Émile-Antoine Bayard’s Vivid Illustrations of Jules Verne’s Around the Moon: The First Serious Works of Space Art (1870)

What does space trav­el look like? Even now, in the 21st cen­tu­ry, very, very few of us know first-hand. But we’ve all seen count­less images from count­less eras pur­port­ing to show us what it might look like. As with any­thing imag­ined by man, some­one had to ren­der a con­vinc­ing vision of space trav­el first, and that dis­tinc­tion may well go to 19th-cen­tu­ry French illus­tra­tor Émile-Antoine Bayard who, per­haps not sur­pris­ing­ly, worked with Jules Verne. Verne’s pio­neer­ing and pro­lif­ic work in sci­ence fic­tion lit­er­a­ture has kept him a house­hold name, but Bayard’s may sound more obscure; still, we’ve all seen his art­work, or at least we’ve all seen the draw­ing of Cosette the orphan he did for Les Mis­érables.

“Read­ers of Jules Verne’s ear­ly sci­ence-fic­tion clas­sic From the Earth to the Moon (De la terre à la lune) — which left the Bal­ti­more Gun Club’s bul­let-shaped pro­jec­tile, along with its three pas­sen­gers and dog, hurtling through space — had to wait a whole five years before learn­ing the fate of its heroes,” says The Pub­lic Domain Review.

When it appeared, 1870’s Around the Moon (Autour de la Lune) offered not just “a fine con­tin­u­a­tion of the space adven­ture” but “a superb series of wood engrav­ings to illus­trate the tale” cre­at­ed by Bayard. “There had been imag­i­nary views of oth­er worlds, and even of space flight before this,” writes Ron Miller in Space Art, “but until Verne’s book appeared, these views all had been heav­i­ly col­ored by mys­ti­cism rather than sci­ence.”

Com­posed strict­ly accord­ing to the sci­en­tif­ic facts known at the time — with a depar­ture here and there in the name of imag­i­na­tion and visu­al metaphor — the illus­tra­tions for A Trip Around the Moon, lat­er pub­lished in a sin­gle vol­ume with its pre­de­ces­sor as A Trip to the Moon and Around It, stand as the ear­li­est known exam­ple of sci­en­tif­ic space art. Verne went as far as to com­mis­sion a lunar map by famed selenog­ra­phers (lit­er­al­ly, schol­ars of the moom’s sur­face) Beer and Maedlerm, and just last year the Lin­da Hall Library named Bayard a “sci­en­tist of the day.” As with the uncan­ni­ly accu­rate pre­dic­tions in Verne’s ear­li­er nov­el Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry, a fair few of the ideas here, espe­cial­ly to do with the mechan­ics of the rock­et’s launch and return to Earth, remain sci­en­tif­i­cal­ly plau­si­ble.

What­ev­er the inno­va­tion of the pro­jec­t’s con­sid­er­able sci­en­tif­ic basis, its artis­tic impres­sion fired up more than a few oth­er imag­i­na­tions: both Verne’s words and Bayard’s art, all 44 pieces of which you can view here, served as major inspi­ra­tions for ear­ly film­mak­er and “father of spe­cial effects” Georges Méliès, for instance, when he made A Trip to the Moon. Dis­ap­point­ed com­plaints about our per­sis­tent lack of moon colonies or even com­mer­cial space flight may have long since grown tire­some, but the next time you hear one of us denizens of the 21st cen­tu­ry air them, remem­ber the work of Verne and Bayard and think of how deep into his­to­ry that desire real­ly runs.

