In 1799, Napoleon’s army encountered a curious artifact in Egypt, a black stone that featured writing in three different languages: Egyptian Hieroglyphs, Demotic Egyptian, and Ancient Greek. Before long, English troops captured the stone and brought it to the British Museum in 1802—where it remains today. The animated video above, created by Egyptologist Franziska Naether, explains “how scholars decoded the ancient message of the Rosetta Stone,” a painstaking process that took decades to complete. By the 1850s, philologists had unlocked the meaning of Egyptian hieroglyphs and, with them, the secrets of ancient Egyptian civilization.
Asked to imagine the character of everyday life in the Middle Ages, a young student in the twenty-twenties might well reply, before getting around to any other details, that it involved no smartphones. But even the flashiest new technologies have long evolutionary histories, and, in certain notable respects, even the smartphone has a medieval ancestor. That would be the astrolabe, an especially fascinating eleventh-century example of which was recently discovered at the Fondazione Museo Miniscalchi-Erizzo in Verona. It was identified by University of Cambridge historian Federica Gigante, who’s been making the media rounds to explain the context and function of this striking and historic device.
“It’s basically the world’s earliest smartphone,” Gigante says in an NPR All Things Considered segment. “With one simple calculation, you can tell the time, but you can also do all sorts of other things.” In a visual New York Times feature, Franz Lidz and Clara Vannucci add that astrolabes, which resembled “large, old-fashioned vest pocket watches,” also allowed their users to determine “distances, heights, latitudes and even (with a horoscope) the future.”
Gigante tells them that, when she got the chance to pay the Miniscalchi-Erizzo astrolabe closer scrutiny, she could identify Arabic inscriptions, “faint Hebrew markings,” and Western numerals, which made this particular artifact “a powerful record of scientific exchange between Muslims, Jews and Christians over nearly a millennium.”
In the video above, Seb Falk, author of The Light Ages: The Surprising Story of Medieval Science, demonstrates how to use an astrolabe to calculate the time. It is, admittedly, a more complicated affair than glancing at the screen of your phone, analogies to which have become irresistible in these discussions. “Like the smartphone, the astrolabe came into being during times of economic prosperity — in that case, likely during the height of the Roman Empire,” writes Smithsonian ‘s Laura Poppick. Though functional astrolabes were made of ordinary wood or metals, the surviving examples tend to be ornately engraved brass, which provided status value to the high-end market. In that respect, too, the astrolabe resembles the “conceptual ancestor to the iPhone 7” — a device that, in the eyes of technophiles here in 2024, now looks fairly medieval itself.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities, the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles and the video series The City in Cinema. Follow him on Twitter at @colinmarshall or on Facebook.
The Book of Colour Conceptswill soon be published by Taschen in a multilingual edition, containing text in English, French, German, and Spanish. This choice makes its abundance of explanatory scholarship widely accessible at a stroke, but even those who read none of those four languages can enjoy the book. For it takes a deep dive — with Taschen’s characteristic visual lavishness — into one of the truly universal languages: that of color. Throughout its two volumes, The Book of Colour Concepts presents more than 1000 images drawn from four centuries’ worth of “rare books and manuscripts from a wealth of institutions, including the most distinguished color collections worldwide.”
Reproduced within are selections from more than 65 books and manuscripts, including such “seminal works of color theory” as Isaac Newton’s Opticks and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Zur Farbenlehre, as previously featured here on Open Culture.
Kate Mothes at Colossal adds that “readers will also find studies from Color Problems, the early 20th-century handbook by Emily Noyes Vanderpoel, which described theories that would trend in subsequent decades in design and art, like Joseph Albers’s series Homage to the Square.” In The Book of ColourConcepts’ 800 pages also appear a variety of works that don’t belong, strictly speaking, to the field of color theory, such as a botanical notebook by the spiritualist and early abstract artist Hilma af Klint.
Co-authors Sarah Lowengard and Alexandra Loske bring serious credentials to this endeavor: Lowengard is a historian of technology and science with more than 40 years’ experience as an “artisan color-maker,” and Loske is an art historian and curator who specializes in “the role of women in the history of color.” Both would no doubt agree on the special value of revisiting the history of this particular subject here in the early twenty-first century, with all its discourse about the disappearance of color from our everyday lives. It’s worrisome enough that spoken and written languages outside the English-French-German-Spanish league seem to be declining; relegating ourselves to an ever-narrowing vocabulary of color would be an even graver loss indeed.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities, the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles and the video series The City in Cinema. Follow him on Twitter at @colinmarshall or on Facebook.
Less well known is his diagram of the Apocalypse. Between 1877 and 1890, notes the Red Cross Museum website, Henry Dunant “produced a series of diagrams reflecting his distinctive understanding of humanity’s past and future. Inspired by Christian revivalism, the drawings depict a timeline from the Flood of Noah to what Dunant believed was an impending Apocalypse. The diagrams fuse mystical references with biblical, historic and scientific events, while also setting up a clear opposition between Geneva, as the centre of the Reformation, and the Catholic Church.”
The image above is the first drawing out of a series of four, made with colored pencils, ink, India ink, wax crayons, and watercolors. Writes Messy Nessy, Dunant “spent considerable time on the drawings, organising the symbolic elements according to a strict logic, making preparatory sketches and painstakingly incorporating drawings and colourings into his chronology.” All along, he was driven by the belief that the Apocalypse was in the offing, just a short time way.
A beautiful early example of visualizing the flow of history, Sebastian C. Adams’ Synchronological Chart of Universal History outlines the evolution of mankind from Adam and Eve to 1871, the year of its first edition.
A recreation can be found and closely examined at the David Rumsey Map Collection, which allows you to zoom in on any part of the original timeline, which stretched to 23 feet in length and was designed for schoolhouses as a one-stop shop for all of history.
As Daniel Rosenberg and Anthony Grafton describe it in their book Cartographies of Time:
The Synchronological Chart is a great work of outsider thinking and a template for autodidact study; it attempts to rise above the station of a mere historical summary and to draw a picture of history rich enough to serve as a textbook in itself.
Adams was a voracious reader and a good Christian, and in the top half of the chart he attempts to untangle the spaghetti-like genealogy of Adam and Eve’s children from Abel (“The First Martyr”) through to Solomon (whose temple looks very Gothic), all the way through to Jesus and beyond.
At the same time he presents a detailed description of archaeological history “after the flood,” from Stone Age tools through the earliest civilizations, mentioning major battles, inventions, philosophers, and advances in science. Adams’ starting date of all history comes from the Irish Archbishop James Ussher, who, in 1654 declared, after years of study, that the earth was created on “nightfall on 22 October 4004 BC.” (Now that’s certainty!)
The map is colorful and filled with beautiful illustrations from the self-taught Adams, from a drawing of Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream to the current world leaders and a list of United States Presidents up to James Garfield. There’s even a section at the far end for “Eminent Men not elsewhere mentioned on the Chart,” the sign of a true completist (except for the part where he leaves out women).
Adams lived far from the epicenters of American education. He grew up in a Presbyterian family in Ohio, and, when he showed a skill for teaching later in life, he made the trek out west, nearly dying on the Oregon Trail. He settled in Salem, Oregon and began teaching while also working on his chart. When it was ready to print, he traveled back to Cincinnati to hire the esteemed lithographers Strobridge & Co., who published Civil War scenes, maps, and circus posters. Initially he sold the chart himself, but its popularity led to several American and British printers producing copies into the 20th century. Even Horror writer H.P. Lovecraft owned a copy.
It remains a riotous work of art, history, religion, and self-determination, and facsimiles can still be purchased online. Adams later left teaching to become president of an insurance company, and died of “la grippe” (i.e. the flu) in 1898.
Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2015.
Ted Mills is a freelance writer on the arts who currently hosts the FunkZone Podcast. You can also follow him on Twitter at @tedmills, read his other arts writing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.
