Behold Pablo Picasso’s Illustrations of Balzac’s Short Story “The Hidden Masterpiece” (1931)

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Pablo Picas­so had a long and com­plex rela­tion­ship with book illus­tra­tion. The mod­ern painter hat­ed to work on spec and resist­ed tak­ing com­mis­sions. Nonethe­less, when it came to lit­er­a­ture, he made well over 50 excep­tions, illus­trat­ing the work of scores of authors he admired. As John Gold­ing writes in The Inde­pen­dent, Picas­so had always grav­i­tat­ed toward the lit­er­ary; he wrote pro­lif­i­cal­ly, was “attract­ed to art that had a lit­er­ary fla­vor,” and “pre­ferred the com­pa­ny of writ­ers, par­tic­u­lar­ly poets, to that of oth­er painters and sculp­tors.” Gold­ing writes of the artist’s par­tic­u­lar love for the Span­ish Baroque poet Luis de Gongo­ra, whose work he illus­trat­ed in a 1948 edi­tion, and who was to “affect the future devel­op­ment of Picasso’s art in a way that his oth­er lit­er­ary col­lab­o­ra­tions did not.” But this may be a hasty judg­ment. As it turned out, Picasso’s 1931 illus­tra­tion of a short sto­ry by Hon­oré de Balzac, “The Hid­den Mas­ter­piece” (Le Chef‑d’oeuvre incon­nu), would affect him great­ly, and indi­rect­ly con­tributed to the cre­ation of his most famous work, the enor­mous anti-war can­vas Guer­ni­ca.

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Picas­so accept­ed the Balzac com­mis­sion from art deal­er Ambroise Vol­lard (see the title page and fron­tispiece at top, Picasso’s por­traits of Balzac above) and com­plet­ed the thir­teen etch­ings in 1931 for a cen­ten­ni­al edi­tion (see ten of the illus­tra­tions here). Many have con­sid­ered these etch­ings “land­marks in the his­to­ry of engrav­ing.” Balza­c’s sto­ry, admired by oth­er painters like Cézanne and Matisse, is among oth­er things a tale of an artist ahead of his time. Set in the 17th cen­tu­ry, “The Hid­den Mas­ter­piece” tells of an aging painter named Fren­hofer, who obses­sive­ly labors over a work he has kept secret for years. When two younger admir­ers, painters Poussin and Por­bus, final­ly man­age to see Fren­hofer­’s secret can­vas, they are appalled—it appears to them noth­ing more than an indis­tinct mess of lines, col­ors and shapes—and they mock the old­er artist and assume their cel­e­brat­ed friend has gone insane. The next day, Fren­hofer destroys all his work and kills him­self.

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Picas­so, writes Thomas Ganzevoort, “had faced some­thing of the same dumb­found­ed reac­tion from fel­low artists upon show­ing them his ground­break­ing pro­to-Cubist mas­ter­piece Les Demoi­selles d’Avignon.” He lat­er claimed that the ghost of Balzac haunt­ed him, and he found him­self so com­pelled by the sto­ry that in 1937, he chose for his new stu­dio a 17th cen­tu­ry town­house locat­ed at 7 Rue des Grands-Augustin, the very house many believed to be the set­ting of the open­ing scene in “The Hid­den Mas­ter­piece.” In April of that year, Ger­man war­planes bombed the Span­ish Basque city of Guer­ni­ca, and Picas­so aban­doned all oth­er projects and set to work on his famous large can­vas, which he com­plet­ed in June of that same year (below, see him in his Grands-Augustin stu­dio, at work on Guer­ni­ca). Like his ear­li­er, cubist work, Guer­ni­ca divid­ed crit­ics and per­plexed some of his peers. At its unveil­ing in the 1937 Paris Exhi­bi­tion, the paint­ing “gar­nered lit­tle atten­tion.” Unlike the trag­ic Fren­hofer of Balzac’s sto­ry, how­ev­er, Picas­so did not suc­cumb to self-doubt and lived to see his work vin­di­cat­ed. See this site to learn more about Balzac and Picas­so, includ­ing dis­cus­sion of a dis­put­ed 1934 draw­ing some believe to be Picasso’s own “hid­den mas­ter­piece.”

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

See Pablo Picasso’s Spare, Ten­der Illus­tra­tions For a Lim­it­ed Edi­tion of Aristo­phanes’ Lysis­tra­ta (1934)

Watch Picas­so Cre­ate Entire Paint­ings in Mag­nif­i­cent Time-Lapse Film (1956)

A 3D Tour of Picasso’s Guer­ni­ca

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

Alain de Botton Shows How Art Can Answer Life’s Big Questions in Art as Therapy

Alain de Bot­ton, pop philoso­pher, has come out with a new book. Like his oth­ers, it’s full of sweep­ing ideas about an entire mode of human exis­tence. He’s writ­ten on reli­gion, sex, suc­cess, and hap­pi­ness, and now he takes on art in Art as Ther­a­py, co-writ­ten with art his­to­ri­an and author John Arm­strong. Like all of de Botton’s ven­tures, the new book is sure to polar­ize. Many peo­ple find his work pow­er­ful and imme­di­ate, many see it as blithe intel­lec­tu­al tourism. To the lat­ter crit­ics, one might reply that de Botton’s approach is some­what like that of oth­er non-pro­fes­sion­al philoso­phers ancient and mod­ern, from Pla­to to Schopen­hauer, who addressed any and every area of life. And yet de Bot­ton is a pro­fes­sion­al of anoth­er kind—he is a pro­fes­sion­al author, speak­er, and self-help guru, and unlike his pre­de­ces­sors, he express­ly sells a prod­uct. There’s no inher­ent rea­son why this should ren­der his phi­los­o­phy sus­pect. Yet, to use a favorite descrip­tor of his, some may find his media savvi­ness vul­gar, as Socrates found the so-called “sophists” of his day (a term of abuse that may be gen­er­al­ly unde­served then and now).

