The Vibrant Color Wheels Designed by Goethe, Newton & Other Theorists of Color (1665–1810)

Maybe it’s the clois­tered headi­ness of Rene Descartes, or the rig­or­ous aus­ter­i­ty of Isaac New­ton; maybe it’s all the leath­ern breach­es, gray waist­coats, sal­low faces, and pow­dered wigs… but we tend not to asso­ciate Enlight­en­ment Europe with an explo­sion of col­or the­o­ry. Yet, philoso­phers of the late 17th and 18th cen­turies were obsessed with light and sight. Descartes wrote a trea­tise on optics, as did New­ton.

New­ton first described in his 1672 Opticks the “rev­o­lu­tion­ary new the­o­ry of light and colour,” the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cam­bridge Whip­ple Library writes, “in which he claimed that exper­i­ments with prisms proved that white light was com­prised of light of sev­en dis­tinct colours.” Sci­en­tists debat­ed Newton’s the­o­ry “well into the 19th cen­tu­ry.”

One ear­ly oppo­nent famous­ly illus­trat­ed his rebut­tal. Poet, writer, and sci­en­tist Johann Wolf­gang von Goethe pub­lished The­o­ry of Col­ors (see here), with its care­ful­ly hand-drawn and col­ored dia­grams and wheels, in 1809. From New­ton’s time onward, col­or the­o­rists elab­o­rat­ed pre­vail­ing con­cepts with col­or wheels, the first attrib­uted to New­ton in 1704 (and drawn in black and white, above).

Newton’s wheel “arranged red, orange, yel­low, green, blue, indi­go, and vio­let into a nat­ur­al pro­gres­sion on a rotat­ing disk.” Four years lat­er, painter Claude Boutet made his 7‑color and 12-col­or cir­cles (top), based on Newton’s the­o­ries. Artists, chemists, map­mak­ers, poets, even ento­mol­o­gists… every­one seemed to have a pet the­o­ry of col­or, gen­er­al­ly accom­pa­nied by elab­o­rate col­ored charts and dia­grams.

The col­or wheel was one among many forms—which often pre­sent­ed con­trast­ing the­o­ries, like that of Jacques-Fabi­en Gau­ti­er, who argued that black and white were pri­ma­ry col­ors. But the wheel, and Newton’s basic ideas about it, have endured almost unchanged. The wheel fur­ther up (third one from top) by British ento­mol­o­gist Moses Har­ris from 1776 shows Newton’s 7‑color scheme sim­pli­fied to the 6 pri­ma­ry and sec­ondary col­ors we usu­al­ly see, arranged in the com­ple­men­tary and anal­o­gous scheme, with ter­tiary gra­da­tions between them. Anoth­er ento­mol­o­gist, Ignaz Schif­fer­müller, drew the 12-col­or wheel right above.

Col­or is always rep­re­sen­ta­tive. Newton’s orig­i­nal wheel includ­ed “musi­cal notes cor­re­lat­ed with col­or.” By the end of the 18th cen­tu­ry, col­or the­o­ry had become increas­ing­ly tied to psy­cho­log­i­cal the­o­ries and typolo­gies, as in the wheel above, the “rose of tem­pera­ments,” made by Goethe and Friedrich Schiller in 1789 to illus­trate “human occu­pa­tions and char­ac­ter traits,” the Pub­lic Domain Review notes, includ­ing “tyrants, heroes, adven­tur­ers, hedo­nists, lovers, poets, pub­lic speak­ers, his­to­ri­ans, teach­ers, philoso­phers, pedants, rulers,” grouped into the four tem­pera­ments of humoral the­o­ry.

It’s a fair­ly short leap from these psy­cholo­gies of col­or to those used by adver­tis­ers and com­mer­cial design­ers in the 20th century—or from the artists and sci­en­tists’ col­or the­o­ries to abstract expres­sion­ism, the Bauhaus school, and the chemists and pho­tog­ra­phers who recre­at­ed the col­ors of the world on film. (Goethe’s col­or wheel, below, from The­o­ry of Col­or, illus­trates his chap­ter on “Alle­gor­i­cal, sym­bol­ic, and mys­ti­cal use of colour.”) See more ear­ly col­or wheels, like Philipp Otto Runge’s 1810 Far­benkugel, as well as oth­er con­cep­tu­al col­or schemes, at the Pub­lic Domain Review.

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Goethe’s The­o­ry of Col­ors: The 1810 Trea­tise That Inspired Kandin­sky & Ear­ly Abstract Paint­ing

How Tech­ni­col­or Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma with Sur­re­al, Elec­tric Col­ors & Changed How We See Our World

A Pre-Pan­tone Guide to Col­ors: Dutch Book From 1692 Doc­u­ments Every Col­or Under the Sun

Sir Isaac Newton’s Papers & Anno­tat­ed Prin­cip­ia Go Dig­i­tal

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

The Case for Why Kraftwerk May Be the Most Influential Band Since the Beatles

They are per­for­mance artists of self-parody—four stiff Teu­ton­ic robots (some­times played by actu­al robots), stand­ing behind drum machines and sequencers, push­ing but­tons and singing things like “Wir fahr’n fahr’n fahr’n auf der Auto­bahn” and “it’s more fun to com­pute.” As if the Beach Boys had been reimag­ined from bro­ken mem­o­ry by Ger­man androids thou­sands of years in the future. Onstage, they match or exceed the com­mit­ment of lat­er musi­cal-the­atri­cal acts they inspired like the Blue Man Group. Kraftwerk may be the most Ger­man of con­tri­bu­tions to pop­u­lar cul­ture since Wag­n­er.

