What Makes Us Human?: Chomsky, Locke & Marx Introduced by New Animated Videos from the BBC

When Pla­to defined humans as two-legged ani­mals with­out feath­ers, I sus­pect he was only half seri­ous. Or if he was as humor­less as some sup­pose, his antag­o­nist Dio­genes the Cyn­ic cer­tain­ly picked up on the joke, point­ing out that the descrip­tion sounds pret­ty much like a plucked chick­en. The ancient back and forth illus­trates a ques­tion that has occu­pied philoso­phers for many thou­sands of years: what sep­a­rates humans from ani­mals? Is it a soul? Ratio­nal­i­ty? Tool-mak­ing? Most accounts, espe­cial­ly most mod­ern accounts, set­tle on one cru­cial difference—language. Although ani­mals can com­mu­ni­cate with each oth­er per­fect­ly well, they do so with­out this amaz­ing­ly sophis­ti­cat­ed fac­ul­ty we so often take for grant­ed.

In the ani­mat­ed video at the top, part of the BBC and Open University’s A His­to­ry of Ideas series, Gillian Ander­son, in her British rather than Amer­i­can accent, explains the well-known the­o­ry of lan­guage acqui­si­tion pro­posed by lin­guist Noam Chom­sky in the 60s. Chom­sky argued for what is known as a “uni­ver­sal gram­mar,” a kind of tem­plate in the struc­ture of the brain that allows every per­son of nor­mal abil­i­ty to learn their native lan­guage with rel­a­tive ease as a child. Chom­sky referred to these struc­tures as a “lan­guage acqui­si­tion device” that orga­nizes gram­mar and syn­tax inde­pen­dent­ly of expe­ri­ence or out­side stim­uli, of which we have pre­cious lit­tle in our for­ma­tive years. Doubt­less Chomsky’s the­o­ry would have per­suad­ed Pla­to, though prob­a­bly not the British empiri­cists of the 17th cen­tu­ry, who argued that the human mind has no innate ideas—that all of our abil­i­ties are learned.

Such was the argu­ment, much sim­pli­fied, of John Locke, physi­cian, philoso­pher, and polit­i­cal the­o­rist. In his far-rang­ing philo­soph­i­cal text An Essay Con­cern­ing Human Under­stand­ing and the more focused and digestible Some Thoughts Con­cern­ing Edu­ca­tion, Locke dis­cussed in depth his the­o­ries of human cog­ni­tion and iden­ti­ty, propos­ing not only that the mind could be writ­ten upon like a tab­u­la rasa—or “blank slate”—but that the key to human iden­ti­ty, that which makes us the same per­son from moment to moment, is mem­o­ry. We are—and are respon­si­ble for, Locke argued—what we remem­ber. Con­verse­ly, we are not respon­si­ble for what we don’t remem­ber. Locke’s the­o­ry presents us with some very thorny eth­i­cal prob­lems, which the video above most­ly avoids, but like Chomsky’s inter­ven­tion into debates about human vs. ani­mal intel­li­gence, Locke’s dis­cus­sion of the nature of human “per­son­hood” remains a time­ly con­cern, and an end­less­ly con­tentious one.

Oth­er videos in the series take on equal­ly con­tentious, and equal­ly time­ly, issues. Above, Ander­son briefly explains Karl Marx’s the­o­ry of the alien­ation of labor under an exploita­tive cap­i­tal­ist sys­tem, and below, she dis­cuss­es the role of cul­ture as a unique­ly human trait that ani­mals do not pos­sess. Each video address­es, in some small part, the ques­tion “What Makes Me Human?” and the series as a whole fol­lows quick­ly on the heels of A His­to­ry of Ideaspre­vi­ous set of Ander­son-nar­rat­ed ani­ma­tions on the ori­gins of the uni­verse: “How Did Every­thing Begin?”

