Do You Think About Ancient Rome Every Day? Then Browse a Wealth of Videos, Maps & Photos That Explore the Roman Empire

This month, more than a few Tik­Tok-using women have asked the men in their lives how often they think about the Roman Empire. And to the aston­ish­ment of these women, more than a few of these men have respond­ed that they think about it on a dai­ly basis, or even more often than that. By now, this par­tic­u­lar man­i­fes­ta­tion of mutu­al incom­pre­hen­sion between the sex­es has swept sev­er­al social-media plat­forms, and accord­ing to reportage in the New York Times and Wash­ing­ton Post, it actu­al­ly began on Insta­gram. “Ladies, many of you do not real­ize how often men think about the Roman Empire,” post­ed a Swedish ancient-Rome reen­ac­tor who calls him­self Gaius Flav­ius. “Ask your husband/boyfriend/father/brother — you will be sur­prised by their answers!”

Even if you’re not a hus­band, boyfriend, father, or broth­er, you may count your­self among these Rome-enrap­tured men. You may think about Rome prac­ti­cal­ly all day, every day, and not be a man at all. Or per­haps you’re one of the women who, hith­er­to unaware of the appar­ent­ly wide­spread Roman intel­lec­tu­al pro­cliv­i­ties among the oppo­site sex, have begun to feel a twinge of curios­i­ty about the sub­ject.

If so, you could do worse than start your his­tor­i­cal jour­ney to antiq­ui­ty’s might­i­est empire — the ances­tor of today’s West­ern civ­i­liza­tion — with this twen­ty-minute primer nar­rat­ed by Suc­ces­sion’s Bri­an Cox. Con­sid­er also accom­pa­ny­ing it with this ani­mat­ed map visu­al­iz­ing both the Roman Empire’s rise to cov­er half the known world and its sub­se­quent fall — or this ver­sion with a scrolling time­line of the face of every emper­or.

The word “Rome” com­mon­ly stands for the Roman Empire, but, of course, it can also refer to the great cap­i­tal itself. Here on Open Cul­ture, we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured vir­tu­al tours and fly­overs, as well as a phys­i­cal scale mod­el, of the ancient city of Rome at its peak. You can also watch a re-cre­ation of the destruc­tion of Pom­peii, whose ash-pre­served ruins have taught us a great deal about life in the Roman Empire. That empire could hard­ly have extend­ed as far as it did with­out the tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vel of Roman roads, which you can learn about through videos on their con­struc­tion, sub­way-style maps, and even a trip-plan­ning web appli­ca­tion. Even the con­crete used to build those roads — not to men­tion the Roman Empire’s for­mi­da­ble aque­ducts — has been an object of fas­ci­na­tion, not least because the secret of their dura­bil­i­ty has only recent­ly come to light.

If Rome was about noth­ing but con­quer­ing emper­ors and sprawl­ing infra­struc­ture, it would be easy to explain its being a pre­dom­i­nant­ly male inter­est. But we’ve also fea­tured numer­ous oth­er aspects of its cul­ture, from the sound of Roman music and the Latin lan­guage to the col­ors of its stat­ues. Like all human beings, ancient Romans ate food — whether by fol­low­ing recipes at home or going out to “snack bars” — and wore shoes (and san­dals, alas, with socks). Our own fas­ci­na­tion with its civ­i­liza­tion has its own his­tor­i­cal roots, as under­scored by these nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry pho­tographs of Roman ruins. Nor does that fas­ci­na­tion know cul­tur­al bound­aries. I live in Korea, and recent­ly a man told me about his younger days as a sol­dier in KATUSA, the Kore­an Aug­men­ta­tion to the Unit­ed States Army. Why did he enlist in that par­tic­u­lar pro­gram? “I want­ed to know what it would be like to serve the mod­ern Roman Empire.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Most Dis­tant Places Vis­it­ed by the Romans: Africa, Scan­di­navia, Chi­na, India, Ara­bia & Oth­er Far-Flung Lands

When Iggy Pop Pub­lished an Essay, “Cae­sar Lives,” in an Aca­d­e­m­ic Jour­nal about His Love for Edward Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1995)

The Ups & Downs of Ancient Rome’s Economy–All 1,900 Years of It–Get Doc­u­ment­ed by Pol­lu­tion Traces Found in Greenland’s Ice

The Splen­did Book Design of the 1946 Edi­tion of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

11-Year-Old Mar­tin Scors­ese Draws Sto­ry­boards for His Imag­ined Roman Epic Film, The Eter­nal City

What Life Was Like for Teenagers in Ancient Rome: Get a Glimpse from a TED-ED Ani­ma­tion

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 or on Face­book.

An Introduction to Chinoiserie: When European Monarchs Tried to Build Chinese Palaces, Houses & Pavilions

Today it would be viewed as cul­tur­al appro­pri­a­tion writ large, but when Louis XIV ordered the con­struc­tion of a 5‑building plea­sure pavil­ion inspired by the Porce­lain Tow­er of Nan­jing (a 7th Won­der of the World few French cit­i­zens had viewed in per­son) as an escape from Ver­sailles, and an exot­ic love nest in which to romp with the Mar­quise de Mon­tes­pan, he ignit­ed a craze that spread through­out the West.

Chi­nois­erie was an aris­to­crat­ic Euro­pean fan­ta­sy of lux­u­ri­ous East­ern design, what Dung Ngo, founder of AUGUST: A Jour­nal of Trav­el + Design, describes as “a West­ern thing that has noth­ing to do with actu­al Asian cul­ture:”

Chi­nois­erie is a lit­tle bit like chop suey. It was whole­sale invent­ed in the West, based on cer­tain per­cep­tions of Asian cul­ture at the time. It’s very watered down.

