What It Takes to Pass “the Knowledge,” the “Insanely Hard” Exam to Become a London Taxicab Driver

Any­one who’s fol­lowed the late Michael Apt­ed’s Up doc­u­men­taries knows that becom­ing a Lon­don cab dri­ver is no mean feat. Tony Walk­er, one of the series’ most mem­o­rable par­tic­i­pants, was select­ed at the age of sev­en from an East End pri­ma­ry school, already dis­tin­guished as a char­ac­ter by his ener­getic man­ner, clas­sic cock­ney accent, and enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly expressed ambi­tion to become a jock­ey. By 21 Up, how­ev­er, he’d got off the horse and into a taxi­cab — or was aim­ing to do so, hav­ing immersed him­self in the stud­ies required for the nec­es­sary licens­ing exams. For many non-British view­ers, this con­sti­tut­ed an intro­duc­tion to what’s known as “the Knowl­edge,” the for­mi­da­ble test­ing process licensed Lon­don taxi­cab dri­vers have under­gone since 1865.

The Great Big Sto­ry video at the top of the post pro­vides an intro­duc­tion to this “insane­ly hard test,” which demands the mem­o­riza­tion of 320 routes around Lon­don, involv­ing 25,000 streets and roads, with­in a six-mile radius of Trafal­gar Square. “Its rig­ors have been likened to those required to earn a degree in law or med­i­cine,” writes Jody Rosen in a 2014 New York Time Style Mag­a­zine piece on the Knowl­edge.

“It is with­out ques­tion a unique intel­lec­tu­al, psy­cho­log­i­cal and phys­i­cal ordeal, demand­ing unnum­bered thou­sands of hours of immer­sive study.” For the Tony Walk­ers of the world, it has also long offered a route to sta­ble, well-com­pen­sat­ed, and even pres­ti­gious work: every­one, regard­less of social class, acknowl­edges the exper­tise of Lon­don that the black-taxi­cab dri­ver pos­sess­es.

In recent years, those clas­sic black cabs have faced great­ly inten­si­fied com­pe­ti­tion from rideshare and “mini­cab” ser­vices, whose dri­vers aren’t required to pass the Knowl­edge. Instead, they rely on the same thing the rest of us do: GPS-enabled devices that auto­mat­i­cal­ly com­pute the route between point A and point B. Though one would imag­ine this tech­nol­o­gy hav­ing long since ren­dered the Knowl­edge redun­dant, the flow of aspi­rants to the sta­tus of black-cab dri­ver has­n’t dried up entire­ly. Take Tom the Taxi Dri­ver, a full-fledged Lon­don cab­bie who’s also mil­len­ni­al enough to have elab­o­rate tat­toos and his own Youtube chan­nel, on which he explains not just the expe­ri­ence of dri­ving a taxi in Lon­don, but also of tak­ing the tests to do so, which involve plot­ting Point-A-to-Point‑B routes ver­bal­ly, on the spot.

The ques­tion of whether the Knowl­edge beats the GPS is set­tled on the chan­nel of anoth­er, sim­i­lar­ly named Eng­lish Youtu­ber: Tom Scott, who in the video above, dri­ves one route through Lon­don using his mobile phone while Tom the Taxi Dri­ver does anoth­er of the same length while con­sult­ing only his own men­tal map of the city. This mod­ern-day John Hen­ry show­down is less inter­est­ing for its out­come than for what we see along the way: Tom the Taxi Dri­ver’s per­cep­tion and expe­ri­ence of Lon­don dif­fer con­sid­er­ably from that of Tom the non-taxi dri­ver, and as neu­ro­sci­en­tif­ic research has sug­gest­ed, that dif­fer­ence is prob­a­bly reflect­ed in the phys­i­cal nature of his brain.

