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

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We pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured Hen­ri Matis­se’s illus­tra­tions for a 1935 edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses. If the Odyssey-themed etch­ings he did for that book sur­prised you, have a look at his illus­tra­tions for Charles Baude­laire’s poet­ry col­lec­tion Les Fleurs du mal, first pub­lished in 1857. Accord­ing to Henri-Matisse.net, the book (avail­able in French and Eng­lish in our col­lec­tion of 600 Free eBooks) had “been illus­trat­ed over the years by a vari­ety of major artists, includ­ing Emile Bernard, Charles Despi­au, Jacob Epstein, Gus­tave Rodin, Georges Rouault, and Pierre-Yes Tré­mois. Each inter­pret­ed select­ed poems more or less faith­ful­ly. Matisse took a dif­fer­ent approach in the 1947 edi­tion pub­lished by La Bib­lio­thèque Française.” As you can see from the exam­ples pro­vid­ed here, he went an even more uncon­ven­tion­al route this time, accom­pa­ny­ing Baude­laire’s poems with noth­ing but por­trai­ture.

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The edi­tion’s 33 por­traits, includ­ing one of Matisse him­self and one of Baude­laire, cap­ture a vari­ety of sub­jects, most­ly women — also a source of inspi­ra­tion for the poet. How­ev­er, as the site that bears his name makes clear, “Matisse did not indulge in the bio­graph­i­cal fal­lac­i­es of the lit­er­ary crit­ics of his day who attempt­ed to under­stand Baude­laire by asso­ci­at­ing each poem with the woman who may have inspired it. Thus, his gallery of facial por­traits pro­vides an accom­pa­ni­ment rather than an imi­ta­tive ren­di­tion of select­ed poems.” Would that more illus­tra­tors of lit­er­a­ture fol­low his exam­ple and make a break from pure lit­er­al­ism, allow­ing the mean­ing of the rela­tion­ship between text and image to cohere in the read­er-view­er’s mind. You might say that Matisse pio­neered, in oth­er words, the most poet­ic pos­si­ble method of illus­trat­ing poet­ry.

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Since it is Banned Books Week, it’s per­haps worth not­ing that Baude­laire’s Les Fleurs du Mal was quick­ly cen­sored in France. Yale’s Mod­ernism Lab web­site notes that, two months after its pub­li­ca­tion in 1857, a French court “banned six of Baudelaire’s erot­ic poems, two of them on les­bian themes and the oth­er four het­ero­sex­u­al but mild­ly sado-masochis­tic. The ban was not offi­cial­ly lift­ed until 1949, by which time Baude­laire had achieved ‘clas­sic’ sta­tus as among the most impor­tant influ­ences on mod­ern lit­er­a­ture in France and through­out Europe.” A sec­ond expur­gat­ed (or as Baude­laire called it “muti­lat­ed”) edi­tion was pub­lished in 1861. Pre­sum­ably Matisse illus­trat­ed that edi­tion in 1947. If you want to buy one of the 300 copies with Matis­se’s illus­tra­tions, you will have to shell out about $7500.

matisse portrait

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hen­ri Matisse Illus­trates 1935 Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses

Hear Gertrude Stein Read Works Inspired by Matisse, Picas­so, and T.S. Eliot (1934)

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

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Winston Churchill’s Paintings: Great Statesman, Surprisingly Good Artist

Marlborough Tapestries at Blenheim

Win­ston Churchill is one of those colos­sal fig­ures who read­i­ly qual­i­fies for that unfash­ion­able moniker of The Great Man of His­to­ry. This was a guy who warned of Hitler’s threat long before it seemed polite to do so. Through his polit­i­cal acu­men and bril­liant ora­to­ry skills, the two-time prime min­is­ter ral­lied his demor­al­ized coun­try to face down the mas­sive, seem­ing­ly unstop­pable Ger­man army. Beyond that, he won the 1953 Nobel Prize for Lit­er­a­ture, for, among oth­er works, his six vol­ume series on the Sec­ond World War. And, on top of all that, Churchill was also a pas­sion­ate painter. And unlike George W. Bush’s touch­ing­ly awk­ward attempts, Churchill’s paint­ings were actu­al­ly pret­ty good. You can see a few above and below and even more here. (Click on the images to view them in a larg­er for­mat.)

