written by Gavin Loch
2003 Vol 1 Issue 9

Sexual intercourse began in 1963, wrote Philip Larkin — as did the Pirelli calendar. The company, then a small Italian concern specializing in prosaic products such as tires and webbing for the auto industry, had conceived the idea of an erotic calendar the year before. It was intended to be a visual marketing tool that would project Pirelli onto the international stage. Although the idea of a pin-up calendar was not exactly novel, it remained a proven PR device: British Leyland, a mundane auto manufacturer, had already designed a calendar of their own, to be hung in truck drivers’ cabs. Notwithstanding this, Pirelli’s goal was to redefine the rules of glamour photography. Above all, it was to be a friendly gesture, with the purpose of selling tires — as well as seducing the viewer.

The Pirelli calendar was born at the start of the 1960s, a new libertarian, freewheeling decade that would rock the older establishment. A creative energy enveloped rock music, fashion, films and photography, and the stuffiness and austerity of post-war London gave way to a new color and vitality that transformed the city into the style capital of the world: ultra-trendy Carnaby Street in Chelsea, and the new sexy and curvaceous Jaguar E-Type, for example. As hedonism took off, Britain began to "swing."

It was the dawn of Beatlemania, with "Love Me Do" appearing on the charts in late 1962, kick-starting the new wave of youth-orientated culture. Pacifism and "flower power" would follow in the years to come, but the revolution had already started, with Bob Dylan singing that something was "blowing in the wind." Freedom and independence for women resulted in the mini-skirt and the contraceptive pill. The Rolling Stones signaled attitude and rebellion — and to be young was to be cool and fashion-conscious, while the Vespa scooter became the preserve of the "mod." The teenager had arrived.

The calendar was a product of this cultural revolution that was to inspire a new sensuality, a new appreciation of the female form and, above all, an urgent need to break taboos. Pirelli was a very sophisticated concept of beauty, with its focus on erotic fantasy, sensuality and glamour. From the outset, Pirelli had decided not to take the same path as Playboy, with its more sexually orientated photos.

Pirelli Ltd., the group’s U.K. subsidiary, published the 1963 calendar, but the end result was bland, to say the least. The photographs were by London-born Terence Donovan, but the calendar was unknown and relied heavily on product association. The art director and vision behind the Pirelli phenomenon was U.K. Head of Publicity Derek Forsyth, who would later be instrumental in shaping the future success and allure of the calendar. Yet, the Pirelli legend would take another 12 months to get off the ground.

For 1964, the creative team hit upon a strategy that would make the Pirelli calendars the renowned piece of art it has become. That strategy was to have a different theme each year, with a set of high artistic photographs depicting a new, creative approach to beauty — and glamour photography in general. There was to be a different location each year and, if possible, a different photographer who would bring his or her unique vision to that period. Derek Forsyth recruited Beatles photographer Robert Freeman, and the team flew to Majorca for one week.

For that first official calendar, there was none of the lavish production that one would now associate with a glamorous photo-shoot abroad: the stylists, graphic designers, make-up artist, hairdresser, and so forth. Yet, looking back at the 1964 calendar, part of the appeal is its relaxed, informal nature: photos that are warm, sensual and friendly, depicting girls alone on the beach or in moments of quiet introspection. Unusually, no PR event was held for the press — at this stage, the calendar was still perceived by the group’s directors as a gift for those directly involved with Pirelli. Its reputation and fame would take a few more years to achieve, but undoubtedly the legend had been born.

The following decades’ calendars, in the south of France, Morocco, Tunisia and California, were just as enticing in their imagery, as they displayed a sharp awareness of the particular year. The 1968 calendar reflected the previous year’s psychedelic, "Summer of Love" atmosphere. Each dream-like photo came with a famous love poem printed beside the image — one of the most famous of all Pirelli images being the July photo of a discreetly placed sunflower.

The decade of love and peace ended with the Pirelli team in California, depicting everyday images of American life: girls in football shirts, cigarettes, surfing, girls in bikinis, bottles of Coke, ice popsicles, sand, sea and sex. This montage of a world of freedom, fun and abandon appeared just a dream to most of Britain: The West Coast of America was still out of reach for most of the population, and cheap transatlantic flights were to be a thing of the future.

