Buckminster Fuller Creates an Animated Visualization of Human Population Growth from 1000 B.C.E. to 1965

Sit back, relax, put on some music (I’ve found Chopin’s Noc­turne in B major well-suit­ed), and watch the video above, a silent data visu­al­iza­tion by vision­ary archi­tect and sys­tems the­o­rist Buck­min­ster Fuller, “the James Brown of indus­tri­al design.” The short film from 1965 com­bines two of Fuller’s lead­ing con­cerns: the expo­nen­tial spread of the human pop­u­la­tion over finite mass­es of land and the need to revise our glob­al per­spec­tive via the “Dymax­ion map,” in order “to visu­al­ize the whole plan­et with greater accu­ra­cy,” as the Buck­min­ster Fuller Insti­tute writes, so that “we humans will be bet­ter equipped to address chal­lenges as we face our com­mon future aboard Space­ship Earth.”

Though you may know it best as the name of a geo­des­ic sphere at Disney’s Epcot Cen­ter, the term Space­ship Earth orig­i­nal­ly came from Fuller, who used it to remind us of our inter­con­nect­ed­ness and inter­de­pen­dence as we share resources on the only vehi­cle we know of that can sus­tain us in the cos­mos.

“We are all astro­nauts,” he wrote in his 1969 Oper­at­ing Man­u­al for Space­ship Earth, and yet we refuse to see the long-term con­se­quences of our actions on our spe­cial­ized craft: “One of the rea­sons why we are strug­gling inad­e­quate­ly today,” Fuller argued in his intro­duc­tion, “is that we reck­on our costs on too short­sight­ed a basis and are lat­er over­whelmed with the unex­pect­ed costs brought about by our short­sight­ed­ness.”

Like all vision­ar­ies, Fuller thought in long spans of time, and he used his design skills to help oth­ers do so as well. His pop­u­la­tion visu­al­iza­tion doc­u­ments human growth from 1000 B.C.E. to Fuller’s present, at the time, of 1965. In the image above (see a larg­er ver­sion here), we have a graph­ic from that same year—made col­lab­o­ra­tive­ly with artist and soci­ol­o­gist John McHale—showing the “shrink­ing of our plan­et by man’s increased trav­el and com­mu­ni­ca­tion speeds around the globe.” (It must be near micro­scop­ic by now.) Fuller takes an even longer view, look­ing at “the con­flu­ence of com­mu­ni­ca­tion and trans­porta­tion tech­nolo­gies,” writes Rikke Schmidt Kjær­gaard, “from 500,000 B.C.E. to 1965.”

Here Fuller com­bines his pop­u­la­tion data with the tech­no­log­i­cal break­throughs of moder­ni­ty. Though he’s thought of in some quar­ters as a genius and in some as a kook, Fuller demon­strat­ed his tremen­dous fore­sight in seem­ing­ly innu­mer­able ways. But it was in the realm of design that he excelled in com­mu­ni­cat­ing what he saw. “Pio­neers of data visu­al­iza­tion,” Fuller and McHale were two of “the first to chart long-term trends of indus­tri­al­iza­tion and glob­al­iza­tion.” Instead of becom­ing alarmed and fear­ful of what the trends showed, Fuller got to work design­ing for the future, ful­ly aware, writes the Fuller Insti­tute, that “the plan­et is a sys­tem, and a resilient one.”

Fuller thought like a rad­i­cal­ly inven­tive engi­neer, but he spoke and wrote like a peacenik prophet, writ­ing that a sys­tem of nar­row spe­cial­iza­tions ensures that skill sets “are not com­pre­hend­ed com­pre­hen­sive­ly… or they are real­ized only in neg­a­tive ways, in new weapon­ry or the indus­tri­al sup­port only of war far­ing.” We’ve seen this vision of soci­ety played out to a fright­en­ing extent. Fuller saw a way out, one in which every­one on the plan­et can live in com­fort and secu­ri­ty with­out con­sum­ing (then not renew­ing) the Earth’s resources. How can this be done? You’ll have to read Fuller’s work to find out. Mean­while, as his visu­al­iza­tions sug­gest, it’s best for us to take the long view—and give up on short-term rewards and profits—in our assess­ments of the state of Space­ship Earth.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Map of the World: The Inno­va­tion that Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Map Design (1943)

How the Human Pop­u­la­tion Reached 8 Bil­lion: An Ani­mat­ed Video Cov­ers 300,000 Years of His­to­ry in Four Min­utes

The Life & Times of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Geo­des­ic Dome: A Doc­u­men­tary

A Visu­al­iza­tion of the Unit­ed States’ Explod­ing Pop­u­la­tion Growth Over 200 Years (1790 – 2010)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

How Yasujirō Ozu Learned to Use Color in His Masterful Films: A New Every Frame a Painting Video Essay

Yasu­jirō Ozu was born in 1903, and made films from the late nine­teen-twen­ties up until his death in 1963. Though not an espe­cial­ly long life, it spanned Japan’s pre- and post­war eras, mean­ing that in many ways, it end­ed in a very dif­fer­ent coun­try than it began. Not that you’d know it from Ozu’s films, whose dis­tinc­tive form and style must have changed less through the decades than those of any of his col­leagues. For view­ers only casu­al­ly acquaint­ed with his oeu­vre, it’s easy to joke that if you’ve seen one of his pic­tures, you’ve seen them all. But true Ozu enthu­si­asts, whose num­bers have steadi­ly grown all around the world since the film­mak­er’s death, under­stand that each phase of his career offers dis­tinc­tive plea­sures of its own.

