How Ancient Greek Statues Really Looked: Research Reveals Their Bold, Bright Colors and Patterns

“Did they have col­or in the past?” This ques­tion, one often hears, ranks among the darn­d­est things said by kids, or at least kids who have learned a lit­tle about his­to­ry, but not the his­to­ry of pho­tog­ra­phy. But even the kids who get seri­ous­ly swept up in sto­ries and images of the past might hold on to the mis­con­cep­tion, giv­en how thor­ough­ly time has mono­chro­m­a­tized the arti­facts of pre­vi­ous civ­i­liza­tions. As much as such pre­co­cious young­sters have always learned from trips to the muse­um to see, for instance, ancient Greek stat­ues, they haven’t come away with an accu­rate impres­sion of how they real­ly looked in their day.

Recent research has begun to change that. “To us, clas­si­cal antiq­ui­ty means white mar­ble,” writes Smith­son­ian mag­a­zine’s Matthew Gure­witsch. “Not so to the Greeks, who thought of their gods in liv­ing col­or and por­trayed them that way too. The tem­ples that housed them were in col­or, also, like mighty stage sets. Time and weath­er have stripped most of the hues away. And for cen­turies peo­ple who should have known bet­ter pre­tend­ed that col­or scarce­ly mat­tered.” But today, the right mix of inspec­tion with ultra­vi­o­let light and infrared and x‑ray spec­troscopy has made it pos­si­ble to fig­ure out the very col­ors with which these appar­ent­ly col­or­less stat­ues once called out to the eye.

Enter Ger­man archae­ol­o­gist Vinzenz Brinkmann, who, “armed with high-inten­si­ty lamps, ultra­vi­o­let light, cam­eras, plas­ter casts and jars of cost­ly pow­dered min­er­als,” has “spent the past quar­ter cen­tu­ry try­ing to revive the pea­cock glo­ry that was Greece” by “cre­at­ing full-scale plas­ter or mar­ble copies hand-paint­ed in the same min­er­al and organ­ic pig­ments used by the ancients: green from mala­chite, blue from azu­rite, yel­low and ocher from arsenic com­pounds, red from cinnabar, black from burned bone and vine.” You can see the results in the Get­ty Muse­um video at the top of the post.

640px-NAMABG-Aphaia_Trojan_Archer_1

In the years since the dis­cov­ery of ancient Greek stat­ues’ orig­i­nal col­ors, the reac­tions of us mod­erns have, shall we say, var­ied. We’ve grown accus­tomed to, and grown to admire, the aus­ter­i­ty of white mar­ble, which we’ve come to asso­ciate with an idea of the puri­ty of antiq­ui­ty. (The Get­ty itself used a sim­i­lar­ly evoca­tive stone, exten­sive­ly and at stag­ger­ing expense, in the con­struc­tion of their Richard Meier-designed com­plex over­look­ing Los Ange­les.) And so the bold col­ors revealed by Brinkmann and his col­lab­o­ra­tors may, on first or even sec­ond glance, strike us as gaudy, kitschy, tacky. How­ev­er you re-eval­u­ate its aes­thet­ics, though, you have to feel a cer­tain exhil­a­ra­tion at the fact that the ancient world has con­tin­ued to hold sur­pris­es for us.

The image above is an archer from the west­ern ped­i­ment of the Tem­ple of Apha­ia on Aig­i­na, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons.

(via i09)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er the “Brazen Bull,” the Ancient Greek Tor­ture Machine That Dou­bled as a Musi­cal Instru­ment

What Ancient Greek Music Sound­ed Like: Hear a Recon­struc­tion That is ‘100% Accu­rate’

Watch Art on Ancient Greek Vas­es Come to Life with 21st Cen­tu­ry Ani­ma­tion

The Met Dig­i­tal­ly Restores the Col­ors of an Ancient Egypt­ian Tem­ple, Using Pro­jec­tion Map­ping Tech­nol­o­gy

Dis­cov­er Harvard’s Col­lec­tion of 2,500 Pig­ments: Pre­serv­ing the World’s Rare, Won­der­ful Col­ors

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.

3,000 Illustrations of Shakespeare’s Complete Works from Victorian England, Neatly Presented in a New Digital Archive

knightcover3

“We can say of Shake­speare,” wrote T.S. Eliot—in what may sound like the most back­hand­ed of com­pli­ments from one writer to another—“that nev­er has a man turned so lit­tle knowl­edge to such great account.” Eliot, it’s true, was not over­awed by the Shake­speare­an canon; he pro­nounced Ham­let “most cer­tain­ly an artis­tic fail­ure,” though he did love Cori­olanus. What­ev­er we make of his ambiva­lent, con­trar­i­an opin­ions of the most famous author in the Eng­lish lan­guage, we can cred­it Eliot for keen obser­va­tion: Shakespeare’s uni­verse, which can seem so sprawl­ing­ly vast, is actu­al­ly sur­pris­ing­ly spare giv­en the kinds of things it most­ly con­tains.

Ophelia ckham18

This is due in large part to the visu­al lim­i­ta­tions of the stage, but per­haps it also points toward an author who made great works of art from hum­ble mate­ri­als. Look, for exam­ple, at a search cloud of the Bard’s plays.

You’ll find one the front page of the Vic­to­ri­an Illus­trat­ed Shake­speare Archive, the PhD project of Michael Good­man, doc­tor­al can­di­date in Dig­i­tal Human­i­ties at Cardiff Uni­ver­si­ty. The cloud on the left fea­tures a galaxy com­posed main­ly of ele­men­tal and arche­typ­al beings: “Ani­mals,” “Cas­tles and Palaces,” “Crowns,” “Flo­ra and Fau­na,” “Swords,” “Spears,” “Trees,” “Water,” “Woods,” “Death.” One thinks of the Zodi­ac or Tarot.

Roman Forum ckcor4

This par­tic­u­lar search cloud, how­ev­er, does not rep­re­sent the most promi­nent terms in the text, but rather the most promi­nent images in four col­lec­tions of illus­trat­ed Shake­speare plays from the Vic­to­ri­an peri­od. Goodman’s site hosts over 3000 of these illus­tra­tions, tak­en from four major UK edi­tions of Shake­speare’s Com­plete Works pub­lished in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry. The first, pub­lished by edi­tor Charles Knight, appeared in sev­er­al vol­umes between 1838 and 1841, illus­trat­ed with con­ser­v­a­tive engrav­ings by var­i­ous artists. Knight’s edi­tion intro­duced the trend of spelling Shakespeare’s name as “Shakspere,” as you can see in the title page to the “Come­dies, Vol­ume I,” at the top of the post. Fur­ther down, see two rep­re­sen­ta­tive illus­tra­tions from the plays, the first of Ham­let’s Ophe­lia and sec­ond Cori­olanus’ Roman Forum, above.

Tempest kmtemp41

Part of a wave of “ear­ly Vic­to­ri­an pop­ulism” in Shake­speare pub­lish­ing, Knight’s edi­tion is joined by one from Ken­ny Mead­ows, who con­tributed some very dif­fer­ent illus­tra­tions to an 1854 edi­tion. Just above, see a Goya-like illus­tra­tion from The Tem­pest. Lat­er came an edi­tion illus­trat­ed by H.C. Selous in 1864, which returned to the for­mal, faith­ful real­ism of the Knight edi­tion (see a ren­der­ing of Hen­ry V, below), and includes pho­tograu­vure plates of famed actors of the time in cos­tume and an appen­dix of “Spe­cial Wood Engraved Illus­tra­tions by Var­i­ous Artists.”

Henry V hcseloushv4

The final edi­tion whose illus­tra­tions Good­man has dig­i­tized and cat­a­logued on his site fea­tures engrav­ings by artist John Gilbert. Also pub­lished in 1864, the Gilbert may be the most expres­sive of the four, retain­ing real­ist pro­por­tions and mise-en-scène, yet also ren­der­ing the char­ac­ters with a psy­cho­log­i­cal real­ism that is at times unsettling—as in his fierce por­trait of Lear, below. Gilbert’s illus­tra­tion of The Tam­ing of the Shrew’s Kathe­ri­na and Petru­chio, fur­ther down, shows his skill for cre­at­ing believ­able indi­vid­u­als, rather than broad arche­types. The same skill for which the play­wright has so often been giv­en cred­it.

