E Muller & E Muller Jr. Postcard Views

Robert E Muller (St. Nicholas Magazine, July 1913)

The story of Enrique Muller and Robert E Muller (Enrique Muller Jr.) has been a naval postcard publisher mystery (at least to me). I have attempted to piece together the story of the name Muller behind the excellent photographic views of the US navy found on postcards.

USS Hartford by E. Muller in 1899.

Enrique Muller and Robert E. Muller were one of the foremost US naval photographers at the turn of the 20th Century. They photographed warships from the Spanish-American War to WWI. Their photographs are found on many different publisher postcards as well as their own. This was a family business. The father probably started out as an official US naval photographer in the late 1890s and then created a postcard business. Around 1905-1910 Enrique�s son, Robert Muller probably took over the business. It looks like Robert went by the name Enrique Muller jr. This name can be found on many Muller views. The Muller business was based in New York City (198 Broadway). Robert seemed more adventurous with his camera than his father. This could in fact be due to advances in cameras, and film. There are views of warships coming straight at the camera, nighttime firing of guns, and torpedoes being launched. The article Risks of Photographing Battle-Ships in Action talks about his adventures of taking photographs of the US navy. Robert was also an official naval photographer.

A Robert Muller view of naval night action

In my research looking through the New York Times and the US Census information I have learned more about the Muller family. Enrique Muller was born in Germany December 1846. He immigrated to the USA in 1865. He married his wife Mary in 1875. She was born in the US in 1857. Both her parents were German. Enrique and Mary had six children. Minnie (1875), Thoedore (1876), Louise (1878), Matilda (1880), Robert (1881), and Martha (1882). At the turn of the twentieth century the family lived in Kings County, New York. Enrique and his two sons occupations were listed as photographers. In 1900 it appears Enrique was renting the house they lived in. I think the business was good for the Muller family around the turn of the century, but for Robert things were not good by 1915. On December 23, 1915 he declared personal bankrupcy.

One interesting story found in the New York Times, about Robert, was when the sailboat he was on was rammed and sunk. In the early morning of August 14, 1910, Robert was on board the sailboat when it was rammed by a tug on her way from New York to Newport. There were six people on board. Robert and four others managed to dive into the water. The captain was able to climb on board the tug. All were rescued. Two of the passengers were due to play in the National Tennis Championships the next day.

I may be incorrect with some of the information concerning the Muller photographs. If anyone has more information I would really like to hear it. I have a postcard from 1911, which was published by Clarke & Muller, 2 Rector St, New York. Possibly by 1911 Muller had partnered with someone else to publish postcards. By the end of WWI there seems to be no more Muller photographs appearing on postcard. It is unfortunate that the wonderful legacy of the Muller naval photographs did not continue. But naval postcard collectors today are left with a broad selection of their views on postcard.

Another Robert view showing a torpedo being launched.

Robert wrote an article in the July 1913 issue of the St. Nicholas Magazine, entitled Risks of Photographing Battle-Ships in Action. I have reproduced the article below:

Photographing a battle-ship at full speed is fully as exciting and dangerous a feat as encountering a charging rhinoceros in the jungle. It�s a case of a hasty shot and a quick �get-away�.

Of all the marine pictures that have ever been taken, this picture of the U.S.S. Michigan, flagship of the Atlantic fleet, is considered the most remarkable. When I took it, the experience was one in which I nearly lost my life.

USS Michigan (St. Nicholas Magazine, July 1913).

