The Dead Media Notebook

by Bruce Sterling

  I am unable to date the machine with any precision, but it has the utilitarian simplicity I associate with late-1940s or early-1950s hardware. It is an electrical device, but has no Underwiter’s Laboratories or other consumer safety data plates, and addresses and phone numbers in the documents lack ZIP codes and numeric prefixes, respectively.

  Physical description: The unit itself is basically a light box, about 5 cm thick, and about 10 inches by 8 inches for the “research model”, and 14.5 x 9.5 inches for the “legal model.” My example is evidently a “legal model,” and has 10 15-watt incandescent light bulbs in two rows of five, wired in parallel. A thick (4 mm) frosted glass plate covers the array of bulbs, which are activated by a simple pushbutton switch. The unit also comes with a translucent plastic air bladder, resembling a modern courier envelope, 2-3 cm thick when inflated and somewhat larger than the face of the light-box. One side of the air bladder has a glass plate glued to it. Also provided is a piece of thin, translucent paper the same size as the face of the light box, which the instructions call the “paper mask.”

  Judging from a careful reading of the instructions, I believe my example is complete except for necessary photographic supplies. Use: According to the instructions, the unit is supposed to be accompanied by one of two types of “Contoura Contact Paper”, photographic paper with a very slow-speed emulsion which allows it to be handled briefly in ordinary indoor lighting conditions.

  “Type C” paper is recommended for copying written and printed material, and “Type Y” is used for photographs or half-tones. Presumably these papers differ in their contrast sensitivity.

  To actually make a copy, the user first places the photographic “Contact Paper” face down on the document to be copied, then places the inflated air bladder, glass-side down, on the contact paper, then the “paper mask”, and finally the light box itself.

  Users are cautioned against attempting this in direct or strong light, but the instructions emphasize that no darkroom is required. The box is activated for approximately ten seconds, and the exposed contact paper is developed by “ordinary” photographic processes, either right away if the chemicals are available, or later on, if the exposed contact paper is promptly placed in a black envelope.

  Processing is as for photographic prints, except that, as previously mentioned, no darkroom is needed, although subdued light is recommended. For a developer, the instructions recommend “Eastman Dektol” or equivalent, an optional stop bath, and then “Eastman Acid Fixing Bath”.

  Readers familiar with amateur darkroom techniques will recognize these names, and the ordinariness of this print-development process is further emphasized by the claim that users can, if they wish, have their copies developed by “a photographer or local developing service.”

  Special features: The instructions imply that the “paper mask” provided with the unit evens out the brightness of the light bulbs, and recommend that, if a light bulb burns out, your return the unit to the distributor for a new set of bulbs and a new paper mask.

  The paper mask accompanying my unit has dark spots corresponding to the light bulb positions, so the claim is plausible, but the means of producing the paper mask is unknown. (The frosted glass plate appears to be uniformly thick.) From the promotional literature, it’s clear that the principal practical advantage of the machine is its portability (“Fits in briefcase!”) and convenience (“less than 7 lbs!”) and literal flexibility—the plastic cushion allows the photographic paper to “match the contour of the material being copied” (emphasis original), hence, presumably, the name “Contoura”.

  This, coupled with the error-free nature of photocopying, makes quite a sales pitch. The documents produced are, of course, negatives, and additional copies must be made to get positives. Transparencies can be copied by placing the paper emulsion-side-up underneath the original.

  Source: Working example with instruction sheet and promotional brochure

  V-Mail, Microfilmed mail of WWII

  From Harald Staun

  Mail communication with one’s family and friends has long been a critical factor in maintaining servicemen and womens morale during wartime. Military commanders acknowledge that frequent contact between families separated during war helps strengthen fortitude, makes loneliness endurable and provides needed reassurance. Of course, all those letters take up space. During World War II, the military and Post Office Department looked for a way to reduce the bulk of mail, conserving badly-needed space.

