Your Brain on Art: The Emerging Science of Neuroaesthetics Probes What Art Does to Our Brains

If you’ve fol­lowed debates in pop­u­lar philo­soph­i­cal cir­cles, you’ve sure­ly heard the cri­tique of “sci­en­tism,” the “view that only sci­en­tif­ic claims are mean­ing­ful.” The term doesn’t apply only in defens­es of reli­gious expla­na­tions, but also of the arts and humanities—long imper­iled by sweep­ing bud­get cuts and now seem­ing­ly upend­ed by neu­ro­science.

We have the neu­ro­science of music, of lit­er­a­ture, of paint­ing, of cre­ativ­i­ty and imag­i­na­tion them­selves…. What need any­more for those pedants and obscu­ran­tists in their ivory tow­er aca­d­e­m­ic cubi­cles? Sweep them all away for bet­ter MRI machines and sta­tis­ti­cal pro­grams! Who, gasp the oppo­nents of sci­en­tism, would hold such a philis­tine view? Maybe only a straw man or two.

For those in the emerg­ing field of “neu­roaes­thet­ics,” the goal is not to vivi­sect the arts, but to observe what art—however defined—does to the brain. Neu­roaes­thet­ics, notes the Wash­ing­ton Post video above, the­o­rizes that “some of the answers to art’s mys­ter­ies can be found in the realm of sci­ence.” As Uni­ver­si­ty of Hous­ton Pro­fes­sor of Elec­tri­cal and Com­put­er Engi­neer­ing Jose Luis Con­tr­eras-Vidal puts it in the video below, “the more we under­stand the way the brain responds to the arts, the bet­ter we can under­stand our­selves.” Such under­stand­ing does not obvi­ate the mys­tery of art as, the Post writes in an accom­pa­ny­ing arti­cle, “the domain of the heart.”

The spec­ta­cle of per­form­ing artists, writ­ers, and musi­cians wear­ing skull­caps cov­ered with wires while in the midst of their cre­ative acts may look ludi­crous to us lay­folk. The Uni­ver­si­ty of Hous­ton takes this research quite seri­ous­ly, how­ev­er, appoint­ing three visu­al artists-in-res­i­dence to work along­side many oth­ers on Pro­fes­sor Contraras-Vidal’s ongo­ing neu­roaes­thet­ic projects, which also include dancers and musi­cians. In addi­tion to study­ing artists’ brains, the NSF-fund­ed project has record­ed “elec­tri­cal sig­nals in the brains of 450 indi­vid­u­als as they engaged with the work of artist Dario Rob­le­to in a pub­lic art instal­la­tion.”

The Post sum­ma­rizes some of the pos­si­ble answers offered by this kind of research: arts such as dance and the­ater stim­u­late our desire to expe­ri­ence intense emo­tions togeth­er in a group as a form of social cohe­sion. See­ing live performances—and sure­ly even films, though that par­tic­u­lar art form is slight­ed in many of these accounts—trig­gers a “neur­al rush…. With our brain’s capac­i­ty for emo­tion and empa­thy, even in the word­less art of dance we can begin to dis­cov­er meaning—and a sto­ry.” This brings us to the impor­tance our brains place on nar­ra­tive, on move­ment, the “log­ic of art” and much more.

For bet­ter or worse, neu­roaes­thet­ics is—at least at an insti­tu­tion­al level—in some com­pe­ti­tion with those branch­es of phi­los­o­phy clas­si­cal­ly con­cerned with aes­thet­ics, though often the two endeav­ors are com­ple­men­tary. But using sci­ence to inter­pret art, or inter­pret the brain on art, should in no way put the arts in jeop­ardy. Seri­ous sci­en­tif­ic curios­i­ty about the old­est and most uni­ver­sal of dis­tinc­tive­ly human activ­i­ties might instead pro­vide justification—or bet­ter yet, fund­ing and pub­lic support—for the gen­er­ous pro­duc­tion of more pub­lic art.

via The Wash­ing­ton Post

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Infor­ma­tion Over­load Robs Us of Our Cre­ativ­i­ty: What the Sci­en­tif­ic Research Shows

The Neu­ro­science of Drum­ming: Researchers Dis­cov­er the Secrets of Drum­ming & The Human Brain