In fact, Ozu per­sist­ed through sweep­ing changes in not just world his­to­ry, but also the his­to­ry of cin­e­ma. His first 34 films were silent, the next four­teen were sound in black-and-white, and his last six were in col­or. It is to the domes­tic mas­ter’s third act that Tony Zhou and Tay­lor Ramos have devot­ed their lat­est Every Frame a Paint­ing video essay.

As with most film­mak­ers, it took Ozu a few years to make col­or his own: in Equinox Flower, from 1958, “some of the scenes are so bright that it looks like an MGM musi­cal,” owing to his stu­dio’s desire to show­case the actress Fujiko Yamamo­to. And it’s not just the hues of her kimono that dom­i­nate the images: so does the red of Ozu’s sig­na­ture teapot when­ev­er it finds its way into the frame.

Ozu’s next col­or film Good Morn­ing makes use of a “much more nat­ur­al, earth-toned col­or palette. The images feel more bal­anced, and there isn’t one visu­al ele­ment that sticks out from all the oth­ers.” In his project after that, Float­ing Weeds (itself a remake of his 1934 silent A Sto­ry of Float­ing Weeds), he worked with the acclaimed cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Kazuo Miya­gawa, who’d also col­lab­o­rat­ed with the likes of Kuro­sawa and Mizoguchi. Using strong light and shad­ow, Miya­gawa showed how, “by shap­ing the light, he could change how col­ors were per­ceived,” often in dif­fer­ent scenes framed in exact­ly the same way. At this point, any­one doing an Ozu binge-watch will feel that col­or itself is being adapt­ed to the rig­or­ous objec­tiv­i­ty of his work.

“His films are full of rep­e­ti­tions and small vari­a­tions,” Zhou says. “He will show the same hall­way again, and again, and again.” Seem­ing­ly minor ele­ments in one scene match visu­al­ly with ele­ments in oth­ers. “As a result, Ozu’s movies rhyme. One shot will mir­ror anoth­er, one per­son­’s behav­ior will be repeat­ed,” across not just an indi­vid­ual pic­ture, but his whole fil­mog­ra­phy. Watch through it, and “you’re struck by how sim­i­lar two peo­ple can be, how often one place resem­bles anoth­er, how life itself is cycli­cal, and Ozu used col­or as anoth­er way to build these pat­terns.” Though sub­tly expressed, these themes would cer­tain­ly have res­onat­ed with audi­ences in a soci­ety forced to rein­vent itself after los­ing the Sec­ond World War. Whether Ozu sus­pect­ed that they could draw even more atten­tion from future gen­er­a­tions far from Japan is a ques­tion not even his diaries, now the sub­ject of a doc­u­men­tary them­selves, can answer.

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to Yasu­jirō Ozu, “the Most Japan­ese of All Film Direc­tors”

How One Sim­ple Cut Reveals the Cin­e­mat­ic Genius of Yasu­jirō Ozu

The Gold­en Age of Japan­ese Cin­e­ma: Kuro­sawa, Ozu, Mizoguchi & Beyond

Wes Ander­son & Yasu­jiro Ozu: New Video Essay Reveals the Unex­pect­ed Par­al­lels Between Two Great Film­mak­ers

How Mas­ter Japan­ese Ani­ma­tor Satoshi Kon Pushed the Bound­aries of Mak­ing Ani­me: A Video Essay

Every Frame a Paint­ing Returns to YouTube & Explores Why the Sus­tained Two-Shot Van­ished from Movies

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

1,000 Years of Medieval European History in 20 Minutes

More than a few medieval­ists object to the term “Dark Ages” as applied to the peri­od in which they spe­cial­ize. That can seem wish­ful in light of most com­par­isons between medieval times and the Renais­sance that came after­ward, or indeed, the era of the Roman Empire that came before. Con­sid­er the state of Europe as the fourth cen­tu­ry began: “The great cities of antiq­ui­ty were depop­u­lat­ed, some left in ruins,” says the nar­ra­tor of the How So video above, telling the sto­ry of the con­ti­nen­t’s polit­i­cal and lin­guis­tic frag­men­ta­tion. “The Roman trans­porta­tion sys­tem decayed, erod­ing com­mu­ni­ca­tion and long-dis­tance trade. Coins van­ished, leav­ing no eco­nom­ic sys­tem to sup­port pro­fes­sion­al armies. Lit­er­a­cy plum­met­ed, crip­pling admin­is­tra­tive sys­tems. And most notably, peace and secu­ri­ty were gone.”

