Designing Modern Britain, Design Museum, London
For the British baby boomer, many of the objects brought together in Designing Modern Britain are nothing if not familiar.
The exhibition is constructed around iconic motifs and designs from the 1930s onwards including: London Underground maps, posters and station furniture; the font Gil Sans; utility furniture; designs for the National Theatre; film posters; TV idents; Concorde; plastic stacking chairs; and record covers - Pink Floyd, Bowie and the Clash.
There are few surprises here, and many of the designs still feature in our daily lives. Penguin's early blue, green and orange book covers, for instance, are this season's heritage-chic and available on mugs, espresso cups, and aprons everywhere.
But the sheer familiarity and nostalgic resonance of those objects creates very considerable (if not insuperable) challenges for the curators of an exhibition that sets out to describe a very specific history.
Designing Modern Britain's starting point is an observation made by the émigré architect, Berthold Lubetkin, in 1931. By comparison with 'all the energy and diversity of the continent', he said, 'England seemed about 50 years behind, as though locked in a deep provincial sleep.'
The object of the exhibition is to describe the country's awakening from the 'rustic nostalgia of arts and crafts tradition', and it credits a generation of Europeans - more specifically, Lubetkin himself, Marcel Breuer, Ernö Goldfinger, Walter Gropius and Làszló Moholy-Nagy - with having 'transformed' Britain.
Designing Modern Britain's thesis is that their spirit continues to inspire British design, not least in the plans to regenerate the Thames Gateway for the 2012 Olympics.
In mapping the story of Britain's transformation, the exhibition focuses on various social, cultural, economic and technical changes, which it presents in a series of loosely chronological and thematic sections.
The 1930s, for instance, provides the focus for transport and modern homes; the 1940s and 1950s for designing for a crisis, and consumerism; the 1960s and 1970s for flight; the 1970s for modern culture; and the 1980s for leisure.
But as sometimes happens with histories of modernism, Designing Modern Britain directly avoids compromising its narrative by referring too overtly to politics.
In presenting Britain before the rise of Lubetkin and others as dozy and stylistically-challenged, it fails to consider the country's relative sophistication as a place where refugees from the Nazis not only found a home, but which nurtured a climate in which they could make their mark.
And while the exhibition necessarily implies that there is a connection between style, aesthetics and political circumstance, it doesn't explore this in any depth. Nothing, for instance, satisfactorily explains the stark differences between the forms of utility furniture of the 1940s and the Antelope chairs produced for the Festival of Britain in 1951.
It's all a bit lazy. The further the visitor gets from the introductory information panels, the less the narrative is maintained and the more scattered the exhibition's message becomes.
There are plenty of examples given of work done by Lubetkin and his fellows, but it doesn't follow that what was designed in Britain for a British market by necessity changed the course of British design.
The exhibition is conceptually at its weakest in explaining what difference Lubetkin and others genuinely made to British design, how their work made an impact on later generations, and what other influences contributed to the development of British modernism.
It's implied that Malcolm Garrett of Factory Records is one of their heirs, but the precise nature of that relationship is never articulated. Quite where Warhol's cover design for the Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers fits into the narrative is even more unclear.
Perhaps he's categorised as an honorary European émigré, with the Stones providing the British connection. It's as if the curator's familiarity with the objects displayed somehow obviates their need to engage with them critically.
This impression is reinforced by the fact that there's a certain deja vu about various sections of the exhibition. A record cover - New Order's Power, Corruption and Lies - is displayed in the same spot as a very similar cover a few exhibitions back.
The line of chairs along the back of the gallery looks like almost every other chair display. And I'm almost certain that the same recycled plastic chair is on show every time I go to the Design Museum.
Perhaps the very act of celebrating modernism in Britain discourages a more critical approach, by definition. But in Designing Modern Britain, the Design Museum has missed a number of tricks.
One of the threads that runs through the exhibition, for instance, is the relationship of modernist design to the public and private sectors. What are the qualitative differences between certain of the modern British designs shown here, which were transparently informed by politics and a certain paternalism, and those products that survive or fail in the marketplace on the basis of their own merits?
What is the visitor to Designing Modern Britain supposed to make of the relationship between iconic, modernist designs and commercial failure - not least as exemplified by Concorde?
In an exhibition that is both retrospective and forward-looking, visitors are inevitably, if unintentionally, invited to make comparisons about the past and the present. Comparing the success of the Festival of Britain with the Millennium Dome is an obvious (if hackneyed) example.
There are plenty of other comparisons to be made. The appeal of modern transport, as described in 1930s posters for Shell and Imperial Airways, seems not only quaint, but somewhat tainted in the light of present-day green issues.
Even more striking is the version of the London Underground presented in Designing Modern Britain. According to the exhibition, in the 1930s it was the most progressive public transport system in the world. Maybe.
But to today's commuters, the underground is synonymous with a lack of capacity and a crumbling infrastructure. Its original house style can only be read as representing an optimistic, if naive, vision.
If the Design Museum really wants to make the case for the importance of design in the history of modern Britain, it needs to take its history more seriously and understand where its audiences are coming from. If it doesn't, the museum is unlikely to escape accusations of promoting style over substance.
Sara Selwood is the head of the department of cultural policy and management, City University, and the editor of Cultural Trends
Project data
Cost: undisclosed
Funding: supported by the Heritage Lottery Fund
Exhibition design: Design Museum
Graphic design: John Morgan studio
Curator: Sophie McKinlay
Exhibition ends: 26 November
For the British baby boomer, many of the objects brought together in Designing Modern Britain are nothing if not familiar.
