Monday, October 22, 2018

Pfahl for Fall


John Pfahl (born 1939, US), Toxic Waste Reclamation Site, Niagara Falls, New York, from the Piles series, 1996. Chromogenic print on paper, 16" x 20" (40.6 x 50.8 cm). Photo © Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY. Art © 2018 John Pfahl. (AK-2021)

I know that this artist’s name (German origin) is pronounce “Pfaal” instead of “Fawl,” but I couldn’t resist shining a spotlight on him this week—for artistic purposes—as a follow-up to my post about him back in January. He’s one of the most interesting artists featured in the landscape chapter of our Focus on Photography 2nd edition. I’m always intrigued with novel interpretations of an ages-old subject matter that can, quite frankly, get rather dry over time. Pfahl’s interpretations of landscape are an interesting take on the viewer’s perception of what landscape actually is. His landscape photography combines what is seen with how to interpret it (or misinterpret it) based on his brilliant framing of his subjects.

Pfahl, born in New York City, studied at Syracuse University, first receiving a BFA in 1961 and then an MA in communications in 1968. He taught photography at Rochester Institute of Technology and has served as a professor at the Visual Studies department at the University of Buffalo.

Throughout the 1900s, artists questioned the very nature and purpose of art. By the late 1900s, many photographers had concluded that photography was not a medium that always had to record absolute fact. This was not in the sense of Pictorialism’s staged fantasies, but rather in the way the artist framed his subject without distorting focus or perspective. Pfahl explores ways to produce landscape images composed in such a way as to emphasize ambiguity and uncertainty in the viewer.

Pfahl’s landscapes deal not only with presenting them in compositions that question vantage point and scale of forms, but they are informed by his abiding love of landscape and of the environment. Many of his works deal with the erosion of environmental standards, couched in compositions that resemble landscapes. Such was the case with his Piles series of the 1990s. Emulating Ansel Adams’ (1902–1984) iconic views of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California, Pfahl carefully observed light, atmosphere, and scale in his photographs.

The Piles series features mounds of raw and recycled materials, debris, tires, soil, and toxic waste, imbued with a sense of monumentality and grandeur of real mountains. Pfahl isolates his subjects in this series brilliantly so that scale is uncertain. The only thing that gives it away in this one is the orange plastic fence. And even that could be mistaken for a fence in front of an impressive vista across a valley! He purposely elevates these piles of garbage into a grandeur that he recalls from seeing such alluringly lighted views of mountains in the Sierras and the Alps. A series from 2014, Picture Windows, exhibits the same careful attention to framing and scale in a series of landscape views in which picture windows act as the lens of the camera.

Correlations to Davis programs: Focus on Photography 2E: 10

Monday, October 15, 2018

American-Renaissance-Aesthetic Entrepreneur


I often happen upon an artist’s name and think, “Aha! I’ve never posted about this artist, and his/her work is awesome.” That’s what happened yesterday when I crossed paths with George Jakob Hunzinger’s name. In the annals of American furniture design, nothing better epitomizes the (ahem) “unique” tastes in some of the miscellaneous arts of the American Renaissance Period (1870–1900). This period of American art, often erroneously referred to as “Victorian,” shares the same exuberant exploration of a zillion historical influences in furniture as British furniture of the period, but Victoria was not our queen.

American Renaissance is a better term for this period, because the US was expanding in so many directions at such a rapid pace—socially, industrially, financially, politically and militarily. Also, the middle class was expanding rapidly, and to assert their status, they needed fancy furniture! Well, Hunzinger was just the one to provide it! 

George Hunzinger (1835–1898, US, born Germany), Folding Armchair, ca. 1873. Wood and original upholstery, 31 5/8" x 27 ½" x 29 ¼" (80.3 x 69.9 x 74.3 cm). © 2018 Brooklyn Museum. (BMA-5585)

The Industrial Revolution (1760–1820/1840) initiated a process that revolutionized the building of furniture by machines, rather than cabinetmaker artists. In the late 1860s, the Arts and Crafts movement evolved in Britain, and through the 1870s and 1880s spread to the US. The aesthetic of the movement was a return to traditional, handcrafted decorative arts such as furniture, with the combination of fine art and functional design. This ushered in a revival of past furniture styles going back to the Renaissance and even Ancient Egypt.

