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)

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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 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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Every Exhibition Held at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) Presented in a New Web Site: 1929 to Present

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Images cour­tesy of MoMA

We all hate it when we hear of an excit­ing exhi­bi­tion, only to find out that it closed last week — or 80 years ago. New York’s Muse­um of Mod­ern Art has made great strides toward tak­ing the sting out of such nar­row­ly or wide­ly-missed cul­tur­al oppor­tu­ni­ties with their new dig­i­tal exhi­bi­tion archive. The archive offers, in the words of Chief of Archives Michelle Ellig­ott, “free and unprece­dent­ed access to The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art’s ever-evolv­ing exhi­bi­tion his­to­ry” in the form of “thou­sands of unique and vital mate­ri­als includ­ing instal­la­tion pho­tographs, out-of-print exhi­bi­tion cat­a­logues, and more, begin­ning with MoMA’s very first exhi­bi­tion in 1929,” a show of post-Impres­sion­ist paint­ings by Cézanne, Gau­guin, Seu­rat, and Van Gogh.

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The pho­to­graph of Andy Warhol’s Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe por­traits at the top of the post comes from a much more recent exhi­bi­tion, 2015’s Andy Warhol: Campbell’s Soup Cans and Oth­er Works, 1953–1967. But MoMA, of course, did­n’t just just dis­cov­er the king of pop art last year: search by his name and you’ll find no few­er than 128 shows that have includ­ed his work, start­ing with Recent Draw­ings U.S.A. in 1956.

You can track any num­ber of oth­er cul­tur­al icons through the muse­um’s his­to­ry: Yoko Ono, for instance, a view of whose One Woman Show, 1960–1971, which also opened in 2015, appears above, but whose work you can see in eleven dif­fer­ent exhi­bi­tions archived online.

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A look through even a frac­tion of the 3,500 shows whose mate­ri­als MoMA has so far made avail­able (and pub­lic-domain) reveals a the­mat­ic vari­ety through­out the muse­um’s entire exis­tence: not just indi­vid­ual artists or groups of them, but fast cars (the idea of a “ratio­nal auto­mo­bile” in gen­er­al in the 1960s and the Jaguar E‑Type in par­tic­u­lar in the 90s), trav­el postersJapan­ese archi­tec­ture (fea­tur­ing an entire tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese house built in and shipped from Nagoya for the occa­sion), and the font Hel­veti­ca. You can also have a look at the mate­ri­als archived from the var­i­ous film series and per­for­mance pro­grams they’ve put on over the years.

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This sort of tech­no­log­i­cal inno­va­tion demon­strates that MoMA has, since that moment in the late 1920s when “a small group of enter­pris­ing patrons of the arts joined forces to cre­ate a new muse­um devot­ed exclu­sive­ly to mod­ern art,” remained as excit­ing an insti­tu­tion as ever. But noth­ing can replace the expe­ri­ence of actu­al­ly going there and see­ing its exhi­bi­tions in per­son, which is why, when­ev­er I pay a vis­it to its dig­i­tal archive, I’ll also click over to its cal­en­dar of upcom­ing shows. For 86 years, it has giv­en the pub­lic the chance to expe­ri­ence the thrill of the mod­ern, but as a trip through the dig­i­tal archive reveals, the thrill of the mod­ern goes much deep­er than the shock of the new.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (MoMA) Puts Online 65,000 Works of Mod­ern Art

Kids Record Audio Tours of NY’s Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (with Some Sil­ly Results)

Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (MoMA) Launch­es Free Course on Look­ing at Pho­tographs as Art

The Guggen­heim Puts Online 1600 Great Works of Mod­ern Art from 575 Artists

Free: The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art and the Guggen­heim Offer 474 Free Art Books Online

Down­load Over 300+ Free Art Books From the Get­ty Muse­um

The His­to­ry of Mod­ern Art Visu­al­ized in a Mas­sive 130-Foot Time­line

Art Crit­ic Robert Hugh­es Demys­ti­fies Mod­ern Art in The Shock of the New

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.

John Austen’s Haunting Illustrations of Shakespeare’s Hamlet: A Masterpiece of the Aesthetic Movement (1922)

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We’ve pop­u­lar­ly come to think of the Vic­to­ri­an era as one in which a prud­ish, sen­ti­men­tal con­ser­vatism ruled with impe­r­i­al force over the arts and cul­ture. But that broad pic­ture ignores the strong coun­ter­cur­rent of weird eroti­cism in the work of aes­thetes like Dante Ros­set­ti, Oscar Wilde, and Aubrey Beard­s­ley.

