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.

Read 20,000+ Golden Age Comic Books Free Online: Superheroes, Westerns, Romance, Horror, and More

For gen­er­a­tions of kids in the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, few plea­sures were as intox­i­cat­ing as a trip to the com­ic-book shop with the week’s allowance fresh in hand. Those of us who grew up in the nineties had any num­ber of high-pro­duc­tion-val­ue paper super­hero spec­ta­cles from major pub­lish­ers on which to blow our mon­ey. Per­son­al­ly, I pre­ferred the greater val­ue of Carl Barks’ old Uncle Scrooge and Don­ald Duck sto­ries then being reprint­ed. But noth­ing offered quite so much val­ue as the card­board box­es, kept below the main shelves, filled as they were with pre­vi­ous­ly owned com­ic books from the fifties, six­ties, sev­en­ties, and eight­ies. As I recall, a cou­ple of dol­lars could get you a whole after­noon’s read­ing mate­r­i­al.

Now you don’t even need the cou­ple of dol­lars. Comicbooks.com has opened an online read­ing room stocked with more than 20,000 dig­i­tized and restored gold­en-age comics, with sev­er­al hun­dred more issues added every day. Though you may not find Don­ald Duck there, you will find oth­er “fun­ny ani­mals” — as enthu­si­asts call them — like Dizzy Duck, Lucky Duck, Super Duck Comics, and Won­der Duck in Adven­ture at the Rodeo of the Fear­less Quack­er.

Those already famil­iar with the all-Amer­i­can exploits of Archie and his Riverdale High coterie might con­sid­er such alter­na­tives as Can­dy, Tip­py Teen, and Hap Haz­ard. And who needs Super­man and Bat­man when you can enjoy the super-hero­ic adven­tures of Sky­man, Bul­let­man, Cat-Man, and Strong Man?

Giv­en the main­stream promi­nence of com­ic books in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, these most­ly for­got­ten pub­li­ca­tions now con­sti­tute an espe­cial­ly vivid — at times even lurid — means of pop-cul­tur­al time trav­el, through their con­tent as well as their adver­tise­ments (for itch­ing pow­der and oth­er prac­ti­cal joke sup­plies, mus­cle-build­ing and jiu-jit­su cours­es, war bonds, etc.). In any genre, whether super­hero, west­ern, romance, fun­ny ani­mal, hor­ror, sci­ence fic­tion, they offer a con­nec­tion with read­ers of decades past. In their form, as you can see on Comicbooks.com’s time­line of the evo­lu­tion of what the French call le neu­vième art, they offer a con­nec­tion with even more dis­tant ones: those of  pulp fic­tion, humor week­lies, chro­molith­o­graph car­toons, pen­ny dread­fuls, and twelfth-cen­tu­ry Japan­ese chōjū-giga scrolls — the orig­i­nal fun­ny ani­mals. Enter the free com­ic col­lec­tion here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free: Down­load 15,000+ Free Gold­en Age Comics from the Dig­i­tal Com­ic Muse­um

Down­load Over 22,000 Gold­en & Sil­ver Age Com­ic Books from the Com­ic Book Plus Archive

The Comi­clo­pe­dia: An Online Archive of 14,000 Com­ic Artists, From Stan Lee and Jack Kir­by, to Mœbius and Hergé

Explore a Big Archive of Vin­tage Ear­ly Comics: 1700–1929

R.I.P. Stan Lee: Take His Free Online Course “The Rise of Super­heroes and Their Impact On Pop Cul­ture”

The Pulp Fic­tion Archive: The Cheap, Thrilling Sto­ries That Enter­tained a Gen­er­a­tion of Read­ers (1896–1946)

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 Ada Lovelace, Daughter of Lord Byron, Wrote the First Computer Program in 1842–a Century Before the First Computer