And also way over the top, to judge by the rap­tur­ous descrip­tions of the inte­ri­ors and gar­dens of Louis XIV’s Tri­anon de Porce­laine, which stood for less than 20 years.

Image by Hervé Gre­goire, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The blue-and-white Delft tiles meant to mim­ic Chi­nese porce­lain swift­ly fell into dis­re­pair and Madame de Montespan’s suc­ces­sor, her children’s for­mer gov­erness, the Mar­quise de Main­tenon, urged Louis to tear the place down because it was “too cold.”

Her lover did as request­ed, but else­where, the West’s imag­i­na­tion had been cap­tured in a big way.

The bur­geon­ing tea trade between Chi­na and the West pro­vid­ed access to Chi­nese porce­lain, tex­tiles, fur­nish­ings, and lac­quer­ware, inspir­ing West­ern imi­ta­tions that blur the bound­aries between Chi­nois­erie and Roco­co styles

This blend is in evi­dence in Fred­er­ick the Great’s Chi­nese House in the gar­dens of Sanssouci (below).

Image by Johann H. Addicks, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Dr Samuel Wit­twer, Direc­tor of Palaces and Col­lec­tions at the Pruss­ian Palaces and Gar­dens Foun­da­tion, describes how the gild­ed fig­ure atop the roof “is a mix­ture of the Greek God Her­mes and the Chi­nese philoso­pher Con­fu­cius:”

His Euro­pean face is more than just a sym­bol of intel­lec­tu­al union between Asia and Europe…The fig­ure on the roof has an umbrel­la, an Asian sym­bol of social dig­ni­ty, which he holds in an east­ern direc­tion. So the famous ex ori­ente lux, the good and wise Con­fu­cian light from the far east, is blocked by the umbrel­la. Fur­ther down, we notice that the foun­da­tions of the build­ing seem to be made of feath­ers and the Chi­nese heads over the win­dows, rest­ing on cush­ions like tro­phies, turn into a mon­key band in the inte­ri­or. The fres­coes in the cupo­la main­ly depict mon­keys and par­rots. As we know, these par­tic­u­lar ani­mals are great imi­ta­tors with­out under­stand­ing.

Frederick’s enthu­si­asm for chi­nois­erie led him to engage archi­tect Carl von Gontard to fol­low up the Chi­nese House with a pago­da-shaped struc­ture he named the Drag­on House (below) after the six­teen crea­tures adorn­ing its roof.

Image by Rig­o­rius, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Drag­ons also dec­o­rate the roof of the Great Pago­da in London’s Kew Gar­dens, though the gild­ed wood­en orig­i­nals either suc­cumbed to the ele­ments or were sold off to set­tle George IV’s gam­bling debts in the late 18th cen­tu­ry.

Image by MX Granger, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

There are even more drag­ons to be found on the Chi­nese Pavil­ion at Drot­tning­holm, Swe­den, an archi­tec­tur­al con­fec­tion con­struct­ed by King Adolf Fredrik as a birth­day sur­prise for his queen, Louisa. The queen was met by the entire court, cos­play­ing in Chi­nese (or more like­ly, Chi­nese-inspired) gar­ments.

Not to be out­done, Russia’s Cather­ine the Great resolved to “cap­ture by caprice” by build­ing a Chi­nese Vil­lage out­side of St. Peters­burg.

Image by Макс Вальтер, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Archi­tect Charles Cameron drew up plans for a series of pavil­ions sur­round­ing a nev­er-real­ized octag­o­nal-domed obser­va­to­ry. Instead, eight few­er pavil­ions than Cameron orig­i­nal­ly envi­sioned sur­round a pago­da based on one in Kew Gar­dens.

Hav­ing sur­vived the Nazi occu­pa­tion and the Sovi­et era, the Chi­nese Vil­lage is once again a fan­ta­sy play­thing for the wealthy. A St. Peters­burg real estate devel­op­er mod­ern­ized one of the pavil­ions to serve as a two-bed­room “week­end cot­tage.”

Giv­en that no record of the orig­i­nal inte­ri­ors exists, design­er Kir­ill Istomin wasn’t ham­strung by a man­date to stick close to his­to­ry, but he and his client still went with “numer­ous chi­nois­erie touch­es” as per a fea­ture in Elle Decor:

Pan­els of antique wall­pa­pers were framed in gild­ed bam­boo for the mas­ter bed­room, and vin­tage Chi­nese lanterns, pur­chased in Paris, hang in the din­ing and liv­ing rooms. The star pieces, how­ev­er, are a set of 18th-cen­tu­ry porce­lain teapots, which came from the estate of the late New York socialite and phil­an­thropist Brooke Astor.

Explore cul­tur­al crit­ic Aileen Kwun and the Asian Amer­i­can Pacif­ic Islander Design Alliance’s per­spec­tive on the still pop­u­lar design trend of chi­nois­erie here.

h/t Allie C!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry of Ver­sailles: Six Min­utes of Ani­ma­tion Show the Con­struc­tion of the Grand Palace Over 400 Years

How the Ornate Tapes­tries from the Age of Louis XIV Were Made (and Are Still Made Today)

Down­load Vin­cent van Gogh’s Col­lec­tion of 500 Japan­ese Prints, Which Inspired Him to Cre­ate “the Art of the Future”

Free: Down­load 70,000+ High-Res­o­lu­tion Images of Chi­nese Art from Taipei’s Nation­al Palace Muse­um

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

How Big Ben Works: A Detailed Look Inside London’s Beloved Victorian Clock Tower

If asked to name the best-known tow­er in Lon­don, one could, per­haps, make a fair case for the likes of the Shard or the Gherkin. But what­ev­er their cur­rent promi­nence on the sky­line, those works of twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry star­chi­tec­ture have yet to devel­op much val­ue as sym­bols of the city. If sheer age were the decid­ing fac­tor, then the Tow­er of Lon­don, the old­est intact build­ing in the cap­i­tal, would take the top spot, but for how many peo­ple out­side Eng­land does its name call a clear image to mind? No, to find Lon­don’s most beloved ver­ti­cal icon, we must look to the Vic­to­ri­an era, the only his­tor­i­cal peri­od that could have giv­en rise to Big Ben.

