Relief (Sogephor), founded by Karampournis on August 4, 1970. Sogephor was declared bankrupt on October 21, 1971 and Relieforama on March 9, 1972 (Registre du commerce, 67 B 4524 [Relieforama] and 70B4133 [Sogephor], INPI). 27 Hélio-Cachan to Maurice Bonnet, December 15, 1969, Bonnet MSS. 28 Antoinette Angénieux, interview with the author, March 11, 2003; Registre du commerce, 70 B 4932 (Formes et Espace); and contract between the ANVAR (an agency working with the CNRS) and Lucien Philippe and Éditions CGC, signed on July 28, 1970. Bonnet trained Gilles Pinlon to use the O. P. 3000 for Formes et Espace. 29 “Relief,” Caractère: revue mensuelle des industries graphiques et transformatrices du papier et du carton (December 1971): 48–52; and Gérard Bonnot, “Photo en relief pour laboratoire,” L’Express (January 1–7, 1968): 38. 30 Angénieux, interview (see note 28); and Caractère (December 1971): 50–51. 31 Angénieux, interview (see note 28); Caractère (December 1971): 48; 50; and Formes et Espace, “Pourquoi le relief?” circa 1971, Bonnet MSS. 32 Other clients included Marinoni (printing presses), Rhone Poulenc (chemicals and pharmaceuticals), Arjomari-Prioux (paper manufacturing), Films Fechner (a production company), Lumitext, and Air France (Antoinette Angénieux to ANVAR, January 29, 1973, Bonnet MSS). An unusual order consisted of 3D portraits of North Korean leader Kim Il Sung and family, made without access to the subjects (Musée Nicéphore Niépce, inv. MNN 2002.37.1.38 and 2002.37.1.39). 33 Leonard, “Venture” (see note 12), 41; and on the dependence of Venture on advertising: Carlson, “Advertising” (see note 7). 34 Maurice Bonnet, untitled text commencing with the words “In 1908,” [after 1976], 6, Bonnet MSS. 35 Leonard, “Venture” (see note 12), 37; Elle (December 1, 1966): 49; and Elle (December 7, 1967): 47. 36 Roger Karampournis, “Note de synthèse,” no. 36, January 23, 1967 (see note 22). 37 Jacques Davis to Maurice Bonnet, December 3, 1977, Bonnet MSS. 38 J. Rives, “La photo-relief,” Le photographe (July–August 1979): 35–36; and Pierre Tavlitzki, “L’actualité stéréoscopique,” Bulletin du stéréo-club français (hereafter referred to as BSCF) 623 (1978): 6. The French patent for this camera appears to be Chi Yin Law, FR 2,296,203, December 24, 1975 (GB 1,495,060, December 22, 1975); see also Chi Yin Law, FR 2,305,755, March 26, 1976 (US 4,107,711, March 24, 1976). Law appears to have previously worked for Asahi Stereorama Co., a producer of 3D postcards. See patent US 3,684,370, February 3, 1970. 39 Rives, “La photo-relief,” 35–36. 40 Ibid., 33; 38–39 (with an interview with Eddy Gassmann, director of Pictorial Service).

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NOTES

41 Ad for Pictorial Service, Le Photographe (September 1978): 39. 42 In Rives, “La photo-relief” (see note 38), 39. 43 Gérard Duval, Jean-Paul Hautducoeur, and Pierre Tavlitzki, “Troisième dimension et audiovisuel: bilan et prospective,” BSCF 632 (1979): 7. 44 Rives, “La photo-relief” (see note 38), 36–37. 45 Ibid., 37–38. 46 Tavlitzki, “L’actualité stéréoscopique” (see note 38), 6. 47 This is what employees of the Musée Nicéphore Niépce understood when the museum purchased two cameras and a stock of lenticular screens from Pictorial Service in 2005. The equipment hadn’t been used in a long time. 48 Pierre Bourdieu, ed., Photography: A Middle-Brow Art (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990), 13; 174 n. 5. 49 Matthew S. Witkovsky, “When the Earth Was Square, 1960–1978,” in The Art of the American Snapshot, 1888–1978 (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 2007), 230. 50 “Timex to Market Nimslo 3-D Camera,” New York Times (February 2, 1982); and Jim Pomeroy, “Like a Razor to a Razor Blade Company,” Afterimage 11, no. 9 (1984), accessed August 9, 2013, http://www.jim-pomeroy.org/nimslo.htm. 51 See for example patents US 4,037,950 and US 4,063,265, both March 15, 1976; and US 4,086,585, December 27, 1976. On the United States launch: “Nimslo sales begin in Florida,” Stereo World 9, no. 2 (1982): 27; and Philip H. Dougherty, “Advertising: For a 3-D Camera, a 3-D Ad,” New York Times (September 29, 1982), accessed June 30, 2014, http://www.nytimes.com/1982/09/29/business/advertising-for-a-3-d-camera-a-3-d-ad. html. 52 The Nimslo was first made in Dundee, Scotland, then in Japan. On its French launch: BSCF 623 (1979): 6; BSCF 641 (1980): 20; Roland Luziau, “Le procédé Nimslo,” BSCF 663 (1982): 4; and sources cited below. 53 This ad was produced by Robert Abel and Associates and is available for viewing on YouTube, accessed September 3, 2013, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cT3_3d2JcR0. 54 Guy-Michel Cogné, “Salon 83: une bonne cuvée,” Chasseur d’images (November 1983): 9. 55 Ronan Loaëc, “Le relief dans le portefeuille,” Photo Magazine (February 1983): 81; and Ronan Loaëc, “Nimslo Fralsen, la troisième dimension à l’assaut de la vieille Europe,” Le Photographe (December 1982): 15. 56 Guy Harmand, interview with the author, March 14, 2003. 57 Pierre Tavlitzki, “Nimslo: premières images,” BSCF 663 (1982): 24. 58 Idem, “Le Salon 83, comme si vous y étiez,” BSCF 674 (1983): 9–10. 59 See Susan Pinsky and David Starkman, Reel 3-D Enterprises’ Guide to the Nimslo 3-D Camera (Culver City, CA: Reel 3-D Enterprises, 1988). 60 Loaëc, “Le relief” (see note 55), 81; 90. 61 On David Burder’s “Burdlo” cameras, see Pinsky and Starkman, Guide (see note 59), 23–26. I viewed images made with the 4- and 12-lens cameras during an interview with Burder, London, July 24, 2013. 62 E. F. Linssen, “A Simplification of the Lenticular System: The Lentic Camera and Autostereoscopic Advertising,” British Journal of Photography 99 (October 24, 1952): 520. See also Julius B. Kaiser, Make Your Own Stereo Pictures (New York: Macmillan, 1955),

