The Lost Neighborhood Buried Under New York City’s Central Park

New York City is in a con­stant state of flux.

For every Nets fan cheer­ing their team on in Brooklyn’s Bar­clays Cen­ter and every tourist gam­bol­ing about the post-punk, upscale East Vil­lage, there are dozens of local res­i­dents who remem­ber what—and who—was dis­placed to pave the way for this progress.

It’s no great leap to assume that some­thing had to be plowed under to make way for the city’s myr­i­ad gleam­ing sky­scrap­ers, but hard­er to con­ceive of Cen­tral Park, the 840-acre oasis in the mid­dle of Man­hat­tan, as a sym­bol of ruth­less gen­tri­fi­ca­tion.

Plans for a peace­ful green expanse to rival the great parks of Great Britain and Europe began tak­ing shape in the 1850s, dri­ven by well-to-do white mer­chants, bankers, and landown­ers look­ing for tem­po­rary escape from the urban pres­sures of dense­ly pop­u­lat­ed Low­er Man­hat­tan.

It took 20,000 workers—none black, none female—over three years to real­ize archi­tects Fred­er­ick Law Olm­st­ed and Calvert Vaux’s sweep­ing pas­toral design.

A hun­dred and fifty years lat­er, Cen­tral Park is still a vital part of dai­ly life for vis­i­tors and res­i­dents alike.

But what of the vibrant neigh­bor­hood that was doomed by the park’s con­struc­tion?

As his­to­ri­an Cyn­thia R. Copeland, co-direc­tor of the Seneca Vil­lage Project, points out above, sev­er­al com­mu­ni­ties were giv­en the heave ho in order to clear the way for the park’s cre­ation.

The best estab­lished of these was Seneca Vil­lage, which ran from approx­i­mate­ly 82nd to 89th Street, along what is known today as Cen­tral Park West. 260-some res­i­dents were evict­ed under emi­nent domain and their homes, church­es, and school were razed.

This phys­i­cal era­sure quick­ly trans­lat­ed to mass pub­lic amne­sia, abet­ted, no doubt, by the way Seneca Vil­lage was framed in the press, not as a com­mu­ni­ty of pre­dom­i­nant­ly African-Amer­i­can mid­dle class and work­ing class home­own­ers, but rather a squalid shan­ty­town inhab­it­ed by squat­ters.

As Brent Sta­ples recalls in a New York Times op-ed, in the sum­mer of 1871, when park work­ers dis­lodged two coffins in the vicin­i­ty of the West 85th Street entrance, The New York Her­ald treat­ed the dis­cov­ery as a baf­fling mys­tery, despite the pres­ence of an engraved plate on one of the coffins iden­ti­fy­ing its occu­pant, an Irish teenag­er, who’d been a parish­ioner of Seneca Village’s All Angels Epis­co­pal Church.

Accord­ing to his­to­ri­an Leslie Alexander’s African or Amer­i­can? Black Iden­ti­ty and Polit­i­cal Activism in New York City, 1784–1861, All Angels’ con­gre­ga­tion was unique in that it was inte­grat­ed, a reflec­tion of Seneca Village’s pop­u­la­tion, 2/3 of whom were African Amer­i­can and 1/3 of Euro­pean descent, most­ly Irish and Ger­man.

Copeland and her col­leagues kept Alexander’s work in mind when they began exca­vat­ing Seneca Vil­lage in 2011, focus­ing on the house­holds of two African-Amer­i­can res­i­dents, Nan­cy Moore and William G. Wil­son, a father of eight who served as sex­ton at All Angels and lived in a three-sto­ry wood-frame house. The dig yield­ed 250 bags of mate­r­i­al, includ­ing a piece of a bone-han­dled tooth­brush, an iron tea ket­tle, and frag­ments of clay pipes and blue-and-white Chi­nese porce­lain:

Archae­ol­o­gists have begun to con­sid­er the lives of mid­dle class African Amer­i­cans, focus­ing on the ways their con­sump­tion of mate­r­i­al cul­ture expressed class and racial iden­ti­ties. His­to­ri­an Leslie Alexan­der believes that Seneca Vil­lage not only pro­vid­ed a respite from dis­crim­i­na­tion in the city, but also embod­ied ideas about African pride and racial con­scious­ness.

Own­ing a home in Seneca Vil­lage also bestowed vot­ing rights on African Amer­i­can male heads of house­hold.

Two years before it was torn down, the com­mu­ni­ty was home to 20 per­cent of the city’s African Amer­i­can prop­er­ty own­ers and 15 per­cent of its African Amer­i­can vot­ers.

