John Cage Had a Surprising Mushroom Obsession (Which Began with His Poverty in the Depression)

“You know that my hob­by is hunt­ing wild mush­rooms,” says John Cage in the 1990 read­ing at Har­vard Uni­ver­si­ty you can hear above. “I was sure there was a haiku poem — Japan­ese — that would have to do with mush­rooms, because haikus are relat­ed to the sea­sons: spring, sum­mer, fall, and win­ter, and fall is the peri­od for mush­rooms.” Hav­ing found a suit­ably autum­nal piece of verse by sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry poet-saint Mat­suo Bashō fea­tur­ing a mush­room and a leaf, Cage first reads the Japan­ese-lan­guage orig­i­nal, then offers trans­la­tions, his favorite being this loose inter­pre­ta­tion: “What leaf? What mush­room?” Per­haps we’d expect that from a more-zen-than-zen avant-garde com­pos­er best known for four min­utes and thir­ty-three sec­onds with­out music.

But Cage’s mush­room hob­by may come as more of a sur­prise, let alone the fact that it turns out to have gone much deep­er than a hob­by. “He won a mush­room quiz con­test in 1958 on Ital­ian tele­vi­sion,” writes the New York Times’ Edward Roth­stein in a review of For the Birds, Cage’s book of con­ver­sa­tions with philoso­pher Daniel Charles. “In the 1960s he sup­plied a New York restau­rant with edi­ble fun­gi. He led mush­room out­ings at the New School. He knows a Lac­tar­ius Piper­a­tus burns the tongue when raw but is deli­cious when cooked. He has even had his stom­ach pumped. As Mar­cel Duchamp wrote, inscrib­ing a chess book for his cagey friend, ‘Dear John look out: yet anoth­er poi­so­nous mush­room.’ ”

Cage hap­pened upon mush­rooms, quite lit­er­al­ly, while liv­ing in Carmel dur­ing the Depres­sion. “I did­n’t have any­thing to eat,” he tells com­pos­er and film­mak­er Hen­ning Lohn­er in a con­ver­sa­tion col­lect­ed in Writ­ings through John Cage’s Music, Poet­ry, and Art. But he knew from “tra­di­tion” that “mush­rooms were edi­ble and that some of them are dead­ly. So I picked one of the mush­rooms and went in the pub­lic library and sat­is­fied myself that it was not dead­ly, that it was edi­ble, and I ate noth­ing else for a week.” So began his jour­ney to the sta­tus he called “ama­teur mush­room hunter,” albeit one with a pro­fes­sion­al breadth of work­ing myco­log­i­cal knowl­edge.

“Fas­ci­nat­ed by their hap­haz­ard growth, the artist went on mush­room hunts, stud­ied fun­gi iden­ti­fi­ca­tion, and even col­lect­ed them,” writes Art­sy’s Sarah Gottes­man. He “crys­tal­lized his mush­room obses­sion by co-found­ing the New York Myco­log­i­cal Soci­ety, along with some of his stu­dents from the New School,” and even “made a liv­ing by reg­u­lar­ly sup­ply­ing New York restau­rants like the Four Sea­sons with the pick­ings from his mush­room hunts.” His Mush­room Book, a col­lab­o­ra­tion with mycol­o­gist Alexan­der H. Smith and artist Lois Long, came out in 1972, the year after he gift­ed his fun­gi col­lec­tion to the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia, San­ta Cruz.

And yet in his beloved mush­rooms, Cage found the same escape from the pre-cast stric­tures of log­ic and rea­son that he did in sound (or indeed in the brief burst of sense impres­sion dis­tilled in haiku): “It’s use­less to pre­tend to know mush­rooms,” he says to Charles in For the Birds. ”They escape your eru­di­tion.” Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Alli­son Meier, in a piece on the Hor­ti­cul­tur­al Soci­ety of New York exhi­bi­tion of his work as a nat­u­ral­ist, also sees the pos­si­bil­i­ty of “par­al­lels between his free-think­ing music and the unstruc­tured way mush­rooms sprout up hap­haz­ard­ly,” but points out that, in images of “Cage frol­ick­ing with his mush­room bas­ket” or “the play­ful wind of words in the Mush­room Book,” we see that “this real­ly was a pas­sion in its own right” — and one, like his pas­sion for music, that could pro­duce unpre­dictably deli­cious results.

