The Evolution of Music: 40,000 Years of Music History Covered in 8 Minutes

“We’re drown­ing in music,” says Michael Spitzer, pro­fes­sor of music at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Liv­er­pool. “If you were born in Beethoven’s time, you’d be lucky if you heard a sym­pho­ny twice in your life­time, where­as today, it’s as acces­si­ble as run­ning water.” We should­n’t take music, or run­ning water, for grant­ed, and the com­par­i­son should give us pause: do we need music –- for exam­ple, near­ly any record­ing of any Beethoven sym­pho­ny we can think of -– to flow out of the tap on demand? What does it cost us? Might there be a mid­dle way between hear­ing Beethoven when­ev­er and hear­ing Beethoven almost nev­er?

The sto­ry of how human­i­ty arrived at its cur­rent rela­tion­ship with music is the sub­ject of the Big Think inter­view with Spitzer above, in which he cov­ers 40,000 years in 8 min­utes: “from bone flutes to Bey­on­cé.” We begin with his the­sis that “we in the West” think of music his­to­ry as the his­to­ry of great works and great com­posers. This mis­con­cep­tion “tends to reduce music into an object,” and a com­mod­i­ty. Fur­ther­more, we “over­val­ue the role of the com­pos­er,” plac­ing the pro­fes­sion­al over “most peo­ple who are innate­ly musi­cal.” Spitzer wants to recov­er the uni­ver­sal­i­ty music once had, before radios, record play­ers, and stream­ing media.

For near­ly all of human his­to­ry, until Edi­son invents the phono­graph in 1877, we had no way of pre­serv­ing sound. If peo­ple want­ed music, they had to make it them­selves. And before humans made instru­ments, we had the human voice, a unique devel­op­ment among pri­mates that allowed us to vocal­ize our emo­tions. Spitzer’s book The Musi­cal Human: A His­to­ry of Life on Earth tells the sto­ry of human­i­ty through the devel­op­ment of music, which, as Matthew Lyons points out in a review, came before every oth­er met­ric of mod­ern human civ­i­liza­tion:

The ear­li­est known pur­pose-built musi­cal instru­ment is some forty thou­sand years old. Found at Geis­senklöster­le in what is now south­east­ern Ger­many, it is a flute made from the radi­al bone of a vul­ture. Remark­ably, the five holes bored into the bone cre­ate a five-note, or pen­ta­ton­ic, scale. Which is to say, before agri­cul­ture, reli­gion, set­tle­ment – all the things we might think of as ear­ly signs of civil­i­sa­tion – palae­olith­ic men and women were already famil­iar with the con­cept of pitch.

If music is so crit­i­cal to our social devel­op­ment as a species, we should learn to treat it with the respect it deserves. We should also, Spitzer argues, learn to play and sing for our­selves again, and think of music not only as a thing that oth­er, more tal­ent­ed peo­ple pro­duce for our con­sump­tion, but as our own evo­lu­tion­ary inher­i­tance, passed down over tens of thou­sands of years.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Watch an Archae­ol­o­gist Play the “Litho­phone,” a Pre­his­toric Instru­ment That Let Ancient Musi­cians Play Real Clas­sic Rock

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

See Ancient Greek Music Accu­rate­ly Recon­struct­ed for the First Time

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

The Last Cigarette Commercial Ever Aired on American TV (1971)

The slo­gan “You’ve come a long way, baby” still has some pop-cul­tur­al cur­ren­cy. But how many Amer­i­cans under the age of six­ty remem­ber what it adver­tised? The line was first rolled out in 1968 to pro­mote Vir­ginia Slims, the then-new brand of cig­a­rettes mar­ket­ed explic­it­ly to women. “Every ad in the cam­paign put a woman front and cen­ter, equat­ing smok­ing Vir­ginia Slims with being inde­pen­dent, styl­ish, con­fi­dent and lib­er­at­ed,” says the Amer­i­can Asso­ci­a­tion of Adver­tis­ing Agen­cies. “The slo­gan itself spoke direct­ly about the progress women all over Amer­i­ca were fight­ing for.”