Thanks to the efforts of his­to­ri­ans like Copeland and Alexan­der, Seneca Vil­lage is once again on the public’s radar, though unlike Pig­town, a small­er, pre­dom­i­nant­ly agri­cul­tur­al com­mu­ni­ty toward the south­ern end of the park, the ori­gins of its name remain mys­te­ri­ous.

Was the vil­lage named in trib­ute to the Seneca peo­ple of West­ern New York or might it, as Alexan­der sug­gests, have been a nod to the Roman philoso­pher, whose thoughts on indi­vid­ual lib­er­ty would have been taught as part of Seneca Village’s African Free Schools’ cur­ricu­lum?

For now, there is lit­tle more than a sign to hip Park vis­i­tors to the exis­tence of Seneca Vil­lage, but that should change in the near future, after the city erects a planned mon­u­ment to abo­li­tion­ists and for­mer Seneca Vil­lage res­i­dents Albro and Mary Joseph Lyons and their daugh­ter Mar­itcha.

Learn more about this bygone com­mu­ni­ty in Copeland’s inter­view with the New York Preser­va­tion Archive Project the New York His­tor­i­cal Society’s Teacher’s Guide to Seneca Vil­lage.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

New York Pub­lic Library Puts 20,000 Hi-Res Maps Online & Makes Them Free to Down­load and Use

See New York City in the 1930s and Now: A Side-by-Side Com­par­i­son of the Same Streets & Land­marks

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Feb­ru­ary 3 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain cel­e­brates New York: The Nation’s Metrop­o­lis (1921). Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Optical Poems by Oskar Fischinger, the Avant-Garde Animator Despised by Hitler, Dissed by Disney

At a time when much of ani­ma­tion was con­sumed with lit­tle anthro­po­mor­phized ani­mals sport­ing white gloves, Oskar Fischinger went in a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent direc­tion. His work is all about danc­ing geo­met­ric shapes and abstract forms spin­ning around a flat fea­ture­less back­ground. Think of a Mon­dri­an or Male­vich paint­ing that moves, often in time to the music. Fischinger’s movies have a mes­mer­iz­ing ele­gance to them. Check out his 1938 short An Opti­cal Poem above. Cir­cles pop, sway and dart across the screen, all in time to Franz Liszt’s 2nd Hun­gar­i­an Rhap­sody. This is, of course, well before the days of dig­i­tal. While it might be rel­a­tive­ly sim­ple to manip­u­late a shape in a com­put­er, Fischinger’s tech­nique was decid­ed­ly more low tech. Using bits of paper and fish­ing line, he indi­vid­u­al­ly pho­tographed each frame, some­how doing it all in sync with Liszt’s com­po­si­tion. Think of the hours of mind-numb­ing work that must have entailed.

Born in 1900 near Frank­furt, Fischinger trained as a musi­cian and an archi­tect before dis­cov­er­ing film. In the 1930s, he moved to Berlin and start­ed pro­duc­ing more and more abstract ani­ma­tions that ran before fea­ture films. They proved to be pop­u­lar too, at least until the Nation­al Social­ists came to pow­er. The Nazis were some of the most fanat­i­cal art crit­ics of the 20th Cen­tu­ry, and they hat­ed any­thing non rep­re­sen­ta­tion­al. The likes of Paul Klee, Oskar Kokosch­ka and Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky among oth­ers were writ­ten off as “degen­er­ate.” (By stark con­trast, the CIA report­ed­ly loved Abstract Expres­sion­ism, but that’s a dif­fer­ent sto­ry.) Fischinger fled Ger­many in 1936 for the sun and glam­our of Hol­ly­wood.

The prob­lem was that Hol­ly­wood was real­ly not ready for Fischinger. Pro­duc­ers saw the obvi­ous tal­ent in his work, and they feared that it was too ahead of its time for broad audi­ences. “[Fischinger] was going in a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent direc­tion than any oth­er ani­ma­tor at the time,” said famed graph­ic design­er Chip Kidd in an inter­view with NPR. “He was real­ly explor­ing abstract pat­terns, but with a pur­pose to them — pio­neer­ing what tech­ni­cal­ly is the music video.”

