Vladimir Nabokov’s Delightful Butterfly Drawings

NabokovInscription1

We don’t often talk about the hob­bies (oth­er than drink­ing, any­way) of respect­ed twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry writ­ers. But do you know a sin­gle Nabokov read­er, or even an aspir­ing Nabokov read­er, igno­rant of the lep­i­dopter­ist lean­ings of the author of Loli­taThe Gift, and Pale Fire?  The man liked but­ter­flies, as any of the wide­ly seen pho­tographs of him wield­ing his com­i­cal­ly over­sized net can attest. But when his eyes turned toward these strik­ing, del­i­cate insects, he did­n’t nec­es­sar­i­ly put down his pen. Nabokov’s wife Vera, accord­ing to a Book­tryst post on the sale of his book and man­u­script col­lec­tions, “trea­sured nature, art, and life’s oth­er intan­gi­bles more high­ly than mate­r­i­al pos­ses­sions, and Vladimir knew that for Christ­mas, birth­days and anniver­saries” — in Mon­treux in 1971, Itha­ca in 1957, Los Ange­les in 1960, or any­where at any time in their life togeth­er  — “Vera appre­ci­at­ed his thought­ful and del­i­cate but­ter­fly draw­ings much more than some trin­ket. She  delight­ed in these draw­ings in a way she nev­er did for the land­scapes he used to paint for her in ear­li­er days.” For the woman clos­est to his heart, Nabokov drew the crea­tures clos­est to his heart.

NabokovInscription2

“From the age of sev­en, every­thing I felt in con­nec­tion with a rec­tan­gle of framed sun­light was dom­i­nat­ed by a sin­gle pas­sion. If my first glance of the morn­ing was for the sun, my first thought was for the but­ter­flies it would engen­der.” This he declares in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy Speak, Mem­o­ry. “I have hunt­ed but­ter­flies in var­i­ous climes and dis­guis­es: as a pret­ty boy in knicker­bock­ers and sailor cap; as a lanky cos­mopoli­tan expa­tri­ate in flan­nel bags and beret; as a fat hat­less old man in shorts.” Despite the pas­sion with which Nabokov pur­sued lep­i­doptery, it seemed, in his life­time, his accom­plish­ments in the field would remain most­ly non-pro­fes­sion­al; he began one book called But­ter­flies of Europe and anoth­er called But­ter­flies in Art, but fin­ished nei­ther.

But in 2000, out came the 782-page Nabokov’s But­ter­flies, which col­lects, as its co-edi­tor Bri­an Boyd writes in the Atlantic, “his aston­ish­ing­ly diverse writ­ing about but­ter­flies, whether sci­en­tif­ic or artis­tic, pub­lished or unpub­lished, care­ful­ly fin­ished or rough­ly sketched, in poems, sto­ries, nov­els, mem­oirs, sci­en­tif­ic papers, lec­tures, notes, diaries, let­ters, inter­views, dreams.” And in 2011, a hypoth­e­sis he had about but­ter­fly evo­lu­tion had its vin­di­ca­tion under the Roy­al Soci­ety of Lon­don. But to under­stand how much but­ter­flies meant to him, we need look no fur­ther than the title pages of the vol­umes he gave his wife.

NabokovInscription3

via Book Tryst

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Vladimir Nabokov Mar­vels Over Dif­fer­ent Loli­ta Book Cov­ers

Vladimir Nabokov (Chan­nelled by Christo­pher Plum­mer) Teach­es Kaf­ka at Cor­nell

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­lesA Los Ange­les PrimerFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Art of Handwriting as Practiced by Famous Artists: Georgia O’Keeffe, Jackson Pollock, Marcel Duchamp, Willem de Kooning & More

