When the US Mail Was Delivered Underground at 35 MPH Through a Network of Pneumatic Tubes (1893–1953)

Twen­ty years ago, Unit­ed States sen­a­tor Ted Stevens drew long-last­ing online ridicule by describ­ing the inter­net as “a series of tubes.” While some com­men­ta­tors not­ed that the anal­o­gy was­n’t quite as out­landish as it seemed, most react­ed with noth­ing more than amused baf­fle­ment. Where had Stevens come up with that image? Giv­en that he was born in 1923, per­haps he was draw­ing on mem­o­ries of a tech­no­log­i­cal won­der of his child­hood: the under­ground pneu­mat­ic sys­tems through which mail was deliv­ered in major Amer­i­can cities from the eigh­teen-nineties until the ear­ly nine­teen-fifties, whose sto­ry is told in the It’s His­to­ry video above.

Such series of tubes entered ser­vice in Lon­don, Paris, and Berlin in the mid-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry. In 1893, Philadel­phia became the first Amer­i­can city to get one, thanks to the advo­ca­cy of tech­no­log­i­cal­ly mind­ed depart­ment store mag­nate-turned-Post­mas­ter Gen­er­al John Wana­mak­er. At the inau­gu­ra­tion, writes Hid­den City’s Har­ry Kyr­i­akodis, Wana­mak­er “placed a Bible wrapped in an Amer­i­can flag into a can­is­ter that went fly­ing (under­ground) to the Cen­tral Post Office with a loud ‘whish’.” Philadel­phi­a’s net­work expand­ed apace, even­tu­al­ly includ­ing near­ly twen­ty miles of tun­nels, and “New York City, Boston, Chica­go, and St. Louis adopt­ed sim­i­lar deliv­ery sys­tems by 1898, all oper­at­ed by the Post Office Depart­ment.”

Oper­at­ed at a seri­ous loss, that is: when the U.S. got involved in World War I, the Post Office sus­pend­ed pneu­mat­ic ser­vice to con­serve resources. Only in the twen­ties did the tubes start whish­ing again in parts of New York and Boston, whose high vol­umes of mail could poten­tial­ly jus­ti­fy the oper­a­tion. In fact, the sheer amount of mail even­tu­al­ly got to be too much for the steel cap­sules and the cast-iron tun­nels through which com­pressed air pushed them. As retired U.S. Postal Inspec­tor Robert A. Cohen explains it in his his­to­ry of these sys­tems, “It takes a cer­tain amount of time for a gal­lon of liq­uid to trav­el through a fun­nel. Two gal­lons take twice as long to pass through. The val­ue of the Pneu­mat­ic Tube Ser­vice decreased as mail vol­ume increased.”

The pro­lif­er­a­tion of auto­mo­biles and the expan­sion of their sup­port­ing infra­struc­ture dealt an even more seri­ous blow: after World War II, deliv­er­ing mail on the roads had clear­ly become more effi­cient than doing it under­ground. Some “rock­e­teers,” as the sys­tem’s oper­a­tors were called, stuck it out until Decem­ber 12, 1953, when pneu­mat­ic mail ser­vice was offi­cial­ly sus­pend­ed all across the coun­try.

This marked the end of an era, espe­cial­ly for the rock­e­teers said to have used the net­work to sur­rep­ti­tious­ly receive orders from their favorite sand­wich shops. Remem­ber­ing Ted Stevens’ noto­ri­ous remark, it’s tempt­ing to describe the series of tubes that were pneu­mat­ic mail deliv­ery sys­tems as an ear­ly ver­sion of the inter­net — and even more so it was already get­ting peo­ple hooked on food deliv­ery.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Steam­punk Clocks of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Paris: Dis­cov­er the Inge­nious Sys­tem That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Time­keep­ing in the 1880s

What’s Under Lon­don? Dis­cov­er London’s For­bid­den Under­world

How Did Roman Aque­ducts Work?: The Most Impres­sive Achieve­ment of Ancient Rome’s Infra­struc­ture, Explained

An Archi­tect Breaks Down the Design of New York City Sub­way Sta­tions, from the Old­est to Newest

Futur­ist from 1901 Describes the World of 2001: Opera by Tele­phone, Free Col­lege & Pneu­mat­ic Tubes Aplen­ty

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.

 

One of the Best Preserved Ancient Manuscripts of The Iliad Is Now Digitized: See the “Bankes Homer” Manuscript in High Resolution (Circa 150 C.E.)

Each time I sit through the end cred­its of a film, I think about how weird auteur the­o­ry is—that a work of cin­e­ma can be pri­mar­i­ly thought of as the sin­gu­lar vision of the direc­tor. Typ­i­cal exam­ples come from arti­er fare than the usu­al Hol­ly­wood block­buster in which crews of thou­sands of stunt­peo­ple, spe­cial effects tech­ni­cians, and ani­ma­tors (and sev­er­al dozen “pro­duc­ers”) make essen­tial con­tri­bu­tions. In the case of, say, Wes Ander­son or David Lynch—or ear­li­er direc­tors like Godard or Kubrick—one can’t deny the evi­dence of a sin­gu­lar mind at work. Even so, we tend to ele­vate direc­tors to the sta­tus of god­like arti­fi­cers, sur­round­ed by a few angel­ic helpers behind the cam­era and a few star actors in front of it. Every­one else is an extra, includ­ing, very often, the actu­al writ­ers of a film.

