"We're the bad boys with the repros", goes the tagline for ads from a company that reproduces Modernist furniture. In one witty phrase, the whole problem with the concept of reproductions is addressed: they're everywhere, they're in demand, they're even necessary. But somehow, we feel, they aren't nice.
Part of this feeling is due to the respect of collectors for the designers of the objects collectors are so passionate about acquiring. Part of it's wanting to protect our investment, and part of it's snobbery. In buying Modernist design, it is important- and increasingly difficult- to decide what is "real" and what is not. We want things that represent their designers' intent correctly. We want to reward genius in the marketplace. And we damn well don't want to get rooked.
Everyone knows what a reproduction is, right? Well, not really. Most people think of repros as lower-quality, lower price renditions of something famous- and they're wrong. What they mean is knock-off; and knock-offs are everywhere. IKEA knocks off Arne Jacobsen. Crate & Barrel knocks off Akari. Lots of people knock off Knoll. What's at work here is a concept of American design law that most people don't understand clearly: you can copy nearly anything, as long as you don't copy it too well, call it by the originator's trademark, or apply a fake brand name. Add a curlicue, or change the shape slightly, or maybe just make it in a different color. The originator of the design concept can fume. He can fuss. He can't touch you in court. The legal reasoning is that if you make an inexact reproduction that wouldn't fool anyone, you're not hurting the designer. Designers sing a different tune, I assure you.
So a reproduction is when a company copies something exactly- is that it? Is that bad? Good questions, and ones with no easy answer. A reproduction can be so exactly like an original it can be hard to tell which is which. It can be as good quality- or even higher. It can even be by the company that made the original, and this is where things get very complicated. Let's look at several types of repros, and see exactly what they are, and how closely they correspond to originals.
First, we need to define 'original'. Even this is tricky. What is an original? Is it the prototype of a design classic? Is it the production version? Is it the early production version, or the late? Huh?
What happens with most fine design is that it is put into production after going through a prototype phase. Prototypes are avidly sought after by serious, deep-pocket collectors and museums, because they are considered to be the ultimate expression of the designer's intent. Sometimes they actually are. Once a design is put into production, it's issued in one or more finishes, fabrics, colors, or sizes. While in production, it may go through changes: a size may be discontinued, a material may be changed for cost reasons. A dog of a color may get dropped. So, there's often no one 'original' in the first place, and even if there were, it's subject to change. The great salvation of collectors who want originals is trademarks. We want that sticker, that signature, that tag that says beyond most doubt (remember, there are forgeries out there) that this is the real McCoy. Or McVenini. Or McKnoll.
But even here, there are pitfalls. There are rungs of desirability. Take my own collecting passion, teakwood from Dansk. There are pieces made in Denmark in the 50's and 60's, and they're beautiful and sought-after. In the 70's, Dansk decided it was getting awfully expensive to ship teak from Malaysia to Denmark, and then export the finished products to America. So, they helped found factories right in Malaysia, where the same designs formerly made in Denmark could be produced less expensively. Both Danish and Malaysian items ought to be "original" (hey, Dansk made 'em both), but as any Dansk collector will tell you, the Danish stuff is worth more.
Tangling the web even further is the issue of re-issues. The term used to mean that a company had decided to put a formerly discontinued product back on the market. Often, it still does; companies like Stiffel have brought out original Mid-Century molds and dies and tooling from storage, and put them back to work making reproductions only the very expert can tell from vintage stuff. Sometimes changes are necessary, like Herman Miller's current version of the Eames lounge and ottoman. The rosewood veneer of the shell has been changed to a choice of walnut or cherry, because rosewood is too endangered to be used this way any more. If this sounds to you like older Eames lounges with rosewood shells have increased in desirability thereby, you're right- and wrong. A vintage Eames lounge is quite likely to have been repadded and reupholstered; the materials used don't hold up forever. So, that 'original' chair and ottoman may not be so original, after all, and what is a collector to make of that?
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Eero Aarnio's 'Ball' chair is another example of how re-issues create dilemmas for collectors. The original version has long been considered scarce and desirable. Now there's a re-issue available, and that means that the re-issue is less collectible than the original, right? Well, maybe. You see, Aarnio has seen to it that the re-issue addresses a design problem he was not allowed to overcome in the original version; the re-issue expresses Aarnio's design intent better than the original did. So, which is the more desirable, rare, and valuable chair? Beats me, and I bet it beats you, too. It will certainly beat future collectors.
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Re-issues have some other problems, too. Once they get a little age on them, they can not only fool most collectors, they can drive down the value of originals- because no one knows which is old or which is new any more. Some companies, like Fiesta, seek to eliminate this problem by re-issuing items in variations that are absolutely not to be found in vintage pieces- Fiesta's new colors are easy to tell from the old. But even here, complications await the unwary. Fiesta's new dinnerware is a model of what a re-issue should be- until you see the line of adaptations that has recently been introduced. "Fiesta" pieces like thermal gravy servers and refrigerator magnets are now available, but they are plastic, a material vintage Fiesta never used. Are they "real"? They have the Fiesta trademark. They're from the same company. They're controversial as hell.
