Folger Shakespeare Library Puts 80,000 Images of Literary Art Online, and They’re All Free to Use

TheLondonStage

Has a writer ever inspired as many adap­ta­tions and ref­er­ences as William Shake­speare? In the four hun­dred years since his death, his work has pat­terned much of the fab­ric of world lit­er­a­ture and seen count­less per­mu­ta­tions on stage and screen. Less dis­cussed are the visu­al rep­re­sen­ta­tions of Shake­speare in fine art and illus­tra­tion, but they are mul­ti­tude. In one small sam­pling, Richard Altick notes in his exten­sive study Paint­ings from Books, that “pic­tures from Shake­speare account­ed for about one fifth—some 2,300—of the total num­ber of lit­er­ary paint­ings record­ed between 1760 and 1900” among British artists.

FolgerMidsummer

In the peri­od Altick doc­u­ments, a rapid­ly ris­ing mid­dle class drove a mar­ket for lit­er­ary art­works, which were, “in effect, exten­sions of the books them­selves: they were detached forms of book illus­tra­tion, in which were con­stant­ly assim­i­lat­ed the lit­er­ary and artis­tic tastes of the time.” These works took the form of humor­ous illustrations—such as the As You Like It-inspired satir­i­cal piece at the top from 1824—and much more seri­ous rep­re­sen­ta­tions, like the undat­ed Cur­ri­er & Ives Midsummer-Night’s Dream lith­o­graph above. Now, thanks to the Fol­ger Shake­speare Library, these images, and tens of thou­sands more from their Dig­i­tal Image Col­lec­tion, are avail­able online. And they’re free to use under a CC BY-SA Cre­ative Com­mons license.

RichardIIICostume

As Head of Col­lec­tion Infor­ma­tion Ser­vices Erin Blake explains, “basi­cal­ly this means you can do what­ev­er you want with Fol­ger dig­i­tal images as long as you say that they’re from the Fol­ger, and as long a you keep the cycle of shar­ing going by freely shar­ing what­ev­er you’re mak­ing.” The Folger’s impres­sive repos­i­to­ry has been called “the world’s finest col­lec­tion of Shakespere­an art.” As well as tra­di­tion­al paint­ings and illus­tra­tions, it includes “dozens of cos­tumes and props used in nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry Shake­speare pro­duc­tions,” such as the embroi­dered vel­vet cos­tume above, worn by Edwin Booth as Richard III, cir­ca 1870. You’ll also find pho­tographs and scans of “’extra-illus­trat­ed’ books filled with insert­ed engrav­ings, man­u­script let­ters, and play­bills asso­ci­at­ed with par­tic­u­lar actors or pro­duc­tions; and a great vari­ety of sou­venirs, com­ic books, and oth­er ephemera asso­ci­at­ed with Shake­speare and his works.”

FolgerFuseli

In addi­tion to illus­tra­tions and mem­o­ra­bil­ia, the Fol­ger con­tains “some 200 paint­ings” and draw­ings by fine artists like “Hen­ry Fuseli, Ben­jamin West, George Rom­ney, and Thomas Nast, as well as such Eliz­a­bethan artists as George Gow­er and Nicholas Hilliard.” (The strik­ing print above by Fuseli shows Mac­beth’s three witch­es hov­er­ing over their caul­dron.) Great and var­ied as the Folger’s col­lec­tion of Shake­speare­an art may be, it rep­re­sents only a part of their exten­sive hold­ings. You’ll also find in the Dig­i­tal Images Col­lec­tion images of antique book­bind­ings, like the 1532 vol­ume of a work by Agrip­pa von Nettescheim (Hein­rich Cor­nelius), below.

Folger1532Binding

The col­lec­tion’s enor­mous archive of 19th cen­tu­ry prints is an espe­cial treat. Just below, see a print of that tow­er of 18th cen­tu­ry learn­ing, Samuel John­son, who, in his famous pref­ace to an edi­tion of the Bard’s works declared, “Shake­speare is above all writ­ers.” All in all, the immense dig­i­tal col­lec­tion rep­re­sents, writes The Pub­lic Domain Review, “a huge injec­tion of some won­der­ful mate­r­i­al into the open dig­i­tal com­mons.” Already, the Fol­ger has begun adding images to Wiki­me­dia Com­mons for use free and open use in Wikipedia and else­where on the web. And should you some­how man­age, through some vora­cious feat of dig­i­tal con­sump­tion, to exhaust this trea­sure hold of images, you need not fear—they’ll be adding more and more as time goes on.