OKeeffeHand

Click each image for a larg­er ver­sion

Did­n’t we used to hear all sorts of grum­bling about the dis­ap­pear­ance of the hand­writ­ten let­ter? What a relief those com­plaints seem now to have sub­sided, leav­ing us in peace to effi­cient­ly type to one anoth­er about how we find pieces of long­hand cor­re­spon­dence fas­ci­nat­ing pure­ly as arti­facts of our favorite his­tor­i­cal fig­ures. If you share that fas­ci­na­tion, have a look at The Art of Hand­writ­ing, an exhib­it from the Smith­so­ni­an’s Archives of Amer­i­can Art now on dis­play through Octo­ber 27 at Wash­ing­ton D.C.‘s Lawrence A. Fleis­chman gallery, which show­cas­es not only the artis­tic aspects of hand­writ­ing, but the hand­writ­ing of actu­al artists. “An artist might put pen to paper just as he or she would apply a line to a draw­ing,” says the exhi­bi­tion’s site. “For each artist, a lead­ing author­i­ty inter­prets how the pres­sure of line and sense of rhythm speak to that artist’s sig­na­ture style. And ques­tions of biog­ra­phy arise: does the hand­writ­ing con­firm assump­tions about the artist, or does it sug­gest a new under­stand­ing?” Plus, we have here the ide­al test of those hand­writ­ing analy­sis booths at coun­ty fairs — could they detect these artis­tic per­son­al­i­ties?

deKooningHand

Just above, we have a page of abstract expres­sion­ist painter Willem de Koon­ing’s mis­sive in light-blue ink of March 28, 1966 to friend and fel­low abstract expres­sion­ist Michael Loew. (They’ve even includ­ed the enve­lope.) At the top of the post, you’ll find a page anoth­er painter, the famous­ly blos­som-focused Geor­gia O’Ke­effe, wrote to New Mex­i­co mod­ernist Cady Wells in 1939. The sub­ject of the let­ter? “O’Ke­effe wor­ries that Wells does­n’t like a paint­ing she has bought and sug­gests replace­ments; and describes an argu­ment she had with a friend.” That descrip­tion comes from the Smith­so­ni­an’s cat­a­log, as does this one: “[Jack­son] Pol­lock writes with descrip­tions of his new home in Springs, on Long Island, and dis­cuss­es his work and that of oth­er artists.” You can also view both pages of that evi­dent­ly unscan­dalous piece of com­mu­ni­ca­tion on the site. They’ve even got let­ters com­posed by hand in oth­er lan­guages, such as Mar­cel Duchamp writ­ing to his sis­ter Suzanne (below) on Jan­u­ary 15, 1916. Don’t wor­ry if you can’t read French, or if you think you can’t con­tex­tu­al­ize the per­son­al con­tent of any of the let­ters at all; focus on, as the Archives of Amer­i­can Art sug­gests, how “every mes­sage brims with the per­son­al­i­ty of the writer at the moment of inter­play between hand, eye, mind, pen, and paper.” That, and the that hope school­child­ren won’t have to endure cur­sive lessons many gen­er­a­tions longer.

DuchampHand

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vir­ginia Woolf’s Hand­writ­ten Sui­cide Note: A Painful and Poignant Farewell (1941)

Font Based on Sig­mund Freud’s Hand­writ­ing Com­ing Cour­tesy of Suc­cess­ful Kick­starter Cam­paign

Fran­cis Ford Coppola’s Hand­writ­ten Cast­ing Notes for The God­fa­ther

See F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts for The Great Gats­by, This Side of Par­adise & More

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­lesA Los Ange­les PrimerFol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

René Magritte’s Early Art Deco Advertising Posters, 1924–1927

norine 1The Bel­gian painter René Magritte cre­at­ed some of the most enig­mat­ic and icon­ic works in Sur­re­al­ist art. But before he moved to Paris in 1927 and began forg­ing rela­tion­ships with André Bre­ton and the Sur­re­al­ists, Magritte strug­gled in Brus­sels as a free­lance com­mer­cial artist, cre­at­ing adver­tise­ments in the Art Deco style.

In 1924 Magritte began design­ing posters and adver­tise­ments for the cou­turi­er Hon­orine “Norine” Deschri­jver and her hus­band Paul-Gus­tave Van Hecke, own­ers of the Bel­gian fash­ion com­pa­ny Norine. Van Hecke also owned art gal­leries, and was an ear­ly cham­pi­on of sur­re­al­ism. Van Hecke would even­tu­al­ly pay Magritte a stipend in exchange for the right to mar­ket his sur­re­al­ist works. In the 1924 adver­tis­ing poster above, Magritte por­trays a woman in high heels pre­tend­ing to be Lord Lis­ter, the gen­tle­man thief from Ger­man pulp fic­tion, wear­ing “an after­noon coat cre­at­ed by Norine.”

magritte6

Magritte designed some 40 sheet music cov­ers, most of them in the Art Deco style, accord­ing to Hrag Var­tan­ian at Hyper­al­ler­gic. The one above, “Arli­ta,” is from about 1925. The French and Dutch sub­ti­tles read “The Song of Light.”

