How Zaha Hadid Revolutionized Architecture & Drew Inspiration from Russian Avant-Garde Art

Zaha Hadid died in 2016, at the age of 65. She cer­tain­ly was­n’t old, by the stan­dards of our time, though in most pro­fes­sions, her best work­ing years would already have been behind her. She was, how­ev­er, an archi­tect, and by age 65, most archi­tects are still very much in their prime. Take Rem Kool­haas, who today remains a leader of the Office of Met­ro­pol­i­tan Archi­tec­ture in his eight­ies — and who, back in the sev­en­ties, was one of Hadid’s teach­ers at the Archi­tec­tur­al Asso­ci­a­tion School of Archi­tec­ture in Lon­don. It was there that Kool­haas gave his promis­ing, uncon­ven­tion­al stu­dent the assign­ment of bas­ing a project on the art of Kaz­imir Male­vich.

Specif­i­cal­ly, as archi­tect Michael Wyet­zn­er explains in the new Archi­tec­tur­al Digest video above, Hadid had to adapt one of Male­vich’s “arkhitek­tons,” which were “objects that took his ideas of shapes that he used in his paint­ings” — the most wide­ly known among them being Black Square, from 1915, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture — “and turned them into a 3D piece.”

To under­stand Hadid’s for­ma­tion, then, we must go back to the ear­ly-twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry Rus­sia in which Male­vich oper­at­ed as an avant-garde artist, and in which he launched the move­ment he called Supre­ma­tism, whose name reflects “the idea that his art was con­cerned with the suprema­cy of pure feel­ing, as opposed to the rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the real world.”

As a pio­neer of “non-objec­tive” art, Male­vich did his part to inspire Hadid on her path to design­ing build­ings that come as close to abstrac­tion as tech­no­log­i­cal­ly pos­si­ble. In fact, dur­ing the ini­tial phas­es of Hadid’s career, what we think of as her sig­na­ture curve-inten­sive archi­tec­tur­al style — exem­pli­fied by build­ings like the Lon­don Aquat­ics Cen­tre and the Dong­dae­mun Design Plaza in Seoul — was­n’t tech­no­log­i­cal­ly pos­si­ble. Exam­in­ing her ear­ly paint­ings, such as the one of the arkhitek­ton-based bridge hotel she turned in to Kool­haas, or her first built projects like the Vit­ra Fire Sta­tion in Weil am Rhein, shows us how her ideas were already evolv­ing in direc­tions then prac­ti­cal­ly unthink­able in archi­tec­ture. Zaha Hadid has now been gone near­ly a decade, but her field is in many ways still catch­ing up with her.

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to the World-Renowned Archi­tect Zaha Hadid, “the Queen of the Curve”

The ABC of Archi­tects: An Ani­mat­ed Flip­book of Famous Archi­tects and Their Best-Known Build­ings

What Makes Kaz­imir Malevich’s Black Square (1915) Not Just Art, But Impor­tant Art

Every­thing You Need to Know About Mod­ern Russ­ian Art in 25 Min­utes: A Visu­al Intro­duc­tion to Futur­ism, Social­ist Real­ism & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

James Joyce, With His Eyesight Failing, Draws a Sketch of Leopold Bloom (1926)

James Joyce had a ter­ri­ble time with his eyes. When he was six years old he received his first set of eye­glass­es, and, when he was 25, he came down with his first case of iri­tis, a very painful and poten­tial­ly blind­ing inflam­ma­tion of the col­ored part of the eye, the iris. A short time lat­er, he named his new­born daugh­ter “Lucia,” after the patron saint of those with eye trou­bles.

For the rest of his life, Joyce had to endure a hor­rif­ic series of oper­a­tions and treat­ments for one or the oth­er of his eyes, includ­ing the removal of parts of the iris, a reshap­ing of the pupil, the appli­ca­tion of leech­es direct­ly on the eye to remove fluid–even the removal of all of Joyce’s teeth, on the the­o­ry that his recur­ring iri­tis was con­nect­ed with the bac­te­r­i­al infec­tion in his teeth, brought on by years of pover­ty and den­tal neglect.

