In 1886, the US Government Commissioned 7,500 Watercolor Paintings of Every Known Fruit in the World: Download Them in High Resolution

T.S. Eliot asks in the open­ing stan­zas of his Cho­rus­es from the Rock, “where is the knowl­edge we have lost in infor­ma­tion?” The pas­sage has been called a point­ed ques­tion for our time, in which we seem to have lost the abil­i­ty to learn, to make mean­ing­ful con­nec­tions and con­tex­tu­al­ize events. They fly by us at super­hu­man speeds; cred­i­ble sources are buried between spu­ri­ous links. Truth and false­hood blur beyond dis­tinc­tion.

But there is anoth­er fea­ture of the 21st cen­tu­ry too-often unre­marked upon, one only made pos­si­ble by the rapid spread of infor­ma­tion tech­nol­o­gy. Vast dig­i­tal archives of pri­ma­ry sources open up to ordi­nary users, archives once only avail­able to his­to­ri­ans, promis­ing the pos­si­bil­i­ty, at least, of a far more egal­i­tar­i­an spread of both infor­ma­tion and knowl­edge.

Those archives include the USDA Pomo­log­i­cal Water­col­or Col­lec­tion, “over 7,500 paint­ings, draw­ings, and wax mod­els com­mis­sioned by the USDA between 1886 and 1942,” notes Chloe Ole­witz at Morsel. The word “pomol­o­gy,” “the sci­ence and prac­tice of grow­ing fruit,” first appeared in 1818, and the degree to which peo­ple depend­ed on fruit trees and fruit stores made it a dis­tinc­tive­ly pop­u­lar sci­ence, as was so much agri­cul­ture at the time.

But pomol­o­gy was grow­ing from a domes­tic sci­ence into an indus­tri­al one, adopt­ed by “farm­ers across the Unit­ed States,” writes Ole­witz, who “worked with the USDA to set up orchards to serve emerg­ing mar­kets” as “the country’s most pro­lif­ic fruit-pro­duc­ing regions began to take shape.” Cen­tral to the gov­ern­ment agency’s grow­ing pomo­log­i­cal agen­da was the record­ing of all the var­i­ous types of fruit being cul­ti­vat­ed, hybridized, inspect­ed, and sold from both inside the U.S. and all over the world.

Pri­or to and even long after pho­tog­ra­phy could do the job, that meant employ­ing the tal­ents of around 65 Amer­i­can artists to “doc­u­ment the thou­sands and thou­sands of vari­eties of heir­loom and exper­i­men­tal fruit cul­ti­vars sprout­ing up nation­wide.” The USDA made the full col­lec­tion pub­lic after Elec­tron­ic Fron­tier Foun­da­tion activist Park­er Hig­gins sub­mit­ted a Free­dom of Infor­ma­tion Act request in 2015.

Hig­gins saw the project as an exam­ple of “the way free speech issues inter­sect with ques­tions of copy­right and pub­lic domain,” as he put it. His­tor­i­cal gov­ern­ment-issued fruit water­col­ors might not seem like the obvi­ous place to start, but they’re as good a place as any. He stum­bled on the col­lec­tion while either ran­dom­ly col­lect­ing infor­ma­tion or acquir­ing knowl­edge, depend­ing on how you look at it, “chal­leng­ing him­self to dis­cov­er one new cool pub­lic domain thing every day for a month.”

It turned out that access to the USDA images was lim­it­ed, “with high res­o­lu­tion ver­sions hid­den behind a large­ly untouched pay­wall.” After invest­ing $300,000, they had made $600 in fees in five years, a los­ing propo­si­tion that would bet­ter serve the pub­lic, the schol­ar­ly com­mu­ni­ty, and those work­ing in-between if it became freely avail­able.

