Meet “Father Philanthropy”: America’s Most Prolific and Unlikely Master Art Forger

Close your eyes and pic­ture a phil­an­thropist.

Like­ly you envi­sioned a fat cat with a design­er check­book. It’s the accept­ed image, but not every bene­fac­tor fits the mold.

Take Mark Lan­dis, a gen­tle soul who’s spent three decades sur­pris­ing the staffs of small Amer­i­can muse­ums with art­work pre­sent­ed out of the blue. Not just any art­work, and cer­tain­ly not the nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry orig­i­nals they were rep­re­sent­ed as—in every case, donor Lan­dis was even­tu­al­ly revealed to be the artist.

In Ter­ri Time­ly’s doc­u­men­tary glimpse, “Father Phil­an­thropy” (above, with a delet­ed scene below), Lan­dis oblig­ing­ly guides view­ers through the mul­ti-step process by which his forg­eries are cre­at­ed, but he reveals lit­tle about his moti­va­tion, beyond a desire to hon­or the mem­o­ry of his par­ents (Moth­er looms large here.)

His fakes don’t add up to a grand con­cep­tu­al piece, a la artist  J. S. G. Bog­gs’ incred­i­bly detailed, far-more-valu­able-than-the-items-they-were-used-to-pur­chase ban­knotes. He seems indif­fer­ent to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of high pro­file, if ill got­ten, pres­tige. He is, quite sim­ply a giv­er. His gifts cost the recip­i­ents pro­fes­sion­al pride and unex­pect­ed fees asso­ci­at­ed with fer­ret­ing out the truth, but they seem mal­ice-free. “About all I’ve got is an abil­i­ty to draw and paint,” he states, “So nat­u­ral­ly it led me to give away draw­ing and paint­ings.”

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent

Art for the One Per­cent: 60 Min­utes on the Excess & Hubris of the Inter­na­tion­al Art Mar­ket

Art Lovers Rejoice! New Goya and Rem­brandt Data­bas­es Now Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day keeps things real @ayunhalliday

The Ultimate Full Moon Shot

The quick back­sto­ry: “Dean Pot­ter walks a high­line at Cathe­dral Peak as the sun sets and the moon ris­es. Shot from over 1 mile away with a Canon 800mm and 2X by Mikey Schae­fer. This shot was part of a big­ger project for Nation­al Geo­graph­ic called The Man Who Can Fly. ”

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F. Scott Fitzgerald in Drag (1916)

F-SCOTT-FITZGERALD-in dragIt has been said that the dom­i­nant influ­ences on F. Scott Fitzger­ald were lit­er­a­ture, Zel­da, alco­hol, and Prince­ton. The pho­tos above were tak­en dur­ing the nov­el­ist’s Prince­ton days, where he played an active role in The Prince­ton Tri­an­gle Club, writ­ing scripts and lyrics for what’s now the old­est col­le­giate musi­cal-com­e­dy troupe in the US. After Fitzger­ald failed sev­er­al exams, he was barred from per­form­ing in the club’s 1916 musi­cal pro­duc­tion, The Evil Eye!. A shame, giv­en that he co-wrote the script. But F. Scott was­n’t going to be com­plete­ly denied. Yes, he posed in drag for a pub­lic­i­ty pho­to that appeared in The New York Times on Jan­u­ary 2, 1916. The news­pa­per called him “the most beau­ti­ful” girl in the show.

H/T Retro­naut

Relat­ed Con­tent:

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Cre­ates a List of 22 Essen­tial Books, 1936

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Reads From Shakespeare’s Oth­el­lo and John Masefield’s “On Grow­ing Old” (c.1940)

Ernest Hem­ing­way to F. Scott Fitzger­ald: “Kiss My Ass”

Find major works by F. Scott Fitzger­ald in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions.

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Chowda!: Three Centuries of Recipes Reveal the Rise of New England’s Finest Culinary Export

Say chow­der out loud: chow­der. The word sounds like food. Not an appe­tiz­er either. An entree in a small crock topped with bro­ken crack­ers.

As with so many things relat­ed to food, chow­der is a sto­ried dish. It hails from New Eng­land and north­east­ern Cana­da, its first writ­ten ref­er­ence dat­ing back to 1732 when a jour­nal­ist recalls din­ing on a “fine chow­dered cod.”

There are as many types of chow­der as there are soup, though a true chow­der is more like a stew than a soup. Some purists would rather eat slugs than a chow­der with toma­toes in it or whose name ref­er­ences New York. But all chow­ders must fea­ture the fol­low­ing: broth, salt pork, bis­cuit and seafood.

Aside from that, all bets are off. Chow down.

