Over the Rainbow

Fenton. Northwood. Millersburg. Dugan.

The names of the old American glass factories don't jog very many memories today. But to collectors of carnival glass, these names elicit palpable pleasure -- and this, eighty or ninety years after many of these companies closed up shop.

Hugely popular among collectors since the 1960s, when its mystique and luster drove its popularity to sometimes unbelievable values at auctions and estate sales, carnival glass was manufactured mostly to look at (as opposed to its more functional-minded in-law, depression glass). This stuff was produced in grand amounts, in a bewildering array of shapes and colors, and usually sold in department store catalogs or in home-decor outlets. It was machine-pressed but often hand-detailed: vases were "swung" so that they elongated oddly, scalloped edges were applied by workers to punch bowls and bon-bon dishes, and -- most important -- salt solutions were sprayed onto the glass while it was still bubbling hot, creating that signature oil-and-water iridescence all over the surface of the glass.

The effect was a pseudo Art Nouveau glass the middle classes could afford. Little did ordinary households expect in 1910 to 1915 (the high point in popularity of carnival glass on its first go-round) that by the latter half of the 20th century, this shimmering, slightly trashy, and undeniably garish product would be worth more than the art glass it was designed to simulate.

By 1970, carnival glass collecting clubs had sprung up all over the country, books and auction buyer's guides were being constantly published, and collectors numbered in the thousands. The carnival glass collecting bug bit me, too. I joined a large club, which held meetings every month and planned festive Holiday Inn weekends two or three times a year where we could attend lectures, kibitz with fellow collectors across the state, and bid on private collections at auction. I was amazed by the extent of the knowledge these folks had of this glass -- its history, its hundreds of shapes and patterns, its numerous colors (the "color" of carnival glass is always based on the color of the base glass rather than the color of the iridescence, but even the iridescence is categorized in various ways), its meticulously documented sub-culture of fake carnival glass (every carnival glass collector worth a salt knew how to spot a fake piece of carnival glass), and the shocking range of prices paid each year for various pieces. Collectors licked their lips over the prospect of finding something rich and rare: one punch bowl with accompanying cups was so rare that it sold at auction in the early 1980s for $40,000.