A Light Show on The Empire State Building Gets Synced to the Dead’s Live Performance of “Touch of Grey” (6/24/2017)

Some of my favorite things come togeth­er…

Last night, Dead & Com­pa­ny played a huge show at Citi Field in New York City. And when they per­formed “Touch of Grey” dur­ing their encore, a light show on the Empire State Build­ing got under­way, com­plete­ly syn­chro­nized with the song. Accord­ing to Jam Band, the lights were “con­trolled by vet­er­an light­ing design­er Marc Brick­man, who has worked on tour with Pink Floyd, Paul McCart­ney, Hans Zim­mer and many more.” Enjoy the visu­al dis­play above. And see the scene on the stage below:

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via Live for Music

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Long Strange Trip, the New 4‑Hour Doc­u­men­tary on the Grate­ful Dead, Is Now Stream­ing Free on Ama­zon Prime

Bob Dylan & The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987: Hear 74 Tracks

The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grate­ful Dead in 1970: Hear the Com­plete Record­ings

Jer­ry Gar­cia Talks About the Birth of the Grate­ful Dead & Play­ing Kesey’s Acid Tests in New Ani­mat­ed Video

The Grate­ful Dead Play at the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids, in the Shad­ow of the Sphinx (1978)

The First Avant Garde Animation: Watch Walter Ruttmann’s Lichtspiel Opus 1 (1921)

Most visu­al art forms, like paint­ing, sculp­ture, or still pho­tog­ra­phy, take a while to get from rep­re­sen­ta­tion to abstrac­tion, but cin­e­ma had a head start, thanks in large part to the ground­break­ing efforts of a Ger­man film­mak­er named Wal­ter Ruttmann. He did it in the ear­ly 1920s, not much more than twen­ty years after the birth of the medi­um itself, with Licht­spiel Opus 1, which you can watch above. Licht­spiel Opus 23, and 4 fol­low it in the video, but though equal­ly enchant­i­ng on an aes­thet­ic lev­el, espe­cial­ly in their inte­gra­tion of imagery and music, none hold the impres­sive dis­tinc­tion of being the very first abstract film ever screened for the pub­lic that Licht­spiel Opus 1 does.

“Fol­low­ing the First World War, Ruttmann, a painter, had moved from expres­sion­ism to full-blown abstrac­tion,” writes Gre­go­ry Zin­man in A New His­to­ry of Ger­man Cin­e­ma. As ear­ly as 1917, “Ruttmann argued that film­mak­ers ‘had become stuck in the wrong direc­tion,’ due to their mis­un­der­stand­ing of cin­e­ma’s essence,’ ” which prompt­ed him to use “the tech­no­log­i­cal­ly derived medi­um of film to pro­duce new art, call­ing for ‘a new method of expres­sion, one dif­fer­ent from all the oth­er arts, a medi­um of time. An art meant for our eyes, one dif­fer­ing from paint­ing in that it has a tem­po­ral dimen­sion (like music), and in the ren­di­tion of a (real or styl­ized) moment in an event or fact, but rather pre­cise­ly in the tem­po­ral rhythm of visu­al events.”

To real­ize this new art form, Ruttmann came up with, and even patent­ed, a kind of ani­ma­tion tech­nique. Once a painter, always a painter, he found a way to make films using oils and brush­es. As exper­i­men­tal ani­ma­tions schol­ar William Moritz described it, Ruttmann cre­at­ed Licht­spiel Opus I with images “paint­ed with oil on glass plates beneath an ani­ma­tion cam­era, shoot­ing a frame after each brush stroke or each alter­ation because the wet paint could be wiped away or mod­i­fied quite eas­i­ly. He lat­er com­bined this with geo­met­ric cut-outs on a sep­a­rate lay­er of glass.”