I’ve nev­er quite under­stood why the phrase “revi­sion­ist his­to­ry” became pure­ly pejo­ra­tive. Of course, it has its Orwellian dark side, but all knowl­edge has to be revised peri­od­i­cal­ly, as we acquire new infor­ma­tion and, ide­al­ly, dis­card old prej­u­dices and nar­row frames of ref­er­ence. A fail­ure to do so seems fun­da­men­tal­ly regres­sive, not only in polit­i­cal terms, but also in terms of how we val­ue accu­rate, inter­est­ing, and engaged schol­ar­ship. Such research has brought us fas­ci­nat­ing sto­ries about pre­vi­ous­ly mar­gin­al­ized peo­ple who made sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tions to sci­en­tif­ic dis­cov­ery, such as NASA’s “human com­put­ers,” por­trayed in the book Hid­den Fig­ures, then dra­ma­tized in the film of the same name.

Like­wise, the many women who worked at Bletch­ley Park dur­ing World War II—helping to deci­pher encryp­tions like the Nazi Enig­ma Code (out of near­ly 10,000 code­break­ers, about 75% were women)—have been get­ting their his­tor­i­cal due, thanks to “revi­sion­ist” researchers. And, as we not­ed in a pri­or post, we might not know much, if any­thing, about film star Hedy Lamarr’s sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tions to wire­less, GPS, and Blue­tooth tech­nol­o­gy were it not for the work of his­to­ri­ans like Richard Rhodes. These few exam­ples, among many, show us a fuller, more accu­rate, and more inter­est­ing view of the his­to­ry of sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy, and they inspire women and girls who want to enter the field, yet have grown up with few role mod­els to encour­age them.

We can add to the pan­theon of great women in sci­ence the name Ada Byron, Count­ess of Lovelace, the daugh­ter of Roman­tic poet Lord Byron. Lovelace has been renowned, as Hank Green tells us in the video at the top of the post, for writ­ing the first com­put­er pro­gram, “despite liv­ing a cen­tu­ry before the inven­tion of the mod­ern com­put­er.” This pic­ture of Lovelace has been a con­tro­ver­sial one. “His­to­ri­ans dis­agree,” writes prodi­gious math­e­mati­cian Stephen Wol­fram. “To some she is a great hero in the his­to­ry of com­put­ing; to oth­ers an over­es­ti­mat­ed minor fig­ure.”

Wol­fram spent some time with “many orig­i­nal doc­u­ments” to untan­gle the mys­tery. “I feel like I’ve final­ly got­ten to know Ada Lovelace,” he writes, “and got­ten a grasp on her sto­ry. In some ways it’s an ennobling and inspir­ing sto­ry; in some ways it’s frus­trat­ing and trag­ic.” Edu­cat­ed in math and music by her moth­er, Anne Isabel­la Mil­banke, Lovelace became acquaint­ed with math­e­mat­ics pro­fes­sor Charles Bab­bage, the inven­tor of a cal­cu­lat­ing machine called the Dif­fer­ence Engine, “a 2‑foot-high hand-cranked con­trap­tion with 2000 brass parts.” Bab­bage encour­aged her to pur­sue her inter­ests in math­e­mat­ics, and she did so through­out her life.

Wide­ly acknowl­edged as one of the fore­fa­thers of com­put­ing, Bab­bage even­tu­al­ly cor­re­spond­ed with Lovelace on the cre­ation of anoth­er machine, the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, which “sup­port­ed a whole list of pos­si­ble kinds of oper­a­tions, that could in effect be done in arbi­trar­i­ly pro­grammed sequence.” When, in 1842, Ital­ian math­e­mati­cian Louis Menabrea pub­lished a paper in French on the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, “Bab­bage enlist­ed Ada as trans­la­tor,” notes the San Diego Super­com­put­er Cen­ter’s Women in Sci­ence project. “Dur­ing a nine-month peri­od in 1842–43, she worked fever­ish­ly on the arti­cle and a set of Notes she append­ed to it. These are the source of her endur­ing fame.” (You can read her trans­la­tion and notes here.)

