In 1962, while shootÂing The Birds, Alfred HitchÂcock gets a phone call. Or rather, he’s informed of a phone call, but when he makes his way off set he finds not a call but a real live caller, and a thorÂoughÂly unexÂpectÂed one at that: himÂself, eighÂteen years oldÂer. Beneath this encounter — in a room the LonÂdon-born, Los AngeÂles-resÂiÂdent HitchÂcock recÂogÂnizes as a hybrid of Chasen’s and ClarÂidge’s — runs a curÂrent of exisÂtenÂtial tenÂsion. This owes not just to the imagÂinÂable reaÂsons, but also to the fact that both HitchÂcocks have heard the same aphoÂrism: “If you meet your douÂble, you should kill him.”
So goes the plot of Johan GriÂmonÂprez’s DouÂble Take, or at least that of its ficÂtionÂal scenes. Though feaÂture-length, DouÂble Take would be more accuÂrateÂly conÂsidÂered an “essay film” in the traÂdiÂtion of Orson Welles’ truth-and-falÂsiÂty-mixÂing F for Fake. As Every Frame a PaintÂing’s Tony Zhou reveals, Welles’ picÂtureoffers a masÂter class in its own form, illusÂtratÂing the variÂety of ways cinÂeÂmatÂic cuts can conÂnect not just events but thoughts, even as it expertÂly shifts between its parÂalÂlel (and at first, seemÂingÂly unreÂlatÂed) narÂraÂtives. DouÂble Take, too, has more than one stoÂry to tell: while HitchÂcock and his dopÂpelÂgänger drink tea and cofÂfee, the Cold War reachÂes its zenith with the Cuban MisÂsile CriÂsis.
We call HitchÂcock “the masÂter of susÂpense,” but revisÂitÂing his filÂmogÂraÂphy exposÂes his comÂmand of a more basic emoÂtion: fear. It was fear, in DouÂble Take’s conÂcepÂtion of hisÂtoÂry, that became comÂmodiÂtized on an enorÂmous scale in Cold War AmerÂiÂca: fear of the ComÂmuÂnist threat, of course, but also less overtÂly ideÂoÂlogÂiÂcal variÂeties. HolÂlyÂwood capÂiÂtalÂized on all of them with the aid of talÂents like HitchÂcockÂ’s and techÂnolÂoÂgy like the teleÂviÂsion, whose rise coinÂcidÂed with the embitÂterÂing of U.S.-Soviet relaÂtions. Even for a man of cinÂeÂma forged in the silent era, the opporÂtuÂniÂty of a TV series could hardÂly be rejectÂed — espeÂcialÂly if it allowed him to poke fun at the comÂmerÂcial breaks forÂevÂer quashÂing his sigÂnaÂture susÂpense.
Alfred HitchÂcock Presents, its nameÂsake announced upon its preÂmiere, would comÂmence “bringÂing murÂder into the AmerÂiÂcan home, where it has always belonged.” But along with the murÂder, it smugÂgled in the work of writÂers like Ray BradÂbury, John CheevÂer, and RebecÂca West. DouÂble Take also comes inspired by litÂerÂaÂture: “The OthÂer” and “August 25th, 1983,” Jorge Luis Borges’ tales of meetÂing his own douÂble from anothÂer time. Its script was writÂten by Tom McCarthy, whose RemainÂder appears with Borges’ work on the flowÂchart of philoÂsophÂiÂcal novÂels preÂviÂousÂly feaÂtured here on Open CulÂture. HowÂevÂer many difÂferÂent HitchÂcocks it shows us, we know there will nevÂer truÂly be anothÂer — just as well as we know that we still, in our undiÂminÂished desire to be enterÂtained by our own fears, live in HitchÂcockÂ’s world.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin MarÂshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
Art, as we underÂstand the term, is an activÂiÂty unique to homo sapiÂens and perÂhaps some of our earÂly hominid cousins. This much we know. But the matÂter of when earÂly humans began makÂing art is less cerÂtain. Until recentÂly, it was thought that the earÂliÂest preÂhisÂtoric art datÂed back some 40,000 years, to cave drawÂings found in IndoneÂsia and Spain. Not coinÂciÂdenÂtalÂly, this is also when archaeÂolÂoÂgists believed earÂly humans masÂtered symÂbolÂic thought. New finds, howÂevÂer, have shiftÂed this date back conÂsidÂerÂably. “Recent disÂcovÂerÂies around southÂern Africa indiÂcate that by 64,000 years ago at the very least,” Ruth SchusÂter writes at Haaretz, “peoÂple had develÂoped a keen sense of abstracÂtion.”
Then came the “hashÂtag” in 2018, a drawÂing in ochre on a tiny flake of stone that archaeÂolÂoÂgists believe “may be the world’s oldÂest examÂple of the ubiqÂuiÂtous cross-hatched patÂtern drawn on a silÂcrete flake in the BlomÂbos Cave in South Africa,” writes KrysÂtal D’Costa at SciÂenÂtifÂic AmerÂiÂcan, with the disÂclaimer that the drawing’s creÂators “did not attribute the same meanÂing or sigÂnifÂiÂcance to [hashÂtags] that we do.” The tiny artiÂfact, thought to be around 73,000 years old, may have in fact been part of a much largÂer patÂtern that bore no resemÂblance to anyÂthing hashÂtag-like, which is only a conÂveÂnient, if misÂleadÂing, way of namÂing it.
