The Wisdom of David Bowie: On Art, Religion, Technology and More

It does­n’t quite ring true to call David Bowie a rock star. Zig­gy Star­dust, the neon syn­thet­ic-clad alien alter ego he both cre­at­ed and retired in the ear­ly sev­en­ties, was, of course, rock star­dom out­landish­ly per­son­i­fied. But then, that was the con­cept of what turned out to be just one of many per­son­ae he delib­er­ate­ly craft­ed through­out the course of his career. That career was in music, pri­mar­i­ly, but look­ing back on it today, more than a decade after Bowie’s death, it looks more like his medi­um was cul­ture itself. That’s under­scored by his inter­views, clips from a vari­ety of which appear in the new video above from YouTube chan­nel T&H Inspi­ra­tion.

Most of T&H’s most pop­u­lar videos add visu­als to speech­es by the pop­u­lar­iz­er of East­ern phi­los­o­phy Alan Watts, who’s been fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture before. He and Bowie had more in com­mon than it may seem at first, begin­ning with an Eng­lish­ness that remained thor­ough­go­ing no mat­ter how far out they ven­tured into the world.

Though Watts’ inter­est in Bud­dhism hard­ly needs stat­ing, it’s worth remem­ber­ing that he chose to be ordained as an Epis­co­palian priest rather than as a Bud­dhist monk. The young Bowie, for his part, very near­ly took the lat­ter path, study­ing under the late Lama Chime Rin­poche, who even­tu­al­ly told him he’d be bet­ter off going into the music busi­ness.

Bowie did so, of course, but with a new “sense of tran­sience and change, which actu­al­ly became fun­da­men­tal to my life and my approach to it,” as he put it decades lat­er. That sense man­i­fests even in his ear­ly work, but embrac­ing and even pur­su­ing imper­ma­nence — the imper­ma­nence of sounds, of fash­ions, of hit records, of life itself — also kept him from get­ting mired in the irrel­e­vance or auto-kitsch that threat­ens every super­star. Giv­en the belief that noth­ing lasts for­ev­er, “look­ing for the source of one’s own being becomes much more impor­tant,” as does attempt­ing artis­tic or intel­lec­tu­al chal­lenges at the very edge of one’s abil­i­ties. Alan Watts would prob­a­bly have agreed. The big­ger ques­tion is, did he ever hear “Changes”?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Bowie Offers Advice for Aspir­ing Artists: “Go a Lit­tle Out of Your Depth,” “Nev­er Ful­fill Oth­er People’s Expec­ta­tions”

David Bowie on Why It’s Crazy to Make Art — and We Do It Any­way (1998)

The Art Col­lec­tion of David Bowie: An Intro­duc­tion

David Bowie Pre­dicts the Good & Bad of the Inter­net in 1999: “We’re on the Cusp of Some­thing Exhil­a­rat­ing and Ter­ri­fy­ing”

How Leonard Cohen & David Bowie Faced Death Through Their Art: A Look at Their Final Albums

Stream David Bowie’s Com­plete Discog­ra­phy in a 19-Hour Playlist: From His Very First Record­ings to His Last

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Very First Film Adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a Thomas Edison Production (1910)

The sto­ry of humans cre­at­ing mon­strous beings in their image may have peren­ni­al rel­e­vance, even if it seems spe­cif­ic to our con­tem­po­rary cul­tur­al moment. What, after all, is Oscar Isaac’s AI inven­tor in Ex Machi­na but a 21st-cen­tu­ry update of Vic­tor Franken­stein? (Before Isaac went on to por­tray Vic­tor him­self in Guiller­mo del Toro’s 2025 film adap­ta­tion.) And what is Frankenstein’s mon­ster but a Goth­ic recre­ation of the Golem, or any num­ber of folk­loric automa­tons in cul­tures far and wide? It’s an age-old arche­typ­al sto­ry that seems to get an update every year.

Peo­ple have imag­ined mak­ing arti­fi­cial peo­ple, per­haps for as long as peo­ple have told sto­ries. But each iter­a­tion of that sto­ry emerges from a his­tor­i­cal matrix of par­tic­u­lar tech­no­log­i­cal, philo­soph­i­cal, and meta­phys­i­cal anx­i­eties. In the case of Ex Machi­na, we have not only a think­ing, feel­ing humanoid, but one cre­at­ed out of mass data col­lec­tion and designed to serve the pruri­ent inter­ests of a Niet­zschean ven­ture cap­i­tal­ist engi­neer.

In the orig­i­nal Franken­stein, a nov­el writ­ten by a woman, Mary Shel­ley, we have a very dif­fer­ent kind of mon­ster, born out of a Roman­tic con­ver­gence of inter­est in alche­my and the occult—the orig­i­nal domains of ear­ly mod­ern sci­en­tists like Isaac Newton—and more mod­ern, indus­tri­al sci­en­tif­ic meth­ods (hence the novel’s sub­ti­tle, The Mod­ern Prometheus). Many crit­ics have called the nov­el the first work of sci­ence fic­tion, and many, like Mau­rice Hin­dle in the intro­duc­tion to the Pen­guin Clas­sics edi­tion, have described its main theme as “the aspi­ra­tion of mod­ern mas­culin­ist sci­en­tists to be tech­ni­cal­ly cre­ative divini­ties.”

And yet, writes Ruth Franklin at the New Repub­lic—draw­ing con­vinc­ing­ly on Shelley’s own trau­mat­ic expe­ri­ences with birth—Franken­stein might “also be a sto­ry about preg­nan­cy.” Intrigu­ing as this pos­si­bil­i­ty may be, most inter­pre­ta­tions of the nov­el have seen it as “a fable of mas­cu­line repro­duc­tion, in which a man cre­ates life asex­u­al­ly.” That tra­di­tion con­tin­ues in the movies with the first film adap­ta­tion of Franken­stein, made by Edi­son stu­dios just over 100 years after the novel’s 1818 pub­li­ca­tion.

