A Brief History of John Baldessari (RIP) Narrated by Tom Waits: A Tribute to the Late “Godfather of Conceptual Art”

All mod­ern art is con­cep­tu­al in some way, bound to aes­thet­ic the­o­ries and com­bat­ive man­i­festoes against com­pla­cen­cy. But only in the move­ment known as cap­i­tal “C” Con­cep­tu­al Art do the ideas become more impor­tant than the objects. Con­cep­tu­al Art traces its his­to­ry to Mar­cel Duchamp and the Sur­re­al­ists who declared war on the bour­geois cul­tur­al sta­tus quo.

Lat­er exper­i­men­tal artists did the same by ele­vat­ing mass cul­ture to the sta­tus of high art: adver­tis­ing, com­ic books, Hol­ly­wood spec­ta­cle, and—in the past twen­ty-five years or so—the Inter­net: Pop Art fore­ground­ed con­cepts over objects by means of pas­tiche and meta­com­men­tary. The work of L.A. artist Ed Ruscha, for exam­ple, cen­ters slo­gans and clichés over ambigu­ous images that some­times look like stock desk­top back­grounds.

Both Duchamp and Ruscha were influ­ences on Amer­i­can Con­cep­tu­al­ist John Baldessari, who passed away yes­ter­day at age 88, leav­ing behind a lega­cy as “arguably America’s most influ­en­tial Con­cep­tu­al artist,” accord­ing to L.A. Times crit­ic Christo­pher Knight. Born of Euro­pean par­ents and raised in South­ern Cal­i­for­nia, Baldessari incor­po­rat­ed humor, satire, and Pop Art ele­ments into his work.

He did not begin his career, how­ev­er, as part of a move­ment, and he nev­er expect­ed to have much of an audi­ence. In the ear­ly six­ties, he was teach­ing high school art in San Diego and felt “total­ly iso­lat­ed,” he says in the inter­view with Knight below. Baldessari resigned him­self to a “nor­mal life,” paint­ing when he could on the week­ends. These con­di­tions inspired him to “try to fig­ure out what art meant for me, what was the bot­tom line.”

Baldessari answers the ques­tion, to laughs from the audi­ence, with typ­i­cal lacon­ic wit: “any­thing you put on can­vas is art.” Baldessari reversed Duchamp’s for­mu­la. Put a cin­derblock in a muse­um, he says, and it becomes art through con­text, but put a can­vas on the street and it doesn’t become some­thing else. It always retains its sta­tus as an art object. Such objects, for Baldessari, served main­ly as mate­r­i­al plat­forms for ideas.

“Pic­tures are not enough, Baldessari seems to sug­gest,” writes Alex Green­berg­er in an ART­news trib­ute. “Con­cepts mat­ter equal­ly, if not even more.” Baldessari has been called “the god­fa­ther of Con­cep­tu­al Art” for this insight, says Tom Waits says in his nar­ra­tion of “A Brief His­to­ry of John Baldessari” at the top. He’s also been called a “mas­ter of appro­pri­a­tion” and “Sur­re­al­ist for the dig­i­tal age.” He nev­er lim­it­ed him­self to just can­vas but worked in almost every medi­um of visu­al and tex­tu­al art.

Those media includ­ed cred­it card and iPhone app design. Art isn’t only mate­r­i­al: it is vir­tu­al, ephemer­al, and dis­pos­able. Baldessari demon­strat­ed his own com­mit­ment to destroy­ing the past when, in 1970, he burned all of the work he had made between 1953 and 1966 for a con­cep­tu­al piece called The Cre­ma­tion Project. But he wasn’t an art world anar­chist. As he toyed with and chal­lenged tra­di­tion, he also helped instill it.

Baldessari become famous enough to have war­rant­ed a guest spot on The Simp­sons (and was award­ed a Nation­al Medal of Arts). He became wealthy enough by far to quit his day job. But he nev­er stopped teach­ing, from high school to posts at CalArts, UCLA, and UC San Diego. “I’ve taught all my life,” he said in 2003, “Every­thing from grade school to col­lege to juve­nile delin­quents.”

We might be inclined to see in his teach­ing phi­los­o­phy a key to under­stand­ing his con­cep­tu­al uni­verse: “I set out to right all the things wrong with my own art edu­ca­tion. But I found that you can’t real­ly teach art, you can just sort of set the stage for it.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Mar­cel Duchamp Read “The Cre­ative Act,” A Short Lec­ture on What Makes Great Art, Great

Roy Licht­en­stein and Andy Warhol Demys­ti­fy Their Pop Art in Vin­tage 1966 Film

When Bri­an Eno & Oth­er Artists Peed in Mar­cel Duchamp’s Famous Uri­nal

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

Love the Art, Hate the Artist: How to Approach the Art of Disgraced Artists

Hate the sin, nev­er the sin­ner. — Clarence Dar­row

As a cul­ture, we’ve large­ly stepped away from the sen­ti­ment described by the famed lawyer’s 1924 defense of mur­der­ers Leopold and Loeb.

