Henri Matisse Illustrates James Joyce’s Ulysses (1935)

Last year, fans of mod­ernist Irish lit­er­a­ture and impres­sion­ist art saw a must-own vol­ume go under the ham­mer at Bon­hams. “In 1935 the French artist, Hen­ri Matisse, was com­mis­sioned to illus­trate an edi­tion of Ulysses for sub­scribers to the Lim­it­ed Edi­tion Club in Amer­i­ca,” announced Artlyst. “Each of the 1,000 copies was signed by Matisse and 250 were also signed by James Joyce. A copy of the book signed by both men is esti­mat­ed at £6,000 to £8,000.”

In the event it went for £6,250, not a bad deal con­sid­er­ing the hands that wrote those sig­na­tures and the rar­i­ty, signed or unsigned, of this unusu­al book itself. (It cer­tain­ly beats, say, $37,000.) Brain­pick­ings’ Maria Popo­va writes that, after first spot­ting the Matisse-illus­trat­ed Ulysses here on Open Cul­ture, “I gath­ered up my year’s worth of lunch mon­ey and was able to grab one of the last copies avail­able online — a glo­ri­ous leather-bound tome with 22-karat gold accents, gilt edges, moire fab­ric end­pa­pers, and a satin page mark­er.” Ver­sions signed by Matisse are appar­ent­ly available–at a steep price–on Ama­zon.

Popo­va adds that “the Matisse draw­ings inside it, of course, are the most price­less of its offer­ings — dou­bly so because, for all their beau­ty, they’re a tragi­com­e­dy of qua­si-col­lab­o­ra­tion.” From whence the tragi­com­e­dy? Pub­lish­ing lore has it that, despite the pro­vi­sion of a full French trans­la­tion of the Ulysses text, Matisse made his illus­tra­tive etch­ings — in the fash­ion of many an under­grad­u­ate with a paper due — with­out ever hav­ing got around to read­ing the book him­self.

“I’ve nev­er ‘read’ Joyce’s Ulysses, and it’s quite plau­si­ble that I nev­er will,” Matis­se’s coun­try­man Pierre Bayard would write sev­en­ty years lat­er in his best­selling How to Talk About Books You Haven’t ReadYet “I feel per­fect­ly com­fort­able when Ulysses comes up in con­ver­sa­tion, because I can sit­u­ate it with rel­a­tive pre­ci­sion in rela­tion to oth­er books. I know, for exam­ple, that it is a retelling of the Odyssey, that its nar­ra­tion takes the form of a stream of con­scious­ness, that its action unfolds in Dublin over the course of a sin­gle day, etc.” — all things that Matisse, too, prob­a­bly knew about Ulysses.

He cer­tain­ly knew that it sup­pos­ed­ly retold the sto­ry of the Odyssey, and so, in a now-inge­nious-look­ing strat­e­gy to not just talk about an unread book but to illus­trate it, he went to the source. Or rather, he went to one of the count­less cul­tur­al, lit­er­ary, his­tor­i­cal, and lin­guis­tic sources upon which Joyce drew to com­pose his mas­ter­piece, bas­ing his art direct­ly on Home­r’s epic poem, in its own way a work more talked about than read. Joyce him­self, who once described much of the tex­tu­al con­tent of Ulysses as intend­ed to “keep the pro­fes­sors busy for cen­turies argu­ing over what I meant,” may well have admired Matis­se’s clar­i­ty of vision, no mat­ter how much-non read­ing it took to refine.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Joyce’s Ulysses: Down­load as a Free Audio Book & Free eBook

Vladimir Nabokov Cre­ates a Hand-Drawn Map of James Joyce’s Ulysses

Read Ulysses Seen, A Graph­ic Nov­el Adap­ta­tion of James Joyce’s Clas­sic

New Art Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses Fea­tures All 265,000 Words Writ­ten by Hand on Big Wood­en Poles

Hen­ri Matisse Illus­trates Baudelaire’s Cen­sored Poet­ry Col­lec­tion, Les Fleurs du Mal

Vin­tage Film: Watch Hen­ri Matisse Sketch and Make His Famous Cut-Outs (1946)

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.

