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Metropolis Magazine article about career of Viktor Schreckengost

Metropolis Magazine article about career of Viktor Schreckengost

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Back to the Future

Steven Litt

Viewed from the street, there’s nothing extraordinary or unusual about the house in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, where Viktor Schreckengost has lived since 1952. Big, comfortable-looking, and Tudor-esque in inspiration, it’s typical of the expansive homes built in the Cleveland suburbs in the early twentieth century, when the city was a rising industrial powerhouse.

Inside, however, the house is a veritable museum of Schreckengost’s vast output as one of America’s most important—and under-recognized—industrial designers. It’s also the scene of an unusual family project aimed at perpetuating Schreckengost’s legacy and gaining the national attention that the exceedingly modest designer, now 99, has never sought for himself. The task is daunting: how do you build a reputation for an important creative thinker who largely has been absent from the history books?

Gene Schreckengost, the designer’s second wife, and Chip Nowacek, her son by a previous marriage, have come up with some answers. (Gene and Chip are the aunt and cousin of Metropolis art director Nancy Nowacek.) They’ve incorporated nonprofit and for-profit entities to preserve Schreckengost’s work and intellectual property, and hired a team of researchers to catalog and conserve the contents of his house. Nowacek, who heads the project, has also organized more than 100 small- and large-scale exhibitions across the country this year to celebrate Schreckengost’s 100th birthday, on June 26. He views their work as a way to tell a larger story about his stepfather, whom he sees as a brilliant designer and problem solver who has always been more interested in serving others than in receiving personal attention. “He sort of never got around to taking care of himself,” Nowacek says. “It’s that very attribute that we think is worthy of some notice. Where did all the heroes go? Well, maybe we found one.”

Schreckengost had an immense, if anonymous, impact on American life in his 70-year career. He designed everything: trucks, furniture, industrial equipment, dinnerware, military radar systems, printing presses, stoves, refrigerators, collators, machine tools, lawn mowers, lawn furniture, toys, tractors, streetlights, broadcast equipment, gearshift consoles, flashlights, artificial limbs, typesetting machines, coffins, calendars, chairs, electric fans, lenses, logos, bicycles, ball gowns, and baby walkers. But unlike his better-known peers, including Norman Bel Geddes and Raymond Loewy, Schreckengost never sought fame. Rather than move to New York, where he would have been more visible, he chose to remain in Cleveland and focus on work and teaching at the Cleveland Institute of Art—his real sources of joy. “He never went for self-aggrandizement,” Nowacek says. “I think he viewed it as a distraction.”

In 2000, the year of the first major museum exhibition on Schreckengost’s work, I interviewed him at his home. He showed me a citation he received from the American Institute of Architects when it awarded him a Fine Arts Medal in 1958. Other winners of the award have included Frederick Law Olmsted, Diego Rivera, and John Singer Sargent. “Look at the people on that list,” Schreckengost said modestly. “I just can’t imagine myself being with this group.”

Others, of course, have always seen Schreckengost in such company. Henry Adams, a specialist in twentieth-century American art, stumbled upon the designer in 1994 after moving to Cleveland. Following a hunch, Adams recorded six interviews with the designer, a project that led to a 2000 exhibition at the Cleveland Museum of Art. This year Adams is writing a 250-page catalog to accompany the centennial shows. “Viktor’s design is modern, but it also has a playful quality to it—almost an anthropomorphic quality,” Adams says. “He’s wildly creative.” The designer’s house, he adds, “is endless. It’s a scholar’s dream.”

After the Cleveland museum show Schreckengost’s loved ones realized they had to start thinking about the future. Gene, a retired pediatrician, attended a local panel discussion on estate planning for artists. She and Nowacek soon realized that they could face heavy taxes after Schreckengost’s death, forcing them or other family members to sell and scatter the contents of the designer’s house, which includes more than 500 artworks worth $3 million to $4 million. “It’s a concern,” Gene says dryly. “If we were hit by a Mack truck, it would be a big problem.”