CHAPTER EIGHT

63 64

65 66

67

68 69

70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

81

12–13. The Lentic was marketed by Colin Butement, ex-research manager of La Relièphographie’s English franchise Deep Pictures, in business from 1946 to 1952. Prototype pictured in Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 4), 276. Guy-Michel Cogné, “La vraie photo en relief arrive, et c’est à Metz que je l’ai rencontrée,” Chasseur d’images 54 (1983): 37. On printing, see also Lenny Lipton, “First Look: Nimslo 3D,” Popular Photography (September 1982): 208; and patents: US 3,953,869, September 24, 1974; US 4,059,354, October 12, 1976; US 4,101,210, June 21, 1976; and US 4,120,562, April 12, 1976. Nims considered selling printers to amateurs, but they never materialized. See Loaëc, “Le relief” (see note 55), 90. Pierre Tavlitzki, “En attendant le Nimslo,” BSCF 642 (1980): 12; and Susan Pinsky and David Starkman, “Nimslo News at the Photokina,” Stereo World 7, no. 6 (1981): 24. For processing critiques: Paul Wing, “A Commentary,” Stereoscopy 21 (January 1983): 19–21; Durkheim, “Banc d’essais du Nimslo par la S. S. S.,” BSCF 666 (1983): 12; Tavlitzki, “Le Salon 83” (see note 58), 9–10; and Pomeroy, “Like a Razor” (see note 50). Cogné, “Salon 83” (see note 54), 7; and Pinsky and Starkman, Guide (see note 59), 9. On the history of color photofinishing, see Jack H. Coote, The Illustrated History of Colour Photography (Surbiton, UK: Fountain Press, 1993), 200–218. Pomeroy, “Like a Razor” (see note 50). A group Nimslo show was held at Castelli Graphics, New York, April 13–May 4, 1983. See Pomeroy, “Like a Razor” (see note 50); and The New Yorker (April 25, 1983): 17. On artists and the Nimslo, see also Reynaud, Tambrun, and Timby, Paris in 3D (see note 4), 244; 251; 257. “3-D Camera Maker Keeps the Shutters Up,” New Scientist (September 25, 1980): 928. Lipton, “First Look” (see note 64), 200. “Three-dimensional photography,” Science News 114, no. 18 (1978): 296; and “3-D Camera Maker” (see note 70), 928. In the US, Nimslo prints cost about a dollar—a little more than a Polaroid SX-70 picture, for which a 10-pack of film retailed at around $6.50. See Lipton, “First Look” (see note 64), 200; Pomeroy, “Like a Razor” (see note 50); Popular Photography (April 1981): 189; 211; and Popular Photography (June 1982): 207. Cogné, “Salon 83” (see note 54), 9. In France, the Nimslo cost 1250 francs and prints 13 francs (16 francs for individual reprints). See “Le Nimslo à Metz,” BSCF 670 (1983): 26. On artistic freedom and the Polaroid: Christopher Bonanos, Instant: The Story of Polaroid (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2012), 73. Wing, “A Commentary” (see note 66). Roger Bellone, “L’appareil à faire du relief,” Le Monde (January 10, 1981): 16. Loaëc, “Nimslo Fralsen” (see note 55), 15. Tavlitzki, “En attendant le Nimslo” (see note 65), 12. “3-D Camera Maker” (see note 70). Luis Nadeau, Encyclopedia of Printing, Photographic, and Photomechanical Processes (New Brunswick, Canada: Atelier Luis Nadeau, 1994), 342; and Pinsky and Starkman, Guide (see note 59), 6. On the Nishika, see for example John Dennis, “Son of Nimslo,” Stereo World 16, no. 2 (1989): 34–36; John Dennis, “Nishika Strip-Down Report,” Stereo World 16, no. 3 (1989): 20; Peter Kolonia, “A Born Again Nimslo?,” Popular Photography (November 1989): 71–72; and letters to the editor, Popular Photography (February 1990): 7–8; 39.

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82 John Plunkett, “Selling Stereoscopy, 1890–1915: Penny Arcades, Automatic Machines and American Salesmen,” Early Popular Visual Culture 6, no. 3 (2008): 239–255. See also William C. Darrah, The World of Stereographs (Gettysburg, PA: W. C. Darrah, 1977), 45–47. 83 For a detailed description, see David Starkman and John Dennis, “Inside the Magic,” Stereo World 20, no. 2 (1993): 12–14. 84 Prices listed on the envelope for film return. In the United States, the camera retailed for around $11.95, with processing for 65 cents per print, as reported in Popular Photography (June 1993): 57. See also David Starkman and John Dennis, “2 More New 3-D Cameras from ImageTech,” Stereo World 19, no. 6 (1993): 32–33.

CONCLUSION 1

2

3

4

5 6 7 8

I have refrained from citing names of products currently sold because of the complexity and volatility of the field today and the difficulty of obtaining accurate and unbiased information from existing companies about their activities or history. Technology blogs, science reviews in periodicals like The Economist (“Technology Quarterly” section), and specialized periodicals like Stereo World or the Bulletin du stéréo-club français regularly report on new products and are a precious resource for study of the digital era. On the desire for “hard copies” of electronic data, see the introduction of Michio Kaku, Physics of the Future: How Science Will Shape Human Destiny and Our Daily Lives by the Year 2100 (New York: Doubleday, 2011). The gif format is also a popular way of suggesting the 3D effect of stereoviews on line, making it like lenticular technology in its applications to both 3D and animation, and even their combination. See for example the historical collections of the New York Public Library, accessed June 25, 2014, http://stereo.nypl.org. The procedure is much more straining than the calm experience of binocular depth, however. See Denis Pellerin, “Les lucarnes de l’infini,” Études Photographiques 4 (1998): 40. Pellerin argues that stereoscopic portraits of personal acquaintances were rare because they gave people a sort of ghostly, hallucinogenic presence, as if embalmed or mummified. This assessment is reminiscent of 1940s reactions to Bonnet’s monochrome 3D portraits as eerie because they presented unbalanced perceptual realism. Term first proposed by Masahiro Mori in 1970. See Masahiro Mori, “The Uncanny Valley,” IEEE Robotics and Automation Magazine (June 2012): 98–100. I have borrowed this term from Michel Frizot, “Who’s Afraid of Photons?” in James Elkins, ed., Photography Theory (London: Taylor and Francis, 2007), 280. Ernst H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (London: Phaidon, 1960), 202. “La vie des plantes, des hommes et des bêtes est faite de réalité, mais aussi de merveilles secrètes et de vérités inventées,” in Jacques Prévert and Ylla, Le petit lion (Paris: Arts et Métiers Graphiques, 1947), last paragraph.