The result still looks and feels quite unlike the ani­ma­tion we know today, and cer­tain­ly resem­bled noth­ing any of its first view­ers had even seen when it pre­miered in Ger­many in April 1921. This puts it ahead, chrono­log­i­cal­ly, of the work of Hans Richter and Viking Eggeling, cre­ators of some of the ear­li­est mas­ter­pieces of abstract film in the ear­ly 1920s, not screened for the pub­lic until 1923. Alas, when Hitler came to pow­er and declared abstract art “degen­er­ate,” accord­ing to Ben­nett O’Bri­an at Pret­ty Clever Films, Ruttmann did­n’t flee but “remained in Ger­many and worked with Leni Riefen­stahl on The Tri­umph of the Will.” In wartime, he “was put to work direct­ing pro­pa­gan­da reels like 1940’s Deutsche Panz­er which fol­lows the man­u­fac­tur­ing process of armored tanks.”

Alas, “his deci­sion to stay in Ger­many dur­ing the war would even­tu­al­ly cost Ruttmann his life,” which end­ed in 1944 with a mor­tal wound endured while film­ing a bat­tle in Rus­sia. But how­ev­er ide­o­log­i­cal­ly and moral­ly ques­tion­able his lat­er work, Ruttmann, with his pio­neer­ing jour­ney into abstract ani­ma­tion, opened up a cre­ative realm only acces­si­ble to film­mak­ers that, even as we approach an entire cen­tu­ry after Licht­spiel Opus I, film­mak­ers have far from ful­ly explored.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch “Geom­e­try of Cir­cles,” the Abstract Sesame Street Ani­ma­tion Scored by Philip Glass (1979)

The First Mas­ter­pieces of Abstract Film: Hans Richter’s Rhyth­mus 21 (1921) & Viking Eggeling’s Sym­phonie Diag­o­nale (1924)

Watch the Sur­re­al­ist Glass Har­mon­i­ca, the Only Ani­mat­ed Film Ever Banned by Sovi­et Cen­sors (1968)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Behold The Paintings of David Bowie: Neo-Expressionist Self Portraits, Illustrations of Iggy Pop, and Much More

Would you believe that David Bowie, era-tran­scend­ing pop star, actor, and avid read­er, found not just the time to build a for­mi­da­ble art col­lec­tion (auc­tioned off for $41 mil­lion last year at Sothe­by’s), but to do quite a few paint­ings of his own? Even Bowie fans who know only his music will have seen one of those paint­ings, a self-por­trait which made the cov­er of his 1995 album Out­side. That same year he had his first show as a painter, “New Afro/Pagan and Work: 1975–1995,” at The Gallery, Cork Street.

“David Bowie paint­ings show a knowl­edge­able approach to art, influ­enced by Frank Auer­bach, David Bomberg, Fran­cis Bacon, Fran­cis Picabia…” says Very Pri­vate Gallery in a post on 25 of those works of art, adding that his style “also shows a touch of post-mod­ernism, more pre­cise­ly neo-expres­sion­ism move­ment.”

Com­pris­ing can­vas­es paint­ed between 1976 and 1996, the selec­tions include not just Bowie’s self-por­traits but depic­tions of such friends and asso­ciates as Iggy Pop, paint­ed in Berlin in 1978 just above, and pianist Mike Gar­son.

Bowieol­o­gists rec­og­nize his “Berlin era” in the late 1970s, which pro­duced the albums LowLodger, and “Heroes” (all to vary­ing degrees involv­ing the col­lab­o­ra­tion of Bri­an Eno) as an espe­cial­ly fruit­ful peri­od of his musi­cal career. But the gal­leries and muse­ums of the Ger­man cap­i­tal also wit­nessed Bowie’s first immer­sion into the world of visu­al art, both as an enthu­si­ast and as a cre­ator. The city even found its way into some of his paint­ings, such as 1977’s Child in Berlin above. “Heroes”, the final album of Bowie’s “Berlin tril­o­gy,” even inspired a bit of Bowie art­work, the self-por­trait sketch below mod­eled on the record’s famous cov­er pho­to by Masayoshi Suki­ta, itself inspired by Erich Heck­el’s 1917 paint­ing Roquairol.