Magritte 3 Mask

The har­le­quin-themed image above is anoth­er adver­tise­ment for Norine, cir­ca 1925. Magritte paint­ed it in water­col­or and gouache. The pen­ciled inscrip­tion at the bot­tom reads “une robe du soir par Norine” — “an evening gown by Norine.”

Magritte 4 Primevere

In 1926 Magritte was com­mis­sioned to cre­ate the poster above for the pop­u­lar singer Marie-Louise Van Eme­len, bet­ter known as Primevère. An orig­i­nal print is cur­rent­ly up for sale at Christie’s and is expect­ed to bring some­where between $18,000 and $25,000.

For more of Magrit­te’s Art Deco sheet music cov­ers, vis­it Hyper­al­ler­gic.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Philoso­pher Por­traits: Famous Philoso­phers Paint­ed in the Style of Influ­en­tial Artists

The Art of William Faulkn­er: Draw­ings from 1916–1925

Bauhaus, Mod­ernism & Oth­er Design Move­ments Explained by New Ani­mat­ed Video Series

Salvador “Dalí is the Biggest ‘Prick’ of the 20th Century,” Says the Quotable Henry Miller

henry miller dali

There’s no two ways about it. Hen­ry Miller had a way with words. He could be blunt, lewd, cut­ting, all in one short sen­tence. You want a lit­tle case study? Ok, how about the notes Miller scrawled back in 1973, when he called Sal­vador Dalí “the biggest ‘prick” of the 20th cen­tu­ry” (or, in anoth­er instance a “prick of the first water”). What was his beef with the Span­ish sur­re­al­ist? It all start­ed in 1940, when Miller and his lover, the incom­pa­ra­ble Anaïs Nin, spent some time cooped up in the same house with Dalí, who turned out to be an insuf­fer­able pri­ma don­na. Their time togeth­er end­ed in a wild shout­ing match, with Miller and Nin storm­ing out of the home and hold­ing a grudge for decades to come. The sto­ry is nice­ly recount­ed by Book Tryst, a site that has recent­ly become a new favorite of ours.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Illustrated by Salvador Dalí in 1969, Finally Gets Reissued

Des­ti­no: The Sal­vador Dalí – Dis­ney Col­lab­o­ra­tion 57 Years in the Mak­ing

Tom Schiller’s 1975 Jour­ney Through Hen­ry Miller’s Bath­room (NSFW)

Hen­ry Miller Talks Writ­ing and the Expat Life with Anaïs Nin, Lawrence Dur­rell, and Oth­ers (1969)

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 2 ) |

Avant-Garde Poet Henri Michaux Creates Educational Film Visualizing Effects of Mescaline & Hash (1964)

You don’t need to under­stand French to appre­ci­ate the project. In 1964, the Swiss phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal com­pa­ny San­doz (now Novar­tis) com­mis­sioned the Bel­gian writer, poet and painter Hen­ri Michaux to pro­duce a film that demon­strat­ed the effects of hal­lu­cino­genic drugs. The com­pa­ny saw the film as a way to help its sci­en­tists get clos­er to the hal­lu­cino­genic expe­ri­ence — not sur­pris­ing, giv­en that San­doz was the com­pa­ny that first syn­the­sized LSD back in 1938.

Hen­ri Michaux had already pub­lished accounts where he used words, signs and draw­ings to recount his expe­ri­ences with trip-induc­ing drugs. (See his trans­lat­ed book, Mis­er­able Mir­a­cle.) And that con­tin­ued with the new film, Images du monde vision­naire (Images of a Vision­ary World.) At the top, you can find the trip­py seg­ment devot­ed to mesca­line, and, below that, Michaux’s visu­al treat­ment of hashish. Watch the com­plete film, except for one unfor­tu­nate­ly blem­ished minute, here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