Lear

But Shake­speare worked both with rich, indi­vid­ual char­ac­ter stud­ies and broad­er, arche­typ­al, mate­r­i­al: psy­cho­log­i­cal real­ism and mytho­log­i­cal clas­si­cism. What I think these illus­trat­ed edi­tions show us is that Shake­speare, who­ev­er he (or she) may have been, did indeed have a keen sense of what Eliot called the “objec­tive cor­rel­a­tive,” able to com­mu­ni­cate com­plex emo­tions through “a skill­ful accu­mu­la­tion of imag­ined sen­so­ry impres­sions” that have impressed us as much on the can­vas, stage, and screen as they do on the page. The emo­tion­al expres­sive­ness of Shakespeare’s plays comes to us not only through elo­quent verse speech­es, but through images of both the stark­ly ele­men­tal and the unique­ly per­son­al.

Taming Of jgtos81

Spend some time with the illus­trat­ed edi­tions on Goodman’s site, and you will devel­op an appre­ci­a­tion for how the plays com­mu­ni­cate dif­fer­ent­ly to the dif­fer­ent artists. In addi­tion to the search clouds, the site has a head­er at the top for each of the four edi­tions. Click on the name and you will see front and back mat­ter and title pages. In the pull-down menus, you can access each indi­vid­ual play’s dig­i­tized illus­tra­tions by type—“Histories,” “Come­dies,” and “Tragedies.” All of the con­tent on the site, Good­man writes, “is free through a CC license: users can share on social media, remix, research, cre­ate and just do what­ev­er they want real­ly!”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear What Ham­let, Richard III & King Lear Sound­ed Like in Shakespeare’s Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

Read All of Shakespeare’s Plays Free Online, Cour­tesy of the Fol­ger Shake­speare Library

Free Online Shake­speare Cours­es: Primers on the Bard from Oxford, Har­vard, Berke­ley & More

A 68 Hour Playlist of Shakespeare’s Plays Being Per­formed by Great Actors: Giel­gud, McK­ellen & More

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

Watch M.C. Escher Make His Final Artistic Creation (1971)

I first encoun­tered the world of Mau­rits Cor­nelis Esch­er where many oth­ers do: in school. A poster of his 22-foot-long Meta­mor­pho­sis III hung along the walls of my fourth-grade class­room, where I spent many an idle minute or ten star­ing at its intri­cate geom­e­try through which squares became birds, birds became lizards, lizards became fish, and it all some­how arrived at the cliff-like edge of a three-dimen­sion­al chess­board. It came as the last of a tril­o­gy of wood­cuts Esch­er made between 1937 and 1968, and a jour­ney through its 1940 pre­de­ces­sor Meta­mor­pho­sis II ends the 1971 doc­u­men­tary above, M.C. Esch­er: Adven­tures in Per­cep­tion.

Esch­er him­self seem­ing­ly had no hap­py class­room mem­o­ries. “I hat­ed school,” the nar­ra­tor quotes him as say­ing. “The only class I liked at all was art. That does­n’t mean I was any good at it.” Though his work has no doubt inspired many young­sters to take up draw­ing, wood­cut­ting, and print­mak­ing them­selves, it’s sure­ly dri­ven even more of them into math­e­mat­ics.

Obsessed with per­spec­tive, geom­e­try, and pat­tern (Esch­er described tes­sel­la­tion as “a real mania to which I have become addict­ed”), his images have, by the count of math­e­mati­cian and Esch­er schol­ar Doris Schattschnei­der, led so far to eleven sep­a­rate strands of math­e­mat­i­cal and sci­en­tif­ic research.

The twen­ty-minute Adven­tures in Per­cep­tion, orig­i­nal­ly com­mis­sioned by the Nether­lands’ Min­istry of For­eign Affairs, offers in its first half a med­i­ta­tion on the mes­mer­iz­ing, often impos­si­ble world Esch­er had cre­at­ed with his art to date. Its sec­ond half cap­tures Esch­er in the last years of his life, still at work in his Laren, North Hol­land stu­dio. It even shows him print­ing one of the three tit­u­lar ser­pents, thread­ed through a set of elab­o­rate­ly inter­lock­ing cir­cles, of his very last print Snakes. He nev­er actu­al­ly fin­ished Snakes, whose pat­terns would have con­tin­ued on to the effect of infin­i­ty, and even says here of his offi­cial­ly com­plete works that none suc­ceed, “because it’s the dream I tried for that can’t be real­ized.” But those unre­al­ized dreams have kept the rest of us dream­ing, and think­ing, ever since.