Of course, the notion of the auteur comes from the gen­er­al the­o­ry of author­ship that iden­ti­fies lit­er­ary works as the prod­uct of a sin­gle intel­lect. French the­o­rists like Michel Fou­cault and Roland Barthes have cast sus­pi­cion on this idea. When it comes to writ­ing from the man­u­script age, hun­dreds or thou­sands of years old, it can be next to impos­si­ble to iden­ti­fy the author of a work.

Many an ancient work comes down to us as the prod­uct of “Anony­mous.” In the case of the major Greek epics, The Odyssey and The Ili­ad, we have a name, Homer, that most clas­sics schol­ars treat as a con­ve­nient place­hold­er. As a Uni­ver­si­ty of Cincin­nati clas­sics site not­ed, “Homer” could stand for “a group of poets whose works on the theme of Troy were col­lect­ed.”

Though writ­ten ref­er­ences to Homer date back to the 6th cen­tu­ry B.C., giv­ing cre­dence to the his­tor­i­cal exis­tence of the leg­endary blind poet, he might have been more direc­tor than author, bring­ing togeth­er into a coher­ent whole the labor of hun­dreds of dif­fer­ent sto­ry­tellers. For his­to­ri­an Adam Nicol­son, author of Why Homer Mat­ters, “it’s a mis­take to think of Homer as a per­son. Homer is an ‘it.’ A tra­di­tion. An entire cul­ture com­ing up with ever more refined and ever more under­stand­ing ways of telling sto­ries that are impor­tant to it. Homer is essen­tial­ly shared.” The nar­ra­tive poet­ry attrib­uted to Homer, Nicol­son sug­gests, might go back a thou­sand years before the poet sup­pos­ed­ly put it to papyrus.

You can read this Nation­al Geo­graph­ic inter­view with Nicol­son (or buy his book) to fol­low the argu­ment. It isn’t par­tic­u­lar­ly original—as Daniel Mendel­sohn writes at The New York­er, “the dom­i­nant ortho­doxy” for over a hun­dred years “has been that The Ili­ad evolved over cen­turies before final­ly being writ­ten down” some­time around 700 B.C. We have no man­u­scripts from that ear­ly peri­od, and no one knows how much the poem evolved through scrib­al errors in the trans­mis­sion from man­u­script to man­u­script over cen­turies. This is one of many ques­tions lit­er­ary his­to­ri­ans ask when they approach papyri like that at the top—an excerpt from the so-called “Bankes Homer,” the best-pre­served spec­i­men of a por­tion of The Ili­ad, con­tain­ing Book 24, lines 127–804, and dat­ing from cir­ca 150 C.E.

Pur­chased in Egypt in 1821 by Egyp­tol­o­gist William John Bankes, and acquired by an adven­tur­er named Gio­van­ni Finati on the island of Ele­phan­tine, the papyrus scroll, which you can see in full and in high res­o­lu­tion at the British Library site, was cre­at­ed like most oth­er “lit­er­ary papyri” for hun­dreds of years. As the British Library describes the process:

Pro­fes­sion­al scribes made copies from exem­plars at the request of clients, tran­scrib­ing by hand, word by word, let­ter by let­ter. Until around the 2nd cen­tu­ry CE these man­u­script books took the form of rolls com­posed of papyrus sheets past­ed one to the oth­er in suc­ces­sion, often over a con­sid­er­able length.

In addi­tion to the text itself, notes the site His­to­ry of Infor­ma­tion, the man­u­script con­tains “breath­ing marks and accents made by an ancient diorthotes or ‘cor­rec­tor’ to show cor­rect poet­ic pro­nun­ci­a­tion.” The ancient prac­tice of “cor­rect­ing” was a ped­a­gog­i­cal tech­nique used for train­ing stu­dents to prop­er­ly read the text. Like­ly for hun­dreds of years before there was a text, the poem would be com­mit­ted to mem­o­ry, and recit­ed by anony­mous bards all over the Greek-speak­ing world, prob­a­bly chang­ing in the telling to suit the tastes and bias­es of dif­fer­ent audi­ences. Who can say how many, if any, of those ancient bards bore the name “Homer”?

Again you can see the Bankes Homer in high res­o­lu­tion here (click the image to view in a larg­er for­mat).

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sound­ed Like When Sung in the Orig­i­nal Ancient Greek

Emi­ly Wil­son Is the First Woman to Trans­late Homer’s Odyssey into Eng­lish: The New Trans­la­tion Is Out Today

Explore 5,300 Rare Man­u­scripts Dig­i­tized by the Vat­i­can: From The Ili­ad & Aeneid, to Japan­ese & Aztec Illus­tra­tions

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

The Most Controversial Ancient Philosophy: Epicureanism

Over the years, you’ve prob­a­bly heard at least a few peo­ple casu­al­ly describe them­selves as Epi­cure­ans. As used today, the label can refer to as lit­tle as enjoy­ing the occa­sion­al expen­sive restau­rant meal. The bar was a bit high­er in the sec­ond cen­tu­ry, as explained by ancient-his­to­ry YouTu­ber Gar­rett Ryan in the new video above from his chan­nel Told in Stone. But there is, at least, one major aspect of the orig­i­nal doc­trine laid out by Epi­cu­rus (341–270 BC) with which most any of his self-styled fol­low­ers in our time would agree: that plea­sure is the great­est good. Whether they would fol­low that premise all the way to the con­clu­sions Epi­cu­rus did is anoth­er mat­ter.