via Art­sy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the One Night Sun Ra & John Cage Played Togeth­er in Con­cert (1986)

The Music of Avant-Garde Com­pos­er John Cage Now Avail­able in a Free Online Archive

The Curi­ous Score for John Cage’s “Silent” Zen Com­po­si­tion 4’33”

How to Get Start­ed: John Cage’s Approach to Start­ing the Dif­fi­cult Cre­ative Process

Lis­ten to John Cage’s 5 Hour Art Piece: Diary: How To Improve The World (You Will Only Make Mat­ters Worse)

John Cage Unbound: A New Dig­i­tal Archive Pre­sent­ed by The New York Pub­lic Library

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Corkscrew: The 700-Pound Mechanical Sculpture That Opens a Wine Bottle & Pours the Wine

We’ve shown you a very sim­ple way to open a bot­tle of wine, with noth­ing but a wall and a shoe. (Try it at your own risk.) Now comes the most art­ful­ly com­plex.

Above, watch Rob Hig­gs demo his mechan­i­cal sculp­ture, “The Corkscrew.” Cre­at­ed with found objects from scrap­yards and farm­steads, the sculp­ture has 382 mov­ing parts and weighs 700+ pounds, reports the BBC. Designed to pull a cork from a bot­tle and pour the wine, the steam­punk sculp­ture is not just beau­ti­ful. It actu­al­ly works.

Accord­ing to the Dai­ly Mail, you could buy “The Corkscrew” for some­where bew­teen $90,000 and $120,000.

via Devour

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Open a Wine Bot­tle with Your Shoe

Jane Austen Writes a Let­ter to Her Sis­ter While Hung Over: “I Believe I Drank Too Much Wine Last Night”

Christo­pher Hitchens, Who Mixed Drink­ing & Writ­ing, Names the “Best Scotch in the His­to­ry of the World”

How to Clean Your Vinyl Records with Wood Glue

Vin­tage Wine in our Col­lec­tion of 1100 Free Online Cours­es

How Leo Tolstoy Became a Vegetarian and Jumpstarted the Vegetarian & Humanitarian Movements in the 19th Century

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Leo Tol­stoy is remem­bered as both a tow­er­ing pin­na­cle of Russ­ian lit­er­a­ture and a fas­ci­nat­ing exam­ple of Chris­t­ian anar­chism, a mys­ti­cal ver­sion of which the aris­to­crat­ic author pio­neered in the last quar­ter cen­tu­ry of his life. After a dra­mat­ic con­ver­sion, Tol­stoy reject­ed his social posi­tion, the favored vices of his youth, and the dietary habits of his cul­ture, becom­ing a vocal pro­po­nent of veg­e­tar­i­an­ism in his ascetic quest for the good life. Thou­sands of his con­tem­po­raries found Tolstoy’s exam­ple deeply com­pelling, and sev­er­al com­munes formed around his prin­ci­ples, to his dis­may. “To speak of ‘Tol­stoy­ism,’” he wrote, “to seek guid­ance, to inquire about my solu­tion of ques­tions, is a great and gross error.”

“Still,” writes Kelsey Osgood at The New York­er, “peo­ple insist­ed on seek­ing guid­ance from him,” includ­ing a young Mahat­ma Gand­hi, who struck up a live­ly cor­re­spon­dence with the writer and in 1910 found­ed a com­mu­ni­ty called “Tol­stoy Farm” near Johan­nes­burg.

Though uneasy in the role of move­ment leader, the author of Anna Karen­i­na invit­ed such treat­ment by pub­lish­ing dozens of philo­soph­i­cal and the­o­log­i­cal works, many of them in oppo­si­tion to a con­trary strain of reli­gious and moral ideas devel­op­ing in the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry. Often called “mus­cu­lar Chris­tian­i­ty,” this trend respond­ed to what many Vic­to­ri­ans thought of as a cri­sis of mas­culin­i­ty by empha­siz­ing sports and war­rior ideals and rail­ing against the “fem­i­niza­tion” of the cul­ture.