“The pos­te­ri­or hip­pocam­pus, the area of the brain known to be impor­tant for mem­o­ry, is big­ger in Lon­don taxi dri­vers than in most peo­ple, and that a suc­cess­ful Knowl­edge candidate’s pos­te­ri­or hip­pocam­pus enlarges as he pro­gress­es through the test,” writes Rosen. The appli­cants’ hav­ing to mas­ter fine-grained detail both geo­graph­ic and his­tor­i­cal (over a peri­od of near­ly three years on aver­age) also under­scores that “the Knowl­edge stands for, well, knowl­edge — for the Enlight­en­ment ide­al of ency­clo­pe­dic learn­ing, for the human­ist notion that dili­gent intel­lec­tu­al endeav­or is ennobling, an end in itself.” For any of us, habit­u­al­ly offload­ing the men­tal work of not just wayfind­ing but remem­ber­ing, cal­cu­lat­ing, and much else besides onto apps may well induce a kind of men­tal obe­si­ty, one we can only fight off by mas­ter­ing the Knowl­edge of our own pur­suits, what­ev­er those pur­suits may be.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Growth of Lon­don, from the Romans to the 21st Cen­tu­ry, Visu­al­ized in a Time-Lapse Ani­mat­ed Map

The Old­est Known Footage of Lon­don (1890–1920) Fea­tures the City’s Great Land­marks

“The Won­der­ground Map of Lon­don Town,” the Icon­ic 1914 Map That Saved the World’s First Sub­way Sys­tem

Meet Madame Inès Decour­celle, One of the Very First Female Taxi Dri­vers in Paris (Cir­ca 1908)

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

How Olivetti Designed the First Personal Computer in History, the Programma 101 (1965)

If you were to come across an Olivet­ti Pro­gram­ma 101, you prob­a­bly would­n’t rec­og­nize it as a com­put­er. With its 36 keys and its paper-strip print­er, it might strike you as some kind of over­sized adding machine, albeit an unusu­al­ly hand­some one. But then, you’d expect that qual­i­ty from Olivet­ti, a com­pa­ny best remem­bered for its enor­mous­ly suc­cess­ful type­writ­ers that now occu­py prime space in muse­ums of twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry design. Among its less­er-known prod­ucts, at least out­side its native Italy, are its com­put­ers, a line that began with main­frames in the mid-nine­teen-fifties and end­ed with IBM PC clones in the nineties, reach­ing the height of its inno­va­tion with the Pro­gram­ma 101 in 1965.

The Pro­gram­ma 101 is also known as the P101 or the Per­ot­ti­na, a name derived from that of its inven­tor, engi­neer Pier Gior­gio Per­ot­to. “I dreamed of a friend­ly machine to which you could del­e­gate all those menial tasks which are prone to errors,” he lat­er said, “a machine that could qui­et­ly learn and per­form tasks, that could store sim­ple data and instruc­tions, that could be used by any­one, that would be inex­pen­sive and the size of oth­er office prod­ucts which peo­ple used.”

To real­ize that vision required not just a tech­ni­cal effort but also an aes­thet­ic one, which fell to the young archi­tect and indus­tri­al design­er Mario Belli­ni, who had fol­lowed his col­league (and lat­er Mem­phis Group founder) Ettore Sottsass into con­sult­ing work for Olivet­ti.

All this work took place at a time of cri­sis for the com­pa­ny. Fol­low­ing the death of its head Adri­ano Olivet­ti in 1960, writes Opin­ion­at­ed Design­er, it “got into severe finan­cial dif­fi­cul­ties after buy­ing the giant US Under­wood com­pa­ny, and the elec­tron­ics divi­sion was sold off to Gen­er­al Elec­tric ear­ly in 1965.” Olivet­ti’s son Rober­to had already “giv­en the go-ahead in 1962 for the devel­op­ment of a small ‘desk-top’ com­put­er.” In order “to avoid their project being swal­lowed up by GE, Perotto’s team changed some of the spec­i­fi­ca­tions of the 101 to make it appear to be a ‘cal­cu­la­tor’ rather than a ‘com­put­er’ which meant the project could stay with Olivet­ti.” Yet on a tech­ni­cal lev­el, the Per­ot­ti­na remained very much a com­put­er indeed.