For that ancient Greek philoso­pher, Ryan explains, “hap­pi­ness was the sole legit­i­mate goal of human exis­tence. The essence of hap­pi­ness is free­dom from anx­i­ety. Since the great­est source of men­tal dis­tur­bance is fear about death and the after­life, it is nec­es­sary to under­stand the true nature of the uni­verse.”

There­after come the prin­ci­ples about atoms drift­ing through the infi­nite void, a sub­ject of less inter­est to many twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry “Epi­cure­ans” than the mechan­ics of the Williams-Sono­ma rewards pro­gram. Still, they would do well to learn at least one rel­e­vant Greek term: atarax­ia, or the “tran­quil­i­ty that comes from being suf­fi­cient in one­self.”

Achiev­ing atarax­ia is not a mat­ter of mere­ly indulging the sens­es. Rather, “all sources of unnec­es­sary men­tal dis­tur­bance should be removed.” That means no pol­i­tics and prob­a­bly no mar­riage, though friend­ship is accept­able. Though fair­ly ascetic in its orig­i­nal form, Epi­cure­anism drew quite a few high-pro­file Romans as adher­ents — and as detrac­tors. No less a fig­ure than Cicero, for exam­ple, attacked both its oppo­si­tion to tra­di­tion­al Roman reli­gion and, per­haps pre­dictably, its iso­la­tion from pub­lic life. Plutarch went so far as to write anti-Epi­cure­an trea­tis­es, includ­ing one titled “It Is Not Pos­si­ble to Live Plea­sur­ably Accord­ing to the Doc­trines of Epi­cu­rus.” That may or may not be true by our mod­ern stan­dards, but the ques­tion is worth con­tem­plat­ing over a good din­ner.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alain de Botton’s School of Life Presents Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tions to Hei­deg­ger, The Sto­ics & Epi­cu­rus

A Guide to Hap­pi­ness: Alain de Botton’s Doc­u­men­tary Shows How Niet­zsche, Socrates & 4 Oth­er Philoso­phers Can Change Your Life

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Sto­icism, the Ancient Greek Phi­los­o­phy That Lets You Lead a Hap­py, Ful­fill­ing Life

An Entire Ancient Greek Philo­soph­i­cal Trea­tise Burned by Mount Vesu­vius Has Been Deci­phered with X‑Ray and AI Tech­nolo­gies

Memen­to Mori: How Smil­ing Skele­tons Have Remind­ed Us to Live Ful­ly Since Ancient Times

How 99% of Ancient Lit­er­a­ture Was Lost

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.

Watch Stewart Brand’s 6‑Part Series How Buildings Learn, With Music by Brian Eno

Stew­art Brand came onto the cul­tur­al scene dur­ing the 1960s, help­ing to stage the Acid Tests made famous by Ken Kesey and the Mer­ry Pranksters, and lat­er launch­ing the influ­en­tial Whole Earth Cat­a­log (some­thing Steve Jobs described as “Google in paper­back form, 35 years before Google came along”). He also vig­or­ous­ly cam­paigned in 1966 to have NASA release a pho­to­graph show­ing the entire­ty of Earth from space—some­thing we take for grant­ed now, but fired human­i­ty’s imag­i­na­tion back then.

Dur­ing the 1970s and beyond, Brand found­ed CoEvo­lu­tion Quar­ter­ly, a suc­ces­sor to the Whole Earth Cat­a­log; the WELL (“Whole Earth ‘Lec­tron­ic Link”), “a pro­to­typ­i­cal, wide-rang­ing online com­mu­ni­ty for intel­li­gent, informed par­tic­i­pants the world over;” and even­tu­al­ly The Long Now Foun­da­tion, whose work we’ve high­light­ed here before. When not cre­at­ing new insti­tu­tions, he has poured his cre­ative ener­gies into books and films.

Above you can watch How Build­ings Learn, Brand’s six-part BBC TV series from 1997, which comes com­plete with music by Bri­an Eno. Based on his illus­trat­ed book shar­ing the same titlethe TV series offers a cri­tique of mod­ernist approach­es to archi­tec­ture (think Buck­min­ster Fuller, Frank Gehry, and Le Cor­busier) and instead argues for “an organ­ic kind of build­ing, based on four walls, which is easy to change and expand and grow as the ide­al form of build­ing.”

Brand made the series avail­able on his YouTube chan­nel, with these words: “Any­body is wel­come to use any­thing from this series in any way they like… Hack away. Do cred­it the BBC, who put con­sid­er­able time and tal­ent into the project.” And he added the note­wor­thy foot­note: “this was one of the first tele­vi­sion pro­duc­tions made entire­ly in digital—shot dig­i­tal, edit­ed dig­i­tal.”

