William Blake’s 102 Illustrations of The Divine Comedy Collected in a Beautiful Book from Taschen

In his book on the Tarot, Ale­jan­dro Jodor­owsky describes the Her­mit card as rep­re­sent­ing mid-life, a “pos­i­tive cri­sis,” a mid­dle point in time; “between life and death, in a con­tin­u­al cri­sis, I hold up my lit lamp — my con­scious­ness,” says the Her­mit, while con­fronting the unknown. The fig­ure recalls the image of Dante in the open­ing lines of the Divine Com­e­dy. In Mandelbaum’s trans­la­tion at Columbi­a’s Dig­i­tal Dante, we see evi­dent sim­i­lar­i­ties:

When I had jour­neyed half of our life’s way,
I found myself with­in a shad­owed for­est,
for I had lost the path that does not stray.

Ah, it is hard to speak of what it was,
that sav­age for­est, dense and dif­fi­cult,
which even in recall renews my fear:

so bitter—death is hard­ly more severe!

This is not to say the lit­er­ary Dante and occult Her­meti­cism are his­tor­i­cal­ly relat­ed; only they emerged from the same matrix, a medieval Catholic Europe steeped in mys­te­ri­ous sym­bols. The Her­mit is a por­tent, mes­sen­ger, and guide, an aspect rep­re­sent­ed by the poet Vir­gil, whom William Blake — in 102 water­col­or illus­tra­tions made between 1824 and 1827 — dressed in blue to rep­re­sent spir­it, while Dante wears his usu­al red — the col­or, in Blake’s sys­tem, of expe­ri­ence.

Blake did not read the Divine Com­e­dy as a medieval Catholic believ­er but as a vision­ary 18th and 19th cen­tu­ry Eng­lish artist and poet who invent­ed his own reli­gion. He “taught him­self Ital­ian in order to be able to read the orig­i­nal” and had a “ com­plex rela­tion­ship” with the text, writes Dante schol­ar Sil­via De San­tis.

His inter­pre­ta­tion drew from a “wide­spread ‘selec­tive use’” of the poet,” dat­ing from 16th cen­tu­ry Eng­lish Protes­tant read­ings which saw Dante’s satir­i­cal skew­er­ing of cor­rupt indi­vid­u­als as indict­ments of the insti­tu­tions they rep­re­sent — the church and state for which Blake had no love.

Approach­ing the project at the end of his life, not the mid­dle, Blake drew pri­mar­i­ly on themes that Dante schol­ar Robin Kil­patrick describes as a “search­ing analy­sis of all of the polit­i­cal and eco­nom­ic fac­tors that had destroyed Flo­rence .… Hell is a diag­no­sis of what, in so many ways, can prove to be divi­sive in human nature. Sin, for Dante, is not trans­gres­sion of an ordi­nary kind … against some law… it’s a trans­gres­sion against love.”

Blake died before he could fin­ish the series, com­mis­sioned by his friend John Lin­nell in 1824. He had intend­ed to engrave all 102 illus­tra­tions, con­ceived, he wrote, “dur­ing a fort­night’s ill­ness in bed.” You can see all of his stun­ning water­col­ors online here and find them lov­ing­ly repro­duced in a new book pub­lished by Taschen with essays by Blake and Dante experts, help­ing con­tex­tu­al­ize two poets who found a com­mon lan­guage across a span of 500 years. The book, orig­i­nal­ly priced at $150, now sells for $40. A beau­ti­ful XL edi­tion sells at a high­er price.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rarely-Seen Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy Are Now Free Online, Cour­tesy of the Uffizi Gallery

A Dig­i­tal Archive of the Ear­li­est Illus­trat­ed Edi­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1487–1568)

Explore Divine Com­e­dy Dig­i­tal, a New Dig­i­tal Data­base That Col­lects Sev­en Cen­turies of Art Inspired by Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy

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

Tove Jansson, Beloved Creator of the Moomins, Illustrates The Hobbit

What is a Hob­bit? A few char­ac­ters in J.R.R Tolkien’s clas­sic work of children’s fan­ta­sy won­der them­selves about the diminu­tive title char­ac­ters who don’t get out much. Tolkien describes them thor­ough­ly, a hand­ful of well-known British and Amer­i­can actors immor­tal­ized them on screen, but the last word on what a Hob­bit looks like belongs to the read­er. Or — in an edi­tion as rich­ly illus­trat­ed as the Swedish and Finnish edi­tions of the book were in 1962 and 1973 — to the Swedish/Finnish artist, Tove Jans­son, most famous for her cre­ation of inter­na­tion­al­ly beloved children’s char­ac­ters, the Moomins.

Like Bil­bo Bag­gins him­self, The Hob­bit is full of sur­pris­es — while pre­sent­ing itself as a book for kids, it con­tains adult lessons one nev­er out­grows. So, too, was Jans­son, “an acer­bic and wit­ty anti-fas­cist car­toon­ist dur­ing the Sec­ond World War,” write James Williams at Apol­lo.

“She wrote a pic­ture book for chil­dren about the immi­nent end of the world and spare, ten­der fic­tion for adults about love and fam­i­ly.” Jans­son had exact­ly the sen­si­bil­i­ty to bridge Tolkien’s worlds of imag­i­na­tive fan­cy and adult dan­ger and moral ambi­gu­i­ty. But first, she want­ed to cast off all asso­ci­a­tions with her most famous cre­ation.

As Jans­son wrote to a friend when she end­ed the Moomins, “I nev­er spare them a thought now it’s over. I’ve com­plete­ly drawn a line under all that. Just as you wouldn’t want to think back on a time you had a toothache.” The Moomins were a cre­ative mill­stone, and she strug­gled to get their style from around her neck.

“This led to an attempt to change the way in which she drew,” notes Moomin.com. “Tove tried dif­fer­ent tech­niques and drew each fig­ure freely again and again 20–60 times until she was hap­py with the result. From the book vignette illus­tra­tions, it is impos­si­ble to notice how the indi­vid­ual fig­ures are past­ed togeth­er into ‘a patch­work’ that made up each vignette.”

Despite her best efforts to escape her pre­vi­ous char­ac­ters, how­ev­er, “the major­i­ty of the full-page illus­tra­tions fol­low the char­ac­ter­is­tic style of Tove’s illus­tra­tions for the Moomin books.” Her own reser­va­tions aside, this is all to the good as Jansson’s Moomin books and com­ic strips were built from the same mix of sen­si­bil­i­ty — child­like won­der, grown-up ethics, and a respect for the deep ecol­o­gy of myth. Both Tolkien and Jans­son wrote dur­ing, after, and in response to Hitler’s rise to pow­er and drew on “a Nordic folk tra­di­tion of trolls and forests, light and dark,” writes Williams. But Jans­son brought her own artis­tic vision to The Hob­bit. See more of her illus­tra­tions at Lithub.

via LitHub

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sub­lime Alice in Won­der­land Illus­tra­tions of Tove Jans­son, Cre­ator of the Glob­al­ly-Beloved Moomins (1966)

Before Cre­at­ing the Moomins, Tove Jans­son Drew Satir­i­cal Art Mock­ing Hitler & Stal­in

The Only Draw­ing from Mau­rice Sendak’s Short-Lived Attempt to Illus­trate The Hob­bit

Illus­tra­tions Of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hob­bit from the Sovi­et Union (1976)

A Restored Vermeer Painting Reveals a Portrait of a Cupid Hidden for Over 350 Years

Botched art restora­tions make good head­lines, but rarely are we asked to con­sid­er if a posthu­mous change to a great mas­ter’s work rep­re­sents an improve­ment. And yet, when images of a restored Girl Read­ing a Let­ter at an Open Win­dow by Jan Ver­meer cir­cu­lat­ed recent­ly, the world had the chance to com­pare the restored orig­i­nal paint­ing, at the left, with an unknown painter’s revi­sion, long thought to be Ver­meer’s work. (Click here to view the paint­ings side by side in a larg­er for­mat.) Sev­er­al peo­ple announced that they pre­ferred the doc­tored paint­ing on the right, first attrib­uted to Ver­meer in 1880 (and pre­vi­ous­ly attrib­uted to Dutch mas­ters Rem­brandt and Hals).