The artiÂfact was recovÂered from BlomÂbos Cave in South Africa, a site that “has been underÂgoÂing excaÂvaÂtion since 1991 with deposits that range from the MidÂdle Stone Age (about 100,000 to 72,000 years ago) to the LatÂer Stone Age (about 42,000 years ago to 2,000 years BCE).” These findÂings have been sigÂnifÂiÂcant, showÂing a culÂture that used heat to shape stones into tools and, just as artists in caves like LasÂcaux did, used ochre, a natÂuÂralÂly occurÂring pigÂment, to draw on stone. They made engravÂings by etchÂing lines directÂly into pieces of ochre. ArchaeÂolÂoÂgists also found in the MidÂdle Stone Age deposits “a toolkÂit designed to creÂate a pigÂmentÂed comÂpound that could be stored in abalone shells,” D’Costa notes.
Nicholas St. Fleur describes the tiny “hashÂtag” in more detail at The New York Times as “a small flake, meaÂsurÂing only about the size of two thumbÂnails, that appeared to have been drawn on. The markÂings conÂsistÂed of six straight, almost parÂalÂlel lines that were crossed diagÂoÂnalÂly by three slightÂly curved lines.” Its disÂcovÂerÂer, Dr. Luca PolÂlaroÂlo of the UniÂverÂsiÂty of the WitÂwaÂterÂsrand in JohanÂnesÂburg, expressÂes his astonÂishÂment at findÂing it. “I think I saw more than ten thouÂsand artiÂfacts in my life up to now,” he says, “and I nevÂer saw red lines on a flake. I could not believe what I had in my hands.”
The eviÂdence points to a very earÂly form of abstract symÂbolÂism, researchers believe, and simÂiÂlar patÂterns have been found elseÂwhere in the cave in latÂer artiÂfacts. ProÂfesÂsor Francesco d’Errico of the French NationÂal CenÂter for SciÂenÂtifÂic Research tells SchusÂter, “this is what one would expect in traÂdiÂtionÂal sociÂety where symÂbols are reproÂduced…. This reproÂducÂtion in difÂferÂent conÂtexts sugÂgests symÂbolÂism, someÂthing in their minds, not just dooÂdling.”
As for whether the drawÂing is “art”… well, we might as well try and resolve the quesÂtion of what qualÂiÂfies as art in our own time. “Look at some of Picasso’s abstracts,” says ChristoÂpher HenÂshilwood, an archaeÂolÂoÂgist from the UniÂverÂsiÂty of Bergen and the lead author of a study on the tiny artiÂfact pubÂlished in Nature in 2018. “Is that art? Who’s going to tell you it’s art or not?”
Researchers at least agree the markÂings were delibÂerÂateÂly made with some kind of impleÂment to form a patÂtern. But “we don’t know that it’s art at all,” says HenÂshilwood. “We know that it’s a symÂbol,” made for some purÂpose, and that it preÂdates the preÂviÂous earÂliÂest known cave art by some 30,000 years. That in itself shows “behavÂioralÂly modÂern” human activÂiÂties, such as expressÂing abstract thought in mateÂrÂiÂal form, emergÂing even closÂer to the evoÂluÂtionÂary appearÂance of modÂern humans on the scene.
In 2013, a boat travÂeled from RotÂterÂdam to AmsÂterÂdam, with a timeÂlapse camÂera installed 30 meters high. The resultÂing film “gives a unique and stunÂning view of the old Dutch waterÂways, in 4K.” And lots of bridges along the way.
All images were shot with a Canon 550d at an interÂval of 3 secÂonds. 30,000 picÂtures were takÂen in total. IniÂtialÂly, “the film couldÂn’t be pubÂlished due to restricÂtions. After a few years it was forÂgotÂten.” But now it has been resÂurÂrectÂed, and it’s online.
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Those in a posiÂtion to know sugÂgest that verÂmin shy away from yelÂlowÂish-greens such as that favored by the EmperÂor because they “resemÂble areas of intense lightÂing.”
We’d like to offer an alterÂnate theÂoÂry.
Could it be that the critÂters’ ancesÂtors passed down a celÂluÂlar memÂoÂry of the perÂils of arsenic?
Napoleon, like thouÂsands of othÂers, was smitÂten with a hue known as Scheele’s Green, named for Carl WilÂhelm Scheele, the GerÂman-Swedish pharÂmaÂceuÂtiÂcal chemist who disÂcovÂered oxyÂgen, chloÂrine, and unforÂtuÂnateÂly, a gorÂgeous, toxÂic green pigÂment that’s also a cupric hydroÂgen arsenÂite.
Scheele’s Green, aka Schloss Green, was cheap and easy to proÂduce, and quickÂly replaced the less vivid copÂper carÂbonÂate based green dyes that had been in use priÂor to the mid 1770s.
The colÂor was an immeÂdiÂate hit when it made its appearÂance, showÂing up in artiÂfiÂcial flowÂers, canÂdles, toys, fashÂionÂable ladies’ clothÂing, soap, beauÂty prodÂucts, conÂfecÂtions, and wallÂpaÂper.
A month before Napoleon died, he includÂed the folÂlowÂing phrase in his will: My death is preÂmaÂture. I have been assasÂsiÂnatÂed by the EngÂlish oliÂgopÂoly and their hired murÂderÂer…”
His exit at 51 was indeed untimeÂly, but perÂhaps the wallÂpaÂper, and not the EngÂlish oliÂgopÂoly, is the greater culÂprit, espeÂcialÂly if it was hung with arsenic-laced paste, to furÂther deter rats.
