The Incredible Engineering of Antonio Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia, the 137 Year Construction Project

When (or if) it is final­ly fin­ished in 2026, a full 100 years after its archi­tect Antoni Gaudí’s death, the Basil­i­ca de la Sagra­da Famil­ia will be the largest church in the world — mak­ing it, on the one hand, a dis­tinct­ly 19th cen­tu­ry phe­nom­e­non much like oth­er struc­tures designed in the late 1800s. The Brook­lyn Bridge, for instance, became the longest sus­pen­sion bridge in the world in 1883, the same year Gaudí took over the Sagra­da Famil­ia project; the Eif­fel Tow­er took the hon­or of tallest struc­ture in the world when it opened six years lat­er. Biggest was in the briefs for major indus­tri­al build­ing projects of the age.

Most oth­er mon­u­men­tal con­struc­tion projects of the time, how­ev­er, excelled in one cat­e­go­ry Gaudí reject­ed: speed. While the Brook­lyn Bridge took 14 years to build, cost many lives, includ­ing its chief architect’s, and suf­fered sev­er­al set­backs, its con­struc­tion was still quite a con­trast to the medieval archi­tec­ture from which its designs drew. Prague’s 14th cen­tu­ry Charles Bridge took 45 years to fin­ish. Half a cen­tu­ry was stan­dard for goth­ic cathe­drals in the Mid­dle Ages. (Notre-Dame was under con­struc­tion for hun­dreds of years.) Their orig­i­nal archi­tects hard­ly ever lived to see their projects to com­ple­tion.

Gaudí’s enor­mous mod­ernist cathe­dral was as much a per­son­al labor of love as a gift to Barcelona, but unlike his con­tem­po­raries, he had no per­son­al need to see it done. He was “unfazed by its glacial progress,” notes Atlas Obscu­ra. The archi­tect him­self said, “There is no rea­son to regret that I can­not fin­ish the church. I will grow old but oth­ers will come after me. What must always be con­served is the spir­it of the work, but its life has to depend on the gen­er­a­tions it is hand­ed down to and with whom it lives and is incar­nat­ed.”

Per­haps even Gaudí could not have fore­seen Sagra­da Famil­ia would take over 130 years, its cranes and scaf­fold­ing dom­i­nat­ing the city’s sky­line, decade after decade. A few things — the Span­ish Civ­il War, inevitable fund­ing issues — got in the way. But it’s also the case that Sagra­da Famil­ia is unlike any­thing else ever built. Gaudí “found much of his inspi­ra­tion and mean­ing in archi­tec­ture,” the Real Engi­neer­ing video above notes, “by fol­low­ing the pat­terns of nature, using the beau­ty that he saw as a gift from God as the ulti­mate blue­print to the world.”

Learn above what sets Sagra­da Famil­ia apart — its cre­ator was not only a mas­ter archi­tect and artist, he was also a mas­ter engi­neer who under­stood how the strange, organ­ic shapes of his designs “impact­ed the struc­tur­al integri­ty of the build­ing. Rather than fight against the laws of nature, he worked with them.” And nature, we know, likes to take its time.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Japan­ese Sculp­tor Who Ded­i­cat­ed His Life to Fin­ish­ing Gaudí’s Mag­num Opus, the Sagra­da Família

Watch Antoni Gaudí’s Unfin­ished Mas­ter­piece, the Sagra­da Família, Get Final­ly Com­plet­ed in 60 Sec­onds

A Vir­tu­al Time-Lapse Recre­ation of the Build­ing of Notre Dame (1160)

An Ani­mat­ed Video Shows the Build­ing of a Medieval Bridge: 45 Years of Con­struc­tion in 3 Min­utes

How the Brook­lyn Bridge Was Built: The Sto­ry of One of the Great­est Engi­neer­ing Feats in His­to­ry

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

The Great Wave Off Kanagawa by Hokusai: An Introduction to the Iconic Japanese Woodblock Print in 17 Minutes

When wood­cut artist Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai made his famous print The Great Wave off Kana­gawa in 1830 — part of the series Thir­ty-six Views of Mount Fuji — he was 70 years old and had lived his entire life in a Japan closed off from the rest of the world. In the 19th cen­tu­ry, how­ev­er, “the rest of the world was becom­ing indus­tri­al­ized,” James Payne explains above in his Great Art Explained video, “and the Japan­ese were con­cerned about for­eign inva­sions.” The Great Wave shows “an image of Japan fear­ful that the sea — which has pro­tect­ed its peace­ful iso­la­tion for so long — would become its down­fall.”