CREDITS

Chapter 0 Copyrights: 1: © Cinémathèque Française, Paris. Illustration Credits: 2, 4, 6: Kim Timby; 3: Musée Nicéphore Niépce. Chapter 1 Copyrights: 10: © Musée des arts et métiers-CNAM, Paris / Photo © Kim Timby; 17: © Léon et Lévy / Roger-Viollet. All rights reserved La Parisienne de Photographie. Illustration Credits: 7, 14: Karin Maucotel, Paris-Musées; 8–11, 13, 15–16, 18: Kim Timby; 12: Musée Nicéphore Niépce. Chapter 2 Copyrights: Illustration Credits: 19, 21–30, 32: Kim Timby; 20: Musée Nicéphore Niépce. Chapter 3 Copyrights: 41, 53: © Jacques de Lassus Saint-Geniès; 44–45 © Petit Bateau; 50: © Walter Hess / Collection of the Société française de photographie; 54: © Michèle Bonnet, restored copy / CNC. Illustration Credits: 33, 44–45: Musée Nicéphore Niépce; 34–38, 42–43, 46–49, 52: Kim Timby; 41, 53: Courtesy of the collection of the Musée français de la Photographie / Conseil général de l’Essonne / Kim Timby; 50: Courtesy of the heirs of Walter Hess / Collection of the Société française de photographie / Kim Timby. Chapter 4 Copyrights: 65: © Michèle Bonnet, restored copy / CNC; 69–70: © Jean Gardin; 75: © L’Illustration. Illustration Credits: 55, 59, 61–62, 64, 68, 73, 75: Kim Timby; 56–58, 60, 71, 76: Courtesy of Michèle Bonnet / Kim Timby; 63: Musée Nicéphore Niépce / Kim Timby; 66: Courtesy of Michèle Bonnet / Karin Maucotel, Paris-Musées; 67: Karin Maucotel, Paris-Musées; 69: Musée Nicéphore Niépce / Kim Timby; 70: Courtesy of Roland Gardin; 72: Courtesy of Susan

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Pinsky and David Starkman; 74: London Stereoscopic Company; 77: Courtesy of the Institut national de l’audiovisuel. Chapter 5 Copyrights: 80, 82, 87: © Georges Mengden; 81: © Lubin Paris; 93: All rights reserved. Illustration Credits: 78, 81, 83–86, 89, 91–92: Kim Timby; 79: Musée Nicéphore Niépce; 80, 82, 87: Courtesy of the heirs of Georges Mengden / Courtesy of the collection of the Musée français de la Photographie / Conseil général de l’Essonne / Kim Timby. Chapter 6 Copyright: 96: © Procter & Gamble Company; 101: © Raymond Savignac / 2015, ProLitteris, Zurich; 102: © Hervé Marc Morvan / 2015, ProLitteris, Zurich; 104–105: © Disney; 111: © Man Ray Trust / 2015, ProLitteris, Zurich. Illustration Credits: 94–99, 101–107, 109–110, 112: Kim Timby; 100, 108: Courtesy of the collection of the Musée français de la Photographie/ Conseil général de l’Essonne / Kim Timby; 111: Private collection, Courtesy Fondazione Marconi, Milano. Chapter 7 Copyrights: 117, 125, 130: © Comercial Escudo de Oro, S. A.; 128: © Kim Timby; 131: © Georges Mengden; 133: © bpk / The Metropolitan Museum of Art / © R. Hamilton. All rights reserved / 2015, ProLitteris, Zurich; 134: Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope™ / © Lucasfilm Ltd. LLC. Illustration Credits: 113, 115–130: Kim Timby; 114: Musée Nicéphore Niépce; 131: Courtesy of the collection of the Musée français de la Photographie / Conseil général de l’Essonne / Courtesy of the heirs of Georges Mengden / Kim Timby; 132: Courtesy of Ludwig Forum für Internationale Kunst, Aachen / Kim Timby; 133: Purchase, Reba and Dave Williams Gift, 2000; 134: Courtesy of LUCASFILM LTD. LLC. Chapter 8 Copyrights: 137: © Artima Tourcoing, original edition Froebel-Kan Co., Ltd, Tokyo, illustrations © Rose Art Studios; 141: © Elle/Scoop; 151: © Guy Harmand. Illustration Credits: 135, 146: Courtesy of Michèle Bonnet / Kim Timby; 137–140, 143–144, 151, 153–154: Kim Timby; 141–142, 147–149: Musée Nicéphore Niépce; 145: Courtesy of Caractère / Michèle Bonnet / Kim Timby; 151: Courtesy of Guy Harmand / Kim Timby.

INDEX

The term “lenticular imagery” is used in a generic sense in the index, encompassing images made with a line screen. For images using a particular type of screen, see “screens.” References to illustrations are printed in boldface type. Abeille Cartes, 285 n. 42 advertising. See also brands advertisements for lenticular imagery, 54–55, 121, 137, 141, 160, 162–163, 165, 171–172, 225, 238, 244, 280 n. 16, 285 n. 32; 55, 120, 141, 161, 224, 243 advertising industry and practices, 14, 56–57, 137, 140–142, 144–145, 157–167, 177–178; 141, 158, 161 lenticular advertisements in magazines, 225–226, 280 n. 16, 285 n. 32; 224–226 lenticular premiums, 20, 46, 55–56, 155– 178, 181, 191–192, 196, 248, 260 n. 48; 56, 155, 159, 161, 163, 165, 167–168, 174, 176, 178 lenticular point of sale advertisements, 20, 56–57, 63, 75–79, 103, 105–106, 122, 133, 137–151, 153, 156, 229–233, 236; 57, 63, 76–77, 104–105, 118, 120, 123, 134, 138–139, 141, 143, 145, 149, 230–231, 233, 235 lenticular shop signs, 54 aerial photography, 186 Africa, French West, 160 Akravue, 119 airplanes. See aviation Almeida, Joseph d’, 23–24

amateur photography, 25, 36, 104, 151, 221, 235, 237–245 anaglyphs, 23, 126–127, 129, 158, 188, 289 n. 4 Angénieux, Marie Antoinette, 232. See also Formes et Espace animals in lenticular photography, 75, 110, 208–209, 211–212, 244; 191, 207, 209, 243 animated lenticular imagery animated images, 12–13, 33, 43–62, 106, 121, 133, 135–136, 139, 144–150, 155–157, 159–181, 193, 196, 205–206, 208, 223–224, 227–229, 245, 248–249; 43, 45, 47, 49–51, 55–57, 61, 105, 120, 134, 136, 139, 143– 145, 149, 155, 157, 159, 161, 163, 165, 167–169, 171, 173–174, 176, 178–179, 197, 223, 227, 230–231 description of animated effects, 20–21, 43–45, 53–54, 60–62, 133, 136, 139, 145– 148, 155, 167–170, 206, 208; 144–145, 161 3D images with animated effect, 33, 60–61, 106, 121, 133, 148, 193, 196, 208, 229; 120, 134, 143, 145, 197, 230–231 animated lenticular-like imagery, 56–60, 248 Animated Picture Products Company, 56; 57