When Scheele’s Green wallÂpaÂper, like the striped patÂtern in Napoleon’s bathÂroom, became damp or moldy, the pigÂment in it metabÂoÂlized, releasÂing poiÂsoÂnous arsenic-laden vapors.
Napoleon’s First Valet Louis-Joseph MarcÂhand recalled the “childÂish joy” with which the emperÂor jumped into the tub where he relÂished soakÂing for long spells:
The bathÂtub was a tremenÂdous oak chest lined with lead. It required an excepÂtionÂal quanÂtiÂty of water, and one had to go a half mile away and transÂport it in a barÂrel.
Baths also figÂured in SecÂond Valet Louis ÉtiÂenne Saint-Denis’ recÂolÂlecÂtions of his master’s illÂness:
His remeÂdies conÂsistÂed only of warm napÂkins applied to his side, to baths, which he took freÂquentÂly, and to a diet which he observed from time to time.
In Napoleon’s case, arsenic was likeÂly just one of many comÂpounds taxÂing an already trouÂbled sysÂtem. In the course of treatÂments for a variÂety of symptoms—swollen legs, abdomÂiÂnal pain, jaunÂdice, vomÂitÂing, weakness—Napoleon was subÂjectÂed to a smorÂgasÂbord of othÂer toxÂic subÂstances. He was said to conÂsume large amounts of a sweet apriÂcot-based drink conÂtainÂing hydroÂcyanÂic acid. He had been givÂen tarter emetÂic, an antiÂmonÂal comÂpound, by a CorÂsiÂcan docÂtor. (Like arsenic, antiÂmoÂny would also help explain the preÂserved state of his body at exhumaÂtion.) Two days before his death, his British docÂtors gave him a dose of calomel, or merÂcurous chloÂride, after which he colÂlapsed into a stuÂpor and nevÂer recovÂered.
As Napoleon was vomÂitÂing a blackÂish liqÂuid and expirÂing, facÂtoÂry and garÂment workÂers who hanÂdled Scheele’s Green dye and its close cousin, Paris Green, were sufÂferÂing untold morÂtiÂfiÂcaÂtions of the flesh, from hideous lesions, ulcers and extreme gasÂtric disÂtress to heart disÂease and canÂcer.
FashÂion-first women who spent the day corsetÂed in voluÂmiÂnous green dressÂes were keelÂing over from skin-to-arsenic conÂtact. Their seamÂstressÂes’ green finÂgers were in wretched conÂdiÂtion.
In 2008, an ItalÂian team testÂed strands of Napoleon’s hair from four points in his life—childhood, exile, his death, and the day thereÂafter. They deterÂmined that all the samÂples conÂtained roughÂly 100 times the arsenic levÂels of conÂtemÂpoÂrary peoÂple in a conÂtrol group.
Napoleon’s son and wife, Empress Josephine, also had noticeÂably eleÂvatÂed arsenic levÂels.
Had we been alive and livÂing in Europe back then, ours likeÂly would have been too.
All that green!
But what about the wallÂpaÂper?
A scrap purÂportÂedÂly from the dinÂing room, where Napoleon was reloÂcatÂed shortÂly before death, was found by a woman in NorÂfolk, EngÂland, pastÂed into a famÂiÂly scrapÂbook above the handÂwritÂten capÂtion, This small piece of paper was takÂen off the wall of the room in which the spirÂit of Napoleon returned to God who gave it.
In 1980, she conÂtactÂed chemist David Jones, whom she had recentÂly heard on BBC Radio disÂcussing vaporous bioÂchemÂistry and VicÂtoÂriÂan wallÂpaÂper. She agreed to let him test the scrap using non-destrucÂtive x‑ray fluÂoÂresÂcence specÂtroscopy. The result?
.12 grams of arsenic per square meter. (WallÂpaÂpers conÂtainÂing 0.6 to 0.015 grams per square meter were deterÂmined to be hazÂardous.)
Dr. Jones described watchÂing the arsenic levÂels peakÂing on the lab’s print out as “a crazy, wonÂderÂful moment.” He reitÂerÂatÂed that the house in which Napoleon was imprisÂoned was “notoÂriÂousÂly damp,” makÂing it easy for a 19th cenÂtuÂry fan to peel off a souÂvenir in “an inspired act of vanÂdalÂism.”
Death by wallÂpaÂper and othÂer enviÂronÂmenÂtal facÂtors is defÂiÂniteÂly less cloak and dagÂger than assasÂsiÂnaÂtion by the EngÂlish oliÂgopÂoly, hired murÂderÂer, and othÂer conÂspirÂaÂcy theÂoÂries that had thrived on the presÂence of arsenic in samÂples of Napoleon’s hair.
As Dr. Jones recalled:
…sevÂerÂal hisÂtoÂriÂans were upset by my claim that it was all an acciÂdent of decor…Napoleon himÂself feared he was dying of stomÂach canÂcer, the disÂease which had killed his father; and indeed his autopÂsy revealed that his stomÂach was very damÂaged. It had at least one big ulcer…My feelÂing is that Napoleon would have died in any case. His arseniÂcal wallÂpaÂper might mereÂly have hasÂtened the event by a day or so. MurÂder conÂspirÂaÂcy theÂoÂrists will have to find new eviÂdence!
We can’t resist menÂtionÂing that when the emperÂor was exhumed and shipped back to France, 19 years after his death, his corpse showed litÂtle or no decomÂpoÂsiÂtion.