As con­ser­va­tors found at the con­clu­sion of a restora­tion project begun in 2017, it is the paint­ing on the left that Ver­meer intend­ed as his final state­ment on the sub­ject of a girl read­ing a let­ter at an open win­dow. That paint­ing puts the sub­ject in a very dif­fer­ent light. The naked Cupid behind the young woman — in place of an ambigu­ous­ly dour patch of beige — revis­es over a cen­tu­ry of art his­tor­i­cal inter­pre­ta­tion. “With the recov­ery of Cupid in the back­ground, the actu­al inten­tion of the Delft painter becomes rec­og­niz­able,” says Stephan Koja, direc­tor of the Old Mas­ters Pic­ture Gallery.

Art his­to­ri­ans and con­ser­va­tors had long known the oth­er paint­ing was under­neath, hav­ing dis­cov­ered it via X‑ray in 1979. But they assumed it was Ver­meer him­self who made the change. “As it was not uncom­mon for artists to paint over their work,” My Mod­ern Met writes, “schol­ars ini­tial­ly accept­ed that Ver­meer had sim­ply changed his mind and decid­ed to keep the wall bare.” Instead, thanks to the 2017 restora­tion project, “researchers were able to con­clude that the over­paint­ing was com­plet­ed over sev­er­al decades after the can­vas was fin­ished.”

“Ver­meer often incor­po­rat­ed emp­ty back­grounds in his genre paint­ings,” a fea­ture that has become some­thing of a hall­mark thanks to the fame of paint­ings like The Milk­maid. This is one rea­son the Cupid went under­cov­er for so long, despite an unbal­anced com­po­si­tion with­out it. But Ver­meer also incor­po­rat­ed back­grounds filled with art, includ­ing the same Cupid paint­ing, which appears in his less­er known A Young Woman Stand­ing at a Vir­ginal and may have been a paint­ing he him­self owned. “There has been much spec­u­la­tion,” the Nation­al Gallery notes, that this paint­ing (and anoth­er, sim­i­lar­ly titled work) rep­re­sent “fideli­ty” and “a venal, mer­ce­nary approach to love.” What approach might be sug­gest­ed by the new­ly restored Girl Read­ing a Let­ter at an Open Win­dow?

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

See the Com­plete Works of Ver­meer in Aug­ment­ed Real­i­ty: Google Makes Them Avail­able on Your Smart­phone

A 10 Bil­lion Pix­el Scan of Vermeer’s Mas­ter­piece Girl with a Pearl Ear­ring: Explore It Online

A Gallery of 1,800 Gigapix­el Images of Clas­sic Paint­ings: See Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Ear­ring, Van Gogh’s Star­ry Night & Oth­er Mas­ter­pieces in Close Detail

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

What Makes Rodin’s The Thinker a Great Sculpture: An Introduction to Rodin Life, Craft & Iconic Work

Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker exists in about 28 full-size bronze casts, each approx­i­mate­ly 73 inch­es high, in muse­ums around the world, as well as sev­er­al dozen cast­ings of small­er size and plas­ter mod­els and stud­ies. The Thinker also exists as one of the most copied and par­o­died art­works in world his­to­ry, per­haps because of its ubiq­ui­ty. “Unfor­tu­nate­ly,” Joseph Phe­lan writes at the Art­cy­clo­pe­dia, “there is a side of Rodin’s work that has become kitsch through cheap repro­duc­tions and com­mer­cial rip-offs.”