Apply it to one of the many male artists whose exalt­ed rep­u­ta­tions have been shat­tered by alle­ga­tions of sex­u­al impro­pri­ety and oth­er ruinous behav­iors and you won’t find your­self cel­e­brat­ed for your virtue in the court of pub­lic opin­ion.

But what of those artists’ cre­ative out­put?

Does that get bun­dled in with hat­ing both sin and sin­ner?

It’s a ques­tion that his­to­ri­an and for­mer cura­tor Sarah Urist Green is well equipped to tack­le.

Green’s PBS Dig­i­tal Stu­dios web series, The Art Assign­ment, explores art and art his­to­ry through the lens of the present.

In the episode titled Hate the Artist, Love the Art, above, Green takes a more tem­per­ate approach to the sub­ject than come­di­an Han­nah Gads­by, whose solo show, Nanette, includ­ed an incen­di­ary take­down of Picas­so:

I hate Picas­so. and you can’t make me like him. I know I should be more gen­er­ous about him too, because he suf­fered a men­tal ill­ness. But nobody knows that, because it doesn’t fit with his mythol­o­gy. Picas­so is sold to us as this pas­sion­ate, tor­ment­ed, genius, man-ball-sack. But Picas­so suf­fered the men­tal illness…of misog­y­ny.

Don’t believe me? He said, “Each time I leave a woman, I should burn her. Destroy the woman, you destroy the past she rep­re­sents.” Cool guy. The great­est artist of the 20th cen­tu­ry. Picas­so fucked an under­age girl. That’s it for me, not inter­est­ed.

But Cubism! He made it! Marie-Thérèse Wal­ter, she was 17 when they met: under­age. Picas­so, he was 42, at the height of his career. Does it mat­ter? It actu­al­ly does mat­ter. But as Picas­so said, “It was perfect—I was in my prime, she was in her prime.” I prob­a­bly read that when I was 17. Do you know how grim that was?

Grim.

A dif­fer­ent sort of grim than the hor­rors he depict­ed in Guer­ni­ca, still an incred­i­bly potent con­dem­na­tion of the human cost of war.

Should exemp­tions be made, then, for works of great genius or last­ing social import?

Up to you, says Green, advo­cat­ing that every view­er should pause to con­sid­er the rip­ples caused by their con­tin­ued embrace of a dis­graced artist.

But what if we don’t know that the artist’s been dis­graced?

That seems unlike­ly as cura­tors scram­ble to acknowl­edge the offender’s trans­gres­sions on gallery cards, and emer­gent artists attempt to set the record straight with response pieces dis­played in prox­im­i­ty.

Green notes that even with­out such overt cues, it’s very dif­fi­cult to get a “pure” read­ing of an estab­lished artist’s work.

Any­thing we may have gleaned about the artist’s per­son­al con­duct, whether good or ill, proven, unproven, or dis­proven, fac­tors into the way we expe­ri­ence that artist’s work. The source can be a paper of record, the Inter­net, a guest at a par­ty repeat­ing a per­son­al anec­dote…

It can also be painful to relin­quish our youth­ful favorites’ hold on us, espe­cial­ly when the attach­ment was formed of our own free will.

What would Han­nah Gads­by say to my reluc­tance to sev­er ties com­plete­ly with Gauguin’s Tahi­ti paint­ings, encoun­tered for the first time when I was approx­i­mate­ly the same age as the brown-skinned teenaged mus­es he paint­ed and took to bed?

The behav­ior that was once framed as evi­dence of an artis­tic spir­it that could not be fet­tered by soci­etal expec­ta­tions, seems beyond jus­ti­fi­ca­tion today. Still, it’s unlike­ly Gau­guin will be ban­ished from major col­lec­tions, or for that mat­ter, the his­to­ry of art, any time soon.