The middle ground between these two aesthetic poles was what would subsequently be termed “patent furniture.” Patent furniture was aesthetically designed furniture that exploited the most up-to-date industrial techniques without sacrificing “high style.” Hunzinger was a leader in this style of furniture from the 1860s through the 1890s.

Born in Tuttlingen, Germany, Hunzinger immigrated to the US in 1855. His family had been cabinetmakers in Germany since the 1600s. He was already an established furniture maker when he came to the US, eager to build a furniture company that took advantage of America’s far-reaching advancements in industrial technology and inventions. Ultimately, the means of production for Hunzinger’s furniture was a major source of inspiration for his patented designs.

Hunzinger was a prolific inventor himself, securing twenty-one patents in furniture design between 1860 and the year of his death (1898). Among his inventions based on modern convenience rather than concerns about historical styles were extension tables, swivel top and nesting tables, reclining and folding chairs, convertible beds, platform and folding rocking chairs, and an innovative seating material made of braided steel wire.

The artist’s attitude toward modern production methods matched his instinct for modern marketing methods. He offered his furniture in a wide variety of woods, finishes, and upholstery, with price points that appealed to a broad range of customers. His reliance on the mechanical influences in his furniture designs had major impact on American furniture into the mid-1900s. 

George Hunzinger, Folding Rocking Chair, ca. 1870. Walnut, brass, upholstery, 31 ¾" x 17 7/8" x 29" (80.6 x 45.4 x 73.7 cm). © 2018 Brooklyn Museum. (BMA-5364)

Folding chairs, such as the red armchair and rocking chair, appealed greatly to the hoards of people moving west during the late 1800s. Imagine the convenience of folding up this rocker and loading it in a wagon to migrate west—a bit of civilization on the frontier! The rocker is one of Hunzinger’s more modestly priced items with it’s simple printed fabric. The red armchair reflects elements of the Renaissance Revival. The design was loosely based on the Italian Renaissance Savonarola chair. 

Elegant folding armchairs were popular among the middle class, who could not always afford to furnish every room in a house extravagantly, moving chairs from one room to another. They were also convenient for elegant outdoor events. Both folding chairs exhibit Hunzinger’s patented construction that featured front legs that served as the side bars of the back. This was easy to produce in one piece, whether turned or straight, and could be very decorative as in the following two examples.

The following two examples demonstrate the confusion of historical styles that ultimately resulted from the mania for historical revival styles. Furniture historians would probably be hard-pressed to pin down a single influence in these designs. The overstuffed pink upholstery is most like part of Rococo Revival, while I’m not sure to what styles the rest of the chair alludes. The overstuffed yellow upholstery also waves at the Rococo Revival style. This armchair features another patented Hunzinger innovation, the “Lollipop Spindle” seen in the lower back of the chair. Hunzinger produced chairs in which Lollipop Spindles that formed the entire back of the chair. Ouch! 

George Hunzinger, Side Chair, ca. 1869. Bonized wood, original upholstery, 44 1/2" x 25 ¾" x 28" (113 x 65.4 x 71.1 cm). © 2018 Brooklyn Museum. (BMA-5089)

George Hunzinger, Armchair, 1869. Wood and original upholstery, 35 5/8" x 27 ¼" x 25 ½" (90.5 x 69.2 x 64.8 cm). © 2018 Brooklyn Museum. (BMA-5070)

Find out more about the many revival styles from the 1800s in my post Revival Curiosities from 2015.

Correlations to Davis Programs: Explorations in Art 1E Grade1: 6.35; Explorations in Art 2E Grade 1: 6.7; Explorations in Art 1E Grade 2: 6.35-36; Explorations in Art 2E Grade 2: 6.9; Discovering Art History 4E: 2.2

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Woodcuts Like Paintings


Helen Frankenthaler (1928–2011, US), Radius, 1992–1993. Woodcut in nine colors from six blocks on paper dyed in six colors, sheet: 28" x 28" (71.3 x 71.3 cm). Philadelphia Museum of Art. © 2018 The Helen Frankenthaler Foundation/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. (PMA-8308fkars)

My significant other and I just had a redo of our vacation in Provincetown that did not end up happening in July. So, in honor of that, I’m presenting Helen Frankenthaler (1928–2011), a true American art legend who lived in P-town when she was married to Abstract Expressionist Robert Motherwell (1915–1991). I’ve seen the house they shared there and apparently they had to install a garage door in the back of the house (beachside) in order to accommodate their huge canvases.

