The Von Dutch Touch, Robb Report Motorcycling, July/August 2005
At first glance, a certain unassuming, Swiss-made
motorcycle from the 1940s may seem like a curious but unexceptional
antique. In the case a particular 1941 Condor, though, the object offers
a glimpse into the psyche of one of the most influential and mysterious
figures of custom car and bike culture.
Von Dutch was born in 1929 near Watts, California. His father exposed
him to the arts at an early age, and was a painter and gold leafer who
designed the famous Western Exterminator logo. While working as a cleanup
boy at a body shop, the young and precociously talented Dutch volunteered
to paint a motorcycle using a brush from his father's toolbox. The results
were so staggeringly effortless that no one believed it was his work.
Winning a bet he could do it again, Von Dutch kick started a life that
would be marked by stunning artistic achievement and alienation, all
of which ended with his death from liver cirrhosis in 1992.
Kenneth Howard-nicknamed "Dutch" by family members because he was "stubborn
as a Dutchman"-possessed an innate, da Vinci-like combination of technical
prowess and artistic creativity.
Pinstriping has existed since ancient Egyptian decorated their carts,
but Von Dutch's innovation of the artform began in the late 1940s when
he painted stripes on cars and motorcycles in order to distract from
sloppy body work. Rather than adhering to the vehicle's pre-existing
contours, Dutch's freeform, calligraphic painting revolutionized the
craft, and became its own reason for being.
Dutch's work was so dramatically distinctive that he quickly made a
name for himself. Before long, he became synonymous with his new style
of pinstriping, and people everywhere requested their cars be "Dutched".
He also became the paterfamilias of the vanguard movement called "Kustom
Kulture," which sought to overcome the banality of mass-manufactured
anonymity through wildly colorful, one-off designs.
In spite of his burgeoning notoriety-or perhaps because of it-Dutch
became a bitter contrarian. Attaining iconic status from the success
of his work, he grew to loath money and the comfort it brought. By conscientiously
resisting fame and fortune, he created a "discomfort" zone in an effort
to maintain the integrity of his work. "There's a 'struggle' you have
to go through," he once explained, "and if you make a lot of money it
doesn't make the 'struggle' go away. It just makes it more complicated.
If you keep poor, the struggle is simple."
Dutch cultivated that discomfort by not allowing people to get close
to him. As he intentionally disobeyed the requests of his clients, his
work became an increasingly defiant, self-serving entity. For instance,
when a nightclub owner came to Dutch with a Mercedes-Benz Gullwing that
needed extensive touch-up work, Dutch's solution was to paint flames
across the entire body. "We ate up about two cases of beer, a few jugs
of wine, and about 20-odd rolls of masking tape" Dutch boasted. "After
I turned this thing loose on the world, it caused accidents."
The more he excluded those around him, the more infamy he earned. Disgusted
with fame and the cult of personality, Dutch would initiate rumors of
his demise by systematically disappearing. He painted "Von Dutch is
still alive" on bikes as a private, tongue-in-cheek gesture of life
affirmation. Eventually tiring of the buzz around his absence, Dutch
would re-emerge from a period of seclusion wearing a "Von Dutch is still
alive" t-shirt. The message, he said, "saved answering a whole lot of
questions."
Dutch addressed his vehicles the same way he lived his life: with a
tough utilitarianism mitigated with his singular style. He spent many
of his later years living and working out of a converted Long Beach
City bus, and while he painted countless cars, he also enjoyed a lifelong
love affair with motorcycles.
While he owned numerous bikes including a 250cc, alcohol burning Rudge
Speedway racer, his favorite was probably the unassuming, aforementioned
1941 Condor. Originally designed for use by the Swiss Army, the bike's
580cc, horizontally opposed powerplant and no-nonsense layout made it
a poor man's BMW.
Though "Kustom Kulture" typically dictated the removal of logos, Von
Dutch celebrated the Condor's quirky brand name by hand-painting its
emblem across the bike. Dutch, an accomplished gun and knifemaker, made
the Condor more functional by hand-fitting custom made, knurled sleeves
around the foot pedals. Other personalizations include a leather Luger
gun holster attached to rear side of the bike, an hand-etched "Stop
Von Dutch" message on the headlight lens, and electrical tape wrapped
over the handgrips and part of the well-worn, no frills rubber seat.
The nostalgic smell of stale engine oil still emanates from the metal
saddlebags that house a tool kit, and Dutch's personal logo-the now
ubiquitous bloodshot eyes with wings-adorns the engine block.
While those personal touches make the bike unique, the most evocative
element of the Condor is Dutch's hand painting. The gas tank is accented
with a clean black and gold swoop, and gold pinstriped accents complement
the curvature of the bike's body. Though the stripes appear unremarkable
from a distance, closer inspection reveals the freehand lines echoed
in a series of perfectly parallel stripes. The gesture is masterfully
insouciant: one uniformly thick, free-form line is a seemingly arbitrary
representation of artistry, but a perfectly matched mirror of those
lines shows the level of his refined proficiency.
With interchangeable front and rear hubs and a rear fender that hinges
for easy wheel removal, the Condor's design is the essence of pared-down,
no-nonsense efficiency. Dutch's aesthetic modifications provide an intriguing
contrast to the bike's stark, militaristic functionality.
Towards the end of his life, Dutch lived in seclusion surrounded by
whimsical machines he built, including a steam-powered TV set, a coin-operated
guillotine, and a Ford engine-powered pencil sharpener. His mechanical
facility produced some fantastical creations, but, like Paul Klee's
Twittering Machine, they were also symptomatic of a bleak distrust of
people and humanity, as evidenced in a letter he wrote to fellow artist
Gene Brown shortly before his death: ". I have never read any books
other than trade manuals- motorcycle engines or guns. I am not nor ever
interested in people, only in what they make... I use people to make
money or lift heavy things for me. And would just as soon see everything
covered in concrete."
Obsessed with transforming ordinary transportation into art, Von Dutch
spent most of his life encased behind a fortress of custom made guns,
knives, and machines. His possessions-as evidenced by his customized
Condor- spoke of a raw utility. And in a sad testimony to the lonely
despair of his personal life, unlike the people he encountered in life,
Von Dutch's machines never let him down.
Basem Wasef
info@basemwasef.com
323.791.8560