The 1910 short silent film, which you can watch above, bills itself as “a lib­er­al adap­ta­tion from Mrs. Shel­ley’s famous sto­ry,” and opens in its first scene with Vic­tor Franken­stein leav­ing home for col­lege. Two years lat­er, the Faus­t­ian mad sci­en­tist dis­cov­ers the mys­tery of life, uses the knowl­edge to make his “creature”—a sur­pris­ing­ly grotesque scene—and, appalled at the sight of it, rejects the thing in hor­ror. The rest of the sto­ry pro­ceeds along the usu­al lines, as the mon­ster, in rags and fright wig, seeks recog­ni­tion from his creator/parent and wreaks hav­oc when he does not receive it.

This first Franken­stein film, direct­ed by J. Sear­le Daw­ley, arrived two years after Edis­on’s Bronx, New York stu­dios began full and very lucra­tive oper­a­tions, and, by this time, writes Rich Drees, motion pic­tures had begun to receive unwel­come atten­tion from “moral cru­saders and reform groups, who decried the new medi­um as being dan­ger­ous and encour­ag­ing of immoral­i­ty.” Edi­son respond­ed quick­ly, fear­ing “a seri­ous threat to his bot­tom line,” and ordered that his films’ pro­duc­tion qual­i­ty and “moral tone” be improved.

Franken­stein, writes Drees, “was the per­fect choice to kick off pro­duc­tion under this new moral ban­ner. It’s a sto­ry that deals with the extremes of the human con­di­tion, life and death, and the dan­gers of tam­per­ing in God’s realm.” Edi­son released the film with the fol­low­ing dis­claimer:

To those famil­iar with Mrs. Shelley’s sto­ry it will be evi­dent that we have care­ful­ly omit­ted any­thing which might be any pos­si­bil­i­ty shock any por­tion of the audi­ence. In mak­ing the film the Edi­son Co. has care­ful­ly tried to elim­i­nate all actu­al repul­sive sit­u­a­tions and to con­cen­trate its endeav­ors upon the mys­tic and psy­cho­log­i­cal prob­lems that are to be found in this weird tale. Wher­ev­er, there­fore, the film dif­fers from the orig­i­nal sto­ry it is pure­ly with the idea of elim­i­nat­ing what would be repul­sive to a mov­ing pic­ture audi­ence. 

Five years after the Edi­son stu­dio’s short, anoth­er silent adap­ta­tion, Life With­out Soul, appeared. Made by the Ocean Film Cor­po­ra­tion, this film is now lost to his­to­ry, but it qual­i­fies as the first fea­ture-length adap­ta­tion at 70 min­utes. A review of the film, writes the blog Franken­steinia, “reveals a sto­ry that hews fair­ly close to Mary Shel­ley’s nov­el,” mak­ing a “bold attempt at cap­tur­ing the world-span­ning sweep of the tale.”

Sev­er­al dozen film adap­ta­tions in the ensu­ing years have tracked more or less close­ly to Shel­ley’s narrative—giving Franken­stein’s mon­ster a bride and hav­ing Vic­tor Franken­stein rean­i­mate his dead lover with the mind of a wrong­ly exe­cut­ed man. But none of these films, so far as I know, has drawn out the sub­text of Franken­stein as a nov­el about preg­nan­cy and child­birth. Such an adap­ta­tion remains to be made—although Mag­gie Gyl­len­haal’s 2026 film The Bride! has become the first adap­ta­tion by a woman.

You can find Mary Shel­ley’s Franken­stein in our col­lec­tions of Free eBooks and Free Audio Books.

The film above will be added to 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 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Hor­ror Film, George Méliès’ The Manor of the Dev­il (1896)

Franken­wee­nie: Tim Bur­ton Turns Franken­stein Tale into Dis­ney Kids Film (1984)

Mary Shelley’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts of Franken­stein Now Online for the First Time

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

The Daily Routine of Marcus Aurelius: How to Live Like a Stoic

Mar­cus Aure­lius did not have a smart­phone. In fact, he did­n’t have a phone of any kind, owing to the fact that he lived in the sec­ond cen­tu­ry, though we can be rea­son­ably cer­tain that he com­mand­ed more than enough mes­sen­gers to keep him­self informed around the clock. That’s because he was the Roman emper­or at a time when the Roman Empire was at its height. And so, none of us will ever know Mar­cus’ free­dom from dig­i­tal dis­trac­tion, nor will we know the intense respon­si­bil­i­ty he must have felt, no mat­ter how grand a title we attain in our own careers. Still, even here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, we would all do well to live by the exam­ple he left.

So believes Ryan Hol­i­day, a pop­u­lar­iz­er of Sto­icism, the school of thought pri­mar­i­ly defined by Mar­cus’ writ­ings, as well as those of states­man-drama­tist Seneca the Younger and for­mer slave Epicte­tus. In his Med­i­ta­tions, Mar­cus includ­ed enough detail about his own life that Hol­i­day could make the video above for his YouTube chan­nel Dai­ly Sto­ic, which breaks down the emper­or’s dai­ly rou­tine.

He rose at dawn, but not out of nat­ur­al incli­na­tion. He did his reflec­tion, includ­ing a real­is­tic adjust­ment of his expec­ta­tions for the day, before the siege of duties and requests began. He defined time for what Cal New­port, Hol­i­day’s col­league in the smarter regions of dig­i­tal-era self-help, would call deep work.

As with any pop­u­lar­iza­tion, Hol­i­day con­veys Mar­cus’ life and thought in terms the man him­self would­n’t rec­og­nize, even if they were trans­lat­ed into Latin. One fash­ion­able expres­sion he does­n’t use but could have is “work-life bal­ance.” “Mar­cus was not all about busi­ness,” Hol­i­day says. “We know that he was active in phys­i­cal exer­cise. We know that he enjoyed box­ing and wrestling and hunt­ing and horse­back rid­ing. We know that he would take walks.” He would also go to the Colos­se­um, though with­out hid­ing his lack of inter­est in glad­i­a­to­r­i­al com­bat. If he spent more time read­ing and think­ing in his prime seat than get­ting into the spir­it of the games, why attend at all? Per­haps he thought in the man­ner of Mar­tial, a poet of an ear­li­er gen­er­a­tion whose sen­ti­ments would nev­er­the­less ring true with Sto­ics ancient or mod­ern: “These are my times, and I must know them.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­cus Aure­lius’ 9 Rules for Liv­ing a Sto­ic Life