But just as Bowie the musi­cian and per­former could­n’t stop seek­ing out and incor­po­rat­ing new influ­ences, so did Bowie the painter’s atten­tion con­tin­u­al­ly turn to new sub­ject mat­ter, includ­ing the mythol­o­gy of the tribes inhab­it­ing present-day South Africa. At Very Pri­vate Gallery you can see not just more of his fin­ished work but more of his sketch­es, includ­ing stud­ies of Hunger City, the the­mat­ic set­ting of his elab­o­rate Dia­mond Dogs tour as well as for a film planned, but nev­er actu­al­ly shot, in the mid-1970s. Despite the con­sid­er­able dif­fer­ence in medi­um between music and images, Bowie’s visu­al work still comes across clear­ly as Bowie’s work — espe­cial­ly a face drawn, true to ele­gant­ly nos­tal­gic form, on a pack of Gitanes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

96 Draw­ings of David Bowie by the “World’s Best Com­ic Artists”: Michel Gondry, Kate Beat­on & More

The Art from David Bowie’s Final Album, Black­star, is Now Free for Fans to Down­load and Reuse

David Bowie’s Top 100 Books

David Bowie Lists His 25 Favorite LPs in His Record Col­lec­tion: Stream Most of Them Free Online

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

David Bowie Offers Advice for Aspir­ing Artists: “Go a Lit­tle Out of Your Depth,” “Nev­er Ful­fill Oth­er People’s Expec­ta­tions”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Download 36 Dadaist Magazines from the The Digital Dada Archive (Plus Other Avant-Garde Books, Leaflets & Ephemera)

In search­ing for a trea­sure trove of pub­li­ca­tions spring­ing from the avant-garde, delib­er­ate­ly irra­tional, ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry Euro­pean “anti-art” art move­ment known as Dada, where would you first look? Many cor­ners of the world’s his­toric cul­tur­al cap­i­tals may come right to mind, but might we sug­gest the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa? Even if you don’t feel like trav­el­ing to the mid­dle of the Unit­ed States to plunge into an archive of high­ly pur­pose­ful non­sense, you can view their impres­sive col­lec­tion of Dada peri­od­i­cals (36 in total), books, leaflets, and ephemera online.

“Found­ed in 1979 as part of the Dada Archive and Research Cen­ter, the Inter­na­tion­al Dada Archive is a schol­ar­ly resource for the study of the his­toric Dada move­ment,” says its front page. The col­lec­tion con­tains “works by and about the Dadaists includ­ing books, arti­cles, micro­filmed man­u­script col­lec­tions, vide­o­record­ings, sound record­ings, and online resources,” and in its dig­i­tal form it “pro­vides links to scanned images of orig­i­nal Dada-era pub­li­ca­tions in the Inter­na­tion­al Dada Archive,” includ­ing the influ­en­tial Dada and 291, as well as “many of the major peri­od­i­cals of the Dada move­ment from Zurich, Berlin, Paris, and else­where, as well as books, exhi­bi­tion cat­a­logs, and broad­sides by par­tic­i­pants in the Dada move­ment.” (Note: if you click on mag­a­zines in the col­lec­tion, you can down­load the var­i­ous pages.)

The his­to­ry of the archive, writ­ten by Tim­o­thy Shipe, also address­es an impor­tant ques­tion: “Why Iowa? One answer lies in a clear affin­i­ty between the Dada move­ment and this Uni­ver­si­ty. The inter­na­tion­al­ist, mul­ti­lin­gual, mul­ti­me­dia nature of Dada makes Iowa, with its Inter­na­tion­al Writ­ers’ Pro­gram, its Writ­ers’ Work­shop, its Cen­ter for Glob­al Stud­ies, its Trans­la­tion Work­shop and Cen­ter, its dynam­ic pro­grams in music, dance, art, the­ater, film, lit­er­a­ture, and lan­guages, an espe­cial­ly appro­pri­ate place to house the Dada Archive. A brief glance at the his­to­ry of Dada will make this affin­i­ty clear.”