Once again draw­ing on the skilled work of ani­ma­tor Andrew Park and scripts by inde­pen­dent philoso­pher Nigel War­bur­ton, this lat­est series of videos offers a num­ber of fas­ci­nat­ing appe­tiz­ers in the ways phi­los­o­phy, sci­ence, and reli­gion have approached life’s biggest ques­tions. Like any starter course, how­ev­er, these are but a taste of the com­plex­i­ty and rich­ness on offer in West­ern philo­soph­i­cal his­to­ry. To become a true intel­lec­tu­al gour­mand, browse our menu of free phi­los­o­phy cours­es and dig in to the work of thinkers like Chom­sky, Locke, Marx, and so many more.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Did Every­thing Begin?: Ani­ma­tions on the Ori­gins of the Uni­verse Nar­rat­ed by X‑Files Star Gillian Ander­son

A His­to­ry of Ideas: Ani­mat­ed Videos Explain The­o­ries of Simone de Beau­voir, Edmund Burke & Oth­er Philoso­phers

Down­load 130 Free Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es: Tools for Think­ing About Life, Death & Every­thing Between

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

Charles Mingus’ Instructions For Toilet Training Your Cat, Read by The Wire’s Reg E. Cathey

Hav­ing just begun rewatch­ing sea­son 3 of the always-rel­e­vant The Wire—the sea­son to first intro­duce Reg E. Cathey’s super-smooth char­ac­ter, may­oral aide Nor­man Wil­son—I was delight­ed to find an episode of Stu­dio 360 that fea­tures the actor read­ing a text by jazz great Charles Min­gus. Even more delight­ful is the sub­ject of his text: instruc­tions for toi­let train­ing your cat. I can­not tes­ti­fy to their effi­ca­cy; it seems like a labor-inten­sive process, and my own cats seem pret­ty con­tent with their lit­ter­box. But if any­one could accom­plish such a feat, it was Min­gus, a man who once ripped the strings from a piano with his bare hands (so it’s said in the doc­u­men­tary 1959: The Year that Changed Jazz), and who won a Gram­my for an essay defin­ing jazz, writ­ten just a few years after he helped rede­fine it.

Min­gus may have had a noto­ri­ous­ly short tem­per, but as a com­pos­er, he was infi­nite­ly patient. Appar­ent­ly this also goes for his role as a cat train­er. He spent weeks teach­ing his cat, Nightlife, to use human facil­i­ties, and detailed the process in a pam­phlet, The Charles Min­gus CAT-alogue for Toi­let Train­ing Your Cat, avail­able for cat fanciers and Min­gus fans by mail order.

Hear Cathey read the instruc­tions in part in the video at the top and in full in the audio above. Stu­dio 360 describes this odd doc­u­ment as “full of charm­ing advice and metic­u­lous ped­a­gog­i­cal detail.” It is indeed that. In four con­cise steps, Min­gus lays out the pro­gram, sim­ple as can be—or so he makes it seem.

Min­gus writes, “It took me about three or four weeks to toi­let train my cat, Nightlife.” He also admits that aspir­ing train­ers may need to mod­i­fy the pro­gram some­what, “in case your cat is not as smart as Nightlife was.” One can imag­ine less gift­ed cats strug­gling with this unusu­al method. One can also imag­ine more ornery, less coop­er­a­tive breeds sim­ply refus­ing to play along. Like Min­gus him­self, cats have a well-deserved rep­u­ta­tion for doing their own thing. Should you be intre­pid enough to attempt the Min­gus method with your own feline com­pan­ion, all I can say to you is what Min­gus says at the end of his instructions—Good Luck.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Charles Min­gus Explains in His Gram­my-Win­ning Essay “What is a Jazz Com­pos­er?”

Charles Min­gus and His Evic­tion From His New York City Loft, Cap­tured in Mov­ing 1968 Film

Clas­sic Charles Min­gus Per­for­mance on Bel­gian Tele­vi­sion, 1964

1959: The Year that Changed Jazz

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

Orson Welles Names His 10 Favorite Films: From Chaplin’s City Lights to Ford’s Stagecoach

I hope Orson Welles got used to see­ing his name on top-ten-films-of-all-time lists. He became a main­stay as soon as crit­i­cal con­sen­sus declared his debut Cit­i­zen Kane prob­a­bly the most impor­tant motion pic­ture ever made, and some cinephiles give spe­cial notice to his sub­se­quent works, such as The Lady from Shang­hai, Touch of EvilF for Fake, and — for true con­trar­i­ans only — The Tri­al. So what does a man whose projects appear on so many top-ten lists from crit­ics and oth­er film­mak­ers alike put on his own?