As Julia Halperin, exec­u­tive edi­tor of Art­net News observed short­ly after Nanette became a viral sen­sa­tion:

A Net­flix com­e­dy spe­cial is not going to com­pel muse­ums to throw out their Picas­sos. Nor should they! You can’t tell the sto­ry of 20th-cen­tu­ry art with­out him…. Although gloss­ing over, white­wash­ing, or shoe-horn­ing sto­ries of Picasso’s abuse into a com­fort­able nar­ra­tive about pas­sion­ate genius may be use­ful to main­tain his mar­ket val­ue and his bank­a­bil­i­ty as a tourist attrac­tion, it also does every­one a dis­ser­vice… we can under­stand Picasso’s con­tri­bu­tions bet­ter if we can hold these two seem­ing­ly incom­pat­i­ble truths in our minds at once. It’s not as uplift­ing as a straight­for­ward tale about a vision­ary cre­ative whose flaws were only in ser­vice to its genius. But it is more honest—and it might even help us under­stand the evo­lu­tion of our own cul­ture, and how we got to where we are today, a lot bet­ter.

Green pro­vides a list of ques­tions that can help indi­vid­ual view­ers who are reeval­u­at­ing the out­put of “prob­lem­at­ic” artists:

Is the work a col­lab­o­ra­tive effort?

Does the work reflect the val­ue sys­tem of the offend­er?

Are we to apply the same stan­dard to the work of sci­en­tists whose con­duct is sim­i­lar­ly offen­sive?

Who suf­fers when the offender’s work remains acces­si­ble?

Who suf­fers when the offender’s work is erased?

Who reaps the reward of our con­tin­ued atten­tion?

As Green points out, the shades of grey are many, though the choice of whether to enter­tain those shades varies from indi­vid­ual to indi­vid­ual.

Read­ers, where do you fall in this ever-evolv­ing debate. Is there an artist you have sworn off of, entire­ly or in part? Tell us who and why in the com­ments.

Watch more episodes of the Art Assign­ment here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

When The Sur­re­al­ists Expelled Sal­vador Dalí for “the Glo­ri­fi­ca­tion of Hit­ler­ian Fas­cism” (1934)

The Gestapo Points to Guer­ni­ca and Asks Picas­so, “Did You Do This?;” Picas­so Replies “No, You Did!”

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Jan­u­ary 6 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domaincel­e­brates Cape-Cod­di­ties (1920) by Roger Liv­ingston Scaife. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How Cartoons Saved R. Crumb’s Life, and How R. Crumb Turned Cartoons into an Art Form (NSFW)

Robert Crumb, the icon­ic, found­ing fig­ure of the under­ground and alter­na­tive comix scene, began his career as the ulti­mate out­sider. “I was so alien­at­ed when I was young that draw­ing was like my only con­nec­tion to soci­ety,” he says in the video inter­view above from the Louisiana Chan­nel, “the only thing I could see that was gonna save me from a real­ly dis­mal fate of god knows what.” He had no social skills and no oth­er abil­i­ties to speak of. He was debil­i­tat­ed by self-doubt yet inflat­ed by the buoy­ant ego of the lone artist deter­mined to “make [his] mark on the world.”

What Crumb calls his “two sides” have nev­er been rec­on­ciled, although he has left behind cer­tain racial car­i­ca­tures in more recent work and he claims, in a recent inter­view with Nad­ja Sayej, that he is “no longer a slave to a rag­ing libido.” But his shame­less indul­gence in exag­ger­at­ed stereo­types was always a blunt instru­ment that both pulled read­ers in and pushed them away from the more sub­tle satire and pathos in his comics. As an edi­tor at a Lon­don gallery put it, “there’s some­thing irrec­on­cil­able at the heart of the work that doesn’t resolve towards a sin­gle vision of beau­ty.”

Crumb’s comics are “about seduc­tion and repul­sion. You are drawn into the work and you are judg­ing your­self as you look at it.” We are also judg­ing the artist. Crumb has been called racist, misog­y­nist, a bit­ter, hate­ful lon­er with a nihilis­tic streak five miles wide. These descrip­tions hap­pen to apply to a sig­nif­i­cant num­ber of con­vict­ed and poten­tial ter­ror­ist killers these days, the very peo­ple we seek to mar­gin­al­ize from pub­lic dis­course with hate speech laws and pub­lic sham­ing and shun­ning.

As you might expect, Crumb has no tol­er­ance for such things as fall under the head­ing “polit­i­cal cor­rect­ness.” Sup­press­ing art that offends “can even lead to cen­so­r­i­al poli­cies in the gov­ern­ment,” he says, defend­ing the rights of the artist to say what­ev­er they deem nec­es­sary. His work, he says, even at its most extreme, was nec­es­sary. It saved his life. “The art­work I did that used those images and expressed those kinds of feel­ings, I stand by it…. I still think that’s some­thing that need­ed to be said and need­ed to be done…. It prob­a­bly hurts some people’s feel­ings to see those images, but still, I had to put it out there.”

Some of Crum­b’s imagery is hard to defend, such as his use of black­face imagery from the 1920s and 30s, and his some­times vio­lent objec­ti­fi­ca­tion of women, from the point of view of char­ac­ters near­ly impos­si­ble to sep­a­rate from their cre­ator. But why, if his art is con­fes­sion­al, should he not con­fess? In so doing, he reveals not only his own teem­ing desires. Crumb illus­trat­ed the male hip­pie uncon­scious as well as his own.

After start­ing a rel­a­tive mass move­ment in under­ground comix in the 60s (and becom­ing a reluc­tant leg­end for “Keep on Truckin’”), he says, “I decid­ed I don’t want to be America’s best-loved hip­pie car­toon­ist. I don’t want that role. So I’ll just be hon­est about who I am, and the weird­ness, and take my chances.” Crumb’s can­dor hap­pened to lay bare many of the atti­tudes he observed not only in him­self but in the denizens of the San Fran­cis­co scene, as he told Jacques Hyza­gi in a very reveal­ing Observ­er inter­view (which prompt­ed a very bit­ter feud between the two).

The hip­pie cul­ture of Haight-Ash­bury, where it all start­ed for me, was full of men doing noth­ing all day and expect­ing women to bring them food. The ‘chick’ had to pro­vide a home for them, cook meals for them, even pay the rent. It was still very much ingrained from the ear­li­er patri­ar­chal men­tal­i­ty of our fathers, except that our fathers, gen­er­al­ly, were providers. Free love meant free sex and food for men. Sure, women enjoyed it, too, and had a lot of sex, but then they served men. Even among left-wing polit­i­cal groups, women were always rel­e­gat­ed to sec­re­tar­i­al, menial jobs. We were all on LSD, so it took a few years for the smoke to dis­si­pate and for women to real­ize what a raw deal they were get­ting with the ne’er-do-well hip­pie male. 

Do we see in Crumb’s work, in which burly, huge-calved women dom­i­nate weak-willed men, a cel­e­bra­tion or a con­dem­na­tion of these atti­tudes? We can say, “it’s com­pli­cat­ed,” which sounds like a cop out, or we can go back to the source. Hear Crumb him­self explain his work, as a prod­uct of two war­ring selves and a need to draw him­self into the world with­out hold­ing any­thing back. He showed oth­er artists and writ­ers who were also “born weird,” as he says, that they could tell their sto­ries entire­ly their own way too.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

R. Crumb Illus­trates Gen­e­sis: A Faith­ful, Idio­syn­crat­ic Illus­tra­tion of All 50 Chap­ters

Under­ground Car­toon­ist Robert Crumb Cre­ates an Illus­trat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Franz Kafka’s Life and Work

The Con­fes­sions of Robert Crumb: A Por­trait Script­ed by the Under­ground Comics Leg­end Him­self (1987)

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

RIP Syd Mead: Revisit the Life and & Art of the Designer Behind Blade Runner, Alien & More

Has any year ever sound­ed more futur­is­tic than 2020, the one we all live in as of today? 2019 came close, most­ly because it was the year in which Blade Run­ner took place. Though ini­tial­ly a flop, Rid­ley Scot­t’s cin­e­mat­ic adap­ta­tion of Philip K. Dick­’s nov­el Do Androids Dream of Elec­tric Sheep? soon became a con­tender for the most influ­en­tial vision of the future ever put on screen. This owes not just to the direc­to­r­i­al skill of Scott him­self, but also of the many col­lab­o­ra­tors who set their imag­i­na­tions to the year 2019 — then near­ly 40 years in the future — along with him. Among the most impor­tant was con­cept artist Syd Mead, who died this past Mon­day at the age of 86.

Mead cred­it­ed as an inspi­ra­tion for his own Blade Run­ner work Métal hurlant, the 1970s French com­ic book that brought atten­tion to the even more deeply influ­en­tial art of Moe­bius. But his own career as an illus­tra­tor and indus­tri­al design­er, already far along by that time, had also pre­pared him thor­ough­ly for the job. That career began in 1959 with Mead­’s recruit­ment to the Ford Motor Com­pa­ny’s Advanced Styling Stu­dio, where he spent two years think­ing up the cars of the future. He then illus­trat­ed pub­li­ca­tions for oth­er cor­po­ra­tions before launch­ing his own design firm in 1970, work­ing with Euro­pean clients includ­ing Philips and Inter­con­ti­nen­tal Hotels, and lat­er near­ly every Japan­ese cor­po­ra­tion that mat­tered, from Sony, Bandai, and NHK to Minol­ta, Dentsu, and Hon­da.