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INDEX

animation. See animated lenticular imagery; animated lenticular-like imagery; cartoons, animated; cinema; flipbook; gifs; movement; phenakistiscope; zoetrope Argentina, 122 artificiality, 79, 110, 127–128, 131, 197, 211– 213, 216, 249 artists and lenticular imagery, 58–60, 178– 180, 214, 242; 179, 213, 215 Asahi, 238, 291 n. 38 attention, 14, 39, 57, 60, 79, 140, 142, 144, 147, 151, 205–206 Austria, 46 Autochrome. See color photography, Autochrome autostereoscopic photography. See 3D illusions, lenticular imagery providing aviation, 129, 134, 189, 196, 210, 212, 226; 85, 225 Backus, Harold A., 272 n. 64 Baril, Marcel, 175, 192, 279 n. 2 Barjavel, René, 128, 130–131, 217 Baudelaire, Charles, 67–68 Bazin, André, 127–128 Belgium, 10, 55–56, 112, 122, 285 n. 34 Belloni, Giorgio, 263 n. 19 Bergeron, Ferreté et Compagnie, 43–44, 46–47; 43 Berthier, A., 25–26, 30–31, 34; 25–26 Berthon, Rodolphe, 83, 87; 86 Bessière, Gustave, 71–72, 82, 84; 71 Bézard, Gaston, 271 n. 42, 271 n. 52 Bleuse, Emile, 271 n. 42 boats, 208–210, 212, 216; 210 Bond Displays, 119 Bonnet, Maurice ideas about lenticular imagery, 75, 79, 86, 105, 126, 129 before La Relièphographie, 73, 102, 129 and La Relièphographie, 18–19, 73, 75, 89, 93, 96, 105, 108–109, 122–124, 194; 109 (see also La Relièphographie)



after La Relièphographie, 129, 135, 150, 185–186, 192, 194–195, 206, 221, 228–229, 231–232, 234, 249, 282 n. 65; 229 Bonux, 159–160, 164; 158 books using lenticular imagery, 214, 223– 224; 213, 223 brands or products advertised using lenticular imagery advertisements or documents listing, 280 n. 16, 291 n. 32 specific brands, Alsa, 63–64, 75–76, 140; 63; American Express, 226; Arthur Martin, 178; 178; Aspro, 160; 159; Astral, 167; BOAC, 226; 225; Bourjois, 106; Bul’blanc, 233; 233; Caddie, 162; 163; Caddy, 229, 232; 230–231; Carambar, 165, 165; Cardin, Pierre, 290 n. 21; Castellane, 229, 232; Cheerios, 159; Christofle, 138; Cinzano, 147; Citroën, 162, 226–227; 226; Clotseul, 172; CMA, 172; Cointreau, 143; 143; Damoy, 161; Dayton Lumber, 55; Delespaul, 165; 165; Dior, Christian, 230; Duval, 147; Evian, 162; Four Roses, 147; France Lait, 148; 145; Frigéco, 167–168; 167; Gévéor, 168; 168; Gillette, 161; 159; Hennessy, 235; Kino, 159; Kodel, 225; 224; Kolynos, 55; 56; Kores, 170; La Roche aux Fées, 165– 166; Le Parfait, 133, 142, 148; 134; Leroy, 147; Locatelli, 176; 176; Lux, 147; Mercury, 226; Middletons, 46, 55; Mobil, 191–192; Mossant, 106; 105; Nescafé, 148; Nestlé, 161; 159; Nuit de Longchamp, 138, 142; 138; Pathé-Marconi, 168; Petit Bateau, 77–78, 140; 76–77; Perugina, 177; Philip Morris, 236; Philips, 159; Plastic’or, 174; Primo, 161; Remington, 159; Robert Laffont, 150; Saneb, 161; Sargenor, 191; Seb, 161; 159; Solutricine, 142, 148; 143; Suralo, 229; Swing-Star, 138; Tapis d’Avignon, 142–143; Telegic, 56; 57; Unica, 55; VeloSolex, 155, 172; 155; Warner’s, 150; 149 Brazil, 122 Breton, André, 58–59

INDEX

Broekman (photographer), 270 n. 39 Bruguière, 67–68, 152, 186; 68 Burder, David, 240 Butement, Colin, 273 n. 80, 293 n. 62 Callier, André, 70 cameras for lenticular photography, 20, 36, 65, 84, 105, 107–108, 122, 219, 221, 234– 235. animated portrait cameras, 47, 234 of Bessière, 71; 71 Bonnet’s first camera, 75 Bonnet’s 33-lens camera, 73–75, 106 Burdlo, 240 of Dai Nippon, 199 of Estanave, 27 of Ives, Frederic, 27, 32 La Relièphographie’s outdoor cameras, 106–107, 286 n. 48; 107 La Relièphographie’s O. P. 22 prism camera, 106, 115–117, 121–122, 136, 188; 116 La Relièphographie’s O. P. 3000 scanning camera, 96–103, 108, 113, 121– 122, 135–136, 148–149, 190, 192, 194, 229, 232, 234, 236; 97, 109, 124 of Lassus Saint-Geniès, 72 Lentic, 240–241; 241 of Mengden, 146–147 Nimslo, 237–244; 237, 239–240 Nishika, 244 of Sicper, 113–117, 123, 235; 116 of Synel, 188 3D Magic, 244–245; 243 of Toppan, 198; 198 WT-102, 235–237; 235 for Xograph process, 194, 228, 234 Canada, 112, 122, 235 Cantieni, Robert, GmbH, 207, 286 n. 67, 287 n. 68 cartoons, animated, 20, 165, 169–170. See also Disney Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 195, 228–229 Chéron, Louis, 71–72, 82, 84; 70 Chevojon, 110, 116