Why Jer­ry Sein­feld Lives by the Sto­ic Phi­los­o­phy of Mar­cus Aure­lius

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Sto­icism, the Ancient Greek Phi­los­o­phy That Lets You Lead a Hap­py, Ful­fill­ing Life

How to Be a Sto­ic in Your Every­day Life: Phi­los­o­phy Pro­fes­sor Mas­si­mo Pigli­uc­ci Explains

What Is Sto­icism? A Short Intro­duc­tion to the Ancient Phi­los­o­phy That Can Help You Cope with Our Hard Mod­ern Times

The Dai­ly Rou­tines of Famous Cre­ative Peo­ple, Pre­sent­ed in an Inter­ac­tive Info­graph­ic

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Women of the Bauhaus: See Hip, Avant-Garde Photographs of Female Students & Instructors at the Famous Art School

Take a look at pho­tos of Bush Tetras — a three-girl-one-guy No Wave/­Post-Punk band from the ear­ly 1980s down­town Man­hat­tan scene. Now, look at the pho­to­graph above, “Mar­cel Breuer and His Harem,” by Bauhaus pho­tog­ra­ph­er Erich Con­semüller, tak­en some­time around 1927. Except for the fact that Breuer looks more like Ron Mael of Sparks sans mus­tache than drum­mer Dee Pop, one might mis­take this for a pho­to of the punk band. This rais­es a few ques­tions: did art stu­dents Bush Tetras look to the women of the Bauhaus for their style? Or did the women of the Bauhaus look to the future and see punk? The sec­ond sce­nario seems more like­ly since the women of the Bauhaus have not, until recent­ly, been ter­ri­bly well-known.

I per­son­al­ly feel cheat­ed after study­ing art and art his­to­ry in col­lege many years ago and only now get­ting intro­duced to sev­er­al sig­nif­i­cant artists of the rad­i­cal Ger­man art school found­ed by Wal­ter Gropius. All of its famous expo­nents and art stars are men, but it seems the gen­der ratio of the Bauhaus was clos­er to that of the gen­er­al pop­u­la­tion (as was, in many cas­es, that of the ear­ly punk and post-punk scenes).

But we don’t tend to learn the names or see the work of these artists, and, in some cas­es, their work has been posthu­mous­ly attrib­uted to their male col­leagues. Nor are we famil­iar with their pro­gres­sive per­son­al style, essen­tial in the Bauhaus’s total approach to rev­o­lu­tion­iz­ing the arts, includ­ing fash­ion, as a way to lib­er­ate human­i­ty from the dog­mas of the past.

How unfor­tu­nate that the mem­o­ry of the Bauhaus, like the mem­o­ry of punk, repli­cat­ed the same old rules its artists broke. The school’s gen­der equal­i­ty was rad­i­cal, hence the pho­tograph’s satir­i­cal title, which “express­es the pre­cise oppo­site of what the pho­to itself shows,” notes the site Bauhaus Koop­er­a­tion: “the moder­ni­ty, eman­ci­pa­tion, equal­i­ty, or even supe­ri­or­i­ty, of the women in it.” The “junior mas­ter” of the car­pen­try work­shop, Breuer looks at the three artists to his left “skep­ti­cal­ly, with his arms crossed,” as if to say, “ ‘These are ‘my’ women?!’ ” The artists of the “harem,” from left to right, are Breuer’s wife Martha Erps, Katt Both, and the pho­tog­ra­pher’s wife, Ruth Hol­lós, who “seems to be sup­press­ing laugh­ter as she looks towards the pho­tog­ra­ph­er (her hus­band).”

Erich Con­semüller, who taught archi­tec­ture at the Bauhaus, had been tasked by Gropius with doc­u­ment­ing the school and its life. Gropius part­nered him with pho­tog­ra­ph­er Lucia Moholy, wife of Lás­zló Moholy-Nagy (see a pho­to of her above, tak­en by her hus­band some­time between 1924 and 28). Moholy took most­ly exte­ri­or shots like the pho­to­graph by her fur­ther up of Erps and Hol­lós on the roof of the Ate­lier­haus in Dessau in the mid-1920s. Con­semüller main­ly focused on inte­ri­ors in his work, with exper­i­men­tal excep­tions like the “Mechan­i­cal Fan­ta­sy” series seen here, which uses cloth­ing, pos­es, and dou­ble expo­sures to visu­al­ly empha­size a kind of uni­for­mi­ty of pur­pose, plac­ing and join­ing male and female Bauhaus artists in almost typo­log­i­cal arrange­ments.

Indeed, near­ly all of the artists of the Bauhaus — as was the school’s prac­tice — tried their hand at pho­tog­ra­phy, and many used the medi­um to doc­u­ment, in ways both casu­al and delib­er­ate, the Bauhaus’s com­mit­ment to gen­der equi­ty and the full inclu­sion of women artists in its pro­grams, a state­ment painter and pho­tog­ra­ph­er T. Lux Feininger seems to under­line in the group pho­to­graph below of the school’s weavers on the steps of the new Bauhaus build­ing in 1927. (Artists in the shot: Léna Bergn­er, Gun­ta Stöl­zl, Lju­ba Mona­s­tirsky, Otti Berg­er, Lis Bey­er, Elis­a­beth Mueller, Rosa Berg­er, Ruth Hol­lós, and Lis­beth Oestre­ich­er.)