This is What Oliv­er Sacks Learned on LSD and Amphet­a­mines

Aldous Huxley’s LSD Death Trip

Ken Kesey’s First LSD Trip Ani­mat­ed

How to Oper­ate Your Brain: A User Man­u­al by Tim­o­thy Leary (1993)

Beyond Tim­o­thy Leary: 2002 Film Revis­its His­to­ry of LSD

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 3 ) |

Philosopher Portraits: Famous Philosophers Painted in the Style of Influential Artists

Lud­wig Wittgenstein/Piet Mon­dri­an:

Ludwig Wittgenstein & Piet Mondrian

What do the Aus­tri­an-British philoso­pher Lud­wig Wittgen­stein and the Dutch painter Piet Mon­dri­an have in com­mon? For philoso­pher and artist Renée Jor­gensen Bolinger, the two have sim­i­lar beliefs about the log­ic of space.

“Many of Mon­dri­an’s pieces explore the rela­tion­ships between adja­cent spaces,” says Bolinger “and in par­tic­u­lar the for­ma­tive role of each on the bound­aries and pos­si­bil­i­ties of the oth­er. I based this paint­ing [see above] off of Wittgen­stein’s Trac­ta­tus, in which he devel­ops a the­o­ry of mean­ing ground­ed in the idea that propo­si­tions have mean­ing only inso­far as they con­strain the ways the world could be; a mean­ing­ful propo­si­tion is thus very like one of Mon­dri­an’s col­or squares, form­ing a bound­ary and lim­it­ing the pos­si­ble con­fig­u­ra­tions of the adja­cent spaces.”

A sec­ond-year PhD stu­dent in the phi­los­o­phy pro­gram at the Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia, Bolinger stud­ied paint­ing a Bio­la Uni­ver­si­ty before mak­ing phi­los­o­phy her sec­ond major. “I actu­al­ly came to phi­los­o­phy quite late in my col­lege career,” Bolinger says, “only adding the major in my junior year. I was for­tu­nate to have two par­tic­u­lar­ly excel­lent and philo­soph­ic art teach­ers, Jonathan Puls and Jonathan Ander­son, who con­vinced me that my two pas­sions were not mutu­al­ly exclu­sive, and encour­aged me to pur­sue both as I began my grad­u­ate edu­ca­tion.”

Bolinger now works pri­mar­i­ly on the phi­los­o­phy of lan­guage, with side inter­ests in log­ic, epis­te­mol­o­gy, mind and polit­i­cal phi­los­o­phy. She con­tin­ues to paint. We asked her how she rec­on­ciles her two pas­sions, which seem to occu­py oppo­site sides of the mind. “I do work in ana­lyt­ic phi­los­o­phy,” she says, “but it’s only half true that phi­los­o­phy and paint­ing engage oppo­site sides of the mind. The sort of real­ist draw­ing and paint­ing that I do is all about ana­lyz­ing the rela­tion­ships between the lines, shapes and col­or tones, and so still very left-brain. Nev­er­the­less, it engages the mind in a dif­fer­ent way than do the syl­lo­gisms of ana­lyt­ic phi­los­o­phy. I find that the two types of men­tal exer­tion com­ple­ment each oth­er well, each serv­ing as a pro­duc­tive break from the oth­er.”

Bolinger has cre­at­ed a series of philoso­pher por­traits, each one pair­ing a philoso­pher with an artist, or art style, in an intrigu­ing way. In addi­tion to Wittgen­stein, she paint­ed ten philoso­phers in her first series, many of them by request. They can all be seen on her Web site, where high qual­i­ty prints can be ordered.

G.E.M. Anscombe/Jackson Pol­lock:

G.E.M. Anscombe & Jackson Pollock

Bolinger says she paired the British ana­lyt­ic philoso­pher Eliz­a­beth Anscombe with the Amer­i­can abstract painter Jack­son Pol­lock for two rea­sons: “First, the loose style of Pol­lock­’s action paint­ing fits the argu­men­ta­tive (and orga­ni­za­tion­al) style of Wittgen­stein’s Philo­soph­i­cal Inves­ti­ga­tions, which Anscombe helped to edit and was instru­men­tal in pub­lish­ing. Sec­ond, her pri­ma­ry field of work, in which she wrote a sem­i­nal text, is phi­los­o­phy of action, which has obvi­ous con­nec­tions to the themes present in any of Pol­lock­’s action paint­ings.”

