I was trying in vain to catch up on some beauty news many moons ago and came across this article at Who What Wear – yet another on the history of red lipstick. There were a lot of things that bothered me about it, but the number one offense was the doubling down on the myth of Elizabeth Arden handing out lipstick to suffragettes during a 1912 march in New York City. After recognizing this claim’s veracity was murky at best, the article’s author stated, “I wanted to know more, so I went straight to the source: Elizabeth Arden, the very same global beauty brand founded by the namesake cosmetics maven.” A brand can certainly be used as a source, provided there are legitimate historical records that serve as evidence for their claims. However, in this piece there were many statements made by Janet Curmi, VP of global education and development at Elizabeth Arden, without anything to back them up. “On November 9, 1912, 20,000 women took to the streets of New York to advocate for the right to vote. Elizabeth Arden, a dedicated suffragette herself, opened the doors of her New York spa to hand out her Venetian Lip Paste and Venetian Arden Lip Pencil, before joining the suffragettes marching down Fifth Avenue as a sign of solidarity. The most striking sight was the bold red color on the women’s lips.” The accompanying photo shows suffragettes marching at the May 4, 1912 event (not November)…with nary a one wearing visible lip color. Just for funsies I reviewed some news coverage on the November march.* As with the May march, they describe quite a few details, including the exact route and the women’s clothing, but lipstick is not among any of them.
Women’s march, May 1912
I am very interested to know where Curmi got this information. Arden wasn’t, in fact, particularly known as a “dedicated suffragist.” The legend of her providing lipsticks to marching suffragettes goes back to at least 1999 and names the May 4 rally (see Lucy Jane Santos’s outstanding effort to unravel its history, along with my findings), so November 9 appears to be a new twist on the mythos. Another addition is the reference to Venetian Lip Paste and Pencil specifically being given to suffragettes. As far as I can tell, no particular products were mentioned in the Arden suffragette story until 2021, when author Louise Claire Johnson published a book entitled Behind the Red Door: How Elizabeth Arden’s Legacy Inspired My Coming-of-Age Story in the Beauty Industry. Johnson states that Arden provided Venetian Lip Paste and pencil to the crowds at the November march, but does not cite an exact source: “However, six months later, on November 9, 1012, Elizabeth could no longer sit idly by in silence. Shuttering the salon for the day, she took to the streets and joined 20,000 women, double the size of the previous parade, and advocated for the right to vote. The most striking sight was the bold red color on the women’s lips, as they vibrantly spoke their truth. Elizabeth weaved among the masses handing out her Venetian Lip Paste and Venetian Arden lip pencil in deep red – the original ‘lip kit’. In history, it is often the slightest gestures that become revolutionary. The red lip kits were small, yet mighty weapons – a red pout in place of a middle finger against the patriarchy. Red lips were still considered illicit and immoral, so the women wore them in unison as a rebellious emblem of emancipation. Makeup was no longer a sign of sin but of sovereignty.” (p. 63-64)
While it’s been confirmed that Arden had a line of “Venetian” skincare products by 1912, her lip makeup products were still in development. There was a Venetian Lip Salve advertised in Vogue, but I’m guessing it was a clear or slightly tinted balm and not “paint”, and I could not find any mention of Venetian Lip Paste/Pencil until 1919. Additionally, 2 pages after her claim of the paste and pencil being being handed out, Johnson seems to contradict herself by stating that “after the suffrage parade, [Arden] started introducing makeup products into her Venetian skincare line.” So if the makeup was not introduced until after the parade, how was it handed out? It’s entirely possible Arden was making a prototype of these lip items available through her salons – most likely she was mixing up limited, small batches of makeup to select clients who requested it – but no ads, trademark, etc. for Venetian Lip Paste and Lip Pencil prior to 1919 seem to exist, which leads one to believe that they were not being mass produced and able to be distributed to thousands of people. Perhaps any records relating to the origins of Venetian Lip Paste and Lip Pencil and for that matter, any records of Arden giving them out at a rally are in the mysterious “Elizabeth Arden papers”, which, as one historian explains, are scattered about across the U.S. and not readily available. Still, I find it curious that the company has never provided any documentation that Arden handed out lipstick, and specific products at that. I also reached out to Behind the Red Door’s author – twice – asking for her to clarify where she came across the story of the Venetian lip products and did not receive a reply.
Curmi further embellishes the tale by remarking that mostly because of Arden, suffragette leaders began to wear red lipstick as well. “While turn-of-the-century actresses like Sarah Bernhardt and Mary Pickford helped to bring red lipstick into vogue in 1912, it was Elizabeth Arden who gave it political power, elevating it to a symbol of rebellion and female empowerment…red lips were still considered illicit and immoral at the time, so the women wore them in unison as a rebellious emblem of emancipation and defiance. [Leaders] of feminist movements such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Charlotte Perkins Gilman began sporting red lips as a symbol of female empowerment. Since then, red lipstick has mirrored resilient femininity.” Once again, I’m going to direct you to Lucy’s article on the subject, where she points out that Elizabeth Cady Stanton died in 1902. Continuing to wear lipstick 10 years after one’s death would be quite an impressive feat, no?
Finally, anyone who has researched makeup’s rise in the early 20th century understands there were many other factors at play in terms of how lipstick and other makeup became socially acceptable. Yes, wearing obvious makeup was certainly a seismic cultural shift and viewed as rebellious, but it cannot be credited to any one person or movement. “One of the first female entrepreneurs in 20th century America, Arden remarkably turned a $6000 investment into a billion-dollar brand. She opened the Red Door Spa on Fifth Avenue in New York City in 1910 at a time when makeup and cosmetics were considered improper. She was instrumental in changing how the world thought about beauty—the ultimate influencer,” Curmi says. These statements demonstrate the pitfalls of letting a company executive guide the narrative instead of an actual historian, as a brand employee has a vested interest in presenting their business as groundbreaking rather than telling the truth. In this case, not only does Curmi offer no hard proof for the suffragette-related claim, she conveniently leaves out the contributions of other major “influencers” of the time, i.e. Helena Rubinstein, Max Factor and Madam C.J. Walker, to say nothing of smaller brands and figures, technological advances, and economic and political factors other than suffrage. Obviously these omissions make sense as her role is to promote the Arden brand and because the reporter reached out to Arden specifically and not other companies for this article, but they also make for a rather incomplete and biased snapshot of lipstick’s history.
Finally, the subject of makeup and political power is one for another time, but for the record, most early advertising marketed it as a way to better meet white supremacist beauty standards and continue enforcing compulsory heterosexuality rather than for any “empowering” purpose. Once again, nuance is wholly neglected in favor of pushing a feel-good story that serves primarily to buoy a company’s reputation.
I’m ending this post with several requests. For journalists, one: if you must interview brand representatives, please do not rely on them as a credible source for the stories you’re trying to get to the bottom of, unless they furnish documentation from the company’s archives or other legitimate pieces of evidence. Otherwise your article runs the risk of resembling a glorified ad rather than journalism. Two: please choose another makeup topic to cover besides red lipstick (or at least, an angle not focused on cis-het white women’s history). Maybe red lipstick’s fame and status as a “classic” means stories about it get more clicks, but makeup history is so incredibly varied and rich, many other subjects would be of interest to the general public. The last plea I’m making is for the Elizabeth Arden company to show the world a shred of historical evidence that their founder provided lipsticks to suffragettes. We’re still waiting.
*These were all from the New York Times: “400,000 Cheer Suffrage March,” Nov. 10 1912, p. 1; “New States to Lead in Suffrage Parade: Army of 20,000 Expected to Participate in Fifth Avenue Procession,” Nov. 9 1912, p. 22; “Torches in Hair to Guide Parade: Electric Novelties Planned for Tomorrow’s Big Suffrage Demonstration,” Nov. 8 1912, p. 7.
Rejuvenique mask at the Museum of Failure. The golf club is an unrelated but equally ridiculous product.
I had way too much fun at the traveling Museum of Failure pop-up, which is currently in Washington, D.C. until November 30. It's exactly what it sounds like: a monument to all the seemingly good ideas humans have had over the years that for one reason or another failed spectacularly. There wasn't too much information readily available – that required downloading the museum's app – and at times the scant label copy was presented far too flippantly for inventions that seriously injured or even killed people. Then there were the "inspirational" quotes from less than savory characters and a disproportionate amount of space devoted to debating whether Elon Musk is a genius (spoiler: he's not. But he is a fascist.) Despite these critiques I enjoyed the show. Plus, it inspired me to briefly discuss some of the biggest makeup fails of the modern era. While there are tons of failures across all beauty categories such as skincare, haircare, fragrance, bath and body products, etc., literally thousands of defunct brands, and a history of toxic ingredients that goes back to antiquity, I narrowed it down to just a handful of what I think are the most notable modern cosmetic fails. Here's the makeup edition of the Museum of Failure!
Kurlash Eyelash Curler ca. 1923
It's fairly obvious why the first patented eyelash curler did not stick around long. Known as the "bear trap," Kurlash's instrument does not resemble anything one would want to get near their eyes. While it's actually not dangerous per se, as Lucy Jane Santos notes, the lack of cushioning meant an increased risk of tearing out the lashes, or at the very least resulted in a sharp right angle to the lashes instead of a soft upward curve. A new model was produced less than a year after the initial design and became the standard.
In 2014 a group of 4 students from North Carolina State University proposed a nail polish that would change color upon detecting date rape drugs such as rohypnol in beverages. I'm not even sure where to start in terms of the many points on which this idea failed. The technology wasn't even available, yet the polish, named Undercover Colors, was touted as something that was ready to be put into production. It wasn't until 2018 the group ceded that the technology would not be available any time soon and presented instead the Sip Chip, a coin-sized disk that can detect certain drugs with 99.93% accuracy with just a couple drops of liquid. Still, the myth of the polish persists. Perhaps the biggest misstep is that, as usual, it placed the burden of prevention on the would-be victim. As a sort of epilogue to Undercover Colors, in 2022 a company named Esoes (pronounced S.O.S.) announced a drug detecting lipstick. Clearly undaunted by the backlash surrounding Undercover Colors, the company forged ahead with a liquid lipstick containing drug test strips hidden in the cap and equipped with a Bluetooth connection to call 911. Sigh.
As we'll see later, lipstick, like mascara, is a fairly straightforward cosmetic to apply. A contraption like this applicator is exceedingly unnecessary and only complicates things. Users were instructed to put a coat of lipstick to the applicator – I'm guessing that was a rather messy process – and then press the applicator to the lips for a perfectly defined pout. I can't locate the one in the Museum's collection at the moment so here are photos from one on Etsy.
It's baffling that this company believed it could hoodwink women into thinking smearing lipstick on a piece of metal first was somehow easier than applying straight from the tube, or even using a lip pencil to line and/or a brush, especially as both lip pencils and brushes were readily available at the time. Heck, Tussy offered a product called the Stylip, a pen-like device which was obviously much less cumbersome to use. Then again, there is nothing businesses won't do if they think it'll make money.
Honorable mention: this (presumably) earlier version, which worked similarly.
Lipstick applicator tutorial, St. Louis Globe Democrat, June 8, 1941
Calvin Klein Cosmetics 1978-1985 2000-2003 2007-2009(?) 2012-2015(?)
Since the 1920s, nearly every fashion house expands into beauty at some point as a relatively low-effort additional revenue stream. While most fashion designers are able to maintain their grip on fragrances, many struggle to keep a color cosmetics line afloat. The popularity of both fashion and celebrity-fronted makeup lines exploded in the '70s and '80s and many of them, including Halston, Diane von Furstenberg and Ralph Lauren, did not survive. However, I want to highlight Calvin Klein cosmetics, whose failure is interesting because the company tried not once, not twice, not thrice, but FOUR times to sell a color cosmetics line.
It's a long and muddled saga for which I hope to give the details someday, but in a nutshell, it seems the repeated failures were largely due to poor management rather than bad products. The cosmetics arm was sold numerous times and had a revolving door of executives. Without stable leadership and a clear, consistent vision for marketing and distribution, it's virtually impossible for any brand to last. Maybe 5th time's the charm?
Lash Lure Eyelash and Eyebrow Dye 1933-1934
The story of Lash Lure is a rather gory one so consider yourself warned. In 1933 a company named the Cosmetic Manufacturing Co. released an lash and brow dye that contained paraphenylenediamine (PPD), a chemical that can cause acute allergic reactions when used around the eyes due to the skin being thinner in those areas. Between 1933 and 1934 the Journal of the American Medical Association reported the cases of 5 women who went blind after using Lash Lure and one more who developed abscesses after using the product, contracted a severe bacterial infection and subsequently died. In 1938 the Food, Drug and Cosmetic Act was finally passed, and the first product it removed from shelves was Lash Lure.
The FDA prohibited PPD from being used in cosmetics in the U.S., but it's still widely used in hair dyes; however, the risk of death is considerably lower than in the '30s. The scalp is thicker than the skin around the eyes and less prone to irritation, and if severe reactions like abscesses and infections did occur, there are treatments available. In the early 1930s allergy remedies and most antibiotics hadn't been invented. Having said that, PPD is derived from coal tar, which doesn't seem like a good thing to put near one's eyes in any case.