In pop­u­lar inter­pre­ta­tions, The Thinker rep­re­sents philo­soph­i­cal abstrac­tion. But Rodin’s fig­ure doesn’t con­tem­plate Plato’s forms or Kant’s cat­e­gories. He dreams of hell, and brings a vision of eter­nal tor­ment into being. He is a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the poet Dante (hence his orig­i­nal name, The Poet) in Rodin’s most ambi­tious mas­ter­work, The Gates of Hell, made on com­mis­sion from the Muse­um of Dec­o­ra­tive Arts in Paris. The sub­ject, “bas-reliefs rep­re­sent­ing The Divine Com­e­dy,” was “sure­ly sug­gest­ed by Rodin him­self, as he was an avid read­er of Dante,” the Asso­ci­a­tion for Pub­lic Art points out.

Divorced from its orig­i­nal con­text — a work begun in 1880 and only com­plet­ed after the artist’s death in 1917 — The Thinker becomes “a uni­ver­sal image,” the Nation­al Gallery of Art writes — one that “reveals in phys­i­cal terms the men­tal effort and even phys­i­cal anguish of cre­ativ­i­ty.” As Rodin him­self put it, “what makes my Thinker think is that he thinks not only with his brain, with his knit­ted brow, his dis­tend­ed nos­trils and com­pressed lips, but with every mus­cle of his arms, back, and legs, with his clenched fist and grip­ping toes.” If we can see his thought­ful pos­ture with fresh eyes, we’ll notice his extreme stress, ten­sion, and pain.

Rodin worked on The Gates of Hell for the final 37 years of his life, and didn’t live to see it cast in full dur­ing his life­time. The mas­sive bronze doors — which also pro­duced such famous Rodin sculp­tures as The Three Shades and The Kiss — con­tain around 200 indi­vid­ual fig­ures and groups of suf­fer­ers from the Infer­no. “For Rodin,” notes the Rodin Muse­um, “the chaot­ic pop­u­la­tion on The Gates of Hell enjoyed only one final free­dom — the abil­i­ty to express their agony with com­plete aban­don … The fig­ures on the doors poignant­ly and heart-rend­ing evoke uni­ver­sal human emo­tions and expe­ri­ences.”

While hell’s denizens writhe and burn below him, The Thinker, perched atop the door, curls in on him­self with the strain of imag­i­na­tion. What­ev­er his orig­i­nal inspi­ra­tion, he came unglued from the Infer­no, his mod­u­lar nature part of the sculptor’s orig­i­nal design. The Thinker is Dante, but also “in a very real sense,” the Met writes, “The Thinker is Rodin. Brutish­ly mus­cled yet engrossed in thought, coiled in ten­sion yet loose in repose.” As a uni­ver­sal sym­bol for con­tem­pla­tion, he is also an image of bring­ing art into being through the sheer force of one’s mind.

Rodin, after all, “nev­er pro­duced a work of plas­ter, bronze, or even mar­ble with his own hands,” says the Great Art Explained video above, pre­fer­ring “an indus­tri­al approach to pro­duc­ing art” that meant a  super­vi­so­ry role over crews of work­ers, rais­ing ques­tions about “authen­tic­i­ty and orig­i­nal­i­ty.” Per­haps Rodin “shows us that an artist should be judged by what’s in his head, not in his hands,” but The Thinker shows us that what’s in the head is also in the hands, the gnarled back, tense sinewy arms, and curled up toes.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Rare Film of Sculp­tor Auguste Rodin Work­ing at His Stu­dio in Paris (1915)

A Free Online Course on Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy from Yale Uni­ver­si­ty

Watch 1915 Video of Mon­et, Renoir, Rodin & Degas: The New Motion Pic­ture Cam­era Cap­tures the Inno­v­a­tive Artists

The Sto­ry Behind Rodin’s ‘The Kiss’

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

MoMA’s Online Courses Let You Study Modern & Contemporary Art and Earn a Certificate

The labels “mod­ern art” and “con­tem­po­rary art” don’t eas­i­ly pull apart from one anoth­er. In a strict­ly his­tor­i­cal sense, the for­mer refers to art pro­duced in the era we call moder­ni­ty, begin­ning in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry. And accord­ing to its ety­mol­o­gy, the lat­ter refers to art pro­duced at the same time as some­thing else: there is art “con­tem­po­rary” with, say, the Ital­ian Renais­sance, but also art “con­tem­po­rary” with our own lives. You’ll have a much clear­er idea of this dis­tinc­tion — and of what peo­ple mean when they use the rel­e­vant terms today — if you take the Mod­ern and Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion, a set of cours­es from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (aka MoMA) in New York.