It’s also true, how­ev­er, that The Great Wave would not have exist­ed with­out a for­eign inva­sion. Pruss­ian blue, the first sta­ble blue pig­ment, acci­den­tal­ly invent­ed around 1705 in Berlin, arrived in the ports of Nagasa­ki on Dutch and Chi­nese ships in the 1820s. Pruss­ian Blue would start a new artis­tic move­ment in Japan, aizuri‑e, wood­cuts print­ed in bright, vivid blues.

“Hoku­sai was one of the first Japan­ese print­mak­ers to bold­ly embrace the colour,” Hugh Davies writes at The Con­ver­sa­tion, “a deci­sion that would have major impli­ca­tions in the world of art.” When the country’s iso­la­tion­ist poli­cies end­ed in the 1850s, “a show­case at the inau­gur­al Japan­ese Pavil­ion ele­vat­ed the artis­tic sta­tus of wood­block prints and a craze for their col­lec­tion quick­ly fol­lowed.”

Chief among the works col­lect­ed in the Euro­pean and Amer­i­can fer­vor for Japan­ese prints were those from Hoku­sai, his con­tem­po­rary Hiroshige, and oth­er aizuri‑e artists. So famous was The Great Wave in the West by 1891 that French graph­ic artist Pierre Bon­nard would sat­i­rize its styl­ish spray in an adver­tise­ment for cham­pagne. A print of The Great Wave hung on Claude Debussy’s wall, and the first edi­tion of his La Mer bore an adap­ta­tion of a detail from the print. As Michael Cirigliano writes for the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art:

Cul­tur­al cir­cles through­out Europe great­ly admired Hoku­sai’s work…. Major artists of the Impres­sion­ist move­ment such as Mon­et owned copies of Hoku­sai prints, and lead­ing art crit­ic Philippe Bur­ty, in his 1866 Chefs-d’oeu­vre des Arts indus­triels, even stat­ed that Hoku­sai’s work main­tained the ele­gance of Wat­teau, the fan­ta­sy of Goya, and the move­ment of Delacroix. Going one step fur­ther in his laud­ed com­par­isons, Bur­ty wrote that Hoku­sai’s dex­ter­i­ty in brush strokes was com­pa­ra­ble only to that of Rubens.

These com­par­isons are not mis­placed, John-Paul Stonard explains in The Guardian: “That the Great Wave became the best known print in the west was in large part due to Hokusai’s for­ma­tive expe­ri­ence of Euro­pean art.” Not only did he absorb Pruss­ian blue into his reper­toire, but “prints from ear­ly in his career show him attempt­ing, rather awk­ward­ly, to apply the les­son of math­e­mat­i­cal per­spec­tive, learnt from Euro­pean prints brought into Japan by Dutch Traders.” By the time of The Great Wave, he had per­fect­ed his own syn­the­sis of West­ern and Japan­ese art, over two decades before Euro­pean painters would attempt the same in the explo­sion of Japanophil­ia of the late 19th and ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Intro­duc­tions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picas­so & More

Watch the Mak­ing of Japan­ese Wood­block Prints, from Start to Fin­ish, by a Long­time Tokyo Print­mak­er

The Evo­lu­tion of The Great Wave off Kanaza­wa: See Four Ver­sions That Hoku­sai Paint­ed Over Near­ly 40 Years

Down­load Vin­cent van Gogh’s Col­lec­tion of 500 Japan­ese Prints, Which Inspired Him to Cre­ate “the Art of the Future”

Watch the Mak­ing of Japan­ese Wood­block Prints, from Start to Fin­ish, by a Long­time Tokyo Print­mak­er

19th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Wood­blocks Illus­trate the Lives of West­ern Inven­tors, Artists, and Schol­ars (1873)

The Met Puts 650+ Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books Online: Mar­vel at Hokusai’s One Hun­dred Views of Mount Fuji and More 