We all know Frankenthaler as the pioneer of stained-canvas Color Field painting. I have found myself recently even more in love with her work when I understand how she tried—and succeeded—to translating the Color Field aesthetic to printmaking.

Raised in New York, Frankenthaler became a pupil of pioneer abstractionist Hans Hofmann (1880–1966), whose school in Provincetown I featured prior to my earlier attempt at a P-town vacation. Her earliest works were influenced by the Cubism of Picasso. She moved into freer forms inspired by the organic abstractions of Kandinsky, Miró, and Arp. The pivotal period of formation of her style started around 1951, when she spent summers in a Cape Cod studio. She painted numerous studies of hills and woods in watercolor washes.

From these washes, Frankenthaler produced paintings in thinned oil on raw canvas. Also during that time, she was introduced to Jackson Pollock (1912–1956), and seeing his paintings and his methods excited her tremendously. She felt that his method of painting on the floor would be a good jumping-off point for her to realize freer form. Her first exhibited painting in the stained style, Mountains and Seas, exhibited in 1952, had a major and lasting impact on abstract painting.
      
Frankenthaler was the first artist to explore the possibilities of staining raw canvas. In such a technique, whether in oil or acrylic, the ground and color are integrated and the distinction between foreground and background ceases to exist. As in action painting, the emphasis on pure abstraction is meant to focus attention on the act of painting itself.

Frankenthaler extended her interest in merging support and color to her printmaking. Unfortunately, because Abstract Expressionism was dominated by an emphasis on painting, printmaking was considered by the Art World “elite” to be a marginal art form. After Russian émigré Tatyana Grosman (1904-1982) founded Universal Limited Art Editions on Long Island (1957), the European esteem for printmaking was introduced to the New York School and many of the artists reluctantly tried their hand at it (lithography at first).

Frankenthaler, too, reluctantly approached printmaking—beginning with lithography—after seeing the works of Grace Hartigan (1922–2008) and Larry Rivers (1923–2002) in 1961. Around 1974, she began to work in woodcuts. As she had with lithography, she was trying to achieve the same visual effects in woodcut as in her painting. With the initial cutting of the blocks, mixing of colors, approval of registration marks, and selection of paper, she wanted to be totally involved. The mass reproduction of the approved blocks she assumed would be left to printers who were artists in their own right.

Some of Frankenthaler’s multiple block woodcut prints dwarf the Japanese ukiyo-e style, wherein twelve blocks were used. She produced works using up to 102 colors and forty-six blocks of wood! In works such as Radius, which references landscape, Frankenthaler hoped to achieve a result wherein the images seemed to be laid down all at the same time, like her paintings. This was her guiding aim with her woodcuts. Starting in the 1990s, she began to experiment with dyed pulp paper in order to further the effect of layers of color like her color field paintings.

Monday, October 1, 2018

Whose Mod Is It?


Emilio Pucci (1914–1992, Italy), Dress, late 1960s. Printed silk knit, height center back: 33" (83.8 cm). Image © 2018 Philadelphia Museum of Art. (PMA-8695)


Japan, Kimono, 1920s–1930s. Silk plain weave with stencil-printed warps and wefts, height center back: 63" (160 cm). © 2018 Philadelphia Museum of Art. (PMA-8691)

I’ve posted before about how the idea of abstraction has been around since the earliest art produced by humans. However, somehow in the West we think that Western artists “invented” abstraction. The idea of “Mod” as a style evolved during the 1960s with Beatnik and Hippie aesthetics applied to high fashion. It was the first period in fashion design in which contemporary trends in painting were applied to clothing design. Having been a child during the late 1960s, I can vouch for the fact that some of what was designed was incredibly hideous. But, there are some “mod” designs that are truly tasteful and elegant. The Pucci dress is an example (which I’m sure very few women could afford). But, oh look, there’s a similar vertical pattern in the early 1900s kimono! Do we call that “mod” too?

This elegant dress, which probably cost hundreds in the 1960s (a lot of money back then), is the epitome of 60s mod. Pucci was once dubbed the “prince of prints” because of his designs. He introduced abstract patterns based on contemporary art into fashion in the 1950s. The 1950s were the “Leave it to Beaver” era! 