 

You can learn more about that his­to­ry from the Dada mate­r­i­al we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture: the video series The ABCs of Dada which explains the move­ment (or at least explains it as well as any­one can hope to); the mate­r­i­al we gath­ered in cel­e­bra­tion of its hun­dredth anniver­sary last year; and three essen­tial Dadaist films by Hans Richter, Man Ray, and Mar­cel Duchamp. That will put into clear­er con­text the 36 jour­nals you can peruse in the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa’s Dig­i­tal Dada Archive, some of which put out many issues, some of which stopped after the first, and all of which offer a glimpse of an artis­tic spir­it, scat­tered across sev­er­al dif­fer­ent coun­tries, which flared up briefly but bright­ly with anar­chic ener­gy, destruc­tive cre­ativ­i­ty, a for­ward-look­ing aes­thet­ic sense, and no small amount of humor.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load All 8 Issues of Dada, the Arts Jour­nal That Pub­li­cized the Avant-Garde Move­ment a Cen­tu­ry Ago (1917–21)

Down­load Alfred Stieglitz’s Pro­to-Dada Art Jour­nal, 291, The First Art Mag­a­zine That Was Itself a Work of Art (1916)

Dada Was Born 100 Years Ago: Cel­e­brate the Avant-Garde Move­ment Launched by Hugo Ball on July 14, 1916

Three Essen­tial Dadaist Films: Ground­break­ing Works by Hans Richter, Man Ray & Mar­cel Duchamp

The ABCs of Dada Explains the Anar­chic, Irra­tional “Anti-Art” Move­ment of Dadaism

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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

“Kabu­ki,” as a cul­tur­al ref­er­ence, has trav­eled aston­ish­ing­ly far beyond the ear­ly sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry Japan in which the form of kabu­ki the­atre orig­i­nat­ed. Even 21st-cen­tu­ry West­ern­ers are quick to use the word when describ­ing any­thing elab­o­rate­ly per­for­ma­tive or melo­dra­mat­ic: in the neg­a­tive sense, it crit­i­cizes an exces­sive arti­fi­cial­i­ty; in the pos­i­tive one, it prais­es com­plex, nuance-laden mas­tery. Many schol­ars of kabu­ki will dis­agree about when, exact­ly, kabu­ki had its hey­day, but none would doubt the immor­tal­i­ty, for a kabu­ki actor of the late eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, grant­ed by a Sharaku por­trait.

Also known to us as Tōshū­sai Sharaku (prob­a­bly not his real name), Sharaku worked in the form of yakusha‑e wood­block prints, a kind of ukiyo-e focus­ing on actors, but only for a scant ten months in 1794 and 1795, and not always to a warm pub­lic recep­tion.

“Renowned for cre­at­ing visu­al­ly bold prints that gave rare reveal­ing glimpses into the world of kabu­ki,” says the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art, “he was not only able to cap­ture the essen­tial qual­i­ties of kabu­ki char­ac­ters, but his prints also reveal, often with unflat­ter­ing real­ism, the per­son­al­i­ties of the actors who were famous for per­form­ing them.” Break­ing some­what from ukiyo‑e por­traitist tra­di­tion, “Sharaku did not ide­al­ize his sub­jects or attempt to por­tray them real­is­ti­cal­ly. Rather, he exag­ger­at­ed facial fea­tures and strove for psy­cho­log­i­cal real­ism.”

Nobody knows much about this mys­te­ri­ous artist’s back­ground or his life after yakusha‑e. Dur­ing it, he designed over 140 prints, and poten­tial­ly many more, giv­en the num­ber that remain unver­i­fi­able as his work. Though he did occa­sion­al por­traits of sumo wrestlers and war­riors, the major­i­ty of his por­traits depict actors, and sel­dom in an ide­al­ized fash­ion.

That sense of height­ened real­i­ty also brought with it a cer­tain vital­i­ty to that point unseen in yakusha‑e; art his­to­ri­an Muneshige Naraza­ki wrote that Sharaku could, with­in a sin­gle print of a kabu­ki actor or scene, depict “two or three lev­els of char­ac­ter revealed in the sin­gle moment of action form­ing the cli­max to a scene or per­for­mance.”

