Framing the Past: A Modern Look at Turner Mirrors and Vintage Preservation

When I first began sorting through the last of the Turner frames that my parents had custom-ordered in 1979, I didn’t yet realize how much history I was about to uncover. They’d been stacked on top of the wide flat file drawers in my garage since my dad dropped off the Pink Flamingos inventory three years ago—neatly arranged but long untouched, each one still bearing its deteriorating corner bumpers from decades past. I started pulling them down one by one, expecting just wood and glass—the work I’d put off through winters and life changes. But tucked beneath the frames were several heavy wooden crates, sealed and forgotten. When I finally opened one, I froze. Inside were rows upon rows of pristine mirrors, untouched since my parents, Dana and Victoria Mayes, had packed them away. Carefully lined with strips of 1983 Sacramento Bee newspaper, the mirrors had waited more than forty years for that moment, gleaming like a time capsule I hadn’t known I’d inherited.

Discovering those crates changed everything. Realizing what I held in those boxes—a full stock of original Turner mirrors, perfectly preserved—was the spark that pushed me to begin restoring the frames in earnest. I wanted to bring the collection back to life, not only to see the Flamingos framed again as they were meant to be, but to make these iconic Turner mirrors available once more for fellow collectors and restorers who have been searching for them for decades.

They couldn’t have known it at the time, but that 1979 order would become the last set of Flamingo frames and mirrors Turner would produce before closing its doors in 1981. As I began examining each frame, I realized I was uncovering more than just the physical pieces—each one carried a story about how Turner built them and how my parents preserved them. Through every layer of paint, paper, and glass, I was learning what it would take to restore not only the art itself but the legacy it represented.

The Making of a Turner Frame

When Turner Manufacturing closed its doors around 1981, my parents visited the company’s Chicago offices to acquire what remained of its art and framing materials. Among the shipments were the original steel knives and a brass embossing mold used to create Turner’s famous mirrored frames. The letters between my parents and Turner confirm that these were part of Moulding Profile 375—the same design used for the Flamingos, Cockatoos, and Egrets prints that defined the brand in the 1940s and 1950s.

I found the set decades later, stored carefully in an old green JCPenney shoebox labeled in my father’s handwriting: “Turner Knives for Frames.” Inside, wrapped in aged paper and plastic, were three pairs of knives and a single round brass embossing wheel, each etched with the number 375. The knives were used to cut the moulding’s precise profile, while the brass mold pressed the engraved pattern around the frame opening—the delicate beaded border that gleams gold against the mirrored edge.

Inside Turner Manufacturing Company’s Workshop

Much of what we know today about how Turner’s frames were made comes from Patrick Campbell’s book, Turner Manufacturing Company: Silk Screens and More—the most detailed record of Turner’s production and craftsmanship. His research traces the process from raw pine lumber to finished mirrored frame, showing how Turner’s artistry evolved alongside the practical realities of mid-century manufacturing.

In the early years, Turner purchased lumber in random widths and lengths, requiring skilled sawyers to cut around knots and defects to make the most of each board. Later, the company began buying dimension stock—kiln-dried pine pre-cut into standardized widths, typically 4/4 stock (roughly 7/8 inch thick once dried). This step helped prevent warping and streamlined production but still required careful milling and shaping before a frame could be assembled.

Each length of moulding was shaped to create its decorative profile, with a rabbet—the inset channel—carved along the inner edge to seat the print and glazing securely. Campbell describes how Turner used steel knives and brass embossing rollers, like the ones my parents later acquired, to cut and imprint these distinctive mouldings. Metallic foils, gold and silver leaf, and painted accents were then applied to highlight the details and give each frame its luminous finish.

As demand grew, Turner continued refining the process. Jonathan Turner developed a composite material called Turnerwood—a sawdust-based compound that could be pressed into intricate patterns, giving the appearance of hand-carving while allowing for faster, more consistent production. Still, as Campbell notes, efficiency had its limits. Turner’s Chicago factory operated across several floors of the Keeler Building, and moving materials and finished frames between them was labor-intensive and time-consuming. The result was a process that balanced industrial ingenuity with old-fashioned handiwork—efficient, but never impersonal.

For anyone who wants to explore Turner’s full story—from its mirrors and frames to the people who built them—Patrick Campbell’s Turner Manufacturing Company: Silk Screens and More is an invaluable resource. It’s available on Amazon and offers a fascinating inside look at one of America’s most inventive mid-century art manufacturers. (View on Amazon.)

What Time Does to a Frame

Time leaves its mark on everything, even beauty. For all their craftsmanship, the Turner frames weren’t immune to the quiet, gradual changes that come with age. Beneath the mirrored borders and gold-painted details were subtle signs of wear—silvering loss, faint fading, and delicate warping—that revealed how materials from another era respond to decades of light, air, and handling.

The earliest Turner pieces from the 1950s and 1960s showed their age first. I have one mirrored frame from the 1950s, and it tells the story clearly: the paint is a lighter shade than later versions, the print inside is far more faded, and the kraft-paper dust cover has become brittle with time. Even without a date, you can feel the difference between what was made in Turner’s mid-century heyday and what came later.

The frames I’ve been working with came from a very specific moment in Turner’s history. At the time, my parents had just begun working directly with Turner Decorative Accessories, purchasing long discontinued prints for their growing business. It was an active collaboration, though still new, and they quickly formed a friendship with their contact at Turner—a woman named Virginia Ellermann, who helped them track down the styles they were looking for, shared background details about the artwork, and even located old production pieces for them. In the 1980 letter where she shared the news that Turner was closing, she addressed them as her “crazy friends from California.” For my parents, it wasn’t just the end of a partnership; it was the loss of a friend who had been part of the beginning of their journey. The frames I’ve been restoring came from that same period—the custom order they placed in 1979, presumably the last batch of mirror frames produced before Turner closed its doors in 1981.