You can explore the entire­ty of this tan­ta­liz­ing col­lec­tion of fruit water­col­ors, rang­ing in qual­i­ty from the work­man­like to the near sub­lime, and from unsung artists like James Mar­i­on Shull, who sketched the Cuban pineap­ple above, Ellen Isham Schutt, who brings us the Aegle marme­los, com­mon­ly called “bael” in India, fur­ther up, and Deb­o­rah Griscom Pass­more, whose 1899 Malus domes­ti­cus, at the top, describes a U.S. pomo­log­i­cal arche­type.

It’s easy to see how Hig­gins could become engrossed in this col­lec­tion. Its util­i­tar­i­an pur­pose belies its sim­ple beau­ty, and with 3,800 images of apples alone, one could get lost tak­ing in the visu­al nuances—according to some very pro­lif­ic nat­u­ral­ist artists—of just one fruit alone. Hig­gins, of course, cre­at­ed a Twit­ter bot to send out ran­dom images from the archive, an inter­est­ing dis­trac­tion and also, for peo­ple inclined to seek it out, a lure to the full USDA Pomo­log­i­cal Water­col­or Col­lec­tion.

At what point does an explo­ration of these images tip from infor­ma­tion into knowl­edge? It’s hard to say, but it’s unlike­ly we would pur­sue either one if that pur­suit didn’t also include its share of plea­sure. Enter the USDA’s Pomo­log­i­cal Water­col­or Col­lec­tion here to new and down­load over 7,500 high-res­o­lu­tion dig­i­tal images like those above.

via Morsel.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

New Archive Dig­i­tizes 80,000 His­toric Water­col­or Paint­ings, the Medi­um Through Which We Doc­u­ment­ed the World Before Pho­tog­ra­phy

Two Mil­lion Won­drous Nature Illus­tra­tions Put Online by The Bio­di­ver­si­ty Her­itage Library

Ernst Haeckel’s Sub­lime Draw­ings of Flo­ra and Fau­na: The Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Draw­ings That Influ­enced Europe’s Art Nou­veau Move­ment (1889)

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

Cartoonist Lynda Barry Teaches You How to Draw

Friend, are you par­a­lyzed by your iron­clad con­vic­tion that you can’t draw?

Pro­fes­sor Chew­bac­ca aka Pro­fes­sor Old Skull aka car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry has had quite enough of that non­sense!

So stop dis­sem­bling, grab a pen and a hand-sized piece of paper, and fol­low her instruc­tions to Anne Strain­champs, host of NPR’s To The Best Of Our Knowl­edge, below.

It’s bet­ter to throw your­self into it with­out know­ing pre­cise­ly what the ten minute exer­cise holds (oth­er than draw­ing, of course).

We know, we know, you can’t, except that you can. Like Strain­champs, you’re prob­a­bly just rusty.

Don’t judge your­self too harsh­ly if things look “ter­ri­ble.”

In Barry’s view, that’s rel­a­tive, par­tic­u­lar­ly if you were draw­ing with your eyes closed.

A neu­rol­o­gy nerd, Bar­ry cites Gir­i­ja Kaimal, Kendra Ray, and Juan Muniz’ study Reduc­tion of Cor­ti­sol Lev­els and Par­tic­i­pants’ Respons­es Fol­low­ing Art Mak­ing. It’s the action, not the sub­jec­tive artis­tic mer­it of what winds up on the page that counts in this regard.

For more of Barry’s exer­cis­es and delight­ful­ly droll pres­ence, check out this playlist on Dr. Michael Green’s Graph­ic Med­i­cine Chan­nel.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lyn­da Bar­ry on How the Smart­phone Is Endan­ger­ing Three Ingre­di­ents of Cre­ativ­i­ty: Lone­li­ness, Uncer­tain­ty & Bore­dom

Fol­low Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Barry’s 2017 “Mak­ing Comics” Class Online, Pre­sent­ed at UW-Wis­con­sin

Lyn­da Barry’s Illus­trat­ed Syl­labus & Home­work Assign­ments from Her New UW-Madi­son Course, “Mak­ing Comics”

Join Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry for a Uni­ver­si­ty-Lev­el Course on Doo­dling and Neu­ro­science

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine… Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Women Who Draw: Explore an Open Directory That Showcases the Work of 5,000+ Female Illustrators

The seem­ing­ly nev­er-end­ing era of female artists labor­ing in the shad­ows cast by their male col­leagues is com­ing to a close.

Dit­to the tyran­ny of the male gaze.

Women Who Draw, a data­base of over 5,000 pro­fes­sion­al artists, offers a thrilling­ly diverse panoply of female imagery, all cre­at­ed, as the site’s name sug­gests, by artists who iden­ti­fy as women.

Launched by illus­tra­tors Julia Roth­man and Wendy Mac­Naughton in response to a dis­may­ing lack of gen­der par­i­ty among cov­er artists of a promi­nent magazine—in 2015, men were respon­si­ble for 92%—the site aims to chan­nel work to female artists by boost­ing vis­i­bil­i­ty.

To that end, each illus­tra­tor toss­ing her hat in the ring is required to upload an illus­tra­tion of a woman, ide­al­ly a full body view, on a white back­ground.

The result is an aston­ish­ing range of styles, from an inter­na­tion­al cast of cre­ators.

Not sur­pris­ing­ly, the major­i­ty of con­trib­u­tors are based on the East Coast of the Unit­ed States, but giv­en the site’s mis­sion to pro­mote female illus­tra­tors of col­or, as well as LBTQ+ and oth­er less vis­i­ble groups, expect to see grow­ing num­bers from Africa, the Caribbean, the Mid­dle East, and Cen­tral and South Amer­i­ca.

In addi­tion to indi­cat­ing their loca­tion, artists can check­list their reli­gion, ori­en­ta­tion, and ethnicity/race. (Those who would check“white” or “straight” should be pre­pared to accept that those cat­e­gories are tabled as “WWD encour­ages peo­ple to seek out under­rep­re­sent­ed groups of women.”)

Bean count­ing aside, the per­son­al­i­ties of indi­vid­ual con­trib­u­tors shine through.

Some, like Paris-based Amer­i­can Lau­ra Park, choose explic­it self-por­trai­ture.

Vanes­sa Davis gives the lie to biki­ni sea­son

SouthAsian illus­tra­tor Baani makes an impres­sion, doc­u­ment­ing women of her com­mu­ni­ty even as she rein­ter­prets tropes of West­ern art.

Pé-de-Ovo Stu­dio cor­ners the mar­ket on plushies.

Women Who Draw’s lat­est crowd-sourced project is con­cerned with per­son­al sto­ries of immi­gra­tion.

Final words of encour­age­ment from Lind­sey Andrews, Assis­tant Art Direc­tor for the Pen­guin Young Read­ers Design Group:

Just keep putting your work out there in any form you can think of. Update your var­i­ous social plat­forms reg­u­lar­ly. Mail post­cards of your work. Send emails. Net­work when you can. But, main­ly, do what you love. Even if you have a port­fo­lio full of com­mis­sioned pieces, I still like to see what you cre­ate when you get to cre­ate what­ev­er you want. Also, let me know your process!

Sub­mit your work here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Space of Their Own, a New Online Data­base, Will Fea­ture Works by 600+ Over­looked Female Artists from the 15th-19th Cen­turies

A New Archive Tran­scribes and Puts Online the Diaries & Note­books of Women Artists, Art His­to­ri­ans, Crit­ics and Deal­ers

The Dai­ly Rit­u­als of 143 Famous Female Cre­ators: Octavia But­ler, Edith Whar­ton, Coco Chanel & More

Ven­er­a­ble Female Artists, Musi­cians & Authors Give Advice to the Young: Pat­ti Smith, Lau­rie Ander­son & More

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inkyzine.  Join her in NYC tonight, Mon­day, June 17 for anoth­er month­ly install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Hear What’s Likely the Only Known Recording of Frida Kahlo’s Voice (1954)

Per­haps no artist in mod­ern his­to­ry, save Andy Warhol, has been so well doc­u­ment­ed, and self-doc­u­ment­ed, as Fri­da Kahlo, or has used doc­u­men­tary meth­ods, sur­re­al­ist and oth­er­wise, to so unflinch­ing­ly con­front ideas about dis­abil­i­ty, gen­der, sex­u­al­i­ty, nation­al iden­ti­ty, and rela­tion­ships. These qual­i­ties make her the per­fect celebri­ty artist for our times, but unlike the aver­age 21st cen­tu­ry star mak­ing art out of self-pre­sen­ta­tion, Kahlo’s voice has nev­er been heard, though she lived in a time almost as sat­u­rat­ed with mass media—of the radio, TV, and film variety—as our own.

That is, per­haps, until now, with the unearthing of what the Nation­al Sound Library of Mex­i­co believes to be a record­ing of her voice, “tak­en from a pilot episode of 1955 radio show El Bachiller [“The Bach­e­lor”],” writes Steph Har­mon at The Guardian. The show “aired after her death in 1954,” like­ly the fol­low­ing year. Though the pro­gram does not intro­duce her by name, the pre­sen­ter does refer to her as recent­ly deceased, and she does read an essay about her hus­band Diego Rivera, which hap­pens to be writ­ten by Fri­da Kahlo. The case seems fair­ly con­clu­sive.

Pre­vi­ous­ly the lit­tle evi­dence of what she sound­ed like came from writ­ten descrip­tions, such as French pho­tog­ra­ph­er Gisèle Freund’s char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of her voice as “melo­di­ous and warm.” Hear for your­self what is very like­ly the record­ed voice of Fri­da Kahlo in the audio above. In her typ­i­cal­ly florid yet unspar­ing style she paints a ver­bal por­trait of Rivera full of unflat­ter­ing phys­i­cal detail and lay­ers of emo­tion and admi­ra­tion. In one Eng­lish trans­la­tion, she calls him “a huge, immense child, with a friend­ly face and a sad gaze.

River­a’s “high, dark, extreme­ly intel­li­gent and big eyes rarely hold still. They almost pop out of their sock­ets because of their swollen and pro­tu­ber­ant eyelids—like a toad’s.” His huge eyes seem “built espe­cial­ly for a painter of spaces and crowds.” The Mex­i­can mural­ist, she says is like “an inscrutable mon­ster.” These are the words of a writer, we must remem­ber, who was pas­sion­ate­ly in love with her sub­ject, but who did not pre­tend to ignore his phys­i­cal odd­i­ties. As she had prac­ticed lov­ing her­self, she loved and admired Rivera because of his unique appear­ance, not in spite of it.

Researchers are mak­ing con­tin­u­ing efforts to ver­i­fy that the voice on the recod­ing is Kahlo and search­ing through about 1,300 oth­er episodes of the show, record­ed for Tele­visa Radio, to find out if there are any more record­ings of her. Giv­en Frida’s flam­boy­ant per­sona and minor art star­dom in her life­time, it’s hard to imag­ine we won’t hear more of her, if this is in fact her, as oth­er archives reveal their secrets.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fri­da Kahlo’s Pas­sion­ate Love Let­ters to Diego Rivera

Dis­cov­er Fri­da Kahlo’s Wild­ly-Illus­trat­ed Diary: It Chron­i­cled the Last 10 Years of Her Life, and Then Got Locked Away for Decades

A Brief Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Life and Work of Fri­da Kahlo

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

The Brilliant Colors of the Great Barrier Revealed in a Historic Illustrated Book from 1893

Paul Simon’s famous lyric about every­thing look­ing worse in black and white
is hard­ly a uni­ver­sal truth, but when it comes to William Sav­ille-Kent’s ground­break­ing 1893 book The Great Bar­ri­er Reef of Aus­tralia: its prod­ucts and poten­tial­i­tiesthe asser­tion may have some mer­it.

Sav­ille-Kent, a nat­u­ral­ist whose work in var­i­ous British aquar­i­ums even­tu­al­ly led to a gig rebuild­ing deplet­ed Tas­man­ian oys­ter beds, fell hard for the col­or­ful fish, bêche-de-mer, corals, sponges, tur­tles, and oth­er marine species he encoun­tered in Aus­tralia.

He pho­tographed the Great Bar­ri­er Reef while serv­ing in Queens­land as Com­mis­sion­er of Fish­eries. 48 of his images were pub­lished in the afore­men­tioned book, offer­ing read­ers an unprece­dent­ed arm­chair tour of a coral reef, albeit in black and white.

 

While Sav­ille-Kent def­i­nite­ly achieved his goal of fur­ther­ing the public’s aware­ness of the reef, he also upstaged him­self by includ­ing 16 col­or lith­o­graphs inspired by his orig­i­nal water­col­ors.

These plates, by Lon­don-based lith­o­g­ra­phers Rid­dle and Couchman—whose work usu­al­ly ran toward por­traits of well-born gen­tle­men—exude a live­ly Seuss­ian appeal.

Saville-Kent’s care­ful­ly cap­tured fish, echin­o­derms, and anemones lit­er­al­ly pale in com­par­i­son to the bright spec­i­mens the lith­o­g­ra­phers, who pre­sum­ably lacked his first­hand expe­ri­ence of the forms they were depict­ing, brought to such vibrant life in the back of the book.

These days, alas, the Great Bar­ri­er Reef resem­bles Sav­ille-Ken­t’s pho­tos more close­ly than those gor­geous lith­o­graphs, the vic­tim of back-to-back bleach­ing events brought on by pol­lu­tion-relat­ed cli­mate change.

Sav­ille-Kent is buried at All Saints Churchin Mil­ford-on-Sea, Hamp­shire, Eng­land. His grave is dec­o­rat­ed with coral.

Browse a dig­i­tal copy of The Great Bar­ri­er Reef of Aus­tralia: its prod­ucts and poten­tial­i­ties here.

via The Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ernst Haeckel’s Sub­lime Draw­ings of Flo­ra and Fau­na: The Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Draw­ings That Influ­enced Europe’s Art Nou­veau Move­ment (1889)

Two Mil­lion Won­drous Nature Illus­tra­tions Put Online by The Bio­di­ver­si­ty Her­itage Library

New Archive Dig­i­tizes 80,000 His­toric Water­col­or Paint­ings, the Medi­um Through Which We Doc­u­ment­ed the World Before Pho­tog­ra­phy

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inkyzine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, June 17 for anoth­er month­ly install­ment of her pub­lic domain-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Huge Notebook Collections, the Codex Forster, Now Digitized in High-Resolution: Explore Them Online

It may seem like a bizarre ques­tion, but indulge me for a moment: could it be pos­si­ble that the most famous artist of the Renais­sance and maybe in all of art his­to­ry, Leonar­do da Vin­ci, is an under­rat­ed fig­ure? Con­sid­er the fact that until rel­a­tive­ly recent­ly, a huge amount of his work—maybe a major­i­ty of his draw­ings, plans, sketch­es, notes, con­cepts, the­o­ries, etc.—has been unavail­able to all but spe­cial­ized schol­ars who could access (and read) his copi­ous note­books, span­ning the most pro­duc­tive peri­od of his career.

“Leonar­do seems to have begun record­ing his thoughts in note­books from the mid-1480s,” writes the Vic­to­ria & Albert Muse­um (the V&A), “when he worked as a mil­i­tary and naval engi­neer for the Duke of Milan. None of Leonardo’s pre­de­ces­sors, con­tem­po­raries or suc­ces­sors used paper quite like he did—a sin­gle sheet con­tains an unpre­dictable pat­tern of ideas and inven­tions.” He worked on loose sheets, which were lat­er bound togeth­er in books, or codices, by the artists who inher­it­ed them. As we have been report­ing, these note­book col­lec­tions have been com­ing avail­able online in open, high-res­o­lu­tion dig­i­tal ver­sions.

Now the V&A has announced that all three of its Leonar­do codices, called the Forster Codices after the col­lec­tor who bequeathed them to the muse­um, are avail­able to view “in amaz­ing detail.” Click here to see Codex Forster 1, Codex Forster 2, and Codex Forster 3. Here we see fur­ther evi­dence that Leonar­do was a supreme draughts­man. As Clau­dio Gior­gione, cura­tor at the Leonar­do da Vin­ci Nation­al Sci­ence and Tech­nol­o­gy Muse­um in Milan, points out, “Leonar­do was not the only one to draw machines and to do sci­en­tif­ic draw­ings, many oth­er engi­neers did that,” and many artists as well. “But what Leonar­do did bet­ter than oth­ers is to make a rev­o­lu­tion of the tech­ni­cal draw­ing,” almost defin­ing the field with his metic­u­lous atten­tion to detail.

What’s more, notes Uni­ver­si­ty of Oxford Pro­fes­sor Mar­tin Kemp, “while oth­er artists might have been prob­ing some aspects of anatomy—muscles, bones, tendons—Leonardo took the study to a new lev­el.” Such a lev­el, in fact, that he “can be regard­ed as the father of bio­engi­neer­ing,” argues John B. West in the Amer­i­can Jour­nal of Phys­i­ol­o­gy.

Lit­tle atten­tion has been paid to [Leonar­do] as a phys­i­ol­o­gist. But he was an out­stand­ing engi­neer, and he was one of the first peo­ple to apply the prin­ci­ples of engi­neer­ing to under­stand the func­tion of ani­mals includ­ing humans.

Gior­gione warns against see­ing Leonar­do as a prophet­ic vision­ary for his inno­va­tions. He was not a man out of time; “the artist engi­neer is a known fig­ure in Renais­sance Italy.” But he per­fect­ed the tools and meth­ods of this dual pro­fes­sion with such rest­less inge­nu­ity and skill that we still find it aston­ish­ing over 500 years lat­er. His lengthy expla­na­tions of these excep­tion­al tech­ni­cal draw­ings are writ­ten, nat­u­ral­ly, in his famous mir­ror writ­ing.

Of Leonardo’s odd writ­ing sys­tem, we may learn some­thing new as well, though we may find this part, at least, a lit­tle dis­ap­point­ing. As the V&A points out, his idio­syn­crat­ic method might not have been so unique after all, or have been a sophis­ti­cat­ed device for Leonar­do to hide his ideas from com­peti­tors and future curi­ous read­ers. It might have come about “because he was left-hand­ed and may have found it eas­i­er to write from right to left…. Writ­ing mas­ters at the time would have made demon­stra­tions of mir­ror writ­ing, and his let­ter-shapes are in fact quite ordi­nary.”

Noth­ing else about the man seems to war­rant that descrip­tion. See all three Forster Codices the Vic­to­ria & Albert Muse­um site here: Codex Forster 1, Codex Forster 2, and Codex Forster 3. And see one codex from the col­lec­tion, as the V&A announced on Twit­ter, live in per­son at the British Library’s Leonar­do da Vin­ci: A Mind in Motion exhib­it.

h/t Atze­cLa­dy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Vision­ary Note­books Now Online: Browse 570 Dig­i­tized Pages

A Com­plete Dig­i­ti­za­tion of Leonar­do Da Vinci’s Codex Atlanti­cus, the Largest Exist­ing Col­lec­tion of His Draw­ings & Writ­ings

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Ear­li­est Note­books Now Dig­i­tized and Made Free Online: Explore His Inge­nious Draw­ings, Dia­grams, Mir­ror Writ­ing & More

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

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

Andy Warhol Explains Why He Decided to Give Up Painting & Manage the Velvet Underground Instead (1966)

In Good Omens—the six-episode adap­ta­tion of Ter­ry Pratch­ett and Neil Gaiman’s satir­i­cal fan­ta­sy about the Bib­li­cal end of the world—a run­ning joke relies on the viewer’s off­hand knowl­edge of the Vel­vet Underground’s sig­nif­i­cance. A refined, rare book­shop-own­ing angel calls the band “bebop” and has no idea who they are or what they sound like, a for­giv­able sin in the 70s, but seri­ous­ly out of touch decades lat­er in the 21st cen­tu­ry.

The schem­ing super­nat­ur­al agent should prob­a­bly know that the Lou Reed (and briefly Nico)-fronted, Andy Warhol-man­aged late-1960s-70s exper­i­men­tal New York art rock band had an out­sized influ­ence on human affairs. Bridg­ing a divide no one even knew exist­ed between beat poet­ry, avant-garde jazz, psy­che­del­ic garage rock, doo-wop, and Euro­pean folk music, the band is anec­do­tal­ly cred­it­ed with launch­ing thou­sands of others—having as much impact, per­haps, on mod­ern rock as Char­lie Park­er had on mod­ern jazz.

Warhol could not have known any of this when he decid­ed to spon­sor and pro­mote the Vel­vet Under­ground in 1966. He only man­aged the band for a year, in what seemed like both a stunt and a per­for­mance art project, part of his trav­el­ing mul­ti­me­dia show Explod­ing Plas­tic Inevitable, which he calls “the biggest dis­cotheque in the world” in the 1966 inter­view above. Warhol act­ed, and the band react­ed, shap­ing them­selves around his provo­ca­tions. He pro­ject­ed high-con­trast films at them onstage, they put on sun­glass­es. He pushed dead­pan Ger­man mod­el and singer Nico on them, they wrote and record­ed what some con­sid­er the great­est debut album in his­to­ry.

Warhol couldn’t have known how any of it would pan out, but in hind­sight his patron­age can seem like a pre­scient, almost meta­phys­i­cal, act of cul­tur­al subversion—and the work of a guile­less savant com­pelled by vague intu­itions and whims. He pre­ferred to give off the lat­ter impres­sion, then let crit­ics infer the for­mer. Warhol explains that he has aban­doned paint­ing and start­ed man­ag­ing the band because “I hate objects, and I hate to go to muse­ums and see pic­tures of the world, because they look so impor­tant and they don’t real­ly mean any­thing.”

Few peo­ple doubt the man­age­ment of his pub­lic per­sona was at least par­tial­ly cal­cu­lat­ed. But so much of it clear­ly wasn’t—as evi­denced by his own exhaus­tive record­ing of every detail of his life. Despite the amount of cal­cu­la­tion ascribed to him, a qual­i­ty the inter­view­er awk­ward­ly tries to ask him about, he seems to have been stu­pe­fied about his own moti­va­tions much of the time, beyond the fact that he strong­ly liked and dis­liked cer­tain sim­ple things—Elvis, Campbell’s Soup, obscure blonde femme fatales. At oth­er times, Warhol issued apho­risms as cryp­tic and pro­found as an ancient sage or post-war crit­i­cal the­o­rist.

Was the Vel­vet Under­ground more like Warhol’s uncom­pli­cat­ed love of cheese­burg­ers and Bat­man or more like his sophis­ti­cat­ed decon­struc­tion of film, media, and fash­ion, or are these not mutu­al­ly exclu­sive ways of look­ing at his work? The ques­tion may not real­ly con­cern music his­to­ri­ans, for whom Warhol’s ear­ly influ­ence was for­ma­tive, but maybe musi­cal­ly mar­gin­al. But if we think of him as a motive force behind the band’s look and ear­ly sound—a kind of con­scious cre­ative reagent—we might be curi­ous about what he meant by it, if any­thing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Big Ideas Behind Andy Warhol’s Art, and How They Can Help Us Build a Bet­ter World

Watch Footage of the Vel­vet Under­ground Com­pos­ing “Sun­day Morn­ing,” the First Track on Their Sem­i­nal Debut Album The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico (1966)

Three “Anti-Films” by Andy Warhol: Sleep, Eat & Kiss

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

The Giger Bar: Discover the 1980s Tokyo Bar Designed by H. R. Giger, the Same Artist Who Created the Nightmarish Monster in Ridley Scott’s Alien

In 1980s Tokyo, every­thing was pos­si­ble — or at least every­thing was tried out. Hav­ing devel­oped fever­ish­ly since the end of the Sec­ond World War, Japan had by that point inflat­ed an asset bub­ble so enor­mous that, so the sto­ry goes, the land on which the Impe­r­i­al Palace stands was worth more than all of Cal­i­for­nia. Many Japan­ese felt rich, and upward­ly mobile young Toky­oites felt much more so; in the cap­i­tal sprung up count­less estab­lish­ments aim­ing to cash in on their will­ing­ness and abil­i­ty to spend their new mon­ey on expe­ri­ences, espe­cial­ly expe­ri­ences slick, expen­sive, and exot­ic.

And for the high­est-rolling young Toky­oites of the 1980s, con­sumers for whom pieces of Amer­i­ca and Europe would­n’t be exot­ic enough, there was the Giger Bar. Writer on Japan­ese cul­ture W. David Marx recent­ly tweet­ed out a few mag­a­zine clip­pings to do with one of what he calls the “hot yup­pie date spots in Tokyo, 1989: GIGER BAR Bring your date to the Tokyo bar designed by Swiss artist H. R. Giger of Alien fame, where ‘the atmos­phere dif­fers from the usu­al.’ ‘alien eggs’ on the menu at ¥1200, and some­thing called ‘sex­u­al com­mu­nion’ for ¥1500.”

“The Giger Bar in Tokyo was actu­al­ly cre­at­ed against my will,” Giger him­self wrote in 1997. “While I was in Tokyo, I was asked to make a wish, on stage, dur­ing a press con­fer­ence. Spon­ta­neous­ly, I wished for a bar, which was then brought into being even more spon­ta­neous­ly!”

For that bar, Giger designed “tables-for-two in open ele­va­tor cars in the man­ner of glid­ing ele­va­tors that would trav­el up and down the four-sto­ry estab­lish­ment, per­pet­u­al­ly in motion.” But he had­n’t tak­en into con­sid­er­a­tion the rigid­i­ty of Japan­ese fire mar­shals, and already “dri­ven to the brink of mad­ness” by the coun­try’s com­plex earth­quake-relat­ed build­ing codes, Giger ulti­mate­ly stepped back from his design role.

Giger also had­n’t fore­seen the fact that his name­sake Japan­ese bar “was tai­lor-made for the under­world.” Five years after the bar opened, a friend vis­it­ed and told Giger that “it had fall­en into the hands of the Yakuza. He went on to report that he was alone in the bar until 11 o’clock, when it began to fill with the type of unsa­vory char­ac­ters who might have installed a roulette table in the atri­um.” By the time Giger wrote this reflec­tion, the Tokyo Giger Bar had closed its doors entire­ly: “Insid­ers know that a bar in Tokyo rarely sur­vives more than five years!”

But two oth­er Giger Bars live on, not in Japan but in Giger’s native Switzer­land, one in his home­town of Chur (orig­i­nal­ly planned for New York City, a loca­tion that proved too expen­sive for the elab­o­rate design) and the oth­er in Gruyères (adja­cent to the H.R. Giger Muse­um). Those Swiss branch­es, a cou­ple pic­tures of which appear above, car­ry on the Giger Bar’s aes­thet­ic in a man­ner seem­ing­ly more faith­ful to the artist’s grotesque bio­me­chan­i­cal visions than did the Tokyo branch. Whether this could ever prove a sus­tain­able nightlife con­cept else­where in the world remains to be seen, but as Giger’s hard­core fans — the kind who would­n’t hes­i­tate to make the Giger Bar pil­grim­age to Switzer­land — might well ask, who would­n’t want to have a drink in the womb of the alien queen?

via W. David Marx

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

A Pho­to­graph­ic Tour of Haru­ki Murakami’s Tokyo, Where Dream, Mem­o­ry, and Real­i­ty Meet

High School Kids Stage Alien: The Play and You Can Now Watch It 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

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