A Trip Around the World in 1900: See Restored Footage Showing Life in New York, London, India, Japan, China & Beyond

From today’s van­tage, the first decade of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry can look like an even more dis­tant peri­od of his­to­ry than it is. In many cor­ners of urban civ­i­liza­tion, the cabarets, tea­rooms, and oth­er near-par­a­lyt­i­cal­ly man­nered insti­tu­tions of the Belle Époque were very much going con­cerns. To those who lived in that era, it must have been easy enough to believe that the ways of nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry-style aris­toc­ra­cy and empire could per­pet­u­ate them­selves for­ev­er. Yet those were also the years of Georges MĂ©liès Le Voy­age dans la Lune, the Wright broth­ers’ first flight; the pro­lif­er­a­tion of auto­mo­biles and sub­way trains; Rus­si­a’s loss in war to Japan and first rev­o­lu­tion; Ein­stein’s dis­cov­ery of rel­a­tiv­i­ty, the pho­to­elec­tric effect, and Brown­ian motion; and Picas­so’s Les Demoi­selles d’Av­i­gnon.

The world as it was, in oth­er words, was giv­ing way to the world as it would be. Such is the con­text of the doc­u­men­tary footage col­lect­ed — and col­orized, and upscaled — in the video at the top of the post. Begin­ning in a bustling work­ing-class street in Hollinwood, Eng­land, this tour of the nine­teen-hun­dreds con­tin­ues on to places like Spain, India, Chi­na, New York, Japan, Brazil, Den­mark, Aus­tria, and Ger­many.

One aspect of all this footage liable to catch the twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry eye is all the myr­i­ad forms of trans­porta­tion on dis­play, some run­ning on sole­ly ani­mal or even human mus­cle, and oth­ers pro­pelled by the kind of engines then at the heart of indus­tri­al rev­o­lu­tions the world over. (You can even catch a glimpse of Wup­per­tal’s sus­pend­ed Schwe­be­bahn, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture.)

All this gives us a clear­er sense of why so many con­tem­po­rary observers expressed feel­ings of civ­i­liza­tion­al whiplash, espe­cial­ly if, as was becom­ing more and more com­mon, they’d emi­grat­ed from a less tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced soci­ety to a more tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced one. For those liv­ing at the edge of progress, the shape of things to come (a phrase lat­er used as a book title by one such observ­er, the pro­lif­ic H. G. Wells) was any­one’s guess, and it’s hard­ly sur­pris­ing that so many for­ward-look­ing philoso­phies, ide­olo­gies, and art move­ments would arise from such a fer­ment. Still, it would have tak­en a pre­scient mind indeed to fore­see the ascen­dance of com­mu­nism, Nazism, the Amer­i­can empire, and mass broad­cast media just ahead, to say noth­ing of two world wars. William Gib­son had yet to be born, let alone to utter his now-famous quote, but as we can see, the future was already here in the nine­teen-tens — and uneven­ly dis­trib­uted.

Relat­ed con­tent:

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

Paris Had a Mov­ing Side­walk in 1900, and a Thomas Edi­son Film Cap­tured It in Action

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

Berlin Street Scenes Beau­ti­ful­ly Caught on Film (1900–1914)

Watch Life on the Streets of Tokyo in Footage Record­ed in 1913: Caught Between the Tra­di­tion­al and the Mod­ern

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Hermann Rorschach’s Original Rorschach Test: What Do You See? (1921)

There is a well-known scene in Woody Allen’s Take The Mon­ey And Run (1969) when Vir­gil Stark­well (Allen) takes a psy­cho­log­i­cal test to join the Navy, but is thwart­ed by his las­civ­i­ous uncon­scious. The psy­cho­log­i­cal mea­sure that proves to be Starkwell’s undoing—rejected, he turns to a life of crime—is the Rorschach inkblot test, devised a cen­tu­ry ago by Carl Jung’s com­pa­tri­ot and fel­low psy­chol­o­gist, Her­mann Rorschach. Although Rorschach would die young, at 37, his name­sake remains embed­ded in our per­cep­tion of psy­chol­o­gy, along­side Freud’s couch and Pavlov’s dog.