Automatic Lipsticks 1930s-2015(?)
In doing the research for the presentation I made for the Art Deco Society UK back in March of this year, I came across many fascinating so-called "automatic" lipsticks. They expressed the design proclivities of the time in that they were intended to be streamlined, cutting-edge devices that only took a fraction of a second to open for the busy modern woman. No need to use both hands turning a slow-moving swivel tube or one with a traditional cap – the new automatic lipstick was here to save the day!
I was hoping to get to an in-depth discussion of automatic lipsticks for National Lipstick Day back in July, but obviously that didn't happen. Maybe in 2024.
Anyway, I think there's a reason the swivel remains the most common lipstick mechanism. This is purely anecdotal based on the automatic lipsticks I've added to the Makeup Museum's collection, but they tend to get stuck easily. I noticed that vintage swivel lipsticks still work pretty well despite their age. The automatic ones, not so much; many of the ones available for sale are broken. Additionally, even when they do work as they should, they were really no quicker or easier – for the Coty Periscope and its copycats (Constance Bennett Flipstick and the So-Fis-Tik), for example, I found two hands were still necessary.
Vibrating Mascaras 2008-2009 Vibrating mascara wands existed at least as far back as 2005, but it was around 2008 that the major cosmetic companies began taking the gadget mainstream. Estée Lauder's Turbo Lash was introduced in July 2008, followed by Lancome's Oscillation (with 7,000 "micro-oscillations per second") that fall. Maybelline's Pulse Perfection arrived in spring 2009. Unlike, say, an electric toothbrush, which actually can help ensure a more thorough cleaning, most reviewers agreed that a vibrating mascara does not significantly improve application. It also seems users had to learn how to maneuver the wand carefully so as not to poke their eye or create a mess. As one PR exec explained, "[The customer] needs to understand how to use it." Some makeup techniques are worth putting the effort into figuring out, but mascara application should not require a learning curve – like lipstick, a basic level of application is intuitive. As I predicted, vibrating mascaras were indeed a flash in the pan.
My appreciable nearsightedness greatly impedes my ability to apply makeup – a big reason for switching to contacts 30 years ago. Back in the 1960s, however, contacts were not as commonplace. So what was the gal with glasses to do? Enter Revlon's flip-up magnifying glasses, which were intended specifically for wearing during makeup application. Rest assured I have tried them out, along with magnifying mirrors and such, and nothing works quite like getting about 1-2 inches away from a regular mirror and applying with short-handled brushes and mini-sized pencils (regular sized products prevent you from getting close enough to see what you're doing as the handles keep poking the mirror.) Other companies make similar versions of these glasses today, so I guess maybe they're not a total fail, but trust me when I say there are much more efficient ways for nearsighted folks to apply makeup.
Lipstick Tissues 1930s-1960s
You can check out my post from 2017 for the full scoop on lipstick tissues, but suffice it to say they failed because they were largely useless. To pull in more dollars, in 1937 Kleenex, building on previous patents, invented a solution to a completely fictional problem: the social crime of leaving lipstick traces on linens and towels, or heaven forbid, a woman's (male) significant other. As I noted in my post, there was no reason why one couldn't use regular facial blotting sheets for lipstick as they work just as well – separate lipstick tissues were wholly unnecessary.
I'm a bit hypocritical, however, since I think it might be fun to bring them back. I even had the husband make a little mockup of Makeup Museum branded lipstick tissues. Would you buy these if you saw them in the museum's gift shop?
With much fanfare, in 2016 Estee Lauder unveiled a diffusion line targeted at the Millennial generation. Despite an extensive campaign starring the hugely influential Kendall Jenner and a whole brick-and-mortar store in London, the Estée Edit folded roughly a year after its initial launch.
So what went wrong? The official stance was that the Edit didn't sell because Estee Lauder already had Millennials buying their products, so a separate line wasn't necessary: "Estée Lauder created The Estée Edit collection for Sephora to recruit millennial consumers. Simultaneous efforts by the core Estée Lauder brand have recruited millennials via digital and makeup at an unprecedented rate. Therefore, after a year of valuable insights and learnings, we have decided that a separate brand in North America dedicated to recruiting millennials is no longer necessary."
Sounds like Estee was just trying to save face. What really happened is that customers saw through their pathetic attempt at being "edgy" to court a younger demographic. Frankly, the Edit reeked of desperation to revamp Estee Lauder as a youth-oriented brand, and customers could smell it a mile away. Devoid of any real innovation or inspiration, the Edit was also out of touch with the needs and wants of Millennials – the whole shebang was basically this classic scene from 30 Rock.
Lipstick Matches 1920s-1950s
As the makeup industry grew exponentially in the early 1920s, companies explored many different designs and packaging. The Parisian firm Fracy introduced "allumettes" lipstick matches around 1924. These single-use items were advertised as being more sanitary than regular tube lipsticks and portable due to their miniature stature. And, like lipstick tissues, they made great hostess gifts or customer freebies for businesses. But were they superior to regular lipsticks? Probably not. Water or saliva was needed to get the dry pigment to adhere so the formula probably wasn't the most comfortable, and the packs sold without a fancy mirrored case negated the "on-the-go" aspect. (I don't know about you, but I find it impossible to apply lip color without a mirror.)
Fracy salesperson kit with sample lipstick matchbooks, ca. late 1920s-early '30s
By the 1950s, companies shifted to advertising lipstick matches not as more sanitary, but a fun way to try new lipstick shades without committing to a full tube.
Still, mini versions of products with the same or similar packaging as their full-sized counterparts proved much more popular for sampling makeup, and they were easier to produce. With all angles of promoting matchbook makeup as better than other designs exhausted, it quietly faded from the market.
Mainstream Men's Makeup Brands ca. 2000-2008
I'm not going into a whole history of men's makeup here – it's another topic the Makeup Museum will tackle eventually – but I did want to highlight the failure of men's makeup to become as ubiquitous as that for women. Makeup has been worn by all genders for millennia, but you would never know it looking at most 20th century cosmetics. Makeup was advertised as being strictly the domain of women. While it was acceptable for men to wear makeup for the stage and screen, it was largely frowned upon for the average cis-het man. Cosmetic companies managed to profit from men by introducing toiletries such as after-shave, hair gel and cologne and developed entire grooming brands exclusively for men, but color cosmetics were still a no-go. However, much like makeup for Black customers, some of the larger companies launched men's makeup to tap into what they thought could be an additional cash cow. For the most part, unlike other grooming products, big brands' attempts at makeup for men consistently failed. It's not clear when the first men's makeup brand on the commercial market was introduced; there were some individual products such as concealers to cover beard stubble and "after-shave talc" used as face powder as far back as the 1930s, and some brands added one-off men's makeup items to their regular lines – for example, Aramis Bronzing Stick and Mary Quant's Colouring Box in the '70s and Guerlain's Terracotta Pour Homme in the '80s. And there were companies like Biba and Manic Panic and later, MAC, that intended their products to be genderless.
But it seems the first complete lines of makeup for men by a mainstream, non-niche company did not appear until the 2000s in the U.S.* And neither of these are still around. Aramis released Surface in 2000, which contained "correctors" (concealers), a bronzing gel and mattifying gel, followed by Jean Paul Gaultier's Le Male Tout Beau in 2003. Tout Beau was discontinued and relaunched as Monsieur in 2008.
Gaultier Le Male Tout Beau lip balm and concealer/eyeliner pen
Indie brands that were started around the same time such as 4Voo somehow managed to outlast their big league competitors. With so many more resources than small companies, why did Aramis and Le Male/Monsieur fail? I think the industry shot itself in the foot, so to speak. Perhaps if it hadn't spent roughly 100 years and billions of dollars enforcing makeup usage along a rigid binary and making it socially acceptable only for women, more mainstream brands for men would be successful. The modern industry really entrenched the ancient notion of everyday makeup as solely a feminine pursuit, and it's going to take a long time to undo that sort of brainwashing on a mass scale.
So that's just the tip of the makeup failure iceberg. These were interesting, but it's equally fascinating to see what has actually stuck around.
What do you think? And did you ever experience a makeup fail?
*Japan's Kose had introduced a line in Tokyo in 1985, and this hunky gentleman prepared to launch a small brand in 1993, which never came to fruition. Other niche brands included Male Man Unlimited (1980), Marcos for Men (1996), Menaji (1997) and Hard Candy's short-lived nail polish line for men called Candy Man (1997).
I was doing some digging on Ultra Sheen cosmetics after purchasing a great vintage display for it and stumbled across the name Bill Pinkney, who had a brief stint as a marketing executive for the company. As it turns out, Captain William Pinkney is the first Black man to circumnavigate the globe solo via the five Great Capes. While this is an astonishing feat that very people have accomplished, obviously I'm more interested in how he shaped Black makeup history – specifically, his significant contributions during the late '60s and '70s, one of the eras that witnessed an explosive growth of brands for Black customers. (Another era would be the early-mid '90s, a history I'm still working on.)
Pinkney was born on September 15, 1935 in Chicago. He joined the Navy after high school and discovered sailing while visiting Puerto Rico after being discharged in 1959. He held a variety of jobs during this time, including elevator mechanic, limbo dancer (!) and X-ray technician. As much as he understood the importance of a steady job, boredom crept in.
Around 1963, he began pondering what he could do as a creative outlet that would also pay the bills. Pinkney's friends suggested makeup artistry. In his own words: "Since 1963 I had been working as an X-ray technician at Queens General Hospital. Although it paid well, it was hardly creative, and the creative impulses of my youth were resurfacing: I also longed to sail. As much as I wanted to be an artist, I was following my family's advice to have a good, steady job. Keeping that in mind, I began to look at my possibilities. I still had time left on my G.J. Bill and I wanted to find a job that would be creative yet practical. In the Village one night, I expressed my dilemma to some of my old friends in fashion photography. They unanimously agreed that I should become a makeup artist! I laughed at first – me, a make-up artist? Bur they insisted that it was creative and quite lucrative. If I did well at it, I could also make connections with celebrities. So I decided to take a stab at the beauty industry."
Pinkney attended Queens Beauty Institute during the day and continued working as an X-ray technician at night. After passing the New York state exam to become a licensed cosmetologist, he began practicing makeup on any willing participants (mostly friends and family.) Looking to break into film and TV makeup, he found a job for a non-union picture. While it didn't pay much, he was promised both extensive experience and a credit as makeup artist. Pinkney was a bit taken aback when he got to the set and discovered the, ahem, particular type of movie he would be doing the makeup for. "[The job] was in film, all right – soft core skin flicks. The films were shot in black and white, and the make-up wasn't critical, but I got a chance to experiment. I mostly covered blemishes and scars and attached false mustaches and sideburns, which were in vogue at the time. The first film showed in Times Square, and while it was hardly pornographic by today's standards, a group of my friends furtively crept in, wearing turned up collars, hats pulled down over their eyes, and sunglasses. They roundly applauded the credits when my name came up."
The first TV commercial Pinkney worked on was for the American Tuberculosis Association. Upon realizing he had no suitable makeup on hand to match one of the actresses, he chose to let her go with the makeup she was wearing. "A Black woman came in and I didn't know how to make her up. There were no products with which to make her up. Luckily, she had makeup on already, so I didn't touch it. I just said, 'Beautful makeup, luv.' I was lying, but what could I do? Right then, I realized the need for a color-oriented cosmetics line." The fact that even a Black makeup artist struggled to make up a Black actress demonstrated that the cosmetics geared towards Black customers that existed in the mid 1960s (Posner, Overton's, etc.) were still not meeting their needs, nor was much advice offered in beauty guides. He noted that Max Factor's darkest shade at the time was "meant to make whites look like Blacks," a statement that is backed up by the origin story for Max Factor's Egyptian shade. Pinkney made it his mission to learn about makeup for those with deep complexions, which, as we'll see, proved to be the thing that allowed him to realize his sailing dreams. "If I learned anything that day, it was that I knew very little about makeup. Undaunted, I made it a point to study make-up for Black women, a decision that would eventually serve to get me into the business on a big scale." He joined the National Association of Broadcast Employees and Television union and had more than 150 films and commercials under his belt by 1969. At this time he began working for Astarté, a brand by the very short-lived Spectrum Cosmetics. While he initially got into makeup as a creative outlet, by 1970 Pinkney's outlook shifted towards makeup being more "psychological" than artistic: "Makeup is fascinating because you're working with psychology rather than art…if anyone tries to define beauty, he's opening a can of worms. It's an indescribable thing. It's really a feeling within the individual…ideally, I want to make a woman see how she really is inside – I want to relate to her, to feel what's behind the surface. I'd say I do that kind of makeup job one out of every 50 times. But I shoot for it every time."
There will be a full history of Astarté and its place among the proliferation of Black-focused makeup brands of the time shortly, but for now, some basics: Astarté was a higher-end line catering to the "ethnic" customer and sold in department stores. While the emphasis was on providing quality makeup for women of color, there was a range of foundation shades available – 22, to be exact – that were meant to match every skintone. Twenty-two shades seems like a paltry amount these days, but back then this was a big assortment. Not only that, Astarté organized its foundations from darkest (Nuit) to lightest (Aurore), which, to this day, is still the opposite of how most brands arrange their shades. The brand was also intended to "highlight [the] natural beauty" of Black women in keeping with the "Black is Beautiful" spirit of the late 1960s and early '70s. As noted previously, the vast majority of cosmetics, including non-complexion products like lipstick and eyeshadow, were formulated for white customers and tended to look either completely unnatural or at the very least, unflattering on non-white women. According to Pat Evans, the model who starred in the campaign, most makeup "turned Black women's mouths into neon signs, turned their skin ashen, made their eyes recede."
Pinkney served as Astarté's National Director of Makeup, crisscrossing the U.S. to train salespeople and provide consultations and makeovers at counters. It's a bit of a chicken and egg scenario in terms of Astarte's focus and Pinkney's approach towards makeup – was Astarté influenced by Pinkney's natural aesthetic or vice versa? A 1970 article featuring a makeover of a Detroit resident presented Pinkney as a champion of understated cosmetics. "'A good makeup means nothing about it is obvious. It's a group of subtleties which combine to make you,' he stressed. For this reason he's against shadowing the face to change features such as making the nose seem longer or the lips seem narrower. 'It just won't work except for a model who's being photographed in controlled lighting. Women are seen in many different lighting situations and shadowing just makes them look phony,' he went on." The article continues with more of Pinkney's tips for no-makeup makeup, including using a powder brush rather than a puff for a seamless finish.
It's not clear when Pinkney's relationship with Astarté ended, but Spectrum filed for bankruptcy in 1971. Pinkney continued working as a makeup artist, doing magazine editorials such as this spread in Essence. By this time he was also sailing as much as he could.
Incidentally, the products used here were from Ultra-Sheen.
In 1973, "Revlon made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Pinkney said. The company hired him to oversee the marketing for the new line they were planning for Black customers called Polished Ambers. It doesn't seem as though Pinkney was involved in creating the extensive advertising campaign, but he was responsible for ensuring Polished Ambers was well-represented in the media and stores across the U.S. Most importantly, he was Revlon's first Black marketing executive. Polished Ambers hit shelves in early 1975.
Pinkney used his knowledge and experience with Astarté to promote the Polished Ambers line. Echoing the comments of Pat Evans from some 5 years prior, he noted that Revlon carefully formulated the Polished Ambers lipsticks and eyeshadows to avoid the usual pitfalls of products made for deep skintones. According to one article, "Pinkney claims frosted lipsticks need a special formulation for Blacks because the ones on the market give a 'mirrored, chalky effect.' Eyeshadows were given gold undertones for life and vitality, and colors were given depth to to complement dark eyelids." As we'll see in the upcoming history of the brand, Astarté's lipsticks and eye colors were formulated more or less identically.
In the fall of 1977 Pinkney was recruited by a headhunter to join Johnson Products to market their new Moisture Formula line within the Ultra Sheen brand. While this was a lucrative opportunity to work for a Black-founded and owned company, that wasn't the only reason for Pinkney's departure from Revlon: working for Johnson also meant that Bill would finally be able to own his own boat. He recalls, "I had met the head of the company [George Johnson] when I last lived in Chicago; his huge yacht was tied up next to Art's [Dickholtz, Pinkney's sailing mentor] slip at Belmont Harbor. One of the inducements to go back to Chicago was the lure of Lake Michigan and the chance to sail with Art again – and get my own boat. A perk in my contract with Johnson was that they would obtain a mooring if I bought a boat. The chances of procuring a mooring in Chicago harbors were less than winning the lottery." Pinkney subsequently purchased his first boat with the profits of the sale of his Revlon stock.
Pinkney was unceremoniously forced out of Johnson in 1980 after the Moisture Formula failed to produce the profits Johnson anticipated. As told by the Chicago Tribune in 1992: "'It didn't succeed' is one way of putting it,'' says George Johnson, then the company president. 'We were trying to sell an upscale line in drugstores, and it didn't work out.' Johnson rates Pinkney as 'a good guy,' yet not only didn't his line succeed but, Johnson says, he ran afoul of marketing vice president Lafayette Jones, who fired him. 'I got caught in a Friday-afternoon shootout,' Pinkney says."
Still, Pinkney maintains the firing was a blessing in disguise. Reflecting in 1999, he said, "Coming through Revlon, one of the best marketing companies in the country, I had the best training ground. But as I worked for Johnson, I got further away from what I liked, which was creating makeup…I could have stayed in the industry and worked. But I decided it was time to break free." He took a job with the city government in Chicago.
The rest, as they say, is history. After reflecting on the legacy he wanted to leave behind for his family, particularly his two grandchildren, at age 50 Pinkney "decided he would attempt to sail around the world alone to encourage them to think and do the impossible." Five years later, on August 5, 1990, Pinkney began his adventure from Boston Harbor, returning in June 1992. He continues sailing and has racked up numerous awards and honors, including a lifetime achievement award from the National Sailing Hall of Fame.
I'm so curious to know if Bill ever picked up a makeup brush again after leaving Johnson, or what he would think about makeup for Black customers these days. I also wonder whether, despite his varied interests and intense determination to succeed at anything he tried, his skills at both makeup artistry and beauty marketing specifically allowed him to pursue sailing full time. Could it be said that his dream was fulfilled via the makeup industry? I would reach out for an interview but at the same time feel like I should leave an 87 year-old man in peace!
What do you think? And have you ever been sailing? Despite being a mermaid, I haven't quite found my sea legs – I've gotten sick every time I've been on a boat. Ah well. In any case, stay tuned for histories of Astarté and Ultra Sheen. 🙂
Update, September 1, 2023: I am sad to report that William Pinkney passed away on August 31, 2023. Rest easy, Captain.
Sources
Bennett, Bev. "Test of Time." Press-Dispatch, 25 Apr. 1999, p. 5-7.
Bernardo, Stephanie. The Ethnic Almanac. New York: Doubleday, 1981, p. 341.
Gabriel, Joyce. "Beauty Is Indescribable Thing, Says Executive in National Cosmetics Firm." Kitsap Sun, 23 Oct. 1970, p. 5. (This is a syndicated article that appeared in multiple papers…I don't know how to cite it.)
"The Beauty Part," Women's Wear Daily, 25 Jun. 1976, p. 10.
I admit I purchased this object without fully understanding what it was.
I couldn't unearth any ads for Opaline1 and very little exists about the company. There were a couple calls for De Baranta-Windsor salespeople in 1898 for totally different products – no mention of beauty preparations, so I had to rely on other clues to suss out what Opaline could possibly be. The substance appears to be a powder in the bottle, but there were a few reasons why I didn't believe it was a face powder upon closer inspection. Namely: 1. powders were normally packaged in boxes, not bottles; 2. the directions instructed the user to shake well and apply with a sponge, and powders did not usually require shaking and were applied with a puff; and 3. the directions also insinuated the product was a liquid by including the phrase "when nearly dry…".
So what exactly was Opaline? Certainly not perfume and most likely not a skincare treatment either. It was clearly some kind of liquid makeup (with the liquid obviously evaporating over time) but not quite foundation as we know it today. Thank goodness for Cosmetics and Skin, as I really didn't know what I was looking at until some frantic Googling led me to their website, which has an excellent summary of the three most common types of "liquid powders" popular at the turn of the 20th century: calamine, wet white and liquid pearl (not to be confused with pearl powder).
Liquid pearl was essentially white face powder mixed with water and glycerin. Despite its tendency to streak, it had several advantages over dry face powder, namely that it lasted longer and provided slightly more coverage. Although the powder component consisted of the same ingredients as face powder (usually zinc oxide or bismuth oxychloride), liquid pearl was used on the body in addition to the face, primarily for evening wear to impart an even, whitening effect on any exposed skin – ideal for the plunging necklines and short-sleeve styles of fin-de-siècle Europe and the U.S. It was also less frequently recommended as a sort of sunscreen for daytime due to the zinc. Sources detailing liquid pearl from the early 1900s align with Opaline. A 1904 recipe instructed the user to "Keep in a tightly corked bottle and apply with a sponge when required,"2 and in 1910 beauty columnist Margaret Mixter advised, "When bottled there will be a white sediment at the bottom, and the preparation must always be shaken before any is put on the face. In applying a piece of muslin or linen should be used."3 Opaline's name, color, packaging, and instructions perfectly match liquid pearl. Compare to others from the time, which were packaged in bottles and claimed to have a whitening effect.
I can't uncork the Opaline bottle due to its fragility, but I was very tempted to try to sprinkle out some powder to get a sense of the texture and opacity. Instead of potentially damaging or breaking the bottle, to sate my curiosity I decided to whip up a batch of liquid pearl using a common recipe – this one appeared in a column by Harriet Hubbard Ayer4 in 1902 and was reprinted in several other beauty guides: "pure oxide of zinc, 1 ounce; glycerine, one dram; rosewater, four ounces; essence of rose, fifteen drops. Sift the zinc, dissolving it in just enough of the rosewater to cover it, then add the glycerin, next the remainder of the rosewater. Shake well and apply with a soft sponge or antiseptic gauze." All ingredients were procured via Etsy.
My measuring may have been off, but the mixture ended up being very thin and watery.
I didn't have any cheesecloth on hand to strain it nor a pretty little bottle to put it in, but I did have plenty of travel containers. After a good shake I used my trusty Beauty Blender sponge (dampened) to apply a thin layer – I was also short on linen, muslin and gauze.
Once applied, it's actually not too dissimilar from today's zinc-based sunscreen lotion in that it leaves a pretty noticeable white cast, even with just a small amount on my pasty skin. Smelled lovely though! And the texture was surprisingly smooth and comfortable. Not as emollient as a lotion, but it didn't feel dry or like it was just sitting on top of my skin. I'm sparing you a photo, but I did try it on my face and neck in addition to my inner arm…looked quite ghostly. I also neglected to take a photo of it in the bottle a few hours after, when it had separated with all the zinc on the bottom – the instructions to shake well were definitely necessary.
Given its unnatural appearance – I can't imagine putting on more layers – I found myself wondering if liquid pearl was commonly worn. Whiteness was (is) highly prized as a beauty standard, and liquid pearl was one way to achieve it, albeit temporarily. As was the case for centuries, the starkness of ultra-white skin wasn't an issue despite being at odds with the "undetectable" makeup that middle-class women were expected to adhere to; the whiter, the better, especially according to ads for liquid pearl. A 1914 ad for a liquid powder called Derma Viva states, "It whitens the skin at once, a single application being most effective. Red, brown or dark complexion – face, neck, arms, and hands – made a beautiful milky white by use of this wonderful beautifier."
Judging from my experiment, liquid pearl doesn't seem like it would look remotely natural on even the palest of skin tones, but it appears whiteness trumped any concerns about liquid pearl's obviousness. It could also be that as there were so few formulations, liquid pearl and other liquid powders were relatively natural-looking by fin-de-siècle standards, or at least, that's what companies wanted customers to believe. Derma Viva notes that it is "absolutely invisible" and "will not show as does face powder," while Mme. Gage's Imperial Japanese White Lily, "a delicate liquid powder for evening use" was also advertised as invisible. "A successfully made-up woman does not look in the least artificial," proclaimed Mrs. Henry Symes, who then followed up this statement by a recipe for liquid pearl.5 Another column from 1903 advises using one of the new "flesh" tinted liquid powders instead of white, but notes that white powders were still preferable to the harshness of theatrical makeup. "Only a few years ago Milady was forced to be content with just two colors of face powder, chalk white and rose. Both of these were easily discernible, for they made her either too red or too pale…Not only are there fifteen tints of complexion powders, but they are put up in different forms to suit different occasions. There are liquid powders, which are to be 'shaken before taken'…at any big entertainment the women may be seen with their faces chalked till they resemble nothing so much as a company of corpses. These women do not bother about preparing the chalk; they simply take a chalk pencil and rub it into the skin with unction, and the more ghastly the result the better they are pleased."6 Given that every liquid pearl recipe dictated careful application with a sponge or other piece of cloth, it seems that as long as women were using it primarily for nighttime and paying attention to how and where they applied it, liquid pearl was an acceptable cosmetic for the average (white) woman.
We also can't discount the fact that electric lighting wasn't totally ubiquitous at the time and liquid pearl was mostly recommended for evening wear, so perhaps it was less obvious in darkened settings. In any case, while some cosmetic recipes hold up today and all the ingredients in this particular concoction are still used in contemporary cosmetics, it appears quite crude by comparison and is best left in the 1900s.
To conclude, I'm 99.9% sure Opaline is liquid pearl, but less certain is whether Mme. De Baranta was a real person. I am skeptical! Perhaps the Cortland Historical Society, which also has this artifact in their collection, could shed some light on the company.