Fischinger’s most wide­ly seen Amer­i­can work was the sec­tion in Walt Dis­ney’s Fan­ta­sia set to Bach’s Toc­ca­ta and Fugue in D Minor. Dis­ney turned his geo­met­ric forms into moun­tain peaks and vio­lin bows. Fischinger was apoplec­tic. “The film is not real­ly my work,” Fischinger lat­er reflect­ed. “Rather, it is the most inartis­tic prod­uct of a fac­to­ry. …One thing I def­i­nite­ly found out: that no true work of art can be made with that pro­ce­dure used in the Dis­ney stu­dio.” Fischinger didn’t work with Dis­ney again and instead retreat­ed into the art world.

There he found admir­ers who were recep­tive to his vision. John Cage, for one, con­sid­ers the Ger­man animator’s exper­i­ments to be a major influ­ence on his own work. Cage recalls his first meet­ing with Fischinger in an inter­view with Daniel Charles in 1968.

One day I was intro­duced to Oscar Fischinger who made abstract films quite pre­cise­ly artic­u­lat­ed on pieces of tra­di­tion­al music. When I was intro­duced to him, he began to talk with me about the spir­it, which is inside each of the objects of this world. So, he told me, all we need to do to lib­er­ate that spir­it is to brush past the object, and to draw forth its sound. That’s the idea which led me to per­cus­sion.

You can find excerpts of oth­er Fischinger films over at Vimeo.

Opti­cal Poems will be added to our list of Ani­ma­tions, part of our col­lec­tion: 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in Sep­tem­ber, 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Nazi’s Philis­tine Grudge Against Abstract Art and The “Degen­er­ate Art Exhi­bi­tion” of 1937

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

Watch Dzi­ga Vertov’s Unset­tling Sovi­et Toys: The First Sovi­et Ani­mat­ed Movie Ever (1924)

Watch The Amaz­ing 1912 Ani­ma­tion of Stop-Motion Pio­neer Ladis­las Stare­vich, Star­ring Dead Bugs

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

The Flute of Shame: Discover the Instrument/Device Used to Publicly Humiliate Bad Musicians During the Medieval Period

Since human­i­ty has had music, we’ve also had bad music. And bad music can come from only one source: bad musi­cians. Despite such per­son­al tech­nolo­gies of rel­a­tive­ly recent inven­tion as noise-can­cel­ing head­phones, bad music remains nigh unavoid­able in the mod­ern world, issu­ing as it con­stant­ly does from the sound sys­tems installed in gro­cery stores, gyms, pass­ing auto­mo­biles, and so on. And against the bad musi­cians respon­si­ble we have less recourse than ever, or at least less than medieval Euro­peans did, as shown by the Rip­ley’s Believe It or Not video above on the “shame flute,” a non-musi­cal instru­ment used to pun­ish crimes against the art.

“The con­trap­tion, which is essen­tial­ly a heavy iron flute – although you prob­a­bly wouldn’t want play it – was shack­led to the musician’s neck,” writes Mad­dy Shaw Roberts at Clas­sic FM. “The musician’s fin­gers were then clamped to the keys, to give the impres­sion they were play­ing the instru­ment. Final­ly, just to fur­ther their humil­i­a­tion, they were forced to wear the flute while being parad­ed around town, so the pub­lic could throw rot­ten food and veg­eta­bles at them.” Sure­ly the mere prospect of such a fate made many music-mind­ed chil­dren of the old­en days think twice about slack­ing on their prac­tice ses­sions.

The sight of this flute of shame, which you can take in at either the equal­ly stim­u­lat­ing-sound­ing Medieval Crime Muse­um in Rothen­burg or the Tor­ture Muse­um in Ams­ter­dam, would get any of us mod­erns think­ing about con­sid­er­ing which musi­cians of our own day deserve to be shack­led to it. The Guardian’s Dave Simp­son sug­gests, among oth­ers, “all bands with sil­ly names,” “any musi­cian called Sir who is over 60,” and “any­one who has ever appeared on The X Fac­tor, ever.” In this day and age they would all prob­a­bly com­plain of cru­el and unusu­al pun­ish­ment, but as music-relat­ed tor­ture devices go, the shame flute cer­tain­ly seems prefer­able to ancient Greece’s “brazen bull.”