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

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Meta­mor­phose: 1999 Doc­u­men­tary Reveals the Life and Work of Artist M.C. Esch­er

Inspi­ra­tions: A Short Film Cel­e­brat­ing the Math­e­mat­i­cal Art of M.C. Esch­er

M.C. Escher’s Per­pet­u­al Motion Water­fall Brought to Life: Real or Sleight of Hand?

Back to Bed: A New Video Game Inspired by the Sur­re­al Art­work of Esch­er, Dali & Magritte

David Bowie Sings in a Won­der­ful M.C. Esch­er-Inspired Set in Jim Henson’s Labyrinth

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.

Tilda Swinton Gets a Portrait Drawn by Art Critic John Berger

In the win­ter of 2012, just before Christ­mas, a car­ful of Britons made their way through the snow to a house in rur­al France. The roads would soon close, but no mat­ter; they’d planned to make some apple crum­bles, do some draw­ing, and enjoy some con­ver­sa­tion. This may all sound nor­mal enough, but the car did­n’t con­tain your aver­age cot­tage-stay­ing hol­i­day­mak­ers: the crit­ic and film­mak­er Col­in Mac­Cabe rode in it, as did Til­da Swin­ton, the actress as famed for her per­for­mances as for her range of artis­tic and intel­lec­tu­al inter­ests. They’d come to shoot a doc­u­men­tary on the occu­pant of the house at which they’d arrived: artist, crit­ic, writer, and self-described “sto­ry­teller” John Berg­er.

The nov­el G. won Berg­er the Book­er prize in 1972 (half of the prize mon­ey from which he famous­ly donat­ed to Britain’s Black Pan­ther Par­ty), but most of his read­ers encounter him through that same year’s Ways of See­ing, a text on the ide­ol­o­gy of images that ranks among the twen­ty most influ­en­tial aca­d­e­m­ic books of all time.

He and Swin­ton first became friends in the late 1980s, when she played a small part in a film based on one of his short sto­ries, in which he him­self also appeared. “The old intel­lec­tu­al and the young actress imme­di­ate­ly formed a close bond,” writes The Inde­pen­dent’s Geof­frey McNab.

“Both were born in Lon­don, on 5 Novem­ber — Berg­er in 1926, Swin­ton in 1960 — and their shared birth­day has, as Swin­ton puts it, ‘formed a bedrock to our com­plic­i­ty, the prac­ti­cal fan­ta­sy of twin­ship.’ ” This they dis­cuss in the McCabe-direct­ed “Ways of Lis­ten­ing,” the first of a quar­tet of seg­ments that con­sti­tute the new doc­u­men­tary The Sea­sons In Quin­cy: Four Por­traits of John Berg­er, a co-pro­duc­tion of Birk­beck, Uni­ver­si­ty of Lon­don’s Derek Jar­man Lab. “Some­times I think it’s as though, in anoth­er life, we met or did some­thing,” says Berg­er as he draws Swin­ton’s por­trait. “We are aware of it in some depart­ment which isn’t mem­o­ry, although it’s quite close to mem­o­ry. Maybe, in anoth­er life, we… touched togeth­er.”

“Ways of Lis­ten­ing” cap­tures an extend­ed con­ver­sa­tion between Berg­er and Swin­ton, though it also fea­tures their nar­ra­tion. In this scene, Berg­er reads from his recent med­i­ta­tion on the prac­tice of draw­ing for his book Ben­to’s Sketch­book: “We who draw do so not only to make some­thing vis­i­ble to oth­ers, but also to accom­pa­ny some­thing invis­i­ble to its incal­cu­la­ble des­ti­na­tion.” (Swin­ton, for her part, reads from Spin­oza.) But the talk returns to what brought them togeth­er in the first place. “Maybe we made an appoint­ment to see each oth­er again, in this life,” Berg­er pro­pos­es. “The fifth of Novem­ber. But it was­n’t the same year. That did­n’t mat­ter. We weren’t in that kind of time.”

“We got off at the same sta­tion.”