Via The Pub­lic Domain Review.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jules Verne Accu­rate­ly Pre­dicts What the 20th Cen­tu­ry Will Look Like in His Lost Nov­el, Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry (1863)

How French Artists in 1899 Envi­sioned Life in the Year 2000: Draw­ing the Future

Sovi­et Artists Envi­sion a Com­mu­nist Utopia in Out­er Space

A Trip to the Moon (and Five Oth­er Free Films) by Georges Méliès, the Father of Spe­cial Effects

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

A Massive 55-Hour Chronological Playlist of Bob Dylan Songs: Stream 763 Tracks

Cropped image by Row­land Scher­man, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Shake­speare may have come up with the sev­en ages of man (see: As You Like It for more info), but Bob Dylan has had more than sev­en ages in his five decades of mak­ing music. There’s the young Woody Guthrie fan, the protest singer, the poet of a gen­er­a­tion, the recluse, the Chris­t­ian con­vert, the man who made Greil Mar­cus ask “What is this shit?” about his 1970 Self-Por­trait album, the Mys­tic who chan­neled “old weird Amer­i­ca” as Mar­cus would also define it, the end­less tour­ing work­horse, the Trav­el­ing Wilbury, the pen­cil-mus­tache dap­per stan­dards inter­preter, and on and on.

You get the point, so this Spo­ti­fy col­lec­tion (gath­ered togeth­er by Samuel Hux­ley Cohen) sets out to take on this mon­u­men­tal career with a 55 hour playlist of Dylan’s music, 763 songs in total, in chrono­log­i­cal order, from 1962’s “You’re No Good” to “Melan­choly Mood” from 2016’s Fall­en Angels. (His cur­rent album from this year, the three-disc Trip­li­cate is not rep­re­sent­ed, though it’s sep­a­rate­ly on Spo­ti­fy here.)

Not only can one chart the artis­tic pro­gres­sion from earnest folkie to liv­ing enig­ma, one can chart the changes in Dylan’s voice over time, which has long been the sub­ject of crit­i­cism. His young voice was once com­pared to a “cow stuck in an elec­tric fence,” and now in his 70s, “ Dylan’s voice has been in ruins dur­ing many of his recent con­certs, some­where between Howl­in’ Wolf’s growl and a tuber­cu­lar wheeze,” as the Chica­go Tri­bune’s Greg Kot wrote recent­ly. But in between, there were soft­er moments. As a younger Dylan fan I was exposed at first only to his clas­sic 1960s tril­o­gy—Bring­ing It All Back Home through Blonde on Blonde—and his nasal, accusato­ry tone, only to be befud­dled by the voice on Nashville Sky­line. It didn’t even sound like the same per­son.

Yes, there are bones to pick with this playlist, most­ly in its strict adher­ence to release date chronol­o­gy and not so much record­ing chronol­o­gy, which would make more sense (but would be way more time con­sum­ing). The Base­ment Tapes make more fas­ci­nat­ing lis­ten­ing com­ing as they real­ly did after Blonde on Blonde in 1967, after Dylan’s motor­cy­cle acci­dent and before John Wes­ley Hard­ing, the album high­ly informed by those ses­sions. Not so much placed here right after the astound­ing but inti­mate and bleak Blood on the Tracks. And a lot of the live and rare record­ings found on the ever increas­ing Boot­leg Series are just a jum­ble.

But put it this way, the man him­self could care less in what order you lis­ten to them, or if at all. A real­ly thor­ough chronol­o­gy might reveal the “real Dylan,” but then again…maybe not. Enter at your own risk.

Click here to access the playlist on Spo­ti­fy. Or stream it above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Bob Dylan’s New­ly-Released Nobel Lec­ture: A Med­i­ta­tion on Music, Lit­er­a­ture & Lyrics

Hear a 4 Hour Playlist of Great Protest Songs: Bob Dylan, Nina Simone, Bob Mar­ley, Pub­lic Ene­my, Bil­ly Bragg & More

The First Episode of The John­ny Cash Show, Fea­tur­ing Bob Dylan & Joni Mitchell (1969)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

How Did the Egyptians Make Mummies? An Animated Introduction to the Ancient Art of Mummification

Not every child looks for­ward to a trip to the muse­um, but how many have failed to thrill at the sight of an ancient Egypt­ian mum­my? How many adults, for that mat­ter, can resist the fas­ci­na­tion of this well over 5000-year-old process of pre­serv­ing dead bod­ies in a state if not per­fect­ly life­like then at least eeri­ly intact? If you’ve ever won­dered exact­ly how mum­mi­fi­ca­tion worked — or if you’ve sim­ply for­got­ten the descrip­tions accom­pa­ny­ing the dis­plays you saw on those muse­um trips — this short video from the Get­ty Muse­um’s Youtube chan­nel pro­vides an insight into how the ancient Egyp­tians did it.