How Bud­dhism & Neu­ro­science Can Help You Change How Your Mind Works: A New Course by Best­selling Author Robert Wright

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

Tom Petty Takes You Inside His Songwriting Craft

Briefly not­ed: Give this wide-rang­ing inter­view with Tom Pet­ty some time. Record­ed in 2014, Pet­ty talks with inter­view­er Jian Ghome­shi about his song­writ­ing craft. The writ­ing of songs, the rehearsal and record­ing process, the work in the stu­dio, it all gets cov­ered here. As he talks, one thing comes across: What­ev­er tal­ents he had, Pet­ty put in the hard work. He and the Heart­break­ers mas­tered their instru­ments, kept get­ting bet­ter, and did­n’t take short cuts, to the point where they could do mag­i­cal things togeth­er in the record­ing stu­dio.

Watch Part 1 above, and Part 2 below, where, at one point he says, “I’m doing the best I can. You can’t say I did­n’t try real­ly hard because I’m real­ly try­ing hard to be good.” The val­ue of trying–trying consistently–can nev­er be under­stat­ed.

Note: Some of the same themes get echoed in Tom Pet­ty’s final inter­view, which he gave to the LA Times last week. You can stream it here.

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:

A 17-Hour, Chrono­log­i­cal Jour­ney Through Tom Petty’s Music: Stream the Songs That Became the Sound­tracks of Our Lives

Watch Tom Pet­ty (RIP) and the Heart­break­ers Per­form Their Last Song Togeth­er, “Amer­i­can Girl”: Record­ed on 9/25/17

Prince, Joined by Tom Pet­ty, Plays a Mind-Blow­ing Gui­tar Solo On “While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps”

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The Philosophy & Music of Devo, the Avant-Garde Art Project Dedicated to Revealing the Truth About De-Evolution

The chief dif­fi­cul­ty for any­one want­i­ng to make an assault on our munic­i­pal the­atre… is that there can be no ques­tion of reveal­ing a mys­tery. He can­not just point a stumpy fin­ger at the theatre’s ongo­ings and say, “You may have thought this amount­ed to some­thing, but let me tell you, it’s a sheer scan­dal; what you see before you proves your absolute bank­rupt­cy; it’s your own stu­pid­i­ty, your men­tal lazi­ness and your degen­er­a­cy that are being pub­li­cal­ly exposed.” No, the poor man can’t say that, for it’s no sur­prise to you; you’ve known it all along; noth­ing can be done about it.

–Berthold Brecht, “A Reck­on­ing”

Have you ever felt like Net­work’s Howard Beale? Rant­i­ng to any­one who’ll lis­ten about how mad as hell you are? “I don’t have to tell you things are bad. Every­body knows things are bad.”

Or maybe agreed with the weary cyn­i­cism of his boss, Max Schu­mach­er? “All of life is reduced to the com­mon rub­ble of banal­i­ty.”

Faced with the cru­el, stu­pid the­ater of mass pol­i­tics and cul­ture, we begin to feel a blan­ket of over­whelm­ing futil­i­ty descend. All of the pos­si­ble moves have been made and absorbed into the programming—including the out­raged crit­ic point­ing his fin­ger at the stage.

Avant-garde artists since the late 19th cen­tu­ry have cor­rect­ly sized up this depress­ing real­i­ty. But rather than seize up in fits of rage or suc­cumb to cyn­i­cism, they made new forms of the­ater: Jar­ry, Dada, Debord, Artaud, Brecht—all had designs to dis­rupt the oppres­sive banal­i­ty of mod­ern stage- and state-craft with mock­ery, sadism, and shock.

And so too did DEVO, the authors of “Whip It.”

Their 80s New Wave antics seemed like a juve­nile art-school prank. Behind it lay the­o­ret­i­cal sophis­ti­ca­tion and seri­ous polit­i­cal intent. “When we first start­ed Devo,” says Mark Moth­ers­baugh in the “Cal­i­for­nia Inspires Me” video above, “we were artists who were work­ing in a num­ber of dif­fer­ent media. We were around for the shoot­ings at Kent State. And it affect­ed us. We were think­ing, like, ‘What are we observ­ing?’ And we decid­ed we weren’t observ­ing evo­lu­tion, we were observ­ing de-evo­lu­tion.”