At the top of the post, we have three prints from the fourth and final peri­od of Sharaku’s short career: Ichikawa Ebizō as Kudō Sae­mon Suket­suneIchikawa Dan­jūrō VI as Soga no Gorō Tokimune, and Sawa­mu­ra Sōjūrō III as Sat­suma Gen­gob­ei. Below that, from top to bot­tom, appear Ōtani Oni­ji III in the Role of the Ser­vant EdobeiSegawa Kiku­jurō III as Oshizu, Wife of Tan­abe (one of the many female roles played with­out excep­tion by male actors after the kabu­ki the­atre attained its cur­rent form), Naka­mu­ra Nakazō II as the farmer Tsuchizō, actu­al­ly Prince Kore­ta­ka, and Arashi Ryūzō I as Ishibe Kin­kichi, which set an auc­tion record for an ukiyo‑e print by sell­ing for  €389,000 at Piasa in 2009.

If you want to learn a lit­tle more about kabu­ki the­atre itself, have a look at TED-Ed’s four-minute primer on its his­to­ry. Though many of us may now regard kabu­ki as a high clas­si­cal art form, it began as a “peo­ple’s” ver­sion of the aris­to­crat­ic noh the­atre, and an avant-garde one at that. Its very name appears to derive from the Japan­ese verb kabuku, which means “to lean” or “to be out of the ordi­nary.” Sharaku must have seen how inci­sive­ly this the­atre of the unusu­al, already long estab­lished by this day, could present the ele­ments of real life; did he con­sid­er it his mis­sion, dur­ing his wood­block-design­ing stint, to bring the ele­ments of real life into its por­trai­ture?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load 2,500 Beau­ti­ful Wood­block Prints and Draw­ings by Japan­ese Mas­ters (1600–1915)

Down­load Hun­dreds of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Wood­block Prints by Mas­ters of the Tra­di­tion

What Hap­pens When a Japan­ese Wood­block Artist Depicts Life in Lon­don in 1866, Despite Nev­er Hav­ing Set Foot There

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)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Art of the Marbler: An Enchanting Film on the Centuries-Old Craft of Making Handmade Marbled Paper

The cur­rent mode of scan­dal in busi­ness and pol­i­tics involves email and tweets rather than mem­o­ran­da. But we do not yet live a paper­less world, even if you haven’t dust­ed your print­er in months. Book pro­duc­tion and sales con­tin­ue to rise, for exam­ple, defy­ing pre­dic­tions of a few years back that eBooks would over­take print. Even if we have to some­day make paper in lab­o­ra­to­ries rather than forests and mills, it’s hard to imag­ine read­ers ever let­ting go of the plea­sures of its tex­tures and smells, or of sim­ple, yet sat­is­fy­ing acts like plac­ing a favorite paper book­mark in the creas­es.

We do, how­ev­er, seem to live in a large­ly sta­tion­ary-less world, and we have for some time. As the fine art of mak­ing arti­sanal papers recedes into his­to­ry, so too does the print­ing of books with mar­bled cov­ers and pages.

Yet, if you have on your shelf hard­back books any­where from 30 to 130 years old, you no doubt have a few with mar­bled pat­terns on them or in them. And if you’ve ever won­dered about this strange art form, won­der no more. The 1970 British edu­ca­tion­al film, “The Art of the Mar­bler,” above, offers a broad overview of this fas­ci­nat­ing “mate­r­i­al which has cov­ered books for many cen­turies.”

Pro­duced by Bed­ford­shire Record Office of Cock­erell Mar­bling and direct­ed by K.V. Whit­bread, the short film is a mar­vel of quaint­ness. It effort­less­ly achieves the kind of quirk Wes Anderson’s films strive for sim­ply by being itself. We learn that every mar­bled paper, unlike Christ­mas wrap­ping paper, is a “sep­a­rate and unique orig­i­nal.” And that the process is pre­cious and spe­cial­ized, and near­ly all done by hand. Lest we become too enam­ored of the idea that mar­bling is strict­ly a his­tor­i­cal curios­i­ty these days, the mes­mer­iz­ing video above from 2011 by Sey­it Uygur shows us up close how his par­ents per­form the art of Ebru, Turk­ish for paper mar­bling.