What do you think of Opaline and liquid pearl? And have you ever tried DIY'ing makeup? Believe it or not, this was my first experiment despite all of the recipes that have been printed in various makeup history books and seeing it done numerous times before. I think recreating old formulas would be pretty fun Makeup Museum events. 😉
1There were several instances of liquid powders named Opaline from the late 1800s/early 1900s including one by UK-based Crown perfumery and the Opaline Toilet Manufacturing Company in San Francisco, but no Opaline from the De Baranta company.
2Emily Lloyd, "The Skin: Its Care and Treatment," (Chicago: MacIntosh Battery and Optical Co) 1904, 104-105. The story of this book's author is fascinating by itself – apparently Emily Lloyd was an alias used by Ruth Maurer, who established the Marinello company. Once again, Cosmetics and Skin has all the details.
4"Harriet Hubbard Ayer Responds to Many Inquiries Directed to the Sunday Post-Dispatch," The St. Louis Sunday Post Dispatch, May 25, 1902, 42.
5Mrs. Henry Symes, "How To Be Healthy and Beautiful: Use of Cosmetics for Improving the Complexion's Appearance – When It Is Justified," The Minneapolis Tribune, February 16, 1902. This entire column is a hoot – Symes basically calls out the hypocrisy of men judging women who wear makeup, and states that if they weren't so obsessed with certain beauty standards, women would not feel the need to wear makeup.
6"The True Uses of Powder for the Complexion," Evening Star (Washington, DC), Nov. 14, 1903, 32.
Discussing various styles of face paint1 worn by different Indigenous peoples is critical for a better understanding of the history of cosmetics and recognizing that makeup outside of the modern industry exists. For many people across the globe, cosmetics beyond mass produced items have been part of their culture for millennia. The practices of the Seri or Comcáac ("the people") will be briefly surveyed in this post.2
Former nomads, the Seri live in Northwest Mexico, specifically in the Sonoran desert. Men, women and children engaged in face painting, but not equally: it was mostly women who wore it and almost always applied it. One of the earliest accounts by an American of Seri face painting practices was published in 1898. While an incredibly racist retelling – the words "primitive" and "savage" are staples – William J. McGee's history of who wore face paint and why at least provides a starting point for analysis. He states, "On noting the individual distribution of face-painting, it is found to be practically confined to the females, though male infants are sometimes marked with the devices pertaining to their mothers, as adult warriors are said to be on special occasions; and so far as observed all the females, from aged matrons to babes in arms, are painted, though sometimes the designs are too nearly obliterated by wear to be traceable…none of the men or larger boys were painted." McGee hypothesizes that the designs could be loosely categorized as corresponding to one of three clans: the Turtle:
Illustrations of Seri women known as Juana Maria (left) and Candalaria (right), ca. 1894
The Pelican:
Unidentified Seri girls and woman, ca. 1894
And the Rattlesnake, seen on the lower left of this illustration:
Illustration showing different Seri face painting patterns, ca. 1894
Further, McGee proposes that the designs take after animal markings either as a warning to others or as simple identification. "[The] designs are sacred insignia of totemic character, serving to denote the clans of which the tribe is composed…On analyzing the directive markings of animals, it is convenient to divide them into two classes, distinguished by special function, usual placement, and general relation to animal economy: the first class serve primarily to guide flight in such manner as to permit ready reassembling of the flock; they are usually posterior, as in rabbit, white-tail deer, antelope, and various birds; and they primarily signify inimical relations to alien organisms, with functional exercise under stress of fear. The second class of markings serve primarily for mutual identification of approaching individuals…the directive markings of the first class are substantially beacons of danger and fear, while those of the second are just as essentially standards of safety and confidence; and they may properly be designated as beacon-markings and standard-markings, respectively…careful analysis would seem fully to justify the casual impression of functional similitude between the Seri face-painting and the directive markings of social animals."
Finally, McGee notes that the most visible markings are displayed by male animals and by that logic, the men instead of women should have their faces painted. He explains, however, that women primarily wear it as they are the "blood-carriers" of the clans. "While the first survey establishes a certain analogy between the primitive face-painting and the standard-markings of animals, an important disparity is noted when the survey is extended to individuals; for among beasts and birds the standards are usually the more conspicuously displayed by the males, while the paint devices of the Seri are confined to the females…the females alone are the blood-carriers of the clans; they alone require ready and certain identification in order that their institutional theory and practice may be maintained; and hence they alone need to become bearers of the sacred blood-standards. The warriors belong to the tribe…but on the females devolves the duty of defining and maintaining the several streams of blood on which the rigidly guarded tribal integrity depends."3 Instead of admitting this theory may be flawed in the sense that he did not consider other, more plausible reasons for women being the primary wearers of face paint, McGee was steadfast in the accepted beliefs of the time, which treated all Native peoples and their practices as uncivilized curiosities.
To a white audience, McGee's arguments about the Seri's use of face paint were persuasive, but more inaccuracies about their cosmetic practices and other customs persisted throughout the 1930s and '40s. A widely published article in 1936 asserted that Seri women used large beauty patches in preparation to be auctioned off to a husband.4
Unidentified Seri women, Evansville Journal, March 23, 1936
While the face paint patterns appear to be patches in this poorly reproduced photo, there has never been any evidence to suggest the Seri used anything other than paint. (Incidentally, this is the only source that also discusses the selling of brides. My guess is that, as with most reports of Indigenous peoples throughout the 20th century, news outlets embellished or flat-out lied about their cultures to sell papers.) The sensationalized feature Ripley's Believe It Or Not also claimed that the Seri painted their faces green, which is completely false.5
Fortunately, subsequent publications in the mid-20th century challenge McGee's findings and provide a more accurate account of the Seri's face painting traditions. In 1946, Gwyneth Harrington Xavier published her observations on the Seri from five trips she made to their land between 1937 and 1945. "Face painting is the most outstanding adornment of the Seri, and in its highly stylized and beautifully executed patterns it approaches a true art…The basis of the style is a horizontal bar straight across the nose and cheeks, with design elements pendant from the latter. The forehead and chin are never painted." She disputes McGee's insistence that face painting indicated belonging to a certain clan. Instead, Xavier found that the designs were mostly used for artistic creation and beautification among women, with distinctions between married and unmarried women. And while the men indicated they used to wear face paint for war in "the old days," the practice was rare now among them, and was used for adornment than any other purpose.
Unidentified Seri man. Undated photo by Edward H. Davis.
There was also no distinction between the designs for married and unmarried men. "The women paint frequently (not just for special occasions), deriving from it interest and personal satisfaction…The Seri themselves made a very clear distinction between designs used by married and unmarried women. The girl's designs were often designated as 'just to look pretty," or 'a painting, nothing more' or 'just making herself pretty to show she is looking for a husband'. Flowery designs and leaves, they all agreed, were used only by the unmarried girls, while married women alone were the sole users of designs varying about other elements, such as the one they called 'the manta' or giant ray." Beautification via makeup to try to attract a man? The sentiment is not too far off from most mid-century makeupadvertising.
Three Seri women. Photo by Edward H. Davis, 1936.
Additionally, Xavier argues that some of the designs were in fact intended for curative or protective purposes. One example was men wearing paintings of knives to protect against cuts. Curative designs were dictated by the shaman and were meant to treat mental as well as physical ailments. "A distinction was also made and clearly expressed between designs made simply for adornment, and those termed protective designs. The latter are painted to protect against certain definite dangers, either tangible, such as knives or snakes, or intangible, such as bad dreams, or the 'little people' who live in the mountains and whose invisible arrows cause illness and pain. Curative designs were also used, in which case the shaman told them what to paint on their faces. I saw two curative paintings made on the advice of the shaman, one a whirling design for a disturbed mind, and the other, on a child, a squared design on the cheeks explained as the doors of the sacred cave on Tiburón. The child had been suffering from nightmares and cried much at night."6 The crosses shown on this boy were appropriated from Jesuit missionaries, who indicated that the crosses fought off evil.7
Some 50 years later, photographer David Burckhalter summarized the occasions for which the Seri traditionally applied face paint along with application methods. "In traditional Seri life, face painting was vigorously practiced during all festive tribal events. During the four days of a sea turtle fiesta, at a girl's puberty ceremony, or even as Charles Sheldon reported, during nightly dancing and singing, Seri women, children, and men appeared ornamented with painted faces."8 In her excellent and thorough 2016 paper on the subject, Diana Teresa Hernández Morales expands on Burckhalter's findings by identifying two more specific events in addition to the turtle celebration and the puberty ceremony for girls. These are the basket festival, another 4-day festival in which an elder woman weaves a large basket and acts as the host of the party, providing food and games for the celebration; and the New Year, which is based on the lunar calendar. Since this differs each year, the Council of Elders declared June 30 and July 1 to be the official Seri New Year celebration in conjunction with the funding they receive from the Mexican government. Morales echoes Xavier's findings regarding face paint as social marker, but clarifies that the painting denotes four main groups: girls, young women, adult women and men – i.e., while the designs still point to gender, they are rooted more in age than marital status.9
In terms of application, historically the pigments were mixed on stones and transferred to seashells as a palette, and paint was applied with twigs or small bundles of human hair. Seashells filled with water and held in the sun served as mirrors.10 While store-bought pigments and brushes are the norm today, seashells are still used as containers or sometimes a surface on which to practice designs.11
Getting back to the meaning of the designs, given the 50-year gap between McGee and Xavier's expeditions, it could be the case that McGee's theory about the designs corresponding to clans was correct, and that the Seri had simply adopted different practices between his visit in the late 1800s and Xavier in the 1940s. However, Alfred L. Kroeber, who visited in 1930 and published his findings a year later, also disputes McGee's idea that the designs were representative of clan designations. "My conviction is that the Seri paint primarily for adornment, and that further significance is either secondary or absent…face painting in fact seems to be the chief if not only purely aesthetic expression of Seri culture, their mode of life and psycho-physiological habits being such as almost to prohibit any other form of art. In this painting, on the other hand, they have achieved a high degree of stylizication and taste."12
Additionally, students Dane and Mary Roberts Coolidge further corroborated these findings after their trip in 1939, noting that the girls painted "designs in color out of their own imagination. [They] may get ideas from flowers and seed pods, baskets, birds and snakes, the sun and moon."13 Finally, Xavier confirms both Kroeber's and the Coolidges' accounts. "McGee insisted the designs were totemic clan symbols. So far, I have found no trace of this. The old shaman, Santo Blanco, talked a little of the 'great families' of the past, but did not relate face painting to class symbols at all. He agreed with several other Seri that each family had its own 'class' of paintings, but this may mean no more than favorite family designs, or a feeling of ownership of certain designs." Xavier concludes: "The most definite and interesting classifications made by the Seri were those of the married and unmarried women, men's and children's designs, and those used purely for ornament, in contra-distinction to the protective designs and curing designs…In view of the number explained as protective and curing designs, and the importance apparently attached to them in the minds of the Seri, I must assume them to be of at least equal significance with the painting for adornment."14
In the 1950s Mexican evangelist missionaries attempted to discourage the Seri from adorning their faces in the traditional manner.15 By the early 1960s commercially produced makeup had arrived to the Seri. Despite the efforts of the missionaries and the Seri's enjoyment of certain modern products, they maintained their customary face painting.16
"Pintura Facial – La Mujer Seri" by Maria Antonieta Castilla, 1964. Collection of the Museo Nacional de Antropologia, Mexico.
During this decade, anthropologist Mary Beth Moser published a thorough description of how the Seri created the blue pigment they used. She found that it was not the mineral dumortierite, as written by McGee and Kroeber, but a pigment made from root bark, sap and clay. Interestingly, none of these is blue in their natural state. Moser noted that the pigment can only be prepared by older women and the process only observed by girls who have reached menstruation. Men, boys and younger girls are prohibited from observing, as the Seri believe the pigment will not turn blue otherwise.17 (It should be noted that McGee was correct about the red and white pigments, which were harvested from ocher and gypsum, respectively, and mixed with water or grease.18)
As the century wore on, the general flavor of racism towards the Seri turned from hostility and disdain to exotification. Rather than declaring them to be uncivilized cannibals, some descriptions romanticized the face painting practices of the women. This 1958 passage from journalist José Luis Contreras implies that the Seri's cosmetic application enhances their natural features. Normally this wouldn't be a negative observation, but the way he describes them suggests that all Seri have the same facial structure in a way that smacks of fetishization. "Women paint their faces with brightly colored chalk, leaving the flat surfaces of their faces bare and concentrating on the salient cheekbones, in order to make their almond eyes stand out. Red, of course, carefully covers their beautifully molded lips."19 Art historian Deborah Dorotinsky explains the exoticization inherent in Contreras' account: "As with 'Seri Belle', photographed for McGee some 60 years earlier, Seri women and their faces are once again framed by the text in relation to a non-Indian masculine gaze. [Contreras's] photo essay thus communicates that Seri Indians adapt to civilized life, but are exploited and decimated by the evils of civilization. The persistence of facial decoration, appears, then, possibly as a form of resistance to their disappearance as a differentiated ethnicity, even as this exoticization masks their terrible living conditions and serves as an ambivalent way to symbolically distance and attract non-Seri Indians."20
Unidentified Seri woman, ca. 1952-1960. Photo by Ed Moser.