Confronting the tax questions forced Gene and her son to think more broadly about how to preserve Schreckengost’s work and vision. They created the nonprofit Viktor Schreckengost Foundation to fund projects in education, research, and preservation—plus the for-profit Viktor Schreckengost Intellectual Reserve to earn income for the nonprofit ventures by licensing Schreckengost’s designs. (Not a bad idea: in 2004 Sotheby’s sold an original Jazz Bowl, which Schreckengost designed for Eleanor Roosevelt, for $254,400.) A third organization, soon to be created, will oversee ownership of the house and its contents, and carry out educational projects and exhibitions. The Schreckengosts also hired an eight-person staff—registrars, a photographer, a historian, a merchandising expert, and a graphic designer—to catalog and preserve the contents of the house.

When Nowacek took me on a tour of the house in March, the Schreckengosts were away in Tallahassee, Florida, where they spend the winter. But a painting crew was hard at work getting the house spruced up for the upcoming centennial festivities in June. In the dining room, where Schreckengost usually holds court when visitors come, plastic sheets covered scores of his creations, from mass-produced dinnerware to one-of-a-kind ceramic sculptures and watercolors. (As if he weren’t prolific enough, the designer had a parallel career as an artist.)

On the second floor, the office and library were jammed with personal records, correspondence, and boxes of slides. Other rooms had been given over to the archivists and their computers and files. On the third floor, where Schreckengost did most of his painting and drawing, the archivists had set up a small photo studio to document his paintings, drawings, photographs, ceramics, and sculptures. A skylighted studio at the head of the stairs was still intact—markers, pencils, and brushes lay neatly arrayed on a taboret next to a large drafting table. A 1930s-era Cubist still life of a fish and fruit bowl rested on an easel.

The Schreckengosts have yet to figure out what to do with the house and its contents in the future. Head archivist Craig Bara suggests turning the place into an archive and research center. “My vision is that it becomes Viktor’s legacy,” he says, “the place where his ideas, his techniques, live on, a place where young people would be able to come in and learn.” But the house could also become a public museum, like the Gropius House, in Lincoln, Massachusetts; Russel Wright’s Dragon Rock, in Garrison, New York; and the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio, in Oak Park, Illinois. Affiliation with the Cleveland Institute of Art is another possibility. The home could become the setting for residencies or other programs related to Schreckengost’s work at the institute, where he founded the industrial-design department in 1932 and influenced decades of designers.

Of course, establishing a house museum or a research center would mean dealing with visitors, traffic, parking, accessibility for the handicapped, and the potential objections of neighbors—not to mention the City of Cleveland Heights. The Schreckengosts’ approach to such questions has been the opposite of that other famous Cleveland native and designer—Philip Johnson. The man who claimed that immortality is “better than sex” donated his Glass House, in New Canaan, Connecticut, to the National Trust for Historic Preservation in 1986 while retaining the right to live on the property until he died. Today, a year and a half after Johnson’s death, the National Trust is negotiating with the Town of New Canaan about how to shuttle visitors in and out of the 44-acre estate without disturbing the neighbors. The house and related buildings on the site—including a library, a painting gallery, and a sculpture gallery—could open to visitors as soon as 2007.

The Schreckengosts, true to Viktor’s style, have followed a more modest course. For example, this year’s centennial exhibits will be held not only in predictable venues such as art museums and galleries but also in places that have personal meaning for Schreckengost, including Adam’s Barber Shop, in Cleveland Heights, and a restaurant in Captiva, Florida, called the Bubble Room. The family does have a perfect opportunity to create a public museum similar to the Johnson estate (though certainly on a smaller scale) because they still own Gene’s original home, two doors away, plus a large additional lot that links the two houses. When I telephoned Gene in Florida to ask whether she had considered the idea, she said it hadn’t occurred to her, but she was intrigued and might study its feasibility.

Such discussions raise the delicate question of what Viktor makes of all this. When I asked whether I could speak with him over the phone, Gene said he preferred not to because his hearing aid distorts sound. She also said his poor memory makes it hard for him to carry on a conversation.

But when I asked Nowacek what his stepfather makes of the project to preserve his work and perpetuate his legacy, he said, “He just shakes his head and says, ‘That sounds like a lot of work.’ He’s the same guy he’s always been. He doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about.” Nowacek feels differently: “The amount of work he accomplished—it stuns me. We have to pay attention to the things he churned out.”