Bauhaus artists, both men and women, were very much like ear­ly punks in some ways, invent­ing new ways to shake up the estab­lish­ment and break out of pre­scribed roles. But instead of a down­town alter­na­tive to the sta­tus quo, they offered a recipe for its full trans­for­ma­tion through art. Who can say how far that move­ment would have pro­gressed had it not been splin­tered by the Nazis? “Togeth­er,” as Gropius wrote, “let us call for, devise, and cre­ate the con­struc­tion of the future, com­pris­ing every­thing in one form, archi­tec­ture, sculp­ture and paint­ing,” and most every­thing else in the built and visu­al envi­ron­ments, he might have added.

via Bar­bara Her­shey

An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2022.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Female Pio­neers of the Bauhaus Art Move­ment: Dis­cov­er Gertrud Arndt, Mar­i­anne Brandt, Anni Albers & Oth­er For­got­ten Inno­va­tors

The Pol­i­tics & Phi­los­o­phy of the Bauhaus Design Move­ment: A Short Intro­duc­tion

Watch Bauhaus World, a Free Doc­u­men­tary That Cel­e­brates the 100th Anniver­sary of Germany’s Leg­endary Art, Archi­tec­ture & Design School

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

Why Americans Stopped Reading Books

The kids can’t read. Such has been the impli­ca­tion, even the dec­la­ra­tion, made by a wave of arti­cles in recent years. But the state­ment needs some qual­i­fi­ca­tion: the kids in ques­tion are Amer­i­can; what they can’t read is entire books, espe­cial­ly lit­er­ary fic­tion; and it isn’t just the kids in the first place. It would be the rare read­er, espe­cial­ly of a site like Open Cul­ture, who could resist feel­ing any despair when con­front­ed with, say, a study find­ing that only five per­cent of col­lege Eng­lish majors test­ed could under­stand the open­ing of Bleak House. But the real prob­lem is broad­er, as reflect­ed by the fram­ing of the Jared Hen­der­son video above, “Why Every­one Stopped Read­ing.”

Hen­der­son points to sev­er­al explana­to­ry fac­tors. The first is the way many Amer­i­can schools teach read­ing: for a time, they aban­doned the method of phon­ics, which starts with basic indi­vid­ual sounds and builds from there, and went all in on some­thing called “whole lan­guage learn­ing,” which was based on teach­ing stu­dents to “infer the mean­ings of words from con­text.” The idea was that, rather than rely­ing on rote drilling, the new sys­tem could cul­ti­vate a nat­ur­al love for read­ing in young stu­dents. “The only prob­lem is that whole lan­guage learn­ing did­n’t work,” and the result­ing drop in lit­er­a­cy rates sure­ly has some­thing to do with the dra­mat­ic falloff of read­ing in gen­er­al.

Oth­er U.S. edu­ca­tion­al reforms, such as the nation­wide push toward short infor­ma­tion­al texts and stan­dard­ized test­ing, which pri­or­i­tized infor­ma­tion extrac­tion over tex­tu­al engage­ment, must also share the blame. This has pro­duced an abun­dance of, to bor­row the head­line of Rose Horow­itch’s much-cir­cu­lat­ed Atlantic piece from 2024, “Elite Col­lege Stu­dents Who Can’t Read Books.” Those same stu­dents, of course, have all come of age in the time of the smart­phone, which does pro­vide us with an “end­less stream of text,” albeit of low-to-nonex­is­tent lit­er­ary mer­it — to say noth­ing of the infi­nite scroll of hyper-stim­u­lat­ing short-form videos absorb­ing ever-greater pro­por­tions of dai­ly life, and not just that of the young.

“Amer­i­cans, once mem­bers of a proud­ly lit­er­ate soci­ety, read much less than they used to,” writes Horow­itch in a new, in-depth piece on the coun­try’s “post-lit­er­a­cy.” “Few­er than half of all adults report­ed hav­ing read a book of any kind in 2022. Only 38 per­cent read a nov­el or short sto­ry.” At the same time, “gam­bling has become a more com­mon leisure activ­i­ty than read­ing a book: Last year, 57 per­cent of Amer­i­cans placed a bet.” The now-main­stream notion that Amer­i­ca (and, in time, the world) is revert­ing from a tex­tu­al to an oral cul­ture was first fore­seen by the likes of Mar­shall McLuhan, Neil Post­man, and Wal­ter J. Ong. But many here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry might hear their con­di­tion described in a more relat­able fash­ion by David Bowie, in his Tin Machine peri­od, near­ly forty years ago.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How Read­ing Increas­es Your Emo­tion­al Intel­li­gence & Brain Func­tion: The Find­ings of Recent Sci­en­tif­ic Stud­ies

How to Read Books That Chal­lenge Your Mind: Advice from Robert Greene, Author of The 48 Laws of Pow­er

How to Read Many More Books in a Year: Watch a Short Doc­u­men­tary Fea­tur­ing Some of the World’s Most Beau­ti­ful Book­stores

How to Read Five Books Per Month & Become a Seri­ous Read­er: Tips from Deep Work Author Cal New­port

The Virtue of Own­ing Books You Haven’t Read: Why Umber­to Eco Kept an “Antili­brary”

W. H. Auden’s 1941 Syl­labus Asked Stu­dents to Read 32 Great Lit­er­ary Works, Total­ing 6,000 Pages

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Discover the Mundaneum, an Early 20th-Century “Internet” That Put the World’s Knowledge on Millions of Index Cards

Pitch to friends or fam­i­ly the idea of a trip to Mons, Bel­gium to vis­it the Mun­da­neum, and you may be met with a less-than-enthu­si­as­tic recep­tion. That’s unfor­tu­nate, since such an expe­ri­ence could fun­da­men­tal­ly change the way they regard tech­nol­o­gy they use every day. Though its name may seem to promise unre­lieved dull­ness today, the Mun­da­neum arose out of enor­mous high-tech ambi­tions. The idea behind it, as con­ceived by Bel­gian lawyers Paul Otlet and Hen­ri La Fontaine, was to gath­er, clas­si­fy, cen­tral­ize, and make uni­ver­sal­ly avail­able all human knowl­edge. This may sound famil­iar to any­one who’s used the inter­net, but it was a rather bold­er propo­si­tion at the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry.

Otlet and La Fontaine’s “city of knowl­edge” may not have been ful­ly real­iz­able at that time, but tech­nol­o­gy had made it imag­in­able. The Dewey Dec­i­mal Sys­tem, with its stan­dard­ized card cat­a­logs, had been around since 1876. Start­ing in 1895, Otlet adapt­ed that basic tool to a far larg­er project: the Mun­da­neum took shape as a vast paper archive. Mil­lions of index cards, each record­ing bib­li­o­graph­ic details about a sin­gle book, arti­cle, or doc­u­ment, were filed away in row upon row of cat­a­log draw­ers. (See image below.)