The video uses a real mum­my as a case study, the pre­served body of a twen­ty-year-old man named Her­ak­lei­des (as we know because his mum­mi­fiers, though them­selves uniden­ti­fied, wrote it on his feet), who died in the first cen­tu­ry A.D. He had most of his inter­nal organs removed — even his heart, which com­mon prac­tice usu­al­ly dic­tat­ed leav­ing in, but for some rea­son not his lungs  — and spent forty days buried in salt that drew every last bit of mois­ture out of him.

He then received rub­bings of per­fumed oils, fol­lowed by a poured-on lay­er of resin to which strips of linen (the mum­my’s char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly copi­ous “ban­dages” of pop­u­lar cul­ture) could adhere. Wrapped onto a board, equipped with a “mys­te­ri­ous pouch” as well as a mum­mi­fied ibis, and cov­ered with an unusu­al red shroud embla­zoned with sym­bols and a por­trait of him­self, Her­ak­lei­des was ready for his jour­ney into the after­life.

“Such elab­o­rate bur­ial prac­tices might sug­gest that the Egyp­tians were pre­oc­cu­pied with thoughts of death,” says the Smith­so­ni­an’s page on Egypt­ian mum­mies. “On the con­trary, they began ear­ly to make plans for their death because of their great love of life. They could think of no life bet­ter than the present, and they want­ed to be sure it would con­tin­ue after death.” The ancient Egyp­tians believed “that the mum­mi­fied body was the home for this soul or spir­it. If the body was destroyed, the spir­it might be lost.”

If you find your­self shar­ing these beliefs, do have a look at Nation­al Geo­graph­ic’s guide on how to make a mum­my in 70 days or less. And just as you’d need to arrange the right ingre­di­ents to pre­pare a sat­is­fy­ing meal, some­thing else the Egyp­tians enjoyed, don’t attempt any mum­mi­fi­ca­tion at home with­out mak­ing sure you’re ful­ly stocked with resin, oint­ments, lichen, straw­dust, beeswax, palm wine, incense, and myrrh. And it goes with­out say­ing that how­ev­er many feet of wrap­pings you’ve got, it could­n’t hurt to have more.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Open­ing of King Tut’s Tomb, Shown in Stun­ning Col­orized Pho­tos (1923–5)

How the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids Were Built: A New The­o­ry in 3D Ani­ma­tion

The Met Dig­i­tal­ly Restores the Col­ors of an Ancient Egypt­ian Tem­ple, Using Pro­jec­tion Map­ping Tech­nol­o­gy

Try the Old­est Known Recipe For Tooth­paste: From Ancient Egypt, Cir­ca the 4th Cen­tu­ry BC

The Turin Erot­ic Papyrus: The Old­est Known Depic­tion of Human Sex­u­al­i­ty (Cir­ca 1150 B.C.E.)

A Drone’s Eye View of the Ancient Pyra­mids of Egypt, Sudan & Mex­i­co

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Ralph Steadman’s Wildly Illustrated Biography of Leonardo da Vinci (1983)

It is for good rea­son that we for­ev­er asso­ciate illus­tra­tor Ralph Stead­man with the deliri­ous work of Hunter S. Thomp­son. It took the two of them togeth­er to invent the gonzo style of jour­nal­ism, which we may almost call incom­plete now if pub­lished with­out the req­ui­site car­toon grotesques. Stead­man con­jures visions of dev­ils and demons as deft­ly as any medieval church painter, but his hells remain above ground and are most­ly man-made. Whether illus­trat­ing Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dic­tio­nary, George Orwell’s Ani­mal Farm, the cast of Break­ing Bad, or the vis­ages of Amer­i­can pres­i­dents, he excels at show­ing us the freak­ish fever dreams of the mod­ern world. He may, wrote The New York Times’ Sher­win Smith in 1983, “be the most sav­age polit­i­cal car­toon­ist of the late 20th cen­tu­ry.”

