Art Deco Elgin America Greenblack white Cigarette Brass Case

Museum Artifact: Lincoln Electrical Clock, c. 1932

Fabricated By: Electric Clock Corp. of America, 500 Due south. Throop St., Chicago, IL [Near W Side]

What's in a proper name? I suppose a 20th century Shakespeare might have said that an electric clock, nether any brand proper noun, would still tell the same fourth dimension. To Henry T. Schiff, even so, the name was the matter.

In the mid 1930s, Schiff was the president of the very prestigious-sounding Electric Clock Corporation of America, and the "Lincoln" series—paying homage to Honest Abe himself—was briefly his flagship brand. Nevermind that several of the Lincolns were too outright knockoffs of clocks made by Chicago'south Hammond Clock Company. In Henry Schiff'due south world, good business meant taking a scrap of a creative license with what had come up before—no thing what traditional ideals or copyright law might have to say about it. It was a philosophy that got him in plenty of trouble, just also left a substantial legacy.

[Lincoln Electrical Clocks ad from 1932]

To be fair, Schiff was no charlatan when it came to mechanical skills. He collected numerous patents in the first few decades of the 20th century, roofing everything from shaving implements and cigarette lighters to early phonographs. According to a 1916 issue of The 1000 Rapids Furniture Record, Henry T. Schiff was, in fact, "a pioneer in the talking machine business, having been engaged in the industry for over twenty years."

Of course, that particular article was likely paid for by Schiff himself, since it matches the language in his own meantime running ads for the Vitanola Talking Car Visitor.

"Back of every accomplishment is a personality," read 1 of those Vitanola advertisements from the same 1916 publication. "Dorsum of the Vitanola is Mr. H.T. Schiff, President, for xx years a pioneer in the industry. His inventions, his skill in combining the proper materials in the entire reproduction machinery, and his intimate cognition of quality manufacturing are all embodied in the Vitanola. He says, 'The Vitanola is fabricated as carefully as an expensive scout, but endures similar a railroad engine.' That is his way of telling about the permanently pure tone reproduction of the Vitanola."

[Vitanola Talking Car advertisement from Article of furniture Worker, 1917]

Schiff operated Vitanola from a headquarters at 208-212 S Wabash Avenue, and subsequently 506 W. 35th Street right adjacent to Comiskey Park. It was a reasonably successful venture. In a sea of more than than 200 upstart phonograph makers during this era, he had managed to proceeds some surprising ground on the far bigger national manufacturers like Edison, Columbia, and Victor. Information technology was the latter visitor's "Victrola" brand, in fact, that had inspired Schiff to choose the similar-sounding "Vitanola" name—hoping perhaps to fool consumers who squinted when they looked at the label. This strategy drew the ire of the Victor Talking Car Company, just information technology worked well enough to influence every business concern decision Henry Schiff fabricated for the rest of his life.

"He was way ahead of his time," Schiff's daughter Dollie Galter said of her father in an interview with Chicago Jewish History in 1992. "He wanted to buy a radio station and sell advertising. Everybody said nobody will mind to you. Then he wanted to build a identify where people could drive in automobiles to run into movies. He was ever way alee of everybody."

His daughter fifty-fifty claimed that Schiff was "the offset one to make candy out of rice crispies." Hey, she loved and admired her dad. It's sweet. But she did also skip the role virtually all the lawsuits.

[Henry T. Schiff difficult at work, dreamin' and schemin', 1916]

When the irksome demise of the former talking machines put Vitanola on ice, Henry Schiff began a nomadic flow of startup businesses in the '20s and '30s, operating a dozen or more companies—many with names either borrowed from or undeniably similar to well-established American brands. This included the Luckey Strike MFG. Co., Onetime Reliable MFG. Co., Motor Engineering Company, Atlas Metallic Works, Inc., Match Rex, Inc., Fire Master, Inc., Shavemaster, Inc., Elgin Laboratories, and our old friend the Electric Clock Corp. of America.

During the Depression, when businesses were in no mood to run across their good names usurped by impostors, Schiff was taken to court repeatedly over patent and trademark disputes. The Chicago Flexible Shaft Company challenged his use of the "Shavemaster" name; the Elgin National Lookout man Company shut downwards his apply of their name on razors and cameras; and yes, the Hammond Clock Company waged war on the Electrical Clock Corp—not for branding in that case, just for stealing patented designs.

According to lore, Mr. Schiff had originally stopped by the Hammond offices around 1930 looking to get a license to legally manufacture some of the company'southward patented clock designs. Despite the tough economical times, electrical clocks were all the rage, and Henry felt his talents could exist of use. Unfortunately, company president Laurens Hammond, perhaps recognizing a swain Type A personality in his midst, was having none of it. "Bugger off and come upwards with something yourself," he said (according to no 1). Schiff retreated with his tail between his legs, but he wasn't entirely deterred.

[Our Lincoln clock on the left, a Hammond Ravenswood on the right. Hmmm.]

Refocusing, Schiff quickly hatched a new plan. He purchased several Hammond clocks, took them apart piece by slice, and systematically mapped out their contents for the purpose of building his own identical models. Now that'south showing initiative! He too boldly gave his shady operation that virtually absurdly legitimate name—the Electric Clock Corporation of America—and set upwardly offices at 500 Southward Throop Street, with himself, his wife, and his son equally the sole visitor shareholders.

By 1932, Schiff was selling an array of Lincoln electric clocks, including the model in our collection—a seven-inch tall, cathedral-fashion bakelite design with a spin-to-commencement back knob. It sold for about $i.35, or about $24 in mod terms. To keener eyes, information technology was also a clear replica of the Hammond Company's "Ravenswood" model.

By the time the Hammond patent lawsuit reached its determination in March of 1934, the full scope of Henry Schiff's scuzzy concern was coming into focus. Along with selling illegally-fabricated Electric Clock Corp. products through traditional commercial channels, Schiff was besides accused of privately selling thousands more under the table. He would seemingly convince distributors to take on huge inventories, which they would then parcel as cheap "requite-aways" in special cross-promotional deals.

[Colorized version of a 1932 newspaper ad for a Lincoln Clock giveaway]

As a further revelation, the prosecution proved that Schiff's son, owner of 98% of the visitor's shares, was in fact living somewhere in Federal republic of germany and not involved with the business organisation at all. The instance was proving pretty open-and-shut. The Electric Clock Corp., which had already gone into bankruptcy by this point anyway, was DOA. Schiff'southward master program of flying nether the radar had worked for about three years.

If you thought that was game-set-match for Henry Schiff, however, yous're very very wrong. The aforementioned Shavemaster and Elgin lawsuits actually came AFTER the Electric Clock case. And by 1938, Schiff—at the historic period of 61—was working with an exciting new business organisation partner: his son-in-law Jack Galter, husband of his daughter Dollie.

Jack Galter, a former jazz drummer during the '20s, had been inspired by Henry Schiff to pursue manufacturing equally a career during the Depression. Schiff taught him about the value of making affordable products for the mutual human, and almost the old game of brand-name appropriation and those loose ends in the U.S. trademark system. Galter's visitor, the Spartus Corp., soon emerged as a leading producer of depression-upkeep clocks and cameras, following the Henry T. Schiff playbook to a tee. Like Schiff, Galter was also sued numerous times, simply kept going dorsum to the well, using familiar industry names to win consumer confidence on new, unrelated products.

Long after Henry Schiff's death, Jack and Dollie Galter were among the wealthiest—and most respected—philanthropists in Chicago, donating millions to local hospitals and spinning their knockoff tech business concern into a real manor juggernaut.

"[Henry Schiff] was a fascinating man," Jack Galter said of his mentor in 1992, "a fantastic operator."

Sources:

Grand Rapids Piece of furniture Record, Vol. 32
Chicago Jewish History, Vol. XVI, No. ane, Fall 1992
Elgin National Sentinel Co. v. Elgin Razor Corp., 1938

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