Her­mann Rorschach’s father was an art teacher, and encour­aged his son to express him­self. Whether the young Rorschach had innate artis­tic lean­ings, or had begun to lis­ten to his father more close­ly after the death of his moth­er at age 12, is uncer­tain. What is known, how­ev­er, is that Her­mann became so fas­ci­nat­ed with mak­ing pic­tures out of inkblots—a Swiss game known under the delight­ful des­ig­na­tion of Kleck­sog­ra­phy—that his school­mates gave him the nick­name of Klecks.

Although he strug­gled to choose between art and sci­ence as a career, Rorschach, on the coun­sel of emi­nent Ger­man biol­o­gist and ardent Dar­win sup­port­er Ernst Haeck­el, chose med­i­cine, spe­cial­iz­ing in psy­chol­o­gy. Still, he nev­er aban­doned art.

Even before the young Rorschach began to study psy­chol­o­gy, the med­ical pro­fes­sion had flirt­ed with imagery asso­ci­a­tion. In 1857, a Ger­man doc­tor named Justi­nus Kern­er pub­lished a book of poet­ry, with each poem inspired by an accom­pa­ny­ing inkblot. Alfred Binet, the father of intel­li­gence test­ing, also tin­kered with inkblots at the out­set of the 20th cen­tu­ry, see­ing them as a poten­tial mea­sure of cre­ativ­i­ty. While the claim that Rorschach was famil­iar with these par­tic­u­lar inkblots rests on con­jec­ture, we know that he was famil­iar with the work of Szy­mon Hens, an ear­ly psy­chol­o­gist who explored his patients’ fan­tasies using inkblots, as well as Carl Jung’s prac­tice of hav­ing his patients engage in word-asso­ci­a­tion.

After notic­ing that schiz­o­phrenic patients asso­ci­at­ed vast­ly dif­fer­ent things with inkblots than oth­er patients, Rorschach, fol­low­ing  some exper­i­men­ta­tion, cre­at­ed the first ver­sion of the inkblot test as a mea­sure of schiz­o­phre­nia in 1921. The test, how­ev­er, only came to be used as a form of per­son­al­i­ty assess­ment when Samuel Beck and Bruno Klopfer expand­ed its orig­i­nal scope in the late 1930s. Since then, psy­chol­o­gists have fre­quent­ly used the var­i­ous aspects of peo­ple’s respons­es (e.g., inkblot focus area) to make judg­ment calls about broad per­son­al­i­ty traits. Iron­i­cal­ly, Rorschach him­self had been skep­ti­cal about the inkblots’ val­ue in assess­ing per­son­al­i­ty.

In hon­or of Rorschach’s birth­day (he was born on this day in 1884), we’ve high­light­ed his orig­i­nal images below, as well as some of the most pop­u­lar respons­es. If you see some­thing else in these images, feel free to let us know in the com­ments sec­tion below. The images, we should note, are in the pub­lic domain, and oth­er­wise read­i­ly view­able on Wikipedia. And, accord­ing to Wiki­me­dia Com­mons, the images are in the pub­lic domain.

Image 1: Bat, but­ter­fly, moth

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Image 2: Two humans

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Image 3: Two humans

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Image 4: Ani­mal hide, skin, rug

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Image 5: Bat, but­ter­fly, moth

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Image 6: Ani­mal hide, skin, rug

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Image 7: Human heads or faces

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Image 8: Ani­mal; not cat or dog

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Image 9: Human

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Image 10: Crab, lob­ster, spi­der,

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Hap­pen to see an ele­phant and a men’s glee club engaged in unmen­tion­able acts? Don’t fret—you’ve like­ly pro­ject­ed noth­ing intel­li­gi­ble. The test has long been out of date, and is deemed nei­ther reli­able nor valid in the vast major­i­ty of cas­es (although an updat­ed ver­sion exists, it suf­fers from sim­i­lar method­olog­i­cal flaws). Vir­gil Stark­well, it seems, would have made a fine Navy offi­cer.