In addi­tion to sub­trac­tion, mul­ti­pli­ca­tion, and divi­sion, “it could also per­form log­i­cal oper­a­tions, con­di­tion­al and uncon­di­tion­al jumps, and print the data stored in a reg­is­ter, all through a cus­tom-made alphanu­mer­ic pro­gram­ming lan­guage,” writes Ric­car­do Bian­chi­ni at Inex­hib­it. In the video above, enthu­si­ast Wladimir Zaniews­ki demon­strates its capa­bil­i­ties with a sim­ple alphanu­mer­ic lunar-lan­der game: a his­tor­i­cal­ly apt project, since NASA bought ten of them for use in plan­ning the Apol­lo 11 moon land­ing. Yet even more impor­tant was the device’s com­par­a­tive­ly down-to-earth achieve­ment of being, in Bian­chini’s words, “an unin­tim­i­dat­ing object every­one could use, even at home. In that sense, there is no doubt that the Olivet­ti Pro­gram­ma 101 tru­ly is the first per­son­al com­put­er in his­to­ry.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch the World’s Old­est Work­ing Dig­i­tal Com­put­er — the 1951 Har­well Deka­tron — Get Fired Up Again

Dis­cov­ered: The User Man­u­al for the Old­est Sur­viv­ing Com­put­er in the World

How British Code­break­ers Built the First Elec­tron­ic Com­put­er

When Kraftwerk Issued Their Own Pock­et Cal­cu­la­tor Syn­the­siz­er — to Play Their Song “Pock­et Cal­cu­la­tor” (1981)

How France Invent­ed a Pop­u­lar, Prof­itable Inter­net of Its Own in the 80s: The Rise and Fall of Mini­tel

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

An Oscar-Winning Animation of Ernest Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea” Painted on 29,000 Frames of Glass

Ernest Hemingway’s roman­tic adven­ture of man and mar­lin, The Old Man and the Sea, has per­haps spent more time on high school fresh­man Eng­lish read­ing lists than any oth­er work of fic­tion, which might lead one to think of the nov­el as young adult fic­tion. But beyond the book’s abil­i­ty to com­mu­ni­cate broad themes of per­se­ver­ance, courage, and loss, it has an appeal that also reach­es old, wiz­ened men like Hemingway’s San­ti­a­go and young, imag­i­na­tive boy­ish appren­tices like his Mano­lin. The 1952 novel­la rein­vig­o­rat­ed Hemingway’s career, won him a Pulitzer Prize, and even­tu­al­ly con­tributed to his Nobel win in 1954. And luck­i­ly for all those high school Eng­lish stu­dents, Hemingway’s sto­ry has lent itself to some wor­thy screen adap­ta­tions, includ­ing the 1958 film star­ring Spencer Tra­cy as the inde­fati­ga­ble Span­ish-Cuban fish­er­man and a 1990 ver­sion with the mighty Antho­ny Quinn in the role.

One adap­ta­tion that read­ers of Hem­ing­way might miss is the ani­ma­tion above, a co-pro­duc­tion with Cana­di­an, Russ­ian, and Japan­ese stu­dios cre­at­ed by Russ­ian ani­ma­tor Alek­sander Petrov. Win­ner of a 2000 Acad­e­my Award for ani­mat­ed short, the film has as much appeal to a range of view­ers young and old as Hemingway’s book, and for some of the same reasons—it’s cap­ti­vat­ing­ly vivid depic­tion of life on the sea, with its long peri­ods of inac­tiv­i­ty and short bursts of extreme phys­i­cal exer­tion and con­sid­er­able risk.

Both states pro­vide ample oppor­tu­ni­ties for com­plex char­ac­ter devel­op­ment and rich sto­ry­telling as well as excit­ing white-knuck­le sus­pense. Petro­v’s film illus­trates them all, open­ing with images of San­ti­ago’s sto­ries of his sea­far­ing boy­hood off the coast of Africa and stag­ing the dra­mat­ic con­tests between San­ti­a­go, his “broth­er” the mar­lin, and the sharks who devour his prize.

But the pro­duc­tion here, unlike Hemingway’s spare prose, makes a daz­zling dis­play of its tech­nique. For his The Old Man and the Sea, Petrov—only one of a hand­ful of ani­ma­tors skilled in this art—handpainted over 29,000 frames on glass (with help from his son, Dmitri) using slow-dry­ing oils. Petrov moved the paint with his fin­gers to cap­ture the move­ment in the next shot, and while the mag­i­cal effect resem­bles a mov­ing paint­ing, the shoot­ing itself was very tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced, involv­ing a spe­cial­ly con­struct­ed motion-cap­ture cam­era. Petrov and son began their paint­ing in 1997 and fin­ished two years lat­er, tak­ing to heart some of the lessons of the book, it seems. The film’s cre­ators, how­ev­er, fared bet­ter than The Old Man’s pro­tag­o­nist, rich­ly reward­ed for their strug­gle. In addi­tion to an Oscar, the short won awards from BAFTA, the San Diego Film Fes­ti­val, and a hand­ful of oth­er pres­ti­gious inter­na­tion­al bod­ies.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William Faulkner’s Review of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea (1952)

