It's plasticky, sticky, shiny, often in a weird pattern or totally bland.
You’ve seen linoleum.
It’s probably in your high school hallway.
In your closest airport and hospital.
Or maybe it's in your grandma’s kitchen.
At the very least, you can find it on home renovation television—
“There might be something beautiful."
"But there might not."
"But there’s a good chance there’s not when it's linoleum, so.”
“Still holding on to that 70s vibe.”
“This linoleum has got to go.”
Linoleum gets a bad rap.
But it wasn't always that way.
Linoleum was once the stuff of dreams.
An exciting, beautiful, innovation in flooring technology.
So what happened?
One day in 1855, a delightfully mustached inventor
named Frederick Walton was gazing upon a humble jar of oil paint.
He noticed, settled on the top of the jar was a thick, stretchy layer of material.
It was linseed oil — the paint’s main ingredient — that had oxidized.
And this...
"Attracted my attention."
I know all about this from his 1925 memoir.
It’s very out of print, but luckily
the New York Public Library has a slightly decrepit copy.
In it Walton reflects in great detail on his 90-odd year life.
Including his, quote, “boyish activities”.
“I was living in comparative luxury, I say comparative because…”
“We had few friends, but no dinner parties, dances, etc.”
Impressions of the American climate.
“The summer weather was delightful, except for the extreme heat.”
And visits to a psychic.
“He said he would put his wife into a trance.”
But mostly, he wrote about his work.
Walton fancied himself an inventor and this odd substance inspired him.
He tried using it as a varnish and a water-proofing material.
But it "never dried properly but was always sticky."
"However, I was not disheartened."
Eventually, he tried combining the dried bits of goop
with cork dust, sticky gum, pigment, then rolled it all out
into sheets backed by cotton cloth.
It worked.
He created a new type of flooring.
In rapid succession he filed a patent.
Named his invention: linoleum — a combination of the latin words for oil and flax.
Founded a company to manufacture it.
And began a mad-men level marketing blitz to promote it.
Advertisements, which ran nearly every day in London’s papers
and were plastered at every train station, touted its many advantages.
Linoleum was warm and noiseless, which gave it an advantage over wood or marble.
And it was waterproof, flexible and durable:
which made it far superior to earlier “floorcloths”
which were basically just thickly painted pieces of fabric.
They protected your floor, sure.
But they smelled weird.
They were cold underfoot and they wore out pretty fast.
Linoleum was kind of a miracle flooring.
It was durable, easy to make, supposedly antibacterial
and could be mixed and remixed into any number of beautiful patterns.
Within a few years, it was an international hit.
Walton even built an entire town on New York’s Staten Island devoted to manufacturing it.
Called, predictably, Linoleumville.
And, much to Walton’s chagrin, competitors popped up all over the world.
Eventually, overtaking him in popularity.
Linoleum was considered luxurious— the modern, refined choice.
It was all over the Titanic.
In fact, it still is.
Even as the ship wastes away a few thousand feet underwater
the linoleum looks pretty good.
Over time, linoleum just got better.
More durable, more vibrant, cheaper.
By the ’50s Linoleum (or “lino,” its jaunty nickname)
came in a massive array of patterns.
Like, hundreds.
Faux marble, faux wood, checks, squiggles, stars, stripes, florals.
These cute little mondrian looking square things.
“Who could resist these colorful patterns?
The lady knows what she wants!”
As it became more popular, it became more accessible.
Just cut it right off the enormous roll and bring it home.
And, as countless ads mentioned, install it yourself.
It was everywhere.
Homes, schools, shops.
The perfect fit for anywhere high traffic because it was so resilient and easy to clean.
But all that ubiquity kind of backfired.
Linoleum started to be seen as tacky, cheap.
That durability backfired, too.
Patterns that fell out of style stuck around and started to look dated.
Companies that used to focus on linoleum, also pivoted to new options, like vinyl.
Which was cheaper, and didn’t require wax to stay shiny.
Linoleum did enjoy a second wind in printmaking and as a breakdancing surface.
But, alongside wood paneling and those weird glass blocks
it fell way out of fashion.
Until recently.
Because seemingly against all odds, linoleum is making a comeback.
It’s featured on Instagram’s favorite table
and in a variety of trendy cafes, hotels, shops, and homes
from Copenhagen to New York.
Not to mention this exceptionally cool Estonian kindergarten.
People are loving linoleum for all of the same reasons they used to.
But, there’s one benefit Walton didn’t anticipate.
Linoleum is also really eco-friendly.
It’s still made with roughly the same materials as Walton’s first version:
Almost entirely renewable resources.
You can technically eat it.
Though you really shouldn’t.
So, before you start thinking about ripping up that old linoleum in your bathroom,
maybe give it a second thought.
If you wish to learn more about my invention, please explore Pamela H. Simpson's work.
Her articles, "Linoleum and Lincrusta: The Democratic Coverings for Floors and Walls"
and "Comfortable, Durable, and Decorative: Linoleum's Rise and Fall from Grace"
are both exceptionally well researched and full of interesting bits
like a detailed description of my other, very important invention: lincrusta.
I hear that it is still found today in a variety of famous homes.
Both articles are linked below.
Thank you for watching.