Find the first three parts above, and the remain­ing parts below:

You can find How Build­ings Learn added to our list of Free Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stew­art Brand’s List of 76 Books for Rebuild­ing Civ­i­liza­tion

The Acid Test Reels: Ken Kesey & The Grate­ful Dead’s Sound­track for the 1960s Famous LSD Par­ties

Bri­an Eno Explains the Ori­gins of Ambi­ent Music

A New Online Archive Lets You Read the Whole Earth Cat­a­log and Oth­er Whole Earth Pub­li­ca­tions, Tak­ing You from 1970 to 2002

How the Beatles Made their Most Acclaimed Album, Revolver, Released 60 Years Ago This Month

Among Bea­t­les con­nois­seurs, it’s fair game to claim any­thing from Rub­ber Soul to Abbey Road as one’s favorite album. But even with­in that span of the cat­a­log, a hier­ar­chy of acclaim exists, and that hier­ar­chy has been rearranged over the decades. The ecsta­t­ic recep­tion of Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band last­ed at least a decade. By the turn of the nine­teen-eight­ies, its imme­di­ate pre­de­ces­sor Revolver had joined it at the top spot of crit­i­cal regard; twen­ty years after that, Abbey Road had dis­placed Sgt. Pep­per. Now, a full 60 years after it first came out, Revolver is the sin­gle Bea­t­les album held in the high­est esteem — which, nat­u­ral­ly, makes it a seri­ous con­tender for the great­est album ever record­ed.

In his new video above, music YouTu­ber David Hart­ley explains what makes Revolver so beloved by recount­ing the his­to­ry of its pro­duc­tion. As in his pre­vi­ous Bea­t­les videos, he draws on the library of stu­dio out­takes that make audi­ble the evo­lu­tion of each song, as well as on con­tem­po­rary inter­views with the Bea­t­les and their col­lab­o­ra­tors.

Among his most illu­mi­nat­ing sources is engi­neer Geoff Emer­ick­’s mem­oir Here, There, and Every­where — titled, inci­den­tal­ly after one of the songs on this very album, the chal­lenge of whose record­ing he took on at just twen­ty years old. In the event, his youth proved an asset, grant­i­ng him as it did the will­ing­ness not just to exe­cute the Bea­t­les’ “far-out” son­ic ideas, but also to vio­late EMI Stu­dios’ poli­cies against exper­i­men­tal use of its hard­ware in the process.

Indeed, if it was pos­si­ble in 1966, it seems to have been tried in the mak­ing of Revolver. As Hart­ley reveals, “I’m Only Sleep­ing” once fea­tured a vibra­phone, “Yel­low Sub­ma­rine” once began with a spo­ken-word intro, and “And Your Bird Can Sing” once kept get­ting inter­rupt­ed by uncon­trol­lable and quite pos­si­bly sub­stance-induced laugh­ter. Nei­ther these nor any of the album’s oth­er now-famil­iar, much-scru­ti­nized songs took straight paths to their final forms. Into a run­time of only 35 min­utes, the Bea­t­les man­aged to put every­thing from “a chil­dren’s sin­ga­long song” to “a song com­plain­ing about all the mon­ey they were pay­ing in tax­es” to “a song about lone­li­ness” to “a song about lazi­ness” — while also trans­mit­ting the “great feel­ing of joy” for which their oeu­vre is known. Revolver’s place in the canon of albums is secure, but will it still be con­sid­ered the band’s best work on its 70th anniver­sary? Tomor­row, as they say, nev­er knows.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How the Bea­t­les Wrote Their Songs: From Ear­ly Demos to Final Record­ings

Tomor­row Nev­er Knows: How The Bea­t­les Invent­ed the Future With Stu­dio Mag­ic, Tape Loops & LSD

Is “Rain” the Per­fect Bea­t­les Song?: A New Video Explores the Rad­i­cal Inno­va­tions of the 1966 B‑Side

The World’s Great­est Song That Sim­ply Shouldn’t Exist: The Mak­ing of The Bea­t­les’ “A Day in the Life”

The Bea­t­les’ 8 Pio­neer­ing Inno­va­tions: A Video Essay Explor­ing How the Fab Four Changed Pop Music

The Kinks’ Ray Davies Reviews the Bea­t­les’ 1966 Album Revolver; Calls It “A Load of Rub­bish”

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.

226 Ansel Adams Photographs of Great American National Parks Are Now Online

Adams Yellowstone

Like many Amer­i­can sto­ries, the sto­ry of the Nation­al Parks begins with pil­lage, death, deep cul­tur­al mis­un­der­stand­ing, and ven­ture cap­i­tal­ism. Accord­ing to Ken Burns’ film series The Nation­al Parks: America’s Best Idea, we can date the idea back to 1851, with the “dis­cov­ery” of Yosemite by a maraud­ing armed bat­tal­ion that entered the land “search­ing for Indi­ans, intent on dri­ving the natives from their home­lands and onto reser­va­tions.” The Mari­posa Bat­tal­ion, led by Cap­tain James D. Sav­age, set fire to the Indi­ans’ homes and store­hous­es after they had retreat­ed to the moun­tains, “in order to starve them into sub­mis­sion.”

One mem­ber of the bat­tal­ion, a doc­tor named Lafayette Bun­nell, found him­self entranced by the scenery amidst this destruc­tion. “As I looked, a pecu­liar exalt­ed sen­sa­tion seemed to fill my whole being,” he wrote in his lat­er accounts, “and I found myself in tears with emo­tion.” He named the place “Yosemite,” think­ing it was the name of the Indi­an tribe the sol­diers sought to force out or erad­i­cate. The word, it turned out “meant some­thing entire­ly dif­fer­ent,” refer­ring to peo­ple who should be feared: “It means, ‘they are killers.’”

Zion Adams

In 1855, a failed Eng­lish gold prospec­tor turned the place into a tourist attrac­tion, and peo­ple flood­ed West to see it, prompt­ing New York wor­thies like Horace Gree­ley and Fred­er­ick Law Olm­st­ed to lob­by for its fed­er­al pro­tec­tion. In 1864, Abra­ham Lin­coln deed­ed Yosemite Val­ley and the Mari­posa Grove, with its giant sequoias, to the state of Cal­i­for­nia. Ever since then, Nation­al Parks have been threatened—if not by the occa­sion­al polit­i­cal can­di­date and his bil­lion­aire back­ers hop­ing to pri­va­tize the land, then by oil and gas drilling, and by fire, ris­ing seas, or oth­er effects of cli­mate change. Though the U.S. emp­tied many of the parks of their inhab­i­tants, it is iron­i­cal­ly only the actions of the fed­er­al gov­ern­ment that pre­vent the process begun by the Mari­posa Bat­tal­ion from reach­ing its con­clu­sion in the total despo­li­a­tion of these land­scapes. It is these land­scapes that have most come to sym­bol­ize the nation­al char­ac­ter, whether as back­ground in Fred­er­ic Rem­ing­ton’s paint­ings of the Indi­an Wars or in the pho­tographs of Ansel Adams, who began and sus­tained his career in Yosemite Val­ley. “Yosemite Nation­al Park,” writes the Nation­al Park Service’s web­site, “was Adams’ chief inspi­ra­tion.”

Grand Canyon Adams

Adams first became inter­est­ed in vis­it­ing the Nation­al Park when he read In the Heart of the Sier­ras by James Hutchings—that failed Eng­lish gold prospec­tor. There­after, Adams pho­tographed Nation­al Parks almost rit­u­al­ly, and in 1941, the Nation­al Park Ser­vice com­mis­sioned Adams to cre­ate a pho­to mur­al for the Depart­ment of the Inte­ri­or Build­ing in DC. The theme, the Nation­al Archives tells us, was to be “nature as exem­pli­fied and pro­tect­ed in the U.S. Nation­al Parks. The project was halt­ed because of World War II and nev­er resumed.” It must have felt like an espe­cial­ly sacred duty for Adams, who trav­eled the coun­try pho­tograph­ing the Grand Canyon, Grand Teton, Kings Canyon, Mesa Verde, Rocky Moun­tain, Yel­low­stone, Yosemite, Carls­bad Cav­erns, Glac­i­er, and Zion Nation­al Parks; Death Val­ley, Saguaro, and Canyon de Chelly Nation­al Mon­u­ments,” and oth­er loca­tions like the Boul­der (now Hoover) Dam and desert vis­tas in New Mex­i­co.

Mesa Verde Adams

The pho­tographs you see here are among the 226 tak­en by Adams for the project. They are now housed at the Nation­al Archives, and you can freely view them online or order prints at their site. At the top, we see a snow-cov­ered tree from an apple orchard below Half Dome, Yosemite, where Adams had his first pho­to­graph­ic “visu­al­iza­tion” in 1927. Below it, the “Court of the Patri­archs” in Zion Nation­al Park, Utah. Fur­ther down, we have a breath­tak­ing vision of the ser­pen­tine Grand Canyon, and just above, one of the few man­made struc­tures, “Cliff Palace” at Mesa Verde Nation­al Park in Col­orado. And here can you see a pho­to­graph of the Snake Riv­er in Grand Teton Nation­al Park.

adams grand teton

The mur­al project may have been aban­doned, but Adams nev­er stopped pho­tograph­ing the parks, or advo­cat­ing for their pro­tec­tion and, in fact, the pro­tec­tion of “the entire envi­ron­ment,” as he told a Play­boy inter­view­er in 1983. “Only two and a half per­cent of the land in this coun­try is pro­tect­ed,” said Adams then: “Not only are we being fought in try­ing to extend that two and a half per­cent to include oth­er impor­tant or frag­ile areas but we are hav­ing to fight to pro­tect that small two and a half per­cent. It is hor­ri­fy­ing that we have to fight our own Gov­ern­ment to save our envi­ron­ment.”

You can peruse the col­lec­tion of Ansel Adams’ Nation­al Park pho­tos here.

An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ansel Adams Reveals His Cre­ative Process in 1958 Doc­u­men­tary

200 Ansel Adams Pho­tographs Expose the Rig­ors of Life in Japan­ese Intern­ment Camps Dur­ing WW II

How to Take Pho­tographs Like Ansel Adams: The Mas­ter Explains The Art of “Visu­al­iza­tion”

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

How the Bird Sound Effects in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds Were Created with a Pioneering Electronic Instrument, the Trautonium

Alfred Hitch­cock­’s The Birds was nom­i­nat­ed for an Acad­e­my Award for Best Spe­cial Effects, though view­ers raised on more recent Hol­ly­wood spec­ta­cles would hard­ly find its mech­a­nized and opti­cal­ly print­ed avian attack­ers con­vinc­ing. Still, the pic­ture as a whole has retained its eerie, omi­nous pow­er over the last six decades, and a decent amount of the cred­it for that goes to an aspect that has­n’t dat­ed at all: its non-musi­cal “score” by the ear­ly elec­tron­ic com­pos­er Oskar Sala. Many of the threat­en­ing bird calls on the sound­track were actu­al­ly played by Sala on a device called the Mix­tur-Trau­to­ni­um, a pre-syn­the­siz­er orches­tral elec­tron­ic instru­ment of which he was­n’t just the undis­put­ed mas­ter, but the only play­er in exis­tence.