We must first clar­i­fy that Big Ben is not a tow­er. The build­ing you’re think­ing of has been called the Eliz­a­beth Tow­er since Queen Eliz­a­beth II’s Dia­mond Jubilee in 2012, but before that its name was the Clock Tow­er. That was apt enough, since tow­er’s defin­ing fea­ture has always been the clock at the top — or rather, the four clocks at the top, one for each face.

You can see how they work in the ani­mat­ed video from Youtu­ber Jared Owen above, which pro­vides a detailed visu­al and ver­bal expla­na­tion of both the struc­ture’s con­text and its con­tent, includ­ing a tour of the mech­a­nisms that have kept it run­ning near­ly with­out inter­rup­tion for more than a cen­tu­ry and a half.

Only by look­ing into the tow­er’s bel­fry can you see Big Ben, which, as Owens says, is actu­al­ly the name of the largest of its bells. Its announce­ment of each hour on the hour — as well as the ring­ing of the oth­er, small­er bells — is acti­vat­ed by a sys­tem of gear trains ulti­mate­ly dri­ven by grav­i­ty, har­nessed by the swing­ing of a large pen­du­lum (to which occa­sion­al speed adjust­ments have always been made with the reli­able method of plac­ing pen­nies on top of it). Owens does­n’t clar­i­fy whether or not this is the same pen­du­lum Roger Miller sang about back in the six­ties, but at least now we know that, tech­ni­cal­ly speak­ing, we should inter­pret the fol­low­ing lyrics as not “the tow­er, Big Ben” but “the tow­er; Big Ben.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Growth of Lon­don, from the Romans to the 21st Cen­tu­ry, Visu­al­ized in a Time-Lapse Ani­mat­ed Map

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

The Old­est Known Footage of Lon­don (1890–1920) Fea­tures the City’s Great Land­marks

Prague Mon­u­ment Dou­bles as Artist’s Can­vas

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 or on Face­book.

Sylvia Plath’s Ten Back to School Commandments (1953)

plath commandments

Before her lit­er­ary fame, her stormy rela­tion­ship with Ted Hugh­es and her crip­pling bat­tles with depres­sion, Sylvia Plath was an enthu­si­as­tic stu­dent at Smith Col­lege. “The world is split­ting open at my feet like a ripe, juicy water­mel­on,” she wrote to her moth­er. “If only I can work, work, work to jus­ti­fy all of my oppor­tu­ni­ties.”

Dur­ing her junior year, she broke her leg on a ski­ing trip in upstate New York. The acci­dent land­ed her briefly in the hos­pi­tal and she wound up with a cast on her leg. Her mood dark­ened.

Psych­ing her­self out for her return to col­lege, she wrote in her diary a pair of lists.

The first list is a short series of rules about how to behave around her new beau, Myron Lotz. All three points are good advice for any­one who is utter­ly smit­ten, par­tic­u­lar­ly num­ber two – “I will not throw myself at him phys­i­cal­ly.” In the end, Plath’s rela­tion­ship with Lotz didn’t amount to much. She report­ed­ly com­mem­o­rat­ed him with­in her poem “Mad Girl’s Love Song” with the refrain “I think I made you up inside my head.”

The sec­ond list is a col­lec­tion of “Back to School Com­mand­ments.” These com­mand­ments includ­ed ask­ing her Eng­lish prof Robert Gorham Davis for an exten­sion; con­sult­ing with her Ger­man teacher Marie Schnieders (“Be calm,” she writes mys­te­ri­ous­ly, “even it is a mat­ter of life & death.”); and com­plet­ing her appli­ca­tion to be a guest edi­tor for Made­moi­selle mag­a­zine. (She nailed that last task.)

The list’s final com­mand­ment comes off bleak­er than the mild­ly pan­icky moti­va­tion­al tone of the rest of the list. “Atti­tude is every­thing: so KEEP CHEERFUL, even if you fail your sci­ence, your unit, get a hate­ful silence from Myron, no dates, no praise, no love, noth­ing. There is a cer­tain clin­i­cal sat­is­fac­tion in see­ing just how bad things can get.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

via The Excel­lent Lists of Note book

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Why Should We Read Sylvia Plath? An Ani­mat­ed Video Makes the Case

Christo­pher Hitchens Cre­ates a Revised List of The 10 Com­mand­ments for the 21st Cen­tu­ry

Bertrand Russell’s Ten Com­mand­ments for Liv­ing in a Healthy Democ­ra­cy

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

Why Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Gas Station in Minnesota (1958)

In the small town of Clo­quet, Min­neso­ta stands a piece of urban utopia. It takes the sur­pris­ing form of a gas sta­tion, albeit one designed by no less a vision­ary of Amer­i­can archi­tec­ture than Frank Lloyd Wright. He orig­i­nal­ly con­ceived it as an ele­ment of Broad­acre City, a form of mech­a­nized rur­al set­tle­ment intend­ed as a Jef­fer­son­ian democ­ra­cy-inspired rebuke against what Wright saw as the evils of the over­grown twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry city, first pub­licly pre­sent­ed in his 1932 book The Dis­ap­pear­ing City. “That’s an aspi­ra­tional title,” says archi­tec­tur­al his­to­ri­an Richard Kro­n­ick in the Twin Cities PBS video above. “He thought that cities should go away.”