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

dali-1

The skilled chef has always held a place of hon­or amongst gour­mands and the fine din­ing elite. But it took tele­vi­sion to bring us the celebri­ty chef: Julia Childs and Jacques Pepin; Dom DeLuise and Paul Prud­homme. Those were the good old days, before real­i­ty TV turned cook­ing into a com­pet­i­tive sport. Still, we’ve got many qual­i­ty cooks on the tube, enter­tain­ing and huge­ly infor­ma­tive: Alton Brown, Antho­ny Bour­dain, Gor­don Ram­say, Jamie Oliv­er…. Many of us who take cook­ing seri­ous­ly have at one time or anoth­er appren­ticed under one of these food gurus.

My per­son­al favorite? Well, I’m a fan of haute cui­sine as fash­ioned by Sal­vador Dalí. Sure, the sur­re­al­ist painter and all-around weirdo has been dead since 1989, and nev­er had any­thing approach­ing a cook­ing show in his life­time (though he did make a few TV ads and an appear­ance on What’s My Line?). Nor is Dalí known for his cook­ing. As you might guess, there’s good rea­son for that.

Dish­es like “Veal Cut­lets Stuffed with Snails,” “Thou­sand Year Old Eggs,” and “Tof­fee with Pine Cones” were nev­er going to catch on wide­ly. But when it comes to food as art—as an espe­cial­ly strange and imag­i­na­tive form of art—it’s hard to beat Dalí’s rare, leg­endary 1973 cook­book Les Din­ers de Gala, just reis­sued by Taschen.

dali-2

The book, writes This is Colos­sal, rep­re­sent­ed “a dream ful­filled” for Dalí, “who claimed at the age of 6 that he want­ed to be a chef.” As is some­times the case when a life’s goal goes unmet—it is per­haps for the best that the Span­ish painter nev­er seri­ous­ly attempt­ed to inter­est the gen­er­al pub­lic in his some­times ined­i­ble con­coc­tions. He did, how­ev­er, enter­tain his coterie of admir­ers, friends, and celebri­ty acquain­tances with “opu­lent din­ner par­ties thrown with his wife Gala.” As the cook­book sug­gests, these events “were almost more the­atri­cal than gus­ta­to­ry.” In addi­tion to the bizarre dish­es he and Gala pre­pared, the guests “were required to wear com­plete­ly out­landish cos­tumes and an accom­pa­ni­ment of wild ani­mals often roamed free around the table”…..

dali-3

If only Dalí had lived into the age of the Kar­dashi­ans. Like­ly he would have leapt at the chance to turn these art par­ties into great TV. Or maybe not. In any case, we can now recon­struct them our­selves with what design site It’s Nice That calls “a deli­cious com­bi­na­tion of elab­o­rate­ly detailed oil paint­ings and kitsch 1970s food pho­tog­ra­phy.” Along the way, Dalí drops apho­risms like “the jaw is our best tool to grasp philo­soph­i­cal knowl­edge” (recall­ing Nietzsche’s pre­oc­cu­pa­tion with diges­tion). And despite the absur­di­ty of many of these dishes—and paint­ings like that above which make the tur­duck­en look like casu­al fare—many of the actu­al recipes, This is Colos­sal notes, “orig­i­nat­ed in some of the top restau­rants in Paris at the time includ­ing Lasserre, La Tour d’Argent, Maxim’s, and Le Train Bleu.”

dali-5

How­ev­er, even as far back as 1973, home cooks had begun to fret about the health­i­ness of their food. Dalí gives such peo­ple fair warn­ing; Les Din­ers de Gala, he writes, “is unique­ly devot­ed to the plea­sures of Taste. Don’t look for dietet­ic for­mu­las here.”

We intend to ignore those charts and tables in which chem­istry takes the place of gas­tron­o­my. If you are a dis­ci­ple of one of those calo­rie-coun­ters who turn the joys of eat­ing into a form of pun­ish­ment, close this book at once; it is too live­ly, too aggres­sive, and far too imper­ti­nent for you.

As if you thought Dalí would bow to some­thing as quo­tid­i­an as nutri­tion. See many more sur­re­al­ly sen­su­al food illus­tra­tions and quotes from the book at Brain Pick­ings, where you’ll also find the full, extrav­a­gant recipe for “Con­ger of the Ris­ing Sun.” You can order Les Din­ers de Gala online.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí’s Tarot Cards Get Re-Issued: The Occult Meets Sur­re­al­ism in a Clas­sic Tarot Card Deck

Sal­vador Dalí Takes His Anteater for a Stroll in Paris, 1969

Sal­vador Dalí Goes Com­mer­cial: Three Strange Tele­vi­sion Ads

Sal­vador Dalí’s Melt­ing Clocks Paint­ed on a Lat­te

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

Marshall McLuhan, W.H. Auden & Buckminster Fuller Debate the Virtues of Modern Technology & Media (1971)

45 years ago, four emi­nences took the stage at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Toron­to: Irish actor Jack Mac­Gowran, best known for his inter­pre­ta­tions of Samuel Beck­ett; Eng­lish poet and drama­tist W.H. Auden; Amer­i­can archi­tect and the­o­rist of human­i­ty’s way of life Buck­min­ster Fuller; and Cana­di­an lit­er­ary schol­ar turned media tech­nol­o­gy ora­cle Mar­shall McLuhan. Now only did all four men come from dif­fer­ent coun­tries, they came from very dif­fer­ent points on the intel­lec­tu­al and cul­tur­al map. The CBC record­ed them for broad­cast on its long-run­ning series Ideas, pref­ac­ing it with an announce­ment that “the osten­si­ble sub­ject of their dis­cus­sion is the­atre and the visu­al arts.”

Key word: osten­si­ble. “That top­ic is soon for­got­ten as two modes of per­cep­tion clash,” says the announc­er, “that of Pro­fes­sor McLuhan, who is one of the most famous inter­preters of con­tem­po­rary 20th-cen­tu­ry cul­tur­al trends, and that of W.H. Auden, who cheer­ful­ly admits to being ‘a 19th-cen­tu­ry man’ and sees no rea­son to change.” And so, though Fuller and Mac­Gowan do occa­sion­al­ly pro­vide their per­spec­tive, the pan­el turns into a rol­lick­ing debate between McLuhan and Auden, more or less from the point where the for­mer — mak­ing one of his char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly com­pelling procla­ma­tions — declares that mod­ern media brings us to a world in which “there is no audi­ence. There are only actors.” But the lat­ter objects: “I pro­found­ly dis­ap­prove of audi­ence par­tic­i­pa­tion.”

By the ear­ly 1970s, tele­vi­sion had long since found its way into homes all across Amer­i­ca, Cana­da, and Britain, but the thinkers of the time had only just begun to grap­ple with its con­se­quences. “We’ve just seen Apol­lo 14, which has some visu­al effects going with it. It’s a new type of the­ater, obvi­ous­ly,” says McLuhan, draw­ing one of many audi­ence laughs. On the sub­ject of tele­vi­sion’s con­fla­tion of fact and fic­tion, Auden does­n’t mince words: “I think TV is a very, very wicked medi­um. That’s all I can say.” McLuhan empha­sizes that, as a pro­fes­sion­al observ­er of these phe­nom­e­na, “I have stead­fast­ly reserved moral judg­ment on all media mat­ters.” Auden: “I don’t.”

Yet the author of The Age of Anx­i­ety and the author of The Guten­berg Galaxy turn out to have more in com­mon than their con­flict might sug­gest. Both in their 60s by the time of this dis­cus­sion (“Thank God I can remem­ber the world before World War I,” says the poet) and both 1930s con­verts to Catholi­cism, they also both har­bored deep sus­pi­cions of tech­nolo­gies like tele­vi­sion. Auden, who insists he would nev­er dream of owing a TV set him­self, seems to look down on it as mere­ly low­brow, but McLuhan has dark­er sus­pi­cions: “You are miss­ing the name of the game, sir. You are actu­al­ly imag­in­ing that those lit­tle images you see on TV are TV. They are not. What is TV is that fire stream pour­ing out of that tube into your gut.”