“Otlet made this card cen­tral to his sys­tem,” writes Sid­ney Perkowitz at JSTOR. “Aim­ing to cap­ture every book ever pub­lished, the Mun­da­neum stored bib­li­o­graph­ic data for books under the UDC [Uni­ver­sal Dec­i­mal Clas­si­fi­ca­tion], along with mag­a­zine arti­cles, images, and more on over 15 mil­lion cards crammed into cat­a­log draw­ers.” Orig­i­nal­ly housed in Brus­sels’ Cinquan­te­naire Palace, the Mun­da­neum was meant to get its own build­ing designed by the for­ward-think­ing Le Cor­busier by the end of the nine­teen-twen­ties. Alas, it was nev­er built, and after the Nazi inva­sion of 1940, the Mun­da­neum was scrapped for a Third Reich art exhi­bi­tion.

Dis­cus­sions of the Mun­da­neum in our time often high­light what Otlet (1868–1944), despite the pro­jec­t’s many tribu­la­tions, even­tu­al­ly envi­sioned as “a glob­al ‘réseau’ or net­work of ‘elec­tric tele­scopes.’ These ear­ly work­sta­tions were to be linked to the Mun­da­neum by tele­phone and the new tech­nol­o­gy of tele­vi­sion. A user would phone in a query, and the answer in a book or oth­er source would appear dis­played on a per­son­al screen, which could be split to show mul­ti­ple results.” Con­vinced that all homes would even­tu­al­ly have access to the net­work, he con­sid­ered even the pos­si­bil­i­ty of “data shar­ing and social inter­ac­tions among its users.” This dream of the inter­net avant la tech­nolo­gie is now enshrined at the Mun­da­neum muse­um, which is open five days a week. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can point your elec­tric tele­scope to its online cat­a­log any time.

Image by Zin­neke, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

via JSTOR

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Rise and Fall of the Great Library of Alexan­dria: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

The First Music Stream­ing Ser­vice Was Invent­ed in 1881: Dis­cov­er the Théâtro­phone

Mark Twain Pre­dicts the Inter­net in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Sto­ry, “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904”

Meet the Syn­topi­con: The Ambi­tious Index That Tried to Orga­nize All of West­ern Thought (1952)

What the Entire Inter­net Looked Like in 1973: An Old Map Gets Found in a Pile of Research Papers

Do All Roads Lead to Phi­los­o­phy on Wikipedia?: They Do About 97.3% of the Time

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A 1932 Illustrated Map of Harlem’s Night Clubs: From the Cotton Club to the Savoy Ballroom

32 Harlem Map

Harlem’s under­go­ing anoth­er Renais­sance, and has been for years now. Crime’s down, real estate prices are up, and throngs of pale-faced hip­sters are descend­ing to check the area out.

Sure, something’s gained, but something’s lost, too.

For today’s hol­i­day in Harlem, we’re going to climb in the Way­back Machine. Set the dial for 1932. Don’t for­get your map. (Click the image above to view a larg­er ver­sion.)

This deliri­ous arti­fact comes cour­tesy of Elmer Simms Camp­bell (1906–1971), an artist whose race proved an imped­i­ment to career advance­ment in his native Mid­west. Not long after relo­cat­ing to New York City, he had the good for­tune to be befriend­ed by the great Cab Cal­loway, star of the Cot­ton Club. Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-ho! Check the low­er left cor­ner of your map.

You may notice that the com­pass rose devi­ates rather dras­ti­cal­ly from estab­lished norms. As you’ve no doubt heard, the Bronx is up, and the Battery’s down, but not in this case. Were you to choose those trees in the upper left cor­ner as your start­ing point, you’d be at the top of Cen­tral Park, basi­cal­ly equidis­tant from the east and west sides. (Take the 2 or the 3 to 110th Street…)

But keep in mind that this map is not drawn to scale. I know it looks like the joints are jump­ing from the sec­ond you step off the curb, but in real­i­ty, you’ll need to hoof it 21 blocks from the top of Cen­tral Park to 131st Street for things to start cookin’. Hope­ful­ly, this geo­graph­i­cal lib­er­ty won’t get you too hot under the col­lar. And if it does, well, it may be Pro­hi­bi­tion, but stress-reliev­ing bev­er­ages await you in every loca­tion list­ed, as well as in some 500 speakeasies Camp­bell allowed to remain on the down low.

If that does­n’t do it for you, there’s a guy sell­ing reefer across the street from Earl “Snake­hips” Tuck­er.

As you stag­ger back and forth between Sev­enth Avenue and Lenox (now referred to as Adam Clay­ton Pow­ell Jr. Boule­vard and Mal­colm X Boule­vard), bear in mind that Camp­bell was the first African-Amer­i­can car­toon­ist to be nation­al­ly pub­lished in the New York­er, Play­boy, and Esquire, whose bug-eyed, now retired mas­cot, Esky, was a Camp­bell cre­ation.

In the end, he was an extreme­ly suc­cess­ful illus­tra­tor, though few of his cre­ations are reflec­tive of his race.

The map above, which did dou­ble duty as end­pa­pers for Calloway’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Of Min­nie the Moocher and Me, is far clos­er to home.

Right above, see Cab Cal­loway per­form “Hotcha Razz Ma Tazz” at the famous Cot­ton Club, in Harlem, 1935.

via Big Think

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cab Calloway’s “Hep­ster Dic­tio­nary,” a 1939 Glos­sary of the Lin­go (the “Jive”) of the Harlem Renais­sance

Dis­cov­er Langston Hugh­es’ Rent Par­ty Ads & The Harlem Renais­sance Tra­di­tion of Play­ing Gigs to Keep Roofs Over Heads

Duke Ellington’s Sym­pho­ny in Black, Star­ring a 19-Year-old Bil­lie Hol­i­day

Rare Record­ing of Con­tro­ver­sial­ist, Jour­nal­ist and Amer­i­can Lit­er­ary & Social Crit­ic, H.L. Menck­en

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC.

