Charlotte
Little
Dark Stone: Marimekko’s Founding Philosophies as Seen Through the Kivi Dress (1970)
Charlotte Little
Founded in 1951, during Finland’s bleak postwar period, Armi Ratia’s Marimekko was a commitment to optimism in the face of national strife, not only providing cheerful prints for everyday clothing and homewares, but also taking part in the rapid growth of the Finnish creative design sector (Kemell-Kutvonen et al 224). Originally trained as a weaver, Ratia’s foray into print began as an enlistment from her husband, Viljo, to design new patterns for his previously acquired oilcloth company, Printex (Aav 33). From this union came Marimekko, a subsect of Printex that later became its own enterprise, eventually growing to become a pillar of Finnish design and national identity. While inextricably tied to the country’s industrial development, Ratia kept her design philosophy consistent with her own beliefs in the democratization and dissemination of beauty - she was looking to design the clothing of the future, making Marimekko as much a lifestyle as it is a clothing or homeware brand. Despite Marimekko’s commitment to timelessness, examining the time-bound history of the brand offers rich insights into the continuing philosophical goals of its founding, from the desires of female designers in the mid-century to the merging of national identities in collaboration with Japanese designers. Equally exemplified in this object exploration is the industrial reality of Marimekko’s origin and Ratia’s uchronic vision of fashion and lifestyle.
The object that I have chosen to examine is a Marimekko dress dated to the year 1970, as part of the Fashion Research Collection at TMU (see fig. 1). The dress takes a simple form: it is sleeveless, hangs rigidly with a slight A-line, and falls nearly to the floor, creating a striking pillar-like form that emphasizes the vertical line of the wearer. Two slits run up the sides of the stiff skirt and a simple set of darts are incorporated in the bust. In typical Marimekko fashion, the dress is made entirely of a thick plain-woven cotton and features an all-over, screen-printed linear polka dot motif. The centre of the bodice features a large black circle that would be difficult to distinguish from the dark green base of the dress, if not for the absence of white polka dots that define its shape. The linearity and contrast of the print are striking - the dress as a whole makes an almost brutalist picture with its stiff form, austere colour choice, and minimal, void-like central print. Remaining in the geometric shape and polka-dots, however small, is the sense of naive playfulness that defines the Marimekko design canon.
The dress and print are identified in Marimekko: Fabrics, Fashion, Architecture (2003) (see fig. 2), a written companion to the exhibition of the same name at the Bard Centre for Graduate Studies in the Decorative Arts, Design, and Culture, 2003/2004 (259). The garment is additionally identified on Marimekko’s “Pre-Loved” online reselling platform (see fig. 3). These sources date the garment to 1970 and identify it as the Kivi Dress—meaning ‘stone’—designed by Liisa Suvanto. Suvanto joined Marimekko as a designer in 1960, originally in charge of the ‘woolen line’ (Harkapaa 300). Her later work, inspired by the minimalism of Balenciaga, consisted of sculptural, simple cuts as shown in the Kivi Dress (Harkapaa 300). These forms follow the canon of Marimekko design, focusing on function and comfort, specifically for women with the uncinched, shift-like structure of the dresses allowing space and privacy for the female form (Kemell-Kutvonen, et al 208). In popular response to these flowing forms, founder Armi Ratia was consistently asked why her clothing was so “unerotic” - her habitual response was that “(W)omen are sexy, not clothes.” (Kemell-Kutvonen, et al 208).
By Women, for Women
From the founding of the company, women were integral to the design, production, and philosophy of Marimekko’s product line, leading to the common belief that Marimekko was designed by women, for women. Many of these women were hired full-time (Ito, 177), allowing them newfound financial freedom in the growing Finnish economy. Along with a bolstered economy, the postwar period in Finland also saw a migration from rural areas to urban centres, leading Marimekko to design for the newly founded urbanite (Kemell-Kutvonen, et al 11). While bright colours and playful patterns helped to cheer up the gray cityscape, the forms and materials of the clothing were reminiscent of the Finnish rural class (see fig. 4 and fig. 5), even as they moved into city life (Kemell-Kutvonen, et al 11).
Functionality was key - forms were kept open and forgiving, while fabrics remained natural, giving breathibilty to the garments. Throughout the 70s, functionality remained a defining feature of Marimekko’s clothing (Anttikoski 106). This design ethos is evident in the chosen garment and additionally depicts the desires of women at the time, as translated through the language of Marimekko’s female designers. Practical features include a single-lined bodice for ease of motion under stiff cotton, and slits up the side of the skirt for function when walking or running. The skirt is double-lined, helping it to remain in form while in motion and adding additional protection from flipping or shifting out of place (see fig. 5). Included in the dress are spacious pockets, approximately 15cm deep - addressing a common gripe among women even today: that pockets are too small, too few, or altogether non-existent (Summers 2016).