Tol­stoy might be said to rep­re­sent a “veg­etable Christianity”—seeking har­mo­ny with nature and turn­ing away from all forms of vio­lence, includ­ing the eat­ing of meat. In “The First Step,” an 1891 essay on diet and eth­i­cal com­mit­ment, he char­ac­ter­ized the pre­vail­ing reli­gious atti­tude toward food:

I remem­ber how, with pride at his orig­i­nal­i­ty, an Evan­gel­i­cal preach­er, who was attack­ing monas­tic asceti­cism, once said to me “Ours is not a Chris­tian­i­ty of fast­ing and pri­va­tions, but of beef­steaks.” Chris­tian­i­ty, or virtue in general—and beef­steaks!

While he con­fessed him­self “not hor­ri­fied by this asso­ci­a­tion,” it is only because “there is no bad odor, no sound, no mon­stros­i­ty, to which man can­not become so accus­tomed that he ceas­es to remark what would strike a man unac­cus­tomed to it.” The killing and eat­ing of ani­mals, Tol­stoy came to believe, is a hor­ror to which—like war and serfdom—his cul­ture had grown far too accus­tomed. Like many an ani­mal rights activist today, Tol­stoy con­veyed his hor­ror of meat-eat­ing by describ­ing a slaugh­ter­house in detail, con­clud­ing:

[I]f he be real­ly and seri­ous­ly seek­ing to live a good life, the first thing from which he will abstain will always be the use of ani­mal food, because, to say noth­ing of the exci­ta­tion of the pas­sions caused by such food, its use is sim­ply immoral, as it involves the per­for­mance of an act which is con­trary to the moral feeling—killing.

[W]e can­not pre­tend that we do not know this. We are not ostrich­es, and can­not believe that if we refuse to look at what we do not wish to see, it will not exist.… [Y]oung, kind, unde­praved people—especially women and girls—without know­ing how it log­i­cal­ly fol­lows, feel that virtue is incom­pat­i­ble with beef­steaks, and, as soon as they wish to be good, give up eat­ing flesh.

The idea of veg­e­tar­i­an­ism of course pre­ced­ed Tol­stoy by hun­dreds of years of Hin­du and Bud­dhist prac­tice. And its grow­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty in Europe and Amer­i­ca pre­ced­ed him as well. “Tol­stoy became an out­spo­ken veg­e­tar­i­an at the age of 50,” writes Sam Pavlenko, “after meet­ing the pos­i­tivist and veg­e­tar­i­an William Frey, who, accord­ing to Tolstoy’s son Sergei Lvovich, vis­it­ed the great writer in the autumn of 1885.” Tolstoy’s dietary stance fit in with what Char­lotte Alston describes as an “increas­ing­ly orga­nized” inter­na­tion­al veg­e­tar­i­an move­ment tak­ing shape in the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry.

Like Tol­stoy in “The First Step,” pro­po­nents of veg­e­tar­i­an­ism argued not only against cru­el­ty to ani­mals, but also against “the bru­tal­iza­tion of those who worked in the meat indus­try, as butch­ers, slaugh­ter­men, and even shep­herds and drovers.” But veg­e­tar­i­an­ism was only one part of Tolstoy’s reli­gious phi­los­o­phy, which also includ­ed chasti­ty, tem­per­ance, the rejec­tion of pri­vate prop­er­ty, and “a com­plete refusal to par­tic­i­pate in vio­lence or coer­cion of any kind.” This marked his dietary prac­tice as dis­tinct from many con­tem­po­raries. Tol­stoy and his fol­low­ers “made the link between veg­e­tar­i­an­ism and a wider human­i­tar­i­an­ism explic­it.”

“How was it pos­si­ble,” Alston sum­ma­rizes, “to regard the killing of ani­mals for food as evil, but not to con­demn the killing of men through war and cap­i­tal pun­ish­ment? Not all mem­bers of the veg­e­tar­i­an move­ment agreed.” Some saw “no con­nec­tion between the ques­tions of war and diet.” Tolstoy’s philo­soph­i­cal argu­ment against all forms of vio­lence was not orig­i­nal to him, but it res­onat­ed all over the world with those who saw him as a shin­ing exam­ple, includ­ing his two daugh­ters and even­tu­al­ly his wife Sophia, who all adopt­ed the prac­tice of veg­e­tar­i­an­ism. A book of their recipes was pub­lished in 1874, and adapt­ed by Pavlenko for his Leo Tol­stoy: A Vegetarian’s Tale(See one exam­ple here—a fam­i­ly recipe for mac­a­roni and cheese.)