That was in the ear­ly 1980s, when we all looked upon Japan as a vision of the future. To an extent we still do, not least because of the Japan­i­fied future envi­sioned in Blade Run­ner — as well as the one envi­sioned in its recent sequel Blade Run­ner 2046, also a ben­e­fi­cia­ry of Mead­’s con­tri­bu­tions. No mat­ter how much Japan fas­ci­nat­ed Mead, Japan repaid that fas­ci­na­tion ten­fold, seek­ing him out for film and ani­ma­tion projects, putting on shows of his work, and even pub­lish­ing a dig­i­tal col­lec­tion of his art as one of the very first CD-ROMs. (I myself first heard of Mead from Syd Mead’s Ter­raform­ing, a Japan­ese-made video game for the Tur­bo­grafx-CD that made use of his visu­als.) This was per­haps an unex­pect­ed devel­op­ment in the life of a kid from Min­neso­ta who spent his youth draw­ing in soli­tude, even one who grew up absorb­ing the sci-fi swash­buck­ling of Buck Rogers and Flash Gor­don.

But unlike those kitschy, dat­ed worlds of fly­ing cars, gleam­ing tow­ers, rock­et­ships, robots, Mead cre­at­ed cred­i­ble, endur­ing worlds of fly­ing cars, gleam­ing tow­ers, rock­et­ships, robots. That must owe in part to an instinct, devel­oped through indus­tri­al design work, of root­ing the fan­tas­ti­cal in the pos­si­ble. A look back at the full scope of his art — which you can glimpse in the trail­er for the doc­u­men­tary Visu­al Futur­istThe Life and Art of Syd Mead at the top of the post as well as in the mon­tage video just above — reveals that Mead real­ly believed in the futures he drew. And by hav­ing believed in them, he makes us believe in them. The real 2020 may not bring any of the sky-high build­ings, impos­si­bly sleek vehi­cles, or sub­lime­ly vast pieces of infra­struc­ture that Mead could ren­der so con­vinc­ing­ly. But how­ev­er the next year — or the next decade, or indeed the next cen­tu­ry — does look, it will owe more than a lit­tle to the imag­i­na­tion of Syd Mead.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Blade Run­ner Sketch­book Fea­tures The Orig­i­nal Art of Syd Mead & Rid­ley Scott (1982)

The Art of Mak­ing Blade Run­ner: See the Orig­i­nal Sketch­book, Sto­ry­boards, On-Set Polaroids & More

French Stu­dent Sets Inter­net on Fire with Ani­ma­tion Inspired by Moe­bius, Syd Mead & Hayao Miyaza­ki

“The Long Tomor­row”: Dis­cov­er Mœbius’ Hard-Boiled Detec­tive Com­ic That Inspired Blade Run­ner (1975)

The Giger Bar: Dis­cov­er the 1980s Tokyo Bar Designed by H. R. Giger, the Same Artist Who Cre­at­ed the Night­mar­ish Mon­ster in Rid­ley Scott’s Alien

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

The History of the Fisheye Photo Album Cover

Like goth­ic script in heavy met­al, the fish­eye album cov­er pho­to seems like a nat­u­ral­ly occur­ring fea­ture of cer­tain psy­che­del­ic strains of music. But it has a his­to­ry, as does the fish­eye pho­to­graph itself. The Vox video above begins in 1906 with Johns Hop­kins sci­en­tist and inven­tor Robert Wood, a some­what eccen­tric pro­fes­sor of opti­cal physics who want­ed to dupli­cate the way fish see the world: “the cir­cu­lar pic­ture,” he wrote, “would con­tain every­thing with­in an angle of 180 degrees in every direc­tion, i.e. a com­plete hemi­sphere.”

Rather than putting them to under­wa­ter use, lat­er sci­en­tists employed Wood’s ideas in astro­nom­i­cal obser­va­tion. Their next stop was the pro­fes­sion­al pho­tog­ra­phy mar­ket: the first mass-pro­duced fish­eye lens, made by Nikon, cost $27,000 in 1957. From aca­d­e­m­ic jour­nals to the pages of Life mag­a­zine: mass media brought fish­eye pho­tog­ra­phy into pop­u­lar cul­ture. An afford­able, con­sumer-grade lens in 1962 brought it with­in the reach of the mass­es. For the way it com­press­es angles, the fish­eye lens “was, and always has been, a handy tool to cap­ture tight quar­ters, as well as huge spaces.”

The fish­eye lens suit­ed the Bea­t­les phe­nom­e­non per­fect­ly, com­press­ing back­stage hall­ways and sta­di­um-sized crowds into the same hyp­not­i­cal­ly cir­cu­lar dimen­sions. “Per­haps its great­est strength was mak­ing rock stars appear larg­er than life.”

