If you think our politicians do nothing but dither under pressure, it might be some comfort to know that in 1941, beneath a nightly rain of German bombs, Parliament spent weeks debating whether the model for a women’s army recruitment poster was wearing too much lipstick.
The author of this poster, 27-year old graphic designer Abram Games, was not pleased. He had been commissioned by the War Office PR agency to make a poster to persuade women to join the ATS, the new women’s branch of the army. They needed 140,000 recruits, but the public perceived the ATS as drab and dowdy.
Games reasoned that women were willing to join but wanted a touch of glamour as well. Sketching from a live model he met by chance, he produced the iconic “Blonde Bombshell” poster. In his distinctly modern style, which must have seemed like it was from outer space at the time, he combined a beautiful airbrushed image with powerful shapes, typography and colours.
It was enthusiastically approved by the Ministry of Information and the War Office PR deparment, but in their rush to go to print they forgot to consult the head of ATS. She hated it. Looks like an ad for lipstick, she said. She, Games and others involved argued fiercely. She eventually relented. But it was only the first of many reactions to the poster.
Click on the image below to see a full-size version of the poster
In 1941 there was no TV, not much radio and newspapers were all black and white. So colourful posters were an effective means of communication. So much so that almost instantly upon release, ATS recruitment got a huge boost. The poster was a triumph. Until a member of parliament caught sight of it.
Thelma Cazalet-Keir, Conservative MP for Islington East, went ballistic, saying girls should be attracted to join through patriotism, not glamour. She protested that this girl had too much makeup and perhaps loose morals as well. She complained to Minister of Labour Ernest Bevin and the debate raged in Parliament and in newspaper columns for weeks. Games himself was astonished that during the Blitz politicians should concern themselves with a matter so trivial.
In the end, Bevin cancelled the second print run and that was that. It was banned. The posters were gathered up and pulped. A new, stodgier poster went up. A newspaper said it was a case of “dreary minds for drab posters and dowdiness for duds”.
Games was furious. But he had plenty more up his sleeve. He was a visionary graphic designer with a unique style that combined wonderful images with clever ideas. What he came up with was dazzlingly futuristic, but always delivered a clear message. He was commissioned by the Ministry of Information and the War Office PR department to produce posters whose topics ranged from warnings not to divulge secrets to advising soldiers on taking care of their weapons, their feet and even their teeth.
The images with their dramatic angles, visual puns and striking messages were strong, fresh and original. It is astonishing now to think that they were all done by hand — no computers! The ideas, the words and the artwork were all his own. And he had to use only certain colours due to wartime restrictions on some inks and paints. One of his mottos was “Maximum meaning, minimum means”.
Games was a socialist, and worked subversive messages into his posters, even as subtle as the Blonde Bombshell looking left instead of right. One of his posters contrasting the future of Britain with her past showed a boy with rickets — a common disease in poor areas — in the background. It caught the attention of Churchill, who raged at this depiction and demanded the poster be destroyed. Well, figured Games, Churchill never visited a slum.
Games carefully researched his projects and worked hard to present complicated details in a simple way. His daughter, Naomi Games, has also carefully researched her book about her father’s wartime work. All the inside politics behind the posters, the reactions they provoked, and how effective they were are reported in exquisite detail, even print runs, size and quantities. This much information would weigh down a lesser subject, but Games was such a restless, brilliant man that the text skips along.
Asked how she researched all the inside stories behind the work, Naomi says, “my father was a meticulous record-keeper.” “Plus,” she adds, “I’ve been living with this archive since 1996 when my dad died. This is my sixth book on him now. It’s been a labour of love, a very interesting one, but this is my last word on the subject.” She has also produced a film about him, and organised many exhibitions and lectures.
Her motivation is to tell the world about “one of Britain’s greatest designers. That’s why he’s being honoured in April with a blue plaque, which is a huge, proud moment for us. It’s wonderful. I think he’s one of the first designers, poster designers at least, to get a plaque.” (She’s right.)
During the war, Games, the only Army designer with the title Official War Poster Artist, had so many projects that he constantly worked through the night, even during air raids. After the war, he worked at home, where he shooed the kids out of his studio when he was concentrating, but then invited them back in when he was finished to see what they thought of it. He took his family’s comments seriously, as his priority was to make his work understandable to everyone.
Was that hard to live with? “No, it was fascinating”, said Naomi, herself a graphic designer, “and we met so many interesting people — and still do”.
Click on the image below to see a full-size version of the poster
Games was born Abraham Gamse in 1914 in Whitechapel to Latvian and Russian parents. His father was a photographer and his mother a seamstress. She made him the ubiquitous artist smocks that he wore when working.
Naomi says: “He was very mindful of being a Jew. He was traditional. We had Friday nights, he went to synagogue— he was very proud of being Jewish. He used to go to Israel a lot, and there will be an exhibition there later this year.”
Also in her book are posters he did for free for the Jewish Relief Abroad and other Jewish organisations raising money for Holocaust survivors just after the war.
Games was passionate about his work and also passionate about the struggle against the Nazis. After D-Day, he felt guilty that his friends were fighting on the beaches in France while he sat in his studio. He went to his commander and asked to be put back in the infantry to join the fight. The commander said, “You’ve been appointed to do a job and as far as the army is concerned, you are the only man who can do this and you will bloody get on and do it! We can always replace a soldier, but we cannot replace you.”
Games accepted that the posters were his most effective way to help the war effort, and went on to do many more for the army, all of them in his muscular, modern style. They still look fresh now.
Post-war, he did many commercial projects, including the BBC’s very first animated television ident and the symbol for the 1951 Festival of Britain. The collection of this work is spectacular.
His commander was right. No one could match him.
Click on the image below to see a full-size version of the poster
April will be quite a month for remembering Abram Games. “The Art of Persuasion: Wartime Posters by Abram Games” will be exhibited at the National Army Museum in London from April 6 to November 24.
There will also be a documentary screening and lectures by Naomi Games there. His blue plaque will be mounted in North London. ‘Abram Games: His Wartime Work’ is published by Amberley Publishing to coincide with the exhibition.
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