But there’s plen­ty more his­to­ry to come there­after: about a mil­len­ni­um’s worth, in fact, which the video cov­ers in a mere twen­ty min­utes. Events of note in that grand sweep include Jus­tin­ian I’s attempt to expand the Byzan­tine Empire of the east; the cre­ation and spread of the Islam­ic caliphate; Charle­mag­ne’s uni­fi­ca­tion of most of west­ern Chris­ten­dom; inva­sions by Vikings, Mag­yars, and Mus­lim raiders; the rise of cas­tles and the feu­dal sys­tem that they came to sym­bol­ize; the cre­ation of the Holy Roman Empire; the flour­ish­ing of cities and uni­ver­si­ties; and the Nor­man Con­quest of Eng­land, as seen on the Bayeux Tapes­try. There’s also the unpleas­ant­ness of the Black Death, which swept through Europe from the mid-four­teenth to the ear­ly six­teenth cen­tu­ry — but as with oth­er medieval dis­as­ters, the plague held the seeds of a civ­i­liza­tion­al rebirth.

“For some sur­vivors, the con­se­quences of the plague were not so grim,” says the nar­ra­tor. “As the pop­u­la­tion dropped, land became wide­ly avail­able, and the demand for labor rose dra­mat­i­cal­ly.” Peas­ants demand­ed improved con­di­tions and revolt­ed against the rulers who refused; ulti­mate­ly, they “gained new free­doms and oppor­tu­ni­ties, and work­ers enjoyed high­er wages. Cre­ativ­i­ty and inno­va­tion in sci­ence and cul­ture fol­lowed, cre­at­ing the envi­ron­ment in which Euro­pean schol­ars “defined the past mil­len­ni­um as ‘Dark Ages,’ and so posi­tioned them­selves as the tran­si­tion between the medieval and mod­ern world.” Some liken the cur­rent state of the world to the decline of the Roman Empire; if they’re cor­rect, maybe we have anoth­er Renais­sance to look for­ward to about 40 gen­er­a­tions down the road.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Free Yale Course on Medieval His­to­ry: 700 Years in 22 Lec­tures

What Did Peo­ple Eat in Medieval Times? A Video Series and New Cook­book Explain

How Every­thing in a Medieval Cas­tle Worked, from Its Moats to Its Dun­geons

What Sex Was Like in Medieval Times?: His­to­ri­ans Look at How Peo­ple Got It On in the Dark Ages

How the Byzan­tine Empire Rose, Fell, and Cre­at­ed the Glo­ri­ous Hagia Sophia: A His­to­ry in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Advice for Time Trav­el­ing to Medieval Europe: How to Stay Healthy & Safe, and Avoid­ing Charges of Witch­craft

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

 

Confidence: The Cartoon That Helped America Get Through the Great Depression (1933)

No more bum­min’, let’s all get to work…

Actu­al­ly, hold up a sec. We’ll all be hap­pi­er and more pro­duc­tive if we take a moment to start our work day with Con­fi­dence, a pep­py musi­cal ani­ma­tion from 1933, star­ring new­ly elect­ed Pres­i­dent Franklin Delano Roo­sevelt and Mick­ey Mouse pre­cur­sor, Oswald the Lucky Rab­bit. 

Few Americans—today we’d refer to them as the 1%—could escape the pri­va­tions of the Great Depres­sion. The movies were one indus­try that con­tin­ued to thrive through this dark peri­od, pre­cise­ly because they offered a few hours of respite. No one went to the pic­tures to see a reflec­tion of their own lives. Gor­geous gowns, glam­orous Man­hat­tan apart­ments and roman­tic trou­ble cer­tain to be resolved in hap­py endings…remember Mia Far­row’s belea­guered wait­ress bask­ing in the Pur­ple Rose of Cairo’reas­sur­ing glow?

Giv­en the pub­lic’s pref­er­ence for escapist fare, direc­tor Bill Nolan, the Father of Rub­ber Hose Ani­ma­tion, could have played it safe by gloss­ing over the back­sto­ry that leads Oswald to seek out advice from the Com­man­der in Chief. Instead, Nolan deliv­ered his joy­ful car­toon ani­mals into night­mare ter­ri­to­ry, the Depres­sion per­son­i­fied as a cowled Death fig­ure lay­ing waste to the land. It’s weird­ly upset­ting to see those hyper-cheer­ful vin­tage barn­yard ani­mals (and a rogue mon­key) under­go this graph­ic ener­va­tion.

Oh, for some oral history—I’d love to know how mati­nee crowds react­ed as Oswald raced scream­ing before a spin­ning ver­ti­go back­ground, seek­ing a rem­e­dy for a host of non-car­toon prob­lems. Irony is a lux­u­ry they did­n’t have.