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For Churchill, paint­ing was the best way to men­tal­ly step away from what had to be a titan­i­cal­ly stress­ful job. “Paint­ing is com­plete as a dis­trac­tion,” he wrote in 1948. “I know of noth­ing which, with­out exhaust­ing the body, more entire­ly absorbs the mind. What­ev­er the wor­ries of the hour or the threats of the future, once the pic­ture has begun to flow along, there is no room for them in the men­tal screen.”

Churchill turned to paint­ing at a low point in his life. After an inva­sion of Gal­lipoli, which he in part orches­trat­ed, went spec­tac­u­lar­ly wrong in 1915, he resigned from his gov­ern­ment posi­tion (First Lord of the Admi­ral­ty) in dis­grace. “I had great anx­i­ety and no means of reliev­ing it,” he wrote. Then he dis­cov­ered the joys of putting paint to can­vas. Over the next 48 years, he cranked out some 500 paint­ings, most­ly land­scapes. Oil was his pre­ferred medi­um and, judg­ing from his oeu­vre, Claude Mon­et, Vin­cent Van Gogh and William Turn­er were big influ­ences. “When I get to heav­en I mean to spend a con­sid­er­able por­tion of my first mil­lion years in paint­ing,” he wrote. “And so get to the bot­tom of the sub­ject.”

The Harbour at St. Jean Cap Ferrat

So how good was he? Not­ed Eng­lish artist and roy­al por­traitist Sir Oswald Bir­ley was quite impressed by the Prime Minister’s abil­i­ties. “If Churchill had giv­en the time to art that he has giv­en to pol­i­tics, he would have been by all odds the world’s great­est painter.” Of course, Bir­ley was also reg­u­lar­ly employed by Churchill, so you might want to take that state­ment with a grain of salt. David Coombs, who co-authored the book Sir Win­ston Churchill: His Life and His Paint­ings, offered a more even-hand­ed assess­ment. “When he’s very good, he’s very, very good, but some­times, he’s hor­rid.”

Top: Marl­bor­ough Tapes­tries at Blenheim

Mid­dle: Pont du Gard

Bot­tom: The Har­bour at St. Jean Cap Fer­rat

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Col­or Footage of Win­ston Churchill’s Funer­al in 1965

Ani­mat­ed: Win­ston Churchill’s Top 10 Say­ings About Fail­ure, Courage, Set­backs, Haters & Suc­cess

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrowAnd check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

The Guggenheim Puts 109 Free Modern Art Books Online

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Back in Jan­u­ary, 2012, we men­tioned that the Guggen­heim (the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed mod­ern art muse­um in NYC) had put 65 art cat­a­logues on the web, all free of charge.

We’re hap­py to report that, between then and now, the num­ber of free texts has grown to 109. Pub­lished between 1937 and 1999, the art books/catalogues offer an intel­lec­tu­al and visu­al intro­duc­tion to the work of Alexan­der Calder, Edvard Munch, Fran­cis BaconGus­tav Klimt & Egon Schiele, Fer­nand Léger, and Kandin­sky. Plus there are oth­er texts (e.g., Mas­ter­pieces of Mod­ern Art and Abstract Expres­sion­ists Imag­ists) that tack­le meta move­ments and themes.

Any­one inter­est­ed in the his­to­ry of the Guggen­heim will want to spend time with a col­lec­tion called “The Syl­labus.” It con­tains five books by Hilla Rebay, the muse­um’s first direc­tor and cura­tor. Togeth­er, they let you take a close look at the art orig­i­nal­ly housed in the Guggen­heim when the muse­um first opened its doors in 1939.

To read any of these 109 free art books, you will just need to fol­low these sim­ple instruc­tions. 1.) Select a text from the col­lec­tion. 2.) Click the “Read Cat­a­logue Online” but­ton. 3.) Start read­ing the book in the pop-up brows­er, and use the con­trols at the very bot­tom of the pop-up brows­er to move through the book. 4.) If you have any prob­lems access­ing these texts, you can find alter­nate ver­sions on Archive.org.