Even these late-era frames carried the signs of time. The mirrors had begun to darken along the edges, the silvering eaten away where the original adhesive had touched it—often leaving dark, branching trails through the reflective surface. Glass glazing had been used, but its detrimental effects were limited—these frames had spent decades safely stored away from sunlight, leaving the prints far better preserved than their on-display counterparts. A few prints showed a gentle waviness in the paper—a subtle rippling likely caused by the acidic chipboard and kraft-paper backing used at the time. Over the years, those materials release compounds that alter the paper’s structure, creating uneven tension that leads to mild warping even when the image itself remains well preserved.

The frames themselves, made of pine, carried their own record of time. Pine is light and easy to shape—perfect for Turner’s production methods—but also soft and easily dented. Most of the frames showed only light scuffs or small corner splits—typical signs of age and storage, and a reminder of how even well-preserved wood subtly changes over time.

Seeing these changes firsthand reshaped how I thought about preservation. The frames weren’t simply deteriorating—they were showing me where the original materials had fallen short and what could be improved. Archival framing, I realized, isn’t about making something new; it’s about giving what already exists a longer life.

So I began rebuilding from the inside out. Each frame became a small restoration project: new acid-free foam-core backing to protect the print, a rigid secondary support for the hanging hardware, and a sealed dust cover to keep out air and light. Where Turner had used standard glass, I replaced it with UV-protective acrylic—lighter, safer, and far better for color preservation. The goal wasn’t to change the design but to carry it forward, keeping every original detail intact while strengthening what time had worn down.

As I replaced each layer, I found myself thinking about the balance between history and care. Turner built these frames to catch light and attention; I’m just making sure they can continue to do that, for decades more, without losing the spirit that made them so distinctive in the first place.

Modern Materials, Vintage Integrity

When I decided to reframe each piece, my goal wasn’t to modernize the design but to preserve the character of the originals while improving their longevity. Every material choice came from that balance between authenticity and protection—keeping what made the frames unmistakably Turner, but ensuring that future generations could enjoy them in the same condition my parents first saw them in decades ago.

The first step was addressing the mirrors. The silvering loss had traced through the glass like dark rivers, and many of the mirrors had separated completely from the frame. The old adhesive had deteriorated to the point that most could no longer be salvaged. I removed them all and replaced them with the treasure trove of pristine mirrors my parents had kept in storage—six large wooden crates’ worth, three for each size, still separated by strips of 1983 Sacramento Bee newspaper. Nearly all were in perfect condition. It felt fitting to give those long-stored pieces their intended purpose at last, restoring each frame with materials that had been waiting more than forty years to be used.

For the glazing, I made two choices. The framed pieces my parents had assembled in the early 1980s already had glass, and I decided to keep it for historical continuity. A few collectors had specifically asked for the original glazing, and it still offered the same clean look it had decades ago. For the rest, I ordered archival-quality acrylic glazing with UV protection. It’s lighter, shatter-resistant, and shields the artwork from the fading that ordinary glass allows over time.

Directly behind the prints, I added acid-free foam-core backing—an upgrade from the original acidic chipboard that helps stabilize the paper and prevent the subtle warping I had seen in the original framed pieces.

A second rigid layer—the recycled secondary backing previously used by my parents, given that the print is now shielded by the acid-free foam-core as the primary backing—now serves as structural support and provides a secure place to attach the hanging hardware. For consistency and ease of removal, I replaced the staples my parents once used with small metal points applied using a professional point driver. They hold firmly but allow the frame to be reopened in the future if restoration is ever needed.

To seal the back, I either recycled the original kraft paper from Turner or installed new gray acid- and lignin-free backing paper from Lineco, which complements their archival frame-sealing tape. Lignin-free paper has the advantage of resisting yellowing and brittleness over time, helping preserve both strength and appearance. After taping each edge, I smooth it flat with a burnishing bone—a simple, time-tested tool that ensures the tape adheres cleanly without marking the paper. It’s a small step, but a satisfying one, and it gives each piece a clean, professional finish.

Throughout this process, I chose not to repaint or alter the frames themselves. The occasional scuff or small split tells the story of their age and authenticity. My role wasn’t to erase that, but to strengthen the foundation beneath it—to make the structure as sound as the surface is beautiful. In the end, each restored frame represents a meeting point between eras: Turner’s craftsmanship, my parents’ preservation, and my own attention to longevity.

Reflections on Preservation

Restoring the Turner frames has been part craftsmanship, part detective work, and part exercise in self-preservation. Each one demanded patience, precision, and a steady hand—especially when handling mirrors that had been stored for over forty years. I managed to cut my fingers a few times while cleaning them, but thankfully avoided any injuries from flying shards when removing the old ones. It was a reminder that preservation isn’t always glamorous—sometimes it’s careful work done one task at a time.

Even with the dust, the weight, and the occasional nick from a sharp edge, the work has been worth it. Each completed frame feels like a bridge between eras—a continuation of Turner’s mid-century artistry, my parents’ foresight, and my own care for what they left behind. In the end, preserving them wasn’t just about restoring materials; it was about honoring every step of the process and every hand that shaped it.

These frames were designed to reflect art, but they also reflect time, memory, and legacy. And now, they can keep doing that—for decades more—without losing the story they were built to tell. (The frame below also reflects me!)