“Exact­ly.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Til­da Swin­ton Recites Poem by Rumi While Reek­ing of Vetiv­er, Heliotrope & Musk

Wittgen­stein: Watch Derek Jarman’s Trib­ute to the Philoso­pher, Fea­tur­ing Til­da Swin­ton (1993)

Watch David Bowie’s New Video for ‘The Stars (Are Out Tonight)’ With Til­da Swin­ton

The Moby Dick Big Read: Til­da Swin­ton & Oth­ers Read a Chap­ter a Day from the Great Amer­i­can Nov­el

The 20 Most Influ­en­tial Aca­d­e­m­ic Books of All Time: No Spoil­ers

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 Spellbinding Art of Human Anatomy: From the Renaissance to Our Modern Times

Many of us have a fraught rela­tion­ship with what med­ical illus­tra­tor Vanes­sa Ruiz, above, refers to as our anatom­i­cal selves.

You may have received the Vis­i­ble Man for your 8th birth­day, only to for­get, some thir­ty years lat­er, what your spleen looks like, where it’s locat­ed and what it does.

We know more about the inner work­ings of our appli­ances than we do our own bod­ies. Why? Large­ly because we saved the man­u­al that came with our dish­wash­er, and refer to it when our glass­ware is cov­ered in spots.

As Ruiz not­ed in her TED-Med talk last Novem­ber, there’s a wealth of eas­i­ly acces­si­ble detailed anatom­i­cal illus­tra­tions, but we tend to keep them out of sight, and thus out of mind. Once a stu­dent is fin­ished with his or her med­ical text­book or app, he or she rarely seeks those pic­tures out again. Those of us out­side the med­ical pro­fes­sion have spent very lit­tle time con­sid­er­ing the way our bod­i­ly sys­tems are put togeth­er.

This lack of engage­ment prompt­ed Ruiz to found the aggre­gate blog Street Anato­my, devot­ed to fer­ret­ing out the inter­sec­tion between anatom­i­cal illus­tra­tion and pub­lic art. Expo­sure is key. In cre­at­ing star­tling, body-based images—and what is more star­tling than a flayed human or piece thereof?—the artist reminds view­ers of what lurks beneath their own skin.

Ruiz is deeply inter­est­ed in the his­to­ry of her craft, a prac­tice which can be dat­ed to Renais­sance man Leonar­do da Vin­ci. She sees beau­ty in bizarre ear­ly exam­ples which insert­ed sev­ered limbs into still lives and posed semi-dis­sect­ed cadav­ers next to pop­u­lar attrac­tions, such as Clara, the tour­ing rhi­no.

These days, the sub­jects of those pur­pose­ful illus­tra­tions are more like­ly to be ren­dered as 3‑D com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed ani­ma­tions.

The more old school approach is vis­i­ble in the work of the artists Ruiz cham­pi­ons, such as Fer­nan­do Vicente, who couch­es 19th-cen­tu­ry male anatom­i­cal plates inside more con­tem­po­rary female pin-ups and fash­ion illus­tra­tions.

Artist Jason Free­ny gives Bar­bie, Legos, and Mario the Vis­i­ble Man treat­ment.

Noah Scalin, who spent 2007 cre­at­ing a skull a day, made a gut-filled gun and titled it “Anato­my of War.”

But let us not pre­sume all view­ers are in total igno­rance of their bod­ies’ work­ings. A woman whose ankle had been smashed in a roller skat­ing acci­dent com­mis­sioned archi­tect Fed­eri­co Car­ba­jal to doc­u­ment its recon­struc­tion with one of his anatom­i­cal­ly accu­rate wire sculp­tures. Car­ba­jal incor­po­rat­ed his bene­fac­tor’s sur­gi­cal screws.

Check out Ruiz’s rec­om­mend­ed read­ing list to delve into the sub­ject more deeply.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load the Sub­lime Anato­my Draw­ings of Leonar­do da Vin­ci: Avail­able Online, or in a Great iPad App

The Anatom­i­cal Draw­ings of Renais­sance Man, Leonar­do da Vin­ci

Micro­scop­ic Bat­tle­field: Watch as a Killer T Cell Attacks a Can­cer Cell

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.