You can find many more free art books from the Get­ty and the Met below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Over 250 Free Art Books From the Get­ty Muse­um

Down­load 397 Free Art Cat­a­logs from The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art

800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

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Portraits of Vice Presidents with Octopuses on Their Heads — the Ones You’ve Always Wanted To See

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Last year, after part­ing ways with a pun­ish­ing, thank­less cor­po­rate job but before my wife gave birth to my first child, my friend invit­ed me to par­tic­i­pate in the From Dusk til Drawn fundrais­er at the Muse­um of Con­tem­po­rary Art in San­ta Bar­bara. Basi­cal­ly, it involved draw­ing for 24 straight hours. At that point in my life – i.e. before chil­dren – sleep depri­va­tion was a nov­el­ty. It sound­ed insane. I was in.

I knew I need­ed a sys­tem. The last thing I want­ed was to be strug­gling for ideas of some­thing to draw at four in the morn­ing. So after some debate, I decid­ed to draw por­traits of all 47 vice pres­i­dents of the Unit­ed States. With octo­pus­es on their heads. Why?

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It prob­a­bly start­ed with Wal­ter Mon­dale. I was on the couch with my moth­er watch­ing the returns for the 1984 elec­tion. When it became clear that he was not going to become America’s next chief exec­u­tive, my moth­er, who spent her for­ma­tive years in Berke­ley dur­ing the thick of the ‘60s, stood up, pro­claimed “Well, shit!” and stormed upstairs. I was in sev­enth grade. This was the first elec­tion I cared about. Mon­dale had reached for glo­ry and failed spec­tac­u­lar­ly. Start­ing that night, I became fas­ci­nat­ed with those who aspired to his­to­ry but end­ed up a foot­note. So obvi­ous­ly, I became inter­est­ed in vice pres­i­dents.

The Con­sti­tu­tion is sur­pris­ing­ly vague on the veep. Vice Pres­i­dent Charles Dawes — a man who won a Nobel Peace Prize and who wrote a tune that would lat­er become a pop hit, all before becom­ing Calvin Coolidge’s num­ber two guy — summed up the job while talk­ing with sen­a­tor and future VP Alben W. Barkley like this: “I can do only two things here. One of them is to sit up here on this ros­trum [in the Sen­ate] and lis­ten to you birds talk with­out the abil­i­ty to reply. The oth­er is to look at the news­pa­pers every morn­ing to see how the Pres­i­den­t’s health is.”

Though the posi­tion bestows on it all of the author­i­ty and pomp of the U.S. Gov­ern­ment, vice pres­i­dents through­out his­to­ry have strug­gled to find pur­pose in a poor­ly defined role, all the while wait­ing for death. It’s a bit like life itself. A few, through ambi­tion, tal­ent and a lot of luck, ascend­ed to the top job. Most moldered in obscu­ri­ty. No won­der then that John Nance Gar­ner, one of FDR’s three VPs, called the job “not worth a buck­et of warm piss.” I added the octo­pus­es because I thought they were fun­ny. It takes a rare per­son to pull off an air of dig­ni­ty with a cephalo­pod on his head. It seems to fit with the absur­di­ty of the job.

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Dur­ing From Dusk til Drawn, I was a machine. I cranked out 22 por­traits of vice pres­i­dents in 24 hours. That’s one an hour, exclud­ing a 2am jaunt to get a rice bowl and a hand­ful of bath­room breaks. Over the next year, I drew and redrew them all from John Adams to Joe Biden and then, start­ing this past July, I began post­ing one pic­ture a day on my site Veep­to­pus. I’m up to Hubert H. Humphrey now. Dur­ing this time, I learned a lot about for­mer­ly impor­tant peo­ple who are now almost entire­ly unknown.  Peo­ple like William R. King, who died of tuber­cu­lo­sis three weeks after get­ting sworn in as VP, or John Breck­in­ridge, who fled to Cuba to avoid get­ting arrest­ed for trea­son. You can see the fruits of my crazy scheme here. I hope you enjoy.

Above, in descend­ing order, you can find por­traits of 1) Gar­ret Hobart (1897–1899), the 24th Veep under William McKin­ley; 2) Thomas Jef­fer­son, who bucked the VP trend and made some­thing of him­self; and 3) George Clin­ton who served under Jef­fer­son and Madi­son. Don’t con­fuse him with the guy from Par­lia­ment Funkadel­ic.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Watch a Wit­ty, Grit­ty, Hard­boiled Retelling of the Famous Aaron Burr-Alexan­der Hamil­ton Duel

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.  And you can check out his online Veep­to­pus store here.