Despite the effort of Marimekko’s early designers to design for the everyday woman, a certain tension remained in the reception of Marimekko among the working and rural classes. Though Finnish modern design was received well by the working class in the realm of national pride and nation-building (Myllyntaus 218), the strong-willed patterns of Marimekko, so different from traditional Finnish handicrafts, required an additional moment to catch on. Young, educated classes were the first to adopt the minimal forms of the Finnish design canon, and Marimekko was aware of its target group. As stated in Marimekko: In Patterns (2014): “intelligent and well educated women” were among the prime demographic considered (11). Though it is noted by Finnish historian, Timo Myllyntaus (2010), that working class women were more interested in and accepting of Marimekko’s designs than men (218), the picture of the “Marimekko woman” comes into focus: young, educated, artistic, and upper class, reflecting the designers themselves. The statement that Marimekko was designed ‘by women, for women’ then deserves a caveat - the designers were designing for women of their class, age, and education, and so, the insights into their desires that stem from their designs must be read with discretion.
National Identities and Uchronic Time
Additionally identified in Marimekko: Fabrics, Fashion, Architecture, is the printed pattern of the dress—‘Katala’ or ‘dark’ in English—designed by Katsuji Wakisaka (259). Leaving Japan behind for a career in Finland, Wakisaka joined Marimekko in 1968 during a period of integration with Japanese designers. Garment designer Liisa Suvanto and Wakisaka were frequent collaborators, with Suvanto allowing Wakisaka’s patterns to inform the materiality and form of the garments (Anttikoski 105). Marimekko’s international success in Japan and intentional integration with Japanese designers raises questions on the interaction of national design identities between the two countries. Finland and Japan’s distinct design canons are rooted in the countries’ histories, both born from modernist and industrial transformations post WWII. Evans & Vaccari (2020) present their theory of ‘industrial time’, or linear time in fashion, which is inherently bound to the historical and economic realities relevant to the development of national identity through craft and design. In investigating the merger of two national design canons, ‘industrial time’ must interact with ‘uchronic time’ - anachronistic, fictional, mythical time (Evans & Vaccari 18). Uchronic time becomes significant in exploring the dialogues created when canons come together, as the seemingly unrelated industrial history of each canon informs the other, therefore breaking the linear industrial timeline and creating a new canon, unanchored by any one specific national history. To begin to understand the industrial and uchronic dialogue created within the Kivi dress, we must first understand the industrial histories that informed the Finnish and Japanese design canons.
Though Finland has a rich history of handicraft and folk art, the iconic Finnish design style didn’t emerge until the postwar period of the 1950s. The Finnish canon developed alongside the nation’s industrial breakthrough, with craftspeople turned designers adapting to modernist philosophies born from the upset of WWII (Myllyntaus 209, 214). Finnish design was integral to the development of a Finnish national identity, with the international success of brands like Marimekko being a point of pride amongst Finns (Myllyntaus 215). Nature is a canonical theme in Finnish design, accompanied by a commitment to the democratization of beauty for an increasingly urbanized population as exemplified by the influence of the British Arts and Crafts movement (Svinhufvud 185). In addition to their unique industrial history, the Finnish national identity contains complexities as a country in the crosshairs of Eastern and Western Europe. In an interview for Out of the Blue: The Essence and Ambition of Finnish Design (2014), creative director for Marimekko, Minna Kemell-Kutvonen states: “Finland’s position is interesting too. We’re in the middle of two different cultures, East and West. When we talk about aesthetic understanding and culture, this is important.” (144).
In a similar historical vein, Japanese design was greatly informed by the impact of WWII and the subsequent postwar ‘Economic Miracle’, as well as modernist influences from Western Europe (Sparke 117). Informed by nature and simplicity, Japanese design has roots in the Mingei movement, acting as a Japanese counterpart to the British Arts and Crafts movement and following similar origins as a reaction to industrialization (Sparke 114). Rather than being directly informed by folk craft, as is the case with Finnish design, Japanese minimalist design is a response to previous ornamentalism in imported craft that drove out traditional Japanese design aesthetics (Hara, 50). In this way, Japanese design differs from Finnish design, though the impetus for the development of canonical design in each country remains as an effort to foster national identity in the wake of historical phenomena.
The constructive interaction between Japanese and Finnish design is evident in the popularity of Finnish design products in Japan. Marimekko, in particular, saw incredible commercial success in Japan as a result of shared aesthetic and cultural values (Hedqvist & Tarschys 165). Included in “The Essence of Finnish Design”, a companion catalog to the 2012 Japanese exhibition of the same name, Ambassador of Finland, Jari Gustafsson, shared a few remarks on the relationship between the two countries:
“I am especially happy to see this exhibition taking place in Japan, since I think that the aesthetics of Finnish design and the values behind it are something that the Finnish and Japanese people share. Simplicity and good materials in design and the appreciation of nature are values that the Japanese regard highly” (11).