Steadman’s illus­tra­tive lega­cy places him in the com­pa­ny of history’s great­est visu­al satirists, but also makes him an odd choice for a biog­ra­phy of Leonar­do da Vin­ci. Though Leonar­do fre­quent­ly drew car­i­ca­tures in his note­books, the bulk of the Renais­sance genius’s work con­cerns itself with order and precision—the pur­pose­ful­ness of his line a stark con­trast to the crazed ink splat­ters of Steadman’s work.

Nonethe­less, Steadman’s I, Leonar­do, which he under­took not on com­mis­sion but on his own ini­tia­tive, exhibits a pro­found insight into the Ital­ian painter-sculptor-philosopher-inventor’s rest­less cre­ative mind. Leonar­do pre­sent­ed a very cool exte­ri­or, but his inner life may well have resem­bled a Stead­man draw­ing.

The project came to life in 1983 as what Stead­man called “a qua­si-his­tor­i­cal mish­mash,” a “tongue-in-cheek” sup­posed long-lost auto­bi­og­ra­phy of Leonar­do in pic­tures. “It is more than a col­lec­tion of illus­tra­tions on Leonardo’s life, based upon three years of work and research,” remarked a Wash­ing­ton Post review. “Stead­man does not mere­ly the­o­rize about the man, but attempts to go inside the artist’s bones.” Stead­man, writes Maria Popo­va, “even trav­elled to Italy to stand where Leonar­do stood, seek­ing to envi­sion what it was like to inhab­it that end­less­ly imag­i­na­tive mind.” The illus­tra­tions are a sur­pris­ing­ly effec­tive com­bi­na­tion of da Vin­ci-esque dis­ci­pline and Stead­manesque sick humor.

In his intro­duc­tion to the book, Stead­man com­ments on Leonardo’s split per­sona. His “expe­ri­ence showed him that man was not what he appeared to be, despite the pre­vail­ing atmos­phere of fine thoughts and high aspi­ra­tions…. The puri­ty of his paint­ing set the divine stan­dard of Renais­sance art—and of any art for that mat­ter. I believe he pre­served intact a part of his pri­vate self which found out­let in his more per­son­al notes and draw­ings.” Many of those draw­ings include the afore­men­tioned car­i­ca­tures of mon­strous, gri­mac­ing beings who would fit right in with Steadman’s night­mar­ish draw­ings.

The gonzo illus­tra­tor found a kin­dred satir­i­cal Leonar­do inside the famed mas­ter draughts­man and engi­neer. His inter­est in the Renais­sance artist’s anar­chic psy­che mir­rors that of anoth­er keen observ­er, Sig­mund Freud, who described Leonar­do as “a man who awoke too ear­ly in the dark­ness, while the oth­ers were all still asleep.” (Steadman’s first “his­tor­i­cal mish­mash” project was a 1979 illus­trat­ed Freud biog­ra­phy.) The artist behind I, Leonar­do has a slight­ly dif­fer­ent take on the sub­ject. Stead­man, writes Smith, saw Leonar­do “in 1980’s terms—as ‘a man tak­en up by a cor­po­ra­tion that couldn’t use him.’”