children, as viewers and/or consumers, 160, 164–166, 177, 211–212, 223–224; 158, 161, 223 China, 203 cinema. See also integral-image utopia; Star Wars; La technique moderne in color, 15, 80, 126–128, 131, 275 n. 116 (see also color photography, lenticular film) lenticular imagery, ties with, 13, 19, 44, 48–53, 61–62, 69, 80, 86–89, 121, 126–132, 153, 170, 248; 51, 61, 118, 120 as a popular form of entertainment, 9, 14–15, 20, 48–53, 121, 128, 130, 144, 152– 153, 170, 201; 120 3D, autostereoscopic, 128–131, 152; 130 3D, with glasses, 9, 121, 127–129, 151– 152, 186, 216, 249, 262 n. 15; 118, 120, 153 wide-screen, 15, 152, 276 n. 14 Colas, Jean, 187 Colin, Jean, 167 collecting, 20, 162–166, 192, 219; 161 color, non-photographic in advertising, 142, 167; 141 changing-color illusions, 60, 204, 260 n. 47 hand-colored lenticular photographs, 29, 103, 106, 114, 117, 206; 57, 104 color photography. See also cinema, color; illusions, association of Autochrome, 31–32, 34, 36, 60, 69, 83, 86; 32 influence on lenticular imagery, 13, 26, 30–34, 36, 69, 86–89; 31 lenticular film, 80, 86–89; 86, 88 lenticular imagery using, 20, 32, 60, 117–119, 121, 133, 136, 138, 140–144, 146, 148–152, 188–189, 196, 216, 225, 228–229, 249; 32, 118, 120, 134–136, 138–139, 143–145, 213, 215, 222–227, 230–231, 233, 235, 239, 243 (see also, for examples reproduced, postcards, 3D)

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new processes and their adoption, 16, 30–32, 34, 69, 80, 84, 86–89, 117, 119, 141– 142, 170, 196, 217, 223, 238, 242 and realism, 13, 15–16, 60–61, 68–69, 126–128, 131, 136, 142, 146, 150–152, 217, 219, 230, 248; 141, 151 (see also integral-image utopia) Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers, 26; 27 conversion tools, 161–162, 175, 280 n. 18, 282 n. 66; 159 cost of lenticular imagery, 19, 36, 47, 95–96, 113, 117, 119, 122, 143, 150, 156, 160, 166, 172–174, 185, 187, 190, 201, 204, 206–207, 221, 228, 231, 233–235, 242–244, 247, 268 n. 3, 272 n. 59, 272 n. 67, 277 n. 32, 282 n. 55, 290 n. 20; 120 Cuvier, Pierre-Frédéric, 186 Cyclostéréoscope. See Savoye, François Daguerre, Louis, or daguerreotypes, 15, 109 Dai Nippon Printing Company, 192, 198–199, 285 n. 46 Dali, Salvador, 217 Deeks and Company, 58; 59 Deep Pictures Limited, 112, 119, 122–124, 223, 293 n. 62; 123 digital photography, 9, 203, 247–248; 243 Dino, 192 Disney, 166, 169–170; 169, 171 display of lenticular imagery exhibition in public places, 26, 54, 83, 95–96, 109–110, 117, 122, 128–129, 147, 228, 293 n. 69; 95, 125, 130 practicalities of presentation and lighting, 39–40, 56–57, 63, 70, 73, 75, 79, 83, 89, 91, 93, 106, 119, 137, 143–144, 147, 150, 153, 229, 231, 233; 39, 63, 94, 104– 105, 120, 145, 230, 233 Dodin, Lucien, 84, 265 n. 55 Doucet, A., 192, 202–204, 207 Draper, Ernest, 72, 271 n. 58 Duchamp, Marcel, 58, 179–180 Ducos du Hauron, Louis, 30–31 Dudley, Leslie P., 266 n. 72 EGIM, 206–207

Egypt, 112 Eisenstein, Sergei, 131 England, 10, 47, 49, 55, 112–113, 122, 176; 49. See also Deep Pictures entertainment, 9, 12, 14–15, 18–21, 48–49, 52, 131, 137, 152, 166, 181, 249–250; 130 erotic or risqué imagery, 60, 68, 128, 168–169, 190, 196, 289 n. 4; 168 Estanave, Eugène, 23, 27–33, 36–37, 40, 44–46, 48, 56, 60–61, 69, 71, 82–83, 86, 126, 205– 206; 24, 28–29, 32, 35, 39, 45, 70, 82 Eurorelief, 285 n. 42 exhibition of lenticular imagery. See display exposure times for lenticular imagery, 32, 36–37, 74–75, 97, 121, 146–148, 198, 200, 236, 265 n. 62 eyes. See also metaphor, related to eyes eyeglasses, lenticular advertisements for, 56, 147; 57 googly eyes, 181; 180 represented in lenticular imagery, 14, 43–45, 52–53, 55–56, 60–61, 97, 136, 139, 145–147, 156, 178–181, 193, 196, 208, 214, 227–228; 57, 98, 136, 139, 144–145, 157, 179, 197, 227 Felsenthal, Gabriel, 258 n. 11; 43, 47, 49, 55 Filippi, Alexandre, 187–188, 223 Fisa, Ediciones, 192–193, 197, 201–202, 204, 206–208, 210, 216, 228, 238, 287 n. 78; 193, 202–203, 207, 210, 229 flipbook, 49–50, 54, 60 flowers in lenticular imagery, 26, 58, 108, 110, 114, 169, 187, 190, 192–193, 208–209, 211, 214, 228; 27, 59, 111, 187, 193, 209 Formes et Espace, 232–234; 233 Gabor, Dennis, 274 n. 109 gadgets, 163–164, 177–178, 232 Gardin, Jean, 113–116; 114, 116 Gaudin, Charles, 186 Gaumont, Léon, or Gaumont company, 26–27, 50 Germany, 48, 176, 208, 285 n. 34; 50–51, 157, 213 gifs, animated, 248