In the course of his research, Wol­fram pored over Bab­bage and Lovelace’s cor­re­spon­dence about the trans­la­tion, which reads “a lot like emails about a project might today, apart from being in Vic­to­ri­an Eng­lish.” Although she built on Bab­bage and Menabrea’s work, “She was clear­ly in charge” of suc­cess­ful­ly extrap­o­lat­ing the pos­si­bil­i­ties of the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, but she felt “she was first and fore­most explain­ing Babbage’s work, so want­ed to check things with him.” Her addi­tions to the work were very well-received—Michael Fara­day called her “the ris­ing star of Science”—and when her notes were pub­lished, Bab­bage wrote, “you should have writ­ten an orig­i­nal paper.”

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, as a woman, “she couldn’t get access to the Roy­al Society’s library in Lon­don,” and her ambi­tions were derailed by a severe health cri­sis. Lovelace died of can­cer at the age of 36, and for some time, her work sank into semi-obscu­ri­ty. Though some his­to­ri­ans have seen her as sim­ply an expos­i­tor of Babbage’s work, Wol­fram con­cludes that it was Ada who had the idea of “what the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine should be capa­ble of.” Her notes sug­gest­ed pos­si­bil­i­ties Bab­bage had nev­er dreamed of. As the Women in Sci­ence project puts it, “She right­ly saw [the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine] as what we would call a gen­er­al-pur­pose com­put­er. It was suit­ed for ‘devel­op­ping [sic] and tab­u­lat­ing any func­tion what­ev­er… the engine [is] the mate­r­i­al expres­sion of any indef­i­nite func­tion of any degree of gen­er­al­i­ty and com­plex­i­ty.’ Her Notes antic­i­pate future devel­op­ments, includ­ing com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed music.”

In an episode of the BBC’s In Our Time, above, you can hear for­mer-host Melvyn Bragg dis­cuss Lovelace’s impor­tance with his­to­ri­ans and schol­ars Patri­cia Fara, Doron Swade, and John Fue­gi. And be sure to read Wolfram’s bio­graph­i­cal and his­tor­i­cal account of Lovelace here.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How 1940s Film Star Hedy Lamarr Helped Invent the Tech­nol­o­gy Behind Wi-Fi & Blue­tooth Dur­ing WWII

The Con­tri­bu­tions of Women Philoso­phers Recov­ered by the New Project Vox Web­site

Real Women Talk About Their Careers in Sci­ence

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

What Did Ancient Rome Look Like? A 3D Virtual Tour of the City During the Second Century AD

The descrip­tion “open-air muse­um” has often been applied, in var­i­ous sens­es both pos­i­tive and neg­a­tive, to the coun­try of Italy in gen­er­al and the city of Rome in par­tic­u­lar. Indeed, only the imag­i­na­tion of a tru­ly blink­ered (or unusu­al­ly phone-addict­ed) tourist could fail to be cast back to antiq­ui­ty upon enter­ing its his­toric cen­ter, itself an offi­cial­ly des­ig­nat­ed UNESCO World Her­itage Site. Yet it also takes lit­tle expo­sure to the intense cul­ture of tourism and all it has wrought to won­der how Rome was back when, if you like, Rome was Rome: in the sec­ond cen­tu­ry AD, say, when its built envi­ron­ment reached the height of its glo­ry.

Manuel Bra­vo can show us. A YouTu­ber who cre­ates high­ly infor­ma­tive real, vir­tu­al, and hybrid video tours of famous ancient places, he’s pre­vi­ous­ly been fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for his work on every­where from the Acrop­o­lis to the Sis­tine Chapel, to Paris and Pom­peii.

His “Vir­tu­al Rome” takes us on not a walk through the Eter­nal City of near­ly two mil­len­nia ago, but a flight: view­ers of mod­ern trav­el doc­u­men­taries will find its cam­era move­ments rem­i­nis­cent of noth­ing so much as drone pho­tog­ra­phy. This tech­nique pro­vides views even the most august ancient Roman cit­i­zens could nev­er have com­mand­ed.