Iraqi Artist Turns Saddam Hussein’s Propaganda Music into Pop, Jazz & Lounge-Style Love Songs

As ISIS car­ries out its reign of ter­ror in Syr­ia and Iraq, many diplo­mats prob­a­bly would­n’t mind rolling the cal­en­dar back to 2003 — to what now look like sim­pler times. If you’re feel­ing strange­ly nos­tal­gic for the Sad­dam era, you’ll want to check out videos from “Three Love Songs,” an art instal­la­tion staged in Doha (2010) and Lon­don (2013) by the Iraqi visu­al artist Adel Abidin. Here is how he describes the exhi­bi­tion:

 This piece exam­ines ter­ror and love, and how façades are played through song, specif­i­cal­ly Iraqi songs that were com­mis­sioned by Sad­dam Hus­sein, used to glo­ri­fy the regime dur­ing the decades of his rule. The instal­la­tion syncs three styl­ized music videos (lounge, jazz and pop) that each fea­tures an arche­typ­al west­ern chanteuse: young, blonde, and seduc­tive. Each video’s dra­mat­ic “look” cre­ates a dif­fer­ent atmos­phere but the songs ded­i­cat­ed to Sad­dam Hus­sein tie them togeth­er. The lyrics are sung by the per­form­ers in Ara­bic (Iraqi dialect) and are sub­ti­tled in Eng­lish and Ara­bic. The singers do not know what they are singing about, but they are direct­ed to per­form (though voice and ges­ture) as though the songs were tra­di­tion­al, pas­sion­ate love songs. It is this uncom­fort­able jux­ta­po­si­tion — between the lush visu­al roman­ti­cism and the harsh mean­ing of the lyrics, between the seduc­tion of the per­former and com­pre­hen­sion of the view­er — that forms the main con­cep­tu­al ele­ment of this work.

Above and below, you can see out­takes from the video instal­la­tions in “Three Love Songs.” You’ve got your lounge tune up top. Jazz and Pop below.

Jazz:

Pop:

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the CIA Turned Doc­tor Zhiva­go into a Pro­pa­gan­da Weapon Against the Sovi­et Union

Win­sor McCay Ani­mates the Sink­ing of the Lusi­ta­nia in a Beau­ti­ful Pro­pa­gan­da Film (1918)

Titan­ic: The Nazis Cre­ate a Mega-Bud­get Pro­pa­gan­da Film About the Ill-Fat­ed Ship … and Then Banned It (1943)

Don­ald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream and Four Oth­er Dis­ney Pro­pa­gan­da Car­toons from World War II

Dripped: An Animated Tribute to Jackson Pollock’s Signature Painting Technique

To make an excit­ing movie, do you real­ly need much more than an art thief and his capers? With Dripped, ani­ma­tor Léo Ver­ri­er sees that can’t-miss premise and rais­es it in an explo­ration of art his­to­ry. In its 1940s New York City set­ting, paint­ing-swip­ing pro­tag­o­nist Jack lives not just to make world-renowned can­vass­es his own, but a part of him. When he gets these works of art back to his apart­ment, he does­n’t even con­sid­er sell­ing them; instead, he chews and swal­lows them, thus enabling him to assume in body the forms and col­ors famous­ly expressed in paint on their sur­faces. We are what we eat, and Jack eats art, but even becom­ing the art of oth­ers ulti­mate­ly leaves him unsat­is­fied. Deter­mined to paint and eat a can­vas of his own, he finds his stom­ach can’t han­dle his work in progress. Thrown into a bout of frus­tra­tion, an angered Jack toss­es one of his paint­ings to the ground, ran­dom­ly splat­ter­ing it with every col­or at hand. And thus he dis­cov­ers, in this ani­mat­ed fan­ta­sy, the tech­nique that Jack­son Pol­lock would pio­neer in real­i­ty.