After his accep­tance into the Berlin Con­ser­va­to­ry in 1929, Sala came into con­tact with the Trau­to­ni­um, which had recent­ly been invent­ed by one Dr. Friedrich Trautwein. Inspired to more deeply under­stand the prin­ci­ples behind the nascent tech­nol­o­gy of elec­tron­ic music, and to fur­ther it, he went on to study physics at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Berlin in the mid-nine­teen-thir­ties.

This posi­tioned him well to devel­op new mod­els of Trau­to­ni­um, a series that cul­mi­nat­ed in 1948 with the Mix­tur-Trau­to­ni­um, which, unlike Trautwein’s mono­phon­ic orig­i­nal, could sound mul­ti­ple voic­es at once. The instru­ment proved ver­sa­tile, and indeed com­mer­cial: any Ger­man who grew up in the nine­teen-fifties will remem­ber its sounds from tele­vi­sion adver­tise­ments.

The chance to work on The Birds, by far Sala’s most wide­ly heard sound­track work, “pre­sent­ed itself when a for­mer class­mate of Sala who worked at Uni­ver­sal Stu­dios in Hol­ly­wood heard that Hitch­cock want­ed syn­thet­i­cal­ly pro­duced bird sounds for his next movie,” says Google Arts & Cul­ture. “Hitch­cock, who delib­er­ate­ly want­ed to avoid cre­at­ing tra­di­tion­al movie music, even flew to Sala’s record­ing stu­dio in Berlin where he was impressed by the sounds made by the Trau­to­ni­um, which ulti­mate­ly pro­duced all the movie’s sound effects.” In col­lab­o­ra­tion with fel­low pio­neer­ing elec­tron­ic com­pos­er Remi Gassmann, Sala pro­duced a ver­i­ta­ble storm of not just avian shrieks and cack­les, but also the harsh swirl of the ele­ments and the creaks and groans of fail­ing man-made infra­struc­ture. Or at least that’s what movie­go­ers may imag­ine hear­ing in a sound­track that often verges on the oth­er­world­ly, even the abstract — and Hitch­cock knew that the imag­i­na­tion is the place from which real fear aris­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alfred Hitch­cock Explains the Dif­fer­ence Between Sus­pense & Sur­prise: Give the Audi­ence Some Infor­ma­tion & Leave the Rest to Their Imag­i­na­tion

5 Hours of Free Alfred Hitch­cock Inter­views: Dis­cov­er His The­o­ries of Film Edit­ing, Cre­at­ing Sus­pense & More

Watch “Bells of Atlantis,” an Exper­i­men­tal Film with Ear­ly Elec­tron­ic Music Fea­tur­ing Anaïs Nin (1952)

Daphne Oram Cre­at­ed the BBC’s First-Ever Piece of Elec­tron­ic Music (1957)

The Scores That Elec­tron­ic Music Pio­neer Wendy Car­los Com­posed for Stan­ley Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange and The Shin­ing

Hear the Evo­lu­tion of Elec­tron­ic Music: A Son­ic Jour­ney from 1929 to 2019

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.

Watch a Band Perform the Sound Effects from Pink Floyd’s “Money,” Using a Money Counter, Torn Sheets of Paper & More

When Pink Floyd record­ed “Mon­ey” in 1972, Roger Waters spliced into the open­ing moments the sounds of cash reg­is­ters, tear­ing paper, and jin­gling coins. Half a cen­tu­ry lat­er, the Ger­man drum­mer Sina Doer­ing and her band per­formed those sounds live, using a bowl of loose change, a toy reg­is­ter, a mon­ey counter, and a sheet of paper torn on the beat. And they did it all live at Abbey Road Stu­dios, the same place where Pink Floyd record­ed Dark Side of the Moon (on which “Mon­ey” appears). Watch it above, and enjoy.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

When Pink Floyd Tried to Make an Album with House­hold Objects: Hear Two Sur­viv­ing Tracks Made with Wine Glass­es & Rub­ber Bands

A Live Stu­dio Cov­er of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon, Played from Start to Fin­ish

The Dark Side of the Moon Project: Watch an 8‑Part Video Essay on Pink Floyd’s Clas­sic Album

Clare Torry’s Rare Live Per­for­mances of “Great Gig in the Sky” with Pink Floyd

The Ground­break­ing Ani­ma­tion That Defined Pink Floyd’s Psy­che­del­ic Visu­al Style: Watch “French Win­dows” (1972)

The History of Glam Rock and How It Put an End to the Hippie Era

Cast your mind back to the dis­tant year 2021 and recall, if you will, its music, its fash­ions, the obses­sions of its youth. This prob­a­bly won’t be a dif­fi­cult task, since in most respects — the damp­en­ing effects of the pan­dem­ic notwith­stand­ing — none of those aspects of pop­u­lar cul­ture seem any dif­fer­ent today. Yet rough­ly the same time span sep­a­rat­ed Scott McKen­zie’s “San Fran­cis­co (Be Sure to Wear Flow­ers in Your Hair)” and David Bowie’s “Star­man.” 1967 was the year of the Sum­mer of Love; by 1972, accord­ing to most reck­on­ings, the cul­tur­al era known as the Six­ties was, if not quite over, then at least clear­ly in its final days. The hip­pies were on their way down, and glam rock­ers had arisen to take their place with a vengeance.

In less than half an hour, the new video from Band­splain­ing tells the whole sto­ry of glam rock, “the gen­der-bend­ing pro­to-punk move­ment that was hat­ed by the press and crim­i­nal­ly under­played in the U.S.” It begins in the 1970s, a time when the mar­ket for long-play­ing records was robust, but sin­gles had fall­en behind as a youth-ori­ent­ed pop-cul­tur­al form.

Into that vac­u­um stepped T. Rex, a one­time avant-garde folk duo rein­vent­ed as a straight-ahead rock band bent on reviv­ing that genre as it row­di­ly was before the Bea­t­les came along. When they hit it big, oth­er acts imi­tat­ed not just their bluesy sound, but the androg­y­nous, brazen­ly fab­ri­ca­tion-for­ward image of front­man Marc Bolan. Prac­ti­cal­ly overnight, the name of the game changed from earnest self-expres­sion to out­landish self-cre­ation.

Oth­er bands reshaped by this glam rock move­ment, as it was soon dubbed in the British media, includ­ed Slade, The Sweet, and Mott the Hoople. “My broth­er’s back at home with his Bea­t­les and his Stones,” sang that last out­fit in their break­out hit. “We nev­er got it off on that rev­o­lu­tion stuff.” That song, “All the Young Dudes,” had been writ­ten by the sin­gle most defin­ing glam-rock fig­ure: David Bowie, who him­self shot to promi­nence in the thor­ough­ly anti-Six­ties guise of Zig­gy Star­dust, the bisex­u­al, syn­thet­ics-clad rock­er from out­er space who swag­gered as if already famous across the uni­verse. With­in a few years, Bowie’s anten­na for the zeit­geist would have him retir­ing Zig­gy Star­dust and ditch­ing glam rock, a genre whose flame burned as bril­liant­ly — and indeed gar­ish­ly — as it did briefly. But in pop music, its char­ac­ter­is­tic lack of sociopo­lit­i­cal ideals, obses­sion with fame, and casu­al rela­tion­ship with real­i­ty were here to stay.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Zig­gy Star­dust Turns 50: Cel­e­brate David Bowie’s Sig­na­ture Char­ac­ter with a New­ly Released Ver­sion of “Star­man”

Watch David Bowie Per­form “Star­man” on Top of the Pops: Vot­ed the Great­est Music Per­for­mance Ever on the BBC (1972)

David Bowie’s Final Gig as Zig­gy Star­dust Doc­u­ment­ed in 1973 Con­cert Film

Fred­die Mer­cury: The Untold Sto­ry of the Singer’s Jour­ney From Zanz­ibar to Star­dom

Meet the Char­ac­ters Immor­tal­ized in Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side”: The Stars and Gay Rights Icons from Andy Warhol’s Fac­to­ry Scene

The His­to­ry of Rock Told in a Whirl­wind 15-Minute Video

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.

How Ancient Greek Warships Worked: The Engineering of the Trireme Explained in 3D Animation

Recall, if you will, the first time you read Book 2 of Home­r’s Ili­ad. The sec­tion like­ly to have giv­en you the most trou­ble — unless, of course, you’re blessed with an obses­sive inter­est in ancient naval war­fare — is the much-remarked-upon Cat­a­logue of Ships, a run­down of not just the con­tin­gents of the Achaean army sail­ing to Troy, but also the ships they’re doing it in. How­ev­er evoca­tive Home­r’s poet­ry, more than a few mod­ern read­ers may face a cer­tain dif­fi­cul­ty imag­in­ing ancient Greek ves­sels for them­selves. For­tu­nate­ly for them, the YouTube chan­nel Decon­struct­ed recent­ly put out the video above, which uses 3D imagery to explain the work­ings of an entire trireme, part by his­tor­i­cal­ly accu­rate part.

And what is a trireme? Two and a half mil­len­nia ago, says the video’s nar­ra­tor, it was “the most pow­er­ful war­ship in the Mediter­ranean.” This despite the fact that it had “no engine, no can­nons, and no heavy armor”: just “a nar­row wood­en hull, a bronze ram, and 170 men row­ing in per­fect rhythm.”

Wel­come to ancient Greece, where raw, syn­chro­nized man­pow­er could win a major war. Named for the “three super­im­posed tiers of one-man oars on each side of the ves­sel,” the trireme “pushed the tech­no­log­i­cal lim­its of the ancient world, with every part of its design opti­mized for speed and maneu­ver­abil­i­ty.” So swift was its accel­er­a­tion, regard­less of wind con­di­tions, that a sin­gle strike of its bronze ram could prove deci­sive.

Among the most effec­tive maneu­vers for a fleet of triremes were the diek­plous, in which the ships “rode through gaps in the ene­my for­ma­tion, then turned to attack the exposed sterns of oppos­ing ships,” and the periplous, in which they sailed “around the ene­my line to attack from the side or rear.” Not that Homer had rea­son to sing of such tac­tics, at least as per­formed by triremes, which were only put into use in the sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC. That was five or six hun­dred years after the notion­al peri­od of the leg­endary Tro­jan War, which, as the Ili­ad tells us, involved tri­a­con­ters and pen­te­con­ters, ships pro­pelled by a mere 30 to 50 oars­men as against the 170 stacked into the trireme. Even in those days, as Home­r’s con­tem­po­rary lis­ten­ers would have felt, tech­nol­o­gy was march­ing on — with the tech­nol­o­gy of war at the fore­front.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Ancient Greek Armor Gets Test­ed in an 11-Hour Bat­tle Sim­u­la­tion Inspired by the Ili­ad

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Antikythera Mech­a­nism: The World’s First Ana­log Com­put­er from Ancient Greece

The Roman Colos­se­um Decon­struct­ed: 3D Ani­ma­tion Reveals the Hid­den Tech­nol­o­gy That Pow­ered Rome’s Great Are­na

How a 16th-Cen­tu­ry Explorer’s Sail­ing Ship Worked: An Ani­mat­ed Video Takes You on a Com­pre­hen­sive Tour

How an Ancient Roman Ship­wreck Could Explain the Uni­verse

Hear the First Book of Homer’s Ili­ad Read Aloud in the Orig­i­nal Greek

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.

