A Recently-Discovered 44,000-Year-Old Cave Painting Tells the Oldest Known Story

Where did art begin? In a cave, most of us would say — espe­cial­ly those of us who’ve seen Wern­er Her­zog’s Cave of For­got­ten Dreams — and specif­i­cal­ly on the walls of caves, where ear­ly humans drew the first rep­re­sen­ta­tions of land­scapes, ani­mals, and them­selves. But when did art begin? The answer to that ques­tion has proven more sub­ject to revi­sion. The well-known paint­ings of the Las­caux cave com­plex in France go back 17,000 years, but the paint­ings of that same coun­try’s Chau­vet cave, the ones Her­zog cap­tured in 3D, go back 32,000 years. And just two years ago, Grif­fith Uni­ver­si­ty researchers dis­cov­ered art­work on a cave on the Indone­sian island of Sulawe­si that turns out to be about 44,000 years old.

Here on Open Cul­ture we’ve fea­tured the argu­ment that ancient rock-wall art con­sti­tutes the ear­li­est form of cin­e­ma, to the extent that its unknown painters sought to evoke move­ment. But cave paint­ings like the one in Sulawe­si’s cave Leang Bulu’ Sipong 4, which you can see in the video above, also shed light on the nature of the ear­li­est known forms of sto­ry­telling.

The “four­teen-and-a-half-foot-wide image, paint­ed in dark-red pig­ment,” writes The New York­er’s Adam Gop­nik, depicts “about eight tiny bipedal fig­ures, bear­ing what look to be spears and ropes, brave­ly hunt­ing the local wild pigs and buf­fa­lo.” This first known narrative“tells one of the sim­plest and most res­o­nant sto­ries we have: a tale of the hunter and the hunt­ed, of small and eas­i­ly mocked pur­suers try­ing to bring down a scary but vul­ner­a­ble beast.”

Like oth­er ancient cave art, the paint­ing’s char­ac­ters are the­ri­anthropes, described by the Grif­fith researchers’ Nature arti­cle as “abstract beings that com­bine qual­i­ties of both peo­ple and ani­mals, and which arguably com­mu­ni­cat­ed nar­ra­tive fic­tion of some kind (folk­lore, reli­gious myths, spir­i­tu­al beliefs and so on).” Giv­en the appar­ent impor­tance of their roles in ear­ly sto­ries, how much of a stretch would it be to call these fig­ures the first super­heroes? “Indeed, the cave paint­ing could be entered as evi­dence into a key aes­thet­ic and sto­ry­telling argu­ment of today — the debate between the pal­adins of Amer­i­can film, Mar­tin Scors­ese and Fran­cis Ford Cop­po­la, and their Mar­vel Cin­e­mat­ic Uni­verse con­tem­po­raries,” writes Gop­nik.

If you haven’t fol­lowed this strug­gle for the soul of sto­ry­telling in the 21st cen­tu­ry, Scors­ese wrote a piece in The New York Times claim­ing that today’s kind of block­buster super­hero pic­ture isn’t cin­e­ma, in that it shrinks from “the com­plex­i­ty of peo­ple and their con­tra­dic­to­ry and some­times para­dox­i­cal natures, the way they can hurt one anoth­er and love one anoth­er and sud­den­ly come face to face with them­selves.” (“He didn’t say it’s despi­ca­ble,” Cop­po­la lat­er added, “which I just say it is.”) And yet, as Gop­nik puts it, “our old­est pic­ture sto­ry seems to belong, whether we want it to or not, more to the Mar­vel uni­verse than to Mar­ty Scorsese’s.” If we just imag­ine how those the­ri­anthropes — “A human with the strength of a bull! Anoth­er with the guile of a croc­o­dile!” — must have thrilled their con­tem­po­rary view­ers, we’ll under­stand these cave paint­ings for what they are: ear­ly art, ear­ly sto­ry­telling, ear­ly cin­e­ma, but above all, ear­ly spec­ta­cle.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Was a 32,000-Year-Old Cave Paint­ing the Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

40,000-Year-Old Sym­bols Found in Caves World­wide May Be the Ear­li­est Writ­ten Lan­guage

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er the World’s First “Art Stu­dio” Cre­at­ed in an Ethiopi­an Cave 43,000 Years Ago

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

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 or on Face­book.

A Visual Introduction to Kintsugi, the Japanese Art of Repairing Broken Pottery and Finding Beauty in Imperfection

Kintsu­gi, the Japan­ese art of join­ing bro­ken pot­tery with gleam­ing seams of gold or sil­ver, cre­ates fine art objects we can see as sym­bols for the beau­ty of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. Sure­ly, these bowls, cups, vas­es, etc. remind of us Leonard Cohen’s oft-quot­ed lyric from “Anthem” (“There is a crack in every­thing, that’s how the light gets in.”) Writer and artist Austin Kleon touch­es on this same sen­ti­ment in a recent post on his blog. “The thing I love the most about Kintsu­gi is the vis­i­ble trace of heal­ing and repair—the idea of high­light­ed, glow­ing scars.”

Kintsu­gi, which trans­lates to “gold­en join­ery,” has a his­to­ry that dates back to the 15th cen­tu­ry, as Col­in Mar­shall explained in a pre­vi­ous post here. But it’s fas­ci­nat­ing how much this art res­onates with our con­tem­po­rary dis­course around trau­ma and heal­ing.

“We all grow up believ­ing we should empha­size the inher­ent pos­i­tives about our­selves,” writes Mar­shall, “but what if we also empha­sized the neg­a­tives, the parts we’ve had to work to fix or improve? If we did it just right, would the neg­a­tives still look so neg­a­tive after all?”

A key idea here is “doing it just right.” Kintsu­gi is not a warts-and-all pre­sen­ta­tion, but a means of turn­ing bro­ken­ness into art, a skill­ful real­iza­tion of the Japan­ese idea of wabi-sabi, the “beau­ty of things imper­fect, imper­ma­nent, and incom­plete,” as Leonard Koren writes in Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Design­ers, Poets & Philoso­phers. Objects that rep­re­sent wabi-sabi “may exhib­it the effects of acci­dent, like a bro­ken bowl glued back togeth­er again.” In kintsu­gi, those effects are due to the artist’s craft rather than ran­dom chance.

When it comes to heal­ing psy­chic wounds so that they shine like pre­cious met­als, there seems to be no one per­fect method. But when we’re talk­ing about the artistry of kintsu­gi, there are some—from the most refined arti­san­ship to less rig­or­ous do-it-your­self techniques—we can all adopt with some suc­cess. In the video at the top, learn DIY kintsu­gi from World Crafted’s Robert Mahar. Fur­ther up, we have an inten­sive, word­less demon­stra­tion from pro­fes­sion­al kintsu­gi artist Kyoko Ohwa­ki.

And just above, see psy­chol­o­gist Alexa Alt­man trav­el to Japan to learn kintsu­gi, then make it “acces­si­ble” with an expla­na­tion of both the phys­i­cal process of kintsu­gi and its metaphor­i­cal dimen­sions. As Alt­man shows, kintsu­gi can just as well be made from things bro­ken on pur­pose as by acci­dent. When it comes to the beau­ti­ful­ly flawed fin­ished prod­uct, how­ev­er, per­haps how a thing was bro­ken mat­ters far less than the amount of care and skill we use to join it back togeth­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kintsu­gi: The Cen­turies-Old Japan­ese Craft of Repair­ing Pot­tery with Gold & Find­ing Beau­ty in Bro­ken Things

The Philo­soph­i­cal Appre­ci­a­tion of Rocks in Chi­na & Japan: A Short Intro­duc­tion to an Ancient Tra­di­tion

Wabi-Sabi: A Short Film on the Beau­ty of Tra­di­tion­al Japan

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

Illustrations from the Soviet Children’s Book Your Name? Robot, Created by Tarkovsky Art Director Mikhail Romadin (1979)

As we approach three full decades of a world with­out the Sovi­et Union, cer­tain details about life in the soci­eties that con­sti­tut­ed it inevitably begin to fade from liv­ing mem­o­ry. But nobody who grew up Sovi­et could ever for­get the chil­dren’s books they grew up read­ing, and recent efforts to dig­i­tal­ly archive them — such as Play­ing Sovi­et at the Cot­sen Col­lec­tion at Princeton’s Fire­stone Library, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture — have ensured that future gen­er­a­tions will be able to enjoy them too, no mat­ter the regime under which they come of age, or even what lan­guage they speak.

Most Sovi­et chil­dren’s books have such cap­ti­vat­ing illus­tra­tions that one need not read them to enjoy them. Take, for instance, Your Name? Robot, a 1979 Sovi­et pic­ture book fea­tured on book and design blog 50 Watts.

Who could resist the charm of these mechan­i­cal crea­tures dis­play­ing their many abil­i­ties: pick­ing up sig­nals, play­ing music, paint­ing pic­tures, spout­ing com­pli­cat­ed fig­ures, boil­ing water? With their hyp­not­i­cal­ly detailed pat­terns of cir­cuits and wires, the inner work­ings of these robots also look quite unlike any­thing else — and cer­tain­ly unlike the also-pop­u­lar robot char­ac­ters who have long fig­ured into sto­ries for Amer­i­can chil­dren.

In the mid-20th cen­tu­ry, Amer­i­ca and the Sovi­et Union were rac­ing each oth­er to the future: though vision­ar­ies in both lands may have dis­agreed about what exact form that future would take, many saw some kind of utopia made real through high tech­nol­o­gy dead ahead. And whether work­er’s par­adise or con­sumer’s par­adise, the rest of the mil­len­ni­um would sure­ly see the devel­op­ment of intel­li­gent robots to assist, edu­cate, and enter­tain us.

But by the late 1970s, some of these visions had turned dystopi­an: to bor­row the tagline from Zardoz, they’d seen the future, and it did­n’t work — itself a grim rever­sal of Amer­i­can jour­nal­ist Lin­coln Stef­fens’ opti­mistic ear­ly-20th-cen­tu­ry dec­la­ra­tion about Sovi­et Rus­sia.

From Sovi­et cin­e­ma, one less-than-opti­mistic treat­ment of the future endures above all: 1972’s Solaris, adapt­ed by Andrei Tarkovsky from the nov­el by Stanis­law Lem. The pro­duc­tion design­er who gave that film’s future its look and feel was none oth­er than Mikhail Romadin, the artist who would go on to illus­trate Your Name? Robot just a few years lat­er (in an illus­tra­tion career involv­ing hun­dreds of books, includ­ing vol­umes by Leo Tol­stoy and Ray Brad­bury).

“Romad­in’s char­ac­ter is hid­den, forced deep inside,” said Tarkovsky of his col­lab­o­ra­tor and friend since film school. “In his best works what often hap­pens is that the out­ward char­ac­ter­is­tics of bare­ly ordered dynamism and chaos that one per­ceives ini­tial­ly, melt imper­cep­ti­bly into the appre­ci­a­tion of calm and noble form, silent and sim­ple” — an appre­ci­a­tion Your Name? Robot must have done its part to instill in a gen­er­a­tion of young read­ers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Dig­i­tal Archive of Sovi­et Children’s Books Goes Online: Browse the Artis­tic, Ide­o­log­i­cal Col­lec­tion (1917–1953)

Read Vladimir Mayakovsky’s Children’s Book Whom Should I Be?: A Clas­sic from the “Gold­en Age” in Sovi­et Children’s Lit­er­a­ture

Two Beau­ti­ful­ly-Craft­ed Russ­ian Ani­ma­tions of Chekhov’s Clas­sic Children’s Sto­ry “Kash­tan­ka”

Watch Sovi­et Ani­ma­tions of Win­nie the Pooh, Cre­at­ed by the Inno­v­a­tive Ani­ma­tor Fyo­dor Khitruk

Sovi­et-Era Illus­tra­tions Of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hob­bit (1976)

Enter an Archive of 6,000 His­tor­i­cal Children’s Books, All Dig­i­tized and Free to Read Online

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 or on Face­book.

When Salvador Dalí Created Christmas Cards That Were Too Avant Garde for Hallmark (1960)

The nature of mar­ket­ing in the near­ly-over 2010s, with all its unex­pect­ed brand crossovers and col­lab­o­ra­tions, gave rise to many strange com­mer­cial bed­fel­lows. But for sheer artis­tic shock val­ue, did any of them sur­pass Christ­mas of 1960, when Sal­vador Dalí designed hol­i­day greet­ing cards for Hall­mark? It was the rare inter­sec­tion of the kind of com­pa­ny that has built an empire on broad­ly appeal­ing, inof­fen­sive expres­sions of love and fes­tiv­i­ty and an artist who once said, “I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.”

“Hall­mark began repro­duc­ing the paint­ings and designs of con­tem­po­rary artists on its Christ­mas cards in the late 1940s, an ini­tia­tive that was led by com­pa­ny founder Joyce Clyde Hall,” writes the Wash­ing­ton Post’s Ana Swan­son.

The art of Pablo Picas­so, Paul Cezanne, Paul Gau­guin, Vin­cent Van Gogh and Geor­gia O’Keeffe all took a turn on Hallmark’s Christ­mas cards.” And so, Swan­son quotes Hall as writ­ing in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, “through the ‘unso­phis­ti­cat­ed art’ of greet­ing cards, the world’s great­est mas­ters were shown to mil­lions of peo­ple who might oth­er­wise not have been exposed to them.”

Hall­mark signed Dalí on in 1959. The painter of The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry and Cru­ci­fix­ion (Cor­pus Hyper­cubus) asked the greet­ing-card giant for “$15,000 in cash in advance for 10 greet­ing card designs, with no sug­ges­tions from Hall­mark for the sub­ject or medi­um, no dead­line and no roy­al­ties.” The designs Dalí came up with includ­ed “Sur­re­al­ist ren­di­tions of the Christ­mas tree and the Holy Fam­i­ly,” as well as some “vague­ly unset­tling” images, such as a head­less angel play­ing a lute and the three wise men atop some insane-look­ing camels. Ulti­mate­ly, Hall­mark only pro­duced two of the Dalí cards, a nativ­i­ty scene and a depic­tion of the Madon­na and Child. Alas, even those rel­a­tive­ly tame images did­n’t go over well.

Dalí’s “take on Christ­mas,” as Patrick Regan writes in Hall­mark: A Cen­tu­ry of Car­ing, was “a bit too avant garde for the aver­age greet­ing card buy­er,” and the neg­a­tive pub­lic response soon con­vinced Hall­mark to drop Dalí’s cards from their prod­uct line — thus ensur­ing their future as sought-after col­lec­tor’s items. As inaus­pi­cious as the mar­riage of Dalí and Hall­mark might seem, the artist did pos­sess a com­mer­cial sense more in line with Joyce Clyde Hal­l’s than not: in his life­time Dalí cre­at­ed a range of prod­ucts rang­ing from prints to books (includ­ing a cook­book) to tarot decks, and even appeared in tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials. Not all of his ven­tures were suc­cess­ful, but as with his Hall­mark Christ­mas cards — about which you can learn more at the site of Span­ish lan­guage and lit­er­a­ture pro­fes­sor Rebec­ca M. Ben­der — some­times the fail­ures are more mem­o­rable than the suc­cess­es.

via the Wash­ing­ton Post.

The images above come cour­tesy of the Hall­mark Archives.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí’s Tarot Cards Get Re-Issued: The Occult Meets Sur­re­al­ism in a Clas­sic Tarot Card Deck

John Waters Makes Hand­made Christ­mas Cards, Says the “Whole Pur­pose of Life is Christ­mas”

Watch Ter­ry Gilliam’s Ani­mat­ed Short, The Christ­mas Card (1968)

Andy Warhol’s Christ­mas Art

Sal­vador Dalí Goes Com­mer­cial: Three Strange Tele­vi­sion Ads

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

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 or on Face­book.

A Beautiful New Book of Japanese Woodblock Prints: A Visual History of 200 Japanese Masterpieces Created Between 1680 and 1938

Japan­ese wood­block prints, espe­cial­ly in the style known in Japan­ese as ukiyo‑e, or “pic­tures of the float­ing world,” por­tray the social, nat­ur­al, and super­nat­ur­al realms in a way no oth­er art form ever has. They also repay the atten­tion you give them, one rea­son we here on Open Cul­ture have tried to share with you every oppor­tu­ni­ty to down­load them — from the archive at Ukiyo‑e.org, for exam­ple, or at the Library of Con­gress — and build your own dig­i­tal col­lec­tion.

But appre­ci­at­ing Japan­ese wood­block prints on a screen is one thing, and appre­ci­at­ing them in large-scale repro­duc­tions on paper is quite anoth­er. At least that’s one implic­it premise of the book Japan­ese Wood­block Prints (1680–1938), new­ly pub­lished by Taschen.

As a pub­lish­er, Taschen has made its for­mi­da­ble name in part by col­lect­ing between two cov­ers the less­er-known work of famous artists of the recent past: Andy Warhol’s hand-illus­trat­ed books, for exam­ple, or Sal­vador Dalí’s cook­book and tarot deck.

Nev­er an out­fit to fear accu­sa­tions of immod­esty, Taschen’s projects also include “XXL books” like a 500-page, 14-pound vol­ume on Jean-Michel Basquiat. Sur­pass­ing even that book in length by more than 200 pages, Japan­ese Wood­block Prints con­tains, accord­ing to Taschen’s offi­cial site, an artis­tic real­i­ty where “breath­tak­ing land­scapes exist along­side blush-induc­ing erot­i­ca; where demons and oth­er­world­ly crea­tures tor­ment the liv­ing; and where sumo wrestlers, kabu­ki actors, and cour­te­sans are rock stars.”

“For this tome, Taschen spent three years repro­duc­ing wood­block prints from muse­ums and pri­vate col­lec­tions from around the world,” writes Colos­sal’s Andrew Lasane. “Writ­ten by Andreas Marks, head of the Japan­ese and Kore­an Art Depart­ment at the Min­neapo­lis Insti­tute of Art, the book is divid­ed chrono­log­i­cal­ly into sev­en chap­ters begin­ning with the 17th cen­tu­ry ear­ly mas­ters and con­clud­ing with the Shin-hanga move­ment.” (That last is a late 19th- and ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry wood­block style, in which we once fea­tured ren­der­ings of Hayao Miyaza­k­i’s char­ac­ters.)

No mat­ter our tem­po­ral and cul­tur­al dis­tance from the Japan­ese mas­ters of ukiyo‑e, we’ve near­ly all been cap­ti­vat­ed by their work at one time or anoth­er, most often when we run across pieces of it online. With Japan­ese Wood­block Prints, Taschen means to get those of us who pre­fer print even more cap­ti­vat­ed — and at the same time, to teach us more than a lit­tle about the cul­tur­al and his­tor­i­cal con­text of all these land­scapes, cityscapes, mon­sters, beau­ties, and his­tor­i­cal fig­ures at which we mar­vel.

If you want to pick up a copy of this artis­tic work, you can make a pur­chas on Ama­zon.

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Enter a Dig­i­tal Archive of 213,000+ Beau­ti­ful Japan­ese Wood­block Prints

Down­load 2,500 Beau­ti­ful Wood­block Prints and Draw­ings by Japan­ese Mas­ters (1600–1915)

Down­load Hun­dreds of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Wood­block Prints by Mas­ters of the Tra­di­tion

Behold the Mas­ter­piece by Japan’s Last Great Wood­block Artist: View Online Tsukio­ka Yoshitoshi’s One Hun­dred Aspects of the Moon (1885)

Japan­ese Kabu­ki Actors Cap­tured in 18th-Cen­tu­ry Wood­block Prints by the Mys­te­ri­ous & Mas­ter­ful Artist Sharaku

19th Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Wood­block Prints Cre­ative­ly Illus­trate the Inner Work­ings of the Human Body

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 or on Face­book.

20+ Knitters and Crochet Artists Stitch an Astonishing 3‑D Recreation of Picasso’s Guernica

Soft­ness is per­haps not the first qual­i­ty that springs to mind when one imag­ines recre­at­ing the chaos and anguish of Picasso’s Guer­ni­ca in a 3‑dimensional rep­re­sen­ta­tion.

Though how else to describe the pri­ma­ry medi­um of the urban knit­ting group Sul filo dell’arte?

More than 20 fiber artists worked for over a year, metic­u­lous­ly cro­chet­ing embroi­der­ing and knit­ting the most famil­iar ele­ments of the paint­ing as stand-alone fig­ures, to mark the eight­i­eth anniver­sary of the bomb­ing of the small Span­ish town depict­ed in the 1937 mas­ter­piece.

Stu­dents from the State Art School of the Roy­al Vil­la of Mon­za con­tributed the frame­works over which the fiber pieces were stretched.

The result, Guer­ni­ca 3D, was lat­er dis­played as part of Meta­mor­pho­sis, a Picas­so-themed exhi­bi­tion at the Roy­al Palace in Milan.

A look at Sul filo dell’arte’s Insta­gram page reveals that Picas­so is not the only artist to inspire their nee­dles. Fri­da KahloMagritteKei­th Har­ingAndy Warhol, and Vin­cent Van Gogh are among those to whom they have paid painstak­ing woolen trib­ute.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Makes Guer­ni­ca So Shock­ing? An Ani­mat­ed Video Explores the Impact of Picasso’s Mon­u­men­tal Anti-War Mur­al

The Gestapo Points to Guer­ni­ca and Asks Picas­so, “Did You Do This?;” Picas­so Replies “No, You Did!”

Behold an Anatom­i­cal­ly Cor­rect Repli­ca of the Human Brain, Knit­ted by a Psy­chi­a­trist

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Jan­u­ary 6 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain cel­e­brates Cape-Cod­di­ties (1920) by Roger Liv­ingston Scaife. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Phenomena of Physics Illustrated with Psychedelic Art in an Influential 19th-Century Textbook

The sci­ence of optics and the fine art of sci­ence illus­tra­tion arose togeth­er in Europe, from the ear­ly black-and-white col­or wheel drawn by Isaac New­ton in 1704 to the bril­liant­ly hand-col­ored charts and dia­grams of Goethe in 1810. Goethe’s illus­tra­tions are more renowned than Newton’s, but both inspired a con­sid­er­able num­ber of sci­en­tif­ic artists in the 19th cen­tu­ry. It would take a sci­ence writer, the French jour­nal­ist and math­e­mati­cian Amédée Guillemin, to ful­ly grasp the poten­tial of illus­tra­tion as a means of con­vey­ing the mind-bend­ing prop­er­ties of light and col­or to the gen­er­al pub­lic.

Guillemin pub­lished the huge­ly pop­u­lar text­book Les phénomènes de la physique in 1868, even­tu­al­ly expand­ing it into a five-vol­ume physics ency­clo­pe­dia. (View and down­load a scanned copy at the Well­come Col­lec­tion.) He real­ized that in order to make abstract the­o­ries “com­pre­hen­si­ble” to lay read­ers, Maria Popo­va writes at Brain Pick­ings, “he had to make their ele­gant abstract math­e­mat­ics tan­gi­ble and cap­ti­vat­ing for the eye. He had to make physics beau­ti­ful.” Guillemin com­mis­sioned artists to make 31 col­ored lith­o­graphs, 80 black-and-white plates, and 2,012 illus­trat­ed dia­grams of the phys­i­cal phe­nom­e­na he described.

The most “psy­che­del­ic-look­ing illus­tra­tions,” notes the Pub­lic Domain Review, are by Parisian intaglio print­er and engraver René Hen­ri Digeon and “based on images made by the physi­cist J. Sil­ber­mann show­ing how light waves look when they pass through var­i­ous objects, rang­ing from a bird’s feath­er to crys­tals mount­ed and turned in tour­ma­line tongs.”

Digeon also illus­trat­ed the “spec­tra of var­i­ous light sources, solar, stel­lar, metal­lic, gaseous, elec­tric,” above, and cre­at­ed a col­or wheel, fur­ther down, based on a clas­si­fi­ca­tion sys­tem of French chemist Michel Eugène Chevreul.

Many of Digeon’s images “were used to explain the phe­nom­e­non of bire­frin­gence, or dou­ble refrac­tion,” the Pub­lic Domain Review writes (hence the dou­ble rain­bow). In addi­tion to his strik­ing plates, this sec­tion of the book also includes the image of the soap bub­ble above, by artist M. Rap­ine, based on a paint­ing by Alexan­dre-Blaise Des­goffe.

[The artists’] sub­jects were not cho­sen hap­haz­ard­ly. New­ton was famous­ly inter­est­ed in the iri­des­cence of soap bub­bles. His obser­va­tions of their refrac­tive capac­i­ties helped him devel­op the undu­la­to­ry the­o­ry of light. But he was no stranger to feath­ers either. In the Opticks (1704), he not­ed with won­der that, “by look­ing on the Sun through a Feath­er or black Rib­band held close to the Eye, sev­er­al Rain-bows will appear.”

In turn, Guillemin’s lav­ish­ly illus­trat­ed ency­clo­pe­dia con­tin­ues to influ­ence sci­en­tif­ic illus­tra­tions of light and col­or spec­tra. “In order thus to place itself in com­mu­nion with Nature,” he wrote, “our intel­li­gence draws from two springs, both bright and pure, and equal­ly fruitful—Art and Sci­ence.” See more art from the book at Brain Pick­ings and the Pub­lic Domain Review.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Vibrant Col­or Wheels Designed by Goethe, New­ton & Oth­er The­o­rists of Col­or (1665–1810)

Goethe’s Col­or­ful & Abstract Illus­tra­tions for His 1810 Trea­tise, The­o­ry of Col­ors: Scans of the First Edi­tion

A 900-Page Pre-Pan­tone Guide to Col­or from 1692: A Com­plete Dig­i­tal Scan

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

An Introduction to Surrealism: The Big Aesthetic Ideas Presented in Three Videos

Before sur­re­al­ism became Mer­ri­am Web­ster’s word of the year in 2016 for its use­ful descrip­tion of real­i­ty, it applied to art that incor­po­rates the bizarre jux­ta­po­si­tions of dream log­ic. We know it from the films of David Lynch and paint­ings of Sal­vador Dalí. We may not, how­ev­er, know it from the poet­ry of Andre Bre­ton, “but the move­ment actu­al­ly began in lit­er­a­ture,” points out the Scot­tish Nation­al Gallery intro­duc­to­ry video above. Bre­ton, influ­enced by Freud and Rim­baud, railed against medi­oc­rity, pos­i­tivism, the ‘real­is­tic atti­tude,” and the “reign of log­ic” in his 1924 “Man­i­festo of Sur­re­al­ism.”

If this sounds some­what famil­iar, it’s because Sur­re­al­ism was “built on the ash­es of Dada.” The first group of artists who worked under the term Sur­re­al­ism includ­ed Tris­tan Tzara, who had penned the “Dada Man­i­festo” only six years ear­li­er. Where Tzara had claimed that “Dada means noth­ing,” Bre­ton declared Sur­re­al­ism in favor of dream states, sym­bol­ism, and “the mar­velous.”

He also defined the term—a word he took from the Sym­bol­ist poet Guil­laume Apol­li­naire—“once and for all.”

SURREALISM, n. Psy­chic automa­tism in its pure state, by which one pro­pos­es to express — ver­bal­ly, by means of the writ­ten word, or in any oth­er man­ner — the actu­al func­tion­ing of thought. Dic­tat­ed by the thought, in the absence of any con­trol exer­cised by rea­son, exempt from any aes­thet­ic or moral con­cern.

The artists and writ­ers who coa­lesced around Bre­ton rep­re­sent­ed a hodge­podge of styles, from the pure abstrac­tion of Joan Miro to the hyper­re­al­ist fan­tasies of Dali and play­ful sym­bol­ist conun­drums of Magritte and art pranks of Mar­cel Duchamp.

As artists, theirs was fore­most an aes­thet­ic rad­i­cal­ism invest­ed in Freudi­an exam­i­na­tions of the psy­che through the imagery of the uncon­scious. “But when [the move­ment] emerged in Europe,” notes the PBS Art Assign­ment video above, “dur­ing the ten­u­ous, tur­bu­lent years fol­low­ing World War I and lead­ing up to World War II, Sur­re­al­ism posi­tioned itself not as an escape from life, but as a rev­o­lu­tion­ary force with­in it.”

Bre­ton joined the French Com­mu­nist Par­ty in 1927, was tossed out in 1933, and in 1934 deliv­ered a speech, which became a pam­phlet enti­tled “What is Sur­re­al­ism?” Here Bre­ton rede­fined Sur­re­al­ism as an anti-fas­cist posi­tion, “a liv­ing move­ment, that is to say a move­ment under­go­ing a con­stant process of becom­ing…. sur­re­al­ism has brought togeth­er and is still bring­ing togeth­er diverse tem­pera­ments indi­vid­u­al­ly obey­ing or resist­ing a vari­ety of bents.”

Here he alludes to pre­vi­ous polit­i­cal tur­moil in the Sur­re­al­ist ranks: “The fact that cer­tain of the first par­tic­i­pants in sur­re­al­ist activ­i­ty have thrown in the sponge and have been dis­card­ed has brought about the retir­ing from cir­cu­la­tion of some ways of think­ing.” The ref­er­ence is part­ly to Dali, whom Bre­ton expelled from the Sur­re­al­ist group that same year for “the glo­ri­fi­ca­tion of Hit­ler­ian fas­cism.”

As World War II began, many Sur­re­al­ists fled Europe for the Unit­ed States. Bre­ton trav­eled the Caribbean, set­tled in New York, and devel­oped a friend­ship with Mar­tini­can poet, writer, and states­man Aime Cesaire. He met Trot­sky, Fri­da Kahlo, and Diego Rivera in Mex­i­co, and par­tic­i­pat­ed in the bur­geon­ing Sur­re­al­ist move­ment in the U.S. and Latin Amer­i­ca.

The influ­ence of Bre­ton and his Sur­re­al­ist lit­er­ary peers on mid-cen­tu­ry fic­tion and poet­ry in the decol­o­niz­ing glob­al south was sig­nif­i­cant. Bre­ton “insist­ed art be cre­at­ed for rev­o­lu­tion not profit”—points out the video above, “Sur­re­al­ism: The Big Ideas.” Dali, on the oth­er hand,“wasn’t real­ly into all that.” The painter retreat­ed to the U.S. in 1940 with his wife Gala, spend­ing his time on both coasts and becom­ing a pop­u­lar sen­sa­tion. Amer­i­ca “offered Dali end­less oppor­tu­ni­ties for his tal­ents.”

Dali “intro­duced Sur­re­al­ism to the gen­er­al pub­lic, and made it fun!… Amer­i­ca loved it, and him. They made Dali a celebri­ty,” and he helped pop­u­lar­ize a Sur­re­al­ist aes­thet­ic in Hol­ly­wood film and Madi­son Avenue adver­tis­ing. But to real­ly under­stand the move­ment, we must not look only to its visu­al vocab­u­lary and its influ­ence on pop cul­ture, but also to the poet­ry, phi­los­o­phy, and pol­i­tics of its founder.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

A Brief, Visu­al Intro­duc­tion to Sur­re­al­ism: A Primer by Doc­tor Who Star Peter Capal­di

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

Read and Hear Tris­tan Tzara’s “Dada Man­i­festo,” the Avant-Garde Doc­u­ment Pub­lished 100 Years Ago (March 23, 1918)

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

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates Wild Dream Sequences for Hitch­cock & Vin­cente Min­nel­li

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

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