Take a Virtual Reality Tour of the World’s Stolen Art

A muse­um which con­tains only works of art that nobody can find sounds like some­thing Jorge Luis Borges would’ve dreamed up, but it has twice become a real­i­ty in the 21st cen­tu­ry — or twice become a vir­tu­al real­i­ty, any­way. “The Con­cert by Johannes Ver­meer. Pop­py Flow­ers by Vin­cent van Gogh. Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. These are some of the world’s most famous and expen­sive paint­ings ever stolen,” writes Fast Com­pa­ny’s Mark Wil­son. And though their where­abouts remain unknown, you can see them at The Muse­um of Stolen Art, “a vir­tu­al real­i­ty exhi­bi­tion cre­at­ed by Ziv Schnei­der, a grad­u­ate stu­dent at Tisch ITP, that puts stolen works back on dis­play.”

museum of stolen art

At the moment, Schnei­der’s project exists on Google’s vir­tu­al real­i­ty plat­form Card­board, and you can down­load it as a smart­phone app for iOS or Android. Its cur­rent exhibits include “a col­lec­tion of pho­tographs list­ed as stolen in the FBI’s art crime data­base”; the pri­vate col­lec­tion of Fer­di­nand and Imel­da Mar­cos, for­mer pres­i­dent and first lady of the Philip­pines, now “being searched for by the PCGG – a Philip­pine gov­ern­ment office in charge of seiz­ing the Mar­cos’ ill got­ten wealth and bring­ing it back”; and “a large col­lec­tion of paint­ings stolen in some of the world’s most famous art heists, includ­ing the Stew­art and Isabel­la Gard­ner Muse­um in Boston.”

But even before Schnei­der’s insti­tu­tion opened its vir­tu­al-real­i­ty doors, writes The Cre­ators Pro­jec­t’s Becky Chung, “halfway across the world anoth­er insti­tu­tion — also called the Muse­um of Stolen Art — was debut­ing its gallery exhi­bi­tion of works cur­rent­ly report­ed stolen or miss­ing.” This Muse­um of Stolen Art, in the Nether­lands, presents the Pop­py Flow­ers and Water­loo Bridges of the art world in not vir­tu­al but aug­ment­ed real­i­ty: its vis­i­tors raise their phones or tablets up to its mean­ing­ful­ly emp­ty walls, and on their screens see the pur­loined works restored to their right­ful frames. William Gib­son, in some sense the Bor­ge­sian vision­ary of our tech-sat­u­rat­ed time, has described aug­ment­ed real­i­ty as the nat­ur­al evo­lu­tion of vir­tu­al real­i­ty. It’s made vir­tu­al art recov­ery pos­si­ble; can vir­tu­al art theft be far behind?

museum of stolen art 3

Reminder: You can down­load The Muse­um of Stolen Art smart­phone app on iOS and AndroidThe app is ide­al­ly designed for those with a Google card­board view­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Vis­it The Muse­um of Online Muse­ums (MoOM): A Mega Col­lec­tion of 220 Online Exhi­bi­tions

The British Muse­um Is Now Open To Every­one: Take a Vir­tu­al Tour and See 4,634 Arti­facts, Includ­ing the Roset­ta Stone

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of the 1913 Exhi­bi­tion That Intro­duced Avant-Garde Art to Amer­i­ca

Take a 3D Vir­tu­al Tour of the Sis­tine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca and Oth­er Art-Adorned Vat­i­can Spaces

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Bewil­der­ing Mas­ter­piece The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights

What Are the Most Stolen Books? Book­store Lists Fea­ture Works by Muraka­mi, Bukows­ki, Bur­roughs, Von­negut, Ker­ouac & Palah­niuk

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.

Harvard Puts Online a Huge Collection of Bauhaus Art Objects

Klee

You may have first encoun­tered the word Bauhaus as the name of a campy, arty post-punk band that influ­enced goth music and fash­ion. But you’ll also know that the band took its name from an even more influ­en­tial art move­ment begun in Ger­many in 1919 by Wal­ter Gropius. The appro­pri­a­tion makes sense; like the band, Bauhaus artists often leaned toward camp—see, for exam­ple, their cos­tume par­ties—and despite their seri­ous com­mit­ment, had a sense of humor about their endeav­or to rad­i­cal­ly alter Euro­pean art and design. But the Bauhaus move­ment has been unfair­ly pegged at times as over­ly seri­ous: cold tech­nol­o­gists and pro­po­nents of face­less glass and steel build­ings and aus­tere mod­ernist fur­ni­ture. That impres­sion only tells a part of the tale.