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Beardsley’s ele­gant, bawdy illus­tra­tions of Wilde’s erot­ic play Salome scan­dal­ized British soci­ety, as did the play itself. His pen­chant for occult sub­jects and a wicked­ly sen­su­ous style res­onat­ed well into the 20th cen­tu­ry. Salome was a high­light of the Aes­thet­ic move­ment,” writes the Met, “and an ear­ly man­i­fes­ta­tion of Art Nou­veau in Eng­land.” By the 1920s, Beard­s­ley was per­haps one of the most influ­en­tial of lit­er­ary illus­tra­tors.

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Irish artist Har­ry Clarke took direct­ly from Beard­s­ley in work like his rich­ly-detailed 1926 edi­tion of Goethe’s Faust. And in 1922, British artist John Austen mod­ern­ized Ham­let by draw­ing on Clarke’s ear­li­er work, as well as, quite clear­ly, on Beard­s­ley. As artist John Coulthart remarks, “If you’re going to bor­row a style then you may as well take from the best.” Like Beardsley’s Salome and Clarke’s Faust, Austen’s Ham­let “is often rat­ed as his chef d’oeuvre, and with good rea­son, he man­ages to lend some visu­al splen­dor to a play whose con­cerns are a lot more intro­spec­tive than the usu­al illus­tra­tion stan­dards of The Tem­pest and A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream” (just as T.S. Eliot had crit­i­cal­ly argued two years ear­li­er).

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Pub­lished by Dover’s Calla Edi­tions (and recent­ly back in print), Austen’s illus­trat­ed Ham­let takes the fine, spare lines of Beardsley—well rep­re­sent­ed in his Poe edi­tion—and clothes them, so to speak, with Clarke’s “man­ga faces, spiny fin­gers and swathes of black.” Each of the three artists has a dif­fer­ent take on the macabre: Beardsley’s sub­tle sym­bol­ism giv­ing way to Clarke’s sur­re­al­ism and the heavy iconog­ra­phy in Austen’s Ham­let, per­me­at­ed by the play’s arche­typ­al images of “masks, swords and skulls.” Austen would soon leave behind the influ­ence of both artists, adopt­ing a much block­i­er style for lit­er­ary illus­tra­tions lat­er in the decade. In many ways, he rep­re­sents a bridge between the ele­gant Art Nou­veau aes­thet­ics of Beard­s­ley and the mod­ernism of Art Deco, by way of Clarke’s unique goth­ic style.

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You can view and down­load all of the Austen illus­tra­tions online: The Fol­ger Shake­speare Library hosts all 121 orig­i­nal draw­ings in high res­o­lu­tion scans, each of which is down­load­able in res­o­lu­tions up to 3072px. Coulthart excerpts sev­er­al of these images at his blog {feuil­leton}. And at fulltable.com, you can see the Austen illus­tra­tions in con­text with the play’s text in high res­o­lu­tion scans. There, you’ll also find more mod­ernist illus­tra­tions Austen con­tributed to edi­tions of Tris­tram Shandy, Byron’s Don Juan and E.C. Lefroy’s Echoes from The­ocri­tus, and a 1937 instruc­tion­al book on pen and ink draw­ing. In at least one oth­er instance, how­ev­er, Austen retained the styl­ized, Sym­bol­ist Clarke and Beard­s­ley approach—an erot­ic pen draw­ing of She­herezade that pays full homage to Beardsley’s sen­su­al Salome illus­tra­tions.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Oscar Wilde’s Play Salome Illus­trat­ed by Aubrey Beard­s­ley in a Strik­ing Mod­ern Aes­thet­ic (1894)

Har­ry Clarke’s 1926 Illus­tra­tions of Goethe’s Faust: Art That Inspired the Psy­che­del­ic 60s

Aubrey Beardsley’s Macabre Illus­tra­tions of Edgar Allan Poe’s Short Sto­ries (1894)

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

William Blake’s Masterpiece Illustrations of the Book of Job (1793–1827)

Job's Comforters

Ortho­dox thinkers have not often found the answers to suf­fer­ing in the Book of Job par­tic­u­lar­ly comforting—an ear­ly scribe like­ly going so far as inter­po­lat­ing the speech of one of Job’s more Pollyan­naish friends. The gnarly meta­phys­i­cal issues raised and nev­er quite resolved strike us so pow­er­ful­ly because of the kinds of things that hap­pen to Job—unimaginable things, excru­ci­at­ing­ly painful in every respect, and almost patent­ly impos­si­ble, mark­ing them as leg­end or lit­er­ary embell­ish­ment, at least.

