If you haven’t seen the paintÂing at the MoMA in NYC, you’ve almost cerÂtainÂly seen those meltÂing watchÂes on posters and all sorts of kitschy prodÂucts. Those poor watchÂes have been abused over the years. But someÂhow I don’t mind seeÂing them on my favorite ephemerÂal canÂvas — the frothy milk surÂface of a latÂte. The latÂte above was decÂoÂratÂed by KazuÂki YamamoÂto, a JapanÂese artist who uses nothÂing but a toothÂpick for a paint brush. You can find an online gallery of his work here, which includes some 3D creÂations. Or folÂlowpicÂtures of his latÂest works on TwitÂter.
The 6‑minute introÂducÂtion to DalĂ’s 1931 paintÂing (below) comes courÂtesy of Smart HisÂtoÂry.
Between the mid-nineÂteenth and earÂly twenÂtiÂeth cenÂturies, men and women alike made scrapÂbooks as a way of proÂcessÂing the news. As Ellen GruÂber GarÂvey shows in her book WritÂing with ScisÂsors: AmerÂiÂcan ScrapÂbooks from the CivÂil War to the Harlem RenaisÂsance, the pracÂtice crossed lines of class and genÂder. EveryÂone from Mark Twain and Susan B. AnthoÂny to Joseph W.H. CathÂcart, an African-AmerÂiÂcan janÂiÂtor livÂing in PhiladelÂphia who amassed more than a hunÂdred volÂumes in the secÂond half of the nineÂteenth cenÂtuÂry, selectÂed and pastÂed artiÂcles and ephemera into big books, often annoÂtatÂing and comÂmentÂing upon the mateÂrÂiÂal.
The scrapÂbooks are fun to look at on a numÂber of levÂels. First, it’s cool to think of HouÂdiÂni and his magiÂcian colÂleagues selectÂing the artiÂcles and images and arrangÂing them on the page. SecÂond, the mateÂrÂiÂal that’s covÂered is colÂorÂful and bizarre (an artiÂcle in one of HouÂdini’s books: “TriÂal By ComÂbat Between A Dog And His Master’s MurÂderÂer”). Third, HouÂdiÂni and his cohort clipped and saved from a wide array of periÂodÂiÂcals; while it’s someÂtimes annoyÂing that many of the artiÂcles have lost their metaÂdaÂta (date and place of pubÂliÂcaÂtion), it’s still interÂestÂing to see the range of types of covÂerÂage that preÂvailed at the time.
The book put togethÂer by the perÂformer S.S. BaldÂwin, mailed to HouÂdiÂni by Baldwin’s daughÂter ShadÂow after Baldwin’s death, is parÂticÂuÂlarÂly interÂestÂing. The RanÂsom Center’s introÂducÂtion to the colÂlecÂtion notes that some items in the BaldÂwin scrapÂbook “depict graphÂic subÂject matter”—a sure enticeÂment for this researcher, at least, to make sure to check it out. The warnÂing may refer to this amazÂing image of the IndiÂan godÂdess Kali draped in sevÂered heads and limbs, or an engravÂing of an exeÂcuÂtion by eleÂphant. AlongÂside many artiÂcles about his perÂforÂmances, fliers, and othÂer ephemera, BaldÂwin also colÂlectÂed images of peoÂple livÂing in the places where he performed—an approach that adds yet anothÂer levÂel of interÂest to his scrapÂbook.
RebecÂca Onion is a writer and acaÂdÂeÂmÂic livÂing in PhiladelÂphia. She runs Slate.com’s hisÂtoÂry blog, The Vault. FolÂlow her on TwitÂter: @rebeccaonion.
I conÂfess, I preÂfer FaulknÂer to HemÂingÂway and see nothÂing wrong with long, comÂplex senÂtences when they are well-conÂstructÂed. But in most non-FaulknÂer writÂing, they are not. Stream of conÂsciousÂness is a delibÂerÂate effect of careÂfulÂly editÂed prose, not the unreÂvised slop of a first draft. In my days as a writÂing teacher, I’ve read my share of the latÂter. The EngÂlish teacher’s guide for parÂing down unruly writÂing resemÂbles a new online app called “HemÂingÂway,” which examÂines writÂing and grades it on a colÂor-codÂed difÂfiÂculÂty scale. “HemÂingÂway” sugÂgests using simÂpler dicÂtion, editÂing out adverbs in favor of stronger verbs, and elimÂiÂnatÂing pasÂsive voice. It promisÂes to make your writÂing like that of the famous AmerÂiÂcan minÂiÂmalÂist, “strong and clear.”
Of course I couldn’t resist runÂning the above paraÂgraph through HemÂingÂway. It received a score of 11—merely “O.K.” It sugÂgestÂed that I change the pasÂsive in senÂtence one and remove “careÂfulÂly” from the fourth senÂtence (I declined), and it idenÂtiÂfied “unruly” as an adverb (it is not). Like all forms of advice, it pays to use your own judgÂment before applyÂing wholeÂsale. NevÂerÂtheÂless, the sugÂgesÂtion to streamÂline and simÂpliÂfy for clarity’s sake is a genÂerÂal rule worth heedÂing more often than not. BrothÂers Adam and Ben Long, creÂators of the app, realÂized that their “senÂtences often grow long to the point that they became difÂfiÂcult to read.” It hapÂpens to everyÂone, amaÂteur and proÂfesÂsionÂal alike. The app sugÂgests writÂing that scores a Grade 10 or below is “bold and clear.” WritÂing above this meaÂsure is “hard” or “very hard” to read. Which prompts the inevitable quesÂtion: How does HemÂingÂway himÂself score in the HemÂingÂway app?
In a blog post yesÂterÂday for The New YorkÂer, Ian Crouch ran a few of the master’s pasÂsages through the online editÂing tool (a conÂcept akin to John Malkovich enterÂing John Malkovich’s head). The openÂing paraÂgraph of “A Clean, Well-LightÂed Place” received a score of 15. Hemingway’s descripÂtion of Romero the bullÂfightÂer from The Sun Also RisÂes also “breaks sevÂerÂal of the HemÂingÂway rules” with its use of pasÂsive voice and extraÂneÂous adverbs. Does this mean even HemÂingÂway falls short of the ideÂal? Or only that writÂing rules exist to be broÂken? Both, perÂhaps, and neiÂther. Style is as eluÂsive as gramÂmar is conÂstrictÂing, and both are masÂtered only through endÂless pracÂtice. Will “HemÂingÂway” turn you into HemÂingÂway? No. Will it make you a betÂter writer? Maybe. But only, I’d sugÂgest, inasÂmuch as you learn when to accept and when to ignore its advice.
25 years ago, the hip hop trio De La Soul released its debut album 3 Feet High and RisÂing (above). Robert ChristÂgau, the self-proÂclaimed “Dean of AmerÂiÂcan Rock CritÂics” and long-time music ediÂtor for the VilÂlage Voice, declared that it was “unlike any rap album you or anyÂbody else has ever heard.” And it wound up 23rd on The Source MagÂaÂzine’s list of The 100 Best Rap Albums.
To celÂeÂbrate the anniverÂsary of this release, De La Soul has gone over and beyond and made all (but one) of their stuÂdio albums free to downÂload until noon tomorÂrow (SatÂurÂday). Head over to the band’s web site, select the albums that you want to downÂload, enter your name and email address, click “SubÂmit for Sounds” and then wait until you receive an email conÂtainÂing the downÂload links. It’s as simÂple as that. HapÂpy lisÂtenÂing.
The webÂsite of Abbey Road stuÂdios has an EarthÂCam trained on the interÂsecÂtion of Abbey Road and Grove End Road, right outÂside its stateÂly GeorÂgian TownÂhouse. You can monÂiÂtor the site all day and night if you like, and the prospect of doing so seems no craÂzier to me than indulging a fixÂaÂtion with Paul is dead conÂspirÂaÂcies. It’s a magÂiÂcal place, as likeÂly to inspire awe as blind obsesÂsion. Although it has recordÂed artists from Paul RobeÂson to Lady Gaga, the hisÂtoric stuÂdio acquired its shrine staÂtus from one moment only—The BeaÂtÂles final recordÂed album, Abbey Road, and its infaÂmous covÂer shot.