Pucci is such an interesting artist. He studied agriculture at the University of Milan in the 1930s, the got an MS in social science from Reed College in Portland Oregon. He also received a doctorate in science from the University of Florence. I’m not sure where design came into the mix, but he was first noticed designing ski fashions for the Reed College ski team in 1947.

Pucci’s ski fashions inspired him to introduce his own line in 1948 in Capri. He initially designed ski wear and swimwear. His experimentation with bold and bright colors led him to designing scarves, which ultimately led him to designing women’s fashions. By the 1960s, his designs were popular with such heavy-weights as Marilyn Monroe (1926–1962). Pucci’s abstract designs started to be featured in women’s clothing in the 1950s, at that time a real novelty. He was inspired by Southeast Asian batik, African motifs, Sicilian mosaics, and heraldic motifs.

As a colorist, Pucci was inspired by the landscape of the Mediterranean, and also from Southeast Asian countries he visited. I think we can see that the result of all of his influences is this sophisticated abstraction that reminds one of a Hans Hofmann (1880–1966) painting. His designs also have the sense of landscape. Again, Hofmann! 

Ogata Korin (1658–1716), Red and White Plum Blossoms, ca. 1710–1716. Ink, watercolor, and gold leaf on paper mounted on wood, 61 3/8" x 67 ¾" (156 x 172.2 cm). © 2018 Museum of Art, Atami, Japan. (APAH-210)

Interestingly, the same thing (landscapes) inspires kimono patterns in Japan. Any doubts? Look at this screen by Ogata Korin. Tell me there isn’t abstraction in this painting!

Kimonos evolved during the Heian Period (794-1185 CE) in Japan. It became fashionable at that time to layer up to thirteen(!) silk kimonos of differing patterns and colors as a sign of social status or seasons. After the forced opening of Japan to Western trade by the US in 1853, there was the inevitable introduction of Western fashion, which ultimately doomed the kimono as everyday wear. By the time of World War II (1939–1945) to the present day, kimonos have been worn a lot for special occasions.

In many Japanese art forms, pattern is a key element. Japanese art informed the Arts and Crafts Movement, Art Nouveau, and Impressionism in the West. I would like to think that this kimono from the 1920s or 30s would fit right in on a 1930s Art Deco movie set as a nice contrast.

You can delve into the history of art as I leave you with this question: Where (precisely) do you see abstraction in art?

Monday, September 24, 2018

Turning


John Beech (US, born 1964 Britain), Turning Object #13, 2005–2006. Mixed-media, 6" x 6" x 3 ½" (15.2 x 15.2 x 8.9 cm). Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY. © 2018 John Beech. (AK-3131)

My reference to the word “Turning” has to do with the changing colors of leaves in the now-upon-us autumn season. Instead of focusing—in gloomy fashion—on the end of summer, however, I choose to focus on an artist whose work really interests me. Of course, in this artist’s work, the word “turning” doesn’t have anything to do with autumn foliage, but so what? John Beech is an artist with a very particular view of the entrenched practices of the deified Art World. I find his work awesome in its unpredictability, and love the fact that at the same time that it is very thoughtful, it also seems very spontaneous.

Beech grew up in a small town in Britain, but moved to the US with his family in 1981 when his father got a job in Silicon Valley. He attended the University of California Berkeley to study architecture, but a trip to Morocco and India in 1985 changed his perspective on art. There, he witnessed materials recycled out of necessity and the patching of everyday objects with whatever is available. When he returned to UC Berkeley, he altered his major to fine art with a new passion for painting and sculpture.

Beech’s work is a paradoxical mixture of painting and sculpture. He has called himself a “reductionist,” which would tend to indicate that his work is connected to Minimalism. However, his complex painting/sculptures go beyond the simple math of Minimalism. Turning Object works are an interesting combination of the found object aesthetic of Dada and Surrealism, the simplicity of Minimalism, and the excitement of Abstract Expressionism in the random (seemingly) application of pure color. The nice thing is that these objects revolve in order to appreciate all sides. 