After his sev­enth eye oper­a­tion on Decem­ber 5, 1925, accord­ing to Gor­don Bowk­er in James Joyce: A New Biog­ra­phy, Joyce was “unable to see lights, suf­fer­ing con­tin­u­al pain from the oper­a­tion, weep­ing oceans of tears, high­ly ner­vous, and unable to think straight. He was now depen­dent on kind peo­ple to see him across the road and hail taxis for him. All day, he lay on a couch in a state of com­plete depres­sion, want­i­ng to work but quite unable to do so.”

In ear­ly 1926, Joyce’s sight was improv­ing a lit­tle in one eye. It was about this time (Jan­u­ary 1926, accord­ing to one source) that Joyce paid a vis­it to his friend Myron C. Nut­ting, an Amer­i­can painter who had a stu­dio in the Mont­par­nasse sec­tion of Paris. To demon­strate his improv­ing vision, Joyce picked up a thick black pen­cil and made a few squig­gles on a sheet of paper, along with a car­i­ca­ture of a mis­chie­vous man in a bowler hat and a wide mus­tache–Leopold Bloom, the pro­tag­o­nist of Ulysses. Next to Bloom, Joyce wrote in Greek (“with a minor error in spelling and char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly skewed accents,” accord­ing to R. J. Schork in Greek and Hel­lenic Cul­ture in Joyce) the open­ing pas­sage  of Home­r’s Odyssey: “Tell me, muse, of that man of many turns, who wan­dered far and wide.”

NOTE: Joyce’s draw­ing of Bloom is now in the Charles Deer­ing McCormick Library of Spe­cial Col­lec­tions at North­west­ern Uni­ver­si­ty. Nut­ting was a sig­nif­i­cant source for the biog­ra­phy of Joyce that was writ­ten by Richard Ell­mann, a pro­fes­sor at North­west­ern. Accord­ing to Scott Krafft, a cura­tor at the library, Ell­mann bro­kered a deal in 1960 for the library to pur­chase Nut­ting’s oil paint­ings of James and Nora Joyce, his pas­tel draw­ings of the Joyce chil­dren Gior­gio and Lucia, along with Joyce’s sketch of Bloom, for a total of $500. The source for the Jan­u­ary 1926 date of the Bloom sketch is an arti­cle, “James Joyce…a quick sketch” from the July 1976 edi­tion of Foot­notes, pub­lished by the North­west­ern Uni­ver­si­ty Library Coun­cil. Our thanks to Scott Krafft.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Joyce: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to His Life and Lit­er­ary Works

What Makes James Joyce’s Ulysses a Mas­ter­piece: Great Books Explained

James Joyce’s Cray­on Cov­ered Man­u­script Pages for Ulysses and Finnegans Wake

Read the Orig­i­nal Seri­al­ized Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses (1918)

The Medieval Manuscript That Features “Yoda”, Killer Snails, Savage Rabbits & More: Discover The Smithfield Decretals

As much as you may enjoy a night in with a book, you might not look so eager­ly for­ward to it if that book com­prised 314 folios of 1,971 papal let­ters and oth­er doc­u­ments relat­ing to eccle­si­as­ti­cal law, all from the thir­teenth cen­tu­ry. Indeed, even many spe­cial­ists in the field would hes­i­tate to take on the chal­lenge of such a man­u­script in full. But what if we told you it comes with illus­tra­tions of demons run­ning amok, knights bat­tling snails, killer rab­bits and oth­er ani­mals tak­ing their revenge on human­i­ty, a dead ringer for Yoda, and the pen­i­tent har­lot Thäis?

These are just a few of the char­ac­ters that grace the pages of the Smith­field Dec­re­tals, the most visu­al­ly notable of all extant copies of the Dec­re­tales of Pope Gre­go­ry IX. When it was orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished as an already-illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­script in the 1230s, writes Spencer McDaniel at Tales of Times For­got­ten, “the mar­gins of the text were delib­er­ate­ly left blank by the orig­i­nal French scribes so that future own­ers of the text could add their own notes and anno­ta­tions.” Thus “the man­u­script would have orig­i­nal­ly had a lot of blank space in it, espe­cial­ly in the mar­gins.”