Offered on the online edu­ca­tion plat­form Cours­era, the Mod­ern and Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion promis­es to “intro­duce you to the art of our time.” In its first course, Mod­ern Art & Ideas, you’ll learn “how artists have tak­en inspi­ra­tion from their envi­ron­ment and respond­ed to social issues over the past 150 years.”

In the sec­ond, See­ing through Pho­tographs (whose trail­er appears above), you’ll explore pho­tog­ra­phy “from its ori­gins in the mid-1800s through the present.” The third, What Is Con­tem­po­rary Art?, intro­duces works of the past four decades “rang­ing from 3‑D-print­ed glass and fiber sculp­tures to per­for­mances in a fac­to­ry.” The final course, Fash­ion as Design, affords the oppor­tu­ni­ty to “learn from mak­ers work­ing with cloth­ing every day — and, in some cas­es, rein­vent­ing it for the future.”

You can view the entire Con­tem­po­rary Art and Design Spe­cial­iza­tion for free, by “audit­ing” its cours­es. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can join the paid track, which costs $39 USD per month, which at Cours­er­a’s sug­gest­ed pace of sev­en months to com­plete (includ­ing a “hands-on project” for each course) comes out to $273 over­all. Then, when you fin­ish the spe­cial­iza­tion, you’ll “earn a Cer­tifi­cate that you can share with prospec­tive employ­ers and your pro­fes­sion­al net­work.” Whet­her you go the audit or cer­tifi­cate route, you’ll earn an under­stand­ing of “mod­ern art” and “con­tem­po­rary art” as they’re cre­at­ed and regard­ed here in the 21st cen­tu­ry: the era deep into moder­ni­ty in which we live, and one in which the bound­aries of art itself — not just the adjec­tives pre­ced­ing it — show no sign of ceas­ing to expand.

Note: Open Cul­ture has a part­ner­ship with Cours­era. If read­ers enroll in cer­tain Cours­era cours­es and pro­grams, it helps sup­port Open Cul­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take Sev­en Free Cours­es From the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (aka MoMA)

What Is Con­tem­po­rary Art?: A Free Online Course from The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art

The Muse­um of Mod­ern Art (MoMA) Presents a Free Online Class on Fash­ion: Enroll in Fash­ion as Design Today

How to Make a Sav­ile Row Suit: A Short Doc­u­men­tary from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art

Art His­to­ri­an Pro­vides Hilar­i­ous & Sur­pris­ing­ly Effi­cient Art His­to­ry Lessons on Tik­Tok

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

360 Degree Virtual Tours of the Hagia Sophia

Last year, when Turk­ish pres­i­dent Recep Tayyip Erdoğan announced that Hagia Sophia would be recon­vert­ed into a mosque, he assured a con­cerned UNESCO that changes to the 1,500-year-old for­mer cathe­dral-turned-mosque would have “no neg­a­tive impact” on its sta­tus as World Her­itage Site. “A state must make sure that no mod­i­fi­ca­tion under­mines the out­stand­ing uni­ver­sal val­ue of a site list­ed on its ter­ri­to­ry,” the world body has said. Claims to the con­trary notwith­stand­ing, the “uni­ver­sal val­ue” of the site does seem to have been under­mined.

