Charles and Ray Eames on Velocette motorcycle, 1948
“An artist is a title that you earn. And it’s a little embarrassing to hear people refer to themselves as artists. It’s like referring to themselves as a genius.” ~ Charles Eames
Don’t be put off by the fact that gratingly ubiquitous James Franco is involved in the documentary Eames: The Architect and the Painter, nimbly co-directed by Jason Cohn and Bill Jersey. (Franco serves as the narrator.) The film is more than solid in its own right, and Franco is an unobtrusive presence. What makes the film so worthwhile is that it is an unforced history lesson not only on the lives of the visionary wife and husband team behind the iconic Eames name, but is also a case-study on the origins of many of the practices and precepts of the modern art and design worlds. While it is intriguing to learn about the various personal and professional dynamics in play as the Eames duo and their team of assistants were rewriting 20th century American mores and aesthetics, it’s just as fascinating to see how buzzwords of the last decade or so (“branding” as a conscious act on the part of the artist; an “interdisciplinary practice” as the core of the artist’s creative process) were simply an organic part of the way the Eames’ approached art – and life.
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Having met at art school in Michigan when Charles Eames was a husband to a formidable-in-her-own-right woman and father to their toddler daughter, and Ray Kaiser was a gifted painter, Charles and Ray were in many ways a storybook romance. (After they became famous, many people assumed the two were brothers until they actually saw the woman and man behind the names.) Though Charles was the focal point for many people – and unfortunately continues to be so in a lot of under-informed conversation about the Eames name and brand – he was actually quite consistent in trying to edge some of the spotlight onto his better half. The film has a clip from the old 1950s Arlene Francis TV show in which the two are guests and their hostess can’t wrap her brain around Ray being more than just the loyal wife standing behind her man. Francis’s condescension and inability to give Ray her due is baffling to a 21st century sensibility, but – as the voiceover reminds us – a feminist consciousness had not yet reared its head in mid 20th century mainstream America.
The Eames House in Pacific Palisades, CA. First Run Features
As the film details everything – the long incubation period of trial & error to create the iconic Eames chair (and subsequent furniture lines), the inner workings of the couple’s legendary studio in Venice, California, the far-flung components of their collective practice (furniture design, film-making, architecture, toy design), a tour of their landmark home in Pacific Palisades, and notates their immeasurable contribution to contemporary American culture – the viewer is also made privy to darker undercurrents. There’s the still sensitive matter of some assistants feeling as though they were never properly credited for their contributions (though a dissenter from that POV says, “I was happy to be exploited by a proper [art] master.”) There’s Ray’s low-simmer anger and frustration at having her contributions downplayed or ignored. And then there’s the praiseworthy principle at the core of the Eames enterprise to “inject an ethical dimension into American capitalism.” It’s rich, heady stuff, inspiring for all artists grappling with self-definition and a way to make work that resonates as more than just an investment opportunity for some rich patron.
Molded Plywood dining Chair, 1946. Copyright 2011 Eames Office, LL
Ernest Hardy is a Sundance Fellow whose music and film criticism have appeared in the New YorkTimes, the Village Voice, Vibe, Rolling Stone, LA Times, and LA Weekly. His collection of criticism, Blood Beats Vol. 1: Demos, Remixes and Extended Versions (2006) was a recipient of the 2007 PEN / Beyond Margins Award.