For all their com­put­er­ized indus­tri­al campi­ness, they real­ly did come from the future, or they either antic­i­pat­ed or invent­ed it, depend­ing on your point of view. Kraftwerk (mean­ing “pow­er sta­tion”) “essen­tial­ly cre­at­ed the son­ic blue­print from which the British new roman­tic and tech­no-pop move­ments arose, and pro­vid­ed the essen­tial tech­nol­o­gy for much of hip-hop,” writes the Trouser Press Record Guide.

In addi­tion to birthing Depeche Mode and Soft Cell’s synth pop and the smooth robo-funk of Afri­ka Bambaataa’s sem­i­nal “Plan­et Rock,” the band built the archi­tec­ture of post-punk, tech­no, acid house, and Brit­pop with their exper­i­ments through­out the 70s and 80s, includ­ing the infa­mous “Auto­bahn.”

Kraftwerk began as two long-haired stu­dents, Ralf Hüt­ter and Flo­ri­an Schnei­der, who met in Dus­sel­dorf in 1969, play­ing exper­i­men­tal music with elec­tric, acoustic, and elec­tron­ic instru­ments and with a vari­ety of musi­cians, includ­ing gui­tarist Michael Rother and drum­mer Klaus Dinger. In Dinger’s pound­ing, repet­i­tive drum­ming, they found their mekanik sound as ear­ly as 1970 (above), but had not yet tran­si­tioned into pop, or the clean-cut suit and tie look, until ful­ly absorb­ing the influ­ence of British artists Gilbert and George and receiv­ing the guid­ance of super­pro­duc­er Con­ny Plank. The ear­ly incar­na­tion of Kraftwerk—along with oth­er so-called ear­ly “Krautrock” groups like Can, and espe­cial­ly Rother and Dinger’s huge­ly influ­en­tial, if obscure, NEU!—cre­at­ed the scaf­fold­ing for bands from Joy Divi­sion to Sui­cide to Son­ic Youth to Stere­o­lab (and the hun­dreds and hun­dreds of bands those bands inspired).

The dri­ving “motorik” beat played by Dinger, and lat­er by a drum machine, has been described by Bri­an Eno as one of the three great beats of the 70s, next to Clyde Stubblefield’s funk and Tony Allen’s Afrobeat. But the band’s oth­er, song-ori­ent­ed ele­ments are just as influ­en­tial for dif­fer­ent rea­sons. In “Auto­bahn,” they use a more typ­i­cal beat, slowed to a leisure­ly cruise. Their dead­pan sprechge­sang over an entire­ly syn­the­sized pop com­po­si­tion set the tem­plate for gen­er­a­tions. “They were the first band to embrace mod­ern technology—not only in the instru­ments they played, but in the sub­ject mat­ter of their songs,” William Cook writes at The Spec­ta­tor, who argues that the “po-faced kraut-rock­ers have become the most influ­en­tial pop group of all time.”

While “today urban alien­ation is a com­mon theme in pop music… back in the 1970s they seemed so avant-garde, it was almost impos­si­ble to take them seri­ous­ly.” Those who know lit­tle of their lega­cy may still find this to be the case. A stiff satir­i­cal joke play­ing with Ger­man stereo­types as much as Mon­ty Python telegraphed broad­ly hilar­i­ous ver­sions of Eng­lish­ness. But they are not soul­less pranksters, but bril­liant musi­cians whose finest work—like 1981’s “Com­put­er Love,” from the album of the same name—is “cold, clean and clear—and won­der­ful­ly har­mo­nious.” These haunt­ing songs con­tain all of the ennui of the inter­net-dat­ing age, before the inter­net (“I call this num­ber / For a data date.”), the musi­cal fore­bear of Her.

Cook argues that Kraftwerk did “more to shape mod­ern music than any­thing since the Bea­t­les,” an idea he shares with many oth­er crit­ics, such as the L.A. Times’ Ran­dall Roberts, who names 1977’s “Trans Europe Express” as “the most impor­tant pop album of the last 40 years” and the “first high-art elec­tron­ic pop record.” Look­ing on the album’s cov­er like com­put­er pro­gram­mers on their way to the prom, Kraftwerk, Roberts insists, was as influ­en­tial as the exper­i­ments of Steve Jobs and Steve Woz­ni­ak around the same time. Dis­miss these seem­ing­ly hyper­bol­ic com­par­isons if you will, but con­sid­er the fish who do not know what water is. If you were born in the mid-sev­en­ties or lat­er, there’s nev­er been a time in your life when you haven’t heard the ele­ments of Kraftwerk’s alien­at­ed, ultra-mod­ern, and—at its best, a lit­tle tongue-in-cheek—sound com­ing from car, home, dance club, or shop­ping mall speak­ers.