Watch a Hand-Paint­ed Ani­ma­tion of Dostoevsky’s “The Dream of a Ridicu­lous Man”

Hem­ing­way, Fitzger­ald, Faulkn­er: A Free Yale Course

The Great Gats­by Is Now in the Pub­lic Domain and There’s a New Graph­ic Nov­el

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

An Introduction to The Babylonian Map of the World–the Oldest Known Map of the World

Tak­ing a first glance at the Baby­lon­ian Map of the World, few of us could rec­og­nize it for what it is. But then again, few of us are any­thing like the British Muse­um Mid­dle East depart­ment cura­tor Irv­ing Finkel, whose vast knowl­edge (and abil­i­ty to share it com­pelling­ly) have made him a view­er favorite on the insti­tu­tion’s Youtube chan­nel. In the Cura­tor’s Cor­ner video above, he offers an up-close view of the Baby­lon­ian Map of the World — or rather, the frag­ment of the clay tablet from the eighth or sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC that he and oth­er experts have deter­mined con­tains a piece of the old­est map of the known world in exis­tence.

“If you look care­ful­ly, you will see that the flat sur­face of the clay has a dou­ble cir­cle,” Finkel says. With­in the cir­cle is cuneiform writ­ing that describes the shape as the “bit­ter riv­er” that sur­rounds the known world: ancient Mesopotamia, or mod­ern-day Iraq.

Inside the cir­cle lie rep­re­sen­ta­tions of both the Euphrates Riv­er and the mighty city of Baby­lon; out­side it lie a series of what schol­ars have deter­mined were orig­i­nal­ly eight tri­an­gles. “Some­times peo­ple say they are islands, some­times peo­ple say they are dis­tricts, but in point of fact, they are almost cer­tain­ly moun­tains,” which stand “far beyond the known world” and rep­re­sent, to the ancient Baby­lo­ni­ans, “places full of mag­ic, and full of mys­tery.”

Com­ing up with a coher­ent expla­na­tion of the map itself hinged on the dis­cov­ery, in the nine­teen-nineties, of one of those tri­an­gles orig­i­nal­ly thought to have been lost. This owes to the enthu­si­asm of a non-pro­fes­sion­al, a stu­dent in Finkel’s cuneiform night class­es named Edith Hors­ley. Dur­ing one of her once-a-week vol­un­teer shifts at the British Muse­um, she set aside a par­tic­u­lar­ly intrigu­ing clay frag­ment. As soon as Finkel saw it, he knew just the arti­fact to which it belonged. After the piece’s reat­tach­ment, much fell into place, not least that the map pur­port­ed to show the dis­tant loca­tion of the beached (or rather, moun­tained) ark built by “the Baby­lon­ian ver­sion of Noah” — the search for which con­tin­ues these nine or so mil­len­nia lat­er.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Ancient Maps that Changed the World: See World Maps from Ancient Greece, Baby­lon, Rome, and the Islam­ic World

When a Medieval Monk Crowd­sourced the Most Accu­rate Map of the World, Cre­at­ing “the Google Earth of the 1450s”

The Largest Ear­ly Map of the World Gets Assem­bled for the First Time: See the Huge, Detailed & Fan­tas­ti­cal World Map from 1587

The World Map That Intro­duced Sci­en­tif­ic Map­mak­ing to the Medieval Islam­ic World (1154 AD)

How Did Car­tog­ra­phers Cre­ate World Maps before Air­planes and Satel­lites? An Intro­duc­tion

The Evo­lu­tion of the World Map: An Inven­tive Info­graph­ic Shows How Our Pic­ture of the World Changed Over 1,800 Years

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

Mark Twain & Helen Keller’s Special Friendship: He Treated Me Not as a Freak, But as a Person Dealing with Great Difficulties

Some­times it can seem as though the more we think we know a his­tor­i­cal fig­ure, the less we actu­al­ly do. Helen Keller? We’ve all seen (or think we’ve seen) some ver­sion of The Mir­a­cle Work­er, right?—even if we haven’t actu­al­ly read Keller’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy. And Mark Twain? He can seem like an old fam­i­ly friend. But I find peo­ple are often sur­prised to learn that Keller was a rad­i­cal social­ist fire­brand, in sym­pa­thy with work­ers’ move­ments world­wide. In a short arti­cle in praise of Lenin, for exam­ple, Keller once wrote, “I cry out against peo­ple who uphold the empire of gold…. I am per­fect­ly sure that love will bring every­thing right in the end, but I can­not help sym­pa­thiz­ing with the oppressed who feel dri­ven to use force to gain the rights that belong to them.”

