The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam Has Digitized 709,000 Works of Art, Including Famous Works by Rembrandt and Vermeer

Art may seem inessen­tial to those who make the big deci­sions in times of cri­sis. But it has nev­er seemed more nec­es­sary to artists work­ing in the time of COVID. So it was 360 years ago when Rem­brandt paint­ed a por­trait of his son, Titus, in a monk’s robe in 1660. Eight years lat­er, Titus was dead from plague, which had only a few years ear­li­er killed Hen­drick­je Stof­fels, Rembrandt’s for­mer house­keep­er and sec­ond wife, who helped raise Titus, Rembrandt’s only child to sur­vive into adult­hood.

These unimag­in­able loss­es “con­tributed to the tragedy and anguish we see in Rembrandt’s late self-por­traits,” writes The Guardian’s Jonathan Jones. Dur­ing the plague, Rem­brandt also used his work as social cri­tique.

His paint­ing The Rat-Poi­son Ped­dler, shows, “in a sense,” the Min­neapo­lis Insti­tute of Art’s Tom Rassieur tells the Star Tri­bune, “the guy who pur­ports to be helping—the exterminator—is prob­a­bly doing as much to spread the dis­ease as any­one else. That relates to [crit­i­cism] of our lead­er­ship today.” In his last years, Rem­brandt paint­ed self-por­traits of his iso­la­tion and grief that still res­onate with our iso­la­tion and grief today.

Else­where in the Nether­lands, Rembrandt’s con­tem­po­rary Jan Ver­meer “was no stranger to the kind of social­ly iso­lat­ed world we now find our­selves in,” Breeze Bar­ring­ton writes at CNN. “His home­town of Delft was strick­en with plague sev­er­al times in the artist’s life­time. In 1635 and 1636 over 2,000 peo­ple died, and in the mid-1650s and mid-1660s hun­dreds more.” The qual­i­ties we most asso­ciate with Vermeer’s work, the soli­tude and atten­tive pres­ence, were devel­oped dur­ing time spent in iso­la­tion. 

“In this time of forced iso­la­tion,” says Friso Lam­mertse, cura­tor of 17th-cen­tu­ry Dutch paint­ing at the Rijksmu­se­um in Ams­ter­dam, Vermeer’s work “can point us at the fact that extreme beau­ty can be found just in our room.” The Rijksmu­se­um hasn’t just rec­om­mend­ed art in our cur­rent state of alone­ness, but the muse­um has also dou­bled its col­lec­tion of free, high res­o­lu­tion works online, by Rem­brandt, Ver­meer, and a host of oth­er artists who used art to cope with loss and lone­li­ness dur­ing the plagues of their times. The muse­um now offers 709,622 dig­i­tized images in total.

The muse­um has promised to “bring the muse­um to you,” and they have deliv­ered not only with their exten­sive dig­i­tal col­lec­tion, free for down­load­ing, shar­ing and edit­ing with a free Rijksmu­se­um account, but also with infor­ma­tive series on their web­site. Art is essen­tial in the best and worst of times, and espe­cial­ly now, when it shows us how to look close­ly at our­selves, our loved ones, and our sur­round­ings, and treat life with more care and atten­tion. Enter the Rijksmu­se­um online col­lec­tions here

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Rijksmu­se­um Dig­i­tizes & Makes Free Online 361,000 Works of Art, Mas­ter­pieces by Rem­brandt Includ­ed!

The Largest & Most Detailed Pho­to­graph of Rembrandt’s The Night Watch Is Now Online: Zoom In & See Every Brush Stroke

See the Com­plete Works of Ver­meer in Aug­ment­ed Real­i­ty: Google Makes Them Avail­able on Your Smart­phone

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

How Tibetan Monks Use Meditation to Raise Their Peripheral Body Temperature 16–17 Degrees

Tibetan monks in remote regions of the Himalayas have long claimed near mirac­u­lous pow­ers through yog­ic prac­tices that resem­ble noth­ing you’ll find offered at your local gym, though they may derive from some sim­i­lar Indi­an sources. One such med­i­ta­tive prac­tice, a breath­ing exer­cise known as tum­mo, tum-mo, or g‑tummo, sup­pos­ed­ly gen­er­ates body heat and can raise one’s periph­er­al body tem­per­a­ture 16–17 degrees—a dis­tinct­ly advan­ta­geous abil­i­ty when sit­ting out­side in the snow-capped moun­tains.