“At some point before around 1340, how­ev­er, the Smith­field Dec­re­tals fell into the pos­ses­sion of some­one in east­ern Eng­land, prob­a­bly in Lon­don, who paid a group of illus­tra­tors to add even more exten­sive illus­tra­tions to the text.”

They “drew elab­o­rate bor­ders and illus­tra­tions on every page of the man­u­script, near­ly com­plete­ly fill­ing up all the mar­gins,” adher­ing to the con­tem­po­rary “trend among man­u­script illus­tra­tors in east­ern Eng­land for draw­ing ‘drol­leries,’ which are bizarre, absurd, and humor­ous mar­gin­al illus­tra­tions.”

Bear­ing no direct rela­tion to the text of the Dec­re­tals, some of these elab­o­rate works of four­teenth-cen­tu­ry mar­gin­a­lia appear to tell sto­ries of their own. “These tales have ana­logues in a dizzy­ing vari­ety of tex­tu­al and visu­al sources, includ­ing the bible, hagiog­ra­phy, romance, preach­ers’ exem­pla, and fabli­au” (a humor­ous and risqué form of ear­ly French poet­ry), writes Alixe Bovey at the British Library’s medieval man­u­scripts blog. “Some of the nar­ra­tives have no sur­viv­ing lit­er­ary ana­logues; oth­ers con­sti­tute iso­lat­ed visu­al ren­di­tions of once-pop­u­lar tales.”

If you view the Smith­field Dec­re­tals’ illus­tra­tions here or in the British Library’s dig­i­ti­za­tion at the Inter­net Archive, you’ll also see the medieval satir­i­cal impulse at work. Take the afore­men­tioned, by now much-cir­cu­lat­ed “Yoda,” who, as McDaniel writes, “is prob­a­bly sup­posed to be a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the Dev­il as a pro­fes­sor of canon law.” It seems that “legal schol­ars in Mid­dle Ages had a sim­i­lar rep­u­ta­tion to lawyers today; they were seen as slimy, dis­hon­est, and more inter­est­ed in per­son­al gain than in jus­tice.” They might have been good for a cryp­tic turn of phrase, but those in need of benev­o­lent­ly dis­pensed wis­dom would have done bet­ter to ask else­where.

Relat­ed con­tent:

8th Cen­tu­ry Eng­lish­woman Scrib­bled Her Name & Drew Fun­ny Pic­tures in a Medieval Man­u­script, Accord­ing to New Cut­ting-Edge Tech­nol­o­gy

Why Knights Fought Snails in Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts

Killer Rab­bits in Medieval Man­u­scripts: Why So Many Draw­ings in the Mar­gins Depict Bun­nies Going Bad

Medieval Doo­dler Draws a “Rock­star Lady” in a Man­u­script of Boethius’ The Con­so­la­tion of Phi­los­o­phy (Cir­ca 1500)

Why Butt Trum­pets & Oth­er Bizarre Images Appeared in Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts

Make Your Own Medieval Memes with a New Tool from the Dutch Nation­al Library

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Man Ray’s Surrealist Cinema: Watch Four Pioneering Films From the 1920s

Man Ray was one of the lead­ing artists of the avant-garde of 1920s and 1930s Paris. A key fig­ure in the Dada and Sur­re­al­ist move­ments, his works spanned var­i­ous media, includ­ing film. He was a lead­ing expo­nent of the Ciné­ma Pur, or “Pure Cin­e­ma,” which reject­ed such “bour­geois” con­ceits as char­ac­ter, set­ting, and plot. Today we present Man Ray’s four influ­en­tial films of the 1920s.

Le Retour à la Rai­son (above) was com­plet­ed in 1923. The title means “Return to Rea­son,” and it’s basi­cal­ly a kinet­ic exten­sion of Man Ray’s still pho­tog­ra­phy. Many of the images in Le Retour are ani­mat­ed pho­tograms, a tech­nique in which opaque, or par­tial­ly opaque, objects are arranged direct­ly on top of a sheet of pho­to­graph­ic paper and exposed to light. The tech­nique is as old as pho­tog­ra­phy itself, but Man Ray had a gift for self-pro­mo­tion, so he called them “rayo­graphs.” For Le Retour, Man Ray sprin­kled objects like salt and pep­per and pins onto the pho­to­graph­ic paper. He also filmed live-action sequences of an amuse­ment park carousel and oth­er sub­jects, includ­ing the nude tor­so of his mod­el and lover, Kiki of Mont­par­nasse.

Emak-Bakia (1926):

The 16-minute Emak-Bakia con­tains some of the same images and visu­al tech­niques as Le Retour à la Rai­son, includ­ing rayo­graphs, dou­ble images, and neg­a­tive images. But the live-action sequences are more inven­tive, with dream-like dis­tor­tions and tilt­ed cam­era angles. The effect is sur­re­al. “In reply to crit­ics who would like to linger on the mer­its or defects of the film,” wrote Man Ray in the pro­gram notes, “one can reply sim­ply by trans­lat­ing the title ‘Emak Bakia,’ an old Basque expres­sion, which was cho­sen because it sounds pret­ty and means: ‘Give us a rest.’ ”

L’E­toile de Mer (1928):

L’E­toile de Mer (“The Sea Star”) was a col­lab­o­ra­tion between Man Ray and the sur­re­al­ist poet Robert Desnos. It fea­tures Kiki de Mont­par­nasse (Alice Prin) and André de la Riv­ière. The dis­tort­ed, out-of-focus images were made by shoot­ing into mir­rors and through rough glass. The film is more sen­su­al than Man Ray’s ear­li­er works. As Don­ald Faulkn­er writes:

In the mod­ernist high tide of 1920s exper­i­men­tal film­mak­ing, L’E­toile de Mer is a per­verse moment of grace, a demon­stra­tion that the cin­e­ma went far­ther in its great silent decade than most film­mak­ers today could ever imag­ine. Sur­re­al­ist pho­tog­ra­ph­er Man Ray’s film col­lides words with images (the inter­ti­tles are from an oth­er­wise lost work by poet Robert Desnos) to make us psy­cho­log­i­cal wit­ness­es, voyeurs of a kind, to a sex­u­al encounter. A char­ac­ter picks up a woman who is sell­ing news­pa­pers. She undress­es for him, but then he seems to leave her. Less inter­est­ed in her than in the weight she uses to keep her news­pa­pers from blow­ing away, the man lov­ing­ly explores the per­cep­tions gen­er­at­ed by her paper­weight, a starfish in a glass tube. As the man looks at the starfish, we become aware through his gaze of metaphors for cin­e­ma, and for vision itself, in lyri­cal shots of dis­tort­ed per­cep­tion that imply hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry, almost mas­tur­ba­to­ry sex­u­al­i­ty.

Les Mys­tères du Château de Dé (1929):

The longest of Man Ray’s films, Les Mys­tères du Château de Dé (the ver­sion above has appar­ent­ly been short­ened by sev­en min­utes) fol­lows a pair of trav­el­ers on a jour­ney from Paris to the Vil­la Noailles in Hyères, which fea­tures a tri­an­gu­lar Cubist gar­den designed by Gabriel Guevrekian. “Made as an archi­tec­tur­al doc­u­ment and inspired by the poet­ry of Mal­lar­mé,” writes Kim Knowles in A Cin­e­mat­ic Artist: The Films of Man Ray, “Les Mys­tères du Château de Dé is the film in which Man Ray most clear­ly demon­strates his inter­dis­ci­pli­nary atti­tude, par­tic­u­lar­ly in its ref­er­ence to Stéphane Mal­lar­mé’s poem Un coup de dés jamais n’aboli­ra le hasard.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in April, 2012.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Man Ray Designs a Supreme­ly Ele­gant, Geo­met­ric Chess Set in 1920 (and It’s Now Re-Issued for the Rest of Us)