Though still a lit­tle-known his­tor­i­cal arti­fact, the shame flute has regained some cul­tur­al cur­ren­cy in recent years. It even inspired the name of a Finnish rock group, Flute of Shame. As the band mem­bers put it in an inter­view with Vice’s Josh Schnei­der, “We were hav­ing a night out in Ams­ter­dam and found our­selves in a tor­ture muse­um whilst look­ing for the Banana Bar,” a well-known spot in the city’s red-light dis­trict. “We saw the device and the rest is his­to­ry.” Of course, any rock group that names itself after a tor­ture device will draw com­par­isons to Iron Maid­en, and jour­nal­is­tic dili­gence com­pels Schnei­der to ask Flute of Shame which band would win in a shred­ding con­test. “Prob­a­bly Iron Maid­en,” the Finns respond, “but are they hap­py?”

via Clas­sic FM

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Musi­cal Instru­ments in Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Get Brought to Life, and It Turns Out That They Sound “Painful” and “Hor­ri­ble”

Meet the Hur­dy Gur­dy, the Hand-Cranked Medieval Instru­ment with 80 Mov­ing Parts

Nick Cave Nar­rates an Ani­mat­ed Film about the Cat Piano, the Twist­ed 18th Cen­tu­ry Musi­cal Instru­ment Designed to Treat Men­tal Ill­ness

Dis­cov­er the “Brazen Bull,” the Ancient Greek Tor­ture Machine That Dou­bled as a Musi­cal Instru­ment

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, 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.

Actor Margaret Colin (VEEP, Independence Day) Joins Pretty Much Pop #28 to Take On the Trope of the Alpha Female

What’s the deal with images of pow­er­ful women in media? The trope of the tough-as-nails boss-lady who may or may not have a heart of gold has evolved a lot over the years, but it’s dif­fi­cult to por­tray such a char­ac­ter unob­jec­tion­ably, prob­a­bly due to those all-too-famil­iar dou­ble stan­dards about want­i­ng women in author­i­ty (or, say, run­ning for office) to be assertive but not astrin­gent.

Mar­garet was the female lead in major films includ­ing Inde­pen­dence Day and The Dev­il’s Own, is a main­stay on Broad­way, and has appeared on TV in many roles includ­ing the moth­er of the Gos­sip Girl and as an unscrupu­lous news­cast­er on the final sea­sons of VEEP. Her height and voice have made her a good fit for dom­i­nant-lady roles, and she leads Mark, Eri­ca, and Bri­an through a quick, instruc­tive tour through her work with male direc­tors (e.g. in a pre-Mur­phy-Brown Dianne Eng­lish sit-com), play­ing the lead in three Life­time Net­work movies, on Broad­way as Jack­ie, and oppo­site Har­ri­son Ford, Al Paci­no, Melanie Grif­fith, Michael Shan­non, Wal­lace Shawn, and oth­ers.

Giv­en the lim­i­ta­tions of short-form sto­ry­telling in film, maybe some use of stereo­types is just nec­es­sary to get the gist of a char­ac­ter out quick­ly, but actors can load their per­for­mances with unseen back­sto­ry. We hear about the actor’s role in estab­lish­ing a char­ac­ter vs. the vision of the film­mak­ers or show-run­ners. Also, the rel­a­tive con­ser­vatism of film vs. stage vs. TV in grant­i­ng women cre­ative con­trol, the “fem­i­nine voice,” why women always appar­ent­ly have to trip in movies when chased, and more.

A few resources to get you think­ing about this top­ic:

Some­one’s post­ed a tape of Carousel fea­tur­ing Eri­ca and Mar­garet.

This episode includes bonus dis­cus­sion that you can only hear by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts or start with the first episode.

How the Female Scientist Who Discovered the Greenhouse Gas Effect Was Forgotten by History


In the ear­ly 19th cen­tu­ry, Aristotle’s Mete­o­ro­log­i­ca still guid­ed sci­en­tif­ic ideas about the cli­mate. The mod­el “sprang from the ancient Greek con­cept of kli­ma,” as Ian Bea­cock writes at The Atlantic, a sta­t­ic scheme that “divid­ed the hemi­spheres into three fixed cli­mat­ic bands: polar cold, equa­to­r­i­al heat, and a zone of mod­er­a­tion in the mid­dle.” It wasn’t until the 1850s that the study of cli­mate devel­oped into what his­to­ri­an Deb­o­rah Cohen describes as “dynam­ic cli­ma­tol­ogy.”

Indeed, 120 years before Exxon Mobile learned about—and then seem­ing­ly cov­ered up—glob­al warm­ing, pio­neer­ing researchers dis­cov­ered the green­house gas effect, the ten­den­cy for a closed envi­ron­ment like our atmos­phere to heat up when car­bon diox­ide lev­els rise. The first per­son on record to link CO2 and glob­al warm­ing, ama­teur sci­en­tist Eunice New­ton Foote, pre­sent­ed her research to the Eight Annu­al Meet­ing of the Amer­i­can Asso­ci­a­tion for the Advance­ment of Sci­ence in 1856.