Des­ig­nat­ed a muse­um by the sec­u­lar Turk­ish Repub­lic in 1934, the site con­tains hun­dreds of years of his­to­ry for both the Chris­t­ian and Islam­ic worlds, and the shared her­itage between them in the shift­ing mix of peo­ples who con­quered, set­tled, and moved through the city first called Byzan­tium, then Con­stan­tino­ple, then Istan­bul.

“The World Her­itage site was at the cen­tre of both the Chris­t­ian Byzan­tine and Mus­lim Ottoman empires and is today one of Turkey’s most vis­it­ed mon­u­ments,” Reuters not­ed last year.

The mosque is open to the pub­lic for prayers, and any­one can vis­it. What they’ll find — as you can see in this recent tour video — is ugly green car­pet­ing cov­er­ing the floor, and screens, pan­els, and ply­wood obscur­ing the Byzan­tine Chris­t­ian art. (The same thing was done in the small­er Hagia Sophia in the city of Tra­b­zon.) These changes are not only dis­tress­ing for UNESCO, but also for lovers of art and his­to­ry around the world, myself includ­ed, who had hoped to one day see the mil­len­nia-and-a-half of blend­ed reli­gious and aes­thet­ic tra­di­tions for them­selves.

It’s pos­si­ble Turk­ish pol­i­tics will allow Hagia Sophia to return to its sta­tus as a muse­um in the future, restor­ing its “uni­ver­sal val­ue” for world his­to­ry and cul­ture. If not, we can still vis­it the space vir­tu­al­ly — as it was until last year — in the 360 degree video views above, both of which allow you to look around in any direc­tion as they play. You can also swiv­el around a spher­i­cal panoram­ic image at 360 cities.

The BBC video at the top nar­rates some of the sig­nif­i­cant fea­tures of the incred­i­ble build­ing, once the largest church in the world, includ­ing its “col­ored mar­ble from around the Roman Empire” and “10,000 square meters of gold mosa­ic.” Learn much more about Hagia Sophia his­to­ry in the video above from Khan Academy’s exec­u­tive direc­tors (and for­mer deans of art and his­to­ry), Dr. Steven Zuck­er and Dr. Beth Har­ris.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

An Intro­duc­tion to Hagia Sophia: After 85 Years as a Muse­um, It’s Set to Become a Mosque Again

Hear the Sound of the Hagia Sophia Recre­at­ed in Authen­tic Byzan­tine Chant

Istan­bul Cap­tured in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images from 1890: The Hagia Sophia, Top­ka­ki Palace’s Impe­r­i­al Gate & More

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

Banksy’s Great British Spraycation: The Artist Spray Paints England’s Favorite Summer-Holiday Destinations

“We’re all going on a sum­mer hol­i­day / no more work­ing for a week or two,” sings Cliff Richard in one of his most famous songs. “Fun and laugh­ter on a sum­mer hol­i­day / no more wor­ries for me or you.” Like The Bea­t­les’ ultra-north­ern “When I’m Six­ty-Four,” with its cot­tage rentals on the Isle of Wight (“if it’s not too dear”), Richard’s “Sum­mer Hol­i­day” dates from a time in Britain when tourism was, as a rule, domes­tic. And so it has become again over the past cou­ple of years, what with the coro­n­avirus pan­dem­ic and its severe cur­tail­ment of inter­na­tion­al trav­el. Ever tuned in to cur­rent events, the pseu­do­ny­mous graf­fi­ti artist Banksy has tak­en the oppor­tu­ni­ty to go on a “Great British Spray­ca­tion.”

This was a bus­man­’s hol­i­day for Banksy, who appears to have had a detailed plan of exact­ly which east-coast resort towns to vis­it, and exact­ly where in each of them to sur­rep­ti­tious­ly cre­ate anoth­er of his sig­na­ture pieces of high-con­trast satir­i­cal art.

“The sten­ciled pieces are often inte­grat­ed with repur­posed objects from the area, high­light­ing the pre-planned and per­fect­ly posi­tioned nature of the work,” writes Design­boom’s Kat Barandy. “In Low­est­oft, a mas­sive seag­ull dines on a box of ‘chips’ ren­dered by a dump­ster filled with insu­la­tion mate­r­i­al. Near­by a child is depict­ed build­ing a sand­cas­tle with a crow­bar, front­ed by a mound of sand on the pave­ment.”