Man Ray Cre­ates a “Sur­re­al­ist Chess­board,” Fea­tur­ing Por­traits of Sur­re­al­ist Icons: Dalí, Bre­ton, Picas­so, Magritte, Miró & Oth­ers (1934)

Man Ray’s Por­traits of Ernest Hem­ing­way, Ezra Pound, Mar­cel Duchamp & Many Oth­er 1920s Icons

Four Sur­re­al­ist Films From the 1920Watch Dreams That Mon­ey Can Buy, a Sur­re­al­ist Film by Man Ray, Mar­cel Duchamp, Alexan­der Calder, Fer­nand Léger & Hans Richter

An Introduction to The Garden of Earthly Delights & Hieronymus Bosch’s Wildly Creative Vision

Hierony­mus Bosch’s mas­ter­piece of grotes­querie, The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights, con­tains a young God, Adam and Eve, over­sized fruits and musi­cal instru­ments, owls, tor­tured sin­ners, some­thing called a “tree man” whose body con­tains an entire tav­ern, a defe­cat­ing avian dev­il eat­ing a human being, and “frol­ick­ing, obliv­i­ous fig­ures engaged in all sorts of car­nal plea­sures,” as art his­to­ri­an Beth Har­ris puts it in the new Smarthis­to­ry video above. Through­out its fif­teen min­utes, she and her col­league Steven Zuck­er explain as much as pos­si­ble of this jam-packed trip­tych — not that even a life­time would be long enough to under­stand it ful­ly.

“Bosch con­founds our abil­i­ty to even talk about what we see,” says Har­ris. “His imag­i­na­tion has run wild. He’s just invent­ed so many things here that we could nev­er even have thought about in our wildest imag­i­na­tions.” Zuck­er cites one art-his­to­ry the­o­ry that this trip­tych rep­re­sents Bosch’s attempt to “ele­vate the visu­al arts to the lev­el of cre­ativ­i­ty that was per­mit­ted in lit­er­a­ture.”

Even in Bosch’s late fif­teenth and ear­ly six­teenth cen­turies, writ­ers had an envi­ably free hand in choos­ing and pre­sent­ing their sub­ject mat­ter; because the direct­ly rep­re­sen­ta­tive form of paint­ing, by con­trast, “had always been at the ser­vice of reli­gion, it was inher­ent­ly more con­ser­v­a­tive.”

It’s entire­ly pos­si­ble — and oth­er analy­ses pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here at Open Cul­ture have argued it – that Bosch, too, was work­ing at the ser­vice of reli­gion. But it could also be that The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights, in its vast mid­dle pan­el, tells “an alter­nate sto­ry,” as Zuck­er puts it. “What if the temp­ta­tion had not tak­en place? What if Adam and Eve had remained inno­cent, and had pop­u­lat­ed the world? And so, is it pos­si­ble that what we’re see­ing is that real­i­ty, played out in Bosch’s imag­i­na­tion?” Not that such a vision would have read­i­ly been accept­ed in the artist’s own time and place — nor that his inten­tions alone could lead us to a com­plete inter­pre­ta­tion of his work. As any nov­el­ist knows, some­times your char­ac­ters sim­ply take over, and it could hard­ly have been with­in even Bosch’s pow­ers to deny the desires of a cast so teem­ing and bizarre.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Mean­ing of Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Explained

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

Hierony­mus Bosch’s Medieval Paint­ing, “The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights,” Comes to Life in a Gigan­tic, Mod­ern Ani­ma­tion

The Mean­ing of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Spell­bind­ing Trip­tych The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights

The Musi­cal Instru­ments in Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Get Brought to Life, and It Turns Out That They Sound “Painful” and “Hor­ri­ble”

A Dig­i­tal Archive of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Com­plete Works: Zoom In & Explore His Sur­re­al Art

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

When Salvador Dalí Created a Chilling Anti-Venereal Disease Poster During World War II

As a New York City sub­way rid­er, I am con­stant­ly exposed to pub­lic health posters. More often than not these fea­ture a pho­to of a whole­some-look­ing teen whose sober expres­sion is meant to con­vey hind­sight regret at hav­ing tak­en up drugs, dropped out of school, or for­gone con­doms. They’re well-intend­ed, but bor­ing. I can’t imag­ine I’d feel dif­fer­ent­ly were I a mem­ber of the tar­get demo­graph­ic. The Chelsea Mini Stor­age ads’ saucy region­al humor is far more enter­tain­ing, as is the train wreck design approach favored by the ubiq­ui­tous Dr. Jonathan Ziz­mor. 