At this point, the Seri were dealing with even more external forces destroying their way of life. While colonization had started in the 1600s with the Spanish, by the last quarter of the 20th century and continuing into the 21st, the Seri have had to contend with threats such as mining companies, overfishing, drug trafficking and lack of fresh water. However, face painting traditions, along with other aspects of their culture and their land more generally, are being preserved by the Seri themselves as well as artists and nonprofit organizations via art projects, festivals and exhibitions. In 1979 photographer Graciela Iturbide traveled to Sonora and, along with anthropologist Luis Barjau, lived among the Seri for two months. Iturbide published a book of her photos, Those Who Live in the Sand (Los que viven en la arena). Two of the most striking photos feature Seri face paint, one on a Seri woman and the other a self-portrait of Iturbide. According to the National Museum of Women in the Arts blog, "This was a sign of Iturbide’s acceptance into the community, as the Seri women asked to paint her face as they did their own. Iturbide does not exoticize or mimic the practice. Instead, this self-portrait represents her own self-interrogation and integration with her role as a photographer in the indigenous community."
1979 was also the year in which a demonstration hosted by the Sonoran Heritage Program at the Tuscon National Library showed participants how to apply traditional face paint designs using minerals and plants found locally. This was a good way to spread knowledge about the Seri face painting practice, but unfortunately did not seem to have any direct involvement of the Seri.21 In November 1985 a cultural exchange sponsored jointly by the Tuscon Museum of Art and a nearby arts and crafts shop attempted to actually include the Seri people rather than using their designs without their knowledge or consent. The Tuscon Museum brought some Seri community members to showcase and sell their artistry, including woven baskets, carved ironwood, shell necklaces and face painting demonstrations.22 Hopefully they were paid for their services in addition to whatever goods they sold, but it's not clear. That same year the Comcáac Museum opened in Sonora.
Burckhalter's 1996 article on Seri face painting in Native People's Magazine demonstrated that while the practice had diminished slightly, it was still customary among women and girls, who were wearing it almost exclusively for artistic purposes. He spoke with Maria Félix, who stated that "sometimes we paint manta rays or flower designs, but there is no special meaning to my painting…I invented my face decoration because it looks pretty." Burckhalter concludes, "Remembering the ease with which the friendly women settled down on their blanket to the pleasure of painting and of being face painted gave me hope that Seri face painting could again become an everyday sight."23 A year after that, researcher and social worker Alejandrina Espinoza Reyna published a book on the history of Seri face painting after having lived in their community for nearly 10 years. The book contained over 60 designs and two copies – one in Spanish and one in Comcáac – were given to each member. It proved particularly vital for helping preserve the Seri environment, and in 2007 Espinoza was appointed director of the Comcáac Museum. (Much to my frustration, I cannot seem to get a hold of a copy of her book or the subsequent one released by the Instituto Sonorense de Cultura that contains over 250 designs…if anyone can please let me know!)
Adolfo Burgos presents various face paint designs, 2018. Photo by Fernando Rosales.
Similar to the festival held in 1985, in 2009 California-based artist Deborah Small hosted the Seri/Comcáac Women's Artisan Cooperative to participate in events and sell their art at various museums and cultural centers. Interestingly, the same woman who was photographed at the 1985 festival, Angelita Torres, participated in the showcase. I like to think of her as the modern day godmother of Seri face painting who is protecting it and making sure it gets passed down to future generations.
More recently, younger Seri people, especially musicians, are actively working to preserve their heritage and environment and showcase their artistry in the process. Morales highlights the Seri band Hamac Caziim, who apply paint for shows, along with musician and activist Zara Monrroy. Monrroy wears the traditional face paint, and not just for performances or speaking engagements. Rather, she also incorporates it into her everyday life just as her ancestors did.
Social media has also played a role in helping maintain the Seri face painting practice. Facebook and YouTube have proved valuable tools in preserving the tradition, particularly during the pandemic. In June 2020, the hashtag #challengehayeenipaii (hayéen ipáii is the Comcáac for "face paint"24) was created to encourage Seri members to don face paint for the annual new year celebration. As large gatherings were prohibited, the challenge allowed virtual participation in the face painting that is customary for Seri new year parties. Additionally, searches for #comcaac and #seris on Instagram yield many examples of face painting.
Naturally, I was wondering what the reaction would be if a non-Seri artist (makeup or otherwise) appropriated the designs without acknowledging their origins, or worse, a makeup brand devised a Seri collection or kit. Because I'm cursed with the ability to envision how a brand will desecrate anything to make a profit, I'm imagining a shell-shaped palette, tiny twig-like brushes and several stencils, even though it looks like the Seri draw their designs freehand. I don't think it would be acceptable even if the collection was directed by a member of the Seri and all proceeds went to their tribe, especially after reading the story of Elizabeth Valdivieso Gurrión, a singer who goes by the name Valgur. Morales concludes her paper by describing the reaction of several Seri members who, upon seeing Gurrion's visage adorned with Seri patterns in 2014, suggested trying to copyright various Seri designs to protect them from outsiders.25 (For the record, it seems Valgur have completely overhauled their brand since the time of Morales's writing, most likely due to the public outcry regarding Gurrión's appropriation of Native cultures that were not her own.)
Another example of a prominent non-Seri wearing face paint came in May of this year, when singer Christian Nodal performed at Fiestas del Pitic in his hometown of Sonora. He requested Seri woman Mina Barnett to paint his face before going on stage. Barnett explained the designs were historically worn by warriors for protection in battle, but she also interpreted this modern one as a sign of wishing Nodal well in his future endeavors: "La pintura facial que luce, significa protección para los guerreros. La interpretación que le di al realizarle este diseño fue desearle el bien para todos los proyectos de su vida." An elder Seri member, Alberto Mellado, stated that he had no issue with it and said that Seri designs worn by people not from the community were a gesture of "friendship and goodwill."
Nodal apparently liked the concept of Seri face paint so much he got a tattoo of a more traditional Seri design. The backlash was swift and brutal, but not primarily because the public felt it was cultural appropriation: the critique was mostly about facial tattoos in general. Of the dozens of articles covering Nodal's Seri-inspired tattoo, only a handful brought up the issue of cultural appropriation.
According to some coverage, there were accusations of appropriation as Nodal revealed the tattoo on Instagram Stories, but he defended it by claiming he had permission from the Seri to get the design permanently on his face.30 Another article made the argument that while Nodal is not part of the Seri, he grew up in the same region and the tattoo was a way of honoring the people and their locale. I'm still not really sure what to think about those outside the Seri community using the designs even if they explain the culture responsible for them, as both Gurrión and Nodal did. But I don't think I'd feel comfortable getting made up by a Seri person, let alone a tattoo.
In any case, for the Seri, face painting helps connect them to their heritage as well as nature. White means good luck, red signifies the blood of their ancestors, and the blue represents both the desert sky and the ocean that comprise the Seris' surroundings. Most importantly, face painting is integral to forming and maintaining a strong ethnic identity. While the Seri engage in face painting for traditional ceremonies and celebrations, they recognize the importance of wearing face paint for occasions outside of their local community to represent their culture. It becomes not just facial decoration or a way to denote their age/gender, but a means of communicating that they belong to a particular ethnic group. From a purely aesthetic perspective, the delicate and ornate patterns combined with the simple color scheme are incredibly striking and beautiful.
What design is your favorite? Would you like to see more makeup from Indigenous peoples? I'm still not sure whether it's appropriate for me to discuss, but there are so many I'd love tohighlight.
1For the purposes of this post, I am using the phrase "face paint" instead of "makeup" as I believe there is a distinction between the two when discussing the practices of Indigenous peoples and/or makeup produced prior to the modern era. Makeup usually refers to the commercially produced items beginning in the early 20th century intended specifically for painting the face for purposes of beautifying; face paint is more the act of applying paint to one's face using pigments that are not made or reserved solely for cosmetic usage and for a variety of purposes besides beautification. Many Indigenous peoples, including the Seri, use the same paint for self-adornment as they do for painting on other surfaces, and sometimes for religious/spiritual purposes in addition to beautification. Articles written in Spanish about the Seri also seem to make this distinction, using "pintura facial" more often than "maquillaje."
3W. J. McGee, "The Seri Indians", extract from the Seventeenth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1898) 162-169. McGee's opinion of the Seri aesthetic was at least somewhat neutral compared to that of retired army captain J. Lee Humfreville, who wrote in the early 1900s that the Seris' use of face paint was intended to "make themselves look as ugly as possible."
4"Low Bids for Hollywood Lovelies Where the Seri Indians Auction Wives," The Times (Shreveport, LA), February 23, 1946, 48.
5"Green Faced Woman of Baja (Lower) California: The Married Women of the Seri Tribe Paint their Faces Green," Ripley's Believe it Or Not, August 31, 1947.
19José Luis Contreras, "Congcaac, la tribu que agoniza. La raza de los Seri se apaga el infierno de la isla Tiburón," Mañana no. 787 (October 4, 1958), quoted in Deborah Dorotinsky, "It Is Written in Their Faces: Seri Women and Facial Painting in Photography," in Visual Typologies from the Early Modern to the Contemporary: Local Contexts and Global Practices, ed. Tara Zanardi and Lynda Klich (New York: Routledge, 2018) 176.
20Dorotinsky, "It Is Written in Their Faces" 176.
21"Seri Indian Cultural Spirit Relived in Painted Faces," Arizona Daily Star, February 19, 1979, 30.
22Mike Thompson, "Seri Indian Cultural Exchange in Tuscon," Viltis 45, no. 6 (March 1987): 6-8.
23Burckhalter, "The Traditional Art of Adornment," 74.
24Marlett, Stephen A and Mary Beck Moser, Comcaac Quih Yaza Quih Hant Ihiip Hac Cmiique Iitom – Cocsar Iitom – Maricaana Iitom = Diccionario Seri-Español-Ingles Con Indices Español-Seri Ingles-Seri Y Con Gramatica 1ª ed. (Sonora: Plaza y Valdes, 2005) 365.
25Morales, "La Pintura Facial de Los Comcáac," 100-101.
Consumers have come to expect a good measure of dishonesty in makeup marketing. But given the lack of strict regulations for cosmetics labeling in the U.S. ("clean" beauty, anyone?), companies have considerably more freedom to concoct some rather outlandish claims, especially nearly 90 years ago. Case in point: Woodbury's germ-free face powder and germ-proof lipstick and blush.1 In 1933 Woodbury introduced two creams they advertised as germ-free, asserting that their special formula contained a "self-purifying ingredient" that totally inhibited the growth of harmful bacteria even after use: "The last fingertip of Woodbury's Cold Cream is as sterile and free from germ growth as the first."
The faux science in the ads is absolutely mind-boggling, and there's a lot to unpack: the agar plates, the completely made-up Element 576 and the emphasis on germs not causing illness but bad skin.2
The mummy references are particularly fascinating, especially in the context of other brands that extensively appropriated Egyptian imagery in the name of beauty. Explains Advertising Age: "The illustration used is full of significance. In the background is a photograph of the head of the wooden casket used by ancient Egyptians to enclose mummies. To get the picture, it was necessary to make an exact copy of a New York museum piece…one of the problems was to give the illustration high character. The mummy has a classic connotation [that] suggests the historic beauty of the Egyptians and carries a desert-dry inference on age. Possibility of achieving similar results with a mask treatment was rejected because of frequent use of the idea in recent years."3
While the "historic" beauty of ancient Egyptians is acknowledged in Woodbury's ads, an image of a mummy is used to indicate an undesirable cosmetic trait. If Cleopatra and Nefertiti were represented as beauty icons, the mummy represents ugliness – essentially the opposite of most Egyptian-themed makeup advertising.
Another interesting aspect of Woodbury's marketing of the germ-free line was the inclusion of quotes from a real dermatologist. Many figures used in makeup ads were complete works of fiction, but there was in fact a Dr. John Monroe Sigman and he was indeed a Georgia-based dermatologist. Whether Woodbury got permission to use his name on their germ-free ads is unclear. Most likely they didn't, but the fact that they used an actual, existing dermatologist is a step up from entirely imaginary people like Dr. Charles4 or grossly misrepresented real women such as Mamie Hightower. Anyway, a few years later Woodbury expanded the idea from skincare to makeup. As we know, it's impossible to keep makeup entirely "germ-proof"; it can be sanitized, but the claim that any cosmetic will remain totally free of germs once it's been used is obviously quite the fabrication.