That work, Arts Uni­ver­si­ty Bournemouth pro­fes­sor Paul Gough tells the BBC for its guide to the Great British Spray­ca­tion, may be a ref­er­ence to the 1968 Paris stu­dent upris­ing and its slo­gan “Sous les pavés, la plage!” You can see these and oth­er fresh works doc­u­ment­ed in the video at the top of the post, which also catch­es the reac­tions of pass­ing locals and tourists. “That looks all like mind­less van­dal­ism, that,” says one woman, artic­u­lat­ing a com­mon assess­ment of Banksy’s artis­tic state­ments. “It looks a lot bet­ter from far away than it does when you get this close,” says anoth­er. But the most telling com­ment, in a vari­ety of respects, comes from a man regard­ing Banksy’s addi­tion of a car­toon­ish tongue and ice cream cone to the stat­ue of 19th-cen­tu­ry may­or Fred­er­ick Sav­age in King’s Lynn: “Yeah, some­one’s done that, ain’t they?”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Dis­ma­land — The Offi­cial Unof­fi­cial Film, A Cin­e­mat­ic Jour­ney Through Banksy’s Apoc­a­lyp­tic Theme Park

Banksy Strikes Again in Lon­don & Urges Every­one to Wear Masks

The Joy of Paint­ing with Bob Ross & Banksy: Watch Banksy Paint a Mur­al on the Jail That Once Housed Oscar Wilde

Banksy Strikes Again in Venice

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

Take a Trip to the LSD Museum, the Largest Collection of “Blotter Art” in the World

When Ken Kesey and his Mer­ry Pranksters kicked off Haight-Ash­bury’s coun­ter­cul­ture in the 1960s, LSD was the key ingre­di­ent in their potent mix of drugs, the Hell’s Angels, the Beat poets, and their local band The War­locks (soon to become The Grate­ful Dead). Kesey admin­is­tered the drug in “Acid Tests” to find out who could han­dle it (and who couldn’t) after he stole the sub­stance from Army doc­tors, who them­selves admin­is­tered it as part of the CIA’s MKUl­tra exper­i­ments. Not long after­ward, Grate­ful Dead sound­man Owsley “Bear” Stan­ley syn­the­sized “the purest form of LSD ever to hit the street,” writes Rolling Stone, and became the country’s biggest sup­pli­er, the “king of acid.”

What­ev­er uses it might have had in psy­chi­atric set­tings — and there were many known at the time — LSD was made ille­gal in 1968 by the U.S. gov­ern­ment, repress­ing what the gov­ern­ment had itself helped bring into being. But it has since returned with new­found respectabil­i­ty. “Once dis­missed as the dan­ger­ous dal­liances of the coun­ter­cul­ture,” writes Nature, psy­che­del­ic drugs are “gain­ing main­stream accep­tance” in clin­i­cal treat­ment. Psilo­cy­bin, MDMA, and LSD “have been steadi­ly mak­ing their way back into the lab,” notes Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can. “Sci­en­tists are redis­cov­er­ing what many see as the sub­stances’ aston­ish­ing ther­a­peu­tic poten­tial.”

None of this comes as news to San Fran­cis­co fix­ture Mark McCloud. “In the same moral­is­tic man­ner many San Fran­cis­cans pon­tif­i­cate on the health ben­e­fits of mar­i­jua­na,” writes Gre­go­ry Thomas at Mis­sion Local, “McCloud and his friends tout the mer­its of acid.” Next to cur­ing “anx­i­ety, depres­sion and ‘mar­i­tal prob­lems,’” it is also an impor­tant source  of folk art, says McCloud, the own­er and sole pro­pri­etor of the infor­mal­ly-named “LSD Muse­um” housed in his three-sto­ry Vic­to­ri­an home in San Fran­cis­co.

