Review of the Arts and Crafts (1898)
Wandbehang mit Alpenveilchen, Hermann Obrist. 1896.
Ten years before Adolf Loos published the seminal essay ‘Ornament and Crime’ that came, in a way, to be the defining text of modernism, he wrote an early critique of the burgeoning arts and craft movement that laid the foundation of his theories. With sharp wit and cultural insight, he argues that true modernity lies not in ornate symbolism or medieval nostalgia, but in functional beauty rooted in classical ideals and material honesty. Modern design must, he says, reflect modern existence, and the Art Nouveau movement that was sweeping his native Austria seemed to him to look backwards. More than twenty years before the Bauhaus school implemented his ideas, here Loos makes a powerful case for a restrained, purposeful, utilitarian design that reflects the genuine spirit of the time.
Adolf Loos September 2, 2025
We have a new decorative art. It cannot be denied. Whoever has seen the rooms of Liberty’s furniture store in London, Bing’s L’Art Nouveau on Rue de Provence in Paris, last year’s exhibition in Dresden, and this year’s in Munich, will have to admit it: the old styles are dead, long live the new style!
And yet we cannot take pleasure in it. It is not our style. Our time did not give birth to it. We do possess objects that clearly display the stamp of our time. Our clothing, our gold and silver jewelry, our gems, our leather, tortoise shell, and mother-of-pearl goods, our carriages and railroad cars, our bicycles and locomotives all please us very well. Only we do not make so much of a fuss about them.
These things are modern; that is, they are in the style of the year 1898. But how do they relate to the objects that are currently being passed off as modern? With a heavy heart we must answer that these objects have nothing to do with our time. They are full of references to abstract things, full of symbols and memories. They are medieval.
But we are beyond this epoch. Since the decline of the Western Roman Empire there has been no era that has thought and felt more classically than ours. Think of Puvis de Chavannes and Max Klinger! Has anyone thought more Hellenistically since the days of Aeschylus? Look at the Thonet chair! While subtly embodying the sitting habits of a whole era, it is not born out of the same spirit as the Greek chair with its lavish levels and at its backrest? Look at Louis Seize! Had the spirit of Pericles’ Athens not waft through its forms? If the Greeks had wanted to build a bicycle, it would have been exactly the same as ours. And the Greek tripods of bronze—I am not talking about those given as Christmas presents, but rather those that were used—they do not look exactly like our iron products?
But it is not Greek to want to express one’s individuality in the objects with which one surrounds oneself and which are in daily use. In Germany one sees the greatest variety of clothing; thus of all the civilized peoples, the Germans are the ones least filled with the Greek spirit. The Englishman, however, has only one outfit for a particular occasion, one box, one piece. To him the best is the most beautiful. Thus, filled like Greek, he chooses the best chair, the best box, and the best bicycle. Modifications in form arise not from a desire for novelty, but rather from the wish to make the good more perfect. Yet it is the boldest of our age to produce not a new chair, but the best chair.
However, in the exhibitions referred to, one saw only new chairs. The best chair will not be able to make any great claims to newness. For even ten years ago we had quite comfortable chairs, and the technique of the bent-wood chair, which helps man, has not changed so very much since then that it could also already be expressed in a different form. The improvement will not be something that no expert will be able to recognize. They will be limited to the millimeters of the millimeters in the dimensions or the grade of the wood. How difficult it is to build a truly new chair! How easy it is to invent a new chair! There is a very simple formula: make a chair that is exactly the opposite of that which has been made.
“The level of culture that mankind attained in classical antiquity can no longer be reached back to from man’s mind.”
In Munich, an umbrella stand was displayed which can probably best demonstrate what I have said concerning the abundant references and the medieval aspect of utilitarian objects. If it had been the task of the Greek or the Englishman to fashion such a stand, the first thing he would have thought about was to provide a good place for umbrellas to stand in. He would have reflected that the umbrellas ought to be able to be put in easily and taken out easily. He would have reflected that the umbrellas should not suffer any damage and that the covering material of the umbrella should not permit one to get stuck anywhere. But the non-Greek, the German, the average German, would do otherwise. For him, non-considerations take a back seat. The main thing for him is to point out the relationship of this object to the urn by means of its decorative form. Water plants twine their way from bottom to top, and each plant sits a frog. It does not trouble the German that the umbrellas can be ripped quite easily on those sharp leaves. He allows himself perfectly contentedly to be abused by his surroundings—as long as he finds them beautiful.