FolgerDrJohnson

via The Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read All of Shakespeare’s Plays Free Online, Cour­tesy of the Fol­ger Shake­speare Library

The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art Puts 400,000 High-Res Images Online & Makes Them Free to Use

Down­load 35,000 Works of Art from the Nation­al Gallery, Includ­ing Mas­ter­pieces by Van Gogh, Gau­guin, Rem­brandt & More

Free Online Shake­speare Cours­es: Primers on the Bard from Oxford, Har­vard, Berke­ley & More

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Dr. Seuss Draws Anti-Japanese Cartoons During WWII, Then Atones with Horton Hears a Who!

seuss japan 1

Before Theodor Seuss Geisel AKA Dr. Seuss con­vinced gen­er­a­tions of chil­dren that a wock­et might just be in their pock­et, he was the chief edi­to­r­i­al car­toon­ist for the New York news­pa­per PM from 1940 to 1948. Dur­ing his tenure he cranked out some 400 car­toons that, among oth­er things, praised FDR’s poli­cies, chid­ed iso­la­tion­ists like Charles Lind­bergh and sup­port­ed civ­il rights for blacks and Jews. He also staunch­ly sup­port­ed America’s war effort.

To that end, Dr. Seuss drew many car­toons that, to today’s eyes, are breath­tak­ing­ly racist. Check out the car­toon above. It shows an arro­gant-look­ing Hitler next to a pig-nosed, slant­ed-eye car­i­ca­ture of a Japan­ese guy. The pic­ture isn’t real­ly a like­ness of either of the men respon­si­ble for the Japan­ese war effort – Emper­or Hiro­hi­to and Gen­er­al Tojo. Instead, it’s just an ugly rep­re­sen­ta­tion of a peo­ple.

In the bat­tle for home­land morale, Amer­i­can pro­pa­gan­da mak­ers depict­ed Ger­many in a very dif­fer­ent light than Japan. Ger­many was seen as a great nation gone mad. The Nazis might have been evil but there was still room for the “Good Ger­man.” Japan, on the oth­er hand, was depict­ed entire­ly as a bru­tal mono­lith; Hiro­hi­to and the guy on the street were uni­form­ly evil. Such think­ing paved the way for the U.S. Air Force fire­bomb­ing of Tokyo, where over 100,000 civil­ians died, and for its nuclear bomb­ing of Hiroshi­ma and Nagasa­ki. And it def­i­nite­ly laid the ground­work for one of the sor­ri­est chap­ters of Amer­i­can 20th cen­tu­ry his­to­ry, the uncon­sti­tu­tion­al incar­cer­a­tion of Japan­ese-Amer­i­cans.

waiting for signals

Geisel him­self was vocal­ly anti-Japan­ese dur­ing the war and had no trou­ble with round­ing up an entire pop­u­la­tion of U.S. cit­i­zens and putting them in camps.

But right now, when the Japs are plant­i­ng their hatch­ets in our skulls, it seems like a hell of a time for us to smile and war­ble: “Broth­ers!” It is a rather flab­by bat­tle cry. If we want to win, we’ve got to kill Japs, whether it depress­es John Haynes Holmes or not. We can get pal­sy-wal­sy after­ward with those that are left.

Geisel was hard­ly alone in such beliefs but it’s still dis­con­cert­ing to see ugly car­toons like these drawn in the same hand that did The Cat in the Hat.

jap alley

In 1953, Geisel vis­it­ed Japan where he met and talked with its peo­ple and wit­nessed the hor­rif­ic after­math of the bomb­ing of Hiroshi­ma. He soon start­ed to rethink his anti-Japan­ese vehe­mence. So he issued an apol­o­gy in the only way that Dr. Seuss could.

He wrote a children’s book.

Hor­ton Hears a Who!, pub­lished in 1954, is about an ele­phant that has to pro­tect a speck of dust pop­u­lat­ed by lit­tle tiny peo­ple. The book’s hope­ful, inclu­sive refrain – “A per­son is a per­son no mat­ter how small” — is about as far away as you can get from his igno­ble words about the Japan­ese a decade ear­li­er. He even ded­i­cat­ed the book to “My Great Friend, Mit­su­gi Naka­mu­ra of Kyoto, Japan.”