John Beech, Small Rolling Platform #49, 2001. Enameled plywood and casters, 10" x 10" x 10" (25.4 x 25.4 x 25.4 cm). Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY. © 2018 John Beech. (AK-3291)

Beech views Minimalist sculptor Donald Judd (1928–1994) as an influence, insomuch as his work emphasizes simplicity in sculpture. Beech considers his sculptures a sort of “street-level” brand of minimalist sculpture. Like his Turning Object series of pieces, works such as this are definitely meant to be viewed in motion. He elevates the utilitarian aspect of the components of such works with his brilliant “action painting” coloration of the work. Works like Small Rolling Platform #49 inevitably call to mind Dada found object works, with the addition of painting that makes the work so interesting. 

John Beech, Bent Glue Painting, 2002. Glue on canvas mounted on wood, 8" x 7 ½" x 9" (20.3 x 19.1 x 22.9 cm). Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY. © 2018 John Beech. (AK-1323)

Beech thinks of many of his works as painting/objects. This may stem from his time as a museum installation technician while he was in college. He realized that the traditional Art World emphasized the front of a work of art as the primary point of interest. His Glue Paintings, in which he exploits the possibilities of Elmer’s Glue, often are presented backwards to show the support of the work. This bent piece emphasizes the fact that what is habitually viewed as two-dimensional is actually interesting three-dimensionally. He has done many installations that feature his painted canvases turned against the wall, revealing the stretched canvas and stretcher bars as the focal point. Brilliant!

To sum up, Beech’s varied body of work is a joy to behold. It truly does afford the viewer a new way of looking at art as part of the real world. Or is that a way of seeing real art in the world? You decide.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Not Just Furniture


Gonçalo Mabunda (born 1975, Mozambique), Harmony Chair, 2009. Welded weapons (handguns, rifles, land mines, bullets, machine gun belts, rocket-propelled grenades) and iron alloy, 56 1/8" x 34 ¼" x 26 ½" (142.6 x 87 x 67.3 cm). Brooklyn Museum. © 2018 Gonçalo Mabunda. (BMA-5609)

When we talk about art that reconciles political, spiritual, and social beliefs all in one pertinent statement—and I’m certainly not talking about ancient Assyrian art, Jacques-Louis David, or Andy Warhol—it is hard to think of anyone who sums it up quite like Gonçalo Mabunda. A lot of contemporary African art deals with the conflict that evolved between social groups after the end of “colonialism” (I call it “invasion and occupation by European countries).

The Mozambican Civil War began two years after Mozambique became a free state (1975) from the Portuguese. It was a conflict between indigenous Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (a Russian-socialist inspired group) and the Mozambican Nationalist Resistance. The war was exploited by the South African white government to undermine the National Resistance’s support of African nationalist groups in its own country. The war ended in 1992 after the collapse of the Soviet Union and South African Apartheid regimes.

Mabunda, who spent his entire childhood in the violence of the civil war, took part in the reconstruction of his country through art directed as a healing element, determined to exchange weapons for farm tools.

Soon after the civil war ended, Mabunda became a gallery director at the Núcleo de Arte, a collective of sculptors in Maputo. He subsequently studied metal and bronze sculpture at the Natal Technikon in South Africa, now part of the Durban University of Technology. A religious organization formed the Arms into Art project in 1997, which was when Mabunda started working full time as an artist.

Mabunda is best known for his throne-chairs. By creating chairs made out of weapons that he experienced during the civil war, the artist negated their evil and the atrocities committed with them. In the genre of collective memory, he expresses not only a moving on from the violence of a power struggle, but also makes comments on the colonialism that fermented the war. He links the weapons-chairs to African tradition, proposing that the lust for power is similar in both Africa and the West in a single work of art.

Chairs, or rather stools, have been symbols of an African ruler’s status and power in Sub-Saharan Africa long before Europeans arrived. They were the literal seat of power, and conquered village leaders used them as representations of loyalty to the ruler. 

Asante People, Ghana, Queen Mother dancing with state stool at Yam Festival, August 1971. Photo: Wilfred Owen. © 2018 Davis Art Images. (8S-11019)

For instance, in Ghana, traditionally the stool used by a ruler was put in a family shrine after his death and venerated on special occasions to honor his wisdom and leadership. During the August Yam Festival in Ghana and Nigeria, state stools were traditionally brought out, washed, and fed the new yam crop, an important subsistence crop in the region. Sometimes, family members of the deceased ruler danced with the state stool as a sign of respect.

