A Dreamily Animated Introduction to Haruki Murakami, Japan’s Jazz and Baseball-Loving Postmodern Novelist

If the impres­sion­is­tic ani­ma­tion style of psy­chol­o­gist, writer, and film­mak­er Ilana Simons’ “About Haru­ki Murakami”—a short video intro­duc­tion to the jazz bar own­ing, marathon run­ning, Japan­ese novelist—puts you in mind of Richard Lin­klater’s Wak­ing Life, then the ellip­ti­cal, lucid dream nar­ra­tion may do so even more. “He did­n’t use too many words,” Simons tells us. “Too many words is kin­da… too many words. Some­one’s always los­ing their voice. Some­one’s hear­ing is acute. Haru­ki Muraka­mi.” Like Roger Ebert said of Lin­klater’s film, Simons’ ode to Murakami—and the nov­el­ist’s work itself—is “philo­soph­i­cal and play­ful at the same time.”

Simons reads us Murakami’s exis­ten­tial­ist account of how he became a nov­el­ist, at age 29, after hav­ing an epiphany at a base­ball game: “The idea struck me,” he says, “I could write a nov­el…. I could do it.” And he did, sit­ting down every night after work­ing the bar he owned with his wife, writ­ing by hand and drink­ing beer. “Before that,” he has said in an inter­view with singer/songwriter John Wes­ley Hard­ing, “I did­n’t write any­thing. I was just one of those ordi­nary peo­ple. I was run­ning a jazz club, and I did­n’t cre­ate any­thing at all.” And it’s true. Besides sud­den­ly decid­ing to become a nov­el­ist, “out of the blue” at almost 30, then sud­den­ly becom­ing an avid marathon run­ner at age 33, Murakami’s life was pret­ty unre­mark­able.

It’s not entire­ly sur­pris­ing that he became a nov­el­ist. Both of Murakami’s par­ents taught Japan­ese lit­er­a­ture, though he him­self was not a par­tic­u­lar­ly good stu­dent. But the author of such beloved books as Nor­we­gian Wood, The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, Kaf­ka on the Shore and dozens of short sto­ries (read six free here), has most­ly drawn his inspi­ra­tion from out­side his nation­al tradition—from Amer­i­can base­ball and jazz, from British inva­sion rock and roll, from Fitzger­ald, Kaf­ka, and Hol­ly­wood films. As Col­in Mar­shall wrote in a pre­vi­ous post on the BBC Muraka­mi doc­u­men­tary below, “he remained an author shaped by his favorite for­eign cultures—especially Amer­i­ca’s. This, com­bined with his yearn­ing to break from estab­lished norms, has gen­er­at­ed enough inter­na­tion­al demand for his work to sell briskly in almost every lan­guage.”

Murakami’s desire to break with norms, Simons tells us in her charm­ing, visu­al­ly accom­plished ani­mat­ed short, is symp­to­matic of his “detach­ment” and “intro­spec­tion.” Muraka­mi “liked escape, or he just does­n’t like join­ing groups and invest­ing too many words in places where words have been too often.” The thought of “orga­nized activ­i­ties,” Muraka­mi has said, like “hold­ing hands at a demon­stra­tion… gives me the creeps.” Murakami’s love of soli­tude makes him seem mys­te­ri­ous, “elu­sive,” says pre­sen­ter Alan Yen­tob in the film above. But one of the extra­or­di­nary things about Murakami—in addi­tion to his run­ning a 62-mile “ultra­ma­rathon” and con­quer­ing the lit­er­ary world on a whim—is just how ordi­nary he is in many ways. Both Simons’ increas­ing­ly sur­re­al­ist, bebop-scored short and the BBC’s cool jazz-backed explo­ration make this con­trast seem all the more remark­able. It’s Murakami’s abil­i­ty to stretch and bend the ordi­nary world, Simons sug­gests near the end of her lyri­cal trib­ute, that makes his read­ers feel that “some­how, mag­i­cal­ly… he does some­thing very pri­vate and inti­mate with their brains”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read 6 Sto­ries By Haru­ki Muraka­mi Free Online

Pat­ti Smith Reviews Haru­ki Murakami’s New Nov­el, Col­or­less Tsuku­ru Taza­ki and His Years of Pil­grim­age

Haru­ki Murakami’s Pas­sion for Jazz: Dis­cov­er the Novelist’s Jazz Playlist, Jazz Essay & Jazz Bar