Ilia Blin­d­er­man is a Mon­tre­al-based cul­ture writer. Fol­low him at@iliablinderman

When CBS Canceled The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour for Criticizing the American Establishment and the Vietnam War (1969)

Rig­or­ous­ly clean-cut, com­pe­tent on the acoustic gui­tar and dou­ble bass, and sel­dom dressed in any­thing more dar­ing than cher­ry-red blaz­ers, Tom and Dick Smoth­ers looked like the antithe­sis of nine­teen-six­ties rebel­lion. When they first gained nation­al recog­ni­tion with their vari­ety show The Smoth­ers Broth­ers Com­e­dy Hour, they must have come off to many young view­ers as the kind of act of which their moth­er — or even grand­moth­er — would approve. But the broth­ers’ cul­ti­vat­ed­ly square, neo-vaude­vil­lian appear­ance was deceiv­ing, as CBS would soon find out when the two took every chance to turn their pro­gram into a satir­i­cal, relent­less­ly author­i­ty-chal­leng­ing, yet some­how whole­some show­case of the coun­ter­cul­ture.

The Smoth­ers Broth­ers Com­e­dy Hour pre­miered in Feb­ru­ary of 1967, and its first sea­son “fea­tured min­i­mal con­tro­ver­sial con­tent,” writes Sarah King at U.S. His­to­ry Scene. There­after, “the show became increas­ing­ly polit­i­cal. The broth­ers invit­ed activist celebri­ties onto their show, includ­ing folk singers Pete Seeger and Joan Baez and singer-actor Har­ry Bela­fonte.

The show also pro­duced its own polit­i­cal mate­r­i­al crit­i­ciz­ing the Viet­nam War and the politi­cians who sup­port­ed it,” not least Pres­i­dent Lyn­don John­son. Bring­ing on Seeger was a dar­ing move, giv­en that he’d been black­list­ed from net­work tele­vi­sion for the bet­ter part of two decades, though CBS’s cen­sors made sure to cut out the most polit­i­cal­ly sen­si­tive parts of his act.

Even more so was the broth­ers’ own per­for­mance, with George Segal, of Phil Ochs’s “Draft Dodger Rag,” which they end­ed by urg­ing their audi­ence to “make love, not war.” All this can look fair­ly tame by today’s stan­dards, but it locked the show — which had become top-rat­ed, hold­ing its own in a time slot against the cul­tur­al phe­nom­e­non that was Bonan­za — into a grudge match with its own net­work. Before the third sea­son, CBS’ high­er-ups demand­ed that each show be turned in ten days in advance, osten­si­bly in order to under­go review for sen­si­tive mate­r­i­al. In one instance, they claimed that the dead­line had­n’t been met and aired a re-run instead, though it may not have been entire­ly irrel­e­vant that the intend­ed pro­gram con­tained a trib­ute by Baez to her then-hus­band, who was being sent to prison for refus­ing to serve in the mil­i­tary.

CBS did broad­cast Baez’s per­for­mance on a lat­er date, after clip­ping out the ref­er­ence to the spe­cif­ic nature of her hus­band’s offense. A sim­i­lar strug­gle took place around the “ser­mon­ettes” deliv­ered by David Stein­berg, one of which you can see in the video above. The irrev­er­ence toward U.S. for­eign pol­i­cy, reli­gion, and much else besides in these and oth­er seg­ments even­tu­al­ly proved too much for the net­work, which fired the broth­ers after it had already giv­en the green light to a fourth sea­son of the Com­e­dy Hour. Though they suc­cess­ful­ly sued CBS for breach of con­tract there­after, they nev­er did regain the same lev­el of tele­vi­su­al promi­nence they’d once enjoyed, if enjoy be the word. At any rate, the fall­out of all this con­tro­ver­sy firm­ly installed the Smoth­ers Broth­ers in the pan­theon of twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry free-speech war­riors, and their expe­ri­ence reminds us still today that, with­out the free­dom to give offense, there can be no com­e­dy wor­thy of the name.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Steve Mar­tin Make His First TV Appear­ance: The Smoth­ers Broth­ers Com­e­dy Hour (1968)

When The Who (Lit­er­al­ly) Blew Up The Smoth­ers Broth­ers Com­e­dy Hour in 1967

Watch 3000 Years of Art, a 1968 Exper­i­men­tal Film That Takes You on a Visu­al Jour­ney Through 3,000 Years of Fine Art

Revis­it Turn-On, the Inno­v­a­tive TV Show That Got Can­celed Right in the Mid­dle of Its First Episode (1969)