Twain took a more pes­simistic, iron­ic approach, yet he thor­ough­ly opposed reli­gious dog­ma, slav­ery, and impe­ri­al­ism. “I am always on the side of the rev­o­lu­tion­ists,” he wrote, “because there nev­er was a rev­o­lu­tion unless there were some oppres­sive and intol­er­a­ble con­di­tions against which to rev­o­lute.” While a great many peo­ple grow more con­ser­v­a­tive with age, Twain and Keller both grew more rad­i­cal, which in part accounts for anoth­er lit­tle-known fact about these two nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can celebri­ties: they formed a very close and last­ing friend­ship that, at least in Keller’s case, may have been one of the most impor­tant rela­tion­ships in either figure’s lives.

10-hk-twain

Twain’s impor­tance to Keller, and hers to him, begins in 1895, when the two met at a lunch held for Keller in New York. Accord­ing to the Mark Twain Library’s exten­sive doc­u­men­tary exhib­it, Keller “seemed to feel more at ease with Twain than with any of the oth­er guests.” She would lat­er write, “He treat­ed me not as a freak, but as a hand­i­capped woman seek­ing a way to cir­cum­vent extra­or­di­nary dif­fi­cul­ties.” Twain was tak­en as well, sur­prised by “her quick­ness and intel­li­gence.” After the meet­ing, he wrote to his bene­fac­tor Hen­ry H. Rogers, ask­ing Rogers to fund Keller’s edu­ca­tion. Rogers, the Mark Twain Library tells us, “per­son­al­ly took charge of Helen Keller’s for­tunes, and out of his own means made it pos­si­ble for her to con­tin­ue her edu­ca­tion and to achieve for her­self the endur­ing fame which Mark Twain had fore­seen.”

Twain wrote to his wealthy friend, “It won’t do for Amer­i­ca to allow this mar­velous child to retire from her stud­ies because of pover­ty. If she can go on with them she will make a fame that will endure in his­to­ry for cen­turies.” There­after, the two would main­tain a “spe­cial friend­ship,” sus­tained not only by their polit­i­cal sen­ti­ments, but also by a love of ani­mals, trav­el, and oth­er per­son­al sim­i­lar­i­ties. Both writ­ers came to live in Fair­field Coun­ty, Con­necti­cut at the end of their lives, and she vis­it­ed him at his Red­ding home, Storm­field, in 1909, the year before his death (see them there at the top of the post, and more pho­tos here). Twain was espe­cial­ly impressed by Keller’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, writ­ing to her, “I am charmed with your book—enchanted.” (See his endorse­ment in a 1903 adver­tise­ment, below.)

HelenKellerAd2

Twain also came to Keller’s defense, ten years lat­er, after read­ing in her book about a pla­gia­rism scan­dal that occurred in 1892 when, at only twelve years old, she was accused of lift­ing her short sto­ry “The Frost King” from Mar­garet Canby’s “Frost Fairies.” Though a tri­bunal acquit­ted Keller of the charges, the inci­dent still piqued Twain, who called it “unspeak­ably fun­ny and owlish­ly idi­ot­ic and grotesque” in a 1903 let­ter in which he also declared: “The ker­nel, the soul—let us go fur­ther and say the sub­stance, the bulk, the actu­al and valu­able mate­r­i­al of all human utterance—is pla­gia­rism.” What dif­fers from work to work, he con­tends is “the phras­ing of a sto­ry”; Keller’s accusers, he writes pro­tec­tive­ly, were “solemn don­keys break­ing a lit­tle child’s heart.”

twain-welcomes-keller-4

We also have Twain—not play­wright William Gib­son—to thank for the “mir­a­cle work­er” title giv­en to Keller’s teacher, Anne Sul­li­van. (See Keller, Sul­li­van, Twain, and Sullivan’s hus­band John Macy above at Twain’s home). As a trib­ute to Sul­li­van for her tire­less work with Keller, he pre­sent­ed her with a post­card that read, “To Mrs. John Sul­li­van Macy with warm regard & with lim­it­less admi­ra­tion of the won­ders she has per­formed as a ‘mir­a­cle-work­er.’” In his 1903 let­ter to Keller, he called Sul­li­van “your oth­er half… for it took the pair of you to make com­plete and per­fect whole.”