Foote’s paper, “Cir­cum­stances affect­ing the heat of the sun’s rays,” was reviewed the fol­low­ing month in the pages of Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can, in a col­umn that approved of her “prac­ti­cal exper­i­ments” and not­ed, “this we are hap­py to say has been done by a lady.” She used an air pump, glass cylin­ders, and ther­mome­ters to com­pare the effects of sun­light on “car­bon­ic acid gas” (or car­bon diox­ide) and “com­mon air.” From her rudi­men­ta­ry but effec­tive demon­stra­tions, she con­clud­ed:

An atmos­phere of that gas [CO2] would give to our earth a high tem­per­a­ture; and if as some sup­pose, at one peri­od of its his­to­ry the air had mixed with it a larg­er pro­por­tion than at present, an increased temperature…must have nec­es­sar­i­ly result­ed.

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, her achieve­ment would dis­ap­pear three years lat­er when Irish physi­cist John Tyn­dall, who like­ly knew noth­ing of Foote, made the same dis­cov­ery. With his supe­ri­or resources and priv­i­leges, Tyn­dall was able to take his research fur­ther. “In ret­ro­spect,” one cli­mate sci­ence data­base writes, Tyn­dall has emerged as the founder of cli­mate sci­ence, though the view “hides a com­plex, and in many ways more inter­est­ing sto­ry.”

Nei­ther Tyn­dall nor Foote wrote about the effect of human activ­i­ty on the con­tem­po­rary cli­mate. It would take until the 1890s for Swedish sci­en­tist Svante Arrhe­nius to pre­dict human-caused warm­ing from indus­tri­al CO2 emis­sions. But sub­se­quent devel­op­ments depend­ed upon their insights. Foote, whose was born 200 years ago this past July, was mar­gin­al­ized almost from the start. “Entire­ly because she was a woman,” the Pub­lic Domain Review points out, “Foote was barred from read­ing the paper describ­ing her find­ings.”

Fur­ther­more, Foote “was passed over for pub­li­ca­tion in the Association’s annu­al Pro­ceed­ings.” Her paper was pub­lished in The Amer­i­can Jour­nal of Sci­ence, but was most­ly remarked upon, as in the Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can review, for the mar­vel of such home­spun inge­nu­ity from “a lady.” The review, titled “Sci­en­tif­ic Ladies—Experiments with Con­densed Gas,” opened with the sen­tence “Some have not only enter­tained, but expressed the mean idea, that women do not pos­sess the strength of mind nec­es­sary for sci­en­tif­ic inves­ti­ga­tion.”

The praise of Foote cred­its her as a paragon of her gen­der, while fail­ing to con­vey the uni­ver­sal impor­tance of her dis­cov­ery. At the AAAS con­fer­ence, the Smithsonian’s Joseph Hen­ry praised Foote by declar­ing that sci­ence was “of no coun­try and of no sex,” a state­ment that has proven time and again to be untrue in prac­tice. The con­de­scen­sion and dis­crim­i­na­tion Foote endured points to the mul­ti­ple ways in which she was exclud­ed as a woman—not only from the sci­en­tif­ic estab­lish­ment but from the edu­ca­tion­al insti­tu­tions and fund­ing sources that sup­port­ed it.

Her dis­ap­pear­ance, until recent­ly, from the his­to­ry of sci­ence “plays into the Matil­da Effect,” Leila McNeill argues at Smith­son­ian, “the trend of men get­ting cred­it for female scientist’s achieve­ments.” In this case, there’s no rea­son not to cred­it both sci­en­tists, who made orig­i­nal dis­cov­er­ies inde­pen­dent­ly. But Foote got there first. Had she been giv­en the cred­it she was due at the time—and the insti­tu­tion­al sup­port to match—there’s no telling how far her work would have tak­en her.

Just as Foote’s dis­cov­ery places her firm­ly with­in cli­mate sci­ence his­to­ry, ret­ro­spec­tive­ly, her “place in the sci­en­tif­ic com­mu­ni­ty, or lack therof,” writes Ama­ra Hud­dle­ston at Climate.gov, “weaves into the broad­er sto­ry of women’s rights.” Foote attend­ed the first Women’s Rights Con­ven­tion in Seneca Falls, NY in 1848, and her name is fifth down on the list of sig­na­to­ries to the “Dec­la­ra­tion of Sen­ti­ments,” a doc­u­ment demand­ing full equal­i­ty in social sta­tus, legal rights, and edu­ca­tion­al, eco­nom­ic, and, Foote would have added, sci­en­tif­ic oppor­tu­ni­ties.