In her study Tol­stoy and His Dis­ci­ples, Alston details the Russ­ian great’s wide influ­ence through not only his diet but the total­i­ty of his spir­i­tu­al prac­tices and unique polit­i­cal and reli­gious views. Inter­est­ing­ly, unlike many ani­mal rights activists of his day and ours, Tol­stoy refused to endorse leg­is­la­tion to pun­ish ani­mal cru­el­ty, believ­ing that pun­ish­ment would only result in the per­pet­u­a­tion of vio­lence. “Non-vio­lence, non-resis­tance and broth­er­hood were the prin­ci­ples that lay at the basis of Tol­stoy­an veg­e­tar­i­an­ism,” she observes, “and while these prin­ci­ples meant that Tol­stoy­ans coop­er­at­ed close­ly with veg­e­tar­i­ans, they also kept them in many ways apart.”

via His­to­ry Buff

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Leo Tolstoy’s Fam­i­ly Recipe for Mac­a­roni and Cheese

Watch Glass Walls, Paul McCartney’s Case for Going Veg­e­tar­i­an

Tol­stoy and Gand­hi Exchange Let­ters: Two Thinkers’ Quest for Gen­tle­ness, Humil­i­ty & Love (1909)

Leo Tolstoy’s Masochis­tic Diary: I Am Guilty of “Sloth,” “Cow­ardice” & “Sissi­ness” (1851)

Leo Tol­stoy Cre­ates a List of the 50+ Books That Influ­enced Him Most (1891)

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

Cook Up Aleister Crowley’s Rice Recipe: Perfect for Eating with Curry

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Before vis­it­ing a Gnos­tic Mass at one of Aleis­ter Crowley’s Ordo Tem­pli Ori­en­tis chap­ters in the UK, Dan­ger­ous Minds’ Thomas McGrath was warned by a friend in no uncer­tain all caps, “DO NOT EAT THE CAKE OF LIGHT.” I’ll let you find out for your­self why the excess cau­tion against this Crow­ley con­fab­u­lat­ed piece of anti-Catholic sacra­men­tal bread. Suf­fice it to say, the British occultist who called him­self the Great Beast 666 shared oth­er cer­e­mo­ni­al recipes in his copi­ous writ­ings on rit­u­al prac­tices. Many of them involved bod­i­ly flu­ids as a mat­ter of course.

In addi­tion to the Mag­ick for which he’s com­mon­ly known in coun­ter­cul­tur­al cir­cles, Crow­ley was an artist, avid moun­tain climber, world trav­el­er, and aspir­ing chef of more or less edi­ble foods, who often cooked for his trav­el­ing com­pan­ions. Dan­ger­ous Minds draws our atten­tion to one dish Crow­ley described in his “auto­ha­giog­ra­phy,” The Con­fes­sions of Aleis­ter Crow­ley. Called “glac­i­er cur­ry,” the stuff was appar­ent­ly so spicy it made hard­ened moun­taineers “dash out of the tent after one mouth­ful and wal­low in the snow, snap­ping at it like mad dogs.”

Crow­ley neglect­ed to list the ingre­di­ents and means of prepa­ra­tion for the unbear­able “glac­i­er cur­ry,” but he did leave anoth­er recipe among his papers for a much cool­er accom­pa­ni­ment. (Dis­cov­ered, writes Coil­house, by a “Pro­fes­sor Jack” in the Crow­ley Archives at Bird Library, Syra­cuse Uni­ver­si­ty.) Called “Riz Aleis­ter Crow­ley,” and meant “to be eat­en with cur­ry,” you can find it below. The pro­por­tions have been esti­mat­ed by writer Nico Mara McK­ay, who has made the rice with deli­cious results.