Such was the zeit­geist pow­er of Vir­ginia Slims that they became the very last cig­a­rette brand ever adver­tised on Amer­i­can TV, at 11:59 p.m on Jan­u­ary 2, 1971, dur­ing The Tonight Show Star­ring John­ny Car­son. Richard Nixon had signed the Pub­lic Health Cig­a­rette Smok­ing Act, which banned cig­a­rette adver­tise­ments on broad­cast media, on April 1, 1970. But it did­n’t take effect imme­di­ate­ly, the tobac­co indus­try hav­ing man­aged to nego­ti­ate for itself one last chance to air com­mer­cials dur­ing the col­lege foot­ball games of New Year’s Day 1971.

“The Philip Mor­ris com­pa­ny has bought all com­mer­cial time on the first half hour of all the net­work talk shows tonight,” says ABC’s Har­ry Rea­son­er on a news­cast from that same day. “That is, the last half hour on which it is legal to sell cig­a­rettes on radio or tele­vi­sion in the Unit­ed States. This marks, as we like to say, the end of an era.” In trib­ute, ABC put togeth­er an assem­blage of past cig­a­rette com­mer­cials. That some will feel odd­ly famil­iar even to those of us who would­n’t be born for a decade or two speaks to the pow­er of mass media in post­war Amer­i­ca. More than half a cen­tu­ry lat­er, now that cig­a­rettes are sel­dom glimpsed even on dra­mat­ic tele­vi­sion, all this feels almost sur­re­al­is­ti­cal­ly dis­tant in his­to­ry.

Equal­ly strik­ing, cer­tain­ly by con­trast to the man­ner of news anchors in the twen­ty-twen­ties, is the poet­ry of Rea­son­er’s reflec­tion on the just-closed chap­ter of tele­vi­sion his­to­ry. “It isn’t like say­ing good­bye to an old friend, I guess, because the doc­tors have con­vinced us they aren’t old friends,” he admits. “But we may be par­doned, I think, on dim win­ter nights in the future, sit­ting by the fire and nod­ding and say­ing, ‘Remem­ber L.S./M.F.T.? Remem­ber Glen Gray play­ing smoke rings for the Camel car­a­van? Remem­ber ‘Nature in the raw is sel­dom mild’? Remem­ber all those girls who who had it all togeth­er?’ ”

Relat­ed con­tent:

When the Flint­stones Ped­dled Cig­a­rettes

Cig­a­rette Com­mer­cials from David Lynch, the Coen Broth­ers and Jean Luc Godard

Two Short Films on Cof­fee and Cig­a­rettes from Jim Jar­musch & Paul Thomas Ander­son

Glo­ri­ous Ear­ly 20th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Ads for Beer, Smokes & Sake (1902–1954)

How Edward Munch Sig­naled His Bohemi­an Rebel­lion with Cig­a­rettes (1895): A Video Essay

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

As Star Trek’s Lieutenant Uhura, Nichelle Nichols (RIP) Starred in “TV’s First Interracial Kiss” in 1968

The orig­i­nal Star Trek ran for only three sea­sons, but in that short time it had, to put it mild­ly, an out­sized cul­tur­al impact. That part­ly had to do with the series hav­ing aired in the late nine­teen-six­ties, an era when a host of long-stand­ing norms in Amer­i­can soci­ety (as well as in oth­er soci­eties across the world) seemed to have come up for re-nego­ti­a­tion. Through its sci­ence-fic­tion­al premis­es and twen­ty-third-cen­tu­ry set­ting, Star Trek could deal with the present in ways that would have been dif­fi­cult for oth­er, osten­si­bly more real­is­tic pro­grams.

