T.J. Clark, The Painting of Modern Life

The  shape  and  pace of production was changing; that much  was a commonplace of the time. It was a matter  of choice -- or  perhaps  sometimes of experience -- Whether

one stressed in the 1860s the positive or the negative in  the  new  situation: the  ruinous effects of the trade  treaties  and  foreign  competition, or  the  marvels   in  the  shopwindows of  La  Samaritaine; the volume  of production, or  the shoddiness  of the goods; the self-made men, or  the  bankrupts. Shopwindows, shoddy  goods, and  bankruptcy: it regularly  came  down to  these.  For  an  ordinarily gloomy  businessman in  1870 they  were  signs of a new  order -- the order  of  the  Bon Marché  and  the  Bazar de l'Hôtel de  Ville.  Genevoix, for  instance,  knew  very  well  what  that  system  signified:

I  know  about  them,  your  fashionable  shops!  Everything  done  for  the  sake  of display!  Ostentation! Instead  of high-grade  materials,  solid and  harmonious  but costly, your shopwindow will little by little fill up with dubious chiffons-flashy, tasteless, and  cheap.  Till  we arrive at a great  music  hall of glittering  shops, all doing  tremendous  crooked  business, no doubt!  ... but  with less profits than  in districts  like  ours,  and  above all less honour !-For after  all, it is something  to sell  merchandise  that  is good  and  sound!  and  to say  to oneself each  night  at bedtime:  "I  have got  richer, and  it wasn't  to anyone's  detriment!"

I may  be forced  in  what  follows  to water  down  Genevoix's rhetoric  a little,  but  I  want  to  persuade the  reader  of  its general   sense;  for  it  was certainly true  that  the grands magasins were  the signs -- the instruments­- of  one  form  of  capital's   replacing another; and  in  that  they  obeyed  the general logic of Haussmannization. Were  they not built (the voice is approximately Genevoix's again,  but it could  as well be Lazare's or Gambetta's)  with  profits  derived   from  the  new  boulevards and  property  speculation?   Were  not  the  Pereires   behind  them?   Had  they  not  usurped   the city's  best spaces,  lining  the  Rue  de  Rivoli, facing  the  barracks  across  the Place du Chateau d'Eau and  hemming in the Opera?  Did they not depend, with  windows all  hissing  with  gas till well past nightfall-   till ten  o'clock in some  cases -- on  the  baron's  policemen, his buses and  trains,  his  wide sidewalks, and  his passion  for "circulation"?

The  stores  were  everything the opposition  came  to hate  and  blame  on empire. They were  the  ruin  of the small  man.  They  appeared   to grow  fat on  a diet  of merger, speculation, and  sudden  collapse, and  in  1870 it was far  from   clear  that  these  erratic movements of capital  had  ceased.  (The year  before,  two of the  biggest  shops  in town,  the Diable  Boiteux  and  the Fille  Mal  Gardee, had  combined  to  form  one  still  larger  called  La  Samaritaine.) The stores were bureaucracies, and the clerks and sales assistants employed  in them  were no doubt  a shiftless and untrustworthy lot: in 1869 they went on strike, demanding a twelve-hour day and holidays on Sundays. Varlin  himself  exulted  at the sight  of old divisions  ending "which had  up to now made  workers and shop assistants two different classes." The strike was  broken  and  the counter-jumpers went  back  to work  on worse  terms than  before,  but  the very fact of the struggle  confirmed  the  worse fears of honest  republicans.