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

Watch a Masterpiece Emerge from a Solid Block of Stone

As a younger per­son, I became enthralled with the art-his­tor­i­cal nov­els of Irv­ing Stone, espe­cial­ly The Agony and the Ecsta­sy, his fic­tion­al­ized biog­ra­phy of Michelan­ge­lo. Few books live up to their title so well — Stone’s Michelan­ge­lo is a tumult of pas­sion and pain, a Roman­tic hero tai­lor-made for those who believe artis­tic cre­ation tran­scends almost any oth­er act. Stone describes Michelangelo’s sculp­ture emerg­ing from the mar­ble ful­ly-formed in a cre­ation imbued with so much sex­u­al ener­gy, some pas­sages may need adult super­vi­sion:

It was like pen­e­trat­ing deep into white mar­ble with the pound­ing live thrust of his chis­el beat­ing upward through the warm liv­ing mar­ble with one ”Go!”, his whole body behind the heavy ham­mer, pen­e­trat­ing through ever deep­er and deep­er fur­rows of soft yield­ing liv­ing sub­stance until he had reached the explo­sive cli­max, and all of his flu­id strength, love, pas­sion, desire had been poured into the nascent form, and the mar­ble block, made to love the hand of the true sculp­tor, and respond­ed, giv­ing of its inner heat and sub­stance and flu­id form, until at last the sculp­tor and the mar­ble had total­ly coa­lesced, so deeply pen­e­trat­ing and infus­ing each oth­er that they had become one, mar­ble and man and organ­ic uni­ty, each ful­fill­ing the oth­er in the great­est act of art and love known to the human species. 

Whether or not you’re moved by Stone’s prose, you have to admit, it does make sculpt­ing sound enor­mous­ly appeal­ing. For a much less mas­cu­line take on what it’s like to carve a fig­ure from a sol­id block of stone, see the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic short film above, in which a three-dimen­sion­al por­trait comes alive in the hands of stone carv­er Anna Rubin­cam.

This is a labor of love, but it is also one of care­ful prepa­ra­tion. Rubin­cam “begins her process by mea­sur­ing and sketch­ing the fea­tures of a live mod­el,” the film’s YouTube page notes. “From there, she cre­ates a clay ver­sion before mov­ing on to care­ful­ly chis­el the piece out of stone.” The entire process took three weeks.

Is there room for agony and ecsta­sy amidst the mea­sure­ments? Indeed. “I always feel that you have to be a bit mad to become a stone carv­er,” says Rubin­cam, acknowl­edg­ing that “this isn’t the Renais­sance any­more. Stone isn’t a pri­ma­ry build­ing mate­r­i­al any­more. Why would any­one go into a pro­fes­sion” like this one? Rubincam’s answer — “there just wasn’t any oth­er option” — can­not help but bring to mind the most pop­u­lar quote from Stone’s nov­el: “One should not become an artist because he can, but because he must. It is only for those who would be mis­er­able with­out it.”

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Brân­cuși Cap­tures His Sculp­ture & Life on Film: Watch Rare Footage Shot Between 1923–1939

Alexan­der Calder’s Archive Goes Online: Explore 1400 Works of Art by the Mod­ernist Sculp­tor

3D Print 18,000 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

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

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

From the hand of Leonar­do da Vin­ci came the Mona Lisa and The Last Sup­per, among oth­er art objects of intense rev­er­ence and even wor­ship. But to under­stand the mind of Leonar­do da Vin­ci, one must immerse one­self in his note­books. Total­ing some 13,000 pages of notes and draw­ings, they record some­thing of every aspect of the Renais­sance man’s intel­lec­tu­al and dai­ly life: stud­ies for art­works, designs for ele­gant build­ings and fan­tas­ti­cal machines, obser­va­tions of the world around him, lists of his gro­ceries and his debtors. Intend­ing their even­tu­al pub­li­ca­tion, Leonar­do left his note­books to his pupil Francesco Melzi, by the time of whose own death half a cen­tu­ry lat­er lit­tle had been done with them.

Absent a prop­er stew­ard, Leonar­do’s note­books scat­tered across the world. Six cen­turies lat­er, their sur­viv­ing pages con­sti­tute a series of codices in the pos­ses­sion of such enti­ties as the Bib­liote­ca Ambrosiana, the British Muse­um, the Insti­tut de France, and Bill Gates.