The Man Once Known as the Dean. . .Charles Carr

Article written by Mansfield Frazier for the Cleveland Leader, November 11, 2009

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The man once known as the “Dean” … Charlie Carr

By Mansfield Frazier. Published on 11/11/2009 – 8:39pm 


One summer afternoon, in must have been in 1956 or ’57, as my father was totaling up the money from the day shift waitress in the tavern he owned on Scovill Avenue, he saw my eyes grow wide at the stack of bills he was counting. Growing up, I must have seen him perform this tallying ritual many times before — the difference that time being, I was entering puberty and with a growing interest in the opposite sex, I needed to dress better … thus my growing interest in money. There was this cool pair of Stetson shoes that I wanted to be the first in my school to own. “Son,” he simply said, “those folks down in Washington print way too much of this stuff for a sucker not to have a pile of it.” That was all of the economic advice he ever gave me … and it proved to be all I ever needed.

Just as he was imparting this life lesson to me, his friend, attorney, and business associate of sorts, Charles V. “Charlie” Carr (who also was the Ward 17 city councilman at the time) was walking up to the end of the bar where we were standing, and, overhearing our conversation, took the opportunity to reinforce the message: “Listen to your father, young man, he’s telling you straight … and don’t you ever forget this: The best thing you can do for poor people is to not be one of them.” Then, as if to visually punctuate his comment, he took a large wad of cash out of his pocket and handed it to my father, saying, “From yesterday, count it.”

“No need to Charlie,” my father replied, “but what are you doing dropping off?”
Carr responded, “Lem had to take his mother to the doctor, but I had to come past here on my way down to City Hall anyway … I’ll see you at ward club meeting tonight, right?” he asked as he exited the door.

Now I can’t say for certain, but what I’d most likely had just witnessed was a payout in what insiders called the “digits” business (a euphemistic term for the illegal lottery more commonly known as the “numbers racket”). Virtually everyone in black neighborhoods “played the numbers,” and watering holes doubled as booking parlors. Operators like my father received a cut of the winnings whenever someone “hit.” And someone must have hit big, since there must have been 25 or 30 hundred dollar bills that he fanned before putting them into his safe.
* * *

At that point in his career, after serving over 10 years on Cleveland City Council, Charlie Carr was arguably the most politically powerful black man in Cleveland. He certainly was the most skillful and clever … if not always the most liked and trusted. He’d won his seat from Republican W.O. Walker, then the publisher of the Call & Post newspaper, on his third attempt by making a campaign promise to introduce legislation that would make it virtually impossible for the police to raid and arrest numbers operators. His argument was simple: If Catholic churches could host bingo games and casino nights, why then couldn’t blacks play the numbers without fear of arrest?

There’s a saying that when a smart politician sees a parade forming, he jumps in front and start leading … and that’s exactly what Charlie Carr did in 1947. The May Co. did not hire black sales clerks, but returning black soldiers were demanding change. When the picket lines formed in front of the store black folks were carrying signs that read “Don’t Shop Where You Can’t Work.” Carr was one of the organizers of the demonstration, and my mother was one of the women carrying a sign.

Additionally, my father was one of the dozen or so black men — bar owners, numbers runners, and some very tough up-and-coming professional boxers — standing silently across Euclid Avenue (a few with pistols in their pockets) observing. Some of the men brought their children along; I was four years old as I watched history unfold. The white police officers glowered at the knot of black men, and the black men glowered right back. I recall Carr crossing the street to briefly huddle with the black men, and then walking over and speaking with the police officers before going back over to talk to the demonstrators. The term “shuttle diplomacy” had yet to be invented, but Charlie Carr had already mastered it. In less than a week May Co. officials agreed to hire three black sales clerks.

The next month I was among the first group of black kids to ride on the merry-go-round at the previously segregated Euclid Beach Amusement Park, located on Lakeshore Boulevard at E.160th. In 1946 Carr had introduced an ordinance that would make it illegal for amusement park operators to discriminate, and by the summer of ’47, after some protests that turned violent, that battle was also won.