“I don’t like cin­e­ma,” goes one per­haps-apoc­ryphal Welles quote. “I like mak­ing cin­e­ma.” (Some­times-heard vari­a­tion: “I don’t like cin­e­ma unless I shoot it.”) But even if he actu­al­ly said and believed that, he still man­aged to put togeth­er the fol­low­ing list of favorites in the ear­ly 1950s, about a decade after hav­ing entered the film­mak­ing game but with most of the cin­e­ma he would make still to come:

  1. City Lights (Char­lie Chap­lin)
  2. Greed (Erich von Stro­heim, 1924)
  3. Intol­er­ance (D.W. Grif­fith, 1916)
  4. Nanook of the North (Robert Fla­her­ty, 1992)
  5. Shoe Shine (Vit­to­rio De Sica, 1946)
  6. The Bat­tle­ship Potemkin (Sergei Eisen­stein, 1925)
  7. La Femme du Boulanger (Mar­cel Pag­nol, 1938)
  8. Grand Illu­sion (Jean Renoir, 1937)
  9. Stage­coach (John Ford, 1939)
  10. Our Dai­ly Bread (King Vidor, 1934)

If Cit­i­zen Kane opened up the pos­si­bil­i­ties of cin­e­ma — and to get an idea of just how much influ­ence it has had from its release to this day, sim­ply watch any film made before it — the pic­tures Welles puts onto his list, in large part a clas­si­cist’s even in the 50s, gave cin­e­ma its form in the first place. If you plan on doing a self-admin­is­tered course in film his­to­ry, you could do much worse than begin­ning with the favorite films of Orson Welles — then mov­ing on, of course, to the films of Orson Welles.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten to Eight Inter­views of Orson Welles by Film­mak­er Peter Bog­danovich (1969–1972)

Dis­cov­er the Lost Films of Orson Welles

Watch Orson Welles’ The Stranger Free Online, Where 1940s Film Noir Meets Real Hor­rors of WWII

The Hearts of Age: Orson Welles’ Sur­re­al­ist First Film (1934)

Orson Welles Explains Why Igno­rance Was His Major “Gift” to Cit­i­zen Kane

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma 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.

A Gallery of Mad Magazine’s Rollicking Fake Advertisements from the 1960s

Mad-Edsel

I can well remem­ber the first time I read Mad Mag­a­zine. I was prob­a­bly around Bart Simpson’s age, but nowhere near his degree of wiseass-ness. I found the humor of the adult world most­ly mys­ti­fy­ing and also pret­ty tame, giv­en my rather shel­tered exis­tence. It was my dis­cov­ery of Mad—stacks and stacks of old Mads, to be pre­cise, in the rec room of a fam­i­ly acquaintance—that cracked the shell, one of those for­ma­tive loss-of-inno­cence moments that are ulti­mate­ly edi­fy­ing. At the time, I couldn’t tell sophis­ti­cat­ed satire from puerile par­o­dy, and the aver­age issue of Mad was no Gulliver’s Trav­els. Nonethe­less, its glee­ful skew­er­ing of the Amer­i­can civ­il reli­gion of pol­i­tics, celebri­ty, pro­fes­sion­al sports, com­merce, and mid­dle class com­fort hooked me instant­ly, and taught me about the val­ue of freethought before I’d ever heard the name Jonathan Swift.

Found­ed as a com­ic book by edi­tor Har­vey Kurtz­man and pub­lish­er William Gaines in 1952, Mad and its gap-toothed mas­cot Alfred E. New­man (still active today!) pio­neered pop­ulist satire and inspired many less­er imi­ta­tors. One dis­tinc­tive fea­ture of the mag­a­zine for almost its entire exis­tence was its abil­i­ty to run with­out adver­tis­ing, allow­ing it to tear apart mate­ri­al­ist cul­ture with­out fear of bit­ing the hands that fed it. Instead, for decades, the mag­a­zine ran fake spoof ads like those you see here. At the top, for exam­ple, see a 1963 ad for the “1963 ¾ Edsel,” an update of the “1963 ½ models—which made all ’63 mod­els obso­lete.” The text goes on to state frankly, “we’re tak­ing the first steps toward “Planned Month­ly Obsolescence—when every car own­er will be shamed into trad­ing in his old June ’64 car for a brand new shiny July ’64 mod­el.” Apple, take note.