Ingre­di­ents

- 1 cup brown bas­mati rice

- sea salt

- 1/4 cup sul­tanas

- 1/4 cup sliv­ered almonds(1)

- 1/4 cup pis­ta­chio nuts

- pow­dered clove

- pow­dered car­damoms

- turmer­ic pow­der (enough to colour the rice to a clear gold­en tint)

- 2 tblsp. but­ter

Steps

Bring two cups of salt­ed water to a bowl. Throw in in the rice, stir­ring reg­u­lar­ly.

Test the rice after about ten min­utes “by tak­ing a grain, and press­ing between fin­ger and thumb. It must be eas­i­ly crushed, but not sod­den or slop­py. Test again, if not right, every two min­utes.”

When ready, pour cold water into the saucepan.

Emp­ty the rice into a colan­der, and rinse under cold tap.

Put colan­der on a rack above the flames, if you have a gas stove, and let it dry. If, like me, your stove is elec­tric, the rice can be dried by plac­ing large sheets of paper tow­el over and under the rice, soak­ing up the water. Prefer­ably the rice should seem very loose, almost as if it it has not been cooked at all. When you’ve removed as much water as you can, remove the paper tow­el.

Place the rice back into the pot on a much low­er tem­per­a­ture.

Stir­ring con­tin­u­ous­ly, add the but­ter, sul­tanas, almonds, pis­ta­chio nuts, a dash or two of cloves and a dash of car­damom.

Add enough turmer­ic that the rice, after stir­ring, is “uni­form, a clear gold­en colour, with the green pis­ta­chio nuts mak­ing it a Poem of Spring.”

In addi­tion to the esti­mat­ed pro­por­tions, the ver­sion above has been mod­i­fied some­what to fit our con­tem­po­rary recipe expec­ta­tions, but the folks at food blog Hap­py Veg­etable Cow have an exact tran­scrip­tion of Crowley’s type­script (top). They note Crow­ley’s con­ti­nu­ity with free-form recipe tra­di­tions of antiq­ui­ty and cel­e­brate the bit of “cre­ative nar­ra­tive” at the end. For an even more cre­ative­ly phrased grain recipe than Crowley’s aro­mat­ic rice, see David Lynch’s sur­re­al quinoa instruc­tions.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Aleis­ter Crow­ley: The Wickedest Man in the World Doc­u­ments the Life of the Bizarre Occultist, Poet & Moun­taineer

Aleis­ter Crow­ley & William But­ler Yeats Get into an Occult Bat­tle, Pit­ting White Mag­ic Against Black Mag­ic (1900)

Aleis­ter Crow­ley Reads Occult Poet­ry in the Only Known Record­ings of His Voice (1920)

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

The Artists’ and Writers’ Cookbook Collects Recipes From T.C. Boyle, Marina Abramović, Neil Gaiman, Joyce Carol Oates & More

writers-cookbook-cover

The Artists’ and Writ­ers’ Cook­book: A Col­lec­tion of Sto­ries with Recipes © 2016, edit­ed by Natal­ie Eve Gar­rett, illus­trat­ed by Amy Jean Porter, pub­lished by pow­er­House Books..

There will nev­er not be a mar­ket for the cook­book, with all its var­i­ous sub­cat­e­gories, from fad diet to celebri­ty chef. While The Onion’s pro­posed “Niet­zschean Diet” (which “lets you eat what­ev­er you fear most”) may nev­er catch on, one unusu­al cook­book niche does involve the recipes of famous writ­ers, artists, musi­cians and oth­er high- and pop-cul­ture fig­ures. The genre flour­ished in the six­ties and sev­en­ties, with Swingers & Singers in the Kitchen in 1967, Sal­vador Dalí’s Les Din­ers de Gala in 1973, and the MoMA’s Artists’ Cook­book in 1978.

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Pre­dat­ing these celebri­ty recipe books, The Artists’ & Writ­ers’ Cook­book appeared in 1961. Brain Pick­ings describes the book as “a lav­ish 350-page vin­tage tome, illus­trat­ed with 19th-cen­tu­ry engrav­ings and orig­i­nal draw­ings by Mar­cel Duchamp, Robert Osbourn, and Alexan­dre Istrati.” It fea­tured 220 recipes by painters, nov­el­ists, poets, and sculp­tors like Man Ray, John Keats, Robert Graves, Harp­er Lee, Georges Simenon, and more. What’s old has become new again, with the recent reprint­ing of Dalí’s cook­book by Taschen and, on Octo­ber 11th, the pub­li­ca­tion of an updat­ed Artists’ and Writ­ers’ Cook­book, edit­ed by Natal­ie Eve Gar­rett and illus­trat­ed by Amy Jean Porter.