You can view an assort­ment of Dr. Seuss’s wartime draw­ings in gen­er­al, and his car­toons of the Japan­ese in par­tic­u­lar, at the Dr. Went to War Archive host­ed by UCSD.

via Dart­mouth

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

New Archive Show­cas­es Dr. Seuss’s Ear­ly Work as an Adver­tis­ing Illus­tra­tor and Polit­i­cal Car­toon­ist

Fake Bob Dylan Sings Real Dr. Seuss

The Epis­te­mol­o­gy of Dr. Seuss & More Phi­los­o­phy Lessons from Great Children’s Sto­ries

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrowAnd check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly. 

Willie Nelson Shows You a Delightful Card Trick

Sit back and let Willie Nel­son, accom­pa­nied by his sis­ter Bob­bie, show you a great card trick. It’s a vari­a­tion on a trick called “Sam the Bell­hop,” which sleight of hand expert Bill Mal­one pop­u­lar­ized, it not invent­ed. If you want to fig­ure out how the wiz­ardy is done, you’ll need to look else­where. We’re not going to spoil this bit of fun.

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Orson Welles Per­forms A Mag­ic Trick

Skep­tic Michael Sher­mer Shows You How to Bend Spoons with Your Mind

Willie Nel­son Audi­tions for The Hob­bit Film Sequel, Turns 80 Today

Dave Grohl Raises the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge to an Art Form

Foo Fight­ers front­man Dave Grohl raised an inter­net meme to an art form when he took the ALS Ice Buck­et Chal­lenge while par­o­dy­ing the epic prom scene from Car­rie. John Tra­vol­ta appeared in the 1976 hor­ror film, and Stephen King wrote the book behind it. So Grohl name checks them both. Where Jack Black fits into the pic­ture, I’m not exact­ly sure.

Dona­tions to help find a cure for the hor­rif­ic dis­ease can be made over at the ALS Asso­ci­a­tion. For a tru­ly sober­ing account of what it’s like to live with ALS, read Tony Judt’s essay, “Night,”  in The New York Review of Books. It was pub­lished in Feb­ru­ary 2010, short­ly before the dis­ease took his life.

The ABCs of Dada Explains the Anarchic, Irrational “Anti-Art” Movement of Dadaism

If asked to explain the art move­ment known as Dada, I’d feel tempt­ed to quote Louis Arm­strong on the music move­ment known as jazz: “Man, if you have to ask, you’ll nev­er know.” But maybe I’d do bet­ter to sit them down in front of the half-hour doc­u­men­tary The ABCs of Dada. They may still come away con­fused, but not quite so deeply as before — or maybe they’ll feel more con­fused, but in an enriched way.

Even the video, which gets pret­ty thor­ough about the ori­gins of and con­trib­u­tors to Dada, quotes heav­i­ly from the rel­e­vant Wikipedia arti­cle in its descrip­tion, fram­ing the move­ment as “a protest against the bar­barism of World War I, the bour­geois inter­ests that Dada adher­ents believed inspired the war, and what they believed was an oppres­sive intel­lec­tu­al rigid­i­ty in both art and every­day soci­ety.” They came to the con­clu­sion that “rea­son and log­ic had led peo­ple into the hor­rors of war, so the only route to sal­va­tion was to reject log­ic and embrace anar­chy and irra­tional­i­ty.” So there you have it; don’t try to under­stand.

Per­haps you remem­ber that vin­tage Onion arti­cle, “Repub­li­cans, Dadaists Declare War on Art,” sat­i­riz­ing, among oth­er things, the way pro­po­nents of Dada called its fruit not art, but “anti-art.” They made it delib­er­ate­ly mean­ing­less where “real” art strove to deliv­er mes­sages, delib­er­ate­ly offen­sive where it strained to appeal to com­mon sen­si­bil­i­ties. The ABCs of Dada exam­ines Dada through a great many of these Dadaists them­selves, such as Sophie Taeu­ber-Arp, a teacher and dancer forced to wear a mask for her Dada activ­i­ties due to the group’s scan­dalous rep­u­ta­tion in the acad­e­my; archi­tect Mar­cel Jan­co, who remem­bers of the group that “among us were nei­ther blasé peo­ple nor cyn­ics, actors nor anar­chists who took the Dada scan­dal seri­ous­ly”; and “Dada-mar­shal” George Grosz, who declared that “if one calls my work art depends on whether one believes that the future belongs to the work­ing class.” You can find fur­ther clar­i­fi­ca­tion among UBUwe­b’s col­lec­tion of Dada, Sur­re­al­ism, & De Sti­jl Mag­a­zines, such as Zurich’s Cabaret Voltaire and Berlin’s Der Dada. Or per­haps you’ll find fur­ther obfus­ca­tion, but that aligns with the Dada spir­it — in a world that has ceased to make sense, so the Dadaists believed, the duty falls to you to make even less.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William S. Bur­roughs on the Art of Cut-up Writ­ing