The exhibition is constructed around iconic motifs and designs from the 1930s onwards including: London Underground maps, posters and station furniture; the font Gil Sans; utility furniture; designs for the National Theatre; film posters; TV idents; Concorde; plastic stacking chairs; and record covers - Pink Floyd, Bowie and the Clash.
There are few surprises here, and many of the designs still feature in our daily lives. Penguin's early blue, green and orange book covers, for instance, are this season's heritage-chic and available on mugs, espresso cups, and aprons everywhere.
But the sheer familiarity and nostalgic resonance of those objects creates very considerable (if not insuperable) challenges for the curators of an exhibition that sets out to describe a very specific history.
Designing Modern Britain's starting point is an observation made by the émigré architect, Berthold Lubetkin, in 1931. By comparison with 'all the energy and diversity of the continent', he said, 'England seemed about 50 years behind, as though locked in a deep provincial sleep.'
The object of the exhibition is to describe the country's awakening from the 'rustic nostalgia of arts and crafts tradition', and it credits a generation of Europeans - more specifically, Lubetkin himself, Marcel Breuer, Ernö Goldfinger, Walter Gropius and Làszló Moholy-Nagy - with having 'transformed' Britain.
Designing Modern Britain's thesis is that their spirit continues to inspire British design, not least in the plans to regenerate the Thames Gateway for the 2012 Olympics.
In mapping the story of Britain's transformation, the exhibition focuses on various social, cultural, economic and technical changes, which it presents in a series of loosely chronological and thematic sections.
The 1930s, for instance, provides the focus for transport and modern homes; the 1940s and 1950s for designing for a crisis, and consumerism; the 1960s and 1970s for flight; the 1970s for modern culture; and the 1980s for leisure.
But as sometimes happens with histories of modernism, Designing Modern Britain directly avoids compromising its narrative by referring too overtly to politics.
In presenting Britain before the rise of Lubetkin and others as dozy and stylistically-challenged, it fails to consider the country's relative sophistication as a place where refugees from the Nazis not only found a home, but which nurtured a climate in which they could make their mark.
And while the exhibition necessarily implies that there is a connection between style, aesthetics and political circumstance, it doesn't explore this in any depth. Nothing, for instance, satisfactorily explains the stark differences between the forms of utility furniture of the 1940s and the Antelope chairs produced for the Festival of Britain in 1951.
It's all a bit lazy. The further the visitor gets from the introductory information panels, the less the narrative is maintained and the more scattered the exhibition's message becomes.
There are plenty of examples given of work done by Lubetkin and his fellows, but it doesn't follow that what was designed in Britain for a British market by necessity changed the course of British design.
The exhibition is conceptually at its weakest in explaining what difference Lubetkin and others genuinely made to British design, how their work made an impact on later generations, and what other influences contributed to the development of British modernism.
It's implied that Malcolm Garrett of Factory Records is one of their heirs, but the precise nature of that relationship is never articulated. Quite where Warhol's cover design for the Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers fits into the narrative is even more unclear.
Perhaps he's categorised as an honorary European émigré, with the Stones providing the British connection. It's as if the curator's familiarity with the objects displayed somehow obviates their need to engage with them critically.
This impression is reinforced by the fact that there's a certain deja vu about various sections of the exhibition. A record cover - New Order's Power, Corruption and Lies - is displayed in the same spot as a very similar cover a few exhibitions back.
The line of chairs along the back of the gallery looks like almost every other chair display. And I'm almost certain that the same recycled plastic chair is on show every time I go to the Design Museum.
Perhaps the very act of celebrating modernism in Britain discourages a more critical approach, by definition. But in Designing Modern Britain, the Design Museum has missed a number of tricks.
One of the threads that runs through the exhibition, for instance, is the relationship of modernist design to the public and private sectors. What are the qualitative differences between certain of the modern British designs shown here, which were transparently informed by politics and a certain paternalism, and those products that survive or fail in the marketplace on the basis of their own merits?
What is the visitor to Designing Modern Britain supposed to make of the relationship between iconic, modernist designs and commercial failure - not least as exemplified by Concorde?
In an exhibition that is both retrospective and forward-looking, visitors are inevitably, if unintentionally, invited to make comparisons about the past and the present. Comparing the success of the Festival of Britain with the Millennium Dome is an obvious (if hackneyed) example.
There are plenty of other comparisons to be made. The appeal of modern transport, as described in 1930s posters for Shell and Imperial Airways, seems not only quaint, but somewhat tainted in the light of present-day green issues.
Even more striking is the version of the London Underground presented in Designing Modern Britain. According to the exhibition, in the 1930s it was the most progressive public transport system in the world. Maybe.
But to today's commuters, the underground is synonymous with a lack of capacity and a crumbling infrastructure. Its original house style can only be read as representing an optimistic, if naive, vision.
If the Design Museum really wants to make the case for the importance of design in the history of modern Britain, it needs to take its history more seriously and understand where its audiences are coming from. If it doesn't, the museum is unlikely to escape accusations of promoting style over substance.
Sara Selwood is the head of the department of cultural policy and management, City University, and the editor of Cultural Trends
Project data
Cost: undisclosed
Funding: supported by the Heritage Lottery Fund
Exhibition design: Design Museum
Graphic design: John Morgan studio
Curator: Sophie McKinlay
Exhibition ends: 26 November