One of the things I was trying to figure out is why Woodbury introduced the germ-free line at this moment in time. There was some hand-wringing about makeup being unsanitary and able to transmit dangerous infections, which may have simply been part and parcel of the general dislike of makeup in the early days of the industry, but common advice to avoid breakouts or infections even by the beginning of the 1930s was the same as today: don't share your makeup, wash your hands thoroughly before handling skincare/makeup (or use a clean brush/other tool) and be sure to remove your makeup daily.5 It appears that the germ-free line was just another marketing tactic to try to set Woodbury's products apart using the latest spin on science-backed cosmetics. Then again, though Woodbury's ads tied germs to unsightly skin issues rather than illness and the flu epidemic of 1918 was long over, the public may have been generally more fearful of germs given their knowledge of how diseases were spread and that vaccinations available today were still decades away in the early 1930s. (Think about it: the moment COVID was declared a pandemic came a tidal wave of articles on whether the virus could live on makeup.) And as historian Shiho Imai points out, certain populations, particularly the Japanese-American community living in Hawai'i, were especially susceptible to the claims of germ-free products. "The bubonic plague and Chinatown fire of 1900 was still fresh in the memory of many Honoluluans. In an environment in which the Chinese, Japanese, Korean and Filipinos continuously changed the geography of race in the city, the specter of germs constituted a peculiar threat to Honolulu's elite community…Woodbury's took advantage of the public's fear of contamination, a strategy that resonated especially with Hawai'i's English-speaking community."6
In any case, while the Federal Trade Commission filed a complaint against Woodbury for several other false claims in 1938, it wasn't until 1941 that they issued a cease and desist specifically on the germ-free marketing, noting that their germ-free/germ-proof products were neither "sterile" nor had any antiseptic properties. The promises made by today's beauty products seem less unbelievable than those Woodbury made in the 1930s – there's no way a company now could get away with claiming any product to be germ-free – but the ad copy is much more vague so as to avoid legal liability. Take, for example, Clé de Peau's holiday 2022 collection, the face cream of which contains something called "Skin-Empowering Illuminator" with an exclusive ingredient the company has dubbed "4MSK." In some ways this sort of drivel seems worse than more specific claims.
Have you ever felt misled by makeup marketing? The vast majority of marketing is patently untruthful, but I think the one I've been snookered by the most is anything labeled "shine-free". As an oily-skinned person I can tell you that I've spent countless dollars trying to achieve a matte t-zone to no avail, yet I fell for it hook, line and sinker for many years. Needless to say, I would have purchased Woodbury's germ-proof powder to avoid the horror of "shiny nose".
1 In their official ads, Woodbury inexplicably appeared to use "germ-proof" for rouge and lipstick and "germ-free" for skincare and face powder. Newspaper ads for all products seemed to use both terms interchangeably.
2 In 1936 Woodbury had increased the percentage of ad copy dedicated to discussing the germ-free qualities of their products; nevertheless even the earlier ads were significantly focused on the products being germ-free. See Advertising Age, December 9, 1935, vol. 6, issue 49, p. 25
3 Advertising Age, May 5, 1934, vol. 5, issue 18, p. 18
4 I have yet to find any evidence that there was a Dr. Charles (or any doctor for that matter) behind Dr. Charles Flesh Food. If anyone can dig something up I'd be grateful!
5 These statements are based on a quick review of newspaper articles from the time, including "Girls Warned Lipsticks Are Germ Carriers," Indiana Gazette, June 24, 1924 and "The Removal of Makeup," Des Moines Tribune, February 20, 1929.
6 Imai, Shiho. Creating the Nisei Market: Race and Citizenship in Hawaii's Japanese American Consumer Culture. University of Hawai'i Press (2010), p. 49. This statement suggests that xenophobia and racism may have been at play as well in the marketing and purchasing of germ-free products. In this case, buying these items may have been viewed by Japanese Americans living in Hawaii as a way to assimilate and avoid accusations of uncleanliness or spreading disease. (Again: see the current pandemic and greatly increasedhate crimes towards Asians.)
I forget what I was looking for when I stumbled across beautician and stylist Eddie (Eadward) B. Deason (1921-1976). Like Blanche Hunter, Deason's story is incomplete. But the few things I could find are definitely worth highlighting.
Deason opened several successful House of Charm salons throughout the Los Angeles area in the late 1940s and early 1950s. According to features in Jet and Tan, he had pioneered new styling techniques for Black hair, including a less time-consuming process for pin curls. He also lent his name to advertisements for a hair styling brand called K & K Hollywood in the mid-1950s.
The man was a quadruple threat: he sang, styled hair, designed dresses and emceed fashion shows, many of which were benefits for the local Black community.
He also threw elaborate parties at the homes he shared with his business manager and romantic partner, Frank (Franklin C.) Jackson. Deason's relationship with Jackson presumably dated back to 1939 and lasted at least until 1964.1 Frank is all the way on the left in this photo from 1948.
I believe Frank is also shown here, seated 2nd from the right below/between the two blondes.
The text on this photo reads, "A girl who came west to go into pictures (?) stopped by office — and met Eddie Deason. He made a date (?) with her but affair was doomed. He had Frank [Jackson]."
Obviously, neither Deason nor Jackson escaped persecution. Deason was arrested in 1947 for being in the "wrong" neighborhood after returning from a fashion show in broad daylight and then falsely accused of smoking marijuana. He was arrested again in 1949 for being "caught in a compromising position with a man in a men's room of a service station" and again in 1951 for sitting in a parked car (and subsequently shot at by police – fortunately he was unharmed.) Both Deason and Jackson were arrested, along with 7 others in a 1959 raid on one of their homes for narcotics possession.2 All of these point to how dangerous it was for Black men to merely exist in the 1950s, made even more so by virtue of being gay.
As the Museum focuses on makeup and not other grooming categories (hair care, skincare, etc.) you might be wondering why Deason is being featured here. Among his many accomplishments, one of the most important ones was Deason's alleged status (at the time) as the first and only Black person to study in Max Factor's studio. He reportedly trained with makeup director Abe Shore and studied cosmetic chemistry at the University of Southern California. He then became the first Black cosmetology student at the Frank Wiggins Trade School (now known as Los Angeles Trade Technical College). In 1941 Deason was appointed the lead makeup artist for the performers in Duke Ellington's all-Black musical revue, Jump for Joy. Interestingly, Ellington forbade the performers to darken their skin tone with makeup3. Deason is not mentioned by name in any of the anecdotes about that and I wonder if he was responsible for the makeup of only the female performers. As one article states, "Uniform 'luscious brown' of Jump for Joy's girls is laid to the cosmetic artistry of the young Factor expert."4
It appears Deason wanted to use this experience as a stepping stone to ultimately "get the makeup concession for all [Blacks] in the motion picture industry". This might explain Deason's role as an extra in 1942 for the film Hers to Hold, which was released a year later.
In any case, Shore was invited to attend the grand opening of Deason's salon in Pasadena in 1948, along with the director of the Frank Wiggins Cosmetology school. In December 1952, Jet reported that Deason was offering his makeup services to Los Angeles studios for free as a way to start his own company specializing in TV makeup for Black actors. It doesn't seem that his original plan for entering the makeup business came to fruition, as articles after 1952 only highlight Deason's work as a hair stylist and fashion designer.
I really wish I could have found more about the makeup artist side of Deason and more biographical details. UCLA lists his birth and death dates, which I couldn't find anywhere else, so that leads me to believe they may have more information in their archives that hasn't been posted online. I also wonder if the University of Southern California, the various Max Factor archives or Los Angeles Trade Technical College would have anything about Deason.5 It's both frustrating and saddening to witness such a dearth of history about another successful Black beauty entrepreneur, especially one who was possibly the first Black makeup artist to have trained in the predominantly white, though prestigious, space that was the Max Factor studio.
What do you think? If there are any professional researchers, historians, archivists, genealogists, etc. who are willing to help find more information, please let me know!
1The earliest mention of Jackson and Deason attending a social event was from the Victorville Daily Press, January 27 1939 – perhaps they met there? The latest mention that listed both was from the California Eagle, January 9, 1964. The last mention of Deason at all I could find in newspapers was a snippet about an art auction to benefit affordable housing, which was hosted at his home (The Valley News, July 23, 1971)
2As reported in the California Eagle, November 24, 1949; San Bernadino County Sun, June 1, 1951, and the Oakland Tribune, January 31, 1959. This last article gives Deason's age as 34, which doesn't make sense – if he was actually born in 1921, he would have been 38 in 1959. Deason may also have been arrested in August of 1949, but again, the birth date would be off.
3Some Black entertainers – especially comedians – usedblackface to adhere to the prevailing racial stereotypes of the time. Obviously colorism in makeup is a huge topic that goes beyond this post, but as it's relevant to Deason I wanted to mention it.
4California Eagle, August 28, 1941
5There is another place that may offer a tiny grain of additional information – this collection has one frame from archival footage showing Deason.
CW/TW: racist imagery and slurs for Indigenous, Asian, Latinx, and Black populations as well as those of Middle Eastern descent.
It's been nearly a decade since I discussed one of the many ugly parts of the beauty industry: cultural appropriation in makeup advertising and collections. The purpose of this post is to see what's happened on that front since 2013, highlight yet more historic examples and examine where we are now and where we're going. Is the industry moving in a positive direction with respect to cultural appropriation? How about the broader makeup wearing community and artists? The usual caveat applies, which is that cultural appropriation in makeup could be an entire book, but I think at least scratching the surface might be helpful in terms of reminding people about this issue and informing future research.
As covered in the previous post on this topic, cultural appropriation within a fashion and beauty context is defined as companies taking a culturally important symbol or idea (usually of a non-dominant or marginalized group) and using it for profit rather than true cultural appreciation. (This primer is still really good). Cultural appropriation is marked by a failure to acknowledge the significance behind a cultural artifact/practice or the reduction of a group to a harmful stereotype. Something that I didn't clarify in 2013 is that cultural appropriation is not different than racism but rather a form of it, along with stereotyping, fetishization and othering of BIPOC cultures. I mistakenly stated that appropriation "ties into racism", but that's not accurate. It IS racism, full stop.
So what are some of the culturally appropriative ads and collections that have been released in the past decade or so? Summer 2016 brought both Essence's Lights of the Orient and MAC's Vibe Tribe collection. In Essence's case, the design appears to be a mishmash of a watered-down Middle Eastern-looking pattern and a Greek key border for some reason. The packaging for Vibe Tribe, meanwhile, looks vaguely Navajo but does not reference any particular Native American tribe.
With the 2017 Lise Watier Luxotikka and Givenchy's 2018 Africa Light highlighter, it's not clear which culture they're ripping off. Once again, Africa is not a monolith. Some "tribal" print and a Black (?) model do not automatically refer to Africa. What is clear is Watier's portmanteau of "lux" and "exotic", and the latter word should not be used in this context.
Nomad's Shanghai palette was more complicated. As the company name suggests, Nomad is dedicated to creating palettes and collections named for the two (white, European) founders' globe-trotting adventures. Some argued that their products are meant to represent their experiences in the places they've visited rather than capturing the spirit of a particular locale. And travel-themed collections and lines are generally innocuous. But unlike Nomad's other releases, most agreed that the Shanghai palette seemed completely ignorant of the city (despite Nomad's claim that they worked with Chinese colleagues living there) and reduced it, along with much of Chinese culture, to stereotypes. People also felt it was tone-deaf given the rise of violent attacks against members of the AAPI community in 2021, which Nomad did not acknowledge at all.
And now for some vintage pieces I've come across. Cutex's Aztec Treasures refers to "pagan" colors, which in this instance is synonymous with some other racist terms ads love to use when describing ancient, non-white cultures: savage or primitive. The sculptures and architecture are reduced to props for white ladies. Using art to sell makeup is not new, nor is it problematic for a brand to be inspired by white/European artists since they are referring to a dominant culture, but in this context and combined with the ad copy, it is most definitely appropriation.
Revlon's 1969 Mexicolor collection ad isn't the most offensive, but inventing words like "Mexicolor" and the model's styling contribute to stereotyping. And once again the art serves as a backdrop.
I don't even know where to start with Yardley's China Brights ad from 1972. The shade names, the styling and the entire concept are just…awful.
The assault on Native American cultures ranges from garden-variety offensive to OMG-how-did-they-get-away-with-this-even-back-then. Embarrassingly, I purchased this Richard Hudnut compact a while ago. I knew it was named Thunderbirds, but because it was released in 1941 I believed it was referencing the U.S. air force group, which, in turn, I thought was named from the fact that planes were sometimes called birds and military jets make a ton of noise – I literally thought thunderbirds referred to WWII planes and the compact's imagery was an interesting representation of the name. I usually don't find military themes appealing and tend not to buy them for the Museum, but I honestly enjoyed this particular design. Little did I know that thunderbirds are mythological creatures from the folklore of many different Native American tribes. (According to this museum, the air force group's adoption of the thunderbirds name and symbol in 1939 was a result of their previous insignia – a swastika – being synonymous with Nazis by that point.) In any case, I don't think this compact had anything to do with the U.S. Air Force, but even if it did, it would still be appropriation.
It's bad enough that Tussy refers to the "Pow Wow" face, but to equate Native American speech with that of a Neanderthal is truly abhorrent. The ad copy reads like a cave man cliché.
The copy for Revlon's Sun Canyon Colors collection, meanwhile, erases the fact that land was outright stolen from Native Americans, instead opting for the narrative that the West was a "new frontier" to be "discovered". And let's not ignore the fact that the white model is appropriating Native garb as a costume.
Cutex seemed to be on a cultural appropriation streak in 1961.