Anémic Ciné­ma: Mar­cel Duchamp’s Whirling Avant-Garde Film (1926)

Man Ray and the Ciné­ma Pur: Four Sur­re­al­ist Films From the 1920s

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Jimi Hendrix Plays the Beatles: “Sgt. Pepper’s,” “Day Tripper,” and “Tomorrow Never Knows”

Who invent­ed rock and roll? Ask Chuck Berry, he’ll tell you. It was Chuck Berry. Or was it Bill Haley, Jer­ry Lee Lewis, Lit­tle Richard? Mud­dy Waters? Robert John­son? Maybe even Lead Bel­ly? You didn’t, but if you asked me, I’d say that rock and roll, like coun­try blues, came not from one lone hero but a matrix of black and white artists in the South—some with big names, some without—trading, steal­ing, licks, spot­lights, and hair­dos. Coun­try croon­ers, blues­men, refugees from jazz and gospel. Maybe look­ing to cash in, maybe not. Did the tee­ny-bop­per star sys­tem kill rock and roll’s out­law heart? Or was it Bud­dy Holly’s plane crash? Big Pay­ola? There’s a mil­lion the­o­ries in a mil­lion books, look it up.

Who res­ur­rect­ed rock and roll? The Bea­t­les? The Stones? If you ask me, and you didn’t, it was one man, Jimi Hen­drix. Any­one who ever cried into their beer over Don McLean’s maudlin eulo­gy had only to lis­ten to more Hen­drix.

He had it—the swag­ger, the hair, the trad­ing, steal­ing, licks: from the blues, most­ly, but also from what­ev­er caught his ear. And just as those val­orized giants of the fifties did, Hen­drix cov­ered his com­pe­ti­tion. Today, we bring you Hen­drix play­ing The Bea­t­les. Above, see him, Noel Red­ding, and Mitch Mitchell do “Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band” in 1967, mere days after the song’s release. As we wrote in a pre­vi­ous post, “The album came out on a Fri­day, and by Sun­day night, Jimi Hen­drix learned the songs and opened his own show with a cov­er of the title track.” And, might we say, he made it his very own. “Watch out for your ears, okay?” says Hen­drix to the crowd. Indeed.


Just above, from ‘round that same time, hear Hen­drix and Expe­ri­ence cov­er “Day Trip­per,” one of many record­ings made for BBC Radio, col­lect­ed on the album BBC Ses­sions. Fuzzed-out, blis­ter­ing, boom­ing rock and roll of the purest grade. And below? Why it’s an extreme­ly drunk Jim Mor­ri­son and a super loose Hen­drix jam­ming out “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows,” or some­thing vague­ly like it. Morrison’s vocal con­tri­bu­tions come to noth­ing more than slurred moan­ing. (He’s very vocal in anoth­er cut from this ses­sion, called alter­nate­ly “Morrison’s Lament” and “F.H.I.T.A”—an acronym you’ll get after a lis­ten to Morrison’s obscene refrain.)

This raw take comes from a jam some­time in 1968 at New York’s The Scene club. Also play­ing were The Scene house band The McCoys, bassist Har­vey Brooks, and Band of Gypsy’s drum­mer Bud­dy Miles. John­ny Win­ter may or may not have been there. Released on bootlegs called Bleed­ing Heart, Sky High, and Woke Up This Morn­ing and Found Myself Dead, these ses­sions are a must-hear for Hen­drix com­pletists and lovers of decon­struct­ed vir­tu­oso blues-rock alike. After what Hen­drix did for, and to, rock and roll, there real­ly was nowhere to go but back to the skele­tal bones of punk or into the out­er lim­its of avant psych-noise and fusion. Don McLean should have writ­ten a song about that.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In 1969 Telegram, Jimi Hen­drix Invites Paul McCart­ney to Join a Super Group with Miles Davis

Jimi Hen­drix Unplugged: Two Rare Record­ings of Hen­drix Play­ing Acoustic Gui­tar

Jimi Hen­drix at Wood­stock: The Com­plete Per­for­mance in Video & Audio (1969)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Don Pardo (1918–2014), Voice of Saturday Night Live, Suggests Using Short Words

Don Par­do voiced the intro­duc­tions of Sat­ur­day Night Live for 38 sea­sons. He began call­ing out the names of the S.N.L. cast mem­bers dur­ing the first episode in Octo­ber, 1975, and (except for the 1981–82 sea­son) he kept call­ing out those names straight through last May. Chevy Chase, Gil­da Rad­ner, John Belushi, Bill Mur­ray, Eddie Mur­phy, Tina Fey — he called them all. Thanks to an imper­son­ator, you can hear a com­pi­la­tion of Par­do’s call for every cast mem­ber.