Won­der­ing how to change things, the band looked to Madi­son Avenue for inspiration—intent on tak­ing the tech­niques of mass per­sua­sion to sub­vert the enchant­ments of mass per­sua­sion, “report­ing the good news of De-Evo­lu­tion” in a joy­ous the­ater of mock­ery. The phi­los­o­phy itself evolved over time, first tak­ing shape in 1970 when Moth­ers­baugh and Ger­ald Casale met at Kent State. Casale had already coined the term “De-Evo­lu­tion”; Moth­ers­baugh intro­duced him to its mas­cot, Jocko-Homo, the 1924 cre­ation of anti-evo­lu­tion fun­da­men­tal­ist pam­phle­teer B.H. Shad­duck.

Fas­ci­nat­ed by Shadduck’s bizarre, pro­to-Jack Chick, illus­trat­ed freak-outs, Moth­ers­baugh and his band­mates adopt­ed the char­ac­ter for the first sin­gle from their 1978 debut album (top). Are We Not Men? We Are Devo! announced their car­ni­va­lesque gospel of human stu­pid­i­ty. Devo proved noth­ing we didn’t already know. Instead, they showed us the ele­va­tion of idio­cy to the sta­tus of a civ­il reli­gion. (Lat­er in the 80s, they would express­ly par­o­dy the nation­al reli­gion with their Evan­gel­i­cal satire DOVE.)

The the­ater of Devo was weird­ly com­pelling then and is wierd­ly com­pelling now, since the banal­i­ty and casu­al vio­lence of late-cap­i­tal­ism that threat­ened to swal­low up every­thing in the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry has, if any­thing, only become more bloat­ed and grotesque. “As far as Devo was con­cerned,” writes Ray Pad­gett at The New York­er, “Devo wasn’t a band at all but, rather, an art project… inspired by the Dadaists and the Ital­ian Futur­ists, Devo’s mem­bers were also cre­at­ing satir­i­cal visu­al art, writ­ing trea­tis­es, and film­ing short videos.”

One of those videos, “In the Begin­ning Was the End: The Truth About De-Evo­lu­tion,” fea­tured their “first ever cover”—Johnny Rivers’ “Secret Agent Man”—before they re-invent­ed (or “cor­rect­ed,” as they put it), the Rolling Stones’ “Sat­is­fac­tion.” They would screen the 9‑minute film, with its footage of two men in mon­key masks spank­ing a house­wife, before gigs.

The con­cepts are aggres­sive­ly wink-nudge ado­les­cent, reflect­ing not only Devo’s take on the regres­sive state of the cul­ture, but also Casale’s belief that “high-school kids know every­thing already.” But amidst the synths and shiny suits, we still hear Howard Beale’s cri de coeur, “I’m a human being dammit! My life has val­ue!” Only in Devo’s hands it turns to dark comedy—as in the title of a song from their 2010 come­back record Some­thing for Every­body, tak­en from words print­ed on the back of a hunter’s safe­ty vest that call back to the band’s begin­nings at Kent State: “Don’t Shoot, I’m a Man.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Mas­ter­mind of Devo, Mark Moth­ers­baugh, Shows Off His Syn­the­siz­er Col­lec­tion

New Wave Music–DEVO, Talk­ing Heads, Blondie, Elvis Costello–Gets Intro­duced to Amer­i­ca by ABC’s TV Show, 20/20 (1979)

Devo’s Mark Moth­ers­baugh & Oth­er Arists Tell Their Musi­cal Sto­ries in the Ani­mat­ed Video Series, “Cal­i­for­nia Inspires Me”

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

An Intimate Look at Alberto Giacometti in His Studio, Making His Iconic Sculptures (1965)

A vis­it to an artist’s stu­dio can shed light on his or her work.

The British Arts Coun­cil’s short film above affords an inti­mate glimpse into Alber­to Gia­comet­ti’s stu­dio in Mont­par­nasse cir­ca 1965, the year when he was the sub­ject of major ret­ro­spec­tives at both the Tate Gallery and the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art in New York.