See many more of Steadman’s Leonar­do illus­tra­tions at Brain Pick­ings and pur­chase a copy of the book here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ralph Steadman’s Sur­re­al­ist Illus­tra­tions of George Orwell’s Ani­mal Farm (1995)

Gonzo Illus­tra­tor Ralph Stead­man Draws the Amer­i­can Pres­i­dents, from Nixon to Trump

Break­ing Bad Illus­trat­ed by Gonzo Artist Ralph Stead­man

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

Hugh Hefner (RIP) Defends “the Playboy Philosophy” to William F. Buckley, 1966

“Mr. Hefn­er’s mag­a­zine is most wide­ly known for its total expo­sure of the human female,” says William F. Buck­ley, intro­duc­ing the guest on this 1966 broad­cast of his talk show Fir­ing Line. “Though of course oth­er things hap­pen in its pages.” Not long before, pub­lish­er and plea­sure empire-builder Hugh Hefn­er’s Play­boy mag­a­zine ran a series of arti­cles on “the Play­boy phi­los­o­phy,” a set of obser­va­tions of and propo­si­tions about human sex­u­al­i­ty that pro­vid­ed these men fod­der for their tele­vised debate. Hefn­er stands against reli­gious­ly man­dat­ed, chasti­ty-cen­tered codes of sex­u­al moral­i­ty; Buck­ley demands to know how Hefn­er earned the qual­i­fi­ca­tions to issue new codes of his own. Describ­ing the Play­boy phi­los­o­phy as “sort of a hedo­nis­tic util­i­tar­i­an­ism,” Buck­ley tries simul­ta­ne­ous­ly to under­stand and demol­ish these 20th-cen­tu­ry revi­sions of the rules of sex.

“The Play­boy founder is no match for the Catholic who snipes him at will with ‘moral’ bul­lets,” writes the poster of the video. “The acer­bic, dry Buck­ley is on attack mode with a con­ser­v­a­tive audi­ence, in moral pan­ic, behind him. The Catholic had the era of con­ser­vatism behind him. [ … ] In the 21st cen­tu­ry though, Buck­ley would have a hard­er time defend­ing moral­i­ty with Hefn­er.” One won­ders how Buck­ley and Hefn­er, were they still alive today, might revis­it this debate in 2017. (Buck­ley died in 2008, and Hefn­er passed away yes­ter­day at the age of 91.) Times have cer­tain­ly changed, but I sus­pect Buck­ley would raise the same core objec­tion to Hefn­er’s argu­ment that loos­en­ing the old stric­tures on sex leads, per­haps coun­ter­in­tu­itive­ly, to more sat­is­fied, more monog­a­mous pair­ings: “How in the hell do you know?” Though this and cer­tain oth­er of Buck­ley’s ques­tions occa­sion­al­ly wrong-foot Hefn­er, the faith­ful can rest assured that he keeps enough cool to fire up his sig­na­ture pipe on cam­era.

Note: This post first appeared on our site back in 2012. We brought it back today for obvi­ous rea­sons, and updat­ed it to reflect Hefn­er’s pass­ing. Since 2012, a huge archive of “Fir­ing Line” episodes have been put online. Get more on that here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

375+ Episodes of William F. Buckley’s Fir­ing Line Now Online: Fea­tures Talks with Chom­sky, Borges, Ker­ouac, Gins­berg & More

Yeah, Baby! Deep Pur­ple Gets Sha­gadel­ic on Play­boy After Dark

James Bald­win Bests William F. Buck­ley in 1965 Debate at Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty

Jack Ker­ouac Meets William F. Buck­ley (1968)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Judy Blume Now Teaching an Online Course on Writing

FYI: If you sign up for a Mas­ter­Class course by click­ing on the affil­i­ate links in this post, Open Cul­ture will receive a small fee that helps sup­port our oper­a­tion.

After announc­ing that Mar­tin Scors­ese will be teach­ing an online course on film­mak­ing, Mas­ter­Class made it known today that Judy Blume has cre­at­ed an online course on Writ­ing. In 24 lessons, the beloved author of Are You There God? It’s Me, Mar­garet and Tales of a Fourth Grade Noth­ing will show you “how to devel­op vibrant char­ac­ters and hook your read­ers.” The indi­vid­ual course costs $90 and is now ready go. You can also buy an All-Access Annu­al Pass for $180 and explore every course in the Mas­ter­Class cat­a­logue. Some cours­es worth explor­ing include:

You can take this class by sign­ing up for a Mas­ter­Class’ All Access Pass. The All Access Pass will give you instant access to this course and 85 oth­ers for a 12-month peri­od.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book and BlueSky.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Enter an Archive of 6,000 His­tor­i­cal Children’s Books, All Dig­i­tized and Free to Read Online

Hayao Miyaza­ki Picks His 50 Favorite Children’s Books

A Dig­i­tal Archive of Sovi­et Children’s Books Goes Online: Browse the Artis­tic, Ide­o­log­i­cal Col­lec­tion (1917–1953)

When John Cage & Marcel Duchamp Played Chess on a Chessboard That Turned Chess Moves Into Electronic Music (1968)

Pho­to­graph by Lynn Rosen­thal

When is a chess game not a chess game?

When it’s played between Mar­cel Duchamp and John Cage.

Both the man who turned a uri­nal into a piece of mod­ern art and the man who reduced musi­cal com­po­si­tion all the way down to silence were fans of tak­ing things to absurd con­clu­sions. And they were both fans of chess; Duchamp the grand mas­ter and Cage the duti­ful stu­dent. Asked in 1974 whether Duchamp was a good teacher, Cage replied, “I was using chess as a pre­text to be with him. I didn’t learn, unfor­tu­nate­ly, while he was alive to play well.”

But Cage seemed to have lit­tle inter­est in com­pe­ti­tion. “Duchamp once watched me play­ing and became indig­nant when I didn’t win,” he said. “He accused me of not want­i­ng to win.” Instead, he approached chess as he approached the piano—as a decoy, a feint, that leads into anoth­er kind of game entire­ly. In a 1944 trib­ute to Duchamp, he paint­ed a chess­board that was actu­al­ly a musi­cal score, and, in 1968, he arranged a pub­lic game as a pre­text for a musi­cal per­for­mance called Reunion, per­formed in Toron­to with Duchamp and his wife Tee­ny (we have no film of the game-slash-con­cert; you can see Cage play Tee­ny in the video above).

Cage was an admir­er of the elder artist for over 20 years, play­ing chess with him fre­quent­ly. But he “didn’t want to both­er Duchamp with his friend­ship,” writes Syl­vere Lotringer, “until he real­ized that Duchamp’s health was fail­ing. Then he decid­ed to active­ly seek his com­pa­ny.” Play­ing on an elec­tron­ic chess board designed by Low­ell Cross, known as the inven­tor of the laser light show, the two cre­at­ed an extem­po­ra­ne­ous com­po­si­tion that last­ed as long as the audi­ence, and Duchamp, could tol­er­ate. “The con­cert,” Cross remem­bered on the for­ti­eth anniver­sary of the piece, “began short­ly after 8:30 on the evening of March 5, 1968, and con­clud­ed at approx­i­mate­ly 1:00 a.m. the next morn­ing.”

Debunk­ing a num­ber of mis­con­cep­tions about the chess­board, Cross explains that its oper­a­tion “depend­ed upon the cov­er­ing or uncov­er­ing of its 64 pho­tore­sis­tors.” It also con­tained con­tact micro­phones so that “the audi­ence could hear the phys­i­cal moves of the pieces of the board.” When either play­er made a move, it trig­gered one of sev­er­al elec­tron­ic “sound-gen­er­at­ing sys­tems” cre­at­ed by com­posers David Behrman, Gor­dan Mum­ma, David Tudor, and Cross him­self. Addi­tion­al­ly, “oscil­lo­scop­ic images emanat­ed from… mod­i­fied mono­chrome and col­or tele­vi­sion screens, which pro­vid­ed visu­al mon­i­tor­ing of some of the sound events pass­ing through the chess­board.”