Don Par­do died yes­ter­day at 96 years of age. Ear­li­er in his career, he was the announc­er for a num­ber of Amer­i­can TV shows, includ­ing The Price Is Right, Jack­pot, and Jeop­ardy!. But his voice became part of the fab­ric of Amer­i­ca’s great­est com­e­dy show, Sat­ur­day Night Live. And he con­tin­ued voic­ing the intro long after his for­mal retire­ment from NBC in 2004. Not lack­ing ener­gy (watch him blow out his can­dles on his 90th birth­day), Par­do flew from Tuc­son to New York week­ly to get S.N.L. start­ed. Above, we have a short video that fea­tures Par­do, then 88, show­ing off, his sheer lin­guis­tic awe­some­ness.

Some­how, I’m now hop­ing that when­ev­er my day comes, Don Par­do’s voice will intro­duce me on the oth­er side.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Stunt That Got Elvis Costel­lo Banned From Sat­ur­day Night Live

William S. Bur­roughs on Sat­ur­day Night Live, 1981

Lorne Michaels Intro­duces Sat­ur­day Night Live and Its Bril­liant First Cast for the Very First Time (1975)

Salvador Dalí Creates a Chilling Anti-Venereal Disease Poster During World War II

As a New York City sub­way rid­er, I am con­stant­ly exposed to pub­lic health posters. More often than not these fea­ture a pho­to of a whole­some-look­ing teen whose sober expres­sion is meant to con­vey hind­sight regret at hav­ing tak­en up drugs, dropped out of school, or fore­gone con­doms. They’re well intend­ed, but bor­ing. I can’t imag­ine I’d feel dif­fer­ent­ly were I a mem­ber of the tar­get demo­graph­ic. The Chelsea Mini Stor­age ads’ saucy region­al humor is far more enter­tain­ing, as is the train wreck design approach favored by the ubiq­ui­tous Dr. Jonathan Ziz­mor. 

Pub­lic health posters were able to con­vey their des­ig­nat­ed hor­rors far more mem­o­rably before pho­tos became the graph­i­cal norm. Take Sal­vador Dalí’s sketch (below) and final con­tri­bu­tion (top) to the WWII-era anti-vene­re­al dis­ease cam­paign.

Which image would cause you to steer clear of the red light dis­trict, were you a young sol­dier on the make?

A por­trait of a glum fel­low sol­dier (“If I’d only known then…”)?

Or a grin­ning green death’s head, whose chop­pers dou­ble as the frankly exposed thighs of two face­less, loose-breast­ed ladies?

Cre­at­ed in 1941, Dalí’s night­mare vision eschewed the sort of man­ly, mil­i­taris­tic slo­gan that retroac­tive­ly ramps up the kitsch val­ue of its ilk. Its mes­sage is clear enough with­out:

Stick it in—we’ll bite it off!

(Thanks to blog­ger Rebec­ca M. Ben­der for point­ing out the composition’s resem­blance to the vagi­na den­ta­ta.)

As a fem­i­nist, I’m not crazy about depic­tions of women as pesti­len­tial, one-way death­traps, but I con­cede that, in this instance, sub­vert­ing the girlie pin up’s explic­it­ly phys­i­cal plea­sures might well have had the desired effect on horny enlist­ed men.

A decade lat­er Dalí would col­lab­o­rate with pho­tog­ra­ph­er Philippe Hals­man on “In Volup­tas Mors,” stack­ing sev­en nude mod­els like cheer­lead­ers to form a peace­time skull that’s far less threat­en­ing to the male fig­ure in the low­er left cor­ner (in this instance, the very dap­per Dalí him­self).

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Sal­vador Dalí Goes Com­mer­cial: Three Strange Tele­vi­sion Ads

See Sal­vador Dali’s Illus­tra­tions for the 1969 Edi­tion of Alice’s Adven­tures in Won­der­land

Your Body Dur­ing Ado­les­cence: A Naked­ly Unashamed Sex Ed Film from 1955

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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