In recent years, they and their col­lab­o­rat­ing orga­ni­za­tions have made efforts to open Leonar­do’s note­books to the world, dig­i­tiz­ing them, trans­lat­ing them, and orga­niz­ing them for con­ve­nient brows­ing on the web. Here on Open Cul­ture, we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured the Codex Arun­del as made avail­able to the pub­lic by the British Library, Codex Atlanti­cus by the Visu­al Agency, and the three-part Codex Forster by the Vic­to­ria & Albert Muse­um.

Oth­er col­lec­tions of Leonar­do’s note­books made avail­able to view online include the Madrid Codices at the Bib­liote­ca Nacional de España, the Codex Trivulzianus at the Archi­vo Stori­co Civi­co e Bib­liote­ca Trivulziana, and the Codex on the Flight of Birds at the Smith­son­ian Nation­al Air and Space Muse­um. (Pub­lished as a stand­alone book, his Trea­tise on Paint­ing is avail­able to down­load at Project Guten­berg.) Even so, many of the pages Leonar­do wrote haven’t yet made it to the inter­net, and even when they do, gen­er­a­tions of inter­pre­tive work — well beyond revers­ing his “mir­ror writ­ing” — will sure­ly remain. Much as human­i­ty is only now putting some of his inven­tions to the test, the full pub­li­ca­tion of his note­books remains a work in progress. Leonar­do him­self would sure­ly under­stand: after all, one can’t cul­ti­vate a mind like his with­out patience.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ele­gant Math­e­mat­ics of Vit­ru­vian Man, Leonar­do da Vinci’s Most Famous Draw­ing: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

Down­load the Sub­lime Anato­my Draw­ings of Leonar­do da Vin­ci: Avail­able Online, or in a Great iPad App

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Bizarre Car­i­ca­tures & Mon­ster Draw­ings

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Hand­writ­ten Resume (1482)

Leonar­do Da Vinci’s To Do List (Cir­ca 1490) Is Much Cool­er Than Yours

Why Did Leonar­do da Vin­ci Write Back­wards? A Look Into the Ulti­mate Renais­sance Man’s “Mir­ror Writ­ing”

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.

David Hockney Shows Us His Sketch Book, Page by Page

Still work­ing and exhibit­ing in his eight­ies, and indeed seem­ing to grow more and more pro­duc­tive with age, David Hock­ney has become a liv­ing sym­bol of what it is to live as an artist. This entails not just mak­ing a lot of paint­ings, or even mak­ing a lot of paint­ings with an imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­niz­able style under a well-cul­ti­vat­ed image. It means con­stant­ly and instinc­tive­ly con­vert­ing the real­i­ty in which one lives into art, an activ­i­ty evi­denced by Hock­ney’s sketch­books. In the video above, the artist him­self shows his sketch­book from 2019, one of the sources of the work in the exhi­bi­tion Draw­ing from Life held last year at the Nation­al Por­trait Gallery. (To accom­pa­ny the exhi­bi­tion, Hock­ney pub­lished a book, also called Draw­ing from Life, which fea­tures 150 draw­ings from the 1950s to the present day.)

Focused on Hock­ney’s ren­der­ings of him­self and those close to him, Draw­ing from Life could run for only a few weeks before the NPG had to close due to the coro­n­avirus pan­dem­ic. Though filled up the pre­vi­ous year, the artist’s sketch­book depicts a qui­et world of domes­tic spaces and unpeo­pled out­door scenes that will look odd­ly famil­iar to many view­ing it after 2020.

He even appears to have includ­ed in its pages an exer­cise in the style of Gior­gio de Chiri­co, whose aes­thet­ic pre­science about our locked-down cities we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. The Brad­ford-born Hock­ney’s Amer­i­can city of choice has long been Los Ange­les, and cer­tain of his sketch­es evoke its dis­tinc­tive pock­ets of near-pas­toral qui­etude amid urban mas­sive­ness.