Mark Twain Predicts the Internet in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Story, “From The ‘London Times’ in 1904”

Samuel_L_Clemens,_1909

Most peo­ple know that Mark Twain wrote about Jim and Huck­le­ber­ry Finn nav­i­gat­ing down the Mis­sis­sip­pi. Less well known is that he occa­sion­al­ly dab­bled in the bur­geon­ing genre of sci­ence fic­tion. His 1898 short sto­ry “The Great Dark” is about a ship that sails across a drop of water on a micro­scope slide. His nov­el A Con­necti­cut Yan­kee in King Arthur’s Court is one of the first to explore time trav­el. And, in a short sto­ry called “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904,” Twain pre­dict­ed the inter­net. In 1898. Read it here.

Set six years into the future, the sto­ry starts off as a crime mys­tery. Clay­ton, a quick-tem­pered army offi­cer, is accused of mur­der­ing Szczepanik, the inven­tor of a new and promis­ing device called the tel­elec­tro­scope. The tale’s unnamed nar­ra­tor describes it like this:

As soon as the Paris con­tract released the tel­elec­tro­scope, it was deliv­ered to pub­lic use, and was soon con­nect­ed with the tele­phon­ic sys­tems of the whole world. The improved ‘lim­it­less-dis­tance’ tele­phone was present­ly intro­duced and the dai­ly doings of the globe made vis­i­ble to every­body, and audi­bly dis­cuss­able too, by wit­ness­es sep­a­rat­ed by any num­ber of leagues.

That sounds a lot like social media. Mark Twain dreamed up X and YouTube dur­ing the William McKin­ley admin­is­tra­tion.

Fac­ing the hangman’s noose, Clay­ton asks for, and receives, a tel­elec­tro­scope for his cell. As the nar­ra­tor describes Clay­ton’s tel­elec­tro­scop­ic rev­el­ry, it sounds uncan­ni­ly like a bored cubi­cle dweller surf­ing the web at work.

…day by day, and night by night, he called up one cor­ner of the globe after anoth­er, and looked upon its life, and stud­ied its strange sights, and spoke with its peo­ple, and real­ized that by grace of this mar­velous instru­ment he was almost as free as the birds of the air, although a pris­on­er under locks and bars. He sel­dom spoke, and I nev­er inter­rupt­ed him when he was absorbed in this amuse­ment. I sat in his par­lor and read, and smoked, and the nights were very qui­et and repose­ful­ly socia­ble, and I found them pleas­ant. Now and then I would hear him say ‘Give me Yedo;’ next, ‘Give me Hong-Kong;’ next, ‘Give me Mel­bourne.’ And I smoked on, and read in com­fort, while he wan­dered about the remote under­world, where the sun was shin­ing in the sky, and the peo­ple were at their dai­ly work.

The sto­ry itself is an admit­ted­ly minor work by the mas­ter of Amer­i­can fic­tion. In its last third, the sto­ry abrupt­ly turns into a sur­pris­ing­ly sour satire about the sad state of our legal sys­tem. As Clay­ton is get­ting marched to the gal­lows, the nar­ra­tor spots the guy Clay­ton sup­pos­ed­ly mur­dered on the tel­elec­tro­scope screen, stand­ing in a crowd for the coro­na­tion of the new “Czar” of Chi­na. Even though no crime took place, Clay­ton is still sen­tenced to hang.

“From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904” con­tains two long-run­ning themes in Twain’s work and life. One is the absur­di­ty of the courts – see, for exam­ple “The Facts in the Great Land­slide Case.”

And the oth­er is a fas­ci­na­tion with tech­nol­o­gy. In spite of his folksy image, he was, as they say now, an ear­ly adopter. He was the first in his neigh­bor­hood to get a tele­phone. He may or may not have been the first major author to use a type­writer to write a nov­el. He lost his shirt invest­ing in a Vic­to­ri­an-era start­up hawk­ing an exceed­ing­ly com­plex print­ing press called the Paige Com­pos­i­tor. And he allowed him­self to be filmed by Thomas Edi­son in 1909, a year before his death.

One won­ders what he would have thought of his tel­elec­tro­scope in action.

Note: The char­ac­ter Szczepanik men­tioned above was clear­ly named after a Pol­ish inven­tor, Jan Szczepanik, who talked about cre­at­ing a “telec­tro­scope,” in the late 19th cen­tu­ry. How­ev­er, if you read a report in The New York Times in 1898, it becomes appar­ent that Szczepanik’s “telec­tro­scope” was­n’t as vision­ary as what Twain had in mind.

via Cracked/TheTy­ee

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mark Twain Wrote the First Book Ever Writ­ten With a Type­writer

Mark Twain Shirt­less in 1883 Pho­to

Mark Twain Cap­tured on Film by Thomas Edi­son in 1909. It’s the Only Known Footage of the Author.

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er.


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