SeeÂing the sausage of that covÂer made in the alterÂnate takes postÂed at the BeaÂtÂles Bible site (two of which have Paul wearÂing sanÂdals) doesn’t necÂesÂsarÂiÂly disÂpel the mysÂtique, but it does disÂabuse one of illuÂsions of total sponÂtaneÂity. Even more so does the drawÂing at the top, which Paul McCartÂney made for phoÂtogÂraÂphÂer Iain MacmilÂlan, who had 10 minÂutes to get the handÂful of shots he capÂtured with his HasÂselÂblad. In the top right-hand corÂner, you can see a small drawÂing added by MacmilÂlan which adds depth to McCartney’s rudiÂmenÂtaÂry comÂpoÂsiÂtions. These sketchÂes show McCartÂney and MacmilÂlan careÂfulÂly visuÂalÂizÂing the symÂmeÂtries, strides, and even shadÂows of the crossÂwalk phoÂto. (See the landÂmark above, empÂty, in a phoÂto takÂen that same day.)
SketchÂing out imporÂtant shots like these is comÂmon pracÂtice. For examÂple, above you can see Peter Blake’s 1967 outÂline for the Sgt. Pepper’s LoneÂly Hearts Club Band covÂer art. But the Abbey Road sketch is furÂther eviÂdence of McCartney’s guidÂing hand in The BeaÂtÂles’ image-makÂing. Of Sgt. Pepper’s, John Lennon went on record as sayÂing of the conÂcept that “Sgt PepÂper is Paul.” In this case, McCartney’s idea for the covÂer was instruÂmenÂtal in Blake’s evenÂtuÂal design: “a preÂsenÂtaÂtion feaÂturÂing a mayÂor and a corÂpoÂraÂtion, with a floÂral clock and a selecÂtion of phoÂtographs of famous faces on the wall behind The BeaÂtÂles.” McCartÂney cirÂcuÂlatÂed a list among the band memÂbers, askÂing them to list their choice of celebriÂties. Many of the sugÂgestÂed figÂures endÂed up on the covÂer.
Of their subÂseÂquent conÂcept album, The MagÂiÂcal MysÂtery Tour, Ringo likeÂwise claimed “it’s Paul’s idea realÂly, he came up with this.” WhenÂevÂer McCartÂney forÂmuÂlatÂed his ideas—for album strucÂtures, covÂer designs, or movies—he says in this video (which we can’t embed, unforÂtuÂnateÂly) that he would “draw someÂthing out.” Above, see his conÂcepÂtuÂal map for the MagÂiÂcal MysÂtery Tour film (click to enlarge). It may only be a coinÂciÂdence that it looks someÂthing like a dreamÂcatchÂer. Maybe it’s more of a pie chart. In any case, McCartÂney describes it in fairÂly matÂter-of-fact terms as “virÂtuÂalÂly a script” that allowed him to “focus his thoughts.”
It fits perÂfectÂly into earÂly 20th-cenÂtuÂry AmerÂiÂcan lore, this all-too-real disÂasÂter: on JanÂuÂary 15, 1919, a fifÂteen-foot wall of molasses rushed through Boston’s North End, killing 21, injurÂing 150, doing $100 milÂlion in today’s dolÂlars worth of damÂage, and requirÂing 80,000 man-hours to clean up. Those figÂures come from a post on the subÂject at MenÂtal Floss, which invesÂtiÂgates what loosed the Great Molasses Flood in the first place. The UnitÂed States IndusÂtriÂal AlcoÂhol ComÂpaÂny, ownÂers of the brown, sticky subÂstance in quesÂtion and the explodÂing tank that conÂtained it, pinned it on bomb-chuckÂers, claimÂing that, “since its alcoÂhol was an ingreÂdiÂent in govÂernÂment muniÂtions, anarÂchists must have sabÂoÂtaged the tank.” InvesÂtiÂgaÂtions latÂer revealed the cause as none othÂer than seat-of-the-pants capÂiÂtalÂisÂtic hubris, anothÂer standÂby of earÂly 20th-cenÂtuÂry AmerÂiÂca.
The tank’s “absurdÂly shodÂdy conÂstrucÂtion work,” led by a man who “couldÂn’t even read a blueÂprint,” came down to this: they “threw up a giganÂtic tank as quickÂly and cheapÂly as posÂsiÂble, skimped on inspecÂtions and safeÂty tests, and hoped for the best.” You can learn more about what hapÂpened in the video above, a dramaÂtiÂzaÂtion of the events leadÂing up to the Great Molasses Flood from the pilot episode of The FolkÂlorist.
The conÂtemÂpoÂrary images above and below come from the Boston PubÂlic Library’s Flickr set. For the most definÂiÂtive study of this gooey calamiÂty, you’ll want to seek out Dark Tide: The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919 by Stephen Puleo, who speaks in some detail about the event and its afterÂmath in this Real HisÂtoÂry video. All these well-docÂuÂmentÂed facts aside, legÂend has it that, on a parÂticÂuÂlarÂly hot day on ComÂmerÂcial Street, you can still smell the stuff.
MusiÂcal experÂiÂmenÂtalÂists ColÂlecÂtive CadenÂzaÂ’s ValenÂtine’s Day SpeÂcial “A HisÂtoÂry of Men MovÂing On” is to walÂlowÂing as speed datÂing is to courtship.
It’s a five minute medÂley of male romanÂtic pain that takes us all the way from Roy Orbison’s 1960 “Only the LoneÂly” to CeeÂLo Green’s pointÂed “Fuck You.”
VocalÂist ForÂest Van Dyke exhibits conÂsidÂerÂable dexÂterÂiÂty, navÂiÂgatÂing these stylÂisÂtic switchÂbacks. A shame he was directÂed to delivÂer so much of this choice mateÂrÂiÂal to a framed phoÂto, awkÂwardÂly posiÂtioned on an upstage music stand. I know that the room was crowdÂed, but I would’ve liked to see his feet, too. A man who can dance is someÂthing to see.
Kudos to musiÂcal direcÂtor Michael Thurber for makÂing explicÂit the simÂiÂlarÂiÂties between Gotye’s “SomeÂbody That I Used To Know” and UshÂer’s “Papers” (as covÂered by a goat). As with HemÂingÂway’s couÂplet, the latÂter failed to make the round up. Does the heartÂbreak ever cease?
The movie shows KafÂka, on ChristÂmas Eve, strugÂgling to come up with the openÂing line for his most famous work, The MetaÂmorÂphoÂsis.
As GreÂgor SamÂsa awoke one mornÂing from uneasy dreams he found himÂself transÂformed in his bed into a giganÂtic insect.
CapalÂdi wrings a lot of laughs out of Kafka’s inabilÂiÂty to figÂure out what SamÂsa should turn into. A giant banana? A kanÂgaÂroo? Even when the answer is litÂerÂalÂly starÂing at him in the face, KafÂka is hilarÂiÂousÂly obtuse.
Richard E. Grant stars as the torÂtured, tightÂly-wound writer who is driÂven into fits as his creÂative process is interÂruptÂed for increasÂingÂly absurd reaÂsons. The noisy parÂty downÂstairs, it turns out, is popÂuÂlatÂed by a dozen beauÂtiÂful maidÂens in white. A lost delivÂery woman offers KafÂka a balÂloon aniÂmal. A local lunatic searchÂes for his comÂpanÂion named Jiminy CockÂroach.
Jonathan Crow is a Los AngeÂles-based writer and filmÂmakÂer whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The HolÂlyÂwood Reporter, and othÂer pubÂliÂcaÂtions. You can folÂlow him at @jonccrow.
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In 1931, SalÂvador DalĂ paintÂed The PerÂsisÂtence of MemÂoÂry, a landÂmark piece of surÂreÂalÂist art that used meltÂing pockÂet watchÂes to symÂbolÂize the relÂaÂtivÂiÂty of space and time in dreamÂscapes. (More on that below.)