Got­t­lob Frege/Vincent Van Gogh:

Gottlob Frege & Van Gogh

Bolinger paired the Ger­man logi­cian, math­e­mati­cian and philoso­pher Got­t­lob Frege with the Dutch painter Vin­cent Van Gogh as a tongue-in-cheek ref­er­ence to Van Gogh’s famous paint­ing The Star­ry Night and Frege’s puz­zle con­cern­ing iden­ti­ty state­ments such as “Hes­pe­rus is Phos­pho­rus,” or “the evening star is iden­ti­cal to the morn­ing star.”

Bertrand Russell/Art Deco:

Bertrand Russell & Art Deco

Bolinger paint­ed the British logi­cian and philoso­pher Bertrand Rus­sell in the Art Deco style. “This pair­ing is a bit more about the gestalt, and a bit hard­er to artic­u­late,” says Bolinger. “The sim­pli­fi­ca­tion of form and reduc­tion to angled planes that takes place in the back­ground of this Art Deco piece are meant to cohere with Rus­sel­l’s locial atom­ism (the reduc­tion of com­plex log­i­cal propo­si­tions to their fun­da­men­tal log­i­cal ‘atoms’).”

Kurt Gödel/Art Nou­veau:

Kurt Godel & Art Nouveau

Bolinger paired the Aus­tri­an logi­cian Kurt Gödel with Art Nou­veau. “The Art Nou­veau move­ment devel­oped around the theme of mech­a­niza­tion and the rep­e­ti­tion of forms,” says Bolinger, “and cen­tral­ly involves a del­i­cate bal­ance between organ­ic shapes — typ­i­cal­ly a fig­ure that dom­i­nates the por­trait — and schema­tized or abstract­ed pat­terns, often derived from organ­ic shapes, but made uni­form and repet­i­tive (often seen in the flower motifs that orna­ment most Art Nou­veau por­traits). I paired this style with Kurt Gödel because his work was ded­i­cat­ed to defin­ing com­putabil­i­ty in terms of recur­sive func­tions, and using the notion to prove the Com­plete­ness and Incom­plete­ness the­o­rems.”

To see more of Renée Jor­gensen Bolinger’s philoso­pher por­traits, click here to vis­it her site. And if you like them all, the PhilPor­traits Cal­en­dar might be per­fect for you.

via Leit­er Reports

Relat­ed Con­tent:

10 Famous Philoso­phers in Words and Images

Pho­tog­ra­phy of Lud­wig Wittgen­stein Released by Archives at Cam­bridge

Phi­los­o­phy: Free Cours­es

The Art of William Faulkner: Drawings from 1916–1925

faulknersketchdancing

Before William Faulkn­er more or less defined the genre of South­ern lit­er­a­ture with his folksy short sto­ries, tragi­com­ic epic nov­els, and stud­ies in the stream of dam­aged con­scious­ness, he made a very sin­cere effort as a poet with a 1924 col­lec­tion called The Mar­ble Faun. Pub­lished in 500 copies with the assis­tance of his friend Phil Stone, who paid $400 dol­lars to get the work in print, Faulkner’s poet­ry did not go over well. Although lat­er judg­ments have been kinder, the pub­lish­er called it “not real­ly a very good book of poet­ry” and most of the print run was remain­dered. The young Faulkn­er fared much bet­ter how­ev­er with anoth­er of his ear­ly cre­ative endeav­ors: art.

faulknerdrawingcheckerboard

Between 1916 and 1925, the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mississippi—which Faulkn­er attend­ed for three semes­ters before drop­ping out in 1920—paid him for draw­ings pub­lished in the uni­ver­si­ty news­pa­per Ole Miss and its humor mag­a­zine The Scream. The draw­ings, like that of a danc­ing cou­ple at the top, show the influ­ence of jazz-age art-deco graph­ic illus­tra­tion as well as that of Eng­lish illus­tra­tor and aes­thete Aubrey Beard­s­ley (who gets a name-check in Faulkner’s 1936 nov­el Absa­lom, Absa­lom!). Beardsley’s influ­ence seems espe­cial­ly evi­dent in the draw­ing above, from a 1917–18 edi­tion of Ole Miss.