Begin­ning on the Capi­to­line Hill, the most sacred of the sev­en such for­ma­tions with­in the orig­i­nal city walls, Bravo’s vir­tu­al cam­era pass­es the Tem­ples of Jupiter and Juno Mon­e­ta; the Tab­u­lar­i­um, which stored mail, the Roman Forum and its basil­i­cas; and the Curia Julia, where the sen­a­tors of the Roman Repub­lic met. Less­er-known loca­tions include the Ros­tra, named for the sea walls of cap­tured ene­my ships with which it was adorned, and from which the likes of Cicero would deliv­er their speech­es; the Regia, home to the Pon­tif­ex Max­imus, the pre­fect of Roman priests; and the “dark, stink­ing” under­ground facil­i­ty known as the Tul­lianum, now called Mamer­tine Prison. Parts of that last remain open for the appre­ci­a­tion of twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry tourists — or at least those will­ing to pay the ten-euro entrance fee.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rome Reborn: A New 3D Vir­tu­al Mod­el Lets You Fly Over the Great Mon­u­ments of Ancient Rome

Take Ani­mat­ed Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Tours of Ancient Rome at Its Archi­tec­tur­al Peak (Cir­ca 320 AD)

An 8‑Minute Ani­mat­ed Flight Over Ancient Rome

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Rome, Cir­ca 320 CE: Explore Stun­ning Recre­ations of The Forum, Colos­se­um and Oth­er Mon­u­ments

The Chang­ing Land­scape of Ancient Rome: A Free Online Course from Sapien­za Uni­ver­si­ty of Rome

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

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.

Hear the Earliest Known Piece of Polyphonic Music: This Composition, Dating Back to 900 AD, Changed Western Music

Like dig­ging for fos­sils or pan­ning for gold, the research process can be a tedious affair. But for any researcher, long days of search­ing and read­ing will even­tu­al­ly result in dis­cov­ery. These are the moments schol­ars cher­ish. It’s the chance dis­cov­ery, how­ev­er rare, that makes the long hours and bleary late nights worth­while. And some finds can change an entire field. Such was the dis­cov­ery of St. John’s Col­lege PhD stu­dent, and now Asso­ciate Pro­fes­sor of Musi­col­o­gy at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Pavia, Gio­van­ni Varel­li, who, in 2014, found what is believed to be, writes Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty, “the ear­li­est known prac­ti­cal exam­ple of poly­phon­ic music,” that is, music con­sist­ing of two or more melod­ic lines work­ing togeth­er simul­ta­ne­ous­ly.

You can hear the short composition—written in praise of the patron saint of Ger­many, Saint Boniface—performed above by St. John’s under­grad­u­ates Quintin Beer and John Clapham. Pri­or to Varelli’s dis­cov­ery of this piece of music, the ear­li­est poly­phon­ic music was thought to date to the year 1000, from a col­lec­tion called The Win­ches­ter Trop­er. Varelli’s dis­cov­ery may date to 100 years ear­li­er, around the year 900, and was found at the end of a man­u­script of the Life of Bish­op Mater­ni­anus of Reims. One rea­son musi­col­o­gists have so far over­looked the piece, Varel­li says, is that “we are not see­ing what we expect­ed.”

Typ­i­cal­ly, poly­phon­ic music is seen as hav­ing devel­oped from a set of fixed rules and almost mechan­i­cal prac­tice. This changes how we under­stand that devel­op­ment pre­cise­ly because who­ev­er wrote it was break­ing those rules. It shows that music at this time was in a state of flux and devel­op­ment.

Varelli’s spe­cial­iza­tion in ear­ly music nota­tion also pro­vid­ed him with the train­ing need­ed to rec­og­nize the piece, which was writ­ten using “an ear­ly form of nota­tion that pre­dates the inven­tion of the stave” (see the piece below). Accord­ing to for­mer British Library cura­tor Nico­las Bell, “when this man­u­script was first cat­a­logued in the 18th cen­tu­ry, nobody was able to under­stand these unusu­al sym­bols.” Varelli’s dis­cov­ery shows a devi­a­tion from “the con­ven­tion laid out in trea­tis­es at the time” and points toward the devel­op­ment of a musi­cal tech­nique that “defined most Euro­pean music up until the 20th cen­tu­ry.”