In “Pla­to’s Stepchil­dren,” an episode from 1968, sev­er­al mem­bers of the Enter­prise’s crew find them­selves cap­tive on a plan­et of tele­ki­net­ic, ancient-Greece-wor­ship­ping sadists. It was there that Star Trek staged one of its most mem­o­rable moments, a kiss between William Shat­ner’s Cap­tain Kirk and the late Nichelle Nichols’ Lieu­tenant Uhu­ra. It aris­es not out of a rela­tion­ship that has devel­oped organ­i­cal­ly between the char­ac­ters, but out of com­pul­sion by the pow­ers of their “Pla­ton­ian” cap­tors, who force the humans to per­form for their enter­tain­ment.

Despite that nar­ra­tive loop­hole, the scene nev­er­the­less wor­ried the man­age­ment at NBC. They imag­ined that, giv­en that Shat­ner was white and Nichols black, to show them kiss­ing would pro­voke a neg­a­tive reac­tion among view­ers in parts of the coun­try his­tor­i­cal­ly hos­tile to the idea of roman­tic rela­tions between those races. Ensur­ing that the scene made it to the air as writ­ten (Nichols lat­er remem­bered in her auto­bi­og­ra­phy) neces­si­tat­ed such tac­tics as sab­o­tag­ing the alter­nate takes shot with­out the kiss: “Bill shook me and hissed men­ac­ing­ly in his best ham-fist­ed Kirkian stac­ca­to deliv­ery, ‘I! WON’T! KISS! YOU! I! WON’T! KISS! YOU!’ ”

The Kirk-Uhu­ra kiss did occa­sion a great many respons­es, prac­ti­cal­ly all of them pos­i­tive. That Nichols and Shat­ner — not to men­tion Star Trek cre­ator Gene Rod­den­ber­ry, and all their oth­er col­lab­o­ra­tors – pulled it off in the right way at the right moment is evi­denced by its being remem­bered more than 50 years lat­er as “TV’s First Inter­ra­cial Kiss.” In fact there had been inter­ra­cial kiss­es on tele­vi­sion for at least a decade (one, on a 1958 Ed Sul­li­van Show, involved Shat­ner him­self), but none had made quite such a con­vinc­ing state­ment, even to skep­tics. “I am total­ly opposed to the mix­ing of the races,” as Nichols remem­bered one view­er writ­ing in. “How­ev­er, any time a red-blood­ed Amer­i­can boy like Cap­tain Kirk gets a beau­ti­ful dame in his arms that looks like Uhu­ra, he ain’t gonna fight it.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Nichelle Nichols Explains How Mar­tin Luther King Con­vinced Her to Stay on Star Trek

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

Watch the First-Ever Kiss on Film Between Two Black Actors, Just Hon­ored by the Library of Con­gress (1898)

Watch Edith+Eddie, an Intense, Oscar-Nom­i­nat­ed Short Film About America’s Old­est Inter­ra­cial New­ly­weds

William Shat­ner in Tears After Becom­ing the Old­est Per­son in Space: ‘I’m So Filled with Emo­tion … I Hope I Nev­er Recov­er from This”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Visit Great Cities in the 1920s in Restored Color Film: New York City, London, Berlin, Paris, Venice & More

Woody Allen’s Mid­night in Paris stars Owen Wil­son as a Hol­ly­wood screen­writer on vaca­tion in the French cap­i­tal. Alas, the City of Lights as it is in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry does­n’t sat­is­fy him. When he walks his streets he thinks only of the nine­teen-twen­ties, when a trav­el­er in Paris could eas­i­ly cross paths with the likes of Paul Gau­guin, Hen­ri Matisse, and Edgar Degas — as well as expa­tri­ates from Pablo Picas­so and Dju­na Barnes to F. Scott Fitzger­ald and Ernest Hem­ing­way. Or so he imag­ines, at any rate, and so he goes on to expe­ri­ence when he finds him­self trans­port­ed back in time to the city of the “Lost Gen­er­a­tion” at each stroke of mid­night.