Green conÂtinÂues to be a noxÂious colÂor when humans attempt to reproÂduce it in the physÂiÂcal realm. As Alice Rawthorn observed The New York Times:
The cruÂel truth is that most forms of the colÂor green, the most powÂerÂful symÂbol of susÂtainÂable design, aren’t ecoÂlogÂiÂcalÂly responÂsiÂble, and can be damÂagÂing to the enviÂronÂment.
Ayun HalÂlÂiÂday is an author, illusÂtraÂtor, theÂater makÂer and Chief PriÂmaÂtolÂoÂgist of the East VilÂlage Inky zine. She most recentÂly appeared as a French CanaÂdiÂan bear who travÂels to New York City in search of food and meanÂing in Greg Kotis’ short film, L’Ourse. FolÂlow her @AyunHalliday.
There was a time in AmerÂiÂca when you could sit down in the evening, turn on a teleÂviÂsion talk show, and hear a conÂverÂsaÂtion with AkiÂra KuroÂsawa. That time was the earÂly 1980s, and that talk show came hostÂed, of course, by Dick Cavett, to whom no culÂturÂal curÂrent — and indeed no culÂture — was too forÂeign for broadÂcast. With picÂtures like Rashomon, Ikiru, SevÂen SamuÂrai, and Throne of Blood, KuroÂsawa estabÂlished himÂself in the 1950s as the most acclaimed JapanÂese auteur alive, with promiÂnent admirÂers all over the world, Cavett includÂed. “KuroÂsawa no dai-fan desu,” he says in the filmÂmakÂer’s native lanÂguage before livÂing the KuroÂsawa dai-fan’s dream of havÂing a chat with the masÂter himÂself.
KuroÂsawa, Cavett also notes, had nevÂer been interÂviewed on teleÂviÂsion in Japan, a fact that might have struck a WestÂern cinephile as indicaÂtive of the bewilÂderÂing lack of supÂport he sufÂfered in his home counÂtry. “Why does he think he is so revered in the West as a filmÂmakÂer,” Cavett asks his interÂpreter (JapanÂese Film DirecÂtors author Audie Bock), yet “has trouÂble getÂting monÂey up in Japan to make a film?”
To this inquiry, which must have struck him as unusuÂalÂly or even refreshÂingÂly direct, KuroÂsawa first replies thus: “I cerÂtainÂly can’t explain that either.” In fact his then-most recent film KageÂmusha had takÂen years to reach proÂducÂtion; while unable to shoot, a despairÂing but undeÂterred KuroÂsawa hand-paintÂed its every scene.
Only with the supÂport of George Lucas and FranÂcis Ford CopÂpoÂla (who went on to co-star with KuroÂsawa in a SunÂtoÂry whiskey comÂmerÂcial) could KageÂmusha evenÂtuÂalÂly be realÂized. The picÂture thus escaped the realm of such unmade KuroÂsawa as an adapÂtaÂtion of MasuÂji Ibuse’s novÂel Black Rain, which would at the end of the 1980s pass into the hands of his more eccenÂtric but also-acclaimed conÂtemÂpoÂrary Shohei ImaÂmuÂra. KuroÂsawa tells the stoÂry when asked if he’d ever conÂsidÂered makÂing a film about HiroshiÂma, just one aspect of the direcÂtor’s mind and expeÂriÂences about which Cavett expressÂes curiosÂiÂty. OthÂers include the preÂwar Tokyo in which he grew up, his famÂiÂly’s samuÂrai linÂeage, his paciÂfist detesÂtaÂtion of vioÂlence (perÂhaps the source of his own films’ vioÂlent powÂer), and his WestÂern influÂences. “Would he like to have made a film with John Wayne and ToshiÂro MifuÂne?” Cavett asks. Though the notion strikes KuroÂsawa as “very difÂfiÂcult,” it’s sureÂly the stuff of a dai-fan’s dreams.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin MarÂshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
BriÂan Eno once defined art as “everyÂthing you don’t have to do.” But just because humans can live withÂout art doesn’t mean we should—or that we ever have—unless forced by exiÂgent cirÂcumÂstance. Even when we spent most of our time in the busiÂness of surÂvival, we still found time for art and music. MarÂsoulas Cave, for examÂple, “in the foothills of the French PyreÂnees, has long fasÂciÂnatÂed researchers with its colÂorÂful paintÂings depictÂing bison, horsÂes and humans,” KatherÂine Kornei writes at The New York Times. This is also where an “enorÂmous tan-colÂored conch shell was first disÂcovÂered, an inconÂgruÂous object that must have been transÂportÂed from the Atlantic Ocean, over 150 miles away.”
The 18,000-year-old shell’s 1931 disÂcovÂerÂers assumed it must have been a large cerÂeÂmoÂniÂal cup, and it “sat for over 80 years in the NatÂurÂal HisÂtoÂry MuseÂum of Toulouse.” Only recentÂly, in 2016, did researchers susÂpect it could be a musiÂcal instruÂment. Philippe WalÂter, direcÂtor of the LabÂoÂraÂtoÂry of MolÂeÂcÂuÂlar and StrucÂturÂal ArcheÂolÂoÂgy at the SorÂbonne, and CarÂole Fritz, who leads preÂhisÂtoric art research at the French NationÂal CenÂter for SciÂenÂtifÂic Research, redisÂcovÂered the shell, as it were, when they revised old assumpÂtions using modÂern imagÂing techÂnolÂoÂgy.