Cities did­n’t go away, and Broad­acre City remained spec­u­la­tive, though Wright did pur­sue every oppor­tu­ni­ty he could iden­ti­fy to bring it clos­er to real­i­ty. “In 1952, Ray and Emma Lind­holm com­mis­sioned Frank Lloyd Wright to build them a home on the south side of Clo­quet,” writes pho­tog­ra­ph­er Susan Tre­go­ning.

When Wright “dis­cov­ered that Mr. Lind­holm was in the petro­le­um busi­ness, he men­tioned that he was quite inter­est­ed in gas sta­tion design.” When Lind­holm decid­ed to rebuild a Phillips 66 sta­tion a few years lat­er, he accept­ed Wright’s design pro­pos­al, call­ing it “an exper­i­ment to see if a lit­tle beau­ty couldn’t be incor­po­rat­ed in some­thing as com­mon­place as a ser­vice sta­tion” — though Wright him­self, char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly, was­n’t think­ing in quite such hum­ble terms.

Wright’s R. W. Lind­holm Ser­vice Sta­tion incor­po­rates a can­tilevered upper-lev­el “cus­tomer lounge,” and the idea, as Kro­n­ick puts it, “was that cus­tomers would sit up here and while their time away wait­ing for their cars to be repaired,” and no doubt “dis­cuss the issues of the day.” In Wright’s mind, “this lit­tle room is where the details of democ­ra­cy would be worked out.” As with South­dale Cen­ter, Vic­tor Gru­en’s pio­neer­ing shop­ping mall that had opened two years ear­li­er in Min­neapo­lis, two hours south of Clo­quet, the com­mu­ni­ty aspect of the design nev­er came to fruition: though its win­dows offer a dis­tinc­tive­ly Amer­i­can (or to use Wright’s lan­guage, Uson­ian) vista, the cus­tomer lounge has a bare, dis­used look in the pic­tures vis­i­tors take today.

Image by Library of Con­gress, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

There are many such vis­i­tors, who arrive from not just all around the coun­try but all around the world. But when it was last sold in 2018, the buy­er it found was rel­a­tive­ly local: Min­neso­ta-born Andrew Vol­na, own­er of such Min­neapo­lis oper­a­tions as vinyl-record man­u­fac­tur­er Noise­land Indus­tries and the once-aban­doned, now-ren­o­vat­ed Hol­ly­wood The­ater. “Wright saw the sta­tion as a cul­tur­al cen­ter, some­where to meet a friend, get your car fixed, and have a cup of cof­fee while you wait­ed,” writes Tre­go­ning, though he nev­er did make it back out to the fin­ished build­ing before he died in 1959. These six­ty-odd years lat­er, per­haps Vol­na will be the one to turn this unlike­ly archi­tec­tur­al hot spot into an even less like­ly social one as well.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Frank Lloyd Wright Designs an Urban Utopia: See His Hand-Drawn Sketch­es of Broad­acre City (1932)

12 Famous Frank Lloyd Wright Hous­es Offer Vir­tu­al Tours: Hol­ly­hock House, Tal­iesin West, Falling­wa­ter & More

Build Wood­en Mod­els of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Great Build­ing: The Guggen­heim, Uni­ty Tem­ple, John­son Wax Head­quar­ters & More

How Frank Lloyd Wright’s Son Invent­ed Lin­coln Logs, “America’s Nation­al Toy” (1916)

The Mod­ernist Gas Sta­tions of Frank Lloyd Wright and Mies van der Rohe

When Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Dog­house, His Small­est Archi­tec­tur­al Cre­ation (1956)

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 or on Face­book.

The Story of Lorem Ipsum: How Scrambled Text by Cicero Became Used by Typesetters Everywhere

In high school, the lan­guage I most fell in love with hap­pened to be a dead one: Latin. Sure, it’s spo­ken at the Vat­i­can, and when I first began to study the tongue of Vir­gil and Cat­ul­lus, friends joked that I could only use it if I moved to Rome. Tempt­ing, but church Latin bare­ly resem­bles the clas­si­cal writ­ten lan­guage, a high­ly for­mal gram­mar full of sym­me­tries and puz­zles. You don’t speak clas­si­cal Latin; you solve it, labor over it, and gloat, to no one in par­tic­u­lar, when you’ve ren­dered it some­what intel­li­gi­ble. Giv­en that the study of an ancient lan­guage is rarely a con­ver­sa­tion­al art, it can some­times feel a lit­tle alien­at­ing.

And so you might imag­ine how pleased I was to dis­cov­er what looked like clas­si­cal Latin in the real world: the text known to design­ers around the globe as “Lorem Ipsum,” also called “filler text” and (erro­neous­ly) “Greek copy.”

The idea, Priceo­nom­ics informs us, is to force peo­ple to look at the lay­out and font, not read the words. Also, “nobody would mis­take it for their native lan­guage,” there­fore Lorem Ipsum is “less like­ly than oth­er filler text to be mis­tak­en for final copy and pub­lished by acci­dent.” If you’ve done any web design, you’ve prob­a­bly seen it, look­ing some­thing like this:

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, con­secte­tur adip­isc­ing elit, sed do eius­mod tem­por inci­didunt ut labore et dolore magna ali­qua. Ut enim ad min­im veni­am, quis nos­trud exerci­ta­tion ullam­co laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea com­mo­do con­se­quat. Duis aute irure dolor in rep­re­hen­der­it in volup­tate velit esse cil­lum dolore eu fugiat nul­la pariatur. Excep­teur sint occae­cat cup­i­datat non proident, sunt in cul­pa qui offi­cia deserunt mol­lit anim id est labo­rum.