Per­haps a cer­tain amount of skep­ti­cism is war­rant­ed, but in 1981, Har­vard car­di­ol­o­gist Her­bert Ben­son was deter­mined to take these ancient prac­tices seri­ous­ly, even though his first encoun­ters with west­ern prac­ti­tion­ers of tum­mo pro­duced results he deemed “fraud­u­lent.” Not ready to toss cen­turies of wis­dom, Ben­son decid­ed instead to trav­el to the source after meet­ing the Dalai Lama and receiv­ing per­mis­sion to study tum­mo prac­ti­tion­ers in North­ern India.

Benson’s research became a 20-year project of study­ing tum­mo and oth­er advanced tech­niques while he also taught at the Har­vard Med­ical School and served as pres­i­dent of the Mind/Body Med­ical Insti­tute in Boston, where he believes the study of med­i­ta­tion can “uncov­er capac­i­ties that will help us to bet­ter treat stress-relat­ed ill­ness­es.” The claims of monks who prac­tice tum­mo have been sub­stan­ti­at­ed in Benson’s work, show­ing, he says, “what advanced forms of med­i­ta­tion can do to help the mind con­trol phys­i­cal process­es once thought to be uncon­trol­lable.”

In his own exper­i­men­tal set­tings, “Ben­son found that [Tibetan] monks pos­sessed remark­able capac­i­ties for con­trol­ling their oxy­gen intake, body tem­per­a­tures and even brain­waves,” notes Aeon. Anoth­er study under­tak­en in 2013 by Maria Kozhevnikov, cog­ni­tive neu­ro­sci­en­tist at the Nation­al Uni­ver­si­ty of Sin­ga­pore, “cor­rob­o­rat­ed much of what Ben­son had observed, includ­ing prac­ti­tion­ers’ abil­i­ty to raise their body tem­per­a­tures to fever­ish lev­els by com­bin­ing visu­al­iza­tion and spe­cial­ized breath­ing.”

In the short doc­u­men­tary film above—actually a 7‑minute trail­er for Russ Pariseau’s fea­ture-length film Advanced Tibetan Med­i­ta­tion: The Inves­ti­ga­tions of Her­bert Ben­son MD—we get a brief intro­duc­tion to tum­mo, a word that trans­lates to “inner fire” and relates to the feroc­i­ty of a female deity. Ben­son explains the ideas behind the prac­tice in con­cise terms that sum up a cen­tral premise of Tibetan Bud­dhism in gen­er­al:

Bud­dhists feel the real­i­ty we live in is not the ulti­mate one. There’s anoth­er real­i­ty we can tap into that’s unaf­fect­ed by our emo­tions, by our every­day world. Bud­dhists believe this state of mind can be achieved by doing good for oth­ers and by med­i­ta­tion. The heat they gen­er­ate dur­ing the process is just a by-prod­uct of g Tum-mo med­i­ta­tion

Per­haps cen­turies-old non-Euro­pean prac­tices do not par­tic­u­lar­ly need to be debunked, demys­ti­fied, or val­i­dat­ed by mod­ern sci­en­tif­ic med­i­cine to keep work­ing for their prac­ti­tion­ers; but doc­tors have sig­nif­i­cant­ly ben­e­fit­ed those in their care through an accep­tance of the heal­ing prop­er­ties of, say, psilo­cy­bin or mind­ful­ness, now seri­ous sub­jects of study and clin­i­cal treat­ment in top Euro-Amer­i­can insti­tu­tions. Just as this research is being pop­u­lar­ized among both the med­ical estab­lish­ment and gen­er­al pub­lic, we may some­day see a surge of inter­est in advanced tantric prac­tices like tum­mo.

via Aeon

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Bud­dhism & Neu­ro­science Can Help You Change How Your Mind Works: A New Course by Best­selling Author Robert Wright

How Med­i­ta­tion Can Change Your Brain: The Neu­ro­science of Bud­dhist Prac­tice

How Yoga Changes the Brain and May Guard Against Alzheimer’s and Demen­tia

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

Animation Pioneer Lotte Reiniger Adapts Mozart’s The Magic Flute into an All-Silhouette Short Film (1935)

