Download 2,500 Beautiful Woodblock Prints and Drawings by Japanese Masters (1600–1915)

No one art form has done more to shape the world’s sense of tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese aes­thet­ics than the wood­block print. But not so very long ago, in his­tor­i­cal terms, no such works had ever left Japan. That changed when, accord­ing to the Library of Con­gress, “Amer­i­can naval offi­cer Matthew Cal­braith Per­ry (1794–1858) led an expe­di­tion to Japan between 1852 and 1854 that was instru­men­tal in open­ing Japan to the West­ern world after more than 200 years of nation­al seclu­sion.” As trav­el­ers, mate­ri­als, and prod­ucts began flow­ing between Japan and the West, so did art.

This flow hap­pened, of course, by sea, and so Japan­ese artists work­ing in wood­block and oth­er forms soon found that the port city of Yoko­hama had become “an incu­ba­tor for a new cat­e­go­ry of images that strad­dled con­ven­tion and nov­el­ty.”

In their depic­tions of mod­ern Yoko­hama, “bewhiskered men and crino­line-clad women were shown strid­ing through the city, clam­ber­ing on and off ships, rid­ing hors­es, enjoy­ing local enter­tain­ments, and inter­act­ing with an end­less array of objects from gob­lets to loco­mo­tives.” This new genre in an estab­lished tra­di­tion took on the name “Yokohama‑e,” or “pic­tures of Yoko­hama.”

Hun­dreds of years ear­li­er, dur­ing the Toku­gawa Peri­od that began in the year 1600, that tra­di­tion had already pro­duced the now well-known genre of “Ukiyo‑e,” or “pic­tures of the float­ing world,” wood­block depic­tions of the plea­sure dis­tricts of Edo, now called Tokyo. “Var­i­ous forms of enter­tain­ment, par­tic­u­lar­ly kabu­ki the­ater and the plea­sure quar­ters, lured monied patrons who were eager in turn to acquire the vivid images of cel­e­brat­ed actors and beau­ti­ful cour­te­sans.” Lat­er, “trav­el became a pop­u­lar form of leisure and the plea­sures of the nat­ur­al envi­ron­ment, inter­est­ing land­marks, and the adven­tures encoun­tered en route also became favorite Ukiyo‑e themes.” Ukiyo‑e also looked to “Japan­ese myth, leg­end, lit­er­a­ture, his­to­ry, and dai­ly life” for sub­jects, and so its pro­lif­ic artists cap­tured the cul­ture near­ly whole.

You can come as close as pos­si­ble to expe­ri­enc­ing that cul­ture by view­ing, and down­load­ing, more than 2,500 Japan­ese wood­block prints and draw­ings at the Library of Con­gress’ online col­lec­tion “Fine Prints: Japan­ese, pre-1915.” It includes work from such pro­lif­ic Ukiyo‑e artists as Hoku­sai Kat­sushi­ka (whose Tea­house at Koishikawa the Morn­ing After a Snow­fall appears at the top of the post), Andō Hiroshige (Minakuchi below that), Iso­da Koryū­sai (Kisara­gi, third from the top), and Uta­gawa Yoshi­fu­ji (whose Amerika­jin Yūgyō, one of his depic­tions of Amer­i­cans, appears just above). As much as Japan has changed since the hey­day of the Yokohama‑e, much less the Ukiyo‑e, any vis­i­tor to the coun­try in the 21st cen­tu­ry will first notice not how much the sur­faces of Japan’s real urban and nat­ur­al land­scapes, domes­tic inte­ri­ors, and pub­lic scenes dif­fer from those in clas­si­cal wood­block prints, but how deeply they’ve remained the same.