Of course a region­al dish with this long a his­to­ry and which leaves this much room for inter­pre­ta­tion deserves a his­to­ry of its own, and so the good peo­ple at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mass­a­chu­setts, Amherst cre­at­ed the New Eng­land Chow­der Com­pendi­um, a col­lec­tion of recipes and ephemera explor­ing how chow­der rose to become a sta­ple of New Eng­land cook­ery.

Culled from cook­books held by the university’s Beat­rice McIn­tosh Cook­ery Col­lec­tion, the com­pendi­um chron­i­cles chow­der recipes from the 1700s to the 1970s, through lean times and fat, through recipes heavy with cream and with­out.

And so, as read­ers click through fea­tured chow­der recipes from the 1920s on through to the 1940s, they’re sure to notice the ways ingre­di­ents vary. Use evap­o­rat­ed milk and a lit­tle water, if cream is not avail­able. House­wives were wise in the 1940s to be thrifty while mak­ing fresh stock from knuck­les: Save that fat that rose to the top and sell it to your meat deal­er.

Chow­der may be one of the poster food for peo­ple who are mak­ing do. Don’t have fresh seafood? Canned tuna will do. Lima beans soaked overnight can sub­sti­tute for clams.

As with most hand­writ­ten recipes, the hand­writ­ing and illus­tra­tions are part of the fun. One rad­i­cal sug­gests adding a dash of papri­ka. This recipe, for the Kingston Yacht Club, may have fed the entire mem­ber­ship (three gal­lons of clams?!)

The archivists include a nice primer, trac­ing the devel­op­ment of chow­der (the word comes from French for “caul­dron”).

One recipe that doesn’t sound so good: diet chow­der from the 1970s.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at and at thenifty.blogspot.com.

Watch the “Biblio-Mat” Book-Vending Machine Dispense Literary Delight

We thought that Brazen­head Books might qual­i­fy as the quirki­est book­store we’ve encoun­tered. After all, it’s run out of Michael Sei­den­berg’s apart­ment in New York City. But get a load of this: The Monkey’s Paw, which calls itself â€śToronto’s most idio­syn­crat­ic sec­ond-hand book­shop,” has installed the Bib­lio-mat, a vend­ing machine that dis­pens­es ran­dom books for a very nom­i­nal fee — $2 per book. (If you’re look­ing for $0, see our lists below.) In a recent inter­view with QuillandQuire.com, Stephen Fowler, the book­store’s own­er, explained the sto­ry behind the Bib­lio-mat:

I went fish­ing this past sum­mer with Craig Small, co-founder of The Jug­ger­naut, an ani­ma­tion stu­dio in Toron­to. I had this idea that I would love to have a vend­ing machine that gave out ran­dom books. I pic­tured it as a paint­ed refrig­er­a­tor box with one of my assis­tants inside; peo­ple would put in a coin and he would drop a book out. But Craig is more prag­mat­ic and vision­ary then I am. He said, “You need to have an actu­al mechan­i­cal vend­ing machine.” That was beyond my wildest imag­in­ings, but not Craig’s, so he just built it for me.

Thanks to Small, you can now watch the Bib­lio-mat in action above. It whirrs. It vibrates. And it final­ly deliv­ers a book with a sat­is­fy­ing clunk.

via Gal­ley Cat

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Free Audio Books and Free eBooks

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film for Book Lovers

Books Savored in Stop Motion Film

Going West: A Stop Motion Nov­el

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Salvador DalĂ­ Reveals the Secrets of His Trademark Moustache (1954)

In a 2010 poll, Sal­vador Dalí’s facial hair was vot­ed the most famous mous­tache of all time. The flam­boy­ant mous­tache was part of his schtick, there’s no deny­ing that. But some have assigned a deep­er mean­ing to it. The Wike­pe­dia entry for DalĂ­ attrib­uted the facial hair to 17th-cen­tu­ry Span­ish mas­ter painter Diego Velázquez (see image). And yet per­haps the influ­ence was more lit­er­ary than painter­ly. Appear­ing on the game show The Name’s the Same in Jan­u­ary, 1954, DalĂ­ was asked (at the 4:00 mark) whether the stache was a joke. To which the Span­ish painter respond­ed, “It’s the most seri­ous part of my per­son­al­i­ty. It’s a very sim­ple Hun­gar­i­an mous­tache. Mr. Mar­cel Proust used the same kind of pomade for this mous­tache.” And there you have it, the artis­tic influ­ence of the world’s most famous facial hair.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí’s 100 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s The Divine Com­e­dy

Sal­vador Dali Gets Sur­re­al with Mike Wal­lace (1958)

Q: Sal­vador Dalí, Are You a Crack­pot? A: No, I’m Just Almost Crazy (1969)

A Tour Inside Sal­vador Dalí’s Labyrinthine Span­ish Home

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Skeptic Michael Shermer Shows You How to Bend Spoons with Your Mind