Well-to-do, London-born Madeleine Mono made her entire cosmetics career off of a product she introduced in 1974 named Indian Eyes, a kajal pencil liner. Mono copied a genuine Indian formula she had purchased in an Indian-owned store in London, put it into pencil form, added a sizeable price markup and shopped it around to department stores. By 1981 the company had sold over 500,000 Indian Eyes pencils and was worth $8 million. I guess Mono couldn't get quite as rich if she had imported original ingredients from India or worked with an Indian business partner, so she opted for appropriation. Like white-owned brands that sell traditional Asian skincare tools, Mono really didn't have any business profiting off of Indian cosmetic practices in this manner. While there is a vast array of kajal pencils from non-Indian owned brands on the market these days, Mono's exotification of India made the product problematic, and while it's not her fault she was born in England, the whole operation smacks of British imperialism. (As a side note, I'd love a full history of how kohl and kajal pencils became normalized in the Western makeup world…but that's a project for another time.) The company also managed to branch into stereotyping Middle Eastern heritage with their Arabian Lights highlighters – shade names included Genie Gold and Bagdad Blue – and further mined Asian culture by releasing brushes with bamboo-shaped handles.
Around the same time, Mary Quant's Desert Chic collection similarly appropriated cultures from Middle Eastern countries.
So why do makeup companies engage in cultural appropriation? Obviously they're out to make money, but why was/is plundering various cultures such a common tactic, especially when there are other options available such as working with an artist or consultant who hails from that particular culture? I can think of a few reasons. One is the over-saturation of the cosmetics market. As noted in the Museum's post on Tattoo, so many brands and collections, companies seem to think that anything marketed as "exotic" will stand out from other products and catch the customer's eye. Second, the industry still misses the mark in terms of racial and cultural diversity in the U.S. The people responsible for creating and marketing collections aren't necessarily sensitive to cultural appropriation because the majority of them have never had to deal with it.
Another question is what to do with culturally appropriative objects and trends. Should they be purchased/participated in? On the one hand, it pains me to spend money on anything that's overtly bad and I certainly would not knowingly engage in an derogatory trend. On the other hand, basically all makeup is problematic on some level; it's a matter of which brands and influencers get exposed for their wrongdoings and the relative level of offensiveness. From a museum standpoint, I think it's necessary to discuss and display everything. If a museum is going to cover makeup from all eras and cultures, it has a responsibility to call attention to the bad along with the good. However, there's a line between educating museum visitors and traumatizing them. So more importantly than purchasing, how does a museum go about displaying and talking about the really awful stuff and acknowledging that the whole industry was built on racism and discrimination, worker exploitation, harmful ingredients, animal testing and the negative impact beauty packaging has on the planet, while also highlighting the things that aren't quite as egregious? I don't have an answer yet, but I hope to sort it out in the next MM Musings, which will discuss museums as agents of social change.
Anyway, it may be naivete on my part, but I believe makeup is moving in a positive direction with respect to cultural appropriation. The general public seems more aware of appropriation and in some cases, this leads to companies actually working to remove appropriative products from shelves and ads. Colourpop's Sandstone collection was repackaged after people spoke out about its questionable design, and in 2019 Fenty's Geisha Chic blush was pulled immediately from distribution and renamed. Nomad also shut down production of its Shanghai palette within days of revealing images of it and the ensuing backlash on social media. Arguably companies felt pulling a product hurt their bottom line less than a controversy, so they most likely removed or repackaged products to protect their reputation, not because they genuinely learned why they were wrong or felt any remorse. Still, makeup enthusiasts who are not industry professionals are now debating whether it's permissible to wear ancient Eyptian-inspired makeup as well as looks from a variety of cultures. Along those lines, over the past few years there's been more dialogue among consumers regarding collections and looks inspired by Lunar New Year and Day of the Dead celebrations. Slapping red packaging on a random product and marketing it for Lunar New Year, especially by a non-Asian brand that does not acknowledge the holiday's traditions or the larger Asian community, is a mindless cash grab. Some argue that the commodification of Lunar New Year can help raise awareness of Asian heritage, while some feel that any products sold specifically for the holiday are appropriation. (For the record, I'm still not sure of where I stand on this…I used to think the majority of LNY items were more cultural appreciation, but now I'm not sure. I know that in 2022 I purchased much less LNY makeup than in previous years because a lot of it was so uninspired and there were more non-Asian brands who don't even have a sizeable market in Asia releasing it, which didn't sit well with me.)
Cultural appropriation is still happening, of course, but anecdotal evidence suggests it does seem that people are more educated and speaking up. While it's going to be many more years before we don't see any instances of cultural appropriation or other more overtly racist collections and ads, it appears there's been infinitesimal improvement as compared to 2013. When I wrote part 1 of this post there were few major publications calling out cultural appropriation in the beauty sphere. Most of the links included in that article were from beauty bloggers who, like the Museum, had a relatively small following. But as of this writing, a quick Google search for "cultural appropriation cosmetics" shows at least 5 pages of articles by trade publications and mainstream media, including WWD, Brydie, Beauty Independent, and Teen Vogue. What needs to happen, as I've noted previously, is structural change. Until there is true diversity and inclusion at the upper echelons across the entire industry and major media outlets, there will still be cultural appropriation. One last point is that there's been significant growth of brands whose cultures have been ripped off. I don't think new makeup companies or products are a solution to cultural appropriation – the planet is drowning in beauty waste – but newcomers such as Prados and Florasis are helping raise awareness of their respective cultures while also reclaiming them from an industry that historically mistreated or ignored them. And I do think they contribute to structural change in the business in that they help offset the endless onslaught of white-centered brands, particularly those by celebrities. If there are new brands entering the scene, they should be culturally diverse.
Thoughts?
*Interestingly, a 1955 press photo for Arden's Eye Kohl was used on the cover of Kathy Peiss's Hope in a Jar.
It's another incomplete history, but I wanted to highlight the few bits I was able to locate about the makeup line founded by supermodel Naomi Sims, born on this day in 1948.1 (This post will not cover her collection of wigs, fragrance or skincare as these are not technically makeup, nor will it serve as her biography. Also, more light would be probably shed on Sims' intentions for her makeup line if I had remote access to her papers, which are unfortunately available by in-person appointment only. Sigh. Maybe in a few months if it's safe to travel I can dig through her archives and provide a more thorough profile.) Sims, a 5'10" beauty originally from Mississippi, began modeling in 1966 to help pay for college. Her true passion, however, was entrepreneurship. After becoming the first Black model to appear on the cover of Ladies' Home Journal in November 1968 and Life in 1969, Sims focused her attention on various business ventures. "Modeling was never my ultimate goal. Since I was 14 I wanted to manufacture beauty products," she stated.
On May 15, 1970 Sims announced she would be starting a beauty company that would specialize in cosmetics for Black customers. Like many Black women, Sims was frustrated at the lack of wearable and affordable base products for deep skintones. While a few lines for women of color existed they were not as plentiful or accessible as other brands. Fueled by relentless systemic racism, the barriers to entry for Black beauty entrepreneurs were multiple and substantial – lack of access to capital and loans, discriminatory policies that prohibited their products being sold in most stores2 and the claim that Black women either didn't want/need or couldn't afford makeup were just a handful of the challenges faced by Black entrepreneurs looking to set up shop. In short, despite the significant inroads made by pioneers like Carmen Murphy and Anthony Overton, there weren't many makeup options for Black women. Sims wanted them to feel confident and glamorous, which was difficult given the limited choices. "Black women have an inferiority complex concerning their physical appearance and I want to give them confidence. Black women want the same genuine psychological boost out of cosmetics that other women do, and one simply does not get that glorious feeling of glamour by adding burnt cork to the darkest shade of sun tan powder available," she said.3
The company, called Naomi Inc., was founded in partnership with ad agency Cadwell Davis. The shades were supposedly inspired by a Brazilian painter who used "earth" as a medium. It appears that Sims was nearly a decade ahead of the spate of clay-based products (stay tuned for a post on these!) that would flood the market starting in the late 1970s.
Sims took a keen interest in the formulas, stating that she wanted natural, beneficial ingredients and noted her desire to go back to school for chemistry. "[The] makeup we'll introduce will be almost medical makeup and skincare products. I'll visit stores and tell women how to use them…I want to know really what goes inside those cosmetics."4 As of 1971 the line was still being developed (in Japan), according to Harper's Bazaar.
Plans for the cosmetics were still on the table a year later. (Also, can we please take a minute to appreciate the baby blue on her waterline?! It's a gorgeous twist on the white liner trick to brighten eyes.)
Rather than continuing with Naomi, Inc., in 1973 Sims largely retired from her modeling career to focus more on her beauty business ventures, debuting a line of wigs called The Naomi Sims Collection. Three years later she published All About Health and Beauty for the Black Woman. While both the beauty guide and wigs sold well, it appears Sims tabled the makeup idea for the time being as there is no mention of it anywhere, not even in her book (or at least, this excerpt that dispenses makeup advice.) One would think someone with her own makeup line would recommend it, but she suggests a Revlon product instead.
In 1978 and at the launch of her fragrance in May 1979, Sims mentioned she was planning both skincare and makeup for the fall, but neither materialized. As of October 1979, according to Vogue, the makeup allegedly was still in development and was slated for a spring/summer 1980 release. "How to find makeup to blend in with our complexion," was still a problem, she noted then. "The colors available just aren't right. And from working with [makeup] every day [while modeling], I wanted to know why someone couldn't develop colors for Black women, and I wouldn't take no for an answer."5 Despite her persistent dedication to establishing a cosmetics range, it seems that the one Sims envisioned in 1970 did not actually come to fruition during that decade. There are several possible reasons as to why she chose to delay it. At first glance, given Sims' access to chemists (whom she worked with to develop new fibers for her wigs) and the overall success of her other endeavors, it's puzzling that she did not forge ahead with makeup. But as we know, makeup, particularly for women of color, has unique hurdles not shared by other beauty product categories. Secondly, early on Sims faced criticism from both white and Black customers. The June 26, 1970 issue of Women's Wear Daily mentions a quote from some Karen who thought it was unfair that Sims' proposed makeup line would cater to Black women (insert eyeroll here), while the April 1971 issue of Essence included a letter from a reader who did not approve of Sims' "white beauty secrets."
The advice from Sims herself was questionable as well. While she encouraged Black women never to minimize full lips, she echoed the sentiment about using makeup to ensure one would be appealing to Black men. "Cosmetics should not minimize the lip shape that many [Black] women have. Cosmetics should bring out the best features in a woman and those include her lips." In the same 1970 article, she advises: "A woman should always use some makeup but it should have a natural look…natural is the way Black men want their women to look."6
Thirdly, it could be that Sims decided she didn't want to compete with other makeup brands or collections intended for Black women at the time. The Naomi Sims Collection launched in 1973, the same year as Fashion Fair Cosmetics. Actress Barbara Walden introduced her eponymous line in 1968, which went on to be sold in department stores two years later. The white-owned Flori Roberts was still going strong, having been established in 1965, and mammoth Avon began marketing to Black women around the same time. Finally, Sims noted that she decided to postpone the line until after the Vietnam War to focus more on makeup. "I think I will wait until the war dies down…there will still be plenty of business left for me," she said.7
Sims never abandoned the idea for makeup products, however. In 1985 she co-founded a new business separate from her wig and fragrance companies, Naomi Sims Beauty Products Ltd., with her brother-in-law Alex Erwiah. Erwiah was a native of the Ivory Coast and a veteran cosmetic marketer who owned a successful import/export company that represented American and European brands throughout Africa. In 1987 a three-step, hypoallergenic skincare system was unveiled. While this sounds awfully similar to Clinique's famous three-step plan, Sims claimed that it was the first allergen-free line formulated especially for Black skin concerns. A year later, the cosmetics line, named Color Enhancers, was finally launched. Advertised as a natural-looking alternative to other cosmetics on the market and specifically formulated for a range of Black skin tones, the products retailed from $7.50 to $18 and were sold via phone order, Macy's, Saks, Nordstrom, Sears and other department stores.8
Sims enlisted makeup artist Byron Barnes to develop the products and join the company as Creative Director.9 Barnes' tenure with Sims was fairly short; in 1993 he left to pursue similar roles for a makeup range founded by another Black supermodel, Iman, which went on to become very successful. On the surface, Naomi Sims Beauty also sold well even early on, with Erwiah anticipating sales of over $5 million in 1989. But later that year he pointed out some challenges faced by the brand. The New York Timesreported: "Erwiah calculates that it will be at least two years before Naomi Sims shows a profit. Promotion and penetration of new markets are costly, and the company has invested heavily in new products, adding color cosmetics to its original skin-treatment line. Erwiah has another problem: for reasons that are not clear, Naomi Sims is no longer on the scene. Sims, whose title is chairman of the board, is unavailable for interviews and has no scheduled department store appearances. When asked to describe Sims's current role, Donna Italiano, the company's spokesman, will only say, 'I guess primarily the same as an Estee Lauder. Naomi has established the brand, and now she has taken pretty much of a back seat. Alex is the sole owner and Naomi Sims collects royalties.' Italiano does confirm that Sims has been ill and was recently hospitalized in Manhattan. While some observers question whether Naomi Sims Beauty Products can succeed, absent a compelling, credible figure with whom black women can identify, others declare that the day of beauty queens like Estee Lauder has passed. 'Today's cosmetics companies are selling image more than personality,' says consultant Natalia Holynskyj of Kline & Co., a market research firm in Fairfield, N.J. 'Even Estee Lauder has changed. The company doesn't use the Lauder name with its Clinique and Prescriptives lines.'"