So much more than a nov­el­ty act, the band cre­at­ed the gor­geous sounds of Euro­pean elec­tron­ic pop that defined the 80s, espe­cial­ly with sin­gles like “Com­put­er Love” and “Tour de France.” Their styl­ish rev­o­lu­tion nev­er stopped, though they with­drew for a few years only to return in the 90s and 2000s with ful­ly updat­ed sounds, and always with a per­fect­ly syn­chro­nous vision. When Schnieder briefly left to pur­sue a solo career, The Inde­pen­dent remarked, “it has appar­ent­ly tak­en Schnei­der and his musi­cal part­ner Ralf Hüt­ter, four decades to dis­cov­er musi­cal dif­fer­ences.” They have con­tin­ued to tour, now in light-up, neo­prene body­suits, like robot surfers, who might be mis­tak­en for Daft Punk or any num­ber of oth­er sim­i­lar major dance music super­stars…. Except that Kraftwerk got there first, and, many a die-hard fan would argue, did it best.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kraftwerk’s First Con­cert: The Begin­ning of the End­less­ly Influ­en­tial Band (1970)

Kraftwerk Plays a Live 40-Minute Ver­sion of their Sig­na­ture Song “Auto­bahn:” A Sound­track for a Long Road Trip (1974)

Kraftwerk’s “The Robots” Per­formed by Ger­man First Graders in Adorable Card­board Robot Out­fits

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

A Salute to Every Frame a Painting: Watch All 28 Episodes of the Finely-Crafted (and Now Concluded) Video Essay Series on Cinema

Doc­u­men­taries about film itself have exist­ed for decades, but only with the advent of short-form inter­net video — pre­ced­ed by the advents of pow­er­ful desk­top edit­ing soft­ware and high-qual­i­ty home-video for­mats — did the form of the cin­e­ma video essay that we know today emerge. Over the past few years, the Youtube chan­nel Every Frame a Paint­ing has become one of the mod­ern cin­e­ma video essay’s most respect­ed pur­vey­ors, exam­in­ing every­thing from how edi­tors think to the bland music of super­hero films to why Van­cou­ver nev­er plays itself to the sig­na­ture tech­nique of auteurs like Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and, yes, Michael Bay.

Alas, Every Frame a Paint­ing has come to an end. “When we start­ed this YouTube project, we gave our­selves one sim­ple rule: if we ever stopped enjoy­ing the videos, we’d also stop mak­ing them,” says series co-cre­ator Tay­lor Ramos. “And one day, we woke up and felt it was time.” 

She says it in the nev­er-pro­duced script for a con­clud­ing episode, a text that takes us on a jour­ney from Every Frame a Paint­ing’s incep­tion — born, as co-cre­ator Tony Zhou puts it, out of frus­tra­tion at hav­ing to “dis­cuss visu­al ideas with non-visu­al peo­ple” — through its evo­lu­tion into a series about film form rather than con­tent (“most YouTube videos seemed to focus on sto­ry and char­ac­ter, so we went in the oppo­site direc­tion”) to its con­clu­sion.

Just as Every Frame a Paint­ing’s episodes reveal to us how movies work, this final script reveals to us how Every Frame a Paint­ing works — or more specif­i­cal­ly, what fac­tors led to its video essays look­ing and feel­ing like they do. “Near­ly every styl­is­tic deci­sion you see about the chan­nel ‚” Zhou says by way of giv­ing one exam­ple,  “was reverse-engi­neered from YouTube’s Copy­right ID,” try­ing to find ways around the plat­for­m’s auto­mat­ic copy­right-vio­la­tion detec­tion sys­tem that would occa­sion­al­ly reject even the kind of fair use they were doing. Oth­er choic­es they made more delib­er­ate­ly, such as to do old-fash­ioned library research when­ev­er pos­si­ble. “It’s very tempt­ing to use Google because it’s so quick and it’s right there,” says Zhou in a much-high­light­ed pas­sage, “but that’s exact­ly why you shouldn’t go straight to it.”

What­ev­er the ori­gins of Zhou and Ramos’ rig­or­ous process, it has end­ed up pro­duc­ing a series great­ly appre­ci­at­ed by film­go­ers and film­mak­ers alike. Binge-watch all 28 of Every Frame a Paint­ing’s episodes (up top)— which will explain to you dra­mat­ic strug­gle as seen in The Silence of the Lambs, how the movies have depict­ed tex­ting, the cin­e­mat­ic pos­si­bil­i­ties of the chair, and much more besides — and you’ll end up with, at the very least, an equiv­a­lent of a few semes­ters of film-school edu­ca­tion. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll come away with the idea for a cin­e­ma video essay series of your own.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Film­mak­ing Tech­niques of Mar­tin Scors­ese, Jack­ie Chan, and Even Michael Bay

The Alche­my of Film Edit­ing, Explored in a New Video Essay That Breaks Down Han­nah and Her Sis­ters, The Empire Strikes Back & Oth­er Films

Why Mar­vel and Oth­er Hol­ly­wood Films Have Such Bland Music: Every Frame a Paint­ing Explains the Per­ils of the “Temp Score”

How the Coen Broth­ers Put Their Remark­able Stamp on the “Shot Reverse Shot,” the Fun­da­men­tal Cin­e­mat­ic Tech­nique

Buster Keaton: The Won­der­ful Gags of the Found­ing Father of Visu­al Com­e­dy

How Orson Welles’ F for Fake Teach­es Us How to Make the Per­fect Video Essay

Van­cou­ver Nev­er Plays Itself

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include 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.

How Technicolor Revolutionized Cinema with Surreal, Electric Colors & Changed How We See Our World

Though only one process in a very long his­to­ry of film col­or­ing tech­niques, from hand-tint­ing to chem­i­cal and mechan­i­cal means, Tech­ni­col­or has had the most influ­ence of them all. Dur­ing the Gold­en Age of cin­e­ma, the 1930s and 40s, the tech­nol­o­gy was “undoubt­ed­ly,” write Kris­ten Thomp­son and David Bor­d­well in their Film His­to­ry, “the most strik­ing inno­va­tion” of the era, and it came to dom­i­nate by way of mas­sive hit films like The Wiz­ard of Oz and Gone with the Wind. It didn’t hurt that “the Tech­ni­col­or com­pa­ny monop­o­lized the process, sup­ply­ing all cam­eras, pro­vid­ing super­vi­sors for each pro­duc­tion, and pro­cess­ing and print­ing the film.”