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, the can-do spir­it so cen­tral to FDR’s New Deal quick­ly turned Oswald’s frown upside down. As pres­i­den­tial cam­paign promis­es go, this one’s unique­ly tai­lored to the demands of musi­cal com­e­dy. Wit­ness Annie, in which the 32nd pres­i­dent was again called upon to Rex Har­ri­son his way into audi­ence hearts, this time from the wheel­chair the cre­ators of Con­fi­dence did­n’t dare show, some forty years ear­li­er.

The divi­sion between enter­tain­ment and nation-lead­ing is pret­ty per­me­able these days, too.

Accord­ing­ly, what real­ly sets this car­toon apart for me is the use of a Pres­i­den­tial­ly-sanc­tioned giant syringe as a tool to get Depres­sion-era Amer­i­ca back on its feet. A fig­u­ra­tive injec­tion of con­fi­dence is all well and good, but noth­ing gets the barn­yard back on its singing, danc­ing feet like a lib­er­al dose, deliv­ered in the most lit­er­al way.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Sim­ple, Down-to-Earth Christ­mas Card from the Great Depres­sion (1933)

Pri­vate Sna­fu: The World War II Pro­pa­gan­da Car­toons Cre­at­ed by Dr. Seuss, Frank Capra & Mel Blanc

Yale Presents an Archive of 170,000 Pho­tographs Doc­u­ment­ing the Great Depres­sion

Great Depres­sion Cook­ing: Get Bud­get-Mind­ed Meals from the Online Cook­ing Show Cre­at­ed by 93-Year-Old Clara Can­nuc­cia­ri

When Al Capone Opened a Soup Kitchen Dur­ing the Great Depres­sion: Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Mobster’s Oper­a­tion

Ayun Hal­l­i­day can’t get enough of that rub­ber style. 

Why Ancient Egyptian Honey Remains Edible After 3,000 Years

The glob­al bee pop­u­la­tion comes up in the news every now and again. Some­times we’re assured that the num­ber is sta­ble or ris­ing; more often, we’re warned about col­laps­ing colonies and the large-scale eco­log­i­cal dis­as­ter that could result. As with most high-stakes issues, it can be dif­fi­cult to know what to believe. But even if you lack the time to invest in an under­stand­ing of the sci­ence behind the com­plex con­nec­tions between api­an and human wel­fare, you can eas­i­ly come to appre­ci­ate the impor­tance of bees if you learn just how long they’ve played a role in our civ­i­liza­tion.

As Elana Spi­vack writes at History.com, “a cave paint­ing in north­east­ern Spain depict­ing a human har­vest­ing hon­ey dates back 7,500 years to the Neolith­ic peri­od, accord­ing to research pub­lished in 2021 in the jour­nal Tra­ba­jos de Pre­his­to­ria.” Just last year, a paper in the Jour­nal of the Amer­i­can Chem­i­cal Soci­ety con­firmed that bronze con­tain­ers dis­cov­ered in an under­ground shrine in a sixth-cen­tu­ry-BC Greek set­tle­ment not far from Pom­peii con­tained a residue of hon­ey. We’ve long known of hiero­glyphs from ancient Egypt that depict bees and the keep­ing there­of; “accord­ing to a 2022 paper in the jour­nal Ani­mals, the use of hon­ey­bees in the Nile Val­ley can be traced to the ear­li­est years of the Egypt­ian king­dom.”

Here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, most of us regard hon­ey as noth­ing more than a rel­a­tive­ly healthy sweet­en­er. In ancient Egypt, too, it was used to improve the taste of their bread and beer, but it was also put to impor­tant med­ical uses. “Because it’s so thick, rejects any kind of growth and con­tains hydro­gen per­ox­ide, it cre­ates the per­fect bar­ri­er against infec­tion for wounds,” writes Smith­son­ian’s Natasha Geil­ing. “The ancient Egyp­tians used med­i­c­i­nal hon­ey reg­u­lar­ly, mak­ing oint­ments to treat skin and eye dis­eases.” They may not have been the first to do so, giv­en that the ear­li­est known uses of hon­ey are record­ed on Sumer­ian clay tablets, but they took respect for the stuff to a whole new lev­el, describ­ing hon­ey­bees as orig­i­nat­ing from the tears of their sun god Re (for­mer­ly known in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world as Ra).