With the video above, you, too, can take a trip to nine­teen-twen­ties Paris — as well as nine­teen-twen­ties New York, Chica­go, San Fran­cis­co, Lon­don, Berlin, Stock­holm, Copen­hagen, Ams­ter­dam, Nice, Gene­va, Milan, and Venice. A com­pi­la­tion of peri­od footage sourced from the Prelinger Archives, it light­ly col­orizes, adds ambi­ent sound, and in oth­er ways enhances its dis­parate mate­ri­als to make them feel all of a piece.

And indeed, the clip plays almost as if shot by a sin­gle, and sin­gu­lar­ly ambi­tious, world trav­el­er of one hun­dred years ago. That hypo­thet­i­cal trav­el­er’s world is both ours — filled as it is with such rec­og­niz­able and ever-pho­tograph­able sites as the Eif­fel Tow­er, the gon­do­las of Venice, and the non-latex-clad cyclists of Copen­hagen — and not.

Whether tra­di­tion­al or mod­ern, the dress of every­one on the street looks neater and more for­mal than that worn by urban­ites in the main today. In some cities, horse-drawn car­riages still make their way through the traf­fic of bus­es, trams, and waves of seem­ing­ly iden­ti­cal per­son­al cars. (Ford man­u­fac­tured more than two mil­lion Mod­el Ts in 1923 alone.) The nine­teen-twen­ties brought rapid urban devel­op­ment in both the New World and the Old, as well as rapid devel­op­ment in motion pho­tog­ra­phy. Not for noth­ing was it the decade of the “city sym­pho­ny” film; for equal­ly good rea­son, it remains the decade of which many of us dream, even a cen­tu­ry lat­er, when we want to feel the exhil­a­ra­tion of moder­ni­ty.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch 1920s “City Sym­phonies” Star­ring the Great Cities of the World: From New York to Berlin to São Paulo

Expe­ri­ence Footage of Roar­ing 1920s Berlin, Restored & Col­orized with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

Nerves of Steel!: Watch Peo­ple Climb Tall Build­ings Dur­ing the 1920s.

Great New Archive Lets You Hear the Sounds of New York City Dur­ing the Roar­ing Twen­ties

Footage of Cities Around the World in the 1890s: Lon­don, Tokyo, New York, Venice, Moscow & More

Down­load 6600 Free Films from The Prelinger Archives and Use Them How­ev­er You Like

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Watch 70+ Soviet Films Free Online, Courtesy of Mosfilm, the Hollywood of the Soviet Union

Recent­ly we’ve fea­tured films by Sergei Eisen­stein, a pio­neer of cin­e­ma as we know it, and Andrei Tarkovsky, one of the most respect­ed auteurs in the his­to­ry of the art form. They’re all free to watch on Youtube, as is Sergei Bon­darchuk’s epic adap­ta­tion of War and Peace from the late nine­teen-six­ties and Karen Shakhnazarov’s eight-part Anna Karen­i­na, which came out just a few years ago. For all this we have Mos­film to thank. Once the nation­al film stu­dio of the Sovi­et Union — equipped with the kind of resources that made it more or less the Hol­ly­wood of the U.S.S.R. — Mos­film remains in oper­a­tion as a pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny, as well as a Youtube chan­nel.


Mos­film’s playlist of Sovi­et movies now offers more than 70 Eng­lish-sub­ti­tled fea­tures, each one labeled by genre. The dozen come­dies cur­rent­ly free to watch include Leonid Gaidai’s mas­sive­ly suc­cess­ful crime-and-soci­ety com­e­dy The Dia­mond Arm (1969) and Eldar Ryazanov’s satir­i­cal Car­ni­val Night (1956).

The ver­sa­tile Ryazanov also direct­ed pic­tures of oth­er types for Mos­film, includ­ing the musi­cal Hus­sar Bal­lad (1962) and the melo­dra­ma Rail­way Sta­tion for Two (1982). A vari­ety of gen­res and sub­gen­res: Abram Room’s “love movie” Bed and Sofa (1927), Karen Shakhnazarov’s “mys­tic dra­ma” Assas­si­na­tion of the Tsar (1991), Vladimir Motyl’s “East­ern” (as opposed to West­ern) White Sun of the Desert (1970), and Georgiy Daneliya’s “distopia movie” Kin-dza-dza! (1986).