In the video above—one of de Botton’s “Sun­day Ser­mons” for his School of Life, an orga­ni­za­tion that more and more resem­bles his vision of a “reli­gion for athe­ists”—de Bot­ton lays out the book’s argu­ment in a pret­ty uncon­ven­tion­al way. The intro looks exact­ly like an evan­gel­i­cal church ser­vice, scored by a Rob­bie Williams song, which de Bot­ton uses as his first exam­ple of “art.” It’s a tongue-in-cheek demon­stra­tion of de Botton’s claim that “art is our new reli­gion… cul­ture is some­thing that is immi­nent­ly suit­ed to fill­ing [religion’s] shoes.” Whether all of this large talk, pseu­do-reli­gios­i­ty, and Rob­bie Williams music inspires, bores, or dis­turbs you is a per­son­al mat­ter, I sup­pose, but it does pre­pare one for some­thing very dif­fer­ent from a philo­soph­i­cal lec­ture in any case. This is, in fact, a ser­mon, replete with lit­er­ary and the­o­ret­i­cal ref­er­ences, tai­lored to offer answers to Life’s Big Ques­tions.

art as therapyDe Bot­ton first iden­ti­fies the prob­lem. While the sec­u­lar gate­keep­ers of cul­ture pre­tend to believe in the mol­li­fy­ing spir­i­tu­al effects of art, “in fact,” he says, “the idea is dead.” Muse­ums are mori­bund because, for exam­ple, they don’t direct­ly address individual’s fear of death. Pre­sum­ably, his “art as ther­a­py” approach does. The book’s web­site con­tains snip­pets divid­ed into broad cat­e­gories like “Pol­i­tics,” “Work,” “Love,” “Anx­i­ety,” “Self,” and “Free Time.” In his ser­mon, de Bot­ton doesn’t seem to evince any recog­ni­tion of the field of art ther­a­py, which has been chug­ging along since the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, but as he tells Joshua Roth­man in an inter­view for The New York­er he means the word therapy—“a big, sim­ple, vul­gar word”—broadly. Sound­ing for all like an Angli­can the­olo­gian, de Bot­ton says of an annun­ci­a­tion altar­piece by Fra Fil­lip­po Lip­pi:

There’s a sud­den ten­der­ness here, which is so far removed from the harsh­ness out­side. If I were to put a cap­tion here, it might say: ‘Our world, for all its tech­no­log­i­cal sophis­ti­ca­tion, is lack­ing in cer­tain qual­i­ties. But this paint­ing is a vis­i­tor from anoth­er world, where those qualities—tenderness, rev­er­ence, and modesty—are very high­ly val­ued. Take it as an argu­ment against Fox News and the New York Post. Use it to find the still places in your­self.’ 

The notion of this piece of art as “an argu­ment” on the same con­cep­tu­al plane as cor­po­rate mass media seems to con­tra­dict de Botton’s premise that it’s “from anoth­er world.” This cheek-by-jowl ref­er­enc­ing of the sacred and pro­fane, high and low, offends the sen­si­bil­i­ties of sev­er­al philo­soph­i­cal thinkers, and may have offend­ed Fra Fil­lip­po Lip­pi. But per­haps it’s too easy to be cyn­i­cal about de Botton’s pop­ulist approach. If all of his evan­ge­lism seems like noth­ing more than elab­o­rate pub­lic­i­ty for his books, he’s cer­tain­ly made things dif­fi­cult for him­self by found­ing a school. Whether you find his ideas com­pelling or not, he proves him­self a pas­sion­ate, if not par­tic­u­lar­ly mod­est, thinker attempt­ing to grap­ple with the prob­lems of mid­dle-class West­ern malaise and exis­ten­tial angst.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alain De Bot­ton Turns His Philo­soph­i­cal Mind To Devel­op­ing “Bet­ter Porn”

A Guide to Hap­pi­ness: Alain de Bot­ton Shows How Six Great Philoso­phers Can Change Your Life

Alain de Bot­ton Pro­pos­es a Kinder, Gen­tler Phi­los­o­phy of Suc­cess

Down­load 100 Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es and Start Liv­ing the Exam­ined Life

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

Cartoonist R. Crumb Assesses 21 Cultural Figures, from Dylan & Hitchcock, to Kafka & The Beatles

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Any fan of “under­ground” com­ic artist Robert Crumb knows that the man has no shy­ness about his pref­er­ences: not in jazz music, not in pol­i­tics, and cer­tain­ly not in the female form. Alex Wood, co-oper­a­tor of the offi­cial R. Crumb site (pic­tured with Crumb above), has dis­cov­ered that the artist’s opin­ions offer a vivid win­dow into the artist’s mind. “Over the years, talk­ing with Robert about many dif­fer­ent things, I’ve been sur­prised by some of the things he likes and dis­likes,” Wood writes. “We all know he loves old music from the ear­ly part of the last cen­tu­ry, and does­n’t like rock music. But then he says he likes Tom­my James and the Shon­dells, and Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs? So in a dis­cus­sion in May, 2011, I asked his opin­ion on a list of peo­ple in the news past and present.” This became part one of the series “Crumb on Oth­ers,” which has at this point grown to sev­en full pages.

Below, we offer you a selec­tion of the rough­ly 150 fig­ures from music, film, visu­al art, and let­ters Crumb has so far assessed, his reac­tions rang­ing from high praise to out­right dis­missal to amus­ing anec­dotes of his own encoun­ters with the lumi­nar­ies in ques­tion. With these, you can see how your notes on the likes of Bob Dylan, Alfred Hitch­cock, Philip K. Dick, and Charles Dar­win com­pare with those of the cre­ator of Fritz the Cat and Mr. Nat­ur­al, the hand that gave us “Keep on Truckin’,” and the lead­ing light of of Zap Comix — a lumi­nary who has gen­er­at­ed no small amount of high praise, out­right dis­missal, and amus­ing anec­dote him­self. Here are the remain­ing parts. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

On Mark Twain: “Tom Sawyer and Huck­le­ber­ry Finn don’t do that much for me. But his lat­er stuff, he gets more cranky as he gets old­er. His cri­tique gets more inter­est­ing. When I was 15, I read What Is Man? and it made a pro­found impres­sion on me. It changed my life. It’s all about pre­des­ti­na­tion ver­sus freewill. He was a big believ­er in pre­des­ti­na­tion. He didn’t think we had any free will.”

On Bob Dylan: “I hate his voice. I can’t stand to hear him sing. I thought some of the songs that he wrote in the mid-60s were kind of clever, with clever lyrics. But I just can’t stand to hear him or see him per­form. And I think his heart is in the right place a lot of times, you know. Some­one told me he was an afi­ciona­do of old 20s, old time music, and that he lis­tens to the same kind of stuff I like.”

On Walt Dis­ney: “When I was a lit­tle kid in the 50s, we were pro­found­ly enthralled by Dis­ney, and pro­found­ly affect­ed by the Dis­ney vision. But to my taste, the whole thing starts to decline in the ear­ly 1950s. The last one that I think is a tru­ly vision­ary work is Alice In Won­der­land. Begin­ning with Peter Pan cir­ca 1953 it starts to slide into some­thing too cor­po­rate.”

On Janis Joplin: “Sad case, very sad case. She tried to act like she was hard and tough, but she wasn’t at all. She was soft and vul­ner­a­ble. She drank a lot, and got a lot of bad advice. She was sur­round­ed by vul­tures and vam­pires and scoundrels, and they just did her in. She final­ly end­ed up face-down in her own vom­it alone in some hotel room; too much hero­in and alco­hol, 27 years old.”

On Alfred Hitch­cock: “I talked to some­body who knew Kim Novak, some old­er woman, and Kim Novak told her shock­ing things about Alfred Hitch­cock and his sex­u­al pro­cliv­i­ties. That kind of sur­prised me. I don’t know why. I guess when you look at Hitch­cock you don’t see a guy with an aggres­sive sex­u­al libido. Just goes to show you can nev­er tell a book by its cov­er. I ought to know that by now.”

On The Bea­t­les: “Some of the last stuff they did, you know, it kind of gets dark, and that’s more inter­est­ing to me, the last stuff they did before they broke up. Well, that and the music they did before they actu­al­ly start­ed record­ing under Bri­an Epstein. The only way you can hear that, I think, is to see the doc­u­men­taries where it shows them play­ing in Ham­burg and the Cav­ern Club. Before Bri­an Epstein got ahold of them and cleaned them up and made them over into those cute mop-tops and put them in those mod suits. Before that, they were greas­er guys – leather jack­ets and greasy hair. And they just played this sort of dri­ving, hard rock-a-bil­ly music. And they were real­ly good at that.”

On Pablo Picas­so: “I once wrote that I envied Picas­so, because he was the type of artist who didn’t let any­thing stand in the way of his art. He would just slam the door on his wives, his girl­friends, his chil­dren – any­body, when it was time to do his art. I always envied that about him. Also his pow­er­ful, pen­e­trat­ing, hyp­not­ic way with women. I envied that about him too.”

On Franz Kaf­ka: “Before I did that book on Kaf­ka, I had nev­er read him and didn’t know any­thing about him. But once I took that book project on, then I had to read all his stuff. And then I real­ly got to like him. And while work­ing on that project, I felt a very close kin­ship with Kaf­ka. It was very strange. I start­ed feel­ing deeply con­nect­ed to Kaf­ka some­how. Some­thing I hadn’t expect­ed at all.”

