fringe benefits
The Emperor may wear no clothes, but the Freemasons and Elks may be reassured that all their royal vestment needs will continue to be met by the Geo. Lauterer Corp.At the doorway of the building at 310 West Washington Street, there is a sign extending an invitation to visit the George Lauterer Company showroom on the third floor. Stressing their fine line of trophies, plaques, banners, name tags, and similar corporate accoutrements, it's hard to believe many people take them up on the invite. After all, it scarcely sounds like an exhibit of the Vatican's treasures. For the truly curious, however, a short trip up in one of the city's few elevator operator operated elevators takes one to the Lauterer offices. Appearing particularly nondescript and beige from the outside, pushing open the door transports you into a cozy little office space brimming with exotica.
The “showroom” consists of several glass display cases, each containing artifacts of the Orient and Araby. Golden, bejewelled collars; elaborate lambskin aprons, and—especially noticeable—an arrangement of fezzes of various hues, glittering with rhinestones and bearing faraway names like “Medinah,” “Moslah,” and “Al Malaikah” in ersatz Arabic script. These are the paraphernalia of the world's fraternal and “secret” societies (the collection, research, and archiving of which I've made my hobby).
Reciting their names—Freemasons, Shriners, Elks, and Odd Fellows—can invoke either images of cheerful, cherubic men riding itty-bitty cars in Independence Day parades, or shadow governments and sinister conspiracies aimed toward achieving worldwide domination. Crawling with enough alien and arcane symbology to keep a team of semiotics professors working for years, the esoterica of the regalia juxtaposed against the exoterica of the display cases and office furniture is slightly jarring. Imagine being told (and believing) that the “pyramidclops” on the back of every dollar bill was the sign of an all-powerful, world-dominating organization called the Illuminati. Now imagine what the Gap would look like if it catered exclusively to the Illuminati.
For 68-year-old Lauterer President Earl Joyce, however, it’s just business as usual. Though largely concerned with producing awards and trophies, church supplies, and advertising specialties, fraternal regalia remains at the forefront of Lauterer's product line.
“We still chase the fraternal business,” he tells me, “It's still our main bread and butter.”
Fraternal regalia, in fact, has been Lauterer’s bread and butter since 1881, when the company was founded by George Lauterer—a German immigrant and devoted fraternal club member. A Chicago firm from the get-go, and always located in the downtown area, the company was overseen by Mr. Lauterer until his death, whereupon his son took over. In 1948, ownership was transferred to the current management, now consisting of Mr. Joyce and his son John. Originally exclusively established as a manufacturer of Knights of Pythias materials, the company branched out into producing the distinctive ritual and parade regalia of the Freemasons, Elks, Shriners, and other clubs.
For those whose experience with the abovementioned groups is limited to childhood memories of parades and pancake breakfasts, most fraternal organizations were primarily created to provide a social outlet, insurance, and, in due time, a decent burial for their members. It may also be suggested that the quasi-mystic nature of these groups’ rites and regalia added some metaphysical spice to otherwise uneventful small-town lives. While many of the organizations hang on, they do so by their fingertips. Their membership is often superannuated, and considering our society’s evergrowing selection of media distractions, fraternal groups aren't as large a draw as they once were.
Yet, the clubs carry on—as does George Lauterer Corp.; though, like the clubs it provides for, regalia demand both waxes and wanes.
“(There are) not very many full-time manufacturers,” Mr. Joyce says, “Every year somebody goes out of business, because the market is drying up. There are very, very few of us left. I would guess not more than 10 in the whole country that are still surviving and growing relatively strongly.”
He flips through several catalogs for me, displaying a breathtaking selection of regalia and photos of happy past customers modelling highly ornate sashes, fezzes, tiaras, collars and cuffs, and glittering medallions. He continues:
“The other thing that’s happening too...Not only are the organizations declining, the need and volume of the regalia they use is going down,” Mr. Joyce continues, “In other words, they're not giving full uniform orientations today. If you were to try to find a Knights Templar (an organization for Master Masons, last numbered at about 300,000 members in 1994) group in full regalia today, you'd be hardpressed to find it...Lauterer himself was extremely active in the Knights of Pythias, and I have catalogs from his time this thick [he holds up a widespread thumb and forefinger] with all kinds of uniforms for the assorted degrees. It's amazing what was (offered) there.”
Still, while the disintegration and/or obscurity of such groups as the Knights of Pythias, Knights Templar, Grotto, the Independent Order of Odd Fellows, and even the Dramatic Order of the Knights of Khorassan has engendered a similar regalia declension, business is still relatively brisk, due to customer loyalty—particularly from the Elks, Masons, and that crowd-pleasing, fez-wearing Masonic faction, the Shriners. Additionally, while full-line manufacturers may be dying out, the trend only makes the specificity of Lauterer Company's services that much more desirable to its customers—a symbiotic relationship to be sure.
“We’re basically a catalog house (Note: And on the Web at www.lauterer.com.),” Mr. Joyce adds, “We have a pretty good relationship with our customers...It's a two-way street. They keep us informed on what's happening and what they need, and we provide it.”
As Martha Stewart would say, that’s a good thing. Fraternal regalia is not suited for mass production, due both to low demand and the high degree of craftsmanship required to produce it. Lauterer’s fezzes, for instance, are the showroom’s shining jewels. Kitschy, woolen works of art, they gleam with rhinestones, feature amazingly intricate embroidery, and are topped with gorgeously long, flowing tassels. Incidentally, while Lauterer might consider selling a fez to a non-Shriner, Royal Arch Mason fezzes start out at $44, while the top-of-the-line “Majestic” hits $210. Not exactly an impulse buy.
So, is this all done on-site?
“A lot of this stuff can be imported from India and Pakistan. They do a lot of handwork over there, but it's the same old problem with communication, timing, and so forth,” he explains, “Most everything you see here was created here.”
“(The fezzes) are all hand-done,” Mr. Joyce continues, “Each one of the stones is sewed on individually. It's not a mass production item. Silk fezzes are a little bit easier. A couple of firms have (embroidery) machines that can knock them out...but the stone ones are still by hand. It's very difficult to find people to do that. Like every other trade that’s done with the hands, you can’t find that many people to do that.” Later on, he takes me to the production area where the fez magic happens. There, I encounter a bank of pleasant-looking older women, gracefully sewing rhinestones, sphinx heads, and scimitars onto fezzes as unmindfully as if they were darning socks for their grandkids.
Asked if there’s a fraternal regalia aesthetic, Mr. Joyce considers the question thoughtfully.
“Well, it's all meaningful. It has to be made to spec. Colors make a difference. Emblems make a difference. If they’re not correct, the person wearing them isn't portraying what he's supposed to portray.”
For this reason, Mr. Joyce is a card-carrying member of most of the groups to whom his company caters. A Freemason, Knight of Columbus, AMVET, American Legionnaire, and Elk, he maintains good relations with each group, plus numerous others.
“Many of them are secretive, so if you're not a member, you're never going to know what's going on. And if you don't know what's going on, you can't come up with the products they need.” (Special note to fraternal society members: Mr. Joyce revealed no secret handshakes or the like to this journalist.)
Being a regalia collector, viewing the backroom was a sobering experience. As Andy Warhol proved, repeated images render the mundane strange. Imagine the effect when the strange is mass produced. Fleets of fezzes, skullcaps, collars, and aprons covered table after table, repeating the symbols of Freemasonry—the square and compass, the all-seeing eye, the mystical number “33”—ad infinitum. Quaint and curious items that I’ve spent the past several years seeking out in antique stores—considering myself ungodly lucky if I find little more than a medallion or membership card—filled the place like packages of tube socks at WalMart. Again, the strange collided with the everyday. Here were wrought the mystical appurtenances of Freemasonry, et alia, that give conspiracy theorists apoplectic fits. It loses much of its world-shaking terror, however, when you realize these baubles of occultic influence are largely crafted by a graphic artist named Bob.
That doesn't mean that doing business with non-Illuminati hasn't been interesting. I ask Mr. Joyce if the George Lauterer Corp. showroom gets many visitors off the street.
“We get a few people...You can see the expression on their face—especially our commercial people,” he says, “They'll look in the book and see this up-to-date ad about trophies and plaques, and they say, ‘Okay, I'm going to go get some plaques.’ Then they walk in the place and see all the fezzes and jackets, and they'll say, ‘Am I in the right place?’” he says, chuckling, “Then we'll say yes, let’s see what you need... ‘I didn't even know you were here,’ that's a common phrase. ‘I didn't even know you guys were here. I didn't even know you had this stuff.’”
This article originally appeared in the Chicago Journal, Vol. 1, No. 6, Thursday, November 23, 2000
®2001 Dan Kelly
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