Varel­li gives us a sense of how impor­tant this dis­cov­ery is to schol­ars of ear­ly music: “the rules being applied here laid the foun­da­tions for those that devel­oped and gov­erned the major­i­ty of west­ern music his­to­ry for the next thou­sand years. This dis­cov­ery shows how they were evolv­ing, and how they exist­ed in a con­stant state of trans­for­ma­tion, around the year 900.”

So there you have it. If you’re stuck in the dol­drums of a research project, wait­ing for the wind to pick up, don’t despair. The next rare arti­fact, trea­tise, or man­u­script may be wait­ing for some­one with exact­ly your spe­cial­ized insights to deci­pher its secrets.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear a 9,000 Year Old Flute—the World’s Old­est Playable Instrument—Get Played Again

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

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

Watch the Evolution of Manhattan Unfold in a Timelapse Video, from 1600 to 2026

A Man­hat­tan with­out sky­scrap­ers sounds dif­fi­cult, if not impos­si­ble, to imag­ine today. But such a place real­ly did exist, at least up until the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. While the title of the very first sky­scraper ever built may go to the Home Insur­ance Build­ing in Chica­go, New York City caught up so aggres­sive­ly there­after — in its char­ac­ter­is­tic style — that it soon became prac­ti­cal­ly syn­ony­mous with tall steel-framed tow­ers. The shape of mod­ern Man­hat­tan would sure­ly have been unimag­in­able to the first non-native arrivals in the ear­ly sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, the approach of whose ships you can see re-cre­at­ed in the ani­mat­ed time­lapse above.

The video is a pro­duc­tion of CITY 3D TIMELAPSE, a YouTube chan­nel pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for its sim­i­lar­ly accel­er­at­ed visu­al­iza­tion of the evo­lu­tion of Paris. While that video had 23 cen­turies to com­press into a three-minute run­time, this new one on New York takes a leisure­ly-by-com­par­i­son eight min­utes to ren­der “just” 450 years or so of his­to­ry (at least after about twen­ty sec­onds spent in the native era’s mil­len­ni­um and a half).

But it also shows us the urban evo­lu­tion­ary process three times: the first zooms out to the whole of Man­hat­tan, the sec­ond focus­es on Low­er Man­hat­tan, and the third on Mid­town Man­hat­tan — a suit­able divi­sion, as any New York­er knows, for those mutu­al­ly incom­pre­hen­si­ble civ­i­liza­tions.

Even if we’ve nev­er set foot there, we may well know that even old New York was once New Ams­ter­dam. That Dutch colo­nial era, as depict­ed in the time­lapse, is when the city begins. There fol­lows den­si­fi­ca­tion and expan­sion under Eng­lish rule, the mar­itime infra­struc­tur­al build-out of ear­ly Amer­i­ca, the ambi­tious grid-lay­ing under the Com­mis­sion­ers’ Plan of 1811, the relent­less nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry indus­tri­al­iza­tion that imbued the city with the might its rep­u­ta­tion still retains, the rise of the sky­scrap­ers that shaped (and con­tin­ue to shape) its sky­line, and final­ly the “glob­al­iza­tion era” in which we find our­selves today. That “we,” of course, includes not just New York­ers, but urban­ites every­where, for the evo­lu­tion of New York pro­duced not just a city, but in many respects, the city: the mod­el by which so many metrop­o­lis­es have been inspired to get a bit of the action for them­selves.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A 3D Ani­ma­tion Shows the Evo­lu­tion of New York City (1524 — 2023)

Watch a Time­lapse Video Show­ing the Cre­ation of New York City’s Sky­line: 1500 to Present

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

Watch Man­hat­ta, the First Amer­i­can Avant-Garde Film (1921)

Ani­ma­tions Visu­al­ize the Evo­lu­tion of Lon­don and New York: From Their Cre­ation to the Present Day

Watch the Evo­lu­tion of Paris Unfold in a Time­lapse Video, from 300 BCE to 2025

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.


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