On Charles Bukows­ki: “Love ’im, love his writ­ing. He was a very dif­fi­cult guy to hang out with in per­son, but on paper he was great. One of the great Amer­i­can writ­ers of the late 20th Cen­tu­ry. [ … ] The last time I saw Bukows­ki, he came to this par­ty in San Fran­cis­co, it was a poet­ry read­ing. And these two women that I knew  they just kind of closed in on Bukows­ki. One was talk­ing to him in one ear and the oth­er was talk­ing to him in his oth­er ear. He was stand­ing there with a beer bot­tle in each hand and get­ting drunk as fast as he could. And the last moment I saw him, they were lead­ing him off to the bed­room.”

On William Bur­roughs: “He was a very eccen­tric char­ac­ter; very eccen­tric ideas and thoughts. He tried all kinds of strange, avant-garde psy­chother­a­pies. He was into psy­chic exper­i­men­ta­tion. He built him­self an orgone box based upon the the­o­ries of Wil­helm Reich. He lat­er got involved in Sci­en­tol­ogy and had this E‑meter and used it as a way to psy­chi­cal­ly clear him­self. He said it was his elec­tri­cal Oui­ja board. He tried oth­er stuff too, like out of body expe­ri­ence. I can relate to all that stuff because I’m inter­est­ed in all that fringe, psy­chic exper­i­men­ta­tion also. But he was very seri­ous about that stuff.”

On Bet­tie Page: “She had the most per­fect body and the cutest face of all in that pin­up era of the 1940s and 1950s. She was the gold stan­dard. There was nobody supe­ri­or to her phys­i­cal­ly. And her pos­es, she always looked cheer­ful and whole­some, she nev­er looked sleazy. It didn’t mat­ter if she was pos­ing in a sado­masochis­tic set­up with those high heel boots and whips, it always looks like it’s just a fun­ny game to her, you know? She could have a ball-gag in her mouth and she looks like the girl next door just hav­ing fun.”

On Woody Allen: One of my favorite movies of his was Crimes and Mis­de­meanors. It was a great movie. In that movie, there was an esteemed oph­thal­mol­o­gist, very respect­ed in his pro­fes­sion. He has this mis­tress, this neu­rot­ic woman and she’s threat­en­ing to expose him and the secret affair he’s hav­ing. She threat­ens to come over to his house and make a big scene and ruin his life. He also has a broth­er who’s involved in the crime syn­di­cate. So he goes to the broth­er and the broth­er has her killed by a pro­fes­sion­al. All the main male char­ac­ters in the movie, I’ve come to sus­pect that they’re all parts of Woody Allen’s per­son­al­i­ty. The respect­ed oph­thal­mol­o­gist is part of him; this nerdy, ide­al­is­tic doc­u­men­tary film-mak­er — that’s part of him. And there’s this real­ly arro­gant com­e­dy writer/director played by Alan Alda who plays such a jerk, and that’s part of Woody Allen also; very inter­est­ing. And I sus­pect that movie is kind of — and I don’t even know how aware of it he was — a con­fes­sion. It was right around the time that whole scan­dal with Mia Far­row’s daugh­ter hap­pened — maybe right before — because Mia Far­row was in it. But, the oph­thal­mol­o­gist gets away with it.”

On Philip K. Dick: “I’ve actu­al­ly nev­er read any of his books. All I ever read was inter­views with him and that account he gave of his reli­gious expe­ri­ence — his mys­ti­cal expe­ri­ence. The whole expe­ri­ence… the way he described it, it was great. I should read his books but I nev­er got around to it. I was nev­er big on sci­ence fic­tion, but he was always more inter­est­ing and imag­i­na­tive than a lot of sci­ence fic­tion writ­ers.” (Crumb illus­trat­ed Dick­’s “meet­ing with God.”)

On Charles Dar­win: “I nev­er real­ly read Dar­win or stud­ied much about him. I have the most broad, gen­er­al idea about his the­o­ries of nat­ur­al selec­tion and evo­lu­tion. But I do know that when a lot of upper class Eng­lish peo­ple start­ed read­ing his books, and his the­o­ries began to be wide­ly known in the 1870s, it cre­at­ed a huge change that has­n’t been wide­ly rec­og­nized by his­to­ri­ans, to my knowl­edge. Peo­ple’s atti­tudes toward reli­gion changed due to his book, par­tic­u­lar­ly in the upper class­es in Eng­land, they stopped con­sid­er­ing it their absolute duty to go to church and be a good church-going per­son. A lot of the upper class dropped out, let their church mem­ber­ship lapse. Before that. they all went to church, for appear­ance sake if noth­ing else. But after Dar­win, that all changed.”

On Jack Ker­ouac: “When I was 17, I read On The Road, and it sick­ened me, because my reac­tion was, ‘Oh God, these guys are out there hav­ing so much fun. I’m not hav­ing any fun at all. I’m just sit­ting here in my par­ents house. But them — the girls, the adven­tures, they’re just like hav­ing a fuckin’ lark On The Road.’ ”

On Jean-Paul Sartre: “A fun­ny guy, Sarte’s a fun­ny guy. You know, peo­ple don’t think of him as fun­ny because he was so seri­ous about exis­ten­tial­ism and com­mu­nism and stuff like that. [ … ] He wrote a book about his child­hood that was pret­ty fun­ny. It’s very self-dep­re­cat­ing, and he writes about what a lit­tle bour­geois, arro­gant shit he was as a kid. Fun­ny guy, I like Sarte.”

On Michelan­ge­lo: “The guy is just like glo­ri­fy­ing the male body. It’s all about writhing, mus­cu­lar male bod­ies. And even the women, they have male bod­ies with tits past­ed on. The guy’s not into women, you can tell. He’s not into fem­i­nine at all. He’s not inter­est­ed in the round, ellip­ti­cal charms of the female form. No, he’s inter­est­ed in the lumpy, mus­cu­lar male body. And the whole [Sis­tine] Chapel is noth­ing but that.”

On Hen­ry Miller:  “Just like Ker­ouac, I was about nine­teen when I read him, and again, I was dev­as­tat­ed because he was hav­ing too much fuck­ing fun. He was fuck­ing so many women. He was so suc­cess­ful with women, it made me sick. He’d brag about how he came on to some woman on the street and end­ed up fuck­ing her in the bush­es. I thought, ‘God, how does he do that?’ It made me sick with envy. But try­ing to read him lat­er, I thought he was way, way, too long-wind­ed. I thought he need­ed seri­ous edit­ing.”

On Orson Welles: “I don’t under­stand why some peo­ple are so impressed by that guy. The most enter­tain­ing Orson Welles thing I’ve ever heard was some out­takes from a radio com­mer­cial that he was doing. And he’s real­ly in a bad mood and he’s insult­ing the pro­duc­ers and tech­ni­cians in the stu­dio and telling them, ‘This is a lot of shit I hope you know.’ ”

On Hunter Thomp­son: “I met him a cou­ple of times. He used to hang out at that Mitchell Broth­ers The­ater on O’Far­rell Street in San Fran­cis­co, which was a strip joint run by the Mitchell Broth­ers. There was this kind of like Irish-Jour­nal­ist-Mafia that used to hang around there. He and these oth­er Irish char­ac­ters from San Fran­cis­co who were into jour­nal­ism there, news­pa­per guys, they hung around there for some rea­son, I don’t know why. But Thomp­son did a lot of cocaine and drank, and then he would go on these long ‘cocaine raps,’ rant­i­ng and rav­ing. But by the time I met him, y’ know, he was already well-advanced to being real­ly fuck­ing out of his mind.”

On Mar­tin Scors­ese: “I think Good­fel­las is prob­a­bly the best film about the mod­ern Amer­i­can crime syn­di­cates. Casi­no was kind of a fol­low-up to Good­fel­las, and I did­n’t think it was quite as good. Prob­a­bly Good­fel­las got so much praise it kind of went to his head so every­body got togeth­er and made this indul­gent film. It had it’s good parts, it was good, it just was­n’t as good as Good­fel­las. For one thing, there were too many close ups on DeNiro’s face. I just kept want­i­ng the cam­era to back-off. OK, you think the guy’s great look­ing, but Jesus, OK, it’s enough, back-off!”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Con­fes­sions of Robert Crumb: A Por­trait Script­ed by the Under­ground Comics Leg­end Him­self (1987)

Record Cov­er Art by Under­ground Car­toon­ist Robert Crumb

A Short His­to­ry of Amer­i­ca, Accord­ing to the Irrev­er­ent Com­ic Satirist Robert Crumb

R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Coun­try Fea­tures 114 Illus­tra­tions of the Artist’s Favorite Musi­cians

Robert Crumb Illus­trates Philip K. Dick’s Infa­mous, Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Meet­ing with God (1974)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

What Books, Movies, Songs & Paintings Could Have Entered the Public Domain on January 1, 2014?

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Every year, Duke Uni­ver­si­ty’s Cen­ter for the Study of the Pub­lic Domain high­lights major works that would have entered the pub­lic domain had the copy­right law that pre­vailed until 1978 still remained in effect today. That law (estab­lished in 1909) allowed works to remain under copy­right for a max­i­mum of 56 years — which means that 2014 would have wel­comed into the pub­lic domain works first pub­lished in 1957. Some high­lights (from the longer list) include:

Books

  • Jack Ker­ouac, On the Road
  • Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
  • Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christ­mas and The Cat in the Hat
  • Studs Terkel, Giants of Jazz
  • Ian Flem­ing, From Rus­sia, with Love

Movies

  • 12 Angry Men (Hen­ry Fon­da, Lee J. Cobb, Jack Klug­man, Ed Beg­ley, and more)
  • A Farewell to Arms (Rock Hud­son and Jen­nifer Jones)
  • Jail­house Rock (Elvis Pres­ley)
  • The Sev­enth Seal (writ­ten and direct­ed by Ing­mar Bergman and star­ring Max von Sydow and Bengt Ekerot)
  • Fun­ny Face (Audrey Hep­burn and Fred Astaire)
  • Gun­fight at the O.K. Cor­ral (Burt Lan­cast­er and Kirk Dou­glas)

Music

  • “That’ll Be the Day” and “Peg­gy Sue” (Bud­dy Hol­ly, Jer­ry Alli­son, and Nor­man Pet­ty)
  • “Great Balls of Fire” (Otis Black­well and Jack Ham­mer)
  • “Wake Up, Lit­tle Susie” (Felice and Boudleaux Bryant)
  • Elvis Presley’s hits: “All Shook Up” (Otis Black­well and Elvis Pres­ley) and “Jail­house Rock” (Jer­ry Leiber and Mike Stoller)
  • The musi­cal “West Side Sto­ry” (music by Leonard Bern­stein, lyrics by Stephen Sond­heim, and book by Arthur Lau­rents)

Art

  • Dali’s “Celes­tial Ride” and “Music: the Red Orches­tra”
  • Edward Hopper’s “West­ern Motel”
  • Picasso’s “Las Meni­nas” set of paint­ings

Under the cur­rent copy­right regime, you’ll have to wait anoth­er 39 years — until 2053 — before these works hit the com­mons.

You can find a longer list of 1957 works still under copy­right on Duke’s web­site.

Note: If you’re won­der­ing how many works of art entered the pub­lic domain in 2014, the answer is sim­ple: 0. As the Duke site notes, “Not a sin­gle pub­lished work” is enter­ing the pub­lic domain in 2014. “In fact, in the Unit­ed States, no pub­li­ca­tion will enter the pub­lic domain until 2019.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sher­lock Holmes Is Now in the Pub­lic Domain, Declares US Judge

The British Library Puts 1,000,000 Images into the Pub­lic Domain, Mak­ing Them Free to Reuse & Remix

Free Philip K. Dick: Down­load 13 Great Sci­ence Fic­tion Sto­ries

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Google Puts Over 57,000 Works of Art on the Web

dali google art project

In its art preser­va­tion­ist wing, the Cul­tur­al Insti­tute, Google hous­es an enor­mous dig­i­tal col­lec­tion of art­work span­ning cen­turies and con­ti­nents in what it calls the Art Project. Google’s col­lec­tion, writes Drue Katao­ka at Wired, is part of a “big deal […] it sig­nals a broad­er, emerg­ing ‘open con­tent’ art move­ment.” “Besides the Get­ty,” Katao­ka notes, this move­ment to dig­i­tize fine art col­lec­tions includes efforts by “Los Ange­les’ LACMA… as well as D.C.’s Nation­al Gallery of Art, the Dal­las Muse­um of Art, Baltimore’s Wal­ters Art Muse­um, and the Yale Uni­ver­si­ty Art Gallery. And Google. Yes, Google.” Google is work­ing hard to defuse this “yes, Google” reac­tion, post­ing fre­quent updates to its col­lec­tion, already a mag­nif­i­cent phe­nom­e­non: “Imag­ine see­ing an image of the Fall of the Rebel Angels by Pieter Breuegel the Elder,” writes Katao­ka, “or Vin­cent van Gogh’s Iris­es, in high res­o­lu­tion.” Now, you can, thanks to Google’s aston­ish­ing­ly vast dig­i­tal archive.

In the Art Project, you can stroll on over to Por­tu­gal’s Museu do Cara­mu­lo, for exam­ple, which Google describes as “an unusu­al muse­um in a small town” off the beat­en path. There, you can see this macabre 1947 Picas­so still life or this 1954 Sal­vador Dali por­trait of a Roman horse­man in Iberia (above). Then head over to the oth­er side of the world, where the Adachi Muse­um of Art in Japan con­tains 165,000 square meters of Japan­ese gar­den: “The Dry Land­scape Gar­den, The White Grav­el and Pine Gar­den, the Moss Gar­den, and The Pond Gar­den.” It also fea­tures gor­geous paint­ings like Yokoya­ma Taikan’s 1931 Autumn Leaves and Hishi­da Shun­so’s adorable 1906 Cat and Plum Blos­soms. Dozens of small­er col­lec­tions like these sit com­fort­ably along­side such exten­sive and well-known col­lec­tions as New York’s MoMA and Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art and Flo­rence’s Uffizi. See a tiny sam­pler of the Art Project in the video teas­er above.

BrazilTrompe

Google’s col­lec­tion has great­ly expand­ed since its com­par­a­tive­ly mod­est 2011 roll-out. The com­pa­ny signed part­ner­ship agree­ments with 151 insti­tu­tions in 2012 and the Art Project has grown since then to include over 57,000 dig­i­tal rep­re­sen­ta­tions of famous and not-so-famous works of art. Most recent­ly, it has added work to the online col­lec­tions of 34 dif­fer­ent part­ner insti­tu­tions. Google’s announce­ment on its offi­cial blog takes a themed approach, pre­sent­ing ver­sions of sev­er­al trompe l’oeil (“fool the eye”) works that have just joined the Art Project. Trompe l’oeil is a gim­mick as old as antiq­ui­ty, and Google gives us sev­er­al exam­ples, begin­ning with the styl­ish, under­stat­ed Brazil­ian train sta­tion mur­al right above by Adri­ana Vare­jao. Below, see the ceil­ing of Italy’s Nation­al Archae­o­log­i­cal Muse­um of Fer­rara, a much more clas­si­cal (or Baroque) approach to trompe l’oeil that dis­plays some typ­i­cal ele­ments of the peri­od, includ­ing elab­o­rate geo­met­ric designs, lots of gold, and well-dressed fig­ures star­ing down at view­ers or float­ing off into the heav­ens. See more trompe l’oeil works on Google’s blog, and access their full dig­i­tal col­lec­tion here.

FerraraTrompe

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The British Library Puts 1,000,000 Images into the Pub­lic Domain, Mak­ing Them Free to Reuse & Remix

The Rijksmu­se­um Puts 125,000 Dutch Mas­ter­pieces Online, and Lets You Remix Its Art

The Get­ty Puts 4600 Art Images Into the Pub­lic Domain (and There’s More to Come)

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

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

Norman Rockwell’s Typewritten Recipe for His Favorite Oatmeal Cookies

Norman-Rockwells-Favorite-Recipe-e1325108175699

Nor­man Rock­well, pro­lif­ic painter and illus­tra­tor of 20th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­cana, often worked so sin­gle-mind­ed­ly that he missed his meals. In 1943, Rock­well exhaust­ed him­self to such a degree that, while com­plet­ing the Franklin Delano Roo­sevelt-inspired series of paint­ings enti­tled Four Free­doms, he lost 15 pounds over the course of sev­en months. This drop in weight is, per­haps, all the more shock­ing when giv­en some con­text: Rock­well was far from being a cor­pu­lent man. In fact, when the then 23-year-old artist attempt­ed to enlist as a ser­vice­man in the U. S. Navy dur­ing World War I, he was judged to be eight pounds under­weight, stand­ing at six feet and tip­ping the scales at 140 pounds. Rock­well, how­ev­er, was not to be deterred by some­thing so triv­ial as his bod­i­ly com­po­si­tion. He gorged him­self on bananas and dough­nuts when he came home that evening. The next day, Navy recruiters dul­ly wel­comed the suf­fi­cient­ly bloat­ed Rock­well to the fold.

When Rock­well did eat, we know that he had a pen­chant for oat­meal cook­ies. At least two of the artist’s let­ters detail­ing instruc­tions for mak­ing this choice snack are post­ed online. Although there is a 1966 iter­a­tion of the oat­meal cook­ie recipe avail­able on Biblioklept.org, we’ve pro­vid­ed a lat­er ver­sion, from the 1970s, found on The Sat­ur­day Evening Post web­site:

 

Ingre­di­ents

  • 1 stick but­ter
  • 1 cup light brown sug­ar
  • 1/2 cup gran­u­lat­ed sug­ar
  • 1 tea­spoon vanil­la
  • 1/4 cup water and 2 eggs well beat­en
  • 1 tea­spoon salt
  • 1 cup flour, sift­ed
  • 1/2 tea­spoon bak­ing soda
  • About 1 cup oat­meal
  • Chopped nuts (wal­nuts pre­ferred)

Direc­tions

Mix in order and drop on bak­ing sheet. Bake 400° 7 to 8 min­utes. Then run under broil­er to brown.

via Sat­ur­day Evening Post

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ernest Hemingway’s Favorite Ham­burg­er Recipe

David Lynch Teach­es You to Cook His Quinoa Recipe in a Weird, Sur­re­al­ist Video

Pre­pare Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Per­son­al, Hand­writ­ten Turkey-and-Stuff­ing Recipe on Thanks­giv­ing

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

When I saw William Blake’s illus­tra­tions for the book of Job and for John Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso at the Mor­gan Library a few years ago, I was first struck by how small the intri­cate water­col­ors are. This should not have been surprising—these are book illus­tra­tions, after all. But William Blake (1757–1827) is such a tremen­dous force, his work so mon­u­men­tal­ly strange and beau­ti­ful, that one expects to be over­pow­ered by it. In per­son, his draw­ings are indeed impres­sive, but they are equal­ly so for their care­ful atten­tion to design and com­po­si­tion as for their heavy, often quite ter­ri­fy­ing sub­jects.

Look, for exam­ple, at the play of pat­terns behind the fig­ures in the illus­tra­tion above, from an edi­tion of Milton’s Par­adise Lost. The fig­ure in the cen­ter depicts Milton’s grotesque­ly graph­ic alle­gor­i­cal con­struc­tion of Sin. In Mil­ton, this char­ac­ter “seemed woman to the waist, and fair,”

But end­ed foul in many a scaly fold
Volu­mi­nous and vast, a ser­pent armed
With mor­tal sting: about her mid­dle round
A cry of hell hounds nev­er ceas­ing barked
With wide Cer­ber­ian mouths full loud, and rung
A hideous peal: yet, when they list, would creep,
If ought dis­turbed their noise, into her womb,
And ken­nel there, yet there still barked and howled,
With­in unseen.

Blake spares us the hor­ror of the lat­ter image—in fact he gets a lit­tle vague on the details of the creature’s nether­parts, which were always dif­fi­cult to imag­ine, and empha­sizes the “fair” parts above (in the ver­sion below, the serpent/dog thing looks like a cos­tume prop). Milton’s descrip­tion always seemed to me one of the cru­elest, most misog­y­nis­tic ren­der­ings of the female body in lit­er­a­ture. Blake’s por­trait relieves Milton’s nas­ti­ness, mak­ing Sin sym­pa­thet­ic and, well, kin­da hot, a Blakean feat for sure. The char­ac­ters to her left and right are Satan and Death, respec­tive­ly.

 

Blake loved Mil­ton, and illus­trat­ed his work more than any oth­er author. And he illus­trat­ed Par­adise Lost more than any oth­er Mil­ton, in three sep­a­rate com­mis­sions (peruse them all here).  The first set dates from 1807, com­mis­sioned by Joseph Thomas. (The Satan, Sin, and Death scene above comes from the Thomas set.) The sec­ond set, from which the image at the top comes, was com­mis­sioned in 1808 by Thomas Butts. Blake patron John Lin­nell com­mis­sioned the third set of illus­tra­tions in 1822. Only three of the Lin­nell paint­ings survive—none of the scene above. In one of the 1822 illus­tra­tions (below), Satan spies on Adam and Eve as they canoo­dle in the gar­den.

Blake’s obses­sion with Par­adise Lost inspired his own cracked the­o­log­i­cal fable, Mil­ton: a Poem in Two Books, with its bizarre pre­am­ble in which Blake promis­es to “buil[d] Jerusalem / In England’s green and pleas­ant land.” One writer calls Blake’s Mil­ton “a lengthy and dif­fi­cult apoc­a­lyp­tic poem with a fas­ci­nat­ing hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry qual­i­ty.” The poem caused many of Blake’s con­tem­po­raries to con­clude that “he was quite mad.” But I think his work shows us a man with all of his fac­ul­ties, and maybe a few extra besides, although his paint­ings, like his weird­er poet­ry, can also seem like crazed hal­lu­ci­na­tions. He meant his var­i­ous Par­adise Lost illus­tra­tions to cor­rect ear­li­er ren­der­ings by oth­er artists, includ­ing a polit­i­cal satire by car­toon­ist James Gill­ray in 1792 and a 1740 paint­ing by William Hog­a­rth that today resem­bles the cov­er of a bad fan­ta­sy nov­el. See both of those ear­li­er ver­sions here.

via Bib­liokept

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Gus­tave Doré’s Dra­mat­ic Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

Alber­to Martini’s Haunt­ing Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1901–1944)

Spenser and Mil­ton (Free Course)

Find Works by Mil­ton in our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks Col­lec­tions

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

Andy Warhol’s Christmas Art

WarholChristmas1

You may have read our post on the cre­ative ways in which John Waters express­es his love for Christ­mas. We’d all like to receive one of the Christ­mas cards the Hair­spray film­mak­er has designed him­self every year since 1964, but did you know that anoth­er famous cre­ator, one also per­ceived as eccen­tric and pos­sessed of his very own con­cepts of taste, embraced the sea­son with equal artis­tic vig­or?  “Andy Warhol’s fond­ness for Campbell’s Soup cans is well doc­u­ment­ed,” writes Jen­nifer M. Wood at Men­tal Floss. “Less well known but equal­ly ardent was his love of the hol­i­day sea­son. Yes, from poin­set­tias to San­ta hats, the enig­mat­ic artist who promised we’d all have our 15 min­utes of fame spent much of the 1950s work­ing as a com­mer­cial illus­tra­tor spe­cial­iz­ing in blot­ted line draw­ings, cre­at­ing every­thing from shoe adver­tise­ments to greet­ing cards.”

WarholChristmas2

The arti­cle goes on to dis­play the fruits of Warhol’s pro­fes­sion­al and per­son­al inter­est in Christ­mas, which ran his per­son­al gamut of both tech­nique and visu­al sen­si­bil­i­ty. At the top, we have his sim­ple 1954 ink-and-paper draw­ing of a “Christ­mas Fairy,” bear­ing the greet­ing “Mer­ry Christ­mas to you.” Just above, you can see his col­or ren­der­ing, from three years lat­er, of a Christ­mas orna­ment. Wood reports that such works went up for sale at two events this year from fine-art auc­tion house Christie’s: “ ‘Warhol­i­day,’ a pop-up event at the San Fran­cis­co Mul­ber­ry Store [which] fea­tured 36 works by the late, great artist, some of them nev­er-before-seen and all of them for sale,” and “ ‘A Christ­mas Thing,’ an online-only auc­tion that fea­tured 100 orig­i­nal pho­tos, prints, and draw­ings from the mas­ter of Pop Art” ben­e­fit­ing The Andy Warhol Foun­da­tion for the Visu­al Arts.” And as we can call no pre­sen­ta­tion of Warhol’s work com­plete, even on Christ­mas Eve, with­out the inclu­sion of some­thing that will get a view­er or two ask­ing whether it counts as art at all, behold his 1981 Polaroid of San­ta Claus:

WarholChristmas3

Find more Andy Warhol Christ­mas-themed art at Men­tal Floss.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Andy Warhol Cre­ates Album Cov­ers for Jazz Leg­ends Thelo­nious Monk, Count Basie & Ken­ny Bur­rell

Roy Licht­en­stein and Andy Warhol Demys­ti­fy Their Pop Art in Vin­tage 1966 Film

John Waters Makes Hand­made Christ­mas Cards, Says the “Whole Pur­pose of Life is Christ­mas”

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

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