The Complete History of the Beatles as Told By Conan O’Brien

The world end­ed in the nine­teen-six­ties. Or rather, one world end­ed in the nine­teen-six­ties and gave way to anoth­er, a tran­si­tion per­son­i­fied by no human beings more clear­ly than the Bea­t­les. “They are light­ning rods for so much that makes the six­ties a rev­o­lu­tion­ary decade,” says The Rest Is His­to­ry pod­cast co-host Tom Hol­land in the video above. “In all kinds of ways, in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, we’re liv­ing in the after­math of what hap­pened in the six­ties, rather like peo­ple in the six­teenth cen­tu­ry were liv­ing in the after­math of what hap­pened in the fif­teen-twen­ties.” Many of the show’s reg­u­lar lis­ten­ers will grasp that anal­o­gy imme­di­ate­ly, though per­haps few­er of those who’ve tuned in to this espe­cial­ly pop­u­lar episode, in which Hol­land recounts the com­plete his­to­ry of the Bea­t­les with Conan O’Brien.

O’Brien has nev­er made a secret of his Bea­t­les obses­sion, but here he demon­strates it defin­i­tive­ly by sup­ply­ing most of the details of the band’s sto­ry him­self. (That goes even for rel­a­tive­ly obscure ones: he men­tions, for exam­ple, the score Paul McCart­ney com­posed for the film The Fam­i­ly Way, fea­tured ear­li­er this year on Open Cul­ture.) He also man­ages to win the triv­ia con­test against Hol­land at Abbey Road Stu­dios in the video just above, but then, he’d been study­ing in one sense or anoth­er for quite some time. A decade ago, he held his own in con­ver­sa­tion with Mark Lewisohn, the first vol­ume of whose painstak­ing three-part Bea­t­les biog­ra­phy comes to near­ly a thou­sand pages in the abridged edi­tion. That was on his YouTube inter­view series Seri­ous Jib­ber-Jab­ber, the pre­de­ces­sor to his cur­rent pod­cast Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend.

Hol­land and his co-host Dominic Sand­brook appeared on Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend last fall. They may have seemed an odd choice in a guest ros­ter con­sist­ing most­ly of come­di­ans, actors, and musi­cians, but O’Brien him­self has declared The Rest Is His­to­ry “the best pod­cast in the world,” and their shows’ fan bases turn out not to be mutu­al­ly exclu­sive. That wide-rang­ing con­ver­sa­tion went stim­u­lat­ing­ly enough to inspire a com­ple­tion of the crossover just a few months there­after, when Hol­land brought O’Brien to Abbey Road for an hour and a half of noth­ing but talk about the his­tor­i­cal sig­nif­i­cance of the Bea­t­les, whom O’Brien declares “a com­plete break from what hap­pened before.” (Sand­brook, the rare non-appre­ci­a­tor of the Fab Four, absent­ed him­self from the dis­cus­sion.)

O’Brien prais­es books like Lewisohn’s, as well as Ian Leslie’s more recent John & Paul: A Love Sto­ry in Songs, but his under­stand­ing of the group as a his­tor­i­cal phe­nom­e­non sug­gests that he’s also read the work of crit­ic Ian Mac­Don­ald. After Revolver, “it seemed to West­ern youth that The Bea­t­les knew — that they had the key to cur­rent events and were some­how orches­trat­ing them through their records.” So Mac­Don­ald writes in his book Rev­o­lu­tion in the Head: The Bea­t­les’ Records and the Six­ties, whose title refers to “the true rev­o­lu­tion of the Six­ties”: an uncon­scious men­tal adap­ta­tion to the pas­sage from a local real­i­ty of “con­sen­sus, hier­ar­chy, and fixed val­ues” to a glob­al one of indi­vid­u­al­ism, sen­sa­tion­al­ism, and “jeal­ous­ly lev­eled stan­dards.” The Bea­t­les did­n’t cause those changes, as they them­selves well under­stood. But they accept­ed the roles of its avatars, and more than 60 years after the rise of Beat­le­ma­nia, we still live in the world they rep­re­sent­ed.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A 17-Hour Chrono­log­i­cal Playlist of Bea­t­les Songs: 338 Tracks Let You Hear the Musi­cal Evo­lu­tion of the Icon­ic Band

How the Bea­t­les Made their Most Acclaimed Album, Revolver, Released 60 Years Ago This Month

How the Bea­t­les Wrote Their Songs: From Ear­ly Demos to Final Record­ings

The Bea­t­les’ 8 Pio­neer­ing Inno­va­tions: A Video Essay Explor­ing How the Fab Four Changed Pop Music

Conan O’Brien Writes Chica­go Blues Songs With School Kids

Conan O’Brien Plays Char­lie Rose, Talks Pres­i­den­tial His­to­ry with Edmund Mor­ris

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

NASA Enlists Andy Warhol, Annie Leibovitz, Norman Rockwell & 350 Other Artists to Visually Document America’s Space Program

It’s hard to imag­ine that the space-crazed gen­er­al pub­lic need­ed any help get­ting worked up about astro­nauts and NASA in the ear­ly ’60s.

Per­haps the wild pop­u­lar­i­ty of space-relat­ed imagery was in part what moti­vat­ed NASA admin­is­tra­tor James Webb to cre­ate the NASA Art Pro­gram in 1962.

Although the pro­gram’s hand­picked artists weren’t edit­ed or cen­sored in any way, they were briefed on how NASA hoped to be rep­re­sent­ed, and which emo­tions their cre­ations were meant to capture—the excite­ment and uncer­tain­ty of explor­ing these fron­tiers.

NASA was also care­ful to col­lect every­thing the artists pro­duced while par­tic­i­pat­ing in the pro­gram, from sketch­es to fin­ished work.

In turn, the artists received unprece­dent­ed access to launch sites, key per­son­nel, and major events such as Project Mer­cury and the Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion.

Hun­dreds of artists, includ­ing Andy Warhol, Nor­man Rock­well, and Lau­rie Ander­son, have brought their unique sen­si­bil­i­ties to the project. (Find NASA-inspired art by Warhol and Rock­well above.)

(And hey, no shame if you mis­tak­en­ly assumed Warhol’s 1987 Moon­walk 1 was cre­at­ed as a pro­mo for MTV…)

Jamie Wyeth’s 1964 water­col­or Gem­i­ni Launch Pad includes a hum­ble bicy­cle, the means by which tech­ni­cians trav­eled back and forth between the launch pad and the rein­forced-con­crete block­house where they worked.

Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Annie Lei­bovitz offers two views of NASA’s first female pilot and com­man­der, Eileen Collins—with and with­out hel­met.

Postage stamp design­er, Paul Calle, one of the inau­gur­al group of par­tic­i­pat­ing artists, pro­duced a stamp com­mem­o­rat­ing the Gem­i­ni 4 space cap­sule in cel­e­bra­tion of NASA’s 9th anniver­sary. When the Apol­lo 11 astro­nauts suit­ed up pri­or to blastoff on July 16, 1969, Calle was the only artist present. His quick­ly ren­dered felt-tip mark­er sketch­es lend a back­stage ele­ment to the hero­ic iconog­ra­phy sur­round­ing astro­nauts Arm­strong, Aldrin and Collins. One of the items they car­ried with them on their jour­ney was the engraved print­ing plate of Calle’s 1967 com­mem­o­ra­tive stamp. They hand-can­celed a proof aboard the flight, on the assump­tion that post offices might be hard to come by on the moon.

In 2016, NASA’s Jet Propul­sion Lab­o­ra­to­ry enlist­ed a team of nine artists, design­ers, and illus­tra­tors to col­lab­o­rate on 14 posters, a visu­al throw­back to the ones the WPA cre­at­ed between 1938 and 1941 to spark pub­lic inter­est in the Nation­al Parks. You can see the results at the Exo­plan­et Trav­el Bureau.

More recent­ly, in 2024, NASA and the artist team Ger­aluz and WERC relaunched the pro­gram with space-themed murals in Man­hat­tan.

View an album of 25 his­toric works from NASA’s Art Pro­gram here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lau­rie Ander­son Cre­ates a Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Instal­la­tion That Takes View­ers on an Uncon­ven­tion­al Tour of the Moon

Star Trek’s Nichelle Nichols Cre­ates a Short Film for NASA to Recruit New Astro­nauts (1977)

NASA Dig­i­tizes 20,000 Hours of Audio from the His­toric Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion: Stream Them Free Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC.

The Secret History of the Antichrist

Pay­Pal co-founder Peter Thiel has spo­ken pub­licly on a vari­ety of issues from con­trar­i­an entre­pre­neur­ship to tech­ni­cal stag­na­tion to geopo­lit­i­cal strug­gle. Late­ly, he’s drawn more atten­tion with extend­ed remarks on what would seem an unex­pect­ed sub­ject: the Antichrist, a seem­ing­ly enlight­ened but decep­tive­ly malev­o­lent fig­ure or move­ment bent on putting the world under inno­va­tion-sti­fling uni­fied con­trol. The term itself may sound famil­iar, though many of us haven’t seen it ref­er­enced much in pop­u­lar cul­ture since the hey­day of the Left Behind nov­el series that sold so well around the turn of the mil­len­ni­um. Whether or not it’s to your lit­er­ary taste, that apoc­a­lypse nar­ra­tive’s vil­lain does adhere to the Antichrist arche­type laid out in the Bible.

In the new Hochela­ga video above, Tom­mie Trelawny goes back to the bib­li­cal texts to deter­mine the ori­gins of the Antichrist, whom human­i­ty has por­trayed as “a great deceiv­er who charms the world through false mir­a­cles, and with it, demands to be wor­shiped as god him­self.” How­ev­er large he looms in mod­ern Chris­t­ian sto­ry­telling, he’s ref­er­enced in only four pas­sages of the Bible. The word Antichrist appears nowhere but in one of John’s epis­tles, which also warns that “even now many antichrists have come,” indi­cat­ing, as Trelawny puts it, those who reject “that Jesus is the Christ, or Mes­si­ah.” As John saw it, some such indi­vid­u­als — includ­ing mem­bers of new sects like Gnos­ti­cism — were also dan­ger­ous­ly charis­mat­ic, which aid­ed the spread of their false doc­trines.

The apos­tle Paul or one of his dis­ci­ples, in a let­ter to the Thes­sa­lo­ni­ans, fore­sees the rise of “a mys­te­ri­ous fig­ure known only as ‘the law­less one,’ who will gain pow­er by deceiv­ing peo­ple through false mir­a­cles, and once in pow­er, he will com­mit his great­est crime of all: ‘He will oppose and exalt him­self over every­thing that is called God or wor­shiped, so that he sets him­self up in God’s tem­ple, pro­claim­ing him­self to be God.” For its part, the Book of Rev­e­la­tion adds “the arrival of a mon­strous sev­en-head­ed beast,” and lat­er, a com­pan­ion with “the horns of a lamb but the voice of a drag­on.” There­after comes the “mark of the beast,” 666 — or per­haps 616, Trelawny adds, giv­en that either could be seen as code for Neron Kaisar in Greek or Nero Cae­sar in Latin, bet­ter known as the ancient Roman Emper­or Nero. Some sus­pect­ed him of being the Antichrist, espe­cial­ly if he orches­trat­ed Rome’s great fire in order to con­sol­i­date his pow­er and scape­goat the Chris­tians.

Trelawny also gets into detail about the twice-excom­mu­ni­cat­ed Holy Roman Emper­or Fred­er­ick II, whom Pope Gre­go­ry IX saw as the proph­e­sied “law­less one,” and even into the accu­sa­tions of being the Antichrist flung back and forth dur­ing the Protes­tant Ref­or­ma­tion and the flur­ry of print­ed pam­phlets that drove its sur­round­ing con­tro­ver­sy. The lat­ter sto­ry “shows a sub­tle change tak­ing place in how peo­ple could under­stand the Antichrist. It was no longer just a sin­gle per­son; it could be an entire sys­tem or insti­tu­tion.” Through­out his­to­ry, as under­scored today by anony­mous online debates as well as lec­tures deliv­ered by Peter Thiel in Rome, “it seems that what­ev­er peo­ple fear the most, from com­mu­nism to glob­al­ism to reg­u­la­tion, the Antichrist can become.” If so, we’ll keep hear­ing about his immi­nent (or already accom­plished) rise until human­i­ty can get over its fears — and what a mir­a­cle that would be.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Sur­vival Guide to the Bib­li­cal Apoc­a­lypse