It was just before sundown when, in a small motor-boat, I arrived in the direct course of the Michigan, several miles out in the open sea off the coast of Maine. Once there, I didn't have to wait long before the ship's smoke on the horizon warned me of her approach. I was eager to get a picture full of life and dramatic action, - of the ship under full speed, taken from directly in front, something never before accomplished, - so I ordered the engineer to gage the distance and allow me to stand in her course, until the last possible moment before making our escape. She was nearing us now, and bearing down at the speed of twenty-two miles an hour a great, overawing monster! The vibration from our engine was bothering me, so I decided to take a chance, and ordered the engine stopped. On came the ship, her bow-spray looming up before us like two green, foaming, white-crested wings. The moments were precious now, so I shot the camera, and shouted for full speed ahead. The engine gasped, made a struggle to work, but gave up immediately. I was frightened; even the engine seemed to foresee its fate! In the delay, I had but one idea: a chance for another snapshot. Now the ship was within thirty yards of us, cruelly pointing her bow directly toward our little boat. I snapped again, and almost as if the little engine had been waiting for this to happen, it answered immediately with a chug, and we swerved across the dreadnought's bow. There were yells from the ship to get out of the way, then came a crash! Her bow wave had caught us, and, the next thing that I knew, with plateholder in one hand, I was struggling with the other to reach the surface of the sea in which I had been buried fathoms deep. Succeeding in this I was soon dragged aboard a near-by ship that had seen the accident, and, after congratulating myself for having escaped being cut in two by the bow and sent to the bottom, as were the camera and most of my plates, I began planning how I could save the one plate that I had so jealously clung to when thrown into the water, and which had been the cause of the whole excitement. I was pretty blue and disgusted, for it seemed impossible that the picture could be good; but I rushed immediately to wash the plate in fresh water, in order to prevent the brine from affecting it. On developing it, I drew a deep gasp of relief the plate had been saved! The picture was a success!

A naval photographer gets many duckings, and, after a time, takes them as a matter of course. Being thrown into the sea isn't considered by him at all a serious event. It is during battle-ship practice that he encounters grave dangers, for much of the work done at this time is from the tops of the fighting masts, which are at an elevation of one hundred and twenty feet above the sea.

During different practices, I have taken my position in these masts, in order to get detailed pictures. Once in these basket-like tops, the question is how to stick. The gun-fire photographs itself. I suppose you wonder what I mean, but it is just this: every time the big twelve-inch guns fire, the awful concussion they cause invariably gives the snap to the shutter of the camera, and the exposure is made. If this were not a successful method � one discovered by chance taking photographs of gun-fire would be an impossibility, for, at the instant when the guns are fired and the exposure of the plate should be made, the thundering noise and the oscillating motion, combined with the terrific shock, seem completely to stun and paralyze one it is all that one can do to hang on and brace himself safely, in order to avoid being dashed to pieces on the decks far below. Once, while standing unguardedly, camera in one hand and my gripsack in the other, in the basket at the top of the mast of the battle-ship Michigan, the salvo came, and I was thrown forward with such force that my camera and grip were torn out of my hands and went flying into the ocean; and it was luck only that prevented me from going with them!

The whip of the mast, during fire, is due to the recoil of the guns. On the dreadnought North Dakota, when a salvo from the ten-inch guns is fired, the aggregate energy of the ten shells amounts to 500,000 foot-tons sufficient power to life a 20,000-ton ship twenty-five feet in the air. The recoil of these heavy guns, which in combination weigh 500 tons, is communicated to the ship with such force as to cause it to heel, in the opposite direction from the target, to the extent of from four to five degrees. The shock is gigantic, no part of the dreadnought escapes its force, and the masts are whipped back and forth like slender reeds blown by the breeze.

The crashing noise, combined with the air current, strikes one so stinging a blow when the first whip comes, that he feels as though he had been boxed by the hand of a unseen giant, and, unless the ears are protected by special ear mufflers, total deafness with result.

Many of the pictures of battle practice here published have been taken with great risk and under fully as dangerous conditions as would be met while hunting wild animals in Africa.

It sounds like Robert had an interesting career photographing naval warships. The article does have a flaw. The USS Michigan was never flagship of the Atlantic fleet. It appears that the USS Michigan was substituted in the article for the USS Connecticut.

The real image in question can be seen at this link: Naval Historical Center