Construction on the Tower of Pisa first began in the year 1173. By 1178, the architects knew they had a problem on their hands. Built on an unsteady foundation, the tower began to sink under its own weight and soon started to lean. Medieval architects tried to address the tilt. However, it persisted and incrementally worsened over the next eight centuries. Then, in 1990, Italian authorities closed the tower to the public, fearing it might collapse. For the next 11 years, engineers worked to stabilize the structure. How did they put the tower on a better footing, as it were, while still preserving some of its iconic lean? That’s the subject of this intriguing video by the YouTube channel Practical Engineering. Watch it above.
Few of us grow up drinking coffee, but once we start drinking it, even fewer of us ever stop. According to legend, the earliest such case was a ninth-century Ethiopian goatherd named Kaldi, who noticed how much energy his ruminant charges seemed to draw from eating particular red berries. After chewing a few of them himself, he experienced the first caffeine buzz in human history. Despite almost certainly never having existed, Kaldi now lends his name to a variety of coffee shops around the world, everywhere from Addis Ababa to Seoul, where I live.
His story also opens the animated TED-Ed video above, “How Humanity Got Hooked on Coffee.” We do know, explains its narrator, that “at some point before the fourteen-hundreds, in what’s now Ethiopia, people began foraging for wild coffee in the forest undergrowth.” Early on, people consumed coffee plants by drinking tea made with their leaves, eating their berries with butter and salt, and — in what proved to be the most enduring method — “drying, roasting, and simmering its cherries into an energizing elixir.” Over the years, demand for this elixir spread throughout the Ottoman Empire, and in the fullness of time made its way outward to both Asia and Europe.
In no European city did coffee catch on as aggressively as it did in London, whose coffee houses proliferated in the mid-seventeenth-century and became “social and intellectual hotbeds.” Later, “Paris’ coffee houses hosted Enlightenment figures like Diderot and Voltaire, who allegedly drank 50 cups of coffee a day.” (In fairness, it was a lot weaker back then.) Producing and transporting the ever-increasing amounts of coffee imbibed in these and other centers of human civilization required world-spanning imperial operations, which were commanded with just the degree of caution and sensitivity one might imagine.
The world’s first commercial espresso machine was showcased in Milan in 1906, a signal moment in the industrialization and mechanization of the coffee experience. By the mid-nineteen-fifties, “about 60 percent of U.S. factories incorporated coffee breaks.” More recent trends have emphasized “specialty coffees with an emphasis on quality beans and brewing methods,” as well as certification for coffee production using “minimum wage and sustainable farming.” Whatever our considerations when buying coffee, many of us have made it an irreplaceable element of our rituals both personal and professional. Not to say what we’re addicted: this is the 3,170th Open Culture post I’ve written, but only the 3,150th or so that I’ve written while drinking coffee.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. His projects include the Substack newsletterBooks on Cities, the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles and the video series The City in Cinema. Follow him on Twitter at @colinmarshall or on Facebook.
Historians have long thought that the decimal point first came into use in 1593, when the German mathematician Christopher Clavius wrote an astronomy text called Astrolabium. It turns out, however, that the history of the decimal point stretches back another 150 years–to the work of the Venetian merchant Giovanni Bianchini. In his text Tabulae primi mobilis, written during the 1440s, Bianchini used the decimal point to calculate the coordinates of planets. In so doing, he invented a system of decimal fractions, which, in turn, made the calculations underpinning modern science more efficient and less complex, notes Scientific American.
Glen Van Brummelen, a historian of mathematics, recently recounted to NPR how he discovered Bianchini’s innovation:
I was working on the manuscript of this astronomer, Giovanni Bianchini. I saw the dots inside of a table — in a numerical table. And when he explained his calculations, it became clear that what he was doing was exactly the same thing as we do with the decimal point. And I’m afraid I got rather excited at that point. I grabbed my computer, ran up and down the dorm hallway looking for colleagues who still hadn’t gone to bed, saying, this person’s working with the decimal point in the 1440s. I think they probably thought I was crazy.
In a new article appearing in the journal Historia Mathematica, Van Brummelen explains the historical significance of the decimal point, and what this discovery means for the historical development of mathematics. You can read it online.
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