  The answer was V-mail, pre-printed envelope sheets that could be photographed and transferred to microfilm for shipping. V-mail originated in England where it was used for exchanging personal mail with British armed forces in the Middle East. The system was adopted by the United States Post Office Department and put into practice on June 15, 1942. V-mail ensured that thousands of tons of shipping space could be reserved for war materials. The 37 mail bags required to carry 150,000 one-page letters could be replaced by a single mail sack. The weight of that same amount of mail was reduced dramatically from 2,575 pounds to a mere 45. The blue-striped cardboard containers held V-mail letter forms.

  V-mail consisted of miniaturized messages reproduced by microphotography from 16mm film. The system of microfilming letters was based on the use of special V-mail letter-sheets, which were a combination of letter and envelope. The letter-sheets were constructed and gummed so as to fold into a uniform and distinctively marked envelope. The user wrote the message in the limited space provided, added the name and address of the recipient, folded the form, affixed postage, if necessary, and mailed the letter. V-mail correspondence was then reduced to thumb-nail size on microfilm. The rolls of film were sent to prescribed destinations for developing at a receiving station near the addressee. Finally, individual facsimiles of the letter-sheets were reproduced about one-quarter the original size and the miniature mail was then delivered to the addressee.

  The first large Army operated V-mail station overseas was opened on April 15, 1943 at Casablanca, North Africa. Hastily set up in a field following the Allied invasion of North Africa, this makeshift station continued to operate until September 15, 1943. Between June 15, 1942 and April 1, 1945, 556,513,795 pieces of V-mail were sent from the U.S. to military post offices and over 510 million pieces were received from military personnel abroad. In spite of the patriotic draw of V-mail, most people still sent regular first class mail. In 1944, for instance, Navy personnel received 38 million pieces of V-mail, but over 272 million pieces of regular first class mail.

  During the latter years of World War II, V-Mail became a popular way to correspond with a loved one serving overseas. V-Mail letters were written on forms that could be purchased at five and ten cent stores or the post office. These special forms were photographed, put on film, flown across the world and then reproduced at the mail center closest to the recipient’s position. The development of the V-Mail system reduced the time it took a soldier to receive a letter by a month - from six weeks by boat to twelve days or less by air. However, the main advantage of V-Mail was its compact nature. Reduction in the size and weight of the letters translated into more space for crucial military supplies on cargo planes; one advertisement explained that 1,700 V-Mail letters could fit in a cigarette packet, while reducing the weight of the letters in paper form by 98%. Transport of the letters by plane minimized the chances that the enemy would intercept the letters, although writers were reminded to delete any information that might prove useful to the enemy in case some V-Mail was captured. Americans on the home-front were encouraged by the government and private businesses to use V-Mail.

  Letters from home were compared to “a five minute furlough,” and advertisements that instructed how, when, and what to write in a V-Mail reached a peak in 1944. Letters were to be cheerful, short, and frequent. V-Mail made it possible for servicemen halfway across the world to hear news from home on a weekly basis.

  During World War Two, mail and morale were one and the same
, and early in 1942 the military devised a simple method to deliver millions of pieces of very important news from home to the servicemen serving in the ETO. It was called V-Mail, and, of course, the V meant Victory (The hyphen in the phrase “V-Mail” was printed as three dots and a dash as at right Morse code for the letter “V”) It was a simple photographic system.

  The letter writer wrote the letter on a V-Mail form, a one-sided, regular-sized piece of paper with a box on the top for the receiver’s address. The letter was sent in, and after it was cleared by the censor, the mailroom photographed the page onto 16-mm black and white camera film. The reel of V-Mail film was then flown or shipped to a processing center in the addressee’s general location where a copy of the letter was printed onto a piece of 5” x 4” black and white photographic paper.