Ever want to know how to bend spoons like Uri Geller? There are quite a few ways, appar­ent­ly. But accord­ing to Geller’s arch-neme­sis, skep­tic and magi­cian James Ran­di, “if Geller bends spoons with divine pow­ers, then he’s doing it the hard way.” In the video above, edi­tor-in-chief of Skep­tic mag­a­zine, Michael Sher­mer, shows us how to do it the easy way, and still make it look like mag­ic. While “psy­chics” like Geller have dined out on their sup­posed pow­ers for as long as there have been peo­ple will­ing to pick up the tab, skep­tics like Ran­di and Sher­mer have prob­a­bly been around as long, using log­ic and a healthy dose of dis­be­lief. Randi’s expo­sure of Geller on the John­ny Car­son show is the stuff of leg­end. For a less­er-known debunk­ing, check out the video below from Thames Tele­vi­sion. Geller, like so many self-pro­claimed psy­chics, can be per­sua­sive, but most phe­nom­e­na are bet­ter explained by sci­ence than by mag­i­cal think­ing.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Bela Lugosi Discusses His Drug Habit as He Leaves the Hospital in 1955

In 1955 Bela Lugosi was in a sad state. The once-hand­some, Hun­gar­i­an-born star of Drac­u­la had seen his career degen­er­ate over the pre­vi­ous two decades until at last he was reduced to play­ing a cru­el par­o­dy of him­self in some of the tack­i­est B hor­ror films ever made. Along the way he picked up a drug habit. In late April of 1955 the 72-year-old actor, des­ti­tute and recent­ly divorced from his fourth wife, checked him­self into the psy­cho­path­ic ward at Los Ange­les Gen­er­al Hos­pi­tal. A few days lat­er, in a hear­ing held at the ward, Lugosi plead­ed with a judge to com­mit him to a state hos­pi­tal. A Unit­ed Press arti­cle from April 23, 1955 describes the scene:

Although weigh­ing only 125 pounds and only a shad­ow of his for­mer self, Lugosi’s voice was clear and res­o­nant as he told the court how shoot­ing pains in his legs led him to start tak­ing mor­phine injec­tions in 1935. With­out mor­phine, he could­n’t work, Lugosi said.

“I start­ed using it under a doc­tor’s care,” he said. “I knew after a time it was get­ting out of con­trol.”

“Sev­en­teen years ago, on a trip to Eng­land, I heard of Metho­d­one, a new drug. I brought a big box of it back home. I guess I brought a pound,” Lugosi said.

“Ever since I’ve used that, or demerol. I just took the drugs. I did­n’t eat. I got sick­er and sick­er.”

The judge com­mend­ed Lugosi for tak­ing action to fight his addic­tion, and com­mit­ted him to the Met­ro­pol­i­tan State Hos­pi­tal in Nor­walk, a sub­urb of Los Ange­les, for a min­i­mum of three months and a max­i­mum of two years. Dur­ing his time in the hos­pi­tal, the old man plot­ted his come­back. In The Immor­tal Count: The Life and Films of Bela Lugosi, Arthur Lennig writes:

While at the hos­pi­tal, Lugosi had been giv­en the script of his next Ed Wood pic­ture, The Ghoul Goes West, a strange con­coc­tion in which a mad doc­tor goes out west to car­ry out his scheme to make super-crea­tures out of cow­boys and rule the world. The actor looked for­ward to this forth­com­ing pro­duc­tion, which he believed would begin about ten days after leav­ing the hos­pi­tal, and bran­dished the script as proof that he would start work. “It’s very cute,” he said to the reporters. It prob­a­bly was­n’t, but Lugosi no doubt believed that all the front page pub­lic­i­ty, how­ev­er noto­ri­ous, would aid in his come­back, a come­back that would even­tu­al­ly raise him above the low­ly ranks of Ed Wood’s shoe­string pro­duc­tions. Bela posed for a pho­to­graph with the script in one hand while his oth­er hand was dra­mat­i­cal­ly raised in an assertive fist.

The inter­view above was filmed on August 4, 1955, one day before the actor’s release from the hos­pi­tal. In the clip, Lugosi smiles and declares him­self “a new man.” Less than three weeks lat­er he mar­ried his fifth wife, an obsessed fan who report­ed­ly sent him a let­ter every day he was in the hos­pi­tal. The Ghoul Goes West nev­er mate­ri­al­ized, but Lugosi col­lab­o­rat­ed with Ed Wood on a cou­ple of oth­er projects, includ­ing a movie that some crit­ics would even­tu­al­ly call “the worst film ever made,” Plan 9 From Out­er Space. As his hope of a gen­uine come­back crum­bled, Lugosi drank heav­i­ly. On August 16, 1956–barely over a year after his release from Met­ro­pol­i­tan State Hospital–Lugosi died of a heart attack. He was buried in his Drac­u­la cos­tume.

Sev­er­al Lugosi films appear on our big list of Free Movies Online.

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.