A 56-Song Playlist of Music in Haru­ki Murakami’s Nov­els: Ray Charles, Glenn Gould, the Beach Boys & More

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

An Animated Introduction to Michel Foucault, “Philosopher of Power”

Do you still need a work­ing knowl­edge of the ideas of Michel Fou­cault to hold your own on the cock­tail par­ty cir­cuit? Prob­a­bly not, but the ideas them­selves, should you bring them up there, remain as fas­ci­nat­ing as ever. But how, apart from enter­ing (or re-enter­ing) grad school, to get start­ed learn­ing about them? Just look above: Alain de Bot­ton’s School of Life has pro­duced a handy eight-minute primer on the life and thought of the con­tro­ver­sial “20th-cen­tu­ry French philoso­pher and his­to­ri­an who spent his career foren­si­cal­ly crit­i­ciz­ing the pow­er of the mod­ern bour­geois cap­i­tal­ist state.”

Per­haps that sounds like a par­o­dy of the activ­i­ty of a French philoso­pher, but if you watch, you’ll find high­light­ed ele­ments of Fou­cault’s grand intel­lec­tu­al project still rel­e­vant to us today. “His goal was noth­ing less than to fig­ure out how pow­er worked,” as de Bot­ton puts it, “and then to change it in the direc­tion of a Marx­ist-anar­chist utopia.” Even if you have no inter­est in Marx­ist-anar­chist utopias, you’ll find much to think about in Fou­cault’s crit­i­cisms, summed up in the video, of insti­tu­tions of pow­er hav­ing to do with med­i­cine, men­tal health, crim­i­nal jus­tice, and sex­u­al­i­ty — under which we all, in some form or anoth­er, still live today.

Once the School of Life has got you briefed on this wealthy altar boy (!) turned wide­ly-polar­iz­ing, sex­u­al­ly avant-garde intel­lec­tu­al, you can get into more depth on Fou­cault right here on Open Cul­ture. We’ve got his UC Berke­ley lec­tures (in Eng­lish) on “Truth and Sub­jec­tiv­i­ty” and “The Cul­ture of the Self,;” an inter­view with him long thought lost; a 40-minute doc­u­men­tary on him, and the TIME arti­cle and fanzine that got his name spread­ing around Amer­i­ca. You’ll find that, though Fou­cault him­self passed away more than thir­ty years ago, his obser­va­tions of mod­ern soci­ety still have an impact — and they’ll sure­ly raise an eye­brow or two at the next office par­ty.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Michel Fou­cault – Beyond Good and Evil: 1993 Doc­u­men­tary Explores the Theorist’s Con­tro­ver­sial Life and Phi­los­o­phy

The 1981 TIME Mag­a­zine Pro­file That Intro­duced Michel Fou­cault to Amer­i­ca

Hear Michel Fou­cault Deliv­er His Lec­ture on “Truth and Sub­jec­tiv­i­ty” at UC Berke­ley, In Eng­lish (1980)

Hear Michel Foucault’s Lec­ture “The Cul­ture of the Self,” Pre­sent­ed in Eng­lish at UC Berke­ley (1983)

Watch a “Lost Inter­view” With Michel Fou­cault: Miss­ing for 30 Years But Now Recov­ered

Read Chez Fou­cault, the 1978 Fanzine That Intro­duced Stu­dents to the Rad­i­cal French Philoso­pher

Alain de Botton’s School of Life Presents Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tions to Hei­deg­ger, The Sto­ics & Epi­cu­rus

Niet­zsche, Wittgen­stein & Sartre Explained with Mon­ty Python-Style Ani­ma­tions by The School of Life

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch an Animation of Jonathan Safran Foer’s New Story, “Love Is Blind and Deaf”

Briefly not­ed: Jonathan Safran Foer (Extreme­ly Loud and Incred­i­bly Close and Every­thing Is Illu­mi­nat­ed) has a new short sto­ry, “Love Is Blind and Deaf,” in the Sum­mer Fic­tion Issue of The New York­er. And, by short, I mean short. His quirky Adam and Eve sto­ry runs 592 words.