Mar­bling, the “print­mak­ing tech­nique that basi­cal­ly looks like cap­tur­ing a galaxy on a page,” as Emma Dajs­ka writes at Rook­ie, became quite pop­u­lar in the Islam­ic world, where intri­cate pat­terns stood in lieu of por­traits. But the process orig­i­nat­ed nei­ther in Eng­land nor Turkey, but in Chi­na and, lat­er, Japan, where it is known as Sum­i­na­gashi, or “float­ing ink.” The Japan­ese tech­nique, as you can see in the video tuto­r­i­al above from Chrys­tal Shaulis, is very dif­fer­ent from British Mar­bling or Turk­ish Ebru, seem­ing to com­bine the meth­ods of Jack­son Pol­lack with those of the Zen gar­den­er. How­ev­er it’s done, the results, as “The Art of the Mar­bler” tells and shows us, are each one a “unique orig­i­nal.”

“The Art of the Mar­bler” 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:

The Mak­ing of Japan­ese Hand­made Paper: A Short Film Doc­u­ments an 800-Year-Old Tra­di­tion

The Art of Col­lo­type: See a Near Extinct Print­ing Tech­nique, as Lov­ing­ly Prac­ticed by a Japan­ese Mas­ter Crafts­man

How Ink is Made: The Process Revealed in a Mouth-Water­ing Video

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

Google Creates a Digital Archive of World Fashion: Features 30,000 Images, Covering 3,000 Years of Fashion History

Both the fash­ion and art worlds fos­ter the cre­ation of rar­i­fied arti­facts inac­ces­si­ble to the major­i­ty of peo­ple, often one-of-a-kind pieces that exist in spe­cial­ly-designed spaces and flour­ish in cos­mopoli­tan cities. Does this mean that fash­ion is an art form like, say, paint­ing or pho­tog­ra­phy? Doesn’t fashion’s ephemer­al nature mark it as a very dif­fer­ent activ­i­ty? We might con­sid­er that we can ask many of the same ques­tions of haute cou­ture as we can of fine art. What are the social con­se­quences of tak­ing folk art forms, for exam­ple, out of their cul­tur­al con­text and plac­ing them in gallery spaces? What is the effect of tap­ping street fash­ion as inspi­ra­tion for the run­way, turn­ing it into objects of con­sump­tion for the wealthy?

Such ques­tions should remind us that fash­ion and the arts are embed­ded in human cul­tur­al and eco­nom­ic his­to­ry in some very sim­i­lar ways. But they are also very dif­fer­ent social prac­tices. Much like trends in food (both fine din­ing and cheap con­sum­ables) fash­ion has long been impli­cat­ed in the spread of mar­kets and indus­tries, labor exploita­tion, envi­ron­men­tal degra­da­tion, and even microbes. As Jason Daley points out at Smith­son­ian, “The craze for silk in ancient Rome helped spawn the Silk Road, a fash­ion for feath­ered hats con­tributed to the first Nation­al Wildlife Refuges. Fash­ion has even been wrapped up in pan­demics and infec­tious dis­eases.

So how to tell the sto­ry of a human activ­i­ty so deeply embed­ded in every facet of world his­to­ry? Expan­sive­ly. Google Arts & Cul­ture has attempt­ed to do so with its “We wear cul­ture” project. Promis­ing to tell “the sto­ries behind what we wear,” the project, as you can see in the teas­er video at the top, “trav­elled to over 40 coun­tries, col­lab­o­rat­ing with more than 180 cul­tur­al insti­tu­tions and their world-renowned his­to­ri­ans and cura­tors to bring their tex­tile and fash­ion col­lec­tions to life.” Cov­er­ing 3,000 years of his­to­ry, “We wear cul­ture” uses video, his­tor­i­cal images, short quotes and blurbs, and fash­ion pho­tog­ra­phy to cre­ate a series of online gallery exhibits of, for exam­ple, “The Icons,” pro­files of design­ers like Oscar de la Renta, Coco Chanel, and Issey Miyake.

Anoth­er exhib­it “Fash­ion as Art” includes a fea­ture on Florence’s Museo Sal­va­tore Fer­rag­amo, a gallery ded­i­cat­ed to the famous design­er and con­tain­ing 10,000 mod­els of shoes he cre­at­ed or owned. Ask­ing the ques­tion “is fash­ion art?”, the exhib­it “analy­ses the forms of dia­logue between these two worlds: rec­i­p­ro­cal inspi­ra­tions, over­laps and col­lab­o­ra­tions, from the expe­ri­ences of the Pre-Raphaelites to those of Futur­ism, and from Sur­re­al­ism to Rad­i­cal Fash­ion.” It’s a won­der they don’t men­tion the Bauhaus school, many of whose res­i­dent artists rad­i­cal­ized fash­ion design, though their geo­met­ric odd­i­ties seem to have had lit­tle effect on Fer­rag­amo.

As you might expect, the empha­sis here is on high fash­ion, pri­mar­i­ly. When it comes to telling the sto­ries of how most peo­ple in the world have expe­ri­enced fash­ion, Google adopts a very Euro­pean, sup­ply side, per­spec­tive, one in which “The impact of fash­ion,” as one exhib­it is called, spans cat­e­gories “from the econ­o­my and job cre­ation, to help­ing empow­er com­mu­ni­ties.” Non-Euro­pean cloth­ing mak­ers gen­er­al­ly appear as anony­mous folk arti­sans and crafts­peo­ple who serve the larg­er goal of pro­vid­ing mate­ri­als and inspi­ra­tion for the big names.

Cul­tur­al his­to­ri­ans may lament the lack of crit­i­cal or schol­ar­ly per­spec­tives on pop­u­lar cul­ture, the dis­tinct lack of oth­er cul­tur­al points of view, and the intense focus on trends and per­son­al­i­ties. But per­haps to do so is to miss the point of a project like this one—or of the fash­ion world as a whole. As with fine art, the sto­ries of fash­ion are often all about trends and per­son­al­i­ties, and about mate­ri­als and mar­ket forces.

To cap­i­tal­ize on that fact, “We wear cul­ture” has a num­ber of inter­ac­tive, 360 degree videos on its YouTube page, as well as short, adver­tis­ing-like videos, like that above on ripped jeans, part of a series called “Trends Decod­ed.” Kate Lauter­bach, the pro­gram man­ag­er at Google Arts & Cul­ture, high­lights the videos below on the Google blog (be aware, the inter­ac­tive fea­ture will not work in Safari).

  • Find out how Chanel’s black dress made it accept­able for women to wear black on any occa­sion (Musée des Arts Déco­rat­ifs, Paris, France — 1925)
  • Step on up—way up—to learn how Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s sparkling red high heels became an expres­sion of empow­er­ment, suc­cess and sex­i­ness for women (Museo Sal­va­tore Fer­rag­amo from Flo­rence, Italy — 1959)
  • See design­er Vivi­enne West­wood’s unique take on the corset, one of the most con­tro­ver­sial gar­ments in his­to­ry (Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um, Lon­don, UK — 1990)
  • Dis­cov­er the Comme des Garçons sweater and skirt with which Rei Kawakubo brought the aes­thet­ics and crafts­man­ship of Japan­ese design onto the glob­al fash­ion stage (Kyoto Cos­tume Insti­tute, Kyoto, Japan — 1983)

Does the project yet deliv­er on its promise, to “tell the sto­ries behind what we wear”? That all depends, I sup­pose, on who “we” are. It is a very valu­able resource for stu­dents of high fash­ion, as well as “a pleas­ant way to lose an after­noon,” writes Marc Bain at Quartz, one that “may give you a new under­stand­ing of what’s hang­ing in your own clos­et.”

We wear cul­ture” fea­tures 30,000 fash­ion pieces and more than 450 exhibits. Start brows­ing here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kandin­sky, Klee & Oth­er Bauhaus Artists Designed Inge­nious Cos­tumes Like You’ve Nev­er Seen Before

1930s Fash­ion Design­ers Pre­dict How Peo­ple Would Dress in the Year 2000

Punk Meets High Fash­ion in Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art Exhi­bi­tion PUNK: Chaos to Cou­ture

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

What Is German Expressionism? A Crash Course on the Cinematic Tradition That Gave Us Metropolis, Nosferatu & More

Ger­man Expres­sion­ism: we’ve all heard of it, and though only some would even try to define it, we all, like old Pot­ter Stew­art, know it when we see it. Or do we? The move­ments under the umbrel­la of Ger­man Expres­sion­ism bore vivid and influ­en­tial fruits in archi­tec­ture, paint­ing, sculp­ture and espe­cial­ly film — The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gariNos­fer­atu, and Metrop­o­lis, to say noth­ing of their count­less descen­dants, will come right to the minds of most movie-lovers — but the cir­cum­stance from which it first arose remain not par­tic­u­lar­ly well-under­stood by the pub­lic, or at least those of the pub­lic who haven’t seen the brief Crash Course video on Ger­man Expres­sion­ism above (and the even short­er No Film School explain­er below).

Though it also stands per­fect­ly well alone, this primer comes as the sev­enth chap­ter of the six­teen-part Crash Course Film His­to­ry, which we first fea­tured back in April. Here host Craig Ben­zine address­es the ques­tion of just what makes The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gariNos­fer­atu, and Metrop­o­lis in par­tic­u­lar so mem­o­rable by exam­in­ing each film and its auteur direc­tor — Robert Wiene, F.W. Mur­nau, and Fritz Lang, respec­tive­ly  — in turn.

The cre­ativ­i­ty of Ger­man Expres­sion­ist film, like so much cre­ativ­i­ty, arose from lim­i­ta­tions: Ger­many had just lost World War I, most of its film indus­try had under­gone state-spon­sored con­sol­i­da­tion, and inde­pen­dent film­mak­ers who did­n’t want to make large-scale cos­tume dra­mas (the genre of choice to dis­tract the pub­lic from the coun­try’s pover­ty and dis­or­der) had to find a new way not just to get their movies made, but to give audi­ences a rea­son to watch them. With 1920’s The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gari (which you can watch below along with Nos­fer­atu), a small stu­dio named Decla led the way.

“Writ­ten by Hans Janowitz and Carl May­er,” says Ben­zine, “this film was the­mat­i­cal­ly based on their expe­ri­ences as sol­diers in World War I and their dis­trust of author­i­tar­i­an lead­er­ship.” It inno­vat­ed by pre­sent­ing its sto­ry “expres­sion­is­ti­cal­ly, rather than real­is­ti­cal­ly. That is, instead of mak­ing things like the sets, cos­tumes, and props as real­is­tic as pos­si­ble,” the film­mak­ers “delib­er­ate­ly dis­tort­ed every­thing with­in the frame,” all “designed to look delib­er­ate­ly arti­fi­cial and throw you off bal­ance.” This “high­ly sub­jec­tive” cin­e­mat­ic sen­si­bil­i­ty, devel­oped in Ger­many and then else­where (espe­cial­ly the coun­tries to which Ger­man artists moved in flight from fas­cism) through­out the 1920s, still appears in mod­ern film, well beyond the work of avowed fan Tim Bur­ton: Ben­zine finds that, “from Silence of the Lambs to Don’t Breathe to any­thing M. Night Shya­malan has ever put on film, the tech­niques of Ger­man Expres­sion­ism are creep­ing us out to this very day.”

You can see 10 clas­sic films from this tra­di­tion in our post: Watch 10 Clas­sic Ger­man Expres­sion­ist Films: From Nos­fer­atu to The Cab­i­net of Dr. Cali­gari

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a 16-Week Crash Course on the His­to­ry of Movies: From the First Mov­ing Pic­tures to the Rise of Mul­ti­plex­es & Net­flix

From Cali­gari to Hitler: A Look at How Cin­e­ma Laid the Foun­da­tion for Tyran­ny in Weimar Ger­many

How Ger­man Expres­sion­ism Influ­enced Tim Bur­ton: A Video Essay

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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