Learn much more about Foote and her fas­ci­nat­ing fam­i­ly from her descen­dent, marine biol­o­gist Liz Foote.

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Women Sci­en­tists Launch a Data­base Fea­tur­ing the Work of 9,000 Women Work­ing in the Sci­ences

“The Matil­da Effect”: How Pio­neer­ing Women Sci­en­tists Have Been Denied Recog­ni­tion and Writ­ten Out of Sci­ence His­to­ry

Marie Curie Became the First Woman to Win a Nobel Prize, the First Per­son to Win Twice, and the Only Per­son in His­to­ry to Win in Two Dif­fer­ent Sci­ences

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

When Salvador Dali Met Sigmund Freud, and Changed Freud’s Mind About Surrealism (1938)

The close asso­ci­a­tions between Sur­re­al­ism and Freudi­an psy­cho­analy­sis were lib­er­al­ly encour­aged by the most famous pro­po­nent of the move­ment, Sal­vador Dalí, who con­sid­ered him­self a devot­ed fol­low­er of Freud. We don’t have to won­der what the founder of psy­cho­analy­sis would have thought of his self-appoint­ed pro­tégé.

We have them record­ing, in their own words, their impres­sions of their one and only meeting—which took place in July of 1938, at Freud’s home in Lon­don. Freud was 81, Dali 34. We also have sketch­es Dali made of Freud while the two sat togeth­er. Their mem­o­ries of events, shall we say, dif­fer con­sid­er­ably, or at least they seemed total­ly bewil­dered by each oth­er. (Freud pro­nounced Dali a “fanat­ic.”)

In any case, There’s absolute­ly no way the encounter could have lived up to Dali’s expec­ta­tions, as the Freud Muse­um Lon­don notes:

[Dalí] had already trav­elled to Vien­na sev­er­al times but failed to make an intro­duc­tion. Instead, he wrote in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, he spent his time hav­ing “long and exhaus­tive imag­i­nary con­ver­sa­tions” with his hero, at one point fan­ta­siz­ing that he “came home with me and stayed all night cling­ing to the cur­tains of my room in the Hotel Sach­er.”

Freud was cer­tain­ly not going to indulge Dalí’s pecu­liar fan­tasies, but what the artist real­ly want­ed was val­i­da­tion of his work—and maybe his very being. “Dali had spent his teens and ear­ly twen­ties read­ing Freud’s works on the uncon­scious,” writes Paul Gal­lagher at Dan­ger­ous Minds, “on sex­u­al­i­ty and The Inter­pre­ta­tion of Dreams.” He was obsessed. Final­ly meet­ing Freud in ’38, he must have felt “like a believ­er might feel when com­ing face-to-face with God.”

He brought with him his lat­est paint­ing The Meta­mor­pho­sis of Nar­cis­sus, and an arti­cle he had pub­lished on para­noia. This, espe­cial­ly, Dali hoped would gain the respect of the elder­ly Freud.

Try­ing to inter­est him, I explained that it was not a sur­re­al­ist diver­sion, but was real­ly an ambi­tious­ly sci­en­tif­ic arti­cle, and I repeat­ed the title, point­ing to it at the same time with my fin­ger. Before his imper­turbable indif­fer­ence, my voice became invol­un­tar­i­ly sharp­er and more insis­tent.

On being shown the paint­ing, Freud sup­pos­ed­ly said, “in clas­sic paint­ings I look for the uncon­scious, but in your paint­ings I look for the con­scious.” The com­ment stung, though Dali wasn’t entire­ly sure what it meant. But he took it as fur­ther evi­dence that the meet­ing was a bust. Sketch­ing Freud in the draw­ing below, he wrote, “Freud’s cra­ni­um is a snail! His brain is in the form of a spiral—to be extract­ed with a nee­dle!”

One might see why Freud was sus­pi­cious of Sur­re­al­ists, “who have appar­ent­ly cho­sen me as their patron saint,” he wrote to Ste­fan Zweig, the mutu­al friend who intro­duced him to Dali. In 1921, poet and Sur­re­al­ist man­i­festo writer André Bre­ton “had shown up unin­vit­ed on [Freud’s] doorstep.” Unhap­py with his recep­tion, Bre­ton pub­lished a “bit­ter attack,” call­ing Freud an “old man with­out ele­gance” and lat­er accused Freud of pla­gia­riz­ing him.