The artist passed most of his work­ing life in cramped space at 46 rue Hip­poly­te. Ear­ly on, he enter­tained plans to relo­cate “because it was too small – just a hole.”

Oth­ers vis­i­tors to the stu­dio described the artist’s envi­rons in more lit­er­ary terms:

In a charm­ing lit­tle for­got­ten gar­den he has a stu­dio, sub­merged in plas­ter, and he lives next to this in a kind of hangar, vast and cold, with nei­ther fur­ni­ture nor food. He works very hard for fif­teen hours at a stretch, above all at night: the cold, his frozen hands – he takes no notice, he works. Simone de Beau­voir

And:

This ground floor stu­dio… is going to cave in at any moment now. It is made of worm-eat­en wood and grey pow­der.… Every­thing is stained and ready for the bin, every­thing is pre­car­i­ous and about to col­lapse, every­thing is about to dis­solve, every­thing is float­ing.… And yet it all appears to be cap­tured in an absolute real­i­ty. When I leave the stu­dio, when I am out­side on the street, then noth­ing that sur­rounds me is true. — Play­wright Jean Genet

And:

The whole place look­ing as if it had been thrown togeth­er with a few old sticks and a lot of chew­ing gum.… In short, a dump. Any­way he said come in when I knocked.… He turned and glanced at me, hold­ing out his hand which was cov­ered in clay, so I shook his wrist.… He imme­di­ate­ly resumed work, run­ning his fin­gers up and down the clay so fierce­ly that lumps fell onto the floor - Essay­ist James Lord

These impres­sions paint a por­trait of a dri­ven, and dis­ci­plined artist, who logged untold hours mod­el­ing his formes elongee in clay, uncer­e­mo­ni­ous­ly crum­pling and rebuild­ing in the pur­suit of excel­lence.

The cam­era doc­u­ments this inten­si­ty, though his untrans­lat­ed remarks sug­gest a man capa­ble of tak­ing him­self light­ly, cer­tain­ly more so than the accom­pa­ny­ing nar­ra­tion does.

Like the nar­ra­tion, Roger Smal­l­ey’s dis­so­nant score lays it on thick, the son­ic equiv­a­lent of heads like blades and “limbs bound as though ban­daged for the grave.” Per­haps we should con­ceive of the stu­dio as a scary place?

In actu­al­i­ty, it proved a hos­pitable work envi­ron­ment and the impulse to relo­cate even­tu­al­ly waned, with the artist observ­ing that “the longer I stayed, the big­ger it became. I could fit any­thing I want­ed into it.”

Explore the recent Tate Mod­ern Gia­comet­ti ret­ro­spec­tive here and take a clos­er look at the stu­dio via Ernst Scheidegger’s pho­tos.

Gia­comet­ti” will be added to our list of Free Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Icon­ic Artists at Work: Rare Videos of Picas­so, Matisse, Kandin­sky, Renoir, Mon­et, Pol­lock & More

Watch 1915 Video of Mon­et, Renoir, Rodin & Degas: The New Motion Pic­ture Cam­era Cap­tures the Inno­v­a­tive Artists

1.8 Mil­lion Free Works of Art from World-Class Muse­ums: A Meta List of Great Art Avail­able Online

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

1,000+ Historic Japanese Illustrated Books Digitized & Put Online by the Smithsonian: From the Edo & Meji Eras (1600–1912)

Sure­ly we’ve all won­dered what we might do as promi­nent nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry indus­tri­al­ists, and more than a few of us (espe­cial­ly here in the Open Cul­ture crowd) would no doubt invest our for­tunes in the art of the world. Rail­car man­u­fac­tur­ing mag­nate Charles Lang Freer did just that, as we can see today in the Freer Gallery of Art in Wash­ing­ton, D.C. Togeth­er with the Arthur M. Sack­ler Gallery (Sack­ler hav­ing made it as “the father of mod­ern phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal adver­tis­ing”), it con­sti­tutes the Smith­son­ian Insti­tu­tion’s nation­al muse­um of Asian art, gath­er­ing every­thing from ancient Egypt­ian stone sculp­ture to Chi­nese paint­ings to Kore­an pot­tery to Japan­ese books.