That par­tic­u­lar piece of mythol­o­gy is record­ed on some Egypt­ian papyri; oth­ers reveal how much hon­ey was rationed to work­ers, at least those employed direct­ly by the Pharaoh. In those days, the sub­stance’s gold­en col­or reflect­ed its dear­ness, and it seems that com­mon labor­ers and their fam­i­lies could go a life­time with­out ever tast­ing a spoon­ful them­selves. Today, of course, we take it for grant­ed that we can go down to the super­mar­ket and cheap­ly buy an econ­o­my-size tub of hon­ey that nev­er goes bad. But then, ancient Egypt­ian hon­ey has nev­er gone bad either: thanks to the very same chem­i­cal and bio­log­i­cal prop­er­ties that made it use­ful for heal­ing, the sealed jars of it remain the­o­ret­i­cal­ly edi­ble even after 3,000 years. Driz­zle it on some gen­uine Greek yogurt, and you’ve got a large swath of the his­to­ry of civ­i­liza­tion in break­fast form.

via Boing Boing/Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed con­tent:

Try the Old­est Known Recipe For Tooth­paste: From Ancient Egypt, Cir­ca the 4th Cen­tu­ry BC

How Egypt­ian Papyrus Is Made: Watch Arti­sans Keep a 5,000-Year-Old Art Alive

A 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Orig­i­nal Col­ors Still In It

How Sci­en­tists Recre­at­ed Ancient Egypt’s Long-Lost Pig­ment, “Egypt­ian Blue”

Behold 1,600-Year-Old Egypt­ian Socks Made with Nål­bind­ning, an Ancient Pro­to-Knit­ting Tech­nique

How Did the Egyp­tians Make Mum­mies? An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Ancient Art of Mum­mi­fi­ca­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

When Francis Bacon Shocked the Art World: Viewers Were Horrified by His Paintings, But Couldn’t Look Away

A dif­fi­cult child­hood and ado­les­cence, sat­u­rat­ed with the feel­ing of being an out­sider, may or may not con­tribute to becom­ing a great artist. Expe­ri­enc­ing the social and cul­tur­al fer­ment of Berlin and Paris in the nine­teen-twen­ties prob­a­bly would­n’t hurt one’s chances. Nor, sure­ly, would for­ma­tive expo­sure in such cities to films like Metrop­o­lis, Bat­tle­ship Potemkin, and Abel Gance’s Napoleon, as well as to the paint­ings of Pablo Picas­so. Going to art school may seem like the nat­ur­al choice for any aspir­ing artist, but there’s also some­thing to be gained from avoid­ing that aca­d­e­m­ic sys­tem entire­ly.

These, as gal­lerist-Youtu­ber James Payne tells us in the new Great Art Explained video above, are all aspects of the life that pro­duced Fran­cis Bacon. As usu­al on that series, he pro­ceeds from a sin­gle rep­re­sen­ta­tive work, in this case Study after Velázquez’s Por­trait of Pope Inno­cent X, from 1953.

If you’ve seen that paint­ing even once, you haven’t for­got­ten it, and indeed, you’ve prob­a­bly seen it again in your night­mares since. To trace the source of its trou­bling pow­er, Payne plunges into the his­to­ry of Bacon’s har­row­ing life as well as that of the Irish, Eng­lish, and Euro­pean his­tor­i­cal con­texts in which he lived — often to its dan­ger­ous, chaot­ic fullest.

Not that any art his­to­ri­an can ignore the inspi­ra­tion cit­ed right there in the paint­ing’s title. It is to that sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry Spaniard’s acclaimed por­trait of that head of the Catholic Church (who pro­nounced the fin­ished work “trop­po vero”) that Bacon pays twist­ed, decon­struc­tive homage. Yet despite hav­ing been to Rome, he nev­er actu­al­ly saw the orig­i­nal; that, as Payne explains, “would have meant fac­ing its pow­er direct­ly.” Instead, he worked from a small, washed-out “copy of a copy,” all the bet­ter to allow for not just rein­ven­tion, but also the incor­po­ra­tion of oth­er scraps of the rapid­ly expand­ing mass media of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry: the peri­od, despite the out-of-time qual­i­ty of so much of his art, to which Bacon so thor­ough­ly belonged.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bril­liant­ly Night­mar­ish Art & Trou­bled Life of Painter Fran­cis Bacon

Fran­cis Bacon on The South Bank Show: A Sin­gu­lar Pro­file of the Sin­gu­lar Painter

William Bur­roughs Meets Fran­cis Bacon: See Nev­er-Broad­cast Footage (1982)

What Makes Diego Velázquez’s Las Meni­nas One of the Most Fas­ci­nat­ing Paint­ings in Art His­to­ry

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Intro­duc­tions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picas­so & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

You Can Have Your Ashes Turned Into a Playable Vinyl Record, When Your Day Comes

Even in death we are only lim­it­ed by our imag­i­na­tion in how we want to go out. There are now ways to turn our corpse into a tree, or have our ash­es shot into space, or press our ash­es into dia­monds–I believe Super­man is involved in that last one. And now for the music lover, a com­pa­ny called And Viny­ly will press your ash­es into a playable vinyl record.

You like that pun­ny com­pa­ny name? There’s more: the busi­ness lets the dear depart­ed “Live on from beyond the groove.” Hear that groan? That’s the deceased lit­er­al­ly spin­ning in their grave…on a turntable.

The UK-based com­pa­ny has been around since 2009, when Jason Leach launched it “just for fun” at first. But a lot of peo­ple liked the idea and have kept him in busi­ness.