As befits an inter­na­tion­al­ly renowned artist, Hock­ney lives in more than one part of the world. It was at home in the more thor­ough­ly pas­toral set­ting of his native York­shire that he cre­at­ed the draw­ings con­sti­tut­ing My Win­dow, a lim­it­ed-edi­tion artist book pub­lished by Taschen in 2019. Those images don’t come from his sketch­book, or rather, they don’t come from his ana­log sketch­book: he exe­cut­ed them all on his iPhone and iPad, devices whose artis­tic pos­si­bil­i­ties he’s been enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly explor­ing for more than a decade. In this readi­ness to use any medi­um avail­able, he shows more com­fort with tech­nol­o­gy than do many younger artists. And how­ev­er many of them have, under the lim­i­ta­tions of the past year and a half, got used to sketch­ing the view from their bed­room win­dow, Hock­ney was doing it long before.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Hock­ney on Vin­cent van Gogh & the Impor­tance of Know­ing How to Tru­ly See the World

Watch as David Hock­ney Cre­ates ‘Late Novem­ber Tun­nel, 2006

The Sketch­book Project Presents Online 24,000 Sketch­books, Cre­at­ed by Artists from 135 Coun­tries

29 Sketch­books by Renowned Artist Richard Diebenko­rn, Con­tain­ing 1,045 Draw­ings, Now Freely View­able Online

When Our World Became a de Chiri­co Paint­ing: How the Avant-Garde Painter Fore­saw the Emp­ty City Streets of 2020

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.

Beautiful 19th-Century Indian Drawings Show Hatha Yoga Poses Before They Reached the West

Yoga as an ath­let­ic series of pos­tures for phys­i­cal health came into being only about 100 years ago, part of a wave of gym­nas­tics and cal­is­then­ics that spread around the West­ern world in the 1920s and made its way to India, com­bin­ing with clas­si­cal Indi­an spir­i­tu­al­i­ty and asanas, a word which trans­lates to “seat.”  Yoga, of course, had exist­ed as a clas­si­cal spir­i­tu­al dis­ci­pline in India for thou­sands of years. (The word is first found in the Rig Veda), but it had lit­tle to do with fit­ness, as yoga schol­ar Mark Sin­gle­ton found when he delved into the roots of yoga as we know it.

Asana prac­tice was often mar­gin­al, even scorned by some 19th cen­tu­ry Indi­an teach­ers of high caste as the domain of “fakirs” and men­di­cant beg­gars. “The first wave of ‘export yogis,’” writes Sin­gle­ton, “head­ed by Swa­mi Vivekanan­da, large­ly ignored asana and tend­ed to focus instead on pranaya­ma [breath prac­tice], med­i­ta­tion, and pos­i­tive think­ing…. Vivekanan­da pub­licly reject­ed hatha yoga in gen­er­al and asana in par­tic­u­lar.”

In the 20th cen­tu­ry, yoga became asso­ci­at­ed with Indi­an nation­al­ism and anti-colo­nial resis­tance, and import­ed West­ern pos­es were com­bined with asanas for a pro­gram of intense phys­i­cal train­ing.

West­ern­ized yoga has obscured oth­er tra­di­tions around the world that devel­oped over hun­dreds or thou­sands of years. For his book with James Mallinson, Roots of Yoga, Sin­gle­ton con­sult­ed “yog­ic texts from Tibetan, Ara­bic, Per­sian, Ben­gali, Tamil, Pali, Kash­miri, Old Marathi, Avad­hi, Braj Bhasha, and Eng­lish,” notes the Pub­lic Domain Review, who bring our atten­tion to this ear­ly 19th-cen­tu­ry series of images from a text called the Joga Pradīpikā, made before clas­si­cal yoga became known in the west by adven­tur­ous thinkers like Hen­ry David Thore­au.

A few mil­len­nia before it was the prove­nance of lycra-clad teach­ers in bou­tique stu­dios, asana prac­tice com­bined rig­or­ous, often quite painful-look­ing, med­i­ta­tive pos­tures with mudras (“seals”), hand ges­tures whose ori­gins “remain obscure,” though yoga his­to­ri­an Georg Feuer­stein argues “they are undoubt­ed­ly the prod­ucts of inten­sive med­i­ta­tion prac­tice dur­ing [which] the body spon­ta­neous­ly assumes cer­tain sta­t­ic as well as dynam­ic pos­es.” The col­lec­tion of draw­ings in the 118-page book depicts 84 asanas and 24 mudras, “with explana­to­ry notes in Bra­ja-Bhasha verse,” notes the British Library, and one image (top) relat­ed to Kun­dali­ni yoga.

What­ev­er the var­i­ous prac­tices of yog­ic schools in both the East­ern and West­ern world, “the meth­ods and lifestyles devel­oped by the Indi­an philo­soph­i­cal and spir­i­tu­al genius­es over a peri­od of at least five mil­len­nia all have one and the same pur­pose,” writes Feuer­stein in his sem­i­nal study, The Yoga Tra­di­tion: “to help us break through the habit pat­terns of our ordi­nary con­scious­ness and to real­ize our iden­ti­ty (or at least union) with the peren­ni­al Real­i­ty. Indi­a’s great tra­di­tions of psy­chos­pir­i­tu­al growth under­stand them­selves as paths of lib­er­a­tion. Their goal is to lib­er­ate us from our con­ven­tion­al con­di­tion­ing and hence also free us from suf­fer­ing.”

Under a broad umbrel­la, yoga has flour­ished as an incred­i­ble wealth of tra­di­tions, philoso­phies, reli­gious prac­tices, and schol­ar­ship whose strands weave loose­ly togeth­er in what most of us know as yoga in a syn­the­sis of East and West. Learn more at the Pub­lic Domain Review, and have a look at their new book of his­toric images, Affini­ties, here, a curat­ed jour­ney through visu­al cul­ture.

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

How to Get Start­ed with Yoga: Free Yoga Lessons on YouTube

How Yoga Changes the Brain and May Guard Against Alzheimer’s and Demen­tia

Son­ny Rollins Describes How 50 Years of Prac­tic­ing Yoga Made Him a Bet­ter Musi­cian

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Introductions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picasso & More

Can great art be explained? Isn’t it a lit­tle like explain­ing a joke? Yet this can be worth­while when the joke is in a for­eign lan­guage or an unfa­mil­iar idiom, a long-for­got­ten dialect or an alien idi­olect. Con­sid­er, for exam­ple, the most com­mon response to Mark Rothko’s mono­chro­mat­ic rec­tan­gles: “I don’t get it.”

Will per­plexed view­ers bet­ter under­stand Rothko’s Sea­gram murals when they learn that “he was found in a pool of blood six by eight feet wide, rough­ly the size of one of his paint­ings,” as James Payne writes, hours after he sent the nine can­vass­es to the Tate Mod­ern gallery in Lon­don in 1970? “His sui­cide would change every­thing and shape the way we respond to his work,” adding a dark­er edge to com­ments of his like “I’m inter­est­ed only in express­ing basic human emo­tions, tragedy, ecsta­sy, doom and so on.”

Last sum­mer, Payne launched his series Great Art Explained in Fif­teen Min­utes, “a bril­liant new addi­tion to YouTube art his­to­ry chan­nels,” Forbes enthused — “enter­tain­ing and infor­ma­tive short films [that] present a fresh look at famil­iar art­works.” There’s much more to Rothko than his trag­ic death at 66. We learn of his love for Mozart, a com­pos­er who was “always smil­ing through his tears,” the painter said.

An artist who seems to embody the oppo­site of Rothko’s trou­bled pas­sion, Andy Warhol gets an explain­er, above, in which Payne takes on the artist’s Mar­i­lyn Dip­tych. He opens with 30 sec­onds of audio from an inter­view with Warhol, who gives char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly dis­in­ter­est­ed yes or no respons­es: “Andy, do you think that Pop Art has reached the point where it’s becom­ing rep­e­ti­tious now?” “Uh, yes.”

Pop Art’s rep­e­ti­tions were the point. Warhol ele­vat­ed the unre­mark­able mass prod­uct to the lev­el of high art, becom­ing the biggest-sell­ing artist in the world. Payne draws a par­al­lel between Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s trans­for­ma­tion from “abused fos­ter child from the rur­al mid­west” to Hol­ly­wood roy­al­ty, and Warhol’s move from a shy, sick­ly child of immi­grants to an inter­na­tion­al art star.