Despite the mem­o­ry of this nas­ti­ness, and Freud’s gen­er­al dis­taste for mod­ern art, he could­n’t help but be impressed with Dali. “Until then,” he wrote to Zweig, “I was inclined to look upon the sur­re­al­ists… as absolute (let us say 95 per­cent, like alco­hol), cranks. That young Spaniard, how­ev­er, with his can­did and fanat­i­cal eyes, and his unde­ni­able tech­ni­cal mas­tery, has made me recon­sid­er my opin­ion.”

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí’s Tarot Cards Get Re-Issued: The Occult Meets Sur­re­al­ism in a Clas­sic Tarot Card Deck

George Orwell Reviews Sal­vador Dali’s Auto­bi­og­ra­phy: “Dali is a Good Draughts­man and a Dis­gust­ing Human Being” (1944)

The Famous Break Up of Sig­mund Freud & Carl Jung Explained in a New Ani­mat­ed Video

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

The First Real Museum of Philosophy Prepares to Launch: See the Museo della Filosofia in Milan

You’ve almost cer­tain­ly been to more art muse­ums than you can remem­ber, and more than like­ly to a few muse­ums of nat­ur­al his­to­ry, sci­ence, and tech­nol­o­gy as well. But think hard: have you ever set foot inside a muse­um of phi­los­o­phy? Not just an exhi­bi­tion deal­ing with philoso­phers or philo­soph­i­cal con­cepts, but a sin­gle insti­tu­tion ded­i­cat­ed whol­ly to putting the prac­tice of phi­los­o­phy itself on dis­play. Your answer can approach a yes only if you spent time in Milan last Novem­ber, and more specif­i­cal­ly at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Milan, in whose halls the Museo del­la Filosofia set up shop and proved its sur­pris­ing­ly untest­ed — and sur­pris­ing­ly suc­cess­ful — con­cept.

“What we had in mind was not an his­tor­i­cal­ly-mind­ed muse­um col­lect­ing relics about the lives and works of impor­tant philoso­phers, but some­thing more dynam­ic and inter­ac­tive,” writes Uni­ver­si­ty of Milan post­doc­tor­al research fel­low Anna Ichi­no at Dai­ly Nous, “where philo­soph­i­cal prob­lems and the­o­ries become intu­itive­ly acces­si­ble through a vari­ety of games, activ­i­ties, exper­i­ments, aes­thet­ic expe­ri­ences, and oth­er such things.”

In the first hall, “we used images like Mary Midgely’s ‘con­cep­tu­al plumb­ing’ or Wittgenstein’s ‘fly bot­tle’ to con­vey the idea accord­ing to which philo­soph­i­cal prob­lems are in impor­tant respects con­cep­tu­al prob­lems, which amount to ana­lyz­ing con­cepts that we com­mon­ly use in unre­flec­tive ways.”

In the sec­ond hall, vis­i­tors to the Museo del­la Filosofia “could lit­er­al­ly play with para­dox­es and thought exper­i­ments in order to appre­ci­ate their heuris­tic role in philo­soph­i­cal inquiry.” The expe­ri­ences avail­able there ranged from using an over­sized deck of cards to “solve” para­dox­es, the per­haps inevitable demon­stra­tion of the well-known “trol­ley prob­lem” using a mod­el rail­road set, and — most har­row­ing of all — the chance to “eat choco­lates shaped as cat excre­ment” straight from the lit­ter box. Then came the “School of Athens” game, “in which vis­i­tors had to decide whether to back Pla­to or Aris­to­tle; then they could also take a sou­venir pic­ture por­tray­ing them­selves in the shoes (and face!) of one or the oth­er.”

In the third, “pro­gram­mat­ic” hall, the muse­um’s orga­niz­ers “pre­sent­ed the plan for what still needs to be done,” a to-do list that includes find­ing a per­ma­nent home. Before it does so, you can have a look at the pro­jec­t’s web site as well as its pages on Face­book and Insta­gram. At the top of the post appears a short video intro­duc­ing the Museo del­la Filosofia which, like the rest of the mate­ri­als, is for the moment in Ital­ian only, but it nev­er­the­less gets across even to non-Ital­ian-speak­ers a cer­tain idea of the expe­ri­ence a philo­soph­i­cal muse­um can deliv­er. Philo­soph­i­cal think­ing, after all, occurs pri­or to lan­guage. Or maybe it’s inex­tri­ca­bly tied up with lan­guage; dif­fer­ent philoso­phers have approached the prob­lem dif­fer­ent­ly. And when the Museo del­la Filosofia opens for good, you’ll be able to vis­it and approach a few philo­soph­i­cal prob­lems your­self. Read more about the muse­um at Dai­ly Nous.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