Mad-Bootlicking

In the 1960 spoof ad above, mil­i­tary cul­ture gets a send-up with “Aspire Boot-Lick Pol­ish,” made for “The Man in Com­mand: Pompous… Pig-head­ed… Patho­log­i­cal.” The fla­vored boot polish—“licorice, caviar, choco­late, caramel, molasses, borscht, halavah, and Mox­ie in a base of chick­en fat”—is said to make “boot-lick­ing a lit­tle more tasty when you got­ta do it.” A clever inset links the U.S. chain of com­mand with pre­vi­ous empires, show­ing a car­toon Euro­pean naval offi­cer of cen­turies past get­ting his boots licked by a sub­or­di­nate sailor.

Mad-Hitler Cigarettes

Just above, the dis­turb­ing 1969 fake ad for “Ceme­tery Filler Cig­a­rettes” pre­dates the tobac­co tri­als of the 1990s by decades. Long pro­mot­ed for their health ben­e­fits, calm­ing effects, sophis­ti­ca­tion, and taste—as in that mem­o­rable first episode of Mad Men—cig­a­rettes are exposed for the mass killers they are by none oth­er than “Adolph Hitler”. (Anoth­er 1970 fake ad for “Win­som Cig­a­rettes” uses an actu­al ceme­tery to sim­i­lar effect.)

Mad-Kill Off

While cig­a­rette com­pa­nies were a fre­quent tar­get of Mad’s fake ads, just as often they took on the inani­ty of the entire ad indus­try itself, as in the above 1965 meta-ad for “Let’s Kill Off Ridicu­lous Ad Cam­paigns.” The text reads, “If you adver­tis­ers have to blow your own horns, why tie your prod­ucts to unre­lat­ed activ­i­ties? Main­ly, what’s eat­ing a Break­fast Cere­al got to do with play­ing a musi­cal instru­ment? Boy… we just can’t swal­low that!” Anoth­er reg­u­lar fea­ture was “Mad’s Great Moments in Adver­tis­ing,” a kind of high­light bloop­er reel of ads gone wrong. The exam­ple below, also from 1965, spoofs the promis­es of clean­ing prod­uct ads to make the lives of house­wives eas­i­er with a prod­uct that works just a lit­tle too well.

Mad-Great Moments

All of these fake Mad ads come from a Flickr account com­piled by user “Jas­par­do.” See many more of them there, and for even more of the magazine’s illus­tri­ous past, check out this Fla­vor­wire gallery of “The 10 Great­est Mad Mag­a­zine Cov­ers.”

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Men In Com­mer­cials Being Jerks About Cof­fee: A Mashup of 1950s & 1960s TV Ads

Before Mad Men: Famil­iar and For­got­ten Ads from 1950s to 1980s Now Online

Eisen­how­er Answers Amer­i­ca: The First Polit­i­cal Adver­tise­ments on Amer­i­can TV (1952)

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

Oliver Sacks Contemplates Mortality (and His Terminal Cancer Diagnosis) in a Thoughtful, Poignant Letter

oliver sacks letter

Image by Lui­gi Novi. Licensed under CC BY 3.0 via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Mak­ing the rounds today on the Inter­net is a poignant let­ter from Oliv­er Sacks, announc­ing that he has ter­mi­nal can­cer. An NYU pro­fes­sor of neu­rol­o­gy who has pub­lished sev­er­al best­selling books (includ­ing one that became the basis for the 1990 film, Awak­en­ings, star­ring Robin Williams and Robert De Niro) Sacks first devel­oped ocu­lar melanoma nine years ago, and it appar­ent­ly, sad­ly, metas­ta­sized to the liv­er.