Kandinsky

When we speak of Bauhaus design, we often for­get that the Bauhaus was also—and first principally—an art school. Until bro­ken up by the Nazis in 1933, it oper­at­ed under a rig­or­ous course of train­ing with a fac­ul­ty who brought with them a vari­ety of organ­ic the­o­ries and practices—not all of them enam­ored of tech­nol­o­gy or 90-degree angles. Paul Klee, for exam­ple, mocked our fas­ci­na­tion with machines in works like Appa­ra­tus for the Mag­net­ic Treat­ment of Plants (top) and Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky enact­ed his mys­ti­cal the­o­ries of sym­bol­ism in increas­ing­ly abstract, vibrant can­vas­es like Small Worlds, above.

Both of these paint­ings reside in Harvard’s spe­cial col­lec­tion, “one of the first and largest col­lec­tions relat­ing to the Bauhaus,” and at the Har­vard Muse­ums web­site, you can find more works–in fact, more than 32,000 objects–by these artists and oth­ers like Oskar Schlem­mer, who designed many of those out­landish cos­tumes. (See some of those designs in his cos­tumes for the Tri­adic Bal­let, below.)

Schlemmer

The Har­vard Bauhaus col­lec­tion demon­strates how the Bauhaus school “served as hot­house for a vari­ety of ‘isms,’ from expres­sion­ism, Dadaism, con­struc­tivism, and func­tion­al­ism.” The ten­den­cy to asso­ciate Bauhaus with pri­ma­ry col­ors and min­i­mal­ist glass, steel, and con­crete has much to do with some of its best-known faculty/alumni, like founder Gropius, and architects/designers Mies Van der Rohe, Le Cor­busier, Eero Saari­nen, and his stu­dent Charles Eames.

These names are rep­re­sent­ed in the Har­vard col­lec­tion, but so are “dif­fer­ent facets of the Bauhaus and its lega­cy.” Paint­ings, pho­tographs, ceram­ics, tex­tiles, met­al­work…. One sec­tion of the site, Ped­a­gogy, shows us stu­dent work of artists like Her­bert Bay­er, below. Known for his “hard-edged ‘machine aes­thet­ic,” Bayer’s tra­di­tion­al char­coal study of wool and wood shav­ings “appears anti­thet­i­cal to the school’s rev­o­lu­tion­ary pro­gram.” Yet it is an exam­ple of Bauhaus’ empha­sis on fun­da­men­tals of tech­nique, “ped­a­gog­i­cal meth­ods that per­sist in var­i­ous form in art schools today.”

Bayer

Harvard’s web site rep­re­sents its phys­i­cal col­lec­tion, but it does not dupli­cate it. Many of the small images in its online archive do not expand to larg­er ver­sions and can­not be down­loaded. How­ev­er, if you fol­low the guid­ed tour by click­ing “Con­tin­ue Read­ing” under the site’s intro­duc­tion, you’ll be able to click on the sev­er­al dozen exam­ples in each sec­tion and see them up close. You’ll also get a thor­ough sur­vey of the Bauhaus school’s brief his­to­ry and mis­sion. The best way to access the col­lec­tion is to click here, then scroll down to the box where it says “Search the Bauhaus spe­cial col­lec­tion by key­word, title, artist, or object num­ber, and by using the fil­ters below.”

gropius

The only U.S. exhi­bi­tion of Bauhaus artists dur­ing the school’s life­time took place at Har­vard in 1930, orga­nized by under­grad­u­ates. And Wal­ter Gropius taught for fif­teen years at Harvard’s Grad­u­ate School of Design, dur­ing which time “he built the school up as a bas­tion of archi­tec­tur­al mod­ernism.” Gropius and his stu­dents and col­leagues changed the way we build and design. (See Gropius’ Total The­ater for Erwin Pis­ca­tor, above). The Har­vard Muse­um Bauhaus col­lec­tion also reminds us that they rev­o­lu­tion­ized art edu­ca­tion in Europe and the U.S.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Orig­i­nal Bauhaus Books & Jour­nals for Free: Gropius, Klee, Kandin­sky, Moholy-Nagy & More

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

Time Trav­el Back to 1926 and Watch Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky Cre­ate an Abstract Com­po­si­tion

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

Watch What Happens When 100 Metronomes Perform György Ligeti’s Controversial Poème Symphonique

A loose asso­ci­a­tion of mid-20th cen­tu­ry artists includ­ing at times John Cage, Yoko Ono, and Joseph Bueys, the Fluxus group pro­duced a lot of strange per­for­ma­tive work and anti-art stunts influ­enced by sim­i­lar provo­ca­tions from ear­li­er Dada artists. The movement’s “patron saint,” Martha Schwen­den­er writes at The New York Times, was Mar­cel Duchamp, whose “idea of art (or life) as a game in which the artist recon­fig­ures the rules is cen­tral to Fluxus.” Also cen­tral was Duchamp’s con­cept of the “ready-made”—everyday objects turned into objets d’art by means part rit­u­al and part prank.