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The 2016 ver­sion includes recipes from such liv­ing artists as Edwidge Dan­ti­cat, Ed Ruscha, Neil Gaiman, Joyce Car­ol Oates, James Fran­co, Nik­ki Gio­van­ni, Mari­na Abramović, and many more. The recipes range from the whim­si­cal (see T.C. Boyle’s “Baked Camel (Stuffed)” fur­ther up) to the thor­ough­ly metaphor­i­cal (as in Abramović’s “Essen­tial Aphro­disi­ac Recipes,” above). In-between, we have such stan­dard fare as “The Util­i­tar­i­an, Amer­i­can-Style PB&J: An Artist’s Best Friend,” cour­tesy of Fran­co, which calls for the fol­low­ing ingre­di­ents:

wheat bread
peanut but­ter
jel­ly
gin­ger ale (option­al)
pick­les (option­al)

Hait­ian nov­el­ist Edwidge Dan­ti­cat takes a seri­ous approach with a tra­di­tion­al recipe for “Soup Joumou.” She pref­aces this more exten­sive dish with a poet­ic descrip­tion of its nation­al impor­tance, con­clud­ing that it is con­sumed “as a sign of our inde­pen­dence, as a cel­e­bra­tion of a new begin­ning.…” The recipe may send you to the gro­cery, but—especially this time of year—you’ll find all of the ingre­di­ents at your near­est chain store:

1 pump­kin between 2–3 pounds, peeled and cut into small pieces
1 pound cab­bage, sliced and chopped
4 car­rots, peeled and sliced
3 stalks cel­ery, sliced and chopped
1 large onion, cut into small pieces
5 pota­toes, peeled and cubed
2 turnips, peeled and cubed (option­al)
1 lime cut in half and squeezed for a much juice as you can get from it
¼ pound mac­a­roni
3 gar­lic cloves, crushed or cut into small pieces
1 sprig thyme
1 sprig pars­ley
2 tea­spoons salt
2 tea­spoons ground pep­per
1 Scotch bay­o­net pep­per

Sounds deli­cious.

Neil Gaiman keeps things very sim­ple with “Coraline’s Cheese Omelette,” intro­duced with an excerpt from that dark children’s fan­ta­sy. For this, you like­ly have all you need on hand:

2 eggs
but­ter
cheese
1 table­spoon milk
a pinch of salt

The essays and nar­ra­tives in the new The Artists’ and Writ­ers’ Cook­book are “at turns,” writes edi­tor Natal­ie Eve Gar­rett, “comedic and heart-wrench­ing, per­son­al and apoc­a­lyp­tic, with recipes that are enchant­i­ng to read and recre­ate.” As you can see from the small sam­pling here, you need not have any pre­ten­tions to haute cui­sine to fol­low most of them. And as the book’s subtitle—“A Col­lec­tion of Sto­ries with Recipes”—suggests, you needn’t cook at all to find joy in this diverse assem­blage of artists and writ­ers’ asso­ci­a­tions with food, that most per­son­al and inti­mate, yet also cul­tur­al­ly defin­ing and com­mu­nal of sub­jects. Pick up a copy of The Artists’ and Writ­ers’ Cook­book on Ama­zon.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1967 Cook­book Fea­tures Recipes by the Rolling Stones, Simon & Gar­funkel, Bar­bra Streisand & More

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

MoMA’s Artists’ Cook­book (1978) Reveals the Meals of Sal­vador Dalí, Willem de Koon­ing, Andy Warhol, Louise Bour­geois & More

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

MoMA’s Artists’ Cookbook (1978) Reveals the Meals of Salvador Dalí, Willem de Kooning, Andy Warhol, Louise Bourgeois & More

moma-cookbook-4

If we can con­sid­er some cooks artists, sure­ly we can con­sid­er some artists cooks. Madeleine Con­way and Nan­cy Kirk sure­ly oper­at­ed on that assump­tion when they put togeth­er The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art Artists’ Cook­book, which col­lects 155 recipes from 30 such fig­ures not pri­mar­i­ly known for their culi­nary acu­men as Sal­vador Dalí, Willem de Koon­ing, Louise Bour­geois, Andy Warhol, Helen Franken­thaler, Roy Licht­en­stein, and Chris­to and Jeanne-Claude. (“Strange­ly,” write the wags at Phaidon, “there are no wraps.”)