Enter the col­lec­tion here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Hun­dreds of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Wood­block Prints by Mas­ters of the Tra­di­tion

What Hap­pens When a Japan­ese Wood­block Artist Depicts Life in Lon­don in 1866, Despite Nev­er Hav­ing Set Foot There

Splen­did Hand-Scroll Illus­tra­tions of The Tale of Gen­jii, The First Nov­el Ever Writ­ten (Cir­ca 1120)

Behold the Mas­ter­piece by Japan’s Last Great Wood­block Artist: View Online Tsukio­ka Yoshitoshi’s One Hun­dred Aspects of the Moon (1885)

The (F)Art of War: Bawdy Japan­ese Art Scroll Depicts Wrench­ing Changes in 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan

Hayao Miyazaki’s Beloved Char­ac­ters Reimag­ined in the Style of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Wood­block Prints

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Experts Predict When Artificial Intelligence Will Take Our Jobs: From Writing Essays, Books & Songs, to Performing Surgery and Driving Trucks

Image via Flickr Com­mons

We know they’re com­ing. The robots. To take our jobs. While humans turn on each oth­er, find scape­goats, try to bring back the past, and ignore the future, machine intel­li­gences replace us as quick­ly as their design­ers get them out of beta test­ing. We can’t exact­ly blame the robots. They don’t have any say in the mat­ter. Not yet, any­way. But it’s a fait accom­pli say the experts. “The promise,” writes MIT Tech­nol­o­gy Review, “is that intel­li­gent machines will be able to do every task bet­ter and more cheap­ly than humans. Right­ly or wrong­ly, one indus­try after anoth­er is falling under its spell, even though few have ben­e­fit­ed sig­nif­i­cant­ly so far.”

The ques­tion, then, is not if, but “when will arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence exceed human per­for­mance?” And some answers come from a paper called, appro­pri­ate­ly, “When Will AI Exceed Human Per­for­mance? Evi­dence from AI Experts.” In this study, Kat­ja Grace of the Future of Human­i­ty Insti­tute at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Oxford and sev­er­al of her col­leagues “sur­veyed the world’s lead­ing researchers in arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence by ask­ing them when they think intel­li­gent machines will bet­ter humans in a wide range of tasks.”

You can see many of the answers plot­ted on the chart above. Grace and her co-authors asked 1,634 experts, and found that they “believe there is a 50% chance of AI out­per­form­ing humans in all tasks in 45 years and of automat­ing all human jobs in 120 years.” That means all jobs: not only dri­ving trucks, deliv­er­ing by drone, run­ning cash reg­is­ters, gas sta­tions, phone sup­port, weath­er fore­casts, invest­ment bank­ing, etc, but also per­form­ing surgery, which may hap­pen in less than 40 years, and writ­ing New York Times best­sellers, which may hap­pen by 2049.

That’s right, AI may per­form our cul­tur­al and intel­lec­tu­al labor, mak­ing art and films, writ­ing books and essays, and cre­at­ing music. Or so the experts say. Already a Japan­ese AI pro­gram has writ­ten a short nov­el, and almost won a lit­er­ary prize for it. And the first mile­stone on the chart has already been reached; last year, Google’s AI Alpha­Go beat Lee Sedol, the South Kore­an grand­mas­ter of Go, the ancient Chi­nese game “that’s expo­nen­tial­ly more com­plex than chess,” as Cade Metz writes at Wired. (Humane video game design, on the oth­er hand, may have a ways to go yet.)

Per­haps these feats part­ly explain why, as Grace and the oth­er researchers found, Asian respon­dents expect­ed the rise of the machines “much soon­er than North Amer­i­ca.” Oth­er cul­tur­al rea­sons sure­ly abound—likely those same quirks that make Amer­i­cans embrace cre­ation­ism, cli­mate-denial, and fear­ful con­spir­a­cy the­o­ries and nos­tal­gia by the tens of mil­lions. The future may be fright­en­ing, but we should have seen this com­ing. Sci-fi vision­ar­ies have warned us for decades to pre­pare for our tech­nol­o­gy to over­take us.

In the 1960s Alan Watts fore­saw the future of automa­tion and the almost patho­log­i­cal fix­a­tion we would devel­op for “job cre­ation” as more and more nec­es­sary tasks fell to the robots and human labor became increas­ing­ly super­flu­ous. (Hear him make his pre­dic­tion above.) Like many a tech­nol­o­gist and futur­ist today, Watts advo­cat­ed for Uni­ver­sal Basic Income, a way of ensur­ing that all of us have the means to sur­vive while we use our new­ly acquired free time to con­scious­ly shape the world the machines have learned to main­tain for us.