  This then was folded, slipped into an envelope and dropped into a mailbag for delivery. The V-Mail system was necessary because mail had to vie with food, fuel, ammunition and supplies for precious overseas cargo space, and V-Mail allowed thousands of letters to fly from America to France in the place of only a few hundred bits of regular mail. During the war over 1.5 billion (yes, b as in baker) V-Mail letters were processed.

  In Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan, one of the more poignant images of World War II is that of a GI laying in the middle of a street. He is alone, dying in the rain, holding out a letter to his dad and calling out to his buddies who are still under sniper fire. Later that night, the medic transcribes the GI’s letter onto a clean, unbloodied V-Mail form with detached, quiet emotion. V-Mail is an important part of postal history, and a remembrance of the 20th Century’s pivotal years. V-Mail carried the thoughts and dreams of privates and generals to those back home, and brought comfort to those at the front. Books and movies can help bring the past to life, and mementos of that past help revive the memories of our history. This is especially true in the case of V-Mail. Today it helps us to preserve their memory.

  Obsolete TV-type remote control techniques

  From Philip Downey

  The remote control, which turns 50 this year, has become one of the more indispensable pieces of gadgetry in the modern American home

  “Today on ‘Oprah’” Click.

  “the courts in Florida must decide whether a hanging chad” Click.

  “Yo! Wazzzzup” Click.

  “The clicker,” “the zapper, “the changer” - whatever we choose to call it, the television remote is the granddaddy of all gadgets, nearly as indispensable to the family room as the TV itself. It has been blamed for ballooning waistlines, shrinking attention spans and strained relationships. This year the remote control is 50 years old. We can hardly remember life without it - especially when television-watching is at its height, as during holidays. But as with other modern devices - from microwaves to cell phones - its origins and workings remain largely unknown to people who expect the apparatus to work without fail. The idea for the television remote began with Eugene McDonald, the founder of Zenith Radio Corp. The year was 1950, a time when you could count the number of channels in any city on one hand. McDonald, an eccentric former military man known as “the Commander” by his employees, was thinking not about convenience but about commercials. Specifically, McDonald was thinking how much he despised ads. He considered commercial-free, pay TV a better business model for the industry.

  “He thought advertiser-supported television would never fly,” says John Taylor, Zenith’s corporate historian. Until events might prove him right, McDonald wanted to offer customers who bought Zenith TVs a way to avoid commercials.

  The result was a device called Lazy Bones: “Prest-o! Change-o! Just Press a Button to Change A Station!” said an early ad. Lazy Bones was pricey - about $355 in today’s dollars - and primitive: Its two buttons could flick the TV on and off and change channels. It was tethered to the television by a thin cable, so the device could be dangerous: It’s tether often turned into a trip wire.

  McDonald ordered his engineers to try again. A young Zenith engineer named Eugene Polley hit on the idea of using light to control the television. Tinkering with spare parts lying around his laboratory, he created a souped-up flashlight fashioned to look like a gun “so people could shoot out the commercial,” says Polley. The device was dubbed the Flash-Matic.

  It came with a specially-equipped television that had light-sensitive areas embedded in each corner of the set. Zap one corner with the Flash-Matic and the television flickered on or off. Aim at another and the channel flipped. It was Polley who devised what might be the most beloved feature of all: the mute button.

  “It makes me think maybe my life wasn’t wasted,” Polley says today.

  “Maybe I did something for humanity - like the guy who invented the flush toilet.” Zenith sold nearly 30,000 gun-shaped Flash-Matics after the product’s launch in 1955, and gave Polley a $1,000 bonus for his efforts. An early ad promised, “Shoot off annoying commercials from across the room with flash of magic light.”

  But, as some customers soon learned, the Flash-Matic left room for improvement. People couldn’t remember which corner of the screen controlled what.

  But the big problems came from the light sensors, which turned out to be sensitive not only to the remote control but sunsets and ill-placed floor lamps. Zenith physicist Robert Adler, who helped run the company research department, was handed the task of improving Polley’s design. The Zenith marketing department gave Adler’s team an additional design requirement: The remote couldn’t use batteries, to prevent a customer from thinking his TV had broken if the remote’s batteries went dead. Adler and his team of engineers considered using radio waves but abandoned the idea because the waves could travel through windows and walls.

  “Radio waves worked fine,” Adler once remarked. But they also worked fine for your neighbor.”

  Then the engineers found a solution: ultrasonics, high-frequency sound waves inaudible to the human ear. The Zenith researchers built a remote-control device containing four aluminum rods, each slightly different in length. Pressing one of the remotes’ four buttons caused a small spring-loaded hammer to strike its corresponding rod like a tuning fork, emitting ultrasonic sound waves. Since each of the rods was a slightly different length, each vibrated at a different frequency, which a microphone and receiver in the TV could distinguish.

  The device was named Space Command. The first one emerged from the assembly line in the fall of 1956. The technology added $100 to the price tag of the set, so sales were slow to take off.

  But by 1959, ultrasonic remotes became the industry standard for top-of-the-line TVs. According to Zenith, more than 9 million ultrasonic remotes were sold during the next quarter-century. The noise made by these early mechanical remotes also lent the device its enduring nickname - “the clicker.”

  Beginning in the 1980s, ultrasonic remotes were replaced by devices that relied on low-frequency pulses of infrared light invisible to the human eye. These devices are cheaper to make and can control a larger number of functions, giving rise to the 50-button remotes seen today. Just who should gets credit for the invention of the remote control has been a sensitive issue for Eugene Polley, who watched Robert Adler on the Jay Leno show a few years ago claim credit for the device.

  “We’re feuding,” says Polley, a spry 85-year-old who rides around the golf course near his home outside Chicago wearing a cap that reads “King of the Remote Control.” In his attic, he has a few early Flash-Matic prototypes and Lazy Bones devices.

  “I think the feud is way overblown,” says Zenith’s John Taylor.

  “One invention lasted one year, the other 25 years. The industry generally considers Bob Adler the father of the remote control.” In 1997, Zenith won an Emmy for its work on the clicker; this year, Adler, who has said he prefers radio and watches only about an hour of TV a week, was inducted into the Consumer Electronic Association’s Hall of Fame for his work. The average household has at least four remotes, according to
the Consumer Electronics Association. Most are for TVs and stereos. But others control air conditioners, window blinds, ceiling fans, gas fireplaces, house lights and car doors. The Lazy Bones and its successors have “totally revolutionized” the medium of television, says Robert Thompson, director of the Center for the Study of Popular Television at Syracuse University. It has not only changed the way we watch, but also the way TV and film writers work.

  “Possession of the device means that you have a choice to make every second. Is this dull? Am I bored yet?” writes James Gleick in “Faster: The Acceleration of Just About Everything.” “Now every television programmer works in the shadow of the awareness that the audience is armed.” But while it gave rise to couch potatoes and channel surfing, the technology doesn’t always make life easier.

  “Watching television isn’t as relaxing as it used to be,” says Thompson.

  “There’s this pressure, this really irritating voice in the back of your head that keeps telling you, ‘You’re missing something on another channel.’ “It makes you wish you could go back to the old days.”

  Source: Baltimore Sun, November 22, 2000. The Couch Potato’s Best Friend by Michael Stroh.

  Dead Architectural (and drafting) Media

  From DeVries

  In the years from 1975 through 2000, architectural drafting and reproduction media changed profoundly.

  As student, intern, and architect, I witnessed the revolution. The following comes from memory, various texts, and antiques in my bottom desk drawer.

  1975 Vellum (paper, not calf hide) was standard with ink and pencil. Equipment consisted of: high drafting table and stool; adjustable lamp (fluorescent, incandescent, or both); T-square or parallel bar; scales; triangles; curves; lettering guides and templates; compass sets; tape; technical pens; lead holders; erasers; and such exotica as Pounce.