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Pub­lished in 1978, the Artists’ Cook­book has long since left print, though pricey sec­ond-hand copies of the MoMA-issued edi­tion and some­what more afford­able copies of the spi­ral-bound trade edi­tion still cir­cu­late: Nick Harvill Libraries, for instance offers one for $125.

“Sim­plic­i­ty is a recur­ring theme,” says their site of the recipes con­tained with­in, which include Dalí’s red sal­ad, de Koon­ing’s seafood sauce, Bour­geois’ French cucum­ber sal­ad, Andy Warhol’s per­haps pre­dictable boil­ing method for Camp­bel­l’s canned soup, Franken­thaler’s poached stuffed striped bass, Licht­en­stein’s not entire­ly seri­ous “pri­mor­dial soup” (involv­ing “8cc hydro­gen” and “5cc ammo­nia”), and Chris­to and Jeanne-Claude’s com­plete “quick and easy filet mignon din­ner par­ty.”

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Tak­en as a whole, the project cap­tures not just a dis­tinc­tive moment in Amer­i­can cul­ture when you could pub­lish a cook­book with pret­ty much any theme — we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured Dalí’s own, which came out in 1973, and the rock-star-ori­ent­ed Singers & Swingers in the Kitchen, from 1967 — but an equal­ly dis­tinc­tive moment, and place, in Amer­i­can art. MoMA, as you might expect, brought in the artists with whom they had the clos­est con­nec­tions, which in the mid-1970s meant a par­tic­u­lar­ly influ­en­tial cou­ple of gen­er­a­tions who most­ly rose to promi­nence, and stayed in promi­nence, in New York City.

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That’s not to say that the con­trib­u­tors to The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art Artists’ Cook­book were born into the art world. Brain Pick­ings’ Maria Popo­va quotes excerpts of the book’s inter­views with the artists about their ear­ly culi­nary lives: Bour­geois rues the “wast­ed hours” spent cook­ing for her father (“in those days a man had the right to have his food ready for him at all times.” De Koon­ing recalls his child­hood in pover­ty in Hol­land where, “when you had din­ner, it was always brown beans.” Dalí and Warhol put their eccen­tric­i­ties on dis­play, the for­mer with his all-white table (“white porce­lain, white damask, and white flow­ers in crys­tal vas­es”) and the lat­ter with his dec­la­ra­tion that “air­plane food is the best food.” De gustibus, as they say in food and art alike, non dis­putan­dum est.

moma-recipe

via Phae­don/Brain Pick­ings

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

The Jean-Paul Sartre Cook­book: Philoso­pher Pon­ders Mak­ing Omelets in Long Lost Diary Entries

Alice B. Tok­las Reads Her Famous Recipe for Hashish Fudge (1963)

Ernest Hemingway’s Sum­mer Camp­ing Recipes

Leo Tolstoy’s Fam­i­ly Recipe for Mac­a­roni and Cheese

1967 Cook­book Fea­tures Recipes by the Rolling Stones, Simon & Gar­funkel, Bar­bra Streisand & More

An Archive of 3,000 Vin­tage Cook­books Lets You Trav­el Back Through Culi­nary Time

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Best Commercial Ever? James Brown Sells Miso Soup (1992)

Most stars are under­stand­ably choosy about what prod­ucts, if any, they’re will­ing to endorse. Seri­ous artists are mind­ful about their rep­u­ta­tions.