Even if Payne is explain­ing things you already knew about famous art­works like Monet’s Water Lilies, you’ll still enjoy his pre­sen­ta­tion, with its clever edit­ing and com­pelling nar­ra­tion. “I want to present art in a jar­gon free, enter­tain­ing, clear and con­cise way,” he writes. Each video cov­ers one famous art­work, not all of them mod­ern. (We recent­ly fea­tured Payne’s take on Hierony­mus Bosch’s Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights.)

Payne’s work as an art con­sul­tant, guide, “and art and film writer,” Forbes writes, “make him the ide­al pre­sen­ter of this excel­lent new art his­to­ry series.” Crav­ing some con­text on your lunch break? Head over the Great Art Explained in Fif­teen Min­utes and catch a few excel­lent mini-art his­to­ry lec­tures, each one 15 min­utes or less, for free.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

60-Sec­ond Intro­duc­tions to 12 Ground­break­ing Artists: Matisse, Dalí, Duchamp, Hop­per, Pol­lock, Rothko & More

An Intro­duc­tion to 100 Impor­tant Paint­ings with Videos Cre­at­ed by Smarthis­to­ry

Free Course: An Intro­duc­tion to the Art of the Ital­ian Renais­sance

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

Affinities, a Book of Images to Celebrate 10 Years of The Public Domain Review

In a sim­i­lar way to how Open Cul­ture aims to dis­till in one place the web’s high-qual­i­ty free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al media, so The Pub­lic Domain Review aims to help read­ers explore the vast (and some­times over­whelm­ing!) sea of pub­lic domain works avail­able online — like a small exhi­bi­tion gallery at the entrance to an immense net­work of archives and stor­age rooms that lie beyond. Cel­e­brat­ing curi­ous and beau­ti­ful pub­lic domain images is at the very heart of what we do, and so it seemed fit­ting to mark our 10th anniver­sary with a big and beau­ti­ful book of images. Ever since the project began back in 2011, read­ers have implored us to do one, and so final­ly here it is…  we are extreme­ly excit­ed to bring out into the world AFFINITIES.

Gath­er­ing over 500 prints, paint­ings, illus­tra­tions, sketch­es, pho­tographs, doo­dles, and every­thing in between, the book is a care­ful­ly curat­ed jour­ney explor­ing echoes and con­nec­tions across more than two mil­len­nia of visu­al cul­ture. Assem­bled accord­ing to a dream­like log­ic, the images unfurl in a sin­gle unbro­ken sequence, through a play of visu­al echoes and evolv­ing the­mat­ic threads.

While it’s tak­en the best part of a year to cre­ate (a true lock­down baby), this has real­ly been 10 years in the mak­ing — a book born from a decade of deep immer­sion in pub­lic domain archives.

A com­pelling object and expe­ri­ence in its own right, Affini­ties also acts as a launch­pad for fur­ther dis­cov­er­ies and inven­tive engage­ments with the com­mons. It’s metic­u­lous sourc­ing points to works, cre­ators, and col­lec­tions around the world, serv­ing as a gate­way for future for­ays into the dig­i­tal pub­lic domain.

As for the phys­i­cal book itself, we want­ed to cre­ate an object as stun­ning as the images with­in. It is large for­mat (28 x 21.5cm / 11 x 8.5”), boasts a cloth-bound hard­cov­er, with a foil stamped title and embossed inset image, and extends across a whop­ping 368 pages. To help get this beau­ty made and assure the high­est qual­i­ty pro­duc­tion, we are very hap­py to have teamed up with spe­cial­ist art book pub­lish­er Vol­ume, an imprint of Thames & Hud­son.

It’s being sold via a crowd­fun­der and deliv­ery will be ear­ly next year. In addi­tion to the stan­dard edi­tion of the book, we’ve worked with Vol­ume to cre­ate a spe­cial Collector’s Edi­tion (in a slip­case with lim­it­ed edi­tion poster) and also a set of lim­it­ed edi­tion prints. All of the offer­ings are only avail­able dur­ing the cam­paign. 

Learn more, and order your copy, over on the crowd­fun­der page.

Adam Green is co-founder, cre­ator, and main edi­tor of The Pub­lic Domain Review and PDR Press.

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