Pink Lady and Jeff: Japan’s Biggest Pop Musi­cians Star in One of America’s Worst-Reviewed TV Shows (1980)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Explore the Fascinating Map of Fungi: An Introduction to the Vast Mushroom Kingdom

Here on Open Cul­ture, we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured Domain of Sci­ence’s elab­o­rate info­graph­ic maps of such vast fields of intel­lec­tu­al endeav­or as math­e­mat­ics, physics, com­put­er sci­ence, quan­tum physics, quan­tum com­put­ing, chem­istry, biol­o­gy, and med­i­cine. Over time, the series’ cre­ator Dominic Wal­li­man has branched out, as it were, even to king­doms of the nat­ur­al world, like plants. With Plan­tae down, which of the oth­er five has he tak­en on next? That ques­tion is answered in the video above, which intro­duces Domain of Sci­ence’s new Fas­ci­nat­ing Map of Fun­gi.

Yes, this big map depicts the realm of the hum­ble mush­room, which “shares the for­est with the plants and the ani­mals, but it’s not a plant, and it’s not an ani­mal.” And the mush­room itself, like we’re used to see­ing sprout­ing beneath our feet, is only a small part of the organ­ism: the rest “lives hid­den, out of sight, below ground. Beneath every mush­room is a fun­gal net­work of hair-like strands called the myceli­um,” which begins as a spore.

The huge­ly diverse “fruit­ing bod­ies” that they push out of the sur­face have only one job: “to dis­perse the spores and grow the next gen­er­a­tion.” But only ten per­cent of fun­gi species actu­al­ly do this; the rest don’t pro­duce any­thing we would rec­og­nize as mush­rooms at all.

About 150,000 species of fun­gi have been dis­cov­ered so far. Though inan­i­mate, they man­age to do quite a lot, such as sup­ply­ing nutri­ents to plants (or killing them), gen­er­at­ing chem­i­cals that have proven extreme­ly use­ful (or at least con­scious­ness-expand­ing) to humans, hijack­ing the ner­vous sys­tems of arthro­pods, and even sur­viv­ing in out­er space. And of course, “because of their abil­i­ty to con­cen­trate nutri­ents from with­in the soil, fun­gi are an excel­lent source of food for us and many oth­er ani­mals.” Mycol­o­gists esti­mate that there remain at least two or three mil­lion more species “out there in nature wait­ing to be dis­cov­ered.” At least a few of them, one hopes, will turn out to be tasty.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Stun­ning, Hand-Illus­trat­ed Book of Mush­rooms Drawn by an Over­looked 19th Cen­tu­ry Female Sci­en­tist

The Beau­ti­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed Atlas of Mush­rooms: Edi­ble, Sus­pect and Poi­so­nous (1827)

The Mush­room Col­or Atlas: An Inter­ac­tive Web Site Lets You Explore the Incred­i­ble Spec­trum of Col­ors Cre­at­ed from Fun­gi

Death-Cap Mush­rooms are Ter­ri­fy­ing and Unstop­pable: A Wild Ani­ma­tion

Björk Takes You on a Jour­ney into the Vast King­dom of Mush­rooms with the New Doc­u­men­tary Fun­gi: Web of Life

How Mush­room Time-Laps­es Are Filmed: A Glimpse Into the Pio­neer­ing Time-Lapse Cin­e­matog­ra­phy Behind the Net­flix Doc­u­men­tary Fan­tas­tic Fun­gi

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How to Write in Cuneiform, the Oldest Writing System in the World: A Short Introduction

Teach­ing child vis­i­tors how to write their names using an unfa­mil­iar or antique alpha­bet is a favorite activ­i­ty of muse­um edu­ca­tors, but Dr. Irv­ing Finkel, a cuneiform expert who spe­cial­izes in ancient Mesopotami­an med­i­cine and mag­ic, has grander designs.

His employ­er, the British Muse­um, has over 130,000 tablets span­ning Mesopotamia’s Ear­ly Dynas­tic peri­od to the Neo-Baby­lon­ian Empire â€śjust wait­ing for young schol­ars to come devote them­selves to (the) monk­ish work” of deci­pher­ing them.

Writ­ing one’s name might well prove to be a gate­way, and Dr. Finkel has a vest­ed inter­est in lin­ing up some new recruits.