The beach was to be a recurring theme in many of Pirelli’s images, one that photographer Francis Giacobetti used to stunning, atmospheric effect in the first two calendars of the 1970s, filmed in the Bahamas and Jamaica. By now, the calendar had been made available to the press and the public — albeit in very limited numbers — and the PR event was fast becoming the exclusive function to attend.

Feeling a complete change was needed in order to push boundaries, the 1972 calendar was to be light years away from what people had come to expect. First, a woman, Sarah Moon, was photographer. Second, the images from Paris invoked a sense of romance, femininity and languor, which were suited to the early ‘70s. The calendar — with its beautiful, soft-focus photography, and girls pictured in old-fashioned underwear — bears an uncanny resemblance to the Australian film "Picnic at Hanging Rock," which would be released a few years later.

The following year, the images had the opposite effect: girls in far more erotic poses, some wearing rubber and leather, and sculpted, coned bras, a la Madonna. It was labeled perverse by some, and "erotic and objectionable" by others. Everyone was now intrigued by what Pirelli would come up with next.

It was a return to the familiar theme of the beach. The 1974 photos, by Hans Feurer in the Seychelles, were to make up one of the most stunning of all the calendars and are seen as quintessentially Pirelli. Most stunning of all, however, was the news that would follow the calendar’s launch.

On March 27, 1974, Pirelli made the shock announcement that it was retiring the calendar for good. The Yom Kippur war, and the unresolved Middle East crisis, resulted in an oil embargo against the West, further blighting the auto industry and namely the tire-manufacturing sector. Europe was temporarily plunged into austerity: street lighting was reduced, cars were banned on Sundays and nightclubs were forced to shut much earlier. For Pirelli, which was also facing economic difficulties, now was not the time to be indulging in a luxury product. Yet, the calendar’s retirement increased its exclusivity and iconic status.

Ironically, never had the calendar been more successful. It had been titled "the world’s greatest office status symbol." Its exclusivity was such that it had been quoted on The Financial Times — back issues had been sold at auction houses in London, and even insurance companies had valued it. The calendar had become even more famous than the company’s products and was sought by ministers, princes, pop stars, students and, of course, garage mechanics. It had become the ultimate objet d’art.

By 1984, the calendar made a surprise return. The economic outlook — and Pirelli’s business as a whole — was considerably more propitious than 10 years previous. To celebrate this change, the new art director Martyn Walsh was hired, whose models "wore" the new Pirelli P6 tire tread. The latter was seen as a novel and vibrant approach to advertise that Pirelli made tires — in case people had forgotten! The calendar was hailed a success by press and public.

Since then, the calendar has continued in its quest to challenge the ever-changing styles and ideals of the period. The merging of art and seduction would lead to the calendar being hung in London's famous Tate Gallery.

Editions since 1984 have mostly moved away from the image of sand, sun and sea, clearly aware of the dangers of being typecast. Notable calendars since include Bert Stern (the last person to photograph Marilyn Monroe) in 1986, whose photographs were based on paintings commissioned by students of London’s Royal College of Art; Arthur Elgort’s 1990 monochrome shots of a classical all-female Olympics, which would resemble Leni Reifenstahl’s vision of Berlin in the 1936 Olympics; Herb Ritt’s alluring 1994 images of supermodels Helena Christiansen, Kate Moss and Cindy Crawford; Richard Avedon’s astonishing "Four Seasons" images the following year; and the close-ups of Peter Lindbergh in Hollywood 2002.

Just why has the Pirelli calendar proved so successful since 1964? The main reason is the calendar’s annual awareness of the time. Each calendar has seemed entirely relevant for that particular year and has contributed to a remarkable array of visual imagery, from the wetsuit style of 1966 to the sunflower of 1968, from the hedonism of 1974 to the tire-tread behinds in 1984, from the ballet dancers of 1988 to the sultry Helena Christiansen in 1994. Many of the images are timeless and have brought reality to our fantasies. The calendar has provided a revealing insight into the numerous changes in our society over the last 40 years — sometimes shocking, sometimes sublime, but quintessentially Pirelli.