When Lotte Reiniger began mak­ing ani­ma­tion in the late 1910s, her work looked like noth­ing that had ever been shot on film. In fact, it also resem­bles noth­ing else achieved in the realm of cin­e­ma in the cen­tu­ry since. Even the enor­mous­ly bud­get­ed and staffed pro­duc­tions of major stu­dios have yet to repli­cate the stark, qua­ver­ing charm of her sil­hou­ette ani­ma­tions. Those stu­dios do know full well, how­ev­er, what Reiniger real­ized long before: that no oth­er medi­um can more vivid­ly real­ize the visions of fairy tales. To believe that, one needs only watch her 1922 Cin­derel­la or 1955 Hansel and Gre­tel, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture.

It was between those pro­duc­tions that Reiniger made the work for which she’s now best remem­bered: the 1926 One Thou­sand and One Nights pas­tiche The Adven­tures of Prince Achmed, the very first fea­ture in ani­ma­tion his­to­ry. Nine years lat­er, she turned to source mate­r­i­al clos­er at hand, cul­tur­al­ly speak­ing, and adapt­ed a sec­tion of Wolf­gang Amadeus Mozart’s opera The Mag­ic Flute.

You can watch the result, the ten-minute Papa­geno, at the top of the post. A bird-catch­er, the title char­ac­ter finds one day that all the avians around him have become tiny human females. Though none of them stick around, an ostrich lat­er deliv­ers him a full-size maid­en, only for a giant snake to dri­ve her away. Will Papageno defeat the ser­pent and reclaim his beloved, or sub­mit to despair?

“The mag­ic of the fairy tale has always been her great­est fas­ci­na­tion, yet her own inter­pre­ta­tions attain a unique qual­i­ty,” says the nar­ra­tor of the 1970 doc­u­men­tary short just above, in which Reiniger re-enacts the thor­ough­ly ana­log and high­ly labor-inten­sive mak­ing of Papageno. “The fig­ures she cuts out and con­structs were orig­i­nal­ly inspired by the pup­pets used in tra­di­tion­al East­ern shad­ow the­aters, of which the sil­hou­ette form is the log­i­cal con­clu­sion.” This hybridiza­tion of ven­er­a­ble nar­ra­tive mate­r­i­al from West­ern lands like Ger­many with an even more ven­er­a­ble aes­thet­ic from East­ern lands like Indone­sia has assured only part of her work’s endur­ing appeal. “Ms. Reiniger will con­tin­ue to have a strange affec­tion for each of her fig­ures,” the nar­ra­tor notes. This is “an under­stand­able affec­tion, for in their flex­i­bil­i­ty they have almost human char­ac­ter­is­tics of move­ment.” It’s an affec­tion any­one with an inter­est in ani­ma­tion, fairy tales, or Mozart will share.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ground­break­ing Sil­hou­ette Ani­ma­tions of Lotte Reiniger: Cin­derel­la, Hansel and Gre­tel, and More

The First Ani­mat­ed Fea­ture Film: The Adven­tures of Prince Achmed by Lotte Reiniger (1926)

Mozart’s Diary Where He Com­posed His Final Mas­ter­pieces Is Now Dig­i­tized and Avail­able Online

See Mozart Played on Mozart’s Own Fortepi­ano, the Instru­ment That Most Authen­ti­cal­ly Cap­tures the Sound of His Music

Hear All of Mozart in a Free 127-Hour Playlist

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

When Iggy Pop Published an Essay, “Caesar Lives,” in an Academic Journal about His Love for Edward Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1995)

Pur­vey­ors of the shock­ing, pri­mal idio­cy of pure rock and roll can in many cas­es be some of the most intel­li­gent peo­ple in pop. Or at least that’s the case with the king of shock­ing, pri­mal idio­cy, Iggy Pop. He has inter­pret­ed Whit­man’s “bar­bar­ic yawp” and deliv­ered the John Peel Lec­ture for BBC Music, becom­ing “a vis­it­ing pro­fes­sor from the School of Punk Rock Hard Knocks,” writes Rolling Stone and bring­ing an elder statesman’s per­spec­tive informed not only by his years in the bow­els of the music indus­try but also by his avo­ca­tion as a schol­ar of the Roman Empire….