You can read the sto­ry free online here (if you haven’t exceed­ed the month­ly quo­ta of The New York­er’s pay­wall). Or, if you’re more visu­al, you can watch an ani­mat­ed adap­ta­tion of the sto­ry above. Direct­ed by Gur Ben­twich and ani­mat­ed by Ofra Koblin­er, the video was pro­duced by Sto­ryvid, a non­prof­it pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny that aspires to cre­ate “the lit­er­ary equiv­a­lent of a music video.”

For more Foer, lis­ten to him read Amos Oz’s sto­ry, “The King of Oz,” which oth­er­wise appears in our col­lec­tion of 630 Free Audio Books.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent

700 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

Jonathan Safran Foer, Toni Mor­ri­son & Steven Pinker Cul­ti­vate Thought on Chipotle’s Cups and Bags

The New Yorker’s Fic­tion Pod­cast: Where Great Writ­ers Read Sto­ries by Great Writ­ers

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The Simpsons Pay Wonderful Tribute to the Anime of Hayao Miyazaki

When the TV series The Simp­sons first pre­miered on Decem­ber 17, 1989, the Berlin Wall had just fall­en, the inter­net wasn’t real­ly a thing yet, and Tay­lor Swift was just four days old. While the show might not have the bite or the cur­ren­cy it had in the mid-90s, the series still man­ages to deliv­er some absolute­ly won­der­ful moments. Last Hal­loween, for instance, they did a hilar­i­ous extend­ed riff on the works of Stan­ley Kubrick. But per­haps the best thing they’ve done recent­ly is a trib­ute to leg­endary Japan­ese ani­ma­tor Hayao Miyaza­ki. You can see the clip above.

The ref­er­ences come thick and fast. There’s Otto, the per­pet­u­al­ly stoned bus dri­ver, as the Cat Bus from My Neigh­bor Totoro. There’s Ralph Wig­gum as the sen­tient fish Ponyo. There’s Pat­ty and Sel­ma as Kiki the Witch from Kiki’s Deliv­ery Ser­vice. And, at the end of the seg­ment, the Kwik-E-Mart sprouts legs and walks off like the tit­u­lar build­ing in Howl’s Mov­ing Cas­tle. A dis­tressed Abu exclaims, “I’m ruined by whim­sy!” The seg­ment even departs from the show’s usu­al man­ic irrev­er­ence and takes on the melan­choly won­der of Miyazaki’s movies.

Unless you have an unusu­al­ly quick eye and a thor­ough under­stand­ing of the worlds of Miyaza­ki, you will prob­a­bly need to watch this more than a cou­ple of times. For­tu­nate­ly, the folks over at Slate have unpacked and anno­tat­ed the seg­ment for you. You can watch it below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Make Instant Ramen Com­pli­ments of Japan­ese Ani­ma­tion Direc­tor Hayao Miyaza­ki

French Stu­dent Sets Inter­net on Fire with Ani­ma­tion Inspired by Moe­bius, Syd Mead & Hayao Miyaza­ki

Before The Simp­sons, Matt Groen­ing Illus­trat­ed a “Student’s Guide” for Apple Com­put­ers (1989)

Watch The Simp­sons’ Hal­loween Par­o­dy of Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange and The Shin­ing

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

Watch Hayao Miyazaki Animate the Final Shot of His Final Feature Film, The Wind Rises

Hayao Miyaza­k­i’s The Wind Ris­es came out in 2013 to a great deal of acclaim and attention—as, I sup­pose, do all the movies his Stu­dio Ghi­b­li puts out, so painstak­ing­ly have they built up their rep­u­ta­tion for medi­um-tran­scend­ing depth, artistry, crafts­man­ship, and atten­tion to detail. But that fic­tion­al­ized bio­graph­i­cal sto­ry of Japan­ese World War II air­plane design­er Jiro Horikos­ki received even more notice than most due not just to the con­tro­ver­sial nature of its mate­r­i­al, but to its place as Miyaza­k­i’s sup­posed swan song, the last fea­ture film he would ever direct.

Then again, Hayao Miyaza­ki has spo­ken of many pos­si­ble retire­ments over the years, and no longer ani­mat­ing fea­ture films hard­ly means the end of his all-con­sum­ing impulse to cre­ate, which dri­ves him to con­tin­ue work­ing on Toky­o’s Ghi­b­li Muse­um and draw­ing the art for com­ic books, among oth­er projects. Cer­tain Miyaza­ki asso­ciates have pub­licly told us not to be sur­prised if the mas­ter one day emerges from this par­tic­u­lar “retire­ment,” but since the man him­self seems quite seri­ous about putting full-length pic­tures behind him, we can assume for now that the clip above shows him at work on the last bit of film ani­ma­tion in his career: The Wind Ris­es’ final shot.

The footage comes from last year’s The King­dom of Dreams and Mad­ness, a doc­u­men­tary on a moment in the life of Stu­dio Ghibli—and pos­si­bly one of the last moments in the life of Stu­dio Ghi­b­li, giv­en their announce­ment of a “brief pause” pro­duc­tion as a result of Miyaza­k­i’s retire­ment. On the sub­ject of the stu­dio’s future Miyaza­ki speaks blunt­ly in the doc­u­men­tary: “The future is clear: it’s going to fall apart. I can already see it. What’s the use wor­ry­ing? It’s inevitable.” But all things do, a fact which the finest works of Japan­ese art—Miyazaki’s films included—have always accept­ed. But they also take notice of what small things we can appre­ci­ate along the way to dis­so­lu­tion, as does Miyaza­ki him­self: “Isn’t ani­ma­tion fas­ci­nat­ing?” he asks, seem­ing­ly to him­self, as he walks away from the draw­ing board.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hayao Miyazaki’s Mag­i­cal Ani­mat­ed Music Video for the Japan­ese Pop Song, “On Your Mark”

Watch Sher­lock Hound: Hayao Miyazaki’s Ani­mat­ed, Steam­punk Take on Sher­lock Holmes

How to Make Instant Ramen Com­pli­ments of Japan­ese Ani­ma­tion Direc­tor Hayao Miyaza­ki

Col­in Mar­shall writes on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Samurai 7, an Anime Adaptation of Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai


Aki­ra Kuro­sawa’s Sev­en Samu­rai (1954) might be over three hours long but you nev­er feel bored. The action scenes nev­er fail to thrill and the char­ac­ters are so well devel­oped that you gen­uine­ly grieve when they die. The epic is so bril­liant­ly real­ized that it’s no sur­prise that film­mak­ers every­where took note. In The Mag­nif­i­cent Sev­en (1960), a direct remake of Sev­en Samu­rai, Hol­ly­wood swapped out katanas for six-shoot­ers and recast the movie as a West­ern. Oth­er films from The Guns of Navar­ro to the Bol­ly­wood block­buster Sholay to even Pixar’s A Bug’s Life have drawn heav­i­ly from Kurosawa’s mas­ter­piece.

Add to this list Toshi­fu­mi Tak­iza­wa’s 26-episode ani­mat­ed TV series Samu­rai 7. The set up is iden­ti­cal to the orig­i­nal — mas­ter­less samu­rais are hired to pro­tect a vil­lage from a ruth­less gang of ban­dits — and many of the char­ac­ters in the ani­mat­ed series have the same names as char­ac­ters in the orig­i­nal film. But the total run­ning time of the TV show is three times longer than that of Kurosawa’s film, so Tak­iza­wa took a few lib­er­ties.

The show’s open­ing scene, for instance, fea­tures a mas­sive inter­stel­lar bat­tle involv­ing lasers and space­ships. There’s a rust­ing, ele­phan­tine mega­lopo­lis straight out of Blade Run­ner. And also there are robots. The ban­dits, as it turns out, are more metal­lic than human, and Kikuchiyo, who was played bril­liant­ly as a drunk­en wild man by Toshi­ro Mifu­ne, is in this iter­a­tion a grumpy, poor­ly-con­struct­ed cyborg who wields a chain­saw-like sword. The series even has Kirara, a cow-eyed teenaged priest­ess who sports a midriff-bar­ing kimono.

Either the sto­ry ele­ments above sound com­plete­ly pre­pos­ter­ous or total­ly awe­some. If you’re in the for­mer cat­e­go­ry, you can watch the trail­er for Kurosawa’s film below. If you’re in the lat­ter cat­e­go­ry – and the show is a lot of fun – then you can watch episode 1 above, and catch the rest on Youtube.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Aki­ra Kurosawa’s List of His 100 Favorite Movies

How Aki­ra Kuro­sawa Used Move­ment to Tell His Sto­ries: A Video Essay

Aki­ra Kuro­sawa & Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la Star in Japan­ese Whisky Com­mer­cials (1980)

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

An Introduction to the Literary Philosophy of Marcel Proust, Presented in a Monty Python-Style Animation