The fish­eye pho­to “reflect­ed the trip­pi­ness of the psy­che­del­ic era.” Although one of the ear­li­est uses on an album cov­er was Sam Rivers’ Fuschia Swing Song, it soon adorned the Byrds Mr. Tam­bourine Man and—of course—the cov­er of Jimi Hendrix’s Are You Expe­ri­enced. The icon­ic band pho­to of the Expe­ri­ence, tak­en by graph­ic design­er Karl Fer­ris, inspired hun­dreds of psy­che­del­ic imi­ta­tors.

Fer­ris thought of the fish­eye pho­to with ref­er­ence, again, not to the ocean but the stars: Hendrix’s music, he said, was “so far out that it seemed to come from out­er space.” In order to intro­duce the band to audi­ences who hadn’t heard of them yet, he con­ceived of them as a “group trav­el­ing through space in a Bios­phere on their way to bring their oth­er­world­ly space music to earth.” Insep­a­ra­ble from space trav­el after NASA’s many fish­eye pho­tos of the Apol­lo mis­sions, the fish­eye album cov­er con­tains entire worlds in a sin­gle droplet, and promis­es to trans­port us to the out­er reach­es of sound.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Enter the Cov­er Art Archive: A Mas­sive Col­lec­tion of 800,000 Album Cov­ers from the 1950s through 2018

The Impos­si­bly Cool Album Cov­ers of Blue Note Records: Meet the Cre­ative Team Behind These Icon­ic Designs

Peo­ple Pose in Uncan­ny Align­ment with Icon­ic Album Cov­ers: Dis­cov­er The Sleeve­face Project

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

A Recently-Discovered 44,000-Year-Old Cave Painting Tells the Oldest Known Story

Where did art begin? In a cave, most of us would say — espe­cial­ly those of us who’ve seen Wern­er Her­zog’s Cave of For­got­ten Dreams — and specif­i­cal­ly on the walls of caves, where ear­ly humans drew the first rep­re­sen­ta­tions of land­scapes, ani­mals, and them­selves. But when did art begin? The answer to that ques­tion has proven more sub­ject to revi­sion. The well-known paint­ings of the Las­caux cave com­plex in France go back 17,000 years, but the paint­ings of that same coun­try’s Chau­vet cave, the ones Her­zog cap­tured in 3D, go back 32,000 years. And just two years ago, Grif­fith Uni­ver­si­ty researchers dis­cov­ered art­work on a cave on the Indone­sian island of Sulawe­si that turns out to be about 44,000 years old.

Here on Open Cul­ture we’ve fea­tured the argu­ment that ancient rock-wall art con­sti­tutes the ear­li­est form of cin­e­ma, to the extent that its unknown painters sought to evoke move­ment. But cave paint­ings like the one in Sulawe­si’s cave Leang Bulu’ Sipong 4, which you can see in the video above, also shed light on the nature of the ear­li­est known forms of sto­ry­telling.

The “four­teen-and-a-half-foot-wide image, paint­ed in dark-red pig­ment,” writes The New York­er’s Adam Gop­nik, depicts “about eight tiny bipedal fig­ures, bear­ing what look to be spears and ropes, brave­ly hunt­ing the local wild pigs and buf­fa­lo.” This first known narrative“tells one of the sim­plest and most res­o­nant sto­ries we have: a tale of the hunter and the hunt­ed, of small and eas­i­ly mocked pur­suers try­ing to bring down a scary but vul­ner­a­ble beast.”

Like oth­er ancient cave art, the paint­ing’s char­ac­ters are the­ri­anthropes, described by the Grif­fith researchers’ Nature arti­cle as “abstract beings that com­bine qual­i­ties of both peo­ple and ani­mals, and which arguably com­mu­ni­cat­ed nar­ra­tive fic­tion of some kind (folk­lore, reli­gious myths, spir­i­tu­al beliefs and so on).” Giv­en the appar­ent impor­tance of their roles in ear­ly sto­ries, how much of a stretch would it be to call these fig­ures the first super­heroes? “Indeed, the cave paint­ing could be entered as evi­dence into a key aes­thet­ic and sto­ry­telling argu­ment of today — the debate between the pal­adins of Amer­i­can film, Mar­tin Scors­ese and Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la, and their Mar­vel Cin­e­mat­ic Uni­verse con­tem­po­raries,” writes Gop­nik.