It will cost, how­ev­er. The basic ser­vice gen­er­al­ly costs between £1000 and £3000 GBP, and it part­ly depends on how many vinyl records you pro­duce. From what we can tell, you can­not use copy­right-pro­tect­ed music to fill up the 18–22 min­utes per side. So no “Free Bird” or “We Are the Cham­pi­ons,” unfor­tu­nate­ly. But you can put any­thing else: a voice record­ing, or the sounds of nature, or com­plete silence. Get more infor­ma­tion over at the com­pa­ny’s FAQ.

No doubt, the ser­vice can pro­vide com­fort and a mem­o­ry trig­ger for those left behind. The above video, “Hear­ing Madge,” is a short doc about a son who took record­ings of his moth­er and used And Viny­ly to make a record out of them. It’s sweet.

“I’m sure a lot of peo­ple think that it’s creepy, a lot of peo­ple think it’s sac­ri­le­gious,” the man says. “But I know my moth­er wouldn’t have. She would’ve thought it was a hoot.”

Jason Leach, a musi­cian and vinyl col­lec­tor him­self, talks of the imme­di­a­cy of sound and what it means to many.

“Sound is vibrat­ing you, the room, and it’s actu­al­ly mov­ing the air around you,” he says. “And that’s what’s so pow­er­ful about hear­ing someone’s voice on a record. They’re actu­al­ly mov­ing the air and for me that’s pow­er­ful.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Cleese’s Eulo­gy for Gra­ham Chap­man: ‘Good Rid­dance, the Free-Load­ing Bas­tard, I Hope He Fries’

Bronze Age Britons Turned Bones of Dead Rel­a­tives into Musi­cal Instru­ments & Orna­ments

Watch Carl Sagan’s “A Glo­ri­ous Dawn” Become the First Vinyl Record Played in Space, Cour­tesy of Jack White

Death: A Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Course from Yale Helps You Grap­ple with the Inescapable

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

Chuck Jones’ The Dot and the Line Celebrates Geometry & Hard Work: An Oscar-Winning Animation (1965)

The ani­mat­ed short above, The Dot and the Line, direct­ed by the great Chuck Jones and nar­rat­ed by Eng­lish actor Robert Mor­ley, won an Oscar in 19656 for Best Ani­mat­ed Short Film. Based on a book writ­ten by Nor­ton Juster, “The Dot and the Line” tells the sto­ry of a romance between two geo­met­ric shapes—taking the arche­typ­al nar­ra­tive tra­jec­to­ry of boy meets girl, los­es girl, wins girl in the end (find­ing him­self along the way) and inject­ing it with some fas­ci­nat­ing social com­men­tary that still res­onates almost fifty years lat­er. One way of watch­ing “The Dot and the Line” is as a “tri­umph of the nerd” sto­ry, where an anx­ious square (as in “uncool”) Line has to com­pete with a hip­ster beat­nik Squig­gle of a rival for the affec­tions of a flighty Dot.

The Line begins the film “stiff as a stick… dull, con­ven­tion­al and repressed” (as his love inter­est says of him) in con­trast to the groovy Squig­gle and his groovy bebop sound­track. With the pos­si­ble sug­ges­tion that this love trans­gress­es mid-cen­tu­ry racial bound­aries, the Line’s friends dis­ap­prove and tell him to give it up, since “they all look alike any­way.” But the Line per­sists in his fol­ly, indulging in some Wal­ter Mit­ty-like rever­ies of hero­ic endeav­ors that might win over his Dot. Final­ly, using “great self-con­trol,” he man­ages to bend him­self into an angle, then anoth­er, then a series of sim­ple, then very com­plex, shapes, becom­ing, we might assume, some kind of math­e­mat­i­cal wiz. After refin­ing his tal­ents alone, he goes off to show them to Dot, who is “over­whelmed” and delight­ed and who “gig­gles like a school­girl.”

Here the sub­text of the nerd-gets-the-girl sto­ry­line man­i­fests a fair­ly con­ser­v­a­tive cri­tique of the “anar­chy” of the Squig­gle, whom the Dot comes to see as “undis­ci­plined, grace­less, coarse” and oth­er unflat­ter­ing adjec­tives while the line—who pro­claimed to him­self ear­li­er that “free­dom is not a license for chaos”—is “daz­zling, clever, mys­te­ri­ous, ver­sa­tile, light, elo­quent, pro­found, enig­mat­ic, com­plex, and com­pelling.” I can almost imag­ine that George Will had a hand in the writ­ing, which is to say that it’s enor­mous­ly clever, and enor­mous­ly invest­ed in the val­ues of self-con­trol, hard work, and dis­ci­pline, and dis­trust­ful of spon­tane­ity, free play, and gen­er­al groovi­ness. At the end of the film, our Dot and Line go off to live “if not hap­pi­ly ever after, at least rea­son­ably so” in some cozy sub­urb, no doubt. The moral of the sto­ry? “To the vec­tor belong the spoils.”