faulknertwomenandcar

Many of Faulkner’s illus­tra­tions are much sim­pler car­toons, par­tic­u­lar­ly those he did for The Scream, such as the 1925 draw­ing above of two men and a car. Even sim­pler, the line draw­ing of an air­plane below recalls the author’s fas­ci­na­tion with avi­a­tion, man­i­fest­ed in his failed attempt to join the U.S. Air Force, his suc­cess­ful accep­tance into the R.A.F., and his non-Mis­sis­sip­pi 1935 nov­el Pylon, about a row­dy crew of barn­storm­ers in a fic­tion­al­ized New Orleans called “New Val­ois.” You can see more of Faulkner’s draw­ings here and read his ear­ly prose and poet­ry in an out-of-print col­lec­tion housed online at the Inter­net Archive, which has been now added to our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks.

faulknerbarnstormer

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William Faulkner’s New­ly-Dis­cov­ered Short Sto­ry and Draw­ings

William Faulkn­er Tells His Post Office Boss to Stick It (1924)

Rare 1952 Film: William Faulkn­er on His Native Soil in Oxford, Mis­sis­sip­pi

William Faulkn­er Audio Archive Goes Online at Uni­ver­si­ty of Vir­ginia

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

“Glory to the Conquerors of the Universe!”: Propaganda Posters from the Soviet Space Race (1958–1963)

conquer space

Walk­ing around L.A. just yes­ter­day, I noticed new ban­ners embla­zoned with illus­tra­tions tout­ing sub­way sta­tions now under con­struc­tion. In bold, bright col­ors, they deliv­er clear, ambi­tious imagery of a bright future ahead: ded­i­cat­ed builders, focused stu­dents, noble work­ing com­muters, surg­ing trains. Why, I thought, those look a bit like Sovi­et pro­pa­gan­da! I had no polit­i­cal com­par­isons in mind, only aes­thet­ic ones, and this Retro­naut post shows off many per­fect exam­ples of the Cold War-era Russ­ian posters the Los Ange­les Metro’s brought to my mind. They cap­ture the imag­i­na­tion by exud­ing even more intense sci­en­tif­ic, tech­no­log­i­cal, edu­ca­tion­al, and social opti­mism — and doing so in even more visu­al detail — than I’d remem­bered.

And boy, speak­ing of ambi­tion: “From student’s mod­els to space­ships!” “To the Sun! To the stars!” “Glo­ry to the con­querors of the uni­verse!” Chil­dren inclined to accept these glo­ri­ous slo­gans and the rap­tur­ous imagery they accom­pa­ny could not pos­si­bly fail to believe that, thor­ough­ly edu­cat­ed by their coun­try, their gen­er­a­tion would go on to ush­er in a new galaxy-span­ning order of peace, pros­per­i­ty, and social­ism. Yet we in the rest of the world now know of the bore­dom, cyn­i­cism, and oppres­sion that attend­ed many Sovi­et cit­i­zens’ every­day lives. A Cold War-spe­cial­ist col­lege his­to­ry pro­fes­sor of mine liked to tell a sto­ry about a trip to Moscow he took in the six­ties, on which he kept see­ing ado­les­cents with noth­ing more pro­duc­tive to do than open­ly chug­ging vod­ka on street cor­ners.  Yet, see­ing posters like these, you sim­ply want to believe, just like I want to believe in the exten­sion of Los Ange­les’ sub­way — which, at times, seems about as plau­si­ble as the con­quer­ing of out­er space.

“From student’s mod­els to space­ships!”

Soviet-Space-Propaganda-Posters-3

“Glo­ry to the work­ers of Sovi­et sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy!”

Soviet-Space-Propaganda-Posters-9

“I am hap­py — this is my work join­ing the work of my repub­lic”

Soviet-Space-Propaganda-Posters-14

“In the 20th cen­tu­ry the rock­ets race to the stars”

Soviet-Space-Propaganda-Posters-15
Vis­it Retro­naut for many more space pro­pa­gan­da posters from the Sovi­et era.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“First Orbit”: Cel­e­brat­ing 50th Anniver­sary of Yuri Gagaran’s Space Flight

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

How to Spot a Com­mu­nist Using Lit­er­ary Crit­i­cism: A 1955 Man­u­al from the U.S. Mil­i­tary

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

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast