FEATURE

When we think of posters, it’s difficult not to get sucked into the hypnotic eddies of adspeak. In an advertising poster — and is there any other kind? — the text is meant to dominate the image. The function of the image is merely to direct the viewer’s attention to the central concern of the advertiser: to the language of selling. The woman on the toothpaste hoarding grabs the eye, leaving the viewer no choice but to closely scan the name of the brand as well as the nature of the deal. Whatever follows — our decision to buy the product on not — happens on a subconscious level.

This logic of advertising was the prime impetus that gave direction to the art of postermaking in Europe. But those who took it up had their own ideas about how a poster ought to be made.

When we think of the brilliance of the French artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, we think of his works done in oil paint, depicting the louche ballrooms and dance halls of Paris. His proficiency as a maker of posters and his love for poster-making are all but forgotten.

Making posters was a sort of commercial exploit for Toulouse-Lautrec, a source of easy income. He was commissioned by the most unlikely of people and organisations — once by a manufacturer of