His mis­sion in cre­at­ing and main­tain­ing the muse­um for­mal­ly called the Insti­tute of Ille­gal Images, he says, is to “pre­serve a ‘skele­tal’ rem­nant of San Francisco’s drug-induced 1960s lega­cy, ‘so maybe our chil­dren can bet­ter under­stand us.’”

Specif­i­cal­ly, as Cul­ture Trip explains, McCloud pre­serves the art on sheets of blot­ter acid. As is clear from the many pop cul­tur­al ref­er­ences on blot­ter art — like Beav­is and Butthead and tech­no artist Plas­tik­man (who named his debut album Sheet One) — the 60s blot­ter acid lega­cy extend­ed far beyond its founders’ vision in under­ground scenes through­out the 70s, 80s, 90s, and oughts.

Also known as the Blot­ter Barn or the Insti­tute of Ille­gal Images, McCloud’s house is locat­ed on 20th Street between Mis­sion and Capp. The house pre­serves over 33,000 sheets of LSD blot­ter, treat­ing them like tiny lit­tle works of art. Most of the sheets are framed and hang­ing on McCloud’s walls, dec­o­rat­ing the home with vibrant col­ors and pat­terns, and the rest are kept safe in binders. The house also fea­tures a per­fo­ra­tion board, allow­ing McCloud to turn any work of art sized 7.5 by 7.5 inch­es into 900 pieces, as is typ­i­cal for LSD blot­ter sheets.

McCloud has faced intense scruti­ny from the FBI, and on a cou­ple of occa­sions — in 1992 and again in 2001 — arrest and tri­al by “not very sym­pa­thet­ic” juries, who nonethe­less acquit­ted him both times. Despite the fact that he has a larg­er col­lec­tion of blot­ter acid sheets than the DEA, he and his muse­um have with­stood pros­e­cu­tion and attempts to shut them down, since all the sheets in his pos­ses­sion have either nev­er been dipped in LSD or have become chem­i­cal­ly inac­tive over time. (The museum’s web­site explains the ori­gins of “blot­ter” paper as a means of prepar­ing LSD dos­es after the drug was crim­i­nal­ized in Cal­i­for­nia in 1966.)

“What fas­ci­nates me about blot­ter is what fas­ci­nates me about all art. It changes your mind,” says McCloud in the Wired video at the top of the post. None of his muse­um’s art­work will change your mind in quite the way it was intend­ed, but the mere asso­ci­a­tion with hal­lu­cino­genic expe­ri­ences is enough to inspire the artists “to build the myr­i­ad of sub­ject mat­ter appear­ing on the blot­ters,” Atlas Obscu­ra writes, “rang­ing from the spir­i­tu­al (Hin­du gods, lotus flow­ers) to whim­si­cal (car­toon char­ac­ters), as well as cul­tur­al com­men­tary (Gor­bachev) and the just plain dement­ed (Ozzy Osbourne).”

The muse­um does not keep reg­u­lar hours and was only open by appoint­ment before COVID-19. These days, it’s prob­a­bly best to make a vir­tu­al vis­it at blotterbarn.com, where you’ll find dozens of images of acid blot­ter paper like those above and learn much more about the his­to­ry and cul­ture of LSD dur­ing long years of pro­hi­bi­tion — a con­di­tion that seems poised to final­ly end as gov­ern­ments give up the waste­ful, pun­ish­ing War on Drugs and allow sci­en­tists and psy­cho­nauts to study and explore altered states of con­scious­ness again.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Artist Draws 9 Por­traits While on LSD: Inside the 1950s Exper­i­ments to Turn LSD into a “Cre­ativ­i­ty Pill”

When Michel Fou­cault Tripped on Acid in Death Val­ley and Called It “The Great­est Expe­ri­ence of My Life” (1975)

New LSD Research Pro­vides the First Images of the Brain on Acid, and Hints at Its Poten­tial to Pro­mote Cre­ativ­i­ty

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

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