What may have seemed like a Utopi­an idea then (though it almost became pol­i­cy under Nixon), may become a neces­si­ty as AI changes the world, writes MIT, “at break­neck speed.”

via Big Think/MIT Tech­nol­o­gy Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Alan Watts’s 1960s Pre­dic­tion That Automa­tion Will Neces­si­tate a Uni­ver­sal Basic Income

Bertrand Rus­sell & Buck­min­ster Fuller on Why We Should Work Less, and Live & Learn More

Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence Pro­gram Tries to Write a Bea­t­les Song: Lis­ten to “Daddy’s Car”

Hayao Miyaza­ki Tells Video Game Mak­ers What He Thinks of Their Char­ac­ters Made with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence: “I’m Utter­ly Dis­gust­ed. This Is an Insult to Life Itself”

Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence: A Free Online Course from MIT

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

Allen Ginsberg’s Howl Manuscripts Now Digitized & Put Online, Revealing the Beat Poet’s Creative Process

Some­how you have to imag­ine that, from its very open­ing — “I saw the best minds of my gen­er­a­tion destroyed by mad­ness, starv­ing hys­ter­i­cal naked, drag­ging them­selves through the negro streets at dawn look­ing for an angry fix” — Allen Gins­berg’s poem “Howl” sim­ply emerged ful­ly formed and launched itself per­ma­nent­ly into Amer­i­can cul­ture. But deep down we all know that no work, poet­ic or oth­er­wise, actu­al­ly does that, no mat­ter how wide­ly read it becomes, no mat­ter how vivid­ly it cap­tures a time and a place, no mat­ter how many gen­er­a­tions look to it as an exam­ple. Gins­berg had to work on “Howl,” and now, thanks to Stan­ford Libraries, we have an up-close way to see some of that work in progress.

“From its first pub­lic read­ing at the Six Gallery in San Fran­cis­co in Octo­ber 1955 to the noto­ri­ous obscen­i­ty tri­al that fol­lowed in the wake of its first pub­li­ca­tion in 1956,” writes Stan­ford Cura­tor for Amer­i­can and British Lit­er­a­ture Rebec­ca Wing­field, “the poem is indeli­bly tied to the Beat Gen­er­a­tion and their cri­tique of the staid morals and cus­toms of Eisen­how­er-era Amer­i­ca.”

Before all that, it began with a sev­en-page first draft writ­ten in Gins­berg’s North Beach apart­ment, gained a sec­ond sec­tion before that now-leg­endary Six Gallery read­ing, and final­ly, after Gins­berg tried out dif­fer­ent com­po­si­tion­al tech­niques and fol­lowed dif­fer­ent sug­ges­tions in search of a way to cap­ture Amer­i­ca as he saw it, evolved into a long poem com­pris­ing three sec­tions and a foot­note, pub­lished along­side oth­er works by City Lights Books as the paper­back that made him famous.

“The ‘Howl’ man­u­scripts and type­scripts in the Allen Gins­berg Papers,” which you can view online at Stan­ford Libraries, “doc­u­ment the for­mal devel­op­ment of the poem, trac­ing Ginsberg’s exper­i­ments with dif­fer­ent struc­tures and word­ing in each of the poem’s sec­tions.” These pre-“Howl” “Howl“s, man­u­scripts and type­scripts both, retain the cor­rec­tions and anno­ta­tions that reveal details about Gins­berg’s dis­tinc­tive cre­ative process. But giv­en the most well-known aspect of the poem’s con­struc­tion, that each line lasts as long as exact­ly one breath, a full under­stand­ing can only come from hear­ing it as well as read­ing it. You can hear Gins­berg’s ear­li­est record­ed per­for­mance of the poem, at Port­land’s Reed Col­lege (alma mater of Gins­berg’s Beat col­league Gary Sny­der) in 1956, at the top of the post, and a lat­er read­ing on record here. (The text of the com­plet­ed poem can be viewed here.) Look and lis­ten close­ly, and you’ll find that a cri de coeur, espe­cial­ly as Gins­berg cried it, demands delib­er­ate crafts­man­ship.

See the Howl man­u­scripts online here.

via Stan­ford News/Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Record­ing of Allen Gins­berg Read­ing “Howl” (1956)

Allen Gins­berg Reads His Famous­ly Cen­sored Beat Poem, “Howl” (1959)

James Fran­co Reads a Dream­i­ly Ani­mat­ed Ver­sion of Allen Ginsberg’s Epic Poem ‘Howl’

Allen Ginsberg’s “Celes­tial Home­work”: A Read­ing List for His Class “Lit­er­ary His­to­ry of the Beats

Allen Gins­berg Record­ings Brought to the Dig­i­tal Age. Lis­ten to Eight Full Tracks for Free

Allen Ginsberg’s Hand­writ­ten Poem For Bernie Sanders, “Burling­ton Snow” (1986)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Everything You Need to Know About Modern Russian Art in 25 Minutes: A Visual Introduction to Futurism, Socialist Realism & More

Few things fas­ci­nat­ed me as a child more than Rus­sia. I wasn’t alone in this. Every­one expe­ri­enced it. And it wasn’t only the Sovi­et Union—though it played the bogey­man in Cold War films, loomed over his­to­ry text­books, and seemed to exist in a for­bid­den par­al­lel uni­verse in Reagan’s Amer­i­ca. But what came before it was equal­ly out­sized and trag­ic: the Romanovs, Rasputin, Cather­ine the Great, Peter the Great, Ivan the Ter­ri­ble.… Russia’s mod­ern his­to­ry came into focus through its novelists—the intri­cate social dis­tinc­tions and com­pli­cat­ed fam­i­ly dynam­ics, the palace intrigues, the gal­lows humor, dis­con­tent, and res­ig­na­tion of ordi­nary Rus­sians….

After 40 years of uneasy détente with the world’s oth­er super­pow­er, Amer­i­cans found the pieces of their view of Rus­sia falling into place almost imper­cep­ti­bly. But nothing—I repeat, nothing—prepared The West for Russ­ian mod­ernism. It drove the CIA to such dis­trac­tion that they secret­ly fun­neled mon­ey to jazz artists and Abstract Expres­sion­ists to fight a cul­ture war. It made no sense to us. “This is com­plete­ly ridicu­lous!” says Bri­an Cox above, express­ing a sen­ti­ment shared by many when they encounter Russ­ian For­mal­ism, or Supre­ma­tism, or Futur­ism, and oth­er avant-gardisms.

Cox, nar­rat­ing the “Quick­est His­to­ry of 20th Cen­tu­ry Art in Rus­sia,” does an excel­lent job of con­vey­ing the shock, excite­ment, and bewil­der­ment we feel when we encounter Male­vich and Mayakovsky, the star­tling folk Neo­clas­si­cism of Russ­ian Art Nouveau—where the film begins—the Con­cep­tu­al­ists of the Thaw, and the out­ra­geous per­for­mance artists of the post-Sovi­et era. None of this, to quote Tris­tan Tzara, is art made to “cajole the nice nice bourgeois”—with the iron­ic excep­tion of Social­ist Real­ism, which out­lawed the Russ­ian avant-garde and said “look, every­thing we have is so grand, abun­dant! We have every­thing aplen­ty!”

Social­ist Real­ism resem­bles noth­ing so much as Amer­i­can mag­a­zine adver­tis­ing of the Life mag­a­zine and Nor­man Rock­well eras, a reminder of one way the two bel­liger­ent empires came to increas­ing­ly resem­ble each oth­er over time. “Social­ist Real­ism,” says Cox, “is almost a car­i­ca­ture, only with incred­i­ble pathos.” It is “the first ten­den­cy to rule out crit­i­cism com­plete­ly.” It absorbed cri­tique and turned it into cel­e­bra­tion and denun­ci­a­tion, both of them noble acts of State. Where Amer­i­can didac­tic art sold hun­dreds of prod­ucts and a hand­ful of ide­o­log­i­cal pos­es, the Sovi­et vari­ety sold one thing: the Par­ty. This does not, how­ev­er, mean that Social­ist Real­ism is “bad”—not entire­ly. It is, instead, like so much mod­ern Russ­ian Art to non-Russ­ian eyes… uncan­ny.

The 25-minute “Quick­est His­to­ry of 20th Cen­tu­ry Art in Rus­sia” comes from a series of “Crash Cours­es” from Arza­mas Acad­e­my that includes “Ancient Rome in 20 min­utes” and “Ancient Greece in 18 min­utes.” All of them fea­ture the wry, mel­liflu­ous voice of Cox, and I high­ly rec­om­mend them all.

via Coudal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

Down­load 144 Beau­ti­ful Books of Russ­ian Futur­ism: Mayakovsky, Male­vich, Khleb­nikov & More (1910–30)

The His­to­ry of Rus­sia in 70,000 Pho­tos: New Pho­to Archive Presents Russ­ian His­to­ry from 1860 to 1999

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

Lou Reed Curates an Eclectic Playlist of His Favorite Songs During His Final Days: Stream 27 Tracks Lou Was Listening To

Lou Reed was a vora­cious lis­ten­er. Rather than con­sume music, he imbibed it, drank it down in draughts, then sweat­ed it out through his pores. His inex­haustible thirst for songs result­ed in a body of work that has always sound­ed inti­mate­ly famil­iar, even when it takes us to places no song­writ­ers had before: the bit­ter, ten­der, vio­lent under­side of glam­our, art, and romance.

But where, exact­ly, did Reed’s wry, bleak, yet ten­der sen­si­bil­i­ty come from? How did he man­age so much com­plex emo­tion­al res­o­nance in such seem­ing­ly sim­ple songs as “Sun­day Morn­ing” and “Per­fect Day”? Part of the answer comes from his ven­er­a­tion of Beat poets and writ­ers like Allen Gins­berg and William Bur­roughs, as well as his one-time men­tor Del­more Schwartz. “I thought if you could do what those writ­ers did,” he said, “and put it to drums and gui­tar, you’d have the great­est thing on earth.”

This was no easy accom­plish­ment. It took some­one like Reed, steeped in pop, folk, rock, and jazz songcraft, to pull it off in such a way that Rolling Stone could call the Vel­vet Under­ground “the most influ­en­tial Amer­i­can rock band of all time”—largely, writes the Dai­ly Dot, “because of Reed’s son­ic and lyri­cal con­tri­bu­tions.” For most of Reed’s career, how­ev­er, dis­cov­er­ing the sources of his mag­ic could be dif­fi­cult.

Reed’s inter­view moods ranged from iras­ci­bly con­fronta­tion­al to dis­dain­ful­ly tac­i­turn to face­tious­ly gar­ru­lous. “Every­thing is jokes to this bibu­lous bozo,” remarked Lester Bangs in a 1973 inter­view. “He real­ly makes a point of havin’ some fun!” But age, it seems, and the inter­net, mel­lowed him out and made him more like­ly to share. He opened up about his love for Kanye West’s Yeezus and oth­er things. He appeared on Sat­ur­day Night Live to dis­pute inter­net rumors that he had died in 2001.

And when he did die, in 2013, he left behind the Spo­ti­fy account “he was curat­ing… him­self,” keep­ing “playlists of songs he liked from the radio,” and show­ing both seri­ous and casu­al stu­dents of Lou Reed that “the best online source on Lou Reed is… Lou Reed.” In the two vol­ume playlist above called “What I’m Lis­ten­ing To,” Reed shows us just how seri­ous he was about soak­ing up all of the sounds around him.

Nic­ki Minaj, Prince, Way­lon Jen­nings, indie funk/soul Cana­di­ans King Khan & BBQ, psy­che­del­ic indie cham­ber pop band Of Mon­tre­al, Tom Waits, Miles Davis, Deer­hoof, post-hard­core band Fucked Up, bril­liant neo-soul singer/rapper/songwriter Geor­gia Anne Muldrow, Cap­tain Beef­heart… and that’s just vol­ume one. Name a genre—Reed has found what he clear­ly con­sid­ers its per­fect exem­plar. You can almost see him tak­ing notes, scowl­ing with envy, smirk­ing with appre­ci­a­tion for how his own influ­ence has per­me­at­ed the past few the decades.

Famous musi­cians aren’t always the most inter­est­ing peo­ple, though Reed’s pri­vate life was sen­sa­tion­al enough to war­rant retelling. But many fans will find it much more inter­est­ing to get into the mind of Reed the artist. And for that, you’ll need to try and hear what he heard. Or, at least, lis­ten to what he lis­tened to.

If you need Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, down­load it here. Here are the direct links to the two Spo­ti­fy playlists: Playlist 1Playlist 2.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lou Reed Cre­ates a List of the 10 Best Records of All Time

Teenage Lou Reed Sings Doo-Wop Music (1958–1962)

An Ani­ma­tion of The Vel­vet Underground’s “Sun­day Morn­ing” … for Your Sun­day Morn­ing

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

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

The furor sur­round­ing Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize win in Lit­er­a­ture last Octo­ber now seems sev­er­al ages away. What was all that about again? Could it pos­si­bly have meant, as many a dis­grun­tled writer sug­gest­ed, that “peo­ple don’t care about books any­more”? Was this an “ill-con­ceived nos­tal­gia award,” as Irvine Welsh bit­ter­ly pro­claimed, bestowed by a com­mit­tee of “senile, gib­ber­ing hip­pies”? Even Dylan him­self seemed con­fused and embar­rassed. He remained silent after the announce­ment, ignor­ing the Swedish Academy’s calls and seem­ing to one Acad­e­my mem­ber “impo­lite and arro­gant.”

As any­one who has ever seen a Dylan inter­view from the mid-six­ties can attest, these qual­i­ties once defined his pub­lic per­sona. And yes, he isn’t near­ly as cul­tur­al­ly rel­e­vant now as he was in those days, when he played the near-untouch­able super­star and mer­cu­r­ial pop cul­ture savant. But the Swedish Acad­e­my vot­ed to cel­e­brate Dylan as a lit­er­ary writer, not a celebri­ty. And while writ­ers may fall in and out of fash­ion, we like to think of lit­er­a­ture as time­less. Many, per­haps most, authors award­ed the Nobel have been “past their prime,” in the sense of hav­ing a lifetime’s worth of work behind them. Dylan is cer­tain­ly no excep­tion.

The ques­tion of whether folk and rock and roll songs can be prop­er­ly con­sid­ered lit­er­a­ture is anoth­er mat­ter, but you’d have to be naïve not to know that all lit­er­a­ture began its life as song. Maybe much of it will return to this pri­mor­dial state in the future. Sens­ing that songcraft need­ed an advo­cate before crit­ics of lit­er­a­ture, when he record­ed his Nobel lecture–with musi­cal accom­pa­ni­ment, on June 4th, six months after his win (hear him read it above)–Dylan dis­cussed the inter­de­pen­dence of the two. He point­ed to Homer’s Odyssey, an epic song in verse before it assumed writ­ten form, as the source for not only so much West­ern lit­er­a­ture, but also so much Amer­i­can folk song, includ­ing his own.

The Odyssey is a great book whose themes have worked its way into the bal­lads of a lot of song­writ­ers,” says Dylan, then he con­cedes that “songs are unlike lit­er­a­ture. They’re meant to be sung, not read.” That’s okay. “The words in Shakespeare’s plays were meant to be act­ed on the stage,” not read by groups of stu­dents in uncom­fort­able desks and air­less rooms. No one became furi­ous­ly angry when play­wright Harold Pin­ter won the Nobel Prize in 2005. Should they have? But Dylan doesn’t pur­sue this line of rea­son­ing, and he doesn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly com­pare him­self to Shake­speare. Not quite.…

He did, how­ev­er, make a sim­i­lar argu­ment in his short accep­tance speech (read it here)—which he wrote and hand­ed to the U.S. Ambas­sador to Swe­den, Azi­ta Raji, to read in his place at the cer­e­mo­ny (see her deliv­er it above)–asking whether Shake­speare, and hence Dylan, should be con­sid­ered lit­er­a­ture: “I would reck­on he thought of him­self as a drama­tist… I would bet that the far­thest thing from Shake­speare’s mind was the ques­tion ‘Is this lit­er­a­ture?’” Like Shake­speare, Dylan writes, he has been busy with the exi­gen­cies of tour­ing, cre­at­ing ensem­bles, and per­form­ing: “not once have I ever had the time to ask myself, ‘Are my songs lit­er­a­ture?’” (Believe that or not.) He thanks the Swedish Acad­e­my for tak­ing up the ques­tion, and “for pro­vid­ing such a won­der­ful answer.”

In his new­ly-released record­ed lec­ture, at the top, Dylan also doesn’t answer the ques­tion direct­ly. He care­ful­ly con­sid­ers it—“wondering, exact­ly, how my songs relate to lit­er­a­ture.” He con­fess­es need­ing to “reflect on it, and see where the con­nec­tion was.” It is in the influ­ence of The Odyssey, Moby Dick, All Qui­et on the West­ern Front and oth­er great works. It is also, he sug­gests, in the way music par­tic­i­pates in lit­er­ary tra­di­tions, trad­ing sim­i­lar themes and estab­lish­ing sim­i­lar affil­i­a­tions. But he express­es no com­mit­ment to col­laps­ing the dis­tinc­tions between them. “His appar­ent atti­tude through­out the process” of win­ning the Nobel Prize, writes Emi­ly Tem­ple at Lit Hub, “has been… some­thing along the lines of: ‘okay, if you say so.”

“The fact that Bob Dylan doesn’t con­sid­er his songs lit­er­a­ture doesn’t make them not lit­er­a­ture, of course,” writes Tem­ple. We’re free to agree or dis­agree with him, but in either case his lec­ture might make us “con­sid­er the pos­si­bil­i­ty that they will become lit­er­a­ture, as William Shakespeare’s plays have.” By that time, Shake­speare was long dead. While he still lives, Dylan con­cludes, “I hope some of you will get the chance to lis­ten to these lyrics the way they were intend­ed to be heard: in con­cert or on record or how­ev­er peo­ple are lis­ten­ing to songs these days. I return once again to Homer, who says, ‘Sing in me, oh Muse, and through me tell the sto­ry.’”

You can read the tran­script of Dylan’s lec­ture here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bob Dylan Wins Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture for Cre­at­ing “New Poet­ic Expres­sions with­in the Great Amer­i­can Song Tra­di­tion”

Pat­ti Smith Sings Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rains Gonna Fall” at Nobel Prize Cer­e­mo­ny & Gets a Case of the Nerves

Kurt Von­negut on Bob Dylan: He “Is the Worst Poet Alive”

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

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

 

Ennio Morricone’s Iconic Song, “The Ecstasy of Gold,” Spellbindingly Arranged for Theremin & Voice

You know Ennio Morricone’s “The Ecsta­sy Of Gold,” a musi­cal com­po­si­tion first made famous in Ser­gio Leone’s 1966 spaghet­ti west­ern The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. It has since been cov­ered by every­one from Metal­li­ca, to Yo-Yo Ma. And now you can add Ger­man elec­tron­ic musi­cian Car­oli­na Eyck to the list.

Above, watch Eyck take “The Ecsta­sy Of Gold” in new, intrigu­ing direc­tions, using a theremin and a voice loop­er. It’s pret­ty mes­mer­iz­ing.

Below, watch Car­oli­na’s intro­duc­tion to the theremin. And down in the Relat­eds, find much more on the theremin, includ­ing vin­tage footage of Russ­ian inven­tor Leon Theremin giv­ing a demo of the new­fan­gled elec­tron­ic instru­ment.

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, BlueSky or Mastodon.

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:

Sovi­et Inven­tor Léon Theremin Shows Off the Theremin, the Ear­ly Elec­tron­ic Instru­ment That Could Be Played With­out Being Touched (1954)

Watch Jim­my Page Rock the Theremin, the Ear­ly Sovi­et Elec­tron­ic Instru­ment, in Some Hyp­not­ic Live Per­for­mances

Beethoven’s Ode to Joy Played With 167 Theremins Placed Inside Matryosh­ka Dolls in Japan

“Some­where Over the Rain­bow” Played on a 1929 Theremin

Hear the Musical Compositions of A Clockwork Orange Author Anthony Burgess, and Download His Musical Scores for Free

Most of us remem­ber Antho­ny Burgess not as the author of dozens of nov­els, as well as short sto­ries, essays, and poems, but as the author of A Clock­work Orange. This owes, for bet­ter or for worse, to Stan­ley Kubrick­’s 1971 film adap­ta­tion of the “bad­ly flawed” Amer­i­can edi­tion of Burgess’ 1962 dystopi­an satire, although even if A Clock­work Orange did­n’t over­shad­ow the rest of his lit­er­ary career, his lit­er­ary career would prob­a­bly still over­shad­ow what he con­sid­ered his life’s tru­ly seri­ous endeav­or: music.

“I wish peo­ple would think of me as a musi­cian who writes nov­els,” Burgess once went so far as to say, “instead of a nov­el­ist who writes music on the side.” Since even those of us who’ve read wide­ly in his bib­li­og­ra­phy may nev­er have heard any of the over 250 pieces of music he wrote in his life­time, today we offer you a lis­ten as well as a look at his orches­tral com­po­si­tions.

In the Spo­ti­fy playlists embed­ded here (and if you don’t have Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, you can down­load it here), you can hear the albums Burgess: Orches­tral MusicThe Piano Music of Antho­ny Burgess, and the anthol­o­gy Antho­ny Burgess: The Man and His Music (the title of that last a ref­er­ence to This Man and His Music, the book that brought togeth­er his two great pur­suits most direct­ly).

“Music was at the heart of Antho­ny Burgess’s cre­ative life,” says the site of The Burgess Foun­da­tion, who there have made “scores of his music avail­able free of charge to any­body who wish­es to study or play it.” Pro­lif­ic in his writ­ing as well as his com­pos­ing, Burgess’ music includes a piece only dis­cov­ered in 2012, near­ly twen­ty years after death; the news clip at the top of the post briefly tells the sto­ry of Burgess’ “lost sonata,” his ear­li­est sur­viv­ing com­plete musi­cal work.

Many of Burgess nov­els, includ­ing but hard­ly lim­it­ed to A Clock­work Orange, sug­gest a deep inter­est and under­stand­ing of music, but they also (recall the Droogs’ wide lex­i­con of invent­ed slang) reveal a sim­i­lar capac­i­ty for lin­guis­tics. Call no Burgess fan a com­pletist, then, unless they’ve read his books, heard his music, and also read his trans­la­tions. “Trans­la­tion is not a mat­ter of words only,” the man once said. “It is a mat­ter of mak­ing intel­li­gi­ble a whole cul­ture.” Prac­ticed in fields as “untrans­lat­able” as poet­ry and as trans­la­tion-inde­pen­dent as orches­tral music, he should know. But one won­ders: what oth­er lit­tle-known cul­tur­al side career remains hid­den in the depths of the Burgess archives?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Antho­ny Burgess Names the 99 Best Nov­els in Eng­lish Between 1939 & 1983: Orwell, Nabokov, Hux­ley & More

A Clock­work Orange Author Antho­ny Burgess Lists His Five Favorite Dystopi­an Nov­els: Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Island & More

Antho­ny Burgess’ Lost Intro­duc­tion to Joyce’s Dublin­ers Now Online

Hunter S. Thomp­son Writes a Blis­ter­ing, Over-the-Top Let­ter to Antho­ny Burgess (1973)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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