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Thread: Soennecken 111 Superior, Montblanc 146, and Pelikan 400: Legacies Lost and Found

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    Default Soennecken 111 Superior, Montblanc 146, and Pelikan 400: Legacies Lost and Found

    Many thanks to Stefan Wallrafen and Brad Torelli for their historical and technical knowledge, and to Brad for lending me his mid-'50s 146 for a few weeks.



    Part One: Historical considerations with a healthy dose of speculation
    It is easy to argue that the fountain pen in America reached its technological high-point during the postwar decade, when the confluence of an economic boom, wartime technological advancements and cultural optimism--not to mention the increasingly real prospect of obsolescence--gave rise to such indispensable pens as the Parker “51” aerometric and Sheaffer Snorkel. One may be tempted to see them as embodiments of a futurist mindset--sleek acrylic in an array of solid bright new colors, packed with refined engineering--yet in many ways they were evolutions of wartime designs: the “new” Parker “51” looked virtually identical to its vacumatic predecessor at a distance, while the Snorkel retained the many of the design cues that first appeared in mid-forties Triumphs. This isn’t surprising. For American pen makers, there was no great need for rebirth: the outcome of the war had lifted the spirit of the country; the consumer could look back upon designs from those years and perhaps be reminded of the courage of their countrymen and the bravery of that time.
    Such wartime nostalgia was likely impossible for German pen manufacturers. The end of the war and birth of West Germany called for a reformed spirit of modernity, so rather than refresh old hits, German brands would have wanted to re-announce their presence by creating entirely new products. At the beginning of wirtschaftswunder, the country's most prominent pen manufacturers did just that.
    Montblanc and Soennecken entered in 1948 along with the deutsche mark*, releasing the 14X series and 111 series, respectively. Both dripped with an over-engineered, streamlined luxury realized in celluloid, already obsolete as a material but far more pleasant to the touch than the acrylic becoming standard across the pond.
    Then, with a more plebeian and modern entry, came Pelikan in 1950, with the 400. A simple yet inventive design, it was among the first top-quality German pens to be made out of acrylic (notwithstanding its celluloid binde, of course).



    All presented new faces to the German pen-buying public. Montblanc, while carrying over its telescopic piston and nib design from the 13X series, reshaped the entire aesthetic of its Meisterstuck line, giving rise to a torpedo-like design that is now firmly established as the worldwide signifier for ‘luxury pen.’ Like Pelikan, which I’ll get to later, they simplified the piston knob design to a single piece, a refinement that paired nicely with the fresh streamline aesthetic. Black celluloid remained standard--par the course for the conservative preferences of the business class to which it was marketed--but most models (all except for the 149*) could also be had in a brilliantly attractive pattern that was at once 'arco' and striated in appearance. Even so, the color assortment was limited to grey-silver and green.
    Pelikan, with the exception of its convenient removeable nib assembly and color scheme, ditched the design of its long-running 100 model completely, re-imagining their aesthetic by simplifying the construction, doing away with the binde which allowed for a 3-piece (instead of 4-piece) piston, and--perhaps influenced by Montblanc--striating the barrel to serve as the ink-view window itself. The trim changes were especially significant. Though it seems thoroughly unremarkable today, the beak clip and crown were probably the boldest elements of the redesign: both were dually functional as integral parts of the cap assembly and as manifestations of a new branding centered around the pelican image. Combined with the new single trim ring, which took cues from Sheaffer with its aluminum reinforcement of the cap lip, the pen was unmistakable. Advertising from this period embraced a playful modernity, associating the new flagship with the bird like never before: though it had always been featured on the cap-top logo, the 400’s head+bill clip strengthened this association.
    I’ve saved Soennecken for last because it is, in my eyes, the odd one out. Not only did the company develop a whole swath of intricate herringbone celluloids that remain among the most beautiful patterns ever created--possessing a regality and organic flow that transcends its anthropogenic composition and nearly wills into existence some natural origin--but it also made them the central image of its marketing. By doing so the company eschewed the German cultural expectation that luxury pens be black. It was already the odd one out, having not the established cachet of Montblanc nor the everyman’s appeal of Pelikan, so perhaps the brand made such a radical shift from their previous designs, which had been relatively staid and almost exclusively black, because they thought they had little to lose. Most collectors seem to agree that the aim of Soennecken’s redesign was to compete with Montblanc’s 14X series (by this account, the 14X series first appeared in 1947). On the surface, as I have already pointed out, the two series bear some specificational similarities, but if the company was trying to compete with Montblanc in writing experience, they failed miserably. The Bonn-based firm’s rejection of pen-norms seems to have run deeper than their eagerness to advertise color: it presented a strikingly different concept for what a luxury writing experience should be. Rather than affirming a sense of trusty, masculine solidity, as Montblanc did, Soennecken created a line of pens that exude a hyper-refined delicacy that arises from design that focuses on aestheticizing the functional value of every feature. Where Montblanc left the 146’s ergonomically-minded section stubby and ever-so-slightly awkward to the eye, Soennecken gave the 111 an elegant vase-like concavity that centers the pen between one’s fingers like a glove; where Montblanc was satisfied with their piston guard being a few turns of unnerving frictionless screwing, Soennecken engineered a spring-loaded system that announces a completed fill with a satisfying “click.” It is this trans-sensory aesthetic coherence that makes this pen so special. And don’t think for a second I’m forgetting about that clip: it is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful of any pen; the way its facets work to highlight the angular striations of herringbone material is simply stunning.



    Part 2: Reprise of the 21-minute road trip

    Now, finally, on to the writing. For a while I’ve wanted to do a review in the spirit of the original FPGeeks’ blog and assess the performance through a “21-minute road trip.” This time I’ve finally gotten around to it. We never learned what was written in any of their reviews, but it is most likely of the circular strain the mind so easily settles into when writing for the purpose of pen analysis. My following thoughts are a composite of impressions formed during short jotting and discoveries made over the 21-minute period I spent with each pen, filled with Organics Studio Blue Merle--a moderately saturated grey with great flow--and written over several pages of a Clairefontaine notebook. Tomoe river is usually more my thing, but Clairfontaine paper is I think more representative of most papers on the market.
    I started my hour-long marathon of consecutive road-trips with the Montblanc. I knew it was the heaviest, and I’d developed some concern for the obtrusiveness of its threads over the few weeks I’d used it to take quick notes, so I thought it best to get the discomfort over with first. Being a medium-sized pen person, I also had doubts about the width of its section, which was uncommonly girthy for its day--would it make long-session writing a uncomfortable? Within the first 5 minutes of writing, my ergonomic fears about the threads and the section were assuaged. The pen, with its brass piston-granted backweight, felt palm-centered in the hand, but not ungainly. Any minor discomfort from the threads faded away as the pen warmed to the touch, and to my surprise, the pen became considerably more comfortable as I continued writing. At the halfway point (having written nearly two pages), my hands felt fresh and inspired. I had fallen into a rare groove where, after twelve minutes of constant writing, I only wanted to think of more things to write so the experience could continue. As I wrote, the brilliance of the nib’s proportions--which I had until that point considered as a little small and squat--availed itself to me: the slightly shorter size with wide wings, as seen looking down over with the wide section, creates a sort of visuo-tactile feedback loop of control; strokes feel precisely under the control of your fingers. And practically, a shorter nib better accommodates those who write at higher angles.

    Better than all of that, however, was the performance of the nib itself. Its response curve (tine spread/pressure applied) is marvelous for normal writing, allowing for just enough expression but never bogging down strokes. The weight of the body alone (well over 20g) makes this expression almost effortless. Flow was quite wet with any pressure (as seems to be the case with ‘50s 14X series), but very consistent-- and the tines were sprung just tight enough to be conducive to excellent shading. Every time I would finish writing with the pen, whether after a jot or the ‘roadtrip’, the nib left me with a lingering feeling that I had just experienced something sublime.

    My 21 minutes with the Montblanc left me unexpectedly energized and lucid, so I followed my instinct and plowed forward into the next road (paper) trip. I would like to think that doing so heightened my comparative abilities; indeed, once all your senses have settled in to writing with a certain pen, suddenly taking in hand a different one presents a real affront to them--this is especially the case with celluloid, where that warm ‘bond’ between pen and hand is strong.



    Caught in this celluloid rush, I picked up the Soennecken next, not wanting to give it the challenge of going last. Unlike the Montblanc, the 111 had seen several months of note and test-taking use by this point, so I expected to begin my road trip reminded of my previous impressions of long writing--not least of which the occasional cramps during hasty essay-writing that would leave me frustrated with the form-fitting concavity of the section. What immediately struck me instead was the nib. Not its pleasant give or stubiness, but its sheer size. Longer than the section itself, the nib on the 111 Superior is a grand beast in need of taming. Point it in paper’s direction and it becomes an object of aesthetic romance, but dare to mark with it, and you’ll find yourself beguiled. The delicacy and poise of the pen in the hand is two-faced: while the leverage of the long nib encourages graceful flexing, the extra distance between your fingers and the page makes it harder to control. Thus my road trip felt, and looked, as you can see, comparatively chaotic. Eventful chaos, to be sure. The freedom of stroke--and conversely the extra effort needed to form precise characters--increased my visual awareness while writing. Good thing there’s a lot to look at. One through-line of my 21-minute experience was the way in which writing with this pen never quite ceased to feel like an “event.” I felt the pen inserted itself into the experience of my thoughts, pumped in by the visuo-tactile feedback loop I talked about earlier: its visual and tactile beauty can distract from the goal of getting ideas onto the page. In no way is all this a mark against the pen. Many of us use fountain pens seeking this very awareness of writing with flair. Of the three pens, this one does, without doubt, impart the most flair and uniqueness to one’s writing. But what of the cramping I experienced when wildly writing an in-class essay? It didn’t manifest itself during the 2 ½ pages I wrote, though I didn’t find it as comfortable as the 146, especially towards the end. The ergonomics of the pen seem more geared towards giving a first impression of luxurious comfort rather than the real thing that lets pages fly by addictively. Maybe writing is an event when it isn’t.
    And one last thing: the 146’s nib performed better. Not only did it feel better--the 111’s nib-leverage doesn’t make up for the nib being slightly less ‘bouncy’ (there is more give after greater pressure is applied)--but it had an unhesitant flow; the Soennecken, to my dismay, lightened up a bit by the middle of the second page. It never became truly “dry,” but the luscious, juicy flow of the start was gone. In daily use, of course, this issue never presented itself. Both the 111 and 146 always wrote well from the first to last stroke.



    Finally I moved on to my tried-and-true Pelikan 400.* After the Soennecken, I was beginning to feel the effects of my wandering scribbles, and entertained a passing worry about hitting some sort of 'wall' during my final road trip. But I pressed on, deciding that the 400 was unlikely to let me down--this was a pen I'd been writing with for years. What I overlooked was the way writing experience is dictated by immediate circumstance. My fingers had so happily bonded with lusciously concave celluloid sections for the past 40 minutes that the Pelikan's straight and acrylic one felt decidedly alien. Is this really how a pen should be?,I thought as I set upon the page. Luckily, 'alien' doesn't preclude 'comfortable': the girth and nib length (just a smidge shorter than the 146) allowed for easy character formation, even as the smoothness of the factory OM was not up to par with the other two. (To be sure, there was no issue with tine alignment.) While the Pelikan's nib response curve was much less forgiving (producing a BBB is possible but requires an impractical amount of pressure), the flow was excellent--wet but with enough control to leave subtly elegant shading. Some part of this flow--and of my overall writing experience--was influenced by the OM grind, but having owned 10+ of these pens previously, I can confidently say this is one of the 400's common strong-points. This road trip reminded me of just how easygoing the Pelikan is as a writer: it is ergonomic and agile enough to be forgotten. There's no web-caressing backweight luxuriously growing warm in your hand (Pelikan's pioneering mechanism was always made of plastic or hard rubber) and no big flashy nib. The threads, where I usually grip the pen, fade into the section almost immediately, providing excellent grip but nothing more. To me--and my long history with the pen may have produced serious bias--the 400 is the only pen in the bunch that fades away as a visuo-tactile phenomenon, letting you think purely and unpretentiously. Yes, it's an old 'fancy' pen with a crown at its cap-top and a striped suit along its body, but those are there only for others to notice. It is a tool honed to allow for the most fluid written expression. Practically speaking, the performance was flawless: no skipping or flow-weakening here. Unlike the celluloid pens, however, it failed to feel like an extension of my hand, like a well-bonded attachment. This may seem paradoxical given that I said it is the least noticeable of the bunch--the least of an 'event'--but I think we can agree that it would be supremely strange thing to grow a pen-finger!

    Of course, all I can summarize is my personal experience. My hands are average-sized for a man (7.5" long), and my tri-grip style seems to be the norm, but my results will not hold true for some. In short, I found the Montblanc to be a ridiculously-enticing writer, the Soennecken to be too elegant for its own good, and the Pelikan to live up to my workhorse expectations for it. In the spirit of the New York Times' Wirecutter review system (and in a fantasy world where midcentury German flagship fountain pens are their own category) I'll say the Pelikan 400 is the best pen for most people, while the Montblanc is the best pen for anyone--who can afford it. Even in pendom at large, there are few pens so thoroughly satisfying to write with as the original 146.
    Sometimes we are best able to determine how we value something in its absence. As I write this, none of these three pens remain in my possession. I returned the Montblanc after a few weeks, and sadly, both the Soennecken and the Pelikan are now lost. So which do I miss the most? Strangely enough, the Soennecken--by a long shot. I do think of that luscious nib on the Montblanc from time to time, and the pocket-companion that once was the 400, but the only pen that I 'mourn' the loss of is the Soennecken. Maybe my knowledge of their rarity clouds my judgement (more on this later). I happen to think it's something more: that everything about using and appreciating the pen is beautiful. I'd never had a pen like it.

    CONTINUED FURTHER DOWN


    *representative image courtesy of PenSpa
    Last edited by fountainpenkid; January 20th, 2022 at 12:12 PM. Reason: autocorrect spelling mishap
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