The museum’s Depart­ment of the Mid­dle East has an open access pol­i­cy, with a study room where researchers can get up close and per­son­al with a vast col­lec­tion of cuneiform tablets from Mesopotamia and sur­round­ing regions.

But let’s not put the ox before the cart.

As the extreme­ly per­son­able Dr. Finkel shows Matt Gray and Tom Scott of Matt and Tom’s Park Bench, above, cuneiform con­sists of three components—upright, hor­i­zon­tal and diagonal—made by press­ing the edge of a reed sty­lus, or pop­si­cle stick if you pre­fer, into a clay tablet.

The mechan­i­cal process seems fair­ly easy to get the hang of, but mas­ter­ing the old­est writ­ing sys­tem in the world will take you around six years of ded­i­cat­ed study. Like Japan’s kan­ji alpha­bet, the old­est writ­ing sys­tem in the world is syl­lab­ic. Prop­er­ly writ­ten out, these syl­la­bles join up into a flow­ing cal­lig­ra­phy that your aver­age, edu­cat­ed Baby­lon­ian would be able to read at a glance.

Even if you have no plans to rus­tle up a pop­si­cle stick and some Play-Doh, it’s worth stick­ing with the video to the end to hear Dr. Finkel tell how a chance encounter with some nat­u­ral­ly occur­ring cuneiform inspired him to write a hor­ror nov­el, which is now avail­able for pur­chase, fol­low­ing a suc­cess­ful Kick­starter cam­paign.

Begin your cuneiform stud­ies with Irv­ing Finkel’s Cuneiform: Ancient Scripts.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a 4000-Year Old Baby­lon­ian Recipe for Stew, Found on a Cuneiform Tablet, Get Cooked by Researchers from Yale & Har­vard

Hear The Epic of Gil­gamesh Read in its Orig­i­nal Ancient Lan­guage, Akka­di­an

Learn Ancient Greek in 64 Free Lessons: A Free Online Course from Bran­deis & Har­vard

Hear the “Seik­i­los Epi­taph,” the Old­est Com­plete Song in the World: An Inspir­ing Tune from 100 BC

Hear What the Lan­guage Spo­ken by Our Ances­tors 6,000 Years Ago Might Have Sound­ed Like: A Recon­struc­tion of the Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean Lan­guage

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist in NYC.

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A 107-Year-Old Irish Farmer Reflects on the Changes He’s Seen During His Life (1965)

Talk to a clear-head­ed 107-year-old today, and you could expect to hear sto­ries of ado­les­cence in the Great Depres­sion, or — if you’re lucky — the Jazz Age seen through a child’s eyes. It’s no com­mon expe­ri­ence to have been formed by the age of radio and live deep into the age of the smart­phone, but arguably, Michael Fitz­patrick lived through even greater civ­i­liza­tion­al trans­for­ma­tion. Born in Ire­land in 1858, he sat for the inter­view above 107 years lat­er in 1965, which was broad­cast on tele­vi­sion. That device was well on its way to sat­u­rat­ing West­ern soci­ety at the time, as the auto­mo­bile already had, while mankind was tak­ing to the skies in jet­lin­ers and even to the stars in rock­et ships.

The con­trast between the world into which Fitz­patrick was born and the one in which he even­tu­al­ly found him­self is made stark­er by his being a son of the land. A life­long farmer, he can hon­est­ly reply, when asked to name the biggest change he’s seen, â€śMachin­ery.”

Not all of his answers come across quite so clear­ly, owing to his thick dialect that must sure­ly have gone extinct by now, even in rur­al Ire­land. Luck­i­ly, the video comes with sub­ti­tles, mak­ing it eas­i­er to under­stand what he has to say about the advent of the “mow­ing machine” and his mem­o­ries of the Bodyke evic­tions of the eigh­teen-eight­ies, when mêlées broke out over a local land­lord’s attempt to oust his des­ti­tute ten­ants.