As Lotringer describes the scene, the two mod­ernist giants “played until the room emp­tied. With­out a word said, Cage had man­aged to turn the chess game (Duchamp’s osten­sive refusal to work) into a work­ing per­for­mance…. Play­ing chess that night extend­ed life into art—or vice ver­sa. All it took was plug­ging in their brains to a set of instru­ments, con­vert­ing nerve sig­nals into sounds. Eyes became ears, moves music.” Duchamp had giv­en the impres­sion he was done mak­ing art. “Cage found a way to lure him into one final pub­lic appear­ance as an artist,” notes the Toron­to Dreams Project blog.

Indeed, Cage may have been for­mu­lat­ing the idea for over twen­ty years, each time he sat down to play a game with Duchamp, and lost. When Duchamp arrived in Cana­da for the per­for­mance at what was called the Sight­soundsys­tems Fes­ti­val, he had no idea that he would be par­tic­i­pat­ing in the head­lin­ing event.

What he found when he arrived was a sur­re­al scene. Two of the great­est artists of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry took their seats in the mid­dle of the stage at the Ryer­son The­atre, bathed in bright light and the gaze of the audi­ence. Pho­tog­ra­phers cir­cled around them, shut­ters snap­ping; a movie cam­era whirred. The stage was a mess of gad­gets. There were wires every­where; a tan­gle of them plugged right into side of the chess­board. A pair of TV screens was set up on either side of the stage. The Toron­to Star called it “a cross between an elec­tron­ic fac­to­ry and a movie set.”

Cage lost, as usu­al, though he was more even­ly matched when he played Duchamp’s wife. The three of them, wrote the Globe, were “like fig­ures in a Beck­ett play, locked in some mean­ing­less game. The audi­ence, star­ing silent­ly and sul­len­ly at what was placed before it, was itself a char­ac­ter; and its role was as mean­ing­less as the oth­ers. It was total non-com­mu­ni­ca­tion, all around.” The wires run­ning from the chess­board con­nect­ed to “tuners, ampli­fiers and all man­ner of elec­tron­ic gad­getry,” the Star wrote, fill­ing the room with “screech­es, buzzes, twit­ters and rasps.”

The Star pro­nounced the event “infi­nite­ly bor­ing,” a wide­ly shared crit­i­cal assess­ment of the night. (Cage explains the Zen of bore­dom in his voice-over at the top.) But we can hard­ly expect most review­ers of either artist’s most exper­i­men­tal work to respond with less than bewil­der­ment, if not out­right hos­til­i­ty. It was to be Duchamp’s last pub­lic appear­ance. He passed away a few months lat­er. For Cage, the evening had been a suc­cess. As Cross put it, Reunion was “a pub­lic cel­e­bra­tion of Cage’s delight in liv­ing every­day life as an art form.”

Every­day life with Duchamp meant play­ing chess, and there were few greater influ­ences than Duchamp on Cage’s con­cep­tu­al approach to what music could be—and what could be music. “Like Duchamp,” writes PBS, “Cage found music around him and did not nec­es­sar­i­ly rely on express­ing some­thing from with­in.” Fur­ther up, see Cage’s 1944, Duchamp-inspired “Chess Pieces” per­formed on harp and accor­dion, and above hear a piece he wrote for Duchamp for a sequence in Hans Richter’s 1947 sur­re­al­ist film Dreams that Mon­ey Can Buy.

To delve deep­er, you can explore the book, Mar­cel Duchamp: The Art of Chess by Fran­cis M. Nau­mann.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­cel Duchamp, Chess Enthu­si­ast, Cre­at­ed an Art Deco Chess Set That’s Now Avail­able via 3D Print­er

Play Chess Against the Ghost of Mar­cel Duchamp: A Free Online Chess Game

The Music of Avant-Garde Com­pos­er John Cage Now Avail­able in a Free Online Archive

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

Watch Brian Eno’s Experimental Film “The Ship,” Made with Artificial Intelligence

“How is Bri­an Eno still find­ing unchart­ed waters after half a cen­tu­ry spent mak­ing music?” asked The Verge’s Jamieson Cox after the release of Eno’s 25th album, The Ship. Call­ing it a “dark near-mas­ter­piece,” The Onion’s A.V. Club expressed sim­i­lar aston­ish­ment. The album “can hold its own among the very best in a career full of bril­liant work…. Forty-one years after Anoth­er Green World, Eno is still for­ag­ing for new musi­cal ground, and what he’s able to come up with is noth­ing short of mirac­u­lous. When lis­ten­ing to The Ship, we get the sense that he will nev­er stop.”