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Carl Sagan Explains Evo­lu­tion in an 8‑Minute Ani­ma­tion

Watch “Geom­e­try of Cir­cles,” the Abstract Sesame Street Ani­ma­tion Scored by Philip Glass (1979)

Jour­ney to the Cen­ter of a Tri­an­gle: Watch the 1977 Dig­i­tal Ani­ma­tion That Demys­ti­fies Geom­e­try

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

How Sylvester Stallone Rescued the First Rambo Film With a Radical Recut, Cutting It From 3½ Hours to 93 Minutes

About a year ago, a cer­tain kind of cinephile took note of obit­u­ar­ies for Ted Kotch­eff, a tele­vi­sion-turned-film direc­tor who worked steadi­ly from the mid-fifties to the mid-nineties. Even to read­ers only casu­al­ly acquaint­ed with movies, more than one title pops out from his fil­mog­ra­phy: The Appren­tice­ship of Dud­dy Kravitz, Fun with Dick and Jane, North Dal­las Forty, Week­end at Bernie’s. The focus on gen­res, and their vari­ety, sug­gests not an auteur but a jour­ney­man, the kind of effi­cient, ver­sa­tile prob­lem-solver that used to keep Hol­ly­wood afloat. But occa­sion­al­ly, the work of a jour­ney­man can achieve its own kind of tran­scen­dence: that moment came with First Blood, in Kotch­ef­f’s case, which launched the Ram­bo series in 1982.

Those who remem­ber Sylvester Stal­lone’s John Ram­bo as a head­band­ed one-man army bent on re-fight­ing and win­ning the Viet­nam War, one bout of ultra-vio­lence at a time, will be sur­prised by the rel­a­tive meek­ness of his first onscreen incar­na­tion.

As First Blood’s sto­ry is sum­ma­rized by the Cin­e­maS­tix video above, Ram­bo drifts into a small Wash­ing­ton town after a search for his Viet­nam com­rades comes to a fruit­less end. Hos­tile­ly eject­ed by the local sher­iff, he nev­er­the­less walks right back into city lim­its. Arrest­ed and booked at the police sta­tion, he turns on the cops in a PTSD-trig­gered rage. When he makes his escape into the for­est, the law pur­sues him, leav­ing him no choice — at least in his own mind — but to declare war on the police, the town, and per­haps the whole of Amer­i­can civ­i­liza­tion.

This is a promis­ing enough nar­ra­tive for a post-Viet­nam genre pic­ture, as a vari­ety of pro­duc­ers must have thought while David Mor­rel­l’s orig­i­nal nov­el was cir­cu­lat­ing through Hol­ly­wood. But only the star pow­er of Stal­lone, with the first cou­ple of Rocky pic­tures under his belt, could get it made. And indeed, he almost got it un-made: dis­mayed by its ini­tial three-and-a-half hour cut, he decid­ed to buy the rights and destroy the neg­a­tive. The solu­tion that end­ed up sav­ing the movie was­n’t much less dras­tic, pro­duc­ing a 93-minute cut that excised most of Ram­bo’s dia­logue. The result, as Cin­e­maS­tix cre­ator Dan­ny Boyd explains, pos­sess­es the good kind of ambiva­lence, which lets the audi­ence share not just the belea­guered pro­tag­o­nist’s per­spec­tive but also that of his increas­ing­ly frus­trat­ed pur­suers, who esca­late the bat­tle out of all pro­por­tion to his actions. 44 years on, First Blood still offers sur­pris­es, not the least of which is that Ram­bo — for the last time in his career — nev­er actu­al­ly kills any­one.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Viet­nam War Shaped Clas­sic Rock–And How Clas­sic Rock Shaped the War

Muham­mad Ali Explains Why He Refused to Fight in Viet­nam: “My Con­science Won’t Let Me Go Shoot My Broth­er… for Big Pow­er­ful Amer­i­ca” (1970)

Mick­ey Mouse in Viet­nam: The Under­ground Anti-War Ani­ma­tion from 1968, Co-Cre­at­ed by Mil­ton Glaser

The Alche­my of Film Edit­ing, Explored in a New Video Essay That Breaks Down Han­nah and Her Sis­ters, The Empire Strikes Back & Oth­er Films

How Edit­ing Saved Fer­ris Bueller’s Day Off & Made It a Clas­sic

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Why Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel Made the Still-Shocking Un Chien Andalou (1929)

Under most cir­cum­stances, there’s noth­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly shock­ing about cut­ting into an eye removed from a dead ani­mal. Gra­tu­itous, maybe, and sure­ly dis­gust­ing for some, but cer­tain­ly not psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly dam­ag­ing. I remem­ber a man turn­ing up one day to my first-grade class­room and show­ing us how to dis­sect a real sheep­’s eye, which most of us found a fas­ci­nat­ing break from our usu­al spelling and math exer­cis­es. But in edu­ca­tion as in art, con­text is every­thing, and it is the con­text estab­lished by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel that has allowed their own act of eye-slic­ing to retain its vis­cer­al impact. It occurs, of course, in their short film Un Chien Andalou, from 1929, the sub­ject of the new Nerd­writer video above.