But Tech­ni­col­or didn’t arise overnight. Found­ed in 1914, the Tech­ni­col­or com­pa­ny pro­duced col­or films for two decades that were “still exper­i­men­tal,” notes Atlantic edi­tor Adri­enne LaFrance, “often­times to the point of being absurd.” But by the mid-30s, Tech­ni­col­or No. IV—which used prisms to split the light onto three strips of film for the three pri­ma­ry colors—could pro­duce hyper­re­al, strik­ing­ly beau­ti­ful images. By 1939, when audi­ences saw the yel­low brick road, lion, scare­crow, green-faced wicked witch, and those sparkling ruby slip­pers come alive before their eyes, Tech­ni­col­or had tri­umphed.

In the video essay above from Vox, Phil Edwards explains what this means, and how “the tech­nol­o­gy shaped the look of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry,” and debunks three mis­con­cep­tions about The Wiz­ard of Oz, includ­ing the idea that it was the first Tech­ni­col­or movie. Edwards explains the ori­gins of the com­pa­ny with three col­leagues from M.I.T., from which the “Tech” part of the name derived, and how the three-strip process came into its own sev­en years before The Wiz­ard of Oz, in a 1932 Dis­ney car­toon called “Flow­ers and Trees.” This ani­ma­tion was the first to fea­ture the three-strip inno­va­tion, which used an “insane­ly dif­fi­cult” dye-trans­fer process. (In the fol­low-up video below, Edwards address­es com­ments, ques­tions, and cor­rec­tions to his essay above.)

Despite Tech­ni­col­or IV’s advance, live-action films through­out the 30s still used ear­li­er fea­tures of the tech­nique, “amp­ing up” the con­trast with a black and white lay­er of film under­neath the col­or. Oth­er tech­ni­cal lim­i­ta­tions con­tributed to Technicolor’s dis­tinc­tive, eye-pop­ping look. The Wiz­ard of Oz, for exam­ple, does not actu­al­ly move from black and white to col­or when Dorothy leaves her dis­placed Kansas house and walks into Oz. Instead, the film­mak­ers paint­ed the set sepia and used a Judy Gar­land dou­ble (also paint­ed). Mas­sive, and mas­sive­ly loud, cam­eras and a con­sid­er­able expense added more bur­dens for Tech­ni­col­or film­mak­ing, but the advan­tages out­weighed these prob­lems, Edwards argues, includ­ing the abil­i­ty to adjust the dyes to use col­or in strik­ing­ly dif­fer­ent ways from movie to movie.

Bril­liant, over­sat­u­rat­ed greens, yel­lows, and reds in films like The Wiz­ard of Oz and Sin­gin’ in the Rain led to new ways of using col­or to tell sto­ries, such as those per­fect­ed by Stan­ley Kubrick over 40 years after Tech­ni­col­or IV’s debut. “The three-col­or process,” LaFrance explains, “cre­at­ed films punc­tu­at­ed by col­ors so elec­tric they were sur­re­al.” Imag­ine the effects of these visions on young impres­sion­able audi­ences in the for­ties and fifties—who went on to design the look of the six­ties and sev­en­ties. We may for­get that the dawn of Tech­ni­col­or “was itself a reflec­tion of film process­es that cre­at­ed a rich­er, col­or-flood­ed ver­sion of the real world,” yet both film and the design of the real world came to look the way they did due in large part to Tech­ni­col­or film.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Film­mak­ers Like Kubrick, Jodor­owsky, Taran­ti­no, Cop­po­la & Miyaza­ki Use Col­or to Tell Their Sto­ries

The Col­or Palettes of Your Favorite Films: The Roy­al Tenen­baums, Reser­voir Dogs, A Clock­work Orange, Blade Run­ner & More

Ear­ly Exper­i­ments in Col­or Film (1895–1935)

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

New App, Litlong, Lets You Take a Literary Tour of Edinburgh: Features 50,000 Book Excerpts

FYI. The Uni­ver­si­ty of Edin­burgh and Napi­er Uni­ver­si­ty have teamed up to cre­ate Lit­long, a web­site and mobile app that lets you explore Edin­burgh and its rich lit­er­ary tra­di­tion. Writes the Scot­tish news­pa­per The National:

From Sir Wal­ter Scott to Dame Muriel Spark, Ian Rankin and many oth­ers, the city of Edin­burgh has inspired count­less writ­ers over the cen­turies.

Now stu­dents, vis­i­tors and read­ers around the world will be able to explore the capital’s lit­er­ary high­lights via a free inter­ac­tive app con­tain­ing a stag­ger­ing 50,000 book excerpts.

The app guides users to 1,600 loca­tions in the city made famous by writ­ers from Robert Louis Steven­son to Irvine Welsh, then high­lights what they wrote about these parts of the city.

The resource, called Lit­Long, has excerpts from clas­sic and con­tem­po­rary texts so users can expe­ri­ence the Unesco City of Literature’s attrac­tions.

Made with “nat­ur­al lan­guage pro­cess­ing tech­nol­o­gy informed by lit­er­ary schol­ars’ input,” Lit­long draws on dig­i­tal col­lec­tions from across the world, includ­ing the British Library, the Nation­al Library of Scot­land, and Project Guten­berg. Access Lit­long here.

via The National

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Relat­ed Con­tent

Sir Ian McK­ellen Releas­es New Apps to Make Shakespeare’s Plays More Enjoy­able & Acces­si­ble

Stan­ford Uni­ver­si­ty Launch­es Free Course on Devel­op­ing Apps with iOS 10

Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es

Neil Young Offers His Entire Catalog of Music Free Online (Until June), at the Highest Digital Audio Quality Possible

Neil Young has always been an artist in con­ver­sa­tion with the world around him—a trou­ba­dour, truth-teller, town crier, and chron­i­cler of the excess­es and evils of his age. His is not always a sub­tle art, but is often all the bet­ter for it. When he speaks out in song, peo­ple lis­ten. And though Cana­di­an, he’s done as much as any Amer­i­can song­writer of his gen­er­a­tion to crys­tal­ize the U.S.’s seem­ing­ly per­pet­u­al domes­tic and for­eign con­flicts.

Young often works quick­ly and to spec, so to speak, to the needs of the moment. (He wrote his clas­sic After the Gold Rush album in three weeks.) 1970’s Kent State-shoot­ing response “Ohio” is plain-spo­ken and spare, its most indeli­ble line a stark news­pa­per head­line: “Four dead in Ohio.” It’s such an effec­tive­ly poignant treat­ment that the song still res­onates deeply forty-sev­en years lat­er in a recent cov­er by Gary Clark, Jr.  Young report­ed­ly wrote the song in fif­teen min­utes.

His ear­ly 70s songs “South­ern Man” and “Alaba­ma” inspired one of the most famous, and famous­ly mis­un­der­stood, feuds in rock his­to­ry when Lynyrd Skynyrd respond­ed with “Sweet Home Alaba­ma.” Ron­nie Van Zandt claimed he wrote the song as a joke, and he and Young were always mutu­al admir­ers and friends. But Young’s deserved­ly angry lyrics made mil­lions of peo­ple furi­ous in return. (He has since looked back on “Alaba­ma” with some regret, call­ing it, “not ful­ly thought out” and say­ing it “ rich­ly deserved the shot” Van Zandt took at him.)

As a long­time fan of Young’s loose, noisy, abstract psy­che­del­ic garage rock and of his ten­der acoustic bal­lads, I feel that it’s pro­found­ly reduc­tive to call him a protest singer. He’s had a long and incred­i­bly var­ied career, which he now invites us to sur­vey, all of it, with the release of the Neil Young Archives, a smart, chrono­log­i­cal­ly-orga­nized online cat­a­log span­ning over 50 years, 39 stu­dio albums, records made with Buf­fa­lo Spring­field and CSNY, ten unre­leased albums, and a few unre­leased films.

The archive, Young says, “is designed to be a liv­ing doc­u­ment, con­stant­ly evolv­ing and includ­ing every new record­ing and film as it is made.” All of this music is cur­rent­ly free, until June 30th, though you’ll have to cre­ate an account. After that date, users can sub­scribe for an unspec­i­fied but “very mod­est” cost.

The breadth of Young’s song­writ­ing inter­ests is on full dis­play, from gen­tle love songs to dusty west­ern sagas. In each decade, how­ev­er, he has nev­er hes­i­tat­ed to get polit­i­cal when he feels the call. And when Neil Young writes a protest song, he goes all in.

He’s tak­en in the past few years to writ­ing entire protest albums. There’s the 2006 Iraq War protest, Liv­ing with War, a rush release Young penned quick­ly and record­ed in only 9 days after see­ing a USA Today head­line. It went on to earn a Gram­my nom­i­na­tion.

There’s the 2015 The Mon­san­to Years, record­ed with his recent band Promise of the Real (which includes Willie Nelson’s sons Lukas and Mic­ah). Record­ed in live ses­sions at a con­vert­ed movie the­ater, the album prompt­ed Bill­board to solic­it respons­es from the cor­po­ra­tions Young takes to task, includ­ing not only Mon­san­to but also Star­bucks, Chevron, and Wal­mart.

The Vis­i­tors, Young’s new album with Promise of the Real, released just yes­ter­day, may not be a full protest album, but it does have some straight­for­ward protest songs, “Already Great” (top) con­tains the lyrics “You’re already great / You’re the promised land / You’re the help­ing hand” and ends with chants of “Whose streets? Our streets!” The track “Chil­dren of Des­tiny,” with its earnest­ly patri­ot­ic video (above) recalls, in some respects, Bruce Springsteen’s anthem “The Ris­ing,” but with unam­bigu­ous­ly lefty mes­sag­ing ref­er­enc­ing, among oth­er things, the bru­tal­ly repressed Stand­ing Rock protests and the need to “stand up for the land.”

Young looks around him and looks ahead even when he’s look­ing back, seek­ing out new sounds, styles, record­ing tech­niques and tech­nolo­gies. Fit­ting­ly, on the day of The Vis­i­tors’ release, Young announced the Archives, which pro­vides, as he wrote in a tweet, “fans & music his­to­ri­ans with access to all of my music and to my entire archives in one loca­tion.” True to his for­ward-look­ing vision, he has updat­ed the sound qual­i­ty of these record­ings to suit the needs of a dig­i­tal age.

Rather than suc­cumb­ing to the trend of stream­ing ser­vices’ low qual­i­ty mp3s—a phe­nom­e­non he has long fought—Young offers all of this music at the high­est qual­i­ty pos­si­ble, “not com­pro­mised,” he writes on the site, “by com­pres­sion schemes to save mem­o­ry.” He promis­es “the clar­i­ty rich­ness, trans­paren­cy, and detail of the orig­i­nal per­for­mance.” He doesn’t promise that the hun­dreds of live, stu­dio, and unre­leased songs in the archive mer­it this care­ful, high-tech treat­ment, but if you’re a Neil Young fan, you’re already con­vinced most of them do, from the most earnest polit­i­cal anthems to the qui­etest bal­lads and most rau­cous free-form jams.

Vis­it the Neil Young Archive here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Neil Young Per­forms Clas­sic Songs in 1971 Con­cert: “Old Man,” “Heart of Gold” & More

Great Sto­ry: How Neil Young Intro­duced His Clas­sic 1972 Album Har­vest to Gra­ham Nash

The Time Neil Young Met Charles Man­son, Liked His Music, and Tried to Score Him a Record Deal

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

George Orwell’s Rules for Making the Perfect Cup of Tea: A Short Animation

Sev­er­al years back, Col­in Mar­shall high­light­ed George Orwell’s essay, “A Nice Cup of Tea,” which first ran in the Evening Stan­dard on Jan­u­ary 12, 1946. In that arti­cle, Orwell weighed in on a sub­ject the Eng­lish take seriously–how to make the per­fect cup of tea. And he pro­ceed­ed to offer 11 rules for achiev­ing that result. Above, Luís Sá con­dens­es Orwell’s sug­ges­tions into a short ani­ma­tion, made with kinet­ic typog­ra­phy. Below, you can read the first three of Orwell’s 11 rules, and find the remain­ing eight here.

  • First of all, one should use Indi­an or Cey­lonese tea. Chi­na tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowa­days — it is eco­nom­i­cal, and one can drink it with­out milk — but there is not much stim­u­la­tion in it.…
  • Sec­ond­ly, tea should be made in small quan­ti­ties — that is, in a teapot.… The teapot should be made of chi­na or earth­en­ware. Sil­ver or Bri­tan­ni­aware teapots pro­duce infe­ri­or tea and enam­el pots are worse.…
  • Third­ly, the pot should be warmed before­hand. This is bet­ter done by plac­ing it on the hob than by the usu­al method of swill­ing it out with hot water.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

George Orwell and Christo­pher Hitchens’ Iron­clad Rules for Mak­ing a Good Cup of Tea

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry of Tea

10 Gold­en Rules for Mak­ing the Per­fect Cup of Tea (1941)

“The Virtues of Cof­fee” Explained in 1690 Ad: The Cure for Lethar­gy, Scurvy, Drop­sy, Gout & More

The Art of the Japan­ese Teapot: Watch a Mas­ter Crafts­man at Work, from the Begin­ning Until the Star­tling End

Hear a Complete Reading of the Newly-Discovered Kurt Vonnegut Story, “The Drone King”

Twen­ty some years before a young engi­neer named Ray Tom­lin­son invent­ed email, writer Kurt Von­negut invent­ed bee-mail in “The Drone King,” a sto­ry that didn’t see the light of day until his friend and fel­low author Dan Wake­field unearthed it while going through old papers for a new Von­negut col­lec­tion.

The col­lec­tion’s co-edi­tor, Von­negut schol­ar Jerome Klinkowitz, esti­mates that it was writ­ten in the ear­ly 50s, like­ly before the pub­li­ca­tion of his first nov­el, Play­er Piano, in 1952.

This ear­ly work, recent­ly pub­lished in The Atlantic as well as Wake­field and Klinkow­itz’s col­lec­tion, shows an author whose gal­lows humor is already firm­ly in place.

Sev­er­al of his favorite themes crop up, too: the enthu­si­asm of the mis­guid­ed entre­pre­neur, the bat­tle of the sex­es, and tech­nol­o­gy tak­en to absurd extremes (i.e. bees deliv­er­ing scraps of mes­sages in soda straws tied to their tho­rax­es).

If we’re not mis­tak­en Indi­anapo­lis, Vonnegut’s boy­hood home, now host to his Memo­r­i­al Library, puts in an unbilled appear­ance, as well. The story’s Mil­len­ni­um Club bears an uncan­ny resem­blance to that city’s Ath­let­ic Club, now defunct.

The self-pity­ing male hap­less­ness Von­negut spoofs so ably feels just as skew­er-able in the post-Wein­stein era, though the dod­der­ing black waiter’s dialect is rather queasy-mak­ing, espe­cial­ly in the mouth of the white nar­ra­tor read­ing the sto­ry, above.

You can buy “The Drone King” as part of Kurt Von­negut Com­plete Sto­ries col­lec­tion or read it free online here. The Atlantic was also good enough to cre­ate an audio ver­sion. It’s excerpt­ed up top. And it appears in its entire­ty right above.

“The Drone King” will be added to our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks col­lec­tions.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips on How to Write a Good Short Sto­ry

Hear Kurt Vonnegut’s Nov­el, Cat’s Cra­dle, Get Turned into Avant-Garde Music (Fea­tur­ing Kurt Him­self)

Kurt Von­negut Pon­ders Why “Poor Amer­i­cans Are Taught to Hate Them­selves” in a Time­ly Pas­sage from Slaugh­ter­house-Five

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Hear The Rite of Spring Conducted by Igor Stravinsky Himself: A Vintage Recording from 1929

Though more than a cen­tu­ry of musi­cal change has passed since its infa­mous­ly near-riotous debut at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, The Rite of Spring remains a for­mi­da­ble chal­lenge for any con­duc­tor. “I remem­ber the first time I con­duct­ed the ‘Rite’ more than half a cen­tu­ry ago,” the late Rafael Früh­beck de Bur­gos told The Los Ange­les Times in 2013, the year of the pagan bal­let and orches­tral work’s cen­te­nary. “I need­ed two weeks to pre­pare it. This piece, no mat­ter how many times you have per­formed it, is a mon­ster who can eat you in one moment. There are so many places that are dan­ger­ous. This will nev­er be a nor­mal piece.”

Sei­ji Oza­wa, who has record­ed The Rite of Spring with the Chica­go and Boston Sym­pho­ny Orches­tras, knows that full well. In Absolute­ly on Music, his book of con­ver­sa­tions with nov­el­ist Haru­ki Muraka­mi, he address­es the “fias­co” of that very first per­for­mance: “The piece itself is part­ly to blame, but it could well be that the orches­tra was­n’t ful­ly pre­pared to per­form it. The piece is full of musi­cal acro­bat­ics. I wish I had asked Pierre Mon­teux about it direct­ly. We were very close for a while.” He means the con­duc­tor of The Rite of Spring’s debut, who went on to record it in 1929, just as soon as elec­tron­ic micro­phones made it pos­si­ble to do so.

So, how­ev­er, did Stravin­sky him­self, whose own 1929 record­ing with the Walther Straram Con­certs Orches­tra, per­form­ing again in the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, you can hear at the top of the post. But this record, as Peter Gut­mann writes at Classicalnotes.net, is “not by the com­pos­er of the Rite. No, I haven’t uncov­ered a fraud. It’s indeed Stravin­sky who wields the baton, but in the 16 years since the pre­miere he had under­gone a vast change of artis­tic per­son­al­i­ty. No longer the wild fire­brand who had scan­dal­ized musi­cal soci­ety, he had con­vert­ed to neo­clas­si­cism, and that’s just the type of read­ing he leads here – dis­pas­sion­ate, man­i­cured and ret­i­cent, with the final sac­ri­fi­cial dance down­right labored.” You can com­pare Stravin­sky’s first record­ing to Mon­teux’s first record­ing, with the Grand Orchestre Sym­phonique, just below.

That 1929 record hard­ly marked the end of Mon­teux’s rela­tion­ship with the piece: “When Stravin­sky first played him the music for The Rite, Mon­teux had to go and sit down in anoth­er room, con­clud­ing that he would stick to con­duct­ing Brahms,” writes WQXR’s Phil Kline. But after first con­duct­ing it, he worked with the com­pos­er on score touch-ups and became the lead­ing pro­po­nent of The Rite as a con­cert work,” ulti­mate­ly record­ing it not just once but four times. Recent gen­er­a­tions, of course, have most­ly come to know The Rite of Spring through Leopold Stokowski’s ver­sion in Dis­ney’s Fan­ta­sia, a ren­di­tion Stravin­sky called “exe­crable.” But if the sheer, bru­tal-seem­ing uncon­ven­tion­al­i­ty of the piece shocked its Parisian audi­ence in 1913, we in the 21st cen­tu­ry, lis­ten­ing to the many inter­pre­ta­tions that have come out in the past 89 years, might well find our­selves star­tled at how many pos­si­bil­i­ties The Rite of Spring still con­tains.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch 82-Year-Old Igor Stravin­sky Con­duct The Fire­bird, the Bal­let Mas­ter­piece That First Made Him Famous (1965)

Hear 46 Ver­sions of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring in 3 Min­utes: A Clas­sic Mashup

Stravinsky’s “Ille­gal” Arrange­ment of “The Star Span­gled Ban­ner” (1944)

Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, Visu­al­ized in a Com­put­er Ani­ma­tion for Its 100th Anniver­sary

Hear Igor Stravinsky’s Sym­phonies & Bal­lets in a Com­plete, 32-Hour, Chrono­log­i­cal Playlist

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include 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.

Andy Warhol’s Seven Hand-Illustrated Books: Charming, Little-Known, and Now Available to the World (1952–1959)

Got a knack for draw­ing, paint­ing, sculpt­ing, cre­at­ing hand­made objects of any kind? You’re maybe more like­ly to mon­e­tize your skill—with an Etsy or Pin­ter­est account, for example—than move to New York and try to make a go of it. Were such con­ve­nient means of set­ting up shop avail­able in the late 40’s, when Andy Warhol stud­ied art edu­ca­tion and com­mer­cial art at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Pitts­burgh and Carnegie Mel­lon Uni­ver­si­ty, respec­tive­ly, one won­ders whether the often bedrid­den, intro­vert­ed artist might have found it more appeal­ing to work from home in Pitts­burgh, and stay there.

Instead, he moved to New York and became a suc­cess­ful com­mer­cial artist by using his illus­tra­tion skills to mar­ket him­self. Before he was a “bell­wether of post-war and con­tem­po­rary art” with those famous silkscreen paint­ings in the 60s; before he made those famous films, dis­cov­ered (and invent­ed the con­cept of) art stars, and man­aged the Vel­vet Under­ground, Warhol cre­at­ed sev­en hand­made books “as part of his strat­e­gy to woo clients and forge friend­ships.” So writes Taschen books, who have col­lect­ed and reprint­ed Warhol’s art books in a sin­gle edi­tion. (Five of the sev­en have nev­er before been repub­lished.)

Warhol reserved the sig­na­ture books for “his most val­ued con­tacts. These fea­tured per­son­al, unique draw­ings and quirky texts reveal­ing his fond­ness for—among oth­er subjects—cats, food, myths, shoes, beau­ti­ful boys, and gor­geous girls.”

They are inti­mate and charm­ing, show­ing a side of the artist we don’t often see—but one we do see of so many con­tem­po­rary illus­tra­tors. His hand-drawn illus­tra­tions have a very 21st cen­tu­ry feel to them in their obses­sion with cats, cakes, fash­ion, and hap­py, nude zaftig beau­ties. Cre­at­ed between 1952 and 59, they could have come from any num­ber of illus­tra­tion or design sites. It’s easy to imag­ine a cur­rent-day Warhol mak­ing a liv­ing sell­ing work like this online.