Twain praised Sul­li­van effu­sive­ly for “her bril­lian­cy, pen­e­tra­tion, orig­i­nal­i­ty, wis­dom, char­ac­ter, and the fine lit­er­ary com­pe­ten­cies of her pen.” But he reserved his high­est praise for Keller her­self. “You are a won­der­ful crea­ture,” he wrote, “The most won­der­ful in the world.” Keller’s praise of her friend Twain was no less lofty. “I have been in Eden three days and I saw a King,” she wrote in his guest­book dur­ing her vis­it to Storm­field, “I knew he was a King the minute I touched him though I had nev­er touched a King before.” The last words in Twain’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, the first vol­ume anyway—which he only allowed to be pub­lished in 2010—are Keller’s; “You once told me you were a pes­simist, Mr. Clemons,” he quotes her as say­ing, “but great men are usu­al­ly mis­tak­en about them­selves. You are an opti­mist.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Helen Keller Writes a Let­ter to Nazi Stu­dents Before They Burn Her Book: “His­to­ry Has Taught You Noth­ing If You Think You Can Kill Ideas” (1933)

Read the Uplift­ing Let­ter That Albert Ein­stein Sent to Marie Curie Dur­ing a Time of Per­son­al Cri­sis (1911)

Helen Keller Had Impec­ca­ble Hand­writ­ing: See a Col­lec­tion of Her Child­hood Let­ters

Helen Keller Speaks About Her Great­est Regret — Nev­er Mas­ter­ing Speech

Helen Keller & Annie Sul­li­van Appear Togeth­er in Mov­ing 1930 News­reel

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

 

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The Brilliant Engineering That Made Venice: How a City Was Built on Water

Many of us have put off a vis­it to Venice for fear of the hordes of tourists who roam its streets and boat down its canals day in and day out. To judge by the most vis­i­ble of its eco­nom­ic activ­i­ty, the once-mighty city-state now exists almost sole­ly as an Insta­gram­ming des­ti­na­tion. It was­n’t always this way. “Despite hav­ing no roads, no land, and no fresh water, the Vene­tians man­aged to turn a mud­dy swamp into the most pow­er­ful and wealth­i­est city of its time,” says the nar­ra­tion of the Pri­mal Space video above. Its “unique lay­out of canals and bridges woven through hun­dreds of islands made Venice incred­i­bly acces­si­ble, and it became the epi­cen­ter of all busi­ness.”

Venice, in oth­er words, was at its height what world cap­i­tals like Lon­don or New York would become in lat­er eras. But on a phys­i­cal lev­el, it faced chal­lenges unknown in those cities, chal­lenges that demand­ed a vari­ety of inge­nious medieval engi­neer­ing solu­tions, most of which still func­tion today. First, the builders of Venice had to bring tim­ber from the forests of Croa­t­ia and dri­ve it into the soft soil, cre­at­ing a plat­form stur­dy enough to bear the weight of an entire urban built envi­ron­ment. Con­struc­tion of the build­ings on top proved to be a tri­al-and-error affair, which came around to using bricks with lime mor­tar to ensure flex­i­bil­i­ty on the slow­ly shift­ing ground.

“Instead of expand­ing out­wards like most cities,” Venice’s islands “expand­ed into each oth­er.” Even­tu­al­ly, they had to be con­nect­ed, though “there were no bridges for the first 500 years of Venice’s exis­tence,” not until the Doge offered a prize for the best design that could link the finan­cial cen­ter of Rial­to to the rest of the city. But what real­ly mat­tered was the test of time, one long since passed by the Ponte di Rial­to, which has stood fun­da­men­tal­ly unal­tered since it was rebuilt in stone in 1591. The com­bi­na­tion of bridges and canals, with what we would now call their sep­a­ra­tion of traf­fic, did its part to make Venice “the most pow­er­ful and rich­est city in Europe” by the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry.