Despite these obstacles, in 1992 the collection was doing well enough to launch in the UK, and was still being promoted through the summer of 1996.
That summer the company released a eyeshadow primer called Chalk. This is quite innovative due to the fact that there were basically next to zero eyeshadow primers on the market at the time (I distinctly remember being advised to use concealer or a matte beige/ivory shadow applied wet as a base), and the ones that were available certainly were not formulated for deep skin tones. "While most [eyeshadow primers] come in a sharp white, Naomi Sims' is a banana yellow that blends better with darker skin and helps colors appear more vibrant," reported the L.A. Times.10 Yellow toned or not, it was a strange name choice given that a common problem with eyeshadow primers is that they can appear quite chalky on dark skin. In November of 1996, an article in Drug and Cosmetic Industry cited two makeup artists who raved about both Naomi Sims skincare and the Skin Enhancer foundation. The same issue featured an interview with Mikki Taylor, then beauty and cover editor of Essence, who called the line "superb". But despite these accolades, the makeup didn't seem to be around much longer. While hair and skincare products from Naomi Sims Beauty Products were available in 2003, the makeup line appears to have been abruptly discontinued in late 1996 as I couldn't find any mentions of it thereafter.
It's not clear when Naomi Sims Beauty officially folded.11 What we do know, however, is that Sims was yet another visionary for Black women's cosmetics. Without models/seasoned businesswomen like Sims, who had first-hand experience with the issues surrounding beauty aids for Black women as well as Black entrepreneurship more generally, even less ground would have been covered by now in terms of suitable cosmetics for Black customers. I think the fact that her line was relatively short-lived and not as well-known compared to other Black-owned brands had nothing to do with product quality, marketing or the public's perception of Sims, given that her wigs were very popular for many years and her beauty guide sold even more copies when it was updated and republished in 1986, a decade after after its original run. I suspect it was related to heavy competition from the flurry of new, "multicultural" collections by mainstream white-owned brands in the early '90s (such as Maybelline's Shades of You, Prescriptives All Skins, and Revlon's ColorStyle, just to name a few – stay tuned for a post on these too!), revamped heritage Black-owned brands (Fashion Fair, Posner) and stylish newcomers like Iman. Nothing about Color Enhancers appeared to be lacking. It was simply unfortunate timing. And, of course, the role played by racism cannot be overstated.
What do you think? I really wish I could track down some of the makeup for the Museum's collection, but I found no trace of it offered for sale.
1Some sources indicate 1949, but Sims's obituary states she was 61 at the time of her death, so that would mean her birth year was 1948.
2Most brands that catered to Black customers were only sold via mail order or direct sales (i.e. door-to-door sales agents.)
3"Beauty Plan – Color It Black," Associated Press, May 16, 1970.
4"Top Model Naomi Sims Has Personality Plus," Courier Journal, Louisville, Kentucky, December 3, 1970.
5"Naomi Sims Brings Preview of Her Wig Designs to County," Joan Tarangioli, The Herald Statesman, Yonkers, New York, October 21, 1979.
6"Beauty Plan – Color It Black," Associated Press, May 16, 1970.
7"Everybody Is A Winner in Black Cosmetics War," Nina S. Hyde, Washington Post, July 1977.
8"New Beauty Lines Cater to Special Needs, Problems of Darker Skin Tones," Marylin Johnson, Atlanta Constitution, January 1, 1989.
9Barnes indicated he began working with Sims in 1989; however, the August 1988 issue of Seventeen lists him as the brand's creative director.
10"Changing Their Tones," Jocelyn Y. Stewart, L.A. Times, June 6, 1996.
11Interestingly, there is a 2016 trademark for Naomi Sims Beauty filed under Alex Erwiah's name, 7 years after Sims passed away.
On average, the Museum receives one inquiry a week. It doesn't seem like much, but if it's something that can't be identified easily or a broad question about historic trends, they can take up quite a bit of time. Here are a handful of inquiries I worked on over the past year or so.
First, we have some questions about wartime makeup. One of the Museum's Instagram followers asked about this lovely set she had purchased on eBay. She suggested it may have been a kit provided to service women during the war.
The following week, by pure coincidence, another person got in touch with an identical kit in red.
As it turns out, the hunch from the tan kit's owner was spot-on: this is Elizabeth Arden's service kit, which dates to about 1939-1956. I don’t think the company provided them for free, but it seems like the kit with Stop Red was recommended specifically for the women in the Auxiliary Fire Service in the UK, at least initially. A book called the Home Front Pocket Manual contains an excerpt from the Nov. 1939 issue of a British publication called Britannia and Eve, and it mentions the set.
The kit was sold in Canada starting around 1942 and continued to be sold there into the 1950s, but was advertised just as a regular travel kit for the “busy” woman, not service women. It also looks like the red leather was not available until 1942. In any case, it's a compelling piece of wartime women's history – kits were actually created to help women adhere to the "beauty is your duty" motto.
So this was mostly solved…except for the number that appeared on both kits. If anyone knows what "R.D. 1941" means please get in touch. The only possibly relevant thing I found was "Reserve Decoration" which is an award for the Royal Navy Reserve in the UK, but it doesn't seem like that would be appropriate to put on this particular kit.
Next up, a vintage enthusiast and YouTuber, Katie May, asked about the use of gravy browning as leg makeup during the war. As silk and nylons were scarce, liquid leg makeup was sold as a substitute for stockings.
But in the UK, where shortages were even more dire and cosmetics prohibitively expensive, more women tried to DIY liquid stockings through a number of substances. According to some sources, ladies tested out a bunch of things to mimic the look of stockings. Along with gravy browning, cocoa, wet sand, tea, iodine, walnut juice and brown shoe polish were all experimented with. Katie wanted to know how the gravy was applied and whether it was a widespread trend. I'm afraid I couldn't turn up much concrete information given the limited access I have to resources, not to mention I know very little of where to begin looking for sources on WWII history in the UK. This BBC archive provides a brief 1st person mention of the stockings, but my findings consisted mostly of newspaper snippets and book excerpts, which may not be reliable and don't provide exact figures as to how many women were actually partaking in the practice.
So it's really difficult to say how widespread DIY leg makeup was, at least on a regular basis. It must have been so cumbersome to mix and apply, and it definitely was not waterproof. Even the expensive pre-made leg makeup sold by cosmetic companies were not necessarily waterproof formulas despite their advertising. The gravy browning in particular was rumored to attract dogs and flies. I can't envision women applying it themselves or going to the leg makeup "bars" to have others apply it every day, but maybe they did. It was a very different time; one woman remarked that it was "embarrassing" to go without stockings, so perhaps the social stigma was strong enough to force women to try DIY alternatives, and the cosmetics shortage in the UK was a lot worse than in the U.S. As for face makeup, the same ideas apply – I'm skeptical of how widespread DIY makeup was, but it seems most women in the UK could not afford cosmetics during the war even if they were readily available (which, again, they weren't…lots of shortages. While the UK government believed that cosmetics boosted morale so they didn't completely stop producing makeup, it was still difficult to obtain.) I must point out that men enjoyed making fun of us silly, shallow women's efforts to keep up with the constant societal expectation of beauty. And of course, they always had it worse. I can't roll my eyes hard enough at these clippings.
In any case, some sources state that beetroot juice was substituted for lip makeup and blush, shoe polish or soot (!) for mascara, and starch for face powder (NOT flour, as proposed by the sexist windbag above). Some women melted down whatever was left of their existing lipsticks and mixed them with Vaseline to make a balm. The two sources I found to be most useful on DIY makeup were 1940s Fashion by Fiona Kay and A People's War by Peter Lewis. Madeleine Marsh's book Compacts and Cosmetics (p.124) and Geoffrey Jones's Beauty Imagined (p. 136) also have brief mentions of DIY wartime makeup. Finally, I also recommended to Katie that she reach out to Kate Thompson, who has written several historical fiction novels about women who worked at the Yardley cosmetics factory in the UK during the war, and my understanding is that she's done quite a bit of research into WWII makeup. Anyway, Katie bravely tried out the gravy browning and a bunch of other homemade wartime beauty substitutes! Kudos to her for re-creating these unusual and rather messy cosmetic practices.
Next, an antique store owner asked about some old cosmetics sales kits by the name of Velens that she had come across. I didn't turn up much on the brand's products, but here's what I was able to find. The company was founded in 1930 by a Swedish ex-pat named Leo B. Selberg. Selberg had a background in chemistry and previously worked for Luzier, another cosmetics brand at the time. The Velen's Educational Cosmetics name was copyrighted that same year, as well as something called "Paul Velen's Color Harmony Chart". As it turns out, a man by the name of Paul Velen (based in Kansas) had actually come up with all the formulas prior to Selberg's involvement. The relationship between Selberg and Velen isn't clear; however, from newspaper clippings it seems that before moving to Missouri, Selberg socialized frequently with an older brother of Paul, A.R. (Reuben) Velen, so I'm assuming they knew each other. Paul also had a degree in chemistry, although what inspired him to start a beauty business remains a mystery. Maybe Leo approached Paul about being the owner of the business while continuing to sell under the Velen name and keeping the formulas, but it doesn't seem like either of them were too involved/hands on with the line. Selberg sold Velen's in 1959 to a company called Greer and Associates, but I couldn't find any mention of Velen's Cosmetics after 1955 so it may have been on its last legs by that point anyway. Paul Velen died in May of 1969 at the age of 68; Selberg in 1979 at the age of 83. There was also a man named Albert Colborn who served briefly as Chairman of the Board of Velen's Cosmetics from 1930-1933 and started his own beauty company called the Modernistic Beauty Service in 1933, but I couldn't turn up much about him other than his obituary.
Anyway, the Velen's line wasn't used for training at beauty schools but rather for demonstrations in salons to sell to salon customers. In fact, it was almost exclusively sold in salons with some direct sales (door-to-door/traveling) agents, not in department or drug stores. The "educational" part of the name meant that beauty salon employees would "educate" their clientele on the best products for them and how to apply them. It looks like it was sold primarily in the Midwest and Texas, with some salons as far away as California and New Hampshire, which is why it's a little surprising there aren't more records or product photos. So this was quite a find and an interesting tidbit.
Skipping ahead to the late 1950s, the Museum received a few questions about Helena Rubinstein's Mascara-Matic. First, someone sent in a box with some adorable packaging, which was released for the holiday season in 1958.
I couldn't find a magazine ad, but there were a couple of newspaper ads. A year later Rubinstein released another holiday edition of Mascara-Matic with a Christmas ornament design on the box. As far as I know the "harlequin" style in the photos sent in to the Museum was only released in 1958, and it doesn't seem like Rubinstein released any other holiday edition boxes of Mascara-Matic except for 1958 and 1959.
Then another person wrote in asking about the value of an original Helena Rubinstein Mascara-Matic, believing that the one she had found was from its first production run and worth a whopping £3,000 according to this Daily Mail article. It's hard to say with certainty whether any Mascara-Matics are from the first run. Perhaps those had the patent number and everything after that was marked "waterproof" or did not have any markings around the middle. However, the one I purchased for the Museum has the patent number but also came with a refill, and refills were not sold until 1958, a year after the mascara's debut. Even if the one the person had was original, it's not clear where the figure of £3,000 comes from. The Museum does not do valuations, but I will say Mascara-Matics, either with patent numbers or marked "waterproof" typically sell for about $50 so I can't see an original being worth 60 times more, unless there was proof it belonged to a celebrity or something like that. There was also a listing for one with a patent number at eBay – from what I can tell it was unsold with a starting bid of £49.95. If it was in fact sold, again, I can't see it going for £3,000 even in mint condition.
Lastly, another vintage store owner inquired about a skincare kit sold by blender brand Osterizer. (There are larger photos of the jars at Etsy.)
Based on the coupon included in the photo and some newspaper ads it was sold between 1971 and 1975. It looked like quite the gimmick. There wasn't a ton of information on it, but it seems Oster was trying to cash in on the "natural" cosmetics trend of the late '60s/early '70s and sold these kits for those who already had a blender and wanted to make their own organic skincare with fresh ingredients.
But who really needs brand name pink jars and labels for homemade cosmetics? One could go to any craft store and get their own supplies. And while Google didn't exist back then, the recipes would have been pretty easy to find as well. I'm just a bit astounded at what they were trying to sell, as it really seems to be a cash grab. Anyway, it's a fascinating bit of beauty history and definitely an expression of the era.
Which one of these were you most intrigued by? While I'm not the best at solving makeup mysteries I do enjoy receiving them, so please don't hesitate to send any objects or questions to the Museum!