Marimekko’s choice to include Japanese designers in their highly successful brand is a curious one. The brand’s position as a figure of national identity and pride was a point of strength in their reception but also a hindrance on the international market and a potential risk factor for stagnation (Anttikoski 107). The integration of Japanese designers into Marimekko’s design team was a deliberate action to infuse the brand with like-minded yet culturally diverse design perspectives (Jackson 70), with designers such as Wakisaka cited as adding a “Japanese sensitivity” to the creative practice at Marimekko (Ito 177). Looking back to the Kivi dress, perhaps the unusually stark design of both the form and pattern can be attributed to Wakisaka’s “sensitivity”. Minimalism is exercised in Japanese design through the tenet of emptiness, which is said to absorb one’s awareness (Hara 50). When I think of the void-like central motif of the Kivi dress, entirely empty yet irresistible to the eye in its forward placement on the garment, this tenet rings true. As the French concept of l’appel du vide accurately depicts: the void calls. In translation from their separate Finnish names, the dress and the pattern combined are called ‘Dark Stone’, accurately describing the central motif and perhaps denoting it as an intentional choice and product of collaboration between the Wakisaka and Suvanto.
Looking back at Evans & Vaccari’s writing on time, both the design canons of Finland and Japan are developed in accordance with ‘industrial time’, as their development was inherently tied to the historical conditions of which they were born. The integration and enmeshment of these two industrial canons in the Kivi dress create ‘uchronic time’, which Evans & Vaccari denote as “an impossible or fictional time” (18). Uchronic time centres around the past or future being rewritten through the lens of the present (Evans & Vaccari, 19). As seen in the chosen garment, Marimekko observes uchronic time through the melding of culturally informed and nationally recognized design canons, creating a curiously timeless garment, unbound by the facts of history. With its gaze ever-turned towards the future, Marimekko’s founding design philosophy is one of timelessness and utopia, working as both a guide for dress but also as a guide for life (Anttikoski 90). In observing and researching the Kivi dress, I have been granted a wealth of insights into the past, as well as the opportunity to reflect on the present as compared to the future envisioned by Armi Ratia. In this way, the Kivi dress represents the uchronic both as a cultural collaboration between historically-informed designers and as a means to investigate the present through speculative futures of the past.
Creative Component
When first viewing the Kivi dress on the FRC website, I was immediately interested in investigating the process through which it was made. Dated to 1970, the dress falls into a period of transition at Marimekko, from smaller scale screen-printing to industrial roller printing (Kemell-Kutvonen, et al 231). Upon examining the dress and reflecting on my previous experience designing and printing repeat patterns for fabric, the method became clear, first and foremost, through the mistakes. The fabric is printed as a registered repeat screen-print, utilizing negative space to print contrasting colours with direct application dyes. The method of print is exposed by a slight registration mistake on the back of the dress (the garment was photographed backwards on the FRC website) - the two repeats overlap, intruding on the line of dots closest to the edge, showing the segmented approach to repeat screen-printing as opposed to the continuity of roller printing (see fig. 6). Additionally evident after the examination of the garment was the type of dyes used in printing the pattern - the dot pattern is printed using negative space, evident in the directional bleeding of the green colour into the natural cotton of the dots (see fig. 7). As opposed to using a positive space print method (printing opaque white ink on top of the dark background), the method of printing with a transparent dye and leaving the pattern in the negative space allows the fabric to retain its original qualities. This method of print, though technically more difficult, would have been necessary to carry out the design goals of both Wakisaka and Suvanto, illustrating the intentionality of their partnership and the integration of pattern and form. As cited earlier, Suvanto’s forms were informed by Wakisaka’s patterns (Anttikoski 105), allowing for technical considerations to be made at every stage of the design process. The philosophical goals of Marimekko - function in form - are also taken into consideration in the preservation of the material qualities of the garment.
In order to creatively engage with this garment in the protean spirit of uchronic design, I wanted to try to translate my current knowledge of repeat pattern development to a new medium. Fig. 8 shows the process of analog print generation: the pattern is drawn in the centre of the field and then rearranged to cover the edges of the field, the negative space is then filled with the pattern in order to create a seamless repeat. For the past month I’ve been learning to use punchcard patterns for a flatbed knitting machine and I thought the process would be translatable. The main concern when generating a repeat pattern for machine knitting is the width of the repeat stitches and formatting the pattern to fit the card. I started by filling in a punchcard template on Procreate and making sure my math was correct for a seamless repeat. The pattern is then manually punched into the card (see fig. 9). After making a quick sample to verify the success of the repeat, I moved on to knitting the final piece (see fig. 10). I chose to use cotton to emulate the materiality of the dress, although it was a challenge in the knitting process due to friction - this difficulty brought to mind the material differences between knit and woven structures and their application to specific garments. The Kivi dress would certainly not be the same in a knit composition, highlighting the intentionality of its material-based structure. Woven cotton was chosen for a reason at Marimekko, and the designers composed such garments with material realities in mind. The final knitted piece (see fig. 11) is reminiscent of the Kavala pattern but my equipment led to limitations; ideally the piece would also include the large circular void motif so integral to the design of the dress. This could be achieved through an intarsia method or an appliqué technique, neither of which were accessible with the equipment available to me. Going forward, I would love to recreate the Kivi dress entirely through knitting methods, if only to accentuate the original garment’s striking form and profound contextual history.
Works cited
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