Of course, one need not search far and wide to see the Sovi­et Union itself described as a dystopia. Few today could deny the fatal flaws of Sovi­et polit­i­cal and eco­nom­ic sys­tems, but then, those flaws were hard­ly unknown to Sovi­et cit­i­zens them­selves, even those in posi­tions of cul­tur­al promi­nence. View­ers today may be sur­prised at just how keen­ly some of these movies (Georgiy Daneliya’s “trag­ic com­e­dy” Autumn Marathon from 1979 being one clas­sic exam­ple) observe the nature of life behind the Iron Cur­tain. In this and oth­er ways, Sovi­et film has a greater vari­ety of sen­si­bil­i­ties and tex­tures than one might expect. And giv­en that Mos­film pro­duced more than 3,000 pic­tures dur­ing the exis­tence of the U.S.S.R. — includ­ing Aki­ra Kuro­sawa’s Der­su Uza­la, from 1975 — there remain many more to dis­cov­er, at least if the upload­ing con­tin­ues apace. View the entire playlist of Sovi­et films with Eng­lish sub­ti­tles here.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Free: Watch Bat­tle­ship Potemkin and Oth­er Films by Sergei Eisen­stein, the Rev­o­lu­tion­ary Sovi­et Film­mak­er

Watch the Huge­ly-Ambi­tious Sovi­et Film Adap­ta­tion of War and Peace Free Online (1966–67)

Watch Andrei Tarkovsky’s Films Free Online: Stalk­er, The Mir­ror & Andrei Rublev

Watch an 8‑Part Film Adap­ta­tion of Tolstoy’s Anna Karen­i­na Free Online

The Top 20 Russ­ian Films, Accord­ing to Rus­sians

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Behold! A Medieval Graphic Novel Carved on an 14th Century Ivory Box

The Châte­laine de Ver­gy, a court­ly romance that was wild­ly pop­u­lar in the mid-13th cen­tu­ry, would’ve made a crowd pleas­ing graph­ic nov­el adap­ta­tion. It’s got sex, treach­ery, a trio of vio­lent deaths, and a cute pup in a sup­port­ing role.

See­ing as how the form had yet to be invent­ed, medieval audi­ences got the next best thing — a Goth­ic ivory cas­ket on which the sto­ry is ren­dered as a series of carved pic­tures that start on the lid and wrap around the sides.

In an ear­li­er video for the British Museum’s Curator’s Cor­ner series, Late Medieval Col­lec­tions Cura­tor Nao­mi Speak­man admit­ted that the pur­pose of such deluxe cas­kets is dif­fi­cult to pin down. Were they tokens from one lover to anoth­er? Wed­ding gifts? Jew­el­ry box­es? Doc­u­ment cas­es?

Unclear, but the intri­cate carv­ings’ nar­ra­tive has def­i­nite­ly been iden­ti­fied as that of The Châte­laine de Ver­gy, a steamy sec­u­lar alter­na­tive to the reli­gious scenes whose depic­tion con­sumed a fair num­ber of medieval ele­phant tusks.

In addi­tion to the ear­ly-14th cen­tu­ry exam­ple in the British Museum’s col­lec­tion, the Cour­tauld Insti­tute of Art’s Goth­ic Ivories data­base cat­a­logues a num­ber of oth­er medieval cas­kets and cas­ket frag­ments depict­ing The Châte­laine de Ver­gi, cur­rent­ly housed in muse­ums in Milan, Flo­rence, Paris, Vien­na, New York City and Kansas.

A very graph­ic nov­e­l­esque con­ceit Speak­man points to in the British Museum’s cas­ket finds the Duke of Bur­gundy break­ing the frame (to use comics ter­mi­nol­o­gy), reach­ing behind the gut­ter to help him­self to the sword the Châtelaine’s knight­ly lover has just plunged into his own breast.