Even while pre­dict­ing still-unheard-of advances in tele­vi­su­al tech­nol­o­gy (at one point attempt­ing to engage Mac­Gowran on “the imme­di­ate prospect of four- and five-dimen­sion­al TV”), McLuhan also fore­sees it as the poten­tial spark for such cat­a­clysms as a glob­al race war, going so far as to sug­gest that “if you want to save a fan­tas­tic blood­bath on this plan­et, which will be very trau­mat­ic, very cathar­tic, and very trag­ic — in the Greek sense — we turn off TV total­ly. For good.” Auden, of course, actu­al­ly approves of that par­tic­u­lar idea of McLuhan’s, though he evinces lit­tle opti­mism about its fea­si­bil­i­ty. “Why won’t it hap­pen?” asks McLuhan. “Because peo­ple like the damn things,” he replies.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­shall McLuhan on the Stu­pid­est Debate in the His­to­ry of Debat­ing (1976)

The Vision­ary Thought of Mar­shall McLuhan, Intro­duced and Demys­ti­fied by Tom Wolfe

McLuhan Said “The Medi­um Is The Mes­sage”; Two Pieces Of Media Decode the Famous Phrase

W.H. Auden’s 1941 Lit­er­a­ture Syl­labus Asks Stu­dents to Read 32 Great Works, Cov­er­ing 6000 Pages

W.H. Auden Recites His 1937 Poem, ‘As I Walked Out One Evening’

Every­thing I Know: 42 Hours of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Vision­ary Lec­tures Free Online (1975)

Bertrand Rus­sell & Buck­min­ster Fuller on Why We Should Work Less, and Live & Learn More

Bet­ter Liv­ing Through Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Utopi­an Designs: Revis­it the Dymax­ion Car, House, and Map

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.

Watch Soviet Avant-Garde Composers Create Synthesized Music with Hand-Drawn Animations (1934)

The Russ­ian Rev­o­lu­tion not only rad­i­cal­ly reshaped social and polit­i­cal insti­tu­tions in the soon-to-be Sovi­et Union, but it also rad­i­cal­ized the arts. “The Romanovs, who ruled Rus­sia for 300 years,” com­ments Glenn Altschuler at The Boston Globe, used “cul­ture as an instru­ment of polit­i­cal con­trol.” As the Bol­she­viks swept away lum­ber­ing czarist elit­ism, they brought with them an avant-gardism that also sought to be pop­ulist and proletarian—spearheaded by such exper­i­men­tal artists as film­mak­er Dzi­ga Ver­tov, poet, futur­ist actor, and artist Vladimir Mayakovsky, and “supre­ma­tist” painter Kaz­imir Male­vich. While many of these artists were denounced as bour­geois obscu­ran­tists when the dog­mas of social­ist real­ism became their own instru­ments of polit­i­cal con­trol, for sev­er­al years, the nascent Com­mu­nist state pro­duced some of the most for­ward-think­ing art, music, dance, and film the world had yet seen.

That includes some of the first ful­ly syn­thet­ic music ever made, cre­at­ed by inno­v­a­tive meth­ods that pre­dat­ed syn­the­siz­ers by sev­er­al decades. We’ve like­ly all heard of the Theremin, for exam­ple, invent­ed in 1919 by Sovi­et engi­neer Leon Theremin. By the 1930s, oth­er inven­tive tech­nol­o­gists and com­posers had begun to exper­i­ment with oscil­lo­scopes and mag­net­ic tape, cut­ting or draw­ing wave­forms by hand to cre­ate syn­thet­ic sounds.

One avant-garde Sovi­et com­pos­er, Arse­ny Avraamov became inspired by the advent of sound record­ing tech­nol­o­gy in film. The process of opti­cal sound uses an audio track record­ed on a sep­a­rate neg­a­tive that runs par­al­lel with the film (see it explained above). After the devel­op­ment of this tech­nol­o­gy, writes Paul Gal­lagher at Dan­ger­ous Minds, Bauhaus artist Lás­zló Moholy-Nagy sug­gest­ed that “a whole new world of abstract sound could be cre­at­ed from exper­i­men­ta­tion with the opti­cal film sound track.”