Today, a new kind of "re-issue" has entered the picture, the 'authorized' re-issue. Authorized re-issues are usually made because the original company is no longer in existence, or no longer wants to make the product. In these cases, the designer (or the designer's heirs or assigns, or the old company) can grant permission for another company to make the design and/or use the old trademark. Such re-issues can be of exacting quality, like Vitra's re-issue of George Nelson's "Coconut" chair. Herman Miller, the original manufacturer, could have produced the new ones very easily, but HM's management has decided that the painstaking workmanship of the "Coconut" costs too much to produce at a price point their customer is willing to pay for their product. Vitra has licensed the design, they make a great chair that's a flawless reproduction, everyone's happy.
Moving toward hairier territory, we get into unauthorized reproductions. These are produced for a host of reasons, but mainly, they're made when the original design patent protection expires; the Eames CSU series of storage units is a great example. When a design patent is up, you can reproduce as exactly as you please, as long as you don't violate anyone's trademark rights. There are now- what shall we call them, Eamesian? CSU-like?- pieces that are so exact, their parts are interchangeable with those on originals. Other manufacturers make a pretty fair product. Some use Eames-designed elements to make configurations undreamt of by Charles and Ray, like media centers designed to hold today's mammoth home theatre equipment. Vitra makes some George Nelson clocks, including the famed "Ball" and "Asterisk" designs, that are awesomely exact. There's even a rare category of kinda-sorta unauthorized repros that occurs when a company abandons a product. The product's tooling may be sold off to another company, with the right to make the product, but without the famed trademark that made the product desirable in the first place. Some Russel Wright melamine designs are around in this kind of instant re-incarnation.
So is Dansk's famed "Fjord" flatware; Japan's Takashimaya made the last few years of production. When Dansk pulled the plug, Takashimaya kept using the tooling to make the design completely unchanged, except for the trademark. For people who want to take up really tricky questions of authenticity, there are Eames rocker repros that use genuine vintage shells for the seat, mated to bases and rockers- exactly reproduced, it is true- made last week. Yikes.
And now, for the biggest question: why would anyone want a repro at all- authorized or not, re-issued, whatever? There are a lot of reasons, and many of them seem to make perfect sense. Repros can put fine design into the hands of people who could never afford the rare, desirable original in the first place. They can be 'place-holders' in a collection, standing in for a rarity that hasn't turned up yet. They can substitute for originals that are too valuable to use in a given situation: anyone who uses a vintage Noguchi coffee table in a household with hyperactive kids is committing vandalism. And for many buyers, furniture is just furniture; they want something that is current, and couldn't care less who designed or made it.
So, is there a bottom line on repros? Yes, there is- the one you can find within yourself. Ask yourself some questions. Is "real" a meaningful concept to you? Do you value originality enough to pay top dollar for it? Do you need the resale-value guarantee that comes with having something that will pass even the most exacting collector's standards? Or do you want the look without the price? Do you need a piece that fits your Mid-Century décor, but is capable of standing up to the rug rats, or holding that 30-inch MTS stereo TV that hubby dragged home from Circuit City? And last, are you comfortable with how the repro came to be in the first place? Is it authorized or not? If not, is it exact? If it's a knock-off, is it so close you're robbing a designer? Or are you really mercenary and needing to palm off something as real when it is anything but?
Where does all this leave us? Well, I think a story about my own collection is instructive; for me, it sums up what repros can- and cannot- do for a collector. For years, I wanted an Eames lounge and ottoman. It's a hell of a chair, and it wears a hell of a price tag, so I had pretty much given up on owing one until one day I was offered a repro made in the 60's by Selig. It actually looked pretty nice. The dimensions were a little smaller than the real thing, and the shell was teak instead of rosewood, but what the hey! It was an Eames Lounge. Sort of.
At first, I reveled in ownership; it was great to sit there and rock and swivel at will. Putting my feet up and leaning back was terrific. It looked cool beyond words. Only after a few months did the truth begin to reveal itself: I had skimped on a dream, and I was not happy. Anyone visiting who thought it was real had to be told the truth, which did not enhance my pleasure with the chair very much. Anyone visiting who knew at a glance it was not real could not wait to tell me so, which enhanced my pleasure even less.
I had tried to fool myself into settling for something less than I really wanted, and now I was paying the price. Finally, I did what I should have done all along: I set my sights on a more affordable- but impeccably real- chair from Dux, and got rid of what I was beginning to refer to as The Fake. I don't have what looks like an Eames lounge any more, but I don't have to apologize for what is sitting in my living room now. I have to admit, I sit in my new Dux chair and dream, still, of having an Eames lounge, but now I know that it has to be the one of my dreams or nothing. The new chair gives me a relationship with a designer I respect very much- Folke Ohlsson. The Fake gave me no relationship with Charles and Ray Eames at all. It was about making money, not about genius.
You have to make up your own mind about all this. I've made up mine.
D.A. "Sandy" McLendon
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Content (c) 2000, 2001 D.A. "Sandy" McLendon, Joe Kunkel, and
Jetset - Designs for Modern Living. All Rights Reserved.
No one
mentioned here in this editorial has any legal training. This article is not to
be construed as rendering any legal opinion.
If you require a specific opinion
concerning this subject, please contact an attorney.
None of this commentary is to be considered factual. Contact an attorney for info on this
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Photo credits:
Ball chair, Adelta; Fjord, Sandy McLendon
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