We like to high­light Japan­ese book cul­ture here every so often (see the relat­ed con­tent below) not just because of its strik­ing aes­thet­ics and con­sum­mate crafts­man­ship but because of its deep his­to­ry. You can now expe­ri­ence a con­sid­er­able swath of that his­to­ry free online at the Freer|Sacker Library’s web site, which just this past sum­mer fin­ished dig­i­tiz­ing over one thou­sand books — now more than 1,100, which breaks down to 41,500 sep­a­rate images — pub­lished dur­ing Japan’s Edo and Mei­ji peri­ods, a span of time reach­ing from 1600 to 1912. “Often filled with beau­ti­ful mul­ti-col­or illus­tra­tions,” writes Reiko Yoshimu­ra at the Smith­son­ian Libraries’ blog, “many titles are by promi­nent Japan­ese tra­di­tion­al and ukiyo‑e (‘float­ing world’) painters such as Oga­ta Kōrin (1658–1716), Andō Hiroshige (1797–1858) and Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai (1760–1849).”

Yoshimu­ra directs read­ers to such vol­umes as Hoku­sai’s One Hun­dred Views of Mt. Fuji, Uta­gawa Toyoku­ni’s Thir­ty-Six Pop­u­lar Actors, and artist, crafts­man, and design­er Kōet­su’s col­lec­tion of one hun­dred libret­tos for noh the­ater per­for­mances. Even those who can’t read clas­si­cal Japan­ese will admire an aes­thete like Kōet­su’s way with what Yoshimu­ra calls his “cali­graph­ic ‘font,’ ” all “skill­ful­ly print­ed on lux­u­ri­ous mica embell­ished papers using wood­en mov­able-type.”

While the online col­lec­tion’s scans come in a more than high enough res­o­lu­tion for gen­er­al appre­ci­a­tion, to get the full effect of book­mak­ing tech­niques like mica embell­ish­ment — which only sparkles when seen in real life — you’d have to vis­it the phys­i­cal col­lec­tion. Some things, it seems, can’t yet be dig­i­tized.

Enter the col­lec­tion of Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a Japan­ese Crafts­man Lov­ing­ly Bring a Tat­tered Old Book Back to Near Mint Con­di­tion

Enter a Dig­i­tal Archive of 213,000+ Beau­ti­ful Japan­ese Wood­block Prints

Japan­ese Kabu­ki Actors Cap­tured in 18th-Cen­tu­ry Wood­block Prints by the Mys­te­ri­ous & Mas­ter­ful Artist Sharaku

Splen­did Hand-Scroll Illus­tra­tions of The Tale of Gen­jii, The First Nov­el Ever Writ­ten (Cir­ca 1120)

Behold the Mas­ter­piece by Japan’s Last Great Wood­block Artist: View Online Tsukio­ka Yoshitoshi’s One Hun­dred Aspects of the Moon (1885)

A Won­der­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed 1925 Japan­ese Edi­tion of Aesop’s Fables by Leg­endary Children’s Book Illus­tra­tor Takeo Takei

“Tsun­doku,” the Japan­ese Word for the New Books That Pile Up on Our Shelves, Should Enter the Eng­lish Lan­guage

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.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Bizarre Caricatures & Monster Drawings

The car­i­ca­ture was once a high­ly-regard­ed art form, before it was cor­nered on the upper end by the New York Review of Books and on the more pedes­tri­an side by board­walk and street fair artists. Dur­ing the Euro­pean Renais­sance and the ensu­ing cen­turies of artis­tic devel­op­ment, near­ly every artist had a car­i­ca­ture side project—if only in the mar­gins of their sketchbooks—and some, like Leonar­do da Vin­ci, were wide­ly known and appre­ci­at­ed for their skill in the art.

Gen­er­al­ly renowned these days for the high seri­ous­ness of his Mona Lisa, Last Sup­per, and Vit­ru­vian Man, Leonar­do does not tend to be asso­ci­at­ed with grotesque humor. Yet the car­i­ca­tures “were some of his most pop­u­lar and influ­en­tial works,” writes Jonathan Jones at The Guardian, “from the 16th cen­tu­ry up to the time of [William] Hog­a­rth,” the huge­ly pop­u­lar 18th cen­tu­ry Eng­lish visu­al satirist.

These car­i­ca­tures con­nect Leonar­do not only to graph­ic art of the future but to an ear­li­er, Medieval world—the “hell­ish visions of Bosch and Bruegel.” They are “Gar­goyles,” wrote crit­ic Ken­neth Clark, “the com­ple­ment to saints; Leonar­do’s car­i­ca­tures were com­ple­men­tary to his untir­ing search for ide­al beau­ty.

And gar­goyles were the expres­sion of all the pas­sions, the ani­mal forces, the Cal­iban grunt­ings and groan­ings which are left in human nature when the divine has been poured away.” Clark tem­pers this char­ac­ter­i­za­tion by not­ing that these draw­ings “in their expres­sion of pas­sion­ate ener­gy, merge imper­cep­ti­bly into the hero­ic.”

Indeed, Leonar­do loved unusu­al faces and heads—he found odd-look­ing peo­ple of all kinds fas­ci­nat­ing, and turned them into tragi­com­ic fig­ures fit for the stage. Gior­gio Vasari, the 16th cen­tu­ry biog­ra­ph­er of Renais­sance artists, wrote that Leonar­do was “so delight­ed when he saw curi­ous heads, whether beard­ed or hairy, that he would fol­low any­one who had thus attract­ed his atten­tion for a whole day, acquir­ing such a clear idea of him that when he went home he would draw the head as well as if the man had been present.”

We can’t say that stalk­ing exhibits much respect for the kinds of bound­aries most peo­ple would pre­fer to main­tain, but Leonar­do’s behav­ior does dis­play a rev­er­ence for inter­est­ing human phys­iog­no­my, both a source and a foil for his ide­al­iza­tions of the human form. Leonardo’s car­i­ca­tures res­onate into the late 20th cen­tu­ry in the work of Ralph Stead­man, the gonzo illus­tra­tor and polit­i­cal car­toon­ist.

In his satir­i­cal illus­trat­ed biog­ra­phy of Leonar­do, Stead­man remarked that the Renais­sance artist who enno­bled the human form also found “that man was not what he appeared to be, despite the pre­vail­ing atmos­phere of fine thoughts and high aspi­ra­tions.” Stead­man quotes a pas­sage from Leonardo’s note­books that sounds much more Swift­ian or Rabelaisian than high-mind­ed Renais­sance human­ist:

His Holi­ness the Pope sur­round­ed him­self with none but craven guz­zlers, gross pre­tenders and a host of fawn­ing dig­ni­taries who gri­maced through their days at court with no more grace than beg­gars I had enter­tained in days gone by — though they had nei­ther choice nor wit to rise above them­selves and in that they had a rea­son.

Oh that I had ways to sure­ly serve their putrid mas­quer­ades and twit­tery to make a drag­on from the very menagerie with­in the Vat­i­can itself.

If I could take for its head that of a mas­tiff or set­ter, for its eyes those of a cat, for its ears those of a grey­hound, with the eye­brows of a lion, the tem­ples of an old cock and the neck of a water tor­toise. 

O vile mon­ster! How much bet­ter it for men that thou shouldst go back to hell! For this the vast forests shall be stripped of their trees; for this an infi­nite num­ber of crea­tures shall lose their lives.

Though the car­i­ca­tures may not go as far as the hor­ri­fy­ing hodge­podge in this descrip­tion, they do por­tray human beings with rather less clas­si­cal equa­nim­i­ty than the serene Mona Lisa or the very com­posed Christ. But due to Leonar­do’s skill and seem­ing­ly irre­press­ible love for the human form—even if he had a jaun­diced view of human nature—the car­i­ca­tures con­tin­ue to be inspir­ing pieces of work.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Vision­ary Note­books Now Online: Browse 570 Dig­i­tized Pages

Ralph Steadman’s Wild­ly Illus­trat­ed Biog­ra­phy of Leonar­do da Vin­ci (1983)

What Leonar­do da Vin­ci Real­ly Looked Like

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

How to Cook Like Frida Kahlo & Georgia O’Keefe

It’s a myth that starv­ing artists don’t eat.

They do, just not often or well. Their meals rarely rate recipes, let alone cook­books.

Those cook­books do exist though.…

The most­ly con­cep­tu­al Starv­ing Artist Cook­book put togeth­er by EIDIA (aka artists Paul Lamarre and Melis­sa Wolf) comes close to the spir­it of sus­tain­ing life through mea­ger ingre­di­ents… like spaghet­ti or 4 pages of shred­ded Prav­da.

Not so this oth­er title, which approach­es cute over­load with an abun­dance of Insta­gram-wor­thy illus­trat­ed fare—moji­tos, an unstruc­tured berry tart, a “man­ly” burg­er.…

Do “starv­ing” artists no longer fear being out­ed as posers?

Suc­cess­ful artists may not wor­ry about that, as they eat what­ev­er and how­ev­er they want.

Andy Warhol had the taste of an eccen­tric child.

Mari­na Abramović takes the ascetic route.

Many have glady trad­ed the can­dle in the chi­anti bot­tle for the most rar­i­fied restau­rants in town.

Geor­gia O’Keefe and Fri­da Kahlo, PBS Dig­i­tal Stu­dios’ series the Art Assign­ment informs us, took cooking—and eating—seriously.

So seri­ous­ly, their culi­nary efforts led to cook­books, which the Art Assignment’s host, cura­tor Sarah Urist Green, tries out on cam­era.

O’Keefe, who grew up in Wis­con­sin on home­made yogurt, home­made cheese, and plen­ti­ful home­grown pro­duce, ground her own flour in order to bake dai­ly loaves of whole wheat bread.

Green treats view­ers to a brief overview of O’Keefe’s life and work as she strug­gles with the grinder. (You might get the same, or bet­ter, results if you take a $5 bill to a good bak­ery right at open­ing.)

She also tack­les the wheat germ Tiger’s Milk smooth­ie advo­cat­ed by Adele Davis, a nutri­tion­ist whom O’Keefe  admired, and Green Chiles with Gar­lic and Oil and Fried Eggs, using recipes from the cook­books A Painter’s Kitchen and Din­ner with Geor­gia O’Keefe.

Before attempt­ing the same, you might want to watch the Kahlo-cen­tric episode, above, in which Green dis­cov­ers a much bet­ter method for roast­ing the poblano pep­pers she hap­less­ly sub­sti­tut­ed for New Mex­i­co chiles in O’Keefe’s egg dish.

Here, they’re used for Chiles Rel­lenos, a dish whose pro­nun­ci­a­tion the self-effac­ing Green butch­ers, along with a mul­ti­tude of oth­er Span­ish phras­es, a fact not lost on the video’s Youtube com­menters. They also take issue with the pres­ence of plan­tains, her prepa­ra­tion of the Nopales Sal­ad, and her cook­ing skills in gen­er­al. No won­der Green—a self-pro­claimed wussy where ser­ra­nos are concerned—seems so eager to reach for a shot of tequi­la as din­ner is final­ly served.

Green chose the dish­es for this episode from Frida’s Fies­tas: Recipes and Rem­i­nis­cences of Life with Fri­da Kahlo by Marie-Pierre Colle and Kahlo’s step­daugh­ter, Guadalupe Rivera.

Kahlo her­self learned to cook from her mother’s copy of El Nue­vo Cocinero Meji­cano, and from hus­band Diego Rivera’s first wife, Guadalupe (lead­ing one to won­der if some of that cook­book’s recipes aren’t mis­at­trib­uted to the more famous cook).

As with the O’Keefe video and the cook­books cit­ed here­in, there’s a wealth of vin­tage pho­tos and repro­duced art­work on dis­play.

Even though Green alludes to Kahlo’s dark side, sen­si­tive stom­achs might have trou­ble with the inclu­sion of the graph­i­cal­ly vio­lent Unos Quan­tos Piqueti­tos. Anoth­er paint­ing, My Nurse and I is at least relat­ed to eat­ing, if not cook­ing and recipes.

Those with stom­achs of steel on the oth­er hand can con­tin­ue on to anoth­er Art Assignment—the supreme­ly gross Meat Sculp­ture from the Futur­ist Cook­book.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Futur­ist Cook­book (1930) Tried to Turn Ital­ian Cui­sine into Mod­ern Art

MoMA’s Artists’ Cook­book (1978) Reveals the Meals of Sal­vador Dalí, Willem de Koon­ing, Andy Warhol, Louise Bour­geois & More

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Dis­cuss Emi­ly Dick­in­son with her infor­mal­ly at Pete’s Mini Zine­fest in Brook­lyn this Sat­ur­day. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Émile-Antoine Bayard’s Vivid Illustrations of Jules Verne’s Around the Moon: The First Serious Works of Space Art (1870)

What does space trav­el look like? Even now, in the 21st cen­tu­ry, very, very few of us know first-hand. But we’ve all seen count­less images from count­less eras pur­port­ing to show us what it might look like. As with any­thing imag­ined by man, some­one had to ren­der a con­vinc­ing vision of space trav­el first, and that dis­tinc­tion may well go to 19th-cen­tu­ry French illus­tra­tor Émile-Antoine Bayard who, per­haps not sur­pris­ing­ly, worked with Jules Verne. Verne’s pio­neer­ing and pro­lif­ic work in sci­ence fic­tion lit­er­a­ture has kept him a house­hold name, but Bayard’s may sound more obscure; still, we’ve all seen his art­work, or at least we’ve all seen the draw­ing of Cosette the orphan he did for Les Mis­érables.

“Read­ers of Jules Verne’s ear­ly sci­ence-fic­tion clas­sic From the Earth to the Moon (De la terre à la lune) — which left the Bal­ti­more Gun Club’s bul­let-shaped pro­jec­tile, along with its three pas­sen­gers and dog, hurtling through space — had to wait a whole five years before learn­ing the fate of its heroes,” says The Pub­lic Domain Review.

When it appeared, 1870’s Around the Moon (Autour de la Lune) offered not just “a fine con­tin­u­a­tion of the space adven­ture” but “a superb series of wood engrav­ings to illus­trate the tale” cre­at­ed by Bayard. “There had been imag­i­nary views of oth­er worlds, and even of space flight before this,” writes Ron Miller in Space Art, “but until Verne’s book appeared, these views all had been heav­i­ly col­ored by mys­ti­cism rather than sci­ence.”

Com­posed strict­ly accord­ing to the sci­en­tif­ic facts known at the time — with a depar­ture here and there in the name of imag­i­na­tion and visu­al metaphor — the illus­tra­tions for A Trip Around the Moon, lat­er pub­lished in a sin­gle vol­ume with its pre­de­ces­sor as A Trip to the Moon and Around It, stand as the ear­li­est known exam­ple of sci­en­tif­ic space art. Verne went as far as to com­mis­sion a lunar map by famed selenog­ra­phers (lit­er­al­ly, schol­ars of the moom’s sur­face) Beer and Maedlerm, and just last year the Lin­da Hall Library named Bayard a “sci­en­tist of the day.” As with the uncan­ni­ly accu­rate pre­dic­tions in Verne’s ear­li­er nov­el Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry, a fair few of the ideas here, espe­cial­ly to do with the mechan­ics of the rock­et’s launch and return to Earth, remain sci­en­tif­i­cal­ly plau­si­ble.

What­ev­er the inno­va­tion of the pro­jec­t’s con­sid­er­able sci­en­tif­ic basis, its artis­tic impres­sion fired up more than a few oth­er imag­i­na­tions: both Verne’s words and Bayard’s art, all 44 pieces of which you can view here, served as major inspi­ra­tions for ear­ly film­mak­er and “father of spe­cial effects” Georges Méliès, for instance, when he made A Trip to the Moon. Dis­ap­point­ed com­plaints about our per­sis­tent lack of moon colonies or even com­mer­cial space flight may have long since grown tire­some, but the next time you hear one of us denizens of the 21st cen­tu­ry air them, remem­ber the work of Verne and Bayard and think of how deep into his­to­ry that desire real­ly runs.

Via The Pub­lic Domain Review.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jules Verne Accu­rate­ly Pre­dicts What the 20th Cen­tu­ry Will Look Like in His Lost Nov­el, Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry (1863)

How French Artists in 1899 Envi­sioned Life in the Year 2000: Draw­ing the Future

Sovi­et Artists Envi­sion a Com­mu­nist Utopia in Out­er Space

A Trip to the Moon (and Five Oth­er Free Films) by Georges Méliès, the Father of Spe­cial Effects

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.

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