When I first encoun­tered this text, I did what any Latin geek will—set about try­ing to trans­late it. But it wasn’t long before I real­ized that Lorem Ipsum is most­ly gib­ber­ish, a gar­bling of Latin that makes no real sense. The first word, “Lorem,” isn’t even a word; instead it’s a piece of the word “dolorem,” mean­ing pain, suf­fer­ing, or sor­row. So where did this mash-up of Latin-like syn­tax come from, and how did it get so scram­bled? First, the source of Lorem Ipsum—tracked down by Ham­p­den-Syd­ney Direc­tor of Pub­li­ca­tions Richard McClintock—is Roman lawyer, states­men, and philoso­pher Cicero, from an essay called “On the Extremes of Good and Evil,” or De Finibus Bono­rum et Mal­o­rum.

675px-Cicero_-_Musei_Capitolini

Why Cicero? Put most sim­ply, writes Priceo­nom­ics, “for a long time, Cicero was every­where.” His fame as the most skilled of Roman rhetori­cians meant that his writ­ing became the bench­mark for prose in Latin, the stan­dard Euro­pean lan­guage of the Mid­dle Ages. The pas­sage that gen­er­at­ed Lorem Ipsum trans­lates in part to a sen­ti­ment Latin­ists will well under­stand:

Nor is there any­one who loves or pur­sues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but occa­sion­al­ly cir­cum­stances occur in which toil and pain can pro­cure him some great plea­sure.

Dolorem Ipsum, “pain in and of itself,” sums up the tor­tu­ous feel­ing of try­ing to ren­der some of Cicero’s com­plex, ver­bose sen­tences into Eng­lish. Doing so with tol­er­a­ble pro­fi­cien­cy is, for some of us, “great plea­sure” indeed.

But how did Cicero, that mas­ter styl­ist, come to be so bad­ly man­han­dled as to be near­ly unrec­og­niz­able? Lorem Ipsum has a his­to­ry that long pre­dates online con­tent man­age­ment. It has been used as filler text since the six­teenth cen­tu­ry when—as McClin­tock theorized—“some type­set­ter had to make a type spec­i­men book, to demo dif­fer­ent fonts” and decid­ed that “the text should be insen­si­ble, so as not to dis­tract from the page’s graph­i­cal fea­tures.” It appears that this enter­pris­ing crafts­man snatched up a page of Cicero he had lying around and turned it into non­sense. The text, says McClin­tock, “has sur­vived not only four cen­turies of let­ter-by-let­ter reset­ting but even the leap into elec­tron­ic type­set­ting, essen­tial­ly unchanged.”

The sto­ry of Lorem Ipsum is a fas­ci­nat­ing one—if you’re into that kind of thing—but its longevi­ty rais­es a fur­ther ques­tion: should we still be using it at all, this man­gling of a dead lan­guage, in a medi­um as vital and dynam­ic as web pub­lish­ing, where “con­tent” refers to hun­dreds of design ele­ments besides font. Is Lorem Ipsum a quaint piece of nos­tal­gia that’s out­lived its use­ful­ness? In answer, you may wish to read Karen McGrane’s spir­it­ed defense of the prac­tice. Or, if you feel it’s time to let the gar­bled Latin go the way of man­u­al type­set­ting machines, con­sid­er per­haps as an alter­na­tive “Niet­zsche Ipsum,” which gen­er­ates ran­dom para­graphs of most­ly verb-less, inco­her­ent Niet­zsche-like text, in Eng­lish. Hey, at least it looks like a real lan­guage.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Why Learn Latin?: 5 Videos Make a Com­pelling Case That the “Dead Lan­guage” Is an “Eter­nal Lan­guage”

What Ancient Latin Sound­ed Like, And How We Know It

Can Mod­ern-Day Ital­ians Under­stand Latin? A Youtu­ber Puts It to the Test on the Streets of Rome

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

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Scientists Working in Antarctica Unwittingly Started to Develop a New Accent

The dis­tinc­tive­ness of the accent heard in a place reflects that place’s iso­la­tion. It’s prob­a­bly no coin­ci­dence that, as almost every place in the world has become less iso­lat­ed, accents have become less dis­tinc­tive. In these days of van­ish­ing forms of region­al speech, if you want­ed to hear a new one com­ing into being, you’d have to go to the ends of the Earth — or one spe­cif­ic end of the Earth, any­way, as demon­strat­ed not long ago by researchers from the Lud­wig Max­i­m­il­ian Uni­ver­si­ty of Munich. Tak­ing and ana­lyz­ing record­ings made over the course of one win­ter, they dis­cov­ered that a new accent has begun to take shape in Eng­lish as spo­ken in Antarc­ti­ca.

“Antarc­ti­ca has no native pop­u­la­tion or per­ma­nent res­i­dents, but it does have a tran­si­to­ry com­mu­ni­ty of sci­en­tists and sup­port staff who live there for part of the year on a rota­tion­al basis,” writes Tom Hale at IFL Sci­ence. “In the sum­mer months, there are typ­i­cal­ly around 5,000 peo­ple liv­ing in Antarc­ti­ca, but that drops to just 1,000 in the win­ter.” It was from this group of the Antarc­tic “over-win­ter­ers” — and in par­tic­u­lar, from those work­ing on the British Antarc­tic Sur­vey — that the lin­guis­tic researchers recruit­ed their sub­jects, eight of whom were from Eng­land, one from the Unit­ed States, one from Ger­many, and one from Ice­land.