Babanki People, Cameroon, Prestige Chair, late 1800s. Wood, 31 ¾" x 21" x 17 ½" (80.7 x 53.3 x 44.5 cm). © 2018 Cleveland Museum of Art. (CL-254)

The chair form was introduced to African peoples (the Chokwe at first, now in Angola and Democratic Republic of Congo) by Portuguese invaders during the 1500s. The form was adapted by many cultures across the region of equatorial Africa as a symbol of authority because of its size. In the Cameroon Grasslands, chairs such as this are valued as symbols of royal prestige and authority. Kings commission such chairs when they first take power as a symbol of their status.

The heads on the base of this chair represent rulers who passed prior to the ruler who commissioned the chair. This makes the chair a potent symbol of the wisdom and royal status of the ruler. It is unusual that it shows both male and female figures riding leopards, the leopard being a symbol of royal strength and authority.

Monday, September 10, 2018

Late Summer Strolls


William Boyington (1818–1898, US), Bellinger House, 2121 North Hudson Avenue, Chicago, late 1860s. Image © 2018 Davis Art Images. (8S-13810)

As autumn is right around the corner, my mind drifts back to one of my favorite pastimes in my hometown, Chicago. I would walk for hours in the various neighborhoods near where I lived looking at the gorgeous late-1800s architecture. During the 1980s, there was a boom in restoring historic properties. I lived about seven blocks north of this house, which I often walked by and loved. If it is true that eight blocks in Chicago equals a mile, then I must have walked thousands of miles in my life there, and saw so many wonderful, restored old houses. This posting will feature the “Italianate” revival style.

I’m pretty sure I walked by the Bellinger House dozens of times in my Chicago period. I asked an art historian friend once about the entrance on the “second floor,” and he told me that it was routinely done in Chicago neighborhoods before the storm drains were perfected. This way, only the kitchen and storage would be flooded when the sewers would inevitably back up. Hence, also the reason for the raised sidewalks of wooden planks at the time.

This house was named for the guy who commissioned it, a Chicago police officer named Richard Bellinger. There is a story about how he saved his house from the Great Fire in October of 1871. Since the fire burned all the way from De Koven Street to Fullerton Avenue (just north of Bellinger House), a lot of buildings around the house were destroyed. Bellinger supposedly saved his house by first dousing it with water from his well. When that ran out, he supposedly used cider from his cellar. He also tore up the wooden sidewalk and patted out sparks.

The Italianate style was popular in the US between the 1840s and 1880s. Before the fire, Chicago homes in the style were block-like residences like the Bellinger House. The style was meant to emulate an Italian “country villa,” though I’m hard-pressed to see that in this building. Stylistic features in Chicago included decorative hoods on the windows, an accentuated verticality, decorative balustrades, and restrained classical elements like the Ionic capitals on the porch.

The architect of this house, William Boyington (1818–1898), was conversant in numerous revival styles for his designs. Born in Southwick, Massachusetts, he trained initially, as many American architects did during the 1800s, as a carpenter. He then apprenticed in a New York architecture firm before moving to the quickly growing metropolis of Chicago in 1853. Because of the lack of architects in the city, he was able to get commissions all over the upper Midwest. Aside from Italianate, he designed many private homes in the Gothic Revival, Romanesque Revival, and Beaux-Arts Classicism (Second Empire Baroque).

Boyington’s most enduring monument in Chicago is the Water Tower (Romanesque Revival), which survived the Fire and still bears some burn marks.

William Boyington, Water Tower, Chicago, 1869, from south. © 2018 Davis Art Images. (8S-13806)

Here are some variations on the Italianate style. There are a lot of examples in Charleston, South Carolina, because, fortunately, the city was not messed up to the extent of cities like Atlanta during the Civil War (1860–1865). 

Unknown architect, John Ravenel House, 5 East Battery Street, Charleston, SC, 1847–1849. Image © 2018 James Coberle, Davis Art Images. (8S-28662)

Charles Autenrieth (1828–1906, US) and Edward Collins (1821–1902, US), Lit Brothers Department Store (now Mellon Independence Center), Philadelphia, 1891. Image © 2018 Davis Art Images. (8S-14712)

This Autenrieth and Collins design is still preserved in downtown Philadelphia, although the Lit Brothers stores went under in 1977. In 1979, the building was placed on the National Register of Historic Buildings. This gorgeous building is a combination of cast iron with a facing of glazed brick and terracotta window surrounds.