INDEX

glass used in lenticular imagery, 23–24, 28–29, 31–33, 39, 44, 56, 70, 73, 81–82, 89, 96, 102–103, 115, 122, 172 Gobert, Raymond, 271 n. 42, 271 n. 52 Gozes, Gilbert, 282 n. 65 Grafa, 282 n. 65, 290 n. 13; 195, 140 Greece, 285 n. 34 Guilloz, Théodore, 37 halftone printing. See printing processes Hamilton, Richard, 178–180, 214; 215 Hanson, Duane, 214; 213 Harmand, Guy, 188, 201, 238, 242; 239 Heath, Kurt, 121, 123–124 Hess, Walter, 85–86; 85 Hesse, Paul, 121; 118, 120 historiography of lenticular imagery, 13, 18, 126, 248, 273 n. 93; 124–125 Holland, 113, 176 holography, 13, 72, 217–219, 274 n. 109; 218 Hudeley, Victor, 186–187 Huxley, Aldous, 128–129, 131 Hyde, Clarence, 121 illusions, combined, 16, 32–33, 60–61, 68–69, 80, 126–128, 151–152; 32, 68, 151. See also animated lenticular imagery, 3D images with animated effect; integral image utopia; sound illustrations, hand-drawn, in lenticular imagery, 14, 18–19, 45–46, 53, 150, 156, 165, 167–172; 47, 55, 149, 155, 157, 159, 163, 165, 167–169, 171, 173–174, 176, 178 Imprirama, 175, 177 integral-image utopia 16, 18, 61, 69, 125–133, 151–153, 178, 216–218, 248–249. See also realism, perceptual realism; illusions, combined Integral photography, 18, 64–70, 72, 80–87, 91, 126, 152, 217; 39, 65–66, 82 interactivity with images, 37–38, 43–44, 60, 159, 206. See also movement, when viewing lenticular imagery international exchange exporting French ideas or technology, 13, 19, 34, 48, 72, 84–85, 93, 108, 110, 112–

113, 117–125, 176, 192–194, 221, 232; 118, 120 (see also Deep Pictures) importing foreign ideas or technology to France, 13, 26, 34, 37, 46, 48, 56, 86, 176, 183, 190–194, 196–199, 202, 207, 212, 221, 226, 228–232, 236, 238; 27, 43, 57, 176, 191, 193, 195, 197, 199–200, 202– 203, 207, 210, 222–223, 235, 226–227, 229, 239 Italy, 112, 114, 122, 176, 192, 285 n. 34, 287 n. 68. See also EGIM Ivanov, Semyon, 130–131 Ives, Frederic Eugene, 26–28, 30–37, 40, 54, 71, 85; 12, 27 Ives, Herbert, 72, 84 Japan, 46, 183, 190, 192, 196–198, 224, 228, 232; 223, 229. See also Asahi; Dai Nippon Printing Company; Toppan Printing Company Joly, John, 30–31, 34, 86; 31 Jones, W. C., 285 n. 36 Josset, Nelly, 187–190 Kahler, R. Otto, 263 n. 19 Kanolt, Clarence, 72, 84, 271 n. 58 Karampournis, Roger, 177, 230. See also Relieforama Keller-Dorian, Albert, 87; 86 Kellogg, Cynthia, 234 key chains, 155–156, 160, 162–164, 167–170, 172–173, 176–178, 181, 191, 206, 212; 155, 161, 163, 167–168, 176, 178, 205 kitsch, 20, 208, 216, 247 Kodak, 55, 87, 141, 194, 224, 237–238, 242, 283 n. 11. See also Xograph process La Relièphographie. See also cameras for lenticular photography, La Relièphographie creation and management, 19, 73, 79, 90, 93–95, 103–105, 108–113, 115, 117– 119, 121–125, 185–186; 95, 109 photographic procedures, 73–79, 93, 96–103, 106–108, 119, 122; 73, 97–99, 107, 116 photographs, 19, 63–64, 73–79, 93–96, 99–100, 102, 105–108, 110–112, 114, 122,

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140; 63, 74, 76–77, 94, 100–101, 104– 105, 111–112 public reception and posterity, 95–96, 113, 117–118, 121, 125–126, 128, 132, 134– 136, 148, 177–178, 188, 190, 192–194, 217; 95, 109, 124–125, 130 (see also Publirama; Relieforama) screens, 89–91, 97, 103, 115, 119, 121, 123–124, 149; 80–81, 90 Lassus Saint-Geniès, Jacques de, 72, 87–88, 113, 186, 268 n. 3; 73, 88 Law, Ken, 235, 291 n. 38 lenticular film. See color photography, lenticular film lenticular imagery marketing of, 18–20, 29, 35–36, 47–48, 50, 55, 72, 79, 89, 93–95, 104, 108–113, 115, 117–119, 121, 129, 132–133, 135, 137, 141, 156, 160, 177, 183, 185–191, 194–196, 202, 207, 211, 221–222, 225, 228–230, 234, 238, 242, 244, 247; 95, 109, 120, 130 (see also advertising, advertisements for lenticular imagery) production methods for, 28–29, 44, 102– 103, 119, 150, 166–167, 172–175, 185–189, 211–212, 224, 228, 232–234, 238, 241–242, 247; 174, 237 sales venues, 13, 19, 36, 46, 49, 93–96, 113, 117, 121, 136–137, 159–164, 185, 190, 207–208, 287 n. 68; 95, 125, 207 lenticular screens. See screens, lenticular Lestrade, 152, 195, 228; 151 line screens. See screens, line Lippmann, Gabriel, 13, 18–19, 31, 36–37, 64–70, 81–84. See also Integral photography literature, 3D and animated imagery described in, 9, 58–59, 128–129, 131 Lo, Allen Kwok Wah, 238, 240; 240. See also cameras, Nimslo Longo, Robert, 242 Lourdes, 190, 199, 201–208; 202–205, 207 Lumière, Louis, or Lumière company, 13, 31, 36, 83–84, 127, 129; 130 Luxembourg, 176

macrophotography, 107–108, 276 n. 10 magazines, lenticular imagery in, 20, 188, 194, 221–228, 232–235, 238, 244, 280 n. 16, 285 n. 32; 222, 224–225, 227, 233, 243 magic, 54; 47, 55. See also cameras, 3D Magic Man Ray, 180; 179 Mapplethorpe, Robert, 242 Marilhet, Roger, 93, 109, 115, 117–119, 122– 124, 187–188 Mattey, 186 medical photography, 36–37, 75. See also X-rays Mengden, Georges, 134–137, 139–141, 143– 150, 156, 160, 162, 168–176, 206, 211, 287 n. 72; 136, 139, 144–145, 149, 165, 169, 171, 174, 211 metaphor (visual or verbal), related to cinema, 51–53, 248, 289 n. 5 eyes, 16–18, 64, 66 animated imagery, 51–53, 159, 169–170, 176, 248, 289 n. 5; 171 3D imagery, 18, 41, 64, 67–69, 78, 91, 152, 217, 262 n. 15; 68 mirrors, 67 photographic devices, 16–18, 64, 66 television, 159, 169–170, 176, 248, 289 n. 5; 171 windows, 18, 41, 64, 67–69, 78, 91, 152, 217; 68 Morvan, Hervé, 168; 168 movement attractiveness of in visual media, 56–60, 62, 144–145, 147 when viewing lenticular imagery, 18, 23, 39–41, 56, 64, 66–67, 69–72, 75–78–79, 84, 93, 103, 110, 131, 133, 147, 149, 192, 218, 221 Move-O-Graph process, 47–49, 55, 259 n. 33; 49, 56 Movie-of-U process, 61–62; 61 movies. See cinema Moving Picture Post Card Company, 55; 55 Mullor y Perez, Alvaro