Pub­lic health posters were able to con­vey their des­ig­nat­ed hor­rors far more mem­o­rably before pho­tos became the graph­i­cal norm. Take Sal­vador Dalí’s sketch (below) and final con­tri­bu­tion (top) to the WWII-era anti-vene­re­al dis­ease cam­paign.

Which image would cause you to steer clear of the red light dis­trict, were you a young sol­dier on the make?

A por­trait of a glum fel­low sol­dier (“If I’d only known then…”)?

Or a grin­ning green death’s head, whose chop­pers dou­ble as the frankly exposed thighs of two face­less, loose-breast­ed ladies?

Cre­at­ed in 1941, Dalí’s night­mare vision eschewed the sort of man­ly, mil­i­taris­tic slo­gan that retroac­tive­ly ramps up the kitsch val­ue of its ilk. Its mes­sage is clear enough with­out:

Stick it in—we’ll bite it off!

(Thanks to blog­ger Rebec­ca M. Ben­der for point­ing out the composition’s resem­blance to the vagi­na den­ta­ta.)

As a fem­i­nist, I’m not crazy about depic­tions of women as pesti­len­tial, one-way death­traps, but I con­cede that, in this instance, sub­vert­ing the girlie pin up’s explic­it­ly phys­i­cal plea­sures might well have had the desired effect on horny enlist­ed men.

A decade lat­er Dalí would col­lab­o­rate with pho­tog­ra­ph­er Philippe Hals­man on “In Volup­tas Mors,” stack­ing sev­en nude mod­els like cheer­lead­ers to form a peace­time skull that’s far less threat­en­ing to the male fig­ure in the low­er left cor­ner (in this instance, the very dap­per Dalí him­self).

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

What Makes Sal­vador Dalí’s Icon­ic Sur­re­al­ist Paint­ing “The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry” a Great Work of Art

When Sal­vador Dali Met Sig­mund Freud, and Changed Freud’s Mind About Sur­re­al­ism (1938)

When The Sur­re­al­ists Expelled Sal­vador Dalí for “the Glo­ri­fi­ca­tion of Hit­ler­ian Fas­cism” (1934)

Des­ti­no: The Sal­vador Dalí — Walt Dis­ney Ani­ma­tion That Took 57 Years to Com­plete

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.

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Historian Answers Burning Questions About The Renaissance

Cour­tesy of Wired, his­to­ri­an Alexan­der Bevilac­qua (Williams Col­lege) answers the inter­net’s burn­ing ques­tions about the cul­tur­al rebirth that came to be known as The Renais­sance. In 30+ min­utes, Bevilac­qua cov­ers an array of ques­tions, includ­ing: When did The Renais­sance begin? What exact­ly was the Renais­sance? Why do paint­ings like the Mona Lisa and The Birth of Venus remain so famous cen­turies lat­er? What did peo­ple’s diets con­sist of dur­ing The Renais­sance? How was their hygiene? How did Brunelleschi build a dome in Flo­rence that defied grav­i­ty? What is inside Leonar­do da Vin­ci’s note­books? And the ques­tions go on…

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Michelangelo’s David: The Fas­ci­nat­ing Sto­ry Behind the Renais­sance Mar­ble Cre­ation

How the World’s Biggest Dome Was Built: The Sto­ry of Fil­ip­po Brunelleschi and the Duo­mo in Flo­rence

What Makes Leonardo’s Mona Lisa a Great Paint­ing?: An Expla­na­tion in 15 Min­utes

How to Build Leonar­do da Vinci’s Inge­nious Self-Sup­port­ing Bridge: Renais­sance Inno­va­tions You Can Still Enjoy Today