One can come up with vague­ly anal­o­gous events to the Bodyke evic­tions in the mod­ern world, but in essence, they belong to the long stretch of his­to­ry when to be human meant to engage in agri­cul­ture, or to over­see it. The Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion did­n’t hap­pen at the same pace every­where at once, and indeed, Fitz­patrick lived the first part of his life in an effec­tive­ly pre-indus­tri­al real­i­ty, before wit­ness­ing the scarce­ly believ­able process of mech­a­niza­tion take place all around him. He expe­ri­enced, in oth­er words, the arrival of the civ­i­liza­tion into which we were all born, and to which we know no alter­na­tive. As for those of us of a cer­tain age today, we can expect to be asked six or sev­en decades hence — assum­ing we can go the dis­tance — what life was like with only dial-up inter­net.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Real Inter­views with Peo­ple Who Lived in the 1800s

Philoso­pher Bertrand Rus­sell Talks About the Time When His Grand­fa­ther Met Napoleon

1400 Engrav­ings from the 19th Cen­tu­ry Flow Togeth­er in the Short Ani­ma­tion “Still Life”

A Rare Smile Cap­tured in a 19th Cen­tu­ry Pho­to­graph

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

An Art Conservator Restores a Painting of the Doomed Party Girl Isabella de’ Medici: See the Before and After

Some peo­ple talk to plants.

The Carnegie Muse­um of Art’s chief con­ser­va­tor Ellen Bax­ter talks to the paint­ings she’s restor­ing.

“You have to … tell her she’s going to look love­ly,” she says, above, spread­ing var­nish over a 16th-cen­tu­ry por­trait of Isabel­la de’ Medici pri­or to start­ing the labo­ri­ous process of restor­ing years of wear and tear by inpaint­ing with tiny brush­es, aid­ed with pipettes of var­nish and sol­vent.

Isabel­la had been wait­ing a long time for such ten­der atten­tion, con­cealed beneath a 19th-cen­tu­ry over­paint­ing depict­ing a dain­tier fea­tured woman reput­ed to be Eleanor of Tole­do, wife of Cosi­mo I de’ Medici, the sec­ond Duke of Flo­rence.

Louise Lip­pin­cott, the CMA’s for­mer cura­tor of fine arts, ran across the work in the museum’s base­ment stor­age. Records named the artist as Bronzi­no, court painter to Cosi­mo I, but Lip­pin­cott, who thought the paint­ing “awful”, brought it to Ellen Bax­ter for a sec­ond opin­ion.

As Cristi­na Rou­valis writes in Carnegie Mag­a­zine, Bax­ter is a “rare mix of left- and right-brained tal­ent”, a painter with a bachelor’s degree in art his­to­ry, minors in chem­istry and physics, and a master’s degree in art con­ser­va­tion:


(She) looks at paint­ings dif­fer­ent­ly than oth­er peo­ple, too—not as flat, sta­t­ic objects, but as three-dimen­sion­al com­po­si­tions lay­ered like lasagna.

The minute she saw the oil paint­ing pur­port­ed to be of Eleanor of Tole­do… Bax­ter knew some­thing wasn’t quite right. The face was too bland­ly pret­ty, “like a Vic­to­ri­an cook­ie tin box lid,” she says. Upon exam­in­ing the back of the paint­ing, she identified—thanks to a trusty Google search—the stamp of Fran­cis Leed­ham, who worked at the Nation­al Por­trait Gallery in Lon­don in the mid-1800s as a “relin­er,” trans­fer­ring paint­ings from a wood pan­el to can­vas mount. The painstak­ing process involves scrap­ing and sand­ing away the pan­el from back to front and then glu­ing the paint­ed sur­face lay­er to a new can­vas.

An x‑ray con­firmed her hunch, reveal­ing extra lay­ers of paint in this “lasagna”.

Care­ful strip­ping of dirty var­nish and Vic­to­ri­an paint in the areas of the por­trait’s face and hands began to reveal the much stronger fea­tures of the woman who posed for the artist. (The Carnegie is bank­ing on Bronzino’s stu­dent, Alessan­dro Allori, or some­one in his cir­cle.)

Lip­pin­cott was also busi­ly sleuthing, find­ing a Medici-com­mis­sioned copy of the paint­ing in Vien­na that matched the dress and hair exact­ly. Thus­ly did she learn that the sub­ject was Eleanor of Toledo’s daugh­ter, Isabel­la de’ Medici, the apple of her father’s eye and a noto­ri­ous, ulti­mate­ly ill-fat­ed par­ty girl.