The level of culture that mankind attained in classical antiquity can no longer be reached back to from man’s mind. Classical antiquity was and is the model of all subsequent periods of culture. But there was cross-fertilization from the Orient that formed the greatest reservoir out of which new harvests of development flowed into the West. It almost seems as if Asia has bequeathed to us forever the last remains of her emotional strength. For we have already had to reach back to the furthermost points of the East, to Japan and Polynesia, and now we have come to an end. How good the Middle Ages had it! The Orient lay there still unexploited, and a voyage to Spain or to the Holy Land was enough to open up new worlds of form for the West. Arab influences transformed the nascent spirit of the West into the Gothic. The masters of the Renaissance had to reach out still further. They conquered Persia and India for us. Think of the Persian carpets without which no portrait of the madonna from this period is complete, and of the German artists and damascene work. The Rococo had to go as far as China; for us, only Japan still remains.
Now what is Japanese about our view of art? “That is a charming dress you are wearing, Madam. But what do I see? The one sleeve has a bow and the other one doesn’t. It’s very Japanese. You have a charming bowl of flowers in your vase. Nothing but long-stemmed flowers: roses, lilies, chrysanthemums. That’s Japanese too. If one wanted to appear truly immersed in favored Japan, we would find this kind of arrangement unbearable. Just ask the peasant girl on the Summe-ringo: she has never heard of Japan. And the peasant girl in her home always in an un-Japanese way. One part big in the middle, and then the others such as in a circle all around it. She finds it pretty.
In the first place, then, “Japanese” means giving up symmetry. Next, it means giving up everything that is represented. The Japanese represent flowers, but they are pressed flowers. They represent people, but they are wax people. It is a kind of objectivity taken to its extreme that cannot become subjective. But at the same time a naturalism is maintained. This is above all the world of embroidery, and it has to be one readily to anyone who delights in naïve textiles. I think of the inexpressibly charming embroidery by Hermann Obrist, for example, whose enthusiasm for Japanese art also, achieves his results.
The September issue of the leading arts and crafts paper Art et Décoration gives an account of a conversation in Paris between a reporter and René Lalique. Lalique, who is one of the greatest goldsmiths in Paris, has the courage to view the excessive use of artistically wrought form and not through materials. He uses copper to look especially distinguished and he adorns it with glass, opals, and even carnelians. This is inspiring. And yet he is wrong. In spite of the brave form, the spirit his objects is not derived from our own spirit; instead they gravitate toward the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They remind us of rustling silks and heavy velvets, rich furs and stiff brocades. It is the world of Charles V and Maximilian, the last knights, which suddenly appears before our eyes. But Lalique’s jewelry looks quite strange in the age of the lightly fluttering silk dress, in the age of the starched shirtfront and black tails. Who would not like them? But who would want to wear them? The pleasure they excite is only platonic. Our age demands small jewelry—jewelry that represents the greatest possible value on the smallest possible area. Our age requires of jewelry that it have “distilled costliness,” an “essence of the magnificent.” For this reason the most valuable stones and materials will be used in our jewelry. The jewelry’s meaning lies for us in the material. Thus, artistic work must content itself with bringing out the material’s worth as much as possible. In jewelry that is to be worn, the work of the goldsmith takes only second place. Lalique’s jewelry is real display-case jewelry, made as if to fill the treasury of a patron of the arts, who then graciously invites the public to admire the magnificent things in his museum.
Adolf Loos (1870–1933) was an Austrian architect, writer, critic and theorist known for his staunch opposition to ornamentation in design and his role in shaping modernist architecture. His landmark essay Ornament and Crime argued that decorative excess was a sign of cultural degeneration, helping to define the functionalist ethos of the 20th century.