We can think of the piece above in both reg­is­ters. Györ­gy Ligeti’s Poème sym­phonique, a com­po­si­tion involv­ing 100 metronomes and ten oper­a­tors, fit right in with Fluxus dur­ing Ligeti’s brief asso­ci­a­tion with them.

Writ­ten in 1962—and yes, it has a writ­ten score—Ligeti’s piece “owes much of its suc­cess to its pre­sen­ta­tion as a ridicu­lous spec­ta­cle,” writes com­pos­er Jason Char­ney, who has made a dig­i­tal recre­ation. Ligeti pro­vides spe­cif­ic instruc­tions for the per­for­mance.

The work is per­formed by 10 play­ers under the lead­er­ship of a con­duc­tor … Each play­er oper­ates 10 metronomes … The metronomes must be brought onto the stage with a com­plete­ly run-down clock­work … the play­ers wind up the metronomes …  at a sign from the con­duc­tor, all the metronomes are set in motion by the play­ers.

These are fol­lowed almost to the let­ter in the video at the top of the page, with the added bonus of hold­ing the per­for­mance in a Goth­ic church. What does it sound like? A cacoph­o­nous rack­et. A water­fall of type­writ­ers. And yet, believe it or not, some­thing inter­est­ing does hap­pen after a while; you become attuned to its inter­nal log­ic. Pat­terns emerge and dis­ap­pear in the rever­ber­a­tion from the church walls: A wave of robot applause, then sooth­ing white noise, then a move­ment or two of a fac­to­ry sym­pho­ny.…

“The score,” notes Matt Jol­ly, who shot the video, “calls for a long silence and then up to an hour of tick­ing. We decid­ed to short­en this con­sid­er­ably. The metronomes are sup­posed be ful­ly wound but we had to lim­it that to 13 turns on aver­age.” The inge­nu­ity of Ligeti’s piece far sur­pass­es that of any mere prank, as does the logis­ti­cal and mate­r­i­al demand. The com­pos­er ful­ly acknowl­edged this, pro­vid­ing specifics as to how per­form­ers might go about secur­ing their “instru­ments,” hard to come by in such large quan­ti­ty even in 1962. (Mechan­i­cal metronomes are now all but obso­lete.) Char­ney quotes from Ligeti’s help­ful sug­ges­tions, which include enlist­ing the ser­vices of an “exec­u­tive coun­cil of a city, one or more of the music schools, one or more busi­ness­es, one or more pri­vate per­sons….”

I doubt he meant any of this seri­ous­ly. Dutch Tele­vi­sion can­celed a planned 1963 broad­cast of Poème sym­phonique from an ear­ly per­for­mance in the Nether­lands. The event includ­ed speech­es by local politi­cians and an audi­ence who had no idea what to expect. As you might imag­ine, they did not react favor­ably. Like the ear­li­er anti-art Ligeti’s idea draws from, he explic­it­ly framed the com­po­si­tion as “a spe­cial sort of cri­tique,” whose score is “admit­ted­ly rather iron­ic” and in which he rants vague­ly against “all ide­olo­gies” and “rad­i­cal­ism and petit-bour­geois atti­tudes” alike. How seri­ous­ly he means this is also anyone’s guess. And yet, prank or art, peo­ple con­tin­ue to per­form the piece, as in the even short­er ren­di­tion above, which goes even fur­ther in remov­ing the human ele­ment by design­ing a machine to start all the metronomes simul­ta­ne­ous­ly.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the Rad­i­cal Musi­cal Com­po­si­tions of Mar­cel Duchamp (1912–1915)

Hear the Exper­i­men­tal Music of the Dada Move­ment: Avant-Garde Sounds from a Cen­tu­ry Ago

The Music of Avant-Garde Com­pos­er John Cage Now Avail­able in a Free Online Archive

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

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast