I’m fascinated by old signs that have long outlived their usefulness. The resolution in this photo isn’t very sharp—I took it with my iPhone while sitting at the Juneau and Old World Third Street stoplight—but it pulls together several eras in an interesting fashion.
At the left is the F. H. Hochmuth building, built in 1892. The resolution here is too poor for you to see it, but that year is written above the Hochmuth name, just below the facade’s peaked roof. Milwaukee buildings of this era (1870s–1900) all have a pretty similar look: skinny, three or four stories tall, built with Milwaukee’s own Cream City brick, and displaying its year of construction in a stylized banner across the top.
To the right is a luxury condo/apartment building that has been built to appear old. The Moderne has an Art Deco look, or more accurately Art Moderne. Yet it’s actually brand new (four years old).
And in between is the “ghost” sign. I regret not taking a photo of it before the new building blocked it. It’s some kind of pest control ad, from a company that used “K”s like a New York Post headline. The text on the sign reads something like “Killed Kleen” or “Kleen Killed,” if memory serves.
I figure the sign is from the 1940s or 1950s. Note the “K” on the cartoon exterminator’s hat, as well as the cape unfurled beyond his shoulders. The lower half of the sign, now obscured, reveals that the man is wearing some kind of superhero outfit, a leotard-and-tights look that’s a cross between Superman and Peter Pan.
One last thing: I found this photo on eBay and discovered that the F. H. Hochmuth building was home to a musical instrument store by that same name.
I found the October 21, 1972, Milwaukee Journal obituary for Otto Hochmuth, “retired operator of the old Hochmuth Music Store,” who was found dead at age 75 in his room at the Abbot Crest Hotel.” Otto’s father was the “F. H.” of the building’s name: Franz Hochmuth, a German violin maker, founded the store in 1892 after immigrating to America. Franz’s son Otto operated the business from 1940–1969.
So, I don’t know. That sign itself is nothing special, apart from its surprising durability. I could actually see it becoming, given its cheesy prominence in any photo taken from the wrong angle, a thorn in the side of Moderne building management. But there it is. And there it will likely remain until years of Wisconsin weather finally erases it.
A ghost from decades past peering impishly down.