Should you think that an exag­ger­a­tion, note that since The Ship, Eno has already released yet anoth­er crit­i­cal­ly acclaimed ambi­ent album, Reflec­tion—like its pre­de­ces­sor, a somber sound­track for somber times. And like anoth­er end­less­ly pro­duc­tive mul­ti­me­dia artist of his gen­er­a­tion, Lau­rie Ander­son, Eno hasn’t only con­tin­ued to make work that feels deeply con­nect­ed to the moment, but he has adapt­ed to wave after wave of tech­no­log­i­cal inno­va­tion, this time around, har­ness­ing arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence to cre­ate a “gen­er­a­tive film” drawn from The Ship’s title track (below).

You can see a trail­er for the film at the top of the post, but this hard­ly does the expe­ri­ence jus­tice, since each viewer’s—or user’s—expe­ri­ence of it will be dif­fer­ent. As Pitch­fork describes the project: “On a web­site, ‘The Ship’ plays, and the user can click on tweets of news sto­ries, which appear along­side his­tor­i­cal pho­tos.” The film uti­lizes “a bespoke arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence pro­gramme,” the site explains, “devel­oped by the Dentsu Lab Tokyo,” explor­ing “var­i­ous his­tor­i­cal pho­to­graph­ic images and real-time news feeds to com­pose a col­lec­tive pho­to­graph­ic mem­o­ry of humankind.” (Dentsu received a pres­ti­gious prize nom­i­na­tion from the Euro­pean Com­mis­sion for their work.)

It’s a con­cep­tu­al­ly grandiose project—which makes sense giv­en its source mate­r­i­al. The Ship, the musi­cal project, takes its inspi­ra­tion from the Titan­ic, “the ship that could nev­er sink,” Eno told The New York Times, “and… the First World War was the war that we couldn’t pos­si­bly lose—this men­tal­i­ty suf­fused pow­er­ful men. They get this idea that, ‘We’re unstop­pable, so there­fore, we’ll go ahead and do it….’ And they can’t.” Eno con­tin­ues in this vein of trag­ic explo­ration with the film, remark­ing in a state­ment:

Humankind seems to teeter between hubris and para­noia: the hubris of our ever-grow­ing pow­er con­trasts with the para­noia that we’re per­ma­nent­ly and increas­ing­ly under threat. At the zenith we realise we have to come down again… we know that we have more than we deserve or can defend, so we become ner­vous. Some­body, some­thing is going to take it all from us: that is the dread of the wealthy. Para­noia leads to defen­sive­ness, and we all end up in the trench­es fac­ing each oth­er across the mud.

The inter­ac­tive visu­al rep­re­sen­ta­tion takes these themes even fur­ther, ask­ing how much we as spec­ta­tors of hubris and para­noia are com­plic­it in per­pet­u­at­ing them, or per­haps chang­ing and shap­ing their direc­tion through tech­nol­o­gy: “Does the machine intel­li­gence pro­duce a point of view inde­pen­dent of its mak­ers or its view­ers? Or are we—human and machine—ultimately co-cre­at­ing new and unex­pect­ed mean­ings?”

You be the judge. See your own per­son­al­ized ver­sion of Eno’s The Ship film here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bri­an Eno on Why Do We Make Art & What’s It Good For?: Down­load His 2015 John Peel Lec­ture

Bri­an Eno Lists 20 Books for Rebuild­ing Civ­i­liza­tion & 59 Books For Build­ing Your Intel­lec­tu­al World

Lau­rie Ander­son Intro­duces Her Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Instal­la­tion That Lets You Fly Mag­i­cal­ly Through Sto­ries

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

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