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A Train of Thought
The unforgettable 20th Century Limited and Its Creator, Henry Dreyfuss
Text by Stephen Drucker/Photography courtesy National New York Central Railroad Museum Published May 2003
In 1938 the only real hope was the future, and the future was the 20th Century Limited. Everybody knew the train with the heroic silhouette. They knew it left Grand Central Terminal, Track 34, at 6:00 p.m. every day, and that a red carpet was unfurled for its passengers, people in a great rush to get to Chicago, people who seemed to hover above the troubles of the times. Night after night the ritual was the same. The curious would come out to see the Century roar through their towns without stopping; every engineer along its route knew it was his duty to get out of its way; and teenage girls would be there when it arrived, on the chance they might see a movie star.
Everybody knew the train, but not its designer. Henry Dreyfuss had a penchant for brown suits and some earnest theories about design uplifting mankind. He was born in 1904, and by the time he committed suicide with his gravely ill wife in 1972, most Americans were living with a houseful of Dreyfuss originals, though they did not know it. The Bell telephone, the Big Ben alarm clock, the Honeywell thermostat— Dreyfuss made a life of refining everyday objects into icons.
The steam locomotive wore a shroud often compared to a Spartan warrior’s helmet.
The trains came early in his career. With a modest project in 1936, Dreyfuss showed the New York Central System that modern design could improve its image and its revenue. As a reward he was asked to create an entirely new fleet for the esteemed Century—10 locomotives and 50 Pullman cars—to debut in June 1938. Dreyfuss worked with almost pathological restraint, transcending the mindless fashion for streamlining, mixing images of the Machine Age and the Stork Club as only he could. The Century’s steam locomotive wore a shroud often compared to a Spartan warrior’s helmet, its six huge driving wheels pierced with holes and painted aluminum to attract the eye; and at night the churning wheels were lighted. Dreyfuss understood that his locomotive, which would become one of the most photographed symbols of the era, created drama enough. The rest of the exterior was simplicity itself. It had all the self-assurance of a well-cut gray flannel suit, with blue chalk stripes and a Moderne tail sign glowing blue as it retreated up the Hudson River.
The interior made even its fashionable passengers look quaint. Dreyfuss treated it as one continuous ribbon of space, with sensations nobody had ever before felt on a train. Where there used to be corners, now there were curves. Where there used to be rows, now there were groups of furniture arranged every which way. It was a private club of gray and blue leather, with the occasional shot of rust, played against subtle gunmetal and aluminum and satin-chrome finishes.
How modern it must have seemed to enter a lounge on the Century and find black-and-white photomurals of the New York and Chicago skylines. Or to visit the dining car late at night and find it transformed into Cafe Century, its bright lights dimmed to a pale rose and your fellow passengers painting the town. Or to sit in a club chair in the boattailed observation car and watch the speedometer that Dreyfuss had been inspired to include. Seeing the needle hit 85 miles per hour gave passengers the same thrill they would get, four decades later, watching a digital readout on Concorde as it passed through Mach 1.
Dreyfuss designed it all: the cyclopseye spotlighting, the gray china, the silver service incised with “speed lines”; and everything from the red carpet to the waiters’ coats wore the pulsing Century logo. Today a Century plate can make a collector lightheaded—what impression must the entire train have conveyed?
Dreyfuss restyled the Century for 1948, but nobody’s heart was in trains anymore. By the end of 1967 there was no more Century. Like Astaire and Rogers in a ballroom embrace, the Century of 1938 embodied all the hopes of civilization at a moment when civilization badly needed some reassurance. We shall never see the likes of it again.
Photography courtesy National New York Central Railroad Museum
The unforgettable 20th Century Limited and Its Creator, Henry Dreyfuss
Text by Stephen Drucker/Photography courtesy National New York Central Railroad Museum Published May 2003
In 1938 the only real hope was the future, and the future was the 20th Century Limited. Everybody knew the train with the heroic silhouette. They knew it left Grand Central Terminal, Track 34, at 6:00 p.m. every day, and that a red carpet was unfurled for its passengers, people in a great rush to get to Chicago, people who seemed to hover above the troubles of the times. Night after night the ritual was the same. The curious would come out to see the Century roar through their towns without stopping; every engineer along its route knew it was his duty to get out of its way; and teenage girls would be there when it arrived, on the chance they might see a movie star.
Everybody knew the train, but not its designer. Henry Dreyfuss had a penchant for brown suits and some earnest theories about design uplifting mankind. He was born in 1904, and by the time he committed suicide with his gravely ill wife in 1972, most Americans were living with a houseful of Dreyfuss originals, though they did not know it. The Bell telephone, the Big Ben alarm clock, the Honeywell thermostat— Dreyfuss made a life of refining everyday objects into icons.
The steam locomotive wore a shroud often compared to a Spartan warrior’s helmet.
The trains came early in his career. With a modest project in 1936, Dreyfuss showed the New York Central System that modern design could improve its image and its revenue. As a reward he was asked to create an entirely new fleet for the esteemed Century—10 locomotives and 50 Pullman cars—to debut in June 1938. Dreyfuss worked with almost pathological restraint, transcending the mindless fashion for streamlining, mixing images of the Machine Age and the Stork Club as only he could. The Century’s steam locomotive wore a shroud often compared to a Spartan warrior’s helmet, its six huge driving wheels pierced with holes and painted aluminum to attract the eye; and at night the churning wheels were lighted. Dreyfuss understood that his locomotive, which would become one of the most photographed symbols of the era, created drama enough. The rest of the exterior was simplicity itself. It had all the self-assurance of a well-cut gray flannel suit, with blue chalk stripes and a Moderne tail sign glowing blue as it retreated up the Hudson River.
The interior made even its fashionable passengers look quaint. Dreyfuss treated it as one continuous ribbon of space, with sensations nobody had ever before felt on a train. Where there used to be corners, now there were curves. Where there used to be rows, now there were groups of furniture arranged every which way. It was a private club of gray and blue leather, with the occasional shot of rust, played against subtle gunmetal and aluminum and satin-chrome finishes.
How modern it must have seemed to enter a lounge on the Century and find black-and-white photomurals of the New York and Chicago skylines. Or to visit the dining car late at night and find it transformed into Cafe Century, its bright lights dimmed to a pale rose and your fellow passengers painting the town. Or to sit in a club chair in the boattailed observation car and watch the speedometer that Dreyfuss had been inspired to include. Seeing the needle hit 85 miles per hour gave passengers the same thrill they would get, four decades later, watching a digital readout on Concorde as it passed through Mach 1.
Dreyfuss designed it all: the cyclopseye spotlighting, the gray china, the silver service incised with “speed lines”; and everything from the red carpet to the waiters’ coats wore the pulsing Century logo. Today a Century plate can make a collector lightheaded—what impression must the entire train have conveyed?
Dreyfuss restyled the Century for 1948, but nobody’s heart was in trains anymore. By the end of 1967 there was no more Century. Like Astaire and Rogers in a ballroom embrace, the Century of 1938 embodied all the hopes of civilization at a moment when civilization badly needed some reassurance. We shall never see the likes of it again.
Photography courtesy National New York Central Railroad Museum