The  grands magasins des nouveautes depended, as their  name  was meant to imply,  on  buying  and  selling  at speed  and  in volume.  They  vied  with one another for a multiplicity of lines and "confections"; their shelves were cleared  from  month to month; they staked  everything on fixed prices, low mark-up, and   high  turnover  of  stock. They   boasted  of  their   ability  to mobilize  provincial   workshops and  call  on  commodities from   England, Egypt,  or  Kashmir. The  stores,  one  might  say, put  an end  to the privacy of  consumption: they  took  the  commodity out  of  the quartier [e.g. neighborhood] and  made its purchase a matter of more or less impersonal skill. (No more negotiation face to face, no more  pretence  of putting  one's  reputation in  jeopardy each time  one  bought a bolt of worsted  or a new frying  pan!) The  great  floors of the Grands Magasins  du  Louvre  were a space any bourgeois  could  reach and  enter, and  many  did  so for  fun.  They  were  a kind  of open  stage on which  the shopper  strode  purposefully and  the commodity prompted;  they invited the consumer to relish her own expertise and keep it quiet -- not to bargain but to look for bargains, not to have a dress cut out to size but to choose the one which was somehow "just right" from the fifty-four crinolines on show.90

The  effect  of  these  shops  on  the quartier  economy  was  drastic.  By the middle of  the  1860s  much of the pattern of trade  in Paris  was organized around them.  Their agents  came into the quarriers with orders  written  out in  hundreds and   thousands. They   were  looking   for  the  kind  of  goods which   it  seemed   only  the  artisan   workshop could  deliver:   kitchenware with  a  hand  finish,  a well-turned chest  of drawers, or  the  right  twist  of ribbon  on  the season's  hats.  But  they  made  it clear  that  skill alone  would not  guarantee the  workshop the  job. There  were  ways  to economize on skill or do without it, or  buy it cheap elsewhere:  an agent  nowadays  could range  far afield  for the  products  he wanted,  and  in particular he could  go to the  provinces  if need  be, or  to  the factories  at La Villette.  The  atelier most often  got  the contract in the end,  but not before the master  and  men had  agreed  to work  precisely to the agent 's stipulations, however  offensive these might  be. They  had  to produce  the goods post haste and  in quantity. Sometimes the  middleman insisted  on  buying  the  raw  materials himself, and sometimes he set an overall  price for the job which forced the workshop to cut costs; in any case, the artisans  learnt  to use cheaper  iron  or flimsier paper,  and  care  less for  the  lasting  quality  of  the  result.91  They  worked longer  hours  and 

had  precious  little  time  to recuperate between   jobs: the old  regime  of breaks  and  holidays  was falling out of favour  and  the master was more  of a stickler  for discipline  on the workshop floor. The  day of rest on saint  fundi was fast  becoming a sign of recalcitrance or disaffection:  to keep it too often  was to run  the risk of being laid off or sent packing.92

The  nature of the job itself was changing. It  made  no  sense  in  these new  conditions -- working against time with shabby materials always  deteriorating -- for work to

be shared   out  in  the  old  way.  The   tasks  were better  broken  down  into  separate  stages,  and  each  worker   was obliged  to make  one of them  his specialty:  he learnt  and  repeated  a single  pattern of hammer blows on a skillet  or a gun  barrel,  he knew  the glues for a certain kind  of  joint,  he handled that  stitch,  that  binding,  that  type of burnish.93

The   master   was  obliged   in  times  like  these  to  take  in  work  from  other shops, and  the agent  came down  with  "finishing" work  from  the suburbs. What   that   meant   for  the  workman  was  a  few  touches  of  the  file  on confections  ready for sale, but needing  the artisan's (forged)  signature. The agent  proposed  new  tools and  techniques, and  pressed  for  their  adoption: he  offered  to  lend  money  to  buy  a steam  press  or  a mechanical saw,  to introduce standard rivets  or  convert  to chemical  dyes. The  marchand and the  subcontractor arrived  with   promises  of  bigger  advances  and  higher profits  still, if the workshop would  make  things  faster and  more  shoddily, and  consent  to be specialists  in a single "line." The  outcome  of that logic­ it  was  one  easily  reached   in  the  last  years  of  the   1860s-was for  the workshop to  break  up  altogether and  the  agent  to deal  with  a  hundred different workers, each  with  a lathe  or  a sewing  machine  at  home.  That way the agent  saved on rent and fuel, and  the seamstress  was left to bargain direct with capital  for her chiffon and cotton  reels; in return  she was told­ the agent  showed  her-   what  kind  of stitching was all the rage that  winter, what  shape  of bustle,  what  length  of hem.