If you haven’t fol­lowed this strug­gle for the soul of sto­ry­telling in the 21st cen­tu­ry, Scors­ese wrote a piece in The New York Times claim­ing that today’s kind of block­buster super­hero pic­ture isn’t cin­e­ma, in that it shrinks from “the com­plex­i­ty of peo­ple and their con­tra­dic­to­ry and some­times para­dox­i­cal natures, the way they can hurt one anoth­er and love one anoth­er and sud­den­ly come face to face with them­selves.” (“He didn’t say it’s despi­ca­ble,” Cop­po­la lat­er added, “which I just say it is.”) And yet, as Gop­nik puts it, “our old­est pic­ture sto­ry seems to belong, whether we want it to or not, more to the Mar­vel uni­verse than to Mar­ty Scorsese’s.” If we just imag­ine how those the­ri­anthropes — “A human with the strength of a bull! Anoth­er with the guile of a croc­o­dile!” — must have thrilled their con­tem­po­rary view­ers, we’ll under­stand these cave paint­ings for what they are: ear­ly art, ear­ly sto­ry­telling, ear­ly cin­e­ma, but above all, ear­ly spec­ta­cle.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Was a 32,000-Year-Old Cave Paint­ing the Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

40,000-Year-Old Sym­bols Found in Caves World­wide May Be the Ear­li­est Writ­ten Lan­guage

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er the World’s First “Art Stu­dio” Cre­at­ed in an Ethiopi­an Cave 43,000 Years Ago

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

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

A Visual Introduction to Kintsugi, the Japanese Art of Repairing Broken Pottery and Finding Beauty in Imperfection

Kintsu­gi, the Japan­ese art of join­ing bro­ken pot­tery with gleam­ing seams of gold or sil­ver, cre­ates fine art objects we can see as sym­bols for the beau­ty of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. Sure­ly, these bowls, cups, vas­es, etc. remind of us Leonard Cohen’s oft-quot­ed lyric from “Anthem” (“There is a crack in every­thing, that’s how the light gets in.”) Writer and artist Austin Kleon touch­es on this same sen­ti­ment in a recent post on his blog. “The thing I love the most about Kintsu­gi is the vis­i­ble trace of heal­ing and repair—the idea of high­light­ed, glow­ing scars.”

Kintsu­gi, which trans­lates to “gold­en join­ery,” has a his­to­ry that dates back to the 15th cen­tu­ry, as Col­in Mar­shall explained in a pre­vi­ous post here. But it’s fas­ci­nat­ing how much this art res­onates with our con­tem­po­rary dis­course around trau­ma and heal­ing.

“We all grow up believ­ing we should empha­size the inher­ent pos­i­tives about our­selves,” writes Mar­shall, “but what if we also empha­sized the neg­a­tives, the parts we’ve had to work to fix or improve? If we did it just right, would the neg­a­tives still look so neg­a­tive after all?”

A key idea here is “doing it just right.” Kintsu­gi is not a warts-and-all pre­sen­ta­tion, but a means of turn­ing bro­ken­ness into art, a skill­ful real­iza­tion of the Japan­ese idea of wabi-sabi, the “beau­ty of things imper­fect, imper­ma­nent, and incom­plete,” as Leonard Koren writes in Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Design­ers, Poets & Philoso­phers. Objects that rep­re­sent wabi-sabi “may exhib­it the effects of acci­dent, like a bro­ken bowl glued back togeth­er again.” In kintsu­gi, those effects are due to the artist’s craft rather than ran­dom chance.

When it comes to heal­ing psy­chic wounds so that they shine like pre­cious met­als, there seems to be no one per­fect method. But when we’re talk­ing about the artistry of kintsu­gi, there are some—from the most refined arti­san­ship to less rig­or­ous do-it-your­self techniques—we can all adopt with some suc­cess. In the video at the top, learn DIY kintsu­gi from World Crafted’s Robert Mahar. Fur­ther up, we have an inten­sive, word­less demon­stra­tion from pro­fes­sion­al kintsu­gi artist Kyoko Ohwa­ki.

And just above, see psy­chol­o­gist Alexa Alt­man trav­el to Japan to learn kintsu­gi, then make it “acces­si­ble” with an expla­na­tion of both the phys­i­cal process of kintsu­gi and its metaphor­i­cal dimen­sions. As Alt­man shows, kintsu­gi can just as well be made from things bro­ken on pur­pose as by acci­dent. When it comes to the beau­ti­ful­ly flawed fin­ished prod­uct, how­ev­er, per­haps how a thing was bro­ken mat­ters far less than the amount of care and skill we use to join it back togeth­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kintsu­gi: The Cen­turies-Old Japan­ese Craft of Repair­ing Pot­tery with Gold & Find­ing Beau­ty in Bro­ken Things