Those who know the name Mar­cel Proust, if not his work itself, know it as that of the most soli­tary and intro­spec­tive of writers—a name become an adjec­tive, describ­ing an almost painful­ly del­i­cate vari­ety of sen­so­ry rem­i­nis­cence verg­ing on tantric solip­sism. Proust has earned the rep­u­ta­tion for writ­ing what Alain de Bot­ton above tells us in his Proust intro­duc­tion is “offi­cial­ly the longest nov­el in the world,” A la recher­ché du temps per­du (In Search of Lost Time). The book—or books, rather, total­ing dou­ble the num­ber of words as Tolstoy’s War and Peace—recounts the main­ly con­tem­pla­tive tra­vails of a “thin­ly veiled” ver­sion of the author. It is, in one sense, a very long, mas­ter­ful­ly styl­ized diary of the author’s loves, lusts, likes, moods, and tastes of every kind.

Those who know the iPhone app, “Proust”—a far few­er num­ber, I’d wager—know it as a game that har­ness­es the com­bined pow­er of social net­work­ing, instant online opin­ion, and sur­vey tech­nol­o­gy in a relent­less­ly repet­i­tive exer­cise in face­less col­lec­tiv­i­ty. These two enti­ties are per­haps vague­ly relat­ed by the Proust ques­tion­naire, but the dis­tance between them is more sig­nif­i­cant, stand­ing as an iron­ic emblem of the dis­tance between Proust’s refined lit­er­ary uni­verse and that of our con­tem­po­rary mass cul­ture.

Proust, a con­sti­tu­tion­al­ly frag­ile elit­ist born to wealthy Parisian par­ents in 1871, con­clud­ed that a life worth liv­ing requires the unique­ly sen­si­tive, fine­ly-tuned appre­ci­a­tion of every­day life that chil­dren and artists pos­sess, uncol­ored by the spoils of habit and dead­en­ing rou­tine. “Proust” the game—as the host of its vicious­ly satir­i­cal video pro­claims in an ambigu­ous­ly Euro­pean accent—concludes “It’s fun to judge”… in iden­ti­cal, rain­bow-col­ored screens that reduce every con­sid­er­a­tion to a vapid con­test with no stakes or effort. It too rep­re­sents, through par­o­dy, a kind of phi­los­o­phy of life. And one might broad­ly say we all live some­where in-between the hyper-aes­theti­cism of Proust the writer and the mind­less rapid-fire swipe-away triv­i­al­iz­ing of Proust the app.

De Bot­ton, con­sis­tent with the mis­sion of his very mis­sion­ary School of Life, would like us to move clos­er to the lit­er­ary Proust’s phi­los­o­phy, a “project of rec­on­cil­ing us to the ordi­nary cir­cum­stances of life” and the “charm of the every­day.” As he does with all of the fig­ures he con­scripts for his lessons, De Bot­ton pre­sumes that Proust’s pri­ma­ry intent in his inter­minable work was to “help us” real­ize this charm—and Proust did in fact say as much. But read­ers and schol­ars of the reclu­sive French writer may find this state­ment, its author, and his writ­ing, much more com­pli­cat­ed and dif­fi­cult to make sense of than we’re giv­en to believe.

Nonethe­less, this School of Life video, like many of the oth­ers we’ve fea­tured here, does give us a way of approach­ing Proust that is much less daunt­ing than so many oth­ers, com­plete with clever cut-out ani­ma­tions that illus­trate Proust’s the­o­ry of mem­o­ry, occa­sioned by his famed, fate­ful encounter with a cup of tea and a madeleine. The teatime epiphany caused Proust to observe:

The rea­son why life may be judged to be triv­ial, although at cer­tain moments it seems to us so beau­ti­ful, is that we form our judg­ment ordi­nar­i­ly not on the evi­dence of life itself, but of those quite dif­fer­ent images which pre­serve noth­ing of life, and there­fore we judge it dis­parag­ing­ly.

We may take or leave De Botton’s inter­pre­ta­tion of Proust’s work, but it seems more and more imper­a­tive that we give the work itself our full attention—or as much of it as we can spare.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Mon­ty Python’s “Sum­ma­rize Proust Com­pe­ti­tion” on the 100th Anniver­sary of Swann’s Way

Mar­cel Proust Fills Out a Ques­tion­naire in 1890: The Man­u­script of the ‘Proust Ques­tion­naire’

What Are Lit­er­a­ture, Phi­los­o­phy & His­to­ry For? Alain de Bot­ton Explains with Mon­ty Python-Style Videos

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

Vivaldi’s Four Seasons Brought to Life in Sand Animations by the Hungarian Artist Ferenc Cakó


It seems per­fect­ly nat­ur­al to us that ani­ma­tion is a medi­um dom­i­nat­ed by cel-by-cel draw­ings, whether made with paint and brush or mouse and soft­ware. But it might have been oth­er­wise. After all, some ani­mat­ed films and videos have been made in less con­ven­tion­al for­mats with less con­ven­tion­al mate­ri­als. In the past, we’ve fea­tured here stop-motion ani­ma­tions made with dead bugs, inno­v­a­tive pin­screen ani­ma­tions, unusu­al cutout ani­ma­tions, and the “destruc­tive ani­ma­tion” of paint­ed plas­ter. And today, we bring you the live-action sand ani­ma­tion of Hun­gar­i­an artist Fer­enc Cakó, who projects his work on a screen for a the­atri­cal audi­ence. These more sculp­tur­al forms may be more painstak­ing than tra­di­tion­al cel ani­ma­tion, and for that rea­son more rare, but they are also often much more inter­est­ing.

Cakó per­forms his “sand ani­ma­tions,” all over the world, to the accom­pa­ni­ment of clas­si­cal com­po­si­tions like Bach’s Orches­tral Suite No. 3 in D major and Orf­f’s Carmi­na Burana. Here we have his ani­mat­ed inter­pre­ta­tion of the most well-known work of Vival­di, the Four Sea­sons (“Spring” and “Sum­mer” above, “Autumn” and “Win­ter” below.) The effect of Cakó’s live tech­nique is mes­mer­iz­ing; his hands and arms break the fourth wall in broad ges­tures under which suc­ces­sions of images take shape. His sand draw­ings tend to be rather static—instead the ani­mat­ed ele­ments in Cakó’s sand ani­ma­tions are his hands as he push­es the sand around, rapid­ly form­ing it into faces, flocks of birds, angry clouds. These are quick­ly wiped away and remade into trees, fright­ened hors­es, soli­tary shep­herds….

Watch­ing him work rais­es many a ques­tion: Is Cakó using from sto­ry­boards? (No.) How much of his live ani­ma­tion does he impro­vise? (A good deal.) And why sand, any­way? (It’s dry.) You will find more com­pre­hen­sive answers to these ques­tions and many more in an inter­view post­ed on Cakó’s web­site. Allud­ing to the dif­fi­cul­ty of his work, com­pound­ed by its per­for­ma­tive aspect, Cakó says, “Sand can­not be cor­rect­ed, so while work­ing I do not have con­trol, no motion con­trol. I do not have any oppor­tu­ni­ty, which car­toon­ists do, such as the trac­ing paper phase, dur­ing which they either draw the lines or scan them in the com­put­er.” In oth­er words, this is unique­ly dif­fi­cult art that requires the skills of a unique­ly con­fi­dent artist.

Cakó’s web­site also con­tains pho­tos of the artist at work, a biog­ra­phy that is also a film‑, art‑, and per­for­mance-ogra­phy, and a page devot­ed specif­i­cal­ly to script­ing “the way Mr Cakó should be announced,” com­plete with inex­plic­a­ble uses of paren­the­ses. It’s a fit­ting bit of brava­do for an artist who has legal­ly copy­right­ed his process.

(Ladies and Gen­tle­men, what you shall see tonight, is a)

Live Sand Ani­ma­tion Per­for­mance, cre­at­ed by Mr Cako, right here by his hands, to the rhythm of the music.

(on the stage and on the screen…….. Mr Fer­enc Cako!)

See many more “sandanimations”—and “paint animations”—at Cakó’s YouTube chan­nel.

Ferenc Cako

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch The Amaz­ing 1912 Ani­ma­tion of Stop-Motion Pio­neer Ladis­las Stare­vich, Star­ring Dead Bugs

Niko­lai Gogol’s Clas­sic Sto­ry, “The Nose,” Ani­mat­ed With the Aston­ish­ing Pin­screen Tech­nique (1963)

Watch Piotr Dumala’s Won­der­ful Ani­ma­tions of Lit­er­ary Works by Kaf­ka and Dos­to­evsky

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

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