“The find­ings revealed sub­tle but mea­sur­able changes in the speech of the over­win­ter­ing staff dur­ing their time in Antarc­ti­ca,” writes Men­tal Floss’ Brett Reynolds. “One change was con­ver­gence, where indi­vid­u­als in a close-knit group uncon­scious­ly begin to adopt sim­i­lar speech char­ac­ter­is­tics. In this case, that meant con­ver­gence of /u/ (the ‘oo’ in goose), /ju/ (the ‘you’ in few), /ou/ (the ‘oh’ in goat), and /ɪ:/ (the ‘ee’ in the last syl­la­ble in hap­py).” Apart from that phe­nom­e­non, the researchers also noticed anoth­er change in the /ou/ of goat: “the over-win­ter­ers began to pro­nounce it more toward the front of their mouths than toward the back. (British pro­nun­ci­a­tions are already typ­i­cal­ly fron­ter than Amer­i­can /ou/.)”

Even if you got into a con­ver­sa­tion with a sci­en­tist just back from a long win­ter in Antarc­ti­ca, you prob­a­bly would­n’t notice any of this. But the fact that the dif­fer­ences between the series of record­ings tak­en at six-week inter­vals dur­ing the win­ter show mea­sur­able changes in pro­nun­ci­a­tion when com­pared to con­trol record­ings tak­en back in the Unit­ed King­dom sug­gests that the iso­la­tion of Antarc­ti­ca real­ly does encour­age the for­ma­tion of a new accent. Giv­en a suf­fi­cient­ly long time span, an accent nat­u­ral­ly becomes a dialect, and even­tu­al­ly a sep­a­rate lan­guage. Per­haps, even in our age of much-lament­ed loss of lin­guis­tic diver­si­ty, some of us can look for­ward to hav­ing Antarc­tic-speak­ing descen­dants.

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Speech Accent Archive: The Eng­lish Accents of Peo­ple Who Speak 341 Dif­fer­ent Lan­guages

Why You Have an Accent When You Speak a For­eign Lan­guage

What Eng­lish Would Sound Like If It Was Pro­nounced Pho­net­i­cal­ly

Meet the Amer­i­cans Who Speak with Eliz­a­bethan Eng­lish Accents: An Intro­duc­tion to the “Hoi Toi­ders” from Ocra­coke, North Car­oli­na

Metal­li­ca Plays Antarc­ti­ca, Set­ting a World Record as the First Band to Play All 7 Con­ti­nents: Watch the Full Con­cert Online

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 or on Face­book.

The 500-Year-Old Chinese “Bagel” That Helped Win a War

As a gen­er­al rule, you can gain a decent under­stand­ing of any part of the world by eat­ing its region­al spe­cial­ties. This holds espe­cial­ly true in a coun­try like Chi­na, with its great size and deep his­to­ry. Trav­el to the south­east­ern province of Fujian, for instance, and you’ve got to try guang bing or “shiny bis­cuit,” the Chi­nese equiv­a­lent of the bagel. “With flour, dietary alka­li and salt, the cake, no big­ger than a palm, can be sim­ply cooked, and sells for about 1 yuan ($0.14) on the streets,” says Chi­na Dai­ly. “Locals love it, not only because of the crispy and salty taste, but also because of a leg­endary sto­ry.”

The dis­tinc­tive dish­es of bor­der or coastal areas always seem to have par­tic­u­lar­ly intrigu­ing his­to­ries, and so it is with the one behind Fujian’s guang bing. “Dur­ing the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644), Gen­er­al Qi Jiguang brought an army to fight Japan­ese invaders in Fujian. Because of con­tin­u­ous rain, they could not cook for the sol­diers, so Qi cre­at­ed a kind of cake with a small hole in the mid­dle. Sol­diers could string the cakes togeth­er and car­ry them while fight­ing the ene­my.”

The result looks — and pre­sum­ably tastes — like a neck­lace of bagels, the prepa­ra­tion of which could be accom­plished in under­ground ovens that did­n’t give away the sol­diers’ posi­tion as clear­ly as open camp­fires would.

You can learn more about this bagel-pow­ered vic­to­ry of five cen­turies ago from the Great Big Sto­ry video at the top of the post, and more about the con­tin­ued prepa­ra­tion and sale of guang bing by a few ded­i­cat­ed bak­ers in the Atlas Obscu­ra video just above. Though plen­ty of Fujianese take them straight, “some like to add pork, or dried shrimp and Chi­nese chives in it; some fry it with chit­ter­lings, duck­’s giz­zard or green been; and some break it into pieces and boil it with soup.” Writ­ten records of the bagel as West­ern­ers know it date back to ear­ly sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry Poland, with appar­ent pre­de­ces­sors seen in that coun­try as ear­ly as the late four­teenth cen­tu­ry. It may nat­u­ral­ly occur to an Amer­i­can trav­el­er in Chi­na to unite these two long but dis­tant culi­nary tra­di­tions, in which case he’d do well to pack his own with lox and cream cheese.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Brief His­to­ry of Dumplings: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

When Ital­ian Futur­ists Declared War on Pas­ta (1930)

Bob Dylan Pota­to Chips, Any­one?: What They’re Snack­ing on in Chi­na

Phi­los­o­phy Explained with Donuts

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 or on Face­book.

Why the Leaning Tower of Pisa Still Hasn’t Fallen Over, Even After 650 Years

The Lean­ing Tow­er of Pisa has stood, in its dis­tinc­tive fash­ion, for six and a half cen­turies now. But it has­n’t always leaned at the same angle: to get the most dra­mat­ic view, the best time to go see it was the ear­ly nine­teen-nineties, when its tilt had reached a full 5.5 degrees. Grant­ed, at that point — when by some reck­on­ings, the tow­er should no longer have been stand­ing at all — it was closed to the pub­lic, pre­sum­ably due to fears that the sheer weight of tourism would push it over the tip­ping point. The 1989 col­lapse of Pavi­a’s eleventh-cen­tu­ry Civic Tow­er also had some­thing to do with it: could­n’t some­thing be done to spare Pisa’s world-famous land­mark from a sim­i­lar fate?

Attempts to shore up the Lean­ing Tow­er up to that point had a check­ered his­to­ry, to put it mild­ly. Built on soft soil, it start­ed to lean in back in the twelfth cen­tu­ry, before its con­struc­tion was even com­plete. The process of that con­struc­tion, in the event, took near­ly 200 years to com­plete; dur­ing one decades-long pause dur­ing a par­tic­u­lar­ly embat­tled peri­od for the Repub­lic of Pisa, the tow­er actu­al­ly set­tled enough to pre­vent its lat­er col­lapse, though it remained aslant. In the late thir­teenth cen­tu­ry, the best solu­tion avail­able for this con­di­tion was sim­ply to build the rest of its floors in a curved shape in com­pen­sa­tion.

For cen­turies after, the sight of the Lean­ing Tow­er tempt­ed gen­er­a­tions of struc­tur­al engi­neers to straight­en it out. It even tempt­ed non-engi­neers like Ben­i­to Mus­soli­ni, who in 1934 ordered large amounts of con­crete pumped into its foun­da­tion. Like most such oper­a­tions, it only made the tow­er lean more; only in the sec­ond half of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry did the tech­nol­o­gy come along to ana­lyze its foun­da­tions and the soil in which they were embed­ded clear­ly enough to devise an effec­tive solu­tion. This end­ed up involv­ing the removal of soil with a slant­ed drill from under the tow­er’s high­er end, which even­tu­al­ly brought it back to lean about four degrees, as it did near­ly two cen­turies ago. After sub­se­quent sta­bi­liza­tion work, it was guar­an­teed to remain upright for at least anoth­er two cen­turies.

You can learn more about the con­struc­tion and re-engi­neer­ing of the Lean­ing Tow­er in the videos above from TED-Ed and Dis­cov­ery UK. But you may still ask, why was it nev­er brought down by an earth­quake? “It turns out that the squishy soil at the structure’s base that caused its fetch­ing infir­mi­ty – the tow­er was tilt­ing by the time its sec­ond sto­ry was built in 1178 – con­tains the secret to its struc­tur­al resilience,” writes Joe Quirke at Glob­al Con­struc­tion Review. This means that “the soft­ness of the foun­da­tion soil cush­ions the tow­er from vibra­tions in such a way that the tow­er does not res­onate with earth­quake ground motion.” The very ele­ment that caused the tow­er to lean kept it from falling over, an irony to match the fact that such a seem­ing­ly mis­be­got­ten build­ing project has become one of Italy’s proud­est tourist attrac­tions.

Relat­ed con­tent:

See Galileo’s Famous Grav­i­ty Exper­i­ment Per­formed in the World’s Largest Vac­u­um Cham­ber, and on the Moon

When the Indi­ana Bell Build­ing Was Rotat­ed 90° While Every­one Worked Inside in 1930 (by Kurt Vonnegut’s Archi­tect Dad)

High-Res­o­lu­tion Walk­ing Tours of Italy’s Most His­toric Places: The Colos­se­um, Pom­peii, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca & More

How the World’s Biggest Dome Was Built: The Sto­ry of Fil­ip­po Brunelleschi and the Duo­mo in Flo­rence

Why Hiroshi­ma, Despite Being Hit with the Atom­ic Bomb, Isn’t a Nuclear Waste­land Today

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 or on Face­book.

A Look Inside the Labor-Intensive Process of Making a Tiffany-Style Lamp

What do Tiffany lamps have in com­mon with Kleenex?

A brand name so mighty, it’s become an umbrel­la term.

Of course, Kleenex is still man­u­fac­tur­ing tis­sues, where­as authen­tic lamps from Louis Com­fort Tiffany’s New York stu­dio were pro­duced between 1890 and 1930.

Hand­craft­ed of coiled bronze wire and many pieces of blown favrile glass arranged in intri­cate nat­ur­al motifs, bonafide Tiffany lamps can fetch prices of over a mil­lion dol­lars.

The “Tiffany lamps” for sale on Way­fair?

Not the gen­uine arti­cle.

Still, if the one on your end table brings you plea­sure, who are we to get snip­py about it?

There’s plen­ty of that atti­tude to be found in the YouTube com­ments for the above process video …

To be clear, what you’re see­ing is the process by which an afford­able col­ored glass lamp­shade in the style of Tiffany comes togeth­er at an over­seas fac­to­ry.

The qual­i­ty may be lack­ing, but it’s still a pret­ty labor-inten­sive propo­si­tion.

First, the pieces are cut by hand or using blades mount­ed on met­al arms. Their shapes and num­ber are pre­de­ter­mined by a pattern…again in the style of Tiffany.

You won’t find the speck­led con­fet­ti glass or gold­en hued glass with a translu­cent amber sheen that are defin­ing fea­tures of the real McCoy here…

Once the pieces have been cut and sort­ed, their edges are wrapped in cop­per foil tape. (In Tiffany’s day this would have involved hand cut­ting strips of cop­per, then smear­ing them with beeswax to help them to adhere to the glass.)

The wrapped pieces are then laid out in a mold accord­ing to the pat­tern and sol­dered togeth­er.

The bot­tom edge is rein­forced, and the shade is fit­ted onto a lamp base.

If you’re a muse­um cura­tor, a con­nois­seur of the gen­uine arti­cle or a glazier, we don’t fault you for get­ting a bit salty.

(Our favorite com­ment: Oh the human­i­ty. I used to be a glazier. I could­n’t fin­ish watch­ing the video. The way they cut the glass dry and slide it around with­out felt on the table makes me cringe. You can hear the crin­kling sound of glass par­ti­cles under it when it’s being slid around. The small­est con­toured cuts and breaks are so rough they’re prac­ti­cal­ly gnawed. If clear glass was han­dled this way every win­dow would have deep scratch­es and would prob­a­bly self destruct from ther­mal cycling or a strong breeze.)

If you’re sus­cep­ti­ble to ASMR, enjoy your tin­gles — all those crin­kling sounds of glass par­ti­cles!

If you’re some­one who’s insa­tiably curi­ous as to how ordi­nary things are made, we hope you’ll con­sid­er the twelve min­utes of this Process Dis­cov­ery video time well spent, and no less inter­est­ing than their non-nar­ra­tive peeks into the man­u­fac­ture of bub­ble mail­ers, snow globes and swim gog­gles

We leave you with a brief tour of the “real thing”, cour­tesy of the New York His­tor­i­cal Soci­ety:

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent

 

 

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

The Only Color Picture of Tolstoy, Taken by Photography Pioneer Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky (1908)

The pho­to above depicts Lev Niko­layevich Tol­stoy, bet­ter known in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world as Leo Tol­stoy. It dates from 1908, when he had near­ly all his work behind him: the major nov­els War and Peace and Anna Karen­i­na, of course, but also the acclaimed late book The Death of Ivan Ilyich. His own death, in fact, lay not much more than two years before him. (See footage of the final days of his life here.) This did­n’t offer much of a win­dow of oppor­tu­ni­ty to the chemist Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky, who had recent­ly devel­oped a pho­tog­ra­phy process that could cap­ture the great man of let­ters in “true col­or” — and who under­stood that such a por­trait would score a pro­mo­tion­al coup for his inno­va­tion.

“After many years of work, I have now achieved excel­lent results in pro­duc­ing accu­rate col­ors,” Prokudin-Gorsky wrote to Tol­stoy ear­ly that same year. “My col­ored pro­jec­tions are known in both Europe and in Rus­sia. Now that my method of pho­tog­ra­phy requires no more than 1 to 3 sec­onds, I will allow myself to ask your per­mis­sion to vis­it for one or two days (keep­ing in mind the state of your health and weath­er) in order to take sev­er­al col­or pho­tographs of you and your spouse.” After receiv­ing that per­mis­sion, Prokudin-Gorsky spent two days at Yas­naya Polyana, Tol­stoy’s fam­i­ly estate, where he took col­or pic­tures of not just the man him­self but his work­ing quar­ters and the sur­round­ing grounds.

“A few months lat­er, in its August 1908 issue, The Pro­ceed­ings of the Russ­ian Tech­ni­cal Soci­ety ran the fol­low­ing announce­ment describ­ing ‘the first Russ­ian col­or pho­to­por­trait,’ a col­or pho­to­graph of L. N. Tol­stoy,” accord­ing to Tol­stoy Stud­ies Jour­nal. The result­ing fame drew Prokudin-Gorsky an invi­ta­tion to show his work to Tsar Nicholas II, who sub­se­quent­ly fur­nished him with the resources to spend ten years pho­to­graph­i­cal­ly doc­u­ment­ing Rus­sia in col­or. “To this day, nobody knows exact­ly what cam­era Prokudin-Gorsky used,” writes Kai Bernau at Words that Work, “but it was like­ly a large wood­en cam­era with a spe­cial hold­er for a slid­ing glass neg­a­tive plate, tak­ing three sequen­tial mono­chrome pho­tographs, each through a dif­fer­ent col­ored fil­ter.” This appears to be a tech­no­log­i­cal descen­dant of the process devel­oped in the ear­ly eigh­teen-six­ties by Scot­tish physi­cist-poet James Clerk Maxwell, cre­ator of the first col­or pho­to­graph in his­to­ry.

To view that pho­to­graph, Maxwell “pro­ject­ed the three slides using three dif­fer­ent pro­jec­tors, each affixed with the same col­or fil­ter that had been used to pro­duce the slide.” Prokudin-Gorsky, too, had to project his pho­tos, though he did lat­er make col­or prints; “he also pub­lished it, in sig­nif­i­cant num­bers, as a col­lectible post­card,” says Tol­stoy Stud­ies Jour­nal, adding that the ver­sion seen here is a scan of one such post­card. How accu­rate­ly a lith­o­graphed repro­duc­tion like the one above of Tol­stoy rep­re­sents the ‘real’ col­ors of Prokudin-Gorsky’s orig­i­nal pro­ject­ed image is debat­able”; the basic tech­no­log­i­cal dif­fer­ence between “sub­trac­tive” lith­o­g­ra­phy and “addi­tive’ pro­jec­tion means that we can’t be see­ing quite the same pic­ture of Tol­stoy that the Tsar did — but then, it’s a good a like­ness of him as we’re ever going to get.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Rus­sia in 70,000 Pho­tos: New Pho­to Archive Presents Russ­ian His­to­ry from 1860 to 1999

Behold the Very First Col­or Pho­to­graph (1861): Tak­en by Scot­tish Physi­cist (and Poet!) James Clerk Maxwell

Russ­ian His­to­ry & Lit­er­a­ture Come to Life in Won­der­ful­ly Col­orized Por­traits: See Pho­tos of Tol­stoy, Chekhov, the Romanovs & More

The Very Last Days of Leo Tol­stoy Cap­tured on Video

Tsarist Rus­sia Comes to Life in Vivid Col­or Pho­tographs Tak­en Cir­ca 1905–1915

Col­orized Pho­tos Bring Walt Whit­man, Char­lie Chap­lin, Helen Keller & Mark Twain Back to Life

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 or on Face­book.


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