Fritz and her colÂleagues had studÂied the cave’s art for 20 years, but only underÂstood the shell’s pecuÂliarÂiÂties after they made a 3D digÂiÂtal modÂel. “When WalÂter placed the conch into a CT scan,” writes Lina ZelÂdovich at SmithÂsonÂian, “he indeed found many curiÂous human touchÂes. Not only did the ancient artists delibÂerÂateÂly cut off the tip, but they also puncÂtured or drilled round holes through the shell’s coils, through which they likeÂly insertÂed a small tube-like mouthÂpiece.” The team also used a medÂical camÂera to look closeÂly at the shell’s inteÂriÂor and examÂine unusuÂal forÂmaÂtions. Kornei describes the shell furÂther:
This shell might have been played durÂing cerÂeÂmonies or used to sumÂmon gathÂerÂings, said Julien Tardieu, anothÂer Toulouse researcher who studÂies sound perÂcepÂtion. Cave setÂtings tend to ampliÂfy sound, said Dr. Tardieu. “PlayÂing this conch in a cave could be very loud and impresÂsive.”
It would also have been a beauÂtiÂful sight, the researchers sugÂgest, because the conch is decÂoÂratÂed with red dots — now fadÂed — that match the markÂings found on the cave’s walls.
The decÂoÂraÂtion on the shell looks simÂiÂlar to an image of a bison on the cave wall, sugÂgestÂing it may have been played near that paintÂing for some reaÂson. The conch resemÂbles simÂiÂlar “seashell horns” found in New Zealand and Peru, but it is much, much oldÂer. It may have origÂiÂnatÂed in Spain, along with othÂer objects found in the cave, and may have travÂeled with its ownÂers or been exchanged in trade, explains archeÂolÂoÂgist MarÂgaret W. ConÂkey at the UniÂverÂsiÂty of CalÂiÂforÂnia, who adds, writes ZelÂdovich, that “the MagÂdalenÂian peoÂple also valÂued senÂsoÂry expeÂriÂences, includÂing those proÂduced by wind instruÂments.
Many thouÂsands of years latÂer, we too can hear what those earÂly humans heard in their cave: musiÂcolÂoÂgist Jean-Michel Court gave a demonÂstraÂtion, proÂducÂing the three notes above, which are close to C, C‑sharp and D. The shell may have had more range, and been more comÂfortÂable to play, with its mouthÂpiece, likeÂly made of a holÂlow bird bone. The shell is hardÂly the oldÂest instruÂment in the world. Some are tens of thouÂsands of years oldÂer. But it is the oldÂest of its kind. WhatÂevÂer its preÂhisÂtoric ownÂers used it for—a call in a hunt, stage reliÂgious cerÂeÂmonies, or a celÂeÂbraÂtion in the cave—it is, like every ancient instruÂment and artÂwork, only furÂther eviÂdence of the innate human desire to creÂate.
Ever since COVID-19 struck, poverÂty levÂels have reached a criÂsis point in New MexÂiÂco, so much so that New MexÂiÂco food banks have become overÂloaded with requests, and they can’t keep up with demand. To proÂvide assisÂtance, a star-studÂded lineÂup of musiÂcians bandÂed togethÂer this weekÂend to stage the Food for Love BenÂeÂfit ConÂcert. FeaÂtured in the five hour perÂforÂmance were David Byrne (he gives a dance lesÂson), JackÂson Brown, Shawn Colvin, The Chicks, Lyle Lovett, Kurt Vile, and many more. This video (above) will be availÂable for a limÂitÂed time–until midÂnight MST on MonÂday, FebÂruÂary 15. DonaÂtions to supÂport New MexÂiÂco’s food banks can be made here. To date, they’ve raised $704,000, or enough to proÂvide 2.8 milÂlion meals.
Who wouldn’t love to take a road trip with beloved carÂtoonÂist and eduÂcaÂtor LynÂda BarÂry? As eviÂdenced by Grandma’s Way Out ParÂty, above, an earÂly-90s docÂuÂmenÂtary made for Twin Cities PubÂlic TeleÂviÂsion, BarÂry not only finds the humor in every sitÂuÂaÂtion, she’s always up for a detour, whether to a time honÂored desÂtiÂnaÂtion like Mount RushÂmore or Old FaithÂful, or a more impulÂsive pitÂstop, like a WashÂingÂton state car repair shop decÂoÂratÂed with sculpÂtures made from cast off mufÂflers or the MonÂtana State Prison HobÂby Store.
AlterÂnatÂing in the driver’s seat with then-boyfriend, stoÂryÂteller Kevin Kling, she makes up songs on her accorÂdion, clowns around in a cheap cowÂgirl hat, samÂples an overÂsized gas staÂtion donut, and chats up everyÂone she encounÂters.
At the World’s Only Corn Palace in Mitchell, South DakoÂta, she breaks the ice by askÂing a beardÂed local guy in offiÂcial Corn Palace cap and t‑shirt if his job is the fulÂfillÂment of a long held dream.
“Nah,” he says. “I thought it was a joke … in FarÂgo, they call it the world’s biggest bird feedÂer. We do have the biggest birds in South DakoÂta. They get fed good.”
He leads them to Cal Schultz, the art teacher who designed over 25 years worth of murals fesÂtoonÂing the exteÂriÂor walls. Nudged by BarÂry to pick a favorite, Schultz choosÂes one that his 9th grade stuÂdents worked on.
“I would have loved to have been in his class,” BarÂry, a teacher now herÂself, says emphatÂiÂcalÂly. “I would have givÂen anyÂthing to have worked on a Corn Palace when I was 14-years-old.”
This point is driÂven home with a quick view of her best known creÂation, the pigÂtailed, bespecÂtaÂcled Marlys, ostenÂsiÂbly renÂdered in corn—an honÂor Marlys would no doubt appreÂciÂate.
BarÂry has long been laudÂed for her underÂstandÂing of and respect for children’s inner lives, and we see this natÂurÂal affinÂiÂty in action when she befriends Desmond and Jake, two young parÂticÂiÂpants in the Crow Fair Pow Wow, just south of Billings, MonÂtana.
FrusÂtratÂed by her inabilÂiÂty to get a hanÂdle on the proÂceedÂings (“Why didn’t I learn it in school!? Why wasn’t it part of our curÂricuÂlum?”), BarÂry retreats to the comÂfort of her sketchÂbook, which attracts the curiÂous boys. EvenÂtuÂalÂly, she draws their porÂtraits to give them as keepÂsakes, getÂting to know them betÂter in the process.
The drawÂings they make in return are treaÂsured by the recipÂiÂent, not least for the winÂdow they proÂvide on the culÂture with which they are so casuÂalÂly familÂiar.
BarÂry and Kling also chance upon the SturÂgis MotorÂcyÂcle RalÂly, and after a bite at the Road Kill Cafe (“from your grill to ours”), BarÂry waxÂes philoÂsophÂiÂcal about the then-unusuÂal sight of so much tatÂtooed flesh:
There’s someÂthing about the fact that they want someÂthing on them that they can’t wash off, that even on days when they don’t want peoÂple to know they’re a bikÂer, it’s still there. And I have always loved that about peoÂple, like …drag queens who will shave off their eyeÂbrows so they can draw perÂfect eyeÂbrows on, or anyÂbody who knows they’re difÂferÂent and does someÂthing to themÂselves physÂiÂcalÂly so that even on their bad days, they can’t deny it. Because I think that in the end, that’s sort of what saves your life, that you wear your colÂors. You can’t help it.
The aforeÂmenÂtioned mufÂfler store prompts some musÂings that will be very familÂiar to anyÂone who has immersed themÂselves inMakÂing Comics, PicÂture This, or any othÂer of Barry’s instrucÂtionÂal books conÂtainÂing her wonÂderÂfulÂly loopy, intuÂitive creÂative exerÂcisÂes:
I think this urge to creÂate is actuÂalÂly our aniÂmal instinct. And what’s sad is if we don’t let that come through us, I don’t think we have a full life on this earth. And I think we get sick because of it. I mean, it’s weird that it’s an instinct, but it’s an option, just like you can take a wild aniÂmal, a beauÂtiÂful, wild aniÂmal and put him in a zoo. They live, they’re fine in their cage, but you don’t get to see them do the thing that a cheeÂtah does best, which is, you know, just run like the wind and be able to jump and do the things… I mean, it’s our instinct, it’s instincÂtuÂal, it’s our beauÂtiÂful, beauÂtiÂful, magÂiÂcal, poetÂic, mysÂteÂriÂous instinct. And every once in a while, you see the flower of it come right up out of a gas staÂtion.
After 1653 miles and one squabÂble after overÂshootÂing a schedÂuled stop (“You don’t want me to go to Butte!”), the two arrive at their final desÂtiÂnaÂtion, Barry’s childÂhood home in SeatÂtle. The occaÂsion? Barry’s FilÂipino grandmother’s 83rd birthÂday, and plans are afoot for a potluck bash at the local VFW hall. Fans will swoon to meet this venÂerÂatÂed lady and the rest of Barry’s extendÂed clan, and hear Barry’s reflecÂtions on what it was like to grow up in a workÂing class neighÂborÂhood where most of the famÂiÂlies were mulÂti-racial.
“I walked in and it was everyÂthing LynÂda said,” Kling marÂvels.
Indeed.
The jourÂney is everyÂthing we could have hoped for, too.
The idea of a film score seems clear enough. WritÂers, direcÂtors, and ediÂtors make a visuÂal stoÂry, then comÂposers enhance it with songs, cues, and themes. But things are nevÂer so straightÂforÂward in pracÂtice. Music is always a part of the process, whether in the screenwriter’s choice of accomÂpaÂniÂment (TaranÂtiÂno choosÂes film music as soon as he has an idea for a film), the director’s mood durÂing filmÂing, or the “temp score” ediÂtors use. MusiÂcals are obviÂous excepÂtions, but on the whole, stoÂry and images come first, if not in the process, then in the viewer’s imagÂiÂnaÂtion.
A music video works difÂferÂentÂly, “scorÂing” preÂreÂcordÂed music with images, which then become accomÂpaÂniÂment, a secÂondary part added latÂer as enhanceÂment. It is “an underÂtakÂing VinÂcent de Boer knows well,” Grace Ebert writes at ColosÂsal. “The NetherÂlands-based artist has been workÂing with the jazz quarÂtet Ill ConÂsidÂered since 2017, lisÂtenÂing to the band’s largeÂly improÂvised melodies and creÂatÂing abstract aniÂmaÂtions, alongÂside stills for its 11 album covÂers, to match.” In his most recent colÂlabÂoÂraÂtion with the band, howÂevÂer, de Boer got to take the lead.