To see the real artist — one not known for his eat­ing, though his drink­ing did gain a rep­u­ta­tion of its own — in action have a look at Hans Namuth’s 1951 footage of Pol­lock paint­ing with his sig­na­ture “drip” method above. To learn more about the how and the why of it, see also the 1987 doc­u­men­tary Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock, which we fea­tured in 2012; and below, see the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art’s short exam­i­na­tion and re-cre­ation of Pol­lock­’s “action paint­ing” tech­nique. Chance may have led him to dis­cov­er this prac­tice, but it hard­ly means he gave up con­trol. Film­mak­er Stan Brakhage liked to tell the fol­low­ing illus­tra­tive sto­ry, which came out of hang­ing out with var­i­ous artists and com­posers in Pol­lock­’s stu­dio in the late 40s:

They were, like, com­ment­ing, and they used the words “chance oper­a­tions” — which was no both­er to me because I was hear­ing it reg­u­lar­ly from John Cage — and the pow­er and the won­der of it and so forth. This real­ly angered Pol­lock very deeply and he said, “Don’t give me any of your ‘chance oper­a­tions.’ ” He said, “You see that door­knob?” and there was a door­knob about fifty feet from where he was sit­ting that was, in fact, the door that every­one was going to have to exit. Drunk as he was, he just with one swirl of his brush picked up a glob of paint, hurled it, and hit that door­knob smack-on with very lit­tle paint over the edges. And then he said, “And that’s the way out.”

via Jux­tapoz

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Por­trait of an Artist: Jack­son Pol­lock, the 1987 Doc­u­men­tary Nar­rat­ed by Melvyn Bragg

Jack­son Pol­lock 51: Short Film Cap­tures the Painter Cre­at­ing Abstract Expres­sion­ist Art

MoMA Puts Pol­lock, Rothko & de Koon­ing on Your iPad

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Art of Swimming, 1587: A Manual with Woodcut Illustrations

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As the late great Robert Shaw remarked in Jaws, “here’s to swim­min’ with bow-legged women.”

Or fail­ing that, an extreme­ly bow-legged man, as fea­tured in Sir Ever­ard Dig­by’s 1587 trea­tise-cum-man­u­al, De Arte Natan­di (The Art of Swim­ming). Hub­ba hub­ba, who needs trunks?

There were no pools at the time. The male bathers pop­u­lat­ing Digby’s 40 plus wood­cut illus­tra­tions are riv­er swim­mers, like Ben Franklin, the inven­tor of swim fins and the only Found­ing Father to be induct­ed (posthu­mous­ly) into the Inter­na­tion­al Swim­ming Hall of Fame.

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As Franklin would two cen­turies lat­er, Dig­by sought to bring both water safe­ty and prop­er form to the mass­es. Accord­ing to the BBC’s His­to­ry Mag­a­zine, the Cam­bridge Don’s goal was “to turn swim­ming from a dis­re­gard­ed skill of bargees and boat­men into an accom­plish­ment for gen­tle­men, to make them more like the Romans.”

To get clos­er to his goal, Dig­by breaks it down as deft­ly as an online swim instruc­tor in the era of youtube. When not deliv­er­ing the how to’s on back stroke, side stroke, and dog­gy pad­dle, he’s advis­ing absolute begin­ners on how to enter the water and steer clear of ani­mal-befouled holes, and help­ing more sea­soned stu­dents embell­ish their game with nifty tricks, (danc­ing, toe­nail cut­ting).

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Pro­long the lazy days of sum­mer by brows­ing through more images from De Arte Natan­di at the Pub­lic Domain Review. Or see the text itself here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Won­der­ful­ly Weird & Inge­nious Medieval Books

Wear­able Books: In Medieval Times, They Took Old Man­u­scripts & Turned Them into Clothes

Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy Illus­trat­ed in a Remark­able Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­script (c. 1450)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine, and extreme­ly enthu­si­as­tic swim­mer. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Extensive Archive of Avant-Garde & Modernist Magazines (1890–1939) Now Available Online

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Hav­ing once been involved in the found­ing of an arts mag­a­zine, I have expe­ri­enced inti­mate­ly the ways in which such an endeav­or can depend upon a com­mu­ni­ty of equals pool­ing a diver­si­ty of skills. The process can be painful: egos com­pete, cer­tain ele­ments seek to dom­i­nate, but the suc­cess­ful prod­uct of such a col­lab­o­ra­tive effort will rep­re­sent a liv­ing com­mu­ni­ty of artists, writ­ers, edi­tors, and oth­er mas­ters of tech­nique who sub­or­di­nate their indi­vid­ual wills, tem­porar­i­ly, to the will of a col­lec­tive, cre­at­ing new gestalt iden­ti­ties from con­cep­tu­al atoms. As Mono­skop—“a wiki for col­lab­o­ra­tive stud­ies of art, media and the humanities”—points out, “the whole” of an arts mag­a­zine, “could become greater than the sum of its parts.” Often when this hap­pens, a pub­li­ca­tion can serve as the plat­form or nucle­us of an entire­ly new move­ment.

