A Record Store Designed for Mice in Sweden, Featuring Albums by Mouse Davis, Destiny’s Cheese, Dolly Parsley & More

We live in [insert adjec­tive, exple­tive, emo­ji, tweet, Tik Tok video here] times, I don’t have to tell you. We could all do with a lit­tle dis­trac­tion from cur­rent events. I’m talk­ing, obvi­ous­ly, about mice.

Not every­one loves the lit­tle home invaders. Some peo­ple loathe them. But who could fail to be charmed by the cre­ations of the Anony­Mouse col­lec­tive, a group of artists who have recre­at­ed “minia­ture restau­rants, record shops, and apothe­caries squeeze[d] into ground-lev­el win­dows on the street next to their human-sized equiv­a­lents”?

These instal­la­tions have appeared “in cities across Swe­den, France, and the Isle of Man,” writes Grace Ebert at Colos­sal, and they are pro­found­ly adorable. The artists sug­gest “that the mice have a sym­bi­ot­ic rela­tion­ship with the pedes­tri­ans on the street” by repur­pos­ing human items like a cham­pagne top­per or match­box as mouse-sized fur­ni­ture.

“Twen­ty-five install­ments cur­rent­ly exist across Europe…largely inspired by Astrid Lind­gren’s and Beat­rix Pot­ter’s whim­si­cal tales and movies from Don Bluth and Dis­ney.” Unlike pre­vi­ous, sim­i­lar projects by the artists Bill Scan­ga and, more recent­ly, Fil­ip­po and Mar­i­an­na, the minia­tures do not fea­ture any actu­al rodents, alive or oth­er­wise, oth­er than those who chance to wan­der in off the street. Instead, they adapt human cul­tur­al prod­ucts for an imag­ined par­al­lel mouse world.

AnonyMouse’s lat­est instal­la­tion, Ricot­ta Records in Lund, Swe­den, “fea­tures tiny vinyl,” for exam­ple, “from the likes of Destiny’s Cheese, Bruce Spen­wood, Kesel­la Fitzger­ald, Dol­ly Pars­ley, and Win­nimere Hous­ton,” reports the Vinyl Fac­to­ry. “In addi­tion to its record selec­tion, the shop also has a selec­tion of minia­ture posters and instru­ments.”

See sev­er­al images of the inven­tive inte­ri­or above and below, and more—including band posters for Rats Against the Machine and Mod­est Mouse, the only band whose name remains unchanged—at the Vinyl Fac­to­ry and the Anony­mouse Insta­gram page. Should you be so moved as to par­tic­i­pate in the grow­ing Anony­Mouse fan com­mu­ni­ty, they have start­ed a con­test for the best Ricot­ta Records sug­ges­tions. The win­ner will receive a framed, mouse-sized poster.

You don’t have to love mice to get in on the action. Cur­rent fron­trun­ners, NME notes, include “Amy Winemouse” and “Tai­lor Swiss”….

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Art Gallery for Ger­bils: Two Quar­an­tined Lon­don­ers Cre­ate a Mini Muse­um Com­plete with Ger­bil-Themed Art

Two Cats Keep Try­ing to Get Into a Japan­ese Art Muse­um … and Keep Get­ting Turned Away: Meet the Thwart­ed Felines, Ken-chan and Go-chan

Enter the Cov­er Art Archive: A Mas­sive Col­lec­tion of 800,000 Album Cov­ers from the 1950s through 2018

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

When Salvador Dalí Met Alice Cooper & Turned Him into a Hologram: The Meeting of Two Kings of Camp (1973)

Kings of camp Alice Coop­er and Sal­vador Dalí made a nat­ur­al pair when they met in New York City in April of 1973. “A mind-meld­ing of sorts took place,” writes Super Rad Now. “Over the course of about two weeks” Coop­er and Dalí “ate togeth­er, drank togeth­er, and basked in the glow of each oth­er’s excep­tion­al unique­ness.” Then Dalí decid­ed to turn Coop­er into a holo­gram, the First Cylin­dric Chro­mo-Holo­gram Por­trait of Alice Coop­er’s Brain.

How did this come about? It was only a mat­ter of time before Dalí sought out the “god­fa­ther of shock rock.” The Sur­re­al­ist prankster “knew how to pro­mote him­self and oth­ers,” notes his­to­ri­an and writer Sophia Deboick in a fan­tas­tic under­state­ment. Dalí had been shock­ing audi­ences decades before Vin­cent Furnier, lead singer of the band Alice Cooper—who took the name for him­self in 1975—was born, mak­ing trans­gres­sive films like Un Chien Andalou and get­ting tossed out of the Sur­re­al­ists for pos­si­ble fas­cist sym­pa­thies and unabashed­ly com­mer­cial aspi­ra­tions.

Dalí used his con­nec­tions to the world of pop music to meet “fig­ures such as Bri­an Jones, Bryan Fer­ry and David Bowie” in the late 60s and ear­ly 70s. He came call­ing at Coop­er’s door after the 1972 “rapi­er-wav­ing per­for­mance of ‘School’s Out’ on Top of the Pops [drew] the oppro­bri­um of Mary White­house… and a truck car­ry­ing a bill­board image of Alice wear­ing only a snake… mys­te­ri­ous­ly ‘broke down’ on Oxford Cir­cus the same sum­mer, caus­ing chaos.”

Coop­er’s schtick was cat­nip to Dalí, but as usu­al, the artist had some­thing more sophis­ti­cat­ed in mind when he staged what looked like a typ­i­cal­ly bizarre pub­lic­i­ty stunt. Coop­er was invit­ed to Dalí’s stu­dio to pose with “an ant-cov­ered plas­ter brain topped with a choco­late éclair.” This Dalí placed behind Coop­er’s head on a red vel­vet cush­ion as Alice “sat on a rotat­ing turntable wear­ing over a mil­lion dol­lars-worth of dia­monds from the famous Har­ry Win­ston jew­el­ers on Fifth Avenue (Coop­er remem­bers it in the short video clip at the top as 4 mil­lion dol­lars worth), hold­ing a frag­ment­ed Venus de Milo as a micro­phone.”

For Coop­er and the band, the col­lab­o­ra­tion helped bring their own par­tic­u­lar artis­tic vision to fruition, lend­ing them the impri­matur of the most pop­u­lar shock artist of the cen­tu­ry. “Five of the orig­i­nal band mem­bers were art majors,” he lat­er recalled, “and we wor­shipped Dalí: we thought of our­selves as sur­re­al­ists.” (He also named one of his boa con­stric­tors Dalí.)

For Dalí, the result­ing holo­graph­ic image ful­filled a long­stand­ing explo­ration of new ideas and a new medium—as well as a delib­er­ate move­ment away from his devo­tion to Freudi­an psy­cho­analy­sis.

Through­out the 1970s Dalí worked with opti­cal illu­sions and stereo­scop­ic images… but his inter­est in work­ing in the third and fourth dimen­sions dat­ed back fur­ther. His 1958 Anti-Mat­ter Man­i­festo pro­claimed his intent to aban­don his explo­ration of the inte­ri­or world for a focus on “the exte­ri­or world and that of physics [which] has tran­scend­ed the one of psy­chol­o­gy,” say­ing he had swapped Freud for Heisen­berg. The tesser­act cross of his Cru­ci­fix­ion (Cor­pus Hyper­cubus) (1954) was inspired by the diverse influ­ences of math­e­mat­i­cal the­o­ry, cubism, and works of Philip II’s archi­tect Juan de Her­rera and Cata­lan mys­tic Ramon Llull. The Alice holo­gram may have tak­en an emerg­ing pop­u­lar icon as its sub­ject, but the medi­um was one which ful­filled Dalí’s artis­tic ambi­tions at the end of his career to embrace sci­ence and break out of the two dimen­sion­al.

The atten­tion may have gone to Coop­er’s head. He attend­ed the unveil­ing of the holo­gram with­out his band mem­bers, then went on to record 1975’s Wel­come to My Night­mare with­out them and pro­mot­ed “an ABC tele­vi­sion spe­cial star­ring Vin­cent Price” that same year, again with a new band. His star fell over the decade, but his essen­tial place in rock and roll his­to­ry had already been ful­ly secured.

Alice Coop­er’s (the band) gen­der-bend­ing had influ­enced David Bowie and the New York Dolls. The Sex Pis­tol’s John Lydon breath­less­ly pro­claimed them his favorite and sang (“or at least mimed to”) their “I’m Eigh­teen” at his audi­tion. “The direct line between Alice Coop­er and every pos­si­ble genre of met­al is obvi­ous,” Deboick writes.

Like the Sur­re­al­ist mas­ter, Coop­er became some­thing of a par­o­dy of his ear­li­er incar­na­tion in lat­er years, and in sobri­ety, the preacher’s son from Detroit reap­peared as a “golf-play­ing born-again Chris­t­ian.” But how­ev­er else he is remem­bered, the man born Vin­cent Furnier will also always be the only rock star to have his ant-cov­ered brain turned into a holo­gram by Sal­vador Dalí, who knew a kin­dred spir­it when he saw one. See a video of the holo­gram, which resides in Spain, just above.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Most Com­plete Col­lec­tion of Sal­vador Dalí’s Paint­ings Pub­lished in a Beau­ti­ful New Book by Taschen: Includes Nev­er-Seen-Before Works

Sal­vador Dalí & Walt Disney’s Short Ani­mat­ed Film, Des­ti­no, Set to the Music of Pink Floyd

Sal­vador Dalí Explains Why He Was a “Bad Painter” and Con­tributed “Noth­ing” to Art (1986)

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

Explore an Interactive, Online Version of the Beautifully Illustrated, 200-Year-Old British & Exotic Mineralogy

What if I said the prob­lem with STEM edu­ca­tion is that it doesn’t include near­ly enough art? For one thing, I would only echo what STEAM pro­po­nents have said for years. This does­n’t only mean that stu­dents should study the arts with the same seri­ous­ness as they do the sci­ences. But that sci­ence should be taught through the arts, as it was in the 19th cen­tu­ry when Nat­u­ral­ists relied on fine art illus­tra­tion.

Maybe increas­ing com­plex­i­ty demands charts and graphs, but there are rea­sons oth­er than hip anti­quar­i­an­ism to cher­ish 19th cen­tu­ry sci­en­tif­ic art, and to aim for some­thing close to its high aes­thet­ic stan­dards. Humans seem to find nature far more awe-inspir­ing when it’s medi­at­ed by paint­ing, poet­ry, nar­ra­tive, music, fine art pho­tog­ra­phy, etc. We want to be emo­tion­al­ly moved by sci­ence. As such, few guides to the nat­ur­al world have ele­vat­ed their sub­jects as high­ly as British & Exot­ic Min­er­al­o­gy, a mul­ti­vol­ume ref­er­ence work for… well, rocks, to put it vul­gar­ly, pub­lished between 1802 and 1817.

Dur­ing these years, “notable nat­u­ral­ist, illus­tra­tor, and min­er­al­o­gist James Sower­by drew intri­cate pic­tures of min­er­als in an effort to illus­trate the topo­graph­ic min­er­al­o­gy of Great Britain and min­er­als not yet known to it,” writes Nicholas Rougeux. “These illus­tra­tions were some of the finest on the sub­ject and are still con­sid­ered by some to be to this day.” Though he was sure­ly com­pen­sat­ed for his work, Sowerby’s detailed draw­ings come across as labors of devo­tion.

Rather than just print­ing them on post­cards or tote bags (though he does sell posters), Rougeux has done for Sowerby’s min­er­als what he had pre­vi­ous­ly done for oth­er clas­sic text­books and tax­onomies from the past, such as the 200-year-old Werner’s Nomen­cla­ture of Colours and Euclid’s Ele­ments from 1847. Dig­i­tiz­ing the 718 illus­tra­tions on one sprawl­ing inter­ac­tive page allows him to retain their edu­ca­tion­al val­ue: click on any indi­vid­ual min­er­al and you’ll bring up an enlarged image fol­lowed by excerpts from the text.

You have nev­er seen such rocks as these, no mat­ter how many uncut gems you’ve held in your hand. Because these illus­tra­tions turn them into some­thing else—crystalline palaces, alien organs, pet­ri­fied explo­sions, moldy loaves of bread… all the many shapes that time can take in rock form. They aren’t all beau­ti­ful rocks, but they are each beau­ti­ful­ly-ren­dered with lines that might remind us of the most skilled com­ic artists, who are per­haps some of the last inher­i­tors of this kind of graph­ic style. Sower­by him­self illus­trat­ed sev­er­al oth­er sci­en­tif­ic works, includ­ing series on biol­o­gy, mycol­o­gy, and a col­or sys­tem of his own devis­ing.

“We feel much plea­sure in pre­sent­ing our friends with a fig­ure and account of the most per­fect and rare spec­i­men yet found of this sub­stance,” begins the text accom­pa­ny­ing Hydrargillite, above, which resem­bles a small, mis­shapen moon or aster­oid. Rougeux also takes quite a bit of plea­sure in his work of recov­er­ing these ref­er­ence books and mak­ing them beau­ti­ful­ly use­ful once again for 21st cen­tu­ry read­ers. You can read his detailed account of the orig­i­nal illus­tra­tions and his adap­ta­tion of them for use on the web here.

While appre­ci­at­ing the fin­er points of col­or, line, and com­po­si­tion in Rougeux’s tapes­try of vin­tage min­er­al illus­tra­tions, you might just inad­ver­tent­ly expand your knowl­edge and appre­ci­a­tion of min­er­al­o­gy. You can also read the entire British & Exot­ic Min­er­al­o­gy, if you’ve got the time and incli­na­tion, at the Inter­net Archive.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bio­di­ver­si­ty Her­itage Library Makes 150,000 High-Res Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al World Free to Down­load

Explore an Inter­ac­tive, Online Ver­sion of Werner’s Nomen­cla­ture of Colours, a 200-Year-Old Guide to the Col­ors of the Nat­ur­al World

A Beau­ti­ful­ly-Designed Edi­tion of Euclid’s Ele­ments from 1847 Gets Dig­i­tized: Explore the New Online, Inter­ac­tive Repro­duc­tion

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

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Milton Glaser’s Stylish Album Covers for The Band, Nina Simone, John Cage & Many More

Mil­ton Glaser hard­ly needs an intro­duc­tion. But if the name some­how doesn’t ring a bell, “Glaser’s many con­tri­bu­tions to pop cul­ture,” as Ayun Hal­l­i­day writes in a pre­vi­ous post, cer­tain­ly will. These include “the  I ❤NY logo, the psy­che­del­ic por­trait of a rain­bow-haired Bob Dylan, DC Comics’ clas­sic bul­let logo.” All images that “con­fer unde­ni­able author­i­ty.” Many chil­dren of the six­ties also know Glaser well for his album cov­ers.

Glaser designed the album art for The Band’s clas­sic Music from Pink, though he stepped back from the cov­er and used one of Bob Dylan’s paint­ings instead. He designed cov­ers for clas­sics like Peter, Paul & Mary’s The Best Of: (Ten) Years Togeth­er and Light­nin’ Hop­kins’ Light­nin’! Vol­umes One and Two.

“Glaser had a long his­to­ry with record labels,” writes design­er Rea­gan Ray. “Accord­ing to Discogs, he was cred­it­ed with the design of 255 albums over the course of 60 years. His rela­tion­ship with record label exec­u­tive Kevin Eggers led him to explore a vari­ety of cov­ers for the Pop­py and Toma­to record labels, includ­ing the career of Townes Van Zandt.”

Glaser illus­trat­ed rock, folk, blues, jazz…. “Clas­si­cal album cov­ers nev­er get much atten­tion in graph­ic design his­to­ry,” Ray points out. But “his col­or­ful paint­ings were inter­est­ing and unique in an oth­er­wise stuffy genre.” He even illus­trat­ed an album by Al Caiola’s Mag­ic Gui­tars called Music for Space Squir­rels, what­ev­er that is. Did he lis­ten to all of these albums? Who knows? Glaser left us in June, but not before dis­pens­ing “Ten Rules for Work and Life” that set the bar high for aspir­ing artists.

One of his rules: “Style is not to be trust­ed. Style change is usu­al­ly linked to eco­nom­ic fac­tors, as all of you know who have read Marx. Also fatigue occurs when peo­ple see too much of the same thing too often.” If any­one would know, it was Glaser. “His work is every­where,” writes Ray, “and his lega­cy is vast.” He also had a very rec­og­niz­able style. See a much larg­er selec­tion of Glaser’s album cov­ers, curat­ed by Ray from over 200 albums, here. And vis­it an online col­lec­tion of Glaser’s oth­er graph­ic design work at the School of Visu­al Arts.

  

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mil­ton Glaser (RIP) Presents 10 Rules for Life & Work: Wis­dom from the Cel­e­brat­ed Design­er

Art Record Cov­ers: A Book of Over 500 Album Cov­ers Cre­at­ed by Famous Visu­al Artists

Enter the Cov­er Art Archive: A Mas­sive Col­lec­tion of 800,000 Album Cov­ers from the 1950s through 2018

The Icon­ic Album Cov­ers of Hipg­no­sis: Meet “The Bea­t­les of Album Cov­er Art” Who Cre­at­ed Unfor­get­table Designs for Pink Floyd, Led Zep­pelin, Peter Gabriel & Many More

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

Ballerina Misty Copeland Recreates the Poses of Edgar Degas’ Ballet Dancers

“I am a man of motion,” trag­ic mod­ernist bal­let dancer Vaslav Nijin­sky wrote in his famous Diary, “I am feel­ing through flesh…. I am God in a body.” Nijin­sky suf­fered the unfor­tu­nate onset of schiz­o­phre­nia after his career end­ed, but in his lucid moments, he writes of the great­est pain of his illness—to nev­er dance again. A degree of his obses­sive devo­tion seems intrin­sic to bal­let.

Misty Copeland, who titled her auto­bi­og­ra­phy Life in Motion, thinks so. “All dancers are con­trol freaks a bit,” she says. “We just want to be in con­trol of our­selves and our bod­ies. That’s just what the bal­let struc­ture, I think, kind of puts inside of you. If I’m put in a sit­u­a­tion where I am not real­ly sure what’s going to hap­pen, it can be over­whelm­ing. I get a bit anx­ious.” As Nijin­sky did, Copeland is also “forc­ing peo­ple to look at bal­let through a more con­tem­po­rary lens,” writes Stephen Mooallem in Harper’s Bazaar.

Copeland has been can­did about her strug­gles on the way to becom­ing the first African Amer­i­can woman named a prin­ci­pal dancer at the Amer­i­can Bal­let The­atre, includ­ing cop­ing with depres­sion, a leg-injury, body-image issues, and child­hood pover­ty. She is also “in the midst of the most illu­mi­nat­ing pas de deux with pop cul­ture for a clas­si­cal dancer since Mikhail Barysh­nikov went toe-to-toe with Gre­go­ry Hines in White Nights” (a ref­er­ence that may be lost on younger read­ers, but trust me, this was huge).

Like anoth­er mod­ernist artist, Edgar Degas, Copeland has rev­o­lu­tion­ized the image of the bal­let dancer. Degas’ bal­let paint­ings, “which the artist began cre­at­ing in the late 1860s and con­tin­ued mak­ing until the years before his death, in 1917, were infused with a very mod­ern sen­si­bil­i­ty. Instead of ide­al­ized visions of del­i­cate crea­tures pirou­et­ting onstage, he offered images of young girls con­gre­gat­ing, prac­tic­ing, labor­ing, danc­ing, train­ing….” He showed the unglam­orous life and work behind the cos­tumed pageantry, that is.

Pho­tog­ra­phers Ken Browar and Deb­o­rah Ory envi­sioned Copeland as sev­er­al of Degas’ dancers, pos­ing her in cou­ture dress­es in recre­ations of some of his famous paint­ings and sculp­tures. The pho­tographs are part of their NYC Dance Project, in part­ner­ship with Harper’s Bazaar. As Kot­tke points out, con­flat­ing the his­to­ries of Copeland and Degas’ dancers rais­es some ques­tions. Degas had con­tempt for women, espe­cial­ly his Parisian sub­jects, who danced in a sor­did world in which “sex work” between teenage dancers and old­er men “was a part of a ballerina’s real­i­ty,” writes author Julia Fiore (as it was too in Nijinsky’s day).

This con­text may unset­tle our view­ing, but the images also show Copeland in full con­trol of Degas’ scenes, though that’s not the way it felt, she says. “It was inter­est­ing to be on shoot and to not have the free­dom to just cre­ate like in nor­mal­ly do with my body. Try­ing to re-cre­ate what Degas did was real­ly dif­fi­cult.” Instead, she embod­ied his fig­ures as her­self. “I see a great affin­i­ty between Degas’s dancers and Misty,” says Thel­ma Gold­en, direc­tor of the Stu­dio Muse­um in Harlem. “She has knocked aside a long-stand­ing music-box stereo­type of the bal­le­ri­na and replaced it with a thor­ough­ly mod­ern, mul­ti­cul­tur­al image of pres­ence and pow­er.”

See more of Copeland’s Degas recre­ations at Harper’s Bazaar.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Impres­sion­ist Painter Edgar Degas Takes a Stroll in Paris, 1915

Watch the 1917 Bal­let “Parade”: Cre­at­ed by Erik Satie, Pablo Picas­so & Jean Cocteau, It Pro­voked a Riot and Inspired the Word “Sur­re­al­ism”

Watch the Ser­pen­tine Dance, Cre­at­ed by the Pio­neer­ing Dancer Loie Fuller, Per­formed in an 1897 Film by the Lumière Broth­ers

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

When Edward Gorey Designed Book Covers for Classic Novels: See His Ironic-Gothic Take on Dickens, Conrad, Poe & More

Twen­ty years after his death, it’s cool­er than ever to like Edward Gorey. This is evi­denced not just by the fre­quent post­ing of his inten­sive­ly cross­hatched, Vic­to­ri­an- and Edwar­dian-peri­od-inflect­ed, grim­ly com­ic art on social media, but by the num­ber of artists who now claim him as an influ­ence. Where, one won­ders, did they come across Gorey in the first place? Hav­ing pub­lished more than a hun­dred books in his life­time (if often in small runs from obscure press­es), he cer­tain­ly put the work out there to be found.

But it was the much more well-known books of oth­er writ­ers like Charles Dick­ens, Joseph Con­rad, T.S. Eliot, and Her­man Melville that first prop­a­gat­ed Gorey’s sen­si­bil­i­ty of, as The New York Times’ Steven Kurutz puts it, “camp-macabre, iron­ic-goth­ic or dark-whim­sy.”

Gorey designed the cov­ers for these books and oth­ers between 1953 to 1960, when he worked at the art depart­ment of pub­lish­ers Dou­ble­day Anchor. He had been tasked specif­i­cal­ly with their new series of paper­backs meant to be “seri­ous,” as opposed to the abun­dance of cheap, low­brow, and often sala­cious­ly pack­aged nov­els that had inspired the term “pulp fic­tion.”

Of the first 200 titles in this series, says Goreyo­g­ra­phy, “about a fourth of these have line drawn cov­ers by Gorey.” Even when oth­er artists (the line­up of whom includ­ed Leonard Baskin, Mil­ton Glaser, Philippe Julian, and Andy Warhol) drew the illus­tra­tion, “Gorey then designed the fin­ished prod­uct lend­ing a uni­form appear­ance to the whole line.” You can see a vari­ety of Gorey’s Dou­ble­day Anchor paper­back cov­ers at Lithub, the most Goreyesque of which (such as Joseph Con­rad’s The Secret Agent at the top of the post) not only bear his illus­tra­tions but con­tain noth­ing not drawn by Gorey, text and colophon includ­ed.

“When these cov­ers first appeared against the back­drop of mass-mar­ket cov­ers in gen­er­al,” accord­ing to Goreyo­g­ra­phy, “they were hailed as ‘mod­ern’ and ‘arty.’ Print mag­a­zine praised ‘a feel­ing of uni­ty… a qual­i­ty of their own.’ ” The end of Gorey’s time at Dou­ble­day did­n’t mean the end of his work on oth­ers’ books: in the 1970s, for exam­ple, he con­tributed suit­ably eerie cov­er and inte­ri­or art to John Bel­lairs’ young-adult nov­el The House with a Clock in Its Walls and five of the sequels that would fol­low it. It was in Bel­lairs’ books that I first encoun­tered the visions of Edward Gorey. More than a few read­ers of my gen­er­a­tion and the gen­er­a­tions since could say the same — and also that we’ve been plea­sur­ably haunt­ed by them ever since.

See more cov­ers over at Lithub.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Edward Gorey Illus­trates H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds in His Inim­itable Goth­ic Style (1960)

Lemo­ny Snick­et Reveals His Edward Gorey Obses­sion in an Upcom­ing Ani­mat­ed Doc­u­men­tary

Edward Gorey Talks About His Love Cats & More in the Ani­mat­ed Series, “Goreytelling”

The Best of the Edward Gorey Enve­lope Art Con­test

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

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Divine Decks: A Visual History of Tarot: The First Comprehensive Survey of Tarot Gets Published by Taschen

The cards of the tarot, first cre­at­ed for play around 600 years ago and used in recent cen­turies for occult div­ina­tion of truths about life, the uni­verse, and every­thing, should by all rights be noth­ing more than a his­tor­i­cal curios­i­ty today. Yet some­thing about the tarot still com­pels, even to many of us in the ever more dig­i­tal, ever more data-dri­ven 21st cen­tu­ry. Taschen, pub­lish­er of lav­ish art and pho­to books, know this: hence, as we fea­tured last year here on Open Cul­ture, prod­ucts like their box-set reis­sue of the tarot deck designed by Sal­vador Dalí. (There must be a mean­ing­ful over­lap between Taschen’s demo­graph­ic and Dalí’s fans, giv­en that the pub­lish­er more recent­ly put out the most com­plete col­lec­tion of his paint­ings between two cov­ers.)

Dalí isn’t the only artist whose inter­pre­ta­tions of the Fool, the Hiero­phant, the Lovers, the Hanged One, and the oth­er arcana have graced a tarot deck. H.R. Giger, the artist respon­si­ble for the bio­me­chan­i­cal creepi­ness of Alien, designed one in the 1990s; more recent­ly, we’ve fea­tured decks illus­trat­ed with visions inspired by the nov­els of Philip K. Dick and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks.

But all these togeth­er — even includ­ing the “Thoth deck” designed by occultist Aleis­ter Crow­ley and the Sola-Bus­ca deck, the ear­li­est known com­plete set of tarot cards — rep­re­sent only a small frac­tion of the sto­ry of tarot’s place in the past six cen­turies of civ­i­liza­tion. That sto­ry is told, and more impor­tant­ly shown, in Taschen’s new book Divine Decks: A Visu­al His­to­ry of Tarot.

The first vol­ume in Taschen’s “Library of Eso­ter­i­ca,” the book “gath­ers more than 500 cards and works of orig­i­nal art from around the world in the ulti­mate explo­ration of a cen­turies-old art form.” An image gallery on Taschen’s web site gives a small sam­pling of the range of tarot decks found with­in, includ­ing ones cre­at­ed in 1930s Eng­land, 1970s Italy, and 2010s Brook­lyn. One was intend­ed as a pro­mo­tion­al item for an Amer­i­can paper com­pa­ny in the 1960s; anoth­er, with dif­fer­ent pur­pos­es, announces itself as the “Black Pow­er Tarot.” This in addi­tion to such well-known exam­ples as Crow­ley’s Thoth deck and the ven­er­a­ble Sola-Bus­ca, both lush­ly repro­duced in its pages. And the tarot lives on, as I’m remind­ed when­ev­er I pass one of the many store­fronts here in Seoul offer­ing tarot read­ings. In any case, it’s cer­tain­ly come a long way from 15th-cen­tu­ry Europe. You can get a copy of Divine Decks: A Visu­al His­to­ry of Tarot on Taschen’s web­site.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold the Sola-Bus­ca Tarot Deck, the Ear­li­est Com­plete Set of Tarot Cards (1490)

H.R. Giger’s Tarot Cards: The Swiss Artist, Famous for His Design Work on Alien, Takes a Jour­ney into the Occult

The Tarot Card Deck Designed by Sal­vador Dalí

The Thoth Tarot Deck Designed by Famed Occultist Aleis­ter Crow­ley

Twin Peaks Tarot Cards Now Avail­able as 78-Card Deck

Philip K. Dick Tarot Cards: A Tarot Deck Mod­eled After the Vision­ary Sci-Fi Writer’s Inner World

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

View 250,000 British Paintings & Sculptures Free Online

A lit­tle over four years ago, dis­crim­i­na­to­ry and arbi­trar­i­ly con­fus­ing trav­el bans descend­ed on the U.S., tear­ing refugee fam­i­lies apart and leav­ing thou­sands in diplo­mat­ic lim­bo. This seemed night­mar­ish enough at the time. But it took a viral pan­dem­ic to bring trav­el bans and restric­tions down on the entire world, more or less, with coun­tries appear­ing on bul­letins that vague­ly look like lists of ene­mies on gov­ern­ing bod­ies’ web­sites, includ­ing the CDC’s.

Like­wise, almost all 27 coun­tries that com­prise the Euro­pean Union are cur­rent­ly dis­al­low­ing U.S. trav­el­ers, with the excep­tion of Croa­t­ia,” Mary Claire Pat­ton reports. The UK has also kept its ban on U.S. cit­i­zens in place. All this is to say, to fel­low cit­i­zens and res­i­dents of any gen­der, that the days of traips­ing around the world for Insta­gram impres­sions, or sav­ing and scrap­ing for that vaca­tion hon­ey­moon, or mak­ing even more impor­tant jour­neys, may be on hold indef­i­nite­ly.

For­tu­nate­ly, art gal­leries world­wide have been prepar­ing their col­lec­tions for inde­pen­dent lives online, with ultra-high-res­o­lu­tion pho­tog­ra­phy; mate­ri­als that rarely appear on view in any form; and more con­text than vis­i­tors typ­i­cal­ly get on a guid­ed tour.

Would-be vis­i­tors keen on pub­lic art col­lec­tions will find their niche online at Art UK, a char­i­ty project that is dig­i­tiz­ing “more than 150,000 pub­licly owned sculp­tures in Great Britain by the end of 2020,” writes Men­tal Floss, includ­ing many sculp­tures liv­ing their lives out in pub­lic spaces.

Art UK seem to be lag­ging a bit behind on the sculp­ture posts, and they are light on the con­text, but a few big things have hap­pened since they made the announce­ment in Feb­ru­ary 2019. In any case, you will not have to trav­el to a Nando’s eatery in Har­low to see Rodin’s Eve, orig­i­nal­ly cre­at­ed for his Gates of Hell in Paris. (Not that one wouldn’t want to go to Har­low, which “also dis­plays works by acclaimed artists such as Hen­ry Moore, Elis­a­beth Frink, Bar­bara Hep­worth and Lynn Chad­wick,” Mark Brown points out at The Guardian.)

The over twen­ty-five thou­sand pub­lic UK sculp­tures doc­u­ment­ed in the data­base so far are already impres­sive enough. Oh, and did we men­tion that the foun­da­tion had already pre­vi­ous­ly dig­i­tized over two-hun­dred thou­sand oil paint­ings between 2003 and 2012? These are also all paint­ings owned by the UK pub­lic “from over 3,000 loca­tions,” Katey Good­win writes for Art UK. “This is the only project of its kind in the world to cre­ate a com­plete online cat­a­logue of every oil paint­ing in a nation­al col­lec­tion.”

These include the req­ui­site dot­ing and reveal­ing por­traits of lords, ladies, mer­chants, wor­thies, and bureau­crats. They also include bril­liant oil paint­ings like David Hep­her’s Night Flats, whose title and far­away lone­some­ness evoke Edward Hop­per. Fur­ther­more, not all por­traits of British wor­thies fit the stereo­type, as Col­in Cola­han’s 1933 arrest­ing like­ness of Eng­lish actress Marie Ney demon­strates.

You can read more about the process of bring­ing this work online in Goodwin’s essay, which also lists the nation­al orga­ni­za­tions and muse­ums from which the col­lec­tion draws. These are “locat­ed through­out Eng­land, Scot­land, Wales and North­ern Ire­land, and the crown depen­den­cies of the Isle of Man and the Chan­nel Islands.” Vis­it Art UK them­selves here to see their pho­to­graph­ic archive of pub­licly-owned paint­ing, sculp­ture, and oth­er visu­al media in the UK—now pub­licly avail­able online around the world to peo­ple indef­i­nite­ly banned from vis­it­ing the art in per­son.

For a wealth of oth­er free art, vis­it this page on our site: Vis­it 2+ Mil­lion Free Works of Art from 20 World-Class Muse­ums Free Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load 569 Free Art Books from The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art

The Tate Dig­i­tizes 70,000 Works of Art: Pho­tos, Sketch­books, Let­ters & More

The British Muse­um Puts 1.9 Mil­lion Works of Art Online

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

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