Even the rich­est and most pow­er­ful cities need water, and Venice had an abun­dance of only the “extreme­ly salty and undrink­able” kind. To meet the needs of the city’s fast-grow­ing pop­u­la­tion, engi­neers built wells sur­round­ed by sand-and-stone fil­tra­tion sys­tems into Venice’s char­ac­ter­is­tic squares, turn­ing the city into “an enor­mous fun­nel.” The relat­ed prob­lem of waste man­age­ment neces­si­tat­ed the con­struc­tion of “a net­work of under­ground tun­nels” direct­ed into canals, flushed out by the motion of the tides. Venice’s plumb­ing has since been brought up to mod­ern stan­dards, among oth­er ambi­tious engi­neer­ing projects. But on the whole, the city still works as it did in the days of the Doge, and that fact alone makes it a sight worth see­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Venice Explained: Its Archi­tec­ture, Its Streets, Its Canals, and How Best to Expe­ri­ence Them All

How Venice Works: 124 Islands, 183 Canals & 438 Bridges

Watch Venice’s New $7 Bil­lion Flood Defense Sys­tem in Action

A Relax­ing 3‑Hour Tour of Venice’s Canals

Venice’s Canals Have Run Dry Dur­ing a Win­ter Drought, Leav­ing Gon­do­las Stuck in the Mud

Pink Floyd Plays in Venice on a Mas­sive Float­ing Stage in 1989; Forces the May­or & City Coun­cil to Resign

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

The Long Game of Creativity: If You Haven’t Created a Masterpiece at 30, You’re Not a Failure

Orson Welles direct­ed the great­est movie ever made, Cit­i­zen Kane, at age 25, with only a lim­it­ed knowl­edge of the medi­um. When Paul McCart­ney was 25, he, along with his fel­low Bea­t­les, released the era-defin­ing album Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band. By age 29, Pablo Picas­so rev­o­lu­tion­ized mod­ern art by devel­op­ing cubism.

If hear­ing such sto­ries sets off an exis­ten­tial pan­ic attack because you squan­dered your 20s with too much real­i­ty TV and grad­u­ate school, then take heart — you’re not nec­es­sar­i­ly a fail­ure.

As Adam West­brook points out in his video essay The Long Game, Leonar­do da Vin­ci was a los­er before he paint­ed The Last Sup­per at age 46. As a youth, Leonar­do planned grandiose projects that he wouldn’t be able to fin­ish. This, of course, did lit­tle for his rep­u­ta­tion and even less for his career as a free­lance artist. But he con­tin­ued to work, eking out a liv­ing by endur­ing the demands of picky, small-mind­ed clients, and, through this lean peri­od, Leonar­do emerged as a great artist. Robert Greene, in his book Mas­tery, calls this peri­od “The Dif­fi­cult Years.” Every suc­cess­ful cre­ative slogs through some form of the Dif­fi­cult Years, even child prodi­gies. Mozart just went through his strug­gles at a time when most chil­dren are learn­ing to read.

In oth­er words, “genius” has less to do with innate tal­ent than just doing the work. Of course, that isn’t near­ly as good a sto­ry as that of the roman­tic genius. But it is encour­ag­ing for those of us who haven’t quite yet won that MacArthur grant.

You can watch Westbrook’s video essay in var­i­ous parts above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Walk­ing Fos­ters Cre­ativ­i­ty: Stan­ford Researchers Con­firm What Philoso­phers & Writ­ers Have Always Known

John Cleese on the Ori­gin of Cre­ativ­i­ty

Mihaly Czik­szent­mi­ha­lyi Explains Why the Source of Hap­pi­ness Lies in Cre­ativ­i­ty and Flow, Not Mon­ey

David Lynch Explains Why Depres­sion Is the Ene­my of Creativity–and Why Med­i­ta­tion Is the Solu­tion

Jonathan Crow is a writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow

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Carl Jung Offers an Introduction to His Psychological Thought in a 3‑Hour Interview (1957)

In the 1950s, it was fash­ion­able to drop Freud’s name — often as not in pseu­do-intel­lec­tu­al sex jokes. Freud’s pre­oc­cu­pa­tions had as much to do with his fame as the actu­al prac­tice of psy­chother­a­py, and it was assumed — and still is to a great degree — that Freud had “won” the debate with his for­mer stu­dent and friend Carl Jung, who saw reli­gion, psy­che­del­ic drugs, occult prac­tices, etc. as valid forms of indi­vid­u­al­iz­ing and inte­grat­ing human selves — selves that were after all, he thought, con­nect­ed by far more than bio­log­i­cal dri­ves for sex and death.