Mono­skop main­tains a dig­i­tal archive of print­ed avant-garde and mod­ernist mag­a­zines dat­ing from the late-19th cen­tu­ry to the late 1930s, pub­lished in locales from Arad to Bucharest, Copen­hagen to War­saw, in addi­tion to the expect­ed New York and Paris. From the lat­ter city comes the 1924 first issue of Sur­re­al­isme at the top of the post.

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From the much small­er city of Arad in Roma­nia comes the March, 1925 issue 1 of Periszkóp above, pub­lished in Hun­gar­i­an and fea­tur­ing works by Picas­so, Marc Cha­gall, and many less­er-known East­ern Euro­pean artists. Just below, see anoth­er Paris pub­li­ca­tion: the first, 1929 issue of Doc­u­ments, a sur­re­al­ist jour­nal edit­ed by Georges Bataille and fea­tur­ing such lumi­nar­ies as Cuban nov­el­ist Ale­jo Car­pen­tier and artists Georges Braque, Gior­gio De Chiri­co, Sal­vador Dali, Mar­cel Duchamp, Paul Klee, Joan Miro, and Pablo Picas­so. Fur­ther down, see the first, 1926, issue of the Bauhaus jour­nal, vehi­cle of the famous arts move­ment found­ed by Wal­ter Gropius in 1919.

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The vari­ety of mod­ernist and avant garde pub­li­ca­tions archived at Mono­skop “pro­vide us with a his­tor­i­cal record of sev­er­al gen­er­a­tions of artists and writ­ers.” They also “remind us that our lens­es mat­ter.” In an age of “the relent­less lin­ear­i­ty of dig­i­tal bits and the UX of the glow­ing screen” we tend to lose sight of such crit­i­cal­ly impor­tant mat­ters as design, typog­ra­phy, lay­out, writ­ing, and the “tech­niques of print­ing and mechan­i­cal repro­duc­tion.” Any­one can build a web­site, fill it with “con­tent,” and prop­a­gate it glob­al­ly, giv­ing lit­tle or no thought to aes­thet­ic choic­es and edi­to­r­i­al fram­ing. But the mag­a­zines rep­re­sent­ed in Monoskop’s archive are spe­cial­ized cre­ations, the prod­ucts of very delib­er­ate choic­es made by groups of high­ly skilled indi­vid­u­als with very spe­cif­ic aes­thet­ic agen­das.

Bauhaus_1_1926

A major­i­ty of the pub­li­ca­tions rep­re­sent­ed come from the explo­sive peri­od of mod­ernist exper­i­men­ta­tion between the wars, but sev­er­al, like the jour­nal Rhythm: Art Music Lit­er­a­ture—first pub­lished in 1911—offer glimpses of the ear­ly stir­rings of mod­ernist inno­va­tion in the Anglo­phone world. Oth­ers like the 1890–93 Parisian Entre­tiens poli­tiques et lit­téraires show­case the work of pio­neer­ing ear­ly French mod­ernist fore­bears like Jules Laforgue (a great influ­ence upon T.S. Eliot) and also André Gide and Stéphane Mal­lar­mé. Some of the pub­li­ca­tions here are already famous, like The Lit­tle Review, many much less­er-known. Most pub­lished only a hand­ful of issues.

MAVO_1_Jul_1924

With a few exceptions—such as the 1923 Japan­ese pub­li­ca­tion MAVO shown above—almost all of the jour­nals rep­re­sent­ed at Monoskop’s archive hail from East­ern and West­ern Europe and the U.S.. While “only a few jour­nals had any sig­nif­i­cant impact out­side the avant-garde cir­cles in their time,” the rip­ples of that impact have spread out­ward to encom­pass the art and design worlds that sur­round us today. These exam­ples of the lit­er­ary and design cul­ture of ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry mod­ernist mag­a­zines, like those of late 20th cen­tu­ry post­mod­ern ‘zines, pro­vide us with a dis­til­la­tion of minor move­ments that came to have major sig­nif­i­cance in decades hence.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

The Pulp Fic­tion Archive: The Cheap, Thrilling Sto­ries That Enter­tained a Gen­er­a­tion of Read­ers (1896–1946)

William S. Burrough’s Avant-Garde Movie ‘The Cut Ups’ (1966)

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

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