Tak­ing up the chal­lenge after the first Russ­ian sound film—1929’s The Five Year Plan—Avraamov “pro­duced (pos­si­bly) the first short film with a hand-drawn syn­thet­ic sound­track.” One very short exam­ple of his tech­nique, at the top of the post, may not sound like much to us, but it pre­serves a fas­ci­nat­ing tech­nique and a look at what might have been had this tech­nique, and oth­ers like it, borne more fruit. Mono­skop describes Avraamov as “a com­pos­er, music the­o­rist, per­for­mance insti­ga­tor, expert in Cau­cu­sian folk music, [and] out­spo­ken crit­ic of the clas­si­cal twelve-tone sys­tem.” He was also the com­mis­sar of a min­istry set up to encour­age “the devel­op­ment of a dis­tinct­ly pro­le­tar­i­an art and lit­er­a­ture.” It’s not entire­ly clear how what he called “orna­men­tal sound” tech­niques fit that pur­pose. But along with inno­va­tors like Evge­ny Sholpo and Niko­lai Voinov—whose fas­ci­nat­ing exper­i­ments you can hear above and below—Avraamov showed that tech­nolo­gies gen­er­al­ly used to deliv­er enter­tain­ment and pro­pa­gan­da to pas­sive mass audi­ences could be manip­u­lat­ed by hand to cre­ate some­thing entire­ly unique.

The exper­i­ments of these sound pio­neers per­haps held lit­tle appeal for the aver­age Russ­ian, but they were enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly writ­ten up in a 1936 issue of Amer­i­can mag­a­zine Mod­ern Mechanix. “Voinov and Avraamov,” notes Gal­lagher, “briefly formed a research insti­tute in Moscow, where they hoped to cre­ate syn­thet­ic voic­es and under­stand the musi­cal lan­guage of geo­met­ric shapes. It didn’t last and, alas, closed with­in a year.”

via @WFMU/Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Dzi­ga Vertov’s Rev­o­lu­tion­ary Exper­i­ments in Sound: From His Radio Broad­casts to His First Sound Film

Sovi­et Inven­tor Léon Theremin Shows Off the Theremin, the Ear­ly Elec­tron­ic Instru­ment That Could Be Played With­out Being Touched (1954)

Eight Free Films by Dzi­ga Ver­tov, Cre­ator of Sovi­et Avant-Garde Doc­u­men­taries

Watch Russ­ian Futur­ist Vladimir Mayakovsky Star in His Only Sur­viv­ing Film, The Lady and the Hooli­gan (1918)

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

When an Octopus Caused the Great Staten Island Ferry Disaster (November 22, 1963)

Where were you on Novem­ber 22, 1963?

I had yet to be born, but am giv­en to under­stand that the events of that day helped shape a gen­er­a­tion.

Doc­u­men­tar­i­an Melanie Juliano knows this too, though she’s still a few months shy of the legal drink­ing age. The 2014 recip­i­ent of the New Jer­sey Film­mak­ers of Tomor­row Fes­ti­val’s James Gan­dolfi­ni Best of Fest Award uses pri­ma­ry sources and archival footage to bring an imme­di­a­cy to this dark day in Amer­i­can his­to­ry, the day a giant octopus—“a giant fuckin’ octo­pus” in the words of mar­itime expert Joey Fazzino—took down the Cor­nelius G. Kolff and all 400 hun­dred souls aboard.

What did you think I was talk­ing about, the Kennedy assas­si­na­tion?

octopus-boat

Image via the Face­book page of the Stat­en Island Fer­ry Octo­pus Dis­as­ter Memo­r­i­al Muse­um

Those who would ques­tion this tragedy’s authen­tic­i­ty need look no fur­ther than a recent­ly ded­i­cat­ed bronze memo­r­i­al in Low­er Manhattan’s Bat­tery Park. To require more proof than that is unseem­ly, nay, cru­el. If an esti­mat­ed 90% of tourists stum­bling across the site are will­ing to believe that a giant octo­pus laid waste to a Man­hat­tan-bound Stat­en Island fer­ry sev­er­al hours before John F. Kennedy was shot, who are you to ques­tion?

The memorial’s artist, Joe Reginel­la, of the Stat­en Island-based Super Fun Com­pa­ny, is find­ing it hard to dis­en­gage from a dis­as­ter of this mag­ni­tude. Instead the crafts­man, whose pre­vi­ous work includes a JAWS trib­ute infant crib, lingers near­by, not­ing vis­i­tors’ reac­tions and hand­ing out lit­er­a­ture for the (non-exis­tent) Stat­en Island Fer­ry Dis­as­ter Memo­r­i­al Muse­um.

(New York 1 reports that an actu­al muse­um across the street from the address list­ed on Reginella’s brochures is not amused, though atten­dance is up.)

A Stat­en Island Octo­pus Dis­as­ter web­site is there for the edi­fi­ca­tion of those unable to vis­it in per­son. Spend time con­tem­plat­ing this hor­rif­ic event and you may come away inspired to learn more about the Gen­er­al Slocum dis­as­ter of 1904, a real life New York City fer­ry boat tragedy, that time has vir­tu­al­ly erased from the pub­lic con­scious­ness.

(The memo­r­i­al for that one is locat­ed in an out of the way sec­tion of Tomp­kins Square Park.)

H/T to read­er Scott Her­mes/via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Dancer on the Stat­en Island Fer­ry

“Moon Hoax Not”: Short Film Explains Why It Was Impos­si­ble to Fake the Moon Land­ing

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her play Zam­boni Godot is open­ing in New York City in March 2017. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

David Byrne & Neil deGrasse Tyson Explain the Importance of an Arts Education (and How It Strengthens Science & Civilization)

Unless you’re a pol­i­cy geek or an edu­ca­tor, you may nev­er have heard of the “STEM vs. STEAM” debate. STEM, of course, stands for the for­mu­la of “sci­ence, tech­nol­o­gy, engi­neer­ing, and math­e­mat­ics” as a base­line for edu­ca­tion­al cur­ricu­lum. STEAM argues for the neces­si­ty of the arts, which in pri­ma­ry and sec­ondary edu­ca­tion have waxed and waned depend­ing on pre­vail­ing the­o­ry and, per­haps more impor­tant­ly, polit­i­cal will. Andrew Carnegie may have donat­ed hand­some­ly to high­er edu­ca­tion, but he frowned on the study of “dead lan­guages” and oth­er use­less pur­suits. Indus­tri­al­ist Richard Teller Crane opined in 1911 that no one with “a taste for lit­er­a­ture has the right to be hap­py” because “the only men enti­tled to hap­pi­ness… are those who are use­ful.”

It’s a long way from think­ing of poets as “the unac­knowl­edged leg­is­la­tors of the world,” as Per­cy Shel­ley wrote in his “Defence of Poet­ry” 90 years ear­li­er, but Shelley’s essay shows that even then the arts need­ed defend­ing. By the time we get to STEM think­ing, the arts have dis­ap­peared entire­ly from the con­ver­sa­tion, become an after­thought, as ven­ture cap­i­tal­ists, rather than wealthy indus­tri­al­ists, decide to trim them away from pub­lic pol­i­cy and pri­vate invest­ment. The sit­u­a­tion may be improv­ing, as more edu­ca­tors embrace STEAM, but “there’s ten­sion,” as Neil DeGrasse Tyson says in the excerpt above from his StarTalk inter­view show on Nat Geo. In the kinds of fund­ing crises most school dis­tricts find them­selves in, “school boards are won­der­ing, do we cut the art, do we keep the sci­ence?”

The choice is a false one, argues for­mer Talk­ing Heads front­man and some­times Cas­san­dra-like cul­tur­al the­o­rist David Byrne. “In order to real­ly suc­ceed in what­ev­er… math and the sci­ences and engi­neer­ing and things like that,” Byrne tells Tyson above, “you have to be able to think out­side the box, and do cre­ative prob­lem solv­ing… the cre­ative think­ing is in the arts. A cer­tain amount of arts edu­ca­tion…” will help you “suc­ceed more and bring more to the world… bring­ing dif­fer­ent worlds togeth­er has def­i­nite tan­gi­ble ben­e­fits. To kind of cut one, or sep­a­rate them, is to injure them and crip­ple them.”

The idea goes back to Aris­to­tle, and to the cre­ation of uni­ver­si­ties, when medieval thinkers tout­ed the Lib­er­al Arts—the Triv­i­um (gram­mar, rhetoric, and log­ic) and Quadriv­i­um (arith­metic, geom­e­try, music, and astronomy)—as mod­els for a bal­anced edu­ca­tion. Tyson agrees that the arts and sci­ences should not be sev­ered: “Sup­pose they did that back in Renais­sance Europe? What would Europe be with­out the sup­port and inter­est in art?” He goes even fur­ther, say­ing, “We mea­sure the suc­cess of a civ­i­liza­tion by how well they treat their cre­ative peo­ple.”

It’s a bold state­ment that emerges from a longer con­ver­sa­tion Tyson has with Byrne, which you can hear in the StarTalk Radio pod­cast above. Tyson is joined by co-host Maeve Hig­gins and neu­ro­sci­en­tist and con­cert pianist Dr. Móni­ca López-González—and lat­er by Pro­fes­sor David Cope, who taught a com­put­er to write music, and Bill Nye. Byrne makes his case for the equal val­ue of the arts and sci­ences with per­son­al exam­ples from his ear­ly years in grade school and art col­lege, and by build­ing con­cep­tu­al bridges between the two ways of think­ing. One theme he returns to is the inter­re­la­tion­ship between archi­tec­ture and music as an exam­ple of how art and engi­neer­ing co-evolve (a sub­ject on which he pre­vi­ous­ly deliv­ered a fas­ci­nat­ing TED talk).

You won’t find much debate here among the par­tic­i­pants. Every­one seems to read­i­ly agree with each oth­er, and I can’t say I’m sur­prised. Speak­ing anec­do­tal­ly, all of the sci­en­tists I know affirm the val­ue of the arts, and a high per­cent­age have a cre­ative avo­ca­tion. Like­wise, I’ve rarely met an artist who doesn’t val­ue sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy.  We find exam­ple after exam­ple of scientist-artists—from Albert Ein­stein to astro­physi­cist Stephon Alexan­der, who sees physics in Coltrane. The cen­tral ques­tion may not be whether artists and sci­en­tists can mutu­al­ly appre­ci­ate each other—they gen­er­al­ly already do—but whether school boards, politi­cians, vot­ers, and investors can see things their way.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Byrne: How Archi­tec­ture Helped Music Evolve

An Ani­mat­ed Neil deGrasse Tyson Gives an Elo­quent Defense of Sci­ence in 272 Words, the Same Length as The Get­tys­burg Address

The Secret Link Between Jazz and Physics: How Ein­stein & Coltrane Shared Impro­vi­sa­tion and Intu­ition in Com­mon

The Musi­cal Mind of Albert Ein­stein: Great Physi­cist, Ama­teur Vio­lin­ist and Devo­tee of Mozart

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

The Very First Illustrations of H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds (1897)

war-of-the-worlds-goble

H.G. Wells’ tales of fan­tas­ti­cal inven­tions, nev­er-before-seen beings, time trav­el, and alien inva­sion prac­ti­cal­ly cry out for visu­al and son­ic accom­pa­ni­ment. Of all the oth­er artists’ inter­pre­ta­tions of his 1898 nov­el The War of the Worlds, Orson Welles’ infa­mous Hal­loween 1938 radio broad­cast remains best known, but var­i­ous illus­tra­tors have also brought the sto­ry of mer­ci­less­ly destruc­tive Mar­tians’ arrival on Earth to equal­ly vivid life. Last year, we fea­tured Brazil­ian illus­tra­tor Hen­rique Alvim Cor­rêa’s hor­ri­fy­ing work for the 1906 edi­tion; today, we go back before The War of the Worlds’ first edi­tion to behold the aliens as ren­dered by War­wick Gob­le.

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“I’m doing the dear­est lit­tle ser­i­al for Pear­son­’s new mag­a­zine,” Wells wrote to a friend, “in which I com­plete­ly wreck and sack Wok­ing — killing my neigh­bours in painful and eccen­tric ways — then pro­ceed via Kingston and Rich­mond to Lon­don, which I sack, select­ing South Kens­ing­ton for feats of pecu­liar atroc­i­ty.” That dear­est lit­tle ser­i­al, after its 1897 run in Pear­son­’s Mag­a­zine in the U.K. and Cos­mopoli­tan in the U.S., appeared the next year in book form as The War of the Worlds, a com­mon pub­li­ca­tion pro­ce­dure for pop­u­lar Eng­lish-lan­guage nov­els in the 19th and ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry.

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“The sto­ry is still a bit rough round the edges,” writes sci-fi author John Guy Col­lick, but “what makes the mag­a­zine spe­cial are the fan­tas­tic illus­tra­tions by War­wick Gob­le. These are the first pic­tures of the Mar­tians and their tripods and, I think, the best.” He prais­es their low-tech style and their faith­ful­ness to the text: “in the nov­el Wells is at pains to point out that the Mar­t­ian legs are rigid,” not artic­u­lat­ed as the films and oth­er illus­tra­tions have tend­ed to por­tray them.” The Mar­tians them­selves he con­sid­ers a “bit too cute, though they are the first attempt to visu­alise beings from anoth­er world,” and these depic­tions of ter­ror from anoth­er plan­et (more of which you can see here) cer­tain­ly marked a depar­ture in Gob­le’s chil­dren’s book-ori­ent­ed career. Even an artist of whim­sy has to cause a few night­mares once in a while.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hor­ri­fy­ing 1906 Illus­tra­tions of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds: Dis­cov­er the Art of Hen­rique Alvim Cor­rêa

The War of the Worlds on Pod­cast: How H.G. Wells and Orson Welles Riv­et­ed A Nation

Orson Welles Meets H.G. Wells in 1940: The Leg­ends Dis­cuss War of the Worlds, Cit­i­zen Kane, and WWII

H.G. Wells Inter­views Joseph Stal­in in 1934; Declares “I Am More to The Left Than You, Mr. Stal­in”

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.

How to Draw the Human Face & Head: A Free 3‑Hour Tutorial

Aspir­ing artists, take note. New Mas­ters Acad­e­my has put online a video demon­strat­ing how to draw the human face and head. And it’s no short demo. It runs a full three hours. 

Describ­ing the scope and con­tent of the video, the Acad­e­my writes:

In this in-depth draw­ing series, instruc­tor Steve Hus­ton shows you a step-by-step con­struc­tion of the human head. He cov­ers the basic forms and more detailed inter­me­di­ate con­structs of the head as well as the eyes, nose, mouth and ears.

In this les­son, you will learn how to use basic shapes (box­es, cylin­ders, spheres) to form the basic struc­ture of the head. This les­son is a fun­da­men­tal step in learn­ing how to cre­ate a sol­id foun­da­tion to place the fea­tures of the face on. He will also show you how to con­struct the basic head in dif­fer­ent per­spec­tives…

This video will give you a big taste of what’s inside New Mas­ters Acad­e­my’s library of sub­scrip­tion videos. You can learn more about their ser­vice here.

On their YouTube chan­nel, you’ll also find videos of (nude) fig­ure mod­els you can use in draw­ings and paint­ings. And a series of non-nude mod­els you can use for the same pur­pose.

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:

An Intro­duc­tion to Dig­i­tal Pho­tog­ra­phy: Take a Free Course from Stan­ford Prof/Google Researcher Marc Lev­oy

Mil­ton Glaser Draws Shake­speare & Explains Why Draw­ing is the Key to Under­stand­ing Life

Watch Ground­break­ing Com­ic Artist Mœbius Draw His Char­ac­ters in Real Time

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