Peer around to the far side of the cas­ket to find out what the Duke intends to do with that sword. It’s a shock­er that silences the trum­pets, qui­ets the danc­ing ladies, and might even have laid ground for a sequel: Chate­laine: The Duke’s Wrath.

Read Eugene Mason’s ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry trans­la­tion of The Chate­laine of Ver­gi here.

Watch more episodes of the British Museum’s Curator’s Cor­ner here.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

The Book of St Albans, One of the Finest Medieval Man­u­scripts, Gets Dig­i­tized and Put Online

A Medieval Book That Opens Six Dif­fer­ent Ways, Reveal­ing Six Dif­fer­ent Books in One

Behold Medieval Snow­ball Fights: A Time­less Way of Hav­ing Fun

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Book of St Albans, One of the Finest Medieval Manuscripts, Gets Digitized and Put Online

This past month, on the eve of the June 22nd feast of St Alban, the library of Trin­i­ty Col­lege Dublin announced that it had dig­i­tized the “13th cen­tu­ry mas­ter­piece” the Book of St Alban, a rich­ly illus­trat­ed man­u­script that “fea­tures 54 indi­vid­ual works of medieval art and has fas­ci­nat­ed read­ers across the cen­turies, from roy­al­ty to renais­sance schol­ars.”

Cre­at­ed by the Bene­dic­tine monk Matthew Paris, the man­u­script “chron­i­cles the life of St Alban,” notes The Irish Times, “and also out­lines the con­struc­tion of St Alban’s Cathe­dral in Hert­ford­shire.” The text and illus­tra­tions explain the ori­gins of a cult of St. Alban, the first Eng­lish mar­tyr, that began to spring up after his 4th cen­tu­ry death.

Accord­ing to the Ven­er­a­ble Bede, the Eng­lish monk who wrote the Eccle­si­as­ti­cal His­to­ry of the Eng­lish Peo­ple, the mar­tyr­dom of Alban involved a few mirac­u­lous events. Sen­tenced to die for his refusal to renounce Chris­tian­i­ty, Alban sup­pos­ed­ly peti­tioned God to dry up the Riv­er Ver so he could more quick­ly reach the place of his exe­cu­tion.

This mir­a­cle caused Alban’s Roman exe­cu­tion­er to fall to his feet, spon­ta­neous­ly con­vert, and refuse to kill the saint. A sec­ond exe­cu­tion­er stepped in to behead them both, where­upon this man’s eyes popped out of his head. “He who gave the wicked stroke,” writes Bede, “was not per­mit­ted to rejoice over the deceased; for his eyes dropped upon the ground togeth­er with the blessed mar­tyr’s head.”

In the illus­tra­tion of this gris­ly sto­ry (top) from the man­u­script, we see the exe­cu­tion­er hold­ing his eyes in his hand, and Alban’s head appears to have been caught by the hair on a tree branch above. Anoth­er illus­tra­tion, fur­ther up, shows a char­ac­ter named Her­a­clius mak­ing off with Alban’s head.

In a lat­er leg­end, Alban’s head rolled to the bot­tom of Holy­well Hill, and a well sprang from where it came to rest. On the sup­posed site of Alban’s exe­cu­tion now stands St Albans Cathe­dral, once St Albans Abbey, where the Book of St Albans remained for 300 years until Hen­ry VIII dis­solved Britain’s monas­ter­ies in 1539.

The book is writ­ten in both Latin and Anglo-Nor­man French, “which made it acces­si­ble to a wider sec­u­lar audi­ence includ­ing edu­cat­ed noble women,” Trin­i­ty Col­lege’s Caoimhe Ni Lochlainn writes. “It was bor­rowed by noble ladies of the peri­od, includ­ing the King’s sis­ter-in-law Count­ess of Corn­wall, Sanchia of Provence, and oth­ers.”