INDEX

Musée Français de la Photographie, 72, 276 n. 11, 277 n. 36, 279 n. 3, 4, 287 n. 72; 73, 88, 136, 139, 144–145, 165, 174, 211 Musée Nicéphore Niépce, 255 n. 39, 264 n. 41, 269 n. 24, 270 n. 33, 271 n. 46, 57, 283 n. 5, 284 n. 19, 25, 291 n. 32, 292 n. 47; 29, 45, 63, 74, 76–77, 104, 114, 135, 187, 227, 229, 235, 237 Natural Life Photos Ltd., 112 Niépce, Nicéphore, 109, 129; 130 Nims, Jerry Curtis, 238, 240; 240. See also cameras, Nimslo novelty, 14, 47, 61–62, 104, 181, 196, 201, 218– 219, 222, 244, 248 Ombro-Cinéma, 53 outdoor photography, 20, 106–107, 122, 185, 188, 196–201; 107, 184, 189, 198–200 P-A-M-P, 280 n. 23 Papeghin, Edmond-Clément Parallax Stereogram. See Ives, Frederic Paris lenticular imagery sold or displayed in, 13, 26, 46, 49, 93–96, 110, 112, 115, 128, 130–131, 134–135, 137, 147, 152, 190, 194, 208, 228, 280 n. 23, 291 n. 26; 95, 125, 130 street life, 49–50, 57, 95–96; 95, 199 as subject of lenticular imagery, 107, 183, 188, 191, 196–201; 107, 184, 189, 197, 199–200 patents, 27, 31–33, 46–47, 54, 58, 72, 80, 83–87, 89, 113, 115, 117, 119, 122–124, 135, 137, 160, 173–176, 186–187, 190, 194, 198, 223, 235, 240, 244, 286 n. 48; 12, 43, 59, 70–71, 85, 145, 223, 240 Pétain, Philippe, 110 Pfaff, Judy, 242 phenakistiscope, 10–11, 17, 52, 54; 10 photobooth, 61–62 Photochange process, 58; 59 Photorealism (artistic movement), 213–214; 213 Photorelief S. A., 112 Pictorial Productions. See Vari-Vue Pictorial Service, 236–237; 235

plastics, 43, 46, 81–83, 85, 89–90, 119, 122, 140, 148–149, 152, 159, 172–175, 185, 189, 222, 224, 259 n. 33, 272 n. 67; 158, 174 Polaroid, 238, 242 Pomeroy, Jim, 242 popular opinion of lenticular imagery. See also La Relièphographie, public reception and posterity as a new technology or futuristic, 13–14, 18–19, 87, 89, 91, 94, 125–126, 128– 132, 151–153, 184, 219, 248 (see also La technique moderne) as inconsequential or kitsch, 20, 151– 153, 184, 196, 208, 212–213, 216, 247–249 Portugal, 112, 122 portraiture animated line-screen, 19, 43–44, 46–52, 58–59, 60–61; 43, 45, 49–51 animated lenticular, 135–137, 145–147, 167, 248; 136, 144–145 3D line-screen, 35–36, 60–61, 75; 27 3D lenticular, 13–14, 19, 93–104, 108, 110–118, 125, 128–129, 135–137, 151, 249, 291 n. 26, 291 n. 32; 94–95, 99–101, 112, 114, 125, 135 non-lenticular, 100, 102–104, 110, 249 postcards animated, with a line-screen image, 43–44, 47, 52, 54–55, 58; 43, 47, 51, 55 animated, with a lenticular-screen image, 156, 169–170, 181; 157, 171 animated, over whole card, 9, 193, 196, 202–203, 205–206, 208, 248; 197 non-lenticular, 60, 181, 184, 196, 200– 205, 208; 180, 204 Photochange, 58; 59 3D, 14, 20, 177, 181, 183–219, 224, 229, 235, 238, 243, 287 n. 72; 184, 187, 189, 191, 193, 195, 197, 199–200, 202–203, 207, 209–210, 229 premiums. See advertising, lenticular premiums Prever, Harvey, 121 prices. See cost of lenticular imagery

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printing processes, non-photographic for color lenticular imagery, 168, 174, 185, 188–189, 224, 232 influence on lenticular imagery, 19, 26, 33–34, 72; 33 used in lenticular imagery, 20, 150, 156, 168, 172–174, 177, 181, 185, 187–189, 219, 222, 224, 231–234; 149, 229, 231 (see also, for examples reproduced, advertising, lenticular animated premiums; books using lenticular imagery; key chains; magazines, lenticular imagery in; postcards) Publirama (Seroptic), 135–138, 140–144, 148– 150, 156, 160–164, 167–169, 171–172, 175, 177, 188, 190, 206, 223, 230; 134–135, 138, 141, 143, 145, 149, 159, 163, 165, 173, 205 Radiana system, 201 realism. See also artificiality; integral-image utopia; illusions, combined; Photorealism; trompe l’oeil painting; vision, imitation of convincing reproduction, 14–15, 78–79, 102, 131, 142, 205; 141 perceptual realism, 15–18, 21, 41, 60–61, 64, 67–69, 79, 94, 126–129, 132, 151–153, 213, 217, 219, 248–250 Relieforama, 177, 229–231, 234; 230–231 Religious imagery, 45, 121, 187, 189–190, 201– 208, 212; 125, 187, 202–205, 207 Rigl, Rudolph, 263 n. 19 Rothstein, Arthur, 234 Roulet (photographer), 270 n. 37 Savignac, Raymond, 167; 167 Sauve, Antoine, 82 Savoye, François, 131, 152; 130 Schmehlik, R., 263 n. 19 Scotland, 292 n. 52 screens, lenticular functioning and manufacture of, 12–13, 18–20, 64–66, 69, 79–91, 97, 114–115, 119, 121, 123–124, 148–150, 172–175, 177, 185– 189, 191–193, 223–224, 228, 241–242, 245,

272 n. 67, 272 n. 68, 282 n. 55; 65–66, 80–82, 86, 90, 97, 149, 174 imagery using, 85–86, 93–121, 133–151, 155–181; 85, 94, 98, 100–101, 104–105, 111–112, 114, 118, 120, 123, 134–136, 138–139, 141, 143–145, 149, 155, 157, 159, 161, 163, 165, 167–169, 171, 173– 174, 176, 178–179 screens, line functioning and manufacture of, 12, 19, 24–26, 30, 33–34, 72–73, 80–81, 84, 91, 255 n. 30, 259 n. 33, 290 n. 17; 12, 26, 31, 73, 81 imagery using, 13, 23–41, 43–65, 70–81, 131, 148, 166, 170; 24–25, 27–29, 32, 35, 43, 45, 47, 49–51, 55–57, 61, 63, 73–74, 76–77, 130 Seroptic. See Publirama Sicper, 113–117, 188, 235; 114, 116 signage, 54, 56, 58–59, 144 Sipley, Louis Walton, 101, 141, 273 n. 93 Société Française de Photographie activities, 27, 70, 72 collections, 70, 86, 255 n. 39, 257 n. 3; 85 Sogephor, 291n26 Soubirous, Bernadette, 45, 201–206, 286 n. 58; 203–205 sound (accompanying images), 13, 17, 53, 126–128, 157 South Africa, 176, 192, 273 n. 84 South America, 113, 122 Spain, 113, 122, 183, 190, 192, 196, 208, 287 n. 78. See also Fisa, Ediciones Spiegel, Alexander S., 46–47, 54, 58; 43, 47, 55 Stanhope lenses, 81–82 Star Wars, 218; 218 Stereo-Centrum, 270–271 n. 39 stereoscopes, 11, 17, 23, 37–40, 64, 67–69, 152, 204–205, 217; 11, 16, 38, 151 stereoscopy, traditional, 11–12, 17, 20, 23, 25–27, 30, 34, 37–41, 64, 67–68, 126, 151– 152, 186, 204–205, 211, 239, 244–245, 249, 289 n. 1, 294 n. 3; 11, 38, 68, 151. See also anaglyphs; 3D illusions, in traditional stereoscopy; stereoscopes

INDEX

Studio-Marc, 271 n. 45 Studio Shuttle, 115 Surelle, Paul, 113 Sweden, 176 Switzerland, 85, 112, 122 Synel, 187–190, 196, 201, 207; 187, 189, 229 Talbot, William Henry Fox, 15, 255 n. 30 La technique moderne au service des procédés de la photographie en relief (documentary film), 89–91, 107, 110, 178; 90, 107 technological progressivism. See integral-image utopia technology, lenticular imagery perceived as a new. See popular opinion of lenticular imagery, as a new technology television, 9, 20, 157, 159, 168, 170, 176, 191, 212, 217, 219, 223, 238, 248, 287 n. 74, 289 n. 5; 171 terminology. See vocabulary for lenticular imagery Thériat, Jean, 264 n. 36 Thomas-Duffort, Jacques, 112, 185–186 Thomson-Houston, 87, 113 3D cinema. See cinema, 3D 3D illusions composition, 38, 75–76, 78–79, 98–102, 114, 122, 136, 138, 188, 199–200, 209–211, 236, 238–241, 244; 99, 240 in lenticular imagery, described, 20–21, 23, 26, 37, 39–40, 63–64, 70, 72, 75–79, 86, 93, 99, 103, 107, 110–112, 114, 131, 133, 142–143, 183, 191–192, 194, 201–202, 205, 213–214, 221, 227, 232, 236, 238–239, 242, 244 lenticular imagery providing, 12, 23–41, 63–133, 135–136, 138, 140–143, 147–148, 181, 204–205, 213–214, 221, 223–245, 247– 249; 24–25, 27–29, 32, 35, 63, 73–74, 76–77, 85, 94, 100–101, 104, 111–112, 114, 118, 120, 123, 134–135, 138, 141, 143, 213, 215, 222–227, 229–231, 233, 235, 239, 243 (see also, for examples reproduced, postcards, 3D) pseudoscopy, 71, 84, 117



stereoscopic window, 78, 98–99, 110, 214, 241 in traditional stereoscopy, 11, 37–40, 75 Toppan Printing Company, 192, 197–198, 201, 206, 208–209, 285 n. 45, 285 n. 46; 198, 202 touch or tactile illusions, 79, 128–129, 142; 141 trompe l’oeil painting, 79 United States, 14, 26, 34–36, 46–49, 54–55, 56, 58, 72, 84, 112–113, 117–123, 141, 157–160, 162, 170, 176, 185–186, 190, 194, 225–226, 228, 232, 238, 242–243, 273 n. 93, 282 n. 72, 285 n. 36, 293 n. 69; 27, 47, 49, 55, 59, 61, 112, 118, 120. See also Vari-Vue process; Xograph process USSR, 130–131, 134 utopia. See integral-image utopia Vari-Vue process, 13, 159–160, 170, 176, 214, 279 n. 8; 171, 176 View-Master, 152 Villemot, Bernard, 168 Visiomatic, 13, 156, 162–165, 167, 172–173, 175, 177, 191–192, 196–197, 201–202, 212, 228; 161, 167–168, 191, 197, 199, 202 vision, 10, 17, 40, 57, 79, 162 binocular, 10–11, 17, 64, 216, 239, 249 imitation of, 10–11, 15–18, 41, 64, 66–69, 91, 126, 216, 252 n. 17 (see also realism, perceptual realism) Visiorelief. See Visiomatic VitaVision, 117–119, 121 vocabulary for lenticular imagery, 13, 18, 26, 31–32, 44, 48, 58, 61, 71–72, 159, 194, 289 n. 5 Waegeningh, J. E. H. van, 263 n. 19 Wars, World, I and II, 46, 55, 108–110, 153 Wegman, William, 242 Wilson-Lincoln system. See Duchamp, Marcel window. See metaphor, related to window; 3D illusions, stereoscopic window Winnek, Douglas, 84, 271 n. 58 women as viewers and/or consumers, 137, 160, 162, 164–166, 177, 192; 38–39, 158, 161, 163

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working with lenticular imagery, 168, 269 n. 9, 269 n. 17, 290 n. 20; 116, 237 (see also Angénieux, Marie Antoinette; Josset, Nelly; Kellogg, Cynthia) Wonderview Optical Industries, 235

Xograph process, 194, 212, 221, 224–234, 242; 195, 222, 224–227, 229 X-rays, 16, 37, 107–108, 218 Zoller, Roger, 135, 175, 177, 223; 223 zoetrope, 52, 60