The His­to­ry Blog paints an irre­sistible por­trait of this mav­er­ick princess:

Cosi­mo gave her an excep­tion­al amount of free­dom for a noble­woman of her time. She ran her own house­hold, and after Eleanor’s death in 1562, Isabel­la ran her father’s too. She threw famous­ly rau­cous par­ties and spent lav­ish­ly. Her father always cov­ered her debts and pro­tect­ed her from scruti­ny even as rumors of her lovers and excess­es that would have doomed oth­er soci­ety women spread far and wide. Her favorite lover was said to be Troi­lo Orsi­ni, her hus­band Paolo’s cousin.

Things went down­hill fast for Isabel­la after her father’s death in 1574. Her broth­er Francesco was now the Grand Duke, and he had no inter­est in indulging his sister’s pec­ca­dil­loes. We don’t know what hap­pened exact­ly, but in 1576 Isabel­la died at the Medici Vil­la of Cer­re­to Gui­di near Empoli. The offi­cial sto­ry released by Francesco was that his 34-year-old sis­ter dropped dead sud­den­ly while wash­ing her hair. The unof­fi­cial sto­ry is that she was stran­gled by her hus­band out of revenge for her adul­tery and/or to clear the way for him to mar­ry his own mis­tress Vit­to­ria Acco­ram­boni.

Bax­ter not­ed that the urn Isabel­la holds was not part of the paint­ing to begin with, though nei­ther was it one of Leedham’s revi­sions. Its resem­blance to the urn that Mary Mag­da­lene is often depict­ed using as she anoints Jesus’ feet led her and Lip­pin­cott to spec­u­late that it was added at Isabella’s request, in an attempt to redeem her image.

“This is lit­er­al­ly the bad girl see­ing the light,” Lip­pin­cott told Rou­valis.

Despite her fond­ness for the sub­ject of the lib­er­at­ed paint­ing, and her con­sid­er­able skill as an artist, Bax­ter resist­ed the temp­ta­tion to embell­ish beyond what she found:

I’m not the artist. I’m the con­ser­va­tor. It’s my job to repair dam­ages and loss­es, to not put myself in the paint­ing.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2023.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

How Art Con­ser­va­tors Restore Old Paint­ings & Revive Their Orig­i­nal Col­ors

The Art of Restor­ing a 400-Year-Old Paint­ing: A Five-Minute Primer

Watch the Tate Mod­ern Restore Mark Rothko’s Van­dal­ized Paint­ing, Black on Maroon: 18 Months of Work Con­densed Into 17 Min­utes

A Restored Ver­meer Paint­ing Reveals a Por­trait of a Cupid Hid­den for Over 350 Years

How an Art Con­ser­va­tor Com­plete­ly Restores a Dam­aged Paint­ing: A Short, Med­i­ta­tive Doc­u­men­tary

Watch the Renais­sance Paint­ing, The Bat­tle of San Romano, Get Brought Beau­ti­ful­ly to Life in a Hand-Paint­ed Ani­ma­tion

Free Course: An Intro­duc­tion to the Art of the Ital­ian Renais­sance

– Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the author of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo and Cre­ative, Not Famous Activ­i­ty Book

40,000-Year-Old Symbols Found in Caves Worldwide May Be the Earliest Written Language

We may take it for grant­ed that the ear­li­est writ­ing sys­tems devel­oped with the Sume­ri­ans around 3400 B.C.E. The archae­o­log­i­cal evi­dence so far sup­ports the the­o­ry. But it may also be pos­si­ble that the ear­li­est writ­ing sys­tems pre­date 5000-year-old cuneiform tablets by sev­er­al thou­sand years. And what’s more, it may be pos­si­ble, sug­gests pale­oan­thro­pol­o­gist Genevieve von Pet­zinger, that those pre­his­toric forms of writ­ing, which include the ear­li­est known hash­tag marks, con­sist­ed of sym­bols near­ly as uni­ver­sal as emo­ji.