Philo­graph­ics Presents a Visu­al Dic­tio­nary of Phi­los­o­phy: 95 Philo­soph­i­cal Con­cepts as Graph­ic Designs

The His­to­ry of Phi­los­o­phy Visu­al­ized

A Data Visu­al­iza­tion of Mod­ern Phi­los­o­phy, 1950–2018

Phi­los­o­phy Explained With Donuts

Watch a 2‑Year-Old Solve Philosophy’s Famous Eth­i­cal “Trol­ley Prob­lem” (It Doesn’t End Well)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, 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.

 

Introducing The Radiohead Public Library: Radiohead Makes Their Full Catalogue Available via a Free Online Web Site

Radio­head remained rel­e­vant longer than any of their peers not only because they adapt­ed to tech­no­log­i­cal change but because they’ve just as often been a force behind it, whether musi­cal­ly or oth­er­wise. Yet when it comes to their release strate­gies, we might call them increas­ing­ly conservative–they have embraced one of the old­est tra­di­tion­al fea­tures of the inter­net: the abil­i­ty to give away free con­tent to huge num­bers of peo­ple all at once, and to archive that con­tent in freely acces­si­ble repos­i­to­ries.

At least since In Rain­bows, Radio­head has seen the inter­net as an oppor­tu­ni­ty to give away their work or sell it at a low-cost slid­ing scale, often with prof­its ben­e­fit­ting char­i­ties. Last year, when hack­ers stole demos from 1997’s OK Com­put­er, Radio­head coun­tered by releas­ing 18 hours of the mate­r­i­al free to stream or buy for a lim­it­ed time, with all pro­ceeds going to cli­mate action. Then they released every sin­gle stu­dio album, includ­ing dozens of rar­i­ties, live ses­sions, and more, on YouTube, mak­ing every­thing free to stream for any­one with the band­width.

Now, con­cerned with the integri­ty of Radio­head col­lec­tions online, they’ve gone full Inter­net Archive and start­ed a “pub­lic library” (com­plete with a print­able library card). And for any fan of the band—from the most casu­al to the most ter­mi­nal­ly dedicated—it’s an expe­ri­ence. “The band has brought near­ly the entire­ty of their cat­a­log to one place,” writes Rob Arcand at Spin, “which doesn’t con­tain ads and doesn’t use algo­rithms or obtru­sive design ges­tures that could encour­age myopic lis­ten­ing.” Dive in and you nev­er know what you’ll find.

I stum­bled upon OK Com­put­er’s “Para­noid Android” and was remind­ed of how inex­plic­a­bly weird the video is; crossed paths with 1992’s Drill, the band’s sur­pris­ing pow­er-pop-punk first EP (hear “Think­ing About You” at the top); found a recent live per­for­mance of Thom Yorke, Jon­ny Green­wood, and a drum machine—the two demon­strat­ing with elec­tric gui­tars and voice why even the band’s most abstract and fore­bod­ing songs still have at their heart the del­i­cate melodies that made up the entire­ty of their aching­ly earnest sec­ond album, The Bends.

Oth­er rar­i­ties include the King of Limbs remix EP TKOL RMX 8 (“not to be con­fused with their King of Limbs remix album TKOL RMX 1234567”) and a 2005 track titled “I Want None of This” made for war relief com­pi­la­tion Help!: A Day in the Life. The “stress” here in this archive “is on ‘Pub­lic,’” notes Daniel Kreps at Rolling Stone. “The library is free to enter and audio and video files are acces­si­ble even to those with­out pre­mi­um stream­ing ser­vices.” Each mem­ber of the band served as a “librar­i­an” for the first week of the archive’s exis­tence, curat­ing their favorite selec­tions of mate­r­i­al for post­ing on social media from Jan­u­ary 20th to the 24th.

Check out the Radio­head Pub­lic Library here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Radio­head Puts Every Offi­cial Album on YouTube, Mak­ing Them All Free to Stream

The 10 Most Depress­ing Radio­head Songs Accord­ing to Data Sci­ence: Hear the Songs That Ranked High­est in a Researcher’s “Gloom Index”

Clas­sic Radio­head Songs Re-Imag­ined as a Sci-Fi Book, Pulp Fic­tion Mag­a­zine & Oth­er Nos­tal­gic Arti­facts

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

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