Per­haps mor­tal­i­ty is some­thing you think about fair­ly often; or maybe you haven’t reached that point in life yet. Either way, I’d rec­om­mend giv­ing his let­ter a read, and then maybe tuck­ing it away. Because when — as is inevitable — you find your­self fac­ing mor­tal­i­ty head on, Sacks’ thoughts and out­look may help guide you through. His let­ter con­cludes:

I can­not pre­tend I am with­out fear. But my pre­dom­i­nant feel­ing is one of grat­i­tude. I have loved and been loved; I have been giv­en much and I have giv­en some­thing in return; I have read and trav­eled and thought and writ­ten. I have had an inter­course with the world, the spe­cial inter­course of writ­ers and read­ers.

Above all, I have been a sen­tient being, a think­ing ani­mal, on this beau­ti­ful plan­et, and that in itself has been an enor­mous priv­i­lege and adven­ture.

Read Oliv­er Sacks’ let­ter in full here.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Death, a Free Open Course from Yale (found on our list, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties)

This is What Oliv­er Sacks Learned on LSD and Amphet­a­mines

Aldous Huxley’s Most Beau­ti­ful, LSD-Assist­ed Death: A Let­ter from His Wid­ow

What’s the Big Deal About Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel? Matt Zoller Seitz’s Video Essay Explains

Toward the end of 2013, we fea­tured a series of video essays by Matt Zoller Seitz on the films of Wes Ander­son. They first came out to accom­pa­ny The Wes Ander­son Col­lec­tion, the crit­ic’s cof­fee-table ret­ro­spec­tive of that auteur of whim­si­cal hand­craft­ed films’ career to date — to the date of late 2013, any­way. Even then, fans had already geared them­selves up in antic­i­pa­tion of the then-immi­nent release of The Grand Budapest Hotel, Ander­son­’s eighth and lat­est pic­ture, which at the moment has resur­faced in awards-sea­son buzz.

The dimin­ish­ing num­ber of you who have proven still imper­vi­ous to Ander­son­’s pecu­liar brand of movie mag­ic might, actu­al­ly, feel you’ve heard a bit too much about The Grand Budapest Hotel over the past year or so. What, pray tell, is the big deal? Here to answer that ques­tion, we have Zoller Seitz’s brand new video essay on Ander­son­’s tale of that tit­u­lar once-grand moun­tain hotel and the 20th-cen­tu­ry Europe of the imag­i­na­tion (even­tu­al­ly giv­ing way to the 20th-cen­tu­ry Europe of his­to­ry) that swirls around and through it.

“All of Wes Ander­son­’s films are come­dies,” says Zoller Seitz, “and none are.” Through­out the fol­low­ing fif­teen min­utes, he ana­lyzes exact­ly how, with The Grand Budapest Hotel, Ander­son climbs to the top of both of his per­son­al twin peaks of friv­o­li­ty and seri­ous­ness — or seri­ous­ness expressed through friv­o­li­ty, or vice ver­sa. In the direc­tor’s “most struc­tural­ly ambi­tious film,” we see not just lay­ers of com­e­dy and melan­choly but of his­to­ry, lit­er­a­ture, artistry, and anx­i­ety, all tied in with the Ander­son­ian char­ac­ters’ end­less quest to mas­ter their own sense of loss by mas­ter­ing the world around them — which Ander­son shows us, to a fuller extent in The Grand Budapest Hotel, than in any of his live-action movies before, with his own mas­tery of the world he and his col­lab­o­ra­tors cre­ate.

For anoth­er look into what this requires in film­mak­ing terms, see also “Here’s How Wes Ander­son Uses Mat­te Paint­ings in His Incred­i­ble Set Designs” by The Cre­ators Pro­jec­t’s Beck­ett Muf­son. That inter­view with Grand Budapest Hotel mat­te painter Simone de Sal­va­tore reveals, by look­ing at just one aspect of the whole, how much goes into the design of a Wes Ander­son pro­duc­tion. View­ers who love Ander­son­’s pic­tures, of course, love them in large part for exact­ly that, and even view­ers who hate them have to con­cede their impec­ca­bil­i­ty on that count. Both groups now have only to wait for this Sun­day to see how the Acad­e­my feels about it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Per­fect Sym­me­try of Wes Anderson’s Movies

A Glimpse Into How Wes Ander­son Cre­ative­ly Remixes/Recycles Scenes in His Dif­fer­ent Films

Watch Wes Anderson’s Charm­ing New Short Film, Castel­lo Cav­al­can­ti, Star­ring Jason Schwartz­man

Wes Anderson’s First Short Film: The Black-and-White, Jazz-Scored Bot­tle Rock­et (1992)

Watch 7 New Video Essays on Wes Anderson’s Films: Rush­more, The Roy­al Tenen­baums & More

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture as well as the video series The City in Cin­e­ma 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.