The man­u­script even­tu­al­ly made its way to Trin­i­ty Col­lege Dublin in 1661, where it has remained ever since, and where its “most­ly framed nar­ra­tive scenes” have been admired by a select few. Now every­one can access the book and its illus­tra­tions, made with a “tint­ed draw­ing tech­nique,” Lochlainn notes, “where out­lined draw­ings are high­light­ed with col­ored wash­es from a lim­it­ed palette. This tech­nique was dis­tinct­ly Eng­lish, dat­ing back to the Anglo Sax­on art of the 10th cen­tu­ry.”

See all the gris­ly details of this fas­ci­nat­ing arti­fact at Trin­i­ty Col­lege Dublin’s Dig­i­tal Col­lec­tions, and learn more about the man­u­script in the video just above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Medieval Mas­ter­piece, the Book of Kells, Has Been Dig­i­tized and Put Online

The Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts of Medieval Europe: A Free Online Course from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Col­orado

How Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts Were Made: A Step-by-Step Look at this Beau­ti­ful, Cen­turies-Old Craft

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

When Erik Satie Took a Picture of Debussy & Stravinsky (June 1910)

Erik Satie knew his way around not just the piano but the cam­era as well. This is evi­denced by the image above, a 1911 por­trait of Claude Debussy and Igor Stravin­sky. Described by Christie’s as “an out­stand­ing pho­to­graph of the two com­posers in the library at Debussy’s home,” it was tak­en by Satie at the time when Serge Diaghilev’s Bal­lets Russ­es were per­form­ing Debussy’s Jeux and Stravin­sky’s The Rite of Spring. In the back­ground appears what looks like Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai’s The Great Wave Off Kana­gawa, a work of art “used by Debussy on the front cov­er of the first edi­tion of his sym­phon­ic sketch­es La mer.”

Just above appears anoth­er pic­ture cap­tured in Debussy’s home, this one of Debussy and Satie. “The pho­to was tak­en by Stravin­sky, if my mem­o­ry did­n’t go wrong,” says one com­menter on the r/classicalmusic sub­red­dit. Anoth­er express­es con­fu­sion about the sub­jects them­selves: “I thought they did­n’t like each oth­er?”

One respon­der explains that “they were friends at first, for quite some time, but lat­er their rela­tion­ship got worse.” Debussy’s orches­tra­tion of Satie’s Gymno­pe­dies brought those pieces to promi­nence, but, Satie ulti­mate­ly came to feel that Debussy had been stingy with the fruits of his great suc­cess.

Or so, at any rate, goes one inter­pre­ta­tion of the dis­so­lu­tion of Debussy and Satie’s friend­ship. Dif­fer­ent Red­di­tors con­tribute dif­fer­ent details: one that “every time they met, Satie would praise Rav­el’s music to annoy Debussy,” anoth­er that “Debussy kept a bot­tle of the cheap­est table wine for Satie for when he came over.” It can hard­ly have been easy, even in the best of times, for two of the strongest inno­va­tors in ear­ly-twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry music to occu­py the same social space for long stretch­es of time, let alone in com­pa­ny that includ­ed the likes of Rav­el and Stravin­sky. More than a cen­tu­ry lat­er, their artis­tic lega­cies could hard­ly be more assured — as, one faint­ly sens­es when look­ing at these pho­tos, they knew would be the case.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Hear Debussy Play Debussy’s Most Famous Piece, “Clair de lune” (1913)

Hear the Very First Pieces of Ambi­ent Music, Erik Satie’s Fur­ni­ture Music (Cir­ca 1917)

Watch the 1917 Bal­let “Parade”: Cre­at­ed by Erik Satie, Pablo Picas­so & Jean Cocteau, It Pro­voked a Riot and Inspired the Word “Sur­re­al­ism”

The Night When Char­lie Park­er Played for Igor Stravin­sky (1951)

The Great Wave Off Kana­gawa by Hoku­sai: An Intro­duc­tion to the Icon­ic Japan­ese Wood­block Print in 17 Min­utes

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

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