“The Stroke” began with a painstakÂing aniÂmaÂtion that took two years to comÂplete, a process you can see docÂuÂmentÂed in the makÂing-of video above. “With the help of his creÂative partÂner Hans SchutÂtenÂbeld, de Boer hand-drew 4,056 frames that range from dark, geoÂmetÂric shapes to ganÂgÂly creaÂtures to scenes that morph from one tripÂpy comÂpoÂsiÂtion to the next.” De Boer describes the six and a half-minute piece as “the stoÂry of a brushÂstroke: a trace of a moveÂment perÂformed by the artist with his instruÂment, the paintÂbrush.”
Once de Boer finÂished the film, he passed it on to Ill ConÂsidÂered, “who recordÂed an entireÂly improÂvised track on its first viewÂing.” The two come togethÂer at the top in a music video that “matchÂes the jazzy riffs with de Boer’s shapeshiftÂing sequences in a coheÂsive conÂverÂsaÂtion between the two artÂforms.” Can we call it a “music video” in a traÂdiÂtionÂal sense? Or a kind of ekphraÂsis in sound? Would we know, withÂout the backÂstoÂry, that the images came first?
Ill ConÂsidÂered has also released “The Stroke” as an LP, “packÂaged with 12 of de Boer’s origÂiÂnal artÂworks on the covÂer and inside” (see a selecÂtion above and below)–a furÂther chalÂlenge to our seemÂing desire to rank sound and image. Which came first? Does it matÂter? Can we see what Ill ConÂsidÂered heard when they improÂvised over de Boer’s swirling drawÂings? Can we hear what de Boer was playÂing with the “instruÂment” of his brush? One thinks of the synesÂtheÂsia of KandinÂsky, who saw music in his paintÂings, and of David Bowie, sitÂting in his blue room, wonÂderÂing about the gift of sound and vision….
Many difÂferÂent words could describe the state of pubÂlic transÂportaÂtion in AmerÂiÂca today. In recent decades, more and more of a conÂsenÂsus seems to have setÂtled around one word in parÂticÂuÂlar: that it “sucks.” GivÂen its “antiÂquatÂed techÂnolÂoÂgy, safeÂty conÂcerns, crumÂbling infraÂstrucÂture,” and often “nonexÂisÂtence,” says the narÂraÂtor of the video above, “it’s not hard to argue that the U.S. pubÂlic transÂportaÂtion netÂwork is just not good.” That narÂraÂtor, Sam DenÂby, is the creÂator of WenÂdover ProÂducÂtions, a Youtube chanÂnel all about geogÂraÂphy, techÂnolÂoÂgy, ecoÂnomÂics, and the infraÂstrucÂture where all three interÂsect. He believes not only that AmerÂiÂca’s pubÂlic tranÂsit sucks, but that the counÂtry’s “lack of solÂid pubÂlic transÂportaÂtion almost defines AmerÂiÂcan culÂture.”
This would make a cerÂtain sense in a poor, small, strugÂgling counÂtry — but not in the UnitÂed States of AmerÂiÂca, described not long ago by Anne AppleÂbaum in the Atlantic as “accusÂtomed to thinkÂing of itself as the best, most effiÂcient, and most techÂnoÂlogÂiÂcalÂly advanced sociÂety in the world.”
As anyÂone makÂing their first visÂit will expeÂriÂence, AmerÂiÂca’s still-forÂmiÂdaÂble wealth and powÂer doesÂn’t square with the expeÂriÂence on the ground, or indeed under it: whether by subÂway, bus, or streetÂcar, the task of navÂiÂgatÂing most U.S. cities is charÂacÂterÂized by inconÂveÂnience, disÂcomÂfort, and even imposÂsiÂbilÂiÂty. This in a counÂtry whose pubÂlic transÂportaÂtion once realÂly was the envy of the world: at the turn of the 20th cenÂtuÂry, its cities boastÂed 11,000 miles of streetÂcar track alone.
In the mid-2010s, by DenÂby’s reckÂonÂing, “the comÂbined mileage of every tram, subÂway, light rail, and comÂmuter rail sysÂtem” added up only to 5,416. What hapÂpened in the hunÂdred or so years between? He cites among othÂer facÂtors the proÂducÂtion of the first wideÂly affordÂable autoÂmoÂbiles in the 1920s, and latÂer that of busÂes, with their lowÂer operÂatÂing costs than streetÂcars — but as comÂmonÂly operÂatÂed today, their lowÂer-qualÂiÂty tranÂsit expeÂriÂence as well. (ResentÂment about this large-scale replaceÂment of urban streetÂcar sysÂtems runs deep enough to make some conÂsidÂer it a conÂspirÂaÂcy.) The U.S. “grew up as the car grew up, so its cities were built for cars,” espeÂcialÂly in its more recentÂly setÂtled west. IndiÂrect subÂsides lowÂered the cost of gas, and from the 1950s the buildÂing of the InterÂstate HighÂway SysÂtem made it easy, at least for at time, to comÂmute between city and subÂurb.
As pointÂed out in the Vox videos “Why AmerÂiÂcan PubÂlic TranÂsit Is So Bad” and “How HighÂways Wrecked AmerÂiÂcan Cities,” these masÂsive roads ran not around or under cities (as they do in much of Europe and Asia) but straight through their cenÂters, part of a largÂer process of “urban renewÂal” that ironÂiÂcalÂly destroyed quite a few of what dense urban neighÂborÂhoods the U.S. had. More than half a cenÂtuÂry of highÂway-buildÂing, subÂurÂbanÂizaÂtion, and strict zonÂing latÂer, most AmerÂiÂcans find themÂselves unable to get where they need to go withÂout buyÂing a car and driÂving themÂselves. The sitÂuÂaÂtion is even worse for those travÂelÂing between cities, as examÂined above in WenÂdover ProÂducÂtions’ “Why Trains Suck in AmerÂiÂca.” As an AmerÂiÂcan, I take a cerÂtain satÂisÂfacÂtion in hearÂing these quesÂtions addressed — but I take an even greater one in being an AmerÂiÂcan livÂing abroad.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin MarÂshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
Prince is havÂing an afterÂlife the oppoÂsite of most rock stars. Where the years after death seems to bring our gods down to human size, the more stoÂries I hear about Prince, the more I am conÂvinced he was either beyond human or one of the very few conÂstantÂly workÂing at maxÂiÂmum potenÂtial. But not only that, he also helped othÂers realÂize their own potenÂtial, espeÂcialÂly memÂbers of his tourÂing band.
I hope that’s your takeÂaway after havÂing watched not just this mini-doc of his 2007 Super Bowl HalfÂTime show, but readÂing this thorÂoughÂly enterÂtainÂing oral hisÂtoÂry of the event from The Ringer. Even if footÂball is not your thing, and you conÂsidÂer the halfÂtime show to be cheesy, this one year was not. Prince conÂsidÂered it one of his crownÂing achieveÂments, and it was going to be the end point of the memÂoirs he planned to write.
Half-time shows had traÂdiÂtionÂalÂly been the venue for marchÂing bands and colÂor guard, but by the 1990s they had turned into HolÂlyÂwood proÂducÂtions, with pop stars and dancers. HowÂevÂer, they had also been dealt a blow with NipÂpleÂgate, when Justin TimÂberÂlake ripped open Janet Jackson’s corset and exposed a metÂal pastie in 2004. MidÂdle AmerÂiÂca reeled, peoÂple thought of the chilÂdren, the FCC levied some fines, and the NFL went into defenÂsive mode, proÂgramÂming the kind of Boomer-safe artists that would please as many peoÂple as posÂsiÂble: The Rolling Stones and Paul McCartÂney. (I mean, all amazÂing artists, mind you. Just nothÂing danÂgerÂous.)
Prince was difÂferÂent. He wasn’t going to do this like an aging rock star, just come on out and play the hits. He could have done and he cerÂtainÂly had the back catÂaÂlog to do so. Instead, he put togethÂer a show that could stand on its own, a mix of his hits and a wild selecÂtion of covÂer verÂsions: Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, “Proud Mary”, Hendrix/Dylan’s “All Along the WatchÂtowÂer”, and the Foo FightÂers’ “Best of You.”
The day of the Super Bowl in MiaÂmi it rained, FloriÂda-style. MonÂsoon weathÂer. Yet, Prince and his band went ahead, defyÂing the eleÂments. The dancers—Maya and NanÂcy McClean—put grips on their high heel boots so as not to slip on the glass-like stage, formed in the shape of Prince’s “symÂbol”. There was an underÂstandÂable panÂic: would someÂbody be elecÂtroÂcutÂed? Would this be Prince’s last conÂcert?
But no. Prince seemed to tranÂscend the eleÂments. Ruth Arzate, Prince’s perÂsonÂal assistant/manager asked the musician’s hairÂstylÂist: “Am I halÂluÂciÂnatÂing or is there no rain on him?” You could see a couÂple of droplets on his shoulÂder. And we’re lookÂing and she’s like, “It just looks like a fine mist on his face.””
Prince endÂed the conÂcert with “PurÂple Rain,” which you can see above, singing *in the rain* and then bustÂing out a solo for the ages behind bilÂlowÂing fabÂric as a shadÂow, wieldÂing that symÂbol guiÂtar like a gloÂriÂous phalÂlus.
HalfÂtime show proÂducÂtion designÂer Bruce Rogers says it best:
“To me, it’s about one guy in the midÂdle of a hunÂdred thouÂsand peoÂple and a hunÂdred milÂlion peoÂple on teleÂviÂsion, and it’s your moment to be Prince at the Super Bowl and MothÂer Nature is dropÂping thouÂsands and thouÂsands of galÂlons of rain. I always thought how cool the guy is to rise up and just get stormed upon, and just bring what he brought. That was so speÂcial.”
There are sevÂerÂal takeÂaways from the Ringer piece: how Prince would glide around on cusÂtom-made Heelys. How he would perÂform in meetÂings with a full band instead of just playÂing a CD. How when a cable acciÂdenÂtalÂly got run over before the show a roadÂie litÂerÂalÂly held the stripped cable togethÂer for 20 or so minÂutes, runÂning the risk of elecÂtroÂcuÂtion, to keep the show going. But my favorite takeÂaway is this quote, from ChicaÂgo Tribune’s Mark Caro: “He took this masÂsiveÂly overÂscaled event and just sort of bent it to his will.”
Super Bowl XLI became a Prince conÂcert with a footÂball game on either side of it, and that’s because he made it so.
Ted Mills is a freeÂlance writer on the arts who curÂrentÂly hosts the Notes from the Shed podÂcast and is the proÂducÂer of KCRÂW’s CuriÂous Coast. You can also folÂlow him on TwitÂter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.
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