The shot of Buñuel’s hand tak­ing a razor to the dis­em­bod­ied eye of what he lat­er said was a calf comes ear­ly in the pic­ture. What gives it its pow­er are the images that pre­cede it: Buñuel sharp­en­ing a razor and gaz­ing up at the moon, and the actress Simone Mareuil hav­ing her own eye opened up and the razor brought near. In extreme close-up, the calf’s eye obvi­ous­ly isn’t Mareuil’s, but no mat­ter.

Cin­e­ma is so often about car­ry­ing the audi­ence along with sheer momen­tum, and in any case, Un Chien Andalou is a work of sur­re­al­ism. To the extent that any com­bi­na­tion of shots makes sense, it fails on that move­men­t’s terms. Dalí and Buñuel suc­ceed­ed, pos­si­bly to a unique degree, in mak­ing a film in which noth­ing adds up. “The rule was to refuse any image that could have a ratio­nal mean­ing, or any mem­o­ry or cul­ture,” says Buñuel in a late inter­view clip includ­ed in the video.

Nerd­writer cre­ator Evan Puschak lists a few of the images that made the cut: “A crowd sur­round­ing a man pok­ing a sev­ered hand with a stick; a man drag­ging two Jesuit priests, one played by Dalí him­self, as well as two pianos laden with two decom­pos­ing, ooz­ing don­keys; a wom­an’s armpit hair sud­den­ly appear­ing over a man’s van­ished mouth.” The goal of assem­bling such grotes­queries into one dis­or­dered view­ing expe­ri­ence? “Buñuel felt that main­stream cin­e­ma, so con­cerned with re-cre­at­ing the con­ven­tions of the nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry nov­el, was trap­ping itself in the same insid­i­ous moral­i­ty and lim­it­ing its cre­ative poten­tial. He and Dalí sought to lib­er­ate the medi­um and the audi­ence, and that lib­er­a­tion was not designed to be pleas­ant.” Near­ly a cen­tu­ry on, Un Chien Andalou remains mem­o­rably trou­bling, but most of cin­e­ma still stub­born­ly refus­es to be freed.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Short Sur­re­al­ist Film That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma: Luis Buñuel & Sal­vador Dalí’s Un Chien Andalou (1929)

Two Vin­tage Films by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel: Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or

Watch Luis Buñuel’s Sur­re­al Trav­el Doc­u­men­tary A Land With­out Bread (1933)

The 10 Favorite Films of Avant-Garde Sur­re­al­ist Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel (Includ­ing His Own Col­lab­o­ra­tion with Sal­vador Dalí)

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates a Wild Dream Sequence for Alfred Hitch­cock

Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel Shows How to Make the Per­fect Dry Mar­ti­ni

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Simpsons Present Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” and Teachers Now Use It to Teach Kids the Joys of Literature

The Simp­sons has mocked or ref­er­enced lit­er­a­ture over its many sea­sons, usu­al­ly through a book Lisa was read­ing, or with guest appear­ances (e.g., Michael Chabon & Jonathan Franzen, Maya Angelou and Amy Tan). And it has ref­er­enced Edgar Allan Poe in both title (“The Tell-Tale Head” from the first sea­son) and in pass­ing (in “Lisa’s Rival” from 1994, the title char­ac­ter builds a dio­ra­ma based on the same Poe tale.)

But on the first ever “Tree­house of Hor­ror” from 1990—the Simp­sons’ recur­ring Hal­loween episode—they adapt­ed Poe’s “The Raven” more faith­ful­ly than any bit of lit found in any oth­er episode. The poem, read by James Earl Jones, remains intact, more or less, but with Dan Castellaneta’s Homer Simp­son pro­vid­ing the unnamed narrator’s voice. Marge makes an appear­ance as the long depart­ed Lenore, with hair so tall it needs an extra can­vas to con­tain it in por­trait. Mag­gie and Lisa are the censer-swing­ing seraphim, and Bart is the annoy­ing raven that dri­ves Homer insane.

Castel­lan­e­ta does a great job deliv­er­ing Poe’s verse with con­vic­tion and humor, while keep­ing the char­ac­ter true to both Homer and Poe. It’s a bal­anc­ing act hard­er than it sounds.

Suf­fice it to say that this for­ay into Poe was good enough for sev­er­al teach­ers’ guides (includ­ing this one from The New York Times) to sug­gest using the video in class. (We’d love to hear about this if you were a teacher or stu­dent who expe­ri­enced this.) And it’s the first and only time that Poe got co-writ­ing cred­it on a Simp­sons episode.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Simp­sons Pay Won­der­ful Trib­ute to the Ani­me of Hayao Miyaza­ki

Watch The Simp­sons’ Hal­loween Par­o­dy of Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange and The Shin­ing

Thomas Pyn­chon Edits His Lines on The Simp­sons: “Homer is my role mod­el and I can’t speak ill of him.”

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

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