7 Rock Album Covers Designed by Iconic Artists: Warhol, Rauschenberg, Dalí, Richter, Mapplethorpe & More

1-velvet-undergound

The art of the album cov­er is ground we cov­er here often enough, from the jazz deco cre­ations of album art inven­tor Alex Stein­weiss to the bawdy bur­lesques of under­ground comix leg­end R. Crumb. We could add to these Amer­i­can ref­er­ences the icon­ic cov­ers of Euro­pean graph­ic artists like Peter Sav­ille of Joy Divi­sions’ Unknown Plea­sures and Storm Thorg­er­son of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. These names rep­re­sent just a small sam­pling of the many renowned design­ers who have giv­en pop­u­lar music its dis­tinc­tive look over the decades, and with­out whom the expe­ri­ence of record shopping—perhaps itself a bygone art—would be a drea­ry one. Though these cre­ative per­son­al­i­ties work in a pri­mar­i­ly com­mer­cial vein, there’s no rea­son not to call their prod­ucts fine art.

But in a great many cas­es, the images that grace the cov­ers of records we know well come direct­ly from the fine art world—whether appro­pri­at­ed from pieces that hang on muse­um walls or com­mis­sioned from famous artists by the bands. Such, of course, was the case with the much-bal­ly­hooed cov­er of Lady Gaga’s Art­pop, a can­dy-col­ored col­lab­o­ra­tion with pop art dar­ling Jeff Koons, who gets a namecheck in the Gaga sin­gle “Applause.” Gaga has put a unique spin on the mélange of pop and pop art, but she hard­ly pio­neered such col­lab­o­ra­tions.

Long before Art­pop, there was Warhol, whose pro­mo­tion of the Vel­vet Under­ground includ­ed his own design of their 1967 debut album, The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico. The cov­er orig­i­nal­ly fea­tured a yel­low banana record buy­ers could peel away, as Fla­vor­wire writes, “to reveal a sug­ges­tive­ly pink flesh-toned banana.” The “saucy cov­ers” required “spe­cial machin­ery, extra costs, and the delay of the album release,” but Warhol’s name per­suad­ed MGM the added over­head was worth it. It’s a gam­ble that hard­ly paid off for the label, but pop music is infi­nite­ly bet­ter off for Warhol’s pro­mo­tion of Lou Reed and company’s dark, dron­ing art rock.

7-this-smiths

Of the many mil­lions of bands inspired by that first Vel­vets’ release, The Smiths also looked to Warhol for inspi­ra­tion when it came to the even more sug­ges­tive album cov­er (above) for their first, self-titled record in 1984. This time, the image comes not from the pop artist him­self, but from his pro­tégée Paul Mor­ris­sey—a still from his sala­cious, Warhol-pro­duced film Flesh. Just one of many savvy uses of mono­chro­mat­ic film stills and pho­tographs by the image-con­scious Steven Patrick Mor­ris­sey and band.

Smith Horses

Ten years ear­li­er, anoth­er Smith, Pat­ti, posed for the pho­to­graph above, a Polaroid tak­en by her close friend, Robert Map­plethor­pe. At the time, the two were room­mates and “just kids” strug­gling joint­ly in their starv­ing artist­hood. In her Nation­al Book Award-win­ning mem­oir of their time togeth­er, Smith describes the “exquis­ite­ly androg­y­nous image” as delib­er­ate­ly posed in a “Frank Sina­tra style,” writ­ing, “I was full of ref­er­ences.” Map­plethor­pe, of course, would go on to infamy as the focus of a con­ser­v­a­tive con­gres­sion­al cam­paign against “obscene” art in 1989, which tend­ed to make his name syn­ony­mous with sen­sa­tion­al­ism and scan­dal and obscured the breadth of his work.