Had he been able to do so, might he have become a dif­fer­ent kind of artist entire­ly? It’s impos­si­ble to say. I can imag­ine a num­ber of peo­ple for whom I might buy copies of Love Is a Pink Cake, 25 Cats Named Sam, or À la Recherche du Shoe Per­du, as a hol­i­day gift. But Warhol didn’t make copies of these books. He saved the mass pro­duc­tion for his lat­er gallery work. Instead the hand­made call­ing cards remain “lit­tle-known, much-cov­et­ed jew­els in the Warhol crown,” ear­ly exam­ples of “the artists’ off-the-wall char­ac­ter as well as his accom­plished drafts­man­ship, bound­less cre­ativ­i­ty, and innu­en­do-laced humor.”

You might not know it from can­vas­es like Eight Elvis­es, the Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe series, or Campbell’s Soup Cans, but Warhol had a par­tic­u­lar tal­ent for light, whim­si­cal hand-drawn illus­tra­tion. It’s a side of him­self he showed few peo­ple once he became the Andy Warhol most of us know. Thanks to Taschen’s new book, a recent gallery show­ing of Warhol’s draw­ings, a 2012 Chron­i­cle col­lec­tion of his quirky illus­tra­tions from the 50s, and, well, Pin­ter­est, it’s a side of him that can now belong to every­one.

You can now get your own copy of Andy Warhol: Sev­en Illus­trat­ed Books 1952–1959.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Big Ideas Behind Andy Warhol’s Art, and How They Can Help Us Build a Bet­ter World

Short Film Takes You Inside the Recov­ery of Andy Warhol’s Lost Com­put­er Art

Miyaza­ki Meets Warhol in Campbell’s Soup Cans Reimag­ined by Design­er Hyo Taek Kim

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

The “Humans of New York” Photo Project Becomes a 13-Part Video Documentary Series: Watch It Free Online


New York, New York—there are many ways of assess­ing whether or not you’ve “made” it here—these days it includes an appear­ance on pho­tog­ra­ph­er Bran­don Stan­ton’s wild­ly pop­u­lar blog, Humans of New York, in which a spon­ta­neous street por­trait is anchored by a per­son­al quote or longer anec­dote.

Fol­low­ing sev­er­al books and a UN-spon­sored world tour to doc­u­ment humans in over twen­ty coun­tries, the project has mor­phed into a 13-episode docu-series as part of Facebook’s orig­i­nal video con­tent plat­form.

Aid­ed by cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Michael Crom­mett, Stan­ton elic­its his cus­tom­ary blend of uni­ver­sal and spe­cif­ic truths from his inter­view sub­jects. Extend­ing the moment into the video realm affords view­ers a larg­er win­dow onto the com­plex­i­ties of each human’s sit­u­a­tion.

Take episode four, “Rela­tion­ships,” above:

An ample, unadorned woman in late-mid­dle age recalls being swept off her feet by a pas­sion that still burns bright…

An NYU grad stares uncom­fort­ably in her pur­ple cap and gown as her divorced par­ents air var­i­ous regrets…

A cou­ple with mis­matched views on mar­riage are upstaged by a spon­ta­neous pro­pos­al unfold­ing a few feet away…

La Vie en Rose holds deep mean­ing for two cou­ples, despite rad­i­cal­ly dif­fer­ent loca­tions, pre­sen­ta­tions, and ori­en­ta­tions.

A lit­tle girl has no prob­lem call­ing the shots around her spe­cial fel­la…

I love you, New York!!!

Oth­er themes include Mon­ey, Time, Pur­pose, and Par­ent­ing.

One of the great plea­sures of both series and blog is Stanton’s open-mind­ed­ness as to what con­sti­tutes New York and New York­ers.

Some inter­views take place near such tourist-friend­ly locales as Bethes­da Foun­tain and the Wash­ing­ton Square Arch, but just as many tran­spire along­side notice­ably Out­er Bor­ough archi­tec­ture or the blast­ed cement heaths apron­ing its less sought after pub­lic schools.

Those who live here will nod with recog­ni­tion at the cher­ry blos­som self­ies, “show­time” in the sub­way, and the Bush­wick vibe of the groom who pro­posed to his bride at Coney Island, under the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eat­ing Con­test Wall of Fame.

Dit­to the appear­ance of such local celebri­ties as Jim­my Webb, emer­i­tus man­ag­er of the punk bou­tique, Trash and Vaude­ville and Black­wolf the Drag­on­mas­ter, the city’s unof­fi­cial wiz­ard.

Below, Stan­ton explains his goal when con­duct­ing inter­views and demon­strates how a non-threat­en­ing approach can soft­en strangers to the point of can­dor.

It’s well know ’round these parts that cer­tain seg­ments of the local pop­u­lace would gnaw off limbs to be immor­tal­ized by Stan­ton, but he cleaves to the pure serendip­i­ty of his selec­tion process. Ask­ing to have your pic­ture tak­en ensures that it won’t be. Luck puts you in front of his lens. Shar­ing your truth is what makes you human.

Watch Humans of New York: The Series here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Humans of New York: Street Pho­tog­ra­phy as a Cel­e­bra­tion of Life

Inter­act with The New York Times Four-Part Doc­u­men­tary, “A Short His­to­ry of the High­rise”

New York City: A Social His­to­ry (A Free Online Course from N.Y.U.) 

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.


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