The study of sym­bols carved into cave walls all over the world—including pen­ni­forms (feath­er shapes), clav­i­forms (key shapes), and hand stencils—could even­tu­al­ly push us to “aban­don the pow­er­ful nar­ra­tive,” writes Frank Jacobs at Big Think, “of his­to­ry as total dark­ness until the Sume­ri­ans flip the switch.” Though the sym­bols may nev­er be tru­ly deci­pher­able, their pur­pos­es obscured by thou­sands of years of sep­a­ra­tion in time, they clear­ly show humans “undim­ming the light many mil­len­nia ear­li­er.”

While bur­row­ing deep under­ground to make cave paint­ings of ani­mals, ear­ly humans as far back as 40,000 years ago also devel­oped a sys­tem of signs that is remark­ably con­sis­tent across and between con­ti­nents. Von Pet­zinger spent years cat­a­logu­ing these sym­bols in Europe, vis­it­ing “52 caves,” reports New Scientist’s Ali­son George, “in France, Spain, Italy and Por­tu­gal. The sym­bols she found ranged from dots, lines, tri­an­gles, squares and zigza­gs to more com­plex forms like lad­der shapes, hand sten­cils, some­thing called a tec­ti­form that looks a bit like a post with a roof, and feath­er shapes called pen­ni­forms.”

She dis­cov­ered 32 signs found all over the con­ti­nent, carved and paint­ed over a very long peri­od of time. “For tens of thou­sands of years,” Jacobs points out, “our ances­tors seem to have been curi­ous­ly con­sis­tent with the sym­bols they used.” Von Pet­zinger sees this sys­tem as a car­ry­over from mod­ern humans’ migra­tion into Europe from Africa. “This does not look like the start-up phase of a brand-new inven­tion,” she writes in her book The First Signs: Unlock­ing the mys­ter­ies of the world’s old­est sym­bols.

In her TED Talk at the top, von Pet­zinger describes this ear­ly sys­tem of com­mu­ni­ca­tion through abstract signs as a pre­cur­sor to the “glob­al net­work of infor­ma­tion exchange” in the mod­ern world. “We’ve been build­ing on the men­tal achieve­ments of those who came before us for so long,” she says, “that it’s easy to for­get that cer­tain abil­i­ties haven’t already exist­ed,” long before the for­mal writ­ten records we rec­og­nize. These sym­bols trav­eled: they aren’t only found in caves, but also etched into deer teeth strung togeth­er in an ancient neck­lace.

Von Pet­zinger believes, writes George, that “the sim­ple shapes rep­re­sent a fun­da­men­tal shift in our ances­tors’ men­tal skills,” toward using abstract sym­bols to com­mu­ni­cate. Not every­one agrees with her. As the Brad­shaw Foun­da­tion notes, when it comes to the Euro­pean sym­bols, emi­nent pre­his­to­ri­an Jean Clottes argues “the signs in the caves are always (or near­ly always) asso­ci­at­ed with ani­mal fig­ures and thus can­not be said to be the first steps toward sym­bol­ism.”

Of course, it’s also pos­si­ble that both the signs and the ani­mals were meant to con­vey ideas just as a writ­ten lan­guage does. So argues MIT lin­guist Cora Lesure and her co-authors in a paper pub­lished in Fron­tiers in Psy­chol­o­gy last year. Cave art might show ear­ly humans “con­vert­ing acoustic sounds into draw­ings,” notes Sarah Gibbens at Nation­al Geo­graph­ic. Lesure says her research “sug­gests that the cog­ni­tive mech­a­nisms nec­es­sary for the devel­op­ment of cave and rock art are like­ly to be anal­o­gous to those employed in the expres­sion of the sym­bol­ic think­ing required for lan­guage.”

In oth­er words, under her the­o­ry, “cave and rock [art] would rep­re­sent a modal­i­ty of lin­guis­tic expres­sion.” And the sym­bols sur­round­ing that art might rep­re­sent an elab­o­ra­tion on the theme. The very first sys­tem of writ­ing, shared by ear­ly humans all over the world for tens of thou­sands of years.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Trac­ing Eng­lish Back to Its Old­est Known Ances­tor: An Intro­duc­tion to Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean

Was a 32,000-Year-Old Cave Paint­ing the Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

How to Write in Cuneiform, the Old­est Writ­ing Sys­tem in the World: A Short, Charm­ing Intro­duc­tion

Dic­tio­nary of the Old­est Writ­ten Language–It Took 90 Years to Com­plete, and It’s Now Free Online

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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