Like the Vel­vets and Pat­ti Smith, the mem­bers of Son­ic Youth have had a long and fruit­ful rela­tion­ship with the art world, pur­su­ing sev­er­al art projects of their own and col­lab­o­rat­ing fre­quent­ly with famous fine artists. The rela­tion­ship between their noisy art rock and the visu­al arts crys­tal­izes in their many icon­ic album cov­ers. My per­son­al favorite, and per­haps the most rec­og­niz­able of the bunch, is Ray­mond Pet­ti­bon’s cov­er for 1990’s Goo, inspired from a pho­to­graph of two wit­ness­es to a ser­i­al killer case. Pet­ti­bon, broth­er to Black Flag founder and gui­tarist Greg Ginn, is much bet­ter known in the punk rock world than the fine art world, but Son­ic Youth has also col­lab­o­rat­ed with estab­lished high art fig­ures like Ger­hard Richter, whose paint­ing Kerze (“Can­dle”) graces the cov­er of their acclaimed 1988 album Day­dream Nation (above).

New Order Power

Anoth­er exam­ple of a band using already exist­ing artwork—this time from a painter long dead—the cov­er of New Order’s Pow­er, Cor­rup­tion & Lies comes from the still life A Bas­ket of Ros­es by 19th cen­tu­ry French real­ist Hen­ri Fan­tin-Latour. Design­er Peter Sav­ille, who, as not­ed above, cre­at­ed the look of New Order’s pre­vi­ous incar­na­tion, chose the image on a whim. Writes Art­net, “the art direc­tor for the post-punk band… had orig­i­nal­ly planned to use a Renais­sance por­trait of a dark prince to tie in with the Machi­avel­lian theme of the title, but failed to find any­thing he liked. While vis­it­ing [the Nation­al Gallery in Lon­don], Sav­ille picked up a post­card of the Fan­tin-Latour work, and his girl­friend joked that he should use it as the cov­er.” Sav­ille thought it was “a won­der­ful idea.” As Sav­ille explains his choice, “Flow­ers sug­gest­ed the means by which pow­er, cor­rup­tion and lies infil­trate our lives. They’re seduc­tive.”

Robert_rauschenberg_speaking_in_tongues_talking_heads

Anoth­er art-rock band, the Talk­ing Heads—formed at the Rhode Island School of Design and orig­i­nal­ly called “The Artistics”—went in a very high art direc­tion for 1983’s new wave mas­ter­piece Speak­ing in Tongues, their fifth album. Though we’re prob­a­bly more famil­iar with front­man David Byrne’s cov­er art for the album, the band also pro­duced a lim­it­ed edi­tion LP fea­tur­ing the work of artist Robert Rauschen­berg, which you can see above. Byrne, writes Art­net, approached Rauschen­berg “after see­ing his work at the Leo Castel­li Gallery” and Rauschen­berg agreed on the con­di­tion that he could “do some­thing dif­fer­ent.” He cer­tain­ly did that. The cov­er is a “trans­par­ent plas­tic case with art­work and cred­its print­ed on three 12 inch cir­cu­lar trans­par­ent col­lages, one per pri­ma­ry col­or. Only by rotat­ing the LP and the sep­a­rate plas­tic discs could one see—and then only intermittently—the three-col­or images includ­ed in the col­lage.” The artist won a Gram­my for the design.

jackie-gleason_lonesome-echo-album-cover-dali

You can see many more fine art album cov­ers by painters like Banksy, Richard Prince, and Fred Tomasel­li and pho­tog­ra­phers like Duane Michaels and Nobuyoshi Ara­ki at Art­net and Fla­vor­wire. The selec­tion of entic­ing album cov­ers above will hope­ful­ly also pro­pel you to revis­it, or hear for the first time, some of the finest art-pop of the last four decades. Final­ly, we leave you with a bizarre and seem­ing­ly unlike­ly col­lab­o­ra­tion, above, between pop-sur­re­al­ist Sal­vador Dalí and Hon­ey­moon­ers come­di­an Jack­ie Glea­son for Gleason’s 1955 album Lone­some Echo. No weird­er, per­haps, than Dalí’s work with Walt Dis­ney, it’s still a rather unex­pect­ed look for the come­di­an, in his role here as a kitschy easy lis­ten­ing com­pos­er. Gleason’s many album cov­ers tend­ed toward the Mad Men-esque cheap and tawdry. Here, he gets con­cep­tu­al. Dalí him­self explained the work thus:

The first effect is that of anguish, of space, and of soli­tude. Sec­ond­ly, the fragili­ty of the wings of a but­ter­fly, pro­ject­ing long shad­ows of late after­noon, rever­ber­ates in the land­scape like an echo. The fem­i­nine ele­ment, dis­tant and iso­lat­ed, forms a per­fect tri­an­gle with the musi­cal instru­ment and its oth­er echo, the shell.

Make of that what you will. I’d say it’s the one album on this list with a cov­er much more inter­est­ing by far than the music inside.

via Art­net

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ground­break­ing Art of Alex Stein­weiss, Father of Record Cov­er Design

Andy Warhol Cre­ates Album Cov­ers for Jazz Leg­ends Thelo­nious Monk, Count Basie & Ken­ny Bur­rell

Under­ground Car­toon­ist R. Crumb Intro­duces Us to His Rol­lick­ing Album Cov­er Designs

A Short Film on the Famous Cross­walk From the Bea­t­les’ Abbey Road Album Cov­er

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

How Clocks Changed Humanity Forever, Making Us Masters and Slaves of Time

In 1983, the Har­vard eco­nom­ic his­to­ri­an David Lan­des wrote an influ­en­tial book called Rev­o­lu­tion in Time: Clocks and the Mak­ing of the Mod­ern WorldThere, he argued that time­pieces (more than steamships and pow­er looms) drove the eco­nom­ic devel­op­ment of the West, lead­ing it into the Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion and even­tu­al­ly into an advanced form of cap­i­tal­ism. Time­pieces allowed us to mea­sure time in accu­rate, uni­form ways. And, once we had that abil­i­ty, we began to look at the way we live and work quite dif­fer­ent­ly. Lan­des wrote:

“The mechan­i­cal clock was self-con­tained, and once horol­o­gists learned to dri­ve it by means of a coiled spring rather than a falling weight, it could be minia­tur­ized so as to be portable, whether in the house­hold or on the per­son. It was this pos­si­bil­i­ty of wide­spread pri­vate use that laid the basis for ‘time dis­ci­pline,’ as against ‘time obe­di­ence.’ One can … use pub­lic clocks to simon peo­ple for one pur­pose or anoth­er; but that is not punc­tu­al­i­ty. Punc­tu­al­i­ty comes from with­in, not from with­out. It is the mechan­i­cal clock that made pos­si­ble, for bet­ter or worse, a civ­i­liza­tion atten­tive to the pas­sage of time, hence to pro­duc­tiv­i­ty and per­for­mance.”

It’s all part of the log­ic that even­tu­al­ly gets us to Ben­jamin Franklin offer­ing this famous piece of advice to a young trades­man, in 1748, “Remem­ber that Time is Mon­ey.”

You can find sim­i­lar argu­ments at the core of this new­ly-released video called “A Briefer His­to­ry of Time: How tech­nol­o­gy changes us in unex­pect­ed ways.” The video brings us back to the 1650s — to a turn­ing point when Chris­ti­aan Huy­gens invent­ed the pen­du­lum clock, which remained the world’s most pre­cise and wide­spread time­keep­ing device for the next three cen­turies. He was­n’t alone. But cer­tain­ly Huy­gens did much to make us mas­ters of time. And cer­tain­ly also slaves to it.

via Devour

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Eco­nom­ics Cours­es

David Harvey’s Course on Marx’s Cap­i­tal: Vol­umes 1 & 2 Now Avail­able Free Online

“The Vertue of the COFFEE Drink”: An Ad for London’s First Cafe Print­ed Cir­ca 1652

The Mar­velous Health Ben­e­fits of Choco­late: A Curi­ous Med­ical Essay from 1631

Every­day Eco­nom­ics: A New Course by Mar­gin­al Rev­o­lu­tion Uni­ver­si­ty Where Stu­dents Cre­ate the Syl­labus

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.