The Philo­soph­i­cal Appre­ci­a­tion of Rocks in Chi­na & Japan: A Short Intro­duc­tion to an Ancient Tra­di­tion

Wabi-Sabi: A Short Film on the Beau­ty of Tra­di­tion­al Japan

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

Illustrations from the Soviet Children’s Book Your Name? Robot, Created by Tarkovsky Art Director Mikhail Romadin (1979)

As we approach three full decades of a world with­out the Sovi­et Union, cer­tain details about life in the soci­eties that con­sti­tut­ed it inevitably begin to fade from liv­ing mem­o­ry. But nobody who grew up Sovi­et could ever for­get the chil­dren’s books they grew up read­ing, and recent efforts to dig­i­tal­ly archive them — such as Play­ing Sovi­et at the Cot­sen Col­lec­tion at Princeton’s Fire­stone Library, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture — have ensured that future gen­er­a­tions will be able to enjoy them too, no mat­ter the regime under which they come of age, or even what lan­guage they speak.

Most Sovi­et chil­dren’s books have such cap­ti­vat­ing illus­tra­tions that one need not read them to enjoy them. Take, for instance, Your Name? Robot, a 1979 Sovi­et pic­ture book fea­tured on book and design blog 50 Watts.

Who could resist the charm of these mechan­i­cal crea­tures dis­play­ing their many abil­i­ties: pick­ing up sig­nals, play­ing music, paint­ing pic­tures, spout­ing com­pli­cat­ed fig­ures, boil­ing water? With their hyp­not­i­cal­ly detailed pat­terns of cir­cuits and wires, the inner work­ings of these robots also look quite unlike any­thing else — and cer­tain­ly unlike the also-pop­u­lar robot char­ac­ters who have long fig­ured into sto­ries for Amer­i­can chil­dren.

In the mid-20th cen­tu­ry, Amer­i­ca and the Sovi­et Union were rac­ing each oth­er to the future: though vision­ar­ies in both lands may have dis­agreed about what exact form that future would take, many saw some kind of utopia made real through high tech­nol­o­gy dead ahead. And whether work­er’s par­adise or con­sumer’s par­adise, the rest of the mil­len­ni­um would sure­ly see the devel­op­ment of intel­li­gent robots to assist, edu­cate, and enter­tain us.

But by the late 1970s, some of these visions had turned dystopi­an: to bor­row the tagline from Zardoz, they’d seen the future, and it did­n’t work — itself a grim rever­sal of Amer­i­can jour­nal­ist Lin­coln Stef­fens’ opti­mistic ear­ly-20th-cen­tu­ry dec­la­ra­tion about Sovi­et Rus­sia.

From Sovi­et cin­e­ma, one less-than-opti­mistic treat­ment of the future endures above all: 1972’s Solaris, adapt­ed by Andrei Tarkovsky from the nov­el by Stanis­law Lem. The pro­duc­tion design­er who gave that film’s future its look and feel was none oth­er than Mikhail Romadin, the artist who would go on to illus­trate Your Name? Robot just a few years lat­er (in an illus­tra­tion career involv­ing hun­dreds of books, includ­ing vol­umes by Leo Tol­stoy and Ray Brad­bury).

“Romad­in’s char­ac­ter is hid­den, forced deep inside,” said Tarkovsky of his col­lab­o­ra­tor and friend since film school. “In his best works what often hap­pens is that the out­ward char­ac­ter­is­tics of bare­ly ordered dynamism and chaos that one per­ceives ini­tial­ly, melt imper­cep­ti­bly into the appre­ci­a­tion of calm and noble form, silent and sim­ple” — an appre­ci­a­tion Your Name? Robot must have done its part to instill in a gen­er­a­tion of young read­ers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Dig­i­tal Archive of Sovi­et Children’s Books Goes Online: Browse the Artis­tic, Ide­o­log­i­cal Col­lec­tion (1917–1953)

Read Vladimir Mayakovsky’s Children’s Book Whom Should I Be?: A Clas­sic from the “Gold­en Age” in Sovi­et Children’s Lit­er­a­ture

Two Beau­ti­ful­ly-Craft­ed Russ­ian Ani­ma­tions of Chekhov’s Clas­sic Children’s Sto­ry “Kash­tan­ka”

Watch Sovi­et Ani­ma­tions of Win­nie the Pooh, Cre­at­ed by the Inno­v­a­tive Ani­ma­tor Fyo­dor Khitruk

Sovi­et-Era Illus­tra­tions Of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hob­bit (1976)

Enter an Archive of 6,000 His­tor­i­cal Children’s Books, All Dig­i­tized and Free to Read Online

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

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