The Reli­gions of Bob Dylan: From Deliv­er­ing Evan­gel­i­cal Ser­mons to Singing Hava Nag­i­la With Har­ry Dean Stan­ton

It’s the End of the World as We Know It: The Apoc­a­lypse Gets Visu­al­ized in an Inven­tive Map from 1486

A Rare, Ear­ly Ver­sion of the King Arthur Leg­end Found & Trans­lat­ed

Par­adise Lost Explained: How John Mil­ton Wrote His Epic Reli­gious Poem from Satan’s Per­spec­tive

Mar­shall McLuhan Explains Why We’re Blind to How Tech­nol­o­gy Changes Us, Rais­ing the Ques­tion: What Have the Inter­net & Social Media Done to Us?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

5,000 Classic Movie Posters Digitized & Put Online: Free to Browse & Download

Who hasn’t pinned one of Saul Bass’ ele­gant film posters on their wall—either with thumb­tacks above the dorm room bed or in frame and glass in grown-up envi­rons? Or maybe it’s 70s kitsch you prefer—the art of the grind­house and sen­sa­tion­al­ist dri­ve-in exploita­tion film? Or 20s silent avant-garde, the cool noir of the 30s and 40s, 50s B‑grade sci-fi, 60s psy­che­delia and French New Wave, or 80s pop­corn flicks…? What­ev­er kind of cin­e­ma grabs your atten­tion prob­a­bly first grabbed your atten­tion through the design of the movie poster, a genre that gets its due in nov­el­ty shops and spe­cial­ist exhi­bi­tions, but often goes unher­ald­ed in pop­u­lar con­cep­tions of art.

Despite its util­i­tar­i­an and unabashed­ly com­mer­cial func­tion, the movie poster can just as well be a work of art as any oth­er form. Fail­ing that, movie posters are at least always essen­tial archival arti­facts, snap­shots of the weird col­lec­tive uncon­scious of mass cul­ture: from Saul and Elaine Bass’ min­i­mal­ist poster for West Side Sto­ry (1961), “with its bright orange-red back­ground over the title with a sil­hou­ette of a fire escape with dancers” to more com­plex tableaux, like the bald­ly neo-impe­ri­al­ist Africa Texas Style! (1967), “which fea­tures a real­is­tic image of the pro­tag­o­nist on a horse, las­so­ing a zebra in front of a stam­pede of wilde­beest, ele­phants, and giraffes.”

These two descrip­tions only hint at the range of posters archived at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Texas Har­ry Ran­som Cen­ter—upwards of 5,000 in all, “from when the film indus­try was just begin­ning to com­pete with vaude­ville acts in the 1920s to the rise of the mod­ern megaplex and dri­ve-in the­aters in the 1970s.” So wrote Erin Willard in the Ran­som Center’s 2018 announce­ment of the dig­i­ti­za­tion of its mas­sive col­lec­tion. Thou­sands of posters have been pho­tographed and are avail­able online, down­load­able in “Large” and “Extra Large” res­o­lu­tions.

The bulk of the col­lec­tion comes from the Inter­state The­ater Circuit—a chain that, at one time, “con­sist­ed of almost every movie the­ater in Texas”—and encom­pass­es not only posters but film stills, lob­by cards, and press books from “the 1940s through the 1970s with a par­tic­u­lar strength in the films of the 1950s and 60s, includ­ing musi­cals, epics, west­erns, sword and san­dal, hor­ror, and counter cul­ture films.” Oth­er indi­vid­ual col­lec­tors have made siz­able dona­tions of their posters to the cen­ter, and the result is a tour of the many spec­ta­cles avail­able to the mid-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can mind: lurid, vio­lent excess­es, maudlin mor­al­iz­ing, bizarre erot­ic fan­tasies, dime-store ado­les­cent adven­tures.…

Some of the films are well-known exam­ples from the peri­od; most of them are not, and there­in lies the thrill of brows­ing this online repos­i­to­ry, dis­cov­er­ing obscure odd­i­ties like the 1956 film Bare­foot Bat­tal­ion, in which “teen-age wolf packs become heroes in a nation’s fight for free­dom!” The num­ber of quirks and kinks on dis­play offers us a pruri­ent view of a decade too often flat­ly char­ac­ter­ized by its pen­chant for gray flan­nel suits. The Mad Men era was a peri­od of insti­tu­tion­al repres­sion and ram­pant sex­u­al harass­ment, not unlike our own time. It was also a lab­o­ra­to­ry for a libidi­nous anar­chy that threat­ened to unleash the pent-up ener­gy and cul­tur­al anx­i­ety of mil­lions of frus­trat­ed teenagers onto the world at large, as would hap­pen in the decades to come.

What we see in the mar­ket­ing of films like Five Brand­ed Women (1960) will vary wide­ly depend­ing on our ori­en­ta­tions and polit­i­cal sen­si­bil­i­ties. Is this cheap exploita­tion or an empow­er­ing pre­cur­sor to Mad Max: Fury Road? Maybe both. For cul­tur­al the­o­rists and film his­to­ri­ans, these pulpy adver­tise­ments offer win­dows into the psy­ches of their audi­ences and the film­mak­ers and pro­duc­tion com­pa­nies who gave them what they sup­pos­ed­ly want­ed. For the ordi­nary film buff, the Ran­som Cen­ter col­lec­tion offers eye can­dy of all sorts, and if they hap­pen to own a high-qual­i­ty print­er, the chance to hang posters on their wall that they prob­a­bly won’t see any­where else. Enter the online col­lec­tion here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Archive of 20,000 Movie Posters from Czecho­slo­va­kia (1930–1989)

40,000 Film Posters in a Won­der­ful­ly Eclec­tic Archive: Ital­ian Tarkovsky Posters, Japan­ese Orson Welles, Czech Woody Allen & Much More

The Film Posters of the Russ­ian Avant-Garde

A Look Inside Mar­tin Scorsese’s Vin­tage Movie Poster Col­lec­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

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