Yes, that’s right, Iggy Pop is not only an adroit styl­ist of some of the most bril­liant­ly stu­pid garage rock ever made, but he’s also a seri­ous read­er and thinker who once pub­lished a brief reflec­tion on his rela­tion­ship with Edward Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire in the aca­d­e­m­ic jour­nal Ire­land Clas­sics.

“Iggy Pop, like Bob Dylan,” writes E.J. Hutchin­son, “has an avid inter­est in Roman antiq­ui­ty and its genet­ic con­nec­tion to con­tem­po­rary life.” He may also be the sharpest, wil­i­est embod­i­ment of post-indus­tri­al Amer­i­can decline—his entire musi­cal per­son­al­i­ty a punch in the col­lec­tive face of the nation’s delu­sions.

In 1982, hor­ri­fied by the mean­ness, tedi­um and deprav­i­ty of my exis­tence as I toured the Amer­i­can South play­ing rock and roll music and going crazy in pub­lic, I pur­chased an abridged copy of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (Dero Saun­ders, Pen­guin). 

The grandeur of the sub­ject appealed to me, as did the cameo illus­tra­tion of Edward Gib­bon, the author, on the front cov­er. He looked like a heavy dude.

Hutchin­son gives us a fine­ly wrought analy­sis of Pop’s “tour de force of clas­si­cal Gib­bon­ian Eng­lish prose, a scrap of Ciceron­ian peri­od­ic­i­ty.” (Gib­bon did, indeed, look like a heavy dude.) Pop’s read­ing of Gib­bon, “with plea­sure around 4 am, with my drugs and whisky in cheap motels,” absorbed him in its “clash of beliefs, per­son­al­i­ties and val­ues,” he writes, “played out on antiquity’s stage by crowds of the vul­gar, led by huge arche­typ­al char­ac­ters.” All of this appealed to him, he writes, giv­en his own role in “a polit­i­cal busi­ness… the music busi­ness, which is not about music at all, but is a kind of reli­gion-rental.”

Gibbon’s mas­sive saga, a mon­u­men­tal exam­ple of sweep­ing Enlight­en­ment his­to­ri­og­ra­phy, so cap­ti­vat­ed Pop that a decade lat­er, it inspired “an extem­po­ra­ne­ous solil­o­quy” he called “Cae­sar,” the clos­ing track on 1993’s “over­looked mas­ter­piece” Amer­i­can Cae­sar. The spo­ken word piece “made me laugh my ass off,” he writes, “because it was so true. Amer­i­ca is Rome. Of course, why shouldn’t it be? All of West­ern life and insti­tu­tions today are trace­able to the Romans and their world. We are all Roman chil­dren for bet­ter or worse.”

But there was much more to Pop’s read­ing of Gibbon—which he even­tu­al­ly enjoyed in a “beau­ti­ful edi­tion in three vol­umes of the mag­nif­i­cent orig­i­nal unabridged”—than a pos­si­bly facile com­par­i­son between one fail­ing empire and anoth­er. Much more, indeed. Read­ing Gib­bon, he writes (sound­ing very much like anoth­er pro­po­nent of the clas­sics, Ita­lo Calvi­no), taught him how to think about the present, and how to think, humbly, about him­self. He ends his essay with a num­bered list of “just some of the ways I ben­e­fit”:

  1. I feel a great com­fort and relief know­ing that there were oth­ers who lived and died and thought and fought so long ago; I feel less tyr­an­nized by the present day.
  2. I learn much about the way our soci­ety real­ly works, because the sys­tem-ori­gins — mil­i­tary, reli­gious, polit­i­cal, colo­nial, agri­cul­tur­al, finan­cial — are all there to be scru­ti­nized in their infan­cy. I have gained per­spec­tive.
  3. The lan­guage in which the book is writ­ten is rich and com­plete, as the lan­guage of today is not.
  4. I find out how lit­tle I know.
  5. I am inspired by the will and eru­di­tion which enabled Gib­bon to com­plete a work of twen­ty-odd years. The guy stuck with things. I urge any­one who wants life on earth to real­ly come alive for them to enjoy the beau­ti­ful ances­tral ancient world.

Read Pop’s full 1995 Ire­land Clas­sics essay on Jstor or Medi­um.

via Han­nah Rose Woods

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Prof. Iggy Pop Deliv­ers the BBC’s 2014 John Peel Lec­ture on “Free Music in a Cap­i­tal­ist Soci­ety”

The Splen­did Book Design of the 1946 Edi­tion of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

Iggy Pop Reads Walt Whit­man in Col­lab­o­ra­tions With Elec­tron­ic Artists Alva Noto and Tar­wa­ter

Iggy Pop Reads Edgar Allan Poe’s Clas­sic Hor­ror Sto­ry, “The Tell-Tale Heart”

Stream Iggy Pop’s Two-Hour Radio Trib­ute to David Bowie

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

Discover J.R.R. Tolkien’s Little-Known and Hand-Illustrated Children’s Book, Mr. Bliss

His were usu­al­ly humor­ous sto­ries, full of mag­ic, and very often, they con­tained a con­nec­tion to the children’s lives, because it was pri­mar­i­ly for them that he invent­ed them.

–Sarah Zama

The fact that “much of the inspi­ra­tion of the Lord of the Rings came from [J.R.R. Tolkien’s] fam­i­ly,” Danielle Bur­gos writes at Bus­tle, has become an oft-repeat­ed piece of triv­ia, espe­cial­ly thanks to such pop­u­lar treat­ments of the author’s life as Humphrey Carter’s autho­rized biog­ra­phy, the Nicholas Hoult-star­ring biopic, Tolkien, and the Cather­ine McIl­waine-edit­ed col­lec­tion Tolkien: Mak­er of Mid­dle-Earth. As much as Tolkien drew on his exten­sive knowl­edge of Norse, Ger­man­ic, and oth­er mytholo­gies and lin­guis­tic his­to­ries, and from his har­row­ing expe­ri­ences in WWI, his career as a leg­endary fan­ta­sy author may nev­er have come about with­out his chil­dren.

“In just one exam­ple,” notes Bur­gos, a col­lec­tion of Tolkien’s let­ters shows that the char­ac­ter of Tom Bom­badil “was based on son Michael’s wood­en toy doll.” Tolkien’s old­est son John remarked before the release of the first Peter Jack­son adap­ta­tion, “It’s quite incred­i­ble. When I think when we were grow­ing up these were just sto­ries that we were told.”

Tolkien stren­u­ous­ly resist­ed the label of children’s author; he “firm­ly believed,” Maria Popo­va points out, “that there is no such thing as writ­ing for chil­dren.” But the degree to which his sto­ry­telling and char­ac­ter­i­za­tion devel­oped from his desire to enter­tain and edu­cate his kids can’t be over­stat­ed in the devel­op­ment of his ear­ly fic­tion.

We see this in a small way in the lit­tle-known chil­dren’s book Mr. Bliss, writ­ten and illus­trat­ed by Tolkien some­time in the 1930s, kept in a draw­er until 1957, and only pub­lished posthu­mous­ly in 1982. The sto­ry itself “was inspired by his first car, which he pur­chased in 1932.” As evi­dence of its impor­tance to the larg­er Tolkien canon, Popo­va writes, the author “went on to use two of the char­ac­ter names from the book, Gaffer Gamgee and Bof­fin, in The Lord of the Rings.” In oth­er respects, how­ev­er, Mr. Bliss is very unlike the medieval fan­tasies that sur­round­ed its com­po­si­tion.

The book, affec­tion­ate­ly hand­writ­ten and illus­trat­ed by Tolkien him­self — who, also unbe­knownst to many, was a ded­i­cat­ed artist — tells the sto­ry of Mr. Bliss, a lov­able eccen­tric known for his excep­tion­al­ly tall hats and his “girab­bits,” the giraffe-head­ed, rab­bit-bod­ied crea­tures that live in his back­yard. One day, Mr. Bliss decides to buy his very first motor car[.] But his first dri­ve en route to a friend’s house soon turns into a Rube Gold­berg machine of dis­as­ter as he col­lides with near­ly every­thing imag­in­able, then gets kid­napped by three bears.

Tolkien sub­mit­ted the book for pub­li­ca­tion after the run­away suc­cess of The Hob­bit cre­at­ed a mar­ket demand he had no par­tic­u­lar desire to meet, telling his pub­lish­er that the sto­ry was com­plete. But Mr. Bliss was reject­ed, osten­si­bly because its illus­tra­tions were too expen­sive to repro­duce. In truth, how­ev­er, the pub­lic want­ed more hob­bits, elves, dwarves, wiz­ards, and poet­ry and song in beau­ti­ful invent­ed lan­guages.

Tolkien would, of course, even­tu­al­ly deliv­er a “New Hob­bit,” in the form of the The Lord of the Rings tril­o­gy—books that weren’t specif­i­cal­ly “writ­ten for his chil­dren,” Sarah Zama writes, but in which “the sto­ry he had indeed cre­at­ed for his chil­dren weighed heav­i­ly.” See sev­er­al more Tolkien-illus­trat­ed pages from one of the trilogy’s whim­si­cal ear­ly ances­tors, Mr. Bliss, at Brain Pick­ings and pur­chase a copy of the book here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

110 Draw­ings and Paint­ings by J.R.R. Tolkien: Of Mid­dle-Earth and Beyond

How J.R.R. Tolkien Influ­enced Clas­sic Rock & Met­al: A Video Intro­duc­tion

The Largest J.R.R. Tolkien Exhib­it in Gen­er­a­tions Is Com­ing to the U.S.: Orig­i­nal Draw­ings, Man­u­scripts, Maps & More

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

Rome’s Colosseum Will Get a New Retractable Floor by 2023 — Just as It Had in Ancient Times

Rome was­n’t built in a day. But one of its most renowned attrac­tions could be returned to its first-cen­tu­ry glo­ry in just two years — or at least, part of one of its most famous attrac­tions could be. In our time, the Colos­se­um has long been a major Roman tourist des­ti­na­tion–one that lacks even a prop­er floor. Vis­i­tors today see right through to its under­ground hypogeum, an impres­sive mechan­i­cal labyrinth used to con­vey glad­i­a­tors into the are­na, as well as a vari­ety of oth­er per­form­ers, will­ing and unwill­ing, human and oth­er­wise. “Eye­wit­ness­es describe how ani­mals appeared sud­den­ly from below, as if by mag­ic, some­times appar­ent­ly launched high into the air,” writes Smith­son­ian’s Tom Mueller.

“The hypogeum allowed the orga­niz­ers of the games to cre­ate sur­pris­es and build sus­pense,” the Ger­man Archae­o­log­i­cal Insti­tute in Rome’s Heinz-Jür­gen Beste tells Mueller. “A hunter in the are­na wouldn’t know where the next lion would appear, or whether two or three lions might emerge instead of just one.”

Now, the Ital­ian gov­ern­ment has announced plans to return the ele­ment of sur­prise to the Colos­se­um with a restora­tion of its elab­o­rate “retractable floor.” This has drawn the atten­tion of media con­cerned with his­to­ry and trav­el, but also the world of archi­tec­ture and design. With €10 mil­lion already pledged by the state, the world­wide call is out for archi­tec­tur­al pro­pos­als, due by Feb­ru­ary 1 of this year for a ten­ta­tive com­ple­tion date of 2023.

The Colos­se­um, which once seat­ed 50,000 spec­ta­tors, has­n’t put on a bat­tle since the fifth cen­tu­ry. The hypogeum’s long expo­sure to the ele­ments means that any archi­tec­tur­al firm eager to take on this project will have its work cut out for it. Few restora­tions could demand the strik­ing of a trick­i­er bal­ance between his­tor­i­cal faith­ful­ness and mod­ern func­tion­al­i­ty. What­ev­er design gets select­ed, its trap doors and hid­den ele­va­tors will be employed for rather dif­fer­ent enter­tain­ments than, say, the death match­es between slaves and beasts to which so many ancient Romans thrilled. The Ital­ian gov­ern­ment intends to use the Colos­se­um’s new floor to put on the­ater pro­duc­tions and con­certs – which should turn it into an even more pop­u­lar attrac­tion when we can all once again go to the the­ater, con­certs, and indeed Italy.

via Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rome Reborn: Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Rome, Cir­ca 320 C.E.

High-Res­o­lu­tion Walk­ing Tours of Italy’s Most His­toric Places: The Colos­se­um, Pom­peii, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca & More

Build­ing the Colos­se­um: The Icon of Rome

Mag­nif­i­cent Ancient Roman Mosa­ic Floor Unearthed in Verona, Italy

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Discover Tokyo’s Museum Dedicated to Parasites: A Unique and Disturbing Institution

Pho­to by Guil­hem Vel­lut

Weary as we are of hear­ing about not just the coro­n­avirus but virus­es in gen­er­al, shall we we turn our atten­tion to par­a­sites instead? The Meguro Par­a­sito­log­i­cal Muse­um has been con­cen­trat­ing its intel­lec­tu­al and edu­ca­tion­al ener­gies in that direc­tion since 1953. Locat­ed in the epony­mous neigh­bor­hood of Tokyo, it hous­es more than 60,000 species of par­a­site, with more than 300 on dis­play at any giv­en time. “On the first floor we present the ‘Diver­si­ty of Par­a­sites’ dis­play­ing var­i­ous types of par­a­site spec­i­mens with accom­pa­ny­ing edu­ca­tion­al movies,” write direc­tors Midori Kamegai and Kazuo Ogawa. “The sec­ond floor exhibits are ‘Human and Zoonot­ic Par­a­sites’ show­ing par­a­site life cycles and the symp­toms they cause dur­ing human infec­tion.”

Pho­to by Guil­hem Vel­lut

We’ve here includ­ed a few choice pic­tures from the muse­um, but as Cul­ture Trip’s India Irv­ing warns, “the real-life spec­i­mens are far worse than the pho­tographs; some of the dis­plays present pre­served par­a­sites actu­al­ly pop­ping out of their ani­mal hosts.”

She names as “the most repul­sive item on view” a tape­worm “rough­ly the size of a Lon­don bus — it is the longest tape­worm in world and is exhib­it­ed along­side a rope of the same length so vis­i­tors can get a phys­i­cal feel for just how enor­mous it actu­al­ly was.” What oth­er par­a­sito­log­i­cal muse­um could hope to com­pete with that? Not that any have tried: the Meguro Par­a­sito­log­i­cal Muse­um proud­ly describes itself as the only such insti­tu­tion in the world.

Pho­to by Guil­hem Vel­lut

“Some of the dis­plays are mere­ly dis­turb­ing, while oth­ers are slight­ly more ghast­ly,” writes Men­tal Floss’ Jake Rossen. “If you’ve ever want­ed to see a pho­to of a trop­i­cal bug prompt­ing a human tes­ti­cle to swell to the size of a gym bag, this is the place for you.” Like many oth­er muse­ums, it did shut down for a time ear­li­er in the pan­dem­ic, but has been open again since June. (If you hap­pen not to be a Japan­ese speak­er, guides in Eng­lish and oth­er lan­guages are avail­able in both text and app form.) If cur­rent con­di­tions have nev­er­the­less kept Japan itself out of your reach, you can have a look at the Meguro Par­a­sito­log­i­cal Muse­um’s unique offer­ings through this Flickr gallery — which gets many of us as close to these organ­isms as we care to be.

Pho­to by Steven L. John­son 

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er the Japan­ese Muse­um Ded­i­cat­ed to Col­lect­ing Rocks That Look Like Human Faces

The First Muse­um Ded­i­cat­ed to Japan­ese Folk­lore Mon­sters Is Now Open

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of the Müt­ter Muse­um and Its Many Anatom­i­cal­ly Pecu­liar Exhibits

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Dial-a-Poem: The Groundbreaking Phone Service That Let People Hear Poems Read by Patti Smith, William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg & More (1968)

Thanks for allow­ing me to be a poet. A noble effort, doomed, but the only choice. —John Giorno, Thanx for Noth­ing

Dial­ing a poem today, I’m con­nect­ed to Joe Brainard, who died of AIDS-relat­ed pneu­mo­nia in 1994, read­ing an excerpt of “I Remem­ber.” He stum­bles over some words. It’s excit­ing. There’s a feel­ing of imme­di­a­cy. When the read­ing ends in an old-fash­ioned dial tone, I imme­di­ate­ly think of a half-dozen friends I’d like to call (assum­ing they respond to some­thing that’s not a tag or text).

“Take down this num­ber,” I’d say. “641–793-8122. Don’t ask ques­tions. Just call it. You’ll love it.”

And they prob­a­bly would, though they wouldn’t hear the same record­ing I did.

As Dial-A-Poem’s founder, the late John Giorno, remarked in a 2012 inter­view:

 A per­son asked me the oth­er day: “What hap­pens if I lis­ten to a poem and I want to tell a friend to lis­ten to it?” I told him: “Well, she can’t.” [laughs] That’s the point. What hap­pens is, when things are real­ly suc­cess­ful, you cre­ate desire that is unful­fil­l­able. That’s what makes some­thing work.

Giorno estab­lished Dial-A-Poem in 1968, plac­ing ten land­lines con­nect­ed to reel-to-reel answer­ing machines in a room in New York City’s Archi­tec­tur­al League:

I sort of stum­bled on [the con­cept] by chance… I was talk­ing to some­one on the tele­phone one morn­ing, and it was so bor­ing. I prob­a­bly had a hang­over and was prob­a­bly crash­ing, and I got irri­ta­ble and said to myself at that moment, “Why can’t this be a poem?” That’s how the idea came to me. And we got a quar­ter of a page in The New York Times with the tele­phone num­ber you could dial. 

In its first four-and-a-half months of oper­a­tion, Dial-A-Poem logged 1,112,237 incom­ing calls, includ­ing some from lis­ten­ers over­seas. (The orig­i­nal phone num­ber was 212–628-0400.) The hours of heav­i­est traf­fic sug­gest­ed that a lot of bored office work­ers were sneak­ing a lit­tle poet­ry into their 9‑to‑5 day.

Dial-A-Poem recon­ceived of the tele­phone as a new media device:

Before Dial-A-Poem, the tele­phone was used one-to-one. Dial-A-Poem’s suc­cess gave rise to a Dial-A-Some­thing indus­try: from Dial-A-Joke, Dial-A-Horo­scope, Dial-A-Stock Quo­ta­tion, Dial Sports, to the 900 num­ber pay­ing for a call, to phone sex, and ever more extra­or­di­nary tech­nol­o­gy. Dial-A-Poem, by chance, ush­ered in a new era in telecom­mu­ni­ca­tions.

Fea­tured poets includ­ed such heavy hit­ters as William S. Bur­roughsPat­ti SmithAllen Gins­berg, Ted Berri­g­an, Robert Cree­leySylvia PlathCharles Bukowski, and Frank O’Hara (who “only liked you if you wrote like him”).

The con­tent was risqué, polit­i­cal, a direct response to the Viet­nam War, the polit­i­cal cli­mate, and social con­ser­vatism. No one both­ered with rhymes, and inspi­ra­tion was not nec­es­sar­i­ly the goal.

Unlike Andy WarholJasper Johns, and oth­er career-mind­ed artists who he hung out with (and bed­ded), Giorno nev­er made a secret of his homo­sex­u­al­i­ty. Sex­u­al­ly explic­it and queer con­tent had a home at Dial-a-Poem.

Mean­while, Dial-a-Poem was fea­tured in Junior Scholas­tic Mag­a­zine, and dial­ing in became a home­work assign­ment for many New York City Pub­lic School stu­dents.

Two twelve-year-old boys near­ly scup­pered the project when one of their moth­ers caught them gig­gling over the Jim Car­roll poem, above, and raised a ruckus with the Board of Ed, who in turn put pres­sure on the tele­phone com­pa­ny to dis­con­tin­ue ser­vice. The New York State Coun­cil on the Arts’ lawyers inter­vened, a win for horny mid­dle school­ers… and poet­ry!

For any­one inter­est­ed, an album called You’re A Hook: The 15 Year Anniver­sary Of Dial-A-Poem (1968–1983) was released in 1983. Vinyl copies are still float­ing around.

If you dial 641.793.8122, you can still access record­ings from an archive of poet­ry, notes SFMo­MA.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Stream Clas­sic Poet­ry Read­ings from Harvard’s Rich Audio Archive: From W.H. Auden to Dylan Thomas

Library of Con­gress Launch­es New Online Poet­ry Archive, Fea­tur­ing 75 Years of Clas­sic Poet­ry Read­ings

Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry Reveals the Best Way to Mem­o­rize Poet­ry

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She most recent­ly appeared as a French Cana­di­an bear who trav­els to New York City in search of food and mean­ing in Greg Kotis’ short film, L’Ourse.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast
Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.