Just as Birmingham, Alabama is rightfully known as the birthplace of the black Civil Rights Movement in America, Cleveland, due in large part to Charlie Carr, can make the claim of being the birthplace of the black political rights movement in this country — the proof being the election of Carl B. Stokes as the first black mayor of a major American city in 1967.

Arnold Pinkney, who was Stokes’ campaign manger, states that the victory would not have been possible without Charlie Carr. “After we won, black politicians from all over the country came to Cleveland to learn how we’d pulled it off. We’d take them to talk to Carl, and then to talk to Charlie. They’d sit at his feet, and they’d listen, and they’d learn how to win,” said Pinkney.

Carr worked his magic by building on the tactics developed by Clevelander John O. Holly, a pioneering black organizer of the 30’s and 40’s, and mixing those with the tactics of the civil rights crusaders in the South beginning in the 50’s. He became a master builder of political machinery and learned how to leverage the strength of the small number of black elected officials by making strategic alliances with white politicians … when it suited his purpose. He understood the balance of power. Carr learned early-on that it took money to make the political machinery work, and he was shrewd enough to raise enough of it. The backbone of all political organizations is the precinct committee members — my father was proud to be one — and Carr kept a firm grip on them via money and patronage.

Carr, however, was not without his detractors. As Fred Crosby, a businessman who was a contemporary and close friend of boxing promoter Don King relates, Carr was always the smartest man in the room, and if anyone forgot that fact Carr didn’t mind reminding them. Although he only stood about 5’7” and was slight of build, he tended to dominate any gathering that he was part of.

“I got along with him fine, but not everybody did. One time Charlie was defending D.K. [Don King] and Virgil Ogletree after they got arrested for running a numbers operation,” said Crosby, “and he said in open Court that his clients were ‘just a couple of poor boys from the ghetto who were trying to better themselves in the only way they knew how, and they really are too dumb to be held accountable for their actions, your Honor.’ Both of these guys were probably millionaires by then, and they were mad as hell with Charlie for a long time, but he got them off. The thing was, if you got into a business deal with Charlie, you just might come out OK, but it was guaranteed that Charlie was going to come out OK. Whatever it took to win, he’d do it — I never recall him losing.”

However, in 1975 Carr finally did lose — to the young firebrand Lonnie Burten. Hough councilman David Collier (who was himself fighting off another firebrand in Fannie M. Lewis) recalls: “By then Charlie was 72 years old and wasn’t in the best of health, and he kind of took Burten for granted.” Additionally, while Carr was the master of finesse, Burten was riding the crest of the Black Power movement that was sweeping the nation. He was a brash, loud-talker who organized students at Cleveland State and Tri-C and then trounced Carr 2,521 votes to 1,678.

“Charlie was more than just a great role model and mentor, he was a great man,” said George Forbes. “He truly loved to help up-and-coming black politicians, as well as help the little guy. He believed in the power of the dollar, that’s why he engineered the takeover of Quincy Savings and Loan and turned it into the first black-owned bank in Cleveland … it was part of his life-long effort to make blacks more financially independent.”

Even though he was out of politics, after one of Forbes legendary displays of temper Carr called him and said, “George, quit pissing on every goddamn fireplug you come to.” Forbes says that one comment taught him how to judiciously pick his battles.
About a year after Carr was defeated his wife called Forbes and told him that Charlie was driving her crazy hanging around the house. So Forbes, as City Council president, arranged for Carr to be the first black appointed to the RTA board. “Charlie wasn’t there six months and he was running everything, the whole show,” said Forbes. “They used to get paid by the meeting, and they would meet a couple of times a month. As soon as those white guys put Charlie in charge they began holding all kinds of committee meetings … three, and sometimes four, meetings a week,” Forbes laughed.

Upon Carr’s death in 1987 Carl Stokes paid him the ultimate tribute: “Whatever the problem was, he would try to make the opposing parties see there was something in the solution that each could benefit from. That is the basic fundamental science of politics: compromise. He was the master of it, and I learned so much from him.”

 

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