Now Jung’s insights per­me­ate the cul­ture, in increas­ing­ly pop­u­lar fields like transper­son­al psy­chol­o­gy, for exam­ple, that see humans as “rad­i­cal­ly inter­con­nect­ed, not just iso­lat­ed indi­vid­u­als,” psy­chol­o­gist Har­ris L. Fried­man argues. Move­ments like these grew out of the “coun­ter­cul­ture move­ments of the 1960s,” psy­chol­o­gy lec­tur­er and author Steve Tay­lor explains, “and the wave of psy­cho-exper­i­men­ta­tion it involved, through psy­che­del­ic sub­stances, med­i­ta­tion and oth­er con­scious­ness-chang­ing prac­tices” — the very prac­tices Jung explored in his work.

Indeed, Jung was the first “to legit­imize a spir­i­tu­al approach to the prac­tice of depth psy­chol­o­gy,” Mark Kasprow and Bruce Scot­ton point out, and “sug­gest­ed that psy­cho­log­i­cal devel­op­ment extends to include high­er states of con­scious­ness and can con­tin­ue through­out life, rather than stop with the attain­ment of adult ego mat­u­ra­tion.” Against Freud, who thought tran­scen­dence was regres­sion, Jung “pro­posed that tran­scen­dent expe­ri­ence lies with­in and is acces­si­ble to every­one, and that the heal­ing and growth stim­u­lat­ed by such expe­ri­ence often make use of the lan­guages of sym­bol­ic imagery and non­ver­bal expe­ri­ence.”

Jung’s work became increas­ing­ly impor­tant after his death in 1961, lead­ing to the pub­li­ca­tion of his col­lect­ed works in 1969. These intro­duced read­ers to all of his  “key con­cepts and ideas, from arche­typ­al sym­bols to ana­lyt­i­cal psy­chol­o­gy to UFOs,” notes a com­pan­ion guide. Near the end of his life, Jung him­self pro­vid­ed a ver­bal sur­vey of his life’s work in the form of four one-hour inter­views con­duct­ed in 1957 by Uni­ver­si­ty of Houston’s Dr. Richard Evans at the Eidgenos­sis­che Tech­nis­che Hoschschule (Fed­er­al Insti­tute of Tech­nol­o­gy) in Zurich.

“The con­ver­sa­tions were filmed as part of an edu­ca­tion­al project designed for stu­dents of the psy­chol­o­gy depart­ment. Evans is a poor inter­view­er, but Jung com­pen­sates well,” the Gnos­tic Soci­ety Library writes. The edit­ed inter­views begin with a ques­tion about Jung’s con­cept of per­sona (also, inci­den­tal­ly, the theme and title of Ing­mar Bergman’s 1966 mas­ter­piece). In response, Jung describes the per­sona in plain terms and with every­day exam­ples as a fic­tion­al self “par­tial­ly dic­tat­ed by soci­ety and par­tial­ly dic­tat­ed by the expec­ta­tions or the wish­es one nurs­es one­self.”

The less we’re con­scious­ly aware of our pub­lic selves as per­for­mances in these terms, the more we’re prone, Jung says, to neu­roses, as the pres­sure of our “shad­ow,” exerts itself. Jung and Evans’ dis­cus­sion of per­sona only grazes the sur­face of their wide-rang­ing con­ver­sa­tion about the uncon­scious and the many ways to access it. Through­out, Jung’s exam­ples are clear and his expla­na­tions lucid. Above, you can see a tran­scribed video of the same inter­views. Read a pub­lished tran­script in the col­lec­tion C.G. Jung Speak­ing, and see more Jung inter­views and doc­u­men­taries at the Gnos­tic Soci­ety Library.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

How Carl Jung Inspired the Cre­ation of Alco­holics Anony­mous

Face to Face with Carl Jung: ‘Man Can­not Stand a Mean­ing­less Life’ (1959)

The Vision­ary Mys­ti­cal Art of Carl Jung: See Illus­trat­ed Pages from The Red Book

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

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