Behemoth Leviathan

But his ordeal is at the same time believ­able, con­sist­ing of the pains we fear and suf­fer most—loss of health, wealth, and life. Job is the kind of sto­ry we can­not turn away from because of its hor­rif­ic car-wreck nature. That it sup­pos­ed­ly ends hap­pi­ly, with Job ful­ly restored, does not erase the suf­fer­ing of the first two acts. It is a huge sto­ry, cos­mic in its scope and stress, and one of the most obvi­ous­ly mytho­log­i­cal books in the Bible, with the appear­ance not only of God and Satan as chat­ty char­ac­ters but with cameos from the mon­sters Behe­moth and Leviathan.

Job's Despair

Such a sto­ry in its entire­ty would be very dif­fi­cult to rep­re­sent visu­al­ly with­out los­ing the per­son­al psy­cho­log­i­cal impact it has on us. Few, per­haps, could real­ize it as skill­ful­ly as William Blake, who illus­trat­ed scenes from Job many times through­out his life. Blake began in the 1790s with some very detailed engrav­ings, such as that at the top of the post from 1793. He then made a series of water­col­ors for his patrons Thomas Butts and John Linell between 1805 and 1827. These—such as the plate of “Behe­moth and Leviathan” fur­ther up—give us the myth­ic scale of Job’s nar­ra­tive and also, as in “Job’s Despair,” above, the human dimen­sion.

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Blake’s final illustrations—a series of 22 engraved prints pub­lished in 1826 (see a fac­sim­i­le here)—“are the cul­mi­na­tion of his long pic­to­r­i­al engage­ment with that bib­li­cal sub­ject,” writes the William Blake Archive. They are also the last set of engrav­ings he com­plet­ed before his death (his Divine Com­e­dy remained unfin­ished). These illus­tra­tions draw close­ly from his pre­vi­ous water­col­ors, but add many graph­ic design ele­ments, and more of Blake’s idio­syn­crat­ic inter­pre­ta­tion, as in the plate above, which shows us a “hor­rif­ic vision of a dev­il-god.” In the full page, below, we see Blake’s mar­gin­al gloss­es of Job’s text, includ­ing the line, right above the engrav­ing, “Satan him­self is trans­formed into an Angel of Light & his Min­is­ters into Min­is­ters of Right­eous­ness.”

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Oth­er pages, like that below of Job and his friends/accusers, take a more con­ser­v­a­tive approach to the text, but still present us with a stren­u­ous visu­al read­ing in which Job’s friends appear far from sym­pa­thet­ic to his ter­ri­ble plight. It’s a very dif­fer­ent image than the one at the top of the post. We know that Blake—who strug­gled in pover­ty and anonymi­ty all his life—identified with Job, and the sto­ry influ­enced his own pecu­liar­ly alle­gor­i­cal verse. Per­haps Blake’s most famous poem, “The Tyger,” alludes to Job, sub­sti­tut­ing the “Tyger” for the Behe­moth and Leviathan.

Job Rebuked

The Job paint­ings and engrav­ings stand out among Blake’s many lit­er­ary illus­tra­tions. They have been almost as influ­en­tial to painters and visu­al artists through the years as the Book of Job itself has been on poets and nov­el­ists. These final Job engrav­ings, writes the Blake Archive, “are gen­er­al­ly con­sid­ered to be Blake’s mas­ter­piece as an intaglio print­mak­er.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William Blake’s Last Work: Illus­tra­tions for Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1827)

William Blake’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost

Allen Gins­berg Sings the Poet­ry of William Blake (1970)

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

Good Morning, Mr. Orwell: Nam June Paik’s Avant-Garde New Year’s Celebration with Laurie Anderson, John Cage, Peter Gabriel & More

In his New York Times “TV Week­end” col­umn of Decem­ber 30, 1983, John O’Con­nor wrote up the sched­uled “tele­vi­sion fes­tiv­i­ties for the eve of 1984,” includ­ing the Guy Lom­bar­do Orches­tra at the Wal­dorf-Asto­ria; a spe­cial from CBS who, “look­ing for an updat­ed image,” got Andy Williams to broad­cast from the Plaza Hotel; Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve on NBC fea­tur­ing Rick James, Cul­ture Club, and Bar­ry Manilow; and on a cer­tain new “Music-TV chan­nel,” live per­for­mances at the Savoy Club by Bil­ly Idol, the Stray Cats, Cyn­di Lau­per, and the Thomp­son Twins, who could­n’t have made too late a night of it — they had to play again on New Year’s day, on a pub­lic tele­vi­sion sta­tion plan­ning to try “some­thing con­sid­er­ably more ambi­tious.”

As 1984 began, a one-time-only broad­cast (avail­able on YouTube) brought togeth­er the avant-garde tal­ents of Lau­rie Ander­son, Peter Gabriel, Yves Mon­tand, John Cage, Mer­ce Cun­ning­ham, Allen Gins­berg, Joseph Beuys, Philip Glass, and Oin­go Boin­go.

What’s more, it all hap­pened at the busi­ly image-manip­u­lat­ing hands of video artist Nam June Paik, as writer, Paris Review edi­tor, and sports­man George Plimp­ton played host. Its con­tent came live via satel­lite from stu­dios in New York, Paris, and San Fran­cis­co. Paik titled this tech­no­log­i­cal­ly and aes­thet­i­cal­ly dar­ing pro­duc­tion Good Morn­ing, Mr. Orwell, as a kind of scoff at the drab, dystopi­an 1984 from the more excit­ing real one. 25 mil­lion peo­ple tuned in.

Quot­ing Paik’s descrip­tion of his broad­cast as “sym­bol­ic of how tele­vi­sion can cross bor­ders and pro­vide a lib­er­at­ing infor­ma­tion-com­mu­ni­ca­tions ser­vice,” O’Con­nor high­lights such com­ing attrac­tions as Ander­son and Gabriel’s open­ing per­for­mance, cel­list and long­time Paik col­lab­o­ra­tor Char­lotte Moor­man “recre­at­ing Mr. Paik’s famous, or noto­ri­ous, ‘TV Cel­lo,’ ” “Robert Rauschen­berg, the artist, con­tribut­ing com­men­tary, “a per­for­mance by Urban Sax, con­sist­ing of 80 ‘futur­is­ti­cal­ly cos­tumed’ musi­cians, and, via video­tape from West Ger­many, Sal­vador Dali and the com­pos­er Karl­heinz Stock­hausen.”

Paik and his col­lab­o­ra­tors real­ly do pack Good Morn­ing, Mr. Orwell’s hour of tele­vi­sion with an incred­i­ble amount of con­tent. That con­tent dif­fered depend­ing on whether you watched the ver­sion broad­cast out of WNET in New York or the one out of the Cen­tre Pom­pi­dou in Paris, some­times accord­ing to plan, some­times as a result of inevitable tech­ni­cal dif­fi­cul­ties. The inter­sec­tion of exper­i­men­tal art with still near­ly exper­i­men­tal tech­nol­o­gy pro­duces all the hitch­es, glitch­es, delays, and impro­vi­sa­tions you’d expect.

The good-natured Paik con­sid­ered it all part of the live-ness of the art, all just events in the “glob­al dis­co” he’d built out of the lat­est elec­tron­ic media tech­nol­o­gy. The son of a for­mer­ly well-to-do fam­i­ly who fled Korea for Japan at the out­break of the Kore­an War, he went to Ger­many to study avant-garde com­po­si­tion after grad­u­at­ing from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Tokyo with a degree in aes­thet­ics. He start­ed work­ing with tele­vi­sions in the ear­ly 1960s, when he could buy old sec­ond­hand mod­els cheap­ly. Using paint, neon, cam­eras, and much else besides, he turned these dis­card­ed sets into all man­ner of whim­si­cal elec­tron­ic sculp­tures.

“He’s made a TV bud­dha, he’s made a TV gar­den, he’s made a TV chair, a TV pyra­mid, a TV bra!” Moor­man explains to Plimp­ton toward the end of this artis­tic extrav­a­gan­za as she read­ies her­self to play Paik’s TV cel­lo. As it hap­pens, I just last week laid eyes on the TV cel­lo myself, still upright, glow­ing, and pre­sum­ably ready to play a decade after Paik’s death (and a quar­ter-cen­tu­ry after Moor­man’s) at Seoul’s Dong­dae­mun Design Plaza. They’ve got a whole show ded­i­cat­ed to Paik’s work up and run­ning through Octo­ber, all of it as enter­tain­ing and pre­scient as ever. ”I nev­er read Orwell’s book — it’s bor­ing,” he once admit­ted, though that did­n’t stop him from pre­dict­ing things about the future the author of 1984 did­n’t.

“Orwell por­trayed tele­vi­sion as a neg­a­tive medi­um, use­ful to dic­ta­tors for one-way com­mu­ni­ca­tion. Of course, he was half-right,” said Paik, who want­ed to “show its poten­tial for inter­ac­tion, its pos­si­bil­i­ties as a medi­um for peace and glob­al under­stand­ing. It can spread out, cross inter­na­tion­al bor­ders, pro­vide lib­er­at­ing infor­ma­tion, maybe even­tu­al­ly punch a hole in the Iron Cur­tain.’ ” (He even envi­sioned a now famil­iar-sound­ing “glob­al uni­ver­si­ty” where “vast quan­ti­ties of up-to-date infor­ma­tion on every con­ceiv­able sub­ject can be stored, with com­put­ers to pro­vide instant retrieval.”) The Iron Cur­tain would fall just five years lat­er, but we’ve only just begun, after more than three decades, to explore the bor­der-cross­ing, infor­ma­tion-lib­er­at­ing poten­tial of elec­tron­ic media.

Find anoth­er ver­sion of Good Morn­ing Mr. Orwell at UBUweb.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Cage Plays Ampli­fied Cac­ti and Plant Mate­ri­als with a Feath­er (1984)

John Cage Per­forms Water Walk on US Game Show I’ve Got a Secret (1960)

George Plimp­ton, Paris Review Founder, Pitch­es 1980s Video Games for the Mat­tel Intel­livi­sion

Chris Bur­den (R.I.P.) Turns Late-Night TV Com­mer­cials Into Con­cep­tu­al Art

When Glenn O’Brien’s TV Par­ty Brought Klaus Nomi, Blondie & Basquiat to Pub­lic Access TV (1978–82)

Rid­ley Scott Talks About Mak­ing Apple’s Land­mark “1984” Com­mer­cial, Aired 30 Years Ago on Super Bowl Sun­day

How to Send an E‑mail: A 1984 British Tele­vi­sion Broad­cast Explains This “Sim­ple” Process

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.

The Poetry of Mining Beautiful White Italian Marble Captured in a Short Film

Did any­one ever tru­ly want to be a coal min­er? The work was dirty, dan­ger­ous, and poor­ly com­pen­sat­ed, the work­ers exploit­ed and their unions blocked by cal­low employ­ers.

Coal pro­duc­tion is in a state of ter­mi­nal decline, but the old phrase “it’s not min­ing coal” endures.

How­ev­er hard your job may be, it’s not coal min­ing.

It’s prob­a­bly not con­tem­po­rary mar­ble min­ing either. This may strike you as a pity, after view­ing excerpts from Il Capo, film­mak­er Yuri Ancar­ani’s dreamy 15-minute doc­u­men­tary, set in the Bet­togli quar­ry in Tus­cany.

As cap­tured above, the shirt­less quar­ry boss’s silent instruc­tions to work­ers pry­ing enor­mous slabs of mar­ble from the bar­ren white land­scape with indus­tri­al exca­va­tors are unbe­liev­ably lyri­cal.

Con­sid­er your­self lucky if your job is even a frac­tion as poet­ic.

Mar­ble min­ing seems as though it might also be a secret to stay­ing fit—and tan—well into mid­dle age.

I do won­der if van­i­ty caused our mid­dle aged hero to doff his noise-can­cel­ing head­phones while the cam­era rolled. These mas­sive slabs do not go down light­ly, thus the neces­si­ty of non-ver­bal com­mu­ni­ca­tion.

The film­mak­er states that he was with the del­i­ca­cy of his subject’s “light, pre­cise and deter­mined” move­ments. The quar­ry crew might not find their boss’ phys­i­cal­i­ty rem­i­nis­cent of a con­duc­tor guid­ing an orches­tra through a par­tic­u­lar­ly sen­si­tive move­ment, but those who caught the film at one of the many gal­leries, fes­ti­vals, and muse­ums where it has screened report­ed­ly do.

Clear­ly, Ancar­ani has an attrac­tion to work tran­spir­ing in unusu­al land­scapes. Il Capo is a part of his Mal­a­dy of Iron tril­o­gy, which also doc­u­ments time spent with divers oper­at­ing from a sub­ma­rine deep below the ocean’s sur­face and a sur­gi­cal robot whose move­ments inside the human body are con­trolled via joy­stick.

via Now­ness

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids Were Built: A New The­o­ry in 3D Ani­ma­tion

The Mak­ing of a Stein­way Grand Piano, From Start to Fin­ish

Elec­tric Gui­tars Made from the Detri­tus of Detroit

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her lat­est script, Fawn­book, is avail­able in a dig­i­tal edi­tion from Indie The­ater Now.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

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