The late great God­fa­ther of Soul James Brown lent his prodi­gious tal­ents to McDon­alds (for a price), but it’s worth not­ing that most of the heavy lift­ing was done by a cast of unknowns play­ing tick­et hold­ers for­ti­fy­ing them­selves before a hot­ly antic­i­pat­ed con­cert. Brown arrives at the end, to bedaz­zle every­one in the restau­rant with his fan­cy foot­work, sequined suit, and sheer prox­im­i­ty.

Clear­ly, the Hard­est Work­ing Man in Show Busi­ness had stan­dards.

(Since his death in 2006, his hits have been used to sell ath­let­ic wear, gin, beer, and pork ten­der­loin, proof that these things are hard­er to con­trol from beyond the grave.)

Japan­ese tele­vi­sion is one are­na where many West­ern celebri­ties are will­ing to relax their usu­al poli­cies. The prospect of an enor­mous pay­check for so lit­tle work is hard to beat, though in the age of Youtube, there’s a far greater like­li­hood that their core fans will see the results.

Youtube was not a con­cern in 1992, when Brown filmed the above 15-sec­ond spot for Nissin Cup Noo­dles. No one can accuse him of phon­ing it in. He dances, lip synchs soup-cen­tric Japan­ese lyrics to the tune of Sex Machine, and even—in a longer ver­sion on a kitchen set—pours boil­ing water into the cup, just like mil­lions of bud­get-con­scious artists and stu­dents the world over.

What he doesn’t do is “bite and smile,” a sta­ple of com­mer­cial act­ing. He rais­es a fork­ful of prod­uct to his mouth with an oblig­ing grin, but doesn’t ingest so much as a noo­dle.

For that, we must turn to for­mer body­builder and Gov­er­nor of Cal­i­for­nia Arnold Schwarzeneg­ger, who sup­ple­ment­ed his movie career as Nissin Cup Noo­dles’ pre­vi­ous Japan­ese TV pitch­man. Not only did he con­sent to fun­ny cos­tumes, he pile dri­ves that ramen like a World Record in Com­pet­i­tive Eat­ing depends on it. None of that clown­ing for Brown!

Read­ers, we invite you to con­tribute to our schol­ar­ship of West­ern celebs’ Japan­ese TV com­mer­cials in the com­ments sec­tion below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Brown Gives You Danc­ing Lessons: From The Funky Chick­en to The Booga­loo

David Bowie Sells Ice Cream, Sake, Coke & Water: Watch His TV Com­mer­cials from the 1960s Through 2013

Jim Henson’s Vio­lent Wilkins Cof­fee Com­mer­cials (1957–1961)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her play Zam­boni Godot is open­ing in New York City in March 2017. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How to Break Open a Big Wheel of Parmesan Cheese: A Delightful, 15-Minute Primer

It takes a year to age a wheel of fine parme­san cheese. And about 4 min­utes, of good hard work, to break it open. Above, cheese expert Car­lo Guf­fan­ti walks us through the process. The first inci­sion comes at the 3 minute mark. Var­i­ous knives come into play. Until we reach the sev­en minute mark, when the wheel of cheese final­ly breaks open. All the while, Guf­fan­ti talks about the cheese as if it’s a liv­ing, breath­ing per­son with voli­tion and feel­ings. Maybe that’s what hap­pens when you spend your life mak­ing fine cheeses. Or, maybe he’s just trans­lat­ing Ital­ian expres­sions direct­ly into Eng­lish. Either way, it’s endear­ing.

Note: Accord­ing to The Cheese Chan­nel, which pro­duced this video, what we’re actu­al­ly see­ing is “a wheel of Trent­in­grana – a parme­san-style cheese that’s from Trenti­no. The qual­i­ty of Trent­in­grana is tight­ly con­trolled by appel­la­tion law, which states that it can only be made with raw milk from cows graz­ing on pas­tures or hay (silage is banned).” View more of The Cheese Chan­nel’s videos here.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

MIT Teach­es You How to Speak Ital­ian & Cook Ital­ian Food All at Once (Free Online Course)

Leo Tolstoy’s Fam­i­ly Recipe for Mac­a­roni and Cheese

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

Take UC Berkeley’s Free “Edi­ble Edu­ca­tion 101” Lec­ture Course, Fea­tur­ing a Pan­theon of Sus­tain­able Food Super­stars

 

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.