Renais­sance Knives Had Music Engraved on the Blades & Now You Can Hear the Songs Per­formed by Mod­ern Singers

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Note­books Get Dig­i­tized: Where to Read the Renais­sance Man’s Man­u­scripts Online

Machiavelli’s The Prince Explained in an Illus­trat­ed Film

Carl Jung’s Hand-Drawn, Rarely-Seen Manuscript The Red Book

Despite his one-time friend and men­tor Sig­mund Freud’s enor­mous impact on West­ern self-under­stand­ing, I would argue it is Carl Jung who is still most with us in our com­mu­nal prac­tices: from his focus on intro­ver­sion and extro­ver­sion to his view of syn­cret­ic, intu­itive forms of spir­i­tu­al­i­ty and his indi­rect influ­ence on 12-Step pro­grams. But Jung’s jour­ney to self-under­stand­ing and what he called “indi­vid­u­a­tion” was an intense­ly pri­vate, per­son­al affair that took place over the course of six­teen years, dur­ing which he cre­at­ed an incred­i­ble, folio-sized work of reli­gious art called The Red Book: Liber Novus. In the video above, you can get a tour through Jung’s pri­vate mas­ter­piece, pre­sent­ed in an intense­ly hushed, breathy style meant to trig­ger the tingly sen­sa­tions of a weird phe­nom­e­non called “ASMR.” Giv­en the book’s dis­ori­ent­ing and often dis­turb­ing con­tent, this over-gen­tle guid­ance seems appro­pri­ate.

After his break with Freud in 1913, when he was 38 years old, Jung had what he feared might be a psy­chot­ic break with real­i­ty as well. He began record­ing his dreams, mys­ti­cal visions, and psy­che­del­ic inner voy­ages, in a styl­ized, cal­li­graph­ic style that resem­bles medieval Euro­pean illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­scripts and the occult psy­chic jour­neys of Aleis­ter Crow­ley and William Blake.

Jung had the work bound but not pub­lished. It’s “a very per­son­al record,” writes Psy­chol­o­gy Today, “of Jung’s com­pli­cat­ed, tor­tu­ous and lengthy quest to sal­vage his soul.” Jung called this process of cre­ation the “numi­nous begin­ning” to his most impor­tant psy­cho­log­i­cal work. After many years spent locked in a bank vault, The Red Book final­ly came to light a few years ago and was trans­lat­ed and pub­lished in an expen­sive edi­tion.

Since its com­ple­tion, Jung’s book—a “holy grail of the uncon­scious”—has fas­ci­nat­ed artists, psy­chol­o­gists, occultists, and ordi­nary peo­ple seek­ing to know their own inner depths. For most of that time, it remained hid­den from view. Now, even if you can’t afford a copy of the book, you can still see more of it than most any­one else could for almost 100 years. In addi­tion to the whis­pered tour of it above, you can see sev­er­al fine­ly illus­trat­ed pages—with sea ser­pents, angels, runes, and mandalas—at The Guardian, and read a short excerpt at NPR.

And for a very thor­ough sur­vey of Jung’s book, lis­ten to the lec­ture series by long­time Jung schol­ar Dr. Lance S. Owens, who deliv­ers one set of talks for lay peo­ple and anoth­er more in-depth set for a group of clin­i­cal psy­chol­o­gists. Vis­it the Gnos­tic Soci­ety Library site to stream and down­load the remain­ing lec­tures.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Enter an Archive of William Blake’s Fan­tas­ti­cal “Illu­mi­nat­ed Books”: The Images Are Sub­lime, and in High Res­o­lu­tion

How Carl Jung Inspired the Cre­ation of Alco­holics Anony­mous

Carl Jung on the Pow­er of Tarot Cards: They Pro­vide Door­ways to the Uncon­scious & Per­haps a Way to Pre­dict the Future

Carl Jung’s Fas­ci­nat­ing 1957 Let­ter on UFOs

The Famous Break Up of Sig­mund Freud & Carl Jung Explained in a New Ani­mat­ed Video

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

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